Stumbling into Paradise?

Not my characters, just my shuffling of words for my own entertainment. 

* * * * *

"Alright then, let's take a look-see and figure out what we're dealing with, eh?" said the man in the trenchcoat. He spoke with a British accent and his tone was relaxed, as if *this* was no big deal. He placed a hand on the forehead of the little girl(his left hand, a lit cigarette dangled from his right). She was lying on the bed, well, technically, she was tied to the bed, a network of bungee cords crisscrossed her torso and legs. A little thing, couldn't have been more than seven or eight, dressed in pink Hello Kitty pajamas. The bungee cords would have seemed a gross sadism, except for the flickering red flames that were her eyes and the green drool at the corner of her mouth.

The man, Constantine was what he had called himself when he had showed up at the door earlier, looked into those flaming eyes. "I am addressing the entity within. Identify yourself."

The girl's head shifted slightly, as if her "eyes" were noticing Constantine for the first time. She coughed, and a glob of the green drool flew out of her mouth and landed on the cords across her chest. Her parents, who were cowered in the corner behind him, were still as statues. "I know you" came a deep gravely voice that could not possibly have come from the little girl.

"Then you know not to piss me off. So tell me, who are you?"

"My name doesn't matter, gutter mage."

"Oh, and why no--" and then he noticed movement under the cords. Through the gaps in the cords he could just make out the girl's tiny hands pulling the pin out of a grenade. Before he could respond, there was an indescribable amount of sound and a fleeting moment of a thousand points of pain followed by nothing.

* * * * *

When Constantine opened his eyes, he was laying down. Surprisingly, he felt fine. He looked at his hands, felt his face. Nothing. Not even the scar that Maria had given him. He sat up. That was when he realized that he was no longer in his own clothes. He was cad in a white, sleeveless tunic that stopped just below his knees. A quick check and he realized that he was wearing nothing but the tunic. He looked around. He had been lying on a plain wooden table, just long enough and wide enough to accommodate him. The room was smallish and white: white floors, white walls, white ceiling. No visible lights, but clearly he could see. No visible doors either. He got up and made a quick circuit of the room. No hidden doors either. But he could hear a bit of sound. He put his ear against one of the walls and listened. After a moment, a look of disgust crossed his face and he pulled back, shaking his head. Reflexively, he patted where he would normally have pockets, at least one of which would normally have a packet of Silk Cuts. He put his ear to the wall again, and pulled back more slowly. Sure enough, he could just make out a muzak version of "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." He sat back down on the table, "Where the hell am I?" he whispered.

"A singularly inappropriate question." The voice was kind-hearted, despite the admonition, as if a kindly uncle was trying to scold a nephew while simultaneously trying not to laugh at the youth's mischievousness.

"Is that so? Care to enlighten me then?"

"What do you remember, John?" The question seemed genuine, full of concern.

"I remember being called in by Father Tommy. A girl in his parish was possessed, and he knows better than to wait in line for his lot to bring in one of theirs. He rung me up and I went to have a look. I had just asked the entity to name itself, when..." He looked up, but of course, there was no one in the room to look at. "There was a grenade. The possession was bait." He snapped his fingers. "This is some kind of bloody hospital, innit?"

A tinkling sound, like a spring breeze tickling wind chimes, filled the air. "Oh, John! A hospital? Without doors and windows and machines that go beep and doctors and nurses and IVs? Come now, you're more clever than that."

"Well, I certainly don't feel dead. And I do have some experience there."

"Ah, that you do. But do you have experience with the Final Death? The death that leads to one's eternal destiny?"

"I assume that most of my trips to hell have been a sneak peek at my coming attractions. Are you trying to tell me that it wasn't?"

The tinkling again. "I am not telling you anything, John. I am merely asking you questions."

"Questions. I believe I started this conversation asking a question. Where am I?"

"And, again, I reply, what do you remember?"

"And I already answered that one, mate: possession, grenade, explosion, and waking up here. Which just brings us right back to, where the hell is here?"

"Oh, John, as I said, that is an inappropriate way to ask the question."

"Well, I'm not exactly the most appropriate man you'll ever meet."

"Oh, well do I know that, John Constantine. You are, in your own words, 'a nasty piece of work.' But despite that, you have done a lot of good in the world. You've fought against hell your entire life. Saved lives, and even souls, on countless occasions."

Constantine grinned. "If you're trying to tell me I'm in heaven, mate, I'm not buying it. I've done things..."

The voice was silent. Waiting.

"I've done things that I ain't exactly proud of. There's a string of bodies and a whole legion of ghosts that will testify to that. And I've done some things that I am unrepentantly proud of that would put make the angels blush. I might have fought hell, but I never served heaven."

"A couple of aphorisms may be appropriate here. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' and 'sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.'"

"Meaning what? That all along I was heaven's pawn in the war against hell? That all of the crap I went through, that I inflicted on others, was all... what? Part of some bloody divine plan? Bollocks! Identify yourself, or bugger off and let me nap." He laid back down and closed his eyes.

There was total silence for a beat, and then--

"I am the Metatron" boomed the voice all around him, startling Constantine to sit up and look around. "Although maybe you would prefer me like this." The latter voice was British and came from one spot in front of him. Alan Rickman stood before him, looking just like he had come off the set of Dogma back in '99.

Constantine grinned and clapped slowly.

"You like?" The Metatron gave a slight bow. "This is actually one of my favorite bits of iconography. God likes it, as well. Used to make me assume this form all the time, until Rickman joined the celestial chorus. I rather miss being him."

The Couple That Slays Together

"THIS! This is why we can't have nice things!" my wife screamed as she used her broadsword to lop off the head of the zombie that was reaching for her throat.

That was three she had taken down, and I had only decapitated two. She was winning, but there were three more in our living room, so I still had a chance. Loser has to go to ValuStuff and buy the replacements. Sure, all the money came from the same account, but it just gets embarrassing to have to buy a new coffee table every week. Not to mention lamps and occasionally the couch. I'm sure the staff of VS think we're into some weird stuff. And they're right, but they really have no idea.

I took off a zombie's head with my hand scythe (yeah, yeah, but I hate the word "sickle"), and then used my twelve gauge to blow another one's head away. I just needed to take the third one out...

...but she stood there, smiling, her broadsword hanging loosely at her side and a seriously ugly zombie head swinging in her other hand.

I mock grimaced, and then grinned. "We go together?"

She grinned back. "I'll get the keys."

Of Course You Know What I Did Last Summer, You Were There (Part 1)

The ghost only came around when I was eating Cheetos. Weird, I know, and it took me a while to realize it.

