All-American God: A Book of Dreams Come True

By Paul S. Kesner

Paul is a man whose fondness for life on the edge turns his midlife crisis into a nuclear meltdown. Happy to leave his life behind in America, Paul boards a freighter bound for Panama with a backpack and a few thousand dollars, ready to conquer a new wilderness.

With a boat, balls, and his newfound brothers, Paulnow calling himself Pumaleads a small but tight-knit group on a meteoric rise as a new criminal empire. With nothing left to lose, Puma operates with fearless abandon, further cementing his relationship as a member of Panamanian organized crime. While running guns and cocaine from the United States to Colombia and back to Panama, Puma transforms into a modern-day smuggler who soon becomes a blip on the CIAs radar screen. But Pumas path is about to take a new direction when, propelled by his desire to make a friends dream come true, he steps in to make the biggest deal of his life.

In this gripping thriller, a smuggler who gives himself freely to the winds of destinys path and through Gods mysterious ways finds his larger purposea seeker of justice for the defenseless, the forgotten, and the unavenged.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781480804944

Paul S. Kesner

Paul S. Kesner is a disabled veteran who earned his bachelor’s degree from the University of Central Oklahoma. Inspired by the lives of author Louis L’Amour and of his grandfather, Paul has intentionally lived with style with the hope he would become an entertaining storyteller in his old age. He currently lives in Georgia.

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All-American God

A Book of Dreams Come True

Paul S. Kesner

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Copyright © 2013 Paul S. Kesner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0493-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0494-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923477

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/20/2013

Contents

Chapter 1       Going Fishing

Chapter 2       Haji

Chapter 3       Party Time

Chapter 4       Chico and The Tiny Toons

Chapter 5       After Party

Chapter 6       The Presence of Death

Chapter 7       Cleaning Up

Chapter 8       Back in Black

Chapter 9       Mealtime

Chapter 10       Dot

Chapter 11       The end of The Woman of the Month Club

Chapter 12       Atonement

Chapter 13       Working Vacation

Chapter 14       Europe

Chapter 15

Chapter 16       Test Time

Chapter 17       Honeymoon

Chapter 18       Logistics

Chapter 19       Bedfellows

Chapter 20       Wedding Preparations

Chapter 21       The Wedding

Chapter 22       The Revolution

Prologue

Drifting fifty miles east of the southernmost Panama coast, fifty miles north of Arboletes Columbia, roughly one hundred miles west of Cartagena, my crew and I do not dwell on the fact that if things go wrong, we are deep inside Columbian controlled waters. Instead, we use this underlying reality to stay sharp, while the overwhelming calmness of our surroundings strives to relax us to the point of napping. It is one of those days when the Caribbean is more lake than sea; with a cloudless sky above and crystal clear water below. A clearly visible school of Corvina swims fifteen feet below, bringing the feeling of floating in God’s personal fish tank.

Chico and I are on the fly bridge of our newly re-finished 32 footer, while Riga, Flaco, and Jose scan the horizon, checking and re-checking their weapons. Each one of my crew carries an assault rifle as well as a sidearm, except for Riga, who prefers a machete to a pistol for close-in work. Chico packs two Smith & Wesson 9 millimeters as well as his Browning riot gun, while I debut the twin Desert Eagle .50’s I picked up when we bought the boat. As the waiting becomes palpable, a blip appears on the radar. I turn to let the crew know, Oye, ya, alli esta. Follow my lead, remember, business comes First. We need this forty grand, but we need the future deals a hell of a lot more. Don’t let them punk us though, let them know we’re nobody to fuck with.

The radar blip becomes a growing spot on the horizon. The incoming sport fisher throttles down, flares hard to starboard and floats peacefully to us. An over-dressed, un-armed, obviously cocky man, stands at the rail with four noticeably veteran street soldiers. The leader steps aboard with a pretentious air that I immediately find disrespectful. Oye, Gringo, como va?

"Bien, y no soy Gringo. Call me Norteno, Fulano, o como sea. Me llama Puma, y nunca Gringo." (Good…and I’m not a gringo. Call me Northerner, white boy, or whatever. My name is Puma, never Gringo.) I reply to the pretentious bastard. He makes his way to the bridge, followed by the oldest vet, carrying a briefcase.

