The sun from the East made the ocean look like a pool of diamonds. 'I'll have to put that into my next poem, Maharaji thought, it could something like' 'That love shines brighter than a million diamonds on the ocean of that experience.' Well, on second thought, maybe not. He had been trying in vain for years to get something to rhyme with 'experience.' But maybe something like that would work, maybe even as lyrics for a song on that CD Visions is producing. He was laying in bed facing the ocean through the glass wall of his bedroom. He pushed a button on the bedstand, and the glass wall disappeared into the floor. The air smelled fresh and light. As the temperature dropped slightly, the fireplace automatically ignited to keep the temperature an even 74 degrees, the temperature he always preferred.

Maharaji tottered into the bathroom to take his shower. He pressed '1' on the computerized pad and the water automatically arrived at the exact temperature he liked. The gold fixtures and imported Persian tile glistened as the water hit them. The fireplace in the bathroom was also blazing, causing a rose-colored glow in the room. He walked into the shower and pushed another button. The TV built into the shower displayed the news on CNN. 'More stuff about Monica Lewinsky,' he thought. 'I am so bored shitless this, Fuck, I wish they'd hurry up and get to the stock market report.'

After the shower Maharaji felt refreshed. He dried off with thick pure-white towels which had been warmed on a special computerized towel rack, and he put on his cashmere and sable bathrobe and matching sable-lined slippers. In the hallway outside, Patrick was waiting with a gold try on which was placed a glass of orange juice, freshly ground coffee (with one tablespoon of cream) and a small snifter of cognac. 'Bring this into the computer room,' he said, lifting the cognac and passing it under his nose. He took a few sips. Yes, that wonderful warm feeling from cognac always make him relax. He walked across the hall into a room filled with electronic equipment and monitors, which were built into the walls and into gold-trimmed mahogany cabinets. Sitting in an Ergon chair in front of one of many computers, he pressed a button and automatically went on line.

He wanted to see the glowing praise and gratitude for him from the e premies on enjoyinglife.org. That always cheered him up. He also wanted to check the e-mails to his website, which had been on-line for almost two weeks. That website is a piece of art, and he was responsible for it. And it even had graphs and statistics. Who dared say he wasn't responsive with information to the world?

He took a sip of coffee, then a little more cognac. 'More appreciative and grateful premies have written lives and expressions on enjoyinglife' and more have praised the beauty of him and his website in e-mails. There were always a couple of negative e-mail to his website, which he found easy to ignore. Those comments were always so complicated, and talked about things that happened 20 years ago. 'These people were nothing but whiners who caused all their own problems,' he thought, they lost their understanding and look what happens.'

But he wondered why there weren't more 'gratitude posts' from the premies? Clearly more premies know about these sites, and yet so few have expressed their gratitude to him. I mean only a few hundred total, and weren't there 8,000 at Long Beach in 1997? 'They are such confused idiots, he thought, I deserve a medal just putting up with the little ingrates!' He slammed the coffee cup down on the saucer which Patrick had strategically placed to Maharaji's right. Patrick moved quickly to wipe up two small splatters of coffee that landed on the table and floor.

Maharaji hesitated. He pulled down the bookmarks index. Should he look? Dare he look? Should he entertain such mind? What the hell. He clicked on 'ex-premie.org.' For some reason he wanted to see what they were saying about him and his website. No doubt they would comment. The ex-premie site had been Maharaji's nemesis for almost two years now. 'Everyone said they would get tired of it and give up, he thought, 'but now I see it's really growing.' They say it's not, but I can tell it is. Once again they are wrong. They were wrong about those question and answer sessions, wrong about the press conference, wrong about the pie-throwing incident, wrong about those ashram meetings, wrong about the 707, and wrong about Mata Ji. Wrong, wrong. Why should he think this would be any different?

Was this going to be the major opposition to his work that he always knew would come? Would it really come from people who used to be premies? He had wanted to shut the ex-premie site down legally, but the lawyers said there wasn't anything he could do. Shit. 'I could fire those lawyers, that's what I could do.' He shook in anger at the idea of discussion going on about him and knowledge when he couldn't control it. But what can I do? He felt so helpless, so impotent, so unlike what the master should feel like. But maybe there was something he could do.

