[Veritas]

In the basement of a small, rundown ranch house somewhere in North Las Vegas, a shaggy-haired, bearded figure sat hunched over a red 1990s model Apple computer on a small metal desk. His blue eyes were bloodshot and watering from too much exposure to the glare of the monitor, but he continued to type furiously on the battered beige keyboard, refusing to let up no matter how tired he was. He was a man on a mission, and he would not stop until he had completed it.

The tiny basement bedroom was wallpapered with newspaper clippings, pages torn from magazines, and computer printouts from various websites. A crude bookshelf made from cinderblocks and two-by-eight planks stood in a far corner, crammed to the point of collapsing under the weight of dozens of paperbacks in various sizes, with such titles as The Roswell Cover-Up; Day of Shadows: How LBJ and the CIA Did Away With JFK; Nostradamus and the Mayan Prophecy; Big Brother in Washington: How the CIA Keeps Tabs on Everybody; What the Gov't DOESN'T Want You to Know! and so on.

The shaggy-haired typist, Boone Morris by name (aka the Truthteller on the Web) was entering his latest diatribe against what he called the thirty billion dollar boondoggle. According to his sources (consisting of a few paperback books and whatever he gleaned from Google), NASA had faked the entire Apollo 11 mission back in 1969. The so-called "moon landing" had been filmed in a Hollywood studio and passed off as the real thing. Careful studying of the film and the photos taken, however, revealed more than a few discrepencies: the shadows were not in sync, the flag fluttered in the "airless" atmosphere, and Buzz Aldrin's descent from the lunar module was too bright in the shadow of the capsule. These tiny details were concrete proof that the whole moon shot was a lot of moonshine as far as Morris was concerned.

"And now," the Truthteller said as he typed in the words, "after forty years, despite evidence to the contrary, the three so-called 'astronauts' are still hailed as American heroes! One of the conspirators--for conspirators they are--is coming here to Las Vegas on a lecture tour for his SpaceShare program. Yes, truthseekers! That publicity hound, Buzz Aldrin, is coming here to Sin City, live and in person, to perpetuate the myth of the Apollo moon landing! I say we must all band together and demand that Aldrin tell the truth about the hoax NASA has pulled for over four decades on the American people! Strip away the facade! Force him to admit the fakery! We cannot and will not be denied the truth! Stand up and be counted, truthseekers! Stop the madness! End the deceit! We will not be denied!"

With a sigh of satisfaction, Boone hit Send. His eyes burned and his head pounded, but he felt vindicated. Soon, everyone would know what a fraud Buzz Aldrin had been, along with all the other Apollo astronauts. There would be a hue and cry over it, but that was to be expected. The truth is always hard to accept at first, especially after having labored under a government sponsored delusion, but in the end, the light of knowledge would overcome the darkness of falsehood, and everyone would see the real picture as clear as day.

There was a knock on the flimsy wooden door. Boone's satisfaction turned to irritation over being disturbed. "Who is it?" he snapped.

"It's me," a woman's voice spoke from the other side, "Roxanne."

"Go away!" Boone shouted. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I can't see anything with the door closed," Roxanne retorted.

Irate, Boone shot up from his plastic desk chair and strode over to the door. "Whaddya want?" he growled.

Roxanne leaned against the door frame, crossing her tattooed arms. "Actually, I want a lot of things," she said. "I want you to get off your lame ass and do your share around the house for Mom's sake; I want you to pay me back all the money I gave you; and, I want you to give up all these (bleeping) conspiracy theories you've been spreading around all these years and get a life! But, right now, I just want to tell you that breakfast is ready and Mom doesn't like waiting."

"You know, that's the trouble with you, Roxie," Boone said. "You're too consumed with the trivial. You spend your time slaving away at some club while jamming away with your no-talent punk band, hoping to make it into the big time, which, by the way, you won't, that you fail to see the big picture. We're nearing the end times, Sis, and all you think about is your petty, physical needs for the moment. Me? I'm reaching out to people, telling them what's really out there!"

"If you don't come up with your share of the rent," Roxanne said, "it's your ass that's gonna be out there--on the street! Now, come on, at least get some breakfast. Mom's waiting."


(Have to cut this short again. Will be back later. V.)

[RACHEL02189]

I hate these conspiracy nut jobs. They all should be locked up in a psych ward

[Veritas]

Boone huffed and followed his sister upstairs. He caught the smell of frozen waffles toasting in the oven (Mom never got the toaster fixed, and she refused to buy a new one because she was on a fixed income and needed to save as much as she could) and hot sausage grease. Another cheap meal in a cheap house in a cheap neighborhood.

