Bright (standard:science fiction, 25567 words)
Author: Saxon Violence	Added: Dec 03 2012	Views/Reads: 5476/4662	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An eccentric genius is given sweeping powers to track down a killer of infants who might be Supernatural.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

really fat—just very big-boned and imposing. And she was wearing a Gun 
in a Shoulder Holster. 

“Well, if it isn't the Men in Black. To what do I owe this honor?” I
quipped. 

“Can we come in? I need your help with something, “ Murray said. 

“Entre',” I said with a sweeping gesture. 

I never could hold a job very long, but I was an inveterate tinkerer.
I'd managed to get enough money together to buy fifteen acres in 
Kentucky. I'd had a rather large pole-building put up. 

The building was my home, my workshop, my gym, my library, my laboratory
and my garage. 

The one luxury that I'd long craved, was a fair sized indoor pool. I'd
broken through the Concrete foundation and built the pool myself. It 
took me over three years to finish the pool, though I rarely stick with 
anything terribly diligently. 

A one hundred foot by fifty foot pole-building, all open inside, with
only a couple exceptions, with a twenty foot by ninety foot pool 
running the length of the place. I'm sure that it made a rather 
whimsical impression... 

Particularly since Murray had routed me out of bed, and I was barefoot
and wearing only black sweat pants, a black tee shirt, and a black silk 
scarf on my head. 

What the hell! If people are going to drop by uninvited, they're going
to have to take me as I am. 

“Friend, this is Laura, She is a State Trooper on special assignment at
the moment. Laura, this is Friend,” Murray introduced us. 

She got that silly look like my father used to get. He'd claim that he
hadn't heard—but he'd heard just fine. His problem was crediting what 
he'd just plainly heard. 

“What is your name?” She asked as she shook my hand. 

“Friend, my name is ‘Friend',” I told her rather acerbically. 

I half glared at Murray. 

“Didn't you tell her my name on the way here?” I asked. 

“No, she has no idea why I'm here. This briefing will be news for both
of you. Friend, I really, really need your help—but before I show 
either of you this, I need both of your words not to spread it around, 
“ Murray Said. 

Laura agreed immediately. I was more cautious. 

“I will pretty much keep the info secret—barring outrageous profit or
provocation,” I equivocated. 

“I'll have to accept that,” Murray said. “Do you have a DVD Player and a
Television?” 

“Big Screen dude. I may live like a Barbarian, but I like my Television
maxed out,” I said. 

Murray played a recording of a very frazzled and harried looking woman,
who smoked each cigarette down and lit another from the butt before 
crushing the last one out. 

“This woman is an inmate in a top security facility for the criminally
insane, “ Murray said. 

“I'm surprised that they allow smoking in a State run facility,” I said.


“They don't. But it calms her somewhat and it was very important to get
her statement before she lapses into catatonia,” Murray said. 

She began her dialog. 

“It was raining hard that day. He came to my door. He was wearing a long
black raincoat and a broad brimmed hat... 

“He asked to come in. Then he took my chin in my hand and asked me if I
was ready for a very delicious wickedness. 

“Just the way he said it caused me to be extremely aroused. I felt like
my crotch was on fire—like I might wet my pants—only that would be okay 
too—because it would be wet and warm and devious.” 

The woman paused in her account, and I looked at Murray in puzzlement. 

“It gets better,” He said. “That is, more engaging—nothing ‘good' about
it.” 

“He said that we should take my little baby, my darling Erika, and fix a
multi-course gourmet meal with roast infant as the centerpiece. 

“I can't believe it, but it sounded so sexy and wicked that I agreed.” 

“She ate her Baby?” I asked in astonishment. 

Murray nodded. 

The woman continued her tale. Sometimes she'd show remorse. She'd weep
and tear her hair. 

“How could I have done it?” She'd wail and pull her hair. 

Then she'd writhe like a lap dancer, and her voice would deepen, and
she'd spout, 

“O how I wish that I could do it again!”--Right in the middle of her
grief. 

“We've got her hooked up to multiple monitors. When she writhes like
that, she's having astonishingly powerful multiple orgasms,” Murray 
said. 

“She lapsed into a nonresponsive catatonia shortly after this was
filmed. These are the only descriptions that the police artist could 
get from her,” Murray said. 

There were several depictions of a man in a long flowing coat, with a
broad brimmed hat pulled low—and while he had eyes, he had no mouth or 
nose or ears. And somehow, even in the artist's conceptions, an aura of 
evil seemed to come through. 

“Did she indeed kill her baby and eat it?” I asked once more. 

“Yeah, tried to serve some of what wasn't already eaten to her husband
when he come home from work. By that time the Dark Man had eaten his 
fill and left—if he was ever actually there.” 

“Murray, I'll give you my considered opinion for free. That Woman is
absolutely one hundred and nineteen percent Whako!” I said. 

“That isn't in dispute. My problem is that we've had thirteen cases
almost identical to this one in Indiana, five in Kentucky and even one 
in Tennessee. We've been trying to keep it quiet. The only difference 
is that most of the women don't stay coherent long enough to make any 
sort of statement,” Murray Said. 

“I'm not a Law Murray. I don't know much about criminal investigations.
I never even got a real College degree. I failed out of College three 
times,” I said. 

“I failed out of College once myself, “ Murray said. “We have all sorts
of investigators on this. Hell, the FBI even has profilers on it. If 
one of them can solve this case, then protein for them—protein for all 
of us. 

“But I know you. You are dogged beyond easy belief and you approach
things around corners. 

“What it means is that if you agree to work on this case, I'll give you
a five thousand dollar bonus up front, a top Law officer's salary while 
you're investigating and a ten thousand dollar completion bonus. 

“And the Governor will put you down for a thirty year Police pension
starting the day this investigation is closed. It's all above board and 
legal. The Governor is allowed to enter a handful of folks for the 
various pensions each year. I can show you the statute that authorizes 
him. 

“People know that the Governor enters five or six folks a year—mostly
witness protection folks—and usually for a minimal twenty year pension. 


“But though they know that the Governor adds folks to the rolls, once
it's done, no one can tell if it's genuine or not—at least not on 
paper. And not even the Governor can take it back,” Murray said. 

“I have to solve this case to get the Pension?” I asked. 

“No, just give it your best while it's still under investigation,”
Murray said. 

“I'll expect all those promises in a written, double notarized
contract,” I said. 

“Why am I here?” Laura asked. 

“When he agrees, you're going to be his liaison, bodyguard and
assistant,” Murray said. 

“About Guns?” I began. 

“You'll have a badge and genuine Police ID. Carry whatever you want,”
Murray said. 

“Can I carry whatever I want, should I accept this assignment?” Laura
asked. 

“You'll accept, because you already have one promotion and you'll get
another at the completion of this investigation. Besides, you just 
don't have the personal and political skills to really shine in 
standard law enforcement work—but as a member of the Governor's special 
task force... 

“And yes, carry whatever you'd like,” Murray said. 

“Dude, it's like—I'm going to need everything that you have on these
women, their husbands, co-workers, family, friends, church—whatever. I 
want their medical records as well as the babies' medical records. 

“I need crime scene photos, baby pictures, I need to know what
side-dishes were served, how the baby was slain, cooked, carved and 
what spices were used. 

“As soon as you get a new case, I'd like a chance to meet her in person.
Ask your FBI Consultants to recommend the top five or six books on 
criminal profiling—if there are such books—and get them all to me ASAP! 


“Pond and Honour man! All I know about Police Procedure is what I saw on
CSI and NCIS. 

“Caveat Emptor Dude, Quite frankly I'm not sure I'll be an asset,” I
said. 

“I'm not sure that you'll be a help either Friend—but if I didn't put
you on the case, respecting your mental powers the way that I do, how 
could I live with myself knowing that I'd left a stone unturned?” 

“Okay.” 

“Friend, the eleventh infanticide—that little boy was my nephew. If you
get this bastard, if he's real... 

“And you actually physically arrest him—Promise me that you'll make him
suffer.” 

“Alright, “ I said. 

Sometimes you just know that you're getting in over your head—but then
there is Honour—not the shallow Honor that people give you—Honour can 
only come from within... 

And Honour can be a hard taskmaster. 

Chapter Two 

Laura turned up at my doorstep at six am the following morning and per
my instruction, she was dressed in jeans and good walking or running 
shoes. She also had an ample shoulder bag over her left shoulder. 

“What you got in there?” I asked her. 

She showed me two three inch model 13 Smith and Wesson .357 Magnums—one
angled for a right cross draw, the other for a strong side left hand 
draw. The holsters were sewn into the leather purse. 

“I don't like the idea of the purse carry. If someone snatches your
purse right at the outset of hostilities, then you're like kinda 
skewed,” I observed. 

“That's why this is my main weapon,” She said, while pulling out a big N
Frame Smith and Wesson Model 28 with a custom five inch Mag-Na-Ported 
Barrel from a shoulder holster. 

“And what is that under your right armpit?” I asked. 

She smiled and whipped out a Cold Steel Natchez Bowie with the ten-inch
blade. 

“YeeHaw!” I said. “I hope you have a more discrete blade for utilitarian
chores. No wonder Murray saddled me with you. You're one of those 
Freakin' weapon fanatics.” 

I shook my head glumly. 

“So what do you carry?” she asked. 

“Well, I ain't a Gun nut like you done been,” I responded. 

“I have this.” 

It was a genuine Colt 70 series Government Model 1911A1 .45 Automatic. 

“Notice that it has a Bright Nickeled finish and Stag grips. There
should be a name for Gun-Like objects, that just miss being a Gun by 
having a subdued finish or synthetic grips,” I said. 

“What about ‘Guns' with Polymer Frames?” She asked. 

“They don't ‘just miss' being a Gun. They are clean out of the ball
park,” I replied. 

“Anyway, I back up the Colt with this,” I showed her my Stag Handled
four-inch Ruger Redhawk. “It's .45 Colt, loaded up to .44 Magnum 
Pressures and the cylinder has been altered to take .45 Auto ammo in 
full-moon clips, in a pinch.” 

I had a double shoulder rig, Colt under my right arm, Ruger under my
left. I meant to draw either with a twisting cavalry draw—not 
doctrinaire—but then I'm not very orthodox. 

“Got this,” I said as I showed her my tiny Smith and Wesson J-Frame .32.
“Never go into danger without a .32. And I have these.” 

I showed her a pair of Mother-of-Pearl Gripped .25 Beretta Jetfires. 

“Gotta have some kinda Pearl gripped Pistol, just for luck.” 

“You know what Patton said about Pearl Grips, “ She said. 

“Patton was a chucklehead. Anyway, weapons make me fearful. Lets not
talk about them any more.” 

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

First stop was to get some of the drugs that had been earmarked to pay
off snitches. I walked out with two ounces of the purest cocaine that I 
ever hoped to see, and a great big pill bottle cram-jammed full of four 
milligram Dilaudids. 

At first the Law in charge was going to give me a hard time, but a quick
call to Murray set him straight. 

“You'd best make that last you awhile,” He said. “That's a spritz-load
of dope.” 

I never much cared for sanctimonious Laws—now I are one. 

“Dude, it is like: if I come back tomorrow, and ask for everything that
you have left, you will smile and give it to me—and hold the door for 
me on my way out. I got the beat!” 

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

An hour later I was out on the street. I spotted a dealer that I used to
know. He went by the handle “Oranges”. Fifteen minutes later I had him 
under arrest and in the back of my van. 

“I don't want to arrest anyone. Fact is, I ain't gonna arrest anyone—but
I'm looking for info. You got some place that I can set up, off the 
street?” I asked him. 

A few minutes later, we were let into an apartment on one side of a
Duplex. 

The tenant of the apartment was a dried-up shrew of a woman. 

“Y'all had better not be five-O,” She hissed venomously at me. 

I drew my .45, and put it up under her chin, while grasping her tightly
with my other hand. 

“I am the blessed law. Now what are you going to do about it? Go on,
give me an excuse,” I growled. “Show her your badge Laura.” 

I pushed her down forcefully into one of her kitchen chairs. I counted
out five one hundred dollar bills. 

“We are going to rent your kitchen for the next two or three hours. You
are going to sit right here at the table with us, and keep your mouth 
shut,” I told her. 

I'd planned ahead. I placed a pint of Evan Williams Whisky, a carton of
menthol cigarettes, a jumbo bag of Fritos and a big handful of snacks 
and candy onto the table. The hateful old crone should be reasonably 
happy to sit there with us, until we'd finished. 

I sent Oranges out again and again. I wanted crack-whores, pimps,
dealers, drag queens—anyone who might know something about a fellow who 
liked the rough trade—someone scary, and cruel, and dangerous. 

We'd been there maybe four hours, maybe five, when Oranges dragged in an
anorexic looking whore with a perpetual shiver and many tiny scabs all 
up and down her arms. She was white. 

“I heard that you and the girlfriend are looking for some special
trade,” She said. 

All the while she was sizing Laura and me up, wondering if she dared
deal with us—and pondering how much that she could make off of us. 

I showed her my brand-new badge and ID. 

“Yeah, we want something really kinky. We want knowledge,” I said. 

“I haven't done anything chargeable,” she said. 

“What's your name? Athena? Well listen up Athena. I'm on the governor's
special task force. It is like I have Diplomatic Immunity. I could beat 
you up. I could arrest you as a suspected terrorist and have you held 
indefinitely without bail. I could shoot your scabby little bass—and 
all I have to say was that you made me feel intimidated. 

“But you know, I always hated the idea of that strong-arm Fascist
bull-spritz. Here is what I want you to do—first of all, I want you to 
eat one of these roast beef sandwiches, some fries, and drink a beer,” 
I said. 

I was afraid that if she didn't get some nourishment into her body that
she might not endure the questioning that I had planned. 

I'd sent Oranges out earlier for a big bag of Arby's roast beef
sandwiches, soft drinks for Laura and me, Beer for whomever and ice for 
my big cooler. 

I lay a fifty-dollar bill on the table. 

“Its worth fifty dollars to me, to watch you eat, “ I told her. 

She wasn't truly anorexic. She ate it all down reasonably quickly,
finished her beer and asked for another. I poured her a double shot of 
Whisky, which she promptly threw back, and then I started in. 

After a few minutes, I asked her, “Do you like to get high?” 

I might as well have asked, “Do you breathe air?” 

I handed her a single four-milligram dilaudid—one of the yellow ones—and
a small baggy of cocaine. She surprised me by grinding the dilaudid up 
very finely, mixing it with the coke, and snorting half up each 
nostril. 

I waited until she was really feeling good. Then I showed her four more
dilaudids and a very fat gram bag of coke and I kicked in a one hundred 
dollar bill. I was devoting a lot of time to this informant, but 
something told me that she'd be the one. 

I started asking her about weird, sadistic or just scary tricks—about
strange folks hanging around—about any sinister rumors. 

“About two months ago, a john in a big black Lincoln picked me up. I
don't know what he turned me onto—but I woke up lying in an alley the 
next morning. I'd been beaten up pretty bad. 

“Funny thing is, I couldn't remember his face for the life of me. I
always remember a john's face—for future reference, don't you know. 
It's a survival skill.” 

Yeah, I did know. I can do a pretty good police artist type sketch. Lo
and behold, when Athena really wracked her brain, the best she could 
come up with was a man in black, perhaps with an eye-holed mask over 
his face. 

She gave me the names of a couple other hookers and a pimp that had
experienced weird phenomena. I paid her off with five times as many 
pills as we'd agreed upon. I urged her to be safe, but to keep her ears 
open for us. 

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


“What was the point of all that?” Laura asked me as I drove back to my
place, where we'd left her truck. 

“Possibly nothing. But assume our client has some sort of heap-big juju.
He'd probably want to try it out here in the projects—where folks can 
get by with a great deal—before taking it onto the road into 
Normalville. 

“He might also need an occasional release fast, without the time for his
regular meticulous planning.” 

“I think those women are simply nuts,” Laura opined. 

“Maybe, but then it's a hell of a coincidence that so many are going
nuts precisely the same way,” I said. 

“Do you dislike me for some reason?” Laura asked. 

