

# 1920: THE ROARING ANTHOLOGY

## 1920: THE ROARING ANTHOLOGY

EDITED BY:

Ron Perazza

Peter Timony

STORIES BY:

Julia Druk

Dave McCullough

Ron Perazza

Matthew Petz

Peter Timony

## UNION COMBINE

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Published by Union Combine at Smashwords

_The Introduction_ copyright © 2013 Julia Druk

Trenchers copyright © 2013 Ronald J. Perazza, Jr.

Comedy Is Pain copyright © 2013 Peter Timony

Poltergeist copyright © 2013 Matthew Petz

Dearest Delilah copyright © 2013 Dave McCullough

Illustrations © 2013 Daniel Govar

1920: The Roaring Anthology, Union Combine, the Union Combine logo and related elements @ 2013 Union Combine. All Rights Reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and appropriate creators except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

The Introduction

by Julia Druk

Trenchers

by Ron Perazza

Comedy Is Pain

by Peter TImony

Poltergeist

by Matthew Petz

Dearest Delilah

by Dave McCullough

### The Introduction

I always imagined my life differently. I imagined being surrounded by gaiety and art, and all sorts of glittering, fascinating people. Visions of nightly dances and intellectual debates, smoky cafés, green-tinged cocktails, the haze of tobacco smoke, sax notes, all swam tantalizingly in front of my mind. Yes, I imagined that sort of fame, even if a diluted or reflected fame, or at the very worst, renown.

I catered to it by purchasing a velvet smoking jacket and a few jazz records from a departing senior, and posing at my dormitory window in the evenings to gaze out from what I envisioned was a lonely writer's aerie.

Nonsense. It was all utter nonsense of course. But in the clutches of these vague imaginings I gathered enough courage at the end of my senior year to make a telephone call which set off a chain of events so decisively and irrevocably that it still holds itself firmly in my mind.

"I want to go to New York and try my hand at writing," it began.

The line was silent. Among the crackling, I could hear one of my father's heavy sighs, containing to my ear the sum of long-standing disappointments, of which this was only the last. It swept over my grade school days of mediocre marks and benched games, the failed youthful courtships, the years spent at study toward an undistinguished diploma at a school neither in Boston nor New Haven, the whole of it being a son that in his twenty-one years in this world had left not a single mark, and now – this.

"Your mother wouldn't like it," he said at last.

My late mother had been faint and timid, a gray sparrow who in life had never once ventured to express an unfiltered opinion, but had now become the first and last resort of all arguments, the most forceful of women.

And so I steeled myself to counter with all the thrust of youthful enthusiasm, "only I've got it all figured out, you see. For the first few months I'll need to rent a room and get situated, just before I get published, but then, you'll see, I should be able to take care of everything on my own, and I –" I spoke too fast, and here I stumbled, before finishing rather lamely,

"– I would just like the chance."

This was the most that I had ever said to my father all at once, and it had perhaps embarrassed him enough to reply, after another sigh, "All-right, six months."

And that was that.

* * * * *

And so, in the bloom of June 1919, I arrived, as everyone arrives, on the doorstep of a city that wanted nothing to do with me.

My first impression was noise. Yes, the sheer, overwhelming noise of it. The cars and trams and porters just outside the station, and then people, people, people everywhere – in the cars, and cabs, and on foot, walking four abreast, an overpowering cacophony of summer suits and straw hats.

I stood frozen just inside the station doors until – what luck! – I saw a familiar face passing quickly through the crowd.

"Bink!" I cried, frantically waving my arm and half-running to catch him up. "Bink!"

Brian Hastings, known simply as Bink in our friendly circles, paused and turned around. He wore a slim-cut gray suit, maybe a shade dark for June, and one of those straw hats you saw in all the pictures. Here was that elusive introduction to the city! Bink glanced me over quizzically, and said "yes?"

"He- Hello Bink," I stammered, a little out of breath, "I've just arrived! So good to see a familiar face. What are you doing here?"

Bink didn't reply at first, still looking at me with a somewhat puzzled expression, then said, "I'm sorry – but do I know you?"

I was so surprised that I actually took a step back, and after mumbling a hasty apology to a woman behind me, I turned to Bink and said, "I – well, it's me, Bink. You know, we took Crockford's class together and I think Greek too –" I paused, now unsure, "Don't you remember me?"

"Oh, yes, _of course_ –" Bink said slowly, "yes, yes, yes, yes, sorry about that. You were that... You must have been that... quiet fellow, wasn't it? Didn't you write that, what was it now..."

"Yes! It's Wally – Wallace Pendleton." I said quickly. He remembered!

"And now – you've just arrived, you say?"

"Yes, I've decided to try my hand at writing, you know. This is where everyone goes to do it, isn't it? I'll get a couple pieces in the _New Yorker_ and it'll be up and up from there, I suppose."

I paused as Bink looked down at his watch, then ventured as casually I could, "Say – you wouldn't want to get a drink, would you? Help me settle in?"

He frowned slightly. "Wally, is it?" He looked me over once again, surely taking in the outdated jacket and trousers, the travel creased shirt, the unseasonable hat, "No... sorry, Wally. I've really got to run, old boy. Work, you know. It was great catching up, though, and – good luck!"

He turned on his heel, and with the air of someone who has just narrowly avoided some minor misfortune, took off into he crowd.

In desperation, I yelled after him, "if you change your mind, look me up, Bink!"

And then I stood still for a long silent moment.

And that was that.

* * * * *

I won't bore you with the details of June-October. Suffice it to say that after a hectic search, I found adequate lodging by the Fuller on 23rd – a furnished white room and two solid meals on week-days, both equally bland. I bought a desk – this took a lot more care as it was to be the chief wellspring for my inspiration – and a typewriter. I bought and consumed a lot of cigarettes, and spent many hours in my smoking jacket, staring out over the elevated on Sixth Avenue toward a hazy metropolis.

I wrote three short stories, and sent them off to the right places, expecting each day to bring good news. At night, I went down to the Golden Swan or the White Horse and ordered an old fashioned or a cobbler, enjoying privately the charm of being a nearly-published author.

It was a glorious time. The only sour note in my otherwise contented life was that I searched in vain among the bar crowds for those with whom I could spend hours drinking wine and dissecting the latest editions of the _Smart Set_ and _McClure's_ , or dancing in step to a mellow band, murmuring something romantically indistinct but profound into a perfumed ear.

Instead, I found myself the victim of a kind of musical chairs, edged out steadily by arriving couples and growing gatherings of friends until – after the requisite _of courses_ and _not a problems_ – I would find a remote perch at the far reaches of the bar, and lose myself in watching their evenings grow animated and gay, pass with enviable ease from flirtation to boldness, and wind their way through toasts and peals of laughter toward what I imagined would be a happy close.

It was only that they did not know me yet, but it would be just next week, or next month, and they would all want to know me.

In late November, I received three letters.

" _We are sorry to inform you that due to their overwhelming quantity, we are no longer accepting un-solicited materials..."_

" _The Editors regret to inform you that the enclosed materials are not suitable for our current needs..."_

" _As you enter your twenty-second year of age, your Mother and I – for I am sure in spirit she is with me – have found no sufficient reason to continue furnishing your allowance._

We believe that rendering it necessary for you to find your own way in the world is our only chance to instill in you a..."

Panic. Doom.

* * * * *

As the air around me grew cold and festive, and the city came out for the holidays with gilded invitations flying to and fro, to balls and parties and comings out, I sat shrouded in a lonely misery and counted money. It would last until Christmas.

I then made up my mind to place another telephone call, and so on Christmas morning my father condescended on the city.

Methodically, he surveyed my room – the bare walls and spartan furnishings, the overflowing ashtrays, the piles of notes and papers and loose change among old cups of coffee and wine glasses and remnants of dinners, and finally perched gingerly on a corner of my bed with one of his sighs.

"Your mother raised you better than that," he said.

"I know."

"It won't do having you at loose ends like this. How do you plan to support yourself?"

"I'm still writing, you know. I just sent a new piece to the _The Dial_ , and it's a rather – "

"Don't be an idiot. I've found you a position."

"A position?" I was instantly on edge. This meant the end of everything, the end of all hope. It couldn't all just end like this, pushing paper in some airless office, when I was so damned close.

"It's not a permanent placement. But it's something, Wally. I called Rogers today. He'll take you on in the Census Bureau, making the rounds."

"The census? You mean going around people's houses and collecting names?"

"That's the idea," he said, encouraged by this expression of interest, "You can make some money there if you apply yourself."

"I _have_ been applying myself – "

"You should be thanking me."

Caught in his angry stare, I took a minute to think this over. It wouldn't do to upset the man, not when I needed the money. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. This census lark would only last a few months, after all, and it might prove to him that I could do something useful. And in the Spring, we could see about reinstating the allowance...

"I'll see about it... Thank you, dad."

"Now that's the spirit, Wally," my father said more kindly, and stood up. "You start in three weeks."

"Merry Christmas."

* * * * *

" _Don't worry – it'll only take a moment of your time, ma'am."_

" _It's for the government, ma'am. We are going door-to-door this month, on a survey of the whole country. It's for voting purposes, and to know who lives where."_

" _Oh no, it's got nothing to do with – Yes, here are my papers. You see – it says Enumerator here. "_

" _Yes, thank you. It will only be a few minutes."_

" _Let's see here - have you been living here since January the 1st, ma'am?"_

" _And what is your name, ma'am?"_

" _And who is the head of the family? I see... has he also been living here since January the 1st then?"_

" _Can I ask how old you and the Mr. are?"_

" _And, forgive me, you are 30 years old exactly? Only it's got to be exact, you see."_

" _Thank you, ma'am. And who else lives here? Any children?"_

" _Can you tell me their names, oldest to youngest, please?"_

" _And is your family from around here, ma'am?"_

" _What year did you come over, ma'am?"_

" _Was it the entire family, then, that came over?"_

" _Are you all citizens, then?"_

" _I see – And the little ones that were born here, ma'am, are they in school now?"_

" _It's only a standard question, ma'am –"_

" _No – you see, it says right here on the form, 'attended school any time since September 1919' –"_

" _It's alright then, I'll just mark it down as yes, ma'am. No need to worry. And what is your husband's trade, ma'am?"_

" _Is that a salaried position?"_

" _Oh – they don't tell me why they need to know – why don't we say yes. Alright then, ma'am."_

" _And do you work as well, ma'am?"_

" _And the older children?"_

" _And do you all know how to read and write, ma'am?"_

" _Of course – no, I don't mean anything by it – we just have to be thorough, you see – "_

The new year came and went, and with it the country went mad and dry, and my consolation prize was the enumerator's badge and papers, and the daily quotas of questions, and the rounds of doors, some friendly, most hesitant and anxious and persuaded, and a few resolutely shut despite the hasty, furtive sounds inside.

I think I had the worst of it – the old Five Points – where I quickly found that English hadn't been spoken as a first or second language since Lord & Taylor fled in '58.

I got into the habit of taking a morning walk down Fifth, laid wide and clear with a view of statuesque downtown, accompanied most days by a few bleary-eyed party stragglers in evening tails. How I envied them! But then I'd shortcut through the manicured wilds of Union Square, and head down the Bowery, losing myself in visions of the old days you hear about, of mansions and galleries and elegant ladies dressed for the theater. And each of them so pliable and open, and willing to be led by a gloved hand, and loved.

In reality, I descended into a cramped and foreign chaos. I wound my way through unkempt snow banks to rows of anonymous tenements and crumpled awnings with strange alphabets, trying to decipher house numbers in the early-morning commotion of delivery carts, wagons, tradesmen, workers, laborers, do-gooders, dirty children, school children, newsies, Jews, Italians, Orientals, trams, and cars with frantic sounding horns.

And then I had to catalogue it all, this vast tangle of humanity all reduced to lines on paper. They did not want it. No, they wanted none of it. They were pitiful and sick and afraid. And it was only the specter of our great national uncle – still looming out faded and torn from the bulletin boards – whose badge I happened to carry, and whose threat cowed them into opening their doors.

For lunch I'd escape to Ratner's on Delancey for an onion roll, and by evening I usually had to take something stronger. Someone had told me that the Landmark up on 46th was still open, and so most nights I took the trek to their second floor, and quietly sipped an old fashioned or a cobbler in the conspiratorial air, thinking on how I would one day turn all this into an excellent piece, fit even for _The Strand._

* * * * *

The Friday before St. Valentine's I woke up late. I had stayed up the night before listening to Chamberlain on the radio lament our new dry era that added "to the miseries of the world" a global sugar shortage. Americans would replace vice with vice, I thought, and imagined fondly the tabloid headlines I would see tomorrow: _America's a Sweetheart!_ , _Ladies Long for Lollies!,_ and so on.

It was too late to do anything about work, so I lay in bed for a while looking out the window at a white sky, snow falling thick and quiet. My thoughts drifted to the next day, which I decided had to be the most maudlin of holidays. Half the world would wake up in someone's arms, the other half would look forward to balls and parties and the chance to meet someone new. And again you would be alone, apart.

After the maid stopped by with lunch and coffee, and I ate silently at the desk for another quarter of an hour, looking out over the empty city, I decided that I could spare the money for a telephone call.

I stood at the booth downstairs, trying to think of something clever, then gave up and had the girl at the exchange open up the line.

"Hello, dad," I said, "happy upcoming."

"Same to you, Wally. Shouldn't you be making plans with your sweet-heart?"

"You know I don't have one."

An embarrassed pause.

"Ah, well. How's the job going?"

"It's nothing to write home about."

"You're not enjoying it?"

Somewhat bitterly, "you knew I wouldn't."

"For Chrissakes, what do you want? It's an honest day's work. It builds character. I don't know what to do with you. First, this writing business. Now... Well, why are you phoning anyway?"

"I – I just wanted to wish you a happy Valentine's, dad."

"Well stop wasting money 'til you've got something to say." And he hung up.

I stepped outside.

* * * * *

It was cold and clear with a hint of sweetness, a far-off bakery smell. The snow had tapered off, and the streets lay under a thick white sheet, tantalizingly pristine. It felt like the New World all over again.

I had nowhere in particular to go, so I decided to drop by the depot to see if there was any work left.

