Sports And Society Essay Research Paper The free essay sample

Sports And Society Essay, Research Paper The disrespectful and boisterous behaviour of fans at featuring events has become a great job over the past few old ages. There are several factors imputing to this behaviour including drugs and intoxicant, testosterone degrees, and other psychological factors. The behaviour of fans in a job at many events, from youth small conference games, to defend World Cup association football. At a recent football game in Philadelphia several fans were dejected from the bowl for boisterous behaviour ( Adamson, Philadelphia Inquirer ) . Besides, in Philadelphia, a adult male was viciously beaten with a constabulary roadblock by a group of so called fans after a pre season Eagle # 8217 ; s game this August. After the 1998 Super Bowl in Denver, # 8220 ; 100s of fans enkindled balefires, smashed shop Windowss, and overturned autos at a triumph jubilation # 8221 ; ( Snel, Denver Post ) . The constabulary had to utilize tear gas to distribute the crowd. Another public violence much like that of Denver occurred at the University of Northern Colorado where fans observing started fires and threw sofas into them. We will write a custom essay sample on Sports And Society Essay Research Paper The or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page The SWAT squad had to be brought in and several fire companies to contend the blazings. At a baseball game between Oklahoma State University and the University of Oklahoma fans from both sides were highly ill-mannered and objectionable towards each other. # 8220 ; Schools should back up one another # 8230 ; and fans should back up their squad and stand for their school with category ( Cudd, Campus # 8217 ; Voice ) . The behaviour at these events is unacceptable and needs to halt. In England bully fans were arrested after a association football game. These English bullies attacked a British journalist and two photogra phers ( Balmer, Reuters ) . The ground why this behaviour occurred was because the English did non like the result of the association football match- they lost to Romania. During another lucifer, France really had to implement an exigency statute law that expelled some English protagonists to forestall insubordinate and improper behaviour ( Balmer, Reuters ) . Improper behaviour is besides a job at young person events. # 8220 ; On the high school degree and in the young person diversion conferences, many witnesss # 8230 ; are premier illustrations of unbecoming behaviour # 8221 ; ( Quesenberry, Blare County Messenger ) . Parents and other relations go to the young person events and behave like uneducated goons ; they curse like crewmans, boo the opposing squads, and yell at the participants and managers. We should non be learning our kids and immature grownups that this is the proper manner to act at an event that is supposed to be gratifying and merriment. There are several grounds for why people behave the manner they do at featuring events. Alcohol and drug usage is a immense factor. # 8220 ; Abuse of intoxicant has been repeatedly linked with Acts of the Apostless of sport-related hooliganism and force # 8221 ; ( Russell, 1993 ) . In a survey conducted by Gordon Russell, he found that intoxicant was ranked 3rd in a list of 14 factors that contribute to spectator force. Testosterone degrees have besides been shown to lend to behavior at featuring events. Harmonizing to Georgia State research workers, a athleticss fans testosterone degree raises 28 per centum when the squad they are routing for wins, and lessenings by 27 per centum when their squad looses. This may explicate the correlativity between testosterone degrees and aggressive behaviour ( Men # 8217 ; s wellness ) .

things fall apart culture essay Essays

things fall apart culture essay Essays things fall apart culture essay Paper things fall apart culture essay Paper Essay Topic: Things Fall apart TFA: CultureCulture. The beliefs, customs, arts, etc., of a particular society, group, place. Why it matters? It should matter because it defines who you are today. Think about it, it’s your way of life and your beliefs. In things fall apart Chinua Achebe addresses the theme of culture in many ways. This matter addresses the basic idea of culture around the world. At the time of the book was written (1950’S) it takes place in southern Africa around the 1850’s and people around the world (Europeans) thought Africans were uncivilized and savages and needed to be pacified. In reality they had much of the same customs as much of the world and were perfectly find with their way of life. There were many events in the book that shows culture that you’ll most likely see in real life and where you live. First, in the beginning of the story the main character named Okonkwo takes on an opponent from a rival village in wrestling. Their village takes pride in this sport and compete against rivals. Much like we do today at the Olympics. Okonkwo wins the match and is celebrated as the best wrestler at the time and becomes famous for beating his opponent. This is much like we have today, if are a good athlete you are given a social status above others. Second, later on in the book there is an event where the main character Okonkwo offers things to a god in hope of something in return. Much after that OkonKwo does something bad and he fears a god for punishment. This is what we see a lot today because many of us look up to a greater being and usually offer things or ourselves in hope of something in return and fear when we do something bad there will be consequences.I can relate when you say â€Å"who cares?†. I know this may not be important to you at the time but you have to realize that this theme was put in there for a reason so we would look at the book and analyze it and realize that this isn’t just some st ory about a village in Africa. This book shows the important

Aristotle and Meteorology Essay Example for Free

Aristotle and Meteorology Essay Introduction: Aristotle wrote about many subjects that can be grouped into five general divisions: logic, physical works, psychological works, natural history works, and philosophical works. One of the little known physical works concerned meteorology. Aristotle’s views on meteorology are fascinating, but many of the views were not accurate. This paper compares only a few of his views to actual meteorological facts. I. Biography A. Birth and growth B. Influence on writings II. Basis of Aristotle’s meteorology A. Elements and theory B. Science and facts III. Water vapor and precipitation A. Aristotle’s view B. Science and fact. IV. Winds A. Aristotle’s view B. Science and fact Conclusion: Aristotle explained the various meteorological phenomenon in simplistic terms. The explanations match his theory of how matter and shape were interrelated. Aristotle’s ideas on water vapor and precipitation were somewhat accurate, considering that there were no tools to measure the atmosphere in his time. His views on wind, however, were not accurate at all. He wrote extensively on winds, but never fully comprehended how wind occurred. September 5, 2000 Aristotle on Meteorology Aristotle was born in 384 BC, at Stagirus, a Greek colony on the Aegean Sea near Macedonia. In 367 BC, Aristotle entered the Academy at Athens and studied under Plato, attending his lectures for a period of twenty years. In the later years of his association with Plato and the Academy, he began to lecture on his own account, especially on the subject of rhetoric. When Plato died in 347, Aristotle and another of Plato’s students, Xenocrates, left Athens for Assus, and set up an academy (Encyclopedia 2). In 342, Aristotle returned to Macedonia and became the tutor to a very young Alexander the Great. He did this for the next five to seven years. Both Philip and Alexander appear to have paid Aristotle high honor. There are stories that indicate the Macedonian court supplied Aristotle with funds for teaching, and with slaves to collect specimens for his studies in natural science (Encyclopedia 4). Aristotle returned to Athens when Alexander the Great began his conquests. He found the Platonic school flourishing under Xenocrates, and Platonism the dominant philosophy of Athens (Encyclopedia 5). Aristotle thus set up his own school at a place called the Lyceum. When teaching at the Lyceum, Aristotle had a habit of walking about as he discoursed. It was because of this that his followers became known in later years as the peripatetics, meaning, â€Å"to walk about† (Shakian 126). For the next thirteen years, he devoted his energies to his teaching and composing his philosophical treatises. His institution integrated extensive equipment, including maps and the largest library collection in Europe. He is said to have given two kinds of lectures: the more detailed discussions in the morning for an inner circle of advanced students, and the popular discourses in the evening for the general body of lovers of knowledge. At the sudden death of Alexander in 323 BC, the pro-Macedonian government in Athens was overthrown, and a general reaction occurred against anything Macedonian. A charge of impiety was trumped up against Aristotle. To escape prosecution he fled to Chalcis in Euboea so that (Aristotle says) â€Å"The Athenians might not have another opportunity of sinning against philosophy as they had already done in the person of Socrates† (Encyclopedia 5). In the first year of his residence at Chalcis he complained of a stomach illness and died in 322 BC (Encyclopedia 7). One of Aristotle’s writings is about meteorology. His theories are based on his belief that all objects in the world are composed of form and matter and the world is arranged according to the relative standing each object occupies in the universe (Shakian 127). This basis led to his theory that any motion was from the center or to the center (Encyclopedia 28). Aristotle saw the universe as a scale lying between the two extremes: form without matter on one end, and matter without form on the other end. Additionally, he believed all matter is made of four bodies: fire, air, water, and earth (Encyclopedia 29). With this information as a basis, it is no wonder that any remaining theories would probably be incorrect. Scientific fact cannot disprove that all objects are of form and matter. Any one can agree or disagree with that philosophy. However, scientific fact does show that movement can occur in directions away from the center or toward the center. For example, solar radiation from the sun does not travel in direct lines to or from a center. Some of the radiation scatters into space. Some is reflects from the earth’s surface and is lost into space (Lutgens 37-43). Air molecules do not move toward or away from a center. Air particles move in an infinite number of directions due to molecule size, shape, weight and composition. Finally, Aristotle’s theory that matter is made of four bodies is dramatically short sighted. Air is a mixture of at least nine different components and is constantly changing in composition. Nitrogen and oxygen make up nearly 99% of the volume of dry air. Of all the components of air, carbon dioxide is the most interest to meteorologists (Lutgens 5). In all fairness, Aristotle had no way to measure or determine the exact components of the atmosphere. In book 1, part 3 of Aristotle’s meteorology, Aristotle describes his explanation of water vapor. His explanation describes the area between the surface of the earth and the visible portion of the Milky Way. It is important to note that he views the Milky Way as a plane or upper level surface (Aristotle, â€Å"Meteorology† 253). Aristotle is very close to a scientific answer when he deduced â€Å"that what immediately surrounds the earth is not mere air, but a sort of vapour, and that its vaporous nature is the reason why it condenses back to water again† (Aristotle, â€Å"Meteorology† 253). His logic is interesting when he indicates that this expanse of a body cannot be fire â€Å"for then all the rest would have dried up† (Aristotle â€Å"Meteorology† 254). In part 9, Aristotle addressed the issue of precipitation. He explained that air condensing into water becomes a cloud. Mist is what remains when a cloud condenses into water. He further explained that when water falls in small drops, it is drizzle, and when the drops are larger, it is called rain (Aristotle â€Å"Meteorology† 267). This is one area where Aristotle was close to accurate. One flaw is his view of the Milky Way as a flat plane. Science has shown that the Milky Way is just one of an infinite number of star galaxies. Aristotle realized water vapor existed. He also realized that the area between the earth and the heavens was not fire. What Aristotle deduced as water vapor is scientifically referred to as a parcel of air. As the air parcel rises, it cools and may condense to form a cloud (Lutgens 81). Aristotle believed the remains of water vapor that did not form a cloud was mist. Actually, what remains is just other air parcels. The energy used to condense the air molecule is released as latent heat creating a cycle of rising and sinking air molecules (Lutgens 82-83). Aristotle provided names for the size of water droplets. It is possible that Aristotle coined the names drizzle and rain. Scientifically, drizzle is defined as small droplets of less than . 5 mm. Rain is defined as droplets of . 5 mm to 5 mm (Lutgens 131). Aristotle dedicated several chapters to the theory of winds. Without scientific measurements, the cause or theory of wind was difficult to determine or explain. Aristotle compared wind to a flowing river in book 1 (Aristotle â€Å"Meteorology† 348). Unfortunately, Aristotle could not discern why the river of wind never dried up. Therefore, he abandoned that theory and analogy of wind and simply tried to explain rivers instead. In book two, he dedicated three more chapters to wind. Aristotle used his theory of water vapor and direct observation of something he called smoke to describe the occurrence of wind. He related the rising water vapor and the heat of the sun. This combination created wind. Rain contributed to wind development by causing calm winds after a rain (Encyclopedia 191). Wind must have been a difficult subject for Aristotle to explain, considering how much was written about the subject. The facts indicate he was close to an answer but never fully understood the concept of wind. The definition of wind is the result of horizontal differences in air pressure. Air flows from areas of high pressure to areas of lower pressure. It is nature’s method to balance inequalities of pressure. Unequal heating of the earth’s surface generates the pressure differences. Therefore, solar radiation is the ultimate driving force of wind (Lutgens 149). The effects Aristotle explained were often the results of the pressure changes. He realized the sun had some influence. The clam wind after a rain is an occurrence with strong thunderstorms that leave a micro scale high-pressure dome in their wake (Lutgens 153). Aristotle explained the various meteorological phenomenon in simplistic terms. The explanations match his theory of how matter and shape were interrelated. Aristotle’s ideas on water vapor and precipitation were somewhat accurate, considering there were no tools to measure the atmosphere in his time. His views on wind, however, were not accurate at all. He wrote extensively on winds but never fully comprehended how wind occurred Works Cited Aristotle. Great Books of the Western World. Volume 1. Chicago: Robert P. Gwinn, 1990. Aristotle. â€Å"Meteorology† 113 – 438. Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Internet Address: http://classics. mit. edu/Aristotle/meteorology. 1. i. html. Translated by E. W. Webster. 27 Aug. 2000. Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy 1-321. University of Tennessee at Martin. Internet Address: http://www. utm. edu/research/iep/a/aristotl. htm. 24 Aug. 2000. Lutgens, Frederick K. and Edward J. Tarbuck. The Atmosphere. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1992. Sahakian, William S. and Mabel Lewis Sahakian. Ideas of the Great Philosophers. New York: Barnes & Noble Inc. , 1970. Aristotle and Meteorology. (2016, Oct 28).

