Blood Tar

A Free Read

Just For You

By Pauly Hart

Saturday, Janteenth, 2024

“Happy Janteenth!” Madison said to the bus-driver, who was black. She said it to all her black friends. Though in reality none of her friends were black, She knew black people, though, and she thought maybe that was the same thing. She liked to bring the act of inclusion into her life even though if she were honest, she wouldn’t really hang out with them. Not to say she didn’t want to, that wouldn’t be ‘woke’ of her… But in reality her family was so anti-woke she didn’t know what was the right thing to do, so… “Happy Janteenth!” She told the old black lady coming out of her building.

“Appy Janteenth? Gwan tin!” she shooed Madison away with her umbrella, like you would a stray cat. The Jamaican woman’s name was Winsome Notice, and, like the horse she was named after, was truly one of a kind. She would say she was a people person but really didn’t like most people. Especially this pesky white woman who wore Paddington Bear wellies and Jah only knows why she wanted to talk to her about some rainy day in January.

Madison didn’t know why the old lady didn’t like her and tried to shoo her away with her umbrella. “Gwan tin!” she yelled at her. “Go on then,” she supposed it meant. Whatever, old lady, you aren’t going to spoil my beautiful splish-splashy day. Farther down the street. “Futher” her grandma might say. Her grandma was from Old Kentucky where “farther” and “further” could be summed up with “futher.” Like, she could walk farther down the street and go further into the thoughts about the word... Because to someone from Kentucky, the word “futher” meant either or. Wonder what her grandma would say about old Winsome Notice.

The bus driver waved at Winsome as he passed by her. She knew him. His name was Thomas Richmond and he was from Queens. Usually she didn’t like folks from Queens, but he was an aberration to the greater unwashed masses of New York City. She also thought his ass looked cute in that uniform. Oooh wee but it did. “Jah forgive me,” she said. She had four more blocks to go to the grocer. She could go to the fancier grocer that was only two blocks away, but Reacha Patel, the owner, was a bit of a snob and didn’t ever want to take her coupons.

Madison Hill didn’t see any other black people before she reached her apartment building to wish a “Happy Janteenth” to, which was a little bit of a let down, but she felt she did her civic duty to do so. Waving at Mrs. Nguyễn in her little bakery which occupied the first floor of her eighth floor walk-up. She was on the fifth floor that overlooked the alley. On a good day, she could see the sky if she sat just right. The kitchenette was arranged in such a way that you could stand face-to face with the neighbor in the next building if you both stood up and were directly in front of your window. Thankfully, the couple in the building worked at night and their shades were drawn most of the day.

Winsome looked at the Bartlett pears and South Carolina peaches and didn’t like any of the fruit that had just been stocked. She always went to the grocer on Monday because the fruit was always fresh, but none of these were ripe yet. “Whea in de name oh Jah is yo gud froot?” She asked the twenty something grocer named Enrico. He didn’t know so she settled on some Gala apples and Cavendish bananas. Sometimes they had breadfruit, like she used to eat in Jamaica, but not today. She got her little cart and went up to the line to pay but it was rather long. The lady at the front of the line was making some sort of fuss about something. She leaned over to look. It was a “Karen” as people called them. Oooh, Winsome hated Karens more than folks from Queens.

Madison drew the shades a little so she could only see the back of the building and the afternoon sky. She had some microwaved mac-n-shells and a bit of chicken nuggets left over from lunch and she crumbled them up and put them in her mac to spice it up a bit. Mmm. You know what would go good with this was a little ‘Slap Ya Mama’ seasoning. She reached over to her cupboard by her seat and got it out without getting up. Yes, the place was that small. Popping the lid and adding a dash was perfect. She tried to “eat black” every now and again. She whipped out her Tiktok and scrolled through it a bit then put it away after too many ads for diapers. What the hell, she thought, I’m not even dating anyone.

The woman at the counter was still at it, growing a bit louder with every sentence. Winsome looked down at her basket. Bread, cheddar cheese, bananas. She gave a little chuckle. That woman was quickly becoming more bananas than these bananas.

“What are you laughing at!?” Screamed the woman, now directly in front of her. Everyone else in line had left. Winsome noticed the little green trail of seeds and purple mucus coming out of her nose.

“You wanna dem dead ones.” Winsome said to her. “Git outta heah.” She said and waved her left at her.

The woman stared at her. “What did you say to me?” She was rage incarnate.

“Check yah nose den.” Winsome said.

The woman wiped at her nose and her hand brushed the tiny purple tendril. Screaming in pain, she collapsed over and started crying and thrashing like a seizure victim. At the same time, store security came and grabbed her and drug her outside flailing.

Since everyone else had left, she found herself the only one in line. She happily put her basket on the conveyor and it rolled up to the cashier, who seemed bored, even moments after the Karen had flipped out on him.

“Busy today wit alla dem Karen's nah Kenny?” Winsome asked.

Kenny sighed. “Third one today.” He said, and started scanning her items.

Madison lay in bed watching her Tiktok. Her AT&Sprint plan was “Unlimited” but they capped it off to super low after only about half a month went through. She should have gotten “Super Unlimited” that didn’t have any throttle but Susan, who sat next to her at work, said it throttled anyway. She didn’t want to upgrade her plan because she just bought the Tiktok 4 and the contract she signed was a three-year.

She was on Mister Beast’s channel, which had mostly modern trends about the Tzors and what was going on with the vaccine. Tzoraline AB-49 was new on the market and it seemed to get rid of the sores for good except for the ones in Haiti for some reason, though they supposedly tested it there first. The “Alien Greys” had shown up and introduced the antidote and promise to end world hunger and war, etc.. etc… Well, T-49 was working in New York, and since she lived in the city, she was really thinking about getting this batch. Or she could smoke. One or the other. She looked over at the pack on her dresser. Marlboro Lights. They were nasty but everyone said they worked. She decided not to smoke tonight. Not cigarettes anyway.

She rolled over and got the pipe out from under the bedside table, where she kept it next to her vibrator. “Not tonight,” she said to Alejandro, her vibrator. Reaching behind it, she got out the nickel bag and pinched off a bit and packed her pipe. The line from Romeo and Juliet played through her mind as she lit up: “These violent delights have violent ends…” Moments later, she was gone. After that, she slept like a log.

Winsome sat on her little terrace overlooking the garden. She was on the second floor in her converted brownstone quad-plex. She liked the exercise those twelve stairs provided when she got home. There was a church nearby, two grocers, and many good people lived here.

