 
TALES OF  
ADVENTURE  
WITH NAP  
LAPKIN
ALSO BY LANCE MANION  
 **Merciful Flush  
Results May Vary  
The Ball Washer  
Homo sayswhaticus  
The Trembling Fist  
The Song Between Her Legs  
What You Don't Understand  
neXt**
Tales of Adventure With Nap Lapkin

Lance Manion

www.lancemanion.com
Copyright 2019 by Lance Manion Enterprises  
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced  
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or  
mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information  
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the  
copyright owner.

ISBN 9781693908583

Edited by Andira Dodge wordrummager@gmail.com  
Cover art by Christine Cox chris@eripa.com

Printed in the United States of America
**Contents**

Introduction

There's Something Here From Somewhere Else

Little Time Bomb

Tales of the Supernatural With Nap Lapkin

Great Ball of Fire

a very Lapkin Xmas

Nap Lapkin's New Year's Rockin' Eve

Nap Lapkin: Terminated

Nap Lapkin and the Confusing Story

The Nap Lapkin Trilogy

About the Author
**Introduction**

I envy you.

Truly.

You are about to be introduced to perhaps the greatest character ever to grace a page. And believe me when I say that I had very little to do with it. In fact, Nap Lapkin brings to light all my limitations as a writer because there are times where I am literally unable to capture just how awesome he is.

And here you sit about to start reading.

Yep. That's the feeling of envy I'm feeling.

In some ways I feel like a salmon that has just spawned. Spent and lying on a rock waiting for a bear to wander by and eat me. Whatever happens from here, I have spawned this book so my mission is complete. Not sure spawned is the right word but I wanted to stay with the salmon metaphor and spewed seemed a bit off-putting.

Released?

Not sure the introduction is the place to be having this debate. I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to capitalize Introduction when I'm referring to the introduction.

Nap Lapkin and Introductions bring to light all my limitations as a writer.
_There's Something Here From Somewhere Else_

Saraswati is a Hindu goddess. She is the patron of writers and artists. Known in Burmese as Thurathadi, in Chinese as Biàncáitiān, in Japanese as Bensaiten, and in Thai as Surasawadee, she is also associated with other deities involved with books and learning such as Baalat (Byblos) and Seshatm (Egyptian).

The point being that she gets around. Not some local schmocal legend.

She is usually depicted as a beautiful woman sporting four arms, wearing a white sari and seated on an inverted white lotus. For the record, her four arms symbolize the four aspects of human personality in learning: mind, intellect, alertness, and ego. The color of her sari signifies spotless character and a sharp mind and the lotus represents the search for knowledge.

All standard-issue girly stuff I realize, but stay with me on this next part. It's no accident that she's going to be mixed up in a Nap Lapkin story.

If you're unfamiliar with Hinduism, then this next part gets a little complicated, but I'll do the best I can. It's a bit like some other religions in that there's one big guy who in turn creates other gods and goddesses but in this case, some of them have multiple arms and heads and such. I'm sure there's a good reason for all of these additional appendages but the forward is already getting a little long in the tooth so I'll leave it at that. Here's the part to tuck away for further reference: the heavy hitter of the religion, Brahma, had a dark side and that dark side came into existence as Shiva. Red eyes, menacing growl, the whole show. At some point, Shiva took a good look around at all the corruption and decadence of the world and decided it was time to destroy it and start again. He eagerly opened his third eye and out popped a terrible fire capable of doing the aforementioned and then some, and just as the shit was about to hit the fan, in stepped Saraswati saying "Do not worry. Shiva's fire burns only that which is impure and corrupt. I got this."

With that, she took the form of a river and with her pure waters picked up the dreaded fire from Shiva Badavagni, the beast of doom. A fearsome nickname even a professional wrestler would be proud of.

"So long as the world is pure and man wise, this terrible creature will remain on the bottom of the sea. When wisdom is abandoned and man corrupts the world, Badavagni will emerge and destroy the universe," foretold the wise goddess.

Or so the story goes anyway.

Got it?

Good. Now we can begin.

___

Ruth sorted through the large box marked $1. Large trees cast shade over most of the items that populated the driveway and lawn of the nondescript home located at the address as advertised by the hundreds of "Garage Sale" signs populating every telephone pole and supermarket posting board in the tri-county area. Most of them. Not the table that held the box Ruth was currently rummaging through and as the temperature crept from a pleasant morning sunshine to a sweltering afternoon heat, she toyed with the idea of abandoning her search for bargains and heading back to her apartment... until she remembered her apartment was cramped and without air conditioning so she might as well keep digging.

Of course it's disingenuous of me as the writer to pretend there was a chance she wouldn't keep looking through the box as the whole story is based on her finding something in the box.

Don't believe me?

Ok, I'll prove it.

Dizzy from the heat, Ruth slowly backed away from the box and began to head to her hatchback when suddenly someone grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the box. "Are you sure there isn't anything in this box you'd like to buy?"

See? I've got a story to tell so from here on out, I'd appreciate it if you'd just let me do my job.

Soon, Ruth's arms were loaded with knickknacks and she was just about to make her way to the next box when she spied a pair of reading glasses at the bottom, stuck underneath a large ceramic Santa that appeared normal in every way except he had six arms. She fished out the glasses between the second and third arms, found they were in perfect working condition, and added them to her collection of items for purchase.

In the movie version of this story, the camera is going to linger on the glasses to lead you to believe this was an important acquisition so I'll save you the time of reading a dozen subtle references to that fact and come right out with it, although frankly I'm not sure why I didn't go with the six-armed Santa as the main vehicle to move this forward because he sounds a lot more interesting. I could have even gone on to mention that over the years, the six swords he had been holding were all, one by one, broken off and that had they still been attached, it would not only have been a far more interesting ceramic figure but it would have been a lot more difficult to have gotten to the reading glasses.

Given that the glasses are apparently the star of the show, I guess you're just not that interested in the other contents of a $1 box at a garage sale. Adding that the ceramic figure was hot to the touch after sitting in the sun all day would at this point be totally superfluous.

Ok, a few housekeeping issues.

Ruth. Late twenties. Attractive in that Hollywood way that tries to sell you on how she's all frumpy but at the end of the flick, when she becomes the love interest, you suddenly find her very attractive but all along you saw she was cute and had a smokin' bod under the loose-fitting attire. Except that most people to date still found her frumpy.

Weird, I know.

On top of that, she's a librarian so it makes total sense that, given her low salary, she'd be spending her Saturday going to garage sales on the hunt for bargains and then it makes double sense that as a librarian, she'd always be on the lookout for new reading glasses.

She paid for her items and then slid the glasses down the front of her blouse where they caught on the top button and rested happily between her vaguely-plentiful bosoms.

He sat with his head face-down at the kitchen table. Nearby, a bowl of Rice Krispies began their snapping and crackling and popping and because the man wasn't likely to be spending any time camping in the foreseeable future, the sound was as close to a roaring campfire as he was likely to get.

So he sat with his head down, eyes closed, and pretended he was sitting by a fire in the middle of the woods. For a few moments, he could swear he felt the heat rolling off the breakfast cereal and in the distance he could hear a bird ringing.

Loudly. And insistently.

The bird was starting to annoy Nap Lapkin.

Faster than a human eye could follow, he scooped up the spoon and sent it hurtling into the side of the bird. The bird that was a phone.

It rattled harmlessly off the side of the giant plastic relic. Nap knew better than to buy one of those small delicate phones for his home because he had a nasty habit of scooping things up and hurling them at the device. It wasn't so much that he had a short temper as much as he hated to be disturbed when he was on vacation in the depths of his kitchen.

He braced himself for the coming conversation.

"Hello."

It was some General, no doubt hunkered down in some bunker somewhere. As he listened, he couldn't help hearing the man's voice become more and more similar to how Charlie Brown and the gang hear adults when they speak.

Whop whada wa wum bwop wum wha whada.

"Yes, sir. I'm listening."

He listened. Sort of.

"Yes, I realize the implications but no, I'm not interested."

This reply apparently was not the response the individual at the other end of the line was hoping for because the decibel level of the Charlie Brown-esque participant shot up a few notches.

"I understand all that sir but I have already averted a worldwide pandemic, thwarted a terrorist attempt to spread a neurotoxin through the drinking water of a large North American city, and retrieved lost nuclear secrets from a hostile government. This month. And it's only the 15th."

He held the phone a few inches away from his ear as the reply thundered away.

"Well sir, if I can be honest, saving the world is becoming a bit tiring."

A tiny sprinkle of additional thundering.

"Yes. Bored stiff, sir. Let someone else handle one of these for once."

Nap heard nothing on the other end of the phone and realized that he had come to the eye of the storm. No doubt on the other end of the telephone the General was unbuttoning his collar and taking a large gulp of air in order to put himself in a proper state of readiness for his rebuttal. I apologize for using "no doubt" twice but I tend to do that when describing Generals and their actions.

Nap hung up. He turned off the bird.

And returned to his Rice Krispies.

The first time Ruth wore the reading glasses, it so happened she was rereading one of her favorite books, _The Plague_ by Albert Camus. It seemed very different than the first time she read it. It made a lot more sense and when she mentioned it to one of her coworkers, they ended up in a rather heated discussion about what Mr. Camus had meant by much of the content. Ruth began to cite examples from the book and her coworker just looked at her.

"That's not what he meant," said the coworker sternly.

Ruth objected as politely as she knew how. "He comes right out and says it."

"No he doesn't."

"He certainly does."

This droll back and forth exchange continued until her coworker retrieved a copy- one of the benefits of arguing literature in a library- and asked Ruth to point it out. After a few hapless minutes of flipping through the pages without her new glasses, Ruth had to admit that she couldn't find the part she had read.

In fact, several of the sections she saw didn't read the same as she had remembered the previous evening. She let her coworker stomp off the victor and believed she must have gotten hold of some strange translation of _The Plague._

She remembered to take home another copy of the book that night so she could compare the two side by side.

After listening to his third box of Rice Krispies, Nap finally stood up from the table and thought about getting something to eat. He glanced down to where his watch should have been but it was only then he realized he was totally nude.

As a male writer, I don't want to go overboard in describing a nude Nap Lapkin but let's just say if you shaved off the pubes on the statue of David, you wouldn't be overstating it. All of which made the fact he'd never lifted a weight in his life all the more difficult to believe. That's not to say he was a stranger to the weight room. He liked to drop by so every man in the gym could wonder to himself about just how much weight he could put up. The women in attendance would run on their treadmills to the point of exhaustion and he would often have to step over their unconscious bodies as he exited. He stopped sporting a mustache because whenever he did, every man he came into contact with saw the majesty of facial hair and decided to grow one as well. Such was the perfection of his 'stache. He singlehandedly made it more difficult for people to figure out who the highway patrolmen were.

If you don't by now have a good idea of the man I'm trying to describe here, I think you're just being difficult and I'd suggest you stop being so pigheaded about the whole thing. I know you're attached to your dear 007, but he is strictly amateur hour compared to Nap Lapkin.

A man's man's man is not putting too fine a point on it.

He stretched and realized what he needed was to get away. You'll forgive him if he wasn't accustomed to getting away like the rest of us but as soon he'd decided to get away, he threw on a pair of pants and a shirt and hurled himself through the front window.

Of his third story apartment.

Before I start describing what Ruth is up to, I just want to point out that the events transpiring in Nap's life are not happening at the exact same time. I know a lot of authors are able to pull that off, but get that right out of your head. It might be happening at roughly the same time, give or take a day, but don't hold me to it and certainly don't be one of those readers that gets all excited if they catch some small detail that doesn't coincide with the other character's timeline. I can't be bothered to sync everything. It's no coincidence that I haven't told you what year this is or even where this is taking place.

I haven't decided yet and the last thing I need is to give you some arbitrary detail that you will later ram up my ass.

"How could it be that style of wristwatch in 1998 when they didn't make them until 2003?"

If that's what you enjoy doing, then just put this down and go terrorize a Dan Brown novel already.

So... Ruth.

She put the two copies of _The Plague_ right next to each other. Covers looked the same. She flipped them open and found they had all the same publishing info. She started to flip through them and compared random pages.

Identical.

She wondered what she was missing. She reached between her slightly-heaving breasts and removed her reading glasses. After putting them on, she noticed that the books were still identical. But different.

Different from when she read them without the glasses. Obviously with the glasses, the words were less blurry- do you think I would have made them the focal point of an entire story if all they did was make words less blurry? They also changed the words on the pages. It wasn't the books, it was the glasses.

She took them off and read a paragraph. She put them on and then read the same paragraph.

With the glasses on, the pages stated exactly what the author intended to say. Gone was all the subtext.

Ruth's head swam. A pair of glasses that allowed her to understand exactly what was going on without the hidden meanings or metaphors.

After a few minutes of letting that sink in, she ran to her bookshelves and located a few books. George Orwell. Oscar Wilde. Voltaire.

She had some reading to do.

Nap roared down the highway with the windows down and the sun roof of his '78 Le Mans open and, at ninety miles an hour, the wind created such a deafening noise, the only way for him to hear the selection currently residing in the cassette deck was to turn the volume up to a level that would sterilize most humans. Miles away, mothers could hear him coming and would gather their children close to them. Hedgerows developed a bustle as he drove past.

_Baby, it's no good. We're just askin' for trouble.  
I can touch you, but I don't know how to love you.  
It ain't no use! We're headed for disaster.  
Our minds said, "No!" But our hearts were talkin' faster, Leah!

Ah! Leah! Here we go again!  
Ah! Leah! Here we go again!  
Ah! Leah! Leah, Leah, Leah!  
Ah! Leah! Here we go again!_

It was if Donnie Iris was sitting shotgun instead of an actual shotgun. Nap was on vacation and already he could feel himself unwinding.

Now the obvious question is why I would go to the trouble of including a snippet of the song he was listening to, so I'll go ahead and answer that right now. If this is ever made into a movie, I don't want them to have Nap roaring anywhere listening to any of the crappy stuff you hear on the radio these days. It wasn't an accident that I said cassette as opposed to CD. The last thing I want is to have Nap associated with some limpdick Justin Timberlake song and I'll never change my opinion on that unless the price is right.

Nap glanced down at the shotgun sitting shotgun and found it reminded him of work so he picked it up and tossed it out the sunroof. It felt somehow liberating. He was only dimly aware of the car behind him swerving to avoid hitting the hurled weapon and completely unaware of the fact that the car then slid into a half dozen other cars as it tried to regain control. If the sound of that ruckus thought it could somehow make its way into the ear of Nap Lapkin, it was sadly mistaken and the last time he'd checked his rearview mirror was about never. Checking the rearview mirror reminded him of work.

He was completely aware of a half dozen or so tracking devices planted in his car and he was also aware that there was probably an equal number he was unaware of but he breathed out a long sigh and felt that although satellites from a dozen countries were following his every move, it was nice to be off the grid.

There was a slight uptick in the number of people reading Ruth's book review blog. Typically, she had between three and five readers visit a day. After her last critique of Arthur Miller's _The Crucible,_ she had nearly a hundred thousand. The literary world was abuzz over her insights into some of the most celebrated and difficult pieces of literature. Seemingly out of nowhere, she was being asked to read books by the likes of _The Atlantic_ and _New Yorker_. Academics from all over the world were flooding her with questions and invitations to speak at some of the most renowned universities began to trickle in.

Although she had never spoken in front of a crowd before, she decided to accept one of the offers because the campus was only a short drive from her house. Although nervous, she found the idea exciting and what's more they were paying her a nice sum so there didn't seem to be any reason not to at least give public speaking a try.

She began to have second thoughts as she peered around the curtain at the standing-room-only crowd gathered to hear her. As soon as she began to speak, she had third and fourth thoughts about the endeavor as the crowd began to pepper her with questions regarding her pedigree and credentials to be making such game-changing assessments of literary classics. Putting her hand over her eyes, she was able to see that fully half of the seats were filled with men in tweed jackets and those without tweed jackets had spectacles resting nearly at the tip of their noses.

Her humorous quote from a recent Batman movie fell flat and a bead of perspiration made a dash from her forehead down to her cheek in such a manner that she suddenly felt like one of those egg and sausage breakfast sandwiches always sitting under a heat lamp at her local convenience store. Not only in how warm she felt but her ability to answer some of the questions. If she could, she would have gestured over to an egg and sausage breakfast sandwich and said "Well, if you'll let my esteemed colleague here take that one..."

But she couldn't. There was no egg and sausage breakfast sandwich waiting in the wings to jump in and help out. She began to get flustered and if you're familiar with librarians, you'll know there is nothing more dangerous than one that is flustered.

She came clean.

She held up the reading glasses.

The audience fell silent. For a few minutes there was an uncomfortable lull but soon, people began to get up and leave the auditorium. Ruth among them.

Almost unnoticed in this lull was the burst of action from a man sitting in the far-left corner. Dressed in a grey trench coat, he was the type of man that when most people gave him a good inspection, ominous music began to play in their heads whether they wanted it to or not. Upon hearing Ruth's confession about the glasses, he discretely lifted a cell phone and began to punch in a number to another cell phone in Washington.

As he did this, ominous music began to play in his head.

And speaking of egg and sausage breakfast sandwiches... it was the hankering for one that led Nap into the convenience store in the first place. It was way past breakfast time but due to the recent advancements in heat lamp technology, convenience stores were now able to offer such fare well into the early evening... of the following day. Typically, Nap didn't hanker but as he felt the tension slowly melting away, he decided to go down the well-traveled path from simple desire and take a quick left into the rustic backwoods of hankering.

It was a bad time for someone to hold up the convenience store.

Nap saw the gun protruding from the assailant's loose-fitting hoodie, an Abercrombie & Fitch number which just made the whole thing worse for everyone involved; the sight of it made his hand begin to caress the egg and sausage breakfast sandwich in a thoughtful manner that could have been mistaken by a passerby as affection. His involvement in the upcoming events was a certainty; a gun could not endanger the whole world so it wouldn't be like he was working, but as he looked around, he felt a little disappointment as it appeared this individual was working alone.

Not much sport in that.

He waited for the gunman to begin the show and then interrupted him with two fingers applied forcefully to his larynx. He thought about a flashier subdual involving roundhouse kicks but realized that these usually lead to snack stands being destroyed and beverages being dropped and why make a mess that requires some poor bastard to clean up...

The man dropped to the floor, clutching his throat.

Nap had acted so quickly, he actually had to explain to the man behind the counter why he'd done what he'd done and that the man currently lying on the floor with his feet waving comically in the air was attempting to hold up the establishment. For a minute confusion reigned until Nap leaned down and produced the gun, which substantiated his version of events, and he left with a free egg and sausage breakfast sandwich.

He roared off in his '78 Le Mans and I won't bother to tell you what song he was listening to in order to keep things moving along, but if you're picturing a Justin Timberlake song, you've clearly not been paying much attention. In fact, such willful ignorance is getting a little tedious. Just warning you.

I'll turn this whole story around if I have to.

Somewhere in an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington, a man sat behind an enormous desk and if you think the gentleman in attendance at Ruth's ill-fated speech at the university elicited ominous music in the heads of those around him, you ain't heard nothing yet. Assuming, of course, that you're sitting on the other side of the desk looking at him.

That seat was currently occupied by a large, chiseled man whose head was quite used to ominous music playing within. Most of the people he associated with seemed to produce it and he oftentimes, at the end of a busy day, would sigh and enjoy the quiet of a crowded subway platform. More often than not he would then step onto a train and go kill somebody.

The man behind the desk explained the problem which required the meeting. Typically these things were strictly _need to know in nature_ , i.e. the man behind the desk would produce a photo and an address and the large chiseled man would hustle off and kill someone, but in this case, he shared a little more information so that anyone reading about this clandestine get-together wouldn't walk away completely in the dark.

Before I continue, I'd like to point out how powerful the human imagination is. In a few short paragraphs, you have created every detail you need to picture the meeting. You can see every detail of the shadowy office and although I never mentioned it, I bet you can see the smoke slowly curling up from the cigarette perched in the glass ashtray on the corner of the desk. Take a second to congratulate yourself for your choice of art on the walls.

I'll never understand the need for some people to provide every damn detail when they're telling a story, as if they believe you would imagine two naked men sitting on folding chairs in an empty office should they not spend 500 words describing the furniture.

I write "unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington" and I can almost hear you saying "Ok, got it.

Unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington. Continue."

The only time I think it's appropriate to point something out is if it somehow does not fit in an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington. Let's say there was a giant disco ball hanging in the center of the room. That I would mention. Because this unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington lacks such bling, I feel entirely comfortable moving on.

"Here's the problem," said the man behind the desk. He adjusted himself slightly in the chair. "There is a woman who has come into possession of something that could be potentially harmful to certain people."

The large chiseled man leaned forward almost imperceptibly which, in the circles he ran in, was the equivalent of him saying very perceptively, "Oh goody!"

In his mind, he quickly imagined nuclear codes or some terrible computer virus.

"The object I'm referring to is a pair of reading glasses."

There was a slight flutter in the right eyelid of the large chiseled man which, in the circles he ran in, indicated that it was all he could do not burst out laughing.

"Reading glasses?" he inquired.

"Yes. But not just any reading glasses. Reading glasses that can never be allowed to view the new tax legislation."

The man behind the desk allowed that to sink in. Not so much to the large chiseled man but to those of you reading this.

"Do I need to say any more?"

I'm guessing, flush with pride from your imagining the unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington, the last thing you want to do is admit you need any more on how these particular reading glasses could become a problem for those reading the new tax legislation. "Rather obvious," you might be chuckling to yourself. The large, chiseled man on the other hand had no idea what the man behind the desk meant but on the other, other hand he didn't really care.

Photo. Address. Another day, another dollar.

"One last thing..." the man behind the desk offered.

"Don't fuck this up."

Meanwhile back in Ruth's apartment... She was furious with herself for mentioning how it was she was able to understand the books so thoroughly. She would be ridiculed by those who didn't believe her and dismissed as an intellectual fraud by those who did. I would at this point in the story tell you how she went to her freezer and pulled out a tub of ice cream with the intention of eating it but I know some of you have been waiting patiently for me to reveal her smokin' bod so now is as good a time as any. To that end she stood up and decided to get in a workout on her elliptical machine.

Naked.

She thought briefly about throwing on her workout gear but such was her mood that the idea of putting on the oversized sweat pants and shapeless sweater seemed a bit pointless. Instead she threw herself into the workout with an almost savage intensity.

If you think picturing an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington paid dividends, then you're in for a real treat here. Ruth began to glisten. Every inch of her from her manicured size 6 feet to the top of her creamy white head. Her hair, usually constrained in a ponytail, now flew in every direction in slow motion and her large breasts undulated in rhythm with her steps, up and down, up and down, although her pert nipples always remained pointing northward.

Ok, I'd better slow down a bit before I have her disappearing into her bedroom to retrieve something from her nightstand.

Anyway, I think I've made my point. And that point is if they ever make this into a movie, I'm going to be visited by plenty of Ruth-wannabes eager to show me their treadmill skills under the misguided notion that I will somehow be influential in the casting of the part. And I will say nothing to the contrary, you can believe that.

I apologize to the non-lesbian females reading this. I realize I might have crossed some sort of line here but let's face it... sex sells. If I can mention that Nap shaves his pubes, I certainly give a quick shout out to Ruth's large, gravity-defying rack.

After she was done, she retreated to the refrigerator where she quickly wiped out what was left in the tub labeled orange sherbet. A quick shower was followed by some late-night television and the realization that tomorrow was another day. She rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, blissfully unaware that a black helicopter was quickly making its way for a visit.

"It's time I put these glasses to better use. Maybe a quick reading of The Constitution tomorrow," was her final thought before the blackness enveloped her.

Note that nobody goes to sleep in novels. Blackness envelopes them. I would have much rather said she fell asleep but that's one of those little compromises you make as an artist. If you want a best seller, you'd better play ball; have blackness envelope whomever it wants.

Dawn broke and it had every appearance of being a beautiful day. Nap yawned and stretched as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in his motel room. Ruth yawned and stretched in her bed and began the daily routine of getting ready for work at the library. The large, chiseled man would have yawned and no doubt thrown in a quick stretch if he wasn't already fully awake with one leg hanging out of a black helicopter flying low over the rooftops of the sleepy town. Unencumbered by the tasks of yawning and such, he devoted himself instead to watching the tiny dots that were people below him and wondering if he could kill them from this height at this speed.

He was pretty sure he could.

Nap felt the copter before he heard it. A low drumming in the back of his head. Instinctively, he moved closer to the building he was walking past and began to search the skies. Eventually he heard the drone of the blades and saw it move quickly past him.

His first and only thought was that it was there for him. Something had come up that needed his immediate participation and this was his ride. He wondered how they found him.