Germany economy Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 3250 words

Germany economy - Essay Example In 1948, the Soviets withdrew from the four-power governing bodies and initiated the Berlin blockade, which lasted 11 months. On May 23, 1949, the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) was established on the territory of the Western Occupied zones and declared full sovereignty on May 5, 1955. On October 7, 1949, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) was established in the Soviet zone with East Berlin as its capital. From that time on, the two largest states were known as "West Germany" and "East Germany," Berlin was divided into East Berlin and West Berlin, with West Berlin completely surrounded by East German territory. As a western capitalist country, West Germany enjoyed prolonged economic growth, while East Germany soon became the richest, most advanced country in the Soviet bloc. Even so, many of East Germany's citizens looked to the West for political freedoms and economic prosperity. In 1989 the Berlin wall was removed, and German reunification finally took place on October 3, 1990 , when the GDR was incorporated into the FRG (History 2007). Its per capita income of more than $28,700 makes Germany a broadly middle class society (Background 2007). In the western part of the country, Germany's standard of living is among the highest in the world, with powerful incentives to save offered by the state. Earning power for both workers and employers assures income to meet cost of living. There is no exaggerated difference between compensation for blue-collar workers and white-collar employees. In 1990, the absorption of the eastern German population and economy into western Germany had only a marginal effect on western living standards. On the other hand, East Germany, with its lower earning power suddenly had to pay West German prices, and the wholesale shutdown of former state factories and enterprises caused vast unemployment in industrial cities (Germany: Standards of Living 2007). Third quarter growth for Germany in 2007 was at its strongest for the year, boosted by higher spending on company machinery and construction. The prediction, however, for the fourth quarter and into 2008 is for slower growth due to high oil prices and a strong euro. But the latest preliminary gross domestic product (GDP) figures suggest Germany is on track for annual growth of about 2.5 percent, which would be one of the best performances in the past 15 years. The euro's rise against the dollar increases expenses for exporters while high energy costs are impinging on company profits (Germany Grows 2007). More attention should be paid to domestic product than to capital gains. Poverty With welfare reforms scheduled to be implemented in 2005, social organizations were warned of a dramatic increase in the number of poor people in Germany (Corbett 2004). Corbett stated that according to an association of German charities, the number of poor people in Germany were expected to increase from 2.8 million to 4.5 million-almost double. The average income in 2004 was roughly 2,200 ($2,700) a month but by counting the number of people living on the lowest level of social welfare assistance, the charitable organizations note that after the reform HartzIV, these people would have a monthly

Writing reports and proposal Assignment Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1750 words

Writing reports and proposal - Assignment Example The overall outlook of this job profile is very lucrative for both the employee and the employer. Thus, it becomes imperative to understand the value of the marketing manager in the business settings. The principal responsibility of a marketing manager is associated with managing the business operations of a company. The job requires managing the resources available to the company effectively in order to create effective marketing policies and strategies. The marketing manager is often given the responsibility to handle the issues related to a single product, in case the product is of vital importance and when marketing of such products is very complicated. There can be circumstances when the marketing manager will be viewed as a general manager and given the responsibility to handle a wide range of products and services. Organizations which operate in a large scale can thus, employ and appoint several marketing managers for handling different products. Small firms on the other hand do not engage more than one marketing managers because of its limited business operations. The marketing manager should be highly creative and he should always keep on developing innovative ideas. He should be articulate and have an ability of communicating ideas effectively to his subordinates. The marketing manager should intensively promote the products of the company and work in an organized way (Brownlie and Saren, 147-161). The job duties vary with the structure and functions of the organization. It also differs with the sector of business operations. The duty of the marketing manager may involve a range of activities. The foremost responsibility of a marketing manager is to analyze and conduct research about the major trends prevailing in the market. They should have the skills to identify the potential target markets. It is the responsibility of the marketing managers to cater to those markets with innovative

Patterns of Urban Growth and Development Essay Example for Free

Patterns of Urban Growth and Development Essay The growth and development of urban has consistently grown globally. This is as a result of human factor and environmental influence. Growth and development is the change to a better state compared to former state. Urbanization has increased mostly in poor countries compared to developed countries. In both poor and rich countries, there are different factors that contribute to either to growth or dominate the growth of the urban areas. Urbanization is there fore, the spreading of a city and its suburbs over the rural areas at the fringe of an urban area. Patterns of urban growth and development Industrialization is one of the factors that have contributed to urbanization. This changes the nature of economic production of any country. In both rich and poor countries, each potion of land id devoted to a certain use i. e. commercial, industrial and residential areas are separated. The sensing of growth is by allocating land to different uses. In other words large tracts of land are devoted a single use and are separated from one another by none used fields, roads or rail lines, or other barriers. This results to separation from where people go to work and where they do their shopping. Urbanization in rich countries consumes much more land compared to poor countries, on the other hand urbanization in poor countries seem to consume more land due to construction of single family homes compared to apartments build in developed countries. In rich countries more land is required to build parking because of the increasing number of automobiles compared to poor countries. The impact of low density development in poor countries where many communities are less developed or urbanized land is increasing at a faster rate than the population. The critics that arise in urban development in rich countries are health and environmental issues. Urban growth has been associated with some negative environmental and public health matters. The primary cause of these negative outcomes is that urbanization leads to people having to depend on the automobile because it will be a greater distance to travel and people will not be able to walk or ride their bicycles to their destinations. Vehicle ownership has become widespread in the rich countries, health officers recommend health benefits of suburbs due to soot and industrial fumes in the city center. However, air in modern suburbs is not necessarily cleaner than air in urban neighborhoods. In fact, the most polluted air is on crowded highways, where people in suburbs tend to spend more time. On average, suburban residents generate pollution and carbon emissions than the urban counterparts because of the higher number of driving. Urbanization in rich countries is partly responsible for the decline in socialization. Close neighborhoods can contribute to casual social interactions among neighbors, while low-density urbanization creates barriers to interaction. Urbanization tends to replace public spaces such as parks with private spaces such as fenced-in backyards. Residents of urbanized neighborhoods rarely walk for transportation, which reduces opportunities for face-to-face contact with neighbors. There is also a much concern over the housing in growth pattern in both rich and poor countries. In rich countries housing are quite expensive due to demand compared to poor countries, the housing has become a scarce commodity in most developed countries, the housing affordability compared to earning is much high. In poor countries cheaper housing is available due to reduced number of urbanization and demand Suburbs are blamed in rich countries for what they see as homogeneity of society and culture, leading to urbanization of suburb developments of people with similar race and background. (Stein, 1993). Conclusion Growth pattern in both the poor and the rich countries face similar challenges in most cases. Environmental hazards are more prone to developed countries compared to poor countries due to industrialization. Housing is come scarce in rich countries than in poor countries for more people work in urban areas where industrialization is more prone than in poor countries where most people lives in rural areas. References Stein, J. (1993). Growth Management: The planning challenge of the 1990’s. Sage Publications.

