PULP PLANET

PULP PLANET

Editor’s note Humans have been looking towards the future and trying to be among it for thousands of years. Since the first cave paintings 22,000 years ago to the stories of today, what we see throughout all time is human’s willingness to learn and explore everything we don’t understand. Even under the worst circumstances and deprivation of humanity, other humans have created beauty and love in a seemingly barren place. It’s our biggest strength and greatest achievement. We’ve been explaining the problems we face in our everyday lives through the guise of far away lands and times. Imagining a better future allows us to see an Eden of what’s possible and imagining a worse one acts as the warning for humanity.

We have reached for the stars and one day, we will land alongside them.

Table of Contents Sea Legs by Eric Subpar The Waiting Game by S.R Malone Planet Survival & The Bride of Terril by Simon Collinson Shrapnel by Sam Palin One Fall Night When I Almost Died, The Legend of Dambo Blankenridge, & Where the True Life Etta Place Lies by H.L. Dowless The Thalassa Test by J.F. Sebastian Futures by Sean MacKendrick

The Waiting Game by S.R Malone was previously published in Neon Sunrise’s anthology 'Dead Signals // Lost Transmissions' July 2022.

Contributor bios Eric Subpar is a writer from Washington State where he lives with his wife and three sons. His poetry has appeared in Poetry Bus Mag, Roi Fainéant, and Hobart.

S.R Malone is a writer living just outside Edinburgh, Scotland.

When not writing or reading, he likes to spend time with his family and dog, going for walks in the Scottish wilderness.

Simon is a writer from England. He seeks solitude and shadow.

Sam Palin is a games writer and a model, sitting in the middle of a narrow Venn diagram. Their writing is architectural, abject, and vehemently political. Playing at least one obscure game a week, they seek to establish underrepresented forms of storytelling in the wider public eye. Each of Sam's mornings are spent on a bench up the hill, writing their novel and watching the town wake up.

H.L. Dowless is a thirty-five-year veteran writer who loves traveling and living life on the edge.

J.F. Sebastian is a queer, autistic writer originally from the South of France, now residing in Toronto, Canada. Writing in English, and under various pen names, is not just a creative outlet but a means for them to explore and express their multifaceted identity.

Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas.

When not writing fiction he writes code as a software engineer.

You can find him on Twitter/X, BlueSky, or Instagram as @SeanMacKendrick.

Sea legs Eric Subpar

Front and Center, foul fools of Flotsam City! Pack up your scuttles and tots and gather round the ole dermaware, cause we’ve got ourselves a CRIME SPREE. All the way from the Fiberglass Flotilla, this is your main merman, Freefloatin’ Freddy, pirate king of the Cloud Folks and Dominatrix in Residence. Beside me is our color man, former precinct captain, Nocturnal Commissioner. We’ve got a Crime Spree, buoys and gulls. All Eyes on the Beat. We come to you with the ongoing story of a Category 2 Wanderer outside the Manatee Marsh Minimall Megabarge.

Reports are a Del Taco employee kicked this one off. No name yet so we’ll call them Del in the meantime. Refusing to serve the poor rabid ratoplex is all we need these days to unleash heck. Any moment of any day we reside in CRIME SPREE country. Line’s red. We got a caller. Yes, ma’am, you’re on the line.

Holy hell to mercy, Eff-Eff. Shit is popping off out here.

Set the scene, Margarine.

I saw the whole thing, Eff-Eff. Is it true you got a working toilet?

Focus, locust.

I’d already gotten my ratoplex and the little ones their seagull nuggets and this lady starts yelling about the beaks and claw percentages of the ratoplex and we all are like bitch you knew the joint you entered but she wouldn’t relent. Scratching these scabies and spitting ratoplex across the counter when the Sumbitch behind the counter said, I can’t take it no more. Dumped over the fryolator and once a couple customers complained about burnt ankles, the sirens wailed and the Sumbitch knew their time was up. They started crying and saying stuff like (mockingly) I wasn’t born like this. None us were made for this. (normal tone) You know the bit, Eff-Eff. Landlubbers. (mocking) I used to have a house. I used to have a dog.

(matching callers mocking tone) Remember trees? Remember cars? (normal tone) Really showing this one’s age aren’t they? Deary…

Dearest... I’m gonna have to let you go. We got an update. Del is now surrounded by dingbats, they are whizzing at Del’s head as we speak stuck on stun. Nocturnal Commissioner, what’s your assessment?

Your previous caller was spot-on, Eff-Eff. Landlubber. We got the identity here. Army sure enough. Really showing his age. Fought inland for the entirety of the Salt Wars. Karsten Smith-Greene. Degenerate sounds like. Hardly a trace of mutated genetics in his medchart.

Sounds like a bunker baby. (baby sound effect) What’s the matter, bunker baby? Too wet for you in the taco shoppe? Thought you could sit out the apocalypse under your daddy’s estate—Oh shit looks like the dingbats were no match for Karsten. The kid’s got moxie. Just ran around real good and the dingbats shot each other to bits. Go Karsten go. Run Kar—you know what, I like Del better. Run Del! We rootin’ for our wittle bunker baby. Set the block on fire! Set this whole damned garbage heap ablaze!. You know, Noc, setting fire to an ocean bound junk pile; that’s the brand of futility reserved for landlubbers. Born long ago with hope still in his genes. Jupiter’s Rainbow! What do we have here? Others are joining in! Do we have a riot on our hands, Noc? Not quite a riot, Eff-Eff. More like a conspiracy of looters. But if five more enter the fray, we will have to bump this sucker up to a Cat4dot3. This could elicit the Order of Flagellists depending on Loewenjaw’s discretion.

She may let this go on a bit before flooding the streets with blood.

Sweet insights, Nocturnal Commissioner. Loewenjaw is four for eleven when dispatching the Flagellists in Oceantober. The Wind Oracles advise against egregious shows of strength while the Southern Cawl rages; they’ve made that abundantly clear through a series of social media posts aimed at Loewenjaw. However, The Pliery remind us of the adage: “Feeding Frenzy in Oceantober, Feeling Fine in Seavember” which is when

repairs to the tubular bells are meant to commence on the—Da fudge?! the Del Taco rioters have just repurposed a cay winch into a sort of whipping tank; this tool of the working man now being used to slice through innocent bystanders and storefront windows. Dolores Gojira, why aren’t we seeing any looting? ...Oh I always forget the punchline to that one...

We are on a floating pile of garbage...

That’s right. Why don’t we see looting? We live on a pile of garbage; if it were any good it wouldn’t be here. (laughs) And we are seeing, yes, the flagellists have in deed been dispatched. Tell me, Dolores, would you rather face off against one giant whip or an army of tiny whips?

Don’t forget that those tiny whips are embedded with shards of glass and fish hooks.

Skingrabbers.

The question stands.

I’d rather face off against the— And there goes the Flagellists. One swoop. All beheaded. Haven’t seen the Flagellists terminated that fast since the Self-Flagellants Union came to terms with the Papal Harvest Corps. (laughs) Sorry, Noc. I know your pa was a part of the anti-scab union busting effort. Just some playful ribbing while the sun grows larger with each orbit. As the waters rise and we slowly lose the parts of ourselves we’ve historically called human, what’s a little jesting between friends?

Yes. Freefloatin’ Freddy. My father did help break up the scab union. But my mother was a scab herself. When my father’s former wife refused to produce his heir, clean his clothes, it was my mother who stepped in.

And in that bond, a beautiful love was forged. On warm days when the ocean is glassy and endless, when Serenity herself lays her lovely head upon the street and renders all silent and calm, their love transcended the rabble of this post-viability hellscape. A love that allows me to understand the hope still residing in Del Taco’s heart. My genetics still carry its traces, thus I too shall join in the Crime Spree, because as the noose of the world pulls to a close, even when futile, blessed are we whom press our every muscle against its tightening fibers. (door slams) ... ...

Well, there goes Noc. The riot has assembled into a rolling congregation of death. In its center, held aloft by the cruel cast, is our hero; Delbert Mahogany Taco, blue and beginning to bloat in the brine-bitten air, affixed to an anchor. His head bobbing arrhythmically with the crawl of the crowd. Everyone they encounter are mindlessly hoisted up upon their own crucifixes, made from repurposed furnishings. Fuck this is dour, they’ve initiated a crucifixion loop. Half the megabarge are crucifiers and the other half crucified and they’ll keep halving themselves until only one will remain and hopefully whoever they are will be strong enough to rebuild. (long pause) At least we got the footage. With footage there is always a chance we learn from this. We are transmitting it out into the cosmos. Hopefully, someone learns from this.

Is that smoke?

Listen to me talking of hope.

My god the Fiberglass Flotilla is on f-f...

(End of Broadcast)

The Waiting Game S.R Malone

I was technician back in my own time, who’d have thought it?

Not anyone here, that was apparent straight away.

The Genesis stood tall in the Mesozoic era, the silver-lined edifice looming over prehistoric foliage and reaching for the young sun as it drooped over the horizon. Why exactly was it here, and in this age? I wish I had an answer. Since arriving, all I’d managed to piece together from fragments was either spoken in hushed voices or impatient tones, but the place seemed to function as a restaurant and spa for those with the credits to afford its luxuries.

Hurtling through a tear in the very essence of time and crashing on allfours on a polished oak floor, I was greeted by the stern face of a woman calling herself Valdis. Her appearance struck me with an unease that refused to fade; cracked, yellowing skin with wide, sleepless eyes and a faux bouffant hairpiece balancing on a bulbous head, all adding several decades on despite her claims that she was only in her late thirties.

“Are you from the rural lands?” she asked, face twisted in a mix of curiosity and disbelief as she pinched at strands from my dark blonde ponytail. “You still have all your hair. Are you not from one of the main exclusion zones?”

I did not know how to answer, a bout nausea from the jump robbing me of my ability to reason. She dabbed at my blue jumpsuit, growing curious at the sight of the American flag on my upper arm; it was not an emblem she had ever seen before, from the look of things.

What is more jarring for the human mind, I wondered, the fog of my mind clearing for one thought: to find that your colleagues back in Utah have succeeded in sending you back through time? Or discovering that there are already time travellers on the other side? And (what’s worse) that they have already found a method of capitalising on the system?

Valdis held a touchpad in her elongated palm, her supposedly human hand cradling such a device perfectly. I had no time to ponder my own question as she sharply asked my name, and I absently mumbled it in return.

“I see no Lucy Cross on here,” she pouted. The blue veins on her temples swelled with each breath. “I imagine this is an administrative error. It happens from time to time. Shall we begin your orientation, Lucy?”

She locked her digits around my wrist and pulled me along, lost in a daze as I was. Being led into the darkened heart of the Genesis, away from prying public eyes, I spotted beyond the restaurant’s barriers shapes of creatures that I knew to be long extinct, moving with the grace and gentle beauty of any animal I had witnessed in my life. # Orientation was conducted in a small room by a gaunt creature named Osric, bearing similar characteristics to Valdis only without the hairpiece; his head was slightly smaller but no less disturbing. He had obviously run this session countless times and even skipped over various chunks that were deemed to be not worth teaching to me.

Valdis stood sentinel at the back of the box room while her colleague read from his touchpad.

It was here that I learned the nature of the Genesis, the very reason for its existence and the black heart behind the luxury.

“You are one of countless thousands of lucky individuals, selected for work at our six-star resort nestled here in the Mesozoic,” read Osric, stumbling on a word here or there, much to Valdis’s displeasure. “As your work detail, you will serve in the restaurant, being the main point of contact for guests and travellers seeking to dine on our legendary upper decking. Breaks will be assigned based on performance, and at the

discretion of your supervisor,” his large watery eyes slid over to Valdis, “And when you have completed as many hours as your body can manage, then we shall discuss the discharging process.”

“I’m sorry, ‘one of countless thousands?’” I asked, leaning forward in my seat. “Can you explain please? Look, I just need to get back—” “Yes, and very fortunate you are. The Employment Guild only sends a select handful to us per annum,” said Osric.

“How many, approximately?”

I heard Valdis move around my right side, seemingly intent on taking the reins from her struggling colleague.

“Ten thousand, ish. It was closer to eleven last year.”

“Osric, that is orientation completed. Please double click Lucy’s waiver and forward it to me immediately,” Valdis’s sharp tone cut through the stuffy box. Osric nodded, casting eyes over me once more before ambling for the door. A less stagnant gust from outside swept in as he left.

Minutes passed as I tried to make sense of the information. The initial nausea caused by the trip was paling, but a lingering pain now gripped my forehead. I had never heard of any Employment Guild, and now had more questions than I reckon Valdis was comfortable answering. In the end, she positioned her gangly frame on the stool ahead of me and spoke a minimalist answer to each of my queries.

I explained that I was originally stationed in Utah, 2076, a fact that drew no recognition to her expression; her lack of historical or geographical knowledge raised further questions, as did her previous confusion and concern over the American flag on my jumpsuit.

“I don’t mind if you are from the rural lands. We are mostly sent bodies from the E.Zs, as I stated,” she sniffed. I met her eyes as they drifted to my hair again. “You are here now, however, and a contract is still a contract.”

“I’ve signed no contract! This is all a mistake.”

“Lucy, please restrain yourself. The guild will have handled your documents in the 39th century, and that is all I will say on the matter.

Temporary loss of awareness is common in first- time travellers, especially for those of you in the countryside who have not the currency to make a timejump of your own volition. I will allow you ten minutes to adjust yourself,” Valdis rose on uncertain legs, her disproportioned frame shaking on the first few steps. She closed the door behind her.

Rushing out of my seat, I searched my surroundings for signs of an escape. The room was modest enough to have been one of these creature’s office space, with only folded up chairs and tables leaning against the wall opposite me. Bedtime stories from my childhood of smuggler’s caves and hidden passages were of no comfort in here, and there were no windows to crawl through, either. The solitary door was the only way.

Leaning against the thin steel, I could hear muffled tones that sounded like Valdis talking with another. The other voice sounded gravelly, not as nasally as Osric the orientation specialist.

My fingertips barely touched the handle when the door clicked open, and a wider figure plodded into the space. Taller than the previous two, although equally as jaundiced, this one gripped a band in its right hand and reached out with its left to hold my shoulder.

With an unbelievable strength I was pushed backwards into my seat, allowing Valdis to drift back into the box room, unobscured.

“Roth, this is Lucy Cross, our newest body,” she smiled, exposing a top row of greying, dead teeth.

“Excellent,” the apathetic Roth stared down at me. He crouched, his spindly legs seeming to fold in a manner similar to a grasshopper’s; the black band he held emitted a weak atonal sequence as it separated, and Roth tilted my head upwards with one massive palm, sliding the band around my throat with a click. It was a measure too tight, something the giant picked up on from the displeasure in my face, and after adjusting it once he rose and left, ignoring the grimace on my face.

“What—” I gulped hard, “What is this? What are you people doing in this place?”

“The Genesis is a temporally responsible institution, Lucy,” Valdis said, quelling her smile. “For the safety of our customers, clients, suppliers, friends, family and leaders, we take all precautions not to allow staff members to wander outwith the boundaries of the building. While management adheres to this strict policy— and we do so proudly— unfortunately the same cannot be said for all labourers sent to us by the Employment Guild.” As she spoke, I ran a finger along the length of the band, working out a kind of filigree on its surface. “This collar will ensure that you stay within the restaurant and spa areas at all times, so as to not disturb a) our wonderful wildlife, and b) the very fabric of time.”

My head pounded, wondering how constructing a resort in prehistoric ages hadn’t altered the future already. But then again, perhaps it had.

“And what if I forget?” I grunted.

“The collar will be swift to remind you, Miss Cross,” nodded Valdis, “That is all you need hear from me on the matter.” #

It’s safe to say I hadn’t waited tables in about fifteen years, since my early twenties. The job was explained to me again by Valdis as she led me through the bowels of the complex, stopping at a lengthy room lined with lockers painted a sickly orange. Here she pulled a plastic-wrapped uniform from the racks on the back wall— a crisp navy shirt, brown tights, and a skirt and waistcoat in black— and a pair of polished black loafers from a nearby basket.

“Try these,” said Valdis, diverting her attention back to her touchpad. I considered throwing the bundle of clothing back at her and sprinting for the exit when I remembered the collar around my neck; it grazed against my skin with every movement.

I removed the jumpsuit with a sigh, forgetting I was just wearing underwear underneath, and hastily put on the waitress attire. I couldn’t tell what the strange fabric was, but it irritated my skin and made it near impossible to stand still for long. Only when I began marching after Valdis did it cease.

“You will serve our guests that are beaming in for high tea today,” she stated, her back to me the whole time. “Many of our clients pay top credits to dine with us, and we aim to make their stay as enjoyable as possible.”

“And just where do your clients come from?” I asked.

“All over. 3885 is a good year for us. We tend to a lot of folk from that year,” then she stopped and shot me a glance. “What year did you say you were sent to us from?”

“2076.”

“Fine, if you’d rather be obtuse then I shall keep my questions to myself,” and with that Valdis continued to stride ahead, relaunching her monologue pertaining to the quality of service the Genesis strives to

provide. I tried to find other opportunities to interject, but found Valdis’s speech pattern to be airtight, as if she rarely needed a breath.

The late afternoon sun was disappearing behind the jagged mountains that cradled the rear of the building. What few guests there were happened to be already seated and served by workers in similar garb to mine. They moved with exhaustion and dread on their sweat-soaked faces.

Larger creatures in dinner jackets were also dotted around the restaurant at various points; these ones I assumed to be management.

Their arms were folded as they observed the waiting staff. One sniggered as a waiter dropped to the floor in front of them. The downed waiter was promptly assisted to his feet again and led off the decking.

My gaze shifted to the guy’s collar as he was escorted past, frantic shoes scuffing the deck.

“Where are they taking him?” I asked Valdis.

“As Osric already explained to you, that member of staff is being discharged,” she said, “He isn’t fit to work anymore.”

“So, you send him back to the guild in the 39 th century, is that right?”

Valdis’s large eyes observed me with a quiet pity. She started saying “Miss Cross, Genesis has an understanding with your employers—” but cut herself off when a party of guests materialised by what I assumed to be the waiter’s station at the entrance of the dining area. There had been a crackle of green light and these people had just appeared, so strange even to someone who had apparently travelled through time herself, that I struggled to process it for most of the evening.

“There is no time for idle chatting, Miss Cross. Your shift has now begun.

Go!” And with the clopping of loafers on the oak floor acting as my

metronome, I started the weirdest, and certainly deadliest shift of my life. # The opening four hours were spent trying to memorise sections of the menu, one at a time, while not staring at the hordes of oddities the Genesis called customers. It was true that the majority resembled the beings running this place: swelled craniums, stained yellow flesh and bloodshot, watering eyes. Often, I would find other deviations from what I thought were human beings, some with metallic limbs grafted on in place of their own, and others with cables jutting from discoloured wounds.

In my head I dubbed Valdis and her kind ‘post-humans,’ and gathered scraps of conversation overheard at the table side that I figured to be important for my return to my own time. My calves started aching midway through my fifth hour of serving, my pace slowing; the contingent of post-human employees scattered throughout the restaurant turned their gaze towards me, one by one, and I feared they were noticing the signs of fatigue in my posture. A return journey was growing more unlikely with each party I tended to.

Eventually the influx of time-travelling patrons slowed, and I caught a couple of seconds at the waiter’s station when Valdis was occupied elsewhere. The mix of spices drifting from the grilled meats on passing trays momentarily soothed my senses and tantalized my stomach, which rumbled in return. Watching the other waiting staff scramble like panicked insects, I doubted my hosts would bother to provide food for us, let alone a rest.

What struck me next was that the other waiting staff were more akin to Valdis, Roth and the rest than I; the same characteristics applied, though in varying degrees. My mind recalled talk of exclusion zones: a nuclear war was my first assumption, or a meltdown. The mutations were more severe in some than in others, and the ones who were hampered by theirs found they were among the first to be taken from

the floor.

I blinked, my eyes closing for longer than I anticipated. I was awoken by a sharp voice.

“Lucy!”

Valdis was scowling at me, her spidery digits tapping on her touchpad with irritation.

“I’m sorry, I—” “Thankfully your work has been up to code this afternoon, which is more than I can say for this batch we currently have,” she nodded in the direction of the dining area, her head sloshing with fluids. “I am willing to allow you ten minutes in the waiter’s quarters as recompense.” Her smile did not fill me with confidence, but I was too exhausted to argue.

My mouth felt as if I had been chewing gravel for five hours, and pains were shooting up and down my spine; I accepted and was led away from the candlelit glow of the restaurant.

The guard in front of me was dressed in a dark purple dinner jacket and trousers, his head nursed by a steel frame fitted to his shoulders. He was tall, well over six foot, but slender. My tired brain urged me to try and topple him, shove him over the rail to our left and take my chances.

What did I have to lose?

All too soon we arrived at an unmarked door, and a rotting fear ate at my stomach. The guard wrenched it open and pointed into the dimly lit closet space. Inside was a single bed with a lone pillow, situated across from a mop bucket.

“You can sleep in here,” he grunted, “Ten minutes only.”

My limbs cried out for the mattress, as uncomfortable as this appeared.

Would this guy seal the door and leave? Patience was not one of his qualities and he drew a strange weapon from his belt, aiming it at my chest. It looked enough like a gun for me to comply. Lord knows what kind of technology these people considered weapons.

I’d no sooner stepped towards the open closet than a shrill sound pierced the air. The tall guard shifted his view erratically, seeming to look for a sign of what was going on. The fear in my gut bubbled to adrenaline as I noticed he had completely forgotten I existed; I used the last of my strength to drive a shoulder into his bloated abdomen, knocking the wind out of him.

The gun clattered onto the floor.

With narrow arms, the guard linked one around the railing behind him and the other he tried to link around my waist. I pulled back, as far as his grip would allow, and made a second push, this time ousting him over the edge completely. The descending cry was paved over by the continuous screech of the alarm.

Scooping up the weapon, my screaming back promptly reminded me of this afternoon’s waiting shift. I gritted my teeth and sprinted across the landing, hoping that I wouldn’t tumble straight into the arms of one of the hosts.

Further down the deck I could just make out the outlines of Valdis’s staff, panicking as they tried to reason with their awful customers. I smirked at the sight, slinking down the nearest staircase until I was on the ground floor. In the scarlet-lined thralls of what I imagined to be the Genesis’s reception area, the two post-humans on the other side of the desk were locked in a heated argument.

The entrance doors sat opposite but wouldn’t close. Then I saw why.

Lodged between the door and wall was a body, its navy shirt and black

waistcoat glistening with a sticky red. The door attempted to close, bounced off the face-down corpse, then retried.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” I mumbled, breathing heavy. The weapon I had taken from the guard could well have been a pistol, its design complex and riddled with glowing buttons. Part of me wanted to risk it and try to open fire; if the body in the lobby was any indication of what a dash would result in, fighting might be the best option.

I panted, sweat teeming down my neck into the collar. The uniform made my skin itch as I stood idle in the stairway, fingers gripping the gun until my knuckles turned white.

Jogging down the last few steps, weapon raised, I saw the confused rage in the lobby staff’s faces. Before they could pick up weapons of their own, a scolding hole erupted from both of their torsos. They slammed against the desk and moved no more. Standing on the stairs opposite me was another of their kind, a steaming rifle in its hands. His apparel matched my own.

“You’re that girl, the new hire,” he grimaced, weathered teeth showing.

“Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re out,” the gunman puffed, “Maxim, a friend of mine, got into those bastards’ defence network. Collar’s are offline, if you want to run.”

“To where?” I asked, staring at the pressing foliage lining the entranceway.

The guy scoffed, “Anywhere! Anywhere’s better than here, no?”

At that moment, he was joined on the steps by another two like him, decked out in uniforms. They paused when they came into eyeline with me.

“Who’s this, another runner?” one of them murmured.

Above our heads, the alarm harped on. # The terrain was rugged and covered with dense plant life. The world of two hundred and sixty-six million years ago was not what I had expected at all, and segments of my brain were struggling to accept it.

We’d run for as long as our legs could carry us, until the Genesis restaurant was a black speck on the horizon and the wailing siren had faded into the thick warmth of the dying day. Occasionally a creature of unknown origin would roar miles off. Other than that, we were accompanied only by our heavy breathing as we navigated the brush, led by the gunman from the lobby.

His name, as he muttered over his shoulder, was Vym and he appeared to have the lay of the land better than the others.

Maxim, his friend, had been the one to shut off the collar network supposedly; she brought up the rear. Keeping pace with me was another of their post-human kin, Allindra. Vym had to take this from her nametag as she couldn’t speak a word.

After a lengthy spell on the move, Vym had guided us through a clearing into which the red prehistoric sky bled, clearing the wide leaves with both hands until a blackened doorway was revealed leading inside a sheer rock face. I was apprehensive about stepping into the cold dark, causing irritation to my new captor; Maxim walked with Allindra, and Vym shrugged at me, pacing off after them.

I took one last look at the outside world and crossed the threshold.

A further march for about a half-mile brought us to a wider section of

the cave where others of Vym’s kind lingered, whispering amongst themselves. It was here that we finally had a chance to sit and catch our breaths. Various cooked meats wrapped in leaves were brought to us as Vym mingled among the people. Questioning the meat for a second or two, I found that my stomach couldn’t resist; I ravaged the lean flesh, leaving the bone in the tattered leaf on the rock by my side. I then spent minutes trying to suppress hiccups from eating so fast, much to the confusion of the folk in the cave.

Soon after, Vym returned and ushered me away from my seat, bringing me further into the heart of the cavern. Here the chalklike walls shrunk away, creating wide openings with alcoves where the post-humans huddled and slept. They watched me with curiosity as we strode by.

Melting candles graced several of these recesses, the kind of table dressings I recognised from the dining area of the Genesis. The air was cooler in here, though brought about a damp smell with each step.

Halting in a corner, Vym nodded to a figure just out of view; he then turned to me, his eyes almost disapproving, and plodded out the way we had come.

Seconds later, the figure in the shadow made itself known. Its head stood taller than those I had seen up until now, wrapped in a piece of torn black cloth; it wore the same across its mouth and nose, partially, I imagined, due to the damp reek in the caverns. What was left of the clothes on its person were torn, including that of a cloak; this dragged along the floor of the cave, dipping into small pools as the being edged closer.

“You are a very strange creature, are you not?” its eyes narrowed.

I didn’t know how to respond, looking left and right for Vym. The reason I was brought to this darkened nook was not yet apparent, but I wagered it was about to be made so.

“Do you have a name?”

“Uh, Lucy. Lucy Cross.”

“Odd, odd,” the being shook its wrinkled dome, chattering to itself for a moment.

“And you are?”

It snapped out of its daze suddenly. “Kal Earon will suffice,” and he motioned for me to sit by him on a flat outcrop. “Yes, very odd indeed.

You are not like the regular kind the Genesis brings in, oh no.”

A chill ran down my neck. “The regular kind?”

“Oh yes, the poor souls from the E.Zs! Didn’t you pay attention during orientation?” spluttered Kal Earon, “Us, dear girl! Surely you have at least noticed you’re different?”

“It occurred to me, “ I said through gritted teeth, “I don’t exactly belong here, as I tried to tell the management at the Genesis. But what do you know of that place? You seem to know something, at the very least.”

Kal Earon shuffled in his seat. “It is unfortunate that I know of that horrid restaurant, a bastion of treachery at the beginning of time. Judging by your appearance, I’d wager you haven’t seen the kind of atrocities that our people have; your hair, for one thing. It has been decades since I lost mine. And your skin! Not in any number of lifetimes could I have dreamt of having a complexion such as yours, for we are all born under the smoglines and see little of the sun, yes.”

I scratched at my chin, ignoring the constant irritation of the uniform that I was still wearing, and watched as Kal Earon steadied his cranium against a slim palm, rising from his seat.

“Still, there will be time for discussion about our birthlands later. Or maybe not, and I hope not. There is much to plan, as we have been doing

so for a long while. By now, even by primitive standards, you will have figured out that the Genesis is the heart of all temporal activity in this region. Labour is beamed in by the guild, the clientele beam in of their own accord; do you understand? How long have you been in their employ, Lucy?”

“Five hours, judging by the digital display I saw in the restaurant.”

A look of surprise crossed Kal Earon’s brow. “Impressive, very. It is doubtful you had much of an opportunity to explore the building. Few do.

There are sentinels all over. Vym, who rescued you this evening, was previously one of them. He knows what truly goes on in the blackness below ground, where the darling eyes of the public are shielded from a reality so harsh, it would put them off their soup.

“Unfortunately, that foul sanctuary holds the only true escape to this prison on the edge of time, that being the means to send us home,” the old man wandered the floor, lost in thought, “Or, indeed anywhere.”

By this point, my own head was swimming. The shock of our contraption back in Salt Lake City, housed in an unused gym hall in the University of Utah, having actually generated a result and hurled a pilot through the ages, was too much for my tired brain to comprehend. Yet here I was, and not the only travellers at that! The mental image of the dinosaur silhouette I had witnessed earlier beyond the grounds of the Genesis flickered into my mind’s eye, and for the first time today, my thoughts were allowed to process.

Kal Earon, whether out of quiet curiosity or pity for a creature he deemed underdeveloped, granted me a moment’s peace and folded his arms, leaning against the cavern walls. He shut his eyes and would seem to be asleep for a good while, standing upright. After the passing of several minutes, he approached again and gently shook my shoulder.

“You are weary. It has most likely been a day filled with large questions

and little answers. I shall have one of our number make you a bed for the night, and we can discuss more in the morning.”

At the motion of Kal Earon’s outstretched finger, a post-human appeared and nodded for me to follow on. I glanced back only once, seeing the old man lower his slender frame back onto his seat in the alcove. His existence was raising many questions, however it was nowhere near the point to be asking them.

I was shown to my own spot tucked to the side of the cavern wall, not a far walk from Kal Earon’s space. A thin blanket awaited me on the ground.

Sleep came upon swiftly, despite the best efforts of the uniform and collar gnawing at me as I lay. Eventually the shapes of the cavern’s people close by blurred into a mix of shades against a backdrop of soft water droplets. # My segment of the cave was bathed in darkness when I woke. An everweakening glow from candles could be seen further along the winding passage, an orange glow throbbing against the gloom.

