Several months ago a man walked into my office holding a tattered manuscript. His clothes were dirty and worn, not like a hobo, more like a soldier returning from battle. His face showed his weariness blended with a muted shade of fear, as if the battle he had run from were pursuing him. He told me he had a story that needed to be told. I told him that I didn't accept unsolicited manuscripts. He tossed it on my desk, saying, "Then throw it away. I'm done with all of it. It's in your hands now. You hold the truth. If you genuinely believe in freedom, you'll know what to do."
After laying this burden of guilt on me, he turned and walked out of my office without another word. No address for royalty checks. No name other than that on the manuscript. Nothing. It was the strangest meeting of my publishing career. Of my life. I picked up the disheveled pile of paper looking at the title page.
"Prisoner of War," I laughed sarcastically to myself, "sounds like a bestseller." As if that were what my life was all about. As if that were my only goal. But I wasn't going to let this bum extort my emotions into publishing garbage. I threw the manuscript into my 'unimportant: to be read when I get a chance' pile. The one most people call the trash.
I went back to the serious work of publishing books that people would buy. Still, I couldn't shake this bum from my head. Every moment that I wasn't concentrating on the job at hand, he crept back into my thoughts. I couldn't figure out what it was about him. Something haunted me. The manuscript practically glowed in the midst of that pile of junk. But I would not be extorted into publishing junk.
About a week later, when I had finally managed to force the wandering veteran from my thoughts, two men walked into my office. Their navy-blue suits and shiny black shoes screamed of federal agents, though they refused to introduce themselves other than to say they were 'friends' who wanted to help me. They wanted to alleviate my guilt. They wanted to take that tattered, old manuscript off my hands. I explained to them that I had thrown it away. They tore my office apart, looking everywhere but the place I told them to look. They left my office with a warning about publishing subversive material.
My office looked like a grenade had been unleashed. The only part untouched was my junk pile. I retrieved the part of the pile called P.O.W. and stuffed it into my briefcase. As I locked my office door, I noticed a large black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street. I began to fear the manuscript I held. I actually thought about walking across the street and handing it to them, of washing my hands of this debacle. As I had this thought, I stared through the glass at the disaster my office had become. No one was going to extort me into NOT publishing garbage.
I went home, locked my door, sat in my favorite chair and began to read Prisoner of War. Two days later I returned to the world a different person. Suddenly the name Freedom Press had new meaning. Suddenly there was urgency in my career. Suddenly I had a mission.
I have done very little editing to this book. The only glaring evidence of my work is the addition of copyright footnotes for the many song lyrics the author used. This book has made such a lasting impact on me, I felt inadequate to make any major rewrites. I left this book as the author intended it.
I don't know how much of the book is true or how much is fiction. But the shiny black shoes that crossed my threshold and destroyed my office sure were concerned about what Ezra Martin might have written. I hope to meet him again. I'd like to thank him for the truth.
Perhaps this book will change your life too. At the very least, you will find this an entertaining story. And maybe, in the back of your mind, in the deepest corner of your subconscious, a seed of rebellion will be planted. I know that would please Ezra Martin... wherever he is.
You have courage picking up this book after seeing Satan's 'handprint' on the cover - the archfiend! Or is that why you picked it up? Curiosity? It's not too late to put it back before someone sees what you're holding - before someone thinks you're one of us - the dispossessed - the disenfranchised - the enemy! We are the soldiers on the other side of the 'War on Drugs'.
Most of the 'drugs' that began this 20th century wave of moral hysteria are plants - nothing more. Plants are amoral - they are neither good nor evil. They are nondenominational. They are merely another life form. Shall we destroy them in retaliation of our own ignorance? ... our own inability to deal with their affect on us? Have we become such children that we need a parental government to control our desires? Or are we so paranoid as to insist that they control our neighbor's desires? The legislative control of these plants is a glaring symbol of how little freedom we have left as Americans. Our nation has been taken over by right-wing moralists - the 'moral majority'.
This is a work of fiction with all the associated disclaimers. But it was my life. Like most lives, it was more interesting in retrospect than reality. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it ... looking back. If you have any doubts as to the cost of this 'War', this is the story of one victim. You probably know one yourself - or are one. I hope this novel tests your belief system. We all must decide how involved we want the government to be in our personal lives.
