The Doctrine of Presence

Benjamin Vance

Description

The Doctrine of Presence introduces the reader to honest men and women challenged with half-truths and false accusations during their attempts to expose animal abuse among wildlife cinematographers in Kenya. A bewildering transition from benign exposition to bloody manhunts places them on a poacher kill list. The novel demonstrates how stubborn resolve and evoked skills can meet any challenge; individually or governmentally fabricated.

There are no heroes in The Doctrine of Presence; only normal people disgusted with the waste of Earth's beauty and innocence. It promotes active participation in the rescue and elevation of life rather than the current apathetic crawl toward gradual destruction of natural life for the sake of false religious dogmas and personal wealth.

The novel exposes the true evil of poaching and shines a white light on at least two of its root causes. It also heralds the efforts of animal rescue organizations and poacher hunters worldwide. The pace, depth and empathy invite the reader along for the ride to sweet revenge.

Sujets

• Histoire
• East Africa
• History
• Africa

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 09 juin 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780985916824
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The DOCTRINE of Presence
Copyright 2013 by Benjamin Vance
www.BenjaminVanceBooks.com
World rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise for public use, including Internet applications, without the prior permission of the author except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the Web.
Cover design and interior layout by Brandi Hollister
Mullins Creative, www.MullinsCreative.com
Published in eBook format by Benjamin Vance
www.BenjaminVanceBooks.com
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN #978-0-9859168-2-4

This novel is dedicated to those elect crusaders who choose armed offense against the focused evil; currently consuming lives of rare species at a rate which may render many extinct in the wild during one generation.
It is dedicated to the African, Asian, Russian and other Nationalists who risk their professions each day, acting with unreserved vengeance and strategic prevention toward that higher purpose.
And, it is dedicated to those who tirelessly labor to save the many orphaned offspring of unfortunate species whose body parts are coveted by ignorant humans; indulging perverted sexual delusions and pretentious superstitions.
PROLOGUE
D o you know what evil is or what its signs are? Have you beheld its face? Do you believe all humans have an equal chance from birth to be good or bad and are basically the same; sinless or evil? If you do, sooner or later you’re in for a rude awakening.
Yeah, that classic phrase, “People are basically alike the world over”, is pure bosh. I assume myself as an example, because born and raised in the Southwest, I cannot bear to see a tree die needlessly or an animal suffer from thirst, heat or hunger; even temporarily. I know the reality; I know the pain!
These sentiments don’t seem to be on the scope of those people who live in verdant areas and have an arrogant condescension for the earth and its priceless life. I suppose that’s one reason why so many novices get stranded in our deserts and simply die there every year. They die in places that I don’t even classify as desert. As for my preference, you can have the cold places. Cold hurts my old wounds.
It could be that I over embellish. Some people say I simply can’t stand the psychological prison of incessantly pressing forests. I say given all worldly options, I would rather be able to see fifty miles in every direction, have my mornings cool, dry, filled with bird songs; my days warm and nights lit by moon and Milky Way. Some people actually enjoy New York … see what I mean?
Still … during quiet moments of faith and reflection, I wonder when, how or if … we can be redeemed for our commissions, omissions or misdirected deeds. Perhaps for some, their answer exists in the way they transition from young bloodlust to a more mature … life-respecting pathway. Perhaps … but then how does one account for the resolute lack of conscience when one puts a bullet in a poacher?
Have you ever seen evil simply collapse into a gangly pile of useless flesh when a bullet goes through its body exceeding the speed of sound, and have you gazed coldly upon its profane face? In certain instances and in the long term, it can be mentally and spiritually fulfilling. At least that’s the consensus among a number of surviving associates of mine; redeemed or not!
1

