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TETRAGRAMMATON Cracking the Voynich Manuscript. Chapter 2: The Setup.

Chapter 2: The Setup

Present day. A
Mid-May afternoon on the porch of Shadowlawn, the residence of Veronica
Albright in Holly Springs, MS.

Nigel Roddey
Albright, or ‘Trick’ as he preferred, was tall, athletic, with thick dark hair
that he slicked back in a careless fashion. He erred to overdressed for most
occasions, and if that wasn’t possible, to look like he was between sporting
engagements. Today it’s the latter, as he is wearing traditional all-white
tennis togs with one of his mother’s monogrammed tea towels draped over his
shoulders.

An active athlete
all his life, Trick is in stark contrast to the object of his aggravation—Erin,
a yoga-sculpted neighbor of his mother’s, whose pink silk hounds-tooth suit
ensemble suggested high tea at the club. Erin’s purpose today is collecting
money for a charity mission to South America. There was something about her
manner that disagreed with him, but Trick could not help admiring her pink
Christian Louboutin stiletto heels and long, toned legs

“Trick,” she
stabbed at the word like making a choice between a ‘trick’ or a ‘treat,’ “Is
that short for something?”

Trick cringed at
her inflection. He wasn’t sure if it was due to her nasal accent or the sheer
decibel level of her voice.

“My given name is
Nigel,” Trick threw a quick glare at Erin to head off the evitable amusement
his given name often brought.

Erin was
oblivious to his visual cue, “Nigel!” She threw her head back and belted out a
snort,  “Nigel!” Snort. Snort. Snort.

Trick crossed his
legs, folded his arms over his chest, and waited for a lull in the snorting. It
wasn’t time wasted, he had a enjoyed some of his Bombay Sapphire and tonic.

When Erin finished,
he said, “I didn’t have much say in what my parents’ named me.”

Trick used
understatement and sarcasm like a laser scalpel. All of this was missed on
Erin, she wiped a tear from her cheek and gave Trick a blank expression.

“Nigel.” Snort.

“Yes. I earned
the nickname ‘Trick’ at school by scoring three consecutive touchdowns in as
many plays.” He paused for some flicker of understanding from Erin.

Erin wiped her nose with her sleeve. Trick unfolded himself and
offered her a tissue box.  She took it
wordlessly.

“Not a ‘thank
you’ or even ‘go screw yourself’,” he thought. “Ah-hem,” clearing his throat,
“A ‘hat-trick’ is the name given to the feat of scoring three  consecutive goals in hockey, cricket, and
other sports,” he paused, “so I suppose I should be grateful I’m not
called  ‘hat.’

She wasn’t bad
looking when she wasn’t speaking Trick thought, although wiping her nose on her
suit sleeve did more to rid his wanton fantasies than a cold shower with Queen
Elizabeth.

Erin extended her
hand with the tissues balled up in a clump to Trick. He took it; then she
tilted her nose at him and said, “Our church is building a water treatment
plant in the Vilcabamba Valley in Ecuador, and we would like your sponsorship.”

“Ah yes. Now I
recall where I’ve heard that name. The local people are reputed to live extraordinarily
long lives, well into triple digits.”

Erin flushed and
bit down on her lip. Trick tossed the used tissues in the wastebasket next to
Erin. 

She looked up.

He met her eyes, “It
was the playground of the Inca.”

Erin avoided
Trick’s gaze by looking off to the porch ceiling, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

Trick’s constant
companion is a golden retriever named “Mousse,” named after the hair-gel the
dog looks like it uses. For Mousse, there is nothing more inviting than a cool
wooden porch floor with a ceiling fan. Like many dogs, Mousse had a gift for
precognition. The dog had been half-asleep next to Trick, but she struggled to
her feet with a ‘urghhmmmph’ sound that showed annoyance. Mousse had predicted
it was about to get noisy, and she’d be better off napping elsewhere.

Trick smiled as
the dog trotted off, “That dog is way too smart he thought aloud.” He slicked
his hair out of his face and took a deep breath, “The possibly well-meaning but
certainly misguided belief that other cultures need western religions,
technology, or government is both arrogant and foolhardy.”

Tricked fetched a
pair of Nez Paz reading glasses from the wicker table and stole a glance at her
shapely calves, then invited a volleyed response with an arched eyebrow. Trick,
as many Southerners and English became in time, tended to the eccentric.

Just then, a
screen door in the back of the house slammed shut. Erin glanced inside the
house hoping for some relief in the guise of Veronica Albright, Trick’s mother.
When no rescuer revealed themselves, she gathered herself up and arched her
back like a cobra about to strike.

“Sir. Those
people had no running water until our church installed it.”

Trick startled;
he once had a teacher who drew her fingernails down the chalkboard whenever
students got unruly. Erin’s voice would have been more effective in crowd control,
he speculated, but inhumane. Recovering somewhat, he folded his arms, looked up
to the ceiling and wondered why the sky-blue painted porch ceiling hadn’t kept
this haint away. Southerners painted the ceilings of porches ‘sky-blue’ or ‘haint
blue’ as it discouraged nest-building wasps and had the added benefit of
keeping away ghosts or haints.

“Lord, help me
over the fence.” Trick paused to retrieve his gin and tonic from the coffee
table, “Are you sure I can’t offer you some refreshment?”

Erin shook her
head.

Trick blotted his
brow with the monogrammed tea towel, then settled back into the wicker chair
with his arms folded.

“What, may I ask,
was the benefit to those people?”

Erin rolled her
eyes and relaxed back in her chair now that victory seemed at hand. She had to
explain things to these bumkins all the time. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Why, hygiene, of
course.”

Trick recoiled
only slightly, now becoming acclimated to her discordant delivery.

“Hygiene,” he
repeated.

Trick placed his
gin and tonic on the table, then removed his Nez Perce glasses. He leaned
towards her in order to focus on his opponent.

“Of course.”

Erin looked to be
late thirties, single, and attractive like a Park Avenue escort. She produced a
tiny, green lizard-skin purse and held it with both hands, pinkies out, to draw
Trick’s attention to her gold Cartier watch. 
Then pretended to look at the dial.

“Was that
Veronica?”

She stretched her
neck and scanned into the house for a moment—she, like the lizard that gave its
life for her purse.

Trick thumbed
through a stack of Vogue magazines his mother left hoping for at least a Garden & Gun or Cigar Aficionado.

“Mother is off
running her after-church errands. She figures that as long as she’s dressed up,
the whole town should get to see her.”