The brownstone wasn’t a typical floor plan, the second floor was a bit smaller due to the shared entry with the third and fourth floors and with the conversion, she shared laundry space with the first and third floors. Mr. Upton shared it with her on three, and Mrs. Deloris shared it from the first floor. They were tidy enough but sometimes they got in her way.

She opened the box of Benson and Hedges and pulled out another fag. She had smoked all the time when she lived back on the island and had given up when she moved to Florida, but when the sores and grey came knocken, she had started up again, one fag a day - just to keep the grey away. “No matta de fool o dat preacher say,” she laughed at the former minister of the Presbyterian church minister. She went there sometimes. Sometimes she took the bus to Times Square Church. They were good people. They let you smoke outside.

She had moved from Florida to New York in the mid-80’s and worked doing this or that, always one step ahead of trouble. Mostly it had been service work, until she befriended old Mrs. Kissa, who had left her this portion of the Brownstone in her inheritance. She moved in in 1995 and had been able to pay the bills ever since, still doing odd jobs no one else wanted to do. If you minded your own business and paid your bills, New York tolerated your existence.

Taking another drag, Winsome looked out over the shared courtyard. It was a quaint little place with pretty flowers, a nice break from the streets. She had no work today and had a mind to do some weeding in the little place. Delores, the first floor tenant, usually kept the place up and it was looking a little raggedy. She decided to go out back before sunset and do some quick weeding to feel like she accomplished something today. Just a weed or two. Nothing special.

BAM! The ceiling shook hard enough a little plaster rained down on Madison’s face.

“Huh?” Madison came out of her sleep abruptly, just in time to get plaster in her eyes. “Ah! Gross!” she fumbled out of bed, knocking her glass pipe to the floor where it skidded under the radiator. “Great. What the hell Benny?!” She yelled up at the ceiling where Benito Gonzalez lived. There was no more banging and usually he kept quiet except when there was a Jets game. No TV. Nothing. She listened. Just the usual city noises, more ambulances than normal, but still kinda normal. Going to her restroom, which was little more than a closet, she washed her face and looked in the mirror. Ugh. I’m a mess.

It was three in the morning and she wondered what was going on with Benny.

“Benny! You alright?” No answer, which was odd. Usually if he was loud he yelled down to apologize immediately. He had the hots for her and, unfortunately one night, due to too many Margaritas and some really dank kush, they had done the deed and now he was all over the pursuit… Which she wanted nothing to do with. It was a mistake, and she told him that, but he kept hounding her all the same. And he always called down to her, except right now.

Madison didn’t want to get her shoes on, or her robe, but she did it anyway. Walking up to his place, she knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect. But before she even raised her hand to the door, she noticed it was open and the latch broken. Nerves crept up her back as she opened up the door very slowly. “Benny?” she called softly, “You alright?” But there was no answer.

Winsome couldn’t sleep. She had weeded for a bit and stacked all the terracotta pots in a nice little tower next to the birdbath.The normal New York sounds of alarms and sirens weren’t the same tonight as they were every other night. There seemed to be more of them. And they moved faster. And her neighbors were missing. Things were off. Like that Karen at the grocer.

There was a clatter and an earthen crash from the courtyard. What dat den? She muttered. She got up and put on her night robe, and pulled the shades open on the back terrace.

There was a man standing in the garden next to where she had stacked the pots and he had knocked them over.

It was something like a man anyway.

He was very still except for once every couple of moments, he would twitch and sneeze, and then he would be still again. She thought maybe it was Mr. Upton.

“Craig?” She used his first name. “Zat you der?” She called to him but the figure didn’t move. It may have been Craig Upton, age 68, retired Attorney, who lived above her, but she couldn’t be sure. The man in the garden wore the same blue and white pajamas Mister Upton wore. She reached over to the little table and lit up a Benson and Hedges cigarette. “Fags” she called them, after the fashion of the British. She had her formative years in Jamaica after all. It was still her home even though she no longer would recognize it, were she to visit.

She was angry. “Mistah Uptahn! Watchu goin’ on at nah?” She asked but the figure only sneezed. She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew it out angrily. “Imma gwanna call de police nah!” She told him, walked in and shut the door. Locking it she realized she still had the cigarette in her hand. Going to the sink, she ran the tap and put it out. Throwing it in the trash can, she turned to walk back to the back door.

The man was suddenly standing there, turning the knob, trying to get in. It was Mr. Upton but something was very, very wrong.

The door to Benny’s place swung open slowly about a foot and then there was a foot. That is to say, it opened twelve inches and then there was a pant leg with a shoe on the bottom blocking it. It was a foot. Unattached to an actual leg, it was a work boot with a bloated purple ooze spilling out of tattered work jeans. What the actual fu-

But before she thought it, a hand grabbed around the door near the bottom and a voice gurgled “Please heeelp meee!” Screaming at the top of her lungs, she ran back down the stairs to her place and slammed the door, heart beating a mile a minute. What the hell! What the hell! What the hell! Her mind raced with what she had just seen. No way, no way there was just some nasty severed leg just sitting there on the floor. No way. She was wrong. NO! She screamed at herself. There had been a leg. There was a severed mushy nasty purple gooey shoe and a leg pussing out of it. What the actual fu-

BAM BAM! came from the ceiling again.

Nope. She said to herself. She got her 9mm Glock case from under her bed and opened it up. There was good old Bessie Lou inside, shiny and nasty, with two magazines ready. All her friends thought she was some gun nut for even having one, but her dad had insisted. Jesus and Bullets were his two mantras that he lived and died by. She thought she left Jesus behind but the gun on the other hand… It came in handy right about now… She picked up Bessie Lou, checked the chamber, loaded the magazine, and racked the slide. She sat down on her bed facing the doorway and waited.

Winsome didn’t wait for him to take another step. She was ready for this. She had grown up in Jamaica where you were dead if you weren’t ready. She had old shotty over in the umbrella stand ready for just such an occasion. It was a double barrel brake action. It was a 12 gauge and the left was loaded with 5-6-7 and the right was loaded with a 300 grain slug which meant it could take down most things, small first, then big on the next shot. She liked to keep her options open.

“Mistah Uptahn! You bess be runnin off nah!” She said as she drew back the first hammer. She brought old shotty up to to the door and aimed it at him. He didn’t flinch but brought his hand away from the knob and slammed his palm on the glass. Squishy purple splatters appeared where the hand hit, leaving slug-like trails oozing down the glass.

