 
Solve the World Part One

by Dante Stack

Published by Stockade Amusement at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Stockade Amusement

Thank you for downloading this book! This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and edification. The book may not be re-sold nor given away to other parties. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Enjoy!

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Meet Jennifer Dash

Chapter Two: Leviathan

Chapter Three: Hitchhiking

Chapter Four: Infinite Jest and Other Topics

Chapter Five: The Sunset Limited

Chapter Six: Remember, Remember

Chapter Seven: Under LA

Chapter Eight: Magical Kingdom

Chapter Nine: The Mechanical Giraffe

Chapter Ten: Illusion

Chapter Eleven: The Seducers

Chapter Twelve: Rewind

Chapter Thirteen: Heaven Above

Chapter Fourteen: Hell Below

Chapter Fifteen: Guideline #1

Interlude: Father Daniel

Chapter Sixteen: Bad Blood

Chapter Seventeen: Lillith

Interlude: Consequences

Chapter Eighteen: Letter to Atticus

## Preface

What you are about to begin is an epic. It's an epic because it features the conquest of the impossible—of myths and legends, of microbiology and minotaurs, from the depths of evil, to the heights of possibility.

Starting now, and for the next 100 chapters, we'll follow a young woman as she traverses her own intuition towards the deepest mysteries of life. Why are we here? What are we supposed to do? How's it all going to end?

Have patience, dear reader. What begins with a whimper won't end that way. This is not a story about a quiet life of desperation. No. This is Homer's _Odyssey_. Dante's _Divine Comedy_. Jennifer Dash's quest.

Welcome, and brace yourself. It's a bumpy ride.

Chapter One: Meet Jennifer Dash

Let me present to you Jennifer Dash. 17 years of age, 5'9", dirty brown hair falling straight to the small of the back. Undeniably pretty, but the type of pretty that doesn't stand out in a crowd. In one moment she could easily pass for a tall 14-year-old, and in the next pull off the college-grad look. You would like her immediately if you met her. And you should. Jennifer Dash is a wonderful human being, full of youthful exuberance, naive charisma, childish glee, and a curiosity that could rival Nikola Tesla's. Today she's wearing an orange shirt and cut-offs with seventeen dollars wadded up in her back pocket. And, as is her style, she sports knee-high socks with matching colored Skechers. But I get ahead of myself... I really do hope you like her. You're stuck with her now. You're stuck with her for quite awhile.

This is how it goes.

Awoken by a sound, perhaps a distant thunder, Jenn became aware that she didn't understand life. She got up, grabbed her favorite old, moldy, black backpack, and pushed open the front screen door, letting it slam on her rear on the way out.

I'm sorry, let's pause right there—I want everything to go well here. The beginning of an adventure, it's gotta hook you. It's gotta get you involved. How is that best communicated? What could possibly draw you into a massive journey led by a young girl none of us yet know? It's a daunting task.

Focus. Focus on Jenn. She's the valuable one here. She's worth the risk, worth the hours and hours and years spent with her. She's the girl for you. And she knew, even then, walking out that door, that this understanding of life is not the same as figuring out one's own purpose in life, or the cliché phrase "finding myself". None of that business. Jenn somehow understood the fallacy of searching for her very own special purpose or destiny or whatever you want to call it. To do so would be to center all human history around herself—and that, friends, seemed quite far-fetched to our young protagonist. That's part of what makes Jenn interesting, what makes her unique and precious in our eyes—for a teenager to see beyond herself like that, in this modern age of distraction, who does that?

So, again, I'll repeat just to reorient ourselves—Jenn pushed upon that screen door, uncaring as it slammed on her rear on the way out.

Off. Off to solve the world. Somehow....

As Jenn walked those first few steps past her door, she began to reason that she needed some sort of system of organization. She would acquire data—lots and lots of data. Surely one needed facts and figures in order to categorize and therefore digest the world as a whole. But how on Earth was she to organize all that stuff the world had to offer?

Whilst submerged in the throes of contemplation, Jenn reached the neighbor's mailbox. She stopped, stared at it. Then with a modicum of hesitation, she opened the box, taking the mail along with her. And so she walked... away from her past, away from her home turf, away from that screen door with someone else's mail in hand.

_But what am I walking toward?_ Jenn pondered. There was no sidewalk on this street, so she instinctively followed the dotted line in the middle of the road. Perhaps if she had seen the movie, Jenn would have blurted out, "Follow the yellow brick road," but alas, she was blithely unaware of that story, so she continued along the dotted line free of any analogous musical melody.

What Jenn did think at that moment, as she perused her recently acquired stolen mail, was this....

Okay. So, a system... how to devise a system? Perhaps the mail has some insight for me. Mail. Mail? How did I come to know this as mail? Somewhere in time someone taught me about the postal service, therefore, I assumed the papery items found in certain flagged boxes were delivered by men from various far-off lands. And I called this mail.

I see it now. Oh! It's so clear! Up until this moment, up until this dotted line, I've built my life upon stolen information. I trusted that this mail service was real, based on the word of others.

Why should I accept that information?

There's a starting point. No belief without direct experience—okay, okay, okay, okay! But I shouldn't become a doubter of others. I don't want to be a skeptic. I don't want to become that. So... I'll believe the experiences of others... but not their second-hand knowledge. That's a starting point, that's something to build from. A base. Only accept experience as data or the first-hand experience of others whom I choose to trust. If I am to believe that this paper in my hands is mail, then I must meet someone who delivers the mail and can vouch for the mail system. Or, as a second option of intake, I myself must become a mail-person in order to fully embrace the very idea of mail.

But for now, I haven't met a mailman that I trust. So logically, then, I can't accept this mail as mail! Wonderful, Jenn! You're getting it, old girl! I shall call these papers in my hand that I picked out of the box with a metal flag on it Humphaliandra!

At that thought, Jenn suddenly held out the mail with both her hands and announced to anyone in earshot, "Hello, Humphaliandra! Pleasure to meet you! Pleasure to hold you in my hands just so!"

But wait, I can call this humphaliandra all I want, but that doesn't negate my memory. I still know this as mail, I've just given it a new name. But it's still mail. I can't simply erase what I've learned.

It came to her then in a flash. In one word.

_Myth_.

Jenn realized then that of course she couldn't undo seventeen-odd years of life education. She couldn't un-mail the mail. But what she could do is recategorize it. Mail became, in an instant, along with all the other lessons Jenn had learned previous to this moment, a myth. There was data, and there was myth. Data was _humphaliandra_ , myth was _mail_. That's just how it was.

Jenn thought. Okay, old girl, everything you've been taught is myth. Everything you've learned from experience is data useful to solve the world. I don't need to write it down. These are commandments to be memorized. This is important. This is vital. When I want to talk about the process of sending and receiving papers of information using the postal service, I refer to these things as the myth of mail. It remains myth because I have no way, at this time, to be sure that this system of delivery works as I have been told. Therefore, myth. When I simply want to refer to the papers that have appeared inside metal boxes with flags, I refer to humphaliandria, which of course, being observed from my own experience is not myth but solid-as-a-rock data.

As Jenn now strolled down the center of the street, she sighed, pleased with herself that after merely traveling a few paces down the road, she'd already grown so wise, and made such dramatic inroads to solving the world. Not knowing where to take her mind next, she drew her attention away from her newfound commandments to the humphaliandria in her hands.

A bill. From a credit card company. Due payment of $174.71. Addressed to Redjeb Heller. Redjeb. What a funny name.

Address: 300 Room St, Jennings, Louisiana 70546.

Also included in the loot was a Macy's catalogue. Flipping through, the Halloween section caught her eye. Page 67 had a little boy in an astronaut costume. On his left chest his blue jumpsuit showed off a big ol' NASA insignia stitched in.

NASA.

Jenn thought. N _ASA. When was I first told that men had walked on the moon? I can't remember. It seems like a fact of life. Every American child learns their ABCs, their 123s and that Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and that other guy went to the moon in 1969, officially showing the Russians that Capitalism is awesomer than Communism._

A note here: the third Astronaut on the Apollo 11 mission to the moon was Michael Collins, though he never walked on the moon.

Jenn continued in her logic. _That sure showed them! Look at how Humpty-Dumpty's walls fell down! Ha!... but why should I believe that story? How could I count this as data, as something I know to be true? Maybe the Russians tell their people that they got there first. Maybe they call it Soviet Moon. Or Moon Union. For that matter, how do I know that Russia exists? I've never been there. Have I met anyone who's been there? Aww, kibbles 'n bits, it's too hard to remember the past. New commandment I declare: only people we meet from this moment on count in this hunt to solve the world. Let the past lie down and sleep awhile. Who cares for it, anyway? It can't help me now._

So, there is a myth of man going to the moon and a myth of Russians and Russia. Just like, as I see now on pages 70 and 71, there is a myth of vampires and a myth of zombies. I should treat all these ideas as equal. All these things are myth... and I need to prove them one way or the other in order to treat them as data.

The third envelope contained a handwritten letter. It read:

Hi Red!

How are you? I am okay. You haven't come over lately, have you? Why is that? Is it me? Are you ignoring me, or just the world in general?

Yesterday they voted off Tony. I KNOW! Crazy! These are treacherous times we live in, old man! You just can't trust people to make right decisions anymore. Isn't that right? See? You're rubbing off on me even when you're not around; this pessimism thing. It's kinda cute, actually.

I miss you. Is it the Communists? Has your paranoia grown? You can be honest with me about that stuff, you know that, right? I'm trustworthy. And reliable. Well, perhaps not so reliable... but... nevertheless, I'm trustworthy with secrets and stuff. Even if the Reds (note the plural rather than the honorable singular form of the word) were to bang down my door and torture me for forty-seven hours straight with voodoo and Chinese water torture, I'd still never give those scumbags your inner, deep thoughts. Besides, even if I wanted to tell someone something, who would I tell? I'm not well connec...

Jennifer Dash turned her gaze mid-sentence from the paper in hand to a bird whistling in a nearby pine tree. Her mind was on the Russians.

She thought. _Commies are on everyone's mind, I guess... even the Macy's catalogue. Why else would they have those big, bad NASA emblems on the outer space outfits? I'll tell you why, old girl: they wanted the whole world to know that they're selling good ol' fashioned Capitalist American Astro-nautic gear, rather than Cosmonaut corduroys._

Cosmonauts and Astronauts. Funny words. Two more myths to ponder.

I'm hungry.

Jenn stopped walking. Two simultaneous thoughts vied for control of will. She was dreadfully hungry, and she was well aware that not eating led to bad, bad paths of dark, dark doom. Jenn certainly didn't want bad, dark doom. She wanted light, bright, and free. It stood to reason then that her body required sustenance. Nevertheless, she had a mission at hand, to solve the world... and the world wasn't just about to solve itself. And at this particular moment she found herself entering into the first deep debate her adventure would lead her on. As she continues down the road, to nearly endless physical wonders, this mental quandary will continue to rear its ugly head. We shall ask this question now, knowing that Jenn won't come to a peaceful conclusion today. Many of Jenn's upcoming perils will be from physical attacks and strange occurrences. This mental moment, however, provides a subtle uncertainty that will continue to lie as a harangue for Jennifer and perhaps for you.

The question is this: can the written word, now read, be included as data, or myth? The Halloween costume of the young Astronaut brought this question to stunning reality for Jenn. Does the picture of the boy validate the existence of that costume? Can she trust that picture? What tools does she have to reach a consensus within herself? This small question instantly multiplied and divided itself into thousands of individual quagmires. Jenn pictured vast walls full of books. Books full of stories of days gone by, experiments tried. Battles fought. Knowledge won. Can they be trusted? Any of them? Are vast libraries a help or hindrance to acquiring pure knowledge?

Jennifer Dash was overwhelmed.

She took a big breath and recited allowed what she knew.

"I know I'm holding humphaliandria, also known to me as the myth of mail. I have learned about many myths in my past life. I accept none of them as truth as of yet. They are neither true nor false. They are merely ideas, yet to be realized to me. I see a picture of a boy in a space-suit. I do not know whether to believe that he exists or not. I have seventeen dollars in my back pocket. And I am hungry. I will try to feed myself now using the seventeen dollars as a bartering tool, as the myth of money teaches me. I am hungry, and I will be fed."

Jennifer took another big breath, smiled, and started walking again. She saw a fast food shop in the distance. She would test the myth of money next.

Content with her new system, she named the question of books _Flagritorindor_.

Flagritorindor.

Jennifer Dash liked to name things. Perhaps she would dispel the question of Flagritorindor one way or the other by venturing to Macy's in search of the costume. Then, she would hunt down a supposed mailman, and solve the myth of mail. But first, she would quiet her stomach.

Food ahead.

~~~

Continue with me. Continue with us. Continue with Jenn Dash as she builds off her humble beginnings and uses all her capacities to make sense out of this planet.

Next chapter, Jenn gets more than she bargained for when she exchanges her back pocket money for fast food... and what she hears just may, just might, lead her forward in her self-proclaimed destiny to solve the world.

Chapter Two: Leviathan

Meet Rabbi Itamar Levi. 47, with two daughters, ages 10 and 7. Their names are not pertinent, and we need not bother ourselves with learning them. Rabbi Levi, however, shall play for us the role of soothsayer. He is the first of many voices that will influence Jennifer Dash on her quest, and this, her first encounter with him, though she won't yet learn his name, will not be her last.

And so we return to Jennifer Dash at a fast food joint. She buys a salad with chicken and ranch dressing.

"Would you like to purchase a Magical Kingdom Unicorn Collectible Fun Bottle?" the cashier asks. "It comes with a complimentary twisty straw!" Jenn hesitates. She doesn't need anything like that. She doubts it will help her accomplish her goals. Perhaps noticing her hedging, the cashier adds, "You know the really great thing is the Magical Kingdom Unicorn Collectible Fun Bottle can be brought to any of our 16,000 nationwide locations for a free soda refill until November 1st. That's when Magical Kingdom opens their newest attraction, during the Veneration Celebration." This, obviously, tips the deal in Jen's favor. She'll need soda refills in the coming days and weeks, that's for sure.

The total for the meal and Magical Kingdom bottle comes to $13.82 after taxes. Jenn pulls out all seventeen dollars from her back pocket, slaps it on the counter, and tells the cashier to keep the change.

Jenn sits. Facing her a row away is Itamar Levi with his two girls. While Jenn chows down, the 7-year-old stares at her. Why does the little girl stare at her so? The girl promptly responds to Jenn's questioning thought. "Daddy, are unicorns real?"

Jenn sucks at her unicorny twisty straw with short, rapid sucks, suddenly invested in Rabbi Levi's answer. How does one answer that question? Like every other piece of isolated knowledge, Jenn supposes she must treat unicorns just like the Cosmonauts and vampires on page 70 of the Macy's catalog. They were the stuff of myth until proven otherwise—part of the Flagritorindor mythos. Nevertheless, she yearned to hear insider information. Maybe this man (whom, again, we know as Itamar Levi but Jenn does not) knows some deep secrets.

Jenn was not to be disappointed.

Ceremoniously, and with great charade, the rabbi wolfs down his food and responds.

"Are unicorns real? Are unicorns real!? Well, of course they are! How else would we know about them? The real question is: when did they disappear? You see, they're something like dinosaurs to us. They're extinct now—at least, there doesn't appear to be any walking on the face of the Earth these days. But we have good reason to believe that they were here, and they were real.

"Now, there's a couple differing ideas as to what really happened to them. There's these fellas, they go by the name of the Irish Rovers, and they used to sing about unicorns. They think that when the Flood came, and God sent all the animals to come to Noah and his ark to be saved from the rains, the unicorns were such a playful lot that they were simply too busy horsing around with one another to take any notice of the downpour. Those playful animals never made it onto the Ark, so Noah had to close up shop and set sail without them."

At this point, the 10-year-old, glaring skeptically at her father, says, "I don't believe that. Don't believe that, Lilly!"

Itamar responds, "No, no, of course... it's a silly idea. I don't believe it either. You know why?"

The girls stare blankly at their father.

"Because the Torah says plainly that all the species of the world got onto Noah's boat. Surely God wouldn't lie to us! No, there's a more complex answer, but I don't think you want to hear it. And we don't have time to go into it this evening."

Whilst the 7-year-old pouts and pleads for her father to tell the true story of the unicorns, Jenn jumps up to refill her Orange soda. As she returns to her seat, it's clear that Itamar, with pseudo-reluctance, is ready to delve into the story....

"It took God six days to create man and all the animals, right?

"Right."

"Good. You remember that God gave man authority over the entire animal kingdom. Adam was meant to be their protector and their watchmen. But as you know, man sinned, chasing after the false dreams of that pernicious serpent. None of this came as a surprise to God. Of course not. He knows everything. That's why he created three special creatures. These giants would be the protectors of their own kind. He only made one of each, so that they would never have babies and overrun the Earth. He made them in such a way that they would never die by natural causes."

"What does that mean?" The little one asks.

"It means they would never grow old, they would never catch diseases."

"Never grow up?"

"No, never. God intended these three to dwell on the Earth generation after generation—watching and protecting their kind morning and night. God made three because there are three forms of matter where animals dwell in this world: air, water, and earth."

The children and Jenn listen in silence.

"For the air, God fashioned Ziz. They say Ziz has such long wings that when she flies she blocks out the sun, no matter where you stand on Earth. There's an old tale of a couple of boys alone by cliffs next to the sea who were looking for a shallow place to wet their feet. They were something like farm boys, so they didn't know how to swim. That's why they were scouring the seaside for a safe, shallow place to dunk their feet. Far on the horizon, they saw a bird standing in the water, cleaning itself. The boys said to one another, 'Look, if that bird can wet its feet over there, then surely we too can wet our bodies in peace.' As they traveled to the water hole, the bird in the distant spot took towards the heavens, and suddenly it was dark on the Earth, darker than night. A moment later, the sun returned to its place and the boys thought little of the strangeness. But the bird was gone.... When they finally arrived to the supposed shallow place where the bird once rested, they fell in and drowned that very day, for the sea was fathoms and fathoms deep in that spot. Ziz chose it because it was the deepest water hole in that part of the world."

Jenn wonders how this man could know this story. If only the two boys saw the Ziz, and they both died that day, who was there to recount the event?

"That is the Ziz. Then there is Behemoth, the great monster of land sent to watch and protect all of God's land-based creations. They say Behemoth was like an elephant, hippo, lion, and cheetah mixed together into one giant atrocity. Because he roamed on land, just like man, Behemoth was feared more than any other beast on Earth. He gave little children nightmares and old men the willies.

"Lastly, for those that dwell in the great oceans and abysses, God made Leviathan. She is some sort of sea monster, known to be able to devour a ship in a single gulp. Leviathan is so mighty that even God himself boasts of her magnificence. It's true, in the book of Job in our Tanakh you'll find a mighty terrifying description of the monster of the dark waters."

Note: since the description of Leviathan is readily available for reading in the book of Job, chapter 41, verses 1 through 34, I thought it best to go ahead and quote that passage, as it directly relates to Jennifer, despite the fact that Rabbi Levi did not read this passage on the day of this story's telling. And so I shall quote here from the English Standard Translation. Job 40:1-34 reads:

Can you draw Leviathan with a fishhook or press down his tongue with a cord? Can you put a rope in his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook? Will he make many pleas to you? Will he speak to you soft words? Will he make a covenant with you to take him for your servant forever? Will you play with him as with a bird, or will you put him on a leash for your girls? Will traders bargain over him? Will they divide him up among the merchants? Can you fill his skin with harpoons or his head with fishing spears?

Lay your hands on him; remember the battle -- you will not do it again! Behold, the hope of man is false; he is laid low even at the sight of him. No one is so fierce that he dares to stir him up. Who then is he who can stand before me? Who has first given to me, that I should repay him? Whatever is under the whole heaven is mine. I will not keep silence concerning his limbs, or his mighty strength, or his goodly frame. Who can strip off his outer garment? Who would come near him with a bridle? Who can open the doors of his face?

Around his teeth is terror.

His back is made of rows of shields, shut up closely as with a seal. One is so near to another that no air can come between them. They are joined one to another; they clasp each other and cannot be separated. His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn. Out of his mouth go forth flaming torches; sparks of fire leap forth. Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes. His breath kindles coals, and a flame comes forth from his mouth. In his neck abides strength, and terror dances before him. The folds of his flesh stick together, firmly cast on him and immovable.

His heart is hard as a stone, hard as the lower millstone. When he raises himself up the mighty are afraid; at the crashing they are beside themselves. Though the sword reaches him, it does not avail, nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin. He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee; for him sling stones are turned to stubble. Clubs are counted as stubble; he laughs at the rattle of javelins.

His underpants are like sharp potsherds; he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire. He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment. Behind him he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be white-haired.

On earth there is not his like, a creature without fear. He sees everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride.

Rabbi Levi continues.

"They were three: Ziz, Behemoth, Leviathan. And so they were, growing in wisdom and strength generation after generation, causing man to fear them while watching over their kind.

But even though these made the race of man tremble, to the animals under their protection, they served as kind and benevolent mentors. The lion asked Behemoth how to roar. The Ziz taught penguins how to fly, and great Leviathan showed the shark how to hunt. The three kept order in the world. No species went extinct on their watch.

"There was, however, a growing enemy for the three. Remember—Leviathan, Ziz, and Behemoth were blessed with a strong vitality, but they were not invincible. They could be killed. Man, who had learned from Cain how to kill, hated the three. He envied them. He wanted their fame. He wanted their strength. And, I tell you truly children, every hunter in the world, in the darkest corridor of his heart, no matter how nice a person, secretly yearns to be the one who slays the ultimate beast...

"For many, many centuries the great three didn't worry too much about mankind. Man built pyramids and fought wars against himself, but he posed no real threat... until... some 1,500 years ago, there was a crooked, evil man. This man wanted to be a god. He wanted all the glory that belongs to God to go to him. His mischievous plan was to hunt the three.

"First, he tried to kill Ziz. He paid great loads of money and resources to build a machine-powered bow-and-arrow that could shoot hundreds of feet into the air. But each time he found Ziz sitting atop some mountain resting, as soon as the man aimed his weapon at the monstrous bird, the creature would explode into the sky, and again the sky would grow dark, leaving the evil hunter with no means to aim his device. Again and again, he fired his arrow blindly, and every time the weapon missed its mark, more often than not ending up breaking through some poor peasant's hay roof.

"And so the evil man turned his attention to Behemoth. His first thought was that he could ram it with a tremendous lance. He thought if he rode a war elephant and aimed straight at the belly of the beast with his lance, surely the old giant would fall. For years and years the evil man searched. One day, when he finally stumbled upon the monstrosity, his war elephant fainted from fright at the mere sight of Behemoth. The evil man, being launched off his home-made elephant saddle, thought long and hard about his predicament. Another fall from atop the elephant might end in him being crushed. The risk was too great. He needed another way to kill the beast. Slowly, his mind turned to the grand machines of the age. Mankind had not evolved over the generations since creation, but his tools had. That's what separated him from his ancestors; the toys he could leverage to murder. But what sort of machine could he build to take down Behemoth? That's when it dawned on him. He didn't have to build a new machine. He had already long ago fashioned the perfect weapon. The arrow shooter he had devised for the Ziz would be better suited for Behemoth than it ever was that terrible bird.

"He found Behemoth one day years later teaching hippos how to run on land. This prideful, selfish, evil man aimed his weapon.

"PHeeffffeeeeewwwwwwwwp! Down went Behemoth! Blood everywhere! Rivers of it gushed out of the titan. The protector of all scurrying beasts great and small exhaled his last breath. Dead.

"Even in death, Behemoth was nearly unconquerable... for the evil man had to devise a way to drag Behemoth's body 20 miles to the nearest town to show off his great accomplishment. The trek nearly killed him, but when he reached the town, the people hailed the evil man as a conqueror king. They lavished upon him prizes of every color, and great men from far-off lands came to pay homage to the evil man's cunning and courage.

"Even history itself pays its respects to the man, for we have come to know him as Saint George the dragon slayer.

"The irony is, my children, that George never received the peace and happiness he had hoped he'd feel after destroying Behemoth. The kids of the day spoke in whispers around George. The bars were filled with babbling drunkards. Women spread rumors. Everyone somehow knew that George was a coward. If he wasn't a coward, than why didn't he use his special hunting skills to take down Ziz and Leviathan? At least, this is what George believed people were saying about him.

"George, as evil as ever, took all his riches and built for himself the biggest, baddest boat that was ever conceived. Some say it rivalled the likes of Noah's ark itself.

"Already an old man, George set sail to take down Leviathan. He and his crew were never seen again. Rumor has it that Leviathan hid himself from George, not out of fear, mind you, but because Leviathan knew that leaving George to endlessly search and search and search would do far more damage to him than any swing of Leviathan's tail.

"Leviathan knew the secret that endless quests don't just lead to physical destruction, but they also grind down your soul into powder."

"But Daddy, what about the unicorns?" the 7-year-old complains. Jenn too is thankful to be redirected back on topic.

"I was getting there, I was getting there. After Behemoth died, things were bound to change. You see, Leviathan, Ziz, and Behemoth protected normal everyday animals like lions, tigers, bears, penguins and mice, yes, but they also watched over a sacred order. They were also caretakers of God's magical creatures: pegasus, fairies, mermaids, the ice monsters of the North, Yeti of the Eastern hills... all these things were real once upon a time, and the three watched over them all. But now, thanks to St. George, the magical realm in particular was in danger from man.

"So God opened a door. He can do that, you know. Where this door goes, no one knows. He called all his magical creatures to leave this Earth and live with him on the other side of the door. He spoke to Leviathan and Ziz to tell all the magical creatures. For the land creatures, since Behemoth no longer roamed, he sent an angel to each group. One by one all the magical creatures made their way to the sacred door, to live with God and escape this Earth.

"In those days, unicorns loved to play most of all with the race of pegasus. But the Pegasi were called by Ziz to walk through the door, ordered to leave the unicorns behind. They said goodbye to their unicorn friends, and said they'd meet again in the kingdom at the edge of time.

"My daughters, unicorns, unlike their playpals, were not magical. This is a common misconception. They pretty much were just horses with a horn on top of their heads. Nothing particularly special. Rhinos and narwhals have horns on their heads. We don't call them magical. Those silly unicorns though, were convinced that they just had to be magical. They had to be! Everyone knew they were the best! They got together and figured that since Behemoth died, someone must have forgotten to give them the message to come to the door. So they found a way to follow their pegasus friends through the mystical door, never again to be seen by human eyes.

"After they pranced through, the door sealed up. It sensed that someone entered that wasn't supposed to. Suddenly the door shrunk and turned invisible. The path to it vanished, so that no beast, nor any man, nor anything on Earth could discover the door out of time. The age of magic was over. The age to come was to be one of science and reason; our age.

"But! The unicorns really disrupted the plan. When the unicorns went through the door, it slammed shut, instinctively not wanting to let other non-magical creatures through its portal. That left some magical creatures on the wrong side of the door. You've heard stories of ghosts and strange happenings? These are merely the lost magical creatures of this Earth, searching hopelessly for the path that will lead to the hidden door. They are all stuck in an endless quest now.

"And do you remember what an endless quest does to you?"

Jenn answers the question in her head, barely able to keep herself from blurting out: _It grinds your soul into powder._

"It grinds your soul into powder. You've heard of the Loch Ness Monster?... Leviathan lives. GrrrrRROAR!!!"

The children scream and Jenn's heart pulses with life and purpose. With one story, this man pulled all supernatural creatures and forces under one idea, one mythos. Under one reconcilable history.

It dawns on Jenn in a flash: if she can spot a miracle, or any supernatural being in this life, she could, conceivably, collapse all of life's patterns into one story. This is marvelous, Jenn thinks.

Jennifer Dash rushes out the door, into the world, focused on a new mission. Forget the mail or humphaliandra. Boring. Forget flagritorindor. Childish things! Jenn has a new mission.... She has to get to the sea. She has to find Leviathan. She has to solve the world.

~~~

If the world needs protectors, like Leviathan, then there must be those who are on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Villains.

Now fully satiated, Jenn returns to the streets of Louisiana, only to soon encounter the first villain that may destroy Jenn before her adventure is even a day old.

Chapter Three: Hitchhiking

Meet Johnny Paxwell – 54, brusque, blond hair, red beard. He slips in our narrative for just a moment, and vanishes just as quickly. His story is long and sad. He could use some help... but we have no time for such meanderings. Jenn will meet him too briefly for us to invest much in the lonely soul.

Instead, our person of interest on this humid evening is Dolores Burden. She's only 34, yet her body betrays her. She'd be lucky to pass for 45 at a bar. Her dirty hair is thinning at the most visible spots, while sideburns somehow keep creeping further down her jawline. Her compulsive eating of late is doing her no favors. Two years ago she would have been considered moderately underweight, particularly for a truck driver, but now she's hefty even for someone who spends all the hours of the day sitting, shifting gears. Dolores, or Doll as she prefers to go by, tends to be off-putting in part because she has a hard time finishing sentences. She's often interrupted mid-stream due to the impatience of her audience. Becoming aware of this personal problem, Doll Burden has taken to speaking very rapidly, so as not to allow for gaps in her monologues. This never works. Inevitably she stumbles over her own sentences, or parades her tongue faster than her brain can go. It's annoying. Even to her.

Overall, we need only to know this: Doll is growing tired. Not physically so, but the bottomless fatigue that comes from deep inside—soul fatigue, some would say. She's vaguely aware of this cancer of internal weariness. She's looking for a way to escape from it. She's trying to trick it into a death-trap. She's doing all she can to keep her internal fire alive. She's desperate to live again. To enjoy life. To be filled. Note: she never will be.

Jennifer Dash, belly and head full in equal measure, thought walking a perfectly delightful event to come after such a fulfilling meal. She strolled down the road, pondering Leviathan and the many myths the world had to offer her. She calmly admired the trees growing wild with adventurous limbs, twisting and turning, this way and that. Each limb offering a possible story, a possible answer to another yet-unknown mystery. Jennifer Dash was in philosophical Valhalla.

The sun was drifting underneath the horizon. Bird songs were giving way to the nocturnal chants of frogs. The fading of the light brought with it a washing realization to Jenn.

She had nowhere to sleep tonight. She had no change of clothes. She had no more money to exchange for goods and services. Why did she feel the need to tip the boy for the fast food? That sure was short-sighted.

Jennifer had a plan... but it was a distant, generalized plan. It gave no priority to the needs of the present-tense. She was headed for the sea. Perhaps the Pacific. Or the Atlantic. Jenn wasn't too sure about which ocean called her name. Some rogue wave called for her, that's all that mattered. Except for tonight. Tonight mattered. She was nowhere near the sea. Leviathan was not to be hunted tonight.

_Surely you're street smart enough to solve this riddle, ol' girl_ , Jenn thought to herself. _You're in a tight spot, but you'll find a way out yet_.

A thumb. Ha. Jenn had seen it used in some distant movie or TV show. Yes, she was remembering it clearer now. Hitchhiking. That's the ticket!

Jenn's thumb poked out. She smiled and for good measure, childishly waved with her non-thumb-bearing hand at the passersby who chose not to pick up the young lady.

Unfortunately, this specific road was not a well-traversed one, especially after-hours. A group of boys, most likely Jenn's age, slowed down to maybe five miles an hour or so, but they were just looky-loos.

Eventually, just past dusk, a truck driver pulled over. Jenn hopped in and vigorously shook Johnny Paxwell's hand, eager to show thankfulness to her kind transporter. The two introduced, exchanged pleasantries, and promptly assumed silence. Johnny slowly got back up to speed before he was able to sneak a glance at Jenn's face.

"Hey, wait a second. How old are you, anyway?" Johnny asked gruffly.

"Seventeen."

"Shi..!" Johnny slammed on the brakes, veered to the side, and leaned over Jenn's body to reach her passenger door, which remained just an inch or two out of his reach.

"What's wrong? What are you doing?"

"Just. Get out, would ya?"

Jenn opened her door, took her seatbelt off and turned to ask, "Why? I don't understand."

"Go. I can't be seen with ya."

Jenn took him at his word. As soon as she was out, Johnny bustled away, down the road, into the darkness ahead. Out of this story. Jenn was alone again.

It got dark. Really dark. And humid. Jenn walked in silence with her thumb stuck in its outstretched position. She walked well over an hour, with only three or so cars that passed to show for it. She hoped that soon enough she'd get to a town, and maybe find a bench to sleep on.

Enter Doll Burden. Another 18-wheeler. Jenn was more nervous this time. Perhaps there was some rule about truck drivers taking under-aged hop-ons. Note: The state law reads as follows from the Louisiana Revised Statutes 32:218 – _No person shall stand on a public roadway for the purpose of soliciting a ride, employment, or business from the occupant of any vehicle._

First was the smell. The reek of bourbon and filth wafted off of Dolores.

"Dolores Burdern at your..." Jenn outstretched her hand waiting for the driver to finish her sentence. "You know they call me just Doll. Doll. Like a toy. Like a toy doll."

"Hi, Ms. Burdern. I'm Jenn."

"Just Doll. Call me... Doll. What's..." Vacant eyes.

"Why am I out on the road? That's a tricky question. I'm uh..." Jenn paused realizing she cut-off Doll, and that maybe she had guessed wrong as to what Doll wanted to ask.

"You remind me of my daughter."

Jenn smiled, figuring that the comment should be flattering, though she didn't particularly feel flattered to be thought of as having any resemblance to this woman. "Your daughter. Is she my age?"

"Do you believe in the Pied Piper?"

"The Pied Piper? Like the old fairy-tale?" Jenn wasn't sure where she had heard the old folk legend, but it was rattling around in her memory banks nonetheless. "I've never thought about it."

"He's real. Let me tell you."

The weird topic would have intrigued Jenn had Doll been a less aloof conversationalist.

"Yup. He's real."

"How do you know?"

"He took my daughter."

At that, Jenn's stomach dropped. She barely choked out a response. "Really?"

"At Hamelin, in Germany. He took 130 children. It's true. The town... is real. It's all real." Gut twisting and rolling. Jenn's intuition told her not to question this, not to let the conversation remain. She fell into silence. Doll picked up the space all on her own. "I forget where I was. Some back road like this one. I had driven all night. I happened to have overslept during the day, so I was driving extra long to make up... time... make up time. Sure, I was tired. But I tell you this! I tell you!... I was not boozing or on acid or pills or maryjane or anything, nothing, I was clean then, really, I had to be, for Chloe, that's my girl, Chloe, yeah... I bet she does look like you now..."

Johnny Paxwell was far, far preferable to this. Why did he have to kick her out like that? Jenn imagined herself a hundred miles down the road, enjoying a silent glide through the dark evening. A hundred miles closer to the sea. A hundred miles further away from this Burden. Instead here she was, stuck with crazy-smellbad lady. Doll. She was certainly no Barbie. A picture of one of her old dolls fizzled into Jenn's mind. It was nothing but a head, with almost all its hair ripped out and an eye missing. That's the type of doll this Doll was. Missing significant parts of its being. Jenn's mean thought produced an involuntary chuckle.

Doll took notice. "What are you laughing at? Yeah, it was funny. I'm sure it was. If you'd seen me then. There. Dancing like there was no tomorrow. So like I said, I was driving deep into the night. Out of nowhere... Out of nowhere arose this Eeeenormous campfire. It was marvelous. Beautiful. Exquisite. I can see it now. It started like most fires, orange bands dancing in the breeze with blue roots leading to the undergrowth... But... but it changed. Flickered. And it flickered not like regular fire flickers. It flickered a flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker of color. Green. Yes. Green flickers in the center of the night orange sky. Brilliant and vivid. I wanted to be a part of it. I couldn't resist it. It was calling me."

Jenn imagined green fire. She visualized the flames like limbs on a tree, twisting and turning, this way and that. She had to admit the image was seductive.

"I pulled over. Got outta the truck. I didn't say hi to no one. I just danced. I just danced. I just danced. I just. Danced. It was so much fun. I hadn't had fun in so long. You don't get to have fun when you've got a child at home and you're always behind the wheel. You never get time like that. Just time to have fun. To dance."

Doll turned the upper half of her body towards Jenn. They locked eyes. Jenn was too afraid to dart her eyes elsewhere. She was trapped in the crazy lady's gaze.

"Now I gotcha..."

What did that mean! Jenn held her breath.

"Gotcha... that's what the fire said to me. To all of us. You ask me how many people were there with the fire. Hell, I don't know. Maybe a hundred. Maybe a thousand. Maybe ten. Maybe five. I could have even been alone, except that I saw others handcuffed and arrested too. I knew then I wasn't the only one. And I wasn't the only one in the moment either. We were all one, and we were all many. One body with many parts."

Doll coughed a wheezing, guttural cough. But still, even whilst hacking her lungs out, Doll somehow managed to keep her eyes fixed on the young girl trapped beside her. The young, attractive girl. "Hand me my water bottle, would you?"

Happy to do anything that meant she could break from the moment, Jenn grabbed a bottle from a cup holder beside her. It reeked of vodka. Doll grabbed it from her hand and took a big chug.

"Thanks, toots."

"Uh, you're welcome."

"We danced and danced. I ripped off all my clothes. Yeah, I was naked. I wanted to show that night flame everything I had." Long pause. "I saw one guy writhing on the ground sometime after daybreak. A bunch of others lay on the ground too. When they came and took us, I went to the hospital. I had an IV drip for four days afterwards. I was just there, laying in the gurney all day with my hands cuffed to the bed. Why did they have to handcuff me? What was I going to do?"

The story barely made sense. Jenn's curiosity got the best of her. "Wait, what exactly happened? How did you end up in the hospital?"

"Oh, it was worse than all that! I did two weeks in prison before being sent to a, and I quote, 'Adjustment Center for the Mentally Unfit'. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I sure as hell hadn't! Can you believe the things people make up? They fed me nothing but Butabarbital for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! And then six months before I was finally out of there. But it was too late by then... too late, too late, too late... My beautiful princess was already gone."