The secretary at the counter studied me critically through her wire-rimmed eyeglasses, which gave her the look of an angry lemur. "Number 437... 437..." She shuffled through a thick stack of index notes, "here it is. Didn't report for work this morning, did you?"

"I was indisposed, ma'am."

"Well then. Nothing left. You'll have to come back next week." She folded her hands, and looked up at me with a satisfied expression.

"None at all?" I paused, then ventured, "I don't have much else to do today, you see."

She must have caught something in my voice, because her bland smile faded and she looked up at me frankly.

"Want to make some money for the holiday, is it?"

"Well, I – " She was no longer listening. She shuffled the papers again, lost in some private thought. Then she pulled out another card.

To herself, "I see that 541 is absent again, well, and why not?" With a rustle of starched tweeds, she stood up and opened a filing cabinet behind her, pulling out a thin folder.

"Here you go – Central Park East, should be a nice afternoon for you."

She handed me the ledger, already half-filled with notes, her glasses catching the last rays of the winter sun. I couldn't believe my luck. Central Park! Civilization! I thanked her profusely, and to the calls of "You go back to the Bowery on Monday, you hear," went out into the street, a new man.

* * * * *

It was almost dark by the time I made it to the '60s. The white stone buildings had turned blue against the snow, and the first signs of light stood out in yellow squares of windows and shop displays. It had started snowing heavily again, and in place of the usual press of week-end theater crowds, there was only a handful of cabs down the whole expanse of Fifth, and a few stray men besides, hats pulled low and hurrying against the snow. If not for them, I'd have felt like the last man on earth.

I took out my papers and confirmed the first address, turning off on Sixty-Second, past a stately family of brownstones, and to a large apartment building with white Roman colonnades bordering the front door.

I showed my badge to the porter, who told me that the apartment I was looking for took up the entire top floor and was owned by a general recluse who was rarely seen in residence. Leaning close, he added, "thinks he's a writer, you see. Never in. See more of his lady friends, to think of it. Wandering off somewhere, or else mooning about for days. God knows, can't think of nothing better to do with his time, I suppose. I shouldn't talk, you know, but it's pitiful, really. Working people like you or I know better, don't we?" And he gave me a conspiratorial wink.

I was intrigued by this, and wanted to ask more, but the porter switched back to a businesslike tone and waved me in, saying, "don't think you'll find him in today, but we'll see, we'll see."

He phoned ahead. To his surprise, the call was answered, and I was ushered into a gilded elevator, where with a clatter of an ornate grill, he sent me up with firm instructions to not be alarmed at the new design, and "just push the button like so," he proudly leaned in to demonstrate, "and it'll go where you need!"

I walked out into a long and somewhat claustrophobic corridor. The walls were paneled in a rich mahogany with a carved ledge that stretched halfway between the floor and the ceiling; above it, was a stately wallpaper in a gilded peacock pattern. I walked down toward the only door, and knocked somewhat tentatively, impressed by the stature of it all. It was opened almost at once by a man in a red oriental robe.

"Good afternoon, sir. We are conducting a survey of –" I began, reaching mechanically into my coat pocket for my badge, but when I looked back up the words suddenly stuck in my throat. The man was – me.

* * * * *

Yes, here was the same dark crumpled hair, the same soft – almost feminine – features, as if drawn by a sentimental illustrator, the same heavy brows, grey eyes, thick and slightly upturned nose, even the faint pockmark on the right temple, left by a childhood battle with the pox. His robe was tied loosely at the waist, and beneath it I could see the same shock of black hair curling up toward the neck in the same pattern.

We stood there mutely for several seconds, and I watched him make his way from recognition through surprise, suspicion, and finally a forced neutrality, each of these as recognizable to me as looking at a mirror. Finally, with a quick look past me at the corridor, he opened the door wide and said, in my voice, "I guess you'd better come in then."

We entered a large foyer with a black-and-white checkered floor and two arches on either side. He closed the door, then took my coat and hat to hang on a lone coat rack. "You're taking the census, then?"

I nodded. I had completely forgotten about the questionnaire, the papers, all of it. I suddenly felt dizzy and weak, and he must have seen something of it because he said with a note of concern, "let's get you all set up then. I'll make us some tea, shall I? I'm hopeless at it, but if you'll go just through here and have a seat, I should be able to pull something together."

Before I could say anything, he rested a familiar hand on my back and led me through to a vast living room.

"Take a seat. I'll be back in a jiffy," he said, and disappeared back through the archway. I thought at first of following him, then after listening to the fading sound of his steps, and then the distant opening and closing of doors, I realized that I had just been standing there in a kind of hazy indecision.

The room was dim, lit by a single fringed lamp that cast a modest circle over a pair of brocade armchairs, and between them a small table piled with loose papers and envelopes. I made my way to one of the chairs, holding fast to the enumerator's folder as I sat down, rather as a drowning man might hold on to a piece of flotsam. Then, hearing no one approach, I made a tentative survey of my surroundings.

Through the shadows I could see a dizzying assortment of furniture. There was a velvet settee, two high-backed wooden chairs in what looked like the style of Louis XVI, and three columns of barrister bookcases reaching up toward the ceiling and neatly stacked with sets of leather-bound tomes. Then a tall, carved mantle fronted by a round conversation table on a clawed pedestal, six more chairs, and a grandfather clock.

There were carpets masking almost the entirety of the floor, and walls similarly cluttered with assorted prints and paintings, though I could not make out the details. Behind me were two windows, each covered in thick drapes, lending the scene a somewhat cavernous air.

Aside from the armchair to my left – which displayed signs of fraying in the seat – and the clutter on the table, everything seemed to be ordered and pristine, as if a maid just left it. Seeing nothing for my mind to hang on to, I looked down at my folder, flicking the edge nervously. In the distance, I heard the faint whistle of a kettle.

Then out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the letterhead on the topmost piece of paper on the table. Two words – _Smart Set_ – and I couldn't help myself. It turned out to be a letter from H.L Mencken, the very same H.L. Mencken whose signature stamped a curt note to me not two months before. I picked up the letter and read hungrily:

" _It has been three months of silence now, and though I hold little faith in human progress, I would have liked to believed in yours had you felt the urge to meet a deadline._

Now I assure you that while all is lost, we might still be persuaded to accept–"

"Are you acquainted with H.L.?" came a voice behind me, and it took me a moment to realize that it wasn't me who had spoken aloud.

"I – I'm so sorry," I stammered, dropping the letter, "I couldn't help myself. I am a writer too, you see –"

"Oh?" he seemed genuinely interested, "where do you publish?"

"Well," I hesitated, considering briefly whether I could lie to him but ultimately decided on the truth, "no. Not yet, I mean. It's only been a few months, you see, and I haven't caught the spirit of things quite yet, but it's only..."

"Well, that's no matter," he interjected, but kindly, and covered the correspondence with a large tray that held two cups, a small pot, and an unopened tin of Oreo sandwiches. I noted that he had changed out of his robe into a plain white shirt and pants, almost identical to mine. He poured hastily and asked, "So I gather you were going to ask me some questions?"

I didn't understand what he was talking about until I remembered my folder. I looked down, realizing that I would have to open it to start the familiar routine. Usually, I could do the questions by heart.

"Let's see... Have... Have you been living at this place of abode since January the 1st?"

"Yes. And what about you?"

I looked up, flustered, "what do you mean?"

"Where do you live?"

"Me? Oh – over at Madison Square by the Fuller – but what does that matter?"

He took a sip of tea and looked thoughtful, and this in turn gave me a chance to look him over again. Yes, it was undeniably the same face, the same features. But who was he? The only explanation I could think of was a long-lost twin, but then my parents were not the type, and I'd have known by now, somehow I'd have found out –

He interrupted this train of thought by saying, "a small room, is it? With a view of the train?" Seeing my startled expression, he laughed a little nervously, "was I right? I was only guessing."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I turned back to the questionnaire and read mechanically, "and your given name is?"

He perked up. "Haven't I said? I guess I haven't..." and at this he stood up and offered me his hand, smiling, "let me introduce myself properly – I'm Wallace. Wallace Pendleton. And you are?"

* * * * *

Something important was missing. Some crucial detail that I could not catch on to. Too many thoughts jumbled themselves in my mind. Twin? Brother? Doppelgänger? I hear Shelley had one. No, a joke. A sick joke. A con man? Should I be frightened? Run? A dream? A trance?

I took his hand limply. Then his expression suddenly changed to something wild and hungry.

"I know!" he said loudly, "I know! It's Wally, isn't it?" And he grasped me by both shoulders, pulling me up and looking straight into my eyes with something close to rapture. I didn't answer. I was lost completely.

He shook me slightly and asked again, "you're called Wally, aren't you? You must be!"

"I... How did you know?"

Just as suddenly, he released me and took a step back, his manic look vanishing in an instant.

"I don't know. I couldn't tell you," he said in a subdued voice, and ran a hand through his hair. I noticed that it trembled slightly.

"This... deserves something stronger than tea, doesn't it?" He said, and I nodded.

"Why don't I give you the tour? I keep it all locked up in the back anyway." And then, inexplicably, he laughed.

My laugh.

* * * * *

I picked up my papers, and we walked back through the foyer. From there he led me through a long line of dark and dormant rooms, opening doors and tugging on pull-chains, accompanying each with a pithy description like "this one is only fit for guests" of a small bedroom done in a pale flowered wallpaper, or "this is a sort of morning room – great light."

By the fourth or fifth room, I had somewhat collected myself, and found that I was growing steadily annoyed. There was something selfish it all, each room more grand than my entire place and yet just sitting there, pristine and dismissed, as if under a bell jar. Was this why my father had cut off my allowance? So he could support this man in grand style?

At last, we reached the final door, and entered what turned out to be the master bedroom. A canopied bed dominated the scene, with a scatter of tables, dressers and chairs placed at odd angles along the walls.

Here are last were inimitable signs of life. On every flat surface stood a collection of wineglasses and tumblers with caked brims, stacks of old plates with unrecognizable contents, and several overfilled ashtrays. The bedding was in complete disarray, and loose typewritten and marked-up sheets were half hidden among the crumpled blankets. I was no longer surprised to see that the scattered notes appeared to be in my handwriting.

"I never let the maid clean here," he said apologetically. Then he walked purposefully across the room and opened a door half-hidden behind a tall wardrobe. He ushered me forward into a magnificent bath chamber, big enough to stand three abreast and glittering in white porcelain. I drew in my breath. This was a far cry from the hallway facilities I had grown used to.

At the far end of the room stood a linen cabinet. He approached this eagerly and made to open it, then seemed to be having some trouble. I took a step closer, and he turned back to me with a frown, "it won't open. Is there a key, do you think?"

I stared at him blankly, and watched as he patted down his pockets, and then looked in some confusion over the room. "I'm almost sure that I had something... Was it... Where – ah!" and he pulled a long chain from under his shirt, revealing a small brass key.

"Here we go –" he muttered with a satisfied expression and with a gesture more fitting to a master of ceremonies, threw open the cabinet doors to reveal a startling array of bottles. "Voilà!"

It was an impressive sight. Peering over his shoulder, I made out two shelves of whiskey, stacked four deep, then a shelf of gin and something green that looked like absinthe, and below that, a couple dozen bottles of something clear and an assortment of after-dinner liquors in a rainbow of colors.

"If you're careful, this'll last 'til the country comes back to its senses," he said with a grin, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a bottom drawer. He poured a generous measure into each glass, handing one to me.

"A toast?"

A toast? Here? I looked around at the claw-footed bath and the pedestal sink, and laughed. Well, who was I to judge, after all?

"What to?" I asked, gamely.

"To freedom!" He exclaimed, and downed his glass, refilling it instantly with a well-practiced gesture.

"You know," he said, taking down another healthy measure of whiskey, "I think you showed up at just the right time."

This quickly brought me back to my senses. "How do you mean?" I asked, putting down my folder and cautiously perching on the edge of the tub.

He didn't reply at first. He rubbed his glass slowly between his palms, watching the amber liquid swirl back and forth. Then he said quietly, "only I think I've got it all figured out, you see."

His eyes focused in on mine, and he added, "haven't you?"

"No – I... I mean, I don't know." I looked at him helplessly.

He sighed, "you don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?"

I took out my crumpled Chesterfields, taking one and handing him the rest. He lit up, and slipped the pack into his pocket.

As the room slowly filled with smoke, he said "I've been thinking about something like it for a long time now. It makes no sense, really. But nothing does, does it? And you've said it yourself, it would make a great piece for _The Strand_ – "

Suddenly, we both jumped at the sound of a bell in the hallway.

"That must be Ellie!" he gasped, and quickly stubbed his cigarette out on the sink. "Stay quiet!" he hissed in a stage whisper, crouching by me, "she can't see me – I mean us –"

We sat frozen for a full minute, until he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "She's gone, I think," he said in his normal voice. Yet something in his manner had changed, as if an invisible line had tautened and snapped, leaving a frayed and naked edge exposed to the air.

"Look Wallace," he stood up, "I really think I've got to go now. I think it's my only chance."

"But wait –"

But what about _me_ , I wanted to say, but he was already at the door to the bedroom, and then past it, and then I heard him yell back, his voice echoing eerily against the white tile, "if I'm right, then it's all faulty and full of holes, and you can just –"

But I wasn't listening. I just realized that the folder with all my papers was gone. He must have taken it by mistake.

"Wait!" I yelled after him and stood up, spilling my drink in haste. I ran back through bedroom to the hallway, stumbling in the dark toward the glimmer of the foyer, then finally I was there.

It was empty. My coat and my hat were gone.

* * * * *

My wallet! My papers! My badge!

I stood stock still, at a loss. Then I saw a piece of paper laying just inside the door that must have fallen to the ground, a pitiful trampled thing to be left with. _It's over,_ it read in a loopy scrawl.

I could think of nothing else but to take the elevator down. In the lobby, I approached the porter.

"Good evening, Mr. Pendleton," he said coolly.

"Did you see anyone leave just now? With a packet of papers?" Seeing his blank expression, I added, "only you must have seen him. He looked just like me?"

He didn't answer at first, looking me over with a strange expression on his face. Then he said with an exaggerated slowness, "no, sir. No one's left the building just now."

"And are there any other entrances? A basement, maybe?"

"The basement is locked in the evenings, sir."

