

Furry Tales

Volume IV

A Compilation of Stuff

By Pete Bellisano
Furry Tales Volume IV: A Compilation of Stuff

Copyright 2019 by Pete Bellisano

(Copy wrong by anyone else)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

Other than members of the author's family (living and deceased), the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author is purely coincidental.

With thanks, this book is dedicated to...

For starters, I'd like to thank God for giving us ten fingers and toes, without which the whole base-ten numbering system thing would be extremely cumbersome. I'd also like to thank my parents, but they're both deceased.

And thanks to...

  * Napoleon, without whom short guys would have a complex with no name

  * Sister Martha from Our Lady of Perpetual Misery (my Catholic grammar school), for teaching me how to take a punch

  * The guy who invented Ragu, who made it possible for me to explain to my in-laws what tomato sauce does NOT taste like

  * All the guys from the old neighborhood with the middle name "The", especially Johnny The Hook, Vinnie The Wrench and Jimmy The Screwdriver. Don't ask.

  * You, for reading this!

Preface

A couple of years ago, I packaged various stories and musings into a small book with the intention of getting it printed and delivered as a Christmas gift to a few friends. It was pretty well received, and based on their prompting I recently added a couple of new touches and tightened up some of the stories.

I categorize this as a "compilation of stuff" because it's a mixture of (attempted) humor, a little poetry, and some (what I guess is referred to as) "religious fiction".

Some of my attempts at humor may push the edge of your particular envelop of sensibilities. If so, please try to lighten up. If you do not possess a sense of humor, or yours is impaired, I suggest you re-gift this book without reading it.

I hope you find this amusing, and would really appreciate your feedback. You can contact me at pbellisano@gmail.com

Pete Bellisano
Table of Incontinence

A Kris-less Story..................................5

Goomba Christmas Eve.....................14

Twelve Hungry Men............................17

Charity..................................................26

The One................................................33

The Return...........................................49

About the Author..................................68

#  A Kris-Less Story

Hanging his frayed leather jacket on the back of the bar stool, Queep whispered to his friend, "What'll ya have, Pizzie?" Forcing his voice to sound as deep as he could, Pizzie growled back, "Call me Hank! I told you three times, my name is Hank now." Placing his hand on the arm of his old friend, Queep shook his head and said, "sorry, Hank. What'll ya have?" Trying desperately to look nonchalant, Pizzie jumped up onto the bar stool, rolled up his sleeves and grumbled, "bourbon and a beer, what else? And, by the way, if the bartender hits me with the 'how 'bout a short one' line, this stool is going across his skull."

Queep tried to suppress a chuckle at his friend's affected voice, which sounded disturbingly like John Wayne after a hit from a helium balloon. "Hey, Hank, it's cool. Tommy's a good guy, so get the chip off your shoulder, ok?" Then, to the bartender, "Hey, Tommy, when you get a minute!" Tommy lumbered over, easily the biggest man Pizzie had ever seen. Reaching out his massive hand, Tommy looked Pizzie square in the eye and smiled. "Name's Tommy, nice ta meet ya." Sitting up as tall as he could, Pizzie squeezed tightly and growled, "Hank. Same here, pal." Tommy relaxed his hand and let Pizzie win the grip contest, wondering if he realized that his hand felt like that of an eight-year-old in Tommy's enormous paw. "So, what'll it be guys?"

When Tommy turned to fetch their drinks, Queep leaned into Pizzie and asked, "So, tell me Piz- I mean Hank- tell me how you're doing." Things had been tough on the whole crew since the big layoff five years before. Everyone hoped it was temporary until word came out that the factory was to be demolished. "How do you think I'm doing, Queep? I've just about burned through my pension money and I haven't been able to land a job yet. Claretta left me six months ago, and I don't know which way to turn. The bottom fell out, man. You seem to be doing ok; what's your story?"

Queep thanked Tommy for dropping off the drinks, took a draw on his beer and said, "Well, the old man was pretty good about annual bonuses, and I was lucky enough to invest them pretty well, so I have enough dough to live on for another year or two if I'm careful." Using both his hands, which barely encircled his beer mug, Pizzie toasted his friend's luck and took a long gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grunted, "good fer you, old buddy."

Taking in the entire picture, Queep began to feel sorry for his friend. It would be devastating to him if he were to realize that the exaggeratedly macho affectations came across as comical, not masculine. He silently wished that Pizzie would quit trying to be something he was not.

"Well," said Pizzie, "ain't nothin' out there for out-of-work elves anymore. I mean, who'll hire me, and for what? What am I gonna do, catch on with a circus? Even if I were to sink to that level, with all this PC crap going on, nobody even wants to make fun of elves anymore! I used to think elves who sold out were losers, but then I think about what Aurelius did, and I wonder who's the loser."

Aurelius was the supervisor of the radio assembly shop, until the advent of TV drove demand down to the point where they had to shut the line down. Aurelius was just about the smartest elf Queep had ever met, and there were rumors that his IQ was in the one-sixties. Queep had mixed feelings about how Aurelius had coped with the layoff. No one could question how successful he'd been, but somehow it didn't seem right. "Of all the names he could've picked, he calls himself Dopey and hits the jackpot."

"Dopey, my ass," chuckled Pizzie, "guy's a hundred and thirty-somethin' years old, gotta be getting half a mill per year in residuals, and I think he's still sleeping with Snow White. And, his whole crew- all six of them- rode the gravy train on his coat tails; they're all rich now, all retired too. I don't know, the more I think about it, the more it seems like selling out ain't such a bad idea. But, like I said, Queep, it's different now. Other than when Bartholomew got that role on 'Fantasy Island', and Sneezle got the huge TV deal by changing his name to Webster, I haven't seen too many of us making it big by selling out."

Queep looked out the window, mesmerized by the swirling snow under the street light outside the bar. He thought back to the old days: the magic in the air, plenty of work and pay for everyone. The boss was just about the most important person in the whole world back then, and being part of his crew was a blessing that Queep didn't fully appreciate until now. Everyone loved the big guy, and by extension, everyone loved all of his helpers. Shaking his head, Queep sighed and pondered how everything seemed to have fallen apart. The world was such a different place now, and even though Queep was famous for being the most relentlessly optimistic elf in the whole work shop, he now found himself battling a profound depression that gripped him mercilessly.

Hank drained the last of his beer, slammed the mug down harder than he needed to, and belched obnoxiously. "Man, that's good brew. So, what are you going to do next, Queep? You always had a plan, always had an upbeat thing to say. What's next, buddy?" Queep took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Well, Hank, I've been thinking." Just as Queep paused to gather his thoughts, the door swung open. The man who swaggered in looked so completely out of place that Queep couldn't help but stare. In a barroom full of flannel shirts and overalls, his crisply-pressed tan slacks, powder blue silk shirt and navy blue blazer screamed "I am slumming." His fake-tan skin was the color of circus peanuts, and it contrasted with the bright gold chain around his neck and his perfectly coiffed mane of white hair. Sun glasses and loads of gaudy jewelry completed the look: a cross between a mafia don and a used car salesman who'd hit the lottery.

Queep was surprised to realize the man was striding directly toward him. He nudged Pizzie, nodding his chin in the direction of the approaching man. "Geez, get a load of that guy," whispered Pizzie, "must be lost." Walking directly toward Queep and Pizzie, the man hesitated for a few seconds to light a cigarette, then advanced toward Queep, who turned to face him.

"Queep, is that you?" Queep nearly fainted when he recognized the voice. Even with the overdone affectation, it was unmistakable. Years ago, it had been the most famous voice in the world. Yes, it was him: the boss himself.

Struggling to regain his composure, Queep said, "Holy cow. It's you! I can't believe it." His smile was dazzling, his teeth impossibly white against his faux-bronze skin. "You betcha! It's me, alright. Pizzie, good to see you too." Pizzie had been staring in disbelief, completely abandoning his Hank persona. "Santa?"

"Call me Chris: that's C-H-R-I-S, not with a K," he bellowed in his jack-hammer bass voice. Putting one multi-ringed hand on each of their shoulders, he tilted his head toward the back room seating area and said, "Been looking for you; let's talk, boys." Instinctively, they scampered down off their stools and followed him. His tremendous weight loss made him appear much taller than they remembered. Somehow this made them both become acutely aware of their diminutive stature as they nearly had to run to keep up with his purposeful strides. Picking out a relatively private table, he turned a chair around and straddled it, leaning his folded arms on the chair's back as he sat down. He took off his shades, and said "sit down, boys. Let me get you a round." He ground out his cigarette, motioned for Tommy to come over, and smiled at them. Queep noticed that his eyes were sill the color of a glacier on a clear summer day, but there was something different about them now. Cold as a glacier now, he thought.

"Chris? Man, it's hard to call you that; gonna take some getting used to. You look so- so..." uncharacteristically, Queep was at a loss for words. "So freakin' Hollywood," snapped Pizzie, "like a cross between Kenny Rodgers and George Hamilton. You had plastic surgery, man?" Pizzie set his chin, always scrappy and confrontational. "Relax, Pizzie. Yeah, I'm different now. Everything is different now. It's a new world, and I'm working it." Pizzie shook his head in disbelief, struggling to regain his air of confidence. "Yeah, well I got a new name now, too. You can call me Hank," he growled as he puffed out his tiny chest.

Queep stared at the table, immobilized, as Chris continued, "Look, guys, I can understand how you'd have a problem adjusting to seeing the new me, but you gotta realize I did what I had to do. Things have changed; the old ways are gone forever. Sure, it's sad, but what am I gonna do, sit around and mope? A guy's gotta make a living, am I right?" Finally, Queep gathered enough composure to speak up. "But, you're- I mean, you're Santa! For God's sake, what happened to you? We all looked up to you. Kids all over the world loved you, and so did their parents. You were Christmas to everyone, everywhere. Look at you now!"

Leaning forward with a stern look in his eyes, Chris spoke slowly through gritted teeth. "Yeah, look at me now. I got thirty grand worth of jewelry on me, a two-hundred-thousand dollar limo outside with my own personal goon to drive it. House in the Bahamas, one in Key West, one in San Diego. More dough than I ever dreamed possible. Yeah, guys, look at me now." Chris leaned back, and a smile crept slowly over his face. It had the eerie effect of accentuating his now wrinkle-free features in a manner that was about the furthest thing from jolly that Queep could imagine. Gone was the warmth, the way he could hug you with a smile. Gone was the legendary laugh. The voice was fundamentally the same, but it now had a callousness that left Queep cold. Even the trim physique seemed manufactured, as though it had been purchased somewhere.

"What happened to me? I got wise, that's what happened. Used to be you give a kid a couple of candy canes and a wind-up toy, and he was happy as could be. Act like a freakin' angel for a whole year. Life was good: happy kids, grateful parents, all nice and cute and warm and fuzzy. Now, forget it, especially in America. If the little bastards don't get five grand worth of electronic gizmos - all made overseas by the way- well the little darlings just aren't satisfied. Even when their guilt-laden, buy-the-kids-crap-so-they-love-us non-parents DO come across with all the goods, the little moochers are bored stiff by February, and are looking for more new stuff for Valentine's day. People talk about commercialization ruining Christmas. I'll tell you what ruined Christmas: parents, or I should say, the lack of real parents, THAT'S what ruined Christmas. And now, it's gone. Demand for our toys plummeted, and everyone knows elves can't make high-tech gadgets. So, we laid off a shift here and there, and kept plugging with the good old Christmas spirit. But it got worse year after year, until finally I had to close the entire operation. We were rendered obsolete. So, what did I do? Well, I crawled into a bottle for eighteen months; lost everything I had. The wife left me when she couldn't take it any more. Then, it happened. I decided that I wouldn't be a chump any more. First, I sold the rights to Comet's name to Proctor & Gamble for a cool million. That got me started. Then I got the idea to put Rudolph out to stud. Well, his nose is redder than ever, and I'll tell you, we're BOTH really happy these days.

Within a year, I'd put together enough loot to buy the distribution rights to the whole Christmas franchise: web sites, movies, holiday cards- you name it, every time someone spends a buck on Christmas, my cash register goes 'ka-ching'. Wait, did I say 'Christmas'? Of course I meant to say 'generic inclusive secular winter holiday.' Don't want to offend anyone, after all."