"She disappeared?"

"I told you already, the Piper took 'er. That's what happened. It's been a thousand years, so you better believe he doesn't just play his little whistle or flute or kazoo or whatever anymore. He's evolved."

"The fire. Are you saying he was the fire?"

"They call it Saint Vitus' Dance. You can look it up. It's historical too. Just like Hamelin."

A road sign read 'Lake Charles 5 miles'. Jenn audibly sighed relief. She would politely get out there and be free of this witchy woman. "So your daughter _did_ disappear?"

"People have got to read their histories. It's all there. It's all in the cards, as they like to say.... You would do good for your pretty little face if you read more history. You don't know about St. Vitus' Dance, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

"And I bet you didn't know Pied Piper was real, did you?"

"No ma'am. You could drop me off anywhere in Lake Charles." Jenn felt Doll's eyes on her and felt like she needed to explain herself. "I think I'll stay there tonight. I'm really tired."

"Why don't you stay with me a little while longer? You can sleep here. People say they sleep great when they're with me. You remind me of my daughter."

"I wouldn't be comfortable doing that."

"My daughter left. You can stay. It's like an exchange."

"I'm not your daughter, Doll."

"HE HAD NO RIGHT TO TAKE HER FROM ME!" Jenn tore off her buckle and squirmed to the edge of the truck, her back pressed up against the door. Her fingers felt for the handle.

"I'll get out right here at this stop sign coming up, thank you."

Doll said nothing for a moment before muttering, "Just because he's her father."

"Please slow down. The stop sign is right there! Please slow down. STOP!"

"WELL, I'M HER MOTHER! I DON'T CARE IF SHE'S AFRAID OF ME!" At 65 miles an hour, Doll sailed through the stop sign. In the midst of the intersection, she turned to Jenn and stated calmly, "I don't care if you're afraid of me."

Jenn was silent. And petrified. She counted in her head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four. Would she be okay if she jumped out? How hard would she hit the ground? Would Doll follow? Would she run her over?

Five.

Jenn, pressing against the window, wedged her body weight against the door and suddenly, with decisive terror, kicked Doll hard in the side.

Doll screamed and hit the brakes hard. Jenn splattered against the front window, and then collapsed back towards her seat.

Six.

Seven.

Eight. Jenn was frozen.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven. Wait – the truck is stopped. The truck is stopped. Jenn squirmed around trying to get her bearings. Her head lay down towards the bottom of the door. Somehow she managed to yank the door open. She fell out like a Barbie doll, landing on her face at a forty-five degree angle.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen. Jenn got up. She peered at her kidnapper. Doll sat frozen in her seat. One hand holding her bruised side in place. The other on the steering wheel. Her face remained resolute. Her eyes frozen somewhere in front of her.

Delirious but alive, Jenn took a step. Away from the truck. Away from that dreadful woman. Was she going to chase her? Was the worst not yet over? Was she not yet safe? Was the spirit of the Piper out to snatch her up?

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen. Ten paces away, and the truck still remained. Not moving. Nothing. Jenn couldn't see Doll from her angle. She didn't have to. She knew she was still entranced. Staring at a glorious green flame in her mind.

Wetness touched her lips. She brought her hand to her lips. Wet indeed. She tried to look at it, but there wasn't enough light to see anything. She put her finger in her mouth and knew. Blood. Blood was racing down her face.

Eighteen.

Nineteen. Jenn saw a light maybe half a mile off. She stumbled towards it. So tired. So scared. A drugstore. It's a drugstore. I'll go there.

Twenty.

~~~

That's enough danger for now. Jenn will now seek refuge and a cool place to lick her wounds. It's time to meet Prince Charming of Lake Charles.

Chapter Four: Infinite Jest and Other Topics

A girl walks into a drugstore. Streams of blood flow down her forehead. Jennifer Dash is in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and she hasn't solved the world yet. Not hardly.

Passing the cashier, a young man by the name of Atticus Further (we'll meet him in full in just a minute), Jenn held her hand over her head wound so as to not reveal her geyser to onlookers.

The store was abandoned. Jenn was alone (except for young Atticus, of course), but more to the point, Jennifer Dash felt alone. Being a delightful, charming, charismatic, attractive, tall and lively young lady, loneliness didn't suit her. It was uncomfortable to say the least. And it made her light-headed... or those feelings just came due to loss of blood. Who's to say?

Blood seeped down between Jenn's fingers, paving its own trail and streaking down her arm like Gothic art. Jenn bee-lined for the paper towel aisle. Without hesitation, she grabbed a package, ripped the plastic off, and applied the whole roll to ease the blood flow. The Angel White Towels turned to red like a plague on Egypt.

With her immediate need covered, Jenn pondered her next move. What did she need? Her clothes nearly soaked through from anxious and humid sweat. A new set of duds would be of use. But this was a drugstore, not a Super Walmart. No new clothes. No problem. Jenn swiped a bottle of perfume and gave her body a generous ten sprays before setting the display bottle back on the rack.

The wound. Jenn wasn't a superficial person, especially considering the narcissistic demographic she belonged to. 17-year-old girls aren't known for their depth of character and inner beauty. Nonetheless, make-up came to Jenn's mind as a necessity. As she perused the cosmetics aisle, she slipped not merely powder and blush in her back pockets, but also mascara, lipstick, and eyeliner. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the front desk to see if any eyes caught her deviance. No. The boy behind the register was caught up in some titan of a book. He'd never notice.

Jenn went back to perusing the aisle. _Was there anything else she needed? Anything at all? She came across pantyhose and instinctively swiped it. Are you really going to steal? Is this the person you are?_

A duel began in Jenn's head.

Who I am? This doesn't define me. I have a need, so I'm taking what I need. Just like I took Redjeb's mail. It's no big deal.

It is what it is. Stealing is wrong. If you steal, you are a stealer.

_Is stealing wrong?_ Jenn managed to have this thought completely void of any sarcasm. It was an honest personal inquiry. Jenn stood there, in the aisle, her eyes locked on a particular scratch on the floor, lost in her thought.

What makes stealing wrong? We said we were solving the world... and our first rule was not to just accept what we've been told in the past. If stealing is wrong, we have to find out for ourselves. I start solving the world by solving the moral question of theft.

Philosophically, that all sounded well and good, a worthy hypothesis to conduct an experiment on. The only problem was that Jenn didn't need to conduct an experiment. She knew it was wrong. Thinking through it, coming up with tests and logical persuasions—these were all ploys to convince herself to do what she knew was wrong all along.

_The truth is,_ Jenn mused, _stealing is bad because my stomach hurts. It's bad because my body says so. And if I don't listen to my body—_

"Ma'am?" It was the boy. From the register. His colossal book must be boring. "Would you come here please?" Jenn's eyes dilated with fear. She'd been caught. Somehow the boy knew. He'd probably already called the cops and they'd marshal her off to jail. They wouldn't care that she'd just escaped the Dollhouse internment camp for girls who kinda-sorta-maybe look like certain estranged daughters.

This was bad... and yet, he was a really cute boy.

Jenn, almost ready to swap out for a new, blood colored paper towel roll, gingerly made her way to the front desk.

"Boy, you really got a gusher, there, don't ya?" The boy smiled.

"I guess so."

The boy ducked under his desk momentarily. He reappeared holding a box. "My Dad made me take a first aid class, so I'm armed and prepared to fix you right up.... Mind if I help?"

"Uhh... sure," Jenn said, still a little tentative about accepting kindness from strangers after experiencing the hospitality of Johnny Paxwell and the Doll.

The boy had Jenn lift the paper towels off her head so he could examine the wound.

"Yikes." The boy, Atticus, leaned over the desk awkwardly to reach the wound with adhesive pads and gauze. "Would you mind maybe sitting on the desk here so that I can get a better angle?"

"Okay..." Jenn hopped her bottom onto the desk, immediately regretting the decision. A slicing pain scuttled through her rear. The eyeliner pen! It was jabbing her. Jenn suspected that it was slowly piercing through her shorts and skin. Jenn clenched her teeth down. She smiled at the boy with teeth on edge. She would win this game of roulette. She wasn't about to let pretty boy find out that she was planning on stealing half the store. What on earth did she need pantyhose for, anyway? In case she devised a robbery? I guess that goes with the stealing lifestyle. Jenn smirked at the thought.

The boy smiled back at Jenn. She suspected he smiled because he assumed she was smiling-slash-flirting with him. That was good. Flirting could get her out of this.

"Thank you.... My name's Jenn, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Jenn." She stuck out her arm to shake hands, but both of his were preoccupied holding gauze and unraveling it whilst applying pressure to her wound. Her hand stood there outstretched for a moment before Jenn bashfully returned it to her side, the boy completely wrapped up in his health services. "Head wounds are the worst. They always look worse than they really are... though I must say, you really did a number on your mug tonight, didn't you? May I ask how it happened?"

Jenn weighed her response. Did it advantage her to lie? Maybe Doll is this boy's long lost mother. OR! Maybe he's her daughter, but he went through a sex-change to ensure that she'd never find her again and she could live happily ever after without green flame enthusiast mommy-dearest lurking in the shadows. Jenn chuckled at the thought.

"What? Funny story?"

Jenn silently disciplined herself. _I've got to stop laughing at my own thoughts. It's getting me into all sorts of trouble._ "Oh, no, sorry. I, I, I... I fell." Jenn hedged her bets and thought she'd better not add lying on top of stealing to her rap sheet tonight. She'd once heard that lying was a double sin. Not only was it of course a sin to lie, but it was also stealing, because a lie is stealing the truth. Yes, a vague answer sufficed nicely here. No lie, but nothing incriminating either.

The boy looked mildly hurt and said nothing. Meanwhile, that eyeliner was slitting through layers of butt-skin now. Jenn was just going to have to drop her drawers and have him patch up her bum as soon as he finished with her forehead. Jenn held back another chuckle.

"So... what's that book you're reading?" Jenn held out an olive branch for the dejected teen.

"It's called _Infinite Jest_."

"And I bet it goes on infinitely; sure looks like it."

The boy smiled. "Yeah. To be honest I don't really get it."

"What's it about, anyway?"

"There. All done." The boy had finished dressing the wound. Jenn looked like she'd just undergone brain surgery, or was coming back from a war, but without a mirror around, she was none-the-wiser, and besides the shooting pain in her butt, she was starting to relax from all the trauma of the day. "Would you like a sucker?" The boy said this in a condescending doctor's voice that Jenn found hilarious.

"Why yes, Doctor, I would." The boy ducked around the desk to find a lollipop. Jenn took the opportunity and wiggled a bit on the desk, relieving pressure off the knife-like eyeliner. The boy returned and handed her a face-sized licker.

"Wow," Jenn exclaimed, "That's quite a sucker."

"Anything for my favorite patient." That line was a bit too suggestive and both teenagers knew it.

"So... what's the big joke of the book?"

"Of _Infinite Jest_?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's a quote, right, you know, from _Hamlet_."

"Right right right." Jenn was pleased at how well she played that off.

"It's kinda about this video tape that whoever watches it becomes so obsessed with wanting to watch it over and over and over again that that's all they end up doing until they die."

"Sounds hilarious."

"I don't know. I... well... do you want to hear a really cruel thought?"

"Sure. Lay it on me."

"Well, I kinda believe that genius is something really rare."

"Yep, you're a regular Hitler alright."

"No, I mean, it's really rare, right? Most of us never even taste genius. Not even a little bit. And those blessed few who have the superpower, they tend to find it overwhelming...." It seemed the boy was hoping Jenn would figure out where he was going with all this, but she had no clue. "... they kill themselves. So, I picked up this book because I heard the author was a genius and he killed himself a few years ago."

"Oh... so can you tell? Are the ingredients to genius listed in the works cited page?"

"Ha. No, I mean, I don't know. The story is really hard to follow. But I do like some of his insights into life."

"Maybe it's just too genius for regular folks like us to get it."

"Yeah, maybe. My Dad says though, that genius isn't about knowing complicated things. It's about making the complicated simple."

"Sounds like the author failed then."

"I shouldn't say. After all, I haven't got to the end yet, have I?"

"I'm sure it'll all make sense in the end."

"I sure hope so."

Jenn's eyes darted anxiously, "So, I guess I should pay you for the paper towels then?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. We have a certain budget for stuff like when a customer accidentally breaks a product, you know?"

Jenn laughed, "Yeah, I broke your paper towels pretty good!"

"You sure did!" They both laughed together.

Jenn liked this boy. She was attracted to his intellect, to his quickness to help her. She thought maybe he just happened to have the same sort of curiosity about the world that she had. Scratch that—curiosity that she wanted to have. That's what this story is about, after all—yearning, desire, wish-fulfillment. But Jennifer Dash couldn't help but notice that the boy's fore-arms were quite bulgy for a teenager. He must be a weight-lifter, she thought.

Jenn hopped down from the desk. She stared at the boy a moment longingly, and then abruptly turned toward the door. She mustn't forget about Leviathan, after all. Boys come and go, but Leviathan, he remains.

The boy cleared his throat. "Uhhh... could I maybe call you sometime?"

Jenn squinted at the boy, not quite sure how to respond.

"I mean, would you like to give me your number?"

Jenn smiled sheepishly. "I'd like that very much."

The boy fumbled for his phone. "Great. What is it?"

Jenn thought she'd try to turn a weakness to her advantage. "How about this? Why don't you write me?"

"You mean, by like, real mail?"

"Yeah."

"Oh yeah.... I like that. I'm tired of staring at the phone all day anyway. Everyone's so dependent on those things these days. Why not? Sounds like a grand plan."

"A grand plan indeed."

"Just let me get a pen and pad." The boy scrounged around for some time before finally deciding on using a piece of day-old newspaper. "Ready."

"Alright, make sure to say:

Jennifer Dash  
Care of Redjeb Heller

300 Room St

Jennings, Louisiana 70546

Got that?"

"Care of... why care of?"

Jenn didn't have an answer for that one.

"Jenn, do you have a home?"

"Yes, well, no, it's just that... I'm leaving and I don't know when I'll be back." Jenn tried to make it sound better than it was. "I'm going on an adventure. I'm going to the sea."

The boy looked concerned. "And why are you going to the sea?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah." He really did look like he just wanted to help.

"Okay, but I have to tell you something."

"Sure. Anything."

"I didn't just falI... I was hitchhiking tonight."

"You shouldn't do that."

"I know. I learned my lesson."

"It's against the law, you know."

"Would you just let me say this?"

"Yeah, uh, sorry. Go right ahead."

"I got picked up by this woman... a scary, big lady. And she goes into this big long story about being hypnotized by a bonfire, going to the hospital in handcuffs, and then all this stuff about the real, historical Pied Piper coming to haunt her or something."

"Sounds like a real humdinger of a person."

"Yeah, but she keeps telling me I remind her of her daughter."

"Who the Pied Piper took away?" The boy said this to be coy, and looked startled as Jenn affirmed his sentiment.

"Yes! And she kept telling me I'd be with her... be her new, replacement daughter. I got scared and told her to let me off in town. She wouldn't. She blew right through a stop sign at like a thousand miles an hour."

"Whoa."

"I know! I didn't know what to do! I kicked her! Hard. She slammed on the brakes, and I fell out of the truck. Well, kinda fell, kinda flopped out. That's how I got this." Jenn touched her head wound.

The boy was unperturbed. "Jenn, why were you hitchhiking?"

Jenn was anxiously annoyed. She wanted him to pity her. To hug her. She didn't know what she wanted. Not this. Not an interrogation. "I told you. I'm going to the sea."

"Jenn, do you have some place to sleep tonight?"

How do I answer that question? Jenn didn't know. She stayed quiet.

The boy grabbed at the piece of newspaper he'd written the address on. He scribbled another address and tore off that piece. "Here. This is the address of my family's house. It's just down the street. Turn left out of here and walk three blocks. You'll see it. Two story house. It'll be well-lit. You'll see the number." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. "Here."

"What if I take your keys and run?"

Not smiling, the boy responded, "What would you do with some lousy keys?"

"What if I rob your house?"

"You're not that kind of girl."

But maybe I am, Jenn thought as she touched her swollen bottom.

"I don't get off here for another three hours or so. Go in, my sister will be sleeping. Make yourself at home. You can eat anything you'd like. Watch TV. You can sleep on the couch."

What happens next is obvious. Jenn took the keys. Her pride was thrown asunder at the look of the boy's sweeping blonde locks. She liked boys with long hair. She liked this boy. So of course, she took those keys and walked to his house.

The house was big. Jenn walked into an enormous living room with a Titanic-style staircase in the center sprouting out and leading to two separate second-floor hallways. Jenn called out one big, "Hello" just in case the sister was awake. Nothing. Silence all through the house. Not a creature was stirring.

Jenn grabbed a bottle of water from a fully-loaded refrigerator which was currently informing her about the weather in New Orleans on the door display. Fancy. She moseyed over and plopped herself onto the couch.

She didn't watch TV. She didn't need to. The butterflies in her stomach would keep her company enough. And so Jennifer Dash daydreamed and waited.

After what felt like no time at all, the boy returned. He smiled a broad, boyish-glee grin when he saw her waiting up for him. The twosome sat on the couch and talked for hours. Much of what they talked about is irrelevant and insignificant to our purposes. During many points in the conversation Jenn felt flush with a feeling that she was out of her weight class. The boy knew so much about everything. Sports. Current events. Biology. Psychology. For gosh sakes, he could give a lecture on classical Greek theater. What sort of wunderkind was this guy? But regardless of Jenn's insecurity, she could tell she was rubbing off on him too.

There was one topic worthy of our notice. Jenn, in her flirtatious giddiness, wanted to tell the boy everything. That meant her plans to solve the world. That also meant her divulging her thoughts on NASA, the supposed cosmonauts, and the Macy's magazine in general. The boy summed up her critique as a wariness to have faith in the written word.

He devised a new pragmatic rule for her. She should accept information from sources that she trusted. He told her that of course on the surface that seems like a simple enough rule, but then the question became, _How does one decide to trust a specific source?_ The boy answered his own question by stating that it shouldn't be by the words alone, meaning that one's argument in writing shouldn't be the sole source of trustworthiness. Rather, he argued, it should be on the merits of the character of the author himself. This, to any outsider, surely sounds like a strange and naive manner of epistemology, but Jenn was none the wiser and ate it all up. She promised to immediately employ such tactics in her journey.

Sometime before the break of day, a lull in the conversation led to both simultaneously being take captive by the lures of the Sandman.

That night Jenn dreamed the same dream she dreamed every night. A small room. No windows. An orange light above, too bright and at the same time too pale to clearly make out. And dirty, dirty, gray walls. Just that. This plotless dream played endlessly on repeat for as long as Jenn remembered. Whenever she woke up, she had the sensation that she'd been dreaming for days, weeks even. It often took half the morning for her to convince herself otherwise. This night, however, in the Further's home, for the first time in years, a new detail emerged.

In the walls. Something about them was changing. Something was happening. Something was seeping through. Red. Yes, the something was red. Slowly, ever so slowly, this red was winning. It was conquering the dirty gray. It was more powerful. Red. The red was coming. The red was coming and it was blood. It was all blood.

~~~

To continue on her quest, Jenn will be forced to say adieu to her charming boy. With a little help from her friends, she'll be whisked half-way across the continental United States as her search for Leviathan gets a little more realistic.

Chapter Five: The Sunset Limited

"Hi!"

Eyes closed. Ignore.

"Hi!"

Who is that? Who is here with me? In this place? In this blood.

"Hellooooooooooo. Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

Jennifer Dash woke up. Looming over her like a colossus stood a 7-year-old girl outfitted in overalls and a big mouth far from being proportional to the rest of her face. The girl sat on the edge of the couch by Jenn's stomach.

"Who are you?" the little girl inquired.

Foggy eyed, Jenn opened her mouth to respond before realizing she wasn't sure how to answer. For the first time it dawned on her that she never caught the boy's name. He was just, 'The Boy' to her. "I'm... I'm Jenn. Who are you?"

"My name's Margaret, but everyone calls me Scout."

"Scout. Why Scout?"

"You know why, silly!" Jenn really didn't know. Not even slightly. Thankfully, Scout was a talker. That big mouth of hers would take her far. "Because of _To Kill a Mockingbird_. It was our mother's favorite movie."

"Was?"

"Yep. She's dead now."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

"I know. Everyone always is." Scout flailed her arms about re-enacting some vaudevillian opera in her mind. She recited the play in many voices. "My sincerest condolences... She was a wonderful person... So sorry you never got to know her... You have to be a big girl now for your Father...la-di-da-di-daaaAAAAaaa." Scout sang the last part for no apparent reason. "Will you make me some breakfast?"

"Oh, umm... sure. What do you want?"

"Cracker Jacks."

"Cracker Jacks? Cooked?"

"Well, I like them in milk."

"Oh."

"And they're too high on the cabinet for me to grab. Atticus puts them there because he says I'll eat them all up too fast if I can grab them on my own."

Atticus. That must be the Father's name? Or the boy's? It sounded to Jenn like more of an adult name than a teenager's. It didn't fit the boy at all. He should be a Brad, or maybe a Steven McAlister... something warm and grand like that.

"... I can grab them, really! I just have to pull over the chair and climb up on the oven. But last time I almost fell, so I think it's a better idea if you get it for me. Plus the milk is too heavy for me to pour... I always spill it. I used to like to spill milk on purpose because then Salvador would lick it all up. But Salvador's dead now too. Salvador was our doggy." Jenn sighed. If Salvador ended up being a manservant in this mini-mansion, she was outta here before they forced her to be Scout's milk-lapping governess.

Against the wills of her achy-body, Jenn got up and shimmied over to the kitchen.

"There," said Scout, pointing Jenn towards the Cracker Jacks and bowls. After pouring Scout's Cracker Jack cereal, the two ladies sat at either end of the kitchen table. "Are you going to have anything?"

Jenn was hungry. Her stomach made her quite aware of this fact. "I think I prefer my Cracker Jacks without milk."

"Oh. Okay." Jenn grabbed the box, and as a display of playful behavior, she took a handful of Jacks and smashed them in her mouth.

"Hey! Hey! Stop that!" Jenn thought she was being funny, but the stern condemnation emanating from the 7-year-old begged to differ. Jenn tried to gargle out a 'What?' but her mouth was too full to make the t-sound with her tongue. "We didn't pray first! We have to pray!"

"Oh..."

"AND who taught you to talk with your mouth full? You're not allowed to do that in this house. Spit it out!"

"Wha—?"

"I said, spit it out, young lady. There will be none of that conduct in the Further house. Go on, spit it out into your hand." Weirdly ashamed, Jenn bashfully pushed the jacks out of her mouth into the palm of her hand. This Scout was sure into proper etiquette.

"Now, hold out your other hand and I'll pray." Jenn did so immediately, not wanting the drill sergeant to make her do anything else debasing.

"Close your eyes and bow your head."

Jenn followed orders promptly, but as all first-time prayer-ers are apt to do, surreptitiously peeked to see what magic voodoo occurs in the midst of a real child's prayer. As far as Jenn could see, Scout over there was a true believer: hands outstretched, head bowed, eyes sealed tightly shut.

"Dear God, thank you for this day, for this nice weather, and for this breakfast. Please be with Daddy today, and with Atticus. And keep them both safe. All. Day. Long. And thank you for our guest today, Jenn. Please nourish her body with the food she eats and please heal her of her booboo—oh!" Scout giggled and covered her laughs with her hands. Jenn smiled and saw Scout staring up at her. "Pause! You can look up now."

You can pause prayers, Jenn thought. Neat.

"I'm sorry about that. Atticus gave me orders not to talk about your head-wound. I'm sorry. That was very, very impolite of me. And I should have never said that."

"It's okay. I'm not offended. Do you want to know how I got it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I was—"

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! We didn't finish praying! Oh goodness, gracious, deary me! We better start over." Jenn watched Scout presume the position again. The Cracker Jacks in Jenn's hand were getting soggy and seeping through the cracks in her fingers. It would have been disgusting had she not been so amused by Scout's insistent orders. Jenn bowed her head.

"Unpause. Dear God, thank you for this day and for this nice morning and for this breakfast and for Daddy and Atticus and Jenn and breakfast. I'm sorry I pointed out Jenn's injury, please forgive me and give me a good day. And please tell Daddy to bring home a puppy when he gets back from his trip. Aaaaa-Men!" Scout looked up at Jenn. "We can eat now."

Scout plowed into her bowl. Jenn found a trashcan to dispose of her soggy remnants.

"So are you my brother's new girlfriend?"

The question made Jenn blush. If she were honest with herself, she'd undoubtedly respond that she'd like to be the boy's girlfriend. She'd never been anyone's girlfriend before and she suspected that love was going to play into her formula for solving the world, so it certainly wouldn't hurt to have some experience in that arena.

Before Jenn could verbalize any of these thoughts, Scout countered with, "My brother has brought lots of girls over. He's had lots of girlfriends."

"Oh. Well. I just met your brother last night."

Scout was incredulous, "And he brought you over already? To meet me? Wow! He must really like you."

Jenn's survivalist instinct clicked in. She knew how to handle this. She sat back down at the kitchen table, only she chose the seat closest to Scout this time. Fiddling with her bandages, Jenn was in gear now. Smiling, she started in, "Well, let me tell you my story."

"Okay."

"I was in New Orleans, hunting for alligators."

"Eww! You really do that?!"

"Absolutely. How do you think I pay the bills?"

"Oh. Daddy complains about the bills a lot. That's why Atticus got a job, I think."

"Yep. Adults have to get jobs... and mine was to catch gators. Anyway, I'm trudging through the swampland, right?"

"Right."

"And... suddenly! Da-dun! An alligator comes up from behind me."

"Ah!"

"It was hiding behind a big tree root. I was sooo mad at myself, Scout. I never let a gator get on my flank. I knew I was a goner. I can only face alligators straight on; head-to-head. That's the only way girls like us can win. So, I pretty much know I'm going to die, right then and there."

"Did you pray?"

"No time for that—this alligator, which was ginormous by the way, well, he was going to eat me whole in less than half a microsecond. I turn, hoping I can at least look my killer in the eyes before it eats me for supper, when suddenly—" Jenn smacked the table with both hands for extra emphasis. "Suddenly! There's a great big splash coming from behind the alligator. I thought maybe it was a big snake falling down from a tree limb. Sometimes they do that, you know."

"I know."

"Right. So I'm thinking maybe this is like an anaconda or something because I see thrashing. Whatever it was that came up behind the alligator, it's attacking it. The two are going at it. Maybe this anaconda didn't just fall from the trees above. Maybe this thing's hunting the gator. That thought more than freaks me out. I'm used to gats, not so much gator hunters. But there's no time to fret and ponder. I dive under the water and swim away. Once I'm far enough away that I can take a look at what's happening, I think I see a girl in the water. I panic, right?"

"Right."

"And I swim back towards the fight. It must have been a girl, not much older than you, that somehow decided to climb a tree and then fell right behind us. I'm thinking, I've got to save this girl. So I'm swimming and swimming and swimming, but as I get close. WHACK!" Again Jenn slams her fists on the table. "I'm hit in the head with a fin."

"A fin? Alligators don't have fins."

"But you know what does?"

"What?"

"Dolphins."

"But you said you saw a little girl there?"

"I thought I did. I saw an alligator fighting a girl, and I was hit by a fin."

"I don't get it."

"Don't you see? It wasn't a little girl after all. It was a mermaid."

Jenn didn't get the response she was looking for. "How did you really get hurt?"

"I was thwacked by a mermaid fin while she was saving my life from the crocodile."

"You said it was an alligator!"

"Alligator, crocodile, who's to say?"

"There aren't any crocodiles in Louisiana."

Jenn was on the ropes. "Maybe it escaped from the zoo." Indignation glared back at Jenn. "So... is your brother coming back any time soon?"

"No. He left a note for you." Scout ran over to the coffee table next to the couch, grabbed an envelope, and delivered it to Jenn. "I was supposed to give it to you as soon as you woke up."

"Oh, is that so?" Jenn opened the note. It read:

Good Morning!

Sorry to have to run on you like this.

But I have a plan for you.

Go to the train station and board the 1:37pm train heading West.

Don't buy a ticket. Hand this note to the Conductor when he comes by.

He'll know what to do with you.

I'll write you.

Sincerely,

Atticus Further

After a shower, a goodbye to Scout, and a long, meandering walk to the train station, Jenn boarded the Sunset Limited. The sign said the train went to Los Angeles.

Whoa. Southern California. The Pacific ocean. Had the boy really worked this all out?

A bit nervous, Jenn took a seat. The train was lovely. It glided through farmland, piney woods, and flat-lands with quiet fortitude. Jenn considered napping to pass the time, but thought it best to avoid the blood-stained walls of her subconscious.

An hour or so went by before the conductor made his way down the aisle, requiring tickets of all the train's inhabitants. Jenn worried a bit, but told herself to have faith. _Atticus clearly came from a rich family, and he certainly was a thoughtful young lad. He wouldn't lead her into a trap. Then again, he's had lots of girlfriends. Maybe he's just a player. But what would he be playing me for? I'll probably never see him again._ The thought crystallized in Jenn's mind, a deep sadness pervading her soul. She barely acknowledged the conductor when he came chirping by, so enamored with her own sudden feeling of loss. She really liked this Atticus boy.

"Ticket, please." The conductor smiled down at her. He had a bristle-y mustache that betrayed the official-ness of his conductor's outfit. That stache deserved to be latched onto a goofball, not anyone in uniform. Jenn handed the note to the conductor, without looking up, as if her note was a common ticket itself. He examined the contents, stuffed the letter in his pocket, and exchanged it for a much more respectable looking paper.

He handed the ticket to her. "I'll be back after I do my rounds. The two of us have much to discuss." And just like that, he walked away. "Tickets, please," he said cordially to the next row over.

Jenn couldn't believe it. It was like she'd unwrapped a golden ticket. There, in her hand, a one-way ticket from Lake Charles, Louisiana to Los Angeles, California. Maybe praying really works! Somehow, she'd gone from the depths of Dollhouse despair, to being pampered by a beautiful boy and a serene train ride to the city of angels.

Not but 20 minutes later, the stached-conductor returned. He sat himself down right beside Jenn.

"Atticus tells me you're on a quest."

Jenn smiled. The boy was telling other people about her. That had to be good news. "That's right. I'm out to solve the world."

"That's what I've been told. Here." He handed her a skinny and long piece of paper. It looked like it had been filled out with a typewriter. On the top of the page, in big, thick letters the title read: _10 Guidelines for Jennifer Dash_.

"What is this? How do you know my name?"

"I'm Joseph Further, Atticus and Scout's father. I'm pleased to see that my son wasn't lying. You're a very pretty young girl." Jenn blushed at the compliment, but remained perplexed. Clearly picking up on her unease, Conductor Further continued, "Atticus told me about your quest, and how you're just getting started. We got to talking and decided that every journeyman, or journeywoman in your case, needs advocates. Adventures always start fun, but they inevitably lead to real danger and conflict."

"Oh, I know," Jenn felt she needed to add, touching her wound to express the evidence of her knowledge.

Without missing a beat, the conductor continued, "Worse than that, you can lose yourself in the process. Villains will come and go, outside threats. Atticus said you already ran into one scary kerfuffle. But none of those external dangers compare to what can happen to you internally. I can see you're a good girl. You've got a good soul. Atticus, Scout and I would like to see that it stays that way. We think this list could help." Joseph Further pointed to each guideline as he walked her through it. "The way I see it, young lady, you can't live by a set of rules."

"Why not?"

"Because eventually we all break the rules. We want to break the rules. And then what happens?"

Jenn was out of her element.

"You give up on yourself. You say, 'Eh, I've already broken one rule, might as well break the rest.' That's how you end up in a ditch calling yourself the Reverend Mudwiggle!"

"Mudwiggle. Sir?"

"The point is, these guidelines are here for you, not the other way around. If you break them, you break them. We just want you to understand that there's always consequences. Maybe circumstances will arise that will lead you to break a certain guideline. Just ask yourself, by doing this, what consequences do I need to prepare myself for? Is it worth what comes next? Do you get that?"

"I guess so. I still don't really know why I need this though. My whole point is to not accept the way things are; to find out what the world is like based on what I discover."

"That's great. Atticus and I applaud you for that. Absolutely. But no matter who you are and what you're out to accomplish, human beings are always operating under some system, some set of values. So you say you're a completely blank slate. If you say, 'Come here, write on me world,' I promise you you'll be so abused and battered that who you are will become dictated by what's been done to you, not by what you've done. These guidelines are here to support you, to be a comfort for you when all else seems lost."

From his back pocket, the boy's father revealed a small book. He dropped it in her lap.

Jenn touched the cover with her fingertips as she read its mysterious title: _50 People Whom I Pity_ by D.T.S.

With that, Conductor Joseph Further, father to Atticus and Scout Further, got up and walked away. Jenn placed the little book aside, and reviewed the list of guidelines. She read them slowly, whispering each line to herself.

