Legion World Forums LEGION COMPANION The Anywhere Machine My brain is cruel to me.

Okay, so, somewhere, my brain switched Brant for Barnett. I've made the correction in my google drive stuff, but not here. Anyway, here's some more....


“Sir.” Brant’s voice didn’t crack, but it was a close thing. She had seen Genovese’s body, what was left of it.

“What is Keplinger saying?”

“Keplinger isn’t saying much of anything, Sir. He left us three weeks ago.”

“Hmmm.” Cardimon was obviously distracted. Hearing that a prized employee had left for another job would normally have him making five different moves that would net the agency several times more than just one well qualified employee.

“Do we have ANY talkers left on staff without having to go outside?”

“Just one, Sir. Danny Valley. But he’s new and very raw.”

“So the best talker we have right now is sitting in a cell, isn’t one of us, and has just had his egg scrambled by two Black Helicopter wannabee agents?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way, Sir. It was only by luck they intercepted Mr. Ashe, as he had given them the slip completely before they stumbled across him.”

“You mean before She stumbled across him.” Cardimon stared at the wall of screens in front of him. Forty screens, all displaying more men and women in featureless cells. Occasionally, one of the screens would seem like it had heat waves in it, like you would find above rocks in the desert heat. You had to watch closely to see them. But, it was the only telltale sign that an ALE was around. Well, that, and occasionally a “guest” would speak to them if they could. But, HORSE didn’t have too many guests that were talkers.

“Yes, Sir.” Mel fell silent. She’ learned over the years that the less she said, the less foolish she might appear when it all hit the fan. And with HORSE, something was always hitting the fan.

“Have the boys in PSD come up with anything yet?” Mel answered in the negative. “We still don’t know how Fordham managed to ...well, I don’t actually know the correct terminology for what she did...recorporeate, maybe?. They are, I’m told, burning the midnight oil trying to figure out how she escaped from the After Life, Sir.”

Cardimon ran a hand over his tired face, and then straightened his already straight tie. If he had a tell of any kind, that was it.

“Alright. Come with me.” Cardimon got up and stalked out the room with Brant behind him. For the next five minutes they traversed the Lighthouse. It would be nice to say the Lighthouse was some vast complex, something on par to the special effects giant rooms shown in so many movies these days, but it wasn’t. It was a simple, government issue concrete complex with security as needed. Dingy and grey, like government buildings tend to be, it was a depressing place in many respects, even to, or especially to, those that worked there.

They arrived in front of Jonas’ cell, where Cardimon swiped a simple key card on a pad and the door opened.

I even have an idea for why Sally Fordham is so desperate, and so pursued. I kinda have a full story, except for the conclusion. and the writing of the story itself.

So, I did six thousand words roughly in four hours on another story after work. Two hours a day. Two days. Closed the story down last night to spend time with lovely wife and son.

No idea where to go with the story now.

Not only this, but I am having trouble with the story above, as well as another, brand new girlfiend.

Sadness.

More of Last of the Dead Hot Lovers:

They arrived in front of Jonas’ cell, where Cardimon swiped a simple key card on a pad and the door opened. Cardimon stepped inside with Brant following. Ashe was simply lying on the cot. He snored a bit.

“Jonas Ashe. Get up.” Cardimon hear a deep, heartfelt sigh, and then Ashe levered himself up into a sitting position. Cardimon took stock. Years of having to read people had made him pretty good at judging a person with a quick appraisal. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but that first, quick, gut reaction was usually spot on.

What Cardimon saw was a young man in his mid twenties, slightly shaggy brown hair and eyes, a bit of a five o’clock shadow, with a trim, easy runners build. Records and surveillance painted the picture of a not very ambitious guy, a wastrel of his life just getting by, trying to make it from one end of life to the other with the least amount of pain. Tuh Riffeck. Probably yet another guy that thought he was unique and different, living a life that wasn’t very interesting except in his own mind. The expression Ashe was giving him was basically “Well, you got me here, what do you want?”

Cardimon pressed a button on a remote in his pocket and a ledge slide out of the wall at just the right height for him to sit on. He did so and flipped open a folder, quietly. From the corner of his eye he watched Brant simply stand there, not really focusing on anyone or anything, all business. As he sat there, Cardimon started to wonder about Ashe. Usually, good or bad, the “interviewee” at this point started yelling about civil rights, that people would be looking for them, that they were innocent or would sue. Something else else. Anything to break the uncomfortable silence.

Ashe said nothing. In fact, after several minutes of Cardimon staring at his folder, Ashe simply lay back down with his hand behind his head, and his feet crossed. Cardimon was impressed. No one had done that before. And he noticed that Brant took a slight offense at it.

Cardimon closed the folder, handed it to Brant, and then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin cigar, sort of a cross between a Lonsdale sized cigar and a cigarette. He lit it, took a deep drag on it, blew out some truly horrendous smoke, and leaned back against the wall.

“Okay, you’re a tough nut. Great. Now, how ‘bout we talk.” Cardimon said. Ashe sat back up and looked at the two of them, mostly focusing on Brant’s chest. She was pretty, and he hadn’t had a date in a while.

“You’re HORSE. You disappear people. I haven’t done anything that I’m aware of that would bring me into your world. You stalk me, heh, stalking HORSE, just got that, you whack me with some kind of gizmo, cart me across the US, stick me in a cell, give me some truly horrible after taste from whatever it was you did, and then don’t give me a place to use the restroom. Whaddaya expect? Flowers and a card?”

“Umph. You’re right.” He picked up the file he had discarded, and tossed it to Ashe. “Follow me. And they weren’t supposed to whack you. They were supposed to ask you to come in and help us. Your clothes were thrown away after you fell in dog shit in the street. And this was the only sleeping place available, the door was locked for your protection. Toilet doesn’t work. There’s one at the end of the hall.” Brant followed Cardimon out into the hall, leading the way. The door stayed open. Ashe couldn’t help but notice that on Brant, a dark brown skirt and white button up shirt looked very good. She also had nice legs that ended in moderately fashionable shoes that never the less looked like they would function well in something besides simply walking around.

He glanced at the folder, expecting to see his name. That’s what all big government agencies did, wasn’t it? Gather all the information on you they could to use when they needed it? Only the folder said “Fordham, Sally” on the cover, not Jonas Ashe. Jonas experienced one of those rare, deeply personal moments in life, the severity of which could only be conveyed by the words “Oh Shit!”

He looked up to see Cardimon and Brant stopped in the middle of a hallway intersection. Just past them was a sign that read “men’s room”. Slightly more sinister were the words “If you dare!” written underneath them in what appeared to be a still wet, reddish black liquid that did not run, but continued to undulate like waves in the ocean.

And here's some more.


Jonas sat in an uncomfortable chair in Cardimon’s office, reading the file on Sally. From the way the file read, the years after their breakup were not kind to her. She had taken up with a crowd that used young adults and barely legal adults for magic crimes. Sally, from what the file said, was smart enough to gather more power about herself, but not smart enough to stay out of the way of her bosses. Eventually, she wound up dead. The problem was, she didn’t stay dead.

From what the government could piece together, Sally had been gathering power from sources outside her little band of brothers without their knowledge. And since magic seemed to be inherent in people, unique to each individual, it wasn’t believed that someone could go around gathering more power and talents. They might grow stronger in the use of their own power, but taking others power for themselves...well, that opened a whole new ball game. It was a fact of life that people chased power and wealth, and a truism was that knowledge equaled power. A select few had figured out how to leech the strength from others for themselves, the government had come to realize.

Jonas stopped reading for a moment and thought about the ramifications of that. Imagine someone that had taken the time to take a minor power and study it, maximizing it to its full potential. And then, not being satisfied with that, basically eating others powers and strength. A minor magician could become a sorcerer and be a new major power to contend with. Now, take a major sorcerer, have them do the same, and you had someone that could crack the world, ignore the laws of physics….staggering to think about.
Sally had never been able to do what she did to Jonas on the street. But she had morphed her body, kept it strong and pliable, and tripped him from ten feet away. All at an instant’s notice, since he had not known about her and had not swerved until the last possible moment.