With that, Chris threw his head back and laughed. The raspy, gurgling laugh made Queep long for a "Ho, Ho, Ho." Just once he wished he could hear that magical laugh again. But he realized it was not to be. "So, Chris, you were looking for us? What's that all about", asked Pizzie, raising his voice to be heard over the laughter. Chris sighed as his laughter subsided. "Right, Hank. Let's talk about that. You see, I have a few new businesses going, and I can't tell you how hard it is getting good help. Nobody, I mean nobody works like my former employees. You guys were without exception the most dedicated, industrious, trustworthy employees a guy could ever wish for. So, as I started branching out into electronic component manufacturing, I began hiring people from my old crew. Things are going great, for all of us. I get top-notch help, which is incredibly difficult to come by these days. The elves get meaningful jobs with good pay and benefits. I don't have to tell you, nothing is more miserable than an elf with nothing to do. You guys are programmed to be busy. I've hired most of the old crew, and you guys are two of the few I haven't tracked down yet."

Pizzie sat up straight, puffed out his chest. He seemed to come back to life right before Queep's eyes. Even this little glimmer of hope triggered an amazing transformation in Pizzie. While this made Queep happy at some level, he couldn't help feeling apprehensive about the whole discussion. Sitting across from him was the man himself, Santa! And he'd morphed into a super-materialistic player whose presence made Queep feel like he needed to take a shower. Pizzie said, "So, what do you have in mind, Chris? Talk to us."

Chris took a deep breath and said, "Well, Hank, you see it's like this. I have a totally new concept that's already making me another fortune. This idea will capitalize on what Americans with dough really want these days. Tell me, Queep, do you know what rich Americans want nowadays?" Neither Queep nor Pizzie answered, but Chris continued as though he didn't expect them to. "I'll give you a hint. It's about the environment." Still, no reply. He continued, "Well, listen. Rich people care about the environment. More accurately, they want to show everyone how much they care about the environment and how they're doing their part to save the planet. Meanwhile, they're riding their private jets to Global Warming rallies; crap like that. So, I've made a bundle on environmentally friendly toys for rich people. The beauty of it is, as long as they can brag about it being 'green', they don't care what they pay for stuff. My latest invention is selling like hotcakes. Can't make them fast enough. So, I need to open up another factory, and I need a foreman and a distribution expert to help me get it off the ground. You guys came to mind. Let me tell you, the money will be great. I'll cut you in for a piece of the profits, and you'll both be rolling in it within six months."

"I'm in", Pizzie said, "when do I start?" Queep raised his eyebrows and took off his cap. "Hang on. We don't even know what the product is. And I don't like the sound of this. It seems like scamming rich people to me." With that, Pizzie and Chris both looked at Queep and said, in unison, "Duh!"

"Okay," Queep said, "Okay, at least tell me about the product. What is it? Will people like it? Does it do anyone any good? You know how we are, Chris, we gotta believe in what we make." Chris shook his head and whispered, "You'd be surprised how quickly you get over that. But just to make you feel better, I can assure you that the people buying these products are very happy with them. They get a lot of smug satisfaction out of showing everyone how they're doing their part to help the environment. Meanwhile, they pamper themselves with trinkets and gadgets on which they spend enough money to feed all the hungry kids in the world. They're spoiled and selfish. But my products feed their egos, so yeah, my answer to you is that this product will make people happy."

Queep suppressed his mounting anger. This had to be the mother of ALL sell outs. He couldn't believe it. But Pizzie pressed on. "Chris, what is this product?" "Well, Hank, I've sold over two hundred of these babies already, and demand is mounting. Make them for about three grand apiece, and the elite knuckleheads are lining up to pay me seventy five grand a pop! I could name my price, but after all, I have my ethical limits."

Again, the eerie laugh. Pizzie broke in, "Okay, so?" Chris wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and struggled to control his laughter. "Solar powered tanning booths! Can you believe it? They don't even get the joke. It's perfect. They shovel their dough to me by the ton, I give them a BS product that in effect makes fun of them every time they use it. What could be better?"

Chris and Pizzie broke into laughter, with Chris' booming bass drowning out Pizzie's liltingly elfish giggle. As they shook hands and quieted down, both turned their heads toward Queep, and Pizzie said, "Come on, Queep, this is beautiful. We could be back at work, making stuff! Running our own factory. Never mind the big cash, we'll actually have a purpose again. What do you say?"

Queep pushed his chair away from the table. "I'm outta here. You guys do what you gotta do. This ain't for me." Pizzie snapped at Queep, "Listen, mister holier-than-thou, let me tell you something." Queep interrupted him, "No, Pizzie, you listen. I got no beef with you. Go ahead and do whatever you think is right for you, I ain't judging. But I gotta do what's right for me."

Queep stood up, offered his hand to his old friend. Pizzie hesitated, then took his hand and said, "Tell me, Queep, what are you gonna do?"

"Well, Pizzie and Santa, I'm an elf. I make toys for kids. It's what I do. It's what I did, and it's what I'll do now. I have a few bucks saved up, and I might as well use them to do what I was born to do. Good luck to you guys, really. But an elf's gotta do what an elf's gotta do." With that, Queep turned and headed briskly toward the door, absent-mindedly putting on his jacket as he walked. Chris and Hank sat in silence for a moment, then Chris raised his glass. "An elf's gotta do what an elf's gotta do."

# Goomba* Christmas Eve

*Note:

As an American of Italian descent, I would never use a disparaging term to refer to people who share this great heritage. In this context, "Goomba" is an affectionate term we use to poke fun at the stereotypical caricature ascribed to persons of Italian descent by modern American pop culture. I'm just sayin'.
Goomba Christmas Eve

'twas the night before Christmas, and my wife was nervous

'bout being on time for the Christmas Eve service.

The fam'ly had gathered at Amy and Pete's

For genuine goomba Christmas Eve eats.

A big antipasto, as deep as a well,

Salami, prosciutto, and fresh mozzarell',

Anchovies, red peppers, and sharp provolone,

Sweet supressata and hot pepperone.

Bruschetta and olives, and fried gagotsiel,

A crusty pannel' that's as big as a wheel.

Chianti, Barolo, and Valpolicella

Have all been brought up from the goomba wine cella.

Scungili and clams and ca-la-ma-'ri

And all things that squiggle and swim in the sea

End up on the table as part of the fest

(the squid had been stuffed with my wife's cookie press!).

Sauce of tomatoes, all steaming and hot

With tiny squid suction cups stuck to the pot.

Linguini with clam sauce, and sea-snail like rubber,

Lasagna with meatballs for any land-lubber.

The clams in a pie, the shrimp on a tray,

Squid tentacles squirm in the sauce where they lay.

The bacala salad brings tears to the eye,

I can't convince my wife to give it a try.

Then out comes espresso, sambuca as well.

Pignoli cookies and fresh sviadell'

Canoli and anisette toast you can dunk

In coffee so spiked, one cup gets you drunk.

As all were relaxin', it started to snowin'

Then my wife called out, "It's time to get goin'!"

Then up on the roof arose such a noise,

I jumped from my seat and woke up the boys.

Then what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A Santa in pinstripes, and eight goomba reindeer.

"Yo Vito, yo Ant'ny, yo Eugene, yo Sal,

yo Guido and Louie, yo Rocco, yo Al"

Then turning to me, he yelled "Bada Bing!

It's time dat you went to da service ta sing!"

And I heard him exclaim from the roof top so crowded,

"Merry Christmas you goombas, now fuggedaboudit".

#  Twelve Hungry Men: A Film Noir Last Supper Play

Cast:

Peter (Narrator), and the other 11 Apostles

Jesus

Mary (Jesus' mom)

Mary Magdalene

Scene:

Smoke-filled upper room, early 1st century Jerusalem. Bluesy piano music in the background. 13 agitated men sitting at a dinner table. Jesus sits at the center of the table, looking distracted and upset. His 12 apostles sit around him, engaged in side conversations in groups of 2's and 3's. Occasionally, one of the 12 will get his attention and engage him in conversation. Simon Peter is the narrator.
Peter:

Name's Simon. Peter. The Big Fisherman. Big guy calls me The Rock. JC's been acting kinda funny lately. But tonight, well, tonight he seems more uncomfortable than Rosie O'Donnell locked in a phone booth with Rush Limbaugh. I'd like to get a chance to talk to the boss, but John is all over him like a cheap cloak on a hot August afternoon. He invited us to dinner. Said we'd know the place.

When we all got here, he did something strange. Not strange like "make-milk-come-out-of-your-nose-in- the-cafeteria" strange, but more like "hitting-the-ping-pong-ball-with-the-handle-instead-of-the-head-of-the-paddle" strange. He sat us down, and one by one, he washed our feet.

I remember how awkward I felt. Here he is, the big kahuna, el nacho grande, the kings of kings, the son of man- washing the feet of a poor humble fisherman. I felt more embarrassed than a guy who mistakes a confessional for a port-a-potty.

Jesus:

See how the son of man washes the feet of his friends (removing Peter's sandals). Whew- Rock, do me a favor. Any body gets a load of those nasty feet, PLEASE tell them you don't know me. Even if they ask you three times before the rooster crows, just tell them you don't know me. And by the way, black socks do NOT go with that outfit.

Peter:

So I said, "I'm not wearing any socks, big guy". Yeah, it was a humbling experience all right. More humbling than showering with the New York Knicks in their locker room with the air conditioning set to 50 degrees. Trying to change the subject, I asked what he was having for dinner.

Jesus:

Well, I was going to order the surf and turf, but the last time I ordered fish I had to send 4,999 of them back. Can't a redeemer get ONE fish? I mean come on. And can't I just once order a jug of water without it turning into Merlot? By the way, John and James are getting on my nerves. Do me a favor, and make sure they don't sit near me, OK?

Peter:

He looked at me like he was a Great Dane that'd just downed 5 gallons of water and I was a fire hydrant freshly painted in his favorite color. I was glad he didn't want to sit next to John and James, or the chap-stick boys as I called them. I hadn't seen so much kissing up since Dudley Moore dated Susan Anton. I asked him why he didn't want to sit next to them

Jesus:

Being around them, especially at meal time is tough. Ever wonder why I call them the Sons of Thunder? Those two could break a hole in the ozone layer with their emissions. Wow! And I wish Thomas would not pull their fingers every time they ask him to. And another thing: why the heck are we all sitting on the same side of the table?

Peter:

Then JC's mom walked in. Even at her age, she was a babe. I'd always had a crush on her. Seeing her made my heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird who'd accidentally sniffed the inside of Kate Moss' purse. She made my head spin like Curly doing 360's on the floor after Moe hits him in the head with a tire iron. The alarms going off in my head were like the sounds of Wynona Rider walking out of an upscale Beverly Hills shop. I started to say, louder than I meant to, "Holy mother of-"

Jesus:

Watch it, Rock, that's my mom you're talking about. And trust me, you DON'T want to tick off my old man!

Peter:

I apologized to the chief, but he still seemed upset with me. And he seemed more confused than the Pope watching the trampoline portion of the Hawaiian Tropic Girls tryouts. Normally, when I was around him I felt about as worthy as Paris Hilton on MTV spring break placing a collect call to Mother Theresa. But tonight was different. He seemed so much more human, and as vulnerable as a chocolate éclair in Pavoratti's dressing room. I could tell something was wrong, and something big was coming down.

That's when Mary Magdalene sauntered into the room. Even though the other Mary was more my type, there was no denying that Mary M was hotter than the underside of William Shatner's toupee after eight hours under the lights in full makeup. When she came into the room, nearly every man accidentally whispered the chief's name. He hated when we did that. She was a bombshell. She had hair so flaming red that you couldn't help but think: man, her hair is really red. Her eyes were like pools, except when pools are that color brown it's usually a bad thing. Her lips made Angelina Jolie's look like Olive Oyl's. And her body! When she walked, it looked like there were midgets doing the conga under her cloak. Her legs started at her hips, and would've gone all the way to the floor if it weren't for her ankles and feet. The word on her was that she was easier than a NASCAR stadium entrance exam. She walked up to me, and looked at me like I was a 39 cent postage stamp and she'd just found out that postage had gone up to 45 cents.