  1. Don't kill.

  2. Don't involve yourself with sexual conduct of any sort.

  3. Don't idolize anyone or anything.

  4. Don't owe anyone anything.

  5. Don't gamble what you don't have.

  6. Don't wage war.

  7. Always smile, even when you don't feel like it.

  8. When escaping, know beforehand what you're escaping into.

  9. Make friends everywhere, but don't trust one friend over another.

  10. People will always want something from you. Find out what it is.

~~~

Jenn soon will set her roots down in sunny Southern California, only to find answers to questions she wasn't asking. Our question is: how long and far will these answers distract her?

Chapter Six: Remember, Remember

What separates humans from the animal kingdom?

There are solutions that are not solutions at all. Language, for one. Yet, researchers have found that many species have various forms of detailed communication patterns. It's believed that the clicking language of dolphins goes so far as to include proper names.

"Clickety-clack-clickers over there is such an a-hole, if you ask me. Last week he ate Click-clickerson's tuna! Can you believe that?"

There is no singular physical trait that separates us. Apes have opposable thumbs and rabbits have appendices. Perhaps the most straightforward answer is to state the obvious: intelligence. But then, if mere intelligence separates us, the implication is there's a mystical barrier of smarty-pantsness that divides us from them. Does a zygote have such an intelligence yet? Surely not. Therefore, a zygote is not a human, it's an animal. I've met some pretty darn smart dogs, say, that appear at least as smart as many toddlers I know. Intelligence doesn't work as a litmus test for humanity because too many humans would fail that test. You'd have to throw a bundle of humanity into the animal realm in order for that to work. And that's racist. And sexist. And ageist. And all the other angry -ists that can be imagined.

Stating the question again: what separates humans from the animal kingdom? The answer is this: ambition. Ambition alone separates us from them. Jennifer's ambition is to solve the world. No animal in the history of this planet has ever held such a dream before.

Such fanciful thoughts didn't yet fill Jenn's mind as she got off the train in Union Station. She'd spent forty-one lovely hours (minus the unsatisfying recurring dream) on the Sunset Limited from Lake Charles to Los Angeles. Though she mostly kept to herself during the trip, she enjoyed staring out the window at the vast deserts of America, as well as occasionally perusing her newly acquired book, _50 People Whom I Pity_. The book was very short, and Jenn found herself reading certain "people" over and over again. The book was divided not by chapter, but by person. Each little overview of a person was nary a page or two long, and included not much more than the odd author's perspective as to why he found the need to pity these specific individuals.

Note: Entry 41 in fact is not a person, but a people group. It reads:

41: The French Generation Circa 1918 to the Present Day

Ms. Dash spent much more time, not-so-much reading as she was pondering the merits of the guidelines Atticus and Joseph Further made for her. More than anything else, she wondered how much of the list came from Atticus himself. He was such a lovely boy....

Now, off the train.

Jennifer Dash had no gameplan. She'd never been to Los Angeles. Never been to California. Never been outside of Louisiana. She walked.

There were people. People everywhere. And things. And shops. And homes.

Jenn thought it best to get to the ocean. She assumed once she was there, she could find some sort of ship that would take her on. Even in her naive brain, the plan sounded vague and not less than a little hopeless. Still, she walked.

A couple of cutely dressed girls her age walked by. Jenn called out to them, "Excuse me, do y'all know how to get to the ocean."

"Umm... no thank you," one of the girls said without looking up from her phone.

A bit later Jenn took a stab again, asking a jogger. He stopped, smiled, and typed some doodads into his smart phone. "Looks like the quickest way is to hop on the 101 to the 110, and then just take the 10 West to Santa Monica."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

"No prob." The jogger jogged off. Jennifer walked on on her neverending walk.

Much of what follows is rather dull. Jennifer arrived at Union Station at 10am. By 7pm, she was very much lost, very much not at the sea, very hungry, and very tired. She sat on a curb for an hour. She wandered into shops. By 11pm she was done. Just completely done with the day. Yet it's hard to be done with something when you don't have a home to escape to. Thankfully, Jennifer found a bench. If she'd known at that time she was so close to Hollywood, she would have drudged on for the sheer joy of sleeping on a Hollywood square. Alas, she had no idea where she was. Her stomach ached.

Jennifer lay down snug on the bench, opened up her little book of pitiful people, and read three entries. First, she read about Amelia Earhart and the obvious pity of disappearing into nowhere. Secondly, she read about Madame Curie and the even more obvious pity of radiation poisoning. Thirdly, she read about Yves Klein, which I shall recite here in full.

27: Yves Klein

When I was a child, I closed my eyes real-tight-like, focusing all my effort to imagine a new color. Something marvelous. Something new. I universally failed. Every. Single. Time. My mother told me to pray for new colors in heaven, implying that a theoretical afterlife remained my best shot at seeing the unfathomable.Our buddy here, Yves Klein, is granted the fame for his invention of a color. Before anyone tears out their eyes in utter bemusement or sanctimonious disbelief, I should state more precisely: Yves Klein invented, nay, patented, a specific hue of blue. Apparently, he found a way to capture a color vibration very near to that of lapis lazuli. Many refer to it as a sort of ultramarine. Yves called it International Klein Blue, or IKB for short. He slapped this color on nearly everything: canvases, statues, naked women etc, etc, etc. If there's one thing I've grown to know about artists, it is that for supposedly being creative, so many of them seem to fancy the tedium of repetition. This is the case with Mr. Klein's work. Blue, blue, everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Bah-humbug! If one happened to be strolling around Paris in 1958, one might be tempted to venture into an exhibition of Klein's entitled: "The Specialization of Sensibility in the Raw Material State into Stabilized Pictorial Sensibility, The Void". Of course, when one is planning such an extravagant discourse on laziness, it is beyond mandatory that a perfunctory inane, stupidly verbose title be given to said work—more pointedly: unwork. What one found there on that day, in the midst of those four walls declaring his craftsmanship, is exactly nothing. Nothing. Nada. Klein took everything out of the exhibit hall except one solemn cabinet. He painted the walls a borish white. He didn't even use IKB. Nothing. Nien. Nyet. Negative, alpha rider. Reportedly three-thousand souls rushed to the premiere to witness this nothingness in motion. So here belies the unenviable task of discerning what exactly Mr. Yves Klein was attempting in his famed undertakings of patented hues and ceremonious nothings. Was it merely for reward? Sadly, no. If Mr. Klein were a huxter, a painter by virtue of his vice of greed, then all would be forgiven. He'd be a carny, a used-car-salesman, a trunk-car Rolex vendor—a respectable member of the community. No, the pity of it all remains that Yves Klein was anything but a sham artist. Absolutely no. He's the real deal. And therein lies the pity. A story from Klein's youth has made the circuit and found its place among Klein's profile as if it casts light on his bravura. As the story goes, supposedly Klein and two other schoolyard friends were laying claim to the cosmos. The first child claimed the earth below them. The second chose words. Klein chose the space around the planet. He clearly got the short end of the claiming-the-universe stick. Nevertheless, I guess this anecdote does relate to us a sense of Klein: a boy reaching for the infinite. Here's the point: we can't reach for the infinite. If we try, we just grab useless air. That's why I couldn't imagine a new color. I gained nothing by trying. Neither does Klein. You don't flirt with the infinite, with the unimaginable, by imagining using your finite imagination. Read this: the only hope we have of truly touching the void, of discovering something new, is by going somewhere we've never gone before. Using the matter around us, or lack of matter, is useless and a waste of a life.

Each chapter of the little book ended with the same mantra, "Remember, Remember". Number 27 was no different. It read:

_REMEMBER, REMEMBER, there's nothing new under the sun. Don't lie or convince yourself otherwise_.

Jennifer Dash was irate. Who did this author think he was? What an idiot. Absurd. Absolutely absurd. Pupils dilated. Hair on end. She wanted to punch the author in his fat, ugly face.

And she was utterly delighted. Jenn laughed heartily on her bench. Any onlooker would have spotted her as a crack or otherwise indisposed drug user by the manner her hilarious convulsions brought on. She laughed because she was so unaccustomed to anger. It was a new sensation for Jenn. She was not a character inclined toward anger... no, in its stead stood hope, presumption of best intent, and empathy.

The laugh took Jenn by storm, and with it came all the fondness for life the past day of meanderings had sucked out. She was living. She was here. In California. There were palm trees. Life was everywhere. The world was buzzing... and Jennifer Dash had suddenly breached into it. She was a player now in that great chess game. She was an associate in the coalition that was the biological lifeforce of Los Angeles, California. What a thing. What a thing, indeed. At that point Jenn took notice of a fellow brother (or sister). A fellow adventurer. A fellow liver of life. A squirrel. This particular squirrel was bantering around a limb of a tree, sprinting from its base to its skinniest end with seemingly reckless abandon.

"Why, hello there, friend," Jenn said to the squirrel. "How are you this evening?"

The squirrel did not answer.

"Whatcha running around for?" Jenn fumbled in her mind for an answer. Maybe the poor little critter lost his acorn. His sole acorn. His only reason for living.... No. Too contrived. Too Coyote and Road-Runnery. Jenn refused to believe that the animal kingdom solely contemplated the prospect of food. That alone would be a silly life. Jenn hadn't had anything to eat all day, yet you didn't see her running back and forth on the bench like a delusional nutjob. No, here she was smelling the lilies of life and contextualizing for herself what a squirrel's life is about. Surely he could do something similar—wonder about the moon, perhaps? The stars?

_No_ , Jenn devised, _His love's run away. Off to marry some other squirrel on some other tree from some other squirrel tribe._

"Squirrels don't care about love. That's a human trait," Jenn said aloud.

Her thoughts responded. _Is that true? Can't animals love?_ Jenn had seen plenty of videos of animals returning to their owners, full of supposed love and love almost lost.

"What capacity do you have, squirrel friend?"

Just like that, an answer came to Jennifer Dash.

Capacity. The squirrel was limited by its capacity. If it didn't love, or never felt the ache of unrequited love, 'twas not the squirrel's fault. Rather, it was a capacity complex. Jenn's mind raced. _Something like a computer. We all have a hard drive. We all have a maximum capacity for knowledge. I can work and toil my whole life, but if I can't up my capacity, my destiny is predetermined._

"I have to find a way to up my capacity." But how does one do that? One couldn't merely think a new color into existence, just as one can't merely think up one's capacity.

Despite this roadblock, Jenn was pleased with herself. She'd gotten another puzzle piece. That was, until she looked again at the squirrel.

Her initial machinations about this squirrel were wrong. It was not a love-wounded bachelor. No. She was a girl squirrel. And her belly divulged the truth of the matter: she was pregnant. This got Jenn thinking not so much about the squirrel in front of her, but rather about the babies nesting inside. What capacity did they have? Correct answer: a squirrel capacity. Or was that correct? Maybe each squirrel has its own special capacity. Surely not all humans have the same capacity for knowledge. Einstein thought on some sort of higher plane than the rest of us. Perhaps one of those budding squirrel fetuses would be the Einstein of the squirrel kingdom. Perhaps the squirrel Einstein's capacity for knowledge is equatable to that of the average human. Hmm....

Jennifer knew nothing of the philosophy of Plato. If she did, one would suggest at this moment that she was sniffing around the concept of ideals. Was there an ideal squirrel that all other squirrels strove to equal? Or was each squirrel its own ideal?

"It's a spectrum," Jenn said to the squirrel who didn't care (or couldn't care) to listen. "The answer can't be a trait that lies on a spectrum. What separates me from you has to be something that I have that you are completely devoid of. Otherwise, there's always Squirrel Einstein to fill in the gap."

Meet Sam Deardon. It was Jenn's outspoken monologue that got his attention. Sam was an older man at eighty-two years of age, who had exited both his Escalade and his driver's presence so as to stretch his stiff legs. He prefered to walk at night because it reminded him of his youth. At this moment, Sam's stiffness of being caused his pace to be so glacial as to allow him to catch the entirety of Jenn's musings, despite his hearing aids being at a low setting so that the local traffic wouldn't vibrant him around too much. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Sam sat down next to Jenn.

"Young lady, what are you talking about?"

"I was staring at this little squirrel, and I was just wondering what separates mankind from animal... kind."

"Ah." Sam began to get up. His knees cracked one at a time as he slowly rose. "That's one we old folks all know the answer to."

"Why is that?"

Sam began to walk away. "Young lady, that's an answer you can only learn over time."

"And why is that?"

"Because whatever we are, we become more of that over time."

"Oh."

Sam Deardon walked away, but Jenn called out to him before he strolled too far. "Wait, so what's the answer? What makes us different than the animals?"

"Ambition!"

After awhile, as Jenn began to fall asleep, she thought on about the old man.

_Whatever we are, we become more of that over time_ : what on earth did that mean? Was it possible for Jennifer Dash to become more Jennifer Dash over time? Jenn supposed this would prove true, if she started eating more. But at the current of nutrition, Jenn was becoming less and less herself.

And with that, laying on the park bench a stone's throw from Hollywood, Jenn faded into the brown walled room—this night, without the blood.

~~~

The tedium of meandering the streets of Los Angeles can't last forever. Exciting things lay ahead. In the next chapter, Jenn finds herself as the newest member of an ancient organization, one with some very specific plans for our old girl, Jennifer Dash.

Chapter Seven: Under LA

"Hello-Hi-Hello."

"Huh?"

"Hi, yes. Hi."

"Umm... hi."

"Yes. Good. Um... could you wake up for a minute, like, please?"

"Yeah, sure... why?"

"You're, uh, you uh, you slept on my bench?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was your bench."

"Are you a Patriot?"

"A Patriot?"

"Yeah, are you a Patriot or a Parrot?"

"Well, um... a Patriot, I guess. Do I have to chose?"

"Yeah, yeah. If you're a drifter, like, you pretty much have to choose."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Are you a, uh, a drifter—drifteress?"

"No. I know where I'm going."

"Where are you going?"

"To the sea."

"Why?"

"I'm searching for Leviathan."

"Who's that?"

"It's not a who, it's a what."

"What's that?"

"A big, old sea serpent."

"Oh. Why'dya wanna like, find it?"

"I'm trying to find out if there are any true myths in the world."

"Oh. There are. But, um, you know, you should really ask the Patriot about that sort of thing."

"Aren't you a Patriot?"

"Of course I am, I am. And you said you are too."

"I know. It's just that before you acted like it was a club or something, but just now you acted like its one person."

"Yeah. We're Patriots of like, the Patriot."

"Right. I get that. I really do. I promise. That makes perfect sense."

"Are you sure you're not a Parrot?"

"Do I... look like a Parrot?"

"Oh, it's really hard to tell those sorts of things. Sometimes I can tell by like, the smell. You don't really smell like a Patriot or a Parrot to be honest... but you are sleeping on my bench... on Patriot territory."

"Oh, I get it. So, ya'll have little gangs! What fun!"

"Sometimes it's fun, but to be honest I really don't like it when people sleep on my territory."

"Sorry?"

"It's okay because you're so pretty. Do you wanna be my girlfriend maybe?"

"It's okay. I don't really know you."

"I'm Thomas Flusher O'Malley."

"Why Hello, Mr. Thomas O'Malley. I'm Jennifer Dash."

"What's your middle name?"

"I don't have a middle name."

"Everyone has a middle name. Mine's Flusher."

"I don't know. I wasn't given one, I guess."

"That doesn't work at all. You have to have one. Here, I'll give you one... Ah-ha! Got it. Tree."

"Tree?"

"Tree. No. Wait. That's not right. Tree, tree, tree... like tree, like tree, like tree... bee, stee, mee... free. Free!"

"Free?"

"Yeah! Jennifer Free, um Dash!"

"Alright. Jennifer Free Dash it is."

"Jennifer Free Dash. Right this way, follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"You should become a Patriot, I think. I want you on our side."

"How do I get to be on your side?"

"The Patriot will look at'cha an' like decide, I think. That's usually how it goes.... Or he'll kill you."

"What?"

"Oh, right, yeah, um, like, if you were a Parrot, maybe he'd do something like that. He did it once to a Parrot. I know. I saw. And sometimes he has others say stuff to Parrots that, you know, like, kill them."

"I'm not going anywhere that I could be killed."

"But the water could kill you too."

"Water? What? Listen, I think I should go. I'm sorry for sleeping on your bench."

"No! You can't go now! They'll think you're a spy!"

"Thomas, don't touch me. That's not nice, Thomas."

"Just call me by my middle name."

"I will if you let me go... good. Thank you, Flusher."

"Okay, good."

"And now I have to go. You just tell your Patriot whatever you want, okay? Enjoy the bench."

"No! They'll get you!"

"Who?"

"Who do you think, dummy! The Parrots!"

"I think I'll be okay."

"But they're watching us right now!"

"I doubt that."

"Just, like please, come a little ways with me and everything will be alright. That way, I can keep you safe, umm... what was your name again?"

"Jenn."

"No, no, your real name, like, your middle name."

"I'm going now, Thomas. It was nice to meet you. Goodbye then." Jenn extended out her hand to seal the deal and go her separate way. Flusher eyed her hand, and looked about awkwardly before completely spinning around.

"Oh wait, thank goodness, Tiff, hey Tiff, over here! Over here! Come here, Tiff! TIFF! TIIIFFFF! Tiff-Tiff-Tiff-Tiff-Tifffffff!"

"Flush, knock it off you old crackpipe!" yelled a woman from twenty or so feet behind them. Flusher tapped his feet anxiously as they waited for this "Tiff" to catch up. Jenn wanted no part of the weirdness and thus began walking away.

"Ow." Tiff had slapped Flusher O'Malley on the back of the head as she approached.

"You get what you yell, now shut up."

"But, that girl, walking there, she was on my bench."

"Yeah, she with us or against us?"

"Doesn't smell like either, but she's real pretty. Do you think, like, that The Patriot would want her?"

"I don't know... let me get a look at her... Hey you! You were talking to my li'l brother?"

Jenn turned and tried to act natural. "Oh, yeah!"

"Come over here!..." Jenn feigned normalcy and marched back towards the bench. "What did you say to him?"

"I didn't say anything."

"She said that we could be boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Why would you tell my brother something like that and then walk away?"

"I didn't... I didn't say anything like that. I just told him my name."

"Are you calling my brother a liar?"

"No, I... well, actually, I guess so."

"You know he's not all here. You shouldn't play tricks on people like him."

"I'm sorry. He woke me up, I was confused and he was telling me all about these little gangs or something, and he wanted me to come with him. I didn't know what to do... so I just thought I'd leave."

"Little gangs?"

"Yes, ma'am. Something about Patriots and Parrots."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? Got anything to eat?"

"Actually, no. I don't."

"Come with us. I was just coming to get Flush and grab some grub. You can come with us if you'd like."

"Where are you going?"

"... I haven't introduced myself yet, have I?"

"No. Hi, I'm Jennifer Dash."

"Jennifer Free Dash. I gave her a middle name."

"Free Dash. That's fun. Good namin', Flush."

"Thanks. Jennifer—"

"You can just call me Jenn."

"Jenn, It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Tiff, and you've already met my older brother Flusher here."

"How'd he get that name? Flusher. That's a unique one."

"Yeah, well, hey Flush, you mind if the three of us take a seat on your bench for a sec?"

"If Free promises to be my like, girlfriend, then it's okay."

"You can't force people to be your girlfriend. Remember what happened with Clarice?"

"I remember."

"Who's Clarice?"

"Here. I think we need to explain a thing or two first."

"Okay."

"Right, so Jenn, good to meet'cha. Let me dish it for ya.... My brother and I grew up in government homes, that sort of thing. We never met our mothers. As far as we know, they never wanted to meet us either."

"They?"

"I met Flush at an orphanage. He sort of latched onto me and we've claimed each other ever since."

"We were boyfriend-and-girlfriend, but then Tiff found out we were brother-and-sister so we couldn't like, be together anymore. Like, in that way."

"Yeah, so, Flush and I ended up on the street. You said you're not from around here?"

"No, I just landed off a train yesterday."

"Well, it's a good thing you weren't here ten years ago, Jenn. Things were bad. Real bad. The cops patrolled the streets at night. If they found you, and you were a minor, they'd throw you into jail until some quote-unquote family would come to pick you up. But they weren't real families. They were a part of a ring set up by the Police to push kids around. You know what I mean."

"I gotta be honest. I have no idea what you're getting at."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"But you're younger than that, aren't you? Fifteen, fourteen, maybe?"

"Eighteen."

"Really. Okay. Well, if you were a year younger I'd tell you more, but I guess you're okay at this point. So it's best that you don't know."

"Oh."

"The point is, Jenn, it was bad to be found by the cops. And if they didn't like the look of your face, or if you were too old, they'd just beat you and keep you locked up for a few days without food or water. It was even worse if they did like your face. Flush nearly died of thirst once, it was so bad."

"I like, almost died."

"Then, when times were worst on the street, the Patriot came. He was one of us, yet better than us. More complex. More cool. And he had a plan. There's certain tricks you learn from living on the street that you can't learn locked up in some cubicle staring at a computer. Tricks and secrets and stuff. Even if you embed microphones in every manhole and cameras in every stop sign you'll still miss things. You'll miss context. You'll miss the real plan. The Patriot created a complex—"

"Don't like uh, tell her everything."

"Flusher, I think she could be the one."

"My girlfriend?"

"No, dummy. The one Patriot's looking for. The one we've all been looking for."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, new friends. I'm a little uneasy with this chosen one business. I'm just a girl travelling around."

"We all have gifts, Jennifer. We all have very specific things the gods gave each of us. He made each of us unique, and so we each have something to give, something to share."

"And you suppose that my 'gift' fits into your leader's plans."

"I don't know what your gift is. I know my gift. I find the right people to plug the right holes. Four months now, I've been eyeing the streets for a person like you."

"Okay... what exactly are you seeing in me that makes me so special?"

"First, I want to tell you how it is, and then you'll have all the facts. With all the facts you can choose for yourself."

"Alright then, go on."

"Good. So, the Patriot knew he could accumulate power by organizing eyes and ears on the street. You ever heard of the FBI?"

"Yes."

"Well, those retards are the enemy. The local police just play into their hand. The FBI wants to suppress and enslave every living American alive."

"Every living American alive? Ya'll are conspiracy theorists."

"No. There's no conspiracy. There's a battle being fought. The Patriots are on one side, those putrid Parrots are on the other."

" _Don't wage war._ "

"What's that?"

"Oh nothing. Just a phrase I heard recently."

"Oh, anyway.... Patriots came first. Just like Sam Adams and Saul Revere. We've been here since the beginning. Saving the country from the redcoats. In our times, the Patriot is our leader. He organized all the oppressed, all the beaten down, unloved puppies on the street."

"Saul Revere?" Jenn asked. That name didn't sound right.

"Like me and Tiff," Flusher chimed.

"Yup. That's right. He got us to listen to everything. And in return, he took care of us. He's loved us and has given us a vision."

"And how is he able to do all this caring and loving for ya'll? Is he a millionaire?"

"He doesn't need to be. He gives the country what it needs, and in return he gets whatever he asks for."

"Huh? How does that work?"

"Ever heard of the CIA?"

"Sure."

They're the ones in the government that work in the light. That work for the people. They fight the FBI and we fight the Parrots."

"Okay, so, if this is all true, shouldn't you be keeping quiet about all this? How do you know I'm not a Parrot spy, and I'm not going to fly off to the big Cockatiel in the sky to recite all the secrets you've told me today?"

"Like heck yeah! Whatcha doin' telling her all our secrets Tiff?"

"Shut up, numbskull! If she's a Parrot, then she already knows all this. I haven't told her anything they don't already know."

"Oh, right."

"So, now you know. Will you come with us? We'll feed you and you can meet the Patriot. He'll size you up, and if he likes you, he'll ask you if you'd like to join our movement."

"What if I say no?"

"Then you walk away with a full tummy—"

"And then the Parrots'll get you! You gotta come with us, Jennifer Free."

"Just tell me one thing."

"Yup."

"Where's the Patriot base?"

And so Jenn followed Thomas Flusher O'Malley and Tiff on foot. Up-and-over fences, down ravines. She swore they were marching through backyards half-a-dozen times only to find back outlets that stretched into seemingly new and endless suburban frontiers.

None of them talked while they walked. Well, actually, Flusher yabbered on incessantly, but it all sounded like far off noises to Jenn. She was deeply centered in her own world—deeply invested in how she would decide the next few decisions that lay in front of her. She had no concept of who these people were or where they truly wished to take her. They could mean her much malice. It was entirely possible. Once upon a time, Jenn watched a post-apocalyptic film where a lady cried at the side of the road weeping for help. When a good Samaritan did slow down to help, a gang behind the actress popped up and popped a bullet in the civil servant's head. This could be just like that. They could traffic her. They could lead her into a den of vipers. That was no hyperbole, no paranoid delusion. She was a lamb lost in an urban wilderness; they quite probably were wolves. She had to go into this knowing that.

So why go? Why take the risk? Jenn knew why, but thus far had been able to push down that reasoning on this adventure. Truth was, there was no good answer besides the one that she tried to deny herself. Nevertheless, here it was, the only answer worth fighting for:

Boredom.

The whole of her expedition, the entirety of Jenn's mindset to solve the world, at least in part, derived itself from the very being of boredom. Following a gang of homeless into their den surely wouldn't help her solve the world's deepest questions. The reason to risk her own welfare and life was none other than a relief from boredom itself.

Knowing this, that boredom brought her forward on today's trail, not her magnanimous drive to fully understand life and all its beings, gave Jenn a certain confidence. Nothing had to be on the line. She could say yes or no to whatever or whomever catches her whimsy. If the Patriot's nice, go with it. If he's Jabba-the-Hutt incarnate, maybe scamper off before he decides he likes us best in skimpy bikini-wear.

The threesome arrived at a very giant palm tree that stood at nearly a forty-five degree in a ditch behind a factory. Fumes from the factory left a thin layer of sulfuric taste on one's mouth and the color turned everything in the air an ashen orange. Jenn marveled at how she seemingly time-travelled from modern day Los Angeles to a recently gassed WWI trench.

"Here's where we descend," said Tiff, catching Jenn's apprehension.

"What?" Jenn replied.

"Patriots live underground. You'll see."

"It's much better than up here," Flusher said peering about the factory.

"Oh... kay."

Flusher dug at the ground just in front of the palm tree. Underneath a sheet of dirt and grass was a wooden door. Flusher found a dangling string, pulled it, and suddenly an albatross of underground halls revealed itself to Jenn.

"Amazing."

"I know, right!" Tiff smiled trying to act the part of best friend.

So they descended.

They climbed down fifteen or so steps before arriving at the base level. From there, in all four directions, another set of stairs awaited them. They chose what Jenn suspected was the West entrance, although she had no good reason to suspect that at all, seeing that she couldn't even find the ocean after a day's march.

As they walked, Jenn was able to look into smallish alcoves wherein various mole-people appeared to be living and sleeping. Some of the alcoves just had a bed, or bunk beds, while others seemed to have various degrees of normal household wares. A couch here, a fine china cabinet there; it was a great big melage of half-lives. It looked as if these people were pretending to live life down here, as if this was their play-place for when they wanted to organize a game of "underground house".

The alcoves went on for ages. They just walked straight. For miles and miles. Jenn lost all semblance of time.

"What is this place?" Jenn finally asked.

"It's the Patriot's home that he like, shares with all of us."

Jenn caught the attention of one particular alcove-er who looked to be maybe sixty, and missing an eye. She wasn't sure if it was a he or a she.

The one-eyed man is king, Jenn thought.

"Patriot was given this land—"

This under-land, Jenn thought.

"—many years ago by the CIA. It was his introductory price, you could say. He needed space to establish his network, his kingdom on Earth. The CIA saw the value in that, and made the trade: these caverns for the priceless knowledge that he could provide."

Flusher felt the need to add, "And tell her, like, about the, uh, where the government got this place from."

"This must have been a sewer, right?"

Tiff chuckled, "You ever seen a sewer with built-in-beds like this? Nope. This place serves its function now as it always has."

"I don't get it. Who would live down here when you could live up in the sun?"

Tiff stopped walking and turned to Jenn. "Now that!—is a good question." She turned back around and continued to lead onward. "No one knows for sure. If you want to talk conspiracy theories, that's where you should start. Who hates the sun? But no time for that now, we're to the entrance hall."

Jenn had failed to notice that the trail itself had gotten increasingly smaller. They'd left the alcoves behind. In front of them now was just a wall. Tiff knocked quickly and counted as she went, "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-one-hundred-and-thirty-six."

"What are you doing?"

"Step back," Tiff replied, and as they stepped, the wall swung open towards them like a door. The path in front was pitch black. "We're going to step into the darkness, the wall will close, and lights will come on."

Uniformly, they took one step in.

"This part's always scary."

Like a boulder, the wall-door swung shut behind them.

Darkness.

Jenn held her breath. If she did breathe, she'd belie the fact that her pulse was running out of control. She hated the dark. No, not just the dark, the deep, utter length-and-width of dark.

Trying to calm herself down, Jenn turned inward. What was it that stranger told her?

\--- _Whatever we are, we become more of that over time_ \---

Jenn focused on that. Maybe these people were generations of homeless, underground dwellers. Maybe they've become more and more themselves, under-dwellers, over time. The thought frightened Jenn. She pictured blind mole-rats digging these tunnels, preparing this eternal night just to trap young girls like her. She panicked. Where were the lights? In this darkness she could be anywhere! What was happening! Jenn fought the urge to panic and scratch at the walls of darkness. Her heart skipped a beat before—Lights up.

Jenn screamed.

~~~

An underground homeless society with trap doors, what's there to worry about? Discover what all the fuss is about as Jenn hopes to live to see the sun again and endure long enough... to solve the world.

Chapter Eight: Magical Kingdom

Perseverance of Idea as World Building Leadership

by Rachel Lopez

Leadership and Direction 234

November 11th, 2011

Magical Kingdom was opened to the public during the Summer of 1948. America, its jubilance fading three years after victory in Germany and Japan, needed a distraction from the Soviets. Unlike its most well-known competitor, the Kingdom was not a hit when it opened. It took nearly thirty years for the magic of the Kingdom grounds to grow deep into the American psyche. This was not, however, anything out of the ordinary for its creator, Mr. Daniel Babbit. A quick gloss over his commercial history will satisfy as an introductory course to the benefits of patience, resolve, and perseverance.

Daniel Babbit was born into wealth; his father a prominent name in cements, and then later an early investor in the airline industry. Daniel's father, Cyrus, was a businessman through-and-through. He came home from long trips to New York or Boston only to whip little Daniel and younger brother Constantine to a pulp for a litany of 8-year-old sins. Of the Babbit boys' mother, whose name Daniel refused to mention his whole adult life, very little is known. Speculations range from her physically assailing the boys harder than Cyrus ever did, to perhaps the more likely case that she was engaging in extramarital relationships. If the latter was the case, then surely young Daniel was privy to her acts, and would most assuredly be a clue to his deeply held Catholic faith.

In High School, Babbit became fascinated with silent film comedies. He religiously visited theaters to catch all the classics: the Chaplins and Keatons and, his eternal favorite, Harold Lloyd. After securing a business degree from Pevinsee University of Maryland, Daniel famously sought out a meeting with his father. As the myth goes, it took him seven weeks to book a half-hour meeting with his mogul father. The wait paid off. Cyrus encouraged his son to get into the film business. He said that films for the mass public had reached their saturation point; everyone and their mother's mother thought they could launch the career of the next Buster Keaton or D.W. Griffith. The market, however—according to Cyrus Babbit—was ready for a niche explosion. Cyrus saw a place for informational films to be distributed amongst employees at technical companies. This was a prime way to bring information to the modern man who doesn't have the capacity or determination to read. Cyrus even envisioned universities entirely taught by film; a dream that took Daniel 45 years to realize.

As he was prone to do, Daniel took his father's advice, and contorted it to his own interests. A budding Catholic (he was raised nominal Methodist), Daniel wanted to learn more about the lives of Saints. He got funding in 1924 to produce three short films telling the stories of Saint Bartholomew, Saint Sebastian, and Saint Peter. He produced the first two right away, but decided to raise more funds to do Saint Peter real justice. Once he got what he wanted (a 43 minute silent with a cast of nearly 400 filmed entirely in South Dakota), he began looking for suitors. After five months, Daniel had to file for bankruptcy for the first time in his life; it would not be his last. It took eight months before the Diocese of New Orleans picked up his offer. They held a special screening of the films for their congregation. This alone was no way to make a living, but Daniel saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

He hired Everett Toomey to be the executive of sales and show performances for Babbit Productions. Toomey, with cliche-ridden slicked backed hair, looked the part of the quintessential salesman. Daniel lent Toomey his car, and Toomey took to the road, knocking on every Catholic door East of the Mississippi. The result was something marvelous: an intoxicating sense at each private viewing that the audience was part of something personal, unique, and made for them. Realizing the gravitas of this emotion, Toomey wrote Babbit that it was imperative that opening credits thanking the specific audience for attending should be attached to every roll of film. Babbit took out a second mortgage on his house to pay for these add-ons, before he'd seen a dime from Toomey himself. The gamble paid off, and by 1925 Toomey and Babbit were on their way to fortune.

Babbit studios opened in winter of '26 with an agenda to make a Saint film for each day of the year. The studio grew and grew as Babbit began to see international sales push him to financial freedom. Besides investing back into his company, Daniel followed his little brother's advice, putting roughly 70% of his net worth into stocks. Nearly all of those funds would dry up in the wake of the depression. Furthermore, the advent of sound, first on display with Warner Bros.' _The Jazz Singer_ was a siren song for Babbit and company. Daniel threw his entire studio into sound conversion. His thought at the time was he didn't need to make new films, just add sound to his old ones. The result was not only a creative disaster, but a financial one as well. Churches in the thirties didn't have the wealth at hand to pay for Babbit's films anymore. Those that chose to take the risk were duly disappointed to find that they were buying 8-year old films repackaged as 'talkies'. The ruse was up. By 1935, Babbit productions and Babbit studios were bust. Babbit foreclosed and claimed bankruptcy.

Perhaps fortuitously, Babbit's father, Cyrus Babbit, died in '36, leaving millions to his two sons. According to Daniel himself, he put almost all his inheritance back into the stock market, assuming, as he's quoted as stating, "The market wouldn't dare punch me again. I was owed what was coming."

Speculative Resources Inc. (SRI) surreptitiously opened its doors to high-end clientele in 1939. Babbit would shut down the company in late '49, after making what some speculate to be over $100 million. Various theories ruminate as to what Speculative Resources did. Daniel Babbit, when asked in 1964 about the venture, said this: "We offered a variety of personal products, the most common of which was personal films. Because of the intimate nature of the projects, we promised discretion and privacy to the utmost to all of our clients. That is why I destroyed all documentation that I could get my hands on—not because SRI had anything to hide, but because with my image in the public eye, we suspected that investigative journalists would uncover that which we promised our clients would never be known."

The main assertion by conspiracy theorists is that Babbit filmed indiscrete, illegal films for rich executives. Others believe SRI was hired by Franklin Delano Roosevelt to contrive ways to get America to commit to war against Germany. Versions of the theory have gone so far as to indict SRI as the provocateur or perhaps even the orchestrater of the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941. Still others contend that SRI sought out Nazis in order to catch them in unflattering snapshots of film, thus giving the U.S. negotiating leverage against Hitler. Whatever the case, what is known is that Daniel Babbit became immensely wealthy from the venture.

It has been suggested that Magical Kingdom was Daniel Babbit's way to pay penance for his sins under SRI. This writer must admit the timing lines up rather dramatically, as most contend that SRI was more or less a phantom company by the end of WW2, and that Babbit only kept it around until '49 to avoid any suspicion.

Magical Kingdom, in its most infant phase, was the physical manifestation of Babbit's Saint films. The Kingdom is famously built as a ring of seven peaks. Each peak is named after a saint and has attractions based on the life and myths of that particular saint. The center of the theme park is named Saints Row. When it opened in 1949, the center looked almost nothing like it does today. For our purposes, a quick rundown of the seven peaks and seven saints shall suffice:

  * St. George~ the famous dragon slayer is iconographized as just that at Magical Kingdom's first peak. When the park first opened, "The Dragon" wooden coaster was the park's one and only thrill ride, featuring an animatronic, forty-five foot behemoth that remains intensely realistic even after 60+ years of use. In 2002 the ride was remodeled and the dragon was moved and rearranged to jump out at the audience in a new, much more terrifying way.

  * St. Anthony~ the most obscure of peaks, St. Anthony himself was known for his hermit-ness and his various temptations by the devil. Babbit interpreted this as mystical solitude. Visitors were invited to lie down in what felt like a sensory-deprivation chamber. After 45 seconds, however, the ceiling opens up to a series of "visions". The vision of Satan himself Babbit decided was too traumatizing, and was removed after only six-weeks of observations. A four-foot tall statue of Satan as half man, half-lizard-dragon still remains outside the queue-line to the deprivation chamber. Neo-satanists have taken to sneaking into the park and supposedly offering ritual sacrifices to the statue, but that lies beyond the scope of this paper.

  * St. Francis~ beyond poverty, St. Francis is renown for talking to animals. Babbit came to the logical conclusion that this peak should feature a petting zoo. Aside from the petting zoo, St. Francis Peak offered crowd-pleasing bird shows. Initially, "The Great Bird Show" featured trained talking parrots, unlike the fortune-telling mechanical ones the park currently offers.

  * St. Joan of Arc~ upon opening, Joan's peak was the only mount to boast two attractions. The first was a crazy-car-ride showcasing the highlights of Joan's life. The ride ends with a live harp player plucking away at strings as visitors are rolled through a "heavenly aura" of thick fog. The second ride was the first ever 4-D movie. Babbit again just reworked one of his old silent short films of Joan, adding various exhilarating effects, the most controversial of which continues to be the warming seats that exacerbates Joan's death by fire in an incredibly vivid way.

  * St. Christopher~ Daniel Babbit was known for haralding Saint Christopher as "the Saint of a thousand myths". Historically, St. Christopher is known for taking a baby across a river, only to find the weight on the traveler's back gaining with every inch. As he got to the other side, St. Christopher felt the weight of the world on his back in the form of this small child. Supposedly then, upon arrival, the baby spoke up to say, "Christopher, you had not just the weight of the world on your back, but the weight of sin, just as I once had." The child, clearly a young Jesus, then disappeared. Babbit reimagined the event as a twisty, crazy trick house. Each visitor is asked to put on special shoes as they enter the apparent clown house. Using magnets, as visitors travel through the maze, their feet are pulled to the ground, making it increasingly difficult to walk. This writer admits (after experiencing the attraction for herself) that this translation of the myth is sheer genius. In the late 1960s, one of the last attractions Daniel Babbit created himself was added to St. Christopher's peak. The moving-floor ride, entitled "Myth's Reality" takes visitors from Egypt to China to the Mayan Empire, in search of myths that share symbols. St. Christopher himself is showcased, as he is often depicted as having a dog-head, much like the Egyptian god Anubis. Many term papers and doctoral theses have been written on this theologically complex attraction, the merits of which go well beyond the scope of this paper.

  * St. Denis~ the mount of Saint Denis has transformed the most since its inception. Babbit envisioned a theatrical, anachronistic retelling of the myth of Saint Denis, in which visitors would find themselves walking down the streets of Paris, only to spot a headless priest holding his head in his hands and touting the Gospel, reaching tens of people for Jesus as he made his way to a cemetery where he buries himself to be with the Lord. After Lilith's take-over of operations, St. Denis' peak became her focal point. She saw the Eiffel tower's presence as an excuse to build a mini-world. Present-day come-by-nighters of Magical Kingdom's 6th peak will find themselves walking through not only Paris, but Washington D.C., Cairo, WWI's Verdun, Tokyo, and, weirdly, Antarctica circa 1916.

  * St. Drogo~ even Babbit seemed intent on exploiting this saint's patronage. Despite there existing no real connection between the historical priest Drogo and coffee, the man somehow ended up as coffee's patron saint. Babbit used the connection to make a high-end Antebellum mansion. Visitors to the park were asked to pay an extra $50 to enjoy coffee, tea and baked goods in the midst of Magical Kingdom's 7th peak. It should be stated that $50 in 1948 was much, much more than it is today. Nowadays, a ticket to St. Drogo's cost somewhere in the ballpark of $2,500 and two years' wait. Even though occasional pictures and videos show up on Youtube of what it's really like to dine-in, for the most part, the experience of drinking coffee in St. Drogo's is left to the poor person's imagination. Security is extreme, and has become something of a myth itself, as the attraction gains pop-culture popularity with every passing day. It was widely known that in the early years, Babbit would join the visitors for coffee at St. Drogo's. Babbit often regaled his partners by locating his business meetings within the mansion. Ironically, various friends of Babbit have said that he personally hated coffee, indulging instead in tea laced with whisky.

As stated at the beginning of this essay, Magical Kingdom was not a money-making hit from day one. Actually, it was quite the opposite. Reviews from _The New York Times_ and like-minded news outlets and journals slammed the park for being Catholic-kitsch, and, in the words of one newspaperman, "A stark reminder of how bizarre and out of touch with reality left-footers continue to be..." (left-footers used to be a well-used Irish slur for Catholic people). It is rumored that the park, from 1949–1959, netted an annual lose of more than $3 million. Despite the meager turnout, Babbit was never in need of funds, and found himself consistently adding to and improving his beleaguered religious world.

Then, as history will forever remember, John F. Kennedy visited the Magical Kingdom. Famously, President-elect Kennedy took his family to the park as a celebration for winning the Presidency. Kennedy said the campaign was long and hard, and now that the American people accepted him (and by proxy, his Catholic faith), he promised his family they'd visit the park. Babbit himself made a huge ordeal of the visitation, and a statue commemorates the political goliath's trip outside the gates of St. Drogo's.

Attendance rose moderately during Kennedy's presidency, but it wasn't until JFK's assassination that the country really took notice of the park. To pay his own respect (or perhaps to exploit his connection to the late President), Babbit had a special tribute created at the center of Saint's Row dedicated just a week after Kennedy's passing. As if to pay respect to the dead's faith, America came in droves to Magical Kingdom. They left legion's of flowers under his mural at Saint's Row. In a candid interview years later, the much-maligned Lilith Babbit said, "Jack Kennedy is the patron Saint of Magical Kingdom".

The question of who should get credit for Magical Kingdom's astronomical success in recent years must be contended here. Many point to Babbit's wife Lillith. They point to her re-envisioning of the park from '78–'94 as a bigger component to the park's success than any of Babbit's initial vision. It is true that every year from '78 to '94 saw an increase in attendance. From 1947 to 1957 the yearly attendance rose from 250,000 to 1 million. 1957 to 1978 went from 1 million to 4. '78 to '94 went from 4 to 11 million. That bodes quite well for the strength of Lilith's term.

When Babbit gave control of the park to his young wife, he was, in all reality, giving up. He married quite late in life, and, by all accounts, was overwhelmed and outdueled by Lillith's strong demeanor, as well as her beauty. It is said that on their second date (on the second-floor of St. Drogo's) Lillith asked Daniel if he would marry her. They were wed at the park six months later in a big, televised extravaganza at the park. Her aim, it is easily supposed, was to crank as much profit out of Babbit's world as possible. And the first thing that had to go was the Catholic-y-ness. Lillith covered up the Saint names of each peak, and relentlessly rebranded the park as "The Seven Peaks of the Magical Kingdom". Saints Row became a place for animal characters and fictional dragons to inhabit, not obscure saint stories.

Despite Lillith Babbit's efforts, as anyone can see, it wasn't until the mid-nineties, under the reign of Daniel Babbit's nephew, Darnauld d'Anconia, that the park became the thing of American culture that it is today. D'Anconia saw what no one else could, that Americans were thirsty for authentic remembrance. He saw into America's psyche, and interpreted its heart as one aching for a return to its innocence. So, under d'Anconia, Magical Kingdom returned to its saintly roots and ceaselessly continues to market itself to children and the greater angels of our past.

So, in giving credit for the success of Magical Kingdom, one must first and foremost point to Daniel Babbit, and then thank God for Mr. d'Anconia's ability to fully realize what Babbit once envisioned.

Daniel Babbit is my choice for this essay because his leadership was based on singularity of vision. Historical figures like Caesar and Patton are lauded for their complexity and diversity of interests. Daniel Babbit, whenever he had real resources at his disposal, tirelessly spent his efforts on making the lives of God's saints a reality for the common man. Think about it; he could have chosen a thousand different religious names for his theme park, but he didn't. He chose "Magical Kingdom" because that's how he saw the world; through the eyes of the impossible saints that he venerated.

D'Anconia, while undeniably a genius in his own right, is, to me, the conduit of Babbit's leadership, not a liberator or re-imagineer.

Take Saints Row and the now-world-famous Veneration Celebration. Veneration Celebration, yes, is d'Anconia's implementation, and single-handedly the most profitable and well-branded annual event of our lifetime, but its roots go directly back to Babbit's united, original vision of making saints a reality. Veneration Celebration is a mere avatar of that concept.

Daniel Babbit fell in love with one idea... and he spent his whole life persevering and manifesting that idea into reality. That's the type of leader I want to follow: a person doggedly determined to actualize the very thing they believe in.

A mammoth of a man stood mountainlike facing Jenn and Tiff and Flusher O'Malley. He was adorned in what looked like an executioner's ensemble: all-black, face covered. The mountain grabbed Jenn like a rag-doll, held one hand over her screaming mouth, and shook her.

"Hey, stop it, stop it, Fleming." Tiff punched the mammoth in the arm. He dropped Jenn. Stifled by fear, Jenn couldn't bear herself, and collapsed underneath the weight of the moment, sobbing.

"She scared me!" Fleming uttered.

"What are you, trying to tend the rabbits or something?" Tiff responded.

"What?" Fleming said.

"Nothing. Look, we got the girl Patriot asked for."

"Oh. I see." Fleming cast his glare down at the wreaked rag-doll at his feet, "She don't look right to me."

"Don't be coy. Just let us go to Patriot. He'll size her up fine."

"Coy? Why you always using strange words like that, Tiff?"

"Because I'm smart. Now let us down."

"I'm not going. Let me out," Jenn squeaked out.

The walls shook. Jenn latched onto Fleming's massive legs.

"We're just going down, little lady. This is an elevator."

"Now come on, get up." Tiff and Flusher each grabbed an arm and pulled Jenn up. Tiff spit into her hand, then used her wet fingers to wipe away Jenn's tears. "You really are pretty, you know."

"I don't want to go," Jenn whispered. The turbulence stopped. Behind Fleming, the black wall lifted. A bright hallway welcomed the group, exuding a warm vibe that contradicted in tone every other alley in that underground wasteland.

The ceiling of the hall was flooded with white, fluorescent lights. All along the long wall, plate after plate of luscious chicken, roast beef, duck, and shrimp paraded itself on display before them.

"Welcome, welcome! Come in, wandering stranger, come in." The voice came from the far corner of the room. A man sat on a chair facing a desk of screens and computers. He spun around to face them. No one Jenn had ever met had looked like that. He was wholly unique; not like any face Jenn had ever seen even in the movies. He was the fattest and simultaneously oldest man she'd ever laid eyes on. Scratch that—not necessarily fat, just big. Jenn couldn't spot any fat flabs or triple chins. He was just big. Like a tree. And old. To top it off he wore a comically tall, burgundy colored top hat. Jenn instinctively wanted to assert herself and please this man of significance. It was the sensation one gets when meeting the President, or a world-famous actor. Whether one hates or loves the known figure, being in their presence casts an undeniable shadow. Jenn wiped any remaining tears and spit off her face. With poise, she walked to the man she knew to be the Patriot.

"Hello. I'm Jennifer Dash." Jennifer walked to the monstrous figure and curtsied.

"Jennifer Dash... and does Jennifer Dash have a middle name?"

"It's Free!" Blurted Flusher.

"No sir, just Jenn."

"Well then, hello Jenn. What brings you to my temple?"

A series of thoughts flashed through Jenn's mind. Why was she here? Boredom? Curiosity? Fear? Against her will? She decided to go with the most urgent answer.

"I'm hungry."

"Yes. Very good. We'll finish here in just a moment and then you are more than welcome to engorge yourself." Patriot made a long, opening gesture toward the row of lavish food.

"Now," the old man cleared his throat, "You have desires, and aspirations, don't you young lady?"

Jenn wondered if the question was rhetorical or not, but the continued silence moved her to answer, "Yes... sir."

"Of course you do! And this, Jenn Dash, hear this. I do too. I am a king in my own right, but I have yet some ambition in me. For three years now, I've tried to gain a certain prize. Why? That's none of your concern, just as your whimsies are none of mine." The room fell silent for some time. "Tiff here will work with you. Is that okay with you?"

The two girls looked at each other. Jenn wasn't sure about Tiff. She felt she had a better handle on Thomas Flusher O'Malley than she had on his artificial sister. "Yes," she finally said.

"Good. You've heard of the Magical Kingdom?"

"Of course."

"Yes. Of course you have. And then you're also familiar with the annual Veneration Celebration?"

"Yes sir."

"Yes, well, every year attendance skyrockets the month leading up to the event. So, Magical Kingdom is inclined to hire more workers."

"Okay."

"You and Tiff will work. You'll be taken care of. We'll make sure you have plenty to eat, a place to stay. While you work for me you will want for nothing. Understand?"

"I think so..." Jenn proclaimed, hiding an utter lack of confidence.

"Yes, then, I believe Tiff that we've found the woman we've prayed for."

"I knew it!" Tiff boasted.

"Now, please, eat!"

That day Jenn ate her fill of roast beef, ham, sweet bread, and mashed potatoes.

