AAM #1 - Lightning Bug Films / Lightning Bug Press

Transcription

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editorial Ramblings
Page
9
John Donald Carlucci
Tales of the Red Panda:
The Adventure of the Crime Cabal -Excerpt-
10
Gregg Taylor
Too Much Monkey Business
20
Kristopher R. Madden
Tit For Tat
28
Cormac Brown
Review of Baltimore:
Or The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire
33
Katherine Tomlinson
How “THE SHADOW” Movie Went Wrong
Or Alec Baldwin Stole My Comic Books
36
Timothy D. Gallagher
The Package (Part one)
44
Greg Stephens
Tokyo Rubble Redux - a Love Story
50
Thierry Gaulligiere
The Fair Folk
56
Alex Epstein
Joe Lansdale: The Interview
60
He Married a Yeti
70
Lloyd Hudson Frye
The 3rd Option
Geoffrey Thorne
74
Michael Wm. Kaluta: The Interview
92
Night of the Devil Pig: A True Life Adventure
98
The Electron Jockey
114
Mark Caldwell
Doug Klauba: The Interview
121
Dames, Dolls and Femmes Fatale: The Women
of Pulp Fiction
135
Blue Johnson
The Hundred Dollar Baby
139
Roger Alford
The Eldritch Horror From Beyond The Nether Void
150
D.A. Madigan
Invaders From Under the Sea
156
Formula for Fatality
168
Michael Patrick Sullivan
The Rude Tin Star
176
Brad Reed
I Want To Sleep With Steve McQueen
185
Katherine Tomlinson
ARTWORK
Cover
Too Much Monkey Business
20
Tit For Tat
28
Mary Tomlinson
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Contributors and Credits
All of the artists and writers in AAM are available for work
and can be contacted as noted below. Serious business
inquiries only.
EditorJDC@Gmail.com
A Renaissance man (not to mean that he is a man who has broad intellectual interests and is accomplished
in areas of both the arts and the sciences – but in that he suffers from a mild case of the Black Death and
believes the world rides on the back of a turtle through space) who would like to outlive his rejection
letters. JDC’s various ramblings can be found at his blog The Wildwoods.
EditorTimGallagher@Gmail.com
Who he is, and how he got that way...
Tim Gallagher, the unofficial mayor of LA’s Chinatown, has been many things in his life: soldier,
intelligence analyst, deputy mayor, private eye, town drunk, bookseller, production assistant, a manny
(that’s a MAN-nanny, doofus), porn star, general contractor, security guard and monkey wrangler.
The legends are unclear as to where he really came from. Some say he was left on the doorstep of a kindly
couple on Long Island, who then locked him away in a dresser drawer. Others state that he resulted from
the unholy union of man and beast, and was found wandering the wilderness and frightening the livestock.
Still more tell of a creature spawned from toxic waste dumped in a Long Island landfill. None of these are
correct, and yet they all are.
It is true that Tim now dwells in a sanctum hidden somewhere in LA, his only companions the hundreds of
action figures that line his shelves and prepare his meals. It is also true that once, while swimming in a
pool somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, Tim was mistaken for a bear and shot with a tranquilizer dart
by LA Animal Control; he awoke cold and wet and stinking of grizzly love in a zoo cage.
Tim has a recurring dream: he is on the side of the road. Having a picnic. With Bigfoot. Two of them.
And one of the Bigfeet is wearing a dress. And the one wearing the dress is not a lady Bigfoot.
And Tim wakes up screaming every time.
Bon vivant? Perhaps. Missing link? Very likely. Life-long comic book reader? Sadly true. Godzilla fan?
Lord help him, yes. All this and more can be said about Tim.
And often is. With many bad words mixed in.
Katherine Tomerline
AMMDragonLady@gmail.com
Katherine Tomlinson is an Army brat, an orphan, a former KGB operative code-name Katya), and a world
traveler. (Only three of these statements are true.)
D.A. Madigan
docnebula@gmail.com
D.A. Madigan is currently husband and stepfather to (respectively) the most wonderful woman and the
three most wonderful girls in the entire universe, which is all that matters, really. When he isn't sitting
around boggling with slack-jawed awe at just how unbelievably lucky he is, he writes deeply weird and
even outright deranged stuff, much of which eventually gets published somewhere on the Internet. He blogs
extensively at Miserable Annals of the Earth and A Brown Eyed Handsome Man. He has
written seven sci-fi fantasy novels and one military memoir and someday he hopes to be paid for at least
some of that foolishness, too.
Roger Alford
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roger@lightningbugfilms.com
Roger Alford is a writer and filmmaker. His produced plays include two staged “radio dramas,” The City
Burns at Night and The Sheik of Hollywood. He created the popular Internet mash-up video, Twilight
Zone: Planet of the Apes, which Marc Scott Zicree (The Twilight Zone Companion) said was “great fun”
and “genuinely plays like [an] episode” (evidenced by the number of YouTubers who think it’s real). His
screenplay Blood in the Water (aka Storm Tide) is recommended by Script PIMP and was named a 2ndround finalist in a Script Magazine Open Door Contest. Additional screenplays were named as quarterfinalists in the Screenwriting Expo Competition, and he’s hoping for great things with his latest “opus,”
Gangland Hollywood (shameless plug). His work has been discussed in the New York Times, Wall Street
Journal, US News & World Report, The Dennis Miller Show (radio) and Inside Edition. Websites:
hollywoodnoir.blogspot.com and Lightning Bug Films.
Gregg Taylor
info@decoderringtheatre.com
Gregg Taylor created the full-cast audio series The Red Panda Adventures for the Decoder Ring Theatre
podcast. Decoder Ring Theatre presents new audio adventures and mysteries in the style of the great
programs of Radio's Golden Age. This excerpt from "The Crime Cabal" is the first in a series of pulp
novels featuring Taylor's heroes. The Decoder Ring Theatre shows may be found for free download at
Decoder Ring Theatre.
Thierry Gaulligiere
Tpg369@mac.com
Thierry Gaulligiere is a name that can be translated two ways: in English, it is Terry Gallagher; in ancient
Lemurian it is a medical term describing a particularly nasty bowel disorder. This mystery man allegedly
resides in the storied metropolis of Burbank, CA, with a wife and two cats, but none of this could be
confirmed. Gaulligiere claims that he is a distant relative of Editor Tim Gallagher, a claim Gallagher
vehemently denies. “Plenty of people say they’re my relatives or my children, but I ain’t buying it,” states
Gallagher. “A lot of con artists are trying to get their mitts on the Gallagher fortune. For the record, I’m
the only child of orphan circus freaks, so this Gaulligiere character is a fraud. And as for me having
children, well, that means you gotta, y’know....with girls. And girls have cooties! Nuff said.”
Greg Stephens
gstep77507@aol.com
Greg Stephens is an assistant prosecuting attorney in Butler County, Ohio. Greg is a freelance writer who
writes sports related articles on numerous sites, and is working on developing a series of Harlan Escobar
mysteries. He is married with two children. Please email Greg with any comments.
Brad Reed
bradley_f_reed@yahoo.com
Brad Reed was born in Brockport, New York in 1973 and graduated from the College of William and
Mary. He lives in Arlington, Virginia with his wife and daughter. "The Rude Tin Star" is his first
published story.
Treachery robbed Reed of his rightful place as the Monarch of the Hobo Empire. Someday he will reclaim
his battered crown and wreak a mighty vengeance.
Someday.
Alex Epstein
Alex Epstein is a screenwriter and author. He co-created the comic drama series NAKED JOSH, which ran
three years, and co-wrote the hit comedy BON COP / BAD COP, which broke the Canadian box office
record for a Canadian film, and won the Genie (Canadian Oscar) for Best Picture of 2006. He is currently
developing a dark urban fantasy series for The Movie Network. He has written two screenwriting books,
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CRAFTY SCREENWRITING and CRAFTY TV WRITING, and blogs about screenwriting at
Complications Ensue.
Epstein lives in the Old Port of Montréal with his wife, two kids, and a big shaggy dog. If you liked "The
Fair Folk," he has also perpetrated a novel about the childhood of Morgan le Fay, THE CIRCLE CAST. It's
available from Lulu.com.
m@redrighthand.net
When evil is afoot Michael Patrick Sullivan is a fuzzy slipper. At other times, he's an award-winning writer
of stuff in which someone invariably gets shot. He embarked on a career as a writer after learning at an
early age that being The Riddler was not a viable career choice. He's starting to feel he may have been
misled about that.
Cormac Brown
procrast40@yahoo.com
"Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis, and I'm
following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of
stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at Cormac Writes.
Lloyd Hudson Frye
lhf12@netzero.net
He was always a little strange, kinda mean and tender hearted at the same time. Although an artist by
nature, he ended up with a degree in accounting he never used and worked in electronics as a shipment
expeditor and buyer. After being laid off at 55 during the NAFTA frenzy, he’s spent the last four years
unsuccessfully interviewing for work and writing short stories and books. His work can be read by
Googling Lloyd Hudson Frye.
Geoffrey Thorne
geoffrey.thorne@gmail.com
Geoffrey Thorne is the prize-winning author of multiple short stories including the critically acclaimed
THE SOFT ROOM (Simon & Schuster). He has written sci-fi shorts and novellas for Simon & Schuster
and Phobos Books and was a finalist in the prestigious WRITERS OF THE FUTURE contest. He has
written comics for Bench Press Comics, Hometown Ink, NE Grafix and is currently publishing THE RED
LINE through Ludovico Technique.
His short story ESHU & THE ANTHROPIC PRINCIPLE was included in the TRIANGULATION: END
OF TIME anthology (Parsec Inc.) and his novel TITAN: SWORD OF DAMOCLES, is to debut in
bookstores in December 07. He is the lead writer and executive producer of the critically acclaimed,
original Web-based TV series, GEOFFREY THORNE'S THE DARK. He lives in Los Angeles but
is hoping for a pardon any day now.
Mark Caldwell
impworks@gmail.com
Born in the 1970s Mark grew up in Nottingham and Warwickshire. He studied building engineering at the
University of Liverpool and then a postgraduate course in software technology. He was Head Projectionist
of the Guild of Students technical committee. A job taking the Internet around libraries and making virtual
reality models followed. Ten years on he has worked on a variety of websites.
He has written and illustrated articles for Valkyrie Quarterly and Ragnarok. He is happy to be published
somewhere without a name drawn from Norse legend. He is a member of the SFSFW. One day he may
finish a novel. He is looking for a short anecdote for his biography. It should be witty, self-deprecating,
thirty-four words and make him
sound less like a professional geek. Including a beautiful woman would be a bonus. Mark is also really
uncomfortable writing about himself in the Third Person like this.
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Kristopher Madden
krismadden@hotmail.com
Kristopher Madden lives in Fresno, California with his wife Karen in a swank two bedroom, one bath
apartment. Kristopher won a school writing contest in the fifth grade, but soon gave up the pen for an
electric guitar for the next eight years. It wasn't until college that he penned his first novel, which is still
being shopped around, and began
the long road toward publication. He works for the Fresno Unified School District and assists students in
finding jobs with local employers. He is currently working toward a bachelor's in English and writes in his
spare time. This is his first published short story.
You can view Kristopher Madden's official MySpace Site, or read Kristopher Madden's official Blog.
EditorJDC@Gmail.com
You already read his info above. Keep moving. Nothing more
to see.
Kris Madden
krismadden@hotmail.com
He is up top too!
Mary Tomlinson
She has a degree in fashion illustration from Virginia
Commonwealth University in Richmond, VA. She is
currently at work on her first children's book, which she
is illustrating and co-writing.
The official sites
Astonishing Adventures Magazine!
Submissions Guidelines
AAM STORE
Myspace page
Wiki
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EDITORIAL ramblings
Well, here it is my pulpster friends.
A massive
collection of twisted tales of adventure and swift justice
for the measly price of the air you breath.
What a deal!
I want a great thank you to go out to Editor Tim. It is
truly his vision that shaped the taste of this giant tome and
he is the heart of this venture.
Thank you to the Dragonlady Katherine Tomlinson and
her continuing effort to sleep with hunky dead men.
Thank you to the fantastic artists and writers who
contributed their work and their “babies” to this endeavor.
May your sentinels of justice continue their adventures
for many years to come.
Enjoy these pages my friends.
Editor–in-Chief
JDC
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons AttributionNoncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of
this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/
or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite
300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.
All right belong to the original artists and writers for their
contributed works.
August 31st, 2007
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Tales of the Red Panda:
The Adventure of the Crime
Cabal
-ExcerptBy
Gregg Taylor
The last sliver of the moon hung above the great, teeming city and its million
souls like the flickering remnants of a guttering candle. Its few, feeble rays reached into
the thousand dark places the gaslight could never penetrate; the alleyways, the long-quiet
industrial ruins, the waterfront. Silver fingertips bruised themselves against the creeping
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darkness of the badlands and found themselves buried in its lifeless chill. The moon
retired and was seen no more. Those of the city that could do so made their way to
warmth and safety behind locked doors. Those that could not whispered a prayer to the
morning and let the waves of darkness wash over them. Night came to the city.
Mitch Reynard stared out into the blackness and blinked hard. Four hours of this.
It was too much. He shook his head a little to persuade his eyes to stay focused and
stamped his feet to fight the chill of the damp spring air. He felt inside his coat for a
cigarette. As he fumbled with the lining of his torn pocket, his fingers brushed against the
cold steel of the .38 revolver he wore on his shoulder. For a moment he remembered that
he had a job to do. Like a truant schoolboy his eyes turned back to the weary blackness
that surrounded him.
He pressed the cigarette between thin, dry lips and felt for his matches. Nothing.
He was sure he'd had half a book. His eyes turned again to the void. He took six steps
forward and looked over the edge of the roof he stood upon. He could barely see the
walls of the warehouse below him, but he could hear the soft scuff of the men at the front
door and they struggled to keep their watch. He could see the orange glow of their
cigarettes as they paced. Reynard almost called to them, but six stories below they
wouldn't be of much use to him, and they could no more leave their posts than he could
his. He turned back in towards the rooftop. To his left, he thought he could almost make
out Jake on the corner of the roof with his Thompson. Or maybe he just thought he could.
It didn't matter, he'd be there all right, and he'd have a light.
Reynard turned out to face the night. Nothing. He decided that this was pointless.
Night after night, watching for something that didn't come. Tonight he wouldn't have
even been able to see it if he'd known what he was looking for.
“No sense being a hero.” he thought, and smiled at the irony.
He turned and made his way carefully across the rooftop to the corner where he
knew Jake stood waiting. Waiting and watching. He'd gone fifteen feet before he was
sure he could just make out the shape of Jake's light colored raincoat. Another twenty feet
and Reynard could see him, outlined in black and white like a picture show. He began to
wonder at what distance it would be safe to call out the waiting gunman. Didn't want to
surprise him. Jake didn't much like surprises. Reynard heard a sudden noise behind him.
His blood froze in his veins, and for just a moment he had no idea what to do. He heard
another footfall gently brush against the stones that covered the roof, closer this time.
Reynard's instincts took over. His right arm reached across his body as he turned and then
straightened, .38 in hand. He heard a familiar voice hiss;
“Reynard! Reynard, what in blazes do you think you're playing at?”
Reynard sighed. It was Malcolm, the boss' right-hand. He could just see him
striding forward through the darkness. Malcolm was afraid of nothing.
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“Reynard! You're not at your post!” hissed Malcolm.
“Geeze, Mister Malcolm, I was just gonna get a match off Jake.”
Malcolm was close enough to be seen clearly now. Reynard could see the bigger
man's immaculately pressed grey suit, the scowl of contempt he always seemed to wear.
He could smell Malcolm's expensive cigar and more expensive hair tonic. Yes, sir.
Malcolm was doing all right, that was for sure. He'd been old man Sclareli's toughest
soldier before he was put away, and his nephew's loyal lieutenant since that dark day.
Young Vic Sclareli was the boss, but Malcolm knew where all the bodies were buried,
and how to dispose of another one if need be.
“Mister Sclareli doesn't pay you to make social calls, Reynard.” There was
menace in the gravel of that voice.
“Honest, Mister Malcom.” Reynard was sweating now, in spite of the cold
“Lookit.” he said, pointing toward the unlit cigarette still stuck to his dry lips.
Malcolm held his eyes for a moment as best he could in the blackness. Finally
Reynard was sure he saw him smile. Reynard swallowed hard to persuade his heart to go
back down his throat. A light sparked as Malcolm struck a match and lit Reynard's
cigarette. The smoke burned Reynard's lungs and watered his eyes, but he smiled in
relief.
“Thanks. Thanks Mister Malcolm.”
“Keep the book, Mitch.” Malcolm said, pressing it into Reynard's hand “We can't
afford any slip-ups.”
“Geeze, Mister Malcolm, I don't mean anything by it, but how much longer are
we supposed to keep this up? It's two weeks now, holed up like rats in a cage.”
Malclom's eyebrow arched. “A very tastefully appointed cage, Reynard.”
“Inside, sure it is,” chirped Reynard, feeling bolder now “but from out here it's
just a big old warehouse. We don't even know what we're watching for.”
“Let's hope you know it when you see it, Mitch.” said Malcolm, turning away
“For your sake.”
Malcolm turned and stalked back towards the door that led in from the roof to the
Sclareli Mob's headquarters; a hideout that had become a fortress. The half-open door
cast a red glow against the blackness, thirty, maybe forty feet away. Reynard slipped the
book of matches into his pocket. He'd need most of these before dawn. He didn't
understand this. He didn't understand why they were hiding. They were hunters, not prey.
They should be fighting back.
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He started to move back to his post. He turned and glanced back to Jake on the
corner. Good old Jake; never asked questions, never left his post. Except...
Jake was gone.
Reynard froze and looked around. It was still too pitch black to see far, but the
black and white outline of the man with the Thompson was nowhere to be found. He took
two quick steps in that direction, then stopped hard, like a dog yanked by a leash. If
Malcolm was watching...
“Mister Malcolm!” hissed Reynard, as loud as he dared “Mister Malcolm, its
Jake.” The red glow of the half-open door still hung in the air, but there wasn't a sound.
“Mister Malcolm!” Nothing. Like most men that pursued his line of work, Mitch
Reynard was a coward. Able enough in a group, or when told what to do; but when the
chips were down the equation always came down to fear. After another moment, he
realized what Sclareli would do to him if he let an unwelcome visitor slip past him. That
tore it. He was more afraid of the boss than Malcolm.
Reynard pulled his .38 again and raced across the rooftop, stumbling in the
darkness. As he picked himself up, he turned. The glow of the open door seemed very far
away now. It actually seemed to be getting darker. Cautiously, he felt his way forward
until he found the low wall that surrounded the edge of the roof. He groped further into
the darkness, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he called in a hoarse whisper;
“Jake! Jake? Where are you?”
Reynard's right hand found the point where the north and east walls met. He
turned in towards the roof, feeling with his outstretched hand as he instinctively lowered
himself down to the surface of the roof. His eyes could just make out something...
Jake's battered pork-pie hat, lying on the ground beside a still-smoldering cigar.
But no Jake. Reynard scrambled to his feet and heard the clatter of something metallic.
He bent forward again and came up with Jake's Thompson. Reynard's heart sank.
At that moment, a faint sound carried through the blackness. The beginnings of
triumphant laughter, like a far-off song in a haunting minor key, taunting him. Reynard
felt the chill of doom grip his heart. He had heard that sound before. At that moment,
there was a clatter from across the roof, and the red glow abruptly disappeared. The door
was shut. That laugher was inside the Sclareli headquarters. Reynard raced towards the
door, shouting;
“He's inside! He's inside! Everybody-” Reynard was cut off as he tripped over
something laying in the darkness and fell, hard. He turned in a rage. It was Malcolm,
dead or out cold, Reynard couldn't tell. No one was responding to his cries. There was no
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movement nor no sound on the rooftop. Reynard knew he was alone. The others had been
taken, one by one. He'd only been spared because he wasn't at his post.
He gripped the Thompson hard and raced towards the door. He found it by the
sounds of a struggle from within. And then gunshots, a dozen or more. That gave the
alarm. Reynard could hear his confederates on the ground converging on the front door.
Reynard waited. Perhaps it was all over.
But then he heard the laugh again. Louder now, and with a crueler, mocking tone.
Reynard stood with his hand on the doorknob, his whole body shaking. Few had heard
that sound so close for so long. It was more than just laughter, it was a battle cry. There
was mirth in the laugh, a kind of reckless joy.
“Oh, God.” Reynard whispered to himself, forgetting that he had long ago
forsaken the right to any aid from that corner. He gripped the doorknob harder, unable to
force his body forward. Unable to find the strength of will. Alone on that roof, the sounds
of titanic struggle beyond the door. And always that laughter. It couldn't have been more
than a few seconds, but to Mitch Reynard it was an eternity.
From within there was a sound like an explosion. He could feel the rush of air
shaking the old wooden door. He waited a moment. No laughter. Maybe... just maybe.
Reynard turned the knob and raced through the door. He fell forward onto the
high catwalk that ran around the top level of the warehouse Sclareli had converted for his
headquarters. Reynard had known the place for a year. Neither he nor any other member
of the gang had left it for the past two weeks. He would never have recognized it. The
great open chamber that was Vic Slareli's pride and joy was in ruins. The only light was
from a fire burning near the main doors, evidently the explosive blast Reynard had heard
had backfired. The lights flickered and sparked, but from the damage done to a power
relay near the door, Reynard could tell there would be no help there. There was scattered
gunfire from the lower levels as the remaining members of the Sclareli mob tried to
organize their counterstrike. And everywhere there were bodies. They hadn't been shot,
Reynard couldn't see any blood at all. He was taking them apart with his bare hands.
Suddenly Reynard looked up, across the open expanse to the other side of the
catwalk. There he was. Just a man. A man like any other. Reynard struggled to collect
himself. If he could get a shot from here, he might have aReynard's thoughts came to a crashing halt as the frozen form sixty feet away
sprang into motion. Reynard could see six of his confederates rush the man. The casual
ease with which he brushed them aside. The heads, arms, legs... all broken and bent as
they were never meant to. Six men. In a moment. In spite of himself, Reynard gasped.
The dark shape froze, like a wolf with the scent of blood in its nose and turned in
his direction. No. It was impossible. The man couldn't have heard that sound. Not over
the screams, the growing flames, the gunfire. And then the laughter began again.
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The man raced towards the edge of the catwalk and threw himself over into
oblivion. Red gauntlets reached forward, fingertips extended to their furthest reach.
Something seemed to propel him forward. Push him away from the solid walls with such
force that he barely fell an inch as he jumped. Impossible. It couldn't be... no man could
make that leap.
Half the distance between the site of the last battle and the catwalk where Reynard
now stood there was a cross-beam, almost a full six stories in the air. The man reached it
as if it had been easy. He gripped the beam with crimson gloved hands and propelled
himself around it, seemingly oblivious to the blaze of gunfire from below. He spun
himself around the beam with terrible speed and hurled himself into the air, feet first
towards the frozen form of Mitch Reynard.
It was easily the most incredible thing that Reynard had ever seen. The man
stretched his arms behind his head, his hands reaching as if they worked invisible
controls. Some force of great power seemed now to be pulling him by the feet. Pulling
him an impossible distance through the air. He actually overshot his mark, hitting that
wall above the catwalk feet first and, with another sudden movement of his hands staying
there. He turned and looked right into Reynard's soul with eyes that were blank white and
seemed to glow with an unearthly fury. And then he smiled.
Mitch felt week in the knees as the man walked toward him, striding along the
wall as smoothly as if he were walking flat upon the ground. Several stray bullets from
the ground got his attention enough that he dropped to the catwalk. Reynard felt the cold
steel of the Thompson in his clammy hands, but he couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
Couldn't cry out to the world the terror that gripped him by the heart.
At last, there he stood, not three feet away, towering above Reynard. The long
gray coat, the immaculate suit beneath and the gray fedora impossibly still perched on his
head. The bright red gauntlets and domino mask. And those terrible eyes. It was him.
The man that fifty gunmen had watched for and guarded against, and all in vain.
It was The Red Panda.
The right gauntlet thrust forward at unbelievable speed, gripping Reynard by the
throat. The left hand lashed out in a crimson blur and sent the Thompson clattering to the
floor. Reynard stared in disbelief at the cold, white eyes hovering behind the colorful
mask. This... this, thing; it couldn't be human, could it? No one could do what he did. No
living man could have eyes like that. He could feel his entire body shaking, but was
powerless to make it stop. Beneath the mask, Reynard could see the smile playing about
his tormentor's face.
“You're afraid, aren't you, Mitch Reynard?” the masked man said quietly, in a
voice like a far-off roll of thunder. Reynard started. It knew his name. Mitch Reynard;
career criminal, multiple murderer, proud parasite upon the living city, soldier in the
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Sclareli mob. Despite himself, Mitch Reynard began to quietly sob. The creature of the
night that suspended him above the floor in a vice-like grip made no effort to conceal his
amusement.
“You fear The Red Panda, do you not?” came the voice again.
Mitch could only sputter and nod.
“And well you might. For you have much to answer for, Mitch Reynard.”
The weeping gangster became quieter, calmer as the voice became smooth and
even-toned. Reynard could feel something... a coldness...
“All who cause the innocent to suffer in the name of greed will be made to
answer, Reynard.” The voice seemed so far away now.
... No, not cold... a... numbness... creeping tendrils of another mind in his...
“The Red Panda is coming to make you pay, Mitch Reynard.”
There were cries from below. The remnants of the Sclareli mob were getting
organized for a last offensive. A final push up the stairs to finish off the masked intruder
in their midst who had suddenly vanished.
“But I am not The Red Panda.”
Mitch could not bring himself to question this. Of course this was not The Red
Panda.
“I am your trusted associate. Don't you recognize me?”
Mitch smiled in warm relief. It was good to see a friendly face.
“But he is here. Dozens of him. Coming this way.”
The gangster's brows furrowed in confusion for just a moment.
“He's not just one man. He's a small army. Can't you hear them coming?”
Mitch could hear them. Hear them creeping up towards the catwalk. Of course – it
all made sense now. No one man could have fought such a war on crime and the gangs of
men who controlled it. No one man. An army. And they were here!
“They will take you, if you let them, Mitch Reynard. And they will make you pay.
Pay for every wrong thing you have ever done, even the ones you think no one knows
about. If you let them.” The voice felt closer now. Like a warm whisper in Reynard's ear
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that fanned the almost extinguished fires of his courage. Reynard felt strong. Stronger
than he had in years. The great gloved hand set him back upon his feet and patted him on
the shoulder.
“You won't let them, will you Mitch?”
Reynard shook his head slowly, as if it took all of his concentration. He moved as
one in a daze to his right and picked up the Thompson. At last he had the strength to use
it. At last. He crept to the edge of the catwalk. There... just past the shadows... there was
the Red Panda. Two of them. And there were more, coming from the left. And another,
on the ground with a rifle. One of them suddenly looked up.
“Mitch!” called the masked man.
As Mitch Reynard opened fire, the roar of the submachine gun almost drowned
out the ringing peals of laughter from somewhere far above.
Minutes later, as the sounds of furious battle continued, a small, lithe shape
moved quietly through Vic Slareli's inner sanctum. The Red Panda watched from the
shadows as it paddled, almost silently towards an oversized portrait of Vic's uncle Tony,
the founder of the Sclareli criminal empire who currently resided in a maximum security
penitentiary for his trouble. Grey-gloved hands lifted the portrait down to reveal a wall
safe behind. The hands set the painting on the floor, against the wall. For a moment, the
garish colors served to highlight the silhouette of the catburglar. It was a pleasant sort of
a shape; female, athletic and yet softly curved. If the masked man took note of any of
that, he gave no outward sign. Her gloved hands began to work the safe. The roar of
gunfire in the outer chambers continued, muted though it was by the cork-lined walls of
Sclareli's office.
The Red Panda stepped forward from the shadows, moving silently towards the
intruder.
With both stealth and speed he moved towards the girl. Again the smile played
upon his face. She could have no idea he was here.
“How am I supposed to crack this safe with you making that racket?” came a
voice that was equal parts sass and laughter. “Or is that you being quiet?”
The Red Panda smiled ruefully. His partner either had remarkable hearing or that
was a very lucky guess. He decided to presume the former.
“How are we doing?” he asked coldly.
“Not bad. Most of what we need is in a pile on the desk.” Said The Flying
Squirrel with a glance back and a smile “I thought you were keeping them busy.”
17
“Don't they sound busy?” came the reply as he pulled a folding satchel from the
depths of his coat.
“Who's the shooter?” the masked young woman at the safe asked casually.
“Mitch Reynard.” replied The Red Panda, as he quickly scanned the files his
partner had selected before placing them into the satchel.
“Mitch Reynard? You big softie.” the Flying Squirrel's voice was amused, but not
disappointed. “He's the worst shot in gangland. He'd be lucky to hit the broad side of a
barn at ten paces.”
“It's still safer in here.” he said, as he completed his task.
“And here I thought you just missed me.” she sighed as she turned the latch and
opened the safe. “Are we interested in any cash or negotiables today?”
“I think we're covered. Grab the ledger and burn the rest.”
“You rich boys don't know the value of a dollar, do you?” there was a note of
genuine disdain in her voice. He tried to think where he'd gone wrong. She turned her
head in his direction, her steel gray cowl that blended perfectly into her catsuit turned
slightly to the side, waiting. He tried not to smile at the false ears on her cowl as they
waggled at him, slightly.
“All right, grab the ledger, burn the bonds and we'll drop the cash off at St.
Michael's.” He was fairly sure she was after the Robin Hood play.
“That's my boss. He gets there in the end. Your ledger, sahib.” she handed him a
thick black tome that, together with the other documents in the bag, spelled doom for
Sclareli's rackets.
“Good work, Squirrel. This should be the end of the Sclareli crime family once
and for all.”
“Nothin' personal, boss. But we've said that before. Of course, if 'dead shot'
Reynard has his way...” as if on cue the roar of the machine gun stopped, leaving only an
echo in it's wake. They exchanged a look. Without a word, she grabbed the last stack of
bills and thrust it into her own satchel, and he produced a small, round device from the
folds of his coat. He depressed a button and the ball began to whir.
“Down!” ordered The Red Panda calmly and he threw the incendiary into the
safe. The remainder of Sclareli's nest egg went up in flames.
As the roar of police sirens descended on the place, two almost-invisible shapes
leaped from the rooftop and were swallowed up into the night. If the arriving policemen
18
heard the far-off peals of laughter as they stormed the broken fortress, they gave no
outward sign.
--END—
19
TOO MUCH MONKEY BUSINESS
By
Night time in the city; two men sat in a car across the street and
watched a family gather for a late dinner in their home. The family had taken out the nice
china and the mother brought out a large turkey to the middle of the table. The two men
sat quietly waiting, watching, hoping to see a four foot chimpanzee.
“How do you know the monkey’s going to be here?” Bruce asked.
20
“Call it a hunch,” Dr. Stein replied, “And the monkey’s name is George okay?”
“Well, how did George get out?” Bruce adjusted himself in the driver seat. The
car felt cramped with two people inside it.
“Why so curious?” Dr. Stein replied.
“When there’s money involved, I’m always curious,” Bruce crossed his arms. He
expected some sort of an answer, “How’d he get out, Doc?”
“I let him out of the facility to get some air. It was a mistake and he clubbed me in
the head with a rock,” The doctor turned his head to the side to show the dried blood on
the back of his neck.
“Looks like it hurt.”
“Yes, more than I expected it to,” Dr. Stein returned to awkward silence.
“So can you tell me what’s so important about this monkey that we’re chasing
after?” Bruce asked
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
“Figured we could chat while we wait for this thing to show up,” Bruce shrugged
his shoulders.
Dr. Stein pulled at the graying hair on the side of his head, “MutiVac specializes
in animal intelligence research. Our mission as scientists is to gain a better understanding
of how animals communicate with each other.”
Bruce nodded and cracked his knuckles.
Dr. Stein felt like he was explaining his job to a kindergarten class, “Well,
MutiVac was the first company to successfully complete a brain transplant from one
chimpanzee to another. Then the idea came about of switching a chimp’s brain with a
human brain so that the ape might be able to communicate with humans,” Dr. Stein could
tell that Bruce did not understand the importance of what he was saying, “Okay, have you
ever wanted to tell a dog to do something once and he’d do it? Or understand simple
commands such as sit or stay?”
“Yeah,” Bruce nodded.
“Okay, well imagine being able to tell a dog to watch over your house or call 911
or use the toilet. If we are successful in transferring a human brain to another animal and
that animal is able to communicate with not only other animals, but also humans it could
mean a whole new way life,” Dr. Stein had lost interest in the house and was pouring his
21
ideas onto Bruce, “Think of a world where all animals and humans live together in an
organized fashion, where everyone works together to make life easier.”
“That’s some idea Doc,” Bruce was unenthused.
“Doesn’t that appeal to you at all?” Dr. Stein threw up his hands.
“Listen Doc, don’t get me wrong, you scientist with your big ideas and everything
is great and all and it probably is for the better. But in real life I know that as humans we
more or less speak each other’s language and it only gives us more reason to go to war
with one another. That’s what I see when you tell me about a bunch of animals being able
to speak for themselves. The animals would probably go to war with us because of how
badly they’ve been treated. And they’d win because they outnumber us, big time,” Bruce
lowered the seat back and rolled his shoulders, “And if things are supposed to work out
so well, why’d the monkey escape?”
“I didn’t think that it would come to this,” Dr. Stein rubbed the palm of his hand
over his face, “At the beginning of the experiment he exemplified many human traits. He
could write out messages using a pencil or keyboard. He could solve mathematical
equations. But as time passed he became violent and refused to work with the doctors. He
broke things constantly and it has been,” Dr. Stein paused rubbed the back of his neck,
“It’s been tough for a long time. Until recently,” The doctor smiled, “He’s been
obedient and working with us and then when he asked if he could go outside I figure it
was a good reward for his change in behavior. Turns out, it was only a ploy to escape. I
just can’t believe he’d do it to me.”
“Why not?” Bruce asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” Dr. Stein replied.
“He’s just a monkey and you’re just its doctor,” Bruce replied.
“Agree to disagree,” The doctor responded and folded his arms. He sat silently
drumming his fingers on his dirtied khakis. Blood had spilt on them when the monkey
had hit him on the head with a rock. He decided not to think too much of it and focus on
the task at hand.
“Remember, only use the tranquilizer gun that I gave you. You’ve got two shots
with it and that’s it, so make them count. No live ammo.” Dr. Stein could see the bulge in
Bruce’s black blazer, “In fact why don’t you just give me the gun.”
“I’m not giving you my gun,” Bruce replied. His hand rested firmly on the gun’s
hilt.
“Do you want your money?” Dr. Stein knew that would end the discussion.
22
Bruce unclipped the gun from his side holster and handed it to the doctor. He
replaced it with the tranquilizer gun the doctor had handed him. He left out the fact that
he had a snub-nose magnum attached to his ankle.
“Have you ever killed anyone? You know, for the job or anything?” Dr. Stein
asked.
“Of course,” Bruce lied. The closest he had come to kill anything was torturing
the neighborhood cat with his older brother’s fireworks. But he didn’t need to kill
anybody for this job, it was just a furry little chimp; an escaped science experiment at
that.
“So is anyone going to notice you’re not at post tonight?” Dr. Stein felt more
anxious with each passing minute on the car’s LCD clock.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it Doc, I put in a call before we got together in the car. They
got somebody covering my shift. No big deal.”
“That’s good, good to hear,” Dr. Stein returned to his upright position peering
over the dashboard and staring at the house.
“Do you know these people Doc?” Bruce asked.
“No,” Dr. Stein lied. He had been a guest at this house many times. There was
Sarah the mother and their two daughters Linda and Ashley. He visited them less these
days, but he did know them and there was no other way to dodge Bruce’s question than
lying.
There was a light sprinkle on the windshield of the car. It looked more like a mist
than actual rain. Bruce let the water build up and then let the windshield wipers roll
across the window. Dr. Stein leaned back in passenger seat and let out a long sigh of
disappointment. Maybe he wouldn’t show up. This would be the end of his career. He’d
have to go to the directors and let them know what happened. He’d have to come clean
about the all the experiments. He’d have to shank the biggest guy in prison. They would
burn him at the stake. He was going to be made an example of. There was nothing left for
him.
“There he is,” Bruce leaned over the dashboard.
“Where?” Dr. Stein leaped up in his seat.
“There,” Bruce pointed to the alley next to the house. There was a furry hand
sticking out around the corner. Bruce looked at his surroundings. They were in the middle
of the city and the street was sparse with traffic. Dr. Stein felt exposed as if everyone was
watching them. Maybe George could see them; he hoped George couldn’t.
23
The monkey crept out from the corner and went up to the window of the house. It
seemed to lose its anxiousness and looked quietly through the window. The family didn’t
realize he was there. It put his hand to the window and ran his fingers over the glass. The
chimp wrote something on the window with his fingers and dropped his fists to the
concrete floor.
Clouds closed up the sky and spit on the windshield of the car. Bruce turned on
the windshield wipers to see the monkey clearer. The chimp turned around and spotted
them sitting in the car.
“RREEE!” The monkey screeched and took off down the street using his hands
and feet pounding the sidewalk propelling him forward.
“Shit!” Bruce slipped out of the car and ran after the monkey.
Dr. Stein was slow getting out of car and jogged after Bruce. Bruce felt good
running after something. He didn’t feel like he was chasing a monkey, but a bag of
money with a pair of legs. He could finally get out this job. Bruce ran across the street to
where the monkey was and continued to chase after it.
Bruce could feel the wind and rain continue to pelt him in the face. The chimp
looked over his shoulder to see Bruce closing in on him fast. It leaped out into traffic,
darting from side to side, dodging the oncoming traffic.
HOOOONKK! HOOOONK!
Cars swerved to the side of the road dodging the furry creature. The monkey
maneuvered gaining distance quickly in the middle of the street. A yellow taxi swerved
out of the way narrowly missing the animal. Bruce ran into traffic attempting to snatch up
the chimpanzee. He pulled out the tranquilizer gun from the holster and straightened his
arm trying to fire a shot. The sooner he could close the deal the sooner he could get his
money. He eyed the shot again and again. The monkey jumped in between cars, each
time making it more difficult for Bruce to take fire without missing.
The monkey’s eyes grew wide. He was unable to dodge the oncoming car and
leaped up onto the hood as it screeched to a stop. Bruce paused and tried to get in a shot.
The monkey resumed his speed leaping from moving car to moving car. Bruce chased
after the monkey, his legs pumping fire with each lift. He had to end this soon. He was
losing fuel. They come to an intersection. A kid played with a baseball on the sidewalk,
throwing it into the air and catching it in his plastic mitt. He fumbled ball into the street.
Bruce watched as the kid ran into the center of the street reaching toward the ground for
his ball. The monkey ran towards the child and pushed him out of the street, just missing
colliding with a pickup truck.
24
Bruce follows the chimp’s lead closing in after him. A little two-seater makes a
quick turn onto the street. Bruce jumps, unable to evade the car, and crashes into the car’s
windshield. His right arm is busted. He’s going to have to fire with his left. Bruce shook
off the pain and watched the monkey run into Gino’s fancy Italian restaurant. He looked
behind to see the doctor steadily jogging after him. The doctor motioned with his hand to
keep going after the monkey.
Bruce bursts into the front of the restaurant. He had always thought about eating
at this place. He had heard that they had a great red sauce. He figured that it would be
hard to get a table after this. His cheek was cut from the glass of the windshield. It was
bleeding down the front of his face, creating a hefty dry cleaning bill. He looked into the
restaurant and there was no sign of the monkey. The waiter came over to Bruce, “Excuse
me sir, but do you have a reservation?”
Bruce looked down into the man’s eyes. The waiter cowered and slowly took a
step back. Everyone’s eyes focused on the blood pulsing from Bruce’s cheek. Bruce
remained silent. He raised the tranquilizer gun and pointed it into the crowd. The people
ducked down beneath their table.
AAAGGHGAGH!
Bruce looked to where the woman was screaming. He could see a furry head
bobbing up and down running along the floor of the restaurant. Bruce steadied his left
hand and when the head popped up again; he fired the tranquilizer. It broke a wine glass
and hit a man in the chest. He fell flat into soup on his table.
“Shit!” Bruce ran after the monkey again. He reloaded the gun with another
tranquilizer shot. This was the last shot. It needed to count. His legs had become numb.
He felt as if he was running on stumps. He pushed tables and chairs aside and chased the
monkey into the kitchen. Bruce burst through the kitchen doors. The cooks pointed
toward the back door heading out to the alley. Bruce ran out into the alley and spun
around looking for the hairy little creature.
A clang resounded from the fire escape above him. Bruce looked up to see the
monkey scurrying up the ladders to the rooftop. Bruce jumped up and grabbed for the
ladder; it was out of his reach. He holstered the tranquilizer gun. The monkey continued
to gain distance. He pushed an empty dumpster underneath the ladder and climbed up
using his left arm. He could still see the monkey and had time to reach him before he got
to the roof. He climbed and climbed. Of all buildings to pick, it was the ten-story building
that the monkey picked. Bruce was losing his edge. He was getting slower. He could feel
it in his arms and in his legs and in his feet. He could hear his heart pumping in his ears.
His senses had dulled. He was a machine pumping and pushing forward. He was closing
in. He was one ladder rung away from the monkey.
The monkey leaped over the edge of the roof. Bruce followed and climbed up
over the lip of the building to the roof. The rain came in sideways and washed the blood
25
from Bruce’s face. It was hard to see. He looked around the rooftop and could not see any
trace of the monkey. The rain had covered up any footprints that might have been left. It
was dark and there were no lights on top of the roof, but he knew that the monkey was
around. He could feel it in his skin.
He remembered the doctor and peered over the edge of the building. Dr. Stein was
slowly climbing up the ladders and making his way to the roof. Bruce took the
tranquilizer gun from the holster and held it out in front of him with his left arm. The rain
began to sting his face. He pushed the pain down. He focused on the money. He was
going to get the money. He just needed to catch that damn dirty ape.
He walked across the roof of building looking to his left and then to his right. He
kept his eye peering down the sight of the gun. He came to other side of the building and
there was still no sign of the monkey. He turned round keeping the gun held out in front
of him.
EEEEEAHGHG!
The beast leaped out and buried its teeth deep into Bruce’s left arm. Bruce
screamed and fired off the last shot of the tranquilizer gun. The gun fell to the ground,
useless and broken. Bruce pounded on the animal with his busted right arm. He could feel
his bones grinding against each other with every hit. He used his arm like medieval club
beating down on the skull of the furry creep.
The monkey swung around Bruce’s arm onto his back. The chimp wrapped it’s
arms around Bruce’s neck. Bruce could feel the creature’s breath close to his hear. Then
he could feel a warm wetness wrap itself around his entire ear.