Mary M:

Hiya, big boy. Listen, I know you're really close to the big guy, and I'd really appreciate it if you could arrange for me to sit next to him.

Peter:

I told her it was no use flirting with me, and in anticipation of her next question told her they called me the big fisherman because of my height. Then she surprised me.

Mary M:

You got me all wrong, Rock. Everyone thinks I'm a floozy. It ain't like that, I tell ya. Sure I look a certain way, and act a certain way, and yeah, I done my share a begettin', but I'm a changed woman. He told me I was forgiven, and that I should sin no more, and stuff like that. Can't a dame get a break in this big crazy world? Even a palooka like you oughtta be able so see that I'm a believer. Please, Rock, please. You gotta help me get next to him, you just gotta.

Peter:

Maybe I had her all wrong. Maybe just because she looked like a man-eating, home-wrecking, bewitching siren didn't mean that's what she was. Maybe behind that beautiful face and alluring body, just maybe there was a real believer there. I knew just the guy to ask. "What do you think, Thomas?"

Thomas: I doubt it.

Peter:

I told Mary Magdalene that I'd just remembered that there were no women allowed at the table. The club had only recently begun accepting Jews. We hadn't been together as a group with the chief for a long time, so I looked around to take attendance. That's when I saw Judas standing in the corner, jingling a small sack of coins. Judas had missed the last few meetings, so I thought I'd go check in with him. Last time I saw him, I told him that Jesus preaching to the great multitudes near the sea of Galilee should NOT be seen as a good opportunity for him to sell Amway. I walked over to him and said hi. Asked him what was up.

Judas:

Everything's cool, Peter- I mean Simon- I mean Rock. Man, you have more titles that Hugh Hefner's video library. I think the other guys are getting pretty jealous of my relationship with the chief. Did I tell you he made me CFO?

Peter:

Judas was always a strange bird. Not "dress-up-like-Carmen-Miranda-and-do-the-Lambada-every-Tuesday" strange, but more like "put-cheese-on-your-peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich" strange. I never trusted him, but the big guy seemed to have something in mind for him from the go. I congratulated him on his promotion, and as the CEO-in-training, I asked how the budget looked.

Judas:

I don't know, Rock. Seems we waste a lot of dough on extravagant things. Did the chief REALLY need to buy expensive perfume when he was in the mood to wash feet? No disrespect, but sometimes I think he doesn't have a good head for business. And what kind of image does that project? Washing groupies' feet, hanging with tax collectors; you know he didn't even want to drop his Dad's name to get us into Studio 54? I don't know. Sometimes I think he needs to be pointed in the right direction.

Peter:

Judas was acting very suspiciously. Like he knew something I didn't. Like we were watching Jeopardy at 7:00 on channel 7, but he'd secretly watched the same episode on Jerusalem cable at 6:30. Gimme traitors for $200, Alex. That's right, I knew he was a rat. A fink, a turncoat. A betrayer. There's probably another word for it, but trying to name it was like trying to name a short-guy complex before Napoleon was born. I needed to figure out how to get him to show his hand. That's when the waiter came in, and shouted over the noise in the room that we should take our places.

John:

Let me sit next to you, chief.

Jesus (under his breath):

Kiss up.

Jesus (to the group):

My time is at hand. Soon I will leave you. But I say to you that one of you will turn me over to my enemies. One of you will betray me. Sell me out. Hose me. Turn me in. Stab me in the back-

Peter:

Ok, big guy, we get the idea. But who here would EVER turn rat on you?

Judas:

Yeah, chief, who would ever do that to you? But he looked more nervous than Barry Bonds being handed the empty specimen jar and being told to fill 'er up.

Peter:

The big guy obviously knew Judas was the rat. He sighed, shook his head and turned away as Judas jumped from his chair like Kirstie Alley after hearing there was a no-cal twinkie in the next room.

That's when the chief gave me a look that could stop a clock, if they'd been invented at the time. Then he told me that before the rooster crows I'd deny him three times. Well, actually, he didn't say "rooster" the first time, but when Simon the Zealot started chuckling like Beavis and Butt Head, he changed it to "rooster." I asked, "but who will betray you?"

Jesus:

Whoever double-dips into the olive oil is the betrayer.

Peter:

We all knew Judas had a terrible habit of dipping his bread, then taking a bite, then dipping again- so we weren't surprised when he did it. Jesus locked his eyes on Judas, who started shaking like Anna Nicole Smith in a room full of rich old men. JC just shook his head, and asked someone to pass the wine. I heard him whisper a prayer as the wine was handed to him.

Jesus:

My God, this is swill. Let this cup pass from me.

Peter:

What was that, chief?

Jesus:

Um, what I said was, "God if it's thy will, let this cup pass from me."

Peter:

Who knew the Messiah was a wine snob? He dumped the wine out and asked the waiter to get a better bottle.

Jesus:

And remember, bring the wine to me. Remember: me!

Peter:

That line gets misquoted a lot. Then he asked James to pass the bread.

Jesus:

I hate it when they don't slice the rolls. Now I have to break it by hand. Here, take one and pass the rest. Next time you order rolls, think about me and remember the way I like them.

Peter:

That line gets misquoted a lot too. Then the chief gave a recap of what he wanted us to do. I won't recount all the instructions, because what he asked us to do is well documented. When he said he was leaving us, but never leaving us, we were more confused than Brittany Spears moderating a debate between Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking.

Jesus:

...And remember, I will be with you always, even unto the end of the age. My time is now at hand. It's late. I got a killer day ahead of me tomorrow. You know it ain't easy, you know how hard it can be. The way things are goin', they're gonna- oh, never mind.

Peter:

So, that's the skinny, the low-down, the poop, the 4-1-1. And now, it's up to us to spread the word like it was Skippy Creamy Peanut Butter and the world was a piece of white Wonder Bread. Actually, I prefer Skippy super-chunk, but the analogy wouldn't work as well. I think about him a lot; we all do. I'll especially always remember that night. It's stuck in my mind like stale salt water taffy sticks to a loose crown. Everyone knows the story of what happened to Jesus the next day. Judas' guilt ate at him so bad that he took his shopping cart through the express checkout line. Depending on which version you hear, he either wore the hemp necktie or did a Greg Luganis off a cliff. Took a dirt nap. Bit the big one. The rest of us have scattered, and our numbers are multiplying like rabbits in a Viagra factory.

Curtain

# Charity

As Ted Lewis walked in through the "out" door, he was almost overcome by the blast of air conditioning. He wondered whether he'd see any of the few late-night shoppers wearing jackets even though the temperature was still hovering in the low eighties outside. He made his way through the produce aisle, nodding a greeting to Sam the night manager who was busy training a new night crew member. Stepping around the "u-boat" loaded with boxes of oranges, he made his way to the back room to punch in.

"Ten forty-five, Ted! Exactly fifteen minutes early, as usual." Tony Freda's good natured ribbing never wore on Ted's nerves, for two reasons. First, Ted knew instinctively that Tony was genuinely trying to be friendly and engage him in conversation, to draw him out of the cocoon into which he had retreated over the recent months. The second reason was that Ted really didn't feel much of anything these days. Ted nodded and almost smiled, walking past Tony and the rest of the night crew as they assembled for their shift. He shuffled to his locker and fumbled with the combination. After a few miscues, he finally got it right and pulled his All Mart night crew jacket out of the locker.

"Man, the guy's like a ghost," whispered Jim from the dairy aisle. "How long's it been, six months?" Tony put his finger to his lips, signaling Jim to keep it down. "Guy's had a rough ride, cut him some slack, willya?" It had in fact been just over seven months since Ted's wife and daughter had been killed. Jim said quietly, to no one in particular, "Just worried about him, that's all. He was- is- such a good guy. I just wish I knew what to say to him."

In the past few months, Ted barely spoke to anyone. He came to work early and had to be reminded to take meal breaks. In the morning, he had to be told his shift was over. He'd been working six nights a week, and would've worked seven if Sam let him. When he was working- unloading a trailer, or loading up a u-boat, or stocking the shelves- he immersed himself so completely into the activity that he nearly felt alive again. There was an added bonus in that the harder he pushed himself all night, the more likely he'd tire himself to the point where he'd actually sleep sometime during the following day.

For the first month or so after Martha and little Lisa were killed, Pastor Bob Turner visited Ted several times a week and spoke to him every day on the phone. Other ministers and congregation members also called and visited- frequently at first, but then eventually the visits petered out to the point where he hadn't heard from any of them in weeks. Which was fine with him. The last conversation with Bob had been tough. Bob was talking about the mysteries of God's will, and Ted's responsibility as a Christian to accept it. Bob was warning Ted not to be angry with God. In virtually the only display of any emotion since his wife and baby were taken from him, Ted had lashed out at Pastor Bob.

Ted shouted at Bob, "Angry! You think I'm angry? I wish I were! The problem, Bob, is that I don't feel ANYTHING anymore. I'm not mad, I'm not sad. I am dead inside. I'm not angry with God, I just don't believe in Him anymore. Why don't you just leave me alone and save your sermons for the living!" Bob froze, staring at Ted in disbelief. "Ted," Bob whispered, pausing to gather his thoughts, "Ted, it's normal and understandable for you to feel forsaken at this point. But God never hands us a problem that we can't-" Ted startled Bob by vaulting from his chair. "ENOUGH, Bob, please. Just go away and leave me alone!"

Ted replayed that scene in his mind almost every day. On one level, he understood that Bob was only trying to help. In addition to being a strong spiritual mentor, Bob had been a good friend to Ted and Martha over the past few years. Bob, his wife Sue and their slobbering Golden Retriever named Roscoe were frequent visitors to Ted and Martha's first-floor apartment. The two couples had become fast friends, and it wasn't unusual for Bob and Sue to pop in unannounced with a pizza on a Sunday afternoon during football season. Although Martha had never been the least bit interested in football, Sue was such a rabid fan that Martha couldn't help but get interested enough to sit through the games, ask questions, and even tease Ted when his team lost.

Thoughts of Martha and Lisa and Bob and Sue filled his consciousness as Ted was making his way home after stopping off for his habitual cup of after-work coffee. He normally didn't fall asleep until late afternoon or early evening, so morning and early afternoon were the best times for reading the paper, running errands, or -with increasing frequency these days- taking long walks through the city. He hadn't planned a walk this morning, but as he threw his empty cup into a curb-side trash can and checked his watch, he realized he'd been walking for over an hour. He paused for a few minutes to get his bearings and clear his head. He was only a few blocks from his apartment, which was just around the corner from the coffee shop. It occurred to him that he must have slipped into his usual route, traversing the neighborhood's maze of one-way streets without ever getting more than a half-mile from home.

Even in his foggy state, he could see how badly the neighborhood had run down over the past few years. He smiled and shook his head when he remembered how badly Martha wanted to move to a "nicer" neighborhood, especially after Lisa was born. It didn't happen often, but occasionally Ted would find himself awash in the warm memories of his life with his girls. Something about the meandering walk on this warm summer morning brought their faces back to him now.

After seven years of marriage, he'd been more in love with Martha than he thought possible. So much so that when she became pregnant he had secretly worried about having the capacity to love another person, even their own child. Then he saw Lisa and was embarrassed that the concern had ever entered his mind. When he gave prayers of thanks for his beloved family, Ted would often work in an apology for ever doubting God's miracle of a parent's love for a child.

His reverie was pierced by the stabbing memories of the day it all was taken away from him. A scream from the sidewalk in front of the house. Recognizing that is was Martha screaming, Ted bolted out the front door and down the stairs. Within twenty-five feet of their front door, in broad daylight, Martha was struggling with a man who was trying to take her purse. He saw his wife defiantly positioned between her attacker and Lisa's carriage. When Ted yelled for her, the hulking assailant turned toward Ted and pulled his gun. In the next ten seconds, Ted's life was demolished. Martha shrieked as she made a grab for the gun. As the mugger jerked his arm to point the gun at Ted, Martha was pulled away from Lisa's carriage which began rolling down the sidewalk toward the intersection. Her eyes went wide as the bullet tore through her abdomen. She had grabbed the man with both hands, and was now slowly slumping to the ground. Ted was charging at the mugger when he heard the blaring horn, the screeching tires, and then a series of crashes. He never heard the second gun shot: the one that tore through his shoulder and spun him around twice before he fell unconscious into the street.