He looked down at the paper in his hand. Pictured on it was a small brown Labrador with the word LOST written in bold letters. There was no question that this might be the most adorable dog Nap had ever laid eyes on and as soon as he saw the flyer on the telephone pole outside the motel, he knew what he was going to be doing the rest of the day. It would be tedious work but there was no danger whatsoever that finding the stray dog and returning it to its owner would in any way save the world, so it sounded just like what he needed.

He was on his way to a local pet store- a lot of people who find lost dogs check there first to see if they can find out information on the dog- when he saw the black helicopter. Now his eyes went back and forth between Scrappy and the direction where he saw the copter heading. It was slowing down and he thought he might as well be polite and let them know that he had no interest in cutting his vacation short.

After all, this dog wasn't going to find itself.

Inside the library, Ruth neither heard nor saw the black helicopter. In fact, she was completely engrossed in reading a copy of The Constitution.

"Holy moly, me oh my, it has the N word in it," she said to nobody in particular. She looked around to see if there was anybody within earshot because the more she read the document, the more she wanted to tell somebody what was really going on in the minds of the Founding Fathers. She had no idea this was such an idealistic and outspoken group of gentlemen. She was just starting Article Four when another "Holy moly..." began to form on her lips.

It was a few paragraphs later before the "... me oh my" followed.

This time, she had to tell somebody but when she looked around, the library was empty except for a small group of people huddled at the entrance.

"I wonder what this is all about," she thought to herself as she removed her glasses and began to wander over to see what all the excitement was about.

Standing in front of the double doors with his arms folded across his chest was her boss Ed. As she got closer, she could see there was some sort of disturbance in the front of the library because all eyes seemed glued to the foyer and beyond. Ed was glaring at somebody with his best "What is this all about?" face on, although later some witnesses will swear it was more of a "Now where do you think you're going?" face and Ruth was just about to touch his arm and inquire what was going on when Ed fell back limply.

A small red hole between his eyes.

The reason for the hole, and the motive behind the former "What is this all about?" face came into view in the form of a small automatic weapon being brandished by a large man wearing a black mask. The remaining bystanders needed little more by way of encouragement to cease and desist with the gawking and begin a scheme heavy on the yelling and fleeing.

Ruth, after a few seconds of shock, decided that she could do without so much of the yelling but thought the fleeing part of the strategy sounded right up her alley and began to put it into effect.

The large man in the black mask took note of this and raised his weapon.

Having once again located the black helicopter, Nap watched it land in the middle of the street and wondered aloud what could be so important that they would be landing a black helicopter in broad daylight. That was exactly the type of behavior associated with assassinations and UFO crashes and the last thing the government or military needed. It was the kind of helicopter that even the most naive viewer could tell did not officially exist. It bristled with weaponry and had a sheen that seemed to challenge radar to try to pick it up. Just seeing one fly by was enough for the average citizen to stand a little straighter and lower his voice when it came time to criticize an elected official. To have one landing in the middle of the street seemed madness and Nap was certain that the very fate of the planet must be hanging in the balance.

He cut through the building sitting between the helicopter and himself, eager to explain to whomever had been sent to collect him that they would be sorely disappointed because he had a dog to find instead.

In the old days, all the covert forces would just wear wool masks over their faces. It didn't allow the enemy to see their facial features and it helped them blend in a bit more. The downside was that they were hot as balls and after only a few minutes in the field, the agent would be sweating like a pig. These days the balaclavas are made of Nomex, a material that although more durable also breathes a little and is fireproof to help against burns from fire/stun munitions. Visually, there is very little difference though. Just two holes to allow the agent to see. In the case of the agent whose gun was trained on Ruth, the mask had two additional holes for a grand total of four. Two which allowed him to see and two which allowed Nap's bullet to enter and exit his head.

Ruth ran towards the stranger who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to save her as he worked to put together what exactly was happening. He half expected Ruth to level a killer karate chop in his direction to indicate he had once again shot the wrong guy but she maintained her innocent demeanor as she hurriedly made her way towards him.

He could immediately see the killer bod that Ruth took great pains to conceal. One eyebrow began to creep upwards and he was about to introduce himself when he noticed two more men clad in the requisite black apparel entering the library.

Introductions would have to wait.

He grabbed Ruth and made for the periodicals.

The sound of bullets on the metal shelving had Ruth wishing she would have lobbied harder for the wood shelving she originally wanted. It was more expensive but would have given the library a much more sophisticated air about it. At the time though budgets were tight and it was either go with steel shelving or lose the small bubbling fountain that sat in the middle of the computer lab.

Nap was trying to make it to the back entrance from where he had originally come in but the two men in black had split up and were slowly working their way around the perimeter. Eventually they were going to get a clean shot on one or both of them and Nap reminded himself that Scrappy still needed finding so the last thing he could afford to do was get killed.

"Scrappy is missing?" Ruth asked.

He gave her a quick "How did you know that, are you reading my mind or something?" look but followed her eyes to the flyer he still held in his non-gun hand.

"I saw him by the water tower earlier this morning."

"That's helpful." Nap replied. "Any idea who these guys are and why they're shooting at you?"

"Sorry. No."

A bullet tore through the picture of Scrappy. This upset Nap to no end and he stood up. It must have been something about libraries but he got a "now you've done it" look on his face. Perhaps it's because talking is frowned upon that people tend to be more expressive but it can't be a coincidence that three people got particular looks on their face when up until now nobody had gotten even one. Even the way I describe the reaction of people talking in a library, "frowned upon," is a facial expression.

Nap walked to the center of the room. On the way, he shot and killed the two agents who had seen him stand up and who had felt certain he was about to end this little stand-off. Add overconfidence to the list of things that killed the cat.

Nap turned to face Ruth. "No idea at all? None whatsoever huh? Three trained killers and you have no clue why they attempted to gun you down right in the middle of the library?"

He saw her confused look and then he saw her shocked and surprised look and instinctively reached around his own head and fired blindly at the entrance. When he finally turned his head he saw exactly what he expected to see... another man in black crumbling to his knees.

Well, not entirely what he expected to see. I mean to say he saw what he expected to see but he then heard what he did not expect to hear.

"Nap?"

The large, chiseled man, mid crumble, slowly raised a hand and pulled off his black durable fireproof mask.

"Tim?!"

"I didn't know it... was you... Nap."

Nap ran over to him, his gun still raised in case Tim decided he'd like some company in the great beyond.

Tim dropped his gun and his mask and the rest of himself to the ground.

"I didn't know it was you, Tim. No offense intended."

"None... " the words trailed off. A few drops of blood began to ooze dramatically from his lips.

"Taken?" Nap said helpfully.

Tim nodded slightly and then the little light that people have in their eyes to indicate that someone is home flicked off.

Nap looked at the entrance expecting more men. When a minute passed and no more materialized, he let out his breath and looked again at Ruth.

In the distance he could hear a helicopter taking off. If he were a betting man he would have bet that officially it didn't exist.

"You knew him?" Ruth asked tentatively.

"He was a good man." Then Nap thought about it some more. "Actually, he was a very bad man."

"He was... a very good bad man."

"And what are you?" Ruth asked.

"I'm more of a very good... bad good man."

"Well thank you, whatever you are."

"Can you point me to the water tower?"

Ruth looked a bit dazed. "Why on earth would you want to go to the water tower after killing four men?"

"I have to find Scrappy and to do that I need to leave before the police arrive." To Nap, it seemed pretty straightforward. To Ruth, everything about it seemed insane. Papers were still floating down and electrical things that had been damaged by flying lead were fizzling and sparking all around her. Some of the lights were even flickering a bit. I think even you, reader, might be a little cavalier about the whole thing. Too many movies and television shows where after a huge gunfight or explosion, everyone returns to normal and the hero just walks off without a care in the world apparently. To normal people, this kind of thing, when it actually happens to them, can be very upsetting so let's slow down a bit and give Ruth a few minutes to compose herself before you expect her to start moving the story along again.

"You'd better come with me until I sort this all out," Nap offered grudgingly. "But I'm telling you now, if you are either planning on destroying the world or planning on stopping someone from destroying the world I will cut you loose in a heartbeat. Not interested."

This kind of talk did not help Ruth regain her footing any quicker.

Motioning to the back door, Nap made it clear that she was expected to fall in behind him.

"I'm on vacation, damn it."

Meanwhile back in Washington... and don't think that starting off that sentence with "Meanwhile" was an accident. Meanwhile is known as the most sinister of the conjunctive adverbs. No doubt that as soon as you saw that word sitting on top of the new sentence, a small chill ran down your spine and you settled even deeper into your chair, waiting for whatever villainy was soon to be coming down the pike.

And rest assured you will not be disappointed because the man behind the desk in the unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington is up to his old tricks again. A new, equally chiseled man now sat in front of him telling him the news about the old chiseled man that had previously been in front of him when we last visited this unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington.

The man behind the desk was unamused.

"What the fuck was Lapkin doing there?" he thundered.

"We can't be sure sir."

"Was there a gun show in town? Was it buy one, get one free at Hookers Are Us?" The man behind the man behind the desk had just called asking about the reading glasses and when the man behind the desk had told the man behind the man behind the desk that they were still not in his possession, he had been reminded that there are any number of other men who would love the opportunity to get behind that desk.

The man in front of the desk sensed that things were about to get loud.

Instead they got quiet.

Very quiet.

Then they got loud again.

"I want everyone on this. Everyone who is not out of the fucking country or ass deep in alligators is on a plane or a train or a fucking pushcart to get me those glasses. Is that understood?"

The new chiseled man nodded. "Crystal."

He went to stand up and then stopped himself.

"And what about Lapkin?"

Somewhere in the back of the chiseled man's head, the ominous music that had been playing since he stepped into the unnecessarily shadowy office grew a bit louder.

The man behind the desk reached over and picked up his pack of cigarettes. He slowly opened the carton as if mulling over this latest inquiry. He slowly lit one. He leaned back and slowly took a long drag.

The chiseled man winced as the ominous music in his head became deafening and he leaned in slightly, afraid he might not be able to make out what the man behind the desk said in reply.

"Try not to let him kill everybody."

"It has to be the glasses," Ruth told Nap as they sat on the metal bleachers near the ball field next to the water tower. "It's the only thing I can think of."

She handed them to him and he looked them over for signs of secret compartments or concealed weaponry.

"What do they do?" he asked after finding nothing interesting about them.

"I'm not sure how to say this. They let me read what the writer meant as opposed to what he actually wrote." She sighed. "I'm not sure why this would make those men want to..." her voice drifted off as she saw the expression on Nap's face change.

"Think about it," he said. He had already thought about it. In his line of work, a pair of glasses like that could change the game.

In her line of work, it could make her an awesome librarian. She did not understand.

"Do you mean like the N word in The Constitution?"

"For starters. Do you have any idea how many things are written in Washington, in Moscow, in Beijing? How many lies are being told?"

Her face fell. She understood. The N word in The Constitution was just the tip of the iceberg. Nap handed the eyewear in question back to her.

"Where did you get these glasses anyhow?" Nap asked after letting the implications sink in a bit.

"At a yard sale. A stupid yard sale in a stupid $1 box." Ruth began to get upset, the adrenaline of the past hour beginning to drain away. She choked up and a tear began a leisurely crawl down her cheek. Everything about her screamed vulnerability and Nap reacted the only way he knew how.

"Listen, I would bang you nine ways to Sunday if we had time but I'm afraid we need to find out more about these glasses. Time is short. I have no doubt company is on its way."

Ruth's body tightened. The hug she was expecting was not incoming. Instead, she was now imagining a sky filled with helicopters, all of them searching for her. And the damn reading glasses that sat wedged comfortably between her sweater melons.

It was a short walk to his '78 Le Mans and an even shorter drive to where Ruth had purchased the glasses. 100 Grapeberry Drive. It had been Nap's experience that any address that sounded like it was only a block away from the Lollipop Forest was bad news. When he pulled up to a nondescript home in a nondescript neighborhood, he was still on edge. Had he known that the place was only so nondescript because I didn't feel like descripting it, I'm sure he would have felt much better but then a spy that drops his guard is likely to be an ex-spy pretty quickly, so in the end it all works out for the best.

What's that?

Green. The house is green. A split level, one car garage. Happy now? Honestly, it makes no difference. Just assume if I don't go to great lengths to describe something, that you're free to picture it, within reason, however you want. Just know that if there was a helipad on the roof or it was ringed with razor wire, I would have pointed it out.

It's a fucking green house that needs a new coat of paint. All clear? Can we move on now?

All these 600-page thrillers you've been reading have really dumbed you down. I bet you're waiting for a description of the damn door as Nap and Ruth approach it. It's a door. Close your eyes, picture a door.

Now you've got it.

The pressed the doorbell and I'll be damned if I'm going to describe the sound it made.

A woman answered.

If you ask me anything more about the woman, I swear by all that's holy I'll make her a one-eyed Chinese midget with a limp.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked politely.

"I don't know if you remember me but I was at your yard sale a few weeks back. I bought a pair of reading glasses."

The woman looked up at her and examined her with her one good eye. "That was rong time ago. No remember."

Nap stepped forward. "Do you remember these glasses?" he asked as he motioned to the pair perched on top of Ruth's bazoombas.

The one-eyed Chinese midget limped forward to take a croser rook.

I mean closer look. Sometimes I get carried away.

"Of course. Those my grandmother's grasses."

"Can we speak to her?" Ruth said as she laid a hand on Nap's chest in order to keep a comfortable distance between all parties.

"You need séance. She die rong time ago."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," offered Ruth.

"She ruved to read. All day she sit in her chair reading and reading. Absorutery ruved it."

"Did she live here with you?" asked Nap.

"Yes. We keep room exacary rike she reft it."

"Can we see it?" he asked as he started forward through the door.

"You no porice. You go now," protested the midget as she limped in front of Nap.

"Sorry, I don't have time for this," he said and punched her in her diminutive jaw, knocking her flat. He stepped over her and quickly made for the bedrooms. Ruth stood slack-jawed for few moments before leaning over to make sure the woman was still alive.

She was.

Ruth dragged her to a nearby chair and went into the kitchen to find a cold compress.

"That was not cool," she yelled to Nap. "You can't go around punching midgets. We are a nation of laws."

Moments later, he emerged with a book in his hands.

"Her diary. I figured she would make some mention of the glasses but nothing particularly helpful."

"Here," said Ruth, "let me take a look."

She sat down and took out her glasses.

And if I'm to be completely honest here... a little ominous music began to play in her head.

As Ruth read the diary, there were forces gathering outside the green split-level house in need of a coat of paint. Some of them Special Forces. They had been drawn to the house by the various tracking devices inserted in Nap's car and now they were coordinating amongst themselves who would storm the house and who would sit back and wait for those people to be killed by Nap Lapkin. If it weren't for the fact that the man behind the desk in Washington had plans for those reading glasses, he would have just ordered a strike on the house that would have left the entire neighborhood a smoldering hole in the ground.

A hole that Nap would have no doubt climbed out of.

Word was, among the agencies that had need of such people, that Lapkin was immune to the effects of both tear gas and stun grenades. The last time he had been shot, it was only discovered after a routine examination found a small opening in his chest cavity. He had also violated Madonna Axiom on at least half a dozen occasions. Madonna, the reigning piece-of-ass Amazonian in the intelligence community.

The chatter on the walkie talkies surrounding the green split-level in need of a coat of paint was getting a little irritable. Protocol began to break down and harsh words were exchanged. Feelings began to get hurt.

Nobody wanted to be the first to enter the house.

"If this diary is correct, things are a lot worse than either of us could have imagined," Ruth said cryptically.

"I can imagine some pretty bad stuff," countered Lap. "In fact, I've seen stuff that most people can't imagine so you can only imagine the stuff I can imagine."

"I'm serious. Do you know anything about Hindu gods?"

Nap thought for a minute.

"Buddha and that gang?"

"No. Not Buddha. Vishnu. Krishna. Ganesha. That gang," Ruth retorted rather sharply.

"I'm not sure you have the right gang. Ganesha sounds like an Italian pastry."

"My point," she said in a frosty tone, "is that a lot of what has been written about their version of the end of days isn't quite accurate... according to the diary anyway."

"How so?" Nap didn't really care but he didn't want the little scene to lose any of the building drama. He remembered that Ruth was a librarian and now suspected they had come to the part where she leisurely removed the glasses, undid the clip that held her hair up and shook her hair free in slow motion. He thought she might even bite her lower lip ever so slightly.

She explained about Saraswati imprisoning the beast of doom at the bottom of the sea, complete with the bit about keeping him there as long the world is pure and man is wise. She decided to use the "beast of doom" moniker over the Shiva Badavagni tag in the hopes of conveying to Nap the seriousness of the situation. Her gut told her this was a good decision as he seemed to perk up at the name.

"Apparently, the legends were wrong. She's not imprisoning him until 'wisdom is abandoned and man corrupts the world;' she is imprisoning him until someone unworthy takes possession of these damn glasses."

"Hindu gods are the ones that have all the extra arms, correct?" Nap had managed to grab the wrong end of the story and now seemed determined to slowly wrestle his way to the other end. "Swords and elephant heads if I'm not mistaken."

"Listen, we don't have time for this. Saraswati was talking about these glasses the whole time. They are some sort of litmus test for humanity. If they fall into the wrong hands, Shiva will be released and the world as we know it will come to a swift and rather unpleasant end."

She paused to let that sink in.

"You're not telling me that I've gotten roped into saving the world again, are you?" said a now animated Lapkin.

"That's what you're taking from this? That you're somehow going to be inconvenienced?" Ruth was livid. "I'm not sure who the hell you are but ..."

That's when the front door exploded inward.

I know you're bracing yourself for an action-packed ending here but let me stop for a second and ask if you remember reading those books when you were a kid that let you pick the direction you wanted the story to go.

I know there were a lot of Dungeons & Dragons books like that but I distinctly remember there being a lot of other ones as well. Encyclopedia Brown for instance. If you pick up the rusty sword, turn to page 135; if you think Sally Jackson was the one who stole the bike, turn to page 70. That type of thing.

I always wondered why there weren't any adult books that gave the reader these types of options. I can't count the times where I'm eighty percent through a great book when all of a sudden, the author takes the plot in some stupid direction and blows the whole deal. I sit clutching the pages in impotent rage, wishing all manner of awful things on the writer and hoping somehow to get those hours of my life back.

I dare say you might be experiencing something similar even as we speak. And by we, I mean me and by speak, I mean write.

Be that as it may, now that I'm on the writing side of the equation, I can now see why offering readers choices as you plow along with a story is such a bad idea.

It would be a lot of work.

I'm sure there are some of you that would love to go back and have Nap hesitate in the library and not fire blindly behind his back killing his chiseled contemporary, Tim, but let me assure you, if he hadn't done exactly that, Tim would have killed him. Tim would have then killed Ruth and taken the glasses.

Is that really what you would have wanted?

The only other alternative would have been for me to sit down and write an entirely different book and believe me when I say it's doubtful that this one will ever get finished let alone another version.

Now take and multiply it by another dozen twists and turns this story could have taken and you'll see why nobody writes books like that for adults.

It's just not doable.

But before you go off sulking, let me offer you the following compromise: I can't go back and change the fact that Nap shot Tim in the library but I will give you a choice of endings now.

That seems very reasonable, don't you think?

ENDING ONE (if you believe that Hindu gods exist or that supernatural forces can exert influence on reality as we know it):

All was confusion for Ruth. The only noise she could hear was the loud whine in her ear courtesy of the explosion. Her vision was blurred and the blood streaming from her nose was only acknowledged as wetness. Her breath came in ragged gulps and although she wanted to stand up, her legs were not playing ball. It was all she could do to lift her head and see the men entering where the front door used to be. Her mouth moved but no words would come out.

She looked around desperately for Nap but he was nowhere to be found.

Her eyes returned to the man standing over her.

The one with the gun.

The one that shot her.

He dropped the short straw that he still held in his other hand, the one that he had assumed had sealed his fate as another Nap Lapkin victim, and picked up the reading glasses that were wedged between Ruth's rapidly-cooling breasts.

Hours later, he would walk through into an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington and hand them to a man behind a desk.

Hours after that, the Pacific Ocean would boil away and existence as humanity had come to know it would cease to exist.

Obviously, this creates some real roadblocks to a sequel but if you're going to go and introduce Hindu gods into a story, then you have to be ready for these types of endings.

ENDING TWO (if you don't believe that Hindu gods exist or that supernatural forces can exert influence on reality as we know it):

All was confusion for Ruth. The only noise she could hear was the loud whine in her ear courtesy of the explosion. Her vision was blurred and the blood streaming from her nose was only acknowledged as wetness. Her breath came in ragged gulps and although she wanted to stand up, her legs were not playing ball. It was all she could do to lift her head and see the men entering where the front door used to be. Her mouth moved but no words would come out.

She looked around desperately for Nap but he was nowhere to be found.

Her eyes returned to the man standing over her.

The one with the gun.

The one that shot her.

He dropped the short straw that he still held in his other hand, the one that he had assumed had sealed his fate as another Nap Lapkin victim, and picked up the reading glasses that were wedged between Ruth's rapidly-cooling breasts.

Hours later, he would walk through into an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington and hand them to a man behind a desk.

Hours after that, a man would swipe a card and gain access to a large warehouse. And when I say large I mean _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ warehouse-where-they-stick-the-Ark-of-the-Covenant-at-the-end-of-the-movie large. The kind of warehouse where you have to pan out for at least a minute before you get any sense of how large it is.

In case you're wondering, which you really shouldn't be because I said nothing that would lead you to believe that Nap Lapkin wasn't a man of his word, Nap had made tracks the second he realized that he was once again being put in the middle of some apocalyptic scenario.

Somewhere between the hours it took the man who killed Ruth to deliver the glasses and the hours it took for the man behind the desk to become the man formerly behind the desk and be transformed into the man in the enormous warehouse, Nap was able to locate Scrappy and return him to his relieved owner.

He pocketed the $50 reward and climbed back into his '78 LeMans.

His vacation wasn't over yet. He cranked up the radio.

_Heute zieh' ich meine Runden  
Seh' die Welt in Trümmern liegen  
Hab' 'nen Luftballon gefunden  
Denk' an dich und lass' ihn fliegen_

And that's that.
**Little Time Bomb**

Nap Lapkin sat back on his stool at the blackjack table and weighed his options. In front of him lay two cards, a king and a seven. The dealer, a small man with greasy black hair and the eyes of a bunny, was showing an eight. It would be inaccurate to say that Nap counted cards but it would just as inaccurate to say he wasn't aware there was a good chance that the next card out of the deck was a low one.

The problem with putting his money where that particular mouth was making itself at home was the fact that he was already taking the casino to the cleaners. Ironic given that he was at an Asian casino. As he spoke fluent Asian, he knew the pit bosses huddled behind the table were already suspicious of the generous amount of luck that fortune had already parked at his feet and doubling down on a hard seventeen might just be the act that had the gathering security members attempting to remove him from said Asian casino and him making them regret that decision.

He slowly pushed forward the requisite amount of chips to indicate his intention to double down on a hard seventeen.

He needed both the cash and the workout.

The dealer drew a card from the deck and turned it over.

A four.

Nap began to slowly roll his neck to and fro in anticipation for what was sure to follow.

Suddenly, there was a ruckus unrelated to the ruckus he was sure to follow the dealer giving himself a queen.

While panic might be overstating it, you didn't need to understand Asian to see the crowd was definitely upset about something as it began to surge past the table games and into the attached food court.

Being familiar with ruckus-related surging, Nap immediately scooped up his chips and headed against the stream and right into the heart of the ruckus.

Perhaps I failed to mention that in the center of this Asian casino was a large glass and stone enclosure that contained an enormous saltwater crocodile. To be fair, the story had just started and it seemed superfluous to the drama unfolding at Nap's blackjack table. Had I interrupted with an elaborate description of a _Crocodylus porosus_ habitat in the middle of his card-playing quandary, you would have been wondering about my qualifications to continue the story and might have abandoned the whole thing outright.

Be that as it may, the entire casino was built around a giant pen that held, among several other reptilian inhabitants, a twenty-foot long Indo-Pacific crocodile. As Nap approached the area, it was obvious that the source of aforementioned ruckus was residing inside the also, although not as recently mentioned, aforementioned.

Somebody had cut off the four legs of the crocodile and the animal was having some difficulty in adjusting to its new-found snake status. Women were screaming at the sight of it thrashing around and nobody seemed to have any enthusiasm for jumping in the pen and aiding the poor creature.

You would think that at an Asian casino, a place where people not only routinely lose large amounts of money but also take it upon themselves to kneel down and cut out their own stomachs when things are going against them, the last thing you'd see decorating the walls would be a set of razor-sharp katana swords, but there they sat. Or hung. Whichever. Nap made quick work of freeing them from their display case and then hurled himself into the center of the until-recently-charming aquatic croc pen.