“Mistah Uptahn! You gotta counta tree till I gwanna blast ya! You’s scarin me tah deaf!”

Mister Upton said nothing.

“Look Mistah Uptahn. If dat be you in der, Imma burn dis fag dahn and if ya don’t wanna be blasted to deaf den you be gone byin de time it take tah smoke, ya hear?”

Mister Upton still said nothing.

She had brought in the Benson and Hedges absentmindedly and placed them in her robe pocket. She propped old shotty underneath one arm, reached into the pocket and brought out the pack and lighter. Lighting up, she took a tentative drag and blew it at the door where Mister Upton stood, staring at her, in the dark. Taking a small step forward, she reached out her hand to the wall by the door where the light switch was. His eyes followed her hand and click, she turned on the light.

It was a monster dressed in Mister Upton’s pajamas. Where his nose had been, now purple tendrils grew out and around his face. Vines came out of his nose, wrapping upward and around the back of his head, as well as from his mouth, wrapping down and around. When the light snapped on, many of the tendrils stood on end, spiking away from his head, creating a terrifying static electricity look. Purple vines shook and trembled like they were alive. Indeed they were alive and it was not Mister Upton that was the being before her, but rather, the Tzores inhabiting his body.

She didn’t wait til three. She pulled the trigger. Mister Upton and the glass moved onto the courtyard like New Year’s confetti.

The blast brought Madison out of her stillness. She looked out the window. From the little she could see, it all looked like a normal night. She heard the normal sounds of the city. What was going on? Who was shooting?

BAM BAM BAM the ceiling called out.

That was super annoying.

BAM BAM BAM the ceiling said again.

Nope, she thought.

She got up off the bed and entered the hall. With her left hand she closed the door and her right hand steadied the grip on the Glock.

Her phone went off. It was an alert. “Imminent Threat Alert” the text read and then stuff about how everyone needed to stay safe and all that. She had no idea what that meant except it was nothing good. The National Emergency thing at least was working. She laughed. Usually in all the movies she watched, the government was the first thing to go. Not like real life, I guess. Hollywood never had it right. They were all safe in their zillion dollar bunkers while we had neighbors turning into purple goo, losing their feet.

The hallway was quiet, just like before, and she heard others phones going off, but no one silenced them. Maybe they weren’t home? That’s ridiculous. Who doesn’t carry their phone around with them, like, all the time? Not anyone I know.

Up the stairs, Benny’s place. The foot is still there. Super gross. Opening the doorway, it’s dark inside. No noises. Then the BAM BAM BAM from the bedroom. No, that was the bathroom. There was a long slick of dark mucus leading to the bathroom. Had to be the bathroom.

“Benny!” She called out. Nothing. “Benny, it’s Madison!” Still nothing. She moved towards the bedroom to see if there was anyone else here. No noises. “Benny! What happened to your foot?” She called. Still nothing.

She was in front of the bathroom. The door was shut. Her left hand trembled at the knob. Should I call out again? No. Open it, step back, and raise the gun? Probably. That was what the cops did in the movies. OK. She opened the door.

It wasn’t anything like the movies. Benny’s body was in the bathtub and it was his clothes but it wasn’t Benny. Out and up from the severed leg, was what looked like a child’s science project. Tiny purple vines and tendrils crept up attaching themselves to the walls. Vines that sprouted tiny white flowers and bright green leaves. His leg was a bulbous mass of an overly large gooish purple tumor. Her eyes made their way up his body. A tourniquet was over his pant leg. There was a saw in his right hand. A regular wood saw. He had sawn his own leg off. When her eyes made it to his face, she vomited immediately. It was almost a skeleton. Gray and shrunken, eyes pulled back into the skull the size of grapes! She vomited again.

BAM BAM BAM his leg flew up and down on the tub.

Winsome stepped out over the mass of ruined body that was Mister Upton. She looked around for something - anything to explain what was going on. Nothing. “Da hell wit alla dis.” She said, under her breath. She went inside and went to her bedroom. The bag was in the back of her closet. She opened it up, threw in two boxes of shells she had on hand, and got ready to leave. She looked down at her feet. She hadn’t put shoes on and she was still in her robe. Laughing a little, she went and changed into sensible work wear. Gardening clothes. You never knew about things like this. Time to dig up the yams.

As a teen, in Montego bay, she remembered the night. It had changed everything. One of the possies had taken up some issues with some Tommian fisherman over conch. They almost burned the town down fighting each other over damned sea snails. Her mother, her little sister and her were kidnapped during the mayhem and were raped the entire night by the possie. When her mother and sister died, she vowed to leave Jamaica and never come back. And she did. With her go-bag ready, shotty in hand, she opened the door and moved out into the night. This would be different than that night.

Madison ran back to her room crying and gagging all the way. She ran to her door and tried to open it. It was locked. What? “Oh my god.” she said. She locked herself out. She banged on the door. Tried using her shoulder. Nothing. It was a good door. She would shoot it out. How did they do that in the movies? Step back and shoot the lock? Here goes nothing.

Winsome heard shooting. One. Two. Three shots. Then a woman screamed. A girl was in trouble. Jah had led her to the USA from the terrors of the possie rapists. She would use that gift to save someone.

Madison swore. She had tiny splinters all inside her arm from that damned door. That wasn’t like the movies at all. She ran inside to… Wait… Now I can’t lock the door.

A scream ripped out her throat like no other scream she had ever heard. It was agony. It was defeat. She didn’t know what to do. The world was ending.

The door opened. There was someone inside her apartment smoking a cigarette but she didn’t care. She might as well be dead.

Then a voice said to her:

“Appy Janteenth child.”

fin

December 2 2023 - A typical blog post

wow. i haven't written anything specifically FOR paulyhart.com in a long bit, so i'm just gonna be a little candid with you.

our orphanage needs your support.

we've not hit any goals this month and it's quite rough for pastor vinod and family to get everything done.

please, also pray for him and his family and all the children there.

...

i've been working a lot - i miss my writing time.

i've been busting butt on a day job and a part time job to stay ahead of the financial curve building our house.

it's been rough.

but last week i put out two books, the book of lamach of cain and an uncomfortable and disastrous creature.

the week before that, i released a book under my pen name, polly little deer, as part of her birthday present series.

i've been doing a book for her each year as a birthday present.

pretty awesome.