Waiting :: Papers

Waiting I'm ill again. It doesn't surprise me. Deja vu. I had to catch the bus from outside school, after persuading my teachers that I was going to a doctors appointment and not just skipping lessons. I have been waiting on these hard back plastic seats for nearly an hour just for one other doctor in this world to give me some antibiotics and send on my way home. This time I have come to the hospital because Mum thinks the infections getting serious, I cant notice the difference though. The hospital is a lot different from the doctors in town. I suppose its bound to be though. On the wall in front of me there is a big clock, and every minute I sit here it seems to go slower and slower. There are Doctors rushing everywhere. I don't really think I want to be a doctor. You have to be good at science. I'm not. A man has just walked in through the automatic sliding doors, which allow an artic wind to run right through my body. He is wearing big black boots with a headscarf tied loosely around the big matt of curly hair left messily on his head. Pulled tightly over his big fat stomach is a t-shirt saying Greenpeace on it. His trousers are black and come to just above his ankle. He reminds me a lot like the man that used to own the music shop in town. A young boy follows him. I think it must be his son as he too has curly hair and is wearing a similar t-shirt saying Greenpeace. He doesn't look at all happy. His arms are tightly folded and you can see he has been crying. I bet his Mums expecting a baby and he doesn't want it to be a girl. Yes I am right, they have just made their way towards the labour ward. They'll be waiting a long time in there. Every so often a policeman will walk past. They all look so bored, like me. I used to want to be a police lady, but not anymore.