Jonas looked up at Cardimon. “She’s still dead, though, right? I mean, that’s what you’re telling me since you know what I can do, and that’s why you wanted me?” The question hung in the air. Cardimon looked thoughtful and took a moment to reply.

“As near as we can tell...yes and no. Still dead, yes, but she’s managed to come back to life as a ghost, but one that’s solid. And she’s eating power the longer she’s active. We believe she has an idea as to how to return to life, fully.”

“So, you want me to find her and talk to her? What makes you think she even wants to talk to me?”

“We don’t think she does.” Cardimon hesitated. This was the crux of the matter, and where Jonas fit in. His decision at this moment was crucial. Jonas didn’t seem to notice that Brandt was behind him, her pistol concealed by the folder she was holding. “We think that whomever has taught her how to come back this far, is dead. But we also believe that whoever it is, she can no longer talk with. She needs someone that can talk to the dead. That’s where you come in.” Cardimon shut up and let that sink in a moment. He could see the wheels turning in Jonas’ head.

“But why would she want...oh.” Jonas got it. She wanted his power. She didn’t want him. Cardimon nodded, seeing that Jonas had figured it out.

“She wants your power. It’s a small gift, but a uniquely powerful one as well. You have the ability to talk to the dead. You can gather knowledge that few others can. As a Vox Necro, history is open to you. With that power, ramped up as she needs or wants...well, death isn’t really an impediment to her. And while we at HORSE try to solve problems without killing, sometimes it’s necessary. A final solution. But what if it isn’t final?”

“But what good is talking to the people I’ve known that have passed? A gas station attendant. The child molester down the street? I can only talk to the people I’ve known in my lifetime, that I have met before they died?” And that’s when it hit Jonas. That wasn’t true anymore. Millard Hamilton. The implications were staggering. If he could talk to anyone in history…

A cold sensation of dread and doom settled in on Jonas. Sally had changed him, amped up his power tenfold with only the merest of touches. Imagine what she could do with that kind of power. What he could do with that kind of power….oh shit! What HORSE could do with that kind of power. Jonas didn’t freeze, but the realization that he was in deep shit, caught between two forces that could destroy him…

Jonas had never played poker, but he hoped that his face and body language hadn’t just betrayed the fact that he knew HORSE would try to control him just as much as Sally would. “Okay Jonas”, he thought to himself, “you’ve got to see this as only Sally wanting to use you in this way or you’ll be buried in a hole by HORSE never to be seen or heard from again, most likely with a bullet in your skull. BE COOL. Your life depends on it.”

“You’ve got a plan for me and Sally, I take it?”

Cardimon watched him closely. Cardimon knew Ashe to be intelligent, but also to be lacking ambition or drive, from all they could gather. And if running out the back of a store was the limit of his guile…

“We do. You are going to escape from us, go on the run. We have the route set up, it can’t be to obvious. But you are going to lead her into a trap. We catch her, your job is done, you go back to your life.” The last was a lie, and Cardimon watched Jonas carefully to see his reaction.

“Just like that. Job done, good boy, have a nice life. Gotta say, HORSE doesn’t have that reputation. You disappear people for good.” Cardimon let out a small sigh. It was theatrics, pure and simple. Here was the big lie. He hated it, but he had no choice.

“HORSE does disappear people. It’s true. We don’t, however, kill innocents for no reason. You’ve heard that people have disappeared before never to be heard from again, right? Yes. It’s not murder. It’s relocation. Like witness relocation. Many who come into their magics do so at bad times in their lives. Sometimes tragedies happen through no fault of their own. A fresh start is needed for them to lead happy lives. And we much prefer those with power to have happy lives over feeling alienated from loved ones or friends. So, we move them, give them new identities, allow them to build lives that make them happy. And occasionally, they help us out in return. We let the world at large think we “disappear them permanently” for their protection. Cardimon leaned back in his chair and lit another cheroot.

Gah! Story I've been working on is making me nuts. First two chapters are the teaser, and I have them done, but for some editing.

It's the rest of the story that's bugging me. You meet the Lady of the Lake in a bar, she asks you to find Excaliber after it was stolen, and you can't think of a way to continue it?

Sumbitch.

I spent almost a year thinking of how to continue my own fic, rick. You can do it!



Aw man, I hate when that happens I store my files on Facebook - I message myself. Last time my hard drive got wiped and I lost everything.

Neat, sort of like mailing a copy of your stuff to yourself to protect it.

Yeah, and I can access it from anywhere as long as I have my laptop and an Internet connection.

New story, short, keeping it simple.

Luther Fawkes

My name is Luther Fawkes. And I work for the government.

Forty miles outside Reno, Nevada is a tiny roadside diner called Maude’s. I had been on the road for nearly three hours and had to piss a gallon, so when I saw the sign, I pulled in for some relief, and probably some really greasy, but good, food. It was around seven pm, and the stars weren’t out yet, but soon would be.

I peeled myself off the seat of my government issued Chevy Malibu and made my way inside the diner. It was one of those prefab models designed to look like a dining car on some imagined 1950’s train of the future. Red, plastic-covered stools and lots of chrome. It might have been nice, once, but now just seemed rundown and dingy.

I spotted the waitress slash hostess slash cashier behind the counter immediately when I entered. I threw out “Coffee, black, straight!” to her and went to relieve my back teeth, which were floating. On the way to the mens room, I passed a young couple sitting in the same side of the booth they occupied, an older man with a long gray beard and hat dressed in coveralls in another, and a man in his early to mid fifties, black widow’s peak, sharp, beak nose and sunken eyes that seemed to disappear into his head. I noted as I passed that he had an inordinate amount of sugar on his tabletop. He also did not look up as I entered or passed by him.

I did my business, for which my bladder thanked me, and headed back to refill on coffee, greasy hamburger and limp fries, and possibly a nice piece of apple pie if they had it. I noticed that no one seemed to have moved much in the four minutes and thirty two seconds I had spent in the restroom, and yet there was my coffee at the counter.

The waitress’s name tag said “Helga”. She was nearing forty, had badly dyed red hair, and chewed gum. I flashed back to that seventies show Alice for a moment. She was attractive enough in a slightly world weary, tired, “I should have done more with my life but I’m making the best of what I have” way.

Nice tits, though.

I gave her my order when asked and she immediately turned to the little pass through in the back wall and clipped my order onto one of those little conveyor belt dealies that moved your order around. Okay butt, but nothing to write home about.

I grabbed a seat at the counter and copped a squat. It just so happened that I had a great view of the rest of the clientele in the mirror behind the counter. Beaky, as I had immediately nicknamed him, seemed withdrawn and into himself rather than noticing the rest of us. The old man was now smoking a cigarette and looking down at his menu, while the young couple was trying to devour each other’s face.

The Coffee was horrible, as expected. I bet the pot hadn’t been rinsed in a week. There was a suspicious green tint to it as I drank. Back in the good old days, rest stops added speed to their coffee and the truckers were grateful for it. Fortunately for me, common speed wouldn’t have an effect on me. Government conditioning, don’t you know.

I kept an eye on the place, no one was talking and there was a weird vibe in the air. Do my line of work long enough and you start to trust that nagging little voice in the back of your head that screams “weird shit here”. But, for the moment, I let myself relax. I’d been up for over thirty hours straight, working the Point, and I had to be at my next stop in less than ten hours. Sometimes life’s a pain, but there you go.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A little over average height, athletic and slim, dressed in a dark, gunmetal gray suit, white shirt and gray tie. Short, close cropped hair with a few flecks of gray in it as well. I wasn’t handsome by any means. Rawboned was what my grandmother used to call me, and she was being charitable. Not that I cared much, it’s simply who I am.

And then the fun started. I could see lights approaching the diner in the mirror. Motorcycles by the looks of them. Most bikers fall into two categories, outlaw gangs and the dentist/doctor crowd, professionals with a little money and a love of the “glamour” of riding. Neither were especially problems for me, or really my concern. My jobs were much more dark in nature, or in “unnature”.

Still, it seemed as if there were civilians here and I’m a government employee. My official job description is “Solutions Co-ordinator”. What that means is I go in where the shit has hit the fan and sort it out. Usually with “extreme prejudice” as the old terminology read.