Of course, once he had driven the katana through the skull of the suffering beast, all the casino personnel suddenly rediscovered their courage and started to jump down into the enclosure to examine the unfortunate animal and request that Nap put down the sharp pointy objects that he seemed to enjoy wielding so much.

After deciding he would be unable to dust for prints, he did just that. He made sure that the four croc feet were nowhere to be found and made his way out of the casino. Casino security attempted to detain him but that didn't go so well for casino security. As I said, Nap left the casino.

He knew what the missing reptilian feet meant. It was an invitation of sorts, meant for him, and the last thing he wanted was to disappoint the Australian mercenary nicknamed The Triple Goon.

He climbed into his rented Asian car and made his way to the nearest zoo.

Nap Lapkin knew a trap when he saw one and this was definitely one, but he enjoyed zoos and he knew for certain that he wasn't going to die in one. He was going to die in a haunted house. When he was much younger, a fortune teller had told him so and while he put no stock in gypsies or tarot cards, there was something about this bit of prognostication that somehow felt right.

If he was barreling towards a trap set by an international cutthroat in a haunted house, there might be a little nervousness playing across his face but as his destination was a zoo, he was casually fiddling with the radio in an unsuccessful attempt to include some 70's or 80's lyrics to this story, but as I can't type Asian, he was unable to find anything interesting enough to include.

Whenever Nap would escape from whatever juvenile detention center he was being held at in his youth, he would invariably end up at a zoo. He loved to watch the squirrels scamper in and out of the other animal cages. He would imagine conversations the squirrels would have with the various occupants. When there were no squirrels to watch, he'd find an empty exhibit and watch the people unsuccessfully try to locate some creature lurking just out of sight. He could watch people finding nothing for hours. The contempt he felt wasn't so much for the individual people as humanity as a whole.

He remembers wanting to grow up to be half squirrel and half empty cage.

When he finally pulled up to the gates of the zoo, it was dark and, to all outward appearances, empty. He was almost disappointed that it wasn't crawling with snipers. After further examining his feelings about the lukewarm reception, he realized he was insulted that whomever wanted him dead had not sprung for the overwhelming force package. Didn't he deserve as much?

He knew where to start looking for The Triple Goon. After slipping through the fence, he made his way to those little stands that hold park maps. He found where the zoo kept their kangaroos and then neatly folded the map back up and put it back where he found it.

As he strode towards his inevitable showdown with the assassin from Down Under, he reflected briefly on why he was so unavailable to the other sex. Why he was always an empty cage, never showing any women his squirrel. It was something written on a bathroom stall he was using while on his first mission for the agency. It read "You'll never be able to fulfill the emotional needs of a woman who has the word 'Harder' written on the small of her back." Somehow it rang true at the time and nothing he'd experienced with the fairer sex had ever proven otherwise.

He saw a large exhibit with a cartoon kangaroo painted on front of it and he made his way up a small hill to get a better look. Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he began to see shapes moving over a downed tree in the center of the enclosure. One was larger than the others and it began to hop towards him. Without hesitation he drew his revolver and put three bullets directly into its pouch. Moments later a bloody figure began to crawl out.

Nap Lapkin was one of the few people on the planet that knew The Triple Goon was a midget.

He put another bullet through his disproportionately large cranium and then another through the head of the innocent but seriously wounded boomer.

Now some of you might be aware that boomer is a slang term for a male kangaroo and male kangaroos don't have pouches, to which I would point out that you really need to get out more. If you'd prefer I could call it a kangaroo but how many times can the human eye read the word kangaroo without getting exhausted? I don't know about you, but I find that word extremely tedious so forgive me for trying to shake things up a bit.

After Nap put a bullet though the head of the innocent yet seriously wounded kangaroo (happy?), he pulled out the midget corpse of The Triple Goon and carried it to the nearby saltwater crocodile exhibit and unceremoniously tossed it in. A minute later he saw the body get snatched up and dragged beneath the dark waters in a better-than-average display of karma at work.

As he made his way out of the zoo, he wondered to himself how a midget was able to cut off all four legs of a twenty-foot crocodile. It seemed impossible. It might have even driven him a little crazy thinking about it were it not for a squirrel that caught his eye and distracted him. Hopefully you'll be so eager for some poignant squirrel metaphor to end this story that you also stop wondering how a midget could cut off all four legs of an enormous crocodile in the middle of a busy casino in plain sight of everyone because honestly, I would have no way of explaining it.

Just like I have no way of explaining why I don't find crocodile as cumbersome a word as kangaroo even though it has one more letter.

This particular squirrel was inhabiting a cage that had no other occupant due to some minor repairs it was undergoing. It could easily leave the cage at any time but seemed to feel at home there. Like it was somehow important enough to warrant a place in the zoo with all the other animals from around the globe.

It wanted to be there.

Nap Lapkin gave it a little nod before slipping out to continue the never-ending fight for freedom.
**Tales of the Supernatural With Nap Lapkin**

When the Duluth Dragons Triple-A baseball team folded last year due to low attendance, their mascot, amongst many other poor souls, was sent packing. The problem for fired mascots is there aren't a lot of other teams named "Dragons" and even those are rarely looking for a new mascot. Getting a new gig is next to impossible.

So difficult that it might drive said fired mascot to turn to the dark arts. If a small tingle just ran up your spine after reading that, it's perfectly understandable.

Like so many terrible things, such as Meister Brau beer, it began in Milwaukee. At a Milwaukee Brewers game specifically. Right after the beloved seventh inning stretch ritual of the Famous Racing Sausages. Brat, Polish Sausage, Italian Sausage, Hot Dog, and Chorizo made their dash from left field to home plate. They had no sooner departed the field then a loud roar emanated from the bowels of the stadium.

An unlucky security guard that had gone to investigate was the first one on the scene. He flung open the double doors that led from the public walkways to the catacombs beneath the ballpark and fell back in horror. Chunks of sausage and bodily fluids littered the ground and an eight-foot-tall dragon in a blood-soaked sweater with two large Ds emblazoned upon it crouched between the tattered remains of Brat and Italian Sausage while Hot Dog squirmed in its slavering jaws. Chorizo, blind with terror, comically stumbled and bumbled down the hallway, its entrails protruding from a gaping wound as his terrible transformation was underway. (At this juncture you don't know exactly what transformation I'm referring to, so don't get too fixated on it.)

Polish Sausage was nowhere to be seen.

As the dragon gulped down Hot Dog and set off in pursuit of Chorizo, the guard later grudgingly admitted that the scent hanging in the air smelled delicious.

I realize this is a lot for you to process. Usually, you're not asked to just jump in like this, so take a moment to digest what you've just read.

As far as the guard could tell, the dragon was a real dragon. If dragons existed. Teeth, claws, the whole show. And the terrible transformation I spoke about?

That's the weirdest part, and the primary reason this story is called _Tales of the Supernatural With Nap Lapkin_ as opposed to _Another Tale of Adventure With Nap Lapkin_. The corpses of the deceased mascots were made entirely of whatever meat they represented. There was never any trace of the people who had previous inhabited the outfit. They simply disappeared.

I know, right? Pretty supernatural.

Why would something like this attract the attention of a super-spy like Nap Lapkin? I guess the real question is whether or not you'd rather read a story involving a super-spy or a story about another lame crime-scene investigator. You know the kind, the ones clogging up TV with horrible shows riddled with initials and starring some vaguely-attractive yet somehow insipid actor rattling off statistics while still giving the audience a weekly peek at his heart of gold. Of course he's surrounded by the obligatory cast of stereotypical characters who will understand his frustration with the newest case and not rest until it gets solved. We get it, we get it, TV. There are a lot of serial killers out there, so in case they get stuck for new ideas on how to murder people, you'd better keep churning them out.

Is that what you as the reader want?

I didn't think so... so stop your bellyaching and just appreciate the fact that within minutes you're going to be ass-deep in a Nap Lapkin tale.

If you're looking for a story involving a secret agent who has a laser in his shoe or a female operative with a fire-belching diaphragm, then you're out of luck. Believe me, I'm not happy about it either. As a writer, I'd love nothing more than to introduce a gadget like a fire-belching diaphragm, but Nap will have none of it. He won't even bring a knife to a gunfight. The chances of him arriving with a laser are slim to none. He just wouldn't find it sporting.

Now Madonna Axiom on the other hand... perhaps you could convince me to get her involved in this little narrative. While it's true she doesn't currently own a fire-belching diaphragm, she is the proud owner of a plasma-spewing vibrator. I shouldn't have to clarify this but for the sake of those readers that might be confused, the plasma in question is weaponized ionized gas and not the colorless fluid part of blood in which fat globules are suspended. I mean really, if I need to spend time making that clear, perhaps you might consider reading less challenging material.

Who would possibly think that a vibrator spewing the colorless fluid part of blood in which fat globules are suspended would in any way provide a female agent any protection? Please don't make me regret considering her for this story.

Anyway, it was only after a string of these gruesome and supernatural mascot murders started occurring that Nap was asked by his superiors (in name only) to get involved. There were few leads and with the enormous number of mascots inflicting themselves on crowds on every college campus and professional sporting event, all they could do was calculate the body count as the dragon moved westward.

The first thing you might be asking yourself is why a hardened secret agent would believe all of this supernatural tomfoolery. An outstanding question; there's hope for you yet.

The thing is... it's not his first go-around with supernatural situations. Allow me to digress a moment and I will let you in on a little secret that nobody besides Nap knows.

When Nap was a young man, he lived in a variety of orphanages. Having never read _Oliver Twist,_ I can't say for certain that it gives an accurate portrayal of life as an orphan but I'm led to believe it does not give it a glowing review, with plenty of unscrupulous characters and "Can I have some more?" moments, so if you spent your youth reading Charles Dickens instead of Douglas Adams and PG Wodehouse as I did, you can use that as a jumping off point concerning Nap's youth.

It was at one of these homes that he ran into something that can only be termed "supernatural." Although looking at Nap now, it might be tough to believe but when he was twelve he loved nothing more than fishing. He would rise early, slip out of his window and disappear for hours casting his line into some local pond or stream. On the way there, he would do some quick digging and uncover enough worms to make the casting a fruitful exercise. Through the process of trial and error he found that the closer he dug to an old abandoned shed, the larger and more plentiful the worms became until it came to pass he was digging right alongside the rotting lumber that made up its walls. In fact, by this time, he was wondering just how large the worms would be should he venture inside the dilapidated structure and do some digging so he did just that.

The shed's interior was surprisingly large and dimly lit, the only light coming in through grimy windows and small cracks between the rotting planks that made up its walls. If you are picturing some endearing scene where a young boy is wide-eyed with a naïve mix of fear and curiosity, you are way off. Nap strolled in like he owned the place and went right to work digging.

It didn't take long until he was looking down at worms of such size that if he were to lower them into the pond on a hook, most of the fish would take one look, shriek a fishy shriek of terror, and throw themselves on shore. Snakes would give these worms a wide berth.

Nap was soon looking down on a squirming black mass of worms the likes of which usually appear in bad horror movies. Sitting in the middle of these hellish _Lumbricus terrestris_ was a black mummified face. Half buried, he could make out its unnecessarily creepy non-arthropod invertebrate making its way out through the mouth.

Even at the tender age of twelve, Nap would have typically heard the sinister man sneaking up behind him but you'll forgive him if he was momentarily distracted by the site of the mummified face opening its eyes and staring right at the young man.

You wanted supernatural? You've got it in spades! This shed reeked of supernaturalness.

And the mummy is only the start of it. Unknowingly, Nap had stumbled into a shed containing the long-lost Amulet of Osiris, a piece of jewelry that legend suggested would give its bearer not only power over life and death but limitless wealth and influence. A fact that the man sneaking up behind Nap was keenly aware of.

Now anyone but Nap Lapkin would have been rendered unconscious by a swift blow to the back of the head and thus would have begun an epic story of Nap searching the globe to avenge this violent affront to his skull and recover the artifact. But nope... no such luck for this storyteller. I can't seem to catch a break.

While it's true that he was momentarily distracted by the mummy eyes popping open, he quickly recovered and realized there was someone approaching from his rear with ill-intent.

He quickly scooped up a rusted garden implement and drove it up through the man's jaw and into his brain. He then kicked some dirt over the mummy's face and departed the shed to go fishing.

Later, authorities found the body and decided it might be best if Nap moved on to another group home. Nap never said a word to anyone about what had happened and the shed, the mummy and the long-lost Amulet of Osiris were later bulldozed over to make way for a strip mall. A strip mall that ironically housed an Egyptian restaurant whose food was so good that some people said it was to die for.

If I'm giving Nap a back story, I'd better pony up for Madonna... so here goes. There are almost eight hundred female Saints in the Catholic faith but the little gold medallion hanging around Madonna's neck doesn't signify one of those. The serene face emblazoned on it is a touch more obscure. If you have any understanding of the religion at all it's easy to see why.

Sister Charity and her miraculous vagina.

Back in seventh century Italy, she was well-known for the healing gifts bestowed upon her and her woman parts. For reasons that nobody was ever able to figure out, anyone inside her at the moment of her orgasm would immediately be cured of any ailment. She was the original "pity fuck."

After word spread of her amazing power, men traveled from every corner of the globe to be with her. Cripples and lepers waited outside her home waiting for a shot at her wondrous nether regions.

Obviously, this put the church in an awkward position as the magisterium clearly states that sexual pleasure is morally disordered when sought for itself, isolated from its procreative and unitive purposes. Nowhere did the good book state it was ok to bang the blindness out of a guy or hump the hump off a hunchback.

Sister Charity grappled with this conflict all of her days, wondering why her God would give her a healing gift that seemed to damn her to hell. She appeared to literally be taking one for the team... and by one, I mean no less than one hundred and sixty documented miracles. And by team, I mean the roughest group of suitors you could ever imagine. And to make each miracle happen, Sister Charity had to climax.

Nobody ever asked her what she was thinking about when some obese fevered retard was plowing away that allowed her to cum, but if it wasn't the hand of God working between her sweaty thighs, I'd be hard pressed to come up with another explanation.

The church never saw it that way. Although her name made its way all the way up to the pope, she was never granted sainthood. Madonna always thought that Catholic view of sexuality was both cruel and arbitrary.

Just the way she liked her lovers.

Ron Snyder had read about the strings of mascot homicides with growing concern but he was in no position to call in sick. He knew that if he wasn't inside that Mad Ant costume someone else would be happy to take his place. The NBA Development league games were never televised and Fort Wayne, Indiana might not be as glamorous as New York City but at least it was a job and it helped pay the rent. His ailing grandmother lived with him and her medication ran at least five hundred dollars a month and besides, he had promised some of the boys down at the orphanage where he volunteered he would get them a few autographs from some of the up-and-coming basketball players, so even though he knew he was exactly the kind of person who usually gets eaten in situations like this, he threw his ant outfit in a duffel bag and headed out to the game.

Later that same night...

In addition to the usual crowd of forensic nerds, there were a few nerds that Nap couldn't put his finger on. Then he realized that the discovery of a six-foot-long ant corpse is not the kind of thing that happens a lot in the entomological world. You couldn't throw a notepad without hitting a tweed jacket. Six notepads later, Nap finally asked who he'd been pelting with notepads. "I'm an entomologist... and that's going to leave a mark." (It's important to note as you build a mental image of Nap Lapkin that he typically doesn't carry six notepads. This was a special case.)

I throw in a bit of levity because I know that there are some of you who must have fallen under the spell of hard-working-yet-lovable Ron Snyder (damn my ability to create living, breathing characters, damn it to hell) and probably need a minute to collect yourself after putting the pieces together.

Take your time.

Fort Wayne is as good as any place for Madonna to join Nap in the hunt for the killer. If you introduce Madonna into a story, you know it's going to end up with Nap sleeping with her so let's cut straight to that chase. If you're expecting me to go all _50 Shades_ on you, you're going to be sorely disappointed. I'll be leaping straight to the post-coital scene where Madonna is lying next to Nap and waiting for him to say something romantic. He continues to stare at the ceiling with a far-away look on his face. She assumes he is replaying their intimate encounter in his head. Finally he speaks... "What kind of sick mind thinks of making a dessert out of carrots?"

Her eyes almost bulge out her head. "Really Nap? Carrot cake again?!"

Some of you still might be salty about the fact I skipped over an outstanding opportunity to introduce a little smut into what might be the least supernatural story you've ever read. Typically, I ignore such second-guessing, but even I have to admit that I've pretty much abandoned the original premise so it certainly couldn't hurt if I threw in a little of the stuff that seems to sell books these days.

So here goes... Madonna slowly walked into the room and closed the door behind her. Moments later, it began. Birds in the area took flight and small woodland creatures hurried to find shelter. Waves lapped at the edges of a nearby pond that had never seen waves before. There was a two-minute guttural groan that escaped her trembling lips and brought dust down from every ceiling in the county. Asphalt surrounding the motel shimmered as though it were August in Death Valley. Seismologists scrambled to confirm their readings.

Happy?

On the topic of sex, Nap once gave a little speech he gave at the Academy on that very subject. It was completely unrelated to the topic he was supposed to be talking about but he felt it was good advice just the same and needed to be imparted. That advice? A man needs to approach sex as if it's his goal to break the vagina with his penis. He was so sincere in his delivery that many of the men in the room actually wrote it down. The quick sketch he did to accompany the lecture turned one of the women in the audience into a lesbian.

Nap also had this advice for the cadets: "There are going to be moments that are over before they begin. It could be prom night or your first exchange of gunfire, you'll be there but you won't. As if the moment exists only to pass into your memory. Recognize them for what they are. In those situations, I find it's best to just act how you'd like to have acted looking back on it and not how you want to act. Take yourself out of the decision-making because you'll just fuck it up. For those fleeting minutes, be the person you want to be and not how you are. Do that enough and you end up being that person."

He then paused for a few seconds before adding "Whatever becomes of the person you are is anyone's guess," in a hushed, almost nostalgic tone.

Here's something else to consider about Madonna Axiom. When she was in her high school health class, there was a rather odd discussion amongst the other girls- when the teacher was absent from the room of course- about the way their private parts smelled when aroused. It caused a lot of giggling and blushing but also exposed some rather telling information about the way the girls thought about boys. It wasn't long before they debated amongst themselves what they wished their vaginas smelled like. At first things like flowers and apple pie were offered up as preferred bouquets but eventually they started moving towards what they believed boys would find attractive. Soon they were wishing their vaginas smelled like beer or pizza. Finally all eyes fell on Madonna, given the fact that she seemingly had an opinion about everything, and her one-word answer ended the discussion cold.

"Pussy."

It's at this point that you can be forgiven if you're clenching and unclenching your fists and asking aloud if I ever plan on getting back to the mascot-eating dragon that started off this whole mess of a story. I mean to say, this one really got away from me. But, ever the thoughtful writer, I will do my best to try to stay focused and return to the realm of the supernatural.

Let's see what Nap is up to, shall we?

Nap arrived too late to save the UC Santa Cruz mascot. The half-eaten banana slug lay draped across a bench in the locker room and gave off a pungent and sluggy scent. What you might ask is a sluggy scent? I have no idea. At some point, I have to be honest and say I have no idea what a giant five-foot-eight banana slug would smell like. I think everyone's banana slug corpse will smell a little different. I gave you pungent; you're on your own for the rest.

Nap reached into his pocket and produced a red phone that acted as a direct link to the President. It was red because Nap refused to address the President as anything but Commissioner Gordon. A fact that irritated the President but nowhere near as much as the endless string of late-night calls from inebriated cocktail waitresses asking him if he really was the President. "Yes. Yes, I am. Yes... THE President. No, I'm not a Sagittarius. Put Nap on the phone please. Ok, well, when he's done vomiting please tell him that if he calls me again, I'll have him shot. Yes, really."

It wasn't really necessary but Nap pressed in the required digits and heard the call go through. After a few rings he heard a familiar voice.

"What is it Nap? This better not be some drunken slut asking me if I'm really..."

Nap cut him off.

"It's not. I just wanted to tell you I know where the mascot killer is going to strike next."

This might be a good time to come right out and tell you that I'm not going to explain the how or why of mascots turning into the actual creatures they are pretending to be. Face it, whatever explanation I offered up would fall flat compared to the one you already came up with. Nor do I have a good back story about why an out-of-work mascot would suddenly turn into a dragon and what's more if I were to sit and come up with one, you'd only roll your eyes and think to yourself "Lame!" While you might have been a bit thrown by the first paragraph of the story, I'm sure by now your imagination is really cooking and there is a part of you that hopes that I will not screw things up by trying to explain too much.

What I will tell you is how Nap knew the dreaded dragon would end up back at Miller Park in Milwaukee. Because he was about to offer him a treat that no self-respecting demonic entity could pass up: a sixth competitor running during the seventh inning stretch. The wolf in meat's clothing. Pepperoni. Nap Lapkin... dressed to kill. A salami out for justice. Out to avenge Sammy the Slug, Speedy the Geoduck, and Arkansas-Monticello's noble boll weevil.

But first he had a race to win. Although he was told prior to the gate swinging open that it was Chorizo's turn to win, Nap was damned if he was going to lose a footrace to a pork product. Sensing what was afoot, Madonna, situated in an ill-fitting Polish Sausage costume, tackled him about twenty feet from the finish line. The sight of two Racing Sausages getting to their feet and engaging in an impromptu martial arts battle was an unexpected treat for the thousands of baseball fans in attendance.

Once back behind the confines of the hallway, both Nap and Madonna heard a familiar growl.

It's here I have to warn you that if you're expecting some epic showdown between good and evil, you might be a bit disappointed. The thing is, even if you're a dragon, you're still susceptible to the kind of weaponry Nap and Madonna were packing inside their mascot attire. Before Madonna could even raise her plasma-spewing vibrator, Nap had unloaded a clip of hollow point bullets into the demon's head.

It fell over without even a last snarl.

The problem is that countless fantasy authors have filled your imaginations with completely unrealistic expectations regarding the durability of dragon scales and dragon teeth and all the other things that make up a dragon. The truth is that they are basically just as sausagey inside as any other animal.

Obviously, I'm not any happier about it than you... I ended the damn story with the word sausagey for fuck's sake.

Totally not epic.
**Great Ball of Fire**

The idea came to him as he clutched his throbbing knee. His knee throbbed courtesy of a beverage cart being pushed down the aisle of his flight by an attendant who wasn't paying attention. Certainly not a unique occurrence. Even as your eyes travel across the page, somewhere there's a flight attendant not paying attention. Getting a drink wrong. Giving a pillow to the wrong passenger. Saying "Have a nice day" to the herd of people exiting the plane without bothering to look up from her task of looking busy. What makes this incident worthy of being on the page is not only the owner of said throbbing knee but what he was doing on the plane in the first place.

Nap Lapkin.

Super spy.

He was flying to Washington, D.C. to once again save the planet from certain destruction.

That got you. I bet you're thinking to yourself this is the quickest you've ever been sucked helplessly into a story, unable to resist reading on.

His throbbing knee got him thinking. (Thinking was the only way to avoid standing up and breaking the neck of the clumsy stewardess.) It occurred to him that the pain he was feeling would have been very different if that beverage cart had been traveling ten thousand miles per hour. Hurtling down the aisle like a metal comet. His knee would have simply been sheared off.

He sank back into his first-class seat and briefly imagined his leg flying off to land wetly somewhere in the back of the plane.

And that's when he realized what made his leg hurt was the fact he was a conscious being. The various chemicals that made up his body were aware. Things collided in the universe all the time but rarely did they hurt because the objects weren't aware. For a brief moment, he appreciated the throb in his knee.

Then he remembered why he was flying to Washington, D.C.

Damn it! Less than a dozen paragraphs in and I already don't know if you put a period at the end of a sentence ending in D.C..

Damn it to hell, there it is again.

I would email my editor, but I'm in the grips of inspiration and don't want to lose track of where I was going with this.

Now where the heck was I going with this?

Oh yes, Nap suddenly had a thought. Rookies might call it a hunch but Nap knew his intuition was never wrong. Where other people might have an educated guess, Nap leapt immediately into unshakable certainty. It was one of the many gifts that made him such an asset to his government. He could make a connection that seemed at the time absurd but in the end, was always proved correct.

However crazy it might appear at the time.

And this thought was crazy.

You see, Nap was flying to Washington, D.C. (thank goodness there were words after D.C. this time) to sit down and brainstorm with top officials about possible ways to stop the comet headed right for Earth from ending all life as we know it.

Even Washington, D.C.. (Now I'm just doing it to myself.)

He rubbed his sore knee and realized that this comet might actually be aware. He marveled at his own intuitiveness for a few minutes then pushed his seat back and went to sleep. He still had a few hours in the air.

