With apologies to Hasbro and Mattel Toys.

Dearest Barbie,

It’s been several years since I’ve last seen you. My beloved, my heart yearns for you and what might’ve been. Where did we go wrong? Remember those early years when you were content to go to simple party and I was proud to be your escort. Then you bought that dream house. Oh how I miss those long walks on that Malibu beach, your interests lay in getting a good tan and clothing and pink cars. My foolish heart answered the call of military service for what was to be a one year stint.

I was content with standard military service but then the allure of the Adventure Team took hold and the next thing you know I was reenlisting. Not a night goes by that I don’t look at your picture and think of what might’ve been. I keep it pinned to my authentic vintage foot locker, The other Joes make fun of me and point out that you’re mostly plastic, that Sea Adventure Joe can be such a jerk. But I know your heart is real and somewhere there burns a spark for what might’ve been.

I’ve read where you’ve been an astronaut, a teacher, Paleontologist, an Architect and a Sea World Trainer. It’s obvious with each career change that you were trying to fill a void in your life. A void that you know only I can fill.

Do you remember that night in your pop up camper back in ’75? It wasn’t the only thing popping up back then if you catch my drift. You in that gold medal, red white and blue gymnast outfit and me with my inescapable kung fu grip, America’s moveable fighting man was putting on all the right moves that night and you were scoring a perfect ten.

Stupid Ken, how could he not know what was going on? Why did he have to choose that moment to handle my gun and set it off? I mean how does that happen?

Have you seen what they’ve done to my guys? We went from twelve inches to three and change. But don’t you worry dear, I am all fighting man.

Well until there’s peace in the world or you become the commanding officer of the Adventure Team, I guess I will have to continue to cling to the what might’ve beens.

Your pal,

G.I. Joe,

The Real American Hero.

The Abominable Snowman, is also called a Yeti,

He likes the cold because he doesn’t like being sweaty,

He is frolicsome when with Archie’s friend Betty.

Last Tuesday he went with her to the Jetty

They had a party and threw some confetti,

A Hippopotamus and a Giraffe

Round out this strange animal staff,

Till the day that someone ate his spaghetti,

because that was a day the Yeti became petty

He threatened his posse with a shiny machete

And that’s why they now hang on the Serengeti

Where’s it’s much too hot for a petty yeti with a machete.

Chapter 1

     Panic swept over F.B.I. Agent Michael Markham. His dark, ill fitting suit snagged on a briar bush as he ripped his way through its tangled embrace and into the woods beyond. His body was slapped by twigs and branches as he plunged deeper and deeper into their perceived safety and freedom. His face was a mask of grim determination as he darted wildly through the undergrowth. He had a slight lead, his arms and legs churned as he stumbled into yet another thicket of thorns. Striking blindly at the offending bushes, his flesh was torn, and his clothing ruined. Ripping free he hurtled onward they were behind him.

     Fear was his motivation; he didn’t dare look around as he pushed through yet another tangle of the accursed briars. His chin tucked into his chest he muscled through the last tendrils, he hardly noticed when a thorn tore across his cheek. He moved as fast as he could across a field of knee high weeds. He tried to hurdle a fallen tree, his shoes betrayed him and his shin smashed into the horizontal trunk. He was rolled head over heels landing beside the fallen tree. His shin felt broken from where it had made contact. It couldn’t be broken, he thought. His life depended on getting away. He raised himself into a pushup position and tried to listen. Why was his breathing so loud? His lungs felt like they had exploded and he couldn’t regain his breath.

     To his right the clearing ended into another wooded area, it was just a few dozen feet away and beyond that the freeway and salvation. Behind him someone cursed as they ran into the same briars that had torn his suit. Who were these guys? He wondered. As he lay there his body started to register the scratches and aches from the run reminding him that he was no longer a young man. He knew if he was going to get any older, he was going to have to move.

     Agent Markham rose from behind the log his ragged breathing coming in gasps. How did they not hear him? He thought. His vision clouded and he fought to keep from fainting, his throat felt like someone had poured sand into it. How could people run for fun? He wondered. He closed his eyes momentarily as his vision filled with shooting stars.

His breathing slowed and his hearing returned as he recovered from the run. He could hear the sounds of cars on the freeway. He’d run a wide loop, running through the woods and slowly circling back to the freeway.

     He sat with his back against the fallen tree, his hands on his thighs, he took another deep breath. His car had just shut down as he was driving. Two men dressed in black had chased him into the woods.

      Markham tipped his head backwards and looked up into the sky as he fought down the urge to vomit. His dry mouth made him feel as if he was suffocating. He dug his cell phone from suit coat pocket. His eyes widened in disbelief as he realized there was no signal. He began moving the phone around frantically trying to get service. How could there be no signal? He rose up higher and began punching buttons. He looked in the direction his pursuers were coming from. He couldn’t see them yet. He took a deep breath and stood on the log. If he could get a signal then maybe he could get a message out.