~~~

In the next chapter, Jenn takes the plunge and becomes a spy inside the merriest place on Earth. What secrets lie ahead? Go. Read on. Find out for yourself.

Chapter Nine: The Mechanical Giraffe

Residence: single-room, queen sized bed, room 202, Front Door Inn.

California Driver's license: #345789119

Name: Jennifer Calling, age 18, brown hair, blue eyes

Roommate: Tiff

Employee Badge: Performing Artist

Outfit: revealing maroon silk dress, giant ornate tiara with fake golden cobra

Details: a locker, a six-week contract, an envelope with 300 dollars

Assignment: ride a mechanical giraffe for the St. Denis parade which runs at 9:15, 11:04, 12:55, 1:58, 5:15, and 7:45. Wave to the peasants. Smile. Always smile.

Requirement: arrive at Park's employee backlot 100% sober every morning at 6:15am every single day until Veneration Celebration, at which point contract is terminated. Random drug screenings to be expected. Employee must not have scent of alcohol or cigarettes. Smile. Always smile, even when you don't feel like it. Wave politely. Act like royalty. Under no circumstances get off the giraffe.

After leaving the Patriot's presence, life was handed to Jenn on an apparent silver platter. She had pocket money once more, a place to stay, a roommate (it was still up the air in Jenn's mine whether Tiff was friendship material or not).

Guideline #9. Make friends everywhere, but don't trust one friend over another.

She could count on being fed. And she was literally treated like a princess at her job. Patriot's employment opportunity for Jenn was the stuff of millions of 7-year old girl daydreams. Jenn was to play the role of Queen Cleopatra at Magical Kingdom's lauded St. Denis' processions.

Perennially muddled about history, Jenn had to be retold who exactly Cleopatra was. Once she heard, Jenn instantly liked the idea of imitating the most powerful woman of the ancient world. Cleopatra, the reincarnation of the Egyptian goddess Isis, was far more than just a pretty face for Caesar to lust after. She came from a line of dynastic dullards. The Greek speaking Ptolemies, though they ruled Egypt for hundreds of years, refused to learn the tongue of their people. Worse yet, they interbred as if they were the last rabbits on Earth. Cleopatra herself was forced at a young age to wed her prepubescent, snotty-nosed younger brother. But her ambition turned the tides of human history. Rather than being merely another inbred Ptolemy, she spoke to her people in Egyptian. She learned many, many languages. She stripped herself of the Ptolemy name, and, by her wit, wisdom, and confounding beauty, won the heart of the most powerful man in the world. Only the likes of Sophia Loren, Vivien Leigh, and Elizabeth Taylor were worthy of donning the heavy Egyptian eye makeup that translates to our modern day sign for Cleopatra: only the savviest, strongest willed beauties of any generation are given the honor of impersonating the Queen of Egypt herself. And now, Jenn was bequeathed the honor of continuing the tradition of remembrance. She was elated.

The routine: wake-up at 5:45. Open miraculously full fridge. Grab milk. Snag fruity pebbles. Munch on cereal quietly so as to not awaken Tiff. Leave apartment at 6:00am. Swipe card at back employee entrance. Say hi and innocently wave at Deion, the guard on duty. Meander through the back-alleys of the park. Observe how unsatisfying an experience it is to see a theme park behind its curtains. Arrive at "Manifestations Building". Walk through three long hallways, always remembering to stop at the drinking fountain (drinking is tedious and difficult once the wardrobe and makeup are applied, so it's best to be as hydrated at the outset of the day as possible). Spy in to see if Clarence is in his office (he's not). Go to Susan Cubbinside's room, say good morning to her, and sit.

From 6:15-6:22, squirm and delicately maneuver into silk dress.

6:23-6:29: Susan applies tape to the necessary places.

6:30-7:35: sit patiently as Susan applies makeup. Listen to her newest story about her pet ferret, Enrique. Don't smirk as she informs you for the third day in a row that it's illegal to own ferrets in California, so don't tell anyone, okay? Repress smirk since you've learned that in fact ferrets are only illegal to buy or sell in California, not to own, so Susan's point of lawbreaking pride is all in vain.

7:36-8:00: walk with Susan for what feels like an hour to the loading dock.

8:00-8:20, say goodbye to Susan, who for whatever reason is partially employed to escort you from the make-up chamber to the waiting dock. You go nowhere alone. You must always have some sort of entourage.

8:21-8:22: walk up the six steps and sit on the saddle of the fully mechanical, fully formed, metal giraffe.

8:23-8:30: wait patiently as a specialist seatbelts you into the saddle. Of course, the seat-buckler flirts with you, doesn't matter which guy it is. You're Cleopatra now... riding on a mechanical giraffe. What's not to love?

8:31-8:45: pistons fire and giraffe "turns on". Say good morning to giraffe. You've named him Claude. Ask Claude how he's doing. Smile at anyone in the room as you feign anxiousness waiting for Claude's response.

8:46-8:59: sit on Claude.

9:00: a couple bells go off in the waiting dock. The park has opened.

9:01: doors open and Claude begins to march with you swaying to and fro.

9:10: six dancers dressed in Egyptian pharaonic garb encircle your giraffe.

9:11-9:15: you line up in the parade order. You're directly behind Sir Isaac Newton riding a low-flying hot air balloon with an apple in his hand, and Genghis Khan along with his swashbuckling Mongols at your rear. Khan and friends, unlike you, are numbered with a dozen or so warriors mounted on not mechanical horses, but two-man plastic contraptions. The result was those dang Tartars could fly around far quicker than your stumbling machine beast. It's a good thing too, that your ungulate is fake, otherwise the centaur-like horde behind you would surely spook Claude into a dizzying collapse. You're especially impressed by the steaming-flames that occasionally burst forth from their cloth snouts. Really impressive stuff. Makes you wonder about the Behemoth and Leviathan breathing fire.

9:27: you're near the edge of the parade, so your wait is longer than most. But inevitably, you and your litter push through the gates. You're in the park, and you're a part of the procession. You are Cleopatra. It's amazing. You're elated.

You do this six-times a day, and yet, the exhilaration hasn't worn off yet four days in. It's beautiful. It's marvelous. Perhaps for the first time in your life, you feel at home. You feel at peace. You were made to be Cleopatra, and the world is as simple as that.

How does one solve the world? Answer: dress up as an Egyptian queen, ride a giant mechanical giraffe amidst a busy street with historical/cultural landmarks abounding everywhere around you. It's that easy. You've done it. You've solved the world!

No. Of course not. Intellectually, Jenn knew her adventure had not yet reached a climax, and certainly feeling happy (or dare she think, fulfilled?) does not check-off the criteria of understanding and solving the whole of the world. The whole of history. The whole of rationality and reason. The whole of emotion. It just felt good, and it had been so very long since Jenn felt anything close to real happiness in her life. She couldn't help but eat up the experience and secretly pray to the stars that it would never end.

For most people of this world, however, Jenn's job would be gut-bustingly tedious and overwhelming. Besides the one-hour lunch from 2:30 to 3:30, Jenn's work day essentially started from wake-up at 5:45am and didn't end until she arrived back at her hotel room most nights after 10pm. Then rinse and repeat. No Sabbath day's rest. No weekend. Only the revolving door of time day-in, day-out, with only Claude the mechanical giraffe along for the journey. Still, having every minute of the day pre-programmed appealed to Jenn more than her previous retinue of having no minute of any day figured out.

The only hesitation in life for Jennifer so-called-Free Dash, or as she was now to be called, Jennifer Calling, was the suspicion that the Patriot's intentions were indeed nefarious, and in time she would be asked to do something really abhorrent. As of now, nearly a week into her newfound career, both the Patriot and Tiff had been absolutely mum on the matter of what this was all about. There had to be something. Patriot called it "a prize". What could that be? As the head-in-his-hands St. Denis preached from his melon a new gospel, Jenn should have figured it. But not quite yet.

With d'Anconia's rise as the figurehead of Daniel Babbit's inheritance, he instilled a series of traditions to Magical Kingdom's culture. The foremost of these was the Veneration Celebration. Make no mistake, d'Anconia bet the farm on this one, and it paid off in delicious spades. D'Anconia's plan was to mint a new holiday in the eyes of the nation. His vision was to make All Saints Day, November 1st, surpass Halloween in grandeur. He did just that, and after nearly ten-years of annual Veneration Celebrations, the President of the United States proclaimed All Saints Day to be a national holiday. And with that, Saints Row, the center of Magical Kingdom, became the epicenter of conviviality and worship.

It went like this. Every year, on All Saints Day, moments after the doors fly open at nine in the morning, a new park attraction is revealed. What made the anniversary so exemplary in the eyes of the public, however, was not so much the idea of a new ride in and of itself, but the secrecy of it all. D'Anconia rightly understood that expectation is the most important ingredient to human glee. So it is, that on November 1st at the very center of the park, in the midst of Saints' row, the new attraction is unleashed. The attraction is somehow built upon a mighty platform, and carried, traditionally by the "7,000 oxen of God" to the area of the park (read: to the peak) wherein the attraction will be cemented in and opened, usually a month or so later, so that by Christmastime, everything is in place. The point therein, is that it remains a mystery where the annual new attraction will find its home. Las Vegas has a yearly racket of bets concerning which of the Saints' peaks will receive the new attraction. Beyond that, it's a sight to see indeed, a giant structure being carried by, what engineers say is really a giant tank, through the park to its location. To behold it in person is to feel the very presence of a miracle in action. For the lucky few thousands that somehow get their hands on a ticket for Veneration Celebration, they return to their regular, boring lives changed, as if they'd experienced the very face of God shining on their faces. Only the insanely rich, who've experienced untold and unspoken chills seem immune to the thrill of the event. Yes, there are years when the attraction itself fails to overwhelm, such as in 2009, when the newest attraction to join St. George's peak revealed itself to be tantamount to a 'spinning teacup' ride. Nonetheless, even on those less spectacular years, the marvel of the grand move from Saints Row to the peak never lets down, never lets up.

Jenn's place in the charade was all part of the hype. Normally, if one were to visit St. Denis' peak in the park (Peak #6 of 7 to those counting), one would mostly simply experience the amusement of the locale. St. Denis' peak evolved to be a recreation of every major city in the world. There's a colosseum wherein one could watch a Gladiator tournament three times a day. Stonehenge, the White House, and Sparta's never-ending pit are all represented. There's even a miniature of Las Vegas itself, where one could encounter a miniature of Las Vegas' miniature Eiffel Tower. At the center of the peak, of course, is a full-sized recreation of Notre Dame. If one strolled through the street on a random day, let's say May 14th, one would encounter a headless saint running down the avenue. In his hands would be the man's head, which would be voraciously proclaiming a declawed, politically correct Catholic Gospel. It generally goes something like, "God is good! Believe! See my head! I'm alive even though they cut off my head!!! How cool is God!!" And then he'd run on and repeat the sing-songy message to the next passerby. During the month of October, however, everything is upped. The ante is down.

Magical Kingdom shells out the expectation hype in the form of a world pilgrimage. The heroes of space and time stroll down the Parisian-worldly lane to take-in St. Denis' Gospel of Veneration Celebration. If one were to catch the headless saint and hear his message in October, rather than focusing on his headlessness, onlookers are enraptured at the saint's suggestion of a coming attraction to Saints Row. Twitter erupts with calculations and theories daily as Denis supposedly lets out subtle hints leading up to the All Saints Day revelation.

And so in this great machine, Jenn found herself employed and engaged as the great Cleopatra riding a giraffe to the promised land. That is... she rode for four days... until Mohammad Najjar visited.

It was Thursday. Jenn had rinsed and repeated her formula as she had the three days prior. The first two shows at 9:15 and 11:04 went smoothly, except that Claude froze up for twenty seconds near the pyramids, only to switch back into life as if not missing a step a moment later. The 12:55 show started just fine; without a hitch. In fact, Claude and Jenn were nearly to the end (St. Denis had already shouted himself on by), when Mr. Najjar appeared.

Unlike other parades, the pilgrimage at St. Denis was constructed in such a way so as to suppress crowds standing shoulder-to-shoulder staring agog at each new celebrity litter. Rather, the mob strolled amidst the sea of fame and infamy. That's perhaps why more elaborate processions, such as Jenn and Claude, were accompanied by fellow-employees/travelers. Her six Egyptian dancers were as much for security as they were anything else.

He stood thirty feet in front of them, staring blankly forward from the center of the road. Jenn noticed him immediately. His composure told the tale of someone waking up from a nightmare. Then, just like that, like one awoken by an annoyingly loud alarm clock, Mohammad Najjar snapped. He sprinted at Jenn and Claude. Being a skinny, but broad-shouldered man, his approach brought terror with it. He screamed in some foreign tongue as he ran. Two of the dancers/Egyptian security guards tried to stop him, but like a running back primed for the goalposts, Mr. Najjar busted through their feeble line.

Like a ram, he pulverized Claude the mechanical giraffe's right foot. Jenn, buckled in at various angles, had no hope of escape. Mohammad took out the leg, unbalancing the modern beast. The giraffe collapsed under its unbalanced weight. Down came the steel steed. Jenn, fully aware that she was aboard a sinking titanic, as best she could, wrestled her body, and specifically her head away from the concrete as it zoomed toward her.

BANG! The creature had fallen. Gears and mother boards launched themselves free from their regimented homes. Claude, in the death throes of ultimate shutdown, repeatedly lunged his long neck and head against the unforgiving ground.

Jenn lost consciousness. Slow fade out.

She awoke in a stretcher, a minute or so later. Beside her, not ten feet away, Mohammad Najjar was strapped in vigorously into his own gurney. He was bleeding profusely from his head. Both his knees betrayed a completely shattered body. Mohammad blabbered blindly, weakly.

As various official looking people wheeled Jenn away, she snuck a peak at her defeated friend. Oh Claude, you were too beautiful for this world! Why did this happen? Was the man after me? Jenn wondered. Did he hate Claude? Was this low-tech terrorism? How could something like this happen in the modern age? What did he want? He looked like he snapped. Like this wasn't premeditated, but rather, some putrid reaction to a thought.

Shortly thereafter, Jenn's thoughts would prove to be very close to the truth.

The park went into lockdown mode as Jenn was wheeled across the park campus to the on-staff doctor. After twenty minutes, the doc reached the conclusion that Jenn suffered nothing more than a few bruised ribs. He, very uncoothely in Jenn's opinion, snickered at the mental image of Claude's great fall. When asked, he supposed that Jenn's loss of consciousness was brought on by an overwhelming rush of blood to the head -- not by any substantial physical hit or anything external.

Post-doctor analysis, Clarence, Jenn's mildly attractive and ridiculously funny supervisor, ordered her home for the day. She was to take Friday off as well, only to return spick-and-span Saturday morning. Jenn asked what they'd do with Claude. Clarence supposed that the park's legion of engineer's would be able to fix the broken brute. Jenn re-envisioned Claude's neck and head snapping back against the concrete over-and-over. She was skeptical that the monstrous walking machine would rise again.

After returning her wardrobe to its proper place, Jenn headed home and slept her same usual sleep, imbued with the same boring old dream. She awoke in the middle of the night having to urinate, and struggled to fall asleep afterwards, her mind filling with the image of Claude's demise. After sleeping in, she lounged around the hotel room, spinning a yarn of the fallen Claude to Tiff and seeing her roommate off before perusing HBO and the other fine amenities that come along with hotel life.

Somewhere between the Price is Right and that Kelly Ripa morning show, a discrete knock came to the door. The knocker was a well-vested man who called himself Mark Janner.

"May I speak to you for a few moments, Ms. Calling," he said to her from the hallway.

"Umm... Sure."

"Would you prefer I come in, or would you feel more comfortable if we spoke in the lobby?"

"Here's fine. Come in."

Mr. Janner unbuttoned his suit as he waddled in his briefcase in tow.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Janner?" Jenn said.

"No thank you, Ms. Calling."

"It's really not bad. Although, it's a bit strange, they don't give you more than one filter at a time, so every evening when I get home from work I ask for an extra one so that there's enough for Tiff to have two cups. I usually mean to drink a cup in the morning, but I always forget until it's too late and it's time to go," Jenn waxed a little nervous. This uppity dressed lawyer was calling her by her fake name. What if he was onto the ruse. Jenn tried her darndest to suppress any reddening of her cheeks or twitches or anything that would give her falsehood away. The result was that when she was not speaking, she sat, back arched straight up, so that her upper body held itself stiff like a mannequin. Then when she did talk her posture collapsed briefly, only to be firmly re-established as soon as her tongue lapsed into silence once more. Back and forth. Relaxed. Mannequin. Relaxed. Mannequin.

The lawyer didn't seem to take much notice. "I'm here because of what occurred yesterday at St. Denis' in Magical Kingdom. Are you aware of what I am referring to?"

"Claude's death." Jenn had awoken at 3am from her same, agonizing repetitive brown dream, but when she tried to go back to sleep, the image of that mechanical giraffe slamming its head against the pavement wouldn't bleed out of Jenn's consciousness. It rattled her and kept her blood racing for a decent half hour. Needing some sort of remedy to this nauseating image, Jenn decided on a piecemeal thought-funeral.

Poor old Claude had gone to meet his mechanical maker in the sky. Jenn tore off two pieces of toilet paper, interlaced them to make a cross, delicately placed the cross in the calm pool of the toilet, and ceremoniously flushed the cross (and her goodbyes) down the toilet, all the while pushing away the persnickety thought that funerals and deaths and ceremonies were all myths that she shouldn't buy into. These myths weren't yet tested, so she had no concept of whether or not they were useful data in which to solve the world with or not. But the emotions of 3:30am ran far swifter than reason. Jenn's sense of duty fulfilled, she was able to slip off into dream world once more, where the walls of brown once again welcomed her home.

"What's this? Who's Claude?" The attorney was confused and astonished at Jenn's remark.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I named the mechanical giraffe Claude. So, you know, he was killed. He died. Claude's death."

Seeing no levity in the moment whatsoever, the lawyer continued unwavering. "Ms. Calling, I've been hired on behalf of Dr. Miles Faa to represent Mr. Mohammad Najjar."

"Who?"

"Mr. Najjar is the man who is presumed to have run into your giraffe."

"Oh. Alright. And what was that other name? Something Flagg?"

"Miles Faa is Mr. Najjar's hypno-psychologist. He had been working with Mr. Najjar for several months to help Mr. Najjar overcome his trauma."

"What trauma?"

"That's his business. Now, I want you to know that you're very likely to be visited by another attorney later today. As I understand it, your employer, the Magical Kingdom, is performing its own investigation into the matter, so you'll likely want to repeat everything you tell me to this other lawyer. It does no one any good if your story changes from person-to-person."

Now on solid footing knowing that this stick-in-the-mud wasn't investigating her identity, Jenn felt more inclined to play ball and push back. "Excuse me, why do you think I would have any reason to change my story. I've got no reason to lie."

"Ms. Calling, it's been less than 24 hours since the incident. I am only hired by very accomplished men and women. I don't do nothing cases. This one is only in its infancy, but the worry is that because of Mr. Najjar's ethnicity and nationality, he will be tried in a court of law as a terrorist."

"What?"

"Surely you can understand then, how important every little piece of information is. And the fact of the matter is, Ms. Calling, if that is who you really are, is that after only an hour of research by my team, we've found you to be of very suspicious origin. May I ask where you were born."

Sirens in Jenn's head. "No you may not."

"Where did you live before you started working at Magical Kingdom?"

"I don't have to answer that."

The needle-eyed lawyer pressed further. "Who pays for this hotel room?"

"Tiff does."

"How did you meet Tiff?"

"We're just friends. Have been for a long time." Jenn felt queasy openly lying like that.

"Is that right," Mr. Janner said smugly. "What is Tiff's last name?"

O'Malley. No, that was Flusher's last name, and Tiff and Flush weren't really brother-and-sister. But did Mr. Janner know her name? Surely not. He'd know the name Tiff has on her fake I.D. Think, old girl, think. What did Tiff say her name was?

Jenn was taking too long to respond and she knew it. The attorney filled the silence, "Good. I was hoping that was how it would be."

Jenn suppressed panic once more. What did he mean by that?

"Like what? It doesn't have to be like anything."

A conniving smile. "Do you believe Mr. Najjar rammed the mechanism you were riding as an act of terrorism?"

It was time to play roulette with this slime-ball. "What does it matter what I think? What do you need me for?"

"I'm simply trying to get witness testimony on the event that took place yesterday. You were in a prime location to see exactly what occurred."

"Perhaps. But there were many people there. Six men go along with my litter. Why are you pressing me with vague threats?"

"No one's threatening anyone, Ms. Calling."

"But you researched me this morning, why?"

"Do diligence. My team does that with every potential witness."

"No. I don't think so. You were digging. And you came into my hotel room with specific intent. If you just wanted a witness, you'd treat me like a lady and ask me what happened yesterday from A-to-Z. You wouldn't jump straight to your client's intent."

Another smile, this one less assured. Jenn's gamble paid off. "Shall I try again? I haven't come here to make enemies. I am an attorney, I'm used to being lied to and used. People always try to manipulate me, to tell me either what they think I want, or what they think they need."

"All I do is play Cleopatra."

Janner sighed. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"Alright. Let's start over." And with that, the blood sucking lawyer stood up, re-buttoned his suit jacket, and briskly walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Jenn hung her head exhaling with relief. She had no idea who this man was, or who he really represented, but he wanted something, badly.

~~~

Life for Jenn is not going to slow down. Stay with her, for the road is long and hard that out of darkness leads into... solving the world.

Chapter Ten: Illusion

"Alright. Let's start over." And with that, the blood-sucking lawyer stood up, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and briskly walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Knock. Knock. Knock. No pause. Mark Janner carried himself back into Jenn's hotel room with poise. Jenn's stomach churned.

"Here's the thing," Janner stated whilst he unbuttoned his suit jacket and took a seat. "You're a nobody right now. If you were to become a somebody, suddenly, then things won't go too well for you. Magical Kingdom will start to ask itself what sort of Cleopatra it put its trust in. They'll begin to ask questions. People that you thought were your friends will spy on you. They'll tell your secrets to men you've never met and never will. At best, you'll walk away fired. But then again, who knows what they'll find once they really get down and pry under your rock. Maybe, when they see all the fire ants mulling around in your past, they'll have reason to prosecute. They might even send you to prison. They do, mind you, have to make sure the park is safe. And then again, maybe prosecuting you would be too costly. Magical Kingdom will never take the risk of having some skank girl make them look bad in the public's eye. You're not worth that type of effort. So maybe you just... disappear. You don't think giant organizations like Magical Kingdom backed by Babbits and d'Anconia's couldn't, and wouldn't, snuff you out like Sunday evening's paper?"

"Well, that's nice. I see you've just gone right on past vague threats into calling me names."

"Yes, I'll call you names, Jennifer... Calling." Janner's stress on Jenn's fake last name belied the point that he knew it was a croc.

"What do you want, kind sir?" Jennifer smiled at the ghastly man, attempting to heap ashes on his indecent head.

"When Mohammad Najjar hit your giraffe, do you believe that he did so as a terrorist plot?"

Jenn didn't see the harm of answering honestly if it got rid of the swarmy dirtbag. "No. I do not."

"Will you testify to that in court?"

"Sure."

"Now was that so hard?"

"Guess what, dirt wad. I taped this whole encounter. I'll take your badgering of a witness to a judge." Jenn liked the empowering feeling lying through her teeth gave her.

"Miss Calling, I work for many powerful people. Nay... many... painfully strong people. Do you understand? I've had to do many things, many things that some would call unsavory. You know why I do it? Because I like the dance of it all. I feed off the thrill. Yes, I'm a cliche-ridden, blood sucking lawyer, and you have no concept of what that actually entails, Miss Calling. So I warn you, and I advise you: if you're going to stick your neck out, priming your cute little head for the guillotine, than understand that:

"A. I can smell lies, and;

"B. It will never be worth it. You'll lose and the powerful that you're protecting will watch you silently as you bleed out."

Huck, a 20 year old, short-eared elephant greeted Jenn as she came into work the next morning. Cleopatra had apparently moved on from giraffes of the mechanical variety and now found real Asian elephants most pleasing to her tastes. As it turned out, Huck and Jenn got along splendidly. Jenn couldn't help but loving the gentle, hulking giant. Elephants are always smiling.

Guideline #7. Always smile, even when you don't feel like it.

After a day's worth of riding the largest land-based mammal on Earth, Jenn returned to her motel room, eager to assault her roommate with a battery of questions.

"Tiff, can we talk?"

"Are you asking the question I think you're asking?" Tiff replied.

"Umm... what are we really here for?"

"That's the ticket! Are you ready for the answer?"

"I better be after yesterday... you know what happened to me, right?"

"You stayed home all day."

"Yeah, and I was practically assaulted by two lawyers... well, actually, the second one was nice and boring, but that first guy was a real doozy. You know he threatened me?"

"What did he say?"

"I think he knows I'm a fake. He implied that I could be uncovered and that things wouldn't go well for me if I didn't do what he wanted me to do."

Tiff went rigid. "What did he want?"

"Just to appear in court and say that the guy who attacked me isn't a terrorist."

"And what did you say?!"

"I said what he wanted me to say. I don't think the guy was attacking me. He never even looked at me. I saw that look in his eyes. He was intent on the giraffe. Maybe he's a giraffe terrorist. Do those exist?" Jenn said, only half-joking. "So, anyway, he came in here all angry and threatening-like, so I figure I better hear what Patriot wants us to do. If he wanted me to tell people that guy _is_ a terrorist, then I think we're in trouble."

"No, it's nothing like that." Tiff walked over to her bedside table. She grabbed a folded up map of Magical Kingdom, unfolding it on the kitchen table for Jenn to overview. "You work here, at the sixth peak, St. Denis. I work over in St. Anthony's. At the center of the park is Saints Row, where they're building the newest attraction, the one they'll reveal on Veneration Celebration." Jenn must have looked lost, because Tiff annoyingly continued, "You know, the whole point of the park hiring all the extra workers?!"

"I know, I know. I was just thinking."

"Right, well, on November 1st they'll reveal the ride, and then navigate the ride over to its home turf—its peak destination. Our job is to find out where the new ride goes before Veneration Celebration. That gives us three weeks."

"Why didn't Patriot tell me this from the start?"

"We wanted you to just enjoy the job and make real friends first. We thought if you knew right away, you might ask too many questions and act weird. Patriot says this is one of the biggest secrets in the world. Everyone wants to know the answer. He says that if we succeed this year, he can use the knowledge to break the Parrots once and for all." The glee with which Tiff spoke of the destruction of the Parrots Jenn neither understood nor found appealing. So she grimaced. Tiff caught Jenn's look.

SMACK!

Tiff swiped Jenn's face with all her might. Stunned, Jenn stood still like a deer awaiting certain, terrifying death. "If you knew what the Parrots did, if you knew how grotesque they were, then you'd never dare to look at me that way. I'm fighting the bad guys, Jenn. The Parrots are bad." Tiff, fuming, seized Jenn by the cheeks with both cold, steel hands. "Say it: the Parrots are bad."

"The Parrots are bad." Jenn said.

Tiff relented and let go. Jenn sprinted to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She wasn't about to let Tiff hit her again.

Okay, think. Think, old girl, think. Jenn thought. What is going on? Tiff's crazy. There's no way I can find out the park's secret. I don't have any secret clearance or knowledge. Do they expect me to sneak in somehow? Do they expect me to hurt someone? I'm not going to hurt anyone. Tiff is mad. I didn't even say anything. She just went off. I just want to ride Huck and smile at the people.

A vicious pounding on the door shattered Jenn's thought stream. Oh God, Oh God in heaven. She's going to break down the door!

"Open the door, Jenn! You can't run away from me! I'll tell Patriot! He'll kill you, Jennifer, he'll tear your tongue out and feed it to the rest of us!"

Hyperventilating. Breath. Breath. Slow-down, Oh God, slow-down. Shooting pain. Like thunder bolting through her chest. Oh God. She's coming in. She's coming in. I can't stop her now.

Jenn fainted... and it's in this moment that I chose to send Itamar Levi to her dreams.

"Hello Jennifer Dash," he says.

"I know you," Jennifer says, dumbfounded.

"I'm just a witness. And a messenger."

"I don't understand. How did you get here, how do you know me? Why are you in my bathroom?"

"My name is Itamar Levi."

"How do you know my name, Itamar?"

"I've been telling people about you. Telling them your story."

"My story? No. That's not right—it's your story I'm following."

"It's a very good story, isn't it?" he smiles reassuringly to persuade Jenn. Her fugue state remains a cloudy mess. It's a visual puzzle—but there's too many pieces missing. Nothing makes sense.

"Do you know what's happening to me?"

"You're caught in a whirlwind."

That sounds right to Jenn, "I think so, yes."

"What are you going to do next?"

"Stay in the bathroom. Wait for Tiff to rip my tongue out."

"But you're so much stronger than that. You have so much more story to live."

"Are you my guardian angel?"

"Maybe... I don't know, exactly."

"I always thought guardian angels were supposed to be angels—not people... not people I eavesdrop on at a burger joint.

Itamar shrugs the comment off. "Jenn, you say you want to solve the world. You do good by setting this goal."

"I do?"

"Absolutely. I love that about you."

"Do you know what's going to happen to me?"

"Well, yes. You sent me here... well, you asked to have some things fixed. So I was sent."

"This is the weirdest dream I've ever had."

"You'll probably remember it that way, yes. But I have something you need to remember."

"Okay, li'l genie, what do you want me to remember?"

Itamar blushes. It's a strange thing to meet the person at the center of your world. For Itamar, the blush of being recognized shifts toward a certain personal despair. If Jennifer Dash is the center of the story, the center of the world, then he is not. His self worth ungulates under this existential revelation. He breathes, remembers my directions and refocuses his efforts to Jenn and to the moment. "Alright, but understand, I can't tell you too much. If I do, too much might change. If that happens, then who knows how this plays out. The adventure's thrilling, Jenn, and worth the wait. I don't want to ruin that by stepping in too far."

"Okay... so what is it... what do I need to remember?"

"I'm going to say it three times because I think your memory of this moment will become quite, quite hazy. I don't want you to just remember my ravishing good looks and masculine voice, and forget what I'm actually here for."

"You are handsome, aren't you?"

_She called me handsome_ , Itamar thinks, _Yippee_!

"Jennifer Dash, when the time comes, scream. At the top of your lungs. Scream, Jenn. Scream."

"Like right now, as soon as I wake up?"

"You'll know when is when."

"How?"

"You're just going to have to trust this beautiful face of mine."

"I'll scream as soon as I wake up. Someone will save me from Tiff."

Sigh. "Do you know how much Tiff weighs?"

Jenn shrugs.

"98 pounds. She has no axe. No gun. She's not getting through that door. You're overestimating the danger here. Now, it's time for you to go back. Go solve the world, Jennifer Dash."

"No wait. I don't know how! I haven't gotten anywhere. I'm just lost. Completely lost."

I couldn't just leave her with that question in the air. I can't spoon-feed her reality forever, but if you were me, if you were given the keys like I am, wouldn't you do the same? I have Itamar say to her, "Jenn, this whirlwind you're in now, it's just a system. People form systems to guard themselves from the chaos of life. The truth is everyone is lost. Utterly, horrendously lost. You know the old saying, 'no one gets out of here alive'?"

"Then why am I here?"

"Whatever you do, wherever you go Jenn Dash, smile. Smile at your adventures. Scratch behind Huck the elephant's ears. Laugh. Be filled with joy. The world is so much. It's incredible. Just be happy to be a living, active participant. And with your smiles, your laughter, your joy, and your determined curiosity, you'll slowly be able to pull back the curtain. You'll see with eyes true. Trust me. I know more than you think."

Jenn smiles. "Thank you for coming, Itamar."

She approaches him. He shudders with sheepish apprehension. Jenn kisses his forehead.

"Thank you for giving me Leviathan," Jenn says.

Itamar locks onto her eyes as he slowly evaporates. "Remember: scream. Don't forget to scream. With all your lungs. When the time is right. Don't hesitate. Scream. Scream. Scream, Jenn."

Itamar Levi fades into oblivion and Jenn opens her eyes to the white bathroom door. Tiff's screams continue and the doorknob shakes with each fist pound.

Jenn smiles. She's safe behind this door.