It took seconds for my eyes to grow accustomed to the surroundings, but when they did, they picked out the shape of Vym perched opposite where I lay, arms folded and back straight. His glower could still be made out, even in the blackness of the nook.

“I have need of your help, new hire,” he pointed a protracted finger towards the end of the passage, slinking off his perch and out of sight. He returned a second later with a bundle in his arms, dropping them on the ground and disappearing again. “Dress. And hurry.”

What the bundle held was an assortment of pelts and skins, of which animals I couldn’t guess in my bleary state. They couldn’t have been any itchier than the awful uniform that still clung to my body with perspiration, and I undressed, quickly wrapping up in some of the thicker brown furs. I left the discarded uniform in a pile next to the dreadfully uncomfortable shoes Valdis had picked for me, stumbling along the path to catch up with Vym. He waited in a spot as the passage forked, waving me towards a narrow avenue that curved upwards and to the left, and led out onto a rocky shelf peering down the side of the mountain. A blanket of stars stretched out over the darkened sky, the moon high and waxing; a hundred feet below, bristles on conifers shook in the light breeze, the winds a welcome interruption in the thick humid night. Witnessing a land untouched by civilisation, untouched by the very ravages of onwardmarching time was, for those brief moments, breathtaking.

I crouched by Vym, resting on the balls of my feet as he leaned over the edge, searching the valley below. “A patrol passed through here tonight,” he said, pulling himself back to a sitting position, “I haven’t seen one in a long while, before tonight, I should say.” He stared at me, expectantly. I shrugged. “Kal Earon believes you can help us, new hire. I’m not so sure. I also believe that the search team is on the hunt for you.”

My blood ran cold at the thought of Vym turning me in, even rolling me down the jagged slopes.

“Why did you rescue me if you plan on turning me over to them?”

“That’s not our intention. Maxim and I were pulling a raid, we do it every now and then. It’s how we keep our numbers up, by freeing those the Genesis has had beamed in from our time. You just happened to start your shift on a very fortuitous day.”

“So, what do you possibly need from me, if you can already break in and

out of that place?”

Vym grunted, “Breaking in creates noise, raises the alarms. As you know, Maxim can interrupt their collar system no problem, but that’s the least of the guards’ worries when there’s heavy gunfire erupting across the decks. I’d prefer we infiltrate, that way we can take our time and scope out the lower levels, places I’ve not seen the inside of. And with a technician—” he nodded at me, “—in our ranks, maybe crack the device that holds all the secrets: their temporal transporter. If our team can search, unhindered by alarms.”

I rolled my head, shaking sleep from my mind.

“Kal Earon says you already know what goes on at the heart of the Genesis—” “It is true that I used to be amongst their employ! The layout is fresh in my mind, though intricate details of their in-house time device and where it’s kept are outside of my knowledge. I am aware of what goes on below the oak slats, out of the sun’s reach, with regards to the labour after their shifts expire,” said Vym, gravely mulling over the details, internally preparing them for me before my watchful gaze.

Multiple beams danced on the horizon. We lay low on our stomachs, slowing our breathing.

“Osric let slip that the restaurant has recently employed around eleven thousand staff,” I whispered.

There was a pause. The lights in the distance drifted behind the foliage.

Sighing, Vym turned to me, eyes fixed to the ground. “Staff are worked until they expire, but they aren’t sent back to the 39th century, as they’d have you believe.”

“Do you know where they go, though?”

“Certainly. As soon as they drop, management carts them into the lower levels; they are given a bout of electroshock, and then laid in lead coffins and liquidized.”

My wide eyes burned into the side of his bulbous head.

“Don’t order the soup,” he added.

I barely had the chance to ask a following question as I was silenced again. The beams in the valley were coming from lamps, a group of four figures rustling in the overgrown plants. As they neared the ridge where we hid, I saw their uniforms resembled something close to biohazard safety suits, baggy silver fabric with a dark plastic visor. Each one carried a weighty looking backpack, and long rifles upon which sat their lamps.

Leaning close, Vym cupped his hand. “The patrol I mentioned. We need their uniforms. With these, we can get four of my people into the Genesis.”

A sickness brewed deep within me as my view darted between the lights in the darkness and the gunman crouched beside me. Wrapped in the pelts, Vym could have passed for a wild animal at that point, on the verge of pouncing.

Pulling one of the furs up and over his mouth and nose, he urged me to follow him down a faint path that curled down the cliff face, past the lip of the ridge. The patrol kept their sights low to the ground, thankfully, and the beams did not trouble us. We gradually worked our way down, edging to the jungle floor down the narrowest of pathways. My foot then clipped a cleft of gravel over the side, scattering stones over the waiting plantlife and conjuring a sound like artificial rain on their descent. I clapped a hand over my mouth, gasping.

Vym shot an angered look back.

Surprisingly, the four did not seem to notice. Instead, they appeared to be getting fed up with searching the area and were preparing to move on.

Dropping the last few feet to the floor, I trailed after Vym as we crawled into the dense green world. The beams shifted focus, searching the trees opposite, and swaying as if affected by the breeze. All four silverclad patrolmen had their backs to us, unaware of the impending danger from the enraged post-human approaching like a snake in the grass.

His movements were fluid, as if he had been hunting his entire life. It was difficult to image Vym growing up in the 3800s, as it had been drip-fed to me, it sounded like they lived a mostly urbanised lifestyle within the ruins of the E.Zs. Yet his skill with his bare hands alone was astounding; shortly after, he would explain that he did not want to sully the patrol uniforms with blood by using a weapon, as that would render the disguise next to useless on arrival. He also clearly did not want my help or any kind of intervention on my part, opting to subdue his prey one by one and at a pace that suited him, and him alone.

As the fourth neck was snapped and the valley was deemed safe again, Vym extended his back and waved to me over the waist-high leaves.

“It is done,” he panted, “These garments will allow us entry.”

“These are too large for me,” I tapped at one of the bodies buried in the vegetation, the realisation that they were freshly dead not quite sitting with me yet.

“That is true, they will not fit a primitive of your size. Teams such as these are only deployed when the collars fail. Management prefers the fabric of time outwith their walls be left undisturbed,” said Vym, crouching and slowly rotating the body. Under the glow of the moon, he

fished around in the backpack, his spindly fingers digging into each of the pouches. He unclipped the top segment, unrolling a black plastic sheath the length of the patrolman’s corpse.

“This,” he motioned, “is how you will get back into the Genesis.” # Thump.

Thump.

Beads of sweat collected on my forehead and the back of my neck, my suspended body crashing against the insides of the plastic cocoon.

Thump.

I wrestled my hand through the minute opening above, pushing the zip away and stretching the opening. The night air was warm still, offering little refreshment.

“Quiet, we’re nearing the restaurant,” came Vym’s gruff voice, dampened by the plastic. “You’ll get the signal when we’re in.”

The trip lasted longer than I had anticipated, my breathing becoming more laboured with each lurch of the bag. At the front and back of the container were two of Vym’s people, dressed in the disguise of the patrol group; Vym himself strode alongside, though I could not figure out which side he was on with his voice muffled as it was. Another was meant to be bringing up the rear.

His mood had remained sour during the planning phase. Their cover story was to be that they had caught and killed a member of Kal Earon’s tribe in the wild, bagged them up and brought them in for liquidation. The term, coupled with the intense heat in the body bag, made me want to

vomit.

Thump.

Voices came and went, all suppressed to my ears. Some were raised, most were calm.

A steady descent followed, part of me worrying that I would slide out the bottom and crash out onto the floor in the middle of a crowded corridor.

Then it really would be game over.

Thump. Thump.

Soon the unforgiving hard touch of the floor nestled into my back, and the upper corners of the plastic sheath deflated around me like a circus tent being taken down at the end of a show. As I attempted to wriggle free of the bondage, a low voice grumbled close to me.

“Don’t move, lie still, say nothing.”

I paused, pushing my body flat against the floor. The pistol I had taken from my jailor before the escape now pressed into my ribs, and it took a moment of shuffling to find a position that didn’t cause further agony.

“We’ll be back for you in twenty minutes,” said the voice that sounded like Vym’s. “Keep breathing,” he chuckled as the four pairs of boots stomped off, their echoing footfalls fading gradually.

How long I lay there, I had no idea. My thoughts kept flitting back to 2076, to my team that were undoubtedly hovering around our original time device in that gym hall in Utah; imagining their panicked expressions was a bittersweet comfort, and I wished I could reappear in a puff of smoke and hear their mingling voices. I longed to just know that everything was alright, or at least would be.

Although I had no watch, I felt that twenty minutes had come and gone and had not brought Vym and his friends back. Peeping through the slot in the zip, I could make out only the yellow glow of the ceiling lights and the smooth grey flooring that they cast their rays on.

“And here they are!”

Every muscle tensed at once. The voice was close, familiar too. Were they standing over me?

“Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”

Valdis!

I gripped the pistol tight, perspiration squeezing from a numbed palm.

Sensory deprivation caused me to panic, imagining the spidery hands latching around the zip and peeling it back.

With one great flick of her wrist, the zip whirred down. I rolled onto my back, pistol drawn in the shocked face of the Genesis restaurant’s supervisor. She picked at her cravat, panting as I crawled out of my cocoon. The room was a lot smaller than I initially thought; cabinets covered most of the walls, and, more concerningly, a stack of neatly folded black body bags, similar to my own, sat in one corner.

I nudged the door shut, pistol trained on Valdis. She gathered her next line carefully, recovering from a genuine shock to her withered heart.

“Well, Lucy, I never expected to see you again. Certainly not alive, at any rate.”

It was obvious she was judging the animal pelts that were wrapped around my skin, a mocking grin stripping my soul bare. I shook this off, taking a step towards her, pistol aimed at her swelled cranium.

“I suspect that this little game has been perpetrated by Kal Earon?

Would I be correct?” Valdis regained some of her lost composure, rubbing at her sunken chin. “Yes, the madman in the jungle—” “I’m surprised you know him,” I muttered, heart crashing in my chest.

“Sadly, we do know of him. He did work here, for a spell.”

“One of your management? Or one of the ‘countless thousands of lucky individuals’ the Genesis plucked from the future?”

Valdis snickered, her top lip protruding.

“He was management, Lucy. Back then, you’d have found him a much fouler individual than I, I can tell you. Kal loathed labour beamed in from the guild. He’d remark that their minds weren’t up for the challenge of providing six-star dining service after years of nuclear fallout and bone idleness. Did I agree with everything he ever came out with? No—” And she inched closed to the barrel of the pistol. I slid a foot back, preparing for Valdis to attempt to rush me.

“—Nonetheless, he was Genesis, through and through. He just doesn’t agree with management these days, or when it suits him, it seems!

Launches his silly attacks with Vym and the other squatters because the company won’t send them back.”

“No? And why won’t they? Might save you folk a lot of hassle.”

“Their contracts have been terminated; they have left the business. Kal and Vym abandoned their posts, left without notice! I don’t know what time you’re from, Lucy, but that is not business etiquette here!”

“2076…” I blurted out.

“Excuse me, dear?”

“I’m from 2076!” I pulsed towards the post-human, watching her shrivel into a shaking heap as the gun neared her chest. My nerves were burning, every inch of me alight with fury and exhaustion. “I have told you numerous goddamn times: I’m from 2076! I wasn’t sent by the Employment Guild, and I’m glad of it!”

“Okay, okay—” “Kal Earon already told me you had a time device here, so I have to thank you for confirming that,” I nearly smirked at Valdis’s ghostly pale face. I pulled the weapon away from her; as awful of a person as she was, seeing her tremble because of me was a fresh kind of sickness that I wanted to shake off immediately. “Now, I’m going to ask you politely, and I hope that you’ll see reason. Can you please send me home?”

Valdis’s thin lips crinkled into a fresh smile, the first wholesome expression she had made since we’d met.

“I- I can,” and she wiggled her fingers around her neck, “I can also get that off for you.” And she pointed at the collar still fixed around my throat; putting up with it had become second nature now.

Pistol raised, I allowed Valdis to approach. Her spiced perfume lingered in the air as she worked; and work fast she did. The black band separated and fell away into her hand, and she gingerly slunk back into the corner of the room. I contemplated offering my thanks, figuring I should save that until after she had done what I initially asked. Instead, I motioned towards the door with the pistol, Valdis shimmying along the back wall on command, knowing where she had to take us.

“You know, you’re much more civilised than I gave you credit for,” spoke Valdis over her shoulder, the gun now resting in her lower back as she reached for the door. “You aren’t one of Vym’s crew at all. Certainly not of the same ilk as Kal Earon.”

I ignored her as we entered the hallway, the passage too cramped for two. She trudged onwards, on the lookout for other members of staff; on the rare instance when someone was in the vicinity, Valdis gave me a signal and I held back, keeping her hunched spine within arm’s reach.

Moving down another flight of stairs, the building’s layout appeared to alter in the lower floors. Corridors were curved, as if encircling some inner chamber, and I began to get the feeling that we were drawing closer to the epicentre of the Genesis.

Relief washed over me on seeing an empty reception desk in these lower levels as cover was lacking, especially with there being no corners to duck behind. Seeing as we were alone again, Valdis resumed her speech.

“As I was previously saying, Lucy, I understand you to be far above the intellect of those savages with which you ran. Vym is clever in his own right, but a known troublemaker with no respect for the rules. You understand the rules, and you played by them for a strong five hours, though you are clearly displaced in time. I appreciate that, as does the company,” she reduced her volume at the sound of voices rising from an adjacent corridor. We increased our step.

“What’s your point?” I whispered, ducking between Valdis and the wall.

“Dear girl, my point, as you so bluntly put it, is that you are not them, as much as they are not you. Why, what was Vym’s plan? To leave you in a corpse carrier on the floor for anyone to find?”

I exhaled, shivering slightly.

“They wouldn’t tell you the plan, would they?” she grinned, her pointed tongue running along the row of discoloured teeth. “Good gracious, Lucy!

And these are the people you’re in league with!”

I butted the barrel into her lower back, “Keep your goddamn voice down.”

We moved twenty paces down the hall, Valdis’s flat shoes clopping loudly on the wooden floors. Stopping at a room on the bend, she produced a blue keycard made of a gleaming plastic and slid it into a reader slot on the wall; the metallic door slid apart, and we continued inside.

“I see no reason for you to keep that thing drawn on me after I have already agreed to help you,” Valdis said over her shoulder. “I am assisting you of my own desire to right my previous mistake, not out of fear for my own skin.” She reached over to a panel on her right and yanked the lever that hung from it. White spotlights on the ceiling burst into life; I shielded my eyes for a second. “All I would kindly ask is a favour in return, before you go hopping off in our machine.” And Valdis waved at the chair in the centre of the room, installed on a dais and surrounded by a ring of chesthigh racks.

I couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the device. It had a more basic aesthetic to it than I had imagined theirs would, expecting a velvetcoated seat and gold handrails as opposed to a lightly padded chair of steel construction with no frills. Perhaps due to it being so far-removed from the public that this utility was treated as such: no pomp necessary.

Valdis gauged the look on my face and linked her hands, tapping the tips together.

“Here you have it, as promised. Your window to the future,” she gestured, like a salesman entering the final stages of a pitch, “Can I ask but one favour in return, now?”

“If you must,” I sighed.

“Excellent. You are, without a doubt, eager to depart. We, on the other hand, are eager to keep our activities within the boundaries of the restaurant, as I believe you recall.”

I nodded, remembering Osric’s lecture from yesterday.

“The runaways you encountered are thus in breach of several temporal laws, even just by living out in the wild,” Valdis looked me up and down, her reddened fish-like eyes glazing over on further inspection of the furs wrapped around my hips and breasts. “Why, the clothes they have gathered from the hides of the creatures of the Mesozoic are in violation of so many laws, it makes my head spin! Aside from that matter, I would much prefer you inform the company of wherever their… den, is, if you can call it that. Where do they do their scheming?”

Clicking a button on the side of the touchpad in her blazer pocket, Valdis held it out to me. On the dark orange screen there glowed a rugged outline snaking away from a central square marked ‘Gen’. I began to identify sections of this map, remembering the paths used to escape the restaurant, and the alcove in the rock face shown to us by Vym. I looked at Valdis, her short-lived wholesome smile mutating into something much more sinister.

Apprehensive, I raised my hand to the glow of the screen.

“What do you intend to do?”

“Welcome them back, of course!” Valdis’s lips turned black as she scrunched them together, “Though I understand they will undoubtedly view this as an act of hostility, management would much rather see them brought inside the complex rather than risking the human race’s timeline by having them dwelling in the wilds, interacting with the flora and fauna.”

“Small acts can create large ripples,” I murmured, a line told to me by Eddie Warwick, another tech from our team. My heart ached thinking of them, and of dreaming of Salt Lake City itself. The line landed with Valdis, as she nodded her wobbling head in agreement.

“You speak the truth, Lucy. Who knows what damage will have been caused by their reckless endeavours, centuries from now?”

A shudder passed down my spine. This might be the only opportunity I get to escape back to my own time. For all I knew, Vym and his team had been captured and processed already.

I pointed to the location of the cave on the map, a sinking feeling coming over me. # A torrent of clicking came from the keyboard as Valdis configured the machine, claiming it hadn’t been used in many weeks. I was quick to remind her that I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her down if she tried to alert the staff; so far, she had kept her word.

“I merely passed the coordinates you gave me on to Roth,” she hissed from the console, “You can lower that weapon, Lucy. There are no patrols waiting to storm this room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I watched over her shoulder at the screens of symbols scrolling upwards, grateful to myself for not killing her at first sight. I didn’t know why Vym assumed I would be able to tinker with this contraption any better than he could. The language on display was completely alien.

After a period, a series of thuds ruptured from outside the door. Shouts followed, then sounds of an ensuing scuffle. On the edge of her seat, Valdis was poised to leap up and investigate, until I reminded her that it would be a bad idea. The minutes wore on, time crawling at a snail’s pace until she gave me the all-clear.

“You are safe to enter, Lucy,” Valdis sighed, the most deflated I had seen her, “If you could leave the pelts, the company would be eternally grateful.”

Resigned, I stripped myself of the warm furs and clambered into the steel seat on the dais, the platform sharply cold on my bare feet. Valdis

obediently assisted, swinging the heavy clamps across my ankles and wrists. She slipped the pistol from my grasp and set it down on the table next to the pelts; my hand suddenly felt naked without it. I started to wonder just where on Earth the time device would send me, where I would end up after passing through a jump.

The shouting in the hall intensified.

Valdis had no sooner returned to her own seat than the console began emitting a bleeping sound. Scooping up a headset from the desk, she answered a call, to which I could only hear from her side. It was news that pleased her, at any rate, and that meant a more positive outcome for me.

“Well, you have come through for us, Lucy,” her face creased with delight, “Roth followed your coordinates, and his team has not long since returned.”

“They didn’t kill any of them, did they?” I asked, irritated at how childlike I sounded.

“There were some casualties. Kal Earon would not go quietly, but we have the majority of his followers in custody,” Valdis scratched at the cracked skin under her hairpiece, “And we have you to thank for fixing our little time traveller problem.”

“And Vym?” “He will be furious, but I fear his end is closer than he realises. I will leave it to Roth and his people to sniff them out. They can’t have gone far.”

She clacked on the keyboard again and the machinery around me whirred and groaned. Stepping awkwardly onto the platform beside me, Valdis adjusted a steel band from the headrest of my seat, pressing it onto my sweat-stained brow.

The din in the hallway died down until it was buried beneath the humming of the fans in the racks. It occurred to me that the commotion may have been the rest of Vym’s people being dragged into custody by their new jailors. Their screaming voices stabbed through the white noise at regular intervals, a harrowing ghostly wail reminding me of what Vym had told me up on the ridge.

My eyes widened as the solitary door to the chamber slid open and in waddled another post-human, dressed sharply in a black suit one size too small for him. He was pushing a cart towards us.

As he neared, I understood what it was. A casket made of solid lead.

Valdis gave me an almost apologetic look as she saw the fear in me, saw me hysterically trying to shift my limbs under the weight of the clamps.

“This will take about fifteen minutes,” she mused, though whether she was talking to me or just to the stale chamber air, I would never know.

Flitting her sunken eyes, Valdis strolled towards the door, waving back just the once. I shouted myself hoarse, the crackle of electrodes gathering around me like a storm. “The primitive being discharged, is that right?” asked the casket-bearer.

“Oh yes,” mumbled Valdis, adjusting her bouffant as it lurched to one side, “Her shift at the Genesis is complete. Save the hair from this one, if you can.”

I could just make out her winking at me before she strutted out, the heavy door sliding closed in her wake.

Planet Survival Simon Collinson

Braganza! I scream out your terrible name.

Curse such a vile and disgusting lot. The foul name brings shame for the stain it has covered that part of the universe it nests and gorges itself in parasitic feasting and wallowing in their own filth. Such a repellant, repulsive bunch of salivating beasts.

Damn Braganza!

Those Braganza scum are as rancid as the meat that they stuff into their disgusting heads. Don’t go near a Braganza for they carry diseases and are hideous and loathsome to behold. Those that go near them are sure to be contaminated. Their monstrous form is a true guide to their evil character and souls. The grotesqueness of the outside reflects the monstrosity inside.

Braganza ways are vile and wicked. They are like parasites that draw out all the goodness and life around them and consume all in a disgusting way.

The universe will only be safe once the Braganza filth has been eradicated like the vile vermin they match. Since the Braganzans appeared there has only been misery. For they are nasty and vicious creatures. Truly dreadful. A stain upon lifeforms, bemiring the entirety with their ugliness and nasty, filthy ways.

Braganzans, curse the name! The universe’s shame. With their rancid ways and foulness. What a disgusting and revolting lot.

They pollute us all with their loathsome presence. And they multiply exceedingly fast. If we let it, this disgusting and revolting foulness will overwhelm all.

We have been watching Braganza, a much larger neighbouring planet for centuries now.

It seems to have grown fat on the suffering of many that live around it.

Braganza! Oh curse that stain upon the universe! Our planet is so much smaller in size. From what we can gleam the beings on Braganza are like giants and are many. We are small and few. Countless teams have been sent out to give us information about our foul foe. They will be forever remembered and honoured for their noble sacrifice.

Our Braganza enemy is cruel, merciless and greedy. They seek to take over all the places they are close to. Braganzans live to fight. They are a violent pack of animals. The anger in them is frightening. Even with their own kind they argue and fight. Always fighting and destroying. They seem to build only to destroy. Their only aim is to destroy. They live only for slaughter. They seem to enjoy it!

Braganza sadists.

Oh cursed Braganza! So much unhappiness and sorrow brought by your planet.

We have watched and waited too long, looking over their many ill deeds as they just keep on destroying everything around them.

We must be cleansed of these mass murdering maniacs once and for all before they wipe everything else out. We have known and feared for centuries that Braganza would one day cast their rapacious and covetous eyes upon our small planet, Dinos.

Every young on Dinos has been instilled with the need to prepare for the inevitable time that Braganza will attack, invade and likely overwhelm us.

We who are so few and small cannot hope to escape our fate of being crushed or enslaved by those pitiless Braganzans The images that our craft have taken of Braganzan lifeforms show a truly ugly and repulsive lot.

The ugliest images are shown in Dinoan schools, colleges and workplace as a graphic reminded of the wretched wickedness we are up against. I admit though that sometimes the view of such repellent forms can bring about screams and sickness in some of the younger Dinoans. This is all understandable in view of the grotesque abominations that they are looking at.

Truely their outward form reveal their inner bestial nature.

Curse the day their ancestors crawled out of the swamp.

Dinos relies upon its small size to escape the attention of those prying planets around us. We have developed technology that keeps the planet under a veil that has camouflaged us up till now.

But the evil Braganzan scum have cast their greedy eyes around our tiny planet. Every year they send up more and more of their rockets to seek out more harmless planets to take over and enslave. Oh, the Braganzans will lie and smile their devious smiles and tell the others that they come in peace. But really they are just sharpening their weapons to be ready to slaughter.

We have lived in fear for centuries what fate awaits our tiny planet once the vile Braganzans find us and attack. We who are so small cannot hope to win a war against such a ruthless and brutal adversary.

But there is hope yet! The learned ones on Dinos have developed a weapon that may yet turn the tables on those Braganzan monsters.

Rockets are being loaded with the formula as I write and we are sending the cargo of the blessed poison so that it will hit Braganza all over their accursed world.

Our beautiful weapon, I am told, will start an explosion of rapidly growing mould, and will cover their land in a matter of weeks and will regrow

faster than they can cut it. The Braganza vermin will be weakened.

Oh joy and praise! many of them will be killed! Great news indeed.

Braganza production will fall, like a stone. No longer will they be able to send invasion craft to torment and destroy our world. Dinos will be saved from the clutches of the contaminated scum of Braganza.

In time the mould will recede. Maybe it will take many centuries. And the few miserable Braganzans that remain can restart their awful lives and ways again. But they will not have the means to threaten Dinos for many centuries.

This will give our glorious leaders a chance to develop new weapons and talk with the other beings who are threatened by this thieving planet.

The Dinoans will stand firm with the Fetlins, the Marroggi, the Goans and the honourable Hippolara. Together we will stop the Braganza swine.

Our last information gathering team, blessed by their memory, their sacrifice will never be forgotten, sent back new information. It seems our mortal enemy the Braganzans call themselves “Earth”. Ha ! what dolts , fools and sons of stupidity. Having a stupid name won’t save you from the destruction your wicked ways have brought upon yourself.

For already the rockets sent loaded with flesh devouring mould are landing on your miserable planet and starting to grow and multiply. Soon it will spread all over their filthy flesh and finish them off!

I hope you choke you Braganzan Bastards! Oh happy days! I feel a hundred years younger already.

The first blow has been struck against the odious pests that have infested this universe for too long. It is the beginning of their doom! Even now our allies are working on even more terrible weapons that will surely finish off any surviving Braganza scum.

Dinos be saved. The universe will be saved. There is nothing they can do now to stop their destruction. They have done too much already that they are well past redemption.

There can be no forgiveness for their crimes against the universe.

There can be no lasting peace with such depraved monstrosities that inhabit this sewer of a planet. Eradication is the only answer.

There is one question that taxes our minds. What is the fate to be of a place, a body that has given birth, nurtured and given succour to this rotten monstrosity?

We and our allies are divided.

Some feel that after the great deliverance of the planet, the evil ones called “Earth”, should be renamed “Stain”. This place should be destroyed, as it is forever indelibly tainted by its association with such disgusting foulness.

Others propose that the unfortunate body of soil, water and rock should be immured in perpetuity so that no one who follows will ever be forced to look upon such a disgusting sight or a heinous memory brought to mind. We quickly disposed of the idea that we or one of our noble allies should take over this accursed place known as “Earth”. I want to vomit and wretch saying those words.

Who would want to go near such an awful place? It would be too nauseating for any with our fine and civilised ways. The danger of contamination from this vile place would be too great. It is too great a sacrifice to ask of any decent being.

Even the worst of us would flinch at such a fate. Who would choose to rule over such rottenness and stench?

Who would deign to reign over such a Hell?

The Bride of Terril Simon Collinson

I stood there staring at the one eyed doll. Cathy was shouting, “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Frankie?”

I’d heard that a lot over the past three months. It was just over three months ago that I had told my friends and family that I was getting married.

That was a shock.

They said “Frankie, we never had you down for getting married, you didn’t seem the marrying kind.”

I hadn’t been in a relationship in over six years. They were intrigued, though. “Well tell me who the lucky guy is? I want to know who has managed to win your heart. Go on dish the dirt”, They usually said.

To be honest I didn’t know much about the prospective groom. Other than that he was incredibly rich and ruled an entire planet. His name was Terril. Lord Terril. Oh and that he wasn’t a human either.

That was another shock.

That was the part where all the people in the room went quiet, mum’s lips straightened and pursed. And dad went a worrying shade of puse.

Dad spoke next,“I’m not happy about you marrying an alien. An alien we’ve never met and don’t know anything about”.

Society had come a long way in terms of toleration, but it still had a way to go.

The war that Earth waged with the Hadens and all their Hellish legions of Hades for control of Pluto didn’t help. The Hadens had captured the moon and were regularly firing missiles at Earth. There was a lot of anti alien feeling in society.

I hoped once they got to know Lord Terril they would change and accept him as their son in law. Hell what was I saying. I didn’t know anything about Terril. We’d never met or dated. Lord Terril on the other side of the universe.

It was all arranged remotely. Terril was looking for a bride. Apparently Terril had a thing for Earth women. I answered the call. And was chosen as a bride for Terril.

I had not even seen a photograph of my groom. They said Terrill wasn’t what you call,” a looker”. The words they used were “interestingly hideous”. I thought that maybe Terril had a great personality to compensate.

My mum sat me down and asked, “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing going to the other side of the universe to marry an alien you’ve never met before?”

It felt like a good idea at the time.

You see, Lord Terril was rich. I would become lady Terril and live in a palace with servants. I’d never have to worry about money ever again.

How hard could it be being married to an alien. Males are the same whatever species they belong to.

And it would get me away from this horrible war that the Hadens and all their Hellish legions of Hades were waging. From where I was looking they were winning. Why was it so important to fight over a barren rock far away anyway? Let the Hadens have it.

I could see my friends and family weren’t convinced, but they knew that I was strong willed. So they reluctantly went along with my plans.

You see I wasn’t in a relationship as I didn’t feel the need to be one or imagined I’d ever feel that way.

I knew a long time ago that love and romance wasn’t for me. And I wasn’t getting any younger. I could feel the competition at work getting ever youthful. Someday I would be relegated to the back and then the offers of jobs would fall silent.

The marriage to Lord Terril offered a way out of all that and a title. When I became Lady Terril my sisters would have to bow and curtsy to me. I replayed and relished that scene in my head many times. I looked at my cherished doll. She only had one eye.

Money, a title and my sisters bowing and curtseying to me. What more could a girl want?

“But you don’t love him.”, my best friend Cathy said.

Yes, I heard that a lot. But I said I’d learn to love Terril over time. *** The journey to Lord Terrill’s planet took three months. Cathy came along with me to keep me company. I took the one eyed doll with me, to remind me. We went in the best craft, first class of course. Nothing, but the best for the bride of Terril. Lord Terril sent an escort and servants to look after me, to teach me about Terrill’s planet so that I would know something of his history and culture before I reached Terrill’s planet.