“I don't know you. If you want to warm the cockles of my heart though:
Cowboy Boots, red lipstick and blue eye shadow,” I deadpanned. 

“You are as cracked as those women!” she exploded. 

Prob...lee; Prob...lee. 

Chapter Three 

“Where are we going today?” Laura asked me. 

“To see an expert on the occult,” I replied. 

“Okay. I've been thinking about something...” 

“Coach always said, ‘don't think! It hurts the team',” I interjected. 

“I've been thinking,” She continued doggedly. “We interviewed a few
street people from Evansville. There are more than twenty good sized 
cities in Indiana and Kentucky—not to mention Illinois and Tennessee.” 

“Yeah, I know some street folk in Terre Haute, Valparaiso and
Merrillville. We may get to them eventually, if I don't find anything 
helpful in the meantime. Going into one of the big cities like Gary, 
Indianapolis or Louisville will be kinda problematic, since I don't 
have any contacts in any of those cities... 

“I suppose that I could get Oranges, or someone like him, to round us up
a guide or two for each city we want to check out. The kinda drugs and 
money we've been throwing around should make us very popular folks to 
work for,” I said. 

Then I just kinda ran down. The idea that some street hooker or dealer
would finger this ghost of a criminal seemed incredibly remote. 

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

“Come in! It's not locked!” Vincent shouted. 

“Vincent, this is my partner Laura,” I told my old friend as I sat down.


“I see that you've went over to the Darkside,” Vincent said. 

Vincent didn't “see” anything. He lost his eyes in Vietnam. They managed
to put the rest of his face together pretty well—though with multiple 
scars. Of course they couldn't replace his eyes. 

How he knew that Laura was a Law, and technically, so was I... 

Well, I just don't know. Vincent seems to pick up on lots of things with
minimal means. He preaches and teaches Tae Kwon Do and Judo, and 
several of the boxers that he coached as young amateurs have gone on to 
be contenders. 

I told him everything that I knew and let him hear the interviews with
the women who'd postponed catatonia long enough to be interviewed on 
camera. 

“This isn't the work of any mainline occultists. They wouldn't want the
heat that this would bring down upon them—but maybe some of the 
upstart, the self-styled... 

“There is evil here, sure enough—extreme evil—but it just doesn't feel
Demonic to me.  Though I could be wrong,” Vincent said. 

“Did you know that Indiana has been a center of occult activity going
back at least three hundred years?” Vincent asked us. 

I did know, but Laura didn't. That's something that only dedicated
scholars like Vincent are aware of—or folks like me, who have listened 
to folks like Vincent expound on the topic. 

“Have you ever heard of the ‘Shakryte'?”  Vincent continued. “It's a
book—an old book. Scholars have verified that parts of the ‘Shakryte' 
were written at least three thousand years ago. Other parts are as 
recent as the fifteen hundreds. 

“There are several competing versions, but they all agree on the
essentials. There is no prohibition on translating the ‘Shakryte'. 
There are English versions around. 

“There are some other prohibitions though. The book must be copied by
hand, onto parchment and bound in leather made from human skin... 

“O hell yes, there are printed copies today—but they aren't ‘Kosher',”
Vincent said. 

“Anyway, there are almost a dozen groups that use the ‘Shakryte' as
their—well, not their canon, because it really isn't a canonical 
manual. It's more of a grab bag of myths, legends, old stories and 
lists of spells and magic charms. 

“I'll arrange for you to meet some of the people of the ‘Shakryte',”
Vincent concluded. 

“I never heard of the ‘Shakryte',” Laura said. 

“Well, it's a pretty obscure book,” Vincent said. 

“How did you come to hear of it?” Laura persisted. 

“My mother was a full-blooded Apache Indian. She was also a full-fledge
Witch. She was not a WICCAN, though that would have been bad enough. 
She had power and she used it largely to do evil, and wage war on other 
evil magicians of her acquaintance. 

“She loved me though and she was determined that I would not follow in
her footsteps. She made me read and memorize large portions of both the 
‘Shakryte' and the King James Bible from the time that I was five years 
old. She made me go to the little Mission Baptist Church for both 
meetings on Sunday and prayer meetings on Wednesday. 

“She would spank me with a Razor strap if I fell behind in the studies
she set for me. Once she caught me trying one of the spells in one of 
her books. She beat me half to death, and then made me fast for five 
days.” 

Vincent was lost in his reveries. I'd heard the story before—many times,
sometimes with far more detail than he was laying on Laura. 

“She wouldn't set foot in a church herself. She said that if God didn't
strike her dead for her presumption, then Satan certainly would. 

“You see, she believed that she'd sold her soul to the Devil, and that
there was no way out.” 

“Why do you say that she only thought that she'd sold her soul?” Laura
asked. 

“It says in the Bible: All souls belong to God. Any attempt to sell
one's soul to anyone, would be null and void. You can't sell what you 
don't own... 

“Though if you can be convinced that you have sold it irrevocably, it
will halt most any attempt at redemption, right in the bud. 

“My mother died in terror and agony. She claimed that she could see the
Demons waiting by her bedside—impatiently waiting for her last breath, 
so they could haul her off to eternal torment in Hell. 

“Now you want me to put you in touch with people just as lost, and many
far more vindictive than my mother ever dared to be. I see the 
necessity, but do be careful.” 

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

Our first contact was a Mainline Satanist. Charmingly, he insisted on
meeting us on a stretch of deserted road, so far out in the boonies, 
that the hoot owls raped the chickens. 

“Is that true, about the Shakryte?” Laura asked. 

“ There is a book known as the ‘Shakryte'. Vincent has two copies and
another partial. They are both multi-volume works—like an encyclopedia. 
They're big—like maybe twenty inches by perhaps thirty. 

“Vincent's copies, at least, are bound in human skin,” I said. 

“How could you tell?” Laura interrupted me. 

“I know cow skin, horse hide, goat skin, pig skin, rabbit hide—a dozen
different furs. I've even examined kangaroo, ostrich and emu skin. And 
not to mention multiple snake and reptile skins. 

“Trust me, I know tanned human skin when I see it.” 

“ But is the book true? That's what I'm trying to find out,” Laura
insisted. 

“First of all, I've never read the book. There is nothing good that
could come of reading it. The book is the product of Satan. He is not 
only a liar; he is the father of all lies. 

“I have no doubt that at least parts of the book are true. It is it
logically impossible to make a long statement that is a lie, and 
consist solely of smaller lies—you end up with double negatives 
resulting in the truth—at least in part. 

“Besides, the more truth that you can braid into your lie, the more
veracious it seems. 

“But the book exists to deceive. I'm not perfect, but I have no desire
to be deceived.” 

Just then I saw a black Rolls Royce pulled over onto a widened shoulder
of the road. I pulled in behind the Rolls. A man dressed in black, with 
a clerical collar, a thick gold chain supporting some sort of large 
medallion and red-lensed glasses stepped out of the passenger seat of 
the car. 

A black clad chauffer scrambled out of the driver's seat and scurried
frantically. I believe that the quick disembarkation of his passenger 
had both taken him by surprise and discombobulated him. 

The chauffer was close to seven feet tall. He had those huge supra
orbital ridges and troll features that many giants and semi-giants 
have. And his arms and shoulders seemed unbelievably muscled and his 
arms unnaturally long. 

I have pronounced supra orbital ridges myself, though I'm just six foot
tall. And my arms and shoulders have always been impressive. 

As irrational as it may have been, I felt my muscles swell as if I'd
just completed a long pumping workout at the gym. My jaws clenched. I 
opened and closed my hands... 

And I wanted to fight that chauffer so badly... 

Somewhere, way down in the reptile brain perhaps, I was taking his size
and physique as a challenge. 

“I don't trust this dude,” Laura said. “Maybe he just lured us out into
the hinterlands to kill us and then hide our bodies.” 

Laura had her special .357 shoulder bag, but she was also carrying a
small OD Green bag like a quiver, over her right shoulder. 

“I have one of those thirteen inch Remington 870 Witness Protection 12
Gauge Shotguns here. I hope you have something extra,” She continued. 

“Pond and Honour! I have to run around partnered with a heroine from a
‘shoot-em-up!' movie. Have you ever listened to yourself? 

“To answer your question, I have a .45 Caliber Mac 10 in my sissy
shoulder bag,” I replied. 

Once we climbed out of my van, the cleric approached us. 

“I'm Father Duncan,” he said with studied elegance and courtesy. 

He extended his hand to shake, but I ignored his proffered hand. After
an awkward moment, Laura started an abortive reach for Father Duncan's 
hand. I swatted her hand to one side in some irritation. 

I had no reason to trust the Satanist. He had a curious ring on his
middle finger. It could have had a reservoir of neurotoxin—or 
something—and a tiny stinger. Maybe he'd coated his hand—first with 
some sort of skin barrier, then secondly with some hallucinogen. 
Anyway, Jeff Cooper once said to never give a potential enemy the 
perhaps fatal advantage of a good strong grip on your right hand. 

Father Kobbadah-The-Knobadah never batted a lined eyebrow. 

He assured us that Lurch-on-Steroids would guard my van, and he took us
on a walk in the woods. 

“What do you know of us?” He began. 

I was there to get intelligence, not to chat. I ignored the question. 

“We belong to a society that was very old when Abraham left Ur. At one
time, we practiced human sacrifice, but we stopped that over one 
thousand years ago. We didn't become more squeamish or kinder. We are 
dedicated to evil... 

“It's simply that the time had come for a new dispensation. Even today
there are a few rather backward groups who haven't yet accepted the new 
dispensation. They still use the old ‘Shakryte”. It's similar to folks 
who don't accept the New Testament of your Christian Bible. 

“There are a few of the Archea around here, but this isn't their work
either. They wouldn't go about it that way,” Father Duncan said. 

We'd come to a clearing and in the center of that clearing was a stone
altar, just like in I-don't-know-how-many late-night horror shows. 

There were also three stone pillars—perhaps fifteen feet apart and five
foot high. The leftmost pillar supported a great polished granite 
sphere. 

“We come here to make sacrifice at appointed times of the year—but a
half-grown black pig works just as well as an infant and is much easier 
to come by than a woman, all kicking and screaming. And if a knuckle 
joint of our pig should happen to be picked up by a local hound, it 
won't engender a full-scale homicide investigation.” 

The Satanic Priest turned his red shrouded eyes full upon me. 

“I have lived a score of human lifetimes. I have seen things that would
reduce you to quivering insanity. I have walked hand in hand with my 
loving master. I am as full of wisdom as a nut is with meat... 

“But you don't care to learn from me. All you care about is the vulgar
and the spectacular—something your tiny trivial mind can comprehend,” 
He ranted. 

I could tell that he was getting hissed. 

“Something like this!” He shouted. 

And then he picked up that big granite ball, with no apparent strain—or
even effort—and he carried it over to the middle pillar where he set 
lightly down. 

“Can your God let you do that?” 

He'd seriously honked Laura off. That was no surprise. The man was a
superb manipulator. 

Laura handed her bagged shotgun to me and then she attacked the granite
sphere. She finally managed to knock it off its pillar onto the ground. 


“That stone weighs two hundred and fifty pounds,” The Satanist gloated. 

I'd seen Strongman Balls on the Internet. I even had a few—though
nothing over thirty pounds. It's an odd thing about spherical 
objects—if it weighs close to what you weigh, or more—then you can't 
lift it, no matter how strong you are. The combined center of gravity 
of you and the stone will be too far forward. 

I don't know how much the demented cleric weighed. I doubt that he was
much over two hundred and twenty pounds, unless his bones were filled 
with lead—but he'd had the advantage of being able to start pretty much 
under the stone, lifting it from a stone pillar maybe five foot high—or 
a bit less—and being about a foot in diameter. 

I weigh well over two fifty though. My Doctor is constantly telling me
that I'm getting old. My Strongman days lie behind me and I need to 
reduce. 

I have too. On a good day, when I've been following my diet, I may get
as low as three hundred and eleven pounds. 

I felt my eyes turn bloodshot. They can do that almost instantly as the
adrenaline causes my blood pressure to soar into wild uncharted 
regions. I bent over and seized the rock. Something was going to give. 

This time it was the weight that gave. I picked up the granite sphere
almost knee-high. I rolled it until it was chest high, then I half 
jerked it overhead. I slammed it down onto the third granite pylon—the 
one on the extreme right. 

I looked around and Father Sunshine had disappeared into thin air while
Laura stood with her OD Green Shotgun Quiver in her hands. 

“Run away dude, if you're afraid—but if you touch my van—I will hunt you
down with Dingo Dogs and make you dine on your own testicles,” I 
bellowed. 

I don't know what gets into me sometimes. I've never even seen a Dingo
Dog in the flesh. 

I found a battering ram sized log and knocked over each of the three
granite pillars. Then I asked Laura to turn away, climbed atop the 
Satanist Altar and urinated. 

You know, in retrospect, urinating on their altar may not have been
altogether a bad thing in the Devil worshipper's eyes. 

Perhaps I lost my temper. I've never responded well to challenges—and
challenge had been piled upon challenge, starting with the insistence 
that we meet somewhere in Narnia or some such nonsense. Then there was 
the jolly green chauffeur... 

I mean like: the granite stone and Laura's near despair at not being
able to lift it... 

Well, that had simply been the finishing touch. 

Spent over an hour checking the van over, to make sure that it hadn't
been booby trapped, rigged or bugged somehow. Then I felt like bed. 

Chapter Four 

Laura and I were just East of Bloomington on State Road 46, headed
toward a Rendezvous with a Macabrest who lived near Belmont—Which so 
far as I could determine, was a wide spot in the Road. We were passing 
through one of the small nondescript towns when I spotted flashing 
lights in my rearview mirror. 

“What now?” I expostulated to Laura as I pulled over. 

I got my badge out, drew my .45 and stuck it under my right leg—not
because I was expecting any trouble—but because as a Law, I could get 
away with it. 

“Let me see your license and registration!” He barked. 

“I'll show you this,” I told him, as I flashed my badge. 

He squinted at it a moment. 

“Governor's Special Task Force, what would you be doing in this part of
the country?” 

“None of your business,” I told him. 

“Get out of the van!” He demanded. 

I shrugged, and placed the badge wallet on my dash. As I started to exit
the door, I saw him reaching for his pistol. I shoved the door hard 
into him—why he hadn't wit enough to stand clear, I can't tell you. 

I seized my Colt .45 Automatic, and as soon as I hit the ground I
brought the butt down hard on the top of his head. Pistol-whipping 
people is generally bad business for the Pistol and the mark of a 
chucklehead, but you're supposed to slam the magazine into the butt. In 
the US Army they taught us to always slap the base of the magazine 
twice upon insertion—just to make absolutely sure that it was fully 
seated. 

The way he got all slack, I knew that I really didn't have to hit him
again—but like with the potato chip, it's hard to stop at just one. 
Besides, I was really anxious to assure that my magazine was fully 
seated... 

This time I made it a point to strike him in the face, to give a nice
facial scar... 

And wouldn't you know it, he had a partner who'd been sitting in the Law
Car the whole while—which was also Hiss-Poor Law practice from what 
I've heard... 

But it did put him in a perfect position to call for back up. 

I dropped the bloody Law to the ground and took the time to handcuff him
with his own cuffs. Then I grabbed my Saiga .308, the wooden stocked 
version, of course. A couple rounds through the windshield on the 
driver's side convinced him that I had the penetration and that he did 
not. 

I had him lying facedown and handcuffed, on the asphalt, next to his
bleeding partner by the time his back up arrived—two more city Law Cars 
carrying two Laws each. 

By this time, I had Laura armed with my Marlin Lever Action .30-30.
She'd have preferred more firepower—but then she should have brought 
her own Long Gun. The .30-30 had plenty of penetration for car doors 
and such. 

She'd gotten on the radio and tried to explain the situation—so they
didn't get out shooting—pity. 

They pulled to a stop twenty yards away and addressed me with a
Bullhorn. 

“This is all a misunderstanding. If you will lay down your arms and
surrender, I'm sure that we can work this out peacefully,” One of them 
shouted. 

By then they were climbing out of their cars and taking cover behind the
doors. 