Black House Chapter Twenty-seven

27 WHEN JACK AND Dale step into the air-conditioned cool, the Sand Bar is empty except for three people. Beezer and Doc are at the bar, with soft drinks in front of them an End Times sign if there ever was one, Jack thinks. Far back in the shadows (any further and he'd be in the dive's primitive kitchen), Stinky Cheese is lurking. There is a vibe coming off the two bikers, a bad one, and Stinky wants no part of it. For one thing, he's never seen Beezer and Doc without Mouse, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill. For another . . . oh God, it's the California detective and the freakin' chief of police. The jukebox is dark and dead, but the TV is on and Jack's not exactly surprised to see that today's Matinee Movie on AMC features his mother and Woody Strode. He fumbles for the name of the film, and after a moment it comes to him: Execution Express. â€Å"You don't want to be in on this, Bea,† Woody says in this film Lily plays a Boston heiress named Beatrice Lodge, who comes west and turns outlaw, mostly to spite her straitlaced father. â€Å"This is looking like the gang's last ride.† â€Å"Good,† Lily says. Her voice is stony, her eyes stonier. The picture is crap, but as always, she is dead on character. Jack has to smile a little. â€Å"What?† Dale asks him. â€Å"The whole world's gone crazy, so what's to smile about?† On TV, Woody Strode says: â€Å"What do you mean, good? The whole damn world's gone crazy.† Jack Sawyer says, very softly: â€Å"We're going to gun down as many as we can. Let them know we were here.† On the screen, Lily says the same thing to Woody. The two of them are about to step aboard the Execution Express, and heads will roll the good, the bad, and the ugly. Dale looks at his friend, dazed. â€Å"I know most of her lines,† Jack says, almost apologetically. â€Å"She was my mother, you see.† Before Dale can answer (supposing any answer came to mind), Jack joins Beezer and Doc at the bar. He looks up at the Kingsland Ale clock next to the television: 11:40. It should be high noon in situations like this, it's always supposed to be high noon, isn't it? â€Å"Jack,† Beezer says, and gives him a nod. â€Å"How ya doin', buddy?† â€Å"Not too bad. You boys carrying?† Doc lifts his vest, disclosing the butt of a pistol. â€Å"It's a Colt 9. Beez has got one of the same. Good iron, all registered and proper.† He glances at Dale. â€Å"You along for the ride, are you?† â€Å"It's my town,† Dale says, â€Å"and the Fisherman just murdered my uncle. I don't understand very much of what Jack's been telling me, but I know that much. And if he says there's a chance we can get Judy Marshall's boy back, I think we'd better try it.† He glances at Jack. â€Å"I brought you a service revolver. One of the Ruger automatics. It's out in the car.† Jack nods absently. He doesn't care much about the guns, because once they're on the other side they'll almost certainly change into something else. Spears, possibly javelins. Maybe even slingshots. It's going to be the Execution Express, all right the Sawyer Gang's last ride but he doubts if it'll be much like the one in this old movie from the sixties. Although he'll take the Ruger. There might be work for it on this side. One never knows, does one? â€Å"Ready to saddle up?† Beezer asks Jack. His eyes are deep-socketed, haunted. Jack guesses the Beez didn't get much sleep last night. He glances up at the clock again and decides for no other reason than pure superstition that he doesn't want to start for the Black House just yet, after all. They'll leave the Sand Bar when the hands on the Kingsland clock stand at straight-up noon, no sooner. The Gary Cooper witching hour. â€Å"Almost,† he says. â€Å"Have you got the map, Beez?† â€Å"I got it, but I also got an idea you don't really need it, do you?† â€Å"Maybe not,† Jack allows, â€Å"but I'll take all the insurance I can get.† Beezer nods. â€Å"I'm down with that. I sent my old lady back to her ma's in Idaho. After what happened with poor old Mousie, I didn't have to argue too hard. Never sent her back before, man. Not even the time we had our bad rumble with the Pagans. But I got a terrible feeling about this.† He hesitates, then comes right out with it. â€Å"Feel like none of us are coming back.† Jack puts a hand on Beezer's meaty forearm. â€Å"Not too late to back out. I won't think any less of you.† Beezer mulls it over, then shakes his head. â€Å"Amy comes to me in my dreams, sometimes. We talk. How am I gonna talk to her if I don't stand up for her? No, man, I'm in.† Jack looks at Doc. â€Å"I'm with Beez,† Doc says. â€Å"Sometimes you just gotta stand up. Besides, after what happened to Mouse . . .† He shrugs. â€Å"God knows what we might have caught from him. Or fucking around out there at that house. Future might be short after that, no matter what.† â€Å"How'd it turn out with Mouse?† Jack inquires. Doc gives a short laugh. â€Å"Just like he said. Around three o'clock this morning, we just washed old Mousie down the tub drain. Nothing left but foam and hair.† He grimaces as if his stomach is trying to revolt, then quickly downs his glass of Coke. â€Å"If we're going to do something,† Dale blurts, â€Å"let's just do it.† Jack glances up at the clock. It's 11:50 now. â€Å"Soon.† â€Å"I'm not afraid of dying,† Beezer says abruptly. â€Å"I'm not even afraid of that devil dog. It can be hurt if you pour enough bullets into it, we found that out. It's how that fucking place makes you feel. The air gets thick. Your head aches and your muscles get weak.† And then, with a surprisingly good British accent: â€Å"Hangovers ain't in it, old boy.† â€Å"My gut was the worst,† Doc says. â€Å"That and . . .† But he falls silent. He doesn't ever talk about Daisy Temperly, the girl he killed with an errant scratch of ink on a prescription pad, but he can see her now as clearly as the make-believe cowboys on the Sand Bar's TV. Blond, she was. With brown eyes. Sometimes he'd made her smile (even in her pain) by singing that song to her, the Van Morrison song about the brown-eyed girl. â€Å"I'm going for Mouse,† Doc says. â€Å"I have to. But that place . . . it's a sick place. You don't know, man. You may think you understand, but you don't.† â€Å"I understand more than you think,† Jack says. Now it's his turn to stop, to consider. Do Beezer and Doc remember the word Mouse spoke before he died? Do they remember d'yamba? They should, they were right there, they saw the books slide off their shelf and hang in the air when Jack spoke that word . . . but Jack is almost sure that if he asked them right now, they'd give him looks that are puzzled, or maybe just blank. Partly because d'yamba is hard to remember, like the precise location of the lane that leads from sane antislippage Highway 35 to Black House. Mostly, however, because the word was for him, for Jack Sawyer, the son of Phil and Lily. He is the leader of the Sawyer Gang because he is different. He has traveled, and travel is broadening. How much of this should he tell them? None of it, probably. But they must believe, and for that to happen he must use Mouse's word. He knows in his heart that he must be careful about using it d'yamba is like a gun; you can only fire it so many times before it clicks empty and he hates to use it here, so far from Black House, but he will. Because they must believe. If they don't, their brave quest to rescue Ty is apt to end with them all kneeling in Black House's front yard, noses bleeding, eyes bleeding, vomiting and spitting teeth into the poison air. Jack can tell them that most of the poison comes from their own minds, but talk is cheap. They must believe. Besides, it's still only 11:53. â€Å"Lester,† he says. The bartender has been lurking, forgotten, by the swing door into the kitchen. Not eavesdropping he's too far away for that but not wanting to move and attract attention. Now it seems that he's attracted some anyway. â€Å"Have you got honey?† Jack asks. â€Å"H-honey?† â€Å"Bees make it, Lester. Mokes make money and bees make honey.† Something like comprehension dawns in Lester's eyes. â€Å"Yeah, sure. I keep it to make Kentucky Getaways. Also â€Å" â€Å"Set it on the bar,† Jack tells him. Dale stirs restively. â€Å"If time's as short as you think, Jack â€Å" â€Å"This is important.† He watches Lester Moon put a small plastic squeeze bottle of honey on the bar and finds himself thinking of Henry. How Henry would have enjoyed the pocket miracle Jack is about to perform! But of course, he wouldn't have needed to perform such a trick for Henry. Wouldn't have needed to waste part of the precious word's power. Because Henry would have believed at once, just as he had believed he could drive from Trempealeau to French Landing hell, to the fucking moon if someone just dared to give him the chance and the car keys. â€Å"I'll bring it to you,† Lester says bravely. â€Å"I ain't afraid.† â€Å"Just set it down on the far end of the bar,† Jack tells him. â€Å"That'll be fine.† He does as asked. The squeeze bottle is shaped like a bear. It sits there in a beam of six-minutes-to-noon sun. On the television, the gunplay has started. Jack ignores it. He ignores everything, focusing his mind as brightly as a point of light through a magnifying glass. For a moment he allows that tight focus to remain empty, and then he fills it with a single word: (D'YAMBA) At once he hears a low buzzing. It swells to a drone. Beezer, Doc, and Dale look around. For a moment nothing happens, and then the sunshiny doorway darkens. It's almost as if a very small rain cloud has floated into the Sand Bar Stinky Cheese lets out a strangled squawk and goes flailing backward. â€Å"Wasps!† he shouts. â€Å"Them are wasps! Get clear!† But they are not wasps. Doc and Lester Moon might not recognize that, but both Beezer and Dale Gilbertson are country boys. They know bees when they see one. Jack, meanwhile, only looks at the swarm. Sweat has popped out on his forehead. He's concentrating with all his might on what he wants the bees to do. They cloud around the squeeze bottle of honey so thickly it almost disappears. Then their humming deepens, and the bottle begins to rise, wobbling from side to side like a tiny missile with a really shitty guidance system. Then, slowly, it wavers its way toward the Sawyer Gang. The squeeze bottle is riding a cushion of bees six inches above the bar. Jack holds his hand out and open. The squeeze bottle glides into it. Jack closes his fingers. Docking complete. For a moment the bees rise around his head, their drone competing with Lily, who is shouting: â€Å"Save the tall bastard for me! He's the one who raped Stella!† Then they stream out the door and are gone. The Kingsland Ale clock stands at 11:57. â€Å"Holy Mary, mothera God,† Beezer whispers. His eyes are huge, almost popping out of their sockets. â€Å"You've been hiding your light under a bushel, looks like to me,† Dale says. His voice is unsteady. From the end of the bar there comes a soft thud. Lester â€Å"Stinky Cheese† Moon has, for the first time in his life, fainted. â€Å"We're going to go now,† Jack says. â€Å"Beez, you and Doc lead. We'll be right behind you in Dale's car. When you get to the lane and the NO TRESPASSING sign, don't go in. Just park your scoots. We'll go the rest of the way in the car, but first we're going to put a little of this under our noses.† Jack holds up the squeeze bottle. It's a plastic version of Winnie-the-Pooh, grimy around the middle where Lester seizes it and squeezes it. â€Å"We might even dab some in our nostrils. A little sticky, but better than projectile vomiting.† Confirmation and approval are dawning in Dale's eyes. â€Å"Like putting Vicks under your nose at a murder scene,† he says. It's nothing like that at all, but Jack nods. Because this is about believing. â€Å"Will it work?† Doc asks doubtfully. â€Å"Yes,† Jack replies. â€Å"You'll still feel some discomfort, I don't doubt that a bit, but it'll be mild. Then we're going to cross over to . . . well, to someplace else. After that, all bets are off.† â€Å"I thought the kid was in the house,† Beez says. â€Å"I think he's probably been moved. And the house . . . it's a kind of wormhole. It opens on another . . .† World is the first word to come into Jack's mind, but somehow he doesn't think it is a world, not in the Territories sense. â€Å"On another place.† On the TV, Lily has just taken the first of about six bullets. She dies in this one, and as a kid Jack always hated that, but at least she goes down shooting. She takes quite a few of the bastards with her, including the tall one who raped her friend, and that is good. Jack hopes he can do the same. More than anything, however, he hopes he can bring Tyler Marshall back to his mother and father. Beside the television, the clock flicks from 11:59 to 12:00. â€Å"Come on, boys,† Jack Sawyer says. â€Å"Let's saddle up and ride.† Beezer and Doc mount their iron horses. Jack and Dale stroll toward the chief of police's car, then stop as a Ford Explorer bolts into the Sand Bar's lot, skidding on the gravel and hurrying toward them, pulling a rooster tail of dust into the summer air. â€Å"Oh Christ,† Dale murmurs. Jack can tell from the too small baseball cap sitting ludicrously on the driver's head that it's Fred Marshall. But if Ty's father thinks he's going to join the rescue mission, he'd better think again. â€Å"Thank God I caught you!