This all started when my doppelg\u00e4nger up and died. He wasn\u2019t an absolute doppelg\u00e4nger, but he was a near-near doppelg\u00e4nger. My name is Ned Leaven. His name was Ned Leavan. We looked almost exactly the same, like two identical twins ripped from the same womb. Sandy hair, short, a thicket of back hair, chlorine eyes, small pupils, red in the face, tiny little corn kernel teeth, unhealthy amounts of gingivitis as a result of tiny contact points. I mean, the guy was my age, a couple months younger in fact.<\/p>\n
What happened was this:\u00a0 broadsided on the Beltway sunny-blue-skied-day, middle of the afternoon. You\u2019d think it was a drunk, some SUV Beemer, some rich guy texting his eighteen-year-old mistress. Nope. Pen pusher fell asleep at the wheel on his way home from work\u2014allergy medicine or some such. \u00a0Crash, boom, bam. Over for Mr. Ned Leavan. Father of two. Lived one point two six miles away. Just like me, minus the internal stuff (which nobody really cares about, let\u2019s be honest).<\/p>\n
So what did I do?\u00a0 I sent the usual\u2014flowers and a consolation note, but what can you really do or say in such a situation?\u00a0 Nothing. I signed the card “Ned”\u2014only “Ned”\u2014so as to not dredge up reminders for the mourning family. I didn\u2019t dare breathe a mention of the fact that I look exactly like Ned.<\/p>\n
At the time I was unemployed\u2014about eight or nine months of that poo-poo, actually. Received the pink slip (it wasn\u2019t pink, and it wasn\u2019t a slip) from the contractor. Kaput. Seventeen years and say-o-nora. My life was watching Judge Judy. Doing errands for wifey at one in the afternoon. It wasn\u2019t emasculating exactly\u2014it was just dull. I was bored out of my freaking gourd. And it was, probably, a wee bit emasculating, also. At forty-nine Einstein was Einstein. Ford was building cars and anti-Semitism. Disney was up to his elbows in Mickey Mouse money. I was pushing a squeaky cart through Food Lion in my Tivos, which incidentally smelled of old lake mud and fish scales.<\/p>\n
But Ned Leavan. His death sent a crackly lightning bolt through my noggin. Here\u2019s a guy who looked like me, lived like me. Was me. And then there he is feeding the grass at St. John\u2019s Cemetery. We\u2019d see each other at the ballgame or the summer lake concert or the big box stores and shake and nod and laugh about the names, the whole doppelganger thing. \u201cWhen have you seen the milkman?\u201d he\u2019d go. He meant our secret father, though we knew this wasn\u2019t possible. We hoped. Ned was a comfort, a reminder that we\u2019re all just a fleck of dust. And then he was dust.<\/p>\n
So I decided I needed to truly do something in honor of the doppelganger\u2014something productive. I shaved my hair to the skull, purchased an old blue t-shirt, which I inscribed with \u201cEnforcer\u201d so as to not directly challenge the authority of the authorities\u2014and affixed my mountain bike with a flashing light and siren I bought on E-bay. I camped out at Cumulus Drive and Stratocumulus Circle (the builders had a thing for clouds) with a jug of ice water, a clicker, a clipboard, a used speed gun (also purchased on E-bay) and a bag of PB&Js.<\/p>\n
You might find this set-up inconceivable or over-the-top, but consider that our fine neighborhood was of the involved school. Neighborhood pictures, festivals, carol singing, block parties. In an era where supposedly nobody knows their neighbors, we knew them all-too-well Wifey and I. So when I began issuing \u201ctickets\u201d\u2014though I referred to them as \u201cissuances\u201d (which perhaps smacked of something both formal and less threatening) peeps didn\u2019t think anything of it. They went along. Some (okay, many) drivers even thanked me for my presence\u2014said it helped \u201ccalm the traffic.\u201d\u00a0 This in lieu of a sign saying, \u201cTraffic Calming,\u201d which wouldn\u2019t pass muster for the neighborhood council.<\/p>\n
Precisely the point\u2014calming.<\/p>\n
But then there were those who found, let\u2019s just say, less to go along with. The speeders, the honkers, the players of loud abrasive music, the fail-to-signal-properly.<\/p>\n
I had a template.<\/p>\n
I had an eye narrowed on even the slightest infraction. Broken window theories and all.<\/p>\n
So there I was, standing in the shade, barely visible, under the sweetgum. Waiting.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The first three days, not much happened. No issuances (which was for the best, since the form was a work-in-progress), only some \u201cslow down\u201d gesturing on my part. Most smiled and waved, waved and smiled. I got the finger from two teenagers, one of which you\u2019ll get to know soon. Otherwise, I wondered if my efforts were productive at all.<\/p>\n
Wifey wondered the same.<\/p>\n