I'd picked up the Bullhorn out of the first Law's car. Note to self: Get
a Bullhorn. 

“Peace is over-rated. You drop your Weapons, and we'll talk,” I shouted
back. 

“We've got you outnumbered, “ The Law pointed out. 

“I got you out-Gunned. Anyway, cowards always theorize with the idea of
staying alive firmly in mind,” I replied. 

“I'm not joking around here. The doors of my van are reinforced. Are the
doors you're hiding behind reinforced against full-powered rifle fire?” 


Then to emphasize my point, I sent a round through the driver's side
jacklight on each vehicle. 

One Law lost his nerve, raised his hands, and stood clear of the car
door. In a moment's time, they were all standing with their hands up. I 
quickly handcuffed and frisked each one of them, while Laura covered 
me. 

“Cowards!” I said scornfully to them. 

I'd seen enough products for sale, with surreptitious handcuff keys,
that I really didn't trust them much. Gun belts, trouser belts, all 
pocket contents and wristwatches were left on the road. I could have 
taken them into the van—but I kinda hoped that someone would steal 
them. 

I dropped each of their pants down around their ankles to further hinder
any escape attempts, and then I loaded them into my van. 

“First of all, get Murray on the line. Tell him that we have six Laws
under arrest. We're heading for State Police Headquarters in 
Indianapolis—Don't want to concede any home-court advantage to the 
locals,” I told Laura. “ Then keep any eye on these devious 
Lopslickers—and I mean a sharp eye. If any of them even looks to be 
trying to Houdini out of the cuffs—shoot him.” 

We had quite a convoy of Laws by the time that we got to Indianapolis.
But Murray had contacted the Governor, and word had passed all the way 
down the Law Enforcement Scrotum Pole to the local level, that Laura 
and I were “Cowboys” and not “Indians”. 

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

“What in the Hell was that about!?” Murray demanded. 

“I had to put up with spritz like that before. It wasn't right, but I
gritted my teeth and bore it... 

“But I don't have to put up with being rousted by red-necked Laws with
no real cause anymore,” I replied. 

“Send the word out not to mess with the Governor's Special Task Force,”
I said. 

“Right now, the ‘Governor's Special Task Force' consists of you and
Laura. You don't know how close the Governor came to closing the whole 
department today. But it's bad medicine for politicians to admit they 
made an error and I managed to persuade him...” Murray trailed off. 

Right then, I saw the half-dozen Laws that I'd arrested start down the
stairs. 

“ Are you just going to let these Shabnasticators go scot-free?” I
demanded. 

“I wanted them charged!” I raged. 

“With what?” Murray asked. 

“Interfering with a Law investigation. Pointing Firearms at Laws.
Threatening Laws—throw the book at them!” 

“First of all, the charges would never stick.” 

“I know, but it sure would cause them Beaucoup grief in the meantime,” I
said. 

“It would also cause the Governor untold grief,” Murray said. 

“Skew the Governor!” 

“Do you even know who the Governor is?” Murray asked. 

“Sure I do, he used to sign my check for me, when I worked for the Board
of Health. Governor Orr,” I stated confidently. 

“When was this?” 

“1986,” I said. 

“Orr ain't the Governor anymore Friend,” 

“Bummer.” 

“Try to raise a little less Hell,” Murray said. “Be a bit discrete.” 

Then he leaned close and lowered his voice. 

“But if you can't, the Governor has a certain amount of political clout
invested in you. It'll be even more damning to back down the next 
time... 

“But stop acting like you have diplomatic immunity.” 

“Can you get me and Laura diplomatic immunity Murray?” 

Murray sighed and shook his head. 

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

“You are insane!” Laura said as we climbed into my van. “We could have
been killed!” 

“Are you afraid to die? It is always a good day to die. Maybe you should
ask Murray to take you off this case,” I said. 

“No. I saw the look in some of those poor women's eyes, and their
husband's faces in the taped interviews. Whoever is doing this is 
Pure-Dee Evil. I want him. I want him bad...” 

“And it will probably take someone wanting to stir up spritz at every
opportunity, to find this fiend... 

“Besides, I'm having too much fun.” 

“Let's stay in a motel tonight—no sense in driving all the way to
Kentucky, and then have to drive back. 

“There's a Demon worshipper that we still haven't interviewed yet,” I
said. “After all, Governor Orr won't have to pay for it.” 

“Who?” 

“He used to be the Governor. Now we got a different one—or so Murray
tells me. So if he ain't Governor anymore, he won't have to pay for our 
rooms tonight,” I said. 

“You are astonishing!” Laura said—precisely, which of my attributes that
she was complementing, I can't tell you. 

Chapter Five 

Whereas Father Duncan, the Satanist, had been tall and lean and elegant,
The Macabrest James looked like a five-foot four-inch replica of 
Wolverine, right out of the Comic Book—bulging muscles, mutton chop 
sideburns—the whole trip. 

Not that I'd knock anyone for having Mutton Chops, I've had what has
come to be called “Wolverine Sideburns” long before the first Wolverine 
Comic ever hit the stands. 

James was almost deliriously happy and cheerful and friendly. It wasn't
catching though. He'd put my nerves on edge when he'd offered us some 
homemade wine and cookies. I'm too cautious to eat or drink anything 
offered to me by an occultist—or indeed—anyone of dubious goodwill. But 
the wine smelled good, and the cookies looked very appetizing. I was 
hissed that I couldn't freely partake. 

“So, have you heard the tale of Feyderon?” 

I had, but I wanted to get his take on his sect, so I nodded
negatively—besides, Laura needed to catch up. 

“You have doubtless heard and read the Biblical account of how Satan was
cast out of Heaven for rebelling against God. Well, the Biblical 
account leaves out many details.” 

That much was true. The Bible leaves out a lot of details. Otherwise,
like John said, the Earth couldn't contain all the volumes. It does 
however; tell us everything we really need to know—however we might 
wish for more detail here and there. 

“The ‘Shakryte' has a much more complete account of the incident.” 

That is also true. The ‘Shakryte' does have a much more detailed
account. 

Now whether a single word of all that extra detail one finds in the
‘Shakryte' is true—that's where folks will differ. 

I'll let James present his story without further objections, since we're
examining his belief system, not mine. 

“Lucifer, Gabriel and Michael were the Archangels and each one commanded
one third of the Angels in Heaven. Lucifer rebelled. 

“Lucifer had three under-lieutenants, and one of them was Feyderon.
Feyderon was very far away, with all his subordinates, on some sort of 
mission incomprehensible to mere humans. 

“He didn't know about the rebellion. When he returned and tried to enter
Heaven, he was prevented. 

“Only those who answered God's call to arms may enter here,” The
Guardian told him. 

“Had I been here, I would have been on God's side,” Feyderon protested. 

“I know that is true, “ The Guardian told Feyderon. 

For one Angel could not deceive another. 

“But you were not here. You did not answer the call and you are exiled,”
The Guardian said. 

“This is hardly fair,” Feyderon said. “Let us go into the presence of
God and hear his ruling.” 

“There is no need to bother God about this. His instructions were very
specific.” 

Feyderon tried to force his way past The Guardian. But though Feyderon
was much more powerful and higher ranking than The Guardian, while 
filling his post, The Guardian was invincible—or at least powerful 
enough to thwart Feyderon. 

Feyderon was very angry. 

“Aha!” He said to himself. “This is all Satan's fault. I will kick him
out of Hell and take it for my Kingdom.” 

Feyderon was too angry to remember that he was only precisely one-third
as powerful as Satan. But his anger and the justice of his cause 
strengthened him. For a while, it looked like he would prevail, but in 
the end, he lost. 

Now many Christians believe that Hell is all a Lake of Fire—but the Lake
is only a part of Hell. Satan cast Feyderon into the Fiery Pit thinking 
that he would be utterly destroyed. 

But an Under-Archangel is too powerful a being to ever be destroyed,
even by the Fiery Lake. Feyderon spent untold eons in the Bottomless 
Pit, but eventually he escaped—again, by means incomprehensible to 
humans. 

And to head off your next question—all possible escape routes will be
closed after the last judgment—but they weren't in those incomparably 
long ages ago when Feyderon languished there. 

Feyderon was mad for a good long while. When the cosmos was created, he
stole some matter, and created himself his own World in what we'd call 
an alternate dimension today. 

Eventually he pilfered enough plants and animals to start an
ecosystem—for he could not create life. Then he placed some captured 
humans there. At first he let them multiply, but he had only one 
purpose for them. 

He slaughtered them by the millions—all for their skin. And on pages of
human skin he wrote out the Twelve times Twelve times Ten Thousand 
books expressing his rage. Some of the books have many hundred 
volumes—being immortal and with a mind far greater than any human's, 
there was no need to be brief. 

But his rage cooled when he finished the Books of Feyderon. On
Feyderon's World there is a huge library containing the Books of 
Feyderon. It is a high honor to be appointed a caretaker of the Great 
Library. 

“Let me get this straight,” Laura said. 

I wouldn't have bothered arguing, but Laura was younger and had less
practice dealing with the obsessed. 

“You've read ‘The Revelation of John', last chapter of the Bible. Satan
loses. He is a Big Loser. Now this Feyderon y'all worship, he is by 
your own admission an Even Bigger Loser. You say that he's only 
precisely one-third as powerful as Satan—but y'all worship him?” 

“We don't worship Feyderon. We simply collaborate with him,” James
explained. 

“For what?” Laura asked. 

“Money, Power—both over men and over matter, long life and vibrant good
health. Legend has it that one day Feyderon will be reconciled with God 
and he will remember his friends.” 

“Feyderon can't get you into Heaven,” Laura said. “Only Jesus can do
that.” 

James acted genuinely wounded. 

“Nothing about our Order would rule out one being a Christian,” James
stated with conviction. 

Yeah. The Nazis claimed that one could serve two masters and so did the
Communists. It's a very old scam Even Lot fell for it way back before 
Sodom was destroyed. 

I'd had to share some of my data with the occultists, to have any hope
of getting any useful info back. 

“This isn't our doing. Even in the ‘Shakryte' it says that we've never
offered any sort of sacrifice—much less a blood sacrifice. But I hear 
things—though I know next to nothing about this. 

“You know about the ‘Golden Dawn'?” James asked. 

“Crowley, Levay—folks of their ilk?” I said. 

“Yes, they do the Devil's work, but without any sort of true intimacy.
They're posers but most of them have enough caution not to get into 
sacrifice—at least not human sacrifice... 

“But they've spawned all sorts of crack-brain wanna-be imitators. Some
of them aren't anywhere near sane. 

“The followers of Hurr don't practice sacrifice—but rumor has gotten to
me that they know something about the fellow you're seeking. I'll put 
you in touch with them.” 

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

“Who is Her?” Laura asked me once we were settled into the van once
again. 

“Hurr—‘H' ‘U' ‘R' ‘R'; Hurr the Blind God. It's a sect that grew up in
parts of Italy during the seventeen hundreds. I don't think that they 
ever had more than two or three hundred members at one time. 

“The sect has died out in Italy, but there are sixty or seventy members
left here in Indiana. 

“The Satanists are very afraid of them—which explains why Father Duncan
never mentioned them—assuming that he both knew, and wanted our quest 
to succeed,” I explained. 

“Why are the Satanists afraid of them?” Laura asked. “Are they very
powerful?” 

“No, I can't say they're powerful. From what I hear, Hurr has no desire
for followers and offers absolutely no incentives for anyone to follow 
him. 

“The Satanists fear them, because they fear anyone or anything weirder
than they are.” 

“Do you think that any of that stuff about Feyderon is true?” 

“I sincerely doubt it. In the end, what difference does it make? Make a
straight path for your feet. Let Feyderon and his followers look after 
themselves—assuming that Feyderon actually exists.” 

“But if it was true, it hardly seems fair,” She persisted. 

“Shall a man judge God? Lotta things seem unfair. Read how God favored a
sissy stay-at-home mama's boy like Jacob, over a real man's man like 
Esau...” 

“Esau sold his birthright,” Laura interrupted me. 

“Sure, but he didn't sell his Blessing. The birthright meant that he
inherited two-thirds of the livestock and material goods, while Jacob 
only got a third. 

“The Blessing was an entirely different matter. 

“Anyway, in one of the Epistles it says that God favored Jacob over Esau
while both twins were still in the womb. 

“Also, look how God treated Rachel and Leah. Jacob loved Rachael and
despised Leah. Surely Jacob had a right to his favorites—especially 
considering how Jacob was duped into marrying Leah. 

“At any rate, it wasn't Rachael's fault how Jacob treated her sister—but
God shut up her womb nonetheless. 

“Thing is, if you're looking to get hung up over something, it will blow
your mind. Just accept that even when being unfair, God has perfect 
reasons. 

“Forget about Feyderon. The whole set-up is one more snare. 

“Anyway, tomorrow we go to see Hurr.” 

Chapter Six 

“This is Hurr,” The Monk said. 

He didn't look much like anyone's conception of a Monk. He was dressed
in a three-piece suit and looked like a thin elegant lawyer or banker. 
He seemed to sense my thoughts. 

“We tend to be aesthetic, but not out of any desire to renounce
anything. We renounce nothing of value and cleave to that which we find 
good. 

“You will notice that most of the Monks wear sweat pants and tee-shirts.
They are loose fitting and comfortable. In winter we add sweatshirts 
and long underwear—some choose the hooded sweatshirts. 

“Sweat pants are noticeably cheaper than trousers. We have no ranks and
we don't stress conformity or uniformity. One chooses what colors that 
he will. But we have more formal wear, for certain situations, like 
meeting you,” He explained. 

“At any rate, this is Hurr. You're thinking of Paul's dictum that Idols
are only dolls made of whatever material came to hand, with no 
consciousness or awareness. 

“This is not an Idol. It is Hurr himself—in the flesh, so to speak,” The
Monk said. 

There was a statue, just a wee-bit larger than life—either that, or Hurr
was an uncommonly large fellow. It seemed to have been carved very 
skillfully and with great detail, from the very whitest of marble, with 
a skill that put any other sculptor's work into the category of a very 
distant second best. 

Hurr had no eyes, nor was there any depression where eyes should have
went. 

I felt compelled to touch him, to see if he was as incredibly polished
as he appeared. 

“He is indestructible,” The Monk—He'd never bothered to give me a
name—said. “Shoot him. Hit him with a sledgehammer, if you desire. Pour 
acid upon him. Nothing can mar his form in the slightest degree.” 

A bullet bouncing off the marble statue might have ricocheted perilously
around the room. Anyway, it was too fine a work of art to want to do 
the iconoclast thingy. 

Then I sensed it. 

When I was a small boy—in fifth or sixth grade—I went to an overnight
activity at the YMCA. It was in the dead of Summer and this was before 
air conditioning became almost universal. 

They took us down into the sub-basement where the pool was for a
midnight swim. Even at midnight, the temperatures must have been in the 
nineties. It was very humid—especially in the poolroom. 

And when they got us down into the poolroom, they kept us sitting at the
side of the pool for fifteen or twenty minutes for some unguessable 
reason. In retrospect, I think they were waiting for a couple more 
adult supervisors to join them. 

Anyway, as I sat at the side of that underground pool—the air was hot
and thick like soup. There was a vent high on the right and high on the 
left was one of those very large old pulley-driven exhaust fans that 
used to be common. 

The air was blowing strongly enough to keep my back desert dry even in
the heat. I could feel the warm air flow across my back like a dry 
goose-pimpled massage—it felt almost strong enough to raise static 
discharges. The “Gallump! Gallump!! Gallumppp!!!” Sound of the exhaust 
fan contributed to the mood. 

And strangely, I wasn't inclined to fall asleep, despite my extreme
relaxation. 

Then they gave the signal to jump in the pool. You have to realize that
as a boy, swimming was a transcendental experience. All life's other 
pleasures were on one side of the ledger and swimming was so much 
better than any of the other good things that it wasn't even worth 
comparing them. 

But I would have willingly foregone swimming that night, at least for a
while; to sit and feel that gentle sensation across my back and the 
altered state I'd somehow drifted into. 

First of all, I didn't want to look like a moron, sitting beside the
pool while everyone else swam. 

