The Future Wants Kings

One.

Nothing is different this time. The same crest of victory rides the same tide of defeat - not that you lost. No. You never lose. But when the end arrives there is a sense of emptiness, the loss of a world where you existed for so many hours, many days - is gone. That character you raised from miscreant to hero is no longer yours. Once again, you're back to that empty feeling of holding a eight ounce plastic controller and ignoring the credits of a video game. Meaningless names and titles scroll over snapshots of what was briefly your vicarious life, images set in a city where you were once king.

You set the controller gently on the cement floor, lean back in the softly upholstered chair, interlace your fingers together, tuck your hands behind your head and let the game outro its way into oblivion. The sensation of plush fabric and cold feet rush back into your central nervous system. You marvel at what pleasures and pains can be ignored in the face of immersive fiction. The chair gives off a rusty squeak and you move into it, finding a pattern that matches the rhythmically triumphant yet melodically depressing epilogue soundtrack. After a time, the music and screen fade to black. You sit up and wait halfheartedly for what will undoubtedly be the marketing hook for a sequel.

A single, trumpeted and trembling note creeps from background to foreground. Just as slowly and shakily, the flickering images of five men around a camp fire emerge on screen. The warbling brass music fades, replaced by the sound of crackling wood. You recognize this scene from the cinematic intro of the game in which the story was framed as a myth told by hunters who were bedding down for the night. The character who introduced the story, dressed in fur pelts and a green cloak, is poking the fading fire thoughtfully with a stick. The other four sit silently, presumably searching for a relevant meaning from the just completed story (game) to apply to their lives.

This tedium goes on for about half a minute. Unbelievable. It is both irritating and fascinating that a designer would be so brazen about putting such a terrible pause in what had formerly been a well paced game. The phone beeps in your pocket. You ignore it, transfixed by the violation of artistic protocol that is transpiring before you.

Finally, one of the four men clears his throat. He is dressed the same as all the others - in fur pelts and a cloak (his is a faded gray). They all look over to him, their eyes frozen with anticipation. It's clear he's found a moral. It's even clearer his companions haven't found one and are anxious to absorb his.

His voice is subdued, certain and aged. “He who saw the deep will return.”

They exhale in relief then all grunt lightly in approval as the sounds of fire and assenting voices are gradually replaced by an orchestral swell. The image pixelates into blackness as the violins rise apocalypticly in response to a familiar crazed and solitary trumpet. Just as you are about to rise to mute the volume, there is a whoosh of silence and the start game screen pops back up, accompanied by some playfully shy harp music.

Your phone beeps, notifying you of a text message. You give the piece of technology a playful slap and pull it from your pocket. With a deftness that betrays a life of gadgetry usage, you bring up the message.

GL - Lock Down 2moro.
Killer new guy.
U in?
- Sid.

Smiling, you erase the message and slide the phone back into its waiting pocket. There's nobody out there who can beat you at Lock Down. If there was anyone even close to your skill, you'd have heard about it. Sid is fucking with you, trying to get you in so all the weak players and fan boys can ooh and ahh as you beat the tar out of them using only your sense of smell. Whatever. If Sid needs star help drumming up business, you can shine. She's a good friend and a great gamer. Besides, you just beat the last good game you have and it'll be months before the release of anything else decent. Now is the perfect time to leave the house and spread some magic.

Suddenly fired up by a desire to move, you hop up and locate your boots. The socks are tucked inside, reducing the tasks till exit by one. Your stomach rumbles. It's a good thing that Sid serves pizza at her place. You've gone way past that critical hunger point of being able to prepare your own food without getting angry. You justify this mistreatment of your body by recalling the quality of the game you just beat. The pounding in your head and the grumbling of your stomach disagree that storyline trumps sustenance but they are easy enough to ignore for a while longer.

Throwing on a plain black zippered hoodie, you clomp past the front door and into a crisp, cold autumn afternoon. Trudging down the sidewalk towards the bus stop, you try and remember if you ate anything this morning. Fishing for your monthly pass, the memory of food boomerangs hazily back at you. Yes. There was a slow stream of toast going into you for over the last six hours. There is only so much buttered bread can do to keep a man going and that limit is long past. You locate your bus pass and shrug. Victory means compromising and communing with the outside world.

The covered bus stop is bereft of people but laden with their passage. There is a half eaten burger still perched in its colorful paperboard box, joined by an squashed package of fries and a broad smear of ketchup. Several empty quasi soda/sports drinks rattle aimlessly on the sidewalk. You glance down the road, spotting light car traffic but no bus. Across the street, sitting at the opposing bus stop, sits a pretty girl in a fuzzy purple vest, a long green cotton skirt and tall black boots. You shove your hands in the front pouch of your hoodie and feign feline disinterest as you watch her obliquely. She's busying herself with the tiny screen on her phone.

The sound of squeaky bus brakes turns your vision away from purple, into and then through the flat paned glass of the giant lumbering city vehicle. The door unfolds with that uniquely accordian crumpling noise and a beret wearing bus driver gives you a goateed smile.