† Fred shouts as he all but tumbles from his truck. â€Å"Thank God!† â€Å"Who next?† Dale asks softly. â€Å"Wendell Green? Tom Cruise? George W. Bush, arm in arm with Miss Fucking Universe?† Jack barely hears him. Fred is wrestling a long package from the bed of his truck, and all at once Jack is interested. The thing in that package could be a rifle, but somehow he doesn't think that's what it is. Jack suddenly feels like a squeeze bottle being levitated by bees, not so much acting as acted upon. He starts forward. â€Å"Hey bro, let's roll!† Beezer yells. Beneath him, his Harley explodes into life. â€Å"Let's â€Å" Then Beezer cries out. So does Doc, who jerks so hard he almost dumps the bike idling between his thighs. Jack feels something like a bolt of lightning go through his head and he reels forward into Fred, who is also shouting incoherently. For a moment the two of them appear to be either dancing with the long wrapped object Fred has brought them or wrestling over it. Only Dale Gilbertson who hasn't been to the Territories, hasn't been close to Black House, and who is not Ty Marshall's father is unaffected. Yet even he feels something rise in his head, something like an interior shout. The world trembles. All at once there seems to be more color in it, more dimension. â€Å"What was that?† he shouts. â€Å"Good or bad? Good or bad? What the hell is going on here?† For a moment none of them answer. They are too dazed to answer. While a swarm of bees is floating a squeeze bottle of honey along the top of a bar in another world, Burny is telling Ty Marshall to face the wall, goddamnit, just face the wall. They are in a foul little shack. The sounds of clashing machinery are much closer. Ty can also hear screams and sobs and harsh yells and what can only be the whistling crack of whips. They are very near the Big Combination now. Ty has seen it, a great crisscrossing confusion of metal rising into the clouds from a smoking pit about half a mile east. It looks like a madman's conception of a skyscraper, a Rube Goldberg collection of chutes and cables and belts and platforms, everything run by the marching, staggering children who roll the belts and pull the great levers. Red-tinged smoke rises from it in stinking fumes. Twice as the golf cart rolled slowly along, Ty at the wheel and Burny leaning askew in the passenger seat with the Taser pointed, squads of freakish green men passed them. Their features were scrambled, their skin plated and reptilian. They wore half-cured leather tunics from which tufts of fur still started in places. Most carried spears; several had whips. Overseers, Burny said. They keep the wheels of progress turning. He began to laugh, but the laugh turned into a groan and the groan into a harsh and breathless shriek of pain. Good, Ty thought coldly. And then, for the first time employing a favorite word of Ebbie Wexler's: Die soon, you motherfucker. About two miles from the back of Black House, they came to a huge wooden platform on their left. A gantrylike thing jutted up from it. A long post projected out from the top, almost to the road. A number of frayed rope ends dangled from it, twitching in the hot and sulfurous breeze. Under the platform, on dead ground that never felt the sun, were litters of bones and ancient piles of white dust. To one side was a great mound of shoes. Why they'd take the clothes and leave the shoes was a question Ty probably couldn't have answered even had he not been wearing the cap (sbecial toyz for sbecial boyz), but a disjointed phrase popped into his head: custom of the country. He had an idea that was something his father sometimes said, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't even remember his father's face, not clearly. The gibbet was surrounded by crows. They jostled one another and turned to follow the humming progress of the E-Z-Go. None was the special crow, the one with the name Ty could no longer remember, but he knew why they were here. They were waiting for fresh flesh to pluck, that's what they were doing. Waiting for newly dead eyes to gobble. Not to mention the bare toesies of the shoe-deprived dead. Beyond the pile of discarded, rotting footwear, a broken track led off to the north, over a fuming hill. â€Å"Station House Road,† Burny said. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Ty at that point, was perhaps edging into delirium. Yet still the Taser pointed at Ty's neck, never wavering. â€Å"That's where I'm supposed to be taking the special boy.† Taging the sbecial bouy. â€Å"That's where the special ones go. Mr. Munshun's gone to get the mono. The End-World mono. Once there were two others. Patricia . . . and Blaine. They're gone. Went crazy. Committed suicide.† Ty drove the cart and remained silent, but he had to believe old Burn-Burn was the one who had gone crazy (crazier, he reminded himself ). He knew about monorails, had even ridden one at Disney World in Orlando, but monorails named Blaine and Patricia? That was stupid. Station House Road fell behind them. Ahead, the rusty red and iron gray of the Big Combination drew closer. Ty could see moving ants on cruelly inclined belts. Children. Some from other worlds, perhaps worlds adjacent to this one but many from his own. Kids whose faces appeared for a while on milk cartons and then disappeared forever. Kept a little longer in the hearts of their parents, of course, but eventually growing dusty even there, turning from vivid memories into old photographs. Kids presumed dead, buried somewhere in shallow graves by perverts who had used them and then discarded them. Instead, they were here. Some of them, anyway. Many of them. Struggling to yank the levers and turn the wheels and move the belts while the yellow-eyed, green-skinned overseers cracked their whips. As Ty watched, one of the ant specks fell down the side of the convoluted, steam-wreathed building. He thought he could hear a faint scream. Or perhaps it was a cry of relief ? â€Å"Beautiful day,† Burny said faintly. â€Å"I'll enjoy it more when I get something to eat. Having something to eat always . . . always perks me up.† His ancient eyes studied Ty, tightening a little at the corners with sudden warmth. â€Å"Baby butt's the best eatin', but yours won't be bad. Nope, won't be bad at all. He said to take you to the station, but I ain't sure he'd give me my share. My . . . commission. Maybe he's honest . . . maybe he's still my friend . . . but I think I'll just take my share first, and make sure. Most agents take their ten percent off the top.† He reached out and poked Ty just below the belt-line. Even through his jeans, the boy could feel the tough, blunt edge of the old man's nail. â€Å"I think I'll take mine off the bottom.† A wheezy, painful laugh, and Ty was not exactly displeased to see a bright bubble of blood appear between the old man's cracked lips. â€Å"Off the bottom, get it?† The nail poked the side o f Ty's buttock again. â€Å"I get it,† Ty said. â€Å"You'll be able to break just as well,† Burny said. â€Å"It's just that when you fart, you'll have to do the old one-cheek sneak every time!† More wheezing laughter. Yes, he sounded delirious, all right delirious or on the verge of it yet still the tip of the Taser remained rock-steady. â€Å"Keep on going, boy. ‘Nother half a mile up the Conger Road. You'll see a little shack with a tin roof, down in a draw. It's on the right. It's a special place. Special to me. Turn in there.† Ty, with no other choice, obeyed. And now â€Å"Do what I tell you! Face the fucking wall! Put your hands up and through those loops!† Ty couldn't define the word euphemism on a bet, but he knows calling those metal circlets â€Å"loops† is bullshit. What's hanging from the rear wall are shackles. Panic flutters in his brain like a flock of small birds, threatening to obscure his thoughts. Ty fights to hold on fights with grim intensity. If he gives in to panic, starts to holler and scream, he's going to be finished. Either the old man will kill him in the act of carving him up, or the old man's friend will take him away to some awful place Burny calls Din-tah. In either case, Ty will never see his mother and father again. Or French Landing. But if he can keep his head . . . wait for his chance . . . Ah, but it's hard. The cap he's wearing actually helps a little in this respect it has a dulling effect that helps hold the panic at bay but it's still hard. Because he's not the first kid the old man has brought here, no more than he was the first to spend long, slow hours in that cell back at the old man's house. There's a blackened, grease-caked barbecue set up in the left corner of the shed, underneath a tin-plated smoke hole. The grill is hooked up to a couple of gas bottles with LA RIVIERE PROPANE stenciled on the sides. Hung on the wall are oven mitts, spatulas, tongs, basting brushes, and meat forks. There are scissors and tenderizing hammers and at least four keen-bladed carving knives. One of the knives looks almost as long as a ceremonial sword. Hanging beside that one is a filthy apron with YOU MAY KISS THE COOK printed on it. The smell in the air reminds Ty of the VFW picnic his mom and dad took him to the previous Labor Day. Maui Wowie, it had been called, because the people who went were supposed to feel like they were spending the day in Hawaii. There had been a great big barbecue pit in the center of La Follette Park down by the river, tended by women in grass skirts and men wearing loud shirts covered with birds and tropical foliage. Whole pigs had been roasting over a glaring hole in the ground, and the odor had been like the one in this shed. Except the smell in here is stale . . . and old . . . and . . . And not quite pork, Ty thinks. It's â€Å"I should stand here and jaw at you all day, you louse?† The Taser gives off a crackling sizzle. Tingling, debilitating pain sinks into the side of Ty's neck. His bladder lets go and he wets his pants. He can't help it. Is hardly aware of it, in truth. Somewhere (in a galaxy far, far away) a hand that is trembling but still terribly strong thrusts Ty toward the back wall and the shackles that have been welded to steel plates about five and a half feet off the ground. â€Å"There!† Burny cries, and gives a tired, hysterical laugh. â€Å"Knew you'd get one for good luck eventually! Smart boy, ain'tcha? Little wisenheimer! Now put your hands through them loops and let's have no more foolishness about it!† Ty has put out his hands in order to keep himself from crashing face-first into the shed's rear wall. His eyes are less than a foot from the wood, and he is getting a very good look at the old layers of blood that coat it. That plate it. The blood has an ancient metallic reek. Beneath his feet, the ground feels spongy. Jellylike. Nasty. This may be an illusion in the physical sense, but Ty knows that what he's feeling is nonetheless quite real. This is corpse ground. The old man may not prepare his terrible meals here every time may not have that luxury but this is the place he likes. As he said, it's special to him. If I let him lock both of my hands into those shackles, Ty thinks, I've had it. He'll cut me up. And once he starts cutting, he may not be able to stop himself not for this Mr. Munching, not for anyone. So get ready. That last is not like one of his own thoughts at all. It's like hearing his mother's voice in his head. His mother, or someone like her. Ty steadies. The flock of panic birds is suddenly gone, and he is as clearheaded as the cap will allow. He knows what he must do. Or try to do. He feels the nozzle of the Taser slip between his legs and thinks of the snake wriggling across the overgrown driveway, carrying its mouthful of fangs. â€Å"Put your hands through those loops right now, or I'm going to fry your balls like oysters.† Ersters, it sounds like. â€Å"Okay,† Ty says. He speaks in a high, whiny voice. He hopes he sounds scared out of his mind. God knows it shouldn't be hard to sound that way. â€Å"Okay, okay, just don't hurt me, I'm doing it now, see? See?† He puts his hands through the loops. They are big and loose. â€Å"Higher!† The growling voice is still in his ear, but the Taser is gone from between his legs, at least. â€Å"Shove 'em in as far as you can!† Ty does as he is told. The shackles slide to a point just above his wrists. His hands are like starfish in the gloom. Behind him, he hears that soft clinking noise again as Burny rummages in his bag. Ty understands. The cap may be scrambling his thoughts a little, but this is too obvious to miss. The old bastard's got handcuffs in there. Handcuffs that have been used many, many times. He'll cuff Ty's wrists above the shackles, and here Ty will stand or dangle, if he passes out while the old monster carves him up. â€Å"Now listen,† Burny says. He sounds out of breath, but he also sounds lively again. The prospect of a meal has refreshed him, brought back a certain amount of his vitality. â€Å"I'm pointin' this shocker at you with one hand. I'm gonna slip a cuff around your left wrist with the other hand. If you move . . . if you so much as twitch, boy . . . you get the juice. Understand?