A moment later everyone in the Diner noticed the bikers as they gunned their engines. The vibe went from “weird shit here” to “weird shit here and it’s gonna get bad” in an instant. The old man started choking on a bite of pie he had, the young couple looked into each other’s eyes like it was their last night on earth and Beaky….well, Beaky started looking sick and swallowing hard. I paid attention to my coffee. It was horrible, nasty stuff, but I figured that in the next few moments, I might not get to finish.

The door opened and six bikers filed in, looking dusty and tired. These boys were the real deal, they didn’t put on phony swagger or try to be intimidating, the knew that their presence alone would do that to the average civilian. At that moment, I reached into my suit coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Yeah, I smoke. I also live alone, work alone and mind my own business. You don’t like it, don’t be around me. I lit up and pulled a deep drag on it. I felt the burn as the smoke cleared my nostrils and made it’s lovely dark way to my lungs. I instantly felt better, and somewhat calmer.

The bikers took their seats and ordered, going to the restroom in turns, since it was only a one seater. The waitress slapped my bill down with all the emotion of the coffee pot, but then looked from me to the bill, pointedly. I looked down at it, it read “You need to leave. NOW!” I reached down and flipped it over. Then I pulled one of those cheap metal ashtrays that were ubiquitous thirty years before over to me, knocked the ash off my cigarette, and really started sizing up the room.

The bikers were talking with each other quietly. The young lovers were staring at each other, looking pale and sallow, even more so than before if possible. The old man had his head lowered with his hat down low as well. Couldn’t see his face, but he seemed a little...bigger...than before. And Beaky...was quivering in fear. At least, I thought it was fear. That was, until I saw his eyes. His eyes were dead black. Not just the iris, but everything. Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner, folks.

Beaky stood and suddenly, all eyes were upon him. His widows peak started to sharpen, his fingernails started growing longer, his canine’s were elongating as his face seemed to stretch and lengthen, and he stood tall and almost emaciatedly thin. The bikers simply sat there, looking at him with no expressions at all.

Then the young lovers stood up and began to change. Bond hair whitened, eyes started to glow red, and their coats fell away to reveal tattered rags in dirty, dusty desert brown. And then their skin changed, becoming the white you see on bodies pulled out of the water after a month.

And finally, it was the old man’s turn.

He stood. And then stood some more. And then, when he was done, he stood even more. He stood so much, in fact, that his head was against the top of the diner, easily ten foot tall if an inch. The beard on his face covered his entire head, his clothes burst apart and underneath was covered from head to toe in thick, coarse brown hair. Damn. A Weregriz. Think werewolf but with a grizzly instead of a wolf.

That old saying “Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you” really got a workout with him. And in the space of the blink of an eye, it all went to shit. The griz swung a hand/paw at one of the biker’s head and it went flying. I was already on the move. I was closer to the door than the rest of the diner and flipped a dumb bomb out of the pocket of my coat. Two second fuse, I chucked it at the Supernatural High Intensity Targets, or “SHIT’s” for short. There was a flash and bang since it was based on the old flashbang grenades, and the SHIT’s… look, I didn’t make up the acronym, it’s a government thing… started growling and howling, well, two of them did. I don’t care who you are, pretty much anyone and everyone is gonna scream when weaponized poison ivy explodes in your face and you get it in your eyes, ears, nose and throat.

So, Griz and Beaky were screaming and howling, and the two lovers….well, they were even worse. They turned to each other, extended foot long tongues, and started licking the poison ivy off each other, starting with their eyeballs. That was bad enough, but when they started suctioning each other’s noses, that was just gross. Beaky started to vomit blood, and then turned into a black cloud and headed for a window.

How in the hell did I wind up defending idiot, asshole outlaw bikers? Who were still sitting motionless, even with one of their own squirting blood all over the place as his heart pumped out? What the hell?

Beaky hit the window and dissolved in a puddle of goo on the table underneath. Dumb bomb, filled with weaponized poison ivy...and powdered alum. Not garlic, people, alum. Running water would have worked as well, but...you know, desert and all that.

The two lovers finished licking each other and turned towards me at the same time Griz finally regained his senses. The lovers went flying to either side as Griz smashed his way through them towards me. The male wraith landed on the bikers and started ripping at the face and neck of one of them with his claws. Griz got within five feet of me before my Browning cleared my shoulder holster and came to ...well.. bear. The Browning is one of the specialty guns made by Browning in the early 1900’s. There were, as far as I know, only three made. A genius and innovator, Mr. Browning was commissioned by a rich family from Kentucky to make a father and two sons pistols that were unique. He damn sure didn’t fail.

The pistol is an cylinder/over under combo. Barrel is only four inches on top, and only shoots four bullets, but they are 50 cals, and under the pistol barrel is a short, shotgun barrel. My bullets are thrice blessed bullets, by priest, shaman and rabbi. The shotgun shell is not only thrice blessed, but also incendiary holy water mixed with alum and greek fire. I don’t do just enough when overkill is...overkill.

Griz took the first four shots to the head and heart, and I watched patches of fur erupt from his chest along with blood and bone from the head. He stopped and picked the bits of burning fur off his chest, looked at me, seemed to give a human sigh, and stepped forward again. Fine. The concussion and sound of the shotgun shell followed by the explosive “whump” in the confined diner deafened me for a moment. But I don’t care how tough you are, how jacked up on magical rage, someone blows your heart out your spine, you fall. He hit the floor with a solid thump, part of what was left of his skull landing on my black loafers.

In a second I turned to the wraiths, and had my extendable baton in my other hand. Electrified silver and alum, I started to skullknock the two when I felt the flash of tremendous pain on the back of my head. I twisted as I fell forward and caught a glimpse of Helga and a frying pan. Then everything went black. Some days, the bear gets you.

***************

I came two in one of the booths of the diner. There was a glass of water on the table in front of me along with a bottle of Bayer Aspirin. I reached for them both and discovered that my hands were not tied. Curious. I downed the aspirin and looked about the place. It was fully dark now outside the window. Inside, Helga, the four monsters, and someone that looked like he might be the cook were talking at the counter. There was no sign of the bikers, not even a few drops of blood splatter as far as I could see. Griz looked through the little group at me, saw I was awake, and nodded in my direction at the others. Helga left the group and moved over to me, taking a seat opposite me.

“We don’t get many G-men in here.” she said.

“How do you know I’m a government man?”

“Cal over there, the cook..he can read people. Tell everything about them with a glance.”

“And you…?”

“I’m...attractive. People seem to look me up.” I thought about that for a moment. I’d worked the southwest territory for a long time now. Bits and pieces of old files, of tall tales told at the office, of old myths and legends started to bubble up in my slightly addled brain.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get a recording contract. Lose your voice?” Helga leaned back in the booth and looked at me with a little surprise and respect.

“You’re fast. Most people get put off by the desert setting.”

“Most people are bound by what they read in the old mythology books. I’m not. I never thought Sirens needed water to lure men. Lonely men at sea, a beautiful face works as well as a beautiful voice.” I slowly reached for another cigarette. They obviously didn’t want me dead at this point or I wouldn’t have woken up. So, find out what’s happening, and then take care of the problem.

“But voice carries much further than view in some instances.”

“True, but you are a creature of supernatural beauty. Kind of slumming here, aren’t you?”

I watched a true, deep sadness cross her eyes before it was gone, as quick as it was there. Either she was a consummate actress, or it was real. I made no judgements. Information and facts, not assumptions are what had kept me alive for over fifteen years in this job, that wasn’t about to change now.

“No, unfortunately. This is reality for what’s left of my kind. The lesser pantheon, halflings and less. We are monsters, true, but we have our rules, our creed. And we do NOT violate them.” She looked me dead in the eyes then. Eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, but monsters have no soul, do they? That’s what I had always been taught anyway.

I lit the cigarette I had been holding and drew in a nice, slow, deep breath. Then I sat back myself and looked at her, hard. “Alright, what’s your credo?”