Taking a seat opposite me, the arrogant fuck once again opens his mouth, Bueno, whatever, I think maybe this deal is not worth 40 thousand, I think 30 is better. Maybe you think we just stupid Columbianos and you are big smart Gring…. BOOM. The ‘O’ is lost somewhere in eternity, as brains and bone fragments rain down on the deck below. I have my other fifty trained on the soldier with the money; Chico has the neighboring boat covered with his riot gun. One of the Columbians screams, Tio, Que we pu… his sentence is finished in the devil’s ear, as his head hits the deck a full one count before his lifeless body follows. The remaining opponents have frozen in spot, realizing we have the drop on them. I stand, while motioning for the moneyman to have a seat.

"Now, you know that was disrespectful, but more importantly—very bad business. I have a standing deal with your boss, not this huevon. I do hope we can complete this deal and many in the future. If not, then I guess I have a new boat." I inform the senior soldier.

"Esta bien, I never liked that cocksucker anyway. The other ten thousand is on board; he thought he was going to keep it for himself. I will tell mi jefe what happened, and that you were very professional, Puro negocio."

"Gracias, Compa. Tell your boss that there are more where this came from. Would you care to look over the merchandise? You want us to help with the bodies while you get the rest of the money?"

"Both, por favor. Here is thirty," he replies as he opens the case, turning it towards me. I holster the Eagles and take the money. I rifle though the stacks, taking a quick count. The new leader directs one of his men to check the crate of handguns and the other to get the casualties, while he crosses to their boat to retrieve the other ten grand. I holler at Flaco to help with the bodies and Jose to help with the guns, while Riga wipes the blood from his machete, maintaining his vigilance.

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All right, who is this Puma, and why should you give a damn about this gun-running Sociopath? Well, just statistically: taking into consideration the times I have moved during my lifetime; I might have been your friend, your co-worker, your son’s or daughter’s friend, your boss, your lover, your enemy, or any number of different combinations of relationships built upon in a person’s lifetime—since I am adopted: I might be your SON. The point I’m trying to make is, if you read these pages and invest some time in living my yarn: you might find yourself within my story.

To clarify my overly bold use of the word god throughout these pages, I use the word in the context of mythical, human-created gods: seemingly normal people, who through their deeds have achieved immortality. Born of tragically ordinary circumstances; I have risen to the brink of such status. This fact has driven me to spill my soul upon these pages so that you can take your place on the ride over that brink. So please, take your seats, enjoy the ride, and behold…the birth of an All-American God.

Chapter 1

Going Fishing

Making 35 knots heading west/southwest off the coast of Panama, the sea breaking in great white cascades off the bow of my 52-foot sport-fisher , her Volvo-Penta diesels singing in perfect harmony, churning out 4500 horsepower, I race towards our rendezvous. Chico, my right-hand man, stands at my side (the only guy I’d want beside me in just about any situation) working up a fucking power-push, but not missing one single detail of what the hell is going on around our perimeter. Whenever he and I walk through the barrios of Veracruz, every rooster in the general vicinity lets out a primordial crow reserved for only the greatest of threats within its sensory perception: that is Word of God enough for me to pay attention, securing his position as second-in-command. For myself, I think of the quarter million dollars down below, the half million-I stand to make, the boat-load of AK-47’s and rocket launchers to bring back, and the dozen different things that could go wrong.

I remind myself to keep in place, the stone mask from which my guys draw their strength. The mask has served me well over the years and today is no exception. Although, I am finding it hard not to let it drop; as the lump in my throat threatens to choke me, and my nuts draw-up as if they were dunked in ice water. Do not let anyone tell you they fear nothing; for that is a lie. I will tell you that I fear neither man nor beast, but I will not tell you that I do not fear. Besides, that nut-tightened feeling is what brings out the fight (there is no flight) response. Hell, it’s what makes life Fun! It’s not the possibility of death (I’ve been waiting for the Reaper ever since we first met) it’s the fear of: getting cut down too fast, not getting a chance to take a bunch of enemies with me, of going out un-dignified, of losing my mask in that moment before the Reaper and I finally meet again.