The first time I saw it was about a month ago. I was sitting in the back of the auditorium eating my lunch. Normally I ate on the stage, with the rest of the geeks, but Trent was still mad that I had told Joannie how he felt about her (even though, let's be honest, everybody knows how he feels about her).

I had decided to forgo the awkward drama and eat my PB&J with HP Lovecraft. No, HPL wasn't the ghost, I was merely reading Charles Dexter Ward during this first encounter. I know, a teenage Lovecraft fan sees a ghost, that seems totally plausible. Trust me, I wondered if it was a case of the power of suggestion. But after over three weeks of encounters with it, I am 100% certain this is the real deal.

So, anyway, I had finished my yummy sandwich and ripped open my bag of Cheetos when, cliche though it is, the temperature dropped. Not a lot, but noticeably, like someone opened a door to the outside on a winter day. For the record, the auditorium has no doors that open directly to the outside, and a month ago was mid-September, hardly winter in the Midwest.

I looked up and there it was. I should say "she," I suppose, since I've come to realize the ghost is the spirit of--, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. And besides, during that first appearance the ghost was little more than a translucent oval, an it. An it that was about 5 feet tall, 2 feet wide and hanging in the air about a yard in front of me. I looked around the room, but no one else was looking back here. I looked back at where the ghost was. It was still there.

I suddenly realized I should be screaming or running or something. Maybe all of the horror novels and role-playing games had prepared me for this encounter. Maybe the ghost gave off a peaceful vibe. Maybe there's something wrong with me. But I wasn't afraid. After the initial shock, I felt curious and, weirdly, honored, that this ghost was appearing to me.

I sat there and just stared at it, the bag of Cheetos I was holding was all but forgotten. The background noise of the other two dozen or so students receded to a dull buzz. I just stared. It just hovered. After a few minutes, it just faded away, the temperature rising back to normal as it disappeared. I was pretty sure I was going crazy.

Super Star Trek

Super Star Trek is the name of an old-school ASCII computer game. You can google it. This post has nothing to do with that game, except that both this post and that game involve intellectual property from the Star Trek universe.

* * * * *

"Super-heroes, Mr. Spock? Isn't that... unlikely?"

Spock nodded in agreement with his captain's assessment. "Nevertheless, Captain, it appears to be the case. Three humanoid beings are floating in space 50 meters in front of the Enterprise, without the benefit of pressure suits or oxygen. Instead, they are clothed in primary colors and sport capes and masks."

McCoy was grinning from ear to ear. "Put it on the view screen, Jim. Hey, maybe Superman is out there. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?"

"It would, indeed, Doctor McCoy," the captain replied. "Mr. Chekhov, pull up visual on the main view screen."

"Aye, Keptin."

Hovering in front of the dark, star-speckled vastness of space were, in fact, three humanoid-looking forms. One was a brown-haired man in a half-mask clad in a a green and black single piece uniform. One was a green-skinned bald man in a blue cape. The third was a large, dark-haired man in a blue suit, red cape and boots, and a big red S on his chest.

"I'll be..." said McCoy, "It is Superman, and Green Lantern, too! But I don't recognize that green-skinned one. If his ears were pointed, I'd think maybe some kind of Vulcan super-hero."

"Vulcans do not have super-heroes, Doctor. We believe in admiring actual people rather than stories and legends."

"They look pretty real to me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "And the green-skinned one is the Martian Manhunter."

Spock arched an eyebrow at the captain.

Kirk grinned, "There wasn't a whole lot to do during the long winters growing up in Iowa. I read... a lot."

Kirk pressed a button on his chair, activating the comm. "Transporter room, lock on to the 3 life forms in front of the ship and beam them aboard."

* * * * *

"I don't believe it," thought Hal Jordan through the telepathic link the Martian Manhunter had established between the three of them.

"Believe it," J'onn thought back. "I detect hundreds of minds on board."

"And I can see them with my X-ray vision," Superman thought. "They're all dressed just like in the original series. And, Hal, Kirk looks just like William Shatner."

Hal smiled. "We need to get inside that ship. Maybe we can--" his thought was cut off as the three of them were caught in the Enterprise's transporter beam.

* * * * *

"--wave and get their attention."

"It appears," said Superman, out loud, "that we already have." He looked down from the transporter pad into the inquiring gazes of Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Scotty: all of whom were characters in a cancelled television show, not real flesh and blood people. But here they were, looking exactly like the actors who portrayed them looked 50 years ago. And in an actual working starship Enterprise.

* * * * *

Despite the delight he had expressed earlier, McCoy was skeptical that these beings were actual 20th century comic book characters come to life. More likely another god-like alien picking up images from the crew's minds and choosing to assume a form that fit the heroic ideal. He scanned the three men on the transporter pad with his tricorder. Sure enough, two were alien, different from each other, and like no alien race on file. The third one, the "Green Lantern" was... "Human, Jim. The man in the mask is from Earth. Chemical analysis of his body's cells would be consistent with someone living in the late 20th, early 21st century in the industrial West."

At that moment, a green light shot out from the Green Lantern's ring and passed over the assembled Enterprise crew. "Well, ring," Hal asked, "What are they?"

"Three humans, birthplace: earth. One unidentifiable alien."

Despite himself, McCoy grinned again, "You see, Spock, even the Green Lantern's ring can't identify you."

"Doctor, please," Kirk said, before Spock could reply. "We have guests. Gentlemen, I am Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."

"We know," Superman said. "And the Vulcan is Mr. Spock, that's Doctor Leonard McCoy, and Montgomery Scott. But, of course, you aren't really them, since they are characters on an old television show, and even if they were real, they wouldn't be born for another two hundred years."

"And I don't remember any episodes where they interacted with the Green Lantern Corps," Hal said. "So, who are you?"

"Fascinating," said Spock. "They appear to believe we are fictitious characters, even as we believe the same of them."

"Fictitious? Us?" Hal said.

"Yes," J'onn said. "They believe we are comic book characters, and that this is the 23rd century. And they know about us, although some of them are confused, but Kirk knows our names, abilities, and secret identities. He read them in comic books when he was growing up in Iowa."

"A parallel earth?" Superman asked.

"That would be a logical explanation," answered Spock. "But hardly the only one. More likely that you are aliens masquerading as these comic book heroes or else artificial biological constructs of an alien technology that truly believes themselves to be what they have been created to appear to be."

"Spock, I scanned them. We've had a whale of a lot of experience with god-like aliens and artificial life forms. I tell you, man, that Green Lantern is from 20th century earth."

Kirk held up a hand. "Everyone, it's clear we need to sit down and discuss how we all came to be here, and to figure out where here is, to everyone's satisfication. Why don't we all adjourn to the meeting room and sit and discuss this over coffee?"

"A good idea, Captain," Superman said.

