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"This isn't a cookbook... Jim said it was a cookbook. I'm not sure what this is, but it's definitely not a cookbook. Should I order it again? Maybe I hit the wrong button... Does it say that it's a cookbook?"

\--Grandma Gibson

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Sins Of The Gods

### By Jim Gibson

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2011 Jim Gibson

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents:

Prologue: (What a drama-queen)

Chapter 1: First Encounters (Just start the bloody story)

Chapter 2: Cops and Reporters (Hate 'um already)

Chapter 3: In the Beginning (Is this a new version of the Bible or something?)

Chapter 4:...And It Just Keeps Getting Better (...No, it doesn't)

Chapter 5: Diversification in the Bronze Age (Why is that again?)

Chapter 6: The Bigger They Are... (The more they shit?)

Chapter 7: The World Takes a Wrong Turn (That's why I saved one bullet)

Chapter 8: Bad News for the Bad Guys (Well... duh!)

Chapter 9: A Candle in the Dark (Yeah, yeah, take a Prozac, already)

Chapter 10: Anticlimactic Revelations (Didn't see that coming)

Chapter 11: Hope Realized... Sorta (What took 'um so long?)

Chapter 12: Tamesis Gets Her Interview (Big surprise)

Chapter 13: Anger Management (I think I used to date her)

Chapter 14: That's A Wrap! (It's about damned time)

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Prologue

"We've got fingerprint results on the bodies that you may find particularly interesting, Mike," said the department's forensics specialist. "It turns out that they have the same prints on them as the four bodies we found two years ago."

The forensic specialist instantly had Detective Hendrix's full attention. "So he's back in business... This time he's bound to make a mistake and when he does, I'll personally..." his words trailed off as a realization landed with both feet on his show of determination. "Wait a sec, there were no fingerprints on the bodies back then... What are you trying to pull here, Jay?"

His colleague held up his hands in protest, "Nothing! You're not getting what I said straight. There were fingerprints on those bodies. Four sets.. Well four partial sets anyways. Maybe I should have said the _bodies_ have the same prints as the ones we found before."

The detective eyed him openly skeptical and replied, "How is that possible. Do you mean you found the rest of the missing fingers?"

"Nope. Well one or two were new, but the rest were repeats from before."

"Once again, how the hell is that possible?"

The fat man shrugged. "Got me, but it's true."

The detective stepped closer and looked up at him. "If you're messin' with me Jay, I swear I will beat the brakes of your fat ass when I find out."

Jay looked nervous as he eased back against his scarred steel desk. He made a mental note to henceforth; make a habit of breaking unsettling news while standing in the doorway. He outweighed detective Hendrix by a good hundred pounds, but he knew the man was more than capable of doing what he promised. "I'm just tellin' you what the FBI analysis told me, Mike. If that's wrong then I'll have to ask you to beat the brakes of their collective ass first."

The detective backed away a step. "Okay. But this doesn't make a damned bit of sense. You got any ideas?"

The specialist visibly relaxed a little as he nodded towards the phone. "I don't have a clue. I've had it rechecked twice now and called my contact there. We can't think of anything that makes sense... But those are the same fingers that were down at the morgue that we cremated a few years ago."

Chapter 1

First Encounters

### ~

May 30, four years ago

Mitch Johnson woke with bright lights shining down on him from his left and right. The rest of the room was dark and he couldn't see any walls. Something about the odd sounds he heard suggested they were there, though.

He tried to sit up. There was the slight rustle and squeak, almost like the sound of a child fondling a balloon, when he made the effort, but nothing else. He couldn't move.

His mouth hurt almost as much as his head. It was full of something.

_Cloth? Yeah, cloth,_ he thought, _and it tastes... bloody?!_ He tried to rise again, but found something held him firmly in place.

"Ah, you're finally awake, Mr. Johnson," observed a disembodied voice. "I was just setting up the last of the props for our little show."

A full length mirror suspended on some sort of mobile scaffold rolled over him and offered a view he already knew wouldn't be good. He could see that he was nude and was being held to the table by what looked like plastic wrap and a metal collar with tubes sticking out of it. His eyes tracked down his static body and locked on a machine next to his feet. It looked like an industrial sized circular saw that had been mounted to a track that ran the length of the table.

"Well Mr. Johnson, here's the deal: In a moment I'm going to take that rag out of your mouth. Then I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer them honestly and immediately. If you fail to do so or if you deviate from answering the question that I asked, things will get very... uncomfortable for you. Do you understand?"

Mitch bobbed his head yes to the extent the collar would allow.

"Good. I should also point out that the device you've no doubt observed around your neck is a rather handy little gadget that was designed specifically for this interview. You see, while you were unconscious, I separated the blood flow to and from your head from the rest of your body. There are lots of subtle ramifications to this fact Mr. Johnson, but the one that you should focus on is that I can keep your mind alive and awake regardless of what happens to your body. For that matter, I could give you a variety of psychotropic supplements or even adrenaline to, um, enhance the experience for you."

A man stepped beside the head of the table and sat a tape recorder next to Mitch's head and pressed record. He didn't look like what Mitch would have expected for a psycho. He was average in every respect Mitch could see. A little stocky but not enough to make you scream steroids or anything. Maybe a bit on the short side too, but it was hard to tell how high the table was for comparison. Very clean cut, too. He pretty much looked like a textbook government agent if you ditched the suit and sunglasses before throwing in a lab coat.

The man pulled the cloth from Mitch's mouth, and after spending most of his adult life either talking his way out of or into trouble, Mitch instinctively launched into a plea of mistaken identity.

"Look man, I-"

Before the third word passed his lips, the saw came to life and slowly began tracking across the table, shredding the plastic and removing a two millimeter layer of tissue from the bottoms of Mitch's feet. Mitch screamed in pain as he watched the procession in the mirror. That red spray of gore, that speckled the mirror, but mostly flew into the darker recesses of the room, was him! He strained to pull away, but it was no use.

When the blade completed its pass it pulled its self back to the starting position and clicked as it ratcheted a barely visible two millimeters towards the head of the table. Mitch could see the gnawed, bloody plastic as well as his blood pooling on the bottom teeth of the saw before dripping on the floor. The rag was easily stuffed back into his shrieking mouth.

The Interrogator leaned down next to Mitch's ear so that he could be heard over the muffled screams, "I'm going to have to guess you're a bit of a slow learner Mr. Johnson. I just told you not to deviate from my questions. Or perhaps you thought there was room for negotiation? I'm sorry to disappoint you Mr. Johnson. All you have to bargain with is the information that I want. To put it simply, your balls are on the anvil and I'm holding the hammer, so you _will_ play by my rules. When you think about it; a hammer would actually be an improvement over your rather precarious predicament. Now we will try this again, do you understand?"

Mitch clenched his eyes shut as tears of pain seeped from them. This couldn't be happening to him. He always knew there was a possibility he'd end up murdered, but he'd assumed that it would be a bullet in the brain prompted by his questionable methods in dilution and weighing techniques for certain illegal substances, or neglecting to pony up prompt and full payment for the aforementioned substances. Being thin-sliced to death like a turkey in a supermarket deli certainly never crossed his mind.

An odd smell seeped into his consciousness. Instinctively, he realized it was the smell of 'aerated Mitch' and the conviction that this was in fact happening to him finally established a beachhead.

Now, for the first time in his life, he saw no possible avenue of escape, and he didn't know what to do. So, he did what many of today's naive youths would do in such a desperate situation: he wished it all away.

When no answer was forthcoming, the saw came to life again and began stripping away a second layer of his feet. Mitch abruptly came to the conclusion that he needed a dramatic change in tactics. And for the next four hours he cooperated in every detail to the best of his ability.

There were questions about his parents; about where and how he grew up; inquiries into his sex life and partners; about a few girls that he had strung out over the years that ended up dead; paper or plastic? There were questions about Mitch's drug supplier and his customers. There were questions about their associates, friends and family; about the best place to buy latex paint. He was asked about the lingo of his trade and daily life; music preferences? He was grilled on both the normal and extreme amounts of a variety of drugs consumed by people in varying stages of addiction. He was even asked if light beer really was less filling.

The list went on and on, and Mitch answered everything as soon as he was asked as precisely as he knew how.

By the time the questions ended he was six millimeters shorter than when he first woke, but he had survived. The man told him to open his mouth and he complied without hesitation. The rag, now dry again, went back to its roost.

The man picked up the recorder and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "Thank you Mr. Johnson. Your cooperation has helped immeasurably in vindicating a great injustice. I will no longer require your services."

Mitch felt relief wash over him until he remembered that in every movie he could think of, someone usually turned up dead when the words 'I will no longer require your services' were uttered. The man turned to go and the saw came to life yet again.

While it would probably seem like an eternity to have one's body shredded two millimeters at a time. It actually only took a little over an hour for the saw to make the remaining 852 passes to reach the collar.

Mitch would never know how lucky he was when the saw slashed an exposed loop in one of the collar's hoses.

He really didn't have a last thought as he bled out. His sanity was in completely the wrong state to interject a lucid opinion or observation. Bearing that in mind, California seems as likely as any.

~~~

The information Mr. Johnson gave would indeed be put to very practical use. The Interrogator sets about making his plans and putting together a materials list for several facets of them. He estimated that he would be ready to act within six months.

He bought most of his supplies in the surrounding states and paid with cash. Always one type of item at a time and always implying an alternative to what they would actually be used for. He gathered surveillance equipment, building materials and a variety of power tools. Some of the items with more dubious and single minded applications were improvised.

He commandeered many items from construction sites late on weekend nights. It didn't bother him to steal those items. After all they were his buildings and he had no intentions of collecting on the insurance.

He found a gold mine at a flea market in the form of a cache of electric motors ranging from 1/8 horsepower on up to five HP. He took the lot and paid in cash all while wearing sunglasses, a loose jacket and a ball cap. Everything was loaded into an old Silverado pickup that had bogus plates and magnetic signs on the doors indicating that it belonged to _Big Al's Appliances._ At other times the truck sported signs proclaiming _Sparky's Electrical, Greasy Beaver Plumbing, Three Gringo's Lawn and Garden_ or _Inuit-Inferno Heating And Cooling._

Some of the more unusual items to be collected required trips out of the country, and late night border crossings, on roads that didn't show up on most maps. Whatever it took to bring them home undetected.

A specialist was called in for certain portions of the pending work. The Interrogator had known him for a long time and knew his work was unimpeachable and confidential on the highest level.

A meticulous record was made from the ever increasing surveillance of the pray and his associates. Patterns were noted, friends and acquaintances logged, favorite restaurants, regular dry cleaner, exercise routines, preferred drinks, times and locations of illicit and legitimate business transactions, visits to mom, television viewing preferences, and even remote monitoring of fluctuations in electric, water and gas usage throughout the days and weeks were all annotated and evaluated.

He wrapped up his project two weeks ahead of schedule. It was time to open a gate to Hell directly in the path of his prey.

Chapter 2

Cops and Reporters

### ~

Tamesis Hanley pressed the record button, in her dining room, and rattled off the time, date, location and the premise of the interview with the "anonymous informant" title spackled in to protect her source. She then set the digital audio recorder on the table in front of her and appeared to relax in her chair with a legal pad on her well shaped, crossed legs and a pen poised to tick off items as she scanned her questions for the best place to start.

She pursed her moist lips and raised her eyes to meet the Mike's. With a slight tilt of her head, she asked, "Officer, what can you tell us about your part in the investigation into the deaths of Mayor Benjamin Jackson, Mr. Timothy Jordan and Mr. Buford Simpson?"

Detective Mike Hendrix lit a cigarette to distract himself from the obviously strategically displayed physical flawlessness of the reporter. He was considerably older than his youthful appearance suggested, and had long ago reigned in his primal urges. But even a man on his deathbed would probably entertain a barrage of lurid thoughts in the company of Ms Hanley. There was something about her that demanded the attention of testosterone...estrogen, too, Mike suspected.

He leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head to match the angle used by Tamesis and puffed out a smoke ring then sent a stream of smoke through the center of it as he gathered his thoughts. "Well, for the record you left out one name. A major drug dealer named Leonard Mason also disappeared with the others and turned up just as dead. We just didn't know they were linked to the same killer until much later."

Tamesis jotted a note without looking down. "That would be 'infamous crime boss' Leo Mason, yes?"

Mike considered the cliché and nodded. "That'd be the one. It wasn't until a very strange series of events occurred that we had no choice but to make the connection... A long and bloody series of events, really. The amazing thing is that we pretty much know who the killer is and can't prove it. Every search we conducted for evidence came with the same results: Zip.

"The higher-ups have sent down orders to not release the name for fear of... well, a pack bloodthirsty lawyers when you get right down to it. That's why I came to you, this way."

Tamesis knew what the detective had at stake here and had suspected, before he even arrived, that she might have to coddle him a bit to get what she wanted. She leaned forward and lay a consoling hand on the table. "Please, start at the beginning then. If we can do something to vindicate these murders, we will."

Mike set his jaw and looked down at his hands for a moment. Then he looked up at the reporter again. "Alright. But some of this is going to sound impossible or at the very least highly improbable."

Mike's memory zipped back to four years earlier on a chilly evening in mid-November.

~~~

-November 19, four years earlier

The Beast stirred in a cave. Its first conscious thought was of the hunger. Its body ached for relief like it never had before. Its enormous frame shook unsteadily as it rose.

Twilight claimed dominion beyond the entrance. A deep inhale brought in a survey of its surroundings. The musk of underground moisture mingled with the smell of animals recently departed from the area. Odd smells mingled; rotting vegetation mixed with a kind of smoke unlike any it had ever smelled in the wild. These smells were more chemical in nature. Nothing like the pleasant, if worrisome, wood smokes that waft from those rare human encampments and dwellings the Beast had encountered before. To the Beasts surprise, the smell of humans lay beneath the smoke. Lots of humans. The brute had never considered there were that many humans in the world.

On outward the Beast's nose searched this new world.

Wait! There it was! The Beast was moving before it fully comprehended what it smelled. Bursting from the mouth of the cave faster than a gay Mennonite from a brothel, it intensified its olfactory investigation. In the open air, confirmation took hold instantly. It ran at full speed.

A late autumn breeze stirred long dead leaves and stripped away warmth from any source it could find. But it also carried the odors.

The Beast's surroundings were alien. The trees were small scraggly affairs with far too much space from one to the next. The Beast was used to no trees but when it did happen across them, they grew in groves, or even forests, not spaced evenly beside strips of white or dark grey stone. Here too, were so many of the human dwellings, much larger than it had ever seen before but it was hard to mistake the straight lines and pointing corners. It was as if the world had become a rather disturbing dream.

It all looked wrong... Not that the Beast paid much heed to anything other than the smell. Nor was there any reason to worry about potential dangers on its quest. Anything it could run across would most likely piss itself anyway.

~~~

Chuck unlocked the bathroom door for the first time in almost three days. He had been convinced that everyone in the house wanted to tie him up and take the last of his stash. This didn't really make sense, considering he had less than anyone there. But the paranoia had finally slipped from his drug ravished mind... Not to mention that he'd injected the last of his stash hours ago. As he wandered through the hallway and into the kitchen he saw the other five part-time residents crowded around the window over the sink, looking out into the night.

_Probably think Five-O's hyper-intelligent shadow-force monkey spies are in the trees to find the best angles for recon, raids and turd-hurling, again,_ he mused as he pulled up a chair and sat at the table. _Junkies_ are _a fun people to watch_. He thought as he raised someone's orange juice and took a sip. It wasn't like the owner would notice, they were absolutely riveted to the window... _could just be fireflies, too. Must be something pretty interesting to keep Kyle away from the VCR._ Old electronics could frequently be found on the kitchen table along with a small tool kit. Tweekers could "work" on them for hours and never accomplish anything aside from successfully keeping a junkie occupied. No one missed the table space. It's not like anyone was going to be preparing a meal or anything. Chuck's Thanksgiving dinner had been a snack size bag of Cheetos and a glass of grape Kool-Aid.

After about five minutes of mannequin-like concentration, someone spoke. "I know it's against your rules, but I think you should open the damned gun cabinet!" exclaimed Jessica.

Jessica always exclaimed... Even when she was whispering or talking in her sleep. She didn't seem capable of any other mode of speech. "I don't think a pack of wolves that all of us can see can be written off as hallucinations!"

Chuck's head snapped up. _What in the hell is that crazy bitch talking about_.

~~~

Harold Miller's dog Pinto woke him with a few yaps and a threatening growl.

Harold pulled the newspaper from his face and scanned the area for whatever might be spooking the unkempt Pomeranian. He could hear a police horse galloping over the grass towards his home/office/sharpie-monogrammed park bench. It wasn't that putting his name on the bench had prevented any of the city's countless homeless from trying to stake a claim on his bench, but at least he didn't have to listen to childish clichés about the obvious validity of his own claim.

Damned police wouldn't let a man catch a nap in peace.

He zeroed in on the direction of the sound and waited for them to divert around the long row of hedges. _Maybe they're after those damned dogs that were sniffing around here a few minutes ago._

The sound came onward.

As he propped himself on his elbow, he lay his hand protectively over the half empty bottle of peaches and cream flavored MD 20/20 in his dingy coat pocket.

A Volkswagen-sized hole in the eight and a half foot high hedges exploded towards him. A huge beast tore by only a foot or so from Harold and barreled away down an alley on the other side of the street.

Harold Miller had been Pinto's master for several years, but he now found himself following Pinto's lead.

He pissed himself.

~~~

Chuck watched in disbelief as Billy opened the oven, felt around the upper burner, and retrieved a key. He inserted it into a wall-mounted lock box by the refrigerator. He twisted it and pulled yet another key out. The new key was taken to a padlock attached to the handle of the large gun safe near to the back door which had a smaller lock trapped in its hinged shackle. The smaller lock's shackle ran through the eye of still another key. After freeing it from the smaller lock, Billy inserted that key into the gun safe and opened the door. An array of ammunition, pistols, hunting rifles, shotguns and even an assault rifle hung inside. It's amazing how many stolen goodies you can collect if you're a dealer willing to barter.

Chuck stood and rounded the table towards the back door. A room full of _armed_ junkies was not that funny at all... unless they were armed with squirt guns loaded with petroleum jelly. This, on the other hand, looked like an ideal time to run to the store for smokes.

Chuck heard the click and pop of the AR15 clip being loaded and a round chambered as he reached for the door knob that would lead him out through the garage. As he opened the door he noticed with relief that the garage was open.

Then he heard the growl.

~~~

The Beast felt the fatigue of running all out for only a short time. If it were capable of abstract cognition it may have assumed it wasn't a spring chicken anymore... Well, knowing just what the hell a spring chicken was would probably help, too. Much to its credit, the thought didn't occur. Besides, more important things were taking precedence at the moment.

The smell was coming from just up ahead. The scent of the other animals, blood and panicked humans wafted beneath an odor of a new kind of smoke, as well. Only one smell mattered though.

The Beast accelerated.

~~~

For several moments, _Oh, come on! Really?_ was all that seemed to want to register on Chuck's head as he lay bleeding by the back door. Waves of determined wolves poured in the back door over him. Oddly, his most serious wounds were not from the two wolves chewing on his fugitive limbs. In fact his legs would still be tethered to his body were it not for a startled Billy amputating both of them with the assault rifle in response to the sudden appearance of the wolves in the house. With as many bullets that landed around him, it was a wonder that was all the damage Chuck sustained.

The pain hadn't taken hold yet... Which was odd because he could still feel the linoleum against his hands. He'd walked across that floor thousands of times and never paid any attention to it. Now, its subtle ridges brought old memories of Hot Wheels cars being slung down slot car tracks hard enough to derail them. So much had happened to that little boy since he tucked the memory away that Chuck almost felt like he was borrowing someone else's childhood. His current predicament tapped him on the shoulder and politely reminded him that if he wanted to keep making memories, he'd better find a way out of this mess.

Lying on his back, he looked around the room for help. Rolling his head up and to the right he could see Jessica lying face down and lifeless as a wolf tore at the side of her neck. The new girl (she called herself Lexis and Chuck never bothered to ask her real name, knowing full well that her novelty would soon wear off and she'd be out whoring for Billy to pay for her fix) had managed to climb into the sink. She was slashing wildly with a paring knife at anything that popped up over the edge of the counter. Rolling his head up farther and more and to his left Chuck could see thrashing body in the hall doorway. He couldn't see a face but he knew it was Kyle from the unlaced combat boots that flopped about between stuttering kicks at air.

He couldn't see Billy and Sam. He tilted his head back more to see down the near dark hallway. That particular light bulb had blown out long before Chuck ever set foot in the house.

Then he felt the teeth sink in his throat and the wolf's head begin thrashing as it ripped away the flesh. He couldn't even scream.

As fate would have it, his last thought was of what his parents would think when they found the ample collection of bondage porn between the mattress and box springs in his room at their house.

~~~

Billy backed away from the now locked basement door, bumping into the "lab table" he used for cooking methamphetamines. The door shook as Sam beat on the other side begging to be let in as he fired the last three shots from the Glock he managed to grab on his way out of the kitchen. It felt natural to Sam and if he'd had time to think about it, he'd have realized that it was the one that had been stolen from his house eighteen months before.

A scream heralded the end of Sam's pleas and the beginning of the sounds of growls and ripping cloth and flesh. It was about then that Billy realized his error. He closed his eyes and hung his head. Sam was into him for at least a ten grand.

A crash above sent both dust showering from the basement ceiling and Lexis' random squawks and squeals into a single, unwavering soprano note worthy of any opera. It lasted for about five seconds before drowning in a cacophonous roar of primal rage. Billy tried to suppress the shiver that radiated down his spine and out each of his extremities.

The ceiling groaned as something massive quickly moved across it.

Billy heard a loud thump and a crash on the other side of the kitchen. A sound like a 50 pound sack of potatoes hit the floor. The baby monitor Billy had hidden in the kitchen informed him Lexis was no longer making any sounds louder than the occasional gurgling.

Whatever was up there was now moving towards the door at the top of the stairs. Billy ran to the outside basement door and began twisting back the ten slide bolts, unhooking the dozens of hook locks and scrambling for the key to the three hasped padlocks arranged around the reinforced doorframe.

From the top of the stairs, another roar and Sam offered one last gurgling scream just before what sounded like a very moist crunch. The last lock fell to the ground. The door behind Billy exploded down the stairs.

Hearing the stairs creak behind him, Billy turned the handle and jerked the door. It didn't move. An image of three padlocks on the outer side of the door appeared in Billy's head. He had installed them to insure no one would try to sneak out this way with his product while he wasn't looking. Another roar, this one impossibly louder than the first shook the room.

Billy turned to see. He did a double take.

_That's not possible._ He thought.

The Beast charged. Billy grabbed the AR15 and raised it firing his last three shots before the firing pin clicked impotently devoid of a round to activate. All three shots were true, but the Beast seemed unfazed.

Billy discovered that almost three quarters of a ton traveling at twenty miles per hour could indeed break through his basement door with or without locks. Unfortunately, he happened to be standing in front of the door as the experiment reached it's rather messy conclusion.

~~~

Detective Hendrix walked past a dented '98 Camero on the path leading to the torn screen door. It was open and the light from the six police cars lit up the scene in a blizzard of blue and red flashes. Inside he approached Sgt. Davidson who looked up with a haggard expression. The tell-tale chemical odor of methamphetamines lingered in the air.

"What's goin' on Will?" Hendrix asked.

The sergeant shook his head. "I reckon we got ourselves a bona fide ginormous dick blister an' it'll take a lot more than a shot of anybodics to get rid of it. I hain't never seen the like, not even on the TV." Not only was the sergeant's drawl perfectly at home with words such as ain't and reckon, it often added or deleted letters to and from words to smooth the transition from one to the next. In short, he was as rustic as a moon-shaped hole on an outhouse door. The upside was that, when the need arose, he could talk for hours without tiring. The down side was that he often had trouble with the definitions of the words like 'when' in conjunction with words like 'the need arose'. In such cases, he simply assumed such words were not really that important anyway. The fact wasn't lost on Mike when the sergeant said, "It'd be easier for you to see it than tryin' to explain it." He motioned for the detective to follow and turned toward the rear of the rundown, three bedroom, two and a half bath, ranch style house.

In the hall, Hendrix stopped in his tracks. "Is that a wolf?" he asked pointing.

"Close enough. As crazy as it sounds, the consensus is that that thar is in fact a meth-addicted timber wolf, but it gets even more... look, it's totally fubar, Mike. Somebody with a mind full of barbed wire came up with this shit. Squirrel actually called in a werewolf attack when he arrived. And I can't say I'd've skipped that idea myself if I'd've gotten here first.

"My best guess is that some rival stayed up tweekin' for a week straight, watched one too many horror movies and decided to start a drug war with a Jungle Book twist. When the animals got in, they must've smelled the shit all over the house, but the clothes these kids were wearin' were saturated with the smell... At least the ones that had been in the lab." He pointed first at the corpse by his feet, "We think that's Kyle Mason," then into the kitchen, "and that's Charles Andrews and Jessica Randolph. You've probably ran across them before. They've all spent time in the county jail. We don't know who the other girl is yet."

Mike stepped around the wolf's carcass and over a pile of chewed meat with cargo pants and combat boots that was presumably a man not long ago, lying in the kitchen doorway to see three other bodies. Two were torn up as badly as the one Mike had stepped over and the third appeared to be a girl of about sixteen or seventeen. Her head lolled at a dysfunctional angle with blood crusted around her mouth, nose and ears. The most notable wound was what appeared to be four deep slashes had all but removed her left shoulder.

The coroner would be thorough, but there was little doubt about cause of death. After a quick once over of the bodies for anything odd and not related to animals, Mike stood and surveyed the room. Three wolves lay dead around the room. A blood stained paring knife lay on the floor near the counter. 5.56 mm shell casings littered the floor around the door he had come in and bullet holes riddled the area around the door leading to the garage. A pile of about a dozen more wolves lay in and around the garage and doorway.

As he scanned higher up in the room, he saw the parallel gashes across what was left of the cabinet doors on either side of the sink. They were spaced about the same as the wound on the girl.

Only the lab would be able to tell which victim contributed blood to the multitude of splatters and puddles in the room. He suspected they'd find it was a team effort.

In the center of the room a near full glass of orange juice sat next to a mostly disassembled VCR on the table.

"What does the rest of the house look like?" Mike asked, eyes still roaming the room for anything he may have missed.

Sgt. Davidson grunted, "Ya hain't seen the worst of it yet." He motioned for Mike to follow and turned down a different branch of the hall. The drywall along the hallway was buckled in several places between about three and five feet off the floor. Mike followed until the sergeant stood aside at the top of a flight of stairs.

"That is probably Sam Green," said Sgt Davidson gesturing to the heap of carnage that had either crawled or been dragged part of the way into a bedroom. Mike glanced just beyond the slain at the busted panel on the open door with blood spatters radiating out several feet from it. No, neither dragged nor crawled. Hurled seemed more accurate.

"Andrews was small-time, but the other three were pretty heavy hitters in the local drug trade." Davidson pointed out.

"Three?" Mike queried.

"You'll find the third down there... or at least parts of him. Watch your step."

Remnant chunks of the basement door drooped on the hinges or lay scattered on the steps among enough splinters to bring a chaste termite to orgasm. He noticed what looked like the bristles from a paintbrush stuck in a piece of the wood. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves and removing a plastic bag from his pocket he plucked the fibers and held them up to the light. Something didn't seem right about them.

"They're... transparent," he blurted in surprise.

"There's plenty more where that came from," Sgt. Davidson promised and gestured down the stairs.

Mike eased down into the basement, the smell of the crystal-meth lab becoming stronger as he descended. He bent over to see into the room and almost lost his footing.

A surreal scene revealed itself to the detective. The reinforced steel door leaned against a set of ascending concrete stairs on the outside of the house. It may have been white at sometime in the past but now it showed the orange signature of the iodine used in the preparation the methamphetamines as many light colored surfaces do in enclosed proximity to the drug while "cooking." Moreover streaks and spatters of blood festooned the door in a style reminiscent of a Jackson Polluck painting. The lower half of a leg lay at the base of the door next to what appeared to be the upper half of a torso. The torn cloth with a lightning bolt and the letters DC wrapped around it were the big giveaway. Presumably the AC was around here somewhere.

But none of that had come into focus yet, as Mike's eyes never made it past the bullet riddled polar bear lying on its side in the middle of the room.

"What the hell?" he muttered and completed the last few steps.

"Yeah, thank God Squirrel called for backup as soon as he got here. Do you have any idea how many bullets it takes to down a tweeker polar bear? It woulda been a real mother fucker if it hadn't already lost a lot of blood. Still, it's amazing that thing didn't get any of our boys before it went down. Jay's up at the hospital now, though. I think he may have had another heart attack.

"But my question is; who the hell came up with this shit and how the fuck do you get damn near a ton of live polar bear down here and how did they keep it hid long enough to get it hooked on meth without anyone finding out?"

"That's three questions Will. But the answers the same for all of them; beats the nine kinds of hell out of me." Mike knelt beside the bear, "So this one is addicted too...

"Yeah, finding' this 'un wired on that shit is pretty much what tipped us off to check the other critters for drugs. We ran 'um all on the field kits and damned if'n they weren't all junkie mutts." The sergeant turned his attention back to the chunks in the doorway, "Well anyways, the wallet on this'un says he's William Harris. If it's the one I think it is, it's Baker Billy." Mike nodded his familiarity with the name. "and if that's the case, a lotta meth-heads are gonna be Jonesin' real hard, real soon."

Officer Simon "Super Squirrel" Jackson trotted down the stairs to just above the blood smeared steel door. "Sir, we found most of the gun!" He barked in his own peculiar style. If words were bullets, Officer Jackson's mouth would be the equivalent of the Israeli made Oozi.

Sergeant Davidson nodded after allowing his brain a moment to catch up with his ears, "Good job. Where was it, Squirrel?"

"Well sir, it was, um," Squirrel fidgeted, "it was kinda with his legs, sir."

Mike looked up from his inspection of the scene on that note. "Kinda? What do you mean?"

"Ahh, it's um sort of um between them, sir, only farther up." Squirrel's nervous manner took on a spastic nature reminiscent of a prop-plane trying to stall in mid-flight any time he was getting close to a curse word... or a female... or any item typically used by women almost exclusively. "Pretty much all the way up, sir"

The Sergeant blinked.

"You mean the gun was literally up his--"

"Yes sir." Squirrel cut in before Mike could finish his query, "I guess the bear held a grudge, sir. It's over by the kiddie-pool if you wanna see it, sir. I'll just be getting back to the search for the rest of the body, sir."

He turned and disappeared up and over the steps into the backyard.

Sergeant Davidson and Detective Hendrix looked at each other with raised brows.

"What did he mean by 'grudge'," Mike asked. "and what kind of gun?"

"Oh yeah, that. It seems that Mr. Harris managed to put a few rounds in the bear 'fore he went down. I figure where all the holes around the door upstairs came from."

Mike paused to consider, "But those are fairly large caliber holes... and there are a lot of them..."

"Well, we did find two empty magazines upstairs and three shell casings along with the butt of an AR15 down here." The sergeant grimaced as he raked his fingernails across his five o'clock shadow, "I hope for Billy's sake, he wudn't alive for the bears critique of his marksmanship."

Chapter 3

In The Beginning

### ~

The Keeper descended the spiral staircase to the central viewing room of his laboratory. Once there he scanned each of the adjoining rooms and proceeded to walked from room to room performing a quick inspection of each of his captives. Upon returning to the central room he flipped the switch marked "PA" and sat in his chair he spun it in a full circle to ensure everyone was paying attention.

"Good afternoon, all. I trust everyone is in high spirits?" he said and finally settled on a random victim to lock eyes with. He held the gaze for a moment, smiling at his own jibe, then chose his most recent addition to focus on. Hatred blazed in the reciprocated glare. "Ah yes, our final participant has now joined us and since I won't have to repeat myself, I'll elaborate on why all of you are here, not that there's any shortage of reasons for any of you."

Again, the Keeper spun in his chair, but when he came to a stop, he let his eyes lock on the glass this time. His eyes went out of focus as he thought and the reflection of himself seemed to blend with equipment in the juxtaposed room.

"Perhaps I could tell you a story containing certain relevant aspects that may circumvent some questions later on. The story is a rather long one but it should put you in the right frame of mind for seeing my motivations... though, I doubt any of you will ever approve of my methods. Well I'd better get started. It's not as if we have all the time in the world." The Keeper chuckled.

This is a very old story of thirteen villagers who inadvertently received a gift of proportions unbeknownst to mankind before or since.

~~~

It begins when a rather lethal virus swept through a small village called Bryke with its forty-eight inhabitants around the year prior to our lord 1856 BC. Those were the last years of Britain's Neolithic Age when the common cure for a toothache was a well placed punch.

The Keeper shrugged, "Well, I did warn you that it was a very old story. It was a world that is really quite alien to today's. The closest thing you'd be able to relate to it would probably be the world of the American Indians. Though physiologically pretty much like you, they had just crossed the cusp from being cavemen."

Anyway, it should be pointed out that only six of the inhabitants were not infected and went on to lead relatively normal lives. Of the forty-two infected villagers, a tremendous toll was exacted. Some sixteen passed from their mortal coil within the span of just twelve days of the viral onset.

The Keeper contrived an air of concern and said, "Please, stop me if you've heard this one before."

By that point, the village chief, a fellow by the unfortunate name of Moaplevarrinajipasito (emphasis on the second, sixth and ninth syllables), who was quite ill himself, called his youngest son Kym and said to him, "namak manupo Kym, geelada na ee bonuposha ee nyel. Shach!" which would translate loosely as: "Kym, this sucks hard. Go get some Nyquil and maybe some antibiotics from the pharmacy. Quickly!" or perhaps, "Kym, I'm fuckin' nackered. Be a sport and pop round to the chemists for a bit of jollop... and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps!" (And now that the fallibility of rough translation has been established, English alone will suffice for the rest of this story.)

"As you wish, father. I shall not disappoint you." Kym replied.

The Chief smiled and placed his hand on Kym's shoulder, "Know this then; you have never disappointed me and I have always been proud to call you my son. But if you should fail, every time you lay with a woman, my spirit shall come back to whisper taunts about your shortcomings in her ear."

So Kym departed to seek out the aide of the closest healer in a frantic state. She lived a day and a half's travel away (Kym always got the crappy jobs, but his father thought it built character).

One may wonder why the village was so far from any healers. As it happened, Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito's grandfather, Chief Mojoshet, had moved the village around fifty years earlier after the healer, who was already quite old and the same one Kym was now seeking, created a medicine to cure a toothache. It didn't cure the toothache but she had inadvertently created the first, and possibly only, legitimate aphrodisiac for women. Unfortunately for Old Chief Mojoshet and the men of the village, the healer (widely assumed to most likely be a woman) found it was an excellent dressing for salads as well. Due to the fact that she ate like a rabbit (perhaps a ravenous, hundred and ten pound rabbit with revolting table manners is more accurate), two weeks later, the whole village "migrated" in the middle of the night, because living with a toothache was preferable to waking to find oneself being mounted by an eighty year old of indeterminate sex and a questionable state of mind.

Of course, that was why the village, as a general rule, shunned healers. They weren't about to fall for it again.

The Keeper grunted, "From a financial perspective, it is unfortunate that no one has been able to duplicate that female aphrodisiac. Today, it would be more valuable than gold in almost any economy.

Kym found the healer was, by her appearance, easily a centenarian which astonished him in an age when the average lifespan was, if you managed to make it through your early teens, around 50 years. Upon hearing Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito dilemma, she agreed to help for a price. In return for the elixir, Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito or his descendants would render a great service to her at a time of her choosing. Kym agreed to the arrangement.

It took five days to prepare a drink which she believed would cure the afflicted. And because her appetite for salads hadn't diminished over the years, Kym slept near the top of a Scotch fir tree for three nights and switched to a neighboring tree after the healer had almost managed to hack through the trunk of the first.

Much later, Kym mentioned there was another, much greater cost, but he never said what it was. However, he did scream himself awake during full moons for years afterwards and had an inexplicable habit of passing out in the presence of carrots... gourds, pinecones, walking staffs, smooth fist-sized stones, or freshly sheered sheep.

Woe awaited Kym upon his return to the village a week later, he found that another eleven villagers had passed away including his two sisters. He presented the elixir to the survivors and told of the village's newfound debt.

The survivors each drank the black potion, though it tasted horrible (If memory serves, "shit" was the most common term used to describe it). The weaker victims were not able to keep down as much so the amount ingested varied from person to person. Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito and his eldest son Beth--

"Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito had always resented wielding such a cumbersome name and vowed to endow his own children with more manageable monikers. His three sons, Beth, Lisa and Kym and his daughters Rodd and Todd all considered themselves comparatively very fortunate. At the time, then names had no implied gender. For that matter they all sounded like little more than single syllable grunts to the rest of us." The Keeper held up his hands defensively, "Trust me, I'm not trying to be funny here. It was just a really weird fluke."

\--were so physically devastated by the disease they drank only small amounts of the elixir as did Staffanemicollera the daughter of the Chief's good friend, a friend who, sadly, had already perished.

The following two days saw all of them reduced to startlingly high fevers, hallucinations and the inability to consume anything but water. Those unaffected by the illness comforted them as best they knew how. By the second night, all of the thirteen recipients lay silent and still. Their breathing was so shallow that the unaffected were sure they would not last till morning so the healthy, knowing opportunity when they saw it, began debating over who got the good hut next to the local brook.

But they did recover. On the morning of the third day, Pork woke first. Pork was Lisa's nickname since early childhood owing to an incident involving an amorous wild boar and an early morning bowel movement... let's just say the pig never pissed quite the same again and Pork earned his nickname.

Soon after, a few more stirred and asked for food and water. By noon, seven were awake and able to talk and eat small portions. Two more woke that night.

One, a fellow named Jonnedee awoke and asked only for a beer. He held it up and toasted, "Hair of the dog that pissed in my last mug." About thirty seconds after he drained the cup, he turned his head as it came right back up in a rather spectacular display. He wiped his mouth, rinsed with some water and observed, "Musta pissed in this one too."

Only Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito, Beth and Staffanemicollera still lay unable to stir.

The deliberation over who would lay claim to the possessions of the final three was much less enthusiastic than the previous day's debates. Conversely, hope for the remaining stricken was considerably higher. They did not stir for another day. Then Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito and Staffanemicollera woke early on the fourth morning.

Once Jonnedee's niece, Soya, had enough strength to hold herself upright, she had sat the rest of the night with the Chief's head in her lap and cooled his brow with a cloth worn soft with age and a large bowl of water. Pretty much everyone in the village had known about her feelings for him except for the Chief himself. Tribal law forbade anyone from intervening beyond giving hints on how to attract the attention of the other. Given some of the fiascos that led up to that law, it would be easy to see why it came to be.

Just after sunrise, the Chief awoke to see to the depths of Soya's pale brown eyes staring back into his. A smile spread over her face as tears pooled and launched down her rosy cheeks. She whispered, "I feared I'd lost you before I ever had the chance to have you."

He would always recall Soya's joy as the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed. In that moment, Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito knew that he'd do anything to make her happy and had no intention of ever leaving her side.

After a sip of water, he rasped out, "You? I... Well then, I am yours to have; for better or worse. Though I doubt I'd survive much worse than I just have."

"For better it is then... Unless you decide to criticize my cooking." She said with a twinkle in her eyes.

He gave a weak smile, "Nix the carrots and you've got yourself a deal."

Late that same night, the last of the thirteen woke to the cheers of the village and a new... 'Stepmother', for lack of a better term. Beth wasn't entirely sure if he was more happy for being alive along with the others or for his father's good fortune. After all, Soya was a kind and beautiful woman. He would know, they'd been friends from early childhood.

One might ask, if Beth found Soya to be so wonderful, why he didn't make a play for her himself? The answer is simple; it was a very different time and a very different way of life. The younger women of a village were typically attracted to the security an older man could provide. Whereas, a young man was expected to go out into the world and win a woman for himself. Oddly, there was a method to the madness. It was both good for expanding the gene pool and a spectacular motive for gearing the young men up for fighting. Sufficed to say; if they sucked at fighting, the village would face some pretty dire straits, indeed.

The down side to all of this fell on the older women who naturally compensated by established themselves as the authorities on virtually every aspect of life beyond war. Quite sensibly, they opted to leave getting killed to the men. They left one other burden to the men, more specifically to one man. When it came right down to it, they knew how to shift blame, and having a Chief exonerated them from the repercussions of bad decisions.

Anyway, despite the devastating losses they'd suffered, the villagers knew they'd narrowly escaped a far worse fate. If the village had been reduced to the six uninfected villagers, it probably wouldn't have survived another winter. So, the four days following the revival of the final survivor were little more than celebration, morning and sleep. Offerings of thanks and remorse were dedicated to the Gods and the fallen daily; beer flowed nonstop and most did their best to begin repopulating the village. With the sparing of those thirteen lives, the village had a chance to recover. Life would be tough, but it would go on in some semblance of normality.

Little did any of them know the devastation the disease had wrought throughout the rest of the island. And they were even more ignorant to what had really happened to the thirteen... But they would find out in time.

The Keeper was silent for a long moment lost in thought then he continued, "I'll spoil the story a little and give you an idea of what actually took place all those millennia ago. It certainly isn't the climax, anyway. Come to think of it, the details are very probably the most boring part of the story.

"I'm sure you are all relatively bright people to have come so far in life. Of course, you wouldn't be here if you were all that bright. Well, hopefully you paid at least some attention in your science classes. But I digress."

"It turns out that it was a combination of several factors that lead to the unique physiological change in those thirteen residents of the village of Bryke which lay within the confines of the area that would come to be known as Medeshamstede (or Medes' homestead) some 2400 years later and is now known as the city of Peterborough in Britain. It could be said that any one of the factors in and of its self would have had no significant impact other than the probable death of most, or more likely, all of those concerned. Fortunately, that wasn't the case or this story would have been little more than depressing, and I doubt any of you need any motivation in that area.

"The first factor was simply an overabundance of iron in the village water pool. The second dynamic was the virus. The elixir the healer provided was the third and final component for the transformation of those exceptional thirteen survivors of the disease and, ironically, the cure.

"As it happened, the potion contained small amounts of radium-226. This alone should have been lethal to all thirteen patients. It was analogous to treating a sinus infection with a dip in the cooling tanks at a nuclear reactor.

"But the unique virus provided an exception to the rule.

"Exposure to the radioactive properties of the radium triggered a peculiar defense mechanism in the virus. Instead of simply dying off like good little parasites, the virus actually fused with the host cells in an attempt to survive. In doing so, it caused several functional changes on the cellular level. The most notable feature was that the virus fused to the ends of the human genetic material, Deoxyribonucleic Acid (or DNA). In so doing, it provided the DNA strand with a method of replacing telomeres while still allowing the Ribonucleic acid (or RNA) to attach and replicate the genome.

"You can think of telomeres as tiny Legos that snap off with a newly produced strand of DNA each time a cell divides. Normally, when you run out of Legos, the cell dies (you really have to ask yourself, is a life without Legos really worth living anyway) and, over time, as enough cells die, our bodies begin to naturally degenerate. Or in layman's terms we age. So if cells are capable of producing new telomeres, the aging process is virtually halted. Unfortunately, this new trait was hereditary, and embryos incapable of aging tend to have a rather limited outlook on, amongst other things, career options and diversified stock portfolios. Still not a bad deal though, no kiddies, but at least you don't grow old and die.

"The second effect of the integration of the virus was a fundamental change in cell reproduction. Cells took, for lack of a better word, a perfect snapshot of its neighbors and began dividing at startling rates if any damaged or missing neighbors occurred. They did this with almost any neighboring cell. Thus a skin cell could divide to produce a muscle or even a bone cell if necessary. Basically, all cells functioned as what we refer to as stem cells, today, only with a perfect memory already programmed in.

"This offsets the damage wrought by the radium and brought about accelerated healing. Not to mention a virtual immunity to any hostile bacteria or virus. As radium-226 deposits in bones and has a half life of over 1600 years, the thirteen villagers' ongoing internal battle with the radium's destruction, their phenomenal rates of healing slowly improves as the radium depletes.

"The last and if not the most impressive, then certainly the most peculiar effect for the villagers exposed to this physiological change involved the high levels of iron in the bodies of the villagers. The theory is that originally the virus attacked red blood cells, amongst others, and then spread throughout the body replacing uninfected but dying tissue with the new viral-fortified cells. For some reason, it produced hemoglobin in each cell it replaced... including non-blood cells. A hemoglobin molecule carries four atoms of iron which is what acts as the carrier for oxygen. The result is that oxygen is transferred from any cell to any other in need. Thus, the body can "breath" from any part of itself exposed to oxygen. The lungs still function but are not necessary. The villagers eventually found that they could sustain exhausting work or even running for long periods without becoming winded or even building up lactic acid in their muscle tissue. The down side is that the villagers have to maintain very high levels of iron in their systems and some were, at times, forced to consuming blood as a source in areas that had insufficient quantities. Today, raisins would do the trick. Though there is speculation indicating this behavior may have birthed the vampire myth.

"As it is obvious that 'all men are created equal' is an insufferable lie (there are fifty ways to interpret that observation, which only proves my point), so too is the case for these thirteen quasi-immortals. There are four basic types. They are:

\- Type A: Actually more of a protracted mortal, the bodies of seven of the individuals who consumed the largest amounts of radium expend more effort replenishing themselves in defiance of the radioactivity. This detracts from their potential in that they physically age about a year over the course of about a century and a half. Of course, as was mentioned before, as the radium depletes, their aging process slows. If a villager fell into this category at an apparent age of twenty at the time of infection, their current appearance would be around ages thirty to thirty-eight.

\- Type B: Three villagers fell into this category. They show no signs of aging and have a propensity for rapid healing -- about five times as fast as a normal person. So a minor cut will heal within 48 hours instead of ten days.

\- Type C: Only two villagers fell into this category. For the most part they are the same as Type B except healing is accelerated even further. The same minor cut heals in less than 10 hours and a lost arm could re-grow in less than a decade. Additionally, these individuals enjoy a more pronounced benefit of the hemoglobin fortified cell structures earlier mentioned.

\- Type D: Only one villager received this classification. It is functionally the same as Type C except healing and regeneration are around ten times as quick. Hence, the earlier minor cut and lost arm will heal in about an hour and in under a year, respectively. Additionally, this type actually had the ability to change. The other types could gain or lose weight by varying their diet, but that was simply storing food in preexisting fat cells. This one, for example, could build new muscle mass or get a tan, albeit at a painstakingly slow rate. I don't know why that is the case, but it is.

"Well now you have at least some idea of what I'm talking about, and a whole lot more than those folks did." The Keeper stood and stepped to the small wet bar and mixed himself a Margarita with a splash of orange juice.

The village carried on as best as it could after losing the majority of its inhabitants.

Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito was a good and competent man, and he shouldered as much of the collective burden as any man could. During the growing season, he was usually the first in the fields in the mornings and the last to bed at night. When the nights were long and cold, no one went hungry. Under his watch, all pertinent matters were attended to.

When it came to that, he was fortunate in having three capable sons he could count on whether he needed to or not. Beth and Pork were focused on the challenges that lay before the village. Kym was somewhat distracted by hormones, but his responsibilities were always tended to before he veered away from the others in favor of a young (or older) lady's company.

For his part, the Chief only sought one reward for all his efforts. He received it every time he lifted his head from whatever toil he was undertaking and caught Soya's eye. Without fail her smile was more than enough to make everything worth the effort. He couldn't think of a single thing to make his life better. Sure it was sweet and a bit naive, but it kinda illustrates just how primitive life was back then.

Earlier, I alluded to one fellow among the village's survivors by the name of Jonnedee. Jonnedee was the Chief's best friend and a very straight forward man in that he had no ambitions in life other than doing what he had to do, a beer and a chance to rip on pretty much anyone, including himself, whether the situation warranted it or not. In fact, his particular genius lay in being able to insult, slander, criticize, libel, defame, disparage or just plain old verbally abuse without ever actually coming across as confrontational. People simply saw the humor in what he said and either laughed and/or fired a few barbs back at him. He was never happier than when people were dogging each other and having fun doing it.

Then there was his occasional knack for, uh, personalizing idiomatic phrases. By that I mean he wasn't the kind of person you could easily finish sentences for. His variants usually landed in roughly the right neighborhood, but frequently ended up in the local brothel on the way to the right house.

Sufficed to say that, between his colorful semantics and general disregard for appearances, he wasn't what you would call a black tie kind of guy.

All of that aside, he was as loyal and honest a man as you could hope for. He always told you what was on his mind and let you know what his limits were right up front. The result was, if you got too carried away, you knew he'd tell you the idea was nuttier than a gay orgy, and still be there rooting for you on the sidelines.

Jonnedee was a bit like the village's mascot. His pessimistic and often self-deprecating humor kept everyone in good spirits and somehow infused the residents with a kind of backhanded optimism.

~~~

Several years after 'the Black Winter', as the villagers came to refer to it, the suspicion that all of those once infected were functionally sterile began solidifying into a fact of life. The rapid healing became obvious far sooner.

The young lady, Staffanemicollera, took it into her head that the thirteen had become gods after quickly and completely healing from third degree burns inflicted during a cooking accident. She tried to convince the others of their divinity and, after being rebuked and taunted mercilessly. Understandably, there was a serious shortage of volunteers willing to verify her theory by letting her burn them.

Staffanemicollera decided that as chief of the village, Moaplevarrinajipasito owed it to his people to help make them aware of their gift. So she attacked him during one of the village's sacred ceremonies with a blazing hedgehog (and yes, it takes a lot of grease to keep a hedgehog lit). As fortune would have it, she was quickly subdued. A reaction that was not nearly severe enough in the opinion of the hedgehog.

Three more attempts involving a bowl of heated lard; a flexible branch and a flaming goat turd; and a late night arson attempt against the Chief's hut led to her banishment. It's hard to say why she didn't attempt something more subtle than lighting the Chief up, but that was her M.O., and she was hell-bent on carrying the task out.

She was escorted five days to the north and abandoned in the wilderness.

Staffanemicollera was never heard from again.

~~~

They were not gods... At least not in the traditional sense. But they had risen beyond many human frailties. If they had been able to reproduce, they may well have represented the next stage in human evolution.

Either way, life went on. Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito, bore the weight of responsibility for his people with little in the way of complaints. Soya's pleasant disposition was his source of eternal optimism. Given the labor intensive lifestyle of the times, that's saying a lot. Later he would say that he saw something in her eyes that he didn't have words to describe, but it was there and that was enough. He attacked every new problem with an enthusiasm and pragmatism that invariably prevailed.

It became obvious to everyone that she and he were madly in love. The strange part is that no one seemed to begrudge them that. Not even that old bitch Bassif...

Sorry. Bassif was that one woman that absolutely insists on sticking her shit stained nose in everyone's business. If they don't get it out of their business pronto, she'd bury it deep enough that when she finally sneeze and they're left avoiding everyone and walking funny for a few weeks. The irony is that she seemed to honestly believe her own shit smelled akin to something in a bottle with a No. 5 on the label. Every community seems to have a Bassif. This actually makes sense when you consider what happens when some old geezer tries to fill the roll. Without the social constraints afforded a woman, chances are he'll get nine kinds of shit kicked out of him.

Over the next few years, those who possessed it became accustomed to the peculiar ability to heal quickly, though the question of divinity wasn't brought up again for decades. In fact it wasn't until Beth returned from a rather drawn out experiment that provided the evidence needed for them to realize that things were entirely out of sorts.

In the third year of recovery, Beth sat down to dinner with his brothers, the Chief and Soya. They were talking about the low birthrate since the Black Winter (only two births and both sired by Kym and one young woman that hadn't been stricken by the virus) and what could be done to bolster it.

Soya prompted, "I wonder what the Gods could be up to... Do you think Bunak has left us all barren in His mirth?" Mind you, Bunak was the local god of Irony and Mischief as well as Fertility. It makes sense when you consider how often the three turn up together.

The Chief frowned and said, "That may well be the case. Or perhaps that was the price set by whichever God saved our lives."

Pork spoke around a mouthful of mutton, "Then again, it may just be the women."

Soya considered that for a moment before launching into a defense of her sex, "Actually, you may be right. The only woman not affected has had two children and as far as I know, she only has eyes for Kym." She raised a critical eyebrow, "The same can't be said for Kym though. How many women have you... entertained, Kym?"

Kym looked toward the thatched roof for a quick mental inventory, "I'm not at liberty to say. Pork would tell all the wrong people just so he could get a good laugh at me getting my ass kicked."

The Chief laughed, "Well Kym, since, counting Soya, there are only three involved women in the village, and I for one would like to think Soya is exempt from your escapades, your use of the word people instead of person implies that you've shagged the other two. So now that we have that out in the open, what's the number, you little slut?"

Kym looked at the smile on Pork's face and seemed to turn a bit green around the edges. "Thanks for throwing me in the river Pop. And if you must know, the answer is all of them except Bassif and Soya. I haven't had enough to drink yet to go after Bassif yet, and Soya would just be uber-creepy... No offence, Soya."

"The feeling is mutual, so none taken... you little slut."

Looking absolutely delighted, Pork said, "The important thing here is now we know who'll be cleaning the stables for a while... and maybe taking my turn at sluicing the privy out, too."

"I believe," interjected the Chief, "that it is safe to say that all the women that got sick are barren. We don't have any evidence for the men that I know of, so we'll just have to wait and see. Perhaps we should send someone out to verify Pork's theory. I'll bring it up with some of the single men around--"

"I'll do it." said Beth. All heads turned to him. "Well, the little slut has pretty much tainted the local options. I'm going to have to go away for a woman sometime so it may as well be now."

By that time, the villagers had noticed the lack of contact with the surrounding villages, but they didn't yet have a grasp on how depleted the human population had become throughout the region. As such, Beth traveled for almost twelve years before returning with that mate. Initially, he dared not return home empty handed lest he be ridiculed for his lack of prowess either in a fight or amongst the fairer sex. Which is a bit amusing considering the fairer sex back then could take out today's average Joe without breaking a sweat. Later, he would simply be too occupied with other obligations.

He roamed the wilderness using already ancient trails and happened across many similarly devastated villages. Tradition demanded that he fight for a mate, but there was typically either no one to fight or no one to fight for. A few of the decimated villages did take Beth's invitation to unite with his own village of Bryke.

As time passed, he journeyed closer to the coast. It began to seem like every time he turned around he was being recruited or even drafted for battles against stronger tribes and seafaring invaders. Such invaders were in business a lot earlier than people give them credit for.

Beth found himself to be an adept pupil in the school of warfare. He was on the large side for the men of his time standing at an impressive five foot eight inches. But he was lightning quick and managed to sustain only minor injuries during most skirmishes. After a short time, experience allowed him to rarely endure even that.

He also developed considerable skill in scouting and tracking fleeing combatants after battles. His reputation slowly spread and he eventually found himself being referred to as The Wolf and seemed to end up taking command of whatever force he joined.

~~~

Back at the village, a trickle of viral refugees had been slowly filling out its ranks. Many told stories of Beth. Some were of how he found them the lone survivors of their own people and helped them to get back on their feet and gather enough courage to travel. He drew rough maps on animal skins with charcoal that led them directly to the village. Others told of Beth's growing fighting skills as he rescued the tellers from wild beasts or capture by the raiding parties of other villages or the light and even yellow haired men from faraway lands.

With Soya at his side, Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito delighted at the reported legacy of heroism that his eldest son was building. It was obvious that someday he would make a great chief.

Kym remained relatively indifferent to the stories. While he didn't care for his own lack of praise from his father, he wasn't rebuked either. Besides, he quickly discovered that being the younger brother of an absent hero was an excellent way to persuade young women back to his hut for adventures of their own. He took up the habit of visiting nearby villages (either the few that remained or the newly formed, anyway) for much the same reason. Before his death, he would sire more than two hundred bastards throughout the region and, while not having a legacy suitable for a great chief, he did have a lot of fun creating the legacy of a village maker.

~~~

By his sixth year away from home, Beth regularly led a small group of men. They came to the aid of anyone they saw fit to fight for. Typically, they sided with people just trying to defend themselves, but occasionally, they opted to ally themselves with the aggressors if the cause was just in their eyes.

The word 'they' is used in deciding what course the group chose because Beth believed in giving his men a sense of choice in their future, though he also knew that his word carried a lot of weight in delineating that course. Command decisions involved in devising tactics and strategies were left up to him entirely. That's not to say he didn't give consideration to suggestions from his men. It's just that most of his men started out with the opinion that charging into a free-for-all and swinging away until one side was dead, was a reasonably sound strategy.

Beth, however, saw that if the men worked together in training and fighting they accomplished a lot more on the battlefield in less time and with fewer casualties. He matched each man up with three permanent partners and had them practicing together in attacking a single target, instead of facing off against whatever individual just happened facing them. They were trained to attack first in pairs from opposite directions, left and right, front and back, high and low, on the principle that a single foe couldn't effectively defend all directions at once.

The four men would approach three, with the two least skilled fighters in the center attacking the central opponent from high and low. Usually the center fell quickly enough and the two central figures shifted to the two remaining combatants on either side and, coordinated with the more experienced fighters already engaged with them. Most four man squads adopted verbal cues unique to them alone to signal their intended angle of attack to their partners.

The system couldn't stand up to something like a phalanx, but it did quite well in primitive ol' England. Please bear in mind that at the time and place, this notion of coordinating attacks was rather highly sophisticated. Not to mention the survival rate for the less experienced fighters skyrocketed.