Let me not bullshit you further, it all boils down to how my death will appear. Will it turn me into a legend, with godlike status? Will the very sight of my demise compel survivors to tell this great story to their children, and their children’s children? Will Las chicas de mi costa sing songs of their warrior lover? Will it be the moment that makes me Live FOREVER? When stories are told of you throughout the generations; that is immortality…well, its close enough for me!

First appearing as a dot on the horizon, the Turkish freighter and eventual meeting/transfer looms. We all assume a calm professional stance, ready for anything that may happen. My crewmembers begin readying their weapons and hiding spares that will be easily reachable in case a conflict goes bad. Anxieties begin to grow, but the stone mask is well in place and serving us well. I met with Haji in the city two days ago for a superb lunch, and he did enjoy the three Dominican honeys I brought to entertain his every need; so I don’t anticipate any extra intrigue on his part, but one can never underestimate the situation at hand. I have only met with him twice in the last fifteen years—but Turks take relationships very seriously and usually for life, so this helps calm my nerves. Now that I have the big girl in my sight, I slow the mighty power plants to half power, and take a slight three-degree swing: time to arm-up. I hand over the controls to the first mate, my nephew, who knows this boat almost as well as I do, and this ocean much better. "Oye , Flaco, veng aca. Ajuantate, aqui mismo. Suave con mi mujer!" (Hey, Flaco, hold it right here, and easy with my woman!)

I take a quick sweep of the deck, checking the fifty cal. mounted in the bow and feel a great sense of pride in the man handling the mighty weapon, even this far out he’s all business, keeping a sharp eye tuned to the apparently empty horizon; paying special attention to the growing dark spot to the west-southwest. The aft deck is in the control of Riga, the only soldier that may end up with a soul as cold and vacant as his boss. Then again, I might be partial, since he prefers close-in wet work with the blade. No, it’s the look behind those onyx black eyes—sometimes making his compadres show their discomfort—that tells the frigidness of his soul. He has three well-armed, young, lean fighters with him on the cleared deck. If the very worst were to happen and someone was foolish enough, or powerful enough to board us, he would do what he does best: take the fight to the enemy.

I grab the rail and swing/slide down the steps to the deck below, followed closely and coolly by Chico, we walk through the salon and down past the galley into my quarters in the bow. I have removed the queen-sized bed and the beautiful teak furniture with which the cabin was originally apportioned, and remodeled the space into a very functional yet comfortable office. Chico goes directly to the small, but well-stocked bar in the corner, making me a Turkey and Coke while pouring himself a glass of Herrano. I bend over the computer on my desk, bringing up the GPS signal emanating from the solid gold Zippo lighter I gave Haji as a present at lunch (trust no one, not even thyself). I am partially comforted by the fact that it is coming from the same coordinates as the freighter. At least I know he is on the ship, alive or not is another question, but I doubt that Haji has lost control of his side of this equation.

Chico hands me my drink, A good day to die, I say to him as I hold out my glass.

Yeah, but I don’t think the Devil is ready for either of us yet, Chico responds.

We tap glasses, Salud! Chico falls into his overstuffed leather chair next to my desk, taking a long drink of his rum while pulling back out his solid silver stang. He then places a good-sized piece of rocked-up pure Columbian cocaine on the silver pipe and sizzles off a hit that would kill the average crack-head in the States; closing his eyes and laying his head back, he slowly exhales the smoke towards the ceiling. I leave him to his five minutes of euphoria (which will be followed by an hour worth of Superman) and take a drink while lighting up a joint to dull the edges.