Spock led the way, and McCoy and Kirk brought up the rear. After everyone else had left the transporter room, Scotty shook his head, "I'll be needin' a drink." And then he headed out in search of just that.

A Cold Refusal

A DC Comics fan fiction. All characters owned by DC Comics. This tale is totally done without permission, etc. 

"Not interested," said the man in the blue and white parka. He picked up the half empty mug of beer on the counter in front of him and took another sip. In the relative silence of the mostly empty bar, the mug made a distinct thud when he placed it back down.

"Not interested? Come now, Captain. Surely you don't expect me to believe that you are not interested in making an easy million." The man in the green three piece suit smiled at his seated companion.

"Not interested in the job, Nigma."

"The job? The job is easy. Easiest heist ever." A pause. "Perhaps there are other factors underlying your absurd refusal."

Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, took a quick, deep breath and silently counted to three before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? And if you're suggesting what I think you are..."

Edward Nigma raised his hands in a show of protest. "I'm not suggesting anything. I perfectly understand that you prefer to operate in Central City. It's a Nice Place. The police are Nice, your colleagues are Nice. Even your superheroes are Nice. Relative to some of the other members of the Capes and Cowls Club. It must be wonderful, not having to deal with a violent psychotic who is truly scarier than any of us so-called 'villains.' Tell Flash I said 'hi' next time you chat."

Snart turned towards Nigma. "You think I don't see what you're trying to do here, Riddler? You think if you suggest I'm afraid of Batman that I will sign on, just to prove something?" Snart shook his head. "Ain't happening."

"I never suggested that you were afraid of Batman. I just said that you have it 'nice' here in Central City. Of course, you'd have to be mad to not be afraid of Batman. He's decidedly... Not Nice."

"Look, Nigma, Bats is scary, but in the end it's about taking a beating, physically and, you know, psychologically. The psychological beating comes from losing, and we always seem to lose. Even if we do pull off a crime successfully, we keep pulling more until the hero beats us. If I was afraid of constant failure, I woulda given this life up a long time ago. And as far as physical pain goes, you ever been hit by a super-speed punch? You're a smart guy. Force equals mass times acceleration, and no one does acceleration like a speedster."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"And do what? Sell refrigerators at Sears? I started out as a thief. But when I met the Flash, I became something more. At first, he was just a nuisance, but eventually he became a symbol of everything that I would need to beat to live in the world that I wanted to live in. Same holds for the rest of the Rogues. I'm guessing that's not much different than you Arkham loonies and Batman."

He glanced at Edward, who offered only a quick nod as a response, so Snart continued. "If I'm going to commit a crime without the Flash's interference, it's going to be because one of us Rogues beat him. Not because I slipped off to Gotham to be a henchman for one of the Bat villains."

"So, 'no' is your final answer?"

Snart nodded. "Besides, ya got Fries in Gotham. Why not tap the local ice bad guy?"

After a moment's silence, Cold grinned. "Lemme guess. You did, and he turned you down?"

"Victor is not really a team player. He has his own agenda."

"Killer Frost? Icicle?"

Nigma sighed. "Yes and yes. I even looked up the current Chillblaine while I was here in Central City."

Snart shook his head. "It seems no one wants to play with you. Might be something to talk to your shrink about when Bats throws you back into Arkham." He turned back to his drink.

Edward Nigma started to step away.

"Hey, Nigma, I'm gonna assume that you came to me last because you knew I'd say no, and not because I was your last choice."

Edward suppressed a smile while turning back. "Of course, dear Captai--" Snart was still drinking his beer, but he had his cold gun aimed at Edward's head.

Snart finished his drink, pulled some money out of his parks's pocket and tossed it on the counter. Getting off the stool, he holstered his gun. "Good, 'cause I'd hate to have had to prove myself to you." Then he walked past Edward and crossed the floor to the front door where he exited without a single glance back.

"Well," said Edward to himself, "that could have gone better. Still, there's always plan B."

Night Visions #1

Last night I dreamed of lightning. Again. There was a vast unbroken stretch of flat land, like a dead prairie or a desert. It was night, and there were no stars, no moon, just an unspecified glow that illuminated the unending vista. And then blindness, as a white sheet tore across the sky. The afterimage of the heavy clouds had not even faded from view when thunder broke the silence, assaulting my ears and shaking my every cell with a deep, echoing growl. No sooner did the ringing in my ears stop than a coiling, writhing ladder of blue-white bolts came crackling down from the clouded heavens and danced like mad faerie creatures upon the not-so-distant plain. This column of raw power shimmered and flashed as each bolt was replaced by the next, all the while moving slowly closer to where I stood, transfixed, deafened by each fresh rending of the atmosphere, unable to move, unable to look away. At some point, the wind appeared, the dead air came to life with a biting, swirling fury. After a few moments of dumbstruck awe, the column was before me. And, just as it reached me... it was gone. The wind stop, the clouds were silent. For the span of a heartbeat, and then a single bolt ripped through the dark clouds and struck me, square in the chest, just as the thunder began... and then I was awake.

Boy and George

Once upon a time there lived a boy and a dog. The boy’s name was “Boy” and the dog’s name was “George.” Boy and George were the best of friends. They shared everything: food, a worn gray blanket for keeping warm at night, jokes, secrets, and, of course, the open road. Whether enjoying a companionable silence or finishing each other’s sentences, the two friends were as comfortable together as any two friends could ever be. Their days were filled with swimming in the creek, fishing in the pond, wandering through the forest, chasing rabbits and birds and snakes, climbing hills and the occasional mountain.

Once in a while they would visit Town and beg some food, listen to gossip, and visit their friends, for both Boy and George were well liked by most all the folk they knew. But they wouldn’t stay long in the company of others, because their souls were only truly happy when it was just the pair of them off together in the wild.

Their misadventures during the long, lazy days of endless summer were the stuff of legends, at least legends in their own minds. Many was the night that they drifted off to sleep under the stars as Boy recounted tales of their derring-do. Each re-telling grew wilder and more improbable than the one before, and both boy and dog slipped easily into a suspension of disbelief. On those rare nights, under a blue moon, the tall tales they murmured as they slipped into dreamland became the jumping off point for their dreams (for, strangely, both Boy and George always dreamt the same dreams). After such nights, both friends woke the next morning convinced that the dream was, in fact, the actual memory of that particular adventure.

