Pseudo-Ceramic DM for an ENnies nominee!
- Thread starter alsih2o
- Start date
Tolen Mar
First Post
Razor
Why are the cute ones always riding squirrels these days?
By the time she showed up, I had already had the worst day possible. Well, it started last night actually. I shouldn’t have invited ‘Razor’ to the game. He shows up at six o’clock topless, with these Matrix looking sunglasses on. I should have known as soon as I saw the nickname he used online.
It was a disaster. I mean the game went well enough. Our new friend stayed in character most of the time, it was his decision to kill the rest of the party that didn’t jive too well. It led to a car chase, machine guns, grenades. However, he never got out of character. Everything he said throughout the night was in character, with a Keanu accent. I was beginning to think he really believed he was the one. The worst part was when he tried to talk Karen into being his love interest, and then started trying to feel her up. She decked him, breaking thos expensive sunglasses and ran off.
Then he started to pout. He moped around in the basement (where the game was set up) until finally I gave up dropping hints and went to bed. When I woke up, he was gone. So were my books, record sheets, dice, pencils…even the bloody pencils!
I called in to work then. I wasn’t about to let him run off with every bit of gaming material I ever had. After all there are some things a person just doesn’t do. I took to the streets. All I had was a bicycle. Gas prices were outrageous these days, and I don’t have to buy fuel for a pair of pedals. I knew where Razor was supposed to live, but when I got there, all I found was a run down tenement house with…was that Abe Lincoln? out in front. I rode up to him and asked him about Razor.
“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Razor around here?”
“Who?” he asked. I swear, if ever I heard ole Honest Abe talk, that’s exactly how I expected him to sound.
“Razor,” I explained, “About five nine, no shirt, maybe a pair of broken sunglasses?”
Abe ruminated a moment. Its amazing how language oldens when you are talking to someone from nearly two hundred years ago.
“Razor.” He muttered. “I cannot tell a lie, he doesn’t live here anymore.”
Great, I thought to myself, now we have presidents quoting each other.
“Well do you know where he does live now?” It was hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice, and I admit I failed. He got a stern look on his face, pointed his cigar at me (did Abe smoke?), and launched into a tirade about respecting one’s elders. He finished off by telling me to get lost, he had a speech to write. I got lost.
I had no idea what I was going to do now, my only lead had evaporated. I started to pedal back to the street when I saw a black car pull in ahead of me. I realized suddenly that it was Razor’s car. I could just make out the remains of the sunglasses hanging from his ears. Why he hadn’t removed them is beyond me. He saw me, our eyes locked, and he gunned the engine.
Let me take a moment to tell you about his car. It was about as wide as a train is long. All chrome on the front grill, some older model muscle car that looked like the devil itself was grinning you down from the auto factory. If the headlights were red, it would look like the most evil piece of machinery ever made. As he barreled down the alley towards me, he flipped on the headlights.
They were red.
I did the only thing I could do. There was no way I was going to make it past him if I keep going, so I skidded around in a u-turn and made for the other end of the street. I passed Abe, and briefly overheard ‘Four-score and seven years ago,’ as I whipped by. I made it to the street just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, and as a hurtling bicycle is easier to turn than a hell-car, I avoided getting hit. I heard him skid out into the street behind me, the bellows of angry drivers and their rather expressive horns. I chanced to look behind me to see the beast barreling down on me. I shouldn’t have looked. If I hadn’t, I would have seen the stairs.
I rattled to a stop at the bottom under my bike. I felt like every bone in my body had decided to vacation without me. The problem is, they had left without warning, through my skin.
I was at the bottom of the stairs leading to an apartment in the basement of a building. The door opened, and I rolled over to look. I don’t know who opened the door, but he was holding a bemused look on his face. Not that I noticed. I was looking into the building at a pair of all too familiar faces. Sue and Monte Cook were sitting there. Apparently there was some sort of game designers party going on. I’m not sure why the gnome was on Monte’s head, but judging by the look on Sue’s face, she had won the round.
I untangled myself from the bike, and Sue came and helped me in. She’s a nice person. She helped bandage my wounds, while the others continued their bizarre games. After I had been patched up, Monte came over and asked about my day.
“So, how’s your day going?” he asked.
“Aweful.” I replied.
“Tell me about it.”
So I did. I told him about Razor, about the car from hell, even told him about Abe. He smiled the whole time, and when I was finished, he whipped out a pad of paper and a pencil that had been stuck behind his ear (I never figured out how he stowed them there without them being noticed).
“I think we can fix this.” He said, and began to write. “You like squirrels?” He asked.
“I guess so.”
“Good. Here’s what’s going to happen. Your bike is fixed, you go on back home. After a while, my friend Dana will arrive. You’ll know her, she’ll be the one riding the squirrel. She’ll take care of Razor for you and she’ll have the books with her.”
“Just the books?” I asked.
“Well, ok, then everything but the pencils.” He said, and made a few more notes in his pad. Then he smiled, and stowed the pad and pencil back behind the ear, and led me to the door.
“Wait. Why no pencils?”
If anything, the smile got bigger. “I may be good, but I’m not that good.”
Completely out of sorts, I got on my bike and headed back. I was home before I realized that my wounded pedal mchine was back to normal. It was getting late. As I rounded the last corner, however, my blood froze. Sitting in front of my house was the hell car. Razor still sat in the driver’s seat. The headlights were still red. He shoved it into gear, and left smoke behind as his wheels struggled to gain a grip. I was trapped…I had nowhere to go. I watched those insane red eyes power towards me. I chanced a lok in the windshield, and saw Razor. His face was in worse shape than ever and I could swear I saw instead of a human eye, a red mechanical one. The iris dilated downward to a point as his grin grew.
Then his car was broadsided by a tanker truck full of milk. I stood dumbfounded for some time. I couldn’t believe my luck. I mean after all, I’d heard of things like this…luck, fate, Deus Ex Machina, but I had never seen it happen in my life. It was the sirtens that drew me out of my stupor. I stepped aside as the ambulance showed up. I let the professionals do their thing, and as I fumbled with the keys, Dana arrived. She was riding a squirrel as big as a car, but by this time, I was too stressed out to care. She dismounted, gave the creature a walnut as big as a basketball to chew on, and carried a bag my way. In it was everything that Razor had inexplicably stolen. Everything but the pencils.
Why are the cute ones always riding squirrels these days?
Why are the cute ones always riding squirrels these days?
By the time she showed up, I had already had the worst day possible. Well, it started last night actually. I shouldn’t have invited ‘Razor’ to the game. He shows up at six o’clock topless, with these Matrix looking sunglasses on. I should have known as soon as I saw the nickname he used online.
It was a disaster. I mean the game went well enough. Our new friend stayed in character most of the time, it was his decision to kill the rest of the party that didn’t jive too well. It led to a car chase, machine guns, grenades. However, he never got out of character. Everything he said throughout the night was in character, with a Keanu accent. I was beginning to think he really believed he was the one. The worst part was when he tried to talk Karen into being his love interest, and then started trying to feel her up. She decked him, breaking thos expensive sunglasses and ran off.
Then he started to pout. He moped around in the basement (where the game was set up) until finally I gave up dropping hints and went to bed. When I woke up, he was gone. So were my books, record sheets, dice, pencils…even the bloody pencils!
I called in to work then. I wasn’t about to let him run off with every bit of gaming material I ever had. After all there are some things a person just doesn’t do. I took to the streets. All I had was a bicycle. Gas prices were outrageous these days, and I don’t have to buy fuel for a pair of pedals. I knew where Razor was supposed to live, but when I got there, all I found was a run down tenement house with…was that Abe Lincoln? out in front. I rode up to him and asked him about Razor.
“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Razor around here?”
“Who?” he asked. I swear, if ever I heard ole Honest Abe talk, that’s exactly how I expected him to sound.
“Razor,” I explained, “About five nine, no shirt, maybe a pair of broken sunglasses?”
Abe ruminated a moment. Its amazing how language oldens when you are talking to someone from nearly two hundred years ago.
“Razor.” He muttered. “I cannot tell a lie, he doesn’t live here anymore.”
Great, I thought to myself, now we have presidents quoting each other.
“Well do you know where he does live now?” It was hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice, and I admit I failed. He got a stern look on his face, pointed his cigar at me (did Abe smoke?), and launched into a tirade about respecting one’s elders. He finished off by telling me to get lost, he had a speech to write. I got lost.
I had no idea what I was going to do now, my only lead had evaporated. I started to pedal back to the street when I saw a black car pull in ahead of me. I realized suddenly that it was Razor’s car. I could just make out the remains of the sunglasses hanging from his ears. Why he hadn’t removed them is beyond me. He saw me, our eyes locked, and he gunned the engine.
Let me take a moment to tell you about his car. It was about as wide as a train is long. All chrome on the front grill, some older model muscle car that looked like the devil itself was grinning you down from the auto factory. If the headlights were red, it would look like the most evil piece of machinery ever made. As he barreled down the alley towards me, he flipped on the headlights.
They were red.
I did the only thing I could do. There was no way I was going to make it past him if I keep going, so I skidded around in a u-turn and made for the other end of the street. I passed Abe, and briefly overheard ‘Four-score and seven years ago,’ as I whipped by. I made it to the street just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, and as a hurtling bicycle is easier to turn than a hell-car, I avoided getting hit. I heard him skid out into the street behind me, the bellows of angry drivers and their rather expressive horns. I chanced to look behind me to see the beast barreling down on me. I shouldn’t have looked. If I hadn’t, I would have seen the stairs.
I rattled to a stop at the bottom under my bike. I felt like every bone in my body had decided to vacation without me. The problem is, they had left without warning, through my skin.
I was at the bottom of the stairs leading to an apartment in the basement of a building. The door opened, and I rolled over to look. I don’t know who opened the door, but he was holding a bemused look on his face. Not that I noticed. I was looking into the building at a pair of all too familiar faces. Sue and Monte Cook were sitting there. Apparently there was some sort of game designers party going on. I’m not sure why the gnome was on Monte’s head, but judging by the look on Sue’s face, she had won the round.
I untangled myself from the bike, and Sue came and helped me in. She’s a nice person. She helped bandage my wounds, while the others continued their bizarre games. After I had been patched up, Monte came over and asked about my day.
“So, how’s your day going?” he asked.
“Aweful.” I replied.
“Tell me about it.”
So I did. I told him about Razor, about the car from hell, even told him about Abe. He smiled the whole time, and when I was finished, he whipped out a pad of paper and a pencil that had been stuck behind his ear (I never figured out how he stowed them there without them being noticed).
“I think we can fix this.” He said, and began to write. “You like squirrels?” He asked.
“I guess so.”
“Good. Here’s what’s going to happen. Your bike is fixed, you go on back home. After a while, my friend Dana will arrive. You’ll know her, she’ll be the one riding the squirrel. She’ll take care of Razor for you and she’ll have the books with her.”
“Just the books?” I asked.
“Well, ok, then everything but the pencils.” He said, and made a few more notes in his pad. Then he smiled, and stowed the pad and pencil back behind the ear, and led me to the door.
“Wait. Why no pencils?”
If anything, the smile got bigger. “I may be good, but I’m not that good.”
Completely out of sorts, I got on my bike and headed back. I was home before I realized that my wounded pedal mchine was back to normal. It was getting late. As I rounded the last corner, however, my blood froze. Sitting in front of my house was the hell car. Razor still sat in the driver’s seat. The headlights were still red. He shoved it into gear, and left smoke behind as his wheels struggled to gain a grip. I was trapped…I had nowhere to go. I watched those insane red eyes power towards me. I chanced a lok in the windshield, and saw Razor. His face was in worse shape than ever and I could swear I saw instead of a human eye, a red mechanical one. The iris dilated downward to a point as his grin grew.
Then his car was broadsided by a tanker truck full of milk. I stood dumbfounded for some time. I couldn’t believe my luck. I mean after all, I’d heard of things like this…luck, fate, Deus Ex Machina, but I had never seen it happen in my life. It was the sirtens that drew me out of my stupor. I stepped aside as the ambulance showed up. I let the professionals do their thing, and as I fumbled with the keys, Dana arrived. She was riding a squirrel as big as a car, but by this time, I was too stressed out to care. She dismounted, gave the creature a walnut as big as a basketball to chew on, and carried a bag my way. In it was everything that Razor had inexplicably stolen. Everything but the pencils.
Why are the cute ones always riding squirrels these days?
Macbeth
First Post
Tales from A Stove Pipe Hat
By Sage LaTorra, a.k.a. Macbeth
Jimmy stood in front of me, his chest bare in the heat of his house. "Tom, you made it! Want a popsicle?" He motioned to the fridges behind him.
The refrigerators behind him hummed loud in the heat of his house. With the dozen or so computers in the house, plus all his other high tech whatnot, it was hard to be happy to be inside. "Yeah, Jimmy, I'm here. What is it? You said you had somebody that needed my help?"
"Yeah, yeah, we can get to that in a minute." His old dog tags hung loosely on his chest. "First you need to meet Marie."
My gaze shifted to the girl sitting beside the monitor to one of his computers. "Nice to meet you Marie..." A few years down at social services had taught me that a firm handshake was worth a thousand words, so I held my hand out.
"Heureux de vous rencontrer, Tom." She smiled and took my hand in a strange half-shake. Almost like she expected me to kiss her hand.
"Uh yeah, she doesn't speak English." Jimmy said by way of explanation. "Marie, séjour ici tandis que je vais l'entretien à Tom et à Abe."
"Oui"
Jimmy led me out towards his shed. At least we called it his shed, it was more of a mad scientist's laboratory. "Could you at least tell me what the problem is before I meet this guy?"
"Oh, I think you'll figure it out when you see him." Tom led me around the corner to the back door of the shed.
Sitting on a cheap folding chair against the brick wall was a man dressed like Abe Lincoln. His shoes were off, exposing some amazingly clean socks, and he had a cigarette in hand. By the looks of it, he wasn't very happy. He had a kind of sadness in his eyes. I turned to Jimmy and whispered in his ear. "Oh, so he thinks he's Lincoln."
Jimmy smiled for a second, before responding to me, without whispering. "No, he is Lincoln, the problem is, he's depressed. How's it going, Abe?"
"Not well, I'm afraid, Jimmy." The Lincoln impersonator looked up at us with the same dullness in his eyes.