The monkey wrapped its jaw around Bruce’s ear and slowly tore the muscle and
cartilage from the side of Bruce’s face. The monkey spit the ear from its mouth. Blood
poured out from the Bruce’s ear. He could hear blood pumping from his open wound. He
grabbed the monkey by the back of the neck and threw it off him onto the ground. The
rain stung the wound with each drop sending a searing pain down Bruce’s spine. The
monkey had been thrown down hard and was dizzy from the impact. Bruce reached down
to his ankle pulled out the revolver from its holster.
Dr. Stein climbed over the lip of the building, “NOOO!”
Bruce unloaded into the animal. Each shot burying itself into the trunk of the
beast. It died after the first two shots had been fired. The remaining four made the body
of animal spasm and blood spurt form the gaping wounds. Blood dripped from the
creature’s mouth signifying it’s passing on. Dr. Stein ran over to the monkey and knelt
beside it. “No, no, no,” The doctor repeated the words over and over as it were a mantra.
As if repeating the phrase would bring the animal back.
“I told you no live ammo!” Dr. Stein yelled at the Bruce.
26
“Well, you didn’t tell me it was going to tear my fucking ear off!” Bruce shouted
back at the doctor. He looked around the ground for the ear. The rain had built up on the
roof of the building and it seemed as if they were standing in a shallow pond. He found it
and stuck his ear in his jacket pocket. Everything sounded weird to him now. It seemed
hollow and airy without any volume. He would never hear anything the same any more.
Dr. Stein wrapped his arms around the monkey and cradled it as if it were a child.
He kissed the monkey’s forehead and weeped. His tears fell down his cheeks and onto the
monkey’s body. The rain blended with the tears creating large drops of salty pain. The
thoughts of getting caught for his experiments were no longer his worry. He didn’t care
about his job any more. He sobbed and held the monkey’s head close to his chest.
Bruce sat down and looked at the scene in front of him. A scientist cradling a
deranged escaped science experiment, “It’s just a monkey, I’m sure there’s others.”
Dr. Stein had stopped crying for the moment, “You don’t understand.”
The doctor was right about that and then the doctor smiled. He brushed the hair
out of the monkey’s face and rubbed the animal’s arms.
“You see,” the doctor began, “this was my brother. It was his brain that I put in
the monkey’s head. He was my brother, my real brother.”
Bruce could feel his body shiver from the cold. He slowly put the pieces of the
puzzle together, “Who were those people eating dinner?” Bruce asked.
The doctor continued to smile looking at the animal in his arms, “I lied. I did
know who they were. They were his wife and two daughters. It’s been three years since
they last saw them. In fact it’s been three years today, I guess that’s why he wanted to
escape. I don’t blame him. I hope he’s in a better place now.”
Bruce looked at the animal’s face it seemed sad. It looked more human than beast
and that made all the difference. Bruce wept.
--END--
27
TIT FOR TAT
By
Cormac Brown
It’s one of those rare days in
San Francisco when it is actually hot. I
came into the bar, not to get away from
the stifling heat; though I’m a native San
Franciscan, somehow I am used to that.
No, I came in here to get away from
what? Only the Lord and Devil know.
There was something that was
bothering me, that I thought was gone
from my mind like that formula you
learn in school. The one you used to
know that tells you where two trains
traveling from the opposite ends of the
country will meet up with each other.
What’s the difference, anyway? If they
are traveling in my head, they’re bound
to crash.
Ah, regardless, whatever it was
that was simmering in the recesses of my
brain, it was starting to stink my soul up.
So, bartender? A little “amnesia juice”
with a “selective memory chaser.” I
pretty much ignore the few people here
and there, though one in particular catches my eye. He’s on the phone and he’s wearing a
natty wool sport coat, even in this heat...vainglorious moron.
“Did you know that stuff you drank was made in a dry county?”
Now, I’ve been to this hole in the wall before, and I believe one of the reasons
that I specifically picked it out, was because everyone in here keeps to themselves. There
is a jukebox, but all it does is collect dust because no one comes in here to dance or get
happy. They come in here to be ignored and to forget.
28
So if a guy was dumb enough to ruin that implied code of silence, I would at best
tell him to take a hike. Or at worse, lecture him about the code of silence around here
and sucker punch him to make sure that he got the point.
Yet, I don’t get all sore, because the voice doesn’t belong to a guy, but a
woman...what a woman. I mean a tomato, the tomato to end all tomatoes. She has my
head spinning, or maybe it isn’t all her, because this isn’t the first bar that I had been to
today. But I digress.
If she were in a beauty contest with Myrna Loy and Ella Raines, Myrna and Ella
would come in a distant second and third place, in that order. She was a punch bowl full
of pulchritude and I wanted to drink her in.
“I said, did you know that whiskey was made in a dry county?”
Am I going mental? All of my thoughts are playing musical chairs and it seems
like nothing can lift the needle off the record. Here is the kind of brunette to make you
forget blondes altogether, and somehow I can’t understand a word that she’s saying.
Is it the booze? It is her looks? Is someone after me? Is there something I need
to get done? This thing that keeps eating away at me, it’s bigger than a monkey on my
back. It’s weighing me down more like King Kong, and on top of everything he’s
holding Fay Wray and an airplane, too.
The bartender winks at me and chimes in “he’s had about four too many.” He
gives me a quick scowl, and then he goes back to washing his glasses. Something about
this bottle jockey seems oddly familiar and I know it isn’t because I’ve seen him work
here before.
She looks down at my right forearm with a smile so warm that it could melt a
glacier, as she sees the tattoo that is almost completely covered by my shirt. She lightly
tugs on my short sleeve with her left pinkie nail and causes all kinds of problems, the
most important one being that it is that my arm is the only thing keeping me from falling
on my face. She purrs, “You want to show it to me.”
It wasn’t a question.
That gets mine and the rest of the bar’s attention. I’m speechless, though I’m
fairly sure that she is talking about my tattoo. She leans into me and whispers into my
ear. The whisper sends a shiver that bounces up and down my spine, like a kid playing
paddleball.
She whispers again and I shake my head. I gulp, “No. That’s not what that
means. It comes from an old English saying, meaning ‘blow for blow.’ This...for...that.”
29
She looks me in the eyes, dips her left...then her right shoulder, and her dress
slips. Wow. I go to a bar for a drink and a burlesque show breaks out. She catches the
dress before it can fall below her navel, then she takes her time putting it back on.
Fair is fair, but before I can respond in kind and show my tattoo, a bear gets up at
the end of the bar. Did I say a “bear?” That’s the liquor talking. It’s a goon that looks
like he’s half-Kodiak, half-man.
As he lumbers towards me, someone or something lifts the needle and all the
thoughts in my head sit down. The game of musical chairs for my thoughts is suddenly
over and I’m more sober than I’ve been in quite awhile. That goon works for Briggs
Colcannon and Briggs is what, or should I say who, has been eating at me.
I see Briggs is the one in the sport coat as he glowers at me from his table, just
before his goon is upon me. I calmly reach behind the bar for a bottle and crack it over
the goon’s head. Everybody in the bar can tell you who got the worst of that exchange:
the goon has a tiny cut on his forehead and a smile on his face, and my hand is cut open
by the glass.
The goon reaches for me and I duck under his grasp. By the time he turns around,
I’ve caught him square in the nose with a barstool. The goon stiffens, then he leans
forward for some more, which I dish to him with more panic than passion. I jab the
barstool twice at his face, the first blow connecting, and he snatches the stool out of my
hands, on the second.
He is a little woozy, but his anger seems to bring him to and I hit his legs with
another bar stool. He drops to one knee and I’m swinging at him like Joe DiMaggio did
two months ago, trying to keep his fifty-six game hitting streak alive. The goon finally
flops to the floor. I could hit him again, but I have no beef with him as I’m here for
Briggs Colcannon.
Hell, I have no beef with Briggs either, and even though we’ve crossed paths over
a dozen times, I never put it together as to just who he was. Briggs has double-crossed
every mob, from the Italians, the Jews, the Basques, and even the Chinese. He has even
cheated the politicians in Sacramento, and they never forget.
Miss Tit-for-Tat’s gorgeous eyes widen for a second and my head instinctively
follows what startled her. The bartender is pulling a double-barreled shotgun and I panic,
and hit him with a bottle. He winces and I yank the shotgun from his hands. Somehow,
my dumb luck manages to hold up and the thing doesn’t go off.
Yes, everybody who is anybody that makes a dollar the wrong way off of
someone wants Briggs dead; nonetheless, he is impossible to get to. He is cousin to both
the mayor and the police chief, though I doubt family loyalty is the reason they protect
him as fervently they do.
30
As Briggs’s meaty paw reaches into his natty sport coat, I realize the doublebarreled shotgun is in my hands and he thinks I’m there to kill him, though I’m starting to
have my doubts. I do know that I am a gambler with too many debts to forgive, and if the
U.S. Government had to make good on them, it would bring back the Recession of 1937.
So someone has sent me, a man with no common sense and nothing to lose, to
take care of one of the most powerful men in California. Yet that someone is not a man
who has lost money, political pride or had a man or friend killed by Briggs. No, Briggs
took away the most important thing in the world to that man and here she is, standing
right behind me.
As Briggs and I simultaneously pull our triggers and I close my eyes, I think to
myself that I don’t blame either man that has put me in this shootout. If ever there was a
woman worth dying for...
...I open my eyes to Briggs looking right back at me. We both exhale, though his
breath is his last. His natty sport coat is far from natty now, and though my shirt is a little
wet from perspiration, it doesn’t have any holes in it. The little peashooter that Briggs
had is on the floor, then I realize that someone could’ve been shot, so I turn around.
At first glance, everyone seems okay, then my eyes meet those of Miss Tit-forTat’s. Her eyes are unsure of what to make of me, and I’m not sure what to make of
myself. I’m no killer and I can’t tell if she’s scared of me, or feels sorrow for the loss of
Briggs. My eyes drift over to the bartender and through his scowl, he winks at me. I
thought taking that shotgun was entirely too easy and that he looked too familiar.
I look all the way around and wherever the bullet that Briggs squeezed off went, it
didn’t hit anybody. She looks at Briggs, then she looks away from me as I turn to go.
Had we met under a different set of circumstances, I would’ve been Briggs right now,
with my guts seeping to the floor. Because women like that are what brings out the
Briggs Colcannon in the meekest of men, and we will never know what it is like to enjoy
the company of, or keep a woman like that, for long.
The sun blinds me as I walk out of the door and helps me get my bearings. I hop
aboard a streetcar for Downtown, where I’ll take another streetcar across the Bay Bridge
and into Oakland. The San Francisco waterfront is out, so hopefully the cops will be
looking for me there, just as I’ll be sailing past Alcatraz.
I have to pray that the former husband of Miss Tit-for-Tat made good and struck
all of my gambling debts from the books, for a good accountant can do what no magician
can do in real life, make something actually disappear. Either way, I’ll never come back
to San Francisco.
A friend of mine told me about Hong Kong and said they treat American men
there like kings, and that you can’t beat the food. Things with the Japanese are getting
hairy on that end of the Pacific, so the ship I’m sailing out on is bound for Hawaii, where
31
it’s nice and quiet. The ship is taking a drawn-out and convoluted path, so we won’t get
there until right around the first week of December.
--END--
32
Baltimore:
Or the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire
By Michael Mignola and Christopher Golden
Reviewed by
Katherine Tomlinson
This illustrated novel is collaboration between the man who created Hellboy
and Bram Stoker Award-winning novelist Golden. The result is a stylish dark fantasy
33
with enough literary trappings to entice readers who wouldn’t ordinarily be caught dead
(undead?) reading a graphic novel. It’s a character study featuring four distinctly
different men with experience in the paranormal, all of whom have very different stories
to tell.
We are in an unnamed European city, sometime during the years of Great War.
The battles still rage, but a plague born of vampire blood breath is abroad and inside the
City, everything is dead. In fact, the plague has reduced the war to a mere sideshow,
fought only by those who cannot admit that it no longer matters.
The men, who are strangers to one another, have been summoned by Captain
(Lord) Henry Baltimore, whose friendship they have in common. They arrive at their
destination—a deserted inn—before Baltimore and pass the time by exchanging tales of
horror. Merchant sea captain Demetrius Alschros met Baltimore when he ferried him
across the English Channel after he was wounded in the forest of Ardennes. Thomas
Childress, Jr. is a childhood friend of Baltimore’s; Dr. Lemuel Rose is the surgeon who
removed Baltimore’s leg when it was shattered by machine gun fire.
Dr. Rose shares a confession Baltimore made after the surgery—a fantastical
anecdote of him waking on the battlefield with a vampire standing over him, breathing a
crimson mist into his wound. At the time, the doctor dismissed the story as the raving of
a fevered mind, but in the wake of the plague that has devastated Europe, he is not so
sure. Which leads him to his own tale of horror, an experience that left him open to
believing things he would otherwise have dismissed. The other men counter with tales
that are just as horrific, and by the time Baltimore finally arrives, they’re ready for
whatever proposal he might have. Or at least they think they are. And as the shadows
deepen, the four men (one of whom is no longer mortal) confront the vampire and learn
that he is not the ultimate horror they must face.
This is an extremely literate fusion of graphic novel and conventional horror tale.
The setup somewhat reminds us of Heart of Darkness, where men waiting for the tide
share stories of their adventures. It is also reminiscent of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the
legend of Beowulf and any number of Victorian/Gothic horror tales. (The language is
deliberately archaic at times, which only adds to this impression.)
The authors’ vision of the master vampire and the plague unleashed by his
summoning is a rare achievement considering that the genre is so overstuffed with books
and movies and comic books and … you name it. The vision of the vampire breathing
his pestilential red mist breath into Baltimore’s wound is chilling and disturbing. (It also
evokes Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Masque of the Red Death.” Mignola’s stark
illustrations are evocative and moody, a treat for his fans.
The characters are a lot richer than the usual graphic novel protagonists, and the
plague-fighting, vampire-hunting foursome have their own discrete personalities that
emerge through their story-telling. We gradually come to learn why these men have been
chosen for the task before them. Of the four men, Dr. Rose probably makes the strongest
impression. Addicted to opium, mutilated by his creditors, and cynical to the end, his tale
of a demon bear is the best of the tales told at the inn.
The book is a bit episodic. On top of the shifting points of view, the story also
includes the reveries of an actual Tin Soldier, one that used to belong to Baltimore when
he was a child. The Tin Soldier’s fears and memories are used in ironic counterpoint to
34
the flesh and blood (and undead) characters and creatures that populate the story. These
dreamlike interludes are strange and compelling.
The story’s spell is complete and of a piece with its period setting, which makes
the mystery more compelling. (Somehow it’s easier to believe in demons on a WWI
battlefield than in a modern, civilian setting.) War is hell, and Lord Baltimore and his
friends bear witness to that statement.
At the end of the tale the authors have set up a sequel and readers will find
themselves wishing they could read the next adventure of these intrepid monster-hunters
right now.
Available August 28, 2007
--END--
35
HOW “THE SHADOW” MOVIE
WENT WRONG
Or
Alec Baldwin Stole My Comic Books!!!
By
Tim Gallagher
The super-hero movie phase, at one point considered dead after the release of the
dismal SUPERMAN IV: THE QUEST FOR PEACE in 1987, was back in swing in the
summer of 1993. Warner Brothers’ success with BATMAN in 1989 and its sequel,
BATMAN RETURNS in 1992, had led other studios to jump on the bandwagon, and try
to create their own super-hero franchises. Not just any super-heroes, though; they had to
be dark avengers in the Batman mold.
36
Universal Studios made what, at least on paper, was a wise decision: make a
movie about a character that pre-existed - and in fact was a major influence on - Batman.
That character was Walter Gibson’s The Shadow. They cast as the lead a young actor
who had gotten critical acclaim for his performances (even getting a full-page write-up in
TIME MAGAZINE), and was coming into his own as a leading man: Alec Baldwin. It
sure seemed like a winning combination.
Flash forward a year, to July, 1994. THE SHADOW opens to, at best, tepid
reviews. I ignored the reviews, figured I’ll judge the film for its own merits, and have it
fail or succeed based on my own opinion.
Well, my opinion ended up in agreement with pretty much everyone else: THE
SHADOW was pretty bad. And the bad reviews, coupled with a domestic gross that
barely matched the film’s budget - meaning it lost money for the studio - put an
immediate end to any hope of a sequel or possible franchise.
How could it have gone so wrong? I asked myself. Didn’t I send them research
material so they could see how to do it right?
Yes, I did, and therein lies part of our tale.
In the first half of the 1990s I was deputy mayor of East Hampton, a town on the
east end of Long Island. For nine months of the year it was a typical, quiet small town,.
During the three months of summer, however, the population increased five or six times more on the weekends - as vacationers from New York City and elsewhere descended on
our little piece of heaven. Many of those summer visitors were celebrities: actors and
actresses, famous directors, authors, debutantes, and spoiled trust fund babies. Some of
them actually liked our town so much that they made it their year-round home.
One of these celebrities was Alec Baldwin.
It wasn’t much of move for Mr. Baldwin, relatively speaking. Sure, he was an
up-and-comer in Hollywood, but he was also a Long Island boy, born and raised in
Massapequa. Of course,
Massapequa was a suburb of
New York City, while
East Hampton remained quite
and rural, and about as
far as you could get from the
city without driving into
the Atlantic Ocean.
Nevertheless,
Alec Baldwin was a new
resident of the town. He
and Kim Bassinger (they
were not married yet)
bought a house just down the
road from Lorne
Michaels and Billy Joel (in a
few years some guy
named Jerry Seinfeld would
move into the
neighborhood). It was an
older house, in need of
some repair and renovation,
which is what Mr.
Baldwin started doing.
And that’s when
the trouble started.
Mr. Baldwin had
applied for a variance to
restore a chimney on his
house. His nearest neighbors,
who were the people
who sold him the house,
immediately objected to
the variance. They claimed
37
that the chimney would (and I’m not making this up) block their light and air. (This
brings to mind THE SIMPSONS episode where Mr. Burns builds a device that blocks the
sun for the entire town.)
Now, I’m going from memory here, so I probably don’t have the sequence right:
Mr. Baldwin’s variance was approved; the neighbors sued the Town for granting the
variance; a letter-writing war ensued in the local weekly paper (the particularly nasty type
of war you can only see in small town papers); and in the end the Baldwin chimney
triumphed.
My office got involved in the fight because we, along with the building inspector
and the majority of the appeals board, agreed with Mr. Baldwin. The long and short of it
is that Mr. Baldwin and my boss, the mayor, became close friends. Mr. Baldwin also
became quite involved in local issues, and constantly expressed an interest in running for
local office.
I was never heavily involved in this relationship. My function was running the
day-to-day administrative functions of the office; my boss handled the glad-handing, and
the politics, and hobnobbed with the celebrities. This was a great arrangement, as I hated
the political aspect of the job. However, there were times when Mr. Baldwin would call
the office and my boss was out, so then he and I would talk.
At one point in early summer 1993, Mr. Baldwin called the office from Los
Angeles, but both my boss and I were out. I got the message when I returned, so I called
the number listed. The person who answered the phone said, “Cranston Productions.”
A light bulb went off in my head and a smile flashed on my face. When Mr.
Baldwin came on the line, our conversation went kind of like this:
ME: So, you’re making a movie about The Shadow?
BALDWIN: Who told you? [like it’s supposed to be a state secret]
ME: The office said “Cranston Productions.” Lamont Cranston is The
Shadow’s alter-ego.
BALDWIN: And how do you know that?
I explained that I was life-long comic fan, and while I would never consider
myself an expert on The Shadow, I was enjoying the excellent comic series THE
SHADOW STRIKES that DC Comics was publishing at the time. I suggested he check it
out. The conversation then moved on to whatever subject it was that he had called about
originally.
This was well before the Internet became a part of everyday life. Heck, at the
time I didn’t even have a computer. Hollywood news was not the major facet of
American life like it is now. The only way to get information was through
ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT, which I never watched, or the major trades VARIETY or THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER - and most people outside of the
“business” didn’t read them.
So I felt rather clever to have deduced that a movie about The Shadow was being
made. I felt even better that I knew, even as a passing acquaintance, the lead actor. Then
I had an idea: perhaps I could make sure that the movie would be better than most other
comic/pulp hero films (i.e. SUPERMAN 3 and 4; MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE;
SUPERGIRL; and the icing on this terrible cake, DOC SAVAGE).
I boxed-up my thirty-odd issues of THE SHADOW STRIKES comic. I included
a long letter to Mr. Baldwin, explaining that by reading the comics he would see how The
38
Shadow should be portrayed, and what sort of tone the movie should take. I addressed it
to him care of Cranston Productions and sent it off, confident that I had done my part to
create a film masterpiece.
Naive? You bet. I had no inkling about production schedules, or the lead time
that goes into a Hollywood feature, or even the legalities of production companies
accepting unsolicited material. High school kids today seem to know ten times more
about film production than I did then.
Still, the box was in the mail, and I went back to running the town. The Shadow
movie was shoved in the back of my puny little mind. Only when the movie neared
release did I start to wonder how much of the comic books I had sent would be
incorporated in the final product.
Zero to none, as it tuned out. While THE SHADOW STRIKES writer Gerard
Jones and artist Eduardo Barretto had produced a near-perfect blending of 1930s pulps
with a modern storytelling twist, the movie had decided to go the camp route, ala the
BATMAN TV series of the 1960s.
The plot of the film is fairly standard: Shiwan Khan, the last descendant of
Genghis Khan, and all-around no-goodnik, smuggles himself to New York. By using his
great mental powers, he has learned that Dr. Reinhardt Lane is constructing an atomic
bomb in the middle of New York City. Khan intends to use the bomb to hold the city for
ransom, the first step in conquering the world and establishing a new Mongol Empire.
The Shadow learns of this mainly from Shiwan Khan, who pays him a social visit
and spills the beans. Khan feels an affinity for The Shadow because they learned their
mystical powers from the same teacher. It would seem, though, that Shiwan Khan was
the better student because his powers are more developed than The Shadow’s.
There is a showdown between the two, with The Shadow finally unlocking the
full potential of his powers in order to defeat Khan. The atomic bomb is defused, the city
is saved, and The Shadow continues to fight crime.
First things first: the film couldn’t make up its mind which version of The
Shadow it wanted to portray. While it’s true that the vast majority of Americans during
the 1930s and 1940s were more familiar with the radio show version, it is the pulp
version that has remained popular since then, and is the version that has been depicted in
other media (books and comics).
The Shadow on the radio used mystical powers to cloud men’s minds to make
himself invisible. The Shadow in the pulps had no mystical powers, dressed in black
literally hid and traveled in shadows. On the radio, The Shadow is really Lamont
Cranston, New York playboy, whose girlfriend, Margo Lane, knows his double identity.
In the pulp version, The Shadow is really Kent Allard, who takes on the identity of
Lamont Cranston (as well as others). He doesn’t encounter Margo Lane until pretty late
in the game (after the radio series introduced her); she doesn’t know The Shadow’s
identity and isn’t his girlfriend. In neither version is she a psychic, as she’s portrayed in
the film.
The film tried to combine the two versions of The Shadow, and it actually works.
I liked how the filmmakers incorporated the mystical power of The Shadow making
himself invisible. I also liked how Cranston’s handsome features became The Shadow’s
familiar hawk-like visage (it was his dark side given form). This prevented Mr. Baldwin
39
from spending the entire film wearing a nose prosthesis (which made him look so much
like his brother, Billy Baldwin, that I wondered why they didn’t cast him).
But then the filmmakers went too far. Not only can The Shadow become
invisible, but now he’s telepathic, and by the end of the film telekinetic as well. His
powers are also treated inconsistently: in one scene he is actually trapped by a flashlight
beam while invisible, yet later on a flashlight does not affect him. Another time, The
Shadow is invisible to Tim Curry’s character, Claymore, yet Claymore claims to be
immune to The Shadow’s ability to influence his mind (Margo also has this immunity).
This made no sense: shouldn’t The Shadow be visible to Claymore, then?
Our first glimpse of The Shadow is actually kind of impressive. He looks like he
appeared on the old pulp
covers, except something’s
missing. Oh, that’s right, his
long cloak. Don’t worry, it’s
mysteriously in place in the
next shot, although it has a
tendency to disappear
randomly through the rest of
the film.
It’s best not to look
too close at The Shadow’s
make-up, either. In medium
and long shots, it’s fine, but I
was reminded how bad it
was when I saw the film on
TV recently. There is a final
close-up of The Shadow,
which then morphs into a
stylized drawing . Here you
can see the tape for fake
eyebrows and the putty where
the fake nose is attached to
the face. It’s really
amateurish, and extremely
noticeable on a TV screen.
Imagine how it looked on a
movie screen.
Alec Baldwin looks
the part of a typical New
York playboy. The problem
is, his Cranston is a
lightweight who talks like a street tough half the time (“You know I’m gonna stop you.”
“Hey, that’s the U S of A yer talkin’ about, pal.”). There is none of the sophistication
demonstrated by either the radio or pulp version of Cranston. As The Shadow, Mr.
Baldwin has the right voice for the character, but his laugh is a little too high, a little too
strident. It doesn’t carry the menace that it should. And, of course, The Shadow is given
stupid one-liners like most movie
action heroes (i.e. “Next time,
you get to be on top.”), which are
completely out of character.
Besides Alec Baldwin,
the cast includes Penelope Ann
Miller as Margo Lane, John Lone
as the villainous Shiwan Khan,
Sir Ian McKellen as Dr.
Reinhardt Lane, Tim Curry as
Claymore, Peter Boyle as
Shreevy, and Jonathan Winters
as Commissioner Wainwright
Barth.
Mr. Lone and Mr. Boyle
40
are well-cast and fare the best in their roles. Mr. Lone has a grand time playing the overthe-top bad guy. He’s completely believable as a barbarian in one scene, dressed
impeccably in a Brooks Brothers suit, yet eating with gusto with his hands. Mr. Boyle is
perfect as Shreevy the cab driver, and provides a good comic relief. Unfortunately,
everyone else thinks they’re the comedy relief as well.
Ms. Miller is a poor Margo Lane. Getting past the psychic abilities that the
filmmakers give her character, her Margo has none of the moxie displayed in the radio
show or the pulps. This Margo is a ditz, more of a hindrance than the partner she was in
the radio show. There also never seems to be any chemistry between her and Mr.
Baldwin. The Nick and Nora Charles-like byplay that the characters shared on the radio
show is, in the film, destroyed by lame dialogue and poor timing (i.e. Cranston:
“Psychically, I’m very well endowed”. Margo: “I bet you are.”)
Sir Ian McKellen, while a great actor, plays his part of the absent-minded scientist
too broadly. We’re supposed to believe that a man who can build an atomic bomb by
himself can’t tell the difference between red and green? His Dr. Lane seems feeble and
in need of round-the-clock supervision; not the type of man I want working alone on an
atomic bomb.
Tim Curry as Claymore does his very best to ruin the movie all by himself. The
man does not know the meaning of the word “subtle”. In every scene he is as over-thetop as humanly possible, as cartoonish a performance as can be imagined. Cruel as it
may sound, I cheered when his character met his doom.
Finally, Jonathan Winters is an excellent comedian. However, casting him in the
role of Commissioner Barth is a subtle signal to the audience to not take anything
seriously. Mr. Winters doesn’t have a great deal of screen time, and he keeps his
mugging to a bare minimum, but you can almost hear the film crew laughing off-camera
every time he appears.
Besides the campiness of the film, it looks cheap as well. Early on, there is a
scene that takes place on the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s obviously a set, and a bad one at that,
more in line with what one might expect for a lower-budgeted TV series, not a feature
film.
That speaks for the rest of the movie. Although the film is set in New York City,
it always looks like a backlot. In most scenes, the streets are too empty of cars and
pedestrians. The background matte paintings are obvious and badly integrated with the
rest of the scene. The New York skyline looks like a bad model. During a scene at the
observation deck of the Empire State Building, a model plane on a string is passed
through the background.
Everything is too brightly lit, even the night scenes. THE SHADOW should have
been filmed darkly, like a film noir. As it is, I’m surprised that they didn’t film day-fornight (when nighttime scenes are shot during the day, but with a filter over the lenses to
make it appear darker; used a lot in the old days of Hollywood).
The film is littered with sequences and plot points that defy logic, physics, or just
plain common sense. A few examples, in no particular order:
- Shiwan Khan is powerful enough to hypnotize an entire city (including The
Shadow) into thinking that the Hotel Monolith is invisible; but instead of using that
power to have banks turn over all their money to him, he goes through the elaborate
scheme with the atomic bomb.
41
¾ Shiwan Khan favors a one-shot pistol. Real handy when going up against a hero
armed with twin automatics.
¾ All of The Shadow’s agents are outfitted with red jeweled rings which blink when
he summons them. While that’s a great visual cue for the movie (one not used in
the radio show or the pulps), it must be hard to explain. Imagine Shreevy sitting
down to dinner with the wife, and his ring starts glowing.
MRS. SHREVNITZ: So I was saying to Marge, “Marge,” I said, “You can’t trust
a man who--” Holy sheep dip, Moe! Why is your ring blinking?
¾ Dr. Lane constructs his top secret atomic bomb in a room in the Federal Building,
guarded by only two guards. And, despite being a brilliant nuclear physicist, his
lab looks like a huge chemistry set.
¾ There is a long sequence, which seems like it takes three minutes, where Cranston
goes across town to The Shadow’s sanctum to receive a ten second message.
¾ The Shadow confronts Claymore inside a large water tank. Why Claymore goes
into the water tank, or why The Shadow is waiting there for him is never
explained. Claymore shoots The Shadow, then traps the hero inside the rapidlyfilling tank. The Shadow never thinks to shoot out the glass in the tank door.
And somehow, physics in this universe works in a way so that air bubbles come
into the tank through bullet holes, despite the enormous water pressure.
¾ There is too much Lamont Cranston, and very little of The Shadow. In fact, most
of the final battle with Shiwan Khan is fought by Cranston, not The Shadow.
¾ Shiwan Khan orders that the timer on the atomic bomb be set for two hours, but
the digital timer on the bomb reads 160 minutes.
¾ Cranston is followed by one of Khan’s Mongol warriors. Despite the fact that the
warrior is in full armor, no one sharing the sidewalk with him seems to notice.
I could go on and on, but why belabor the point. Watch the movie and see for
yourself. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In the meantime, I wonder what happened to my comics, since the filmmakers
didn’t use them. I never had any chance to speak with Mr. Baldwin after the movie came
out, so I never asked him. I left East Hampton and politics in 1996, and never looked
back (although not, despite the rumors, run out of town on a rail).
Perhaps my package never made it to Hollywood. Maybe Mr. Baldwin got it and
thought it was a wedding present (he got married shortly after filming THE SHADOW;
and Lordy, there’s a tale there). Maybe it was placed in a file for boxes from psychotic
fans. Maybe it’s in a warehouse, stored next to the Ark of the Covenant. Or maybe he’s
got the comics at his house, pulls them out once in awhile to read, thinking about what
might have been.
All I know for sure is, THE SHADOW STRIKES was one heck of a comic series,
and one of the best Shadow series ever. It was certainly better than DC’s previous
Shadow series. That comic book set in the 1980s, mercifully ended after The Shadow’s
head was cut off and stuck on a robot body.
I had forgotten how much I enjoyed THE SHADOW STRIKES until recently,
when I was able to luck onto the entire run during a sale at my favorite comics shop
42
(shout out to “The House of Secrets!”). I was even able to get an issue I had missed
originally, the last issue of the series, with a gorgeous cover by Mike Mignola.
In this series we get a Shadow that is mysterious; a grim avenger fighting crime
and dispensing justice with twin .45 automatics. We have a Margo Lane who is smart,
feisty, reliable and a valuable resource for The Shadow. We have Harry Vincent, The
Shadow’s main agent, and the one with the most appearances in the pulps. We have
other agents of The Shadow involved in the stories, including Burbank, Shreevy, Jericho
Drum, and Hawkeye. And, what was perhaps the most fun for me, we have a great fourpart crossover between The Shadow and Doc Savage, whose comic book adventures DC
was also publishing at the time.
Now there’s talk of Sam Raimi, director of the SPIDER-MAN and EVIL DEAD
films, producing a new Shadow movie. Given Mr. Raimi’s track record, and reputed love
of The Shadow, I feel pretty confident about this film. This might be the time when
Hollywood actually gets it right.
This time, however, they’ll have to do it without any help from me. I’m not
sending my comics books to anyone.
--END--
43
The Package
(Part one)
By
Greg Stephens
D
“
elores, is that you?” As I sat in my office, it didn’t seem my secretary had
been gone long enough to get my black with two sugars. I didn’t hear any knocking,
however, and I wasn’t expecting any company.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Escobar,” she said as she slowly opened my private office door.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but there was no one at the desk. Could I speak to you?”
She sure could. This lady was tall, classy and full of legs. I didn’t know who she
was, or what she wanted, but I intended to find out.
As I got up to greet my guest, my first guess was that she was a typical socialite
wife who thought her husband had a squeeze on the side and wanted me to snap a few
pictures to impress a divorce judge into giving her more of his dough. As she approached
and firmly shook my hand, I could tell that wasn’t the case. She was too confident, too
sure. Dames that think their husbands are stepping out on them are always nervous and
fragile.
“Certainly,” I responded. “What can I do for you? My name is Harlan Escobar,
by the way, and you are?”
“Pennywell. Agnes Pennywell. Thank you for your time. I need to hire you to
do something for me,” she said as she sat down at my desk.
I sat on the desk corner next to her and pulled my cigarette case from my jacket.
“Can I interest you in a cigarette?” I asked, holding the case open for her.
“No, thank you.”
“Mind if I have one?” I asked.
“Please, go ahead.”
As I lit up, I liked this lady. She was classy, but not above herself. She was
confident, but not cocky. What could she want with a gumshoe?
“So,” I continued. “What exactly can I do for you?”
44
She stood and continued, “I will pay you five hundred dollars cash to pick up a
package for me at the post office.”
I chuckled. I knew there was no such thing as easy money. I also knew that if it
was too easy, it was too good to be true. “Alright, I’ll bite since you have my attention.
Why would you need to give me that much dough to pick up a package at the post office?
I mean, that’s a lot of cash to get one package. What’s the scam?”
“Oh, no scam, Mr. Escobar. I need this package picked up and a mutual friend of
ours recommended you,” she stated.
“Really? Who might this friend be,” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Ben Roberts,” she said.
Ben Roberts was a friend of mine on the police force. In fact, he wasn’t just on
the force. He was a lieutenant. I had known Ben for years. Ben was a good guy. He
was one of the few straight guys on the force that didn’t treat us private dicks like dirt.
He let me do my job, and I let him do his. If Ben sent this dame, I felt it must be on the
up and up.
“Alright, Mrs. Pennywell. Tell me why you need me to get this package. What is
it?” I asked.
“Mr. Escobar. My husband is a very powerful man. Unfortunately, our marriage
is about at its end. He won’t let me go without a fight. I’ve had to take some extreme
steps to arrange some funds so I can leave town. I’ve sold some of my personal articles
and the funds are in that package. The problem is, I know my husband is having me
followed pretty closely. If I try to pick that package up, I’m dead.”
If she was being followed, why did she come here? I decided to pull back—at
least for now. I’d take her money, get her comfortable, then go talk to Ben, try to see
what he knew about all this.
“Alright, Mrs. Pennywell. Give me the claim ticket, and the cash, and tell me
when you need this package.”
She opened her handbag and gave me a ticket stub, along with an envelope. I was
more interested in the envelope. To my great satisfaction, it contained ten brand-new
fifty dollar bills. I walked her out of the office just as Delores returned.
“Did I miss something?” Delores asked, handing me my coffee.
“Yeah, five hundred big ones. Could you get Ben Roberts on the phone for me?”
* * * * * * * * * *
45
“Thanks for meeting me, Ben. Can I get you a sandwich?” As Ben sat across
from me at Minnie’s Diner, I could tell he was anxious. Maybe his boss wouldn’t be
crazy about him meeting up with me during the day. Maybe he knew what this
conversation was about.
“No thanks, Harlan. I’m supposed to be in a meeting with my chief right now. I
told him I had an emergency call. I better be right.”
Ben’s chief and I had a few run-ins over the years. He was a young captain who
went by the book, even if it meant blowing a case. There were many times Ben called
me, asking me to do him a favor because Captain Lotterby had messed something up.
The captain certainly never heard that in order to make an omelet, you had to break a few
eggs. In my business, the omelet got made, and it didn’t matter how many eggs got
broken.
“I’ll be quick, Ben. This Pennywell dame you sent me. What’s the story on her?
What do you know?”
As he took a sip of his coffee, he immediately acknowledged my question with a
nod of the head. “I’ll tell you what I know. Agnes Pennywell and my wife know each
other. Not real well, but a little. She comes to me with some story about needing a
package picked up, but she can’t do it herself on account of her husband. Here’s the
problem. I find out her husband is out of the country on business, and has been for well
over a year. Then, I have some friends of mine do a little snooping around, you know,
just keep their ears to the ground, and I think she’s got something illegal in that package.”
Even though things were starting to make a little more sense, although not for the
good, I interrupted with a question. “Why, then, would she come to a cop about this
package? Did she expect the cops would pick whatever this is up for her?”
He shook his head. “No. She specifically asked if I knew a trustworthy private
eye that could pick the package up for her. I figure she is using both of us to get this
package and, if on some chance someone got wise to what was inside, she could be long
gone before anyone connected her.”
That made a little more sense. Still, something wasn’t quite answered. “Ben,
what do you think is in this package, and how would your people know all this?”
“My people know her husband is a jeweler. In fact, he’s a big time jewel dealer.
Nothing crooked. Everything’s on the up and up. But they did some digging in his
records—mail and bank statements—and discovered a shipment of jewels coming to
town in his name. The only problem is, he ain’t here to get them. We suspect she’s had
them ordered using his accounts and credentials and, when they get here, she’ll take off
with them, leaving nobody any the wiser.”
46
That sounded like a more reasonable explanation than the one she gave me. I go
pick up the goods, give them to her, she and who knows who else head off far away. By
the time the husband finds out, no one will have a clue where she is. Plus, if something
goes wrong, I get nabbed for taking delivery of fraudulently obtained stones, she beats
town, and I play the patsy.
“So, what should I do?” I asked Ben.
“Go get the package. I’ll make sure there are no cops around, so nothing can go
wrong. I’ll meet you at your place tonight at ten o’clock. Once I get the package, I’ll
have the evidence to put her away.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Later that day, I went to the post office and picked up the package, with Ben
being good to his word. Everything went off without a hitch. The package was about the
size of two pairs of shoes and seemed to weigh forty pounds. If these were jewels like
Ben suspected, there could be hundreds of thousands of dollars worth in my hands.
I took a cab home, as I didn’t want to walk around the city streets if I had that
much money in stones on me. I told the driver to take the long way to the Shadynook
Apartments, and I had him take the route twice. I wasn’t going to take any chances of
someone tailing me back to my place.
Once I got back to my place, I poured myself a scotch and waited. The seconds
ticked by as if they were hours. I was nervous—real nervous. If this was Pennywell’s
scam, I didn’t know what else she was capable of. Was she having me watched to make
sure I didn’t double-cross her? Was she in cahoots with someone that might try to show
up and double-cross her? Would she come and claim the package, while perhaps
thinking of erasing the only possible witness—me?
Finally, Ben knocked on my door. I left the package on the far table away from
the door, unopened. I didn’t even know what was in the package yet, and I didn’t want to
until Ben arrived.
I let Ben in. He was alone. I could tell he was anxious to be there.
“Harlan, did you get the package?” he asked.
“Yeah, Ben I did. Won’t you have a seat? Maybe have a scotch with me?”
He began pacing, looking for the package. “Really, Harlan, thanks, but I can’t.
Just give me the package and let me get going.”
47
I knew the moment it happened. I saw his eyes connect with the package on the
table. “Well, Ben, there’s one little problem. I can’t exactly give you the package just
yet.”
Ben stopped cold and gave me a very distressed glare. “What do you mean you
can’t give me the package? This is police business. Hand it over.”
“No, you see, I can’t do that. Something bothered me a little from our
conversation earlier. I’ve been around the block enough to know that, if this was a fraud
involving a lot of money’s worth of jewels, this isn’t the way this would have went
down,” I replied.
Ben became increasingly agitated. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Well, I know if things were as you said, you guys would have to get the feds
involved, seeing how the postal system was used. Not only did you not involve the ‘g’,
but you also used me in this operation, which told me Lotterby knows nothing about this
arrangement. So, tell me, are you here to collect for Pennywell, or are you here to
double-cross her?”
With that, Ben pulled his gun from his pocket. He knew the jig was up and, if he
had his way, he’d take all the jewels and end this friendship the hard way. “Harlan, I
wish you would have just stuck to the plan. There is no way I’m letting you mess all this
up now.”
“Alright, Ben, take it easy. We can work all this out. Let’s not let this come
between our friendship. Tell me. Who was the brain, you or Pennywell?”
He laughed as he pushed me aside and grabbed the package. “Believe me. Agnes
wasn’t smart enough to come up with this herself. I put it all together. I just used her
resources to make it happen. Once you got on the case, her part was finished. She
became ‘expendable’ at that point.”
Expendable? Not only was my buddy a fraud and a thief, was he now also a
murderer? And if he killed his partner, was I next?
“Ben? You killed Pennywell?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, Harlan. Sorry about that. She had to go. She thought we were going to
run away together and split the loot. That wasn’t quite in my plans. Unfortunately,
neither was what I now have to do.”
As he raised his gun and pointed it at my chest, I shouted, “Now!” Three federal
agents barreled into my living room from the bedroom. They caught Ben by surprise,
throwing his attention off me long enough for me to knock the gun from his hand. All
three of the agents tackled him and handcuffed him. “Ben Roberts,” said one of the
48
agents. “You are under arrest for mail fraud and theft for using the United States Postal
Service to fraudulently obtain and illegally import jewels. I suspect you will also be
arrested by the local boys for the murder of Agnes Pennywell.”
And so it came to that. In a brief twelve hour period, I met a beautiful dame,
helped stop a jewel heist, and almost died. On top of that, that doll was now somewhere
pushing up daises, and my good friend Ben Roberts was on his way to the joint for the
rest of his life. The funny thing was, who knew what the next day would bring to top all
that.
--END--
49
Tokyo Rubble Redux
- a love story
By
Thierry Gaulligiere
Keika pushed and plowed her way through the mob. Elevator banks opened,
vomiting dozens more into the panicked swarm in the building’s atrium. She leapt onto
the security desk near the front doors to attempt a better vantage point. Beneath the
cacophony of chaos beat the slow, deep rhythmic rumbling of a land masses’ heart with a
muffled RUUHM. Low level bureau- and technocrats scurried like ants from a garden
hose-induced flooding of a nest. Each ill-fitting shoe skittered to and fro, yearning to
return home to their 120 square foot apartment and let the head kiss the kids goodbye
once more. A corpulent security guard, at first caught up in the confusion and whisked
twenty feet into the sea of bodies, regained his composure and noticed a young woman on
his desk.