“We remain hidden, never drawing any more attention to ourselves than absolutely necessary. We feed, true, but remember Cal? He reads people. Not only that, but he can project a glamour of his choosing. The only people that ever stop here, the middle of nowhere, are bad people. And these are the people we feed on. Decent people never even see us, much less stop.” I raised an eyebrow at that, since I was sitting here. That meant I was a bad guy too, according to her, and yet, they hadn’t fed on me.

“I can read what you are thinking without Cal for that. Yes, you are a bad man. No question. You have done hard things, bad things, but...they were necessary things. You have killed, but in order to preserve innocent life, thereby damning you but saving others. When others have cut and run, you stayed behind to do what was necessary. In short, you are a fool. You are a bad man. But, you are not an evil man. And that is why we did not end you.” I looked at her again. “Oh, there was discussion. We were even democratic about it and voted.

“I won’t attempt to guess who voted to save me.”

“I won’t lie, it was close.”

“So, it’s down to I leave and let you be, or we go to war, is that it?” She nodded. “And if I leave, you won’t stay here, because I would know you. Sooo…?”

“We would move on, create a new place for us, do what we have to do. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

My mind was racing. It wouldn’t work. They knew I knew that it wouldn’t work. I had them now. They were just like any other prey. They had patterns, and once you know the pattern, it would be relatively easy to find them again. Okay, hit them with the truth and see what happens.

“It won’t work and we both know it. I have your measure now, and you have mine. We both know I can find you again. And while you may have cleaned me out of my little doodads and tricks, that isn’t all there is to me.”

“We beat you once, already.” It wasn’t said with acrimony, just a simple statement of fact.

“Yes, you did. But, this time you aren’t behind me, I know what I’m facing, and you’ve said it yourself, Cal can read people. And right now, he’s reading that I’m much more dangerous than all of you put together.”

“Agent Fawkes, we are not the last of our kind, but we are, to use a common parlance, most likely the least of our kind left. We are not the Gods, our power is limited in scope and duration. We have adapted as best we could to current times. Yes, we hunt, but we only hunt the bad. We never harm the innocent. Would it be so terrible to let us go? To let us do what we do and maybe, just maybe, do a little good in taking away some of the bad? Are we that different from you, in fact?” At that she paused. “We don’t want to die.” she said quietly and emphatically, and a little sadly.

“Everything you just said...isn’t that what all monsters say? No one really wants to die, except suicides, and you don’t look suicidal. Come to that, it’s what people say as well.”

Wow. I really liked that, rick. Both Luther and the waitress are great characters. The action was smooth and flowing, and the moral dilemma was set up and explained really well. Awesome

Thanks, I have about a page left to go, I deliberately tried to write a short eight pager to see if I could. I tried to use comic book prose short style. Quick, to the point and punchy.

Okay, after being told about Santa Claus, AZ by my mother in law, Luther is now gonna fight evil elves in an abandoned ghost town in arizona called Santa Claus.

And yes, it is a read ghost town.

And here's the conclusion of "Luther Fawkes".


“Everything you just said...isn’t that what all monsters say? No one really wants to die, except suicides, and you don’t look suicidal. Come to that, it’s what people say as well.”

“Agent Fawkes, we are quickly reaching a point of no return. Is that really necessary?”

“Sweetheart, I do the necessary things.” I stopped, an idea coming to mind. I ran through the permutations and made a slight “hunh” sound. Sometimes the answer is right in front of you, if you get all the bullshit out of the way.

******************************

It was only twenty miles left to Why, Arizona. Population 116 as of the 2000 census. Major industry….dirt. Major business’, dirt. Biggest export...dirt. Basically, the town existed to be a junction in the desert for two roads. Nothing much to it.

Unfortunately, the current estimated population now is around fifteen. Seems like some serious assholes decided that the people of Why would make nice snacks. And under cover of darkness, they fed. And fed well.

Well, buckle up, sumbitches. I’m on the way, and I’m bringing my S.H.I.T.s’ with me.

Awesome resolution rick! Win-win sitch for both the S.H.I.T.s and Luther! It also doesn't compromise the morals or convictions of either party.



I think that works really well with the types of stories you're telling and the type of character (Luther) that you're using. Very nice.



Oh, YEAH! Would love to read that!

You know rick, your stories might get more reads if you moved them to Bits. But I'm also going to link post a link to here in the Critic's Corner thread.

Thanks, Ibby. I'm trying t0 develop my story telling skills and instead of trying to write the great american novel, I'm just trying to do shorts right now. Thanks for the attaboy.

So, I finished another Fawkes story, this one involving Mrs. Claus and some evil elves. I'm kinda proud that I'm starting to finish some short stories.

Here's the first part.

Santa Claus, AZ!

My name is Luther Fawkes. I work for the government. Be afraid.

Santa Claus, AZ is nowhere, a ghost town whose claim to fame was having once been the US postal designation for children’s letters to St. Nick. I got the call about seven hours ago. Instrumentation and about thirty psychics in a room deep under Modesto, California said that something resonating on all the bad waves of the Ethereal Plane was making an appearance. Planetfall from the realms of the unholy. Our governments response?

“Fawkes. Santa Claus, AZ. Something else else bad, level four. Handle it.”

So, here I was, 14 miles north of Kingman, AZ near the Cali border. It was three in the afternoon and hotter than Hoghead cheese in a microwave. I stepped out of my government issue Malibu and felt instant beads of sweat pop out all over. The blast furnace we call the southwest had me soaking my shirt through in less than a minute. I put my sunglasses on and stood there, hands on hips, surveying. Four broken down buildings, vandalized and graffiti-fied were all that remained of the once tiny little ghost town. A quick history search before making the trip showed that the town started life as a sort of novelty planned subdivision, Santa in the Sahara, basically. Other than remailing, I couldn’t find anything the town actually did for a living. No mining, no rest stop. Just a bad excuse for a forgotten resort. Someone’s dreams had died aborning here.

Wonderful.

So, level four. Even better.

The division of government I work for handles the supernatural problems in the nation. Marshall’s of supernatural law, you might say. Sort of a take off of the old Texas Rangers. One man, or woman, for one job. If you can’t get it done, then you’re probably dead and that saves on retirement benefits. And in my department, of which there are roughly thirty agents across the United States, we have a codifying system. Levels one through five. One is someone spots a blur on a video and thinks they’ve seen Sasquatch when what they’ve really seen is Billy Joe in a black ape costume trying to scare the kids and screw with the local sucker. Think Lizard Man in South Carolina. Level five is Continents Go Poof. So, level four would be like Zeus or Thor deciding to turn Boston into a smoking crater because Pamela Anderson disappointed them with fake breasts. Don’t laugh, it happened. Just wasn’t Pamela Anderson, but Champagne Lakes, local stripper at Monte’s. Gave Thor the crabs.

Traffic on 93 behind me was non-existent, so I wandered over to one of the abandoned buildings. I put my shades back on and looked again. The town wasn’t the thing. Back beyond the buildings, behind the sign and the antenna tower, was a low rise set of hills. At the base of the highest point, southwestern side, a light that was visible in the daylight. Shaded a sickly green, it was visible due to my handy dandy Spec-tras (Copyright US Spookcorps), which added a layer of the supernatural spectrum to my eyesight. Spookcorps, now from “Ronco”.

I looked around again to make sure I was alone, and I was. I pulled the car around back of the buildings and turned on the camoflage. Suddenly, there was a brown lump of dirt and scrub where the car had been. I sighed, hit a button on my belt, and felt the surge of adrenaline hit my body like a fist. Subdermal implants triggered by sonic bell tones, audible in the dog hearing range. Don’t ask me what the numbers are, I don’t know. I solve problems, I don’t do science. That’s what Spookcorps is for.

I’m guessing the hills were about four to six miles away. I made it in less than three minutes. Eat your heart out, Steve Austin.

The light was the remains of the energy used to create a portal. There were footsteps all around the portal sight that weren’t human. Three-toed feet with an elongated heel. Judging by the depth against my own tracks, me weighing around one hundred and ninety pounds, these creatures weighed about one-thirty to one-forty. Judging by the stride, I’d say they stood on average about six-foot six to seven-foot six. Additionally, there were spot depressions beside the right foot of two of the creatures. Lance or staff. I’m betting that the blunt end on the ground did not match the top end.