~~~

In the next chapter, Jenn smiles at two men. One will wax poetic, while the other leads Jenn behind the curtains of Magical Kingdom, driving her to question deeper how this world within a world really works.

Chapter Eleven: The Seducers

Figure One: Dominic Berkeley, 64 years of age, English, Father of three, Grandfather to nine. Widower for thirty-three years. Favorite read: _The Merchant of Venice_. Favorite writer: Lewis Carroll. Favorite film: _12 Angry Men_. Owner of one talkative English Mastiff named Izzard Cummings. Today he finds himself with little Madeleine Eberdeen, his 14-year-old granddaughter. Maddie recently decided to convert to Catholicism. Mr. Berkeley, in no want of money, chose to celebrate this occasion by flying Maddie and himself to Magical Kingdom. He had hoped to go on Veneration Celebration but there was just no way. Tickets had already sold on Ebay for northwards of $2k. Mr. Berkeley had no time for such scavenging. Upon arrival, Maddie had desperately wanted to ride the roller coaster at St. George's, which, according to the line-markers, was at minimum a 90 minute wait. Mr. Berkeley was rather flustered by the aspect of "rides" and preferred to spend that time leisurely strolling about the grounds of the park. Leisurely strolling, after all, was very much his forte. So it was that he was alone when he happened upon Jennifer Dash, his granddaughter still 55 minutes from her intended roller coaster seat.

Seeing Jennifer, Mr. Berkeley sauntered over to her amidst her posse as they waddled toward the headless saint.

"Hello up there!" He yelled jovially.

"Why, hello!" Jenn said gayfully down to the pedestrian.

"I see you're riding an Asian elephant!"

"Yes, I've been told Huck here is of the Asian persuasion." Jenn was proud of her little turn of phrase there, but was afraid her quip wouldn't be heard over all the parade commotion.

"That's a little funny, you see, because it seems that Cleopatra would most surely ride an African Elephant, seeing that she was from Africa."

Jenn scratched behind Huck's ear. The elephant appeared to smile as he sauntered on down the avenue. "The other day I asked my supervisor if we could paint Huck here bright yellow or green. The whole parade is a blend of times and ideas, so why not play off that! Huck needs some color!"

"Ah. Esse es percipi."

"Yeah, I guess... but they didn't like the idea very much. So Huck here just has to be who he is."

"Young lady, how do you like being Cleopatra?"

Jenn decided to take a chance. "Huck, down!"

Slowly, perhaps begrudgingly, Huck the elephant bent both his front knees. Jenn unbuckled herself and hopped off.

"Hello, I'm Cleopatra." She extended her hand to shake Mr. Berkeley's. She'd never gotten off Huck. She knew it was expressly forbidden on the mechanical giraffe, but no one said anything about Huck.

Mr. Berkeley vigorously shook her hand. "I'm Dominic Berkeley."

"Mr. Berkeley, you may kiss my hand if you wish." She pawed out her hand, as if ignoring the fact that they just shook hands as equals.

"That would be splendidly lovely, your majesty." With amazing dexterity for a man coming on in years, Mr. Berkeley bent down and kissed Cleopatra's hand.

"I see you don't have a wedding ring on, your majesty."

"I'm but 18 years old! But sadly, I am to be married to my runt of a brother." Jenn tried her best at adding a providential, majestic accent to her voice, but with no prior experience with the elite class, she was quite out of her element, and the accent showcased her ignorance.

"Ah, so you haven't yet met Caesar!"

"No, I have not yet had the honor."

"I'm sure he'll be lovely."

"Oh, certainly... so what's a well-dressed man as yourself doing marching with all these regular pedestrians?" Jenn liked role-playing, and she felt safe with this man.

"Last week my Doc told me I've got six weeks to live. I've never been a religious man, but have always held that our perceptions of things make the world. I believe in the education of my doctor, therefore when he tells me I'm going to die, I'm going to die based on my conviction, not because of the virus feeding on my organs." Mr. Berkeley was lying of course, but it didn't matter.

"I'm so sorry."

"Oh, don't be. Do you know that color, or, what I mean to say is, the colors we see... this apple is red, that grass is green... all that is illusion."

"How do you mean, citizen?" Jenn threw the 'citizen' in there to remind herself that she was playing a part; to remind herself not to get too involved here.

"As I understand it, the colors we see are the colors that the objects are not. A red apple is really every color but red. It absorbs every color, but red. So it pushes red out. The one thing it distastes we perceive. Reality isn't what it seems to be."

Jenn studied Mr. Berkeley's face in an effort to grasp the relevance of the scientific nugget.

"So, I'm here because Saints believe in healing. If I hope in perception, if I focus all my efforts on it, then maybe that becomes my reality. I'm hoping something here in this 'Magical Kingdom' will strike me down, dumb and blind to reality. I'm hoping I fall in love with a myth so deeply that it surpasses my faith in my Doc. Understand, your highness?"

"I think so." Remember, old girl, you're Cleopatra. "But should your plebeian life have any affect on me?" Jenn mentally patted herself on the back for the exacting use of the word _plebeian_.

"Ah, precisely!" The older man dared to match Jenn's eyes with intense life. "Now you've got it. If perception rules our world, then my perception matters not to you, unless I can somehow make it relevant to you."

"Yes, do so. I command you."

"Very well, your benevolence."

St. Denis, full of head in hands, ran by screaming, "The end of the day is nigh! The sky is black and cold and bright and free! Long live the king of the Universe! Saints Row! SAINTS ROW! THE VENERATION CELEBRATION WILL OCCUR AT SAINTS ROW! BEWARE, BEWARE THE AWFUL PRICE OF TREASON!!"

"You see St. Denis here?"

"Of course," Jenn politely replied.

"Do you think he exists if nobody sees him?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he were alone, running through the streets, and there was no one in the world around to hear or see him, would he exist?"

"Of course he would, silly."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he's real."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see him. I can hear him."

"What you're seeing and hearing is a movie starring St. Denis."

"What?"

"Your brain accepts the external stimulus of man with head-in-hands, words screamed, and translates that into a series of ideas that you compute as a story."

"You're saying there's a step between reality and perception?"

"Oh, it's much more than a step; it's an untearable veil. We can never, ever, truly pull away the curtain to see what, or who, is behind it."

"But it just doesn't stand to reason. If you can't trust your senses then life becomes utterly meaningless. You don't exist. I don't exist to you. Living out that belief would make one purely selfish..." Jenn was thinking this through. "And that's kinda ironic, because if one is solely selfish, then I'd bet money that this 'reality is perception-er' will seek out very sensual pleasures to fill the gap of time. The man who rejects the world is destined to worship it." Jenn didn't hold back showing off her pleasure with herself. She liked these philosophical battles, finding them far sweeter than the rash of physical encounters she'd had of late.

"What others do with this information is none of my concern," Mr. Berkeley said with a smirk. "But I'll challenge you this way, for the sake of the game." He cleared his throat. "Imagine a floating tennis ball."

"Okay... done! Imagining!"

"What do you see?"

"I see the green ball floating maybe four, five feet above a marble floor."

"You see?"

"Yeah." By the look in his face, Jenn realized she'd somehow lost the war.

"It is impossible to imagine something without you putting yourself into the picture. In dreaming up the floating ball, you had to imagine yourself observing it."

"No! I didn't do that."

"You said, 'I see the green ball floating', did you not?"

"Well, yeah, but that was only a turn of phrase."

"Of course it was, but your use of language is more than mere artistry. Your language is dictating how you think and process."

"Alright, I relent. You win; but even so, I'm still failing to connect this abstraction to anything relevant. Whether St. Denis is real or not, I still interact with him as if he were, just as I'm talking to you as if you're real, and not merely a composition of my various perceptions."

"ooooOOOoo. I'm impressed, dear Queen. The point is this: we all should cease to exist when we fall out of perception... but we don't. No one does. St. Denis would still exist, screaming obscenities with his head lobbed off even if no one ever experienced him."

"But you just said—"

"I said he wouldn't exist if no one saw or heard him. But he does exist, and therefore, there has to be a better answer."

"A better answer? And what's that?"

"We're all in a story! A big one. One that stretches through all of history and all of imagination." Mr. Berkeley snickered. "And you, madame, apparently get to play a big, sweeping role."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, after all, you are Cleopatra!"

Figure 2: Antonio D'Anconia. 36 years of age. South American by heritage, exotic looking by choice. The three hours a day he spends in the weight room has served him well. He's a real-life "David" tediously formed out of hammer and chisel.

"You are beautiful."

"Thank you."

"You are beautiful. Are you allowed to get off the elephant like that?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. But Huck here is so good at kneeling over, I couldn't resist getting down... you know, I wanna be where the people are!"

"You look marvelous. Who're you supposed to be?"

"You can't tell? I'm clearly Cleopatra."

"Who?"

"Cleopatra. You know, _Caesar and Cleopatra_ followed by _Antony and Cleopatra_. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. No? Nothing."

The handsome man took advantage of the lingering silence. He knelt down, caressed Jenn's face with his right hand and softly, with deliberate care, kissed Jenn on the lips. The embrace was calm and subtle. A thousand fireflies soared through Jenn's body. She'd never been kissed before. It was heavenly. She felt herself lifting off the ground, floating above perception and reality, above Magical Kingdom and the cosmos.

She floated away. Away from the trials of life, the stresses of self-confidence. Here nothing mattered. It didn't matter whether there was story, or trees falling in an abandoned forest. There was nothing. Just this. Only this. A moment devoid of anything. And yet, it was the ecstasy of everything. Every emotion. She could kill an enemy. She could slay the dragon. She could marry the Prince. She could die happy. She could die fighting. She could die. It'd all be okay.

Everything was fine. Everything was nothing. Everything was everything.

When she opened her eyes, she caught him gazing at her, gauging her response. She smiled. He kissed her again.

One of the litter, a boy about Jenn's age who'd kept in a deep affection and crush for Jenn, cursed himself and cursed this kissing stranger. That boy's world was ruined then. But Jenn was utterly unaware of such pains near her. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of perception, out of reality.

The second kiss was more passionate, and Jenn couldn't resist leaning into it. As they kissed she felt the Don Juan's chest. It was rock hard. From what wonderful fairy tale did this Charming fall from?

The two separated for a moment to catch their breaths. Jenn smiled the biggest smile of her life. Oh to be loved! To be caressed and held. There was nothing on Earth like this.

"Do you know St. Drogo's?"

"Sure, but I can't get in there."

"I have a reservation there tonight. Would you have dinner with me there?"

"Yeah."

"Great. Meet me outside the mansion at 9:00pm, can you swing that?"

"Sure."

The unnamed kissing bandit began to walk away. For the first time, Jenn noticed that he was with an entourage of similarly dressed and proportioned men. The others stood staring a few yards off at the two love-birds. The unnamed man looked back towards her as he rejoined the group.

"And wear something magnificent! I want to see you in your most lovely form."

"Sure," she dumbfoundedly responded.

Just like that, he was gone. She watched him until he was out of sight. Once out of range, Jenn called for Huck, and quickly holstered herself on top the beast where she could once again spot her new lover. Boy was he gorgeous.

Dreamily, Jenn rode Huck. She remained blithely unaware of her surroundings for some time. Then, with a jolt, sudden panic. The last parade of the day was at 7:45. Usually, by the time she was ready to get home, it was well past 9:15, 9:30. Plus, she had nothing that she could wear to impress. Nothing would do. She'd have to buy a dress. But with what money? It was 2:20 in the afternoon—only a few hours to solve the riddle, and dress to forever impress.

Once off Huck, before the 5:15 parade, Jenn strolled by Susan's, her morning makeup artist, to ask her if she could borrow some money.

Guideline #4: Don't owe anyone anything.

Susan asked what for—Jenn opaquely answered, "For a date. I need to buy a dress."

"Honey, that's what they pay you for. I don't lend money out. It never ends well."

Try, try, try again.

She knocked on her supervisor's door, Clarence. She maximized her pouty lips and big eyes to the best of her ability. He handed her a twenty, saying that's all the cash he had. Jenn gambled—

_Guideline #5. Don't gamble what you don't have_.

—with her luck, asking as kindly as possible if Clarence would go get some cash out of the employee ATM. He, very much annoyed, declined the offer.

4:49 p.m. She was already four minutes late for set-up. She hurried over to Huck. Upon her ascent of her gentle giant, she feigned twisting her ankle. No one seemed to notice, so she turned on the waterworks. She collapsed into a pathetic pile beside Huck and wept her eyes out. Evidentially, Everett (the boy in deep in the throes of unrequited love-lust for Jenn) came to Jenn's side. She complained that she sprained her ankle. Everett carried her away from Huck. As he carried her, he told the crying beauty he'd take her to Clarence and explain the situation.

PANIC! Clarence was already frustrated with her, he'd smell her bluff a mile off.

"No, no, no, no, no, no! You can't take me to him! I'm so embarrassed!"

"Oh. Okay, we'll I'll just take you to the lounge and explain the situation to him. There's only two shows left today. We can just parade with the elephant without you. It'll be no problem. I'll talk Clarence over, you'll see."

If Jenn focused on Everett at all, she'd be able to read all over his face that he was falling on his own sword, dooming himself to zone: friendship. Sentence: life. She'd be able to see the sad song in his eyes of how every nice guy in the end finishes last... but she couldn't be bothered with any of that right now.

Everett gently laid Jenn down on a couch in the lounge while he went to discuss the situation with Clarence. As soon as Everett was out of earshot, Jenn escaped at top-speed.

Guideline #8: Make friends everywhere, but don't trust one friend over another.

Rather than exiting the park, Jenn made her way to peak 2, St. Anthony's. She jogged around the streets, peering in and out of lines here and there until she found her prize.

"Tiff, hey, over here, hi!" The two making eye contact, Tiff begrudgingly made her way from the trash she was collecting, towards her roommate.

"What do you want?"

"Listen, I met this guy today—"

"Oh brother!"

"No, listen to me." Pulling a move out of Tiff's own book, Jenn seized Tiff's face with her hand and squeezed. "Listen to me." Jenn let go.

Tiff massaged her jaw in humbled subservience. "This guy invited me to a reservation tonight at St. Drogo's. He was dressed super fancy. Maybe there's secrets in the mansion I can find. I can snoop around while I'm there. Find stuff out. You know, this could be what we are waiting for."

Tiff stiffened up. This was business now. "Okay. What do you need from me?"

"He asked me to dress real nice. I need something fancy."

Tiff got it. Immediately. She unceremoniously unzipped her trashman's jumpsuit and reached for her cell phone in her pocket.

_Why wasn't I given a cell phone?_ Jenn wondered.

"Hey Louie, what's up? Hey, I've got the girl here—Yeah, at the park. She's going to need to speak to Patriot, like ASAP. Can you let Patriot know and have someone pick her up at the park?" Tiff held the phone with one hand and diverted her attention to Jenn, "When's the date?"

"9 o'clock."

"She needs to see him right away. Like really. Tell Patriot it's about getting the secret. Okay—okay great. Love you, Louie-pooh!" She collapsed the phone and darted her eyes back on Jenn.

"Okay, we're on. Louie'll get a car to the C-building, and he'll get you to Patriot."

"Do I have to see him?"

"He'll know best what to do. Now scram!" Tiff shoed Jenn off.

And so it went. The game was on.

Jenn met a man she didn't recognize in the C-building parking lot of Magical Kingdom. In hindsight, she thought, she could have easily just been kidnapped, as she was motioned by this strange man into his suburban. Coulda been anyone.

After what felt like quite a long ride, Jenn and mystery man arrived at a manhole. An ordinary manhole. A good steward of his role, mystery man lifted the heavy circle with a crow bar and motioned for Jenn to descend. Hesitantly, Jennifer Dash returned to the underworld.

It only took a few paces to realize they were not in the same section of underbelly that Jenn last experienced. These tunnels were better lit. A string of Christmas-like lights guided their feet, and above, large china balls illuminated their travel.

The Patriot's room was far different than the last. Jenn noticed the lack of food immediately. Patriot was laying on a king-sized bed staring up at a flat screen mounted to the ceiling. When awoken from his staring stupor, the Patriot bolted up with eager anticipation.

"Come, come! I hear my little butterfly has some news for me?!"

"News... sir?"

"Yes, yes, but don't give it all away yet. Seger, leave us... and lock the door behind you."

Seger slammed the door with an authoritative thud. Patriot smiled a soul-crushing smile.

"Now we are alone."

Guideline #10: People will always want something from you. Find out what it is.

"It's safe now, sweetheart. You can tell me what you know."

"Nothing yet, sir."

The smile on his fat face twisted, sticking somewhere between confusion and fury. A bead of sweat dripped from his widow's peak down his cheek before being caught up in the ridge of his contorted mouth and slinking onto his lips.

"Nothing. Why nothing? I was told you had urgent news for me!"

"Yes, sir. You see, I was invited to St. Drogo's tonight..." That information didn't get the rise out of him that Jenn was hoping for. "This well-dressed man invited me, but it's this evening..." Jenn let her sentence trail off.

"What's this 'well-dressed' man's name?"

It wasn't until that moment that Jenn took a breath and comprehended that her new-found lover, her first kiss, was from a man she didn't even know the name of. Silly, she thought, I did the same thing with Atticus.

Atticus. The thought of him brought a subtle knife's edge to Jenn's conscience. She had really liked the boy, and now, just like that, she had moved on. Found a lover. Maybe a mate for life. Who knew? The two of them could sail the seven seas together in search of long lost Leviathan and honeymoon in Venice, and learn how Eskimos live and learn how to sword fight like the medieval Spanish and kiss at the pinnacle of the Eiffel tower and, and, and—

"You don't know his name, do you?"

"No, sir," Jenn replied bashfully.

"So you're just hoping that you can maybe snoop around, look under a lamp at St. Drogo's or find something etched into the stall in the girls' bathroom that would lead us to victory? Is that it? Is that all you've got?"

"I guess so. Yes, sir."

"Then what do you need from me? Why did you have to interrupt my very busy and costly schedule. Do you know the type of havoc you've introduced into my daily regimen?"

"I need a dress." She blurted it out. For love, she'd do this. She'd risk getting her tongue ripped out just to look ravishing for her lover-bear. Oh, that tongue. What a marvel!

Strangely and awkwardly, the Patriot grinned a sideways smile. "Ah, I see." Shimmying himself back, the Patriot rested his bellicose back against the bed frame. "You need me to buy you an outfit."

"Yes, sir."

"St. Drogo's won't get you anywhere. My eyes and ears have searched it, oh, two, three, four, five hundred times. You have to do better than that. So then, that's not why you're here. You're not really here to honor me at all, are you?"

Not knowing how to answer such a rigged question as that, Jenn remained standing silent and stoic.

"ANSWER ME! You're here for yourself. I know it. I can smell it on you. You want to be considered fancy. You want to make believe you're upper-class. I get you a job, a place to stay, and you repay me by claiming royalty. Ha! That's a riot. Get out of my sight."

"Wait!" Jenn was out of cards. She needed to make a move, and this was the moment.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I see how it is now. But can't... can't a girl want nice things? And I am serious, I'm very good at getting what I want out of people, you'll see. If this man can get me into St. Drogo's on the day he met me, then he must be someone important. Where does he take me on day two? Or maybe he knows someone. He may introduce me to someone. Let me do this. Let me work the gifts I was given. Please."

She'd won. She knew it immediately. The Patriot's furious demeanor evaporated. "Very good. Very good. So you need something."

"Yes, sir."

"You need a fancy dress to look pretty in?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now you know that I don't care about your childish games."

"Yes, sir."

"All the cards are on the table then. You have a request, I have the means to provide you what you want. But I know you have no money. No identity. Nothing at all to offer a potentate like me... perhaps... Cinderella, I'll grant your request. I'll get you to Prince Charming's ball. But there's something I want as well."

~~~

Magical Kingdom's seventh peak is about to welcome a new guest as the stakes begin to mount on Jennifer. Stay tuned.

## Chapter Twelve: Rewind

October 24th

10 PM

Jenn, as she's apt to do these days, tiptoed into her apartment. She never knew what mood she'd find Tiff in. To her surprise, she spotted Tiff sitting on the couch, head-in-hands, sobbing profusely.

"Jennifer, they took Flusher."

"What?" Jenn feigned astonishment. She knew a day like this was coming, but so soon?

"They... they... they think he's a spy!"

"What? How? Says who!" Jenn's outrage was only partially for show. She was deeply curious as to what the real situation with Flusher was. And she was still unsure as to who were the spies and who were the spy-ees.

"Look! Look at it yourself!!" Tiff pulled a jumbled paper, the _Los Angeles Chronicle_ , off the floor and handed it to Jenn.

"What am I looking at?" Jenn said as she thumbed through the paper.

"The editorial cartoon! The Mrs. Moose!"

And there it was. Clear as day. The likeness was undeniable for anyone who'd ever met Flusher. _How'd she get him so clearly?_ Jenn pondered.

There, in the center of the page, was an editorial cartoon by the famous Mrs. Moose. The picture showed two cats. The tabby on the left wore a tuxedo and a pin that read 'NSA'. This mongrel was ripping the underoos off of the cat on the right while a speaking bubble above NSA cat said "Show me everything". The right cat looked pathetic as all its dignity was being ripped from it. And the face of that deflowered, humbled cat was Flusher. It was Flusher's face on that cat's body. Jenn drew the paper closer to her eyes to scrutinize every detail.

But what did it mean? Why was Flusher drawn as the victim of the NSA? Tiff spoke up through her crying before Jenn had a chance to ask anything.

"It's all over now. It doesn't matter if he's innocent or not. HE IS! He's my brother! They took him away. I'll never see him again!"

"Who?"

"Patriot! Of course, Patriot! It's always him! He gives and takes away! Everything, everything, everything, everything, every, every, every, every..." Tiff fell onto the couch and screamed into the pillows. Jenn delicately walked over to her, placing a careful hand on Tiff's back.

"It's okay. It's okay...." Those words sounded dumb, but she could think of nothing intelligent to offer.

"You don't get it," Tiff said whilst breathing between sobs of ache. "Mrs. Moose is an insider agent. For the Patriot. For... us! AaahHHH!!!!" Again the sobs and screams.

This continued on for many minutes, Jenn sitting there feeling like a ghost in a room of pain. Not feeling like she was at all any help, Jenn retreated to the shower.

Water. Warm water on a tired face. A tired body. Jenn was thankful the shower noise blared out over Tiff's vocal pain.

_Mrs. Moose is an insider agent_ , Jenn recited in her head. _So... she must be a registered Patriot, like me. She's an old Patriot with deep connections... and she uses her political cartoons to send messages._ Jenn assumed she had pieced together something close enough to the truth now. The old philosopher was right, everyone's connected to a system. How deep did this Patriots and Parrots rivalry go? This much was sure; Flusher was outed. The system had eaten him.

As Jenn dried off before slipping off to bed, one last disturbing question came to mind. _Why wasn't Tiff included in the picture? Oh well..._ Jenn concluded, _I can't stay up worried about things outside my control. I did my part. And I'm so very sleepy._

44 hours earlier

October 23rd

2:00 AM

She wasn't sure what to wear. What does one wear for a domestic break-in? Actually, Jenn had a key to the backdoor and a clicker to what she assumed would be a front gate, so it would seem that this wasn't exactly trespassing. On the other hand, if this wasn't breaking and entering, then why the covertness? Why 2:00 a.m.? Jenn devised that it was better to assume the worst than to come clad in tie-dye and sparkles. She chose dark jeans, a black tank top, and pantyhose over the face. Who knows? Maybe it was a trap. At least the pantyhose would give her some hope of evading facial inspection.

Santa Barbara. What a peaceful, beautiful piece of the Earth. After the 95 mile cab ride, Jenn had the taxi drop her off at the University of California Santa Barbara's library so that the driver wouldn't expect any shenanigans. She hiked up from there, and planned to hike back down to call a separate cab back to L.A., whenever that would be.

Here now, this complex mansion, a sprawling, three-story home with spindles aplomb and splashes of orange and blue all about, stole Jenn's heart. Spotlights lit the house and highlighted the very real moat that bordered the building. This place echoed of a far off memory, like something loved at a very young age. This wasn't a building boasting in its own opulence like St. Drogo's. This was whimsy worth living for. The only problem, Jenn surmised from her initial intake, was that moat. She did not want to go for a 2 a.m. dip.

No guard on duty. No apparent security cameras monitoring the area. These were good signs (although Jenn was self-aware enough to know she had no idea where people put cameras these days).

Deciding to just own up to the experience— _I'm a ninja!_ —she scampered toward the front entrance like a cat. But the moat! The moat! What was to be done about the moat?

_Click_ —to Jenn's wonderful surprise, a simple click of her clicker resulted in a majestic drawbridge. Not waiting for any passerby to catch a glance of her, she hurried over.

Moat victored!

Next challenge: front door. This one was easy enough. Jenn used her key. Slip in, twist, slip out, pull. Door open. Sneak into the dark. Close door behind you.

The house was still and mostly dark; however, enough moonlight echoed through the windows to provide a comfortable portrait as to what lay ahead. It was a strange sight, unlike any architectural wonder Jenn had yet encountered in her young life. Three staircases. No way around them. Every guest (or intruder) had to pick one route. The staircases to either side slowly spun ninety degrees as they rose. The path most directly in front of her rose six steps, plateaued, and then submerged downward beyond one's line of sight. Jenn had been given instructions: choose the right path.

Surreptitiously she climbed the planks. She walked on tiptoes in an effort to minimize the creaking. It wasn't working very well. Mid-way up the steps, the board below her let out a ghastly squeak, leaving Jenn momentarily paralyzed. She listened for any movement. Did she wake anyone? Was there stirring? It didn't sound like it. Jenn took in the portraits decorating the wall. They were all thrones; animals sitting on elegant thrones. They were painted very life-like, except the animals each sat like humans, upright with prim posture. A lion, a hippo, a grizzly bear, an awkward ostrich, a hyena, a giraffe. The giraffe looked so much like Claude. The thought slammed through the corridors of Jenn's memory as she envisioned the horrid sight of that mechanical monster thrashing its head with such determined gusto against St. Denis' concrete.

Why was that memory so toxic?

Jenn shrugged it off, recommencing her ascent. Another door beckoned at the top of the flight. She nudged it ajar. A long hallway revealed itself. Jenn suppressed a frightened gasp, as she marked a light underneath the door of the last room on the right.

_Just my luck_ , Jenn thought, _the one room I need just so happens to be occupied at 2 a.m._

Three options stood before Jennifer Dash at that moment:

1. Run away. Go home.

2. Wait the light out. Hope that whoever is in there eventually goes to bed. Sneak in once full dark comes.

3. Go in anyway. Hope for the best.

Option one wasn't an option. Who knew what the Patriot would do to her, especially since he'd already made good on his half of the arrangement. Option two meant suspenseful waiting. Jenn wasn't sure her heart could take hours of that. And who knew, there was a good chance the light was left shining on accident.

Jenn held all her courage in her hands, and scurried down the hallway. No pictures hung on these walls. But the walls bled. They bled a candyland of colors, as if someone lit up the hall with paintballs. If she took the time to inspect more thoroughly, Jenn would have found evidence of this very assertion.

A few feet from the door, Jenn dropped to her knees. Then to her stomach. Like a prepubescent snake at a school dance, Jenn slithered awkwardly to the front of the door. The door was already ever so slightly ajar, not enough to see in, but it certainly made the job easier.

No knobs to turn. Just push.

Lying twisted on the carpet floor, Jenn nudged the door open.

Color.

Color everywhere.

Paintings, scribbles, drawings—everywhere. Every inch of this rather small room was covered with art. Cat art. Cat limbs, cat faces, cats smoking, cats singing, round cats, skinny cats, even cats with chickenpox! But wait, what's that? THERE! A body! A human body! Hunched over a drawing desk facing away from her! Jenn had bet wrong, there was someone here! To the left, hanging high up on the wall, right near the ceiling, Jenn spotted what she was looking for: the "Board of Inspiration"—a poster board already filled with various push-pinned notes and caricatures.

The body. It wasn't moving. It was a skinny little thing, with long, thin, white hair falling off the backside. Perhaps the person was asleep. A moment later, Jenn was convinced of it. She could still pull this off. Slowly, ever so delicately, she pushed herself off the ground. Once on her knees, she rose the rest of the way, ever keeping an eye on the sleeping corpse.

Tiptoeing.

One step, two steps, three.

Jenn wanted to leap over, finish the job, and rush out before the sleeper could arise to stop her. But prudence won out the moment. She pulled the photo out of her back pocket. There didn't appear to be a free pushpin on the board, so she was going to have to utilize one already commissioned. As Jenn neared the 'Board of Inspiration' (a stenciled sign showed off this name at the head of the panel itself), a chilling realization dawned on her.

_I can't reach it_ , Jenn thought. _It's too tall._

Jenn fancied herself a tall girl, and she surmised that she was at least half a foot taller than the old sleeper in the room, so either the 'Board of Inspiration' belonged to someone else, or there was a footstool around. Jenn scanned the room for such an instrument. It was hard to make out any one thing because every painting and doodad seemed to yell out at her. Everything concurrently vied for her attention.

There! By the sleeper's feet. By the sleeper's feet! An applebox! A second later and Jenn was back onto her stomach, inching towards the bedraggled dreamer. As she crept under the seat, she heard the sleeper's breath. Jenn outstretched her hand, trying to grab for the wooden carton without getting too enmeshed with the sleeper's chair. It remained just out of reach. Jenn tried again, stretching her fingers as far as possible.

"If you're going to use my step-ladder, dear, I must insist you introduce yourself."

The shock of the old lady's words jolted Jenn. She jerked her chest in fear, slamming her back against the bottom of the resurrected corpse's chair, nearly knocking the home-body out of her seat.

"Oh dear me!" The old lady exclaimed, sounding not unlike the Queen of England, even under this direct moment of duress. "Come out from under there! Good heavens!"

Sheepishly, Jenn scooted out. The gambit was over. She was caught. Good thing she brought the pantyhose to conceal her identity. As she stood she glared at this old lady. She looked a thousand years old. Jenn had never seen an older person in her life. Her eyes were so submerged in their sockets that Jenn could easily make out the outline of the withering woman's skull. It was terrifying and would be altogether revolting if not for the elderly woman's elegant voice.

"It's quite impolite to wear that poppycock over your face while we are being introduced." The tone was annoyed and stern. The lady presented her hand to shake. "My name is Gertrude Norman. I'm widely known as the cartoonist and author Mrs. Moose. How do you do, young lady?"

"I'm sorry," Jenn said barely above a whisper. Outwitted, outmatched, outplayed, Jenn removed the pantyhose and shook Gertrude's hand. It was like shaking hands with a skeleton, with the Grim Reaper.

"And what's your name?" Gertrude said in a teacherly oratory.

"Jennifer Dash." Stunned. Wrong name! "I mean, Jennifer Calling. Jenn Calling. Or just Jenn... my middle name is Free. Jenn Free Dash." _AahhH!_ "I mean Jenn Free Calling—Calling!"

"Miss Calling-Calling?"

"I mean, just one, just Calling."

"I see."

"I'm sorry for intruding."

"Why? Don't you have a key?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And a button for the drawbridge to pass over the moat?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"So how do you suppose that you're intruding?"

"I... I don't know you."

"I've told you my name, sweetheart."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Go ahead. Say my name."

Jenn's mind blanked. What did she say her name was? There were two names. And one of them was a man's name. And the funny one.

"Speak up, Miss Calling."

"I...I... I can't remember."

"Ms. Norman. Say it."

"Ms. Norman." Jenn was being treated like a four year old. She would have resented the humiliation, but her instinctual need to get out of there demanded compliance.

"Yes my dear, very well. Now, I believe you have something for me?"

"How do you know that?"

"Miss Calling, do you really believe you're the one in the light here. I've been fighting wars with words and pictures since before your mother was born. I know many things. Almost everything." The light in Gertrude's eyes faded as her mind wandered through unknown horizons, "Almost."

Jenn took the photo out of her back pocket and handed to the old lady.

"I see you took special care of this," Gertrude sneered. The photo, having endured Jenn's crawling exploits, was bent three ways and torn at the bottom right corner.

"Do you have anything else to give me?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Do you have anything you'd like to ask me?"

_How do I solve the world? How do I escape this mess?_ Jenn thought these things, but said nothing.

Mrs. Moose sniped, "That's a shame. You could have gained so much just by opening your pretty little mouth. Now shoe! Get out of my house."

29 hours earlier

_October 21_ st

9:18 PM

She went with yellow. Strapless. A full gown with 9-inch white heels. Jenn had never felt prettier. She shimmered and sparkled with confident radiance.

After her bargain with Patriot, she had been escorted to another hole in the Earth. In said hole was a man known as Esoteric Teric. It just so happened that Esoteric Teric was a fashionista for the underground.

His hole had thousands of options. Esoteric Teric thought it best to extenuate Jenn's energetic youth. He said she was a little girl trapped in a modern woman's body. Jenn didn't know what that meant, but whatever the case, the suggestion inspired Teric to offer two astounding options. The first was a baby blue motif. Also stunning. She may have ended with that choice, but time was of the essence, and it didn't quite fit well enough. Neither did the yellow gown, but Esoteric Teric assured Jenn that alterations on the yellow were an easy job, wherein the contours of the baby blue made changes an "inexact science".

Despite her best efforts, Jenn wasn't quite able to manage the 9 p.m. roll call. Fashionably late at 9:18, Jenn's knight in shining armor waited for her with a single red rose, like a shot straight out of _The Bachelor_. Rather than presenting the rose to her as she walked up to him, he re-engaged in the kiss that first brought them together.

Heaven again. Providence returned to Earth. She was one with him, and they were together the center of the universe. They were the sun, the stars, the everything.

Who needed to solve the world?

Who needed to solve anything?

They were the kiss.

There was nothing else.

Moments floated by. Jenn, dazed with wonderous wonder, butterflies aflutter, and a handsome man, was only cognizant of the opulence of St. Drogo's upon reflection later on. There were chandeliers, yes. There was fine china. There was a British butler. The ceilings had painted clouds on them forty, fifty feet up.

The meal passed by in a thick haze. She wanted to hold onto this evening, these moments, but Jenn couldn't. This was sensory overload. Too much good stuff equaled nothing being quantified or analyzed. No data intake. No reasoned deductions.

She nibbled at the food offerings. Some olive smear on warm bread. Some fancy mussels or shrimp or something. Some kind of aquatic animal. Some vegetable. A basket of strawberries and blueberries—though it looked like the basket was laid out for aesthetic rather than nutritious purposes. None of it mattered. All of Jenn's efforts were focused on: laughing, looking cute, smiling, holding her composure.

As far as intel went, the meal wasn't a total bust. Her lover's name was Antonio d'Anconia. Jenn would later figure that meant Antonio was a member of the owner's family. He was Magical Kingdom royalty. That explained his ability to land a date at St. Drogo's so effortlessly.

Never one for self-discipline, during some conversation about something or other, maybe dogs, Jenn reached across the table and rested her lips on Antonio's. It was the first time she'd initiated a kiss. It was just as rich with emotional energy as her first. Surely the gods were smiling down on them. They wouldn't have more chemistry if they were Monsieur and Madame Curie.

The meal ended with a hot, moving roll of some sort. Bread within bread with hot pudding. Or custard. It didn't matter. Rather than share the delectable, Antonio motioned toward a door and said, "Come with me."

Jenn took his hand and they walked through the mansion. Past the door, a shimmering, spiral staircase awaited them. Antonio held Jenn's hand, rubbing her fingertips as he led her up the round and round.

Up and up.

Heaven forward, the dreary life of unknowns behind. To Heaven and onward still. What lays beyond the gates of paradise?

A sterile room with a metal bed at its center.

"This is the silver room. Everything you see and touch is silver. Even the sheets on the bed have little flecks of silver." Antonio effortlessly tossed his jacket on the side of the bed. Another kiss. Less sensual. More immediate.

The two danced toward the bed. He bent her at the small of the back, clearly motioning for Jenn to lay down. They were spinning past Heaven in a hurry.

Jenn resisted. Straightening up, she asked playfully not wanting to crash the mood, "What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing—what we're doing."

"Antonio—no."

"It's fine. It's okay. This is a good thing."

2. Don't involve yourself with sexual conduct of any sort.

"I... I don't want this. Not now. Not yet."

He caressed her shoulder. "Come on, let's do this together. I'm not doing anything you don't want to do."

Jenn sat on the edge of the bed in a frump. "I just want to talk."

Antonio took a seat beside her. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Everything...." The ecstasy of kissing this gorgeous older man had waned, and the soul-crushing reality of existence once again weighed on Jenn. "I never got anything when I was a kid. I never got to see the stars. You know what I mean?"

"I think so, sure I do."

"The last few weeks have been incredible. But, but it's all hollow. Even you... I'm afraid you're hollow too."

"How's that?"

"Riding around on an elephant, pretending to be Cleopatra, being swept off my feet by Prince Charming, it's all so mysteriously fun. I love it. I love living this insanity, being this character that I so enjoy being.... But I don't understand any of it. What are we living for? What's the point to all this madness?"

"Yeah, living here," Antonio darted his eyes around the room motioning towards the overwhelming silver ornateness, "it's easy to believe that the whole world is just one big distraction."

"Yeah!" For the first time Jenn felt connected to her man not based on physicality, but on the idea connected to his words. "That's what I'm saying! Is this all distraction? And if it is, what are we being distracted from, you know?"

"True love, maybe."

Jenn retired home late that night after returning Esoteric Teric's dress. He groggily asked her how her evening had gone. She replied, "I think I scared him off."

Jenn zombie walked to her apartment, and fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.

26 hours earlier

October 20th

7:04 PM

"Perhaps... Cinderella, I'll grant your request. I'll get you to Prince Charming's ball. But there's something I want as well."

"Yes, sir?"

"How do you like your roommate?" Thoughts bombarded Jenn in a whirlwind. She was afraid of Tiff. She was mad at Tiff. She didn't understand Tiff. She didn't trust Tiff. Still, in this place, in sunny and underground California, she was the closest thing Jenn had to a real friend.

"I like her fine, sir."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"She doesn't think too highly of you."

"Sir?"

"She says you're naive, self-absorbed, overly confident, ignorant of so many things. Do you think she's right?"

"I don't understand." What was this? What did he want to pry from her?

"I need a certain job done. I won't tell you what the job is for, but I need to be able to trust you."

"You can trust me, sir."

"Yes, I suppose I can. What you do, you can never tell Tiff. She must remain absolutely in the dark about this. Can I trust you to do this job and not tell your roommate?" The Patriot let out a loud cough as he choked on his own phlegm. Jenn waited for him to clear his throat before she answered, but he answered for her first. "Of course I can! She hates you. Naturally you hate her. Good, good."

The Patriot waddled over to a desk in the corner of the room. He pulled out a photo, a key, and a clicker.

Jenn looked over the contents as he handed it to her. Her eyes widened.

"The key and that button will get you into 12 Yurtle Drive in Santa Barbara. You'll go there tomorrow night, late. Late! Through the front door. Take the far right staircase. Go to the last room on the left. Put the photo on the 'Board of Inspiration'. Go home. Just like that. In and out. Simple, my dear."

The photo the Patriot handed her was of Tiff and Flusher hugging and smiling at the camera. Flusher's face was circled in sharpie.