...

i might make another couple of books for my OTHER pen name, mister lee and put them out, but i've gotta find the time.

i've been selling books like hotcakes. around two a day. pretty awesome stuff.

my writing is also on another website, the unexpected cosmology, which is fun.

...

i've been making NFT's and other art as well and posting them on my socials...

but, man, where does that TIME GO?

dunno, tbh [that's "to be honest" for you older folks].

...

i think it's gonna rain all day tomorrow and the house building might be a little behind as well as my GC just lost his mother-in-law.

pray for james and family.

and i hope they are able to get done as promised with this build.

that would be swell.

...

that's all i got.

no new updates on the board games empires and generals or down to brass facts.

but i still have a zillion ideas for new games and books all the time, so that's fun.

it's neat to be a weirdo.

have a great day, week, and sabbath.

-pauly hart

Drew Allen, Tulsa, Oklahoma, Abstract Visual Artist.

from here

You can't look at Drew Allen's acrylic-on-bass named

`Loud Mouth` without cracking a smile.

Allen definitely put some fun, character and color into

taxidermy when he made fish his canvas.

Yes, Allen paints on actual taxidermy fish, and the good

news for Allen is that he says he is seeing a demand for

these unique specimens of art.

His 11-inch `Pinky,` an acrylic-on-perch, has sold along

with the 10-inch `Happy,` an acrylic-on-crappie, and many

others. `God has blessed me,` he said. `All of a sudden

everything is selling like crazy.`

Allen has been successful marketing his art, which is

being sold at the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in

Kansas City as well as galleries in Arkansas, Colorado and

Alabama.

`A lot of people might think it's kind of outdated to

have a taxidermy fish on the wall, and so a lot of people

are getting rid of them. Yet this is a work of art that

even someone who hates taxidermy will want to hang,` Allen

said.

Still the question begs. What made him want to paint on

fish? `Everybody asks that and the only answer I have

is God,` he said. `Just one day I thought, hum, I think I

would like to paint a fish.` He's also painted salmon,

pike, shark and a 9-foot swordfish, his biggest to date.

Allen says that, believe it nor not, even in fish painting,

he has changed his styles a bit over the years which has

improved his art.

Allen preps the surface of the fish by sanding, then

begins by applying the coats of paint. He paints the entire

fish, inside their mouth and even their eyes. Every fish is

different in color and style. Crappie brothers `Billy

Bob` and `Joe Bob` feature zebra and giraffe prints,

respectively. An acrylic-on-trout features squiggle designs

because it is swimming upstream. `Secret Love,` an

acrylic-on- bass, has two hidden hearts. `Daisy,` an

acrylic-on-pike, is dressed in floral.

When the fish have big teeth, Allen downplays their

ferocity. Allen painted a shark's teeth white with one gold

tooth. A piranha that looked incredibly mean became a

kinder and gentler piranha with pink and purple polka

dots, white teeth plus a little gold tooth. His name?

`Tough Guy.`

Allen's medium being what it is, he's always in the

market for taxidermy fish to paint.

`I run want ads just saying, 'Wanted: Dead Fish,'` he

said. `Of course, sometimes I get calls from people who are

just going, 'What? What do you want?'`

But Allen is in to more than just fish. He also has a

series of acrylic paintings on canvas featuring landscapes

that illustrate his love of nature and color. They seem to

capture a sense of 19th-century impressionism with

contemporary eyes.

`I really enjoy these, and it's funny because looking at

these you'd think that it was the easiest thing to do, but

really these take more inspiration than any of the rest,`

he said.

His wife Kathryn, who has found her niche in abstract

painting, calls him a modern day Monet. Allen, who says he

has trouble with `drabness,` would just as well prefer to

be living in the scenes he paints.

`I am a nature freak,` he said. `Living right here on

the corner of the city is driving me crazy.`

Allen finds himself at a good time in his life. It

wasn't too many years ago, he said, that he was spending

his time stealing and selling drugs. But all has that has

changed.

`I gave my life to God seven years ago and it was like

instantly I had this talent that I never knew I had,` Allen

said.

Traveling around the world as a college student to

Australia, New Zealand and Fiji was the catalyst for change

in Allen's life. `I came into contact with several

types of cults, a hippie cult, biker cult, some new-agey

weird stuff, and finally I realized that I needed Jesus,`

he said. `The word says commit yourself, commit your works

unto the Lord and he will give you the desires of your

heart.` Taking that notion to heart, Allen, in addition

to discovering his talent in art, became a self-starter in

home renovation. After he renovated his first home and

leased it out, he began doing the same thing with more and

more homes.

`Now we're just buying and fixing them up and selling

them,` he said.

Through this work, Allen became the owner of Drew

Properties, a real estate investment company, and is the

co-owner of Allen Contracting and Millennium Construction.

Allen, 26, says that people are surprised when they

realize his age.

`I'll be at a firm and they meet me and they're kind of

like, 'Where's your dad?'` he said.

Allen also appears in commercials for businesses like

Taco Mayo and Mazzio's.

`And I give every single bit of the credit to God. He's

doing it. He's raising me up,` Allen said.

But Allen says that his long-range goal for the future

is to establish youth ranches around the world. Art is at

least one of the means in which he hopes to fund them.

In the near future, Allen says he hopes to be moving to

Costa Rica later this year to start a youth ranch.

Allen hosted the Tulsa Art Show in April, which

benefited Youth-Reach, a boys home for at-risk kids in

Bixby.

For those interested in Allen's art work, call 745-9555

or 230-8869.

Give me all culture.

Recently my wife and I have become hillbillies. Maybe. If you live in an RV, park by the swamp, have a white truck, and own a straw hat, then maybe you are. I know my neighbors are. Maybe I'm one too. I might be the only one in the camp ground celebrating the Biblical Feasts, wearing tzitt-zits, or blowing a shofar, but, I think I've become a hillbilly and there's nothing wrong with that in my estimation.

I've also been working at a tour guide company, learning the amazing stories about Savannah, Georgia from the Historical Society as well as others who have lived there all of their life. There are pretender tour guides, like me, who wander in from the wiley wastelands of rural Indiana and set up shop. We can only pretend to presume any sort of sway with the local crowd, and instead, ply our wares of junk knowledge on the unsuspecting tourist from Maine.

