The Mandela Play #1

Getting in deep, fast and bigly.

This is part 1 of a series readable as Novel Excerpt. The book tries to create a total new angle on the action thriller, where the whole ‘righteous lone wolf hero who kills for the right reasons’ is left behind for something more real and hopeful..without losing the action, the tension and heroes to believe in..or not.

In “The Mandela Play” an American boy, Willem Hollant, gets imprisoned with a deadly secret, which ties him to an international conspiracy. To escape and set things right he must use extraordinary measures. How can Willem overcome injustice, Deep State, International Crime and several American delusions as a single boy in prison?

Prologue

I am there when my grandfather gets shot. One moment he walks forward amidst twirling October leaves, surrounded by people on the side walks following his progress in the middle of the avenue in Washington DC. It’s a bright day and only the bright yellow of the leaves scream Autumn. I see my grandfather walking proudly, but with tension in his face, as he approaches the blockade. Then I bump into a little girl with a red coat, her father giving me a harsh look, and me jumping to apologizing mode. A sharp pop makes everyone look up. The next moment I see my grandfather falling backwards in his white robes, a red star suddenly blooming on his chest, pigeons flying upwards, people screaming and a policeman shouting angrily to the people, while aiming his gun again. And I do exactly what he wanted me to do. My whole system wants to scream, cry, attack the shooter and most of all kneel and hug my grandfather in despair, aid him, save him. I do none of those. I keep my cool. I take the pictures as he lays backwards with the large ugly red flower on his chest getting bigger. I feel almost guilty for a sense of relieve that I am not the only one. The shooter seems to be stricken by the result. He screams over the top of his lungs, yet looses out to the public’s indignation. His collegeas move to restrain him from doing further damage. With fumbling fingers I put my phone back in my pocket. The clicks of the photographers around me are like desperate music, beating like a heart in panic. Then I run and kneel next to my grandfather and cry on him as he lays sprawled on a street in DC. I am desperately seeking ways to stop the bleeding and finding out if he is still alive. The pictures are being been taken. This should do it. This should be the beginning of the finale.

We’ll come back here, to this place of hurt and victory. Yes, victory. But at that moment I can only cry my heart out. Another body whose hand I hold. Another loss.

Chapter I: Getting in deep, fast and bigly.

SO IT BEGINS

It starts with an end. All stories do. One phase is over, something new begins. It can be simple stuff as end of childhood, or leaving home with a treasure map in the hand. It can also be more nasty. Detectives begin that way often. Sadly for me, something like that too. There were two deaths. The first happened far away in a country called South Africa. I learned about that one much later, but it set everything in motion and led to the second death, right here in Philly. And I got framed for that second murder; framed by the FBI. It fact it was one agent, who framed me. Douglas Jackson. And that was his way of helping me. Gets to show how crazy the world has gotten. Totally crazy. For me that false arrest was a new beginning. A total new beginning. :) Hello. Lets begin.

My name is Willem, yes, you got that right, not William. It’s Dutch. In daily use it’s Will, so it hardly matters. My grandfather Willem was a Dutch farmer who fled his stifling Calvinist culture for the freedom of the USA. He moved to Vermont and became a social activist. My father called me Willem after him, the last time they ever agreed. When the internet bubble burst in 2001 and my father lost his job and house we moved to Philly and he found new friends. People who loaned my father money to start over, as software developer and bookkeeper. Later they expected him returning the favor. It turned out, he loved the more luxurious lifestyle this ‘family’ offered. Thus we, and therefore I became, kind of, part of that family. Me as a runner first. Then later, well you know, mhm. Let’s skip that for now. Let’s just say, I got me a brand new uncle and he got me a simple job, that required little time and paid well enough.

My new beginnings start while I’m sitting here in a private prison, that earns big bucks on me helping fabricate Starbucks cups. It looks like I’ll be here for the next 24 years, that is, if I do get an early release. Last week my grandfather visited. First time we spoke in years. He had been gone all grey and rimpled. Time hadn’t been kind. But his eyes shine, like that of his friend James Cromwell, the actor. He shows me a little book through the glass. Weird choice. When I try to wave it away, he signs with his index finger to his brain and looks very smug. I wave back, like, “Well let’s see. You hiding something in there?” He smiles and shakes his head. He ruffles the pages. It’s pure book. It gets cleared after several days and having been x-rayed and sniffed at by dogs. The officer who done it, looks about five times from me to the book; like he’s not getting what he’s seeing. I walk with the book back to my cell. Wardens laugh when they catch the title. A few inmates see it too. One shouts, “What you need to read that for? You ain’t black enough.” As I watch their reactions I smile more and more. My grandfather is a cunning bastard. This book has power. Only one guy, a bespectacled Morgan Freeman type, gives me a thumbs up. Figures, he’s a political prisoner, even though no official story will ever explain it that way.