“What of my history and culture, has Lord Terril been trying to learn of my background?”, I asked.

“Yes, my lady Franscesca, Lord Terril has captured and tortured thousands of Earthlings to know about Earthways, some he personally tortured such was his desire to be better acquainted with Earth.”

I gulped. Cathy gave me a look. Her eyes were rolling. I got the impression that she wasn’t impressed by my new boyfriend.

But I will be rich. I thought.

Over the three months I heard many stories of lord Terril. His prowess as a hunter. He has killed thousands of Megellos with his bare hands. He has hundreds of prisoners executed every week. I was told that for me he planned to execute ten times that number.

Lord Terril is a being of great appetites I am told. He eats twenty meals a day. And he smokes three hundred pipes a day. I was told that Terril likes to gamble and drink. And that he never puts the toilet seat down. More rolling eyes from Cathy.

I was told that If you don’t answer back when he is speaking you’ll be fine.

Just don’t annoy him because Terril has a terrible temper. He puts people in the dungeons for talking too much.

I daren’t look at Cathy.

I was beginning to have my doubts. Cathy said that there were a lot of red flags in this relationship.

But I will have a title, I thought.

My mum managed to get a two minute call on the space line through to the craft. It was difficult communicating what with the war raging with the Hadens and all their Hellish legions of Hades.

“How are you, love? Are you eating O.K?”, she said.

“I’m fine mum. How’s things back on Earth?”

“Not so great, the Hadens and all their Hellish legions of Hades have occupied China and Brazil. They flattened London, Berlin and L.A last week. The bread and meat ration’s been cut again. There’s nothing to watch on the screens. Your Auntie Sandra and Uncle Barry aren’t

speaking to one another again. Apart from that things are fine. Oh, your dad sends his love.” “ Tell him I love him too, I’m missing you all, but my future is with Lord Terril now.”

“Are you sure Frankie? I’ve heard from Clare across the road that Lord Terril has a terrible temper. That he’s handy with his tentacles, if you know what I mean…”

The screen went blurry and the sounds all scratchy.

That’s it, the space line has been cut. Work of the Hadens and all their Hellish legions of Hades, no doubt. It’ll take weeks to repair. I’m sick of this damn stupid war!

As the craft hovered in to land on Terra Terril I could see the land choked in a thick acrid smoke. As the smoke cleared I could see the rows upon rows of impaled creatures writhing in agony.

“Are they traitors?”, I asked my escort.

“No, they are just the unlucky ones selected to be impaled to celebrate Lord Terril’s birthday. We know how much Lord Terril enjoys the pain and suffering of others. It will be a lovely surprise for him when he wakes up.

I’m sure he’ll be chuffed.”

“This Lord Terril sounds like a right monster. He’s worse than that one you dated at college who never washed.”, said Cathy.

But they will bow to me, my sisters will bow to me. I thought while looking at my doll.

The doors are about to open. I am told my groom Lord Terril awaits.

Best not keep him waiting, I’m told.

I am standing by the door clutching the doll with one eye. Isn’t it strange how when all is said and done, that’s it’s the unkindness of childhood that remains embedded in our hearts.

But my feet and body were frozen. I couldn’t move.

All I could hear was Cathy’s voice saying to me, “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Frankie?”

Shrapnel Sam Palin

The shallow banks were teeming with needleworms, parasites that burrow into pores and writhe in agony while without a host. I would help them if I were truly nice, but I'd like to keep my own blood, no matter how rotten or toxic.

I was a postman. I would drop elastic bands on the pavement for children to pick up. They would fall out of my pockets when I passed the schools.

To make a paper rocket, you want six folds on a receipt-sized scrap, as tight-tight-tight as you can. Hook the band around forefinger and thumb, then crease the rectangle in the middle. I would hear these paper rockets being pinged at the backs of schoolkids' heads.

Those kids wouldn't like to see me now.

I haven't forgotten the rowdy crowds, my trampling of flowerbedshortcuts, the barking dogs. I had fun while I was living.

Deer have started venturing back into the irradiated zone. I see them poke their heads through the treeline from time to time. They watch the stream, as do I, but their noses know there's something not quite right with the water. I don't like to disturb them, so I sit as still as the trees and stare at their spots rustling through red leaves.

I get twinges inside me sometimes. Something growing. I can't tell what are hunger pangs and what are cancer twangs. If that's a thing. There are oncology books left to rifle through, so I let the paranoia sit beside me on my bench. I could walk through the wake, beyond the pasture, into the industrial scape I once petitioned against. To see what's become of it.

But my imagination scares me enough.

The overgrowth had tightened around necessary infrastructure. Not necessary anymore. Just a playground for ferns and wormwood and knotweed and blue lichen. I'm jealous of how well the flora thrives. I also have roots in this town. Mine are under the soil now, too. The forest turned red months before autumn. But it was alive.

The copses weren't corpses.

Seventy percent of the town worked on the plant. And seventy percent of them didn't know what they were building.

It didn't kill everyone. That's the kicker. The meltdown was small enough to keep hopefuls in their homes. If only they knew.

Then I was a postnuclearist. Sign-up, collect cheques, pray no foul winds blew over into my catchment. Taxi drivers, civil servants, postmen, workers that knew the streets - grafters made redundant by the evacuation. They sent their cheques to the families outside the irradiated zone. These people weren't educated on the nature of the nuclear, as I still am not. But I've learnt first-hand.

Eventually the postnuclearist population dwindled. Some died in their beds, others clogged hospitals. We had to move rubble, report readings to the committee, and avoid anything that went click-click-click on our meters.

"IT'S SHRAPNEL! IT'S SHRAPNEL!" postnuclearists shouted.

That's what I hear in my blinking memories. For a bit, when I was silly, I thought that was my name. It's funny now. A man named Shrapnel.

A man named Shrapnel sitting on his bench.

But I stopped calling myself that and opted to leave my meditations without a named receiver. 'To whom it may concern' started my mental notes-to-self. I can't reintegrate the remainder of my life into society without a name.

My wrinkles grew sore. Red where the creases collect dust. Skin bruised and dry. I don't touch my face any more. My reflection is obscured in the needleworm streams, the ripples and churned silt scared to show me

my scarred self. To show me the growths that bulge over my eyelids and the tumours that creak every time I attempt an expression. I'm no longer a postman. I am post-man.

Now I realise that I am shrapnel.

I am the warning, the aftermath, the human side to the weapon we were building. A fallout is one thing, but those that survive perpetuate fear. So, I choose, on my accord, to not show my face, to stay on my bench and watch the water, to not let it be known what happens to the living. To not be the proxy to nuclear war.

One Fall Night When I Almost Died H.L. Dowless

It was late fall a while back and we had spent all day cutting fire fodder deep down in the Bizzell Woods, over by Aunt Mamies timeless mill pond.

Matter of fact we were over in the area across from the mill race there in the big two hundred year old red and white oak stand. A few of them had died and dried for some reason, but the wood was still good. Our day commenced at sunrise and ran almost nonstop until sundown. Two uncles, my granddaddy, my daddy, three cousins and myself had been sawing, splitting, and stacking wood all day long. I suppose we cut, split, hauled out, stacked, and restacked damn near twelve cords divided up between us all. We were tired by sundown, but I was still a young cock-adoo back in those days.

When I made it inside the house, almost immediately I received a phone call. I picked it up off the hook on the wall, putting it to my ear, saying “hello” into the mouthpiece.

“Yeah man, I have a proposition I want to make to you.”

Instantly I recognized the voice. It was Robin Randal. I already knew before he said anything, something devious was a stir.

“How goes it?,” I asked directly.

“Let’s motor out to the college over in South Bend tonight,” he said.

“You are not planning on going to any college,” I sneered, “so what’s on?”

“Look, they’re having a dance out that way tonight. Some of the county’s best looking honeys will be out there tonight of all nights, and us good boys can’t miss this. You hear me?”

“Oh yeah?,” I asked, “What makes tonight special enough that the fluff butts will all come out of their hen houses?”

“Well, there is going to be a wet tee shirt contest to go with it, sponsored by none other than good ole Bud Weiser himself! Top prize is a thousand dollars cash and three months of free beer over at the SmokeHouse on Kitten Street, over by Stiff Limb and Lame Dame, you know, man!”

“Yeah? Well let me eat. I just came in from cutting wood all day,” I told him. “I got grilled hamburgers to eat and freshly harvested sweet potatoes. I haven’t had anything all day long, man. I’m ‘bout hungry as a springtime bar in rut, to speak the truth.”

“You go ahead and eat. I’m dropping by in a couple of hours,” Robin said. ” Be done with your eating, washed up and ready for hump hoppin’ action when I get there.”

“Coming just you, or with anybody else?,” I asked him.

“Yeah, Gator Bait and Hump Nasty are coming along with us,” he said to me.

“Oh hell, we’ll both get locked up tonight I suppose,” I laughed.

“Maybe,” he laughed back, “ but if nothing else we’ll all get to drink good Coors and Bud draft beer until we giggle as we watch that blessed flesh jiggle, I can tell ya that much!”

“I’m going to eat here and wash, so come on out and I’ll be ready,” I told him.

He gave me his over and out, then hung up quickly as he called. His rather blunt nature was to behave in such a manner.

As I dug into the hamburgers and sweet potatoes I suddenly felt like going to sleep. By the time I finished my quart sized glass of iced tea, I

caught a second wind. Looking back, I suppose it was due to the blessing of youth. Soon Robin’s Camaro rumbled in the yard by the front door. I buckled my Levis up snugly against my navel, put on my best western shirt, slicked back my hair, zipped up my leather boots, then strutted straight out the front door.

“Where ya goin’ boy?,” asked Father.

“To the college over in South Bend,” I replied to him.

“You, at the college? Yeah, and I smell trouble, but alright. You coming in by midnight?,” he asked.

“Something like that,” I replied.

“Well, all I got to say is for you to keep the hard horn underneath the hood, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. I have a strange sickening feeling you’ll wind up getting hung in a bun and wont make it in until tomorrow night, boy, but whatever, just be damn careful.”

“We’ll do,” I replied as I strode across the threshold.

Out a ways from the front door the midnight black Camaro rumbled like an energetic lioness soon to prowl. As I neared, I spied three mirky figures through the condensate on the glass sitting in the car that evening. All of them were laughing and obviously ripe and ready for what they anticipated as being some sort of future red hot action. At the moment I personally had absolutely no anticipation, one way or the other.

I was there for the ride only, more or less at the time. I casually stride over to the passenger door of the car.

As the door opened and I slid into the rear seat. At best I figured in an flash of thought where this experience would be a rather boring strut show for some local, rather busty women seeking to turn a quick buck and make a memorial name, some shoulder to shoulder dancing to some

of the latest Skynyrd jam specials, winding down with maybe a rodeo entry show of some sort, as so many others of this nature always were, and such would be about it. I was rather calm about the matter, smiling some and speaking a flowery word hither and thither. My comrades obviously felt very differently, however.

“You wait until tonight, boy, it’s gonna be a good one. We all know who one of these contestants will be,” Gator Bait turned around in the front passenger seat and said. “None other than Donna Sweetbreath with the Pillsbury Dough breasts.”

“My gosh, hey hey!,” roared Hump Nasty beside me from underneath his badly worn ancient black Fedora, “ de amiable angel with de dose grande enchiladas, eh now Snookum boba?”

“Maybe we’ll have a nice show,” I replied with a laugh.

“Nice show? I want to lay the ole ramrod in between the bouncing honey buns myself,” huff gruffed Hump Nasty.

“Yeah,” laughed Robin as he drove along, “I certainly intend on more than sitting around gawking, that’s for sure!”

“I’m with yall two,” smiled and laughed Gator Bait. “I need a new shine on the dipstick, to speak the truth. I think positive. Tonight may be the night, oh yeah?”

I laughed at the rude notations, but made no joining comment. Maybe my hard day was reaching out at me from inside my meal time ice tea caffeine screen. Yeah, I could feel the old holstein horn beginning to press more solidly on his stable door, but somehow I didn’t have my energy tank at its full mark yet, and my concern line hadn’t intersected with it as a result. Hump Nasty sat glaring at me, smiling.

“You’ll be alright once we make it there,” he said to me.

“Wait until Delilah Lemonlicker meets up with ya. She’s gonna be there!

You’ll get alright then. There never was one like her before, and one like her will never be afterward. You’ll be hooting and howling before it’s all over with. Hell, you might even grow feathers and wings, then fly to a land far away somewhere before this night is over with. I can see it all clearly right now!”

Once we made out on the open road, Robin stomped the gas pedal. The forward force in the souped-up 302 shoved us backward deep into the seat cushions. The speed needle instantly moves from fifty five to a ninety, then a hundred, then pauses on the right hand wall of the speedometer. We figured we were moving at around one hundred thirty miles per hour. In a matter of minutes it seemed like we had zipped twenty miles out and the Camaro was suddenly slowing down, then soon turning into the college parking lot. This feat of travel was almost beyond my comprehension at the time, but I said not a word. Looking back now, it’s by the grace of God a wind gust didn’t reach underneath the car at that speed and simply flipped us over, and out. That alone is proof of God Almighty’s power, if readers are in need of it.

South Bend University is a virtual masterpiece of classical Greek architecture. I always felt like a special aura of charm exuded outward from the building itself, into the surrounding landscape and minds of all who enter the buildings and the grounds. Down a ways from the main building the student center was glowing with an array of multicolored light. In the distance we could hear the rhythmic thump of music, sounding slightly familiar to us.

“Boys, that’s where this party is going to be tonight. You see that?

There is a bar in there for the students and everything,” said Robin with a smile as he pointed.

Gator Bait turned around in his seat.

“Hey Snookie baby, isn’t this where you got up with that English instructor from out here that time a while back?”

“Yeah, this was it. I was invited out here for the Semester Rendezvous, as they call it,” I said.

“I’ve heard some hot mama’s work out here and attend classes,” gruffed Hump Nasty.

“Well ole Snookie yonder ought to know all about that,” chuckled Gator Bait. “What was that woman’s name you got up with, Snookum?”

“Her name was Shirley Summers,” I replied with little enthusiasm. “I think she was more like an assistant to the English teacher.”

Gator Bait smiled a rather perverted grin.

“Yeah, but boys, let me tell ya, that fine woman was stacked right in all the best places,” Gator Bait said.” I couldn’t believe how good she looked, to be how old I found out she was.”

“Well how old was she, gobstopper there?,” chuckle gruffed Hump Nasty in my direction. “I don’t know, like forty three or something like that,” I replied to him.

“Damnit, boy!,” laughed Hump Nasty. “So do tell us all what you made of it.”

“Nothin’,” I replied to him.

Gator Bait turned around in his seat again with a sarcastic half smile on his face.

“Don’t you dare set there and lie to us all like that! Look boys, this bastard took the woman into a van out in the parking lot here on the

evening he met up with this teacher. Don’t let him lie like he does. Then I motored up here with him the following Monday, since we didn’t have to work or go to school that day. This man goes up into her office and takes her down right on the desktop, let me tell all of you! I’ll bet he done like ole Holmes did in that drive-in movie we took them freaky party girls to see the other night, and ripped his pants off as he snatched down hers, then leaped up on her like a damn boar hog put out to pasture, now!”

“How dare you, Snookie baby!,” gruff laughed Hump Nasty, “you dirty dog, you never bothered telling us, your best buds here, other than good ole red haired sensimilla.”

“Naw, it won’t nothing like this, fellows,” I replied to them, “them biddies were old.”

“Nothin’?,” says Gator Bait, “well let me tell ya all about this man’s nothin’.

The damn English instructor then, her boss, walks in on them both, up on the desk there in the office, doingthe thing hard and fast like rabbits, I heard. But this woman didn’t get mad about it, now. She had a great big smile on her face when I saw her step out the door, and followed Snookie around here everywhere he went, calling him up later on, and all. Finally he met up with her in the mechanical room here somehow, and damned if this ole goat didn’t jig her as well, boys! Don’t let him fool anybody in here tonight.”

“I heard about an English teacher here on campus whose old man walked out on her, leaving her smoking,” said Hump Nasty. “ She must have been the one! Hell, I thought about driving all the way down here just to try and make the cut myself.”

“Naw now, naw, don’t listen to this dog. None of this stuff ain’t true.” I opened the car door, stepping outside onto the parking lot pavement, then standing up. “Come on, you prickly pigeons, let’s go. The dance has already commenced.”

All the car doors opened and the others stepped out as I walked toward the flashing building in the distance. Soon Robin opened the door and we stepped inside, single file. The lights were flashing in a very large dark room that felt like some sort of gymnasium. People were moving hither and thither with cups in hand, filled to the rim with frothy apple juice like liquid. There must have been a hundred people here, I figured to myself. A well stacked blond lady stepped from a gathering crowd by the white couch to my left, then approached me.

“Hey there, what’s your name? I think I’ve seen you around somewhere.” she said to me with a smile as she twitched her busty full figure slightly to the left and the right.

“Yeah?, well I’m known to get around from time to time, so you probably have met me somewhere,” I reply to her.

“What’s your name, honey?,” she says to me. “My name is Annie.”

“My name is Beau James,” I say to her. “People call me by various nicknames.” “ Yeah, well I live out in Evergreen for now. I go to the Red Barn every now and again,” she smiles and says to me.

“I’m from Monk’s Corner up on Hyman’s Hill,” I smile and say. “I’ve been to the Red Barn a time or three. The ride out to Evergreen isn’t all that far from the heart of town now,” I laugh to her as I say.

“Do you know Jiminy Registario?,” she asked me. “ He is from over that way. I once associated with him. He is an actor, if I recall correctly.”

“I’m not sure. That name kind of rings a bell,” I reply back.

“Mmm, he’s an OK actor, I suppose, but I’ve seen much better. He lets somebody somewhere fetch home a fine day’s pay, no doubt.

He’s good for that, if nothing else. I will assure you he’s been very well spent, though, many a-time.”

The music thump soon commenced as the lights flashed with more intensity. About the time I recognized the song, the singer crooned the words, you should be dancing.

“Come on,” said Anna as she approached, placing her hands upon my waist and shoulder, “let‘s go for a round.”

“I’ll spin you around gal, if that’s what you want,” I say low and in a slightly hoarse voice as I lay my hands upon her waist and we step out onto the floor and into the flashing lights.

I felt as if the flow of the music picked us both up and spun us around involuntarily as we both stepped and moved about. Anna appeared to have a nearly hypnotized appearance on her face as she gazed into mine.

When the song finished we danced a few more tunes, then ended with a slow dance before we finally sat down.

“I’ll go get us both a cup,” she told me as she stepped away.

I glanced around for the others but couldn’t find sight of them. Maybe they found company of their own, and who knows where they might be now, I thought to myself as I sat. Anna finally stepped up with two cups in her hands, filled with frothy liquid.

“I didn’t know what kind you wanted, so I got you Coors. Is that OK?” “Rocky Mountain spring water is fine with me,” I said to her.

Anna glares at me, then suddenly laughs.

“I know this sounds really crazy, but it feels like I’ve known you for a long time already, and we’ve only just met. Isn’t that strange?”

“Yeah, I suppose, but no. Some people truly connect with that much spontaneous intensity,” I say to her.

Annie suddenly breaks out into laughter.

“You amaze me. I almost can’t believe you sitting there as you are. How old are you? I’m twenty six,” Anna says to me.

“I’m old enough to eat cornbread without getting choked,” I laugh and reply to her.

“Well how old is that?,” she laughs again suddenly.

“I’m old enough to row the boat smoothly in rough water,” I say again to her.

Suddenly her smile narrows as she gazes into my eyes.

“Really?,” she asks me, smiling smoothly. “ I wanna find out. What about it?”

“Maybe,” I say in an honest reply, as I chuckle and shrug. “I hear a contest is going on, right?” “ I came here to participate and meet with a few well connected people. I truly believe I could win, but you know what?,” she asks me, “I suddenly don’t care about that anymore. What about you?”

“Depends on what my alternative options are,” I reply as I shrug.

“Let’s make a deal with one another now. Take me for a spin, and I promise I’ll take you on a real good one you won’t never-ever forget, honey.”

“I rode in,” I told her.

“Then join me, and I’ll still take you for a good spin,” she tells me, “ the night is young.”

“Give me time to drop the word,” I ask her, “ I’ll be right back.”

I struggle through the darkness to find my friends. After a bit I spy Hump Nasty sitting up by the wall in a far dimly lit corner, with a full cup in his right hand and five more empty ones by his feet. I walk over to him.

“Awe boy, I see you with that woman, Where have you been?” he glances up and says to me.

“Yeah, man, look, I’m riding out with her. This thing is over at midnight. I will meet you in the parking lot out here then, alright?”

“No problem,” he says to me, “ but you know it's always bad luck for a man to ride away in a woman’s car, with her like that. He is supposed to take her away in his own vehicle, not ride away with her, in her’s.”

“I know,” I say to him, “but I ain’t letting this cute little kitty cat get away from me. So I’ll take my chances. My growing pet boa is in need of a good den, now. Know what I mean?”

“Well, I told you so, boy. You’ll learn the hard way like I did,” chuckles Hump Nasty, “ just be careful out there. Women this day and time are crazier than men ever were.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be around until midnight,” I say without flinching, “you’ll find me out in the parking lot. I have business to attend to.”

I walked back through the dark room as the menagerie of light flashed on and off in perfect rhythm to the thumping disco dance music. Annie patiently sat on the white cushion couch with a half full red cup in her hand, smiling over at me.

“I presume you’re getting biblical on me by now, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” I reply to her with my own style of smirk. “ I might be getting something on you soon, but I wouldn’t dare call it very biblical.”

She leaned her head leftward a ways out from her.

“Follow me then. I simply can’t wait to find out what stands up from underneath the hood there.”

“So what’s on?,” I ask her as we walk.

“I know I told you my name was Annie, but good friends call me Ju-Ju. I thought we’d motor out to Mount Pleasant and walk around some. We’ll make our way out toward the beach in an hour or so. Sound alright by you?”

“Sounds like a winner to me,” I reply. “Let’s go!”

We load up in her white Toyota Tercel. We didn’t drive but three miles outside of town, and we paused by a serving window at the South End Package Store.

“What might I do for you,” an expressionless male figure sitting inside the window asked. I could barely make out his face in the darkness.

“Is Coors alright with you, honey?,” Annie asked me.

“Go ahead,” I say.

“A twelve pack of Coors,” she tells the male figure in the window.

She reaches in her purse and hands him a ten dollar bill. He gives her three dollar bills in change, then hands her the twelve pack.

“Let‘s roll now, honey!,” she tells me as we pull out.

We motor on our way, then pause after riding for twenty minutes or so. I honestly lost track of time. We had a great conversation as we motored along. Annie appeared to be very intelligent to go along with her spectacular body. I couldn’t help but notice her very firm appearing, full bosom, with its low cut cleavage in her business attire. My pet snake suddenly commenced growing and slithering around some more. The more we spoke the harder he pushed on his zipper door. I trembled mightily on the inside of my stomach. I could feel my breathing picking up pace as the car parked, and we both started walking along the concrete sidewalk. Both of our party cups seemed to refill all on their own.

“You’re stumbling in your speech Beau,” she said to me with a smile as we walked. “You haven’t drank that much.” She laughed as she spoke to me. “Hmm, I can only wonder what your problem might be. That pet snake I heard you tell your pal about, isn’t about to shake a rattle is he?”

I smiled, but made no reply.

We walked along the sidewalk examining the art shops and the bookstores. Anne was like a virtual encyclopedia of information, if not a living travel-log of the area in general. The food and the floating scent of flowers hung all around in the night air wonderfully as we both passed numerous businesses and stores while walking. I barely even noticed, to be honest. Shame on poor little ole me! All I could do, bless my sweet innocent soul, was feast my poor hungry eyes on the glorious ripples and crevices of this living candy girl figure walking along beside me, and periodically ahead of me.

“What do you do for a living?,” I ask her.

“I’m a big screen show girl. So what that means is that you’ve caught a rising star by its flaming tail, honey.”

“Wow, what kind of shows?,” I ask.

“Well I specialize in unique, but shall we say, highly rated screen performances, and I do accompanying dance routines in special places willing to pay my price,” she tells me.” I’m always in high demand, so nonpayment is never a problem. What about yourself?”

“I’m no movie star,” I say to her. “ I farm tobacco, trap furs, and sell game cuts in the local meat shops. I’ll weld a bit here and there, or do auto mechanics. That’s about it for me.”

“That’s nice. Do you ride horses?,” she asks me.

“Every chance I get. My grandfather owns four,” I replied to her.

“Look, I have easy access to a cottage out on the beach. I’m going to pause in at this head shop around the corner here,” she tells me.” The man who owns this head shop owes me a kind favor. He’ll carry a horse down to the cottage and tie it there for us. I think it would be wonderful for us to ride a horse while out on the beach. Don’t you think so?”

We both round the corner then open the door, only to find a wine colored oriental curtain hanging down before us. Annie steps through the curtain and I close the door behind me as I follow her. The room is very dark and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the low light.

“Make yourself at home here while I go and speak with the owner there,” she tells me.” I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Behind the counter stood a man donning a white suit, a fancy dude vest,

and a bow tie wearing a white fedora with a snake skin band, and dark sunglasses. A double barreled shotgun leaned up against the wall in the left corner behind him. I wondered how he could even see any at all as I noticed. Annie gracefully and lusciously bent over the counter as she spoke with this man. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the light, I began to look around.

This shop was a virtual boutique of smoking paraphernalia. There were Mexican stone pipes, water bongs, and legalized manufactured recreational drugs of every stripe. There was also a virtual plethora of sex toys, from butt plugs and anal beads, to vibrators of every size, shape, and variety. There were also various body creams and lotions.

Hell, they even had edible underwear hanging up on shelves there! As I walked along I noticed shelves of movie discs, with totally uninhibited, explicit photographs on the outer cases. I couldn’t help but notice one of these women in a picture on a disc box, engaged in an unmentionable facial act with a certain tremendously oversized appendage. This woman’s face appeared so astonishingly familiar to me... I simply couldn’t match it with a name! What on earth was her name, for crying out loud here?

The label poster on the shelf section for these movies was Voyeurism At Its Midnight Best. I couldn’t help but to pick this disc for a closer examination. This woman, for the likes of me, seemed so astonishingly familiar! The movie title was Li’le Ole Juicy-Juice, Jodie, and The Grizzly Bear. I quickly repositioned the disc and walked away from the area, since I didn’t want Annie to catch me inside this specific area of the shop, let alone looking at these particular movie discs. I hear a rustle and footsteps from behind. I snap around.

“Are you ready to ride the white horse, big boy?,” Annie asked me as she exploded into laughter.

“Sure, why not?,” I shrug and reply with a smile.

We both walked out toward the car. In no time we were heading toward the beach, which was only a short distance out. We motor along through rows on either side of very elegant, and no doubt expensive, antique bungalow style cottages on stilts. The place appeared to aura-illuminate in a certain dreamy light exuded from some tactfully veiled source.

“Are you married?,” I ask Annie.

“Who me?,” she gasped with a wrinkled-up face as she drove the car, “by far and away not. What on earth are you speaking about?”

“You ever been married?,” I continued. Back in those days this question mattered to me when I met a woman.

“Well, sure once upon a time,” she sighed and replied to me. “It’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Everybody should do it at least once. He ignored me and I took up dancing classes. He had other women on the side as well. He thinks I don’t know this. I developed three different creative dancing routines, however. When he finally put me out at the curb like all the others before him did, I began dancing professionally. At a third rate facility I earned six hundred a week base pay, and two hundred a night in tips. On the weekend I can make a thousand dollars in hard cash. The money potential in dancing is unreal. I pay the Yankees what I want them to have. They don’t tell me what they demand from me. My main source of employment now is in Vegas at a first rate facility. I make more than three times what I made at the Loose Goose in these parts.

The crowd loves my specialty dance acts and the theatrical dance routines I do. My private dance shows are beyond spectacular and highly coveted by people in elegant lofty places on the ritzy side of high rolling, big town. Only the most generous customers are allowed to sample that sweet desert, let me tell ya.”

“I’m not familiar with the Loose Goose,” I say to her.

“Well, it’s not important now. I work at the Spearmint Rhino, the top of the line and the best of the best on earth,” she tells me. “I’m well blessed and very proud of what I do. Never underestimate the likes of me, Beau.”

“What about your acting career? Where does that come into play?,” I ask her.

“In my business Monday, Tuesday, and sometimes Wednesday are down days. I perform at the movie studio then, where I’m paid more than four times what I make at the gentleman’s club. I’m investing all of this money in multifamily real estate and in high yield stock accounts. I am to a point with my money where it literally replicates itself in totality, with me doing absolutely nothing.”

“Why don’t you retire then?,” I ask her.

She glares at me hard as we pull into this certain cottage home. When the car comes to a halt she says; “I love what I do, Beau. Everything is served out to me on a silver platter, specifically to mine and my viewing audience’s demanding, overzealous enlightened tastes, be they what they may. That’s why I earn top dollar and am always in high demand, honey. Neither my marriage nor my personal relationships ever once offered me love, let alone money, or even a mere hint at satisfaction in a majority of situations, which is the very least they could have done for me. I deserve better than being used and almost feeling violated all the time, let alone not receiving benefits,” she turns toward me, gazing hard directly into my eyes. “In the end I always get what I want, though. See the white horse tied up on the cottage stilts?,” she points, “Come on, let’s go!”

She opens the car door and steps out into the yard area of the cottage.

I follow. The white horse tosses back his head and whines slightly as we both approach. She unties the horse, then begins pulling him beyond the stilts toward the sound of surging water ahead.

“Come on!,” she says, “the beach is so beautiful this time of night.”

The warm wind gently caressed us both as she mounted the horse bareback. I mounted up behind her, seemingly into a perfect position. I could literally feel every specific curvature of her most delicate, voluptuously endowed body. My pet boa moved along the side of my leg as it continued growing ever more. I reached a point where I absolutely couldn’t sit still. The horse began to trot. I felt as though I might soon die because my precious snake might soon break.