"No, Jimmy... I mean... This can't be Lincoln. He's dead. And he was a President. No President's going to sit in your backyard by choice."
"Well, not by choice, your right. Seems he got in a little bit of a time travel mix up. Some time traveling thief stole something very important from him, so he hitched a ride in Orwell’s time machine with Edison and Roosevelt to try and track him down. Only problem is, he got dropped of here by mistake."
At this point, I realized the wannabe Lincoln wasn't the only insane one. "Jimmy, how long have you been out in the sun?"
"Not long enough to make me imagine this. Come on into the shed, you can see the time machine." Another thing they teach you when you regularly have to deal with insane people is that you always humor them as long as you can, so I followed him in.
What I saw inside might just have been a time machine, if it wasn't made of scrapped parts from maybe a hundred used computers. Circuit boards stuck out at all angels, like angry fists shaking in rage at the temporal laws that said they wouldn't be able to move anything in time.
"Uh, Jimmy, how'd you make this?"
"Plans online man. Used my benefit checks from the army to buy all the parts."
"You built time machine with plans from the internet?"
"Yep."
"Riiiiiiight..."
"It works. Here, step on it. The location is still a bit hard to pin point... but this... should... work." Jimmy had hunched himself over a control board that was blinking like a Christmas tree.
I thought there was no harm in humoring him a bit longer, so I stepped onto the plexiglass pad that appeared to be the heart of the apparatus. "Ready when you are."
"Here we... go." Jimmy jammed a button, and I was standing outside of his shed. The sun was about a third lower in the sky, and Jimmy was leaning against the shed, sipping a cold beer, his shirt still off. "It worked."
"I told you it would."
"Yeah, but I thought you were crazy."
"Happens a lot, these days. So, now that you know that I'm right, are you going to help Mr. Lincoln or not?"
"Yeah... sure." I was still stunned from the time travel. Pulling myself back together, I walked back to the back of the shed where President Lincoln was still sitting, smoking another cigarette.
"I never thought Abe Lincoln was much of a smoker."
"I never was. But times change... times change. And now that I've lost it..."
"What was it you lost?"
"Nothing you need to know about, son." The look in his eyes was suddenly stern.
"And you can't get it back."
"Not without another major time jump, and one of those would alert the Time Cops. They'd bust my ass faster then you can say 'Compton.'"
I was sure I had just heard Abe Lincoln talk like a second rate rapper. "Uh... did I hear you right? Compton?"
"Yes sir, you did. I've been listening to Jimmy's sound box, and I'm quite taken by your music... 'I like big butts and I cannot lie, You other brother..."
Before Abe could get any further into Baby Got Back, I cut in, mostly to save the world the horrors of Civil War rap. "So... these time cops. You're afraid of them?"
"Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I should challenge you to fisticuffs for insulting my honor."
"Well, the Abe Lincoln I read about would get right onto that time platform and go after his... whatever it is you lost."
"You read bout me?"
"What, Jimmy didn't tell you? You're considered one of the greatest presidents, in the here and now. You've even got your own monument."
"A monument, you say?"
"Yep. But seeing you sitting back, here, smoking cheap cigarettes, well, I'm starting to think they may have been wrong."
"Sir, I assure you, I have done my best to live up to my legend."
"Ah. And your best is sitting around smoking cigarettes? So much for honest Abe..."
"Honest Abe? They gave me a nickname?" I thought I saw a tear start to form in Abe's eye. "Well sir, it is time that I got off my rump and got back something that belongs to me." He tossed his cigarette to the ground and started pulling on his shoes. "And you, Mr. Tom, are coming with me."
"WHAT?" I had come here as a consular, I didn't expect to be hopping into the time stream.
"I cannot risk having my confidence fail me again while I am returning by belongings. You will accompany me on our time hopping journey."
"But... you said there were Time Cops!"
"They won't stop me, and as long as they don't stop me, they won't get you. Now get ready, I'm going to go tell Jimmy to get ready."
Abe Lincoln walked away from me, stove-pipe hat and all. I reached for the cigarette he had tossed away and took a long slow drag from it. If I was going to be traveling through time with Abe Lincoln and dodging Time Police, it seemed like as good a time as any to take up smoking.
*********************
The next trip though time had been just as sudden as the last. Jimmy had done some kind of time trace on the guy that stole whatever Abe had lost, and when he figured out where (or when) it was, Abe and I stepped onto the platform and we were gone.
When our new location resolved itself around us, there was a women on a giant squirrel in front of us. The expression on her face told me she knew who we were, and why we were there. As if I didn't have enough problems in my day.
She spoke from the back of her squirrel: "Stay where you are! you are under arrest by the Time Police for violating the laws of causality, gravity, breaking Light speed, and J-Walking."
"J-walking? When did I..." But before I could finish my sentence, Abe rolled up his sleeves and dove at the women. "Young lady, I'm sorry to do this, but I'm going to emancipate your teeth and kick your butt south of the Mason-Dixon line."
Abe dove at her with a real fighter's will, all left hooks and upper-cuts. The streets emptied, people running away from a tussle between Abe Lincoln and a women on the back of a squirrel. While Abe wound up for another haymaker, I looked around for a newspaper machine. it wasn't hard to find one, and sure enough, it was only a few days in the future. Abe must have almost made it after his thief.
While I was still staring at the paper in disbelief, Abe walked up, dragging the unconscious women behind him. "uh.. Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see Abraham Lincoln hit a women."
"I didn't hit her, and just bumped into her. A few times. With my fists."
So much for honest Abe I thought as I stared at him. "Well, we'd better get her out of the way, Maybe she can tell us something about your thief."
We hauled her into an alley, after I checked around for any people. It was almost half an hour before she came around.
"Uhhhhh... What year is it?"
"2005" I said. Abe just sat there.
"That's good, I guess... What happened to Chitters?"
"Chitters?"
"My riding time squirrel, Chitters. I arrived here on him to arrest you."
Abe chimed in "He ran off."
"Oh great..."
There were too many questions, so I started with the easy ones: "Why a squirrel?"
"Well, first of all, they're easy to bread for time travel. Something about that cute fluffy tail makes them natural travelers. Secondly, their to cover our tracks."
"Cover your tracks? But wouldn't a giant squirrel be easier to spot then, say, a horse?"
"Yeah, but who'll believe you when you tell them you saw a giant squirrel? As long as they think I'm a hallucination, it doesn't matter how obvious I am."
"Good point." I thought for a second, considering what to ask next. "So... if you're with the time police, then a thief that moves through time would be a top priority, right?"
"Yeah, but they're hard to track. We only know when somebody is out of place when two of them exist at once."
If they could only detect you when more then one of you was alive at once, then Abe would have been fine if he didn't drag me along. I hoped Abe hadn't caught that, I was begging to like being a sidekick. "What if I told you I knew where one was? Or at least where one had traveled to."
I think she caught my drift. "Well... if I returned with a time thief, I might have missed some other illegal time travelers in the area... I mean, even a famous President might get lost in the shuffle for a time thief." Abe perked up when she called him a famous President.
"Okay, sounds like a plan. What's your name?"
"Elise. And yours?"
"I'm Tom. And this is..." I began to motion to Abe, but she cut me off. "I know who he is. Now let's get moving."
"To where? I can tell you that we tracked a thief to about this time and place..."
Elise almost jumped up. "You tracked him? But not even us Time Cops can do that. How?"
"Hell if I know, a half... three-fourths crazy friend of mine did it." Elise was visibly disappointed. "But we do know he's somewhere nearby. Or that he arrived somewhere around here, at least."
"Well, we'll need a description so we know what to look for. Mr. Lincoln, what did this thief look like?"
Abe shifted where he sat, a far away look in his eyes. "I would never forget him. About a foot tall, wearing a red pointy hat, with a beard and a smug grin on his face."
"You mean he was a... lawn gnome?"
"If that is what you call his type, then yes, he was a La-nom."
"Well, if you were a lawn gnome, where would you hide?" I wandered out into the street, wondering why a lawn gnome would come here. Then I saw it.
"You guys, follow me, across the street. I think I know where he went." I led Abe and Elise out across the street to the Indiana Convention Center. "Take the look at the sign." I pointed to the banner hanging over the doors. "It's the Lawn and Garden Decoration Convention."
****************
When we got inside, we found that they were already taking down booths. I grabbed a cleaning guy as he walked by. "Hey, how much longer is this convention open?"
"Only a few more hours. Then we gotta clear outs for the nerd herd." He pulled away from me, and went to mop up the spill from a demonstration fountain that had just been taken down.
Elise took charge. "Okay, if they're taking everything down, here's the plan: we smash every lawn gnome in sight. If it moves, it's our thief. If it smashes, move to the next one."
Abe rolled his sleeves up again. "Young lady, I like how you think."
The next few minutes were a blizzard of plaster as gnome after gnome fell in the relentless assault of Abe Lincoln's fists.
"sic Semper Gnomes!" He yelled as he plowed through the remnants of the display for 'Alsihtwoh Indian Garden Decorations.' I didn't know if he knew his fate, if that was why he used the 'Sic Semper' phrase, but regardless, it was an amazing site: Abe flinging the remnants of a clay gnome into a towering display of others, sending them all crashing down.
Just as Abe was really building up power, the rent-a-cops showed up. They yelled out for Abe to stop, which had all the effect of a fly on the train tracks.
Elise and I were in handcuffs by the time they brought Abe down. It took half the staff, plus a few bystanders to take him down. After a few more minutes of wrestling, Abe was in cuffs too. "You'll all regret this! I'm a President!"
We were lead away into the offices of the head of Security. After several twists and turns, leading us through several back passageways and service areas, the guards finally shoved us through the door into a fancy office and slammed the door behind us.
As I began to take in my surroundings, my eyes settled on the man sitting ahead of us. He looked absurdly comfortable, with a women that must have been his secretary lifting what appeared to be a lawn gnome on to his head. The lawn gnome nodded it's appreciation as it settled onto his head. "Thank you, Ma'm."
The man, shifted a little, with the gnome perched on his head like an absurd parrot. "Gentlemen, Lady." He nodded at us, "I would like to welcome you to the Evil Lair of... Monte Cook!" He ended the sentence in a deep tone that implied we should be impressed.
We weren't impressed. "Uh, and, uh, what's so special about that?" I said, still fighting against my handcuffs
"Well, I'm actually a quite famous game designer. Ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons, 3rd edition?"
"No, not really."
"Oh, well, if you had, you would be quite impressed. Quite impressed." Monte looked slightly crestfallen that his name had not had the desired effect. "Well, now that we've been properly introduced, I'd like to say that I'm..." he paused, rolled some dice, and flipped a few pages in the hardcover book laying open on the table next to him. "...happy to meet you."
"You see, I had my gnome friend, Gimble, steal a little something from mister Lincoln. I even had to make sure they revised the rulebook, just so he'd be sociable enough to charm the guards into letting him into the White House."
"I'm a social butterfly." Gimble added from the top of Monte's head.
"And now that I have used his tickets to Our American Cousin to lure him here, Mr. Lincoln will be forced to join me at Malhavoc Press!"
"What?"
Monte looked a bit irked that we hadn't understood what he said. "Malhavoc Press. It's my game company. I've been playing for months that I would reveal something big at GenCon--the convention that will happen here starting tomorrow--but nobody has guessed that I will be, in fact, revealing Abraham Lincoln as the newest employee of Malhavoc! they guessed it was Iron Heroes, they guessed it was Ptolus, they even guessed it was Planescape, but they were all wrong." Monte's evil laughter rang out in the decadent office. "Mwaaaaahahaahahahaahahaha!"
I started piecing together the importance of what Gimble had stolen. I turned to Lincoln and spoke in a low whisper: "Why are those tickets so important?"
He turned back to me and responded in a whisper. "Mary wanted to go to the theatre, and if I don't have the tickets I could never live with myself."
"So America's greatest President was Pussy Whipped?"
"Pussy Whipped?"
"um... You found Mary more important then anything else?"
"Yes."
"Ah..."
"Hey, they're talking without me! I thought I was everybody's friend." Gimble looked downtrodden on Monte's head.
I turned back to Monte. "What if I offered you something else? Instead of Abe... I mean, President Lincoln."
Monte smiled an evil smile. "I don't know what you could offer me better then President Lincoln, but I'd like to hear you try."
I stalled for time, trying to think of what really could top Abe. Then it struck me. "Wait, if you keep Mr. Lincoln here, he's of no use to you."
"What? He's of plenty of use to me. I could outsell WotC with a name like that! Forget Mearls, I'll have Lincoln! He doesn't even have to write well, his name well sell it all!"
"No, he won't be. If you keep him here, the most famous part of his life will never happen. If he doesn't see Our American Cousin with his dear wife at Ford's Theatre, he'll be of no use to you."
Monte thought about this for a minute. "But what if I just use him for a while? Just a few quick books, lots of fluff, maybe some web enhancements?"
"Nope. You can't know it won't change things. The longer you keep him here, the less chance he's of any use to you."
I could see the gears turning in Monte's head. "By Gygax's Beard, you're right! And here I was planning on putting you to death by..." he rolled his dice again, and consulted his book "... Flumph? Alright, who wrote these encounter tables? Oh wait, that was me." Suddenly he seemed to remember we were in the room with him. "Okay. Gimble, take him back, and give him his tickets back."
Gimble leaped off his head, grumbling something about how he had it better as an illusionist, grabbed Abe, and started to fade. Just as he was almost gone form the room, Elise dived down and grabbed on to him, hitching a ride into the past.
"So that just leaves me." I said, hoping Monte would let me go.
Monte looked over at me again. "I still have plans for you. I have a website I like to flood with posts, to make sure it doesn't get too... powerful for its own good. My old slave has been slowing down, so you're going to take his post. Your codename will be... Crothian."
By Sage LaTorra, a.k.a. Macbeth
Jimmy stood in front of me, his chest bare in the heat of his house. "Tom, you made it! Want a popsicle?" He motioned to the fridges behind him.
The refrigerators behind him hummed loud in the heat of his house. With the dozen or so computers in the house, plus all his other high tech whatnot, it was hard to be happy to be inside. "Yeah, Jimmy, I'm here. What is it? You said you had somebody that needed my help?"
"Yeah, yeah, we can get to that in a minute." His old dog tags hung loosely on his chest. "First you need to meet Marie."