His next memory was struggling to open his eyes and having the sensation of lying beneath a tremendous weight. Stumbling on the brink of consciousness, he felt as though he were trying to focus his vision through murky water. He became aware of the vicious headache, and that made him close his eyes again. His mouth was so dry it was pasted shut and he couldn't swallow. Blinking a few times in an attempt to clear his head, he squinted at his surroundings. He tried to raise himself but found he couldn't move a muscle. So tired. Maybe I'll rest a while, he thought. By the time he stirred again, it was the following afternoon- though Ted had no idea he'd been out for so long. As his senses began to reassemble, he squinted in the dim light. A hospital room. Sore as hell all over. Head throbbing. Then, he remembered. "Martha", he tried to scream but all that came out was a barely audible, groggy croak.

Ted closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, then looked around to get his bearings. He was surprised to find that this morning's walk had returned him to his own block; he was just around the corner from home. He smiled through the Laundromat window at the harried mom trying to reign in a boisterous toddler while folding clothes on the counter. He winced at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer that wafted from the open door of the Stadium tavern, already serving a half-dozen morning patrons. Well, at least he hadn't resorted to drinking. He wondered what kind of ups and downs had brought the Stadium's "fans" (that's what they called themselves, he'd heard) to the point where they were already resting their elbows on a bar while most people were just starting their Saturdays. Turning the corner, he stopped short when he spotted the man sitting on the steps of his apartment building.

Ted's first reaction was that the man was so disheveled that he looked like someone doing a bad impersonation of a homeless person; like someone wearing a hastily thrown together Halloween costume. Leaning back on his elbows, the man lifted the brim of his threadbare New York Yankee cap so he could look at Ted. His badly soiled pants hadn't seen their matching jacket in ten years; they were the pinstriped remnants of a business suit someone had donated to the shelter. Being several inches too long, they were tucked into mismatched work boots. The boots couldn't quite be called a pair, not only because one was black and one was brown, but because each was the left-foot half of pairs of obviously different sizes. The pants were pulled up almost to his chest, and held in place by a beaded belt that wrapped around him nearly twice. The gray shirt evidently once belonged to a gas station attendant named Joe, who seemed to have done more than pump gas based on the deeply ground in grease stains at the cuffs, pocket and elbows. His curly, matted gray-brown hair exploded in all directions from underneath the cap when he pushed it back. The weather-beaten skin, black stubble on his chin, discolored teeth and indescribable stench all faded away when Ted saw his startlingly clear blue eyes. The overall effect was that of a vagrant's caricature over which someone else's eyes had been superimposed, eyes of a man who lived worlds away from the street and the shelter.

"How's it goin'," he said, the voice clearer and more animated than Ted expected. Ted fished in his pockets, pulled out a few singles and handed it to the man. He looked up at Ted and asked, "Don't you even want to know my name?" Surprised, Ted froze and looked at him.

"You were gonna hand me a few bucks and then walk right by me, weren't you? That what you normally do? Let me ask you this: would that make you feel good?" Taken aback, Ted stammered a bit, then said, "Look, I just wanted to help." His bright blue eyes flashing, the man replied, "Why? Tell me why you 'just wanted to help'".

"Because, well, I'm a Chris-, well, because I think it's the right thing to do." The man was staring at Ted now, in a manner more genuinely curious than threatening. He smiled at Ted, breaking the tension a bit. "My name is Steve," said the vagrant, extending his hand. "Ted," he answered, taking Steve's hand, surprised by the sincere firmness in the grip. "Ted, are you a Christian?" Without thinking, Ted said that he was, then added "um, that is, I used to be."

"Ted, I don't think anyone can really 'used to be' a Christian. Anybody says that is likely a Christian with a problem he ain't figured out how to hand over to his Christianity. Listen, Ted. You see me- a bum, homeless man, whatever you want to call me- and you want to help. That's good. But what would Jesus say you should do? Hand me a few bucks so you feel better, then walk away? Maybe feel sorry for me for a little while? Shake your head if I pop into your mind while you're cooking dinner or taking a shower? Ted, no offense, but I think Jesus would tell you that you're full of it!"

Ted was surprised at the heat of his own reaction, and he said firmly, "Hold it, Steve. I'm on my way home, I see you on the stoop. You look like you need help, so I assumed a few dollars were what you were asking for." "Didn't ask for nothin', Ted. Just said 'how's it goin', remember? But now that you mention it, suppose I do need help. What's three bucks gonna do for me? You think I'd stumble off and buy a bottle of cheap wine? Or breakfast? Well, as it happens I ain't hungry right now and I don't drink. That's right, believe it or not; never touch a drop of the stuff. Right now, I don't need anything, just saying good morning is all. But you might want to think a little more carefully about the meaning of charity, Ted."

"Wait a second, Steve. You don't even know me, or anything about what I've been through, and you're lecturing me about charity?" Steve sat upright, taking his weight off his elbows. Arching his back to work out the kinks, he stretched and yawned. "Well Ted, I think I am precisely the right person to talk to you about charity, because I am the one you offered it to. I don't have a place to sleep. Haven't had a shower or shave in a few days, as you can probably tell. Had a little food this morning, but likely I'll be hungry again tonight. I don't want anything from you Ted, except maybe I want you to see me. Maybe I want you to look past the clothes and the dirt and see the person sitting on these steps. If Jesus were here, he'd tell you to take me home with you. Share your home, your clothes, your food. Right, Ted? He'd tell you that when you look at someone like me, you are seeing Him. He'd say your offer of a few bucks was more for your benefit than mine. He'd tell you to stop dwelling on your story- whatever it is- and maybe offer to listen to mine. Don't worry, I ain't expecting anything from you. Don't want anything from you. Sure as heck don't expect you to take me home and feed me. I smell bad, you don't know anything about me, and it's clear that you have your own problems weighing you down. But I can see you, Ted. I could see a mile away that you're a troubled soul. Know why? 'cause I looked, that's why. Maybe when I said 'how's it goin'', maybe I was just tryin' to help you!"

Ted moved closer, leaned on the railing. Staring into Ted's eyes, Steve lifted his chin and arched his eyebrows- a silent question that froze Ted in place for a moment before he said, "Come in for a cup of coffee, Steve?" Still holding Ted's gaze, Steve let a wide smile creep across his face. "Sure, Ted. Thanks."

# The One

Cheng blew softly on the flute, and thought of his father. He smiled, remembering the bright spring morning when his father had finished carving it for him. He'd been barely ten years old, and he stopped his playing abruptly when he remembered the disrespect he showed his beloved father that day. Wincing at the memory, he whispered, "I am sorry, father" and then went back to his tune while replaying that morning in his mind.

As was their custom, father had woken Cheng just past dawn so he could join him for his morning walk along the stream they called Red Tiger that ran just a few moments' walk from their hut. "My son, I have something for you," he said as Cheng scurried to keep up with him. "Is it my flute, father? Have you finished carving it?" Cheng could barely contain himself, imagining himself leading a parade of his friends through the woods while playing a magical tune on his beautiful flute. "May I have it, father? Please."

Father stopped and turned to face Cheng, who crashed into him, bounced off onto his backside, and sprang back up to his feet before father could even bend to help him up. "Slow down, my son. Yes, I have your flute for you. But first I must ask you, why do you think the flute will make you so happy?" Dusting himself off without taking his eyes off Father's face, Cheng smiled. "I will be the only ten-year-old boy in the whole village with his own flute. All the other boys will wish they had one. I will be so proud."

With that, Father reached into his pouch and pulled out what Cheng thought must surely be the most beautiful flute in the entire world. On one end was carved a dragon's head that reminded Cheng of the drawings he had seen in Father's story scrolls. The dragon's eyes were painted bright yellow, and his fangs were a shockingly brilliant white contrast to the blood-red forked tongue that protruded between them. The rest of the flute was green, with intricately carved scales and a pronged tail. It was nearly as long as Cheng's arm, and he froze when he saw it. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he smiled broadly. "Oh, father, I will be so proud to-" in a flash, father snapped the flute in two over his knee, threw the pieces to the ground and stomped them into splinters. Cheng was paralyzed with shock.

Father stared at him for what felt like an hour, but in hindsight was probably less than a minute. Then, reaching into his pouch he pulled out a small bamboo flute. Crudely carved, it looked very simply like a piece of bamboo with six holes bored into the top and a larger slot carved into one end. "This, Cheng, is for you. It is your flute. It will not make you proud. It will not induce the envy of others. If this flute becomes yours, its purpose will be to bring you to your music. You see, son, your music is out there, waiting for you to find it. Your music may bring you joy, and it may bring joy to others. But it is no better or worse or more important than anyone else's music. Your music will not be attracted to a flute because it is expensive or pretty. The goodness in you does not come from your clothes or your sandals or even how handsome you are.

"You can take this flute and ask it to help you find your music, or you can throw it away and look for a prettier one. I think this one is yours, because I cut it from the same piece of bamboo that I used to make my flute. But only you can choose, and whatever you choose will be right." With that, father did something so curious that to this day, it made Cheng shake his head.

"Now this," father said as he reached into his pouch again, "this is a flute carved out of ivory from the tusk of a wise old elephant. It was given to me by a wandering singer of songs, who heard me playing my flute down by the stream one morning. He told me that my song was so beautiful that I must have this wonderful flute on which to play it. He insisted that I take it, and told me it is worth a fortune. But no matter how I try, my music does not like this flute. Only my flute can find my music, son. Somewhere, I believe, there is a man who can not find his music because I have the ivory flute that contains it. I only keep this flute in the hope that I meet that man one day, so I can reunite them for the first time. I fear I may never meet the poor man."

Father put the ivory flute back into his pouch and patted Cheng on the shoulder. "Listen for your music, my son. It may come to you in the sunset, or in the stream. It will find you. Your song will find you, and it will lead you on your way to the ultimate Truth."

With that, Cheng grabbed the bamboo flute from father's hand and ran up the path, past the hut and into the forest. He ran until he was so completely out of breath that he collapsed in a heap at the base of a massive tree. He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest, hugging his legs and resting his head on his knees. He listened to the jungle, listened to his heart pounding in his chest. He felt terribly ashamed about how he'd acted, and more acutely, about how he'd disappointed Father. Father had told Cheng about the folly of pride, and even at his age he understood that his behavior was shameful. He worried that Father would be so disappointed that he wouldn't invite him on his morning walks any longer. Finally, he fell asleep.

Cheng dreamt about sitting on a hilltop watching the most beautiful sunset he'd ever seen. He saw the dazzling orange and yellow as the sun melted into the horizon. He felt the earth beneath him warmed by the sun as it sank into the field in the distance. It was in that dream that Cheng first heard his song calling to him toward the place of light where the sun sank into the earth every evening.

And now, all these years later and so far away from his village, Cheng sat beside the cool stream in this strange land, breathing his song through the old bamboo flute. The peace of connectedness came over him, and his spirit soared with the sounds of his song. His feet were immersed in the stream up to his ankles, but he felt his entire being drifting along with the current, feeling the coolness below and the sun's warmth above. He'd drunk his fill after going several days without water, and he thanked the stream for saving his life.

Suddenly, he became aware of a presence. He looked across the stream, and scanned the area, wondering who had been watching him. At first he saw no one, but after a second review of the landscape he saw the figure seated under a willow tree directly across from him. He wondered how he didn't notice the man when he first sat down. Had he been there all along, or did he arrive when Cheng was with his song? "Please, play your flute some more. I hope you do not mind that I listened to your song. I found it very pleasing, and it did not seem that you noticed me sharing it." Cheng looked at the stranger for a moment and asked "Who are you?"

The stranger smiled and said, "I am a quiet man of the Way, who was coming for a drink when I heard your song." Cheng asked, "Do you have a name?" Standing, the man said, "Well, I may have whatever name you like. Since I am part of everything around me, and everything is part of me, I am not separate enough to have a special name. And no human being has spoken to me in such a very long time that I don't remember whether I had a special name or not. Call me 'man' if you like."

