The old man peered cautiously around the corner of the tattered tent. Wisps of smoke were only now beginning to disperse. The scattered flames had died down to an occasional flicker. Across the camp site he saw a cluster of bodies that had only hours ago been laughing while enjoying the almost sensual pleasures of the wine and cigars brought to them as gifts from the quaint local peasants. "Quaint!" he thought to himself with more than a bit of bitterness mixed with ironic relief. These "quaint" peasants had rolled through more than 20 of the czars best and most experienced military specialists as if they were asleep. The remaining diplomats and aides had fled through the jungles and plains like terrified animals. Probably dead or captured by now, he thought to himself. What would the czar say? What would the Congress of Proletariats do when they learned the truth of the betrayal? They had paid him good money for the anticipated success of this search. Further, his distinguished family name was to have been linked to this discovery and would have restored his own lofty status to his ancestors' once nearly royal position. And more importantly (and this he feared more than anything else) what would Teddy do to him?

He was the main reason for him being there. Ever since San Juan Hill, that damned photo of him with that ridiculous cigar in his mouth had inspired and inflamed the young nation, had even set Teddy up as a larger than life hero! As a result, Mr. Roosevelt wanted and demanded only the best of cigars. The Cuban varieties were not good enough. Oh, no, he had to have only the most rare, unusual and even powerful cigars. Those that came from the remote, distant, dusty and hidden jungles of this god-forsaken place that didn't even have a name. The only way that these cigars were even discovered was by the random wanderings of the Jesuit missionaries who some 100 years ago happened upon a group of remote villages in the high mountains of Central America. They had succeeded in converting the locals. Their patron saint was Saint Managua, the protector of the simple peasants, and the inspiration for the creation of that exquisite cigar. The missionaries had shared the pleasures with their flock, had been given a "large" supply of the precious cigars, and eventually distributed some of them to their supporters and, more importantly, and perhaps unwisely, with His Eminence, the Pope, who promptly blabbed his big mouth to every dignitary that sought an audience with him about the silky smoothness and rich, dulcet flavors to be enjoyed from the Managuans, as they came to be called. But eventually, the "large" supply dwindled down to nothing. The lavish gatherings and the habit of freely sharing the cigars with distinguished guests had exhausted all of the peasants' gifts. Although those who had been blessed with the good fortune to have sampled the cigars had tried to determine the source, the secret of the location had apparently vanished with the Jesuits, who allegedly had gone to Mexico to try and convert a coven of Mexican bandito whores. Within a month of their confirmation of having arrived in Mexico, they had simply disappeared! Now look where he was!!!

He gathered up what few supplies were salvageable, and spent what he thought was way too much time looking for the small metal box that he had meticulously hidden the night before. He gently opened the box and gazed at its contents. "They're right," he said out loud, "Smoking can kill you". He closed the box, stuffed it into the ratty pack he had salvaged with the rest of his meager supplies, and headed off to the secret rendezvous point they had arranged with Mr. Roosevelt's chief of staff. Smug because he had outwitted the peasants, and also because he had survived, he whistled the tune Yankee Doodle Dandy to himself as he left the debris-strewn clearing. He loved that song. "Yes sir, they sure won't stop short of giving me just about anything I demand" he thought to himself." I may even run for president! Just imagine…President Wally J. Raleigh, IV!" Yep, he loved that song.
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The economy had been good. Very good. Those distant nightmares of the "dot.com" industries crashing into a snickering earth and the wildly fluctuating petroleum prices seemed like an eternity ago. In fact, there were only too many surveys, polls and other official sources that continued to remind us that personal discretionary spending and consumption had reached unbelievable new highs. In some sectors of the world, the percentage of luxury costs as compared to the old standard of minimum living expenses had exceeded 75%. People were looking, sometimes almost desperately, for a new or unique status toy; something to set them apart from their pathetic neighbors (who were equally disdainful of them). Damn the cost! In fact, it had nearly become necessary for the cost to be exorbitant - beyond reasonable - to the point of thievery.
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The Cuban emissary gazed with a feeling of contentment at the fading sunset out the huge windows of his 10th floor office suite in downtown Havana. He had been at it since early this morning. Still they came, even at this hour. At the sound of a timid knock on his open office door, he waved them into his office. Ever since the American embargo on their products had been lifted, his once lackadaisical job had exploded with more time demands and more influential people clamoring for his time. Although Fidel had died only a few short years earlier, he could still see the shrewd old fart's grin when he explained how they were going to become a world power, not from oil, but from tobacco. And he had been right on target! The coincidental collision of timing of the tremendous rise in the world's economy with the opening of Cuba's doors had been nothing short of a gift from God. The demand for the once-forbidden Cuban cigar had driven both wholesale and retail prices to levels that only a few years earlier had been considered fantasy. The coffers of the country were bursting. The country as a whole had benefited from this event, but the upper politicals had become virtually numb with their new wealth; wealth that had come from the graft and coercion that had always been inherent within the Cuban government.