Their skills honed, Beth and his men rarely ever lost a battle, and when they did, it was only ever due to overwhelming numbers. Two to one was nothing unusual and very acceptable odds, in their minds. They relied on Beth to choose the location for the fight and plan the strategy that would tip the scales in their favor. It was the ten to one scenarios in open terrain that confounded even him at times.

As all things come to an end, so too did most of Beth's original pack.

~~~

One chilly Spring morning, a veritable army of huge raiders from across the waters landed and set to their trade. Their numbers were vastly larger than normal due to the inordinate damage inflicted by Beth and his men to the typical raiding parties in recent years. After a few years of that abuse the raiders formed a loose alliance and opted to conduct their business en masse.

The confrontation was to take place just outside a small village near what would become Felixstowe. It sat a few hundred yards inland and struck Beth as a jovial place despite the regular arrival of slavers. A façade of trees along the edge of the beach hid the presence of any resistance and the tallest trees offered excellent lookouts. Of course, there was no guarantee that the invasion would land there, but they had almost every year for a generation and that year turned out to be no exception.

The villagers became suddenly and thoroughly scarce one day. One of Beth's men, that had gotten along well with more than a few of the village girls, said that they usually went underground when the girly (braided hair) warriors showed up.

Drastically outnumbered and out sized by these hulks, Beth's men still stood in high spirits. They had confidence in their own skills and suspected that Beth fought as well as any three men alive. But alas, Beth's skill fell short when he received a head butt to the nether regions from a local goat that had taken an instant dislike to him as soon as he entered the community hosting the battle. Even super DNA is trumped by a 200 pound goat delivering a fifteen mile-per-hour horn-hard ball-blitz.

About half of Beth's men escaped that battle. The other half fell prisoners or perished. The infirmed Beth was taken captive along with six other men, five women and two adolescents from the village that were found in a nearby cave. The ship sailed early the next morning and Beth knew that his chances of ever getting home were slipping away. When the shore disappeared over the horizon, he decided that he'd rather die than live as a slave and determined to take as many of his captors to the grave with him as possible.

When unobserved, Beth gnawed at the leather thong binding his hands. Once free, he grabbed the flint knife from the belt of the man in front of him and attacked at once. While enduring a barrage of wounds, he managed to slay a third of the boat's eighteen man compliment before being thrown overboard.

Grasping wildly as he went, he clasped his hand tightly around the braided hair of one of his adversaries. A giant of a man even among the ranks of the jumbo-sized invaders, his unlucky adversary was caught off guard by the move. The cold waters welcomed both men in its fatal embrace and the underwater melee was over in only a few minutes. Inconveniently, the weight of Beth's opponent and his gear pulled them deep below the surface.

Beth's lungs screamed for air. He struggled towards it, but he was too far down. Despite his determination, his natural inclination to breath prevailed. Reflexively, is mouth opened and his lungs filled with the cold water. The salt and cold seemed to set him on fire from the inside. He kept struggling toward the surface. He knew it was too far but he didn't have anything else to do.

By the time he reached the underside of the longboat, the realization that he wasn't dying had begun settling in. He stopped there marveling at this new development. His entire body's ability to breath apparently extended to pulling oxygen from water. Not that he knew about his ability to breathe through his skin at that point.

Through the water he saw the oars come out and began to row. His hand shot out of the water and clamped firmly on the edge of the boat as he hauled himself up high enough to grab the braid of another of his former captors. Pushing his knees against the hull he pulled with all his strength. With a squeal akin to that of an eleven year old girl, the shocked man flew from the boat. After a short time, a few blond hairs rising with a rush of large bubbles were the last signs of the fellow.

From the murky depths, Beth could see the men staring over the side of the boat. He swam under and around to the other side of the craft. He eased up over the edge fearing the men had seen him swim beneath them or would hear the water dripping from him. Luck was with him. Beth couldn't understand the men, but they were arguing to loudly to hear him. The other boats had rowed on and were almost out of sight. As quietly as he could, Beth slipped over the edge and crouched low. Springing forward, he managed force four more men completely into the water and another fell hanging from the side. Flint knives slashed at him and, more often than not, opened wounds in the wielder's allies. After several minutes of struggling with the men, Beth considered the possibility that he'd over shot his abilities. One raider broke free and swam for the surface. But as one of the remaining men and then a second succumbed to their watery fate, he knew it would end soon.

His absence of lactic acid build up in his muscle tissue seemed to be working underwater as it did above the surface. As soon as the third man was dispatched, he lit out for the one that got away. He swam as if he'd just started and saw that he would overtake the straggler before he reached the boat.

The men on the boat cheered on the straggler as he struggled to keep afloat in his gear and cover the last few yards to them. As he reached out to grab a proffered oar, the men saw him drop below the surface like a stone. Moments later the diluted red proof of his demise rose to the place he'd went under.

After dispatching the last of men he had the presence of mind to pull the axe hanging from his adversary's belt and let him settle below. He quickly found the fleeing vessel. It moved slowly in the water with only a fraction of its crew available. Beth swam submerged and prepared to mount another attack. Again bursting up from the water, he felled two men in quick succession. One clutched at the gaping wound in his throat and the other simply collapsed with a large hole in his face.

Pulling himself the rest of the way onto the deck. Beth swung the axe at the feet approaching him. He heard a scream just after clipping the Achilles tendon of the closest man. He rolled to his feet and spun low, bringing the axe around in an arc behind him. Beth felt the wind of an axe just over his head as the handle of his own weapon shattered when the axe head bashed into the leather helmet of the next man in line. As the warrior fell aside, the man behind him watched as he slammed to the deck. Beth lurched forward grabbing the axe-hand of the stunned man and drove the sharp point of the broken handle half an arm's length up under the man's ribcage. Wrenching the axe away as the warrior fell, Beth leaped back and turned his eyes to the last man standing.

He was very young. No older than seventeen. Beyond his blond hair and scars, though more of the former and fewer of the latter, he didn't look like the others. His build betrayed a considerably slighter lineage. With nothing to block his view, the lone invader shook his head and clenched his eyes shut for a moment as if to clear both his mind and vision.

The undefeatable warrior stood four paces before him with torn clothes, open wounds crisscrossing his body and shaking violently. He was deathly pale and water poured from his mouth. The boy had seen men like that before, but only after they had been pulled, quite dead, from the ocean. And they didn't move let alone defeat seventeen men without becoming winded... or breathing at all, he thought as more water oozed from Beth's lips. He knew then that his crewmates had fallen to either a demon or a god. Having seen so many men who could best himself in battle slain by this one in quick succession, he knew he could not prevail.

Beth watched as the young warrior looked at his grimacing comrade clenched his leg and rolled between them. The young man stepped forward and, with a swing of his axe ended the pain. He then knelt and lowered his head as he pulled his flint knife and presented the hilts of it and the axe to Beth.

Beth took pause then accepted both. It was obvious the man was awaiting his judgment. Beth looked around at the other captives. Wide eyes greeted him. He tapped the man and handed him his knife back. He gestured for him to release the prisoners by touching what remained of his own bonds and pointing to the awestruck spectators. The captives were freed and Beth grabbed a fir cloak to cover himself with and lay down at the front of the boat to sleep.

The boy's story may have ended there, at the hands of the freed prisoners, had it not been for the fact that he was the only person on board the vessel that knew how to pilot it.

When Beth awoke, the vessel was being hauled on to the beach and his shipmates were still chattering about the shipboard battle.

~~~

Tavan, the sole surviving invader, became Beth's closest friend. Beth would learn, after the language barriers fell, that Tavan had been in his tenth year when he'd been taken in a raid. The northern men's leader, Grundal, had seen promise in Tavan and trained him as a warrior. Grundal had been the massive invader that Beth drowned first. The ship he simply referred to as Matta or 'Mother' in his own language.

By the next planting season, tales of Beth the Wolf slaying Grundal and his Matta were spreading throughout the isle. In places those stories became traditional and were handed down for generations. In the retelling, our hero eventually became Beth of the wolves or Beth o' wolves for short.

Distortions and embellishments naturally occurred over time until some silly git wrote the story down in its concluding and highly inaccurate form around the 8th century A.D. Apparently the person that told him the story to the writer had asthma and managed to consistently drop the 'th' from Beth's name and made him out as one of the foreigners he was fighting, as well. I suspect there was also an abundance of drink and artistic license involved, too. With artistic license as a euphemism for flagrant B.S., just in case you need it spelled out.

But for Beth, it was all just the beginning.

~~~

As Beth approached his twelfth year abroad, he found himself within a day's journey of home. He supposed it was about time for a visit.

His father met him at the edge of the village with Soya by his side. His village hesitantly greeted him and his own mate... and the one hundred and twelve warriors he lead.

The village hadn't changed much but the villagers were surprised to find Beth unchanged by time. Even his kid brother Kym looked to be almost a decade his senior. Likewise, he commented on the fact that, of the original inhabitants, only the six villagers that were unaffected by the virus seemed to have aged any while he was away. Upon reflection, they concluded that he was right. They just hadn't paid heed the fact until it was pointed out to them.

He also noticed that there were many new people in the village. Many he recognized as the refugees of the virus he had invited to the village years before. He suspected the others were their children. All of them had aged normally.

A celebration was called for and that is exactly what they had. Beth sent out squads of his men to barter for drink and game from the nearest neighbors. For three days the village and the warriors ate, drank and told tales. Many, if not most, involved Beth in one way or another. A few were rather embarrassing affairs that Beth would have preferred his men not hear at all.

On a few occasions, Beth went aside with his father or his brother to talk of family and plans for the future. Beth related his unusual abilities to his father for consideration. And to his younger brother he expressed admiration and feigned jealousy at his brother's ambition to out spawn even the rabbits of the forests. He invited Pork to join him only to find that he'd settled down with one of the refugees Beth had sent home. Beth observed that she cleaned up quite nicely.

After the celebration Beth had begun making his plans for departure. He knew the season was fast approaching for the invaders from the east again and this year he was determined to wipe them from existence.

Jonnedee wondered into Beth's tent and watched for a few minutes before he inquired, "Where are you going, Beth? You just got here."

Beth turned and smiled a sad smile, "I've got a lot of work left for me out there, Uncle Jonnedee. It needs to be done, and my men are the ones to do it. Besides, I've developed a bad case of wanderlust."

Jonnedee grunted. "The new miss idn't doin' her duty, aye? Well, wonder no more, lad. There are plenty of girls here that'd break a foot off in her ass if they thought they'd have a chance for a romp with you, my boy. If you don't want to go that route, try feeding her some oysters." he said with the smile and wink of an older man bestowing life-changing wisdom to his great-nephew.

Beth shook his head and laughed. "I meant; I've found that I love to travel. I start getting fidgety when I'm in one place for more than a week. I expect it's just a phase that I'll grow out of in time. But for now, my heart tells me to move."

Jonnedee's eyebrows furrowed. "I'm hearin' your words but I'm thinking you've been eating the wrong kind of mushrooms lately." he sighed, "But you are a man now, and I guess you can eat whatever you want too. As for the traveling and fighting, it doesn't make a damned bit of sense. Then again, you kids haven't made a damn bit of sense to me in years. So just get your ass back here from time to time, you understand?"

Beth put on his sternest face and gave a committed, "Yes sir!"

Later that night, Soya paid Beth a visit. She laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "You know your father would give his left nut for you to stay."

Beth sighed, "I know, but this life isn't for me anymore.

On the sixth day after returning home, Beth said good bye to his brothers and father. The next time he visited is younger brother was at Kym's grave and many years passed before he shook either Pork's or his father's hand again...and Jonnedee gave him nine kinds of hell for being gone so long.

~~~

Beth succeeded in repelling many of the costal raids over the next decade but that wasn't enough to sate his desire to rid his countrymen of, I believe the nearest exact translation on that one was, "the swinging dicks that kept paddling their happy asses across the water just to wipe them with my toast."

With the help of Tavan he constructed ships that, along with the captured boats, constituted the first military fleet of the Isles. Around (Yes, I know that I keep saying "around" or "about" such-and-such year, but you have to remember that was a long time before even the Julian calendar. It can get pretty jumbled converting from "the second winter solstice in the reign of Chief Bald-Headed-Chicken-Fucker" to a recognizable year... oh and Chief Bald-Headed-Chicken-Fucker was known as Tim to his friends Sheepskin and Snake. The former you can pretty much connect the dots on, but the latter is... complicated. It's not what you think and you really don't want to know how he actually got that nickname.) 1825 B.C., after much training and many trial voyages, Beth led the fleet and over a thousand men across the waters. They swept up the foreign coast decimating everything in their path. Most of the freed slaves joined their ranks desiring to exact revenge for the sorrows they had endured. In that single excursion, Beth's army swelled to around 2500 men and for the first year in as long as anyone could remember, their homelands went unmolested.

It was an easy transition from counter-assault force to bloodthirsty invaders. Beth saw that forces were more and more frequently waiting for them as they moved up the coast, so he adopted the practice of skipping around and striking in unpredictable locations to keep the enemy off balance. For the next few years Beth's men expanded their horizons and terrorized the slave-owning coasts of Europe from the frozen lands of the north all of the way to Italy. Their Hit-And-Run style of fighting combined with randomizing targets minimized losses. Typically, they freed slaves, usually recruiting as many as they had room to carry with preferential treatment going to skilled men. They actually took very little in the way of treasure. Food and metals were the desired bounty.

Probably the single greatest wealth gained was a technology. Many of the freed slaves were skilled in the production and uses of bronze, glass, paper and a variety of other scarce materials. Upon returning home, these laborers were set up in various regions around the island. While the crafts of some former slaves went by the wayside, many had ideas they hadn't shared with their masters while captive and, once free, were able to indulge the notions. This lead to a history of innovations that was unique to their new home.

Eventually, Beth split his forces into four parts and placed commanders over each. He had seen the effects of power on some men, so he place five senior ranking men under each. If four out of the five saw fit, they had the authority to relieve the commander of his status if he deviated from the goals, leadership and honor established as acceptable by Beth.

One force stayed behind to patrol the coast. The other three took either the northern, eastern or Mediterranean route for up to a year. As each force returned home, they took up the coastal patrols and the rested men set out for the region just vacated. This went on for a few decades. That is, until fate fired a volley with deadly accuracy upon one detachment.

Around 1795 B.C., the Mediterranean fleet didn't return. Beth was doubly anxious because it was Tavan's fleet. He had saved his friend in battle time and again, but he suspected he'd failed him this time. If Tavan had fallen in battle, Beth was compelled to vindicate him.

The following year, as soon as the weather allowed, Beth boarded five of every six of his men and set out to find his missing force. On the southern tip of the Italian Peninsula locals told of seeing a mass of boats go by to the east the year before.

The fleet landed on the shores of the eastern extremities of the Mediterranean and found one of their men begging to survive. He told them their countrymen and friends had been annihilated by a force from the southeast called the Amorites. They used a bizarre new method of fighting where men stood on wheeled platforms hauled by horses much larger than those of Beth's homeland. Beth's men couldn't get to them. They were run down if the attacked head-on, shot at and speared if from the sides, and they couldn't keep up from behind well enough to do anything more than collect arrows with various parts of their bodies. In the end, those who retreated were run down and butchered and only a few who found hiding places near the battlefield managed to survived.

Beth eventually found that the Amorites had never been seen in the area before and no one had seen them again after the few months' campaign of the year before. Nor did anyone know how far to the southeast their home lay.

Determined to prepare for their return, he had a camp raised. He gathered his commanders and the most skilled of his engineers to for crafting a stratagem against these new vehicles of war. A plan was devised.

First they selected a battlefield facing the almost inevitable direction the enemy would come from. The site ran along the base of a twenty foot cliff. The top of which was edged with trenches so that his men would not be seen until they rose up to fire arrows on the enemy below.

To insure that the enemy would go in that particular direction, a vast network of strategically placed trenches were dug below the cliff walls. They were two feet deep and one foot wide, wood lined with only a thin layer of wood on top. The top layer of wood was covered with sand and was weak enough to easily break if a horse, or a man for that matter, stepped onto them and would very likely break a leg, or at least hyperextend a knee.

There were enough of these traps set to take out a large army. If they persisted in going the wrong direction, it would undoubtedly become a massacre of wounded knees.

Two other, much deeper and wider trenches were placed to form a single wide semicircle along the base of the cliff. These trenches were wood lined as well, but the wood covering it was much stronger and reinforced underneath. The covers and supports were specifically designed to collapse via a heavy rope that lay just under the sand and led to teams of horses. The sand placed over this trench was at least a foot deep so the sound of the chariot wheels passing over them would not give their existence away.

The plan was simple; keep some small patrols out in the desert to keep watch. Once the enemy was sighted, they would blow a horn 'to sound the alarm' and be as visible as possible while retreating to the rendezvous point, which just happened to pass over the far trench, through the kill zone, then the near trench.

The two teams of horses stood by to pull the ropes that would undermine and expose the large trenches. The first team would wait until the first chariots crossed the far trench and the kill zone and were on or just past the near trench. The chariots just behind them would likely crash into the trenches, and the next in line would bunch up as more poured into the kill zone behind them. When enough of them, or possibly even all of them, had crossed the far trench, the second team of horses would pull away the supports and covers for it. The enemy's chariots would be trapped on an island in the desert while his men rained down arrows, spears, burning oil and stones from the cliffs above.

The plan seemed plausible to Beth and would keep the men occupied for a time while he considered other options.

The leaders of the nearby town thought it rather a good idea to have a substantial fighting force nearby after the previous year's hardships at the hands of the Amorites. They quickly established trade with the idle soldiers, though the soldiers' only substantial currency was labor. With the recent loss of so many young men in battle, that just happened to be exactly what town elders wanted. They had designs to build a city on the small island just off the coast. The new town rapidly expanded and prospered as an emerging trading port thanks in no small part to the handy work of Beth's men.

A few years into their occupation of the coast, word came of a force approaching the region. Eager for any action, but not willing to settle for second hand information, Beth sent his scouts out to locate and observe the adversaries while everyone else set to work drilling and inspecting the traps and fortifications.

As luck would have it, a few of the scouts not only found them, but actually witnessed the encroaching enemy in battle. They raced back to Beth to tell him the invaders were about a day to the southeast and on foot. They also described to him the unsettling effectiveness of their fighting style. He would later know it as an earlier form of phalanx.

After inquiring about the numbers, armor and weapons of the enemy, Beth ordered that all of the rope that could be found was to be gathered up at once. Then he did some scouting of his own.

To the south, he found a sand ridge that worked for his plan. It slope up about fifteen feet high on the east side and dropped a hundred foot over a long stretch on the west side before coming to a sheer cliff that fell another thirty feet into the Mediterranean.

When he returned to camp, he hastily sent the scouts back out along with enough men to goad the enemy into pursuing them toward the ridge that was to be the battleground from the east. With them dispatched, he had his men transport all of the rope, two large posts and four massive boulders to the ridge.

The men spent a good portion of that night preparing the rope and themselves. The boulders were placed just below the west side of the ridge about two hundred yards apart. The ends of the ropes, which had been joined into two lengths of eight hundred yards and two thousand yards, were secured to the second and third boulders then to the first and fourth, respectively. From there the rope was laid out in huge arcs on the east side of the ridge and camouflaged with sand. Sharpened sticks were attached to the line in an "X" configuration along with sharp splinters of shale.

Meanwhile the two posts were driven deep into the ground near the top of the ridges halfway between the two center boulders and had swords driven into their barely exposed tops so that the blades ran east and west.

When the enemy was in sight, they numbered about three thousand, formed up in six phalanxes and were about three quarters of a mile away.

Beth had five hundred men formed up on the top of the ridge while the rest hide behind it. All of them wore a contraption that one of Beth's engineers had come up with specifically for fighting in sand after hearing fighters' complaints about losing traction while trudging about on dunes and in deep sand. Basically, it was a retractable four inch spike that attached to the inside heel of the foot. A quick press with the ball of the opposite foot deployed it. It helped with traction and turned the soldier's foot into a formidable weapon, as well.

The men on top of the ridge screamed their taunts and battle cries... not that any of their counterparts could understand a word of it.

It didn't matter. Shouted orders could barely be heard in the distance, but there was no mistaking the intentions as two phalanxes broke off from the others and headed directly for the men on the ridge.

When they were about a hundred yards away and well within the inner rope's confines, Beth gave the order to release the second and third boulders. The men on the ridge fell back into a 'V' formation directly behind the bladed post. Undoubtedly the approaching forces thought they were witnessing some new fighting stance as the out of sight monoliths, finally freed to the whims of gravity, quickly gained speed as they hurtled down the slope. At twenty paces, the stones were moving at a healthy clip and the slack in the rope was exhausted. As they rolled, the stones coiled the rope around themselves and effectively doubled the velocity of the rope.

With an audible thump, the cord snapped out of the shallow covering of sand and launched towards the two phalanxes from the rear. As effective as a band-saw, they didn't know what hit them as it scythed through their ranks often breaking bones in addition to ripping at the men. A few had the misfortune to be dragged along with the rope as it shot towards the hilltop.

One man was still tangled in it when the rope reached the sword protruding from the first post, though he was a good fifty foot away from the blade itself. With the sudden increase in tension on the rope created by the blade the bloke was fired, as an arrow from a bow, over the crest of the ridge and into the center of a very eager army of hidden barbarians.

Long before he landed though, the blade had succeeded in severing the rope and allowed it to pass around Beth and his men unharmed. Unfortunately, the blade was snapped in the process, much as Beth had suspected it might.

As soon as the rope cleared them, the men on the ridge fell upon their victims. A few of the downed soldiers managed to stand and fight, but for the most part it was nothing more than Beth and his men skewering their fallen comrades with swords, spears and foot-spikes.

When they'd completed their grisly task, Beth and his men retreated to the top of the ridge.

In the distance, the enemy remained static for about fifteen minutes. It occurred to Beth that they shouldn't have seen anything more than a shrinking circle of dust sweeping through their advanced party. Then a small knot of what appeared to be the enemy's officers, dispersed and began scuttling around and shouting orders to the four remaining phalanxes. Within a few minutes the remainder of the army began advancing.

This time, however, they split into two groups of two phalanxes each when they neared where the mysterious circle of dust sprang from. Hesitantly, they flanked to either side of it and began circling to Beth's men.

Beth and his men watched anxiously. The enemy's diverting around the first killing ground was their cue to feign panic and retreat behind the hill. Beth stood alone on the ridge top and pretended to berate his men as he occasionally glanced over his shoulder. That seemed to be enough to spur the enemy on. In the midst of his rant, and when the enemy was about where he wanted them, Beth ordered the release of the second and larger set of boulders.

It was a repeat of the first round with the exception of one officer with good enough reflexes for turning and driving his sword into the sand and bracing both hands against the sword hilt in an attempt to sever the approaching storm of sharp points and edges. The fatal flaw in his response lay in his panicked choice of the direction of the blade's edge. Watching from behind the hilltop, Beth figured the officer probably didn't have time to realize his folly before the cable connected with the spine of the weapon and swept the edge in an arch up and through the center of most of his torso and head

Unlike the first encounter, this time, Beth's full army crested the ridge and proceeded to grind the enemy into a pulp. The battle concluded quickly and as Beth instructed, a lone survivor was left alive. It was learned that they were in fact Amorites, but of a different division than the chariots that came through three years earlier. These were to establish an outpost and fortify the area.

The lucky Amorite was give food, water, weapons and instructions to return to his homeland and deliver Beth's challenge to the chariots.

Beth found that he had less than a dozen injured men. Most were due to a failure to move out of the way quickly enough when some random comrade's overzealous foot stomping went awry (though at least one managed to nail his own foot to an enemy officer's forehead) and had only three fatalities. As luck would have it one of the fatalities came from being landed on by the Amorite's first attempted rope-propelled astronaut.

The battlefield yielded weapons, armor, food, beer, a modest amount of gold and gems, as well as a slew of novel and luxury items and furnishings found in the officers baggage train. They took the spoils of war back to their encampment and found the city waiting ecstatically. It seems that two young boys from the city had snuck off in pursuit of Beth and his men and witnessed the battle. They then ran back to tell everyone as soon as it was over.

There was naturally a celebration that lasted for eight days. On the second day, the Ruler of Tyre held audience with Beth. After exchanging formalities and a few moments of small talk, perfunctory praises and well-wishing, the Sovereign had only two questions of substance, "I am interested to know; How exactly did you defeat them so thoroughly and with so few casualties? As you must know, rumors are rampant and encompass everything from killing them as they slept; to calling forth the Ifrit amongst a host of other demons; to paying them to go away; to (the theory I tend to favor) Devine Assistance."

Beth laughed good-naturedly, "Well, they approached us so we couldn't have killed them in their sleep barring a highly unlikely mass sleep disorder; I have never held with the occult and wouldn't know how to summon anything more intimidating than a turd in a sling; you know firsthand that we had little more than enough money to entice a whore, and not a pretty one at that; as for the Gods, I leave them to their jobs as I pray they leave me to mine. And to what actually happened, I had my men set two large traps much like the ones my tribe used to take wild boar off their feet before falling on them with spears. To be honest, I had my doubts it would work after seeing the first wave falling so easily."

"Ah, but they did! I have never heard of an army falling prey to the same ruse a second time so soon after the first. Perhaps there was some assistance from higher powers after all..."

Beth shrugged, "Perhaps, but we'll never know. It all reminds me of something an old friend and newer relative named Jonnedee used to say, 'Fooled you once, shame on me; Fooled you twice, you earned it you silly fucking wanker, pay attention!' Uncle Jonnedee has his way with words, he does."

When the euphoria of victory slowly wore off and life regained its semblance of normality. Beth turned his attention back to waiting for the Amorite chariots.

After ten years, Beth came to the conclusion that his invitation to die en masse was either withheld or ignored when the lone survivor returned home, or the survivor wasn't that good at surviving after all. Whatever the case, Beth decided the Amorites were not returning and the city that would eventually become Tyre was beginning to grate on his nerves. Even someone who hasn't aged a day in 70 years begins regretting the time lost looking at camel balls day in and day out for a decade.

Beth went into the desert and, going on the assumption that Tavan might be paying attention, made his peace with his long time friend and brother-in-arms.

In preparing his men to return home he found that many had begun families with the local women and refused to abandon them. In the end, he began the trip home with only a fraction of his original army. Fourteen centuries later, Beth would face the descendants of his own men as adversaries at Tyre, as he blazed his way across Asia and the Middle East under the assumed identity of Alexander the Great.

It would be centuries more before he learned that the force that initially cost him a quarter of his men was likely only a scouting party seeking suitable regions for conquest. But by then the Amorites were little more than legend.

~~~

Along the way home, the fleet happened to stop in southern Greece where Beth became enamored with a Mycenaean girl. After almost a year of delaying, he sent the remainder of his men on without him. In parting, he assigned one final task to his men of tell his father that he would meet him in the village of his birth, during the summer, one hundred years hence. That pretty much convinced most of them that he'd gone kinda gooey between the ears, but they passed the message on anyway.

A few of his closest companions chose to stay with him and found a pleasant life in the burgeoning Minoan Civilization.

When the girl fell ill and died a few years later, Beth began moving around from city to city to avoid questions about his eternal youth (and thus, obvious lineage from the gods). Still, he loved this new home and as Wars erupted from time to time, he gladly participated in each. The origins of many mythic and historic heroes sprung from the mouths of his comrades-in-arms after seeing the impossible combat skills with their own eyes. That scenario would repeat itself in many lands across Europe, Persia and Northern Africa as Beth roamed through each.

~~~

In the village, day to day life didn't change much. Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito led as he saw fit and worked away the days and seasons in the same way he had for his whole life.

One breezy day while throwing the beaten harvest into the air so the wind could separate the seed from the chaff, his son Kym laid a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. Kym asked him to sit with him for a while and talk.

Kym went straight to the point that concerned him. "Dad, I don't see being around much more than another season or two. And since it looks like you'll be here for some time to come, I've got a favor or two to ask of you when I'm gone. I want you to get out of this place and go out there to see what the world's got to offer. There's no point in spending an endless life farming the same chunk of dirt you were born on. That'd just be a shameful waste. Besides, it's not fair to the others that are deserving and capable of doing your job here. My oldest boy... what was that one's name... oh yeah, my oldest boy Sal (among the last of the chief's naming victims, Sal was short for Sally) is more than qualified to be a good chief.

Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito looked Kym up and down and focused on his hands. Then he looked at his own. Bryke had no mirrors and the water in the river rippled too much for an accurate reflection, so hands were the most readily available features for comparison. They'd always been there, but he'd never thought to really look at the difference. For the first time, he realized that his son looked many years older than he did himself. The fact stunned him. The thought of losing his son brought with it a hollow ache in his chest. Tears welled in his eyes but he fought them back. He felt that he was on the verge of being robbed of so much and could do nothing to prevent it. Kym saw that revelation in his father's moist eyes and rushed into the second request before everything went all mushy and a rain of pubescent girl hormones swept them away.

"The second thing is that you visit the village from time to time to make sure things are alright. Just sort of watch over them," he said. "They can get by on their own and you can't really force them to do anything, but if catastrophe is unavoidable, please get as many as are willing to avoid it, out of its way."

Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito looked his son in the eye, placed his hands on the younger man's elderly shoulders and nodded. The pact was made and Kym knew his father would do all he could to keep his oath.

The Chief knew he wouldn't start working again that day. Instead he spent the afternoon and that evening drinking and talking with Kym. It was therapeutic even if he had no idea what the word meant.

The Keeper now wore a melancholy smile. He said nothing for several minutes. Then he continued:

Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito set about teaching Sally the less obvious responsibilities of being a good and effective leader, and clued him into tricks for circumventing the quagmire of the men's politics and derailing the often spite-borne plots of the scheming women of the village.

Additionally, he, along with the immortals still in the village, made a pact that there would always be at least one of them present in the village to watch over it, while both the next in rotation and the last would keep close contact with the current watcher and assist in dire situations if at all possible. They agreed on twenty-four year rotations and housing was to be ready for the next in line upon his or her return.

~~~

Occasionally, word of Beth's exploits reached the community and the bearer of the news was often treated to food, drink and all the attention he could ask for.

Kym went on living life to the best of his ability... Up until a young lady friend woke to find herself cuddling with his smiling and evidently aroused corpse, one winter's morning.

The village mourned Kym's passing. Of course it did. Kym was half responsible for almost doubling the thing in size. The other half of the credit goes to his legion of bed partners. And by the time his bastards from the surrounding villages all came to pay their respects, you couldn't flick a booger without kicking off a family feud. Up to that point, no one had realized just how busy Kym had been.

It's probably noteworthy to mention that while going through Kym's things, they found a old clay jar almost scraped empty of what looked and smelled like it might have made a decent dressing for salads.

It was time for Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito to fulfill his promise to his son. The day after his son was laid beneath his barrow (think of it as a tomb), he emptied the contents of his own hut onto a crude cart and hitched the small pony to it.

Soya's uncle Jonnedee took a particular interest in the Chief's decision to leave the village. Now, bear in mind that Jonnedee was a creature of habit, if ever there was one. He ate the same things every meal; he started drinking at the same time everyday (he always said that if he couldn't wait until noon for a drink, then he had a problem); he cleaned his quarters in the same manner like clockwork; he threw the same rock at the same dog that persisted in marking Jonnedee's straw mat as its territory.

But even he saw that life was getting pretty damn boring after an extra forty years of doing the same routine every day. Not to mention it was getting kinda creepy flirting with the great-grandchildren of old girlfriends, some of whom were also Kym's descendants... and meaning it.

So he was among the least surprised when he announced that he'd be departing the village with his niece and the Chief.

"It's time to spread my wings and find a new head to shit on," he'd declared as he pulled his wagon in line behind the Chief's.

They said their goodbyes and set out to see what life and the world had in store for them.

The Keeper chuckled, "it turned out that Kym was right."

Chapter 4

...And It Just Keeps Getting Better

### ~

Tamesis Hanley hadn't moved for most of Mike's review of that night, four years ago. Oddly, she didn't seem particularly shocked or appalled. Her blue eyes just gazed intensely as he spoke. At one point, he noted in himself a desire to fidget under her scrutiny.

_This girl should have been a cop._ he thought. _With that stare, she could get a Chihuahua to confess to raping a giraffe,_ he mused.

After a long pause in Mike's recounting, she broke her trancelike observation. She looked at her legal pad wrote a few lines then lifted her head to speak. She caught herself, then said, "I fear I've been an insufficient hostess, Detective. Would you like anything to drink? I have an assortment of juices, teas or coffees I could whip up in just a few minutes. Or would a beer be more to your tastes?"

"Well, I am on duty, so a beer would be perfect," replied Mike. The doomed quip didn't garner even a polite smile and he instantly regretted it as a tacky show of humor. He watched her graceful movements as she stepped from the room. She carried herself with an elegance that, while seemingly natural, didn't seem possible. She was in control of her body more than almost any woman Mike had ever met. He suspected she could tuck her hair behind her ear with only a shake of her head.

From the kitchen he heard her steps come to a stop and, presumably, the fridge door open. He took in a more critical look of her living room now that she didn't have him pinned down with that stare of hers. She apparently preferred the Spartan lifestyle.

The furniture was stylish but sparse, there being a small leather sofa and two matching recliners set around a coffee table that looked like the stump of a huge tree. If it was solid, it would weigh a ton. There was no television. The living room centered on the fireplace, which happened to be a stone, floor-to-ceiling affair with a waterfall cascading down the stones on each side. They were either pump driven or Tamesis was pretty damned creative when it came to handling dyspeptic plumbing malfunctions.

The oak dining room table and chairs were ornately carved and heavily constructed and would last for many generations so long as the kiddies didn't choose to elaborate on the carvings with say a pocket knife or add highlights with a wood burner.

No pictures of family, friends or vacations adorned the walls or tables. There was a single plant on the window seal. Mike was no expert but a Bonsai tree is pretty easy to pick out of a lineup. Otherwise, the closest thing to a decoration was Mike's cigarettes and lighter lying on the table.

The good-bye kiss of a bottle cap twisting off accompanied Tamesis' return to the room. She sat a glass and a bottle of Molson Light in front of him before taking her seat again. "Would that be when you first got a lead on the perp?" she queried.

Mike frowned, "Nope, not even close. At that point, Sergeant Davidson had the most plausible explanation any of us could come up with when he suggested the rival dealers. It didn't take long to find out that the same basic scene had played out repeatedly, all over the city."

She pressed on, "So were there any functional clues at the crime scene?" She queried.

That struck Mike as an odd way of putting it. _Functional?_ He took a sip of his beer and said, "Not functional clues. Not really, but there were clues. The autopsies of carcasses revealed each raid used animals addicted specifically to the drugs most likely to be found at the location they ended at. And then there were the tattoos on the insides of their ears."

Tamesis leaned forward conspiratorially, "Tattoos? Of what?"

"The wolves' ears were all the same. The left ears contained ancient symbols representing Rome and the Greek word for 'werewolf.' The right ears bore a series of 16 rectangles arranged in a circle. The word from the University was that the rectangles probably represented the sixteen victims of the first documented werewolf, a guy by the name of Peter Stubbe.

"As for the tattoos in the bear's ear, we don't know," Mike shrugged. "They were symbols, but the verdict from the University is that they resemble ancient symbols found on a cave wall in England."

"As in Celtic?"

"As I understand it, no. But the cave symbols are around 4000 years old. Presumably, they were a part of a primitive form of writing. I was more than just a little curious at the time so I pressed the matter trying to uncover any possible meaning. But the two professors had no answers... No, that's not entirely true. The one thing they did say was that the caves in question were littered with the remains of people from that era."

"Are we talking bones or dishes?"

"Both. Apparently, around that time villages used caves as refuges from invaders. They'd pack up everything they valued and scamper off to the cave when danger popped up. And when the coast was clear they all went back to their villages and rebuilt if necessary. But if the invaders found the villagers, the caves could quickly become tombs. That leaves the question of meaning open. It could be religious in nature, maybe a record of what happened, an epitaph or just a recipe for pancakes. Either way, it didn't shine any light on the case." Mike said grimly.

Tamesis looked thoughtful for a moment, "Might it have been a warning? Kind of an 'abandon hope all ye who enter here,' type of thing?...But then, it still wouldn't shed any light."

He shrugged, "Whatever it was, it wasn't the last time we saw it. Not by a long shot. There were sixteen other dope houses that suffered similar fates that night and the symbols came up again only a couple of days later. The crack house that was hit by the gorillas was probably the worst of the carnage. We lost two officers trying to get them under control."

Tamesis resumed her listening pose, "Please, continue."

~~~

-November 22, four years earlier

Lieutenant Gonzalez thumped the collapsed asp, the handy modern equivalent of the policeman's baton, against his left thigh repeatedly as they walked down the wide alley between two abandoned buildings in the warehouse district. The call came down three hours ago. It was short and to the point. The "problem" is in a backroom of warehouse 228 on 35th Street and it needed... special attention. An example should be made. Gonzalez knew that meant any beneficiaries lucky enough to have opted for the 'triple indemnity for being bludgeoned to death' plan were as good as lottery winners.

A few hours of cleaning house should get the message across to everyone in the city. He'd seen what his crew could do and suspected this was a cakewalk. But after seeing what these sick fucks had done to those pushers, something special was definitely in order.

The only thing that bothered him was that there was only one way into this place. He'd known about this building for a long time. It was a great place to set up meetings when he wanted to pin someone down. But why would anyone hole up in a place with no back way out?

It didn't really matter. He knew this was simply a part of proving himself, so the job would get done. And in his heart, he knew he was being groomed to ascend to the inner circle of The Wall. The Wall was Gonzalez's private nickname for the city's big four. They owned this town and controlled everything that came in or out of it. Nothing got by them for long.

It was just a matter of time and passing all of the tests. No, not just passing them. He had to outclass anyone else with similar ambitions by a wide margin.

Sergeants Biggs and Pigg (yes, it was hard to keep a straight face...) flanking him and scanning everything, had equally severe expressions. Though in all fairness, Sergeant Biggs would be smiling gleefully in anticipation of the pain he'd soon be doling out, but his mood had been shot for days after finding he'd caught a rather unpleasant venereal disease from his wife. Now he just wanted to hit something... hard and repeatedly.

The three men sported body armor and an array of weapons ranging from close assault shotguns and sidearms on over to the non-lethal (unless, of course, you are creative and determined) variety.

Sergeant Pigg brushed the triggers of his tazers as he walked. He wasn't sure about the details of their mission. All he knew was that a lot of pushers were turning up dead and it was affecting his payoffs. The word was that it was the work of an upstart competitor and that they needed to be dealt with pronto. That was good enough for Pigg. After all he had a serious stripper addiction to support, and _nobody_ was going to stand between him and the boobies.

They had been on these missions before. The sergeants never knew the whole story, and the lieutenant knew only marginally more, but they got paid well and the orders came on the D.L. from the mayor. No bad press ever manifested and the police chief either didn't know what was going on or didn't say anything. They had free run of the city. Biggs was naturally cruel, Gonzalez was power-hungry and Pigg was driven by an erection. Civilizations have perished in the wake of less.

~~~

A finger toggled the camera to pan along high above the three dubious officers. MGMT sang _Time to Pretend_ on the laptop next to the monitor. A plate sporting extra-cheesy Anniversary Chicken, mashed potatoes, whole kernel sweet corn, and spinach with sautéed onions and with a splash of balsamic vinegar steamed on the table. The watcher sipped at a glass of Zinfandel. He briefly wondered if the balsamic vinegar was dominant enough to warrant a red wine when a flicker on the monitor drew his attention back to the unfolding drama.

The officers turned the corner into a narrower alley. As they stepped under the covered portion of the path, the camera finger nonchalantly flipped a switch. A new view leaped onto the screen. It was at ground level and gave off the eerie green cast of a night vision camera.

The watcher turned back to his dinner and settled in for the show.

~~~

As they turned the corner into the narrow tract, the lieutenant announced, "Gentlemen, we bring apocalypse to a wayward flock."

Biggs nodded and Pigg rolled his eyes. Gonzalez's dramatic posturing always struck Pigg as gayer than a latex-clad gerbil slathered in petroleum jelly. His thick New York accent only gave a plastic veneer to the cheese. Eight years of listening to Gonzalez's tacky quips had recently helped Pigg finally come up with the perfect Christmas gift for him; a bullet in the head.

Trash lay along the sides of the alley and a roof covered the far half. As the stepped into its shadows, they heard a "click." They all stopped glanced around and at each other. Biggs shrugged and turned to continue on his way.

Ten feet behind them, a heavy steel door shot up out of the ground and latched together with the ceiling. The men froze in place, unable to see in the perfect darkness.

"What's goin' on?" rumbled Biggs. Flashlights came on and their beams spun around the corridor searching for any more surprises and an exit.

"Someone has just summoned the wrath of an unjust god." Gonzalez said and Pigg grimaced "There's a door." He made his way about a third of the way down the right hand side of what had just become a hall. Pigg took up a position just beyond the door as Biggs stopped short of Gonzalez.

Pain ripped through Gonzalez as soon as he touched the door. The electricity caused an involuntary contraction of every muscle in his body. The pain ended only to be replaced by the world shifting violently to the left and being crushed beneath a tremendous weight. It took him a moment to realize he'd been tackled by Biggs. It took another moment to realize that the sudden unclenching of every muscle in body held dire consequences for his boxers. He scowled in anguish as olfactory analysis confirmed the proof of those consequences.

He was ready to explode with rage when a low but ominous sound began to permeate the hall from all sides. It made Gonzalez think of manhole covers being drug across asphalt. The men's flashlights scanned the room wildly searching for the source of the noise that seemed to resound in Gonzalez's recently vacated gut.

Still lying on the ground, it was Gonzalez's flashlight that identified the source first. The ceiling was slowly descending.

Pigg noticing that Gonzalez's beam wasn't moving around anymore, looked up too. "You have got to be shitting me! What is this, a fucking Indiana Jones flick?" he ran his own flashlight beam along the ceiling.

There were sprinkler heads running the length of the portal along a three inch water pipe. Otherwise, it was just a thick, rusty, iron frame housing concrete slabs. In short, it looked really heavy.

"Let's get the Hell out of here," Biggs mumbled as he turned for the only unchecked exit. The three men headed at a swift gate towards the door at the end of the passage. The ceiling was down to around six feet from the ground when they arrive. Biggs was already hunching over.

Not wanting to repeat Gonzalez's mistake, Pigg pulled his Glock and fired a round at the door handle. The moment the projectile struck the base of the knob, dozens of six inch spikes pierced the door in a crash that prompted all three men to reflexively dive to the ground. Oddly, the spikes withdrew, not all together (which might have had a high enough frictional coefficient to rip the door off), but in a random succession so quick it was almost impossible to visually keep up with them.

With the traditional exits no longer viable options, the men spread out and sought a new way out. Pigg turned his attention back to the descending ceiling. It was studded with steel wedges of varying sizes that seemed to radiate out from the sprinkler heads. Now, at just above eye level, he got a better look at the water pipes. There was something odd about the connecting collars half way between each sprinkler head. Each had odd, raised symbols that looked like someone had used a welder to put them on with. They didn't look like any language he'd ever seen.

Either way, it occurred to him that setting off the system might get help there in a hurry. He held a lighter up to sprinkler head and waited... And waited... And waited. The head was black from the lighter's flame and showed no signs of coughing up any water. In frustration, he dropped the hot lighter and gripped a length of pipe. He yanked on it. To his surprise, it slid away from its mate easily. Two other things were also wrong. The other end revealed a chain linking it to the sprinkler head, and Pigg was sure these pipes had never carried water for their assumed purpose. He knew there'd be a dark lubricant coating the interior if they had ever been used for their intended purpose.

Pigg looked around, Biggs was back where they entered the passage trying to shoulder his way out. Gonzalez was on his knees going from his police radio to his cell phone to his PDA growing more and more frustrated with the absence of signal for each. And then there was the ceiling down to about four and a half feet.

Pigg guessed the pipe to be about four feet long and it appeared to be pretty sturdy. He fitted the chained end up over the sprinkler head and held it there as the bottom end slowly dropped with the ceiling the last two inches until it touched the ground. The pipe running from the opposite side of the sprinkler head was being pinched against the ceiling then shot free with a metallic _Ponk!_ Only the chain concealed within kept it from rocketing along the length of the prison. The ceiling groaned and Pigg could see his section was slowing its downward pace as the pipe pressed into the dirt beneath it.

Some thirty seconds later the true purpose of the plumbing became apparent. All along the corridor the sounds of electric motors coming to life marked the pipe joints separating as the sprinkler heads began rotating. It only took a second or two for them to become a blur of speed and metal in Pigg's flashlight beam. The club-like blades of this morbid blender were ricocheting off the steel wedges, sending them in a violently random pattern. The only semblance of safety lay either along the walls in the small wedges outside the reach of the mammoth flails or within the circle Pigg squatted in, his pipe having sheared the chains and rendering this weapon impotent, though he could still feel the grinding vibration of the spinning head encased inside the tube.

Biggs and Gonzalez found themselves being pummeled by the lengths of pipe. They tried crawling out of harm's way along the walls. Hugging his pole now out of terror, Pigg watched as Biggs, on hands and knees, became disoriented and turned against the oncoming blows. Even from this distance, Pigg could see the bone structure of his face seeming to change with each strike. He collapsed, his body still jerking under the assault.

Gonzalez didn't fare much better. Pigg couldn't tell why but as soon as Gonzalez managed to get out of the circular swarm of the bizarre flails, he'd scream and dive back into it. It didn't make sense. He was visibly bleeding from his head and hands and had to have suffered several broken bones by then. For that matter, Pigg would have been surprised if Gonzalez had any un-shattered ribs at that point.

Looking at the ground just outside his own circle of protection, he noticed sparks leaping across the bits of refuse lying on the ground. A chill ran down his spine when he saw the choice the overly dramatic shit was grappling with. He hugged his pole tighter and saw the ceiling tent around him as it lowered further onto Gonzalez.

The last time Gonzalez leaped back into the blunted blender he left his head fully exposed. Pigg suspected he did so intentionally just to get it over with. Either way, it was over with in a split second. Gonzalez was struck in the head hard enough to send him reeling into the adjacent whirlwind of metal. The last blow laid him out across a stretch of the electrified earth. Smoke had already began rising by the time Pigg turned his flashlight away from the grizzly sight.

The ceiling stopped its decent at the curb lining the alley, about a foot off the ground. That was everywhere except in Pigg's refuge. He sat with his arms and legs surrounding his steel savior as the motors wound to a stop. Silence crept over the scene. Dazed by the relentless assault, Pigg couldn't collect his thoughts enough to be sure if he smelled the charred remains of Gonzalez or the motor above him having burned out, but the smell of blood was distinct beneath it.

He was trapped but he was unharmed. It suddenly occurred to him that the pole he was clutching was extremely hot. Probably from the friction generated by the motor above it, he thought. He released the pole he'd been hugging tighter than his favorite performers over at Puss 'N' Boots gentlemen's club during one of their inverted descents from ceiling. He'd head right over there after he got out of this mess. That only left getting out of a trap that'd already been sprung.

Looking around, he noticed that a gap in the ceiling about ten yards in the opposite direction of Biggs and Gonzalez. It had apparently formed when his pole held a section up a section of concrete. He wasn't sure, but it looked plenty wide enough for him to slip through.

When that fact penetrated his shock stricken mind, Pigg let out a victory whoop and loudly proclaimed, "You can't kill me, motherfu-."

He was cut short by his pipe suddenly breaking through the weakened concrete around the hole where the motor's axle came through the ceiling. The slab collapsed perfectly around the shaft. The momentum was enough to shear of the concrete slab's edges along the restraining curb and forced the steel frame to buckle. The ceiling landed flat against the ground, thus reducing Pigg to little more than a paste.

~~~

The Watcher sprayed his drink over the monitor as laughter erupted from him. After a few minutes of unchecked mirth, he wiped a tear from his eye and began cleaning the defiled screen.

"Completely unplanned, but damned funny!"

~~~

The hunter's pulse had been racing and concentrating was becoming a feat in and of itself. _They're here somewhere. The chief is, at any rate. And that lazy assed sidekick of his, Jonnedee, can't be far away._

I can be patient though. The Gods know I've proven that. They're here and now I have a lead. I'll have to play it close to the vest, but I will have his head on a spike.

Chapter 5

Diversification In The

Bronze Age

### ~

The Keeper sipped at a Long Island Iced Tea he'd mixed himself and closed his eyes with a smile on his face. "It took me years to acquire a taste for this stuff and now I can't imagine life without it."

He opened his eyes and snapped back to the story.

Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito quickly despaired at having to correct the pronunciation of his name with every new acquaintance. Soya watched for a few weeks, endlessly amused at the marathon introductions. Finally, she took pity and suggested he change his name.

"But how will people know I am Chief Moaplevarrinajipasito, Son of Moshoatan, Grandson of Chief Mojoshet, Father of Beth the Wolf, Kym the Village Maker and Pork the... Tenderizer...?"

Soya laughed. She'd been wondering what lofty moniker he'd attach to Pork. And she knew Pork would be included. One of the endearing things about him was his insistence on impartiality among family and friends. Favoritism just wasn't in his nature. "Perhaps the more important question is does it matter?"

"I should think so," he began, then tilted his head to one side and stared into her smiling and expectant eyes. "I... I... I don't suppose it really does, does it?"

"No My Beloved, it doesn't. Soon enough, you'd have to change it anyway," the smile faded from her face, "I'm sure there will be those that will either fear or resent our condition. Either way, changing your name will be a step towards a safer path."

The Chief considered that for a moment. "Sounds reasonable to me. Now I'll just have to come up with something I can get used to responding to." He looked at her suspiciously, "I'm guessing you've already picked out several aliases for yourself."

With a sly grin she said, "Nope, I don't have to."

"Why not?"

"First off, because I'm a traveling woman and no one is that interested in my name in the first place. Second, Soya is a relatively common name. And lastly, I have the father of the greatest warrior ever to protect me."

He coughed, "Yeah, right! The apple fell straight up in the air in its attempt to get as far from the tree as it could on that score."

Soya drew the Chief into a hug, "Yes, but the tree has uprooted itself and headed off for new lands as well. I'm sure you're up to any task that may arise."

After a day and a half, he chose Sara. He thought it went well with Soya. He kept it for a time and eventually began changing it every decade or two to help avoid suspicions of his longevity.

The Keeper shrugged, "So for simplicities sake, I'll refer to him as... Bob from the duration of this story. And yes, in time, he did eventually discovered his uncanny luck in choosing names perfectly suited to inspiring gender muddled conversations for future generations.

Anyway, Bob and Soya discovered that there was a decent living to be made trading as they traveled around the island.

With the exposure to new ideas and trades, Bob also took up brewing, tool making (He'd always utilized his travel time by fashioning stone equipment, but set up shop a short time later for that new fangled bronze casting that was sweeping across the land), carpentry and engineering (homes, temples, bridges and tombs mostly). He even delved into work in medicine and dentistry (with the aid of ample amounts of beer, he could remove a tooth and be miles away before the patient sobered up enough to realize they had paid to be punched in the face).

Soya found remarkable success as a midwife, jewelry maker, and, perhaps, most profitably as a teacher of new techniques in cookery, though later years would see her work with latter revert to the subtle art of boiling.

But trading was their mainstay. And with a few lessons learned from early missteps, they worked out a sound fiscal plan that eventually lead to unprecedented wealth. One important misstep to note was keeping records of inventories, transactions, special requests, regional demand for certain items and dossiers on customers. This is important because Soya began keeping just such records in their second year abroad. She started a new ledger every winter solstice. If she hadn't, the immortals of Bryke probably wouldn't have the foggiest notion of how old they would eventually grow to be.

~~~

Soya was weaving threads of gold into a wide, choker-like necklace when she suddenly looked up at Bob. "What if we set up shops along the routes we take most often? Say, in the most populated areas; areas where we could dump our excess merchandise in them when we pass through. This wagon train is getting to be too expensive to protect, and I can't say I like packing and unpacking all of this stuff every time we stop."

Bob pondered it for a few minutes. "My only concern would be finding someone that could be trusted to run them. What's keeping the shop keepers from selling everything and disappearing before we happen to come back?"

Soya knitted her brow, "I was thinking we'd have an independent auditor that kept tabs on each of them. You know, someone the shop keeper knew existed, but couldn't actually identify. Again, in a heavily populated area it would be easy to do. As for keeping the auditor honest, just tell them that they are being watched, too. We don't actually have to have anyone for that particular job. We just need them to believe we do."

"Beautiful and smart, yes, but you've a devious streak, woman."

"I prefer cunning if it's all the same to you." she said with a smile.

Bob stroked his beard, "Well, I think it's worth trying. And, you're right; it would save a lot of work." Bob smiled and winked at her, "I honestly don't know how I ever got along without you, love."

She gave a cunning smile and said, "You'd be poorer, work harder and your right forearm would be larger than your left."

~~~

It worked.

In a few years they had shops set up in a variety of locations. Granted, the success of each shop was largely up to the ability of the keeper, but Soya had a knack for choosing the right man for the job, "...as evidenced in my selection of you." she would reply when Bob pointed out the talent.

The keepers were paid well and led comfortable lifestyles. They had the advantage over the other shops because most of their stock was supplied by Bob and Soya. They usually saw they were better off in the long run to stick with the job and protect it.

Occasionally, a shop keeper did try to weasel his way out of town with as much as he could carry, but they rarely ever got far. Bob had hit on the idea of choosing the local leadership as auditors. They were given a donation each year and first go at anything brought into the community by Bob and Soya. In exchange, they often offered around the clock surveillance of the shops from the many eyes of whatever served as a guard for the population center.

Bob and Soya quickly found themselves ramping up their business just to keep up with the new demands the shops had roused.

Within thirty years of hitting the road, they negotiated, amongst other properties, a very large tract of land along the southern coast and went about carefully populating the area with people they considered as assets to the community. They primarily sought extraordinary artisans and those displaying exceptional wisdom, intuitive intelligence or inspired ingenuity.

In just under five decades of leaving their village and after seeing a variety of primitive forts and a few substantial proto-castles, Bob set about erecting fortifications high on a cliff next to their new colony. The walls were high and thick. The keep housed a residence for Bob and Soya as well as a massive network of storerooms that covered most of the enclosed ten acres. A second wall claimed another sixty acres and housed the villagers believed most devoted and essential to the community. And finally a smaller wall was built that ranged in loops and random spurs for over two miles. Anyone could live there and many did. The marketplace lay there and was the heart of community.

Bob employed a guard for every fifty feet of the inner two walls and another for every two hundred feet of the outer wall. Many of the guard's supervisors were recruited directly from Beth's armies once they had reached an age that didn't agree with traveling all over Europe trying to find something to fight, fuck or feast on. They were older but had survived countless battles and skirmishes. Despite their geriatric disposition, only fools ever tried anything shady on their watch.

The new kingdom grew in population and wealth. It would shortly come to dwarf every village for many miles around. The storerooms of the keep began filling with treasures and commodities such as grain, fabrics, oils, building materials, spices, weapons, tools and an array of luxury items. Traders from all over the island made the journey to stock up on rarities and newly conceived items. They brought in raw materials and the occasional oddity that more often than not made its way to the keep. Gemstones, precious metals and unusual natural materials were at a premium. These were often handed over to the most skilled craftsmen so they might create new treasures with them. A bust of a fertility goddess was carved from onyx to adorn a local temple. A set of ornate cups and plates were made from silver to grace the Great Hall's bronze trimmed marble table.

One such unusual rock ended up securing its own niche in history.

The magnetic properties of lodestones fascinated Bob. He often carried one or two in a pouch with him to play with if nothing important was going on. This was what brought one particular rock to his attention. He had been in conversation with Soya about taking care of the rising number of orphans that had been turning up, when he leaned against the rock in question and was surprised to find that his pouch cling to it when he stood to walk away. He turned the rock over to a particularly gifted bronze-smith to see what he could make of it.

After cleaning the particularly heavy stone thoroughly, the surface was eventually revealed to be nothing more than a baked-on shell of clay. Inside, was a silver metal that didn't seem possible. For demonstration purposes, the smith asked Bob to strike it with his sword as if it had made a successful advance on his woman. The gnarled metal stone showed no evidence of trauma... the sword's edge, however, bore a mangled and blunted edge in the belly of newly bent blade.

The bronze-smith had been working on an ornate mold for a sword for some time and thought this would be an ideal match. After many failed attempts to melt and cast the material the bronze-smith consulted a friend who was known for finding solutions to tough problems. Together they eventually constructed a rudimentary air pump that sufficed to keep the forge hot enough to melt the rock and the bronze-smith cast his sword. Sharpening the blade was far more tedious than he'd imagined possible, but eventually, he did finished the project. He presented the sword to Bob who wore it proudly for some years. Bob did ask about the remainder of the rock and found that plenty of it remained. He paid the bronze-smith handsomely to cast four more swords and a matching dagger, though they were to be tucked away for a time when an idea that had only begun to form could use them.

As time passed it became obvious that Bob and Soya would have to leave their new home. Knowing that their age would eventually cause problems, Bob set several parts of a plan into motion. First he and Soya crafted a ring of gold with an offset groove on the inside and a ridge along the top. Then Bob set about casting a massive bronze door with a bolt that would only unlock if the ring was slid onto the handle first. The door was hung on a small, thickly walled, single-room, stone vault and an image of Bob's prized sword was etched in the center of it. He planned to store his prized sword there to validate his future claim on the keep... In the guise of his own descendant, naturally.