Okay, Fawkes, time to get your thinking cap on. So, I pulled out the brimless hat that was in my left inside coat pocket and put it on. Think thin thermal blanket material, silver in color, made into a hat. The neural interface inside it fired up and connected wirelessly to my Spec-tras. A readout display popped up, I accessed the search feature, used the eye-motion tracking feature to spell out my search parameters and waited. Three seconds later and the info was for my eyes only. Take that Google Glass.

Bolizstag. The information I got was what you might call “limited”. It read: “Bolizstag, only know facts: Evil, strong, prefers tricks and traps. Comparable to an amoral cat with delusions of grandeur, egomaniacal, and extremely bloodthirsty. Believed to be of Slavic origin, subspecies of Elven Faerie Proceed with all haste and caution.”

Marvelous. Thinking cap off and back in my pocket, I start to track the Bols. They headed into the hills, moving at an easy pace. But just a few miles in, I notice that they were slowing. Their strides gradually shortened, and then completely stopped at one point beside a small boulder. I’m surprised. They needed the rest, but...why? The answer hits me then. The heat. Slavic origins. They literally couldn’t stand the heat. I’m told that on the rare occasions that I smile, it remarkably resembles that of a hungry, feral wolf. Silly rabbit, wolves are puppies compared to me.

I slapped my belt buckle again and get another jolt of artificial adrenaline, officially called Adrenaziner(™). Time passes as I track the Bols and my suit starts working a little overtime. Little known fact, the suits my division provides, they aren’t just suits. They are bio-mechanical feats of engineering that make the space station technology look like it’s stuck in the Soyuz era. They can regulate body temp, withstand bullet attacks, pretty much full containment and support in themselves. However, even they have limits. But as fast as I am, it’s tough to track bare feet over solid rock. At some point in their little march to I don’t know where, the Elves crossed from sand to bare rock and that meant I had to slow down, figure out where they were moving to and waste more of my time. By now, I was miles away from Santa Claus, or so I thought.

Up and down through the hills. The elves were taking a seemingly random course, which made tracking them even tougher. Look, out here, water is the thing, people and animals can be anticipated all from the need for water. But, elves are supernatural beings, and I didn’t know this particular subset, I had no clue what their motivations might be. So, I stopped and thought, even without the thinking cap. There had to be a reason for the meandering course. Not water, because frankly I had more piss in me right now than there was free water lying around. Could they be searching for something? There had been no obvious landmarks to go by, no oddly shaped boulder or cactus that someone could point to and say “Look, go thirty paces past the phallic shaped cactus and then turn twenty north.” Then, as happens with me on occasion, I had an idea.

I actually did break out the Thinking Cap again for this, it had more computing power and range than my Spec-tras. I hooked into the government’s mainframe and clicked on the tracking feature. Then, I did a overlay of my movements over the last three hours, pulled back on the satellite cam and realized that I had been had. I wasn’t going in circles, but I was going in an intricate pattern that would, using extrapolation, end up back where I started, at Santa Claus. Hunh. Tricksters, remember?!

Okay, I’d been behind in this entire chase, even if they didn’t know they were being chased. Time to take the game to them. My Spec-tra’s plotted a course back to Santa Claus, over the hills and not so far away, and I lit out. Time over the hills and back to Santa Claus was just under thirty minutes. I lost time over a boulder field, where there was something going on with some weird backpacking group. Far be it for me to judge, but backpacking in the desert nude? That’s some major burns in bad places. And really...naked diving into cactus plants? Ouch.

But, far be it for me to judge. I had my hands full stopping an Other Plains invasion. Back at Santa Claus, first thing I saw was my car. Trashed. Upside down. And smashed halfway through the tower behind the abandoned town.

I slowed to a walk, the dust plume behind me blowing away in the wind. Okay, I hadn’t made it ahead of them. Still, I wasn’t behind anymore, as I could hear one helluva ruckus in the old abandoned post office. As I watched, an old sorting machine, hopelessly outdated, crashed through the exterior wall and landed right in front of me. From inside, the sound of sibilant hissing was followed by the sound of things crashing and smashing. I realized the hissing was laughter. Okay, time to introduce myself.

I picked up the sorting machine and slammed it back through the rear wall and into the old building. And from the immediate outcry, I nailed at least one of them. And that’s when I laughed. Laughter isn’t really my thing. Just ask that last guy at the Manhiem Comedy Club in Reno. I’m officially banned, but then, that’s never stopped me before. However, start out as you aim to finish, I say.

Five heads slowly came into view around the opening I’d created, at different levels. One upside down. And then I really did laugh.

I’d never dealt with Elves from Faerie before. I’ve handled all kinds of nasty shit thrown at me over the last twenty years, five years on my own, fifteen with the department, but never elves. I’d studied up of course, the old stories, the old texts and scrolls, some runes here and there. I’d even tried to modernize and gone over some computerized files over the years, although in my profession information tends to not be in too modern a form. Most of the threats we face are from ancient times. But, their reputations were fearsome to say the least.

So, when I see the sleaziest, dopiest, stupidest garden-gnome looking elves looking back at me, my reaction was genuine. “Grumpy”, as I immediately labeled him, had a five o’clock shadow instead of a fluffy white beard. His lit cigar was burning holes in his red, wool coat. The holes were actually smoking. To be honest, I kinda liked the evil little bastard right away. I’d still put him down, but I liked him. The rest went downhill from there . Imagine each one nastier and dirtier, more foul-mouthed and drunker than the last. A bottle of whiskey the size of a forty gallon water heater was being passed around by them as if it weighed nothing.

“Now that I have your attention…” I said, with not a bit of mocking humor in it. Piss off your foes, I always say. Pissed is mad, and mad is sloppy. They might look like Snow White’s demented dwarves, but I didn’t discount their evil one bit. For one thing, I knew they were throwing a glamour at me. You can cast an illusion to look like you are three feet tall, but strides don’t lie.

“You are in violation of the Treaty of Bugs, signed in 819a.d. Your incursion here to the modern world is over.” They looked at me quizzically. “In other words, Pack yer shit and git, or I’ll make you git. Understand?”

Grumpy took that moment to belch and fart at the same time, grab the bottle and take a massive swig. Then he tossed the bottle away, pitch perfect, where it smashed onto my overturned car. He smiled, took his cigar out of his mouth, pointed his finger at my car now soaked in flammable liquid, and snapped his finger. My car exploded into flames. The tower lasted all of ten seconds before it crashed to the desert floor. All of us watched it for a moment or two, the evil little bastards were hooting and giving out that weird laugh of theirs. Funny how a cold weather supernatural creature could have fire powers. Okay, two can play that game.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Yeah, I smoke. You don’t like it, don’t be around me. I don’t hang around you when you trot out pictures of your six little hellions, show me the same courtesy. Anyway, I pulled a cigarette out the pack, made sure they were all watching, and aimed it at my burning car. An impossibly thin fire funnel leapt from my car to the cigarette, igniting the end of it. I took a draw on it and felt that dark goodness slide down my tongue and into my lungs. Oh beautiful darkness, how I love thee, let me count the ways.

Then I looked over at the elves. The lone female of the group, about three feet tall and sporting an even better beard than grumpy, with a fat belly and saggy breasts, decided it was her turn. Her Santa Elf hat started to twinkle, the ball at the end of the cap stood straight in the air. She looked at the tower that lay on the ground which suddenly stood up and transformed itself into a skeletal Santa. He picked up my still burning car and threw it at me. A flaming fastball hurtling at me at speeds faster than I cared to imagine. I jumped. By that I mean I crouched and jumped better than fifty feet in the air, well over the fastball special coming my way.

I landed at the base of the sign that I had seen, and flicked my right arm out. The flick baton stashed up my sleeve extended and I slashed the “electrified” baton though the base of the sign. The baton was specially made, based off a mixture of Tesla principles and fortified with certain magics from a tame Baba Yaga. Another flick of my arm and the baton retracted into the special tube holster. The sign started to fall and I snatched it out of the air, spun around and threw it like a discus at the elves. It was their turn to scatter. The sign flew past where they had been and smashed into the post office.