Eating sweet potatoes and sausage (I did the cooking) out on the deck, leafy shadows wriggling about overhead. Wifey looked beaten-down and haggard from her day\u2019s work.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease remind me what you are trying to prove exactly,\u201d she said, tilting her head. The slightest of shit eating grins\u2014I knew that one.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing really. Just something to do to pass the time.\u201d<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t get into doppelganger politics with Wifey\u2014I know better.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t you try another head hunter?\u00a0 Something more directly useful. Something else that, you know, pays.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t want to get into that song and dance, either.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m using the search engines\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut they have other methods.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know, but if the first one didn\u2019t work\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTry another one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to be patient.\u201d<\/p>\n
I knew she wanted me to return to a gainful state of employment as much for her sanity as mine. Plus, our savings account was hemorrhaging like a third rate actor in some Tarantino sword fight.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is just to occupy myself,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo it\u2019s masturbation then.\u201d<\/p>\n
I ate my sausage. Sprinkled more salt and pepper on the sweet potato. It felt good to squish the potato meat with my fork.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
On the fourth day I was actually needed. I arrived at seven thirty a.m.\u2014I was out of the house before the wife was. At seven forty-seven (approximately) a red Buick Skylark clipped through the Stratocumulus stop sign and turns left directly toward me. I step out into the intersection immediately, my hand stretched out like Earl Campbell throwing a stiff arm. The Skylark slammed its brakes to avoid making me a permanent part of the pavement. The guy rolled down the window, threw up his hands and slammed them back down on the steering wheel.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell are you doing?\u201d\u00a0 Spit jets from his mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease don\u2019t use profanity in the presence of a peacekeeping force,\u201d I said. I wanted to use \u201cofficer,\u201d but chose not to self-incriminate.<\/p>\n
\u201cSince when is \u2018hell\u2019 profanity?\u00a0 What is this, 1951?\u00a0 If you want me to use profanity, believe me, I can. And why are you standing in the middle of the freaking road?\u00a0 That\u2019s my beef.\u201d<\/p>\n
But at that point I was already scribbling, checking boxes, and filling out license plate information. Just like they do. And to my surprise he offered up his registration.<\/p>\n
Billy Forester, age twenty-one. Five ten, curly hair, bad skin. Sticker from the community college on his rear windshield. Smoking a cigarette. I hand him his registration back.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is an issuance\u2014it\u2019s a warning. Next time it goes directly to the county police. You need to make sure you come to a full stop at any and all neighborhood stop signs. Children live here. And please refrain from cursing\u2014it\u2019s unseemly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s what?\u00a0 An issuance?\u00a0 So it\u2019s fake?\u201d\u00a0 \u201cSo,\u201d she liked \u201cso.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI report to the county police,\u201d I said. A slight exaggeration, but not that far-fetched.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, you\u2019re a rent-a-cop or something?\u00a0 Security staff hired by the home owner\u2019s association?\u201d<\/p>\n
I ignored this comment. \u201cHave a nice day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhatever, Mr. Enforcer man. I\u2019m heading to a job interview.\u201d\u00a0 He didn\u2019t move. Perhaps it wasn\u2019t not exactly of the highest order. Perhaps he wasn\u2019t in a hurry.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, good luck,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt can\u2019t be worse than the Pizza Shack. Those people treat you like slaves.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you get the position,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks for the boost of confidence.\u201d\u00a0 But he said this with such low affect that I wasn\u2019t sure if it was sarcastic or straight. He nosed his jalopy off down the road. Not a bad kid, I thought. Just needed to learn a few things. He\u2019d do better next time.<\/p>\n
I was pleased by my trial run. Too pleased, I\u2019m sure.<\/p>\n
Squatted in the grass in the shade with my radar and my eye on the stop sign. Do enforcers have an innate personality?\u00a0 Is there a natural enforcer psychology that I just happened into by dumb luck?\u00a0 I never thought of myself as an enforcer, but at that point I was one\u2014or at least trying to be. Do enforcers find inherent value in a bylaw?\u00a0 Does this excite them?\u00a0 I\u2019ve always believed there is no inherent value; perhaps I was wrong about that. Perhaps, I thought, enforcing the law is just another way of finding meaning in meaninglessness. If I hand out an issuance does this establish a fa\u00e7ade–logic to illogic?\u00a0 Perhaps.<\/p>\n
Do what you\u2019re thinking. Be in the moment. Fill in the clich\u00e9. I was there for Ned, I told myself.<\/p>\n
This does give me meaning, I thought. I\u2019m here doing good, helping society, one small agent of positivity in a world steeped in the opposite.<\/p>\n