Not knowing that the sword was cast from a meteorite composed of a naturally occurring and extraterrestrial sample of stainless steel, he feared that it may tarnish with time; so, inside stood a single, four and a half foot high block of granite that had a six inch wide hole bored three and a half feet deep into the top of it. He placed the sword in the hole and filled it with honey.

The Keeper interrupted his story with an eye roll, "Yes I know that stainless steel didn't need anything to keep it from rusting, but Bob didn't. And I know that oil would have made more sense and been easier to clean when the sword was removed, but due to lack of experience in that area and no definite timetable, Bob didn't know if the oil would last until he returned. He did however know the honey would crust over at the top as well as protect the sword from the elements for as long as decades, if not centuries, if left undisturbed. And besides, everything is better with honey on it."

The next phase of the plan was to gather the head priests of the local temples, the most prominent merchants, craftsmen as well as other leaders of the community along with the chief guards to a feast. After the festivities, Bob informed them that he and Soya were leaving soon and may not return for some time, or possibly ever. Objections arose, but Bob was prepared for them.

He laid out his instructions that in the absence of Soya and himself, the merchants would continue trading on his behalf from his storerooms and keep a percentage of what they earned so long as they continued collecting rare materials for the craftsmen to work with. In return the craftsmen would compete at the end of each harvest for the order in which they would be allowed to enter the storerooms and select a material to work with under the rule that no craftsman could enter first more than three years in a row. A council of the community leaders would judge the competitions for a healthy fee to be paid in grain. The priests, who's astronomical observations involved precise mathematics, would keep accounts of all transactions in return for one tenth of the livestock under the keep's control each year to be divided evenly amongst the four temples. Of course, this meant that each temple would have to have a priest present at the keep at all times.

And finally, the guards and others in the keeps employ would continue their duties as normal with their pay doled by the priests. The three highest ranking guards would have the additional duty of making sure no group nor individual took advantage of any others', including the keep's, best interests. In the event of an infringement or dispute, the senior from each group would gather and settle the matter by majority vote.

In return for Bob's generous proposal, every man in the room, as well as his descendants, would have to swear to recognize whoever pulled Bob's sword from the block of granite as the rightful heir to the keep. And since it was possible that event may occur after many of them had been laid to rest, they were to vest any unrelated successors with the same conditions lest their possessions be forfeited to the control of the keep. Bob suggested that telling them early and often was probably a good way to go.

Bob looked around the room and found that most of them were still trying to do the math in their heads or trying to figure out just where they stood in this bizarre development. Others were already nodding their affirmation.

An insidious expression fixed on the face of the head priest of the temple with the largest following. Bob asked if there was a problem.

The priest spoke up saying, "It seems obvious that my temple should get a larger share than the others, when one considers how very, many more our numbers are."

Bob had known him for years and half expected something of that nature from him. He knew the man to have a streak of greed in his heart and had seen him deny a starving man a meal on the grounds that he hadn't made any offerings at the temple before.

In truth, he was rather pleased that it was him that ventured to shortchange his counterparts. Bob had built his wealth honestly and always helped his people when and where he could. But he harbored a great loathing for greed.

Bob informed him, "Each temple would be providing the same services and would receive the same compensation. Since you feel the pay is insufficient for the task, your temple is fully and irretrievably relieved of the enormous obligation of counting. Each remaining temple shall shoulder your share of this colossal burden and receive a third each of what was to have been your share."

The priest's face turned red with a combination of rage, embarrassment and frustration. He quickly insisted, "But it was only a misunderstood query. That is not what I meant at all! I wasn't trying to undercut the others in any way. Though... they do have less to provide for than my own temple."

Bob looked at him with a level stare and said, "It was precisely understood, that you most definitely were trying to undercut your counterparts despite the fact that your own temple is doing quite well without any help in the first place." A flash of a smile crossed his lips and he went on to say, "In retrospect, though, I don't see the point in excluding the temple from this bounty because of the covetousness of its leader..."

The relief that poured from the priest was palpable as his smile grew. Then Bob finished his train of thought with the proposition, "So the temple's position as an official auditor of the keep's storerooms will be reinstated upon the demise or outcast of its most offending member."

The color drained from the unctuous priest's face. Everyone at the table was aware that many of his subordinates were, having served under him for years, prone to exhibit simulations of his tact. They could not expel him without considerable strife, but his demise wouldn't be that difficult to imagine, nor to accomplish, for that matter.

~~~

When Bob and Soya departed their city, they took enough with them to put them well on their way to founding a new colony; which was the exact opposite of what a certain infamous priest took with him when he disappeared the night after Bob's departing announcements.

Jonnedee stayed behind for a year or two to make sure things went as planned then he moved on to join up with Bob and Soya.

So, found a new settlement is precisely what Bob and Soya did, and in about half the time the first one took. They were already well under way by the time Jonnedee caught up with them.

They eventually departed it under the same basic conditions. They went on to found two additional cities before returning to their first to pull Bob's sword from the stone and display the matching dagger that he always carried with him. They gave themselves about twenty years in each city then moved on to the next. They kept the pattern for centuries. Each time the newly arrived Bob unsheathing the sword from the block of stone. And each time he replaced it before wondering off to wait as anyone who could identify him and Soya met whatever demise fate had in store for them.

The Keeper raised an eyebrow, "With all that pulling-swords-from-stones business, is there any wonder it turned out to be such a popular story? I'll give you three guesses who the unbeatable knight that was often absent from the kingdom was based on. They only called Beth 'Sir Lancelot' because he played hell on anyone dumb enough to face him with a lance. Though I never was sure how Bob was transformed into a boy whose soul ambition was to become a knight. But I'm getting off the subject, again..."

It was sometime during the construction of the second city that Jonnedee came had his own epiphany. As Bob and Soya found it easy to make a living doing a variety of jobs, Jonnedee's success seemed to be inversely proportional to the honest work he put into whatever task he tackled.

While his gambling was keeping him well fed, his venture into pottery wasn't doing well at all. Though, admittedly, he was pretty sure it had something to do with drinking heavily while he crafted his wares. It seemed the world just wasn't ready for his alcohol inspired creations. People just wanted plain old platters, bowls and urns, and frankly, he sucked at making those. 'Round' just wasn't in his mud manipulating repertoire.

He considered taking up animal husbandry for a while. Thinking that prize horses would have a high profit margin (not in those exact terms, obviously) he would set out to breed the perfect work horse. It seemed simple enough, Let the strongest breed and cull out the rest. No real work involved. Just let them graze and sell them when they're grown. Best of all, 'round' wouldn't be his responsibility.

He spoke to Bob and Soya about the notion.

"Hey boys and girls, I have an idea I wanna run by you."

Bob turned, "Whatcha got Jonnedee?"

"I'm thinking about getting into breeding horses. Seems like good money and besides, how hard could it be?"

Bob Considered it for a few minutes, "Well, what do you know about horses?"

"They eat, sleep, shit, fuck and grow. Oh, and they're worth a helluva lot more than the shitty pottery I make."

Bob looked skeptical, "Have you considered what you'll have to do about predators? Food and water in the winter? Thieves? Sickness? Training? Birthing?"

Jonnedee beamed, "Yup. Hire someone who knows how to deal with that crap and let 'um do it. I always said that delegation is the most important business trait."

Soya interjected, "I've never heard you say that."

"That'd be because I had someone else saying it for me."

Bob winked at Soya and said, "He does have a point, though. Almost anything is bound to be better than his pottery."

And so after borrowing some startup capital from Bob and Soya, he set out to the north to launch his first really independent business endeavor.

~~~

Meanwhile, Bob and Soya found their arrangement had a few glitches but nothing they couldn't deal with on the fly. Sometimes the glitches even worked in their favor. Occasionally, an elderly man or woman who had seen the old rulers when they, themselves, were in their youth would insist that Bob and Soya were the spitting image of their ancestors, and that only added to Bob and Soya's claim on their property.

Conversely, there were also a few times some of the guardians of a city had plans that didn't include Bob and Soya's return. Assassination attempts rarely ended well for the assassin. Being stabbed, strangled or poisoned had a way of pissing Bob off something fierce.

With the more mundane coup attempts, there were usually, enough believers around to overrule the notion of deviating from the foretold lineage. We are talking about a very traditional and superstitious people. Of course, when Beth happened to be around, a quiet but fatal visit in the dead of night had removed a few obstacles, too. He always was an Occam's Razor kind of guy.

The only really peculiar case was when a guard with, amongst other notably bad habits, a penchant for picking locks, managed to circumvent Bob's door. Fortunately Bob and Soya showed up about a year later and stirred up a huge fuss when she started "channeling" long dead ancestors. Enough beer for the right sot and you can pretty much nail down a lot of the local lineage and gossip. It also helped that not only did Bob design and build the castle, it held secrets that only he and Soya were alive to know about. Of course, there had already been a lot of suspicion about just how the boy who repeatedly got caught with his pants down in the sheep pastures becoming ruler of the keep. Bob cornered him and won in a duel with an identical sword (remember he had five made in the set along with the dagger).

This was when Bob started insisting on the presence of his ring as requisite identification in addition to the sword. Meanwhile, Soya had made arrangements to accommodate most of the immortals of Bryke as they rotated through the kingdoms, acting as either official auditors or royal representatives.

The Keeper's eyebrows shot up, "I suppose that the important thing about those times, is that Bob and Soya never grew tired of each other's company. It would make sense that after a century or two, at least one of them would get fed up or bored enough to bail like a Republican Senator on a gay prostitution charge. They didn't, though. In fact, they grew closer in their opinions on almost every topic. They adopted each other's mannerisms and tastes. They seemed to know what the other was thinking. It was easy when it was usually pretty close to whatever was on their own mind. For that matter they often had similar dreams; whether good or bad. It was as if they were born with the same mind and soul. They were only separated by physical space and even that was often so little that you couldn't slide a sheet of paper between them. There have never been two people more seamless than these two. They were like... well, like... well hell! I don't know how to put it. I never was good with all that mushy crap. Sure I've felt it, but I never got the hang of talkin' about it.

"Anyway, you get the picture. And I know that a lifelong love between two people sounds like an alien concept to most people these days, but not too long ago, that was a normal long-term goal in life for most people. Granted, a whole lot of couples were miserable affairs for one or both involved, but many couples led loving, caring and happy lives right on up until they ran out of life all together. That's a dying reality in this and many other countries, though.

"It seems that these days there is so much competition between the sexes that it precludes most from even considering a mate as a best friend. Sure, lots of people claim that is their case, but then even they end up split up five, ten or even twenty years later. Not many lifers out there, anymore. In the off chance they actually did have true love; they still have to be strong enough to make it past his falling prey to that hot little habitual home-wrecker he works with. Most men can only take so much before their dicks catch them off guard... Yeah, I'll grant you that many of those guys are egocentric pieces of shit that consider infidelity when they see Jell-O wiggle, but according to my last girlfriend, best known for her PMS induced psychosis, we are all slaves to our hormones. And testosterone is one hell of a lot more potent than estrogen ever hoped to be. But I don't really see it that way. We all know right from wrong and, when faced with the choice, some of us even make the right one.

"As for her: Not knowing that her worst enemies are probably the girls she calls BFF's. Desperate for drama, many BFF's will gladly preach the Gospel if it led to anything to alleviate the doldrums of their desensitized lives.

"Oh, that'd be the Gospel according to the completely unrealistic fantasy world of romance novels-- mmm... gotta love the she-porn --where the men are a perfect balance of mind reader and machismo while the women can be as flawed as a turd in a blender; or the gospel of the rags often written by some of the most jaded, dysfunctional failures in the arena of relationships that the world has ever known. It still baffles me that enough failures are a qualifier for expertise. Most of my life, that alone qualified a person as loser at best, but it more probably earned them social pariah status.

"Absolutely baffles me. And don't even get me started on reality shows. I sometimes wonder if they're actually intended as tutorials on how to be miserable.

"Mark my words, when families falling apart becomes the rule and not the exception, the society is soon to follow.

"...Not that any of that matters to any of you anymore.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Bob and Soya establishing their four kingdoms and Jonnedee setting out on his own."

Jonnedee showed up when Beth kept on of his appointments with his father and the three traveled around the isle for a few months.

Sitting around a campfire amidst massive stones one night, the men had been drinking more than a little. Their conversations ranged over a variety of topics. Bob had just explained his and Soya's efforts to unify the island, when Beth lay back on his bed roll lost in thought.

Finally he postulated, "If I had the resources, I could bring the whole of the land under one rule. When I think about it though I don't know that it would be such a practical endeavor. Some of those people will quarrel with their neighbors to the end of time. Trying to rule them all would be a perpetual headache."

Bob grunted agreement, "Even on the scale that Soya and I are working it's often like having an itchy left nut while you're holding two newborn babes and standing in knee-deep water. I couldn't imagine trying to run much more than the Isle. Even that will take a lot of help."

Jonnedee chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Pfft! Try running a harem of midgets if you want to see what administrative nightmares are made of."

The other two men's heads slowly swiveled around. Bob hazarded, "Uh... you happen to have experience in that area?"

Jonnedee grumbled, "To much for a dozen lifetimes." He looked up at the other two, "Oh, I didn't tell you about that, did I?" propping his elbow on a log running next to the campsite, he looked up at the stars and began his story, "Well you remember the horse ranch and all that business about breeding a perfect work horse? Well it didn't quite work out that way. All I can figure is a goat was sneakin' in and having its way with the mares... or maybe it was that crazy-assed Pict I hired, because every generation ended up smaller and smaller. In the end, they could walk between your legs when they were full grown.

"Well, before I knew it, I had a bantam-weight equine ranch. I mean they weren't what you'd call prime stock by any stretch of the imagination. But I will say that, for their size, the little buggers were strong as hell and they could toil all day long and still seem ready to go. Still, nobody was interested in pocket-sized ponies.

"So I was ready to pack it in. Even had a buyer lined up for the land. Then a traveler happened to stop by to laugh at my herd. I was getting more and more pissed until he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks. He said it looked like I'd been rustling from a village of dwarfs.

"I chewed on that for a few minutes and mumbled it was too bad there weren't any of those villages around. I guess it was a loud mumble because that's when he said there was. I tell him, 'yeah, pull the other one, it's got balls stuck to it.'

"But he insisted he'd been by one and pointed to the southeast and said, 'it's about two, two and a half days travel unless you're ridin' one your mighty steeds, then you could probably be there in a week or two.'

"Well, after I disposed of the smarmy bastard's body, I got everything together and started driving the herd southeast. It took just shy of a week," Jonnedee held up his hands in protest to his giggling audience, "but that was because I missed the place and had to backtrack.

"On the sixth day, I marched forty-eight petite ponies into a midget village. There must have been a hundred or more of 'um. Turned out they'd sought each other out over the years, and when there were enough of 'um, they started their own village.

"Well, I tell you, they loved me. Apparently, they'd been using sheep as mounts up until then and were dangerously tired of the shit-storm of jokes they caught from their neighbors. Mind you, after dealing with the jackass that told me about these guys in the first place, I made a point of temporarily suspending the whole concept of vertical from my way of thinking.

"Anyways, they didn't have a lot to barter with aside from plenty of beer and the women. They brewed some wicked liquid-pork-chops, mate. Three pints of the stuff'd knock you senseless, kick you under the table and likely steal your gold as an afterthought. As for the women, I'll grant you they were shorties, but they outnumbered the men three to one. I'll tell you now; I don't think I've ever met a man that was as justifiably smug as any of those little guys.

"I ended up with sixty barrels of beer and a dozen little women. I thought I'd come out of the deal okay, so I threw in the Pict for good measure.

"Afterwards, I figured they suckered me, 'cause I'm pretty sure I got the cream of the berserker-bitch crop.

"By the time I figured that one out it was too late. From what I gather, the little folk had already been gearing up to head to some island farther up north. I think they called it Shitland, or Shatland, or something like that. My ponies turned out to be just what they needed, when they needed them most.

"And I'm getting off track... So yeah, it turned out that I had a harem of capable practitioners of random acts of mindless violence, as well mindless acts of random violence and the occasional violent act of random mindlessness thrown in for good measure.

"They did teach me a thing or two, though... Like staying away from beans when fun-sized ladies are following you around. Yeah, nose-high farts are hilarious, until you wake up hogtied with a carrot stickin' out of your ass. Then there was nonchalantly asking her to hand you the cup off the top shelf. Again, funny before she busts you one in the shin with ten pound clay pot."

Jonnedee looked at Beth, "But whatever you do, never laugh when she falls in the loo because you left the seat up. Takes 'um forever to climb back out. I'm here to tell you, you learn to change your fighting stance pretty damned quick when a three foot banshee charges your sack with a kitchen knife. That's one nasty, knee-high nightmare, that is.

"So, there I was with more beer than it needed and a war party in the guise of a dozen diminutive damsels. I figured they wouldn't need much by way of food; I was wrong. They ate me out of house and ranch. It was looking like we were going to starve when some of the girls snuck out one night. They came back several hours later, packing plenty of food.

"I thought they'd robbed somebody and took 'um to task on it. Turned out the little whores were... well whorin'. And that's when another idea sparked.

"The next day, I broke out a barrel of beer and we all sat down for a business meeting.

"Now it had occurred to me long before that there was a healthy profit to be made in vice. I'd just never been so motivated by hunger to pursue the notion very far. It wasn't _my_ hunger that worried me, but I swear some of those girls would start droolin' when they looked at me.

"Anyways, it seems everybody has at least one guilty pleasure and if you can make it seem awful to most everybody else, then turn around and cater to the ones left over... well you can eat good for starters.

"So, after they were as drunk as a pack of retards that had been playing with buckets of glue on a self-propelled merry-go-round, I broached the topic of sex for cash and prizes. To my surprise, they loved the idea. One of them suggested that if we targeted drunks they'd cough up more and be easier to take out if they wanted to get rough. Well, they got no argument from me.

Since I already had a buyer lined up, it only took a few days to sell the ranch, buy a dozen tents, convert a wagon into a mobile pub and get everything else packed up on three other wagons. Then we were off and that's how I became," he stood and bowed, "Jonnedee: mobile barkeep and midget pimp."

Beth and Bob stared at him slack jawed for a second or two and then burst into laughter.

Jonnedee shrugged and continued as he took his seat again, "We just jumped in with both feet at first. We traveled all around and set up shop just outside each village we came to.

"We learned to collect payment up front pretty quick, though. Seemed that, if you let them wait to pay, about every third customer tried to short the girls. They'd come off with something like, 'it should be half price since I only got half a woman.'

"Let's just say, I'm not the only one who learned to change my fighting stance around those girls.

"Anyways, one of the girls had an idea and it turned out to work pretty well. If we billed the girls as 'exotic' we could get twice the normal rates. Within six months, we had every Dong, Dick and Harry within a day's travel, tracking us down just to cough up everything they could scrape together for a go with 'the fornicating fairies'."

When Beth and Bob finally regained some semblance of their composure, Bob asked, "So are you still pimpin' the mini-muffins?" and collapsed in convulsive laughter again.

Jonnedee shook his head, "Nah, I lost the whole troop to a bunch of yellow haired raiders on the east coast a few years later."

Beth half-sobered instantly. "They took your women?"

Jonnedee looked disgusted, "Oh nooo, they got their asses handed to them by my girls. After that, the girls really turned venomous on 'um."

"How's that?" Bob asked gripping his stomach as tears of laughter rolled down his cheeks.

"They married 'um." Beth and Bob erupted again. "That was the easiest livin' I'd ever had up to that point." Jonnedee grumbled, "just goes to show you: Don't count your chickens before the pervert's been caught."

Bob cocked an eyebrow. "What did you do from there?"

"Well, I left the island and traveled for a while. Then fell into a job as high priest for a group of sex addicts for a decade or so. That job was nothing but gravy. No really. They had this notion that their god was somehow pleased by offerings of great globs of gravy flung through the air. I couldn't keep my robes clean to save my life. And let me tell you, you have no idea how pissed you can get until you wake up in the morning to some little bastard spattering ladles full of mushroom gravy on your face.

"It was a good job though. They fed me, clothed me, gave me gold and a room in the temple. Not to mention, any time I got a stirrin' down there, I'd just pick a girl at random and whip it out and say something that sounded kinda priestly. Like, 'and Azunocki said unto her, 'kneel in praise and taste of my flesh as it is before your lips.' and she tasted of his flesh in rapture.'

"Anyways, I hit the road when the dong-jockeys started getting scarce and the place became a cock flock for every overzealous perv in the region.

"From there I came back to the island and started selling certain mushrooms and weeds to the Celt hippies on a massive scale. Paid well enough, but I had to quit that one, too. I started loosin' sleep when I saw how quick their socioeconomic structure was collapsing beneath the weight of near constant munchie induced famines. I couldn't help but feel a little responsible." Jonnedee shook his head.

Bob nodded to himself, "I was wondering what had happened to those guys..."

"Well, these days I'm running a gambling house. It's a place where people can bet on a variety of games and contests. I've got everything from drunken hatchet throwing to chicken races, fart contests to midget tossing. Well we did have that one until some overgrown farm boy got shitfaced and chucked the little guy out the window. Mind you, we're on the third floor. Must of seemed like the eighth floor to poor ol' Max."

Beth cocked an eyebrow, "Another midget? So are we talking about a fetish or a curse here, Jonnedee?"

Jonnedee shook his head, "Nah, Ol' Max wasn't actually a midget... or a dwarf for that matter. No, he was just a really short guy with a knack for looking shorter still.

"The worst part of that one was when I had to break the news to his widow. I wasn't sure how to handle it so I gave her a marker at the casino and offered to give her oldest boy a trade.

"...We don't talk anymore.

"Speaking of wives, we take bets on whose wife will nag first. Then there's dice, bingo and the flaming torch juggling.

"I'm thinking about discontinuing that one. A month ago, we had a bean stuffed fart contestant get the idea that he was a pretty good juggler, too. The casino damned near burned to the ground."

"Oh, and during the full moon we..."

...And thus the talk went on into the wee hours.

~~~

The next afternoon, it became apparent to Bob and Jonnedee that their reunion was coming to an end. Beth had grown restless and had already been alluding to leave the isolated life of the island behind for the previous few days. So, the men, each having verified his own immortality, agreed to meet again, once every twelve sets of twelve summers, at the same place where they were to part ways. Twelve being considered a special if not magical number in those days, and it just had a nice ring to it.

The site where they chose to part ways was easy to find. It was where the island's supreme testament of what happens when you don't hire the right person for the job had stood for hundreds of years. Everyone knew the story back then; it was on a plaque there at the site.

Centuries before, a great chief enlisted his boastful brother-in-law to build a great circular fortress to the south where, "those damned stoners hang out" The chief, being a bit on the paranoid side, insisted that its purpose be kept a secret even from those who built it. The chief had granted him a sizable work force and plenty of supplies for the project. Soon after arriving at the sight, the brother-in-law met a rather attractive proto-hippie and quickly developed an appetite for some rather peculiar herbs that greatly affected his perspective.

The brother-in-law returned to tell of the fortress's completion just in time for an impending invasion from a powerful southern rival. The chief marshaled his men and set off to meet his adversary. Along the way the brother-in-law proclaimed that the structure would stand for a thousand years or more. When he arrived at his new fortress, the chief found a massive ringed stone structure capable of fending off any army... were it not for the gaping holes in every wall large enough to march five men abreast through. When he asked where the fortress was, his brother-in-law pointed at the structure and explained that it, "embodied the true essence of a mighty fortress."

The chief still won the inevitable battle but lost his dear brother-in-law in the process. He tried to console his wife by telling her that he died defending his great fortress. In fact, every stone of the fortress 'embodied' some part of his 'essence'... The chief had made sure of that, though he skipped over the part about the brother-in-law dying a full day before the enemy arrived.

It has been speculated that it was indeed the brother-in-law's fortress that won the battle. For had he not constructed it thus, the Chief and his warriors would not have generated the shear rage they mustered upon being laughed at so hard by the enemy when they were found standing in the great ring of stone doorways.

When Beth and his father arrived, there had been bronze age hippies showing up and excitedly digging holes around the circle. They said they were having a "concert" in a few days and when you were expecting up to 500 people to show up for more than a dozen bards and minstrels, people would have to shit somewhere.

It seems that it was at that very event that some of the younger concert goers thought the plaque telling the history of the place would look "really cool" in their secret "club house." The Gods only know how they managed it, since the plaque itself was actually a section carved on a twenty ton stone.

Beth departed the island wondering what the world was coming to. Had to be a fluke."

~~~

As the years passed, Beth had no idea how many wars, battles, skirmishes, brawls, melees, bar fights and duels he had participated in. He enjoyed learning new ways of fighting whether they were strategies and tactics for whole armies, or the more intimate hand to hand styles. He especially preferred one-on-one melee.

With the benefit of centuries of practice and building his speed and unnatural endurance, Beth found it easy to master new ways of fighting. Typically, he could adopt the new style or technique of his opponent in the first confrontation, whether it was while sparring or on the battlefield, and he always emerged victorious.

It was while living far into Persia around 450 B.C. that Beth met a man at an inn. The man was known only as "The Dragon" to the locals. The Dragon was a small man in his early forties. He was dressed in a slick, white, lightweight outfit that was unlike anything Beth had ever seen. It seemed to shimmer in the light. But the more peculiar thing was the man's eyes. The unusual fold that masked the inner corner of the eyes inexplicably made him seem calculating and ominous.

Beth watched The Dragon, rapidly shoveling a pilaf-like dish from a bowl with two thin sticks, from across the room. A drunk and unusually large Persian decided to confront the odd man. In a boisterous voice the Persian informed The Dragon that he was sitting at the Persian's table and that if he wished to keep his head from exploring the fetid confines of his ass, he'd be well advised to move both as quickly as possible, away from said table.

Beth began to suspect that the diminutive man was deaf for he never acknowledged that the swarthy Persian was even there. But then, enraged by the runt's failure to show proper respect, the Persian shot a fist out to unseat the bothersome git.

Beth watched as the Persian crumpled gurgling to the floor. It took a moment for him to fully comprehend what he'd just witnessed. Without looking up from his food, the tiny man had leaned back enough for the Persian's blow to pass between his face and the eating sticks. In the same fluid movement his left hand left the bowl it held in midair and clenched into a fist as it violently struck the aggressor's throat. The same hand then pivoted downward from the elbow striking the Persian's 'best friend and the baby-makers' with an open handed slap, then gripped tightly just as the inverted forearm launched its elbow up toward an exposed chin. Beth was sure he'd heard a snap when the elbow connected just under the left edge of the Persian's jawbone. The hand made one last lightning quick movement and caught the falling bowl of food just before it struck the table.

Instantly, the patrons of the inn froze as if they had all miraculously turned to stone. Only the odd little man and his sticks moved. After a few dozen heartbeats, the proprietor directed a few men to remove the defunct bully from the inn and announced that he was turning in early and that food and drink would be available again tomorrow morning.

Two men eased over to the fallen Persian and squatted to just close enough to gain purchase on the fellow. They drug the Persian away and out the door, all the while keeping an eye on the little guy.

The rest of the inn's patronage began easing either toward their rooms upstairs or out the door taking care to leave a wide birth around The Dragon.

When everyone had departed, Beth approached the man's table and sat opposite him. Neither spoke as Beth picked up The Dragon's empty bowl. He held it at eye level and let it drop as he mimicked the earlier movements of The Dragon. The bowl made a barely audible tap against the table as Beth's hand completed the motions and caught it. Using both hands, Beth placed the bowl back on the table between the two men. Beth then lay his hands flat in front of himself and waited for a response.

The Dragon knitted his eyebrows and scrutinized Beth. At last he nodded. In ancient Farsi he told Beth that he would teach him and to be at the ruins east of town at sunrise.

~~~

By the end of the first day of training, both men were very surprised by the training session. The Dragon marveled that a novice could possess the physical and mental speed and inhuman stamina that Beth did. His aptitude, too, was unprecedented at this extremely early stage.

In turn, Beth marveled that any normal man actually survived their first day of training with his new teacher. He hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't something so closely akin to systematic torture. That night he thanked the gods for granting him the gift of accelerated healing and for leading him to this man who had taught him more in that day's sparring than he'd put together on his own in any previous half century. Beth's skills were the results of one very long lifetime of fighting. The Dragon's skills were the culmination of centuries of a whole civilization's fighting.

The next day, Beth watched The Dragon depart the inn and chuckled to himself as the big Persian from two nights before emerge in all his bandaged glory from a small building only to trip over a stool while charging back into it upon seeing his nemesis strolling in his direction.

The Dragon was shocked to see Beth arrive apparently unaffected by the abuses he'd endured the previous day, though he was too well disciplined to let it show. He had intended to instruct Beth using open-handed techniques that would allow for a particularly sore student to at least still function. Curiosity aroused, he grunted and kicked a staff off the ground towards his student. Half a second behind that came The Dragon's own staff with a barrage of blows. Most were deflected. Many were not.

Within ten days, The Dragon found it difficult to score a hit on Beth. More confounding still was that Beth was coming very close to scoring his own hits. On the twelfth day, that is exactly what happened. The Dragon grunted and ignoring the sting on his left cheek sat his staff against a crumbling wall. It was time for a new weapon.

Over the ensuing months, Beth sharpened his skills with a variety of weapons, many of which he'd never heard of, but occasionally they did come back to the staff. It was the open-handed combat that most fascinated him though. He hadn't realized that the body possessed even a fraction of the subtle vulnerabilities and strengths The Dragon was showing him. Suddenly there was so much more than just a cheap shot to the wooly bubbles to incapacitate an opponent.

When just under two years had passed, Beth arrived at the ruins to find The Dragon sitting on a mat in front of a short table. There was another laid out directly opposite him. Beth gave a short bow before sitting. From a porcelain decanter The Dragon poured a clear liquid into two small cups. Beth recognized the potent rice wine at once, but this was unusual. On many occasions, The Dragon had poured only for Beth and then tested his skills in thought, stealth, and fighting while alcoholically impaired. Never before had The Dragon drank too.

The Dragon tilted the cup to his mouth then set it empty on the table. Beth did likewise. He cleared his throat, "I had thought that I would pass from this world without sitting down to drink with another with skills comparable to my own. Today, I do just that."

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing, "I am no longer your teacher. In less than two years, you have ascended to a level of skill most couldn't attain in a lifetime."

The decanter filled the cups and the men emptied them, again. "I am both blessed and deeply honored to have had you as a student, and you have my gratitude for your friendship. From this point we walk our own paths or we learn from each other as sons of battle. I confess an inclination to the latter."

Beth looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "I can think of no better path, nor a better brother to travel it with."

The Dragon poured another drink for each of them. Then, setting the decanter back down, his face took on an uncomfortable expression. Looking Beth in the eye, he asked, "I don't know a tactful way of asking this, but I am compelled to do so anyway; just how old of a western god are you?"

Beth didn't hesitate in telling him, "I am a little over 1400 years old, but I am still only a man."

The Dragon's brows knitted together, "I believe those two claims are mutually exclusive. But I am ignorant of the details and accept them as fact."

Knowing that the Dragon had questions that he would not ask and feeling a great debt was owed to the man, Beth volunteered the experience of the thirteen villagers. Over the course of several more decanters of wine, he told the general history of his life. The Dragon never spoke as the tale unfolded.

Beth wrapped up the story with his current journey to Persia. The Dragon sat silently staring at a small bird that had nested on a high wall of the ruins for a full five minutes. When he looked back at Beth he said, "I'm sorry, what did you say? I was trying to remember if I turned off the oil lamp in my room." A moment later both men laughed themselves to tears.

The rest of the day saw the two telling jokes and swapping war stories. Beth learned that The Dragon had actually been called 'The Shield', in his homeland. He had been a teacher and a guard for the emperor's oldest son. Unfortunately, the prince had a penchant for both practical jokes and alchemy. He decided to have some fun at one of his servant's expense. It turned out that the servant was a bit amorous and often inhaled the fumes of a burning mixture of sulfur and charcoal to enhance his potency. The prince reasoned that he could confound the servant by adding saltpeter to the large pot of the servant's mixture to negate any beneficial effects.

No one knows exactly what happened in the servant's quarters, but after what sounded like a clap of thunder rolled away into the distance and the blanket of smoke finally subsided, the servant's quarters had spontaneously migrated in every direction including straight up. To The Shield's horror and humiliation, the feet of a charred corpse wearing scraps of what was left of the prince's robes was found several hundred feet away poking out of the lead elephant of a visiting Indian ambassador.

In a rare moment of compassion and after considering the long years of excellent service The Shield had given, the emperor banished him from the kingdom, for failing to prevent the death of the prince, instead of executing him.

He was labeled The Dragon by the people who saw him defeat more than a dozen armed soldiers in half as many seconds. That had been when he first entered Persia and he thought it had a nice ring to it, so he kept it."

~~~

The Dragon and Beth remained constant companions until the former's death some twenty eight years later. On his deathbed, he had the room cleared of his family after all had said their goodbyes.

A weak smile played on his lips, "It would seem, old friend, that our paths must part after all."

Beth felt a lump in his throat and tears eroding his resolve to remain composed, "Would that destinies could be shared by choice, I would gladly volunteer to continue our journey together."

A feeble laugh erupted into blood laced coughs that racked the terminal patient. When he reigned in the convulsions, he said, "If we had a choice, I think I'd rather go the 'not dying' route. But alas... No, not alas. Mine has been a rich life. Perhaps doubly so for the company I kept. I feel neither remorse nor fear. I am ready for death. Besides, I am quite looking forward to whatever afterlife awaits me and kicking a certain practical-joking prince's ass for all the grief he caused me."

Beth chuckled despite the impending loss, "You'll have to go through the elephant first... I'll miss you, my brother."

A nod, "I guess this is the part where I say something profound, but the only thing coming to mind is; I so should have banged that barmaid back in Egypt..."

...And the Dragon was no more.

Beth bowed his head and relented to the tears.

In an attempt to find others of The Dragon's caliber, Beth visited his homeland one last time before he set out for the Orient. He wasn't entirely disappointed. He spent the next two millennium there training at one school and then another. He made a sporadic circuit of them. He studied and gave his own contributions.

After it was introduced several hundred years later, he took up Zen philosophy for a time. He quickly discovered that the 'living only in the moment' part of achieving enlightenment takes on a slightly different perspective for someone who has a tendency to live forever. Interestingly, it took the legendary Bodhidharma nine years of staring at a cave wall next to Beth and his own reflection in a bowl of water to come to a similar conclusion.

The Keeper chuckled, "Oh, that reminds me of a quaint little story:"

As it turns out, Beth had taken a seat in a cave near the Shaolin Monastery vowing to set his past and prejudices to rest so that he could center his consciousness only in the present. Given that he was entering his third millennium at the time, he had a hell of a lot of past to pony up and sort through. He chose the cave both for its seclusion and the proximity to someone who would dutifully bring him food and water, so as not to interrupt his meditation with noise or menial tasks. Sometime during his first couple of years, a fellow by the name of Bodhidharma wondered in and upon seeing Beth, took a seat next to him.

There they sat for nine years staring at the wall in meditation, never speaking and seldom moving. After a while Beth even stopped noticing the ill effects of undercooked rice on Bodhidharma's digestive system.

In the end, it was a bat that undid Bodhidharma. As he sipped water, a few pellets of guano fell into his bowl. He glanced at the water in the bowl, as one usually does when a bat craps in his water, and saw in his reflection a man who had aged almost a decade. This startled him enough to prompt a glance at Beth. Seeing that his companion looked virtually identical to the day Bodhidharma had entered the cave, he sat the bowl down and pondered this happenstance for a few days. On the fourth day, he stood and walked out of the cave leaving behind his two most prized barbequing secrets, the Marrow Cleansing Classic and the Muscle Tendon Change Classic (not the martial arts secrets so many would later assume them to be) and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, 'Ah, man! This is bullshit!' with an Indian accent.

Though it was speculated that he returned to India, he was certainly never heard from again in China.

~~~

Beth eventually muted his past and finally lived fully in the present...

The next morning, before beginning his meditation, his past dropped a bomb on him in the form of logic 101, courtesy of Socrates. Before he could stop himself, Beth let logic out of its cage.

He would later say the dam burst in roughly this order; if he must truly disconnect from the past, how would he remember that there even is a desire to achieve this mental states since that is where the desire's origin lies? And to truly disregard the future is to forgo activities required to sustain life, isn't it? And to reduce mind to an "empty vessel" to perceive the moment as it truly is, has no useful purpose. Beth had seen men injured on battlefields that actually were mentally empty vessels. There was no enlightenment. There was no joy. He supposed one could say there was inner peace, but what good was that when there was no life? Then he thought of the torment of those slowly attaining a true no-mind state with age.

On the other hand, if one actually looked logically at the world around them with an open mind, there was plenty of enlightenment, joy and inner peace to be found. Besides, the right amount of alcohol had always given Beth an unshakable inner peace. Throw in a pretty girl with a dirty mind and bliss is quite easy to attain for a time.

Beth chuckled to himself. Bodhidharma was right after all. 'This is bullshit!'

On the bright side, it did keep the testosterone in check in a place filled with people capable of taking out a small village with a bag of uncooked noodles and sock. (It was horrible. Broken bodies and pasta-frag everywhere. Don't even get Beth started on the glue and construction paper. He still flinches around kindergarten classes.)

Chapter 6

The Bigger They Are...

### ~

Mike crushed out his cigarette and rested his forearms on the table. "By then, we were suspicious of everyone we could think of but nothing added up.

"The mystery symbols had been hammered all over the bodies of Gonzalez and Biggs. As for Pigg, we had trouble telling his lips from his asshole... they ended up about an inch apart. We wouldn't have even been able to ID his body if it weren't for the doctor, performing the autopsy, finding his badge. It was just sandwiched between his thigh and spleen.

"The drugs on the street were drying up fast. There was a flood of junkies swarmin' the hospitals and doctor's offices all over town.

"Pharmacies were being robbed. Weitzel's over on 3rd and Ash got hit so many times the last perp was reduced to taking three bottles of Flintstones vitamins and a carton of suppositories.

"After Sunny Meadows Retirement Center was robbed the third time in a week, they actually tried arming some of the residents to keep their meds from being pilfered. That lasted until a group of WWII and Korea vets stormed the kitchen and took a cook hostage. Their demands for chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream at every meal, the Playboy channel in the rec-room and Viagra soft tabs were agreed to and the situation was resolved.

"All of the pepper spray and tazers still haven't been accounted for and the cook's brought a harassment suit against the center. Apparently, a ninety-three year old resident named Shamus O'Brady didn't mind taking the hard tabs of Viagra after all. On second thought, you probably don't want to know the details...

"But we couldn't find evidence of a rival drug ring anywhere.

"We were desperate. We looked into the possibilities of a terror attack, religious extremists, we even checked up on Narcotics Anonymous just in case they had a dramatic philosophical paradigm shift. All we had to show for our efforts was tired cops, a jail full of detoxing addicts, a rash of broken hips at Sunny Meadows Retirement Center and the first ever pet store heist involving suppositories, a turkey baster and a unicycle," Tamesis raised her naturally seductive eyebrows upon hearing that. "It was thwarted. It seems the guy was so hopped up on Flintstone vitamins it didn't occur to him the ferrets would react to the administration of suppositories the way they did... Over three hundred stitches.

"After we found Gonzalez, Pigg and Biggs, we considered they may have been behind the whole thing and then fell victim to retaliation." Seeing Tamesis' reserved expression, Mike held up a conciliatory hand, "Well, they had been suspected of shady crap for years. Internal Investigations had a massive file on each one of them, but they always walked away from anything that was thrown against them.

"Where the hell could they have gotten the 'arctic brigade' from, though? No, nothing was adding up."

Mike grunted, "That was around the time Leo Mason and his entourage disappeared. At least we had a lead suspect. The pushers all had ties to Leo (we found his number on almost all of their cells) and it made sense that he would hit back hard if he found out who was interrupting his profit margins. The M.O. was bizarre but Leo was known for peculiar behavior at times. He once shot a statue in a hotel lobby seven times because, 'It kept trying to sneak up on' him. Mind you, the seven shots were spaced out over five minutes. I guess it was persistent as well as sneaky.

"The thing is though; there were the rumors that had circulated for years about Leo's connection with the Mayor. Everyone 'knew' that they had a history that went way back. The two of them along with Simpson and Jordan went through school together.

"Anyways, Gonzalez was so far up Mayor Jackson's ass he got his mail via enema. So why would Leo go after his buddy's goons?

"I don't know if there was anything to it but a few of the guys swear they've heard him in hushed conversations talking about 'The Wall' this and 'The Big Four' that, along with Leo's and the Mayor's names.

"For all I know, he could've been delivering pizza for them. Still, it made more sense than anything else we had to go on. And we all knew that if it were true we were going to have to call in the fire department for a hose big enough to clean the inevitable torrent of shit off the proverbial fan.

"We also had a new problem to deal with: Where the hell was Leo? The Mayor was on the Police Chief like spandex on a fat woman's ass. Likewise, the Chief was raising more hell than a Southern Baptist preacher that just found out his son was a liberal prostitute trying to get an abortion. We traced Leo's phone records, credit cards, his online activities (turns out he's a man who likes his granny porn), even his library card (big Potter fan). We interviewed his family, his maid, the neighbors, his shrink, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys, strippers at his favorite clubs, basically anyone we could find that had any contact with him. We got squat."

Mike lit another smoke. "Then everything went south in a hurry. While half the department was out tracking down Leo, Hoss Simpson's bodyguards turned up dead in Hoss' garage. Between the two of them, they sported more slices than the St. Sebastian's School for the Blind's annual field trip to the golf course. The symbols were carved into soles of their feet. Forensics said it had all been done with a razor blade. It was the proverbial death of a thousand cuts.

"As for Hoss, he'd vanished."

~~~

-November 24, four years earlier

Shui had been very busy this week, though it was also the most fun he'd had in years. Most of the time his talents were dormant but they were always there. Granted the targets were not much of a challenge. But then, when was the last time that had been the case? He still got to, as Americans love to say, open a can of whoop ass. Nine cans if you wanted to be exact. The two body builders guarding the union boss were the pick of the litter though.

Shui had studied up on his targets and found that in an altercation, they liked to beat their opponents to a bloody pulp. At least that was their public mode of operation. There was some testimony to their having a penchant for blades in more secluded circumstances. Since Shui's encounter was to be in a private setting, he'd looked to blades as his weapons of choice.

Shui checked his cell phone for an update of his opponent's location. He marveled at the way technology was changing the world. For a small fee, he had purchased a pet tracking device and the service required to have real-time updates sent to his cell. Naturally, he didn't use his own information to purchase it and the phone was the disposable, pay-as-you-go type. Instead, he'd paid a pizza delivery kid fifty bucks to run down to the store and buy it for him with cash on the pretence he was on house arrest. Acquiring a court appointed ankle bracelet for authenticity hadn't stretched his resources to any significant degree.

He carefully pulled on his gloves and stood just behind the hedges that ended near the garage doors. The cell phone told him the union boss and his men would be home very soon.

Two minutes later he heard the lock on the driveway gate unlatch. Headlights illuminated an arch across the yard and came in line with the garage doors, one of which began its invitational upward sweep.

As soon as the backdoors of the Escalade cleared the entrance, Shui stepped from the manicured plants and slipped through the door. He gave no effort at stealth as he turned right and rounded the parked Lexis closer to the house entrance.

The garage door had begun its decent and the men began exiting the black Caddie. Much to Shui's amusement, they were preoccupied with a bad call in the previous night's football game and didn't even notice him until they were only a few feet away.

None of the men seemed particularly startled. But then, three men, all over six foot four and weighing in at a combined 1155 pounds are not likely to find a five foot five, 200 pound man in black pajamas worth the effort.

Though they couldn't see Shui's smile behind the cloth covering his face from the nose down, they couldn't mistake the gleeful twinkle in his eyes.

The biggest of the three was Shui's objective. Hoss Simpson put on a look that almost resembled pity. His deep voice rumbled, "You gotta be shittin' me." He paused for a moment to take in the sawed-off ninja monkey. "Okay, who are ya? Who sent ya? And whadda ya want?"

Hoss saw the crinkle at the corners of the interloper's eyes as he said, "I am Shui. My employer sent me. I come for you."

Hoss pondered that for about two seconds. The guy must have nuts the size of tangerines. Then a grin spread across his face. "Oh well... Boys, who's turn is it?" He looked to his right, "Vic?"

The man to his right unbuttoned his Gianni Versace suit jacket and removed it reveling slabs of muscle thinly veiled by the matching shirt. His neck crackled as he rotated his head on his shoulders in a show of loosening up, and he handed his counterpart the jacket.

The man darted forward drawing back his right arm in preparation to deliver a devastating, if not lethal, blow. Shui found the move amusingly clumsy and juvenile in nature. Normally he would shift to the inside of his opponent's strike and attack vulnerable and vital areas, but this was a chance to enjoy himself. The big ones were always the most fun. The confused and frustrated expressions alone were worth the price of admission. And if he could make one squeal... Well, he'd just have to control himself or finish the job laughing himself to tears.

He shifted his body to the outside of the blow quickly enough that his attacker was still staring at where Shui had been standing even after round one was effectively over.

Shui's work was easy. He simply struck at one place in the air as Vic's arm passed through the same space. It was reminiscent of a tree limb going through a wood chipper. As the massive fist passed safely by his head, Shui struck both sides of the wrist simultaneously with closed fists. There was an audible crack as the two bones on Vic's forearm met for the first time in a place that neither ever seriously considered as a choice place to visit.

In lightning quick succession, this was followed by combat-hardened knuckles punching to the pressure point at the inner and upper arm where the bicep meets the triceps while their counterparts intensified the effect by slammed into the tendons just above and to the outside of the elbow.

Abandoning his notion of shoving a thumb up Vic's nose and flipping him by it just for the hell of it, Shui's let his right hand drop below Vic's arm and twisted his body to his left only to snap back to the right driving a biting knuckle into the man's exposed armpit while his right elbow collided with three closely clustered pressure points around the hinge of Vic's jaw. All six of Shui's blows landed while his challenger completed his first botched swing.

Shui finished his body's rotation to the right and drew his leg around with him. He assumed the posture of a casual bystander as the thoroughly stunned Vic's momentum carried him to the ground.

Vic shook his head and tried to get his bearings about him as he wondered what just happened. He had a muffled ringing in his ears, an overly enthusiastic needles-and-pins sensation from his right shoulder down to his fingertips and the visible world seemed to be fine tuning itself down to a surreal point of visual acuteness surrounded by the sparkle of grey static.

When he attempted to lift himself, Vic's right arm informed the rest of his person that the prickly sensation it was radiating was subterfuge for the excruciating pain it was prepared to dole out if it didn't get the attention that it wanted, needed and damned well deserved after the abuses it had just endured. He collapsed and rolled to his side to find an unexpected sight.

Hoss was standing with furrowed eyebrows and lips moving as if they were silently trying to confirm to the brain what his eyes had just witnessed. The other bodyguard simply stood holding Vic's jacket with his mouth slackened in an expression of astonishment. Clearly, things were not going quite as planned. But the thing that struck Vic as odd was the little guy standing nonchalantly with his back turned to the other two. The little man's expression of mild amusement made him look as if he was watching a horny weasel trying desperately to get it on with a porcupine, but he didn't seem remotely concerned about the adversaries facing his back.

Vic's partner, Chris, finally digested everything and realized that his best chance at beating the suddenly very scary little fucker was right then, while his back was turned and little more than an arm's length away.

What Chris hadn't realized was that Shui had been monitoring him and Hoss in the chrome rim on the Lexis. He had mastered the habit of paying close attention to his peripheral vision long ago and habitually paid as much attention to its blurred warnings as any other sense. He could have heard most anything either of the men could have done, but a gun being pulled from a pocket can be tricky to distinguish from, oh say, an exceedingly scared man dropping a deuce without the forethought to drop his pants first. Best take the easier course and he could see both men shifting their attention to him.

Chris stepped forward as quickly and quietly as he could manage and opened his arms to grab Shui in a bear hug. The only thing the move really accomplished was temporarily blocking the image of Hoss.

Shui almost felt embarrassed for the oaf. It seemed to him that the quality of bodyguards had been on a downward spiral for a long time now. Less skill and more brawn was not necessarily a good combination when a real threat arose. Oh well, not his problem. As Chris' arms wrapped around him Shui kept his eye contact with Vic. As the grip started to tighten around him, he stepped back just enough to bring the heel of his left foot down on Chris' toes. Then his right leg bent at the knee and his foot pistoned back into the kneecap of the leg above Chris' trapped toes. Vic glanced down to see Chris' leg at a uncanny angle. Chris had obviously abandoned the bear hug and seemed to be assessing the situation and trying to convince himself that his leg wasn't as bad as it looked. There was something odd about his shirt as well, but Vic was giving most of his attention to the leg. The tiny bodybuilder in Vic's head was aghast; Chris would have to give up his leg routine for a year to let that heal completely.

Shui, seeing in the reflection that his new play partner was still holding himself up with his good leg, snapped off a second kick to the same kneecap. This time the man went down hard and quick.

Hoss' image reappeared. He was pulling a pistol from beneath his jacket. Shui spun and gripped the palm-side of Hoss' gun hand before he could aim and gave the back of the same hand a quick punch. The trigger finger reflexively uncoiled for just a moment. That was all Shui needed to rake the gun away unfired.

Hoss let out a grunt of pain. Shui tossed the gun aside and slammed the heels of his palms into each side of Hoss' jaw. There was a double snap and the big man's eyes glazed as he sank to the ground unconscious.

It was then that Vic, still staring at Chris, noticed that there was a sudden overabundance of the color red in this scene. His gaze traveled back to Chris' chest and saw that blood was seeping through the entire front of the white shirt as well as along the inside length of each arm. It finally dawned on Vic what had seemed odd about the shirt a few moments before; there were evenly spaced slits about half an inch apart everywhere he had touched their tormentor. He glanced at the crumpled body of his boss and saw blood covering his right hand and the visible side of his face. Then against his will his eyes traveled down to his own right arm. There in each place that he'd been struck blood seeped from parallel lacerations. The worst of them looked about a centimeter deep and maybe two inches long.

Chris began screaming. It was a shrill affair and the sound embarrassed Vic. But it was cut short by a snap kick to the face.

Vic had lived his adult life and most of his childhood without fear. Despite what parents like to tell their children, bullies don't usually run away when confronted by a weaker adversary. No, they usually got pissed and gave a very thorough demonstration of why little Billy's mom and dad are not advising the tactical and strategic masterminds of the world's fighting forces.

Vic had sponsored those demonstrations on many occasions. In his younger days, hospitals were usually involved. In more recent years, morgues were. But now things weren't right. He instinctively knew the welling sensation, though it was quite foreign. He couldn't seem to convince himself that he'd fallen to a lucky punch... or six as the case may be. Fear had introduced itself. It came with luggage and had coasted into the driveway with an empty gas tank and a bad water pump on its '72 pinto.

In a panic, he scrambled for his pistol. The thought of the little guy suddenly materializing next to him convinced Vic to skip the aiming portion of his defense. Before he got the first shot off, though, the man's finger flashed across the light switch. Darkness swallowed him. Trying to decide where to aim in a pitch black room and the awkward feeling of the .45 Sig P-220 in his left hand canceled most of the confidence firearms typically bring, but his options were rather limited at the moment.

There was nothing but silence for what seemed like hours. Then he felt a rap on each side of his wrist, followed by a twist. To his horror he sensed his hand simply opening and letting the gun fall. It didn't clatter to the ground. It had been caught.

The fluorescent lights fluttered back to life and Vic could see the new gashes circling his wrist had severed all muscle, ligaments and tendons. Controlling his hand was simply no longer possible. He looked up to see his doom incarnate strolling back to him from the light switch.

Shui stuffed a rag in Vic's mouth and looped strip of cloth around his head to hold it in place.

Up close, Vic could see that thick leather pads beneath Shui's collar and the hundreds of outward facing rows of razor blades lining them. Then he realized that touching the man anywhere would be like trying to stop a blender set on puree from the inside.

Shui stepped back and fished out a cigarette and lit it. As he smoked he said, "The good news is that compared to your boss, you're getting off a thousand times easier. The bad news is that it's still going to hurt like hell."

As he made his preparations, he asked, "I don't suppose you've ever heard of something called 'karma' by chance."

Vic nodded that he had.

"And what? You didn't think it could ever come round to bite a chunk out of your ass?"

Vic thought for a moment the shook his head no.

Shui finished up his tasks and unceremoniously finished his smoke, crushed the cherry between his gloved fingertips and slipped the butt into the same mystery pocket the smokes had appeared from.

"Too bad. It just might have saved your life." he said as he approached Vic.

~~~

Shui rolled the unconscious body of Hoss into the trunk of the Lexis. He slipped into the driver's seat and pressed the garage door opener on the dash. He had already extinguished the overhead fluorescents again and only the headlights illuminated the two bloody masses on the floor as he backed out.

As he drove along to his destination, he felt that old sense of professional pride that was only marginally ruined by the fact that the razors lining his body caused a Velcro effect with the upholstery.

_Oh well, even monkeys fall out of trees sometimes._ He thought as he pulled in at his destination.

~~~

The Hunter was mentally organizing all of the things that the Chief needed to hear before dying. The time was almost here and everything had to be perfect.

It's fate. It has to be. If she's here so is he.

Chapter 7

The World Takes a Wrong Turn

### ~

In 55 B.C. the Romans fell on Briton's southern shores and left soon afterward. It was really just a short series of minor skirmishes. The next year saw a lot more Romans, but their leader decided that the place wasn't worth a prolonged war. I suppose Mr. Caesar didn't care that much for the fine cuisine that the locals painstakingly boiled for him and his men.

A little less than a hundred years later, they came back and took the southern portion of the island. Apparently, Julius' eventual successor had no sense of taste.

Bob, then going by a name the Romans twisted into Caratacus (he'd finally managed the knack of choosing non-feminine names), rallied armies from all four of his kingdoms to the south and fought back to the best of his abilities. He even sent messengers out in search of Beth in the Far East. To his dismay, everything was in vain. He was defeated in A.D. 51 and taken, along with Soya, to Rome. Presumably, to show him what his remote kingdom should aspire to and perhaps, some distant day, realize.

He was treated well and shown the colossal achievements of the Empire. Bob marveled that men could even imagine, let alone build, the magnificent structures throughout the city. The aqueducts and sewers alone would likely never have occurred to him. But the engineering and construction techniques of the buildings dazzled him.

He realized that he had never fully given his imagination free rein before. Sure, he thought he had been innovative, but his ingenuity had been little more than a quaint tinkering next to Rome. He vowed to never limit his thinking to only what he knew.

He sent word to Jonnedee to come to see for himself, but Jonnedee declined on the basis that he was quite comfortable where he was and didn't intend to traipse all of the way to Rome to look at a bunch of buildings. 'Though the privies that wash away your poo, sound like a pretty good idea. Bring one back if you can get a good deal on it.' he wrote in response.

In time, though, he started seeing a price for such wonders. While the greatness of the Empire and its authority increased, the value of the individual rotted. The poor back in Britannia (as the Romans called it) were never that far from the wealthy. Barring some sort of quarrel between the two, men from all backgrounds conversed freely over drink and even worked together. Not so in Rome where the elite often disregarded the existence of the lower classes, at best. At worst, they found amusement in public humiliation, malicious business practices and incorporating the less fortunate into social quandaries with no practical solutions. Often the victims were left in exile, slavery or dead.

Bob thought of the machinations of some of the women of his villages and concluded that the Roman society must have been forged by either females or males capable of thinking like females. An opinion that Bob would later amend to encompass politicians in general. But the sheer convolution of the social pitfalls was staggering. It seemed that life in the Roman Empire was a twisted game you either played well or perished.

Please bear in mind, this was long before political correctness dictated what and how you could or couldn't think. And I think it's safe to say that our friend Bob was old school by anyone's standards. That was a time when it was simply accepted that women are more intricate than men, yet rarely happy for long. Bob suspected that observation alone sired the expression; ignorance is bliss.

Soya came to similar conclusions about Rome, though she did delighted more in the many frivolous amenities the Roman women used to promote allure than in the architecture and public works.

While it didn't take long for both to become disillusioned with Rome and its myriad vices and shortcomings, they did take away one thing of consequence when they departed; the world was changing and, after military might ran its course, financial wealth would eventually dominate it. Politics would be the tool used to facilitate it, but wealth would eventually rule every aspect of life.

The Keeper smiled a warm smile, "Oh, there was one other thing Bob took away; the Greek word 'αιωνιότητα' and the Latin term 'infinitas infinitio'. It was what he had seen in Soya's eyes those many, many centuries before and still did. It was 'eternity.' He delighted in finally having an expression with more magnitude than 'does not stop', which had a subtle yet distinctly negative connotation, in describing what Soya meant to him."

When they finally returned to Britannia, something was wrong. It wasn't that anything tangible had changed. No, the people, the customs, the land were all as they had been. It was Bob and Soya that had changed; or rather their perspectives had gone through a metamorphosis that left a film of inescapable dread.

Soya looked at Bob over breakfast one morning and said, "You feel it too, don't you?" It wasn't really a question.

Bob swallowed his bite of eggs and nodded, "Yeah, I do. I just wonder how long it'll take for their world to come here."

Soya looked down at her plate and realized her appetite had evaporated. She shuttered, "Those people were sick at the roots despite the shiny façade. Everything is money and politics to them. Is there any way to stop it? At least keep it away from here?"