“Hey you! Get off that console! That’s nice wood!” he yelled over the noise.
Keika turned to the security guard and he recognized the distinctive blue logo on
the name badge. Domestic Security Task Force.
“My mistake, miss,” he mumbled. “Stay up there all you like.”
Keika glowered down at the man. “I’m looking for Major Yoshida. Where is
he?”
Before he could answer her, the crowd was hushed by the death knell: the steady
rumbling was louder and more distinctive - a resonant DOOOM that reverberated
through the walls, across the floor and up the spine of every vertebrate in the city. The
spooked crowd also parted at the opening of the emergency elevator on the southern end
of the atrium. Out scrambled the security team in full riot gear, unfolding itself against a
tall, striding figure at its center. The leader held up his hand for quiet. News crews
moved in, illuminating him with camera lights. The man stopped and turned slightly to
show his good side – courage ready for its close-up. A kid in the crowd watched the
simulcast from his Watchman©, focusing on the man’s strong, concerned brow.
“Please remain calm. This is neither a drill nor the first time this has happened.
The safest thing is to stay where you are. We’re doing everything we can.”
50
With that he turned to his aide-de-camp and shot a look. His young lieutenant
stepped in front of his superior.
“Get these cameras out of here. This is not a press conference. We’re here trying
to save lives!”
Keika and the commando leader locked gazes. Neither tried to show what they
feeling at the moment.
The security guard held out a hand to Keiko helping her down off the console.
“I think you found him.”
The rumbling thumped louder now, rattling the building with a GUNGG.
The Major was nodding attentively to the small group of men when Keika
reached him.
“—just reached land, Sir. Seven clicks away from city center.”
“Make sure the fence is hot,” the Major growled, still looking at Keika. “And get
a tank battalion at the mouth of the harbor.”
With that the Sergeant left and another took his place. Keika studied his face as
he was briefed by his intelligence staff. She loved the man that no one ever got to see.
Tetsuo Yoshida was on the fast track for General, the son of samurai, but opted instead to
head the aptly renamed Deterrence Force. Outwardly, he was the perfect man for the job
– tall, muscular frame accentuated by the face and voice of a foreign war correspondent
groomed for an anchorman’s position. His was the first face, the first voice the country
showed whenever the panic struck, before PM, or even the Emperor. He was the public
salve to the all-too-frequent national anxiety. They loved him, they needed him, but they
did not know him, thought Keika. This was the same man, who now ignored the
increasingly deafening GUUNG which shook the earth to its molten core, making his
team wince and shudder who cooked for her on lazy weekends, feeding her by hand. The
same man who once wrote her twenty-six haikus illustrating his yearning for her and hid
it in her knapsack, which she opened and with an embarrassing chuckle in a commission
meeting, now concentrated on the reports by his staff, muttering orders and making
instant, life-balancing decisions. He was the star student of her father’s, the one who
understood better than anyone that this was not an enemy to destroy – it is a force that
cannot be destroyed, merely cajoled and diverted.
Fixing Keiko with his eyes, Major Tetsuo Yoshida asked her – wait.
“How long until at outer rim perimeter?”
51
Lieutenant Nakane peeked at a handheld radar display. A large blip inched
through the outermost rings towards the center.
“At current rate of speed and assuming that defenses have no effect, fifteen
minutes, sir.”
“The tension wires should stall for a couple of minutes, at least,” said Keika.
The major scratched his squared-jaw and out crept the thinnest of smiles.
“Fine. You all know what to do – get to your positions and wait for my
command.” Keika’s smile mirrored his own.
“Have my vehicle ready. It leaves in ten minutes. I need to look over some more
figures.”
Deep inside the reinforced, airtight command bunker a half mile below the city
streets, Dr. Kitaru readjusted himself in his chair. Computer charts, graphs, video
surveillance and every other possible type of head-up display caught his attention on the
bank of monitors. A plateau of lines spiked as the audio feed picked up the sound:
KOOHM. A cluster of uniformed generals and policy men hovered behind the slight,
balding scientist. “Well?” asked the most commanding of the authoritative looking
group.
“Strange,” said Dr. Seiji Kitaru, professor emeritus at the national university in
Kaiju Studies and foremost authority in Giant Monsters and Cephalapods. “The
trajectory and speed indicate that it has a purpose, but there is nothing of substance for it
to challenge it.” The same display that tracked the monster’s path had projected a course
straight for city center – directly to the government buildings. Dr. Kitaru immediately
thought of his daughter, and wished she were down in the bunker, analyzing data for the
command post, like her father. She possessed an understanding of the creature that went
beyond any tangible data that could be measured, examined, interpreted. She felt for this
creature like no one else did. Perhaps it is the incident with the Advanced Race of
Cuttlefish from Planet Xero that induced her gift to the surface. What could she be
doing? This might seem routine to her but every instance uncovers a new discovery, he
thought. For now, Dr. Kitaru relegated himself to the sobering thought that this would be
just another event to gather information for the next time, in the hopes of avoiding such a
terrible next time. Whatever was demolished of Tokyo would be built again, waiting for
the next visit.
Keika leaked out a feline purr as Tetsuo dragged his tongue across her throat. She
bit his ear, ran her fingers through his bangs and held on. The information kiosk where
they were perched upon shook with each encroaching footstep. BOOHM. They took up
the rhythm and devoured each other in the wet fire that engulfed them. Keika felt an
object, immense and nebulous float in her head, as if it was searching for something in
her subconscious. Through sheer will she kept the door closed. There was no language
52
to decipher, except that in her mind’s eye it used a question mark to bang on the door.
What are you doing, it seemed to say. The signals from the microchip fused to her
skull were attempting to wedge the door open as well. A single bead of sweat played
across Tetsuo’s cheekbone as he tensed for the itch’s release. Keika’s woman-child
features danced in the flickering lights. She fought of the intruder in her head as they
were consumed by the all-encompassing vibration. BOOHM.
At that moment, the monster knew. The high tension electrical fence had halted it
for a moment, but the pain only fed its rage. Electrical towers were snapped like
Erector© sets. The toy looking tanks had no effect, either. It either squashed them
underfoot, making a pleasant popping sound like the exploding carapace of a bug, or if in
the mood melted their titanium armor with its radioactive halitosis. But Megagojirosaur (
so named by a younger, overeager Dr. Kitaru) , hereby to be referred to as M-G halted for
a moment and focused upon the connection it had in its minivan sized brain. There was
something out there that understood it, and he had to find the source, as if spurned by precambrian instinct. But the locus of the connection was trying to hide something from it,
that there was another. A rival. All it knew was -Straight Ahead. In the outlying
suburban villages humans scurried under him, fleeing to nowhere. The giant creature
scooped up citizens by the dozens and dropped them into his mouth, gnawing on them
like so many pink, pork-flavored gummy bears. Since it first appeared over forty years
ago, M-G had been regarded by turns both foe and greatest protector – fighting off the
invasions of giant dung beetles, shitake mushrooms, snow monkeys and an alien monster
sent from the faraway Planet Xero. All had been reduced to tempura by its radioactive
breath. After the last city-destroying battle with Monster Super-X, Megagojirosaur slept,
mending his wounds in a cavern under the deep sea. But in the depths it had felt an
outside intelligent presence in his mind. Not telling it what to do as much as knowing,
understanding. It thought it was another of his kind, hopefully something reproductively
compatible. Now strong and awake, the monster focused on the link and headed for the
city. It unleashed a roar and set the countryside ablaze.
“I think it knows,” said Keika, pulling down her skirt. Tetsuo raised an arched
eyebrow.
“What? About us?”
Keika threw him a withering look. Tetsuo grimmaced as he adjusted his shoulder
holster.
“Well, I hope so. He won’t have to worry about it for much longer.”
“What are you talking about? How are you going to stop –“
Tetsuo put a finger to her lips, hushing her.
“Never mind. Go to your father. You’ll be safe in the bunker.”
53
Keiko smiled and slung the Hello Kitty backpack over her shoulders, pulling her
ponytail out in the process.
“Be careful honey. I’ll see you later.”
Keika planted a peck on Tetsuo’s lips and then turned to leave. Tetsuo grabbed
her by the arms and spun her about. He kissed her deep and pushed a slip of paper into
her hand.
“Goodbye, my love.” Tetsuo turned, grabbed the plasma rifle off the desk near
him and sprinted to the stairwell.
Tetuso jumped out of the vehicle and went up the service elevator. The chain-link
fencing that made up the door to the elevator afforded Tetsuo a clear view of the monster,
trudging though warehouses and low lying buildings as if made of Styrofoam and balsa
wood. The view was obscured periodically by the thundering jolt of each approaching
footstep. When Tetsuo reached the top, he checked the status of the technicians working
frantically. Seeing the thumbs-up from the team leader, he ordered everyone down the
elevator and to their posts.
The creature lumbered forward, dragging its tail through the wreckage. It stopped
next to the broadcast tower, head level to Tetsuo. Past the tower was the gleaming city,
with its destination at the center, the connection getting faint. Tetsuo took up the rifle and
aimed. A bolt of pure energy hit the creature broadside and it turned with a roar to face
the annoyance. Just before it toppled the tower with front legs, it noticed a human
standing defiantly in its eyesight. It regarded the human for a moment, and then it knew.
Tetsuo set his jaw, locked his eyes on the monster and flipped a switch. Megagojirosaur
inhaled and spewed forth a blast of radioactive fire upon the tower. Everything was
instantly incinerated, but not before the selenium bombs positioned above the observation
floor detonated. The powder hit the monster’s eyes and blinded it with white stinging
pain.
Keika just entered the bunker and waved to her father when the explosion went
off, registering in every measurable fashion on the display board. They watched the
tower go up in a shower of sparks and the dust cloud hit the monster, now writing in pain,
its stumpy appendages too short to reach the burning eyes. Keika thought now only of
Tetsuo the regular man – the cook, the lover, the poet. The tactile feeling came back to
her extremities and Keika suddenly remembered the paper in her hand. She unfolded it
and read the characters done in small exact calligraphy which would have made Tetsuo’s
ancestors proud:
I lose myself in you.
Later I find myself
Wanting to get lost again.
54
The rush of grief was too much for Keiko, who held her father’s brittle frame.
The performance of the Xerobian microchip became compromised briefly by the massive
influx of emotional, non-logical data. Metallic synapses snapped from the stress of
unknown parameters, but would self-repair, with time.
The Creature shook its head violently to remove the blinding powder. All it felt
was pain and darkness. The connection was severed. The monster turned away from the
gleaming city and sloughed back into the sea, to wait for another time, another signal.
--END--
55
The Fair Folk
By
Alex Epstein
They came on Hallowe'en, of course. That's the night the Veil is thinnest, they
say; and if you ever walked the hills at dusk near Chipping Norton, on a field brown and
bare from the harvest, you felt it. If you had glimpsed the first ones through, you might
have seen only exceptionally well-costumed kids. But they were not children. The
nobles were as beautiful as the stories said, in supple bronze armor that showed no seam.
The later ones were eerie, grotesque, like a bad joke on nature. They were harder than
our tales had remembered them, crueler and ungodly faster.
In American movies, the police laugh off the teenager screaming into the 'phone.
But after the third lorry driver called them on his mobile, the police were on it, and soon
after, the Army. By luck, an entire armored division was on maneuvers not five miles
away. But there was fog, and twilight lingered impossibly past noon. They marched
across field and hedgerow, spreading out like water welling up from a spring; and as they
spread, the tanks stopped, one by one. Radio and telephones went dumb as stone, and a
shroud dropped between us and the world. By the village, three privates armed with M
16's slaughtered an entire battalion of their fiercest warriors. They say the soldiers wept
as they scythed down the proud ranks. But then the boys somehow mistook one another
for enemies. That must have happened more than once, soldiers failing to see the
enemies right in front of them, or walking behind them, or ran off ledges, or shot each
other. Then the guns, too, malfunctioned, or seemed to; in that turmoil of glamour, who
could say what was failing and what only appeared to fail? By nightfall, any battalion
we sent they brushed aside like an unpleasant thought, the survivors staggering back,
witless, to join the refugees.
Oh, yes, the refugees. The invaders had come to reclaim their land. Generations
ago, mundane men, with dour minds that glamour could not swerve, had crossed the
bitter sea in shivering boats to seize this green and pleasant land. By cold iron, the wild
gentry had been forced into woods and bracken, and then into sunless darkness. Perhaps
thirty centuries they had languished under hill. How, then, could we expect mercy?
They set apartment buildings afire with a species of green flame that burned concrete and
seemed to laugh as women screamed. They marched fifty miles a day, tirelessly, and the
shroud of electronic silence spread with them; and ahead of them, the roads swelled like
brooks in April. The thousands fleeing became tens of thousands, then hundreds of
thousands.
The Prime Minister did the only possible thing. He asked the Americans for
missile strikes.
56
The missiles blew up in their silos, somewhere in the open prairie.
Fortunately, some cherished the old tales. They knew the fair folk could not bear
cold iron or the love of God. We had long since sold our pure, abiding faith for
machinery, but iron was another matter. They respected even a housewife with a cast
iron skillet; but we had a club of history buffs who had forged iron swords in the manner
of the Celtic smiths. Against a man wielding one of these, the glamour had no effect, and
the merest cut sent the blackest giant howling for the woods. They armed every man who
still had his nerve. There was a steel factory near Sheffield that we almost converted in
time.
But there was no time. The foreigners fell, horribly burned, but they came on,
and their vengeance on those who had wielded iron was unspeakable.
The witches of Britain summoned themselves together in the biggest convocation
since they had gathered in 1940 to bind Hitler from crossing the Channel. There was a
huge mob scene at Stonehenge. They whooped and chanted and danced a spiral dance,
from dusk till dawn, and cast a fearsome binding spell.
Nothing happened. I am told that magic does not come naturally to human
beings. It must be coaxed, and still it is a feeble thing. The fair bright legions storming
across the motorways, the squat ones who could gnaw one of those atrocious office
blocks to sand, the tiny, exquisite winged women whose voice must be obeyed, the barkskinned ones with twisted arms no thicker than your wrist, who could pile those ugly
little delivery vans onto a bonfire: well, they were magic.
The legends said there was a King Who Sleeps. He was Arthur, the Once and
Future King; or Bran the Blessed, or Owein Glyndwr, and he must wake to save the land
from its gravest danger. When I was a child and the Blitz was smashing London to
rubble, I was perversely reassured the land was safe, because the King had not awakened.
He slept in a hill, his men about him. A golden horn hung on the wall. From time to time
a shepherd would chase a sheep into a cave and discover the chamber. But they would
try to filch his gold. Or their shuffling would half-wake him, and he would mumble "Is it
time?" and in their fright they would tell him it was not yet time, and he would sleep on.
In those desperate days, more than a few, abandoning all hope in technology, even
went searching for the King Who Sleeps.
I used to search for magic. I could summon up the magic of an evening with a
few paragraphs, and I met a girl who fell in love with me for it. She knew magic in the
north doors of old churches, the mossy shadows of country lanes, in bread fresh from the
oven, in the dreaming hills at night. Oh, that seems threadbare, sitting there dull on the
page. But I was always threadbare. I wrote about magic, but I never knew it.
57
Now magic has returned to the land, but it is no joy to me or the sixty millions
shivering in refugee camps across the Channel. There have never been so many people
homeless, not even when the Hun swarmed across Europe. And who's to say that's the
end of it? Germany had its trolls and nixies, elves and dark-elves. The Greeks had their
Cyclops and chimaerae. The Great Plains of the United States shimmered with Coyote
and Raven and a thousand animal spirits. Why should they not also return?
They do not tell me. I am their honored guest, they say, and they are pleased to
let me inhabit my humble cottage so long as I live. That may be a long time, for I find
that when I cut myself, I heal as fast as when I was a boy. My bones do not ache, even
when the rain comes, every evening, slow, and honey-scented. In Faerie, the soul ages
faster than the flesh.
There are others who live under Faerie's dominion, the scattered hundreds who
kept true to the old ways. To the fair folk, custom is law, and they are obliged to repay
gifts. Some left out milk by the front door, and swept the hearth every night. Some
young women, self-appointed witches, invoked the old names. Some addled old men
lived in country cottages with butterfly gardens, praying that the hurtling world would
slow before it crashed, and that was enough. We gather, from time to time, in the long
summer evenings, when the crops have nothing to do but grow. Travel is difficult, of
course, for the others have taken the horses. But we walk the necessary miles.
They are strange gatherings. In the warmth of bonfires, we play at "supermarket,"
putting as many brands as we can into our imaginary basket, and the "clerk" quotes us
prices, which we then all argue about. We play at "emergency ward," remembering when
our doctors performed miracles with fleets of machines, or tried. My favorite is when we
count down the launch of Apollo 11. One of the gentry tells me she has been to the
Moon, riding a sea shell and pulled by sparrows, and she does not lie. But it was
somehow grander to ride there in a tiny bucket of steel balanced atop a pillar of fire.
It is hard to say the before days were happier. After the specialist told Jane what
was coming, each dawn ached. Before I met her, I was a stone. But here there is an
eternal melancholy that tints even the sunlight. No matter how much we longed for this
in some secret part of our hearts, none of us is content.
But for me it is worse. I have a secret I must keep; for how could they forgive
me? They all have relatives in the camps; their sons and fathers fell in the war.
Once a King slept Under Hill. As a child, I hoped that it would be I who found
him, for I would be brave enough to blow the horn, and summon the rightful ruler of the
land. When I became a man, I tried in books to summon forth what I could of that golden
age of Arthur. It was only an echo of the true horn's voice, and only awakened an echo of
the King. But it was better than the dreamless sleep of which my holy island was dying.
They were breaking ground for a strip mall, American-style, across the street from
the little parish church that had been there since Domesday. For a thousand years that
58
church had faced nothing but a stone wall and the field beyond it. I started to walk past
the tractors and cranes, but I could not. I shouted incoherently at the workers and
stumbled back along the footpath, and then into my fields, and then into fields I did not
know. I fell in a hole, just like in stories.
I was in a chamber wrought of silk and dark wood. A king slept on his throne,
face in his hands, his men sleeping in their cloaks, as if he had kept vigil over them until
he could no longer stay awake.
I saw the horn. I picked it up and blew. I had no hesitation at all.
As he lifted his face from his hands, I saw that his ears were too long and pointed,
his eyes black eggs. His long face was eerily beautiful, but inhuman. In all of it I saw no
hint of mercy, no compassion, no pity.
There was a King who slept Under Hill, waiting. But he was not Arthur, or
Owein Glyndwr, or any human king. How could he be? They are all long dead, for a
mortal span is a moment's gasp. He was Oberon, the King of the Seelie and Unseelie
Courts, ruler of selkie and kelpie, goblin and troll and pixie, banshee and brownie and all
the Fair Folk; and I am he who woke him.
--END--
59
Joe Lansdale:
The Interview
By
Tim Gallagher
JOE LANSDALE, described as a “Mojo storyteller,” was born and raised in East Texas.
He has written over thirty books, such as the Edgar Award-winning THE BOTTOMS, A
FINE DARK LINE, HIGH COTTON, and a series of novels featuring the team of Hap
Collins and Leonard Pine (SAVAGE SEASON, MUCH MOJO, TWO-BEAR CHILI,
and more). He is the author of numerous short stories; has scripted episodes for the
BATMAN and SUPERMAN animated series; and has written comic books, usually
teamed with artist Tim Truman (SCOUT, GRIMJACK, HAWKWORLD). Mr. Truman
also provided the cover for RETRO-PULP TALES, the Bram Stoker Award-winning
pulp anthology edited by Mr. Lansdale.
Mr. Lansdale is the recipient of numerous awards, among which are: 7 Bram Stoker
Awards for horror fiction, the British Fantasy Award, the Horror Critics Award, the New
York Times Notable Book Award, the Critic’s Choice Award. He was named Grand
Master at the 2007 World Horror Convention in Toronto for his contributions to the field
of horror fiction.
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His Bram Stoker Award-nominated novella BUBBA HO-TEP was made into the 2002
film of the same title by director Don Coscarelli (PHANTASM). The film starred Bruce
Campbell as Elvis and Ossie Davis as JFK, who battle a
soul-sucking mummy in an East Texas senior citizen
home.
Mr. Lansdale is also a martial arts expert and member of
the Martial Arts Hall of Fame. He is the creator of Shen
Chuan Martial Science. Mr. Lansdale, with his wife,
Karen, currently lives in Nagadoches, Texas, where he
also teaches at his Shen Chuan Martial Arts Academy.
For more info about Mr. Lansdale, his writing, his Mojo,
and Shen Chuan, go to www.joelansdale.com.
This interview was conducted by Tim Gallagher, with
assistance from John Carlucci and Katherine Tomlinson,
via e-mail. Tim was afraid to call Mr. Lansdale because
he had heard that certain martial arts masters could kill
people over the phone, and he didn’t want to chance it.
ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE: Let's start with a brief biography. Give
us the secret origin of Joe Lansdale.
JOE LANSDALE: I was born in 1951 in Gladewater, Texas, which is in East Texas.
And there are no mountains, plains, or deserts here. It's woods and creeks and rivers, and
man-made lakes (one natural lake, and it's huge--CADDO LAKE). I graduated from
Gladewater High School, had some college credit, farmed, did all manner of jobs, mostly
manual labor, and then my stuff started selling. I sold the first piece when I was 21,
though I may have been twenty-two when it first appeared.
AAM: Was that first piece a short story or a novel? Do you remember the title? Who did
you sell it to? How much did you make for it?
JL: The first piece I sold was an article written under my
mother's name and with her for farm journal. It was about
digging holes to garden for therapy. It was a collaboration.
We didn't make much, and we split it. But it won a prize as
most popular article and we got another check on it to split.
We probably made about twenty bucks a piece at most. Back
then, twenty bucks was a lot more money than now. It would
be like a hundred dollars or more. I placed a number of nonfiction articles after that. It was the middle, late seventies
when I began to sell fiction, in my mid-twenties. At the age
of 29 I went full-time as a writer and have been full-time
ever since.
AAM: When you started out how did you write - on a manual typewriter? An electric?
Long hand on a legal pad?
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JL: As a kid I wrote long hand, but when I learned to type in High School, I typed
when I had a typewriter. My first one was hard to use. You practically had to stand
on the keys. When I started to try and write for a living, my wife had an old man-ual
Smith Corona, I think it was, from Montgomery Wards, and I wrote with that until I
could afford an electric. My original electrics had keys and I wore out one just
about every year until I started buying different kinds of typewriters in my early,
middle thirties. I wore those out, too. I later got typewriters with some computer
elements. I still have one of my old typewriters. I gave some of the older ones that still
worked away to aspiring writers here and there.
AAM: You've been described as a "mojo storyteller." What is
a mojo storyteller? And how does one acquire the mojo?
JL: My webmaster, Lou Bank, came up with that. And it's
very clever. It means someone who loves telling stories.
AAM: Were the people in your family storytellers? You’re
from Texas, did you grow up hearing tall tales?
JL: My father and uncles and a lot of the Lansdales were
story tellers. But not necessarily tall tales. They told stories
much as many of mine are, for the truth, but with Texas
hyperbole. I come from that tradition. My grandmother told
me ghost stories. Not many, but the ones she told me stuck
with me. My father when he was in the right mood was a great storyteller. He couldn't
read or write much, but if he had been able to, he might well have been a writer himself.
AAM: For our readers who may never have been to Texas, can you describe for them the
vast difference between East Texas and West Texas,
beyond just the geography?
JL: East Texas is lush with large trees and
undergrowth. It’s wetter, not quite as swampy as
Louisiana, but it has a lot of that, and similar animals.
West Texas is dry and there are very few trees and a lot
less water. We're humid, they're dry. I prefer here, by a
long shot.
AAM: Did you always want to be a writer, or were you
on some other life path before the writing bug took
hold?
JL: Always wanted to be a writer, but I worked basic
jobs along the way and considered anthropology,
journalism, farming and martial arts instructor as
62
careers along the way. Much as I love all those subjects, I thought of them as a path to
writing. I managed to farm some, studied a bit of anthropology in college (read a lot more
on my own) and have been a martial artist for 44-45 years. I own my own school and am
the founder of Shen Chuan (Spirit Fist).
AAM: So, the other jobs were to keep body and soul together until you could make a
living as a writer. What type of farming did you do? Dairy? Soybeans?
JL: We did truck cropping. Which means small crops
harvested and hauled by pickup to market. We sold things to a
health food store, but we made most of our money by working
for other farmers, and we grew all our own food.
AAM: You're writing runs the gamut from short stories, to
novels, to comic books, to scripts for animated shows, to
screenplays. Is there any one format that you prefer, or does
the story dictate the format?
JL: I like novels and short stories, short stories are my
favorite. But I also like working in other mediums. It helps
keep me fresh, and always helps me stay in the game.
AAM: You were the writer of JONAH HEX and LONE RANGER mini-series. What was
it that drew you to these characters? Or did the publishers approach you because of the
Westerns you've written and that you're from Texas?
JL: I had written a four-part comic called BLOOD
AND SHADOWS for them (DC Comics), but the
artist, who is very good, took forever, so this
project was offered to me to go with Tim Truman.
They thought we would make a good team. I think
they were right. We're still a good team. This led to
the LONE RANGER, and other projects.
AAM: If memory serves, Johnny and Edgar
Winter were threatening lawsuits over one of your
JONAH HEX stories, claiming the villains were
based on them. Can you shed any light on this?
What was the ultimate resolution?
JL: It was based on their stage persona, not them.
They tried some ludicrous claim that we were for
the destruction of all albinos. So ridiculous. We
were parodying all manner of music. There was
nothing personal about it, and no one in their right
minds would think we were trying to suggest this
63
was them.
AAM: Have you checked out the new JONAH HEX and LONE RANGER comic book
series? What is your opinion of them?
JL: I haven't checked them out. So no opinion.
AAM: Your LONE RANGER AND TONTO was a great take on the characters. What
influenced your take on them? Did you watch the Clayton Moore TV show when you
were growing up? Listen to the old radio shows?
JL: I grew up on THE LONE RANGER TV show and
films and loved him, and later I listened to some of the
radio shows when they became collectable and you
could buy them. I was too young to have heard them
growing up. When I wrote the Lone Ranger, I took a
more modern spin, because I felt that I needed to
understand the characters better, who they were and why
they did things. And it al-ways seemed to me that Tonto
was a kind of second-class citizen in the stories, though
not as much as other things of the time. I wanted to give
Tonto some space.
AAM: You've worked quite a bit with artist Tim Truman
- on JONAH HEX, LONE RANGER, and he did the
cover to RETRO PULP TALES. Do you two have any
projects in the works?
JL: D.C. brought us together, and we still work together when the project is right. We
recently did CONAN SONGS OF THE DEAD for DARK HORSE. The issues have
been bound in one volume. I really like it, and so did the
majority of the readers.
AAM: What led you to put together and edit RETRO
PULP TALES?
JL: I just loved the idea of new writers writing older
model stuff. Many of those writers grew up on that
material, and some grew up on it second hand. I believe
there may be a second volume.
AAM: Who are some of your favorite writers working in
the pulp genre now?
JL: I'm not sure what the pulp genre is now. I don't
know how to answer that. There are a lot of writers who
64
have those sensibilities, but are modern at the same time. F. Paul Wilson comes to mind,
even Andrew Vachss whose Burke reminds me as a kind of modern, hip version of THE
SHADOW and a darker DOC SAVAGE. Of course, Andrew's books are also about
things that matter, but he has the pulp element. The secret organization with specialties. I
love that stuff.
AAM: Is there anybody you’d like to work with?
JL: I don't think about working with anyone, though I have done it a few times, and will
most likely do it again. As a writer, film and comics is more likely. I don't know about
books and stories, though I wouldn't rule it out, and have done it. I work best alone.
AAM: Did you read pulps and/or comic books as a kid? If so, what were your favorites?
JL: The pulps were pretty much gone whenI was
born, but I read comics, which were pulp inspired,
and stories from the pulps that were collected here
and there, and later, a few of the old pulps
themselves. Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E.
Howard, Ray Bradbury, many others that came
from the pulps.
AAM: Is there a particular genre that you're drawn
to when writing?
JL: No. Not really. I just go through stages.
AAM: Are there any genres that you shy away
from or avoid completely?
JL: Not on purpose. There are probably some
that don't interest me. Pure romance, for example.
I can't see me doing that. But, I never say never.
AAM: I believe BUBBA HO-TEP is one of the greatest American motion pictures since
CITIZEN KANE (then again, presently I am heavily medicated). Can you tell us how
this cinematic gem came to life? And do you have any news on the sequel, BUBBA
NOSFERATU?
JL: I have no news on the sequel. I'm not involved in that, but I know Don (Coscarelli,
director of BUBBA HO-TEP) is working on it.
AAM: How involved were you in the first movie? Were you approached by Mr.
Coscarelli, or were you shopping the story around?
65
JL: Don kept me in the loop and asked my advice now and then. I saw the early script
and had a comment or two, but mostly he was just true to the story. Re-cently I saw that
there is a new Bubba Ho-tep DVD out with a little Elvis Jump suit covering the DVD. I
liked that. I just recently bought the Action Figures from Reel Toys. That's a hoot. They
look really cool.
AAM: Do you have any embarrassing secrets to share about BUBBA HO-TEP star Bruce
Campbell? Editor-in-chief JDC and I need payback big time; because of him we saw a
film titled HATRED OF A MINUTE, and I’ve been crying myself to sleep ever since.
JL: No embarrassing things about Bruce. He's a good, hard working guy, and I like
him a lot. I do have this. When he and Don were kind enough to come here to
Nacogdoches for a film festival, we went out to a local Italian restaurant, and the
waiter looked at Bruce, did a double take, said, "Did anyone ever tell you you look
like that guy in Army of Darkness?"
Bruce said, "I get that a lot."
My wife and daughter eventually told the waiter it was Bruce, but I thought that was
funny. I'm sure he does get that a lot.
AAM: You are the founder of Shen Chuan,
Martial Science. How did you become involved
in the martial arts? What led to the creation of
Shen Chuan? What makes Shen Chuan different
from other martial arts disciplines? If someone is
interested in studying Shen Chuan, how can they
find a class near them (without moving to
Nagodoches, TX)?
JL: My father did some wrestling and boxing and
he taught me some things when I was eleven, or
twelve years old, and then I started taking Judo at
the Y, and then Hapkido, Taekwondo, Kenpo,
others, and then I branched out over the years and took in many places from many
people. I love it. I enjoy teaching. Right now Rockwall has a Shen Chuan instructor, and
in Louisville, Ky is an instructor who teaches concepts and principles from Shen Chuan
along with Indonesian and Filipino arts. In Houston one of my instructors teaches private
classes. We may soon have something in Nashville. We're not
trying to be the McDonalds of martial arts, and we don't try to run
huge schools. It's very self-defense oriented, and though students
of mine have competed in tournaments, mixed martial arts events,
and have done well, I don't push the competition side. I used to do
some of that, but I wanted a system of self-defense with that mind
set, and
something you could do, with variations of course, when you're
young, and when you're old. I'm proud of the system, and I have a
number of fine instructors who have made it work. We have a
66
major camp every year the first weekend in October, and we bring in other systems, and
it's a great time.
AAM: Your work is extensive and varied. Do you have any favorites amongst your
stories? If so, why are they your favorite(s)?
JL: I love THE BOTTOMS, A FINE DARK LINE, SUNSET AND SAWDUST, THE
DRIVE-IN, MUCHO MOJO, all the short story collections, especially HIGH COTTON
and BUMPER CROP which contain a broad section of my best work. But, lately there
has been a lot of new stuff, so those collections will have to be expanded, revamped at a
later date.
AAM: What story or novel of yours do you recommend to someone who has never read a
Joe Lansdale story?
JL: THE BOTTOMS.
AAM: Who are your favorite authors? What are your favorite books? What do you like
about them?
JL: I love so many authors. Early on E. R. Burroughs, Edgar Allan Poe, Jack London,
Robert E. Howard, Gardner Fox (comics mostly), then a little later, Neal Barrett, Jr, Mark
Twain, Robert Bloch, Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, William F.
Nolan, and then later yet Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Flannery O'Conner is very
major for me. Some Faulkner, Carson McCuller, Raymond Chandler, Dashiel Hammett,
James Cain, Robert Alter, William Goldman, it goes on and on.
AAM: Speaking of Edgar Rice Burroughs,
you are the co-writer of the last Tarzan story,
TARZAN: THE LOST ADVENTURE,
something I’m sure many writers would have
given their eyeteeth to do. How did this come
about? Did you pursue this with the
Burroughs’ estate, or did they approach you?
JL: I was asked to do it by Pete Janes who
was an editor at Dark Horse. I had a series of
comics being done over there based on my
stories, and he and I spoke over the telephone,
and he mentioned the unfinished book.
AAM: Do you know if any other authors were
considered for this project?
JL: I said Philip Jose Farmer ought to do it. Pete said, "Well, we were thinking of you."
And I said, "Tough luck, Phil," and was happy to do it. It probably got the most negative
67
reviews of any of my works, and it all came from the Burroughs community, who mostly
just seemed mad I got to do it. They also said I corrupted his work.
AAM: Was this a case of finishing an already-started manuscript, or were you working
from an outline and notes?
JL: I moved a lot of his story, paragraphs, sentences around,
and fitted them into the text at different spots. Most of what he
had was not his best work, and that's why it was unfinished. He
whacked a lion or panther on every page. Pete Janes said, "No
wonder the animals in Africa are endangered." I also wanted to
give tribute to my sentimental favorite author without mocking
him.
AAM: Was there a conscious effort on your part to match
ERB’s writing style?
JL: I tried to write in the same vein, but not exactly like him,
because no one can.
AAM: What projects are you working on presently? What can we expect
down the pike?
JL: I'm taking a short rest, and then I have a short story to write, and then a new novel.
AAM: One final question, to settle a bet amongst us here
at ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE, based
upon your martial arts expertise: Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan,
Sammo Hung, Jet Li, Chuck Norris, Donnie Yen, Steven
Seagal, Tony Jaa, and a gorilla raised at the Shaolin
Temple are locked in a steel-cage death match. Who gets
out alive?
JL: Questions about who would whip who just make my
ass tired. I don't care. It depends on who brought the gun.
AAM: That would be the gorilla, then. I win the bet!
Thank you very much, Mr. Lansdale, and keep those
stories coming.
All books "Copyright Joe Lansdale. All rights reserved."
Lone Ranger TV series photo: "Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels, LONE RANGER TV series. Phot: Howard
Franklin Archives, copyright uncertain."
Lone Ranger #1 cover: "LONE RANGER AND TONTO #1, Topps Comics, by Joe Lansdale and Tim Truman. Art
TM and Copyright Lone Ranger Properties. All rights reserved."
68
"JONAH HEX: RIDERS OF THE WORM AND SUCH #4, by Joe Lansdale and Tim Truman, featuring the Autumn
Brothers. Copyright DC Comics."
"JONAH HEX Vol. 2 #1, art by Luke Ross. Copyright DC Comics."
"JONAH HEX: TWO GUN MOJO" by Joe Lansdale and Tim Truman. Copyright DC Comics."
"CONAN AND THE SONGS OF THE DEAD #1, by Joe Lansdale and Tim Truman. Copyright Dark Horse Comics
Inc. and/or its respective licensors."
--END--
69
He Married a Yeti
By
Lloyd Hudson Frye
A
“
BOMINABLE SNOWGROOM” The 1952 headline read like a fourth page
piece in the gossip rags. Here in the grand ballroom of the London Historical Society,
with reporters from all the major papers of the world, it seemed to be the biggest story of
the century. My name is Random Spencer. I work for the London Daily, third largest
paper in England. When my editor said, this is your assignment, I almost sent spittle into
his face, but when he continued with that worried look on his mug, I sobered up. He said
there wasn’t time to go to Tibet to verify the story, just have to report what this chap has
to say.
Jimmy T. (for Tall) Long would be my photographer, the best in the business, at
6’ 10” tall, he always got the perfect shot. He would lean over the crowd of reporters and
take his shot from above. We had worked together before on several assignments and got
along brilliantly.
Traffic was worse than usual, but the cabbie found a couple of passable back
alleys, and dropped us off in front of the impressive façade in plenty of time. I tipped him
double, and he gave me a great big toothless smile. The front steps were packed with
reporters in front of their cameramen, using the massive, marble-covered building as a
backdrop. I followed Jimmy up through the solid mass of suits, fedoras, and umbrellas.
He always managed to cut his way through a crowd like an Antarctica ice breaker, using
size and weight to push men to the side.
There was quite a delay at the door when a Press Pass didn’t seem to be enough to
get by the coppers with the clipboards. I stepped in front of Jimmy, and folded a hundred
pound note into the hand of an eager looking young man, with a badge marked monitor.
Soon our names were added to the list by hand, and he winked at me, as we squeezed
through the opening. The room was immense; ceilings at least twenty-five feet high,
mahogany paneled walls, huge chandeliers, and carpet with pile so thick, it was hard to
walk. The dais was six feet off the main floor, several white-haired men sat in tuck-androll, red leather, high back chairs, seemingly bored with the proceedings at that point.
The noise level forced me to scream into Jimmy’s ear, “Get closer for the close
up.” I would stay back and record from the recording stage, using one of the plug-in
circuits provided. Using a large gavel repeatedly, a tall, thin man with a handle-bar
moustache, called the press conference to order. He then introduced the guest speaker, Sir
William Benchley Larchmount IV, Earl of Dover.
70
A very old man entered from a side door, hunched over, with the aid of a walker,
he inched toward the pulpit. The flashes were increasing in intensity, finally, he stood in
front of what had to be a hundred microphones, jammed together like tiny POWs in a
small battle-field prison. Loud-mouthed reporters in front, were yelling out questions, but
the old man just stood there, silent. Finally, the roar died down and the speaker asked if
those in the back could hear, a trick used by pros to get a crowd to quiet down. In a soft,
shaky voice Sir William began his tale.
“In the summer of 1743, several landed men of my acquaintance, formed an
expedition to the Tibetan Himalayas, to search for the Abominable Snowman. Legend
had it, that they were to be found high in the mountains, in ice caves. Money was no
object, so supplies were carried by over a hundred locals from base camp, to the first high
camp. This would serve as the focal point, for any number of small excursions looking
for signs of the Yeti. It was on one of those small hunts, that our party fell victim to an
avalanche. In our attempt to dig out, my guide, Mantunin, and I managed to loosen an ice
bridge over a chasm. The bridge collapsed, and both of us fell a score of meters into the
abyss. When we came to a stop, it was dark, with just a dim hint of sunlight from far
above. I checked for broken bones and cuts, both deadly in the higher elevations.
Mantunin said he was good for hunt, but he groaned right after.”
Sir William paused, held a glass of water to his lips, and returned it somehow
without spilling it. His trembling hands were noticeable from the back of the room. He
smiled, like that was an accomplishment, then continued.
“Before we could even brush the snow off our parkas, two huge forms leaned
over and lifted each of us to our feet. Even in the dark it was obvious they were giants, at
least three meters tall.
The room broke out in chaos, as the obvious finally hit the slowest of the
reporters. Shouts of “Fraud” and “Imposter” were heard. Sir William remained calm,
taking advantage of the situation, to take another drink of water. As the shouting turned
to grumbling, he continued.
“We were brought into a monstrous cave, with twenty foot stalactites hanging
from the top. The bottom was made up of ten foot stalagmites, which formed small rooms
with smooth floors. There were torches in sconces around the entire perimeter. Sunken
down four meters, in the middle of the complex, was a small volcanic fountain, complete
with churning red-orange lava. Around the fountain were three rows of seating, just like
the Coliseum, only smaller. Seated around the circle were dozens of Yeti with…”
Again the room erupted into a din, as many covered their ears, the flashes started
up again. The man who had introduced Sir William stood up, leaned over to the
microphone, and said that if this continued, the press conference would be over, and
everyone would have to settle for a standard issued statement.
71
“We were ushered to the edge of the fountain. Thoughts of human sacrifice to the
mountain “God of Fire” raced through my head. My resolve to be brave to the end, had
me standing straight and holding a stiff upper lip. Mantunin, on the other hand, had bent
over as if his ribs were broken. The Yeti discussed our fate for some time. I watched
their faces for signs of anger, no emotion was in their speech.”
He stopped. The room was totally silent.
“Then, from the back, a shorter Yeti raced down to me and threw its body over
mine, taking me to the floor with its weight. The voice was high, I guessed it was a
female. She seemed to be pleading for my life. The story of Captain Smith and Matoaka
“Pocahontas” came to mind. Could this be some sort of redemption ceremony? What had
to be a warrior, dropped his hatchet onto the floor with a deafening clank. My body
relaxed for the first time since the fall. I noticed how heavy she was, thirty stones or so.
The king or leader called out a final decree and the tribal meeting ended, with everyone
returning to their rooms.”
He stopped for another drink. The men in the room were spellbound, not a single
conversation could be heard.
“The girl Yeti took my hand and placed it on her chest and said ‘MEEO’. I told
her my name, she shook her head and holding her hand over my chest said, ‘OOHO’,
which later, I found out meant, small hairless one. The next thing I knew she pulled me to
my feet, dragging me off to one of the outer rooms of the cave. I turned to Mantunin, but
he also had a smaller Yeti dragging him off, in a very possessive manner.”
He stopped, smiled, and continued.
“I won’t go into any details of our life together, even in my book. What I will tell
you, is that Yeti women are what men dream about, when they think of the perfect
woman. There were several children from that marriage, each one a gift from God
Himself. After her death I left the cave, never to return.”
At this point Sir William broke down and cried. No one moved. Finally he
regained his composure and asked if there were any questions.
“Sir William, did you mean the 1943 expedition to Tibet?”
“No, 1743.”
“But how could you live over 200 years?”
“The Yeti worship a tiny white frog that survives freezing. Once thawed, it is
ground into meal. There are ceremonies, where each member of the tribe is given a flat
wafer on their tongues and told it is their right to life.”
72
“Will you go back someday?”
“My heart would break in two, if I ever returned to our room in the cave”
The clamor rose to a fevered pitch as men pressed forward to shout their
questions. The cameras flashed, shouting increased, and the pushing started. The
announcer got up, said the conference was over, and led the old man back to the side
door.
I slumped into an empty chair. It was certainly an interesting story, but with no
time to substantiate before for the midnight deadline, I was forced to settle to find out
whether there was ever an Earl of Dover by that name in the 1740s.
I called the library in Dover and sweet-talked a Miss Louise Thumb to look on
their records for an expedition to Tibet in 1743 and a certain land owner named William
Benchley Larchmount IV, Earl of Dover. She came back a few minutes later and
confirmed both for me. I promised I would send her a signed copy of his book.
--END--
73
The 3rd Option
By
Geoffrey Thorne
Tuesday 1130 PST
Cross hated going in to work. It was an archaic practice, one he'd petitioned the
top brass many times to dump.