I walk to the gun safe and open-up my treasure chest of death. I take off my shoulder holster and hang it over the back of my chair, then I go to the sink and give a quick wash-up; changing out of my shorts and sleeveless t-shirt and into more business-like attire: cotton slacks, a casual polo shirt, and a pair of Dockers, choosing function over style. I glance at the GPS and see that we are closing on the freighter, as expected. I take another drink and another couple of puffs, noticing that Chico is back from Heaven (because that’s as close as either one of us are ever going to get to Paradise) checking the load/working the slides, on each of his gold-plated 9’s. I walk back to the safe and pull out my handmade dual shoulder holster, fitted with an upside-down sheath in the back for my favorite knife: a razor-sharp Bowie knife given to me by my youngest daughter. A psychologist back in Denver who shares her father’s love for the blade, I put the knife in its place and slide the holster over my shirt. I pull The Twins, a pair of .50 Desert Eagles, from the holster on my chair and place them into the battle holster; taking a couple turns and dips to test the stability and comfort of my rig, thus completing my customary business suit. I then take out a case containing an identical pair of Desert Eagles I plan to give Haji when we meet.

I take one last look in the safe at the empty spot that I will finally fill with my personal order in this transaction, and hear Chico chuckle while saying, Ya, paciencia brother, your wait is very short now. Qual es mas importante, business or filling that hole?

I know, I know. Hell, business; but not by much, smartass, I reply. "Quiate, and get your baby ready," I tell him as I take my seat at the desk.

Chico stands up, holds out his stang to me, and asks, "Quiere?"

"Nah, thanks, quando terminamos, I tell him as he shrugs and makes his way to the treasure chest. Chico pulls out his P90 assault weapon, as I finish my joint. I open the safe under my desk, taking out the case containing 250 grand, running my fingers over the cash, because touching that kind of money never gets old. I check the GPS while Chico shuts the gun safe door and spins the knobs on the combination lock. Only he and I know the combination, no one else touches our treasure chest; this is a rule on the boat that carries the death penalty. One more look at the computer shows us at two thousand yards out, I give my only friend the money and smile. Showtime!"

We both head back up to the helm. I pick up my binoculars and take a closer look at the freighter as we close the distance. I see the captain’s launch being readied, with Haji standing at the railing outside the bridge looking back at me through his binoculars. I wave, and he hands his looking glass to the armed man beside him. Haji’s man steps into the bridge, briefly, then steps back out, clearly guarding the entrance. Haji is making his way down the stairs towards the launch, climbing aboard before it is lowered over the side of the ship. I continue to watch as the dozen or so crewmen are herded up the stairway and onto the bridge, where another of Haji’s hard cases takes his position next to his partner: no witnesses. I shift my attention to the approaching launch as Flaco pulls the throttles back to barely above idle, holding our position. The oncoming boat appears to be manned by Haji’s men; it is fairly easy to tell, they are armed and have the same look as my crew. The work deck of the launch is loaded with what appears to be arms cases, a good sign.

One of the youngsters on deck slings his AK-47 across his back and makes his way to the bow, dropping the bumpers over the side, preparing for the arrival of the oncoming launch. When he reaches the bow, he grabs a line, ready to throw it to our visitors. Another young soldier mimics these actions aft. My gunner has his instrument of destruction zeroed in on the approaching boat. The freighter’s launch cuts his engines and make a sharp turn to starboard, floating as perfectly as possible up to the love of my life (Haji found one hell of a captain in that soldier), I give a signal and the gunner points the fifty cal skyward out of respect as I yell, "Haji, Nasasiniz?".

"Cok iam, sin nasaniz?" is Haji’s reply.

"Iam," I call back, as I head down to the deck carrying my gift for Haji, being shadowed by Chico and the money. The launch is a fine vessel, a twin-engine 36 footer, which we tie off so that our aft decks are aligned for easy transfer of cargo. Haji stands at the rail wearing his customary slacks, silk shirt, sport jacket and Italian loafers; even at sea, the consummate stylist. I offer my hand to Haji as he steps aboard (leather soled shoes and rolling boats don’t always agree with each other), followed by two body guards and the only unarmed man on both vessels: the interpreter that accompanied us at lunch two days ago.