~~~

Jenn's world is spiraling out of her grasp. She better scream soon. The walls are closing in.

## Chapter Thirteen: Heaven Above

From _50 People I Pity,_ Entry #7 _, Dr. Seuss_

_I'm all for pushing imagination far. I'm even particularly prone to agree that helping jump-start a child's imagination is of paramount importance. This is all well and good. Amongst the legion of artists, philosophers, and humble teachers who directed their gifts towards the expansion of the minds of the youth, none rise above Theodor Seuss Geisel, whom we all know affectionately as Dr. Seuss. His problem lies in gambling. He was a gambling man, and he shouted its virtue from the pulpit. Case in point:_ McElligot's Pool _. At the outset of this tale, we find a young boy merrily fishing in McElligot's Pool. An older man informs the boy that there's nothing alive in what appears to be just the small pond, only garbage. He relates that he knows this from experience. The amiable lad's response fills out the remaining pages of the short story. The child happily voices his opinion that the pool perhaps goes deep underground and connects with a river which eventually meets up with the ocean. Under this hypothesis then, it is entirely reasonable that one could expect to catch a fish or two in McElligot's Pool. The thought alone that the pond somehow could miraculously reach the sea is unreasonable at best. But the lad's just begun! He goes on to envision legions and myriads of fish whatzits and whozers all vying for a spot in the luxury vacation spot that is McElligot's Pool. He envisions creatures that don't even exist. A fish that's partially a cow. A sea beast that dwarfs a whale. Insanity upon insanity. If one is merely imagining the unknown, then all this is fine, but there's a much darker reality occurring here. This boy isn't merely day-dreaming—he's betting his life on an impossibility. At best, he's going to waste his day ever adding chips to his own gobbledygook conviction that life will find a way to McElligot's Pool. Once again, if he were merely assuming that such a life-force was possible beneath the waters, well then okay, you took a bet and you lost, but he's forcibly denying the spoken words of an experienced sage! Here's what will happen to this boy: he'll wait. He'll wait all day for a fish to show up. But the fish never will. He'll come home for dinner, only to return on his next available Saturday to continue his quest to capture the strangest nether-creatures of the sea-verse. When Bobby invites him to play 'cowboys and Muslim extremists', he'll reject his best friend because he's all tied up with his fateful gamble. Years go by, and time-after-time the lad's put all his chips on McElligot's Pool, to the point in which his whole worldview is in the clutches of this one expectation. The boy will become a shell of his former self as each day stabs him with the sting of an unmet expectation and deep regret for time lost. The gorgeous Mary Collins he'll never meet and he'll never marry because he wasted away at McElligot's Pool. An analysis of Seuss's works will reveal this same aberration time in and time out. A single individual hopes for the imaginary to become his reality. Seuss was a great man. A great artist. A great wonder-er. But he entrapped his characters and perhaps himself, wishing for a morrow that just can't be._

REMEMBER, REMEMBER, it's never too late to fold. Hold sacred the chips that still remain. Forget you ever met McElligot's Pool and with that, let life surpass your modest expectations, lest you be sullied to learn that your hopes reach farther than the horizon.

Back to Huck. Back and forth, back and forth he sways as the happy pachyderm carries the Queen of Egypt on his back.

Two days had harrowingly drifted by since Jenn fell asleep to the moans of her roommate. Since the sobbing bout, Jenn had neither seen nor heard from Tiff. Nor had Jenn eyed her rejected Romeo.

Those days should have been deliriously lovely. She was the belle of the ball. In later adventures, when Jenn wanted for warmth, food, and companionship, she'd dwell on those moments, perpetually chastising herself for not soaking in the performance, living out the dream with open arms and wide eyes. However unfortunate, the current reality for Jennifer Dash was filling up with internal congestion and angst. There was little room in her consciousness for enjoying the moment at hand.

A reaping was coming... this seemed predetermined. Jenn had no schemes or plans for accomplishing her true task as an undercover agent for the homeless mob. The Patriot could do anything to her. He could snipe her out of the equation. Jenn knew she was a pawn amidst a circus of galloping rooks and bishops. She was currently feeding off the King's teet, and he was not a generous dictator. Look what happened to Flusher. Who knows what he did wrong—but all it took was his likeness drawn onto a cat, and that was that. He was done.

Snuffed out.

The date was October 27th, only a few days until Veneration Celebration. Only a few days until the end of her temporary employment. Jenn needed a plan.

October 31st. That was the day to get out of dodge. If she waited until the revealing, it might already be too late. Patriot might come to foreclose on his investment. Halloween was the night, the night of escape. The night of freedom. Jenn surmised that the holiday might somehow aid her. It might give her cover.

Jenn spent her hours atop Huck pondering the fateful hour. She figured she could dress up as something. She had a few bucks cash. She could buy a mask and head west. Or north.

_Look where I ended up last time I went west_ , Jenn thought to herself, _that won't do_. _I already tried stumbling upon Leviathan._

Guideline #8: When escaping, know beforehand what you're escaping to.

And there was the rub: Jenn had nowhere to go. She was NOT going to go backwards. No more Louisiana. She'd been through that front screen door. She'd already let that door hit her on the rear on her way out. This was not over. Quitting wasn't an option. There was nothing to quit into.

North? North. Where would she go if she went north? San Francisco was north. Seattle, northerner. Canada, northerner still. Alaska, maybe northernest. Anchorage would be far enough away. And maybe that close to the top of the planet, maybe that's close enough to the curtain behind life—maybe it would lead to some solving-the-world leads. Maybe ancient Leviathanic creatures stay up north, away from the awful stench of gluttonous humanity. Yes, maybe north.

Guideline #8: When escaping, know beforehand what you're escaping to.

No, north wasn't a proper answer. North isn't a place, it's an idea. And Jenn already had enough ideas to float her whole life on. Now she needed concretes. She needed reals, not perceives. She didn't care what old, kindly Mr. Berkeley said, Jenn needed to believe in what she could see, hear, taste, smell, touch. Especially touch.

North.

Where north?

A specific location.

What location?

Could she ask anyone? A co-worker, maybe? Clarence or Susan, or... what about the boy in her litter? _The one that carried me off..._ Everett. What about Everett? Jenn gazed down at the Egyptian-dressed guard dancing about for the crowd at her back left.

As if his spidey-senses were tingling, he caught Jenn's glance immediately. They locked eyes. He smiled. Jenn averted further contact.

No. Co-workers were too easy. If Patriot wanted her, co-workers would be the first people he'd put the screws on.

What Jenn didn't know was that faithful, madly-in-love-with-her Everett would die before giving her up. If she came to him, he'd be faithful to the end. He'd hide her. He'd protect her. He'd die mouth-shut even under the strictest regimens of torture if that proved to her that his love was real. It wasn't a sham built off a thousand dollar-suit and restricted access to St. Drogo's at a moment's notice.

What about that primly dressed older Don Juan? What about Antonio d'Anconia? Could Jenn use him to hide away from the Patriot's underground fists? Maybe... but she had scared him off and had no way of contacting him. No number. No address. Nothing.

A darker thought scurried through Jenn's mind: _I could wait out in front of St. Drogo's at 9 p.m._ Wait for him before he hooks up with his next catch of the day. But that wasn't fair. He was a perfect gentleman to her. She said no and he listened. He and that beautiful face of his. Even so, even if Jenn's darker intuitions were correct about Antonio, did she dare risk her life on it? Assuming she did catch him, why would he do anything for her? He wouldn't. Not in that situation. Annoyance is not attractive, and does not lead people to acts of kindness. Jenn's own short life had provided plenty of insight already to that deep truth.

What about Mrs. Moose? Jenn hadn't returned the keys and clicker. They were still at the hotel. She could hike up to Santa Barbara and hide out in the mansion. If it's just the ancient lady living there, then surely Jenn could hulk around the home for days, maybe weeks before being noticed. And no one would expect it. Maybe she could even befriend the artist, get her to join Jenn's side. After all, she wasn't anti-Patriot, she just didn't want to be in the cross-hairs of a war she didn't understand. Surely the old lady would get that. Surely she would have compassion.

It was a plan. Maybe it wasn't the best blueprint ever conceived, but it was something, and that something evaded breaking guideline number eight. That was something, indeed.

Jenn failed to think through the obvious: the Patriot wasn't a dimwit and therefore was cognizant that Jenn hadn't yet returned the keys. If she went missing, he'd call up Mrs. Moose as long as the keys remain unfound. Perhaps Jenn would have come upon this realization had she not suddenly been distracted by the emergence, seemingly out of nowhere, of Antonio d'Anconia.

"Good afternoon," he said smiling up at her.

Jenn couldn't help it—her heart stopped, her lungs betrayed her and she couldn't find breath. She'd written him off. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be scared off, yet here he was, those kissable lips waiting for her once more.

"Hi," Jenn managed to awkwardly stammer out.

"Hello Jennifer."

Unlike last time, Jenn wasn't going to dismount her elephant just yet. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to apologize."

"Okay," Jenn's courage flooded in as her cheeks blushed red, "then apologize."

"Jennifer Calling... I'm sorry. Admittedly, our evening didn't go as I had planned."

"What you had planned was not acceptable." Stern face. Don't betray your stoic demeanor.

"Again, I'm sorry, you're right. I messed up. Can I make it up to you?"

A loaded question. Jenn had to know how he planned to make it up to her.

She wanted this. And just like that, everything was forgiven.

Her facade melted as she meekly smiled at the man. "What did you have in mind?"

"Meet me at St. Drogo's."

What a slap in the face! The same date, again! Who said that the proof of insanity was doing the same thing over and expecting a different result?

"No!"

Antonio shrugged Jenn's frustration off with a smirk, "Meet me there at midnight. I want to show you something. Something new. You're gonna love it."

He bounded off before she could answer.

"What should I wear?" Jenn shouted at d'Anconia's back. He either didn't hear, or in his high sense of mysteriousness chose not to.

"Oh heavens, what am I gonna wear?" Jenn said out loud to herself. Everett sneered below. Jenn never noticed. Once more she was floating above all the tension, all the anticipatory dread. Her love had returned repentant and ready to lick all her wounds. The night would end differently this time. He knew what to expect out of her. She wouldn't be able to scare him off a second time.

The hours before midnight crawled at a sickeningly slow pace. So slow, in fact, that Jenn did indeed get sick. She threw-up in her motel room toilet at around 10:45. Lucky for her, the sickness did provide a wormhole through the last hour before midnight. Before Jenn knew it, it was time.

Choosing casual as a form of rebellion and that's-what-you-get-itis, Jenn showed up at St. Drogo's in jeans and a plain white tee.

Unlike the last time, Jenn beat Antonio there. She waited by the gates, slightly worried by the dark. There wasn't a light on in the mansion. Was it even open? Jenn's employee badge got her into the park and past all the security clearances, but what good was it if everything in the park was closed?

There was no watch on Jenn's wrist. If she'd had one, she'd have known that her impatience was well-earned. By 12:20 there remained no sign of Antonio. Was it a trick? Had he stood her up? Was there meaning in this? Was Antonio an agent for the Patriot? For the Parrots?

It's a trap!

A sudden rush of anxiety gripped Jenn. Standing at the gates of a once-forbidden palace in the middle of the night felt unnervingly vulnerable. Choosing safety over adventure, Jenn hastily began walking away. It wasn't worth all this wait-and-see trauma. Antonio wasn't exactly a paragon of trustworthy people.

"Where are you going, love?" Antonio whispered into Jenn's ear. She spun, half-frightened, half-exhilarated. He wore just about as fancy a tuxedo as Jenn could imagine a tuxedo being. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in, "You giving up on me?"

"Just about."

"Come on, I have something to show you." Antonio released his hold on Jenn's waist preferring to hold her hand as he led her. They weren't headed to St. Drogo's. At a quickened pace, this Romeo of the night led Jenn deeper into the park. To the center. To the focus point. To Saints Row.

A minute later and they were there, standing in the shadow of a magnificent covered tent. Any remaining doubt about what was happening was ripped away by d'Anconia's next statement: "For our first date, I took you to St. Drogo's. But any schmuck with a big enough checkbook could get into there. I want to take the most beautiful girl in the world to a place no one can go, but everyone wants to. No amount of money could get us tickets in." Antonio pulled Jenn in by the hand and kissed her anew. The release from that kiss was as dramatic as its beginning touch. Antonio wanted to finish his speech. "I can show you a world that no one else can share with you. I love you, Jenn."

They kissed again... the first kiss of Jenn's short life that she found unnerving. Jenn had seen enough movies to know that saying _I love you_ is a big deal. So soon. How could he love her? He didn't know her. He barely knew her name! He had no idea where she grew up, what her favorite color was. They'd had one evening of conversation. AND Jenn was too punch-drunk to even remember 99% of what they talked about.

Did she love him?

In a word...

No.

A door... Antonio typed a series of numbers into the keypad. Unlock. Into the great mystery. Into the tent.

The first entrance led only to a beige corridor no more than fifteen feet long. At the end of said corridor, another security clearance. This one with a thumb scanner. Antonio's thumb seemed to do the trick, as the new door awaiting them blinked green around it's frame. But it didn't yet open.

"Limited consciousness Russian superior heaven above 86-86-68-86-0703," Antonio blankly said at the door.

The blinking faded. Then... nothing.

"Rats... give it a sec to restart, then I'll try again." Another moment and the door was once more silhouetted in red. Thumb-scan. Green blinking.

"Limited consciousness Russian superior heaven above 86-86-68-86-0703." Green gone. Door still locked. "He-he," an awkward laugh. "Sorry about this..." Antonio took out a phone from his pocket and began fiddling with it.

They were breaching into the new ride at Magical Kingdom. Jenn would soon know the very secret she was cast to uncover. What a wonderful coincidence! _Someone up there is looking after me_ , Jenn thought—and her thoughts brought to mind a hazy figure telling her something important. A half-remembered phrase: "With all your lungs." What on Earth did that mean and who said it? Jenn couldn't comprehend where this memory came from or what its center of gravity was, but the inflection in that phrase, _With all your lungs_ , rang in Jenn's mind as something with urgency. Like something that mattered.

This was it. The answer to all things. Jenn would see this new ride, report immediately to the Patriot, and everything would be fine. She would have paid her debt, perhaps be handsomely rewarded, and then, with the job all wrapped up, she'd be free to go about her way. Free. Jenn Free Dash. How quickly this world had turned inside-out along with an extinguishing of Jenn's free spirit. She didn't feel at all free anymore. In fact, all the glamor of being Cleopatra, the intrigue of being at the center of espionage, none of it felt freeing at all.

Standing in the beige corridor between two heavily sealed and fortified doors, Jenn, for the first time, felt homesick. Not homesick for her life behind that front screen door, but for those precious few magical days out on her own. Hearing stories of ancient monsters, escaping from intimidating (but ultimately powerless) truck drivers, making friends with the Further family. All of it was so open and lovely. Now the whole of her future rested on her lover's ability to hack into this amusement park ride.

Trapped between two doors. Neither of which Jenn had power to choose.

"Ah, got it. Okay..." Antonio highlighted something on his phone, "...okay Jenn, here's the thing, I messed up the audible password, and as far as I understand, it's a three strikes and you're out sort of thing. I'm of course allowed through, but if the system locks us out, we'll have to hide you. If they find out I smuggled a no-name in, then we'll both be neck deep in poop."

_Neck deep in poop._ What an annoyingly boyish turn of phrase. D'Anconia's suit alone had to be worth five-figures, and yet he speaks in such sophomoric hues? What's up with that? And furthermore, where was Jenn (the no-name) supposed to hide? They were trapped in essentially a small hallway with no exits, no windows, no escape. Jenn tried to cull her rapid breathing, tried to calm her impending sense of claustrophobic panic.

"Just do it," Jenn said in an unmistakable tone of contempt.

"Limited consensus Russian superior heaven above 86-86-68-86-0703." Solid green. Door open.

A rush of sweet, cool air wafted in on the couple. Jenn sighed in relief and smiled up at her prince. All was forgiven. The only thing to fear was, after all, fear itself.

Smiling broadly back at her, Antonio proclaimed, "Welcome, my dear, to the newest addition to St. Anthony's Peak. 'Heaven Above'."

Crucial data received: the name and future location of the new ride. Name: Heaven Above. Location: St. Anthony.

Just like that. Done and done.

The couple took three intrepid steps into a cool breeze. A general fog descended on them and Jenn couldn't make out much of anything. A few more steps brought to line of sight two plush, reclining chairs, each an artistic blend of movie-theatre seating and dentistry chair.

Antonio took Jenn's hand and motioned for her to take a seat. Finding a way into the chair was somewhat tricky, however. It worked out to be closer to a bed than a chair. Jenn imagined herself resting in one of those first class chairs on airplanes that magically extend out to be a bed. Clearly, that's what this ride was: the layman's opportunity to sit first class.

Once she was securely in, she mannerly buckled the seat belt that overlaid not just her waist, but also extended out diagonally over both shoulders. Quite a snug fit. Antonio followed suit. As soon as he buckled himself in, _JOLT_.

Jenn clawed Antonio's hand. What was happening? Was it breaking? Was there an earthquake? Was the world ending!

The first-class dentist chair buzzed, and to Jenn's amazement, extended further, pushing itself into a nearly horizontal axis. It really was a first-class chair, after all. But more ominous than the mere seat extension, the two-some suddenly felt unhinged. Were they moving? Jenn looked around. There was nothing to see. She tried her best to look behind her to see if the glowing green door was still visible. Yes. It was there. But it was vanishing. They were moving! The ride was on! This was happening! And all in the dark.

"Hold on! This first part is intense." Jenn tried to search Antonio's eyes for safety, but it was too dark, she couldn't even see her fingers in front of her, let alone his face. This was utter, pitch black.

For just a blink of the eyes, Jenn was somewhere else. Just for a small, minuscule moment.

Just then.

Just that instant.

Just.

She saw four walls.

Four dirty walls.

They weren't moving.

They weren't doing anything.

They were just there, mocking her.

They were evil walls. Something was seeping through them, pushing itself through the wall like a leaky sponge. Something brown. Oh God in heaven! It was feces. Putrid. The smell. Brown, brown, putrid poop.

_Neck deep in poop._ She heard his voice say in her mind.

Then, light.

Sweet, beautiful light. They were flying towards it. Streaks all around them, as if Jenn and Antonio were stuck inside an arcade game. The streaks held their form for an instant, and then, they blazed into being as a storm of flooding wind knocked the couple back in the palm of their seats with gusto.

They were zooming.

50, 60, 100, 1,000 miles an hour. Who knew? Maybe they'd found a way to break the speed of light. Jenn couldn't figure the physics of it, but whatever the case, it was exhilarating, and she was so happy to experience this rush, to be freed from the menacing brown walls.

Jenn let out a shriek of glee. Antonio joined in with his own shouts as he lifted his hands in the air. The chairs jolted forward. The two spun in circles. Not fast, not quite slow. The effect was absolutely breathtaking. They were unhinged, floating.

What more? Stars. Multitudes, lighting up the darkness in every direction. 360 degrees of bursting beams of radiance.

A few revolutions and they weren't spinning anymore. They just floated—majestically. Jenn's eyes pined for the beauty shimmering just beyond her fingertips.

What heaven, what ecstasy.

Jenn hadn't noticed, but an arm had come up between the two of them. There was something akin to a joystick and two buttons, one glowing blue. It read: _to the nearest star_. Another green: _to the sun_.

"Go ahead. Push the blue one," Antonio whispered. It was so quiet here. "If you press the blue one, it'll end the ride."

Jenn, numbly aware that any alteration might ruin this beyond-mystical moment, whispered, "Not yet. I'm enjoying this too much."

"Are you?" he said in sly way.

Jenn took her eyes off the light display to gently push the joystick device. To her amusement, they bobbed along through space in the direction she moved the stick. There was so much color now. She moved toward one particular cluster of stars, and as she did, fountains of color beamed out from the galaxy. Navy blues mixed in with bright oranges. Shimmers of red juxtaposed against high violets. The colors flowed like a river just past her fingertips. Jenn believed that if she were able to catch the colors in her mouth, she'd actually be able to taste the contours of its beauty.

A look across revealed Antonio up to some mischief. He had fumbled out his phone, and was presently accessing some sort of app. "Ah-ha," he said under his breath. A buttoned pushed, and, just like that, both Jenn's and his buckles became unhinged. Unlocked. Antonio masterminded the scenario, and moved in for the kill. He kissed Jenn.

Jenn found herself displeased. She was enthralled by the ride. She could marvel at Antonio later. She didn't want to be interrupted. But interrupted she was. Antonio's hands were busy.

He unlatched his belt. He drew his hands all over Jenn, reaching under her shirt.

"No. No!" Jenn said and pushed Antonio away.

"It's okay, it's okay. We're safe here." And he moved back in.

"No!"

It didn't matter, he sat up somehow and leaned in on top of her. He was far stronger than her. He kissed her lips. He kissed her cheeks. Her ears. Her neck.

With all your lungs. Scream, old girl, scream with all your lungs. Now.

She did.

Jenn screamed so loud her own ears shook in displeasure. Antonio jumped up. He fell back into his own seat. Frantically he tried to rebuckle himself down. "Shh! Shh!! Stop! Stop. I'm off, I'm off! Shh!! Be quiet before someone hears!"

Jenn didn't stop. She screamed for her safety. She screamed for herself. She screamed for freedom.

Lights went up. Everything was lit up. They were suspended in the center of a large warehouse. Lights down. Red lights flashing. A siren.

"What have you done?!" Antonio shouted at Jenn incredulously.

Jenn didn't know what she'd done. But she was certain her screams had gotten her a one-way ticket to neck deep in poop.

~~~

Jenn's not free yet. Pray for her. She'll need more than a miracle now.

## Chapter Fourteen: Hell Below

"Sign this... your initials here, your signature here, and the date."

Jenn perused the multipage document. There was no desk in the room, only an awkwardly tall bench for Jenn to half-heartedly lean against. "Okay, this is all in lawyer speak, what does it say?"

"It's regulation. You have to sign it."

"I'm not signing something I don't understand."

The uniformed official (secret service?) whispered something, twitching his neck to an angle ever so slightly. Jenn surmised from this that he was taking orders out of an ear piece. Whatever the case, Jenn couldn't make any sense out of his whispers.

"This document simply confirms that you've not been mishandled in our acquisition of you."

"Acquisition?"

"Magical Kingdom has a binding agreement with the United States of America that any employee under Magical Kingdom's auspices and/or payroll may be held as a contemptible combatant and interrogated by Magical Kingdom's security as per authorization and prevention act."

Jenn began signing the document, relegating herself to the reality that she wasn't going to get anything understandable out of this man in black. Pausing on the last page of the document, Jenn said, "What's this?"

"The date."

"I know, but the time says 6 a.m." Jenn wasn't sure what time it was; everything happened so fast once Antonio ended her long wait. She figured she couldn't have been with d'Anconia for longer than an hour. She'd been amazed at how fast security turned up once she screamed. The red lights flared, the siren sounded, and within moments two men in black appeared. Both pointed pistols at the forsaken couple, handcuffed them and threw each into isolation chambers.

If nothing else, Antonio was biding his time in a similar isolation chamber, Jenn assumed. At least, she hoped he was. Jenn figured she'd probably been waiting in this small room since apprehended for an hour as well. So, at latest, Jenn estimated, it was 2:30 in the morning. So why then was this document marked for three and a half hours in the future?

"By 6 a.m. we will have exhausted our interrogation techniques."

"Okay..." She signed what she needed to sign. The man took the papers and exited out the only door visible.

The room was a bore. No color. Just gray. And no one-way mirror like in all the movies. No Commander-in-Chief to yell at.

Jenn waited.

She was too unnerved to dwell on how inappropriate this all was. She was a near-rape victim, and here she was being treated like a she was on trial for treason.

Fortunately, she didn't have long to wait. A woman in black bounded through the door, fresh with a clipboard.

"I'm going to make this very clear," the venom with which the stranger said these words put Jenn instantly on edge. "You will sign this." She handed the clipboard to Jenn. One page. Just a few sentences. "You will give me one signature, and the shape of the rest of your life is dependent on you staying true to that signature. Do you understand?"

"Do I have a choice?"

A rueful smile. "Yes, you have a choice... but every choice comes with consequences. Not all consequences are equal.... to ensure you understand, I will read the document to you." Jenn happened to glance up and notice a camera peering down at her from the corner of the room. Her eyes followed the wall's edge until she discovered a second camera at the other corner. Jenn wasn't about to turn her head, but she was willing to bet that all four corners of the room housed cameras spying down at her. Great.

"In accordance with section A-1 of Magical Kingdom's security and prevention act, in the particular event of the Veneration Celebration due to be revealed on November 1st, 2014, the signed below will not speak of the yet-unrevealed aspects of the Celebration before the occurrence of the date. The signed below will not speak or give reference in any form, manner, way, whether it be written, acted out, penned, whispered, mouthed or led, to anyone, anywhere concerning the unrevealed. Under the law of Magical Kingdom ordinances, as well as the still binding law of the United States of America, any utterance of the unrevealed in anyway, whether as specifically stated above in a conventional manner, or in any manner unstated, including any and all technologies either currently present or heretofore yet invented, the signed below will be held accountable to the utmost degree and charged with treason for revealing, unlawfully, a national treasure. Under these auspices, therefore, the signed below will be charged with a violation to national security and may be executed as a traitor to the state. The signed understands the gravity of this information, and will not break his/her own oath."

The woman in black to a breath before pointing and finishing. "I, -- state your name \-- will hold myself accountable to the statement of this document. I will not be treasonous either to Magical Kingdom or the United States of America. If it is found that I have broken my own oath, I authorize the state to prosecute me to the full extent of the law. Write your name in the space provided and sign here."

"I don't think I want to do this. I don't want to sign. I never meant to see anything. I was just on a date. He said he wanted to show me something. I had no intention of discovering anything. Honest!"

It was an awful document. Jenn never imagined that such things existed: documents that held a person accountable to the point of death. And what if someone blackmailed her? She could be executed! For nothing! If at all possible, it behooved her to wriggle out of signing this indiscretion.

"Is this your decision? Are you choosing not to sign this document?"

Jenn held firm. "Yes. Absolutely. I won't sign that."

Robotically, the woman said, "Look me in the eye. Tell me what you choose. Remember, every decision you make here has consequences. Not all consequences are equal. Look me in the eye and tell me what you choose."

If she signed it, she'd be bound again. Bound to this document. Bound to Magical Kingdom. Bound to not tell its secrets. But she was already bound to the Patriot. There was no choice there, she had to tell him. Her debt required payment. If she signed this putrid clipboard, she'd be indebted also to these strangers, these people of the shadows, these cameras. Not signing was the wiser choice. The safer option. The only honest way forward. Jenn stared rebelliously back at the beady little eyes of the woman and said, "I choose... not to sign it."

"Very well," and the woman marched out the door carrying the calamitous clipboard with her.

Alone again, Jenn stood up, nervous. She glared up at the cameras. Twirling to her back, she quickly spied that indeed there were two cameras behind her. Four cameras for a little bitty room like this. Seemed a bit overkill. Then again, all of this seemed way over the top.

A thought rushed in then. Maybe the woman was off conferring with some officials. Maybe she was grabbing a second, _sign this if you won't sign the other_ document.

Both the man and woman in black strode through that door. It was unlocked. Maybe she could get out of here... just by bum-rushing the door. If she got out of here intact, she could find a way to get to the Patriot. He'd protect her. Since she was giving him what he wanted, he'd protect her from these uniforms. From these walls. From Antonio d'Anconia. All she had to do was push through that door. Jenn visualized it. What lay past that door? Likely, another corridor, probably like the one that Antonio and Jenn entered through. That meant more security codes.

What was the code Antonio said?

Limitless consignment Russian supreme? Followed by a bunch of numbers. Too much. Plus, even if she managed to get the audio right, there was still the code he dialed in and the thumb-detector. She could easily go through the door and find herself trapped. That wouldn't look good. It certainly wouldn't help her cause, what with all the talk of choices and subsequent consequences. And then there was the possibility that she goes through the door, into a hallway, and chooses a door that leads to Antonio. What would he do to her if he could get his hands on her now? Jenn wasn't sure, but fear informed her that he might do something horrible. If he was willing to violate her before, what would he be willing to do now? Kill her? Such fear held Jenn in place.

The men in black, the two who had initially separated Jenn and Antonio, returned. One held a syringe, the other handcuffs. There wasn't much time.

Burst through the door. Go on, do it. Now.

Now.

Now, old girl, now!

Overwhelmed, Jenn cowered. The handcuff-wielding man scooped her up like a ragdoll. The other yanked the stool out, slamming it against the back wall. The big man carried Jenn to the stool and dropped her on it. He took her left hand and cuffed it to the stool bar. He seconded the action with another set and her right hand, leaving Jenn pinned to the stool with her arms splayed out vulnerably. Syringe man approached Jenn, searching for a vein.

"What are you doing!?!" Jenn shouted in all-out fear.

He said nothing. The handcuff man brushed Jenn's hair back, seemingly examining it for ticks or lice. The other found the vein, flicked it twice, then pierced Jenn with the needle. The liquid he squeezed into her looked to be a clear plasma.

"What is that?!" Jenn's fear was taking over. Thoughts of death rattled through her body. For an instant, Jennifer Dash swore the foreign enemy was ravaging itself up her arm and bloodstream. It was a venom! She was dying, she dying, she was dying! "YOU'RE KILLING ME! WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" Jenn's plea came out like a desperate child, hungry and completely broken by the world.

"You signed the document. It was all in there," replied the syringe man. But she didn't sign it.

"I didn't sign it! I didn't sign it!"

"The first set of papers. You signed it willingly."

She did. The one that said she was theirs until 6 a.m. Dear God, was it 6 yet? Was dawn breaking?

All the vile liquid now in her blood, the two men left her. Jenn tried to rock herself towards the door.

Maybe she could still walk out, stool, handcuffs and all. Maybe. It didn't matter if the doors led to a locked corridor. Anything was worth the risk at this juncture. But as hard as she tried, she couldn't move. The stool was unbearably heavy. It dawned on her then—it was magnetized. That's how the man in black could lift it so carelessly one moment and it be insurmountably unmovable the next.

Stupid magnetic world.

Jenn was alone again. This time, though, there were no delusions. She was being held prisoner against her will by an all-powerful army of evil power mongers. That was this. That was reality. No perception could change this. No dreaming made this failure less transparent.

Outplayed, beaten, shamed, Jenn did the only thing she could do: wait for the next person in black to take another of her liberties.

Jennifer the broken.

Jennifer the slave.

And back they came; this time, not the two men, but two women. One the obvious threat that tried to get her to sign on the dotted line, and this new villain holding scissors and a razor.

The clipboard woman smiled an ugly, malicious smile, "Did I not tell you that decisions have consequences?"

The new woman approached Jenn and said, "This won't hurt as long as you stay still. If you jerk, the scissors might stab you."

All this evil was more than Jenn could bear. Paralysis. She didn't move. The latter woman in black begun to cut locks of Jenn's hair off.

The quiet buzz of the razor.

Tears ballooned in Jenn's eyes before rolling down her round cheeks as the stranger cut off her gorgeous hair. Jenn couldn't stop. Rolls and rolls of tears. No sobs, no movement, just quiet tears.

Jennifer Dash cried.

"In Holland, many women prostituted themselves out to the occupying Nazis. They thought they'd better join up with the winning side. They chose, they made their decisions. And you know what the Dutch did to them once they were free from the German vermin? First, they cut off their hair. They took away their beauty. You refused to sign a document simply stating that you wouldn't betray Magical Kingdom. How can we interpret that other than you making clear to us your plans to betray the company that's been so good to you, the company that made you a queen among men? So, you made your decision, now you face the consequences. We will not have you stealing secrets. To prove how treacherous are these waters in which you now wade, we're taking your hair. It is so beautiful, isn't it? From the moment I laid eyes on you I understood why they chose you to be Cleopatra. A young lady with that hair! Beautiful doesn't even cover it. Your beauty, all bound up in your hair like Sampson's power, is now shed."

The latter woman used the electric razor to get right down to the scalp. The floodgates continued to pour.

"After this unfortunate situation completes itself, that is to say, after all your beauty has left your once-pretty little head, I'll be returning with the document, and you will sign it. You're growing up, you're experiencing what the world is really like. That's a privilege. Make no mistake. Many people go their entire lives without ever understanding the simplest lesson that life has to offer us. I believe it was Newton that first saw how life works. For. Every. Action. There is an equal. And opposite... reaction."

With that sentiment hanging in the air, the smug woman in black exited.

Woman in black number two took a few more minutes to polish up her work. Then, like a bad dream, like a filthy mirage in the desert, she too left through the lone door.

Jenn was alone, pinned to a stool, with her hair lying dead in a circle about her on the floor. Everytime they came, those people, they took something from her. Signatures were just the beginning. What would they take next?

Jenn didn't have any cards to play. She was beaten.

Jennifer the Broken.

Jennifer the Hairless.

If she had had free hands she would have felt at her head to tell her fingers what baldness is like. All those lovely long locks littering the floor. What a shame.

Door open. Woman in black returned. Clipboard in hand. "Will you sign this?"

Jenn nodded. She didn't want to speak. The woman turned around and left. A moment later, man in black returns. "Are you right or left handed?"

Jenn motioned her left. She was right handed, but she wanted her needle infected arm free. He believed her and unhandcuffed her left arm. She brought her left over to her right, tracing the point of needle penetration with her finger.

"It's a tracking device."

"What?" Jenn said at a whisper, always conscious that everything she did in this horrible room seemed to have detrimental reactions.

"The syringe had tracking units in it. We'll know wherever you are for a few weeks. Don't worry. It won't hurt you. It's just... a precaution." Then he left.

Jennifer alone... Jennifer un-alone. The woman in black was back. She dropped the clipboard in Jenn's lap. "Name and sign." Jenn's handwriting would be wretched from all the stress alone, but it came out illegible from her left. Fearful of retribution for her dreadful penmanship, Jenn cursed herself for not being ambidextrous. But it didn't matter. Barely glancing at it, the woman snatched it up. And left.

Jennifer alone... Handcuff man in black back. Right hand uncuffed. Too weak to move without warrant, just remained still, waiting for the next instruction. It came quickly.

"You're not to see Antonio d'Anconia. You are, however, to continue your post as Cleopatra."

"How can I be Cleopatra like this?"

The question, which seemed straightforward to Jenn, appeared to catch the stranger off balance. He stood silently. And stood. And stood.

Jennifer alone with a silent man. For intents and purposes, Jenn had become the biblical Samson, stripped of all power and cunning. Her mind, always battling itself for sole possession of her focus, lay dormant. She gave up on scheming. This was her lot in life now: to be a broken puppet for these well-dressed evil mannequins to torture. She'd go back to being Cleopatra, as they wished, because there was no alternative. There was no other. This was how you failed the world. There was no solution to this equation. It was a rigged game, after all.

Evidently receiving confirmation, the man broke the silence by turning about face and exiting.

Jennifer alone. Always. Jennifer was always alone.

The second woman in black came this time. She held a wig in her hand. A black wig. It looked like it was lifted straight off of the set of _Pulp Fiction_.

"Here, try this."

Jenn fitted it on her round head, taking note of the ridges and indents of her skull she never knew existed.

"That looks fine." The hair murderer exited.

Jennifer alone. She never was anything else. Man in black number one inside the room.

"Stand up. Come with me." Jenn didn't stand. She didn't have the heart to. "Come on, interrogation is over."

Interrogation is over. Had more joyous words ever been said? Jenn's heart came back to life as she mouthed the revelation to herself. Interrogation is over. She sprang to her feet. The man in black pushed the door open for her. She hopped through it! She was through it! Another room! Life DID exist beyond those four walls. No more walls. No four cameras. Man in black followed behind her, and indeed Jenn's earlier suppositions were correct. They were in a corridor with several doors as options.

"Straight ahead," he said. Her heart raced. Blessed freedom, almost here! She could smell it, the sweet aroma of the world, ready to embrace her once more. They got to a door, the man typed in a code. Another corridor. "Straight down, last door to your left. That'll let you out behind Saint's Row. You should be able to navigate home from there."

Jenn sprinted to the door. She pushed it open... and it gave! Glorious moonlight flooded down on her poor soul! Freedom! Jenn was free once more.

Jenn ran! Where to? Who cares! Away from that horrible dungeon. Away from Antonio d'Anconia and his fanciful traps. Away from the haircutters! She'd never cut her hair again. It'd grow back, and she'd love it 'till the day she died and whisper sweet nothings to it! She was Jennifer Dash, a free child of the night.

Jenn ran and ran. As she did so, and as she began to feel more and more alive—and subsequently, more and more like her scheming self—this thought bubbled to the surface: _what do I do now?_

Her first response was to say nothing, do nothing. Just be alive! Embrace the night and coming day!

Slowly, rational thoughts seeped in: we're only momentarily free, old girl. Veneration Celebration is still coming, and so is the reaping, from one party or another. Who cares? That's days away. Let's enjoy this moment.

No, Jenn thought, and stopped in her tracks. No. We can't abuse these precious hours. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I have to choose, one side or the other. Patriot or Magical Kingdom. Who's safer, Jennifer? Think. Or is there a way to play both sides?

Jenn searched through every socio-strata ecosystem in her mental database. What could she use to overcome this? Who could she use?

That's when Mrs. Moose and her keys came into focus.