Erin flashed her
Cartier at him. “And for a breath of fresh air, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Trick raised his
glass in a salute to her repartee, finally, this conversation was about to get
interesting. He noticed the locked, clear bubbles in the ice cubes of his
cocktail, which brought him back to the topic at hand.

“Hygiene you say.”

Erin flared her
nose at him.

Trick smiled,
“Very worthwhile, indeed.”

He took the last
dewdrop from the crystal glass and then looked around in the vain hope that
someone from the house was bringing him another drink.

Tricked looked up
from the glass and said, “How do you plan to provide clean water to all the
other settlements in the Vilcabamba Valley?”

She chortled as
if she was explaining to a child why they shouldn’t drink a dozen Cokes a
day. 

“Clearly that is
outside of our church’s budget.”

Trick leaned
forward, “So you provided a standard of living advantage to only one group in
an area with dozens of indigenous communities.”

She nodded.

Trick settled
back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Why?”

“To save lives.”

“Doubtful,” Trick
leaned back and tented his fingers, “You built a water system to ingratiate
yourselves with a people who had discovered the secret of long life.”

“And to save
lives – MISTER Albright.”

Just for fun,
Trick mimicked clearing his ears like one would while swimming. Although her
voice was ear piercing, he didn’t care to be overtly rude, even if she was from
some Godless land like California or even Belgium.

“Madam, did your
organization contemplate the regional impact of your local water system? These
communities have co-existed peacefully for thousands of years, and you
introduce a technological edge into one of them.”

Erin’s ears
flushed bright red to clash with her pillbox hat. Whether her anger was from
Trick calling her ‘madam,’ the question itself, or both, was unclear.

Veronica Albright
announced herself with an ‘Ah-hem,’ a withering look to her son – also a tray
of shortbread.

Veronica is tall
and slender, like Trick. Unlike Trick, she is blessed with a high metabolism
and need not exercise more than her daily walks. She is wearing her Kôkichi Mikimoto
pearls, gold studs, pumps, and a little navy-blue dress that her late husband
would have found aggressive for Sunday. She was bound to catch eyes from the
mature men around town today – if not in the sanctuary too.

Matching his
mother’s warning with a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, hello, Mother.” He eyed her up
and down. “The new preacher must be a widower?”

Veronica fought
to keep her glower, but it dissolved into a smile. Trick was often successful in
defusing his mother’s wrath. 

With the danger
from his mother neutralized, he looked back to challenge Erin like Errol Flynn
fighting off a gang of pirates in a classic Hollywood swordplay scene.

“You propose to
introduce a technological edge into a community with a tendency toward extreme
old age, while just thirty miles away from this very spot the people of the
Mississippi Delta have the lowest life expectancy in the country.” He paused to
replace his glasses, “Why not help them?”

Veronica was, as
her late husband often observed, a “good mover,” and she moved with the grace
of a Linx. For this reason, many close friends referred to her as “Kitty,” a
nickname she grew to be fond of, as long as its use was confined to close
friends and family.

“Erin, excuse
him, dear. Trick is just being provocative. He spent last summer doing the same
thing in Guatemala.” Veronica turned her gaze to her son with her hands on her
hips. “Trick love, could you make some of that wonderful espresso of yours?”

“That’s all
right, Kitty,” said Erin.

Trick glanced to
see if his mother’s hostess-mask had melted off. Erin was not family nor a
close friend. No one dared call her “Kitty” until invited – but Veronica kept her
self-control.

“How
unfortunate,” Trick thought.

Erin jumped from
her chair like she’d been pinched but took time to throw Trick an evil eye.

“Would you look
at the time!” Raising her jeweled Cartier yet again without noticing the time. “I
really must hurry to my Junior League meeting.”

She took a moment
to discretely flip-off Trick then stomped off the porch, down the wooden steps,
and onto the sidewalk with her “knock me down and fuck me pumps.”

The pumps and
tight skirt rekindled Trick’s imagination. He smiled appreciatively at the
well-tailored bottom fading into the distance. Psychiatry noted that men
thought about sex every seven seconds, for Trick, it was a bit more often.

“Looks like two
Indian boys fightin’ under a blanket,” He said with an exaggerated back-woods
accent.

“Ahem!” Veronica
cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow at Trick, “Please don’t tease my
neighbors. I can’t run off to a cabin-in-the-sky like you. I have to live with
these people.”

“When you say
people, does that include cougars,” Trick paused a second for dramatic effect,
“Kitty?”

They both
laughed.

Veronica got back
to character soon enough, “Don’t judge, Nigel Roddey,” she let Trick’s proper
name hang in the air for effect, then softened her tone as she considered
Erin’s choice of footwear, “My word, her shoes are $700 at Neiman Marcus.”

Trick rolled eyes
and said sarcastically, “They’ll be mighty handy in the jungles of the   Vilcabamba Valley.”

He drained the
very last watery dregs of the gin and tonic from his glass, then got up to fix
another drink.

Pausing on the
way to look back at his mother, he said, “I neglected to posit that the Church
killed off the South American civilizations with greed, now they’re going to kill
the survivors with sanitization.”

“Is that one of
my tea-towels you sweated all over,” Veronica grabbed the towel and shook it at
her son, “Can’t you just stop being a man sometimes?”

“Anytime you
like, mother,” Trick made his way inside. “How about now since there is a mouse
right behind you?”

Veronica let out
a tiny “eek” and whipped around to see nothing but highly polished oak
flooring. She looked heavenward and prayed, “Lord, help me over the fence.”

Veronica was on
the verge of exasperation but is distracted by the scene just beyond the porch
where several expertly tailored yards of pink Chanel collide with the brown
uniform of a delivery man halfway down the sidewalk. Packages fly in the air,
both bodies sprawl on the lawn like bowling pins.

Now, flustered even
more, Erin directs her vexation towards the prostrate delivery man, “Clod, Oaf,
Fool!” and bustled back down the sidewalk in a torrent of pink pumps hitting
payment.

Trick turned to
his mother and drawled, “Well, that was un-Christian.”

“Bless her heart;
she is positively deafening even from here.” Veronica rushed to meet the
delivery man on the porch steps. “Good heavily days.” She brushed some grass
off his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” The
man had a bright, round face that could have been a model for the
man-on-the-moon in a children’s book. “Just like in football, the hits aren’t
as bad as they look.” He paused and smiled, “Rather enjoyed it, in fact. It’s
been a slow day.”