I ran my hand through my hair in desperation, "Well, then, maybe the other one – Dawes – maybe he's seen something?"

The porter's face fell, and he said sadly, "I'm sorry to tell you, but Dawes has been out all week. It's the flu, you know," he sighed, "we've all put in for a service at St. Cath–"

I cut him off, "you've taken no breaks at all then?"

"None, sir," he replied stiffly, obviously stung at my lack of interest.

I started toward the door, but the porter called after me, "are you feeling all right, sir?"

"What? I'm perfectly fine."

"Then may I suggest that you change out of those trousers if you plan to go out tonight?"

I looked down and realized that the whiskey stain had spread mercilessly down their front, reeking of vagrancy. I looked up at him in horror, then with a flash of brilliance ventured, "do you happen to have a key to my place? Only I've left mine inside."

"Of course, sir," he replied, and with an air of someone who had long ceased being surprised by anything, he picked up a thick bundle of keys from his desk and led me into the elevator. Upstairs, I closed the door with muttered thanks, and breathed a sigh of relief.

* * * * *

The apartment was all still there, silent but illuminated now with the glow of electrical light. This was going to cost him a fortune, I thought with satisfaction, as I walked through the hallway and finally found the bedroom again, discovering with relief that one of the dressers was filled with fresh linens and crisp pants. I found a sharp, gray pair to my liking and abandoned mine on the floor.

Returning to the living room, I took stock of the situation. There was no sense going out until morning, I decided. He had my keys, my wallet, my hat. I would wait. I went to sit down, then saw the tin of Oreos on the table and I realized that I was hungry. I decided to make myself some tea.

I checked every door along the hallway until I found a kitchen. It was large and dark, not one of the rooms that we visited together. I fumbled for a pull-switch until I found one close to the edge of the door.

I found a teapot already on the stove, still full of water. I looked around for a pack of matches, then mechanically reached into a top drawer and found them in their place, next to the rubber bands. I lit the stove, and finding a pack of Chesterfields on the windowsill, lit one off the flames and waited for the water to boil.

It didn't take long. I found the tea leaves in the small pantry underneath the sink, and brought over a flowered sugar bowl from the counter behind me, then took down my favorite cup from the third shelf,

and then I understood.

* * * * *

Back in the living room, I opened the drapes to reveal the city dazzling in its own artificial starlight. It was a clear night, and far below I could see the rush of Fifth in full swing, the press of cabs and furs on their way to the theater.

I looked out over this new, naked, fragile world, and took slow sips of tea, finishing his last sentence in my mind. You can walk through, I suppose.

I took a look through the mail, but decided it could wait until tomorrow. Then I remembered Ellie's note. This was the last time she would come, she had said. It was my last chance.

No matter, I would make it up to her. I'd call on her tomorrow, I thought, and tell her just how sorry I was, and then take her out to tea at the Plaza and then maybe the Ziegfeld or the New Amsterdam.

Yes, she would like that. And that would be exactly what I'd do.

### Trenchers

"Mon Ami."

A whisper. Barely a whisper. A murmured hiss like the flecked exhalation of a snake. In the blackness of the long forgotten dugout, three stories beneath the poppies in a Flanders field, even murmurs lingered desperately.

"Mon Ami."

A rasp.

Charlie Clerk turned, adjusting the bent wire clip on the flashlight at his waist. Barely ten yards ahead, shuffling through the tungsten haze, stood the Poilu. Rather, what was left of him.

He balanced unevenly, listing to one side. Filthy. His pale, waxy skin almost luminescent against the black, moldy, concrete walls of the bunker. The flayed remains of a horizon blue greatcoat, spackled with mud on top of dried mud, stained with rust. Dirt. Old blood. A dented Adrian helmet pasted with thick, garlicky muck wobbled on his narrow head. His eyes were flat, gray cataracts. Slick and weeping. He licked his lips as he spoke. Yellowed, broken needles for teeth.

"Mon Ami."

A hiss.

* * * * *

Three years ago, steaming across the Atlantic toward France and Adventure, Charlie would never have imagined he'd one day be facing... _this_. Whatever this was. A man, certainly, but not really. A sad, broken mirror-image of life. But not quite alive. Not really. Charlie had killed too many men to be confused by life and death at this point. No, not alive. But close enough.

The war had changed everything. Charlie didn't know that going in, of course. Nobody knew that going in. Going in it was all baseball and ragtime. Rides on Joe Springer's tractor. The nickelodeon theater. Dancing with Lillian Katz. And good old George Walton with that Brownie he carried everywhere. Snapping pictures of nothing. Trees. Farms. The swept blue sky locked in filmy gray.

Back then Charlie didn't think too much about Germany. In fact, Charlie really didn't think about Germany at all unless someone else brought it up first. Fighting for old world Kings over old world countries for old world reasons. Some other people in some other place. An ocean away or even more. Where was Belgium anyway? Where was France? _Over there._

But then came the U-boats. Before long it would be impossible not to think about Germany; The _Lusitania_ , Black Tom Island, the Hercules plant over in Eddystone, the Zimmermann Telegram. The Hun. Always and everywhere. The Hun.

The _Lusitania_ wasn't even a warship. Neither were the other ships – however many there were. It didn't matter. They were full of women. Kids. Just regular folk sent to the bottom by German torpedoes. No warning. No reason. Skulking in the ocean like a spider in the bed sheets.

Charlie volunteered and found France easily enough, as did George and Joe and the rest of the boys. _Over there, over there._ He found adventure too, if that's what you'd like to call it, courtesy of the 28th Division. The Keystones. They volunteered. They had no idea.

* * * * *

The Poilu edged closer, etching lines in the dirt as he shuffled through the darkened tunnel toward Charlie.

Charlie unholstered his Smith & Wesson. The revolver was a newer weapon usually reserved for officers or pilots and Charlie hadn't carried one during the war. However the Trenchers, as they had come to be called, were officially a part of the military police and so a sidearm was standard issue. It wasn't quite as powerful as his old Springfield but then again it didn't flash and recoil as much either. Perfect for crawling around dark bunkers and tunnels looking for people. Not people. Former people.

The walnut stock was smooth and warm. Comforting.

"Mon Ami."

A sigh.

* * * * *

The officers called them Trench Wights. They started turning up toward the end of the war. Rumors at first. Ghost stories. The war inspired plenty of ghost stories; medieval bowmen descending from clouds at Agincourt to drive back the Germans with a punishing rain of arrows, packs of demonic wolfhounds dragging soldiers off to a grizzly death at Mons, or the sad crooning of Rompo as they devoured bloated Indian corpses at Neuve Chapelle.

The war itself was a ghost story.

The whole of Europe was a grave.

No Man's Land. Trenches slashed haphazard bloodlines through nationless blight larger and longer than any national border. Fields and forests burned by the acre, mile upon ashen mile, leaving behind black, skeletal stumps and splintered, charcoal trees. The land was gutted and deformed by endless artillery craters soaked through with the greasy remains of mustard gas as lazy clouds of Phosgene and Chlorine blistered the air. Whole cities swallowed by mud.

Death was measured in populations. It was everpresent. It was at once constantly horrific and maddeningly meaningless. Charlie watched men rush headlong into entrenched machine gun fire at the thin screech of a Captain's whistle. Watched bullets vip through woolen coats like sewing needles pulling threads of blood. He saw ragdoll men tumble and tear through coils of razorwire. Felt them disintegrate into wet, red mist from random, hellish bursts of fire and dirt. He ran along with them. Again.

And again.

And again.

He could still hear the whistle sometimes. Like an echo on the wind, calling him over the top.

Run.

During the war the dead were everywhere; in the trenches, in the towns, in the bunkers, in the streets, in the dirt, under the dirt. It was inescapable fact of life on the Western Front, if you could call it life. No matter where Charlie went or how deep he dug bodies were heaped upon one another marking grisly gains and losses. Gray skinned corpses, stabbed through by bayonets, slumping lifelessly against each other. Red, slick boys in rags radiating a forgotten crater, face down in the dirt. Victory and defeat were measured in nothing but an increased capacity for inhumanity.

The dead defined the landscape for no other reason than there was simply nowhere else to move them or they were blown to bits so completely that there was nothing left to move. They became landmarks. Features. Charlie used to think that might be for the best. He thought it might be better if his body marked a line of barbed wire or a minefield, warning others away. Watch out. He used to fantasize about dying. How would he die? When? He hoped to use his last once of strength to point out the enemy position. Right there, fellas. Watch out.

Yet somehow Charlie lived.

* * * * *

He raised his revolver and aimed squarely for the Poilu's head, just below the visor on his helmet. A ricochet wouldn't do anyone any good. The Poilu didn't seem to care. His head lolled back and forth as he walked, unfocused. It occurred to Charlie that he couldn't recall any of the Wights ever making eye contact or actually _looking_ at anything. Really looking. Not with any sort of real comprehension anyway. And yet they seemed aware. Sort of. The Poilu seemed to know _someone_ was here enough that he called out. Came forward. Charlie couldn't help wonder what he was thinking? If he was thinking?

"Mon Ami."

They sure do repeat themselves a lot, Charlie noticed. The Wights he'd encountered often muttered to themselves. A short phrase or a few words. Over and over. Sometimes they performed a simple routine like digging or walking a patrol. Again.

And again.

And again.

The officers said that the Wights were stuck somewhere between life and death. Charlie figured that made about as much sense as anything in the last few years. The war killed plenty of men who should have lived and left alive plenty more who would have been better off dead. The war broke everything else so why not break life and death too?

"Au revoir, buddy."

Charlie pulled the trigger. A sudden flash washed out the tungsten haze of Charlie's lamp. A bright, white blink exposing cracked, dirty walls. A fresh spatter of thick, dark maroon. Bits of fleshy hair. Something gray. The gun roared and the sound was everywhere, reverberating around the small chamber and echoing down the darkening passages. Charlie winced. His ears rang.

The Poilu's body slumped against the wall. Most of his head was gone. His blood soaked helmet twirled slowly on the floor nearby, cradling fragile puzzle bits of skull and face. Yellow teeth scattered like dice.

Charlie absently tapped his left ear with one hand as he holstered his pistol with the other. He was supposed to look for an identification tag but the odds of finding anything useful were slim. Sometimes the identification tags were removed when the soldier was first killed. If the tags weren't already removed the old aluminum was often corroded to the point of being unreadable. Wights usually remained as anonymous in death as they were in life. Not life.

Charlie crouched and adjusted his lamp. He checked anyway. Surprisingly he found a pair of grimy, pocked and pitted metal ovals threaded onto a piece of cord around the Poilu's neck. He smeared the face of one with his thumb, wiping away a layer of crusted soil.

Edouard. Maybe Edmund. Something. 1917.

Charlie gently lifted the cord around the spongy stump of what was left of the Poilu's head and stuffed it in his pocket.

"You're in luck, Eddie."

Charlie spoke out loud, although he could barely hear himself. His voice sounded hollow and distant. He felt himself speak more than he heard. The ringing in his ears chirped dully.

"You're officially dead."

Charlie stood to leave, once again adjusting the lamp at his belt. He rubbed his ears to clear the noise but the shrill warbling continued. Like a teakettle. Like a whistle.

Run.

But there was nowhere to run.

* * * * *

Something scratched toward him like a drowning dog. Wild and unfocused. Charlie backpedalled, tripping over the outstretched leg of the lifeless Poilu. He landed hard. Crunching. He kicked up a cloud of reddish haze. A dirty fog that seemed to fold and churn in the lamplight. Charlie coughed and choked as he scrambled backward across the floor of the bunker. The Poilu's teeth bit into his palms.

He could hear it clearly now. Not just a ringing in his ears but a whistle. An officer's whistle sounding in the darkness somewhere deeper in the tunnels. Faintly, tunelessly bleating. Calling the men over the top.

Run.

A crouched, skeletal figure emerged through the dirty haze. A filthy soldier caked in darkness. He was much quicker than Charlie would have thought possible. Practically running.

A whistle.

Run.

Charlie scrabbled across the floor, back and away, just as the Wight lurched forward. It fell into the glow from Charlie's lamp landing on its knees in front of him with a kindled crack. A rusty puff of dirtsmoke. If it felt any pain it didn't show it.

He was older than Edouard. At least, he looked older. His ashen skin was taught against his bones, stretched back from a broken, horse-toothed maw. Dark, sunken eyes stared blankly, fishlike, at nothing. Unfocused. Expressionless. No hate. No fear. He was barefoot, dressed practically in rags. What remained of his uniform was a faded, colorless gray.

Horsemouth groped at the wall above Charlie's head with one boney hand. His black fingernails cracked bloodlessly as they scraped the concrete. His other hand gripped the rough, bent steel handle of a French Nail so tightly that the skin on his knuckles split. Crusted, scabby rips exposed dry, stringy sinew. He thrust the hammered point forward violently. Charlie was pulled back, pinned to the wall as the crude spike tore through the heavy cloth of his jacket. Luckily Horsemouth's attack seemed driven more by instinct than intent. The blade scraped along Charlie's shoulder. A few inches to the left it would have pierced his heart. Horsemouth leaned forward and croaked. His breath was cooked vomit. His leather tongue writhed, trying vainly to form words, to speak, but managed only a clotted hiss.

Charlie grabbed Horsemouth's arm before he could pull the French Nail out of the wall. Before he could attack again. It felt like gristle wrapped in sackcloth.

"Allez..."

A wet voice in the darkness.

A second Wight heaved through the thickening dust from behind Horsemouth. Bloated and squat with thick, frothy slime running from his nose and mouth, dripping from his ears, from the corners of his soft eyes. Weeping. Tendrils of mucus splattered and stained his filthy, bullet pocked uniform. He reeked. A caustic, mulchy stench. His fat hands clutched the splintered wooden shaft of a French carbine. One reddish-black finger twitched repeatedly, uselessly at the broken trigger.

"Allez..."

A gurgle.

Charlie kicked hard against Horsemouth's chest. He felt ribs snap like bird's nests under his boot as Horsemouth's body pitched backward into the too taut belly of the fat Wight. Horsemouth's wrist snapped completely in two, his disembodied hand holding fast to the looped steel of the French Nail still embedded in the concrete wall.