“This is heaven on earth,” she tells me. “Don’t you get that certain sensation from simply being here?”

“I wish we had on our bathing suits,: I say to her. “We could ride the horse in the water then, Annie.”

“We don‘t need clothes, Beau,” she tells me. “Clothes only inhibit and restrain natural impulsiveness.”

The horse pauses as she reaches behind her back. Her dress glides down upon her waist. She casually flips open another button and it completely falls to the sand. Obviously she wasn’t wearing underwear of any kind. I gaze forth while consumed in deep study… them luscious tastefully fluffy appearing thighs, for heaven sakes.. My gosh!, she appeared so scrumptious sitting there before me as she was. I felt like a restrained animal standing before a nice thick, juicy charbroiled steak at this point, and desperately wanted to dive right in and chow down.

“But the people on the beach, Annie?,” I stumbled in saying.

“What people? Where at Beau? We own this beach tonight!”

The beach was dark, save the light of a full moon, and strangely empty.

Even the entire cottage street seemed eerily dead. Why was this? To the left on a distant sand dune maybe thirty yards away, a seemingly darkly hooded figure unwittingly silhouetted itself against the night sky. It appeared to be doing something with a piece of equipment. Was this equipment up on a tripod? I never could tell. An uncharacteristic night cloud covered the moon, and this hooded figure instantly vanished from my view.

“Who was that?,” I asked as I struggled to remove my clothing.

Finally I was totally nude and sitting up tightly behind this bodaciously endowed nude woman. My pet snake reached out and literally touched her, ever so warmly crawling up her lower back in the crack right there where her two tender seeming, lovingly luscious thighs met. My heart raced like it might literally leap from my breast at any moment.

“I don’t see anybody,” she tells me. “Who cares if there is? I certainly don’t, do you?”

The horse galloped back and forth on the beach in the water. We both laughed like child lovers as the roaring waves splashed up on our naked bodies. We move in the direction of the cottage, then the horse abruptly pauses. Annie slides off the horse and onto the sand. I do the same. She pushes my back up against the horse, then kisses me passionately. The drink must have been very strong because I felt myself to be enveloped inside some sort of heavy haze that night.

“I hunger for you so desperately, “ she breathed as the heat commenced picking up.

She moved down, kissing my neck. I could feel her warm tongue move down my chest as she kissed, then down across my stomach. She so artfully licked around my navel, causing my stomach to quiver and twitch, sending sheer chills down the length of my entire spine. She dropped

down upon her knees there in the sand, commencing blessedly delicate acts of oral passion I’ll refrain from describing here inside this writing.

Her skill in such deliverance utterly astonished me to a point of disbelief.

In the dark distance, but now much closer, I heard slight footsteps in the sand, I heard metallic snaps, I heard heavy breathing, but honestly, I didn’t care by now.

“You are so blessed, Beau James.” While down on her knees she looks up directly into my face and eyes, smiling, telling me point blank; “I really love your pet boa, my dear Beau!”

She drops down on all fours, with her backside abruptly whirled around toward me. She arches her back, glancing around and up directly toward my face, with this hungry flesh eating smile on her face..

“Make love to me, Beau. Don’t hold back. I want you so much! Give me everything you have to give! I feel like we’ve been knowing one another for years, even though we’ve only just met.”

My night’s work out then commenced. I began with a slow motion that gradually increased in pace, until I reached an ongoing tempo in what I was doing.

“Yeah!,” she gasped, “keep on! Hold that rhythm with me.”

Out in the sand I continued hearing slight shuffles and steps. At this point, however, I really didn’t care what or how it was, or what they were doing. Annie suddenly turns around, kissing me deeply as she shoves her tongue down my throat. I assume my position again and am hungrily engaged in action. She abruptly turns around as I work, kissing me deeply in the mouth again.

“Feed me your love into both delicate pockets, baby,” she arches her back even more as she gasps and hisses. “Don’t you dare hold back on me!”

We continued there for what felt like hours, and the action was only getting much harder and better for the both of us.

“Oh my God!,” she gasps, “pull my hair! Pull hard on it! Make my head arch backward all the way when you do. I love a perfect combination of pain and pleasure!,” she gasps. I do as she asks, while the final moment consumes us both.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! It‘s happening.. Yes, yes! Yes!,” she purrs, whines, and deeply gasps.

Finally we both collapse, rolling onto our backs in the beach sand. The horse grunts, flinging his head backward three times or so. I can hear a metallic snap in the distance and what sounds like feet shuffling lightly on the sand. I strain hard to look, but see absolutely nothing in the darkness beyond the point where we lay, gasping for breath.

“Did you hear anything?,” I ask.

“I heard nor saw nothing at all,” Annie replies. “The cottage is up ahead.

Let’s ride the horse back, tie him, and I’ll go fetch our clothing, eh?”

We both mount back up on the horse, then ride him back over to the cottage, tying him on the stilts. I follow her out in the sand as she stoops to pick up our clothes. The scene before me looked better than ever from my point of view. When my pet boa leaped up at attention, I couldn’t help but ease up behind for another hard rocking round. Everything seemed so much better on this second go. She turned around while she was bent over, clenching her teeth hard.

“I knew you would come through again,” she said. “Don’t stop, keep going, right wild and hard.”

From over on the opposite side of the house I heard sounds of the sand crunching, I thought. I also heard those same metallic clicks.

Maybe I was imagining things. Annie never seemed to hear these. I maintained the rhythm hard and steady. The horse grunted every now and then. I can still see those big flesh enchiladas swinging hard with every stroke, while she remained bent over as she was.

When our love making scene finally completed, Annie picked up our clothes and we both headed back over to the stilt cottage. I walked over toward the corner on the far side in the darkness, pausing to urinate.

While I was doing so, I heard the slight grinding crunch there on the sand and those nauseating metallic clicks only a mere forty feet in front of me, but failed to see a damn thing there inside the thick gloom of night.

“Hey there!,” I yelled, “who is it?” I received no answer. “ Talk to me, don’t just stand there!”

I still received no answer and saw nothing.

“Who are you talking to?,” asked Annie.

“Whoever this is doing whatever it is that they are doing,” I replied.

“Awe, there’s nobody there. You’re imagining things,” Annie replies to me.

“Let’s go on inside, take a bath, pour us a tall glass full, and forget about everything tonight. What about it?”

“Sounds fine with me,” I cautiously reply.

Annie and myself walk up the stairs leading into the cottage. When she reaches the door, she dips her left hand into a pocket on her dress and retrieves a key. She opens the door and we both walk inside. When she flips on the light switch I can’t believe my poor eyes. The place was fashioned from genuine oak and walnut. The inside at large exuded a sensation of timeless classical elegance unlike any encountered in our present day. There was even a fireplace. We stand there before the fireplace.

“This is so nice, “ I told her.

She reaches above and mantle piece and pushes a brown button. A flame like fire instantly appears. She turns it down low.

“You like this much better now?,” she says to me. “Come to the bathroom with me.”

We both entered the restroom. There in the middle of the floor sat a pewter Futari for two in a raised square furniture block. There had to have been enough room for maybe four people, and most certainly enough for two. Annie punches another button. The tub begins to fill up with steaming water and suds. In the rear of the house I perceive what sounds to be a slight door creak, and a rustle just as slight, barely even noticeable.

“What is that, Annie?,” I ask.

“There you go again. You have nothing to worry about,” she says to me. “ Why don’t you stop worrying for a change.”

When the pool fills we both ease into it. I hear those same metallic clicks as we do. Once we gently slid into the water, she began kissing me, going down, all the way down, pleasuring me better orally than simple words have an ability to describe. Those metallic clicks are very noticeable at this moment. I thought I noticed a slight flicker by the wall near the tub faucet, but I’m not about to stop the action I was enjoying at that moment to find out.

Once we finally finish taking our bath, we both are nearly exhausted and it’s getting rather late at night. She escorts me into the bedroom. There in the center of the room sits a genuine Haute House William California King Canopy Bed. This precious sight nearly took my breath away. When I climbed inside the general sensation was one of complete relaxation combined with a perpetuating sensation of near intoxication. Annie

reaches over on the nightstand, picking up a genuine Sioux peace pipe.

“Want a night time hit?,” she asked me.

“What is it?”

“Hash and red haired sensimilla,” she replies, “genuine, all the way from Acapulco.”

I take the pipe from her and hit it hard, drawing the smoke deeply into my lungs, then holding it. After a few seconds I ease it out in a thick heavy stream.

“Damn, that hits the spot,” I say.

She takes it and hits it, then pleases me orally again, ever so artfully. I hear those metallic clicks as we trade turns at the pipe. I begin telling her about my friends I left down at the party. She grunts and moans in an agreeing sound. I lay there perfectly still.

Finally we both open our eyes. It’s still dark outside. I grab my pocket watch. It’s 0400! Oh my gosh! Here I am playing Tom Cat all night long with this crazy thing.

“Look, I can see it’s early in the morning,” she tells me. “ I know you had somewhere you probably needed to be last night. I have a place I dearly need to go check in at. I had told this associate I would drop by earlier on, unfortunately. Let’s get our clothes on and ride out now. We will swing by McDonalds afterward for breakfast and then I’ll take you home, or wherever.”

“Alright,” I say to her. “All sounds well by me, I guess.”

We get our clothes on and exit outside, walking down the stairs to the car out front.

“Hey look, the horse is gone,” I say.

“Yeah, his owner picked him up last night after we crashed,” she tells me.

“Who was the owner?,” I asked in surprise.

“You know, the man in the headshop.”

“You mean the man in the white suit, with the double barreled shotgun leaning up on the wall behind him?,” I ask her.

“Yeah, that is the one.”

“You know, that headshop was kind of strange, if you ask me,” I say to her.

“Strange? Just your general, run of the mill to me,” she says. “All of them have paraphernalia, utilitarian chemicals, toys of various types and naughty movies.” She cuts her eyes sideways hard in my direction, grinning slightly. “ Is that what you call strange, Beau boy?”

“I didn’t want to tell you, but I picked up one of those movies to examine it. I couldn‘t help it, but one of the women on those front cover photographs looked shockingly familiar. I can’t match any kind of name with her face, however.”

“Thousands of women are into that, Beau. I see them all the time in my business. If you know any kind of showgirl dancer type from anywhere inside the gentleman’s realm, she probably does sideline work. Problem is, few are good at it in terms of coordinating duty demands and business goals, and those who can accomplish this feat are the ones with fabulously huge payoffs, let me tell ya.”

I swallow hard as she speaks to me. Pieces floating high up in the air are slowly settling into their proper positions.

I breathe deeply, then calm back down into the car seat. I swallow hard again as I glance over at her driving the car. I don’t know how much time passed, but we are riding down a dirt road deep in dense woods somewhere. Soon the woods open up and we are riding along on the outside of what appears to be a very large housing development. The homes are most definitely upper middle class, maybe in the half million dollar range, if not more. A hundred yards away directly in front of the head light beams sits a very nice one. A large four wheel drive work truck sits in the yard underneath the garage, among two or three expensive new cars.

“You see that house? I must check in there, Beau.”

“What? You told me you were not married, Annie!”

“I’m not married to this man. We are close working associates though.

He’s been giving me periodic accommodation, at my specified level. For some reason now he hates what I do for a living.”

“So you are here because of him?,” I ask.

“I’m here to visit with him, but I am also here to do a specific kind of movie shoot. I’ve completed my objective, I’m going to check in, pick up my pay for this shoot, make a collection at the head shop in town I partly own, and then I’m out again. He’ll want me to stay, and I might for a week or so at best, but then I’m gone. I hate to say it, but this man lacks an ability to satisfy me in regard to money or anything else. I mean, he’s nice and all of that, but such conviction just doesn’t cut the mustard with this good ole gal here. Sometimes I actually crave a little of the right kind of abuse.”

“Put me out here and pick me up on the way back out,” I demand of her.

“No! You’re coming in with me. Just stay calm and it will be alright,” she attempts to convince me.

“No! You’re setting me up to be killed, I feel like. I’m getting the hell out now!,” I say as I open the car door.

I eased the door back too intending to do so silently, then slyly stepped into the edge of the forest. Annie drove on, pulling in at the driveway of this house. A faintly obvious figure in the slightly fading darkness walked toward the car. I heard every sound the car made clearly as if I were standing there, since early morning and night air is such a splendid conductor of sound. Her car door opened.

“And where in the damn hell have you been, bitch?,” the man’s voice screams. “ You been laid up with another one of your dancing managers?

Or on another disgusting movie set out there again, with any kind of beast and every damn body swinging meat, doing any and every goddamn thing?”

“I have no reply to you!,” says Annie. “I just dropped by to check in on you and say a final goodbye. I honestly didn‘t have to do that much.”

“Who in the hell did you have in the car just now?,” the man screamed.

“Nobody, as far as you are concerned. I mean, we’re not married, Alex, for Christ’s sake. You’re too puke-pathetic to have such a positive minded audacity! I always get everything I need, just like I want it where I am. I can say adamantly that you are most certainly not the man for me. I don’t need any permanent strings connecting me to anybody, to be truthful.

I’m a dancer and a fine Can-Can girl on the skinny, skin, skin, for both the stage and the camera, and I really do turn the big bucks now, let me tell you!”

“Well, you just wait,” the man screamed. “ I’m going out there and I will find him, and when I do, I’m going to kill him! Then I’ll come back and kill you, right along with him. If I can’t have you, then nobody else ever will!”

Ahead of me the woods terrain ran downhill into a swamp run and a waterlogged slough that was maybe seventy five yards across. A large cypress log laid slightly back up the hill from the water. A three foot diameter live oak tree stood slightly uphill and outward from the log. I smoothly and calmly stepped up behind this tree. It was still dark and misty enough that visibility was hampered. The truck roared passed me for maybe twenty five yards, then abruptly paused back up on the hill. I heard somebody open the door and step outside, then angrily slam the door.

“You son of a bitch! I know you’re out there. You think you are smart, but when I find you, your ass is grass. Today is your dying day, understand me?”

The crack of a twenty two rips the morning air. Lead sings all around me, through the limbs overhead, thudding into the earth all through the woods in my general area. I hear a few sounds from inside the truck, then the graveyard shattering roar of a nine millimeter.

“Son of a biiiiiiitch! I’m gonna kill you! You’re dead tonight! You think you are so smart by hiding like you do. I’ll fix you, fellow. I’ll go back to the house and get the damn dogs to put on you. They ‘ll find you and your ass is mine then!”

This man leaps back into his truck, slams the door shut, then roars backward toward his house. I knew it would take him at least ten minutes or so to load up his dogs into the box in his truck bed. There was only one thing I could do at this point. I could use the same trick a great big boar coon does on a pack of hounds.

I walk down stream seventy five yards or so, then step directly over into the water, walking back up stream some two hundred yards. I take huge steps up the bank, leaping onto hard areas where I wouldn’t leave tracks.

Once I complete this detail, I wade directly through the slough. Even though it was fall of the year I could hear sounds in the darkness of huge

water moccasins slithering down into the water. What is worse? Getting bitten by a snake in the king cobra family, or getting shot to death? Take your pick for a one way ticket to a coffin here.

I ease down into the water and take my chances. It seemed like no time passed and I was easing up on to the opposite bank. My heart was racing wildly with excitement. I walked through the woods a ways up the hill and the trees broke, exposing a narrow dirt road running beside a long narrow, freshly plowed field. I immediately took off running down this road.

Back in those days I could run all day long without tiring.

As I raced along I heard the hounds enter into the woods, hot on my trail.

I could tell by the way they sounded as they yelped, when they arrived at the slowly moving run. The dogs seemed to be stumped, not knowing where to pick up my scent next. If the dogs are not experienced, they may never pick up my trail, running back and forth on the opposite side of the run in total disarray, which is what I sincerely hoped for.. That is why expert dog trackers hold two very experienced dogs back, walking them across the water. My honest bet at the time was that this specific man, whoever he was, wasn’t such a person to my good fortune. Even with experienced dogs he may spend two to three hours out before my scent is picked up again, giving me time to exit the combat zone in grand homemade style.

I can see a big light haze in the distance above the treetops ahead. The dirt road pauses at a hard surfaced road. I turn right and walk a while down the left hand side of the paved road toward this light haze. Far ahead I finally see a developed area of some town. To my utter astonishment as I near, it appears to be Monk’s Corner, my own home town! My home is on the other side of town, however, much too far for me to walk.

Ahead is the Time Saver I clearly recognize. I know exactly where I am now! I walk inside the store and ask the attendant if I can use her counter phone. I know who I’ll call to give me a lift.

I dial this certain number. Old Clanger Coleman is the one, and the only one! I got him out of jail a week before and never even asked for my bail money back, for just such a reason. I knew I would need to call on him for help at some point in time. He’ll like hearing my latest whacked out crazy tale. He’ll be hung over as hell, but he’ll come, no doubt. I dial the number. I hear a very sluggish voice on the other side.

“Hey Clanger, man, I’m in a jam . I need your help.”

“All right Snook man, all right, but I got mucked up last night real bad,” he wheezes. “I’ll tell ya that much right now. I had two fine whores in the back seat last night, down good an’ smooth-like on either side of the fat flute and the blue balls, while I hit the peace pipe as hard as I could go. I washed all of this flavor down with a hearty dose of bourbon on top of that. I swear I’m gettin’ too damn old for this lifestyle I’m livin. It's a damn wonder I ain’t in my own grave already.”

“Well I figured all of that, but motor on out to the Time Saver here and let me tell ya all about this rugged experience I just had, man.. I’ll be in the back booth eating a ham and egg biscuit and drinking a cup of Uncle Jubal’s black coffee. A man is hunting me to kill right now, so I have to be on my wares, son. I’ll tell ya all about it when ya get here.”

“Hang on, man. I’ll stagger over that way soon. Keep a bright light on for me now. Like the ageless saying around here still goes, and don’t you ever forget it. Never settle for anything less than a sweet darlin’s best root toot, and always keep at least an old gun barrel that shoots,” he slurred to me over the phone. “Because the good life’s rodeo show absolutely must go on!”

The Legend of Dambo Blankenridge H.L. Dowless

Let it be known that the following account may be somewhat of a true tale, but just don’t you dare ever bet your sweet virtuous posterior on it.

All of the names, places, incidences and faces have been tactfully changed, to protect both the innocent and the guilty. Beware of speaking in concerns to these places, situations and people described out loud, since some hillside long shank might just saunter in on a snowy cold, dark and lonely Saturday night, and stroke that old kitty cat until the blue fire flies, the luscious juice flows, and the divine thunder claps; right on up until she purrs like a well tuned, original, American made Chevy motor!

Once that mighty max commences, let it be known that virtually nothing else can cause him to bring it to an end, but a conclusive rise of the sun on a poor, spent man’s horizon; so heed this dire warning as you dare to read on, and do so at your own peril. I tell you all, this well endowed, Anglo-Saxon author, shall in no way be held responsible for anything resulting from the misconduct of his readers; so please do understand that single fact before proceeding onward any farther.

There once was a man who lived in an elegantly constructed clapboard shack, way across town on a residential road called Butter Butt Lane.

He dreamed of being at least a shit-house lord in his derelict one horse mill town. This particular old town had once been called the Precinct Of Old Blades, since most of the people who remained there tended to appear about as ragged, and behaved as outright haggardly, as they smelled. I cannot recall exactly what it was that the town leaders finally changed the administrative district title into; but make no doubt in regard to this subject, this new name had to have been some sort of euphemism, being that the big money had long since melted away, like good cake icing does on a red hot fireside iron.

Though I have forgotten much over the years, there are a few things about this particular man known by his intimate circle as Dambo Blankenridge, that I shall never forget. However, I use the term “man” rather loosely; like the old hammer hangs inside a delicate bovine belle’s

clanger-janger on a really good night, if all of my fine readers know what I mean here! I am compelled to offer thorough explanation on this note, however, since I never could figure out if the male entity that I once bore witness to was really even human, alien, woman, beast, wimp, muff, or not.

Matter of fact, I shall never forget the day they actually crowned him King..., King O’ The Sons Of Bitches! The Sons Of Bitches were a motorcycle gang that he once deemed himself fond of riding around with.

None of us could ever figure out the reason why. All that they ever did was sit around, talk lots of trash, drink quarts of beer, smoke their weight in pot, and behave like they thought they really intimidated the other locals with their foul odor, their filthy looks, and their ridiculous insults to all that is positive in general.

There was nothing outstanding about this group of riders other than their rude obnoxious behavior and their strikingly offensive appearance; but I tell you all that I shall never forget as well, the day that he, his old lady, and his group of biker louts finally rode away over the hill, on down past the shuttered antique cotton mill, into the setting sun for good.

Only the good Lord knows to where it is that they rode off too, or even if they are alive in our present day; but then, who is it among us left that really even cares anymore?

In a long since faded, hazy, smoke filled, rum soaked memory..., my mind drifts far backward to the time of the local Tobacco Festival Parade.

This festival event occurred around the first of November. These were truly the good ole days in old Skanksville; which come to think of it, was what the town council eventually wound up naming this specific old mill town. The former Precinct Of Old Blades became Skanksville. According to the local history, a woman named Bridget Skanks, who was the wife of a wealthy railroad baron named Bridger Skanks, was the original town founder; so the name obviously derived from that of theirs.

During the old Tobacco Festival Parade every local wanted to own or at least rent a horse. The reason was that he could ride or pull his horse, while displaying advertisements for the local businesses on either side of the horse. The going price per sign was two hundred dollars, CBBB (CB3), or cash-between-the-bimbo’s breasts as we still say, and sometimes even more. The parade went off and on, all day Friday and Saturday, so then the total became four hundred dollars cash for both sides! This was really a lot of money for doing something as simple as just pulling a horse down through the middle of town in the midst of a crowd, for about three hours time in total. This money was just enough to get the horse owner through until planting time, six or seven months later, when he finally had the opportunity to work again.

The activities during the Tobacco Festival celebration were a lively and varied bunch, I might say. Usually the competitive events began in the morning time around 0900 and continued back to back, pausing only at the midday siesta break. We did not call it a siesta back then, it was simply “dinnertime,” but it was the same situation as the much later noted siesta.

I can vividly recall the watermelon eating contest. The person who won received an entire carton of chewing tobacco! This amounted to twenty four foil pouches, filled with the very best brand available at the time.

Usually the favored brand was Red Man, for some reason. I cannot recall that anyone ever refused the prize, even if he did not chew; since he could always sell or trade the pouches, considering that almost everybody made use of it back in that time and place.

What really became a delight was when the tobacco in the twenty four pouches was homemade. The pouches then were usually plastic sandwich bags, rather than foil, and there tended to be much more of it.

The situation became even better when the tobacco was peach flavored, and had been liberally soaked in Kentucky bourbon, or treble run peach flavored white lightning.

The activity that followed was the seed spitting contest. It was really surprising to see just how far a young girl, boy, man or woman, could spit those watermelon seeds. Many a time I have bore witness to seeds flying some thirty yards or more, and into a six foot diameter circle! The prize was one’s choice in a box of shotgun shells, or a cardboard box of ten multicolored chicks. Either one would have been fine by me, depending on what my intention of the moment was. If I had won the chicks, that night around the twelfth striking at the pond behind the old J&G tobacco warehouse in the center of town, the ten chicks would have saved me twenty dollars. I will explain how later on.

Usually the winner was a local older lady who had no use for the shells, and would always give me the chicks anyway, smiling broadly with a slightly intoxicated appearance on her face, saying with a very coarse, smoke choked voice as she did so… “ Well, here ya go there, love. While you are gettin’ your kicks with these chicks for the night, think about me, now, ya hear?” “ You know that I could never forget ya, now Miss Suzy,” I would say as I grabbed the box filled with chirping chicks from underneath her right arm.

Yeah man., now let me tell ya all about her; that was Miss Suzy Sudds.

She owned a local combo soda fountain, pharmacy, malt bar and florist shop, tucked away pleasantly right there on the corner of Nelly Nance and Main street, called “Suzy’s Suds and Buds.”

In my earliest years I did not give the matter much thought, but as time passed, I commenced to examine Miss Suzy with an investigative eye geared toward more specific detail. For an older lady she really held herself up very well, to my shock and surprise; and after a few years, she did not even appear to be quite as old as she had in the past. She would always hand me the box of chicks with a very pleasant smile, while saying virtually the same thing every year; except by the time I was fourteen

or fifteen, she would throw in an additional line to her time worn phrase...

“Well, where ya been a hidin’ there honey ?,” she would spout through her inebriated, smoked up smile, with an obviously plastic gasp. Then she would whisper low in a way that only I could hear... “Next cold Saturday night when ya don’t have anything else to do, why don’t ya drop on by an’ come up to see me sometime, big boy.”

The year of my sixteenth birthday, I decided on a whim to take her up on the offer. Why not? I was really bored, and not much else was going on that late November night in Skanksville. I should say that there was not even a g--damn jingle bell on this particularly cold, dark, and drizzly night, much less anything else worthy of a note here; except maybe a firecracker here and there, or a distant gunshot or two from the bravest of night stalkers going after a few moon light horn haulers from deep inside the shadows somewhere.

I didn’t have to work the following morning. If I shall recall right after so many years, this rather tight looking doxy and me only sipped homemade muscadine wine, and played poker until the wee hours of morning. I was somewhat shocked at how well the old bud pusher really held such a stacked deck, when the play boiled on down to the nitty-gritty there in the midnight fire glow of her pot bellied wood stove! I would have never guessed it, let alone come to know, had I not simply taken the chance on a whim like this.

I would have never imagined that her deck could have been so much dealt with before, that it was so rather...well worn...,yet never once slack.

She really played the game fast, and she rocked her moves very hard, but with an astounding amount of talent as she tried to feel the specific detail in every single card; only accompanied in proper proportion by her sly slight of hand; so please just be kind now in your present thoughts, and do please bless the old she dog!

Well.., we are reminded here how one must always recall that appearances can most assuredly be.. very deceiving, to say the least.

My talented card play really seemed to hold the key that got her motor running; and she purred smoothly as a half baked puma kitten …,all the way ‘till sunrise..., with such spunk that just a simple reflection on the distant past still knocks the drool from the old dragon’s mouth, I am so compelled to tell ya here now as I pen these rather breath taking, juice soaked words!.

The throngs of people would make their way down from the local park, over to the J&G Tobacco warehouse for the next competitive event.

This event was certainly the most treasured one, ever so dear to the hearts of those who lived to experience it. It was the old time Skanksville tobacco spitting contest! Men and women were always more than happy to take part in this grand occurrence. It always seemed to me, that those same women who won the seed spitting contest, virtually came up winning the tobacco spitting contest with what was appearing more and more to be a calculated consistency. Most of these women appeared rather thin and worn for wear, with many of them being quite much older, if not outright elderly. Only one of them was even remotely attractive when one ignored her face; but she possessed the body of a true Venus way backward in the making, that would make a courthouse Little Coot statue gasp when she strutted passed.

All of the others participating in this contest would have appeared just splendid after seven or eight Budweiser’s around closing time. I figure that it would not have taken but only five for her, then I could have at least looked her directly in the face. Too bad for me that the opportunity never came around for me to find out.

The only exception might have been that it was on one of those bleak cold December nights, where I was tag teamed by two horn wearing, pig tailed vixens in the dark of moonlight in some forgotten wood stand graveyard by the local railroad tracks, then come the next morning I couldn’t recollect even one of their faces; and the one that I could faintly

recollect, I wished dearly that I could simply shake out of my poor, permanently scared up mind.

My oh my, just what on earth did I do? What in the name of good grannie came over me? Oh poor, poor little me; and the many places, faces, and ruffled dress laces, that I have gotten myself into! What more might I now say after so many live long, lost years?

If the winner was a single woman, then she got to select the male of her choice from the crowd for a really rockin’ rawhide date. If the winner was male, then he had the experience of enjoying a splendid date with the local Tobacco Queen! The queen had the pleasure of selecting where it was that she and the male would go, and the local town hall payed for it all, in full! The date would usually occur on Saturday night of the following weekend.

Virtually every year about this same time, my friends and I would go froggigging over on Ticklenaked Branch Road the following Saturday night, and we always knew if the local Tobacco Queen and her date, got along well on the night of their outing.

Our strategy, when we discovered a strange car parked in front of the old tree enshrouded pack-house shack in-front of the slough where we hunted, was to ease up on the vehicle with the spotlight turned off, then surprise the visitors by abruptly shining it virtually into the occupant’s faces; doing so in hope that the people would ride on and leave, once we had observed the vehicle for a while to determine if it was the local sheriff in waiting for us, or not. What always amused us was when the Tobacco Queen and her date for the evening, carried on as though we were not even present!

Matter of fact, here I shall declare that they did not even miss a single blessed stroke, for holding the meat down hard enough to make the Nannie-goat choke! To our chagrin, on most of these occasions, we would wind up being the ones to hastily exit the entire area, since the

risk of either them spotting us to give later identification, or the local skunk sheriff popping up to investigate, was far too great for wagering chances.

Following the tobacco spitting contest, the same crowd would gradually move on into the tobacco warehouse itself. Here would be positioned a stage, with a musical band in performance that had driven in all the way from way out on Nantucket Island. What these folks specialized in playing was Beach Music, of course; but back in this day rather than the music of Bob Marley, it tended to be the Beatles, or Little Richard, some local band specialty that was popular, or more from the kind of musical tune that is easy for people to dance the Shag with.

As this band played along, freshly cooked pork barbeque with beans, potato salad, Coleslaw, and homemade biscuits, were being served out to the people, who were being seated at the unpainted picnic tables lined up in rows on the inside of the rather large, but empty warehouse complex. All of this fine eating was served with one’s choice of ice tea, or jet black coffee. This time was a great occasion for families to get together, or to do some socializing with old friends and acquaintances whom we hadn’t visited for a while.

As people gathered about, eating and listening to the music, about two thirds of the way through, the band would pause for a while and the local politicians would take the stage, selling their favored pitch for local office to us as we finished our meals, while we all were speaking merrily among ourselves.This special event was a cherished time indeed for the entire county, to be sure about my reflection on the times.