Trick offered the
man his hand. “That was my fault. She’s mother’s new neighbor from San
Francisco. I’m the one responsible for getting her knickers in a twist.”

The main laughed.
“Oh, we’ve met.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “She came to the door
in a negligee last week, and a towel before that.”

Trick and
Veronica looked at each other. “Wait. What?”

“It happens a lot
to both men and women. People are themselves around us delivery folks. It is as
if we become part of their inner lives.”

The man paused to
gauge Trick and Veronica’s reactions. Veronica looked at Trick. Trick was lost in
his own thoughts about Erin in a negligee.

“I thought this
gig would be tame, this company is very exclusive. The man gestured to his
truck in the street, “Notice that the van is unmarked.”

Trick and
Veronica looked to the street and sure enough, there was a plain, but
muscular-looking and highly polished black Mercedes-Benz van on run-flat tires.

“I soon found out
that rich folks are crazier than a soup sandwich. No offense,” he paused to
gauge their reaction, “I could tell y’all things about this street that might
surprise you.”

Trick put his
fingers in his ears. “Ugh, I know too much about these people already!”

“Would you care
to rest for a moment?” Veronica pointed to a wicker chair. “Can I get you a
glass of water? Tea? An ice-pack?”

“No thanks, I’m
good.” He chuckled and picked some grass off his trousers.” Under his arm, he
carried a box with a logo of Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book Library. The
package is big enough for several journals or the latest John Grisham novel.

“This never gets
old.” Trick examined the quality of the wrapping, turning it over in his hands.
“Getting packages, I mean – like Christmas all year round.”

“Beats delivering
mail for sure.” The delivery man thought to himself about homeowners who set
their dogs on him to avoid getting bills, summonses, or even junk mail. “I
reckon the neighborhood is safe now that the pink missile launched.”

Trick chuckled at
the man’s joke. Veronica covered her mouth with her hand and fought the urge to
laugh aloud.

“I need a
signature,… let’s see.” The man looked at his mobile pad, “Nigel Albright.”
With the driver’s drawl Trick’s given name came out “Naaa -jell.”

Trick rolled his
eyes and took the pad from the delivery man. “Wait a minute; you have a package
for me?” His pen hovered over the pad. “Who knew I’d be here?”

The man stifled a
yawn, this kind of thing happened all the time, “I dunno, how does Amazon know
what I want before I do? It’s techno-magic.”

Trick began
tearing into his package to discover what appeared to be a book wrapped in a
sheet of hard, brown shipping paper tied with string. He turned the package
over in his hand, “I hope this a book on how to fix that damned Rolls.”

Veronica sampled
the weight of the package, finding it delightfully heavy, “I think to fix the
Rolls we’ll need a book from the other team.”

Trick pulled the
end of one of the strings, and the heavy paper began to unravel. “You mean the
Baptists?”

Veronica swatted
his shoulder, “Don’t be ugly.” 

Trick smiled.
Veronica was well-read and quick on her feet. She was also an excellent conversationalist,
travel companion, and muse. Veronica and her husband had collected an extensive
library of history and natural science at Shadowlawn, but she found that
borrowing books through her Kindle suited her technophile mentality and frugal
nature. To feed her Kindle habit, she had library cards from New York, London,
and a dozen other cities. Starkville, MS, home of Mississippi State University,
had an excellent on-line lending program.

As the book
reveals itself from the packing materials, the smell of glove-leather fills the
air. From the nest of wrapping paper appears an ancient book, possibly from the
medieval era, bound in plain heavy leather. The cover was secured with two
straps so that the leaves could not swell from humidity. It was heavy for its
size like cell phones tend to be. Underneath, a small stand supported the book
for reading on a table.

Trick turned the
book over in his hands to admire the bookbinders’ artistry.

“Wow. I just read
about this book; this is a copy of The Voynich Manuscript.”

Trick turned
several pages that revealed strange writing and fantastical drawings in vibrant
colors.

He read from a
card enclosed with the book, “The Voynich Manuscript is often referred to as
the most mysterious book in the world. The author, language, and purpose of the
book is a mystery. Some claim the book is a repository of black magic, some say
a hoax, and some speculate it’s from a lost civilization.”

In the
excitement, Trick and Veronica forgot about their guest, the delivery man. He
tapped on the electronic pad to break the spell the book apparently held on
Trick.

“Yale sent you a
book?” He sighed. “All I ever get from college is bills – and donation requests
from the alumni association.”

Veronica took
what looked like a gift card from the package and read aloud. “This book is a one-time,
limited collectors printing in period inks on natural vellum. The giver has
asked to be anonymous.”

Trick looked up
from the pages and teased, “I’ve got a secret admirer, mother.”

“It’s no secret
they admire you a lot, no telling what this cost,” Veronica stole a peek at the
book. “I heard through my book club that Yale would produce a limited edition
for collectors of medieval manuscripts. This must be one of those.”

Trick sat back in
his chair and lost himself in the wonderfully odd illustrations on the heavy
leaves. The artwork and calligraphy were both stunning – and strange. Each page
he turned contained images more fanciful than the last, “How long did it take
to create a work like this?”

Veronica already
had her Kindle out searching for information. “Often it took a lifetime,” she
said, “One of the great mysteries of the book is that there are no mistakes in
calligraphy, no evidence that the author needed to erase a word or even a
letter. The only fault in the manuscripts is that some of the pages are lost.”

The delivery man
started down the porch steps, “Time is money, and this company knows everything
we do on the clock.”

Trick couldn’t
help himself. “I’ll let Erin know.”

“Much
appreciated,” the delivery man acknowledged with a wave and hustled to his van.

At about the same
time just down the street, Erin texted the number ‘32’ to a northern California
cell number.

Click on the FIRE TV STICK to help the author for FREE!

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TETRGRAMMATON: Cracking the Voynich Manuscript. Chapter 1: You Never Hear the Train That Kills You.

Chapter 1: You Never Hear the Train That Kills You.

Late December
1895.  Mid-morning, Shepherd’s Bush
district of West London.

The tea shop is a
warm bouquet of chamomile, cinnamon, and ginger. Above a glass case of assorted
scones, the proprietor hung a strand of electric Christmas lights, the latest
craze of the Royal Household who often promoted such things. Outside the calm
confines of the tea shop, the village was bustling with Christmas shoppers.

Sergey Stepniak
stirred a bit of cream in his tea as he marveled at the bourgeois trappings these
British peasants favored. “Americans are even worse,” he wrinkled up
his nose as if he had caught a whiff of the great unwashed that dominated this
part of London.