Puzzled, Cheng stood and placed his flute gently into his pouch. "Well, Man, I come from a place very far away, where they gave me the name Cheng. I have walked a very long way from my village, on a journey to the place where the sun meets the earth every evening. I too follow the 'way', but I sense that it is different from yours. Will you tell me about the 'way' you follow?" Cheng walked across the stream, balancing himself gracefully on the slippery rocks that protruded from the current. Reaching the opposite shore, he sat across from Man and carefully laid his pouch beside him in the soft, moist grass.

"I follow the way of the Buddha," Man started, "the enlightened one who left us the understanding of the four noble truths and the path to non-attachment through right understanding." Cheng listened intently, and remembered the stories Father had told him about a wise master who had lived many generations before their own, and the teachings he had left for his people to follow. "I sense that your way, Man, is not so different from mine, which is the Way of all things. In the land from which I came, in the language we speak to each other, we give this universal truth the name Tao".

Man shifted his position and leaned back against the broad trunk of the tree. "It is good that we have come to this place together, that our paths have crossed. I have been dreaming that I would meet another human being whose knowledge and understanding is more perfect than mine. In these dreams I walk with a person whose path converges with mine for a time, and while we walk together I see and hear old things in new ways, and learn new truths. In my dreams I feel there is a light that I must follow, but I can not yet see it. The stranger I meet will somehow show me where the light lives. I was thinking about these dreams when I was listening to your song. I believe you may be the one."

Cheng smiled in disbelief. "Man," he whispered, "I too have been led by dreams. My dream is the same every night. The sun moving across the sky is calling me to follow. It rises in the village in which I was born, which is far away to the east. The place where the sun rests in the evening is the place to which I must go. The sunset place is a holy and special place, where the light rests every night. The light is calling for me to come to the sunset place. I do not know what I will find there, but I know it is where I must go. I can almost see the place in the evening when the sun just touches the earth in the distance. But I can not tell how far away it is, or even whether I am getting closer to it each day. All I know for sure is that I am walking in the right direction. In my dreams I also meet a person to walk with on my journey. This person has knowledge and visions that enable him to see the place to which I am headed. Somehow, he can see the sunset place, the place of the light. He shows me how to get there. While you were telling me of your 'way', I was thinking of that you must be the one in my dream."

Man rose slowly, shook his head and said, "But I have no special powers or visions, I am but one of limited understanding who seeks to learn in the way of the Buddha. Still, I sense that we are to walk together for a while. I believe it will be good. The sun will be resting soon, we can watch it sink and then rest for the night. It will lead us tomorrow, as in your dream." Cheng and Man moved to a clearing so they could have a better view of the sunset and, later, the stars. They spread out their bed rolls and sat facing the west. As they gazed at the sun balancing on its edge in the distant dessert, Cheng pulled out his flute and began to breathe life into it again. Man nodded slowly with his eyes closed, and the light faded as twilight approached.

They followed the stream together for many days, talking and strolling along its banks, stopping occasionally to drink or eat some fruit from one of the lush trees that lined both sides of the water. Every evening they found a clearing, always seeking out a spot with a clear view of the sunset. And every sunset was intensified by the sound of Cheng's song wafting through the air. Man could almost feel the song by now, and he looked forward to the sunsets more and more every day.

Late one night, as they lie on their backs gazing at the stars, Cheng said, "Soon the stream will turn and head south, because that is what streams like to do. We have been fortunate that the stream's path and ours have both run west for so many days. I believe soon we will say goodbye to our friend the water and part ways. Then there will be desert, which will prove to be a difficult path. I crossed a vast desert before I met you, and the journey was harsh. Just when I believed I would die for lack of water, I heard this stream calling in the distance. It was the loveliest sound I have ever heard. The song of my flute interwove with the stream's song so perfectly that I came to believe I would end my journey there and then. I do not know how long I might have stayed in the spot if I had not seen you sitting there across the stream."

Man sighed, "Yes, friend Cheng, it is inevitable that the stream will turn from its westward path at some point. Paths cross sometimes, and sometimes they run parallel. Rarely, they even overlap for a time. But no two paths run the same course forever. So it is with the stream, so it will be with us. When the stream leaves us, we will continue toward the sunset place, since its call gets stronger every day. I can feel the warmth of the light in my dreams now, so I know we are getting closer. I sense that the place of light will also be a place of knowledge and understanding. It is good that we are headed there together."

As expected, late the next afternoon the stream turned sharply to the left, tumbled down a deep ravine and then disappeared into the forest. The terrain became more bare and rocky as they went along, ever following the westward path. On the third day after the stream left them, they reached the edge of a plain that emptied into a vast desert. Between them, they had a full flask of water, which if used sparingly, could last two days or so. There was no shelter within sight, except the now-distant trees behind them and what looked like rugged mountains in the distance ahead. They looked at each other and walked on.

During the first night in the desert, Cheng experienced a sensation of coldness like none he'd ever felt. The desert had been so hot during the day that he'd feared his sandals would burst into flames. Now he and Man huddled together, shivering, with nothing to burn for warmth. The cold night air was so crystal clear that they felt as though they were sleeping among the stars rather than under them. They both dreamt their dreams of the journey toward the light, and they dreamt of each other. Each convinced that they'd found the one.

On the fourth day, they noticed an outcropping of rocks in the distance, with what appeared to be some shrubbery. "Man, I believe we could reach those rocks before tonight, and that we will find shelter there. Perhaps even water, since I see green things among the rocks." Instinctively, they picked up the pace. At about midday, when they stopped for a brief rest, Cheng realized that they had not spoken since starting the day's walk. Crawling to the top of a high sand dune, they stared in the direction of the rocks and noticed that the area was much larger and closer than he'd originally thought. Cheng realized now that the ragged boulders he'd seen earlier were only the edge of a large bluff that jutted out of the sand like a huge island in the middle of a massive ocean. Now he could see that there were bushes, grass and even a few trees in middle of the island. He knew for sure now that there would be water! As they slid down the other side of the dune, the hope of cool water and a shady resting spot lifted his spirits.

They reached the first row of boulders just as the sun began its descent behind the rocky bluff. Pausing to catch their breath, hands on knees, they broke into a near-hysterical laughter, then jogged toward the larger rocks. Then, the screams from above them. There, squatting atop a huge boulder was a wild man pointing at them menacingly. He wore an animal skin of some sort, and his hair and beard were matted and tangled. He was covered in filth, and they could see even from this distance there was a crazed look in his eyes. "Go away from here! If you come nearer I fear I will kill you both. Go quickly while you can! For I have gone mad, and am no longer in control of myself."

The wild man bounced and rocked on his haunches, looking as though he was preparing to spring off the boulder at them. He grunted and squealed like an animal, snarling and baring his teeth, which were astonishingly white against his leathery skin. Picking up a fist-sized stone, he threatened them again. "I beg you, go from here now so I don't hurt you!" Cheng and Man, stared at the wild man, and then each other- still recovering from the initial shock. Cheng began to move toward the boulder upon which the wild man was perched. "Wait" said Man, "take care. He is surely mad and dangerous." Cheng shook his head. "No, Man. If he were truly wild and a danger to us, he would not warn us away. He says he is afraid that he will hurt us. That means he does not want to hurt us. Why would he warn us if he truly wanted to kill us?" With that, Cheng approached the wild man.

As Cheng got closer, the grunts and squeals subsided, and the wild man stood upright on the boulder. Then, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared. Cheng heard stones rumbling behind the boulder and realized that the wild man was scrambling down from atop his perch. Cheng was not sure whether he was fleeing or attacking. Getting closer to the boulder, Cheng slowed his pace and raised his hands to show they were empty. Suddenly the wild man leapt out from behind the boulder and ran straight toward Cheng. "Hello, friend", said Cheng. "We have come a long way and would like to have some shade and some water, and a safe place to spend the night. Surely there is an extra cave we could use without disturbing you. And if my suspicion is correct, there is more than enough water for us to take but a little to sustain ourselves." The wild man slowed to a walk, dropping the stone he'd intended to use as a weapon as he approached. He stopped just a few steps away from Cheng, and said in a mild, thoughtful voice, "I am sorry for threatening you. Being alone out here in the wilderness, fighting the demons I fight every day has driven me quite insane. I do not think I would actually kill you and your friend, but I am not quite certain."

Cheng was struck by the intelligence in his deep brown eyes, and the overall gentleness of his manner. The wild man was much larger than Cheng- the largest man Cheng had ever seen. He had a slightly protruding brow, a large hooked nose, and thick lips. Taken individually, any of these features would be considered ugly. But somehow the combined effect was one of dignity and intelligence. "Who are you?" asked Cheng. "I believe my name is Ishtak, but I have not heard my own name spoken in a very long time. I was driven out of my village a long time ago because the men there were afraid that I would harm their families. The visions had become too hard for me to bear. At first they came only at night as dreams. Then, they took me over to the point where I lost sight of the separation between my real life and the visions. And then, the voices came. I live out here, alone. That is, alone with the voices that torment me and the visions that drive me mad."

"Ishtak, my friend's name is Man. I am Cheng. I come from far away, where the sun begins its journey every morning. Man comes from a place under the late morning sun, somewhere between the village of my birth and this place of yours. We are wanderers whose dreams are leading them toward the sunset. We surely mean you no harm, and would ask that you permit us to rest here tonight, after which you will never see us again if that is your wish." Ishtak smiled and shook his head, and calling out to Man, said "Come, new friend Man, come to my cave. We shall eat and drink and be refreshed. And we shall talk! Oh, how I long to hear the voice of a human being that I can see and touch. Please, friends, come".

Struggling to keep pace with the muscular giant, Man and Cheng half-walked, half-crawled up the side of the ridge that led to Ishtak's cave. The entrance was hidden by thick bushes, and as they peered into the darkness their senses were immediately struck with two sensations: the remarkable coolness as they entered the den, and the mellifluous sound of running water somewhere within. "Wait here", grunted Ishtak, and a moment later they heard scraping noises in the darkness. Cheng and Man both shuddered in the chill, adjusting to the abrupt change in temperature. The scraping noise was accompanied by a few grunts, and the men wondered what Ishtak could be doing in the darkness just a few steps away. Then, a small spark followed by a smoldering smell and a small puff of flame. Ishtak was starting a fire.

Having sated themselves with water from the icy spring at the back of the massive cave, Cheng and Man sat across from Ishtak at the fire. "I have some meat, friends, and would be most pleased to share a meal with you." Cheng and Man explained that neither of them ate the flesh of animals, and that they would be quite satisfied to forage in the nearby foliage for edible berries and roots. "Are my new friends men or rabbits, or are they part of yet another vision that is not real?" Ishtak roared with laughter, the echo pounding Cheng and Man from all directions. "We are as real as you would like us to be, just as you are to us, friend Ishtak," said Man. "And I assure you that we are not rabbits, but rather we are simple men on a journey."

The mouth of the cave faced the west, and it provided an excellent place from which to take in another sunset. Cheng puffed on his flute, and Man noticed that Ishtak was rocking to and fro with his eyes closed, captivated by Cheng's song. As the last of the sun evaporated behind the horizon, Cheng put his flute away and turned toward the other men. "We are closer now. I can feel it. Our journey to the place of the light has taken us to this beautiful place so we could meet Ishtak." Hearing his name, the wild man sprung to his feet, startling both the other men. "Did you say 'journey to the place of the light?", Ishtak asked excitedly. "The place of the light?" Man and Cheng looked at each other, confused. Man spoke up, "Yes, Ishtak, we are on a journey together. At first, Cheng was on his journey alone, but I joined him on the way. We seek the place where the sunset meets the earth, the place of the light where there is knowledge and understanding of all things and purpose. Where we will learn the truth and the way."

The wild man threw his head back and roared with laughter, bellowing so loudly that they feared he would start an avalanche. "Ah, the place of the light, the place of truth. And I suppose you both have dreamt of one who will lead you there?" Stunned silence. Man and Cheng each froze in place, unsure of what they'd heard. "What is it that you said, Ishtak?" whispered Man, finally. "I said, 'have you dreamt of one who will lead you to the place of the light?'" They both nodded, speechless.