“Wasn't sure if you were getting on or not. Wasn't sure.” He winks knowingly and makes a insect-like clicking noise.

You move the pass in a dramatic arc before his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks for stopping.” He nods assent for you to board.

The door telescopes closed and the gargantuan vehicle lurches forward. You stumble a bit as your hand reflexively shoots out to the nearest upright metal pole.

The driver stares thoughtfully at the road ahead. “No problem, friend. No problem.”

Finding a seat, you see the bus is minimally occupied by the usual cadre of un/underemployed stragglers. Everyone is busy ignoring one another so you join the fray by pulling out the cell phone. Flipping through the list of names, Shane is the first one to get gain your interest. The phone rings several times and finally his voice mail message drifts as if from a rogue satellite.

“Help... I'm... there are... had to... the sun is... burning us... Turn it around! ...you... gods help us. BEEP.”

The sound of Shane's bad acting forces a small snort of amusement from you. “I'd love to help you with that uh... whatever the hell your problem is but really I'm just bored and headed over to the Beyond. Sid says she's got some Lock Down competition for me and since you're off flying into the sun or something I can't image who here on the planet could possibly fuck with me. Anyway, call me tomorrow and I'll let you know how many kneecaps I broke. Later on, man.”

Looking up, you can see that it's still a couple minutes till your stop. Paging through the list of names again is like scanning a newspaper written in some untranslatable ancient text. Everything looks vaguely interesting but whatever meaning it once had for the writer has long since been lost by the repeated transcription of zealous yet uncomprehending copyists. You put the phone away and watch the cityscape slide by. The only things out on the street right now are orange cones and orange vests.

Seeing the dark blue awning of the Beyond, you yank hard on the stop cord. The bus dings in response and the driver obediently pulls over to the sidewalk. Your hunger returns as you walk up to the exit door.

“Thanks for the ride.” You say automatically.

The driver responds melodically. “Keep your eyes up, friend. Eyes up.”

The bus and its advertisement painted side for a giant banking conglomerate disappear down the road. You pull the your hood up and once again hide your hands. The wind is a little nastier here amongst the tunnels made of buildings that meander together to form downtown.

Waiting for a burst of traffic to pass by, you are pleased to see through the windows that many of the seats in the Beyond are filled. There is Sid behind the counter, wearing her trademarked baseball cap and button up white dress shirt. Struggling to find your impassive game face, you cross the street and give the familiar glass door and gentle tug.

“Well look at that.” Sid takes her black cap off, fiddles with her short blond hair and then screws the cap back on. “Tell the man there's glory to be won and he shows up in...” She pauses, looking over her shoulder at the digital clock on the wall. “Thirty minutes. Ask him to come down for a friendly visit, nothing. Not for weeks. We all know your heart craves only victory and glory. Don't we, mates?”

There are a few snorts of agreement from the crowd. Everyone is looking at you. It has been a while since you've been in. Not bothering to lower your hood, you walk over the door mat and take a seat at one of the wooden bar stools.

“Please continue with the belittling as you fetch me two pieces of pepperoni, wench.” You place your elbows on the bar, despite the presence of some vaguely aggressive mystery liquids.

Sid lolligags to attention and salutes. “Yes sir.” She walks over to the rotating glass cylinder of pizza and deposits two slices onto a paper plate. With the grace only a lifetime of food service can bestow, Sid pitches the food your way, causing one of the slices to slide precariously to the edge of the counter.

“Aren't you going to heat this up?” Your fingers push the plate ungratefully back towards her.

She folds her skinny arms across her chest with vehemence. “Nope. You're too hungry to care and we all know it.” There are a few titters of laughter from watching teenagers.

“Which means it's free, right?” You flick absently at the hanging piece of pepperoni.

Letting fly the belly laugh that endears her to all her customers, she snatches the plate away from you. The microwave opens with a pop and begins working its magic on the food. She turns back to face you. “Tell me the dreams of a king.”

“Look, lady. I'm just a hungry pauper. I don't know nothing about any kings.” You manage to keep a straight face. Sid is in rare form today. It makes you happy that she'd save some of her attitude for you, despite the fact that you haven't been here in weeks.

She cleans her teeth slowly with her tongue and gives you a piercing look. “Really? Last I heard you were still wearing all sorts of hand me down crowns.” She leans closer to you and fidgets purposefully with her nose ring. “Don't tell me you're an abdictater, GL. That would just break what is left of my dried and blackened heart.”

Smiling, you give her the stock response. “I may be a cheater, but at least I ain't no abdictater.”

Gazing from one eye to the other for some glint of truth, the barkeep makes you squirm. You shift back on the stool and glance over at the clock. Sid takes the rag off her shoulder and starts wiping down the counter. “What's on your mind?”

You look back at her. “Nothing. Just a little bored, that's all.”

She rubs vigorously at a particularly stubborn beer stain. “Finished another game, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“A good one, hmm?” She stops wiping and looks up at you briefly, her eyes shining with sincerity.

“Yeah. One of the rare ones, though I'm not sure I liked the ending much.” You look behind you and see that everyone else is back to their gaming.

“Oh.” She tosses the rag back over her shoulder. “Why is that?”