In such ways did the endless summer pass.

the ghost in the house that you never see

i am the ghost that haunts this house, the house you pass everyday. sometimes you see the house, sometimes you don't, but i know you never see me. the house is scary, but it's not because i'm in it. it's because it's old and a bit different. sometimes the windows rattle, but that's just the wind, and the creaking floor is merely the house settling. i am a ghost. i can't touch you (God knows how many times i've wished i could...), why would you think i could touch the house? if only i could move things, if only i were real to anything, even this old house... to say i "haunt" misleads, i am a prisoner here: silent, powerless, and completely invisible. if anyone is haunted, it is me. haunted by my own existence, a self-haunted ghost, pathetically alone in this house, in this world full of houses that are full of smiling, happy people, people like you. my thoughts are my only voice, and they are endless echoes in my mind. i dimly remember there were once other voices, but all i hear now are the sounds of the house and the bothersome noise of my own thoughts. yet not thinking is worse, because then everything is silent, and there is just the overwhelming feeling of raw existence. through the windows, i see you on the street as you pass each day. but you never see me. at most, you see the house: rundown and deserted, no potential, just a bit of an oddity, an eyesore, at best. and then, undoubtedly, you forget, as you walk away into your day. you are gone so quickly, i sometimes think that perhaps i only imagine you. during those times, i spend the rest of the day and all of the night wondering if i am insane. perhaps you are merely a delusion and there is no one else, no one but me in all this world, and i am trapped in this house. and then, the next day, without fail, you appear again. and i wonder, maybe you are haunting me? perhaps you are the ghost and that bright world beyond these windows is actually the haunted house, and this "house" where i am, maybe it is the only place outside of your haunt, the only place i can be safe. then again, maybe i am completely wrong. maybe i am not haunting, and maybe i am not haunted. maybe i'm just damned. and this house, this world, maybe this is all just hell... maybe, but now i see you coming up the walk, and for a few moments, i will be distracted, distracted by your beauty and half-remembered feelings of... of what? hope? life? friends and family that i cannot remember but who surely must have existed? and then you will be gone again, as always, and the thoughts will rush back in and flood my self and i will remember: i am a ghost, i am haunted, i am damned...

Nemo & Cthulhu: A Folk Tale

folk tales are often a bit earthy (read "raw and vulgar"), and this one is no exception. it might be offensive to some, but it is what it is

Then there was the time when Little Nemo saved Ol' Cthulhu's life. That was back 'round the time when Mister Curry was doin' them fish stick commercials on account of his ol' lady havin' kicked him outta 'Lantis for steppin' out with Miss Ariel. Lordy, if that weren't a terrible row! I 'spect that Mister Curry would still be up there on the dryside selling his kin as monkeyfood if them aliens hadn't showed up, making claims to 'Lantis and killing the merfolk. 'Course, as well you know, Mister Curry came back and kicked them ETs back into space. Naturally after such heroics, all was forgiven.

But it was 'round that time, maybe a couple years right after, that Ol' Cthulhu had woken up from one of those long naps he's so famous for and went swimmin' towards the surface, just to have a look-see as to what might had changed while he was sleepin'. I reckon it had been a couple hundred years or so since he had last been to the surface, seems I remember him sinking some English boats back when the Empire was still all the rage (ol' Cthulhu always had a soft spot for the French). Oh, maybe it had only been a hundred years since he last woke up: he was definitely at Poseidon's funeral, and that was back in the 19th century (or was it the 20th?)

Anyways, Ol' Cthulhu was a swimmin' around, frolickin' in the waves. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Old Tentacle Head is a playful little Elder God. You probably don't know that he invented the beach ball and water polo and wrote the original version of "The Hokey Pokey." He also invented the first knock-knock joke: Knock-knock, who's there?, Cthul, Cthul who?, Hey, that's me! (I didn't say it was a very good one, just the first one.)

So, he was all frolickin' with some dolphins (after the French, the dolphins are his second favorite food to play with) when he beheld a strange metal monstrocity the likes of which he hadn't ever seen. Back in them days, the monkeypeople up on the dryside would build giant drills to pull oil out from underneath the ocean. We heard they also pulled it out from underneath the dryside. Hastur only knows what they needed all that oil for! Occasionally they'd dump a bunch of it into the ocean waters, which would get Mister Curry angry something awful.

Somehow or the other, Ol' Cthulhu, while investigating this weird mechanical device, got his tentacles all tangled up in the drill. Not only did this tie him to the machine, but in the resulting struggle, oil started to leak, covering Ol' Cthulhu from tentacle to toe. The dolphins, bein' a bit smarter than an Elder God, high tailed it away from the oil spill, but Ol' Cthulhu didn't have that luxury, on account of his bein' stuck and all.

You'd think an Elder God would be strong enough to pull himself free of drysider machines, but apparently Ol' Cthulhu has that same weakness to cold iron that other transdimensional beings have when manifest in the flesh on this plane of existence. So, Ol' Cthulhu was stuck and slimed something fierce. After a few hours, he was a bit fearing that he might be stuck like that forever. I dare spec'late that he was wishing he was back home in R'lyeh, snuggled in his bed and dreamin' his dark and twisty dreams.

Who should come along at this time but that crazy clownfish Little Nemo. Now, I've heard tell that the drysiders have told some children's stories about Little Nemo. I have to laugh, 'cause everyone knows any story involving Little Nemo ain't fit for children. "The Trickster of the Seven Seas" is what they call Little Nemo. It was thanks to him that Mister Curry lost his hand ('course, he was Emperor Curry then, but that's another story). Little Nemo also used to make drysider planes and boats disappear in an area 'round the island of Bermuda. He ended up selling most of 'em to the Grays who would sometimes visit 'Lantis on their trips to Earth (he also sold the crews to the Grays; Grays just love probing drysiders). Most scandalously, Little Nemo made the first mermaid just so's he could ogle naked drysider women without having to actually go dryside.

So, anyways, there's Little Nemo, coming to check out the oil spill, hoping for a good laugh I'd guess, and what should he find but Ol' Cthulhu himself, black with oil and tangled up in the drill. Little Nemo reckoned he had hit the motherlode! You gotta realize just how ridiculous Ol' Cthulhu looked, sitting on the ocean floor surrounded by oil, covered in oil, with all his tentacles twisted 'round the drill and knotted a dozen or more times over. The Trickster of the Seven Seas began laughing. Some folk say fish can't laugh, but I'm hear to tell you they can, and at that moment, Little Nemo laughed harder and louder and longer than any fish ever had before (and quite likely since).

Ol' Cthulhu looked around to see the source of the laugh, probably wonderin' who dared mock The Great Old One himself. I reckon he wasn't too surprised to see it was Little Nemo. I ain't sayin' they was enemies or nothin', but it's well-known there weren't much love lost 'tween the two. Story goes that Ol' Cthulhu was originally offended by Little Nemo's bright colors, but I heard tell they had a fallin' out over a girl. Whatever the case, Little Nemo showing up was 'bout the worst thing that could be added to Ol' Cthulhu's misery.