One time Governor Ye Lire came down all the way from Bone Lick, just to speak on stage at our local seasonal festival! All of the women rushed up to hug his neck and wish him well, if not kiss him outright. Many of these women were not exactly among the most savory, but the governor did not seem to mind even one little bit, I tell you. Matter of fact, he appeared to have gotten a real kick out of doing so! Maybe there was much more

here than met the eye? The local talk just went wild during this time of year.

The best time, and the climax to the festival weekend, was the old Festival Dance at the J&G tobacco warehouse. The former event involving the band and the politicians, lead up to the evening dance. While the local floozies were on the inside seeking out their date for the night, in the large parking lot the moonshine flowed, and the growing contention roared.

Any matters of disagreement were solved once and for all, around back of the tobacco warehouse. Out there was a huge mud hole, where virtually all of those earlier in verbal contest also soon became involved in a physical contest, goading the other into some perverted, macho display of violence. Virtually all of them wound up wallowing in this thick mud, consisting of fresh pig manure, smut black dirt, all mixed in with some rather dingy ditch water that we called “dragon piss,” in pleasant jest.. Things really became exciting when two screamin’-demon women, went at it inside the mud pit. Man..,oh man..., the people would just gather all around that mud pit, hoist their cups of spiked up beer high, and cheer these raging lioness couples on; who would virtually always wind up stripping each other naked to the bare bone, to the shear delight of the entire surging, swearing, flag waving mob!

One time the fight became so violent that the local sheriff was forced to intervene, just to forbear some sort of serious injury, or possible fatality from occurring. What made it worse was to discover that one of these raging mud nymphs was the Governor’s own daughter herself, highly inebriated and all decked out in the bare flesh, just like the day that she was born; screaming, yelling, and a cussing..., just as hard as her sweetly scorned, but deliciously delicate, well talented lips could yell! Personally, I got a real kick out of it all myself; but then again, what red blooded American thirteen year old boy would not have?

One certain night, as I shall recall, there were some twenty nine people, all just a wallowing in the mud hole out there in the cold, including a few half naked bimbos, among the men. One man grabbed a certain midsized woman with a set of rather developed breast that stood straight out from her body, hugging her up close to him, while a drunkard in a filthy muck covered shirt confronted him with both fists raised, and his tobacco stained teeth clenched in what appeared to be a seething anger.

“Dambo Blankenridge, I’ll kick your sorry ass from hell itself, all the way back to Texas, is what I’ll do,” he roared!

“Awe Jim,” screamed the woman, “you shut your face this very moment!

Him, me, nor anybody else, don’t have any use for it out here tonight, now honey.”

“Yeah woman? Well I told ya not to be with the likes of him anymore. Now didn’t I? Didn’t I, now woman?,” the drunken man roared.

“Yeah? Oh yeah?,” screamed the woman back. “Well guess what, Jimmy there, it’s tough shit for you, cause Dambo ’s a coming home with me tonight. You hear me? You get that? He’s gonna be mine tonight, now. I told ya a long time ago, that it was over with between us. It’s over between us..,forever.., oh Jimmy boy. So you just gotta get over it!”

“Yeah..? Is that much so? Well, it hasn’t been so long ago that I have forgotten where it is that you live,” spouted the man suggesting a possible threat.

“Well, guess what? There are things that I never told you. When Mama died two years ago, she left me another house over on lake Maccamahaw, and the likes of you have never been there before, nor do you know anybody that has. So you can just take that and shove up where the sun doesn’t shine tonight, there, oh Jimmy boy! See if you can find some pleasure in it as ya do it,” the woman rudely shouted back to

him.

“And just what in the name of G--damned hell are you laughing at Dambo!,” the dirt covered man screamed as he pointed his index finger directly at Dambo’s half smiling face.

“You ain’t shit, there Blankenridge boy! You ain’t shit...! You hear me? You let me catch you around town here, boy...I’ll cut your head clean off your puny, punk-assed shoulders!”

Dambo appeared to be a worm, drenched in pig manure and mud from head to toe. He spoke only through his nose. I failed to determine if speaking in such a munked up manner was his natural tone, or one borrowed from the cheap whiskey that he was obviously so full of. On this night I never got a real hard look at his physical features, since they were all covered in a thick blanket of mud, and putrid muck.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said with a noticeable shiver in his voice.

“What did you say to me, boy?,” the drunkard roared. “You got something to say to me, there boy? If so, then you had better be out with it!”

“He’ll be with me,” the mud covered woman screamed who Dambo was crouched behind, almost as if he was attempting to hide. “I told you where he was going to be tonight, you damn, dumb bozo!”

“I guess that I am going to be with her,” slurred Dambo through his nose, as he spoke to the man and pointed jest-fully toward the woman in an obvious attempt at provoking the threatening drunkard swaying as he stood before him. He laughed as though he got a thrill out of telling the man what he did, yet he appeared to be forcing it due to his suppressed fear, that he obviously thought nobody else had bothered to notice.

“Well, you can have that punk-arsed, son of a bitch,” screamed the pointing man while he staggered as he attempted to stand there in the middle of the huge mud pond. “And you, son-of-a-bitch, can just eat shit and die, as far as I am concerned!,” screamed the man toward Dambo.

“Well, very well, then,” Dambo almost sniveled, “I have never tried that before. Have you? Ole come on now, don’t tell us that you have, oh Mr. Elroy there.”

Dambo and the smoked up, juice slopped strumpet, tossed back their heads and roared with inebriated laughter.

“That’s Jim to you! You got that, you damn, dumb-arsed bastard,” spouted the intoxicated man as he pointed his index finger almost directly in Dambo’s very face again?

“Yeah! You tell him, there Dambo. That was a good one!,” screamed the inebriated mud hole floozy.

When all of the drunken men and women finally quit wrestling and climbed out of the mud hole, the next place that they headed was toward the warehouse owner, old man, Guilful’s, pond just a few hundred yards farther backward from the mud hole, and up against the woods. Inside this pond he kept two very large pet alligators.

Another famous event that occurred at the festival every year was the dyed and fried warehouse chick toss. Every drunk in the county would come to the dance for no other reason than to participate. One of old man, Guilful’s, workers would be standing by the door of the chick pen, loaded with hundreds of little ducklings and chicks; with the drunks forming a line, going all the way backward to the tobacco warehouse door.

Young and old, man, woman, harlot, hussy, whore, saint and deacon, would almost fight for their place in line during this age old event. Hell, I

even saw the preacher man himself there once, if it really matters enough for me to even tell it..., just as stagger stricken and stumble toed as the rest of ‘em, to bluntly tell the truth about it.

For two dollars a person could purchase a chick, and for three dollars he could buy himself a lively yellow and brown duckling. He would then walk over to the pond, and toss the chick or the ducking over the edge toward the ever hungry alligators, who appeared to be waiting very patiently. The people observing from the line literally went wild when the big bad gator snapped the poor little squeaking chick or duckling up. The more filled that the observers were with their shine-spiked Budweiser or Coors draft, then the crazier it seemed that they all became.

When the alligators finally filled..., which was seldom, virtually never but only once that I can recall..., the man had nine starved, caged racoons and an even hungrier boa constructor who were very happy to take over the task of consuming chicks and ducklings, to the growing cheers of a drunken crowd.

The following Sunday morning was always one that could never be forgotten; for every person at the local tobacco warehouse the night before, was present there at the baptist church in the center of town.

Sinner, saint, the drunkard, the charlatan, and the con-man, were all sitting shoulder to shoulder proudly and very well dressed, right there inside the pews. All of those wallowing in the mud hole the night before were there as well. All of the many people who were once seriously at war with one another, were now on much friendlier terms; appearing unto the few out-landers who were very ignorant of the local customs, as though they had never been anything else at all, but the very best of friends.

It was there that I ran into Dambo again. He sang in the local choir, with his still slurring, raspy, tenor nasal voice sounding high above all of the others present. When he completed his duties in the choir loft, he then came down to light the altar candles before commencement of the

morning sermon. When he lit the flame it sparkled furiously, almost like a dynamite fuse; causing a nervous Dambo to first try blowing the flame out, so that he could clean the wick off before relighting it. When he attempted at puffing out the flame, the flicker of the candle suddenly raged like the flame of a blow torch, from all of the liquor fumes still yet lingering on his rancid, stomach churning morning breath following the tobacco festival dance.

The preacher then suddenly ceased in his sermon, with a hard, angry appearance plastered all over his brightly flushed face. He quickly snapped around toward Dambo.

“Dambo Blankenridge..., I should have known better.!.Oh, how I should have known better. It had too have been you, who was most certainly right there in the mud hole last night,” the preacher screamed as he gasped, and grasped the top of his half bald head with a trembling right hand. “Oh.., do shame on me! Shame, shame, on poor little me, for I should have made a better choice being in the position of pastor for this blessed church. Please forgive me, dear congregation, oh, how I beg of you.., please!”

“Well preacher,” sniveled Dambo as he smiled his wormy hungover smile.

“I shall not ever lie. How would you ever have known…, unless you were right there in the mud hole with me last night?”

“Dambo !,” raged the preacher as he pointed his index finger toward him from the pulpit.

Dambo abruptly interrupted him. “ Well let‘s do tell the truth there, ole preacher man. I saw you just standin’ right there beside the muck mud, a looooking very lustfully at the mud hole doll babies. That’s right now..., I saw saw ya...! You might fool some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool little ole me none of the time, there ole fat feller! There’s no need to lie about it now. I in-fact

saw ya..., a standin’ there all wobble eyed..., and just a loookin’ ‘til ya googled out eyes seemed like they were about to pop out o’ ya old bald, chicken head there!”

“Well I -!,” snapped the preacher. Dambo immediately cut him off sharply again.

“Yeah? I know that you desperately wanted to, but you never will. I don’t know what the mud hole hump hunnies here have to say about the matter?”

“Yeah, Dambo there, you just might be about right,” four or five broadly smiling, well dressed women spoke up and said from the congregation sitting in the choir loft behind the podium, where the preacher stood facing Dambo, who stood with his back toward the main congregation.

“We all shall second the absolute fact, that he never will with any one of us.”

The congregation sitting behind Dambo rippled with a muffled giggle from all of the ladies present inside the church house.

I will never forget that Saturday night in late February of that following year. You see, old Dambo’s self employed sewer pond riding pony was also the town Mayer! She had a strange custom that she would engage in from time to time virtually every year, like clock work in a wonton factory. She was also the local backdoor liquor distiller, and the good town of Skanksville provided her with her own apartment, and even a steady supply of food to boot; all of this just to say thank-you for the fine services that she so artfully supplied the kind residents with.

Sometime around ten or eleven in the evening..., every year it would virtually never fail...; she would saddle up one of her parade horses, strip stark naked, strap an ammo belt and a pistol with it’s holster around her waist, hop on the horse, then brazenly ride away on Main Street right down through the middle of town! Usually when called, the local sheriff,

one Mr. Shacklaid Hester, would kindly take it upon himself to casually pick her up. Come the following morning the whole town would see his personal Caledonia county patrol vehicle casually parked right there behind her apartment, like he thought that he was hiding from somebody or something. Every telephone inside the whole province of Hardscrabble Corner would nearly leap from it’s hook with the town gossip.

This time however, the sheriff stayed comfortably at home, and the man who came to save the night was none other than ole Dambo Blankenridge himself. He even thought to bring along a brand new, crispy clean bed sheet specially intended to wrap her up in, since he well knew that she would be shivering with cold, considering all of the bared flesh being so brazenly exposed to the elements, as it was. According to the talk, both of them were spotted out on Ticklenaked Branch Road for a while, before Blankenridge paused his car behind her place to finish off what all the walloping church ladies imagined was most certainly, a truly exotic pleasure of the starlit night.

“What a fine fellow,” everybody said, “to be so considerate of a dame consumed in mental distress like that. We need many more people just like Mr. Blankenridge around here,” they would all stand around on broad street the following day, and say.

One of the ladies dressed in her long ankle length, wine colored dress with expensive looking ruffles of satin lace, wearing a big sun bonnet the same color, suddenly had eyes that lit up like poplar sparks in the dark of midnight.

“Well it is very interesting that all of you should speak so fondly of Mr. Blankenridge like that. Maybe he can pass all of his positive attributes on down to our dear little children,” she said.

“Oh do tell ?,” inquired the town folk with a sudden gasp, “and why exactly is it that you should say such a complementary thing?,” they all continued to inquire.

The lady then gazed at the gathered bunch over her sagging spectacles.

“You are all aware that he is chief Ka Ka instructor down at the old Wolery Family academy, aren’t you,” relayed the lady?

“Oh, do tell, now? Ever so honored and blessed are all of us by his presence,” the concerned group said with another heavy gasp!

Come Christmas time that year, when the academy let the children out for Christmas break, old Dambo went as far as to call me up, to my shock and surprise. How the rooster crowing hell did he even know me?

What possessed him to call me, of all people, up? I had only spoken with him only a few times prior in the past.

Maybe it was our conversations about pleasant looking, green haired bimbos throwing elegant homemade yo yo’s, with the cute little juice drippin’ joules that could slurp up an entire foot-long hot dog in a single gulp, a nine inch tongue that could lick the chrome clean on the backside of a new Ford buggy bumper; and not to mention were in possession of a delicious intake that could draw golf balls through some ten feet of garden hose, just to make a courthouse Stars and Garters statue break out in a steaming, shivering, trembling sweat! Hell, to be honest about the matter, I never could quite figure it all out!

He proceeded to say that he wanted me to take a trip with him all the way to Acapulco Mexico, and would pay for everything! I was game, since I had nothing better to do at the time, and the old doxy had just about spent her damn squeeze box out playing our time worn game of “thrash the magic dragon” by then. When he came by to pick me up, he was driving an early bullish model of Thunderbird, complete with a drop top, a well crafted sunroof, and a really sweet doosed up 302. I never did ask why it was that we were going to Mexico, but I did notice that the trunk was rather large on this particular model of car.

When we finally motored on across that southern border, we made our way toward a very small development that appeared to be a town straight out of the old West. People rode horses and wagons, with very few owning automobiles of any type. The roads were not even paved, only dirt and gravel, if they were lucky.

Soon we were far out of town, in a place virtually out all alone somewhere in the undeveloped woods. We finally came to pause in front of a very large field of what appeared to be delightfully tall standing hemp; you know, the kind with the nine inch, sap dripping, purple buds sticking all out from everywhere, like horns on a hyped up hoppin’ hound when he smells a cute little doe in heat.

Dambo picks up his two way radio and speaks in Spanish fluently to my astonishment, then turns to me and tells me to watch the field of hemp ahead. Soon more than a hundred nude children from nine to twelve years of age, appearing to have been released from somewhere unseen, bolted into a complete run through the huge standing field. The large group of children ran more than a quarter mile, until they arrive at an expansive colonial styled plantation complex on the other side of the field.

These kids make the trip back and forth twice more, then the group finally comes to pause once more again before the large plantation estate.

Dambo picks up the two way radio and makes a call. He carries on a conversation for three or four lines, then puts the radio down.

“Well boy, let’s ride around and go visit the owner of this house. I have something that I want to show you here, that you may well never get to see anywhere else.”

“Whose house is it ?,” I asked, trying to feign the appearance of being nonchalant. “ I am not at liberty to reveal that information, but you are more than

welcome to come by and watch the inspirational sights, regardless,” replied Dambo with an air of confidence.

We motor on around the field of what appears to be standing hemp, making our way down a narrow two rut dirt road, until we come to pause before a massive, West Indies, colonial style plantation mansion. Out in the yard each of the children was being scraped down by using an edged wooden scraper shaped like a short, but wide bladed knife. The gum swelled into a large blob on the edge of the scraper, being carefully removed and placed into light green, quart sized, rather elaborately decorated glass holders.

By the time that each of the four fancy candy jar types of glass holders had been filled, each and every child had been scraped down thoroughly from head to toe. The gum on the inside of the jars was then removed and pressed into brick sized wooden molds, that both connected and disconnected into halves. What remained was a masonry brick sized shape consisting of tightly packed gum, gathered from what appeared to be a very large field of standing hemp.

“You see that brick looking thing there ?,” asked Dambo with a thin rubbery smile. “ Yeah, I see it,” I replied. “ Well that thing, as you call it, is going to net us about nine grand, and these people will pay for our trip here.” “ What is it,” I asked? “ You haven’t figured that out yet?,” Dambo spouted as he smiled in astonishment. “ I am not asking just to waste time talking,” I retorted.

“Well that is some of the best stew on the other side of the Rio Grande, I tell you! That is how I am going to pay my keep inside ole Skanksvile there.

You didn’t think that I could make it on a poor Ka Ka instructor’s salary alone, did you? This is my sideline gig, and it works out really well for me,” Dambo spouted with a wormy smile.

We finally made it back to Skanksville during late evening in a couple of days. Our ride back, of course, occurred after gorging ourselves on some of the world’s best tequila and lounging around in one of the most exotic, bodacious booty blessed bordellos in all of Madre Magdalene’s Christendom.., all enjoyed at the complete expense of our herb wealthy hosts. Here, to my wonderful Stars And Bars amazement, we both were surrounded every hour on the hour by more bared up, bouncing, golly whopping, body rocking gazongas, than an adulterated IRS cash register can count. Old Dambo told the madam of this blessed beaver mansion, that he wished he could grow a whole acre of ‘em just to lay down and wallow in! I tell you that we had every favor in at least five different flavors..; and all of it came minus worrying about the uninvited stork appearing, absolutely no crow what so ever, and with both of us only partying gallantly while totally consumed in company with the most elegant of swallows!

We paused by the bridge out on Ticklenaked Branch Road just as soon as we made back into town. In no time flat it seemed local cars parked by the roadside, surrounding us on both sides. The shiftless youth got out in pairs, fours and fives, sauntering toward us, but moving about briskly with a momentarily nervous kind of walk. Dambo received their requested orders through a slightly down rolled window, cut the bricks up with a straight razor, and in a New York minute he had sold out completely. He smiled politely, waved toward them all casually, then started his rebuilt souped up 302 Boss..., and we were soon moving forward along at wind speed once more again.

“See, that’s what I do on the side to make it. Just look at this green here, boy!”

He shoved the stack of bills before me as he drove along.

“That’s ten thousand smackers there, old Ham Bone! Ten big ones that are all mine. But I am good.. I am that kind type of person, now. I know that you rode with me, so here is ten percent for helping me out by just keeping me company. It’s hard to believe that something so easy to accomplish nets me such worth,” he said with a giddy laugh and a broad smile, as he slapped his steering wheel solidly with his right hand..

The year before, at the Halloween fest, there was the annual greased up pig catching contest. While I was there awaiting my turn, I met this somewhat attractive, scrawny young woman, somewhere around my own age. She had told me that she was one of the mud hole muck mamas, and that she loved nothing more than a hard core cat fight; that is, except a hard rocking, throbbing, roll in the midnight hay barn on a clear harvest moon. She proudly informed me that she preferred it when she was near enough to the beach, that she could hear the distant waves rolling in above the sweet slapping sound of new flesh slamming in the hot pot, for gracious sake!

We dated for awhile... and she was alright... I guess.., but we never could hit it off very well. She seemed to be just a bubble off plumb, if anybody should ever ask me about her. Just between us, her favorite pleasure was swallowing cucumbers whole, one after another, until she would finally retch and ruminate, just to use the type of language appropriate in proper society circles to effectively describe the situation. She claimed that she actually got a high from engaging in this most bizarre activity!

I made her really angry when I asked her if she had ever considered switching to light poles. I was serious, though! My logic in regard to the matter being that the light pole, by far and away, was much more in size than the cucumber, and accomplishing the assigned task would certainly pack one hell of retching punch, while knocking plenty of rumination loose in the process! Personally, I thought my conclusion and caring suggestion made perfectly good sense; but sadly, that hollow necked

bleached out blonde simply didn’t see my kind suggestion in the same shade of light that I did.

After I thought about it all for quite some time, just out of my own concern for solving her strange problem, I failed to come up with any better treatment for her ailment than allowing her to have another hearty dose of Doctor Ham Bone’s Wonderful Two Ball Tonic. It effectively cures moles, colds, fills empty holes, makes shallow throats once more elongated, and all those poor, shriveled up booties big once more again. I sure done my honest part to cure her problem...all the way down to the bleached out bone, bless her sweet strawberry soul for my saying so. In the end though, I eventually left her to her own fate, but only in polite silence, of course.

There is much more to this story here that I simply cannot seem to figure out from this point onward.... I don’t normally speak about the matter, intending to forbear on spreading gossip; so people had better read and listen hungrily the first time around...

Ole Dambo somehow heard about this poor lost strumpet that I had met at the greasy pig catching contest..., and he was just dying to meet with her. I introduced her to him...and boy did they seem to hit it off..., right from the very start, I tell you! They went together just like homemade biscuits with molasses and gator ham. I had no problem with it. Actually, I was glad that she moved on and was making a new life for herself. Her being gone took the fear in me away of hurting her feelings by breaking up with her, being that she was such an emotional wreck due to her particular breathtaking fetish, and I had about all that anybody could ever tolerate of her erratic exotic antics.

The strange part in this tale is that somehow, in due course of time, Dambo finally found out about her freakish habit of swallowing both cucumbers and bananas whole. One day he searched all over town for me drenched from head to toe in an ice cold sweat, with his teeth clenched so tightly that I imagined would shatter on any moment

without notice, and seemingly consumed in a spectacular state of grave desperation. When he finally discovered me, he dared to ask me if I had ever personally witnessed her doing such an offbeat thing. Believe it or not, I told him the pure gospel truth about the whole matter and nothing less, since it was my obligation as his fellow man to do so. I informed him in very direct terms that most certainly, I had personally witnessed it.., and actually... she was quite proficient at performing this most exhilarating act!

For some ludicrous reason, both he and she became really angry about my answer to his proposed question. Now both of them avoid me like the plague...; imagine that, for crying out loud! What on earth did I do? I simply just gave honest answer to his dumb question, for the love of Pete. If he did not want to hear a faultless answer, then what in addled Aunt Molly’s pig pen, pray tell, was he doing asking me that peculiar question, then?

Anyway, time passed, and I haven’t seen either Dambo or his old lady, in many a year now. I heard on the wind that they had a very heavy courtship, an expensive engagement, eventually concluding with a wedding so elegantly extravagant that it kept them heavily indebted for the next ten years or more! Dambo could barely put food on the table because of it, according to the word from the bird on the wind.

I know too that she lead poor Dambo straight into a trap like possum to an apple half, by conning him into upgrading his slightly less than elegant clap board shack sittin’ high up on the ole do-do stack, way over there on Butter Butt Lane. That way, if he ever decided to back out of that marriage, she could find herself a fancy lawyer from way over in Bum Lick, and take poor ole Dambo for all that he had or could ever hope to have, at anytime in the future.

Just to be honest about it now, an alimony check from a Ka Ka instructor, who was the proud owner of a slightly used clap board shack sitting high up on a brand new do-do stack, would have surely set her up right and tight; especially since she had been thoroughly trained by her

well heeled mumsy, to pounce like scorned panther at the first true golden opportunity that presented itself. So I was informed, many among her gave some fine words of praise for her outstanding achievement, to her good measure; claiming aloud that she now stood so high up on the latter of prosperity, that she could stand flat footed and osculate a katydid’s base button!

I attempted to inform Dambo as to the fact about the matter, but he rudely slammed the door on me, adamantly rejecting my concerned message of dire warning. The buzzard inside the local grapevine informs me that they are living in this particular type of negative situation, or maybe that more specific one; but what I have already said is about all that I have to say in regard to this matter. Little flutters on the wind have told me his new love demanded that old Dambo give up mud wallowing, snot swallowing, humping watermelons, and hanging out with those buzzed up biker louts all together..., or else!

That same elegant queen buzzard of the grapevine even claims that this mud hole muck mamma told ole Dambo that if he didn’t like her demand, then he could spend the rest of his life trying to bend the hammer backwards and pleasure himself, by shoving it hard upward into that particular chute where the lizards never climb, as far as she was concerned; ‘cause she, practically speaking, had no real use for a limp little rye straw that she needed a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers just to jilly-jangle with, much less to use for fillin’ up hungry holes.

I simply struggle desperately only to imagine the picture myself, amid trying just to breathe in between gasping breaths. In the end, I honestly feel that this now timeworn recollection might just wind up being the death of me all together. I sure hope that they are both doing well..., wherever it is that they both are in this cruel cold world…; regardless of whether the ka ka swells upward into one or the other, or rains down upon them both in huge helping heaps!

Come Sunday morning to this very day, eleven elephantine ladies wearing the gaudiest of sun bonnets, and donned in long bell shaped dresses that are cleverly designed to conceal the reality of their overdeveloped size; still gather all around in front of the baptist church there in the center of town to debate what topic it is that they will discuss on Sunday, Wednesday and Friday evenings; while in secret among themselves only hoping to spread the local news, like a mud hole hump bunny spreads her succulent pink gossamer wings! Once in a blue moon, I will still hear the name of Blankenridge mentioned, though not nearly as much now as I previously did.

“Well, he sure is such a fine fellow,” they all still say with a repressed giggling grin. “If only it was that this community had many more just like him.., then the world would most surely envy us…,” said one as she leaned back her head to gaze off blankly across an adjacent freshly plowed field, and into woods beyond.

“And with glowing pride,” continued another there by her side over her voluptuously endowed bosom, “come Monday morning, the old Leghorn rooster could then stand up tall in the cow-poo, and crow; lets git it on rat nigh, sweet Sue, cock-a-doodle-do!”

Where the True Life Etta Place Lies H.L. Dowless

I find reflection time after what felt like an enduring labor stint, sitting back in the leather seat by my journal keeper. I casually open the drawer on an old handmade heirloom writing desk from colonial times. Inside lies a business card with a unique Victoiran era drawing on it, displaying an elegant well dressed lady surrounded by radiant birds, running through a multicolored flower garden, with the entire caption surrounded in a proud display of cypress limbs and Spanish moss. The rather catchy title arched in fancy bold script across the top is Etta’s Place. The phone number listed is 771 625 8313, with the words Call anytime. I’m always willing and ready to listen, written in antique text.

Seeing this again at Christmas time after all of these long years, really caused my mind to drift backward. I casually sip my holiday coffee as I nibble away on homemade cinnamon applesauce cakes, while totally losing myself in my own reflective thoughts. Might all of this hazy memory be only some type of opium tincture induced dream from way back when during my partying days?, I silently ask myself repeatedly as I drift away into my own reminition.

Yes, Christmas is almost always a cheer filled occasion of the year for my entire family. The only exception must have been the year my grandfather on my mother’s side turned a backhoe he was operating over on his head, then wasted away over a three month period, while finally dying on a very rainy, gloomy December twenty third.

My brother and I had been on a grand deer and turkey hunt during the holidays of this specific year. I had also trapped seven otters, nine big bobcats, more than thirty raccoons, not to mention dozens of squirrels and rabbits. My cash take in this venture would round out at twenty five hundred dollars, with fur prices being what they were back in that day.

Our dedicated efforts also provided a majority of the meat the family consumed during the holidays, and beyond.

When Christmass day passed, we all enjoyed a community New Years celebration complete with another family feast, more packages received,

always concluding with an all night fireworks celebration. Without this fireworks display, the year going on simply didn’t feel right. Think about it now.. We’ve all made it through one more year into the next. Consider those many who didn’t. I received a brand new twelve gauge shotgun and four boxes of shells. My brother received a new Winchester falling block twenty two. We were both very happy, as was everybody else to say the least.

Our final celebration at closure of every year was to motor into Happy Valley where the old Johnson family graveyard is, which once stood at the very center of the two thousand acre Johnson Plantation Estate.

Here the entire family always paused in reflection of the past and those already long gone , who were such a huge participating part of every event back in those days passed by. The elders exchange stories handed down from the lives of those now long gone. The family veterans from the Revolutionary War were always dutifully honored first, with new colorful flower wreaths laid at the foot of their head stones.

Our greatest celebrations, however, were reserved for the graves of Confederate veterans, who endured far more negative travesty at the hands of Federal soldiers, than the Patriots ever did at the hands of the British.. Here memories of these people, places dear to them and past events, didn’t seem that far gone at the time. We pause beside one certain tall narrow headstone, with a cross at the top and large old English letters, CSA, underneath.

“There lies the grave of Jacob Johnson,” Uncle James pointed down and said as he puffed hard on his briarwood pipe. “He fought on multiple fronts, from South Carolina, to Virginia, all throughout Tennessee, and back again.”

“What did he tell you about these battles?,” my brother asked.

“I was a young boy,” said Uncle James as he leaned on his beechwood hook cane . “I might have been only seven or so when he died, but I still

remember well. He told me the fighting was terrible. Luckily he didn’t have to go fight at Fort Fisher. Descriptions of hell pale in the face of that bloody final fight, not to mention the dreadful aftermath at the prison camp in Point Lookout, Maryland. Based on what he told me, what he experienced was enough hell for anybody, though.”

“What did he tell you?,” I asked.

“Well they had shipped him out to Nashville Tennessee. By that time both armies were desperately low on supplies and greatly fatigued. Their uniforms had been worn over sweat drenched bodies for so long they had all dry-rotted. For several days both sides traded gun shots and cannon fire with one another, across wide fields surrounding Nashville.

When their ammunition was finally exhausted, many took scrap leather and made slings, tossing virtual clouds of fist sized stones into the one another when they mistakenly found themselves bunched up out in the open. The Federal Army seemed to make this mistake far more than the Southern troops, so grandpa told me. The Southern troops joked among themselves, claiming killing Yankees was like killing possum.

“Finally the stone and field crafted javelin tossing transformed into desperate hand to hand combat, fought with sticks, walking staffs, stones, knives, bare hands, and even teeth. With all of this physical activity the dry rotted uniforms simply shredded away, leaving soldiers on both sides stark naked and often barefooted. The Southern army was outnumbered by two to one. After more than two days and nights of solid fighting, the army was finally overwhelmed and overrun. Only sixteen thousand survived out of twenty two thousand. ” “What happened then?,” my brother asked.

“The Federal Army wouldn’t allow the surrendered Southern soldiers to carry any supplies whatsoever, and certainly not any weapons,” continued Uncle James. “ Not even clothing and simple pocket knives were allowed. This meant that our grandfather, Jacob Johnson and

many dozens more, were forced to walk back eastward totally naked, without any basic supplies whatsoever, and barefooted.”