As they sat by the fire that night, Cheng asked Ishtak to tell them about his visions. "So many, so strange and wondrous. When they were dreams, I would laugh and shake my head when I awoke. But then they became more frequent, more real, more disturbing. I dreamt that I belonged to a tribe that had been banished to the wilderness. Wandering in the desert, we struggled to survive, with many of us dying from heat, starvation and sickness. But we had been a special people, a tribe who worshipped a single all-powerful God who had chosen us to keep a covenant with Him. He watched over us and provided for us like a mighty father. Our enemies feared Him, and our children grew up singing His praises as they played outside our tents. We were blessed with bountiful harvests, and our livestock thrived on the lush carpet of grass on His hillsides. Then, we sinned against Him and we were pushed away by Him. We had broken the covenant and in his anger he banished us from His care. And as we wandered in the wilderness, dying of thirst and starvation, the tribe looked to me for answers. So, I prayed to this God, who we called 'I am', as He had instructed us to do. I went alone to a mountainous place not unlike the one in which we now find ourselves. I slept alone in a cave, and walked up the mountain to talk to Him, to ask forgiveness, and to plead with Him to take us back into His care. As I walked along the mountains, I had many frightening visions. I saw a valley full of dead bones that were brought to life by our God's breath. I watched as the scattered bones reassembled, grew sinew, then skin. Then they rose as an army. I saw a beautiful temple built in honor of our God. It was unlike anything ever made by men, and our God saw that it was good. Then I saw our enemies destroy it and trample it underfoot. I heard the cries of God's people as our enemies enslaved us, treating us with unspeakable cruelty for no reason. Then, I saw our God raise His mighty hand against them, and we were freed from bondage. But instead of thanking Him, we strayed from His laws, and he vanquished us. Nothing imaginable is as cold, lonely and frightful as being disconnected from Him. And I felt that, all of that, on behalf of these people."

"Then He sent his words through me, and they called me a prophet. I sang songs of praise to Him and told my people about His laws. I felt the pain of exile, of exhaustion, of starvation. I felt the pain of His people. I spoke of one to come who would redeem us and restore us to His grace forever. One who would be the light of the world, and show all of us the way to Him. I spoke in riddles and stories of generations past and generations yet to come. Of the punishment of God's enemies, and of the endless joy to be bestowed upon followers of the True Way. Of a man swallowed by a giant fish! Of how God became so angry that he destroyed the entire world with a great flood, but saw fit to save one man and his family. I felt the torture of drowning in the flood, and I saw the family on a huge boat they had built at God's command. I spoke of God's everlasting love for us, even in the time of our disconnection from Him. I felt His love, and his wrath. I felt the pain of these people every day. It drove me mad. I still see these things, hear these things, feel these things. Lately, the voices speak mostly about the one who is to come to show the way to Him. He is coming, or perhaps he is already here, I do not know. And now, the almighty I am speaks to me day and night. He tells me that the way to Him is at hand for all of us. He tells me I can find the way to Him, and that I can help others find the way. But He does not tell me how! Who am I to find the way for anyone? I am a crazed wanderer who can no longer distinguish dreams from reality."

Cheng and Man stared at each other for a long time. Each of them in their own way had been searching for the one to lead them on their journey. And now, they sat before this wild man who looked and smelled like an animal and rambled nonsensically. But his words were full of passion and mystery, full of examples of the eternal balance and the joy of attaining the state that he called 'grace'. Although his mind had been tormented by his revelations, he was connected to the spirit, and would certainly be part of their journey. He spoke of leading the way, and they were both expecting to find one to lead the way. They had found the one.

Man spoke first, "Ishtak, our meeting was not a matter of chance. We two have found you for a purpose. Or, more correctly I should say that the three of us have found each other for a purpose. Although Cheng and I are from different traditions, and our paths originated in separate places, we are both seekers of the one truth that is the Way. As are you, Ishtak. Come with us as we head toward the place of the light. Surely we will all find what we are looking for there." Ishtak stared at the fire and took a savage bite out of the hunk of meat in his hand. He nodded slowly, without looking up.

As they left the cave the next morning, Ishtak was singing in a trance-like state. "My soul doth magnify the Lord," he sang. "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! And you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free. There is no way to the Father except through me. The Kingdom is inside you and it is outside you. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone and there you will find me." Man and Cheng struggled to keep pace with Ishtak, who seemed to gain strength from his ranting song. The four large flasks strung around his neck would have been a heaven burden even for a very strong man, but Ishtak moved as though he were completely unencumbered. He didn't seem to hear as they begged him to slow his pace so they could keep up. After several attempts, they finally were able to get his attention and he reluctantly slowed down. "We have a long trek through harsh desert, Ishtak", gasped Cheng, "and I fear we are not as strong as you, nor as accustomed to the desert heat. Please be patient with us."

The days in the desert passed as though a dream. Cheng had lost count of the days, and he now moved methodically with his mind completely separated from his weakened body. Occasionally, Ishtak would stop and force him to drink and rest, but Cheng no longer had any sensation of heat or thirst or weariness. Ishtak sang continuously, and his mysterious words completely captivated Cheng, who envisioned the stories as Ishtak sang them. He vaguely recalled entering a village, resting for a few days, and then sailing on a boat of some sort. Now, again marching through a desert, he was startled when Man grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "Cheng", he panted, "Ishtak's songs have carried me on a journey of visions. I have seen the Way, Cheng. I understand now." Cheng just smiled and said "Follow him, he is the one."

The sunset that evening found them sheltered in a small cave in the foothills of a mountain range. This sunset was unlike any other they'd seen. The light surrounded them, warming them to the bone. And it was not the usual flaming orange and red, but rather a blindingly brilliant white that forced them all to close their eyes. As the light finally faded, Ishtak began to sing. "The kingdom of God is at hand. I am the Alpha and the Omega; the Way, the Truth and the Life. Whatsoever you do to the least of you, so you do unto me. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Ishtak's words became unintelligible as he sat on a rock with his eyes closed, mumbling and nodding, swaying as if to music that no one else could hear. Suddenly, he rose and said, "Sleep now, friends, for by this time tomorrow we will be very near the end of our journey."

"Arise, Cheng and Man, arise! The sun is warming the earth already, and we must go", Ishtak said as he shook them from their slumber. We have but one day's walk left on our journey. We will first visit a village I know of, where we can get new cloaks and supplies. See, here I have treasures with which we can barter." With that he handed each of them a small bundle, saying, "Open them when we arrive, let us go now." Wondering what was in the bundles and where Ishtak had gotten them, Cheng and Man prepared to leave.

Again they followed Ishtak westward through the rough terrain, their spirits soaring as they were entranced yet again by his strange chants of vision and understanding. Around sunset, they approached the village. Ishtak stopped, turned to them and said "First, we will watch the sunset. Then we will go into the village." Cheng and Man sat facing the sunset, each anxiously anticipating yet another spectacular display of light. This sunset, however, was drab and uneventful. For the first time in many days, Cheng felt compelled to play his flute. Man, mesmerized as always by Cheng's song, stared at the sunset and swayed mindlessly. Neither of them noticed that Ishtak had left them alone on the ridge, heading by himself toward the small village.

It was a stark, cold, starry night. Ishtak knelt and woke them anxiously, handing them each a new cloak and sandals. Himself now dressed in a fine purple robe with bright yellow collar and cuffs, Ishtak said, "We must not approach the place of the light looking like wild men of the desert. For each of you I have a fine new cloak, sandals and walking staffs so we do not look like savages when we reach the holy place we have been searching for." Puzzled, Cheng said, "But we have treasures with which we were to barter for new clothes. We were to go to the village together and trade for new cloaks and supplies." Leaping to his feet, Ishtak smiled. "Come, it is time. Wash in the stream and use this fine oil to perfume your hair. Don your fine new cloaks, pick up your bundles and let us make our way."

As they slowly made their way along the narrow path that wound around the steep hillside, the sounds and smells of a large flock drifted toward them. A large, ferocious dog barked at their approach, and looked over at his shepherd as though asking for approval to attack. "Calm yourself, my friend and protector. These men will not harm us", the shepherd reassured the dog as he patted his broad, flat head. "Strangers, you are surely lost. The village is that way, and there is nothing out here. Where have you come from? What do you seek?" Looking at Ishtak, he said "I believe I have seen you before, big man, but your two companions have the strange features of far-away people. Where do they come from?" Cheng spoke, "We have traveled many moons. We come from a place very far from here, across the great desert." The shepherd laughed, "Only magicians or wild men could have come across that desert."

They were all startled by the blinding light. A star, as large and fiery as the sun, exploded into view and lit up the entire countryside. Cheng felt his music reverberating around him as though the very earth were singing to him. They all froze; Ishtak began singing "Glory to God in the highest", over and over. Then he pointed to the stable, and the three of them approached it in awe.

# The Return: Part 1

"He is back! You let him come back! I want him found and taken care of. Now!"

No one around the table dared move or make a sound, each hoping to avoid being in the crosshairs of his rage. The stark and overwhelming energy that radiated from him seized and immobilized even the twelve enormously powerful people seated around the oval mahogany table.

He hadn't even demanded the status reports that the senior members of the group were normally called upon to deliver as soon as all were seated. The silence was stifling, and each attendee knew immediately that something of major importance was happening; something had gone terribly wrong. They were quite accustomed to being completely intimidated in his presence, but now there was a striking difference in his appearance and mannerisms.

The fierce intensity in his presence, the searing force of his stare, the arresting power in his voice all seemed sharper, more palpable, and the overall affect was terrifying. It was obvious to all that this session would be unlike any in their memory, and even the most experienced members- those whose authority and influence made them the most powerful people on earth- were visibly shaken.

"The last time you idiots let him slip through, it took me years to clean up your mess. I warned you then that I would not tolerate any further carelessness." He pounded the table, sneered at them and said, "Now any idiot can see he has come back, but my highly-compensated lieutenants don't even know that their controls have been compromised. Anyone care to hear what happened to the members who let him get through last time?"

Of course, no one responded or even changed expression, as though remaining completely still would somehow defuse the Leader's fury. With the vast network of people, technology and immeasurable financial resources, how could he come back unnoticed? No, each of them thought, there couldn't be a failure of that magnitude. It had been so many hundreds of years since he came the first time, and surely the controls had evolved to the point where a breakdown this serious was inconceivable.

"You have one week to find and neutralize him." His voice took on a ferocity and force that rattled their ribcages like a passing freight train, and the very room vibrated with the ultimatum. But no one saw his lips move. Without moving his head, he glared into the eyes of each member simultaneously, causing each to freeze in place, afraid to move. Most didn't blink for a full minute while he held their gaze. There was no need to articulate the threat; each knew instinctively that they would all suffer unspeakable consequences if they failed.

To his immediate right, trying desperately to maintain his air of stately calm, sat former British Prime Minister Nigel Medway. The most strong-willed and influential of the group, Medway was first to regain control of his senses. His unchallenged control over the entire European economy, coupled with his outright ownership of the U.N. Secretary General, made Medway the most respected and powerful of the members. Medway was the only member who was permitted to- or would even dare- ask questions during a meeting. His plans for expanding the role of the U.N. into a de facto global governing body were already yielding phenomenal results, and this success further solidified his position as the reigning senior Member. Although an unofficial title, the privileges that came along with this rank included the distinction of being allowed to speak to the Leader without his permission.

"I beg your indulgence, Leader," he said, "but we have been monitoring our controls very diligently, and have no indication that he has returned. Respectfully, I ask how you come to know about this breach that our monitoring systems seem to have missed. My concern of course is that we identify any shortcomings in our controls so they can be corrected immediately." Medway's regal bearing and masterful communication skills enabled him to sound at once authoritative, confident and deferential.