'Patrick, tell the head of security I want to meet with him right away, and tell him he is to tell no one he is meeting with me. Understand.' 'Yes, Master,' Patrick replied and scurried to summon the premie who was referred to as 'SCFMAEVINA,' the Security Coordinator For Maharaji And Elan Vital In North America.

Maharaji stood up from the computer steaming. He could feel his blood pressure rising and his stomach acids churn. Ever since that ulcer in the early 70s his stomach had never been the same. The doctor was always on his case to lose weight and change his diet and cut down on the booze. But who had time for that? He was glad he had fired that doctor. Who did he think he was? He was some premie-quack-initiator doctor who had his license revoked. 'Who needs him. Fuck him,' he thought.

As he stepped into the hallway, he saw Annie Wilson scurrying down the hall lugging a load of laundry. He picked up the phone. 'Kathy, I thought I told you that the laundry people are supposed to use southwest door only and never come into the main part of the house. I just saw that bitch Wilson with her big ass in the north hallway. I knew I'd rue the day I agreed to let her come here.' 'Yes, Maharaji, I'll talk to her right away. So sorry for any problems this caused.' Okay, he thought, but maybe Wilson wouldn't live all that long anyway, and she did live in a trailer miles from the residence. Maybe she wouldn't be around much. He certainly hoped so; he wasn't about to support her in her old age if she couldn't do the laundry anymore. Jeez, what is this, a retirement home? I have important work to do, but no one seems to understand.'

He thought about his meeting with SCFMAEVINA, aka, Mike Von Karman. He had always been the most ruthless security premie, and that's exactly the kind of premie he'd need for what he had in mind. Can we do this? Maybe. After all, Mike was on record as wanting to slit the throat of Pat Halley after the Detroit pie incident had he been there. And Mike was insistent that it would be on the spot, right then and there. Mind you, Haley deserved it, that, and 10,000 lifetimes of living in dog shit for what he did to the perfect master, but it wasn't appropriate at the time with Millennium coming up and all. Fakiranand was bad enough with that hammer incident. Maharaji happily reflected again about how if they hadn't gotten Fakiranand out of the country it would have been a real mess. Had the authorities or, god forbid, the Press gotten a hold of Fakiranand it would have been a total fiasco with Fakiranand spilling his guts and spilling the beans about the Living Lord of the Universe in his fanatical style. Up until the "pie incident" Maharaji enjoyed dallying in the spotlight that the press and talkshow hosts shone on him.

He went back to his cavernous bedroom and proceeded into his closet, which was nearly again as large as the bedroom. He pushed a button marked 'navy blue' on a console and hundreds of color-coded suits began moving on a large circular conveyance, stopping when a group of about 20 navy blue suits were in front of him. He picked a suit and proceeded to dress. He rang for Patrick, who, as his valet, always assisted Maharaji in dressing. Patrick presented underwear which had been lovingly brushed by premie sisters doing service at the residence, a white silk shirt. Maharaji dropped his robe and proceeded to put on his underwear. Maharaji was always a big embarrassed by his extremely small member, but Patrick had seen it all, and who cared anyway, certainly not all those blonde women he had been with. They didn't seem to mind. He chuckled quietly thinking about Veronica and the others.

Then Maharaji sat while Patrick lovingly placed silk socks and soft leather shoes on Maharaji's feet. Patrick was in heaven and Maharaji loved that angelic look on his face. It was worth it having Patrick around just for that look.

The meeting with Goldstein went well, although Goldstein never did come out and say what his plan would be. Still, Maharaji had full faith and trust in Goldstein and his little band of thugs and goons. They had always done a good job in the Dirty Deeds department and came through with the goods to put the kabash on nosey little busy bodies.

With the meeting adjourned, Maharaji had lunch served to him on the balcony, a grilled Monterey jack cheese sandwich with sliced ham, a large plate of cottage fries smoothered in hollandaise sauce and ketchup, and a couple of cold ones. With security on the job shutting down the pesky ex-premie website Maharaji felt that he had done enough for one day and it was time for his reward.