My gaze shifted to the girl sitting beside the monitor to one of his computers. "Nice to meet you Marie..." A few years down at social services had taught me that a firm handshake was worth a thousand words, so I held my hand out.
"Heureux de vous rencontrer, Tom." She smiled and took my hand in a strange half-shake. Almost like she expected me to kiss her hand.
"Uh yeah, she doesn't speak English." Jimmy said by way of explanation. "Marie, séjour ici tandis que je vais l'entretien à Tom et à Abe."
"Oui"
Jimmy led me out towards his shed. At least we called it his shed, it was more of a mad scientist's laboratory. "Could you at least tell me what the problem is before I meet this guy?"
"Oh, I think you'll figure it out when you see him." Tom led me around the corner to the back door of the shed.
Sitting on a cheap folding chair against the brick wall was a man dressed like Abe Lincoln. His shoes were off, exposing some amazingly clean socks, and he had a cigarette in hand. By the looks of it, he wasn't very happy. He had a kind of sadness in his eyes. I turned to Jimmy and whispered in his ear. "Oh, so he thinks he's Lincoln."
Jimmy smiled for a second, before responding to me, without whispering. "No, he is Lincoln, the problem is, he's depressed. How's it going, Abe?"
"Not well, I'm afraid, Jimmy." The Lincoln impersonator looked up at us with the same dullness in his eyes.
"No, Jimmy... I mean... This can't be Lincoln. He's dead. And he was a President. No President's going to sit in your backyard by choice."
"Well, not by choice, your right. Seems he got in a little bit of a time travel mix up. Some time traveling thief stole something very important from him, so he hitched a ride in Orwell’s time machine with Edison and Roosevelt to try and track him down. Only problem is, he got dropped of here by mistake."
At this point, I realized the wannabe Lincoln wasn't the only insane one. "Jimmy, how long have you been out in the sun?"
"Not long enough to make me imagine this. Come on into the shed, you can see the time machine." Another thing they teach you when you regularly have to deal with insane people is that you always humor them as long as you can, so I followed him in.
What I saw inside might just have been a time machine, if it wasn't made of scrapped parts from maybe a hundred used computers. Circuit boards stuck out at all angels, like angry fists shaking in rage at the temporal laws that said they wouldn't be able to move anything in time.
"Uh, Jimmy, how'd you make this?"
"Plans online man. Used my benefit checks from the army to buy all the parts."
"You built time machine with plans from the internet?"
"Yep."
"Riiiiiiight..."
"It works. Here, step on it. The location is still a bit hard to pin point... but this... should... work." Jimmy had hunched himself over a control board that was blinking like a Christmas tree.
I thought there was no harm in humoring him a bit longer, so I stepped onto the plexiglass pad that appeared to be the heart of the apparatus. "Ready when you are."
"Here we... go." Jimmy jammed a button, and I was standing outside of his shed. The sun was about a third lower in the sky, and Jimmy was leaning against the shed, sipping a cold beer, his shirt still off. "It worked."
"I told you it would."
"Yeah, but I thought you were crazy."
"Happens a lot, these days. So, now that you know that I'm right, are you going to help Mr. Lincoln or not?"
"Yeah... sure." I was still stunned from the time travel. Pulling myself back together, I walked back to the back of the shed where President Lincoln was still sitting, smoking another cigarette.
"I never thought Abe Lincoln was much of a smoker."
"I never was. But times change... times change. And now that I've lost it..."
"What was it you lost?"
"Nothing you need to know about, son." The look in his eyes was suddenly stern.
"And you can't get it back."
"Not without another major time jump, and one of those would alert the Time Cops. They'd bust my ass faster then you can say 'Compton.'"
I was sure I had just heard Abe Lincoln talk like a second rate rapper. "Uh... did I hear you right? Compton?"
"Yes sir, you did. I've been listening to Jimmy's sound box, and I'm quite taken by your music... 'I like big butts and I cannot lie, You other brother..."
Before Abe could get any further into Baby Got Back, I cut in, mostly to save the world the horrors of Civil War rap. "So... these time cops. You're afraid of them?"
"Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I should challenge you to fisticuffs for insulting my honor."
"Well, the Abe Lincoln I read about would get right onto that time platform and go after his... whatever it is you lost."
"You read bout me?"
"What, Jimmy didn't tell you? You're considered one of the greatest presidents, in the here and now. You've even got your own monument."
"A monument, you say?"
"Yep. But seeing you sitting back, here, smoking cheap cigarettes, well, I'm starting to think they may have been wrong."
"Sir, I assure you, I have done my best to live up to my legend."
"Ah. And your best is sitting around smoking cigarettes? So much for honest Abe..."
"Honest Abe? They gave me a nickname?" I thought I saw a tear start to form in Abe's eye. "Well sir, it is time that I got off my rump and got back something that belongs to me." He tossed his cigarette to the ground and started pulling on his shoes. "And you, Mr. Tom, are coming with me."
"WHAT?" I had come here as a consular, I didn't expect to be hopping into the time stream.
"I cannot risk having my confidence fail me again while I am returning by belongings. You will accompany me on our time hopping journey."
"But... you said there were Time Cops!"
"They won't stop me, and as long as they don't stop me, they won't get you. Now get ready, I'm going to go tell Jimmy to get ready."
Abe Lincoln walked away from me, stove-pipe hat and all. I reached for the cigarette he had tossed away and took a long slow drag from it. If I was going to be traveling through time with Abe Lincoln and dodging Time Police, it seemed like as good a time as any to take up smoking.
*********************
The next trip though time had been just as sudden as the last. Jimmy had done some kind of time trace on the guy that stole whatever Abe had lost, and when he figured out where (or when) it was, Abe and I stepped onto the platform and we were gone.
When our new location resolved itself around us, there was a women on a giant squirrel in front of us. The expression on her face told me she knew who we were, and why we were there. As if I didn't have enough problems in my day.
She spoke from the back of her squirrel: "Stay where you are! you are under arrest by the Time Police for violating the laws of causality, gravity, breaking Light speed, and J-Walking."
"J-walking? When did I..." But before I could finish my sentence, Abe rolled up his sleeves and dove at the women. "Young lady, I'm sorry to do this, but I'm going to emancipate your teeth and kick your butt south of the Mason-Dixon line."
Abe dove at her with a real fighter's will, all left hooks and upper-cuts. The streets emptied, people running away from a tussle between Abe Lincoln and a women on the back of a squirrel. While Abe wound up for another haymaker, I looked around for a newspaper machine. it wasn't hard to find one, and sure enough, it was only a few days in the future. Abe must have almost made it after his thief.
While I was still staring at the paper in disbelief, Abe walked up, dragging the unconscious women behind him. "uh.. Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see Abraham Lincoln hit a women."
"I didn't hit her, and just bumped into her. A few times. With my fists."
So much for honest Abe I thought as I stared at him. "Well, we'd better get her out of the way, Maybe she can tell us something about your thief."
We hauled her into an alley, after I checked around for any people. It was almost half an hour before she came around.
"Uhhhhh... What year is it?"
"2005" I said. Abe just sat there.
"That's good, I guess... What happened to Chitters?"
"Chitters?"
"My riding time squirrel, Chitters. I arrived here on him to arrest you."
Abe chimed in "He ran off."
"Oh great..."
There were too many questions, so I started with the easy ones: "Why a squirrel?"
"Well, first of all, they're easy to bread for time travel. Something about that cute fluffy tail makes them natural travelers. Secondly, their to cover our tracks."
"Cover your tracks? But wouldn't a giant squirrel be easier to spot then, say, a horse?"
"Yeah, but who'll believe you when you tell them you saw a giant squirrel? As long as they think I'm a hallucination, it doesn't matter how obvious I am."
"Good point." I thought for a second, considering what to ask next. "So... if you're with the time police, then a thief that moves through time would be a top priority, right?"
"Yeah, but they're hard to track. We only know when somebody is out of place when two of them exist at once."
If they could only detect you when more then one of you was alive at once, then Abe would have been fine if he didn't drag me along. I hoped Abe hadn't caught that, I was begging to like being a sidekick. "What if I told you I knew where one was? Or at least where one had traveled to."
I think she caught my drift. "Well... if I returned with a time thief, I might have missed some other illegal time travelers in the area... I mean, even a famous President might get lost in the shuffle for a time thief." Abe perked up when she called him a famous President.
"Okay, sounds like a plan. What's your name?"
"Elise. And yours?"
"I'm Tom. And this is..." I began to motion to Abe, but she cut me off. "I know who he is. Now let's get moving."
"To where? I can tell you that we tracked a thief to about this time and place..."
Elise almost jumped up. "You tracked him? But not even us Time Cops can do that. How?"
"Hell if I know, a half... three-fourths crazy friend of mine did it." Elise was visibly disappointed. "But we do know he's somewhere nearby. Or that he arrived somewhere around here, at least."
"Well, we'll need a description so we know what to look for. Mr. Lincoln, what did this thief look like?"
Abe shifted where he sat, a far away look in his eyes. "I would never forget him. About a foot tall, wearing a red pointy hat, with a beard and a smug grin on his face."
"You mean he was a... lawn gnome?"
"If that is what you call his type, then yes, he was a La-nom."
"Well, if you were a lawn gnome, where would you hide?" I wandered out into the street, wondering why a lawn gnome would come here. Then I saw it.
"You guys, follow me, across the street. I think I know where he went." I led Abe and Elise out across the street to the Indiana Convention Center. "Take the look at the sign." I pointed to the banner hanging over the doors. "It's the Lawn and Garden Decoration Convention."
****************
When we got inside, we found that they were already taking down booths. I grabbed a cleaning guy as he walked by. "Hey, how much longer is this convention open?"
"Only a few more hours. Then we gotta clear outs for the nerd herd." He pulled away from me, and went to mop up the spill from a demonstration fountain that had just been taken down.
Elise took charge. "Okay, if they're taking everything down, here's the plan: we smash every lawn gnome in sight. If it moves, it's our thief. If it smashes, move to the next one."
Abe rolled his sleeves up again. "Young lady, I like how you think."
The next few minutes were a blizzard of plaster as gnome after gnome fell in the relentless assault of Abe Lincoln's fists.
"sic Semper Gnomes!" He yelled as he plowed through the remnants of the display for 'Alsihtwoh Indian Garden Decorations.' I didn't know if he knew his fate, if that was why he used the 'Sic Semper' phrase, but regardless, it was an amazing site: Abe flinging the remnants of a clay gnome into a towering display of others, sending them all crashing down.
Just as Abe was really building up power, the rent-a-cops showed up. They yelled out for Abe to stop, which had all the effect of a fly on the train tracks.
Elise and I were in handcuffs by the time they brought Abe down. It took half the staff, plus a few bystanders to take him down. After a few more minutes of wrestling, Abe was in cuffs too. "You'll all regret this! I'm a President!"
We were lead away into the offices of the head of Security. After several twists and turns, leading us through several back passageways and service areas, the guards finally shoved us through the door into a fancy office and slammed the door behind us.
As I began to take in my surroundings, my eyes settled on the man sitting ahead of us. He looked absurdly comfortable, with a women that must have been his secretary lifting what appeared to be a lawn gnome on to his head. The lawn gnome nodded it's appreciation as it settled onto his head. "Thank you, Ma'm."
The man, shifted a little, with the gnome perched on his head like an absurd parrot. "Gentlemen, Lady." He nodded at us, "I would like to welcome you to the Evil Lair of... Monte Cook!" He ended the sentence in a deep tone that implied we should be impressed.
We weren't impressed. "Uh, and, uh, what's so special about that?" I said, still fighting against my handcuffs
"Well, I'm actually a quite famous game designer. Ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons, 3rd edition?"
"No, not really."
"Oh, well, if you had, you would be quite impressed. Quite impressed." Monte looked slightly crestfallen that his name had not had the desired effect. "Well, now that we've been properly introduced, I'd like to say that I'm..." he paused, rolled some dice, and flipped a few pages in the hardcover book laying open on the table next to him. "...happy to meet you."
"You see, I had my gnome friend, Gimble, steal a little something from mister Lincoln. I even had to make sure they revised the rulebook, just so he'd be sociable enough to charm the guards into letting him into the White House."
"I'm a social butterfly." Gimble added from the top of Monte's head.
"And now that I have used his tickets to Our American Cousin to lure him here, Mr. Lincoln will be forced to join me at Malhavoc Press!"
"What?"
Monte looked a bit irked that we hadn't understood what he said. "Malhavoc Press. It's my game company. I've been playing for months that I would reveal something big at GenCon--the convention that will happen here starting tomorrow--but nobody has guessed that I will be, in fact, revealing Abraham Lincoln as the newest employee of Malhavoc! they guessed it was Iron Heroes, they guessed it was Ptolus, they even guessed it was Planescape, but they were all wrong." Monte's evil laughter rang out in the decadent office. "Mwaaaaahahaahahahaahahaha!"
I started piecing together the importance of what Gimble had stolen. I turned to Lincoln and spoke in a low whisper: "Why are those tickets so important?"
He turned back to me and responded in a whisper. "Mary wanted to go to the theatre, and if I don't have the tickets I could never live with myself."
"So America's greatest President was Pussy Whipped?"
"Pussy Whipped?"
"um... You found Mary more important then anything else?"
"Yes."
"Ah..."
"Hey, they're talking without me! I thought I was everybody's friend." Gimble looked downtrodden on Monte's head.
I turned back to Monte. "What if I offered you something else? Instead of Abe... I mean, President Lincoln."
Monte smiled an evil smile. "I don't know what you could offer me better then President Lincoln, but I'd like to hear you try."
I stalled for time, trying to think of what really could top Abe. Then it struck me. "Wait, if you keep Mr. Lincoln here, he's of no use to you."
"What? He's of plenty of use to me. I could outsell WotC with a name like that! Forget Mearls, I'll have Lincoln! He doesn't even have to write well, his name well sell it all!"
"No, he won't be. If you keep him here, the most famous part of his life will never happen. If he doesn't see Our American Cousin with his dear wife at Ford's Theatre, he'll be of no use to you."
Monte thought about this for a minute. "But what if I just use him for a while? Just a few quick books, lots of fluff, maybe some web enhancements?"
"Nope. You can't know it won't change things. The longer you keep him here, the less chance he's of any use to you."