Somehow, incredibly, the Elves all landed in the remains of the post office, managing to look like they had all been laying around after a lazy, boozy night. The sibilant hissing was back, and each of them had a cigar now. The huge bottle of booze was back. Grumpy decided to stand up, and when he did, the others did as well. They formed a circle of five points, linked hands, and started to change. They dispensed with their glamour and the real elves were revealed.

My height estimate of the elves was spot on. They stood between six and a half to seven and a half feet tall. Grumpy was very clearly the leader, dressed in a crisp white tunic adorned with gold and silver jewelry set with some kind of stone that was a deep blue, like emerald green but blue instead. The stones were shot through with streaks of gold which gave them an almost 3d depth to them.

The elves themselves were a winter white of skin, with deep set, red eyes. Their eyebrows shot off their heads like Spock eyebrows, and were as jet black as their long hair. While tall, their height seemed to be greater due to their lean, almost emaciated looking frame. They wore torques around their necks made of a blueish silver material which was either wide enough to cover their elongated necks, or was the cause of their elongated necks. Their heads had the distended top and narrow chin associated with Aliens from area 51 popularized in movies and trading cards.

Two of the elves were indeed holding lances, seemingly made of the same material as the torques, inlaid with what appeared to be precious stones. On the top of each was a blade about two feet long that came out from the side of the lance and curved forward. There was a top jewel set in the tip of the lance, and the blade curve around it and came back to a point in line with the staff.

But now, hands joined, the elves started to manifest things. The first to appear in the circle they had created was a group of army figures, life sized, and looking as if made of green plastic. One dropped to the ground to lay flat, sniper rifle to his shoulder. Another had a bazooka and promptly pointed it at me. The last leaned back to pull the pin on a hand grenade and throw it at me. Bullets started flying at me from the sniper, there was a green plastic plume of smoke from the bazooka, and a grenade arced through the air at me.

Are you kidding me? Fuckin’ toy army guys? I slapped my hands together and created a concussive blast, courtesy of more Tesla whizbangs implanted below my skin which left my hands glowing a yellowish red. The bullets flattened out against the concussive force, the bazooka shell burst against it, and the grenade bounced back the way it came. The elves scattered and the grenade went boom right in the middle of the circle. Unfortunately, the elves seemed to spin away, like a firework exploding outward, with inhuman grace, and the net effect was, well...nothing.

The next thing I knew, they had regrouped and formed a new circle. Mist burst up in the late evening low sunlight and seemed to shimmer before solidifying. A damn horse, the size of a small van. The horse was pure white, with silver hooves and a mane that looked like it had never needed a brush, not a hair was out of place. The thing pawed at the ground, snorted a blast of fire from it’s nostrils and charged at me. I popped out the baton again and sidestepped at the last moment. When I did I flicked the baton at the horses’ neck. It sliced through the neck of the creature and it exploded with a white fluffy substance which looked a lot like toy stuffing.

What the hell? I started thinking hard. These were elves and they were from the Other Plains, they were gonna have a certain amount of power, but it wasn’t unlimited. So, what were they drawing on, and why did it appear in the form of toys? Old toys at that.

Sometimes the answer is so obvious it hurts. Toys. Santa Claus, AZ. My mind suddenly remembered what I had read about the town’s history. The only major business the town had ever had was being the official US Postal address for Santa Claus. Who talked to Santa? Kids. More specifically, kids from the fifties, when the town was alive. And both the toys they had brought forth were popular in the fifties.

The Elves were pulling power from the leftover resonance of the belief of small children in Santa Claus. And of the four buildings left standing, they were in the Post Office building. I was watching the Elves out of the corner of my eye as I looked at the post office. I quickly snatched my Spec-tras out of my pocket and slipped them on. I focused on the space between the Elves and the post office and there it was. A band of glowing green and red energy scythed through the air between the group and the building. Belief and faith.

And then it was nightfall. The sun set, and suddenly things became much more serious. Creatures like the Bols were nocturnal, and their power, their menace, and their sheer presence increased in seconds. Out here in the desert, nighttime temperatures can drop forty degrees or better at night. But they should not drop those forty degrees in the space of less than thirty seconds. I notice my breath coming in puffs, and then the Bols and I both looked up at the snow falling from overhead. Snowfall in the desert in mid-Summer. Oh hell, things just got even worse.

From high overhead and to the north a light appeared in the sky. It was red and seemed to be followed by a spot of darkness. Through the sound of snow falling, a light music could to be heard. It was sickeningly cloying and cheerful. Bells and tinkling, and a smell came with it. Cookies and gingerbread.

Dammit, the Fat Man wasn’t supposed to be here.

Second part of Santa Claus, AZ.

The light descended, seeming to pick up speed and then it reached just above ground level and there was the sound of hooves pounding on the ground as the light touched down. The elves started chittering at each other excitedly, their sound at once both light and guttural. The vehicle came to a stop between the elves and myself. Nine reindeer were harnessed in front of an immense red sleigh, though it was still shrouded in snow and mist.

“Hey, Fat Man, you get one day a year. You really wanna waste it on this?” I called out, my words crisp in the freezing cold thin desert air.

And then the snow and mist parted and it was not who I expected sitting in the sleigh.

She was around fifty five to sixty years old in appearance. She had white hair in a bun and the slightly chubby, ruddy good looks of a mature grandmother that age hadn’t yet managed to line the face of yet. She wore tiny reading glasses and was dressed in a red velvet dress that looked soft and warm. Her boots rose to the bottom of the dress,just below her knees and were covered in fur to keep her feet warm. There was a twinkle in her eye, one of those matronly looks that said someone was about to get a stern talking too, but she still loved them anyway. She was looking at the elves when she climbed down from the sleigh. You just knew she was going to offer them some cookies and warm milk. I felt slightly sick.

Mrs. Claus. Dammit.

“Now what’s all this, eh? I was in the middle of making a nice roast and Chutney. I don’t have the time to be sorting things out right now. You lot, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Claus strode up to the elves like a small battleship under full sail. She exuded something beyond confidence, a feeling of absolute comfort in knowing who and what she was. You can always spot the real thing. No hesitation, no questioning, just right to the point with the full knowledge that she was Mrs. Claus and things would be as they should be.

The elves bowed before her and the leader started taking in rapid fire Chitterese. She stood there, hands on hips, ample backside to me. When the leader finished, she spoke to them in their own language, raised a hand in the universal sigh to “stop”, and when that was instantly obeyed, she turned to me. And changed.

Well, maybe changed isn’t the right way to say it. Change would imply that she went from looking one way to looking another. And while that was true, it didn’t account for all the stops along the way. Gone was the form and shape of the maternal, grandmotherly Mrs. Claus, and then I was treated to anime Mrs. Claus, then Hipster Mrs. Claus dressed in black frame glasses, a stupidly long scarf around her neck, uggs, jeans and a bad sweater from the seventies. And then she shifted into red vinyl wearing dominatrix Mrs. Clause, and then Super-heroine Mrs. Claus with impossibly gravity defying breasts and an eighteen pack of abs in a cut out belly shirt, and then finally, thankfully, Mrs. Business/Warrior Claus in a crisp, fitted business suit and in one hand a briefcase, and in the other an impossibly matronly-seeming battleaxe that would do the Valkyrie's honor. Some days you just know things are going to go to complete shit before there’s any hope it will get better.

“Ah, Mr. Fawkes. How are you?” Of course she knew my name. She was Mrs. Claus. Everything her husband could do, but much much worse. Or better, depending on your viewpoint.

“Kind of in the middle of something. Nice look though.”

“We’ve got the internet now.” Right then, the sleigh changed into a Mercedes Benz SLS class roadster, in red, naturally. “I can look like any appearance I choose that has ever been seen. I like the modern look.” she said with a small model turn, showing off the dress. “Updates nicely, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it’s wonderful. Look, not really the time or place for a fashion show. Got a little problem here that I’m gonna have to resolve.”

“Yes, so they tell me. You know, it’s really rather naughty to attack these nice young boys and girl for no real reason.” She gave me a stern look over her glasses.

“No reason? I don’t think so. You know as well as I do they violated the agreements by coming here. Those agreements go back twelve centuries. They broke the law.”