No one saw the Leader move. In retrospect, the members could only vaguely recall seeing the Leader turn toward Medway. Then, a blinding flash and crackling electrical sound. Medway lurched backward in his seat, then rocked forward, his head virtually exploding as it hit the table. A grey and red sludge splattered on the members seated nearby, as well as a good portion of the shiny table top. An eerie red mist- Medway's airborne blood- settled on their expensive suits as they froze in abject horror. Then, as they reflexively pulled back from the table, gruesome outlines of their hands and forearms were left painted on the table's surface by the mist and gore. The Leader sat unmarked and unaffected. As always, his dark jacket, white shirt and bright gold tie were meticulously crisp and clean.

"One week."

# The Return: Part 2

"Good morning, Mr. Zimmerman, this is your seven o'clock wake up call." The voice was young, female, and distinctly American, he thought as his agile mind quickly snapped into consciousness. Within seconds he was completely awake. "Thank you and good morning," he said, smiling as he practiced his American English accent. It was pretty damned good, and improving.

He shrugged into the bathrobe he found hanging on the bathroom door, and closed his eyes. He had carefully avoided looking at the phone on the night stand and stationery on the desk, enjoying the private game that had become one of the very few frivolities he allowed himself. He recalled the texture and smell of the sheets, visualized the room's color scheme and furniture placement, and sighed, "America, probably New York." He turned the deadbolt, flicked down the door handle and pulled the door open as far as the chain would allow. Peering through the four-inch gap between the door and frame, he looked down to see what newspapers would be waiting for him. When he saw the Tuesday edition of the New York Times, he unchained the door, smiled and squatted to retrieve it. He closed and bolted the door, then as if to settle a bet with himself, moved over to the nightstand to check the number on the phone to confirm his assessment. "New York it is," he whispered.

The few people who knew anything about Hans Zimmerman's personal habits were always amazed at how little rest he required. Regardless of the time zone, he disciplined himself to rise at five A.M. for a brisk forty minute jog followed by a half hour of calisthenics or weight lifting if a gym was readily available. Not today. Although he had been attending the Leader's periodic meetings ever since being designated as a Member twelve years earlier, he still found the routine very unsettling. He frowned as it occurred to him that the Leader's meetings were in fact the only thing in his life over which he did not have complete control.

Zimmerman had long ago given up trying to unravel the mystery, since the Leader had made it clear that it wasn't something that would ever be revealed to the Members. He still found it profoundly troubling that his near-genius I.Q., immense wealth and far-reaching influence were completely useless when it came to matters concerning the Leader.

The routine was always the same. He would awaken the morning after a Membership meeting with no recollection of how he got to the meeting, where he had spent the night, or how he had gotten to his room. The details of the meeting, however, always came back to him in vivid detail when he cast his mind back on the proceedings.

Although the Members had very limited interaction with each other beyond the Leader's meetings, Zimmerman had surmised that others were subjected to the same treatment and were equally disturbed by it. Even Medway himself... Medway! "He's dead," Zimmerman said so loudly that by reflex he looked around as though there were people in the room who might overhear him. He murmured, "The Leader- the Leader killed Medway," took a deep breath to reset himself and thought about the previous night's meeting.

He always marveled at how clearly and completely he could visualize the setting, the faces of the Members, and of course, the Leader's appearance, actions and words. Almost like an actor's memorized dialog, he could recite the Leader's introductory remarks, his questions, the status reports submitted by the Members, and the rare question-and-answer exchanges that occasionally ended the meetings. Even the most minute details from meetings ten years past were retrievable when he closed his eyes and summoned the memory.

As was his custom with all business matters, Zimmerman analyzed the meeting thoroughly. He carefully walked himself through every sentence in the Leader's opening remarks, and relived the escalating anger in his voice as he excoriated the group for its failure. When he reached the point in the meeting where Medway was murdered, he could actually feel the sticky gore on his face, and see the crimson mist settling on his hands spread in front of him on the table. He suppressed a shudder when he recalled the changes in the Leader and the unleashing of this seemingly new power. He wondered for a moment how he came to be cleaned up and showered, and what had become of his clothing that bore the sickening remnants of what was once Medway's brain and skull. He willed himself to put the questions out of his mind.

During his rise to the top of Europe's largest financial services conglomerate, he had trained himself to control his mind, consciously managing where and how his precious intellectual energy was spent. This prevented him from wasting time on non-critical pursuits and ensured that he maintained focus on what was truly important. Puzzling over unanswerable questions about the Leader and the Membership would serve no purpose, and the Leader had made it abundantly clear he would determine how much the Members would know. This unchallenged control was the underpinning of the Leader's command over them.

Zimmerman leaned back against the lushly padded headboard and unfolded the Times. Unable to get the vision of the prior night's horror out of his mind, he threw the paper on the floor, using his native tongue to curse his lack of mental focus. On the rare occasions when he did not feel in complete control, he found it utterly unnerving and infuriating. The spark of anger was exactly what he needed to help him regain control. He pushed the murder out of his mind and turned his thoughts toward his marching orders.

As if to prove to himself that he was back in control, he stripped off his robe and hit the floor where he pumped out one hundred push ups. Springing to his feet, he went through his daily stretching routine, admiring his still-athletic physique in the mirror. He ordered coffee, again practicing his American English accent, and went in for a long hot shower.

Dressed in his crisply pressed navy blue suit, muted white shirt and solid red tie, he ran his hands through his steel grey crew cut, smiled and began to formulate his plan.

# The Return: Part 3

The Swiss Air flight to Zurich was comfortable and uneventful. He was the only one in first class who remained awake for the entire flight, and the only one who waved away the relatively sumptuous meal. As usual, he drank only water with ice and a slice of lemon, ensuring that he drank at least one half-liter for every hour in the air. The attendants were polite and deferential, and once told he didn't want to be disturbed, limited their contact with him to a polite nod whenever refilling his glass.

Zimmerman was looking forward to taking advantage of the quiet, interrupt-free stretch of time. The Leader was one of only two people who could reach him in flight, and he reassured himself that direct contact was extremely rare. Although the timing should have startled him, he wasn't even mildly surprised when his satellite phone began vibrating in his pocket. The Leader had only called him twice in the past twelve years, and both times Zimmerman remembered being shocked to hear his voice. This time, however, Zimmerman knew instinctively who it was.

"Hans, I hope you are enjoying the flight," the Leader greeted him informally. He'd never heard the Leader use anyone's first name before. The familiar, almost friendly tone in his voice made Zimmerman shiver as he pictured the last time he'd heard it. Was that really less than forty-eight hours earlier? "Hans, I'll be expecting more from you now. And of course, as you become more important to me you will be compensated accordingly," said the Leader, sounding like a powerful CEO congratulating a newly-promoted executive while simultaneously setting the hook. "Are you with me, Hans?"

"Leader, I am of course flattered by your confidence. My commitment is absolute, and I am at your command." Zimmerman suppressed a shudder as he struggled to maintain his composure. "You are apprehensive, Hans. Tell me why." Zimmerman thought that if seated near him, the Leader would have extended his hand and patted his shoulder encouragingly. Inexplicably gaining confidence, Zimmerman said, "You have told me that I am the best in the world at what I do, and I therefore worry that I will not be as valuable to the cause if my role changes."

"Hans, this is just like your last year in university soccer- sorry, I forgot that you Europeans refer to it as 'football'," he continued, "when you reluctantly moved from goal keeper to midfield. You used almost the same exact words when your coach asked you to move into a new role at a crucial time for the betterment of the team." Zimmerman pushed the button to bring his seat upright and stared at the phone for a full fifteen seconds before he was able to respond. "Apologies, Leader," he said with as much calm as he could muster, "I- I don't understand."

"Hans, you almost quit the team when they moved you from goal keeper. You were a great keeper; many said you were on your way to being the best ever. Then Mombelli blew out his knee, putting your team in a hole just as you were making a run for the cup. You were such an intensely dedicated, focused and talented player that you could have effectively replaced any striker, midfielder or fullback on the team. But you justifiably saw yourself as a keeper, and because playing that position was your passion you felt that was where you could make your best contribution to the team. Remember, Hans?"

"Jastrowski told you that even though you were the best keeper he'd ever seen, the team needed you in another role. With your strength, skill and intelligence running the team from midfield, the team would in fact be stronger, even though the backup keeper wasn't in your class." Zimmerman's fear dissipated, and a sense of awe filled him. The Leader even knew the name of his university coach from over thirty years ago!

Sounding almost like a proud father, the Leader said, "The outcome, Hans, was extraordinary. All that press you got for selflessly agreeing to make the move for the good of the team! You would have had a great pro career either way, but you surely would not have been catapulted into the media spotlight so quickly without making 'the move' as it came to be known. The fortune you made on endorsements, the name recognition you used to launch your business career; all because you were wise and dedicated enough to, I believe the expression is, 'take one for the team'".

Zimmerman's mind raced and his pulse quickened. He was completely overwhelmed. During his association with the Membership, he had frequently found himself awestruck when the Leader demonstrated encyclopedic knowledge in an incredibly wide range of subjects, from technology to world history to political nuances of current events. But this familiarity with Zimmerman's personal history and the apparent ability to read his thoughts was particularly disturbing. He had long ago begun to suspect that the Leader possessed abilities that could only be described as supernatural. Today's exchange, coupled with what he saw happen to Medway, sealed it. The Leader's power had increased to the point where it was clearly beyond what could be considered human. He wondered whether the Leader could somehow see into his thoughts even at that moment. Based on what he'd seen and heard, that seemed likely.

"I am at your service, Leader. It would be my honor to give even my life for the cause," Zimmerman whispered hoarsely. "You are now my right hand, Hans. You will play a major role in the monumental events to follow. Go and set things in motion. Then I will summon you and Erwin to visit me."

Erwin had been with Zimmerman for over twenty years. Erwin's gnomish appearance masked a razor sharp mind, which along with his unwavering loyalty made him an indispensable chief of staff to Zimmerman. He relied heavily on Erwin, who seemed to thrive on delivering results against long odds for Zimmerman throughout his career.

Although Erwin had become quite wealthy in his own right, his greatest reward was the honor and prestige associated with being Zimmerman's confidant and advisor. Prone to smoking a pipe and wearing braces that clashed hopelessly with his rumpled suits, his odd appearance frequently led people to underestimate him- until they witnessed his ruthless genius at work. This was invariably a pleasant surprise to allies and devastating shock to enemies.

Zimmerman was surprised at Erwin's inclusion in the invitation, but said nothing. As though responding to a verbal objection, the Leader said, "Erwin is dedicated to you, Hans. You will need him in the days to come. He has earned your trust, and therefore mine."

When the Leader ended the call, Zimmerman reclined his seat and pulled a folder out of his briefcase. He closed his eyes and- as he frequently did when trying to relax- he replayed his favorite football match in his mind.

He saw himself gliding over the field with the grace and power experienced only by world-class athletes. The field to him was always a huge chess board, and the secret to his unparalleled prowess was his ability to see the entire field as though watching from above. He was moving the ball up the wing now, crossing midfield as he leapt effortlessly over an attempted slide tackle from an aggressive fullback. The center midfielder, rotating back to cover for the errant back, was now marking him cautiously, attempting to contain him as he advanced up the sideline. A quick stutter step, a feint at lofting a crossing pass, and Hans got inside position, streaking by his mark in a flash.

One more fullback, backpedaling near the eighteen was all that stood between him and the keeper. He slowed his charge slightly, and stepped toward the sideline. Then he saw very clearly what was imperceptible to everyone else in the stadium. The defender's weight was mostly on his outside leg as he leaned instinctively toward the sideline, expecting to force the advance to the outside. Hans veered directly toward him, turned a shoulder toward the sideline to get the back to commit, then executed a lightning-fast crossover move to the inside and was by the defender in four strides. From just inside the eighteen, he fired a right-footed shot with tremendous topspin toward the upper left corner of the goal. The keeper barely moved, almost appearing grateful that Hans hadn't driven in to embarrass him at close range. It was the most memorable goal in his career, and he savored the replay several times before returning to work, completely relaxed and clear-headed.

Zimmerman used the remainder of the flight to review the draft of his company's annual report and put the finishing touches on his message to the shareholders that would serve as the report's preface. Just as he set down his pen and put the report in his folder, the wheels touched down. He glanced over at his body guards. While they could easily have passed for a pair of NFL linebackers, they were imposing in a manner that was much more than physical. With their close-cropped hair, military bearing and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once, they exuded an air of supreme confidence and control. Even after the seven hour flight, they were impeccable in their dark suits, white shirts and blue ties. As always, the overall effect caused people to avoid direct eye contact while sneaking glances like star-struck fans not wanting to intrude on a celebrity.