Bob loosed a long sigh, "Some of the time I spent with Caesar was talking about what they call 'history'. It's like the stories we tell about our ancestors, but it's organized and written down. The idea is that it doesn't get mucked up with each new telling. But I'm getting off the subject. So, Caesar told me about how their culture got to be what it is now... They could have been us. Granted, they do have some serious anger issues, but a few hundred years ago Rome was far less than any one of our four cities. It was only a village.

"I'd like to think it was just a fluke, an anomaly, but the Greeks and Egyptians have already gone through similar phases. There does seem to be an ebb and flow to it, and we may be able to slow it down. But when a place gets crowded enough, I suspect common sense becomes inversely proportional to the population."

Soya took that in and said, "Now I'm wondering if our work is just speeding up the inevitable... Ushering it in, so to speak. We have created four of the five largest communities on the island."

Bob shrugged, "I don't think we can undo any of that. What's worse is that people see that it's safer and easier to live this way." He looked stricken and continued, "Could we have unwittingly cursed our people with such a miserable fate?"

Soya thought before she spoke, "If it's as inevitable as you believe it is, then no. It's only natural for people to gravitate to each other. It would have happened with or without us. But we're still faced with the question of what to do. How can we prepare? I mean, it's all speculation, but it looks like we'll be around to see how everything falls into place."

Bob sat silently for long minutes and finally asked, "What about grabbing the neck of the snake instead of the tail?"

Soya cocked an eyebrow, "You mean try to get a grip on the problems before they actually become problems? Maybe... what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you said yourself that everything is money and politics to those people. What if we worked towards stunting the both of them?" Bob proposed.

Soya looked out the window, "Well... I suspect politics are a bit beyond either of our grasps. What I saw in Rome gave me the impression it was like trying to ride a greased pig on ice. But the money might work, and it's the more powerful of the two. Not to mention we already have a strong foundation to work from. Maybe..."

Bob was smiling now, "It'll take some work, but if we can get enough people cooking with our fire, we could at least have a say in what's on the menu."

~~~

After planning at length, Bob and Soya decided that they would abandon their ideas of uniting the island in favor of creating enough wealth to stave off as much of the chaos that was to come as they could.

They consolidated trade routes and established economic strongholds. Then they linked trade with the continent. In subsequent decades, they traveled throughout Europe, Asia and Northern Africa, creating a complex web of business that incorporated everything from gathering raw materials; to supplying artisans on the front end and then buying finished products from them; to recruiting nomadic subcultures that found profit in transporting goods; to negotiating safe havens along trade routes; to instituting secret repositories for excess supplies and banks for accumulated wealth.

Bob and Soya had effectively united the world with a disjointed economic web. They did this and reaped the benefits while maintaining anonymity, as well. Always keeping a low profile, they lived comfortably in various estates around Europe and Western Asia. They even tried settling down in Egypt at one point, but it was just too damned hot.

If they hadn't, history would be very different indeed. Countless wars and skirmishes across the continent were thwarted due to Bob and Soya subtly draining the aggressor's economy low enough to make fighting impractical or even unsustainable.

Then came the infamous 'Fall' of the Roman Empire. It didn't happen overnight, but it did happen. Bob was content with the knowledge that the bully of the western world had managed to poison itself. He saw it as the end of their worries.

It was Soya that pointed out that the loss of such a large and integral part of civilization, whether good or bad, would harvest dire repercussions for years, if not centuries. And that there was the possibility... no, probability of a whole new set of problems until some other nation rose to fill the vacuum and landed them back where they started.

It didn't take long to see that she was right. The world slipped into a kind of chaotic groveling, where petty tyrants reigned with cruel and self-serving edicts. Fortunately, Bob and Soya had the resources to clamp down on any such rulers in the vicinity of wherever they called home and many abroad.

During the Dark Ages Bob indulged an old hobby of Soya's. During their first few centuries together, Soya had longed to have children and gratefully took in infants without fathers, for whatever reason, and whose mothers died in childbirth. After establishing their intercontinental infrastructure, Bob and Soya implemented a new approach to helping the orphans along. When the children had matured enough, apprenticeships were usually acquired for them and they were left to lead their own lives.

Both Bob and Soya enjoyed the children's company as well as watching who they became. So from the ninth century on, they constructed large estates and took in children, usually up to the age of twelve, on a large scale. Twelve was generally considered an age that accommodated survival at least.

Business was hectic, but established. Bob and Soya were by far the wealthiest people on the planet, but no one knew aside from them and a very select few others. Bob had been watching the Muslim practice of using a sakk or cheque to draw secured funds from long distances. It differed from credit in that payment was there to be had on demand. Impressed more by the concept of consolidated and accessible wealth, Bob played an intrigue part in laying the groundwork for what would become modern banking in Europe. He was then able to sell off large portions of his inventories, businesses and even caravans and security for routes in many of the more distant lands and consolidated much of their wealth. The one condition he always insisted on when depositing his and Soya's treasures was beyond the requisite documentation, total secrecy of the deposits was paramount. The bank president and a local liaison were to be the only people aware of the account. No one else, especially political or military leaders, were to know of them. The upside for the bankers was the availability of huge reserves in times of crisis and all at no cost beyond a tight lip.

Though he maintained the habit of personally touring those endeavors he retained on a periodic basis, he spent most of his time with Soya and the children. Life was good, even in the Dark Ages, and they chose to share with those around them they found to be most in need of help.

Of the orphans they raised, a few were chosen to stay on and eventually take charge of the estate when Bob and Soya made their departures. Even fewer were groomed to handle sizable portions of the 'family' business or for insertion into royal families.

The Keeper held up his hands to placate his captive audience, "Considering the business models you gentlemen usually employ, it's probably not what you are thinking. The arrangements were strictly for the benefit of both sides and ultimately the betterment of mankind. The orphans were never pressured to do anything that they were not comfortable with, in fact they were often never asked to do anything at all. In an attempt to string the world's governments together with more than just blood, it was more a precautionary measure against frivolous wars, politics run amuck and both economic and natural crises.

"Centuries earlier, they had been strong supporters of the Church, but the fruits of those efforts had long rotted in the graves with the beneficiaries, and they had not pursued them again. If they stuck with the church, or if they'd had the foresight to invest more recently in the Church perhaps future events would have turned out different." The Keeper's gaze switched from unfocused to riveted disgust, "If, if, if! If worms had guns, birds wouldn't fuck with them."

Around the beginning of the fourteenth century, some of the Bryke survivors began noticed that some of their number were unaccounted for. Jonnedee brought it to Bob's attention.

They weren't terribly concerned at first. The villagers were constantly taking off on adventures, dealing with 'personal issues' or getting themselves imprisoned. Mind you, when you live forever, a day, or even few months, of incarceration doesn't have the sting it holds for mortals.

By the fifteenth century, however, there were only five villagers that could be confirmed alive and kicking: Bob, Soya, Jonnedee, Jo and Marna. Not being part of the Bryke pact to watch over the descendants of Bryke, no one ever knew about Beth until he just happened to show up.

Those five got together and decided to take precautions in the event that someone was actually targeting them for extermination. Jonnedee was tasked with finding out who, if anyone, the culprit was. The scope primarily included the church, governments, clandestine organizations, business competitors, an array of wealthy and/or notably unstable individuals and the thirteen themselves.

It was decided that whoever or whatever it was, they had to be exceedingly resourceful and vigilant. Just finding out who the thirteen were would be a daunting task that required either tremendous luck or unprecedented research, resources and probably treachery... or a drunk Bryke native trying to impress the wrong girl.

Individuals were unlikely as they wouldn't have been around long enough to pursue the matter for more than sixty or seventy years, tops. Unless, of course, others had either taken up the task as a family legacy that was passed on from generation to generation, or they had somehow stumbled across immortality, too. The latter was worth investigating on its own merit completely separate from the losses they seemed to be sustaining.

Similarly, rival businesses were unlikely as well. They would be more likely to go after Bob, Soya and possibly Jonnedee before the others. Not to mention the fact that there were very few industries, let alone individual companies, with the clout required for such an ambitious endeavor.

Only a few governments were either capable of or would be motivated enough to pursue them for whatever fanatically contrived or even seemingly rational reasons. Even then, the monarchies of the time tended to be rather fickle in most matters, which were typically redirected every generation or two. Still, they remained on the list of potential aggressors.

The church, was a distinct possibility considering their recent history of persecuting anything that didn't fit their system of belief. There was the very real possibility that some evidence of their existence survived from their contact with the church in its infancy. It ranked as potential Bryke enemy number one.

As for the villagers themselves, no motivation made sense, but Jonnedee was tasked with a complete investigation into all thirteen of the original survivors. Emphasis would be placed on extensive background checks and events, within the last five hundred years, that might have led any of them to drunken indiscretion or actively pursuing the extermination of the others. This would include either locating or the verification of death of the missing members. Though, it should be pointed out that considering the secretive tradition of facades each of the villagers had amassed, that one would prove an elusive testicle to get a handle on.

So it came down to some unknown immortal, a hand full of governments, The Church or one of themselves... Or a final possibility that none of them wanted to accept but warranted consideration.

While it was possible that the missing villagers had succumbed to accidents, it wasn't probable that so many would live so long and perish in such rapid succession.

That left two distinct possibilities for their demise that didn't involve a malevolent entity. Either some component of the world they lived in had changed sufficiently to revoke their claim to indefinite lifespans, or they simply were not immortal and were reaching a terminus to their existence.

With that concluded, it was agreed that Jo and Marna would stay in Peterborough and set about relocating the descendants of the village to a new area through whatever means were available. Several locations were suggested and debated over, but it was a small town to the south called Huntingdon that was eventually chosen. Because of its proximity and the fact that it already claimed a fair number of village descendants, it would be less of a logistical nightmare to cajole the family down in only a generation or two.

Bob and Soya would be assisting both the investigation and relocation project, as well as funding them. Jonnedee was given a budget that would fund an army of spies, informants and fact finders, in addition to contacts with their established businesses in almost every city across Europe and much of Asia and Africa. While Jo and Marna received the resources they needed to both lure the descendants to Huntingdon and give them a stable existence once they got there.

It's worth noting that the exodus was good practice for a repeat performance in the late nineteenth century in favor of Chicago.

~~~

Beth was still roaming the Far East. He had taken the name Shui, or 'river.' The moniker was more of a title than a name. 'The River' was said to flow around all defenses and was ultimately unstoppable. By that time, Shui's reputation preceded him amongst the masters of most schools and styles, but rarely heard of amongst the initiates and novices. Typically, when he arrived at a new school, he simply sent his name to the master and was afforded a personal welcome.

Many times upon Shui's departure from the school, Shui and the master would travel some distance from the school for a private sparring match. This was a rare opportunity for a master to see where his skills needed work without killing or being killed. Shui never lost and he never used more force than his opponent. In short, he provided a very rare service in exchange for the hospitality he received.

Occasionally, he was asked to train a particularly promising student. Less occasionally, he accepted the task. That all stopped when Shui learned of one of his former student's activities in the Iga region of Japan during the fifteenth century. Shui learned that a former student, by the name of Shotoku, had opened shop as a mercenary specializing in the areas of sabotage, espionage, infiltration and assassination. Honor was disregarded in favor of pay. Anyone was a potential target.

Shui traveled to Iga to see for himself what his former student had been up to. When he arrived he found a small but growing organization that would come to be known as shinobi-no-mono, more commonly known as ninja, where inductees were trained vigorously and met exacting standards or perished. The reward was wealth. Since Shotoku recruited from the lowest social classes, and wealth was a strong motivator for the adept peasant, there was never a shortage of manpower.

Shui observed, undetected for a time, weighing the activities of the group against his own ethics. They killed without mercy or conscience.

During a plot to kill the children of a warlord, Shui intervened. He slew four of the five would-be assassins. The survivor managed to return to Shotoku with a tale of a cunning and unstoppable Samurai with odd eyes, who fought like none he'd ever seen. Shotoku shored his defenses and sent his killers out to destroy this new samurai. None who found him returned. Most who didn't find him didn't return either.

Then on a night in the dead of winter Shui entered Shotoku's refuge. He was undetected until he spoke to Shotoku. He said to his shocked student only, 'You dishonor my teachings,' and promptly removed Shotoku's greedy disposition along with his head."

The Keeper coughed, "He, er, didn't use any blade in so doing, which gave Shotoku a second to scream in either terror or pain. Sometimes, it's hard to tell which is the greater incentive."

As it happened, Shui had given him that brief chance to scream for a reason. After dealing with him, Shui set about ending the atrocity Shotoku had created.

Well before sunrise, Shui left a house devoid of life, save those of a particularly ugly dog and three young boys who slept in the initiates hut.

The few agents still abroad would undoubtedly return and possibly resume their endeavors, but Shui expected they would come to an end in time anyway. He'd dealt with his responsibility and sought time to reevaluate his influence on the world.

He spent the next several decades doing just that.

~~~

In the spring of 1544, word of the new continents far to the west of his homelands managed to reach Shui in a remote school a little north of the Himalayas. As solutions to a dilemma go, it seemed a godsend in its simplicity.

After wrapping up his studies and social obligations, he traveled home once more to tell his father of his plans to investigate the Americas.

Bob and Soya were overjoyed to know that he was no longer amongst the missing members of Bryke. He considered throwing his hand in to solving the mystery, but realized his contributions would be minimal next to the massive intelligence gathering champagne Jonnedee had undertaken.

So, he departed England in 1572 bound for Spain. It took him a few weeks to brush up his outdated Spanish, but he came around quick enough and procured passage to Mexico.

Shui found the natives to be a pleasant reminder of life in his earlier years. Primitive? Yes, but honest and relatively uncomplicated. He quickly decided to head north beyond any influence of the Spanish conquistadors and missionaries. He came across the Navajo and Apache tribes and marveled at the, sadly archaic, similarities to the mindset of the more honor based Asian cultures he'd live in.

After several years with the Hopi tribe, he was invited on a pilgrimage to a holy site in the north.

Shui would spend the next thirty years there in and around the holy site that would come to be known as the Grand Canyon. Considering it was basically just a really big hole in the ground without much going on, it offered the solace he required for reflection.

The isolated existence was refreshing but it wasn't quite what he was in the market for. He eventually traveled west to the Pacific and then north until he came to a land of lush forests and very frequent rains. It was perfect.

He was provided a similar existence to his childhood. He absolutely reveled in it for almost three hundred years.

The native inhabitants grew to regarded him as a spirit of the forests, though they got a little freaked out when the spirit occasionally showed up bare-assed naked in the village seeking a mate.

On the other hand, quirky or not, a visit from that particular forest spirit was considered extremely good luck. That was probably due to Shui's habit of informally adopting the villages of his mates and assuming the role of protector so long as his mate lived.

More than one war party met with a devastating end before ever stepping foot in those protected villages.

"Back in... Europe..." The Keeper let his words trail off. He sat for a time with his chin resting on his chest as he stared at the floor seemingly lost in thought.

Finally, he returned to his story.

Back in Europe, a few years after Shui had departed for the Americas, Bob and Soya continued in their day to day lives without any real concern for anything other than what was going on in whatever city, town or hamlet they happened to be residing in.

Sure they heard about the happenings in the world abroad. They knew about the Huns, the Vandals, the Crusades, Genghis Kahn, and various other conflicts amongst nations, Johannes Gutenberg's printing press, the advent of the cannon and, later, firearms, the rise of Christianity, the emergence of the Protestant movement, the witch hunts... oh, they heard about it all.

The trick was to be somewhere else when the monkey commenced screwing the pooch, but still be able to collect on the ticket sales. They planned and executed business strategies that were perfectly suited to maintain during crisis and flourish during placid times. It was a well tested system. It had worked on various scales for well over three thousand years by then.

They had resided in southwest Germany for about fifteen years and had been considering where they would relocate to in the near future.

Bob sat with Soya in the shade of one of the massive pine trees in the front yard. Nine children were playing with the dog in the yard. They ran screaming and laughing as the little bundle of fur and unbound energy answering to the name Rabbit chased them at random. Bob would miss them and knew Soya would even more so.

He tried to put the thought out of his head for the time being and said, "We should go ahead and make the trip to Rome before we get bogged down in relocating. We're already a year overdue as it is."

Soya sighed and a moment later said, "You know, I do have a lot of things to take care of before we head back to the Isle... why don't you take care of the business trip and I'll get things in order here while you are gone."

Bob smiled to himself. _She wants to spend as much of the time left as she can with the kids. Not that I can blame her. It's always hard to leave them even if they are left in good charge._

"Alright then, Love. It shouldn't take me more than twelve days or two weeks at the most." He stopped for a moment, "You know, I can't remember the last time we were apart that long..."

She turned her gaze away from the children and smiled at him, "Makes sense, when you consider that Nero was still Emperor of Rome at the time."

Bob thought for a moment, "Oh yeah, I guess I'd mostly tried to forget all about that crazy bastard. That has been a while, to be sure."

Soya gave her sternest expression, "Just you stay clear of any women while you're away."

Bob put on a guilty look, "Whatever are you talking about, Darling?"

They both burst into laughter. After three thousand years together, to suppose that either wasn't secure in their bond was nothing if not laughable.

When Soya regained some composure, she said, "Do be careful though, My Love. The world isn't the safest place these days."

Bob nodded, "Too true. But it would take more than an army to keep me from coming back to your side," He thought for a moment, "Hell, I don't think there's an army on the continent we couldn't bye outright a dozen times over. I lay credit for that at your feet. I've often wondered what the men running the world would think if they came to realize so many of their strings are being pulled the way they are because the greatest financial mind in history happens to be a wee slip of a lass."

Soya looked thoughtful and said, "Probably turn very expectant eyes and ears on their wives and mothers. My guess is it would be a good thing in most cases, though it might be a disaster in a few."

Bob nodded in agreement, "Makes sense. Now the question is; how am I going to fare without you along to guide me?"

She poked him in the ribs, "Don't be a smart ass, or I'll be forced to send you to stay with my uncle."

Some of the children had collapsed in exhaustion and Rabbit ran from one to the next viciously licking any part of their heads left exposed.

"So when will you be going?" she asked.

He tilted his head back, "Weather looks like it will hold for a few days at least. First thing in the morning should do."

~~~

Initially, it was a fairly uneventful excursion. He'd replaced his lead contact there two years before and didn't worry about his age coming into question. Updated instructions were given for all of Bob and Soya's holdings in southern Italy. He wrapped it up in two days.

On the return trip, things got a bit sorted just north of Trento, Italy. Bob and his companions were met in a mountain pass by a rather large company of bandits. They found themselves outnumbered three to one.

The smaller group was overwhelmed immediately. Their possessions were taken along with the one female of the group. She was in her late twenties and had been traveling with her meager guard to meet with her family in Innsbruck, Austria.

The men were taken just out of sight of the road. Each had his lungs punctured with a dagger and left for dead.

The bandits took the animals and wagons and retreated to their base. As soon as they were out of sight, Bob leaped to his feet and began his pursuit of them. It's hard to say if the stares from his fallen comrades were amazement or anger that someone had managed to thwart death while they perished.

Since Bob made it a point to travel light, he only had one driving reasons to follow his would be murderers. In a hidden compartment under his wagon lay two of his prized, steel swords and twin bows he'd had specially made. Though the thought of what would happen to the girl kept creeping into the back of his mind.

He followed for about an hour to their camp and set about scouting its perimeter. Thirty men were counted, and the girl had been placed in a ragged tent. Bob judged dusk to be less than an hour away and had planned his route to his swords. His wagon sat near the edge of the camp perimeter.

He prepared while he bided his time.

The temptation to abandon his plan in favor of an improvised assault cropped up when he heard the girl's screams, but subsided when he saw a bandit holding a wounded hand exit the tent was followed by what appeared to be his mate. Soon after, the bound girl was dragged out by two others and tethered to a wagon. She was taunted and occasionally groped but otherwise remained unharmed.

As the night drew on, and the bandits settled in to sleep, two men remained awake on guard duty. Bob had expected more and counted himself fortunate.

It had been many years since Bob had made weapons but he hadn't forgotten how. He'd recovered a suitably sharp stone during his scouting as well as a sturdy, forked stick on which to mount it. Strips of his shirt sufficed to join the two. It wasn't leather but he'd tied it as tightly as he could and pissed on it, hoping the cloth would shrink enough to hold the stone in place when it dried. Through all of this, he couldn't stop wishing Beth was considerably closer than halfway around the world.

Night fell and the camp slumbered. Bob waited another hour or so before setting his strategy into motion.

The first guard Bob approached fell with a muffled thud and was swiftly dragged out of sight. The second was more alert having not seen his counterpart in several minutes. He was actually trying to find him when a hand fell over his mouth and his fellow sentry's knife was pulled across his throat. His body was easier to hide having been standing next to a large boulder when he died.

Even with the guards out of the picture, Bob took no chances. He retreated from the light of the camp fire and circled to his wagon. Once there he retrieved his swords, bows, two small bags from a wooden chest and a long ball of string before turning back into the night.

About five minutes later, Bob began a spiraling circuit of the camp. As he circled, he killed off those farthest from the low fire in the center. The girl watched silently as he repeatedly appeared, killed, and then faded into the night again.

When he was down to only nine men, one arose for a nightly piss. Surprisingly, he didn't notice the state of his companions until he was almost back to his blankets. He raised his head in alarm, looking for the guards and only found the corpses of his cohorts lying in their bedding.

The groggy bandit's chest swelled as he prepared to bellow a warning cry. From the darkness two arrows took flight in amazingly rapid succession and took root in each side of the bandits back. Only a grunt escaped his lips as his knees buckled and he fell forward... onto some dirty cooking utensils.

Bob could only roll his eyes as the din of scattered pottery and metal settled and seven of the eight remaining men clambered off the ground or out of the tents. Apparently, the eighth was a heavy sleeper.

Instinctively, the men drew their weapons and made a loose circle around the fire. With their backs turned to it they could see, but they didn't consider how well they could be seen.

The bandit looking in Bob's general direction saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned his head just in time to see what appeared to be an arrow, albeit with a lump on it and trailing a string, zip by to his left. If he'd been quicker, he might have seen that the lump was a small cloth bag. Specifically, it was the bag Bob had retrieved earlier and the trailing string was anchored to a large stone at Bob's feet. When the string became taught, it easily slipped out of the holes that had kept the slit in belly of the bag loosely sewn together. The contents scattered along the arrow's flight path over the fire and onto the furthest bandits back. As it happened, the bag had been filled with gun powder.

When the first grains hit the campfire, a chain reaction erupted as fire violently climbed through the cloud of aerated explosive and sent four of the men to the ground face first. Actually, it sent the three men standing closest to the fire went to the ground face first as well, but they hardly paid any attention, being much more preoccupied with being on fire.

Unfortunately for them, this was long before the 'stop, drop and roll' adage ever became common placed.

The explosion and ensuing screams were enough to rouse the leader from his drunken slumber. He tore from his tent's entrance to find three men competing for best intimation-of-a-roasting-pig award (the man lying still with the burning arrow in his back was the clear favorite... it's all about the little things and he had a spit), and three of other four more were climbing from the ground. Not that the latecomer would have known, but the fourth survivor of the blast had managed to knock himself out during his fall.

Twin arrows appeared in the back of one of the three remaining men. Joined by the latecomer, the other two charged the direction that they'd come from. Their swords hacked, slashed and thrust viciously at the dust coated sheep tethered to the brush that marked the arrows' originating point. Realizing their zeal had betrayed them, they spun expecting to find something on the order of a horde of salivating barbarians charging.

The daunting armada consisting of some guy with a weird bow and a bad haircut stood over the unconscious blast victim. Bob had chosen to take advantage of their short lived sheep obsession to slay the finally-stirring blast victim before he became an issue. He stood over the fresh kill and raised his double bow with freshly notched arrows. He let them fly in rapid succession. They flew true and were the last thing the smaller two of the sheep slayers saw as it pierced the left eye of each man and lodged deep in their skulls.

The remaining bandit, and presumably now leader of none, roared in fury. Disregarding the loss of his entire force, the man charged again. When he was two paces away, Bob dropped and rolled to his left. As he completed the roll, he brought one of his swords around clipping the Achilles tendons on both the man's legs as he went by. He silently thanked Beth for telling him about that particular approach in dealing with one of Grundal's men, so long ago.

He lay on the ground writhing as Bob stood and walked beside him. Oddly, the man didn't seem to recognize Bob as twin swords popped each of his lungs.

The stunned girl was collected along with Bob's wagon and they continued their journey together.

Her family treated him as a hero and even offered gold by way of thanks. Bob declined and set off for home once again.

~~~

When Bob rode onto his property, he noticed it seemed a little quieter than he'd expected. _Perhaps Soya has the children doing something in the house_ , he mused.

As he drew up to the front of his home, he saw Rabbit lying next to the front door. The dog never stirred as he rode up and dismounted his wagon. Nor did it stir as he stepped close enough to see that the swarm of flies buzzing about it. There was no sound coming from inside the house. He broke into a sprint and slammed through the front door. He found no sign of Soya or the children. Inside his home looked as if someone had torn it apart looking for anything valuable. A panic built as he searched the house, yelling for Soya and cycling through the names of the children. After searching indoors, he ran to the barn to find all of the animals gone. The whole place had been ransacked. Panic was quickly turning to terror.

Later he wouldn't recall how he ended up on the wagon. Most of that day would become an elusive blur, like a dream that slips from the mind upon recall. Screaming their names, he was racing towards the village.

He careened around the corner where blacksmith's shop stood on the edge of town and barreled up the main street. Near the center of the village three posts rose from still smoldering ashes.

On each post were the charred remains of what appeared to have been a woman.

Bob dropped to the ground and approached them. His ears were ringing as other sounds dulled to silence. Color drained from the world as he drew near enough to recognize the amulet, Soya had crafted more than a millennium before, hanging from the neck of the sad remains of the central figure.

Suddenly everything was unbearable. Gravity amplified itself solely for Bob. His legs could no longer bear his weight and he dropped to his knees and collapsed back on his haunches. As tears rolled down his face, the air became stifling hot and as thick as tar. He couldn't breathe and gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled until his hands shook violently, straining against the fabric. His chest constricted and his head throbbed from the sudden pressure. He tried to scream from the pain that tore at his guts, but only a hoarse whisper issued forth and turned to pitiful squeak. It was as if the hand of an angry god had decided to squeeze him until his head would pop.

Finally, he was able to suck in just enough air to morn in spastic sobs.

~~~

The next several days simply vanished for Bob.

A man named Hanz, a friend from the village, had found him lying at Soya's feet in the village square, still in shock and covered in tears, ash and snot. He took care of Bob until he finally came back to himself. Though the memory was already a bit fuzzy to Bob, his friend had entertained his half-crazed demands during those days. That included having Soya's remains laid out for burial.

Bob had sat alternately crying then muttering to himself for hours. Hans couldn't console him, not that he'd expected to be able to.

Then suddenly, Bob leaped from his chair and grabbed Hans by the front of his coat "She...she may still feel it! Oh, Gods what if she still feels it? I've got to do something!" He looked around the room frantically, never releasing his friend, until his eyes settled on the empty table.

"Ice! That's it!"

Hans had no idea what Bob was going on about, but he could see a glimmer of hope in his friend's eyes. Knowing nothing would bring Soya back, but still willing to comply with anything that might comfort Bob, he asked, "What's 'it'?"

A bitter smile formed on Bob's face as he thought for a moment longer. Then, "Hans, you must gather all the ice from the village and take it to the icehouse at my home. I'll pay triple the cost of the ice to everyone. I'm taking Soya there now. Meet me there in an hour."

Bob released his friend and nudged him toward the door. "Gather all the help you need. Again, I'll pay for their time as well. Just be quick." Bob ran out the door ahead of the bewildered Hans, heading toward his wagon.

In just over an hour, wagons started arriving at Bob's place. He directed the men unloading the ice blocks to arrange them in the shape of a large sarcophagus. Once it was complete, the men used hammers to crush several blocks, while he and Hans lay Soya in the makeshift cooler. As the blocks were crushed, the ice was poured gently over the body by Bob.

Soya lay in her tomb of ice by nightfall.

Satisfied with the construct, Bob commissioned a large wagon to be built and sent men to bring down more ice from the Alps.

For days, he stood watch over her body and slept outside the one door of the icehouse. In truth, he was hoping she would begin regenerating. He watched patiently, but it eventually became apparent, despite Bob's desperation, she wouldn't be the subject of any more miracles in this lifetime.

Oddly, when he finally started inching back out of despair and closer to reality from the surreal hell that that he'd been plunged into, Bob didn't recall making the unusual requests. Hans walked him through all that had happened since he returned.

It was then he learned that a few days after he'd left for Rome, about fifty soldiers escorting three catholic priests entered town. They set about pressuring the locals for evidence of witchcraft.

After two days someone pointed a finger at three women. They were subjected to torture until they confessed. Well, two of them did anyways. The third, Soya, kept healing within only a few hours of receiving injuries. The head priest proclaimed that it was sign and proof of the Devil's work. The soldiers ransacked the estate and the children were sent to Stuttgart to be 'reeducated in the ways of the One True God.'

The three women were burned alive the night before Bob returned. Had he arrived an hour sooner, he would have come face to face with his wife's murderers as they departed the village.

~~~

When Jonnedee arrived the following week, Bob snapped out of his self-pity when he found himself consoling Jonnedee over the loss of his niece and last surviving relative.

With his wits returned to him, Bob began doing the only thing he could think of: formulating plans for vengeance. He sent spies to find the whereabouts of the murdering bastards that took Soya from him. He hired a small army of mercenaries (Protestants of course, and many who'd known, and even been related to, victims of witch hunts) and gathered them to his estate. Finally, he offered a substantial reward for the identity of the person that named Soya as a witch.

Within a month of Soya's death, the priests and their guard had been tracked to a town less than sixty miles away. They were in the process of extracting confessions from a rather wealthy widow and her daughter as Bob, commanding just over a hundred and fifty men, converged on the town.

In preparation for the inevitable rendezvous, Bob had recruited an inside man tasked with recording all of the methods used to garner such confessions at the two towns.

Nothing would stand in his way. Bob would have his revenge in full.

~~~

Bob rode into the town alone while the mercenaries had broken up into two, three and four man groups to wandered into town from all directions at random times. Most of the townspeople were hovering near the center of town in anticipation of the burnings and, in the eyes of the soldiers and priests, Bob and his men blended right in.

While standing just outside a baker's shop Bob turned to a local spectator and asked, "What's going on?"

The man had been eyeing him with a hint of suspicion, "There's going to be a burning in a few hours. Frau Lietz and her daughter."

"Are they Witches, then?"

"No, but this lot say she is and they're the ones with the swords. You know how it is; dispute them and suddenly you're in league with the Devil, too."

That happened to be the answer Bob was hoping for. If might makes right and no one will challenge, then his revenge would be unencumbered.

"Does anyone here think they are witches? I mean to say that someone must have pointed the finger."

The man was growing uneasy with the line of questioning, "I suppose someone did, at that, but damned if I know who." His eyes darted around then wrapped up the conversation with, "I'd better be getting along. Auf Wiedersehen."

Bob milled around starting up similar conversations as he went. At best he found a friendly smile on a bothered face, at worst disgust and impotent shame.

~~~

At dusk, someone began beating a drum and the 'witches' were more dragged than marched to the wooden markers of their deaths. They were tightly bound to the posts. Soldiers formed a wide circle around the pyres, and the three priests came and stood next to the women in the center.

The oldest priest wore a perpetual scowl of a man who simply refused to be satisfied. He dropped the hood of his robe to reveal his shaved pate and cleared his throat to speak. By this time, Bob's men were at the front of the crowd all of the way around the guarded circle. The old priest got as far as proclaiming the professed sins of the two women under the benevolent tutelage of the priests, when an almost animal scream cut through the crowd.

"LIARS!" Bob raged from atop the edge of a well, letting loose the crippling frustration and loathing that had been burning beneath the surface for four and a half unendurable weeks, "Lying, thieving, sadistic, hypocritical, bastard whelps of Satan's whores!"

The head priest's head snapped round and he got as far as, 'Seize that-' before the first three rows surrounding the soldiers erupted on cue. Not one soldier managed to unsheathe his sword before being crushed to the ground with at least two knees pinning him and two blades at his neck.

One of the priests turned to run back into the church only to be knocked to the ground by a particularly large German mercenary. The fury was visible on the face of the oldest priest as was the stunned fear on the others.

Bob stepped down from his makeshift podium and approached the old priest. "I charge thee with the crimes against god and man of murder, treachery, theft, rape, covetousness, lechery, deviltry, bearing false witness in the name of God the Almighty, worship of false idols, and consorting with Satan himself."

The younger, stunned priest's fat jowls shook as his jaw worked up and down as if he were a fish fighting to draw a breath from the open air as he edged closer to his superior.

The old priest bellowed, "Heresy!"

"Ah, yes I did forget that one, didn't I." Bob turned to a random mercenary and said, "Add that to the list, please." He turned back to the old priest and instructed two men to gag and bind him hand and foot. "We shall root out the breadth and depths of all your sins soon enough."

~~~

In a dank cellar beneath the local inn, Bob closed the door behind him. He pulled a chair in front of the only other occupant of the room was bound to. The condescension and anger in the old priest's eyes was never in doubt, but it was met with righteous fury in Bob's eyes.

"You have traveled across this land torturing, raping and murdering innocence in order to meet a self-imposed quota for nothing more than personal glory and recognition in the eyes of the Vatican, and today you will receive just that."

Confusion and doubt flashed for only a moment across the priest's face. "The Holy Father is in Rome and if he were here, he would have you excommunicated and then flayed alive."

Bob smiled and drew his right hand up. The priests eyes bulged. A bas-relief of Peter fishing from a boat surrounded by the name Dionysius in raised lettering adorned the gold ring on Bob's third finger.

"Annulus Piscatoris. The Piscatory ring of Pope St. Dionysius... It must be a fake! The ring of Pope St. Dionysius was destroyed upon his death in the year of our lord two-hundred-and-sixty-eight." Even as he said it he wondered if anyone had a good enough memory to cast such an exacting replica. It would cost a fortune and to what end? If a replica was made, why not the ring of the current Pope? "Who are you? Where did you get that?"

"You are almost right. A ring was destroyed, but not The Ring of Dionysius. This was cast for me when I was consecrated Pope in the year of your lord two-hundred-and-sixty." Bob ignored the skepticism in the priest's eyes and ran a blade across his fingertip and let the blood well in the cut.

"You see, long before the time of Christ, God bestowed, upon my woman and me, life everlasting. We healed at phenomenal rates and could not drown. You can undoubtedly attest to at least one if not both of those points. We walked the earth for thousands of years aiding and advancing our fellow man, which is fitting since we were living repositories of mankind's history and achievements.

"In the year one-hundred-forty-eight, a very skeptical Pope Pius I was battling the heresy of the Gnostics within the church, and yet he still proclaimed Soya, her uncle and me _'_ Witnesses of God, the Angels who walk the Earth'. While we, in turn, found the Church to be a refreshing change of pace, and, Soya suspected, a great potential for social and business endeavors. Mind you, that was before The Church had become political to the core and members still struggled against persecution.

"We stuck with the Church for decades taking great care to retard our notoriety. After a while, I let myself get caught up in an ongoing debate concerning heretical baptism. And as they say, one thing led to another during very turbulent times and the next thing I know, Pope Sixtus II becomes a martyr and, about a year later, I became The Pope.

"That's an over simplification of it, but accurate none the less. As it happened, I was the man for the job. Using reason, charm and controlling a sufficient amount of the economy to threaten the diversion half of Rome's grain supplies to sub-Saharan Africa, I managed to persuade Emperor Gallienus to issue an edict of tolerance. That legally stabilized the church's position enough over the next six years to become firmly rooted."

Bob grinned without humor, "My last two years were spent figuring out how to escape the office. I started by erasing all references of my woman, her uncle and myself. It took some very questionable tactics and flexible logic, but I managed to blind the church to our existence and slip back into the shadows by two-hundred-sixty-eight anno Domini. The few men who were in the know took the secret to their graves when your Irish ancestors were still tattooing themselves and running into battle naked as the day they were born."

Bob leaned forward until his nose almost touched the old priest's and pressed his point, "But what you have to realize is that because the station of Pope is for life, I am, by default, still your extreme superior. And as your superior, I am to judge you for nothing less than the malicious murder of, as defined by Papal decree, an Angel and a Witness of God, who's last sight on earth was a bitter old fraud prematurely sending her back to the Lord in a most cruel and unjust manner."

Bob held up his hand again to show the rapidly healing cut, and raised his eyebrows. He spoke as if an epiphany had just occurred to him, "It's not the work of the devil. It's the sign of divinity. Look on the bright side, he is a merciful god, though I suspect he just might be a bit miffed with you at the moment. And hey, as a Murderer of Angels, you'll probably merit a very special place in Hell"

The priest had long since lost all color from his face and dropped his gaze to the floor. Bob could see the thoughts of damnation percolating but didn't care. He just wanted to see a hint of the pain that ripped through himself on the face of the unctuous bastard.

~~~

Over the next two weeks, public confessions were taken from each of the soldiers, then the priests. The methods of extracting confessions were explained to the audience and verified by Frau Lietz and her daughter as authentic Church approved madness.

All confessed to pretty much anything they were asked to, from assisting the priests in performing satanic rituals right down to gang-raping sheep. The priests confessed to every charge Bob could dream up and ended up excommunicating themselves and the soldiers.

On the fifteenth day, one fire was started every half hour for twenty six hours. Having his own pyre consist of the embers from the other's fires, the senior priest was among the first to feel the heat and was among last to succumb to it.

When it was over the mercenaries were paid in full and dismissed. Some stayed around for a few days others set out at once.

Frau Lietz, though still in bad shape from her abuse at the hands of the priests, attempted to give compensation, but Bob declined and absently suggested she use the money to start an orphanage instead.

Bob hire a few of the locals to clean up the ashes and corpses. He instructed them to dump everything into a marsh a few miles away.

He returned home for a few days. Then he went on into the eastern Alps to lay Soya to rest in a secluded ice cave. He didn't know why he chose that particular sight other than to make sure that Soya was never hot again.

Chapter 8

Bad News For The Bad Guys

### ~

Mike turned up his palms in resignation, "Turns out we didn't have to worry about the fallout from the Mayor that time, because the day after Hoss disappeared, the Mayor went missing from his office at city hall. Well, actually from his office bathroom."

Tamesis furrowed her brow, held up a hand and queried, "From the bathroom?"

"Yup. We found evidence of the kidnapper in the ceiling and tread-free shoeprints on top of the elevator. No idea how they left the building, but we speculated that by the time anyone grew suspicious enough to check on him, the Mayor was already long gone.

"Needless to say, the Chief went ballistic. It's a wonder he didn't pop a vessel when the FBI showed up. Not that it mattered either way.

"They gathered everything they could as far as evidence went and interviewed everyone in the building. Then, when that didn't lead anywhere, they called in a specialist to create a profile.

"It was the usual jargon: The suspect is most likely a single Caucasian male, aged 25 to 40, well disciplined, meticulous, highly skilled, probable military background, blah, blah, blah... But, despite the evidence, the specialist couldn't bring himself to completely rule out the possibility of a team of top notch mercenaries.

"It went nowhere."

~~~

-November 25, four years earlier

Mayor Benjamin "Big Ben" Jackson knew the ice cream was a bad idea, but sometimes, lactose intolerant or not, you had to take one on the chin to keep your constituents happy. The prissy old hags from some asinine book club had caught him off guard with the frozen-treats, punch and birthday cake. As he sat on the throne of the city (he liked to call it that), he wondered just how the hell they'd found out when his birthday was. No one on his staff even knew. During a literally gut wrenching 'eureka' moment, he decided he'd have to have a long talk with his mother.

Alternatives for the most effective, yet diplomatic, way of instructing her on the importance of keeping her trap shut about him was running through his head when he suddenly found himself on his knees with his face pinned to the floor and his ass in the air. The knee pinning his head to the floor would have been a paragon of indignity even if his pants weren't tangled around his ankles. As soon as he opened his mouth to cry out, something went in it and only muffled rants escaped.

To add insult to injury, the assailant said, "Good Gods! Did a wino with a yeast infection crawl up your ass and die? Seriously you nasty bugger, that can't be the sign of a healthy man."

Big Ben seethed under the knee, focusing on all the ways he'd have this impudent bastard pay... as soon as he could get his pants pulled up. Another cloth with a strong chemical smell appeared by his nose and mercifully, the world faded to black as further abuses were heaped on him.

Shui worked silently as he put away the anesthesia and lit a match, thanking the gods that this man would never eat whatever prompted that fetid reek again. He lifted the tank lid of the toilet to quickly scribed a few symbols on the underside with a sharpie and then returned it.

In about the time it takes a supercomputer to calculate six times seven, Shui decided the Mayor could forgo the wiping portion of his last endeavor as a free man and folded him into a wheeled trunk. He then tilted it onto its end and pulled a hook and cable down from the temporary gantry he'd installed above the ceiling tiles the night before.

Once he'd hoisted his cargo up, Shui stood on the toilet and pushed the trunk along the gantry rails a few feet. When the trunk was out of his way, he hefted himself through the hole in the ceiling before turning and replacing the porous tile. He removed each rubber-coated section of the gantry just after the Mayor passed by it and slid it into pouches along the outside of the trunk.

Once they were safely on top of the employee's elevator next to the Mayor's office, Shui rode it up and down until it stopped on the second floor. He quickly pulled another hooked cable from the wall that ran through a double pulley set mounted a few floors above. Once he'd pulled the slack from it, he gripped two knots on the loose end at the upper extent of his reach and lifted his feet. The double pulleys allowed him to lift the much heavier man with his own weight. Once they were both clear of the elevator's roof, they both swung to a maintenance alcove where Shui set them down with seemingly practiced skill.

From there it was another three minutes of rolling the trunk to the sewer access door. Being in an old part of town was actually fortuitous for Shui. Years before, a number of nose-searing blockages and the burgeoning communities of several species reptiles of inordinate size in the old sewage system were sufficient motivations to inspire the upgraded to a modern system. Now, the old brick lined sewer had a dank musky odor that wasn't likely to inspire poet above the level of 'chronic bitcher', but nothing on the scale of say the Mayor's bathroom for example.

An hour later, Mayor Jackson had taken up the throne in his new permanent residence.

~~~

Mike barked a laugh, "To his credit the Chief did think to put officers on Nathan "Gnat" Jordan. As far as patterns go, the fact that they all knew each other was all we had to go with. It turned out to be the right thing to do... but then it still didn't do any good.

"Living up to his reputation as a skittish little shit Gnat decided he'd be much safer at his place in the Bermuda until everything was sorted out. He could run his newspaper and television station remotely anyway, and more importantly, Leo didn't know about that particular hideaway." Mike drained the last of his Molson.

"But someone did."

~~~

-December 1, four years earlier

Gnat's palms were sweating after what must have been at least a day of claustrophobic terror was spent screaming until he could barely rasp out a whisper. He was in something shaped like a coffin. The lid wouldn't budge and the walls had a cool hard metallic feel. Judging by the swaying motion, he was either on a ship of some type or strapped to a drunken elephant's ass. But that was all he knew. When he first awoke and finished his first hour or so of alternately begging, ranting and screaming just to fill his prison with something other than darkness, he noticed that there was a dull pain in his prick and his ankle. He was able to ascertain that he had been fitted with a catheter, and almost removed it before realizing that it could get awfully messy before someone let him out. Then he pondered the pain in his ankle. He figured it had something to do with his legs being strapped together. After a few minutes, he decided it was more gratifying to scream some more and abandoned the issue all together.

He eventually let his swollen bladder loose despite his trepidation. Pissing through a tube shoved halfway to his liver... it just wasn't right. Oddly the urge to crap didn't pop up.

None of this made any sense. He'd doubled the guards and armed the regular staff at the island mansion. It would have taken a small army to get to him. But somehow someone had. And how the hell did Leo find out where to find him? That crazy bastard was going to be carrying his balls in a soup can before this was over.

Then, when even whispering made his throat feel like he was swallowing thumbtacks, a voice chimed in crystal clear, "Ahoy there matie! It sounds like ye have rid ye self of all that piss and venom ye have been spewing, so I figures I'd be havin' a word with ye. First off, ye should know about just how safe ye are in that thar box. Nothin' to worry ye weaselly little head about thar, lad. Tis when ye come outta the box that ye will bear testament to the horrors of hell. Are ye with me?"

Gnat couldn't believe his ears. It wasn't Leo. No it was worse. He'd apparently been abducted by a glue sniffing enthusiast with a bad pirate accent. Crazy bastard probably had fruit loop earrings.

Okay, he might not have many chances to get answers for his two burning questions, so he swallowed and ground out a squeaky, "How?"

The voice chuckled and said, "I suppose ye'd be referring to 'how' ye ended up in this situation. The short answer is that one hundred thousand in cash goes a long way in Bermuda. Alas, your guards sedated ye as ye slept. Even carried ye onboard for me. Let that be a lesson to ya: Cheap labor's all well and good, but in the end ye get what ye paid for.

"The long answer will be forth comin'...and ye will wish ye had never heard it."

"On that note, I'll be leavin' ye alone. Oh, and don't thrash about too much. If ye loose the intravenous contraption in ye ankle, well there'll be no reason to take the lid off this box of yours." With that, the voice was gone. No chance to ask the "why" of it, though he figured he'd gotten as much of an answer as he was going to for the time being. Still, on some level, it annoyed him to be denied answers after a career of getting them one way or another.

Gnat didn't hear from Long John Psycho for the rest of his time in the box. And it turned out that he really did wish he had never heard the why of it.

~~~

Tamesis jotted a few more notes. "So, Let me get this straight; Leo had everyone, but it wasn't actually Leo, right?"

Mike shook his head, "Not unless he mutilated his own body and dumped it with the others three weeks later." His eyebrows shot up as he turned his right palm up to offer, "Oh, and then he would have had to occasionally dump the withered corpse of one of his flunkies, over a year after we'd already found what was left of him... We still haven't found his or the other three's heads."

Tamesis' pen hovered above her legal pad as she stared blankly at Mike. "Withered?"

Mike grunted affirmation, "None of their bodies weight more than a hundred pounds when we found them. The autopsies showed that they had all died the same way; prolonged malnutrition. But it gets worse. The results also showed that they all had sever organ damage, though most notably to the brains, livers and kidneys, brought on by massive doses of narcotics. Additionally, each apparently suffered regular beatings severe enough to break bones." Mike paused, his face taking an uncomfortable expression that required no words to explain that he was trying to find a way around saying, let alone think about, the next part. "And then there was evidence of rapes," he finally spat out.

Tamesis considered the possibility that she'd misunderstood the detective. Nope, couldn't even think of a word that rhymed with rapes that would make a seasoned cop cringle like that. "...Rapes?"

Mikes expression only screwed up more miserably, "Yeah... Um, evidently, by the time those guys died, they wouldn't have even blinked at an un-anesthetized colonoscopy done with a camcorder and a fire hose."

Tamesis pondered that for a moment, then firmly decided not to ponder it ever again. "Where were you left then?" She asked, her resolve set to steer the interview into more stable waters.

It was Mike's turn to don a blank expression. "Nowhere," he said simply, "No suspects, no leads, no workable evidence. About two years later, the newly mutilated pieces of Jackson, Jordan, Mason and Simpson turned up again. Fingerprints verified that they were the same victims. Still, we had about as much to go on as a retarded aardvark on an iceberg..." Mike noticed the frown on Tamesis' face. "Sorry, 'Mentally-Challenged' aardvark" He held up his hands apologetically as he leaned back in his chair.

Tamesis shook her head slowly and frowned. "You said they 'turned up _again_ ', right?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, we found the bodies of all four men again, as in; four new corpses that just happened to be matches to the four we had found two years before. Absolutely no one had any sane theories on that forensic butt-nugget. Computer malfunction was eventually ruled out as well as human error when we dug out the original hardcopies of the fingerprints. They were the same."

Tamesis stared in confused silence with her mouth slacked. Mike noted that even 'stupid' looked good on her. Finally, she stammered, "They... they were... murdered twice?!"

"Looked that way." Mike let his eyes focus on the past and offhandedly mentioned, "Well, at least we were able to cross Leo off the list of suspects."

~~~

-November 21, four years earlier

The sun was setting as Shui ran a pencil in a semi-random, cross pattern about a quarter of an inch above the surface of the dog eared Sudoku puzzle book. He found Sudoku a reasonable answer to the tedium of waiting, at least until he got around to replacing the batteries in his electronic chess game. He'd always found that keeping his mind occupied was must. If he had nothing else available to engage him, he had an imaginary work shop tucked away in his mind where he would invent and build. Occasionally, with particularly novel and feasible ideas, he would follow through and actually fabricate the items in his workshop during his free time.

From time to time the notion of switching careers in favor of engineering tickled his imagination only to be shut down immediately. There were few occupations that offered the clandestine opportunities and freedom of movement of his current job. He could be at the right place at the right time and do what he needed to do. Suspicion being cast upon him was as likely to take root as a Klan recruiting campaign in a San Francisco Gay Pride parade.

A flicker of movement prompted Shui to look up from his puzzle. A smile flashed across his face as he watched the last of this objectives pull into the driveway across the street.

Two men hopped out of the Lincoln Navigator and entered the palatial crack-house. There were twenty one people inside. Of those, there was one Leonard "Leo" James Mason, his seven closest confidants, Leo's accountant/legitimate business advisor, and twelve women who acted essentially as maids/playthings.

But Shui only wanted eight of them, Leo and his seven man entourage. He'd considered killing the others, but some of them were only guilty of being in poor company, and still others were essentially slaves wearing addictions as shackles. He'd let them live if possible... except the accountant.

Shui never liked the idea of bean-counters and this one turned out to have a complex that he rectified by abusing one of the "maids" when he thought no one was looking. He never left noticeable marks. Shui had been watching though and even if he didn't know what kept the girl quiet about her sessions, he could see that she was on the verge of ending her own life as a result of them. Well, them and the whole life-as-a-junkie-whore thing. Shui surmised that'd probably suck like... well, pretty much like she did on command.

Shui'd already slipped into the house a few times to install surveillance equipment and, more recently, to sabotage the plumbing. He'd already sketched out a plan that coincided quite well with the inhabitant's likely roles and routines. It seemed better to simply catch everyone at home and deal with them all rather than having to improvise when someone deviates from their routine and pops back by the house for something. Surveillance only confirmed the feasibility of his intention's success. He watched the surveillance monitors, noting everyone's location in the house as they settled in. The men were in the TV room vying for the best seats for the upcoming a pay-per-view UFC match and the women were all merging on the disturbance in the bathroom at the opposite end of the house.

No one seemed suspicious about the cable office suddenly calling with a customer appreciation free viewing of the pay-per-view fight, or of the door hanger and three mailed _Packingham Plumbing_ ads that had pelted only the one house in the neighborhood over the last two weeks. And when the phone rang, Shui answered it with a robust, "Packingham Plumbing. If it's a clog or a leak, you're not up the creek with Packingham."

A young woman's voice responded, "Hi! We're having a bit of a problem with the bidet."

"Okay," he shuffled some papers loud enough to be heard over the phone, "what seems to be the problem."

She calmly replied, "Well, it _seems_ to be possessed by Old Faithful, but we _might_ be witnessing the reemergence of Poseidon."

"Ah, overflowing then is it?"

She let loose a sharp laugh, "Not really. No, overflowing is pretty much ruled out... Well, the ceiling is overflowing, but the bidet is way past anything with the word 'flow' in it. When it erupted it gave one of the girls an impromptu enema before it threw her across the room. Now it's just hosing down random areas of the ceiling every five minutes or so.

Shui grunted, "Hmm, sounds bad. I'm wrapping up a job right now... give me your address and I'll be over ASAP."

"We're on Rosewood. Last driveway on the left. The sooner the better."

Shui shifted to an upbeat tone, "Well at least that's lucky. I'm in the neighborhood. I'll be there within fifteen minutes."

Thirty minutes later, Shui put down his puzzle. He closed and locked the panel of surveillance gear and did a last minute check on his disguise. The false facial hair wasn't perfect, but it would suffice for the few minutes he needed. He adjusted the sunglasses and baseball cap, fired up the van and drove down the remainder of the block to his newest employer's home.

He backed into the driveway and hopped out of the van. Opening the back doors of the van to bar most of the view of the home's side door from the street, Shui grabbed his tool box out of the back and headed to the side door. He'd specifically chose the door nearest the women to knock on. As he waited for someone to come to the door, Shui turned a knob on the back of the toolbox that remotely increased the activity in the bathroom.

A girl that couldn't have been a day over eighteen answered and offered to show him to the schizophrenic bidet. Just as Shui had expected, all twelve of the women were crowded around bathroom door and all but two with their backs to him.

Shui pulled a stack of highly potent transdermal Fentanyl patches heavily fortified with a cocktail of every anesthetic he could get his hands on ranging from opioids such as Oxycodone, Morphine and Diamorphine (aka heroin) to non-opioids like Diazepam and Thiopental. Normally the combination would be insane but surveillance had revealed the doses of cocaine, meth and even phencyclidine (who the hell takes PCP these days?) the women had become accustom to. As insane as the dosages were, Shui planned accordingly.

He managed to align himself against the left wall of the hallway, forcing the women to the right side. Under the pretense of not wishing to injure anyone with his bulky toolbox, Shui gently touched each girl as he shuffled through them toward the bathroom and deftly applied the patches to the backs of their arms, shoulders or backs.

Once in the bathroom, he sat his toolbox down and pressed the button that deactivated the extroverted bidet's hyperactive mechanisms as he opened the lid. As he began removing the device (a fountain display nozzle pilfered from a Los Vegas casino's maintenance department) He noticed most of the girls were showing signs of drowsiness and a few had already sat down in the hallway. By the time he finished replacing the bidet nozzle he'd removed during a covert recon mission to the house earlier in the week, they were all on the floor and only two were still moving.

Shui gathered his tools and stepped over the last girl to pass out on his way to his remaining objectives. He pulled the patch off the accountant's victim as he went.

On his way to the room where Leo and his men were gathered, Shui stopped at a door he knew to be the accountant's lair. He pulled a homemade device from his box. It was basically a tough rubber lined collar with a bracket that protruded from one side that was clamped onto the doorknob with the bracket against the doorjamb. Once the lock-pin was in place the knob wasn't going to turn without the aid of a pipe wrench.

With the females and the accountant taken care of, Shui turned his attention to his reason for being here. He left the toolbox next to the accountant's door and quietly pulled off his coveralls.

He would have liked just going in and killing all eight. It would have been much quicker and easier. Especially, with someone as unstable as Leo involved. But he was tasked with capturing them all alive and that's what he would do. On the bright side, these days, non-lethal weapons could be quite fun. After one last check of his equipment he flipped off the lights in the room adjacent to the TV room and stepped through the doorway setting a stand lined with high powered halogen bulbs just inside the doorway.

The sound of the television saturated the room. The fully utilized surround speakers relayed the roar of the on screen fans almost as loudly as the cacophony of Leo and his men. Shui walked up behind a row of seats. The roughly thirty feet square room had a theater atmosphere. There were no windows and the only light came from the jumbo flat-screen set between burgundy curtains that ran from floor to ceiling. An arcing row of comforters surrounded the television. Large bowls of popcorn, chips and salsa along with mugs of beer sat ignored on the small tables between the seats.

Five of the eight men were standing in front of their seats shouting encouragements and various obscenities at either one combatant or the other. Each of the other three was perched on the edge of his chair. Shui was not surprised to see that Leo was on the edge of the center chair throwing punches as if he were in the ring himself.

The corner of the screen informed everyone that the round had thirty-eight seconds to go. Since the fighters were both on their feet and aggressively trying to take the round, Shui figured the fight would keep everyone enthralled for exactly that long. Shui decided letting them finish the round would be their last unspoken wish granted and bided his time as the clock counted down.

Shui flipped on his night vision goggles.

When the on-screen clock read 00:01, a half fill beer mug sailed across the chairs and crashed into the television. As the mug shattered the screen, a hand clamped on Leo's jacket and catapulted him back over the recliner. The startled men fell silent in the dark room as they always did when Leo went on one of his power-stupid lilywhite lunatic tangents. But the surround speakers continued to pump the post-round commentary into the room as Leo hit the floor.

Shui had figured that in total darkness, the only real danger in the room was Leo. He was the only one in a position to start shooting at nothing, with no real fear of hitting anyone, whereas his cronies had to worry about hitting Leo. Shui also reasoned that the men would probably think that it was actually Leo who threw Mug in the first place. That meant that if Leo was silenced immediately, the rest of the men would probably be pushovers.

Out of the line of sight of his posse, Leo convulsed on the floor to the tune of 50,000 volts being delivered to his neck via a stun gun.

Still kneeling over the drooling body of Leo, Shui closed his eyes and flipped the remote switch for the light stand. The room lit up like a bungled experiment at Los Alamos National Laboratories. Shui gave the men two seconds to completely night-blind themselves and doused the lights.

Taking the remaining seven men down was a bit like wrangling drunken turkeys with a weed-wacker. Within thirty seconds, each was unconscious. Another sixty seconds found them all gagged and bound with zip ties.

That was when the overhead lights came on. Temporarily blinded, Shui ripped the goggles off as he heard feet running towards him. He couldn't see but he didn't need to. When he gauged his attacker to be two strides away, he dropped into a crouch and executed a leg sweep. Someone went down hard and something heavy and metallic jingled as it hit the floor. As his vision slowly returned he discovered the accountant clutching his head as he rolled around on the floor next to...a pipe wrench. Shui wondered what the odds were.