“Well, technically, yes, they did. But they did so for a good reason. At least, not an evil reason. They are shopping. And you know how I feel about that.” Again, another stern look over her glasses. Okay, I don’t claim to be the best person in the world, but the incarnation of Mrs. Claus standing in front of me, appearing to be in her late forties, early fifties, well tailored, sharp looking..yeah, kind of attractive. I would have thought she was flirting with me but knew better. Still….

“Shopping? As in Christmas shopping?”

“Yes.”

“Lady, they don’t have Christmas where these creatures are from.”

“True, Mr. Fawkes, but they do have their own ceremonies and holidays. And it appears that in one sub-culture, the idea of gift giving has become rather large. A cult thing, I suppose you might say.” Behind here, the Bols started nodding and chittering agreement. Okay, they could understand her, and possibly me as well.

“So you are here to protect them, then!?” Time to get the lay of the land in the new landscape, so to speak.

“Oh no, I’m here to PUT A STOP TO THIS!” Her voice didn’t rise to a yell so much as boom across the landscape and echo off the faraway hills. The voice was so loud and booming it drove me to my knees as well as the elves that had stood back up.

“Pardon?” I said, in genuine confusion when my head stopped ringing like a church bell the size of Mack truck

“)(^$%” the lead elf said. I’m assuming he basically said the same thing as I did.

“I do not fault you for your spirit of giving,” she said to the elves in a much more human level. “...i do fault you for the manner in which you have attempted to obtain those gifts. You have tapped into the Spirit of Christmas directly. You have stolen the belief in christmas, which powers My Husband. You have stolen from The Children. And what have you done with this power? Thrown the elven equivalent of a “kegger”, gotten drunk, destroyed private property...No, I don’t CARE!” she said the last bit as one of the elves, the female, attempted to interject something in chitterese. Mrs. Claus’ voice rose and she started looking more and more like a barbarian shield maiden than the grandmotherly sort. “We’ve already lost Taos, New Mexico for this year due to your theft! I’ll not have any more of this! That’s final! And you…” She turned back to me. Okay, say what you like, pissed off Mrs. Claus standing there in a fitted red dress and battle axe in one hand, briefcase in the other, angry enough to be breathing hard...that’s just damn sexy.

“You didn’t even take the time to try and find out what they were doing here or why. Typical government agent. See an “alien” and try to destroy it. With no reason.”

Okay, hot she might be, but i don’t react well to people trying to give me a dressing down when I’m doing my job properly. So I got a little hot under the collar.

“Listen lady, they broke the agreements.” I snarled. “Technically, if I wanted to, I could charge them with Illegal Immigration Under The Supernatural Powers Act. AS well as destruction of government property, to wit, my car, AND assaulting a government official, also to wit, me. AND destruction of private property. As well, we both know that the longer they stay here, the more power they will gather, and we both know where that will lead. There are limits to what a S.H.I.T is allowed to have and how much interaction they can have with standard humans. It’s why Fat Man gets one day a year. You get leeway as the S.H.I.T representative to humanity, but only so much. And right now, you’re pushing those limits to the max, so back the hell off!”

“You will NOT speak to me this way!” The look on Mrs. Claus’ face was not nice, but I couldn’t back down and ever expect to do my job again.

“I damn well will. You know the rules as well as I do. So far, all I’ve done is track them. They destroyed my car. They destroyed this building. They attacked me. They’ve made the first move each time. So climb down off your high horse and lets get this figured out.”

For a moment, I didn’t think she would go for it. Look Claus is, believe it or not, a supernatural entity. She’s a lot nicer than most due to the nature of her existence and the belief of children, which define her and her husband, but she’s still a major power and player, and war with her would be bad. Personally, she could most likely wipe the desert floor with me with one hand tied behind her back and cooking dinner for around four thousand people. I’m tough, and that’s not bragging, it’s just fact. But in the end, I’m only human and even with all my government paid for upgrades, I’m a firecracker and she’s Little Boy. Now you know why I refer to Old St. Nick as Fat Man. He controls time, flies around the world visiting every house on his list , which is nearing a billion, and has flying reindeer. Simply put, he warps reality without straining hard across the entire world. And she’s the other half of the equation.

As we were facing each other down, I noticed that it had gone quiet. Very quiet. And that’s when my hindbrain finally got through to me. There was a green glow off to my right, towards the hills. Mrs. Claus and I both turned to face it, ignoring the elves behind us. And HERE was the reason for the class four designation. Forty elves stepped through the opening, each armed and loaded for bear.

and the last part of Santa Claus, AZ.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Claus was suddenly as quiet as me. The elves we had been facing were children, essentially. These were the adults, and they looked pissed. The front row opened up and a tall male and female stepped forward. Judging by how much more jewelry they were wearing than the other elves, and the fact that each of them wore an additional circlet around their heads, I guessed I was facing the King and Queen of this particular set of elves. Marvelous.

The King said something in chitterese and Mrs. Claus made the smallest of bows. I didn’t. He didn’t like that, his eyes narrowed at me, and then he spoke in chitterese again.

“Why have you broken the treaty? Why have you brought our people’s to the brink of war?” Mrs. Claus translated. Grumpy behind me chittered at the King in return. “The humans have become weak and soft. Their world does not even remember the Treaty, much less understand how to defend from us. We have been driven from our homelands and it is time to return to them. And we wanted to shop on Rodeo Drive.” Mrs. Claus’ voice dropped to almost a whisper at that. It’s one thing to be outraged over old hurts, but saying something like wanting to shop, showing such disrespect to your king, that was just bad news all the way around. I saw his fingers tighten and twist around his lance. Uh oh.

“Your highness,” I said, trusting that either he knew our language the way the other elves did, or Mrs. Claus would translate for me. “... I can assure you that we have not forgotten the Treaty. I am here because this incursion was detected. It is my job to settle this problem with as little disturbance to both sides as possible. You do not want war, and we do not want war. To this point, only minor damage has occurred. We will be willing to overlook this provided that there are no further incursions, and that costs of damage are paid.” I was right as Mrs. Claus interpreted for me.

The King listened and for a moment, didn’t move or speak. Then he inclined his head forward the barest minimum, a nod of agreement. I in turn bowed deeper. I’m not a diplomat, I’m a troubleshooter. But sometimes that means using diplomacy. There was the chitterese equivalent of a shout behind me. “Father...NO!” Mrs. C translated for me. Father? Oh shit!

There was a thrum of energy behind me and I tackled Mrs.Claus to the ground as a bolt of energy sizzled through the air where we had been standing and slammed into the King. He was thrown backwards of his feet to land at the base of the portal. Dammit

I immediately rolled off Mrs. Claus, I had unfortunately landed on top of her, and scrambled into a defensive posture. And then all hell broke loose.

The Queen threw up an arm and fired a white hot lance of energy at Grumpy, that was intercepted before it left her good by one of the other elves. The King wasn’t moving, and considering the hole in his chest, I didn’t think he ever would again. The Queen, incensed at the other elf, sliced her lance through the air at him, only to have another elf step up behind her and thrust his lance’s blade through her chest from the back. Her royal tunic was punched away from her chest, only to split wide from the blade cutting it. The blade was stained with the same silver blood that leaked from her dead husbands chest.

And the true melee started. From what I could immediately gather, the first arrivals, young punk teenager equivalents, had been used by a faction of the court to lure the King and Queen away from their place of power with minimal protection. A full blown coupe was happening right in front of me as the Royal protectors were fighting with the larger rebel group. The original arrivals, the children, were fighting amongst themselves as well. Seems not everyone was in on the plan. Some were still loyal to the King and Queen.

Diplomacy was shot. I had no clue how the lay of the land in the Other Realms was, but with both King and Queen likely dead, which side to aid? And I didn’t really care, either. Both sides, like it or not, had violated the Treaty and were making war in our realm. But I had to go with one of them.

With Mrs. Claus well over to the side, I looked at the battle in front of me. The Queen, believe it or not, was not dead. And then I looked closer and saw that neither was the King. How the hell he was alive with a hole the size of my fist in his chest, I don’t know, but that was good for me.