The Weeper belched a viscous slime as Horsemouth blundered into his stomach. There was a sickening pop and a noxious wetness spread quickly across The Weeper's abdomen. Rivulets of swampy pus drooled from beneath the front of his service coat scrawling foul nonsense in the dirt with each lumbering step.

"Allez..."

A croak.

Charlie pulled frantically at the French Nail pinning him to the wall.

The Weeper smashed at Charlie's head with the splintered hunk of walnut that was once a rifle. Charlie doubled over as jagged plowshares of wood slashed across his scalp. A white flash of pain scraped his face tearing out rows of hot blood.

A shout. His own voice? A whistle?

Run.

The Weeper hammered instinctively. Reflexively. A second blow caught the back of Charlie's head as he hunched over, confused, clouded, watching absently as his own blood drizzled into the mix of fetid slime that oozed from The Weeper and pooled at his feet.

Again.

And again.

At some point the force yanked Charlie forward, wrenching the French Nail from the wall and Charlie's shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor. He tasted dirt. He tasted something worse than dirt. His head rang.

A whistle.

Run.

* * * * *

After the armistice Charlie passed some time smoking cigarettes in an English hospital. He was fine, mostly. Tired, mostly. The hospital was old and weathered but it had a roof and walls, windows that weren't broken and clean sheets. It was quiet. Mostly. Charlie would spend hours sitting on a small, wooden bench and watch nurses guide nervous soldiers around a grassy hill. An aimless routine for shambling, broken men.

Occasionally the doctors would talk about going home. Where was home anyway? An ocean away or even more. Some other people in some other place. Home was frozen moments of smiling dead boys locked in filmy gray. _Over there._

No.

Charlie didn't mind. He didn't miss home. He supposed he should feel bad about that. He supposed he should feel a lot of things. But he didn't.

The boats might go west but they would never go home.

* * * * *

With his cheek resting in putrid slime on the cold, dirty floor Charlie could see Horsemouth writhing in the darkness. The handless stump of a dried, jerky arm reached for Charlie. A crispy twig of bone pointed accusingly. Somewhere behind him The Weeper shuffled in his own filth.

"Allez..."

A slop.

Don't think.

Sickly light from Charlie's lamp strobed through the dusty passage, escaping momentarily to the left and to the right as he pulled himself across the floor. He knocked Horsemouth's stumpy arm aside and grabbed his leather skull. Tufts of hair like scorched hay crunched in his hand. A dry slug tongue licked at Charlie's arm. Charlie shoved Horsemouth's head down into the ground as hard and fast as he could manage. Pain dragged like a salted fork through every nerve in his back and shoulders as Horsemouth's head clunked into the hard packed floor. A crack. Like a stone egg. Charlie gripped tight, pounding Horsemouth's head up and down into the floor. Again.

Horsemouth clawed at Charlie uselessly with his bone stick arm, scraping against Charlie's neck and shoulder.

And again.

A gristly click. Horsemouth's jaw unhinged and his head deformed.

And again.

Horsemouth's neck snapped and his skull caved in. His spongy brain stuck to Charlie's hand like a mass of cobwebs and crushed spiders. Horsemouth jerked. A quick, tense spasm that twisted and flipped his body away.

"Allez..."

A dribble.

Charlie felt The Weeper stumbling above him. Dripping. A thick leg thumped blindly against his side. He heard the metallic click of a useless trigger on a shattered weapon.

"Allez..."

A heave.

Charlie lunged forward, scrambling on all fours through blood grime. Grainy slop stuck to his fingers as he clawed his way through the liquefied guts that spilled from The Weeper's burst, distended flesh. His belt lamp, covered in dirt and muck, cast a warped amber glow flecked with oversized shadowed bits that stuck to the lens. An abstract kaleidoscope of human remains.

Charlie tried to blink away dust and blood as he pulled himself across the floor. He rolled onto his back. A sudden rip saw of pain caused his body to buckle involuntarily. Somewhere in the dimness of the bunker The Weeper shambled toward him. Dripping in the darkness. Closer.

And closer.

Lying on his back Charlie wiped his face with a muck caked sleeve. He could feel raw gashes, warm with blood as bits of Horsemouth's compost brains slicked across his forehead. His ears thrummed along with his pulse. He unclipped his holster and closed his hand around the smooth, polished wood handle of his revolver.

A moment later The Weeper emerged through the orange lamp haze, his mouth slightly agape, leaking curdled vomit. His uniform soaked with fresh, melted horror. He stared at Charlie, through Charlie, straight ahead and unfocused.

A whistle.

"Allez..."

Charlie fired.

The Weeper's stomach popped soundlessly as the bullet plunked through him, drowned out in the reverb roar of the pistol. A gassy, liquid spray wheezed from the bullet hole and Charlie could see misty driplets glitter in the hazy lamplight. It reminded Charlie of the atomized spray of an artillery geyser. Sudden bits of men disappearing in a quick, humid thunder, Charlie thought.

Don't think.

The Weeper let out a huff and wobbled backward.

Charlie fired again.

The noise was deafening, bouncing off of the tunnel walls, echoing in the darkness. The second shot thunked into The Weeper's chest like a baseball into mud and a gurgling soup of mucus and maggots slopped out of his back and splashed thickly to the floor. The Weeper tipped to the side, dragged by the momentum of the shot, slipping in his own slime. For a moment, Charlie caught the Wight's eye. A blink.

Charlie fired again.

There was no noise. Only the ringing in Charlie's ears and the pressurized thrum of his heartbeat keeping time with the throbbing of the gashes in his head. A synchronized double drum of blood pulsing even as it crusted and clotted.

Over there, over there.

He could see the Wight highlighted in the brief flash from the muzzle like a popped bulb on good old George Walton's Brownie before its head exploded. It flopped backward into darkness.

Silence.

* * * * *

Charlie wasn't sure just how long he lingered in darkness. The tornado echo in his ears had subsided and the bunker was so thoroughly buried in thick, still blackness that he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. Half-formed thoughts slipped and echoed in his head.

Don't think.

Tired fingers instinctively groped at his belt lamp feeling only cold metal and the haphazard edges of broken glass.

Lights out.

From some forgotten turn deep in the darkness of a bunkered crack that was once a matter of life and death a dead officer's whistle continued to screech, floating on stale air. Desperately calling soldiers over the top.

Charlie hauled himself up from the dirt, standing unevenly.

He went off to kill.

Again.

### Comedy Is Pain

"Charlie Chaplin is a sissy!"

The conversation died down suddenly, and Hank McKee paused to sip his whiskey. Chuck Cooper was looking at him with that gape-jawed goofy look that made him a popular Keystone Kop. Burt Silver was polishing his badge, but looked up with an eyebrow raised. All around the large dressing room, men paused, half in or out of their Keystone Kop uniforms, cigarettes dangling from lips. In the silence, all you could hear was the ice clinking around in Hank's whiskey glass. Artie Peters, the newest member of the group, laughed nervously and trailed off when no one joined in.

"Hey Hank," Chuck said, "You shouldn't say that. Charlie's a nice guy."

"I just don't get it, is all," Hank replied, "Any one of us is funnier than he is. Why does he get paid so much?"

Burt stood up, looking down on Hank. "He's an actor and a comedian," he said, "He's a star."

"So what are we? Chopped liver?"

" _We_ are not actors or comedians, _we_ are Keystone Kops, and we get paid for one reason only. Because we can take a beating and keep going. That's all."

"That ain't all. We got talent."

"Really? Then how come we are out of work and Chaplin has a new picture every week? You should be grateful. The only reason we got dusted off and pulled out of retirement is cus Charlie asked for us."

"Yer crazy!" Hank said, "Retired? We make pictures all the time."

"Every time we make a picture," Burt said, "They call it a Revival."

Burt sat down and continued polishing his badge. Chuck admired him. He wasn't afraid to speak up to Hank, the oldest Kop among them. Also, he was handsome, maybe handsome enough to be a romantic lead. Chuck looked at his own reflection in the make-up mirror. His hound dog droopy face was only good for comedy. He noticed his jaw was hanging open, so he clapped it shut.

The door opened and Ed Mulvaney entered. Everyone glanced at him and quickly glanced away. Ed was their newest director, and according to Hank, he didn't get it. He didn't know why the Keystone Kops were funny. He was a gangly stuck up Brit who thought comedy hadn't evolved since Shakespeare. At least, that's what Hank would say.

"Hank," Ed said, "What are you drinking?"

"Whiskey," Hank replied, his bushy eyebrows lowered into that angry expression that got him more than one close-up over the years.

"Put it away, it's illegal."

"I bought this bottle fair and square before Prohibition kicked in."

"Then put it away because you're working! I want to discuss today's shots. Which one of you wouldn't mind getting tossed off the back of a truck into a bush?"

* * * * *

" _Action!"_

The police van coughed and hiccupped a bit, then started rolling. Chuck was hanging onto the legs of a man who was hanging onto the back of the paddy wagon, and behind him, Artie was hanging onto his legs. As the new guy, Artie got to be the end of the chain. As the van picked up speed, Chuck felt the dirt and grit of the road sliding underneath him, every pebble working him over. He felt a painful flare-up in his knee as it was yanked out of a pothole, but he ignored it. His pant leg tore, and he felt Artie grip his legs tighter.

The van picked up some speed, and Chuck held his breath. Any moment now, the van would turn suddenly, and they would be tossed to the side of the road. He waited and worried. He was distracted when the man in front of him lost a shoe and it whacked him in the nose. A moment later, the van lurched to the left, and he felt the Kop-Chain sway. Suddenly, his legs were free and Artie was bouncing past him. He let go and he was rolling away, elbows tucked in tight, ribs bouncing off the hard packed dirt, then there was grass in his face and the wind was forced out of his lungs as his body wrapped itself around a tree.

" _Cut!"_

Dimly, Chuck could hear Ed yelling at the stunt driver, who apparently had driven too fast and turned too early. He lifted himself up on an elbow, then began peeling himself off the tree. His costume tugged at the bark and he had to tear it free. He got to his knees, which were scraped and throbbing, then took a breath and stood up. Pain flared up all over his body, but he ignored it. He remembered what Burt had said. He was paid for his ability to take a beating and keep going. He only noticed the ringing in his ears when it started to fade.

Someone was shaking his arm. He looked up, his jaw hanging loosely, and looked into the worried eyes of his director.

"Are you all right, Chuck?" Ed asked.

"Did we get the shot?"

There was a pause, and then Ed laughed. Everyone around him started laughing. Chuck rubbed his elbow and smiled.

Back in the dressing room, Chuck peeled off his jacket, feeling it tug at the clotted scrapes and lacerations on his back. He felt a dull throb in his jaw, his old injury flaring up. Years ago, he had cracked his jaw during a pratfall. It's the reason his mouth hung open so often, at a slightly crooked angle. Of course, the off center jaw was what gave him his peculiar comedic look, and he had made some money off it over the years, so he didn't regret it. Still, sometimes it still hurt.

Looking around the room, he saw most everyone was in a similar state. Artie looked okay, just a few bruises, but he was young and resilient, when he did a pratfall, he had a remarkable ability to make it look like his body was made of rubber. Hank had ice on his knee and was scowling. That made Chuck smile. Hank's scowl was famous.

Burt looked fine. He was even clean. Ed never let Burt do the dangerous stunts.

"Look at him," Hank whispered, "Not a scrape on him."

"Whatcha got going on tonight?" Chuck asked, trying to change the subject.

"I'm going dancing!" Hank said, brightening up, "I'm taking my lady out for a night on the town."

Chuck couldn't help a glance at Hank's iced up knee. Hank saw it.

"Well, I'm not the one who's gonna be dancing. Sofia can dance without me. I'll be in my booth sippin' hooch."

"You don't mind your girl dancing with other guys?" Burt asked.

"What am I gonna do? Tell her she can't have fun just cus I got bad knees? She wouldn't have it. She's one of them hot-blooded Italian dames, know what I mean? As long as I'm there keeping an eye on her, she can do what she likes. Say, why don't you come along, Chuck? I'll ask Sofia to bring a friend."

"Oh, I'm not so good at dancing."

"So you can keep me company in the booth."

"Mind if I tag along?" Burt asked, "I like dancing."

"Sure. Everybody's welcome."

Burt nodded and walked away. Hank leaned close to Chuck and said, "Now you _have_ to come. Don't leave me alone with Pretty Boy."

"Sure thing, Hank."

"Thanks, Chuck. By the way, you're catching flies again."

Chuck raised a finger and gently pushed his jaw closed. Hank laughed.

* * * * *

Chuck walked towards the club nervously, unaware that his mouth was hanging open again. He pulled out a comb and tried to neaten up, but his cowlick resisted any effort to tame it. By the front door, he saw Ed smoking a cigarette. He wondered who invited him, not Hank certainly.

"Evening Ed."

"Chuck! You were marvelous today," Ed said in his droll English accent, "I think we got a great shot of you wrapped around that tree."

"Thanks."

"Classic Keystone, wouldn't you agree?"

"I hope so."

Ed nodded and puffed his cigarette. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "That's the problem though, you know."

"How's that?"

"The Keystone Kops. They're old news. It's 1920, a new decade, and people don't care anymore. Do you know why Chaplin is famous?"

"He's funny?"

"Yes, he's funny, he does the pratfalls too, but he... you know, he also makes the audience care about him. There's an element of pathos to his Little Tramp. That's why he's so successful."

"Well, good for him."

"Yes... Tell me, Chuck, do you know what Comedy is?"

"Yup. Comedy is pain."

Ed nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, quite right. But we take it too literally, don't you see? Comedy doesn't have to be physical pain..."

Ed trailed off, looking at nothing. Chuck waited a moment, decided Ed was done with him and went inside.

* * * * *

There was a black band playing some Jazz on the stage, with one guy blowing a trumpet so hard, he looked like a blowfish. The music was good, bouncy and lively, Chuck felt his head bobbing involuntarily to the music. His eye was drawn immediately to a woman on the dance floor. She was spinning around, making her blue beaded skirt flare out around her long legs. She was kicking her heels and her face was lit up by a large white smile. She wore her hair short, and she was exotic and beautiful, the kind of girl that made Chuck gulp involuntarily like a frog. A man was dancing with her, and it took Chuck a moment to realize it was Burt. He moved slowly but gracefully, gliding around his partner in a way that seemed both random and purposeful. Even when Chuck was younger and less banged up, he could never move like that. Once again, he found himself admiring Burt, his ease with women, his confidence, his good looks. He wondered why Burt was a Keystone Kop and not a star on his own. He supposed he would be, someday.