Thirty minutes later, Shui had his eight targets in oversized, breathable, canvas bags lying in the back of the van. The accountant was strapped to a chair with half a dozen stripped electrical wires taped to various places on his body. The exposed wires were each bent into the shape of the symbols used in each of the other abductions. The plugs were in two separate power strips which were in turn plugged into wall sockets. The power strips were turned off, but the accountant thrashed against his bonds as if they were live.

Shui had managed to wake the accountant's victim and explained to her that Leo and his men would not be back and that the police would attribute everything that occurred during the evening's events to him so long as no fingerprints were found on the power strips. He also mentioned that her friends would be waking up in a little less than an hour, as well as what would happen if the 'on' button on the power strips were flipped to the on position.

Shui turned to leave the girl with her tormentor to retrieve the other transdermal patches and ensure each of the girls showed no signs of respiratory depression. He made it almost half a step before the house lights dimmed and the accountant's chair began chattering on the hardwood floor.

~~~

Fluorescent lights gave the room a sterile feel. He wanted more than anything in his life to be out of this place. He had presumed each of the other rooms was identical in that a captive could see any other captives as well as his own reflection in a full length mirror on the wall of the central connecting chamber. He was strapped nude to an upright stainless steel table with a block anchored between his teeth and a gag over his mouth. A strap, anchored to the table, was placed between each major joint of the limbs and around the torso and abdomen, rendering him completely immobile. Additionally, he wore a steal neck collar that was bolted to the upturned table he leaned against. Though aside from the decaying head in the next room, he was the only one in any of the rooms, a monitor was showing a man on a table just like the one Leo found himself on. The crucial difference was that the man in the video was being thin-sliced to death by a large circular saw. It occurred to Leo that was probably the poor bastard in the next room. Something about him looked familiar, but Leo couldn't put his finger on it.

Terror filled the eyes of Leo Mason as he watched the middle aged man in the white lab coat move behind the glass in the adjoining room towards his own. The man paused in a connecting scrub room and meticulously washed his hands, then entered and gave a smile and a nod to his captive.

"Well, today's the big day, Mr. Mason. Let's have a look at the results of your operation, shall we?"

Leo began a muffled series of whimpers while straining his toned frame against the restraints. He closed his eyes as tears streamed down his cheeks.

The man approached to inspect the collar. He articulated a pleasant bedside manner while positively radiating malice, as he looked his handiwork over. Specifically, the areas around the tubes that protruded from each side seemed to concern him. From the mirrors, Leo could see that it was blood that flowed through the clear plastic tubes.

"Nicely healed and no signs of rejection. Yes, that will do perfectly," he said as he dabbed the surrounding flesh with a swab. "It looks like we are ready to begin your sacrament of retribution, Mr. Mason," he said as moved to the man's side and pressed one of an array of buttons. Leo didn't know what a 'sacrament of retribution' was, but he didn't like the sound of it. The table slowly reclined to a horizontal position and stopped, revealing another full length mirror above him.

Leo's nemesis pulled a tray of assorted instruments and tools to him. "I have no idea why, but I have always had a thing for toes. I played with my children's toes when they were little. And on some mornings, I used to kiss my wife's toes to wake her. Let's start there, yes?"

The dulled whimpers became muted cries of protest.

The Keeper, as Leo would come to think of him, picked up a DeWalt power drill and a six inch strip of piano wire. Forming a ring, he slipped each end of the wire between two small metal plates which clamped down on the wire when he turned the drill's key chuck.

"Okay, in the timeless words of The King after checking to see if there was enough toilet paper on the roll, 'It's time ta rock 'n' roll'." he declared and walked to the foot of the table.

He lowered the loop over the first toe on the right foot and, as if talking to a small child, he said, "This little piggy went to market."

The loop moved to encircle the next toe, "This little piggy stayed home."

The loop moved again, "This little piggy had roast beef."

Another movement, "and this little piggy had none... because his head was cut off."

The bound man thrashed against the straps and collar as the power drill came to life. Stifled screams were drowned out by the whine of the drill.

The drill twisted the piano wire and cinched it tightly around the toe. It never slowed as the flesh parted to let it pass. Only a moment after it closed around the bone, the toe twisted violently and a snap tried to be heard over the impotent wailing of the man and the drill.

The Keeper lay the drill aside and picked up what appeared to be a flat bladed slaughtering iron. The iron hissed as he pressed it to the stub to cauterize the wound. The subdued screams redoubled. A waft of smoke swirled as he returned it to the table. He picked up the toe as he walked back to the head of the table. "Well, look at that!" he said chuckling as he pointed the toe at the man. "Looks like I've cured at least one of your ingrown toenails."

The man clenched his eyes as sobs wracked his body.

"Oh, don't take it so badly. It could be much worse... In fact, it will be much worse very soon. By the time we get to your neck you will have forgotten all about this." The man twirled the severed toe above his victim's face and then used it to point towards another room. It was the room Leo tried his best to avoid with his eyes. "And I have to tell you, I don't really know if the wire will do that with your bigger bones. To be honest, I originally came up with the idea because I really wanted to strip the flesh from your bones. Yeah, I know. It sounds like a cheesy old horror movie line, but at least you get the added perk of knowing you will bear witness to every ounce of flesh you lose."

The Keeper paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. "Of course if you cooperate like a good little peddler of death, I'll sweeten the pot. You answer every question quickly and honestly and I'll use this morphine to dull the senses while we conclude this operation." He held up a full syringe.

Leo closed his eyes tight again, sobs continuing, as his tormentor prepared a new piano wire. What made it all the more miserable, was not knowing specifically _why_ he was here. There were some things he'd done to make enemies, but he couldn't think of anything to warrant this. All he knew was that he was in hell. No, that wasn't true. Hell couldn't be this bad. Then again, Hell probably didn't offer morphine. He frantically bobbed his head in the affirmative.

The Keeper set a digital audio recorder next to Leo's head on the table. Leo could see dark stains on it that may have been blood.

When the gag was removed, Leo attempted an appeal to The Keeper's rationale, "Whatever I did to piss you off, mister, killing me isn't going to make you feel any better." It always sounded cheesy in movies and it sounded cheesy when he said it, but he couldn't think of anything better.

The Keeper laughed, "Well duh! The goal wasn't to make me feel better. It was to make you feel worse than your victims and the people that loved them. That's your retribution."

Suddenly, Leo remembered why the thin-sliced victim looked so familiar. He began whimpering.

~~~

A couple of hours later, The Keeper clicked off the recorder, told Leo thanks, and took it to the central room of the lab. He replaced the block and gag when he returned, then picked up the drill and a new strip of piano wire.

Leo screamed against the gag in an effort to get the Keeper's attention. It worked.

The Keeper looked up and bumped the heel of his palm against his head, "Dope! Almost forgot the morphine. Do you want half now and the other half later or all of it now? Nine grunts for the first choice and ten grunts for the second."

Hoping there was enough there to put him out of his misery, Leo let ten grunts in rapid succession issue forth.

"Oh sorry, I was thinking about something else and lost count. One more time?"

Ten more grunts came immediately.

The Keeper said, "All at once then. Very well." And he stepped to the side of the table. He drew the syringe and uncapped it. Leo's eyes were locked on it.

The Keeper held up the needle and said, "As per our agreement." then he held up the severed toe and injected the contents of the syringe into it.

Leo watched as the contents of the syringe began dribbling from the open wound of the toe.

"There you go. I'll bet you can't feel that toe at all, now, can you?"

For a few seconds, Leo forgot about his terror as rage washed over him. Not that it mattered. A moment later, the drill came to life again.

~~~

The Hunter considered the possibilities for things that could go wrong. _Aside from him just up and leaving, I don't see how anything could go wrong. Nothing significant ever went wrong with the others. And I have all of these wonderful gadgets to help me, now. No, nothing will go wrong, and he will be rotting within a few days._

Chapter 9

A Candle In The Dark

### ~

The Keeper excused himself for a short break.

Several minutes later, he trotted back down the spiral stairs carrying a pizza box and a liter of diet Mt. Dew. The aroma of ham, triple pepperonis, bacon, onion, bell peppers and black olives quickly permeated the prisoner's transparent cells as the glass wall next to the box sprouted a steam-fogged coat.

The Keeper pretended not to notice the effect it had on the residents, though he made a display of stretching the cheese a couple of feet before pinching the strands off and piling them on top of the first slice. Most of them had only received nourishment via the blood pumping through their collars for the last four years. Tantalus had merely fruit and water to contend with. He would have ripped off his own nose in despair after being denied a slice of a Mamma Rosa's double-cheese, heart-attack special.

Through a mouthful of grease and cheese packed goodness, He said, "So, where were we? Oh yes, Bob just had his world's guts metaphorically ripped out for him."

Well, he let the loss of Soya lay on him heavily for several years. He retreated to Peterborough and led a recluse life for almost a decade. He described the experience as something akin to having his tether to reality cut and being left adrift and alone in a void. All sense of the familiar and stable world fled in the wake of a dark cloud of depression and anxiety... A bit like a chili and beer fart in church, only not as funny.

So there he brooded. Granted, the estate could be considered extremely posh even by today's standards. The main house was a grand affair with fourteen bedrooms and enough bay windows to build a greenhouse. It sat on forty walled acres that also sported stables, a barn, two guest houses, servant's quarters, a smokehouse and a small, but well stocked pond. He required only a minimal staff. A chef, a maid and a groundskeeper took care of all of his needs. Not seeing the need for formalities, they were all told to take their lodgings anywhere on the estate they saw fit. At first they stayed in their traditional quarters, but by the second year, even the groundskeeper had migrated into the main house.

Though Bob did have a few business contacts dropping by at scheduled times, visitors were otherwise nonexistent. Well that's not entirely true, there were those who periodically delivered certain items such as coal, wood, building materials, fresh meats and the occasional imported items like confectionery, art pieces and books. Oh, the books... Bob had managed to convert eight of the spare rooms into libraries before he left. Mind you that was in addition to the nine hundred square foot library that was fully stocked when he first arrived. He spent the majority of his time reading; whether it was during the lazy summer days on a small rowboat on the pond or late into the winter evenings, next to the fire, in his study.

It was there that he happened upon the writings of Francis Bacon and William Harvey. Though unrelated in a general sense, the idea of advancements in medicine and a new approach to science sparked a notion in Bob that would come obsess him. He began studying everything he could find in both medicine and science in general. He couldn't put his finger on how the two were significant together, but he felt there was something there. All he had to do was find it.

He studied the works of Al-Rhazi, Celsus, Theophrastus von Hohenheim, Leonardo Da Vinci, Andreas Vesalius, Ambroise Pare, Realdo Colombo, Geronimo Fabricius, Thomas Sydenham, Robert Hooke, and Antoine van Leeuwenhock just for starters. Then, in 1661 Robert Boyle's Sceptical Chemist laid a significant foundation for shoring up a bridge between the sciences and medicine.

Bob was seeing his suspicions and hopes slowly being confirmed and officially added the honorific Dr. to a slew of his aliases.

Finally emerging from his military-grade funk after almost two decades, he moved to London and opened a practice on Pudding Lane just in time to fully establish himself before being drowned in bubonic plague victims in 1665-6. Then in September of 1666, his office burned to the ground in the Great Fire of London. On the bright side, a remarkably low number of people perished and by dislodging the vermin as well as the residents, while much of the city's refuse was incinerated, it marked the definitive end to the plague. Granted tens of thousands of people were suddenly homeless, but at least they were alive to complain about it.

Medical Science continued gaining momentum. For centuries Bob tracked scientists and prominent physicians as well as their experiments and contributions. He watched patiently as many mysteries and wonders of human physiology and nature were painstakingly revealed as rationally explained subjects.

All the while, his businesses were in good hands and actually did rather better than under his own tutelage. His diversions had inadvertently handed him the realization that the real trick to business is finding the right person to do the work for you. Soya had handled that for millennia, but the world had grown up since then and there were far more competent businessmen than in times past.

By the end of the eighteenth century, Bob could have pooled his resources to purchase whole countries and still have had enough left over to have them declare war on each other and fight for decades.

Fortunately, he had no desire to pursue such endeavors and plenty of other interests to occupy his time. He made numerous anonymous donations to individuals and organizations he believed were headed in the directions he pursued. Some were remarkably fruitful and others withered and died over time.

Then in 1818, resounding confirmation came that his prediction of the future was coming into its own. It came in the form of a book. To Bob's surprise, it wasn't a journal or treatise by any scientist or physician, but an anonymous work of fiction about a brilliant scientist assembling a corpse from various others and then resurrecting it with electricity. Okay, the method was silly, but Bob marveled that someone else independently proposed the notion that had been driving him for so long.

Thirteen years later, the book was released again and a baffled Bob discovered that it had been a twenty-one year old woman named Mary Shelley that had shared his vision and given the world _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus_.

Despite its tragic overtones and warnings against such pursuits, the concept proposed by the book served as an inspiration to many scientists. For that matter, fiction as a genre was becoming a huge source of ideas and motivations for scientists, engineers and inventors of the time, but then, that happenstance continues to this day.

Bob began moving around Europe to place himself as close to the most recent trendsetters of the times in science and medicine. He typically gave them plenty of room and only communicated through letters. His proximity facilitated acceptably prompt correspondence and he incorporated his findings into his own research whenever possible.

Bob was astonished at the rate of advancement in science (and pretty much everything else) during the Industrial Revolution. He saw more progress in a century than he had in most of his life.

Sure it had its downside. Points such as the exploitation of child labor and standardized worker's rights could have been handled much better that they were, but compared to the filth, disease and general lackluster existence of the overwhelming majority that marked the human condition before it, the growing pains were an acceptable cost. For most, it all started as exchanging one miserable lifestyle for another. But somewhere along the way, a middle class began to flourish. This may not seem like much at first glance, but it represented hope for millions of people who had never considered a life above the squalor that was all they and their ancestry had ever known.

The Keeper interrupted himself, "Interestingly enough, as a result of improved living conditions and medical care, the previously stable population of England began doubling about every fifty years from 1800 to well after the Industrial Revolution subsided. Must have been horrible, no? At least that's the opinion of so many halfwits and wannabe authorities today who decry the loathsome atrocities of the Industrial Age and hearken back to the good old days of eating their bread with bits of filth or gravel baked right in (assuming the harvest wasn't destroyed entirely by a storm or an early frost) and living in a hut made of mud and shit while the kiddies died of dysentery. Good times, good times."

The Keeper frowned, "Does it strike anyone else as odd that some people will bend over backwards to complain about how good they have it? Granted, by today's standards it wasn't all that great, but at the time, life had never held as much promise at any previous point. You really can't judge it by our standards: When sufficient time has passed, the context changes. If things keep progressing on recent history's exponential arch, it won't be much longer before people looking down their noses at the barbaric conditions that today's millionaires call comfortable.

I suppose I'm getting a bit grumpy as I grow older, but I swear rampant stupidity and the propensity for whining amongst the allegedly educated is growing at a pace comparable to computer technology. Who would have ever thought that armchair historians would ever be able to influence and even rewrite what actually happened just because they don't _like_ how it sounded? The unctuous twits wouldn't last a year if you dropped them two centuries in the past.

"Anyways, where were we before we went off the beaten path?"

Shui missed out on a lot of the progress of the world. Explorers began showing up as early as the seventeenth century, but no substantial influxes until the nineteenth century. When they came, he couldn't help feeling like someone was pissing in his porridge.

He stayed to the forests, but encounters became more and more frequent. No one ever saw him unless he wanted them to, but hunters and trappers were always popping up right in the middle of a romantic moment with the little miss, and you'd be amazed at how thoroughly a well hidden bear trap can ruin a perfectly good bowel movement.

Around the turn of the next century, he gave up on living the simple life when some kids vandalized his hut while he was out hunting.

As anachronisms go, Shui was an interesting contrast. He walked out of his own private stone age and into 1906 Portland with nothing but the bear-skin briefs on his arse. As was his usual practice (though the efficiency of it had changed dramatically), Shui used one of Jonnedee's forwarding services to contact him. It took a little work to catch up with everything, including the language, though a wire transfer of twenty thousand from Bob eased the transition considerably.

The world had changed more than Shui could have ever guessed. Not the least of which was Soya's demise.

Granted, the early twentieth century probably seems pretty crude, but just look at what suddenly appeared in just the ten years before Shui came out of the wild. Try to imagine almost four millennia of sweating out the summers in mosquito infested swamps and all of the sudden you have air conditioning and a flyswatter. Or how about working your arse off while staring at a mule's, day after day, in a field every year to grow a little something to eat through the winter, and PRESTO! There's a new tractor.

Then there's all of the stuff that you never knew you needed like comic books, vacuum cleaners, flashlights, tea bags, popsicles, cotton candy, crayons or thumbtacks. Even the remote control had recently been invented though its soul mate the television was still decades off. And you have no idea how handy a disposable safety razor is until you've using a sharp rock or let another man slide a blade across your throat. And that was just some of the things from the decade leading up to Shui's bewildered return. Did I mention that people were actually flying?

He later confided in Bob that after seeing an automobile scream by at twenty-five miles per hour, he had to have one. That alone almost made rejoining civilization worthwhile.

Although he purchased one of each just to see what the commotion was all about, Shui's semi-automatic shotgun and repeating rifle were the two things that disturbed him about this high-velocity world.

It wasn't the fact that they killed or anything like that. Shui had single-handedly killed thousands of men. The way he looked at it, once a man or woman chooses to take up arms (or hands and feet, as the case may be) they have consciously or unconsciously wagered their lives against his in a match of speed, skill and intellect. If they didn't know they'd be facing him, well they should have gotten the facts before they got all gung-ho... that is assuming they are on the opposing side. It didn't do to kill a few dozen of your own side. People would start to talk.

No, it was more the fact that guns made killing too easy. A man who is trained to kill usually develops at least some level of discipline. All of the sudden, a deranged redneck with fewer rational brain cells than teeth could take out an innocent bystander so long as he had one functioning finger.

Then there was the fact that Shui had always thought that killing should be personal. Is there any other reason to kill? Shooting someone without even giving them a chance is paramount to cowardice.

...Then there was every likelihood of Shui eventually getting shot. He figured he would survive, but it just had to hurt like hell.

Now having said all of that, Shui went on to became highly skilled with each firearm, just as he did with many other modern weapons. He figured even if he didn't like them he still wasn't going to leave a gap in his repertoire.

~~~

Jonnedee's network of information gatherers had been in place and expanding for over four hundred years by the outbreak of the Great War in 1914. Though he didn't have the foresight to predict the scope and devastation it would bring, the outbreak itself wasn't a surprise.

The Keeper paused and eyed Leo. "That's what they called World War I before there was a World War II, Mr. Mason. Sorry, I noticed that baffled look you get sometimes. You know, with a face as readable as yours, I'm guessing you were like a Black Hole at poker: displaying a phenomenal ability to suck."

While his investigation into potential threats against the villagers had only turned up a few viable clues, it had very possibly made him the most informed individual on the planet.

He'd developed his own system of categorizing the information he received in a cross-referenced frame. Everything was classed in four broad classes that included the headings of Political, Religious, Economical and Social. Then he ranked the information on a ten point scale ranging from Critical down to Trivial.

The Religious category had been winding down since the eighteenth century, but the other three had been increasing at an explosive rate since the Industrial Revolution.

His system was a simple construct, but with four centuries practice reading it, he could make predictions with uncanny accuracy.

On May 5, 1915, he leaked the prediction that the United States would enter the Great War in about two years to the Secret Service and its new partner in intelligence gathering, the FBI. Along with the prophecy, he gave a detailed memorandum to support it.

On April 6, 1917, the United States formally declared war.

Covertly, he forwarded information that helped the good guys (well, he was a Brit from waaay back, after all) that were to ferret out many of the spies and saboteurs within the country.

Unfortunately, the trench-style warfare and slow communication methods of the time weren't conducive to detailed war related predictions in real-time. All he could contribute was a hesitant endorsement of John J. Pershing as Commander of the American Expeditionary Force, and the assurance that the Allies would win due to sheer bloody-mindedness if nothing else.

After the war concluded, Jonnedee didn't share the enthusiastic sentiment that the war was in fact the 'War To End All Wars'. While conceding it had been a ball-buster of a conflict, he'd seen wars kicked off for the most trivial reasons imaginable. And if the looser isn't either beaten so badly that they simply can't get back up or scared absolutely shitless, there's usually more to the fight. So he resolved himself to preparing for next round.

~~~

Shui's timing couldn't have been better if he'd been a roughly 3794 year old war monger with a talent for killing when The Great War swept across Europe.

He ended up fighting in the trenches and made a startling discovery: Mustard gas can be a real pain in the ass when you breathe through every inch of your body. He found himself left for dead, in a hole dug by an artillery round between trenches, for three days. During those three days he was shot twice and kicked in the head on once by one of the Kaiser's finest during a charge on the British/American line. Shui managed to hamstring the guy as he did it with his detached bayonet, but a size twelve boot to the head smarts nonetheless.

After eventually healing enough to crawl back to his own side he was quickly sent home as a casualty of war. The fact that he seemed unaffected by the time he got home wasn't lost on a few baffled medical personnel, so he dropped off the radar post haste.

He met Bob in Chicago and lamented that war had become a new creature. It had always been chaotic and you never knew where your next wound would come from, but it had lost something. The only word that seemed to fit was 'passion.' Sure the men still got riled up after a good motivating speech from their commanders, but the actual fighting was more like a mad scramble to stay alive rather than the old reckless abandon men used to fight with. Perhaps it was because finding cover had become such a high priority. It was all just so... impersonal.

Two months later, he changed his name, moved back to England and joined the RAF.

With the air of addressing a simpleton, The Keeper elaborated, "Sorry Mr. Mason, that's the Royal Air Force."

He managed to lose aircraft on four separate occasions that year. In all fairness, he took out seventeen enemy biplanes during the same year. Three of those were with his own aircraft after running out of bullets and running low on fuel, but he was still ahead on points. Rumor has it, that Shui is where the Japanese got the idea for the Kamikazes of World War II.

When the war was over, Shui returned to America and flew crop dusters for a time. He took up building and racing cars as a hobby until the Great Depression set in. He could have easily kept the hobby up, but it seemed pretentious so he put it aside for a decade and a half.

He met girls from time to time, but they were just living so long all of the sudden that he had to start getting creative on how to end a relationship. Before he'd just waited twenty years and they died of plague, pox, war, famine, runaway dung cart, or whatever happened to be killing people off at the time. Only the upper crust had the means to avoid many of the deadly pitfalls of the good old days. He didn't like losing them, but he rarely had to worry about anyone growing suspicious of his age. As soon as his love interest passed, he left town and usually country as well.

The next thing you know, that wasn't the case anymore. Commoners were sticking around for the duration. Not only that, but everyday Joes were developing a taste for world travel. The only real consolation was that there were so many of them now that it was increasingly easy to get lost in the crowds.

~~~

By the early 1930's Jonnedee's vastly improved sources were collecting intelligence that increasingly confirmed his suspicions. That inspired redoubled vigilance in his keeping of tabs on officers in a variety of the world's militaries, with emphasis on the U.S. and Germany, and began pulling strings and nudging the careers of certain gifted candidates. He found Shui's recommendations invaluable in that arena.

He went about his usual routines of leaking predictions to U.S. intelligence, but most of the established contacts with whom he had built credibility, had moved on. He had to rebuild contacts that could overlook his insistence of anonymity. Not that he was worried. They'd come around in time.

Recognizing the more imminent threat to Europe, he found an able ally in a war-hardened military man turned politician from Oxfordshire, a mere seventy miles from Jonnedee's hometown.

As luck would have it, the bloke was familiar with Jonnedee as a source of reliable intelligence, if not the actual person. He not only heeded the warnings, predictions and current behind-the-scenes activities throughout Europe that Jonnedee provided, he took them quite personally and railed against his own government's complacency in the face of the impending hardships.

The fellow's political capital was almost completely spent when it suddenly skyrocketed with the declaration of war after the failed Munich agreement (which obviated the all-too-easy-to-forget ineffectiveness of diplomacy in the face of a motivated aggressor). He was named as First Lord of the Admiralty, and in 1940, he went on to fill the vacated position of Prime Minister. It's difficult to argue that any man of the time could have done the job of Prime Minister Churchill with anything approaching his success.

Jonnedee found it interesting to note that the first Allied shots for both World War I and II were fired by the same twin 6-inch guns placed at the entrance of Port Phillip Bay of Melbourne, Australia. Makes you kinda wonder if there isn't someone sitting there right now with his finger on the trigger, doesn't it? I think the moral of the story is, 'don't fuck with Melbourne; they're trigger happy and will shoot if you even look at them funny'.

By the time the U.S. entered the war; Jonnedee was feeding them information at home as well as relaying it back to the appropriate contacts in Europe.

With the dramatic increase in communications technology since WWI, Jonnedee was able to spoon feed invaluable intel to the Allies. Though it was exhilarating at times, usually it felt like he was trying to juggle a five pound bag of jelly beans, sans the bag.

The effort needed to keep up with all the intricacies of such an epic and multi-faceted clash left Jonnedee drained. After the war, he would opt for retirement from gathering, sorting, evaluating and distributing intelligence for anyone other than his organization's original beneficiates; the villagers of Bryke.

~~~

In 1941, Shui joined the US Army Air Corps. He flew throughout the Pacific Theater. Having only gotten shot down twice this time around, you might even say he was getting better.

In 1945 with the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Shui swore off war for good. It had not only lost its passion, it had lost its soul, as well.

Much later, Shui found that there was a gentleman, named Tsutomu Yamaguchi, who happened to be in Hiroshima on business when 'Little Boy' was detonated over the city. He received minor injuries but was able to return home... to Nagasaki, where 'Fat Man' was detonated three days later.

Yamaguchi eventually died of stomach cancer. Though some would undoubtedly try, it would be hard to attribute the cancer to the bombs owing to the fact that he died sixty five years later at the age of ninety-three. Either way, Shui never could decide if the fellow's luck was really good or really bad.

Shui'd put away his war toys and decided to trek around the world for a few decades. It had changed a lot since the last time he'd traveled just for leisure. There were some amazing new sights as well as plenty of friendly old places. Barring China, the Far East was largely unchanged. China had become a mess with the rise of Mao Zedong and the communist government. Not that he let that deter him. He saw that life hadn't really changed much there either, when you got right down to it. Well, aside from who was bullying the peasants, anyways.

He found that most masters of the surviving original martial arts schools still granted a personal welcome when he sent his name. Sufficed to say, more than a few were rather baffled to be summoned to greet a visitor that hadn't been heard from in more than four centuries. The bafflement was only compounded when they found a vaguely gorilla-shaped Caucasian waiting at the gates.

Depending on the sincerity of hospitality shown during those greeting, Shui would either offer proof of his authenticity with tests of skills and endurance up front or, for the more skeptical, wait until someone got up the nerve to challenge his right to be there. For the former, he often sparred with the entire school while taking great care not to injure anyone. For the latter, he often sparred with the entire school taking care to insert a lesson proportional to the doubt and hostility of each opponent. In one such case, he set about breaking the great toe on the left foot of each and every resident.

The Keeper rolled his eyes, "That's the _big_ toe Mr. Mason."

Most came around to accepting Shui without additional resistance. And, of course, Shui still offered a private sparing match to the master of the school.

Shui wrapped up his world tour in the late 1970's and returned to the United States. If his timing had been just a little better, he could have missed Disco all together.

~~~

During his travels, Shui, with a little work, was able to track down a few of the Dragon's descendants. Most were very polite, respectful, perhaps a little awed, but more than anything, they were exceedingly boring. The one exception was a fellow Shui met, a while after returning to America.

Shui first found the old man near his home in Los Angeles. As he walked toward an address he'd been given by one of the Dragon's lineage, a boy of perhaps fifteen ran out of the alley in front of him at top speed and almost into him. Shui heard what centuries of combat experience easily identified as a melee.

Out of curiosity, he edged down the shaded passage between a convenience store and a pawn shop. The absence of anything other than dust and a few scraps of yellowed paper suggested that the path was seldom used and only recently disturbed. There was a turn maybe twenty feet into the passage, and hushed echoes indicated additional bends farther along. Dust plumes were settling from the boy's passage partially covering the tracks leading into the alley. Upon examination, Shui discerned seven sets of tracks. The imprinted logos on six sets were made by high-end teenage boy's tennis shoes and had entered the alley calmly. The owner of the largest pair walked with a pronounced faux-limp. Shui had seen many younger men affect the same left leg strut/right leg stroll in recent years and had first assumed them to have some debilitating disease or prostheses. Eventually, he was informed that it was supposed to look 'cool'. He decided not to cast stones after recalling his own attempt to follow trends as a teen, such as rubbing slugs in his hair for that stylish greasy-streaked look.

As for the seventh set of prints, the noticeably short stride suggested they belong to a rather old man. There were no evident prints from them other than a vague foot shape; no logos, no tread, no defining lines around the edges. Moccasins?

As Shui inspected them, he sensed a second boy about to lope around the first corner of the doglegged passage. Terror was in his eyes as he jinked around Shui in a panic.

Shui advanced cautiously. It seemed obvious that whatever else this was, it wasn't intended to draw him. As he turned the third corner, Shui found an old Asian man picking on a group of teenage boys he'd apparently managed to lure into the dead-end alley. Shui watched from thirty feet as the geriatric bully, clad in loose khaki pants, a white dress shirt and pair of worn black house slippers, hurled insults and blows from his cane at the panicking boys. Shui noticed that the old fellow was intentionally letting the welted and bruised boys escape one at a time, from youngest to oldest, until what had to be the 'cool limper' remained.

The old-timer smiled a sentiment of pure malice at the remaining boy and spoke a single word to him, before landing several dozen cane strikes in half a dozen seconds. Shui couldn't make out the word that launched the barrage and approached knowing the confrontation was concluding.

When Shui was about ten feet away, the old man stopped his assault abruptly and said, "Silent but deadly, and still easily detectable by at least one sense," he turned his cataract glazed eyes to Shui and wrinkled his nose, "as tasty as kimchi is, fermented cabbage is no ally to stealth."

Shui stopped, laughed and said, "They say that when one sense is lost or impaired, the others are heightened. If my nose were so attuned to the world as to detect ten-minute-old-farts, I believe I would naturally be very disgruntled with anything sporting an asshole," he scanned the area again, "You must be Hung Cho Chan. I confess I expected to find you working with plants."

The old man furrowed his brow in contemplation, "The exact observation that led me to opening a flower shop. I suspect I should know you, yet you have the advantage."

"I am called Shui. One of your ancestors did me a great service long ago."

Hung's brows shot up as his milky eyes scanned Shui.

'So he can still see... at least a little,' thought Shui.

"I see. So it is true; you do age very gracefully, Beth."

As Shui's eyes widened in surprise at being identified so readily, Hung rolled his eyes in exasperation as the boy's sobs suddenly grew louder. "Please excuse me for one moment so that I may finish explaining the folly of bullying little girls to this young man." Apparently, the gang showed no remorse for breaking a local nine-year-old girl's arm, and offered threats of further harm in lieu of apologies. So the old timer took it upon himself to show them the error of their ways. Special emphasis for the gang's leader seemed warented.

~~~

His name was Hung Cho Chan. He was indignant, ornery, devious, conniving, ill-natured, ill-humored, ill-willed, ill-mannered, and sometimes illegal, but fit and quite lethal despite being in his late sixties and nearly blind. But most of all (and rather ironically considering his general disposition), Hung Cho Chan was a lover of life and was determined to keep on enjoying it as long as he could.

The two men had retreated to Hung's shop where Shui opened a small felt-lined case and brought out the porcelain decanter and cups given to him by The Dragon so many centuries before and poured the first of many cups of Saki.

Hung held the cup close to his eyes, then lightly ran a finger over the painted surface. Then his hand began a slight tremble, "Is this..." The unfinished question hung in the air.

Shui smiled, "A gift from your ancestor, yes. It's the same set he used during my training. Considering the places I've been since I last saw him, it's a wonder the set is still intact. But then, I only open the case when I drink with The Dragon's family. Specifically, the few who reminded me of him."

Hung closed his eyes and whispered something Shui couldn't quite make out. Then he said, "So then, I share the cup of many ancestors..." He sipped.

~~~

In no time, Shui was convinced Hung was not only like his ancestor, but very possibly the second incarnation of The Dragon.

To his surprise, Hung did indeed know of Shui. Much more than Shui would have expected. As it happened, The Dragon had documented his life in a journal of sorts and it was traditionally passed to, not necessarily the oldest, but the most disciplined and dominant of each ensuing generation just prior to the death of the holder. The recipient's name was added to a list at the end of the journal well in advance of such occasions in the event of an unforeseen demise. Hung had never believed a tenth of the story of Shui, but treasured the biography just the same.

They talked and drank late into the night. Shui not only confirmed the validity of the journal, he added countless insights to the annals of The Dragon. Occasionally he demonstrated physical feats that seemed ambiguous or impossible in their chronicled descriptions.

Hung was astounded, bewildered, enraptured and maudlin all at once. To think that he'd been so dismissive of the truth within the words of his most illustrious ancestor was an overwhelming burden. His only solace was in knowing that among several of the previous journal trustees he was far from alone.

The next day, before the hangover had fully faded, Hung knew that he had a new and true friend for the likely short duration of his life.

Shui confirmed the conclusion daily. He was there to help around the shop and frequently had Hung as an informal guest for dinner after particularly long days.

He was there as Hung's only grandson withered with cancer. It was especially hard on Hung when the boy passed. He lost his junior partner in crime as well as his predecessor as keeper of The Dragon's journal.

He was there in '89 when the Loma Prieta earthquake interrupted their trip to San Francisco for the World Series and Hung blamed the whole unpleasant incident on Shui's typically eccentric choice of bean burritos for breakfast.

He was there when Hung finally had to give up driving. In his struggle with cataracts, Hung had adopted the habit of simply closely following the first set of tail lights he came across to ensure he didn't hit any obstacles in the road. Unfortunately, he chose to tailgate a drunk driver one night and followed him right off the road and into a tree. In the legal fallout initiated by the tipsy traveler, Hung lost his shop.

When Hung finally went totally blind, he ended up moving out to Willowbrook. No one is sure where the drunk driver and his lawyer disappeared to right after Hung moved. It must be a nice place though, for them to leave everything behind like they did...

And Shui was there in '98 when Hung, backed by the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, pursued a position at Wal-Mart. The one obstacle wasn't the company (it was quite accommodating) but a man by the name of Hal Simmons who happened to be the local store manager. Hal simply couldn't accept that an old blind Asian man would be able to either function in the position of "greeter" or maintain a pleasing image for the store.

After threats of legal action, Hal relented and hired Hung on a probationary basis. He boasted to his head sycophant and assistant manager, Mark Rodgers, that Hung would be gone within a week.

Little did Hal know that Hung had spent several weeks preparing for the position by sitting on the bench just inside the door and mentally cataloging everyone that entered and exited the store. On his first day at work, shoppers found themselves being greeted, often by name, by a friendly senior citizen complete with his official blue vest and nametag proudly proclaiming "Hi, I'm Hung!"

He excelled. Within his first week, Hung had something of a cult following and had managed to catch four attempts at shoplifting. Still, finding a justification for terminating Hung's employment became a short-lived obsession for Hal.

Hung quickly built working relations with most of the other employees. One nineteen year old kid took a particular shine to Hung. His name was William "Billy" Smith and he was the oldest of six kids in a poor family from Compton. Billy's father had died in prison when he was twelve and he took it upon himself to fill the vacant shoes as 'man of the house'. He managed to lie convincingly enough to get a job at age fourteen and had been helping to put food on the table and shoes on his siblings' feet ever since.

Billy often joked around with Hung between retrieving shopping carts from the parking lot. Billy, was endlessly impressed with Hung's ability to identify customers by sound, but seeing the scrutiny that Hal was putting Hung under, took it upon himself to tip off Hung when ever Hal was in the vicinity.

At least that was his practice until Hal happened to try sneaking past Hung while Billy was on the far side of the parking lot retrieving shopping carts. Seeing what was happening he rushed a handful of carts across the lot while he watched Hal virtually tiptoe towards Hung. Billy knew he wouldn't make it in time and didn't see how Hung could possibly know that Hal was there. He opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath to yell Hal's name when Hung began speaking. Hal suddenly stopped in his tracks and stood rigid before marching off into the store. When he finally pushed the carts into the return corridor, and ducked through the vertically hanging, transparent strips of plastic, he found Hung thoughtfully gazing into his private abyss.

Winded, Billy caught his breath before asking what he said to Hal.

"I said, 'good morning, Mr. Simmons,' as I do every day."

Billy shook his head and said, "Damn Hung, i dunno how you do that radar shit, but if he ever get by you, he gonna have yo ass for lunch."

Still looking distracted Hung replied with his best Charlie Chan impersonation, "Hung never have ass, but Hung's dick is Maaag-nificent."

~~~

As the weeks went by, Hung noticed that Billy had a remarkable grasp of numbers and biology. Where Hung would simply sense an approximate size and shape of a passerby, Billy would give an exact weight based on bone structure determined by wrist and ankle diameters, muscle to fat ratios revealed by visual observation of the definition of muscle or lack thereof as well as skin folds, and by assessing the volume the individual. He did all of these calculations almost instantly.

While in Hal's office one day, he managed to memorize the employee numbers of all of the employees as well as the account numbers and expiration dates of two of Hal Simmons' credit cards, at a glance, which were used to order an assortment of adult S&M gear and particularly remarkable phallic devices that were sent to Mr. Mark Rodgers at the store's address. The sexual harassment, identity theft and assault cases raged for months.

For an encore, Billy, being more than a little proficient with computers, had managed to hack the store computers and implicate Hal as an embezzler. Waiting for corporate to discover the 'cover-up' became a favorite topic for gossip throughout the store.

Though he didn't let on, Hung was genuinely impressed and asked if calculating people's weight and remembering numbers were the limit of his abilities.

"Naw man. Nummers always came easy fo' me. When I's in first grade, I figured out that I needed to tone it way down so's I didn't get my ass kicked ever' day, but I couldn' help but seein' nummers and formulas everywhere around me. I didn't know it at the time but I was workin' with functions and algorithms before I learned cursive writing. You know how you got that radar in ya head? Yeah, well I got Texas Instruments stamped on my brain. Always been good with nummers. Science too fo' that matter. I'm lookin' fo'ward to kickin' ass in school once my brothers and sisters get old enough to take care of theyselves. Then I can start rakin' in some serious chips and dip, glam the honeys and forget I ever had to push a buggy fo' a livin'."

Hung grunted, "School would be a good thing for you. Perhaps you will even learn English along the way."

Billy huffed, "No prob bro. I been practicing'. Check it: Fuuuck youuu, Hung!" He dropped into a deep southern accent, "How you like them thar wontons, ya wrinkly assed rice cake?"

"I prefer Taco Bell, and yet it's your speech impediment that gives me gas." And on cue Hung hiked a leg and let loose.

When he managed to subdue his laughter, Billy replied, "You one wack chink, Hung, but it suits you."

~~~

One day, Hung noticed Billy in a particularly distracted mood. Upon inquiring he found that Billy had been in a confrontation with another employee.

After establishing the source of Billy's discontent, Hung asked, "So why are you angry with Brian?"

Billy flared up, "Cause the mothafucka is racist, that's why."

Hung drew his finger to his chin in thought, "Young Brian has always sought to emulate black people. Is it some other group that he is prejudiced against?"

Billy shook his head, "Naw, man. Every time the cracka open his damn mouf, it's 'nigga this' and 'nigga that'. Big nosed mothafucka ain't black."

Hung looked confused, "But you speak the same way."

"Yeah, but I am black! We earned the right! That's our word!"

Evidence of an epiphany flashed across Hung's face, "Ah, I see. You are saying that because of your complexion you have a right to censor him because of his..."

"Hell yea... no... wait a minute."

Hung looked concerned as he said, "But wouldn't that make you the racist?"

"It ain't like that, Hung. 400 years of slavery, that's the difference. His people held my people in chains."

Nodding, Hung ventured, "So his ancestors were among the one in three hundred Americans that owned slaves..."

Billy looked incredulous, "One in three hundred? Where the hell did you get that number?"

Looking as if he were thinking of something else entirely, Hung replied, "During America's slavery era, each slave was registered. Surprisingly few actually owned slaves. They numbered around two in three hundred. Then, and for some time after that, poorer people usually had considerably larger families to help ensure their security and wellbeing. With as many as twenty children, families created their own workforces. The wealthy, slaveholding families were typically much smaller because they didn't need the additional numbers. Over time, slaveholders and their descendants became the extreme minority."

Something about that annoyed Billy... Then it came, "Well maybe they didn't actually own slaves, but they were part o' the system that allowed it to happen. He'd be the same mothafuckin' way if it was his people that had suffered like mine."

"You mean, like almost every culture has."

Billy saw that Hung wasn't getting it, "No. Like my culture! Who else got a history of bein' treated as shitty as the American Black Man? His culture ain't never been enslaved for no 400 mothafuckin' years."

"True. Cumulatively, his people were enslaved much longer and, as hard as it is to imagine, have endured many more hardships. As for other cultures and races, you'd be hard pressed to find more than a few that didn't fall prey to others. Granted, your pedigree has suffered greatly and more recently than many. I don't wish to belittle that, but one glaring example of a worse fate is the American Indian. Through disease, war, enslavement, massacres, and displacement they were reduced to a shadow of their former selves. Though in all fairness, some of them held slaves as well. And there is evidence that they likely killed off most the native population that predated their arrival during the last ice age."

Billy heard all of that but he was stuck on Hung's leading point, "Are you outta yo goddamn mind, Hung? Brian's family lives in a high dollar gated community. He wouldn't even be here if his rich white daddy didn't wanna teach him 'the value of a dollar'."

Hung sighed, "Actually, Brian's grandfather came to America as a young man in 1939 to escape the Nazi persecution of Jews. His culture has been enslaved, persecuted, oppressed, exiled and/or nearly exterminated repeatedly over the last four thousand years at the hands of everyone from the Babylonians to the Egyptians, the Philistines, the Assyrians, the Romans, the Macedonians, the Germans, Russians, French, Italians, most other Europeans and about all of the Middle East for that matter, and even Americans. And while it is possible his ancestors once held slaves, it is unlikely they were from Africa. Whereas there is a reasonably high probability that your ancestry did own African slaves at some distant time prior to being captured and shipped to America. As I said, almost every culture has fallen victim to another in one way or another. In time, if they survive, they move on. When the last generation of the actual offenders are dead, dwelling on it only breeds frustration, anger and a misdirected hate. 'Content of character, not color of skin' is supposed to be a bench mark for everyone, not just the 'crackas', as you so prejudicially refer to them. I've persecuted people for years based on the content of their character. There are plenty of assholes and idiots to go around."

Billy was silent for a moment as he tried to digest Hung's words. He didn't see a loophole. None of what Hung was saying synced up with what life had insisted was true, but it made sense if you stepped back and looked at it objectively. It even occurred to him that though he'd known that Africans had captured and sold a large portion of the slaves that were exported to the Americas, he'd always left the point out of the equation. He knew that the 'Glass Ceiling' defense wouldn't hold much water after seeing so many success stories popping up in film, music, sports, business and even politics. No doubt Hung would point out that 'poor' accepts all applicants. No workable chinks in Hung's argument's armor were visible. Finally, he conceded, "Okay, so maybe I judged him unfairly because of his race, or maybe I just don't like how bad the big nosed fucka raps. But, how the hell was I supposed to know all that other shit? Fo' that matter, how the hell did you know that?"

"I asked. It's a good place to start."

Billy slowly shook his head and said, "Yeah well, the boy still looks like a dumbass every time he says 'nigger'..."

Hung's eyebrows rose in surprise as he asked, "And you think you don't?"

Seeing that Hung may have been right and that he was too out gunned at the moment to pursue the matter, Billy resigned himself to a parting shot or two, "You know, Hung, you'd fuck up a Chinese fire-drill. And who the fuck says 'pedigree'?"

"Don't you go oppressing me, my nigga!"

"Fuck you, Hung. Fuck you and yo wok humpin momma."

"Err..." Hung looked perplexed, "She uses T-Fal. Do they even make woks?"

~~~

Later that week, Hung left work through the employee's entrance at the rear of the building. He heard people talking in the direction of the dumpsters opposite the employees parking area. The high store walls created an amphitheater of sorts, marred only by the row of green trash bins. He recognized Billy's voice at once and noted a tone of fear in it. The wind masked most of what was said, but Hung had an idea of what was going on. Though Billy never talked about it much, Hung accurately concluded that emissaries from a local gang were on a recruiting champagne. Billy's potential as a very valuable asset was known to one particular gang whose leader had rather grandiose visions of power. Billy was a short step away from becoming the source of everything from new designer drugs to numbers rackets and scams hitherto unheard of.

Knowing that Shui wouldn't be around to pick him up for another half hour, he wondered along the edges of the dumpsters lightly tapping his cane ahead of him. He heard the repeated dull thump of fists landing on flesh and quickened his pace.

As he rounded the last of the dumpsters into a four foot gap before the store wall, Hung sensed the presence of five men. One was being held by two others while a fourth was doling out a wholesale beating. All the while, a fifth member stood at the rear and rambled, "...just think of the virtues of joining our organization and how you would be amply compensated for the services you are uniquely qualified to provide. Also you should think of your family. The correct decision today could save them this sort of... incident tomorrow." Hung heard the faint clatter of a semi-automatic pistol being tapped against the thigh of the talker.

Stopping about a foot behind the talker, Hung spoke, "Pardon me, but isn't there a port-o-potty around here somewhere?"

The Talker's reflexes were good. The hand holding the pistol was up and turning in his direction before he was half way through his question. Hung put his left shoulder into the arch of the Talker's forearm and holding the cane in the same hand he hooked it just inside the Talker's wrist. He drove his right hand into the side of the pinned hand, snapping the wrist inward with enough force to break it and, with a bit of pressure at the right point, prevent the index finger from being able to actuate the trigger.

The Talker promptly became the Screamer as the gun clattered to the rubbish strewn asphalt and Hung wrapped his left hand around the now exposed thumb and wrist and synched them tightly together with the accompanying light pop of a dislocating thumb joint.

Standing to the right and slightly behind the Screamer, Hung reached around and lightly jabbed him in the throat. And the newly anointed Screamer became the Choke-and-Gasper.

All of that took perhaps two seconds and the Talker-Screamer-Choke-and-Gasper's companions had turned and abandoned Billy in favor of this new and unexpected interloper.

As expected, the Holders took up what were probably their routine positions on either side of the Beater. Hung figured the Holders to be a little larger than average and fit. The Beater, however, was a different story. He was at least 210 pounds and heavily muscled. Not that it mattered to Hung, but Billy must be feeling the worst for wear.

The Holders rushed forward to seize his arms. Hung shifted the Talker-Screamer-Choke-and-Gasper's injured hand in front of the Holder to right and the rest of good ol' T-S-C&G's person followed closely behind it. The Holder to the left hesitated as his boss crossed his path and the Holder to the right ran into him. Hung gave a short kick to the inside of the hesitant Holder's right knee and the resounding pop confirmed that he was out of the fight. Figuring that in the rush, the other probably didn't see what had happened to his partner, Hung quickly pulled his human shield aside and kicked the second Holder in the opposite knee with the same results.

Hung sensed the Beater launching into a charge and maneuvered T-S-C&G between them in time to intercept a devastating front kick as Hung dropped to one knee and bent over. T-S-C&G virtually flew backwards over Hung as he crouched and leaned into the backs of T-S-C&G's knees.

Hung quickly stood. He heard T-S-C&G bounce off the store wall as the Beater let loose an unsettling growl and lashed out with another kick aimed at his head. Hung shifted slightly and caught the incoming foot on his shoulder. He instantly grasped the massive leg and leaped upward taking the trapped limb with him. The Beater lost balance and traction as his other leg left the ground below him. They came down. Hung let the leg slide down to his chest as the Beater's wind was knocked from him due to landed flat on his back. Hung quickly landed a foot on the stunned Beater's exposed crotch and had an epiphany: the Beater was most definitely not a 'He'.

Somewhat surprised and very amused, Hung spun himself to straddle the leg from the front side and again leaped while the she hulk gasped for air. This time he directed himself and the leg towards the wall. Holding the leg as straight as he could, he managed to bring her heal down against the wall about three feet above the ground. With his weight positioned over her knee, the Beater let out a howl as the back of her thigh touched the ground while her foot had stayed well up the wall.

Taking a moment to ensure there were no new challengers arriving, Hung made a quick circuit of the combatants and rendered each unconscious with a series of surprisingly light blows to three points just below the jaw, the earlobe and on the side of the neck.

He found Billy leaning against the wall where he'd fallen.

"You let a girl beat you up? Is this some twisted fetish you have, or are you just that big of a pussy?"

Billy coughed as he pushed himself to his feet, "Don' think I didn't notice you tryin' to kick her in the balls, Hung, and I heard she once took out an entire gang of bikers."

"Ah, my kind of woman, then."

"So... you got a thing for knees?"

"It's a Mafia thing. You wouldn't understand."

Billy collected his thoughts for a moment, then said, "Listen Hung, I'm sorry you got mixed up in dis. Dese guys is obligated to take you and me both out, now. You for kickin de shit out they asses and me fo' seein' it happen. I gotta get home and figure out how ta get my family outta the city. You need to do the same."

Hung paused and considered that for about two seconds. "How many are in their organization?"

"A Hunnert and forty or fifty all together. Could be more; I've never seen 'um all together. To many though."

"And how important are these four?"

Billy let out a long exhale, "Rex there, he dey leader. Xerxes, she his personal bodyguard. Least ways she was 'til she kicked his spleen through his spine and lost to a crusty-assed old man. The other two, they just flunkies. It don't matter though. Rex won't stop 'till we both do two very important things: Suffer and die."

"These four will be out of commission for quite a while... Who's second in charge?"

"That'd be Big Willie."

"Is he ambitious?"

"Ambitious? Well... word is yeah, but he won't ever make a grab. Least not with Xerxes around. I hear she damn near beat him to death back in the day. He scared shitless of her, not that I blame 'im."

Hung stood thinking for a moment. He took Billy's arm and led him to the edge of the dumpsters and directed him to go and wait for Hung's ride and to mention what had happened to no one.

Billy raised an inquisitive eyebrow but then turned and walked away mumbling, "Mafia?" while Hung ducked back behind the dumpsters. A few minutes later, Hung rejoined Billy and suggested that he not call the movers for a few days.

A quarter of an hour later, Shui arrived and, being apprised of the situation, offered Billy a ride home.

The next day, the store was a buzzing with the news about a gang killing behind the store. Apparently, one of the victims managed to write the name 'Big Willie' in blood on a dumpster before she died.

When Billy asked Hung what he did, Hung looked bewildered and said he didn't know what Billy was talking about. Then he added that Big Willie showing up at such an opportune time and the unfortunate deaths probably save some people a small fortune in U-Haul expenses.

"Yeah... Hey, yeah!" Billy agreed and said, "By the way, the kung-fu shit you whipped out on... uh... those guys at that place that one time was bad as hell. Any chance of you hookin' a brother up wit some lessons?"

Hung smiled and said, "I thought you'd never ask. We are both off work this Tuesday, so we can talk about it over a stroll through the zoo."

~~~

Tuesday found Hung and Billy at the entrance to the zoo. They purchased their tickets and set a clockwise course through the exhibits.

Billy occasionally ran across discounted tickets for the zoo and took his siblings as a special treat from time to time, but never on a weekday. He noticed a dramatic decrease in foot traffic and made a mental note to go on school days from then on.

His enthusiasm was palpable for a very different reason, though. "So I get to learn to fight under the baddest mothafucka in the land... hell yeah!"

Hung shook his head smiling, "Not so. There is at least one who I am but a novice to. I regret that I shall not live long enough to attain a fraction of his ability."

"Really? Must be one seriously old dude." Undetered, Billy steered the conversation to less foreboding waters by asking, "So what do I need to do to train?"

Hung thought for a moment before replying. "We will be training your body to respond, withstand and persist. This will be painful but easier than the mental training. We will be training your mind to assess, conclude, and act."

"I think I can handle that, as long as you don't go fuckin' wit my stereotypes, again."

"We shall see. Additionally, you will be enrolling in school, full time, and begin speaking some reasonable semblance of English."

"Whoa! I cain't do school right now, Hung. I got a family to help provide for."

"'I can't go to school' and 'I have a family to provide for,' and I am aware of your circumstances. That is why I have taken the liberty of getting you placed in a more suitable work environment."

"Come again?"

Hung chuckled, "You've displayed unusually impressive aptitudes in mathematics, with computers as well as a variety of other sciences. Especially the fields of chemistry and biology, no?"

"Yeah, but that ain't no good until after I get a degree."

"Actually, they are more than enough to get your foot in the door with anyone bright enough to see your potential. I have made arrangements for you to begin working with a rather select group of researchers. They are on the cutting edge of certain technologies that are both familiar and of interest to you. If you chose to take the position, you would be paid ample funds to cover your school expenses as well as enough to considerably upgrade your family's standard of living. Of course, my training you is not dependant on your acceptance of the job, but the job is dependent on my training you."

Billy was dumbfounded. After a few minutes he began frantically looking around the zoo as if to find hidden cameras. "Okay, Hung, what's da punch line? Dis is one fucked up little prank you pullin'."

"This is no prank and the punch line is that your skinny black ass is mine every morning from eight until ten and ten hours every weekend." Billy turned to see Hung smiling.

"No shit? You serious?"

"As a cowboy with hemorrhoids."

"So who would I be workin' for?"

"You know my friend Shui?"

"Yeah."

"His family."

Billy strolled along in silence for a few minutes before saying, "Honest to God, Hung, I don't know what to say after, 'thank you and yes'."

"I believe that will suffice." Hung's smile faded, "But from this point on, you will speak grammatically correct English, or I will be forced to use proven Chinese correctional technique."

"'Chinese correctional technique'... Okay, I gotta axe what da hell that's supp--"

Whack! Billy didn't even see Hung's hand move but he certainly felt the evidence of it on the back of his head.

"Whoa, chief! Why da fuck you gotta smack a brotha in the damn--"

WHACK!

"Shit! Okay! Okay! I get it! Grammatically correct English, for Christ's sake." He looked off at a monkey scratching its unmentionables and mumbled something sounding to Hung like, "Crazy fucking rice cake."

"What was that, Grasshopper?" Hung queried.

Billy's cringed, "I said, 'Lazy monkey's got a nice place'."

They strolled on as Billy rubbed his head. As they approached the lion's area Billy saw that a standard issue, self deluded fruit loop had just climbed on the narrow waist-high exhibit wall and perched high above the lions below. Presumably this was so the lions would see his unadulterated devotion to their liberation. He launched into a tirade about the inherent evil of animal captivity to passersby. The two nearby mothers quickly began herding their respective groups of children away, but Hung tapped his cane on a line straight for him.

"--the King of the Jungle shouldn't be relegated to a life sentence! To hold these animals in captivity is a crime against nature! They deserve to be free, not rotting in a cage!"

Billy looked around. The area had cleared but for the three of them and security wasn't in sight. He had to wonder why Hung wanted to hear any of the ramblings.

For his part, Hung stopped a few feet away and asked, "Wouldn't there be a problem with the lions eating people?"

The question only seemed to incense the protestor. "So what if they did? If it's part of their nature they deserve to be allowed to be themselves!"

Hung grunted, "Perhaps you would think differently if our ancestors hadn't sacrificed so much to eliminate the more aggressive predators and made the world a safer place for you to live in. One could be gnawing on your carcass even now."

The protestor, fully committed to his mission, never even slowed to consider Hung's words. "You mean like how we've run species after species to the point of extinction and beyond? Not a chance! The human race is a blight in the face of nature! These poor creatures have more right to be here than us!"

"You really believe that the needs and wants of that lion behind you are more important than you?"

"Absolutely! We've abused our position at the top of the food chain for far too long! It's time to start giving back!" he said without hesitation.

Billy could see the security cart headed towards them now. It was only about a hundred yards away, but a hundred and thirty five via the winding path.

"Very well." Hung turned his head in the direction of the three lions staring up at the protestor. "I suspect they want something to eat." said Hung as with a flick of his wrist, he whipped his cane through the air about an inch or two in front of the squatting man's face, who, in turn, reflexively jerked back... and down into the suddenly very active lion's exhibit.

Hung turned and suggested to Billy, "He would have wanted it that way," and began walking away.

Billy was taken aback to say the least. He wasn't concerned about being implicated in the protestor's misfortune. No, from the security cart occupant's vantage, it didn't look as if either Hung or Billy had moved at all when the fellow obviously lost his balance. Nor was it that he found a sudden violent death shocking. He'd grown up with that. Just a part of life. It was just so casual... And unexpected... And trivial. But what really shocked Billy was thinking that subtracting just one fruit loop from the equation actually did make life just a little more bearable.