"We hope we haven't come at a bad time," stammered the foppish clerk, "but we felt that we should advise you at the earliest opportunity of our decision". The emissary looked at the short, thin man with a curious expression. "What decision?" he demanded. He appeared, and was, very impatient. Shaken, the clerk peered over his shoulder at his boss, standing behind him, seeking some guidance. The assistant ambassador had never had to front for a private interest before, let alone a fortune 500 company. He had not been given any direction as to how to handle this situation, and had not been advised of the potential for escalation. Without giving thought to the consequences, including the future of his own career, he blurted out, "We are no longer interested in purchasing cigars from your country!" Standing a little straighter, he grabbed the clerk's hand and quickly left the office. The emissary sat staring at the spot recently vacated by the clerk and his boss. That was the fourth one today. What the hell was going on?
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In a small shop on the corner of Estrada de Smoky and Seventh Street, Havana, Cuba, the 3 darkly clothed gentlemen huddled together to discuss the last of their plans. As the most skilled and experienced of the "rollers", those who are entrusted with the duty and talent for creating the famous Cuban cigars for decades, they were well known and easily recognized. Each of them worked for a competing company, and the sight of all three of them setting together, let alone talking and sharing secrets, would set the industry on its collective ears and cause an international furor. Secrecy was mandatory.

"If they find out what we're really doing, the Bay of Pigs will look like a Cinco de Mayo parade" said Javier, (not his real name). "We'll never be able to set foot in this country again!" The others nodded. Their previous discussions had been loud, especially since the three had long been very active in the patriotic movements and activities of their beloved Cuba. But the financial carrots that had been dangled in front of their faces were more than even the most corrupt and jaded pseudo-communist could bear. "Why would we even want to come back here if we are successful?" responded Jorge, the youngest of the group at age 59. "We'll be able to buy our own island country, and stock it with Latin versions of Anna Nicole Smith!" Obviously, Jorge liked them plump and stupid. The others laughed. "I guess we had better get to the airport," sighed Rex. "I've been told it's a long drive from Mexico City to this San Managua place, and we still don't know yet who this ancient Jesuit has-been is ,or even looks like! With all the action and focus on that little insignificant spot of jungle, everyone is going to be very cautious about disclosing anything even close to the truth. I see a long and tough journey ahead." Without any further words, all three left the shop at different times and in different directions. Their next meeting would be at a poorly described spot at a bridge over Rio San Managua. As Javier left the shop, he quietly whistled a tune to himself. He loved Jimmy Cagney every bit as much as his late father had.
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General Coconut surveyed his troops. At best, they were a motley crue, but he relished in his knowledge of their barbaric brutality when they got down to the business at hand. He had no doubts about their ability to seek out and destroy the communities and their inhabitants. He only hoped that they would not get too absorbed in their blood lust and turn on him and his staff. He also hoped he could keep them from destroying that which they came for. He fidgeted with the copy of the telegraph that he had received from the Big Government. His instructions had been very precise. The equipment that had been promised was there. The helicopters were a bit antiquated, but they were serviceable, and the pilots seemed capable. "Old Jobar won't know what hit him," he chuckled. As he said this under his breath, he glanced over to his unwelcome aide. He had not wanted an outsider with him, but the Big Government had insisted. In fact, they insisted to the tune of another 10 million! Well, if old Wally J. Raliegh VI can keep up, that's OK. Besides, I've been told he knows the terrain as well as anyone.
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Jobar sat with a dark foreboding in his heart. For centuries his family, the families of his friends and neighbors, and their families, and their families before them, had kept the secret - of their tobacco and their unique method of making and rolling the cigars as taught to them by Saint Managua - from the rest of the world. The elders of the closely-knit communities had accurately foreseen the consequences of any public disclosure of what they had. "Damn those Jesuits!" He cursed to himself, and then quickly recited 10 Hail Marys and 3 Novenas to ward off any retribution the Lord might be meting out today. Now it was his duty to soon do the same as his grandfather had done to the Russian delegation over a hundred years ago. Only this time, the tools of the trade would not be bows and arrows, picks, axes and knives as it had been then. Thanks to the internet, Jobar and his cohorts had been acquiring the latest in modern armaments. It was always strange to see the brown UPS truck pulling up in front of his little grass shack. Fortunately, he and the driver had become good friends, and Jobar had even trusted him with the secrets of their valley. The driver had promised to keep the secret, and had further promised to help all he could if it became necessary.

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The stage is set! Two loose but well equipped forces are set to meet in the once fertile and tranquil valleys and hills of San Managua. Their goals are focused on the same prize, but with vastly different motivation. Who is the driving force behind General Coconut? Why is Jobar so intent on the coming confrontation? Who are these rollers, and what do they want? Why does Jorge like Anna Nicole Smith? Are the Jesuits still cohabiting with the Mexican bandito whores? And what's so damned special about San Managua cigars anyway? Hell, even the game promoters don't know the answers to all these questions. I'm making some of it up even as I'm writing this!! And it's late and I'm tired!

So come on out to Waterford, The Paintball Zone, on August 9th, and we'll find out together whether all of this is worth it.

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