You frown heavily. “Sequels, Sid. I'm sick of them. Remakes, too. Where are the new ideas anymore?”

The microwave beeps. She turns around. “Good question. Not sure there ever were any.” She pulls out the plate and hands it to you along with a hot pepper shaker. “But sequels, they're what keep the drones coming. They're what keep the money flowing.” She tosses you a fork at your head and you grab it out of the air.

“That's metal, you know?” You try and give her a disparaging look. She shrugs. You eat a while in silence while she cleans the rest of the counter and starts up a new play list of music. Heady jazz fills the giant room and you sink into your meal. After a few minutes when you are starting into your second slice, she ambles back over, obviously ready to converse again.

She lowers her voice so that only you will hear her above the music. “Been keeping the dream journal lately?”

“No.” You set down your fork. “Everything got stuck again. It's the same story as the last ten times.”

She nods. “You mean like before, where you end up telling someone what you were dreaming while you were in the dream?”

You shake your head. “Yeah. It's stupid. Sometimes I only remember retelling the dream, not the actual content.”

She squints briefly. “Who's to say the retelling isn't actual content?”

“Me. It's boring.” You pick up the fork again and resume eating.

“Like a sequel.” She grins. “What about last night?” She watches a customer walk in the door and waves to them. You ignore the intrusion.

“What about it?” You keep eating.

“Hey. GL. Don't be an asshole. I'm your friend, remember?” She fills a glass up with soda and exits the counter area. You watch peripherally as she brings new guy the drink and exchanges pleasantries. The characteristic belly laugh cuts deep into the thoughtful saxophone melody. You finish the slice.

Sid steps up behind you. She resumes in her lowered voice. “I just think a journal like that can be a good source of ideas, that's all. I know you want to write your own games.” She puts a hand on your shoulder. “That's still true, right?”

“Yeah. But I don't remember...” You stop, a partial memory of the previous night's dream flashing into your head. She smirks, releases her hand from your shoulder and walks back behind the counter.

“So tell it to me.”

“It's not much. I remember I had to fight a rock for some reason. Tough bad guy, right? A rock. Or, I guess it was more of a boulder - it was big enough, anyway – bigger than me. Hell if I could beat the thing. I tried all sorts of stuff on it – I could even see myself cycling through a nearly limitless inventory of weapons - but nothing worked. And then all of a sudden I was hugging the thing.” You look over at the tap.

She follows your gaze and pours you a beer. “Sounds like you made a new friend.”

Sniffing cautiously, you bring the beverage to your lips. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Sid walks away from you again, making her rounds with the others. The building is a mix of fresh and stale faces. You've been away too long. Used to be there wasn't a person in here you didn't know by name. The taste of beer rattles gleefully down your throat.

“So which one of these newbies is supposed to beat me tomorrow?” You say it to Sid, but she's far enough away that you're saying it to the whole room. Everyone looks up from what they're doing.

Sid places her arms gently on her hips and lets a smile flicker into existence. “He's not here, but don't worry. You'll get your challenge. Won't he, mates?”

Only a few of the denizens manage believable yeses. Looking down at your beer and then back to Sid, you wonder how grand of an exit the situation demands. “Ah. Well I gotta go to work early tomorrow. See you around, Sid.” You hop down from the stool and pop your hood back up. Making your way to the door, you decide the time is ripe for a viciously inappropriate and loud general announcement. “I'll see the rest of you covered in blood.”

There's no point in waiting for a reaction.

...

“So why didn't the truck come?” You smack the apron with floured hands.

Jill rolls her eyes. “Oh. Look, you know, it's the same old crap. They start with mechanical failure and then they move on up through the driver is lost or whatever. How can the driver get lost? He's been here like what? Sixty billion times?”

The prep line is a mess of sadness. “We're out of onions. That's not good. We just opened and we're already out of onions.”

“Oh. That's nothing. The district manager called me this morning and on top of the truck thing she tells me that our store may be 'folding in' with the store down on Oak street. What the crap does that mean - 'folding in'?” Jill opens a fresh tin of tomato sauce and throws up her hands in despair. In doing so, she cuts herself jaggedly on the edge of the can.

“Crap. Can you believe that?” She stares incredulously at the blood dripping down onto the white tile floor.

At the very moment of carnage, a herd of young girls walk in the door. You move to greet them and take their order. It's too late. One of them has already spotted Jill's leaking finger. Turning, you see the growing disaster of red building on the floor. The once potential customers strike a quick retreat out the door amongst screams of 'oh my god' and 'did you see all that blood?' Leaning on the prep board, you look benevolently over at Jill. “You want a band-aid?”

“Oh. Are you kidding? I need a freaking beach towel for this thing.” She hustles over to the sink, securing a wad of paper towels. “Can you believe this crap?” She seems to be talking directly to her finger now, so you take the initiative and grab the mop from the back.

You pass her on your way back from the slop sink. She is still clutching a wad of paper towels wrapped around her finger and muttering something about folding crap. You stifle your laughter and start cleaning up the blood.