When he finally managed to close his mouth and blink again, he turned and trotted through the small rush of onlookers after Hung. "Hung, I think you may take debates a little too seriously. Remind me to never bring up gun control with you."

~~~

The following Monday morning, Billy met Shui at his office in Los Angeles. The subtle, if not boring façade betrayed nothing of the building's palatial inner workings. Beyond the spacious and tastefully decorated offices and conference rooms, there was a movie theater that doubled as an indoor driving range, a game room, a cafeteria, a small French bistro, a daycare, laundry room, pool, sauna, ten man Jacuzzi, four fully furnished apartments, a library on each floor each stocked with books pertaining to its own floor's milieu and oversized TV's in the private bathrooms. Billy couldn't help but wonder when he'd be waking up. Shui escorted Billy into an office that could have housed Billy's entire family. Shui took one of four chairs surrounding a teak coffee table and gestured to the one to his right for Billy.

Billy's eyes were drawn to a very old painting that hung behind Shui. There were three figures in the photo, a middle aged man stood just behind a seated man and woman, with the look of someone that sees the humor in life but realizes that the joke is on him. The second man looked to be around the same age as the first, but of a more optimistic disposition. The woman was younger than her companions and bore a radiance that must have been the artist's handiwork. They were all dressed in the loose gaudy garments of centuries passed. Billy, already a bit nervous at the prospect of being interviewed, hazarded a guess, "Sixteenth century?"

Shui nodded, "Close. Fifteenth."

On a hunch, Billy made an observation, "You bear a resemblance to the man sitting down."

Shui chuckled, "I'm sure the Van Eyck brothers would be flattered that there work captured that," he turned his attention to the painting for a moment, "They are... ancestors. The painting was commissioned in 1422. Hubert and Jan Van Eyck completed it in the spring of 1424. The two men had numerous portraits done of them but this is the only portrait of the lady. She died a short while later." he said frankly.

Billy nodded, "You're lucky. I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going on that far up my family tree, let alone what they looked like." Seeing that Shui knew his family tree rather well, Billy decided to take Hung's advice and ask a few questions to get a better feel for the man. "So when did your family tree branch out across the Atlantic?"

Shui didn't hesitate, "I am definitively the first of my family to even visit the Americas, though a lot of family did follow my example. How about your family?"

"Well, I didn't even know my dad so that frees up a lot of my hard drive. On the other side, my mom didn't know much more about her grandparents than their names. Her mom died in Dallas back in the late '60's. Her dad moved her and her brother out here a few years later. He died when I was seven. I don't remember much about him aside from his laugh. But beyond that, I'm guessing, if you go back far enough, there was some poor schmuck that took an all-inclusive cruise across the ocean from Africa."Billy glanced at the painting again, shrugged and said, "I'm guessing you can trace yours back a long way."

Shui looked at Billy for a moment, then picked up a pad from the table and jotted a note down before saying, "Let's just say it's almost scary," and shrugged himself. "It's too bad we don't know more about yours, though. I would have liked to have seen just what genetic currents led to your particular genius... I'm not only going by Hung's assessment of your skills. I took the liberty of having a fairly thorough dossier compiled on you. There are signed statements from the majority of your teachers from preschool on up. It seems that most were oblivious to your talents and wrote you off as 'adequate', while a few were sharp enough to see through the smoke screen you put up and recognized an uncommon brilliance. A Mr. Eldridge went on a veritable rant about how Einstein was a mental dwarf next to you. Your early years were the most telling, though. Which, given what Hung says about your moderating yourself to avoid alienating yourself, only makes sense. But apparently, you were able to relocate one of your First grade classmate's shoulders after a teeter-totter incident before the teacher could get to her. And, later that year, you examined and correctly diagnosed the same teacher's spontaneous pneumothorax, though you referred to it by its more common name of a collapsed lung.

"Yes, I would have liked to have known your lineage in more detail..."

Billy looked dazed, "Wait a minute... Mr. Eldridge hated me! Why would he give me a good review?"

"I suspect you mistook sternness for hatred. He said he saw in you something most teachers wouldn't even know to look for during the course of their careers."

Billy shook off the mystified pride that was welling within him and decided to cut to the chase, "Well, you seem to have access to references I didn't even know I had, but what I'm really interested in is what I need to say or do to land the job you're offering. The details of the job are irrelevant to me. You name it and I can probably do it. If I can't, it won't take me long to figure out how to. And I'm willing to take any test you can dream up to prove it."

Shui gave a lighthearted laugh, "My apologies, Billy, I've been keeping you in suspense for no apparent reason. The job has been yours for the taking since before Hung spoke to you about it." He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, "The reason I asked you here today was to formally offer the job and explain the expectations and protocol that goes with it."

Shui went on to explain the secretive nature of the job (enduringly referred to as The Neo-Prometheus Project in tribute to Mary Shelly's inspiring book) and impressed the level of security involved. Billy would initially be working independently, and would present his findings and observations to Shui weekly. From there he may be instructed to forward the work to any one of a dozen different departments, or to sit on it until it was needed. That arrangement would continue until something else was warranted.

Shui made a point to stress that employment was contingent on Billy's furthering his education and his training with Hung. He proposed a bi-weekly meeting that would include Hung, who was intimately familiar with the company mission.

Their meeting concluded with a handshake, a key and Shui handing over an advancement check worth more than Billy had earned in his entire life.

The key had an address printed on the key ring tag and Shui left it up to Billy to figure out its purpose. After a trip to the bank to open a checking account, Billy took a cab to the address on the key. Within three hours of leaving Shui, Billy found himself unlocking the door of a large house on the north side of Santa Monica.

On the table just inside the door, an envelope sat propped with his name printed on it. Inside Billy found a letter explaining that the house was being loaned to him for a period of five years or for the duration of his employment, whichever came first. The fully furnished, eight bedroom house had a garage, a pool, a privacy fence, a backup generator, a panic room and enough living space to comfortably accommodate Billy's entire family. There was also a list of recommended schools and programs ranging from athletics to the arts for his siblings.

Finally, the letter gave instructions and a pass code for accessing a fully functioning laboratory, located beneath one of the twin master bedrooms, where he would find his work identification and an introductory program waiting on the main computer terminal.

Billy collapsed into a chair and tried to shake the surreal feeling that overrode his senses.

After a few minutes to organize his thoughts and make a plan of action, he made a quick tour of the house and grounds and found himself at the hidden keypad that accessed the laboratory. As he descended the stairs, florescent lights flickered to life in the cavernous lab. Rows of tables and equipment radiated outward from a bank of computer monitors in the center of the room.

After ambling through the equipment, Billy seated himself at the main console and watched the words 'let there be light' endlessly bounce around the screensaver.

He took a deep breath and nudged the mouse. The sound of a small bell chimed and a CG image of a woman appeared on the screen. She smiled and said, "Hello Billy. Shall we begin?"

Billy scrolled the mouse cursor around the screen waiting for a 'yes' box to appear but none came. After clicking on his new companion's nose a few times with no results, Billy cleared his throat and gave a tentative, "Yes?"

The CG woman smiled again and said, "Perhaps we should begin with a name. My default title is Peggy, but you may choose another name for me if you wish. Do you have a preference?"

Billy gave a short laugh and said, "Yeah, I'm going to call you... Tab," while thinking of a coworker named Tabitha he'd had been in awe of for the last month at Wal-Mart. He would have made a play for her, but his personal philosophy was that he while he had no qualms about screwing up his own relationships, he adamantly refused to muck about in other people's. Alas, Tab was engaged.

The newly christened Tab launched into a detailed account of The Neo-Prometheus Project's accomplishments and goals. Billy, who'd always kept on top of most published advancements in science, was astonished with the unpublished progress Tab was revealing to him. He found himself forming new theories and applications as she updated him. By the time Tab had concluded the introduction and laboratory tutorial, Billy had half filled a legal pad with notes and ideas he wanted to explore.

At three that afternoon, Billy forced himself to step away from his work and called a rental car agent and was picked up in a Toyota Sequoya half an hour later. Once he was alone on the road, he called Hung to thank him again to ask another favor, to which Hung agreed.

Fighting to keep the euphoria in check, he drove to his home in Compton and herded his mother and siblings into the SUV under the pretense of going out for dinner.

While sitting at the table at Maggiano's, his mother eyed him suspiciously and Billy knew she suspected him of some nefarious new occupation. He smiled to himself as he verbally danced around giving an explanation for dining at an establishment that didn't boast about its dollar menu as well as the mysterious car rental.

After dinner, Billy insisted on taking everyone for a ride. He joked with the kids between repeatedly assuring his mother that he hadn't joined a gang, wasn't selling drugs, didn't kidnap anyone for ransom, never even considered robbing a bank nor anyone else and hadn't become a pimp overnight.

At eight PM sharp, Billy pulled the rental into the driveway of the new home. His siblings gawked at the house while his mother was checking for traffic and waited for him to complete what was obviously a quick turn-around. Her head snapped back to Billy when he turned the ignition to the off position.

"What are you doin'?" she asked coolly, "You are goin' to get the law called on us!"

Billy glanced in the rearview mirror as the cab pulled up just behind them. Everyone turned to see who it was. Billy opened his door and stepped out just as Hung did from the cab. Billy's mother and siblings followed suit. The younger children ran to Hung in the hopes that he would do his pull-a-quarter-from-behind-their-ear trick, which he did to each in turn as the cab backed out of the drive.

"Glad you could make it Hung. I was beginning to think Momma was going to beat the brakes of my butt if I didn't give her some kind of explanation soon." Billy turned and gave his mother a knowing wink.

Hung nodded and replied, "So you managed to keep a tight lip after all? In that case..." he turned to face Billy's mother and continued, "It is good to see you again Mrs. Smith especially so under the circumstance. Let me be the first to congratulate you for raising such a talented son and for the success that he is now coming into."

Billy's mother cocked an eyebrow. She'd held Hung in very high regard ever since he'd saved Billy from the second half of a severe beating at the hands of Xerxes. She smiled and said, "Always a pleasure to see you Mr. Chan, but I still don't know what's goin' on..." She turned to Billy and continued, "You'd better start explaining yourself young man."

Billy couldn't have smiled any wider if he wanted to, "Momma, Hung got me a new job. As of this morning, I'm the newest employee of Bryke Laboratories. The two conditions that go along with the job are that I have to go to college and I have to train with Hung."

Billy's mother's jaw worked for a moment as she pieced the unexpected news together with life as she'd always known it. "Does it pay good?" was the first question that came to mind, but she kept it in check knowing it would be rude to jump to that first. Instead, she looked up at Billy and asked, "So what does this mean? I like the sound of college, but we'll have to figure out how to pay for it."

Billy laughed, "Momma, they gave me a $50,000 advancement check this morning and a house to live in for the first five years." He nodded towards the house.

She glanced toward the house then back to Billy. Suddenly her eyes went wide and her eyes whipped back to the house as realization dawned. Slowly her mouth dropped open as she raised her hands to cover it.

Billy saw tears forming in her eyes as he stepped next to her and put an arm around her. "This is our new home, Momma."

She gave an inarticulate squeak as she cried. Then she turned and hugged Billy as she buried her face in his shirt.

He couldn't see it, but Hung could feel the euphoric pride Billy radiated.

From behind him, Billy heard his oldest sister say, "Naw, for real?"

Billy looked over his shoulder and said, "Nah, I just dragged all of you guys all the way up here and talked Hung into lying for me just to yank your chains. Yeah, Mitzy! It's for real."

All of his siblings began crowding around Billy and his mother in a flurry of excitement. Billy began guiding his mother up to the door and ushered everyone in.

While the kids swarmed the house and laid claim to bedrooms and his mother wandered from room to room in search of the kitchen, Billy stood just inside the front door with Hung.

"I don't know how I can ever pay you back for all of this, Hung."

Hung smiled and replied, "Easy. Skip the pissing and moaning, and do what you're told during your training."

Billy nodded and said, "You got it." Just then, his youngest sister ran around the corner on a high speed architectural survey. "Hey Shela!"

She stopped on the spot and beamed at Billy, "Yeah?"

"I have a deal for you."

Still smiling sweetly she asked, "What kinda deal?"

"Well if you will go get me and Hung a cold drink from the kitchen, I'll..." he tapped his finger on his lower lip.

"You'll what?"

"...I will not hold you down and spit in your ear."

Though the smile remained, exasperation spread to every other part of her face, "What?!"

Billy and Hung sniggered at the amusing combination of expressions that only a little kid can pull off in ernest as she turned and ran for the kitchen.

He hesitated and asked the question that had been stomping around the back of his mind for days, "Hung, who is it?"

Hung raised his eyebrows, "I'm going with Santa Clause until you elaborate more on that question."

"The one who's better than you at fighting. I've been trying to figure out some philosophical or anthropomorphic manifestation that might fit the bill like 'death' or 'the human spirit', but you aren't bullshitting are you? There really is someone better than you out there. So, who is it?"

Hung chuckled and gave Billy's shoulder a comforting pat, "That would be your new boss."

"For real? Shui?"

"Nah, I just implied to my student that someone else could hand me my ass with a honey glaze and toothpicks holding the pineapple rings in place to inspire him. Yeah Billy, for real."

Chapter 10

Anticlimactic Revelations

~

Tamesis looked at Mike, then her notes, and finally a contemplative stare out the window into the night. "Okay, I suspect everyone is accounted for and you've built up the suspense long enough. Now, who is behind this insanity?"

Mike smiled, "That was a question that cost me a lot of sleep. It wasn't until a few months ago that I finally stumbled across the one piece of the puzzle that pointed a finger directly at the man behind it all."

~~~

The sun had set more than an hour before and a biting wind was rolling into town off the water. As far as commercial property went, it was a nice neighborhood. Several taverns lined the block. Mike double checked the name and address on the top sheet of his open note pad. Dr. Alexander Maple, office: 4560 East Briarcrest Lane.

Mike had called the day before and set up an interview time that was convenient for the doctor. It turned out that time was the end of the work day.

Mike had hoped something would come of this meeting. He was working follow-ups for any information into the murder of an elderly and rather wealthy gentleman and the disappearance of his twenty-three year old wife. It seemed pretty cut and dry, but mike didn't want any loopholes magically appearing when they found the little lady of the house a put her on trial.

Mike sat amongst the artificial plants in the lobby and flipped through a back issue of a muscle car magazine as he waited. Occasionally, a patient appeared at one of the doors on either side of the receptionist's station and donned their coat as they headed out the front entrance.

Half way through an article on the installation of a Holly four-barrel carburetor for a '68 GTO, Mike heard his name called. The receptionist wore a white shawl and carried a duffle-bag-sized purse as she led Mike to the doctor's office. An unusually attractive nurse walked by with a stack of files. She glanced at Mike and gave a brief smile-and-nod greeting.

The doctor sat behind his desk reviewing a patient's folder with a pen in hand and a desktop computer logged onto what Mike assumed to be some sort of medical professional's site. He didn't seem to notice Mike or the receptionist standing at the door.

She announced, "Detective Hendrix is here Alex. I'll see you in the morning."

The doctor looked up and smiled, "Thanks Becca. I'll see you then. Have a good night." He turned his attention to Mike and gestured towards a tan, leather chair, "Please have a seat detective. What can I do for you tonight?"

The receptionist closed the door behind him as Mike stepped forward and sat, "I understand that Frank Horne was a patient of yours. We're looking for his wife at the moment and I'm wondering if you could shed some light on a few points of interest for me."

The doctor took on a concerned expression, "Yes, I read about Frank in yesterday's paper. I'm sorry to hear about his passing. I'd be more than happy to assist in so far as I can detective."

"I'm mostly trying to find out if Mr. Horne had any kind of heart conditions. We found a few types of E.D. medications so I'm assuming he wasn't on any significant blood pressure medications..."

A knock at the door garnered both men's attention. "Yes?" asked the doctor.

The receptionist's head bobbed inside the door just long enough to say, "I'm sorry Alex, but Mrs. Crenshaw just came into the lobby complaining about dizziness and then fainted. April is with her right now but she's worried Mrs. Crenshaw may have concussed herself when she fell.

The doctor stood and rounded his desk, "Please excuse me, detective, duty calls."

~~~

Mike looked around the room with more interest than he had when people were around to keep him in check. Okay, he was snooping. It's what cops do. After checking the names on the diplomas and a quick review of the bookshelf's content, Mike leaned forward to have a look at the names on the files stacked near the center of the desk. No one familiar

Then there was the untitled folder sitting under the edge of the monitor. Mike could see part of a newspaper clipping jutting out. He recognized it immediately. It was the front page of the times from the day after the mayor went missing.

Curiosity prevailed and Mike picked up the folder and began flipping through it. There were clippings from all of the murders related to the case. Something about that didn't set right in Mike's mind but he couldn't put his finger on the elusive inconsistency.

The door opened behind him and the doctor reentered the office. He frowned, "I'm pretty sure that has no relation to your queries, detective."

Mike was caught off guard and confessed, "I recognized the article that was sticking out of the folder. It was one of my cases." He handed the folder back and continued, "If you don't mind me asking, what's your interest in the case?"

The doctor's demeanor softened, "In my spare time, I'm a bit of an armchair sleuth and those murders struck me as interesting. The fact that they are still unsolved makes them that much more tantalizing, but that's about the extent of my curiosity." He said dismissively and tucked the folder in a desk drawer.

Mike wanted to pursue the topic further but saw that the doctor obviously didn't. He tucked the fact away and returned to the subject of Mr. Horne. Unfortunately, that didn't uncover much aside from a visit from Mrs. Horne a few months earlier to request the doctor limit Mr. Horne's Cialis prescription. Apparently, they were quite effective for the old fellow and the young Mrs. Horne had certain reservations.

~~~

Later that evening, Mike sipped on a Miller Light at the bar, a block from his house, and replayed the interview in his mind. It didn't make sense that a self professed 'armchair sleuth' wouldn't want to talk at length about the case he was studying, especially when the lead detective on the case was right there.

Mike watched a couple of regulars wind up a game of 501 at the dartboard and ran the scene over yet again. Someone interrupted his concentration with a, "'S up Mike? Ya look distracted as a yung'un stuck in a giant jellybean's ass."

Mike turned to face Sgt. Davidson, "Oh, hey Will, I was just thinkin' about this doctor I interviewed earlier. He had a folder full of newspaper clippings on Mayor Jackson's case. I asked about it and he didn't seem that inclined to talk about it. Not that he got his feathers ruffled or anything. He just acted like it wasn't important enough to discus."

Mike shrugged, "Something just seems off and it's aggravating the hell out of me. I've been trying to figure it out for hours... What flavor of jellybean?"

"Tootie fruity," Will replied and signaled the bartender for his usual. "Wish I could help ya, but I didn't get in on Mayor Jackson's case. I's still tied up with thu hazmat teams cleanin' junkie guts and bear shit outta all 'em meth houses."

"Well, whatever it is, it'll come to me or drive me nuts, one or the other..." Mike's words tapered off as he stared at Sgt. Davidson blankly. "You were working the other scenes."

"Uhh... yeah Mike, I think we covered that masterpiece o' trivia. How many ya had ta drink, buddy?"

"How did he know?"

"Yur goin' ta clue me in own what the hell yur talkin' about any second now, right?"

Mike focused on Sgt. Davidson again, "How did he know all of those cases were related? We never told the press that they had anything in common. There might be a dozen people that know that they're related. How could anybody put that together just by reading the Times? This guy knows something, Will, and I'm going to find out what."

~~~

It only took Mike a day and a half to find out about the disappearance of Dr. Maple's daughter. Then, after he started tracking down a small army of private investigators sent out to find her, the link to smalltime hood, Mitch Johnson, and his long ago vanishing act fell into place with the mystery.

Mike didn't have any trouble finding Mitch's connection with Leo Mason. Informants don't put up much resistance when everyone they're being asked about died a few years before.

It all made sense suddenly. This Dr. Maple lost his daughter to the scum of the city, did a thorough job on his homework and proceeded to go off the reservation and his medication at the same time. It's almost as if when something snaps inside the quiet ones, that something is the regulator for their internal nitrous oxide canisters. It was hard imagining Dr. Maple, or anyone else for that matter, being capable of the atrocities that had been committed. But then, when you mess with a man's family, you're just asking for a mouthful of your own nuts. It may not happen, but when it does, don't expect any mercy.

Mike felt he had enough reasonable doubt to warrant putting a tail on Dr. Maple just in case. An unmarked car observed his movements around the clock.

~~~

Mike scheduled another meeting with the good Dr. for the following evening. In the mean time, he dug up everything he could find on the man.

That turned out to be very little. A search of the records of the DMV and the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) databases for a start. They showed that the doctor apparently hadn't received his driver's license until he was twenty-nine. He drove a three year old Mercedes... and that was it. No accidents, prior arrests or even tickets for that matter. No registered guns or permits, which was a tidbit Mike tucked away for future reference since he was curious how an average, everyday, middle aged doctor managed to abduct and or kill more than a dozen healthy men, many of whom had a history of violent behavior, in so short a time.

A Google search turned up three Dr. Alexander Maples. One had been dead for forty-two years and another for seventy-six. Mike assumed the current Dr. Maples was related to the first because of an old photo that showed an uncanny resemblance. The man in question had received his diplomas some eighteen years earlier, which was around the time his daughter would have been born. Beyond that, the search engine didn't to give much to go on.

Mike knew there had to be something else, but after searching every database he could think of, he was out of practical ideas.

The obvious next step didn't turn up much either. Mike interviewed as many people that knew the doctor as he could find. In his effort to not tip of the subject of his investigation, he was discrete. His usual method was to question the person about some fictitious crime and just happen to mention Dr. Maples. Usually, by the time he'd dropped the name a few times, the interviewee would start volunteering info. The only problem was that they all loved the guy. What was worse is that none of them really seemed to know much about him.

~~~

Mike rechecked his guns and the wire he wore on his chest. Stepping out of his car, he intentionally avoided making eye contact with the officer in the unmarked car in the front row of the parking lot across the street.

In the waiting room, he picked up his GTO carburetor article where he'd left off and relaxed.

It was pretty much a repeat performance up until he sat in the leather chair across for the doctor.

Dr. Maple interlocked his fingers with his elbows propped on the desk. "So what can I do for you today, Detective Hendrix? Any luck on finding Mrs. Horne?"

"None so far Doctor. But I'm actually here about another matter. I'm interested in the progress you've made with the other case." Mike let the comment hang in the air.

Without missing a beat, Dr. Maple's expression turned to one of confusion, "You've lost me there. Is there another of my patients you're looking for information on?"

If he didn't know better, Mike would think he was genuinely lost on the subject. Since he did know better he could feel his face flush as the man played dumb. "I'm referring to Mayor Jackson's case. The one you had the substantial amount of information on just a few days ago."

"Uhh... yeeaaah. Are you feeling well detective?"

"I feel perfectly fine. But I'm not here for a checkup Doctor. I am however here to ask you a few questions about your research into the disappearance of the mayor four years ago."

"Well this is awkward. I'm sorry detective, but I haven't the foggiest notion of what you're talking about. Perhaps you've confused me with someone else. Can I have someone bring you a glass of water? Did you know that you're exhibiting signs of hypertension? You should get that looked into."

"Fine Dr. Maple, we'll do this the hard way." Mike said as he stood to leave. At the door, he turned and announced, "We know about Soya Doctor, and we know her connection to the case. You'd do well to cooperate, you know?"

The doctor's innocent façade cracked momentarily as tensed his mouth into a scowl. As soon as it appeared, it left though and he simply replied, "Have a good evening Detective."

~~~

Mike looked at Tamesis, "It took a little convincing, but we got the warrants to search his car, home and office. If there was anything to find, we'd find it.

"We showed up at both his home on Lincoln Drive and at his office on Briarcrest at six in the morning. He had been waiting for us. He opened his front door with a mug of coffee in one hand and his cell phone in the other.

"We served the warrants and proceeded to search his house.

"He was exceedingly calm about the whole thing. When he called his lawyer, he sounded like he was calling his best friend. He made a golf date for that Saturday before he even mentioned that we were there.

"There was nothing. No sign of the victims or a crime. We couldn't even find the newspaper clipping for that matter. It was obvious the guy had done his work elsewhere or covered his tracks very well. Even the private dicks that had led me to Maple's motive had disappeared.

"As for me, I caught nine kinds of Hell for the rest of the day. Apparently, the firm of Gruber, Madison and Hudson was making demands for a bag of quick-start charcoal briquettes and my carcass on a spit.

"It didn't get any better as the week wore on. Strings were being pulled at every level. Within forty-eight hours I had a harassment suit and a slander suit filed against me. The receptionist was claiming that she'd seen me stalking and even accosting Dr. Maple for weeks.

"I was officially taken off the case and forbidden to speak to anyone about it.

"The following day, an Internal Affairs investigation was launched against me. It was resolved due to lack of evidence after I was placed on a two week suspension."

Mike's expression was understandably devoid of glee, "I'll tell you now Ms Hanley, if you decide to pursue this story, watch your ass, because those piranhas will gnaw it off in no time, if given half a chance."

Tamesis cocked an eyebrow as her lips curled into a frank smile, "I have no intentions of walking away from this story, so I'll be sure to protect myself Detective." She glanced at her notes again and put on a quizzical expression. "I am curious about one thing, though. Did you ever figure out the pertinence of the symbols that kept popping up?"

"My best guess is that they were a diversionary tactic; meant to make us think the killer was motivated by some archaic ideology. Maybe some kind of cult or just a wack-job that was completely out of touch with reality."

"Makes as much sense as anything, I suppose. Well, I'm going to assume that concludes our interview, then? Unless there's anything else you'd like to add..."

"No that's pretty much everything. Thanks for hearing me out. I only hope you have better luck than I did."

Tamesis looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "Just one question remains then: how were there more than one of each body?"

Mike shrugged his shoulders, "The only answers I came up with all sound like science fiction, voodoo or some other brand of hocus pocus."

With that they rose and Tamesis walked him to the door where Mike hesitated and then began hopefully, "Look, I know you're probably already involved or something, but if you ever want to go out and have a beer sometime, give me a call."

She smiled and kept eye contact, "I'm flattered Detective, and you are a handsome man, but I'm afraid you aren't quite my type."

Mike feigned devastation and said, "Story of my life. Well it was good talking to you. Good luck and goodnight." He turned and walked down the steps to the elm lined sidewalk.

~~~

Tamesis closed the door behind the detective and watched through the peep-hole as he wandered down the street to what appeared to be a '69 corvette stingray. When he started it and pulled away, she dove for the phone.

She punched in three digits.

"Hello, information? Do you show a listing for a Dr. Alexander Maple on Lincoln Drive?" She waited with her pen hovering over the legal pad she'd been jotting notes on all evening just before jotting down the digits. "Thank you, and do you have the address as well?" The pen scribbled in a flurry. "Okay, I have it all. Thank you again."

She hung up the phone and thought: N _ow I just have to pay the bastard a visit before anybody gets suspicious. But first, research..._

Chapter 11

Hope Realized... Sorta

### ~

The Keeper picked up a tennis ball and began rebounding it off the nearest window as he continued, "Anyway, the early twentieth century was even more amazing than Bob could have imagined. He relocated to The United States during World War II. There were times that technology almost scared him. Quite literally in the case of weapons technology and the cold war. Being able to heal quickly and hold your breath indefinitely didn't hold much water if you happened to be an elongated cloud of charred amino acids riding the wake of a thermo-nuclear explosion.

"What disturbed him even more was the bizarre change in the social norm brought on by the ease of social networking on a global scale. By default, life is often brutal and unfair, but from the latter half of the twentieth century, western civilization's growing habit of not only condoning but protecting and enforcing the views and actions extremists and the morally deranged seems to have only encouraged the exploitation of honest and decent people. You'd have to dig through centuries of groups, clubs and societies to find anything approaching the depravity of NAMBLA--That's the North American Man Boy Love Association, Mr. Mason, but I suspect Mr. Jordan may well have already touted its virtues to you. And I seriously doubt there has ever been a time where it was the norm for society being expected to accept even partial blame for the illicit activities of criminals. Or a time when terrorism, whether religiously motivated or ideologically, had so many of its victims not only defending but often choosing to join them. Sure, it has happened on a small scale when the psychologically fragile were involved, but the sheer number of people in this country that so quickly came to the defense of the cultural sanctity and privacy of those sharing the religious ideology that motivated those responsible for killing thousands of innocents, was staggering. The same goes for wars. Who would have thought that people would ever seriously and openly try to handicap their own side in a conflict because of political ideology? 'I support the troops!' doesn't carry much water when you despise and ridicule what they are doing.

"I could go on about this shit all day, but Hung wrapped up a lot of what's wrong with the mentality of so many people a while back. He had a conversation that repeatedly pointed out that you can't just pick and choose the facts when you are considering complex social issues. Perhaps you caught it online. It all started when Billy started his fourth semester..."

~~~

Upon the advice of Shui, Billy managed to set aside ample time to spend with his family despite his hectic schedule.

Though his mind was on the job every free moment, he usually only logged around thirty hours a week working. It was all theoretical work based on bizarre combinations of concepts cloning, cryogenics, cellular rejuvenation, methods of prolonging life, genetic manipulation of human DNA and that of a variety of parasitic single cell organisms, and the reanimation of dead tissue, just to begin with. He particularly relished theorizing on hypothetical problems that had never occurred to him as being of any practical consequence, such as how to keep an eminent scientist alive long after an accident had damaged his or her body beyond its ability to sustain life. Once, he was even asked to hypothesize the effects various dosages of an array of stimulants on a range of predators that could induce varying degrees of addictions. In short, with his knack for imaginative and unorthodox postulation, he couldn't have come up with a more suitable career.

Training with Hung was brutal but rewarding. It was a calculated balance of the obligatory, yet tedious, physical conditioning juxtaposed with a steady introduction of ingenious manipulations of both his and adversarial bodies. His confidence and bruise count were bolstered continuously as his speed, stamina, strength and skill grew. Mentally, Hung challenged him to question everything and only accept wholly that that came with definitive proof. At the same time, he was learning how to identify what motivates different types of people and how to identify those that elusive few that are smart enough to hide their intelligence.

School was a no-brainer. The material was sophomoric next to his work, so he branched out into a variety of non-requisite courses out of curiosity. Before he knew it, he was aspiring to acquire degrees in pharmacology, biology, mathematics, business, phys-ed as well as mechanical, computer and chemical engineering.

His only sticking point was in what was supposed to be an American Literature course. Despite all formal indicators, it was in all actuality a perpetual liberal bitch-fest. The Professor, Dr. Algernon Waters, or Al to his sparse collection of friends, was apparently a guilt-ridden white guy that atoned by mindlessly defended minorities of all types, the environment, secularism, animal rights, any social program initiated by Democrats and all things liberal regardless of merit or logic. Conversely, he eagerly demonized anything that didn't conform to his own ideology... including Caucasian males.

At first, Billy didn't realize there was anything significantly out of sorts in the class. He'd heard the same paradigm in one version or another for most of his life. And the university was, for all intents and purposes, run by ideological throwbacks from the sixties. You couldn't swing a bag of weed without hitting a hippy. But he quickly saw that this particular professor took a perverse pleasure in his knack for singling out the white males in the class and implicating them by proxy with everything from racism and genocide, to environmental destruction and faunal extinction, to sexism and even rape. He was quick to attack, efficient, ruthless and always followed up, once he had a target, until the target disappeared. In short, he was a tenured bully and knew that his victims were powerless to do anything about it. Having both figured this out and being of a minority left Billy with conflicting notions of immunity and injustice. Before meeting Hung, he likely wouldn't have even noticed. But the crazy old prick had managed to open Billy's eye to more than he could ignore.

During the first few weeks, Billy had watched as Professor Waters repeatedly applied the same tactics in attacking his prey. Using his linformal status as Lord of the Classroom, he would habitually interrupted any response, observation or even query of his victim and take the liberty to expertly fabricated their position for them while carefully wording it in such a way that he could rip it apart and ridicule them openly.

Perhaps what bothered Billy most about the situation was that some of the other "immune" students were starting to join in on the abuse by jeering and outright baiting the Professor's victims.

Billy had brought the subject up with Hung and Shui. Both could see that Billy was struggling with the situation. Hung advised him that in a direct confrontation with Professor Waters, he would likely sustain a similar fate, wherein he would probably be showcased as 'a misguided simpleton that was suckling at the teat of the establishment's propaganda', or possibly demonized as a gun-totin', drug-pushing', ho-pimpin' thug but ultimately a product of the white man's oppression, of course.

"It is always," Hung said absently, "prudent to first study your enemy. Get to know his tactics and his motivations before you deal with him, because your enemy is often your greatest teacher." Hung turned his milky eyes towards Shui and continued, "Perhaps in this instance, though, the persecution of the innocent justifies an expeditious intervention..."

Billy looked at Shui. Smiling, Shui winked at Billy and said to Hung, "I think I'll have a chat with Jonnedee." Seeing Billy's look of incomprehension, he reassured him, "Don't sweat the little stuff, Billy. I'm sure the future will prove to be... enlightening."

~~~

The following Thursday, Billy entered Professor Waters' class and noticed something he hadn't expected. All of the students that had one-by-one stopped coming to the class after suffering Professor Waters' tirades were back. There were even a few new faces in the room. One of which happened to belong to an old blind Wal-Mart greeter sitting in the back row in a sensible charcoal gray suit.

Professor Waters swept into the room wearing his standard dark blue, suit jacket and lightweight, white turtleneck sweater, as he usually did, only to falter for a moment as he recognized the reemergence of his verbal punching bags. He quickly recovered and continued to the podium.

Sliding on his glasses only to look over them at the class, he observed, "I see that we are rejoined by some of our less than exemplary examples of consistent attendance." The acid in his tone was palpable. "I should hope that it is understood that you are all responsible for any material that you may have missed during your absences." He smiled at a middle-aged woman of African descent seated on the front row for a moment and then Hung with a hint of uncertainty. "As I understand it we also have two new attendees: Dr. Evans, our new Dean of Admissions, and Mr. Chan, who will be auditing the remainder of this course. It is a pleasure to have both of you joining us."

Leaving the formalities at that, he turned his attention back to his notes. "Ah yes, when last we met, we were discussing secularism in Literature. As an aside, I believe we were in agreement that religion has no place in government, and that--"

There was a chuckle of obvious disbelief.

Professor Waters' head snapped up, not fully concealing his annoyance at being interrupted, and homed in on Hung, "Is there a problem Mr. Chan?"

"How did you come to that conclusion?" asked Hung, sounding for all the world like Charlie Chan.

Despite the thick inflection decorating every other vowel, Billy would have recognized it as Hung's voice even at the Two Hundred and Second Annual Parisian Complaint Rally being sponsored by Bubba's Bathtub Winery of Alabama while finishing his second bottle of Absinth. He'd heard himself referred to as 'Number Two Son' by that accent far too many times.

Upon a quick reevaluation of who'd made the inquiry as well as the presence of the new Dean of Admissions' dispassionate yet searching expression, his features softened. "It was our collective assessment that a governing body should not be influenced by an entity, such as Christianity, whose deity cannot be proven to exist, while having the dubious distinction of bring about immeasurable misery and the untimely demise of more innocent people than The Plague." He smiled as if he were talking to an ignorant child, "I must apologize if this conclusion offends your Christian sensibilities, but I'm afraid those are the facts."

He dismissively turned his attention back to the rest of the class and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted again.

"I do not believe the existence of a god is relevant to the topic. The existence of morals is, however, of great concern to most people. I should also like to point out that I am not a Christian. I am, in fact, Agnostic."

Professor Waters looked at Hung in a new light. The light was a flashing neon affair and the letters coming into view were A-D-V-A-S-A-R-Y. Minority or no, it was obvious that Mr. Chan will have to be put in his place... He glanced to Dr. Evans. A diplomatic approach would be prudent.

"Would you be speaking of the 'morals' that condone the persecution of; a woman's right to chose what to do with her body, those who chose to mate with the same sex, the observers of other religions, those who don't wear the right clothes or that haven't the correct length of hair, users of contraceptives, consumers of alcohol or marijuana? That is just the tip of the moral iceberg, Mr. Chan. The Christian faith is, at it's foundation, nothing more than an organized strategy for hate, Mr. Chan, and I'll have nothing to do with it, nor should our government!"

Billy felt a twinge of pity for Hung as Professor Waters smiled, already basking in the triumphant afterglow of this brief semantic barrage.

Undeterred, Hung responded, "Actually, I was referring to the aversions to lying, cheating, stealing, adultery, coveting, killing, gluttony, greed, lust, wrath, envy... things of that nature--"

"All of which religion has been guilty of--"

"Let's keep this within the bounds of reality, Professor, and lay those faults at the feet of the actual guilty parties; from the unchecked tyrants that wormed their ways into religions to the petty miscreants with malicious intentions either from the start or gradually pursued. Religion isn't capable of physical action. However, manipulative and malicious miscreants that use it as a source of power are.

"But back to your topics of choice. By 'a woman's right to choose what to do with her body', I can only assume you are speaking of abortion. Is that correct?"

Billy noticed cell phones were discretely coming out and flashing back and forth between Hung and Professor Waters in an attempt to record the exchange in its entirety. One particularly enterprising student actually had a phone in each hand and recording both men simultaneously.

Professor Waters looked stunned. The question on his mind was written on his face: 'back to your topics of choice'? Does this guy really want to systematically question each of these self-evident axioms? "Yes, that is exactly what I was eluding to, Mr. Chan. I emphatically contend that a woman should be the ultimate authority on what happens to her body. It is and should be her choice, Mr. Chan. You will undoubtedly argue that it is murder, but I can say, with certainty, that it is not. No matter how you look at it, Mr. Chan, it is right. And now we need to turn our attention to today's--"

Hung's voice didn't rise, but somehow it took on an authority that cut through the professor's clipped faux-British speech. "That is not at all what I had intended to say, but perhaps we can come back to it in a few moments. I wished to point out that the choice was already made. Abortion is nothing more than a flagrant breach of contract."

Professor Waters looked confused for a moment. "Obviously the choice wasn't 'already made', or abortion wouldn't be an issue. As for 'contracts', Mr. Chan, we're not in the seventeenth century where such arrangement were commonplace, and for modern Americans, sex need only be consensual. No dowries required."

The class bubbled in a subdued laughter. Only Dr. Evans, Billy and the recently returned outcasts sat stolid and attentive. Professor Waters found that somewhat unnerving.

As the mirth subsided, a smiling Hung picked up the topic, "Yet, I believe that it is relatively safe to say that the vast majority of adults are aware of the purpose and consequences of mating. Has it never occurred to you that these women have already made her choice during conception? Whether consciously or unconsciously, if no contraceptive is used, both partners are consenting to create a human being. It is an agreement, or ipso facto contract, to share genetic material for the creation of life. And that today, beyond the rare case of necessity where rape has occurred or the mother's health is seriously endangered, abortion is little more than a vicious and barbaric method of retroactive contraception?"

Waters' eyes darted around the room. He obviously hadn't expected that approach and found that his only option was to fall back on a cliché. "A woman has a right to change her mind." The short-lived obligatory 'Mr. Chan' was notably omitted from the end of the sentence.

Hung saw the hint of Waters' trapped expression and his assumptions based on Billy's description were confirmed; He's dominated every argument he has ever encountered using bluster and pomp to put his counterpart on the defensive. I'd have to bet that he's never admitted to being wrong in his life. I'll just have to keep him off balance. "Even at the cost of a life? I thought killing, or 'the untimely demise of innocent lives' was sighted among your aversions to religion. Seems rather incongruous... And I have to confess to being rather curious as to why you would not extend the same rights to the child and its body."

Waters shook his head, "That isn't the same. A fetus is technically a part of the mother's body."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure that one half of the genetic makeup of a fetus is technically composed of the father, thus a separate entity, again, by default (unless you are regarding men as non-entities) even if parasitic in nature. But you are contending that a child in the womb is not a human? Or that the rights of an indecisive woman with lascivious habits should take precedence and allow her to kill her innocent child on a whim?" Hung knew he was spreading it on thick, but it was obvious that Waters wasn't much of a critical thinker. Even less so when he was on the defensive.

In an attempt to avoid letting Hung dictate his own words, Professor Waters said, "I'm contending that a fetus isn't self aware and is therefore not sentient. Thus, no, a fetus is not fully human."

"So self awareness is the requisite quality for being human?"

"Of course it is! As Rene Descartes said, 'I think; therefore I am!"

"He did indeed say that, though he said it in the context that because he thought, he must exist. He never implied that not thinking precluded human status. He also said, 'If you would be a real seeker of truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things', and 'the first precept was never to accept a thing as true until I knew it as such without a single doubt'. Your vehemence on the topic suggests that you've never subscribed to any other notion. Besides, how do you know if a fetus is self aware or not? There is evidence of mental activity in the womb."

"The brain of a fetus is not developed enough to be self aware." The authority in Professor Waters' voice grew as the subject matter veered back into familiar territory. "Random synaptic activity is hardly evidence of cognitive reasoning."

"Despite the fact that it may scream in pain as it is being aborted?"

"Yes, despite that! The fetus has no perception, no frame of reference, with which to form even the most rudimentary opinion." He'd had this portion of the debate numerous times before and could have recited his part of the narrative while defusing a bomb.

Hung furrowed his brow in feigned confusion, "I would have thought that screaming in pain would be indicative of the perception of... well, pain. That alone irrefutably infers an opinion of, 'it occurs to me that I'd really, really like you to stop scraping my brains out' at the very least. Though, the idea that the summation of any creature's life experience being exclusively dedicated to what must amount to excruciating pain is too horrific a price for a point of validation in a trivial deliberation. I truly hope that I am mistaken" Hung paused for the gravity of the concept to sink in.

Hung's eyebrows shot upwards, "Assuming you are correct and I am mistaken, the bright side is that I am sure comatose patients, the grossly retarded and the currently anesthetized everywhere are grateful you did not choose a career that put you in closer proximity to them."

Professor Waters scowled as several students tittered or attempted to hide smiles. Others adopted either a nervous perplexed look or mirrored the Professor's scowl.

One young woman, Ashley Amonette if Billy's memory was up to snuff, with a close cropped haircut, a flannel shirt covering an 'L7' T-shirt and a stunning jeans and hiking boots combo spun in her seat. Looking fit to be tied, she blurted out, "You're such a sexist pig! How can you live with yourself? It's our bodies and we have rights no matter what you say!" a twinkle of hope sparked in Professor Waters' eye as he realized his salvation could very well lay in the hands of his faithful constituency.

Hung looked in her direction calmly and replied, "I believe you to be mistaken, young lady. I hold women in very high regard. I believe that women should receive equal pay for equal work. I believe that because of current social paradigms, most women are not promoted when they should be and that when they are they are typically unfairly stereotyped. I believe that it is the woman who has the final say in sexual relations as well as a mind boggling array of subjects beyond the limited scope of typical male expertise. I believe that women are more methodical in decision making so long as it doesn't pertain to matters of the heart. Most of us are a mess in that arena, and it's difficult to say who is better off. I believe in women and children first. I believe women are far more observant than men on the whole. I also believe that, whether it is emotionally or carnally motivated, women are what men live for and that we spend a hell of a lot of time trying to make them happy. Along a similar vein, I believe a woman should be just that, a woman; A graceful and elegant incarnation of the divine in any social setting and as twisted as she wishes to be in private. Why a woman would even consider emulating the perpetual testosterone laced delirium that afflicts most men is beyond me. And finally, I know that I had nothing but adoration for my wife until the day she passed after thirty-eight years of marriage. So I reiterate; I believe you to be mistaken, young lady. I would also ask if you can bestow as much admiration on men and cast them in an equally flattering light, but as I am currently engaged in a discussion with Professor Waters, I fear that I must postpone the revelations of such a conversation."

He flashed a smile and said, "Take heart though. You have proven me miserably wrong on at least one point."

She looked confused from processing everything he'd just said, "What point?"

"Until I met you, I mistakenly thought I knew what beautiful was." he closed his cloudy eyes and gave a short bow of the head before turning back to Professor Waters.

The woman's jaw worked for a few moments before she slowly turned back towards the podium, glassy eyed and silently mouthing something Billy couldn't quite make out.

Hung acted as if the outburst hadn't occurred and shifted gears before his counterpart had a chance to repute his own observations, "Next on your list was homosexuality, was it not?"

Clearly flustered by the ease with which Hung had excluded the attempted intervention and the wanton flirtation, Professor Waters leaped at the opportunity to change the topic. "Yes it was. And it is obvious that you are going to brand it is 'unnatural' or 'an abomination'. As, I would have to bring your attention to the fact that homosexual behavior has been documented in over 1500 different speci--"

"No, I wasn't," interrupted Hung. "I was actually going to say that the majority of Christians, though they do not approve of the act in and of itself, have come to grips with its existence and typically do little more than ignore that portion of a practitioner's lifestyle. There are the occasional teasing and gossip, but fellow heterosexuals' susceptibility to the same is every bit as pervasive. While not wholly comfortable with it, this is not a topic that most Christians are particularly militant about. Though, admittedly, as with any demographic, there are some who would discriminate. In fact, it is far more often the case that some braggadocios bully suddenly highjack's Christianity as a shield during or after perpetuating a violent or discriminatory act... much as Osama bin Laden chose to hide behind the Muslim faith."

Professor Waters, after seeing it use so well against himself, suspecting he should embrace an approach of giving Hung enough rope to hang himself. He asked, "Ah, so you believe that homosexuality is a non-issue for Christians? That they don't resent the very existence of homosexuals?" Then he hoped for an opening.

"Generally, no, not at all. Actually, what your average Christians are considerably more apt to condemn is the insistence of those who try to force their sexual preferences on everyone else. Such as with the exhibitionistic behavior typically found in parades where participants often prance about in thongs and leather gear and, at times, even simulate intercourse all while children are amongst the onlookers. Surely it has occurred to you that homosexuals have the market virtually cornered on sexually oriented mass public exhibitionism. Even a wet t-shirt contest isn't likely to have thousands of participants flaunting their sexuality. They would, in every likelihood, react the same way if Overeaters Anonymous were to hold a scantily clad parade to flaunt their sexual prowess. Christians condemn heterosexual pornography for the same reason.

"If you had any input beyond the Californian microcosm you'd see that Christians typically regard sex as a private matter and would prefer their children to come to grips with sex as its actual purpose (being a means of procreation) before fetishes are introduced. The average parent wants to be able to relate to their children. Admittedly, one might become rather perturbed if one's hopes of grandchildren are threatened by Bruce's insistence in everyone acknowledging the celestial grandeur of his leopard skin thong."

The Professor suppressed a carnivorous smile. Ah-ha! The irritating old geezer had left an opening. With just a little work, this conversation can be run in circles until it grinds down. "How can you call a perfectly natural act a fetish? Subversive implications of perversions are hardly appropriate, Mr. Chan."

Hung chuckled, "Professor Waters, if you choose to imply perversion, that is your own affair, but I would have thought that a literature professor in such a prestigious institution as this would know that the definition of a fetish can be 'any object or non-genital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation' which would include mammary, oral and anal inclinations. While this indicates that most people have fetishes of varying degrees, it doesn't leave much wiggle room for homosexuals to claim to be devoid of sexual fetish. But the important thing is that we keep on topic and not deviate for asinine semantic squabbles. The fact is that many Christians are homosexual. Just look at the reputation catholic priests have garnered in recent years... And please don't try coming to the defense of pedophiles.

Professor Waters stood mute upon seeing his gambits being so easily identified and dismissed, often before he had a chance to pose them. What was worse was being blindsided with seemingly argumentatively sound observations that he hadn't faced before.

Hung continued, "As for your earlier assertions that homosexual behavior is natural as evidenced in animals, I should point out that while it does occur in a wide variety of species, so too does interspecies breeding, cannibalism and the consumption of fecal matter. Thus, I humbly request we don't open that particular can of worms."

Hung grunted, "Much as with the topic of homosexuality, the other claims you've made are of a similar nature." He let out a long sigh, "Professor Waters, I would recommend that you concede that the topics of hair length, clothing, recreational drugs and alcohol, and birth control are all Ignorantia Elenchi, of irrelevant conclusion, in that they are fringe topics for mainstream Christians in general and are as such trivial to the question of religious values in government. That would allow us to move on to more enlightened discussions."

To Billy's amazement, the dazed Professor Waters didn't seem conscious that he was slowly nodding his head in agreement. For that matter, he seemed to lag about five minutes behind the conversation as a whole. It appeared he was searching for something he had overlooked.

Hung accepted the slow nod as conceding the point and continued, "As for the persecution of other Faiths, you would have had at least part of a point in almost any century other than this one. Though they still vigorously attempt to convert non-believers, the methods of persuasion have shifted from killing the infidel, to waking the infidel up every other Saturday morning to share with the them literature and The Word of God. Annoying yes, but hardly worthy of your brand of persecution.

"Now if you wish to talk about modern religious persecution, I would have to refer you to the militant extremists of the Islamic world. Though, I would be willing to wager that you would rather gnaw off your own arm than point a finger at a minority regardless of their well documented and recent history of bloodthirsty tendencies."

Hesitantly, Professor Waters proposed, "But the Muslim faith is actually a peace loving faith."

Hung nodded, "Generally speaking, yes the followers are, though the Koran is rather schizophrenic when it comes to love and war. But then, so too have been Christians throughout history. It isn't really Christianity that is guilty of the atrocities committed in its name, despite the insane, power-hungry, conniving or just plain old textbook evil men that have manipulated the ignorance of followers to do vile acts in the name of each. No. It is very sad to see the more easily influenced of virtually any faith can be turned to vile acts of hatred and violence all to meet the despicable ends of those cunning enough to distort the message of peace and harmony. Which brings us to your assertion that religion is responsible for the misery and deaths of so many."

Professor Waters' hackles sprang to full alert, "Christianity is responsible for all of that and more! You can't possibly refute the volumes of historical evidence on the matter!"

Hung cut in, "You would be referring to the evidence of brutality committed in the name of religion, I suspect. Religion itself is only an ideology, and as such is incapable of actual physical activity lest it implicitly promotes such behavior. However, it can be employed to do great harm. But so too can it be put to great good. Barring any calculated animosity of the religion itself, only those who use it for one or the other should be judged for the deeds perpetrated in its name. On that note, I will contend that through the everyday observation of the original intentions of Christianity, there have been far more lives saved and enriched."

Professor Waters rolled his eyes, "Oh please! You have to be kidding, Mr. Hung! There is no way the scales are even close to balanced, let alone tipped in favor of the good of Christianity."

Hung smiled and shook his head, "Again you disregard all evidence that refutes your perspective before evaluation. Look at this city alone, Professor. There are roughly twelve million people in the greater Los Angeles area. How many people would you say will be killed by Christians with a religious motivation today alone?"

The Professor pondered for a moment and decided to highball just in case. "It could vary... counting in the anti-abortionists attacks on Doctors and patients, the victims of Christian Scientist unwilling to seek help for preventable illnesses, fatal assaults against homosexuals, then throw in the mentally unstable zealots... perhaps as many as a dozen will die in the name of God today."

Hung nodded, "Some of those are debatable, but it is only an estimate. Now, how many people will not starve to death today because of 'soup kitchens' ran by morally motivated Christians? How many babies will not be aborted because of religious beliefs and programs that provide alternatives? How many people will not kill another that they believe warrant such fatal revenge due to acts of adultery, theft, lying, cheating, stealing, murder, or greed all because of the peril their religion promises them for killing another? Or for that matter, how many will not be killed because their Christian sensibilities will prevent them from carrying out any of those same acts that drive others to murdering them? I'll see your dozen, Professor, and raise you a thousand. And that is in reputedly one of the most pagan cities in the country. Can you wrap your mind around the cumulative effect over the entire nation in a single day? Or the world, for that matter? And yet you insist that religious morals have no valid place in government."

Billy watched in amazement. He'd known that Hung was a sharp geezer but he hadn't expected this. It was like watching Tyson beating up that geeky fat kid that goes around boasting of his 'plus ten girdle of strength' and 'cloak of invisibility'.

Hung raised an eyebrow, "Shall we consider the alternatives? Perhaps we could discuss the track records of merit in human rights amongst the world's secular, and typically communist, governments?"

Professor Waters closed his eyes and held up his hands in surrender as the corpse filled closets of Mao, Stalin, Lenin and Pol Pot burst open in his mind. "That..." he swallowed and continued, "That won't be necessary." he placed his hands on the podium and dropped his head to gaze at his notes. "I... I just cannot see where an elected leader should take his guidance from an entity that does not exist."

"There is no proof that it does not exist. But far more importantly, would you prefer to have a leader that believed there would ultimately be no significant consequences for their actions beyond those mustered by a constituency that mostly believes itself to be impotent to do anything about the fun-Nazi driven bureaucracy that strips away more of its liberties on a regular basis?"

Professor Waters coughed, "Fun-Nazi? To whom are you alluding, Mr. Chan?"

"Oh, the whole gambit of course; busy-bodies, tree-huggers, hippies, environmental activists, overbearing health nuts, animal rights activist... you know, kooks who love nothing more than to blow what is common sense so far out of proportion as to become ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?!"

"Yes. As in: worthy of ridicule."

A new spark of fight flared in Waters' eyes. "What is so ridiculous about wanting to save the environment, or protecting animals from inhumane cruelties or even extinction at the hands of man? And you have a problem with good health? And I'll have you know that Hippies are responsible for the end of the Vietnam War, reformation of Civil Rights and the end of Richard Nixon's presidency. We changed the world, Mr. Chan."

Hung shook his head, "There is nothing wrong with wanting to save the environment, but there is something wrong with the pervasive notion amongst the majority of environmentally conscious groups that the environment would be better off if the vast majority humans were simply removed from the equation. Isn't it funny how their vision always includes themselves among the chosen few that get to stick around in their fantasies of near extinction for the human race?

"There is nothing wrong with the protection of animals to a point. I'm inclined to think that animal testing is immoral in all cases beyond those in the medical field. I hold that one exception only because in the long run, far more animals benefit from medical testing than those that were exploited. Millions of animals reap the benefits of veterinarian clinics around the country whose diagnoses, treatments and medications originated with animal experimentation. Of course, activists are blind to the fact. 'The good of the many' is irrelevant to those devoted to having something to complain about. Now, as far as extinction goes, one must remember that nature has always dictated the elimination of species whether at the hands of other species, climate or natural disaster. If we can help, we should, but when cases arise like the smelt fish in the irrigation canals in our own state's central valley, putting three million plus people out of work and crippling the farmer's ability to grow in an area that produces more food per acre than almost any other on the planet is not only monumentally impractical, it's bordering on suicidal stupidity. By following that model, the entire world could eventually be eliminated from food production. I suppose the world's population could live a few years on Jell-O and Mountain Dew, but I wouldn't bet on it.

"Both of these groups were once more commonly referred to as 'Naturalist', and I believe Robert Heinlein summed them up quite well when he wrote:

"There are hidden contradictions within the minds of people who "love nature" while deploring the "artificialities" with which "Man has spoiled 'Nature." The obvious contradiction lies in their choice of words, which imply that Man and his artifacts are not part of "Nature"--but beavers and their damns are. But the contradictions go deeper than this prima-facie absurdity. In declaring his love for a beaver damn (erected by beavers for beaver's purposes) and his hatred for dams erected by men (for the purpose of men) the "Naturist" reveals his hatred for his own race--i.e., his own self-hatred. In the case of "Naturists" such self—hatred is understandable; they are such a sorry lot. But hatred is too strong an emotion to feel toward them; pity and contempt are the most they rate."

"As for good health, there is not a thing wrong with it. However, taking away people's right to choose it is deplorable at best."

The Professor jumped in, "But, by helping people live longer, you extend their potential for liberties by default! Surely you can see that."

"When it is dictated to a person what they can and cannot do 'for their own good' it is in blatant disregard to both their rights to liberty and the pursuit of happiness. If it may be bad for you, it can and should be recommended against, but that is not the way of our bureaucratic establishment, is it? No, our esteemed government has seen the folly of letting people live their lives as they choose in favor of taking one liberty after another in an attempt to dictate how we should live. It is probably a good thing that I am old and will die soon for, quite frankly, if anyone should ever comes between me and my Big Mac and fries, there will be a reckoning.

"As for Hippies, I believe their greatest contribution was the complete destabilization of the family unit. Between their refusals to effectively discipline their children, thus omitting the concept of personal responsibility from their development, and, with the help of 'free love', establishing the absence of at least one parent as a norm, they pretty thoroughly trashed the masculine and feminine balance desirable for raising reasonably well adjusted children. Beyond that, what can I say other than that's what happens when a tidal wave of ignorant, illogical, stoned cowards decide they love the sound of their own voices."

Waters' face flashed red again as his hands began to visibly shake on the podium. "Ignorant, illogical, stoned cowards! I'll have you know that we showed nothing but bravery when we united to stand against the establishment! I was bayoneted at Kent State two days before those fascists shot down my fellow students for protesting the war!"

Hung raised his eyebrows and his voice rose in good cheer, "You were there? So was I! I was working with an outfit that was contracted to demolishing the old ROTC building. Of course your friends beat us to it when you set it on fire... If my memory is to be trusted, I recall your fellow students throwing rocks and bottles and the like at the firemen and officers who were trying to do their jobs and put the fire out. For that matter, I seem to recall an awful lot of that sort of behavior from your cohorts whenever they didn't get their way. There was nothing 'civil' about that disobedience. I remember thinking to myself that you were all rather naïve to think that you could relentlessly jeer and even assault a bunch of people with guns and expect no worse repercussion than teargas and getting thumped with a nightstick. Sure a knot on the head would impress the girls, but it takes a colossal moron to bring a rock to a gunfight."

The Professor virtually screeched, "They were not allowed to fire on innocent civilians!"

"You must be using some obscure definition of 'innocent' that disregards constant 'assaults' and relentless 'provocation'. None the less, thank you for illustrating my point about cowardice. You truly believed there would be no dire consequences no matter how delinquent your behavior.

"And why the protest in the first place? The announcement of the Cambodian Incursion? Looked like some of you might have to go fight for your country? Couldn't have that, now cowardly... Sorry, I meant to say could we? Even after the Kent State shootings, there was always the anonymity of the crowd. So long as you stayed united you were relatively safe, despite how asinine your reasons."

"That is not how it was! We were--"

Hung's blind eyes opened wide, "OMG! Now I remember! Algernon Waters! You were the kid that took the bayonet in your junk! I saw that happen! It was the day after the fire and you were yelling and generally making an ass of yourself when you grabbed a rock ran towards a guardsman who had his back turned to you. If it's any consolation, I didn't expect him to hold his rifle at that angle when turned around either. You pretty much impaled your pecker on that thing! Had to hurt... How is the little guy doing now? I heard from a medic that it was cut almost completely off."

"Enough!" shouted Waters, "This conversation is at an end Mr. Chan!"

Hung grinned as he let loose a grunt of amusement. "Very well Professor... Though I find it disturbing that you would become so emotional about a purely academic debate." He goaded, echoing both the phrase and mocking sentiment that had resounded through the classroom in Water's own voice so many times before.

Waters gawked at Hung. "Oh, 'purely academic debate' my ass! You have berated, harangued, undermined and zealously bludgeoned half of the core values I've spent a lifetime cultivating. Not to mention your infernal assertions about my own history. No! This has been nothing less than a personal assault, Mr. Chan."

Hung mocked exasperated surprise, "Really?" he flashed his blind eyes around the room in mock innocence. "You've actually spent time cultivating That? I suppose the amusing thing is that I really am agnostic and could not give two farts in a wind tunnel about any of those topics... except about the Hippies. I really don't have any use for unctuous, non-productive, perpetually-whining, stoner leaches. Buggers haven't even noticed that they created their own religion and have been worshiping at the altar for the last forty years."

He flipped his notepad closed and slid the pen through the wire coil at the top. "I think that I shall not return to this course. I've always found there is nothing to be learned from a petty tyrant."

Waters' face reddened still further in anger and indignation. "Petty tyrant?!" He had long been pushed beyond caring about the presence of Dr. Evans or much of anything else for that matter. "I'll have you know that I have received three national awards for my exemplary skills as a mentor, and have been honored by the Governor in my own home! I hardly think the opinion of a sadistic and old-world-thinking, backwards immigrant constitutes justification for such an outrageous, unfounded and harsh judgment."

Hung flashed his certifiably insane smile and dropped all pretence of an accent, "As it happens, I was born in Bakersfield, California in 1925. I received my bachelors in mathematics from MIT in 1946, my masters and later my doctorate in philosophy from Berkley in 1956 and 1961, respectively.

The professor adopted a trapped expression.

Hung continued, "As for why I refer to you as a petty tyrant, I came to that particular conclusion upon reviewing evidence that you habitually use your position as an educator to push personal agendas and launch vendettas against kids guilty of little more than wanting to have a good time and having the poor taste of choosing you as an instructor while having the audacity of being both Caucasian and male. You are irrefutably fond of dictating what you presume others are thinking and pointing out the usually fabricated failings of others as a validation of your own argument's faults. In doing so, you create the classic Red Herring, as well as its brother, the Straw-Man argument, wherein you deliberately attempt to divert a valid argument by grossly exaggerate your opposition's stance or a conveniently similar stance with obvious faults. You are also guilty of dicto simpliciter, having repeatedly generalized the whole based on the exceptions to the rules. Your topics are specifically selected to support a confirmation bias wherein you can pick and choose what will be regarded as relevant. And I suspect that you've made career long habits of argumentum ad personam, or argument against the person; argumentum ad populum, argument to the popular opinion, specifically within your sphere; and argumentum ad verecundiam, also known as argument from authority. You use each to bludgeon others into submission, much like you use argumentum ad misericordiam in your blind defense of those you deem worthy of your protection. You've created an artificial and easily dispatched enemy to vanquish and win the admiration of those who have never needed your brand of protection. In essence, you have become a caricature of that which you professed to oppose in your youth, professor: a politician.

"You do these things while dangling grades as Dionysius II dangled the sword over Damocles. In his defense, Dionysius was only guilty of illustrating a point. You, however, consistently and sadistically snip the horse hair that averts doom.

"You are a tyrant, Professor Waters, in every sense of the word, and while 'petty' could be accompanied by 'inept', 'insufferable', 'incompetent' or 'insipid', I neither have the time nor inclination to spell out all of your shortcomings. My final comment for you is that while George Bernard Shaw observed that 'he who can, does. He who cannot, teaches.' I have to wonder if he was considering Lord Acton's assessments of the resultant corruption derived from power versus absolute power as it would pertain to the academic field."

"The important thing here, Professor Waters, is that your job was always to teach these kids HOW to think, and never WHAT to think. I find it to disturbing to even speculate on how many young minds you have stunted or perverted with the caustic rot you've been spewing throughout your career."

Professor Waters' face was red with rage, but he held himself in check. He knew the gist of accusations of habitual use of logical fallacies were true. Due to his position, he'd never had to defend their use and they'd made his agenda easier to pursue. He also knew that if he disputed the matter, he'd have his metaphorical ass handed to him. Instead, he opted for an exit strategy. He cleared his throat and said, "Mr. Chan, you have a right to your opinion. And now class, I see that we are out of time for today and have covered nothing pertaining to Literature. We will recover the time lost today with less unproductive distraction when next we meet. You are dismissed."