However, being immersed, as I have been, in deep Georgia life, I find myself not being a local, but able to think like one, and have come to hate the idea of more of my type moving here and gentrifying the place. I believe that I've been moved into more and more of an "us vs. them" mind-set, being closed off and moving far away from the new US Democrat "woke" message of all of us are the same, just from different places of the globe. the message that all of us space-monkeys just need to get along in the new matriarchy, in this brave new world.

Interestingly that both becoming both a hillbilly and a historian have moved me deeper and more away from the "New America" into an older and more cultured mindset. Instead of a mish-mash of cultures, I now see and appreciate all cultures in their own right. Is one culture more important than another? No, most certainly not. But they are indeed different. There can be no melody culture upon culture, but there most certainly can be harmony.

Back into the past, back into a simpler more narrowed culture I go. Appreciative of all cultures, but shunning the integration of one upon another, much like I shun the idea of my Banana Pudding touching my Collard Greens. I don't mind if the greens touch my Macaroni and Cheese, but I'll let my stomach mix them, not my mouth. I don't want, I don't need the mixing, and, on a whole, it's not good for the overall taste.

Give me the Gullah Geechee stories. Give me their culture as equal to the Irish Stevedore. Give me the tradition of the Caribbean brickmason and the Scottish farmer. If there's one thing I've learned from Savannah, Georgia - All men are equal and worthy of the respect of their heritage.

The Seventh Pope

by Pauly Hart

Saturday July 30th, 2022

Alex and Emma were enjoying their night just like every other night they'd stayed in Savannah Georgia. They hadn’t cared for the Paula Dean Restaurant experience but they had a lot of fun at Treylor Hitch and Corleone’s. They had some time to kill before going back to The Mansion on Forsythe, so they were hanging out at Spanky's on River Street. It was pretty crowded. The music was loud and the air was thick with that common late night heat that Savannah offered its visitors every day in July.

Emma had a Painkiller in hand. She had asked for Cruzan coconut instead of that nasty Pussers rum everyone wanted to use. Alex had his Rum cream on the rocks - extra rocks. They were slightly buzzed and enjoying it all.

The first push came from the outside. They were at the bar near the back so they could see it more than feelit. At first everyone was surprised and animated. Some laughed at the mild shoving until one woman screamed bloody murder. Like… Actual bloody murder… Not just the lame catchphrase people say when they exaggerate all of their stories. No, someone was actually being murdered and it was a bit splashy.

The moment many of the people in Spankys realized what was happening was the exact moment that things went sideways.

The mob moved as one, back in towards the restaurant, almost crushing everyone on the back wall. Alex grabbed Emma and yanked her hard, into the bar area, barely escaping the people.

From their point of view it was a hot mess. There were three groups of people. Emma, Alex, and the one bartender were inside the bar area. There were the people already inside the restaurant, crushing each other towards the back, and then there were the people coming inside the restaurant. Oh. And I should mention a very small minority: One person gnawing on the neck of another person having pinned them to the ground. There was a great deal of thrashing from the victim and a great deal of crunching from the attacker.

It was around five full and really long seconds of this. One group watching the other while also watching the insane act of cannibalism in front of them. The group who were coming into the restaurant weren’t exactly people maybe. They were rotting and decomposing former people. Many of them still had loose dirt in their clothes from the graves they’d escaped. That’s exactly what they were. The risen dead.

It should have been expected by everyone involved. The risen dead obviously knew what their own perceived reality was, everyone in the room knew Savannah was haunted, and the bartender always expected something crazy to happen. Around the six second mark, the crowd of the risen dead who were coming into the restaurant lurched forward as one. If there was ever a need for a “ready-set-go” in the minds of the people already inside the restaurant, this was it. For at that very moment, all of the still alive humans freaked the fuck out.

If there had been any way to shrink the mob more up against the wall than it already had been, it was impossible. Yet it happened. People really just are bags of meat after all. The mob shrank back further towards the wall and then in one insane moment, the risen dead ran straight into them.

The bartender, a short girl with bangs, handed a wooden baseball bat to Alex. She had her purse in her hands and was fumbling through it. Bringing out a 9mm she raised it towards the cannibal eater. One shot and it fell over. She couldn’t reach her arm over the bar to see the victim on the floor so she didn’t think to dispatch the victim. She wasn’t thrashing anymore anyway. Motioning to Alex and Emma she vaulted over the pass-through area, where the servers picked up their drinks. She strode towards the entrance, shooting two more of the dead in the face on her way. Alex went after her, and fended off a lurching man in a priest’s frock while Emma clamored over.

They raced behind the bartender who was running along the cobblestone street, dodging a leaning dead person here, and a crawling one there. She rarely shot the gun, as most of the faster ones had been at the bar. They ran west towards the Lincoln ramp. From the Boar’s Head Tavern, a window broke and a man fell out onto the street, bouncing the awning of the candy store below it. The large black man in an apron got up slowly. He saw the three escapees and raised his knife.

Jill raised her hands and explained that they weren't dead and they just wanted to get off River Street. There were a lot of dead here, walking east from old Fort Wayne and The Pirate’s House.

Accepting the idea that they were all on the same team, they slowly made their way up Factors Walk towards Bay Street. There was a close call around the Lincoln Ramp at the blind curve when one of the dead fell off the wall in front of them. It took the cook and the bartender all they had to pull Alex off from beating the corpse into a fine jelly. Emma was the only one weaponless but she did a great job of leaping away from the limping dead when needed.

Savannah is a Necropolis There were no graveyards as easy markers. The whole town was a hodgepodge of cemeteries here and there, built upon. The old town dead were burried where they fell often, after Yellow Fever, massive fires, and bloody wars. If they need to build, they just moved the headstones, not the actual bodies.

As they made it up and onto Bay Street, it was chaos. The dead were walking out in front of large semis and there were wrecks everywhere. People were being eaten alive and the stench was awful. They barely made it over to Abercorn around from The Hampton Inn. There were people in every window looking down. One man holding a rifle from on top of the inn, but he was not firing on anyone, not yet at least. The four wondered how long it would take him to start.

At the Bryan Street Parking Garage it was quiet and there was no movement. They stopped for a moment to gather their wits. The bartender’s name was Jill and the cook’s name was Tyrone. Before she was a bartender, Jill worked for a tour-guide company and knew a little about where the dead were buried. Oddly enough, even though growing up here, Tyrone knew nothing of the history of the place, but he sure knew his way around. At Jill’s suggestion they would walk straight south towards the cemetery. Everyone thought Jill was crazy but she had a good point.