The Morris family had never been prosperous as a rule, but things had gone from bad to worse since Dad died and his GI insurance ran out two years ago, leaving Mom with nothing to live on except her Social Security checks and whatever rent her children gave her. Roxy's gigs were few and far between, and when she and her band landed one, she would be lucky if she cleared a hundred dollars a night. By day, she worked at the desk of a local tattoo parlor for eight bucks and hour; the only perk she had were the tattoos sleeving her arms from wrists to shoulders, all free of charge. It was good for business, the tattooist had told her; it was like free advertising. For Roxy, however, it was good for her image as a punk rocker without the expense. And it was steady work, unlike her brother, Boone, who drifted through a series of dead-end jobs and was collecting unemployment--again--while he hunkered down in the basement on his computer, hacking out conspiracy theories that no one in their right mind would believe.

Their mother, Melody Morris, had been a real head-turner back in the day, with flowing strawberry blonde hair, a curvaceous figure that looked dynamite in a bikini, and blue eyes to die for. Now, after nearly forty years of marriage which ended in Dave's death from a massive heart attack, with two children in the interim, her body had thickened in the middle, and the strawberry blonde tresses had been clipped to neck length and turned white with age. She shuffled in a threadbare chenille bathrobe and dirty, worn house slippers, back and forth from the range to the table, laying out processed waffles and shriveled sausage links with a plastic spatula, resigned to a life of struggle and deprivation.

Her two children sat down at the table in their accustomed places, Boone to the right, Roxy to the left, while their mother sat between them at the end. The fourth chair at the head remained empty, a neglected, silent memorial to Dave Morris, husband and father. Three waffle squares and three sausage links were distributed among them, doused with a squirt of bargain brand syrup and spread with bargain brand margarine. A glass of instant breakfast drink stood beside each plastic plate, a token effort to provide some sort of nutrition to the household.

"So, what is it this time, Boone," Mom Morris said as she stirred Sweet-N-Low into her coffee. "JFK? UFOs? The Loch Ness Monster?"

Boone took a gulp of orange drink. "Mom, this is serious," he said.

"It's always serious with you, isn' it?" his mother said. "If you spent as much time looking for work--and keeping a job--as much as you spent on these harebrained ideas of yours, you could actually make something of yourself."

"They're not 'harebrained ideas', Mom," Boone argued. "There's evidence of a cover-up, and it's my duty as an American citizen to inform everyone about the truth!"

"About what, for chrissakes?"

Boone leaned forward. "About the Apollo mission, for example," he replied. "I've gathered mountains of evidence that the whole thing was faked."

Melody set down her coffee cup. "Boone," she said, "I remember the Apollo missions very clearly. I saw them on TV when I was a kid--"

"No, Mom," Boone argued, "what you saw was a hoax, a set-up in some Hollywood backlot. They shot the whole thing here on Earth--we never went to the moon!"

His mother rolled her eyes. "It's true!" Boone insisted. "The photographs, the film footage--everything was faked! If you looked closely at them, you'd see--"

"Boone," Roxy moaned, "give it a rest, willya?"

"No, I'm not gonna give it a rest!" Boone exploded as he rose from his chair. "I'm not gonna rest until the world sees that the Apollo mission was a big hoax! I have evidence, and I'm gonna use it!"

"Where?" Melody asked.

Boone sat down again. "This weekend, Buzz Aldrin is coming to the Luxor for a lecture on his ShareSpace program," he explained. "And when he does, I'm gonna force him to tell the truth once and for all."

Both Roxy and her mother stared at him in shock. "Oh, no, you're not!" the latter told him firmly.

"Oh, yes, I am," Boone shot back. "Somebody's gotta take a stand here, and that someone is gonna be me!"

He gobbled the rest of his meager breakfast, drained his orange drink to the last drop, and rose from the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, "I have work to do."

With that, he strode back toward the basement stairs. "Why don't you do some real work for a change?" his mother called out after him. "How long is your unemployment benefits gonna last this time, huh? Why don't you start living in the real world and get a job, for chrissakes? You owe me two months' back rent! I can't support the three of us forever, you know! I'm on a fixed income!"

But Boone was well out of earshot of his mother's tirade. He trotted down the wooden stairs and into the tiny basement bedroom, slamming the door behind him. There was much to do between now and the weekend. He had to assemble and organize his case against Buzz Aldrin and the rest of NASA. When he went into the Luxor, he was going in loaded for bear.