I could see the gears turning in Monte's head. "By Gygax's Beard, you're right! And here I was planning on putting you to death by..." he rolled his dice again, and consulted his book "... Flumph? Alright, who wrote these encounter tables? Oh wait, that was me." Suddenly he seemed to remember we were in the room with him. "Okay. Gimble, take him back, and give him his tickets back."
Gimble leaped off his head, grumbling something about how he had it better as an illusionist, grabbed Abe, and started to fade. Just as he was almost gone form the room, Elise dived down and grabbed on to him, hitching a ride into the past.
"So that just leaves me." I said, hoping Monte would let me go.
Monte looked over at me again. "I still have plans for you. I have a website I like to flood with posts, to make sure it doesn't get too... powerful for its own good. My old slave has been slowing down, so you're going to take his post. Your codename will be... Crothian."
Meowzebub
First Post
The Reunion by Meowzebub
Grathem watches carefully as the plastic scissors slowly sliced across the newspaper. Of course any task for Etnom was always a handful, but Grathem’s own scissors would have taken seven times as long to remove the two articles from the Potland Tribune Human Edition. For himself, he usually had no time for human fixation with the weather witching and glammered stars, but Etnom needed his comics, and anything that kept him quiet and amused for hours was a blessing in his book and cheap at the price.
Grathem glowers as he has to fold the articles excessively until they were small enough to fit in his pocket, but now leaving a very noticeable bulge. He tugs down his coat but it does not extend far enough, “No time for this now. I can’t believe they hid the announcement in the legals.”
“Etnom, we are off to see the Company today”, Grathem intones in his singsong voice. Etnom responds well to his voice, luckily the male Gnome voice only had so much range and this was his normal voice.
“Good, good, me see Haley again,” Etnom claps his hands together.
Grathem shakes his head, “No, Haley is in your comic. We will get to see Harmony.” This set Etnom off in a skipping gait around the table chanting “Cheeks, Cheeks”, so he quickly forgot his initial disappointment that he will not see Faith today.
“Fetch the saddle Etnom, we need to set out.” Etnom went to the hall closet and came out with the leather seat with all its buckles. He hopelessly tried to figure out how it is supposed to go, before finally letting Grathem latch the buckles correctly. Etnom settled again at the table and Grathem swiftly climbed into his position on Etnom’s shoulders. On the way out the door, Grathem grabbed his peaked hat and sword off its high hook. Etnom grabbed his staff and giggled. The magic that still coursed through it tickled his hand, but the ability to master it was well beyond him.
They paused at the end of the walk until Grathem chimed, “Left. To the park.” Intoning a soft prayer to Fharlanghn, that sets Etnom off at an astounding quick pace.
*************
With the trees looming up ahead, Grathem hoped they would find Harmony quickly within the expanse of the Nature Reserve. Portland was very progressive, being the first city in the country to allow eminent domain to seize corporate property and turn it over to Druids to maintain as a park for everyone in the city to use.
The strange pair crossed the grass, skirted the lake, and soon found themselves encased in the dark canopy of redwoods, pines and oaks. “Harmony….Harmony”, Grathem called, his thin voice not seeming to travel very far. “Cheeks….Cheeks”, Etnom added fully getting a handle on the game they seemed to be playing. “Ooh, I know”, Etnom adds into the silence that answered they calls. Before Grathem has time to finish the thought that Etnom rarely knew anything good, his bearer launched himself under the branches, bending over to apparently gather acorns. Soon he was alternating between gathering nuts and throwing them up into the air calling “Cheeks…Come get some nuts!” Grathem had little recollection of the next five minutes other than hanging on for dear life. He had slipped from the saddle, and was clinging just to hair, when Etnom bent once again to gather nuts, pitching his rider forward to dangle over his forehead. But so intent on the game he did not notice and once again snapped erect fully launching Grathem five feet into the air. The scream slowly died in his throat as he felt him self gently placed back upon the now calm Etnom (gnome on head picture).
“The birds and the squirrels are the only thing that should be flying in the forest,” said a gentle, smiling voice.
“CHEEKS,” bellowed Etnom as he threw his arms around both Harmony and her Dire Squirrel. “Try to remember Etnom, his name is Sheik, he is an Arabian….”, her gentle reminder died as Etnom was now stuffing handfuls of nuts so eagerly into her animal companion’s mouth that she found it hard to argue with Etnom’s view of reality.” “Oh Cheeks. Me miss you,” he was hugging the creature again, forcing what little air could pass it packed jaws out of its lungs.
The two mounts scampered off into the underbrush to play at tag and hide and seek. “Not too far Sheik, do not lose him again, OK.” She was answered with what Grathem could only surmise must have been a sarcastic remark in Squirrel tongue based on the ferocity of the chittering and squeaks.
“So,..you look good. It still takes getting used to, the uniform I mean. Harmony of course stood much taller than Grathem, so she sat down on the dry leaves beside him. Her long brown hair brushed the ground, tied back in a long ponytail by a length of vine. Her city uniform was brown and green and the holly shaped badge read ‘Harmony: Arboreal Interpreter.’ He was surprised to see shoes on her feet and she caught his gaze. “The city makes us wear them. Hygiene in the snackbar and all.”
Seeming not to enjoy the subject of discussing herself, she quickly adds, “Well how have you been? You don’t seem to come around here so much anymore? Doesn’t your patron frown on homebodies?”
“Ahh, Harmony. Retirement just doesn’t suit me. I feel the need to set out for grand adventure again, but I have too many ties that hold me down and feel that too much was lost.” Just them a booming voice as if in answer to him resounds, “Cheeks, no fair jumping in trees. Etnom no allowed anymore to jump from trees.”
“Others can bear that responsibility you know. Others, who are trained specifically for that. It was not your fault he is like this, so it is not right that you feel you should be punished for it.” She placed her hand on his back. He could have curled up and slept in the warmth of her palm; coated in the scent of leather, pine sap, and…lavender?
But he stirred himself to try to remove the bundle from his pocket. “Oh Grath..I…Um”, she stammered as he continued to fight with what filled his yellow breeches. “Oh, come now Girl, give an old Paladin a little more respect than that…Whoof.” And the bundle of paper finally sprang free. Laughing she caught the small bundle but playfully seemed hesitant to touch it further, “What am I holding? And are you quite done with it?”
With a huff, he snatched it back and set out to try to unfold the myriad of folds he seems to have placed in it. After a minute he laid the paper flat. Looking over his shoulder, she skwints to read the fine print. “They mean to let that idiot out after what he did to Kam.”
“The hearing is at eleven, dear.” I thought we should go as a group, but there is not much time”. Glancing at his watch, “Which way is north? I loose my bearings in the forest.”
With a smile she point and he orients the sundial hand on his watch. “Whoa, not much time at all. Listen, I need you to head to the prison and be a presence in the hearing room. I will gather Rasten and meet you there.”
“But I haven’t seen Rasten since the trial. Do you know where to find him?”
Grathem handed her the second piece of paper. It was a theatre review, and not a good one by the looks of it. “Booth killed one in Ford’s Theater, Rasten kills entire audience. Not Tonight Dear, I Have a Headache: The Lincoln Assassination Musical. Take the title’s advice and STAY HOME!”
“Poor Rasten, another misconceived project,” as she hands the slip of paper back.
“So can you get there in time?”
“Let me just notify my manager.” She cups her hands and softly blows into them. Her breath takes shape and a shimmering squirrel is visible. With her lips close she whispers, “I need someone to cover my shift.” She raises her hands the the squirrel seems to take flight up into the canopy.
They gather up Sheik and Etnom and head out of the trees. At the forest’s edge and small shimmering hawk comes down and lands in Harmony’s palm. “You can not leave now! The Halfling school kids are coming soon and all spare employees are guarding the gift shop.” The small hawk disappears and Harmony looks up to see hear boss riding his giant hawk above the canopy. He appears to be gesturing to get her back into the forest. Harmony provides him with her own gesture. Next her badge and shoes hit the soft grass. Turning to Grathem and helping him up again onto Etnom’s shoulders, “Some things are just more important.”
She mounts Sheik and gives a short wave before setting out at a bounding pace. Grathem points Etnom toward the Arts District and set off at a brisk walk.
****************************
The traffic was horrible in the city square. All motor vehicles are banned within the city limits, so that just encouraged everyone to run out and get a wagon or buggy. Now the streets were choked with their rattling wheels and smelly waste. Even worse was the traffic lights seemed to be set to the speed of a wagon. As she sat at her fifth light in a row she fumed, then glanced around for a cop (giant squirrel picture). With the coast clear, as the light changed she goaded Sheik up. He took her cue and quickly scrambled up the side of the Portland National Bank building. Watching for wires, antennas, and satellite dishes, Sheik set a pace as if he was born on a roof top.
With the courthouse and prison in view, they drop back down to street level. “Just in time Sheik,” as a meter maid on her Dire Humming Bird rounded the corner.
Carrying no metal objects, she quickly passed through security at the gate. The sign at the door to the hearing room stated no animals except Riding Eye Dogs for the Blind. Opening a small pouch she turned to Sheik, “In you go, just for a little bit.” Sheik leapt at the pouch and was swallowed up into its trans-dimensional space, that is, all of him except four feet of his tail. She pushed at the fluffy mass, but no more would fit. “How many nuts did you eat?,” she ask in frustration. Finally, wrapping the excess tail around her like a shawl, she entered the building to raised eyebrows of those who saw her grand entrance on this fine warm spring day.
*********************
The Arts District was quiet this time of day. That was good for the street performers would have held Etnom spellbound for hours. Grathem looks again at the review and saw the Gerald Ford Theatre listed. Rasten likely appreciated the irony, but obviously the reviewer did not.
The front was locked up so they passed down the side alley looking for another entrance. Rounding the back corner, they came upon a crowd of what must have been the musical’s actors based on the 1850’s costumes. Grathem immediately spotted Rasten sitting by the stage door looking dejected in his Lincoln attire (Lincoln picture). A crumpled newspaper at his feet gently rocked in the breeze.
He did smile when he saw Grathem and Etnom approach. It unnerved the paladin to a degree to see Lincoln smile. “You say we go see Rasten?” Etnom stated sounded dejected.
Rising to his feet, Rasten greeted them with a bow, “My dear friends, so good to see you.” Grathem saw the other performers, who had previously been obviously ignoring him to suffer alone in the dim glare of the scathing review, suddenly take notice. Possibly the strange appearance of the gnome/man combination caught their interest, but more likely their utter surprise that this bombastic buffoon would have friends.
“Sorry to hear about the show,” Grathem opened up, waving the clipped article in his hand.
“Nothing like harsh words to stir up controversy. Controversy fill the seats. No press is bad press, ..” Clearly Rasten had a few more of these, but Grathem realized how short of time they were.
“Sorry, listen, can we talk.” Quickly shoving the other clipped article down into his hand.
Rasten was soon running to the stage door. “Dear Director, you will have to go on without me somehow. My talents are needed on an emergency’s call. I know my contract states my continued presence, but…”
Before he could finish the direct was already calling for the understudy, “You all heard him right, he released himself right?”
All the stage hands raced back into the theatre as if renewed with vigor. “Poor souls, look at them run. I left them in such a state with having to replace me.” Grathem caught the glace as the last actor entered the theatre; there seemed to have been a smile on it.
**********************
The gate security was a nightmare. Etnom became panicked when he got tangled trying to remove the saddle. Grathem was hesitant to leave his sword, especially after one of the guards drew it and playfully swung it around. When he managed to slice the brim off his partners hat, everyone suddenly got very serious. They almost left Rasten behind, as he continued to remove piercing rings from places Grathem did not think were pierceable.
They entered the hearing room in a rush, quickly settling into seats beside Harmony. She gave them a look that dared any one of them to comment her fur attire, and all turned to give their attention to the proceedings.
The room was stark. A few hanging overhead lights and three small windows ave the room a myriad of shadows. A series of long desks lined the far end of one wall. Facing them was a man in a simple button down shirt and jeans, a metallic chain visible around his neck. Grathem was surprised not to see him in his prison attire as if the Parole Board had already made their decision, but he suspected that they allowed him his street attire so as to not influence the board. His black hair had been shaved since Grathem saw this man last. Clint almost did not seem himself without his trademark long hair, but that menacing stare was still there as he glanced over at their arrival. But it disappeared quickly when he turned back to the board reviewers.
Grathem heard the psychiatrist wrapping up his review, “and seeing his model behavior within the prison I feel that this man, Mundungus Skeen, is ready to return to society.”
The Prison Superintendent then turned to the crowd seated in uncomfortable wooded chairs in the back of the hall, “I believe the Board is ready to deliver its decision unless there is additional input from those in attendance.”
Rasten jumped to his feet, “My dear Lord, the man in question has only served two years for murder sentence. I can swear to you that this man should never be released into society. In fact, the following sonnet should prove..”
The Superintendent raised a hand to cut him off, “While I am sure I can rely on the honesty of your testimony Mr….Lincoln. We are not here to relive past crimes, especially in rhyme.” This got a good laugh from the audience, and he appeared ready to move on. “So any other dignitaries wish to speak?”
Grathem had been shaking his head in wonder at Rasten’s performance. Lincoln reading sonnets, not a good start. He got to his feet, which of course put him on the floor and out of sight. As he scrambled to climb back up, he yanking on Harmony, “Say something!”
Harmony jumped to her feet, but then looked quiet perplexed as if this was the last place she wanted to be. “Yes, the distinguished lady wishes to add something?” Getting more chuckles in the process.
She stammered and looked down at Grathem. He was mouthing the words “Liar”. “Yes!” The force of the exclamation even surprised herself, but it seemed some long bent up emotion was starting to breach a dam. “This man was our ‘friend’ yet told us nothing but lies for two years. When we met him we thought he was a bit wild and sort of a loose cannon, but that can work for you sometimes when you take an adventure contract. Well over the time that we know him his story would change. He at times claimed he was an orphan, a disowned prince, a riverboat gambler, a bank teller, a good mechanic, and an honest politician who got out of the race because of all the dirty tricks. He is a half-drow, half-dragon, tiefling half-lich. Come on! Half-Lich! We almost starved to death over a period of six months because he would pick pocket every person in every village we entered. We were hunted on sight across three country because he thought the blacksmith should have more than two silver pieces..” Harmony was now making her way out of her row. “He once pretended he could not read for six months because he said forgot he was a barbarian, when he was supposed to translate an ancient scroll we found. We had sailed two thousand miles to save his father’s kingdom from trolls, only to have him tell us upon arrival that he is actually the before mentioned orphan…” She was now stridently moving down the aisle toward Skeen, who looked more and more uncomfortable as she approached. “And then there is the incident where I caught him with my animal companion trying to….” She had just about reached him and had her hands out to strangle him.