~~~

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Jenn's not out of the doghouse yet. In the next chapter, she'll need every last wit she has left in order to live to see the sunrise.

## Chapter Fifteen: Guideline # 1

Professor of linguistics, George Lakoff, once wrote, "A systemic cause may be one of a number of multiple causes. It may require some special conditions. It may be indirect, working through a network of more direct causes. It may be probabilistic, occurring with a significantly high probability. It may require a feedback mechanism. In general, causation in ecosystems, biological systems, economic systems, and social systems tends not to be direct, but is no less causal. And because it is not direct causation, it requires all the greater attention if it is to be understood and its negative effects controlled. Above all, it requires a name: systemic causation."

That's when Mrs. Moose and her keys came into focus.

She was rich. She lived far enough away to make it a chore for whoever was hunting her.

That being said, the most logical answer was to spill the beans to Patriot. There was a decent enough chance, Jenn figured, that the Patriot could protect her from the beasts that ran Magical Kingdom's underground. If the substance they pierced her with really was some form of GPS, it's likely that it wouldn't work deep underground anyway, where the Patriot denizens live. And even if it did track her, it'd only say where she was horizontally, right? It wouldn't tell them how far into the Earth's crust she was, right?

But none of that mattered... she didn't trust the Patriot. Even if she gave him the very thing he'd been salivating over, Jenn didn't trust the underworld overlord to protect her. She was caught in the cross-hairs of two (or three) warring sects.

That's why she chose the Moose. Although Mrs. Moose clearly had some sort of deal or relationship with the Patriot, she didn't seem directly connected. She was a helper, but perhaps not a disciple. That meant two things: she somehow was powerful enough to not have to be fully committed to the cause, and the Patriot wouldn't have anyway to pinch her. If he needed her, then she would forever be in a place where the bargaining chips lay on her side of the table.

Jenn jogged the rest of the way to her hotel room, conjuring up a scheme. She'd grab the keys and clicker from her room along with whatever cash she could get her hands on—she'd steal from Tiff's portion if necessary. Using whatever she had, she'd pay a taxi to get to Santa Barbara. She'd go to Mrs. Moose's abode and tell the old lady her story. Surely the old cartoonist would take her in, take pity on her, problem-solve with her. She'd claim sanctuary with her. She'd wait out the week there, until Veneration Celebration. By that time, the secret would be revealed, Magical Kingdom wouldn't care about Jenn anymore, and she'd be free (only careful to stay away from the Patriot and his ilk).

That was the plan. Get to Mrs. Moose's. _If I can get there safe and sound, everything will be okay_ , Jenn assured herself. _But what if Mrs. Moose doesn't take me in? What if she doesn't take pity on me?_ That would be problematic...

When Jenn first met the Moose, it seemed like she was alone. If she truly was alone, Jenn could threaten her. Jenn was young and strong, the old woman would never have a chance. She'd threaten her with serious bodily harm, force the old witch to give her what she wanted. With the thought, Guideline #1 flashed through Jenn's head.

1. Don't kill.

A plan was a plan. Jenn assayed her conscience that it'd never come to that. The old lark would pity her. She saw it in her indented, weary eyes that night. She was a woman who had the capacity for compassion. Bald Jennifer Dash could use a little compassion.

Through the lobby of the hotel. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Keys in lock. Door turn. Door open.

THWACK!

Jenn's head banged against the doorframe hard. She fell, her nose slammed against the floor, her wig jettisoned across the room.

"Your hair?" A gasp and then a pounce. Someone was on top of her. Arms around her neck. Tightening. Tightening. Throat collapsing. Air depleted. Life evaporating from her. Jenn defensively flung her arms back and managed to momentarily knock her assaulter off her. Jenn rolled onto her back, giving her a clear angle to view her attacker.

"Tiff?" Jenn choked out as she sucked in sweet air.

Tiff torpedoed Jenn, sending the full thrust of her 100-pound body at her. On top of Jenn now, Tiff's fists landed repeatedly on Jenn's chest. Jenn grabbed up at Tiff's face, trying desperately to push Tiff off, but to no avail.

The fists flew. Pain blurred Jenn's vision in ultra slow-motion, each punch burrowing down and reverberating through her chest cavity.

A puncture.

Somewhere.

Something broken. Jenn couldn't breathe. She gasped for air. More throws. No air! The punches kept falling, unrelenting.

Gasp, gasp.

Find air.

Find it. Now. Or die.

Desperate, Jenn's knee struck Tiff's crotch. The siege pummeled Tiff off Jenn.

No time for thought. Jenn scrambled to her feet and stumbled into the bathroom. Standing erect opened her lungs. Gasp in. Sweet air. But the beast was back. Tiff was grabbing, scratching at Jenn's ankles, pulling her out of the bathroom. Falling onto her stomach, Jenn's fingers found the plumbing underneath the sink and held on tight. Tiff now pulled on Jenn's leg viciously, thrusting Jenn's leg back and forth in an effort to unhinge Jenn from the bathroom. Jenn kicked Tiff square in the face.

Down went the beast.

Attack. Now. Go!

Jenn spun and latched herself onto the fallen enemy. She mounted her and grabbed her head with both hands. "Why are you doing this?"

No answer. Jenn used both her arms to thrust Tiff's head against the floor.

"Answer me!" No response. Another thrust. Head meet floor. "Come on Tiff, I can barely breathe, I'll kill you right here and now if you don't speak up."

1. Don't kill.

"Answer me now," Jenn said one last time resolutely.

"I followed you," Tiff moaned.

"Followed? Where?"

"Tonight. You were with Antonio d'Anconia."

Jenn slammed Tiff's head again, frustrated and perplexed. How did she know his name?

"How do you know his name?"

"He's... he's the playboy of the Kingdom."

"What?"

"Antonio d'Anconia, first in line to inherit Magical Kingdom from his father, Darnauld d'Anconia."

Jenn let go of Tiff's head. "I... I don't understand."

"You were fooling around with the prince of this world's powers. I saw you. I saw you go into the new ride. You and your prince." Tiff's moans morphed now to vitriol. "What's your secret? What'd you have to offer him to get your V.I.P. backstage pass, eh?"

Jenn used her thighs to tighten her grip on the monster. "So what? I got what we needed. And I paid a price for it." Jenn touched her white scalp.

Tiff hocked a loogie into Jenn's eyes. Blinded, Jenn reached to pull the mucus out of her eyes. Tiff took the opportunity to use her free hand to punch Jenn in the ribs.

SEARING PAIN.

_The rib must be broken_ , Jenn thought, as she fell back.

So much pain. And so tired. But another round must be fought. As Jenn's eyes focused, making a structure out of the world beyond the pulsing pain shooting through her body out of her lungs, Tiff was gone. Jenn sat, her back against the shower window panel, holding her ribs with one hand, in a futile effort to numb the pain. Air came in through short, erratic breaths.

Where was Tiff?

"Jennifer Calling-Dash, there are three ways this can go," Tiff called from somewhere out of sight. "One—You can tell me what you know, reveal the secret. Two—You can let me cut you..." Tiff appeared in the doorway standing with a switchblade in hand. "Three—You can die."

1. Don't kill.

"No one will care, trust me. No one loves you. Magical Kingdom will be glad you're gone. Patriot will shrug. And your mommy and daddy never loved you anyway, am I right?" Tiff took two steps towards Jenn, just out of reach from Jenn's foot. "So, what's it going to be? Are you going to behave, or are we going to have a little party, just the two of us?"

"It's a demon ride," Jenn blurted out. "You're in this little car thing, like a chariot, and you're in the desert," Jenn paused as she gasped for breath and gasped for a fuller lie to spout. "It's all inside, but somehow they make it seem like it's in the desert. You float along, and as you go, the day turns to night, and all these demons appear. A demon behind every rock. And... AND! There's a demon that jumps onto the back of your chariot thing, like a mechanical thing or something! It was terrifying. And the demon whispers to you..."

"What does it whisper?"

Tiff was believing the tripe. "It whispers, it whispers... 'eat. Eat it all. Eat everything.' Just on and on like that for awhile."

Tiff's eyes widened. "And then?"

"Why couldn't you just be happy that I found out the secret? Why do you have to be the one?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I know which peak this ride's going to... and I know its name."

"I'm not going to tell Patriot. I'm telling the Parrots. They've offered me a better deal. Flusher and I have been working both sides for months now."

"But Patriot knows, doesn't he?"

"He must have only heard about Flusher. He took the boy out, but left me fine."

"It could be a trick."

"Doesn't matter. I'll leave here and be safe by midday. Parrots are nicer anyways. They got better digs. I got so tired of living underground. It's not right... to be a parrot... to live in the sky...." Tiff trailed off before redirecting herself, "Well go on, anyway, and don't forget I'm still the one with the knife, and you're the one that needs to see a doctor."

"The chariot swirls like a flying saucer. It's really dizzying. That throws the demon off. But there are others. You're in a valley with hills surrounding you. Demons are popping from behind every mound. They scream hideous screams at you, and all of 'em sprint straight towards you. Hundreds. And when they're just about to get you, I screamed, and the chariot started levitating. It was like, a blue light, a tractor beam pulling us up into the heavens. We went up and up and up through some clouds, so high we couldn't see the gargoyle demons anymore, just clouds. And the clouds blended into one another so that all you could see was white pouring in from every side. It was amazing."

A tear streamed down Jenn's face, so wrapped up was she in the gravity of her own story. "And then, as if it was coming from within, like, from within the heart, a low, super low voice said, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.' And there was beautiful music." Jenn closed her eyes and smiled. "And singing. A chorus all around us." Jenn opened her eyes, stared blankly at her cruel friend. "And then the lights dimmed, and the ride was over. We were right back where we started."

"And where's it headed to? Did you ask?"

"It's headed your way. St. Anthony's."

Tiff's eyes welled with passion and hope. Jenn also thought she caught some regret and shame in those eyes. "And... And... the name?"

"Earth Below," Jenn said.

"Earth below," Tiff repeated.

Then she lunged at Jennifer. Jenn stuck her feet up like a lance. They met Tiff squarely in the stomach. Jenn thrusted her feet out with a jolt, catapulting the skinny attacker across the room. Tiff's head hit the door frame hard. Her body fell like a ragdoll, the back of her head pounding the bathroom floor once more. The switchblade launched in the other direction, landing in the middle of the shower tub.

Tiff was out. Gone. Unconscious. Jenn wasn't going to wait for her to awake. She got up. Grab the Moose key. The clicker. Toss the wig back on. Stash whatever money you can find in your pockets. And go. But look one last time down at your combatant before leaving. That's an awful lot of blood. The pool of blood under her head is still expanding its perimeter. That's an awful lot of blood.

Guideline #1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill.

As Jenn made her way surreptitiously down the stairs, through the hotel lounge and past the front doors, the first guideline rang through her head unrepentantly.

1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill.

She hadn't killed her... had she? No, of course not. Tiff wasn't dead. She just had a head injury. Everyone knows head wounds bleed profusely. But she _was_ unconscious. Could she bleed out? Would sleep in that moment kill her? Should I call an ambulance? Or hotel security? I could make an anonymous call. From where? You don't have a phone, old girl. And even if you do call, you don't think the men and women in black are keeping tabs on your hotel room? If you alert attention to your hotel room, you'll only bring more suspicion onto yourself, old girl. But what if she dies? I'll be wanted for murder!

1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill. 1. Don't kill.

Cause-and-effect—every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The action: self-defense. The reaction: Tiff got wounded, perhaps mortally so. What was done was done. Jenn already was a girl on the run, and there was no stopping now. Tiff's blood was on Tiff and Tiff alone. Jenn repeated that mantra to herself, trying to blare out the overture of guideline number one.

~~~

What hope does Jenn's roommate have? Who will comfort her in these dark times? Answer: nothing and no one. Jenn doesn't know it for sure, but she's just broken guideline #1. She's just killed a person, and as it turns out, she very well may be dying too.

## Interlude: Father Daniel

A priest named Daniel worked and dwelled in Oakland in the early nineties. Daniel died on August 5th, 2011. When he was lowered into the Earth, his journal was buried with him. The following is written in that journal:

April 2nd

Old man comes in today. Never seen him before. Had to be in his late sixties or seventies. Comes in, mumbles under breath. Ask him to repeat himself. Responds: "Can a vampire go to heaven when he dies?" Tell him the usual. God wants all his children to spend eternity with him. And no such thing as vampires. Old man melts into wailing. Ask him for his confession. Says through tears that he's going to die today. Asks me if I'll say last rites for him. Tell him that's only for those who are dying. Says he is. Pleads with me to say it. Ask him again if he has confession. Says he has written it down. Asks if I'll read it. Forgive him through the words. Tell him that he needs to be freed from guilt. More crying. Says he's so scared of dying. So scared. Never seen that type of fear before. Old man begs. Pleads. Won't leave until I take journal to read and give death prayer (his words). Finally, oblige. Hands me bundle of papers wrapped in rubber bands, at least five hundred pages. I say this, to get rid of the foul smelling old sinner: "Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you by the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up." Left me alone with the papers.

March 20th

That old man that came to me last year wanting me to give him his last rites, that man's face has stayed with me. I've heard people tell me horrible things over the years. I've seen men cry for a thousand sins. Alcoholics who beat their innocent children. Adulterers, idolaters, slanderers, murderers, filth of every kind.That old man, and his breakdown in my booth, that's scarred me without end. He asked two questions. I remember it well. If vampires can go to heaven, and would I read his journal. I took it, but I never read it. I stashed it away. That is, until I saw his face in the newspaper this morning... until I read his obituary. The obit said he had a daughter born just last year. I should find her... see if she's being cared after. A girl named Tiffany. She must have been born around the same time he came to me. Such an old man to be a father. I found his manuscript and tried to read it. Thought I could pray for his soul in purgatory. I took the day off—I read every page of that thing. Most of it nonsense. The man was clearly schizophrenic. God, did you make him this way? Did you give him this disease? Why does he haunt me so? I need to find his daughter. I need to find his Tiffany, help her break the chain her father continued. Oh God, what's wrong with me? Why does he haunt me? His journal—besides the obvious obsession with demon imagery and vampires, there are pages and pages filled with just the date: August 6th, 1945. One excerpt:

August 6th, my date and my curse.

Why is my birth marked with such death?

Sea of radiation? Do I see?

Those Jap souls, where are they now?

The dark hands, the Americans, they kill to win,

They do. But at my cost. My soul stuck in its uranium.

August 6th, my birth and my death.

And the day of mass judgment.

Soon it falls on me.

But what could I do, Lord?

It was he that stuck first his teeth in me?

Or how about this one:

Everyone knows the thing about the mirrors.

I knew not to expect to see myself.

But no one told me what I'd see in place of a reflection.

The monsters, they must hide there, behind the mirrors.

This world's too small for them.

Why does this happen to me?

Is it because of the day of my birth?

He goes on and on. Weaving a tale over and over that inserts himself as the chief of all victims. He's always the one that takes the punishment. He's a self-proclaimed beast of burden.

Take this poem written on toilet paper (but inserted in the middle of the "journal"):

My mother beat me,

my father I never knew.

The children they hate me.

Pied Piper says I owe him.

Why does it all involve me.

Your fortunes balanced with a key.

That they say belongs to me.

But I'll never see that door.

That door to infinity.

I've dealt with the insane a hundred times before. Their logic is their own, and it's never bothered me. I've always operated under the assumption that they made their own rules. But this man, this particular insanity, feels different. It feels as though his insanity was handed to him... that he plays by rules dictated to him. Every other crazy self-seeker that comes to confession knows somewhere, deep down, that they're writing their own destiny. I believe that! They're scribbling down the story they want to live out. But this, it's so different. He's living out the rules of some other magician. He's living out some other demon's script. I'm frightened. I need to find that baby girl of his. I'll stop the chain. Why did he have to suffer the consequences of some other person's script? Oh God, why do I feel so confused?

Daniel never found Tiff.

~~~

## Chapter Sixteen: Bad Blood

A taxi. Jenn gave him directions. He said he won't go all the way to Santa Barbara for the 130 bucks she had to offer.

"Take me as far as that'll take me."

"You got it."

They drove. Jenn passed out.

No dreams. Just hot sweat.

"Hey, you doing alright back there?"

"What time is it?"

"Just north of 5 a.m. You sick or something?"

Jenn rubbed her eyes. She was drenched. As she felt her face, her wig slipped off, rolling down her wet brow.

"AahH!–ahaa–I mean, uh-hum," the taxi driver tried to cover his shock by acting as if he was merely clearing his throat. "You got cancer?"

"What?" Jenn responded in a daze. She was finding it difficult to keep her eyes open.

"Chemo?"

"No. I'm... I'm hunting Leviathan." She tumbled off, her eyes burning shut as she slid down in her seat.

Four walls. The same four walls she dreamed of every night. Menacing walls. But they weren't motionless this time. No. They undulated. Like a boat swaying in a busy current. Undulating, almost, almost bubbling. And there was something underneath.

Not blood. Not feces. Something else. What color was it? Maybe clear... was it water? No. Not quite clear. It wasn't water. It had a high viscosity. It's thick. Thick-clear. No. It's undulating too. Undulating from clear to something else. Green. Yes, green. It's pale green, and it's soaking through. It'll get us. It has a purpose, a design. It's seeping in because it wants to get at us. It wants in. Why, why does it want to get at us? What did we ever do? What did we ever do! What did we ever— _don't kill_. Poison! It's poison. Oh God! It's in our veins. It's poison. It's poison! Please, somebody hear us, it's POISON! It's murdering us!!—

—Wake up.

"Hey, hey, hey." The taxi driver was crouched over Jenn, lightly smacking her on her sweat drenched face. "You're as white as a ghost, so I brought you here. No extra charge. But I need you out of my taxi. Can you get up?"

Jenn blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind into this moment, "Where am I?"

"I took you to the Santa Barbara hospital. You call your friend, tell 'em you're here at the hospital."

"No—No. I need to go to the address. She's the only..." Jenn's bones hurt. Not just her broken rib, but every bone, from within. They pulsed with pain, as if they were ready to crumble from within themselves. "I... I can get up."

The taxi driver was quick to help her to her feet. He smiled at her. He'd done a good thing. He'd be proud of himself for his altruistic service. "Okay, I can check myself in. Thank you. You can go."

"Okay, kid. Glad to help. You take care of yourself, you hear? Beat that cancer!"

"Right. Beat that cancer," Jenn repeated.

She walked through the front doors, cognizant enough to know she needed to be free of this taxi driver. What was going on? Why was she so weak?

Walking hurt. Jenn hobbled through the entrance and deliriously found a bathroom.

The bathroom mirror didn't paint a pretty picture. Jenn was in trouble. Her skin was pasty white. She'd been sucked of all life. And she left her wig in the taxi. She really did look like a cancer patient, one that was losing the battle.

Fortunately, an unoccupied computer in the waiting room welcomed Jenn as she stumbled out of the bathroom. Struggling to keep focus and retain full consciousness, she typed in Mrs. Moose address.

_Lucky_ —Jenn smiled at the irony of calling herself lucky. _It's within walking distance; a mile and a half._ With that it was decided.

Jennifer Dash would walk. This was not like walking in Louisiana at 9:30 in the evening. This was a pre-dawn zombie hustle. Every bone and fiber shouted abuse with each step.

Obscenity after obscenity, the pain wouldn't let up. But step by step, she was closer. Closer to an answer. Closer to her only hope for salvation. Closer to the end, whether it be the end of her life, the end of Jenn's adventures in this world, or merely the end of a chapter.

Jenn's eyes pushed down every moment. She found herself compromising and keeping her eyes shut as long and as often as possible, only slitting them open to recalculate her position on the sidewalk.

There. Not death, not sleep, but there. Jenn had arrived at the mansion, its spindles and moat smiling back at her.

There. No more pain. No more mystery. Just there.

In her state, Jenn couldn't hold much of a thought. She couldn't remember that she had the power to let herself in. And she couldn't remember what she wanted from Mrs. Moose, couldn't remember what she should expect.

There was a doorbell. Jenn managed to slap it with a limp wrist. No answer. Slap again. No answer. Slap the doorbell. Slap it until you die.

Lights turned on. The lady approached. Salvation was here.

"Good heavens, what happened to you?"

Jenn collapsed... at least she thought she did...

As if locked in a dream state, Jenn witnessed herself floating past the gates, over the drawbridge. Was she walking? Where was the Moose? No matter, whether it be reality or just perception of a dream, it indicated progress towards an end. That's all Jennifer Dash wanted anymore—an end.

Past the moat. Through the front door. The middle staircase. Not the right, where Jenn once creeped. The stairs rose... and fell.

Down. Down. Down the rabbit hole. A bolted metal door. Another set of keys. Door open. Past the threshold. Barren... just... just a lawn chair resting in the center of a windowless room. The final throes of consciousness leaked out of Jenn with the tremble-inducing thought: another dungeon.

No dreams.

Awake. Both arms splayed out. An IV in the right arm appears to be receiving blood from several unmarked blood bags.

This isn't a dungeon, it's a hospital. There's hope.

The left arm portrayed a more grim picture. Her arm was slashed horizontally just north of the wrist. Bleeding out. A large plastic tub lay underneath the arm acquiring a pool's worth of red liquid.

"Where am I?" Jenn whispered.

"You're in my home. In the inner chamber." The voice, Mrs. Moose's, came from directly behind her. Jenn managed to pivot her head enough to catch a glimpse of the bedraggled old witch. The verdict was out whether she'd prove to be a good witch or a bad witch.

"Why am I here?" Jenn couldn't remember much yet. Everything was fuzzy.

"You came here just a few days ago. You looked healthy, had beautiful locks of hair. Then a couple hours ago, you came here, bald as a clear night sky's moon, sweating, and pulsing a greenish tint through your veins."

"How... how... I don't understand what's happening."

"Quiet now, child. It's all okay. Whether you knew or not, you came to just the right place." Mrs. Moose pet Jenn on her bald head. "I'll take care of you, and then send you on your way."

"Way... I have to get away." Jenn moaned.

"Yes. I'll need you to tell me your story. You should be feeling better by the minute, so you just take your time, child."

"I... I... You..." Jenn's attention drifted to Mrs. Moose. She was squeezing the last of a bag of blood into the IV. With clinical poise, she opened a steel-colored cabinet, wherein a fridge of blood bags hung like clothes on a line. She snatched one and brought it over, attached it, and flicked the IV to get it going.

"I think enough's been extracted out of your system now, don't you?" Mrs. Moose eyed the ever growing pool of blood below Jenn's slashed arm. She handed a towel to Jenn. "Hold this tightly on your wrist. Once the bleeding calms down, we'll get you stitched up."

"Did you do this?" Jenn motioned to her slit wrist.

"I injected a localized anesthetic first. You didn't even wake."

"Why, why are you doing this?"

"I could be wrong, of course, but if I didn't gamble, I believe there was a very good chance you were going to die, and I don't allow death to come into my home. It's against my rules."

"Rules?"

"It's proper to think of them more as guideposts than rules. I've come to break many of them over the years, and it wouldn't do to have a rule maintained that you've already come to break, now, would it?" Mrs. Moose smiled as if expecting an audience to laugh at the levity with which she spoke. Hearing no ovation, she went on, "But never, never have I broken that first guidepost. I never, ever allow death in here."

"Who are you... really?"

A genuine smile from the old lady preceded her answer, "I've been waiting ages to be asked that question. It's a question I love to answer. It implies the questioner is starting to see the world as it really is."

"Huh?"

"As a vast network of complicated connections and systems," Mrs. Moose smirked, "But first, my dear little child, I need you to tell me everything you know. What cause affected your coming to me in this state?"

"Cause?"

"Yes, well, the effect is quite clear to me. And I should congratulate the two of us; you're looking much better already. Color's coming back into your pretty face. I gambled correctly. I think your life is saved... for now."

Jenn was, indeed, starting to feel better. Her thoughts grew progressively clearer, the void of haziness dispersing.

"Tell me what happened." The old lady pulled up a stool from behind Jenn and sat next to her slit arm. Methodically and gracefully, she looked underneath the towel at the cut. Nodding to herself, she pulled out a needle and string from her purse, and began threading.

"I... I went on a late night date. With a man... he took me past security to ride on the new, unreleased ride at Magical Kingdom."

"What was the man's name, child?"

"d'Anconia."

"Ah," Mrs. Moose gave a knowing nod.

"We got caught. A bunch of security people interrogated me... well, not really. They injected me with a GPS system, and shaved my head for not signing this paper... I guess?"

"Did you sign it?"

"Yeah... after they cut off my hair."

"Why'd you come to me?"

"I was afraid that if I went directly to Patriot, they'd track me and get all the Patriots."

Jenn tried her best to sell the lie. She wasn't about to tell the whole story to the old lady—who, let's face it, very likely is a witch at this point. But whatever the case, it was clear she was helping Jenn. Jenn didn't even notice as the Moose pricked her skin with the needle and string.

"Magical Kingdom has a lot at stake. They couldn't put their whole ecosystem at risk because of one teenage girl... Oh, I should have..." Mrs. Moose hustled out of the room mid-sentence and mid-stitch, leaving Jenn's arm with a needle and string hanging nine inches from Jenn's wrist.

Jennifer alone... but not. There was someone else in the room. Jenn jolted in her seat as she caught a shadow bolt behind her. Jenn spun around in her seat to catch the silhouette's frame, but as she turned, her IV pricked out, spurting blood straight into Jenn's face. Panicked, Jenn swivelled to correct herself. That's when the flimsy chair buckled and folded under the swinging pressure.

Jenn collapsed in a nervous wreck, her left ankle hitting the bucket of her blood. Jenn watched, wide-eyed, as the bucket flew through the air in a perfect trajectory. In slow-motion, the bucket-o-blood flushed down upon Jenn's face and body.

For a moment, Jenn froze in shock. Then, with utter disdain for all the misadventures the last twelve hours had brought, Jenn, soaked through with her own blood, burst into laughter.

HahahHaHAHAHAHAHhahahahahahahaha!

Whoever the shadow monster was, it didn't matter. He could come eat Jenn whole, for all she cared.

"Good heavens, child! What happened!?" Mrs. Moose shouted in astonishment.

"I saw something, and, and I fell."

"I see," Mrs. Moose said and, following Jenn's lead, couldn't suppress her own chuckle.

The next 90 minutes saw Jenn immersed in a luxurious bath, re-IV-ed, and fully stitched up. She now lounged on a sofa in a large, exotically-decorated living room. A parrot stood on top of a cage beside Jenn, swaying to-and-fro. Jenn held a 2-gallon jug of water, and, following strict orders, gulped from it every minute as she continued to peruse the room, spotting a fake palm tree over there, a marble giraffe over here, no doubt reminding Jenn of old Claude, forever slamming his mechanical head and neck against that hard black pavement.

Mrs. Moose walked in holding out a package of mixed nuts. "You should eat these as well."

Jenn heartily stuffed her mouth. All the trauma had given her quite the appetite. Between chomps she managed to ask, "Should I be worried?"

"Of what, child?"

"Of someone coming to get me... you know, because they know where I am."

"Sweetie, there's no such thing as GPS in the bloodstream. They could inject you with a GPS chip, but I don't think that's what happened here. If it was a chip you'd know it."

"Then what'd they give me?"

"Time-released poison, no doubt."

The information caused Jenn to look crestfallen. "So, they meant to kill me the whole time?"

1. Don't kill.

"I've seen this before. It has a neuron-agent in it that causes the brain to misfire—the results of which look very much like alcohol poisoning. I suspect as well that there was a percentage of alcohol in the injection to begin with. Anyone that cared enough to do an autopsy would have no reason to suspect anything other than alcohol overdose."

"Mrs. Moose, you're telling me that they not only planned to murder me, but frame me as well?"

"Systems fight hard to maintain their place in the world. They'll do a whole lot worse than offing some vagabond girl—and don't call me that. I've told you before, my name is Gertrude Norman. You may call me Ms. Norman, or Gertrude, if you wish. But don't insult me by calling me that hideous cartoony name."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I've called the Patriot. He and his friends will be here to pick you up in... well, I'm sure it'll be no time at all. You can rest here until they come."

"What? Why would you do that?" Maybe it was the bath or the free blood, but Jenn had already decided that Mrs. Moose—excuse me—Ms. Norman, was a wise old sage worthy of trust. Had she really ratted her out so quickly?

"This is the best thing for you, dear. You can't get out of this without serving one boss or another. If I let you leave and just wander off, I wouldn't be doing you any favors. I'm not willing to waste my precious blood on some precocious girl who thinks she can walk away scot-free from all her commitments. Actions have consequences, my dear."

Jenn thought she had a weapon in her arsenal yet. "About that... who in their right mind keeps a mini-fridge full of blood on hand? What sort of vampire are you?"

"I resent that tone, young lady. If you hadn't been through a great ordeal today, I'd slap you for your insolence. Mind your manners and mind your tongue. You are a guest in my home, speak politely."

"Sorry," Jenn said somberly, her shame rubbing out the sting of being betrayed back into the hands of the Patriot. "But why did you call him, Ma'am? He can't help me. He can't save me from those people's wrath."

"No. You're probably right. He can't save you. But he can kill you. And if you don't give him what he wants, what you signed up to give him, then he will hunt you down. As for my responsibility, I'd just as well see him do it. This generation has forgotten what loyalty means."

"So you are a Patriot after all?"

"Look at me. Are you looking? Do you see the cracks? I'm an old woman. Do I look like the type of person who'd get in bed with an underground Mayan cult?"

Mayan cult? The Patriot? He didn't look Native American... what on Earth was she talking about? Jenn didn't have time to ponder it, as the old whatever-she-was was worked up in a lather.

"Good heavens, no! I'm not a Patriot, nor am I a Parrot or an FBI insider or with the CIA, or associated with the Babbits and d'Anconia's, or a card-carrying member of the NRA. I'm with none of them... and yet, I function as a cog for all of them."

"But you just said—"

"I don't serve any organization; I work to understand them. And in understanding, and the process of gaining that understanding, you start to hear whispers of a deep truth to this world."

"What truth?"

The old lady smiled. "Goodness me, I must be getting on in age. I can't believe I'm going to tell you." Her smile broadened still. "Oh well, I guess I'm taking a fancy to you. I'm old, and I need young people to tell my secrets to."

The Patriot said three words to Jenn when he pulled up to Mrs. Moose's mansion.

"You look poor." He was travelling with an entourage of men, none of which Jenn recognized except for Luis, Tiff's friend. She wondered if he knew about Tiff, knew if she was alive. But Jenn dared not risk bringing it up. She wasn't given an opportunity to make friendly anyway.

After Patriot sneered his three-word hello at Jenn, he shooed her to the front seat of the limo, separated by a blackened window from the goings-ons of the entourage.

"Hi, I'm Jenn."

"Wimbledon," said the limo driver. They shook hands.

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Wimbledon. Mind telling me where we're going today?"

"Orders are that we're to go to Las Vegas today."

"Las Vegas, huh?.... I've never been to Las Vegas." Jenn tried to act whimsical and naive.

That card used to get her far in life, but lately, she'd been deprived of her innocence. Perhaps feigning it would somehow wrestle it back.

"Do you have cancer?" Wimbledon asked.

"No, I just got into a bad deal, is all."

"Lost a bet. I've been there, sister." Jenn liked this guy. Everyone lately had been so serious. She needed a little levity. "No worries, though, it'll grow back in no time."

"I hope so. So, how far to Las Vegas?"

"Oh, it'll take us darn near all day."

"Okay, well, speaking of rest, do you mind if I sleep a little? I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Burning the candle at both ends, eh?"

"What?"

"Burning the candle at both ends. You never heard that before?"

"No." Jenn tried to picture it. It seemed evil, wrong. Why would someone do that? From both ends? It was so... unnatural. The image of a white candle pouring out its life-wax from top and bottom melted through Jenn's conscious as she drifted off to sleep.

"Hey, Hey, Hey-you, wake up, okay?" Wimbledon nudged Jenn.

Groggily Jenn responded, "What? Are we there yet?"

"I'm about to pull over. We're thirty miles outside of Las Vegas. They're going to blindfold you and put you in the trunk."

"What? Why? What's going on?"

"The place we're going is top secret. They don't want you to know where it is. But don't worry, you have what they want, right?"

Jenn nodded.

"So they have no reason to hurt you."

"Well, that's comforting."

"But, but, they will want to scare you. That's how they control people. They're also doing this to scare you, to make sure you don't think twice about talking."

"Okay. Wimbledon, thank you for being kind."

"In this world, I can't afford to be anything but kind to the people that don't mean me any harm."

"I like that philosophy."

Wimbledon pulled the limo to the side of the road. One of Patriot's entourage opened Jenn's side door. "Get up." Jenn unbuckled her belt. The henchman yanked Jenn's arm, "Get out."

Jenn stumbled out of the limo, landing on her hands and knees. The dust of the sick desert air blew into Jenn's eyes as Luis walked up to her, blindfold in his clutches.

He wrapped it around Jenn's eyes, then wretched her arms behind her back, handcuffing her.

"Why? Why the handcuffs?"

"Don't want you to escape."

They marched her to the trunk. As they shut her up in that dark space, ideas of helplessness inundated her mind. The trunk slammed shut. The engine roared. They were moving, taking Jenn to a place she didn't know, locked in a dark confined space.

Jennifer Dash couldn't control anything. She couldn't move. She couldn't see.

The sound of the engine and ground trembling underneath made listening to anything, e.g. back-of-the-limo discussions, nearly impossible.

This was solitary confinement, sensory deprivation at its finest.