“What did he say they did?,” my brother asked.

“They scrounged clothing and supplies from the dead. If it was only two sizes too big, then it was still good. Clothing that was too small could be ripped apart or cut with the edges of broken stones, and worn like a poncho and or a kilt. This is what they did.”

“What did he say was toughest to come by?,” brother asked.

“Besides weapons, he said boots. Canned pork and beans or other preserved food came next,” Uncle James said. “Grandpa told me one of the happiest days of his life was when he and his group found boots, side knives, salt pork and cans of pork and beans among a downed platoon of slain enemy men. As time went on they all found Federal uniforms faded by the sun until they turned almost gray. These they put on. By the time they discovered these, they had lost so much weight they could fit into almost any sized clothing for adults.”

“Did they ever find any more weapons?,” I asked.

“Well, they made weapons. They had everything from river cane spears sharpened and fire hardened, to six foot staffs, to slings, to slung shots, not to mention the side knives they found after some time spent searching. They even made fish hooks and caught fish from a nearby stream.”

“Wow,” I said, “what a story of survival. I take great pride in coming from the blood of ultimate survivors. Our enemies did us a favor by weeding out all of our bad blood. Only the best of genes make it through the worst of situations.”

“Well, then they walked from Nashville Tennessee, all the way back to Happy Valley here, where the old Johnson Plantation home still stands in the field over there,” Uncle James told us.

“How long did it take him?,” I asked.

“Three months or so,” replied Uncle James. “When he finally made it back home the word passed down was that he was nothing but tattered rags, dried skin and bones.”

There was an abruptly prevailing somber silence. Nobody said another word, but simply gazed forward out upon the graves.

“I sure wish people like Aunt Suzy were still around,” sighed Uncle James, “and then there is my mother over that way,” he said as he pointed leftward toward the wood stand, “who I shall miss to the day I die. She has been gone since I was seven.”

After what felt like hours, several of us would toss carnations and roses, then finally make our way back toward the parking area, one by one.

After a long reflective pause, my brother and myself walk over toward our little red Chevette. We slowly opened the doors and sat down in the seats.

“You know,” says my brother suddenly, “this talk regarding history makes me want to experience some living history. What about you?”

“I don’t know, “ I reply with a shrug and a sigh. “We still have two weeks before work and school commences again. I suppose we could. What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Let's motor up to D.C. for a week. Nothing much is happening around home.The freezer has been filled with game. Everything hereabouts is kind of dead now. We’ll only be in the way anyway. Our parents, Aunts, Uncles and cousins want to visit friends and do their own thing among

themselves. Why not?”

“Let's go!,” I reply. “When do you want to leave?”

“Might as well head out tomorrow,” brother says.

“So it's all on,” I say with a shrug and a happy gasp. “ We’ll pack up tonight!”

That evening upon making it back home, we packed enough clothing into a weathered and worn leather bound suit case for five days out. When the sun peeked above the distant treeline we made ourselves fried ham, cheese, and egg sandwiches, left a goodbye note on the dining room table, then headed out.

The ride to D.C. was very interesting. There was much in the way of nature, trees, wide open fields, and elegant stately time honored homes to view in passing. After some time we made it into Alexandria, Virginia, to a lone Econo Lodge by the roadside. There were rooms available, so we booked one. There was a subway entrance nearby, so we were saved from the dreadful experience of needing to find parking in D.C. We both rested easy that night, sipping homemade root beer and wine my brother found somewhere and thought to stash. Next morning we both arose, purchasing our subway cards in the hotel lobby, eating the hotel scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese and toast, then hitting the subway train around eight in the morning.

Our first stop would most certainly be the Smithsonian Institute. We would easily spend the day here, we figured. The subway train paused at the proper street tunnel leading to the outside, and we exited. The entrance to the Smithsonian had a souvenir shop and bookstore. We paused inside, purchasing our tickets. We first entered the natural history section with the prehistoric Indian relics. An attractive woman, maybe thirty years old with blond hair that splashed upon her shoulders,

donning an ankle length Victorian era dress smiled our way as we paused at the entrance door. I politely nodded back, figuring she must be some sort of museum employee.

“Hello! Nice to meet the both of you,” she announced to us. “Might you two be in need of a guide, huge as this place is?”

“Maybe, cause we sure don’t know our way around inside this monster of a place,” I said to her with a hint of laughter in my voice.

“Well I could tag along and be of good company,” she tells us. “ My services are free of charge, so you two dare not worry at all about it.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, “I guess, why not?,” I replied with a smile.

My brother sighed deeply and cut his eyes hard over in my direction, wearing a twisted up half frown.

“My name is Etta Place, the original. What are yours?”

“I’m Beau Boom Boom, and this is my brother Dookum,” I reply. I intentionally gave out false names. How was I to know that she didn’t as well? “Where are you from?,” I asked her. “ Those names are very interesting, to say the least,” she laughed as she said, somewhat hesitating to say more. “ I’ve been living here for five years now,” she finally tells us. “ I move around frequently. I’ve lived in Vegas, Carson City, Reno, Naples Italy, Naples Florida, and numerous other places over the years. What about yourselves?”

“Right now we live in South Carolina, near Charleston,” I told her.

“What do you do for a living?,” I asked.

“I make drapes, sew, and have taught school. Right now I’m a museum tour guide. I’m pretty good at finding my way around just about anywhere, to be honest, and turning cash, ” she replied.

While she spoke to me, her exhilarating bouncing Pillsbury doughbosomed, hour-glass shaped physique really caught my dedicated, though rather young, testosterone induced attention. My brother even noticed as well, cutting a nod in her direction while tossing a sly smile over my way.

“We are in the Creek Indian section now,” she cheerfully informs us.

She seemed to speak on and on to us about the Creeks, giving me the feeling she was a virtual walking encyclopedia of information. We all walk on eventually.

“Now we are moving into the Cherokee section,” she continues on.

She continues speaking nonstop about the Cherokee and finally the Trail of Tears, for what felt to be hours.

“Wow,” what time is it?,” I finally yawned, sighed and asked.

Etta told me in her reply, but I forget exactly what time she said it was.

“We’ve been here for nearbout five hours,” my brother gasped and said.

“I’m getting hungry myself. What about you?”

“Where is food and drink for the day?,” asked Etta.

“Back out at the hotel,” I say to her.

In the distance we hear the sound of a freight train’s steam whistle echo from somewhere deep inside another area of the museum complex. My

brother suddenly explodes into a muffled chuckle.

“Well, what are we all waiting for?,” she says to us, “ I’m starving myself!”

“Come with us to the subway tunnel, then,” my brother tells her. “We don’t dare drive around in this town at all.”

We follow Etta out the Smithsonian and back out to the subway tunnel.

There we walk down the stairways and board the train, heading back into Alexandria. When we pop up we are right beside the Econo lodge, almost.

We all cross a wide, rather busy street, however, and there we are.

“They serve food here?,” Etta asked us. “I would have never guessed that!”

“Two meals a day, and good meals at that,” I told her. “ It's a holiday special that comes with our travel plan that they offered us.”

“Do you think they will mind me eating there?,” asked Etta.

“It's all a-serve yourself, kind of buffet style. Nobody is watching,” my brother laughs as he tells her. “They will never even notice, I don’t believe.”

We walked inside the dining room, and there this graciously endowed food display was! A nice buffet complete with fried chicken, char-grilled hamburger, french fries, rice, rich thick gravy, biscuits, fried shrimp, stir fried vegetables, and more. All of us filled up practically speaking. The food and the ice tea were fairly decent, we all agreed.

“I didn’t even know Econo Lodge had a dining area,” she said to us. “I can’t wait to see what the rooms look like. I feel like taking a good rest, myself.

What about you fellows?”

“Look,” said my brother when Etta wasn’t noticing, “you go ahead and take her to the room. I'm going to be here mucking around with this computer stuff in the lobby area. You can chow down on the fine dessert there all by yourself, as far as I am concerned. I’m too scared to take part in any of it, to be honest about things.”

“Come on up in a bit,” I said to him with a chuckle.

I turn around as Etta heads toward the elevator.

“Room three eighteen,” I say to her.

We both step inside. The door closes. The elevator rises and the door soon opens. Soon I am swiping the key and opening the door to our room.

“Wow,” Etta gasps, “these are some acceptable living quarters for an Econo Lodge, I must say. How come I never knew about this?”

“Maybe you’re not adventurous enough to discover the truly good things in life,” I say to her with a sarcastic tone in my voice.

I walk up behind her so debonair, rubbing her tush deeply, all the way down with my right hand and grasping her breast from behind with my left hand, as I kiss her passionately on the left side of her neck.

“Hmm,” she coos, while leaning her head sideways “I was about to say that I need payment for being your guide today.”

“Well I gave you food, and I’m giving you shelter for the night,” I replied to her with authority. “What more are you in need of?”

“So what are you telling me,” she asks with a smirk, “that you need payment? Hmm?”

“Well,” I sigh slightly, “ honestly some good hot rocking oral treats wouldn’t hurt anything right about now,” I daringly reply while knowing full well in usual company with a female where I’m from, I never would even think about making such a comment. My heart races away wildly inside my breast at the prospect of future experience. I feel somewhat trembling in my limbs.

“Sounds like we both need some of the same, except I want some good heavy jack hammering nonstop love making action. Are you up for it this evening, big boy?,” she asks me with a slight chuckle and a twinkle in her eyes.

“I’m up, rock hard, ripe, and right ready to jump to it, doll baby! I can tell you that much,” I say to her in an attempt at encouraging the action with her, and to simply observe her reaction. Should she have angered and walked away, I could have cared less.

She begins removing her clothing as I do likewise.

“What on earth are we both waiting for then?,” She says to me with a glint in her eyes.

Time flies by as we both engage in a series of passionate horizontal deserts. Maybe an hour passed. Once she finally rolled over, I leaped up high, riding hard and mighty on the backside for a luscious second helping. I heard a key slide at the door, but I wasn’t in any way about to stop what I was doing to open it, regardless of who might be wanting to enter. The door suddenly opens, my brother walks in, staggering almost as he enters, catching us two there in the middle of some rockin red hot action on the bed. Etta turns her head with her left side flat down on the bed, facing my brother as I hammer away like a madman on her archedup backside from behind. Her hips and thighs ripple like fleshly jello every time I hammed down on her good and solid like.

“So what are you gonna do?,” she says to my brother, “ stand there and gawk or join in the fun?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, but hell, I might as well,” he says as he commences stripping off his clothing. Once he is totally nude he yells, “All for one, one for all!”

For the day remaining we ventured back into the Smithsonian Institute.

We feed Etta and also give her a place to lay her head right there between the two of us, while she cheerfully and unhesitatingly treats the both of us in every manner imaginable, often at the same time, all night long. On our third day out, all of us spent the time walking throughout the Washington Mall area, laughing, sipping one O one bourbon from a silver flask Etta kept tucked away inside her purse, staggering around talking about any and everything, while fully enjoying the company of one another.

“Where did you get the silver flask from?,” I suddenly thought to ask her.

“Well of course, from the previous patron I was courtesan tour guide for,” she replied with an intelligent, absolutely confident smile. “He was loaded with unlimited silver and gold amounts, and very generous I might add. He didn’t want to let me go! I hung on, getting my fill in every manner imaginable, until his claws dug in way too deep for my general comfort; then I had no choice but to let him go and move on down the road, honey.

My tour guide services alone were obviously not enough to please him, no matter how accommodating the charge.”

My brother and myself didn’t know what the word courtesan meant, but it had an affluent, sophisticated ring to it that both of us found greatly to our liking.

We soon discovered ourselves comfortably behind the Washington Monument, and that buck-wild broad didn't hesitate one teeny tiny iota in granting both of us a some serious rear entry pleasure time and

some dynamite oral gratification of every stripe, going unhesitatingly all the way with it until her sweet little chinny chin-chin dripped rather heavily in some noticeably long hot white Asadero cheese-like strings in a heavy shinny smear, to my honest, utter exhilarating astonishment, since strangely enough, we were the only ones around anywhere in the whole area! Frankly, had somebody walked up on us three, I could have cared less at that moment, especially if it had been a woman. It would have really turned me on more, to speak the truth.

“Whoever said a cock in hand was better than two in the bush? Today I have certainly found it both ways and I’ll fight the woman who dares to argue with me on this issue!,” I can still vividly recall her gazing over at me and saying with her face almost completely covered in glory at the climax of what was maybe our most grandiose collective scene that day. I’ll never forget the lingering sound nor the spectacular sight.

In spite of our innumerable exotic humping pauses in the gardens, numerous porta johns and opened door tool storage rooms along our route, Etta was otherwise right there by our side every step of the way, being our handy dandy tour guide and so much more, as she had been for the duration of our entire trip thus far.

On the dawn of our fourth day out, Etta tells us she has “profitable business to attend” back at the museum. Early that morning after breakfast, I escorted her down inside the subway tunnel, kissing her deeply as she hopped the train back out. “ Call on me any time,” she tells me as she hands me a card. “My number is there on that card, honey.”

I quickly glanced down and read the number, 771 625 8313.

“I travel the world. My home is on the next train or plane out.”

My brother and I, on the other hand, were motoring out to Arlington National Cemetery on that day, our final destination before heading back home far below the Mason-Dixon early the following morning. I’ll never forget this single day out of our entire mini-vacation back in that time.

We both motor out to the gift shop area of Arlington National Cemetery and conveniently park the car.. Here we were granted bus passes to visit the cemetery at no cost. Not even an ID check was made. We were simply handed these passes and told which bus to enter.

Before stepping out to the bus a lady behind the table in the rear of the shop calls us back. We step back there and she offers us a genuine lottery ticket for three measly dollars, with a nice payout that she tells me is a secret until I win. I eagerly purchased the lottery ticket, gasping to my brother; “Man, I can’t believe this! These things are unheard of where we are from.

A real winning lottery ticket!,” I gasped.

The bus we entered was bus D. The bus paused for a few moments while more people entered. There was a man with a beard who was maybe twenty five at the time, sitting in the front seat. My brother and I sat behind him. There were two women his own age on either side in the seat with him. In the two seats on the opposite side were four girls who were maybe twelve years old, and three boys maybe the same ages the the seat behind that one.. Behind them in the seat appeared to be another male-female couple in their early twenties. A few more people from the ages of maybe twelve to thirty boarded the bus, yet there were still lots of empty seats. Soon the doors closed and the bus was at long last moving on its way.

“You know, this is an old cemetery,” said my brother. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Not a thing, to be honest,” I reply with a slight chuckle.

We laughed while cracking a few jokes as the bus motored along on the narrow winding, red clay gravel strewn road. The bus soon pauses in the Revolutionary War section. The guide exits the bus, taking us to view the graves of heroes from the age, such as William Ward Burrows, Joseph Carleton, James House, and more. We give our respects with the others present, many of whom toss roses and carnations on the graves. When the tour guide finished speaking all of us walked around a bit, looking at the grave stones, talking among ourselves. I even spoke and laughed a bit with the two ladies accompanying this tall man wearing the knee length gray-emerald dress coat and the red beard. When we step aside I tell my brother; “Yeah man, that bastard has two fine looking pieces of meat riding shotgun on either side with him.”

“Wouldn’t you and me love to cut the cake with both of them today right out here in this place,” my brother replies to me with a sly subtle smile.

“And I’ll jump on that plump tight sandy headed donkey right in front of that son of a bitch she’s with, right here and now, should I ever have the chance!” I replied back to him. “She ain’t ever had a hammering like I’ll put on her, son! I can already see that cold limp fish can’t keep up with her white hot passion waves.”

“Judging from the way they keep on looking over here and grinning like they do, I think they know it and want us to, as much as we want to, you know?,” my brother chuckles back toward me. “I’d personally love to jump down in between them great big tits on that dark headed one yonder, more than almost anything else right about now to tell the truth. Look at her!,” he continues, “She acts like she picked up on what I was saying.”

“She’s smiling mightily too, I can clearly see,” I tell him.

We both laughed heartily at the thoughts we entertained that day.

All of us eventually boarded back onto the bus, laughing heartily as we did.

The bus motors out again, up rolling hills and around, until it passes through a much larger section of standing grave stones and stately statues. One of these statues was obviously that of Lady Liberty.

“Private William Christman was the first military burial made on this property, on May thirteenth, eighteen sixty four,” announced our tour guide. “Montgomery Meigs, Quartermaster General of the US Army, who was responsible for the burial of US soldiers, ordered for Arlington Estate to be used for a cemetery. The original cemetery was two hundred acres. It has since grown to six hundred thirty nine acres.”

The red bearded man, who was more than a head taller than me, slowly turns his head around while sitting in the seat ahead of us, facing me with what I noticed to be a sick smile on his face. The vibe aura I received from him was unhesitatingly negative, without question.

“Hey, there are a lot of Yankees around here, aren't there?,” he half whispers in a manner suggesting that maybe he felt his remark was exceptionally macho and wise to the ladies in his company. I chuckled in astonished disbelief at his ridiculously dumb question.

“Yeah, there sure are.., a load of dead ones!,” I replied back to him.

The two women explode into laughter, eyeing him jeeringly as if he’d been out-shown. His face suddenly hardens.

The bus meandered down the narrow red clay and gravel strewn road.

Soon more graves were passed. Several statues proudly stood astride their gallant marble horses. One was of a very elegantly dressed queenlike woman with her back turned and her nose shoved high up into the air. The bus pauses beside this one.

“We have now entered the Confederate section of the cemetery. This statue is the queen of Dixie. Some say the likeness is of Lucy Holcombe

Pickens, wife of Governor Pickens from South Carolina,” said our tour guide. “Her back is turned toward Lady Liberty, and she is obviously giving Lady Liberty the cold shoulder. During the war the most immediate Confederate dead were buried here. As time went on, more than four hundred were eventually buried in this soil. On June seventh, nineteen o three, Confederate Memorial Day celebrations were first held in Arlington’s Confederate section.”

The ruffled tall man again turns back around in his seat, facing me with a hard expression.

“There are lots of Southern dead here too!,” he almost roared in my direction.

The women appeared to be laughing at him again. He then turns back around, smiling to the women sitting beside him as if begging for their approval. My brother glares hard at him, then at me.

“What’s this bastard’s problem?,” he points with his thumb, whispers and elbows me.

“I don’t know,” I reply in a whisper likewise, “but he most certainly has one, for sure.”

I lean backward into my seat. I take a deep breath.

“Yeah, it's true,” I say out loud, “there are quite a few Southern dead hereabouts, but there are tons more dead Yankees in this place, for sure!”

The two women sitting by his side explode into laughter, tapping the man on his arms in notable jest. The man obviously angers, yet makes no further comment. The bus finally eases off again, meandering down the red clay gravel strewn road. After what felt like a long ride, the bus finally pauses in a large circular open area. Several other buses are sitting

empty in this area. The bus door opens.

“Now the bus tour ends at this spot,” announces the tour guide. “ Everybody's free to exit and look around on their own. Ahead are the Spanish American and the World War One areas. Beyond that lies the World War Two area and a few scattered ones from the Vietnam era.

This section of the Arlington grave tour ends at a hill overlooking a road.

To the right in the distance from this hill stands General Lee’s house. It is part of the historic area and open to the public. Every thirty minutes we offer rides to various sections of the graveyard and back to the gift shop at the starting point. Assistants will be on hand for you to get directions to the correct bus heading in your desired area of the cemetery. The cemetery closes at eighteen hundred hours today. Enjoy your day and thank you for visiting Arlington National Cemetery.”

Everybody off loads from the bus. It honestly felt good to be outside on that day. The lightly puffing wind was crisp, the sun was still shining warm, the walking was actually relaxing to me, the general flow in my blood was all good beyond measure. My brother and I were very happy, to be honest about everything. Man, this brotherly mini-vacation has certainly been a wild one, let there be no doubt about it! It will go down forevermore inside my own cherished journal of christened memories.

What on earth else could possibly happen before the sun goes down today?

Maybe I will hit the jackpot on that scratch off lottery ticket I bought earlier on in the gift shop where we picked up the bus pass, remember? I scratch the skin off revealing that sacred number 108108108. The amount in winnings is not revealed until the holder turns in the number, so the card says. If such a thing ever were true, and my winnings are worth my time, my happiness would know no limitations! Have you honestly read this sentence I’ve written? This little vacation would then most certainly be the vacations of all vacations to hear of or behold, for

many years to come!

All of us and many more from the other buses mill around inside the World War One era cemetery. In ways it was almost like an art saturated park with the gallant soldier statues, the reflective poetic verses displayed upon gravestones, and the many blossoming flower wreaths gracefully laid upon the tombs. Ahead was the twenty four hour guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. All of us paused for a bit watching him engage in this time worn guard ritual, a highly coveted position for soldiers in the US 3rd Infantry Regiment. We walked past the graves of Captain John Lyon, Edward J. Smith, and more. A heavy spiritual sensation hung thickly in the air, truly moving in its own right and very noticeable to young men and older ones, military and nonmilitary civilians.

We migrate with a rather scattered crowd down the narrow gravel strewn red clay road, meandering over and around knolls, up and down, until we find our way into the World War Two era graves. We walked past the graves of James H. Doolittle, John Basilone, and Audie Murphy at long last. It appeared we were in the midst of a New Year’s wreath laying ceremony of some type. All of us paused to watch. After the bypassing of what felt to be an hour, the people disperse and move on.

The gathering of people scatter as we walk past the graves of the Korean and Vietnam war veterans. My brother and myself joke about the strange accents we hear, wandering among ourselves what connections these people might have with the fallen, if any. Ahead a few scattered individuals among the crowd walk up a gradual incline and appear to be pausing at the top most point of a hill. My brother and I walk up the incline and pause behind the others, a few of whom happen to be the tall man with a red beard wearing a long dress coat, with the two rather attractive women still on either side and the younger teen aged children on either side. An accompanying couple appears to be standing to the left somewhat farther down.

This red bearded man stands at the very edge of the hill. I step up, leaning over to observe what lies over the summit of this hill. Some good twelve to fifteen feet directly down, ran the narrow meandering gravel strewn red clay road around the very foot of this rather jaggedly cut knoll. To the far right against a distant woodline, stands an aged but well maintained farm house.

“Hey, check that house out over there, “ says my brother as he points to the right in the direction.

“Yeah, that's the house of General Lee we heard about going in, I think.

We most certainly must go see that house of all homes here!,” I say back to my brother.

The red bearded man suddenly turns around, stooping and getting very uncomfortably close up, directly in my face, clenching his teeth hard. To speak bluntly, this pig even possessed a smell that struck me all wrong.

“But we kicked all of your asses!,” he growls before standing back up among these women and turning around with his back to us.

He smiles in a distasteful manner, obviously thinking he’s made himself appear macho and maybe somehow debonair to these two women he accompanies.

My brother tenses up his face, pointing at the man with his left thumb and silently mouthing the words, “what is this bastard's damn problem?"

Frankly the fact that he so crassly got directly in my face like he did, was an utter insult of the highest degree. My inner rage was intentionally provoked and knew no limitations at that point. The crystal clear thought suddenly strikes me out of nowhere... This man had truly messed up, with me being the personality I was back in that day, little did he ever suspect in his obvious over-crass ignorance.

I immediately acted on this thought without hesitation or any consideration of future possibilities. Instantly I raised my left brogan, side kicking him as solidly as I had strength enough to do with the complete flat of my boot, directly on his tail bone at the base of his spine. I heard a sudden pop and an audible grunt, seeing him flay his arms in midair like a castaway ragdoll suddenly thrown over the clifflike edge of the hill immediately before him, instantly falling over the edge out of my sight. I heard a heavy stony click mixed in with a breath sapping thud on the earth below. I stooped down very serenely and gracefully, gazing over the cliff edge, momentarily glimpsing this man laying face down, spread eagle on the gravel strewn red clay road below, and out ice cold as a comatosed cooter. The picture truly was a magnificent sight to behold, I found myself thinking at that particular moment. So is its divine memory!

Suddenly I noticed what appeared to be a hundred bare arms lunging inward toward me. I stand back up. When they were almost totally closed in on me all around, I instantly duck down nearly all the way toward the ground, then step out backwards through their legs suddenly from underneath them, zipping outward and away from them like a scalded rabbit. My brother and myself turn and run in the opposite direction.

Several race up on my brother, grappling him, but he quickly shoves his opened palm into their very faces, pushing them all away and runs in a momentary panic toward me.

“Are we going to take the road back in?,” gasped my brother.

“Absolutely not,” I calmly replied to him. “We are going to take this grass covered field on our right hand side back in. We can lose this mob here.”

Both of us melt into the head high grass, crouching down and running with all our might. This field must have been several hundred yards across at least, but we were young cock-a-doos back in that day, and could run all day and frigg all night long. This field was a rolling landscape, which aided us in our great escape.

We went over and down, then back up again higher than the other land rolls. I glanced over my left shoulder and more than forty people must have joined in with this rude man’s crowd, piping hot in our pursuit.

Several older men seem to be anxiously and aggressively moving in our direction. Once we were over the next round hill summit before us, ahead there stood a rather thick oaken timber stand. My brother and I immediately entered this timber stand.

“Let's split up,” I whisper to him. “We can meet up on the other side. By doing this they will think we are holding up inside these woods, buying us more getaway time.”

We met on the opposite side of the wood stand. Directly before us is another huge rolling grass field. We take a short amount of time walking backwards in a series of interlinking circles on the sand, then moving backwards through it from the woods towards the grass field. We leap into the grass far as we could, then snap back around in mid air. We both vanish inside the more than head high, tall grass, crouching down low and running with everything we had to give. We go over a huge knoll, down, back up and over another. On the knoll summit we can gaze far outward ahead and spy the circle area where the buses are parked. We continue running ahead with everything left in our limbs to give..

Once we make it to the parked buses, we slow into a calm normal walk.

We asked an assistant in this natural circle area where the bus was taking people back to the gift shop at the entrance gate. She directs us to the bus on the very back side of the natural cul-de-sac area where they were parked. My brother and myself pause at the opened door, asking the driver if this was the right bus to take us back. He says yes with a large smile, and tells us we were just in the nick of time. I couldn’t have been more relieved to hear it said, personally. We step inside, making it into the rear of the bus, calmly taking our seats. We never said a single word and I thought I would literally die if the bus didn't close its door soon and move on. I visualized huge mobs of people suddenly swamping the bus parking area, going door to door among the buses in

search of us. We could have dropped our faces down , if one of our enemies had stepped into the door of our bus, and such would be a good bet he or she may have overlooked us, sauntering on to search elsewhere in vain, but we damn sure weren’t willing to bet the family farm on being successful in the effort. God only knows what they would do to us, should we ever be discovered.

Finally the door was pulled closed and the bus moved forward, toward the gravel strewn red clay road. When this bus swung around as it pulled out onto the narrow red clay road, making a hard left, I could see the point where the grassy field sloped down. Two young teenage females and two young teenage males plodded down the hill, with totally bamboozled expressions on their faces. We figured the others must be in the wood stand searching for us, and sent these younger ones away to search ahead. My brother and I slouched in our seats, slyly turning our faces away from the window until the bus made it on down the road a ways. Now I could certainly breathe much easier.

Once we finally made it back to the gift shop, I hastily walked inside, making my way to the lady across the counter on the back side of the store who sold me the lottery ticket for three dollars.

“So you are the one we see to cash out on our tickets, eh?,” I calmly asked her.

“I sure am. But that depends on what your number is.” she replies to me.

“What is the winning number for today?,” I said before ever handing her my ticket.

“Well, let me see here, “ she says as she picks up a rolled paper of some sort. “The winning number for today is.. 108108108.”

“Wow! That’s my number,” I say to her. “Look!”

I handed her my ticket.

“Sure is, son. Looks like you are our grand winner for today!,” the lady tells me.

“How much is the prize for?,” I ask her in earnest.

“Looks like you’ve won yourself nine thousand dollars! Here, fill out these papers, take this cashier's check to the nearest bank, and the money is all yours,” says this lady. “ Don’t forget to sign your name in the blank space left for doing so on this check. Thank you both for patronizing us here at Arlington National Cemetery and have a nice day.”

My brother and I casually walk back to the car. I agree to split the winnings with him. We fire the car up and pull out all too soon, heading back to the hotel. That night we expected to hear about my winnings and the incident in the cemetery on the local news, but alas, we never did. The next morning around seven, we had our final breakfast at the Econo Lodge in Alexandria, then rolled out for good.

On the way back home, just to be safe, we motored northbound, into Bethesda Maryland. We room up there, swing around next morning, coming back down through western Roanoke, Va the next day. Should any hound dogs be waiting by some type of checkpoint in lieu of an assumption that we would be moving southbound, then we had outfoxed ‘em all again!

Some six years later my brother and myself returned again to Arlington National Cemetery, in company with our complete extended families. All of us casually walked and rode throughout the entire graveyard complex, this time with nary a despairing incident. We took a most interesting tour of General Lee’s spectacular home. It was a very pleasurable, indeed a near spiritual experience. We all paused by the hill where the trying situation once occurred so many years before, but no sign of anything ever occurring existed anywhere. Maybe it never actually occurred, eh?

Maybe I dreamed all of this in some type of tinctured up party haze way back in my day.

Both of us cagily kept the entire story, including my lottery winning, locked up safely within. Yet our broad smiles and hearty reflective laughter might have given it all away to somebody intuitive enough to take notice and make proper connections. Not only did these two cowboys defeat an entire Yankee army on our little northern outing once upon a time back in the days of yore, but we made off with a boat load of loot to boot!

The Thalassa Test J.F. Sebastian

“Never marry the one you can live with, marry the one you cannot live without.”

- Anonymous Facing the ocean, hands thrust deep in his cargo short pockets, Najm watched the shuttle as it took off in a spray of ions and seawater. He longingly followed the twin blue comets of its engines as they rose high above the horizon. He knew that all he had to do was turn around, smile and mingle with the group but, in that moment, all he could feel were the first pangs of anxiety starting to squirm in his lower abdomen.

“Maybe I should have them reinstall those anxiety medicine implants,” he whispered to himself.

“Alohaaaa everyone, welcome to Thalassa! Please, gather around…” said a booming voice behind him, followed by an overeager explosion of greetings.