I say "'bout" 'cause what happened was even worse. Drysiders musta found out their drill had stopped working and used some of their technomagic to discover what had happened, 'cause right then a half dozen or so of their submarines showed up and started firing torpedoes at ol' Cthulhu. Now you'd think firing through an oil spill would be tricky, and I s'pose it was, but the monkeypeople obviously knew what was caught in their drill, cause puncturing Tentaclehead full of holes was one of the ways to drive his manifestation off of this plane. 'Least for a spell. Ol' Cthulhu really didn't want to leave, and let's be honest, being machine gunned by torpedoes is not exactly painless. Really, he didn't have a choice. He turned to the still laughing Little Nemo and asked for help.

Now in all the history of the 'verses til then, there ain't never been a record of any Elder God askin' any lesser being for help. The famous (and hysterical) story of Ba'al being consumed by the cosmic roaches being a prime example of my point. So, here's Ol' Cthulhu embarrassed, tired, hurt, trapped, and more'n a little scared, and he asks a clownfish for help. It's a wonder the stars didn't fall right out of the sky.

Little Nemo fell instantly silent, mid-laugh and everything. His clever brain seizing on how unique this situation was and working hard and fast as to how to best turn this to his advantage.

Remember, Little Nemo had already figured out how to make drysider vehicles disappear, so it would be easy enough to save Ol' Cthulhu from the immediate danger. It would take a bit more work (and callin' in some favors from some local cephalopods) to get Tentaclehead freed, but Little Nemo could do it. Ol' Cthulhu had already figured all of that out. That's why he even bothered to ask for help at all. The clownfish had it worked out a second or two after the meek little "please help me" had escaped the Great Old One's mouth. The only question, of course, was price. Right then, the drysiders launched another volley of torpedoes. Ol' Cthulhu spoke quickly, "I swear by my own unholy name I'll pay whatever you ask, goods not services, just help me!"

Lordy, I woulda given a couple millennia off my life to have been there. The look of desperation in Ol' Cthulhu's eyes, the fear in his voice, the total lack of godliness... Never before and never since has The Great Old One himself been brought so low! Even today, Little Nemo would probably say it was the greatest moment of his life, and I dare say it was.

Of course he made the submarines vanish (got quite a bit for 'em from a family of Grays that just happened to be visiting from Betelgeuse). And he cashed in several favors with the local squids to untangle Ol' Cthulhu. Now, you might think the squids would love Ol' Tentaclehead, but seems there's always been a bit of resentment, since they are true cephalopods and Ol' Cthulhu is just wearin' a mask, so to speak.

Regardless, Little Nemo got Ol' Cthulhu free, and the Great Old One was all awkward, not really use to needin' to be grateful and such, but Little Nemo reminded him that it was strictly an economic deal and he expected no gratitude, just payment.

Now you may be wondering why you ain't heard this tale before, and the answer is simple. Ol' Cthulhu bought Little Nemo's silence with his OTHER testicle. Which is why I always chuckle a little when some darn fool speaks of "the children of Cthulhu" 'cause folks, it just ain't possible!

Arcadian Blues

Menthol blue lips, hair the color of static electricity, eyes of flaming mercury, and skin as pale as moonbeams. She was so fey that she made Tinkerbell look like a Wisconsin farm girl. I didn't know whether she was bringing me a case or a plea for charity. Regardless, I could tell she was bringing trouble, probably more trouble than I'd care to handle. Our eyes locked, and my heart broke. She pursed her lips and sighed. Before she could even utter a word, my heart broke a second time, and I knew that whatever her problem was, I'd die trying to make it right.

It took all my will to glance down at the enchant-o-meter on my desk. It read "Null", which made no sense, because I was obviously under some kind of glamour. I tapped it and the needle bounced a bit before settling back on "Null". I shook my head and decided to trust my instincts. Without looking up I said, "Kill the charm or leave. I'll work for any who can pay, but I won't be anybody's wind up toy."

"I'm sorry," her voice was like honeyed lightning, "but I don't know what you mean."

Denial. Always their first response. Next will come offense, anger, false remorse, and then a subtle re-application of the magic after the earnest promise that it's been removed. On the best of days, I don't have the stomach for that, and today had not even been in the neighborhood of the best of days. I opened my desk drawer and withdrew my Smith & Wesson, pointing it at her and being real careful not to make eye contact. "Scram. I've got work to do and no time for games. Even with pretty little elf girls. Go harass the police or something."

"The police can't help me. Please, Mr. Tyrrell, you're my only hope."

"Then it sucks to be you, sweetheart. Unless you can turn the mojo off, you need to walk out now." I flipped the safety off and hit the laser sight with a flourish. The pistol began to make a satisfyingly ominous hum. "'Cause in seven seconds, I'm pulling this trigger. Six. Five. Four. Three--"

The door closed behind her. Then my enchant-o-meter starts beeping like Merlin himself was here. I shook my head and pressed the reset button. The grandfather clock in the corner read nine thrity-five. This day was already too long, and my secretary wasn't even back from the coffee and donut run yet. Have I mentioned how much I hate Mondays?

Crossovers Are Dreamy

"So, what do you know about vampires?"

She glanced up from her paperwork to see her partner's earnest face. He was serious. "They're featured in a number of bad novels and worse movies, strangely popular these days with prepubescent girls."

He smiled, "I mean real vampires."

Scully glared at her partner. "Mulder, there are no vampires. Historically, there are anecdotes of living humans drinking blood, or even bathing in it, in an effort to preserve youth or gain strength. In 1983, anthropologists from the University of Maryland documented a tribe of living, breathing blood drinkers on a small island off the coast of New Guinea. But real honest to God undead children of the night? That's too far out there, even for you."

Mulder walked through the doorway and slid into the chair across from Scully's desk. "Ever hear of a place called Sunnydale?"

"No. I'm guessing California, Arizona, or Florida?"

"California. A small town a couple hours from LA. They have vampires."

"And you would know this how?" Normally, Fox Mulder's obsessions were aliens and government conspiracies, usually at the same time. Paranormal, but hardly supernatural. This vampire thing seemed to be coming out of nowhere.

"Remember Dale Cooper?"

Scully's eyebrow raised slightly, "The Laura Palmer case, right?" Special Agent Dale Cooper was the only Bureau agent considered more "out there" than Fox Mulder. Scully had only met him once, and that was years ago before he had gone out to Washington state to work on a murder investigation. Like Mulder, Dale Cooper was an attractive man who gave no warning of his "eccentricity" until he opened his mouth. And then one wondered how he had made it so far in the Bureau. Some men are better seen and not heard.

Mulder nodded, "That's right. You remember when he got back from Twin Peaks?"