What should it be? A little sightseeing in the helicopter to look for some poolside movie star nudity and frolicking. Michael Eisner's estate was usually good, but he had done too many overflights and Eisner was starting to make complaints through the Hollywood grapevine. The Playboy mansion used to be hot, but ever since Hef's stroke it had gone a bit too gay for Maharaji's tastes. Young hunky boys poolside working free weights and machines.

"I should use that exercise room," thought Maharaji as he pulled deeply on his Marlboro.

If only the MIG was ready, Maharaji thought. Twenty million for that toy and he couldn't fly it yet. Maharaji had worked so hard to get certified, but the damn Soviet-made surplus fighter jet was hung up by import - export controls. And it looked like Maharaji would have to base it in Mauritias, but that would cost a lot of money to hire a Soviet trained ground crew with oversite by premies. Maybe some Cubans in Miami know about this stuff, he thought. He didn't feel that comfortable with the idea of doing Mach 2 in something that premies had worked on even if the seat harness was gold plated.

Maybe a new Armani. He wasn't too pleased with the last one and rather complain and have it altered he would just have it moved to the Treasure Room with all the cheap Seiko watches that premies kept sending him and all the other junk.

Yes, Rodeo Drive, it was. But, damn, the last time he was down there that goddamn smiling Aryan bastard Arnold Schwarzenegger was there with his bitchy little wife, who just happened to be taller than Maharaji by a mere smidgen of an inch, in their Humvee and they had upstaged Maharaji.

But, Maharaji knew how to play that game and he knew how to win no matter what the cost. And, damn that Schwarzenegger, too. Thirty million per plus fucking points. If Arnold only knew how much work a darshan line was and the bottomline take was only a skimpy two hundred grand. Then again, it was tax free. Bet old Arnold can't do that even with his damn Planet Asinine. And it was running in the red and being re-orged, a happy thought to Maharaji.

To show Arnold that he knew how to play the game, Maharaji bought a real Humvee, a PeaceKeeper with armor conversion, full 7.62 ballistic protection, bullet-resistant glass, lightweight composite opaque armor, puncture proof tires, blast protection floor, fuel tank protection, and that new barely legal anti-carjacking under carriage flame thrower kit from South Africa that Maharaji smuggled into the country on the Gulfstream.

The gaudy fully chromed vehicle with mirrored windows was made to intentionally look like the Arnold's nemesis, the nearly indestructible molten terminator T-1000 android, of the Terminator 2 movie fame.

"Yeah," said Maharaji, "I'll be back."

"What's that, Maharaji?" asked Patrick.

"Shut up, Patrick," said Maharaj, "I'm driving today!"

"But, Maharaji you haven't been through the training. I have. You haven't even read the manual."

"No buts, Patrick. You think I can't drive this thing? Who the hell are you, anyway?" retorted Maharaji, "Just shut the hell up. Read the fucking manual to me while I'm driving."

"RTFM, Patrick!" Maharaji smiled smugly as he chuckled at his own joke. No matter that he didn't get the respect he deserved from the Hollywood crowd Maharaji knew that he was no rube. He wasn't just another rich foreigner that had looted some third world country and had come to America to putter aimlessly lost down the highways and byways in their black Benzs, clogging the roads with their inability to drive and talk on their cell phone at the same time. Hell, Maharaji knew who he was. And he was better than them. He didn't mind not being invited to Madonna and Sean's wedding, but the snub from Barbra was too much.

(Editors Note: check this out Babs Driveway)

Maharaji slipped on his Versaces knowing that the light of day always hurt his eyes as he sat his plump butt onto the heated leather seat of the PeaceKeeper. Patrick dutifully closed the door with just the right amount of force - not too much and not too little. Maharaji was very picky about that. Maharaji was also pleased to see that Ricardo had seen to it that the garage crew had done a good job cleaning the interior after his not so secret liaison with Veronica the other night. Sex is sweet, but can get a little messy. And great sex should always have a some blood, sweat, and tears. No stained blue dress for this Malibu celeb. Now, if only Steve Jobs would make a gold plated keyboard that was water resistant! Sticky fingers and sticky keys, ugh!