Najm took another deep breath, tried to stretch his face into a smile, and turned around to join the group of vacationers listening to their host. The latter, bald, built as if he had been born on a high-g world and with arms covered with Polynesian-esque tattoos, he certainly looked the part, especially with his cliché Hawaiian shirt and kukui nut necklace.

“My name is Kawika. I will be your host here, on the Hawaiian side of this beautiful Thalassian archipelago,” he said with a large, toothy smile.

The members of the group greeted him or gave little waves with big grins on their faces while some were already winking at each other, their ei necklaces flapping in the breeze. Trying not to think about the uncomfortable feeling of wet sand between his toes, Najm discretely glanced at the men and women of the group and his eyes caught those of a woman with crescent-moon earrings who was staring directly at him. Her blatant interest in him took him by surprise and, despite feeling a slight tremor of temptation, he tried, as casually as he could, to look at

the landscape instead. Even though he knew most of this area of the island had been engineered to look somewhat like the cliché of a Hawaiian islands back on Earth, he had to admit that the Thalassa Corp ecoarchitects had done a great job: everything around him looked like the Polynesian islands he had imagined, from the brown, wrinkled cone of an extinct volcano that rose at some distance on his right, to the green hills gently rolling around their resort huts, and the coconut trees gently swaying in the breeze.

“So let me tell you about the rules while you’ll be with us…” Kawika said, raising a huge hand in the air. “Number one: consent is everything!

Number two: wherever you are all coming from, everybody is here for the same reason, so forget whatever rules you have back home and don’t be shy. Number three: don’t be surprised if you suddenly feel something strong for a person on this beach…” Kawika gestured towards him and others, making his ears burn hot. He continued: “Just remember: everybody on this beach is a potential match for you, so don’t be awkward. Number four: be honest with yourself and with others about what you want. Everybody deserves openness and respect.

Number five: don’t be persistent of forceful, or you’re out. Number six: please have safe, guilt-free fun!” he concluded by clapping his hands together.

The end of the presentation was met by hoots of joy and more claps of hands as tiki-looking bots suddenly appeared from inside every hut to hover towards the pile of luggage that had been disgorged by the shuttle bots. Soon enough, the machines were herding everyone and their luggage towards their accommodations.

“Oh, one last thing!” Kawika shouted, arms raised above the shiny dome of his head, “We meet back here in an hour for cocktails and formal introductions. In the meantime, please get acquainted with your amenities!”

Kawika briefly talked to his own servant bot before walking back to a

small hut set apart from the resort, his flip-flops sending geysers of sand up in the air. As he looked around him at everyone who had started talking, Najm was suddenly aware that he didn’t quite look like the more straightforward, masculine-looking men he saw around him and silently cursed Hestia for putting him in this situation, wondering with a pang of jealousy how they were dealing with their own gender-fluid Brazilian experience.

“Shall we go in, sir?” said a synth voice beside him. Najm turned to face the vaguely human-shaped machine carrying his luggage.

“Sure, show me the way,” he said before following the tiki-bot, his gut suddenly twisted in a knot.

After a quick shower to wash out the sticky sweat of shuttle travel, Najm let his body dry on the large, soft bed. Dark, cool, windless and, most of all, clean and devoid of sand, the inside of the room was the opposite of the messy world outside. Someone laughed outside the window and he was suddenly reminded that there might be some people out there already forming temporary couples. He got up to stand next to one of the large windows to peer through the blinds, anxiety taking little jabs at his gut.

Come on Najm, you can do this...

The world outside looked breezy and hot, the blue sky tinged with thin white clouds. High tables and torches had been set up, as well as a cocktail hut, and there were people in colorful outfits chatting and walking around with glasses in their hands, their bodies so close that they almost touched. On the ocean behind them, two women and a man were chatting and kissing while standup paddle boarding.

Well that didn’t take long, Najm thought feeling the jabs turning into pangs of disappointment.

Despite his own desire to go out and experience what the test had in store for him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he did not quite belong for he couldn’t see himself in any of the people he was observing through the blinds. He had spent so much time with Hestia and their group of friends that he had forgotten how other people looked and felt to him. He thought about Hestia again, missing her fluid appearance and how effortless they made it seem when it was such a struggle for him not to just be who he was inside without any modifications.

“Shit, Hestia… it’s not you I should be thinking about,” he groaned, massaging his face.

He was about to lie on his bed again when someone unexpectedly knocked at his door, making his heart leap in his throat. He wrapped himself in a towel, tiptoed to the room’s door and looked through the peephole. The anxiety went down a notch when he saw Kawika waiting for him to answer. He was wearing a different Hawaiian shirt and had a lets-get-down-to-business look on his face.

“Hey, Kawika, come on in…” Najm said as he opened the door.

“Everything alright?” the man said as he entered the room.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, everybody but you is now on the beach, socializing… and you’re not even dressed.”

“I was actually going to when you knocked…”

“Okay…”

There was an awkward silence as Kawika, arms crossed and fingers drumming on his biceps.

“What?” Najm said.

“I’ve been doing this for a while, you know? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“To be honest… I was confident about my choice to come as you see me now. But looking at the people out there, and I feel like I can’t connect with them because… I don’t know how to put it.”

Kawika sighed and smiled kindly.

“Najm. What did you say you identify as in your application?”

“It’s complicated… He/they, I guess. But I’ve always had a hard time with my fluidity. My partner, Hestia, thought this experience might help.”

“Okay. That might explain why you feel a bit off.”

“Is there anybody like me on this side of the island?”

“No, but I’ve had clients like you before.”

“Okay…”

“Listen Najm. It’s simple, you’re here for one, simple reason: to be sure you’re with the right person before you sign your long-term partnership contract, and so are the others. So you should go out and let yourself be tempted… or not. That’s what you paid for, right?”

“I know that, but… I don’t know, it feels… fake.”

“Well, maybe not fake, but practical. The people on this beach were picked based on your preferences. If all goes well you’ll have a good time here but you will also know if you really want to share your genes and estate with Hestia… or not.”

“Does that happen?”

“Not as often as you might think. Sometimes what’s best for people is not about the perfect partner.”

“Right.”

“If you want my advice, think about what Hestia might be doing right now... How would you feel if you knew they were having fun with multiple partners while you stayed in your room, too anxious to even go out?”

“I’d probably feel disappointed in myself. And so would they.”

“Exactly, and that’s no way to start what could be a century of a life together, right?”

“I guess…”

“So now I’ll go back to supervising the evening events, and I hope to see you soon, hopefully with that person who was looking for you…”

What? Who? He thought.

“It’s the woman in the pale blue dress and moon earrings. Her name is Anahita,” he said with a wink, before closing the door. *** An hour after his discussion with Kawika, Najm was still unable to leave his room. Not only had he missed the crucial first moments of group bonding, but the more he waited, the more he thought his absence was conspicuous to the others. So as the sun was setting over the island, he sat on his bed while looking through the blinds at the brightening flicker of torches on the beach.

Hestia is probably having sex right now, while thinking about the wedding, he thought massaging his eyes with the palm of his hands.

He pictured Hestia with their eyes closed, so lascivious and lovely, ready to take someone who wasn’t him, then tried to picture potential scenarios for himself, but only managed vague flashes of erotic scenes with a faceless stranger in a pale blue dress and moon earrings. When he heard someone knock three times at the door, he felt his heart drop.

The tapping had been light, almost hesitant, and he instinctively knew that it was that woman, Anahita, coming to meet him.

Slowly, holding his breath, he tiptoed to the door again and looked through the peephole and saw the woman, Anahita, standing in front of his door with a slight smile on her face. She had a button nose, a dark skin tone and intense, hazel eyes that seemed to shine in the light of the torches. Her body was more voluptuous than Hestia’s and there was also something graceful and fluid about her, maybe because of the complex, bioluminescent tattoos rotating on her shoulders. She looked at something to her right and, turning her body slightly, Najm noticed the slight sheen of sweat on her chest. He pressed one hand against the door while the other was on the handle.

She’s here for me, Najm thought. He wondered how her body would feel against his, and how it would be different from Hestia’s. He imagined, clearly this time, her hand in his, and how she would lean on a tree and pull him against her. He imagined her mischievous eyes in his and sucking in her warm breath as she would take his hand and guide it between her legs. He was so close to opening the door that he stopped breathing for a while, feeling a knot in his stomach.

Just open it, and it could all happen… And there would be nothing wrong with it, he thought, encouraging himself, but he couldn’t do it.

The woman knocked again four times and Najm suddenly realized, with a pang of self-loathing, that the vibrations from the knocks would be their

only contact.

As if on cue, he saw the girl shrug, mouth something that looked like “your loss” and walk away. *** When he finally got out of his room, the next morning, Najm found himself alone on the beach. The sand felt wet and muddy, and he shivered from the cold of the air conditioning that had set deep in his bones during the night. Close to the water, two tiki-bots were cleaning the remnants of breakfast from the communal buffet table, while Kawika stood a little to the side, checking his tablet. As he walked towards him, feeling glum, Najm noticed crumpled bathing suits half buried in the sand.

“Hey Kawika,” he said.

“Najm!’ Kawika said before briefly turning back to his tablet and switching it off. “You finally emerged. What can I do for you?”

Najm nodded towards the table. “Well, I honestly doubt I can be the person the other guests came here to meet,” Najm heard himself say.

“Well, you kind of missed an occasion to test that theory, right? You should take a mindful walk to the Wailua Falls. Tire yourself out and let the island charm you. It’ll loosen your mind. Who knows, you might even meet someone along the way. The Falls are a popular site around here.”

“If you say so,” Najm said, feeling unconvinced. *** Najm started to regret his decision as soon as he was on his way to the trail. It was close to the middle of the Thalassan day, and the sun felt as if it was casting its rays through a lens, beating down directly on his

exposed skin. He resisted the urge to walk back to the coolness of his room until he suddenly found himself at the muddy trailhead.

“I guess it’s too late to turn back,” he said out loud before he started to walk on the slippery path.

Soon after the beginning of his ascent, as he walked through the rays of sunlight that sent bright speckles onto the shady path, Najm’s mind slowly started to clear itself of the persistent buzzing thoughts about Hestia or the previous evening’s debacle. He started paying attention to the sound of a gushing brook and the sweet perfume of unseen flowers that reminded him of the scent of guava and ginger. The unkempt trail soon gave way to a manmade flight of stairs that lead to a boardwalk through a bamboo thicket. He was looking at the graceful, swaying green stalks and listening to their soft creaking when he spotted bright colors moving at some distance from the path. Feeling suddenly curious and adventurous, he hopped over the railing and creeped closer, hoping to see an exotic bird. But what he saw on the bamboo grove’s floor, among crushed grass and glistening red mud was a red-headed woman with luminously pale skin. She was straddling a deeply tanned man, spreading handfuls of mud on his rippling muscles and on her breasts with sensual, circular motions. As Najm watched, the man suddenly grabbed the girl by the hips, making her gasp and got on his knees before putting her gently on the floor. The woman then turned her head in Najm’s direction, opened her eyes and smiled at him. Falling backwards in the mud and, feeling as if he had been caught, Najm crawled back to the path. He was trying to hop back on the path when he slipped, almost lost his balance, and suddenly found himself face to face with Anahita, coming the other way. She was walking hand in hand with a tall, almond-skinned woman with short-cropped hair and high cheekbones. As they both took a step back, surprised by his sudden appearance on their path, he noticed that Anahita’s hair was wet.

“Oh, hi… Sorry, I was just…” he said, pointing with his thumb towards the bamboo grove.

There was an awkward silence broken only by the distant moaning of the mud-partners and Anahita’s partner looked at him, smiling slightly.

“No, I mean I didn’t…” Najm mumbled, for he knew what they must both be thinking.

Anahita’s partner raised her hand and looked at him with amusement.

“Hey, no judging here! This is the Thalassa Test, right? Excuse us…” she said, as she took Anahita by the hand to walk past him.

“I-” he started, as he saw Anahita’s flushed face as she brushed past so close, yet now so far.

Did I embarrass her? he wondered as, beyond the swaying bamboos, the mud-couple were in the final moments of their ecstasy. In the heavy silence that followed, Najm realized that he had no desire to go further up the trail but also that didn’t want to give the impression that he was following Anahita and her partner. So he mindlessly continued his ascent and eventually ended up at a waterfall that, to him, looked more like a trickle than anything. He couldn’t even soak his body in cool water for there was already three people kissing in the pool.

Fuck Hawaii, he thought, let’s see what else this island has to offer.

Before he knew it, his feet were already carrying him down the narrow path, his mind racing to keep up. He hadn’t planned anything, but the thought of being somewhere else, somewhere different, felt like breathing again. Yet he could still hear, in a remote part of his brain, the little voice of reason yelling at him: what the hell are you doing? But as it had happened many times, he didn’t have a proper answer to that question.

Once he got back to the trailhead, Najm didn’t go back the way he had come but walked the other way, cutting inland through the forest.

To his satisfaction, it didn’t take him long to find a wire fence and a small white warehouse that said “Hawaii sector – Depot” in bland, dark grey letters. As the sun started to slowly set, he quickly climbed over the fence and started walking West feeling better at the thought of leaving the shell of his broken dignity behind.

The more Najm walked, the louder the voice of reason became, and the more he started to doubt his actions and motivation. As he started to get thirsty, the thought of his cool room waiting for him started to be more and more enticing and he started to wish for a bot or self-drive utility van to come pick him up. With nothing to do but to look around, he started to notice how the plants around him had started to change and how the air was less humid with the slightly musty sweet smell of pine trees. His excitement started to grow as he finally reached another fence, for he wasn’t sure if what he was doing was authorized, but also because he was suddenly curious about seeing another side of the island and the people staying there.

After struggling through a thick set of thorny bushes and passing nondescript sheds, Najm’s finally reached narrow, cobbled streets of pink walled houses with terracotta tiles of what felt like an Italy-inspired biome. He wandered slopping streets lined with pine trees and blossoming mandarin trees for a while and ended up on a small esplanade covered with a mosaic of round pebbles. As he looked around, he noticed two men walking hand in hand, chatting and smiling at each other and a couple leaning against a wrought iron ledge overlooking the coast, pointing at different parts of the landscape. As he came closer to the observation point, Najm realized that, as he had thought, this particular biome looked like a small but luxurious coastal village with a small, enclosed harbor where white yachts were anchored. The sun was now closer to the horizon, casting a large sheen of golden flakes over the sea.

Najm leaned against the railing, took a deep breath and, for the first time since the shuttle had landed, started to relax. He knew this vista, and the small Italian-like neighborhood at his feet were as fake as the Hawaiian side yet, whether it was the warm oregano-scented breeze or the

sounds of laughter and music coming from restaurants around the harbor, something rang true to him. So even though he assumed he assumed he was not supposed to be there, Najm made the conscious decision to explore some more until someone, or something, from Thalassa Corp. told him to go back to his side of the island. *** When Najm reached the plaza where some of the trattorias seemed to be, he felt his body relax again despite the throng of people walking around this particularly busy biome. The sky was turning light purple and a warm breeze from the sea brought a slight scent of seaweed.

Everything around him was quiet, from the musicians playing to the couples eating, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes, their hunger for what would come next was almost palpable.

He was walking between tables, marveling at the delicacies he saw in various plates when he caught sight of a woman sitting alone at a table, wearing a fuzzy bathrobe slightly open on honey-colored skin.

Najm suddenly stopped in his tracks, unable to take his eyes away from her, although he was quite sure this was not her only pronoun. She had a round face, with full cheeks and a large forehead. Her shoulder-length hair, which was shaved on one side, looked hazel in the dusky light and was brushed back as if she had just gotten out of the shower. What struck Najm was that she didn’t correspond to the typical standards of beauty, for she seemed shorter than the other women Najm had recently seen, but also somewhat… fuller. There was also something about the way she looked at him as their eyes met, almost as if she had been waiting for him and was relieved that he had arrived.

He was about to pass her when, his heart beating faster than it should have, he suddenly found himself sitting in the seat opposite from her.

Feeling slightly dizzy, his heart beating loudly in his chest, he looked around, unsure of what to say until it suddenly occurred to him that she

might already be with someone. He leaned towards her, almost feeling the magnetism between them.

“Hi, my name is Najm and my pronouns are he/they. Are you… expecting someone?” he said.

The woman smiled, opened her bathrobe slightly as she came forward, exposing the round curve of her breasts.

“Hello Najm. I’m Théa and my pronouns are she/they. The person I’m with is in the bathroom, so you don’t have much time until they come back…” she said with a husky, slightly accented voice.

Najm nodded and, feeling as if he were being challenged, leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Why are you all wet?” he said.

Théa suddenly blushed.

“You really want to know?” she said.

“Yes. I do.”

“I just thought I saw a dolphin in the harbor, so I jumped in.”

“Really? Was it a real dolphin?”

“I don’t know if it was real or not. It didn’t reappear after I jumped in. The water was nice and cool, though,” “It was probably fake, then, like everything else around here,” Najm said, immediately regretting his cynicism. He contained the flow of information about Thalassa and it’s engineered biomes and animals and focused on Théa instead, trying to look her in the eyes.

“I am not fake,” she said, smiling.

Najm was thinking about what he might say next, slightly panicking, when a service-bot appeared at their table.

“Will this gentleperson join you this evening?” it said, with a slight Italian accent. Brought back to his senses, Najm got up and looked around, expecting the woman’s partner to walk towards them.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you…” he started, before noticing that she was staring hard at him, her face and chest still flushed, her eyes bright and sparkling. He felt himself flush in return.

“Do you want to run away from… whoever you’re with?” he said, extending his hand towards her.

She grinned at him, her small, delicate teeth flashing in the increasing darkness and took his hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said as she took his hand, got up and lead him away from the plaza. *** Najm was back at the small observation area that dominated the village, leaning against the railing with an arm and a shoulder pressed against Théa’s. With Thalassa’s moon starting its descent towards the sea, the dark horizon seemed to be coated by a vast sheet of pyrite-colored metal. The breeze was warm and Najm realized that Théa smelled like orange blossom and the sea, and that he felt calm despite her unfamiliar physical proximity. Every time a burst of laughter came from the streets below, he gave her a side glance and caught her smiling. After a while, she took his arm, and he felt her left breast press against it and it took him a second to realize how naturally this physical contact had happened, and how he hadn’t reacted negatively to it. He turned to look at her and, as

their eyes met, he felt the tidal urge to get close to her to feel the smooth warmth of her skin against his. He felt himself flush when, coming closer still, she leaned back her head on his shoulder, the scent of her hair becoming stronger.

“I think this is my favorite place of the biome. Not many people come all the way here. I guess they don’t come to Thalassa to make any kind of effort,” she said with something like a sigh.

Najm tried to think of something to say but thoughts had somehow drifted out of his mind, leaving only fuzziness within. After a few seconds, she turned towards him and he felt like falling when he saw her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Hey, are you ok?” she said, squeezing his arm, a crooked grin on her face.

“Yeah, I... Don’t you think about, you know, what your partner is doing right now?” he blurted out.

She took a step back and Najm immediately regretted the bluntness of his question.

“Why should I?” she said, defensively.

“I’m sorry, I… It’s my brain. It’s all over the place. Sorry.”

“I am a free person, and so is he. Aren’t you free as well? Or is your partner on your mind right now?”

“No, they’re not. I mean… they have been. But not right now,” Najm said.

“Why did you take me away from that restaurant?”

“I’m not quite sure. I just saw you and, I don’t know, I felt compelled to do it. There was something about you…”

“Do you mean you wanted to have sex with me as soon as you saw me?”

“Yes. No. Not consciously. Seeing how other people interact for this test, I started to feel more neurodivergent than usual. I also started to doubt everything. Including who I am and why I’m there. Nothing made sense and I wanted to leave this place and then, well, I saw you at that table.

Things still don’t make sense, but you somehow make it feel like it’s ok,” he said, feeling almost out of breath.

“It’s weird, eh? How quickly you can suddenly feel attracted to someone even though you have been with another person for years. I wasn’t sure about that person at my table before you arrived, but I made up my mind the moment I saw you. It wasn’t even conscious. I guess the algorithm does know how to pick our partners,” she said, taking a step forward and touching his chest.

She was so close to him that Najm started to wonder if she tasted like honey and apricots and had to resist the urge to kiss her without her consent.

“Yeah,” was all Najm managed to say. He took Théa’s hand and gently kissed the tip of her fingers and then rolled up her sleeve and moved his lips to the crook of her elbow. Locking her eyes with his, Théa then took a step back, opened her bathrobe and let if fall at her feet. Najm found himself unable to breathe as he struggled to keep looking her in the eyes.

“I know I don’t look like most people around here,” she said her body glowing in the moonlight. Najm realized that Théa was smaller than Hestia, and that her body didn’t have his partner’s edges and angles or her musculature. It was unusually voluptuous, and he was surprised to find it incredibly attractive. “I tried, but could never pick a body type that felt like… me.”

“I...”

“It’s simple, really, you want me or you don’t,” she said, lifting her hands above her head and stretching.

Then, without even realizing it, Najm took off his own clothes and melted into her as she clutched the railing sighed, both of them oblivious to the dark shape of a dolphin jumping in the moon-flecked harbor. *** Najm woke up before dawn and immediately relaxed when he saw that Théa was still beside him, her soft warm body lost among a set of fluffy pillows that smelled of rosewater and lavender. Najm wondered for a second how she had known about this private alcove but pushed the thought away to avoid the wave of jealousy he felt coming.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this night,” he said as he kissed her ear. She turned towards him, stretched her body then caressed his face.

“As long as it doesn’t hold you back from your long-term plans,” Théa said with a grin before she pinched Najm’s nipples.

“Hey!” he said as he rolled over her, pinning her arms above her head.

“Does it bother you that everything has been planned for us?” Najm said as he kissed her warm neck, feeling himself grow hard again.

Théa frowned tilted her head as back as she could.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Nothing about this is spontaneous, right? Where we are. Who we meet.

It was all decided for us.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I guess. A little...”

“So why are you here? And why are you so... responsive,” she said, twisting her hips to welcome him.

He heard himself moan. “Because I actually came from another side of the island,” he managed to say.

Najm looked at Théa’s honey-colored eyes as he entered her, looking for her reaction as she locked her legs around his hips to draw him closer.

“Well, So did I...” she replied.

Surprised, Najm let go of her arms and she grabbed his shoulders, rolling him to one side before straddling him.

“What do you mean?” Najm managed to say, surprised.

She leaned forward, kissed his neck before moving to his ear.

“I couldn’t stand the people I was with. So, I skipped a gate and found my way here...” she said.

As their body started to move in synchrony and as their sweat started to mix, Najm suddenly felt something hot and engulfing slowly working its way from her body and into his. Then, in one long thrust, he felt as if a knot inside him had dissolved into fire, and he heard Théa cry out as they both came together in a long, trembling quiver of their bodies.

“Do you want to get out of here and get married now?” Najm said the next time he woke up next to her, finding her even more beautiful than before.

Théa scoffed before kissing him gently on the lips.

“Not until I’ve tested our sexual compatibility one more time.” *** When Najm woke up the next day, he found himself alone, half buried in the pile of damp pillows that still smelled of their night of passion.

“Théa?” he called, getting on his elbows and looking around, his vision blurry.

He walked to the entrance of the alcove-like room that had accommodated their lovemaking, blinded by a fierce morning sun which was already piercing through the hazy white curtains and heating the delicate mosaic decorating the floor. He opened the curtains with one hand and, using the other as a visor, looked outside. The streets were empty, silent but for the twittering of some unseen birds and the distant echoes of voices.

“Théa?” Najm said again, barely a whisper. As he retreated in the cool shade of the tiny room, he noticed his clothes, neatly folded on the floor.

He bent down to pick them up and felt his heart drop when he noticed, under them, a slip of folded paper. His mind blank, his legs weak, he got dressed slowly as the coldness of dread started to creep into his body.

Holding the unopened note, he found himself on the alcove’s threshold for a few minutes, looking in, somehow wondering if he had to clean up after himself or recycle the sheets somehow, until he realized how ludicrous that thought was. He then wandered the streets for a while, passing happy couples and crying singles, hoping he might see Théa, until he came to the realization that she had probably left the note because he wouldn’t. So, he made his way to the esplanade where they had first made love against the railing.

Just like Théa had said what now seemed like days ago, the little overlook was deserted, the pine trees giving almost no shade. In a daze, he walked towards the railing, feeling cold despite the heat, and opened the note.

Even though he had never seen Théa’s handwriting, he somehow thought he recognized her round, bold letters that had something of a flowery aspect to them.

Thank you for the lovely memories, Najm.

I really hope your marriage works out.

Love, Théa Feeling his heart suddenly thump loudly in his chest, Najm’s first instinct was to crumple the paper and throw it as far as he could, but he quickly realized that he couldn’t just throw away the last trace of Théa’s existence. He folded it carefully instead, and put it in his back pocket and walked back into the city, retracing their steps from the previous day, even though he knew that he wouldn’t find her.

By the end of the day, as the purple twilight was once again rising from the Thalassan ocean, he realized that he had no reason to be in the Italian biome anymore and started to look for a way back to the Hawaiian side of the island, getting lost several times until he decided to enter a restaurant and ask for a ride back. *** Najm spent the rest of his stay in isolation, replaying the precious time spent on the Italian side of the island in his mind. His inner self was screaming at him to talk to Kawika about what had happened and to request his help in finding Théa, but he realized that she had probably left no hints of her identity or where she had come from on purpose. Her message had, after all, been short, sweet, but without any hint about what she might want anything to do with him... ... Or maybe she had felt the same way he had, had been scared about

ruining her own future and had decided to push him away.

The more he thought about it, the less certain Najm was about the conflicting ideas and potentialities rushing through his mind. In the end, the only thing that was clear to him was that he had failed the Thalassa Test miserably but still had to go through with it, for losing Hestia would mean losing years of his life with them and decades of a planned future together. A future that now felt like a dead-end.

It could be worse, he thought as he finally embarked onto the shuttle from the beach with the shadows of the strangers he had never bothered to meet. At least I did get to experience a bit of spontaneity before leaving. Kawika would be proud... *** When Najm entered their cabin, he saw that Hestia was naked but for a loose T-shirt showing one of their shoulders. They were sipping from a steaming cup while reading, hugged by a plush plump-colored sofa they had pushed right to the porthole. Through the thick window, Thalassa was shining like a pale blue marble half engulfed by a devouring darkness.

Is Théa still down there, somewhere? Najm wondered as he walked towards his partner with a knot in his stomach.

“There you are!” Hestia said with a smile before putting down their tablet and stretching their feline body. They tiptoed right up to him before kissing him deeply, their arms around his neck.

Najm managed to smile as unwanted memories of Théa’s face flashed through his mind. He wiped the images away in silent anger, cursing himself for bringing them all the way to Hestia.

“How are you?” they said, looking at him directly in the eyes.

“I’m... tired, I guess.” he said, hoping he looked as exhausted as he felt.

“Oh, someone had fun, it seems?” they said with a grin before pressing their body against his. “Do you want to share?” they added after a few seconds, their head on his shoulder.

“No. Not really. It’s not really the point, right?”

“I mean it could be hot to talk about it. No?” “Maybe not right now? I really need a shower after that damned ride.

You know how much I hate transit shuttles.”

Hestia took a step back and looked at him with a frown. They then bit their lip and crossed their arms, a familiar gesture that made him somewhat comfortable.

“You didn’t like the Italian biome, then? Did I screw up?”

Najm felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He grabbed Hestia’s arm and gently brought them close to him.

“Italy? What do you mean?”

“Easy there!” Hestia said, trying to pull themselves free.

“Sorry” he said, letting them go. “I didn’t think that...” But he couldn’t continue.

“Well, I knew you would have hated anywhere I picked for you and that you would want a real adventure. But I also knew you would hate Hawaii enough to leave, so... yeah,” they said with a satisfied grin.

He stared at them blankly.

“You mean you actually thought I had picked the Hawaii biome for you?

Withthat type of people? Come on... Najm. You know me better than that!”

Najm felt his head spin and walked to the cabin’s bed and himself fall on the softmattress. He felt a sudden stab of pain in his stomach feeling as if he was about to scream in his pillow.

“Najm?” Hestia said, sitting next to him. They then put their hand on his shoulder and rubbed his neck. “I didn’t want to manipulate you, you know? I just thought...”

He turned his head towards her.

“It’s fine... I understand,” he said.

“I missed you, you know?” Hestia said, their hand still on his neck.

There was a long pause, filled with the clanging and buzzing of the departing ship around them. Najm then got on his back and looked up at his partner, as beautiful as he remembered them and yet, somehow, different. It was as if the light he had always seen within was now shining differently.

“Me too,” he said after a while, surprised to realize that he meant it.

Hestia grinned and climbed on top of him, giving him a strong hug.

“I mean I reaaaally missed you…” they said.

Najm grabbed them by the shoulders and looked them in the eyes.

“So, you also know about...” Najm started, unable to say her name out loud.

“You mean Théa? Of course… I picked her for you. Well the algorithm did and I said yes. She was, by far, the best match,” they said, before kissing his neck, their hot breath sending shudders down his spine.

“What about my picks for you?” Najm said, barely remembering how own choices for Hestia.

“Nothing to report, really. It’s not the same when it’s not with you,” Hestia added before resting their head on his chest.

Still staring at the lights above the bed, the rest of the room now a dark, distant blur, Najm wrapped his arms around Hestia and hugged them back tightly.

So it was fake... all of it. Or was it? he thought, feeling as if a hole had opened, sucking out his memories of Théa and their night together.

He then focused on Hestia’s warm, tangible presence on top of him.

Hestia who was there for him, who had picked Théa for him, not knowing that...

Fuck, he thought feeling a sudden pang of guilt.

“Najm, are you okay? Did I made a mistake picking Théa for you?” Hestia said, gently taking his face between their hands.

Najm felt a burning of tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as he felt a swell of affection for Hestia, something that had not happened to him in decades. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if they were tears of sadness or tears of happiness. Maybe a bit of both.

“Are you okay?” they said with genuine worry in their eyes. Najm sniffed and nodded, unable to say anything. Hestia wiped his eyes with their tshirt and passed a hand through his hair, their usual aloofness replaced

by their rarely seen softness.

