As many of you are aware the initial orders for my latest book " Paint is Thicker than the Bloods - How I Saved Inter City Lives Through my Art - by Ray Rum " put the publisher and printer in a tremendous bind with unprecedented first day orders that are on back order.
As such , I will now give an additional preview of "Chapter Six as a token of goodwill to the  many millions of you waiting on the book printing.

Please enjoy Chapter Six   ( you can find Chapter five "The Meeting" on the book preview tab on rayrumart.com )

Chapter SIx  "The Raw Conflict in Unit  #11"

Art is a funny thing. Throughout my life and the many spheres of my temporary habitation of jungles, deserts,embassies, ships, the inner sanctums of high society dames - I've always reflected upon and have been guided by the truth that I know to be art. Sometimes, as now, my musings concerning my passion nearly cost me my life. Fortunately, this time, my musings concerning my enthusiasm for and my life's work quickly waned like the guy's libido in the The Crying Game. I quickly was able to recognize that the largest man in the room was making a move towards the shinny Smith and Wesson in the corner.  My years of service as a mercenary in Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, West Central Africa and places beyond had prepared me for just such a moment.

Unflinchingly, Iooked into the man's soul and loudly proclaimed, " I am from the Mayor's Office of the City of Chicago and I am here to help." As he hesitated, Lydia Marie convulsed and her knees buckled. I caught her before she could fall on the white linoleum floor and damage her Vercase inspired pill box hat with a bright yellow daisy floral arrangement. Next to the handgun on the fromica table I noticed an open bottle of wine. My keen visual acuity and my years earlier experience as a sommelier for the Sultans throughout the Persian Gulf region, allowed me to quickly recognize that I was beholding no ordinary bottle of wine.
They were , in fact , in the process of sharing a bottle of a very rare red from the Somme River Valley region of France bearing a label identifying it as from the private Rothschild collection. I quickly understood why they were so well armed and so jumpy.

I proceeded to assuage their fears,"Look, " I said , "As far as I am concerned, no one outside this room ever needs to know about the Rothschild. I'm not here on a wine bust . I am here about art. In order to prove my bona fides, when you finish the Rothschild's, I have  here an excellent '86 Pinot from the Van de Kamp collection that I would love to share with the group." With that , the tension in the room dissipated like a crack whore after a five day binge. Again, Sergeant Lafette's advice to carry both a carrot ( fine wine) and a stick (Glock 9mm w/banded double clip and silencer), had paid off.

One of the men helped me get Lydia Marie situated on the large, baroque chase lounge nestled in the far corner of the room .We proceeded post-haste to savor the wine and discuss my proposition. By the end of the evening , we had consumed another bottle of fine wine which I had retrieved from the mini cellar in the back of my Smart Car, and some pretty fair sushi from Hector's Rib's Chicken and Dead Raw Fish stand off west North Avenue. My enthusiasm for the salvation that is post modern art was infectious. I had successfully recruited 4 additional disciples to spread the word through the inter city of Chicago.

Unfortunately , Lydia Marie did not make it. At the time , we had not realized that she had slipped into anaphylactic shock from an unknown allergy to the unique tannins contained in the Rothschild's. Even with my years of medical training and battlefield surgical experience, I had neither expected nor recognized her sudden drop in blood pressure and subsequent respiratory failure.

Se La Vi, Lydia Marie. As Sergeant Lafette used to say to help us buck up after battles and  the often gruesome deaths of comrades in arms - " Men, you have got to expect a few losses in any major operation as dangerous as we routinely engage. Seeing death should make you feel more alive , so savior this moment and your good fortune for tomorrow or very probably even later today it may be you!"

And so it was for Lydia Marie. Her death ,though unfortunate, was one that any artist worth his salt could readily appreciate- she was wearing Vercace and she had a belly full of the finest wine to be found in the region. She will not be forgotten as we continue our march forward towards the redemption to be found in "Post Modern Art for a Modern World".

The end ( of chapter six)

Yours in Post Modern Living,

Ray Rum