James Elliott McCall

James Elliott McCall is the name on a birth certificate, It doesn't match the name on the passport into which it is folded. He grew up in Jim Crow East Texas during the 1950s. By the mid 1960s he was one of the very few teenage rebels roaming Southern California who despised the flower children and counted police officers as close friends. At his pre-induction physical 55 years ago, he requested an infantry assignment to Vietnam. The government determined his politics made him far more valuable working undercover, compiling information on the enemies of his idol Richard Nixon. He spent 35 years working for Federal Government Alphabet Agencies, the military, and in law enforcement primarily as a shadowy contractor without a home, His primary efforts were involved in events that never happened for men who never existed. In the insanity of three years following 911, the definitive aspects of the United States crumbled. Nobody was who they said they were, or worse knew who they were. A final contract found him in Roswell New Mexico for six months, living in former officer's housing at Walker Air Force Base. Circumstances culminated in a suicide mission south of the border an endeavor he just couldn't quite get right over the next twenty years, but somewhere in there he became a University Professor, instructing student teachers in history and English literature, and developing a close association with his PTSD. The stories he couldn't tell, the unbelievable events he had participated in and witnessed, refused to remain contained. Over the past ten years he has published, edited, and republished tales of both intrigue and magic which really happened, just not necessarily to him, as fiction. These events which never occurred were born in a real world, filled with people, places, and events too fantastic to be reality, yet often so real as to be found on Google without effort. He pretty much hates everything which has occurred after the political assassination of Nixon, particularly abhorring computers, cell phones, and social media. Other than this singular forum, he has zero internet presence. To him, PC means probable cause, progressive is a jackpot, and woke is a joke. AI, he has no doubt, is the personification of evil, and the cure for modern generations is pouring Pepsi on their mother boards. As he puts it, he isn't old school: he built the old school. He lives on the Bay of Campeche deep in the Mexican tropics with his 4th wife who speaks no English. They raise freshwater sharks and fantails and share their contentment with two Chihuahuas and two mixed Chihuahua-Dachshunds, all four vicious assassins. The assassins speak English, Spanish and German. He can't remember the last time he wore long pants. long sleeves, shoes, or got a haircut. He looks at Hemingway, and Thompson as the epitome of story tellers and cares not a whit his style does not compare to them, giving the tale itself more credence than the telling. He has a few more tales to tell while patiently awaiting Armageddon. His favorite quote is from Jack Nicholson: "You're never really free until you just don't give a fuck" He is nothing if not free.