Second, I was not at all sure that I'd be allowed to simply sit. 

Thirdly, I very much liked to swim, but finally, I knew that they'd call
us out of the pool several times for “Buddy-Checks” to make sure that 
no one had drown. 

I don't know why buddy-checks were so time consuming. The pool was
filled with clear water. Once all the swimmers had climbed up onto the 
sides, it would be glaringly obvious if someone was drowning or 
drowned. 

Also, everyone held his Buddy's hand up high to be counted. If anyone's
Buddy had drown, or been abducted by little green men, for that matter, 
it would have been immediately obvious. 

But Buddy-Checks commonly took ten to fifteen minutes and sometimes
stretched to a half hour. 

I consoled myself that I'd be able to experience that wondrous sensation
again—several times—before the swim was over. 

But my back was wet. Perhaps if they'd let us sit long enough to totally
dry out... 

And so many children splashing and floundering around had put more
chlorine and moisture into the air. I was wide awake now and looking 
for that experience. 

Rarely have I been so disappointed. 

But I never experienced that mental state, in all its fullness, ever
again. I never forgot though. Many years later, when I needed to calm 
myself or to lower my blood pressure, I'd try very hard to imagine 
myself at the side of that pool again—and it worked for me. 

Being in the presence of Hurr brought back that state of mind to me—a
hundredfold. 

We tend to think of Time as a very thin and evanescent fluid or ether
that permeates all of space and has an unstoppable movement to 
it—always into the future. 

Hurr perceived time more like very clear Karo Syrup or Glycerin—not the
least bit sweet or sticky or organic, but very very slow and 
viscous—hardly flowing at all. And somehow in his presence, I grasped 
his very indifferent and emotionless mood. 

Then it ended, and I hastened to leave the small auditorium—that's not
the right word---“drawing room”, perhaps “meditation nook” that housed 
Hurr. 

“You felt it, didn't you? Yet you won't return, will you? Why?” The Monk
asked me calmly. 

“The Koran says that there are beings—Djin and Afrit, Spirits—somewhere
in between men and angels, so far as power and wisdom and longevity. 
They are free moral agents, some good, and some evil—and like men, 
they'll be judged by their deeds at the last judgment,” He continued. 

“Can't you accept that? Can't you accept Hurr as a sort of Afrit?” The
Monk said with a slight passion—as much as I ever saw any of Hurr's 
followers display. 

“Well, if your Djin and Afrit are anything like people and they're
judged according to their deeds, they'll be hurtin' for certain come 
judgment,” I said. 

“No man could pass muster, were his deeds weighed. Only those who get a
free pass from Jesus can enter Paradise. That idea of a scale and 
balance is a snare of Satan. 

“I don't know that your in-between spirits exist. I do know that unclean
spirits—demons—are as thick as flies, though largely unseen and 
unfelt—at least consciously—everywhere one goes. 

“Folks don't return from the grave—not until resurrection day—with the
exception of the Prophet Samuel, maybe one or two others—though I don't 
think so—and possibly the Two Witnesses described in ‘Revelations'. 

“Those spirits are very old and very wise though. They watched your
father, and your grandfather and his grandfather—and tried to snare 
them, in their turn. 

“They can supply infinite detail to convince you that you're in touch
with your departed loved ones, or the Earth Mother, or Odin or Allah. 
Hell, they could guide you to the Lost Dutchman's Mine, if it suited 
their purpose... 

“But they come only to Steal, Kill and Destroy—and Deceive and Spread
Grief among men—particularly God's people. 

“Eschew looking for transcendental sources of enlightenment—or
comfort—and you give them very little to work with,” I said. 

“Can you honestly say that you know Hurr to be one of those unclean
spirits?” He asked. 

“I can't prove that he is not. Anyway, judge his effect on y'all by its
fruits. What are y'all doing to advance God's Kingdom? Nothing. Y'all 
sit around and vegetate,” I answered. 

“Have it your way. About your killer, we sense a presence. We can't
clearly perceive it—it is shrouded with many layers of obscurity. We 
can sense it's passing though. The water may be too cloudy to see, but 
something that big can't pass without stirring up the current. 

“You are looking for ‘The One True Light'—or so he styles himself,” The
Monk told me. 

Laura had been silent all through our long exchange, but she seemed to
become enraged for some reason and sprang upon me like an attacking 
lioness. 

I hit the ground hard and banged the back of my head hard enough to cut
a tree-inch gash in my scalp and cause me to see all sorts of “stars” 
and flashing lights. I wasn't too knocked out to hear a high-powered 
rifle shot and to see the deep gash in the stone column that had been 
behind me. 

Laura had her .357s and her Witness Protection Shotgun, but I had my
1911A1 .45 Auto. I had three magazines in speed pouches and a six-pack 
of .45 magazines in a flapped pouch. 

My first thought was to saturate the area the shot came from with
twenty-nine rounds of .45 ACP—as fast as I could reload and pull the 
trigger—pretty fast in my case. Then when my more accessible Automatic 
reloads were expended, to charge the area, .45 Colt Ruger Redhawk in 
hand, hoping that Laura could watch my back with her slower firing 
Revolver. 

I still think that under the circumstances it would have been a superior
tactic—but Jeff Cooper always said to never fire unless you can clearly 
identify your target—not even at a presumably hostile muzzle-flash. 

Live if you can. Die if you must. Always cheat. Committing gaucherie is
too high a price to pay for survival. 

I would die if it came to that, rather than violate the Good Colonel's
teaching. 

That was a good thing—a virtuous thing that I did, in peril of my life.
I only wish that I could always be so aware of Jesus' teaching that I'd 
die before violating the tiniest precept... 

Not that I didn't violate the good, but Earthly Colonel's teachings
fairly often as well. 

A few hand signals and Laura went one way and I went the other. 

Three steps right, turn at a sharp angle, take two fast steps and dive
forward. Roll. Stay down momentarily. Get up. Run three steps left, 
turn, and two more steps—dive. 

Laura was running some sort of evasive pattern of her own, in the other
half of the man's field of fire. 

He'd shot from within perhaps a hundred and fifty yards—from just inside
the tree-line. 

I'd almost made it to the tree line and cover, when I felt that a
drunken mule had kicked me right in my chest. It knocked the wind right 
out of me, knocked me flat on my back for a moment. 

I thought that I was dying. I hadn't the wind to sing a death song, but
I felt one running through my mind. 

Fragments of lyrics sometimes mean something different to me-something
entirely different that the song as a whole means. 

Have you heard the song “Free” by Natalia Kills? 

It's a song about a young woman who blows all her money on clothing and
fashion accessories—mindless narcissistic indulgence. 

They use the word “Free” as a synonym for “Broke”, and they use the
words “Rock It” to mean “Buy It”... 

But there is a line that goes: 

“...Tell him I'm Free—Done spent all my money; 

“But I Rock That like it Don't Cost a Thing; 

“No, It Don't Cost a Thing...” 

Sometimes Freedom—Honour--Cost everything that you have. It can cost you
all your friends, your reputation, all your material possessions, your 
life. 

When that happens, you have to “Rock It Like It Don't Cost a Thing”,
like the song says—and not to begrudge the purchase even a little. In 
fact, you should be Ecstatic, Joyous even because you have just made 
one Hell of a Bargain. 

I felt that way when I felt that I was dying. I'd run my course and
lived my life with Honour. I hadn't fired at the muzzle blast—though it 
would probably have saved my life. 

A warrior doesn't just lie down quietly to die though. 

As Myomoto Musashi said, “It is false to die with a Weapon undrawn.” 

With no need to dodge anymore, I sprinted the last twenty yards. I saw
the Sniper trying frantically to reload his bolt action Rifle. I drew 
my Colt Government Model with my right hand and my .45 Colt Ruger 
Redhawk with my left. 

I was a Gunman more than I was anything else on this Earth. It was good
that my last act was to shoot my favorite Guns. 

I don't generally practice shooting two Guns at once. I play, but I
don't expect to use it in serious social engineering. 

Six rounds of 255 Grain SWC Keith type bullets loaded to 1200 FPS hit
the Sniper in his torso, while seven 230 Grain Lead Truncated Cone .45 
ACP bullets loaded to 1000 FPS poured from my Colt. I saved the last 
.45 ACP bullet for a headshot. 

You're not supposed to shoot a 1911A1 dry. Reload while one is still up
the spout. I've never been sure why that's considered such a Gaucherie. 
It certainly isn't that much trouble to hit the slide release... 

But surely the Good Colonel would forgive me a single Gaucherie while
dying. 

{Actually, it's two to the torso, then one to the head, so I had
committed two Faux Pas...} 

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

Of course I didn't die—else how could I tell the tale. 

Laura told me that the best they can tell, the 198 Grained Boat Tailed
.308 bullet just hit a twig, right at the tree-line. It was already 
tumbling when it hit me. I'd been wearing a IIA vest since I started 
the investigation. 

It had a ten by five or six inch steel trauma plate. I didn't often
include it. It was more than a bit uncomfortable. I don't remember 
including it that day—so I can't tell you whether it was whim or 
premonition. 

The IIA vest wouldn't stop even a tumbling .308 and it didn't hit full
on the trauma plate—it just clipped it enough to really start the 
bullet disintegrating. 

I had an irregular piece of lead and cupro-nickel jacket penetrate my
right lung and lodge against my far chest wall—instead of fully 
penetrating and letting my rose water fluids flow from an entrance and 
an exit wound. 

Everything had conspired to strip enough energy off of the projectile
that it acted more like a Handgun bullet than a high-powered Rifle 
bullet while plowing through my lung. 

I had three broken ribs, my lung was damaged and they'd had to operate
to remove the bullet—but I should fully recover. 

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

Shortly after I revived, a local Law came to talk to me about the
shooting. 

“I have to say that not only was that some fine shooting, but some
really brutal Knife work. It looked like a Slaughterhouse in that 
Sniper's nest,” He said as he prepared to leave. 

Laura saw my puzzled look. After the Law left, she explained to me. 

“The shooter had two accomplices. One of them drew a small .38 Revolver.
You drew your Bowie (a Western Bowie W-49, I might add...). You chopped 
his Gun hand off at the wrist, then pretty much spilled his bowels. The 
second went to pick up the downed man's Rifle. 

“You caught him from behind. Stabbed close to the spine, then sliced out
though the kidney. Then you cut his throat, and then reached around and 
slashed his abdomen not once, but several times. 

“All that Left-Handed. I saw it all. 

“You don't remember?” Laura asked as she concluded. 

“No, not at all. I always use a Knife Left-Handed: Gun Hand/Knife Hand
(not that one plans to wield Knife and Gun at one time, except as 
rarest fluke),” I said. 

“What Now?” She asked. 

“I will need time to recover. I'll do some heavy reading and some
Internet research in the meantime—if we're still on the case. 

“How did you know someone was preparing to shoot?” I asked her. 

“I saw a flash like off a scope or binoculars,” She replied. 

“Friend, why is Hurr eyeless? He seems so perfect otherwise,” She asked,
almost like she half expected to be scolded. 

That caused me to laugh. Let me state for the record that laughing soon
after thoracic surgery, particularly with three broken ribs, is no sort 
of plan. 

Pain then coughing, then laughing at my own foolishness and then more
pain—it was a vicious cycle. 

“Silly-Arse Cultists, “ I finally managed to gasp. “ ‘Hurr the Blind
God'! Hurr isn't Blind. He's simply closed his eyes momentarily on his 
timescale. Perhaps it's a mere blink.” 

“And you know this because?” 

“He told me. That's why I was in such a hurry to leave the room. Maybe
he isn't evil. I wish him well. But nothing good can come from 
communing with beings like Hurr.” 

Chapter Seven 

“Why did you ask me to bring a bathing suit?” Laura asked. 

“As you can see, I have a pool. I thought that you might want to swim,”
I said. 

“Are you going to swim with me?” 

“No. I'm almost sixty years old. Some of my musculature is gone along
with some of the fat that used to support the muscle. I have big flaps 
of skin hanging and although I was a very hairy young man, decreased 
circulation has made me as hairless as an eel—body wise. 

“That's why I wanted an indoor pool. No one will gape at my old body,” I
said. 

“That's silly!” 

“Maybe, but it isn't open for debate. I wish to hear no more about it.” 

After a moment, she was examining some of my gear. 

“What is all this stuff?” 

I had many packages of “Magnetics”. Some of them I'd super-glued
permanently together—particularly in the shapes of the five Platonic 
Solids: Tetrahedron, Rhomboid, Cube, Dodecahedron and Icosahedron. I 
also had several Stellated Polyhedra. 

I Had “Bucky Cubes” and the more recent “Bucky Balls”—small magnets to
build things. I had several sets of the old wooden “Tinker Toys” and 
many kits worth of “Legos”—some built into robots or small vehicles. 

There were several Artist's Mannequins, a plastic skull, a couple real
human skulls—those are, but they're very dear. Since they're harvested 
in some third World countries, from people who die of natural causes... 


Most come from old people and most have few teeth. They didn't charge me
anymore for one with a fairly complete set of teeth—but I had him 
back-ordered for a good long while. 

Several animal skulls were also sitting around. 

No, I'm neither a Physical Anthropologist nor a Naturalist. I'm not a
Ghoul either—least I like to think not. 

I am an aspiring Artist—I guess it's a bit late to aspire too much in
one's fifties. 

There were Swords, Knives, Children's Toys and Curiously Shaped
Bottles—all bang-up stuff for still lives. 

I had a good stereoscopic microscope—about $2000 worth, an Airbrush and
Airbrush gear all laid out and several Carving Knives and Chisels. 

“How old are you?” Laura asked. “Nine or ten?” 

I was only mildly piqued, when she went on. 

“This is great! No wonder Murray thought that you were a Genius.” 

“I'm no Genius. If you only knew how long it took me to finally master
Calculus,” I said sadly. 

I like Blackboards. Blackboards have gotten pretty high lately, but
there is a paint that will create a chalk friendly surface when dry. I 
had a rather large nook with “Blackboards” along three of the walls, 
along with a couple rolling Blackboards. 

There are other Blackboards all over my space, but that twenty-five foot
area was what I called my “Blackboard Jungle”. 

When developing an idea—sometimes I want to imagine solely it in my
mind, sometimes I want to sketch on paper, sometimes on the computer or 
one of the several “Etch'a'Sketchs” that I have lying around... 

Sometimes though, the Chalkboard calls. 

Sometimes you feel like a nut—sometimes you don't. 

Laura had picked up one of my “Etch'a'Sketch” games, and was playing
with it. 

“Bring that along and come over here,” I told her. 

“Do you read the Bible much Laura?” 

“Not since Sunday School as a little girl,” She said. 

“Well, we're encountering all kinds of groups who like to twist
scriptures to their own ends. 

“I'm not going to order you to read the Bible—but I wish you would,
while we're hanging around here waiting for my ribs to knit. 

“Look here, it is a good thing to read it from front to back with
understanding. It's all good. But fact is, some of it is a lot more 
important in matters of doctrine than other parts. 

“Start in three places. Read Genesis. Take two or three days to read it,
if necessary—don't read it more than once in a day, in any case. Read 
it through five times,” 

I started writing my recommendations on a corner Chalkboard with red
chalk. 

“Then start working your way through the Old Testament, reading the rest
of the books in order. Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy have 
some good stories and lessons—but they're also chock-full of long 
genealogies and Old Jewish Regulations... 

“Anyway, our church recommends that whenever someone feels called to be
a Minister, that he form the habit of reading five Psalms a day. That's 
a good habit to get into—but many of the Psalms are meaningless to me 
without further exposition. 

“I have a Three Volume work here by Spugeon. It's yours now. Read five
Psalms and Spurgeon's commentary on those five daily. There are one 
hundred and fifty Psalms—a month's worth. When you finish the Psalms, 
start over, put omit Spurgeon the next few times... 

“Instead, read Proverbs and this book. Repeat Proverbs twice more
without the commentary. Read Ecclesiastes five times, and Song of 
Solomon three times... 

“Then start another Psalms and Spurgeon again. 