In desperation he croaked into the handset. “This is Markham, I need help, on foot, Eastbound, just outside of Crossroads…” He paused, and listened to the sounds of the searching men. They had overrun his last turn but were now drawing closer. Why were there no bars for his cell phone? He looked at the useless device and stuffed it in his pocket.

      Would they kill him? He wondered as he knelt behind the tree again. His hand touched the butt of his Glock model 19 in its shoulder holster. Straining his ears he could hear the freeway, with its carefree traffic racing to all sorts of wonderful, safe places. He looked at his watch; he could still make his meeting if he could just get, back to the roadway and catch a ride.

      That spark of hope broke into a tiny blaze as he turned his head once more towards the freeway. If he could just rest for a few minutes, perhaps he could run then, but he didn’t have minutes. They would be here shortly; he had to move.

Two men in black were about fifty yards to the right and in a thicket of trees, they were still moving quickly. Markham drew his Glock and took a slow deep breath. He’d never shot at a living target before. Could he take them both? He took another step. He had barely qualified the last time at the range. He was a desk jockey not some super spy. He sucked up what reserves he had and plunged forward through the weeds towards trees and the freeway.

      The pace was a trot as he trudged towards the road noise. Behind him he heard a shout as one of his stalkers spotted him. Markham hid behind the first tree large enough to hide behind and raised his weapon. They were still running fast, he’d never outrun them. He’d have to shoot it out. Maybe they’d run if he fought back and maybe he’d get away. He gun wavered in his shaking hand.

      His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a biting sensation in his thigh. Had he been stung? His hand swatted at the back of his thigh and he found a tranquilizer dart sticking in his leg. He fell to the ground as his vision got fuzzy. Where had he dropped his gun?

     Markham couldn’t move, the Glock lay on the ground inches from his body. The world shimmered in his vision. Yet through this haze he could discern an older man with wire rimmed glasses and a white Stetson hat approaching him. This man had been between him and the freeway. It was a man he hadn’t seen before, a man with an evil, wicked grin. Markham noticed large dirty looking teeth as the man put another dart into his blow gun, a thin, eighteen inch length of tube.

      The world began to swirl as Markham closed his eyes and tried to summon his strength. Was this what dying felt like? He wondered as he fought to move.

     The older man returned the dart tube into an interior pocket of his suit coat. He was slow and methodical in his movements. He appeared to have no fear of the gasping man in front of him. He knew Markham couldn’t retrieve the dropped gun which was inches from the paralyzed hand.

     The Stetson wearing man pulled what looked like an older police radio from where it was clipped to his belt. He tossed a few switches on it and replaced it. His wicked smile beamed. “Cell phone jammer.” He explained. “It’s a bit bulky but it worked.”

With the jammer off, the man took a cell phone from his coat pocket and punched in some numbers. “I’ve got him. You guys did real well running him back towards the freeway.” He paused a moment. “He popped up where Case said he would.” He used his free hand to massage the back of his neck, “Go back to your car and await further instructions.”

     The man pushed aside a branch and groaned, he hated walking, and even more so since he was in the woods in a suit. He hated nature, he hated exercise and he hated this running man. He grinned down at the still gasping man, and stood on the F.B.I. agent’s left hand.

     “Good morning,” He said in a overly happy voice. “Mr. Markham I presume?”

     “Puh, puh, please no.” Markham shuttered through gasps, he couldn’t move but he felt the pain of the man’s heel grinding into his hand.

     A broader smile, spread across the man’s face. “It’s not Markham?” He said enjoying his dominance over his fallen prey. He leaned forward putting his two hundred and seventy pounds into the motion as he continued twisting his heel back and forth on the hand.

     The F.B.I. agent tried to focus; stars were exploding across his eyes as the pain in his hand caused him to cry out loudly. “I’m Markham.”

      The man smiled, and took his foot off of his hand. “That wasn’t so hard now was it?” He said cheerfully. Without warning he kicked Markham in the groin. “That’s for making a chase out of this.” He hissed as he kicked him a second time. “That’s for running in the woods.”

     The second strike caused Markham to lose his stomach contents. He lay quivering mass as the big man reared back for a third kick.

     Markham couldn’t move and breathing was difficult from the pain and the vomit. He didn’t want to die here, he needed a plan. Had the big man’s kicks moved him closer to the gun? “What did you do to me?” He sputtered with difficulty.

     “Oh no Mr. Markham, you don’t ask the questions I do.” There was a slight lilt to the man’s voice as he delivered two more savage kicks to Markham’s stomach. “You ask questions you pay for it. Do you understand?”