† Ty nods at the bloodstained wall. â€Å"I won't move,† he gibbers. â€Å"Honest I won't.† â€Å"First one hand, then the other. That's how I do it.† There is a revolting complacency in his voice. The Taser presses between Ty's shoulder blades hard enough to hurt. Grunting with effort, the old man leans over Ty's left shoulder. Ty can smell sweat and blood and age. It is like â€Å"Hansel and Gretel,† he thinks, only he has no oven to push his tormentor into. You know what to do, Judy tells him coldly. He may not give you a chance, and if he doesn't, he doesn't. But if he does . . . A handcuff slips around his left wrist. Burny is grunting softly, repulsively, in Ty's ear. The old man reaches . . . the Taser shifts . . . but not quite far enough. Ty holds still as Burny snaps the handcuff shut and tightens it down. Now Ty's left hand is secured to the shed wall. Dangling down from his left wrist by its steel chain is the cuff Burny intends to put on his right wrist. The old man, still panting effortfully, moves to the right. He reaches around Ty's front, groping for the dangling cuff. The Taser is once more digging into Ty's back. If the old man gets hold of the cuff, Ty's goose is probably cooked (in more ways than one). And he almost does. But the cuff slips out of his grip, and instead of waiting for it to pendulum back to where he can grab it, Burny leans farther forward. The bony side of his face is planted against Ty's right shoulder. And when he leans to get the dangling handcuff, Ty feels the touch of the Taser first lighten, then disappear. Now! Judy screams inside Ty's head. Or perhaps it is Sophie. Or maybe it's both of them together. Now, Ty! It's your chance, there won't be another! Ty pistons his right arm downward, pulling free of the shackle. It would do him no good to try to shove Burny away from him the old monster outweighs him by sixty pounds or more and Ty doesn't try. He pulls away to his left instead, putting excruciating pressure on his shoulder and on his left wrist, which has been locked into the shackle holding it. â€Å"What † Burny begins, and then Ty's groping right hand has what it wants: the loose, dangling sac of the old man's balls. He squeezes with all the force in his body. He feels the monster's testicles squash toward each other; feels one of them rupture and deflate. Ty shouts, a sound of dismay and horror and savage triumph all mingled together. Burny, caught entirely by surprise, howls. He tries to pull backward, but Ty has him in a harpy's grip. His hand so small, so incapable (or so you would think) of any serious defense has turned into a claw. If ever there was a time to use the Taser, this is it . . . but in his surprise, Burny's hand has sprung open. The Taser lies on the ancient, blood-impacted earth of the shed floor. â€Å"Let go of me! That HURTS! That hurr â€Å" Before he can finish, Ty yanks forward on the spongy and deflating bag inside the old cotton pants; he yanks with all the force of panic, and something in there rips. Burny's words dissolve in a liquid howl of agony. This is more pain than he has ever imagined . . . certainly never in connection with himself. But it is not enough. Judy's voice says it's not, and Ty might know it, anyway. He has hurt the old man has given him what Ebbie Wexler would undoubtedly call â€Å"a fuckin' rupture† but it's not enough. He lets go and turns to his left, pivoting on his shackled hand. He sees the old man swaying before him in the shadows. Beyond him, the golf cart stands in the open door, outlined against a sky filled with clouds and burning smoke. The old monster's eyes are huge and disbelieving, bulging with tears. He gapes at the little boy who has done this. Soon comprehension will return. When it does, Burny is apt to seize one of the knives from the wall or perhaps one of the meat forks and stab his chained prisoner to death, screaming curses and oaths at him as he does so, calling him a monkey, a bastard, a fucking asswipe. Any thought of Ty's great talent will be gone. Any fear of what may happen to Burny himself if Mr. Munshun and the abbalah is robbed of his prize will also be gone. In truth, Burny is nothing but a psychotic animal, and in another moment his essential nature will break loose and vent itself on this tethered child. Tyler Marshall, son of Fred and the formidable Judy, does not give Burny this chance. During the last part of the drive he has thought repeatedly of what the old man said about Mr. Munshun he hurt me, he pulled my guts and hoped he might get his own opportunity to do some pulling. Now it's come. Hanging from the shackle with his left arm pulled cruelly up, he shoots his right hand forward. Through the hole in Burny's shirt. Through the hole Henry has made with his switchblade knife. Suddenly Ty has hold of something ropy and wet. He seizes it and pulls a roll of Charles Burnside's intestines out through the rip in his shirt. Burny's head turns up toward the shed's ceiling. His jaw snaps convulsively, the cords on his wrinkled old neck stand out, and he voices a great, agonized bray. He tries to pull away, which may be the worst thing a man can do when someone has him by the liver and lights. A blue-gray fold of gut, as plump as a sausage and perhaps still trying to digest Burny's last Maxton cafeteria meal, comes out with the audible pop of a champagne cork leaving the neck of its bottle. Charles â€Å"Chummy† Burnside's last words: â€Å"LET GO, YOU LITTLE PIIIIG!† Tyler does not let go. Instead he shakes the loop of intestine furiously from side to side like a terrier with a rat in its jaws. Blood and yellowish fluid spray out of the hole in Burny's midsection. â€Å"Die!† Tyler hears himself screaming. â€Å"Die, you old fuck, GO ON AND DIE!† Burny staggers back another step. His mouth drops open, and part of an upper plate tumbles out and onto the dirt. He is staring down at two loops of his own innards, stretching like gristle from the gaping red-black front of his shirt to the awful child's right hand. And he sees an even more terrible thing: a kind of white glow has surrounded the boy. It is feeding him more strength than he otherwise would have had. Feeding him the strength to pull Burny's living guts right out of his body and how it hurt, how it hurt, how it dud dud dud hurrrrr â€Å"Die!† the boy screams in a shrill and breaking voice. â€Å"Oh please, WON'T YOU EVER DIE?† And at last at long, long last Burny collapses to his knees. His dimming gaze fixes on the Taser and he reaches one trembling hand toward it. Before it can get far, the light of consciousness leaves Burny's eyes. He hasn't endured enough pain to equal even the hundredth part of the suffering he has inflicted, but it's all his ancient body can take. He makes a harsh cawing sound deep in his throat, then tumbles over backward, more intestines pulling out of his lower abdomen as he does so. He is unaware of this or of anything else. Carl Bierstone, also known as Charles Burnside, also known as â€Å"Chummy† Burnside, is dead. For over thirty seconds, nothing moves. Tyler Marshall is alive but at first only hangs from the axis of his shackled left arm, still clutching a loop of Burny's intestine in his right hand. Clutching it in a death grip. At last some sense of awareness informs his features. He gets his feet under him and scrambles upright, easing the all but intolerable pressure on the socket of his left shoulder. He suddenly becomes aware that his right arm is splashed with gore all the way to the biceps, and that he's got a handful of dead man's insides. He lets go of them and bolts for the door, not remembering that he's still chained to the wall until he is yanked back, the socket of his shoulder once more bellowing with pain. You've done well, the voice of Judy-Sophie whispers. But you have to get out of here, and quick. Tears start to roll down his dirty, pallid face again, and Ty begins to scream at the top of his voice. â€Å"Help me! Somebody help me! I'm in the shed! I'M IN THE SHED!† Out in front of the Sand Bar, Doc stays where he is, with his scoot rumbling between his legs, but Beezer turns his off, levers the stand into place with one booted heel, and walks over to Jack, Dale, and Fred. Jack has taken charge of the wrapped object Ty's father has brought them. Fred, meanwhile, has gotten hold of Jack's shirt. Dale tries to restrain the man, but as far as Fred Marshall's concerned, there are now only two people in the world: him and Hollywood Jack Sawyer. â€Å"It was him, wasn't it? It was Ty. That was my boy, I heard him!† â€Å"Yes,† Jack says. â€Å"It certainly was and you certainly did.† He's gone rather pale, Beezer sees, but is otherwise calm. It's absolutely not bothering him that the missing boy's father has yanked his shirt out of his pants. No, all Jack's attention is on the wrapped package. â€Å"What in God's name is going on here?† Dale asks plaintively. He looks at Beezer. â€Å"Do you know?† â€Å"The kid's in a shed somewhere,† Beezer says. â€Å"Am I right about that?† â€Å"Yes,† Jack says. Fred abruptly lets go of Jack's shirt and staggers backward, sobbing. Jack pays no attention to him and makes no effort to tuck in the tail of his crumpled shirt. He's still looking at the package. He half-expects sugar-packet stamps, but no, this is just a case of plain old metered mail. Whatever it is, it's been mailed Priority to Mr. Tyler Marshall, 16 Robin Hood Lane, French Landing. The return address has been stamped in red: Mr. George Rathbun, KDCU, 4 Peninsula Drive, French Landing. Below this, stamped in large black letters: EVEN A BLIND MAN CAN SEE THAT COULEE COUNTRY LOVES THE BREWER BASH! â€Å"Henry, you never quit, do you?† Jack murmurs. Tears sting his eyes. The idea of life without his old friend hits him all over again, leaves him feeling helpless and lost and stupid and hurt. â€Å"What about Uncle Henry?† Dale asks. â€Å"Jack, Uncle Henry's dead.† Jack's no longer so sure of that, somehow. â€Å"Let's go,† Beezer says. â€Å"We got to get that kid. He's alive, but he ain't safe. I got that clear as a bell. Let's go for it. We can figure the rest out later.† But Jack who has not just heard Tyler's shout but has, for a moment, seen through Tyler's eyes doesn't have much to figure out. In fact, figuring out now comes down to only one thing. Ignoring both Beezer and Dale, he steps toward Ty's weeping father. â€Å"Fred.† Fred goes on sobbing. â€Å"Fred, if you ever want to see your boy again, you get hold of yourself right now and listen to me.† Fred looks up, red eyes streaming. The ridiculously small baseball cap still perches on his head. â€Å"What's in this, Fred?† â€Å"It must be a prize in that contest George Rathbun runs every summer the Brewer Bash. But I don't know how Ty could have won something in the first place. A couple of weeks ago he was pissing and moaning about how he forgot to enter. He even asked if maybe I'd entered the contest for him, and I kind of . . . well, I snapped at him.† Fresh tears begin running down Fred's stubbly cheeks at the memory. â€Å"That was around the time Judy was getting . . . strange . . . I was worried about her and I just kind of . . . snapped at him. You know?† Fred's chest heaves. He makes a watery hitching sound and his Adam's apple bobs up and down. He wipes an arm across his eyes. â€Å"And Ty . . . all he said was, ? ®That's all right, Dad.' He didn't get mad at me, didn't sulk or anything. Because that's just the kind of boy he was. That he is.† â€Å"How did you know to bring it to me?† â€Å"Your friend called,† Fred says. â€Å"He told me the postman had brought something and I had to bring it to you here, right away. Before you left. He called you â€Å" â€Å"He called me Travelin' Jack.† Fred Marshall looks at him wonderingly. â€Å"That's right.† â€Å"All right.† Jack speaks gently, almost absently. â€Å"We're going to get your boy now.† â€Å"I'll come. I've got my deer rifle in the truck â€Å" â€Å"And that's where it's going to stay. Go home. Make a place for him. Make a place for your wife. And let us do what we have to do.† Jack looks first at Dale, then at Beezer. â€Å"Come on,† he says. â€Å"Let's roll.† Five minutes later, the FLPD chief's car is speeding west on Highway 35. Directly ahead, like an honor guard, Beezer and Doc are riding side by side, the sun gleaming on the chrome of their bikes. Trees in full summer leaf crowd close to the road on either side. Jack can feel the buzzing that is Black House's signature starting to ramp up in his head. He has discovered he can wall that noise off if he has to, keep it from spreading and blanketing his entire thought process with static, but it's still damned unpleasant. Dale has given him one of the Ruger .357s that are the police department's service weapons; it's now stuck in the waistband of his blue jeans. He was surprised at how good the weight of it felt in his hand, almost like a homecoming. Guns may not be of much use in the world behind Black House, but they have to get there first, don't they? And according to Beezer and Doc, the approach is not exactly undefended. â€Å"Dale, do you have a pocketknife?† â€Å"Glove compartment,† Dale says. He glances at the long package on Jack's lap. â€Å"I presume you want to open that.