Chapter 1: Wasted Days And Wasted Nights
Chapter 2: The Road to Riches
Chapter 3: Busted But I’m Not Broke
Chapter 4: Best Laid Plans
Chapter 5: What Are Buddies For?
Chapter 6: It Takes a Thief to Catch a Thief
Chapter 7: Until Death Do We Part
Chapter 8: All Things Old are New Again
Chapter 9: Lost Is Found
Chapter 10: No Honor Among Thieves
Power and revenge are like two hits from the same gun, creating for some of us an aphrodisiac effect. When Robert L. Jackman and Spencer Joseph first met during their European train travels, surely neither suspected then their lives would soon be altered forever. Spiders often use great strategy as they weave their web to entrap unsuspecting victims. These two were in kinship with the most devious, calculating, deadly kind of insect; the kind that prey on clueless victims and free-bleed them until they are nothing but empty shells baking in their own tomb’s.
As the two passengers entered the Eurotunnel, they were embarking on a journey that would take them to the cornerstone of world history. As the chain of events unfolded, who knew then that when their life journey came to an abrupt halt, that nations would tumble and lives would hang in the balance.
Realizing the fine line between myth and mystery is often interwoven with fact, happenstance, and damned blind luck, Robert made deliberate attempts to keep his own memory alive and his own heart beating as he revealed the songs and writings jotted down in the, Journals of Robert L. Jackman, a name you will soon learn possessed an edge all its own.
He reasoned, even as a young man, that traditions may linger as he walked though the oracles of time. In later years he thought his mind may one day blur, should he survive to an old age, but as he spread ink on paper, transmitted and shared with those who came after him his experiences, his own great adventures, he believed perhaps they, like he, would give way to pause to reflect on how goddamned hard it always was to open his eyes to begin a new day.
Some may judge him coarse around the edges, but women liked his sandy sense of humor, and the middle ground he drifted between rough-cut good looks. He often looked like he was in need of an occasional barber, his blue-eyed smile got attention, and his all out dapper manner of style and good taste for Kentucky Straight Bourbon made him elite within his class. By his own admission, he liked the strong, true flavor and aroma coming from a vintage Cuban Cigar, which often tangled from the corner of his mouth. If his smile didn’t capture your attention, then the gleam in those, icy blue eyes bouncing off the glow of firelight would, to these attributes, he certainly stood unchallenged. Yet, the poison housed in his brain resurfaced again and again, revealing uncertain death to those unlucky enough to get caught up in his spell and pulled into his viperous pit of his charm.
Trusting that an openhanded reader may hail with delight by slapping his or her knee with an occasional and hardy sonofabitch, let’s press on, ever determined to vent his life to you as he lived it.
He has and had a dry sense of humor. He once said I make no apologies for 99.9% of my behavior, but do with all humility, humbleness and modesty seek the forgiveness of the 1% I may or may not have offended, staying ever meek as a monk and avoiding all pretense of arrogance and pride. To these latter, I do apologize.
And so it is. We dedicate these pages to all lovers of mayhem, stupidity, guts, glory, ambitious scholars who forge ahead of the pack and dare anyone to call them by any name other than pure genius, or to those able-bodied men and women who are ever in need of only the true electrical-eel feel of fire in their bellies simply because they, like you, knew they could, would, should accomplish...inner drive to succeed is often mightier than the commonsense wisdom to fail...most accomplishments don’t mean a thing without a sting.