Skeen jumped to his feet to avoid her. “Baliff! Baliff! Restrain that woman,” yelled the Superintendent. The two burly attendants each sprang into action, but not before she reached him. When they pulled her away, she still held fists full of his shirt. He now stood shirtless, his dog tags visible now, hanging on a silver chain (shirtless man photo).
As the bailiffs dragged Harmony away, her voice raised into such a high pitch that it seemed to many to be chattering animal noises. Before the doors closed, a hail of acorns rained through the crack; clattering and spinning on the hard wood floor.
The Superintendent was banging on the table with his hand as if he was a gavel. “Order, Order! Please everyone take your seats.” The room was abuzz with whispers and pointing. “Mr. Skeen, are you OK to continue? We can continue later if you require time to regain your composure?”
With a sugary sweet smile, Skeen said, “No sir, I can continue. But I hope everyone sees the character of those who seek to slander me.” Taking his seat again, he gave a quick wink to a woman seated in the front row.
“Now, I think we are quiet ready to conclu….”
“Etnom Kooc presents!” Etnom’s chair fell behind him as he explodes to his feet. And then silence. That seemed all that Etnom had to say and the rest of the hall was in stunned silence. Grathem takes the moment to tug on Etnom’s sleeve, and is rewarded when his gentle friend stoops and lifts him in his arms, above the heads of those seated around him.
“Please excuse my moun..I mean my friend, as he is a bit of a kook. But I do present him as evidence of what this hearing is all about. Two years ago, Etnom was not like this. He was actually a brilliant man with great sense of humor. But that was robbed from him. My friend Kam was still alive, but his life was robbed form him too.”
“Sir..Sir, we are not here to retry his conspiracy case. You will recall, it is not murder that Mr. Skeen is serving his sentence. By your appearance, you are a ‘Roadie’ are you not? I am sure you want to see justice done here, just like the rest of us.” The superintendent looked in a hurry to cut off a paladin from testifying.
“Please sir, we prefer the title Road Warden of Fharlanghn, or simply Warden. But justice is what brings me here today. For you see it was not conspiracy to commit a crime that destroyed my friends’ lives.
You see, we had just fought our way through to the Grand Lich’s Burial/Bedchamber. We were fairly beat up, but ready for the challenge. The fight was tough. Rasten was down, but we seemed to be wearing him down after about 18 seconds. That was the moment Skeen backstabs Kam and declares his allegiance to the Grand Lich. He says he is half-lich and can help him.” A gasp rose from the crowd.
“It was a ploy,” yells Skeen obviously upset by this recollection. “It was supposed to be nonlethal damage, but his spleen got in the way. It was all a trick on the Grand Lich.”
“Who by the way was not fooled in slightest, and in fact seemed pleased that the opponent who was just pummeling him was eliminated. In fact, to reward you for your service, he cast a Disintergrate spell at you. Mun, you held up Kam’s body as a human shield to avoid the spell.” Another gasp and murmurs in the crowd.
“Paine was tough as nails, I didn’t think anything could hurt him,” answered Skeen lamely.
“And that was the thought you had after you just stabbed him in the back, Mun?... But distinguished Board, the loss of friends does not end there. The Lich struck me from my mount, Razor Claw, a giant badger, then aimed a spell at Etnom, as he is now called. As the Lich struck, Etnom reached for his scarab of protection that provided him a spell shield. In a moment of panic, he released it was gone, and in that moment the Lich’s Feeblemind spell struck. He had it the night before, although we never saw it again since then.
The Lich struck me once again and left me near death. My last memory was of Razor Claw wrestling with the Lich next to the Fire Pit that the Lich kept next to his bed. And as I started to pass out, I saw Mun push them both into the pit.”
The audience was starting to voice catcalls and the Superintendent realized things were getting out of control. “Sir Paladin. I have heard your wounds kept you from testifying, but these stories are simply unbelievable. I mean, he has these written references.” And he begins to unroll several scrolls. “I mean the Baron of Westrun”
“Written for our Company, before Skeen picked his pocket”
“Well then, the Duke of Seaside”
“I believe he has fully recovered from his backstab accident”
“The Earl of Havenship”
“Pockets picked and backstabbed”
With the last parchment in hand, “Surely not King Harold?”
“No, he never got the chance. Skeen tried to pick pocket the Queen…during court….and was spotted by the King with his hand in the Queen’s dress.”
The Board now seemed quite flustered. Rasten had started humming an anthum that slowly built up in volume during Grathem’s rendition. The crowd was really enjoying the show.
“Now see here, if you are indeed a Paladin, why did you travel with him?” The Superintendent sat back in his chair thinking he had finally reestablished control of the hearing.
“I wondered that too myself sometimes. He always claimed he was Chaotic Neutral, and that meant he was unpredictable. Even when I caught him roughing up orphans after I sent him to find out how much the nuns there charge for laundry service.”
“Those little brats were a bunch of smart-mouths,” muttered Skeen under his breath.
“But even after he ‘accidentally sold us to slavers, he never appeared as Evil to me……But Sir, I never noticed that necklace before either.”
Skeen’s eyes went from Grathem, to the Superintendent, to his dog tags beneath his chin.
“Baliff. Examine those tags.”
Both Baliffs stepped forward. One stopped behind Skeen. The other bent down to examine the medallions. “Name : Who wants to know. Occupation: Man of Mystery.
Serial Number: more than one, less than infinity. Alignment: Try Again Later?” The baliff looked up puzzled.
“Sir, if I may?” With a nod from all the members of the board, Grathem continued. “Baliff please remove the medallion of Mind Shielding.”
Da, Da, Daaaaaa,” Rasten’s sound track reached its climax.
“Whoa, Fharlanghn’s Bunions!” Grathem shielded his eyes. “Baliff, please Detect Evil on this man and tell the Board your findings.”
“Oooof.” The baliff handed hard on his ass, a dazed look on his face.
“Baliff? Are you all right.”
The baliff slowly seemed to come back to his senses. He looked up into Skeen’s leering face. “Clear the room! For mercy’s sake! Restrain him!” The Baliff was screaming orders while his partner placed Skeen in a choke hold.
People started screaming and running for the door. The Superintendent called out over the din. “This board hearing will reconvene in two years time to reexamine the early release of Mundungus Skeen.
The attractive woman in the front row cupped her hands to her mouth and whispered, “Kam Paine killer to remain in prison.” A silvery typewriter with wings took form and flew from her hands. On her way out, she hands Grathem a card: Gail Tinker - Portland Tribune. “We should talk,” and gives him a wink.
Harmony manages to fight her way back in and the four friends hug. “See you in two years?”
“It’s a date,” Grathem chimes. He walks out of the court house whistling Rasten’s anthem (soon to be known as Grathem’s Anthem) and twiddling Gail’s business card.
Grathem watches carefully as the plastic scissors slowly sliced across the newspaper. Of course any task for Etnom was always a handful, but Grathem’s own scissors would have taken seven times as long to remove the two articles from the Potland Tribune Human Edition. For himself, he usually had no time for human fixation with the weather witching and glammered stars, but Etnom needed his comics, and anything that kept him quiet and amused for hours was a blessing in his book and cheap at the price.
Grathem glowers as he has to fold the articles excessively until they were small enough to fit in his pocket, but now leaving a very noticeable bulge. He tugs down his coat but it does not extend far enough, “No time for this now. I can’t believe they hid the announcement in the legals.”
“Etnom, we are off to see the Company today”, Grathem intones in his singsong voice. Etnom responds well to his voice, luckily the male Gnome voice only had so much range and this was his normal voice.
“Good, good, me see Haley again,” Etnom claps his hands together.
Grathem shakes his head, “No, Haley is in your comic. We will get to see Harmony.” This set Etnom off in a skipping gait around the table chanting “Cheeks, Cheeks”, so he quickly forgot his initial disappointment that he will not see Faith today.
“Fetch the saddle Etnom, we need to set out.” Etnom went to the hall closet and came out with the leather seat with all its buckles. He hopelessly tried to figure out how it is supposed to go, before finally letting Grathem latch the buckles correctly. Etnom settled again at the table and Grathem swiftly climbed into his position on Etnom’s shoulders. On the way out the door, Grathem grabbed his peaked hat and sword off its high hook. Etnom grabbed his staff and giggled. The magic that still coursed through it tickled his hand, but the ability to master it was well beyond him.
They paused at the end of the walk until Grathem chimed, “Left. To the park.” Intoning a soft prayer to Fharlanghn, that sets Etnom off at an astounding quick pace.
*************
With the trees looming up ahead, Grathem hoped they would find Harmony quickly within the expanse of the Nature Reserve. Portland was very progressive, being the first city in the country to allow eminent domain to seize corporate property and turn it over to Druids to maintain as a park for everyone in the city to use.
The strange pair crossed the grass, skirted the lake, and soon found themselves encased in the dark canopy of redwoods, pines and oaks. “Harmony….Harmony”, Grathem called, his thin voice not seeming to travel very far. “Cheeks….Cheeks”, Etnom added fully getting a handle on the game they seemed to be playing. “Ooh, I know”, Etnom adds into the silence that answered they calls. Before Grathem has time to finish the thought that Etnom rarely knew anything good, his bearer launched himself under the branches, bending over to apparently gather acorns. Soon he was alternating between gathering nuts and throwing them up into the air calling “Cheeks…Come get some nuts!” Grathem had little recollection of the next five minutes other than hanging on for dear life. He had slipped from the saddle, and was clinging just to hair, when Etnom bent once again to gather nuts, pitching his rider forward to dangle over his forehead. But so intent on the game he did not notice and once again snapped erect fully launching Grathem five feet into the air. The scream slowly died in his throat as he felt him self gently placed back upon the now calm Etnom (gnome on head picture).
“The birds and the squirrels are the only thing that should be flying in the forest,” said a gentle, smiling voice.
“CHEEKS,” bellowed Etnom as he threw his arms around both Harmony and her Dire Squirrel. “Try to remember Etnom, his name is Sheik, he is an Arabian….”, her gentle reminder died as Etnom was now stuffing handfuls of nuts so eagerly into her animal companion’s mouth that she found it hard to argue with Etnom’s view of reality.” “Oh Cheeks. Me miss you,” he was hugging the creature again, forcing what little air could pass it packed jaws out of its lungs.
The two mounts scampered off into the underbrush to play at tag and hide and seek. “Not too far Sheik, do not lose him again, OK.” She was answered with what Grathem could only surmise must have been a sarcastic remark in Squirrel tongue based on the ferocity of the chittering and squeaks.
“So,..you look good. It still takes getting used to, the uniform I mean. Harmony of course stood much taller than Grathem, so she sat down on the dry leaves beside him. Her long brown hair brushed the ground, tied back in a long ponytail by a length of vine. Her city uniform was brown and green and the holly shaped badge read ‘Harmony: Arboreal Interpreter.’ He was surprised to see shoes on her feet and she caught his gaze. “The city makes us wear them. Hygiene in the snackbar and all.”
Seeming not to enjoy the subject of discussing herself, she quickly adds, “Well how have you been? You don’t seem to come around here so much anymore? Doesn’t your patron frown on homebodies?”
“Ahh, Harmony. Retirement just doesn’t suit me. I feel the need to set out for grand adventure again, but I have too many ties that hold me down and feel that too much was lost.” Just them a booming voice as if in answer to him resounds, “Cheeks, no fair jumping in trees. Etnom no allowed anymore to jump from trees.”
“Others can bear that responsibility you know. Others, who are trained specifically for that. It was not your fault he is like this, so it is not right that you feel you should be punished for it.” She placed her hand on his back. He could have curled up and slept in the warmth of her palm; coated in the scent of leather, pine sap, and…lavender?
But he stirred himself to try to remove the bundle from his pocket. “Oh Grath..I…Um”, she stammered as he continued to fight with what filled his yellow breeches. “Oh, come now Girl, give an old Paladin a little more respect than that…Whoof.” And the bundle of paper finally sprang free. Laughing she caught the small bundle but playfully seemed hesitant to touch it further, “What am I holding? And are you quite done with it?”
With a huff, he snatched it back and set out to try to unfold the myriad of folds he seems to have placed in it. After a minute he laid the paper flat. Looking over his shoulder, she skwints to read the fine print. “They mean to let that idiot out after what he did to Kam.”
“The hearing is at eleven, dear.” I thought we should go as a group, but there is not much time”. Glancing at his watch, “Which way is north? I loose my bearings in the forest.”
With a smile she point and he orients the sundial hand on his watch. “Whoa, not much time at all. Listen, I need you to head to the prison and be a presence in the hearing room. I will gather Rasten and meet you there.”
“But I haven’t seen Rasten since the trial. Do you know where to find him?”
Grathem handed her the second piece of paper. It was a theatre review, and not a good one by the looks of it. “Booth killed one in Ford’s Theater, Rasten kills entire audience. Not Tonight Dear, I Have a Headache: The Lincoln Assassination Musical. Take the title’s advice and STAY HOME!”
“Poor Rasten, another misconceived project,” as she hands the slip of paper back.
“So can you get there in time?”
“Let me just notify my manager.” She cups her hands and softly blows into them. Her breath takes shape and a shimmering squirrel is visible. With her lips close she whispers, “I need someone to cover my shift.” She raises her hands the the squirrel seems to take flight up into the canopy.
They gather up Sheik and Etnom and head out of the trees. At the forest’s edge and small shimmering hawk comes down and lands in Harmony’s palm. “You can not leave now! The Halfling school kids are coming soon and all spare employees are guarding the gift shop.” The small hawk disappears and Harmony looks up to see hear boss riding his giant hawk above the canopy. He appears to be gesturing to get her back into the forest. Harmony provides him with her own gesture. Next her badge and shoes hit the soft grass. Turning to Grathem and helping him up again onto Etnom’s shoulders, “Some things are just more important.”
She mounts Sheik and gives a short wave before setting out at a bounding pace. Grathem points Etnom toward the Arts District and set off at a brisk walk.