† â€Å"You presume right.† â€Å"Can you explain a few things while you do it? Like whether or not, once we get inside Black House, we can expect Charles Burnside to jump out of a secret door with an axe and start â€Å" â€Å"Chummy Burnside's days of jumping out at folks are all over,† Jack says. â€Å"He's dead. Ty Marshall killed him. That's what hit us outside the Sand Bar.† The chief's car swerves so extravagantly all the way across to the left side of the road that Beezer looks back for a moment, startled at what he's just seen in his rearview. Jack gives him a hard, quick wave Go on, don't worry about us and Beez faces forward again. â€Å"What?† Dale gasps. â€Å"The old bastard was hurt, but I have an idea that Ty still did one hell of a brave thing. Brave and crafty both.† Jack is thinking that Henry softened Burnside up and Ty finished him up. What George Rathbun would undoubtedly have called a honey of a double play. â€Å"How â€Å" â€Å"Disemboweled him. With his bare hands. Hand. I'm pretty sure the other one's chained up somehow.† Dale is silent for a moment, watching the motorcyclists ahead of him as they lean into a curve with their hair streaming out from beneath their token gestures at obeying Wisconsin's helmet law. Jack, meanwhile, is slitting open brown wrapping paper and revealing a long white carton beneath. Something rolls back and forth inside. â€Å"You're telling me that a ten-year-old boy disemboweled a serial killer. A serial cannibal. You somehow know this.† â€Å"Yes.† â€Å"I find that extremely difficult to believe.† â€Å"Based on the father, I guess I can understand that. Fred's . . .† A wimp is what comes to mind, but that is both unfair and untrue. â€Å"Fred's tenderhearted,† Jack says. â€Å"Judy, though . . .† â€Å"Backbone,† Dale says. â€Å"She does have that, I'm told.† Jack gives his friend a humorless grin. He's got the buzzing confined to a small portion of his brain, but in that one small portion it's shrieking like a fire alarm. They're almost there. â€Å"She certainly does,† he tells Dale. â€Å"And so does the boy. He's . . . brave.† What Jack has almost said is He's a prince. â€Å"And he's alive.† â€Å"Yes.† â€Å"Chained in a shed somewhere.† â€Å"Right.† â€Å"Behind Burnside's house.† â€Å"Uh-huh.† â€Å"If I've got the geography right, that places him somewhere in the woods near Schubert and Gale.† Jack smiles and says nothing. â€Å"All right,† Dale says heavily. â€Å"What have I got wrong?† â€Å"It doesn't matter. Which is good, because it's impossible to explain.† Jack just hopes Dale's mind is screwed down tightly, because it's apt to take one hell of a pounding in the next hour or so. His fingernail slits the tape holding the box closed. He opens it. There's bubble wrap beneath. Jack pulls it out, tosses it into the footwell, and looks at Ty Marshall's Brewer Bash prize a prize he won even though he apparently never entered the contest. Jack lets out a little sigh of awe. There's enough kid left in him to react to the object that he sees, even though he never played the game once he was too old for Little League. Because there's something about a bat, isn't there? Something that speaks to our primitive beliefs about the purity of struggle and the strength of our team. The home team. Of the right and the white. Surely Bernard Malamud knew it; Jack has read The Natural a score of times, always hoping for a different ending (and when the movie offered him one, he hated it), always loving the fact that Roy Hobbs named his cudgel Wonderboy. And never mind the critics with all their stuffy talk about the Arthurian legend and phallic symbols; sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and sometimes a bat is just a bat. A big stick. Something to hit home runs with. â€Å"Holy wow,† Dale says, glancing over. And he looks younger. Boyish. Eyes wide. So Jack isn't the only one, it seems. â€Å"Whose bat?† Jack lifts it carefully from the box. Written up the barrel in black Magic Marker is this message: To Tyler Marshall Keep Slugging! Your pal, Richie Sexson â€Å"Richie Sexson,† Jack says. â€Å"Who's Richie Sexson?† â€Å"Big slugger for the Brewers,† Dale says. â€Å"Is he as good as Roy Hobbs?† â€Å"Roy † Then Dale grins. â€Å"Oh, in that movie! Robert Redford, right? No I don't think . Hey, what are you doing?† Still holding the bat (in fact he almost bashes Dale in the right cheekbone with the end of it), Jack reaches over and honks the horn. â€Å"Pull over,† he says. â€Å"This is it. Those dopes were out here only yesterday and they're going right past it.† Dale pulls over on the shoulder, brings the cruiser to a jerky stop, and puts it in park. When he looks over at Jack, his face has gone remarkably pale. â€Å"Oh man, Jack I don't feel so good. Maybe it was breakfast. Christ, I hope I'm not going to start puking.† â€Å"That buzzing you hear in your head, is that from breakfast?† Jack inquires. Dale's eyes go wide. â€Å"How do you â€Å" â€Å"Because I hear it, too. And feel it in my stomach. It's not your breakfast. It's Black House.† Jack holds out the squeeze bottle. â€Å"Go on. Dab some more around your nostrils. Get some right up in. You'll feel better.† Projecting absolute confidence. Because it's not about secret weapons or secret formulas; it's certainly not about honey. It's about belief. They have left the realm of the rational and have entered the realm of slippage. Jack knows it for certain as soon as he opens the car door. Ahead of him, the bikes swerve and come back. Beezer, an impatient look on his face, is shaking his head: No, no, not here. Dale joins Jack at the front of the car. His face is still pale, but the skin around and below his nose is shiny with honey, and he looks steady enough on his feet. â€Å"Thanks, Jack. This is so much better. I don't know how putting honey around my nose could affect my ears, but the buzzing's better, too. It's nothing but a low drone.† â€Å"Wrong place!† Beezer bawls as he pulls his Harley up to the front of the cruiser. â€Å"Nope,† Jack says calmly, looking at the unbroken woods. Sunlight on green leaves contrasting with crazy black zigzags of shadow. Everything trembling and unsteady, making mock of perspective. â€Å"This is it. The hideout of Mr. Munshun and the Black House Gang, as the Duke never said.† Now Doc's bike adds to the din as he pulls up next to Beezer. â€Å"Beez is right! We were just out here yesterday, y'damn fool! Don't you think you know what we're talking about?† â€Å"This is just scrap woods on both sides,† Dale chimes in. He points across the road where, fifty yards or so southeast of their position, yellow police tape flutters from a pair of trees. â€Å"That's the lane to Ed's Eats, there. The place we want is probably beyond it â€Å" Even though you know it's here, Jack thinks. Marvels, really. Why else have you gone and smeared yourself with honey like Pooh-bear on a lucky day? He shifts his gaze to Beezer and Doc, who are also looking remarkably unwell. Jack opens his mouth to speak to them . . . and something flutters at the upper edge of his vision. He restrains his natural impulse to look up and define the source of that movement. Something probably the old Travelin' Jack part of him thinks it would be a very bad idea to do that. Something is watching them already. Better if it doesn't know it's been spotted. He puts the Richie Sexson bat down, leaning it against the side of the idling cruiser. He takes the honey from Dale and holds it out to the Beez. â€Å"Here you go,† he says, â€Å"lather up.† â€Å"There's no point in it, you goddamn fool!† Beezer cries in exasperation. â€Å"This . . . ain't . . . the place!† â€Å"Your nose is bleeding,† Jack says mildly. â€Å"Just a little. Yours too, Doc.† Doc wipes a finger under his nose and looks at the red smear, startled. He starts, â€Å"But I know this isn't â€Å" That flutter again, at the top of Jack's vision. He ignores it and points straight ahead. Beezer, Doc, and Dale all look, and Dale's the first one to see it. â€Å"I'll be damned,† he says softly. â€Å"A NO TRESPASSING sign. Was it there before?† â€Å"Yep,† Jack says. â€Å"Been there for thirty years or more, I'd guess.† â€Å"Fuck,† Beez says, and begins rubbing honey around his nose. He pokes generous wads of the stuff up his nostrils; resinous drops gleam in his red-brown Viking's beard. â€Å"We woulda gone right on, Doctor. All the way to town. Hell, maybe all the way to Rapid City, South Dakota.† He hands the honey to Doc and grimaces at Jack. â€Å"I'm sorry, man. We should have known. No excuses.† â€Å"Where's the driveway?† Dale's asking, and then: â€Å"Oh. There it is. I could have sworn â€Å" â€Å"That there was nothing there, I know,† Jack says. He's smiling. Looking at his friends. At the Sawyer Gang. He is certainly not looking at the black rags fluttering restively at the upper periphery of his vision, nor down at his waist, where his hand is slowly drawing the Ruger .357 from his waistband. He was always one of the best out there. He'd only won badges a couple of times when it was shooting from a stand, but when it came to the draw-and-fire competition, he did quite well. Top five, usually. Jack has no idea if this is a skill he's retained, but he thinks he's going to find out right now. Smiling at them, watching Doc swab his schnozz with honey, Jack says in a conversational voice: â€Å"Something's watching us. Don't look up. I'm going to try and shoot it.† â€Å"What is it?† Dale asks, smiling back. He doesn't look up, only straight ahead. Now he can quite clearly see the shadowy lane that must lead to Burnside's house. It wasn't there, he could have sworn it wasn't, but now it is. â€Å"It's a pain in the ass,† Jack says, and suddenly swings the Ruger up, locking both hands around the stock. He's firing almost before he sees with his eyes, and he catches the great dark crow crouched on the overhanging branch of an oak tree entirely by surprise. It gives one loud, shocked cry â€Å"AWWWWK!† and then it is torn apart on its roost. Blood flies against the faded blue summer sky. Feathers flutter down in clumps as dark as midnight shadows. And a body. It hits the shoulder in front of the lane with a heavy thud. One dark, glazing eye peers at Jack Sawyer with an expression of surprise. â€Å"Did you fire five or six?† Beezer asks in a tone of deep awe. â€Å"It was so fast I couldn't tell.† â€Å"All of them,† Jack says. He guesses he's still not too bad at draw-and-fire after all. â€Å"That's one big fucking crow,† Doc says. â€Å"It's not just any crow,† Jack tells him. â€Å"It's Gorg.† He advances to the blasted body lying on the dirt. â€Å"How you doin', fella? How do you feel?† He spits on Gorg, a luscious thick lunger. â€Å"That's for luring the kids,† he says. Then, suddenly, he boots the crow's corpse into the underbrush. It flies in a limp arc, the wings wrapping around the body like a shroud. â€Å"And that's for fucking with Irma's mother.† They are looking at him, all three of them, with identical expressions of stunned awe. Almost of fear. It's a look that makes Jack tired, although he supposes he must accept it. He can remember his old friend Richard Sloat looking at him the same way, once Richard realized that what he called â€Å"Seabrook Island stuff † wasn't confined to Seabrook Island. â€Å"Come on,† Jack says. â€Å"Everybody in the car. Let's get it done.† Yes, and they must move quickly because a certain one-eyed gent will shortly be looking for Ty, too. Mr. Munshun. Eye of the King, Jack thinks. Eye of the abbalah. That's what Judy meant Mr. Munshun. Whoever or whatever he really is. â€Å"Don't like leaving the bikes out here by the side of the road, man.† Beezer says. â€Å"Anybody could come along and â€Å" â€Å"Nobody will see them,† Jack tells him. â€Å"Three or four cars have gone by since we parked, and no one's so much as looked over at us. And you know why.† â€Å"We've already started to cross over, haven't we?† Doc asks. â€Å"This is the edge of it. The border.† â€Å"Opopanax,† Jack says. The word simply pops out. â€Å"Huh?† Jack picks up Ty's Richie Sexson bat and gets in on the passenger side of the cruiser. â€Å"It means let's go,† he says. â€Å"Let's get it done.† And so the Sawyer Gang takes its last ride up the wooded, poisonous lane that leads to Black House. The strong afternoon light quickly fades to the sullen glow of an overcast November evening. In the close-pressing trees on either side, dark shapes twine and crawl and sometimes fly. They don't matter, much, Jack reckons; they are only phantoms. â€Å"You gonna reload that Roogalator?† Beezer asks from the back seat. â€Å"Nope,† Jack says, looking at the Ruger without much interest. â€Å"Think it's done its job.† â€Å"What should we be ready for?† Dale asks in a thin voice. â€Å"Anything,† Jack replies. He favors Dale Gilbertson with a humorless grin. Ahead of them is a house that won't keep its shape but whirls and wavers in the most distressing way. Sometimes it seems no bigger than a humble ranch house; a blink, and it seems to be a ragged monolith that blots out the entire sky; another blink and it appears to be a low, uneven construction stretching back under the forest canopy for what could be miles. It gives off a low hum that sounds like voices. â€Å"Be ready for anything at all.†