When no acquaintances
were available for deliberation, Sergey’s habit was to argue with the
newspaper. Today’s London Times reported that the American President,
Grover Cleveland, had his Christmas tree decorated with electric lights to
promote public safety.

“He probably owns
stock in an electric company, “Sergey sniffed.

The newspaper article
included an artist’s rendering of a weeping woman in front of a burning house.
The caption read, “Every year hundreds of homes burned to the ground because of
open-flamed candles on Christmas Trees.”

“Serves them
right for their pretensions and ignorance,” he said loud enough for the
next table to hear.

Sergey was once a
very handsome man, but time had not befriended his looks. He admired his
reflection in the teacup and mouthed the words, “Soon they would all burn.”
Sergey set about creasing his London Times back to its original folds to
return it to the paperboy. Now it was time to review his speech for the Friends
of Russian Freedom Soviet at the safe house in Shepherd’s Bush.

With the holiday bustle,
Sergey never heard the two well-dressed men walk into the tea shop. They came
to his table, glided into their chairs, and sat as emotionless as statues. Sergey
stole a glance over the rim of his glasses. He surmised that the men didn’t
belong with these English simpletons either. Maybe they were Italian or Spanish
from their complexion, expensive clothes, and cologne.  Did they object to his comments about the house
fire?  It was a free country, for now, he
mused.

No one at the
table acknowledged the other, so Sergey then went back to reviewing his speech.
The two men did not speak to each other and did not order tea. They just sat
there – watching. Sergey could feel the weight of his dagger pull at the pocket
in his coat, and it gave him strength.

After several
minutes passed, the shop’s proprietor bustled over to their table, “What
might I get you, gentleman?”

To which one man answered,
“Mezentoz.”

Startled by the
word, Sergey bolted from the table. The men did not restrain him, and he was on
the street in a flash. Glancing over his shoulder, he witnessed the men stroll
through the shop doorway. They weren’t running – not even hurrying. The one man
looking for all the world like a stage actor, took a moment to tip his hat a young
woman. “Cretins!” Sergey hissed.

Soon he realized
that the killers didn’t need to hurry. Twenty years ago, on the streets of
Moscow, he outpaced several policemen after driving his dagger into the throat
of General Nikola Mezentoz of the Russian secret police. Now the wintry air
burned his lungs and the cobblestone streets punished his flaccid body and jumbled
his brain as he fled.

Sergey ducked
into an alley as a train whistled in the distance. He glanced back to see the
two men still pursuing him as one brushed a snowflake off the shoulder of his
coat. The men locked onto Sergey, neither speaking nor acknowledging each other,
but smiling at him as hunters do with cornered prey. Reaching inside his
waistcoat, he fingered the same dagger he used to kill Mezentoz. He knew it
would be as useful as a butter knife against two professional assassins.

The snow began to
fall in heavy curtains that deadened sound as a heavy snowfall does. Off
somewhere in the blizzard, a train blew its whistle again. It was then Sergey
began to formulate a plan. If he could make it to the other side of the tracks,
the train would hold up his pursuers while he sought refuge with his comrades
at the nearby safe house.

Sucking in a deep
breath, Sergey charged from the alley to the railroad tracks. When the men
realized that Sergey planned to put the train between them, they broke into a
sprint. Turning around, Sergey knew he had little chance. He cried out in
frustrated agony as he stumbled between rails on the track ballast. He was
doomed!

Just when he had
given himself up for dead, his attention refocused to his front where he saw
salvation emerge from the sheets of falling snow. The Volkhovsky brothers and
several other people he was to meet at the safe house came out of the gloom
like a host of angels. His pursuers slowed to a walk before the defiant crowd.
Sergey stepped over the tracks as the freight train trundled by. His lungs
burned, and his senses fogged by the exertion and dampening snowfall, he fell
to his knees in exhaustion. But he was safe!

Struggling to
pull himself upright, he noticed the expressions of his friends had changed
from defiance to something like repulsion. Some people gesticulated wildly; others
covered their mouths. A few looked away. The Volkhovsky brothers ran at him
clinching their fists and pumping their arms like were they in a race. Wondering
if his pursuers had someone made it past the freight train, Sergey turned
around just as a passenger train coming the other way cut him in half.

TETRGRAMMATON, Chapter 1

Chapter 1: You Never Hear the Train That Kills You.

Late December
1895.  Mid-morning, Shepherd’s Bush
district of West London.

The tea shop is a
warm bouquet of chamomile, cinnamon, and ginger. Above a glass case of assorted
scones, the proprietor hung a strand of electric Christmas lights, the latest
craze of the Royal Household who often promoted such things. Outside the calm
confines of the tea shop, the village was bustling with Christmas shoppers.

Sergey Stepniak
stirred a bit of cream in his tea as he marveled at the bourgeois trappings these
British peasants favored. “Americans are even worse,” he wrinkled up
his nose as if he had caught a whiff of the great unwashed that dominated this
part of London.

When no acquaintances
were available for deliberation, Sergey’s habit was to argue with the
newspaper. Today’s London Times reported that the American President,
Grover Cleveland, had his Christmas tree decorated with electric lights to
promote public safety.

“He probably owns
stock in an electric company, “Sergey sniffed.

The newspaper article
included an artist’s rendering of a weeping woman in front of a burning house.
The caption read, “Every year hundreds of homes burned to the ground because of
open-flamed candles on Christmas Trees.”

“Serves them
right for their pretensions and ignorance,” he said loud enough for the
next table to hear.

Sergey was once a
very handsome man, but time had not befriended his looks. He admired his
reflection in the teacup and mouthed the words, “Soon they would all burn.”
Sergey set about creasing his London Times back to its original folds to
return it to the paperboy. Now it was time to review his speech for the Friends
of Russian Freedom Soviet at the safe house in Shepherd’s Bush.

With the holiday bustle,
Sergey never heard the two well-dressed men walk into the tea shop. They came
to his table, glided into their chairs, and sat as emotionless as statues. Sergey
stole a glance over the rim of his glasses. He surmised that the men didn’t
belong with these English simpletons either. Maybe they were Italian or Spanish
from their complexion, expensive clothes, and cologne.  Did they object to his comments about the house
fire?  It was a free country, for now, he
mused.

No one at the
table acknowledged the other, so Sergey then went back to reviewing his speech.
The two men did not speak to each other and did not order tea. They just sat
there – watching. Sergey could feel the weight of his dagger pull at the pocket
in his coat, and it gave him strength.