****************************
The traffic was horrible in the city square. All motor vehicles are banned within the city limits, so that just encouraged everyone to run out and get a wagon or buggy. Now the streets were choked with their rattling wheels and smelly waste. Even worse was the traffic lights seemed to be set to the speed of a wagon. As she sat at her fifth light in a row she fumed, then glanced around for a cop (giant squirrel picture). With the coast clear, as the light changed she goaded Sheik up. He took her cue and quickly scrambled up the side of the Portland National Bank building. Watching for wires, antennas, and satellite dishes, Sheik set a pace as if he was born on a roof top.
With the courthouse and prison in view, they drop back down to street level. “Just in time Sheik,” as a meter maid on her Dire Humming Bird rounded the corner.
Carrying no metal objects, she quickly passed through security at the gate. The sign at the door to the hearing room stated no animals except Riding Eye Dogs for the Blind. Opening a small pouch she turned to Sheik, “In you go, just for a little bit.” Sheik leapt at the pouch and was swallowed up into its trans-dimensional space, that is, all of him except four feet of his tail. She pushed at the fluffy mass, but no more would fit. “How many nuts did you eat?,” she ask in frustration. Finally, wrapping the excess tail around her like a shawl, she entered the building to raised eyebrows of those who saw her grand entrance on this fine warm spring day.
*********************
The Arts District was quiet this time of day. That was good for the street performers would have held Etnom spellbound for hours. Grathem looks again at the review and saw the Gerald Ford Theatre listed. Rasten likely appreciated the irony, but obviously the reviewer did not.
The front was locked up so they passed down the side alley looking for another entrance. Rounding the back corner, they came upon a crowd of what must have been the musical’s actors based on the 1850’s costumes. Grathem immediately spotted Rasten sitting by the stage door looking dejected in his Lincoln attire (Lincoln picture). A crumpled newspaper at his feet gently rocked in the breeze.
He did smile when he saw Grathem and Etnom approach. It unnerved the paladin to a degree to see Lincoln smile. “You say we go see Rasten?” Etnom stated sounded dejected.
Rising to his feet, Rasten greeted them with a bow, “My dear friends, so good to see you.” Grathem saw the other performers, who had previously been obviously ignoring him to suffer alone in the dim glare of the scathing review, suddenly take notice. Possibly the strange appearance of the gnome/man combination caught their interest, but more likely their utter surprise that this bombastic buffoon would have friends.
“Sorry to hear about the show,” Grathem opened up, waving the clipped article in his hand.
“Nothing like harsh words to stir up controversy. Controversy fill the seats. No press is bad press, ..” Clearly Rasten had a few more of these, but Grathem realized how short of time they were.
“Sorry, listen, can we talk.” Quickly shoving the other clipped article down into his hand.
Rasten was soon running to the stage door. “Dear Director, you will have to go on without me somehow. My talents are needed on an emergency’s call. I know my contract states my continued presence, but…”
Before he could finish the direct was already calling for the understudy, “You all heard him right, he released himself right?”
All the stage hands raced back into the theatre as if renewed with vigor. “Poor souls, look at them run. I left them in such a state with having to replace me.” Grathem caught the glace as the last actor entered the theatre; there seemed to have been a smile on it.
**********************
The gate security was a nightmare. Etnom became panicked when he got tangled trying to remove the saddle. Grathem was hesitant to leave his sword, especially after one of the guards drew it and playfully swung it around. When he managed to slice the brim off his partners hat, everyone suddenly got very serious. They almost left Rasten behind, as he continued to remove piercing rings from places Grathem did not think were pierceable.
They entered the hearing room in a rush, quickly settling into seats beside Harmony. She gave them a look that dared any one of them to comment her fur attire, and all turned to give their attention to the proceedings.
The room was stark. A few hanging overhead lights and three small windows ave the room a myriad of shadows. A series of long desks lined the far end of one wall. Facing them was a man in a simple button down shirt and jeans, a metallic chain visible around his neck. Grathem was surprised not to see him in his prison attire as if the Parole Board had already made their decision, but he suspected that they allowed him his street attire so as to not influence the board. His black hair had been shaved since Grathem saw this man last. Clint almost did not seem himself without his trademark long hair, but that menacing stare was still there as he glanced over at their arrival. But it disappeared quickly when he turned back to the board reviewers.
Grathem heard the psychiatrist wrapping up his review, “and seeing his model behavior within the prison I feel that this man, Mundungus Skeen, is ready to return to society.”
The Prison Superintendent then turned to the crowd seated in uncomfortable wooded chairs in the back of the hall, “I believe the Board is ready to deliver its decision unless there is additional input from those in attendance.”
Rasten jumped to his feet, “My dear Lord, the man in question has only served two years for murder sentence. I can swear to you that this man should never be released into society. In fact, the following sonnet should prove..”
The Superintendent raised a hand to cut him off, “While I am sure I can rely on the honesty of your testimony Mr….Lincoln. We are not here to relive past crimes, especially in rhyme.” This got a good laugh from the audience, and he appeared ready to move on. “So any other dignitaries wish to speak?”
Grathem had been shaking his head in wonder at Rasten’s performance. Lincoln reading sonnets, not a good start. He got to his feet, which of course put him on the floor and out of sight. As he scrambled to climb back up, he yanking on Harmony, “Say something!”
Harmony jumped to her feet, but then looked quiet perplexed as if this was the last place she wanted to be. “Yes, the distinguished lady wishes to add something?” Getting more chuckles in the process.
She stammered and looked down at Grathem. He was mouthing the words “Liar”. “Yes!” The force of the exclamation even surprised herself, but it seemed some long bent up emotion was starting to breach a dam. “This man was our ‘friend’ yet told us nothing but lies for two years. When we met him we thought he was a bit wild and sort of a loose cannon, but that can work for you sometimes when you take an adventure contract. Well over the time that we know him his story would change. He at times claimed he was an orphan, a disowned prince, a riverboat gambler, a bank teller, a good mechanic, and an honest politician who got out of the race because of all the dirty tricks. He is a half-drow, half-dragon, tiefling half-lich. Come on! Half-Lich! We almost starved to death over a period of six months because he would pick pocket every person in every village we entered. We were hunted on sight across three country because he thought the blacksmith should have more than two silver pieces..” Harmony was now making her way out of her row. “He once pretended he could not read for six months because he said forgot he was a barbarian, when he was supposed to translate an ancient scroll we found. We had sailed two thousand miles to save his father’s kingdom from trolls, only to have him tell us upon arrival that he is actually the before mentioned orphan…” She was now stridently moving down the aisle toward Skeen, who looked more and more uncomfortable as she approached. “And then there is the incident where I caught him with my animal companion trying to….” She had just about reached him and had her hands out to strangle him.
Skeen jumped to his feet to avoid her. “Baliff! Baliff! Restrain that woman,” yelled the Superintendent. The two burly attendants each sprang into action, but not before she reached him. When they pulled her away, she still held fists full of his shirt. He now stood shirtless, his dog tags visible now, hanging on a silver chain (shirtless man photo).
As the bailiffs dragged Harmony away, her voice raised into such a high pitch that it seemed to many to be chattering animal noises. Before the doors closed, a hail of acorns rained through the crack; clattering and spinning on the hard wood floor.
The Superintendent was banging on the table with his hand as if he was a gavel. “Order, Order! Please everyone take your seats.” The room was abuzz with whispers and pointing. “Mr. Skeen, are you OK to continue? We can continue later if you require time to regain your composure?”
With a sugary sweet smile, Skeen said, “No sir, I can continue. But I hope everyone sees the character of those who seek to slander me.” Taking his seat again, he gave a quick wink to a woman seated in the front row.
“Now, I think we are quiet ready to conclu….”
“Etnom Kooc presents!” Etnom’s chair fell behind him as he explodes to his feet. And then silence. That seemed all that Etnom had to say and the rest of the hall was in stunned silence. Grathem takes the moment to tug on Etnom’s sleeve, and is rewarded when his gentle friend stoops and lifts him in his arms, above the heads of those seated around him.
“Please excuse my moun..I mean my friend, as he is a bit of a kook. But I do present him as evidence of what this hearing is all about. Two years ago, Etnom was not like this. He was actually a brilliant man with great sense of humor. But that was robbed from him. My friend Kam was still alive, but his life was robbed form him too.”
“Sir..Sir, we are not here to retry his conspiracy case. You will recall, it is not murder that Mr. Skeen is serving his sentence. By your appearance, you are a ‘Roadie’ are you not? I am sure you want to see justice done here, just like the rest of us.” The superintendent looked in a hurry to cut off a paladin from testifying.
“Please sir, we prefer the title Road Warden of Fharlanghn, or simply Warden. But justice is what brings me here today. For you see it was not conspiracy to commit a crime that destroyed my friends’ lives.
You see, we had just fought our way through to the Grand Lich’s Burial/Bedchamber. We were fairly beat up, but ready for the challenge. The fight was tough. Rasten was down, but we seemed to be wearing him down after about 18 seconds. That was the moment Skeen backstabs Kam and declares his allegiance to the Grand Lich. He says he is half-lich and can help him.” A gasp rose from the crowd.
“It was a ploy,” yells Skeen obviously upset by this recollection. “It was supposed to be nonlethal damage, but his spleen got in the way. It was all a trick on the Grand Lich.”
“Who by the way was not fooled in slightest, and in fact seemed pleased that the opponent who was just pummeling him was eliminated. In fact, to reward you for your service, he cast a Disintergrate spell at you. Mun, you held up Kam’s body as a human shield to avoid the spell.” Another gasp and murmurs in the crowd.
“Paine was tough as nails, I didn’t think anything could hurt him,” answered Skeen lamely.
“And that was the thought you had after you just stabbed him in the back, Mun?... But distinguished Board, the loss of friends does not end there. The Lich struck me from my mount, Razor Claw, a giant badger, then aimed a spell at Etnom, as he is now called. As the Lich struck, Etnom reached for his scarab of protection that provided him a spell shield. In a moment of panic, he released it was gone, and in that moment the Lich’s Feeblemind spell struck. He had it the night before, although we never saw it again since then.
The Lich struck me once again and left me near death. My last memory was of Razor Claw wrestling with the Lich next to the Fire Pit that the Lich kept next to his bed. And as I started to pass out, I saw Mun push them both into the pit.”
The audience was starting to voice catcalls and the Superintendent realized things were getting out of control. “Sir Paladin. I have heard your wounds kept you from testifying, but these stories are simply unbelievable. I mean, he has these written references.” And he begins to unroll several scrolls. “I mean the Baron of Westrun”
“Written for our Company, before Skeen picked his pocket”
“Well then, the Duke of Seaside”
“I believe he has fully recovered from his backstab accident”
“The Earl of Havenship”
“Pockets picked and backstabbed”
With the last parchment in hand, “Surely not King Harold?”
“No, he never got the chance. Skeen tried to pick pocket the Queen…during court….and was spotted by the King with his hand in the Queen’s dress.”
The Board now seemed quite flustered. Rasten had started humming an anthum that slowly built up in volume during Grathem’s rendition. The crowd was really enjoying the show.
“Now see here, if you are indeed a Paladin, why did you travel with him?” The Superintendent sat back in his chair thinking he had finally reestablished control of the hearing.
“I wondered that too myself sometimes. He always claimed he was Chaotic Neutral, and that meant he was unpredictable. Even when I caught him roughing up orphans after I sent him to find out how much the nuns there charge for laundry service.”
“Those little brats were a bunch of smart-mouths,” muttered Skeen under his breath.
“But even after he ‘accidentally sold us to slavers, he never appeared as Evil to me……But Sir, I never noticed that necklace before either.”
Skeen’s eyes went from Grathem, to the Superintendent, to his dog tags beneath his chin.
“Baliff. Examine those tags.”
Both Baliffs stepped forward. One stopped behind Skeen. The other bent down to examine the medallions. “Name : Who wants to know. Occupation: Man of Mystery.
Serial Number: more than one, less than infinity. Alignment: Try Again Later?” The baliff looked up puzzled.
“Sir, if I may?” With a nod from all the members of the board, Grathem continued. “Baliff please remove the medallion of Mind Shielding.”
Da, Da, Daaaaaa,” Rasten’s sound track reached its climax.
“Whoa, Fharlanghn’s Bunions!” Grathem shielded his eyes. “Baliff, please Detect Evil on this man and tell the Board your findings.”
“Oooof.” The baliff handed hard on his ass, a dazed look on his face.
“Baliff? Are you all right.”
The baliff slowly seemed to come back to his senses. He looked up into Skeen’s leering face. “Clear the room! For mercy’s sake! Restrain him!” The Baliff was screaming orders while his partner placed Skeen in a choke hold.
People started screaming and running for the door. The Superintendent called out over the din. “This board hearing will reconvene in two years time to reexamine the early release of Mundungus Skeen.
The attractive woman in the front row cupped her hands to her mouth and whispered, “Kam Paine killer to remain in prison.” A silvery typewriter with wings took form and flew from her hands. On her way out, she hands Grathem a card: Gail Tinker - Portland Tribune. “We should talk,” and gives him a wink.
Harmony manages to fight her way back in and the four friends hug. “See you in two years?”
“It’s a date,” Grathem chimes. He walks out of the court house whistling Rasten’s anthem (soon to be known as Grathem’s Anthem) and twiddling Gail’s business card.
Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
**********Warning: Contains elements of political satire. ***********************
Rodrigo Istalindir – Two Score and Seven Years From Now
Although at the time it had caused a lot of hard-feelings and name-calling, by 2052 most folks who could remember the election of ’00 felt a little nostalgic. A few hanging chads seemed positively quaint compared to the current fiasco. And unlike the first Bush-Gore election, this one wasn’t going to resolve itself anywhere near as neatly.
▪
“I don’t care who you have to kill to get it, just get it,” Henderson growled at his assistant. “We can’t let the other parties get out in front on this.”
“Yes, sir,” the flunky said.
Around them, political movers and shakers mingled and made deals. Henderson always threw good parties, and this was no exception. While the muckety-mucks congregated in small groups, the spouses wandered the house, admiring Henderson’s extensive collection of 20th Century Kitsch.
“Who are the Neo-Retro-Democrats going after?”
“We think JFK. We have an inside source at the FBI that told us the National Archives were broken into last week. Apparently the dress was taken.”
“So it really was there? Huh.”
“We know the ProgReps are hung up on Reagan. Won’t work. A young one won’t do, and you know how the aging process affects the end result.”