The ride in the Mercedes limo was quiet, the smooth powerful engine barely audible as they glided toward Zurich. Within thirty-five minutes the driver was turning onto Bahnhofstrasse. At seven-fifteen A.M., Zimmerman was walking briskly between his two massive body guards through the stately entrance of his company's corporate headquarters. There were only two people in the lobby when they entered: a heavily armed guard who promptly locked the door behind them, and the head of security who acknowledged the bodyguards with an imperceptible nod.

"Franz," Zimmerman nodded in cryptic greeting to the world-class security expert with whom he'd worked closely for nearly two decades. "Herr Zimmerman," Franz Kielholtz said, returning the terse greeting in his clipped, efficient tone.

Kielholtz had been the security chief for eighteen years, and at fifty-two, expected to continue in the job he so loved for the next eight years, at which time he'd have to work something out with Zimmerman regarding the policy calling for mandatory retirement at sixty. Very few people knew that Zimmerman had constructed a massive underground facility beneath the complex; even fewer knew that Kielholtz lived in a small apartment tucked away in a wing of the subterranean fortress. This enabled him to give his undivided attention to the all-consuming responsibility of ensuring the security of the complex, its contents, and most importantly, Zimmerman himself.

The CEO strode past the security desk and across the lobby, still bookended by the two huge human columns. Kielholtz entered a five-digit code, went through a series of mouse clicks, then reached under the counter to press two release buttons simultaneously. Their footsteps in synch, the trio did not break stride as they marched directly toward the dark glass decorative panel on what appeared to be the rear wall of the lobby. The panel whooshed open just as they arrived, and closed behind them as soon as they had moved through the entry into the small anteroom on the other side. In four strides, Zimmerman and his bodyguards reached the door to his private elevator. As they stopped, Zimmerman stepped back, instinctively allowing his protectors to close ranks in front of him, forming a shield that could turn back an assault team.

The elevator hummed, then emitted a dull metallic click as it stopped its descent. As always, Erwin was waiting in the elevator, acknowledging his boss with his fleshy lips pursed in his version of a smile. Pipe in hand, he waved off the guards and closed the doors. He inserted and turned his key, then pressed his stubby finger on the scanner. When it beeped approval, he entered his security code and the elevator silently began its ascent.

"Let's get to it, Erwin. We have a great deal of work to do."

# The Return: Part 4

After spending several hours in a strategy session with Zimmerman, Erwin called together a staff meeting over which he presided with his usual cryptic instructions and disconnected air. He rocked absent mindedly in his high-backed leather chair, swiveling occasionally and looking to the unfamiliar eye as though his mind was elsewhere.

The long rectangular table was literally covered with charts, spreadsheets, and various reports from the twenty or so key data-gatherers who were dispersed across the global operation. Every Sunday, Erwin would receive the executive summary reports from his five top aids, who in turn would have spent the previous twenty-four hours or so analyzing, distilling and preparing the data for their meticulous boss.

Puffing on his pipe and squinting through the sweet-smelling cloud in front of him, Erwin nodded. "I can of course rely completely on the accuracy of your statistics? And your analysis, you stand by it one hundred percent?"

Erwin knew that if anything in the world could be considered airtight, it would be the data assembled by his team, and its rendering in the summary reports. He was buying time to think, with the added bonus of throwing a healthy dose of fear into the team. Keeping them on their toes, as the Americans say. These were some of the finest minds in the world, harvested at young ages from the best universities in their respective countries and then put through the intense training program financed by Zimmerman himself. At the completion of the training program, each prospect was assigned a personal mentor hand-selected by Zimmerman. The prospect would work on projects with the mentor for a period of two years before being assigned to a "stat team".

As Erwin looked around the table at his staff, he was once again struck with the brilliance of his boss. These people had been recruited not just for their intellect and ambition, but also because their personal history and beliefs- or lack thereof- rendered them ideally susceptible to being won over to the cause by Zimmerman. Each in their own way had been an outcast, and had been vulnerable to the lure of being part of an elite team led by an extremely charismatic and famous man who had reached out to them personally.

They were paid ridiculously well, and their extremely challenging work provided the sort of mental gymnastics they so thoroughly enjoyed. For all of these reasons, to a person Erwin's top five aids- and in turn each of their respective teams- were completely and utterly dedicated to the organization.

Paulo Della Sera, the wiry Italian statistician who oversaw the final packaging of the various reports, responded in his thick Neapolitan accent, "Yes, sir. As always we have been extremely thorough, and I stake my reputation on the reliability of the reports."

"Ja Ja," mumbled Erwin, his mind already trying to determine how he would cobble together his update for his boss. Erwin knew better than anyone that while Zimmerman possessed a phenomenal capacity for details, he insisted that status reports be presented in summary format, after which he'd determine whether and where he'd drill down into details. The structure of the updates was always the same: summary of major issues, Erwin's assessment of progress (or lack thereof), and then Q&A during which Zimmerman would parse through the various charts and graphs, devouring statistics voraciously. The upcoming meeting with Zimmerman would probably be the most difficult in the history of their association.

# The Return: Part 5

Zimmerman had left instructions for Erwin to meet him in New York the following day. Although he disliked what he considered an unnecessary extravagance, Erwin had no choice but to take the corporate jet in order to make it to New York in time.

They met in the remarkably austere conference room adjacent to Zimmerman's office. The table was only four feet wide, but over twenty feet long. The furniture was all tubular stainless steel, the chairs with simple beige cushions, the table top covered with a simple oak-colored veneer. The east-facing wall was nearly all windows, but Erwin had never seen the curtains open. The lighting was so bright that Erwin invariably left these meetings with severe headaches.

"Well, Erwin?" Zimmerman growled impatiently. "Good morning, sir," Erwin began. "I am afraid that the trend we discussed last month continues unabated, Herr Zimmerman. There is no longer any question that there has been an, er, unfortunate reversal of the progress we had made over the past thirty years or so. Especially in America and the middle east." Erwin coughed, pointing to the large graph labeled America: Second Quarter Summary. "As you can see, key indicators are all heading in the wrong direction. The murder rate is down 80% here in New York city over the past five years, driving the 60% decrease across the country. We see a twenty-seven percent increase in church attendance in the very demographics where we had established a strong hold in the late nineteen nineties. We have even seen a rise in church attendance in the more traditionally backward rural areas, where the simpletons always seemed to be going to church for one reason or another. Worst of all, an openly-Christian Neanderthal handily won the last presidential election, and he has taken to holding weekly prayer meetings that have begun to receive positive press."

Zimmerman stared icily at Erwin, completely still except for the occasionally-twitching jaw muscle. "Tell me about the middle east." "Sir, the insurgency in Iraq has been completely subdued by the new democratic government. Eighty-five percent of the country's citizens now have electrical power and running water. Muslim clerics have publicly criticized the hatred preached by the radical contingent. They conducted a council in Mecca, and decided to meet in America later this year with key Christian and Jewish religious leaders to discuss how the Muslim clergy could improve understanding. That is the phrase they used, sir, 'improve understanding'.

And, sir, there is significant news from Afghanistan. Al Quaida operatives who were collaborating with the Americans have assassinated Bin Laden. His troops have come out of hiding and surrendered by the hundreds."

"Perhaps worst of all, even the American media has bought into the patriotic fervor that has swept the country in the past two years. In the last quarter, there has not been a single piece in the U.S. media about terrorists' rights. We have not seen a report generated by all the false propaganda we spread about the brutal treatment of enemy combatants by the Americans, and even the Europeans have begun praising America as the last hope for freedom in the world. Most tellingly, the French will soon be dedicating a monument to 'America, our great friend' in the form of a one-hundred-meter sister statue to the Americans' Lady Liberty."

"Very well, Erwin. It is clear that the situation has deteriorated rapidly. We know the root cause. I need an aggressive action plan to eradicate the problem NOW! There can only be one cause for this terrible disruption to our plans. Their pitiful, weak Christian god has sent that interloper back into society. The Leader of course has already surmised this, and is expecting that we take immediate, forceful action. He gave us a week, and we've already wasted three days. I need to know where he is, Erwin. Find him."

Zimmerman sneered, "They will never win. This wretched enemy of ours sent those puny so-called prophets who were nothing more than puppets spewing the doggerel that he breathed through them as though they were puppets. He was so supremely naïve, so sure of his ultimate triumph, that he even told our master how he would send them to 'light the way'. The drivel they wrote has been handed down from generation to generation of fools, who have acted like so many sheep blindly following what they believe is the inspired word of this great God of theirs. They go through life as deluded imitators of their precious Jesus, spreading his lilting word by example of their meek existence. Weak-kneed followers around them are easily influenced, and the 'good news'- that is what they call it, the 'good news'- spreads. The movement occasionally gains momentum and causes us trouble. They start talking about preparing the way for their Christ to return. But every time it looks as though he is about to show up, we have found a way to put a stop to the foolishness. We always overcome this loathsome Christianity because our way is the stronger way. Our master is the master of power. It was only by combining all the forces of the Hebrew god and his heavenly band of sycophants that they were able to dispatch our master those thousands of years ago. But we know that setback was only temporary. We will delay the final battle until our master is strong enough to prevail."

Erwin paused, collecting his thoughts before responding. "Sir, I am afraid I have yet to tell you the worst of it. Despite all of these signs, we know that he has not yet come back- at least not physically. What we are seeing is a groundswell of Christian thought, word and action all around the world. There is no sign of the Christ, at least not embodied in a single human form like the last time. But his teachings are spreading, and millions of followers are living his example now. The de-Christianization we saw in the late twentieth century has been reversed; their numbers and strength are surging before our very eyes.

"But the tactics are very different this time, Herr Zimmerman. The enemy has broken through our defenses because there is a serious fundamental flaw in our detection systems. We have always geared our defenses to screen out the Christ personified, to warn us of his return. He tricked us! This Word he left, and this thing they call the Spirit- these were the tools he left behind for his people. They took root all those centuries ago, and although the movement has stalled occasionally, it never stopped completely. And while we have been able to fortify our position through our planning, resources and thorough execution, we have never wiped out the root cause. We have contained it, but we have never been able to eradicate it.

"This insurgency is being driven by the Christ through his presence in the Word and Spirit which have consumed and mobilized millions of his followers. It has taken hold of people's hearts and it is giving them the strength of will to resist and even defy us! We have been diligent, but we have been watching for the wrong signs. In effect, we have been seeking to prevent the return of one who never left."

Zimmerman grunted and looked out the window. Across the street, he saw a slovenly homeless man sitting on the stoop of an apartment building. He had personally seen to the destruction of the faith of a Christian living in that very building. He smiled, recognizing Ted Lewis as he walked up to the homeless man. Zimmerman was confident that in his state, Lewis would surely dismiss the beggar. To his astonishment, the two men shook hands and began walking into the apartment building together. As he entered the door, the homeless man turned and looked directly up at Zimmerman. Their eyes locked for a moment, and glaring defiantly at Zimmerman, the homeless man nodded slightly, turned and entered the building with his new friend.

Furry Tales

Volume IV

A Compilation of Stuff

By Pete Bellisano

# Afterward

### About the Author

Pete Bellisano was born and raised in Orange, NJ, and has lived in Jersey his entire life. He has always enjoyed writing, which has been an on-again/off-again hobby of his for many years. He regrets spending too little time writing and too much time working throughout his adult life, but plans on making up for lost time now that he's in semi-retirement.

Pete is a proud (and fortunate) father and grandfather. He lives in central New Jersey with his wife, and values above all his Faith, Family and Friends.

**eBooks By Pete Bellisano (Available on Amazon** and Smashwords **):**

Furry Tales Volume IV: A Compilation of Stuff

Jimmy's Stand: A Modern Business Tale For Adult Children

The Invisible Immigrant (Paolo and Me)

### Message from the Author

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Furry Tales

Volume IV

A Compilation of Stuff

By Pete Bellisano