Back in my cell I show it to my cell mate. He is one Kevin Rivera, an illegal immigrant caught for pot possession. His ridiculous first American name hasn’t helped him become an American citizen. He is doing unknown time. He’s still waiting for a trial, one that will put him across the border right back to Mexico, a country he has never seen. But for now he is welcome as very cheap labor within the prison system. There’s actually dozens like him. We all know it’s modern slavery, but don’t say that aloud when guards are near. Kevin looks at the book and laughs. I nod to him, like I get the joke. I hop onto my bunk and I open the book. “So it begins,” I hear in an ominous ‘Lord of the Rings’ voice in my head. But the book doesn’t offer violent fantasy battles. It starts with a man, who became famous in the same place as where I currently am, in a prison.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

I look down on the cooling body of David Royce, having been brought down just a few minutes before. I held his hand when he died. I liked him. That was also because he’d once been a friend of my father apparently. I can only hope no one will hear of that connection. David’s warm smiling face looks kind of silly now, with his mouth hanging half open and blood seeping in an almost vampiric way from it. I drop the gun that killed him, the barrel safely pointing towards the door, so it won’t hit me in case it goes off, even knowing full well there’s no bullets in the gun. It just clatters to the floor. I then pick up the case full of cash. I smile at agent Jackson. He waves me towards the door with his own gun. Jackson is one of those nail hard father figures that can’t be bought. I guess Jackson over fifty, but his lean figure looks more early forties by the shape he’s in. Jackson. A man always out to do the right thing I guess, even when he has to cross some lines to make it work. He crosses the line for me, but let me admit, I flinch when I walk toward the door. He might shoot me in the back after all. He doesn’t. I walk out into the rain. Behind me I hear him starting to make a call. I’ll be arrested soon anyway and will be put away. But at the least, it won’t be me, sentenced as a conspirator in league with David Royce. Now I will be the hero who didn’t come forward because of a crime I committed; botched robbery. I’ll try to enjoy it as long as I can.

The headlines will say: “Motel robbery gone wrong kills terrorist.” Man, that message left out the real terrorist. The numero uno of global terrorism. And for now I am very happy that nobody knows I know his name, except Jackson of course; my asshole savior.

THREE DAYS BEFORE THE DEATH OF DAVID ROYCE

The first time I see David’s face is on the news. The TV rumbles on about a right winged terrorist. They even show his face. That’s rare. Mostly these guys get ignored until after they’ve killed a lot of people. For a white guy this one sure loves to tan. At the same time, he seems educated to me, like this was more of an agent than anything else. For half a second I imagine him to be a disgruntled FBI agent; he has the looks. Mentally I just shrug at this terrorist; nothing to do with me. All those people getting exited over this, are like fragile babies. I once read chance of getting hit by lightning is way way bigger.

I look at my father. He sleeps backward in his chair with a paper over his face. A headline blurts out the Pentagon is getting more money again. The safety of our country never seems to have a limit to its needs. I throw the remote at my father. It dents the paper and starts sliding down. He crumples the paper away and snarls. I smile, “Hey dad, I’m off. Just letting you know.” He throws his hand in the air and starts looking for the remote, which slipped from the paper onto the ground, when he notices the news. From the corner of my eye I notice him freezing at the sight of the terrorist; as if the news would suddenly interest him. His hair standing up in greasy spikes, his sweatpants and his crumpled shirt signals he’s not going anywhere today. I leave and let the fly screen fall shut behind me. Outside I descend from our porch onto our kingsize lawn that surrounds our house and cross over the grass to my car. It’s the only lawn in the neighborhood that has no rusty objects on it. All houses look like they were painted last end of the nineties. Only our house doesn’t look rotting down. Behind me my dad slams the window in anger, but I ignore his protest. He gets a middle finger as I descend into my car. To me that’s a good way to get riled up for my work. It gives me an edge.