Tyrone mentioned they were all religious folk. And if they had bothered to pay attention, all of the dead were either priests, nuns, or other Roman Catholic workers. Not really workers, but you know… Regular Catholics, Anna mentioned. And then it made sense. Jill told them that Colonial Park Cemetery hadn’t allowed any Catholics in it at all. It would be the safest place in town. They talked it out.

There was the Jewish cemetery area over at Bull and Oglethorpe. An entire block. There was the “Old Negro Burial Ground” over at the Massey school and Potter’s field was right next to that. They couldn’t rely on either of the last two… Just because you were African American didn’t mean you weren’t Catholic.

Wait. What about the Hudu?

Tyrone told them.

The Hudu were African Spiritualists who were also Catholics. His aunt was Hudu.

Like Voodoo? Alex and Emma were completely lost.

Like a spur from original Catholics. Jill was helping.

Colonial Park Cemetery it was.

Every single area in Savannah had the dead buried under it. Buildings wouldn’t be safe from them. And they were seeing it. Men in white collars with dripping faces inside buildings stalking the living. They couldn’t risk going indoors.

Emma had her phone out checking it. The top news on every site was the risen dead epidemic and something to do with The Pope.

Jill had been right, it was deserted. It was creepy and they could hear the various screams, gunfire, and explosions all around town. Emma pulled her phone out again. They all crowded around it.

Oddly, FOX news had the best coverage. There was a press conference with Pope John Paul III. He was pleading with everyone to not kill the risen dead. He was calling it their first resurrection. He begged the reporters in the room when they all began shouting questions at him. There was a scuffle and a man shot into the air from the crowd. He was quickly taken down by the Swiss guard, oddly with their halberds. The head rolled loosely on the floor before the camera cut away.

But things got even weirder, even more quickly. From behind the curtain a commotion and Pope Paul III was thrown to the ground by what looked to be another Pope. There was a sick snapping noise and suddenly the new dirtier Pope lifted Pope Paul III’s severed head into the air.

It was Pope Benedict the 16th… The Seventh Black Pope.

He was back… And this time… He was here to stay.

Francisco's Money Speech

"So you think that money is the root of all evil?” said Francisco d’Anconia. “Have you ever asked what is the root of money? Money is a tool of exchange, which can’t exist unless there are goods produced and men able to produce them. Money is the material shape of the principle that men who wish to deal with one another must deal by trade and give value for value. Money is not the tool of the moochers, who claim your product by tears, or of the looters, who take it from you by force. Money is made possible only by the men who produce. Is this what you consider evil?

“When you accept money in payment for your effort, you do so only on the conviction that you will exchange it for the product of the effort of others. It is not the moochers or the looters who give value to money. Not an ocean of tears not all the guns in the world can transform those pieces of paper in your wallet into the bread you will need to survive tomorrow. Those pieces of paper, which should have been gold, are a token of honor–your claim upon the energy of the men who produce. Your wallet is your statement of hope that somewhere in the world around you there are men who will not default on that moral principle which is the root of money. Is this what you consider evil?

“Have you ever looked for the root of production? Take a look at an electric generator and dare tell yourself that it was created by the muscular effort of unthinking brutes. Try to grow a seed of wheat without the knowledge left to you by men who had to discover it for the first time. Try to obtain your food by means of nothing but physical motions–and you’ll learn that man’s mind is the root of all the goods produced and of all the wealth that has ever existed on earth.

“But you say that money is made by the strong at the expense of the weak? What strength do you mean? It is not the strength of guns or muscles. Wealth is the product of man’s capacity to think. Then is money made by the man who invents a motor at the expense of those who did not invent it? Is money made by the intelligent at the expense of the fools? By the able at the expense of the incompetent? By the ambitious at the expense of the lazy? Money is made–before it can be looted or mooched–made by the effort of every honest man, each to the extent of his ability. An honest man is one who knows that he can’t consume more than he has produced.’

“To trade by means of money is the code of the men of good will. Money rests on the axiom that every man is the owner of his mind and his effort. Money allows no power to prescribe the value of your effort except the voluntary choice of the man who is willing to trade you his effort in return. Money permits you to obtain for your goods and your labor that which they are worth to the men who buy them, but no more. Money permits no deals except those to mutual benefit by the unforced judgment of the traders. Money demands of you the recognition that men must work for their own benefit, not for their own injury, for their gain, not their loss–the recognition that they are not beasts of burden, born to carry the weight of your misery–that you must offer them values, not wounds–that the common bond among men is not the exchange of suffering, but the exchange of goods. Money demands that you sell, not your weakness to men’s stupidity, but your talent to their reason; it demands that you buy, not the shoddiest they offer, but the best that your money can find. And when men live by trade–with reason, not force, as their final arbiter–it is the best product that wins, the best performance, the man of best judgment and highest ability–and the degree of a man’s productiveness is the degree of his reward. This is the code of existence whose tool and symbol is money. Is this what you consider evil?

“But money is only a tool. It will take you wherever you wish, but it will not replace you as the driver. It will give you the means for the satisfaction of your desires, but it will not provide you with desires. Money is the scourge of the men who attempt to reverse the law of causality–the men who seek to replace the mind by seizing the products of the mind.

“Money will not purchase happiness for the man who has no concept of what he wants: money will not give him a code of values, if he’s evaded the knowledge of what to value, and it will not provide him with a purpose, if he’s evaded the choice of what to seek. Money will not buy intelligence for the fool, or admiration for the coward, or respect for the incompetent. The man who attempts to purchase the brains of his superiors to serve him, with his money replacing his judgment, ends up by becoming the victim of his inferiors. The men of intelligence desert him, but the cheats and the frauds come flocking to him, drawn by a law which he has not discovered: that no man may be smaller than his money. Is this the reason why you call it evil?

“Only the man who does not need it, is fit to inherit wealth–the man who would make his own fortune no matter where he started. If an heir is equal to his money, it serves him; if not, it destroys him. But you look on and you cry that money corrupted him. Did it? Or did he corrupt his money? Do not envy a worthless heir; his wealth is not yours and you would have done no better with it. Do not think that it should have been distributed among you; loading the world with fifty parasites instead of one, would not bring back the dead virtue which was the fortune. Money is a living power that dies without its root. Money will not serve the mind that cannot match it. Is this the reason why you call it evil?