And just as I thought this I saw a red Chevy Suburban barreling down Cumulus at thirty-eight (speed limit is twenty). I threw up my hands, stepped out into the street\u2014just like before. Sweat slavered down my back. \u201cThe Enforcer\u201d now scrawled on my shirt, my speed gun in both hands. I yanked the clipboard out from behind my shorts and clicked my ballpoint, the point of it glinting in the sunshine.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I could\u2019ve stayed there all day and all night, frankly, but my body eventually craved sustenance and I was charged with providing it.<\/p>\n
At five thirty I packed it in, biked the half a mile back home.<\/p>\n
Stood at the stove for forty minutes making a light pasta\u2014a little shrimp and veggies. If I had my druthers I\u2019d eat standing up, over the sink. Or pop a giant nutrient pill like they did on the Jetsons.<\/p>\n
Wifey came home and we ate in front of the game\u2014lest conversation ruin a good thing. Didn\u2019t have to think with the sound blaring. She complimented my cooking during an AT&T commercial. I smiled and chewed, and it was pleasant. Atmosphere management works with forty somethings as well as toddlers.<\/p>\n
After dinner we flipped through magazines and I half-watched the game. It was, as often is the case, as if we lived in a waiting room. We were biding time, waiting for something exciting to happen to our lives. Other than my layoff, nothing rarely did. And even the layoff was no big deal in the larger scheme of things. We were still eating. We could pay the bills.<\/p>\n
Driving around town I sometimes fantasied that something tragic would happen to us\u2014anything to break up the ruthless monotony. My fantasy extravaganza usually landed on house fire\u2014a blazing cauldron, everything up in smoke. She\u2019d blame me; I\u2019d blame her\u2014we\u2019d have a reason to go our separate ways.<\/p>\n
Boredom is not inconsequential.<\/p>\n
Vacations are the worst:\u00a0 relationship building, long slow passages of time, extensive magazine flipping. It\u2019s boredom layered on boredom\u2014a ennui layer cake.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sally Carruthers became a frequent nemesis all-too-soon (I referred to her as Sally Struthers). Mauve mini-van, little stick figure decal family on the rear window, perky blonde dye do. And Sally drove like a race car driver.<\/p>\n
The first time she drove so fast I couldn\u2019t stop her\u2014she was by me before I could even step to the curb much less off it. She must\u2019ve been doing forty-five, fifty. The next time I saw her coming I threw up my hands early and the speed gun. And lunged out into the street. She slammed on her brakes, popped her window open.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d\u00a0 She toyed with her hair seductively, beneath the coating of nervousness. Her hands gesticulated as if she imbibed one too many lattes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think you know. You were speeding, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd who are you?\u00a0 I am in a rush and I have to move.\u201d\u00a0 The edge of flirtation ceased entirely.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m the enforcer. I\u2019m a representative of the law.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rolled her eyes. \u201cYou don\u2019t represent squat. Just a guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wrote quickly and didn\u2019t look up, as to expedite the proceedings before she ran over my feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd why are you in such a hurry?\u201d\u00a0 I flicked my eyes into the foreground for a half a second. Her car looked as though somebody lived in it, which in a sense they did.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s none of your business.\u201d<\/p>\n
I handed her the issuance.<\/p>\n
\u201cGotta be kidding me. This looks like it was made by a third grader.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shrugged. She was right about that.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease slow down before you hurt someone. You\u2019re going twice the speed limit. May land you in prison. Is that what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n
She shrugged back. Her tires did a little mini-squeal as she took off.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t for the life of me understand why people simply cannot follow the law. That\u2019s why it\u2019s called \u201cthe law.\u201d\u00a0 It rules, not you. When you are dead like Ned, it will continue. What\u2019s right is, after all, what\u2019s right. You can question it all you want, but you have to ultimately live with it, embrace it. The law has been decided for you; your job is to follow it.<\/p>\n
On my issuance, I had a rational application of the real law, a warning system which, if adhered to would result in greater compliance. I attempted to convey this to the district station, but their responses were thin and far between. I understood\u2014they had other more important fish to fry. Sizzle, sizzle. They were professional enforcers out doing their enforcing thing and I was just a peon. But.<\/p>\n
When I\u2019m on the road, I thought, I abide. I\u2019m possibly one of the only few who does. Everyone around me is going fifteen miles an hour faster, no signaling, abusing their horns, their headlights. Ignoring yields. If I could I would\u2019ve handed each one of them an issuance (I even went so far as to fantasize a scenario whereby I could text an issuance to each offender\u2014someday, I\u2019ll zap those jerks someday).<\/p>\n