“Yeah. Suckers. They should have known better. We know where they got the sample?” Henderson asked.
“Not a clue. The Greens are going after Nader, but he had himself cremated and turned into compost. The Social Capitalists are split. Half want Perot, the other half want Streisand. They never agree on anything anyway.”
“We need something big. We’re trailing in the polls, and we still don’t have a candidate. It’s less than two years to New Hampshire.”
“There is one possibility. It’s a long shot. It won’t be cheap, either,” warned the political operative.
“Who?”
Michelle looked around to make sure no one was near, then leaned in close and whispered. Henderson stared at her for a moment, then smiled.
“You think he can do it?”
“If anyone can, it’s him. Do I have a blank check on this operation?”
“No. But you do have an untraceable account in the Caymans with $12,000,000 in it.”
“That’ll do. I’ll keep you informed of our progress”
“You’d better.” Henderson said.
▪
Michelle was worried. When she’d told Henderson she could make this work, she was putting her political future on the line. Succeed, and she’d be some dead president’s chief-of-staff someday. Fail, and she’d be stuck running campaigns for dogcatcher.
She rode the elevator to the loft. The music was loud, and she could smell tobacco all the way at the end of the hall. Freaks, she thought. Why they had to smoke that nasty stuff instead of marijuana was a mystery.
She approached the door and knocked until it opened. An insanely drunk Rastafarian stared at her, head bopping to a much different beat than that blaring from the walls.
“Hey, blondie, whatcha doin’ out in the hall.”
Michelle pushed past him and into the loft. The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the living area, and a hundred people danced and drank and passed out and puked, in no particular order. She waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then started weaving her way through the crowd.
She saw her contact at the far end, near a kitchen so small it seemed like an afterthought. The man was tall, lean. He had himself altered to look like an action vid star from the turn of the century. By the way the muscle was starting to fade, he was due for a refresh. (Picture 1) Good. If he had let himself start to go, it meant he needed money. It was always nice to be able to bargain from a position of strength.
“Harold? Can we go somewhere private to talk?” Michelle asked.
Harold looked right through her.
Michelle sighed.
“Vin, can we go somewhere private to talk?” she repeated.
Harold’s eyes met hers.
“This way,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly.
Harold led her to a back room and shut the door. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scrambler. The device would prevent any electronic surveillance. They couldn’t use it for long – the You Are a Patriot, Aren’t You? Act of ’12 had outlawed them, and the police would pick up on it pretty quick.
“I understand you can obtain a sample of the individual in question?” Michelle asked?
“Yeah, I can get it. It’s gonna cost ya, though.” Harold replied.
“How do I know its authentic?”
“It’s authentic. My contact was working at the renovation of the theatre when they broke through to a sublevel that wasn’t on any of the plans. When he saw the stains on the chair, he knew right away what it was.”
“How much?”
“Ten million.”
Michelle laughed.
“Get real. For that kind of money I could get George or Tom.”
“Then get them. You want this one, it’s ten.”
“Five up front. Plus another 5 if we win the election.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
Michelle handed him a chip.
“Here’s the address and passkey. Can you deliver by the weekend?”
▪
Two figures watched from behind glass as the technicians in the sterile room scraped a bit of 200-year-old blood off the chair recovered from the bowels of Ford’s Theatre.
“You really think this isn’t just a fad?” Michelle asked.
“No, this is the wave of the future, kid. Once the Supremes ruled that the 13th Amendment only applied to clones of people born after 2008, it was only a matter of time,” Henderson replied.
“So, we’re going to clone Abraham Lincoln, force-grow him to 35 years old, and try to get him elected President of the United States?”
“Yeah. Well, sorta. We can’t go through the normal vat process. We have to do this one in utero. Can’t have a sore loser dragging us into court over the ‘natural born citizen’ bit. Once the lucky mom squirts him out, though, we’ll start the accelerated growth drugs.”
“And you’ll be the first man in history to own a president.”
“Hardly the first, kid,” he laughed. “Hardly the first.”
▪
Twenty months later, Michelle still had trouble believing it. It was uncanny. On the other side of the two way mirror, a middle-aged Abraham Lincoln sat in an isolation chamber, enmeshed in VR gear. The screen in front of Michelle showed Abe giving the Gettysburg Address.
Authenticity was the key. If you wanted the public to vote for a legend, he had to not only look the part. He had to personify history, carry on his shoulders the weight of his progenitor’s legacy, and convince people that he had inherited the brilliance and compassion and steely resolve in addition to the gangly frame and hairy mole.
The rapid growth process was hard on the subject, not to mention expensive and dangerous. Producing a 35 year old clone with the mind of an infant wouldn’t do. The debates were all style over substance, but you still had to recognize your own name.
It was awkward for Michelle. It was like having a child and watching him grow up in a year. One minute you were helping him learn how to walk, the next you were discussing the trade deficit. Maybe some of Abe’s legendary willpower was genetic, Michelle thought. God only knows how the clone managed to not go stark raving mad.
The VR immersions helped. They could stretch subjective time, making the subject experience months of virtual life in a matter of days of real-time. Michelle and Abe had had plenty of virtual time to get acquainted, and had become something like friends.
▪
“It’s a big night -- the first debate. People have high expectations. After all, the Lincoln-Douglass debates set the standard,” Abe said.
He leaned back, stretched his long legs, and wiggled his toes. (Picture 2) There was still some residual pain from the growth regimen, and he had to take frequent breaks while on the campaign trail. He’d spent the entire morning speaking and pressing the flesh at some ancient building his gene-parent had supposedly slept in two centuries before.
“You’ll do fine,” Michelle said. “It’s just going to be you and FDR.”
“What about Clinton? Don’t tell me the NeoRetroDems are dropping out?”
“Yeah, and the Feminist Army, too. Drudge is about to post pictures of Clinton in a compromising situation with Susan B. Anthony.”
“Huh. Guess not being able to keep it in your pants is genetic.”
Michelle laughed.
“Guess so. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had gotten a decent sample from Jackie’s dress, they’d have had the same problem.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “you’ll cream FDR. People aren’t buying into him. They should have given him polio, or at least had him sit in a wheelchair. They’re screwing up their own image.”
“I’m glad they didn’t. I’d start to worry you all were going to have me shot.”
“That’s not funny, Abe. I’d never let them do that to you. Now come on. One more hour of kissing babies and shaking hands, then you can take a nap before the debate.”
▪
Michelle sat with Abe and Henderson watching the returns. Abe was well ahead, and it appeared he would be the 50th President of the United States. Since the abolishment of the Electoral College, votes were tabulated electronically and a winner declared at midnight Pacific time. The swearing-in would come the following day.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” Henderson yawned. “Make sure you have the inauguration speech I had written for you memorized, Abe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tme for me to head home, too,” Michelle said. “I’ll meet you here in the morning, Abe, and we’ll go over your speech one more time.”
Abe heard the door close, and sat alone watching as the final results were displayed on the screen. He switched off the vid, then pulled out a computer tablet. He pulled up a document, and started writing.
▪
Michelle was awakened by the vidscreen blaring the high-pitched warble indicating a priority incoming call. Sitting up in her bed, she brushed her hair from her eyes and acknowledged the call.
“What the hell is he up to?” Henderson shouted.
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Abe, the ungrateful little bastard. I made him the most powerful man in the free world, and this is how he repays me? He’s my property – I’ll destroy him piece by piece,” he raged.
“Slow down, Mr. Henderson. Start from the beginning.”
“He left with the Secret Service before dawn. Told them that I was to remain under house arrest. Then I found this.”
Henderson held a computer tablet up to the vidscreen. Michelle grabbed the remote and had it zoom in so she could read it.
“Oh. Oh, my.”
“He thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t even play in the same league as me. Does he really think he can’t be replaced?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think I’d take a chance on something happening to him? I have a half-dozen Abes squirreled away just in case. Some of his Secret Service agents are on my payroll. I’ll kill the freak and substitute one of the others.”
“Sir, don’t do anything rash. I’ll be right over.”
Michelle disconnected the call and scrambled to get dressed. Hopping in her speeder, she raced to Henderson’s mansion in Georgetown. She leapt from the vehicle and raced up the walk. She waved her credentials at the Secret Service agent.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. But President Lincoln has ordered us to secure the premises.”
“He said Henderson couldn’t leave – he didn’t say anything about other people going in, did he?”
“Well, uh, no.”
She stared at him.
“Ok, ma’am, I guess you can go in.”
She stormed past the agent and into the house. She heard Henderson ranting and raving in the study. She found him sitting in his easy chair, back to the doorway. An empty bottle of Scotch lay on the floor.
“Sir, let’s discuss this. We don’t know for sure that…..”
“Too late, Michelle. I already gave the order. He’ll be dead before he takes the oath, and #2 is already en-route.”
“Call it off. Dammit, Henderson, you can’t do this.”
“I can and will. I own him. It’s perfectly legal.”
“Sir, please.”
Michelle picked up a knick-knack from the shelf. It was heavy, an ugly little ceramic gnome from the 1990s. She crept up behind Henderson.
“Knock it off, Michelle. You know, you’re way to close to him. Maybe this was your idea. Consider yourself fired.”
With a cry, she brought the figurine down on Henderson’s head. (Picture 4) There was a sickening crunch as his skull fractured, and he pitched forward from the chair. He lay on the carpet, a bright red pool spreading on the floor.
Michelle dropped the gnome and sprinted for the door. She whipped it open, intent on alerting the agent to the threat to the President. She was just about to blurt it out when she saw he wasn’t alone. Another agent had appeared while she was inside.
“Can I help you, Miss?” the new agent asked.
“You’ve got to get word to the President. Someone on his security detail is going to try and kill him.”
The agent looked at her.
“Yes, I know,” he said, and with one fluid motion he drew his pistol and shot the other agent in the chest.
“Inside. Now,” he ordered.
Michelle ducked back inside and slammed the door before the agent could enter. She took the keycard Henderson had given her and quickly secured it. She knew it would only be a moment before the agent used his override. She dashed to the back of the house, and out the door. She nearly tripped over the body of the agent who had apparently been guarding the back entrance.
She rummaged through his pockets until she found his security card, then quickly swiped it through the scanner at the door and locked it down. Hopefully, she thought, the other agent’s override wouldn’t work.
She sprinted across the lawn and climbed over the wall into the neighbor’s property. She crossed the yard and jumped over the small hedge. Opposite from her was a public park, perfectly manicured and with almost no place to hide.
She was about ready to panic when she spotted a crowd of people waiting to get their picture taken with one of the mounted Park rangers. He was standing beside the genetically engineered squirrel whose adaptability to the urban environment had made them the perfect replacement for horses.
She pushed her way through the crowd and edged close to the beast. The ranger was distracted by a bunch of snotty little brats pushing and shoving. Halfway through the 21st century, and DC still attracted rubes who acted like they’d never experienced civilization before.
She knew she had to act fast. She reached out, pretending to pet the squirrel, and took hold of the reins. With a swift motion, she leapt into the saddle and shook the reins.
With a giant bound, the neo-squirrel cleared the crowd of tourists and headed for the street. (Picture 3) The ranger, taken aback, reached vainly for the reins. In seconds, Michelle had left them behind and was galloping towards the Mall.
Minutes later, she had reached the spot near the Capitol where the inauguration would be held. She climbed down from the squirrel and tried to blend into the crowd. She had to reach Abe to warn him, but she had no idea how she was going to get past the Secret Service.
She was still trying to devise a plan when someone grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear.
“Secret Service. Come with me, ma’am.”
▪
Twenty minutes later, she was locked inside a room in the Capitol. She was frightened near to tears, and any minute expected a Secret Service agent to come in and shoot her.
She panicked when she heard someone unlock the door. She frantically searched the room for a weapon, but there was nothing but a few ornamental books and some throw pillows.
The Secret Service agent from Henderson’s house entered. Glaring at her, he pulled his pistol from its holster and flicked the safety.
“You are a pain in the ass, missy.”
Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
She heard the sharp crack of the pistol, and nearly fainted before realizing she hadn’t felt anything.
She opened her eyes to see the agent lying dead on the floor.
“It’s ok, Michelle. Everything is under control.”
She whirled. An agent stood in front of cleverly disguised panel. Behind him, a tall gangly figure stooped low to avoid banging his head.
“Oh, Abe. Thank God.”
The tall figure moved into the room. Another appeared at the secret entrance, and then another. Soon, there were six identical Abraham Lincolns in the room.
“Ok, what’s going on here?” she asked. “And which one of you is the President?”
Abe – her Abe – stepped forward.
“That would be me, Michelle. And what’s going on here is an attempted coup. Fortunately, my brothers were more loyal to me than to Henderson. They contacted me as soon as he tried to activate his little plot.”
“I’m sorry you were in danger. I sent loyal agents to your house, but I didn’t know you’d gone to Henderson’s until it was too late.”
“Speaking of which, you might be relieved to know that the traitor will survive long enough to be tried and hanged,” he finished.
“Good. I guess. Very sloppy, leaving that tablet where he could find it, Abe.”
“What do you want, Michelle? I’m only two,” he grinned.
“Now, if you’ll care to accompany me, I have a short speech to give.”
▪
Michelle stood in the front row as the Chief Justice administered the oath of office, a chill running through her as Abe recited ‘… and defend the Constitution of the United States’.
As the applause died down, Abe stepped towards the podium and began to speak.
“Fellow Americans. As my distant ancestor was reknowned for his brevity, I shall endeavor to follow in his footsteps in that regard as well. Accordingly, I now make a new ‘Emancipation Proclamation.’ From this day forth, let all men and women, natural born and clone alike, share in the same rights and privileges to which all citizens of this great nation are entitled.”
Abe paused as a thunderous roar of approval came from the crowd.
“Bet Henderson wishes he’d gone for Nixon,” Michelle thought.
Rodrigo Istalindir – Two Score and Seven Years From Now
Although at the time it had caused a lot of hard-feelings and name-calling, by 2052 most folks who could remember the election of ’00 felt a little nostalgic. A few hanging chads seemed positively quaint compared to the current fiasco. And unlike the first Bush-Gore election, this one wasn’t going to resolve itself anywhere near as neatly.
▪
“I don’t care who you have to kill to get it, just get it,” Henderson growled at his assistant. “We can’t let the other parties get out in front on this.”
“Yes, sir,” the flunky said.