“Everybody works in VR,” he would say. “It’s easier.”
“You’re an Advocate, Cross,” was the standard Management response.
“Advocates show up to work. In person. It’s tradition.”
Tradition also dictated he take on the occasional case of a colleague when said
colleague got swamped.
"Okay, Dr. Eidling?" said Cross, beginning. The older man nodded. "Pleased to
meet you, sir. I'm Advocate Cross. I'll be taking over for Advocate Kelly."
Eidling nodded again but said nothing.
"Okay," said Cross in his best modulation. "Why don't we take it from the top?"
"I hardly know where to begin," said Eidling after a little.
“All right, I’ll start," said Cross. His hand strayed to the touchpad on the edge of
his desk and began tapping. Immediately an overview of Eidling's employment history
appeared in the air between them. "Your jobtag says you work for Behl's Theoreticians in
their Macro Chaotics branch.”
"That's correct,” said Eidling.
"And what is that?" said Cross.
"Essentially," began Eidling with a contemplative frown. "Macro chaoticists study
patterns of chaos. At Behl's we are attempting to assemble a workable description of what
Reality is made.”
74
“We're talking sub-atomic particles, right?" said Cross trying to get his brain
around exactly what it was that was being described to him.
Eidling chuckled softly. "Some of my colleagues are engaged in research of that
sort. My work focuses on a somewhat broader venue."
“Is it safe to say your work is mostly theoretical?”
“Entirely,” said the smaller man.
"Well,” said Cross. "Forgive me, but what kind of trouble could you possibly get
in just sitting around thinking?"
"That would depend entirely on what one thinks about," said Eidling. "Wouldn't
you agree?"
Cross wasn't sure he did agree but he let it go. Eidling did seem anxious about
something. "Here’s an idea," he ventured. "Why don't you just tell me what is it you'd
like me to do for you?"
"I'm just getting to that, Advocate Cross," said Eidling with the barest hint of
irritation.
“Sorry, Doc,” said Cross, settling in. “Take your time.”
Eidling’s eyes drifted for a bit as if he was trying to find the precise place where
he’d broken from his narrative. Then, "The research in which I and my partner Dr. Van
Wyck were engaged was extremely esoteric" he said.
"What is reality?" muttered Cross in response. "Yes. I think I got that."
Eidling shot Cross a severe look. "What you didn't get, Advocate," he said,
"because I haven't yet told you, is that we were very close to resolving that question once
and for all."
"You were?"
"Yes," said Eidling. "Very close. I won't bore you with the math. Suffice it to say,
we were within weeks, perhaps days, of a workable theory explaining the fundamental
nature of¬– well– everything."
"So," said Cross, grinning. "You and this Van Wyck had your Nobel speeches
ready."
75
Eidling smiled back. "Indeed, Mr. Cross," he said with a chuckle. "But, while my
own head was in those clouds, Dr. Van Wyck raised an issue which had never once
occurred to me."
"And that was?" said Cross.
"Why?" said Eidling.
"Excuse me, sir," said Cross. "Why what?"
"Why were we," said Eidling, "why was anyone, engaged in this research?"
"Well," said Cross. "Doesn't Behl's engage almost exclusively in theoretical
research?"
"Of course," said the little man. "But all of that research has some obvious
practical application. You know: better plasteel, realistic VR environments, A.I.'s with
individual personalities. All of these were made possible by research done at Behl's."
Cross knew all that already. Behl's Theoreticians was the only Megacorp that
didn't manufacture goods of some kind. Their product consisted of data and advice. He'd
often wondered why The Advocacy had even bothered including them in the charter. All
they did was sit around and think, for God's sake. How could that possibly cause harm to
the population at large?
"Indeed, before coming over to Macro Chaotics,” Eidling continued, ”Karin- Dr.
Van Wyck- had worked in the particle physics branch. While there she’d seen some of
her own theories applied to destructive ends and was determined that it not happen
again."
"Did this lead her to take some kind of action?" said Cross.
"Yes," said Eidling, his eyes misting over. "She threw me out of the lab."
"She give you any kind of explanation when she did this?" said Cross, fully
engaged now. Something about the little man's story had made his hackles rise.
"Only that she wished to go over all of our data again, alone," said Eidling.
"And what did you do then," said Cross.
"What could I do?" the little scientist muttered. "She was the head of the project. I
went home. I spent a few days paying bills, sampling some of the recent game sims in
VR."
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Throughout Eidling's narrative, Cross's fingers beat a soft but steady staccato
across the touchpad on his desk. He left off his note-taking when he became aware that
Eidling had stopped talking. There was a sort of glassy sheen in his eyes that indicated to
Cross that the scientist's thoughts were not with him.
"Dr. Eidling?" he said after a time. "You didn't finish. What happened then?"
"When?" said Eidling.
Cross sighed and silently counted to ten. "After you went back to the lab," he said.
"You did go back?"
"Yes,” he said.
"And?"
"And nothing," said Eidling. "The lab was empty. She was gone."
"Did you try to reach her at home?" said Cross.
"I'd have thought you would have guessed by now, Mr. Cross," said Eidling. "Dr.
Van Wyck and I live together. We were- are- lovers.”
Internally Cross kicked himself. Of course they were. Why else had this nervous,
retiring little man stepped so brazenly out of the corporate womb to involve an Advocate
in his troubles? He was desperate.
"I'm sorry, Doc," said Cross. "I didn't know. Please go on."
"There isn't much more, really," said Eidling, seeming suddenly very small again.
"All of what I've told you has happened in the last few days. It was yesterday when I
returned to the lab and found it empty."
"Any data missing?" said Cross.
"Oh, no," said Eidling. “Everything was as I left it.”
"But there was no sign of Dr. Van Wyck?"
Eidling shook his head feebly.
"Dr. Eidling," said Cross after tapping out his final notes. "Is there something
you're not telling me about all this?"
"I- no-," said the little man blinking dully back at him. “Why do you ask?”
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"Standard question," said Cross. "Is there?"
"No,” said Eidling.
"Great,” said Cross. “Then, I have one last one for you." Eidling waited for it like
a man before a firing squad. "Why involve the Advocacy in this at all? Why not Behl’s
security or the P.A.P.D.?"
"Why," said Eidling with the total shock of someone who had honestly not
considered those alternatives. "Because of The Charter."
He was referring, of course, to the charter of The Human/Corporate Advocacy of
which Cross was an agent. The Advocacy had been set up in The Free Zone as a buffer
between the citizens who lived in The Zone and the four Megacorps that controlled it.
Advocates handled disputes between the two groups. The work was challenging, paid
reasonably well and those who were faint of heart or, worse, slow witted needed not
apply.
The Advocacy’s charter was simple, just a credo really– No Advocate through
negligence, dereliction or willful activity may allow a citizen to be harmed by the actions
of any or all of the Megacorps holding sway in the Pan Andreas Free Zone.
All of which led Advocate Cross to say, "What does this have to do with The
Charter, Doctor?"
"Well," said Eidling slowly. "She's missing."
"Who's missing?"
"Dr. Van Wyck, of course," said Eidling.
"She's missing?" said Cross.
"For several days," said the little man. “I believe her disappearance to be
connected to our research. And I hold Behl's Theoreticians responsible inasmuch as she
engaged in that research solely at their behest."
Although he couldn't fault the man's logic, like most theories, it didn't really stand
up to the hard light of reality.
Cross thought about it a bit more, made another decision he knew he'd regret, and
said, "All right, Doc. I'll look into it."
Tuesday 1240 PST
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Cross was sure Eidling had been holding out on him. Over the years he'd
developed an instinct for sensing that sort of thing. Still, believing what the little scientist
had told him, he postponed his lunch and presented himself, physically, at the corporate
headquarters of Behl's Theoreticians.
He spent the better part of the day making polite but direct inquiries. He was
allowed– under protocol 11 subsection L. II– to examine Eidling's workspaces and to
dupe all pertinent data. Not that he'd been able to make head or tail of any of it. He only
requested the data to see if the Execs at Behl's would squawk. They didn't.
Then he thought about the whole thing some more, left an e-note for Eidling at his
personal node and went home to supper and bed.
Wednesday 0900 PST
"Well," said Eidling, seating himself. "Did you find her?"
“Find her?” said Cross.
"Karin," Eidling’s eagerness tweaked his voice to a high squeak. "Did you find
out what's happened to her or not?"
"Oh, yes," said Cross, brightly. "The elusive Dr. Van Wyck. As far I can tell,
nothing happened to her. Nothing at all."
"So, you did find her," said Eidling. "She's all right?"
"Well. Yes and no, Doctor," said Cross. "I mean, would you say that a mermaid is
all right? Or a unicorn?"
There was a pause as Eidling completely failed to process what was being said to
him. He blinked in that squirrel-like way of his. He drew the tip of his tongue quickly
across his upper lip.
"I don't understand," he finally managed. "Have you located her or not?"
Cross cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his brow as if deep in thought.
"No, Doc," he said at last, "I didn’t find her. Where she is I doubt anyone could."
"And where is that?" said Eidling.
"Here," said Cross and pointed at his own brow. "Or, rather, there."
Cross extended his forefinger toward Eidling's forehead. The effect that this had
on the smaller man was as profound as it was unexpected. Eidling went beet red and
surged to his feet.
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"Advocate Cross," he said. "I demand that you tell me where Dr. Van Wyck is."
"She doesn't exist," said Cross, matter-of-factly. "She never did, as far as I can
tell, except in your own mind. Now, I'll ask you, sir, to please take your seat."
Eidling did as he was told, stood again immediately, sat again and finally
collapsed into himself, his face resting heavily in his hands. When it became clear that he
had no plans to speak again, Cross went on.
"I spoke with your supervisor at Behl's, Doctor," he said. "He seemed to think
you're a little overworked."
Eidling’s eyes were now screwed shut as if they were trying to block out the
offending sight of reality.
“Total retroactive erasure,” he muttered, over and over, like a prayer.
"What’s that, Doc?" said Cross, not catching. "You still with me here?"
At last Eidling's eyes did open but they seemed somehow unfocused. It was as if
he was no longer seeing Cross or the desk or the Spartan little office. Cross got the
distinct impression that Eidling was staring at something strange and distant and totally
outside the slate gray environs of The Advocacy.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cross," said Eidling, in a whisper. "I never meant to put you to
any trouble."
"It was really no trouble," said Cross, immediately sorry for his earlier fun at
Eidling's expense. He’d wanted a little paypack for all his wasted time but this reaction
from Eidling was too much. "I'm just having a bad week."
"To be sure, to be sure," said Eidling, still somehow distracted. "Still, I am sorry.
I'll take up no more of your time."
With that, and despite Cross's entreaties for the scientist to join him for lunch,
Eidling stood and moved for the exit. He stopped briefly in the doorway and, without
turning, said, “I wonder, Advocate, if you’ve ever thought of information itself as a kind
of virus?”
At a loss, Cross only shook his head.
“I’m afraid it’s the only way I can think of it now,” said Eidling sadly.
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Then he was gone and Cross was left with the gnawing sensation in the pit of his
stomach that, at the very least, he'd handled the whole thing clumsily. He wished, as had
many before him, that he could have the two previous days to do over again.
Thursday 1000 PST
"Advocate Cross," said a mechanical voice in the dark. “You have a call. It's crisis
tagged."
"Thanks," said Cross, blearily forcing himself up on one elbow. It had been a long
night. "Give me vid, please."
As he forced himself into his approximation of a sit, his flashscreen flickered to
life. The countenance of a swarthy, pockmarked, middle-aged man who was clearly not
having a great day rezzed into view.
“You Cross?” said the face.
"Yeah," said Cross. "Who are you?"
“Florimonte, Pan Andreas Police,” said the face. ”We got a situation here we
think you can help with.”
"What's up?" he said, reaching for a glass of breakfast.
“You're running a file on a gleep from Behl's, name of Eidling,” said Florimonte.
“Right?”
Cross shook his head. "Past tense, officer," he said. "I closed out the file yesterday
AM."
“Better re-open it,” said Florimonte. The cop’s image dissolved into a panoramic
view of the Behl's Theoreticians central office. There were people swarming all over the
grounds. There were police tactical personnel, corporate snipers, even a few gyrocarspress probably- buzzing around like enormous hornets.
Cross was just asking himself what Eidling could have to do with all this when he
saw one of the cops raise a megaphone to his lips.
“Dr. Eidling, we have your Advocate on the line,” said the cop. “If we patch you,
will you speak to him?”
Cross heard nothing but, seconds later, the image on the screen changed again.
Now he was presented with the likeness of the little scientist who looked, if possible,
even littler.
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"Just what the hell are you doing here, Doc?" said Cross.
“I explained to the policeman,” said Eidling. “If they will simply allow me to
leave this building, with all my research data, I will de-activate the bomb.”
Cross blinked stupidly at the screen.
The bomb?
This Eidling thing had definitely gotten out of hand. What was worse for Cross
was that all eyes seemed to point his way, expecting him to solve it.
“Actually,” said Eidling. “It's not so much a bomb as it is a Graviton Well.”
Before he could stop himself, Cross asked the little man just what, precisely, a
Graviton Well might be. Eidling's halting reply had him up, down the stairs and on his
way to Behl's in under thirty seconds.
Thursday 1028 PST
Little had changed by the time Cross arrived on the scene. Some of the barricades
had been reinforced and most of the bystanders had been pushed back to what was
presumed a safe distance. That was it. If Eidling's threat was to be believed, Cross
doubted that the horizon would be a safe distance.
This stand-off had to end and it had to end soon.
"How much time have I got?" said Cross as he strapped Cross into his flack gel
vest.
"You're not out in ten minutes," said Florimonte. He looked dubious. "We’re
rushing him."
Cross smiled thinly at that. "Not the best plan, considering what he's got in there,"
he said.
"Some kind of bomb," said Florimonte.
"Okay," said Cross. "It’s not a bomb. It's a Grav Well. Know what that is?"
Florimonte shook his head.
"It's like a miniature, artificial black hole."
"And that's supposed to tell me what, exactly?" said Florimonte.
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Cross stiffled an exasperated sigh. "It increases the effect of gravity in a localized
area," he said.
"So, what?" said Florimonte. "It makes everything super-heavy or something?"
"It sucks all the matter around it into itself," said Cross. "Crushing it down to
microscopic size in the process."
The cop whistled as understanding washed over him. "What's its range?" he said.
"About forty square blocks, according to Eidling," said Cross. "Pulling back twice
that might be good."
Florimonte nodded and began muttering orders to that effect into his mic implant.
Immediately the police began shoving the mass of onlookers back away from the scene
leaving the hastily erected barricades behind.
"Okay," said Cross when Florimonte looked back his way, "I guess I'm going in."
"Nope," said the cop with a grin. "We're going in."
Thursday 1030 PST
The lobby was nearly identical to that of any corporate foyer anywhere on the
planet. There was a central desk with a computer directory, behind which stood two
banks of elevators. Florimonte moved to the directory and pressed a few keys.
"Emergency power only," he said over his shoulder. “The building is off the
grid.”
Cross nodded. That was SOP in building takeovers. The two men looked the
lobby over considering their next move.
Behl's people had completely cleared out. The absence of humans moving
between its walls gave the place the sudden and distinct impression of having been
transformed into a mausoleum. Cross hoped the effect would be as short-lived as it was
illusory.
"Third floor, corner," Florimonte said, pointing to the stairs.
As they climbed Cross wondered just what the hell he was going to do to diffuse
this situation and why Eidling wanted him there at all. There had been nothing in the
man's profile to indicate any of his recent erratic behavior. Cross didn't like it when
people behaved in uncharacteristic ways. It made them hard to predict and therefore hard
to manipulate.
83
When they emerged on the third floor Florimonte, on point, gestured to the left.
Turning, Cross noted the single open office door at the far end of the corridor. He nodded
his understanding to Florimonte and the two men moved out.
As he passed them, Cross registered absently the placards on the closed office
suites. Most, referencing the most esoteric fields of scientific research, were
incomprehensible, though one or two did manage to make it into his mental archive.
Omnidirectional Transport, Inertial Field Cocoon, and the tantalizingly bizarre
Tachyon Nesting Project sparked uncomfortable visions in his mind.
He had heard rumblings of some of this research before. Other Advocates had
logged stories of cases involving unwitting human test subjects spontaneously vanishing
from their work-stations only to re-appear, screaming, inside solid objects; of buildings
imploding as crucial bits of their support structures, still nakedly visible, became
suddenly physically insubstantial.
He even remembered a tale told him by an inebriated co-worker about being
called to the site of some minor disaster only to meet herself there already on the scene.
The memory of those tales, coupled with the few things hinted at by Eidling
himself, did not put Cross at ease. Florimonte’s drawing his evil-looking sidearm as they
approached Eidling's door didn’t help much either.
"You won’t need that," said Cross.
"Really?" said the cop. "You personally guarantee that?"
Cross couldn't and they both knew it. Florimonte mouthed the words five minutes
before flattening himself against the adjacent wall.
Cross knew what he meant, wasn't happy about it, and was sure there wasn't
anything he could do about it. He settled himself, adopting the closest approximation of
calm he could muster, and said, "Dr. Eidling?"
"Come in, Mr. Cross."
The suite was a combination of a traditional laboratory, conference room and
business office. This one was allocated to Behl's equivalent of a mid-level executive if
Cross was any judge. Two of the walls were some kind of plexi and the other two were
plasteel. They were unadorned but for the data nodes that protruded from them.
Eidling himself occupied the corner where the two plasteel walls met. He seemed
little affected by the siege situation he'd created.
84
Beside him stood a strange looking metallic and ceramic device that Cross took to
be the much mentioned Grav Well. It was also remarkably unspectacular in appearance.
It resembled nothing so much as a circular footstool with a blender attached to the top.
"How much time have they given you?" said Eidling.
"Five minutes," said Cross.
Eidling nodded as if he'd expected such a response. "That should be sufficient,"
he said.
The scientist lifted his hand, revealing a small device that Cross took to be some
sort of remote control, and tapped a code on the buttons which adorned its surface. This
done he set the thing down on a nearby desk and took a seat.
Eidling seemed distracted, as if he was listening to something very far away.
"Now," he said, leveling his gaze on Cross for the first time. "I feel I owe you an
explanation."
"Why don't we discuss it outside?" said Cross, smiling a little too broadly. "After
you've defused that thing."
Eidling seemed to wince at Cross's interruption and it took him a few seconds to
compose himself before speaking again. When he did it was with the voice of a man
under massive physical strain. "There is nothing to diffuse,” he said. “After I’ve had my
say, I will enter the de-activation code. The device will power down immediately. If,
however, I fail to enter the code or if the device is tampered with, the activation process
will complete. Do you understand what that means?"
Cross nodded. His mouth had suddenly gone dry.
"Good," said Eidling. "Now I must ask you not to interrupt me. I am trying not
think of something and it is placing me under a certain amount of stress."
Trying not to think of something? thought Cross behind his grin. What the hell
does that mean?
"First of all," said Eidling. "I'm terribly sorry for the trouble I have caused and I
will do all that I can to put things right. If my superiors had allowed me to leave here with
my data the whole situation might have been avoided."
Forgetting his instructions, Cross said, "What did you want the data for, Doctor?"
Again Eidling winced as if he was suffering some sort of internal seizure. "Please,
Mr. Cross," he said with effort. "This is extremely difficult for me. This data must be
85
destroyed or what happened to Dr. Van Wyck, what is happening to me, will happen to
others, perhaps eventually, to everyone."
It figured the mythical Dr. Van Wyck was still at the center of this. Clearly
Eidling's mind had been wildly out of whack for a lot longer than anyone had supposed.
Now he was so far gone Cross thought there might not be any therapies which could
bring him back. He also thought of Florimonte, crouched in the hall, pistol ready, a clock
ticking away in his head.
A bead of sweat appeared at his temple and trickled its way down his still smiling
face. Eidling seemed not to notice and went on with his dissertation.
"You remember when I asked you if you'd ever thought of information as a sort of
virus?" he said. "I suspect even then I had some inkling as to what had occurred. But it
was so monstrous that my mind rebelled against the conscious understanding of it. Even
as, I'm sure, Dr. Van Wyck's must have."
Cross had no idea what the little man was ranting about but he was damned sure
that nearly half of the allotted five minutes were up.
"You see," Eidling went on. "When one learns, new pathways are created between
synapses in the brain. Even on the molecular and sub-atomic levels, which is where we
run into trouble. It's all a matter of understanding quanta, I'm afraid."
"Dr. Eidling," said Cross, unable to stand anymore. "If you don't de-activate that
thing and come out with me- now- someone is going to kill you. If what you say is true
that means he’ll be killing a couple hundred thousand innocent people as well. Is that
what you want?"
Eidling suppressed another strange internal tremor and went on.
"Oh, I want considerably more than that, I assure you,” he said. “If I’m
unsuccessful here, every computer networked through Behl's must be purged and
destroyed."
"Why, sir?" said Cross plaintively. "You'll have to excuse me but I still have no
idea what you're getting at."
"First principles, Mr. Cross," said Eidling. "Of what is reality made? I told you, or
nearly told you, that day in your office."
Cross's mind raced. What was he on about?
Eidling, seeing his advocate's distress, went on. This time his tone was that of a
patient and indulgent teacher.
86
"Nothing, Mr. Cross. Reality is composed of precisely nothing. Or so the
Quantum Mechanics had led us to believe." Eidling allowed himself a chuckle. "But they
were wrong. There is something there at the bottom– a linking, binding, connecting
structure which brings all Reality into sharp and simple relief. It was Dr. Van Wyck who
solved it."
"Sir," said Cross without much hope of success. "Please believe me when I tell
you that there is no Dr. Van Wyck. There never has been."
"Not now, not now," said Eidling. A profound sense of sadness seemed suddenly
to permeate his being. "You asked me what sort of trouble one could get in just sitting
around thinking I believe was how you phrased it?"
Cross nodded. There was now no way that he could see to resolve the situation
without bloodshed.
"Quite a bit as it turns out," said Eidling. "She solved it, you see. Karin finally
understood what I am trying not to understand right now. That understanding somehow¬
deconstructed her on a quantum level, removing all trace of her from reality."
There was something seductive in the frankness of the little man's tone. Cross
found he almost believed what Eidling was saying even though it was patently
impossible. This was just a bunch of equations they were talking about, right? Thought
bubbles in an addled mind.
"Ok," said Cross. He spoke slowly, feeling his way as he went. "You're saying
that Dr. Van Wyck figured something out, something that no one else in history has ever
figured out, and somehow that made her, what, disappear?"
Eventually Eidling nodded.
"But, even if that were possible," said Cross, "which I'm not saying it is, wouldn't
there still be some record of her existence? What about her parents? Her friends?"
Eidling actually managed to chuckle at that but it clearly cost him.
"What does Nature abhor above all, Mr. Cross?" he said finally. "Surely you
remember that from your elementary science classes?"
When it was clear Cross did not Eidling said, "A vacuum, Mr. Cross. Nature, the
Omniverse, abhors a vacuum. Think, Mr. Cross, think."
And then, at last, Cross did think. He thought of the invisible Dr. Karin Van
Wyck and her immaterial life. Her unknown parents, her unmet friends, her unborn
children all wiped from existence by one mathematic flourish. Every act she'd undertaken
re-assigned or removed. All this done, automatically, instantly and retro-actively to fill
87
the vacuum left by her inadvertent removal from existence, to protect Reality from the
void.
No, thought Cross. It’s not possible. "But," he began in that same halting cadence.
"But you remember her, doctor."
"Obviously."
"But, if what you say is true," said Cross. "You would have been– uh- overwritten- along with the rest of us, wouldn't you?"
"Very good, Mr. Cross," the little man rasped. "I was also bothered by that, at
first. There are three possible answers to that question. One: I am, as you believe,
unbalanced, and all this is a function of my delusion-"
That would be my vote, thought Cross.
"Two," said Eidling. "That the over-writing process is not 100%, that there are
bound to be some minor loose ends. My personal memories of Karin, on a cosmic scale,
would certainly qualify as minor."
"And the third option?" said Cross, barely recognizing his own voice.
"Ahh, yes. The third option," said Eidling. "This is the one to which I subscribe.
The third choice is that I myself am near to solving the very same formulae which caused
my Karin's erasure. Perhaps this has shielded me in some way from the effects of the
over-writer."
Was that what Eidling was trying not to think about? That, by solving for himself
some obscure and esoteric set of equations, he would think himself out of existence?
Half an hour ago Cross would have dismissed the entire idea as lunacy, but now?
Now that same gut feeling which had served him so well so many times before was
telling him that there was truth to the little man's words.
"Doctor," said Cross realizing that more than time was running out, "You have to
solve the equation."
Eidling simply smiled at that. It was the first sign of unpolluted pleasure that
Cross had seen on his mousy little face.
"Yes, Mr. Cross, I do," he said. "However, there is our second hypothesis to
consider. If the over-writing which follows my solution takes place but leaves my– our–
collected data intact, well, the result could be catastrophic."
Cross was about to ask how when he realized he already knew. There were
perhaps a thousand minds within Behl's sphere of influence alone which could grasp
88
Eidling's research. One of them might come across these formulae floating in the cybervoid, now authorless but still sound. The new scientist would be intrigued, fascinated,
would be driven to solve the equations herself. She would solve them and be erased. The
vacuum would be filled again, over-written again, and still the data might remain.
If the over-writing process had failed to delete this data the first time, why
shouldn't it fail do so again? And again and again and again. How much erasure and overwriting could reality take?
It was that last thought that chilled Cross to his marrow and made him an instant
co-conspirator with Eidling.
"We have to destroy the data," he said numbly.
"Indeed," said Eidling. "That is what I was attempting to do when I was forced to
take the measure which brought you here. I believe I've managed to purge all the
corporate systems but was unable to get away with this."
Eidling produced, from one of his many pockets, a small translucent cube. Cross
recognized it at once as a holographic storage array. It was a common enough data
repository, used the world over by anyone with a need for large amounts of data storage.
Cross extended his hand and took it from Eidling's grasp. It was surprisingly cold to the
touch.
"It’s all in there," said Eidling. "Every theorem and forumala Dr. Van Wyck and I
ever wrote on the subject has been culled from the Nets and stored in that cube.”
Cross knew it was an illusion but he could swear he felt the thing grow heavier in
his hand.
“If you still have that when- after–,” said Eidling, “you must destroy it.
Physically."
Cross nodded and shoved the cube into his pocket.
"And now," said Eidling. "I must complete the equation."
Eidling closed his eyes. Cross watched as the tension began to slowly melt away
from his face. In fact the only movement Cross could see was Eidling's lips moving,
mouthing the numbers and symbols which made up the fatal equation.
"Wait!" he said in sudden panic. "What about the bomb? You have to defuse it."
As if in answer there was a beep from the activation mechanism. One after the
other the three small LED's winked out. The Grav Well was off-line.
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"I was only bluffing," whispered the little man. "Now, I think, Mr. Cross, it is
good-bye. Hope for the third option."
Cross watched Eidling, ready for anything. Presently the man broke into a shy
little smile. Then he said something Cross couldn’t hear for the sudden and oppressive
sound of a torrent rushing past him.
For an interval that could have been an hour or a thousand years the room swirled
around them like a running watercolor. He heard himself screaming, felt himself being
swept away by the impossible liquid rush and saw, at the center of it all, Eidling. He was
laughing.
“It tickles,” he said. Then he was gone, winked out of Cross’s perception like the
hush at the end of a sigh.
Cross didn’t have time to concern himself. He had become nothing but a sliver of
energy arcing between points of swirling color. He wondered briefly if purple and sixteen
could eat stones and then it all just–
Thursday 1037 PST
He'd had a thought of some kind in his head a second ago, he was sure–
something about dancing and floating clocks– but now it was gone. For a moment he
didn't know exactly what he was doing there or even where there was exactly.
"It's five minutes, Cross," came a hoarse, urgent whisper from behind him.
"What's going on? Did you turn the damn thing off or what?"
Cross glanced at the strange little device.
Little but lethal, he thought.
No one knew who had built the thing or what they hoped to accomplish by setting
it here– aside from causing this ruckus. Whoever had done it, why-ever they had, it had
either been a miscalculation or a massive practical joke.
The Grav Well was inert. It had never come to full activation. The numbers had
ticked down for a time but, at the last instant, the device had switched itself completely
off.
"Cross!" said Florimonte. "Damn it! What's happening?"
He glanced quickly around the cluttered little room. Here was a chair, here a desk,
here the small access terminals mounted in the wall. It was all completely normal,
commonplace even, but somehow it all seemed unreal. Insubstantial.
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"It's over," he said as Florimonte came up beside him. "It's all over."
"Good," said the policeman. "I have to tell you I was getting worried."
Florimonte fished around in his vest for a time until he finally produced an
archaic contrivance of paper and chemically treated leaves.
"Cigarette?" he said, placing it in his mouth.
Cross, still somewhere else, shook his head.
Florimonte fished some more. "Hell,” he said finally. “Got a light?"
"What's that?" said Cross as if waking from a deep reverie. "You say something,
Florimonte?"
"Yeah," said the cop. "You got a light?"
Cross angled around in his own jacket and pants for a moment or two then shook
his head.
"Sorry," he said with a widening grin. "My pockets are empty."
He left Florimonte to orchestrate the site clean-up and made his way down the
stairs. He wanted to be outside suddenly, feeling the sun on his skin and the nip in the air.
He wanted a nice lunch with a pretty girl and at least a couple of days off. He wanted to
see people smiling and know from those smiles that all was right-– or mostly right– with
the world.
It was a lovely day after all. It would be a shame to waste it.
--END--
91
Michael Wm.
Kaluta:
The Interview
By
Little needs to be said about this man’s
impressive and long career. He is an
artist’s artist whose work has inspired
everyone who views it. His visual
interpretation of the writer’s words adds
unique life and vibrancy to any
character.
Astonishing Adventures Magazine: You’ve experienced a rich and long career what would you consider being missed opportunities? What regrets do you have
creatively?
Michael Wm. Kaluta: As years go by, the missed opportunities are many: the most
disappointment came when projects I'd set my mind toward in anticipation of having a
fun, challenging and lucrative experience evaporated, generally with little or no
explanation and certainly no recompense for time and trouble. I'm citing the "large"
projects that would have been career-shaping. For example: being asked to pre-package
an entire catalog of occult books: new covers and ad art, possibly interior work for some
books. Dozens of titles, all to have my brand of design, drawing and color · Poof! Other
examples: designing a theme park · Poof! Designing a miniature golf course with a high
fantasy theme · Poof! Then there were the various film and game jobs that months of
work went into for no visible result. Of course, every artist has their own set of such
disappointments. It's the "world that could have been and never will" that I regret.
AAM: Do you photo-reference when doing your work?
MWK: Not as a general rule, but "research elements" nearly always play a big part,
especially if the job has anything to do with "the real world". Those elements can be
photos, art, written word descriptions, film/TV or even sketching on the street. But as for
using a photo as the subject of a picture, copied directly to the art, no, not really.
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AAM: What size canvas or board do you use when producing your cover work?
MWK: My comic book cover
work is generally done on 11" x
17" paper. Sometimes the image is
boxed, say 10 x 15 (close to the
comic book cover dimension) and
sometimes the entire page is used,
right to the edges. If oil paint is
involved (rare for me these days),
the canvas is generally 16" x 20"
or larger. To this date the largest
picture I've done in the India ink
and watercolor approach is 40" x
60". It was a bear· nearly broke
my back leaning over the board.
(one of the Very Good Reasons
for working at about 12 x 17
inches is the ease of scanning the
original· a larger piece would need
to be photographed or scanned at a
Service Bureau)
AAM: Have you considered
exploring digital coloring for your
work?
MWK: I use the computer to tweak
my art, so far. If I could work with someone who colors or paints digitally, I know I'd
pick up some helpful stuff. My high energy levels are focused on coming up with Ideas
and doing the pictures; I've not been able to budget energy toward learning the digital
craft.
AAM: How does it feel to be an influence on other artists in
the same way Roy Krenkel was to you?
MWK: Well· it is quite a kick - a real satisfaction when I'm told
by others how much my work has inspired them. At such times
I see myself talking to Roy, Al Williamson or Frank Frazetta
when they helped point the way forward for me. Being
reminded that my work has more effect than just gracing the
page is like extra payment, certainly, and it humbles me.
AAM: Why do you think pulp heroes like the Shadow and the
Spider fascinate us to this day?
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MWK: I think it might be the enhanced individualism in the characters, married to the
sense that whatever ones does is accepted, and is in fact a boon to the public good, that
keeps the Pulp Characters so "alive" in print. When someone gets it "right" in the movies,
there'll be a resurgence of that style of story across the entertainment spectrum.
AAM: Can you name any films that you believe nail the pulp figure?
MWK: Hmmmm... If we were thinking about
the NOIR-type character, there are many and
sundry: "Out of the Past" being a perfect film
in this Genre (and "The Dark Corner" being
equally apt, though nowhere near as
downbeat)... but for the specific Pulp-ActionHero I'd have to say "The Rocketeer" is the
best ever in that category, and one has to love
"Sky Captain and the World Of Tomorrow"
for its In Your Face delightfulness. I've gone
on record noting that Richard Bohringer, as
Gorodish in the film "Diva", acts a LOT like
The Shadow... if you've not seen the film, it is
very much worth a gander: quite a tight,
literate, entertaining set-to that is constantly
surprising. In his stories, The Shadow nearly
always gave his "enemies", unless they were
petty henchmen, the opportunity of Doing
What Was Right, and if they didn't, they,
themselves were the cause of their own
destruction. In "Diva" the character I note is
very much in command of the situation,
setting up the sort of dead-fall traps The
Shadow was known for, to the consternation
of the bad guys.
AAM: Editor Tim Gallagher supplied a great deal of Shadow material to Alec Baldwin
and was disappointed that it was largely ignored (nor returned). He is planning an article
describing his experience with what was wrong with the Shadow film for this very issue.
To provide a counter - what do you think that they got right for the film?
MWK: I'm not really the guy to ask what was right with that Shadow film. As my friend
and collaborator Joel Goss pointed out, "There's not much good to be said about a film
where the most memorable scene is when the mail is delivered." In his defense, Alec
Baldwin, not being a guy who grew up with the Shadow pulps, saw the production as a
"camp" style story, as opposed to the very strong pulp noir it could have been. If you
watch "The Getaway" you'll see him doing many more Shadow-like moves, especially
covering his lower face with his hand before blowing a hole in a bad guy he was hovering
over. Sweet move.
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One cannot forgive the producers: they'd been told from all sides just how much more
Real Shadow Content the film needed to be strong. Had they listened to Mike
Richardson, Jim Steranko or even me, they'd have had a franchise on their hands and
we'd be lining up for The Shadow VI. Having said the above (and that in no way covers
all my disappointments with the movie), if you turn off the sound and just watch the film,
it is pretty good-looking. The Art Department followed
much more of the material I, and others, sent in, and the
film shows it. But the total effect of the film, in my
opinion, is a misfire. Too bad.
AAM: I have to say that The Shadow pretty much ends
at the bridge for me, but what did you think of the Doc
Savage film done by Michael Anderson in 1975?
MWK: Is that the one with Ron Ely? I have to admit I
never think about it. The closest to a sort of Pulpinspired story on film that I've seen is the 1931 Ronald
Coleman film "The Unholy Garden"... it looks like a
SPIRIT story right out of Will Eisner's pen... but it's not
pulpy like a Shadow or Doc Savage story. Buckaroo
Banzai was a fine attempt: had there been more, I think
they would have become much more what we'd be
95
looking for.
AAM: Do you prefer more modern work like the Shadow, or medieval fantasy such as
Elric and Conan?
MWK: My heart feels most at home
with the Edgar Rice Burroughs-type
story: all worlds, pre-historic to future,
done in what we call a "retro" style,
the future or past as seen from the
1930's: that's my most sought-for
viewpoint.
AAM: Who are the writers that you
have not worked with yet and would
love a chance to illustrate their words?
MWK: One first-rate author is Gustave
Flaubert, in his book Salammbo.
Hundreds of pages of very ripe
illustration fodder. The writer list
could be endless: Carolyn Keene,
Susannah Clarke, JK Rowling - and
though it would be a heck of a lot of
work, as it takes place in Regency
England, Georgette Heyer's novel, The
Masqueraders.
AAM: I've noticed more than a
passing resemblance to Tim Hunter
with the Harry Potter series. Has there been any discussion concerning any infringement
based upon the series and appearance of young Tim?
MWK: Certainly: Neil Gaiman has gone on record (years ago) that he believed there was
not the slightest chance that JK Rowling caged anything for Harry Potter from his Tim
Hunter comics... it's true that both Tim and Harry, at the beginning, are 11 to 13 year old
English School Boys with round glasses and a scar on their foreheads. Tim's scar isn't
always visible, and is an "H" for "Hero", scratched there by his Owl. (see my rendition of
Tim Hunter with his scar and his owl, in the background as a wooden board) (See this
and this for the Tim Hunter images I think are closest to Harry's look. I'll admit to
drawing about 8 personal Tim and Harry, Best of Friends homage drawings. While Harry
has his broomstick, Tim has his Skateboard: just a skateboard, not a magical implement.)
Let me go on record as being the absolute happiest of men that there's both JK Rowling's
magnificent Harry Potter and Neil Gaiman's equally complex and entertaining Tim
Hunter in my world.
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AAM: Would you name a few artists you think are
doing intriguing and influential work today?
MWK: Certainly, though this list is far from
exhaustive: Jon Foster, Justin Sweet, Tom Kidd,
James Jean, Josh Middleton, Charles Vess, Gary
Gianni and oh so many more: for a longer but still
incomplete listing (with linked web sites) please
visit the LINKS page on my Web Site and scroll to
"artists I like".
AAM: Have you experienced ageism when seeking
assignments and being passed over for younger
artists?
MWK: Not that I've noticed. I seem to have an
expertise in a style not many younger folk are
trying for so, as long as an editor has been made
aware of my "take", I seem to get the calls.
AAM: What is the project you would do if you were allowed only one more masterwork?
MWK: I suppose if I had only one more book to
illustrate, it might be that Flaubert's Salammbo I cited
earlier. But, if it meant I had to stick my spoon in the
wall when I was done, I'd pick something more along
the lines of "all the books that ever needed to be
illustrated."
--END--
97
Night of the Devil
Pig
A True Life Adventure
By
I
stand in the darkened, litter-strewn alley, propped-up unsteadily on one
crutch. Not twenty-five feet away stands a hulking, nightmarish creature. Its burning red
eyes fix me with their baleful glare. The monstrous mouth, framed by cruel, jagged
tusks, opens to emit a blood-chilling bellow of rage. Even at that distance, the monster’s
fetid breath washes over me. I’m overwhelmed in equal measures of nausea and terror.
Then the beast charges at me. Crippled as I am, there is no hope of escape. This
is the end; I know it is.
They say that when you are about to die that your whole life flashes before your
eyes. Well, at that moment I get gypped, because I only flash back to earlier in the day...
So there I was, sitting on a bench in Chinatown’s Central Plaza, staring at the
back of the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen. Trying to rest my injured foot, which is encased in
a post-surgery protective boot. Hopped up on Hello Boss. Listening to the clatter of Mah
Jong tiles through the open door of the Hop Sing Tong’s building. Watching Chinese
men play Chinese chess on wooden tables they keep moving so they can stay in the
shade.
I envy them their shade. There’s none near the bench I’m on, and despite my
shorts and light polo shirt, I’m baking in the LA sun. Not for the first time I curse
whatever ancestor of mine it was who mated with a Sasquatch, leaving me with a full
coat of body hair. It served me well when I lived in a northern clime, but now it’s a
nuisance and, in body-and-fitness conscious LA, sometimes a source of severe
embarrassment.
Unbidden, my memory races back to my first - and only - pedicure. I only went
to accompany a woman (the root of all evil!) I was trying to date. Things were going
along swimmingly until the young, petite Vietnamese woman who was working on my
feet started giggling uncontrollably. She called all the other women working in the salon
to her side. Then, as they all gabbered and giggled away in Vietnamese, my attendant
pulled a hair on my big toe to its full four-inch length.
98
“You have toes like monkey,” she said, causing the rest of the salon - including
my female companion - to burst into uproarious laughter.
I grimace at the memory. Needless to say - but I will anyway - I never saw the
woman again. Then I’m pulled from my reverie by another voice.
“I have a job for you.”
The voice belongs to a short, rotund, and rather elderly Chinese man sitting next
to me on the bench. He has a long, thin, straggly white beard that reaches past his
rounded belly. The beard is only slightly longer than the bushy eyebrows that all but
obscure his eyes. The outer ends of eyebrows reach his cheeks. I recognize him
instantly, even as I marvel at how he was able to approach without me hearing him: the
one, the only, Herbert Fu Chang.
“Nice to see you again, too,” I say without much enthusiasm.
Fu Chang watches the men playing Chinese chess across the plaza. Without
looking at me he points to my boot.
“What happened to your foot?”
“Whattaya mean what happened? This is from the last time you had a ‘job’ for
me.”
“That was months ago! And still you’re on crutches?”
“The torn ligament’s taking forever to heal. I finally had surgery on it a few
weeks ago as a last resort.”
Fu Chang spits. “Surgery. Pfah! Western medicine! If you had eaten the snake
gall when I said you would be healed by now.”
“I’m not eating any snake gall!”
“Stubborn fool! Snake is the curative for all foot ailments.”
“That makes no sense. Snakes ain’t got no feets.”
Fu Chang shakes his head. “Your English is abominable.”
I sigh. It’s like this every time. “So, how did you find me?”
Fu Chang finally turns to look at me. His expression tells me he thinks he’s just
heard the stupidest thing in his life.
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“You’re a hairy, blonde giant wandering around Chinatown,” he says. “You stick
out like a sore foot.”
“Sore thumb.”
“Your thumb hurts, too?”
“No. The expression is ‘sticks out like a sore thumb.’”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. Geez, how long’ve you been living in this country
anyway?” Fu Chang might be old and wizened, but sometimes I feel like I’m talking to a
rock.
“About a hundred years. What’s that got to do with anything?” Fu Chang shakes
his head in exasperation. “Sometimes talking to you is like talking to a rock. Look at
you, sweating like you’re in a sauna. Hopped up on Hello Boss.” He picks up the empty
Hello Boss can. “How can you drink this garbage?”
“It’s not garbage. It’s Chinese canned iced coffee.”
Fu Chang gestures, his arm sweeping the plaza. “Look around. Do you see
anyone else drinking it?”
Before I have a chance to answer, he stands and hands me my crutches. “Come.
We have work to do.”
I follow Fu Chang down Mei Ling Way as best I can on the crutches. There’s
never any question of whether or not I will. We both know I have no choice, although Fu
Chang would never be so rude as to tell me that. At least not directly.
The long and short of it is, I owe Herbert Fu Chang my life. Why is perhaps a
story for another time. Let’s just say that since I met him, my life has become like the
movie BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA. Only the TV series version. An unending
TV series. With an unlimited budget.