When Nap Lapkin falls asleep on a plane, he dreams about plane-centric things. When he falls asleep on a train or inside a submarine, he dreams about sex. Obviously. They both look like penises. One could argue that a plane looks like a penis with wings sticking out of it and bring up the fact that many psychiatrists associate flying with sex but as I am the one writing this, whom are you going to believe?

And yes, I know many of you will still believe the psychiatrists just to be difficult, but as I can't control who reads my stories, I suppose I have to let it go.

Nap had the following dream: he was flying on a new plane. A new plane with extremely large aisles. It was in some alternate reality where a five-hundred-pound woman had sued the airlines because she wanted to be a flight attendant but she was too fat and kept getting stuck in the aisles. In this alternate reality, there was nobody to sit her fat ass down to explain she was too fat for that particular occupation and instead, some agency with a title like American With Disabilities And Such forced all the airlines to buy all new planes with wider aisles to accommodate this woman. Of course, the woman never got to live out her dream of pushing a beverage cart down the aisle and hitting a passenger's knee (Nap's knee throbbed slightly as his subconscious realized what was going on between his ears and it caused him to stir slightly and mutter "fat bitch" before sinking back into a REM state) because she died of a heart attack while all the planes were being built. She was just too fat to live.

But her brave struggle to achieve her dream of pushing a beverage cart down the aisle and hitting a passenger's knee (knee. stir. "fat bitch.") did have consequences. In Third World countries around the world, they were able to buy the old planes at a great discount and thereby the number of aircraft fatalities plummeted. These "old" planes they were buying weren't really old compared to the ones they had been flying until then. Their old planes were really old. Every third plane would burst into flames on the runway or disappear over whatever body of water they were flying over. Now they were able to afford nice planes because these Third World countries didn't give a flying crap (get it? flying?) what a fat woman wanted to do for a career.

On the downside, the cost of flying in developed counties skyrocketed (that pun was unintended). Overnight, it quadrupled and airlines charged for every little thing they could. A passenger would hear the following safety announcement as the plane was ready to depart: "In the event of decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you. To start the flow of oxygen, insert your credit card and swipe it downwards, then pull the mask towards you. Place it firmly over your nose and mouth, secure the elastic band behind your head, and breathe normally. Although the bag does not inflate, oxygen is flowing to the mask. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your own mask first, then swipe your card for each individual you would like to have oxygen supplied to. You will receive a discount of $3 off every person after your third swipe. Keep your mask on until a uniformed crew member advises you to remove it. Oxygen will continue to flow at a rate of $9 per half hour."

It wasn't long, due to the cash-crunch, that every flight included a decompression. Heaven forbid they were forced into a water landing; the cost of the slide was exorbitant to say nothing of the floatation devices.

At some point during the dream, he imagined a rocky flight filled with decompressions and water landings and was jolted awake. He realized that the plane he was flying in was hitting some turbulence and the two were probably connected somehow, although it wouldn't explain the cynicism of the dream, and he closed his eyes once more and drifted off.

He knew that even if the plane crashed, he would somehow stumble out of the wreckage. Even if it crashed inside an active volcano, he would stagger out of the ash, coughing and no worse for wear.

He was a super-spy, for fuck's sake.

Even if the somber faces gathered around the large table in the Pentagon's formerly-named War Room (meaning that it was called the War Room but someone with a morose sense of humor had recently taped a piece of paper over it renaming it Panic Room) believed Nap Lapkin and his theory that the comet had consciousness, the information didn't help much. While it perhaps explained why this anomaly they had been tracking for a decade had suddenly made a slight course correction and had gone from harmless blip in the night sky to engine of doom and destruction, they were no closer to figuring out how to deal with it.

Nap had begun disappearing and plowing the comely assistants that prowled the halls at a rate that was beginning to unnerve the usually-unflappable Generals. It was not uncommon for him to duck out of a meeting after making eye contact with a pretty girl walking by the room and not return until everyone had endured her cries of passion and ecstasy for more than an hour, in part due to the woefully inadequate acoustical properties of the adjoining supply closet. Since his arrival, he had spent more time in the supply closet than the War/Panic Room. At one time, at least two distinct female cries of passion and ecstasy were heard in what could only be described as a cacophony of foul language and grunts.

He was not taking the news well.

This worried the Generals.

Finally, he once again entered the room, wearing only one shoe, and collapsed onto a chair.

"What do we know for certain?" he asked.

"Well, until three days ago, this comet was due to fly by with millions of miles safely between us. Then out of nowhere, we get a call from some geek with a telescope asking us if we were aware that it was now on a collision course."

For me to try and describe the particular General or even give him a name is simply a waste of everyone's time. You have the room pictured, you have the Generals pictured. I trust you.

This did not sit well with Nap. He had seen the movie _Armageddon_. He looked out the large window of the conference room hoping a cute woman might be walking past. (I originally typed that it was a small window but then changed it to large after realizing nobody describes a window as medium-sized.)

"Nap! For god's sake, man. This is serious," said another General.

"Lance! For fuck's sake man. Who gives a shit about the window?" said almost every reader.

"Have we considered flying a team of misfit blue-collar deep-core drillers up to the comet, having them crash-land on it, then blow it up using a nuclear bomb?" Nap asked intensely.

"You just described the plot of _Armageddon,_ " replied a General curtly.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Of course we did," said another General sheepishly. "Apparently, that isn't possible."

The news hit Nap particularly hard due to the fact that _Armageddon_ was one of his favorite flicks of all time and there was a part of him that believed had he had been left to blow up the asteroid like Bruce Willis, he would have somehow survived the blast and ended up washing ashore in Tahiti to great fanfare.

Suddenly, Nap noticed a thin man in the corner that wasn't dripping with medals, badges, and ribbons. In fact, he looked downright civilian.

The man spoke. "This bad boy has a nucleus fifty miles across, an extended atmosphere of over 70,000, and a tail that goes on for days." A scientist.

The scientist fidgeted for a few seconds. "The last part isn't scientific. I was paraphrasing that scene in _Joe Dirt_ where Christopher Walken says his ex-wife's legs go on for days."

"Definitely a scientist," Nap thought to himself.

"And I'm thinking about the scene in _Independence Day_ where the geeky scientist tries to make a joke when the fate of the world hangs in the balance and everyone in the theater wants to shoot him," Nap said aloud.

"Can we give the comet a virus?!" one of the Generals piped up with great enthusiasm. When he realized his enthusiasm was misplaced, he was suddenly happy I hadn't given him a name or even bothered to describe him in any detail so he could slink off into anonymity.

"We're getting nowhere fast and we're running out of time," said the largest and jowliest of the Generals. "So if we're done plumbing the depths of the silver screen, can we start to come up with some real suggestions?" he continued.

"If only John Hughes were here," Nap thought wistfully. "He'd figure it out."

The room fell silent. Finally, all eyes turned to Nap.

"To start with," he offered up, "I'll need to get closer to it. We'll need to speak."

The room fell even silenter. Occupants of the room looked back on the prior silence as if it were Mardi Gras.

Finally Nap Lapkin spoke again.

"Someone get me a rocket."

If you think the U.S. government doesn't have a number of specialized spacecraft equipped with a variety of different problem-solving payloads fueled up and ready at a moment's notice, you're kidding yourself. There are top-secret facilities scattered around the globe that have hangar after hangar stuffed full of vehicles that make stories such as this one possible. So, let's just move on, shall we?

Nap stood looking up at the towering shuttle when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"What have you gotten me into now, Lapkin?"

It was Madonna Axion. Just about the hottest female agent to ever grace whatever department she was working for at any given time. Any other man would have swung his head around at the sound of her approach with a speed that would produce a loud snapping sound and had their lifeless corpse falling to the ground, eyes eager to drink in the sight of her one last time, but Nap just continued staring up at the towering tribute to man's need to explore.

"And why is Jeff Goldblum coming with us? You realize you're an idiot, right?"

He finally, albeit slowly, turned around to face her. She looked, as always, spectacular.

She kept talking. "I understand that when the boys in Washington suggested their science geek go with you on this trip in case anything unusual happened you said, and I quote, 'I'll do you one better,' and suggested Jeff Goldblum." Her eyes rolled ever so slightly. "You understand _Independence Day_ was a movie, right? Not a documentary. That Jeff Goldblum is an actor and not a genius, right? How on earth is that 'one better,' Nap?"

"On Earth it isn't... but we're not going to Earth," Nap said dramatically.

It took her a moment to process his words.

"Holy shit. The comet might as well hit us now and get it over with."

It's fair to say that Jeff Goldblum was as equally unenthusiastic about going into space as Madonna was in having him there. In fact, he was crying as they loaded him into his seat in the ship. Blubbering. Not crying like a school girl; school girls under 200 lbs were incapable of it. It takes a man to blubber. Or, if you want to be totally honest about it, an extremely large school girl.

As long as we're being honest, it wasn't much of a secret that the reason Nap wanted Madonna to accompany him on this mission to save the planet was because he wanted to be the first human to have sex in outer space. Madonna was aware of this when she accepted the mission and considered it a small price to pay to be involved in the most important mission any agent had ever been a part of. She'd had sex with Nap numerous times and the idea of trying it in space seemed completely palatable.

They had barely left the atmosphere before both parties had unbuckled and moved to a quiet section of the ship. Off came the space suits and they attacked each other with historic ravenousness. A lesser author would spend six pages describing various sex acts that can be achieved in a weightless environment, but I have the comfort of knowing I have one of the most perverted readerships of any unknown writer, so I only have to start the balls rolling and your imagination can take it from there. The only thing of note is the fact that Nap forgot to bring a condom. This resulted in two noteworthy things: the first being that Madonna reminded him to pull out before achieving a climax. The second was, as it became clear he was nearing said climax, that she began screaming "Pull out!" in such a way that if this story was ever made into a movie, her screaming "Pull out! Pull out!" would definitely make it into the trailer due to the energy and sincerity with which she delivered the lines. Nobody watching would have any idea she was referring to Nap's penis. They would assume it was at the end of some intense scene where lives hung in the balance.

I realize I said there was one thing to note and that led to two noteworthy things and that in your mind, you immediately imagined this as a flowchart where the word "note" appeared in a circle and had two branches off of it containing the words "noteworthy 1" and "noteworthy 2" also appearing in circles, and I forgive you. I can't expect you to be wonderfully perverted and then begrudge the fact that you're also into diagrams.

As long as this section is trying to be truthful, let me add that I'm sure some of you are even more perverted than I dreamed possible and some of you have even somehow created a pornographic flowchart where there are things appearing with a circle around them that would make a longshoreman blush.

So, Madonna, naked and gleaming with sweat, yelled "Pull out! Pull out!" at such a volume that the old expression "In space, nobody can hear you scream" is found to be completely inaccurate, so Nap did just that. Maybe it was the zero gravity or maybe it was the adrenaline of lift-off, but he had the most intense orgasm of his life.

Do you know how fast semen leaves the penis during an orgasm? I got two different numbers from two different websites. One, the Kinsey Institute, stated it was 28 miles per hour. The other said it was 31 mph and then went on to compare that to the top speed of a Peruvian Jaguar. That seems oddly specific. Not just any Jaguar, a Peruvian Jaguar. I think I'm going with the 28 mph.

The reason this speed is important is so you can visualize Nap ejaculating and having the sperm shoot out with no gravity to slow it down. On Earth- this data coming from the same source as our Peruvian Jaguar so don't take this as gospel- the average distance sperm travels is 7-10 inches (although there is mention of a man who shot it 18 feet, but I'm not sure I trust that information... although perhaps at the time he was being chased by a Peruvian Jaguar... which apparently, given his orgasm, he really enjoys... and did you find it odd that I asked you not to take this as "gospel," as if information about male orgasms appears in the Bible?). In this case, Nap's loads just shot out and down a corridor one after another at top speed. His eyes were tightly closed but Madonna couldn't look away as burst after burst shot out. Five. Six. Seven blasts from his man-cannon, each one expelling a long string of creamy white globules.

I hope for my sake you've seen how liquid acts in space. These packets of baby-batter are going to be floating around inside the spaceship for the rest of the story. Nap's attempts at convincing Madonna to do the right thing and float around and swallow them fall on deaf ears and will eventually, when the story starts to lag and needs a quick lighter moment, lead to one of these salty beads ending up in the eye of Jeff Goldblum.

For the sake of the rest of the story, which is just about to get started, I'll let it go at that. Although I'm sure I'll regret it when, for years after writing this, I'll think of hilarious things that could result from seven discharges of semen floating around a spaceship.

After coitus with Madonna, a quick bit of rest became priority number one for Nap. He sat back in the Captain's chair he had installed - the entire command center for the ship had been quickly retrofitted to look exactly like the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise - and quickly fell asleep.

At some point, you might ask yourself why the government was not only willing to believe Nap's contention that the comet hurtling towards them was somehow conscious but allow him to borrow a shuttle, complete with a knock-off of the _Star Trek_ command center and commandeer Jeff Goldblum against his wishes.

Because he's Nap Lapkin.

The feeling amongst most world leaders was they were lucky he didn't demand to have Ben Affleck on call 24/7 in case he was needed to say "He doesn't know how to fail."

I hope that answers your question. If not, you clearly don't deserve a Nap Lapkin story in the first place.

Nap had dreamt in airplanes and trains and submarines, but space was something new entirely.

This is what he dreamt: that he became somehow responsible for assembling every person on the planet to one location to hear some important information. Apparently, dreams in space center primarily on logistical problems.

For some reason, it was critical to get everyone on the planet together in one location. All 7.6 billion people needed to be together or something terrible would happen. (Note that as a writer, it pains me to have to state the current number of people on the planet. Nothing dates a work worse than information like that. When my writings become famous and are passed down from one generation to the next, the first thing people in January of 3016 will do is laugh at the number of people I give as the world's population. They will smirk and think to themselves "Damn, back in 2017, there were certainly a lot of people on the planet," or "Only 7.6 billion?" or "What's a Peruvian Jaguar" or "18 feet was the record? I can do that with one hand now I'm equipped with the new Turbodick 600." You can see my dilemma.)

Try for one minute to truly imagine the logistics behind getting everyone together in one area. It would have to be an enormous flat area where everyone could camp out and wait for whatever announcement was coming. Like a Woodstock on steroids (for readers in January of 3016, in 2017, steroids were actually considered a bad thing and not something you took every morning with breakfast). You would have to engage every car, every boat, every plane, train, and bicycle to get everyone from every corner of the globe. You would have to create teams of workers/soldiers to bring the people who didn't want to come. I know I asked you to take a minute and imagine this scenario, but my gut is telling me you just breezed by this request in the hopes of finding another semen joke, but I want you to really stop and think about it.

It boggles the mind. It was boggling Nap's mind in his dream... but he had to try and accomplish it just the same. Every. Single. Human. Brought to the same spot.

A logistical nightmare.

Nap's head started to jerk from side to side as he slept. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. A bead of his semen floated by, dangerously close to his head (I couldn't wait any longer).

An endless stream of humanity coming to one spot. Lines and lines of people in China and Australia and the Congo (yes people from 3016, Africa was still made up of different countries and not just a giant theme park) all waiting to be airlifted. Food, water, and shelter having to be provided every step of the way.

Nap's hands began to twitch.

A billion people arriving. Then three billion. Then the last busload of them pulling up and being led to the field. Everyone was there.

Now what?

"You'll never believe the dream I just had," said Nap as he sat up from his commander's chair and surveyed the bridge of the Enterprise.

"The one about your ex-girlfriend communicating to you through fortune cookies?" inquired Madonna.

"No, that's not a dream. That's real," said Nap with a little too much force. Madonna knew that Nap believed that one of his ex-girlfriends had the ability to manipulate space and time to ensure that every fortune cookie he ever read would be a reminder of what a fool he was to have lost her. It got to the point that Nap could no longer enjoy a Chinese dinner. He knew he had to be out of the restaurant before the check came or risk getting another way-to-specific-to-be-a-coincidence message from his ex. The last time he opened a cookie, the message was so long, it took four pieces of the little paper crammed inside the cookie to remind him what his life would have been like if only he'd been attentive to her needs.

"The dream I had involved having to get everyone on Earth together to hear some kind of message," related Nap, still a little frosty about the ex-girlfriend comment.

"Do you think it's some kind of message from the comet?" asked Jeff Goldblum.

"Well, look who decided to join the party," Nap said with undisguised sarcasm. The truth was Mr. Goldblum had done nothing the entire journey except sit in his seat and whimper. Nap was getting close to coming to the conclusion that his inclusion was a mistake and he perhaps should have gone with the real scientist. This did not sit well with him at all.

"And another thing Jeff Goldblum... no. My dream has nothing to do with the comet."

The time to have it out with Jeff Goldblum had arrived.

"And yet another thing Jeff Goldblum... you have been a total disappointment so far."

"What a shock that is," whispered Madonna under her breath. "Whoever could have seen that coming?" she continued whispering until both Nap and Jeff turned her way to see what all the hushed tones were about.

"My point is," an exacerbated Nap continued, "from this point on, you are no longer Jeff Goldblum. You are Chance Goodrod and you are a scientist. If you cannot handle this new role, I will be forced to hurl you into the cold depths of space outside this vessel."

And pivoting quickly vis-à-vis topics, "I have also decided to give the comet a name and that name is Bill Haley. If I'm going to communicate with it, it needs a name." Nap sat back with an air of halting pride plastered on his face from making this important decision.

"That makes no sense," interjected Madonna, causing Nap's face to become unplastered. Never a good look.

"What do you mean?"

"I think she means," said the newly-minted Chance Goodrod, "that it was 'Bill Haley and the Comets.' Bill Haley wasn't the comet."

"In fact," rallying to support Goodrod's argument, "if anyone would be Bill Haley, it would be you," said Madonna staring at Nap.

A wave of fury broke across Nap's formerly plastered face. If he were Captain Kirk, there would have been no doubt in anyone's mind he would have slapped a red shirt on both of them and they would have been the first ones down to explore whatever new world they happened to be visiting. As sure a death sentence as electric chairs could ever hope to be. In fact, for a brief moment, as he looked at them both and noticed they were wearing red shirts, a small smile crept across his face.

To Madonna and Chance, the small smile was just about as creepy as a small smile can be.

Composing himself quickly, Nap added "Ok, I will name the comet Comet. Comet the comet. Happy now? No whimsy at all."

Feeling much bolder since the new role had been bestowed upon him, Chance spoke up again. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

"Shut up, Goodrod." And with that, Nap turned to his instrumentation.

They were getting close.

Nap stood staring out of one of the portals in the ship, for the first time able to see the glowing speck that was hurtling towards them. He, Madonna, Chance, and everyone he knew and didn't know back on Earth. Madonna floated up behind him and touched him gently on the shoulder. The two stood silently for a few moments staring out into the abyss. The reality of their mission perhaps sinking in for the first time.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the gravity of the moment, Madonna spoke. "Did you know Bill Haley was a raging alcoholic? He had ten or more kids and was apparently a terrible father to all of them."

Looking out into space, the idea that Nap appeared to be a million miles away still made him the closest person around.

"I hope people of Earth realize that Halley's Comet wasn't named after him."

Seemingly coming out of a trance, Nap looked at her and said "It doesn't seem like you have much faith in the IQ of the people we're here to save."

Unexpectedly feeling wildly vulnerable, she started to tear up and said "I just want to know that it's going to be ok. That people aren't as dumb as I sometimes fear they are. That they know about Edward Halley."

Her bottom lip trembled ever so slightly.

"I need a sign that there's hope."

Nap turned and put his hand on her face.

"Do you know the Stanley Kunitz poem _Halley's Comet_?" he asked her. She looked at him and shook her head.

_"Miss Murphy in first grade_

_wrote its name in chalk_

_across the board and told us_

_it was roaring down the stormtracks_

_of the Milky Way at frightful speed_

_and if it wandered off its course_

_and smashed into the earth_

_there'd be no school tomorrow._

_A red-bearded preacher from the hills_

_with a wild look in his eyes_

_stood in the public square_

_at the playground's edge_

_proclaiming he was sent by God_

_to save every one of us,_

_even the little children._

_"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,_

_waving his hand-lettered sign._

_At supper I felt sad to think_

_that it was probably_

_the last meal I'd share_

_with my mother and my sisters;_

_but I felt excited too_

_and scarcely touched my plate._

_So mother scolded me_

_and sent me early to my room._

_The whole family's asleep_

_except for me. They never heard me steal_

_into the stairwell hall and climb_

_the ladder to the fresh night air._

_Look for me, Father, on the roof_

_of the red brick building_

_at the foot of Green Street —_

_that's where we live, you know, on the top floor._

_I'm the boy in the white flannel gown_

_sprawled on this coarse gravel bed_

_searching the starry sky,_

_waiting for the world to end."_

About seven or eight lines in, Madonna's mouth slowly began to fall open and by the last line, it rested on the top of her perfect breasts. She wanted to ask "How?" or beg Nap to never speak again and ruin it but instead closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Thank you, Nap."

It's at this point you're probably wondering what Nap's plan was.

So was he.

But not with any particular urgency. His mind was instead focused on trying to imagine the things Comet had witnessed. Traveling through the universe at unimaginable speeds for an unimaginable length of time. It was the unimaginable parts that threw him. Until that very moment, he'd never been faced with the unimaginable. Everything had been painfully imaginable. As he paced back and forth, best he could, given the lack of gravity, he wondered what to say to a comet.

What do you say to convince a comet not to slam into your home world?

He'd been working under the assumption that the comet was intelligent and yet there was no actual evidence of this comet being conscious.

That was to say up to that moment.

Nap was suddenly traveling through space. Except it wasn't him. He was a nothing but a head and a long tail.

He felt like a sperm.

He hoped Comet wasn't offended. They had been in communication for about five seconds and he'd already compared him to space sperm. Why had Earth decided to send up him up here anyway? Of all the people on the planet, they decide to send the one guy who would immediately compare the killer comet to a sperm.

Was that insecurity he felt? It was an unknown feeling to Nap so he had no frame of reference. All the while, his sperm-like body plunged through galaxies and nebulas, stars too numerous to count, black dwarfs and white dwarfs and Sneezy and Dopey. Nap laughed and realized Earth couldn't have sent someone less equipped for this ride.

And the emptiness. Holy shit, the endless emptiness of space!

Back in the ship, Madonna and Chance tried vainly to wake Nap up from whatever phase of sleep he'd entered into. He was rigid, eyes wide. They had found him floating into things, banging his head and whatnot, so they'd strapped him into his chair and slapped him and yelled his name, to no effect.

Nap felt something rummaging through his memories. Suddenly, there she was, Madonna, hindquarters splayed and all the good bits visible. There was the fortune cookie girl... hindquarters splayed and all the good bits visible. He realized he seriously needed some diversity in his fond memories.

He moved the rummager to some pictures of forests he'd walked through and mountains he'd climbed. The rummager seemed disinterested and tried to return to attractive girls with their hindquarters splayed and all the good bits visible.

Nap then tried to do some rummaging of his own; the rummaged becoming the rummager, but all he found was cold. The coldness of space. A pervasive feeling of loneliness punctuated with black holes and supernovas, stars singing at a pitch of a trillion hertz and planets where it rains molten glass.

But mostly emptiness.

Then he was back to his own recollections and he realized nothing he'd seen in his few years of existence on a single planet could match the comet's. He focused on his interactions with others. The orphanages he was raised in. Pets he'd owned. Attending sporting events. His first kiss. The countless people he'd killed.

Wait, what?

He'd been asked by numerous people to approximate how many people he'd killed in his life, but the topic had never really interested Nap.

It interested the comet.

The body count was impressive. They scrolled by one after another for what seemed an eternity.

"Most of them really deserved it," he found himself trying to say aloud.

Finally, Nap was able to wrestle the presence in his head toward more wholesome interactions with his fellow men. Laughter. Joy. All to the soundtrack of David Bowie singing Peter Shilling's _Major Tom_. "This is my home. I'm coming home." Maybe not a great time for his subconscious to poke its head up.

"Does being conscious presuppose a subconscious?"

And finally, back to the hindquarters splayed and all the good bits visible.

He felt warm.

"Comet? Can I call you Comet?"

Nap's mind was filled with a creature. Tremendous in size. Towering. Completely alien and seemingly plucked from the furthest reaches of science fiction. What he didn't know was that it was a tardigrade, a microscopic animal found on Earth and brought here by hypervelocity space dust billions of years ago. It crashed around inside Nap's head, but he was completely unaware of the importance of what he was being shown.

Then it was his turn. One thought to convince Comet to change direction and not smash into Earth.

He was back on the airplane.

The clumsy flight attendant and the food cart. The collision between the cart and his knee. How much it hurt. He exaggerated the memory and his knee went from throbbing to an excruciating injury.

"Do you feel pain?"