     Markham has disappointed he hadn’t passed out from the pain. His throat which had been dry and parch now burned with the stomach acid and chunks of vomit that lay in his mouth and by his face. He exhaled forcibly trying to clear an area around his mouth. After a few moments he recovered enough to quietly mutter. “Yes”

     “The dart had Kolokol 1 in it.” The man pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You’re a fed. Do you know what Kolokol 1 is?”

      Markham’s mind was racing through all the brochures he’d read at the Bureau. “It sounds familiar.” He lied. “I just can’t place it.”

      The older man smirked. “It’s a paralyzing agent. It might,” He gave air quotes with his fingers “Have been used in 2002 during that hostage situation in Moscow.” The older man said leaning closer and beaming with pride.

     Markham’s eyes betrayed his fear. The Moscow theater hostage crisis involved forty or fifty Chechens who took about eight hundred and fifty hostages at a theater. They had rigged explosives in the place and it looked like a no win situation. Then the Spetsnaz, or Russian Special Operatives introduced a gas that killed all the terrorists and about a hundred of the hostages. Markham hadn’t thought the actual gas had ever been identified.

“The Ruskies used an aerosol spray, which is less reliable. I’ve got a special formula. Its fast acting and you’ll probably survive. This one is my own special mix.” He leaned in closer. “I added a drug called SP-117 to it. That’s a KGB truth serum. That was an extremely expensive dart, I shot you with.”

     Any hope Markham had vanished. He’d been told this was going to a milk run, anyone could do it. They’d been wrong.

     “Too bad your car just shut off like that.” The man dug a small black box with some buttons on it from his suit coat pocket. “We put this kill switch on your car, one more click and it’s good to go again.”

     “Why?” The word had difficulty getting off of Markham’s lips.

     The older man kicked him in the thighs two times. “I ask the questions.” He hissed.          “Don’t you know who I am?”

      Markham tried to focus on the face, the wire rimmed glasses, the hat, the crooked teeth. He’d seen the face in an agency flier, but couldn’t place a name with it. “No.” he sputtered.

     “I’m called Collins.” The old man said nodding his head as though bowing. “Perhaps you know me was Collins the Crippler. My work is world famous. Surely you’ve heard of me?”

      Markham felt a shudder run up his back. Collins the Crippler, was like a bogeyman in the espionage business. “Yes.” He muttered. What had he’d gotten himself into? He was face to foot with Richard Collins!

      “I’m glad to see the Bureau keeps its agents well apprised of dangerous people” Collins said smiling sickly. “I assure you anything you’ve heard, was candy coated.”

Markham’s mind raced, he worked a desk in the FBI Boston office, but he’d heard the stories of Collins who was famed for his torture techniques. The Crippler had risen to prominence in Iraq and Afghanistan where he’d been a civilian contractor. He got results but his techniques drew criticism for being inhumane. There had been talk of criminal prosecution, but he fell of the grid before it was initiated.

     “My pal, Mister Case wants his stuff back.” Collins said grinning.

Markham blinked his eyes a few times and tried to focus on what was being said. Case wasn’t a familiar name. What had he wandered into?

     “The art collection!” The man in the wire rims said as if that would explain things. “It belongs to Mister Case. The Rembrandt you’re chasing after, it’s his.” Collins added. “Do you know Mister Case?”

      Markham tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He tried to shake his head no.

      The Crippler grunted as he straightened a bit. “Mister Case is a planner and he’s really good at it.” He smiled again. “You can imagine how upset he gets when someone takes his stuff.” He picked at a speck on his suit jacket sleeve. “He wants his Rembrandt back.”

“It’s his.” Markham hissed through his dry lips. “Take it.”

      Collins smiled “It’s not that simple is it? You’re supposed to meet with someone, transfer money, and take possession of the painting. Then what? How are you going to get that person to give you the rest of the collection?” He asked.

      Markham felt the drug running through his body, Could he lie? How much could he keep hidden? Would he talk? Where was his gun?

      “Aw you aren’t thinking you can still get away are you?” Collins grinned. “That’s really cute, but my drugs are good, that was my premium mixture. The clients almost always talk.” He shrugged and quietly added. “When they survive that is.”

      “I was thinking I could reach my gun.” Markham said eyes widening at his disclosure.

      “Well that would be a rude thing to do.” Collins said brushing the Glock a few inches further from Markham’s outstretched hand with his cowboy boot.

      “Has he said anything yet?” A newcomer asked stepping from the trees.

     “Not yet. We were just getting ready for the good stuff, weren’t we Agent Markham?”

     The FBI agent replied through gritted teeth. “Yes.”

     “Oh excuse me.” Collins said beaming. “Where are my manners? Agent Markham this is Mister Case.”

     Case was about six foot three; he wore a tailored black suit with a navy blue dress shirt and red print tie. A few beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his short brown hair was neat. His demeanor was that of a Fortune 500 CEO.

     “He gave the guys a merry chase.” Case muttered. “A younger agent might have made it to the freeway.”