Nobody respects the law.<\/p>\n
I know why this is:\u00a0 we think we can do without it. That is until you need it\u2014until that moment when we are victimized and want justice. Then we embrace it, except for the looters and the roustabouts who continue to abuse the law to their own advantage.<\/p>\n
Speeding is no different to me than rape or murder. If a law is broken, a law is broken.<\/p>\n
That night an e-mail from dispatch: \u201cplease stop sending your reports. We are overwhelmed.\u201d\u00a0 \u201cOverwhelmed\u201d will not stop me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Then there was Eduard Gomez and William Wallace\u2014or maybe it was Wallace William (I forget):\u00a0 These guys didn\u2019t speed; they stopped and yielded\u2014but they drove so far under the speed limit, their vehicles were all-but-stopped. Backing up traffic. Causing a nuisance. They were the twin sloths of the neighborhood and any time I saw either one of them galumphing down Cumulus I sighed. It was as if they were leading a funeral procession of their own making. And it meant a gravy train of pissed drivers behind them\u2014kneading steering wheels, flashing lights, complaining, yelling \u201cwhat is this shit?\u201d<\/p>\n
Each received an issuance, politely, slowly, and without particular remorse.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t until later I realized they were doppelgangers themselves, of a sort\u2014and that they might not even know of each other\u2019s existence.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you consider yourself a hero or something?\u201d<\/p>\n
This was Fran, the retired second grade teacher. She was lucky to be five feet, squat and wrinkled. She walked with a limp and wore mirrored sunglasses so dark and reflective I could see myself in her eyes from yards away.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, just helping out,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAm I what?\u201d\u00a0 It was hot and I dripped with thick sweat even in the shade.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you really helping out?\u00a0 Do I have to do all the work around here?\u201d<\/p>\n
I told her about Ned and his tragic fate. I told her about unemployment checks and the relentless grimace on wifey\u2019s mug. I told her about the need to Enforce, the whole Enforcer personality thing.<\/p>\n
Hands on arthritic hips, she listened\u2014or pretended to. No nodding or verbal cues, just eyeball-to-eyeball\u2014Gunsmoke listening.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll that is well and good,\u201d she said. \u201cBut you\u2019re not the police.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had heard this before.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is true,\u201d I said. \u201cI am the man before you get to them. I\u2019m the Enforcer. That\u2019s what\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour warnings\u2014they don\u2019t have any teeth, see what I mean?\u00a0 So what\u2019s the point?\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t have an answer for that. I stood and stared blankly at the stop sign, at the curb.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust helping out,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Mrs. Straight,\u201d she said. She pointed. \u201cI live over there. My eye is on you.\u201d\u00a0 As if she only had one.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And so it went. All day I was \u201cout at the corner,\u201d as Wifey said. It was true, not dismissive exactly. I wasn\u2019t a pimp. I wasn\u2019t selling little baggies of oregano or crushed aspirin. I was attempting to instill order, to straighten out.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what about the job situation?\u00a0 I mean, I don\u2019t mind\u2014it\u2019s just\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
I ignored questions of this sort.<\/p>\n
I know she wanted to say: \u201cWe\u2019re losing money every month. You realize that, don\u2019t you?\u00a0 Savings only goes so far. And then what?\u201d<\/p>\n
But she didn\u2019t. She offered up a modicum of restraint. I loved her at that moment.<\/p>\n
The back of my mind processed the rest. I wanted to curse, but didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney biscuit,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever mind.\u201d<\/p>\n
Out on the Cloud intersection I had my usual array of debutants, pumpkin heads and flakes. And it was searing and sticky, which had me chasing the shade.<\/p>\n
Then, at four in the afternoon, just before I was going to call it quits there, suddenly, was Fran with her toady personality and Eagle eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have put a call in,\u201d she said. She stood in the pool of sun, just at the lip of the shoulder, as if that would intimidate me.<\/p>\n