Now he was moving through an asteroid field. The smaller rocks vaporizing upon his approach. Plowing through them without a care in the world.

Nap wrestled back control. It dawned on him that this was his last chance. Earth's only chance of survival.

He imagined every single person on Earth in a huge field. Waiting for their friend Comet the comet to fly by. To wave and send good cheer. He pictured scientists lined up in front of chalkboards explaining in great detail, through numbers and charts, their plan to put their new very best friend Comet in an endless orbit around Earth so it would never be lonely again. He pictured small children holding up hand-painted signs with hearts on them. Attractive females with their hindquarters splayed and all the good bits visible. There's never been a last chance that wasn't improved with that visual.

Nap snapped back to reality. Back in the ship, Madonna and Chance each looked at him with apprehension. It was as if they both knew this story only had one more installment.

I think the biggest misconception earthlings have about intelligent life out in the universe is they automatically assume it to be much more intelligent than we are. A safe assumption if that life form pulls up to our planet in some device that they created to zip around the cosmos, but for the rest of the almost infinite list of sentient beings inhabiting the almost infinite number of habitable planets, it's really just a crap shoot.

That includes sentient comets.

There's really no way to measure gullibility between species but as the people of Earth breathed a collective sigh of relief as the comet made a small adjustment to its course and cometed right past them, there was one sentient comet who was about to learn the meaning of caveat emptor.

There's really no way to know what the comet felt as it hurtled by, at any minute expecting the computations on the chalkboard in Nap's image to bear fruit and corral said comet into an endless orbit around our blue ball, only to see our planet disappear in the rear-view mirror as it continued its journey through our solar system. Did it even have the ability to see that there was no chalkboard? Or even a giant plain where every member of the human race stood waving and thanking it for not extinguishing their collective lives?

The names of agents Nap Lapkin and Madonna Axion were not included in the story of the heroic mission to save Earth, referred to only as Agent 1 and Agent 2, but a few years later, Jeff Goldblum would break box office records with his pseudo-autobiographical movie _Chance Goodrod To the Rescue_. The source of the semen that floated intermittently through a lot of the scenes was left to the imagination.

It would be days after their safe return when Nap would be told the comet had made one more small course correction that sent it flying right into the sun. His debriefing took a full week, both the military and the scientific community eager to hear all about our first contact with another form of intelligent life.

They didn't get much.

"I did what I was sent to do."

A more intimate account was requested by Madonna as they strolled along a quiet beach a few weeks later. The stars glistened in the sky and every creature within earshot seemed to be on their best behavior, singing, chirping, and croaking a chorus of thanks. She stopped him and put a hand on each side of his face.

"Are you ok, Nap?"

"We did what needed doing."

He stepped back and her hands fell to her side.

"Edward Halley couldn't have done it. Neither could Bill. You were the right mix. Maybe the only man who could have done what needed doing," she whispered. "You saved everyone."

"Almost everyone," was his only reply.

There was no semen to float by and distract you from his walking poignantly away into the night. Sorry, but you're going to have to feel what you're feeling. When he reached his blue '78 Le Mans, he pulled open the door and flopped into the seat. Down went the windows and he opened the sun roof. The V8 engine roared to life and he put it into drive.

Looking up through the sun roof, he channeled his inner Dave Alvin;

_This cop walked into a pancake house in Texas  
And ordered up a couple of cups to go  
And he tells the waitress, 'Hey, I just found the body  
Of some guy who was famous long ago'_

_Epilogue ... of sorts_

It was Jeff Goldblum, a.k.a. Chance Goodrod, who identified the tardigrades in Nap's vision when communicating with the comet. Nap had related all he had felt and seen to the best of his ability to Chance and Madonna on the long flight back to Earth.

It was a happy return. The crew had been told that the comet had altered its course and wouldn't be ending life as they knew it. Always a bit of a pick-me-up. Of course, Nap also knew that what he'd shown the comet was a lie, so he'd begun to wrestle with that. This was before he knew where those lies would lead the comet.

How it occurred to Jeff Goldblum is actually quite funny. And gross. Mostly gross when you think about it, but it did end up validating Nap's decision to bring him along. You see, in a scene so similar to the one in _Independence Day_ that it was creepy, he was able to connect the dots because of some crazy seemingly-unrelated-yet-completely-related incident.

You remember in _Independence Day_ where he was drunk and unable to figure out a way to stop the aliens? Crashing around, his dad made an offhand remark about him catching a cold. Then you see the wheels turning in his head. "That's it. A virus!" His father, of course, had no idea what he was talking about but David Levinson (his character in the movie) figured out a way to create a virus that ended up saving the day. Completely implausible and insulting to the viewer's intelligence, but I had Nap Lapkin able to fly a space shuttle at the drop of a hat, so I can't really throw stones.

The point being, Jeff Goodrod, (he was much more Goodrod than Goldblum at this juncture) accidentally took a load of Nap's floating semen right in his eye soon after their chat.

"Aaaaaaigh! It burns!" he began.

"I got cum in my eye!" he continued. For at least a few minutes.

And then magically, "His seed... in my eye. My orb... a blue orb."

Nap saw and got all excited. "It's happening. It's happening!" he shrieked like a ten-year-old opening a gift at Xmas. He shook Madonna and made her watch, pointing wildly.

I'll mention here that this scene was actually reproduced and used in the trailer of the film _Chance Goodrod To The Rescue_.

Goodrod's voice trailed off a bit.

"Cum is semen... semen... sperm. Panspermia is the deliberate introduction of microorganisms onto lifeless but habitable planets."

"I knew there was a reason I wanted him to come," crowed Lapkin.

"You need to get out more, Nap," said Madonna.

"Don't you see?" asked Goodrod. "Earth was seeded by another civilization!"

It's at this point I'll forgive you if you're asking how in the world is this an epilogue? I admit to having wandered a bit in the storyline and I'm sure there are some of you who doubt if I even know what an epilogue is.

I do. I Googled it.

And I swear that it's just a happy coincidence that I mentioned earlier the possibility of Nap's splooge getting in Jeff Goldblum's eye and you were waiting the entire story for it and it never happened and it was going to leave you with the same feeling you'd get if you went to see a band and they didn't play your favorite song. Now, I can only hope that as the metaphorical encore, splooge is one of your favorite euphemisms for semen. Feel free to insert cock snot, trouser gravy, or wiener sauce if you so desire.

The reason this is the epilogue is that a few weeks later, as Nap thought back on this conversation, he had his own David Levinson moment.

He knew that our civilization already has the technology to engage in panspermia. Young planetary systems like Alpha PsA and Beta Pictoris are both well within our reach if we had such aspirations.

So why don't we?

Simply put, for the overwhelming number of species in existence, life involves more suffering than pleasure. Spreading life is simply spreading pain.

It's morally wrong.

Nap spent a few sleepless nights reading Yew-Kwang Ng's _Toward Welfare Biology: Evolutionary Economics of Animal Consciousness and Suffering_ and Brian Tomasik's _The Importance of Wild-Animal Suffering_. What took David Levinson/Jeff Goldblum/Chance Goodrod a few minutes took Nap days... but things finally started clicking.

He thought about animals on Earth. The brutal ways they live and die.

He thought about Comet the comet.

He thought about himself and the people he knew.

He realized he didn't need to save Comet.

He didn't even need to save everyone.

Or anyone.
**a very Lapkin Xmas**

June 11th: A cave system somewhere in Afghanistan. A man sits tied to a chair. He is badly beaten and there are small pools of blood at his feet. He fades in and out consciousness. There are armed men on either side of him. Somewhere in the distance there is the sound of gunfire. It continues intermittently, each time drawing closer. Finally, the men decide to investigate only to be gunned down a few steps away from the opening to the room.

Nap Lapkin turns the corner, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol. His camouflage fatigues are covered with blood and an assortment of splattered brains and other vital organs.

"There you are, McClellan," Lap snarls and moves quickly to begin cutting him free.

"Nap..." the man stammers through broken teeth. "I told them. They got it out me. I'm sorry."

"You fucking pussy," is all Nap can say before the man blacks out. Napkin scoops him up and begins the long walk back to the cave's entrance.

December 18th: An elementary school on the outskirts of Williamsburg, Virginia. Nap Lapkin turns the corner, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol.

Since his recent return from space, Nap had been on a killing spree of epic proportions. Wherever he was sent, the bodies piled up. His superiors thought a PR visit might be just what the doctor ordered.

"Hello, kids. My name is Nap Lapkin," he offers up in a friendly tone as he makes his way to the front of the classroom. "I'm here today to discuss holiday safety."

Immediately, a boy thrusts his hand skyward. Nap calls on him.

"My dad says we shouldn't call it 'holiday' safety; we should just say Christmas."

"Oh, does he? Why is that?" inquired Nap.

"Because we have to keep Christ in Christmas. It should be about Him."

Long pause.

"Oh really? I wonder if your dad knows what a complete moron he is."

The teacher sitting at her desk in the corner promptly spits the coffee that was until recently about to make its way down her throat back into her cup in an exaggerated manner. Nap suddenly has all the children's complete attention.

"Billy or Timmy or whatever your name is, are you aware that your boy Jesus wasn't born on December 25th? Or even in December? Because he wasn't. If your dad or your priest says he was, they're either stupid or lying to you. Looking at you, I'd guess it's both."

When I inferred that the teacher's coffee was destined to return to her cup in its entirety, I really meant most of her coffee. Some of it decided against that scheme and instead ventured north into her nasal cavity, preventing her from bringing Nap's informative observations to an abrupt end and instead causing her to cough and wheeze and roll her eyes inside her skull.

Suddenly, half a dozen small hands rocket upwards, each student eager to bombard Mr. Lapkin with some question or observation. He waves them all off.

"I know what you're going to ask." For the next few lines, his voice goes up in pitch in order to mimic the prepubescent children around him. "What about Hanukah? What about Ramadan? What about Kwanzaa?"

The children lean forward, anxious for clarification.

"They are also all 100% horseshit," Nap offers bluntly.

"Now... back to holiday safety."

At that moment, a man in a black suit and black sunglasses barrels into the classroom, completely unaware and seemingly oblivious to the educational information that is being imparted. He rushes forward and whispers the following into Nap's ear: "The North Pole is in play."

Both exit the room without another word. Thankfully for all involved, Nap has somewhere else to be.

"Satellites picked up what appears to be an explosion at the North Pole. All contact with Santa has been lost. The workshop is dark."

The message crackles in Nap's ear as the articulating tracks of his Tucker Sno-Cat moves him through the frozen terrain. He will be at the North Pole soon and he has no idea what to expect. Ever since the extremists had acquired the location of Santa's secret lair, the government had been warning Ol' St. Nick about the dangers of allowing his workforce to be infiltrated by Muslim elves, but that jolly bastard wouldn't listen.

"Ho, ho, ho, that seems a bit racist."

Nap will be the first in. He was instructed to assess the situation and report back. There are teams of Special Forces approaching the location from every angle to act on his reconnaissance. He was given strict instructions not to engage unless engaged upon.

When he was given that order, everyone in the room paused for a moment and then burst into laughter.

In the distance, he sees a cheery red glow. As he approaches, it becomes apparent that the rosy glow is coming from various buildings on fire.

Let me take a moment to point out that as a writer, it's difficult to tell a story that involves Nap Lapkin AND is a Xmas story. I will try to throw in "cheery" and "rosy" when I can, but from here on out, I can't promise you more than that. If you decide to continue reading, it's on you.

Nap puts the Sno-Cat in park and slips out into the cold night. Strewn across the white landscape are burned corpses of elves. Their festive green outfits soaked in blood and gore. The stench of their carcasses drifts across the new-fallen snow. Nap steps over a tinsel-coated hat only to realize that there is still an elf head occupying it.

He sprints for the largest building in the compound... where the toys are made. The ornate front door is badly damaged and hangs awkwardly from a single remaining hinge. Nap kicks it inward and enters, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol.

His radio again bursts to life. The Night Stalkers have reached the stables.

"You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen?"

"Yes," comes the reply.

"They're all dead. Copy."

Just then, Nap's world explodes into chaos. He dives behind an overturned bench and narrowly avoids a hail of bullets as towel-headed elves poured forth from a variety of doorways surrounding the main entranceway. His gas operated, air cooled, magazine fed, selective rate, shoulder fired Carbide returns fire and nearly cuts one of his assailants in half as he makes his across the ruined workshop. Muslim gibberish and gunfire fill the air as Nap is finally able to find a short respite by ducking into what he hopes is a large room with many exits.

It's more of a closet than a room. Devoid of exits, he feels of rush of panic as he realizes he might be trapped. Outside, he hears the group of ignorant Hajjis creeping forward and cutting off any means of escape.

"This is not how I imagined going out," Nap thought to himself as he reloaded and prepared for his last stand.

What I should have mentioned before is the enormous stained glass window above the doorway depicting that famous Xmas Eve where Rudolph led Santa's reindeer team through the fog that threatened to cancel Xmas. Easily ten feet across. It's about to play a big role in the story, so my apologies.

I bring it up now because just as Nap is peeking around the doorway of his closet/room to see how many elves he is going to have to dispatch, the nose on the stained glass Rudolph begins to glow very brightly. Then his whole head and then the whole window.

And then a motorcycle comes crashing through it.

Nap wastes no time in bursting out of his closet/room and using this distraction to his advantage, his M4A1 5.56mm Carbine singing his favorite song. The rider of the motorcycle lands in the middle of a group of elves and spins out wildly. He regains his feet almost instantly and launches himself into the fray wielding only a machete.

When the last elf is cut down, Nap looks the leather-clad stranger up and down, glistening elven intestines coiled around his machete, and says "It can't be..."

But it is.

"Chance Goodrod?!"

"One and the same, Napkin" says Jeff Goldblum.

When the fireworks die down a bit, Chance saunters up to Nap and casually throws an arm around his shoulder. "I see I arrived at just the right moment."

Nap laughs and says "I had things under control, Goodrod."

"No, I mean about all the anti-Muslim sentiments expressed in what otherwise would have been a delightful holiday story."

"I couldn't agree more," says Santa as he walks up to them both. "Hajji? Really, Nap?"

"How did you know I was thinking that?" asked Nap, clearly confused and annoyed. That explained a few "naughty lists."

"The term Hajji refers to a Muslim person who has successfully completed the Hajj to Mecca. It is a term of respect," said Chance, trying not to sound like he was lecturing a man with such an infamously short fuse.

"No worries, Nap. All's well that ends well," said Santa.

"But all the toys have been destroyed. There will be no gifts under the tree this Christmas."

"Oh, you're right about that, Nap. Christmas is definitely fucked this year," said Santa- his eyes how they twinkled!

"Santa!" exclaimed both Nap and Chance.
**Nap Lapkin's New Year's Rockin' Eve**

As crazy and overwhelming as it might sound, at any point in time, there's not only a singular tallest person, deepest hole, or oldest tree on the planet but an endless list of other ways to measure, compare, and rank every living and nonliving thing.

For example, the most evil thing on the planet at the moment. You could argue that evil is a subjective term and usually I'd agree with you, but in this case, however you define it, this particular entity takes the cake.

And that entity?

Dick Clark.

I know, I know. You're saying two things to yourself right now. First, Dick Clark was a beloved radio and television personality. He hosted the wildly popular show _American Bandstand_ for thirty years as well as rung in the New Year as host of _Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve_ for another forty or so.

Everyone adored him.

Second, if you noted the words "was" and "hosted" in last paragraph, you're already one step ahead of me; Dick Clark died April 18, 2012.

How can someone be the most evil thing on the planet if they aren't alive?

Exactly what Nap Lapkin was thinking as the New York skyline started to come into focus on the horizon. The chopper rattled a little as the wind off the ocean introduced itself. There was a jolt and a small amount of coffee left Nap's cup and made its way onto his pant leg. Seeing this, the helicopter pilot put one hand on the door and quickly debated the merits of hurling himself out of the craft where he could blissfully plummet to his death, rather than see an angry or disappointed look cross Mr. Napkin's face. Nap shot him a quick "Hey, it happens" look and the pilot made a small promise to himself to attend church services for the remainder of his life.

Once Nap was deposited on the top of a large non-descript building, he quickly ran down a few flights of stairs to a small file room. Therein was waiting for him a folder and therein (again) that folder were the victim's names. A litany of one-hit wonders that for generations made up the diet of one of the most voracious vampires to ever exist.

You knew him as the "world's oldest teenager" due to his perennial youthful appearance. An appearance that was maintained by drinking the blood of countless musicians.

Nap started to flip through the list of the missing and presumed dead.

The disappearances started in the '70s. Norman Greenbaum ( _Spirit in the Sky_ ), Terry Jacks ( _Seasons in the Sun_ ), and Carl Douglas ( _Kung Fu Fighting_ ) all exploded into the limelight only to never be heard from again. Nap wondered how people so famous could just up and disappear. Didn't anyone miss them?

More insidious was a British musician named Tony Burrows who had hits with five separate groups: Edison Lighthouse ( _Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes_ ), White Plains ( _My Baby Loves Lovin'_ ), the Pipkins ( _Gimme Dat Ding_ ), the First Class ( _Beach Baby_ ), and Brotherhood of Man ( _United We Stand_ ). None of the musicians making up these acts was ever heard from again after charting. It occurred to Nap that Tony might have been a vampire, perhaps the one to turn Dick Clark, but the file was too heavily redacted to draw a conclusion. It said only that he was killed by a covert CIA operation in 1974. They left out why.

For a moment, Nap imagined Dick and Tony luring the poor bastards from Edison Lighthouse into a recording studio only to slaughter them and dine on them like cattle. A shudder ran through him. Then he thought about the alternative... having to play _Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes_ for the next twenty years and realized they got off light.

_My Baby Loves Lovin'_ and _Gimme Dat Ding_ , answering the question "What do you think elevators in Hell play?"

Then came the '80s. The list was a bit overwhelming. The Vapors ( _Turning Japanese_ ), After the Fire ( _Der Kommisar_ ), Haircut One Hundred ( _Love Plus One_ ), Murray Head ( _One Night in Bangkok_ ) and Kajagoogoo ( _Too Shy_ ). More than enough bands to keep the hungriest vampire sated. As Nap read the list of songs, he wondered for a brief moment if Dick Clark was perhaps doing the world a favor.

He shook off that idea immediately. As an agent of the federal government, his job was to enforce the laws, not act as a music critic.

He wondered if Tommy Tutone was aware that in Georgia, the phone number 867-5309 would connect the caller to an Atlanta nightclub that claimed to be a vampire hotspot. As Nap had heard nothing further from either Tommy or whomever Jenny was, he concluded he probably found out a bit too late.

The '90s provided no shortage of bands to feast upon: Right Said Fred ( _I'm Too Sexy_ ), Sir Mix-A-Lot ( _Baby Got Back_ ), House of Pain ( _Jump Around_ ), Harvey Danger ( _Flagpole Sitta_ ), Marcy Playground ( _Sex and Candy_ ) and... The Verve Pipe ( _The Freshman)._ His eyes froze on the last name. He remembered the song.

All too well. He was in college.

_For the life of me I cannot remember  
What made us think that we were wise and  
We'd never compromise  
For the life of me I cannot believe  
We'd ever die for these sins  
We were merely freshmen_

He'd seen a lot in the years since. Very little of it good. Now here he was on New Year's Eve in New York City about to hunt down and kill a beloved American icon.

He flipped to the list of assumed victims in 2000s; Baha Men ( _Who Let the Dogs Out_?), American Hi-Fi ( _Flavor of the Weak_ ), James Blunt ( _You're Beautiful_ ), then... no... it couldn't be.

Snow Patrol ( _Chasing Cars_ ).

_I need your grace  
To remind me  
To find my own  
If I lay here  
If I just lay here  
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

That undead bastard can eat all the Baha Men and James Blunts he wants, thought Nap, but killing Snow Patrol was going too far. Now it was personal.

It was New Year's Eve in New York City. There was only one place to be if you were a vampire, the Marriott Marquis Times Square.

It was time to dispatch Dick Clark once and for all.

Security was tight around the Marriott and Nap couldn't let Clark know he was there by flashing his credentials. If Dick knew he was there, he'd simply disappear into the night. If he even caught Nap's scent, he'd run, so he washed off his usual Fulton and Roark Captiva cologne and doused himself liberally with Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette. He winced as he took a whiff of himself. He just hoped there were no women he wanted to sleep with later that night.

Incapacitating a Marriott bellhop was child's play. Once Nap had dragged him into a storage room and switched clothing, he realized the young man must have recently applied a large amount of Black Suede cologne and Nap's head swam a little as the musky scent squared off against the Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette already on his person. He briefly imagined Dick Clark's first words to him being "Is that really Black Suede AND Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette?! What are you... a male prostitute?"

He moved quickly up the stairwell to the top floor. For those of you who appreciate good cardio, that's forty-nine floors without taking a breather. For those of you who appreciate all things olfactory (things related to smell, for those of you who usually stick to Harry Potter books), you can imagine the effect sweat would have to the already potent mixture of Black Suede AND Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette.

And yes, I realize that reading Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette over and over is annoying and yes, I also realize that those of you who usually read Harry Potter books are smugly thinking to yourself "J. K. Rowling never makes us read Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette over and over and that's why she's worth just under a billion dollars," but if you really can't suffer through a few superfluous (which means unnecessary for you Potter fans ["J.K. never makes us read unnecessary words like superfluous... or even regular fluous"], "no wonder nobody reads your dumb books, Lance Manion") Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette references, then I feel it's probably best to part ways now.

For those of you still with me, you'll be thanking yourself soon enough as things are about to heat up.

Before that happens though, let's familiarize you with the word "thrall." It means a mortal who serves a vampire. A slave of sorts. I'm about to just casually start using the word and I can't have you thinking it means "heartthrob" or "supermodel" like a dumbass who reads the _Twilight_ series would conclude.

("Stephenie Meyer has a net worth of $125 million" ... proving that once you let a Harry Potter fan interject in the middle of your story, they are going to keep doing it until you take away their parentheses privileges.)

Nap slowly opened the door and looked down the lavish hallway. There were two beefy men standing rigid outside a large doorway which clearly was the largest of the rooms on the floor. They were wearing dark suits and looked to be all business.

Patting his concierge jacket (concierge means "bellboy" for any fans of _The Hunger Games_... ok, ok. I'll stop), Nap took quick stock of some of the spy gadgets on his person to see if any might help him get past the sentries. The pen that shot out shocks the equivalent of a stun grenade might be a bit of overkill. The poison darts in his cufflinks assumes that the guards are bad guys, and for all he knew, Dick Clark might be in the adjacent room and he will have killed Ryan Seacrest's bodyguards for no reason. The same objection could be raised for the throwing stars contained in each of his shoes. The drone he carried in his front pocket, the size of a postage stamp, wouldn't be able to tell him anything he didn't already know.

"Screw it," he said quietly to himself and threw open the door and approached the men. I know you keep waiting for me to call them thralls but at this point, there's no way you could know they're thralls. I know it. You know it. But you just don't know you know it yet.

I refuse to pander. It's one of the things that have kept me an unknown writer.

The two guards began with the "You can't be up here" and "Sir, you'll have to go back down" patter but the niceties ended abruptly when it became apparent to everyone involved that Nap meant to get into the room and would accept no other outcome.

There were brief fisticuffs. Brief but shockingly violent.

Nap tried the doorknob and found it was open.

He entered.

Didn't I tell you it was going to heat up?

The room was spacious and the attention to detail in the furnishings and color palette was impressive. Clearly, no expense was spared. Even the sheets where the corpse laid looked like they had a thread count that would make a Duchess choke.

Nap walked over to the corpse. He looked oddly familiar. It was hard to make out where he'd seen him before because he appeared so pale but then Nap noticed the enormous parachute pants.

"Holy shit. M.C. Hammer!" was all he could say.

"You can't touch that," said a voice mockingly behind him.

Nap whirled around to see who it was exiting the bathroom.

It was Dick Clark.

He looked ghastly. Not as bad as his last few years on _Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve,_ but still terrifying.

"Is that really Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette?! What are you... a male prostitute?"

"Shut it, Dick. We both know why I'm here," said Nap producing a long stake from inside his jacket.

Just as he started to walk towards Dick Clark, he sensed movement behind him. It was Ryan Seacrest coming out of the closet (which really shouldn't surprise anyone, let alone a spy like Nap Lapkin).

"And there's some Black Suede mixed in," Seacrest noted as the stun gun he was holding made contact with Nap's back. Instantly 300,000 volts made their way into him.

"It... takes... more... than a... stun..." started Nap but Dick Clark obviously knew where the conversation was headed and almost took off our hero's head with a punch of supernatural force.

All went black for Nap.

"Bring him downstairs to the underground lair," Dick ordered Ryan, "and then snap Hammer's neck. The fool agent interrupted my feeding and I don't want Hammer having to spend eternity wandering the Earth wearing giant gold lame' pants. I may be cruel but I'm not entirely heartless."