I turned and zeroed in on the big guy trying to have a go at the King. I jumped over the others and landed a few yards away from the big guy. My electrified flick baton snapped out and I fought my way over to the Big Guy trying to perforate the King and slammed my baton into his leg. Now, science and magic don’t really work well together, unless you invest a lot of time in making sure they do. Hence, the tame Baba Yaga and Tesla’s stuff working for me. But when you force the two into conflict with no control setup, interesting things happen.

To wit, the big guy’s leg suddenly ballooned out, swelling to the size of a ten inch tree trunk. He was big, but that much added weight was startling and caused him to overbalance. He fell, but swung his lance, blade first, at me. The tip sliced into the lower portion of my coat...and caught. I slammed my fist down on his head, and then used my concussion force to body slap him back six feet. In doing so, he slid backwards on his back, into a mass of fighters. He fetched up against one of the King’s retainers who promptly removed the top of his head with a sword. Big boy’s brains slipped out onto the desert floor.

The Queen was crawling on the ground to the King, and I noticed that both of them were healing, their wounds closing as I watched. I turned back to the fight. Two other elves were closing in on the King and Queen. I really had no way of knowing if they were for the Royals or against, not knowing either one of them, but they didn’t look friendly and I took that as a “no”. I slipped into a fighters crouch, waiting for them to make a move, and slapped my belt buckle again. Another shot of Adreniziner hit and I was ready for battle.

The one on the left was using a thin, long curved blade with a peculiar greenish tint on it. The other what looked like a metallic whip with a barbed tip, it also looked greenish. I’m guessing since the rest of the metal wasn’t green, it was poison. I squared up, watching both, and then smiled. What’s good for the goose, don’tcha know.

Mrs. Claus slipped up behind the elf with the whip and slammed a sword blade through his back and out the front, like they did to the queen, then whipped the blade out, and swung, neck high. The elf’s head went flying and the body dropped. The other elf, distracted by his partner suddenly becoming much shorter, fell when I flicked my baton into the back of his head. I had cut the electricity off so that the baton was merely weighted metal, no science to have some strange effect. Cold iron was anathema to Elves. I guess that explained why their weapons weren’t made of Iron. His skull caved in and a swift slash from Mrs. Claus’ blade beheaded him as well.

Then we both turned and presented a united front to the fight in front of us. For the next few minutes, the battle raged on, with the two of us defending the recovering King and Queen. I took out a squat elf with a nasty looking curved sword, and Mrs. Claus literally stomped one of the female elves to death. Claus stomped on the elf’s neck and I heard a sickening snap. Her head lolled to the side, eyes wide. It was worth noting that Claus was not dressed like a matronly grandmother now, but in a sort of metallic viking battle armour. And she was kicking ass.

We fought hard and desperately, faster and faster. I snapped my hands together at one point and the entire fight slammed back several yards from the concussive force. But that left me breathing heavily, nearly winded. Yeah, the magic and scientific tools I had were good, damn good, but they were powered by me, and even I had my limits.

After minutes of hard battle, the tide turned in our favor. The rebels’ numbers had dwindled to the point that we outnumbered them six to three, and then the King stood up. If I had felt a thrum of power from his son, but that was nothing compared to the sheer force of nature behind me. Claus and I both turned and looked.

The King was pissed. He shouted in chitteresse and the battle halted, just like that. He strode out between Claus and I and confronted the last rebels. One of whom was Grumpy, his son. The Kings eyes blazed and light seemed to explode from them. His supporters fell back and his son, the original female that had been with his group, and one other elf fell to their knees.

The King said something and Mrs. Claus translated it as “Why?”

“Change was needed, Father. You have grown old and complacent. Someone was needed. Someone that would fight for what was rightfully ours. Who better than I?” Claus was standing next to me. Strange bedfellows indeed. But she was smart and could shift gears quickly. Damn shame she was Elven. She would have made a great agent. The King spoke again.

“I am Father no more to you, Tarrid. I am your liege. And you have broken the most sacred trust we have. You have betrayed your people, your family. My trust. You have broken your mother’s heart. What would you have me do? You set our people on a course to war. The humans have weapons enough to destroy us, even if they destroy themselves in the process…” The king stopped talking.

“You will not execute me, Father. I am your only son. Heir to the throne. And there are many that feel the way I do. Your time has passed. The throne is tired. New, fresher, younger blood is needed. I am that blood. Royal will out, Father.” And the elf smirked at the King. Stupid, stupid move, kid. Royal son and heir you might be, but you overplayed your hand.

The King stepped forward, raised his own sword, and was too late.

The Queen stepped forward impossibly fast and swung her sword. Her son’s head went flying, silver blood arcing through the air. His head landed on the desert floor with a thump and a small fount of dirt and dust flew up.

Everyone was silent for a moment. No one moved or talked.

And then the King and Queen dropped to their knees and let out a strange keening. Their grief was palpable. That was one of the hardest things I had ever seen anyone do. Imagine that you are a parent, you love your child, and because you are also the leaders, Royalty, their disloyalty forces you to execute your own child. I’m cold-hearted, I know. But…

Damn.

Eventually the King and Queen recovered enough to stand. Their retainers were holding the last two rebels captive. The King stepped forward, a terrible look on his face. His sword flashed twice, and two heads rolled. The retainers and Mrs. Claus had betrayed not one single emotion as this happened. Truth to be told, I hadn’t either.

The King turned to Mrs. Clause and I. He bowed deeply and chittered something at us. She translated it as

“I am Nord, this is my Queen, Cheresse. You have our gratitude and our apologies. We will have this situation cleaned and reparations will be made to your Emperor.” I could tell the effort it took him to say that and not have his emotions break over him.

I spoke then. “Your highness, you have my world’s greatest sympathy. The loss of a child is no easy thing to bear. I would take it a great courtesy if you would kindly consider this matter closed. Please tend to yourselves and your people. Their loss is great, and healing is more important than the cost of damages here.” Mrs. Claus looked at me quizzically.

The King bowed his head, then gestured at his retainers. They lifted the body of the King’s son and began the cleanup. The portal became very busy. I turned off my Spec-tras which were going nuts trying to get me to answer calls from the office after sending a “Situation handled, stand by!” message.

Hours later, dawn was breaking. The only ones left in Santa Claus, AZ were Mrs. Claus and myself. The King and Queen had just left, having overseen the cleanup personally.

“You realize that you could have demanded quite a bit from the King under the Treaty, don’t you?”

“Yes.” I said.

“He was genuinely puzzled, as am I.”

“Oh?” I responded.

“Yes, you could have asked for weapons of elvin make that would have aided you greatly in your job. You could have asked for precious metals or gems, things that your superior’s would need never have known about. In effect, you gave away a great opportunity. Why? If I may ask.”

We were leaning against her Mersleighdes as I now thought of it. I took a moment to answer, gathering my thoughts.

“My father’s brother, Uncle James, and his wife had three kids. They were a loving, happy family. And then my aunt got pregnant. They lost the baby at eight months. Heart defect. Stillborn. But they had loved that unborn child for eight months. Planned, prepared, anticipated the joy of another child in their family. The loss tore them up. Something else else went missing from their lives. They divorced years later. The loss wasn’t the only reason, but it was the leading reason.” I paused again.

“Imagine raising a child. Loving it, teaching it, taking pride and joy in it, only to have it spit in your face, tell you that you don’t matter, betray you. Try to kill you.” I paused again. “They have a nation and a people to take care of, unimaginable loss to deal with, and a fracture to heal. A small act of kindness on my part might help to ease that.” Mrs. Claus looked out at the dawn of a new day thoughtfully.

“..and not having a reason to think about this world again, to pay attention to it, wasn’t such a bad thing either, was it?” she asked me.

I smiled, my Spec-tras lit up in the morning sunshine.

“Nope.”

And that was it. Mrs. Claus kissed me on the cheek, climbed into her Benz, fired it up and flew off Northward.

And it was at that very moment that I realized…

It was a long walk to Kingman.

I'm glad that I am finishing things, but a little disappointed in the execution. My mind throws out things much more funky than what gets to the page. I wind up toning down a lot. Mrs. Claus was much more twisted in what I originally wrote.