Fu Chang takes me on a tour of several businesses - mostly restaurants and
markets - that have been heavily damaged as if a wrecking crew had gone on a spree.
Doors and windows are broken or torn out, walls are demolished, garbage dumpsters are
shredded as if the steel they were made from was really aluminum foil. I’m shocked by
what I see. This devastation belongs in war-torn Baghdad, not Chinatown.
At each establishment the owners come out and greet Fu Chang. Not a single one
of them acknowledge my existence. Fu Chang listens as they tell him their troubles,
describe the damage. Many of them, both men and women, are in tears. It will be days,
100
weeks in some cases, before the damage is repaired. Where will they get the money for
the repairs? How will they stay in business? What will happen to their families?
Somehow, despite not speaking Chinese, I understand what they say.
Fu Chang reassures each of them, tells them that a way will be found to fix their
problems. To each he mentions someone her refers to as his son, Wu Kong, and their
faces brighten. They express their gratitude, some pressing small gifts into his hands. He
makes a polite effort at refusal, but when they insist he smiles, bows, and thanks them
profusely.
The last business we visit on our tour is The Imperial Palace restaurant. I shake
my head in disbelief. What I had seen before was bad, but this is many times worse. The
building looks like it’s been hit several times by a wrecking ball. Bits and scraps of food
are scattered all over the back alley.
The owner, Mr. Woo, a small, smartly dressed middle-aged man, greets Fu
Chang. He has a similar tale to tell, although he adds that all his refrigerators, freezers
and pantries have been raided, and all his foodstuffs are gone or ruined. He shakes his
head sadly, states that the initial estimate he received indicates that it will take months to
repair The Imperial Palace. Fu Chang reassures him as well, again mentioning his son,
Wu Kong. Mr. Woo smiles brightly. Then they shake hands, and Fu Chang and I leave.
LA’s Chinatown is not that big, certainly nowhere the size of the ones in New
York or San Francisco. On any given day, even with traffic lights and crowded
sidewalks, you can walk from one end of Chinatown to the other in less than ten
minutes. Yet the twisting and turning trek Fu Chang takes me on, through side alleys that
don’t appear on any map, seems to take hours.
We arrive finally at a nondescript door in a building at the end of an alley. Fu
Chang’s shop has no sign over the door. It has no need of one. The people who need to
know can find it easily. Even me, who has never been brought here the same way twice,
can find it. But for everyone else, it simply doesn’t exist.
Fu Chang opens the unlocked door and enters the shop. He doesn’t even turn to
see if I’m following. He knows I will.
As I enter the darkened shop I’m struck by the cool darkness. It’s like heaven
after baking in the afternoon sun. My eyes adjust and I look around, amazed as always.
Fu Chang’s shop, dark and dusty though it maybe, is like no other shop in Chinatown.
There are none of the trinkets or cheap Chinese goods for the tourists. No forest of
bamboo plants or money trees in endless variations of Chinese vases. No nylon suits or
dresses with Chinese motifs.
Instead, his is a true curio shop filled with natural oddities preserved in glass jars;
bladed weapons of all shapes and sizes that have actually seen use; volume upon
cobwebbed volume of Chinese texts, some on shelves, many others in piles scattered
101
about; astrolabes and abacuses and gyroscopes and a dozen other type of scientific
instrument I don’t know the name of; an entire wall of small wooden drawers, running
from floor to ceiling, containing hundreds of different herbs and other substances; handpainted gods and guardian demons on age-yellowed paper tacked all over the walls;
carved figurines of every size and shape in jade and various woods; and incongruously,
on the dusty counter, a Rubik’s cube lies unsolved.
Fu Chang parks his rotund carcass on a wooden stool behind the counter. He
produces a colorful silk handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow with it. He
motions me to another, less substantial-looking stool.
“Don’t break anything,” he says, as if that were my intention for being there. I
slowly lower myself onto the stool, careful to have my crutches still carry some of my
weight.
“I bet that foot of yours is hurting a lot right now,” he says. “I bet you wish you
had some snake gall to make it better.”
“Fu...”
“I’m just saying, some snake gall might be just what the doctor ordered, is all.”
“I’m not eating any snake gall!”
The beaded curtain that separates the shop from the rest of the building swishes
aside. A stunningly beautiful Chinese woman in her twenties enters the shop. Even in
the dark shop her flawless skin seems to shine, as does her jet black hair that cascades
past her shoulders. She is dressed in a T-shirt and jeans that hug her magnificently
curved body so tightly I wonder if perhaps she was poured into them. This is Ti Liang,
Fu Chang’s granddaughter.
Ti Liang smiles at me as she proffers a wooden tray laden with tea in an ornate
ceramic cup and a cold, sweating can of Hello Boss. My heart melts immediately,
despite my lifetime membership in the He-Man Woman Haters Club. I smile back, then
catch Fu Chang scowling at me. I take the cold can of Hello Boss from the wooden tray,
then quickly avert my gaze to the floor.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“You’re welcome,” she replies in a voice that sounds like music. “It’s good to see
you again.”
Ti Liang walks to her grandfather, seemingly oblivious to the withering look he is
giving me. She hands him the teacup, then plants a kiss on his wizened old cheek. Even
Fu Chang isn’t immune to her charms. He busts out in an ear-to-ear grin.
102
“Welcome home, grandfather.”
“Thank you, Ti Liang. How is son, Wu Kong?”
She nods. “He’s fine. He’s been sitting in his room all afternoon.”
“Please ask him to join us.”
“Of course,” she says. As she exits she flashes me another smile. In that
moment, I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Leave it to Fu Chang to bring me back to earth. It takes a moment for me to
realize that he’s been calling my name for some time. I see the Rubik’s cube in his
hands, which means he’s twice as irritated.
“Huh?” I say, intelligently.
“I said, ‘if you’re through ogling my granddaughter, we can get to business.’”
“Sure,” I respond, popping the pull-tab on my Hello Boss. I take a swig of the
mega-caffeinated, sweetened Taiwanese iced coffee. “I’m assuming this is all about the
damaged buildings.”
“You’re not as stupid as you look.” He’s talking to me, but he’s concentrating on
the cube.
I ignore the jab. “And it’s not something you want the police involved in.”
“Yes, sharp as a bag of rocks, you are.”
“Look, Fu, you’re the one who came to me, remember? What I don’t understand-”
“Could fill entire libraries,” he mutters under his breath.
“-- is what you expect me to do. I can’t do magic like you. I don’t know kung fu,
so I can’t fight.” I hold up the crutches. “And I’m kinda on the disabled list, in case you
hadn’t noticed.”
“You don’t have to do anything, really. I just need you to assist son, Wu Kong.”
“Again, why me, father Fu Chang?”
Fu Chang suddenly curses vehemently in Chinese. He slams the Rubik’s cube on
the counter. “Accursed demon thing!”
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“Y’know,” I say, “There’s some college kid who can solve that thing in eleven
and a half seconds.”
This earns me the angry hairy eyeball from Fu Chang. I’m saved from whatever
blistering remark he’s about to make by the arrival of Ti Liang and one other person.
It’s a man, about five seven or so. Wiry frame. His face is shadowed by the brim
of an old fedora. The white wife-beater T-shirt he’s wearing shows that I’m no longer
the hairiest guy in Chinatown. This guy must be dying in the heat, because literally every
inch of him is covered in thick, brown hair. Not just on his chest, arms and shoulders, but
running up his neck, too. He looks up at me and the light shows his face, and I see a
beard and thick, fanning sideburns. I think he might be one of those wolf boys you see
on the Spanish-language stations all the time. Y’know, the ones that look like little
werewolves? Except there’s something strange about his facial features. And those gold
eyes. Something I can’t put my finger on.
And then I see the tail. A long, prehensile, brown-hair covered tail.
And it comes together for me.
He’s not a wolf boy. He’s a monkey boy.
He’s not Fu Chang’s son, Wu Kong,
He’s Sun Wukong. The freakin’ Monkey King.
You know the story, right? JOURNEY TO THE WEST. The Monkey King (or
“the handsome Monkey King,” as he liked to refer to himself) gets bored with his lot in
life. Studies and learns a bunch of magical powers. Much mischief ensues. Whereby he
is then summoned to Heaven so the gods can keep an eye on him. He learns more magic.
Much more mischief ensues. Scores of heroes and gods try to capture him to make him
pay for his misbehavior, but they fail. He’s captured by the Jade Emperor of Heaven, and
has a mountain dropped on him for five hundred years. After five hundred years, he has
to prove that he has repented his mischievous monkey ways by escorting a monk west to
India to retrieve some holy sutras (thus the title JOURNEY TO THE WEST). They
acquire two more companions - Pigsy and Friar Sand - along the way. Much, much more
mischief ensues. However, by journey’s end, Monkey has proven that he has truly
repented and is allowed to ascend to Heaven for his eternal reward. The end.
Except now I’m staring him right in his gold monkey eyes. And he’s staring right
back at me, sizing me up. And I’m suddenly aware that I don’t want some superpowered monkey angry at me.
Fu Chang makes the introductions. Sun Wukong and I both look at him, waiting
for an explanation. Apparently, His Monkey Highness has not been brought up to speed,
either.
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Fu Chang says, “You have both seen the damage. Something has been attacking
Chinatown businesses these past two nights. Something no man, and certainly not your
police-” (that’s directed at me) “- can defend against. Much less defeat.
“We are fortunate that no one has been hurt yet. And the damage has not
extended outside of Chinatown, so we are able to keep this matter hidden from others.
But that will not last. This beast must be stopped, and you two must do it.”
“Sifu,” the Monkey King says, addressing Fu Chang as master, “I don’t need the
assistance of this white ghost. There is no beast or monster I can’t defeat.”
“I’m with him,” I say, jerking my thumb at Monkey Boy. “He doesn’t need my
help. Why don’t you call someone like the God of Guns?”
Fu Chang says to the Monkey King: “Sun Wukong, you know you can not go out
alone. I, however, must stay here to maintain the spell that keeps the outside world from
learning of our troubles.”
To me he says: “And the God of Guns is ill-suited to this task. You must
accompany him. Sun Wukong needs a guide in this new and modern world.”
The Monkey King doesn’t look too happy about the arrangement, his expression
I’m sure mirroring mine. I’m trying to think of any way of getting out of this pickle
when I feel a soft touch on my arm.
It’s Ti Chiang, a worried expression on her flawless features. Her dark eyes lock
onto mine, and suddenly I know that even if I were being eaten by piranhas, at that
moment I’d be completely unaware of it.
“Please,” she says softly. “My grandfather is very old. He’ll never admit it, but
he’s beginning to feel his age. He can’t fight like he used to. If he goes tonight he could
get hurt. Or worse.”
“What about me?” a tiny voice, the part that’s a member of the He-Man WomanHaters Club, cries out inside me.
“Besides, he trusts you,” she says. Then she smiles at me. “And so do I.”
And mentally, I’m ripping-up my Lifetime Membership card to the He-Man
Woman-Haters Club.
Which is how I find myself, hours later when night has fallen, sitting on the roof
of a tall building near the Dragon Gate on Broadway. The Monkey King is there as well.
From here we have a vantage point where we can see most of Chinatown.
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It’s no picnic getting him there. The Monkey King is curious about this new,
modern world. He watches every car that passes by. He’s fascinated by the electric
lights. He dances to the music streaming out of several stores. He presses his face up
against shop windows, marveling at the contents inside. He asks me questions about
everything. He’s like the poster child for ADD, only ten times worse. I wish I had a
tranquilizer gun loaded with Ritalin.
Despite the glamour spell put on us by Fu Chang to make us appear as ordinary
citizens of Chinatown, we’re still attracting a lot of attention. It’s all I can do to get him
to the building we need and drag him to the roof.
Even up here, he can’t sit still. He bounces around the roof. He counts the people
walking below. He names all the different colors of the lights he sees. He smiles
broadly, a kid in a candy store. I have to almost sit on him to get him to quiet down and
focus on the task at hand.
“In the old days, I could’ve watched from sitting on a cloud,” sighs the Monkey
King, after sitting quietly for almost a whole minute. He’s gotten rid of the clothes he
wore at Fu Chang’s. Now he wears a bright red, long-sleeved shirt and loose tan pants.
A gold circlet around his brow catches the bright lights from below and seems to glow on
its own. From what I remember of his story, the circlet was placed on his head so if he
misbehaved, the monk he was escorting could make the it induce great pain.
“I don’t think a cloud would hold me,” I say. “Besides, I’m afraid of heights.”
He looks at me, and I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light, but I think there’s pity
in his gold eyes. “Don’t worry. I can’t do that anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Some of my powers were taken away. It’s part of my punishment. That’s why
I’m back on Earth.”
“And this?” I ask, tapping my forehead.
The Monkey King nods. “To make sure I don’t misbehave while I’m here. It
worked the last time, so why not?”
“Mind if I ask what you did? I mean, I thought you had earned an eternal place in
Heaven.”
“I did. But do have any real concept of eternity? That’s a awful long time to
expect a monkey to not act like a monkey.”
“I suppose. But to get kicked out of Heaven again?”
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“Oh, I’m not worried about it,” he says exuberantly with a smile. “This time, I’ll
show them. Fu Chang is a great sifu. By helping him, I’ll be back in Heaven in no time.”
And that is when there is a great crashing sound, followed by a monstrous
bellowing that freezes my blood. We both jump to our feet (well, okay, I don’t exactly
jump, but I get up as fast as I can with the crutches). The Monkey King leaps to the edge
of the roof.
“It came from over there!” he cries excitedly, pointing to south, past Cesar
Chavez Avenue. “Come on, let’s go!”
“But wait, that’s not--” I never get to finish what I’m saying. Monkey wraps one
of his arms around me and leaps into the air.
The next few seconds - although they stretch out like hours - are sheer terror as
we sail over the rooftops. I want to look away but I’m frozen. Even as we start to fall,
the ground rushing up at us with ever increasing speed, I can’t even scream. I finally
manage to shut my eyes just as we’re about to impact the sidewalk. Ridiculously, I’m
also hoping that I haven’t peed in my pants.
Then--nothing.
I open my eyes. We’re both standing on the ground in an alley somewhere south
of Chinatown. The Monkey King is looking at me, puzzled, trying to figure out if there’s
something wrong with me. It’s only then, when I realize that I’m not dead, that I manage
to find my voice again.
And I scream like a little girl.
I scream long and loud. The Monkey King jumps back. He’s crouched down, in
a flight-or-fight stance, not sure what to make of me. He reaches to his right ear and pulls
out a small golden rod, about two inches long. While I’m still screaming I watch the rod
grow in his hand (paw?) to a staff six feet long. He twirls the staff in his fingers. I can
tell from his expression that he’s wondering if he’s going to have to hit me with it.
Finally, I’m hoarse and out of breath and can scream no more. I gulp air, then
shake my finger at the Monkey King.
“Don’t (gasp) ever (wheeze) do (gasp) that (choking/gagging noise) again!”
He’s about to respond when a group of Hispanics come running down the alley
towards us. They’re screaming and yelling in fear, much like I did. An old woman,
supported by a young man, passes me. She looks at me and points down the alley, her
eyes rolling with terror. She yells something in Spanish, but the only thing I understand
is “El Porko Diablo.”
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The Devil Pig?
Then they’ve passed us. I look to where the old woman pointed. I see the
shattered remains of a tacqueria, the back end of the building torn apart. The dumpster is
overturned in the alley, its contents strewn about the ground. I see a dark shape in the
hole in the building’s back wall. It’s huge, vaguely man-shaped, and even hunched over I
can tell it’s at least ten feet tall. It’s snuffling and snorting, accompanied by an
occasional deep-chested grunt. I know in an instant that this is the beast that we’re
looking for.
The beast backs out of the building, a large pot in one of its car tire-sized hands,
the remains of a condiment and fixings’ table in the other. As it tilts its head back to
upend the contents of each hand into its cavernous mouth, I get a good look at the face in
the light of a streetlamp.
The thing has small, red eyes that glow malevolently in the dark. Two large, pink
ears, with bristles the thickness of a pencil, flap at the top of its head. A large snout ends
in a flattened nose with nostrils large enough to snort a softball. The mouth is framed by
cruel, yellowed tusks.
It is a giant, monster pig, and it is eating the remains of a taco stand.
Finished, the beast throws aside the pot and the table, and they clatter to the
ground. The beast looks about, licking its lips. It’s thirsty, looking for something to
drink. It reaches inside the shattered building and retrieves a large bottle. As it breaks of
the top of the bottle and begins guzzling the contents, I see the bottle label in the dim
light.
It’s hot sauce. Right then and there, I don’t see this ending well.
The bottle is emptied and thrown away before the beast feels the effects. I can see
steam coming from its nostrils, flames from its mouth. It thrashes about, bellowing in
pain and rage. Then those beady red eyes find me. The beast has a target to vent its
anger upon. It charges me, and I do the only thing I’m capable of doing at that moment.
I scream. Again. Long and loud.
The beast hasn’t covered ten feet before the Monkey King jumps into its path.
The monster swings a fist to smash him, but the Monkey King leaps away. The fist
strikes the ground, shatters the concrete alleyway. El Porko Diablo switches its attention
to the Monkey King, shaking its fists at him.
The Devil Pig then screams, and lo and behold, it screams in Spanish: “Por que?”
A pause, as if awaiting an answer. “Si!”
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The Monkey King bounces around the beast, trying to confuse it. He rolls and
darts, leaps and chatters, smiling down at the Devil Pig while perched on a fire escape.
He’s not afraid of El Porko Diablo; he’s having a grand ole time.
El Porko Diablo, on the other hand, continues to grunt and bellow like the
enormous boar that it is. Its fists keep swinging for the Monkey King, but continue to
miss.
Then Sun Wukong gets bored and leaps down to go toe-to-toe with the Devil Pig.
They trade blows back and forth, the Monkey King mostly blocking with his staff. To
my eye it appears they’re evenly matched. This just frustrates El Porko Diablo more.
“Por que?” it screams and smashes the concrete again. “No!”
This time a piece of concrete flies off. It hits one of my aluminum crutches,
bending it in two. I fall to the ground painfully. I wince from the agony, but at least I’m
no longer embarrassing myself by screaming.
This distracts the Monkey King, though. He looks my way just long enough for
one of El Porko Diablo’s fists to connect. My last sight of the Monkey King is him
tumbling in the air and disappearing over the rooftops.
I turn to find El Porko Diablo standing over me, its eyes burning like hate-filled
red coals. The steam from its nostrils washes over me, sickening me, but I’m too scared
to vomit.
This is it. I’m dead.
The tusk-framed mouth opens menacingly, and I wonder if I’ll end up being one
bite or two. Or will it take the time to chew me thoroughly and savor the taste.
“Por que?” it screams again. It looks me right in the eye, as if expecting - nay,
demanding! - an answer.
“Pig?” I squeak, my throat constricted by the I’m-about-to-die fear.
El Porko Diablo’s expression of rage melts into one of confusion.
“Porkay Peeg?” it repeats, in its logic-defying Spanish accent. It scratches its
huge pig head with a huge pig fist.
Suddenly, I have no intention of being eaten by some monster pig. I ignore the
pain and pull myself into a sitting position. I grab my remaining good crutch and swing it
for the most vulnerable area I can reach.
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The blow strikes home. El Porko Diablo emits an ear-splitting high-pitched
squeal and doubles over.
“Ay yi yi! Mi cajones!”
I haul myself up on the crutch and hobble out of the alley, favoring my injured
foot. If I can get around the corner before El Porko Diablo sees me, maybe I get back to
Fu Chang’s and safety.
No such luck. The Devil Pig is up and after me before I can reach the mouth of
the alley.
“Estupido gringo!” it squeals. “You keel mi cajones! Now, I keel you!”
I turn and raise the crutch, holding it like a baseball bat. Maybe I can get in a
good smack on its snout before the end. I never was any good at baseball, but with a
target that big how can I miss?
It turns out I don’t have to. The Monkey King materializes in front of me. He
gives me a quick wink, then faces the charging El Porko Diablo, which is coming at us
like a locomotive. No way he’s stopping it, I think. The big pig’s going to run us over.
The Monkey King leaps up at the last moment. He swings down his staff and it
connects solidly with El Porko Diablo’s skull. It’s instantly lights out for the big pig. It
falls where it is, even losing all the momentum from its charge. The sound it makes as it
hits the ground is the same I imagine a Sequoia makes when it’s felled.
The Monkey King stands over his fallen foe, casually leaning on his staff, one
monkey foot perched on El Porko Diablo’s head. He smiles at me while absently
scratching his jaw.
“Good work,” I gasp.
“Thanks. You didn’t do bad yourself. Although you might want to work on that
screaming thing.”
“I’ll do that.” Then I hear police sirens approaching.
Sun Wukong grasps his staff in both hands and tenses. “What kind of monster is
that?”
“It’s no monster, but that’s our cue to get outta here fast.” I look down at the
unconscious El Porko Diablo. “We can’t leave that here.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, and even though I know he’s a super-powered monkey,
I’m amazed to see him lift El Porko Diablo with one hand as easily as picking up a
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pebble. He puts the monster over one shoulder. The staff shrinks back down to its twoinch size, and he puts it back in his ear. He starts to reach for me but stops.
“Oops. I almost forgot.” The Monkey King plucks one of his hairs out, then
blows it at the tacqueria building. Before my stultified eyes, the building is completely
restored. “Okay, now we can go.”
The Monkey King wraps his free arm around my waist and we fly off into the
night towards the heart of Chinatown.
I manage not to scream this time.
Back at Fu Chang’s, we gather in the basement (which, in the semi-darkness of a
few 40-watt bulbs, seems as large as a city block) while Ti Liang watches over the shop.
The Monkey King easily holds down El Porko Diablo - now semi-conscious and
continually whining, “Ay yi yi, mi cabeza,” - while Fu Chang circles and mutters an
incantation.
A weird, otherworldly green light surrounds El Porko Diablo. The Monkey King
steps back as the nimbus of light shrinks around the beast. El Porko Diablo shrinks with
the light, it’s features softening and changing.
The light fades away, and where once had been a hulking beast, there is now a
very obese man: four hundred pounds if he’s an ounce; barely six inches over five feet in
height; looks like he’s made of roll after roll of fat. He has very pink skin with coarse
bristles scattered all over his body which, thankfully, the Monkey King covers with one
of the rugs scattered about the basement. I get a gander at the man’s face, and once again
I’m confronted with a man who is not a man.
He has beady black eyes, almost hidden by his enormous cheeks. His nose is a
long, flattened snout, Big, pink ears flap on either side of his fat head, which he rubs
with his hands.
“Oh, my achin’ melon,” he says with, of all things, a Brooklyn accent.
“Pigsy!” says the Monkey King, his smile lighting the room.
“Hiya, Monkey,” says Pigsy. “Cheezitz, didja have t’smack me so hard wit’ dat
staff of yers?”
“Sorry, Pigsy,” the Monkey King says, gently rubbing his old friend’s head. “It
was the only way I could think of stopping you. You were kind of a monster.”
“Oh. In dat case, I guess it’s all right.”
“But, Pigsy, what are you doing here on Earth?”
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“Things got kinda borin’ in Heaven wit’ ya gone, Monkey. So, I kinda snuck out
an’ followed ya’s here.” Then he adds, sheepishly, “I guess I musta got da spell wrong or
sometin’.”
At this point I turn my attention from them and peg Fu Chang with a hard stare.
“Okay, Fu. Explanations. Now.”
Fu Chang says, “Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, has been sent here as a penance
for transgressions in Heaven. His friend, Pigsy, followed him.”
“Yeah, yeah. That part I got.”
“Young people. Always in a hurry,’ he mutters. “Pigsy, having left Heaven
without permission, has also committed a transgression, and must also pay penance.”
“I do?” says Pigsy.
“Yes,” Fu Chang responds. An ornate scroll appears in his hands. “I have here
the proclamation of the Jade Emperor of Heaven. Would you like me to read it?”
“No,” Pigsy says, sounding like a little kid called before the school principal. “I
believe ya.”
Fu Chang turns to me. “The spell that Pigsy used, somewhat incorrectly, brought
him to Earth, but in a confused state. He was taken over by his voracious appetite.”
“So that’s why only restaurants and markets were damaged,” I say.
“Precisely. During the day he slept in some subterranean lair. At night, he
consumed everything in sight, growing larger and larger.”
“But how did he become El Porko Diablo? I mean, he was speaking Spanish and
everything.”
“Since the spell left him in such a flux, he took on characteristics of his
environment. He was eating Mexican food, and therefore became Mexican.”
“D’you mean to tell me that if he’d broken into a French restaurant he would’ve
been wearing a beret and talkin’ like Pepe lePew?”
Fu Chang nods, even as both the Monkey King and Pigsy ask, “Who’s Pepe
lePew?”
Fu Chang smiles. “Your new sifu can tell you.” He points to me.
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Like some Saturday morning cartoon the Monkey King, Pigsy and I all say in
unison: “Wha--?”
Fu Chang continues, “Sun Wukong and Pigsy are quite rambunctious.
Regretfully, I am too old to keep up with them. Already Ti Liang treats me like a delicate
piece of pottery. And, they will need a guide in this strange, modern world as they earn
their way back into Heaven.”
I shake my head so vigorously it’s a wonder it doesn’t fly off. “This’ll never
work, Fu! The last time they had a holy monk to guide ‘em. At least you - you’re some
kinda wise man. Me, I’m just a regular guy.”
“Who is badly in need of enlightenment as well,” Fu Chang replies. “This will be
a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Ya mean we gotta follow this shmoe?” Pigsy asks incredulously.
“I don’t believe it,” chimes in the Monkey King.
Fu Chang produces another ornate scroll. “It is the will of the Jade Emperor of
Heaven,” he states imperiously. That shuts them up. You don’t argue with the Jade
Emperor.
I try to wrap my head around the sudden turn of events. I’ve now got two
roommates for my one-room apartment. Roommates who just happened to be a mansized super-powered monkey, and a very rotund man-sized magical pig.
And to top everything off, my foot hurts like hell.
Fu Chang looks at me and says, “Well?” The Monkey King and Pigsy also look
at me expectantly.
“All right, I give in,” I sigh. “Give me the snake gall.”
--END--
113
The Electron Jockey
By
Mark Caldwell
White. Everywhere white. It had to be a hospital. Nowhere else is as white.
White walls. White ceiling. Crisp sheets. White of course. Bright white light through
the window.
Only my bed in here. A private room? I can’t afford a private room. Flowers.
Fresh fruit. I can’t afford health insurance. How am I supposed to pay for this?
Things started to come back to me. An accident. A job. Something had gone
wrong. Most of the crew were dead. There was a rustle beside me. Turning my head
hurt. He sat there beside the bed impassive. I recognized him from his poster.
“Good you’re awake. Well now your going to go to sleep again. Look into my
eyes.”
I couldn’t stop myself. The neck brace held my head in place but I could have
closed my eyes.
“I’m going to count back from three to one. When I reach one your going to fall
asleep. While your sleeping you’re going to dream. You’re going to remember what you
did from when you met Dale Hoover to the accident. Your going to tell me what you did.
Three. Two. One.”
--**-Dale Hoover was a small time operator but a big fish to his crowd. There was
something about the guy I didn’t like. I spent maybe twenty minutes trying to figure it
out. Maybe it was the tone of his smile. It might have been the way he kept one eye on
me and the other was watching the blond in the corner. Probably it was just that I was
sick of doing jobs for other big shots just like him. I wanted a regular office, regular
hours and a regular girl, preferably not unlike the blond.
Guys like me don’t get that kind of luxury though. I get it. I get messages left at
a bar I frequent. Some acquaintances would say prop up. I prefer frequent. It doesn’t
matter really; nine times out of ten it’s where I get an invitation. Invitations to discuss
opportunities. Opportunities that come with a side helping of quotation marks on the left
and on the right. If you’re lucky the chump doesn’t wiggle his fingers to make the point.
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I’ll let him get away with it maybe a dozen times. My pal Vincent now he likes to snap
their fingers the first time they do it. Says it serves as a warning to others.
This one had his own quirk and I don’t mean the trick with his eye. He’d been in
procurement somewhere. He kept telling me how he was inviting me to tender for the
job. He kept on acting like that was how it worked. The only thing I wanted to tender for
was the blond.
I listened politely for an hour and a half. He had paid for the steak. I figured that
had to be worth about an hour of my time. A couple of drinks maybe another half hour.
He’d got a line of a rare item that he knew he could move for a healthy return. All he
needed to do was separate it from its current owner. Not its rightful owner just its nine
tenths of the law owner. There’d be no interference from the cops if we only snatched it.
He’d got a crew, they were all set to do the job but there were certain special
requirements. The guy they’d got lined up for them had had an earful from his old lady
and his feet had gotten like she’d filled his boots from the icebox.
He offered me a half a share for one night’s work. I countered for two. They
needed me more than I needed some half-baked scheme and years of pacing a room
shared with a guy called Bubba. We went back and forth. He wouldn’t budge up. At
least he wasn’t a cop. A cop would have gotten desperate sooner. They’d have wanted
to seal the deal. To shake on it then shake me down. They’d have been thinking about
the doughnuts at the station house and needing me to sign on for the wire.
I gave him ten percent more time than I’d figured he was entitled to. Ten percent
including generous rounding in his favor. I wasn’t sure why. Just something I had to do.
I finished my drink and made to leave. I figured the blond might be interested in a little
bit of rounding up in her favor. She’d probably show more appreciation than this guy
and his half share. Finally he saw sense and offered what I had coming to me. An equal
share in the proceeds of our labors. Small timers like him have to go back and forth. It
makes them feel big. For long time losers it’s the closest they’ll ever get.
He wanted to set it all in stone right there. He’d have had blue prints on the table
and pushed toy cars round on them like he’d seen in the movies. I told him to beat it, that
some off duty cops had just walked in. I told him I was going to get myself an alibi just
in case. I’d call him around noon. I didn’t tell him I wanted to see a blond about some
mutually beneficial equity.
--**-I’d spent the night discovering an error by the taxman in my favor. The error was
letting me buy her a drink or maybe it was asking me in for coffee. We’d been practicing
our arithmetic till the sun came up.
I called him after one. I wanted him off kilter. He thought he was too smooth. A
bit of edge and he’d be more careful. Not too much, I didn’t want him doing something
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stupid. I met him under the clock as its Westminster chimes struck quarter to two. He
wanted to know about the cops. Had they run me in for questioning? Had they’d asked
about him. I told him not to worry. They’d only be interested if they knew him. They
didn’t know him right. Right?
That switched things in my. People expect us electron jockeys to be nervous
types. We aren’t supposed to be cool. We’re supposed to sweat under pressure;
sometimes to crack. Sure we sweat. It’s natural when your sharing a crawl space that’s
hotter than a Turkish bath and smaller than a coffin with juicy high voltage cables. If you
short the wrong wire bells start ringing in the local station house. Inside we’re cool. We
need to be to know if it’s the red, the blue or the striped wire we need to cut. That takes
cool.
He’d rented a pad in one of the fashionable parts of town. Fashionable for rats
and woodlice. No frills. No maid service. He pushed beer bottles and cigarette ends into
the bin before he laid out the plan. It was a top-notch piece of security. Custom
designed. I knew the style. The guy who’d put this together was top of the line. Given
time I could crack it. First I needed these bozos to get me past the guards, the wall, the
dogs and the doors. If they could do that I could do my part and make a call on my alibi
to practice some of the finer points of triple entry bookkeeping. Had I got any questions?
Just the three. Who was the mark? What were we lifting? How could they be certain
they’d be out?
He played it cagey again. Like I was a stooge. Getting him to crack was easier
than that alarm was going to be. The cops would wilt like a geranium under the
interrogation room lights. The mark was a big name stage magician. For one night only
he was appearing at the White House. It was the butler’s night off. The target was a
green jade statue that disappeared from China during the Wuchang Uprising. Certain
Chinese warlords were prepared to pay a handsomely for it. How it came to be with its
current owner he didn’t say just no matter how well connected he was he wouldn’t be
keeping it should the authorities find out.
How soon would I be ready? As soon as he was. Did I need anything? I just
needed to fetch a few tools. He was coming along. Sweet but no thanks, I don’t take
girls back to my place so no way I was taking him. I’d be back at six.
I felt eyes on the back of my shirt. I wasn’t wrong. I made the car before I’d
taken three corners. Two hoods. I let them follow me the whole way there. They had to
be with him because if they weren’t I’d call the job off before we did more than consort
with intent to look shifty in a public bar over a badly cooked steak. I laid my stuff out
then laid myself out for a few hours shuteye.
I woke refreshed. My new friends were still outside. No point in trying to give
them the brush off now. They knew where I lived and where they’d first picked me up.
It wouldn’t take a genius to know where I was going.
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Five minutes after I’d climbed the stairs Dale’s crew started arriving.
Raul Harrison and Dusty Sellers arrived together. They were the pair who’d
eyeballed me earlier. A more unlikely pair you’ve never seen. Raul was a hulking man
who’d fit right in as an ex-boxer in some low budget sports movie because that’s what he
was.
Dusty spent all his time polishing the little glasses that clung on the end of his
nose like a damsel clinging to the cliff edge in a silent movie. His name sounded fake to
me like a bad alias. He’d been a racing driver in his youth or so he claimed. He was an
antiquarian bookseller by trade. Hard times had pushed him into Dale’s scheme. He said
it was more honest than selling specialist books to wealthy customers and paying
protection money to the boys from the vice squad. He was educated, said knew a thing or
two, like how to take care of the dogs.
Roxie Ryan turned in next. She was the kind of dame that sprains men’s eyeballs.
She’d worked nights as a singer at a gin joint till the owner’s wife took a dislike to the
way he watched Roxie. This gig was just to keep her going till she made it big.
Last to arrive was Ferdinand Largent. I knew his reputation. We moved in
similar circles. We’d never worked together. Our paths had barely crossed. He
specialized in box jobs and locks. He certainly wasn’t a yegg more of a possible suspect
than the top dog. He kept clear of nitro. He liked to keep all his fingers on his hand. I
liked that. There wasn’t much else though.
They all already knew the plan. Dale insisted we go over it for my sake. It was
the same as it had been that afternoon, a simple in and out to remove an item from a safe.
Dale was very insistent that we weren’t to take anything else even if it looked a bit tasty.
--**-Roxie was first up. She’d distract the guards while we went over the wall. A
simple damsel in distress gig. Dusty tricked her car’s engine. It wouldn’t be going
anywhere in a hurry. Roxie had tricked her outfit. The guards would neglect their duties.
Somehow the knit of the jumper and the tightness of the jodhpurs made her appear more
unclothed than if she’d gone naked. When she got their attention all she had to do was
hold the hood release on and a light would come on on our car’s dash.
Roxie gave us the signal on time. Raul had the ladder from the car to the wall
and Dusty was on his way up in seconds. He’d brought steak for bait. He didn’t need it.
The hounds wanted his blood. The pfft of his dart gun silenced them.
Landscaping covered us most of the way from the wall. The last thirty yards were
open lawn. I expected the alarm at any moment. Roxie was earning my gratitude and her
share. The ladder was against the side of the house and I was filling the bell box with
quick setting foam. There was no way to stop the alarm sounding as we broke in but it
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rang in stages. This would buy the time to neutralize the remote alarm while the guards
were otherwise occupied.
While I’d been up the ladder Ferdinand had been at the locks. Raul had the ladder
down and was on his way. Dale held the door with one hand and passed me my tools
with the other. Two minutes. Like I needed reminding. The main security box was in a
room described as a cupboard. I’ve lived in smaller houses.
First I needed to disable the anti tamper. I didn’t have time to be subtle. I
measured the spot, marked it with a chalk cross, pressed the punch against the box and
smacked it with a hammer. The first blow made a dent. The second almost went
through. The third went deep into the box smashing the circuit board. In an ideal world
Ferdinand would have finessed the lock. He was needed elsewhere. The lock was a
second victim to the punch. That was when I realized I had an audience. Dusty was in
the doorway. He should have been waiting in the car. If I wasn’t the last minute help I’d
have said something. That was the moment I knew this crew were amateur hour through
and through. It was too late for second thoughts. I swung the box open and went to work
on the circuits inside. A wire snipped here; an extra connection there and the house’s
alarms were off.
Most jobs my work would be done but not tonight. This house had at least two
other independent alarms and one of those ran from the safe Ferdinand was working on.
I didn’t have time for gawping around the place but even by torch beam I could
tell the guy who’d fitted this place had class. Solid wood paneling. Antique furniture.
Subtle lighting from hidden fittings lit framed posters for the world’s most famous
illusionists’ shows. You had to wonder where the cash came from. He might be a worldrenowned but this had taken serious money. Either this guy was old money or he’d got
dirty hands. As my granddaddy used to say old money is dirty money with a couple of
generations of trying to scrub the grime off.
The study was something else. It went all the way to the roof where a huge
skylight was set. Spiral stairs lead to a balcony round the rooms six sides. Where the
wall wasn’t doorway it was books. A desk dominated the room’s heart. Hexagonal
display cases with pyramidal glass tops housed one of the finest private collections of the
objects of the performers art. It was as if I could hear a voice telling me their origins.
Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin’s automata shared a case with locks and chains used by
Harry Houdini. Cards, handkerchiefs, throwing knives and every device of the trade had
their place and history. Many would fetch a year’s salvation from work from the right
buyer.
Ferdinand and Dale had found the catch to swing a section of the bookcase away
from the wall. A drill stood on a complex frame precisely locating its diamond tipped bit.
I set myself up to one side ready. Dale nodded to Ferdinand. Slowly he started the drill.
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Dusty was wandering around the bookcases behind me. Dale should have told
him to be in the car with the engines ready for a quick getaway. I heard the drill bit bite
into the hardened metal. Ferdinand pressed forward spraying lubricant as it worked its
way in. The maker claimed the safe uncrackable. Ferdinand didn’t agree. He had a
precise target; a point where a wire was soldered onto the mechanism. If we could drill
to the contact and juice it we’d burn out the vacuum tubes and destroy the alarm. A fine
theory but not one we’d tried. Not one anyone had tried.
Ferdinand had the Turkish bath look. I’d have been the same in his shoes;
especially with Dusty going on about the books. It took five long minutes to drill the
hole. I checked through an illuminated lens. There was the solder. Perfect. I slipped a
probe into the hole; a contact went on the case both secured with putty. Raul returned
lugging a heavy box. I pulled it open and hooked wires to terminals. I told them to stand
back.
I threw the knife switch on the box. Ozone and acid. Even Dusty shut up. The
alarm didn’t sound. Raul was on his way. Ferdinand swapped the bit of his drill for a
less refined tool and went to work on the lock. No finesse this time. This was brute force
without the mess of gelignite or the dull assault of sledgehammers and crowbars. The
safe surrendered with a whimper. Dale swung the door open and reached inside pulling
out a translucent green statue. I couldn’t make out the detail but it was covered in fine
engraving. Maybe I’d have gotten a better look except that was the moment the world
exploded.
Dusty had found something. A rare book. Something antiquarian he couldn’t
resist. He’d had to touch. Hadn’t his mother ever smacked his hand as he reached for a
cookie? Didn’t he know how to control his impulse? The book had moved in his hand.
Then the whole shelf moved. I don’t know what was behind it. It was too dark to see.
Somewhere secret. Not on the plans. An alarm sounded, more foghorn than alarm. That
wasn’t on the plans either. Ferdinand and I started to move. Instinct. Our only hope was
to run and run fast. Dale was behind us. Dusty didn’t move. He couldn’t. The book
he’d taken was part of the shelf. From the shelf a trap had sprung around his hand. He’d
have had to chop it off or spend hours with tools to get free.
Ferdinand had the lead. That’s what saved me from the dog. There must have
been one of them than we’d missed. It came out of the dark and had him on his back. I
could smell the scent of his fear in the air.
Dale and I made it to the wall. We were up and over in nothing flat then into the
car. Rusty sat patiently in the back. No Dusty to drive. Dale grabbed the wheel. No
keys. Dusty must have them. I ripped wires from under the dash and started it the hard
way.
Behind us a pair of headlights were catching us fast. We broke into the city at
speed. Down one street. Sudden turn here. Double back there. Trying to shake our
pursuer. It was no good. Maybe with Dusty at the wheel we’d have stood a chance.
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The left front blew I think. I’m not certain. Rolling. Tumbling. Red. Spinning.
Then we really hit something. A brick wall? Upside down. Rusty lay still his
unnaturally thick neck at an unnaturally twisted angle. I watched Dale through the
shattered windscreen staggering away. Roxie had him now helping him into her car. My
world faded to red then black.
--**-Antiseptic odors. Clean sheets. Dark outside. A polite cough. Pain as I turned
my head. He’s still there beside the bed. Might as well wheel me off to prison and save
the cost of the trial. He doesn’t look angry. He looked concerned.
“You’re awake. Excellent. Now look into my eyes. When I count to three you’ll
remember everything. One. Two. Three.”
The veil lifted from my memory. I remembered. My special job. Had we pulled
it off?
“Don’t look so worried you pulled it off. Dale and Roxie were on the first plane
to Rio. The statue will soon be in their master’s hands. Everything is going according to
plan.”
“Your car crash was a bit dramatic. Made the whole thing seem more real. Now
you get well. I need my favorite handyman up and about. Seems your impregnable
alarm system wasn’t quite impregnable.”
“Oh one last thing. Someone from the tax office is asking to see your accounts.
Something to do with an irregularity and needing to audit your tangible assets to identify
inflationary activity.”
--END--
120
Doug
Klauba:
The Interview
By
Tim Gallagher
Doug Klauba is a painter and illustrator born and raised in the “Windy City,”
Chicago, Illinois.
A student of the legendary Drew Struzan (the artist of movie posters for INDIANA
JONES, STAR WARS, and many, many more), Mr. Klauba has made his mark in
the worlds of advertising art, book illustration, cover art, and more recently comic
books. He has produced a number of covers for Moonstone Books featuring
characters like the Phantom, Kolchak (of THE NIGHT STALKER TV series), and
the Spider. In fact, it was his cover for THE SPIDER CHRONICLES, a collection
of new stories about the popular pulp hero, that first brought Mr. Klauba to our
attention.
The awards he has received for his work include: the International Academy of
Communications Arts & Sciences - Gold; the Ozzie Awards - both Gold and
Silver; the Apex Awards for Publication Excellence; and the Visual Club
Publication Cover Show - Award of Excellence.
A family man, Mr. Klauba resides in Chicago with his wife and two sons.
For more on Mr. Klauba, and to view more of his great art, please visit
www.douglasklauba.com or www.comicspace.com/dklauba.
This interview was conducted via e-mail by Tim Gallagher, with assistance from
John Carlucci and Katherine Tomlinson.
ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE: Mr. Klauba, let me say first
that we here at ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE would like to
thank you for agreeing to this interview. We’d also like to say that since we
saw your cover to Moonstone Books’ THE SPIDER CHRONICLES that
we’ve become big fans.