After several
minutes passed, the shop’s proprietor bustled over to their table, “What
might I get you, gentleman?”

To which one man answered,
“Mezentoz.”

Startled by the
word, Sergey bolted from the table. The men did not restrain him, and he was on
the street in a flash. Glancing over his shoulder, he witnessed the men stroll
through the shop doorway. They weren’t running – not even hurrying. The one man
looking for all the world like a stage actor, took a moment to tip his hat a young
woman. “Cretins!” Sergey hissed.

Soon he realized
that the killers didn’t need to hurry. Twenty years ago, on the streets of
Moscow, he outpaced several policemen after driving his dagger into the throat
of General Nikola Mezentoz of the Russian secret police. Now the wintry air
burned his lungs and the cobblestone streets punished his flaccid body and jumbled
his brain as he fled.

Sergey ducked
into an alley as a train whistled in the distance. He glanced back to see the
two men still pursuing him as one brushed a snowflake off the shoulder of his
coat. The men locked onto Sergey, neither speaking nor acknowledging each other,
but smiling at him as hunters do with cornered prey. Reaching inside his
waistcoat, he fingered the same dagger he used to kill Mezentoz. He knew it
would be as useful as a butter knife against two professional assassins.

The snow began to
fall in heavy curtains that deadened sound as a heavy snowfall does. Off
somewhere in the blizzard, a train blew its whistle again. It was then Sergey
began to formulate a plan. If he could make it to the other side of the tracks,
the train would hold up his pursuers while he sought refuge with his comrades
at the nearby safe house.

Sucking in a deep
breath, Sergey charged from the alley to the railroad tracks. When the men
realized that Sergey planned to put the train between them, they broke into a
sprint. Turning around, Sergey knew he had little chance. He cried out in
frustrated agony as he stumbled between rails on the track ballast. He was
doomed!

Just when he had
given himself up for dead, his attention refocused to his front where he saw
salvation emerge from the sheets of falling snow. The Volkhovsky brothers and
several other people he was to meet at the safe house came out of the gloom
like a host of angels. His pursuers slowed to a walk before the defiant crowd.
Sergey stepped over the tracks as the freight train trundled by. His lungs
burned, and his senses fogged by the exertion and dampening snowfall, he fell
to his knees in exhaustion. But he was safe!

Struggling to
pull himself upright, he noticed the expressions of his friends had changed
from defiance to something like repulsion. Some people gesticulated wildly; others
covered their mouths. A few looked away. The Volkhovsky brothers ran at him
clinching their fists and pumping their arms like were they in a race. Wondering
if his pursuers had someone made it past the freight train, Sergey turned
around just as a passenger train coming the other way cut him in half.

Southern Expressions for Stress

Southern Expressions for Stress

Getting a Southerner to show anger is simply a matter of breaking through the boundary of good manners to get to the zone where duels were once fought. All the same, newcomers are often surprised to learn that Southerners have a “live and let live” philosophy. There are limits, however. Here are the sayings you might hear as you get closer to the dueling zone.

1. About to have a dying duck fit!

2. Dills my pickle!

3. Don’t let your bulldog mouth overload your hummingbird butt.

4. Don’t pee down my back and tell me it’s raining!

5. Don’t rush on my account!

6. Fit to be tied!

7. Fly off the handle.

8. Go sit in the truck!

9. He’s got his tail up.

10. Madder than a puffed toad.

11. I could chew up nails and spit out a barbed wire fence.

12. I have three speeds: on, off, and don’t push your luck.

13. I was as mad as a three-legged dog trying to bury a turd on an icy pond.

14. I’ll kill you and swear you died.

15. I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll spit ’em out in single file.

16. I’m about to have a hissy fit.

17. I’m mad enough to drown puppies.

18. I’m so mad I could spit!

19. I’m going to jerk you bald! or I’m going to skin you alive!

20. Ill as a hornet!

21. I’m so mad I could just fall out of my pants.

22. If you don’t stop, I’ll tear your arm off and beat you to death with the bloody stump.

23. Mad as a box of frogs.

24. Mad as a mule chewing on bumblebees.

25. Madder than a boiled owl.

26. Madder than a Wampus Cat in a rainstorm.

27. Madder than a wet settin’ hen.

28. Madder than a pack of wild dogs on a three legged cat.

29. Madder than the snake that married the garden hose!

30. Makes my butt want to grind corn.

31. Madder than a wet panther.

32. Panties are in a wad.

33. She’s in a horn-tossing mood.

34. Stuck in my craw like hair on a biscuit.

35. You better give your heart to Jesus, because your butt is mine.

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How to know if your plan to lower morale is working.

Is your office quiet, dull, and emits a negative vibe? Congratulations!

How does a leader know they have destroyed morale? It’s tough to gauge from the executive area, finding out usually means interacting with the little people – and who has time for that?

Don’t despair. There are ways to find out if you’ve successfully destroyed morale without sullying yourself with employee contact. Here are ten signs your employees not only hate their jobs but most importantly, letting you know you are great at yours.

1. Showing up late. This is the easiest sign to look out for when determining if employees hate you. If you’ve noticed everyone crowding around the door right at the start time, coming in late, or taking long breaks, congratulations!

2. Your office resembles the twilight zone. A boss knows he’s created a toxic culture if laughter and conversation stops abruptly when he enters a room. Employees who aren’t afraid of you need to be reminded they should be.

3. They leave their dirty dishes in the pantry. You can be sure employees are no longer invested in their jobs when they leave the lunchroom in a mess. Some go so far as painting the bathroom stalls with poo.

4. They’re bad-mouthing you. Disengaged employees will rebel and get their colleagues to build a gap between the workforce and management. Clusters of two or more people talking need to be broken up.

5. Employees Avoid You like the Plague. They avoid running into you at all costs. Whether they find excuses to skip your meetings, duck into a doorway, or climb an electrified fence when they see you approaching.

6. Don’t Volunteer to Help. They don’t volunteer to help. Instead, they wait until you assign work.

7. Running Out the Door. They take the time to back into their parking space so they can leave quicker. They’re out the door at 5.

8. Confidence is Shaken. They are fidgety in your presence and their eyes are downcast. They are making more mistakes and don’t seem willing to tell you

9. Cursory Small Talk. The small talk is awkwardly small when you’ve got them cornered: weather, traffic, weather. Personal information is not volunteered.

10. Always Sick. They call in sick a lot. Employees seem indifferent to whether they will be running out of sick time, there may be a office pool for the most sick-days.