“Alright. You know what? This is crap. No delivery, the whole folding in thing and then I practically sever my freaking finger. The day is done and I mean done done.” Jill looks over at you for approval. The towels are gradually turning red.

“You might want to get some stitches or something. That looks pretty bad.” You toss the mop back in the bucket. “I can hold the fort while you go get that looked at.”

Jill twitches erratically in disbelief. “No way. Forget this crap. I'm serious. We're done today. I am not forcing you to stay here by yourself on a day like this.” She tosses the soaked paper into the trash and grabs another handful. “I'll take full responsibility, don't worry. Stupid district manager.” She peers down judgmentally at the pile of bloody towels in the trash. “Stupid sauce tin.”

You dump out the pink water and hang the mop. “Okay, boss.”

“Turn off the lights for me, would you?” Jill has made her way to the front counter and is scotch taping on a makeshift bandage.

Starting with the prep room, you make your way through the store and start shutting everything down. Jill is mumbling something up by the front counter. The sounds of printing and keys jingling fills the air.

She shouts back to you. “I'm timing you out, okay?” Her voice lowers. “Oh. Well isn't that just crispy crap? I never knew this would be so hard with just one hand.”

You finish putting the lid on the prep line and walk over to the register. “Having some trouble?”

“No.” She bites her lip in frustration, then lets out an impressive sigh. “Okay. It's just another opportunity for a challenge, right?”

You laugh. “That's good. Sounds like something my mom would say.”

She turns the register off. “Oh. How is she? I haven't seen her in the store for a long time.”

“Yeah. Remember I told her not to visit me at work? Well it finally worked.” You start walking towards the front door. There are customers incoming. “We've got trouble.”

Jill glances up from some last minute paperwork. “Oh. I mean, crap. Go tell them we're closed, will you?”

You hop over the counter with deft cockiness and saunter the five feet to the door. With timing to rival a metronome, you lock the door as one of them tries the handle. He looks at you with eyes of surprise.

With all the mime you've got, you mouth the words “pull harder” and yank against an imaginary door handle. He gives it his all to no effect. Turning away, you let fly a happy laugh.

Jill glances up. “Oh. Now what is that? What in the freaking fudge factory are they doing?”

You hop back over the counter and then turn around. One has his pants down and is cramming his ass against the glass door. The rest of them are giving you the finger. “Looks like they really love our pizza.”

Jill gives you a slap on the shoulder with her good hand. “Okay smart guy. Now how are we supposed to get out of here?”

Acting as though the slap broke your arm, you cringe away from her. “Just watch. They'll use up all their energy.”

“Oh and meanwhile I bleed to death. Thanks, Gordon.” She raises a hand to slap you again.

You raise your arms in defense. “Look, they're already going. And don't call me that. I've told you that before.” The cluster of boys, seemingly defused, is retreating to a semi distant sports utility vehicle.

She backs down. “Crap. Whatever... Gordon. Let's take the back door just to avoid any bad stuff.”

You follow her to the back. She sets the alarm and motions for you to go ahead. The door opens slowly, revealing only an unoccupied solitary vehicle.

“Oh. Why all the caution now, bright guy? This alarm is going to scream like a freaking monkey in a meat grinder in about fifteen seconds so move it!” She gives you a little shove in the back.

Stepping outside, you see no sign of the almost customers. Jill slams the door and strides over to her car.

“Do you need me to drive your car?” You're feeling generous.

She takes off her work hat. “No. It's an automatic.” Opening the door, she tosses her logoed hat inside. “You want a ride home?”

You look at the mass of paper towels taped around her finger. “Sure. Why wait for the bus when a bleeding driver awaits my kingly command?”

She hops in the car and hollers back at you. “Get in before I charge you money, prince crap-stick.”

You sprint over and jump in the passenger side as she starts to pull away. “Wow Jill. I never knew you were such a dangerous woman.” Her car smells like a cat. Maybe two cats. There are hundreds of glued plastic figures all onto the dashboard. Most of them seem to be sea creatures of some kind. You reach out to touch a dolphin.

She gives you a light slap on the hand. “Oh. Don't touch that one. I just added her yesterday.” She looks in the rear view mirror and lets out a groan. “Well crap on my carpet. Don't look now but your new friends want to get to know you better.”

You turn and look. It's the five guys you locked out of the store. “Don't worry. They don't recognize us.”

She knits her eyebrows and looks over at you. “Oh? And just how do you know that, captain MENSA?”

“Because if they knew who we were...” You lean your head out the window and give them a mockingly friendly wave complete with an extra wide fake smile. The car behind you begins honking wildly and swerving slighly. “They'd be doing that.”

Jill inhales loudly, rolls her eyes and coasts to a stop. The honking continues. “Okay, smart guy. Time for you to get out of the car.”

“Well thanks for the ride, Jill. I guess I'll see you... damn... I forgot to check the schedule. Do you know when I work next?” You open the door and wait.

“Get out, crapster. I'm not going to bleed to death trying to remember someone else's schedule.” She makes an impatient waving motion with her hand. It's hard to tell if she's being serious or not. You hear car doors opening behind you.