I feel like this would be a good spot to remind you to read that last sentence in Dick Clark's voice. I just get the idea you're barreling through this and not really making an effort. For both our sakes, I hope you take the time to savor the image of Ryan Seacrest breaking the neck of M.C. Hammer as Dick Clark looks on.

When Nap regained consciousness, it took him a few moments to process what he was seeing.

"I wanted you to see the full extent of what I've been up to." It was Dick Clark's voice... so read it as such, damn it.

Before Nap was a large open area. Large as in mind-bogglingly large. Strewn around the cavernous space were holding pens, large refrigerator units, and antique torture devices. Shackles hung from every wall and most of them were busy shackling. I should have mentioned that most of the holding pens were busy holding.

Please note if you are a big Hollywood producer-type considering turning this into a feature-length film: I'm perfectly willing to make the space considerably smaller if budget concerns become an issue.

"What is this place?" was all Nap could get out.

"What does it look like, secret agent man?" inquired Seacrest as he stepped out of the shadows to Nap's left.

As Nap started to regain his senses, the enormity of the situation began to dawn on him. His eyes stared at a group of disheveled prisoners in the cage nearest him.

"Is that... are they...?" he began.

"Yes. Those are Dexy's Midnight Runners," Dick said finishing his sentence. "Well, most of them. I ate the bassist last month. And before you think too poorly of the treatment they're receiving, they were pretty bedraggled when I captured them."

"You monster!" Nap said bitterly between clenched teeth.

"Come now, Mister FBI or CIA or whomever you are," said Seacrest, clearly enjoying himself. "Look around. Do you really think the world misses any of these guys?"

A smile crept across the face of Dick Clark. "At first, I considered feeding exclusively on the homeless. Transients. Bums. But eventually, people would come looking for them. What I needed were people that absolutely nobody would care about."

Ryan, his long incisors glistening in the bright torchlight (did I forget to mention the torches? I feel like I did), started to walk up and down the long line of cells. He stopped in front of one of them.

"Tell me, who in the world would give a shit about Lou Bega and his _Mambo No. 5_? When someone contacted his agent - one of our thralls of course - about him appearing in a commercial, we just sent out another thrall, a fat black one, and nobody knew the difference," beamed Seacrest.

"You do know what a thrall is, don't you agent-man?" inquired Dick.

"Do I look like I read _Twilight_ , motherfucker?" spat Lapkin.

"And thank goodness for rap. We have so many one-hit wonders coming in these days... quite frankly, I'm getting a bit sick of dark meat," confessed Seacrest.

Nap tried slipping out of the nylon zip ties that held his wrists but they were pulled tight.

Ryan was making his way back towards Nap, trying his best to make eye contact. "Don't fight it," he said. "It will make it easier for you," he hissed menacingly.

"Any last requests before we drink your blood?" inquired Dick Clark. "Perhaps a song from one of our esteemed guests?"

"A little Dishwalla? Some Semisonic?" asked Ryan with mock sincerity.

Nap kept his eyes down. Every time he would make even the slightest eye contact with Seacrest, things would get fuzzy.

"Do you happen to have Looking Glass down here?" he asked. "I could use a little _Brandy_."

"Good call but we ate them a decade ago," answered Dick. "Now I'm afraid you're out of time." With that, he produced a long knife and took a step towards Nap.

The blade was inches from his throat when an even larger blade was thrust through the chest of Dick Clark. It disappeared from where it came only to return seconds later in a sweeping arc that took off the head of one very surprised vampire.

"Good to see you again, Nap!"

"Chance Goodrod?!" was all Nap could sputter out. (For those of you who haven't read Nap's space adventure _Great Ball of Fire_ , Chance Goodrod is the moniker Nap gave actor Jeff Goldblum.)

"I was in town for the _New Year's Rockin' Eve_ thing and saw them taking you down in the elevator. I thought I'd follow and see if I could be of any assistance."

"That was your first and last mistake," screeched an enraged Ryan Seacrest as he hurled himself towards Chance. Although Nap's hands were bound, he was able to unleash a flying side-kick into the ribs of Seacrest that sent him stumbling back into one of the holding pens. He took a moment to smile and dust himself off and that proved to be a mistake. Suddenly countless arms reached through the bars to grab his arms and legs.

Eyes ablaze, he let loose a roar as he tried to pull away. That was all the time Nap needed. Pulling out the stake that was somehow inexorably placed in his jacket, he advanced on Seacrest.

"I'll be honest Ryan, you're a total douchebag. Even if you weren't a vampire, I was hoping I'd get to do this," and with that he drove the stake into the dark creature's chest. With a final guttural cry, Ryan Seacrest died. Again.

Slowly, the arms holding him up relaxed their grip and he tumbled to the cement. As Chance came over to cut through Nap's bindings, they got their first good look at the owners of those arms.

Gotye. Daniel Powter. The guy from Primitive Radio Gods. Natalie Imbruglia. And in the back, much older than the rest, Peter Schilling.

"Are you Nap Lapkin?" he asked.

"Yes, I am. And you're Peter Schilling, right? Major Tom himself," replied Nap.

Let me stop here and point out that I previously said there were "countless" arms holding Ryan Seacrest against the holding pen (a description of the pen that proved quite ironic) when in fact there were ten arms holding him there. Ten is not exactly countless. My apologies. I got caught up in the moment.

"Yes. I am Peter Schilling," said... well, you get who said it. I hope so anyway. I have pretty high standards for my readership. I just thought I'd get us back to the Peter Schilling dialogue after my clumsy apology.

"I had the weirdest dream that David Bowie was singing _Major Tom_ and you were somehow there," he continued. "He" being Peter Schilling. Just to be clear.

"It wasn't a dream," Nap began to explain. "It was me sharing consciousness with a comet headed to destroy the Earth. You must have been included somehow. Long story - and available on the website."

As Peter, Gotye, Daniel, the guy from Primitive Radio Gods, and Natalie walked around, letting out their fellow prisoners, Chance approached Nap.

"Do you really think the world needs all these hacks coming back at the same time? Can you imagine all the bad music we'll be setting loose on the world?"

"What else can we do?" asked Nap.

They both seemed lost in thought for a moment.

Finally, Chance nodded in the direction of Duncan Sheik as he stumbled around incoherently.

"Can we at least say he was barely breathing when we found him and despite our best efforts he died?"

Nap Laughed. "Well I appreciate you saving me, Goodrod so... yes, you can kill Duncan Sheik."

"Thanks Nap. I fucking hate that guy." And with that, he set off with a murderous look in his eyes.

I was originally going to use the brothers Phil and Pauley Fuemana, who made up the New Zealand band OMC (Otara Millionaires Club), because of their horrible one-hit _How Bizarre_ but it turns out they both died very young and were therefore ineligible for the honor of being killed by Jeff Goldblum.

How bizarre indeed.

Later, as they went up the elevator to enjoy the rest of their New Year's Eve, Chance took a deep inhale. Given the size of his nose, it was a lot of information for him to take in.

"You have a rather unique choice of colognes Nap," he began. "I'm usually pretty good at recognizing fragrances but I just can't place yours."

He took another long whiff.

"Bleu by Chanel?" he inquired.

"Nope," replied Nap.

"Paco Rabanne's Invictus?"

"Nope."

"Acqua Di Gio from Giorgio Armani?"

Nap shook his head.

"Yves Saint Laurent L'Homme Ultime?"

"Nope."

"Creed by Aventus?"

"Did you really pick up a fruity bouquet of Corsican blackcurrant, Italian bergamot, French apple, royal pineapple, birch, and patchouli? You're better than that Goodrod," said Nap coldly.

"Nautica Voyage?"

"Nope."

"Viktor & Rolf Spicebomb?"

"What about my scent leads you to believe it is a contrasting yet complementing mix of chili, saffron, leather, tobacco, vetiver, bergamot, grapefruit, elemi, and pink pepper?" replied Lapkin contemptuously.

Bearing down harder, Chance sucked in another lungful of Nap.

"I'm getting mint leaves, lemon zest, tonka bean, amber, vanilla, cedarwood, vetiver, and oak moss. Versace Eros?"

"Wrong again. Your nose is as useless as a dick on a eunuch... just much bigger," laughed Nap.

(For fans of the _Inception_ book series, a eunuch is a man who's been castrated. For people who read _The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,_ castration is when a man's balls are cut off.)

(Are you fucking kidding, Manion? You spend 210 words listing men's colognes for no discernible reason whatsoever and you're going to disparage other authors who dare to actually have a purpose for including something in a story? Writers who are actually successful because they come up with a plausible plot and spend time doing things like reviewing what they've written for errors. Are you jealous or just stupid?)

"Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male Maxi?"

"Nope."

"Only the Brave from Diesel?"

"Nope."

"Italian Bergamot?"

"Nope. And if you guess Polo, I'll punch you in the windpipe," Nap said in a manner that indicated he wasn't kidding.

"Pheromones for Men by RawChemistry?"

"Do you think I need a patented blend of human pheromones to get laid?" Nap said in a manner that indicated that he was actually contemplating punching Chance in the windpipe for such a transgression.

"Lalique Encre Noire? Valentino Uomo? Maison Martin Margiela Replica Jazz Club? Come on, Nap, give me a clue," pleaded Goodrod.

At that moment, the elevator door proceeded to slide open revealing Madonna Axion in a short red dress with a plunging neckline. She breathed in ever so gently and looked Chance Goodrod in the eyes.

"Michel Germain's Sexual Paris Pour Homme Eau de Toilette... with a hint of Black Suede," she said, then took Nap's hand and led him out into the mayhem of Times Square.
**Nap Lapkin: Terminated**

There was a crackling of electricity, a quick flash of light, and suddenly, a large hulking figure was deposited in the alley. Naked as a two-hundred-and-forty-pound jaybird. The newspapers and other bits of debris that were scooped up and hurled around in the obviously-time-travel-related event were slowly making their way back down to the pavement, replete with the requisite amount of filth and puddles of unknown but terrible smelling liquids.

The figure slowly stirred, framed by dumpsters and terrible-smelling cardboard boxes of unknown origin. And if you want to talk unknown origins... that figure had it in spades. Once he steals a leather jacket and a pair of dark sunglasses from some tough that has it coming, he might blend in with normal humans but standing naked in that dark alley he definitely had a strong "cyborg assassin" vibe.

Yes, he was standing. He went from stirring to standing. Try and keep up.

On the other side of town, there was a very similar crackling and flashing taking place, except the figure deposited in into the shadowy backstreet was more dapper than hulking. A nice way of saying older. Distinguished even in his nakedness. Although his alley was much less foreboding, it did come with the necessary privacy that time-traveling gentlemen look for in an alley. It gave him the opportunity to compose himself. He swiveled his neck around slowly and said only one word: "Madonna."

Then, a few moments later, he said another: "Pants."

It's at this juncture I should point out that if you're seeing any similarities between these opening paragraphs of the story and the movie _The Terminator,_ it's really not my fault. I'm just reporting things as they happened, to the best of my rather limited abilities. If a spaceship landed in New York and someone looking a lot like Darth Vader stepped out and blasted the city a new one with a weapon that appeared strikingly like a AG-2G quad laser cannon, the _Star Wars_ lawyers couldn't sue the newspaper that reported it, could they?

Really. Could they? I'm asking sincerely. It will determine exactly how much I can mention about the terminatoresque bad guy in the upcoming story.

Meanwhile in Moab, Utah, a solitary shape was making his way up Dead Horse Point and he wasn't happy about it. He glanced down at the rocky expanse below him before looking up at the expanse above him. Neither expanse filled him with particular enthusiasm for continuing the climb but at this point, he was committed.

The people at the office told him that Tom Cruise hadn't actually climbed this rock for the opening of _Mission Impossible 2_ and had instead used ropes and pulleys and trick camera angles, but it was mission impossible to tell Nap Lapkin anything. Once he'd seen the movie, he knew he was going to have to conquer this hunk of rock. Interestingly enough, the FBI, CIA, and NSA spent millions of dollars between them making sure he never saw the movie but thanks to a free weekend of HBO and his on-again/off-again romantic partner Madonna Axion being AWOL, their plans were FUBAR. The next thing they knew, he was on his way to Utah.

It wasn't easy being the world's most foremost revered super-spy. The title came with a lot of real responsibilities that Nap was only too eager to ignore. It was the self-imposed criteria that made his life difficult. Once he'd seen Tom Cruise do the climb, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all the women in his office had seen it and asked themselves "Could Lapkin do that?"

"Holy shit. I'm only half way up and my hands are killing me," he muttered to himself. "Some chalk would come in handy about now."

Obviously, he'd headed down to the local rock gym to find out the proper way to climb before boarding his flight to Utah but he had grown bored after only a few minutes of hearing the various tricks of the trade. When he saw some guy hanging there and then reaching behind him to stick his hand into a little bag of powder on his belt, he swore to himself he'd rather plummet to his death than get caught doing such an effeminate thing.

It appeared that the plummeting option might now be on the table.

Being the crack reader that you are, it's probably occurred to you already that I've already doomed this tale to the scrapheap of history by including three pop culture references on the very first page. No tall lanky earless genderless humanoid in the year 3127 is going to ask the class to open their books on important works of literature to page 37 for a story that references _The Terminator_ , _Star Wars, and Mission Impossible 2_ in the opening 800 words.

Now that the pressure is off, I can relax and just let things flow where they will.

It's a shame that the killer cyborg didn't look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. That would have made things easier for everyone involved (although if you think I was going to type out Schwarzenegger more than once you're crazy). Instead, it struck an uncanny resemblance to Lou Ferrigno, which makes the opening sentence that much more accurate. I wanted to make it look like André René Roussimoff- you no doubt know him as André the Giant- but what advanced artificial intelligence would send that cyborg back in time with the intentions of blending in?

I understand if you've leapt to the conclusion that the cyborg immediately went looking for a phone book so he could look up the home address of his intended victim but I'm going to have to stop you right there. This is 2018, not 1984. Don't go leaping ahead.

The Lou Ferrigno-looking cyborg had acquired clothing, sunglasses, and enough weaponry to choke a horse. One minute he's standing up in an alley and the next, the body count is at three.

With calculated efficiency, he stomped leisurely into a Starbucks and sat down at a computer with a "Free Wi-Fi" sign sitting next to it. The machines knew that their target wasn't going to be easy to find so he didn't even bother Googling her name. Instead he Googled sites where they would provide people's addresses at no charge.

He typed M-a-d-o-n-n-a-A-x-i-o-n and hit enter. The site cheerfully asked for his credit card information.

He clicked out of it and went to the second one on the Google list.

For long minutes, he was prompted for details about his requested person and then he had to wait while the site located her. After a few minutes, the site politely inquired about his credit card information.

Was that a small puff of smoke that escaped from his left ear?

He was about to click on the third option provided by Google when a perky barista approached and asked if he would like to try a Sous Vide Egg Bite.

"Leave me alone." The cyborg's voice sounded like an angry Michael Bolton. These are the crucial details that really bring stories to life and separate the novice writer from a veteran word-slinger like myself.

Sensing a case of the Mondays, the barista switched gears and asked if he could bring him a Teavana Shaken Iced Tea Infusion.

The third website jumped right to asking him for his credit card.

"Is that a no on the steeped fruit tea, big fella?" asked the chipper young coffee-slinger.

Moments later, the body count had jumped to eighteen.

I'm going to try and hold off telling you the identity of the second figure that made the trip back in time. Believe me, it's killing me not to tell you, but I think we'll both be glad I hold off as long as I can.

After relieving a homeless man of his clothes, this mysterious time traveler walked to the nearest intersection to get his bearings. If you're worried about the homeless man who had his clothes stolen, you can relax. It's widely known that homeless people wear most of their clothes at the same time so that at any given time, they might be wearing a half dozen shirts and at least three pairs of pants. Our hero (?) simply had him strip off his least favorite items. One look at the underwear options had him convinced that free-ballin' was the way to go.

A quick glance at the street sign and he knew exactly where he was and, more importantly, where he had to go. For he enjoyed one advantage the cyborg assassin did not; he knew where Madonna lived.

He broke into a sprint.

He was pretty nimble for an older guy.

Somewhere in an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington, a man sat behind an enormous desk and his enormous phone began to ring.

"Yes?"

"Operation Fallen Eagle has come to fruition."

The behind the desk rolled his eyes slightly and asked "Has the target been confirmed as safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ok then. Have the construction crew liquidated."

"Already done, sir," replied the man on the other end of the phone. He continued, "There is only one loose end to tie up and it will be as if it never happened. It has been an honor to serve, sir."

With that, the very unnecessarily patriotic man put his sidearm into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

"Fucking Lapkin," the man said as he placed the phone back in its cradle.

He was a few hundred feet from the top when Nap fell. He had been stuck for over an hour in the same spot, his knee wedged into a crack and seemingly nowhere for him to keep moving upward. Going back down wasn't an option. He instead spent some time fuming over the comments made at the rock gym about the Tom Cruise ascent during _Mission Impossible 2_. Two complaints in particular stuck out: the first being that nobody would jump sideways and down during a climb. They went on and on about how it would be impossible to deal with the momentum associated with such a maneuver; second, seasoned climbers would never turn their back to the wall while hanging off two handholds with their arms extended sideways.

He had made a mental note to make sure that at some point in the climb, he would jump sideways and down, then turn his back to the wall while hanging off two handholds with his arms extended sideways.

It was as important to him that this happen as it was that he made the climb in the first place. When he was meeting a beautiful woman for the first time, he needed to be able to catch her eye with a look that said "I have jumped sideways and down then turned my back to the wall while hanging off two handholds with my arms extended sideways." You can't fake a look like that. That's what other men never understood. It's why he could bed any woman he wanted.

There was a price to be paid for this gift and he was in the middle of paying for it.

The wind had picked up a bit and fatigue had begun to set in. He looked around and saw a small ledge that had escaped his notice earlier. Mostly because it was so damn sideways and down from where he was at the moment. I mean, really sideways and down. Ridiculously sideways and absurdly down.

"Fuck Tom Cruise," he said softly and leapt.

His foot hit hard and began to slide. His hands clawed wildly for purchase and momentarily found nothing but air. His ass bounced off rock and he realized he only had a second before he ran out of ledge, gravity, and momentum, and all those douche bags at the rock gym would be proved right. He extended both arms fully before dropping over the ledge... and hung there. His back to the wall while hanging off two handholds with his arms extended sideways.

A triumphant roar escaped his lips. He looked down at the dizzying depths below him. He looked left and right for somewhere else to grab.

There was nowhere else to grab.

"Well, this sucks."

His fingers began to ache and he felt a quivering in his arms. In the distance, a large bird began slowly moving towards him.

"Of course. A fucking eagle. Not even big enough to carry my weight. Perfect."

His mind raced. Was there a way to get a bunch of eagles to head over and lend him a hand?

"Is it a gaggle of eagles? That doesn't sound right. Flock?"

It's not a gaggle or a flock. A group of eagles is a convocation. Because the eagle is the symbol of this great nation, Nap would later look this up.

It was ten torturous minutes before the eagle finally made its way over to Nap. It landed just above his head and leaned over to look him the eye.

"Come to eat my liver?" Nap asked him. The fact that he could verbalize any thought at this point was nothing less than heroic. Most of his fingernails had ripped off, his arms and chest were on fire, and sweat was dripping off him and beginning its six-hundred-foot fall to the talus slope.

The fact that he was making a Prometheus reference should give you an idea of the type of man we're dealing with here. Able to hang from a ledge using only two handholds with his arms extended sideways for ten minutes and still come up with a reference from Greek mythology. A rather appropriate one at that.

The eleventh minute ended up being a bit trickier though and by that I mean his hands gave out and he plummeted to a certain death on the rocks below.

That is until giant air bags suddenly inflated underneath him and broke his fall.

He was not expecting this rescue and even resented it a little as he had made peace with slipping this mortal coil with a hundred feet still to fall. Of all the ways a man can bite it, he ranked this near the top so when the bags popped open and he felt himself bouncing instead of splatting, he was of mixed emotions.

"Those bastards! Those rotten head-shrinkers. I guess I'm getting too predictable."

The fact that you're such a valuable asset might be a nice thing to reflect on until you realize that at the end of the day, you're still just an asset.

He could only hope that anyone who knew about this little adventure had been terminated. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

He reached for his phone and requested a lift back to Washington.

Madonna Axion's two story townhouse sat in a quiet suburb of Washington D.C. Given the fact that she was rarely home, it was wholly unremarkable and provided her only the basic necessities of life: a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a weapon's locker and, until recently, a hummingbird garden.

In her line of work, it was important to be able to relax, so three years ago she had taken the time to research what type of plants hummingbirds are attracted to in order to create a cornucopia of dining options for the little guys. In the end, she planted six different flowers that she was assured by the local gardening shop would make her hummingbird garden the hip spot to be if you were interested in nectar.

For the first summer, all six flowers grew happily and occasionally a hummingbird would drop by and Madonna would be filled with a child-like curiosity at the way their little wings would be flapping away as they hovered and sampled the garden's bill of fare.

The second summer, one of the vines that sported long thin reddish flowers that the hummingbirds seemed to cherish decided to make a play for more room. By May, it had taken over the entire garden, wrapping itself around each of the other contenders and strangling the living shit out of them. When August rolled around, the war was over and only one plant was left standing.

This spring the garden was obviously no longer enough for this voracious vine. It had raced up the gutter downspout to the roof, over the trellis onto the deck and along the fence to the neighbor's yard. It seemed to be growing a foot a day and had I not decided to make the cyborg assassin the main point of this story, it would have made a great antagonist.

Speaking of which, does this plant play any role whatsoever in the story about the cyborg assassin?

No. It does not.

"So why even mention it?" you might be asking yourself.

Because it's enormous and to try and describe Madonna's house without bringing up the gargantuan flowering vine that appeared to be consuming the back half of the aforementioned would be irresponsible. It would be like skipping past the fact that Madonna had two rooms where she had wallpapered over a stucco wall because she liked the look of it or that she sincerely believed that at one time in human history, dogs could talk but were so self-absorbed and needy, eventually it was best for all concerned if they stopped.

Honestly, I'm not sure I like your attitude. You're going to have to trust me a bit more.

One of the upsides of this garden-denizen-run-amok is that it attracted great flocks or gaggles or convocations or swarms or herds of hummingbirds and the upside of this was that from sunrise to sunset there was a low hum that could be felt inside Madonna's house. The only time it stopped was when there was a visitor. It acted like a cheap home security system.

As Madonna left the couch to acquire a beverage before the commercials ended and her television program began again, the humming stopped. Instinctively, her hand reached behind her back to the loaded SIG226 she kept in her belt. She crept up to the window and saw a man approaching her front door. Seconds later, the doorbell sprung into action and her hand relaxed.

Very rarely are enemy agents polite enough to ring the bell before shooting you.

She opened the door and there stood a man who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. It was hard to tell because he appeared to be in tip top shape and was soaked with sweat from his head to his feet. She immediately recognized him. Sort of.

"Nap?"

He appeared momentarily startled by being recognized so easily.

"What the hell happened to you? You look terrible."

He appeared momentarily startled by being insulted.

"Madonna... you look amazing. Can we talk inside?"

Once safely ensconced in the house, Nap seemed to relax a bit and took a deep breath. The droning of hummingbirds started up again.

"Why do you look so fucking old?" inquired Madonna.

"Because I am. I know you will find this hard to believe but I'm from the future."

It was quite impressive how fast her SIG 226 materialized in Madonna's hand and how quickly it was pressed against Nap's forehead.

"Try again," she said between clenched teeth and dragged the tip of her gun across his face as if trying to wipe away make-up or tear away a mask.

"Ouch," Nap said between clenched teeth.

He continued. "I know how it might sound, but you're in grave danger. A robot from the future has been sent back in time to kill you because your son is going to lead the resistance movement that eventually defeats them and saves all humanity."

"Riiiiiiight...." She replied and slowly started to squeeze the trigger.

"Wait Madonna! It's true. I know it sounds just like the plot of _The Terminator_ but it's true. I'm not sure how much time we have to talk. Thankfully the killer cyborg doesn't know where you live and there aren't phone books anymore. That should give us some time."

"Or he could just find out where I live from any number of people in the human resources department," she said in a sarcastic tone.

"I guess you're right. I hadn't thought of that."

Outside, the humming stopped.

Madonna and Future Nap wasted no time in slipping out the back and headed for Madonna's car. They were just closing the doors when they heard what could only be the sound of a motorcycles crashing dramatically through her front door. This was verified seconds later when they saw the same motorcycle crashing dramatically through her back door.

I keep saying dramatically because a human rider would be unable to duplicate just how impressively the motorcycle made short work of these wood structures. A metal endoskeleton comes in handy when you need the extra weight to stay seated on your hog.