Scully shook her head, so Mulder continued. "He wasn't right in the head. It seems a demon had taken over his body."

"Demon? You mean he had a psychotic break?"

"C'mon, Scully, you're Catholic. Surely you believe in demons?"

"Not without evidence," but she supressed a shudder as she remembered her childhood friend, Regan MacNeil. She shook her head to clear the memory. Some things were best left in the past. "So, what happened to Special Agent Cooper?"

"Long story short, a mutual friend exorcised him."

"I can't imagine you being friends with a priest." Mulder might have been less skeptical than his partner, but he was also far less religious.

"Wasn't a priest. A guy I met while studying at Oxford, named John Constantine. Really interesting guy, you'd hate him."

"Another paranormal investigator like you and Cooper?"

Mulder's eyes twinkled, "No, Constantine's an actual wizard."

"Oh, so you met him playing Quidditch? Or maybe Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Mock me if you want, Dana, but John's the real deal. I saw stuff when I was with him that I still see in my nightmares."

"So, this Constantine exorcised Cooper. And what does all of this have to do with vampires and Sunnydale, California?"

"I'm getting to that. Once Dale was himself again, he resigned from the Bureau. Dropped off the face of the earth for the past few years. Until yesterday, when this arrived in the mail." He pulled a small digital voice recorder out of his jacket pocket. "Dale always kept a detailed audio diary of his cases and experiences. This recorder contains entries from the past six months up through last week. I haven't listened to all of them, but what I have heard is... amazing." He pressed a button and the recorder started speaking in the unmistakable voice of Dale Cooper.

"Dear Diane, last night I was able to observe the Slayer in action. Phenomenal. Grace and wit paired with a toughness and, well, power, the likes of which I have never seen before. She makes the Shaolin seem like awkward school boys trying to dance on a planet with excessive gravity. She staked four vampires in the space of two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I must meet this young lady. Tomorrow I shall approach her mentor, he is called 'a Watcher.' The message I have finally recalled from my time trapped in the Red Room needs to reach the Slayer before the return of the First Evil, which, I feel deeply from the top of my head to the soles of my sensible shoes, will be soon."

Mulder pressed the button again and smiled at his partner.

"A recording from an ex-agent, a notoriously unstable ex-agent, is not proof of anything. And what is a 'slayer' anyway?"

"I don't know," Mulder's grin grew wider, "but I intend to find out."

The Morning The End Finally Started

"Now, there. My Zootie is a good girl. You can't say things like that about her!"

The speaker was Zootie's mother, Mrs. Gladys Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds is a paragon of a certain type of Midwesterner: grossly overweight and even more grossly under-educated, clad in the very best of Wal-mart clearance, her head filled with reality TV, crime dramas, and conservative preachers. For some reason, I always think of people like her as human donuts.

Mrs. Reynolds had been called in by our fearless leader, Principal Edgars, to discuss this morning's incident. "Incident" may be too mild a word, since Sheriff Tommy Briggs was also present at this little meeting. Apparently, Zootie Johnson had attempted to drive a sharp pencil into the left eye of Steve Ellison. Steve is a bit of a trouble maker (and perhaps a bit more than a bit), but he's not "let's seriously maim this jerk" kind of trouble. And, to be fair to Mrs. Reynolds, Zootie is a good kid, not the kind to say a harsh word to anyone teasing her (and there were many who teased the girl), let alone one to take up sharp writing implements against her tormentors. But a classroom full of students were witnesses. Unfortunately, the teacher had his back to the class, writing out the quadratic equation on the chalkboard, and turned around just in time to see Steve forcing Zootie's hand (still gripping the pencil) to the desk while calling her a "crazy bitch." By the time I had reached the back row, the danger was over, and I had the lovely duty of escorting the two combatants down to Principal Edgars' office while the rest of the class worked on factoring equations 1-10 on page 52 of the textbook.

"Mrs. Reynolds, no one is saying Zootie's not a good girl," I said.

"I am," said Edgars, shooting me one of those "shut up, I don't need your kind of help" looks. Edgars would have fired me his first year as principal if he could have found even the slightest pretext. Unfortunately for him, I'm a good teacher with a squeaky clean life.

"Mrs. Reynolds," Edgars continued, "Your daughter attempted a lethal stabbing this morning. Her ineffectual weakness is the only reason Steve Ellison is still alive. Beyond being a violation of the school's policies concerning violence, this is a criminal matter." He nodded over at the sheriff.

Sheriff Tommy stirred a bit and made as if he might say something, but Edgars was on a roll. "Priscilla Johnson is a menace. Her antisocial ways have finally culminated in the violence that I believe I warned the faculty of on numerous occasions."

Mrs. Reynolds looked horrified, "You been talking about my Zootie to the teachers?"

"Not Zootie in particular," I inserted, before Edgars could continue his bashing of Zootie (and that was the first time I'd ever heard anyone refer to her by her given name), "but yes, Principal Edgars has expressed concern that some of our students are not as involved in school activities as he would like."

"Zootie doesn't like sports. She likes reading and writing. That don't make her bad."

"No," I agreed, "it doesn't."

"Well, I think this morning's events suggest otherwise. Self-involved dreamers are just waiting to snap. Students like Priscilla need to be engaged with other students. They need to have relationships with real people and not just live in their imaginary worlds, where they see real people as invasive and threatening. People like Steve Ellison." Edgars had no love for Ellison, but he obviously had a larger axe to grind with students like Zootie. For the life of me, though, I couldn't imagine why.

In the Wake of the Rabbit Hole

jacob login:. welcome root. oh one two seven one eight three two. patch upload complete. sendmail compile in five four three two one.

wh1t3rabb1+: Hatter, you still online?

hatterm: Yeah, Rabbit. What's up?

wh1t3rabb1+: Not much, dullsville in server city tonight.

hatterm: Um...... ok?

wh1t3rabb1+: So, entertain me, man!

hatterm: Your dead end job. Not my problem. Besides, I'm kinda busy here.

wh1t3rabb1+: Do tell?

hatterm: I do have a life offline.

wh1t3rabb1+: So why are you typing right now?

hatterm: She's not here yet, and besides, I thought (foolishly!) that you might have wanted something important. Something related to the game.

wh1t3rabb1+: Game, shame, tame the lame, and does this SHE have a name?

hatterm: Not one you'd recognize.

wh1t3rabb1+: And what about our young friend with a penchant for blue gingham dresses and leather jackets? Does she know you're making late night tea with strange women?

hatterm: Why would she care?

wh1t3rabb1+: Oh, I doubt she would. But the question is, does she know?

hatterm: How would she? Some of us don't tweet our lives away. Speaking of: not a word of this!

wh1t3rabb1+: And why not? We've established no one cares.

hatterm: Yeah, well, my private life is, well, private.

wh1t3rabb1+: That's rich!

hatterm: I'd think a paranoid security freak would be sympathetic.

wh1t3rabb1+: Right, one who tweets his life away? I'm all about public things being as public as possible and private things being totally private. You texting your date makes it public.

hatterm: Whatever

wh1t3rabb1+: Anyway, compile's finished. Gotta reboot the email server. Don't do anything with her that I wouldn't!

hatterm: Dude, you're gay.

wh1t3rabb1+: And you could only be so lucky. Seriously, though. When the other she finds out, heads will roll. She might not care, but she cares, if you take my meaning. And even if you don't, I'm outta here )

Finding Love in Moonlight

What follows is fiction. This is not about anybody. Don't make any such assumptions, because you would be grievously mistaken...

