- CHAPTER 1: Chief Bigfoot - © 2.15.2007

When a five-alarm fire at the Indian Casino Resort at Lightning Springs made headlines that summer, the news spiraled into strange directions never before witnessed by America or the world. No one expected this kind of collateral damage to occur in California, especially at a high-tech gaming resort like Lightning Springs.  The biggest shock to everyone, including the Governor, was that the fire completely leveled the top floor of this luxurious casino resort right before hundreds of VIP guests were arriving to stay for the Democratic National Convention.  The arson investigation was just under way and all media attention was focused on the chaos at the casino

Chief Bigfoot, the leader of the Wannabe Tribe of the Harapaho Indians, sat back in his oversized leather chair.  The chair was oddly designed to maximize his comfort and egregiously inflate the ego of the person sitting there. It had a built-in back massager decorated with a spread of peacock wings and a petrified eagle’s head overlooking the chairman’s own monumental head.  Chief Bigfoot was the only one that was ever allowed to sit here, except for the beautiful girls he liked to be seen with. He looked up at the artwork on the ceiling, a plush evergreen forest next to a mountain range next to a desert mesa surrounding a flock of falcons doing a double-barrel roll towards a giant circular oasis in the sky.  The mural on the ceiling always helped him remember his role and goals in life, no matter how drunk or intoxicated he might be. The newspaper on his desk was open to the casino bombing headline.

“Fire Destroys Top Floor of Luxury Casino… No Lives Lost!”

The headlines in the paper that morning were a bit of a shock to the generally unemotional chief.  The Lightning Springs Casino was something of a local landmark. Having been built in 2004 in anticipation of a new poker craze that would hit the world by storm with careful global media participation, the casino was designed to keep players staying there for almost ever.  Every floor had its own little casino, spa, night club and swimming pool, with the largest casino of them all being on the ground floor, open to the general public.  The casino was built by the Native Americans of California, the Baja Caliente tribe who had other holdings near Palm Springs and Palm Desert.  They were one of the few tribes who had made their move early on the casino craze, fuelled by a host of movies and endless broadcasts about the mystique of Las Vegas on cable TV.  The tide was turning on this exclusive business that sold dreams and chances, for a price, mixed with the pain killers of bright lights, beautiful girls, music, and even a rehabilitation center next to the wedding chapel.  The best part of this casino was that every drink came with a stick of gum with the colorful casino label prominently on them.  They were sweet and sour souvenirs for any guest leaving on a happy note, and a painful reminder of the most expensive piece of gum ever chewed, by the majority of people leaving their experiences in penniless confusion of debt.  This was the magic of all casinos.  No matter how much people lost, they would come back to get even, as long as their memory could convince them of fair chances at hitting the jackpot.  Only this casino, just like Bigfoot’s crown jewel in California, never left anything to chance.

“Looks like the competition is catching heat,” Chief Bigfoot blurted.

The only other person in this room was Mitch Tenkiller, the Chief’s only trusted associate within his entire real estate network.  Bigfoot let Mitch in on some of his biggest secrets and boldest plans.  Mitch knew that Bigfoot wanted to be one of the first land owners on the moon, to have a real estate network extending into space, so he was closely in contact with the Russians and Chinese regarding space ventures over the past two years.

“Chief.  I was over at that place last week.  It looked dead to me.”

“Dead on arrival.  Nobody was killed though, so it must have been a professional racket,” concluded the Chief.

A telephone ring in the sound of an Indian chant was heard over the speakers.

“Chief Bigfoot,” his secretary Angie was on the other line. “There are gentlemen here to see you from the…excuse me?  The National Security Agency they say.”

Bigfoot’s eyes glanced up at the door and back to Tenkiller, who looked surprisingly calm for an unexpected announcement.

“Welcome to the doughnut shop,” Tenkiller said into the microphone.

“Let the honorable guests in,” chimed Bigfoot, giving Tenkiller a nervous frown.

Two gentlemen and two women, all impeccably dressed, entered the room like they knew the place inside out.  Bigfoot’s secretary closed the door after asking the guests if they would like some coffee or orange juice.  All four declined simultaneously.

Continued...