“You're not going to bleed to death.” You undo your seatbelt. “So do you remember when I work next?”

She bangs her head on the steering wheel, causing several stacatto honks. “Don't look now but I think some angry people are looking to meet you.”

You nod and step out of the car. With a carefree push, the door is closed. Five grumpy looking high schoolers are headed your way. You need a plan. With a flick of the wrist, you take off your hat.

“Can I trouble you gentlemen for a ride? It seems my former chauffeur was unsatisfied with her pay rate.” Your speech concludes with the most ridiculous of bows.

“Holy shit, Grahm! I think that's GL, the guy from the Beyond.” One of the boys shakes the shoulders of the ring leader. “Remember when he handed you your ass in Yakuza 5, Grahm?” He grins, shaking Grahm a bit harder. “Ho-lee shit.”

The other boys stop in their tracks. Traffic is building behind their still running vehicle. Adults on their lunch breaks and errands are casting suspicious looks at the six of you.

“No way. I haven't seen him in there in months. Someone told me he was dead or something. Said he was playing some video game for so long that he forgot to eat and just fell over dead. Snap. Dead, just like that.” The boy gives you a tough, if peach fuzzed look.

Multiple horns begin pitching into the conversation. A couple of the boys look around nervously and try and tug everyone back into the car. You stand your ground. “Perhaps you gentlemen have heard of the Lock Down tourney going on tonight?”

The first boy bursts out into a toothy grin. “For shit we have!” He looks at you with some concern. “But if you're in that means we're screwed, doesn't it?”

Traffic has begun to reroute itself around the empty SUV. Everyone who drives by is giving the overly serious stink eye. You offer up another bow, this time slightly less dramatic than the last. “Anything can happen, gentlemen. Now how about that ride?”

A particularly angry man drives up in a blue sedan, stopping to deliver an important message. “How about you little pukes get your fucking car off of the god damn road and go back to your fucking cartoons? Fuckers.” He drives on, apparently not actually wanting an answer to his request.

Grahm, the ringleader, visibly nervous at all the attention they are gettting gives a nod. “Yeah. Sure. You going to the Beyond?” He starts moving to the car, as do the rest of them.

“As you were.” You smile calmly as the group piles into the vehicle.

Two.

“What's with the pimply little dregs, GL?” Sid thumbs ominously at the five boys who gave you a ride. They are mumbling amongst themselves at one of the many random tables that occupy the main floor of the Beyond.

Ignoring her question, you take the freshly poured beer off the counter and balance the pizza box on top of the glass. You decide a general announcement is required. “My strength is the mightiest in the land.” Heading their way, your new posse spots the incoming food and become excited.

“Alright!”

“GL delivers!”

“Look, he finally got us pizza!”

“Yeah, and it's free!”

You give the box a flourishing spin and set it on the table. “Not to skip out but I got to go check things out and that requires a slice go with me.” Someone opens the box and you immediately snag the biggest, meatiest piece. No one objects. You have a second thought of politeness before you disappear. “You guys sticking around for tonight?”

They murmur a bit, then one of them speaks up. “Technically we're skipping school right now but we'll... uh, probably be back soon.”

Nodding, you leave them to sort out the truancy issue on their own. Despite it being the early afternoon, things are already gearing up here. Sid has set up tons of promotional material, of course. You can't look anywhere in the store without seeing posters of Throm (the hero of Lockdown) splattered on the walls. There are extra monitors, chairs and speakers sprouting up everywhere. Situated in the center of the room is the Judges table, which is currently under assualt by semi panicked cannon fodder signing up for the event. You scoff, knowing your place is assured – by the management.

The walk around is instructive. Many suckers are already practicing for tonights game whilst the smarter victims are sitting back, watching and evaluating the competition. You walk up to a young kid in a leather jacket. He raises his glass of cola in acknowledgment.

“You gotta check this guy out, man. The way he plays is insane - insane.” He nods his head at a hulking, hairy form that rests heavily on a red velvet couch some ten feet away. “I've never seen anything like it.” A crowd of mostly girls surrounds him, tittering and blinking at his every grunt. One of the girls is wearing a familiar purple vest from yesterday's bus stop. Some (perhaps self aggrandizing) instinct tells you she is looking this way, even though she appears focused on the screen in front of the crowd.

Briefly, with as much apathy as you can muster, you scan the game. “What am I supposed to be impressed by? He's a thug. Nothing new in that.”

The kid shoulders you lightly in response. “He's no ordinary brute. Check it out. He's beat ten people in a row with just the damn hunting knife.”

You're drawn to his hair. It's dread locked... in filth. This is not the style of some trust fundie hippie kid. Those are some seriously dirt filled clumps of hair coming out of that man's head. It's always good to see a gamer with a sense of personal style that disdains personal style. You're eyes wander down to his disturbingly wide shoulders. There are various runic scrawlings, bits of bone and spikes decorating his cracked and worn black leather jacket. Again, you give the game he is playing only the briefest of glances.

The boy elbows you. “You see what I'm talking about?”

Sipping your beer thoughtfully, you look up at the ceiling. “No. I don't. It's straight up thuggery.” You give a wise and knowing nod at the screen. “I'd give him ten times more credit for get-up than game play.”