[Veritas]

Originally Posted by RACHEL02189

I hate these conspiracy nut jobs. They all should be locked up in a psych ward

Some of them have proven themselves to be correct, you know. A few, but not all. Erin Brokovitch, for example, and the lady who exposed the Love Canal pollution, and Karen Silkwood.

[RACHEL02189]

I meant the one like in your story those people need to be locked up

[Loyal Lady Dee]

And the plot thickens! Can't wait for the next chapter

[Veritas]

Lucas "Big Luke" Macaffey, chief of security at the Luxor Hotel and Resort, watched as a hotel maintenance employee spread a large poster in one of the display cases, fitting it squarely into the frame and smoothing out the wrinkles. Normally, Big Luke would not concern himself with such a mundane task, focused as he was with enforcing law and order in the two million square foot pyramid-shaped hotel, but this one was different. Very different.

ShareSpace

With your host: Buzz Aldrin

Our mission is to share the wonders of space
with children of all ages
and to foster affordable space travel opportunities
for all people.

We aim to facilitate space flight experiences,
expand human exploration
and advance space science education.


June ** to July**, 20**

The hotel staffer closed the glass door and turned to leave. He was startled to see the chief of security there, and instantly became nervous. "Oh, excuse me, Chief," he stammered, "I didn't see you there. Everything okay?"

Macaffey flashed one of his rare grins. "It's okay, son," he said in a genial tone, "everything's fine. Just wanted to see what you were putting up there, that's all."

The staffer respectfully backed away to allow Macaffey to read the poster. "Buzz Aldrin's coming to the Luxor to talk about his space program," he informed him unnecessarily.

Macaffey nodded. "Yeah, I see he is," he said. "Looking forward to it. It's not every day we get to meet a real American hero, right?"

"Right you are, sir," the staffer replied nervously as he picked up his tool box. "You'll excuse me?"

Big Luke dismissed him with an indifferent wave of the hand. The staffer made a hasty retreat. Even though Macaffey had been friendly enough, the presence of the hotel's top cop was intimidating to all who met him. Stories of his previous career as a guard at Nevada's super maximum security prison made their way through the hotel grapevine. How many were true or exaggerated was a matter of conjecture, but the sheer bulk of the man, coupled with his militant attitude toward keeping order in and around the hotel, kept everyone walking on eggshells whenever he was around. Being chief of security, of course, he was around a lot.

Macaffey continued on his way, mellow in mood but senses still on full alert. So Buzz Aldrin's coming to the Luxor, he mused. Won't that be something! Imagine, a real American hero coming here, live and in person, to talk about the Apollo mission! Beats hell out of strippers and magicians, that's for sure!

That last thought had barely faded out of consciousness when Macaffey spotted the Luxor's hottest attraction, Criss Angel, strolling through the lobby with his girlfriend by his side. "Hey, Big Luke," he said as he passed.

He greeted Criss with a perfunctory "Morning," and continued on his way. No time for pleasantries; he had a job to do, and he had to get to the security office to do it.

He barely had time to pour himself a cup of coffee and settle down at his desk when the phone rang. Macaffey snatched the receiver just after the first ring and put it to his ear. "Security, chief speaking," he barked.

"Uh, hello," a nervous woman's voice spoke over the line. "I-I-I just called to report...well, something that you should be aware of, I guess."

"Yes, ma'am," Macaffey said with cool, professional patience.

"Uh, you know that the astronaut, Buzz Aldrin is coming to the Luxor, right?" the woman said.

"That's right, ma'am. What about it?"

"Well, there's someone who's planning to...oh, how do I put this?"

"Ma'am?"

"Well, I guess you could call him a conspiracy theorist," the woman blurted out finally. "He's coming over to the Luxor to cause trouble. He thinks the moon mission was a hoax, and he's planning to disrupt the whole thing while Buzz Aldrin's there."

Macaffey nodded understandingly. "Now, don't you worry about a thing, ma'am," he assured her. "If there's any trouble, we'll take care of it. You know who this guy is?"

"His name's Boone Morris. He's about five-eleven, long, brown hair, light brown eyes, pale, and has a small beard."

Boone Morris, 5'11", long brwn hair, lite brwn eyes, pale, beard, Macaffey scribbled on his notepad. "Got it," he said. "If we see him, we'll handle him.

"Thank you, sir," the woman said, obviously relieved.

"Glad to be of service, ma'am. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you. Good-bye."

"Yes, ma'am, have a nice day."