I spend the day on the road in a rusted pickup. I always get a different car from a second hand place. From there I bring small packages to several people, who happen to turn up in strange places next to my car. Twice they pass on with fingers crossed. Trusting the signal, I don’t push to deliver and just drive on; making it look me slowing down is me seeking the right direction. We all know how to play the routines. What I can’t deliver I bring back. That doesn’t upset them. It only irritates Josh, for now he’ll have to drive later, but safety first. I may be mostly white, carrying these amounts of weed can get me just as arrested. It would have been a routine day, if I hadn’t found my father at home in a agitated manner and Africa was mentioned first.

It looks like he wants to talk to me, but I slip past him to my room. He waves frustrated as my mother pulls him into the kitchen to help prepare dinner. Upstairs I log in to Rainbow 6. Slacker-0012 and Huskyboy13 help me win some rounds. As always Winni3Pin3 gets herself taken out too often. Not much help from her. Since we know her looks, and because of her husky outcries spiced with hilarious curses, we don’t mind. I stay playing until my mother calls for dinner, and my father repeats it 5 minutes later more loud and clear, like in my ears in my room. I break off angrily and follow him down in a sulking way. Tomorrow Slacker’s gonna demand explanations for me dropping out middle of a round.

At dinner my father suddenly speaks about Africa. He’s been there several times, before he lost his job and we moved here. I always assumed he’d been on safari or something. The way he starts is weird. He points to me with his fork, and grumbles, “You need to know more about the world, boy.” I lift my shoulders. “There’s plays goin’ on that will influence us, more than you know. And we need to be prepared; or we’re gonna be played.” “Like grandfather played you?” I ask. “His political games almost got me killed in Africa. He made me think it would be a free holiday for a small errand. He hadn’t warned me enough what kind of trouble was going on there.” I look at my mother. This was shortly before they created me. She throws her black hair over her eyes and stays out of the conversation. “So how was Africa anyway?” I ask. My father looks at my mother who starts picking up plates. No help there. He rolls his eyes. “I am not talking about Africa!” he demands. “You sure seem to do,” I rebound. “Look, there’s games going on and I want to warn you about getting sucked in,” he continues. “Dad! You and I work for you know who. So what’s the difference? It’s an income. They pay, we deliver. That’s how it works.” My dad grins as if he has a hard time formulating. “I found in Africa the game was played more rough and openly. Yet, here is hardly different. It’s a mess and it looks like Africa is coming over here.” I almost laugh loudly. “Isn’t that something grandfather would say?” pointing my fork back at him, “Africa is already here. Look at the poverty around us. You can’t cross the city without seeing beggars, homeless people, abandoned buildings and shit.” Looking down I see my plate is gone and get up to bring my fork to the kitchen. “It’s a mess. That’s something David Royce would say. I’m just repeatin’ it,” my father mumbles facedown; almost like I caught him on something. Who the hell is David Royce, I wonder? “And when uncle says you got business with that guy let it go!” my father follows up. That makes some sense. This Royce character seems to be someone that does exactly what he warns against. I mean, if he’s into business with uncle, he clearly isn’t on the side of the law. “You introduced them to each other?” I ask him from around the kitchen wall. “Bob, come help load the dishwasher,” my mother ends the longest conversation me and my father had in a while. When my father walks into the kitchen and hugs my mother I sneak upstairs. Hugging parents are jucky, yet somehow great too. I try chatting with Winnie, but she has to do home work she claims.

Late that same evening uncle calls. He has a side mission for me a few days down the line. The next day we have a short coffee. In the parking lot of his construction company he tells me what it is. Pick up something from an South African in a motel and bring it to a specialist. There’s no names mentioned so I see no obstacles. And even then. I am being played and I don’t mind. Husky makes less than $10 at a drive in. And Slacker has no job at all. Still that means he’s the best in our games. He practices all day. I earn $700 a week for a few hours every day. I can even afford insurance. And that really can be a life safer. My mothers brother got homeless when his wife got sick. Nobody knows where they went to, after he got evicted. Our new uncle may be what some call a crook, but he cares more than most companies do. And we repay him with loyalty.

