Richard was having a pleasant breakfast with Mister Stevenson in the spacious kitchen at the back of the house. Mrs. Ham, the housekeeper, a pleasingly mannered negress blessed with stupendous buttocks, had providing him with something other than the usual American eggs and bacon. Much to his relief he noticed that Mister Stevenson also liked a light morning meal, just oats, toast and weak coffee. Randy, of course, ate nothing for breakfast, but rather had smoked his morning hashish out in the courtyard between the house and the carriage house. He claimed to have acquired a great supply of the rare substance from a Greek immigrant, who he detested, but dealt with all the same in order to acquire his queen of intoxicants.

Imagine a future where these bullish Americans do not stuff themselves to bursting the first thing in the morning. It shall be something to see.

Mister Bracken was already off to the druggist's for laudanum and Warburg's drops, which the man assured him would be impossible to legally obtain in the 21st Century. As much as he enjoyed Randy's sardonic commentary he did not trust the objectivity of the man's statement. So he inquired of Mister Stevenson. "Jan your man Randy tells me that those opium compounds that I have in the past relied upon to restore and maintain my physique and mental state are outlawed in your advanced age? Surely the man exaggerates."

Mister Stevenson was even then building a cigarette with some fine grade local tobacco. He stopped just before licking the paper. "Richard, even the use of this, tobacco, is heavily regulated in my time. It is against the law to smoke in any public or business establishment and in many outdoor spaces. Parents are even at risk of being prosecuted for smoking in the presence of children."

The man stopped to lick the paper and complete the cigarette, and then continued, "Despite the pariah status of smokers state governments are literally funded by taxes of five to ten cents on every premade cigarette."

As Richard sat open-mouthed, in obvious horror at this impingement on human liberties, the 21st Century man lit up and continued, "The fact is Richard this is a reaction to the massive health issues that arose from the age of my childhood, when most men and women were addicted to poisonous factory-made cigarettes, containing up to one-hundred-and-fifty-one additives, including embalming fluid. When my generation came to power the political class attacked smoking in a national health crusade. It was a backlash against seeing our parents' generation waste away on breathing devices in old age. I know this was not your question, but it is the answer. Every drug that you know of, and many which have yet to be isolated from folk remedies and even designed through chemistry, with the exception of alcohol, are either controlled more closely than cigarettes or are outlawed completely."

Richard was aghast. "Good God man, how can one live in such a place. Surely the laws are merely on the books, only enforced in the breach. I have been a government official on three continents—a servant of the most powerful nation yet to administer the lives of men—and I barely had the means to enforce statutes on civil litigation and enact sanitation policy. No earthly government could possibly wield such power. Why even among the Olympian gods only Hades wielded that kind of power, and then only over the dead consigned to his bleak realm."

Mister Stevenson took another drag on his nice little cigarette and then passed it to Richard who accepted it with a feeling now something like defiance as the American advanced their conversation. "Richard, you are headed to a world that is far more technologically advanced than your own. However, the society you will encounter has more akin to that of ancient Rome. You will scarcely be able to believe the modern man's fixation on team sports without thinking back to Gibbon's comments on 'bread and circus'."

I have agreed to leap forward to a world-gone-mad!

The American took a brief pause to receive back the remnants of his cigarette before continuing, "Randy is absolutely correct. In fact, you might say his life-long war against the U.S. Government has largely been due to his addiction to cannabis products and his trafficking in tragically addictive chemical compounds which he has manufactured and marketed to an increasingly sedated population. His resourceful nature has been developed and honed circumventing the maze of laws and law-enforcement institutions that have grown up to support them.

This does explain a thing or two about Mister Bracken's passion and irreverence for one of his class.

"Richard, the drug-laws are enforced with fanatical zeal. Randy has easily spent a dozen years of his life behind bars. The various types of Federal law-officers in the U.S. alone number over half a million I am told; and then there are the state and municipal police departments. New York alone has tens of thousands of police officers. You see Richard the War on Drugs—it was actually declared by a United States president in the Nineteen-seventies—has resulted in the skyrocketing of drug prices and the development of huge multinational criminal cartels that traffic the substances. Most tragically, the local drug addict now is addicted to a substance that might cost him hundreds of dollars a day to obtain through these dangerous channels in order to prevent the onset of withdraw symptoms. Much of the huge municipal police force of any given city is kept busy dealing with the associated crimes committed by these desperate addicts."

Richard was more aghast than he could have imagined. "But such a civil expense must surely cripple the government or require burdensome taxation?"

"Yes Richard, as you say. But millions are now employed by the government, and the thousands of town-size prisons used to house criminals have become an industry in and of themselves. If the U.S were to stop the war on drugs it would be as if a huge military that had been fighting for forty years were all of a sudden left with nothing to do—no enemy to fight."

Burton's mind lit up, finally engaged by this tale of such a bizarre and horrific society. "Yaas, as you have said Sir, Rome all over again. Who would stand against a half a million drug-warriors returning from their generations-long battle to face lack of employment? So Mister Stevenson, this war must continue unto apocalypse or oblivion otherwise a suddenly free society would implode under the responsibility of civilization-returned. I understand. My government has forced opium by way of war upon imperial China in order to keep that great ancient beast in a drugged slumber so that she might be raped at our leisure—in her dreamless sleep. I am fortunate not to have been a part of that terrible atrocity."