\u201cUh-huh,\u201d I said, wiping my brow. My water was warm; I itched from the weeds and gnats and dandelion spores.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe police dontcha know. They are very curious as to what it is you are doing here making claims about being a policeman.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOne. I never claimed to be a policeman. And two, we\u2019re in regular contact,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s a matter of fact.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe officer I spoke to had never heard of you or your project.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, they\u2019re busy, aren\u2019t they?\u00a0 I\u2019m sure it is a lot for them to keep track of. You know how it goes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She limped from the sun, closer to me into a small oval of shade drooping down from the birch tree.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me be frank,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t think you are in full possession of your marbles. Sitting out here all day bossing people around\u2014that is not your job. And nobody asked for it. Nobody wants your help.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waved her off. I wanted to tell her that I\u2019m addressing an obvious need\u2014hasn\u2019t she seen the way people drive these days?\u00a0 Hasn\u2019t she opened her eyes?\u00a0 But you can\u2019t teach an imbecile the history of the French Revolution.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd furthermore,\u201d she continued. The vein in her neck popped and her face looked mottled and bloodshot. \u201cYou strike me as someone who suffers from a complex. You\u2019re trying to overcome something here by telling my neighbors what to do. Take up a hobby or something, will you?\u00a0 It\u2019s not our fault.\u201d<\/p>\n
What I wanted to say but didn\u2019t was that they were my neighbors too\u2014that\u2019s the whole point. I wanted to tell Fran about my dead doppelganger and duty and how I may be floundering but the whole complex thing is a projection, an invention. Plus, she\u2019s no high bastion of society, I wanted to say. Clearly.<\/p>\n
But I said nothing. I decided the high road was best for all concerned\u2014otherwise I\u2019d have to throw her into the lake.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you for your feedback,\u201d I said, waving to her.<\/p>\n
This was the beginning of the end though:\u00a0 I could tell. She had a thread and I was the sweater.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Two days later Officer Statton was introducing himself and issuing me a ticket (a real ticket) for impersonating a police officer. Tall man with shoulders as wide as the doorway, hair cut skull-tight.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut how am I impersonating you?\u00a0 I wasn\u2019t wearing a uniform. The forms are different. My shirt clearly says \u2018Enforcer,\u201d not \u2018Police.\u2019\u201d\u00a0 I didn\u2019t want to argue, but I was hoping to find some way to continue the progress I had made.<\/p>\n
His face was a bland, uninterested prairie. \u201cThat\u2019s what we are, sir,\u201d the officer said. \u201cWe enforce.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had to remove myself from the corner and the neighborhood in general in terms of staking my claim to any sort of ticketing or traffic stoppages. I could only return without my gear as a \u201cnormal civilian.\u201d<\/p>\n
Such is life, I knew even then.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m not going to offer some grand denouement which spins everything just mentioned into some kind of meaningful, tidy little package so you can feel better about yourself and your own pathetic insights and judgments. I\u2019m not going to lie to you.<\/p>\n
My wife left me a few months after my enforcing stint ended and I was forced to sell the house, as a result of my lack of employment. Luckily I got just under one hundred K from the proceeds, which was more than enough to pay the rent on a shabby little one bedroom for a while (I sleep on a blow-up mattress on the floor). It bought beer, also. My wife won\u2019t talk to me; she says I\u2019m bad juju. She wishes I would just roll over and croak.<\/p>\n
As for a job, I hear the pizza shack is hiring dishwashers, and I may even apply. There are worse things. I always was good with my hands and it might be healing in some way (though the thought of wet, gnawed-upon food bits floating in the water near my arms makes me quasi-nauseous).<\/p>\n
Sometimes I head back into the old neighborhood and sit at my old corner. I bring a counter and just count the cars go by with a single click of my thumb. No issuances, no pretenses of anything other than watching. Nobody notices me and now that its fall I stand to keep the blood flowing. The grass is stiff with frost during the mornings. It will be winter soon, and then spring again. Next year can only be better, can\u2019t it?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
This all started when my doppelganger up and died.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":14221,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-14072","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-nathan-leslie"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14072","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14072"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14072\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14222,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14072\/revisions\/14222"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14221"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14072"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14072"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14072"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}