THE DAY DAVID ROYCE DIED

So it came to be that I walk in on my first finale. It happens at a shoddy motel, along the freeway exiting Philly. I look up to the rooms from the dryness in my car, but see little. It is raining like crazy. Doesn’t seem to clear soon, so I take the run. The neon of the motel flickers and, as I knock on the second floor on door 33, the lights blink out. The whole motel goes dark. Inside I hear cursing and someone with a slightly foreign accent asks who it is. I call out my name ‘Will’ and he opens the door. Inside the frame of the doorway I see an unshaven white guy, his face still very much in the shadows. I blink twice. Once to wipe water out of my eyes, the second to reconsider. Was this the right room? I had been expecting an African. In my mind these dudes are mostly black. But what do I know of the world? My education, or more precise all education, had been going down the drain ever since Trump was president. At the least that’s what my mother kept telling me. I know I not the brightest light in the universe, let alone in the US of Abomination. I just listen and learn.

The white guy shines his phone light on my face and waves me in, like he’s been expecting me. So this must be the right place. I see him rummaging around the room for a lighter and some candles. I stand by the door dripping rain until he gets two candles burning. While he makes the light happen, we have an awkward conversation.

“How’s your father doing?” He has a funny accent; it’s from nowhere in our country. I break the silence, “Bob? He’s great. You know him?” Silence. The light of his phone disappears, when he sticks his hands in a drawer. I hear him searching for stuff. The light of his phone comes back on, when he raises it to shed light on some candles he’s holding up, “We met occasionally. You know what this job is about?” I shake, invisible for him, my head. “Your uncle said you’d be the best for this.” He shines towards me to see my answer. I raise my shoulders, “If he thinks so. What is the job about?” The white guy with the funny accent finds more candles and lights up two more of them. He raises one candle to his face, so I see his face in an eery light. WTF!? He’s the goddamn terrorist the whole country is looking for. And a guy my father knows. So, this is a game. And I’m in it; played into it by the man that warned me for it. My father has some shit to answer to. I all know in that moment is blurting a line out, “David Royce, I presume?”

This white terrorist smiles a warm sad smile. Weirdly warm in the face of a man that currently is our arch enemy number one. “Forget my name, boy. This job is about making the world a safer place. It’s about killing the worst kingpin in history.” At that moment all the lights come back on. I get my first good look at him. He’s a tanned white guy, early fifties, tawny body. Looks a lot less of an agent than the picture on TV. Must be the need for a shave and his scruffy clothing. He has an all American outfit on, a little too over the top this one. He points at a suitcase on the bed. He gestures me to open it. A double click. I open the case. A shit load of money looks at me. I look at him. “All you have to do is deliver it. Your uncle should have told you how to deliver it.” I nod. I don’t expand on that. He doesn’t ask. I am curious though. I ask, “Who and why?” He looks at me like I’m crazy, “Better you don’t know, kid.” He emphasizes ‘kid’; must be to let me keep me placed as an unknowing errand boy. I look at him coldly. “Boss told me, you need to keep me up to speed. Makes me run more secure,” I smile a sneer. Our eyes meet en he ends up shrugging. Then he tells me, and only because I am the son of my father. Crazy story. If it’s true, no one would call it terrorism. It’s a very good reason to knock that guy out. Damn, and I thought I was into crime.

Outside the rain keeps pouring. I let go of the curtain and mentally prepare for a run when I pick up the suitcase. As I open the door to leave, it gets slammed in my face and I roll backwards on the floor. A black guy with a gun steps in. David Royce reaches beneath a pillow and the black guy shoots. Feathers fly. David freezes and raises his hands. I lay on the floor looking from the one to the other. “FBI!” the black guy shouts. With his gun he waves David of the bed and against the wall next to me. David seems to know the routine and moves slowly and obedient. I see his eyes are awake and considering options. The agent moves his own gun to his left hand, while he walks in between the beds, creating a distance as well. With his right hand he searches something amidst the feathers. From underneath David’s pillow the FBI agent picks up David’s gun. A small .22 thing. He looks at it and flips the security off. Now he has two guns and we have nothing. “That was a mighty interesting conversation,” he says, “Is it true?” David nods. “Fucking hell! That’s more crazy man, than I ever heard before,” the agent reacts. “You can help stopping it,” David remarks dryly. “I am the law,” says the agent. David nods understandingly, “Well, you will be helping to stop a mayor crime.” We can see the agent must consider this. “Nah, sorry, can’t do that,” the agent sits on the bed, “There’s a raid coming. They’ll be here in thirty minutes.” David nods to me, “Okay you got me, your terrorist. Now let the boy go. He’s just a courier.” The agent shakes his head in denial, “He knows too much and your plan is still terrorism.” Now David gets angry, “Fuck you, it ain’t. It’s self defense. You Americans always kill and plunder in what you call self defense, yet when another country resists you call it terrorism. Let the boy go! There’s millions of lives at stake!”