“Hey... you know you can talk to me, right? I mean, if you felt like you failed the test,” they said, caressing his face.

He thought about Théa’s note, neatly tucked inside his jacket, a few meters away from him. He thought about what it said.

I really hope your marriage works out.

“Yeah. I know. I just realized how lucky I am to be with you,” he said, fighting the temptation to look away.

“Aw... I love you, Najm. I can’t wait for this new chapter of our life to start,” Hestia said before gently kissing his forehead.

“Me too,” Najm said unsure, in that moment, if, like everything else in that experience, it was the truth or not. “Me too.”

Futures Sean MacKendrick

Louis McCabe predicted the end of the world. That’s how I think about it, anyway. You could argue the semantics, I suppose. It’s only because of him that I’ll survive it, though, that much is indisputable.

He reentered my life in the middle of the night, in what turned out to be the biggest way. It didn’t seem like it at the time, of course. At the time I was just trying to sleep.

“What are options?” someone shouted into my ear that night. I couldn’t remember answering the phone. It was just reflexive, trying to stop the ringing before it woke Karen. She’d been after me to turn off my phone at night for a while now and I kept promising to start doing it. A lot of our acquaintances are academics with no concept of when sort-of-late becomes far too late.

The room was pitch black and I don’t wake up quickly. It took me a second to figure out the nonsensical question was coming from the phone in my hand. “What?” I asked.

“Options,” the voice yelled at me. “Like, financial options. What do you know about them?” There were clear sounds of a party in the background going on far too enthusiastically for a Tuesday night. I squinted at the clock: just after two AM. Fantastic.

Wait, I knew that voice. “Louis?”

“I need to know about option investing with stocks, Richie,” Louis said. He sounded manic and was slurring. “What can you tell me?”

“Hang on a minute.” Karen was making annoyed sounds into her pillow as I took the phone into the kitchen and plopped down in the nearest chair.

For crying out loud, I had an eight o’clock class to teach in the morning. I took a deep breath and sighed loudly into the phone. It was supposed to be a signal of my irritation. Louis took it to mean that he was free to continue the conversation. “So?” he said. “What can you tell me?”

I closed my eyes and tried hard to wake up just enough to talk, but not so much that I couldn't go back to sleep immediately after. It never works, but you’ve got to try. “First of all, Louis, what the hell?”

“I know, I know, I know,” he said, in a hurry to get past all the catching up nonsense. It had been, what, two years? Something like that. Two years since I had spoken to Louis. No reason, really, we just both have the same habit of getting busy and distracted, and I’ve never been particularly good at keeping in touch with people. A fact more than one ex-girlfriend would probably be happy to confirm. “Is there anything you could tell me? Then you can go back to sleep.”

“Gosh, thanks.” I tried to remember exactly what we were even talking about. Stocks?

“Options,” Louis corrected. “Options in the stock market.”

“Like stock options?” Yeah, it was a stupid question. You try being clever about financial derivatives in the middle of the night. Still, Louis, as scary smart as he is, didn’t even seem to know that much.

He said, “I don’t know. Maybe. Tell me.”

I mumbled a brief description of stock options as I understood them, in my admittedly less-than-complete base of knowledge. "An option is an agreement to buy or sell a stock at a given price,” I said. “Um, like a future. You trade the agreement itself, not the stock."

“It’s an option to own a stock, then,” Louis said. “Trading something that you don’t own.”

“It’s an option to own a position, I think. Wait, no, you own it if you exercise the option, but that's not something I ever did. You can just trade the options, and those agreements gain or lose value rapidly and people day trade them because of that.”

By then I remembered talking stocks with Louis a few years prior. My mom’s dad left her a decent investment portfolio when he died, and she signed over part of that to me when I turned eighteen, to help pay for school. I in turn worked temp jobs so I wouldn’t have to rely completely on that portfolio, and tried to keep some money invested, playing around with various ideas before it all evaporated by the end of my second semester.

Something about what I said apparently made sense to Louis. “Aha!” he said. “And that’s worth more than the stock why?”

“Um, I don’t believe that’s quite the case. It’s leveraged. The price moves more, that's all,” I was saying, but Louis had already decided that little bit of info was enough.

“Meaning, it’s nothing. He’s trading things that don’t even exist. Cool, thanks,” he said, and hung up the phone without saying good-bye. It was too dark to see Karen’s face, but I could feel her stare as I tiptoed back into the bedroom. “Yeah, I know,” I said, and turned off the ringer before getting into bed. # I met Louis McCabe during my first year as a post-doc in Comparative Physiology. At the time I was teaching Bio 101 for the fall semester, a class populated almost entirely by bored freshmen who could not have cared less about the material. OK, I know I’m biased when it comes to the life sciences since it is my living and all, but those little bastards didn’t even try. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Bio 101 was the course of choice for any student looking to get their science elective out of the way so they would never have to deal with it again. Biology majors were quietly nudged over to Bio 105, bypassing 101 altogether.

He didn’t talk all that much during class, and it wasn’t until Louis started coming in during office hours to chat that I even noticed him. Which is

not to say he was so unusual he should have stuck out or anything. He just cared about the class and genuinely enjoyed it. So yeah, he did stick out, come to think of it.

Louis was a graduate student in the math department at the time, specializing in areas I never quite understood. Imaginary space, or something to that effect. He sat in on a lecture on vibrational mechanics the semester prior and the presenter briefly alluded to wave propagation in spider webs and how spiders can use that to their advantage, and Louis was fascinated. Realized he didn’t know a thing about the animal kingdom and decided this was a fact which needed to be remedied. He only picked Bio 101 because he, too, failed to realize it was more for the Poly Sci and English Lit students than for future scientists.

We talked about all sorts of things during those office hours. Not so much about the class, he grasped the intro concepts easily enough. He tracked down my thesis and a couple articles I co-authored as a doctoral candidate and instead asked some insightful questions about mammalian torpor, my main focus. I in turn tried to ask him about his work in eigenvectors and spent a lot of time demonstrating my knowing nod, designed to fool the observer into believing I had any idea what I was being told.

In the end, our friendship was based mostly on my willingness to listen to the endless strange ideas coming out of Louis’s brain. And whatever else you could say about those ideas, they were rarely boring.

“I’ve been going to this coffee place for, like, a year now, and there’s this barista working there.” We were sitting at Burger King, the weekend following his late-night phone call. “It’s only a block from my place, and in between home and the bus stop, so I hit it most mornings. I started seeing Christine there maybe a month ago or so.”

“Christine?”

“The barista,” Louis explained. “She’s always friendly and super nice, even though it’s way too early for anyone to be happy. Once in a while she throws in an extra shot of espresso for free, and gives me this big smile, you know?”

I popped an onion ring into my mouth and wiped the grease off on my pant leg. “You’re saying she’s hot.”

“I’m talking about her being friendly, Richard. Her looks aren’t the point.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, I start talking with her a little sometimes, just about the weather and such. She’s receptive, though, or at least isn’t telling me to leave her alone or anything.” He chewed on his burger for a moment, thinking. “I mean, I can’t always tell if a woman is just being polite, can you?”

“Did you ask her out?”

“No. God no. Think about how many creeps do that to a girl just because she’s being nice. I didn’t want to be on that list. Like I said, maybe she’s just being polite. But then a few days ago, this guy at work, Hays, he’s having a going away party. On a Wednesday. Middle of the week, he wants to go out drinking because he doesn’t have to work the next day, never mind that the rest of us who do. I’m there at this bar or club or whatever it is, getting ready to leave, when I see Christine in the crowd.

What the hell, I figure, and go say hi.”

He was grinning at this point, ketchup glistening on his chin. I said, “And she knew who you were?”

“She says it’s weird seeing me holding a beer instead of a coffee! I say hello, she looks at me and smiles and says that. No pause, thinking if she recognizes me from somewhere, nothing like that.”

“And that was the night you called me?” I was waiting for it to tie into my original question about why he had called. Louis loves to tell a good story and will forget the original point if you let him wander too far off topic.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. We’re getting along great by this point, and it’s getting late, and her group of friends is sort of intermingling with my work friends that haven’t left yet. That never happens, right? But it is that night.”

“She’s talking to you all this time?”

“Yeah. Well, no. Off and on. We’d talk a little and then someone she knows or I know would come up. I’m listening to Hays telling me how he’s going to miss having his own parking space when I see this, this jerk chatting up Christine.” Louis jammed an angry handful of fries into his mouth.

“How is he a jerk?” I asked.

Louis coughed a piece of potato into his napkin. “Well, for starters, when I try to get her attention again, this guy won’t let up. He’s going on and on about how he’s successful and what does she do for a living, and kind of looks smug when she tells him. He talks about the car he drives. Actually talks about his car, as a pickup line. I didn't know anyone really did that.

But she’s listening, and he’s bragging about making all kinds of money trading stock options.”

“Ah.” “That’s when I called you, to see if there was something I could use to join in the conversation.” Meaning, more likely, she was responding to the new suitor and Louis didn’t know how to stop that.

“Were you able to jump in, after just that?”

“Didn’t need to. When I got off the phone she had gone to the restroom

and what’s-his-ass was already talking to some other woman.”

He ended up asking her out, for the upcoming Friday, and she accepted.

Louis went on to tell me about her interests, how they liked some of the same movies, how she loves birds and how he won’t admit that birds scare the crap out of him, and I told Louis all about Karen. We ended lunch swearing that we would stay in touch this time, and maybe go on a double date. We always made plans like that, and I think we always meant it, but that’s not the same as following through, is it? # More than a month went by before we did see each other again. Once a week or so we talked and vowed to try for that double date the next weekend, and then failed to finalize anything. Louis fell for Christine quickly, as he tends to do, and repeatedly expressed how important it was I meet her. I repeatedly agreed.

The week before we met back up there hadn’t been any phone calls, and if I had thought about it, I would have assumed that was the end of it for a while. Instead, Louis showed up at my door on a late Saturday afternoon while Karen was out at a bridal shower for a high school friend.

Right in the middle of what should have been a solid hour of napping in front of the TV. He looked like he hadn’t slept or showered in a week. There were deep dark circles under his eyes and splotchy patches of facial hair, but his eyes were wide open, and he was grinning.

“I found something,” he blurted. “You need to come see this.” There was no way he was going to let me continue my nap, it was clear. I followed him to his car.

Even though he no longer had a reason, the whole idea of stock futures and options held his attention and he’d been researching the history and

mathematics behind all the trading. Being Louis, he couldn’t help but see if his own modeling could keep up, as a proper test, and was describing some of that work as we sped toward his apartment.

“I was doing some combination charting of Microsoft and was doing pretty well with some of the predictions the past week, even put some money in and did OK. I mean, we’re not talking about enough to retire on, nothing like that. I figured I would put some sort of option spread on, just in case, something that would pay off big in a rising market and not lose much if I was wrong. I mean, no model is right 100% of the time, yeah?

Which got me wondering, what have people lost doing this? Not that I’m overly concerned, I’m pretty sure I have the math down. Just curious.”

He sucked in a lungful of air as though just remembering to inhale. Louis had always been something of an erratic driver, easily distracted by other things. Now he was erratic and driving way too fast.

“I got into the records of shareholders for Microsoft, all kinds of names, and saw this hedge fund, New American Market Dynamics, bought a bunch of shares two years ago about a month before stock prices rallied almost 5% and got out nine weeks before they dipped, got back in close to the bottom and now have a 24% return in just two years. You heard about the legislation?”

We flew through an intersection too quickly to properly make out the obscenities the pedestrians were yelling. I had no idea what legislation Louis was talking about.

“Yeah, things crashed right after that,” he continued. “New American dumped their stocks three months ahead of all the trouble. Well, there were no options used so that was a dead end.” He nodded to himself. “I went looking at other stocks and found another chart for Apex Travel, they haven’t been moving as much but have some really obvious resistance and support levels." Meaning, if I remember my brief time as an amateur trader correctly, there were points at which you could predict stock prices were going to turn around and start trending in the

reverse direction. Even back then as a student, I found cheap market watcher programs that predicted those points for you. They were usually wrong. Louis, I'm sure, was using his own system by that time.

That’s just the sort of person he is. "Really simple stuff, anyone could make money on these guys. And quite a few people did, including New American Market Dynamics.” Louis gave me a look to let me know I should find this interesting.

We pulled up to an apartment complex. Louis jumped out before the motor had completely died and jogged to the nearest door. It was unlocked.

There were books stacked on every available surface. Journals and magazines littered the floor except for a narrow clean walking path. Well, maybe not clean. Let's call it paper-free.

“Turns out they did trade some shares of Apex. Nothing fancy, but if you know you’re right, why bother with fancy?"

The bedroom door was ajar, just next to the kitchen. I could see a mattress with no frame, littered with more books. "Hey, Louis? Does Christine sleep over here?" I was just hoping I could get him to pause for just a moment. His frantic pace made me nervous.

He blinked at me. "No, she doesn't like it here, she finds it uncomfortable."

Well, yeah, she would. She was probably sane. "I sleep over there some, at her place," he said. "Anyway, here this is."

He pointed to the living room wall. It was covered in sticky notes with scrawled figures and arrows pointing to other notes. Some were taped to the ceiling where a trail of arrows ran out of wall space.

I stared at it for a while. Much of it was illegible. What I could read was mostly various names, dates, and other numbers. Some of the names looked like individuals, “Carrie Rugh” or “Donatella Ipantinco” while others

appeared to be organizations or corporations like “InTran Financial Advisors,” “Chase Manhattan,” and “The Atlantic Group.”

“I started looking into all kinds of investors,” Louis went on. “Not really with New American Market Dynamics in mind, more just curious who the people were that made money in this sort of venture. Still, that name did pop up quite a bit, and most of the returns were favorable.” He pointed to a piece of paper close to the right edge of the wall, where “NA Market Dynamics” was written in thick black marker, with “44512.44” and “May 13, 2019 - June 7, 2028” underneath. That last date was just four days old. Two arrows pointed to other notes, one labeled “Starnes CTA” and the other “Vector-First Mortgage”.

None of this made any sense to me. Even less than Louis’s normal brand of intense crazy. “Exactly what am I looking at, here?” I asked.

Louis laughed and rubbed his hands together. “See, I started to pick up on patterns. Not just the Market Dynamics guys, but all sorts of other companies that were doing pretty well. Not so well to be suspicious, just better than I was predicting. Than I could predict, see? Then when I looked into the history of Market Dynamics I found out their origins were as a sort of spin off from Axio.” He pointed to a note labeled, “Axio Interstate Holdings Inc.,” with a grid of numbers and “November 16, 1998-?” written underneath. An arrow linked Axio to New American Market Dynamics. “Axio was purchased in 2008 when they were in financial trouble, by Old Main Pacific Bank, who was then in turn bought out by 21st Century Consolidated Electronics of all people, who formed as a result of a merger between Vista Tech and CompTru LLC, and so on.”

The notes regressed further back on the wall with older dates, backward through the linking arrows. Louis continued, “These guys were all just as successful as Market Dynamics. By which I mean they were almost exactly as successful, gaining more than 2% value 87% of the time, realizing more than 5% gains 61% of the time, etc. Don’t you think

those are weird numbers? Not by themselves, just the fact all these related companies are so consistent.” I had no idea if that was unusual or not. My last statistics course was ten years prior and an experience best forgotten. Sure, maybe it was odd to be consistently making the same types of gains, what did I know?

The pages went backward and forward, further and further, sometimes leading to branches that ended in question marks, sometimes splitting apart and then coming back together decades later. It was, I have to admit, fascinating trying to look at it all at once from a distance. I kept picturing a churning river flowing across the wall with little eddies spinning off. Maybe it was just the way Louis had it laid out.

“OK, these companies are all related. That is sort of strange,” I said.

There were a whole lot of names on that wall all tied together. I followed a line all the way to the left where it ended, or rather began, as “VOC, March 20, 1602.” That note was covered with question marks and scribbled numbers.

Louis shook his head. “No, that’s not the strange part. Companies fail and reform and new companies start as the result of others breaking apart all the time. I mean, yes, it’s a long unbroken line through acquisitions, mergers, splits, shares, and what have you, but that’s not the fascinating part. Whoever these guys are, they seem to know the future. Or are from the future. Or something.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked at a book near his feet.

I decided not to pick at that particular thread just yet. “So, you can use their investments as a guide and make some money?”

Louis frowned and said, “Well, you could, sure, but that’s not really what I’m trying to…” As he trailed off I could almost see the numbers flicking across his brain. “Dude,” he said, starting to grin. “Oh, dude.” #

We started small. Forget Louis’s theories on those mystery companies in the network, I had enough faith in his research and mathematical predictions. Enough to start out with $200, at any rate. Louis can do some incredible things with numbers. At least until his fascination sputters out and he moves on to something else. Best to take advantage while I could.

Louis had no interest in taking care of the money himself. I mean, he had plenty of interest in the money, just not in setting up accounts, transferring funds, tracking for taxes, doing all the tedious stuff. That’s the area I covered. Not that I had any more interest in the grunt work myself, but it was only fair that I do something. Other than, you know, coming up with the whole idea in the first place.

We each bought $200 worth of stock options in some hydroponic research lab I can’t even remember the name of at this point. AgriEarth something or other. They were call options, gaining value rapidly if stock prices rise. And they would become worthless quickly if those stock prices didn't rise. If we predicted incorrectly our money would have evaporate in a matter of weeks. What happened, though, was a steady rise in stock prices that made us each nearly $600 in profit.

Needless to say, I was hooked. Louis dug into his findings, tracked where the various companies invested, and told me where to invest. We mostly traded options, riskier but kept paying off. Stock futures were much easier, although we didn’t do much of that trading. They just didn't change value as quickly.

The companies we tracked tended not to engage in the same kind of trading we did. Most often they just invested and cashed out later, as far as Louis could tell, and we used that to predict when values were about to rise or fall. They invested in a wide variety of things, not just stocks.

We started trading in bonds, securities, treasuries, various commodities…whatever those companies on Louis’s wall involved themselves in, if it could be traded, we traded it.

Louis kept his enthusiasm going over the next year, somehow, and I got to enjoy having enough money to support my wife and not stress about paying the mortgage and phone bill at the end of every month. I met Christine, and told Louis she was great, and meant it. She didn't seem to feel the same, though. Looking back, I suspect she got tired of the way Louis always wanted to talk about our mystery investors every time I was with him. It even got tedious for me, and I was making a lot money off it. I can only imagine how it was for her.

Because he’s Louis, he couldn’t just watch the investments. He had to look further into it and find new things to stay interested, and started talking more about the people behind these companies, and who they might be. Every so often Louis would make an offhand remark about the possibility those mysterious members were gods, or time travelers, or something else, pretending he was just making a joke when I didn’t immediately agree.

I would occasionally find him pouring over questionably attained birth records, driver’s licenses, and corporate financial records. When confronted on it, he had to admit everything seemed normal.

That didn’t defuse his curiosity.

Now, I won’t say I was completely uninterested myself. How could I be, watching the companies pick the right markets time after time after time? I was just more willing to accept that successful business capitalists might have their own methods for picking investments. I don’t care how smart Louis is, he’s not going to find the same patterns as a large group of likewise smart people focusing their entire careers on doing just that.

What I didn’t realize for a while, and wish I had noticed sooner, was how the pattern of investments predicted the way the world moved and changed. It was a map of the future. I wonder if we could have influenced that map. Changed things before it was too late.

I took up more and more of the research myself, checking a handful of investments and adjusting my own every few days. It was easy, given the right information. So much of what any institution does was publicly available in those days, just a quick online search away. Louis stopped taking money out altogether, focusing instead on his research. I kept trading his investments along with my own, acting as a custodian while Louis spent his days scouring old records.

After a while he stopped returning my phone calls, and I stopped calling.

Back to normal, in that regard.

“There are six board members that own everything,” Louis announced over the phone after a six-month absence. I was trying to calm a screaming newborn while listening to him with less than half my attention. Thanks to all the money we made with our investments, I was taking a yearlong unpaid sabbatical. I was a father now, lucky enough to be able to spend time with my daughter and not sweat the missing paycheck, and quite probably the only multi-millionaire in the Comparative Physiology department. Life was good just then. Other than the all-night screaming and occasional biohazard diaper.

“Louis, this is maybe not the best time.” My goofy faces and key jangling were having no effect on my little Charlie. “And where the heck have you been?”

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered. “I’m sorry about that. Just thought you should know that it’s been six people running all those investments since the beginning.”

“No, wait a minute. I asked where you’ve been.”

Louis was silent for a moment. “Just around. I really haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Then why the hell were you not calling me back? Do you have any idea

how distressing that is when I have so much money tied into an idea of yours?”

“I know, I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional or anything. I just…”

“You got distracted.”

“Yeah.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I know I do.”

My wife picked up Charlie, who stopped crying almost immediately. It’s incredible, women have some sort of extra genetic coding about children.

I wonder if anyone in my department ever did a paper on that.

“Look, I really am sorry,” Louis said.

“How’s Christine?” It wasn’t a fair question, and I knew it even before I asked it. It would only make him feel worse if the answer was anything like I thought it might be. I was just irritable and exhausted from the whole being-a-dad thing.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said.

“You’re sure, meaning you don’t know.”

There was a long pause. “We haven’t really gotten together lately.”

“Because you got distracted.”

“Something like that.”

He sounded small. Now I felt bad. “So, what have you been working on?”

“Um, the six people. The ones running all those investments we’ve been watching.”

“OK.” “No, really, I’m close to solving it. It’s not just companies with investment capital, it’s individual investors. You know those twenty-six companies we’ve been following? You can trace them all back to six board members sitting at the head of one corporation through some tricky legal ties.

And each of those six has a lot, and I mean a lot, of investments.”

“Uh huh.”

“It took a long time to figure out.” Louis was transitioning from sheepish to excited. “These guys don’t want to be found. I’d love to tell you about it.

I’m going to the Bahamas for a while, so I’ll give you a call when I get there.”

“You’ll what? The Bahamas?”

“Oh, that’s where Synergetics is headquartered. They’re the top, top parent corporation right now, where the six board members operate. It shifts around a lot. It’s been the same six members all along, they’ve just been changing names, branching off, coming back together…I have a list of 72 names they use if you’re interested. They’ve just been cycling through them for centuries. I’ll send it to you.”

“Now, wait a minute.”

“Yeah, I know, it sounds ridiculous. But there's plenty of evidence of various investments being passed from generation to generation through trusts and inheritance, sometimes being sold after decades for incredible gains. The individual investments are where the bulk of the money sits, I’m thinking maybe the corporations exist mostly so the six will have a place to keep their funds. What I don’t know is who or what

these six are, and I want to find out. I’m going to Nassau. I want to know what they know.”

It did in fact sound ridiculous. Trouble was, I had no idea how to argue with him. And, really, what was so bad about Louis taking a trip to the Bahamas? Regardless of what he found, could you count the trip as a waste? Was there such a thing as a useless trip to the Bahamas?

“Do you have any of my money?” Louis asked.

“Yeah, I’ve been keeping it moving.” I’d been taking profits off my investments, just living off the gains while leaving some millions in the market. Louis hadn’t taken any profits for a while, and it just kept adding up. “You’ve got just over $86 million.”

“Huh,” Louis said after a pause. “Well, that’s neat.” # From then on, Louis mostly spent his time traveling to different locations, trying to track down these mystery individuals who always managed to have just left on vacation, or were away on business, and were just somehow never quite reachable as Louis chased them. I became a father once more, and we grew dependent on the investments. Seemed like we got along just fine when we didn’t have any money, but darned if we were willing to go back to that.

I kept watching the companies and their investments as Louis jetted the globe and reported in with near miss after near miss. Five companies shut down in the same year, or to be more accurate, went through some legal maneuvering that made it impossible for me to track what name if any they were trading under. Louis wasn’t around to figure out where the funds went, and I didn’t really have the capability. It left enough to follow, anyway, so not that big of a deal. What it did mean was I had to watch the remaining funds carefully.

After a while, watching all those numbers so closely, you could almost understand Louis’s obsession. There was something spooky about the way the trades took place at just the right time. Never at the most profitable time, more like at the perfect not-quite-best time. As in just enough that it didn’t look suspicious to anyone not looking at the entire picture. I never once saw a purchase or sale happen within two weeks from the high or low point of the corporate stock, or municipal bond, or Treasury note. If I hadn’t already known the names to look for, there’s no way I would have seen the pattern.

And the thing about these investments, if you had the kind of foresight to see the price movements coming, you could have made way more money than these guys did. Look at us, for example. It was always a matter of betting on a stock or bond or other instrument improving when they made profits. Before a company went under, they often simply pulled a number of shares out, just enough to end up with a small net profit. No taking a short position to profit as the stock prices tanked. No benefitting when things went bad. Either these mystery investors could only predict the good times, or they had some variety of moral code that stopped them from making money while others lost it. These aliens from a future dimension obviously had some rigid ethics. And looking back through some of their history, they avoided all the disastrous bubbles throughout the years, pulling out of the market sometimes years before they took off. Tulips. Dot-coms. Multiple real estate crashes. They were trading on the New York Stock Exchange in 1867, the year it opened, and stopped altogether in 1925, four years before the market crash.

They got out of the Japanese stock market nearly a decade before the crash of 1989. The worse the crash, the harder they avoided it. Their investments formed a numerical guide, predicting what the world was about to be interested in, or need, and what it was about to abandon.

Which made it all the worse when the types of investments shifted towards worrisome areas. More money was going into weapons research and survival equipment, for starters, things like home bomb shelters, specially designed nutritional supplements and multiple

pharmaceutical manufacturers. And not small amounts. Billions of dollars. Every day more money was being added, and over months, the value shrank, slow and steady. It was as though the investors were expecting a huge rally at some point, which just kept not happening.

Meanwhile, funds were being pulled from government bonds, commercial credit lines, agricultural commodities. Energy-related investments all but vanished. I kept moving my own money into those weapons research facilities, watching it just sit there, shrinking in value while my heartburn grew, waiting for the inevitable gains to appear like they always did.

But the gains never came in. It all just disappeared one night while I was sleeping. Every trading market in the world dropped at the same time, if it was open at 10:28 AM Greenwich Mean Time. All the others dropped as soon as trading resumed. Not an immediate crash in any market, exactly, just a sudden decrease of a few tens of percent in stocks, bonds, commodities, you name it. All over the world markets were panicking and experts were on every news channel yelling and sweating. Phone calls to various companies that had pulled their investments went unanswered.

Some news channels were starting to put together a picture of how several of those same companies were tied together. They had better graphics to illustrate the relationships than Louis’s handwritten notes stuck to a wall. I began to wonder if my name would appear, somehow, intertwined in all this.

That was the day Louis showed back up at my door, tanned, slim, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.

I hugged him. Not a big hugger in general but I was freaked. I lost twenty million dollars in a span of fifteen minutes and hadn’t figured out how to tell my family, and here was an old familiar face that could make sense of it all. So, I hugged him. Shut up about it already.

“Do you know what’s going on?” It would have been a nicer greeting had I been less panicked.

Louis stood there, looking tired and sad. “They yanked it, Richard,” he said. “All of it.”

“I know, I didn’t have any warning. The funds were gone this morning, and the markets were down before I could make any kind of move.”

Louis sighed. “Not sure you understand. All six of them pulled all their investments. We’re talking eighteen trillion dollars they’d built up over 400 years. The markets can’t absorb that much money being taken out all at once.”

“Do you know why they did it? Did you talk to them?”

Louis sighed and shook his head. “I never found them. These guys are good, whoever and whatever they are.” He raised his hands and let them fall in a sort of shrug. That scared me more than anything at the time, watching Louis admit defeat.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. How do I make back the money I lost?

What do I tell Karen? What are you doing with your investments?” Now I was rambling, and knew it, and couldn't stop.

“I pulled mine,” Louis said. “We’re not going to have any use for them pretty soon, I suspect.”

Oh good. Because I wasn’t panicking quite enough already.

“They did invest in one venture,” Louis said. “Almost two-hundred billion dollars. I was able to get in on it, for what it’s worth.”

“It’s got to be worth something, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. In its own way I imagine it’s worth a whole lot.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket and held it out. There were ten tickets in the envelope for “Passenger plus 150 kilos in personal items

guaranteed secure passage” on something called the Grand Vista. They were no bigger than a plane ticket.

Louis tapped the tickets with his finger. He said, “It’s a space tourism company.” My mind simply couldn’t find a way to respond. “It’s no joke,” he said. “They've been doing incredible work with little or no funding, and really took off a year ago when several billion dollars dropped in their lap.

Plus my sixty million, I guess. They had an auction. I was able to grab twenty of them as a privileged investor. Figured, better safe than sorry.

There were only five hundred available.”

I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The departure date on the tickets was only three weeks away. # We were on our way to the launch pad when they reported a massive explosion on the Eastern Seaboard. Some are saying it’s an asteroid that somehow escaped notice until it was too late. Others are saying it’s a nuke, even if there is little agreement as to who launched it. There are already rumors of additional explosions happening too quickly for accurate reporting. I realize that it may a long time before we understand what happened. I realize that those of us waiting here may never actually learn the answer.

The waiting area is deep underground, and in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico. Safe, and isolated. Could be luck, or for just such a purpose.

Maybe certain investors suggested such an out-of-the-way location. I don’t know and at the moment I really can’t bring myself to care.

So now we wait. Launch time is in six hours. We start loading up in ninety minutes. My parents, wife, children, and the three friends I was able to convince to come along all sit quietly huddled together, in shock. Louis didn’t find anyone else to give his tickets, other than an estranged brother who didn’t even consider coming. Apparently, Louis offered a

ticket to Christine as a way to say thanks, or sorry, or both. She didn’t respond.

There are thirty of us in our room, with nine other rooms in the compound. I guess that makes about three hundred of us.

Louis can’t stop being Louis. He’s been quizzing one of the engineers of the ship who came into the room to give us an updated schedule for loading and preparation. We’re supposed to go into orbit for a year. Left unsaid: what we do after that if there’s nothing to come back to.

The first time I saw anyone smile since this day started was when Louis heard the names of the first six passengers to get tickets. According to the seat map, we’ll be sitting right behind them.