S everal years ago a few of us useless idlers and motorcycle freaks attending a monthly luncheon for retired military blokes, were noisily discussing a scene from a nature program in which a group of photographers followed an elephant mother and her young offspring across the Namib Desert. The little one slowly wasted away and died right in front of the cameras … with an entire fucking camera crew watching, and doing nothing. We volubly agreed that in the same circumstances we would have gladly given up our water for the young one or for the mother so she could provide milk for her baby.
Once the mental scheme was set, the evolving monthly discussions turned gradually away from, who’s buddy died lately, the crummy state of the union or lousy military retirement pay, to what new nature program exhibited animal abuse. We were intimately acquainted with the hollow argument that nature is harsh and unrelenting and that nature photographers elect to let nature take its course for reality’s sake. We all knew it was bullshit. Most of us had seen photographers set up still pictures of combat scenes and influence movies of the genre, sometimes to the lasting detriment of the participating soldiers and even their families.
Over the months and perhaps two years of equivocation, I supposed everyone was waiting for everybody else to frame the future for them. Finally a wheel-chair ridden Charley “Gimp” Lindell asked, “Well, what the fuck are we going to do about it, just talk?” There was stone silence for at least forty five seconds during which no one wanted to look at anyone else. Some of us kept a senseless, defensive grin pasted on our faces, possibly because we’d not heard Gimp say those words before.
Since there were only five of us remaining to irritate the waitress, there didn’t seem to be any way we could rationalize to effectively approach Charley’s admonition.However, Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez finally said, “Sheeit, man we could follow some of those weenies and make sure they treat the animals properly. What else we got to do?” Then there was another forty five second séance before those of us who wished Fredo had kept his mouth shut, could answer. Greenie Mitchell put on a disarming smile and opined that, “We could find out who’re making films in the Southwest and follow ‘em or at least watch ‘em from a distance, and maybe even film ‘em if they do bad shit to the animals.”
* * *
Me … I’m Jim Hanes. It’s pronounced Ha-nes, like heinous, not like the underwear, okay? The other perpetrator in our group was Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse. Yeah, Leo got some ribbing about that last name over his life and guess what; like the boy named “Sue”, he was one tough SOB. None of us settled anything that day though. It was as if we all suddenly developed leprosy or something. It took until the middle of the month before I got a call from Fredo Alvarez. We tip-toed around the subject for a couple of minutes, then Fredo asked, “Hey Daiwee, what ‘chew think about Greenie’s comments at the last meeting, man?”
I foolishly said, “What comments?”
Fredo laughed sarcastically and snorted, “You afraid to talk about that shit, Gringo?”
“You mean about tracking nature photographers and checking up on ‘em?”
“Hell, yeah … we could do it on the sly, man. No one but us five need to know eeenything about it. We could film the filmers and get the dirt on ‘em. Come on, whatcha think? We know how to sneak, camoflage and stay dirty, live off the land; at least you do, I was in the Air Guard. I don’t like doin’ that shit, but I could, man.”
“Are you serious Fredo? Have you talked to any of the other guys?”
“Yeah, I talked to Greenieeee … Charleeee … and to Leo too, but he didn’t talk much. They think it’s a great idea, as long as you come up with a plan. What the hell are we doin’ ri’now, man; just waitin’ to die or get crippled or waitin’ for our weenies to drop off or some shit? Let’s do somethin’, man. Nobody else has a good idea about stuff to do.”
I thought for a few seconds while I consulted the floor for ideas, found none, and then suggested it wasn’t going to be easy; we needed to have transportation, military rations and other food supplies, cameras, night vision devices, emergency first aid kits and gallons of water. And that was just off the top of my head. Fredo didn’t want to hear how difficult it would be. He wanted to get together in private and hash out the details of “how.” Back then, I wished I had never met the ne’r-do-wells who attended our monthly luncheons. Now … I’ve changed my mind. Did I forget to mention that I commanded an A-team in Vietnam; a Special Forces A-team, not a movie A-team?
2

I guess it’s not such a bad thing being around a bunch of human misfits when about all they love is old memories and young animals. The people you have to watch are those people who abuse animals. Jeffrey Dahmer started out abusing animals, and look what he did. No, give me a bunch of ugly, old, decrepit has-beens any day, especially if they’ve served their country with honor. My God, what accomplishments they’re capable of, mentally and physically, is beyond description. In moments of deep thought, usually on the crapper, in the shower or driving, I still shake my head at the synergistic innovation our crazy bunch created. Most of them believed this: Consider every day a holiday; every meal a feast and you’re sure to enjoy life.
Charley “Gimp” Lindell caught an Improvised Explosive Device gift from the Taliban in Ascrackistan and was missing a section of his tail bone and nerve tissue that kept him from walking without excruciating pain in his left leg. The Marine Corps and Veteran’s Administration doctors wanted to remove his left leg with the sciatic nerve causing his pain, but he refused. Initially he lived on pain killers and was no good to anyone, but ultimately a great VA psych doctor got him off the drugs and onto an exercise regimen, which over the years relieved a lot of pain and vastly improved his self-worth. He had a little girl friend who doted on him, but he considered himself undesirable I guess; thus the self-created nick-name “Gimp”. He’d never been married. Although handsome in a skin-head sort of way and possessing the upper body strength of Schwarzenegger, he seemed preoccupied with his IED experience, to the detriment of everything else in his life. Why he started hanging with us; I’ve never understood. He was 36 years old during the time.
Greenie Mitchell