His attention drifted and he saw Hank, sitting at a booth and waving to him. Hank's pudgy face was flushed red. He was smiling at Chuck, but even his smile made him look angry. Chuck weaved through the dancers, giving Burt and his partner a wide berth. He collapsed into the booth next to Hank.

"Look at him, Chuck!" Hank said.

"Who?"

"Burt! The man's too pretty for his own good. I swear, you put a wig on him and you wouldn't be able to distinguish him from the girls."

"Where's Sofia?"

"That's her dancing with Burt, that no account little Lord Fauntleroy."

"I thought you said you didn't mind other fellas dancing with your girl?"

"I don't mind her dancing with other guys, I mind her dancing with Burt."

Just then, the song rose to crescendo and stopped with a flourish of symbols and drums. Sofia did one last twirl and fell backwards, Burt had swiveled around and caught her effortlessly in his arms. Everyone applauded. The band announced they'd be back in ten, and Burt guided Sofia back to the booth. She sat down and slid up to Hank, Burt sat down next to Chuck.

"Hank, Honeycakes, did you see me dancing?" Sofia asked. She grabbed Hank's arm. She was so pretty, Chuck wondered how Hank landed her. He imagined her on his own arm, batting her eyelashes and calling him Honeycakes. He gulped.

"I saw you, Sweet Cheeks. I saw." Hank put his hand over hers and looked over at Burt.

"She's a great dancer, Hank," Burt said, "You're a lucky guy."

"Didn't you bring a date of your own?" Hank asked.

"I thought you said Sofia was bringing a friend?"

"Yes, for Chuck."

"Where is she?" Chuck asked.

"She'll be here soon," Sofia said.

"Here comes another one!" Hank grumbled.

Ed was walking towards them with a girl on his arm. She was a little taller than Ed, and she walked stiffly but proud. Chuck was about to stand, but Hank waved for him to stay seated.

"Gentlemen!" Ed said, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Edna, she just arrived from London. Edna, this is Burt Silver, Chuck Cooper, Hank McKee and... you must be Sofia."

"Won't you join us?" Burt asked, "Slide down Chuck, slide down."

Chuck scooted over and Ed and his wife sat.

"So," Chuck said, "Ed and Edna?"

"I know, I know! Well, we can't change our names, can we?"

"Why not?" Burt asked, "This is Hollywood! Everyone changes their name! My name isn't really Silver, you know."

"It isn't?"

"No, it's Silveira. It's Portuguese."

"My name's really Cooper," Chuck said.

"Well ain't you always the exception?" Hank muttered.

"Well I think he's Exceptional!" Ed said. He raised a glass, "Here's to the marvelous stunt you pulled this afternoon. I hope you're recovering nicely?"

"I am." Chuck raised his own glass and clinked it to Ed's.

"Who wants a real drink?" Hank asked.

"That's illegal," Edna said.

"It's ok, I know the owner. Whiskey? Whiskeys around?" Hank waved to the waitress.

"I wouldn't mind..." Ed trailed off under the disapproving gaze of his wife, "You know, we have to work tomorrow, so maybe I'd rather not."

Chuck raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Ed was a director, used to ordering people around. He had no trouble standing up to people, but one withering glance from his straight-laced wife and he backed down.

After the drinks arrived, Chuck had a good time. He saw a pretty blonde girl in a silver dress looking at him, but she looked away when he glanced in her direction. Chuck didn't let it get him down, she probably just recognized him from the pictures. He briefly entertained the thought of approaching her anyway, but when he looked around again, she was gone.

Ed and Edna left early, before Hank's nose got really red, confirming Chuck's suspicion that Edna had her husband on a short leash. Bert told some jokes and everyone laughed, but Hank frowned. He kept glancing over at Sofia, and Chuck wondered if maybe she was laughing just a little too hard. He chalked it up to the whiskey.

The following day, Chuck found himself eating lunch under the same tree he'd smacked into the day before, thinking about last night. Sofia's friend had never shown up, and though he'd been disappointed, he was also somewhat relieved. There were two sides to Chuck that were constantly at war, his bashful side and his lonely side.

A shadow passed over Chuck, and he looked up and saw Ed.

"May I join you?" Ed asked.

Chuck nodded, so Ed hunkered down and sat next to Chuck under the tree.

"I've been thinking a lot about our conversation from last night."

"You want to change your name?"

"What? Heavens no, I meant earlier in the evening. We were talking about Comedy. Do you remember?"

Chuck nodded and bit into his sandwich.

"I think we need to take the Keystone Kops in a new direction, I'm sure you agree."

Chuck didn't know what to say, and anyway, his mouth was full, so he just kept chewing.

"I wrote down some ideas, I'd love to share them with you."

"Why me?"

"Well I should think you'd have an interest in it. You are a Keystone Kop, after all."

"Hank's been here the longest."

"Yes, but he's so surly! But I suppose you're right. As senior member of the group, he should hear it first. Thank you, Chuck. You know, beneath that hang-dog face of yours, there's a startling intelligence."

"You mean I'm not as dumb as I look."

"Precisely! You just proved my point. Don't say anything to Hank just yet. Let me run it by him first."

Ed stood up and began walking back towards the studio. Chuck wolfed down the rest of his sandwich and followed him.

* * * * *

They heard a commotion as they approached the studio. Opening the door, they saw a group of Kops standing in a circle cheering. Ed shouldered his way past to see Burt and Hank wrestling on the ground.

"That's enough of this! Stop this at once!" Ed shouted, but he was drowned out. He tried to get an arm around Burt, who had Hank pinned to the ground. Chuck jumped in, and together they pulled the men apart.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ed demanded. Hank spit blood at his feet and wiped his mouth. Bert's usually perfect hair was tussled and a mess.

"He started it," Bert said.

"The Hell I did!"

"What's this about, Hank?" Chuck asked.

"He's been messing with my girl."

"That's bull," Burt replied, "We just danced."

"You think I don't got eyes? You think I didn't see the way you danced?"

"Why don't you ask Sofia?"

"She'd just deny it. But you listen up, if I ever catch you near Sofia again, I'll kill you!"

Hank stormed off into the dressing room and slammed the door so hard the sets shook.

"Everybody clear out," Ed said, "Take a break, be ready to work again in half an hour, understood?"

There was some muttering, some laughter, and the actors wandered away, leaving Ed, Burt and Chuck alone.

"Was there any truth to it, Burt?" Chuck asked.

"None," Burt said, trying to smooth his hair back, "Practically none. Maybe some. Sofia is a fine looking dame. What a set of pins on her! Hank doesn't deserve her."

"You listen to me, Burt," Ed said, pointing a thin finger in Burt's face, "You steer well clear of Ms. Sofia Whatsername, you understand me? I've got plans, big plans, and you're a big part of them. So stay away... at least until the picture is wrapped. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Burt nodded, "I can do that."

"Good."

Ed looked Burt in the eye, and when Burt didn't flinch away, Ed nodded.

"I'll talk to Hank when he's cooled down," Ed said and left. Chuck stood around uncomfortably for a while.

"Nothing happened," Burt said.

"Nothing yet, you mean," Chuck answered.

Burt smiled.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Hank was nowhere to be found, so shooting had to go on without him. Ed filled some time with close-ups and establishing shots, hoping Hank would show up, but he didn't. They started doing some bits without him. He filmed a shot of some Kops busting into an apartment that was so small, they were forced out of the back window when more Kops shoved in after them. Ed asked Chuck to do the pratfall. They filmed him falling out of a window into a garbage can, then Ed did a cameo passing by the garbage can and tossing some trash in. Then they got a close up of Chuck doing his droopy miserable face, his jaw hanging open, a banana peel on his head.

They took a few shots of Burt, a few close-ups, shots of him entering a room, smiling at the camera. Chuck scratched his head, he couldn't think where these shots might fit into the movie. Later, as he was leaving for the day, he saw Burt and Ed talking excitedly in a corner. Again, Chuck wondered what was going on, but he figured it was none of his business, so he left.

After hanging up his uniform and cleaning up as best he could, Chuck drove over to Hank's apartment to check up on him. He walked up to the apartment and knocked on the door, but there was no answer, and Chuck didn't see any lights on, so he went home.

* * * *

The next morning, Chuck arrived early to the Studio. No one else had arrived yet, but he went in anyway. He liked being in the studio alone, it was a rare treat. The sets, the cameras, the lights, it all looked different when there wasn't a room full of people messing around with them. It was thoroughly modern equipment, but in the shadows it looked like relics from a by-gone age.

The dressing room was a special indulgence when he was alone. Ordinarily, he would have to shoulder his way through several people to get a peek at the large make-up mirror surrounded by lights, but alone, the entire reflective surface was all his. He had to dress in a tight corner, pushed to the side by bustling men and rolling racks of costumes, but alone, he could stretch his arms and spin if he so chose.

Gazing into the mirror, he noticed his mouth was hanging open again. He gently pushed it shut with his hand. He knew that if he could keep his mouth shut, he wouldn't look so dopey all the time, but he only really cared about it when he looked into a mirror. He turned and looked at his profile. With his mouth shut, he just might pass for handsome, maybe.

His eye drifted away from his cracked jaw line and noticed in the mirror a pair of shoes poking out from behind a rack of Keystone Kop uniforms. They were pointed toes up. He turned and looked directly at them and saw they were connected to a pair of pants that went out of sight behind the clothes rack. The pants were Keystone blue. Chuck felt a shiver down his spine.

He stood up and pushed aside the rolling clothes rack, and there was Hank, lying propped up against a wall. He could have been asleep, except for the blood that had run from his throat, soaking his undershirt. That and the fact that his eyes were wide open. Chuck gulped loudly. He lifted a shaky hand and turned Hank's head slightly to reveal a pair of scissors jutting from his neck. He yelped and took a step back. He turned to get away from Hank's dead stare, but he was only confronted by its reflection in the make-up mirror. The light from the many white bulbs that surrounded the mirror made Hank's formerly reddish face look so ghastly pale. He felt his stomach churn and he quickly left, fumbling with the doorknob, making an awkward exit as his feet crossed each other, left over right, and he swayed. He couldn't quite make it to the exit before his stomach lurched again. He fell to his knees, hardly noticing the familiar flare up of pain, then he was vomiting all over the floor.

"You okay, Chuck?"

Chuck looked up and saw Artie, looking down at him with a look of concern.

"Police!" he said, wiping his mouth, "Murder! Call the police!"

* * * * *

Chuck had locked the dressing room and refused to allow anyone in until the police got there. Two detectives arrived first, flashing badges. The first was Lieutenant Shaw, a tall man with graying hair and a fully gray mustache. With him was Sergeant Gomez, a stocky guy with a round face, a thin mustache and shiny jet-black hair. Chuck could tell immediately that something wasn't right. They were looking left and right and sneering at everything they saw. Lieutenant Shaw approached him.

"So, you're a Keystone Kop?" he asked.

"Yes sir, Chuck Cooper."

"Doesn't it bother you, being an idiot for a living?"

"Better than being an idiot for free."

Gomez laughed and Shaw shot him a dirty look.

"Where's the body?" Shaw asked.

Chuck unlocked the dressing room and stepped aside. He followed the two men inside and shut the door.

Shaw and Gomez looked around, seeming to examine everything but the body. Shaw picked at the costumes on the racks, Gomez whipped out a comb and started combing his hair in the mirror.

"He's over here," Chuck said pointing toward Hank's body.

"I see him," Shaw said, finally looking in Hank's direction. He took a step closer and bent to examine the body. After a moment he stood up. "The cause of death is clear."

"Scissors in the neck," Chuck said.

"Let the real cops do their job," Gomez said.

"I say we round up the film critics!" Shaw said.

"We can eliminate the ones that like good movies," Gomez replied.

Chuck frowned. "This isn't a laughing matter."

"Says the comedian!" Shaw spat on the floor. "You're the one who found him?"

"Yes."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"Not really."

"Not really means yes," Gomez said.

"Maybe it was suicide!" Shaw suggested.

"What?"

"Yeah," Gomez said, "He saw one of his own movies and decided to kill himself! _Ack!_ " Gomez pantomimed stabbing himself in the neck.

Chuck's face turned red. He clenched his fists. For once, his jaw was clenched shut. Shaw only looked bored.

"Go ahead, buddy, take a swing, see where it gets you."

Chuck turned abruptly and walked out. Behind him, Shaw called out, "I'm gonna need to get statements from everybody!"

* * * * *

Ed arrived at the same time as the coroner. He burst into the studio while the detectives were interviewing Burt.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, "What happened?"

The detectives looked up at Ed. Chuck intercepted him.

"Hank's dead, Ed. Murdered."

Ed took a step back. "What? When?"

"I don't know yet. We're gonna find out, I promise."

"But... Chaplin is supposed to be here today."

"Chaplin will have to wait."

Ed nodded. He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To call Chaplin and tell him to stay home!"

Burt stood up and walked away from the detectives, looking nervous.

"Everything okay, Burt?" Chuck asked.

"I don't know, Chuck. They know about the fight with Hank yesterday. Somebody must've told them."

"Don't worry, Burt. The innocent have nothing to fear."

Burt looked like was about to say something else, but at that moment Sofia entered the studio, followed closely by a pretty blonde girl.

" _Where is he?"_ she cried.

She rushed towards them. Burt blocked her path towards the dressing room.

"Easy, Sofia. You don't want to go in there."

"Is he really dead?"

Burt nodded, and Sofia burst into tears. Burt awkwardly put his arms around her and patted her on the back. The detectives glanced at each other and stood up.

"Lemme guess," Shaw said, "This is Sofia."

"Ma'am, we have some questions for you."

"Can't you see she's in shock?" Burt asked.

"You can rock her to sleep later, lover boy."

"It's okay," Sofia said. She stepped away from Burt and followed the detectives.

"Do you get the feeling they don't like us much, Chuck?"

"Yes," Chuck said, "They think the Keystone Kops make them look ridiculous. They aren't even trying!"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Chuck said, "They barely even looked at Hank. They saw the scissors and stopped there."