I first saw you on the first of December. You were the moon, gently reflecting the light of the sun, bringing his light to my cold and empty night. Daylight is too bright for a sinner like me, too much of his revealing light shining in every crevice of my lies. You brought his light in slowly, waxing first from a mere sliver, giving me time to adjust to what I was beginning to see. At first I mistook you for a star, a twinkling angel in the firmament of my twilight, a bit of dazzle to distract me from the vast dark expanse of my vision. As the nights wore on, you shone more brightly, more fully, until at last I could not help but realize that you were no star, but a reflection of our star, the one true sun that lights our lands. So, you were the moon, and in your fullness, at your brightest, I saw only the light of the sun and learned therein that the day was not my enemy but rather my home. Funny, how at your brightest, I saw more clearly your flaws, your craters, which cast the only shadows in his light upon your face. Yet far from despising you, I loved you more, both for the individuality of those "flaws" and for the courage to allow his light to reveal them to everyone. For you cared only for the truth, for bringing a bit of the sun's light to those of us who crawl around in the night, covered in mud and slime, fearful of the heat of day. Men like me, who lived more like worms than men, until one night we might by chance look up from our blind writhing to see you there, smiling down at us. What I did not realize at the time, what I could not have understood at the time, was that I only saw your smile because of his light. Everything that I came to see, everything that I came to love, starting with my love for you, was only possible because of the sun's light. Without sunlight I would never have seen more than shadows, without the reflected sunlight on your face, I would never have known the beginnings of beauty. Though I now walk in the day, under the fullness of the sun's life-giving light, I cannot look upon his beauty directly. I still must see it reflected, his light bouncing from every created thing on this earth to bring joy and wonder and delight to my newly-opened eyes.

Sometimes, I miss you. I miss our long walks under the night sky, back when the only light I knew was what you reflected. I miss our animated discussions, our silly jokes, the enchanting sound of your voice: your singing, your laughing, your soft whsipers of love and hope. I miss you, and the missing hurts like a lost child. Without the moon, they say there is no life on earth. Yet, I still live. I live, and I am grateful... grateful that you brought light into my life, gave me the courage and the hunger to enter the daylight, to live as a human creature should live. You were the moon, and you gave me my first taste of real light, which led to real life and real love. It is too late to say everything I want to say, and that merely is what it is. But it is never too late to look up into the sky and whisper, "thank you." And so I say, "thank you."

Suddenly Midnight - (first sliver)

I'm still sitting here, even though I know I should have left hours ago. It doesn't seem right, what with what happened to Corn and all, but I can't bring myself to get off this stool and walk out into the empty night. I haven't even touched the drink, not since the first sip I took when I ordered it, what, four hours ago? Scotch, neat, and it tasted like nothing. It wouldn't matter how much I drank, it would still taste like nothing, and I would still feel like nothing. And Corn and the others would still be dead.

Yesterday was four lifetimes ago, at least as measured by the lives of my four best friends. Corn, Willie, Sam, and Dawn. Yesterday, we met for breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen. Corn had his usual farm-boy breakfast of everything (monster stack of pancakes, a mound of scrambled eggs, piles of sausage, bacon, and ham, a double order of biscuits and gravy, a large glass of whole milk, and some extremely sweet and wholly creamed coffee). Sam, still on her vegan kick, groused melodramatically at Corn's carnivorous ways while sipping her grapefruit juice and nibbling at her whole grain, no-egg pancakes. We've all been waiting for this phase to pass, as it always does for Sam. As it always did for Sam. I suppose if you die a vegetarian, then you're a vegetarian forever. The rest of us ate meals somewhere in between Sam and Corn's extremes.

It was a good morning, even if was a ridiculously early morning. We had arranged to meet at the Kitchen by six, and, strangely, we were all there on time (even Dawn, who rarely makes a Saturday appearance before eleven in the morning). Smiling Dave, the weather guy from Channel 10, had predicted a glorious spring day, and if the first few minutes after sunrise were any indication, he was going to be right on target. Five friends with a beautiful weekend before them, a just-like-homemade meal to feast on (literally, in Willie's case: his mom was the cook at the Kitchen), and not a care in our hearts. Well, ok, we had cares, but at that moment, they didn't seem to matter. Mine didn't, anyway. In hindsight, I suppose it would have been better if they had mattered.

overheard in the computer lab

writing code again, i see
* no, not really
looks like code
* it's actually a spell, but i think better in pseudo-code
your pseudo-code looks like basic
* child of the eighties, i still think in basic
you're messed up, man
* /grin/
a spell?
* yeah
what kind?
* the kind that finds lost things
you've lost something?!?
* /silence/
seriously, you never lose anything
* yeah, well...
so, what'd you lose?
* /more silence/
oh, c'mon. can't be that bad.
* /glares/
fine.
/pause/
i could help, you know
* you don't know jack about magic
ok, but i could help you look, if you'd tell me what we're looking for
* you can't help. no one can help, but me
wow... narcissistic and depressed: nice
* /sighs/
* if i tell you, will you shut up and let me work?
you bet
* /awkward/ it's my soul, ok? i lost my soul
whoa, that totally sucks

A Whiff of Prologue

"You do it. I hate exorcisms," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a pudgy hand to stop me. "This is not a discussion. You're my associate, I hate exorcisms, you're going to do it."

I waited a moment. "But shouldn't there be at least two priests present at an exorcism?" A week on the job, I was not about to do this alone.

Father Alphonzo De Sotta chuckled. It was an ugly little chuckle, not the only aspect of my boss that I had decided was ugly. "Sure, if this were a movie you might have a team of priests and psychiatrists and maybe even some Special Forces types, just in case. But this is little ol' Kirksdale, and the nearest shrink is, what, 100 miles away? Besides, I've handled plenty of these cases alone. You'll be fine."