“When you finish The Psalms with Spurgeon, continue to read five daily
Psalms indefinitely. Read Proverbs twice more, without the commentary, 
Ecclesiastes five more and Song of Solomon three more, continue on 
through the Old Testament. 

“Joel and Zechariah are each worthy of five readings your first time
through.” 

“In the New Testament, read The Gospel of John five times, Revelations
five times... 

“Then start at the beginning: Read Matthew, then read John. Read Mark,
then read John, then Luke, then John again. 

“Until you've read the whole New Testament. 

“I'd advise that when you come to a list: Jacob's Sons, the Plagues of
Egypt—whatever—that you make a note, and memorize it. 

“You do understand, I want you to start simultaneously at three
different places?” I paused to ask. 

“When your Old Testament gets to Psalms, you can drop that third. 

“The Major Prophets: Ezekiel, Daniel, Jeremiah and Daniel all deserve
more emphasis sometime—along with all the Minor Prophets—Nonetheless, 
by the time you have finished what I assigned you, you should have an 
excellent grasp of the Bible.” 

“But that's only my suggestion. Those are your books now. Read them or
not. Throw them into the pool, for all I care.” 

I did care though, the books would eventually clog my pool filter—but I
did have a net on a long pole. 

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

The first couple weeks, Laura swam, lifted my weights and we both shot
daily on my outdoor range. Then she would play with an Etch'a' Sketch 
or doodle with Magnetics or Bucky Balls, Draw on my Chalkboard or play 
Chess with one of my Chess Machines... 

When she wasn't pursuing the reading assignment that I'd given her. 

The sixth Sunday rolled around, since I'd been shot. 

“We're going to Church this Sunday,” I announced to Laura. 

“Why-come?” She asked. 

“Well for me it will be for Spiritual Sustenance. For you... 

“Well at the very least it will mean getting to meet some of the People
of The Book,” I said. 

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

We got there pretty early. As the saints wandered in, Laura leaned over
to whisper to me: 

“They're all Black People,” She said in wonderment. 

“Really? I'll have to speak to the Pastor about that,” I said, mimicking
being spiffed. 

Hate that word “Pastor”. 

The Bible says to shun all appearance of Evil. 

To me, good Country folk say, “Preacher”, While high-fallutin' City
Slickers say, “Pastor”. 

Isn't it at least an “Appearance of Evil” to start adopting a
sophisticated manner of speaking? 

But in our church, almost everyone is a “Preacher”. Some Preachers go on
to become Ministers. Most Ministers eventually become Elders... 

And when a Church needs a Head Dude, either the Bishop appoints one of
the Elders in his district, or the Church elects one... 

And they call the Head Dude “The Pastor”. 

At any rate, we had Sunday School—they dissected the story of Mary and
Martha. 

Then we had Church. There was singing. A few folks felt called upon to
dance and shout. They asked me to Preach, being that I hadn't been 
there in a good long while... 

Then there was more singing and dancing. 

Then the Pastor preached a sermon. 

Sunday School started at 10:00 am. Church got out about 4:30pm. 

A young lady waited patiently to speak to Laura and me alone. 

“Elvira is my aunt,” She began. “She said that she saw you on the
street. She said that you're a Law now, or working for 
them—investigating several homicides.” 

I'm pretty sure that Aunt Elvira didn't say, “Homicides”—though it's
possible. But the thirteen-year-old girl was a Mensa member with an IQ 
of 197. 

“Aunt Elvira says she has some data for you.” 

“Tell her to come by my house Dean. You know where I live, don't you?” 

Ordinarily I wouldn't want streetwalkers coming by my home... 

I still didn't feel quite myself, to be stalking the wild asparagus on
the knobby asphalt... 

And Elvira was a fellow Church member. She might have backslid to the
point of selling her body for rocks of Cocaine. She'd undoubtedly try 
to steal someone's eyes if there was a profit to be made from doing so. 


But not only would she be reluctant to alienate her Church—too much
potential for support there someday—when she really needed it, if she 
didn't poison the well. She also know that I would be a very poor 
person to have mad at one—even before a Governor—who was not Governor 
Orr—got to feeling good enough on something, to give me a badge and 
Wide-Ranging Authority. 

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

“Why do the people at your church get up and dance?” Laura asked. 

“They're happy and/or the Holy Ghost moves them. I'm not the sort to
dance for joy—not consciously—no matter how good that I feel. I've been 
waiting for a long time, for the Holy Ghost to grab me and yank me 
around like a rag doll but it hasn't happened. 

“Don't folks dance in your Church?” I asked. 

“I should say not! If the Holy Spirit caused such indecorous behavior,
he wouldn't be welcome!” 

“The Bible uses both the terms ‘Holy Ghost' and ‘Holy Spirit'. ‘Holy
Ghost' is to be preferred. It sounds less sophisticate—less educated.” 

“What about Speaking in Tongues'?” She asked. 

“Well, most hold that during the singing and praise is an appropriate
time for Utterances in Tongues. Our Pastor doesn't agree. He's afraid 
of Freakin' the Squares too much at the outset. 

“I don't agree. Squares will never round off, if something doesn't Freak
them, Tweak them and cause them to want to reform. 

“Still, he's the one God put in charge of that Church.” 

“How do you know that?” Laura asked. 

“Because God will take him from that post when he doesn't want him there
anymore.” 

Just then any further Theological discussions had to be postponed,
because Elvira the Whore had come to talk to us. 

Chapter Eight 

A cab had dropped Elvira off at my doorstep. She hadn't had the money to
pay, of course and the tariff was mighty steep for running her so far 
out into the sticks. 

She wore very thick lenses and still seemed to grope her way around
uncertainly nonetheless. 

“I'm going blind Friend!” 

Those were the first words out of Elvira's mouth once we were inside,
and I'd gotten her seated. Then she started crying. I'd cry too. 

Billy Graham himself said it. My own Pastor admits it, though he says
that it is a dangerous teaching—at least for his flock—to proclaim it 
loudly and diligently... 

But the Bible doesn't demand total abstinence. I very seldom take a
drink, but right before I dropped out of the street life, I'd formed a 
taste for Scotch. Since years sometimes go by between drinks, I can 
afford the very best. 

I fetched a bottle of Glenlivit 12-year-old Single Malt. I poured Elvira
about four ounces, four ounces for myself and after a moment's 
deliberation I poured Laura a glass. 

“Drink, don't spill. That stuff is like liquid gold,” I said. 

“How and why are you going blind,” I asked Elvira. 

“I have cataracts bad. Those could be fixed, if I had the money. But I
also have Macular Degeneration—the rapid advancing kind—and I'm HIV 
Positive,” she said. 

There are things as bad as blindness, but I can't think of much worse. 

Of course, blind folks can learn to do all sorts of things. They can
Wrestle quite well. Some can learn to ride a bike in light traffic. 
I've seen them skiing on TV. 

There are blind lawyers, mathematicians and probably preachers. It's
just that to me, without the stimulation of visual input, why even 
bother to do any of those things? What possible satisfaction could it 
bring? 

Of course, everyone isn't me. Thing is, feeling like I do—if I ever went
blind and someone managed to change my mind, to persuade me to find a 
purpose for my life in spite of my handicap... 

It would be the biggest defeat of my life. One doesn't let others
persuade one—about anything—much less something so fundamental. 

“Elvira, you don't have many days left to see the World. Let's get rid
of those cataracts so you can make the most of them,” I said. 

“I don't have the money. I have no insurance. I never worked at a
regular job.” 

“Skew money. I have money coming out my wazoo. I have influence too.
When you leave here, we'll take you to the best eye surgeon in the 
Nation of Indiana. 

“But tell me what you come to tell me,” I urged. 

She glanced toward Laura—not, I think—that she could see Laura clearly. 

“Never mind Laura, she's Kin.” 

Kin—the way the old Scots-Irish Hillbillies meant it. The closest sort
of bond—usually, but not always of blood. 

I've spent much of my life surrounded by black people. I'm not suffering
from any sort of identity crisis. I have absolutely no desire to be 
black... 

But I saw my loose-knit clan dissolve into dissociate nuclear family
units when the old folks died, one-by-one. 

Many black families still operate as clans. The street people certainly
operate as Fictive-Kin clans—dysfunctional clans perhaps, but clans 
nonetheless. 

“Fictive Kin” is an Anthropological term. It doesn't denigrate the
strength or legitimacy of the bond. Adoption is one of the few, if not 
the only form of “Fictive Kin” that our legal system recognizes. 

Try telling a loving mother that her adopted infant is “Only Fictive
Kin”. Leave out the “Only” qualification though... 

Like the term or not—that is what adoption is. 

“Oranges and some of the others said that you were looking for some sort
of rich freak—especially someone into rough stuff... 

“A john got me into his car. The car was big and black. It smelled like
new leather inside. 

“All at once...it was so bright, so colorful, so pretty—I thought that I
was in the presence of an Angel. I thought that maybe he'd come to heal 
me. 

“But after what seemed a very long time, the john got angry, and made me
get out of the car. I couldn't see any better than I could when I 
climbed in. Actually, my eyes were dazzled for a couple hours, and I 
couldn't even navigate. 

“You know Jim-Bob though?” She asked. 

“Well anyway, Jim-Bob said that he saw Sheila get in just after I got
out. Hope the fellow was looking for a she-male. Anyway, Sheila later 
claimed to have no memory of getting into big black Lincoln with a 
spooky john.” 

Jim-Bob was a crippled hillbilly who dealt drugs from a wheelchair. He
played up the hillbilly angle for market recognition—always wearing bib 
overalls and a frazzled straw hat—and sprinkling his speech with 
“You'ns” and “We'uns”. 

Jim-Bob got away with much, partly because of pity, and partly because
he snitched judiciously. He wasn't the sort who'd rat out his own 
grandma—but if you were looking for a rapist—especially a child 
molester—someone who'd beat down his girlfriend— a strong-arm mugger—or 
big-timers trying to run the small-scale local dealers out of business, 
then Jim-Bob would not only sing, he'd write you a full-length novel. 

After both Laura and I had milked Elvira's scant recollection as much as
possible, I made some calls. Then I drove Elvira to IUPUI and checked 
her in for cataract surgery and lens replacements, as well consultation 
on her Macular Degeneration and the complications—visual and 
otherwise—that would come from her being HIV Positive. 

At one point, the admitting clerk got kinda shirty. 

“And who is going to pay for all this?” He sniffed. 

I shoved the tip of my Bowie in his right nostril and penned him to the
wall. Then I showed him my badge. 

“This is my Kinswoman. Where the money to take care of her will come
from, is none of your concern. 

“What is your concern, from now on, is to make sure that she finds
staying here a five-star experience. If she so much as tells me that 
her coffee was cold, her eggs were runny, her pillow was lumpy or her 
Television Remote didn't work... 

“Then I will look you up, and cause you all sorts of pain and trauma. 

“She is going to be able—truthfully—to tell me that you looked in upon
her each and every day, whether you were on duty or not. That you 
checked on her every morning, every noontime and the last thing before 
you went home every night... 

“That you used every ounce of your charm and influence to eliminate any
causes that she may have had for concern. 

“And you're going to call me daily, to check in, to let me know of any
problems and just generally keep me informed. 

“Now do you understand?” 

He seemed too seized with emotion to speak. I guess that I finally got
through to him that Elvira was special to someone, and he was ashamed 
of his earlier churlishness. 

He did nod very vigorously though, once I removed the tip of the Bowie
from his nostril. 

Most folks will respond to simple kindness, just like the effeminate
admittance clerk, if you'll be patient and take the time to explain 
things. 

“What if he turns you in?” Laura asked. 

“I didn't witness any threatening behavior. Did either of you?” 

I asked Elvira and Laura. 

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

“What is the deal with Elvira?” Laura asked. 

“Thirty years ago, when Elvira was a teenaged hooker, I'd blown all my
rent money on Cocaine. I was homeless. I hadn't bathed or changed 
clothes in over a week. I hadn't eaten in almost four days. 

“Elvira took me home. She fed me. She washed and dried my only set of
clothes while I shaved, bathed and then brushed my teeth. I guess that 
I sat for over an hour wrapped in a blanket, waiting for my clothes to 
dry. 

“Then she got me a job tearing down old houses and garages. One of her
cousins had a small demolition company. 

“I took the lesson to heart. I never let myself get anywhere near that
down-and out again. But I never forgot. 

“If Elvira needs my life, all she has to do, is ask. 

“No sissy, yuppie punk is gonna sniff at her,” I finished my rant. 

“So when did you last see her?” 

“Five, six years ago...it doesn't pay to hang around addicts when you're
living right. She knew though, that if she needed real help that I was 
always there. 

“Not help buying a eight-ball, or a ride across town to make it to a
trick—real help. 

“Not that she ever tried to con me.” 

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

Jim-Bob was a trip. He was naturally observant. When he come to realize
that having a handle on stuff that went down in his neighborhood was a 
big factor in his staying out of Gaol, he went proactive—big time. 

He always had a good set of small binoculars on him. He made no secret
of it. He said that he was looking for any of his customers come to the 
hood with dope money to spend. 

He also had a real nice big pair that he used sometimes too. 

He took beaucoup pictures surreptitiously. He had his own homemade bugs
and tiny closed circuit TV Cameras all over the place—that and beaucoup 
voice activated recorders. 

He cultivated sources of information without ever letting the paranoid
drug people know that they were being interrogated—not that most of 
them were any good at shutting up. 

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

We'd gone to Jim-Bob's room, to talk in private. I hadn't realized what
an electronics expert he was, till I spied some of his handy-work 
scattered around his apartment. 

“Friend, this dude is like weird,” Jim-Bob said. “Hookers go in, they
come out two or thee hours later—and they don't remember. 

“I got plate numbers for you. I got some rather grainy photos. I got
tapes—fragmentary, but suggestive...” 

“Let me see it,” I said. 

“Not so fast. I have two nephews in Tennessee. They've been sentenced to
life in Federal Court, for Marijuana Cultivation—and I have a son in 
the Juvee Home. 

“Can you spread some love?” 

“I'll see what can be done. I doubt that I can get your nephews released
outright, but perhaps a reduction in sentence, better conditions, 
transfer to a better prison...” 

“Just see. I appreciate it.” 

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

Murray had some wheels turning slowly, when I got a call from Dean's
mother. 

A big uniformed Law tried to prevent me from entering. I cold-cocked
him, and then kicked him twice in the ribs as viciously as I could. As 
his partners ran up with drawn weapons, I flashed both my badge and my 
.45 Colt Automatic simultaneously. 

Laura was backing me up with my Mac 10. 

“He was just doing his job,” one of the other Laws said. 

“I know that. Do you think that I'd have gotten so angry, if I thought
it was personal? I might have overlooked deliberate malice.” 

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


Inside, both Dean—the little girl with the 197 IQ, and my Kinswoman
Elvira—who'd once played the Good Samaritan for me... 

They were both lying in a pool of blood. Both had been shot multiple
times. Both had had their tongues removed. 

I threw back my head and screamed with rage. I screamed again and again,
until I was too hoarse to scream anymore. 

“This is my fault,” I whispered hoarsely to Shannon, Dean's mother and
Elvira's sister. 

“Nonsense. Whoever did this is at fault. Elvira stayed with me for two
weeks, after coming out of the Hospital. She could see again those last 
two weeks. She was clean those last two weeks. 

“I had my sister back for two weeks. She went to church with me. She was
saved. I'll see her again in Heaven, along with my daughter some day. 

“She told me how you got her the best Doctor and the best care, and paid
for it like it was nothing. 

“Because of you, got to be with my sister once more.” 

I could hear the Song again, 

“I'm Free. Done Spent All My Money... But I Rock That Like it Don't Cost
a Thing... No, It Don't Cost a Thing... Don't Cost a Thing...” 

“Friend, it may not be very Christian... 

“But hunt down whoever did this and make them suffer,” Shannon said. 

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

I had Jim-Bob in protective custody within the half-hour. 

“Murray, I ain't askin' anymore. Now I'm dictating. Jim-Bob's nephews
will be released from Gaol within the next forty-eight hours, with a 
full pardon of all offences. I want them here at my place ASAP,” I 
shouted into the telephone. 