DOUG KLAUBA: THANKS!
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AAM: Now, with the fanboy stuff out of the way, here come the questions.
First, give us a brief biography of Doug Klauba. Where were you born and
raised?
DK: I was born and raised on the south side of Chicago. I was pretty much
the only kid in the neighborhood who liked to draw, and I drew every
chance I could much to the
interest and amusement of my
family and
friends. On days when other kids
were running around outside my
mother had to basically kick me
out of the house. Fortunately for
me,
Mom made sure that I balanced
my time with being creative and
getting
out. I read a lot as well and
picked up anything at the
neighborhood
magazine shop or corner store
that impacted me visually. I
gravitated
to comic books and Warren
monster magazines, and
especially Classics
Illustrated which I found second
hand. Monster magazines
appealed to
me the most with the gorgeous Basil Gogos, Frazetta and Sanjulian
covers from Warren. On Saturday mornings my friends and I would shoot
over to the movie theatre and catch the weekly double feature, again
mostly monsters or fantasy stuff like Hammer films, Harryhausen or
Planet of the Apes... I remember standing in front of the posters and
lobby cards and studying every detail from the illustration to
design. Later we would pull out the Super 8 movie camera and create
our own "little" films and I would then design the movie poster.
Throw in the fact that I was raised in a creative family and it seems
like destiny that I was headed towards being a practicing artist. My
father, although a tradesman, would draw, paint or build models and
my uncle George is an illustrator so I was always exposed to
paintings and drawings, Uncle Dave is a landscape architect, and my
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grandfather was a performing magician from the 1940's through the
1970's. Being raised in the creative environment was a huge
confidence booster.
AAM: You mentioned that your grandfather was a professional magician.
Was he anyone famous that we’d recognize?
DK: My grandfather was well known among his peers, other magicians in
Chicago during the 1940's -1970's. One of his few stage names was
Prince of Presto and probably the name he used the most, especially
in the 60's and 70's. I have a large part of his files that survived
over the years and among them are contracts, program brochures,
awards and letters from organizations thanking him for his
performances at different theaters and events, mostly in the Midwest. In
my spare time, I am compiling a brief history of him with
photos and I hope to put it online and linked to my website in the
very near future. I think then I'll find out if people in Chicago
remember him.
AAM: Is your painting “Magic Hat” an
homage to him?
DK: “Magic Hat" was an illustration
assignment for a
hospital conference and although my
grandfather has a personal
connection with my "Magic Hat" painting, it
is not a direct homage.
The Prince of Presto is there in spirit! I also
plan to start
incorporating him into some personal
projects that I am developing.
AAM: Did you always want to be an artist?
DK: I have always been an artist. I have never thought of anything but
the fact that I like to draw, paint and create. My family was always
supportive and always helped me to pursue that interest. Pencil and
paper was always available. Before long I started to work in pen and
ink and then on to paint.
AAM: Where did you go to art school?
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DK: Originally I had intended to follow my friends into film school. But
out of curiosity I dropped in at the American Academy of Art in
Chicago upon my uncle's recommendation since that is where he
studied. I still remember stepping off the elevator and instantly
realizing I had found the place that I HAD to be and I wanted to be
an art student. A big decision immediately became apparent to me and
I became very excited. The years I spent at the American Academy
successfully put me on my path of becoming an illustrator. But, after
working at various Illustration studios around downtown Chicago for
about three years I realized I wasn't prepared to be a freelance
Illustrator and packed my backs and headed to San Francisco to attend
the Academy of Art College to study with a number of truly incredible
illustrators that I admired and had an incredible opportunity to
study with such as Thomas Blackshear, Drew Struzan, Kazu Sano and
Charles Pyle to name a few. While at the Academy, I rebuilt my
portfolio and headed back to Chicago as an Illustrator and started to
pursue projects that appealed to me and my sensibilities.
AAM: You started out thinking about film school and got distracted.
Are you interested in going the Frank Miller route and collaborating
on a film that has the visual style of an artist and not necessarily a
filmmaker (i.e. Sin City, 300)?
DK: I don't know if it was truly any distraction that swayed me away from
pursuing film. Upon reflection it's just that I took art more
seriously and I might have realized I was only attracted to Columbia
College because my friends were there already. I planned to study
filmmaking as well as art classes there. I had been making films
124
with these friends throughout my early childhood so I was always
"following" them. I guess for some period I abandoned film making and
then became involved again
later on with my friends
production
company. When I made the
decision to throw myself into
painting and
drawing at the Academy - it was
a very freeing decision as well
as
realizing I was doing something
that I was more passionate
about.
Maybe never realizing it before
because art, drawing, sculpting
and
painting came so easily to me. I
was very serious about my art,
always - but loved film. And at
the time some newer films were
making
huge impacts with me as a
visual person: Raging Bull and
The Elephant
Man. I was a creative kid and I always explored all creative outlets
that interested me. I was in my share of garage bands through out
high school as well as helped the school plays. Acting is also in our
family, the respected New York actor Jerry Orbach was] my father's
cousin- so acting interested me briefly. I was, and still am, exposed
to film and performance. I would never give up painting for directing
but I am associated with a group of friends in film and seem to
always be involved. Right now I am working on an independent film
project as conceptual artist and art director for a short film.
AAM: You said that Drew Struzan was one of you instructors at school.
Was he working on any of his famous movie posters at that time? Did
he ever share any stories about dealing with the movie studios?
DK: Drew Struzan and I seemed to hit it off. I respected him tremendously
as an artist and businessman and still apply a lot of what I learned
from him. He treated everyone in the classroom positively and
sincerely giving insight to the movie industry as well as advertising
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illustration, and art history. I originally just wanted to learn his
technique but what he taught me was much more important. One of those
things was to seek your own
personal tastes and incorporate
them into
a larger part of your work.
Another was to work at and
understand
your craftsmanship. There really
is a whole other interview here
about studying for the short time
with Mr. Struzan. I learned a
heck
of a lot in a very short time- of
course I came into the class with
a
good idea of what I wanted out
of my attendance. And I
welcomed his
critiques - often brutal but always honest and sincere. I didn't mind
at all because I trusted him and I wanted him to dissect my projects.
I wanted to grow! When the course ended Drew said some very inspiring
things to me. Those words coming from the artist that he is,
influences me to this day.
And he shared a lot of his stories from working in the movie poster
industry over the years, dealing with Alice Cooper, Michael J. Fox,
Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. All great stories... he did a
couple of demonstrations that were fun to watch, most of it involved
drawing. I don't remember him discussing the projects he was
currently working on at the time. But once, while visiting him in his
studio in southern California I had the opportunity of watching him
work on some revisions on the art for the "Hook" movie poster. A
gorgeous painting...
But, I really owe more to Thomas Blackshear though, for his guidance
while I was studying with Drew Struzan and the other illustrators
that I admired like Kazu Sano and Charles Pyle who were all teaching
at the Academy of Art in San Francisco. Thomas was the initial reason
I moved to San Francisco, I really wanted to study with him. Thomas
understood why I was back in school, what I hopefully wanted to
achieve and we became great friends. He took an interest in my
portfolio and growth often inviting me to his studio to watch him
126
work and talk. At the time we were actually working in a similar
mixed medium technique, so it was very helpful for me to watch him
work. Out of all the people I studied with and met in California,
Thomas and I remain close friends to this day. For those who might
not know Thomas Blackshear's work, simply Google him to see his King
Kong painting, postage stamps of the Universal Monsters, his movie
poster for Ridley Scott's Legend... and he can sculpt, too.
AAM: Are there any artists whose work has influenced you? Who are
your favorite artists?
DK: The list of artists that have
influenced me and continue to
influence
is endless. Truly, my studio is
filled with art books on Alphonse
Mucha, Paul Manship, Joseph
Clement Coll, Frazetta, Dean
Cornwell,
Fredric Gruger, Belarski, Barry
Windsor-Smith, Symbolist Art,
Waterhouse, Tadema, Pulps,
Movie Poster art... Actually, after
reading books about
Michelangelo and the Italian
renaissance is what
made me seek out a "master" to study under and that eventually led me
to look into schooling again and studying with Blackshear, Sano and
Struzan who were instructing at the Academy in San Francisco at the
time.
I am also inspired by artist friends around the Chicago area like
Gary Gianni, John Rush, Scott Gustafson, Alex Ross... as well as
friends who are sculptors, painters, film makers, writers and
musicians. Whatever gets the creative mind working...
Way back in high school when I was starting to take the idea of
becoming an art student seriously the books that were my "bibles"
were The Studio (Wrightson, Kaluta, Jones, Windsor-Smith), Alphonse
Mucha, The Magic Pen of Joseph Clement Coll, Frazetta and a Virgil
Findlay book. Those were the artists that were influencing me and
whose work was exciting. It is very hard for me to pick a favorite
artist...
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I can't get enough of Donato Giancola's work - truly awe inspiring. My
all-time favorite golden age illustrator is Joseph Clement Coll,
favorite modern illustrator is my mentor and friend, Thomas
Blackshear - his work continues to influence me. And then there's
Mucha, whose work I always go back to and study.
AAM: Give us a progression of your career once you finished art school.
Did you start out in advertising? Book illustration? Comics?
DK: While attending the American Academy of Art in Chicago I started to
show my student portfolio around Chicago trying to get work here and
there, mostly for trade magazines. A very brief attempt at showing my
portfolio to First Comics was at best memorable but no work ever came
from talking with them. After I graduated I kind of "hung around"
working in the school office, and working at an art store before
finally landing a full time position in a design and illustration
studio. The studio serviced ad agencies all over town and it was a
great place to land after working at a couple of other studios for a
short time. I was hired as the studio illustrator and all of a sudden
I was working in almost every medium: Markers, pen and ink, pencil,
pastels, watercolor, oils and air brush for a variety of clients. It
was great time of growth and learning the business.
I also had an excellent arrangement with the studio as I could do all
my freelance work after hours or if there was nothing to work on
during the day. For awhile, I was doing work for the horror and scifi small press right alongside my freelance advertising projects.
While working at the studio my freelance career soon was taking off
and I was working very long days and seven days a week. I soon
crashed and burned, fell into a mild creative depression and
realizing, although I was making a lot of money working on a variety
of projects and in a variety of styles, I wasn't "me". My portfolio
looked like a one man studio with no focus or personality. So, I
packed my bags and moved to San Francisco and enrolled at the
Academy of Art with the intention of re-doing my portfolio. I eventually
moved back to Chicago to finish up some commitments and continue to
work on my new portfolio and pursue projects that interested me
creatively.
My original intention had always been focus on being a book
illustrator, but I started to pursue entertainment work.
Unfortunately, being an illustrator based in Chicago - flying back
and forth to California wasn't cutting it. So, either I had to move
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again to California or concentrate on something else and I decided to
stay in Chicago.
About that time I had decided to be represented locally by a wellknown agent and the work flow was really good. While the agent was
getting me assignments in advertising I continued to look into other
areas that interested me. I decided to try painting for collectibles
and before I knew it, I was doing collector plates for The Bradford
Exchange. I painted a very successful Gone With The Wind plate series
for them among other things like Patriotic Scenes, Sports, Elvis, and
The Beatles. The exposure from that work led to assignments for
Broadway and Off-Broadway posters and children's books. Around this
time I started to develop my own "personal" style more seriously and
a designer friend labeled it "Heroic-Deco" and that stuck with me. I
began getting work from agencies looking for someone who could do
"super hero" illustration but not "comic book" heroes. All this time
I've still been a comic book reader and attending conventions as a
fan and I start running into people that I went to school with or
knew from school like Gary Gianni and Jill Thompson. And soon after
people began asking me if I was interested in doing comics. And then
Alex Ross' MARVELS was released and it made an big impact with me. I
then became very serious about developing my portfolio to possibly
try my hand at a genre that was near and dear to my heart. I didn't
immediately start painting super heroes but concentrated on my Pulp
interests and pieces like Buck Rogers and Mercury Jack which is an
homage to golden age heroes like The Flash.
AAM: What is the breakdown of the type of work you do now - how much
is advertising, how much is book illustration, how much is commissioned
pieces, and what type of pieces do you prefer doing?
DK: That varies year to year for me. Last year I did a lot of advertising
than usual, I would roughly say it was 40% advertising and 60% book
covers and interior illustrations- maybe a bit more book work. I
worked on two ad campaigns with 5 to 6 illustrations for each project
as well as some "wrist" work for an iconic character re-design for
packaging. The book and magazine illustrations are always on the
schedule regularly but I enjoy it all. I like the fact that it's
always something different and each project compliments each other,
keeping me "fresh" for each individual piece. Right now I don't have
a preference as I am offered projects that fit with my sensibilities,
I've had pretty good opportunities painting The Spider, Doc Savage,
Superman, The Phantom, Dr. Fate and Zorro. One of the ad campaigns
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from last year was 5 pulp/noir paintings of private eyes for a
financial group. That was a lot of fun and called upon my love for
film noir, retro movie posters, pulps and paperback art. I am always
flattered when people approach me for commissions and I do try and do
as many of them as possible. I am currently working on a large piece
that I am very excited about. I plan on working on it in between my
regular projects and a new book cover series that was just assigned
to me.
AAM: What mediums do you work in? Do you prefer one medium over
another?
DK: I love to draw, so give me any pencil and any piece of paper and I'm
happy. I use acrylics for my paintings and enjoy the immediacy that I
get from the paint. Originally, I painted in gouache watercolor and
slowly introduced myself to acrylics. I still occasionally paint in
watercolors but haven't touched oils since my children were born
because I didn't want them to be exposed since my studio is right
next door to our kitchen and the play room. I'm happy working in
acrylics and recently started to get back into doing pen and inks,
which I missed dabbling in.
AAM: Do you use models or photo reference when working, or do you
prefer to work straight from your imagination?
DK: Hmmm... I would like to think that I do both. The images come from
my imagination. I support those images by doing thumbnail roughs, loose
sketches and shooting photo references to develop a tight drawing to
paint from. This insures that I am doing an original piece of work. I
never rely solely on a found piece of reference material as it
dictates your concept and then you're just a "renderer". When working
on an illustration I've turned myself into a production company:
designing sets, costumes and props. Casting the scene, setting up the
lighting, choosing the right angle to photograph the character and
situation. Choosing the mood using composition and color... my own
theatre on paper and board. And there are some pieces that I draw
from my imagination using references of clothing and lighting to get
what I want- very rarely do I work this way but it does happen. I
recently painted a "Zorro" cover without shooting a model and relying
on different references that either I found or the client supplied.
That seemed to work smoothly for that project. My cover for Clifford
Simak's CITY was developed without photo references.
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AAM: Were you a pulp or comic book reader/fan growing up?
DK: I think I was obsessed with comic books, comic strips, pulps, movies,
old time radio, models, paperbacks, monster magazines and movie
poster art as a kid growing up in the 1970's. Much hasn't changed!
As a young artist it was all visual excitement and I soaked it up
like a sponge. Every Wednesday I'd run down the street to a store called
"Ideal Cards and Books" which was basically a neighborhood newsstand
with greeting cards and small gifts. They carried only Marvel, DC and
Archie titles, but not all of them. The rest of the titles as well as
Charlton's and Gold Key's
were at the corner drug
store which was a
bit farther to walk to. I
just couldn't get enough
of the visual excitement
and always craved more
and more, driving my
poor parents and siblings
crazy.
AAM: What books or
series did you read?
Who were your favorite
characters?
DK: I grew up reading
Batman, Spider-man,
Fantastic Four, Nick Fury,
well... probably all the
Marvel titles, honestly. As
well as some DC stuff
from Jack Kirby to Bernie
Wrightson and anything
by Jim Steranko.
Thanks to Warren for
publishing The Spirit
alongside Creepy and
Eerie. As a younger
reader I was addicted to
everything Spider-man
and because I was reader I collected the Classics Illustrated comics.
As I got older I tended to gravitate towards pulp heroes like Doc
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Savage, The Shadow, Conan, The Avenger and John Carter. Which I
started reading in comic books but ended up reading the paperbacks
soon after. I was informed about pulps by reading The Monster Times
and Mediascene magazines. Byron Priess was publishing some great
things that influenced me in Fiction Illustrated and Weird Heroes
like "Starfawn", "Son of Sherlock Holmes" and Steranko's "Chandler".
AAM: Are you reading any pulps or comics now?
DK: Because of my working schedule comic books are ideal for the time I
have available. They're quick reads, here and there.
AAM: What are your favorite books or characters?
DK: Right now I'm a regular reader of: Daredevil, Fear Agent, The Black
Coat, The Phantom, The Spirit, 100 Bullets, Prince Valiant and Flash
Gordon strip reprints. On occasion I'll read EC reprints, Warren magazines,
Conan and bronze age Kirby, DC and Marvel stuff. My weekend reading
is varied with short stories from Robert E. Howard or The Spider. I
like to re-read Burroughs’ John Carter Mars books, who is one of my
all time favorite characters and currently I started reading the
Dumarest series by E.C. Tubb on someone's recommendation.
My favorite characters are the classics: Spider-man, Batman,
Superman, The Phantom, Doc Savage, The Shadow, Conan and John
Carter.
My personal favorites are: golden age Sandman and The Spirit.
AAM: Are there any publishers and/or characters you’d like to work with?
DK: Moonstone has the pulp heroes that I would like to work on and if they
ever get The Shadow, I hope to paint him as well. I have some pretty
cool ideas for some Star Wars illustrations and I'd love to do
another Flash Gordon painting when I find the time. I haven't worked
with much of the characters from DC or Marvel and they all pretty
much interest me as a comic book fan. The Spirit, of course Sandman,
I've always wanted to do Nick Fury, Namor and obviously Spider-man
(who doesn't). Actually after thinking about this, I have a lot of
characters on my "want" list! I'd also have to include characters
from Cartoon Network like Ben-10.
AAM: Do you have a dream project you’d like to do?
DK: Yes, I would love to do a painted golden age Sandman story. The
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Sandman Mystery Theatre series made a huge impact on me as a comic
reader, pulp and noir fan and artist. I also have a couple of
personal projects in the works that I would love to start. One is
crime / noir influenced and the other is sci-fi / fantasy. It would
be a "dream" to find the time to work on them.
AAM: Besides your website, where can people see your artwork?
DK: The focus of my website: http://www.douglasklauba.com is an
overview of everything I do an it is in the process of being re-thought and
redesigned. I update my page regularly at:
http://www.comicspace.com/dklauba at there you will find more specialized
galleries dealing with my pulp, sci-fi and comic book illustration. There you
can also find links to other interviews and where to purchase my originals.
AAM: Have you published a sketchbook or collection?
DK: There has been talk about a book of collected works from a couple of
different publishers. It's up to me and I need to try and find the
time to pull it together. I'm in the process of finishing up the
Sketchbook: "Fist Full Of Lead" and will be available by August.
There is also two sets of postcards that are available from:
http://www.urgero.com/postcards.htm and include various images that
were featured in past Spectrum art annuals and Moonstone covers.
AAM: Do you ever attend any comic book or other type of conventions?
And do you attend as a fan or as a pro?
DK: I have been attending conventions since I was a kid and only recently
as a professional - but I will always be a fan. I am always at Wizard
World Chicago, The Windy City Pulp And Paperback Convention and other
area shows. I try and go to San Diego Comic-Con when my schedule
allows. I plan on making the New York Comic-Con every year either as
a professional or a fan. I enjoy walking around meeting other artists
and seeing the original art - and there's a lot of good stuff to see.
AAM: By the time this sees print, convention season will almost be over.
Are you planning to attend any conventions after August where fans can
meet you?
DK: Because of my work load, this year will be a light convention
schedule for me. If you missed me at The Windy City Pulp and
Paperback Convention or Wizard World Chicago, next year might be
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better. I only recently had to cancel San Diego Comic-Con because of
deadlines through July and August. If anyone is interested, they can
find out on my page at: http://www.comicspace.com/dklauba.
AAM: Are you teaching your sons to draw? Since you grew up in a very
creative environment, do you have a sense of having them carrying on a
tradition?
DK: My boys are definitely creative and will probably be carrying on some
family tradition one way or the other. They're too young to see what
direction that will be. Right now they're having fun just being boys.
--END--
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Dames, Dolls and Femmes
Fatale:
The Women of Pulp Fiction
By
Blue Johnson
You’ve heard of the Madonna/Whore complex; the idea that women are either saints or
sluts, ladies or prostitutes? You’d think such a quaint notion would have long been
discarded by this time. And in real life, it mostly has. But in the flickering anti-world of
reel life, things are quite different. If anything, they’ve devolved. While screenwriters of
the 30s, 40s, and 50s offered actresses juicy roles filled with psychological depth and a
diverse palette of emotions, most of today’s movies treat women as mere accessories,
with barely enough personality to convey a plot point. For every movie that presents
women as complex, intelligent beings (like Notes on a Scandal or The Queen) we get
dozens of films where the women are just there to fill up the frame. (If you think I’m
exaggerating, consider that the best female role in a summer blockbuster movie was
Marge Simpson.)
Nowadays, female movie characters seem to be divided into “the girl” and “the mom.”
Pickings are so slim that you find Academy Award-winning actresses doing genre
movies. Bad genre movies. And when they tank (as they have been doing all summer),
box office analysts blame the women. (Mmmmm, do we really think that Nicole Kidman
is more responsible than the screenwriter for the failure of Invasion?)
In the realm of Pulp Fiction, women are equal to men. The great villains of film noir are
equally divided between the
sexes. And the
women of pulp are a much
more diverse group
than the women of today’s
blockbusters. For one
thing, in these movies, the
fairer sex is divided
into a number of separate
categories, the main
ones being: good girls
(dolls), bad girls
(femme fatales) and dames.
Dames can sometimes
be dolls, but dolls are never
femmes fatale.
Women in all three
categories are
inevitably beautiful and their
sex appeal can range
from girl-next-door (Alice
Faye) to exotic/erotic,
as with sensual beauties like
Rita Hayworth.
Angelina Jolie can pull off
there are precious few others
Biel? Sorry. Cameron Diaz?
the pulp thing, but
who can. (Jessica
Nice try. Meg Ryan?
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Not a chance.) But it’s not their fault. They just don’t have the support of the
screenwriters. So instead of character, we get explosions; instead of drama we get …
explosions.
Maybe it’s time to take a look at the women of Pulp Fiction and see what they had to
offer—style, wit, a great fashion sense. Maybe it’s time screenwriters got a clue and
started writing women like the women who inhabited movies 60 years ago. Here’s an
idea—the Zeroes are the new Forties!
Curtis Hanson and Brian Helgeland got it right in L.A. Confidential, but there are other
ways to go. You don’t always have to bet on the blonde. In Film Noir, a brunette is as
likely to be the good girl waiting at the altar as the heart-breaker who leaves the hero
holding the bag.
A pulp blonde might be a dish, a tomato, a cookie, a good kid, a sweetheart, a floozy, a
good sport, even a broad; but she was never, ever a dumb blonde. She was a girl who had
your number and if she decided to give you a ring, you answered.
The Blonde Standard was set by:
Miss Barbara Stanwyck—If you only ever saw her playing the matriarch on Big
Valley, mother to a brood of handsome sons and the lovely Linda Evans (who at the time
looked a lot like Paris Hilton) , then you don’t know anything about her. For one thing,
she was that rare
actress who could
credibly play all
three faces of the
pulp heroine. She
was fresh-faced
and adorable in
Union Pacific (a
Cecil B. DeMille
film) and delightful
playing the
domestically
challenged food
writer in Christmas
in Connecticut. In a
series of comedies
(Preston Sturges’
The Lady Eve,
Howard Hawks’
Ball of Fire), she
was the brassy,
ballsy, sexy dame
who ultimately bags
her man. She was
terrific in the title
role of Stella Dallas
and also wonderful
as the spoiled,
bedridden heroine
of Sorry, Wrong
Number. But her
most indelible
performance was
probably in Double
Indemnity. That
film set the bar for
film noir. Based on
a James M. Cain
novel and adapted
by Billy Wilder,
who also directed,
this story of an
affair turned murderous is an almost perfect movie. Co-starring Fred MacMurray as the
insurance agent who falls into Stanwyck’s web, and Edward G. Robinson as a suspicious
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investigator, the movie sits squarely on Stanwyck’s narrow shoulders. She’s superb.
She’s so good in fact, that you just feel sorry for anyone who had to follow in her highheeled footsteps.
Among the Dark Ladies were:
Miss Linda Darnell—died tragically in a house
fire after watching one of her own movies with a
friend. You couldn’t write a more Hollywood ending
for the woman who started out as underage star bait
before making a huge splash in a movie based on her
own experiences as a wannabe actress. From 1939 to
1965, she was one of Hollywood’s go-to gals when it
came to playing bad girls and temptresses. She was
Dana Andrews’ inspiration for murder in Fallen
Angel, although she’s the one who got killed instead.
She’s also quite moving as one of three women Gary
Merrill may have killed in Night Without Sleep,
based on a Cornell Woolrich story. (It’s a remake of
Black Angel, and there are elements of the story that
will tickle fans of Presumed Innocent.)
Miss Yvonne DeCarlo—Would have celebrated her
85th birthday on September 1st, but sadly died earlier this
year. Fondly remembered by baby-boomers as Lily
Munster, matriarch of the Munster clan on The Munsters,
she’d already had a long and varied acting career,
parlaying her brunette beauty into roles that were all over
the ethnic map. She played a lot of native girls, Native
American maidens and generic dark-haired spitfires. (She
was one credited as “the left brunette in Singing
Quartette.”) There was nothing cookie-cutter about her,
though, and
when she got a
role she could
sink her teeth
into, she chomped down hard. She was
particularly memorable as Moses’ wife
Sephora in the star-studded, 1956 Cecil B.
DeMille epic, The Ten Commandments.
Miss Anna May Wong—the first (and so
far only female) Chinese-American movie
star, was unlike anyone the movies had seen
before. She wasn’t white. She wasn’t blonde
and she wasn’t even particularly petite. What
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she was, was ferociously talented. Her last big-screen appearance was in the deliciously
over-the-top Portrait in Black (1960), a noir in which Lana Turner and her lover, Anthony
Quinn, murder her husband, Lloyd Nolan and live to regret it. By then, even the
stereotypical Asian parts (like the “Dragon Lady” in the Terry and the Pirates serials)
were being played by starlets like Sheila Darcy and Gloria Saunders, who were about as
Asian looking as Lindsay Lohan. But in her hey-day, the Los Angeles-born Wong was
an exotic hottie whose presence graced movies with wonderfully evocative titles like The
Devil Dancer, The Crimson City, Daughter of the Dragon, Tiger Bay and Land of Lost
Men.
Maybe Lucy Liu is the new Anna May Wong. Maybe Reese Witherspoon is the new
Stanwyck. It remains to be seen. But we can always hope. Women ruled in Pulp
Fiction. It’s time they ruled again.
--Blue Johnson is a dame. Yes, “Blue” is her real name and if you knew her parents,
you’d know she was lucky not to have been named “Harmony Starshine.”
For glam bathing suit shots of some of the great pulp heroines, check out the Pinups
website. Everyone’s there—from good girls Gene Tierney, Olivia De Havilland and
Virginia Mayo to dames like Ginger Rogers, Sheila Darcy and Joan Blondell to the bad
girls, Eleanor Parker, Rita Hayworth and Susan Hayward. Even the bikini shots are tame
by today’s standards and all of the women look gorgeous. More proof, in case anyone
needed it, that mystery is sexier than a shot of your naked ya-ya. (Are you listening
Britney?)
--END--
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THE HUNDRED DOLLAR BABY
By
Roger Alford
Born into a wealthy family, young Brent Gregor's life was shattered one fateful
Halloween night when an intruder's bullets took his parents and left him unable to walk.
Young Brent became a brooding recluse locked away, forever alone, in his family
mansion.
When he reached adulthood, Gregor spent much of his vast fortune searching the
world in vain for a cure. His far-reaching efforts led him to an old gypsy woman who
offered a fantastical proposition: by joining with a mysterious entity known as the Spirit
Force, Gregor could summon it when needed to not only walk again, but to harness
phantom-like abilities: superhuman strength and agility, the power to hide unseen in the
shadows, move objects with his mind, and easily pass through locked doors. In return, he
vowed to stand for the righteous, to fight evil, and bring justice to those who have none.
Now...like a ghost, he moves through the shadows of the night, bringing evildoers to justice! When criminals and lawbreakers are marked with his trademark "X,"
they know there is no escape from...The Black Spectre!
Oscar Travers grabbed another shot from the bar in his anvil-like fist and tossed it
back like a glass of water. His body was steeled from years of working on the docks, and
now, thanks to a combination of whiskey and rage, his nerves were steeled as well. He’d
never beaten another human being to death before, but he was more than capable. On
this night, especially so. His pride had been severely bruised, and he was smarting for
revenge.
Feeling the alcohol work its way into his system, he glanced again out the
window to the Orpheum Theater just down the street. The doors would open soon to let
the rich and influential step out among the masses for just a moment, then get in their
expensive cars and ride back to their posh mansions in exclusive Lakeview Heights.
And Oscar Travers would be waiting.
Inside the Orpheum, the audience applauded as the curtains fell across the stage.
The sounds echoed through the small, but ornately-crafted theater. Brent Gregor clapped,
too, from his wheelchair in Box Five. As much as he enjoyed the show, a musical farce
about love and mistaken-identity, it only served to remind him that he was very much
alone. Of course, he had his faithful valet, Bernard, at his side--the only other living
person who knew him as the Black Spectre. But Brent longed for companionship of
another kind, and those thoughts always led in the same direction. Vicky.
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As the fates would have it, Victoria Rose, the headstrong, auburn-haired reporter
for the Daily Crusader, actually sat far above him in the uppermost balcony. With her
was her boyfriend and co-worker at the Crusader, Denny Morris, who toiled daily in the
newspaper’s archives.
They were celebrating the anniversary of their first date together and Denny had
wanted to do something special. He’d saved for many months and managed to pull a few
strings to take her to the opening of a new show. Though he wished he could have done a
lot better than the “nosebleed section,” he was just glad to have a special night with her
without having to encounter his chief rival for Vicky’s attention (aside from the
newspaper)--Brent Gregor. Vicky was an angel, his angel. And on this night, dressed in
her beautiful soft-blue gown, she looked just like one.
As they got up to leave, Denny’s eyes quickly scanned the crowd below. He was
surprised by the number of famous faces: Mayor Eugene Barker, wealthy industrialist
Julius Kennelly, prominent attorney Cecil Davenport, IV, and others. The curtains
shielding the box seats kept him from seeing the one face he secretly hoped would not be
there.
After much of the audience had left the theater, Bernard pushed Brent Gregor
down to the lobby in his wheelchair. Brent stared deeply at the gold-set fire-red opal that
adorned his finger. It was this ring that gave him the power of the Spirit Force--and the
ability to walk as long as he used those powers to fight for justice in an unjust world as
The Black Spectre. It was this ring that both brought him closer to Vicky and kept them
separate. In order to tell her the truth about his feelings, he would have to tell her so
much more. Perhaps he would, in time, but that day was a long way off.
As Bernard wheeled him into the lobby, he spotted Denny and Vicky emerging
from the staircase across the hall. Brent’s face lit up at the sight of her, just as Denny’s
dimmed at the sight of him.
“Brent!” Vicky called out. “Look, there’s Brent!” she chirped happily as she
tugged Denny by the hand and rushed over to greet him. Denny smiled politely. It was a
common expression for him.
As the lobby bustled with men in tuxedos and women in fancy gowns, all
chattering happily about their wonderful evening, no one paid any mind when Oscar
Travers pushed his way quietly into the lushly decorated room. Travers silently scanned
the crowd, searching for one person in particular. He couldn’t help but notice Brent
Gregor, the only one in a wheelchair, talking to a beautiful redhead. Only a man with
that kind of money could get a woman to forget he was crippled, Travers thought.
Then his eyes landed on the man he’d come to see: Cecil Davenport, IV, the
wealthy attorney and heir to the Davenport fortune. Davenport had everything-handsome good looks, his beautiful wife, Julia, dutifully at his side like a trophy to be
140
admired, and a modicum of fame and fortune. But there was one thing Davenport had
wanted that he couldn’t produce--an heir of his own. No, that he had taken from
someone else. Taken from Oscar Travers.
Travers pushed his way quickly through the crowd and grabbed Davenport by the
collar in a vice-like grip. Before the stunned aristocrat even had time to react, Travers’
iron fist connected with Davenport’s glass jaw with the speed of a locomotive. The rich
man’s head jerked back from the fierce blow and he spat a mouthful of blood across his
beautiful young wife’s gleaming white gown.
The crushing blow knocked Davenport straight to the floor. The young Mrs.
Davenport screamed at the sight. In that split second, her concern was not only that her
husband was loosing blood, but that she found it on her dress.
He was about to spill more.
With the speed of a man possessed, Travers quickly scooped Davenport off the
floor and assailed him repeatedly in the face and gut. Davenport was so dazed by the
onslaught that he could only cough up more blood. He was completely unable to come to
his senses, much less retaliate.
The crowd quickly parted in shock and horror. Men shouted and women
screamed. It was a brutal sight. Vicky looked up at the melee with widened-eyes. Brent
quickly assessed the situation to see if he should act. Denny just stood back in shock.
Travers hauled back to pummel Davenport to the floor once more, but an unseen
force stayed his clenched fist. In the instant of his fury, Travers thought it was someone
behind him. He didn’t have time to realize he was standing alone. Brent gripped the
handles of his wheelchair as he focused his concentration, thankful he could use the
power of the Spirit Force without being noticed.
Travers could only shout in frustration, “You stole our baby! We already paid!
That baby was ours!”
Two burly Ushers stormed quickly through the horrified crowd and grabbed
Travers by the arms to hold him back. Travers was momentarily stunned to find that
there had previously been no one behind him. He then struggled against their solid
grasps and shouted, “You stole our baby!”
They quickly drug him out of the lobby and into the alley. Denny only had a
moment to look up at Vicky to see her follow right behind. Her reporter’s instinct had
kicked in as usual and she had no choice but to follow the story. Literally.
Brent gave Denny an understanding nod, seeing him standing there alone, their
special evening brought to a tragic and unexpected end. Denny watched as Bernard
wheeled Brent outside. He then looked over at the men who helped Davenport to his feet
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as he coughed more blood into his handkerchief. The women attended to Mrs.
Davenport, as she cried in terrified confusion.
Bernard helped Brent into their dark, luxurious car, then settled himself into the
driver’s seat. “What do you suppose that was all about, Sir?”
Brent stared thoughtfully out the window, pondering Travers’ words as Bernard
put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He had his suspicions.
“I’ve heard rumors of a baby-selling racket. More like a baby auction,” Brent told
him.
“Supposedly, there’s a doctor in town who helps ‘unfortunate’ girls, then sells the
baby to the highest bidder. I’m guessing that man was outbid by a wealthier buyer.”
“My heavens!” was Bernard’s response. He could not believe the words. “Every
time I think that mankind has sunk to his lowest depths, he seeks to prove me wrong.”
Brent added that he’d looked into this before, but had only come up emptyhanded.
“Whoever this doctor is, he does a very good job of covering his tracks. But at
least now there’s a trail. And with more than one path.”
The Black Spectre, of course, wasted no time in following that trail. Cecil
Davenport may have been well-guarded at the hospital to which he was taken, but that
didn’t keep him from having visitors. Most especially, one visitor in particular.
Despite the doses of morphine and expert attention at Terminal City’s finest
medical facility, Davenport did not rest well that night. Nestled in his hospital bed, his
face was heavily bandaged around his crown and his nearly-broken jaw. Davenport was
jostled awake by something uneasy and unexpected. He struggled to open his eyes.
Through the drug-induced clouds of his mind, he saw Death standing over him.
Or something that looked very much like it.
Davenport let out a very loud gasp as his heart stopped momentarily. A darkgloved hand quickly covered his mouth. Without time to think, Davenport’s hand shot
out for the small hand-bell he used to call the nurse. He shook it violently, but it made no
sound.
He looked back at the dark figure before him. Surely he was dead.
“Tell me,” said the Black Spectre in his deep, scratchy voice, “who is the doctor
that sold you the baby?”
Davenport stumbled on his words as he attempted to speak. “I -- I don’t know.”
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The Black Spectre leaned directly over Davenport’s face, so that all he could see
was the gleaming white skull of his mask. “Don’t lie to me!” demanded the Spectre.
“Do you really want to spend eternity in Hell?”
Davenport blinked through tear-filled eyes and answered, “No, Sir! Please! I
swear! I don’t know. But I know the name of the hospital. It’s Hollyvale Country
Hospital. That’s where they take all the unfortunates.”
Just at that moment, the door flung quickly open. Davenport turned to look.
There, bathed in the light of the hallway, was a pale-blue angel. Now that he had told the
truth, he had purged his soul from the darkness of Death. She was there to save him. Or
so he believed when he saw her.
Her reaction, however, was not so angelic. “What are you doing here?” she
demanded of the dark-cloaked figure.
“The same as you, I imagine,” answered the Spectre.
With a wave of his hand, the lights in the hallway went out behind her. “Come
with me,” was all he said as he whisked her out the door.
Davenport could only look up in confusion. “Angel, come back!” he called out.
Though he only touched the fingers of her hand, Vicky felt herself being pulled
down the dark hallway until they quickly came to a stop. He moved around her in a
sudden, fluid motion, then loomed over her, face to face. She wasn’t so easily
intimidated.
“Meet me at the Hollyvale Country Hospital,” was all he said, then disappeared
into the shadows. She blinked a few times, wondering if her eyes had played tricks on
her. She’d seen him do that many times before, but never up close. She shook her head,
completely unable to make sense of it. But there was no time to ponder such
puzzlements now. Despite her disdain for the Spectre, she had the information she’d
come to retrieve and, to her way of thinking, she wasn’t about to let this phantom
character rattle her into letting go of it. Even if he was the one who gave it to her.
Moments later, the Black Spectre ducked unseen into a long, black car tucked
safely some distance away in the darkness of the night. Bernard looked into the rearview mirror to see the smiling face of Brent Gregor staring back at him.
“I trust you were successful, Sir?” Bernard asked.
“Certainly,” said Brent, giving him their next location, then added, “we’re
meeting Vicky there.”
Bernard looked back at him curiously as they drove off.
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Several long miles later, well outside of the city, the Black Spectre swooped in on
the small country hospital. It was a quaint little place, like a rather long home that had
been extended in both directions. Certainly the kind of place where unfortunate girls
would feel as welcome as they could during their extended stay.
As he expected, the Spectre found Vicky at a back door, hunched down, working
the lock in frustration with a hairpin. “Allow me,” he said, startling her. With another
wave of his hand, the door unlocked and swung open. “You knew I was coming.”
Vicky could only respond with an aggravated grunt as she brushed quickly past
him to get inside first.
“Stay quiet,” she said, barreling into the hallway and having to suddenly stop
short by the sound of her clacking heels on the slick, tile floor. She let out another
aggravated grunt as she stopped to take off her shoes. The Spectre moved silently past
her and she was forced to follow.
As they reached the office, the Spectre opened the locked door and led her to the
filing cabinet.
“Can I at least do this part?” she asked in frustration. “This is what I do.”
The Spectre stepped politely back, pointing her to the files. She thrust her shoes
into his gloved-hands as if he needed to do something useful. She went to the first
drawer and gave it a quick tug. Of course, it was locked.
“Try it again,” he said, without moving a muscle.
As much as she hated to, and without even glancing in his direction, she gently
pulled on the drawer again. It came right open.
Still refusing to look at him, she went straight to work. Like a highly-trained
specialist, she whizzed quickly and quietly through the file drawers, pausing every
moment or so to hold a folder up to the dim shafts of light that bore across the dark room
from the street lights outside.
“I still don’t know if you’re a criminal or a savior,” she said, finally looking up
and staring him down.
“I’m no criminal,” he replied matter-of-factly.
She only made a sound of disbelief before going back to the files.
After another few moments, she let out a slight sound of satisfaction. “Here.
Girl’s name is Susan Harris. Checked out two days ago. There’s some numbers and
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initials written at the bottom—-I’m guessing they sold the baby to Davenport for $100
dollars. Travers had only paid fifty. Looks like she hasn’t given birth yet.”
“Who’s the doctor?” the Spectre asked.
She looked up at him as if to ask if he really thought she’d reveal such a vital
piece of information. As much as she wanted to withhold it, there was no way she could
have kept it from him. And if that wasn’t enough to really irk her, it was a name she
didn’t recognize.
“Dr. Zachary Wellman,” she confessed. “You know him?” she asked, both
hoping that he did and irritated that he might.
In fact, the Spectre knew Dr. Wellman rather well indeed. He lived in Lakeview
Heights, a few blocks from the Gregor Mansion. His home backed up against the longempty Patterson house, which Brent and every other child that grew up in Lakeview
Heights knew to be haunted. And if that wasn’t enough, Dr. Wellman had attended to
Brent and his mother that fateful Halloween night so many years ago.
Again, the Spectre told Vicky to meet him there.
After the several-mile drive back into the city and on to Lakeview Heights,
Bernard let the Spectre out near Dr. Wellman’s house before taking the car on to the
mansion. Vicky wasn’t far behind, though, and quickly rushed in through the open front
door to find him waiting.
“Doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” he told her.
“Have you looked upstairs?” she asked, not waiting for him to answer. She
barreled quickly up the grand, circular staircase. Since this was only the second home in
Lakeview Heights (the first being Brent Gregor’s, of course) she’d been in, her mind was
momentarily distracted by the thought of how much she’d have liked to see this home
with the lights on.
They rushed into the study to find it dark and empty like the rest of the house. As
Vicky glanced over the papers on the desk and found the drawers locked, she could have
sworn that she saw a flash of light in the house directly behind them.
“Isn’t that the old Patterson House?” she asked. “The one that’s supposed to be
haunted?”
“Yes,” answered the Spectre, knowing full well that it was. For on the same
fateful Halloween that had changed his life, he’d had his first brush with the otherworld.
Like all the kids in Lakeview Heights, he’d peered in through the front door while
completing the neighborhood children’s rite of passage, and something--something
ghostly, something frightening, something not from this world--had called out to him.
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Vicky’s voice shook him from those terrible memories. “If you were going to
hide someone and you wanted to make sure she was never found, where would you hide
her? A haunted house maybe?”
Before he could answer and even think to hesitate, Vicky was down the stairs and
out the back door. The Spectre caught up with her as she charged across the yard, finally
stopping at the back porch to look up at the ornate, eerie edifice that had frightened so
many and left scars on more than a few.
She turned quickly back to look at him, waiting impatiently for him to unlock the
door.
For once, he actually hesitated.
“Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, “don’t tell me you’re afraid of this place?” Of
course, he couldn’t answer. And he especially couldn’t confess to the terror that his
childhood memories of that night evoked. He knew there was no backing down. At least
they weren’t going in the front door.
With a quick wave, the back door opened with a long and resounding creak.