“Money is your means of survival. The verdict you pronounce upon the source of your livelihood is the verdict you pronounce upon your life. If the source is corrupt, you have damned your own existence. Did you get your money by fraud? By pandering to men’s vices or men’s stupidity? By catering to fools, in the hope of getting more than your ability deserves? By lowering your standards? By doing work you despise for purchasers you scorn? If so, then your money will not give you a moment’s or a penny’s worth of joy. Then all the things you buy will become, not a tribute to you, but a reproach; not an achievement, but a reminder of shame. Then you’ll scream that money is evil. Evil, because it would not pinch-hit for your self-respect? Evil, because it would not let you enjoy your depravity? Is this the root of your hatred of money?

“Money will always remain an effect and refuse to replace you as the cause. Money is the product of virtue, but it will not give you virtue and it will not redeem your vices. Money will not give you the unearned, neither in matter nor in spirit. Is this the root of your hatred of money?

“Or did you say it’s the love of money that’s the root of all evil? To love a thing is to know and love its nature. To love money is to know and love the fact that money is the creation of the best power within you, and your passkey to trade your effort for the effort of the best among men. It’s the person who would sell his soul for a nickel, who is loudest in proclaiming his hatred of money–and he has good reason to hate it. The lovers of money are willing to work for it. They know they are able to deserve it.

“Let me give you a tip on a clue to men’s characters: the man who damns money has obtained it dishonorably; the man who respects it has earned it.

“Run for your life from any man who tells you that money is evil. That sentence is the leper’s bell of an approaching looter. So long as men live together on earth and need means to deal with one another–their only substitute, if they abandon money, is the muzzle of a gun.

“But money demands of you the highest virtues, if you wish to make it or to keep it. Men who have no courage, pride or self-esteem, men who have no moral sense of their right to their money and are not willing to defend it as they defend their life, men who apologize for being rich–will not remain rich for long. They are the natural bait for the swarms of looters that stay under rocks for centuries, but come crawling out at the first smell of a man who begs to be forgiven for the guilt of owning wealth. They will hasten to relieve him of the guilt–and of his life, as he deserves.

“Then you will see the rise of the men of the double standard–the men who live by force, yet count on those who live by trade to create the value of their looted money–the men who are the hitchhikers of virtue. In a moral society, these are the criminals, and the statutes are written to protect you against them. But when a society establishes criminals-by-right and looters-by-law–men who use force to seize the wealth of disarmed victims–then money becomes its creators’ avenger. Such looters believe it safe to rob defenseless men, once they’ve passed a law to disarm them. But their loot becomes the magnet for other looters, who get it from them as they got it. Then the race goes, not to the ablest at production, but to those most ruthless at brutality. When force is the standard, the murderer wins over the pickpocket. And then that society vanishes, in a spread of ruins and slaughter.

“Do you wish to know whether that day is coming? Watch money. Money is the barometer of a society’s virtue. When you see that trading is done, not by consent, but by compulsion–when you see that in order to produce, you need to obtain permission from men who produce nothing–when you see that money is flowing to those who deal, not in goods, but in favors–when you see that men get richer by graft and by pull than by work, and your laws don’t protect you against them, but protect them against you–when you see corruption being rewarded and honesty becoming a self-sacrifice–you may know that your society is doomed. Money is so noble a medium that it does not compete with guns and it does not make terms with brutality. It will not permit a country to survive as half-property, half-loot.

“Whenever destroyers appear among men, they start by destroying money, for money is men’s protection and the base of a moral existence. Destroyers seize gold and leave to its owners a counterfeit pile of paper. This kills all objective standards and delivers men into the arbitrary power of an arbitrary setter of values. Gold was an objective value, an equivalent of wealth produced. Paper is a mortgage on wealth that does not exist, backed by a gun aimed at those who are expected to produce it. Paper is a check drawn by legal looters upon an account which is not theirs: upon the virtue of the victims. Watch for the day when it bounces, marked, ‘Account overdrawn.’

“When you have made evil the means of survival, do not expect men to remain good. Do not expect them to stay moral and lose their lives for the purpose of becoming the fodder of the immoral. Do not expect them to produce, when production is punished and looting rewarded. Do not ask, ‘Who is destroying the world? You are.

“You stand in the midst of the greatest achievements of the greatest productive civilization, and you wonder why it’s crumbling around you, while you’re damning its life-blood–money. You look upon money as the savages did before you, and you wonder why the jungle is creeping back to the edge of your cities. Throughout men’s history, money was always seized by looters of one brand or another, whose names changed, but whose method remained the same: to seize wealth by force and to keep the producers bound, demeaned, defamed, deprived of honor. That phrase about the evil of money, which you mouth with such righteous recklessness, comes from a time when wealth was produced by the labor of slaves–slaves who repeated the motions once discovered by somebody’s mind and left unimproved for centuries. So long as production was ruled by force, and wealth was obtained by conquest, there was little to conquer, Yet through all the centuries of stagnation and starvation, men exalted the looters, as aristocrats of the sword, as aristocrats of birth, as aristocrats of the bureau, and despised the producers, as slaves, as traders, as shopkeepers–as industrialists.

“To the glory of mankind, there was, for the first and only time in history, a country of money–and I have no higher, more reverent tribute to pay to America, for this means: a country of reason, justice, freedom, production, achievement. For the first time, man’s mind and money were set free, and there were no fortunes-by-conquest, but only fortunes-by-work, and instead of swordsmen and slaves, there appeared the real maker of wealth, the greatest worker, the highest type of human being–the self-made man–the American industrialist.

“If you ask me to name the proudest distinction of Americans, I would choose–because it contains all the others–the fact that they were the people who created the phrase ‘to make money.’ No other language or nation had ever used these words before; men had always thought of wealth as a static quantity–to be seized, begged, inherited, shared, looted or obtained as a favor. Americans were the first to understand that wealth has to be created. The words ‘to make money’ hold the essence of human morality.

“Yet these were the words for which Americans were denounced by the rotted cultures of the looters’ continents. Now the looters’ credo has brought you to regard your proudest achievements as a hallmark of shame, your prosperity as guilt, your greatest men, the industrialists, as blackguards, and your magnificent factories as the product and property of muscular labor, the labor of whip-driven slaves, like the pyramids of Egypt. The rotter who simpers that he sees no difference between the power of the dollar and the power of the whip, ought to learn the difference on his own hide– as, I think, he will.

“Until and unless you discover that money is the root of all good, you ask for your own destruction. When money ceases to be the tool by which men deal with one another, then men become the tools of men. Blood, whips, and guns–or dollars. Take your choice–there is no other–and your time is running out.”