The engine roared to life with the deep guttural sound of raw testosterone power that Maharaji was so dearly fond of. The PeaceKeeper rumbled with kidney shaking power. Yes! Feel the power, feel the power. Oh, yeah! Maharaji felt that power now and the thought of Veronica had him ever so agitated just the way he liked to be. Being Lord doesn't mean one is not a real man.

Maharaji stomped on the gas just as Patrick crossed in front of the PeaceKeeper sending Patrick, sheet white, reeling in a stark, sick sweet terror. Maharaji knew that it was a turn on to Patrick because dying under the Lotus wheels of the Lord was one happy way out of the slave bondage that Patrick had endured for the last twenty five years. Patrick was so deep into this thing that there was no other way out. Maharaji smiled again and wondered how stupid Patrick must be.

"Stupid little monkey, gets him every time," muttered Maharaji, "One day, Patrick, one day. Just you wait! Knock you right into your next lifetime and if you're really lucky maybe five beyond that."

Patrick slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt. Maharaji thought what a waste. Doesn't he know?

"You know what to do now, don't you?" ordered Maharaji.

"Yes, Maharaji. I know." replied Patrick.

Patrick pulled the cell phone from it's cradle and pressed a speed dial number. He held the phone to his ear as the PeaceKeeper slipped out of the it's berth in the eighteen car garage and onto the service road and up towards the guard house and the gate. The gate rolled open across the driveway and Maharaji piloted the PeaceKeeper out into no man's land.

For small scale commando excursions into no man's land Maharaji and Patrick would travel alone and in disguise. The disguise would usually consist of paste on moustaches or beards and a Raiders cap and jacket. Larger operations could involve escort vehicles and decoys. One strategy in executive/celebrity security is to have your bodyguard(s) or doubles look as much like the celeb as possible for the purpose of confusing the whacked out, gun-toting, stalking obsessed fanatic. Doubles are replaceable, but the show must go on with El Presidente.

Rodeo Drive always fell into the moustache category and Maharaji didn't have his on quite right, but Patrick knew better than to say anything about it.

"Hello, Antonio," Patrick said into the cell phone, "This is Patrick."

"Patrick, have security put in some road spikes," roared Maharaji, "Been too many bongos driving up here." Maharaji noticed flower bouquets and white envelopes sitting by the sides of the road.

"And get security to clean this fucking mess up and make sure nobody pockets any of my money. Don't want to piss off any of my neighbors, you know?", Maharaji said with a tone of sarcasm and disdain.

"Yes, Maharaji," said Patrick as he abruptly interrupted his conversation on the phone.

"Antonio, we're on our way," said Patrick into the phone, "Yes, about forty five minutes, ok?"

Maharaji clicked on the remote to change the CD of Kabir to a CD of songs he was working on and cranked up the volume. The deep bass from the overpowered subwoofer coupled with the effect of the perfectly airtight sealed gas and biological agent impervious PeaceKeeper hit the eardrums like a one hundred foot scuba dive. Maharaji was hungover from the morning's cognac and the afternoon beers. His new composition with thumping bass Gangsta Rap undertones matched his foul mood.

With Maharaji singing it was a hard listen. The lyrics were stolen, but at least they were stolen from the Pixies.

Here Comes Your Man (done in Gangsta Rap)

outside there's a box car waiting
outside the family stew
out by the fire breathing
outside we wait 'til face turns blue
i know the nervous walking
i know the dirty beard hangs
out by the box car waiting
take me away to nowhere plains
there is a wait so long
here comes your man

big shake on the box car moving
big shake to the land that's falling down
is a wind makes a palm stop blowing
a big, big stone fall and break my crown
there is a wait so long
you'll never wait so long
here comes your man
there is a wait so long
you'll never wait so long
here comes your man

Here comes your man
Here comes your man
Here comes your man
Here comes your man
Here comes your man

big shake to the land that's falling down
is a wind makes a palm stop blowing
a big, big stone fall and break my crown