"The point is," I said to my wise confidante, "people accept as truth things that are fabrications or at the very least can't be proven," and I went on to give my wise confidante the example of how Tangier Island supposedly got its name.

The story goes that when John Smith discovered the uninhabited island we now assume is Tangier but may in fact be Limbo, he was vividly reminded of a town called Tangier on the south side of the Strait of Gibraltar, in North Africa. He was thus inspired to name the new island in the New World Tangier Island, which seems an apocryphal tale to me.

"Tangier Island bears no resemblance to Tangier,

North Africa," I explained to my wise confidante, "and it makes me wonder if Smith was engaging in a little backward talk, assuming he ever uttered a word about any place called Tangier."

" 'Ye spy the isle there?' " I said he might have asked while he was exploring in his barge." 'It is most pleasant and does cause me to think of Tangier,' " I said he might have added with noticeable inflection and facial expression because he meant quite the opposite and was making a joke.

There are other theories that Tangier Island was named after Tangier, Morocco, based on information that some British soldiers stationed in Tangier set sail for America with their Moorish wives and settled on an island in the Chesapeake Bay some people believe was Tangier when the English military withdrew its garrison from the Moroccan city in 1684. However, years later, people who called themselves "Moors" and lived in Sussex County, Virginia, denied that their Moorish ancestors had any connection to Tangier Island.

Who knows what is true? In fact, no one seems quite certain when Tangier was first inhabited, but there are accounts of patents of land being granted as early as 1670, and a much-disputed Tangier tradition has it that in 1686, John Crockett settled on a rise and raised livestock, potatoes, turnips, pears and figs, and eight sons. The island began to flourish and gained the attention of warring factions during the American Revolution, when the British demanded supplies from Tangier, and the rest of Virginia responded by blockading the island and passing along severe threats from Virginia Governor Thomas Jefferson.

Meanwhile, pirates seized whatever they wanted and burned down the house of an Islander named George Pruitt as they cruised about, terrorizing a people who were too few and unarmed to defend themselves. As if that wasn't bad enough, a boy named Joe Parks II was snatched by the British, conscripted and carried away, and all Tangier youth were forced into hiding. The Islanders had little choice but to decide it was better to openly trade with the enemy than to have their crops, property, and loved ones seized, and they began selling commodities to the British, to other Americans and pirates, and simply flew whatever flag was appropriate, depending on who was in the area. This survival technique has endured down through the centuries, and to me explains why the Tangier people of today suffer tourists on the island and ply them with crab cakes, trinkets, T-shirts, taxi service on the golf carts, and misinformation.

Dear readers, I'm asking you to interact with me by helping enforce the Golden Rule. Please! If any of you have suffered any suspicious or bad dental work performed by one Dr. Sherman Faux of Reedville, e-mail me as soon as possible. And if anyone happens to know the whereabouts of a female Boston terrier named Popeye, please let me know immediately! Like the dentist, the innocent dog has been spirited away and is possibly being held hostage somewhere. Unlike the dentist, Popeye has never hurt or taken advantage of anyone and doesn't deserve what has happened to her. If you have information about these crimes or any others-especially the recent vile murder of Trish Thrash-please get in touch.

Be careful out there!

Nine

Major Trader was hunched over his keyboard like a turkey buzzard when Trooper Truth's latest essay went up on the website at exactly three minutes past seven this Wednesday morning.

"What sort of nonsense is this?" Trader exclaimed out loud to no one but himself. "Naughty, naughty, Trooper Truth. We'll see about you mucking up the Commonwealth's revered history and asking the public to snitch for you!"

Trader bit into a jelly doughnut and wiped his thick fingers on his flannel pajamas as his wife stirred about in the kitchen, clanging cookware, rummaging and rooting through a cluttered cabinet for the frying pan.

"Do you have to make so much racket?" Trader yelled from his office on the other side of the spec house he and his wife would soon sell for a handsome profit.

Trader was very clever with his investments and had become a wealthy man over recent years. His modus operandi was simple. He would buy a lot in an exclusive neighborhood that did not allow spec houses. He would build a house, live in it for one year, then sell it, claiming that his position with the governor necessitated privacy and security, both of which were somehow violated, forcing him to move yet again. Although the neighbors had his scam figured out, no one could prove that he was really building a spec house, even though each of the ten homes he had sold so far were identical and rather generic. Pointed letters from the neighborhood association had been ineffective and completely ignored, and Trader's pattern had become an addiction.

He loved moving. Perhaps it provided the only drama in his otherwise artificial, mendacious life. Several months out of every year Trader ordered his wife about, supervising her packing and cracking the whip over his contractor's spinning head, goading him into escalating the building schedule, all the while yelling "Hurry up! Hurry up! We've got to move in two weeks and the new house had better be ready! Don't you screw with me!"

"But we haven't even put the wiring in yet," the contractor had pleaded with Trader just last week.

"How long can that possibly take?" Trader fired back.

"And you haven't picked out paints yet."

"Just use the same damn eggshell white you've used on the other ten houses, you fool!" Trader yelled over the phone. "And the same off-white Burbur carpet, you idiot! And the same brass Williamsburgy light fixtures, you ninny! And the same pulls and door knobs from Home Depot, you meathead!"

It was vital that Trader play a sovereign role when he was in his own castle. The rest of the time, he was a toady for the governor and no one could possibly understand how hard that was on a man's ego unless he had experienced it firsthand. Do this, do that. Use a different word.

Rewrite that paragraph. Oh, I changed my mind. Let's tell the press this instead. Where's my magnifying glass? Leave my office now! I'm not feeling well.

At least Trader's demanding and unrewarding career had taught him the value of manipulation, revenge, and profiteering. Thanks to the Internet, it wouldn't be long before he would be a self-made millionaire if his latest investment scheme was successful.

"Major? You haven't told me which you'd like for breakfast. Sausage or bacon? Raisin toast or muffins? Grits with or without cheese?" his wife yelled from the kitchen as cookware clanged.

"What are you doing in there? Practicing percussion for the goddamn symphony?" Trader yelled back. "I want it all."

Thank goodness their kids were off in boarding school and college and Trader didn't have to listen to their noisy nonstop feet and grating voices. His wife was disruptive enough, and sound certainly carried in their new house just like it had in the other ten. Trader was getting close to fifty, and if all went according to plan, he could retire soon and focus on cyber crimes. Trader frowned, deep in thought, as he read the latest Trooper Truth essay again and then composed a provocative anonymous e-mail.