David rises up and it looks like he wants to storm the agent. A nasty bang ends his move and with hands on his belly he sinks back down against the wall. The FBI agent that pulled the trigger, looks kind of stumped at the smoking gun in his hand, which happens to be David’s own gun. David looks in a very bad condition. He seems to endure terrible pain. “Fucking asshole. You’re killing a country full of black people. Whose side are you on anyway?” The FBI agent looks like he is sick as well. Clearly hasn’t shot people often. Shooting someone in the real world, is very different from game kills. I feel like shaking. David doesn’t, “You got your terrorist! You killed me. Now let the boy go!” David spits some blood and seems to crawl backward into the wall. I crawl to him and hold his hand. I look at the agent who is clearly confused, but also armed. “If he dies and no one moves on this, you’ll be a war criminal, even when nobody ever finds out,” I say. David coughs up some more blood. “Sometimes law and justice are different things, agent,” David croaks.

We see the agent reaching a decision. He unloads David’s gun. Then he throws the gun to me. “Pick it up, boy,” he points with his own gun in hand. I pick up the unloaded gun and look probably dump. Mr FBI speaks up, “You’re right, Royce. This is too messy for me to decide it all. So let fate decide. I’ll let the boy go, and we’ll see what happens. But I’ll be hunting him in a few days.” I see David nodding and then smiling, with a mouth full of blood, and then he is dead. I let go of his hand and stand up.

Minutes later I’m driving the suitcase to the service provider. Even in my head I hardly daren’t think killer. I wonder if my car is bugged. The rain is too terrible to be walking the last bit so screw safety. When I’m close I stop the car and make the call. Five minutes later a car pulls up next to mine. A guy hiding in the shadow of his car receives the suitcase which I shove into the back of his. “I’ll be counting,” he shouts and drives off. I just sink drenched back into my own car. I keep sitting there for over ten minutes. Aside from the rain I’m sweating like crazy. A suitcase full of money. If I’d lost that my uncle wouldn’t be so understanding. I’d be dead. And the world would be in deeper shit than it clearly already is. I give my uncle a call and just say “It was wet, but it’s done.” Nothing more. Nowadays we all assume lines are tapped.

20 minutes later I park the car a block away from the car dealer. If the car is bugged, no need to point the police all the way home. Then I walk to my own car, some fifty wet meters further in the night and drive the long way home. I have lots of things to consider. I could have been dead right now. There’s a killer on the loose who has to stop an evil plot, and now only me and an FBI agent know about it. Although my father, uncle and certainly the hit guy must know something too. David Royce is dead and my fingerprints are on the gun. I immediately feel all blood running to my head. The car makes a weird swank before I’m back in control. They, the police, have my prints. Shit. A stupid misdemeanor comes back to haunt me. I can’t go home. They’ll be on my trail, if not this night, then certainly within 24 hours. I think I’ve been used. While I drive away from home, towards a hideout I wonder, what loose ends ain’t I seeing? I wish the rain would swallow me. In reality I sit wet behind the wheel and drive all night with the radio on. But the news is a silent as the night on things I need to know.

MY TRIAL

The news keeps saying little. A body found in a motel in Philly is hardly two lines worth of news anywhere else. The bigger news hits three days later like a bomb in a swimming pool. It also drowns the fact that the body they found was the wanted terrorist. No one cares. He’s dead. The headlines have their big new thing: a sniper fails to kill the president of the USA. His shot misses, the president is moved out of the way and security agents storm his position. He commits suicide before they get to him. The media point in many directions. Some point to a billionaire. Other scream Russia. Others point to the Deep State and then there’s those who are convinced it was organized crime. That’s not even counting all kinds of conspiracy theories. And sure enough, is my guess, soon it’ll be the lone wolf story again.