"What else was there to see?"

"Nothing, I guess," Chuck answered, but he was lying. Before the detectives had arrived, Chuck had noticed a few things. Hank reeked of whiskey, for one thing. For another, he had noticed a smear of lipstick on Hank's knuckles, and tiny bits of broken glass on his jacket. He suspected there had been a struggle, but there were no signs of struggle in the dressing room. With all the people who went in and out of that dressing room, it was unlikely that the murder took place there, so Hank was moved after the fact. Besides, there was blood all over Hank's shirt, but other than that, nothing in the dressing room. If Hank had been murdered there, wouldn't blood be sprayed on the walls? Chuck didn't know if the detectives had noticed any of that, but they didn't fill him with confidence.

Chuck noticed that the blonde girl that showed up with Sofia was standing around nervously. She was looking up at the camera rig with her mouth open, something that Chuck found charming. Making sure his own mouth was firmly closed, he approached her.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"Oh, I'm a friend of Sofia's."

"I'm Chuck. Chuck Cooper."

"Anne Berry."

"Listen I'm sure they won't be keeping Sofia long."

"Is Hank really dead? I can't believe it. I just saw him the other night at the club."

"I was at the club," Chuck said. He remembered the blonde girl in the silver dress, and he was sure it was Anne.

"Oh, uh, I just popped in for a second before I had to go," she said.

Then it dawned on Chuck that this was the girl he was supposed to meet that night. She had shown up, and then promptly left, no doubt after getting a good look at droopy ol' Chuck. He forgot that he was keeping his mouth shut, and it swung open again. He turned and left before Anne could notice how embarrassed he was.

* * * * *

Before he went home, he decided to swing past Hank's apartment again. The door was locked. He walked around back and noticed a broken window. The glass was all over the side lawn, it had been broken from the inside. He was able to get his hand in far enough to unlock the window, then he pushed it up and climbed inside.

Once inside, he found himself in the living room, and here were the signs of struggle that were missing from the dressing room. Chuck surveyed the damage. There was a chair over-turned. A broken whiskey bottle was lying on a whiskey soaked rug. That explained the broken glass and whiskey smell on Hank. Chuck guessed that Hank had died against the wall where he entered, based on the spray of blood. He was probably stabbed, he staggered back, broke the window, then slumped over and died.

He had definitely found the scene of the crime. He started looking around for more evidence. He found a newspaper with an article cut out of it. The article itself was on the floor nearby. A quick perusal proved that it was a review of a comedy Hank had appeared in, and not a favorable review either, but Chuck knew that Hank kept all the reviews of his films, good or bad. Nothing else stuck him out of the ordinary, except a weird piece of wood, about two and a half inches long, rounded along the length on one side, flat on the other. A black fabric had been glued to the rounded side. He turned it over in his hands a few times, before he realized he was looking at the heel of a woman's high-heeled shoe.

Could Sofia have done it? Chuck remembered the lipstick on Hank's knuckle. If Sofia had murdered him, she would've needed help to move the body.

After a moment of deliberation, Chuck slipped the heel into his pocket. He worried briefly about stealing evidence, but he suspected Shaw and Gomez wouldn't care, they seemed to have no real interest in solving the case.

* * * * *

Chuck's suspicions about the detectives seemed beyond doubt three days later when no one had heard from them. Hank's wake was that night, and Chuck was getting ready, tying his tie in the mirror. Looking at mirrors gave Chuck the willies, ever since that night. Even though he knew it was ridiculous, he couldn't help but worry that he might see Hank's corpse in the reflection. He shuddered and looked away.

He was also worried that the wake would be mobbed with reporters, but when he arrived at the funeral home, he didn't see anything. Apparently, Mack Sennet, the head of the studio, had paid some people to keep it quiet, and it worked. Not a reporter was in sight, even though Chaplin was there. Chuck wondered how many people even knew Hank was murdered.

When he entered, he saw Sofia. She looked beautiful in black, but she had been crying. Chuck wondered if they were crocodile tears.

Burt was there, looking nervous. He still expected the police to arrest him at any moment. Chuck noticed he was steering clear of Sofia.

Chuck overheard Chaplin talking about Hank, saying he was a consummate professional and a joy to work with. He made some comment about how no one else had brought joy to more people by being angry all the time. There was some light respectful laughter, which faded quickly. People were embarrassed to laugh at funerals, which Chuck felt was odd when you considered that they were at a funeral for a man who had devoted his life to making other people laugh.

Chuck approached the casket to pay his respects. He frowned when he saw Hank lying there. His face wasn't red enough and the peaceful expression was one he had never seen on Hank before. Hank's jowls were losing the war with gravity, sinking toward his pillow, like a wax sculpture just starting to melt. They had dressed him in a formal jacket with a stiff high collar so his neck wound was obscured. Chuck wondered if Hank might've preferred to be buried in his Keystone Kop blues. With sadness, he realized Hank would never again tell him he was catching flies again.

Anne was standing next to him, looking down on Hank. "Charlie, right?"

"Chuck."

Anne nodded. "It's a shame, I never got to work with him," she said.

"Oh, are you an actress?"

"Yes. But I guess we'll be working together soon."

"We will?"

"Yes, on the next picture."

"What next picture?"

"Oh," Anne said, "I guess Ed didn't tell you. Well, you'll find out soon enough."

Chuck glanced over to Ed. He was in a corner with his arm around Burt, whispering in his ear. Then he noticed Sofia, glaring angrily at him. With a start, he turned away, wondering what he might've done to upset Sofia.

He touched Hank's shoulder, whispered good-bye, then turned away. He made a bee-line for the exit, but Ed intercepted him.

"I'm throwing a dinner party tonight in Hank's honor," Ed said, "I hope you can make it."

Edna slid up next to Ed. "You really must come," she said, "Everyone will be there, and Ed will be making an important announcement."

"About the next picture?"

"Yes, how did you know?" Ed asked.

"Lucky guess," he replied.

"Edna is cooking. She's an excellent cook." Ed gave his wife a kiss on her forehead. Edna smiled, but suddenly, Chuck felt uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason. He excused himself and left.

* * * * *

Ed must've come from money. There was a long winding driveway that went uphill to a large stone house. There was an expensive car parked in front. Chuck entered the large marble foyer and was greeted by Edna.

"Welcome, Chuck! So glad you could make it."

She lead Chuck into the living room. He saw Artie sitting on a couch talking with George the cameraman. Bert and Anne were chatting in a corner. Ed was mixing drinks. Some of the other guys were milling about, along with some of the crew. Looking around, Chuck noticed that Sofia was not in attendance.

Ed approached Chuck and handed him a drink.

"What's this?" Chuck asked.

"A little scotch," Ed said, "In honor of Hank."

Chuck took the drink and sipped it. Ed went over to the fireplace that dominated the end of the room and cleared his throat.

"Attention, please," Ed said, raising his glass, "I have a toast to make, and an announcement."

The room quieted down, and Ed proceeded.

"First, the toast," he said, "To Hank, a great comic, a consummate professional, and a lover of life."

"To Hank!" Bert cried. Everyone took a sip of whatever was in their hands.

"And now, an announcement," Ed continued, "After going over the film we have shot, I've decided we have enough to finish the film. It'll be Hank's last picture, and I know he would've wanted it to be completed."

There was some smattering of applause. Ed smiled.

"And now it is time to look to the future. I know Hank would also want the proud legacy of the Keystone Kops to continue, and so do I. There are going to be changes of course, but I have recently gotten approval from the studio to go forward with a new film that will take the Keystone Kops in a whole new direction!"

"What changes?" Chuck asked.

"Don't worry, no one is losing their job!" Ed said, "But we can't continue on as we have. Comedy is evolving and we need to evolve along with it, or be forgotten. This new picture is going to follow a new and proven formula. From now on, we're going to focus on one Kop, and his efforts to solve real crimes, despite the clumsy team of Kops that assist him. Real crimes, real drama and real romance, all highlighted by the comedy that is the hallmark of the Keystone Kop films. To that end, I'd like you all to welcome the newest member of our cast, miss Anne Berry!"

"Thank you!" Anne said, waving to everyone, "I can't wait to work with you all."

"Which Kop are you going to focus on?" Chuck asked.

"Why, Bert of course. No offense, Chuck, but the studio insisted. They felt Bert had that certain something to play the lead."

"He means I'm handsome," Bert added.

There was some laughter, but Chuck frowned. He imagined how Hank might've reacted to this news.

Later, Artie got on the piano and started playing some ragtime. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and Ed brought out some champagne. People cheered when the cork popped.

Chuck found Anne sitting on a chaise and approached her. She had a glass of champagne in one hand and was taking tiny sips with her pinky outstretched. She looked so pretty it was intimidating, and he might've just walked away, but she saw him coming, and fear of looking like a coward was stronger than fear of talking to a pretty girl.

"Uh, Congratulations, Anne," he said.

"Thanks, Chuck!"

"You must've had a great audition."

"I didn't think so," she replied, "But I guess Ed liked it well enough!"

"I'm sure you'll be great."

Anne nodded and sipped her champagne. It seemed like a dismissal of sorts, so Chuck turned away, unable to stop the suspicious thoughts that were swirling about in his mind. Anne was beautiful, there was no doubt, but he found it hard to believe she could land a leading role on good looks and a bad audition, or maybe he didn't want to admit it. He had never been beautiful, how could he know what it's like? Maybe it was true, pretty people get stuff handed to them for free, while people who looked like basset hounds worked hard for scraps. Or maybe Ed was sleeping with her. Or maybe she had some dirt on Ed and was blackmailing him.

* * * * *

After the party. Chuck lingered a while, until he was the last one there. He approached Ed and Edna.

"Are you still here, Chuck?" Ed asked.

"My goodness, what a long night!" Edna said. She collapsed into a chair and kicked off her high heeled shoes.

"I'm concerned about the new direction," Chuck said, "Hank wouldn't have liked it."

"You aren't kidding, especially when he learned about Bert taking a leading role!"

"You mean, Hank knew?"

"Um, yes. I told him. I knew if I could convince Hank, the rest of you would fall in line."

"When did you tell him?" Chuck asked. He saw Edna watching them both closely.

"The night before he died," Ed said.

"After the fight with Bert?"

"Yes."

Chuck nodded. He looked over at Edna.

"You're not always taller than Ed, are you? Do you always wear high heeled shoes?"

"Not always," Edna said.

"What are you getting at, Chuck?"

"You went over to Hank's house that night, didn't you? You told Hank what happened and he got upset."

"Easy, Chuck," Ed said, "You don't want to be making any accusations without proof."

"You're right," Chuck said, smiling. He saw the tension ease out of Ed's shoulders a little bit. Chuck's hand went into his pocket, removing the shoe heel he had found in Hank's apartment. "I wonder though, does this look familiar to you?"

Chuck turned to look at Edna, just in time to see her swinging a fire poker at his head.

* * * * *

Chuck groaned. His eyes flicked open, and he wondered where he was. His legs were cramped and his head ached fiercely. He realized he was in the backseat of a car when they hit a bump. He heard a groan, and looked to see Anne was tied up in the seat next to him. She was crying silently, big tears running down her face, running black with mascara and getting soaked up in the cloth that gagged her mouth.

"He's coming around," he heard Edna say.

"Oh thank God," Ed said.

"Why does it matter? If he isn't dead now, we're just going to have to kill him again."

"Not again, Edna. Please, let's just dump him somewhere remote and flee the country."

"Grow a backbone, Ed! We're nipping at the heels of success, and you want to leave it all behind?"

"But..."

"You promised we wouldn't return to England as failures, and we're bloody well not going back as criminals!"

Chuck tried to stretch his legs, but realized his hands were tied and his feet bound together.

Edna turned around to look at Chuck. She had a small gun and she pointed it at him. "Good morning, Chuck," she said, "I hope you slept well?"

"Why?"

"For what it's worth, it was self defense. Hank was drunk and enraged. He was going to murder Ed until I stabbed him."

"What about me?"

"Also self defense."

"What about Anne? What's she doing here?"

"She saw us dragging you to the car. She was going to expose us. My husband wouldn't last in jail."

"Let us go."

"I'm afraid not, Chuck. Go back to sleep. This will be much easier on you if you're asleep."

Edna turned back towards the road and Chuck inspected the knots on his arms. They were expertly tied, but he could still raise his arms.

He leaned towards Anne and whispered in her ear, "Don't be afraid," as he lifted his arms and put them around her. He slid his tied hands down her back until he had them around her waist.

"What are you doing, Chuck?" Edna asked, glaring suspiciously over her shoulder.

In response, Chuck kicked open the side door and fell backward, letting his legs go limp and pulling Anne as close to his body as he could, he could hear her muffled scream as it tried to work it's way through the cloth in her mouth. The door whacked him on the side of the head as they slipped out, making his ears ring. His backside hit the street, tearing into his pants and ripping skin, but he felt his bonds loosen. The weight of Anne hit him in the chest, and he felt the whoosh of air leaving his lungs. He bumped and rolled off the street, holding Anne tightly, even as the knots around his hands frayed. He tried to take the brunt of every impact in his arms and spine. They rolled down a hill and into a thorny bush. He lay there panting for a moment, Anne resting uncomfortably under one of his elbows, waiting to hear someone shout _"Cut!"_ but hearing only the screeching sound of brakes. They would be after him soon. He rolled over onto his stomach, gently depositing Anne onto the grass, and pushed himself up, getting his bloody knees underneath him. He sat up and swayed. Anne seemed to be in shock. She lay where she was, shaking and crying. There was pain all over, in his elbows, back, neck and knees, but pain was an old friend. He took a deep breath, calmed himself and rose to his feet.

"He's down there!" he heard Edna cry.

Chuck's hands were unbound, but his feet were still wrapped in rope. He kicked and struggled with the ropes as he limped away from the sound of Edna's voice. There was pain in his knees, and one of his ankles was throbbing, and he couldn't move very fast.

" _Stop him!"_ Edna cried.

Ed grabbed Chuck's shoulder and spun him around. Chuck lost his balance and fell on his ass.

"I have to hand it to you, Chuck," Ed said, "You always did the best stunts."

"Don't do this, Ed," Chuck said, "One murder is bad enough, and if it really was self defense..."  
"I'm sorry, Chuck."