Jennifer Dash. Alone and in the dark.

~~~

Jenn's going somewhere new. She's far away from Leviathan. Far away from Atticus. Far away from solving the world.

## Chapter Seventeen: Lillith

Breathe, old girl, breathe.

It started small.

Jenn tried to wriggle her hands to scratch an itch on her upper back. She could have likely reached it, but she had to bend in such a way that her chest bumped against the siding of the trunk. Every time she squirmed, another barrier made itself known. The itch could not be scratched.

Don'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanic. If you panic, you'll lose it. You'll lose your mind. Don't focus on the constriction, old girl. Focus on something you can control. Focus on your mind. Think on something.

Claude.

Pounding his mechanical head in a never ending pattern.

Bolts flying out.

Self-destruction in its most abhorrent, meticulous form.

A tremor shot through Jenn's central nervous system, lighting up tiny hairs up and down her spine. _No, old girl, that's no good. Think about something you can control. Something good._

Control. Jenn had to fight for control of her sanity, embalmed in a box the dimensions of which were not too distinct from that of a casket.

Control. Control yourself, old girl. Get control and keep it.

Control... that wasn't quite right, was it? This wasn't a control issue, it was another symptom of cause-and-effect. Jenn had set in motion events, and this was the inevitable response to her cause. It was the shove in return for her push. Yes, that worked. She did this. All this, it was Jenn's doing. She could be behind that screen door in Louisiana right now, sitting on her rear. This was better. She changed her destiny by pushing on fate. She was in control. She chose a life outside of expectations. This was that. This was the unexpected. She wanted to solve the world, and this was the world's kick-back. _Surely I didn't think the whole big world would go down without a fight, did I, old girl?_ The whimsical rumination brought a smile on Jenn's face.

Guideline #7: Always smile, even when you don't feel like it.

_Oh, Atticus Further, where are you now?_ Jenn pictured herself sitting on his couch talking to him all through the night. The yearning brought up images of Antonio, that huxter. His lips were so fresh, so vivid yet. Jenn wanted the feeling to fade, the memory of that betrayal to vanish, to go missing, to siphon itself out of Jenn's feelings. But she could do better, she could leverage that instinctual memory. Those lips, that irresistible jolt, all that welling could be transplanted.

Jenn imagined sitting on Atticus' couch, kissing not the Rasputin of Saints Row, but the tender form of her appropriately-aged friend. How lovely. How peaceful and serene. Jenn remembered little Scout, and her insistence that Cracker Jacks are to be eaten as cereal. She thought kindly of Joseph Further, the train conductor and surrogate father-figure. Jenn had met so many people already, how was it that the Earth only offered her this one family that oozed kindness?

Was real kindness nowhere else to be found on this Earth? Maybe Wimbledon, the limo driver... and maybe Mrs. Moose... but why did the old woman have all the blood? She never explained that. Man alive, she was an eccentric old kook. Then again, she saved Jenn's life. Saved it, that is, if her story was true. Was Jenn really poisoned? It seemed reasonable to assume that anyone who was willing to take an innocent young girl's hair would be willing to take her life as well.

Takers never know when to stop taking. But was she really innocent? Was Jennifer Dash still an innocent young girl?

What about Tiff? Jenn killed her... most likely. All that blood. She could have at least called an ambulance, told a hotel worker, done something. She left her, the poor orphan. Jenn had heard somewhere before that the best people in life give help to widows and orphans. And now Jenn had killed one. Killed an orphan. How could that be? How could it come to that? No one would believe self-defense. Jenn didn't believe it herself. If it was defense, then why not call for help when you've clearly won? Why leave the defeated to die in a pool of blood? Why do that?

Jenn had broken the first guideline. Would Joseph Further still smile down at her, still prove to be kind to her if he knew what she'd done... if he knew she was a murderer?

No. Not a murderer. That's not fair. _You never intended to kill her, old girl_ , Jenn thought. _You never wanted her to die. You just wanted her out of the way... and you didn't care how that worked itself out. Flusher, Tiff, who cares how they exit the picture show, as long as they're gone, right? Right! You're filthy! Their blood is on your hands! You're guilty. I accuse you! You stand accused! Who will protect you? Who'll defend you now? Not Atticus, not his father—you broke their first rule! And not only the first, you've broken all of them!_

Control, control, get control of yourself. Stop panicking. What's done is done. If Tiff's dead, she's dead. _You've got to keep yourself alive now, old girl._ Jenn's intellect soothed her erratic emotions. _Control, control, it's not about control. You've always had it. Remember the dogs?_

Once upon a time, long ago, Jenn had watched a documentary on tv about an experiment conducted on a group of dogs back in the sixties. At the time, Jenn found the idea revolting. Her heart broke for these poor beasts who couldn't comprehend the nasty tricks played on them.

The experiment is known to history as the Seigman and Maier experiment. The psychologists took two groups of dogs and gave each group electric shocks. Both groups had a lever. Group one's lever, when pushed, turned off the electric shocking mechanism. Group two's lever did nothing. Group one learned that the shocks came from something, and could be halted by the pressing of the lever. Group two learned nothing besides the cruelty of life.

All the dogs from both groups were later taken to a kennel. In this place too, the evil electric shocks haunted the poor canines. In this scenario, however, once the dogs received the shock, to make it stop, all they needed to do to end the pain was jump over a small little fence. The fence's height was well within all the dogs' ability to clear. Pretty quickly, the group one dogs learned to leap over the fence and end the pain. Group two dogs never learned the new lesson because they never tried. They stayed on their side of the fence and whined as the pain flowed through their bodies. They just laid there. The sound of their sweet moaning broke Jenn's heart. They had come to accept torture as their lot in life. They became helpless conduits of pain even when escape was entirely within their grasp.

Jenn is not going to be a dog from group two. No matter the pain, no matter the horror she experiences, she'll always look forward, just in case there's now a fence to jump over. At least that's what she told herself.

We'll see about that.

Handcuffed, blindfolded, locked in a box, hours away from deadly blood poisoning, less than a day away from enduring something akin to torture and attempted rape, surviving a deadly hotel room fight—Jenn was going to endure. She was going to refuse helplessness. Their was always something to be done. Something to cause.

This rebellious indignation towards her plight comforted Jenn as her hostage-limo pulled into Las Vegas, Nevada.

At roughly that moment, Atticus Further penned a letter to Jennifer Dash. He sent it via the United States Postal Service to:

Jennifer Dash

Care of: Redjeb Heller

300 Room st,

Jennings, Louisiana 70546

Dear Jennifer Dash,

Hi! How are you? I hope it's alright to write to you. I hope you don't mind. I hope this finds its way to you, wherever you are.

My father said he had a great time meeting you. He said, in his words, that you are a 'very special lady'. If you know my dad at all, you know that's high praise. Scout likes you too. She asks me if you're ever coming over to visit again.

So, are you?

_There's something I need to tell you about. I'm not sure if it's a big deal or not. A few days after you left, this woman who goes by the name of Dolores Burden started posting flyers asking for help looking for her daughter. She put one up in our shop. She even came and asked me if I knew this girl. She didn't have a picture of her, which I thought was weird, but the person she described sounded a lot like you. She said her daughter was seventeen, was named Jennifer but went by Jenn, and sometimes liked to give people a fake last name. She said_ you _she had a habit of running away from home and making up stories. She said that's why her daughter would make up new last names like Jennifer Lightning or Jennifer Runner or Jennifer Dash. This lady put up posters all over the place asking people to contact her with any information of her daughter's whereabouts._

Jenn, I've thought about this a lot. I told my father about it. He seemed troubled. I think he might have called this lady. I think he might have told her about you. He said that even if you weren't her daughter, we had a responsibility to at least tell this lady what we know.

I'm sorry. I felt guilty for telling my dad about it at all, but he always says, "The truth will set you free." I guess that's true. The only problem is that I don't think this lady is your mother. I think it's the truck driver lady you escaped from. Is that possible? I remember you said the lady kept talking about how you reminded her of her real daughter.

So, I'm really sorry about all that, but there's no way she could find you anyway. I didn't give my father your address; well, the address of Mr. Heller that you told me to contact you through.

I like you, Jenn. I don't want to cause you any harm, or get you in trouble with anyone. I want your life to be full of delightful adventures. That's what I want for my life too.

Okay, so... I was thinking... maybe I could come and visit you? I've been saving up, and I was thinking, since you don't have any family out West, maybe I could be your family. Just like, for the holidays. I mean, I was thinking of taking a trip to California during Thanksgiving break, and then the two of us could pretend to be each other's family together on Thanksgiving day. My father even said it would be okay if I came. The only caveat is that he said he won't let me go unless I actually know where I'm going. I guess that makes sense. I hope you have some way of getting this and can send me an address. If you do, I promise, I'll come see you. I'll come the day before Thanksgiving, and leave two days after.

If you don't want me to come, just say so. It's fine if you have other plans. It's just an idea.

I really hope this gets to you and you have a chance to write me back. I'm including a couple of extra stamps in this envelope so that you can easily write me back without having to worry about going to the post office, and getting money to buy a stamp and stuff.

I miss you, Jennifer Dash. I hope I can spend more time with you soon.

Peace be the Journey,

Atticus Further

Engine stop.

Doors opening.

Echoing footsteps.

Open.

Hands pulling her out.

She was surrounded by men. She could smell them, walking in stride like a scene out of _Reservoir Dogs_.

Through a door. Down some stairs. It was hot. Then through another door. And... casino slots. Bright lights of various hues overwhelming Jenn's blindfold. They marched in a straight line through what sounded like the main hall of a large casino. Jenn tried to listen for any clues. Which casino? Where in Vegas was she? None of the slot noises pointed her in any direction.

They moseyed into a small room. Jenn couldn't make heads or tails of it until it started moving. Down. It was an elevator. The doors opened and someone nudged Jenn forward. She took three paces into the place, listened as the elevator doors closed behind her, and then stopped when a voice said, "Stand still." A second later, the blindfold was gone.

It looked like any general warehouse one could find anywhere in America. Except it had chandeliers. Lots of chandeliers. Filling up the entirety of the ceiling. The chandeliers were the first thing Jenn saw once they plopped her on the couch and her eyes focused to the light of the room. So many fractals of light. She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but Jenn found the chandeliers unnerving.

Jenn, the Patriot, Luis, and two unnamed goons sat on one couch facing the empty hall of the warehouse/garage. In the far corner a broken chandelier lay on the floor in pieces. Jenn's first impression was that it must have fallen, but the ceiling above it appeared to be strictly formatted with every inch of space already assigned to its designated chandelier. This chandelier was waste. It was for the dogs.

For the dogs....

A forty-ish-year-old man marched in from a separate elevator which looked more like a maintenance lift. He was accompanied by his own legion of dragoons. Probably a dozen of them. He spoke in a strong accent, which Jenn couldn't quite place, and with a heavy lisp.

"So, this is the young lady who has what I desire. I expected someone prettier." Jenn suppressed the need to smirk at the odd oxymoron that was the image of this man, versus his effeminate lisp. He looked the part of the mafia leader or the rich schoolyard bully, and yet, this eccentric lisp of his undermined his bravura. The chandeliers were starting to make more sense.

"This is the man you'll tell," the Patriot said, as if that weren't already profusely obvious.

"Young lady, for security sake, why don't you come alone with me to my office. There we can have a nice little chat, just the two of us."

Jenn rose to follow the mafioso. The Patriot rose as well.

"Please, just the girl and I," the lisping man said with a noticeable degree of disdain. "Make yourself at home... that is to say, make yourself... at home, if your home were above ground like regular people."

"We need to talk negotiations first."

"We talk after the girl speaks."

"No. She says nothing until we agree on terms." Jenn was surprised to hear not the usual confident tone from her master. His rebuttal betrayed a tone of anxiousness. He was scared of this man. If he was scared...

"You will not speak to me that way. Girl, come."

Jenn looked to Patriot. He nodded. She was being pawned off, sold to the highest bidder.

"Come, darling. Maybe we can find a way to extenuate your hidden beauty."

SHOTS IN THE AIR.

Stormtroopers decked in black.

"Freeze. FBI. No one move! All you standing, on your knees! On your knees!"

Blurs followed.

Lines merged.

Gray pervaded the horizons.

The dance was in motion.

The men Jenn had come to fear, these titans of power, they fell.

Like dominoes.

BANGBANGBANGBANG-BANGBANGBANG.

They bowed their knee at a yet awesomer power sweeping over the land. Patriot, the lisping mafioso, every goon. They were all mastered now, all made equals by their collective inadequacy.

"Parrots," Patriot whispered to his men with horror and disdain. How easy it was to break him.

Meticulously, but with stunning alarm, the self-proclaimed FBI infiltrated the room and separated every soul from every soul. Jenn found herself swept up and corralled into an unmarked black van.

In the van: Jenn sat wedged between four heavily-armored men. Facing her, a suited man.

"You came here to tell secrets. We know everything. We know you work for the man called Patriot. We know he has plans to perpetrate a terror attack in America."

"Terror?" Jenn stumbled in her mind trying fit the puzzle pieces together. Terror? What terror? She assumed Patriot wanted the intel to make money betting, not to cause terror. Again, terror? What terror? "What terror?" Jenn finally added aloud.

"This is not 'bring your pet to share at school' day. This is: tell us your secret, or you will regret not cooperating."

"But I don't understand... I just... I'm just a girl caught in all this. I don't know... I don't know anything."

Guideline #10: People will always want something from you. Find out what it is.

Jenn poured on the waterworks. It was a sight to see, a grand show. Rivers of tears streamed down. She sobbed profusely and unrelentingly. She needed time. And this was the best way to buy a little. What in the blazes was going on? Jenn's first thought was that Magical Kingdom had orchestrated this coup, but why would they want her to open her mouth? What good would that do? Then a bunch of FBI officers would have the capability to spill the beans, make a fortune off of Magical Kingdom's revelation. How is that in their best interest? Unless this wasn't actually the FBI....

Through muddled tears, Jenn repeated, "I don't know anything."

No one spoke. Jenn's tears had successfully bought her time.

An hour later, behind bars.

A windowless room.

Behind bars watching a man set up a procedure.

Just beyond. A long plank. Set at a 30-degree angle.

Several buckets of water.

Towels.

The man assembling the scene, who looked like the Batman villain called Penguin, chortled to Jenn, "You didn't talk. The water board will make you. And if not that alone, a little jolt of electricity will do the trick."

The dogs...

Earlier in the limo trunk, Jenn had reflected on her pre-dawn interrogation at the hands of the Magical Kingdom S.S. She called that torture. Hair removal as terrorist attack. Things now were about to get much, much, much, much worse. Knowing this, Jenn buckled down. No fear coursed through her veins. Not this time. Jenn had already hit her personal angle of repose. She'd hit the wall of emotion over the course of the last 36 hours. There was no room for anything more. It was time to fight, resist, rebel. She didn't know these people. Were they the government? Doesn't that mean they should serve and protect? She's an American citizen! Doesn't that mean anything? If this is America, Jennifer Dash rejects it. She'll die holding in her secret, for Magical Kingdom, which she hates. For Antonio, who nearly forced himself on her. How did it come to this—dying for the people and things you hate?

Clenching her fists and teeth, Jenn sat opposed to the torture chamber assembler. Clenching fists, clenching teeth, clenching fists, clenching teeth... _hold your ground. Stay focused. You are not helpless. They can't rob you of what you're unwilling to give. Whatever the cost, hold true, old girl._ Whatever the sacrifice, stay vigilant. No more break down. No more crying over spilt milk. Now was the time to make a name for yourself in the history books: the girl who withstood torture. Not for honor, not for loyalty, but for Jenn herself. How many sleepless nights were bound to keep her torturers stricken of peace? One hundred? A thousand? A thousand nights of solace-less-ness.

That had a ring to it. Clench fists and teeth, clench fists and teeth. Never give in, never submit. Hold steady. Hold firm. _Terra firma_. You are not a helpless dog, Jenn. You choose your destiny. You choose your future. You are the cause they react to. You are the unmoved mover. You are the first in a chain reaction. All the cards rest with you. You bluff, you gamble, you persevere.

_Clench your fists and teeth, old girl. Don't think about Tiff. Don't think about the bad things. Don't think about anything. Just hold rock steady._ Stay poised until the end of days. Do this, and do it grandly, for nothing. That'll show them; the ultimate sign of power; doing this just because. You have something they want, and they aren't asking nicely. That's reason enough to clench our fists and teeth. We are not a dog. We will jump over that electric fence. We will find our freedom, in this life or the next.

Clench and hold, clench and hold, clench and...

Four walls. Four brown walls. The dream. Jenn was dreaming. How could she fall asleep at a time like this? The how didn't matter. Jenn was where she was, back in the room with the menacing four walls. Yet still, her stature of indignation burned. She refused to be a helpless little child here just as sternly as she refused in that other place.

Four walls. She always said that in her mind. She always said _there are four walls in this place_ , but why did she believe that? Vision was different here. It wasn't so much that she "saw", it was more like she knew—she comprehended four walls.

Maybe if she focused... Jenn tried to make the walls more real by staring at them better. It didn't work. They undulated a little, as if half there by sight and half there by some other sense; a sixth, purely immaterial way of knowing. And this half sense was stronger than the regular sensory observations because it brought along with it not just information, but emotion. That was how she knew the walls weren't just four—they were evil. Or at the very least, they meant her harm. They may not be intrinsically evil, but they meant evil to come upon Jennifer Dash. Why? Why did they hate her so? Jenn focused yet further on the why, and began to believe that a focused further "look" at these walls would belie more facts, more truth.

Bleeding. That's what she saw. She saw-felt the walls bleeding. Maybe that was what caused their vitriol—such hatred was based on some insufferable condition. The walls hated her because the walls bled. A hypothesis arose to Jenn; if she reached out, if she helped somehow, perhaps it would all be better. Maybe she was not as helpless as she thought. Maybe she could change the walls' outlook, change the walls' perception of her.

Reaching out is difficult in the dream world. It takes several moving parts at once to act as if one agent is behind it. Still harder, it requires the dreamers to envision themselves. Often, one's attempt at this is horribly befuddled by a clash of perspectives. We humans don't see ourselves waking, walking, going about the business of our days. But television and photography has a tendency to hijack our memories and cause us to re-envision our whole bodies in context of our past actions. When we then think of ourselves in the dreamworld, the most common response is to merge our first-person consciousness with a third-person, omnipresent perspective. That creates a fight between personal association and dissociation. What follows for many of us is a nightly philosophical battle over what constitutes self. Perhaps it is true that our mind's eye doesn't think much of the physical body, and would be splendidly content to think-out the rest of its days physical-less.

It was here that Jenn found herself at the crossroads of this internal paradox as she began to imagine herself reaching out to the wall.

At moment one, she envisioned herself from above, looking down on a Jennifer-actor reaching out. Aware of the strangeness, and forcing herself to acknowledge that that perspective is not harmonious with true living, she swivelled back to a first-person perspective, but as she did so, she found herself unable to move, as if the wall and everything else before her eyes was a reflection—she couldn't seem to move or alter anything. Instantly frustrated with this, she reverted back to her omniscient perspective, letting cognitive-dissonance fall deaf.

She watched as she reached out and touched the wall. It shimmered, and at once the bleeding rapidly accelerated. But the wall wasn't producing blood or poison or feces. It was something solid. That something solid was pushing through the wall, streaming down to the floor, and solidifying with rapid conviction. Jenn's omniscient perspective made the evolving horror quickly apparent. The walls were bleeding themselves out. They bled out and formed tighter, closer, more insulated walls. Jenn's efforts to reach out, to help the walls only made her world tighter, more restrictive. It was a claustrophobic revelation of doom.

Doom.

Jenn awoke to find herself doubting her sensory input.

Her eyes told her that her prison bars were left open. More than that, the vision that lay in front of her belied an empty room, no one manning the torture device, and the exit door at the end of the hall left ajar. More than that, her ears told her there was no one around. She'd been left alone. It didn't make any sense. Taking all this in, Jenn surmised, it must, somehow, be a trap. But why would someone set a trap for her now? She was already imprisoned. What was going on?

Still, despite the risk of stepping into some insidious snare, Jenn had no hesitation. She rose from her slumber and walked past her cell bars. She tiptoed around the water-board, eyeing her potential fate with a darkly curious eye. She tried to listen for an oncoming ambush, but to no avail. She tiptoed right along.

Through the exit door. And just that simply, Jennifer Dash felt the whimsy of a Las Vegas night.

The bustle and glow of the Vegas strip was to Jenn's back. In front of her lie merely another back alley. Logic told her she was in Sin City, but Jenn's sensory imput told her she could be in any smelly alley anywhere in the world. It was an unmarked, unnoticed place. Nothing more.

As her eyes focused to the night sky, Jenn's situation came into focus. A limo ran idle in the street directly in front of her. The Patriot did it. Somehow, he'd rigged it to get her out. What a devious fellow! She wasn't free after all, but she'd picked the master she knew over the master she didn't.

Jenn marched up to the tinted windows of the limo. Which door should she enter through? The front passenger seat next to friendly Wimbledon? The much less welcoming trunk? Or, since all the plans fell through, was she now to be an equal? All the doors shut to her, she chose to knock on the window of the back seat.

The door swung open, but it wasn't the smug, fat face of the Patriot that welcomed her in. Two figures motioned into the vehicle, one being the putrid sleazeball Mark Janner.

Fate was fate, and Jenn was merely a feather in the wind, so she accepted this newest spin on Lady Fate's wheel by slumping into the limo.

"Hello, Miss Dash," said a proper, well-dressed woman who Jenn thought could win a Meryl Streep look-alike contest. Her demeanor was stern and business-savvy, but Jenn thought that something in the lady's face portrayed a woman who could be trusted. Jenn figured only her wits and instincts were going to keep her alive at this point, so she consciously decided to trust this new savior in her life. As for the other passenger, the sea-urchin of a lawyer, Jenn was still going to keep her distance.

That thought must have resonated in the car, for Janner at once defended himself, "Don't worry Jenn, this isn't about the giraffe."

Claude banging his head against the concrete.

"I represent Mrs. Babbit here. This has nothing to do with Mr. Najjar and his case. I didn't even know who you really were when we first met. I thought your last name was Calling."

"You questioned my background. You knew who I was," Jenn defiantly said.

"I didn't, honest! I just am a good read of people. I knew you were somehow up to no good. I just didn't know how and in what capacity."

Ms. Streep's doppelganger extended her hand to shake Jenn's. "My name is Lillith Babbit. I used to be married to Daniel Babbit, the creator of Magical Kingdom."

"You told them to cut my hair?" Jenn asked, a bit more sadly then she intended.

"No, I had nothing to do with that. I have nothing to do with Magical Kingdom at all, anymore. They took it from me some years ago. Robbed me of it, just because they didn't like me. Because I was a strong, confident woman." She reached out and touched Jenn's head with a motherly affection. "It's a man's world, and they just can't stand when we women fight back. They play dirty." Both women struck an indignant glance Janner's way.

"You got me released? You opened my prison door?"

"I have learned many tricks in recent years, Jennifer. May I call you Jennifer?"

"Yes... you may."

"Good. Jennifer, know this, the CIA can always be compromised."

"But it was the FBI that got us."

"No. They just wanted you to think that."

"What?"

Janner filled in the blanks. "The CIA wanted to gain Magical Kingdom's trust. Both the FBI and CIA have been vying to win the Kingdom's heart for some time now."

"I still don't understand. Those men said they were going to torture me to get Magical Kingdom's secrets."

"Of course. They needed the secret to take back to Magical Kingdom's Board of Directors." Janner continued, "If they had all the pieces of the puzzle, that would be quite impressive, no?"

"The world is run by the most powerful, and the most powerful are those who offer the common man the illusion of the most imaginative future," Lillith Babbit explained. "That's another lesson I've been learning these last few years. It's not money that empowers the elites, it's the will to imagination."

Janner went on, "Magical Kingdom is the greatest overt power in America. Everyone wants to be their inside man. That includes government operatives like the CIA, FBI and a handful of others. The CIA's plan to get inside was to bust a plot to ruin Magical Kingdom's big payday—to, just in the knick of time, stop a game-changing info leak on Veneration Celebration. So they got in contact with your Patriot, pretending to be some billionaire gambler, and promised him untold millions if he could get the secret. And so, for two years running, Patriot's been working to do just that. As it happens—by no genius of his own—you, his henchwoman, happened upon the prize. The Patriot took you here to Las Vegas where the CIA's 'undercover gambler' had plans to set-up the transfer of intel. Then they staged their coup, and made plans to get your secret for themselves. Once you buckled under torture, they'd parade into Magical Kingdom and whisper the secret back to the CEO. Maybe they'd strike a deal, but most likely they'd do it 'pro-bono' just to get on the inside track with the true elites of America."

"So the FBI was never involved, no parrots or anything?"

Janner was quick to answer Jenn's question. "The FBI is just as eager to win over Magical Kingdom as the CIA. And if the CIA wins, it's game over. We found out about the CIA's plans, and it was as simple as one phone call to the FBI to get you safely out. Our bargain with them was that we alone get access to you. If the FBI had you, they'd interrogate you to no-end just like the rest."

"Why would the FBI let you take me?"

"Two reasons: one, as long as the CIA doesn't win, the FBI considers this a battlefield victory. And two, if the FBI can't win over Magical Kingdom, then they'll settle for the next best thing, which is a service we can provide at this moment."

"And what's that?" Jenn asked.

"Jennifer," Lillith was using her motherly tone, "We are not going to hurt you. I find physical pain repellent. I promise, I'll answer any question you have of me. I think we've told you more than enough already to prove that." She paused as she sucked in a big breath. "I also promise to give you whatever you ask. I have acquired many friends in this world, and I happen to know many things. I can make most anything happen. There's no reason for me not to extend kindness to you. You ask, and I'll find a way to give it to you."

"You want the secret too."

"Yes, Jennifer, I do."

Jenn fell back into default mode, "What if I don't tell you?"

Lillith answered unperturbed. Jenn got the feeling that this was all expected. "Jennifer, men tend to think that to get what you want in this world, you have to take it by force. All these things you've endured already, you understand the barbarity with which men act. It's so childish, all of it. If only they looked to the deeper things of this life, they'd find that there are so many simpler ways to solve the world's problems."

Jenn eyes lit afire. Lillith Babbit had spoken the magic words: _solve the world_. She was a soul-sister, a woman after the same things as Jenn. _Still_ , Jenn thought, _I shouldn't act hastily. It's good to have something others want_.

Janner broke into the conversation. "Miss Dash, if you don't give us what we want, I'll use my skill to extract the information from you."

"Now, now, Mr. Janner. Let's not be too hasty," Lillith said.

Jenn turned to Lilith, "You're going to sic him on me?"

"He's the best hypnotist around these parts, Jennifer. I've met better, but at the moment, I use the best tool which happens to be in my garage."

"Don't worry," Janner continued, "You won't feel a thing, and in the end, you won't even remember what it was that we wanted. You won't remember us. If you want, I can erase this whole chapter from your life. But I'll only do that if you wish."

Guideline #10: People will always want something from you. Find out what it is.

"Okay..." Jenn said, ready to lay her cards on the table, "Maybe I'll tell you, maybe I won't... but I need to know why you want this information. What's your motive?"

Lillith smiled, "Great question, Jennifer. I'm happy to answer. Magical Kingdom was my domain. My husband birthed it, but I nurtured it. I may have gotten some things wrong, but those bloody d'Anconias stole it from me. I'm glad, really. I'm glad it happened that way. I'm a better person for it. The experience of utter humiliation is good for a human. If one survives it, one becomes so much more, so much stronger.

"You ask me what I want: I want to give them the gift they gave me. I want to humble the proud. I want to ruin Magical Kingdom. And in the ashes of its obliteration, I'll raise my own flag, and take back this nation. Now, what else can I do for _you_ , Jennifer?"

~~~

Do you trust Lillith Babbit?

## Interlude: Consequences

Wailing. Unusually loud wailing. The Numbered Man had to speak up to make himself heard above the maw of the moaning echoes.

"4-82, can you repeat the four sacred lines?"

"Always, my liege."

"Do so."

The quivering creature began:

"Numbers are our freedom.

When we sin we dishonor our number forever.

Sin takes away our freedom.

Too much sin takes away our number."

"4-82," the Numbered Man said, "2-12 informs me that you have sinned. Were you aware of this?"

The sniveling creature bent down on its knees, scuffing its hooves against the edge of the ledge. Beneath them, darkness. Darkness that fell all the way down—down towards the infernal moaning. "Please, have mercy! Mercy! 4-82 will be better. 4-82 will redeem its place! 4-82 will live and breathe to serve your majesty. Please!"

"Will 4-82 ever sin again?"

"No! Never."

"That's right," the Numbered Man said with a laconic sneer, pushing the pathetic creature off the edge of the cliff.

## Chapter Eighteen: Letter to Atticus

Dear Atticus,

I lost your address, so I hope this finds its way to you. Maybe Redjeb will get it to you. I actually know him. He's a good guy—a crazy old, good natured guy. I think I really like old people. They don't try to hide as much as the rest of us.

Believe it or not, the last few days I've ran into several older people of considerable power. It's been eye-opening, that's for sure.

I wonder if you still think about me. I wanted to tell you how great it was to meet you, and you were so kind, and your family is so adorable. I think your little sister is smarter than me. That was sweet of you to talk your dad into helping me. I would have been lost if it wasn't for the two of you.

You and the "Further Guidelines" have been with me every step of my journey. I have memorized the ten guideposts. I'm ashamed to say I've already broken several of them.

_Atticus, I don't really have anyone to talk to. I hope it's okay to write to you and to tell you about my adventures. I'm not the type of girl that would ever write in a diary, but I need some way of organizing my thoughts. I need to calculate where I've been and where I'm going. Don't forget, you and your father wrote_ _Guideline #8: When escaping, know beforehand what you're escaping to. I've_ _had to do a lot of escaping already. You don't have to read this. I'll understand if you're not interested. You can stop reading now. I won't hold it against you. Promise._

I kissed a boy. It was my first kiss. It was really, really nice. He just came up to me one day. I had never met him, and he kissed me. Just like that. And I kissed him back. He asked me out to a fancy date. I said yes. I was so giddy, I thought I was going to burst. It was a love story happening in real time, and I was the princess at the center of it! I thought it was a dream come true. Maybe it was a dream, but it didn't end up being the good type. Once Tiff attacked me and I started hallucinating in the bathroom, my fairy tale spiralled into a nightmare. Hey, that's not a bad line. Look at me, I'm a poet!

I wish I knew if Tiff was alright. If I just knew that, I think everything would be okay. But I don't know that.

Everything turned out sour, Atticus, it really did. When I got to California, when I got off the train in Los Angeles, it hit me that I didn't have any plan. I felt like such a fool, Atticus. What was I doing? No family. No friends. No food. It was really scary.

Then I met Flusher. He is, or, he was... I don't know if he's living or dead... he was Tiff's brother. She was a child of the street, so she had to know how things work at a very ground level. You know what I mean, Atticus?

It was Tiff and Flusher that got me all caught up with the underground, homeless mafia. And they're in cahoots with the CIA. Can you believe it? The other gang, The Parrots, they;re with the FBI. But I don't know anything about The Parrots. Take my advice: stay away from both.

Apparently, the FBI and the CIA have a deep, deep rivalry, hence the need to have distinct homeless gangs out in the West.

They made me a spy. Crazy, right? I was Cleopatra. You know, the Egyptian!

Being Cleopatra was the best. I got to ride on a mechanical giraffe named Claude. Tiff was jealous of me though, so that made things awkward. It just got more and more awkward between us, until... we got into a fight. A couple of times. The second time was really bad. I hurt her, Atticus. I hurt her, and left her. Forever. I don't want to talk about that right now.

Claude broke. This guy, an Arab Mohammad something-or-other, he just went berserk and attacked the giraffe. I guess he had a bad experience with giraffes or something like that. I don't think it was a religious thing. But what do I know?

A mean lawyer came an harrassed me. I didn't like that. Lawyers are the worst.

Huck replaced Claude. He was an elephant. A real one! Huck was a sweetheart. I liked riding him more than Claude, except Huck made my woman parts sore at the end of the day.

Anyway, that's when I figured out my real mission: I was sent to uncover the identity and location of Magical Kingdom's new attraction set to open on November 1st, the Veneration Celebration. But I had no idea how to find information like that. So, I figured I'd just keep being the beautiful Cleopatra and eventually everything would work itself out.

Then came Antonio d'Anconia. I didn't have a clue who he was. He was just this hot, wonderfully-dressed guy who was kissing me. And he smelled sooooooo nice (sorry, should I be talking about this to you? Is it weird?).

After the kiss, we met up at night for dinner. He took me upstairs to a bedroom.

I told him no. He said he respected that, but I could tell I surprised him. We talked for awhile and I went home thinking I let him down.

_Speaking of old people, I met Mrs. Moose! I assume you've heard of her? I hadn't, but I didn't really read books or newspapers growing up. I learned all about her later. So, if you don't know, she's this famous cartoonist who got famous making all these children books about cats with human faces. Not like real human faces. It was just that in her universe of books, everyone is a cat, and every cat has the face of a human. She showed me her most famous book,_ The Cat and the Bat _. It rhymed and stuff. It was kinda funny, but I didn't get what all the fuss was about. Nowadays, in case you don't know, she's like a million years old and she draws political cartoons for_ _"The Los Angeles Times". I_ _gave her a photo of Flusher. That was bad, but how was I supposed to know? I was the middleman in a mafia take-out! I feel bad for Flusher, but I heard later that Tiff and him were apparently double-agents, selling themselves out to the Parrots. I know, it's super complicated, right?!_

About Antonio; I really liked him. I wanted to spend more time with him. I wanted to see where the fates were taking the two of us.

He took me to the secret new ride. We went on it. It's an amazing ride, Atticus. You should go on it. I'd love to show it to you. Really. I'd love that.

But then, kinda during the ride, or after (I'm a little fuzzy how things went down), he climbed on top of me.

He was going to rape me, Atticus. And, here's the weirdest part. I can't explain it, but when Antonio was on me I knew what I had to do because of this guy that talked to me in my sleep.

I screamed over and over until my throat hurt.

Let me tell you, that started a whole mixed salad of events. These security people came and saved me from Antonio, but they didn't care about me. They didn't care that Antonio just tried to rape me. All they cared about was that I knew about their precious Veneration Celebration. I was good though, at least at first. I was strong. I didn't want to tell them anything.

They cut off all my hair. Some adventure, huh?

I'm glad you can't see me now. Hopefully my hair will be grown back before you see me again. It was dreadful.

Tiff is insane, Atticus. Was insane. Is insane. I don't know. She attacked me. You have to understand, I had just been through so much. I think on a regular day I could have taken her. I could have fought the good fight against her. But I was so, so tired. I fell and hit my head on the pipes underneath the sink. I was conscious just long enough to feel the back of my head bursting with blood. Everything went dark. Can you imagine? What I went through—it was as if the whole world was out to terrorize me.

I came to—with my arms splayed out. I was in the basement of Mrs. Moose's house. She had me configured so that one arm splayed out over a little baby pool. She had cut my wrist and was draining all my blood out of me! Can you imagine? All the while she had my other arm hooked up to an IV of fresh blood. For some reason, she happened to keep a fridge full of pure blood on hand. Maybe she's a vampire. I don't know! Weird, right? But she used the blood to nurse me back to health. The Magical Kingdom people had poisoned my bloodstream. She gave me new blood. Can you believe it? They wanted me dead, Atticus!

When I was feeling better, the Patriot came and got me. They thought they were going to make money off of the secrets I knew, but they didn't know that the CIA was actually double-crossing them. It was all a setup! Everyone wants power for themselves. Everyone! Then they (the CIA) took me and were going to waterboard me or something, but I was so tired I fell asleep in a jail cell and when I woke up all the doors were empty and no one was around. I walked out of that prison, just like that. Then came Lillith.

Turns out, she also wanted my secrets, but she was nicer than everyone else. She didn't threaten me. Actually, she's putting me on a boat, Atticus! The next letter you get from me will be from Brazil or the South Pole or somewhere else in the middle of the Pacific ocean. Cool, right?

Lillith asked me what I wanted most in the world. I told her that I am trying to solve the world. All of it.

She liked my idea.

She said I was a grand person for having such lofty goals.

She said she's funding an exploration, a boat full of genius people that are all working on solving different science and life problems.

_She promised to put me on that boat! All I had to do was tell her my secret. To be honest, I'm glad to be done with it. I don't think I like secrets. So believe it or not, but tomorrow, I'm flying up to San Francisco to join the crew of the_ Orion _!_

Anyway, I've probably rambled on long enough. I guess I've told you pretty much everything.

Oh! One more thing! When I was with Mrs. Moose, I asked her what she believed about the Earth (you know, to figure out if she really was a vampire).

_She told me that the whole of history has been a battle between "Order" and "Entropy". She says if either side rules, there'll be horrible consequences. So she spends all her efforts trying to keep all the systems and all the powers of this world at odds and equal. She told me that if there isn't war, than the oncoming peace is the thing to dread. Don't get me wrong, it's not that she's a war hawk or loves human suffering or something like that, quite the opposite! She just believes that human nature is built towards ambition, so if there isn't any competition that means either Entropy or Order has seized destiny. If Entropy wins, then there is no human progress, We revert back to our natural instincts. But if Order wins, then freedom is eliminated. Kinda fascinating, right? Gives you something to think about. Maybe there's something about that in that ginormous book you're reading. Are you still reading it? Or have you moved onto "_ _War and Peace"_ _?_

Okay, that's all.

I miss you, Atticus Further.

I'd like to see you again.

Love,

Jenn Dash

~~~

Jenn's adventure amidst the sea of marvels in Magical Kingdom has come to a close. The first of her adventures is over. As for her next saga, it won't be swallowed up by the wages of money and class warfare, but rather, the wages of fear surfing the tides and undercurrents of not the seven peaks, but the seven seas. Stay with me, stay with us—for we've only just begun to solve the world.

## Don't Quit Now

Aboard the Orion Adventure Schooner, Jenn Dash will make a kaleidoscope of friends as they surf the pacific in search of answers to life's oldest questions. Will Jenn find Leviathan? Or will she get pulled by the winds of fate into ever deeper systems of power?

Solve the World Part Two explores new monsters, myths, countries, and conquests. And behind it all, somewhere, the Pied Piper dances to the rhythm of his fiddle and fife.

Don't leave Jenn now. Continue the journey. Beware the Pied Piper

Solve the World: Part Two  
Available everywhere December 1st, 2018

## About Dante Stack

Dante is a desperate believer.

He has education in religion as well as cinema arts from Biola University. He's lived with his wife in Slovenia, Russia, and America. Sometimes he makes outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. No, wait, scratch that. That was Dr. Evil's father who made that outrageous claim. Not Dante. Mr. Stack would never say that. He's much too humble.

Life is best lived with a dog and a wife.

_Solve the World: Part One_ is Dante's second book. His first book is a weird little thing called _Fun with the Apocrypha_.

Discover the rest of his work at:

<http://stockadeamusement.com/>

## Also From Stockade Amusement

After the heartbreak of a late miscarriage, Chinese immigrant Sariah has had enough of her life as a Mormon housewife. On the brink of leaving her family and faith to return to her home country, Sariah decides to visit her women's study group one last time.

When she arrives at Sister Pratt's home, everything has changed. The study group's numbers have exploded, and Sariah learns that Sister Pratt has much bigger—and stranger—intentions for these women. Sariah is caught up in a series of bizarre and frightening rituals that both disturb and intrigue her.

Will this new development bring healing and closure, or disaster?