      “You’d have had a different plan for a younger agent.” Collins said grinning wickedly.

     “Yes.” Case said tipping his head slightly. “See what he knows.”

Collins reached down and grabbed Markham by the graying hair, and pulled him into a seated position. “Here’s the deal,” he hissed. “You tell me everything, and I mean everything or I’m going to be extra nasty with you.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of pliers.

      “Let’s start easy, shall we.” Collins said smiling really wide, showing his large stained teeth. “What is your name?”

      Markham’s head swam, Don’t talk! Perhaps he could ride out the drug and the pain. Perhaps he could. His eyes rolled back as a wave of intense pain washed over him, he heard a snap. Straining his eyes to the left he could see his left hand where Collins was working. His little finger was held in the pliers; it was now twisted and pointed at a wrong angle. Daggers of light flashed in his eyes as he felt as though he would faint. Yes pass out, escape that way. He thought as his mouth said. “Markham, my name is Markham.” He swallowed hard and repeated softer. “Michael Markham.”

     “Very good Mikey,” Collins grinned wider, “I love this part about my job.” He grabbed the ring finger on Markham’s left hand with the pliers. “In case you forgot, I’m Collins the Crippler, you probably have figured out how I got my name.” He smiled as if embarrassed and then turned serious again. “Tell me who are you meeting?”

      Markham’s brain swam. I must not talk. He thought as he felt the answer dance on the tip of his tongue. He fought it back and managed to mutter. “No.”

      Collins looked up at Case. “Damn, he’s a tough old bird.” He twisted the pliers and there was another snapping noise as the ring finger went in a different angle.

      “I can do this all afternoon, I work downward, breaking each joint as I go.” Collins explained to Markham. He tipped the cowboy hat back a bit. “Tell me, where is the Rembrandt?”

     Markham felt the world somersault, as he tried not to talk. “The Grant Road Community Chapel.” Flowed from his lips, as the ever pliers sought another finger.

      “Very good Mikey.” Collins grinned. “Quick answers mean no pain.”

      Case’s dark eyes didn’t register any change. “Who were you meeting?”

      Markham clenched his lips in defiance.

      Collins twisted and broke the middle finger. “Who were you going to meet?”

      “I don’t know his name.” Markham screamed as the pliers found his index finger and tightened onto it. “He didn’t give me his name. All he said was I’m suppose to know Joshua.”

     Collins leaned over and looked into the agent’s fear filled eyes. “You can do better than that.” He twisted the index finger abruptly.

      Markham screamed, “All I know is Joshua.”

      “Joshua?” Collins asked “Is that the contact’s name?”

       “I don’t know.” Markham said through gasps of pain as he tried to keep the information to himself. Could he make a play for his gun? He wondered. Perhaps he could get a round off.

      Collins snapped the next joint down on the little finger. “Wrong answer.”

      Markham writhed in pain, his left hand was in agony, and all thoughts of the Glock were gone from his head. “I don’t know his name.” He moaned.

      Collins twisted the middle finger until the second joint snapped. “How would you recognize him?”

      Markham prayed he’d pass out. “We have a prearranged location and a set time.”

     “Where and when?” Case called out from behind Collins.

      Markham moaned as he answered. “The church’s men’s room at seven ten.”

     Case pulled out his phone, it had the latest technology on it, and he accessed the internet and did a check on the Grant Road Community Chapel. “The Church is about ten minutes from here.” He grunted to Collins.

      “What’s he giving you?” Collins asked.

      “A Rembrandt, and the location of the others.” Markham gasped.

      Collins flexed his hands randomly “How did you hear of this guy?”

      Markham blinked his eyes, and gritted his teeth “He called the F.B.I. tip line, said he had a lead on the collection.” he whispered. “They gave the call to me, said see what he has, see what he wants, and meet with the guy. Get the rest if you can.”

      “How much are you paying for this painting?” Collins asked.

      “Two million dollars.” The agent replied his mouth moving freely.

      “Cash?” Collins asked. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have two million in that suit. I checked your car while you were at lunch. That’s when we put the kill switch in it. You don’t have two million dollars there either.”

      Markham grimaced through his cracked lips. “They don’t trust me with that kind of money. I’m authorized to do a money transfer to the guys account. I can go a couple more million for the entire collection.”

       Case shook his head, “You Feds are amazing.” He snarled. “The reward is five million dollars and you’re authorized to go as high as four?” He came closer, “What if this guy doesn’t have the whole collection? What if he doesn’t want to sell?”

       Markham couldn’t stop from talking, “I’m to be persuasive if he doesn’t cooperate.”

Collins smiled spread across his face. “Well maybe you can use some of my techniques on him. They’re very effective, don’t you think?”

       “Yes.” Markham said tears of pain dancing in his eyes.

       “Do you really think the collection is still intact after all these years?” Collins grumbled.