“I want Jim-Bob's son here with a clean record as well. While you're at
it, clear everything out of Jim-Bob's file. I mean clean. 

“Laura has given me a list of six Laws that she's worked with and
trusts. I want them permanently assigned to the Governor's Special Task 
Force, and sent here immediately. 

“We be needing Guards. 

“I'll also need badges and ID for Jim-Bob's nephews, Jim-Bob too...” 

“What?! Yeah, the nephews are experienced bootleggers and marijuana
growers. I'm sure that they know which end of a Gun to load.” 

Jim-Bob stared at me as I slammed down the receiver, as if I'd lost my
mind. 

“Damned Nation! I wish that I wasn't out of a Dog right now,” I said. 

“How do you feel about Bloodhounds? I know a fellow has seven—they're
littermates, and they're eight months old. He was gonna train them 
before he sold them, but he got a job offer overseas,” Jim-Bob said. 

“Find out what he wants for the lot,” I said. “Then offer him twice
that, with a five hundred dollar bonus, if he can have them here by 
tomorrow morning.” 

That many noses and ears running around, even on half-grown Dogs should
make it darned hard to sneak up on my homestead. 

“What are you planning?” Laura asked me. 

“Once I've made sure that Jim-Bob and family are safe here, I'm going to
figure out who this dirty Lopslicking Shabnasticator is... 

“I'm going to hunt him down like I would a rabid Dog—only I'm not going
to put him down painless, like I would a poor rabid Dog... 

“Then if anyone out there cares, there will be sad-singing and
flower-bringing,” I vowed. 

Chapter Nine 

One of the State Laws was fiddling with my Airbrush equipment. 

“Do you use this?” He asked. 

“Not for a couple of years,” I replied. 

“Want to sell it?” He drooled. 

“Damned Nation people! You are guests in my house, and look at you.
Listen to this cretin! He lets his greed turn him into a fool, and a 
rude and greedy fool at that!” 

I paused to glare at everyone within eyeshot. 

“Listen Lopslicker, if I hadn't wanted the airbrush, then why would I
have bought it? Obviously I found my previous state of existence—that 
did not include an airbrush—unsatisfactory in some way. 

“Why would I wish to retreat to that previous state of dissatisfaction? 

“ Suppose that I did sell it to you—get maybe sixty cents on the dollar
for it. Then when I wanted to airbrush again, I'd have to pay that 
forty percent again, with the aggravation of having to shop and wait 
again.” 

“And if you never use it again?” Laura asked. 

“It is neither eating nor raising my taxes. It pays for itself by giving
me the assurance that should I ever need an airbrush, I have one.” 

I think Laura already knew the answer. She was only helping me explain
to these non compos mentis. 

I was thoroughly aggravated. I had moved out in the country, largely to
be left alone. Sometimes a month would go by without any necessity to 
leave my property or to speak to anyone, except on the Internet. 

I liked it that way. 

My swimming pool was built indoors so that I could swim in privacy. And
if I chose to skip going to bed, and simply lay down beside my pool... 

That was my choice too. 

I hadn't been swimming in seven weeks—ever since the six-man guard
detail had moved in. Then there was Joe-Bob and his two paranoid and 
homicidal cousins Hank and Eric. 

Actually the two boys weren't that bad. I kinda liked them. But
tarnation! Anything gets old after awhile. I was even getting tired of 
Laura. 

Thing was though, Jim-Bob had an exceptional grasp of covert
surveillance techniques—far better than anyone the State had on tap, 
and he was tireless. He seriously grooved on eavesdropping. 

And his cousins were exceptional second story men. They were both lean
and rawboned to the point of looking emaciated. No one would mistake 
them for Laws—though technically they were now, with badges and 
everything. 

They weren't stupid. I got some Locksmith gear, including one of those
practice locks that you can start with just one tumbler installed and 
work your way up to seven. I also got a clear one, where you could see 
the tumblers at work. 

I signed them both up for Locksmith Correspondence courses and made sure
that they did the course work. I also made sure that they could escape 
from handcuffs and other restraints. 

Meanwhile, Jim-Bob was showing them the basics of electronics. 

I think that either Hank or Eric would have cheerfully given his life
for me—they were that seriously grateful to be out of Gaol. 

I salved my conscious over the massive violations of privacy we were
committing, because we were all solemnly pledged to totally ignore 
anything that didn't directly relate to the Gourmet—that's what we were 
calling him now. 

At first, going around interviewing weird people, carrying lots of Guns
and tweaking the nose of the local Laws had been kinda fun, but getting 
shot and then settling in for the long haul—with the added liability to 
protect both ourselves and others—the whole trip had been getting 
rather tedious. 

Then I got an Idea... 

And a couple of weeks later a big package arrived. 

There were two-dozen of the new Ruger 1911A1 .45 Automatics in the small
crate—all carefully packaged against damage. Each one had been modified 
to my exact specifications. 

“Gather around everyone,” I shouted. “Everyone select one .45 Auto.
They're all alike, but there will be subtle differences in the 
triggers.” 

I set aside two for myself, and two for Laura. 

“These Guns have Extended Ambidextrous Safeties—but modestly extended.
They have high-profile sights. The grip safety is both pinned, and the 
little stud that activates it has been ground off—so even if somehow 
the pinning fails, the grip safety still won't come into play...” 

“No! I didn't tell anyone to load them! These Guns will stay unloaded
until you're thoroughly trained in their use. Some of you may be 
carrying 1911A1s already. That's cool. 

“But these 1911A1s will stay unloaded until you complete the course I'm
going to teach. 

“Jim-Bob, bring your cousins and come get you a Gun. You're included in
this too. You may not be able to walk, but you're going to start 
contributing something to your own protection,” I said. 

“We're all convicted felons,” Hank said. 

“Not anymore. I've managed to get you full pardons,” I said. 

“Why are they all Bright Nickeled?” A Trooper asked. 

“Well, Gold and Silver are a lot more expensive, and not nearly as
durable. If anyone feels that they simply must have a Bright Chrome 
finish, I'll order you one. 

“There should be a name for objects that are almost Handguns, except
that they have subdued finishes. They're simply not weapons for 
Warriors,” I told him. 

I taught a ten-day course. I'd ordered Jeff Cooper's video course from
Paladin. I let the good Colonel do most of the instructing, but I 
stretched his five-day course into ten, to allow much more repetition. 

By the time everyone had completed the course, they were all much more
deadly, including myself. We trained in two groups, to allow someone to 
guard at all times. 

When everyone was thoroughly trained with their .45, I ordered a bunch
of Smith and Wesson Model 36s—2” .38s with Bright Nickeled finishes and 
no Keyhole. We repeated the course with the J Frame .38 Specials. 

I told all of them to carry whatever they chose to—But to carry it in
addition to the 1911A1s and the .38 backups, not instead of. 

Later we had courses with Double Barreled 12 Gauge Shotguns—with
eighteen-inch barrels, a twelve-inch pull and a Bright Nickel Finish. 

I issued each man a Double—but they weren't required to always have it
with them—unless instructed to. We used a course of fire much like the 
Cowboy Contest Shooters. 

Then we qualified everyone with Pump Shotguns and Lever-Action .30-30s,
though we didn't issue them. 

Getting everyone involved in training got them out of my hair—well
actually, I lead the training more often than not—but the Laws didn't 
seem nearly as annoying. 

Afterwards, we branched out. I ordered all sorts of video tapes—weapon
retention, unarmed against the knife, knife-fighting, kendo, wrestling, 
judo—both good solid stuff and some of the crack-brained... 

We tried it all out. I think that very rarely has a comparable sized
group been brought to such lethality. 

Two of the Bloodhounds decided that they were mine. Laura, Jim-Bob and
the cousins all had one favorite each. That only left two for the State 
Laws. 

I ordered a half-dozen Rat Terriers. Small Dogs are more active and
vocal and they'll keep big dogs more vigilant. 

Then I found an enterprising soul who'd been breeding Bull Mastiffs to
Boxers to get a heavy-duty attack Dog. I ordered six—one for each 
Trooper—a Guard Dog... 

Then I had Murray find a trainer to come and train both men and Dogs
together. 

Even the little Dogs were obedience Trained and Soft-Core Attack
Trained. All the big Dogs got the Hard-Core Attack Training. 

We were managing to spend a lot of the State's money, and use a
fair-sized piece of its manpower, but we hadn't accomplished much since 
Dean and Elvira's Murder. 

Then I got a call. There'd been another Gourmet Murder. 

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

I sent a Law car to pick up Elder Vincent and my own Pastor Elder Duncan
to bring them to the meeting, because I wanted both of their opinions 

There was the woman in the interrogation room.  She had two black eyes,
busted lips and she was missing a few teeth. 

Her husband had come home early and caught her and the Gourmet sitting
down to eat. He'd walked right in on them and surprised them. The 
Gourmet had barely started his meal. 

The husband had attacked the Gourmet—or tried to. His wife had fought
fiercely to allow the murderer room to flee, hence her injuries. 

She sat fiercely puffing on a cigarette as we watched the FBI people
interrogate her. 

“Does she smoke?” I asked her husband, who was also in the observation
room. 

“Not for ten or twelve years, “ he said. “I'd know if she started again.
I'm very sensitive to the slightest hint of Tobacco odor.” 

So something about her experience made her crave nicotine—made her suck
on a cigarette as if she were trying to drink a very thick milkshake 
through a straw. 

“When she's done talking to the FBI, take away her cigarettes,” I told
one of the Fort Wayne Detectives. 

When the FBI Profilers were done, they were willing to let Friend's
Travelling Sideshow take a crack at it. If she stayed true to form, she 
wouldn't stay attentive and responsive much longer anyway. 

I had Vincent with his scarred eyeless face—looking kinda like a poor
man's Hurr. I had Jim-Bob in his Wheelchair—I'd come to value his keen 
mind. I had my Pastor of course, Laura looking like one of those 
Deca-Damsels you used to see in Women's Bodybuilding. 

{Deca-Durabolin is—or at least used to be—a very common Anabolic
Steroid—I guess the term is kinda obsolete nowadays...} 

I had Eric and a couple Troopers. Since the Troopers were now plain
clothes and since they'd been associating with me, their dress had 
become increasingly eccentric... 

And Laura and I walked in. 

“Why did you do it?” I asked. 

“I need a Smoke,” She replied. 

“Answer the question,” I insisted. 

“Give me a Cigarette first!” She insisted. 

“I don't smoke. I don't have any cigarettes. I do have this though,” I
showed her a huge cigar. 

“If you answer me, I'll let you have it. If not, I'll give it to Laura.”


She sat silent a moment. 

I handed the cigar to Laura. I'd briefed her beforehand what I wanted.
She trimmed the tip off the cigar with a big Buck lock-back, then got 
out a lighter as if to light the cigar. 

“Just tell me one thing,” I said. “What color was the strange man?” 

Her eyes went zonkie. 

“Colors—O the colors—all the colors of the rainbow, and O so bright!”
She rambled. 

“And what did the baby taste like?” 

“Colors—Bright Colors! Red and Violet, Blue and Yellow. The brightest
Black, The deepest Orange—She tasted like a Rainbow!” 

I gave her the cigar and Laura held a light for her. I'd wondered ever
since I'd seen some of the other women smoking. That was a fifty-dollar 
cigar—but I'd selected it for a reason. It had the highest nicotine 
level by far of any cigar listed. 

Once the Client had the cigar burning good, she started the milkshake
suck again, inhaling the thick harsh smoke as if it were asthma 
medicine. She kept at it too, until halfway through the cigar, she went 
catatonic. 

Her eyes became vacant and she stared at nothing. The half-finished
cigar fell out of nerveless fingers. Laura scooped it up and ground it 
out before it could burn her. 

“Eric, would you bring Vincent and Elder Duncan in here, “ I asked. 

“Does this look anything like Demon Possession to you,” I asked them. 

“Not like any possession that I've ever seen, “ Vincent said. 

Elder Duncan merely shook his head. 

{Since I knew Vincent before he became an Elder, in my mind I wasn't
required to use his title except in church.} 

“But there's one way to be sure,” Vincent continued. 

He laid his right hand on her forehead and commanded, “I order all foul
spirits to leave this woman—In The Name of Jesus!” 

He shrugged. 

“If there were any unclean spirits, that would have driven them out.
Obviously she is oppressed, but not by the Demonic.” 

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

I gestured to one of the Detectives. 

“Have you started the autopsy on the baby yet? I need to see something
first,” I said. 

“That's a job for a qualified Coroner. Are you a Doctor?” He responded. 

“Actually yes, I am a Doctor—but not a Medical Doctor. I won't touch the
body, but I need to see something,” I insisted. 

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

My entourage stayed way back while I examined the corpse. I stuck a
Dentist's mirror deep in the carcass to get a good look. Then I brought 
my nose to within two or three inches and smelled. 

“Yah-Yah, Yah-YAHHH!” As the Rastafarian chef used to say 

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

“You told me that you never graduated from College,” Laura said
accusingly, once we were all comfortably back in the van. 

“No, I told you that I failed out of Purdue three times. I have two
associate's degrees from IVY Tech—one in Industrial Maintenance, the 
other in Welding. I also have a Bachelor's; Master's and PhDs from one 
of the top rated accredited Correspondence Colleges around, “ I said. 

“In what?” She demanded. 

“You'd never guess,” I said. 

“What was up with that weird question, the cigar and poking and smelling
around that poor little dead baby, “ She demanded. 

“I'm forming a tentative hypothesis,” I said. “It sounds too far out to
share it yet. As far as the baby—I'm sorry she's dead, but her body no 
more contains her essence that the tray that she lays on... 

“And if I thought that casting that little body into a pen-full of pigs
would bring me a half-inch closer to that evil perverted knob-gobbler 
that's doing this... 

“Then O well...” 

“I'd hate to have you hunting me, “ Eric shuddered. “But you're a good
fellow to have on my side.” 

Chapter Ten 

I had gathered Murray, Laura, Jim-Bob and his two cousins for a Council
of War. Jim-Bob was a genius, Laura was my full-time aide and Hank and 
Eric were like a Praetorian Guard. The two Tennesseans seemed to want 
to stay within at least earshot at all times—at least when they weren't 
on a bugging mission. It wasn't worth hearing their grievances for 
leaving them out. 

“We're dealing with some sort of mind control. Nothing else could
explain those women's actions adequately. The sniper that I shot and 
his two spotters... 

“We couldn't find any connection between them. The closest two lived
about seventy miles apart. They weren't even casual shooters—for which 
I'm grateful... 

“The Gourmet killed Elvira and Dean because he was afraid that Elvira
knew something. 

“We don't seem to be dealing with the supernatural and the Gourmet only
seems able to turn one person at a time. But we can't be sure at any 
point in time, that he hasn't turned one of us,” I said. 

“What about the cigar?” Laura asked. 

“Do you know how Nicotine works? I haven't looked it up in awhile—don't
know the latest. But I do know that it attaches itself to 
Neurotransmitter Receivers on the Neurons in the Brain that it is 
habit-forming and that it has a number of rather contradictory effects 
on the Brain. 

“I'm guessing that the Gourmet programs his clients to shut down upon
mission completion—at least if they're caught. That would be a foregone 
conclusion in the mother's cases. 

“This dude is crafty enough to know that an overabundance of Nicotine
helps bring about the catatonic state that he wants these women in. It 
doesn't cause it. It just greases the skids. 

“They're programmed to demand Nicotine and due to the bizarre tendency
our suspects have of going uncommunicative, rules were bent to let them 
smoke—anything for a bit more data,” I said. 

“Shouldn't they have given them cigarettes?” Murray asked. 

“Naw, giving it to them made the best of a bad deal. Otherwise they'd
have refused to cooperate at all even while still conscious,” I 
replied. 

“Why did you stick your nose into the baby's pleural cavity?” Laura
asked. 

“I stuck a Dental mirror into the chest cavity. My nose was a good four
inches away.” 

“But why?” Jim-Bob demanded. 

“Both kidneys had been harvested—nice neat incisions. The impromptu
picnic afterwards, though it certainly seems to trip the Gourmet's 
switches, is at least partly to obscure the fact. 