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How To Do A Thanksgiving Pay Forward

f you notice someone sitting alone, or you suspect someone might be far from home during the holidays, ask them to join you.

I’ve now spent most of my life outside of the South – Wall Street called when I graduated from Ole Miss and since then I’ve discovered it’s far easier to leave the South than get back. For all of my career, lunch was at my desk, except in London where it was drunk.

SideTrack- The food in London is truly awful. Ever time the English take me somewhere to prove it’s better, it’s not. My theory on how the English came to conquer the globe was that they were looking for a decent meal and willing to fight for it.

I knew all about lunch in the South, meat-and-threes being my favorite. Back at Ole Miss and around Lafayette County, there were a dozen places for a plate lunch. One favorite was the local farmer’s co-op, another was the counter at a country store, you couldn’t swing a dead cat for hitting a place. Since school, I’d been expatriated to parts where chicken-fried steak, fried okra, yeast rolls, and turnip greens were a mystery.
In 2018 I took a job with MSU in Starkville, not just for the plate lunches, also to hunt, tailgate and have a beer at Hobie’s. Which was a good thing, it seems like since I’d been gone the plate lunch places had need replaced by national chains.

Vowel’s was one grand exception. Here was a full-sized grocery store that served country-style breakfast and a plate lunch. Only problem? Dinner (lunch) is very popular, it isn’t fast food, and sometimes they run out of cobbler, so get there before 11:30. Yes, there will be a line.

Anyhow. I’m at Vowel’s my first week in Starkville. I’ve met everyone standing in line and the ladies behind the counter too. By the time I pick out chicken-fried steak and a double portion of peach cobbler, I’m grinning like a possum. I take my prize plate over to the dining area ready to eat on a bar stool by myself.

Before I can sit down, a table of older gentlemen looks to me and says, “Don’t sit on that high-chair, come join us.” Introductions all around.
Those people didn’t know me from Adam’s house-cat, they saw I was alone. I’ve lived in LA, Chicago, New York, Atlanta, Baltimore, and London. That kind of natural hospitality is Mississippi. Best lunch I ever had.

Now I look for opportunities to pay those gentlemen back. If you notice someone sitting alone, or you suspect someone might be far from home during the holidays, ask them to join you.

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The Ten Toxic Linkedin Buzzwords – and what to replace them with.

The Ten Toxic Linkedin and Resume Buzzwords You Need to Replace with Southern Sayings.  

Each year LinkedIn releases the top 10 overused buzzwords from member profiles. How do you let potential employers know that you’re the real deal without these words? I humbly propose a bit of Southern flair. Here the buzzwords to cut from your profile/ resume and the Southern alternative that will surely make you stand out.  

1. Motivated 

I say the bullfrog never makes a mistake when he starts singing.You’ll lose your grip if you put too much spit on your hands.I’m decided I would make it happen, even if it harelip-ed the governor.You can’t hurry-up good times by waiting for them.I’m as hungry as a tick on a turnip. I am balls to the walls all day long.I won’t let my shirt tail touch my back until it is it done

2. Passionate 

I don don’t sweat the petty things–I pet the sweaty things.If you can sleep with them, I can eat with them.What you don’t have in your head, you must have in your feet.I’d fight tigers in the dark with a switch for this company.Shit fire and save the matches – I’ll do it. Just do all you can do and let the rough end drag. It’s not what it’s worth; it’s what it’ll bring.

3. Creative

I found that a sharp ax is better than big muscleIf duct tape doesn’t fix it – then you’re not using enough duct tape.Tell me what you need and I’ll tell you how to get along without it.Words that soak best into ears are whispered.I can tell you how the cow ate the cabbage.Rooster one day, a feather duster the next.You can’t have chicken salad without the chicken shit.

4. Driven: 

I don’t worry about the mule going blind just load the wagon.I’m busier than a borrowed mule.I run like my feet are on fire and my butt was catching.I’m tail up and stinger out.Early don’t last long.Make haste – there ain’t no coming back.Slap some bacon on biscuit – we’re burning daylight

5. Extensive experience: 

A new broom sweeps clean, but an old one knows where the dirt is.Scared money don’t win.Turnip tops don’t tell you the size of the turnips.My experience is more than I can say grace overIf I tell you a hen dips snuff, you better look under her wing for the can.I’ve been doing this since Jesus was a boy.When I started in this business, the Dead Sea was just sick.

6. Responsible

Corn makes more at the mill than it does in the crib.If one lie with dogs, they get up with fleas.A mule doesn’t pull well with a mortgage on his back.The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket.I never sign anything by neon.There are no weevils in my wheat.I’m so honest you could shoot craps with me over the phone.

7. Strategic

If you have to eat two frogs, eat the big one first.Don’t name a pig you plan to eat. Early bird gets the worm but the second mouse gets the cheeseSave the pacing mare for Sunday.Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen.If you cut your own firewood, it’ll warm you twice.I am scared of nothing but spiders and dry counties.

8. Track record 

When my jobs are small and rewards seem few, I remember the mighty oak was once a not too. You know how I’ve done by looking at my barn, not my houseI’m keeping it between the ditches.I bought it for a song and you can sing it yourself.It takes money to ride the train and drink liquor.I never climb an oak tree for pecans.The woodpile doesn’t grow much on frosty nights.

9. Organizational

I’m the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.Throw it up to the wind and let the dust settle it.Two can live as cheaply as one if one don’t eat.I say, “Whip a horse with oats.”I will squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farts.Many good cotton stalks get chopped by associating with weeds.No matter what you do to a skunk, it still stinks.

10. Expert 

Handier than a shirt pocket.Live and learn, die and know it all.When I find myself in a hole, I quit digging.I have talked dogs off a meat truck.I won’t argue with idiots, they will just drag you down to their level and beat you with experience. I’m more useful than a prefabricated post hole.If I can’t race it or take it to bed, I don’t need it.

Don’t fall back on empty terminology: remember that an idiom is worth a thousand pictures. 

And when asked you if you’d consider relocation? 

“I prefer Heaven for the climate but Hell for the company.” 

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Signs Employees Do Not Feel Trusted

As a leader, how do you know if your employees feel mistrusted? Here are some signs to look for and how to crush trust.



Except from the upcoming book, “A Psychopaths Guide To Leadership“.

As a leader, how do you know if your employees feel mistrusted? Here are some signs to look for and how to crush trust.:

You do all the talking in meetings

When you meet with your team, do you spend most of the time talking at them, telling them what to do? What kind of interaction happens in the discussion? None? Will people openly disagree with you? No? Perfect!