A few days later I get caught at Slackers house. Both Husky and Winnie couldn’t, or wouldn’t, host me. Online friends and real world friends are not always the same I found out. Winnie, who turned out to be little over 17, had parents that weren’t amused to have a friend of 24 turn up at their doorstep. I wasn’t amused either. No way she could help me and drove off within 3 minutes. Husky, living a mere 5 hours further, turned out to live at his parents place in the basement. But they wouldn’t let him have visitors. And Husky didn’t seem so willing either. He was studying and needed to do some test way better than before, so a guest would be a burden right now. At least I got some coffee and sandwiches before I hit the road again.

Slacker has even two rooms. One upstairs to sleep and a garage, now that his parents have lost their cars. I get to sleep on the couch in the garage. It’s crisis in his house and my money is also running out. And I can’t use my credit card. That would be a red flag. I shouldn’t have bothered. My father must have gotten angry or wondered. He sure would have suddenly cops on the floor who’d be clear about my crime. It was my fingerprints on the gun. Why did that black agent do that, anyway? He could have claimed the kill for himself. For sure, he’d be a hero when he just shot the terrorist. My sixth sense tells me there’s something not in order here. My sixth sense doesn’t warn me the police is coming. In a way I’m fine with it, when it happens. They get me as I walk out to a nearby store for a few drinks. Slacker was boring as hell outside the game. He had little to talk about. Smokes too much weed too. He mostly talks about his plans to become someone. Musician, pop star, actor, just famous. Yet no action at all, to even try any of them. I can see the pattern within the first 20 minutes, after which the pattern repeats until the day of my arrest. He talks about getting noticed. Doing remarkable stuff. He sure looks stunned when he sees me get arrested for some big deed. A deed called murder one.

Only in court do I see the black FBI agent again. He claims he only found the body. He suspects I tried a motel robbery. I sit face down with little to say. No one would believe the truth. And I feel I should be very happy that all the lay on me is manslaughter and attempted robbery. No questions even hint at a connection towards an attempt at the life of the president. I lay it all on my first attempt at robbery, picking a conspicuous place, far from my own neighborhood. Anything else would be way worse. Meanwhile I find out the FBI agent’s name is Jackson. He keeps his evidence as short as possible. He claims he’s sorry he the conversations in the room weren’t recorded, due to recent budget cuts by the government. There wasn’t any equipment. he just testifies to a robbery gone wrong. It feels like everyone in the room knows he’s lying, although the budget cuts are real. Yet no one seems willing to question this too deeply. It’s currently not patriotic to attack the FBI for trying to catch a terrorist. Even I get that. In a pee-break a guard slips me a little note. It says “YoU’re doing good. Stick to that.” I get that too. Thank you uncle. It’s both support and a threat. The story is I was a loner seeking to rob a motel. Uncle doesn’t want anyone to know, he was connected to the terrorist. Nor does my father. No one is looking that way anyway. Since for the rest nobody knows what and how much was taken, and I keep my mouth shut, while pleading guilty, I get 6,5 years. Slam goes the judge’s hammer.

The last look of my parents is heart wrenching. Especially that of my mother. From having a job, albeit illegal, she now has a killer son. And my father, I see he feels guilty, but there’s nothing he can do, but make a bigger mess. I rather think of something else. Like where’s the money? The killer got millions in a suitcase. He must have left it somewhere. Somebody is going to be very lucky, way before I’m out. I feel screwed over deeply. I can only hope some prison gang doesn’t do more of that. When it looks like it might become real, it ain’t funny any more. Our prison system is totally fucked up and only now I start to care. “A bit too late, my friend,” I hear a Hollywood actors voice in my ear, “A little bit too late.”

Part #2: The Right Thing (Will)

Part #4: The Dying Light (Willem)

Part #6: Algorithms (Jackson)

This is part 1 of a series. “The Mandela Play” An American boy, Willem Hollant, gets imprisoned with a deadly secret, which ties him to an international conspiracy. To escape and set things right he must use extraordinary measures. How can Willem overcome injustice, Deep State, International Crime and several American delusions as a single boy in prison?

The Mandela Play is action thriller, social drama, comedy and a out of the box thought provoking treatise on modern storytelling. What starts out as a coming of age story takes some left turns into a rarely entered territory.

NOTE: This is the first draft. Both the English and details must be fleshed out a bit more. You can leave comments to help, ask questions about things that are not clear (some things, of course, are still unclear on purpose) or add information that may help.