Targum Johnathan Paraphrased Genesis Chapter 22 Sample Copy

Targum Johnathan Paraphrased

Genesis Chapter 22

Sample Copy

Johnathan Ben Uzziel

JW Etheridge

and

Pauly Hart

Full Work ISBN 978-1-955399-32-6

Purchase the whole work HERE

Please do not distribute or reproduce.

Genesis Chapter 22 Targum

Translated from the Palestinian by Jonathan Ben Uzziel

Translated into English by J.W. Etheridge

Translated into Modern English by Pauly Hart

Jerusalem Fragments Combined with text

Phraseology fragments shifted for continuity

Please find this sample copy mutatis mutandis knowing that it will remain such until altered by Pauly Hart only.

SECTION 4: VAYERA

Chapter 22

After this, Isaac and Ishmael argued.

Ishmael said, “It is right that I inherit father's things because I’m his firstborn son.”

But Isaac said, “It's right that I should inherit what is the father's, because I am the son of his wife, Sarah and you’re the son of her maid Hagar.”

Ishmael answered, “I’m more righteous than you! I was circumcised at thirteen years old. If it had been my will to not be, they wouldn’t have delivered me to be circumcised. You were circumcised at eight days old. If you knew what was happening, maybe they wouldn’t have delivered you to be circumcised.

Isaac responded and said, “Look, I’m 36 years old today! As blessed as He is, if the Holy One were to ask of me for all my body parts, I wouldn’t delay.”

And it was after these things these words were heard before Yahweh of the world, and The Word of Yahweh immediately tested Abraham with the tenth trial.

He said to him, “Abraham!”

And Abraham said, “You see me.”

He said, “Go get the son you love… Now. Get Isaac. Go to the land of worship and offer him as a whole burnt offering. Do it at Mount Moriah, the mountain that I told you about.”

Abraham rose up in the morning and saddled his donkey. He took the two younger men with him (Eliezer and Ishmael), and he took his son, Isaac. He cut small wood, fig wood, and palm wood. These were used for burning the offering. He got up and went to the land of which Yahweh had told him. On the third day Abraham looked up and saw a cloud of great beauty simmering on top of the mountain. He understood what it was when he was still very far away.

Abraham said to his men, “You wait here with the donkey. I’ll go up there with the young man, to prove the ‘So your sons will be’ promise will happen. We will worship Yahweh of the world, and come back to you.”

Abraham took the wood of the offering and put it on his son Isaac. In his hand he took the fire and the knife; and they went together.

Isaac spoke to his father Abraham, “Father?”

“Here I am,” he said.

“I see the fire and the wood. But where is the lamb for the offering?” He asked.

Abraham said, “The Word of Yahweh will prepare for Himself a lamb for the offering. If He does not… then you are the offering.”

Both of them went with a humble heart, in unity.

Then they came to the place Yahweh had told him about. And Abraham rebuilt the altar that Adam had built. The same one that had been destroyed by the waters of the flood. The same one that Noah had rebuilt after it had been destroyed in the age of division. He stacked the wood neatly on it, tied up Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar on top of the wood. Abraham stretched out his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

Isaac said to his father: “Bind my hands tight father, because in the hour of my distress I might tremble and confuse you. Then your offering will be profane. I’ll be cast into the pit of destruction in the world to come.”

Abraham looked into the eyes of Isaac, but the eyes of Isaac looked towards the angels on high. Isaac saw them, but Abraham didn’t.

In that moment the angels came down from on high, and said one to another, “Come, behold how these lonesome righteous ones who are in the world. This one slays, the other is going to be slain. The slayer won’t put it off. He who is going to be slain takes all the risk.”

Then The Angel of Yahweh called to him from the heavens. He said, “Abraham! Abraham!”

Abraham answered in sanctuary language, “I’m here!”

He said, “Don’t reach out to hurt the young man. Don’t do anything evil to him. Now I know that you fear Yahweh. You haven’t withheld your only son from Me.”

Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw a certain ram which had been created between the evenings of the foundation of the world. This ram was held in the entanglement of a tree by his horns. Abraham took him, and offered him as an offering instead of his son. And there Abraham gave thanks and prayed in The Name of The Word of Yahweh.

He said, “I pray through The Mercies that are before You Adonai. You are Yahweh who sees, and is not seen. I pray for mercy before You Adonai. You knew that it wasn’t at the bottom of my heart to turn away from doing this thing. The whole thing is known before You that there was no division in my heart. From the time that You commanded me to offer Isaac my son - to make him dust and ashes before You… But I arose in the morning and performed The Word with joy. I have fulfilled The Word. So now I pray for The Mercies from You, Adonai Elohim. When the children of Isaac are in their hour of need? You remember the binding of their father Isaac for them. Forgive and forget their sins. Deliver them out of all need. This will be their memory. You will hear them and deliver them. Their descendants will say: ‘In the mountain of the house of the sanctuary of Yahweh, Abraham offered his son Isaac. In this mountain of the house of the sanctuary the majesty of The Shekinah of Yahweh was revealed unto him.’”

Then the Angel of Yahweh called to Abraham a second time from the heavens, saying, “By My Word I’ve sworn,” said Yahweh,

“Since you’ve done this, and haven’t held back the only son you had, I will bless you. I will multiply your sons as the stars of the heavens. They will be like the sand which is on the seashore. Your sons will inherit the cities of their enemies. And all the peoples of the earth shall be blessed through the righteousness of your son, because you have obeyed My Word.”

So the angels on high took Isaac and brought him into the school of the great Shem. He was there for three years. The same day Abraham returned to his young men. They got and went together to The Well of the Seven. And Abraham lived at Beira-desheva. It was after Abraham had bound Isaac Satan came and told Sarah that Abraham had killed Isaac. And Sarah got up and cried out, and died from the agony of strangulation. But Abraham was resting along the road on his way home.

Abraham heard news on the way: “Milcha’s had sons for your brother Nachor. She’s been made pregnant because of the righteousness of her sister. The firstborn is Uts, then his brother Booz, then Kemuel (master of the Aramean magicians), Keshed, Chazo, Pildash, Jidlaph, Bethuel. And Bethuel has had Rebecca.”

These eight took Milcha to Nacor, the brother of Abraham. His concubine, Rëuma, also gave birth to Tebach, Gacham, Tachash, and Maacha.

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