       “We haven’t had a solid lead in this theft in years the Bureau is desperate to make some sort of apprehension.”

       “Yes well, I’m afraid the Bureau isn’t doing real well on this particular crime.” Collins said smugly. “It’s too bad you don’t know any of the players in the crime.” He rocked his head back and forth and raised his eyebrows at Mister Case.

       Markham blinked his eyes. “How did you find me?” he asked through the pain.

Collins rapped Markham’s broken hand with the pliers. “I usually do the questioning.” He snapped. “But, it is a good story. So let me enlighten you.”

      “The museum is located in Boston, that’s where your F.B.I. office is Mikey.” He leaned closer. “Here’s something you don’t know. The guy who pulled off the heist used to be in a brotherhood of professionals who go by the non de plume of the C-Squad. He nodded towards the other man. “Mister Case is the leader of the C-Squad. Anyway short story long, our ex-friend, Colt ripped pulls off the heist, but it was a job we planned. That was over twenty five years ago. We haven’t been able to find him or the artwork. He’s very good at hiding. But then if we were after you, you’d get good at hiding too. Now we find one of the Rembrandts is here in Ohio.” Collins waved a hand at the air. “Why would anyone come to Crossroads Ohio?”

       “True” Markham whispered, thinking the story over.

       “Anyway, we’d want our art collection back. We’d like to find Colt and visit with him for awhile.” He smiled “You see it’s basically our stuff.”

        Markham blinked a few times. “It belongs to the museum.”

       “Yeah, but they kind of sloppy with it.” Collins snapped back.

       Case looked at his watch. “If we’re going to church, we need to wrap this up.”

      “Anyway Mikey, a few days ago someone called the museum tip line. They wanted to a deal with the F.B.I.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re here to offer the deal.”

      “Ho..!” Markham’s question was cut short by Collins applying pressure to his throat.

      “Don’t ask a question, it’s not healthy.” Collins snarled at him. “How do we know about the call? Is what you’re wondering?” He grinned broadly. “It took a couple of days, but we located Miss. Salazar. She’s a charming young woman. Do you know her?”

       “She’s the woman who took the call at the museum, transferred the guy to my office.” Markham said his brow wrinkling. “Does she work for you?”

        Collins smiled. “No, not hardly, we’re acquainted like you and I.” He snapped the jaws of the pliers a couple of times. “Let’s just say her typing speed has dramatically decreased.”

       “You monster!” Markham hissed.

        “Ah sticks and stones Mikey.” Collins grinned. “I think I could like you Mikey.”

        “I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual.” Markham grunted through the pain.

         "Now, that was funny.” Collins looked at Case. “He says the feeling isn’t mutual.”

       Markham’s left hand was a mass of twisted fingers, the pain was terrible but it also seemed to dilute the paralyzing agent. He felt like he could move his right hand. He was wondering if he could locate his Glock. He’d been to the FBI academy; he didn’t need that to know he wasn’t going to live after this bout of exposition.

       Case drew a hand across his throat. “Time to go.”

      “It was real nice to meet you Mikey. You were a good sport.” Collins chuckled as he put the pliers into his suit pocket. “I really appreciate you being so helpful, but it looks like Mr. Case wants to go to church tonight. I hear if you get there late you can’t get a good seat in the back.”

       Collin’s looked to the right of Mr. Case, another man had materialized from the brush. This man was shorter than Case, about five foot ten, his hair and eyes were dark and his ancestry appeared to come from Italy. He’d moved silently in his black clothing.

“Mikey, this is one of my friends, we call him Cutter. I’m pretty sure you’ll understand why in a moment. “

      Markham watched as the newcomer produced a switch blade knife.

      “When we meet your nameless contact in the bathroom and discuss Joshua, I’ll be sure to let him know how cooperative you were.” Collins continued.

      Markham watched the newcomer’s hands, the knife was held nonchalantly and then at the press of a small button a large blade popped out.

      Collins was still droning on. “You know when I mentioned that Miss. Salazar’s typing speed had recently diminished did you think that was because I broke her fingers?”

Markham stayed fixed on the blade as it came nearer.

       “I broke about four finger joints,” Collins smiled a big toothy grin. “She does a bunch of typing. You just know that was going to ruin her career. She’d have gotten a disability. Imagine the drain on society. My pal Cutter here did the working men of the world a great service and killed her. I think it was better for everyone that way.” He smiled. “Well everyone except for Miss. Salazar.”

      “No, please!” Markham pleaded. “I don’t know you.”

      “But you know enough.” Collins said “I was kind of chatty.”

      Cutter stepped in and in one motion, yanked Markham’s head to the side and slid the knife across his throat.

      “Besides, I lied about liking you.” Collins said standing outside of the splash zone.

      Case started towards the freeway. “For being such a badass, you talk way too much.”