I lead our visitors to the salon, as Haji throws one beefy arm around my shoulder speaking to me in rapid fire Turkish, as if I understand every word he speaks. This has been a habit of his since the first time I met the man twenty years ago. From the few names he says and his jovial demeanor, I take it that his family members and our mutual friends half a world away is doing well. I bring him up to date on my ex-wife and daughters as he looks to the interpreter to confirm that all is well with my family. The interpreter struggles to keep up with Haji’s habitual belief that I understand perfect Turkish, as I direct my guest to the leather couch. I spin the captain’s chair around from the salon control panel, and take my spot within arm’s reach of the couch. Haji’s bodyguards stand respectfully outside the door, Chico sets the money down at my feet and heads down the three steps to the galley, the interpreter makes the mistake of sitting on the opposite couch. Haji immediately pulls one of his nine millimeters and points it directly at the man’s head. The interpreter begins babbling his apologies as Haji directs him to kneel on the floor: he bows to me, head touching the floor as he begs forgiveness for the disrespect that he has shown me. Satisfied, Haji directs him to do his job from there and slides the pistol back into its holster.

Haji sits back and pulls out a cigarette; the same cheap, harsh, Turkish brand that he has smoked since he was fifteen. I know this because I had once asked him how a man with his kind of money could smoke such a raunchy cigarette, he had given me this overly simple explanation, This is what I have always smoked. I laughed and asked how he was still able to breathe. When he has the noxious tobacco producing a respectable ember (Lord, it is going to take me a month to get that smell out of my furniture), my esteemed guest hands me back the Zippo I had given him. Haji smiles as he says (through the interpreter), I guess there will be no more need for this.

At least not on this trip, I reply while I slide out of the Rolex (fake) given as his corresponding present to me at our previous meal, handing it back to him.

That is why I liked you when we first met, I knew that our minds ran along the same track, Haji informs me with a rumble of a laugh.

He barks out an order to one of his soldiers waiting outside the door. The bodyguard hustles back aboard their launch and returns with a leather case. I give a slight whistle and Chico appears with the case holding the world’s largest handguns. While Haji’s man respectfully enters the salon and hands the leather case to his master, I take the briefcase from Chico and hold it in my lap. Haji opens his case and hands it to me. Resting in a bed of lush blue velvet is a pair of pearl handled eighteen-inch Damascus blades with golden hilts.

For the young cub that has grown into the lion I knew lived inside him. May they cut deep and true, the kneeling man relates to me.

After a momentary, jaw dropping, gaze of true amazement, at my beautiful new instruments of death; I repeat the actions of my guest, handing the open gun case to Haji, saying, For the only man I would not want as my enemy; mere whispering of his name strikes fear into the hearts of powerful men. I can only hope to be worthy of your respect. May these weapons obliterate those foolish enough to cross Haji Tepe.

At the sound of my guest’s full name, the interpreter begins to quiver, taking a quick look in Haji’s direction before visibly withering on the floor in front of us. Haji quietly speaks to the pathetic soul, temporarily consoling the man. He then sets the pistols on the couch beside him before he stands to face me; I set aside my brilliant blades and stand before a true legend. Haji grasps my shoulders and kisses me on both cheeks, I return the gesture and we embrace with an ironic emotion between two men that are looked upon as sociopaths by the rest of the world. Breaking the brief, yet powerful moment, we return to our seats. With a timing that nobody would believe was unrehearsed, Chico appears with a silver tray of Chi (Turkish tea served in short glasses) and sugar cubes, and I state, On to the business at hand.

I pick up the suitcase of money and hand it to Haji. He opens it and takes a quick look at the stacks of used hundred dollar bills, thumbing through the bundles he randomly inspects; he pulls out five bills and hands them to the interpreter. This seems to complete his recovery from the previous shock at learning the identity of his employer. Haji barks an order to his men outside and they begin to transfer the casket-like boxes to my boat. I give a nod to Chico and he heads out on deck, opening one of the boxes. He then picks up a loaded clip from a smaller box inside the main container, reaches about halfway into the casket and picks up one of the AK-47’s and pops in the clip. He checks the movement of the action and jacks a round into the chamber. Turning to grab a life ring, he tosses it into the water. Flipping off the safety and selecting full-auto, he walks a line of bullets to the floating ring, effectively dissecting the orange piece of Styrofoam. Nodding approval, he moves the selector to single fire takes aim at one of the floating pieces; then nails it with three quick shots. He tosses the weapon to Riga, who replaces it and closes the container. My faithful companion returns with a look of satisfaction, nodding as he returns to the galley.