When you ask for opinions, you hear crickets

When you ask others for feedback, what you want is reinforcement, not critique or lame suggestions. If feedback occurs, become defensive and explain why the person is wrong, misinformed, or just a dumb SOB. Do this in front of as many people as possible so that the rest of these losers learn that you aren’t interested in feedback – just in getting your rhubarb stroked.

Employees ask for permission when they don’t need it

If they aren’t asking permission for everything north of permission to breathe, let them knows who’s boss. For example:

Taking off work for doctor appointments? No, use WebMD.Child sick at school? No. The school has a nurse, that’s why you pay taxes.Dead mother? No. You can’t help her now, get back to work.

If your employees run and hide when they see you coming, treat it sign you’ve successfully molded them into people Jell-O.

You only hear good news

You will yell at them if it’s bad. This way nothing bad every happens. Easy – Peasy. 

Just in case there is a human in that psychopathic shell of yours, you do not want to know anything about your people. If you were a rancher, you wouldn’t name your cows, right? Leadership is like ranching. People, like cows, are commodities.

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The Legend of the Moonlight Game

A brilliant full moon lit up the no-man’s-land on the warm evening of June 18th 1864.  The war has gone from gallant adventure to wholesale slaughter and now men in both armies are just trying to survive until General Lee surrenders. 

On this cloudless evening, private Enoch Howe of the 100th Pennsylvania Volunteers struggles to stay awake. He had little to worry about on sentry duty. It was unlikely that with this full moon the enemy would attack, night fighting was rare in the 19th Century. Besides, the Union had three batteries of artillery that covered the clearing before him. This night the  moon shone like a lighthouse beacon, attacking tonight would be suicide. 

“I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment,” private Howe thought, “It’s not really sleeping.” 

He soon dreamt of hunting deer with his father. Once they had both fallen asleep against a tree. Enoch was awoken by trotting footsteps and opened his eyes to find himself staring into the face of an equally surprised whitetail deer. The noise had awoken his father too. But as soon as he cocked his rifle the deer took off and his shot went harmlessly into the brush. 

The next thing private Howe hears is: “Wake up, yank. You’re up.” 

Enoch opens his eyes to find a rebel officer, sword drawn. Behind him are a dozen armed soldiers.

“Up?” 

“Yep”, we’ve been practicing and now we aim to settle this war with baseball.”  The rebel winked to his men like he was sharing a joke, ”We’re challenging ya’ll to a moonlight game.”

“John Walker, 15th South Carolina,” announced the rebel as his saber sang back into it’s scabbard.

“Enoch Howe, 100th Pennsylvanian.”

“Pleased to meet you, Enoch Howe.” 

As he removed his hat, Enoch saw gold braid on his collar, “You’re an officer?” 

“Colonel, but not on the baseball diamond.” He gave Enoch another look and said, “Say, I’ve seen you coaching your players.  Would you be opposed to giving me some tips on the way to the field?”

“Sure, like what?”

“Well,” Colonel Walker sized him up, “You’re not a large fellow, how do you hit the ball as far as you do?”

Enoch laughed, “The secret is to hit the ball with your hips, not your arms. If you can get your body behind the ball it goes much further.”

“Hit the ball with your hips?”

“Yes, hitting a baseball far takes all your muscles working in concert, like an orchestra playing Mozart. You can’t hit the ball very far with only the reed section.”

As was common in the evening, the Union’s regimental band struck up ‘Home! Sweet Home’.  Enoch and the rebels stopped in their tracks to listen, charmed by the notes floating on the moonlight.

As the final stanza fades away, the soldiers unknowing whisper the last verse together, “There’s no place like home.” 

On this night as most,  the end of the Union’s song provoked the Confederate musicians into a battle of the bands. They countered with ‘The Battle hymn of the Republic’, to cheers from the Union trenches. Then the Union band reciprocated by playing ‘Dixie’ to more cheers.

“Ya ‘know,” Colonel Walker said as they continued their walk together, “Dixie is old Abe’s favorite song. 

Enoch said, “Confidentially,  I am fond of ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’.” 

Several of Walker’s  men murmured agreement, Colonel Walker smiled,” Did you play baseball before the war?”

Enoch looked up at the full moon, “It seems like another lifetime.” He dropped his gaze to met Walker’s, “Before I volunteered, I played for the Eckford Baseball Club, and taught school.” he added matter-of-factly, “People would pay money to watch us play.”

“People would pay you to watch baseball?” asked one of the confederate privates. 

“Nah. Not us, the man that owns the field. He’d charge us to play. Union Field,  it’s called.”

As they stepped into a moonlit clearing Walker said, “Well this probably isn’t as good as Union Field. But we’ll let you play for free.”

As Enoch and his new Confederate friends came up to a group of Union soldiers, a private who played for a Boston team was going over the ground rules and lording over everyone in his Brahmin accent – leading to snickers from the crowd.

“Foul ball (fa-ba) are the trenches. The fortifications (fort-ah-fa-cah-shuns) over there (they-ah) between Fort Sedman and the eleventh battery on the other side is the outfield fence.” Pointing to a group of felled trees lining a trench he continued, “Anything that goes into the abatis is a home run.  Pitching is underhand only because of darkness. We’ll play for nine innings. Colonel Walker, CSA is our host. Colonel?” 

“Thank you. Please know that fraternization is punishable by time in the stockade and occasionally by firing squad. If either band plays ‘Home! Sweet Home’ it is a signal to skedaddle back to your own lines. If Grant or Lee make a surprise inspection,  we could hardly expect them to approve.” 

Walker grins and the soldiers in blue and grey laugh together. The soldiers pat each other on the back, shake hands, and conspire to trade tobacco for coffee later that evening. Several of the Southern players trade pouches of chewing tobacco for finely machined wooden bats from Kentucky. 

Enoch yells out,  “Play ball!”, a new custom that heralds the beginning of a game. 

As the game progressed, each band would play either “Dixie” or “Battle Hymn of the Republic” when their team scored. After each team scored a dozen of so runs, the bands played other popular songs. The players heard: ‘Love Me Tender’, ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ and ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’. At around twenty runs, the musicians grew tired and stopped altogether. Games of the era often had 30 points or more, even with experienced ball players. 

Enoch was a gifted teacher and spent a great deal of time coaching players on both sides. Each time Colonel Walker came to the plate, Enoch would yell, “Hit it with your hips.” 