The Church's procedures on exorcism were clear: no solo missions. This assignment was wrong, but more disturbing, "Define 'plenty.'"

Father Al smiled. The smile itself chilled me "from soul to socks" as my granny use to say. He stood up and crossed over to the filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a folder held together with large rubber bands. It was easily five or six inches thick. He tossed it on the desk and went back to smiling at me.

I glanced from the folder to my boss. "You've got to be kidding? This town only has a population of two thousand people. And you told me you've been here for almost twenty years. There must be hundreds of cases in that file."

He nodded, still smiling. "And now they're all yours. Welcome to Kirksdale, ass-end of the Midwest and pre-school for Hell's rugrats."

YAAD

The ship hung in the sky over the farm. It just sat there, motionless, silent, casting its vast shadow across the small house and the barn and a good bit of the vegetable gardens. Just like it had been doing for the past twenty minutes, ever since Jake Evans had come outside to stare at It.

Jake had been inside the house, watching Linda Thompson with the Channel 5 News at 5. Linda was an attractive woman in her late forties, possible early fifties. Not beautiful, but Jake was too old to be interested in beautiful. A simple, honest attractive was what he longed for. Like Linda Thompson. It was in the midst of this recurring reverie that he noticed they outside had suddenly gotten very dark.

At first he thought it was a sudden spring storm, but when he went to close the windows, he had caught a glimpse of it. A large bit of dull gray metal just hanging in the sky above the edge of the roof line, he quickly ran out to take a better look.

Outside he saw just how big it was. Or more accurately, how big It was. It was too terrifying, too wondrous, to be a mere it. It was an alien spaceship, that much was obvious. Although Jake had never, in all his fifty-seven years, ever seen an actual honest-to-God, not-in-the-movies alien spaceship, he knew with a deep certainty that this Thing that had come from nowhere and just hovered above his home, this was the Real Deal.

He was scared, but more than that, he was awestruck, like a child turning a corner on their way to school and meeting a giant. For almost half an hour he had watched this great Thing float there doing absolutely nothing. For his part, Jake had done nothing either. He had just stood there staring up at the ship in the sky.

After a while he began to wonder why none of his neighbors down the road had come over to investigate. Surely It was visible, even all the way down Route 23 into Lancaster, let alone a mere quarter mile over at the Anderson’s.

Shaking his head, he managed to stop staring at It and fix his gaze on the road. Nothing. He thought about getting in his truck and driving over to get Lou Anderson. Lou use to be a college professor. He might have an idea what to do.

But as he was thinking this, Lou and his wife Juanita came out of their house and climbed into their truck. Jake shouted, but they must not have heard him. They backed out of their drive and headed into town.

What’s going on here? Jake thought. They had to have seen It! But no, it certainly seemed like they hadn’t. If they had sped off into town full throttle, Jake might have convinced himself they were going for help, but no, Lou’s red Ford Ranger cruised down the road at a leisurely pace. Jake watched the little truck disappear over a slight rise in the road before turning his gaze back up to the ship.

Ten minutes later, Jake decided to call his friend David. Reverend David Ledgarden was the pastor at the little Methodist church Jake attended. The phone rang and rang, and finally the answering machine picked up “You have reached the home of Reverend Ledgarden, please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a blessed day!” BEEP.

“David, it’s Jake. You gotta get out here as soon as possible. The strangest thing is happening and I need a witness.”

Jake tried calling two other friends as well as his son, who lived three hours away in Carlyle. No one answered their phones. Glancing out the window, Jake could see that his land was still all in shadow, even while the land beyond was bathed in the mid-afternoon’s sunlight.

He went back outside and just looked at It. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen.

Finally, enough was enough. Jake went into the house to get the keys to his Dodge. He’d drag someone out here if he had to, but someone else was going to see this!

Casting a final glance up as he opened the door of the pickup, he spoke to the ship “I’ll be back.”

He hadn't even finished starting the engine when the ray shot out of the ship, blowing up his truck. It passed over the ground and hit his house, causing it to catch fire.

With the slightest of popping sounds, the ship disappeared.

CSI Lincoln

"Damnit, Wren, that was evidence," the sergeant barked.

I looked up from my half-eaten Krispy Kreme. Sure, this kitchen was a crime scene, but it was obvious the victim had not died because he had eaten a poisoned donut. The bloody body with the detached head (87.5 cm away from the severed neck, I had measured it) suggested that, maybe, decapitation was the cause of death. That or explosive gas pressure, but that was too horrible to contemplate. The UV blood sniffers didn't detect any blood on the closed box of donuts (let alone inside said box). The victim, one Mr. Samuel E. Perkins, age 47, lived alone. The donuts were going to go to waste, which would have been the second crime committed on these premise in the past twenty-four hours. And besides, I had skipped breakfast. Again.

"I dunno, Sarge," I began, between bites of my Chocolate-Iced Creme-Filled delight, "I think finding a large, sharp object covered in blood might be evidence. This, this is just a little taste of heaven." I held the box out to him, "Want one?"

Gum-on-My-Shoe During a Dark and Stormy Night

The Laffing Dragon was more or less empty. A couple of regulars bickering about politics and sports. One of Larry's girls working a couple of school boys who had wandered into the armpit of town. A local artist sitting at a corner table with his face in a plate of Al-Kazak's teriyaki potatoes (whether he was passed out again or just practicing his "performance art" was beyond my ken.) I was thirsty, like a dying lizard on the not-so-dark side of the moon, and so I made my way to where that rat-faced ex-mage Kaz poured the best Irish coffee this side of Amber. That's when I first saw her.

She was sitting at the bar, slightly slouched over an untouched drink, an angel meditating on the holy grail. As I slipped onto the stool next to her, I smelled the cheap vodka in the glass and more than a hint of ammonia (whether from the angel or the bar, I couldn't tell, and at that point, I didn't really care.) I noticed that she was picking her teeth with a straightened-out paper clip. She was a looker alright, from her shoulder-length greasy pink hair (with that wild, beckoning stripe of purple over her left ear) to her mud-caked Army boots (artificial dirt on designer-label ankle huggers, I have an eye for exotic footwear.) The smeared theatrical blood that framed her own deep brown cave-like eyes complimented the red fur-lined tank top she wore over her slight torso. Her spindly legs were covered in cream-colored thermal underwear, at least two sizes too big, and artfully ripped at the knees and calves. Over these she wore a red and white checkered tablecloth (Pizza Hut, unless I was mistaken), tied at her waist with a severed length of orange extension cord (the grounded plug hanging tantalizingly over her left knee.) Oh yeah, she was all that and more. Everything I had never realized I was looking for in a woman. The instant she turned toward me and our eyes met, I knew my heart was destined to be broken, even before she opened her mouth and began screaming.