I remove a fold of hundreds from the rear pocket of my slacks and say, "Now for my personal order. Counting out twenty-five of the bills, I hand them over to Haji. With another authoritative bark from his superior, the bodyguard makes one last trip to the freighter’s launch; bringing back a boxy suitcase, which holds the weapon I have dreamed of owning my entire adult life. I watch the returning hard case with a heart-pounding anticipation that is completely foreign to me. Looking at Haji, I see that he has a broad smile on his face—studying me. What?" I ask.

You look like a small boy on his birthday, is his reply. I chuckle at his remark, realizing that if you substitute Christmas morning for birthday, he has accurately described the foreign feeling I have been experiencing. Pushing the suitcase that his man has placed on the floor, towards me with his foot, Haji now wears a sad, worried look on his face. I lean down, open the case and remove the fully automatic shotgun, known as a street sweeper, which was handmade especially for me by an Israeli gunsmith. I am lovingly stroking the weapon as if it is a beautiful woman, inserting the drum clip testing the weight of this gorgeous instrument of destruction. Haji is now watching me with undeniable sadness and tears in his eyes.

Setting the weapon down I ask Haji What’s wrong? Looking at the interpreter, I gesture towards Haji and ask, What is the matter?

I fear that with such a weapon, you will satisfy your bloodlust with such fury, that the authorities will not be able to let you live. Panama and the Americans will join forces to bring you down. Interpol may even get involved. I am afraid that they will hunt my young lion and kill him like a dog that has eaten their chickens, is Haji’s heartfelt explanation.

Moving to the couch beside the legend of Eurasia, I say, I promise that I will not do this until I am ready to die a dog’s death, and I do not foresee that day. I will only use this magnificent gun to overcome insurmountable odds, or to make a point.

Satisfied with my oath, he leads me onto the deck, directing the interpreter to remain. We open one of the last wooden boxes and Haji removes one of the fifty Russian-made handheld rocket launchers. Loading the weapon from a separate box of rockets, Haji takes aim at a distant wave top and pulls the trigger; approximately one hundred yards in the distance the ocean surface explodes. He turns to me with a broad grin and hands me the launcher. I have already removed another rocket in anticipation of this moment and load it into the empty tube. Pulling the trigger, I bring about a sister explosion next to the now settling water. Replacing the launcher back into the casket, I put my arm around Haji and we return to the salon with the mirth of two young lads after setting off fireworks.

Taking our original places in the salon, we enjoy another glass of chi, agreeing that it has been a very good day. Do not let so much time pass before we meet again, I enjoy our time together, and men like us are never granted as much time as others, Haji says to me.

I promise not to, as Haji directs the interpreter to stand and accompany him. The interpreter begins babbling and is having trouble standing as Haji puts his arm around him repeating the same phrase, over and over, in a low consoling voice. I am positive that he is reassuring the poor sap that he isn’t going to kill him.

I glance at Chico and say, We’re goin’ fishin’.

I reach into a drawer and pull out the garrote, which I made out of a bicycle brake cable and two pieces of hardwood that I carved myself, and Chico appears with a bundle of net in his arms, falling in behind me. I walk up behind the pair with the silence with which I earned my nickname (Puma) throwing the loop over the interpreter’s head. Crossing my wrists and pulling the cable tight, I place my knee in the man’s back and take him to the deck. Chico is laying out the net as I choke the last breath out of the man. Turning the lifeless body onto its back I reach into the corpse’s pocket and retrieve the five hundred dollars; giving it back to Haji. Chico takes out its wallet, sticks the little bit of cash in his pocket, and throws the rest into the burn bucket. Rolling the body into the net and securing the ends with rope, Chico and Riga tie two cinder blocks to each end of the bundle and dump it over the side. I take out my handkerchief and wipe the blood from my garrote (I always pull a little too hard), then throw the cloth into the burn bucket. I snap my fingers at my youngest soldier and point to the bloodstain on the deck, which he immediately begins to clean up, then I turn to Haji and tell him, It has been a good day.

Haji and I exchange cheek kisses and a heartfelt hug; his bodyguards retrieve the money and his Desert Eagles,