~~~

The astounded class quietly filed out the room. Just outside the doors, a flurry of whispers punctuated by subdued laughs and 'OMG's took flight.

Billy watched as Ashley Amonette walked by Hung and stooped to whisper something as she tucked a slip of paper on the into his shirt pocket. Hung stood and exited the room smiling.

Dr. Evans approached Professor Waters as he angrily crammed his materials into his satchel. He looked up when she reached him.

Billy couldn't see her face, but he saw the Professor's face pale as the anger was displaced by humiliation and, Billy suspected, fear. No doubt the show would be known by virtually everyone on campus by the end of the day.

"I'm terribly sorry you had to see that display..."

Dr. Evans waved a dismissive hand and said, "You know Waters, when Jackie, my big brother, came back to San Francisco from Vietnam, he couldn't leave the house without being hounded by your buddies. I saw them spit on him; they threw things at him; called him a baby-killer, a murderer, hell they even had the nerve to call him a trader to his race. Eventually, he put a gun in his mouth to escape. Most people said it was his inability to deal with the horrors he'd witness in the war, but I knew better."

Professor Waters cleared his throat, "I'm truly sorry--"

"I believe that is apparent. I should point out to you that I'm not here on a whim. Through an unexpected turn of events, it somehow fell to me to deliver the news to you that three separate law firms extended the courtesy of contacting us since yesterday afternoon to inform us that they will be filing class action suits against you personally for both racial and sexual discrimination. You should find messages waiting for you on your voicemail and email as well as hardcopies in your office."

The Professor's jaw dropped almost as fast as the color drained from his face.

Dr. Evans continued, "In order to establish our ignorance of your less than appropriate behavior, we have agreed to happily provide them with the information they have requested without protest. I was up half of night reviewing our records in regards to the one-hundred-fifty-eight plaintiffs currently listed. What I found was not good, Waters. Are you aware that over the course of the last fifteen years, your pass rate for white males is less than twenty percent versus ninety-four percent for everyone else? And that only six percent of those white males you did pass made grades above a C as opposed to eighty-eight percent for the rest? And that you have never given an A to even one white male?"

Billy could hear the smile in Dr Evans' voice as she concluded, "The University has a zero tolerance policy for discrimination and harassment. While you are tenured, Professor Waters, your classes are not, and are all hereby cancelled. Additionally, since office space is at a premium and you will not need your office for the time being, we are requiring you to clear your possessions out of it so as to facilitate the university's newest employee and literature professor, Dr. Gerhard Gruber. You may have heard of him, his books on the Liberal Agenda in American Universities are rather well known. He has quite the reputation on the right, and to be honest, I suspect his being recruited by this Institution was primarily an attempt at preemptive damage control in view of the tsunami of negative publicity your actions will inevitably generate. So, from three p.m. today, all of your access and privileges pertaining to this institution are suspended until the outcome the trial has satisfactorily established your innocence. So you may want to be expedient, it's ten after two now. Have a nice day."

Without waiting for a response she turned and left.

Waters had sat on the floor and began crying by the time Billy slipped out the door in search of Hung. He moved quickly because he had a few questions for Hung before his next class... Though, he was considering skipping that to catch the imminent recap on You-Tube.

~~~

Billy caught up with Hung as he crossed the lawn heading towards a parking lot. "That was awesome, Hung! I never thought I'd see a man verbally bitch-slapped that much without a gun trained on him. And then Dr. Evans gave him the boot right afterwards," he shook his head and laughed, "Wow, that dude is having one seriously bad day!"

Billy fell silent for a moment and gave Hung an appraising eye. He smiled, "You already knew about him getting the ax, though, didn't you?"

Hung looked as innocent as his deceptively fragile appearance could manage, "How would I know about that?"

Billy shook his head, "Hung, I've known you long enough to know that look means you're as full of shit as a laxative addicted elephant's diaper. I'm guessing either you or Shui sicked those lawyers on Waters. He doesn't have enough for three firms to go after, let alone one. But I digress... I am curious about a few other things and they happened in class, so no weaseling out of them."

Hung grinned, "Shoot."

"Okay, first off; why were you using logical fallacies while berating Waters for doing the same? I doubt many people noticed but you got a few suspicious looks in there."

Hung nodded, "Four reasons. 1) to see if you noticed; 2) based on the assumption you did notice, it was to show you the sharper students among your peers; 3) irony; and 4) shits and giggles... Though the last two may amount to the same thing."

Billy smiled at having passed Hung's tests, then his smile faltered, "You mean the irony of Waters being... well, I think he would have said, 'hoisted by his own petard'?"

Hung looked thoughtful for a moment, "Actually, I was going to say the irony of a professor not being able to stop what I was doing because it conformed to closely with the rut he'd been operating in for so long. But I think your assessment is more poetic. Let's go with that."

"Fair enough. The next one is really more of a questioning observation: You were looking very Republican in there. It looked like you'd put a lot of time and thought into those arguments. I guess I'm wondering how much of that you actually endorse."

Hung smiled and shook his head, "While there is some argument there, I don't particularly buy into any of it. I don't care about what gays do; abortion only serves to remove the practitioners from the gene pool; religion is as much of a tool wielded by the Republican party as government aid is of the Democratic party. One side is trying to browbeat people into voting for it and the other is offering bribes. Oddly, when you through in tax cuts and global warming, they each jump to the opposite side of that fence. Both are deplorable and immoral. But until enough people get behind the notion of a 'government by the people and for the people' again, we'll be stuck with two self-promoting masses of leeches trying to create new ways of validating the shit they are force-feeding John Q Public. Though I am a bit more miffed with liberals if only because one of their favorite tactics is to dictate what is or isn't acceptable to say. It's become so incredibly convoluted that it's almost impossible to have a conversation that isn't paramount to pogo sticking in a mine field."

Playing Devil's advocate Billy acted dumb and asked, "...like what, for example?" He immediately regretted it

"Like apple, or banana, yellow, chink, brownie, bucket, leprechaun, crow, glitter, blackout, Clyde, gray, blockbuster, dome, cotton, harp, scrap, donkey, Donkey Kong, Jar Jar, ten percent off, BBC, mascot, koala, cubs, property, defendant, gardener, paper bag, alphabet, Glock, can, son, rod, jumping bean, primate, muffin, Heinz, snatch, cargo, rice, jungle, seven-eleven, Abe Lincoln, Elvis, Adolf, Bruce Lee, DeNiro, banjo, gordita, Bubba, slide, midnight, ivory, cold drink, Powerpoint, eight ball, alcoholics, bologna, Rainbow Bright, lawnmower, leafblower, Pokemon, ghost, Keebler, coin slot, polar bear, mango, paragraph, Fuji, feather, kangaroo, slim, guppie, roach, boss, Casper, soup, farm equipment, cuff, seagull, rock, slit, protractor, bunny, Cheech, agent orange, soy sauce, pretzel, bobblehead..."

Billy considered cutting Hung off with an, "Okay, I get it!" but couldn't overcome his curiosity as to how long Hung could go on. It turned out to be longer than he could have anticipated.

"--chuck, Lego, garlic, Gilligan, plastic, grease, spade, jab, branch manager, Glendale, tab, pen and ink, printer, milk, Milk Dud, diesel, Gingerbread Man, storm watcher, mayflower, jackpot, cracker, boxcutter, monkey, june bug, scat, bumblebee, kung-fu, double A, Fonzie, sole, chunk, skillet, mule, buck, howdy, beggar, NAPA, pizza, meatball, oil slick, dozer, Jeeves, Poo, muck, ape, racoon, waffle, Zulu, coconut, data, Mario, bed time, push-button, gorilla, knees, angus, Fat Albert, chili, soak, Moses, saltine, taco, taco shell, blood, chug, BLT, you people, cashew, Pac Man, domino, ragu, chick, rag, snob, nine iron, mud, mud flaps, mudslide, mudskipper, stovepipe, suspect, yo-yo, reset, Poppin Fresh, swan, goggles, shade, water buffalo, Roman candle, blue collar, swap, pinto, lobster, panda, simian, dandruff, skunk, grasshopper, jock, My friend!, frosty, drunk, spook, pepper, clover, Kermit, foster, Pine Sol, snow birds, watermelon, butterfingers, cabbie, Ewok, spade, lemonhead, grenade, sway, Ivan, cream of wheat, random, tad pole, moose, savage, Sleestack, convict, yogurt, serial killer, number two, pit, duck, newspaper, Stan, mayonnaise, Mufasa, knee jerk, suntan, Opie, Pepsi, speed demon, burrito, taffy, mosquito, sunny side up, welfare, Pontiac, sweaty, strange, firecracker, spike, cocoon, bomb, Q-tip, calzone, snowflake, snowman, napalm, pull-start, zip, slope, bun, puck, Chiquita, lock, spic and span, amigo, flour, salami, wind chime, tuna, ghetto, coat, spider, recyclables, provolone, tetris, lamp shade, slope, Dorito, Crisco, Cocoa Puff, Chex Mix, Brillo Pad, Aunt Jemima, Betty Crocker, Oreo, Crayola, Cracker Jacks, Uncle Ben, Easy-Bake, Jellybean, Jiffy Pop, KFC, Koolaid, shadow, theif, cheddar, TNT, flipper, bagel, lowrider, maroon, towel, crimestopper, boogie, Popov, chop stick, trim, rabbit, chigger, sneakers, Bacardi, campers, Nazi, jet, mojo, lefty, grinder, phlegm, Wookie, test-taker, stable boy, token, dyke, Popular Science, Gandhi, brew, vacuum cleaner, pineapple, sailer, tater tot, nacho, rice, smore, spud, crunchy, Pinocchio, jigger, camel, pancake, zebra, cargo, tiny, chicken, special, hutch, widescreen, mail-order, trigger, casino, Babar, Franklin, Jim, bones, MSG, smoke, inky, floppy, kink, Post It, vanilla, vanilla Coke, rook, sprout, cornbread, Isaac, Thank You Come Again, fruit, turkey, bar code, yellow cab, anchor, yolk, teabag, remote control, powdered donut, squint, burger, cracker, shaft, cookie, gay, shoe, Bin Laden, Big Mac, Radish, slot machine, thug, Velcro, big nose, twinkie, MD, snake, baboon, pinky, boy, spread, Gumby, trash, negative, stacks, terrorist, cross-dresser (that one really pisses the Scots off), Jughead, green, bumper, Jerry, corn, fish, egg, egg plant, egg roll, two stroke, pork-chop, fairy, Batman, killer bee, Tigger, potato, rafter, cube, BMW, lizard, slurpee, Bubbles, cook, New York Mets, frog, shovel, marshmallow, latte, extra crispy, germ, wheat thin, bee-keeper, ping pong, stallion, bacon bits, toad, Pow Wow, beanbag, Gump, smack, safe, bean dipper, or just plain old bean, then there is cheese-eating surrender monkey..."

Billy stared in amazement, "Wow! What the hell was that?"

Exasperated, Hung said, "What the hell do you think? You asked for examples! Those are all common everyday words, phrases and names that can be construed as a slight to one group of people or another and any one of those hot buttons could set them off. Okay, Okay, so maybe that last one about the French isn't likely to come up very often. But the point is that the list goes on and on." He smiled, "Being a sensitive young American, you will of course be familiar with all of them and who they might offend, yes?"

"Well, a few... 'safe'? Really? What's that about?"

"Actually, it's a reference to persons of African descent. I believe the idea goes something like: the government gives free food, free housing, free money and protects from 'hate', thus they are... Well, you did ask." Hung shook his head at Billy's glare, "But you have to ask yourself how anyone can be expected to know all of the possible slurs well enough to carry on a completely politically correct conversation. But then again the whole point in political correctness is a method of subverting freedom of speech. At least for the honkys and politicians. However, I suspect it will roll over everyone else in time."

Billy looked glum for a moment and shook his head as if to clear the prospect from his mind, "Okay so you're not a right-winger. That leaves one last question:" Billy beamed before asking, "what about the note?"

"What note?"

"The note Ashley wrote you."

Hung hummed for a moment, "Ah, yes, the young lady from class... How would you describe Ashley, Billy?"

Momentarily diverted, Billy thought for a moment and said, "Well the first word that comes to mind is 'lesbian', but she's also spunky, relatively smart, passionate about hating men, and as hot as a bottle of malt liquor in the trunk of an Arizonan's black Plymouth. Why? So, what was the note about?"

Billy was considering the possibility that Ashley had hand delivered the implication of a death threat (she really was smart enough to avoid evidence of a direct threat) when Hung said, "You tell me. It's not like I could read it." and handed the slip of notebook paper over.

Billy took the folded note and opened it. Reading aloud, he said, "'Mr. Chan, I'm so sorry for judging you before knowing the true caliber of man you obviously are. I would be grateful if you'd let me make it up to you. I know a great new Greek restaurant and would be honored if you would join me for dinner tomorrow night. My treat. I insist.' then she signed it 'yours, Ashley' with her number at the bottom."

Perplexed, Billy reread the message as Hung chuckled and uttered something about fortune smiling on banana daiquiris or something like that. Whatever it was, Billy didn't comprehend it. He was too busy trying to reboot his brain to answer. The idea of Hung dating was in and of itself an arduous hill to climb. Throw in that his date was an amazingly attractive lesbian that had just called him a sexist pig and the inevitable result was a systems crash.

The Keeper smiled at the tale for a moment before going on, "In all fairness, I'll backtrack just a little here to point out one of the advantages of a morally confused society."

As the United States was celebrating its bicentennial, Jonnedee was working in a convenience store in Los Angeles. He was reading the hoopla about the new home video player options that had just blitzed the scene and a connection sparked then exploded in his mind. He suddenly knew what the Gods had put him on earth to do.

His magazine shook as his hands trembled with excitement. He looked directly into the eyes of one of his regulars, a little, blue haired, old lady that had just set a loaf of bread and a can of cat food on the counter and said, "I'm going to be a Porn Star!"

The lady looked around and smiled at her best Polident smile and replied with, "That's nice, dear. Here's my address. Be there at seven for rehearsals," as slid a card across the counter with her money.

Jonnedee flinched at her departing wink.

~~~

It was during the latter years of the twentieth century that Bob saw the light at the end of his private tunnel. From the advent of cryopreservation, to bounding advances in deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) research that eventually led to stem cell research, decoding the genome and preliminary attempts at cloning.

This was also when the mystery of the key elements that caused the thirteen villagers' longevity came to light. In addition to being able to study his own genetic makeup, Bob was able to isolate both the role the abundance of iron in the village's drinking water and food supply as well as the existence and source of the radium.

By the end of the twentieth century, Bob's cumulative assets, spread out over literally thousands of companies and bank accounts, under as many names, in dozens of countries, was worth in the neighborhood of the one and a half trillion dollar mark. With this in mind, you could probably see how he managed to insert his influence into a variety of university and corporate research labs to glean the information already gathered and nudge the work towards his own ambitions.

Most importantly, Bob had some of the most capable minds in the world on his payroll. The star of which was a young man from Compton, CA of all places. Billy had been the missing piece of Bob's centuries old puzzle. He acted either as the architect or catalyst to every stalled scientific venture that Bob had accumulated in his pursuits. A fact that Bob would not let go unrewarded.

When every issue Bob could conceive of was answered, he informed Jonnedee and Shui of his intentions. The three met in the Los Angeles office to hammer out the details and start the process that had been so long in the waiting.

But first...

~~~

Billy was a little uneasy with the request for his presence at the office. His scheduled visit was still a week and a half off and he hadn't been able to contact Hung for three days.

He checked in with Shui's secretary and was almost immediately greeted by Shui's smiling head popping out the door, "Hey Billy, good to see you. Come on in." The door swung the rest of the way open.

Shui was visibly excited, "We're at a precipice here and we're about to spread our wings and flap our happy asses over a barrier that has been there from the beginning."

Still in the dark, Billy gave an obligatory, "Sounds interesting. So what's up?"

Shui hesitated and said, "I'll let Pop explain it."

'Pop', Billy thought. It had never occurred to him to ask about Shui's parents.

They walked around the corner in Shui's office to the area that Billy's interview had taken place in. Already seated at the table were Hung and a middle aged man that looked strangely familiar. Hung nodded a greeting. Shui gestured to a seat across from the two and took the seat between Billy and the stranger. An extra chair had been added to the room since Billy's job interview and was to Billy's left.

"Pop, this is the ever ingenious, and soon to be Dr. Bill Smith. Billy, this is my father, Dr. Alexander Maple."

Dr. Maple smiled brightly, "It is an honor and a pleasure to finally meet you Billy. I've been most impressed with your work."

Billy drew every formal fiber in his being and answered, "Thank you sir. I'd desperately like to favor you with a compliment in return, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage though." All the while a nagging familiarity emanated from the man.

Shui and Hung smiled as Dr. Maple burst into laughter, "That in itself is a compliment of sorts. I've put considerable effort towards keeping a low profile. Be that as it may, I would assume that you are quite curious to know why you are here today."

"Yes sir."

"Please call me Alex." He winked as he said it. "Have you figured out precisely what the goal of our organization is, Billy?"

"Well si... Alex, I've seen a fairly consistent theme in the area of longevity and the creation of new variants of life, but I hesitant to guess as to what is the primary goal."

Alex nodded, "You have struck very close to the root of it. My goal, from the beginning, has been to conquer Death. Not just through perpetual longevity, but via the reanimation of the deceased." He smiled again and raised his hands to quell the obvious reaction, "I know, I know. It sounds like the story line from a B-movie or some pre-Lovecraft horror novel, but I can assure you that it is attainable. In fact, it already has been attained, in a way."

Billy ran the idea through his head and found only a few arguments. He held his tongue due to the suspicion that he didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle. That was about the time Billy heard a door close and another stranger strolled into the room. He too looked somehow familiar. Billy just couldn't put his finger on it until the man paused for a moment behind and between Alex and Hung. Then his eyes snapped to Shui's ancestral portrait. The two men were undoubtedly the same as those frozen in time so many centuries before. Alex's assurances that unprecedented longevity was possible suddenly took on a whole new dimension. That was when it hit him...

Shui leaned forward with a concerned look on his face, "Are you alright Billy? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Billy looked at each of the men in the room with new eyes. He had no idea what he should do. He only knew that he wanted out of this room as quickly as possible. He simply had to keep his cool and not let on that he'd figured out their secret. Which is why he was as surprised as the others when he blurted out, "So how long have you guys been vampires?"

Every eye lest his own was suddenly focused on Billy. He had no idea where this would go so he improvised, "Good God, Hung, you must be like 50,000 years old or something, to be a vampire and still look that old. You do know I was just kidding about you babysitting Noah, right?" he cringed slightly upon remembering the slight he'd hurled at Hung in the first weeks of their friendship.

The men looked at each other seemingly perplexed until Shui smiled and looked up with a nod toward the portrait. The room erupted in good natured laughter. Billy sat in silent confusion while the men slowly regained their composure.

Finally, Alex choked out, "Not quite, Billy. Though, again, you're not far from the truth. You see, Shui, Jonnedee," he gestured to the new arrival, "and myself have been around far longer that can be easily accounted for. But I assure you there is nothing supernatural in our condition."

By this time Jonnedee had taken his seat and the men had all toned their outbursts down to broad smiles.

Alex continued, "Do you recall the work you did with the Bryke virus?"

Billy did and affirmed it with a nod.

"Did it occur to you to wonder how the virus became fused with the cell's DNA in the first place? Or how such an infected cell would react? Or even why we were interested in separating the two?"

Billy shrugged, "I figured someone had engineered the virus. As for the reaction... with the virus attached at the end of the DNA strand, I expect cell division would cease and death would be the only option... Which did get me to wondering why you wanted me to figure out how to extract the virus without killing it. For that matter, coming up with a method that factored in the time constraints between the death of the host cell and the expected lifespan of the virus in a dead environment was one of my biggest concerns. The rest was easy enough."

Alex nodded, "Ah, but the host cell didn't die. It has shared a symbiotic existence with the virus for... a very long time. As for the virus, it wasn't exactly engineered. At least not in the conventional sense. It was, however, extinct in its natural form until you figured out how to separate it from the cell that housed it. Fused with the cell's DNA, it produced new telomeres, thus allowing the cells to divide indefinitely. In its natural state it was, for all intents and purposes, a plague. Fatalities for the infected were near 100% and the infection rate was in the neighborhood of 87%. You won't find records of the virus. It ran its course when written history was in its infancy. I suspect today's medicines would take a considerable chunk out of those numbers, but keeping the virus contained is of dire import."

Billy heard everything Alex said, but was having a little trouble framing it all in a reasonable scenario. Finally enough puzzle pieces clicked into place to offer a clue about the big picture. "So you're telling me that you three have had this virus for at least three thousand years," He scanned the men expecting another burst of laughter, but found only solemn faces. "And now you are extracting it to... what? Live a normal life? No, that doesn't make sense. You already do for all outward appearances... Market it? You did say you were looking to conquer death... But that exactly doesn't make sense either. Overpopulation would become a serious issue in time unless sterilization was a requisite. Not to mention all of the things that would be lost to the world if the population became static. Besides, I don't think you need the money."

His eyes wandered back to the portrait as did his mind. Cloning, cryogenics, methods of sustaining life while the body couldn't, gene manipulation in conjunction with a virus that offers immortality..., "The lady in the painting... where was she buried?"

A twinkle flashed in Alex's eye when he said, "In an ice cave in the Alps."

"Did she have any children?"

Alex's smile broadened, "None. The virus renders us effectively sterile."

Billy slowly nodded, "...But the eggs would still be there, only dormant... You guys are looking to bring her back, aren't you? It all fits. All that's left is to extract the virus from her eggs without damaging her DNA and reintroducing it when she reaches the age she's to stay at. Who exactly was she?"

Alex's applause broke the spell the image of the girl had cast on him. He looked around at the impressed expressions on the men's faces as Alex said, "Bravo, Billy! I see your reputation for the application of logic to the unorthodox is well deserved. That is precisely one of the things we're on about" Shui and Jonnedee nodded their agreement as Hung beamed with pride.

In a more somber tone, Alex answered Billy's final question, "The lady was Soya, my wife of over thirty-three-hundred years.

"But that is only part of what we are looking to achieve. You see, the extensive research and experimentation with the virus you helped us extract did eventually lead us to recreating the circumstances required for bestowing immortality, but you are right in your assessment of the inevitable outcome of using it en masse. As a precaution against such an outcome, we, the survivors of the virus' onslaught have agreed to what we consider to be a reasonable solution: Every two decades, those of us with perpetual life will select a mortal to join our ranks based on both their past and potential contributions to science and civilization. An exception will be made for the first selection. We have decided it prudent to receive two recipients into our ranks on this particular occasion: namely Hung and yourself."

Billy's ears were ringing as the prospect tried to overwhelm him. It was like winning the lottery, only no lottery was worth anywhere near as much. Still, there was a feeling he was overlooking something, "I'm honored and about as giddy as a kid walking through the gate at Disneyworld, but what about the moral questions?"

Alex's smile never faded, "Very well, ask them and we'll see if there are appropriate answers to be found."

Billy looked thoughtful for a moment then began, "Well, for starters; isn't what you're doing paramount to playing God? I mean resurrections are a bit beyond my experience, but it does seem to scream 'god-complex'."

Alex chuckled, "Would you say that you are the intellectual equal to God?"

"Of course not."

Alex shrugged, "Then where's the problem? You figured out most of the solutions we needed. We're working with the tools whatever god or gods deemed it appropriate to give us. For that matter, the gift of prolonged life was initially bestowed upon us without ever being asked for. It's not as if we were tampering with the cosmic order of things. We're only doing what comes naturally to humans: Figuring things out for ourselves."

Billy pondered that for a long moment then asked, "What about the selection process? You are choosing who lives and who dies."

Alex held up a finger, "Ah but we're not. Yes, we are choosing who lives, but that's where it ends. We are not choosing death for anyone. Every person on the planet has the option to pursue the same objectives as we have. Granted, their chances of success, however likely, ultimately becomes a question of natural selection. But the choice is still there and we will not stand in the way of anyone's research in the field. We seek no monopoly, but we have a duty to use what is ours in as responsible a manner as we can."

Billy sat for a heartbeat and proclaimed, "Okay, that settles that, then. I'd be an idiot to try to argue to hard against getting to live forever. But..."

Alex saw the concern in Billy's eyes and knew in an instant what lay at the base of his worries. 'Family', echoed in his head.

"I... I see. I'm afraid that is the true cost of immortality. Watching the first generation age and pass on while you remain the same is agonizing." He knew he'd struck the heart of the matter when Billy hung his head. Hung sat silently.

Alex looked to Jonnedee and received a nod.

When he turned to his son, Shui said, "With conditions..." and nodded approval to the unasked question.

Alex turned back to Billy as he, in turn looked towards Shui trying to fathom what he was talking about.

Alex cleared his throat and said, "If you are willing, perhaps there is a solution. Let's see... I believe your youngest sibling is fourteen years your junior?"

Billy agreed.

Alex spoke as if he were working out the details as he spoke, yet he was comprehensive and his competence was never in question. He was obviously a man used to organizing and executing a plan. "Timing is a bit of an issue with some being so young. They would have to be given time to develop both physically and emotionally without the influence of this gift there to corrupt them." Billy visibly perked up. "Due to your appearance, temporary physical isolation would be necessary, unfortunately. Though, make-up would suffice for special occasions. Phone contact would be the normal mode of communication. Alright, this could work..."

One last glance at Jonnedee and Shui showed Alex the gears turning there. "Alright Billy. You will be given the next two years with your family as a whole. At that time you will be relocated to a 'new job site' where you will only have phone contact with your family. You will be given three visits per years to visit home for no more than twenty-four hours each time. You will be escorting your make-up artist that will be doubling as a good friend from work, or perhaps a girlfriend. What three days you choose is up to you.

"As each of your siblings approaches within one year of your apparent age they will be reintroduced to you and given the news of what awaits them should they opt for it. That should give each ample time to make their own decision. If they choose to join us, each will be... well, 'infected' at intervals in apparent age of only one month younger than the next oldest sibling.

"From the time you leave home, this will be an eleven year operation. During that time, none of your siblings is to know anything of the nature of our deception until their reunification one year prior to becoming... 'infected'," He turned his head to Shui, "We really need a better word for this." The break in what was starting to sound like a legally binding contract that had been proofread by Satan himself almost threw Billy.

Shui shrugged and turned to Billy, "There will be a lemon clause, too. You understand that we cannot bestow immortality on anyone exhibiting habitually destructive behavior. To help offset this possibility, all of your brothers and sisters will be afforded the best circumstances to grow in... as deemed appropriate by your mother. Emphasis will be placed on school and the cultivation of any innate skills or interests of a socially productive nature. But if, at the time of reunion, any of your siblings is bent on dishonesty or socially destructive tendencies, they may very well be passed over for acceptance amongst our ranks."

"Which brings us to the question," Jonnedee chimed in, "of monitoring each of them as they develop. Around the clock surveillance will be in order, though they will never know about it. For that matter, their dossiers will be kept seal even to you and will be destroyed within three years of each sibling's reunion date."

Alex picked up the formalities, "None of them will have a say in who is selected to join us in the future unless they demonstrate themselves to have sufficient wisdom, devotion and usefulness to be considered in such decisions." He hesitated for a moment and glanced at the others, "The one exception to everything will be your mother. She will know what is going on and what is at stake. Additionally, she alone will be able to visit you any time she wishes. However, she will not be included in the agreement."

Billy gripped the arms of his chair and sat up straight, "Wait a minute, why not Momma?"

"Because I told them not to include me, baby" came the all too familiar voice of Billy's mother from behind him.

He spun in his chair, "Momma? Wha... How... You've been here all along?"

She smiled at him, "Yes dear-heart. Mr. Chan was thoughtful enough to introduce me to these gentlemen a few days ago and clue me in on what was going on. I gotta tell you, it took a while for all of it to sink in."

Hung chuckled, "Yes, but once it did, your mother was the best negotiator you could have asked for."

"So that's why it all sounded so formal." Billy said as he automatically stood and offered his chair to his mother, "But why don't you want to be included, Momma?"

She stepped in front of him, "Maybe because my life has already turned out to be so much more than I ever even hoped for. I have six wonderful children and a beautiful home to raise them in. And at least one of them is among the most brilliant men alive." Her smile seemed to actually shine with pride at that, "But the real reason is that I'm just not the right person for the job."

Billy's confusion was palpable, "How can you not be the person for living forever?"

She shook her head, "Hon, it should be obvious to you that one of the things that go along with living such a long time is the knack for changing with the times. I'm not that person. I don't think I've changed since I was a little girl. This is my era and I'm still more of an oddball than any one of the men sittin' around this table."

Billy started, "But Momma you can change! You just have to give it a chance--"

"No, dear-heart, I've made my choice and that's to let nature run its course. Now don't you go tryin' to give me no guilt trip. Someday you'll understand why I chose the way I did, so leave it alone until you do. Now that subject is closed for good. Do you understand?"

Billy was crestfallen, "But Momma--"

"I said, 'do you understand?' "

"Yes Momma... but under protest."

She smiled a sad smile, "Good. Now let's wrap this up so's you can give me a ride home." She gave a short laugh, "Vampires. You always did watch too much TV."

~~~

Feeling he had sufficient data, experience and personnel, Bob (A.K.A. Alex) had a lab meeting his needs constructed under Billy's supervision. It was one-hundred-forty-thousand square feet housing the single most advanced genetic research facility in the world. Buried beneath thirty feet of concrete, steel and earth, the three floor facility was outfitted with multiple power supplies including two generators each sufficient to run an MRI, a cryogenics freezer, a maze of computer banks and terminals and a twenty-cup coffee maker simultaneously. Emergency oxygen, food and water stores were stocked, as well as multiple high-speed communications mediums. Almost half of the complex was sanitized and hermetically sealed, while the rest of it could be cut off from the outside world, via three, twenty ton blast doors, in less than fifteen seconds.

Over the whole construct, he had a six story parking garage erected. Ah, but the only entrance was via a heavily reinforced tunnel that surfaced in a perpetually vacant and deceptively secure rental house deeded to a real estate agency owned by one of Bob's many alias' some hundred and fifty yards away.

Everything was set. Billy turned his attention fully to Hung's rejuvenation project... Well who would want to live forever as a blind old man, so Billy and a team of surgeons removed his cataracts and were knocking off as many of the years as cosmetic surgery could before Hung became immortal.

It was also time for Bob to pay a visit to Soya's grave.

~~~

The sight of her again, after so long apart, was a cruelty that Bob endured with only his newfound hope to console him.

Her charred remains had been encased in ice and frozen in her cave for centuries, which had coincidentally, preserved her unfertilized eggs quite nicely. Using a handheld ultrasound device, Bob was able to locate and extracted one of Soya's ovaries. He then took great care in leaving her as he had found her. He concealed her remains again and gave a silent prayer to whatever gods might heed them.

Within a month of returning to his lab, Bob and Billy had managed to disentangle the virus, that had changed those special few so long ago, from the DNA in such a way that the genetic material was undamaged and the virus could be reintroduced when the time was right. The first few timid steps on the road to the resurrection of Soya, had been taken.

Bob found a suitable surrogate that was willing to forgo all legal rights to both the child and a social life for nine months in favor of palatial accommodations and a quarter of a million dollars in cash.

Three months and twenty two days later, a miscarriage ended the first attempt. The two ensuing attempts with alternate surrogates failed in a similar manner. Ah, but the fourth! Well the fourth didn't last a week.

Bob was disheartened, but his resolve was phenomenal. If only he could have left the virus bonded with Soya's DNA. But then he would have faced new problems that he hadn't figured out a way around: the first being that the cells simply wouldn't divide. That was the miracle of the virus in the first place; it memorized its sibling cells and they replicated only until they'd replaced any damaged tissue. If you started with one cell, that's precisely what you would end with.

The viral induced cellular stasis could have been circumvented by subduing the virus' effectiveness with normally lethal doses of radiation, but then you would likely end up killing the surrogate, and the eggs where far too valuable to risk.

As it stood, Bob would have to do it the hard way. So, he did.

Twenty-six months after harvesting Soya's eggs, she was born again into a very different world than her first time around.

Billy was kept in the loop and Soya's life partially because he was now on his eleven year sabbatical and didn't have much else going on, but mostly because if anything went wrong, he was the go-to-guy.

Bob, Jonnedee and Billy doted on her as a child and provided the best of everything love, knowledge and money could provide. She received a sterling education and, as Bob knew she would, proved to be an apt pupil. Billy's tutelage proved to be more than any hired professional could have hoped to match. It seemed that little Soya was reaping the benefits of Billy's years of teaching his younger siblings. Jonnedee assumed the role of a father figure while Bob and Billy were more akin to big brothers or uncles. They took her to all of the places she'd been in her previous life and camped more often than not. At night Bob and Jonnedee would tell the stories of years gone by while sitting around a campfire, or in the dark on nights with a radiant full moon to offer a little light.

Soya was a delightful child who took an interest in mathematics and art early on. To Bob's joy, she cultivated interests in both crafting jewelry and the culinary arts at a very early age.

Bob endeavored to create the perfect setting to raise Soya II in. He built defenses against every danger he could imagine and devoted himself to nurturing her. She had friends from the neighborhood and spent lots of time playing and generally socializing with them.

Even though she was shielded from many aspects of life, she was still made aware of them. As he had always been with Soya in her previous incarnation, so he was with her new manifestation. He never lied to her and he never hid anything from her. She knew who she was and who she had been. She knew why she'd been brought back. And she knew she wasn't bound to Bob unless she chose to be, though she suspected there'd soon be a Soya III if she chose another path in life.

Shortly after her tenth birthday, Bob packed up the Prevost and they set out on a tour of the Northwest. During the second day on the road, Soya sat in the passenger's seat while Bob drove. Bob cleared his throat as he prepared to broach a delicate subject. Then he cleared it again.

Soya looked at him with a concerned expression, "Do you need a lozenge?"

Bob chuckled, "No, no. I'm just trying to figure out the right way to bring up something that we should have a talk about."

Soya cocked an eyebrow, "You do know that I'm familiar with the mechanics of sex, don't you?"

Bob nodded slowly, "I think I'm glad to hear that, though I'm not entirely sure. But the things I wanted to go over with you are a little broader in scope."

She turned her full attention to him, "Like what?"

Bob thought for a moment and said, "Well, in just a few years, every reasonable and practical adult you know will become blithering idiots for several years. For that matter, when the time comes, if you think an adult is 'cool,' that's probably a good indicator there is something seriously wrong with them."

Soya looked baffled, "You kind of lost me there. I know lots of cool adults."

Bob quickly reviewed what he'd just said in his head, "Perhaps I should've prefaced that by mentioning the onset of puberty. Billy's probably told you about the physical changes you'll be going through and maybe about the deluge of hormones that are in store for you."

Soya smiled, "Yeah, I've heard about those things. What do they have to do with adults turning into idiots though?"

"Well," Bob said, "for some reason, one of the effects of the hormone surge is an overwhelming desire to be perceived and accepted as an adult. The most notable result of that is an irrational resentment of anyone that still treats the pubescent teen as... well, a pubescent teen. Whether the adult is trying to give sensible advice, helping out with things they've always helped out with, or just trying to protect the teen from what they know is potentially harmful. The funny thing is that despite the teen conviction that they pretty much have life figured out, when you're older you'll agree with every other adult on the planet in the judgment that teens are the second dumbest primates on the planet."

"Who took first place?"

"Men with boobs in their faces," Bob chuckled, "Anyways, back to our topic: Now I'll grant you, the switch from child to teen catches most parent-types off guard too. They rarely make the transition in sync with the teen. And even if they do, they're not out of the path of the hormonal hurricane."

Soya cocked an eyebrow, "You're really not painting a pretty picture here."

Bob laughed and shook his head, "I guess I'm not, at that. Then again, it's a pretty traumatic time for many people. To be honest, the reason I'm telling you this now is because I know you won't listen when the time comes. I've thought about it and thought about it and I think I've condensed it down to a fairly easy formula for you."

Soya looked at Bob intently, "You've condensed what is supposed to be one of the biggest developmental shifts in my life down to a formula... Are you sure you know what you're going on about, Bob?"

"Yes, I think I do. After all I went through it too."

Soya's eyebrow still hadn't left its cocked station, "Uh, Bob that was like four thousand years ago. I think things might have changed a little since then."

Bob nodded, "Well yeah, the world has changed, but teens are exactly the same."

Soya looked dubious, "I guess you would know. So what's your formula?"

Bob took a moment to organize his points in his head and said, "It's really just some simple rules and one suggestion. The first is: There are four nemeses that will cause you trouble that can last a lifetime. They are Drugs, Alcohol, Boys and Your Best Friend. Any one of those alone can be trouble. Put two of them together and there will be trouble. That trouble will probably snowball and involve the introduction of a third nemesis. No matter how big of an idiot I become in your eyes, heed that advice."

Soya looked confused again, "My best friend? That doesn't make sense."

Bob smiled, "I know, best friends are supposed to look out for each other and make sure they enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, after being protected by their parents up until then, most teens are ill prepared to recognize warning signs. Not only that, but they're suddenly playing an entirely new game. All of the rules have changed and they don't necessarily know what to look for. That being the case, most teens, even best friends, end up concentrating on the 'enjoy themselves' part. I'm just hoping to alert you to some of those warning signs. Throw in the best friend/peer pressure link and you're looking at a formidable nemesis."

"I think I see where you're coming from." Soya looked thoughtful, "But I don't have much of a frame of reference."

"Well, I'm hoping that the rest of this conversation will help in that area. Of those four things, Drugs are hands down the worst. Drugs can change everything about you. From your physical appearance to destroying everything you value. Drugs can strip away your morals, your pride, even your humanity. There are exceptions, but when it comes to a junkie not giving up something... well... royalty in porn is probably a more common occurance."

"Porn?"

"Scratch that. Let's say a beer commercial instead.

Bob's had put on his 'serious' face for emphasis, "And speaking of beer, alcohol isn't much better. The typical drunk has less than half the mental capacity they did when sober. Generally, the only mental category a drunk will actually excel in is coming up with stupid and usually dangerous ideas that would only be attempted by a drunk. If you'll recall, almost all of the Darwin Award winners were drinking when they took themselves out of the gene pool. I think Ben Franklin said it best when he said, 'a man is a fool if he drinks before he's fifty.' Of course, he also said, 'and he's a fool if he doesn't drink after he's fifty.'

"As for Boys... Well I have several things to say about boys; the obvious starting point is that boys are hit with a hormone that basically demands one thing of them: Aggression. That's why they're so freaking competitive. Whether it's trying to out-fight, out-think, out-play, or out-fu...uh, get the girl between the sheets, testosterone rules most boys. And believe me when I say it's not a onetime thing. There's always a next conquest in sight. Having said that, I'll point out that for 999,999 out of a million girls, their first boyfriend isn't their last. Neither is the second, nor the third, etcetera, ad nauseum. That wasn't always the case, though. In the not too distant past, people typically had far fewer relationships under their belts, but I believe back then it had more to do with a much smaller selection to choose from."

Soya had been looking out the window while she listened, suspecting that not staring would put Bob more at ease with the topic. She looked back to him at his pause and said, "So, boys that are marginal creeps now (and that includes most of them) become entrenched creeps when properly motivated... Is that what you're trying to say?"

Bob chewed the appraisal over, "Well, 'creeps' might be a bit harsh for most of them, though it certainly fits for many. How about we go from annoyingly unsophisticated to obnoxiously naïve about what they actually want, shall we?"

She looked at Bob suspiciously, "Are you fluffing this up because you're a boy, too?"

Bob laughed, "You know, love, I just might be at that. But I should point out that not all boys are that way. A very few are good to the core, but it's near impossible to pick them out from the posers. A girl could and probably should have an impartial third party check out a guy before committing herself to him."

"Check out?"

"Yeah, like someone that he doesn't know to look for that can watch his behavior when he thinks the girl isn't looking, or even cozy up to his friends to see what his track record is like and possibly their perception of his what intentions might be."

He shook his head, "But I digress. I don't want to tell you how to live. I just want you to be happy, and pointing out pitfalls might help you to those ends. And besides, the easiest way to tell a bad one is if he pressures for sex. Note, I said pressures. Broaching the subject or suggesting it, well that's one thing. Badgering, guilt trips and plain old demanding sex should all be answered the same way if the girl wasn't leaning that way already: A knee to the nuts."

Soya sat silently for a few miles, then asked, "So was that the suggestion you were talking about when you first started?"

Bob reflected for a moment, "Oh, almost forgot that! No, the suggestion was that in the near future, you ask a question of the women whose opinions you value. It's a simple question, but I think you'll find the answer educational and enlightening."

"And the question is...?"

"Did you regret your first time with a boy?"

"That's... alright; I guess I can do that."

Bob started laughing. Soya looked at him with suspicion. She could conceive of him pulling some sort of practical joke on her, especially with that finale, "What's so funny?"

Bob shook his head, "Oh, I was just thinking about where I got the majority of that talk from."

"And where would that be?"

Bob smiled kindly at her, "I've heard the old you tell it to countless girls in our orphanages. The irony of earnestly giving you the same spiel snagged my funny bone for a moment there."

~~~

Life was good right on up into Soya's fourteenth year. Then, she was infected, for lack of a better term, by media exposure of the degenerate behavior of youth generally accepted as the norm after decades of short-sighted twits touting the woes of effective discipline and ignoring the principle of personal responsibility, Soya began rebelling against who she was. At least, that was the best explanation anyone could come up with.

Whatever had caused the change, it did its job all too well. Granted, she had always been a little different, but Soya II's personality suddenly deviated from the original Soya so dramatically that Bob and Billy were scrambling to see if something in the cloning process was leading to some sort of meltdown. They found nothing. Environment was eventually the only variable that couldn't be ruled out.

Bob decided to let her actually live life from a the perspective she'd taken to heart and secretly hired bodyguards to keep an eye on her in her new home in Los Angeles.

Billy's mother had been feeling the pinch of empty nest syndrome with the last of her children moving out. They'd all made the cut, though Bobby, Billy's youngest brother almost missed the boat when he fell in with a pack of wannabe thugs. Jonnedee leaked some video of Bobby's new hobbies to his mother. Bobby promptly made an about-face upon realizing that his mother was undeniably clairvoyant. She was in her late fifties, but led a physically active life, and more importantly, she understood what Bob was trying to teach the young Soya. So she agreed to take Soya in and added the suggestion of moving away from the gated community where she'd been living, and give Soya a very real world perspective.

Soya was disillusioned for a time. The trials of everyday life for an intercity youth wore on her. It looked as if Bob's handling of the situation would be suitable for providing perspective at least.

But then she began evading her bodyguards, and shortly after her fifteenth birthday, she ran away.

To say Bob was distraught would be an understatement. He hired an army of private investigators to find her. They searched for months.

Far too late he discovered that she had fallen in with a smalltime drug dealer named Mitch Johnson, and had last been seen with him before disappearing completely near the end of March.

Fury and despair raged beneath Bob's practiced persona for a short time. Then he set about converting his lab into an interrogation room. While doing so he pondered the best way to get the information that he needed. He recalled Billy's idea of separating the blood flow to the brain from the rest of the body to keep a person alive even after the body was devastated.

The Keeper waved his hands while conceding, "Of course that's all old hat to you lot."

Then he built a device that would reap absolutely any information Mr. Johnson possessed that might be of use to Bob.

Bob managed to capture Mr. Johnson, but due to a design fault in the machine facilitating his interrogation, only conducted a single 'interview'.

The Keeper had been watching Leo Mason as he said this and gave a slight smile when Leo's eyelids flared. "Ah yes, that's right! You were acquainted with Mr. Johnson, weren't you Mr. Mason?

"Nice fellow. In only a few short hours, he managed to tell all about how Soya had stumbled in on your supplier while he was transporting large amounts of certain illegal substances into the city." The Keeper swiveled his chair to look at Hoss Simpson. Hoss never looked at the Keeper. His scowl was dedicated solely to Leo.

The Keeper turned on around to look at Mayor Jackson. He too was staring daggers at Leo. That is until the Keeper continued with, "And he told me about men in high places who could rein in the police or send them out to 'bust kneecaps' to use the vernacular. He didn't know all of the names I needed, but it was a start."

He spun on around looking at the remainder of his audience, "In fact, he didn't know anything at all about some of the conspirators.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself." he rotated back to face Leo. "As I was saying,Soya ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time. She managed to get away without being spotted... At least that's what she thought. Camera surveillance is so impersonal. Nevertheless, it can be effective."

"By the time she made it back to Mr. Johnson's abode Mr. Mason was waiting on her. Now according to Mr. Johnson, and later affirmed by Mr. Mason, she was taken to a deserted factory on 35th Street and beaten, gang-raped by Mr. Mason's entourage and then confined in a steel drum with a single hole for air until she was taken away by three police officers."

"Mr. Johnson knew that Mr. Mason had connections in high places but he'd always assumed the stories of his ties with at least some of the city police force were just hype until that event." The Keeper's chair slowly rotated back to the former Mayor "And from then on, he reevaluated his opinion on the stories about Leo's relations with a certain high ranking, local, elected official." The chair twisted again, stopping in front of Hoss. "He'd always believed the tales of a powerful union boss transporting the drugs in, but he didn't know the name. It didn't matter though; Bob knew how to get all of that information and more. It just took planning, preparation and a call to Jonnedee, of course.

"One thing bothered Bob though. There were several variables to factor in and he realized he'd need some help to wrap everything up before anyone could react. He prepared his plans to accommodate up to six primary and twenty secondary targets.

"Now it just so happened that Beth... Excuse me, Shui was in town. Okay, okay he'd been living here for a decade or so. When Bob explained his intentions, Shui offered some suggestions and even proposed to capture the individuals that were wanted alive. He always did like a challenge. That left Bob with only the rogue cops and the general population of the drug dealers of the city to deal with.

"It was planned as a clean sweep. First; the elimination of the city's pusher and dealers. Not only would that rid the city of a blight that had done little more than ruin lives and clog up the court system and jails, it also sufficed to shake up Mr. Mason before he was taken down.

"The day after Mr. Mason was apprehended, Bob had the names of the three crooked cops that had taken Soya and some of the details of what happened to her.

"Of course, some of you have probably already worked out that the majority of the pertinent information, such as names, work locations, home addresses, phone numbers and online photos of most of the additional parties were obtained from Mr. Mason, while under extreme duress, of course.

"Granted, that was only after he confessed to meeting with the rest of you to discuss what to do with Soya. As he told it," the Keeper's eye's darkened as his chair rotated to face Gnat Jordan, "Mr. Jordan here suggested pouring gas in the barrel and destroying any evidence that she ever existed. It was agreed on and Officers Gonzalez, Pigg and Biggs carried out the act like the good little psycho-sycophants they were.

The Keeper's face had been steadily contorting and growing redder as his words grew to shouts, "Just what the monkey fuck is it with you egomaniacal assholes wanting to burn Soya, anyways? I mean, really? Four hundred years and you're still in the same shit wallowed rut? What the Hell?" He hurled a coffee mug at the staircase.

"Fine then, play with fire and I think we all know what happens. Mr. Jordan, I have an extensive repertoire of ways to cook you scrawny ass so don't make any plans for the next few decades.

"In hindsight, Bob said he should have kept the cops around for a few rounds on a table before beating them to death. Remind me later and I'll let you watch the video. The finale was so funny I was a weak sneeze away from needing new underwear."

He smiled without humor, "Anyway, after that it was simple enough for Shui to pick up Mr. Simpson and Mayor Jackson. The leg work in retrieving Mr. Jordan was a nuisance, but I did enjoy the sea air and, best of all, playing pirate for a few days. The crew always thought I was a little eccentric, so they didn't pay any attention to me or the crate I spent most of the trip sitting on.

"So then, there we all were, and I only had one unexpected loose end to wrap up."

Chapter 12

Tamesis Gets Her Interview

### ~

Jonnedee picked up the ringing phone, glanced at the caller ID and flipped it open. "What's up?" He listened for a moment, "You're shittin' me. Here?." He listened for another moment. "Yeah, I get it. Sounds like everything is right on schedule, I'll see you here tomorrow afternoon, then,"

He hung up and stared out the window at the empty bird feeder for a moment to ponder the news of Billy's newest advancement, then turned his attention back to the task at hand.

Jonnedee has always had at least one dog. Usually two or three, for that matter. He named every one of them the same thing: 'You Furry Bastard'. Well, that or some or some linguistic equivalent has come from his mouth for almost a million and a half consecutive days. Did I mention he was a creature of habit?

In recent years, he'd finally decided to give cats a go. After a few months of having one around, his long standing conviction that they were inconsiderate, ungrateful tyrants was altered slightly to include scheming, sadistic, relentless, inconsiderate, ungrateful sociopaths.

Without warning, Jonnedee found himself in a covert battle with an agent of pure, unadulterated evil, which he enduringly referred to as 'You Evil Bastard'. Attacks were invariably calculated and without warning. During the first weeks after inviting the little soul-sucker into his home, it managed to: destroy all of his house plants; claw the base speakers of Jonnedee's stereo, all four legs of a museum quality William Cookes table (circa 1850), and the lower half of his favorite Gustave Courbet painting "Vague se Brisante" (circa 1869) all to shreds; cough up hairballs on Jonnedee's passenger side car seat, his pillow, and his toothbrush amongst other inconvenient locations; coat the bottom foot of the white curtains throughout the house with black hair; forcibly neuter You Furry Bastard (the Jack Russell terrier, not to be confused with You Furry Bastard the German shepherd); and introduced Jonnedee to a new concept in fecal decor.

The thing had the bizarre habit of backing up against the baseboards and slowly walking away as it relieved itself. Swear to whatever god you fancy, they stuck. The result was little stool samples popping up along random baseboards throughout the house. Not the easiest thing to explain to company.

He'd tried explaining the torments the cat heaped upon him. But given the nature of his relationship with most people, "Are you braggin' or complainin'?" was typical of the responses he received.

To which he'd respond with something along the lines of, "Are you def or retarded? My walls are sprouting cat shit for fuck's sake! How can you possibly brag about something like that?"

Jonnedee figured the cat was into him for well over a million in damages, not to mention the embarrassment and disgust that it had doled out in ample portions. There was absolutely no way he was going to just give up and get rid of it. Not yet anyway. He wasn't exactly trying to be cruel, but he was hell-bent on taming The Evil Bastard. If all else failed, he knew he could give it to a cat loving friend that just happen to own a nearby Korean restaurant.

No really, he had six of them running around... What were you thinking, you twisted stereotyper?

He'd formulated his battle plans and was in the process of carrying them out. He had already declawed the cat and sent it in for electrolysis. He purchased a shock collar that activated whenever it was within ten feet of Jonnedee's most prized possessions...or the still limping You Furry Bastard, for that matter.

Jonnedee was considering removing the activation transmitter from You Furry Bastard's collar, though. It seemed that he'd figured out the setup and made a habit of cornering You Evil Bastard whenever possible just to bark as the cat ran the gamut of electrically induced break-dance moves.

You Evil Bastard was always coming up with new tactics though. Any time Jonnedee had both hands full; the cat would jump in front of him and walk as slowly as possible, making course corrections only to stay in the lead. And claws or not, You Evil Bastard still had teeth to attack Jonnedee's toes with while he slept. The hairless cat had taken up licking anything with hair or fibers it could find as to keep up its hairball arsenal. Simply put it wasn't out of the game by a long shot.

~~~

Tamesis sat in front of her computer reviewing the notes she'd compiled on Dr. Alexander Maple. The detective had been right, there wasn't much there to go on.

He was single and had apparently never been married; a third generation doctor, he graduated from Vanderbilt University as a general practitioner of medicine eighteen years earlier; he had been practicing medicine in the area for about nine years; he worked primarily with the poor; never stepped outside the law (at least not when he might get caught);

She tapped her pen against the notebook. It occurred to her that a cover story only had to get her in the door. After that everything would pan out just fine. Well, it would pan out for her anyway. Dr. Maple may have trouble shaking off the feeling that he'd been violated, but that was just too bad.

Tamesis had been waiting for this break since before she'd even become a reporter. And nothing would stop her now.

~~~

The sky adamantly refused to betray the time of day as the winds corralled thick gray snow clouds into something resembling an inverted parking lot in the sky. A freezing chill gnawed the few pedestrians' extremities as they bustled along the streets with coats and scarves inflating their diffused silhouettes. All signs indicated that the first real snow of the year was ready to pull off its shoes and kick its hole riddled socks up on the coffee table next to the cooler full of beer and regale the city with tales of its ancestors and the havoc they wrought.