“Great,” she said, “just like a horror movie. Let’s just hope Bela Lugosi isn’t
waiting inside.”
In a quick glide up to the porch, he stepped in front of the door and blocked her
path.
“Please, allow me,” he said, now leading the way.
“About time,” she answered. “Thought you’d feel right at home here.” She shook
her head, puzzled, thinking to herself that maybe he was human after all.
The Spectre led her quietly in. Even with his ghost-like movements, he couldn’t
avoid the quiet creaks as he made his way across the floor of the empty room into which
they’d entered. Vicky did much worse, only this time she wasn’t about to take off her
shoes.
As they went into the main hallway that led to the stairs, the Spectre found the
unsettling prospect of staring out the front door himself, taking on the vantage point of
whatever it was that had looked out at him. He wondered if he would encounter that
visage again now that he was deep within the house. An eerie chill ran down his spine.
As if on cue, they heard a muffled scream from upstairs. Vicky grabbed his arm
and practically pulled herself under his cloak as she let out a gasp that left her breathless.
As anxious as he was at that moment, having her in his arms and the need to protect her
supplanted the childhood fears that still lived within him.
“Think it’s a ghost?” she asked.
146
Before he could answer, they heard it again. This time, he was reassured.
“Come on,” he replied, his voice strong and commanding once again. He led her
up the stairs, keeping her tight under his cape. It felt good to move together as one. But
as much as he treasured this moment, he knew he would have to let her go when they
reached the top.
At the end of the long black hall, they could barely see a thin bit of light creep
under the last doorway. Then they heard another scream. This time, Vicky was sure, too.
It was no apparition.
The Spectre backed her to the wall, finally releasing her from the safety of his
grasp.
“Stay here,” he whispered. She nodded silently.
He floated over to the door and commanded it to open silently, and just barely at
that.
“Push!” shouted Doctor Wellman as the poor young Susan Harris lay back on a
bed with the doctor and an older nurse, waiting at her feet. The Spectre immediately
recognized her, too, as Mrs. Wellman. He’d heard rumors that the Wellman’s were
having financial troubles. Had it really come to this? Had he known, he could have easily
helped.
Susan bit down on a rolled up rag as she screamed and gave it her all as Wellman
had commanded.
The Spectre watched wide-eyed as Susan gave birth at that moment to a healthy
baby girl and the room was filled with the cries of both mother and daughter. Susan
flopped back on the old, rumpled mattress in exhaustion as Mrs. Wellman dabbed her
forehead with a wet cloth.
Handing the baby off to his wife, the doctor soon realized that they weren’t alone.
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem startled. Perhaps he’d experienced ghosts in that house
before. Mrs. Wellman, however, had the complete opposite reaction. She shreiked even
louder than Susan had; though, to be fair, she didn’t have anything to bite on.
“It’s okay, Muriel,” Wellman reassured his wife. “Attend to the baby.”
Wellman turned back to the Spectre. “How did you find me?” he asked as Mrs.
Wellman nervously bundled up the newborn. She was afraid to take her eyes off the dark
visage as she placed the infant in a make-shift cradle.
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The Spectre well knew the voice that came from the old man before him. He
knew its kind, reassuring tones. It was weaker and softer now, but it was still that same
voice that he had known so long ago. He could only regret this moment.
“Just followed the clues, that’s all,” answered Vicky as she marched through the
doorway and went straight up to Wellman. Her voice wasn’t so kind. After all, she
hadn’t known the doctor before and could only judge him by what she saw then.
It was a near deadly distraction for both of them. While the Spectre was lost in
memories of both this place and the old doctor that stood slumped and exhausted before
them, Mrs. Wellman quietly took a syringe from a nearby table. She moved silently
behind Vicky.
Then, in a motion surprisingly fast for an aging woman, one born of desperation
more than strength, Mrs. Wellman went to plunge it straight into Vicky’s neck.
This was not the kindly woman that Brent had known as a child.
The needle had nearly pierced Vicky’s flesh when a black-gloved hand stopped
her. Only the hand hadn’t even touched her own. Instead, it was several feet away,
outstretched with fingers extended, tense and shaking from exertion.
Vicky screamed with a start as Mrs. Wellman struggled against the unseen force
that had stopped her. Another equally powerful and invisible force pulled Vicky quickly
away, then sent the syringe flying from Mrs. Wellman’s hand to smash against the wall.
In that same instant, Vicky found herself once again in his arms. This time, staring him
face-to-face, she thought for a fleeting moment of wrapping herself completely in his
cape.
“Well,” she finally said, struggling for the words. “I guess you are a savior after
all.”
As much as he wanted that moment to last for an eternity, and seeing in her eyes
that Vicky was considering the same, the Spectre reluctantly let her go. He secured the
Wellmans, tying their hands with dark cord, then led Vicky back out into the hall.
“The police will be here soon,” he told her. And with that, he was gone. Just like
before. Perhaps he wasn’t a man after all. Vicky rushed over to the bed to look down on
Susan Harris. Despite all that had happened, she was smiling at the sight of her healthy
baby girl next to her.
“Will they still take my baby?” Susan asked weakly.
“No, not now,” Vicky reassured her. “Don’t worry. You get to keep her now.”
“Oh,” said Susan, “looking away. “But what about the money?”
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A short while later, the wealthy residents of the neighborhood poured from their
front doors as flashing police lights filled the usually tranquil streets. There was many a
shriek and murmur from both children and adults alike when the black and white cars
pulled up outside the old Patterson House. Vicky rushed out to meet the grizzled and
burly Detective Shayne as he moved cautiously towards the front door. Then there was
an audible sigh of relief when they all realized that she wasn’t a ghost, though one man in
the crowd did notice that she looked like an angel.
That man was Denny. He rushed over and clutched her by the hand, pulled her to
him and, he presumed, to safety. In that instant, she realized that just then she didn’t feel
quite as safe as she had before, upstairs in the house that was haunted and wrapped in the
cloak of a man she didn’t know.
“Thank goodness, you’re okay,” Denny exclaimed. “What happened in this old
place anyway?”
“It’s the baby-selling racket,” Vicky shouted, both to Denny and Detective
Shayne. “An old doctor and his wife, a young girl and her baby. They’re right inside,
upstairs.”
“You don’t say!” shouted Detective Shayne with a start before charging up the
steps and directly inside. The crowd gasped again at the sight of someone actually going
into that old, frightening edifice.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Detective,” called Vicky, as she heard him clomping up
the creaky old stairs. Then she turned back to Denny and added, “Come on, let’s get out
of here. I need to get back to the office.”
Despite his desires to the contrary, Denny dutifully agreed.
When Detective Shayne reached the upstairs room, he found the Wellmans, Susan
Harris, and the baby just as Vicky said. But one additional detail immediately caught his
attention--two strips of tape stretched across the window formed the shadow of a large
“X” across the room. Shayne could only nod knowingly. This was the work of
the Spectre, no doubt.
As Vicky drove out of Lakeview Heights, she passed the Gregor Mansion. There,
in the upstairs window of his bedroom, was the familiar silhouette of Brent Gregor, everwatching.
--END--
149
THE ELDRITCH HORROR
FROM BEYOND THE
NETHER VOID
By
D.A. Madigan
In the hideous, flickering glare reflecting from the huge, cyclopean idol's glassy
greenish surface, the swaying, heaving undulations of the gathered eldritch throngs were
etched in stark relief against the backdrop of the old, crumbling church. From the upper
balcony, where the shambling hulks bearing the three captives lurched ponderously into
the horribly transformed chamber of worship, the entire ghastly vista was mercilessly
displayed.
Before the captured adventurers' smoke strained eyes was spread a hellish tableau
of a sort that would have sent weaker minds tottering into madness at the merest glance.
There, coiling and uncoiling in inhumanly syncopated rhythm within what should have
been one of humanity's holiest places, was assembled the entire population of the small
town.
Cheery cheeked Mrs. Buttersbee, the captive group's erstwhile landlady was there,
her pleasant blue eyes now slitted like a cobra's, her apple-red cheeks pallid, green-tinged
and, in the flickering light from the awful emeralf torches, even scaly seeming to the
naked eye.
All the other tenants from Mrs. Buttersbee's boarding house were also there – the
kindly middle aged schoolmarm Miss Spence, the retired postmaster Abner O'Keefe, the
morose, taciturn traveling salesman known only as Mr. Bitters.
All of them now swayed and hissed inhumanly in front of their depraved and
disgusting idol, all of them as grotesquely metamorphisized as Mrs. Buttersbee.
The leader of the bound captives, whom many mere humans of the year 1932
would have believed they instantly recognized as Colonel Nathaniel Champion,
international adventurer of vast renown, stared grimly from atop the vast, brobdignagian
shoulders of the creature bearing him down the stairs from the balcony.
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It took only a fraction of the formidable acumen reputed to Colonel Champion to
realize what a fix he and his companions were in. Yet no trace of panic marred the noble
forehead above the shaggy, greying eyebrows of the famous international paranormal
investigator, nor did the slightest hint of any discomposure so much as quiver the
semblance of the hard set lips framed by the luxurious silvery whiskers of one of the
world's greatest heroes.
Nor was any untoward emotion betrayed by the beauteous visage of red haired
Patricia Champion, daughter to the renowned Colonel, and similarly resolute were the
aquiline features of the final captive, a bold adventurer nearly as recognizable as either
Champion, the intrepid and brilliant Professor Copperton. Only Patricia's vastly heaving
breasts, rising and falling magnificently like some regularly crashing tsunami of perfectly
sculpted female flesh beneath the clinging fabric of the tight, now tattered blouse she had
donned at Mrs. Butterbee's boarding house barely an hour prior, gave away any
emotional tumult that she might harbor locked within her powerfully pumping heart.
She had absolute faith in her partners in peril, a faith fully reflected in the calm of
her glacial blue eyes – the same eyes which had snared the hearts of a million men,
staring out of the covers of various glamour and fashion magazines each month from
every corner newsstand in
America and Europe.
Beneath Professor Mark Copperton's perfectly controlled visage, a torrent of
intellectual prowess might well be raging. Copperton's finely tuned mind might well be
racing through every conceivable permutation of possibility, winnowing, narrowing,
refining, until at last he would formulate a series of strategems that, although each
individual step might seem unlikely and even deranged by and of iteself, would, in
culmination, inevitably lead to the escape of he and his comrades and the salvation of all
their hopes.
Or, equally, he might simply be composing a monogram regarding the differences
between the strange serpentmen who comprised most of the townsfolk here in the odd
little village of Howard Harbor, and their even stranger slave race, the bulky, hulking
shoggoths who currently bore the three of them effortlessly towards the hideous idol
where they would no doubt be horribly sacrificed.
He might, indeed, be mentally composing the sentences in which he would
describe the various human guises that nightfall had caused to slough off the seemingly
human inhabitants of Howard Harbor, transforming the heavyset, slow moving farmers
and laborers hanging about on the front porch of Milt's Country Grocery and Post Office
into the hideously strong, nearly non-sentient hulks currently carrying he and his friends,
while the remainder of the townsfolk had taken on the disturbingly ophidian aspect of
ancient Lemurian serpentmen.
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As the shoggoth bore their captives past an undulating group composed of the
town's mayor and all four of its selectmen, the grizzled leader of the captives made his
move.
Although the brainless shoggoth had searched each of the adventurers before
binding them, their dull mindlessness had been no match for the driving intellect beneath
the brow of Colonel Champion.
Now, as the razor blade concealed in the sleeve of his heavy cotton safari jacket
finally sheared through the stout hemp ropes binding his wrists, he twisted his heavily
muscled form to the side, hurling himself off of the broad shoulders of his shoggoth
bearer.
As he did so, his right hand darted to one of his jacket's epaulets and tore it
cleanly away, thus igniting the chemical fuse woven into the fabric there which
connected directly to the detonator in the epaulet's small button, which was itself
composed entirely of an artificial explosive of the Colonel's own design.
Even as the Colonel landed on his side and rolled towards the church wall like a
great jungle cat, he was flicking the epaulette and its incindiery button towards the main
mass of shoggoths.
His comrades had needed no prompting. Taking their cue from Colonel
Champion, both other captives immediately executed similar gymnastics of a sort that
only Olympic level athletes in peak physical condition could even hope to perform,
acrobatically hurling themselves through the air away from their bearers.
Before the slow brained occult slaves could even begin to ponderously turn on
their clumsy hooved feet, the Colonel's explosive pellet detonated in their midst. Their
dense, bulky bodies absorbed most of the blast, but the hideous shoggoth were scattered
like tenpins, their torsos and tiny pinheads crushed and deformed by the devastating fury
of the explosion.
Meanwhile, the razor still in the hands of Colonel Champion had not been idle.
All three adventurers lithely sprang upright again, no longer bound, and without any
discussion, Professor Copperton snatched up one of the pews that had been pushed to the
side of the chamber and smashed out a window with it. With hordes of ululating
serpentmen slithering madly behind them, the three vaulted to freedom!
Racing through the dank, livid shadows of the horror filled Howard Harbor night
without a word to each other, the three reached the front of Mrs. Buttersbee's boarding
house, where they had parked their vehicle, a heavily modified Army surplus jeep.
Without uttering a syllable, Patricia seized up a .45 automatic and one of the
Springfield rifles from the back of the jeep. In addition to being a world famous fashion
model and ingenue, Patricia Champion had won three gold medals in the 1932 Olympics
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on the U.S. women's rifle and pistols teams. Now, as the two men leapt into the Army
jeep and struggled with its starter mechanism, she dropped to one knee and began to
provide withering covering fire for their escape.
An occult mist had sprung up all around Howard Harbor, a defensive device used
by its hellish inhabitants to protect their sinister secret. While this impenetrable mystic
fog might have foiled the escape attempts of lesser beings, the serpentmen who wove it
had reckoned without the intellectual prowess of Professor Mark Copperton.
The experimental compass of his own design he held in his hand, as well as his
careful map making of the days before, paid dividends as the small party of adventurers
hurtled off into the night, away from the little town of horrors and back towards the world
of ration and reason.
****
14 hours later, the town of Happy Harbor lay in smoking ruins. A battalion from
the local Army post was sifting through the blazing embers that had once been the
horribly inhuman township, seeking any survivors.
Occasionally hisses of outrage, quickly followed by shots that cut them terminally
short, rang out through the afternoon haze.
On the fringes of the no longer existent town, Colonel Champion and his two
companions had set up a large tent from just outside of which they were overseeing the
clean up operation through field glasses.
As the man called Professor Copperton watched, he saw an Army staff car
approach the tent and come to a halt. A lieutenant emerged from behind the driver's seat,
opened the door to the rear compartment, and saluted smartly.
The battalion commander, General Harderman, unfolded his lanky length into the
smoke smeared sunlight and stiffly approached the adventurers' pavilion.
"All clear!" he said, snapping Colonel Champion a punctilious salute. "Most of
these snake things are dead already from the fire; my boys are having no trouble cleaning
up the rest."
"Yes, they're sluggish anyway in the daylight," Colonel Champion agreed.
"Probably why they adopt human guise when the sun is out," Professor Copperton
mused.
"It's horrible," General Harderman said, shaking his head. "If you hadn't gotten
onto them… there's no telling what their nefarious plans may have been!Are there more
of them, do you know?"
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"According to our… sources…" Colonel Champion said, "this was the last
enclave."
"Thank God for that," the General said."What a horrible surprise to find such
things exist!"
"Yes, we were shocked," Professor Copperton said. "We weren't prepared for
them at all." His eyes grew distant. "We all thought humanity was the dominant race on
this planet," he said, his tone slow and thoughtful. "All our devices, our mighty plans…"
He narrowed his eyes. "We had to improvise. They could have muddled everything up
terribly."
"Yes, yes," the General agreed, perhaps somewhat pompously. "Man takes his
place in the universe for granted… perhaps too much so, indeed. Still, thanks to you,
humanity is safe from this horrible threat."
The Professor and the Colonel exchanged glances. "This one, yes," the Colonel
said, perhaps a bit dryly.
"General Harderman," Patricia murmured, inclining her beautifully coifed head
towards the tent flap, "there is something you should see inside here, if you have a
moment."
"Of course, ma'am!" the General said. "Anything the U.S. can do for you, your
father, your fiance… we owe you a great debt!"
Unhesitatingly, the General, who had fought on a hundred battlefields but none
anywhere near as strange as where he found himself today, followed the three
adventurers into the canvas enclosure.
Inside, it took the General's eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. Then:
"By God!" he gasped. "Is that… is that meant to be ME?"
Stacked around the tent were four and five foot high piles of what seemed to be
seed bags. On top of them were huge, purplish looking gourds of some kind; dozens of
them, spilling from atop the seed bags to lie, gleaming in the dim light, all over the dirt
floor.
In the very center of the tent, one of the vast purplish gourds had split open on one
end, and protruding from it was what appeared to be the head, neck, arms, and upper
torso of a naked man… and although the figure was enshrouded still in some sort of silky
webbing, still, anyone could see that it did indeed bear an identical resemblance to the
General.
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The General shot a horrified look at Colonel Champion. "Is this what they were
planning to do? These horrifying serpentmen, these worshippers of ancient, eldritch
deities? Replace living Americans with some kind of manufactured, vegetative slavedrones?"
"Oh, no," Colonel Champion said, smiling reassuringly as Professor Copperton
smashed his gun butt down on the back of the General's head. "This one is ours."
Without a word, the alien wearing the duplicated form of Patricia Champion bent
down and fastened a vine from the General-pod to the real General's unconscious head.
Within moments, the General was no more than a hollowed out, withered husk. The
three members of the alien vanguard helped their newest recruit out of the already
shriveling pieces of his nurturing pod, and handed him the General's uniform. Then they
carefully gathered up the seeds dropped by the nurturing pod as it withered; such seeds
were vital to the plan.
There was no need for verbal communication; the four of them were one.
The General would distribute replacement gourds to each member of the battalion
outside, ordering them to keep them by their sides at all times. After tonight, the entire
battalion would be available to begin distributing seed-pods to all the surrounding human
villages.
The seeds sprouted quickly, the new colony should be fully established within a
few planetary rotations, at most. The serpentmen, whose metabolisms, and worse,
whose utterly inhuman mental processes, were completely incompatible to the colony
mind, could have proven a serious threat to the invasion.
But as the blossom-queen had indicated, the first three humans chosen for
recruitment had had adequate personal resources to deal with that problem.
Soon, this world would belong to the pods.
--END--
155
INVADERS FROM UNDER THE SEA
An Adventure of the Atomic Thunderbolt!
By
It was just after seven o’clock in the evening when the broadcast was delivered
in New York City. Every single radio within a ten-mile radius, even those that were
turned off, suddenly emitted a strident whistle guaranteed to draw the attention of anyone
within earshot. All over the city knobs were switched, dials were turned, but to no avail.
The whistle continued for a full minute. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped.
People were perplexed. The regular programs that the whistle had interrupted had
not resumed. There was only silence.
Then a voice issued from the radios. A man’s voice, strong, accustomed to
command. The voice spoke in perfect English, but there was the slightest hint of an
unidentifiable accent. The voice spoke clearly and without distortion, as if the speaker
were in the very room with the listener.
“Attention New York,” said the voice. “This is the Yarong the Twelfth, ruler of
the Empire of Lemuria.
“For too long has the Empire of Lemuria been forgotten and ignored by you
surface dwellers. We, who were once masters of the planet, will once more assume
dominance of the Earth!
“Therefore, tribute will be paid to the Empire of Lemuria. All the gold that your
United States has secured in its vaults will be given over to us by noon tomorrow.
“Should the United States fail to comply, the Empire of Lemuria will respond by
destroying New York!”
And then, as abruptly as it began, the strange broadcast ceased.
The next day there was a feeling of foreboding in Manhattan, a tension, as if
millions were holding their breath. People went about their lives, but watched nervously
everything and everyone around them. Eyes lingered as strangers passed. Conversations
were muted and terse, the participants afraid of calling attention to themselves. A truck
156
backfired on Seventh Avenue and set-off a small panic, men and women scrambling for
cover. They smiled and chuckled half-heartedly amongst themselves when they realized
it was a false alarm.
Only newsboys behaved normally, hawking the latest edition at the top of their
lungs at every corner, their youthful exuberance immune to the fear that Yarong had
spread. Their shouted headlines told of the United States’ refusal to bow to Yarong’s
demands; of how the mayor was calling it an elaborate hoax; of how the Army was
standing by in case it wasn’t a hoax.
No where in the city was the tension felt as strongly than at police headquarters.
Every officer on the force was on duty; vacations, leaves and days off had been
cancelled. Foot and car patrols had been doubled. The Riot Squad waited tensely by
their vehicles, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
The hour of noon came, and the city held its collective breath. This was the time
that Yarong had declared he would strike. No matter where they were, no matter what
they were doing, people stopped and looked about them apprehensively, alert for
anything out of the ordinary.
How would Yarong attack? From which direction would it come? When it came,
would they be able to escape?
As clocks across the city moved past the hour of noon, slowly the citizens of New
York began to relax. Nothing had happened. They were safe. It had all been a hoax
after all. Steadily, in small measures, the city came back to boisterous life.
The Hudson River, on the west side of Manhattan, suddenly roiled and bubbled as
huge, black shapes rose to the surface. Water hissed sibilantly as it slid from the side of
the metal-vessels shaped like sea creatures: some were squid, others sharks, barracudas,
and great killer whales. Each vessel was as large as battleship, but no land-based nation
had ever built these. They were the dreaded Black Fleet of Lemuria!
By-standers and passers-by ran yelling for help as the fleet appeared. The threat
was real! The doom decreed by Emperor Yarong was coming to pass!
The vessels slid sideways to abut wharves and docks that dotted the shoreline.
Large doors on the vessels’ hulls opened, revealing cavernous holds. Things stirred in
the darkness of those holds. The few witnesses who stayed to watch were then subjected
to the shock of their lives. Marching forth from the Lemurian vessels were creatures
straight from a nightmare!
High above Manhattan, inside an enormous cloud-bank, soared a unique airship.
This dirigible, larger than any ever before built, boasted eight enormous, whisper quiet
157
engines. Its bullet-proof skin was constructed of a unique material that mirrored the
surrounding sky, making the dirigible all but invisible. Spouts along the gondola spewed
forth gas that created the cloud surrounding the airship, keeping it hidden from the
ground.
This was the most unique aircraft in all the world. This was The Stormcloud, the
flying headquarters of that most powerful enemy of crime, the tireless defender of the
weak, the veritable one-man army - the Atomic Thunderbolt!
Inside the pilothouse of The Stormcloud, Jerry Sanchez worked the radio station.
Earphones strapped on, he diligently worked the receiver, scanning for any word of
trouble that would call for the Atomic Thunderbolt’s attention. The crew of The
Stormcloud was certain that Emperor Yarong’s pronouncement the night before had not
been a hoax. They knew he would strike; it was just a matter of where and how.
Suddenly the wiry little Latino sat bolt upright in his seat and clapped a hand to
his earphones. He was listening to the police band: the Lemurians were striking!
“Skipper!” he yelled, never taking his eyes from the radio set. “We got trouble on
the West Side!”
A man walked over to stand beside Jerry’s station. The man stood four inches
over six feet, and was powerfully built. The thick, jet black hair on his head was marked
by a streak of white. His handsome features were angular and clear-cut, and displayed
the intelligence and determination of a man of action. However, it was his eyes that
clearly set him apart from others: the irises were a rich, crimson color.
The man was dressed in a leather flying jacket, it’s brass buttons running down
the front on both sides. The jacket was dyed red, with a stylized golden atom and
lightning bolt symbol emblazoned on the front: the symbol of the Atomic Thunderbolt!
“What kind of trouble, Jerry?” the Thunderbolt asked, his voice even and strong.
Jerry pulled one earphone of his ear and turned to face his boss. “You ain’t gonna
believe this, Skipper. They’re claiming monsters are coming outta the Hudson.”
“Monsters?” said Lucinda Williamson, The Stormcloud’s pilot, incredulously.
Lucinda was an African-American woman in her late twenties. She wore a large metal
helmet that covered her head and most of her face. The helmet was connected by thick
wires to the pilot’s console. It fed data from the radio-sonar array aboard The Stormcloud
directly to her brain, forming three-dimensional images of the entire area around the
dirigible, which otherwise would be flying blind inside its cloud cover. Ironically,
Lucinda had been blind since birth, but with the helmet she was the equal of any pilot in
the world. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Don’cha remember that big ape what climbed the Empire State coupla years
ago?” Jerry asked.
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“You mean the one Doc Cumberland’s got on ice in the basement?”
“Never mind that,” the Atomic Thunderbolt interjected. “Lucinda, get me over
the West Side right away.”
The pilot smiled beneath her helmet. “Already halfway there, Skipper.” She
pushed down on the control wheel, and The Stormcloud dove westward.
The Atomic Thunderbolt stood in the belly of The Stormcloud’s gondola. He had
strapped on a pack, essentially a powerful jet turbine engine, with stubby wings that
projected from the side. Gloves the Thunderbolt slipped on served a two-fold purpose;
first, they contained the controls for the jet-pack; second, they prevented him from
leaving fingerprints. It would not be prudent for his real identity to be learned.
Lastly, the Atomic Thunderbolt slipped on a red leather mask that covered half his
face, further hiding his identity. Goggles in the mask hid his eyes, while a compact radio
set in the earpiece kept him contact with The Stormcloud. This was completed with a
voice-activated throat microphone in his jacket collar.
“We’re above Hell’s Kitchen, Skipper,” Lucinda’s voice crackled in his earpiece.
“Roger,” he replied. “Payload away.” He hit a large button on the bulkhead.
Bomb bay doors opened beneath him. He dove through the open doors, which
automatically closed moments later. He sped through the cloud cover and was in clear
sky, streaking towards the city below.
A squad of policemen crouched behind their radio cars, which blocked West 43rd
Street, and watched as nightmarish creatures approached their position. The police
officers had their revolvers drawn, and were prepared to use them, but knew the .38
caliber rounds would be as useless as pea shooters against such monstrosities. They
needed the Riot Squad, or better yet the Army, to deal with this.
Man-like shapes in ornate, other-worldly armor, sat astride the beasts, guiding
their path. The armored forms were armed with weapons that resembled rifles, but as
ornately built as the armor. As far as the policemen could tell, the invaders’ weapons did
not shoot bullets or projectiles of any sort. They were extremely destructive, nonetheless.
An invader saddled to a gigantic, two-legged lizard with a huge mouth filled with
teeth, pointed his weapon at the policemen. Several of the officers opened fire, but
bullets merely bounced off the attacker’s armor. The strange weapon was triggered. The
policemen heard nothing, though there was a painful sensation in their ears, and their
teeth rattled. Suddenly one of the radio cars exploded, showering the police in shards of
metal and glass and tongues of flame.
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The dazed policemen still alive looked up from the pavement were they had been
scattered. The lead beast, the two-legged horror, leaned over them. It issued a terrible
roar as its six-inch long teeth sought their flesh. One of New York’s Finest, who still
retained his revolver, shouted his defiance and emptied his weapon into the beast’s open
maw. It had no affect. The policemen were doomed.
Just as the first officer was about to be impaled on those ivory daggers, there was
a sound like an onrushing locomotive. A red blur streaked from the sky and slammed
into the beast with a tremendous impact, knocking it off its feet and spilling its rider.
The policemen blinked in surprise. They had been saved! As they watched in
amazement, their savior looped through the air back at the invaders.
“It’s the Thunderbolt!” shouted one of the officers.
The Atomic Thunderbolt sped towards the armored forms and their mounts.
Despite the many strange things he had seen and experienced in his career, he was not
prepared for men riding dinosaurs. Dinosaurs! The situation would seem absurd if not
for the death and destruction being spread by the invaders.
The beast he had struck, a Tyrannosaurus rex if he remembered correctly from his
last trip to the Museum of Natural History, was still on its back. It kicked savagely,
trying to regain its footing, even as it bellowed in rage and pain. The rider lay motionless
on the street, crushed beneath the beast.
The other four dinosaurs in the group, two stegosaurs; a Triceratops; and another,
smaller two-legged carnivore with perpendicular horns over its eyes that the Atomic
Thunderbolt didn’t recognize, charged toward him. The Thunderbolt flew at the head of
the lead stegosaur and struck out with all his might. Empowered with the strength of one
hundred men, the Thunderbolt’s punch was sufficient to knock the plated dinosaur down.
As it fell to the group, the second stegosaur ran into it and stumbled. Both riders were
unsaddled, and they quickly scrambled to get away from their floundering mounts.
The horned carnivore snapped its massive, tooth-lined jaws at the Thunderbolt as
he jetted by. The Thunderbolt landed on the street a block distant from the dinosaur. The
jet-pack was powerful, but its fuel supply was limited and he needed to conserve it. As
the dinosaur roared and stomped toward him, he ran to meet it. His mighty leg muscles
propelled him at tremendous speed. He dodged another snap of the deadly jaws and
struck at the leg of the dinosaur. Despite being as thick as a tree trunk, the leg snapped
and the dinosaur fell to the ground screaming in pain.
Before the Atomic Thunderbolt could turn around, he was struck full-force by the
charging ten-ton Triceratops. He was sent sprawling across the street by a blow that
would have pulverized an ordinary man. He slammed into the side of a building, its brick
face cracking and crumbling from the impact.
Dazed, the one-man army stood and shook his head to clear it. He heard the
Triceratops’ rider laugh even as the dinosaur lowered its head for another charge. He was
horrified to see a dead policeman impaled on one of the beast’s long horns. The Atomic
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Thunderbolt spied an empty Packard parked nearby. Racing to the automobile, he lifted
and swung it at the dinosaur. The Packard crumpled as it impacted with the Triceratops’
skull. The monstrous, three-horned beast went down with its rider. The Thunderbolt
used the remains of the automobile to strike again, ensuring that the Triceratops would
not rise again.
A thundering footstep behind him alerted the Atomic Thunderbolt that another of
the beasts was approaching. Even with his great speed, he could not react in time before
massive jaws snapped about him, catching him between rows of knife-sized teeth. The
Tyrannosaurus rex clamped down harder, trying to bite its prey in half. Luckily, the
Thunderbolt’s skin could not be pierced by the enormous teeth.
The Thunderbolt braced his hands against the jaws. He pulled his left leg free of
the teeth, and tried to find purchase in the slippery mouth for his foot. He pushed with all
his might, forcing the huge jaws open. The Tyrannosaurus rex shook its head, trying
vainly to dislodge the Thunderbolt. With enough space to move, the Atomic Thunderbolt
punched upwards straight through the roof of the dinosaur’s mouth. He felt the skull
shatter under his blow. The Tyrannosaurus rex screamed in pain, then fell silent and
collapsed to the pavement.
The one-man army extricated himself from the dead beast’s mouth. He looked
about for the next threat. He saw the stegosaurs struggling to their feet. He rushed to
them and, with one mighty blow apiece, crushed their skulls. It was then that he noticed
strange metal devices connected to the sides of the beasts’ heads, near the crown of the
skull.
The Atomic Thunderbolt took a moment to examine the devices. Wires from
them ran into each dinosaur’s skull. The devices were connected to the small, primitive
brains of the dinosaurs. That was how the Lemurians controlled the savage beasts!
He searched for the remaining four Lemurians. They were engaged in a gunfight
with the policemen, who had retrieved their revolvers. Bullets bounced harmlessly off
the invaders’ armor, but they wielded their silent weapons with devastating affect. The
valiant policemen were in danger of being wiped out.
The Thunderbolt leaped into the midst of the Lemurians. His fists shot out with
blinding speed. Otherworldly armor cracked and crumpled as if made of tin foil. One by
one the four invaders were knocked to the ground. As they lay there, limbs feebly
twitching, gouts of dark blood spurted from the crevices in their armor. A couple of the
invaders jerked spasmodically, then were still.
“What the hell--?” a perplexed police officer said as he approached the
Thunderbolt.
“They exploded when their armor was cracked open,” the one-man army
explained. “They’re used to living beneath the sea. Their bodies couldn’t withstand the
change in pressure.”
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Then the armor started to glow red, as if exposed to an intense heat. Smoke
curled from the armored forms.
“Watch out!” the Thunderbolt warned, pulling the officer to safety.
The four suits of armor suddenly blazed with white flame that roared like a blast
furnace. A moment later, there remained only four man-shaped piles of ash. The
Thunderbolt looked over to where the Tyrannosaurus’ rider had fallen. There was an ash
pile there as well.
“A self-destruct mechanism,” he said. “The armor must sense when the wearer
dies. Then it self-destructs to keep from falling into the enemy’s hands.” The Atomic
Thunderbolt nodded in grim understanding. Emperor Yarong couldn’t chance the surface
world getting a hold of advanced Lemurian technology.
He didn’t have time to worry about that now. There was still an invasion
underway. He turned to the policeman.
“Contact police headquarters. Have them evacuate everyone underground. Then
have the Army Air Corps strafe these beasts once the civilians are safe underground.”
Before the police officer could respond, the Atomic Thunderbolt leaped into the
sky and disappeared over a near-by building.
The police followed the Thunderbolt’s instructions. Civilians were packed into
the subways. Others hid in the basements of their buildings. Trains were stopped so that
people could be packed into the tunnels. There they cowered in fear as the monsters
stomped and roared above them, but the dinosaurs could not reach them.
The Army Air Corps arrived from fields in New Jersey and Long Island. The
pilots were confident; members of their elite service had been called on before to kill a
monster in New York, and despite the loss of two men, they had succeeded. Then the
target had been isolated on top of the Empire State Building, easy to spot, and there was
plenty of room to maneuver. Now, however, the targets were on the ground, with plenty
of places to hide.
Squadron after squadron flew through the man-made canyons of Manhattan,
raining volleys of machine-gun fire on the invaders from under the sea. It was dangerous
work. Several planes were lost because the pilots’ attention had been diverted for a splitsecond, ending in disaster. This time the air battle over New York would not be quick or
easy, and the cost would be severe.
The ground defense was by regular Army ground troops, armed with heavy
weapons and tanks; and the New York Police Department’s Riot Squad, armed with
Thompson sub-machine guns and tear gas. The tear gas was especially effective on the
dinosaurs, causing the Lemurians to lose mastery of the beasts despite the control
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devices. The Lemurians, whose armor made them immune to the gas, savagely fought
on. The advanced weapons of the invaders took a horrific toll on the defenders. Still,
the soldiers and policemen were Americans with a duty to perform, a country to defend.
They persevered.
The Atomic Thunderbolt had cleaned-up several squads of the dinosaur riders.
His uniform was in shreds, being much less resilient than his skin.
He leaped from rooftop to rooftop, occasionally using the jet-pack to zoom over
the city, and stayed in contact with The Stormcloud. His observations allowed her crew
to coordinate the counterattacks against the invaders. In other areas, he called upon The
Stormcloud to drop guided bombs upon the attackers.
He jetted over a large grouping of invaders congregated near the Elevated.
Armored men astride great, towering brontosaurs, formed a circle. In the center of the
circle was a Lemurian whose armor was far grander than the others’. A royal blue cape
fringed in gold fell from the armored shoulders. He sat astride the largest, fiercest
Tyrannosaurus rex the Thunderbolt had seen yet, commanding a dozen dinosaur riders
outside the circle.
One of the brontosaur riders pointed at the Thunderbolt, flying hundreds of feet
overhead. A dozen Lemurian weapons were raised, aimed at the one-man army. The
Thunderbolt felt nothing at first. Suddenly, the bullet-proof plastic goggles of his mask
cracked, then shattered completely.
Sonics, thought the Thunderbolt. Their weapons use high-frequency sonics! It
made perfect sense for a people that lived beneath the sea. The water was an excellent
conductor for the sound weapons, but would be far weaker and have less range in the
medium of air. He did not want to imagine how much devastation those weapons were
capable of underwater.
He turned to approach the dinosaur riders again when he felt a rattle on his back.
The steady, powerful thrum of the jet-pack was replaced by a violent shuddering. He was
still in range of the sonic weapons!
The jet-pack literally shook itself to pieces on his back. The fuel tank exploded,
and the Thunderbolt plummeted to the ground hundreds of feet below. Lemurians
cheered as he crashed into the roof of a three story building. So violent was the impact
that the building collapsed in on itself. The Thunderbolt was buried under numerous tons
of rubble.
The Lemurian leader had heard reports about this lone, flying warrior defeating
entire squads of his army. Now with their most powerful enemy dead, it was time to
wipe out the rest of the defenders and claim this city for the Empire! The leader signaled
his men to move on.
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There was a commotion behind the Lemurian warriors. A figure exploded out of
the rubble that had once been a building, its leap taking it to the top of the Elevated.
The Atomic Thunderbolt’s chest was bare, his pants in tatters, his mask torn. But
he stood defiantly before the Lemurian invaders, fists balled at his sides.
The dinosaur riders were astounded. What manner of surface-worlder was this,
that could survive such a fall? Their leader barked an order. All weapons were again
aimed at the Thunderbolt. At this much closer range, there was no possibility of the
enemy surviving. A dozen triggers were pulled in unison. The deadly sound waves shot
out.
The Thunderbolt felt the concentrated beams strike him. The Elevated tracks
around him vibrated and hummed as the sonics tore them apart. His body shook from the
violent attack, but he remained standing. He knew that the onslaught, given time, would
harm him. He did not intend to give the invaders that time.
He tore up two twelve-foot lengths of steel rail from the Elevated tracks.
Throwing these like spears, he impaled two of the brontosaurs in the chest. The beasts
cried out in pain and fell to the ground with a thunderous crash. So closely packed was
the circle of brontosaurs that these two caused the rest to stumble. The brontosaurs fell
into the pack of other dinosaurs around them. The Lemurian riders were jostled
violently, so intent on not spilling from their saddles that they abandoned the attack.
Freed from the deadly sonic beams, the Atomic Thunderbolt tore up another,
larger section of rail and sprang into the midst of the Lemurian invaders.
The Atomic Thunderbolt called on the full might and speed that was his to
command. Atomic fire fueled his muscles as he pummeled dinosaur and armored warrior
alike. He darted about almost faster than the eye could follow, never in one spot long
enough for his enemies to counter-attack. He was a one-man army as he whittled down
the invading force.
He heard the drone of airplane engines. A flight of fighters zoomed past the
battle, strafing the entire area. The large caliber machine-gun bullets bounced off his
naked back like raindrops from a spring storm. The concentrated fire of the airplanes
felled more of the invaders’ beasts. The Thunderbolt took care of the riders, cracking
open their armored shells as if they were no more substantial than cardboard.
The last of the group fell to the Air Corps’ bullets when the fighters made a
second pass. The Atomic Thunderbolt was suddenly struck from behind with terrible
force. He ended up yards away sprawled in the street. Before he could get up he was
again accosted. The Lemurian leader directed his mount, the huge Tyrannosaurus rex, on
top of the masked defender.
Huge clawed feet slammed down on the Thunderbolt with hideous ferocity. He
felt his body driven into the concrete road below him. Despite his great strength, the one-
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man army could not get the leverage to stand. The blows struck with such force and such
speed as to keep him helplessly pinned on the ground.
Desperately, the Thunderbolt twisted under the stomping feet of the
Tyrannosaurus, gaining a few inches between each blow, until he was finally on his back.
Then, timing his move perfectly, he grabbed the dinosaur’s foot as it came down upon
him. He grabbed it and did not let go, squeezing with all of his might.
The dinosaur cried out in pain but did not blindly lash out like its brethren. It
stood on its free foot and shook the other, the one the Thunderbolt clung to, violently
from side to side. It slammed the foot on the ground, seeking to dislodge him. The
Thunderbolt ignored the punishment and squeezed even harder. He was rewarded with
the sound of bones snapping in the Tyrannosaur’s foot. The beast toppled on its side.
Even wounded and unable to stand, the beast did not stop fighting. It snapped at
the Thunderbolt, twisting and craning its neck to try to clamp its jaws on him. The
Thunderbolt pulled the steel rail from the body of a dead brontosaur. With lightning
swiftness, he leaped atop the head of the Tyrannosaurus and drove the rail down through
its skull.
The Atomic Thunderbolt let go of the rail and dropped to the ground. All the
other dinosaurs were either dead or dying. Their riders were no more than piles of ash,
which were starting to be blown away by a small breeze that had started. Overhead, the
Army planes made one last pass, dipping their wings in salute. The Thunderbolt waved
to them as they flew by.
A sound behind him made him turn. It was the sound of a sword leaving its
scabbard.
The Lemurian leader, he of the grandiose armor and cape, faced the Atomic
Thunderbolt. A large, two-handed broadsword was in the leader’s hand. The blade of
the sword was indistinct, out of focus. The Thunderbolt realized it was vibrating so fast
as to almost be invisible.
To demonstrate the weapon’s deadliness, the armored figure casually swung it at
a blue De Soto lying sideways in the street. The blade passed through the front of the
automobile as easily as through water. The cut portion of the De Soto fell aside,
revealing that the engine block had also been neatly sliced.
The Thunderbolt tensed. His skin could withstand a small artillery round, as
frequent experience had taught him, but here was a weapon that might kill him. And his
opponent seemed perfectly capable of using it.
The Lemurian leaped at him with amazing speed. The warrior, used to the
crushing depths of the ocean, had great strength and speed in the lighter medium of air.
The Thunderbolt barely dodged the sword, and at the same time realizing that the
Lemurian could match him.
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The Lemurian pressed the attack, expertly maneuvering the sword, thrusting and
slashing at his masked opponent. The Thunderbolt was forced backward. The deadly
blade blocked any attempt to escape or leap away.
The caped Lemurian feinted with his blade. The Thunderbolt instinctively
dodged. Before he could react he felt a sharp stab in his right leg. The Thunderbolt
gasped as his leg collapsed under him. Pain was an almost forgotten sensation for him.
He looked down in disbelief at the deep gash in his thigh. It had been a long time since
he had seen his own blood.
There was no time to reflect any further. The Lemurian pressed his advantage,
driving the sword down to skewer the one-man army. The Thunderbolt rolled to one
side, barely in time to avoid the sword blade, which sank deep in the pavement. Before
the Lemurian could extract the blade, the Thunderbolt ripped up a large portion of the
road and hurled it at him. The armored foe slashed at the concrete projectile, but was still
knocked off balance by its impact.
The Thunderbolt ignored the pain and used his uninjured leg to propel himself at
the Lemurian like a cannon-shot. He tackled the armored invader, one hand grasping his
enemy’s sword wrist in a vise-like grip. The two combatants grappled as they rolled
across the ground. The Thunderbolt’s efforts were concentrated on keeping the deadly
sword at bay; the Lemurian sought to dislodge his foe.
The Thunderbolt had one chance for a desperate move. Moving at the speed of
thought, he released his grip and smashed his fist upon the Lemurian’s helmet with all his
strength. The helmet cracked open. The Lemurian screamed and dropped the sword.
The invader frantically tried to seal the crack with his hands. It was no use. Blood
geysered as the Lemurian exploded.