Narendra Modi Essay

Born in 1950. 1960-1970 Tea, Tea, Tea! A cup of Tea for 10 cents. Would you like to have some tea sir? 2001- Chief Minister of Gujarat, one of the biggest states of India and remained as the Chief Minister for four consecutive terms until he became the Prime Minister of India in 2014. Before Narendra Modi became the Prime minister of India, corruption was the only key to success in India. A couple years ago, my mom got her divers license in Muscat, where I stay and she wanted Indian driving license so that she could drive in India as well. She went to the department office, and to her surprise there was this guy standing at the entrance of the office gate who was ready to give her an original driver’s license without having to give a test for half the price in no time. My mom did that because she didn’t want to stand in a line for like hours to get her license. Last summer, I drove to the department office to get my license but I couldn’t dare to get one illegally. Modiâ€℠¢s new law says that any person reporting an instance of corruption will be rewarded and person engaging in corruption will be punished. So now, you’ve got more eyes watching you than before if you’re in India committing any kind of crime. A brilliant idea to stop corruption because he realizes that not many are willing to eradicate corruption until they have some personal gain. During his election campaign, Modi spoke about his plan to replace the whole legal system of India with fewer new laws. The opposition party and many business men argued that only a more rigorous legal system can help prevent corruption. More than 65% of the population was corrupt. According to India times, Modi responded, â€Å"My election campaign is totally based on what I will do as a Prime Minister and what a government should do is to create a positive climate that will bring investment. I don’t make false promises. This is what I will do and vote for me only if you want this.† If I were him, then I would never dare to talk about such a plan that would invite criticism during the election campaign. Normally, a person would think that Modi just lost 65% of the votes that he had already won. But guess what, Modi not only had those 65% in his favor, but also the others supported him because he offered a brighter future for India. Previously, one would need to take multiple approvals for an action, running from this govt office to that govt office, etc. Today you need to go to one govt office where you only need to take a couple approvals to begin action. According to times of  India, Modi created history when he invited the prime ministers of the south Asian countries including that of Pakistan to his prime ministerial swearing ceremony after which they discussed their political issues. Getting over the ego, takes a lot of guts. In an important meeting with representatives of the neighboring countries, he asked the nations to be clear and declare immediately whether the countries were with India or against India, so that it isn’t like good face to face and later crossing borders and firing soldiers. The outcome of this meeting was a peace treaty signed by South Asian prime ministers (SO no more world war 3 between India and Pakistan), improved trade relations and took action for the better of collective south Asia. Here is a glass of water. Some people will say that the glass is half filled by water, some will say that the glass is half empty. He believes in the third view as explained in the Economic Times. According to him, the glass is half of water and half of air because only optimism can encourage courage. Here is a short video of what the Indian prime minister has accomplished in his 1st 100 working days which no other prime minister ever has. TO conclude,  Modi is a business man because he is a risk-taking, profit-minded person and I call him courageous because he has the courage to believe the unbelievable. Today, he is the inspiration of Indian youth. If you’re looking for Leadership, Governance and Decision Making, then vote for Modi. Thank you. Modi says, â€Å"people throw stones at me and I show courage by collecting those stones and making a temple out of them.† During his election campaign, he openly blamed the then chief minister of Delhi for corruption. The whole of india blindly trusted her that time because she was like this mother figure who would die for her country and blabla. Guess what, delhi chief minister was investigated and she was found guilty. Imagine, if she was not found guilty which was very much possible considering the power she had, then he would have not gained a single vote. He says that business lies in taking risks and higher the risks, higher the profits are. Modi had applied for visa to the United States and was rejected  3 times while he was the chief minister of Gujarat. But one day before the 2014 prime ministerial election results were out, Barak Obama sent an invitation to Narendra Modi requesting him to visit America. This doesn’t talk about Modi’s courage but indirectly speaks about his bold and aggressive nature which even forced Obama to invite Modi a day before he was announced as the Pri me Minister.

The suicide of meriwether lewis essays

The suicide of meriwether lewis essays In the early hours of October 11, 1806, while en-rout to Wasington to defend himself against accusations made on him in accordance to the fiancial decisions made by him as govoner of the Louisian teritory,Meriwether Lewis shot himself in the head with his own pistol at Natchez Trace.1 However, the ball only grazed his skull. Of course, after doing so he fell to the floor in pain. After this, Lewis drew his second pistol, and shot himself in the chest, this passing through his body and exiting at his lower back bone. However, once again, he survived this blow. By now he had aroused Mrs. Grinder, the innkeeper at Natchez Trace, who sent for the servants in the barn. After entering Meriwethers room she saw Lewis cutting himself with a razor. At this point he exclaimed, I am no coward; but I am so strong, [it is] so hard to die. At this point Lewis pleaded with the servants to take his rifle and kill him; he even offered them money and the assurance that no ill fate would come to them. After dawn, Meriwether Lewis hart stopped beating. 3 To understand why such a well respected man, and explorer took his own life we must examine what composed his life, this being his upbringing and major events and influences in his life.4 Meriwether Lewis was born August 18, 1774, the same year of the Boston Tea Party, in Rockfish Gap, Virginia, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Here the East met the West.5 Lewis had the advantages of living in the wilderness to sharpen his hunting and wilderness skills, but when the availability of schooling from the East.6 Meriwether Lewis was born on the eve of the revolution. He was brought up with a very anti- British attitude. Meriwether also was brought up knowing of what his ancestors had accomplished. For instance Robert Lewis, a Welshman, was one who moved from Britain to the wilderness of Virginia, on a grant from the King of England of thirty-three thousand thirty three an...

Human Resources-Benefits Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 750 words

Human Resources-Benefits - Essay Example There have been many efforts to implement pay-for-performance programs in the health care industry ever since 2003. However, these incentive systems in the past either focused on outcome measures or process measures in healthcare. While the outcome measures rewarded health care providers based on the health outcomes of patients the process measures assessment took into account whether the hospitals have followed the recommended clinical guidelines. As such, both these measures had their own drawbacks. On the other hand, the advantage of HIVBP is that it follows a mixture of both outcome and process measures. The author also advocates that the salient feature of HIVBP is that it rewards hospitals based on improvements upon their past performance. As a result, the hospitals need to improve the quality of their healthcare to compete against themselves rather than against their competitors. One of the major drawbacks of the previously employed outcomes measures was that it failed to acco mmodate such acute health care centers where patients with least chances of survival were treated. As a result, mortality rates in such hospitals grew higher than hospitals that treat comparatively healthy patients. Thus, the incentive system of rewarding hospitals based on outcome measures proved to be unfair and the introduction of HIVBP could effectively address these drawbacks of earlier reward systems in healthcare. Similarly, HIVBP also seeks to reward hospitals based on process measures such as adherence to certain standard practices of healthcare. The HIVBP also has provisions to bring about timely revisions to its standards by continually adding more of relevant process measures assessment indicators. However, the HIVBP Medicare has its own limitations too. As HIVBP incentive system rewards both achievement and improvement it is easier for high performing hospitals with lots of resources to get rewarded compared to low performing hospitals that lack both resources and infra structural facilities. There is also the danger of hospitals turning their face away from hard-to-treat patients. In spite of these shortcomings, the author argues that pay-for-performance programs will reward quality over quantity and that the current Medicare program (HIVBP) is competent enough to address most of the shortcomings of the previous incentive systems in the healthcare system of the nation. Marcus’ article on the concept of pay-for-performance has larger implications on the healthcare benefits of the workforce of the nation. It is sure that the passage of the Affordable Care Act would bring about a radical restructuring of employer-sponsored health benefits in the United States. Researchers such as Singhal, Stueland & Ungerman (2011, p. 2) predict that â€Å"overall, 30 percent of employers will definitely or probably stop offering ESI in the years after 2014.† The authors also pinpoint that Employer Sponsored Health Insurance will pave way for other bene fit offerings or higher salaries which will be more beneficial for the employers. The researchers are of the opinion that most of the employees will continue their jobs even if the employer stops providing ESI. On the other hand, every employee will be seeking for

Afghan employment by foreign contractors Dissertation

Afghan employment by foreign contractors - Dissertation Example Afghanistan is a landlocked Islamic country which has been at the crossroads of many cultures and civilizations.   In ancient times, Afghanistan had been invaded and subdued by Persians, Greeks, Macedonians and Aryans (Scarborough, 1998).   Especially during the 1st and 2nd centuries, Afghanistan became a central and strategic trading site of the famed Silk Road that linked Rome and China and which brought not only commodities such as silk, porcelain etc to Afghanistan but also arts, religions (Buddhism, Nestorian Christianity and Islam) and most especially, the †equally important currency ideas† (Clammer, 2007,p.652).   In more modern times, Afghanistan had been the bone of contention between Britain and Russia in what is called â€Å"The Great Game† (Garthoff 1997,p.977) and between Russia and the USA in what is called â€Å"The Cold War† (Walker 1995,p.356).   Despite the land’s difficult terrain with its high mountains and plateaus, steep ridges, deep valleys and its remote position, Afghanistan is the ideal buffer zone and the arena for balance of power (Ewans, 2002).   According to Grau (1998)  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Afghanistan was, to the Russians, an outlet to the Indian Ocean and an extension of  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚     Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Russian expansionism for the British it was an important shield to protect India, Pakistan and other British territories from Russian hegemony. But the Russians prevailed in the struggle for control of Afghanistan when Britain granted independence to India and Pakistan, thus leaving a power vacuum.   The latter signaled the entry of USA as rebel group.