“So you found him.” Sid's voice creeps up on you, and you feel your shoulders jump up in surprise. She laughs. “Relax, GL. He hasn't beaten you yet.”

“This is the guy who you messaged me about?” Your voice carries enough so that some of the thug's entourage turn around and give you irritated “shut up” stares. You frown dismally back at them. “I'm not impressed. Sorry.” The screen goes on telling the tale of the game. “A quality thug, yes, but still a thug.”

Sid puts a light hand on your shoulder. “That's just it, GL. Everyone knows he's a thug. It's no mystery. Thing is, they still can't beat him. He's a patient ball of muscle.” She pauses and watches the game for a moment. A purple colored Throm leaps from a high ledge and stabs a gray Throm in the back of the head. The gray Throm falls to the ground, dead. The bevy of girls titter with joy. “Patient and deadly. Don't underestimate him.” She looks over at the kid leaning on a pole and then whispers in your ear. “Don't worry. I fixed it so the two of you won't fight until the end. I want everyone to enjoy the show.”

Sid hails an incoming customer and walks away. The kid next to you gives you a knowing look. “So, you believe me now?”

“No.” You watch Sid cross the room, working her social magic amongst the customers. “A good fighter is a versatile fighter. Once someone settles down into a style, they're doomed by their own stagnation.”

The match in front of you has just ended. The challenger gets up and shakes the hand of the dread locked giant. You catch a glimpse of his profile. He's wearing a dark, thick never-been-cut beard. Feeling your gaze, he meets your eyes and throws a friendly smile your way. Disarmed by the friendliness, you glance down at the ground. Someone else sits down on the couch next to him, grabbing the controller and everyone's attention is drawn back to the game.

The kid laughs. “Yeah. That works for him too. He's a scary looking dude, isn't he? I heard he lived out in the woods all by himself for like five years or something.” He takes a deep gulp of soda. “You think he ate rats or what?”

You pretend to think deeply on the subject. “Moose, maybe. Look at the size of the guy.”

“Oh man. You haven't even seen him stand up yet. Fucker is like seven feet tall or something and weighs at least like 350.” He pauses. “All muscle, though. You can tell from the way he moves. Can you imagine squaring up against that guy in a dark alley?”

You murmur acknowledgment and check out the purple vested girl again. “Who's she?”

He gives you the shoulder nudge again. “Oh, yeah. That's Anna, Inky's girlfriend.”

“Inky?” You say it a little louder than you meant to and several of the girl posse turn around and give you double dirty looks. The hulking mass of dreadlocks shifts a bit on the couch. You lower your voice. “What kind of a name is that?”

The kid shrugs. “I dunno. I haven't asked him. Never talked to the man myself, he scares the shit out of me. I just talk to the other people around here, man. Someone told me it's from some old video game or something. Never heard of a character named Inky.”

“How old are you?” You look the kid up and down, guessing he's about 15.

He straightens up and tries to look taller. “I'm 16. Name's Caldon. Don't worry, I already know who you are, GL.” He gives you a sycophantic smile.

You laugh. He deflates noticeably. You give him a condescending pat on the back. “Man, I'm sorry. It's been kind of a weird day for me so far. Are you competing tonight?”

He swishes around the contents of his drink. “I haven't decided yet but I think between you and Inky it's kind of a waste of time. Plus there's the usual crop of heavies around. I think I'll just sit back and watch.”

“Don't pass this up, Caldon. True gamers thrive on competition. It's what makes us better than the rest.” You point at the game in front of you. “You should play Inky while while the stakes are low. No one is going to think any less of you if you lose and if you win, well shit. Check out all those girls who are watching.”

He seems to grow a couple of inches in height. “What about you? Want to play Inky before tonight? I bet he doesn't even know who you are. You'd scare the hell out of him for sure.”

You shake your head seriously. “I never practice the day of a match. It's sort of a tradition we old timers have but don't let that stop you.” The game on the couch has just ended. “Look. Go. Get in there, quick.”

Caldon hesitates. You motion him encouragingly towards the couch. He holds his breath for a moment, then dashes off to take a seat. Inky gives him a cursory look and snorts. Anna turns your way for a moment, causing your heart to skip a beat. You manage to keep a strong facade and pretend like you didn't notice the attention. Something tells you she sees through your stoic efforts.

The first round is over within a minute. Predictably, Caldon tried to retreat to a safe place to sniper. Inky waits in that same 'safe place' for his opponent with the knife in hand and ends the round with a single stab to the back. So the guy knows the boards pretty well, that's clear enough. The second round passes by even quicker, as Inky cuts off Caldon on his way to a weapons cache and slashes him into a pool of blood. Caldon lets out a groan of defeat. Inky offers up a smile and a handshake to his opponent, which is accepted with slack eyes and a deadened face. You finish off your beer and put the cup down on a nearby counter.

Caldon walks over. “Ugh. That was ugly.”

“So what did you learn?” You put your arm around his shoulder.

“Not to go straight for predictable places?” He clearly wants to give the answer you want to hear.