“As to the smell—I have no idea what may have been revealed. I believe
that we can smell much better than we consciously realize but that most 
of it is processed as subliminal information. 

“At any rate—we need to have our people on the clock 24/7. We need to
set up a buddy system, so that no one is ever alone. I mean that 
literally. We don't go to the crapper unless someone is standing 
outside the stall keeping guard,” I said. 

“Well I selected unmarried Gun-happy men for you. Fact is, most of them
probably wouldn't have been accepted under ordinary circumstances—just 
not quite the politically correct mix—but I've been contemplating 
something like this for some time. I've been seeding them—getting them 
accepted ahead of the need— as a future resource. 

“They won't complain about the long hours. I'll arrange a generous
bonus. Maybe you can think up a few more toys to keep them occupied,” 
Murray said. 

“Can you get me a few more?” I asked. 

“Damned Nation! You're burning up a bunch of the Governor's
discretionary budget. I'll see what I can do,” Murray said. 

“Another thing—Several folks have wanted to know why the Governor's
Special Task Force is headquartered in Kentucky,” Murray said. 

“This isn't the ‘Headquarters' for anything. This is my home. We haven't
the time to move into a ‘Headquarters' at the moment. We're trying to 
catch this Fiendish Gourmet before he kills any more babies—or anyone 
else for that matter. I also expect him to move on us soon. He seems to 
be good at covering his tracks,” I said. 

“You didn't let me finish. I talked to the Governor of Kentucky. You are
all now part of the Joint Governor's task force of Indiana and 
Kentucky. Word has went out to the Laws to leave y'all strictly alone,” 
Murray said. 

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

After Murray had left, the others had some questions. 

“That part about organ harvesting sounds alright if you say it fast
but... 

“They sell organs in several Third World countries. It doesn't make
sense to ship organs there. If the operation was done in the US...” 
Laura paused to marshal Her arguments. 

“Well you can't just go bouncing into an O.R. and cheerfully announce
that you have a kidney,” She concluded. 

“You might be able to do that very occasionally and get away with it.
But he doesn't have to. He can get to each member of the surgical team. 
He gets to every nurse and administrator that would represent a 
possible problem. 

“He even turns the clerks and gets the right stuff done on the computer.
If the clerk needs help, he can get a top-notch hacker to help work on 
the computer trail. And he spreads it over several hospitals all over 
four or five states. 

“Sure, if someone digs deeply enough—but who would? Why? And he can
always turn anyone who starts to pry. 

“Anyway, I think that organ harvesting is very much secondary. This
dude's on an ego trip. He took both kidneys—sure, given the option, 
might as well have two kidneys. I think his main concern was lest he 
bollix one though. He's a screw-up—at least as a Doctor,” I explained. 

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

It turned out that five of the seven new Troopers that Murray sent were
Kentucky Laws. 

They were a bit behind on the weapon practice that we'd all been doing,
but the others were advanced enough to both train them and continue 
their own training. 

They were starting to get into Small-Unit Tactics—Something that I knew
little about. But their incessant practice kept them out of my way. 

Hank and Eric also got me the names of a half-dozen convicts that were
both doing long-term sentences and whom they thought would be a good 
fit. I noticed that four out of the six were cousins of the brothers. 
I'm not stupid. 

The Pardons took a bit longer to process, but the Men were a very good
fit. 

The budget got stretched enough for four more Bull Mastiff—Boxer Hybrids
and we picked up a couple big Dogs at the shelter. One looked like he 
was mostly German Shepherd and the other was a Half-Grown Rottweiler 
and then there was the Beagle-looking little puppy that we got because 
he only had a day left till termination... 

I had a fair idea what sort of dude that I was looking for. I had
Jim-Bob hacking into computer records from several states looking for 
obscure discrepancies in the organ donor records. 

Laura, Hank, Eric and I were going around planting a trap amongst the
hookers in seven cities. I didn't want anyone but my closest inner 
circle to know what my exact theory was evolving into, so I was limited 
to just us four to set my traps. 

We had to check back with our client hookers regularly to see if the
Gourmet had took the bait. 

Long hours sitting in the van or driving and plenty on-the-road fast
food started taking its toll, so we started a daily exercise routine 
regardless of where we were. 

We finally hit pay dirt in Louisville Kentucky. A hooker named Rita had
been accosted by the Gourmet and not only did she resist his mind 
control, she got him on videotape with the tiny video camera we'd given 
her to wear. 

She'd been on salary for being one of our agents in the field and I also
paid her a hefty bonus—both in money and drugs. Dealing with snitches 
is a dirty business. But I didn't fault anyone for snitching on the 
Gourmet. 

I called Murray on a scrambled phone and gave him the gist of my
information. There should have been an APB out with several nice black 
and white shots of the Gourmets face on it. 

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

I never thought that it was a good idea to follow patterns—especially
now that we were so close. 

We crossed the Ohio and checked into a small motel in Madison Indiana
rather than stay in Louisville or try to make it back home. I intended 
to follow 64 back to 41 and return by the slightly roundabout 
route—just to throw off any possible ambush... 

But I hadn't reckoned on the incredible number of compromised people
were under the Gourmets control. 

The next morning we were doing our daily exercises. Since the motel had
a pool, Eric and Hank swam while Laura and I kept a discrete guard. 
Swimming in a pool almost necessitates being pretty much disarmed. The 
brothers had their 1911A1s in leather satchels, one at each end of the 
pool. 

A couple of county deputies stepped around the corner of the building
with pump shotguns and opened fire on the brothers without warning. 
Then two more came running up from the opposite direction. 

Hank had a little stainless .32 Seecamp that he was carrying in his swim
trunks. He immediately drew and started returning fire. The water was 
only slightly above waist level at his end of the pool and he was 
promptly shot down. He took three or four shotgun shells worth of 00 
Buckshot to the chest. 

Eric was in deeper water. He dove deep and waited until the shotgun fire
ceased, then he started swimming underwater toward the deepest end of 
the pool, where his bag and .45 were. 

When the deputies ran out of 12 Gauge shells, they shifted to high
capacity 9mms and emptied them into the pool. 

While all this was going on, Laura had drawn a bead on the head of the
closer running Deputy and sent a round of .30-30 from her neat little 
takedown Lever-Action through his brainpan. 

I was farther away and without a long Gun. I shot the second Poolside
deputy three times with my 1911A1. Then I turned my attention on the 
second running deputy, since he was almost on top of me. 

I couldn't seem to get unstuck off torso shots, despite the fact that
his vest was visible and despite his continued charge. Lucky for me, he 
seemed totally caught-up in his Bayonet-type charge—not that he had a 
bayonet on his shotgun. 

I ducked his buttstroke intended to hit my head, drew my Ruger Redhawk
Left-Handed and sent a fast 250 grain .45 Colt Semi-Wadcutter through 
his head from behind. 

Meanwhile Eric had gotten to his .45 and between him and Laura, they
took down the two poolside shooters. The one that I'd hit three times 
to the torso turned out to be wearing a vest. 

They didn't take them down before Eric sustained four 9mm hits to the
torso—Though I think that the water had slowed down at least three of 
them somewhat. 

Hank was dead.  We put pressure bandages on Eric. We could hear sirens
in the distance. 

“We have to split. We can't do anything for Eric. He'll die if we move
him. We'll hope that the Paramedics will try to save him and not 
execute him outright,” I told Laura as I drug her away from the 
poolside. 

“We just killed four Laws,” She said. 

“Laws ain't supposed to shoot first and ask questions later—especially
with people unarmed and in a swimming pool. Either they were fakes or 
the Gourmet has turned them. In either case, we need to get out of 
here,” I told her. 

I grabbed my Bug-Out Bag and headed to an old beat-up looking car—one I
hoped would be less likely to be alarmed. I could have really used one 
of the brother's deft hands. They'd become really expert at all sorts 
of Lock Picking and other bypassing methods. 

There were a few tense moments, but I managed to get the car started and
out on the highway and far enough from the motel that the Laws in their 
Law Cars with the flashing lights and blaring sirens didn't stop us as 
they went whizzing by. 

I drove into town and took a few random right turns. Then I parked the
car in a small parking lot. 

“Come on, it's about a quarter mile from here, if I remember correctly,”
I said. 

“What?” 

“There is a mental hospital in Madison. It's honeycombed with steam
tunnels. I removed Asbestos there twenty some-odd years ago. Most of 
the tunnels were knee-deep in water and unused. 

“I spent some time exploring when I was supposed to be working. One of
the tunnels comes up close to here,” 

“Why would the tunnel come way over here?” 

“The hospital is just a little over that away. As to why it comes out
outside the hospital grounds at all—I couldn't tell you. Probably 
someone had an agenda when they built it way back when,” I said. 

The entrance to the tunnel was there sure enough. We had to squat and
duck-walk a bit to get in. 

After dark I stepped out of the tunnel to send Jim-Bob a scrambled
satellite call. 

“What gives Jim-Bob? Four deputies tried to kill us today,” I said into
the phone. 

“We're compromised. The compound is under siege. They're claiming that
we're some sort of terrorist group. We're holding them off for the 
moment. I think they're holding back to get plenty of airtime and make 
sure that everyone is tuned in for the big push. 

“They've gone public with the Gourmet Murders. They claim that you and
Laura are responsible. They're offering a $10 000 reward for either of 
you—dead or alive,” Jim-Bob said. 

“What is this, the Old West?” I expostulated in exasperation. 

“ They say that Hank and Eric are escaped prisoners. 

“There are dead bodies and dead Dogs, lots of dead Dogs,” Jim-Bob said. 

He was weeping and breaking down as he spoke. 

“Gotta go Jim-Bob. Find this shabnasticator for me, if you can. Call you
later. Godspeed,” I told him. 

“What are we gonna do?” Laura asked me when I related the contents of
Jim-Bob's message. 

“We'll lay low for two or three days. They'll think that we're long
gone. I can disguise myself fairly well. I'll score us a vehicle and 
we'll head somewhere better... 

“And hope that Jim-Bob can locate the Gourmet.” 

“What good will that do? They'll still be out to arrest us or be angling
to shoot us on sight,” She said. 

“You're right, we may be permanently wanked, but I want the satisfaction
of ripping that baby-eating perverts guts out and strangling him with 
his own intestines before I die, or get put into a maximum security 
cell for life,” I said. 

Chapter Eleven 

There was both food and water in our bags—though more food than water.
We were pretty thirsty when the third day rolled around. 

Fortunately there was an ample sized dry area right inside the tunnel's
mouth, and we had a wool blanket each. 

I'm not an expert on disguise, but I'd read a couple books and watched a
couple shows on The Learning Channel about CIA Methods. 

Number one, changing hair color does very little to disguise you. Number
two, changing the shape of the hair, and thereby changing the apparent 
shape of the head does far more. Best of all, change both the shape and 
the color. 

Number three, you can't shrink any of your key facial features—short of
surgery—but you can add to them. 

As a consequence, most disguises tend to make one look rather
Troll-Like—big nose, big chin and prominent supra-orbital ridges. If I 
were looking for someone that I expected might be in disguise, I would 
concentrate on folks with rather coarse features... 

But then the World is full of folks with coarse features. 

Fortunately I have a Celtic nose—broad but rather short. My nose-line
was very straight until it was broken several times. Afterward it bowed 
in the middle, like a sway-backed old nag. 

I had a silicone-rubber prosthesis in my bag. It gave me a very large
nose with a hump in the middle. It had one medium-sized mole with 
several black hairs sprouting from it. 

I wear my hair long and free, and about half was still reddish-brown—and
it was very fine. My disguise has a wig of long stringy white hair, 
tied back into a ponytail. 

My own eyebrows are all but invisible—being both rather sparse and very
light colored. I had rubber prostheses that gave me supra-orbital 
ridges like a Neanderthal's and very thick bushy black brows. 

I completed my outfit with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses—actually safety
glasses with zero correction and the side-shields removed, and duct 
tape repair on the bridge. There was also a very loud Hawaiian shirt in 
my bag—since I seldom wear anything but black. 

I had the wherewithal to give me a chin that would make Dudley Do-Right
proud, but opted not to mess with it. My Jeans and my “T” Shirt were 
still black, but if folks were studying me that hard, I was already in 
trouble. 

“I want to come with you, “ Laura objected. 

“Laura, they're looking for an older white man with a young black woman
of unusual stature. It isn't that uncommon to see a white man walking 
with a black woman, but it is an exception—something that will prompt 
further analysis. And there is nothing that I can do to make you look 
white or to make you much shorter. 

“Please stay here until I get a vehicle for us and come back to get you.
If I don't get back tonight, tomorrow night do what you want to,” I 
said. 

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

I'd found a good stout stick just outside the tunnel, and I used it as
another prop, leaning rather heavily on it as I went. 

I found a nice older Ford van, a Blue Econoline 250. I'd owned a couple
E-150s and an E-350, but never an E-250 and never a Blue van. I had 
reduced it to possession in a matter of moments. 

Laura piled in the back out of sight after I picked her up. I filled the
tank with gasoline at the first convenience store we encountered. I 
also picked up a Styrofoam cooler, three bags of ice and some 
drinks—including some water—as well as some regular grub. 

Indianapolis isn't far from Madison. It was only a little over ninety
miles by the most direct route. I cranked the big van up to five or six 
miles per hour over the speed limit—going too slow would have aroused 
as much interest as going too fast—and I prayed that the van wouldn't 
be reported stolen in the next couple hours, or failing that, that no 
Law would feel the need to call our plates in. 

The van had excellent steering and shocks and it was a pleasure to drive
on the highway. Once we were out of Madison, Laura climbed up into the 
passenger seat beside me. She kept her Marlin .30-30 beside her, sling 
wrapped around one forearm, so that a hypothetical crash wouldn't 
separate them—at least one might hope. 

We pulled into Indianapolis and I went to Murray's neighborhood. A quick
visual survey convinced me that his house wasn't being watched. 

Laura and I easily picked his lock and countered his rather prosaic
security system. He was lying in bed asleep. I straddled his body as I 
woke him. 

He panicked—especially seeing my “Caveman Face” that I hadn't yet
bothered to remove. He'd been a very good wrestler in his day. He'd 
stayed fit. Even though I had one hundred pounds on him and he was 
partially tangled in his blanket, I was very glad that Laura was there 
to hold his legs for me. 

There were any number of things that I could have done, but I didn't
want to hurt him, nor give him the chance to hurt me. 

“Hold still Murray, damn it! I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to
see if you've been turned,” I said. 

I had a gadget that I'd made. It had a ring of very bright diodes all
around the rim, they strobed very rapidly, at several selectable 
speeds, all the while allowing me to observe the iris and pupil through 
the center. 

If I were correct, having been turned would have altered the eye
movements in response to such stimulation in certain meaningful ways. 

If I wasn't, then I was about to hand a loaded Gun to a very dangerous
foe. 

Murray looked at me sourly when I handed him his .45. He dropped the
magazine and checked the chamber and looked thoroughly disgusted when 
they turned out to be empty. 

I handed him his magazine and his spare round. Not checking would have
been yet another sign that he was no longer completely in control of 
himself. 

“He has the Governor and most of the major Law Enforcement Officers in
Indiana,” Murray said as he loaded his Gun. 

“Why haven't they tried to turn or killed you?” I asked. 

Murray shrugged. 

“I'm one of the Governor's closest and most powerful aides, but not on
paper. I function better out of the limelight. These folks have rather 
linear ideas about how Bureaucracies function. 

“Quite simply, they don't believe that I'm worth bothering with,” Murray
said. “I've been at wit's end the last few days, trying not to draw 
attention to myself.” 

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

I got ahold of Jim-Bob on Murray's scrambled and untraceable landline. 

“He's in the Governor's mansion,” Jim-Bob said. “He's like a spider in
the center of a great web. Anyone he needs to turn, he has the Governor 
summon him to his home office. The Governor isn't leaving his mansion, 
due to terrorist's threats—so he says. The place is under heavy guard.” 


“Jim-Bob, I need you to put together an approximately one hour
presentation. Use recordings from the women, our interviews with the 
hookers, newspaper accounts of Laura and my exploits—something to 
convince the unconvinced that we've been acting under color of 
authority... 