Edna appeared by Ed's side, panting. "Do it, Ed."

"With what?"

"Choke him out."

"You want me to kill him with my bare hands?"

"Step aside," she said, "I'll do it."

A muffled scream was all the warning they had before Anne barreled into Edna, shoving her and knocking her off her feet. Ed gaped as he watched his wife do a neat backward somersault and roll a few feet away. She collapsed into a groaning heap. When Ed turned to look at Chuck, his jaw was hanging open in a way that Chuck found oddly familiar. Chuck laughed at him. Ed's face flushed red, then he turned and ran toward his wife, shouting her name.

Chuck took Anne's hand and they ran, gritting his teeth through the pain. He stopped in surprise in front of Ed's car, realizing he was running the wrong way, until he noticed that the engine was still on.

"Get in," he said, Anne nodded and moved towards the passenger seat.

A gunshot rang out, and Chuck saw the glass in the car door shatter. He ducked and whirled around to see Edna advancing on them, pointing her small pistol. Another shot rang out, and Chuck felt the impact on his hip and the warmth of blood on his pants before he felt the pain, but a split second later, the pain dropped him to his knees.

Ed was stumbling along behind his wife. She lowered the gun and took aim at Chuck's head. Chuck closed his eyes and waited.

He heard Edna scream, and his eyes popped open again. He saw Ed wrestling with Edna, trying to get the gun away from her.

"What are you doing, Edward?" she cried.

"I can't let you do it! Not again!"

Chuck took advantage of the situation to get into the car. He struggled to get to his feet, but the pain in his hip made his knees week. With a groan, he managed to stand, and then Anne was there, grabbing him by the hand and helping him up. She led him to the other side of the car and was helping him in when they heard the gun go off again.

Ed was sitting next to Edna, the gun still smoking in his hand. Edna was lying down, half propped up by her elbow, the other hand clutched to her chest, trying to hold back the blood that was spreading across her blouse.

"Edward. You shot me."

"I'm sorry, darling," Ed said, "I don't want to be a murderer."

"You failed again," she said, then her head dropped to the ground and she died. Ed let out a sob.

"Let's go," Anne said as she slid behind the wheel of Ed's car.

* * * * *

They had no idea where they were, so a few minutes later, when Chuck saw a small diner on the side of the road, he told Anne to pull over.

With one arm around Anne for support, they entered the diner. All conversation stopped and all that could be heard was the clatter of a fork on a platter when he stumbled inside, dirty, bruised and his trousers soaked in blood.

A waitress sat them down on at a booth and the owner called the police.

"Are you all right, mister?" the waitress asked him.

Chuck nodded. She looked him over a moment, then asked, "Aren't you one of them Keystone Kops?"

"Yes I am," Chuck replied.

"Do you know Charlie Chaplin?" she asked.

Chuck grinned madly, he couldn't help it. He thought of Hank before he replied.

"Charlie Chaplin is a sissy!"

### Poltergeist

The plane wobbled and began to falter over the fields of eastern Long Island. An M1919 Browning machine gun had decimated the luxury seaplane. The pilot tried to keep the plane true, but it was useless. He glanced over at the left wing and saw it, the thing that had destroyed the plane and sealed his fate. It was a figure dressed head to toe in all black, a cape flapping in the wind. It wore a mask tight over its face like a second skin. The visage of a skull emblazoned on it. The creature walked the length of the wing towards the pilot. It was a creature known as Poltergeist.

Once a living, breathing person, he is now an undead agent of the supernatural, impervious to death in all of its conventional ways. When needed, Poltergeist is sent from the Beyond to stop the evil that lurks just outside of man's comprehension. He is an agent of balance for the ambivalent keepers of order in the universe.

Poltergeist crouched down below the whirling propeller and saw the evil he had feared. The box.

The box was a small, wooden crate – three feet by three feet – with rough, rope straps for carrying. Unassuming in all regards, except for its contents. It was tucked inside the plane's second seat just behind the pilot.

Just as it was in his grasp, the plane banked wildly! Poltergeist grabbed a metal strut as he slipped off the wing. He dangled like a rag doll as the plane continued to lose altitude. The pilot slumped over his controls. His bullet-riddled body plunged the plane into a nosedive.

Poltergeist pulled himself up on the wing as the plane barreled down into a cornfield.

As the plane crashed, it scattered into thousands of pieces. Poltergeist grabbed the box as he was thrown from the crash. He smashed through the crops, twisting and breaking along the way. If his heart pumped blood he'd have been covered in it. He sat himself up, his right hand still gripping the box. He took in his surroundings. The plane was demolished and on fire, and the cornfield was beginning to smolder around it. The night was clear, the only noise to be heard were the plane's crackling embers. That was until the pilot stood up.

Poltergeist turned as the pilot fell out from the cockpit. He was mangled and bloody. He head was caved in and his eyes were gone. His lower jaw was unhinged and dangled to and fro. He stood up and shambled from the crash. Swaying and creaking, the pilot's ribs protruded from his jacket, and his belly was opened up. Viscera smacked against him as he walked, leaking and making squishy noises. One arm hung limp from a few strands of tendon. It walked towards Poltergeist.

Poltergeist stood up. One hand held the box while the other reached for his pistol. The pilot kept shambling. Poltergeist fired a round that struck the pilot square in the head. The impact knocked the pilot off course, if only for a moment. It steadied itself and lurched on. Poltergeist fired again. The bullet struck the pilot's body but did nothing else. Poltergeist holstered the gun. This wasn't an attack. It was going to be a negotiation.

The pilot stopped a few feet from Poltergeist. The breeze of the night air whistled through its various contusions. It lifted its head and his mangled mouth opened up. It gurgled as something slithered out. A long construction of interwoven tentacles splayed out and glistened in the moonlight. The tips began to wiggle and a faint voice could be heard from them. It was distant and had a small echo.

"Release the Eye of Yog-Sothoth," spoke the tentacles.

Yog-Sothoth. An elder god. Not only did the name scare Poltergeist, it confirmed his suspicions about the box's contents.

Poltergeist took a small step back. Behind his skull-faced mask he grimaced and grit his teeth. He could feel the box beginning to move. This was not good. Yog-Sothoth had been banished and locked away beyond the universe. Its corporeal body destroyed in an ancient war among gods. Though rumors did persist that the eyes of Yog-Sothoth remained hidden on Earth, and that reuniting them would release the beast so it could finish it's quest to transform the universe it its own horrible image.

The tentacles spoke again.

"Release the Eye of Yog-Sothoth, and we shall let you pass through the gate into cosmic unity."

Poltergeist took another step back. The pilot lifted its arm and opened its hand. Poltergeist watched as tentacles pushed and pulled the pilot's muscles from inside the corpse.

"The moment is at hand, this is our final offer..."

The tentacles disappeared back into the pilot's gaping maw. Its arm still outstretched. Poltergeist could feel the box moving back and forth. Its contents were getting antsy.

Poltergeist, his cape flapping in the wind, finally spoke. "No".

With that, the pilot exploded into a giant mass of veiny flesh and rammed Poltergeist in the chest, knocking him through the cornfields. As Poltergeist landed he looked up and saw the fleshy mass was now upright, squirming out of the pilot and growing. It was about fifteen feet tall and began to sprout giant pincers. One after another they burst forth until it was standing on twelve, claw-like appendages. Like a fat, demented, fleshy spider it turned towards Poltergeist. The mass crackled and popped as a protrusion of teeth and tentacles extended out. It took a moment to shake off the remaining pilot, and then it scurried towards him.

Poltergeist stood up just in time to have the spider creature knock him into the air, turning to catch him as he fell. It crunched down onto Poltergeist's body with its teeth and flung him again up into the air again. All the while Poltergeist held onto the box. Knowing that if this monster pried it from his hands, one way or another, the world was doomed.

Poltergeist landed on the ground and whipped out his gun. The creature was coming towards him as he fired all the remaining bullets. As he expected, they did nothing. Poltergeist steeled himself as the creature slammed one of its pinchers through his arm, pinning it to the ground. Poltergeist's hand opened reflexively and the box tumbled loose.

Poltergeist reached for the box but another pincher pinned his free arm down. The protrusion of teeth and tentacles slowly leaned over him. It drooled an icky, viscous drip as two long, red tentacles slipped out from between the teeth and lifted the box from the ground. They coiled around it and crushed it open. Wood shards fell on Poltergeist as he looked on terrified. There, hovering above him, was a giant, black eye. It slowly spun like a globe in midair. Then he heard rustling.

The cornfields swayed and parted as the first figure emerged from the crops. It wore a cloak and walked towards him. It stopped and stood silently over Poltergeist. The creature retracted it pincers and stepped back a bit. A gesture that seemed in deference to the new, cloaked thing. Soon another figure walked through the crops. Then another. And another. Twelve in all encircled the floating eye. All dressed in the same cloaks with hoods falling over their faces to obscure their nature. Poltergeist sat up as the first cloaked figure raised its arm. A thick tentacle gracefully unfurled from the sleeve and embraced the floating eye of Yog-Sothoth. With that, the rest of cloaked figures all removed their hoods to gaze upon the eye. Their visage was a terrible combination of cephalopod and man. Human eyes recessed into pulsating flesh.

What could be imagined as their mouth opened and soft moans began to emanate. They chanted in some damned language unknown to even Poltergeist. The things seemed utterly uninterested in Poltergeist as he stood up and took a moment to observe the strange sight.

The things keep chanting as yet more rustling was heard off in the distance. Soon enough another cloaked figure emerged to join the already bizarre ritual. The creature walked past Poltergeist with its tentacles outstretched holding the other eye of Yog-Sothoth. Thunder boomed across the night sky. Clouds were parting as a column of light descended down upon this unnatural conclave. The creatures began chanting louder as the eyes of Yog-Sothoth were finally re-united.

Whatever these things were, who they might have been, where they came from, or even their motivations meant nothing at this point. Poltergeist knew that if he was going to stop the imminent return of Yog-Sothoth, it was now or never.

Poltergeist smashed the closest creature in its vile face and grabbed one of Yog-Sothoth's Eyes. The commotion broke whatever trance the creatures were in as they all screamed in unison. The spider creature reared up and its protrusions of tentacles and teeth danced wildly. Poltergeist ran as the hooded creatures screamed and pointed at him. The creature began to give chase.

Poltergeist griped the Eye tight as he cut through the crops. He could hear the spider creature roaring and lumbering behind him. From the corner of his eye he could see the smoke from the plane. He turned towards it as the creature burst forth and swung a few pincers at him. Poltergeist rolled underneath the blow and ran off toward the crash site.

The creature, angry and slobbering, turned and followed. Poltergeist could feel the ground beneath him rumbling. Trembling not from the creature that followed him, but something else. Something catastrophic. He looked up to see shadows of gigantic tentacles moving amongst the clouds.

As Poltergeist arrived at the wreckage he grabbed a shard of the plane. The creature burst onto the wreckage. Its teeth gnashed and its tentacles danced in horror as it watched Poltergeist toss the eye into the air and spear it! The creature reeled back as another thunder clap deafened the night. Poltergeist looked at the clouds and saw the column of light flicker out and the tentacled shadows fade. He turned to see the spider creature fall over, convulse, and liquify into the ground.

Poltergeist tossed the impaled eye into the wreckage. He watched it burn and walked away as the ashes floated off. He made a torch and walked back to the scene of the ritual. The cloaked figures were gone. Only wet cloaks remained. At the center of them lay the remaining eye of Yog-Sothoth. With the torch, he set it ablaze and waited until it too was nothing but ash.

With this crisis averted Poltergeist slowly walked off into the fields. He had more questions then answers. He had adverted disaster, but was no closer to finding out who, or what, was behind all this. It would be years before he would learn the truth. Until then, he would have more mysteries and monsters to fight.

### Dearest Delilah

Jack had been at it for hours, the wooden groans of his chair offering sad accompaniment as he struggled to write what he hoped wouldn't be a suicide letter.

Dearest Delilah,

Today I will try to kill myself. Please believe me though, I am not trying to end my life, but to save it.

I've yearned to say these things to you many times, but the right words, or frankly the courage, never found me. When I look at you, I forget all the things that taught me not to hope for a better life. Your eyes seem to shine with a hope and a love I've never known before. You are my escape to the world I've always yearned for.

But I've learned that I could be the end of that world. Before I can allow you to deliver me to salvation, I must be sure that I will not deliver damnation to you.

Jack set down his pen and sagged back into his chair. Writing this letter was exhausting him but he needed to get through it. If things went badly today, Delilah deserved to know why. He began writing again.

It's difficult to explain my affliction, though there was a time I thought it was a gift. As long as I can remember, I've been protected by a sort of guardian angel. Whenever I was in extreme danger, drowning in fear, I would be whisked away to safety and whatever or whoever was trying to hurt me would simply be gone. I'd only remember fragments, blacking out and waking up not far away, often still frightened but somehow knowing that I'd be safe. My life has been saved this way many times but like I said, I don't consider it a gift anymore.

The first time it happened I was a little boy. My actual father had been gone since before I could remember and my mother hadn't been too picky about finding someone to fill his shoes. One of her early choices had a taste for booze and a habit of hitting anyone who wouldn't hit back. I was little and couldn't do anything to stop him, and I can admit now that he terrified me. Most nights when he was drinking I'd just try to hide somewhere until he passed out. I'd gotten pretty good at it too.

At some point Mom had started pouring out his booze to keep him from drinking, so he started to hide stashes everywhere. I found a few when I was hiding and I stopped using those spots so I'd be safe, but I still wasn't. As Mom got better at finding stashes, he got better at hiding them. One night he was in a particularly foul mood and I'd hidden in the broom closet under a lean-to of mops and brooms. I found out later that he'd put moonshine in a bottle that looked like rat poison and hidden it in the closet. When he opened the door looking for a bottle of something to erase the last of his humanity, he found me. Of course he immediately thought I was trying to take his stash, but I didn't even know it was there. He must have seen my look of surprise as an admission of guilt and began to beat me mercilessly right in the closet. At first it was with his hands and fists, but at some point he picked up a broomstick and started swinging. I was terrified and in pain, and when he struck at my head with the broomstick, everything went blank.