“That's one thing. Anything else?” You walk him over to the front counter and buy another beer from Sid.

“Uhm. Inky is really good?” He takes a couple irritated swipes at the floor with his feet.

You grin a bit. He doesn't notice. “You already knew that. What else?”

“I guess it was good to play him but he felt way out of my league. I don't really think I'd learn much if I played him a thousand times in a row. I'd just want to, you know, quit playing.” His eyes are filling with despair.

“True, true. We don't want that. It's good to play a wide range of skill levels. I'm with you on that. But here's what I think you learned.” You skim some of the foam off the top of your beer with a finger. “Losing sucks. Especially in front of a crowd.”

“I knew that, too.” Now he looks slightly pissed off.

“But it's a lesson you have to always keep close. Once you really know it, you never let yourself lose again.” You raise your glass in a toast. He clinks his cup to yours.

Sid slides over, wearing her pretend serious face – like a hockey mask. “What brand of crap are you selling the real customers, GL?”

Caldon chokes slightly on his drink. He spits a piece of ice back into his cup. “He was just telling me not to lose, that's all.”

“Really, is that what he was advising you. Because GL here has never lost a game, right?” Sid leans her thin elbows against the counter. She anxiously awaits your reply.

“Never said I hadn't. I was just saying the disappointment of losing is the kind of lesson you need to hold on to tightly.” You glance over at Sid. She seems to be waiting for more. “Because there's no reason to have to repeat a lesson once you've truly learned it.”

Sid nods. “Wow. It's all proverbs and practicality with you now, GL.” She stands up straight and flips her rag around a few times, letting her expressions turn towards a more obviously playful spectrum. “What game did you say you'd been playing all this time you were gone?”

“I didn't.” You reply curtly.

She chuckles. “Right. I forgot precision. Proverbs, practicality and precision. Or maybe that's arrogance, avoidance and assholery? That would be more like the old GL. Maybe the new you is some admixture of both... like Buddha with a cell phone.” She swivels her head dramatically between the two of you, grabbing you both by a shoulder. “Or, maybe - the new three P's are a piss thin veneer to cover up the three old A's. It must be what you use to impress the newbies.” Sid purses her lips thoughtfully. “No doubt it's aimed mainly at females. There's no doubt, that I – as a representative of the female class - am impressed by the new buffed and waxed GL.”

Caldon takes a small step away from the counter. You wave your hands dismissively at Sid. “She's just talking trash Caldon. It's her one true talent.” The kid calms down a bit. “It comes from soaking helpless dorks of their parent's money for so many years.”

Sid slips away and begins hand drying a rack of glasses on the back counter. “Which reminds me GL, you still haven't paid the entry fee for tonight. A big hot shot pizza maker for a flute playing and peace loving corporation wouldn't be holding out on a razor clawed predatory small business owner like me, now would he?”

This time it's your turn to choke on your drink. “You expect me to pay for the tournament?”

Caldon takes two steps back this time. Sid holds him from retreating further with a deadly serious stare, which is pretty amazing given that it's directed squarely at you. “Yeah. I do. You think you're such a rock star but this store was here before your arrogant ass came in and it'll be here after the door hits your ass on your last trip out.” She scrubs hard on the underside of a pint glass and then looks up at you with a tiny wink. “Besides, you didn't pay me for the pizza.”

“Shit Sid. I told you my manager nearly cut off her finger and I didn't get my shift today. That practically cuts my paycheck in half.” You stare at one of the pictures of Throm hanging from the ceiling. “Besides, you know I'll win the purse tonight. I'll pay you out of the winnings.”

Sid snorts. Caldon pulls out his wallet and slaps a 10 dollar bill on the counter. Sid snaps it up and tucks it in her pocket. “Well. Looks like you conned your way into another friendship, GL.” She struts off to another waiting customer.

Caldon swallows hard. “Wow. I've never seen Sid get so mean with someone.”

You offer up another vague hand gesture. “That's nothing.” You tap your empty cup on the counter. “She does that with all her old friends. Let's you know she's concerned about the hows and whys of what you do. Besides, the lady is an actress. One of the finest I know.”

“I think I'll try and stay on her casual acquaintance list, then.” He watches as Sid cheerfully serves a pair of sweat pant wearing males in their twenties.

“You might as well quit coming here then. Sid takes ownership not just of this place.” You take in the building with a turn of your head “But everyone who comes inside. It can be alternately touching, hilarious and annoying. Most of us already have mothers.” You raise your voice a bit. “It's just that Sid never had the balls to have any kids of her own.”

Sid gives you a rude hand gesture on the fly without looking at you. Caldon turns, puzzled. “You don't have any kids, do you?”

“No.” You turn around to glance at Inky's couch. He is staring, emotionless and motionless at the screen in front of him. “But if I were I woman things would be different.”

Caldon balks. “What?” He takes two steps back and then looks at you as if you'd just told him the end of the world was coming. “You are too weird, man.” He retreats over to the gaming area.

Sid taps you on the elbow. “You're a real charmer, GL.”