Nestled in a veritable jungle of Siberian hedges, the single-story house was invisible from the road. Only the curb numbers indicated that there was a veiled structure in the vicinity.

From behind her she heard someone whistle and yell, "Hey little momma, you lookin' good enough to eat!"

She turned and saw three youths standing idly with wide smiles and pants that prohibited sprinting. She smiled and yelled back, "Oh, hi baby, same place tonight? Just make sure ya bring yo momma again, 'k shoog?"

The smile vanished from the one in the middle as the other two erupted in laughter.

Tamesis turned back to her task and suppressed the excitement that threatened to send her sprinting up the foliage congested walkway that curved in a slow arc ahead of her. She forced a casual pace as she walked around the curve. A door appeared at the end of the walk. It struck her as odd that the hedges would escort the walk all of the way to the door. She saw no windows, no yard and only a sliver of the house, so she scanned the small portion of the house that she could see. The weight of the .38 snub-nose in one coat pocket and the 50,000 volt stun gun tucked in her waistband at the small of her back lent her the confidence of a minor deity as she climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

As she waited for a response she looked around. The hedges offered no indications of the presumed yard on their other side, even from the top of the small porch.

About thirty seconds had passed and no answer. For that matter there were no signs of life emanating from the house at all. She knocked again, louder this time: another minute and still nothing.

Not willing to accept something so mundane as 'no one's at home,' Tamesis thumped the door with her satchel.

"If you damaged my door, I'm going to have to go dental malpractice on your ass. You don't take hints very well do you?" a distorted voice crackled over the small, previously unnoticed speaker that blended perfectly with the wall mounted mailbox. "Okay, you got me. Now, what do you want?"

'It's Showtime!' Tamesis thought and then said. "Hello. I'm looking for Dr. Maple, Dr. Alexander Maple. Is this the right address?"

"This is, I am, and you are?"

"My name is Tamesis Hanley, Dr. Maple. I would like to take a few minutes of you time if I could, sir. I--"

"Unless you are selling booby-traps for sociopathically-aggressive door-to-door salespersons and zealous disciples with solicitous intentions I have everything I need. Since I don't see how a bear trap could possibly fit in that satchel of yours, I'll have to suggest you mosey along to someone in a better mood."

That was not the reception Tamesis had hoped for, so she'd just have to convince him to let her in. "I'm not trying to sell you anything Dr. Maple and I'm not affiliated with any known religion. I'm actually a reporter and I'm doing an article on doctors doing pro bono work in the greater metropolitan area," thank you Google! "and I would really like to do a piece on you. If it's any consolation, donations to businesses that provide free services typically skyrocket after a good human interest story... not that that's what you're looking for, but it couldn't hurt, right?"

There was a hesitation, then the voice replied, "No, it probably wouldn't hurt, but... I'm sorry, this isn't the best time for an interview, though. I've got my hands full with unjustified unpleasantries, compliments of the authorities, at the moment and I'd rather keep out of the limelight if you don't mind. Perhaps at a later time."

Tamesis refused to be deterred by something as trivial as personal qualms, either. She had to get him to open the door. After that everything would fall into place. "If that's the case, Doctor, then it seems to me that some _good_ publicity should be a welcome thing. In fact, I probably couldn't have come at a better time to help your cause."

The seconds crawled by as the Dr. Maple lingered in a "hmm" infested deliberation with his caution. Finally, he agreed, "Perhaps you are right, Ms. Hanley. I'll be there in just a moment."

Tamesis smiled inwardly, and then it occurred to her that the Dr. Maple must be in some other part of the house while he spoke to her. 'How the hell did he know I had a satchel?' she wondered.

She franticly began a visual search for a camera. As she did so, she wondered how many people had cameras trained on their front doors. More to the point, how many doctors working largely with the poor had the money for anything approaching that level of security?

Her examination of the exterior had revealed nothing as the door was opened by the middle aged man she'd expected. With her heels on, Tamesis was about the same height as the five foot five inch doctor. He projected nothing but grace and elegance with his statement-making sleep-ruffled hair while wearing a posh terrycloth robe, stylish vertically-striped, cotton pajamas and a pair of avant-garde furry pink house slippers with rabbit ears and faces adorning the toes.

"My apologies for my appearance, I hadn't expected company today." Again, something struck Tamesis as being off as he stood aside looking almost embarrassed, "Please, come in and warm yourself."

Tamesis had expected a typical middle-class home at best and something resembling a college dorm room at worse. Considering she hadn't found any documentation indicating that the doctor had ever been married, either wouldn't have been a surprise. What she got was neither of the two nor anything in between. In fact, it couldn't technically fall between anything.

The front room of the house was bare. The only notable feature of the room was the bare bulb in the overhead light fixture. The floors were terra cotta tile, the walls virgin sheetrock.

Trying not to be too obvious about mentally critiquing the room, she queried, "Dental malpractice?"

"All I could come up with on short notice. Needs work, huh?"

"Maybe just 'orthodontic'... No, on second thought, I'm not sure that one can be saved. Sorry." She shrugged.

"Doctor, I believe you've taken the notion of living a Spartan life style to a whole new level." She realized what had seemed off before, was the echo of her words reverberated within the room. The surreal effect is usually experienced when people are stressed, elated, nostalgic or, as is most often the case, a combination of the three because they are either about to move or just have. Houses might echo. Homes do not.

He noted her puzzled expression as he led her around a corner and into the kitchen. "Oh yes, I've just moved but there were problems with the gas pipes at my new place and the city won't turn the gas on until everything is kosher. I could have had the work done today, but the contractor charges double time on Sundays. I've pulled some old patio furniture in the kitchen in the mean time. Otherwise, I have my sleeping bag and a laptop upstairs. It's truly amazing how many ways an electrified lump of plastic, metal and silicon can keep a mind entertained."

He pulled one of the chairs out for Tamesis, "Please have a seat. Would you like a drink? I'm afraid all I have in the fridge is Banana Yoo Hoo and Peach Nehi (I have it shipped up special) but you're welcome to either."

"Water would be nice, if it's still on, please."

Dr. Maple turned to retrieve a sixteen ounce red Solo cup from the bag on the counter. As he sidled to the sink he asked, "So your article is about doctors donating their time in general or just me?"

As he lifted the facet handle, Tamesis spoke softly in his ear, "It's all about you."

Startled, he spun about to find her inches away. Before he could speak, a blinding pain was escorted from nose to toes courtesy of the stun gun. She held the trigger long enough that Dr. Maple was beginning to suspect that this crazy woman was experimenting with new ways to run a nine volt battery down all in one go.

Finally she relented and let him fall in a convulsive heap on the floor. He curled into the fetal position and found it amazing that having an involuntary bowel movement could be relegated so low on one's list of concerns. He also noted that it really took the will to fight down a notch or two. As he struggled to regain some semblance of composure, he felt a jolt to the back of his head that caused his vision to vibrate. For a moment, the world looked as if he were suddenly a life-sized Andrew Dice Clay bobble head doll at a lesbian support group. _Did she just hit me, too?_ He thought just before the second blow managed to do the job of knocking him unconscious.

~~~

Alex awoke finding himself tied on his back to the top of his wire mesh patio table. His neck ached from being left drooping off the side for a while. The realization that his limbs were secured to each leg of the table dawned almost as quickly as the tape over his mouth and the throbbing in his battered head.

A few minutes later Tamesis entered the room carrying his laptop. She sat it on the counter and set to work. After about twenty minutes she found what she was looking for. Alex could just barely make out the video from the external surveillance camera.

"Ah, no wonder I couldn't see the camera. You had it mounted across the street. And here I come... and there you are." She went to the start menu and selected restart.

Tamesis looked over at her captive and smiled, "We can't be leaving incriminating evidence, now can we?"

When the computer began rebooting she pressed the control/f11 key combo until it offered her the option to reset the computer to factory settings. In no time the computer was humming along performing its own digital lobotomy.

"That should do the trick, but I'll take the hard drive just in case." She turned again to Alex and feigned concern, "I hope you didn't have any important documents or family photos in this thing. Judging by your setup upstairs, you should have invested in some backup hardware."

She stepped away from the computer and took a seat inches from Alex's head. He couldn't help but wonder why he was so interested in how strange she looked from his upside down perspective. It seems like figuring out an escape plan would be a better use of his time. But every time he concentrated on that particular subject he drew a complete blank.

"I'm sure by now you realize that I'm not here to ask you about your charity work. In fact, I'm not even going to ask you about the kidnapping and murder of Mayor Jackson, Buford Simpson, Leo Mason and my former boss Nathan Jordan... Though that would be a hell of a story to break. But no, we have something else to discuss; older accounts to settle.

"I have to assume you didn't recognize me when you let me in. Any change in that status? I'll take that as a look of focused contemplation instead of a scowl."

Alex shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Fair enough. It has been a _very_ long time and I have put a lot of effort into upgrading my appearance. The last time we crossed paths was when you banished me from our village. You remember Bryke, I'm sure. Well, Moaple... var... rin... japetto... japanese-o... Well, Chief, it turns out I was right all of those years ago. We are immortal. Perhaps not in the truest sense, but with a few precautions, close enough to make no difference."

While the crazy lady alternately rambled and gloated, Alex grew bored. 'She does look like a freakin' alien from this angle though' he thought as he closed one eye and then opened it, then closed the other. He began slowly alternating them.

Without missing a beat in her well rehearsed diatribe on Alex's obvious unsuitability as a leader, Tamesis gave the table a two second love tap with the stun gun to help refocus his attention. He couldn't see it from his angle, but she'd slipped a solo cup over each foot of the table to prevent it from grounding her weapon.

"As I was saying, in your incompetence, you cast out the one visionary that could have contributed the most to the future of our people. Let's face it; foresight wasn't your strong suit back then."

Her eyes darkened as she thought back. "The shit-storm the Gods brewed up for me was more than you can imagine and I have a brontosaurus sized bone to pick with you, Poppa Smurf.

~~~

Staffanemicollera had tried to find her way back to the village without success. For five days her hands had been bound behind her back and a blindfold covered her eyes. She'd tried to memorize her surroundings during the occasional peeks she snatched while eating or heeding the call of nature, but it was no good.

Eventually, after being cut loose and failing to track her escorts back to Bryke, she stumbled onto a beach while fleeing a pack of wolves. If ever there was a case of bad timing in her life, that was it. There were men all over the beach pulling their boats ashore and taking in their surroundings. Staffanemicollera, who was still looking behind her for the wolves, actually tripped over the side of one of the wooden crafts and found herself sprawled in ropes and sheets of course cloth.

She'd never seen a seagoing vessel before, or anything other than a crude raft for that matter, and didn't know what to make of the precarious position she found herself in. When she heard the laughter and looked up to see dozens of men crowding around the sides of the boat, she instantly decided she may have judged the wolves too harshly.

One of the men made an obviously boastful proclamation in a tongue that Staffanemicollera couldn't understand and the men's laughter redoubled. In time, she assumed he'd commented on how eagerly she wished to be captured.

For the second time in a week she found herself bound. However, this time she soon had the company of a few dozen equally misfortunate locals before the ships set out for distant shores.

She had no real idea how long they were at sea. With her introduction to motion sickness came a sense of eternity. She wasn't alone on that count. Several of the other captives hugged the railing like an ill child in its mother's arms as well.

Finally they landed next to a large village on the edge of the sea. It was many times larger than any Staffanemicollera had ever seen, but then, she'd only ever seen Bryke. The noise radiating from the place was enough to make her wonder who would want to live like that. When she got close enough to smell the place, she decided they must all be mad.

~~~

The first week she was housed in a deep, muddy pit along with the other detainees. The stench was over powering at first, but she eventually got used to it. To her dismay she found that she had to get used to it all over again each time she woke.

On the eighth day, the prisoners were taken out and placed in a holding pen. One at a time they were dunked in a pool until the mud was gone. The water was cold and Staffanemicollera's teeth were chattering as she stood drip-drying in the second of the five corrals.

A gate at the opposite end that she entered led to a platform where an old woman and three men stood. Two of the men appeared to be guards and the third inspected each prisoner as they were herded through the station. From what Staffanemicollera could gather, he checked each prisoner for general health and strength, as well as any obvious signs of illness or infestation. He smeared a colored dot between the shoulder blades of each prisoner just before they were taken from the stage and shown to the corral that corresponded with their mark.

The old woman only participated when women came through. She checked for intact maidenheads, signs of pregnancy or particular diseases.

Staffanemicollera was cleared on the latter two but was flagged for the first. After receiving her markings, two women and a male guard were called for.

She was escorted to a large hut where she was stripped and put through a repeat inspection by an additional two women, while the guard waited just outside the door. The warmth of the room lent only small consolation to being handled like an animal.

The women were satisfied and launched into a flurry of activities. She was sure they were trying to tear her hair out a few strands at a time with the combs they wielded. The tangles eventually yielded and she found the experience to be much more peasant after that.

While the two combing her hair eventually began braiding it, another two rubbed oil into her skin. They repeated the process twice before they brought out a shallow basket full of small jars of oily paints. One brushed the paints in various places on her face, throat and chest, while the other used a small curved knife to even out and smooth the nails on her fingers and toes. Staffanemicollera almost kicked the woman doing her toes as an involuntary result of ticklish feet.

After about an hour, the women led Staffanemicollera to a large, polished, metal mirror to see herself. She had never seen her reflection in anything other than water which typically offered only a mass of hair hanging around a shadow darkened face. This was another story completely.

She didn't recognize the woman in the mirror but she liked what she saw. She looked intelligent, aggressive and quite beautiful, even if she did say so herself. For the first time, she could even see the bright green of her eyes.

Staffanemicollera was confused, though. She was pretty sure being captured was most definitely not supposed to feel good, but she figured she could get used to this treatment. She considered that perhaps these people recognized her divine nature. She would come to change her mind in short order, of course, but for a brief moment she breathed a sigh of relief and felt better about herself than she ever had before.

~~~

She later pieced together that most of the captives would never go beyond that first village on the sea. The raiders were primarily restocking their own supply of free labor. With as many as four dozen captives brought into the village each year, she gathered that the mortality rate was rather high amongst the slaves. Less than half of those arriving would move on and be sold to inland tribes. Perhaps four per year would be sold to traders who covered larger sections of Europe.

Staffanemicollera had no real way of knowing that being both pretty and a virgin made her more valuable than most in the slave market combined, though she was beginning to suspect something to that end.

Staffanemicollera was taken from the village three days later when a caravan rolled in and a slave trader spent some time negotiating a price. In addition to her, there was a veritable giant of a man and another virgin, but she possessed the body of a skinny boy and the face of a horse.

Initially, each of the three remained silent. Staffanemicollera wondered what her future held and assumed the other two were doing the same. She ran through all of the worst case scenarios she could come up with and quickly realized that her experiences and imagination were under-equipped for the task.

The slaves already with the caravan when Staffanemicollera's group joined it seemed relatively comfortable with the situation and many conversed freely with each other though she couldn't understand a word of it.

Staffanemicollera eventually broke the silence and asked her two companions if either of them had any idea what they were in for. She got a defeated shrug and welling tears from the girl. The man offered a little more.

With an accent she had trouble following, he said, "I'll probably be fighting because of my size, and you two..." he shook his head and looked towards the mountains to the south.

Staffanemicollera didn't like vague answers and truncated answers are about as vague as you can get. "Us two, what?"

He kept his eyes focused on the mountains. "What separates you two from the other women that they kept back in that place?" he asked as if 'that place' was a curse against his mother's cooking.

He let the question sink in. "You'll probably be entertaining some king's nocturnal fancies. She'll be less fortunate and probably be expected to do that and work all day every day, as well. Once they get tired of you, they'll either sell you or put you to work, too. Eventually, you'll both outlast your usefulness and they'll let you waste away." He smiled, "I'm the lucky one. I probably won't be alive in a year."

~~~

They traveled south for several days, perhaps a week, before coming to a city that dwarfed anything that Staffanemicollera had ever imagined possible. There were huts as far as she could see, but towards the center of the city, there were other structures that overshadowed the domiciles.

In hindsight she figured they were probably temples or possibly components of a rudimentary palace. Language barriers and the departure of her caravan shortly after the sale of the weeping horse, as Staffanemicollera had come to think of her, were not conducive to gathering architectural trivia.

Almost a week later, she lost the last person she knew she could talk with to an auction block. Okay, she could talk to anyone, but she only knew the one that would respond in something other than gibberish.

There were a number of buyers watching her and pointing at her when they spoke to the slave trader. All shook their heads and went about other matters after only a few words from him.

She hadn't known where she was since she'd departed on her all expense paid cruise, but it was certainly getting much hotter than she'd ever thought it could be. She thought perhaps it only seemed hotter because of the coolness of the mountain pass they'd come through.

In the new place, olives, grapes and figs grew amongst the hills and fields of wheat, barley, hops and rye dotted the valley floors. The people wore no furs but thin cloth instead. Staffanemicollera wondered how they survived the winters in such flimsy attire. Perhaps they had other clothes for the cold seasons.

~~~

On they traveled until they came to a magnificent city by the sea in what Staffanemicollera would later identify as Greece. There the trader took her to an enormous wall and spoke to the guards. They were taken to a lavish open garden with seats set around a large fire pit and bade to wait.

Shortly, a tall man in a robe approached and the trader bowed at the waist and pulled Staffanemicollera into a similar pose. They held that stance until the new arrival spoke. There was what Staffanemicollera assumed was an exchange of formalities and then they got down to business.

Ten minutes later, the tall man called several servants to him. Two women were obviously directed to inspect Staffanemicollera. The male servant took his instructions and ran off towards a huge building yelling to other servants along the way. A few followed him.

Food and drink was brought out and the trader joined the tall man for lunch. Staffanemicollera wasn't included in the meal which was probably just as well because she didn't recognize most of the dishes as being fit for human consumption. Sure, they could brag about their city, but when it came to food, the savages didn't even know how to boil anything.

As the men concluded the meal a heavily laden cart was pulled from the stables and taken to the front gate. They strolled over to it talking as they went. Once there, the trader inspected the casks, crates and most specifically the small box containing perhaps a few pounds of lustrous metals and sparkling stones.

It dawned on Staffanemicollera that she had just been sold as the trader guided the pony and cart out the gate. She had no idea what to do and no way to ask. The two women who had inspected her led her away to what would be her home for the next half century.

That first night she lost her maidenhead to the man she would come to know as King Oramles. To her dismay and his delight her hymen had reattached within a few days. The virus manifested itself in unexpected ways, sometimes. The end result was that she bore the tearing each time it grew back. As for King Oramles, he was a happy guy especially when the slave trader next visited and realized what he'd sold for a tenth its value.

~~~

Upon King Oramles' death, Staffanemicollera was supposed to join him in his tomb. However, the king's son, Theneus, didn't really see the point adding fodder to a grave and spared her the nuisance of ritual murder. Similarly, she was passed on to his son, Apodeus in the same manner some eighteen years later.

Staffanemicollera began to think that she might spend the rest of eternity being passed down from one generation to the next forever, but along came Apodeus' son, Antoninus.

As fate would have it, Antoninus was as gay as pink armor and a dick-shaped sword. And with the constant skirmishes on the western boarders of his kingdom and funds running lower than he preferred, he made arrangements for a trade with a wealthy king far to the east.

Staffanemicollera was escorted by a small army to her new master, Kashtati the Mighty. Escape wasn't an option as she had been fitted with a bronze collar and anchored to the wagon she traveled in with a sturdy chain.

Kashtati's great-grandfather had been the leader of an Arian tribe that had migrated south from what would ultimately become Russia. Fortune favored him when he chose a wide valley in which to settle his people. It turned out to be a plentiful source of precious metals and gems as well as rich soil. The icing on the cake was the proximity to the migratory routes of several types of game. Kashtati's grandfather and father were both enterprising men and quickly turned their village into a regional cultural and trade center.

As for Kashtati the Mighty, he was an insufferable tyrannical runt, standing at about four-foot-ten, with a single-minded fixation on funky-butt-lovin' and riding crops. Much to her chagrin, his ego was rivaled only by his libido. He was sixteen when he purchased her, and the little bastard kept buggering her right on up until he died some fifty-three years later.

~~~

For the next three-thousand years, Staffanemicollera was inherited, bought, sold or stolen by one line of royalty or another. During that time she'd weathered plagues, wars, natural disasters, assassinations, famines, insane rulers, rebellions, jealous wives, plotting mistresses and a dozen more collars. Through all of that, all she learned worth talking about was punishment and that harem life was preferable because it was easier to hide and the work was minimal.

Finally, in 1191 A.D., she managed to escape bondage while accompanying her master to the city of Acre. Shortly after arriving, the city fell under siege by the army of King Richard I of England. When the city finally fell, the entire garrison was executed after all negotiations failed. Her master snuck out of the city leaving her behind. She managed to persuade one of her master's personal guards to release her and run away to live a peaceful life on a farm... just before she pushed him off a balcony as he waited for her to 'change into more suitable travel attire.'

Oddly, after three thousand years of life as a slave, she knew exactly what to do. She had thought about it almost from day one. All of her suffering could be traced a single event. She would hunt down the bastards who ripped her from her home and cast her into the ravenous, gaping maw of the world.

Chapter 13

Anger Management

### ~

Staffanemicollera didn't know that Richard the Lionhearted was from her home land, but the language his men spoke was strangely familiar. She could speak any one of dozens of Greek, Roman, Persian or Arabic dialects but she still thought in her native tongue. After hearing not a word of it spoken for so many ages, it was like hearing herself mumble in her head. A few words rang true and a few others sounded like distortions of familiar terms, but they were sprinkled throughout an alien vocabulary. The rhythm was close, too. She'd seen how languages change with time and wondered if in fact these men might be from the land of her birth.

After a few months around the men, she managed to learn enough of the new lingo to gain an audience with Richard; her beauty and fare skin being of no small aid in doing so.

She explained that she had been kidnapped from her home on a great island that she could not recall the name of, but it lay far to the west, when she was very young and was eventually brought here. She figured the fact that 'very young' to her was quite different from Richard's likely interpretation at the time of their conversation, wasn't really worth mentioning. He was given to believe that she had been abducted as a child, and she wasn't about to correct the notion.

He had a green eyed cousin that had a daughter named Stephanie go missing when Richard was about ten. The cousin had died years before but Richard couldn't help but wonder if this might be the missing child. The other three children that survived his cousin were all intolerable twerps and annoying thorns in Richard's side. He decided then and there that Staffanemicollera was close enough to do, and set about teaching her the ins and outs of the life of an English aristocrat.

She traveled with him and, despite a ship wreck and Richard being held for ransom by Emperor Henry VI, she made it to London with documentation signed by Richard reinstating her 'claim to her heritage.' She was introduced to her 'long lost siblings' and set about undermining each of them. Within two years, one had died, the second was in debtor's prison and the third had fled the country in favor of France.

By the time Richard made his brief return home, she was already touring the country in search of her birth place. No easy task considering she had no names or maps to go by when she was last there. She made a hobby of studying the maps of the day and bore two facts in mind. The first was the memory of the sea being a day's travel to the northeast of her village, not that she'd ever made the trek but several men from her village had. The second point was her one long trip outside of the village. Her five day, blindfolded trip to banishment had been to the north and had dropped her very near the sea. The maps told her that her most likely targets were either Lincolnshire or, the more likely of the two, Cambridgeshire.

Upon arriving in Peterborough of Cambridgeshire, she was completely lost. When she happened across the river it occurred to her that despite the city that obscured any possible landmarks she might see, men couldn't move the rivers and nature probably hadn't shifted it too much. So she began daily walks that led her along the river banks; first to the east for four days and then to the west. On her second day to the west, she came to Overton and Gunwade lakes.

An odd feeling crept up on her slowly. It wasn't until she was between the lakes that she fully realized that it was more than just a little familiar. Stunned, she stopped and stared. The contours of the lakes had changed a little, the trees were all wrong and some of the trails had shifted or disappeared, but for the first time in far too long, she knew where she was. She broke into a run and found herself in a clearing that had once been the village of Bryke. Nothing remained but overgrown mounds where the stone and mud huts had once stood, though there were far more than she recalled. But no signs of human habitation were left other than a scorched area where some vagabonds had set up a campfire.

After three millennia, she was home. She felt so elated; she didn't even want to kill anyone for a few minutes. Then melancholy set in a little ahead of loss and depression.

~~~

While it was possible that she was the sole survivor of Bryke, she concluded that her history with luck was proof enough that the others hadn't all died in the distant past. And she figured that at least one or two of the other twelve had either stayed near the original village or went out, seen the world and came back here after they got the wanderlust out of their systems.

And so she purchased a comfortable home in town as her new persona and began her fulltime occupation as a socialite. She frequented parties and all manner of social events as well as actively exploring every road the city had to offer by coach. She kept an eye out for the original members of the village and made notes of the locations where she happened to see persons with enough resemblance to be possible descendants. Bearing in mind that she had no idea that her own sterility was extended to all of the virus' victims, it made for a fairly reasonable plan.

She remained vigilant for some two years before taking a break. She chose to return to London. Her hopes of revisiting King Richard never materialized as he was off fighting his ally from the Kings Crusade, Phillip II of France.

She occupied herself by visiting acquaintances from London that she'd made during her social endeavors in Peterborough.

One afternoon she was in her carriage on her way to visit Lady Bethany of Kent when she happened to spy a familiar face amongst the pedestrians. She called for the driver to stop and exited the cab in pursuit of the fellow. She pulled her hat low and looked down whenever he happened to look in her direction. Finally, he stopped to speak to a vender. She heard his voice and saw his face fully. She sensed her peripheral vision falter and the cacophony of the streets fade.

It was undoubtedly Naggel from the village. She realized that her memory of him had faded with time and only seeing him again brought the discrepancy to her attention.

She forced herself to turn her back on him for a moment and regain her composure, lest she give away her own identity. She quickly scanned the area for a reflective surface to keep Naggel in sight. There was only the driver of a dung cart arguing with a butcher over why he had a God given right to traverse the streets of London any time he wished to. Then she recalled the hand mirror she kept in her bag.

She positioned the mirror to allow her a view of Naggel just in time to see him turn and walk back in her direction. She lowered the mirror and waited for him to pass. Then she fell in behind him and trailed him to his home.

She spent the next few days observing Naggel and his routines. She broke into his home while he was most likely to be away for a few hours. There, she found comfortable if basic accommodations with the benefit of a cellar.

Finally, she settled on a simple plan and set it into motion.

She entered Naggel's home sometime after midnight. She'd already gotten a feel for where the floors made the most noise and avoided those areas. Her eyes, well adjusted to the dark, had no trouble seeing that his bed was empty and that a light was coming from the cellar. She edged toward the door wishing she'd oiled the hinges when she was here last.

The door was ajar a couple of inches. She adjusted her grip on the two foot length of wooden club she brought with her and listened at the door. There was no sound.

When she pushed on the handle, the hinges made surprisingly little sound. The portal was opened enough for her to slip through so she stopped and listened again; Nothing. She crept down the stairs, wincing with each creak and groan of the wooden steps shifting around their anchoring nails.

When she finally descended enough to see the interior of the cellar, she found it empty. The certainty that Naggel was beneath the stairs waiting to grab her ankles and send her tumbling to the bottom of the stairs, seized her. She squatted and peered between the steps. Again, she found nothing. Still being as quiet as possible, she continued her progress until she stood in the middle of the room.

Looking around, she noticed a bundle of spider webs swaying gently along the outer edge of a shelf along the far wall. She approached it and felt the slight breeze coming from behind it. As she reach to pull the shelf away she hear noises on the far side of the shelves and pulled her hand back to grip her improvised bludgeon. She assumed that the shelf would open from left to right and positioned herself accordingly for a rear attack. She'd assumed right.

After a grunt-filled entrance, Naggel turned to push the secret door back in place only to have a chunk of oak introduced to his right ear. Dazed and on his knees, he attempted to crawl back through the opening. Unfortunately for him, the chunk of oak was as persistent in making his acquaintance as a Seventh-Day Adventist hopped up on meth and peppermints.

After the fifth blow he collapsed, unconscious.

As she positioned him in the room's one chair, she noticed that he looked older than she recalled. Perhaps five or even ten years older. She wondered if she had aged at all. She was pretty sure she looked exactly the same age as she did three thousand years before. Still, it was unsettling. There was the offhanded possibility that this was simply one of Naggel's decendants that could pass for him...

This event also made great strides towards foreshadowing Staffanemicollera's eventual realization that she was doomed to never get the hang of the one-hit knock-out. Not that it mattered that much to her, but her battered victims would have certainly appreciated for her to develop the knack.

~~~

When Naggel awoke he found himself securely tied to a chair. Before he could focus his eyes, he heard, "Where are the others?"

"Wha... what others? Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? Did Mellissa send you? Tell that woman that I didn't touch her sister, damn it!"

Staffanemicollera spoke in the language of the village, "The rest of us, Naggel! Where are they?"

"Marna, is that you?" In naming another of Bryke's survivors, his response confirmed that she had the right man, at least. He shook his head in the hopes of clearing his vision. His vision didn't clear but the dull ache in his head awoke to reveal talons, serrated fangs and a suicidal devotion to maintaining full-blown agony status. So he tried squinting with one eye closed instead. Staffanemicollera pulled the lamp around so he could see her face. His eyes opened wide, "Staf? Really? We all wondered where you got off to. After we figured out that we actually are what we are, we searched all over for you. Figured you must've died or left the island. Where have you been all this time?"

"Hell, but now I'm back. So, where are the others?"

Before he could stop himself he said, "Beats the corn-studded shit out of me, luv." If ever Naggel could take back anything he'd said in his long life, that seemingly benign quip would have been his first choice. The fire from the lamp reflected in her eyes as she lifted her bat and proceeded to fulfill his prophetic assessment.

Four minutes later, Naggel lay on the floor in a quagmire of splintered wood, twisted limbs, broken bones and blood splatters. Staffanemicollera decided she would give him a few days to heal enough to continue their conversation.

In the mean time she needed a place to hold him. The first thought was in the cellar itself, but then the shelf creaked. She took the lamp and stepped through the mystery passage.

She found herself in a wide corridor that ran for some eighty feet. The ruts in the stone floor suggested that it was probably once an alleyway that had been built over. There were sealed doorways along the route and an ancient brass-bound door constructed from heavy planks at the end. It was locked so she had to retrace her steps and search Naggel for the key.

He hadn't moved... unless you count his blood moving across the floor of the cellar.

She returned to the door and, with some difficulty, opened it. Inside she found a veritable bank vault with no other exits and enough gold, silver and jewels to give a banker heart murmurs.

She ignored it. She'd seen more before. While large amounts of funds rarely ever hurt one's plans, at the moment, she needed a secluded location to put Naggel for a few days and she couldn't have asked for a better place.

She lashed him to a support column in the center of the vault and left him in the dark. She would return the next day with food and drink.

~~~

When she returned, she found that he was still unconscious and showed no significant signs of healing. This puzzled her. By now, her own bones would have made significant progress towards mending completely.

What she didn't realize at the time was that while she was one of the fastest healers from Bryke, Naggel was among the slowest. She began to worry she'd gone too far to ever get information out of him.

Then, on the third day, he finally woke. Even then, his mouth was swollen and he still missing most of his teeth. Soup was the only thing he could manage to eat.

In her best cooing voice, Staffanemicollera persisted in trying to find out where the rest of the villagers were, "Come on Naggie, I haven't seen anyone from home in so, so long. How can you deny an old friend such an important reunion?"

Naggel didn't look up but muttered, "Wid friends lige you, I'm fugged."

She pretended not to hear him in an attempt to keep her temper in check. She tried to divert the oncoming rage by changing the subject. Curiosity and just a splash of venom finally got the best of Staffanemicollera and she had to ask, "What kind of weak-assed immortal are you, anyways?"

He looked up with a sullen expression, "Da norbal kine. Wad kine o dafd bikch are you? Oh yeah, da touched id da head kide."

Naggle watched as Staffanemicollera visibly wound up. Her tone increased in volume and aggressiveness as she responded. "I'm touched in the head? You're the one slinging sass at someone who is not only feeding your scrawny ass, but is both in the position and of a disposition to make your next meal Naggel's-Nuts soup and feed it to you with a funnel made from a pig's ass."

She walked over to sack, that had been there when he woke up, and rummaged about for a few seconds. She turned back toward him holding a pair of blacksmith's tongs. The kind they use to maneuver iron as it was hammered. Naggel's eyes screamed of fear as his mouth dribbled soup, drool and the pink tinge of blood.

"All right, I'm tire of playing doctor, and you're well enough to talk. it's time for you to start putting your bloody cock-sucker to use for the greater good. Now where can I find the others?"

~~~

Needless to say, Naggel talked... And screamed... And begged... And, in the end, died. To Staffanemicollera's disappointment, he explained that though the villagers were in touch, it was a loose association. They prearranged meetings decades in advance and had a fallback reunion planned if either missed the first. He was to meet with Bassif in seven years in Paris. If she didn't show, they had a secondary engagement in Rome in seventeen years. After that was a get-together with Pork in London some forty-two years out.

It was tedious, but Staffanemicollera was on a mission. Over the next four centuries, she managed to eliminate Bassif, Pork, Teelum, Fultz, Mord and Jo. Most were surprisingly easy to eliminate. They didn't heal any faster than a normal person. Pork was probably the best equipped for survival among them, but once he was subdued, starvation was quite an effective method of killing him.

Yes, that's right. She starved the chief's boy to death the year before that stubborn Italian discovered the Americas. It took almost two months, though there was reason to believe he was eating the moss off the walls of the well he was kept in. He was positively delirious when he finally broke and told when and where to find Mord.

Then in 1610 she tracked down Soya in southern Germany. It took a little cajoling, but she managed to redirect some pompous witch hunter from the church to Soya's home. All reports indicated she held up under the interrogation quite well. Spooked the Hell out of some of the soldiers. Not that any of that mattered. Initially they tried to drown her, but that didn't go very far. When they brought her out of the water still alive, looking wet and pissed off, all of the soldiers, and probably the priests as well, were scared shitless. They'd never seen anyone actually survive that before. For the first time, it looked like they may have collared a real witch. How the Hell could they have known what they were getting into?

Staffanemicollera watched it all from a distance up until the afternoon the fire was lit. Then she stepped to the front of the crowd and smiled up at Soya as the flames took hold of her dress.

~~~

Then the trail went cold. Staffanemicollera couldn't find any signs of Beth, Jonnedee, Marna or Chief Moaple... varnish-jip-shitter?...or however you say it. They could run, and they could hide, but she would find them in the end.

She scoured Europe for almost two hundred years before turning her attention to the America's. She arrived in New Orleans in 1826 and immediately set about finding the four remaining, yet elusive, survivors. She suspected she was close dozens of times, only to find it was like chasing shadows on a carousel.

There were times when she suspected she was being followed, and she began to wonder if her prey were hunting for her as well.

Once, around 1926, she caught a milkman peeking in her window. The next day she was waiting for him. As he arrived at the door, it flew open and he found himself face to face with a deranged customer toting a Thompson sub-machine gun.

Two hours of intensive interrogation revealed that he was little more than a peeping tom. Staffanemicollera suspected he would be in the market for a new pastime once he healed up.

Then in 1969, the day after the moon landing had commanded the world's attention, she came home to find a woman rummaging through her files on the remaining four villagers. The woman tried to slip out the backdoor when she heard Staffanemicollera coming through the front door and managed to spring the booby trap that failed to actuate when she'd come in that way. Staffanemicollera knew what the loud crash was as soon as she heard it and ran to investigate. She found the unconscious intruder lying just inside the backdoor with a section of the ceiling and a trunk laying on her.

A cozy four hour interview in the basement was insightful. In exchange for answering her questions, Staffanemicollera would take the dying woman to a hospital. Staffanemicollera found a photo of herself in the woman's coat pocket as well as a few pages of notes on her. The woman turned out to be a private investigator. She'd been commissioned by a man calling himself Johnny Delgato to find Staffanemicollera and gather information on her. It didn't take a genius to recognize Jonnedee's alias. He'd said he was from Cincinnati but his checks were from a bank in Chicago. The P.I. figured she was probably working for the Mob, but for the pay she was receiving she was very accepting of an accompanying 'don't ask' policy.

Among the notes on Staffanemicollera's routines, occupation, phone number, address, bank, and current name of Rochelle Chichester, was a phone number she didn't recognize, but the P.I. had already slipped into a coma before she could ask about it.

Rochelle Chichester disappeared that night and no one has found the P.I.'s body to date.

The number turned out to be for a dry cleaner in town.

~~~

Staffanemicollera took up residence in Cincinnati about a week later and began a twenty-eight year search. She found that the sheer number of people in the city was a hindrance. It wasn't like the old days when you could visit a minor city and meet, or at least identify, everyone living there within a year or two.

She tried hiring detectives, but without names, pictures or information more recent than the seventeenth century, it didn't go very far.

Eventually, she felt she could do no more there and moved to Chicago. Almost a decade had passed when she took up a job as a reporter. The job opened a few doors that she would have had a hard time getting through otherwise.

Then one morning on her way to work, she happened to stop at a Starbucks for a latte and a bagel. Well you can imagine her shock when the girl behind her tapped her shoulder and said, "Excuse me, but I've never been to one of these before and I can't make heads nor tails out of the menu. What do you ask for if you want a plain old coffee?"

Okay, that wasn't the shocking part. But when she turned and faced Soya looking several years younger than she should, she became so disoriented she swallowed the wrong way and needed several minutes to stop coughing.

Soya apologized profusely for causing the poor woman's fit. She offered to get her order for her as she waited at a table and recouped. When she returned with the order, they began talking. The girl introduced herself as Soya Maple, but Staffanemicollera quickly realized that this wasn't quite the Soya she knew. Staffanemicollera said her name was Linda Shockley and thanked her for breakfast.

To cover for her behavior she explained that Soya looked exactly like a sister that had died in a fire years before. It was close enough to get the ball rolling.

They talked for about an hour before Tamesis realized she was late for work and insisted on exchanging phone numbers with the girl. She dialed it immediately to make sure she got it right and then asked if Soya would like to meet for breakfast the following morning. It was the first of many casual get-togethers.

Soya told about how her parents had died a very long time ago and how their best friend had adopted her. She also touched on her trials and tribulations with her guardian. Tamesis fabricated a scenario that paralleled Soya's in as many ways as she could, without being too obvious, in order to strengthen the attachment the girl was obviously forming. Tamesis' façade was the perfect big sister type. She sympathized with the woes brought on by an oppressive parent and didn't judge when it came to the small time drug dealing boyfriend.

When they were apart, Tamesis kept close tabs on Soya and managed to research everyone in her day to day life. She also spotted the guards Mopar... levi-ninja-peso-whatever had hired to watch Soya. When she brought them up to Soya, she could see it didn't set well with the girl at all. She asked Tamesis if she had any ideas on how to avoid them, which, of course, she did.

Staffanemicollera had hoped Soya going off the radar would be enough to draw out Mm... Multiple-rim-job-pasta-toe (the Chief, okay?). It didn't work. After a few months, Tamesis decided to go for broke. If the girl vanished, surely Moa... (for simplicity's sake, let's just call him Bob) surely Bob would come out of hiding. So she made a few arrangements and that was the end of Soya, again.

The trap was set. Staffanemicollera put round the clock surveillance on the old broad Soya had been living with as well as the Tony-Montana-wannabe boyfriend. The problem was that Bob didn't come out of hiding. Somehow, he managed to evade dozens of eyes and waltz right in and out with the little drug lord after Soya's disappearance. To make matters worse, the old woman vanished without a trace, too.

~~~

It looked to Tamesis like Chief/Bob/Alex's attention was focused neither on the precarious situation he was in nor on her story. He was acting like a fidgety schoolboy.

Tamesis light a cigarette and leaned back in the lawn chair. "A few months later all hell broke loose. I knew it was you when that union boss disappeared. Leo Mason only supported the opinion, but I have to say, the Mayor? Out of his office bathroom? Pretty creative, Bob.

"None of that matters now, though. At long last your clock has wound down. Okay, so I'm just taking the batteries out for you. Look on the bright side; at least you won't have to see your other son die.

"Score yet another one for The Hunter." Due to the very different grammatical structure of Bryke, which Tamesis still used to converse with herself, she had never bothered with gender in most languages. Yet she could never figure out why she'd been labeled a lesbian so many times.

Tamesis exhaled smoke and stroked the lipstick smudged butt of her cigarette with her thumbnail as she cocked an eyebrow smiled at Dr. Alexander Maple. He found the inverted smile quite unsettling and squinted before crossing his eyes.

"I don't believe this. You're about to die and yet you have the nerve to mock me." she extended her cigarette and crushed it out in his upturned nose.

Alex thrashed on the table trying to dislodge the butt from his nostril. Not an easy task while his mouth was taped shut. Finally, it fell to the floor just as a flash of steel passed in front of his eyes. He felt a stinging sensation under his chin and a warm liquid running along his jaw and around his ears. Panic seized him as it sank in that his throat had just been cut.

He watched Tamesis wipe the blade on a paper towel and return it to her satchel.

The lights went out.

Chapter 14

That's A Wrap!

### ~

The Keeper swiveled around to look at his final guest. "Bob almost missed your involvement in this whole fiasco. If Mr. Johnson hadn't mentioned your becoming acquainted with Soya, Bob wouldn't have had a clue. Granted, he didn't mention you by name. He only referred to you as Soya's friend, the 'hottie'. I'm sure you'll be flattered to know that he admired you so much that he'd actually told Soya to work on talking you into a ménage à trois.

"It wasn't until Bob went back to Mr. Johnson's house and happened across Soya's cell phone that he found the texts from 'Linda.'

"Did you know she wasn't in the habit of deleting her texts after she was through with them? Whether that was from sentiment or, the more likely culprit, standard issue teen indolence, I don't pretend to know, but it was the beginning of the thread that eventually unraveled all of your precautions.

"The text that caught Bob's attention was the one where you ask her to help you gather evidence on your 'soon to be ex-husband' over at a warehouse on 35th Street. The time and date on the phone matched the last time Mr. Johnson saw her before she was taken away by Mr. Mason here.

The Keeper looked over his shoulder at Hoss, "Presumably, you were 'Linda's' ex-husband that needed to be surveyed. Nice catch Mr. Simpson. What would your real wife think about _her_?" He turned back.

"So then he sees that that's the last communication from you. No hey-where-are-you texts or missed calls from 'Linda'; just the total cessation of contact. Bob thinks to himself, 'something smells as fishy as a Jacque Cousteau in a bad amateur porn flick'.

"So, Bob has the number traced and it turns out to be a disposable cell. From there he calls in a favor from an executive at the company marketing the phone and air time; easy enough since he has controlling stock in the company. So it turns out that it was purchased from a specific store. Another favor later, and Bob has the purchasing credit card information belonging to you," said the smiling Keeper as he closed one eye and sighted along his finger with the other to point at eyes laced with fire and loathing.

"Even though Bob didn't know anything about you or your motivations, his suspicions were piqued. So he got hold of Jonnedee and had a few things investigated. What Jonnedee gave him was bad and yet more than he could have hoped for. He sat on the information for a week.

"Don't get me wrong, once he found out who you were, Bob considered immediately going after you, but he also wanted to make sure everything played out like it should. He'd realized that you most likely found Soya by chance and probably had no idea where he was. So he put a lot of thought into how best to handle this new development. He did his homework, decided on his most productive course of action, and hit the lab to set about making preparations.

"After almost four years of painstaking research, he'd confirmed his theories, he came to the conclusion that his plan would work. It was time to stage a show to lure you in. bread crumbs had to be scattered in case you decided to follow up on the info you were being fed.

"He wanted you to have the impression that you had the element of surprise, so he made arrangements.

"Well, you know the rest of the story... most of it, at least."

"Something I didn't mention about the research Bob was conducting is that there was a long series of experiments in exposing embryonic clones to sufficient amounts of radiation to allow it to grow normally. Yeah, it sounds ass-backwards to me, too. Bob injected his own DNA into a series of single cell embryos, and set about testing various methods of circumventing the viral effects. It turned out that external irradiation, using a gamma beam from a radioactive cobalt-60 source, was sufficient to subdue the virus enough for the fetus to develop normally.

"Bearing all that in mind, and now, thanks to our newest member, we'll get a chance to bring Soya back the easy way. Well Tamesis, after almost four thousand years, and the Gods only knows how many money-shots, it's time to give something back. Yup, looks like you're going to be a mom.

The Keeper put on a thoughtful expression, "Should I call you Tamesis, or would you prefer Staffanemicollera? Let's go with Tamesis. If memory serves, that was the Latin name for the Thames. Yes, I seem to recall the officer commanding the first Roman garrison along the river had a thick tongue and couldn't pronounce the Celtic 'Tamïssa' for the life of him. Now, it's supposed to mean 'The Dark One,' doesn't it? It's an apt name for you, you black hearted psycho-bitch. Have you ever considered calling yourself 'Laxative'? What with your uncanny knack for stirring shit and all... Maybe next time around."

He chuckled, "At least you got away from Staffanemicollera. These days, that sounds like something you'd catch in a public restroom in Botswana or something.

"Oh, and before I forget, your plastic surgeon should win an award. I barely recognized you and I've been keeping pretty close tabs on you ever since the American Civil War."

There was a noise at the top of the stairs. Feet appeared as a man descended. Tamesis' eyes widened in a quick succession of hope, confusion and despair as Detective Mike Hendrix's smiling face turned to her on the final few steps. Leo's and Hoss' eyes went wide as they saw Shui step down to the lab floor.

"Hey Uncle Johnny, have you told them yet?"

The Keeper clapped, "Not yet, but perfect timing! Staffanemicollera, you remember Beth don't you? Oh yes, Detective Mike Hendrix here recently had an interview with you didn't he. I'll grant you he too has changed a lot over the years. He was the one exception I mentioned back at the beginning of the story; the 'Type D'. He's certainly not the skinny kid he used to be. It took a long time but he packed on a lot of muscle and lost all of the baby fat he was still carrying when you left the village. And I guess the tan is new to you as well. It's a considerable difference verses obvious ol' me. I don't guess I've changed much at all since you last saw me in England."

The Keeper thumped the heel of his palm against his forehead and looked around at the captive men on the tables, "Damn, I forgot to tell you not to call me by my name, Beth. Sorry 'bout that," The Keeper said to his audience, "One little oversight and I blew the punch line for the rest of you guys. Okay, you got me! Yes, while I'm obviously one of the immortals, and I'm behind all of your abductions and subsequent... discomforts, I'm not Bob. I'm that Jonnedee guy I mentioned. Yeah, the midget-pimp turned porn star." With an exaggerated open-mouthed smile, he sprang from his chair, spread his fingers and arms while bending his knees slightly and proceeded to do his best impression of a Jell-O statue on a surfboard. After striking the wiggle pose for a second or two, he took his seat again and continued, "Actually these days I usually go by Johnny Dee, but what's in a name, huh? I guess the point is Bob is much too kind hearted to pull a stunt like this. Shui and I, on the other hand, don't have the slightest qualm with dispensing punishments to the wicked and/or certifiably uber-stupid. Hell, Billy even pitched in. He really did love little Soya like a sister. And let me tell you, that man can come up with some astonishing methods of getting even.

I just figured you'd all get more out of the story thinking that the guy that you hurt the most was your downfall. Besides that, I wanted to see how pissed off I could get Tamesis, here.

"And for the record, I kinda fudged it a little when I told you guys about the witch hunters. Yeah, that was me too. By the time I got there, Bob was already taking Soya to the ice caves. I guess I was lucky because I didn't see her in that state. I was heartbroken, but not devastated enough to just roll over and give up hope.

"Bob was out of it for years after that. Couldn't tell you his own name half the time. So, I figured it was up to me to put a stop to that ordained dildo.

"And before you ask, yes I really was Pope Dionysius as well. Bob couldn't see pulling it off. He knew he couldn't be away from Soya that long. So he asked me if I wanted to take a stab at it, considering that I'd already been a high priest, and eminently qualified to talk to The Gods. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could pull it off either, but the money was saaa-weet! And to my surprise, it all panned out. Okay, so I did almost get busted smuggling entrepreneurial orifice sponsors in a few times. Don't judge. You see, they had this insane rule about no women. Who ever came up with that one had to be shitting glitter. Those first three years really put eternity into perspective for me. The point is; relationships were out and the only answer I could come up with was sneaking some quality time with women of questionable diseases.

"Hey! Come to think of it, I suppose there is still a punch line...

"Hey Leo, what's your take on having The Friggin' Pope cut off your nuts with a piano wire and a power drill? Bet your mommy never threw that one at you when you were but a wee li'l wanker, spankin' it in the shower, huh?" He erupted into laughter, "Good times, good times. We'll have to do it again someday."

"Oh well, now that the cat's out of the hat, \--and I'm guessing it wasn't that big of a surprise-- you can all see just how big of a turd you're floating on.

"You see, I love Bob like a brother and Soya actually _was_ my niece. So if you put aside the incestuous implications of that statement, that I clearly need to reword, you can probably see the reason I've been telling you folks this story is because I wanted you to know just how dedicated I am to making you suffer and to clue you in on just what you have to look forward to.

"It's interesting to note that if I knew for sure that there was a hell for you to go to after you died, I'd just kill each of you and not sweat the inconvenience of then re-growing you just to kill you again. Believe me when I tell you that it is quite the hassle. But since I don't know what the afterlife holds, and since the idea of hell didn't even pop up until I was already in my thousands, I'm not going to chance 'just laying you to rest,' as they say. No, I'm going to make sure that you each have your own personalized hell right here on good ol' terra firma.

"Speaking of which, I know that I told you all about how I don't age, and about the accelerated healing and all of that, but what I didn't tell you is that I've infected each of you with the virus Bob and Billy were able to extract, as well."

He looked around the room at the raised eyebrows, "Come on! Just how in the Hells do you think you've been regenerating your entire bodies in less than two years? Believe me; it takes more than stem cells, steroids and a good multi-vitamin. No, you have all been given the gift of eternal life. I hope it's as exciting for you as it is for me. I'm getting a warm fuzzy feeling just thinking about it..." Jonnedee looked down, "No, sorry. That was just my cell phone vibrating my nuts, again.

"In all seriousness though, it is absolutely astonishing how quickly you do regenerate. Without the retarding effect of the radium embedded in your bones, each of you is physically quite superior to any of us, the original thirteen survivors. Especially the ones Charlene Manson over there got hold of.

"But that's not the important thing, the important thing is that now you may rest easily knowing that we are under the unique circumstances for being just one big happy family for a long, long time...

"I see those gears turning Leo, but it's even longer than that. I'll try to keep it as interesting as possible for you. I might even pull those gags out for a few minutes in a century or two to see if any of you have repented at all. Though I suspect you will all be monkey fucking mad by then. Don't worry. You'll get over that eventually." He looked at Staffanemicollera, "...or maybe not."

"But I do have good news: we will be moving to a rather secluded location soon. Bob just Okayed building a new facility in Bermuda. Seems he picked up a mansion cheep a few years back when the media mogul that owned it up and disappeared. He says he wants to emulate the tribal environment that Soya grew up in the first time around. Worth a try, I suppose... as long as air conditioning is still optional.

You lot needn't get too excited, though. You will all have been reduced to only your heads. You know, for ease of travel. And you'll have been heavily sedated for some time beforehand. Except for you Tamesis, you'll be wide awake and whole plus one, what with a bun in the oven, and all.

Mike/Shui/Beth turned to Tamesis and said, "Are you sure you don't wanna go out sometime? I happen to know your schedule has been freed up." he said with an impish grin, "Okay, I know, too soon."

"Hey, if you're still wondering what all those symbols we left behind were about, I'll enlighten you. They were the pictograms we used in the village. They said 'I wonder if they'll ever figure this shit out'. You probably would have been able to read them, but then, you never got to see them."

Shui took one last look around, before climbing the stairs, and said to Jonnedee, "Hey Pop's expecting us for dinner in about an hour, so I'm going to head out. You want a ride?"

"What's he makin'? I just had pizza a little while ago."

"Montreal catfish and fried rice."

"Oh yeah? That should give me just enough time to glue the Evil Bastard's feet to the magnets, again."

"Uhh... you lost me there. Why... would you do that to a cat?"

Jonnedee shrugged. "It keeps him from destroying anything while I'm gone."

Shui started to nod, then shook his head. "I still don't get it."

Jonnedee smiled and said, "If he's stuck to the side of the fridge, he can't very well tear anything up, now can he? I just have to stick him to the side with the hinges. I stuck him on the other side once and he managed to nudge the freezer open and shit in it." Then he stood and began straightening up the mess he'd made during the telling of his tale. When he finished, he grabbed his coat and flipped out the light in the booth as he said, "Well it's getting late, and I'll wrap this little pow-wow up so you can all get your beauty sleep. Before I go, does anyone have any questions?" He looked around at Leo, Big Ben, Hoss, Gnat and Tamesis. He shook his head and mumbled, "I don't guess I really expected any, now did I?

"Well you gentlemen will be happy to know that you've inspired me. I've decided to go ahead and start cleaning out the worst of the world's assholes. You know, people like you lot; underhanded politicians, cold-blooded drug-dealers, shady cops, larcenous businessmen, mendacious media moguls... pretty much any lump of bung-loaf that has managed to secure a place beyond the law and happens to be fucking society on a grand scale will have a table waiting for them at Casa del Loco Chingo.

"I figure I'll start with the worst of the lot and work my way down the list. A couple a years seems like a good start, but Shui says he's game for one or two a month, once we get going. Yeah, I know it won't stop all of the egomaniacal assholes out there from trying to vicious-fuck their way to the top. But once the newly formed and impossibly elusive Elite Ethics Committee begins graphically publicizing the justice doled out to the once untouchable pricks that are keeping the world under its thumb... Well, we'll just have to wait and see what effect the threat of multiple death sentences actually being carried out has on the collective psyche of the modern tyrants. The first crop of targets include: two south-of-the-border drug-lords, a corporate CEO that has managed to pilfer his employees' retirement fund, the spiritual leader of a certain oppressively religious country, a couple of dozen child molesters we've tracked down and a U.S. Senator..."

Jonnedee laughed, "See? No surprise, right?! And I didn't even have to mention that the prick has consistently whored his vote out and cutting his constituency's throats for years. Hey, you can do what you want if you're good enough at fixing elections and keeping a low profile.

"I'm actually looking forward to what tomorrow brings for the first time in a very long time." He smiled and shook his head, "I guess you lot are really not liking my timing on finally getting a bit of ambition. But, like Elvis said just before he rolled off the throne for the last time, 'That's some tough shit!'."

Jonnedee turned to Tamesis before he climbed the stairs. "And Staf, I watched you tell your story upstairs and I just gotta tell you that the single event that led to all of your troubles wasn't when you were banished. No, it was when you decided to go all thunder-dick psychotic on us and kept trying to kill the Chief. If you'd figured out a more sensible way of getting your point across than trying to maim him, you would have had a very different life. For starters, you wouldn't be here.

"The funny thing is that he didn't want to banish you. He'd promised your ol' man that he'd do everything he could to protect you. It wasn't until several of us confronted him and explained that the next time you went all reality challenged on him, we were going to bash that lump of baboon shit you call a brain out your nose. He only sent you away to keep Kym, Pork, Beth and me from killing you.

"Naggel wasn't lying, though. We really did look for you to bring you back, after we saw you were mostly right. 'Mostly' as in, not all of us heal that great, but we certainly do keep on living.

"I guess that's really why we let you go scot-free for the last four years. Again, Bob was trying to protect you. It wasn't until he realized that you were the best answer to bringing Soya back that he relented. The rest of these assholes were just thugs that needed assistance in atoning for their sins. You, on the other hand, are protected by an ancient oath. No, you won't be harmed here. Just think of it as being put in permanent timeout. It was really me that wanted to go after you. Hey, you did kill my niece... twice. Took Beth and me a long time to convince him we wouldn't kill you, once we got you.

"Ah, but don't worry. You didn't kill the man that saved your life twice. Well, I guess you sorta did, but that was only him 'by proxy,' if you will. You managed to kill his clone, darlin'. He's still alive and exceedingly healthy.

"And one more thing before I go; you and I both know that your ol' dad would have told you to take responsibility for what you did, and if you didn't he would have blistered your ass for you. Just something to think about. I mean, it's not like you've got much else to do... unless you'd like us to find you a new royal butt munchkin to occupy your time with. Funny that. I loved my little women, in my own way. And you got the short end of the stick in the little people department, huh? Then again, maybe you got the long end."

He looked thoughtful as he started up the stairs again and yelled ahead, "Hey Beth, let's hold off on telling your ol' man about getting his clone killed, again. He damned near shit a snow-cone last time." Jonnedee's eyes lit up as he remembered something he'd been meaning to mention to Beth for several days, "By the way, did you hear they're making another movie about you. Calling it Beowulf again, but I hear they have a total babe playing Grundal's ship!"

~~~

Only the gurgle of the life support machinery and hum of the fluorescent lights remained. On the computer monitor in the central office, Tamesis could just make out the screen saver. Three words bounced around endlessly: "Life Goes On"

~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####~~~~####

The author of this book would like it to be known that the opinions expressed in this book do not reflect the opinions of most of the voices in his head. Additionally, no dogs, chickens, hedgehogs, goats, sheep, aardvarks, horses, ferrets, porcupines, weasels, pigs, lions, monkeys or midgets were harmed in the making of this book.

For more exciting stories by Jim Gibson, you can... always aggravate the living hell out of him until he breaks down and publishes something else. Don't tell him I told you this, but he's on facebook at <http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=505792253>.

Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.