      Collins swept an arm towards the spot where Markham lay gurgling. “Who’s he going to tell? Besides it makes them feel good knowing why they have to die.”

     “Dana, tell me again how we got roped into this thing.” Kirby Lee pled with his wife as he drove down the freeway.

      “Why must you make a Federal case out of everything Kirby?” She replied. “You should want to go to church.”

      “I want to go to a good church.” He said, his brown eyes scanning the roadway.

      “And where is that at?” his wife countered.

      He thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But it’s Wednesday. Who goes to church on a Wednesday?”

      “Lots of people do it.” Dana said. “Besides Loretta will be expecting us.”

      “Hey you work with her.” Kirby said “I still don’t see how this affects me.”

      “Yes we work at the same school but she’s also my friend.” She smiled. “I think she’s worried about our spiritual well being.”

      “Well my spirit is doing fine.” Kirby said.

     “Hmm,” His wife replied. “When was the last time you got into the Bible and studied it?”

      “I did that.” He started.

     “When was the last time?” She said. “I know you used to.”

      He quieted as he thought. “Well maybe it has been awhile.”

      She decided to press her attack. “When was the last time you really prayed?”

      He glanced sideways at his wife. She was a brunette with hazel eyes, the corner of her mouth was turned up slightly in a quizzical smirk. He sighed slightly; she exuded a beauty that always left him flustered. “Is this attack Kirby day?” He managed to finally reply.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to go to church.” She pointed out, waving a long slender finger under his nose.

       “But we’re on vacation.” Kirby whined. “Who goes to church when they’re on vacation?”

       She gave him a slight smile. “I go back to school next week.” Dana was an elementary school secretary. “I want us to feel good about what we did this summer vacation.”

       “I know, I know. Get a real job you slacker.” He said in a mock gruff voice at himself. “Quit chasing that stupid artist dream, leave that part time job at the Comic book store and go to work at the bank or someplace respectable.”

      Dana smiled at her husband, they had been married a little over a year and she had decided that before they settled down, Kirby should make every effort to chase his dream. Their deal was he would concentrate solely on art for one year. But when the bills started backing up he took on some extra work at a local comic book store. “You know I don’t think badly of you.”

       “You’d think someone with so little vacation time left would be anxious to make every moment count.” Kirby pointed out.

       “We will, besides what else would we do tonight?” She countered.

       “I could work on my graphic novel, and you could watch Sasquatch CSI and The Policeman Perry Show.” He said quoting the evening television lineup.

      “Sasquatch CSI is a rerun; it’s the one where he goes undercover as a streetwalker.”

      “I loved that episode.” Kirby grinned, “I think I can get back home before it starts.”

 (end of excerpt)

Chapter One

The sword fell with a clatter to the ground. Melehan, the son of Mordred looked up into the pale blue eyes of his conqueror. His opponent was a tall man his tunic, once white was now stained with the blood and entrails of some of the country’s best warriors. The vanquished man’s focus dropped to the man’s shield. It’s design had three red stripes on a white field. Melehan swallowed nervously. It was really him.

“Why would you of all people, return to help Arthur?” He hissed. “He’s dead you know. Killed by my father, in the fields of Camiann.” The speaker turned his empty hands palm upwards toward the tall knight and pulled off his gauntlets. “Foolish King Arthur,” He said with a mocking lilt to his voice. “He left Mordred in charge when he ran off seeking,” He rolled a wrist as he thought for the right word. “Vengeance? Is that the correct term? He left here seeking your head on a stick and now look at you. He invades your homeland, destroys countless homes and villages in an effort to get you to come out to the battle.”

Melehan pulled his chain mail shirt up and over his head. “Then Arthur discovers that my father has taken the kingdom” His smile broadened. “Woops, I suppose the great king had a lapse in judgement.”

The blue eyed knight brought the blade closer under Melehan’s chin and hovered menacingly..

“Ah yes, you are touchy about Arthur.” He shrugged. “Anyway he gets in trouble and you come running like his little dog. Why?” He paused and shook the long hair from his eyes as the chain shirt fell to the ground. “Why concern yourself with this? Arthur destroyed your homeland, he destroyed his homeland. Look around.” He swept an arm towards the battlefield. “My father’s allies are broken and running. He was working to make things better. My brother and I were going to make things better. We would’ve been just rulers.”

“Where is the queen?” the man spoke for the first time in a deep resonating voice.

Melehan undid the belt at his waist and his chausses dropped to the ground. The man stepped out of the chain mail leggings and ran a hand through his oily hair. He gulped nervously as he avoided eye contact. “She was going to marry my father you know. She was happy to do it to keep the country under one rule.”

“You lie.” The man snarled under his breath. The blue eyes narrowed under the man’s helmet. His grip on the sword shifted slightly as he loosened and then tightened it.

“No it’s true.” Melehan grimaced a bit. “She may have been under the impression that Arthur was killed during his foray into your kingdom.”

