There was a knock at my front door, and it was a strong pound with six strong beats, as if it was a fist.  Of course, I did not come to the door, at least not right away, because I never do anymore, for quite a few reasons.  However, he was persistent, and damn, then, a few seconds later my cell phone received a text from an unknown phone number that read, “open the door please.”  Who the hell knocks, then texts me simultaneously and where did he get my number?  Then I heard a loud voice say, “Carson, open the door, you need to hear this.”

So, I took out my .357 magnum, put it behind my back and opened the door a few inches, but stepped away so I can see who it is but not get smashed in the nose as he pushes the door hard. I was clearly prepared for an attack.  He was about 6 foot 4, lean and I am sure no shirt was large enough to fit his sculpted body, but his sparse hair was mixed grey and black—not quite a jar head, but close. “May I come in for a minute Mr. Carson?  I need to tell you something important about someone we both know.”

So, I let him in but forgot my arm still hid my gun in the small of my back.  He realized it, showed me his Glock and put it on the floor, then, he asked me to put my gun down which at this point, I felt was reasonable thing to do, except I knew that about four feet away, I also had a Glock 19 hidden behind a jade plant, if needed in case things got nasty.

We both stood in the foyer facing each other.  He smiled briefly and said: “I am the chief handler for an old man we both know.”

“I was expecting one of you to come to me one day. You say you are a handler for him. I’m not sure what that is, but he told me it is called shadow men. I have seen some of his shadow men, but never met you before.”

“Right. That’s because I didn’t allow you to see me Carson.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Ask me a question that I am allowed to answer.”

“Does he know you are here at my house?”

“We don’t know what he knows.  We gave up on getting in his head long ago.”

“Why me? And where did  you get my phone number?”

“First question:  he chose you.  Second question: we can get whatever information we want. As far as why he chose you, we’ve all thought about it and are clueless on that one.  We know you have screwed up a lot in your life, so I am sure he could have chosen others.  He must have his reasons.”

“But I found him on the beach, and he didn’t find me?  I was the one who started the conversation with him.  I won’t tell you what he told me, but he did say we must “respect the beer.”

“Yeah, the old man likes his beer too much we think.  But he can do what he wants within reason. Yes, you may have started the conversation, but he was in control, and he let you find him and drink beer with him.  You see?”

“Ok, but who was flying the Bonanza who dipped his wings to him?”

“You will learn that some day when he decides to let you know.  I want to warn you.  Don’t hurt him, Carson.”

“Why would I?  That’s a dumb thing to say to me.”  He showed me a scornful scowl and his biceps tensed.  I think I said too much for my health. But hell, I took the opportunity to ask more questions since this giant decided to meet me.  “What is he doing now?”

“He has been asked to serve, so he is serving because he has been given a gift or two in life.”

I knew my face was surging on the crimson side with frustration but I kept on, even though I realized this guy could break me in half any minute if he wanted.  “Ok, but who is he serving?”

“The almighty God and Lord Jesus Christ.

My heart rate shot up immediately as if I was injected with an ampule of epinephrine and I put my hands behind me in a clasp because I started to tremble after his last statement.  “Thanks for letting me in Carson.  I know it was a little nerve-wracking for you.”

“Do you want to stay and have a beer?  I want to know more.”

“We don’t drink.  Thanks though.” He stayed straight up, the whole conversation in the foyer, three feet away, never wavering like a towering oak.  “And remember Carson, we are watching you.”

“I know.  But I don’t care.  I am blessed and not afraid of death, Mr.—”

“Smith.  And by the way, he thinks you have been given a gift too Carson.”

He started to walk away, and before he opened the door, with his back to me, I said, sui generis.

“Pardon”? He turned around to face me.

“Ollie is the definition of sui generis.  It’s a French phrase that means in a class by himself, of its own kind —the only one in existence.”

Smith smiled, then left.

Instead of beer, I went right for the scotch, wondering what this was all about and relieved I wasn’t killed.

© SRCarson Publications, 2023