Mister Stevenson was now sitting satisfied that Richard understood that he would be a criminal in the future, even as Richard was struck with a vision. Such inspirations, either flowed from pen to paper or through his mouth to a qualified listener, one of which he presently had, "Now Jan I understand Randy's hatred of the barbarian races. For in your time the Whiteman's malice—that which the agents of the Queen employed against China and the people of India—has been turned on his own kind. Randy's extreme dislike of colored people and of White authority figures now makes some sense at least, though it remains troubling."

Jan then became introspective as he considered something, and Richard understood. "Yaas, he is like an adopted son to you, and you wish to elevate him from among the lower orders whose cause he cleaves to, and you would also like to bring him peace-of-mind as well?"

Jan was a bit subdued, "Yes, something like that."

Their minds now drifted to their respective papers as Stanley the Negro houseboy brought them each their favorite: The Sun for Jan and The World for Richard. They had been three days at the Hayes residence and the master of the house was already at work minding his massive workload in regards to the stocking of the library of the School for Negro Children. Richard permitted himself a brief thought before diving into the paper.

His eyes now focused on the headlines which featured a glaring entry 'Policeman Murdered!', beneath which read the line 'day patrolman found behind the Carrollton, having been choked to death with his own right hand, his teeth missing.'

My, how barbaric—oh!

Just then Jan cursed under his breath and stood from his seat in a barely subdued rage with poor Stanley scampering through the doorway for cover under the dining room table, Mrs. Ham following close behind to scoop the child up and take him upstairs. Richard looked up worried, fearing that he knew the cause of the outburst. Jan then threw himself down on the chair, nearly breaking it and looked at Richard. "I threatened to kill the man under my breath—I think Randy heard. I've brought Jack the Ripper back in time with me."

Who in blazes is Jack the Ripper?

"We're not supposed to change anything. We have a window for grabbing you. The Negro School is going to be ransacked in Nineteen-o-four anyhow. This is against our directive Richard. I'm his commanding officer and he has already disobeyed me once pertaining to the execution of a prisoner after we were attacked in Uruguay. I can't let this stand."

The man seeks advice.

"My good man, I have captained units of barbarian soldiery in the past so I know your dilemma. Yours is more burdensome than mine still as the man is after all White, so does not realize that he is a barbarian, and also because of your father-to-son relationship. He fairly worships you Jan. This terrible act was undoubtedly his attempt to see your will done by inflicting his frontier style justice upon this wretched man in uniform. You have the upper hand Jan, do not overplay it."

Jan looked at him. "I am his commander."

"And his father too; the man is an orphan and has clung to you Sir."

"How would you handle this?"

"Sir, you are both officers—you the ranker—and should settle this as gentlemen without involving your superiors. This should also be done in accordance with a fatherly tradition—I recall the Americans of this time speaking of the "woodshed" referring to an upstart young man being thrashed via fisticuffs by a still virile father."

The man's eyes lit up. "I am his karate instructor—in fact he calls my Sensei almost exclusively."

"There you are man. He sees you first and foremost as his instructor in the manly arts—can you best him!"

"Jesus, he's fast—he has gaps in his guard though. Win or lose, I see no other way. I'll call him out, and if he beats me I'll resign my commission. I will not tolerate—cannot command an expedition—if I cannot control him."

Richard produced his pipe and filled it with some fine tobacco as he sat back, pleased to be sharing a table with a man's man. "Bravo my good man, Lord Raglan could have learned a thing or two about leadership from you."

Jan rose and paced silently, steeling his mind as Richard puffed away. He noticed absently that little Stanley had sneaked back downstairs to hide behind the curio while Mrs. Ham busied herself with chores above. After some minutes the front door opened and the ominous sounds of Mister Bracken's spurred boots—which Mrs. Ham so detested, scuffing her floors as they did—sounded on the floorboards. One could hear him addressing Stanley, "A dead little sharp-shooter you'd be boy. Get in a low straddled position beneath the table and use the claws for a rifle-rest."

The indulged little boy slid under the table and spied at them through the doorway of the adjacent dining room as if he were a big game hunter above Ulindi. Randy then entered the kitchen with an entire saddlebag full of the druggist's wares and declared in his raspy voice, "Rick, Sensei, good morning, I've got enough retro-smack here to keep Rick and I high until the Second Coming."

Jan turned with some venom and glared at Randy, pointing to the cover of the paper on the table. Randy tilted his hat and glanced down at the headlines. "Hell, he was probably Irish. Somebody just gave his folks an excuse to get drunk at the wake."

Something more than this murder on behalf of his outrage over the policeman's actions was troubling the older man, who now, most curiously, kicked off his shoes and threw his socks into the corner. Randy then took of his hat and cocked his head somewhat as he regarded his superior. By way of answer Jan spoke with suppressed anger, "Black-belt, in the courtyard; kumite in five minutes."

With those curious words Jan stripped to the waist and proceeded out of the backdoor into the bricked courtyard between the house and the carriage house, into a cold, cold, December morning.

Mister Bracken took off his duster and handed it to little Stanley who had suddenly materialized behind him. He also unburdened himself of a number of hidden pistols and knives, which he laid upon the table. As he turned to permit Stanley to yank off his great spurred boots with two successive herculean efforts of his tiny frame, he smiled down at Richard. "Well Rick, looks like the Old Man is taking me out to the woodshed. Don't blink, you might miss it."

The World is Our Widow is available in print as a trade paperback at www.amazon.com.