The sword shifted in his grip once again and the blue eyes narrowed even more.

“If you value your life, you will have a care of what you say.” Sir Lionel said walking up from the right of the man with the sword. “Where is the queen?”

“The queen?” Melehan scoffed. “She fled to the tower of London. She had said something about getting a gown for the wedding or something and then barricaded herself inside the tower. Father was sort of preoccupied with Arthur’s returning force. I suppose she’s still trapped in the tower. She should’ve been more supportive.”

The fingers in the tall knights hand flexed and unflexed along the grip of the sword.

“I repeat, Have a care if you value your life, do not speak ill of the queen.” Lionel pleaded and turning to the tall knight he said. “They are defeated, their army is either dead or dispersed, Constantine’s men should be able to handle things from here.”

The defeated man rubbed his short growth of beard and sneered. “Constantine his troops are still a day away. We weren’t prepared for your army. I still can’t believe Arthur chose that whelp Constantine to replace him.”

“Arthur would’ve chosen Gawain, he was his nephew.” Lionel said keeping his position between the big knight and Melehan. “Unfortunately he perished fighting your father’s army in Dover.”

“Was it unfortunate?” Melehan said raising his eyebrows. “Wasn’t Gawain the one who wanted you dead most of all?” He tipped his chin towards the big knight with the sword.

The grip on the sword was adjusted as the big man let his breath exhale loudly. “Gawain had his reason to hate me.”

“I would think so.” Melehan continued.”It seems that you killed his son, three of his brothers and rumor has it, he died from the wounds you gave him.”

Lionel grabbed the sword arm of the big knight. “Do not allow this pretender to enrage you cousin.”

“I never would’ve thought I’d see the day when the mighty Lancelot would be serving a dog like Constantine.” Melehan continued. “Oh he’s a cousin or something to Arthur. But I’m a nephew and a grandson. My bloodlines are superior, my claim the throne more clear.” He patted his chest and smiled. “Besides, the people like me.”

Lionel struggled to hold Lancelot’s sword arm. “Don’t allow him to bait you. He is defeated, his words are just empty air.” He hissed.

“I surrender.” The son of Mordred said sneering. “You are honor bound to care for a vanquished foe, it’s the code you live by.”

The flash of hatred in Lancelot’s eyes brought a sinister grin to the villain’s lips. “Oh the mighty Lancelot isn’t feeling so chivalrous today is he? My father was the rightful heir to the throne, he was Arthur’s son after all and since I am his eldest son it should fall upon me.”

There was a loud exhalation from under the helm of Lancelot. His vision began to cloud, as it had done so before on numerous occasions, usually followed by acts of wholesale slaughter.

“Lancelot no.” Lionel cried stepping between the two men. “He is defeated. Let the court decide what the fate of the traitor is to be.”

Melehan the older of Mordred’s two sons kicked his pile of armor where it lay on the ground. “I am armed now only with the words of truth my lord.” The man said with another evil sneer. “Let’s allow the court to decide. With my father’s death I should be the rightful king. I can prove my lineage.”

With a growl the tall knight struck with this sword, the blow was swift and powerful and sparks flew as he buried the blade of this sword several inches into the stone work at the front of the building.

Melehan had seen the blade’s movement and closed his eyes in anticipation for the killing blow. He now opened one eye and once he realized that his head was still attached he let out a sigh.

“Well rightful king.” Lancelot said removing his helmet. “Let’s see you draw the sword from the stone. I believe that’s how your people choose their kings.”

Melehan swallowed hard. “That was a parlor trick done by that old wizard Merlin. He stole the kingdom for Arthur. It should be my kingdom now.”

“Draw the sword.” Lancelot repeated.

Melehan reached out and grabbed the sword first with one hand and then with both. He tried throwing his weight one way and then the other to loosen its bite in the stone. He wrestled with the blade for several minutes before growling. “This is impossible no man can draw a sword from a stone.”

Lancelot reached out and pushed Melehan’s hands from the sword grip and with just a thumb and forefinger he pulled the blade free. With a slight grin he said. “It would appear that I have as much claim to the throne as anyone else, but I claim no relationship with Arthur.”

Melehan’s smile broadened. “No your relationship was with his wife.”

Lionel was quick enough to grab Lancelot’s arm before he could strike. “Cousin he is defeated.”

“Where is your younger brother.” Lancelot snarled his blood boiling under his skin. “With both you and Gorfalk as prisoners this war ends and Logres can be rebuilt.”

An arrow bounced harmlessly off of Lancelot’s shield and landed harmlessly yards away.

The knight turned and saw Gorfalk, the younger son of Mordred, armed with a bow. He was in his early twenties, his dark hair was pulled back. He was fitting another arrow into the bow.

“Watch him.” Lancelot said to Lionel indicating Melehan, he then turned towards the archer.