I woke up in the tall grass at the back edge of the empty lot next to our house. I was bruised and sore, but felt safe. Even though it seemed like the S.O.B. had left me there to die, somehow I wasn't as afraid anymore. I knew that he was gone and couldn't hurt me, even if I didn't know what happened to him.

Jack set the pen down again. The fear he'd felt as a child seemed to soak through him where he sat. He took a sip of his whiskey to steady his nerves and a gulp of cold water to cool his head. He didn't like to dwell on the past and the memory gaps had helped him forget about some of the bad times, but they still left an impression. He'd rarely revisited the episodes this way, but now that he was putting it down on paper for Delilah, it felt strangely good. He stood briefly and stretched before settling back down to continue writing.

The S.O.B. was gone. Mom had been working the night he disappeared and didn't want to ask too many questions when she saw my bruises. I'd like to think she didn't ask because the guilt was too much for her, and maybe it was, but she was angry too. He was a drunken S.O.B. but he brought home a wage. Either way, I was happy she didn't ask any questions since I really didn't have any answers.

There wouldn't be another episode for a long time, but eventually it happened again, and again after that. It became almost common.

Over time, I came to notice more about the episodes. At first I only remembered the sense of safety, but as it repeated I'd remember a little bit more: a deepening sense of safety grew into a feeling of peace, then a feeling that I was flying, then a feeling that I was flying through a tunnel, and finally a bright light. Mostly it was just feelings or sensations though, nothing concrete that might help me understand what was happening.

When I was older I began to tempt fate thinking I was invincible and sure that I'd be protected. I was barely a man but I felt more like some kind of god. Man, god, or otherwise, the world had other ideas about my fate. I couldn't have stayed out of the war if I'd wanted to, but I didn't want to. I was actually looking forward to it, but not for the reasons other people were. To me it seemed like the perfect place to test things, to see what I could really do. But guardian angels don't swoop in and save you from rotten feet and rats. I learned pretty fast that there are lots of ways to die that don't involve violence and even more that do. I was tested all right, and I learned far more than I wanted to.

You can't just disappear in the middle of a battle without raising serious questions about your loyalty, and those were more of the same sorts of questions I didn't want to have to answer. Lucky for me there were stories going around the trenches about ghosts or angels or devils saving or killing friend and foe, and those stories helped me keep my secret. Most of my episodes went unnoticed. The few people that did notice kept quiet fearing for their sanity, and anything else ended up in the whispers of the superstitious soldiers. But those were just stories. What happened to me was real.

So I kept my head down like everyone else and started to be careful. There were still close calls, but this was the beginning of what I now realize is my will to live. Unfortunately it took a while to get there, so this was the time when I had the most episodes. I had become addicted to the peaceful feelings I'd get afterwards, and those regular peaceful sensations started to add up. It helped me deal with where I was, though eventually I began to wonder where all of my tormentors had gone. They wouldn't trouble me anymore, but I hadn't beat them, I had ducked them. So I began to try to avoid anything that would trigger an episode until eventually the bad feelings faded and I felt mostly peace. I had a clear enough head that I started to want to understand these episodes before any more happened. When I was back home, I began to live my life like anyone else. It was the beginning of the life that would lead me to you. But recently, any normal life I had begun to enjoy nearly disappeared.

Jack set the pen down again. He rubbed his eyes and stood up to stretch his tightened muscles. He was sure Delilah knew about what happened, but she didn't know the whole story. Jack's thoughts drifted back to the night of his latest episode as he began writing again.

I was held by the police as part of a murder investigation but I never told you the whole story. It's time that I did.

I was walking home late at night when a man approached me with a small revolver and demanded we step off the street. I knew I was in trouble but I stepped between the buildings hoping that I could hand over my cash and get on my way. It wasn't meant to be. As soon as I offered him my cash, he was instantly angry. It's strange how a man doesn't seem to mind pointing a gun at you and forcing you into an alley but he gets angry when you assume he's a thief. The last thing I remember was the string of foul words that came from his mouth and then I woke up a few blocks away with a cop's billy club poking my ribs. I felt the familiar sense of safety and peace that followed an episode, but I knew I was still in trouble. Apparently someone had seen two men enter an alley just before hearing a gunshot and identified me as one of them. They brought me in for questioning and they weren't exactly hospitable about it. I was being asked the types of questions I hate to answer, mostly because I don't have any answers.

They seemed sure I was a killer, and maybe a little bit crazy. It was clear they wanted a confession, but I had nothing to say. By keeping focused on the sense of peace and safety from the episode, I was able to keep calm. I knew I couldn't let myself feel threatened and trigger an episode, since disappearing from the police station with a cop who would never be heard from again seemed like a bad idea. In the end, since there wasn't a dead thief or even a gun, I figured I'd be safe. So I kept my mouth shut.

It was a bad time, but one good thing came of it. One of the detectives that worked on the case was from out of town. He apparently specializes in strange cases and was brought in to see if he could connect me to anything. That's where it started to get interesting. He actually could connect what happened in my case to others, many others, but he couldn't connect me specifically to the other cases. He seemed to know of cases like mine going back for years in all kinds of different places. Then it got even stranger. He started to describe things about my episodes that I'd never told anyone. He knew it had happened before. He knew I'd have little memory of the episodes, but he also knew about the sensation of peace and the feeling of flying. I was shocked, but that's how I knew he was the real thing. Then he did something I couldn't believe. He told the cops that he couldn't connect me to anything and pretty soon they let me go. That's how I knew I could trust him.

Not long after I was out he showed up at my door and that's when things started to make sense for me. He explained that he'd been studying these episodes and the people they affect for years. It was actually what led him to become a detective. I told him as much as I remembered about my episodes and he explained a lot about other cases he'd seen. The general pattern seemed to be that whenever a person with the affliction suffered a grave threat, some sort of guardian would keep him safe and take the threat away. Usually the protected would be found nearby, but the threat would be gone. The detective seems to think that the threat ends in some other place, maybe someplace far away. That would make sense since no threat of mine ever came back, but I still wonder if they aren't just destroyed. Also, there were rarely any witnesses to the actual episode, just events before and after. Any official accounts that he turned up were written-off as madness, but they all seemed pretty close to the pattern of my episodes. If it is madness, I'm sorry for what you'll probably find today, but least we'll know the truth.

The detective's stories also helped me to understand why my affliction isn't a gift. Some of the episodes he described included accounts of good people disappearing too, not just the people threatening the protected one. The guardian doesn't seem to know who is a threat and who isn't, just who is close by. There have even been accounts of family and close loved ones disappearing along with the threat. That means they are either destroyed, or worse, they're sent off with the threat to endure whatever torment was meant for the protected one. I can't bear the thought that this affliction might cause you to be sent to some hell with whatever devil decides to do me harm, just because I was holding your hand when he appeared. I have to know that I can never threaten your safety or peace for the sake of my own.

Which finally brings me to tonight. If the threat is sent to another place, then by trying to kill myself I would be the afflicted one and the threat. That should send me away as well. I'll finally know for sure if it's destruction, hell, or just some other place.

So after I drop off this letter, I shall go to the roof of my building and jump off. Before I jump, I shall take my shoes off at the edge of the roof so you'll know where I jumped. If you find me on the ground below, then I must be mad. If I am, again I'm sorry. But if you don't find me below, you'll know I have my answer. If I must pay with my life to spare you a trip to the hell of all my demons, then so be it. I must settle this and I must do it now.

The detective knows about you and he should be around tonight. Though he and I have discussed the possibility of using a suicide attempt to reach the other place, he always considered it too dangerous to try. I'm not sure how he will react to what I've done, but I want you to know that this is my own choice. He is a good man who seeks the truth of this affliction. You can trust him with your life as I do.

I will do everything I can to purge my demons and make my way back to you. You are my life and my love and you always will be.

Yours for all time and in all places,

Jack

Delilah was stunned as she read the letter again. Jack had dropped it off for her just before she left work. She only knew him casually, but when she opened the letter and read the first line, she immediately headed to the address he'd written on the back of the envelope. She was relieved that there was no commotion outside the building when she arrived. Maybe she wasn't too late. When she reached Jack's door, it was slightly open so she pushed inside to find him gone.

Knowing his plan she headed straight for the roof. She didn't find him there either, but she did find fresh footprints in the dust. They led to the edge of the roof and his shoes, right where he said they'd be. She braced herself and eased over to the edge for a look. The distance down to the street seemed to want to pull her over, but there was no fallen body down below. Pushing herself back from the edge, she closed her eyes to settle into the rooftop below her feet.

It looked to her like Jack had done exactly what he'd planned in the letter: walked to the edge of the roof, removed his shoes, and disappeared. As she made her way back from the roof, Delilah's unease and confusion turned to anger. "What kind of sick joke is this?" she said out loud to no one.

When she reached Jack's door again, she was expecting to find him in there laughing and she was looking forward to slapping the smile off his face. Instead it was quiet and all she found was the table with a half full bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses. Dropping the letter on the table, she sat down in one of the creaky wooden chairs and poured herself a drink. As she set the bottle down, a man pushed through the half-open door freezing just inside. He looked from her face to the letter on the table and said, "I'm too late; he's gone." He slumped into the chair opposite her and hung his head. Seeming to deflate as he let out his breath, "I'm sorry," he said.

Seeing what looked like a letter of his own in his jacket pocket, Delilah poured him a good, healthy drink. He looked like he needed it. She put the near empty bottle back on the table and paused, wondering if there might be another interruption. They simply sat and sipped.

Breaking the silence, she said, "So you must be the Detective. Want to tell me what this is all about?" He didn't reply and her anger grew with every moment of his silence. "So what's the joke? You can tell me now. I'm sure it's all very funny," she said.

"It's not a joke," he said.

"So Jack's crazy then, right?" she said.

"No, not about this," he said.

"So maybe you can fill me in on what's going on here. Who the hell is this 'Jack' character anyway?" she said.

His head snapped up. "Who's Jack? You mean you don't know him? But you're Delilah, right?" he said. His brief look of confusion transformed into a knowing smile as she answered his question with a nod.

Delilah shifted forward in her seat a bit and said, "What's so funny?" She was starting to think she had found a smirk for that smack she was saving.

Straightening up, the Detective was suddenly very businesslike as he said, "You got a letter and you rushed over here, right?" She nodded. "There was no body on the street so you came up here and he was gone," he said, punctuating his statement with a good long sip of his drink. She nodded again and relaxed a bit, her slapping hand finding its way to her drink instead of his face. "So you checked the roof and found his shoes just like he said they'd be, but still no body," he said, finally finishing his drink, "He was just gone." She nodded again, setting down her empty glass as well. "So what's the trick? It's got to be some kind of joke, right?" she said splitting the last of the whiskey in the bottle between the two of them. "It's not a trick and as far as I can tell, Jack is gone, maybe for ever," he said, taking his hat off and setting it on the table.

"So he's dead," she said, getting her first good look at him. He had a familiar face but didn't know him.

"You called me 'Detective' before, so Jack told you about me in the letter. I'm guessing he also told you other things and some of them sound pretty crazy. Well, some of that crazy stuff is true," he said, "and separating the true from the crazy is the fun part."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell which parts of a person are real. I thought you and Jack were real from the way he talked about you but you don't seem know him," he said, sizing her up in a whole new light.

"I knew his name and that he like his coffee sweet, but that's about it," she said.

"Well, he talked like you were old pals," he said as he raised his glass, "So here's to our pal, Jack."

Delilah met his toast with what was left of her drink and they set the empty glasses down. She felt strange. The anger had passed and the confusion was back, but now she was curious too. The world seemed unreal to her at the moment and it wasn't from the whiskey.

Seeing the spark in her eyes, the Detective stood as he put his hat back on and offered Delilah his hand. "You said something about coffee before? I think we'll need some if we have any chance of sorting this out," he said.

"Okay Detective, I'm Delilah, pleased to meet you," she said giving his helping hand a shake. As they made their way through Jack's door, he said, "Please, call me John."

"John?" she said, "Short for Jonathan, just like Jack?"

"A little like Jack," he said, "but we'll get to all that."

## CONTRIBUTORS

**Julia Druk** is a digital product lead for Marvel Comics by day, and a writer, translator, and rogue literary editor by night. She has recently edited "Fleeing from Absence" (2009), a collection of four essays on time, space and information by Olga Ast. Her translations appear in "The Days are Getting Longer" (2012), a selection of poems by Vladimir Druk. Her essays and ruminations on technology and society have been published in "Infinite Instances: Studies and Images of Time" (2011), among others.

**Daniel Govar** is an artist, illustrator, animator, filmmaker, programmer and creative bon vivant. In addition to creating the animated series' "Eclipse" and "Chi-Chian" for SyFy Channel, and the science fiction comic "Azure" for DC Comics, Dan has also created untold numbers of illustrations for books and commercial purposes. When not drawing Dan is the co-founder of Comic Book Think Tank, a creative forum for experimentation with digital comic storytelling, and the Tolkien collective There And Back Again.

**Dave McCullough.** Not to be confused with David McCullough, the author, historian, and lecturer, Dave McCullough is an author, software developer, and craftsman. He has an affinity for arcane crafts like coopering, blacksmithing, and hand-coding HTML.

**Ron Perazza** is a veteran of DC Comics Online, where he launched the award-winning digital imprint Zuda Comics. He currently develops digital publishing products for Marvel Comics, is a member of the Editorial Advisory board for The Comics Grid, an open access, academic journal dedicated to comics scholarship, and a founder of Comic Book Think Tank, a creative forum for experimentation with digital comic storytelling, where he co-created the science fiction thriller "Relaunch" and the Tolkien inspired "The Road Goes Ever On."

**Matthew Petz** is a writer and artist who has worked for DC Comics, Random House and Discovery Channel. He is the award-winning creator of "War of the Woods" which was hailed by MTV as one of the best webcomics of 2010. He lives in New York City with his lovely wife.

**Peter Timony** is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the author of "Detectobot", a digital comic currently published by MonkeyBrain, and "The Night Owls", which was a graphic novel published by DC Comics in March of 2010, and nominated for three Harvey Awards that same year. Both are illustrated by his twin brother, Bobby Timony. Peter has been called one of the most significant writers of his generation by his mom. He lives with his wife Kerry in New Jersey.