The Thunderbolt stood up and hobbled away from the dead invader. A moment
later there was the familiar white flash, then just ash remained. The Atomic Thunderbolt
turned and walked in direction of fighting noise from a few blocks away. His leg wound
had already stopped bleeding and closed. It would be completely healed by the time he
arrived at the battle.
Back aboard The Stormcloud as it sailed back to its hangar on Long Island, the
Atomic Thunderbolt wore a fresh uniform, sans mask. The invaders had been defeated,
every Lemurian warrior self-destructing into ash. The Stormcloud, accompanied by the
Army Air Corps, had begun bombing the Lemurian submarines in the Hudson River, but
every one of them had sunk beneath the surface and escaped. Navy vessels tried to track
the submarines, but they evaded all attempts at detection.
Several of the dinosaurs were still alive, although the more grievously injured
were put down. The Thunderbolt helped capture and secure the others, using whatever
materials were at hand. The herbivorous dinosaurs did not pose much of a danger,
although given their size they could not be allowed to roam freely. The few carnivorous
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beasts remaining were a different matter, but the Thunderbolt managed to secure them
safely as well. For a time he had felt like a cowboy working on the world’s strangest
round-up.
He managed to convince the authorities to keep the dinosaurs alive. They were
an immense scientific find, and he was certain museums and zoos the world over were
already working hard to provide accommodations for the gargantuan beasts.
Clean-up operations had begun. The Thunderbolt knew that if anyone could
bounce back from the invasion quickly, New Yorkers could. They would take it in stride,
and life in the Big Apple would be back to normal before long.
As he paced The Stormcloud’s pilothouse, he examined the sword he held in his
hands. It was the Lemurian leader’s sword, recovered after the fighting was finished.
The blade, constructed of a metal the Thunderbolt was unfamiliar with, was no longer
vibrating. At least Doc Cumberland would have an undamaged piece of Lemurian
technology to examine. Perhaps Doc could find a method to counteract that technology.
Then, the Atomic Thunderbolt promised to himself, it would be time to return the
favor and pay a visit to Lemuria.
--END--
167
THE AUSLANDER
In
FORMULA FOR FATALITY
By
The black and white blur of a man still had the instinctual things. For him, the
swift, breath-stealing blow to another man's solar plexus was an instinctual thing. In fact,
he was barely aware he had done it.
He also still had language, but he didn't talk much. Something wasn't quite right
there. It made people nervous. Uncomfortable. Most of the time, they didn't even
understand him, but he understood them. He understood them all too well.
Adele Sturgis watched as the man with the shock white hair and deep black trench
coat brought an elbow down on the back of her attacker's head while he was doubledover, trying to breathe in some air with the same desperation with which Adele screamed
for help just seconds before. His movements reminded her of the machine operators in
the
factory where she worked, supporting the war effort while her beloved Jimmy
trudged through the mud of Europe fighting the Nazi scourge. Each movement, every
strike was efficient and effective, like those of the operators who repeat the same
machine movements a thousand times a day.
Still in her Rosie-The-Riveter work clothes, Adele stayed close to the alley wall,
transfixed by the violence the fair-skinned stranger was inflicting on the foul-smelling
man who had grabbed her by her arm and yanked her roughly from the sidewalk. The
black and white man threw the criminal to the ground. Adele jumped back to avoid her
attacker getting blood on her shoes as his jaw hit the ground at exactly the angle one's jaw
should never hit the ground. The broken man was no longer a threat, but Adele's pale
defender took her by the arm, the same arm, and rushed her out of the alley and back into
the open street, dimly lit by a rising sun.
"I'm so grateful. I can't even tell you."
He came to Gary, Indiana because of a dream. There was something there he had
to do. He was fairly certain that saving a woman from a would-be rapist or robber was
not his purpose, though. Surely, that was incidental.
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She continued spewing forth her thanks, every bit of it genuine. He didn't care. He
didn't even hear most of her gushing gratitude." Instead, he was looking down the street,
at the factory where Adele worked and had been walking home from after a late shift.
That was the reason he was there. He recognized it from somewhere. Maybe it was from
his dream. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew he had to get into that building.
Something in there was very wrong. For Adele, he was just in the right place at the right
time. Or she was.
Adele was running out of words. "I don't even know who you are," she said as she
looked up at the man who stood at an even six feet.
"Neither do I," he thought to himself. He turned his regard to her, looked directly
into her upturned eyes and told her the only thing he really knew about himself. "Ich bien
ein auslander." I am a foreigner.
The measure of both gratitude and relief that showed on her face quickly turned to
apprehension and fear. It occurred quickly, but as The Auslander watched the lines on her
face change their curves, it seemed ages. The corners of her mouth turned down so
slowly it was nearly imperceptible.
"Sie arbeiten dort?" He glanced back at the Randall Rubber Tire Factory, as he
said it. He had her there, no matter how, and he had to try to use that fact.
Adele was consciously frozen to the spot. Having seen the man in action, she
knew she could not get away from him if he didn't want her to. She had to think for a
moment before she could stammer out "I don't understand."
He still had the instinctual things, but English, specifically, was not instinctual to
him. If he knew it before, it wasn't his first tongue and, regardless, he's been relearning it,
in bits and pieces, since he first woke up as who he is now. He's been doing it quickly.
"You work there?"
Adele nodded hesitantly. The Auslander smiled so slightly that no one would ever
be aware of it.
"Loose Lips Sinks Ships" read one of the many security-minded posters in the
factory. Those posters were designed to remind the workers that even the slightest piece
of incidental information regarding their work might be of use to enemy agents that could
well be lurking anywhere. None of these posters meant much to a woman who was being
intimidated by an actual and imposing German man. Adele answered every
question The Auslander put to her, not at all being put at ease by his attempts at a friendly
demeanor and the coffee and pie he paid for local diner.
Within fifteen minutes, the foreigner with the spotty memory had enough
information to be able to surreptitiously enter the factory that produced tires, not only for
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many domestic automobiles, but for a vast number of jeeps, armored personnel carriers
and even aircraft currently engaged in battling the forces of the Third Reich.
As he listened to her talk, in the window booth farthest from the door, about the
security precautions and the times of shift changes, he knew in the back of his mind that
she was telling the absolute wrong man. He was not oblivious to the possibilities of his
true identity. When he first awoke one day, not long before, with no idea as to who he
was, he checked his wallet to find a driver's license in one name, a passport in another
and a United States Army identification card in yet a third. All with his picture, though
his
hair was a dark brown in each. He also had some other items with him. Unusual
items that may come in handy from time to time.
This wasn't the first time that his dreams have led him someplace to undo or
prevent some wrong. Nor would it be the last. Each time has led to uncovering another
memory, another secret. Since waking nameless, he has worked against the best-laid
plans of his likely fatherland because he believed it to be the right thing to do. He lived in
fear of what he will believe when something triggers all of his memories to return. If it
happened that night, then Adele could very well have signed the death warrant for herself
and possibly scores of other Americans and Allies.
"You know what I do when I leave here?" he asked Adele as she picked at her
largely uneaten piece of cherry pie.
She nodded as she finished her cup of coffee. She had no difficulty drinking the
coffee. She thought it might help give her the nerve to do something, anything, to get out
of this uncomfortable situation. It didn't.
He tried to disguise his accent, but his concentration was on what he was saying,
not how he was saying it. "You have no reason to believe I go there to do good, but...is
true." He was trying hard to find the words, all the words, so as to sound as American as
he could. "If you are choosing to call police or warn someone I am coming, then I cannot
stop you." He couldn't read her. He couldn't tell if she was listening to him or just
hearing him. "Gefahr...danger is there and I will end it."
She nodded again. This time she looked him directly in the eye. The first time she
had done so.
He got up from the booth and walked away from her, never looking back, but
watching her, nonetheless, in the reflections of windows, chrome napkins dispensers and
the glasses of an old man who had arrived for his morning coffee and pancake breakfast.
He thought to himself how he had meant every word he said to her, except for the words
"I cannot stop you."
He could take no chances and for the first and, likely, only time in Adele's life, a
cup of coffee put her to sleep as she couldn't help but lean her head against the window
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and close her eyes. One of the unusual items he kept in his possession was a bottle of socalled knockout drops.
The Auslander's window of opportunity was short, but it coincided with the
arrival of the morning shift. He acquired a company jumpsuit from a worker whose
morning pick-me-up consisted of several parts whiskey in the back of his Studebaker.
The foreigner was likely doing a great many people a favor by using the tippler's own
liquor bottle to crack
him good enough to insure he wouldn't be raising a ruckus in the short term, not
the least of which being himself.
Once outfitted with the drunkard's grease-stained overalls and his solid steel lunch
pail, the foreign man found an out of the way place to observe the employee's gate. There
was one guard on duty, armed with at least a holster and possibly even a gun to go in it.
He was shielded from the elements, not to mention a clear view of the street, by a small
guardhouse. The workers seemed to pulse through the gate in small groups of four or
five. Some were all men, others all women, occasionally there was a mixed group. The
guard nodded to someone in each group as they passed, likely he knew all the workers by
sight.
Three young women and two older men, separate but close together, were
approaching the guardhouse. The Auslander hoped to slip by with the group. If the guard
caught him and made trouble, he knew that he would be able to handle this group if some
of the workers tried to get in on the fight. He sidled alongside the women, on the far side
from the guard station and kept his head down.
"Steve. Sadie." The guard singled out two of them for simple acknowledgement
and a nod of greeting. The Auslander glanced inadvertently when the watchman spoke
and accidentally made eye contact. He was prepared for the drunken man's lunch box to
make a hard impact on the guard's face, but nothing happened. No movement. Not so
much as a twitch. No alarms. Nothing.
Once through the gate, the white-haired imposter broke away from the group and
whispered to himself, "Dumkopft." Clearly the qualified security professionals were
overseas, fighting either the Yellow Peril or those who may well be his own countrymen.
It was a thought he didn't entertain long. It was too distracting. It was too disturbing.
Once inside, the easy part was over. He had to find what he was looking for and
he did not yet know what that was.
With a found hardhat covering his alabaster head of hair, the man-out-of-place
kept his head down and his distance from the workers. Most were consumed in their
work, minimizing the risk that anyone would look him in the eye and see that he did not
belong in their building, let alone their country. When someone did glance up, he feigned
whatever work he could get away with, be it sweeping the floor, moving some clearly
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out-of-use piece of equipment and, on one occasion, pulling the Oh-I-forgot-something
turnaround.
After over an hour of uncomfortable looks in the back of the head and a couple of
close calls, The Auslander was ready to decide that there was nothing to be found here
and that sometimes a dream is nothing more than a dream, no matter how unreal the
circumstances. As he plotted his path out of the building, he noticed two stern men with
dark suits and equally dark hair. They had a walk that he recognized. It was the
gait one adopts when one carries a firearm under one's coat. An imbalance in arm
movements and an occasional twitch to their off-hand side is a dead giveaway to a trained
eye. If only he knew how his eye had become so trained.
The men were unescorted and walked as if they knew their way around the plant,
but a misstep down one path and quick correction to another revealed to The Auslander
that they had about as much business being there as he had. He kept a weather eye on
them as best he could and watched them climb the stairs to the plant manager's private
office.
It had a window that overlooked the production floor and the window's blinds
were closed nearly the instant the two men entered the room. That was likely not the
plant manager's idea.
The best way to fit into a place is to appear to belong in that place and as The
Auslander walked intently to the stairway, he felt more inconspicuous than he had in the
last hour and no one gave him a second look. He had purpose. He actually had purpose.
He did belong there.
At the top of the stairs, he stood outside the door that had the words "Joseph
Peschke - Plant Manager" painted on the door in gold letters with black edges outlining
them. He listened.
"Your twenty-fours hours are up, Peschke," said one of them men in a gravelly
voice with a thick New York accent. It was the sort of accent that had little place in Gary,
Indiana, home of the Randall Rubber Company.
"I assume that since we were not turned away by your guards, you realize that we
mean our threats to you and lovely Betty and little Timmy." The second man said in the
exact same accent.
"Tommy."
"As you say."
He didn't use words the way the accent suggested he should. He was too formal.
Maybe a bit studied. English was not these men's first language and The Auslander knew
it.
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"You will begin treating the rubber used in all your tires according to this
formula."
After a brief rustle of paper, Peschke spoke. "You realize what this would do?"
"Of course, we do." The first man apparently favored short sentences and The
Auslander knew why.
"You also realize that we supply the military. Our boys at war."
"Randall will lose their contract and our employers will step in and save the day
while reaping the benefits of a government contract," said the second, dark man
"People will die," Peschke protested. "After just a few weeks of use, these tires
will quickly crumble to chunks under the heat stress. Maybe less."
"Yes, they will. Quite suddenly as well."
The Auslander had heard enough. He knew these men were lying. He knew their
plan. He remembered it from somewhere. He just didn't know where. He wouldn't wait a
second longer...until he heard one of the men make a step toward the door. That extra
second gave him an advantage. It gave him a new weapon.
The Auslander opened Frank Peschke's personalized door directly into the face of
the more garrulous of the pair, knocking him off his feet. The Auslander stepped on him,
rather than over him as he launched at the first, more verbally conservative German
agent. He broke the fingers of the downed man's gun hand, his right, in doing so.
That these men were German operatives flashed through The Auslander's mind.
They took on the guise of organized crime thugs rather than risk a patriotic sacrifice on
Peschke's part by threatening him as the Nazis they were. Upon seeing Peschke's missing
hand, The Auslander knew that he'd been to the war and back and such a sacrifice was
probable if not certain.
It was vital to them that their plan be put into motion, as it would cause chaos and
fatalities on the homefront and overseas, both fronts. Jeeps would tumble to their axles in
foreign lands while a mass recall and highway deaths would demoralize the citizens and
even the soldiers abroad, likely to lose loved ones in horrible accidents.
The less talkative man was much larger and would be a tough fight and the first
man was not entirely prevented from action. The Auslander was relying on Peschke to
seize an opportunity while he was landing blow after blow on the large Hun to seemingly
little effect.
A strike at the bigger German's jaw had no effect. Another blow to the solar
plexus, which worked so well for him earlier in the day, felt like punching a training bag
173
filled with wet, packed sand. A third blow to the groin had a distinct result. It made his
opponent very angry.
The first man, denying the pain in his fingers reached for his gun, but couldn't
effectively handle it and worked to switch it to his perfectly functional left hand. It was
during that time that Peschke rushed over carrying his desk phone, receiver in one hand
and heavy
metal carriage in the other. For a brief moment he considered strangling the man
who had threatened his family moments before. He took no chances.
It was the sound of the bell inside the phone carriage ringing out as it struck the
first German's head, as well as the crackling of his fatally-splintered skull, that distracted
the second just as he was about to heave off a mighty blow on the Auslander. It afforded
the
white-haired man the chance to dodge the man's blocky fist, sending him off his
center. The time it took the larger German to recover his balance was enough for The
Auslander to make a recovery himself, that of the first man's gun. It was a familiar sight
to him, as well as the man he now trained it on. It was a Luger.
Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was just his way of fulfilling a contingency
order common to undercover agents, but the large enemy agent charged at The Auslander
anyway. He came at him dead on with no fear in his eyes or, apparently, sense in his
head.
The Luger felt like it fit in The Auslander's hand as if by design. It felt as though
it was an extension of himself. He had scarcely even realized it when he'd pulled the
trigger, placing a 7.65 caliber slug in the man's brain.
After the thud of the man's last fall ever, Peschke took a breath, as though he
hadn't taken one since the ordeal began. He noticed that his savior was breathing
normally and that his breath rate never seemed to have changed, as if this was all normal
to him.
"How did you know?
The Auslander didn't answer. He heard a ruckus coming from below. Footsteps
came up the stairs and he was more concerned with the window behind Peschke's desk.
He rushed over to it and removed a fan lodged in the sill. It looked down on an awning
over the building's main entrance, providing direct access to the street.
"Where are you going? You're a hero."
He then realized that he didn't recognize the man in the overalls bearing his
company's name.
"Who are you?"
174
The white-haired foreigner hated that question. It always stopped him cold. He
only had one answer. Peschke started slowly sizing him up as he waited for that answer.
"Ich bein ein auslander."
Peschke was still gripping the phone. It was still a weapon. Peschke, however,
stepped slowly backward. "Kraut! There's a Kraut up here!" He was not aware that he
should have been using the plural and never would be.
Peschke glanced away from the fearsome stranger to look out his office door and
see a factory guard and one of the older, leather-faced machine-operators. That one
carried a big wrench that seemed like it was made for cracking bone rather than loosening
or tightening anything. Peschke looked back at the window. "He's gone."
"Who's gone?" asked the wrench carrier, standing in the doorway behind the
guard as he surveyed the two dead men.
"Huh?" Peschke seized the opportunity. "No. No one." He set the phone down and
sat behind his desk to work out the details of how he stopped these men in their fiendish
plot. The police would arrive soon. Reporters would follow shortly afterward.
That night, The Auslander found a cheap room in a highway motel just over the
Illinois state line. He managed to deal with the clerk in single syllable words, to hide his
accent. The foreign man slept in a strange bed and he dreamt of a faraway place called
Seattle. Perhaps in that place he would find an answer to that question that disturbed him
so much and was asked so frequently. Maybe, it wouldn't be the answer he feared.
Though, if it was, he prayed learning it would not turn him into a monster like the ones he
fights against.
He would be on his way in the morning.
--END--
175
The Rude Tin Star
By
Brad Reed
The tin star had ragged edges and was cut from a thin sheet of metal. The
badge had five points instead of the correct six. Scratched across its face in a sloppy
hand was the word “SHERIF.”
Deputy Mayor Custis scratched his nose. “You got a problem with it?”
Joel Dalton said nothing. The two other men who rode with Dalton also received
false tin stars. Theirs read “SHERF” and “SHEERF.” Custis spit onto the parched
ground. “Town’s nothing but Indians, Mex, and Bohunks. None of ‘em know what real
badges look like. Hell, none of ‘em can read English. These’ll fool ‘em fine.”
The riders crossed a ridge and saw Beckettown. The town squatted on a flat,
cleared portion of a hillside next to the entrance to a mine shaft. Dirt-covered men
trudged in and out of the mine carrying pickaxes. A rough-hewn mill stood by the mine
opening, flanked by huge piles of gravel. Pine trees turned brown by drought surrounded
the town. The rocky bed of the July River baked in the sun, with only a shallow stream
left to run down its center.
Beckettown was mostly a collection of crude shacks. At its center stood a wellmade two-story building with a widow’s walk atop its front porch. Across from it stood a
sturdy gallows, one wide enough for five ropes. On the far edge of the town sat a church,
larger than the surrounding hovels, decorated with a cross atop its roof and clean white
paint on its sides. Next to the church were five dozen improvised crosses, marking five
dozen patches of recently-disturbed ground.
Behind the riders staggered a man, his wrists bound together and tied by a long
rope to the horn of Custis’s saddle. On his way to collect the three men from the nearby
Fort Johnson, Custis said he’d captured the man, a fugitive. For the sixteen miles Dalton
and the men rode to Beckettown, the captured man walked behind the horses and did not
speak.
Custis tugged on the rope and drew the captured man near. “Tell you what, glad I
found this broke-neck hoople. Becket’s been on my ass about him for days. Mister
Becket has strong ideas of how things go, and runaways get his goat more than
anything.”
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The men rode to the center of the town. Custis led the captive into the tall
building. Dalton and the other two riders, Linden and Cook, followed them. The inside
was hotter than the scorching outdoors. Curtains covered the windows, shutting out
daylight. Cook bumped into a bench and cursed.
“That language is inappropriate in Beckettown, gentlemen,” came a voice.
“Though today we are a humble mining town, we are the model of tomorrow, and must
comport ourselves with our eye toward the future.”
Custis tied the captive’s rope to an iron ring along a wall. He then removed his
hat and motioned for the others to follow. “Sorry, Mister Becket.”
A large man emerged from the far corner of the room, a man who stood as wide
as he did tall. His suit was as white as could be managed in a remote California mining
town. “No matter. Your arrival writes a new chapter in the history of our bold venture.
“I am Jedidiah Becket. Welcome to Beckettown. Law is the cornerstone of
civilization. Respect for law separates the citizen from the barbarian. I have created law
here, and I have made you my lawmen. It is good.
“Many here have failed to grasp the opportunity I have given them. Perhaps I
erred in taking on foreigners rather than Americans. They have displayed a startling
cussedness, one so divorced from recognizable human behavior one hesitates to call them
men. They are children, in need of fatherly guidance. It is my burden to civilize them.
“These people,” Becket said, gesturing at the prisoner, “are ungrateful. They
make mischief. They lack respect.” He stabbed his finger at the prisoner with each word
he spoke. “They need to respect my law.”
Becket inflated his chest and tucked his thumbs into the waist of his pants. “Now
that the law is here, justice will follow. We can enrich ourselves in peace, as God
intends.”
Custis led the riders back outside. “Job’s simple. Mex or Bohunks get uppity, we
put ‘em back. Somebody runs up too big a tab at the company store, we lean on ‘em.
Sometimes we gotta keep the peace, act like real lawmen too. Should be easy. Town’s
not too big. Most folk here are too yellow to start anything.” Custis broke into a wide,
gap-toothed smile. “Any gold they find, we get five percent. You should see how much
they’ve dug up already. Gonna be rich, boys. Rich as the devil hisself.”
Later, Dalton stood by the entrance to the company store to get a feel for the
town. He saw miners’ wives trading Becket’s scrip for necessities, as he did not pay in
money. Every woman also made marks in the credit ledger, since none had enough to
pay for the goods.
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Two Mexican women commiserated in front of Dalton. He did not let on that he
understood them. “How is your boy?” one woman asked.
“Not well. Rosa gave up her turn to eat today so he could have at least a little
something,” said the other.
“Mother of God. I pray that nothing horrible happens to Raul or Pedro in the
mines. When Chuy was hurt, Inez had to sink into more debt than they could ever pay
off, just to survive a week. How can we live if we have to go into debt just to eat?”
The second woman said, “How much gold have our men dug up? And what do
we get? Becket breaks us and builds an empire on our bones!”
The first woman flicked her eyes at Dalton and shivered in fear. He would
recognize the name Becket, and their voices implied hatred. She put on an exaggerated
smile and said to Dalton in English, “She say, Mister Becket, he is, is good man. Very
kind man.”
Dalton said nothing. The women left, clutching each other and casting back quick
glances. He walked to the riverbank and sat on a large rock. He tried not to think.
“Joel! Joel Dalton!” a man’s voice shouted behind him. “Imagine you here.”
Dalton turned and saw a preacher. The preacher drew close and said, “I haven’t
seen you in, what, five years? Remember me? Hans Abeken. Back in Kansas.” Abeken
examined Dalton. “You’re the new sheriff?”
“After a manner.”
The preacher sat on another rock. “Glad to hear it. You were a good sheriff.
This place needs an honest man.”
“Mm.”
“It’s odd, seeing you again. You disappeared awful sudden. Heard all sorts of
rumors why.”
Dalton stared at the nearly-dry riverbed. “Hugh Jackson offered me a thousand
dollars to kill Jimmy O’Malley.”
Abeken set his jaw. “Horrible. That town was a nest of vipers. Nothing but
bloodthirsty gangs vying for power and riches. No wonder you left. All that work, all
your efforts to make the town worth living in, and for what? To be offered an
assassination. To be treated like scum, like a hired gun.”
“I took the money.”
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Abeken’s tried to decide how to react. He said the first thing that came into his
head. “Uh…Jimmy O’Malley’s still alive. Last I knew.”
“Remember Declan Finnegan?”
“Sure. Of course. A sad story. New fellow, just came to town when they found
him shot in the back, out by the...”
“Get drunk enough and all Irishmen look alike.” Dalton coughed and rubbed his
face.
Neither man spoke for a spell. Dalton broke the silence. “After that, I couldn’t
wear the badge.” He took off his rude tin star and turned it around his fingers a few
times. “This don’t count.”
Abeken said, “I saw you come out of Becket’s Palace. He brought you on, eh?
Keep the peace?”
“A guy in Sacramento was looking for tough men for a mining town to break
some heads. Promised big pay. Me and two other guys took him up on it.” Dalton threw
a pebble into the river. “So what brought you here?”
“Souls need salvation everywhere,” the preacher said. “The life of a miner is a
difficult one. It is my mission to ease their suffering and soothe their afflictions, to bring
the Good News of the risen Lord to the poor.”
“Nice-looking church,” Dalton said.
“Mister Becket has given me great assistance. He cares for his workers’ souls.
He is a God-fearing man. With his aid, I do the Lord’s work.”
A slight, cruel grin crossed Dalton’s face. “Liar.”
Reverend Abeken spent that evening in his room behind the church. He lifted his
Bible from his bedside table then set it down, unable to bring himself to open it. He then
opened a cigar box next to the Bible and fixed his eyes on its contents. He did not move
for some time.
“Cigars that pretty, preacher?” Dalton said. He leaned through the open window.
The voice startled Abeken and brought him back to awareness. “I am a liar,
sheriff. Just like you said.”
“Hell, I’m no sheriff. I was just bustin’ your hump.”
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The reverend closed the lid on his cigar box. “What brings you by?”
Dalton came around through the door and sat down. “Most everyone here is
either scared to death of me, speaks a tongue I don’t recognize, or is a complete idiot.
Gets lonely.” The preacher said nothing, so Dalton continued. “Y’know, I do remember
you from Kansas. Where’s your wife? Didn’t you have a couple of kids? Don’t look
like they’re here.”
“They’re not,” Abeken said.
“Damn shame.”
“I’m glad they aren’t here. To see this place.” He lifted the lid on the cigar box
again. “You know, I quit preaching three years ago. I got sick of the power struggles.
Decided to walk away from the infighting that was killing my soul. Become a rancher.
Make the big money.”
“Tough work,” Dalton said.
“Winter of ’97, Lise, little baby Lise, got sick. Before we knew what was what,
she was gone. Her sister Rahel went with her a single day later. One single day.” From
the cigar box, Abeken removed a photograph. “Just like that.” The preacher fought to
control himself. “Dorothea lasted all of a week beyond our girls.”
He put the picture back in the box and withdrew from it a battered revolver.
“Dorothea gave me this when we moved to the ranch. ‘Beat this into our plowshare,’ she
said. ‘Put the fighting and politicking behind us. Repair the damage done to our lives.
Make things right.’”
Abeken opened the revolver and pulled out the single bullet it held. “Were it not
a sin, I would have.” He squeezed the bullet in his fist. “Were I not afraid.” He slid the
bullet back into the gun and closed it. “And so I am here. Two years ago Becket found
me. He spun lies about how vital I would be to his ‘town of the future.’ I would provide
the spiritual guidance to enrich the lives of the townspeople.
“As soon as I got here, I saw the truth. And I decided to believe the lies, because
I was tired in my soul. Because it was easier. I pretend that my work here serves God’s
plan, that I help these people.”
Dalton said, “You give ‘em hope.”
“I give them fear, Dalton. ‘Sit down and shut up or burn forever.’ I’m a whip,
just like you. A disgrace.” He pulled off his collar. “Mine’s no more real than yours.”
Shouts broke through the walls of the room. Both men leapt to their feet and out
the door. They saw a crowd form around the front of Becket’s palace, and they joined it.
180
Reverend Abeken asked a man what happened. “Stjepan! Stjepan insulted Becket about
his punishing Josip! Now they’ll both hang!”
Cook and Linden stepped out of the Palace with their rifles pointed at the crowd.
“Y’all get back!” Linden said. “Got to have some justice now!”
Behind them, Custis led two men in handcuffs. Both men’s faces were covered in
welts and open cuts. Custis called to Dalton. “Joel! Get your rifle! Got us some work to
do!”
Dalton said, “Scuse me, preacher. Duty calls.”
Abeken said, “Yes. Yes, it does.”
Shortly, the condemned men had nooses around their necks. Dalton stood on one
end of the gallows with a Winchester, with Linden and Cook on the other. Custis
manned the trapdoor lever. The entire area was well-lit by torches. Becket wanted the
crowd to see everything. The townspeople whispered in Croatian, Spanish, and Wintu.
Dalton heard Josip Supek whisper a few words in Croat to his friend. By his tone,
Dalton guessed it was an apology and a thanks. Stejpan Varicak whispered back
something similar. They sniffled and coughed and tried not to cry.
Becket emerged onto the widow’s walk of his palace, flanked by a pair of
bodyguards carrying rifles and torches. He paced the length of the walk.
“Sin. Sin! These men are awash in it. They stink of it.
“Josip Supek stole from me. Stole from us. Stole from our beloved city of
Beckettown. He accrued a debt he had no intention to pay. He then compounded his sin
by fleeing. Yet Josip Supek could not escape justice.
“Beside him stands Stjepan Varicak, whose sin is even greater. Stjepan did not
just accrue a mighty debt. No, Stjepan Varicak committed another, graver sin. He
insulted me! And in doing so, he insulted us all! He insulted the city! He insulted the
wisdom of the Lord Almighty, who gave us this town!”
Linden and Cook surveyed the crowd. Custis spit and leaned against the trapdoor
lever, waiting for Becket to give the order. Dalton tightened his grip on his Winchester.
The anger of the crowd was unmistakable.
Becket’s voice became incoherent noise as Dalton focused on the crowd and
waited for the first person to make a move. His eyes stopped on the face of Hans
Abeken, who stood beside a wagon well to the side of the crowd. Tears streaked the
preacher’s face. Abeken swallowed hard and unbuttoned his black jacket.
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The preacher drew his tarnished revolver from his waistband. He pointed it
towards the hangman, his hands trembling. The barrel of the gun bobbed and danced in
his grip. No one but Dalton could see him.
The preacher closed his eyes and could not think of a prayer to say. He pulled
back the revolver’s hammer.
He heard the crack of a shot not his own.
Abeken opened his eyes to see Custis collapse and fall off the left side of the
gallows clutching his neck. Joel Dalton pulled down on the cocking lever of his
Winchester to eject the spent shell. Then Cook fell as Dalton shot hit him in the side of
the chest and collapsed his lungs.
Linden fired a single wild shot before a rock flew from the crowd and hit the side
of his head. He toppled. The crowd roared in triumph.
Dalton cocked his rifle again and leveled it at the widow’s walk. It stood empty.
He muttered a curse and threw his false badge to the ground.
Townspeople attacked Becket’s cronies. Rocks shattered the windows of
Becket’s Palace. Men and women swung pickaxes at its walls and punched mighty holes.
Others tore into the company store and took long-denied supplies.
Dalton leapt from the gallows and ran towards the rear of Becket’s Palace.
Rounding the corner, he heard a crack and felt a splinter of wood scratch his cheek. He
dove down as a second shot cut the air above his head. He rolled behind a nearby log pile
for cover. Then he heard Becket’s voice. “Torch it! End this damned place! Let the
fires of hell consume these sinners!”
Dalton peered around the pile and opened fire in the direction of the voices,
spitting four shots as quickly as he could. He hit nothing but the side of a shack. Becket
and his men were gone.
Gouts of flame shot up from the mill building. A voice cried out in Spanish: “The
gunpowder! He’s lit the gunpowder!”
Fire leapt from the openings in the mill. An explosion shook the earth and sent
flaming debris across the town and into the treeline. A half-dozen shacks caught on fire.
Dry needles on the forest floor and sap-covered trunks ignited as well.
The men and women of Beckettown took the wagons near the mill and pulled
them towards the trickle that remained of the July River. They improvised buckets out of
whatever supplies they could to douse the flames.
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The preacher ran to Dalton. “Joel! If Becket escapes to Fort Johnson, he’ll talk
this up and get a bunch of soldiers sent here to ‘restore order!’ We gotta stop him!”
Dalton said, “The stables are already full of angry miners, so there’s no way he’s
getting a horse. He’s gotta be on foot.”
“The whole damn forest’s going up,” Abeken said. “The river. He’ll follow the
river.”
“Yeah,” Dalton replied.
“Take this,” the preacher said. He held out his revolver, still loaded with a single
bullet. Dalton took it and ran for the riverbed.
…
Frank Becket stumbled on a rock and nearly fell into the foot-deep water. He
looked back to his bodyguards Ruskin and Norwood, who had not seen. They themselves
were looking back the way they’d come. They were still alone, after hours of walking.
Becket’s fear faded and rage grew in its place. He had enough gold and enough
influence with Colonel Regan to roust up a punitive force. By the grace of God, he
thought, he would do so. Soon would come Fort Johnson and vengeance.
Walls of fire lined the river. Pops and cracks of bursting branches mingled with
the roar of the flames to deafen the fleeing men. Visions of a raid on the town danced
through Becket’s head, entertaining him. Hearing a series of loud cracks, he imagined
soldiers opening fire on a crowd of miners.
He saw a hat float past his shins. A moment later, a second hat floated by.
Becket laughed and wheeled around. “You clumsy hooples both…”
He was alone.
Becket tripped backwards and fell into the shallow water. A silhouette stalked
towards him. The shape was a man with a rifle. Becket clambered to his feet. Firelight
caught the rifleman’s features as he grew near. Becket spit. “Sonofabitch.”
Dalton kept his rifle trained on Becket. “Some people want you.”
“Those mongrels? Those ingrates? They destroyed everything I built! Built with
my own hands! With my own two hands!”
“With their hands,” Dalton said.
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Becket calmed his voice. “Fine. Fine. Take me to them,” he said. “Take me
back and I will convince them of the error of their ways. They will see that children need
a father, a guiding hand.”
Dalton gestured with the rifle for Becket to walk the way they’d come. On his
third step, Becket tumbled into the water again. He cursed and pushed himself halfway
up with one hand on a large rock.
From inside his jacket, Becket drew a small pistol and fired at Dalton.
Dalton fell. His rifle clattered on the rocks of the riverbed.
Becket stood erect and hooted in triumph. “Ha!” He raised his arms above his
head and faced the burning forest. “I am the true father of this land! Jedediah Becket
will not be-“
A bullet entered Jedediah Becket’s skull just above his right eyebrow and exited
through the top of his head. Blood distended his right eye, shading it maroon and dilating
its pupil. Becket dropped to his knees, then face-first into the thin stream of the July
River.
Dalton put the preacher’s pistol back in his belt. He poked his finger through the
hole in his jacket where Becket’s wild shot had gone. “Nice shooting, ‘Father.’”
He made it back to Beckettown early in the morning. Most of the town still stood,
excepting Becket’s Palace and the gallows. Dozens of exhausted townspeople slept on
the ground. None paid attention to him. He found Hans Abeken helping a Wintu family
remove debris from their shack.
“Mornin’, preacher,” Dalton said. He gave the clergyman back his pistol.
Abeken looked at Dalton with an inquiring expression.
“Made things right,” Dalton said.
Abeken closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened his eyes and reached
into his pocket. “Found something for you.” He pulled out a blackened tin star. It had
crude edges and had gained a bend of a few degrees across its middle. Under the coating
of soot, the word “SHERIF” was visible.
Abeken put the badge in Joel Dalton’s hands. “It counts.”
--END--
184
I WANT TO SLEEP WITH
STEVE MCQUEEN
By
Katherine Tomlinson
Well, who didn’t? Sheryl Crow knows what I’m talking about. Her song Steve
McQueen is an ode to cool, and anyone who hears it, gets the shorthand. Steve McQueen
was the king of cool. It says so in IMDB, so you know it’s true.
Steve McQueen survived a childhood that can only be called Dickensian
(abandonment, reform school, a stint in the Marines) to become Hollywood’s highestpaid actor. He was a hard-drinking, chainsmoking tough guy who went out with his name
above the title. He lived for speed, and watching
him on a motorcycle (as in The Great Escape) or
on a race car (Le Mans), it was sometimes hard to
see where the role stopped and the man began.
He was Oscar-nominated for his role in
The Sand Pebbles, as was his co-star, the
formidable actor Mako, who for once was playing
something other than an Asian stereotype.
McQueen made westerns. He made war movies.
He made thrillers. He made sci fi movies (The
Blob, in case you’ve forgotten.) He made disaster
movies. He even made a movie based on an Ibsen play (An Enemy of the People), which
probably would never have been made if he hadn’t been one of the biggest stars in the
Hollywood firmament at the time.
He not only had a pilot’s license, he had his own plane, a Stearman bi-plane.
How cool is that? He was adept at Tang Soo Do, a traditional Korean martial art. He
was such a close friend of Bruce Lee’s that he served as a pall-bearer at Lee’s funeral.
McQueen’s son Chad, also a manly man, is an actor whose genre-movie career has
included a number of martial arts flicks.
Lover. Fighter. Race car driver. Steve McQueen could do it all. And make it
look easy, exuding cowboy cool or cosmopolitan charisma as the situation demanded.
Check him out here:
The Magnificent Seven.
This western remake of the classic Kurosawa
film Seven Samurai has it all. Seven men are recruited to defend a poor Mexican village
185
against a vicious bandit leader. (Eli Wallach in
full sneer mode.) Gunjinks ensue, set to a
rousing Elmer Bernstein score, later used as the
backdrop of Marlboro cigarette adds on
television. The cast is fantastic—Yul Brynner
(sexiest bald man ever), James Coburn, Charles
Bronson, Robert Vaughn (soon to be Napoleon
Solo in The Man From U.N.C.L.E.) and …
Horst Buchholz. Horst who? you’re probably
saying. Buchholz was a handsome actor
dubbed “the German James Dean.” He’d
made his English-language debut in 1959, costarring with John and Hayley Mills in a tidy
little thriller called Tiger Bay. (If you only know Hayley Mills from her Disney movies,
check out this movie and also Whistle Down the Wind, another thriller that shows just
what a fantastic actress she was.) But back to Horst. If you watch the original trailer
now, it seems to be all about promoting Horst. And to be kind, Horst’s acting style
comes across as a little … overwrought … when compared to McQueen’s economic,
iconic cool. Watch the trailer here.
Bullitt—When people talk about this
movie, they always talk about the amazing car
chase through San Francisco. The chase is more
than ten minutes long and a thing of beauty. You
can see it here. This story of a cop going after the
killers who murdered a witness he was protecting
is full of great character actors, Robert Vaughan
(again) and Simon Oakland, Norman Fell, Vic
Tayback and the always wonderful Robert Duvall.
McQueen’s co-star was Jacqueline Bissett.
(Rhymes with Kiss-it, she used to say and here,
McQueen takes her up on that invitation. The
heat is palpable. Enough to make you wonder if
they ever slept together. But he was married to
first wife Neile Adams at the time, so we won’t explore that unwarranted speculation.)
The Great Escape—one of the best
World War II movies ever made and based on a true
story of a mass escape attempt by several hundred
Allied POWs in a German prison camp. John
Sturges directed and the screenplay was by novelist
James (Shogun) Clavell. Another fabulous
ensemble cast supported McQueen in this one,
including James Coburn, Charles Bronson, James
Garner, Donald Pleasance, Richard Attenborough,
and Gordon Jackson. Running time is almost three
186
hours and you won’t look at your watch once. McQueen’s character, Captain Hilts
(known as “the Cooler King” for the amount of time he spends in the punishment
“cooler”) is the soul of the movie, a rebellious American officer who will not be broken.
The Thomas Crown Affair—A
movie so good, they made it twice. And with all
due respect to Pierce Brosnan, McQueen’s version
of the title character was just … cooler. Faye
Dunaway is the love interest in this cat and mouse
tale and there’s a kissing scene so hot it’s a
wonder the film didn’t melt. Sean Connery was
originally offered the title role, and is said to have
later regretted turning it down, which may explain
why he later made Entrapment.
Towering Inferno—With apologies
to all those Poseidon Adventure fans out there, this was
the best of the disaster movie genre. Directed by
master-of-disaster Irwin Allen himself, the movie’s
script (by Stirling Silliphant) was based on two separate
novels, one of which had been inspired by the building
of the World Trade Centers in New York. (The
novelist created a scenario in which a fire broke out in
one of the upper floors, a scenario that now seems both
prescient and short-sighted.) The movie’s cast is a
perfect fusion of old and new Hollywood at the time,
with Fred Astaire, William Holden, Jennifer Jones and
Paul Newman joined by Susan Blakely, soap opera
queen Susan Flannery and Robert Vaughn, Robert
Wagner and Richard Chamberlain. O.J. Simpson played the role of the token black. The
movie is cheesy as all get-out but a true guilty pleasure.
The Getaway—Probably the pulpiest of all the films McQueen ever made
(with the possible exception of The Blob), this
violent tale of double and triple crosses and
dishonor among thieves was directed by Sam
Peckinpah from a script by Walter Hill. The reallife chemistry between McQueen and co-star Ali
MacGraw (formerly of the sappy Love Story) is
incendiary. Ali left her husband (producer Robert
Evans) for McQueen and the two were married
for five tempestuous years. The movie was
remade in 1994 with Alec Baldwin and then-wife
Kim Basinger. It just wasn’t the same.
187
The Hunter—Before there was Dog,
the Bounty Hunter, there was Ralph “Papa”
Thorsen, a real-life bounty hunter who lived hard
and died the same way. McQueen was already
sick when he made the movie, but he was as tough
in real life as any of the characters he played and
he kept his illness to himself. Once again, he was
blessed with terrific supporting players, including
the always reliable Eli Wallach, Oscar-winner
Ben Johnson (and if you never saw Last Picture
Show you cannot call yourself a film buff), Tracey
Walter and LeVar Burton. (Scuttlebutt at the time
said that Burton’s character had originally been
written as a dog.)
Bonus Movies:
The Reivers—Based on William
Faulkner’s last novel, this engaging adventure
story co-starred Mitch Vogel, Rupert Crosse,
Sharon Farrell and Will Geer. McQueen’s
character is a rogue and a rascal in this movie and
he has never been more charming or light-hearted.
The movie didn’t perform well at the box office—
his fans wanted to see him in more action fare—
but it’s a lovely period piece, with a great
ensemble cast.
Le Mans—This was McQueen’s race
car movie and truth be told, it’s not very good. This was the tagline for the movie: Steve
McQueen takes you for a drive in the country. The country is France. The drive is at 200
MPH! That pretty much sums it up. What you get here is Steve McQueen and a bunch
of Formula One cars being driven very fast. Some would say that’s all you need.
The Tao of Steve—This oddball
indie charmer doesn’t star Steve McQueen, but
his spirit infuses every frame. The movie stars
Donal Logue as a guy who has studied
McQueen’s coolness and distilled it, stirred in
large dollops of Buddhism and created the perfect
way of life. Until a woman comes along and
shakes up his world. (Isn’t that always the way?)
Worth a look, especially if you’re a fan of
Logue’s, a character actor who’s always
interesting to watch.
188
You think you’re tough? Stand up next to Steve McQueen (or one of those
cardboard stand-up thingies since he’s no longer with us) and see how you measure up.
Yeah. That’s what we thought. But don’t feel bad. Next to McQueen, pretty much
everyone else is a pussy.
--END--
189

AAM #1 - Lightning Bug Films / Lightning Bug Press

Transcription

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