“Have a care cousin.” Lionel called out as the large man lifted his shield and charged towards the distant bowman.

Gorfalk fired another arrow and it splintered against the heavy shield that Lancelot carried. He watched as the armored man came forward like an irresistible force, shield held up like a snow plow. He pointed at the charging foe and stepped back as his last few loyal guards charged forward to defend him.

Lancelot made quick work of the guards. As he battled them he saw Gorfalk slip into a small stone building.

With the final guards running for their lives Lancelot paused to survey the field of battle. Bors was approaching his brother Lionel. Across the field, Lancelot’s half brother Hector De Maris was leading a charge against the few remaining knights loyal to the Mordred clan. This would be a total victory and Constatine’s forces hadn’t yet arrived to the field of battle.

Another arrow bounced off the shield, the impact brought his mind back to the task at hand. Without further delay the mighty knight charged once again. He stormed along the face of the small building and bashed through the doorway.

Gorfalk had been in the front room shooting out of a window, now he drew his sword and faced his greatest foe.

“You can’t take the throne from us.” He snarled while swinging wildly with the sword.

The blow was parried and with little effort the weapon was spun from the youth’s grasp. Lancelot stood the killing blow undelivered.

“I claim sanctuary.” Gorfalk said, his words coming so fast that Lancelot wasn’t sure what he had said. “I claim sanctuary.” He repeated slower and clearer.

For the first time Lancelot took in his surroundings. It was a friary, a holy place. The small building’s shattered door swung on its hinges, a few rows of benches faced a platform and there was a rectangle of wood which served as the alter.

The knight pointed at this with his sword. “You have much to pray about.” He said as he picked up the other man’s sword and bow. “Unarmed you are not a threat. You may have your sanctuary.”

“Melehan said you’d honor the cry of sanctuary. He said your code of chivalry would be your greatest weakness.”

Lancelot nodded to himself. “I can post some men outside. When you’ve repented enough you can face Constantine’s judgment.”

Gorfalk wasn’t as strong as his brother, his sneer wasn’t as accomplished. “That is a death sentence.” He muttered.

“It usually is when you turn on the king.” Lancelot said, forgetting momentarily that his army was fighting with King Arthur’s not that many months before. “Pray that you find a way for salvation.” He said.

It took a few moments to find several knights who could monitor the entrances and exits of the building. Then he started his walk back to where he’d left Lionel with Melehan.

He found the body of Lionel with a knife protruding from his back. He lay lifeless across the pile of discarded chainmail. Lancelot knelt by the body and cradled it in his arms. Lionel, his cousin, had been a squire of his. They’d been on many adventures together and somehow Melehan had gotten the drop on him.

End of submission

By ep113

Perhaps just one more, that’s what I keep telling myself, as I devour the next one in my path.

Just one more and then I will stop. After all, who needs to be a glutton?

I swell with pride as I survey my conquests! I’ve come such a long way, I’ve left my terrible mark on this land. I’ve burned my existence into the lives of those who were guilty of nothing except standing in my way.

Behind me, is scorched earth, a smoldering wasteland, dashed dreams and lost hope all perish before my might. I mark my existence by the land I destroy a cloud of smoke chokes any foolish enough to confront me and yet still there is more to consume.

I’ve had a good run and many would be content. But there are still more to have. I tell myself I could stop at anytime; the experts predict I’ll burn myself out. But the experts don’t know me.

Before me stand a row of majestic homes, valorous defenders dig trenches and futilely spray water but before me all must flee or die. Just one more and maybe I’ll be content. Perhaps I could go another way? Perhaps I should cut back. Then the wind whispers in my ear and its message is clear.

Why take just one more? When you can have them all? Don’t you deserve them all? I leap forward and consume them. The wind is always right.

Nightmare 

by ep113

They come for me in the night. They are fiends, with sharp tearing claws and strong piercing teeth. I struggle to rise but the blankets are tangled about my limbs, their heaviness had provided warmth had comfort hours earlier but now threatened to keep me at the mercy of the night.

Gasping I rise bolt upright. The creatures are gone and only the blanket remains to vex me. I tug at it only to find that it has become a large python and it’s entanglement now threatens to squeeze the life from my existence.

Thrashing about I fall onto the floor, it’s hard and cold embrace a welcomed relief as the blanket releases me from its deathlike grip.

There is solidness to the cold floor and I push off of it and find myself adrift and alone in space. I spin around and around uncontrollably. The Earth is a distant object and I’m suddenly very cold. I hold my breath, there is no air in space after all. Eventually I must let out an explosive exhalation.

I lay there gasping, when I realize that once again I’m lying in my bed. My smile spreads as I settle my head onto the pillow and pull the blanket which had been a python over my chilled body. It had all been just a dream, no a nightmare. I smile again and miss the skeletal hands that come up through the mattress and pull me into the darkness.