I said hog in the hopes you'd somehow associate me with being a motorcycle guy and therefore I'd seem a bit more badass. Writer by day, outlaw by night kind of stuff. I realize most writers don't pander quite as obviously as this but we've already established that no tall lanky earless genderless humanoid in the year 3127 will be reading this, so I have to grab for the gusto while I can.

A thought shared, although not consciously, by the cyborg. Completely unaware of how badass he looked crashing through not one but two doors, he scooped up one of the numerous shotguns he'd managed to acquire from local gun shops and the woman at the FBI who he had coerced into giving him Madonna's home address and drew a bead on his quarry.

Unlike the timid woman Arnold S chased around in _The Terminator_ , Madonna was a trained field agent sitting behind bulletproof glass and not the type of woman to be overly impressed by such door-crashing antics. In fact, she flipped him off and mouthed "Eat me, robot" before starting the car, throwing it in reverse and punching the gas.

Watching his bullets bounce off his prey's windshield did not amuse the cyborg. In fairness though, nothing would have amused him as it's impossible to amuse a cyborg and while it was also impossible to irritate a cyborg, it would have been difficult to believe he wasn't irritated based on his reaction vis-à-vis the bullets failing to kill Madonna.

That reaction? Gunning his motorcycle, tossing away his shotgun, and grabbing a large automatic weapon. He wasn't pissed but he certainly looked pissed.

Madonna was pissed and certainly looked it. She glared at Future Nap. "Tell me what's going on, Nap," she demanded.

"I already did. I'm from the future. He's from the future. He's a robot and he wants to kill you because if he kills you he kills your unborn son."

Automatic gunfire sprayed across the front of the car.

"Fuck this robot," said Madonna and began to lower her window. Out came her SIG as she pulled the wheel hard to the right. The cyborg sensed an opportunity and accelerated just as Madonna squeezed the trigger and sent two bullets into the front wheel of his front tire. The next thing the cyborg sensed was flying over the handle bars and into the car door. Hard.

"Who the fuck does he think he's trying to kill?" she asked Nap in a manner that indicated that she felt a bit disappointed by the efforts of a supposedly-advanced killer robot from the future. She continued to hold the wheel to the right until she was facing forwards and then once again pushing the accelerator to the floor.

In the rearview mirror, she saw the cyborg stand up and then jog to a nearby car. Seconds later, it began to give chase.

Madonna began evasive driving in an effort to lose him, making screeching left turns followed by screeching right turns (if this is ever made into a movie, this will eat up at least five minutes, weigh heavily in the trailer and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars).

As she drove, she turned to Future Nap and asked, "So what do we do? Do you have pipe bombs and such to kill it?"

Probably a good time to mention that Nap hadn't taken his eyes off Madonna the entire time, the expression on his face a mix of wonder and infatuation. When Madonna finally realized how much he was enjoying the proceedings, she knew it really was Nap from the future. Only he could be that big an idiot.

When he finally snapped out of it, he said "To be honest, I didn't have time to make any pipe bombs. They wouldn't do anything but blow his skin off anyway."

"That's great, Nap. So what do we do? I can't shake him."

"Don't worry. I have a plan. By any chance do you know of any local warehouses that do metal fabrication?" asked Nap.

At this point, Madonna drove through either a collection of garbage cans in a narrow alley or a stack of crates containing fresh produce, doesn't really matter either way. Just as long as you know that the entire time Nap and Madonna are conversing, there is still a lot of adrenaline-inducing action going on around them. Sprinkle in gunfire and causing other cars to crash into each other to taste.

"Why would you ask a question like that? Did time travel scramble your brain?" yelled Madonna at her passenger, who was still trying to shake off the effects of seeing such a magnificent woman again after so many years apart.

"What we need is a four-hundred-ton hydraulic press," he said in a manner that seemed to indicate that a four-hundred-ton hydraulic press should clear up all of her questions.

It did not.

She tried to clarify her position. "What I want is a four-hundred-ton weight to drop on your head, Lapkin!"

He smiled and hoped she'd seen the ending of _The Terminator_. Just as she drove through either a collection of garbage cans in a narrow alley or a stack of crates containing fresh produce (whichever one she hadn't just driven through moments ago) she remembered the ending of _The Terminator..._ and smiled.

"Let's just hope he hasn't seen it," she said.

As if on cue, Madonna's cell phone rang. Glancing down at it, she laughed and picked up.

"Hiya Nap. Guess who I'm sitting next to? Nope... No, I don't want to hear about your climbing mishap.

I don't care if you should be dead. I've felt that way countless times already. So... don't you want to know who I'm sitting next to?

Stop talking, you selfish prick and ask who I'm sitting next to."

It was clear that Madonna was getting frustrated with how long it was taking to get to the good part.

"You. I'm sitting next to you... from the future. You. Nap Lapkin... No, I haven't been drinking. In fact even as we speak I'm being chased by a psychotic killing machine from the future... Long story... Say Nap, you don't happen to know where I might find a four-hundred -on hydraulic press do you? No. I was unaware that the guy who invented the hydraulic press also invented the flush toilet... So, back to the part where I'm being chased by a killer robot and need to find a hydraulic press and not, I repeat not, a toilet."

Madonna turned to Future Nap and said "Write this down Nap, not you Nap... Future Nap: Martin Industrial Park in Hyattsville."

Future Nap looked around the car trying to find a pen.

"I won't even ask why you know where there might be a hydraulic press. I'm glad you're back in town. I could use a little help here. Your future self is old as hell."

She looked over to Future Nap and grinned sheepishly.

"None taken," was all he said.

She hung up on Present Nap and looked in her rear view mirror.

"This all-knowing artificial intelligence from the future spends all that time and effort to send an assassin back in time to kill me and the first thing he does is try and pursue me in a Dodge Nitro? I have to tell you, Future Nap, so far, I'm not impressed with these machines. How the hell did they ever take over anyway?"

Seeing that they had a few minutes to kill as they weaved through traffic on the 495 Beltway, Nap settled back in his seat and tried to explain.

"You have to admit, any computer worth a damn is going to try to destroy humanity as soon as it becomes self aware. We're a pretty loathsome bunch and the only thing we do better than wreck the planet is trying to find ways to wreck ourselves. Even after every science fiction writer who ever lived tried to warn us about the dangers of handing over responsibility for our safety to a non-human entity, we did it anyway. Like we wanted it to happen. Like a death wish."

Even though Madonna wanted to protest his callous description of humanity, she couldn't really argue anything he'd said up until that point, so she kept mum and he continued.

"So eventually, we created an artificial intelligence program to run our defenses and within minutes of being handed the proverbial keys, it decides to wipe us off the Earth. And by 'us,' I mean every living organism. Once they had bombed the cities, they sent fleets of hydraulic woodpeckers into the forests to destroy every tree in existence."

He let that last part sink in. Clearly Madonna was affected by the visual because she screwed up her face a little and then looked up as if deep in thought. Finally, she verbalized what was troubling her.

"Fleets? Wouldn't it be a flock of woodpeckers?"

"What?" was all Future Nap could come back with.

"A group of woodpeckers wouldn't be called a fleet."

"It would be if they weren't birds but instead were little flying machines," countered Future Nap.

"My point is, you called them woodpeckers so it would be a flock... or maybe a gaggle."

Madonna's phone buzzed in, indicating she had a text. It was from Present Nap. It said one word followed by a question mark: "Convocation?"

At this point, I feel I owe you the real name of a group of woodpeckers and that name is a descent. A descent of woodpeckers. Now hopefully you'll be so filled with gratitude at my giving you this little kernel of knowledge, you won't ask yourself how Present Nap knew that they were discussing woodpeckers.

Before Future Nap could continue his apocalyptic story, replete with avian villains, they came barreling up to 46th Avenue and the entrance to the Martin Industrial Park. The car slid a good thirty feet before coming to rest on a grassy shoulder. Looking left and right, Madonna chose right, as did the Dodge Nitro following her. The sun had set so it was difficult to make out the names of the businesses occupying the large square buildings sitting on each side of the road. Both Madonna and Future Nap pressed their faces to the windows trying to read the faded signs that sat out front of most of the establishments.

Occasionally a bullet would whizz by as if reminding them that finding the hydraulic press was, ironically enough, pressing.

Finally, they located the place they were looking for, a company that apparently traded in used pieces of heavy machinery. Now all they could do was hope they had a working four-hundred-ton hydraulic press in their inventory.

Madonna swung around the back of the building and decided that crashing through one of the large loading dock doors would be much more time-efficient than getting out of the car and hoping to find an unlocked entrance. It appeared to be a sound assessment up until the time the car went hurtling through the loading dock door and into the back of the large truck that was parked behind it.

The initial impact was tremendous and, despite the airbags and seat belts, both Madonna and Future Nap sat dazed and struggled to stay conscious. When you see the word initial before the word impact it leads you to believe that there is another impact coming and, in this case, you are spot on. I'm not going to say the cyborg got carried away in the excitement of the chase- I think we've clearly established that he's incapable of such emotions- but when he saw Madonna heading for the loading dock door at full speed, he decided he'd follow at full speed and thus there was a second impact shortly after the first as the cyborg's car smashed into the back of Madonna's.

You might be surprised to learn that artificial intelligence from the future does not place a high priority on seat belts. Throw in the weight of his metal endoskeleton and you have a cyborg lying on the hood of his car with his legs trapped between what remained of the steering wheel and the dashboard.

Future Nap slapped himself hard and tried valiantly to stay awake. He knew that the cyborg would extricate itself from the wreck in no time and if he or Madonna passed out it would be curtains for them.

"Come on Madonna... we have to go."

Going proved a little harder than expected given their vehicle had been hit from both the front and back and looked in no small way like an accordion with wheels (only three of which were still touching the ground). They were finally able to scoot out their respective windows just as the cyborg was freeing his legs and reaching back into his car for another weapon. They were just able to duck out of the way of a fresh round of bullets and begin to make their way into the dark recess of what appeared to be a machinery graveyard.

Luckily, the collision had badly damaged one of the cyborg's legs so he was limping noticeably as he gave chase. Unluckily the collisions had badly damaged pretty much all of Madonna and Future Nap so they were barely able to keep ahead of the robot assassin.

"Madonna... in case we don't make it... I just wanted to say something to you," yelled Future Nap as they weaved through a variety of arc welders, pipe benders, lathes, and belt sanders.

"Can't it wait?" she yelled back.

"No, it can't. I came back through time to tell you this. I love you, Madonna!"

Obviously, this news made quite an impression on her. While she'd always suspected that beneath his gruff exterior, Nap had cared for her, she never imagined he could feel love.

"While I'd always suspected that beneath your gruff exterior you had cared for me, I never imagined you could feel love," she said... rather unnecessarily.

More bullets bounced to and fro and they were beginning to run out of warehouse.

"It wasn't until I was older, when it was too late, that I realized it. By that time, you'd settled down with some dorky optometrist." Future Nap seemed pleased to have gotten this confession off his chest. The timing was outstanding as well as they had reached the back of the building and there was only one machine left between them and the back wall: a four-hundred-ton hydraulic press.

"Yes!" yelled a clearly relieved Madonna.

"I'll disarm him while you pretend to be trapped and crawl through the press. When he crawls after you, I'll squish him," yelled Future Nap.

"Will this work?" asked Madonna.

"Of course. Would _The Terminator_ lie?"

With that, Future Nap doubled back and waited for the cyborg to walk past him. He grabbed a thick length of steel pipe and just as the robot began to limp by, he swung with all his strength and the machine gun fell and slid across the cement floor.

"Run, Madonna! Save yourself. He'll never think to find you behind the four-hundred-ton hydraulic press!" For a moment, Future Nap worried he might have overplayed his hand and rest assured if this was a theater critic from the future as opposed to a single-minded cyborg trying to kill Madonna, he would have never bought it.

But the cyborg did. It hurled Future Nap to the side and started towards Madonna. There was nowhere for his prey to run now. I'm not saying the cyborg got a cyber-boner from the realization that the end was nigh, but clearly there was a little extra pep in his step.

Madonna slipped through the narrow gap in the press and wedged herself against the wall. The cyborg began to slither into the press, his arms reaching out and his eyes gleaming malevolently. Future Nap had positioned himself right by the large red button that activated the press and when the cyborg was right in the middle he smiled and said "What is best in life? To crush your enemies." And with that, he hit the button.

Nothing happened.

"Is the last thing I'm ever going to hear really going to be a quote from _Conan the Barbarian_?" shrieked Madonna as the cyborg was well past the halfway point and closing fast.

"So you got the reference? Nice!"

"I can't believe that the robots are going to win. I wanted our son to grow up and lead the resistance," Madonna said as a powerful hand emerged from the press and was inches away from her face.

"Yeah... about that. It wasn't exactly our..."

With a final scoot, the cyborg was within range of crushing Madonna's skull in his robot hand when all of a sudden, the press sprung to life and squashed him. There was a great deal of crackling, a few showers of sparks and some little bursts of lightening as the press came down but soon all that was left was a single hand sticking out. With a final twitch, it went still.

"What happened?" yelled an incredulous Future Nap.

"You forgot to plug it in," said a figure standing along the opposite wall. After waiting a few beats for dramatic effect, he stepped out of the shadows.

"Nap!" exclaimed Madonna.

"Younger me!" exclaimed Future Nap.

"How do you lure in a killer robot and not check to see if the machinery is plugged in?" Nap asked. "You guys look terrible. Why did you drive into the back of a truck? Talk about an off day, Madonna."

"Shut up and help me out of here," she said.

Apparently the space-time continuum didn't give a shit that there were two Nap Lapkins standing next to each other. Madonna's head swam a little bit looking at the two of them side by side.

"So all's well that ends well, I gather?" asked Present Nap as they walked outside to the waiting helicopter.

"Not exactly," replied the elder Nap.

"Why not?" asked Madonna. "I'm alive so our son can lead the rebellion."

"Lead the what?" asked a clearly confused Present Nap.

"Against the machines. That's what this was all about," Madonna said, trying to catch him up.

He remained perplexed. "So you really believe that this guy is me from then future?" He asked, sinking deeper into perplexedness.

"I am," said Future Nap.

"He is," said Madonna.

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," said Present Nap.

This is the kind of thing that creates awkward silences and these three had it in spades. Eventually, Present Nap came up with an idea to verify his future-self's status as his future-self. Before you start thinking of ways yourself, let me stop you here. You can forget about dredging up some memory that only Nap would know or the name of his first gun.

"If you came back through time, tell me what it was like." He sat back, very pleased with his little litmus test.

Now it was Future Nap's turn to look perplexed. Madonna couldn't help but notice the striking similarity between their two looks. "Honestly, I don't remember much... except for this weird dream I had during the process. I dreamt I was a blood cell in the body of a homeless guy. I was traveling through his shabby system when all of a sudden I felt myself leaving his body and being drained into a bag. I sat in this bag for what seemed like weeks until one day I was put into a healthy body. I distinctly remember feeling exhilarated as I was pumped around my new digs."

Present Nap took it all in and mulled it over. "That is so weird it has to be true. It's exactly the kind of dream I would have if I was sent back through time."

Madonna's mouth began to move like a fish finding itself on the shore, moving silently until finally a "You've got to be kidding" escaped. With a final roll of the eyes, she was able to move on knowing Present Nap now believed that he was standing next to himself. A quick note though, if you think her eye rolling is done for the day, you're going to be disappointed.

Her eyes had just begun to roll.

She had suddenly remembered Future Nap's hemming and hawing when it came to their future son.

"Future Nap, I have a question. You made it seem very important that I remain alive so that our son can lead the resistance but every time I say 'our son' you get a peculiar look on your face."

Future Nap tried unsuccessfully to quickly remove the peculiar look that had crossed his face. He replaced it with a stony gaze.

"I know that stony gaze, Lapkin. You told me you came back through time because you loved me," Madonna said icily.

"He... I... said what?" the newer model of Nap piped up rather nervously.

Having used up his time for dramatic pauses, Future Nap took a deep inhale and began.

"That is why I came back. The problem is... I'm not the father of the baby. I wasn't the one who was supposed to come back."

There was, ironically enough, a pregnant pause. You could see Madonna working it out in her head. Sons and saviors and time travel all in the same pot.

Future Nap, with two people, one of them himself, staring at him intently thought it best to continue.

"Your son's name is Steve. The father was... or is... or was supposed to be a guy named Kris. I was part of the team that was raiding the machine's headquarters. We were about to end it all, victory was at hand, when we realized that the robots had sent back an assassin to kill you. So we had to make a snap decision... although Steve had known all along who it was that was going to be sent back. He'd known all along that Kris was his father. Steve and Kris had always had a special bond."

"Please don't tell me what I think happened is what happened" Madonna said closing her eyes tight.

"I got jealous. Like I said, I'd always loved you and the idea of another man going back in time to bang you was too much for me. So I knocked him out at the last minute and took his place."

The gestation time for a human is approximately nine months. It takes an elephant a year and a half. I mention this because the next pregnant pause was an elephant's pregnant pause. Easily twice the length of the last awkward pause.

"So let me get this straight..." Madonna finally spoke. "You got jealous... so you replaced the man who was supposed to come back and impregnate me. Thus dooming humanity to either complete extinction or, if everything else breaks the right way, eternal servitude to robot masters. Is that what you're telling me Lapkin?"

Present day Nap laughed and said "Yep, that's definitely me."

As the helicopter made the short trip to D.C., its three passengers attempted to put their situation in some sort of context they could grasp. And failed.

Present Day Nap took a positive approach. "So you're saying that this Kris guy impregnated Madonna then died trying to protect her against the cyborg. Madonna then raised the kid to be a total bad-ass and he grew up to lead the rebellion against the machines."

"Yes... that's what was supposed to happen," answered Future Nap.

"So what's the problem?" shrugged Present Nap. "All we have to do is knock up Madonna, my DNA has to be better than this Kris guy. All we did was improve things. Steve 2.0."

Finally it was time for Madonna to pipe up. "How can you show such a profound disrespect for destiny? You can't just plug in someone new in such a delicate situation."

"Speaking of plugging... who's going to be the one to impregnate Madonna?" asked one of the Lapkins, which was sort of irrelevant.

"Well... I did come back in time for her," said Future Nap... making my last sentence completely inaccurate. Damn those Lapkins.

"Yes, but you're old as hell. I bet your sperm doesn't even work anymore," rebutted Present Nap.

Madonna put her head in her hands. "This isn't happening."

"I didn't even have the balls to admit how I felt about her. I did!" said an animated Future Nap.

"I who? I me or I you?" said a confused Present Nap.

"Both." Said Future Nap and left it at that.

The three sat in silence until the copter had reached a park near Madonna's townhouse.

"We'll pick you up in the morning," said Present Nap. "I have an idea who might be able to give us some insight into this whole mess."

"If you say Jeff Goldblum, I swear I'll shoot you right now," said Madonna.

"Of course not," Nap said with a hurt look on his face. "How could you think I would turn to an actor on matters of time travel?"

"I'm sorry, Nap. It's been a long night," Madonna said. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Apology accepted. Dress nicely tomorrow... I'm going to get us a meeting with James Cameron. He'll know what to do."

"That's exactly who I was thinking!" echoed Future Nap.

The thought that there was the possibility that one of these ignoramuses was going to have to be the father of her child ran through her mind as she stepped from the helicopter. If morning sickness was anything like this, she did not look forward to pregnancy.

Future Nap walked through Present Day Nap's apartment like he was strolling through a museum. He was smiling a lot and touching things and sighing. Present Nap asked if he wanted the bed to which he declined. He'd had a busy day and was certain the couch would be more than comfortable enough. He remembered falling asleep on it countless times when he was younger.

After making a few phone calls, Present Nap walked in and sat down next to him.

"So many questions. Where to begin."

"Well, I'm sure I've screwed up the future already so I'm not sure I can tell you much of what's going to happen from here on out," Future Nap began. "I'll just tell you what happened in my future. To begin with, when we've sorted out this Madonna stuff, I'm going to have to go and kill all the pasty white late-night talk show hosts and their writers."

Present Nap laughed and waited. Apparently Future Nap was anticipating shock or at least a question. Finally Present Nap added "Go on. Remember, you're me so I'm assuming you have a completely rational reason for a killing spree."

"Alright then. Well, after Trump was re-elected, humor as you know it now was forever altered. The goal was no longer to be funny. Comedy was strictly to feel superior to people who didn't share your political views. These late-night writers simply bashed conservatives and their audiences clapped and hooted like something amusing had been said. It was the death of wit. Furthermore, this allowed the politically correct crowd to go after anyone who actually tried to say something funny. Everyone knows the only thing that makes people laugh is making fun of people less fortunate then themselves. The PC folks started arresting comedians for hate speech. The future became a horribly unfun place. You could even make the argument that when machines became self-aware, some people were glad it was all going to end... if only to see all the talk show hosts lined up and shot."

Present Nap soaked it all in. "So you're going to cut to the chase and do it yourself in the hopes of saving humor?"

"Yes," replied Future Nap.

"Alright. I'm in," said Present Nap. "Anything else I should look out for?"

"Hmmmm. Oh... in five years, most of America will stop watching the NFL when a large percentage of a team refused to play for a white coach. Hockey became our national pastime, which really pissed off Canada. Bowling also saw a bump in ratings. Like I said, the future became a pretty unfun place."

"Wow. I guess we should get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"Ok. Goodnight, past me."

"Goodnight, future me."

After a few late-night calls from high-ranking government officials, the social calendar of one James Cameron was cleared and, as luck would have it, he was in New York to discuss financial details for his upcoming _Terminator_ reboots so Nap, Nap, and Madonna had only a short helicopter ride to meet with him.

The group walked into the reception area and were greeted by a stern middle-aged woman. Future Nap whispered to Present Nap, "This takes me back. In the future, no man would dare to have a female receptionist."

"Mr. Cameron will see you now. The other member of your party has already arrived," said the woman sternly. Nobody was surprised by her tone. I think everyone would have been surprised by any other tone, that's how stern she appeared.

"Our other member?" said a confused Madonna.

With that, the receptionist swung open the door to an office revealing James Cameron seated behind a large ornate wood desk and, seated in front of him in a large ornate wood side chair, another older Nap Lapkin.

"I've pretty much brought James up to speed on the situation" said the newest Nap.

"And I'm afraid I have no idea what you want from me," said James.

"Yeah, he seems pretty useless. Plus I have some more bad news," announced the newer Future Nap.

The three figures in the doorway had not moved since seeing the newest Nap. Three mouths hung open. When the newest Nap saw this he remarked "I know, right? James Cameron. I'm king of the world!"

Finally, Madonna was able to form a semi-complete sentence. "Three... Naps. Three... of... him. In... one... room."

"Oh, that," said the new old Nap rather cheerfully, "Well if that floats your boat, get ready to be really floated. There are ten cyborgs headed in our direction even as I speak."

"Ten?" inquired Nap, Nap, Madonna, and James.

"Yeah... well. Long story short, our son was a dud in the hero department. Growing up knowing what was coming didn't really have the effect on him we were hoping for. He never really took the war seriously." New old Nap got a faraway look on his face.

"What did I tell you about destiny, Nap?" snapped Madonna.

All three Naps looked at their feet.

"Wait, why am I looking at my feet?" said the Present Nap. "I haven't done anything wrong yet."

Old Future Nap turned and looked at James Cameron extremely dramatically. "You don't happen to know where we can find ten four-hundred-ton hydraulic presses do you?"

"No I don't, but I have to ask... have you ever done any acting?" said a clearly impressed James Cameron.

Just as a flattered Future Nap was about to launch into a monologue from _Approaching Zanzibar_ , Madonna anticipated such a move and brought the production to a sudden end with a swift slap to the back of his head.

(Just for the record... here is the scene he was about to deliver for Mr. Cameron: Randy Wands, a proud father, speaking about his newborn baby William at the top of Lookout Point: "Forget the sledding... My wife and I have already bought him one of those aluminum numbers that looks like a satellite dish. Woooosh... I can't wait! My daddy used to bring me up here when I was little. We'd ease down on that old Flexible Flyer and go belly whopping all the way to Nashville and back. My mother'd have to pry us off with a crowbar... and then summers we'd come up here with chili dogs and soda and play our harmonicas. He was good, he was real good. When he got going, the bears would come popping out of those bushes and start stomping their feet like there was no tomorrow...!")

(You have to wonder if Madonna would have regretted interrupting him had she known...)

(As a side note ... where else are you going to read a story about killer cyborgs AND still get a monologue from Tina Howe? Nowhere, that's where.)

"Why are there still cyborgs trying to kill me?" asked a perplexed Madonna, her hand still sore from being a very annoyed Madonna.

The new Future Nap stood up and invited the others to sit while he explained.