Macaffey hung up the phone and read what he had written on the notepad. Boone Morris, a pale man of average height with long brown hair and a beard and eyes to match, a conspiracy theorist nut job out to make trouble during Buzz Aldrin's visit. Well, not on Lucas Macaffey's watch! Even if that lady hadn't called, bless her heart, he would've made damn sure that wacko didn't cause any trouble around the hotel! Didn't believe the moon shot was real--geez! What had this guy been smoking?

[RACHEL02189]

Five bucks that was his sister who just called

[Veritas]

The morning progressed uneventfully enough for a major Las Vegas hotel and casino: no fights broke out anywhere, no one had been caught cheating at the blackjack tables, no thefts had been reported--not even so much as a missing wallet or a set of keys had been turned in. The hotel staff performed their accustomed duties with quiet efficiency, whether it was carrying luggage, sanitizing the bathrooms in the suites, raking in or cashing chips in the casino, or mixing a Manhattan for an elderly man dressed impeccably in a tailored suit sitting at the bar of the hotel lounge.

Daniel "Springs" Springer, eighty-eight years old and feeling every minute of it, accepted his cocktail with a brief thanks and a ten-dollar bill, adding a mumbled "Keep the change," to the deep-bosomed bartender. His doctor had warned him to lay off the booze since his stomach transplant two years ago, but what the hell did he have to live for, anyway? No wife, no kids, no plans for the future--nothing. Just a big effing Tudor mansion cared for by a single housekeeper, the mother of his former caregiver, Cassie--or was it Casey?--who had been Mick's caregiver for years. Whatever. All he had was booze and blackjack to fill his time before his number came up and he would join his buddies in the Great Beyond, and to hell with what the doctor said.

Springs had been a collector, the guy who went around picking up the cash from the hotels and casinos in exchange for "protection". When somebody refused to pay up, it was his job to put on the pressure until they coughed up the dough or faced the consequences. On the rare occasions when that happened, Springs made sure he was as far away from the action as humanly possible. The last thing he wanted was to be mixed up in a murder case; Nevada was one of the few states that still had the death penalty. Springs had never been charged with murder, then or now, though he knew where some of the bodies were buried, a secret he vowed he would carry to his grave. No one would ever call Danny Springer a rat, that was for sure! Oh, sure, there had been his book, The Guys of Glitter Gulch, in which he told all--or almost all--after fifty years or so. There were some things from the old days that were best left buried, for reasons known only to himself. Still, he wondered if keeping quiet was worth it after all these years. No one was around to whack him for anything, and the statute of limitations had run out, so there was no fear of prison. He was too old to be charged, anyway. That was one thing in his favor.

Then there was all the hoopla about the opening of the new mobster museum where he had been the guest of honor (he even got the cut the ribbon), but, in retrospect, he was just a has-been gangster, a rotting relic of Sin City's golden era. Despite the graphically real stories of mob hits, extortion, and the billions of dollars skimmed from casino profits (some of which were now sitting in Springs' various bank accounts and tax shelters), the public was still entranced by the glamour of it all. Everybody who viewed the exhibits of the museum saw only the wealth it bought, heard only tales of the danger and the murders of Bugsey Siegel and others. They never experienced the fear of every day might being your last that ate into your gut when you woke up in the morning, nor of going to bed wondering if you would die in the night, and not from a heart attack, either. Death stalked you at every turn. You were constantly looking over your shoulder, always keeping an eye out for someone with a gun in his coat pocket or a razor up his sleeve. You couldn't start your car without tensing up out of fear there was a bomb under the hood. The Guys of Glitter Gulch had been lucky: each member, save for Springs, had lived to die of old age, more or less. Pretty rare in those days, that was for sure. Springs could count on one hand every business associate who lived past sixty, and he was one of them.

It was a messy business, the rackets, but it had been profitable for all four members of The Guys. All four--Springs, Mick Piccucci, Bluesey and Shorty--had retired rich, thanks to Bluesey's creative bookeeping and near encyclopedic knowledge of the current tax laws. Springs himself was worth over ten million dollars; Mick had been worth close to nine when he kicked the bucket (Springs shut out the memories of the so-called Piccucci Affair, when Mick's greedy ex-wife, greedy son and even greedier daughter-in-law tried to rub each other out to get the estate), and Shorty and Bluesey had been pretty comfortable, too. In their case, crime not only paid, but paid handsomely. Now they were all gone, and Springs had been left behind to tell the tale. What a crock.

(I'm a little stuck here. Will finish later. I think I'm getting rusty in my storytelling skills. V.)

[RACHEL02189]

Can't wait to see how Danny may play into this