“Then I need you, and as many of the others as possible, to break
contact and join me. 

“Leave the chair. Have someone carry you on his back. We'll have you a
chair waiting when you get here. 

“Oh and Jim-Bob, I need you—but give every member of the breakout team a
copy. If one man gets here, I want the stuff to be with him—and do 
encrypt. 

“One more thing Jim-Bob—the one's who stay behind to create a diversion,
they're volunteering for what is probably a suicide mission.” 

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

I started with a dozen of the County Laws from Hurr's County before I
ever got my multi-media package from Jim-Bob. 

“Dudes, it is like—I imagine that y'all don't like me. That's cool. But
ask yourself what happened when y'all tried to arrest me. 

“Beaucoup heavy dudes from the The Governor's Office and the State
Police came down. They told you that we were like Bad Dudes. We had 
heavy pull—they told you to leave us strictly alone. 

“Now they're not only totally disavowing us, they've put out a ‘Shoot on
Sight' order, and they're offering a $10 000 reward, dead or alive. 

“Does that seem right to y'all?” I asked them. 

I described the Gourmet murders, the Governor's low-profile Special Task
Force. I explained that the Gourmet had some sort of mind-control 
device. That it only took a few moments to work and that it took away 
one's will. 

I also explained that they were surely a loose end that would get cut
off and tied eventually—so it wasn't really a risk of life or career to 
follow me. 

I ended up with a dozen County Laws on my assault force. Thirteen of my
men escaped with Jim-Bob. We rounded up another two-dozen Laws rather 
quickly; including a couple FBI men who knew something truly weird was 
afoot. 

Then just as we were getting ready to disembark, two thirteen-man squads
showed up. They wore camo BDUs and they all carried H&K model 93's and 
the old style VP 70 Pistols. 

“Hurr asked us to aid you,” was all they had to say for themselves. 

We laid our plans for assaulting the Governor's Mansion—helped by the
detailed floor plans and disposition of the Governor's Security forces. 


“If the Gourmet succeeds, he may very well come to rule the Earth... 

“His mind-control device is that powerful. We may live... 

“We may die. 

“Ain't nothin' for to do it, but to do it!” I shouted before we got into
our several separate vehicles to take us by different routes to our 
assembly points. 

Never believed in putting all my baskets around One Egg. 

Chapter Eleven 

There wasn't much subtlety in how we attacked the Governor's mansion. We
had to get in. Our continued freedom depended on it. It was a side 
issue that the continued freedom of America, even the World also hung 
in the balance. 

Arithmetical Logic does not apply to Ethics. You can't sacrifice ten for
the sake of a hundred, for the sake of a thousand or a million or a 
billion. It just doesn't work that way. 

What worked for me: The Gourmet had control of the Governor. The
Governor was sending assassins out to kill me and mine. The Gourmet and 
the Governor had to be shut down. Anyone not for me was against me. 

Anyway, why think of it as a cause for sorrow, to die fighting. A Plains
Indian, a Viking or a Samurai certainly wouldn't have thought so. 

I had a sixteen-inch Barreled Saiga .308, with a wood stock of course.
It was accurate enough for close quarters and it would cut right 
through any soft body armor. 

I had several of the ten round magazines, though if I needed more than
twenty rounds, I was doing something seriously wrong. 

A couple of the County Laws were also members of the National Guard and
they knew where some Grenades, Tear Gas and LAW Rockets were kept. 

As I opened fire on the Sentries placed outside, several folks aimed Law
Rockets at various windows—windows where we expected that they had 
Snipers positioned behind. 

LAW Rockets were intended to take out Armor. They were never intended to
replace the Platoon Anti-Tank Weapon—something akin to a WWII Bazooka. 

LAW Rockets were rather feeble, even when first introduced—but the
standard combat load was supposed to be two LAWs per man. They even 
taught to try to get two or three men to all try to shoot at the same 
spot at the same time... 

Their purpose was to give David a Slingshot, whereas before he was
unarmed. They gave the average Infantry Soldier the Possibility of 
taking out a Tank. 

But the search for a good all-purpose Infantry Anti-Tank Weapon lagged
and the faltered. Ignorant politicians said, “Why do we need a Squad 
Anti Tank Weapon? We have the LAW after all...” 

Finally after two or three decades, the LAW was discontinued—largely
because Tank Armor had continued to evolve and improve. 

The thing that concerned me about the LAW was that it had never been
intended as an Anti Personnel Weapon—though it could be pressed into 
service as one. It tended to focus its blast very narrowly. 

There was some talk that the Marines wanted to commission some LAW
Rockets designed for Anti Personnel use, particularly clearing 
tunnels—but the whole weapon system was scrapped first. 

Be that as it may. We only had the Anti Armor LAWS—though we had them in
abundance. 

One or two went through each ground floor window—hopefully exploding on
the wall inside and showering the room's occupants with hot gas and 
Rocket fragments. 

We also had almost twice as many aimed to strike below each window—in
hopes that it would penetrate the brick wall and shower those within 
with stone fragments. 

Once each window had been struck several times, we lay down covering
fire to let one of our men get close enough to toss a fragmentation 
grenade through the window, then a second grenade, then a third... 

Then it was time for a tear gas grenade or two, and then a Gas Masked
Assault Trooper went through the window. 

We hit the front door the same way—except that we hit it with four times
as many LAWS and hosed it thoroughly with several M-60s and small arms 
fire. When the front entrance was thoroughly softened up, we drove one 
of those Armored SWAT battering ram vehicles through it. 

Laura and I were in the SWAT Tank. The hallway was broad and the driver
drove as far down it as he could before bogging down. Then we hit the 
ground running. 

I was full of adrenaline and I ran ahead of my support. I ran up the
stars two at a time and made it to the second floor. The office the 
Governor used when working at home was up ahead. 

I hastily planted a knock-knock bomb on the door, retreated to a safe
distance and blew the door to smithereens. 

The Governor had four men with him as bodyguards and the Gourmet was
there. They seemed momentarily distracted. The Gourmet's mind control 
device did that to people—made them just a hair slow responding to the 
unexpected. 

Bam-Bam! Bam-BAM! Four rounds of .308 and there was just the Governor,
the Gourmet and me. 

One of the hasty M-4 rounds from the bodyguards had wrecked my Saiga.
Could just have easily have wrecked me. I lucked out. It happens. I 
dropped the worthless firearm 

The Governor was screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to come
and shoot me. I could see that there wasn't going to be any reasoning 
with him. 

I drew my .45 Colt Ruger Redhawk Right-Handed and sent a round through
the Governor's forehead. Then I turned toward the Gourmet, but he 
already had his weapon out. 

Perhaps if I had worn my gas mask, the lenses would have subtly changed
the light enough... 

But the Tear Gas was very wispy in the downstairs hall and nonexistent
upstairs. 

Nor did I have the color distorting contact lenses that I'd given to the
hookers to wear. I needed to be able to shoot. Can't really focus on 
the front sight through a blurry Fresnel lens. 

The device was about ten or eleven inches in diameter—a piece of
Masonite covered very densely with different colored LEDs. He held it 
like a shield in front of him. In the rear was a very generous battery 
package and a small microprocessor to run the device. 

It showed all sorts of colored psychedelic patterns—optical
illusions—that kinda stuff. Once you looked, you didn't want to look 
away. You couldn't look away. 

The patterns were constantly shifting and changing. It was a form of
hypnosis, but far faster and more irresistible. 

“I call this the ‘Crooked Wheel',” The Gourmet said. 

“That figures! You couldn't even come up with our own name for it. You
stole the name from the trilogy by Brian M Stableford,” I sneered. 

Already I wasn't myself—or I'd simply have shot him rather than arguing.


Many of the patterns did have off-centered axes like a crooked wheel. 

“You still speak? You must have extraordinary will. No matter. 

“I didn't create the Crooked Wheel. I didn't name it. It didn't work on
me, because I'm color blind—but I was smart enough to play along. When 
I saw my chance, I stole it from the One True Light. How's that for a 
nom de guer? 

“Watch the colors...so soothing...” 

I was trapped. My hand wouldn't obey my command to shoot. I couldn't
shoot the Gourmet. I couldn't even fire a round at random, hoping the 
boom would break the spell. 

I could give in—or I could choose to lose my sanity altogether. 

Total insanity, with no hope of recovery, is a form of death—a messy
lingering form of death. But if I couldn't live free, then it was time 
to die. 

I started marshalling my resources for a leap into mental oblivion. I
thought once more about the song: 

“I'm free “Done Spent All My Money “But I Rock That Like It Don't Cost a
Thing “No, It Don't Cost a Thing...” 

Then it come to me. 

I failed out of Purdue three times, because I just couldn't grasp
Calculus. I collected Calculus books for years, hoping I'd find one 
that made sense. I'd gotten a fair grasp of Calculus over the years, 
with my hit-or-miss reading of Math Texts. 

But I really started studying it in my fiftieth year. 

I told Laura that I had a PhD. I do. It's in Mathematics. 

I failed out of College as a young man—wrecked any chance I had of being
successful, because Mathematics didn't come easy—didn't come at all 
really... 

But I avenged the Great Scientist that I might have been, by pursuing an
Economically useless—to me—correspondence PhD in Mathematics. Once I 
caught the knack I enjoyed Math. I was good at Math. 

And Math came to my rescue. 

Believe it or not, the brain can handle all sorts of Complicated
Equations intuitively and instantly. 

Ever play “Pitch-and-Catch”? Have you played it with Baseball Glove,
Hardball and pitching fairly hard? 

You can't program the best computer/robot combination to play Fast-Pitch
or even Easy-Does-It underhand lobbing Pitch-and-Catch. 

Music. 

Musical tunes are Mathematical Formulae. You can program a computer to
compose Music. It won't be terribly inspired Music, but definitely 
Music. 

You can even program a computer to do Improvisational Blues—though not
in real time. 

More importantly, any true melody—no matter how new and
innovative—satisfies certain Mathematical Parameters... 

That's what the Goumet's Crooked Wheel was doing. It was playing a sort
of Visual “Music”. 

There is an old adage. I think that it originated with Magicians. It has
also been applied to Science and the Arts. 

“Explanation makes all things Common.” 

“Common” in the sense of “Prosaic” and “Uninteresting”—“Unimpressive”. 

When I broke the Gourmet's Color Patterns down into equations... 

They were still fascinating equations, but they weren't quite Hypnotic.
I owned them. 

An instant later, I owned the Gourmet. It wasn't prettyful. 

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

I spent six months in solitary, in some Top Secret Government Facility. 

While I'd been busy with the Gourmet, they'd slipped up on me. They hit
me with Tasers and Tranquilizer Guns, Stun Guns and Pepper Spray. I 
wouldn't have voluntarily let myself be taken alive. 

Then after months of intense interrogation, they simply let me go. 

Murray and Laura picked me up in my own van, in the middle of a
cornfield in Southern Indiana, where the Feds had dropped me off. 

“They're attributing the Assassination of the Governor and his Guards to
Terrorists,” Murray said. “There is no record of any of us being 
involved.” 

“How exactly did the Gourmet work?” 

I explained about the Crooked Wheel and the light show. 

“What happened to it?” Laura asked. “The Feds sure would like to get
ahold of it to study.” 

“That's what I know. That's why I was carrying a five-pound pouch of
Thermite. 

“The Govies can analyze the ashes and deduce that the device had
transistors, LEDs and Masonite—Not that the actual device would be much 
use without the programs that drove the light show,” I replied. 

“But why?” Laura asked. 

“The Government is the very last entity that I want to have a mind
Control device,” I said. 

“What happened to the Gourmet?” Murray Asked. 

“I skinned his head.” 

“You killed him?” 

“No. I quite literally skinned his head. Crappy way to live—not to
mention the pain... 

“He won't have any lips, no eyelids, no external ears or nostrils.
Eating will be very messy. No chance to chew and savor there. Eye drops 
every few minutes. Being ugliful,” I said. 

“Maybe they could put his skin back on,” Laura said. “They reattach Arms
and legs sometimes.” 

“Well if they can reconstitute the skin of his head from the Thermite
Slag...” I replied. 

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

While I was filling my friends in on my end of the story, we came to a
big eight Story building in the middle of nowhere. Laura pulled into 
the drive. 

A bunch of armed men were in formation waiting for us. 

I later learned that there were four Platoons formed of four squads of
thirteen men each—and like in the Infantry model, each Platoon had a 
First Sergeant and a Second Lieutenant. 

There were also a couple partial squads and an irregular Support
Platoon. 

I'd never seen the uniforms before—or the Badges that all the
Para-Military Troopers wore. 

“I grabbed the ear of the Lieutenant Governor,” Murray said. “I
convinced him how valuable the Governor's Special Task Force had 
been... 

“These are the new Indiana Rangers. The Uniforms are for show, but the
Badges—reminiscent of the old circle and star Texas Ranger Badges are 
what they actually carry in the field. 

“Each man is armed and expected to be expert with a 1911A1; a Short
Barreled .38 Smith and Wesson; a Short Barreled 12 Gauge Double and the 
Marlin Lever Action Rifle—as well as several occasional issue weapons. 

“When they're not in the field, they train incessantly. They answer to
no one but their own Chain of Command. 

“Unlike most Law Enforcement Agencies, they actively seek the reputation
as Bad Dudes. 

“Their charter stipulates that they never make an arrest, or cooperate
with other agencies in any sort of Weapon or drug cases—since these 
have the highest potential to foster Civil Rights violations.” 

Murray paused to look significantly at me He was quoting my own words
back to me about Guns and drugs. 

“You know what you said to me, about how you hated short hair and
thought that it was unconscionable that so many Government Agencies 
Stipulated it?” Murray continued. “Well it is in the by-laws: Every 
Indiana Ranger is expected to wear his hair long and to keep it well 
kept.” 

“You will have to excuse them, one's hair doesn't grow much in six
months.” 

“We are also giving selected Convicts serving Long Terms a chance to
earn a Full-Pardon working with the Rangers. 

“Just from Indiana though. Kentucky is organizing it's own Ranger
Program, and needs all the Potential recruits that they can get.” 

“Murray, who is running this Freak Show? And why are you showing it to
me?” 

“I thought that you'd figure that out. We're offering you the post of
the first Commander of The Indiana Rangers. 

“Jim-Bob is working for us. So is Hank—but neither of them is up to
standing Inspection... 

“And all of your Dogs survived—though many didn't.” 

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

I suppose that would be my entire story... 

Except that a few weeks later, a couple of Hurr's followers came by to
see me. 

They told me that Hurr had never asked anything from them—until he asked
several of them to stand with me. He was pretty much incommunicado—just 
giving off that strange sense of peace and detachment that I'd felt in 
his presence. Although to hear them tell it, such a mental state was 
very conducive to analytical thinking. 

The Group was very wealthy due to their timely investments and several
members were well respected Mathematicians and/or Economists. 

Well Hurr had another request and he was calling in a Favor. 

He claimed that the One True Light had designs on him and he did not
want to be abducted by him. 

He asked his followers to ask for my protection. 

Damned Nation he was heavy. Like I say, he appears to be carved from
White Stone. But he's about five times as heavy as any Earthly 
material... 

His followers claim that he can choose to be heavier yet, when he
doesn't consent to being moved. 

So now Hurr resides in a guarded sub-basement at Ranger Headquarters. 

I'm ambivalent. The Bible warns against Idolitry... 

But he's really not an Idol. He's the actual being—some sort of Alien
Being, though I don't know if he's extra-terrestrial or not. 

And he asks no one to worship him. 

Maybe it was wrong of me to give him Sanctuary, but if the One True
Light wants him, that is an excellent reason to try to protect him. 

The Gourmet was a Doofus, get right down to it. But we'd have never
become aware of the One True Light but for a small miscalculation on 
his part, that set the Gourmet loose. He knows subtlety. 

And even today we have but the vaguest idea what his goals and methods
are—but we can test people to see if they've been exposed to the 
Crooked Wheel. 

That's more than we had before. 

As for the Gourmet—maybe he's dead or maybe he's held in some Government
holding facility. 

I don't particularly care. 


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