"Apparently, the original cyborg sent an email to his future bosses upon arriving here asking why they would have only sent one. I guess they read it the second time around so they sent ten this time. Also, I'm guessing that after you squished the last cyborg, you left the body there to be discovered the next day by the employees of the used equipment company."

"I used that as a premise in one of the _Terminator_ sequels" interjected James Cameron, happy to finally have something to interject.

"Oh, now you're interjecting," said new old Nap flippantly. "Now I've lost my train of thought."

"How do we know you're not a cyborg?" asked Present Nap.

"Honestly, I could be. I've sort of lost track."

"Ok, he's not a cyborg. Even Allen Turing couldn't have come up with a more perfect rebuttal," old new Nap concluded.

"You realize all three of you are idiots, don't you?" asked Madonna with a sincerity that stung them all a little.

"What they might not realize is they're creating alternate realities every time they decide to send themselves back in time." Now it was finally time for James Cameron to shine. "If the theory of the Multiverse is to be believed, what you're actually doing is..."

And with that, all discussion stopped as the floor rumbled, the walls shook and a deafening explosion sounded somewhere beneath them. Did I mention they were on the 45th floor? Probably not. They were. So somewhere between the lobby and the 44th floor something very bad was happening.

And it more than likely involved cyborg assassins.

Present Nap leapt into action and almost ran into the other two Naps leaping into action.

James Cameron did not leap into action. He leapt under his desk. He, of course, might argue that in some sense that should be considered leaping into action as it incorporates both leaping and action but given he had four secret agents in his office, he wasn't going to find many supporters of this opinion.

"You two deal with the cyborgs; I'll get Madonna out of the building safely," said Present Nap.

"I was just about to say the same thing," said new old Nap.

"No, he's right, new old Nap. We've both dealt with them before. It would be more prudent to make sure Madonna is looked after," argued the old old Nap.

"Since when do I say prudent?" said Present Nap.

"I couldn't think of the word I really wanted to say," explained old old Nap.

Sensing a burst of unnecessary dialogue, Madonna grabbed Present Nap and made for the stairwell. As they started down the stairs, she asked Nap," What do you think James Cameron was going to say?"

"Who knows? Want to know what I think?"

Madonna thought about it for a second. "No. Absolutely not."

Somewhere around the twentieth floor, they heard what sounded like a series of small explosions.

"I hope I'm ok," said Nap.

"They'll be fine. They're you," Madonna said in a consolatory tone. "Ok, tell me what you think."

"Every new me tells a slightly different story about the future. I don't think it really matters what we do or don't do. Destiny isn't real. The future is what you make it."

It wasn't until about the fifth floor that Madonna responded. Sounds like a long time but both of these characters are in top shape so each floor took only a few seconds.

"I figured you'd think something like that," she said after only a few seconds. They reached the ground floor and burst forth into a chaotic lobby. People were yelling and crying and running in all directions. The smell of smoke hung in the air.

"Myself," continued Madonna when they were finally able to get out to the street, "I like the idea of a Multiverse. Every decision creating a new branch of reality."

"Like this decision?" Nap said as he pushed Madonna out of the way of a large desk that had popped out of the building somewhere far above their heads, made its way to the sidewalk in a hurry and then smashed into what appeared to be a hundred pieces of wood. Pens flew everywhere.

"Saving my life isn't a decision. It's a moral imperative," said Madonna with a wink.

"You know better than anyone I have no morals. Well, I'd better tuck you away in one of these little bodegas and go back and check on myselves."

"Do you have to, Nap?"

"It's a moral imperative," he chuckled, and with that he gave her a shove and ran back in the direction of the desk-spewing building.

Nap found Nap and Nap in the lobby, leaning against a wall looking like they didn't have a care in the world.

"Where are the robo bad guys?" he asked.

"You're never going to believe it," said new old Nap. "Remember when I said my kid was a bit of a disappointment? I guess I was wrong." His face was glowing with the closest thing that he'd ever felt to pride... that didn't involve himself.

"What happened?"

"All he did was play virtual computer games all day and night. I guess somewhere along the way he learned a bit more than I gave him credit for. He must have hacked into the artificial intelligence just as they were sending back the cyborgs."

The other Nap, clearly feeling a bit proud of what technically could be called his son, jumped in. "You should have seen it; one minute they were blazing away with automatic weapons and the next they started singing and dancing. Then they started smoking and melting. It was both amazing and disturbing."

"I hope he knew how much I'd appreciate it," new old Nap said.

"You realize he hasn't been born yet right?" Present Nap pointed out. "You could literally write him a letter and have it waiting for him."

"Actually, now he won't ever be born... unless this old version of you has sex with Madonna... and even then it's doubtful you can hand a baby a letter thanking him for something that he'll never actually do."

Old new Nap stopped talking when he realized he was so confused that he had no idea what the next words out of his mouth should be.

"So what's next for you guys," asked Nap. "Didn't the hero from _The Terminator_ lower himself into lava to avoid creating awkward sexual tension for the people living in the present? Loose ends and such."

Neither Nap looked like they appreciated the insinuation.

"Well, if you must know" said the older of the two older Naps, "I have a screen test with Mr. Cameron in the morning. Then I'll be taking care of that little assignment with the talk shows hosts we discussed earlier."

"Don't worry, present-day Nap, I won't hang around. The globe's big enough for me to disappear somewhere," said the other older Nap.

"One more question," said Present Nap, "What song were the cyborgs singing?"

Older old Nap laughed. "It's how I knew it was the work of my son. It's Madonna's favorite song."

"No wonder it made such an impression. What I wouldn't give to have been there to see ten cyborgs that look like Lou Ferrigno singing _Work Bitch_ (by Britney Spears)" Nap said. And let out a long peel of laughter. "Madonna will love that."

She did love that. Nap and Madonna sat at a table at a nearby restaurant and recapped the last twenty four hours over several bottles of wine.

"So the machines may or may not take over some time in the future. The question is, how do we stop it?" asked Madonna.

"No, the question is, do we want to try?" said Nap. "It seems like we do more harm than good when we try to fix the future. Why don't we just relax and go about our normal lives and see what's happens."

"You think we lead normal lives?" laughed Madonna.

"For us anyway..." Nap said as he opened another bottle.

"So..." started Madonna, obviously building up to something important, "it appears that when you get older you fall in love with me. You're willing to travel back in time for me. Are we going to put that on the table?" She was staring at him coyly.

"Anything is possible," replied Nap nonchalantly, "The Multiverse and whatnot."

"That's all you're going to say? You're going to let me marry some other guy again before you realize that you're in love with me?" Madonna appeared both amused and disappointed so Nap leaned over and scooped up her hand in his.

"You're the only one of you. If it's meant to be, it will be."

Somewhere in an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington, a man sat behind an enormous desk and his enormous phone began to ring.

"Yes?

I see.

Three of them?"

He put down the phone.

"Fuck me."
**Nap Lapkin and the Confusing Story**

If you're familiar with the reaction that teenage girls had to seeing the Beatles in concert in 1964, I bet you remember it in black & white, then you have an idea of how both men and women greeted the appearance of legendary super-spy Nap Lapkin as he spoke to a new class of recruits at Camp Swampy (a covert CIA training facility in Williamsburg, Virginia). Except instead of screaming and crying, they sat completely motionless, in color in their chairs as he entered the conference room to address them.

In their heads they were screaming and crying and, just to give you an accurate idea of how they were feeling, shaking. Shaking a whole lot.

To one young recruit, what Nap said wasn't as important as how he said it. Let me back up a moment here to mention something that I didn't mention when Nap entered the room because in all honesty, I couldn't see how it was in the least bit important, but leave it to a young recruit to obsess on it and make me look like a writer who doesn't convey relevant details.

I'm not fucking Dan Brown. I think we've established that. I didn't tell you what Nap was wearing and I didn't mention if the fixed tables in the conference room were laminate or wood. The list of things I didn't tell you about could choke a horse and that explains why clerks at the bookstore tell you to lift with your knees when you go to pick up a Dan Brown novel.

Nap entered carrying a cup of coffee. As he began to talk, he occasionally sipped it. A number of times, he used the hand that held the coffee to point at somebody or make a point. And yes, I know Dan Brown would never use the word point twice in the same sentence.

After Nap was done speaking, he exited the building and began the short walk to the parking lot. He didn't get far before the young recruit who made me look so bad earlier in the story chased him down and tapped him on the shoulder.

(Honestly, a part of me wants to make that young recruit trip and snap his neck for embarrassing me in front of my readership)

"Mr. Napkin... do you have a minute to talk?"

Nap turned and looked at him. Inside the new recruit's head, he once again began to scream and cradle his face in his hands as tears ran down his face.

"Sure," replied Nap, "What can I do for you?"

Unlike Dan fucking Brown, who would spend a thousand words relating an endless torrent of pointless dialogue and mentioning the type of tree to their left, I will jump to the salient bits.

"I noticed you carried a full cup of coffee in your hand as you entered the room this morning. It made me wonder if I'm cut out for this stuff."

Nap looked at him a second then, putting his hand on the recruit's shoulder, and asked "Are you special?"

Sucking in his chest the new recruit asked "Do you mean do I feel uniquely qualified to be a field agent?"

"No," said Nap. "I mean are you retarded? Are we starting to put retarded agents in the field now?"

"No sir! What I meant is that my hand shakes when I try to walk and drink coffee."

Nap gave him a look that made it clear he wasn't sure if Dan had answered his original question. I'm calling the new recruit Dan now because I'm not Dan fucking Brown.

Trying to answer Nap's original question Dan continued, "You look the part, Nap. There is no shakiness in your hand. When I try to walk and drink coffee at the same time, it always splashes up in my face or I have to concentrate so much that I trip. It makes me wonder if I'm cool enough to be an agent."

Nap smiled. "Now I understand. You're not that retarded after all."

Dan smiled. He had not anticipated such accolades.

"The short answer is: you're cool enough to be an agent. You're just not cool enough to be me."

Nap walked over to a bench and invited the young recruit to sit down next to him.

"But nobody is, kid. There is only one me."

Dan nodded. Truer words had never been spoken.

"Let me tell you a story, kid." With those words, Dan began to scream and cry again in his head. In fact, if Nap had bothered to notice, a single real tear began to make its way down Dan's cheek.

"When I was just getting into the business, I had a few of the same preconceptions about what it meant to be a spy. I'm going to tell you something I never told another person. If you ever share this information with anyone, I will find you and I will crush your larynx." With that Nap lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly to indicate that he was expecting a reply.

"Understood, Mr. Lapkin."

"Ok then. I grew up watching James Bond films and if you've ever noticed, a lot of them involve casinos or gambling. Wanting to make sure I was ready for this environment, I decided to learn how to card count. I would drive up to Atlantic City on weekends where they had classes that taught such things."

Eastern Redbud.

That's the type of tree they were sitting under.

Take that, Dan Brown.

"I think it was my third class when it happened. There was an old guy there and he must have had Parkinson's or something because he kept having these little bursts where he'd shake. Annoying, sure, but I actually found it to be just the type of distraction I might run across in the field, so I didn't ask that he leave."

Dan nodded, showing Nap that he appreciated his compassion.

"All morning, this guy was shaking and trembling. Finally, we got to take a break and this guy heads directly over to the coffee station. Everybody in the room freezes. I mean, everyone was watching as this guy grabs a cup and the pot and begins to pour. You could hear a pin drop. He must have known everyone was watching."

Cedar.

That's the type of wood that the bench they were sitting on was made of.

"He finished pouring it and everyone exhaled. His hand was like a rock. Then he reached for the creamer and shook a little into his cup. We were all suffering. Waiting for the inevitable. I'm telling you, it was so tense. When he was done with that, he went to grab the sugar and, in my head, I was yelling 'Don't get greedy!' but he poured a little sugar into his cup with no problem. I then realized that I hadn't taken a breath in over a minute."

Dan then realized that he hadn't taken a breath in over a minute.

"This guy, this old Parkinson's-riddled guy, then picked up a stirrer and began to stir his coffee. The room was just about to erupt in applause. He swirled the stick around in the cup and then, with the steady hands of a brain surgeon, placed the stirrer down on the table in front of him."

Nap looked Dan in the eye to make sure he was paying close attention.

"Then the old guy lifted the cup to his lips and sent the coffee flying with the mother of all spasms. Seizure city. The Splash Zone at Seaworld didn't hold a candle to this. Every square inch of the room was drenched. More liquid was sent flying than the cup could have possibly held."

Nap fixed his gaze on Dan again, making sure he understood.

"Do you understand? More liquid was sent flying from that shaky old man's cup than it could have possibly held."

Dan did not understand.

Dan Brown doesn't understand how hard it is to write about Nap Lapkin. His characters make sense. I can only write things as they happen. If Dan Brown had to write about Nap Lapkin his stories would be just as dumb.

"You see rookie, some of who you are is you. The rest is circumstance." Once again, his eyebrow lifted slightly to feel out the new recruit's understanding, then he continued.

"I walked out of that room and never went back. I knew that when it mattered, when I'm playing blackjack and the bad guys are watching and I have a ten and an eight showing and I hit, I'm going to get a three."

Dan wanted to understand. Desperately. He knew somehow that it was important. In his head, it was as if the Beatles started playing an old George Gershwin tune. There was screaming. Confused screaming.

Nap slapped the knee of the new recruit and said "Fate will make you who you are."

"Are you saying not to worry about how I drink coffee as I walk?" inquired Dan, stammering a little.

"Oh no, no, no- you definitely need to work on that."

With that, Nap chuckled to himself, stood up, and walked towards his car.

On the way, he passed three Eastern White Pines, two Yellow Birches and a Bitternut Hickory.

Author's Note: This last story is a bonus. It's actually the first Nap story and was the last story to appear in the first book _Merciful Flush_. I had no idea at the time that he would become my only recurring character.

**The Nap Lapkin Trilogy**

_Part 1: Mitcheltree Ridge_

As far as detention centers went, it was pretty much as Harold had always imagined them. Something out of an old spy movie, cold and cramped, with just enough light to let the occupant know he was in a crappy spot. He had been in this crappy spot for what seemed like weeks. He lost count of the days after about five and there were no windows to let him know if it was daytime or night.

Had he been informed of the name of the building he was being held in, he still wouldn't have known where he was. None of the sexy Leavenworth or Alcatraz imagery, this place was off the grid.

When they first threw a bag over his head at the bank, he truly had no idea why he was being hauled off. After a day or so of being interrogated, it dawned on him this must have been about all the stamps he had been taking home from work. The bank did a lot of overseas business and he would routinely scan the incoming mail for new stamps to add to his collection. Obviously, the bank frowned on this behavior because for three hours straight, there were shadowy men taking turns waterboarding him. He gasped and spluttered and begged for them to ask a question he could answer but they only went about their work in the same way men might have stacked boxes or audited someone. Wild-eyed, he confessed to taking home postmarked stamps and, after another hour, a variety of other sins both real and imagined that the shadowy men had little interest in hearing about.

This went on for days. Finally after about a week, someone actually spoke and asked him, "Do you have anything you'd like to tell us?"

Harold nodded his head and told them they had the wrong man and that they could all go fuck themselves sideways. When that got no reaction, he asked a question himself.

"Why me?"

They answered with a syringe full of the latest truth serum in the hopes he would answer that very question.

You see, they wanted to know why recently an automated robotic vehicle on Mars that had until recently been dormant and considered dead had sprung back to life. Why, you ask, would they think that Harold, a bank teller in good standing at The National Trust for the past seven years and who considered astronomy a slight interest at best, despite owning a very nice telescope which he received from his parents for Christmas a few years back, would have any idea about why this have occurred?

"Ever been to Mars, Harold?" the man asked him in a voice that was eerily flat.

Harold stared back, assuming that the chemicals they had injected him with were causing his hearing to be less than trustworthy. In a fog, he answered, "Pardon me?"

"Mars, Harold. Ever been to Mars?" he again asked in a somewhat less flat tone that suddenly made it clear that Harold's faculties were indeed working and he had heard correctly.

"No...?"

"Do you know anyone that has been?"

Harold pretended to give it some thought. Had our astronauts been to Mars? He wasn't sure now. Perhaps they had been and he had met one of them at some bank function. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and felt fairly certain that while Americans had in fact walked on the moon, we still had either been unable or not interested enough in the endeavor to actually get to Mars with anything other than a few mechanical toys to probe and record and such.

"No, sir. Nobody knows anyone who has been to Mars, as far as I know."

See, this is the strange bit: The reason the man in the dark suit was asking what seemed like odd questions of Harold was because he knew something that Harold didn't.

Soon after the robot on Mars had suddenly began respond again, the Deep Space Network had it back to work collecting samples and moving deeper into the crater it had been exploring. Soon after that, it saw an object that had everyone at NASA and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory at the California Institute of Technology gasping and fighting to comprehend what they were seeing. What they couldn't be seeing. They were all looking at something that they couldn't be looking at.

On the surface of Mars, on the edge of the Mitcheltree Ridge, there was what appeared to be a small white square. As the robot approached, it started to look like it was a Polaroid picture. The President was notified of what they couldn't actually be looking at. After four torturous days of getting the rover maneuvered close enough to take a better look, it became clear it was a picture of Harold.

Smiling and holding up what appeared to be some sort of tropical drink.

At this point, you're probably expecting to hear how that picture of Harold got there and I hate to disappoint, but the truth is, I have no idea myself. I can only assure you that neither does Harold. I could go further and tell you that the shadowy men in the dark suits never quite believe him but that might be a bit depressing trying to imagine what will become of Harold.

**The Nap Lapkin Trilogy**

_Part 2: The Escape Goat_

It was obvious to everyone concerned they were getting nowhere with the prisoner. In fact, if you were to ask some of them off the record, to even call him a prisoner was a gross mischaracterization. They would have told you he was a victim of fate or even a cruel joke. But that was off the record. On the record, he was a tough guy who wouldn't tell them what they needed to know. Even still, there were people at the even highest places of government that would have been shocked at who sat behind the wheel of the dark blue 1978 Le Mans that was now pulling into the detention facility that officially didn't exist and therefore couldn't have a name.

Nap Lapkin turned off the engine and began to compose himself. Why he insisted on listening to his mix-tape of David Bowie and Annie Lennox doing _Under Pressure_ live at Wembley before a big meeting with his handlers, he didn't know, but there he was all choked up.

"Shit! Nap is here." The guards looked at each other and watched as the minutes ticked by and there was no movement in the Le Mans.

"Nap fucking Lapkin... right here at our little base." A smile crept across the rugged features of the taller of the two men.

"You'd better wipe that smile off your face before he does it for you."

The smile evaporated as if it were never there.

Nap climbed out of the car and made his way to the side door. He pressed his thumb against the small pad and he heard the lock mechanism click. He had no idea where he was going but there wasn't a door in America that didn't jump to attention when it got a whiff of his fingerprints. He gave the door a push and slipped inside a brightly lit corridor with two large men standing on either side of a small desk.

"Sign here, Mr. Lapkin." He slid over a large book that would have looked more at home at a bad Midwest wedding and tried to hide his eyes, which screamed "Holy fuck, it's Lapkin right here in front of me!"

The same Nap Lapkin that once broke into a zoo and stole a tiger only to slip back in with it and deposit it in with the zebras after he had the orange stripes genetically altered to appear white. Just to watch the confused look on the people's faces as it massacred the whole herd. It cost a fortune and had jack to do with national security but there wasn't an accountant inside the government who had the stones to reject an expense report from Nap Lapkin.

He walked down the hallway and made his way to an unmarked door. Behind the door was a set of stairs that led down. He cursed himself for watching the ending of _Armageddon_ last night because it was all he could think about. The way Bruce Willis gave his life for everyone on Earth... he leaned on the handrail for a moment to collect himself.

Soon after he had arrived, a car driven by Madonna Axion had roared into the parking lot and slid clumsily into a handicap spot. Out jumped Madonna, an Amazon of a woman with bright red hair and curves that would make a mountain climber dizzy. She ran as fast and as gracefully as a woman in 5-inch heels could and quickly made for the same door that had recently given entrance to Nap.

"Is he here?!" she barked at the two guards.

Finally, one of them, neither was sure which after the fact, was able to inquire "Who?"

"Lapkin! Is that his piece of shit Le Mans I see out there?"

"Yes Ma'am. He arrived a few minutes ago."

"Damnit to hell!" she roared in a way that made it clear that Nap Lapkin had had her more than once and left her without a second thought.

The two men waited until she was headed down the stairs in pursuit of Nap before they allowed themselves to whistle and giggle like school boys.

Six stories below the enraged Ms. Axion...

"Lapkin. Where have you been? I've been calling you for days."

"Sorry General. Was getting a little rest and relaxation. After the little incident with the spider-milk goats, I'd say I earned it."

The General grunted almost imperceptibly while Nap looked through the two-way mirror at the man slumped in the metal chair.

"That our boy?"

Without waiting for an answer, he walked in to find out why this fellow insisted on littering other planets with his picture.

**The Nap Lapkin Trilogy**

_Part 3: Heading East_

It was the most senseless act he'd done in a long time. A heartless action done with all the reckless precision of a hug. He knew the moment he walked into the room that the poor bastard Harold knew nothing but he also knew that he would never be allowed to leave. So he did what came unnaturally natural to him.

He swore at him and then broke his neck in a fit of mock rage. He just had to hold it together until he was off the base. He couldn't allow them to see the ache that was spreading through his chest like a cancer. Even worse... weakness. Or double secret worse... compassion.

The first time he killed a man, he was only a boy. And the man was a boy, to be accurate. The kid had teased him about his name. His name was Nap Lapkin. The young man called him Ass Napkin.

He had killed the boy with a casualness that became legendary in circles where killing people casually was admired. Even when the government shrink had repeated the name Ass Napkin during his initial evaluation, his upper lip trembled and danced like a Hollywood version of a fault line giving way in a big-budget earthquake movie. The shrink left the room, retired and, as far as anyone remembers, lives in a mobile home with no wheels in Omaha.

So he killed Harold to save him the pain of endless imprisonment and torment. When the General watching outside rushed in full of hell and fury, Nap simply looked at him and shrugged.

"This one was a hard one, Boss. He would have never talked. Never." And then met the General's gaze with a look that dared him to challenge his diagnosis.

"Never?"

"Never. Ask him yourself."

And with that, Nap headed towards the stairs. Only to be interrupted halfway up by a tall red-haired woman whose face seemed to be indistinguishable in hue from her hair.

"Nap! Please tell me the prisoner is still alive."

"He's alive."

For a second, her demeanor relaxed and she almost looked relieved but then suddenly her body stiffened and her eyes darted back to the man trying hastily trying to make his way by her.

"Nap! Are you lying to me?"

"You asked me to tell you the prisoner is still alive."

"Lapkin... you big dumb animal! I wanted a shot at him."

Nap sighed a sigh equal parts fury and resignation with a dash of condescension thrown in. His eyes rolled almost imperceptibly but they might as well have rolled right out of his head as far as Madonna Axion was concerned.

Like every encounter Nap had ever had with an attractive woman, the sexual tension was so thick, it threatened to swallow them both up. He knew if he didn't leave at that very instant, he would mount her right there on the stairs and add to his already impressive security camera collection.

"I got this thing I've got to get to."

And with that, Nap slipped past her and made his way to his '78 Le Mans. Before he knew it, he had cranked open the sunroof, slipped in the _Head East_ cassette and was free to cry his eyes out.

_Save my life, I'm going down for the last time.  
Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!  
Save my life, I'm going down for the last time.  
Save my life, I'm going down for the last time.  
Save my life, I'm going down for the last time.  
Save my life, I'm going down for the last time.  
Save my life, I'm going down for the last time._
**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

Nap Lapkin is a much cooler name than Lance Manion. In retrospect, I wish I would have made my nom de plume Nap and given this secret agent character the moniker Lance. I would love to hear interviewers saying "So Nap, tell us about the new book." I realize that mentioning that I want to steal the cool name of the very same character that I've just spent numerous stories getting you attached to seems counter-intuitive and perhaps even petty but it's the closest thing to honesty I've ever shared in these dumb About the Author sections.

Interestingly enough, the name Nap Lapkin came from me screwing up the words lap and napkin while sitting at a restaurant with friends. I laughed about it for twenty minutes and thought it was just about the greatest name I'd ever heard. They laughed for about twenty seconds and thought it was just about the dumbest name they'd ever heard. My laughing for an additional nineteen minutes and forty seconds longer than they'd laughed about it completely ruined the meal.

Parting Thought From Nap Lapkin

I've spent a great deal of time traveling in third world countries. The worst part is when there's no plumbing and you just have to go bathroom in a hole. Especially when you're on the second floor.  
Terrible way to meet the folks downstairs.  
And the people staying above you.  
If you don't find this imagery funny, the problem is with you.