Walker would nod, spit on his hands, dig in, then swing right through the pitch – to the amusement of both teams who hooted and laughed. Using your entire body to hit the ball was much harder than it looked. On the next pitch he’d usually go back to his old method and use just his arms. So when Colonel Walker make contact,  the ball would barely dribble out of the infield. 

In the bottom of the ninth, and the Union team is up by one run. The Confederates have a man on second base, and Colonel Walker comes up to bat with two outs. 

From second base Enoch yells, “Use your hips!” and he demonstrates a thrusting movement much to the delight of both teams. 

Walker shakes his head and laughs along, “You sir, should have been a sailor.”

Colonel Walker lays into the first pitch with his usual, arms only swing.  The ball makes a flat sound off the bat and bloops just foul. With that he knows that he cannot hit the home run needed to win unless he uses his hips. 

“Move like an orchestra you say?”

“If you want the ball out of the infield!” Enoch said as he thrust his hips again.

On the next pitch, Walker uses his hips to swing through strike two – almost falling over.  The Union team hoots with laughter, but the Confederates don’t this time -they need Walker to hit the ball deep to win.  

On the next pitch, the runner on second takes off as the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, Walker digs in, throws his hips back, then just like the Atlanta Philharmonic, brings all his strength in concert from bat to the ball. The ball leaps off the bat with a CRRR_ACK and heads straight for the left field abatis of Fort Sedman. 

At that the Union bench stands and cheer their battle cry ‘hurrah!’ as the entire Union team runs to left field for the ball like the undisciplined novices they are.

On hearing the crack of Walker’s bat and the Union’s cheer, the Confederates instinctively raise their rebel yell battle-cry. 

The veterans who had been at the receiving end of the rebel yell during four years of bloody battle are startled as if struck by lightning. Even though these men had become brothers during the game, the rebel yell has the effect of a corkscrew twisting down their spine. For a moment, Enoch too forgot he was in a game and ran with a surge of adrenaline to the outfield. 

Alarmed by the battle cries, Union Gun Battery #12 shoots a Coston Flare to determine  where their lines are being attacked. In the flare’s flickering light they see a company of Union soldiers running to their lines being chased by a company of Confederate soldiers – so they open up with their cannons. Seeing the flare, both Union and Confederate bands rush to play the warning song, ‘Home! Sweet Home’, but as soon as Battery #12 fires, several other Union and Confederate batteries open-up on the baseball field. As shells rain in, they catch the baseball players in a crossfire. After a few minutes, the giant Union rail mortars add to the slaughter. Within a half hour the field is a liquefied soup of bone, flesh, and mud. 

The next morning, a dozen soldiers from both sides miss roll-call. At this stage in the war, desertion is rampant, and so they list the baseball players as AWOL. The connection between the apparent attack and the missing soldiers is not made by either side. A Union burial party sent to the field the next day did not find any bodies to bury; just bits of cloth, leather and sticks of wood. Since the battleground’s trees had long since been cut for firewood, the burial party collected the splintered wood for their campfires.  

Today, many Civil War battlefields of Virginia are buried under strip malls, office campuses and subdivisions. The field at Fort Sedman has miraculously survived and the players are still there as well. On warm moonlit nights, residents of nearby Early Court apartments often hear the strands of  “Home! Sweet Home’ , between the crack of a bat and laugher.  

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5 Warning Signs You’re Working For a Psychopath

Psychopaths rarely come across as horrible people–at least not at first.

While Hollywood’s portrayal of psychopaths as serial killers can be accurate, not all psychopaths commit horrendous crimes. In fact, many of them are successful business leaders.

About 1% of the general population meets the criteria for a psychopath, yet 3% of business leaders may be psychopaths, according to a 2010 study published in Behavioral Sciences & the Law. By comparison, about 15% of the U.S. prison population are considered psychopaths.

There’s a good chance you’ve encountered a psychopath in the business world without realizing it. Whether you’re dealing with glib salesperson or a ruthless CEO, here are five signs you’re dealing with a psychopath:

1. They’re excessively charming.

Psychopaths rarely come across as horrible people–at least not at first. Instead, they’re usually well-liked. They’re great at making small talk and they always seem to know just the right thing to say.

They’re known for their quick wit and alluring stories.  Their tales about their adventures are astounding, yet believable. And they always portray themselves in a positive light.

They use flattery and compliments to gain trust. And other people usually walk away from their conversations with a psychopath feeling positive.

2. They lack empathy.

Psychopaths don’t care about other people, including their families. When they hurt someone else, they don’t experience any distress. They feel numb toward other people’s pain.

So they may say and do things that are quite damaging to others without batting an eyelash. If someone dares approach them to discuss their wounds, a psychopath isn’t likely to accept any responsibility, which can make their reactions especially toxic.

3. They prey on other people’s emotions.

Psychopaths understand other people’s emotions on an intellectual level, and they use that understanding to their advantage. They use guilt trips and flattery to manipulate others into doing things they wouldn’t normally do.

They also try to gain sympathy from others. They claim to be victims in an attempt to dupe others into helping them or caring for them.

4. They don’t have a conscience.

Psychopaths lie, cheat, and steal without a second thought. When confronted about their behavior, they offer a long list of excuses. They deny any wrongdoing and blame other people, often saying someone deserved the poor treatment.

Psychopaths don’t care who they have to hurt to get ahead. They’re willing to do whatever it takes to meet their objectives and they won’t feel bad about the damage their behavior causes other people.

5. They have a grandiose sense of self.

Much like narcissists, psychopaths think the usual rules don’t apply to them. This is what leads many psychopaths to commit crimes or break rules without the fear of getting caught. They think they’re smarter than everyone else and they assume they can get away with whatever they want.

They have an inflated sense of self-importance and they truly believe they’re better and more deserving than the rest of the world. They put a lot of thought into what they will achieve with a lot less thought about how they will achieve it.

Dealing With A Psychopath

Psychopaths view themselves, other people, and the world differently. Their logic and emotions are extremely flawed, which is why their behavior is erratic.

Facing a psychopath for the first time is akin to being at the beach when the water recedes far from the normal waterline. Your first impulse is to run in to explore all the ground that exposed itself. It’s inviting you to explore! But it’s a trap. Only if you have seen the ‘tell’ of a tsunami would you know that you are in grave danger. If you’re on the beach, you cannot run fast enough to escape. 

Although you can’t talk a psychopath into changing, you can be mindful of your interactions to reduce the impact their toxic behavior has on you. Recognizing you’re dealing with a psychopath can help you understand what you’re up against.

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