Around them, political movers and shakers mingled and made deals. Henderson always threw good parties, and this was no exception. While the muckety-mucks congregated in small groups, the spouses wandered the house, admiring Henderson’s extensive collection of 20th Century Kitsch.
“Who are the Neo-Retro-Democrats going after?”
“We think JFK. We have an inside source at the FBI that told us the National Archives were broken into last week. Apparently the dress was taken.”
“So it really was there? Huh.”
“We know the ProgReps are hung up on Reagan. Won’t work. A young one won’t do, and you know how the aging process affects the end result.”
“Yeah. Suckers. They should have known better. We know where they got the sample?” Henderson asked.
“Not a clue. The Greens are going after Nader, but he had himself cremated and turned into compost. The Social Capitalists are split. Half want Perot, the other half want Streisand. They never agree on anything anyway.”
“We need something big. We’re trailing in the polls, and we still don’t have a candidate. It’s less than two years to New Hampshire.”
“There is one possibility. It’s a long shot. It won’t be cheap, either,” warned the political operative.
“Who?”
Michelle looked around to make sure no one was near, then leaned in close and whispered. Henderson stared at her for a moment, then smiled.
“You think he can do it?”
“If anyone can, it’s him. Do I have a blank check on this operation?”
“No. But you do have an untraceable account in the Caymans with $12,000,000 in it.”
“That’ll do. I’ll keep you informed of our progress”
“You’d better.” Henderson said.
▪
Michelle was worried. When she’d told Henderson she could make this work, she was putting her political future on the line. Succeed, and she’d be some dead president’s chief-of-staff someday. Fail, and she’d be stuck running campaigns for dogcatcher.
She rode the elevator to the loft. The music was loud, and she could smell tobacco all the way at the end of the hall. Freaks, she thought. Why they had to smoke that nasty stuff instead of marijuana was a mystery.
She approached the door and knocked until it opened. An insanely drunk Rastafarian stared at her, head bopping to a much different beat than that blaring from the walls.
“Hey, blondie, whatcha doin’ out in the hall.”
Michelle pushed past him and into the loft. The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the living area, and a hundred people danced and drank and passed out and puked, in no particular order. She waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then started weaving her way through the crowd.
She saw her contact at the far end, near a kitchen so small it seemed like an afterthought. The man was tall, lean. He had himself altered to look like an action vid star from the turn of the century. By the way the muscle was starting to fade, he was due for a refresh. (Picture 1) Good. If he had let himself start to go, it meant he needed money. It was always nice to be able to bargain from a position of strength.
“Harold? Can we go somewhere private to talk?” Michelle asked.
Harold looked right through her.
Michelle sighed.
“Vin, can we go somewhere private to talk?” she repeated.
Harold’s eyes met hers.
“This way,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly.
Harold led her to a back room and shut the door. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scrambler. The device would prevent any electronic surveillance. They couldn’t use it for long – the You Are a Patriot, Aren’t You? Act of ’12 had outlawed them, and the police would pick up on it pretty quick.
“I understand you can obtain a sample of the individual in question?” Michelle asked?
“Yeah, I can get it. It’s gonna cost ya, though.” Harold replied.
“How do I know its authentic?”
“It’s authentic. My contact was working at the renovation of the theatre when they broke through to a sublevel that wasn’t on any of the plans. When he saw the stains on the chair, he knew right away what it was.”
“How much?”
“Ten million.”
Michelle laughed.
“Get real. For that kind of money I could get George or Tom.”
“Then get them. You want this one, it’s ten.”
“Five up front. Plus another 5 if we win the election.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
Michelle handed him a chip.
“Here’s the address and passkey. Can you deliver by the weekend?”
▪
Two figures watched from behind glass as the technicians in the sterile room scraped a bit of 200-year-old blood off the chair recovered from the bowels of Ford’s Theatre.
“You really think this isn’t just a fad?” Michelle asked.
“No, this is the wave of the future, kid. Once the Supremes ruled that the 13th Amendment only applied to clones of people born after 2008, it was only a matter of time,” Henderson replied.
“So, we’re going to clone Abraham Lincoln, force-grow him to 35 years old, and try to get him elected President of the United States?”
“Yeah. Well, sorta. We can’t go through the normal vat process. We have to do this one in utero. Can’t have a sore loser dragging us into court over the ‘natural born citizen’ bit. Once the lucky mom squirts him out, though, we’ll start the accelerated growth drugs.”
“And you’ll be the first man in history to own a president.”
“Hardly the first, kid,” he laughed. “Hardly the first.”
▪
Twenty months later, Michelle still had trouble believing it. It was uncanny. On the other side of the two way mirror, a middle-aged Abraham Lincoln sat in an isolation chamber, enmeshed in VR gear. The screen in front of Michelle showed Abe giving the Gettysburg Address.
Authenticity was the key. If you wanted the public to vote for a legend, he had to not only look the part. He had to personify history, carry on his shoulders the weight of his progenitor’s legacy, and convince people that he had inherited the brilliance and compassion and steely resolve in addition to the gangly frame and hairy mole.
The rapid growth process was hard on the subject, not to mention expensive and dangerous. Producing a 35 year old clone with the mind of an infant wouldn’t do. The debates were all style over substance, but you still had to recognize your own name.
It was awkward for Michelle. It was like having a child and watching him grow up in a year. One minute you were helping him learn how to walk, the next you were discussing the trade deficit. Maybe some of Abe’s legendary willpower was genetic, Michelle thought. God only knows how the clone managed to not go stark raving mad.
The VR immersions helped. They could stretch subjective time, making the subject experience months of virtual life in a matter of days of real-time. Michelle and Abe had had plenty of virtual time to get acquainted, and had become something like friends.
▪
“It’s a big night -- the first debate. People have high expectations. After all, the Lincoln-Douglass debates set the standard,” Abe said.
He leaned back, stretched his long legs, and wiggled his toes. (Picture 2) There was still some residual pain from the growth regimen, and he had to take frequent breaks while on the campaign trail. He’d spent the entire morning speaking and pressing the flesh at some ancient building his gene-parent had supposedly slept in two centuries before.
“You’ll do fine,” Michelle said. “It’s just going to be you and FDR.”
“What about Clinton? Don’t tell me the NeoRetroDems are dropping out?”
“Yeah, and the Feminist Army, too. Drudge is about to post pictures of Clinton in a compromising situation with Susan B. Anthony.”
“Huh. Guess not being able to keep it in your pants is genetic.”
Michelle laughed.
“Guess so. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had gotten a decent sample from Jackie’s dress, they’d have had the same problem.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “you’ll cream FDR. People aren’t buying into him. They should have given him polio, or at least had him sit in a wheelchair. They’re screwing up their own image.”
“I’m glad they didn’t. I’d start to worry you all were going to have me shot.”
“That’s not funny, Abe. I’d never let them do that to you. Now come on. One more hour of kissing babies and shaking hands, then you can take a nap before the debate.”
▪
Michelle sat with Abe and Henderson watching the returns. Abe was well ahead, and it appeared he would be the 50th President of the United States. Since the abolishment of the Electoral College, votes were tabulated electronically and a winner declared at midnight Pacific time. The swearing-in would come the following day.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” Henderson yawned. “Make sure you have the inauguration speech I had written for you memorized, Abe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tme for me to head home, too,” Michelle said. “I’ll meet you here in the morning, Abe, and we’ll go over your speech one more time.”
Abe heard the door close, and sat alone watching as the final results were displayed on the screen. He switched off the vid, then pulled out a computer tablet. He pulled up a document, and started writing.
▪
Michelle was awakened by the vidscreen blaring the high-pitched warble indicating a priority incoming call. Sitting up in her bed, she brushed her hair from her eyes and acknowledged the call.
“What the hell is he up to?” Henderson shouted.
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Abe, the ungrateful little bastard. I made him the most powerful man in the free world, and this is how he repays me? He’s my property – I’ll destroy him piece by piece,” he raged.
“Slow down, Mr. Henderson. Start from the beginning.”
“He left with the Secret Service before dawn. Told them that I was to remain under house arrest. Then I found this.”
Henderson held a computer tablet up to the vidscreen. Michelle grabbed the remote and had it zoom in so she could read it.
“Oh. Oh, my.”
“He thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t even play in the same league as me. Does he really think he can’t be replaced?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think I’d take a chance on something happening to him? I have a half-dozen Abes squirreled away just in case. Some of his Secret Service agents are on my payroll. I’ll kill the freak and substitute one of the others.”
“Sir, don’t do anything rash. I’ll be right over.”
Michelle disconnected the call and scrambled to get dressed. Hopping in her speeder, she raced to Henderson’s mansion in Georgetown. She leapt from the vehicle and raced up the walk. She waved her credentials at the Secret Service agent.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. But President Lincoln has ordered us to secure the premises.”
“He said Henderson couldn’t leave – he didn’t say anything about other people going in, did he?”
“Well, uh, no.”
She stared at him.
“Ok, ma’am, I guess you can go in.”
She stormed past the agent and into the house. She heard Henderson ranting and raving in the study. She found him sitting in his easy chair, back to the doorway. An empty bottle of Scotch lay on the floor.
“Sir, let’s discuss this. We don’t know for sure that…..”
“Too late, Michelle. I already gave the order. He’ll be dead before he takes the oath, and #2 is already en-route.”
“Call it off. Dammit, Henderson, you can’t do this.”
“I can and will. I own him. It’s perfectly legal.”
“Sir, please.”
Michelle picked up a knick-knack from the shelf. It was heavy, an ugly little ceramic gnome from the 1990s. She crept up behind Henderson.
“Knock it off, Michelle. You know, you’re way to close to him. Maybe this was your idea. Consider yourself fired.”
With a cry, she brought the figurine down on Henderson’s head. (Picture 4) There was a sickening crunch as his skull fractured, and he pitched forward from the chair. He lay on the carpet, a bright red pool spreading on the floor.
Michelle dropped the gnome and sprinted for the door. She whipped it open, intent on alerting the agent to the threat to the President. She was just about to blurt it out when she saw he wasn’t alone. Another agent had appeared while she was inside.
“Can I help you, Miss?” the new agent asked.
“You’ve got to get word to the President. Someone on his security detail is going to try and kill him.”
The agent looked at her.
“Yes, I know,” he said, and with one fluid motion he drew his pistol and shot the other agent in the chest.
“Inside. Now,” he ordered.
Michelle ducked back inside and slammed the door before the agent could enter. She took the keycard Henderson had given her and quickly secured it. She knew it would only be a moment before the agent used his override. She dashed to the back of the house, and out the door. She nearly tripped over the body of the agent who had apparently been guarding the back entrance.
She rummaged through his pockets until she found his security card, then quickly swiped it through the scanner at the door and locked it down. Hopefully, she thought, the other agent’s override wouldn’t work.
She sprinted across the lawn and climbed over the wall into the neighbor’s property. She crossed the yard and jumped over the small hedge. Opposite from her was a public park, perfectly manicured and with almost no place to hide.
She was about ready to panic when she spotted a crowd of people waiting to get their picture taken with one of the mounted Park rangers. He was standing beside the genetically engineered squirrel whose adaptability to the urban environment had made them the perfect replacement for horses.
She pushed her way through the crowd and edged close to the beast. The ranger was distracted by a bunch of snotty little brats pushing and shoving. Halfway through the 21st century, and DC still attracted rubes who acted like they’d never experienced civilization before.
She knew she had to act fast. She reached out, pretending to pet the squirrel, and took hold of the reins. With a swift motion, she leapt into the saddle and shook the reins.
With a giant bound, the neo-squirrel cleared the crowd of tourists and headed for the street. (Picture 3) The ranger, taken aback, reached vainly for the reins. In seconds, Michelle had left them behind and was galloping towards the Mall.
Minutes later, she had reached the spot near the Capitol where the inauguration would be held. She climbed down from the squirrel and tried to blend into the crowd. She had to reach Abe to warn him, but she had no idea how she was going to get past the Secret Service.
She was still trying to devise a plan when someone grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear.
“Secret Service. Come with me, ma’am.”
▪
Twenty minutes later, she was locked inside a room in the Capitol. She was frightened near to tears, and any minute expected a Secret Service agent to come in and shoot her.
She panicked when she heard someone unlock the door. She frantically searched the room for a weapon, but there was nothing but a few ornamental books and some throw pillows.
The Secret Service agent from Henderson’s house entered. Glaring at her, he pulled his pistol from its holster and flicked the safety.
“You are a pain in the ass, missy.”
Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
She heard the sharp crack of the pistol, and nearly fainted before realizing she hadn’t felt anything.
She opened her eyes to see the agent lying dead on the floor.
“It’s ok, Michelle. Everything is under control.”
She whirled. An agent stood in front of cleverly disguised panel. Behind him, a tall gangly figure stooped low to avoid banging his head.
“Oh, Abe. Thank God.”
The tall figure moved into the room. Another appeared at the secret entrance, and then another. Soon, there were six identical Abraham Lincolns in the room.
“Ok, what’s going on here?” she asked. “And which one of you is the President?”
Abe – her Abe – stepped forward.
“That would be me, Michelle. And what’s going on here is an attempted coup. Fortunately, my brothers were more loyal to me than to Henderson. They contacted me as soon as he tried to activate his little plot.”
“I’m sorry you were in danger. I sent loyal agents to your house, but I didn’t know you’d gone to Henderson’s until it was too late.”
“Speaking of which, you might be relieved to know that the traitor will survive long enough to be tried and hanged,” he finished.
“Good. I guess. Very sloppy, leaving that tablet where he could find it, Abe.”
“What do you want, Michelle? I’m only two,” he grinned.
“Now, if you’ll care to accompany me, I have a short speech to give.”
▪
Michelle stood in the front row as the Chief Justice administered the oath of office, a chill running through her as Abe recited ‘… and defend the Constitution of the United States’.
As the applause died down, Abe stepped towards the podium and began to speak.
“Fellow Americans. As my distant ancestor was reknowned for his brevity, I shall endeavor to follow in his footsteps in that regard as well. Accordingly, I now make a new ‘Emancipation Proclamation.’ From this day forth, let all men and women, natural born and clone alike, share in the same rights and privileges to which all citizens of this great nation are entitled.”
Abe paused as a thunderous roar of approval came from the crowd.
“Bet Henderson wishes he’d gone for Nixon,” Michelle thought.
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