“Yeah. You too, Sid.” You get up and head for the door. “I'm going home to change. I'll be back later tonight.”

Sid goes back to drying glasses. “Thanks for the update. We'll try not to cry too much until you get back but I swear, it just happens. The sadness overtakes us in your absence.”

...

“It's like poker.” You reconsider the statement. “All games are like poker, really. Most of them, anyway, in that bluffing aura they all share. Poker is just purer than most.” You pause to shoot your opponent in the head while dodging an explosive charge. “The novelty of the LAN game is that it returns the video game back to the realm of the physical bluff.” Round two opens up on the screen before you. “It used to be that your opponent was always the computer, so it didn't matter how you behaved outside of the game. It only mattered how you played the game. Then player versus player games arrived and the bluff returned - that is, how you behaved made a difference in the outcome of the game because the other player could be affected by things outside of actual game play.”

A random member of the audience chirps in. “Like what?”

You set a spike trap. “Taunts. Compliments. Doubts. Expectations. In short, all the things that makes us human. On top of that there was the language of the game itself to bluff with. Things got even more complicated, though. Games got played over the web. Suddenly you could hear your actual opponent but only see their avatar. With just the voice, you can trash talk – no matter what you really look like.” Your opponent triggers the trap. “But without the subtlety of human body language, so much of the beauty of bluffing is lost.” You pop up behind the injured player. He doesn't see you yet. “And what is gaming really about except a deep expression of skill - that is to say, subtlety?” When turns around and you gun him down. You place the controller down on the table. There is a spattering of applause. Your opponent disappears in a wispy cloud of shame.

Looking up at the board, you see this is already the fourth round. “Who's next?”

Another voice chirps up. “Some kid named Caldon.”

“Wow. He made it this far. Poor sucker.” You look to see Caldon sheepishly approaching your station. He crumples lightly into the seat next to you.

“I guess this is it, then.” He grabs the controller.

You blink. “There is no guess work here, kid. This is the end.” You play the game straight to the quick, thug style. There's no narration or commentary this time. You're curious if you can beat him quicker than Inky did. It takes you about two minutes. Caldon walks away, crushed. You yawn. No one applauds the brutality.

Casting your gaze across the auditorium sized room, you see Inky sitting comfortably on his velvet red couch. Anna stands next to him like an animal trainer proud of her catch. She sees you looking and gives you a wink. Unable to resist, you flash a quick smile and then pretend to look at the scoreboard. Should only be two more rounds until the final showdown.

You barely pay attention to your next opponent but instead find yourself habitually glancing over in Anna's direction. She's deliberately ignoring you. It costs you a head shot in the first round. You hear Sid laughing. Your opponent, a dork prodigy of age 11, issues a middle school grin of surprise but says nothing.

You bring your focus back to the game. “You're welcome. I thought your mom might be watching.” You proceed to nickel and dime your young opponent for the next five minutes. When time finally expires, the child gives you the sad, broken look that echoes of lost teddy bears. He puts up a less than pathetic defense for the final round. As he walks away, you can hear him sniffling.

Sid snickers from behind you. “Wow. Nice job, GL. I thought it was only the women, but you make kids cry, too. You're so... flexible.”

You snip back at her. “As I recall, you're in charge of this little affair, Sid. I'm sure you could have kept the wee ones away from me if you wanted to.”

“Don't look at me for reasons to vent off your bruised ego.” She steps closer to you, emerging from the crowd. “Just play the game.” You swear you can see a purple lizard tongue flick from her mouth when she says it.

You raise your hands to the heavens in exasperation. “The crowd wants a show. I'm just here to give it to them.” Your phone rings. You grunt and give it a slap. “Hold the game for me, will you?”

Sid continues with the commentary, which you ignore. Your mother's neighbor, Joanne is calling. Taking a deep breath, you press the accept button.

“Hey Joanne. How's it going?”

“Your mother is on the roof again.”

“Thats not so good then. What can I do?”

“Get over her and tell her to come down.”

“Can't do it right now, Joanne.”

“She's not listening to me.”

“What about the dog? Did you have the dog bark at her?”

“It's not working.” You hear the dog barking in the background.

“What is she asking for?”

“Not sure. She keeps saying your name amongst all the mumblings, so I guess it's something about you.”

“Huh. Well, okay. Let me know if she starts screaming or throwing things.”

“Alright Gordon. I really wish you'd come down here, though.”

“Sorry, Joanne. Can't.” You hang up the phone.

Sid is slapping your next opponent on the back, a skinny looking kid of maybe 15 years then notices you hung up the phone. She frowns. “Oh. I guess he's not throwing the game.” She passes you the controller. “But don't worry. His reputation is all hype anyway, right?”

You grab the controller. “Right. Hype. All of it. Especially getting to the finals. I am fueled by hype... and an intense belief in the power of hate.”

A few people in the crowd giggle. You give them your best serious face. More laughs follow. “I was told to just play the game. So that's what I intend to do.” You give a muted bow.

The kid is good enough that you're actually forced to not screw around too much. The best you can manage are a couple of fancy jumping shots. You let him win the second round to keep the crowd interested. For the third round, you set a couple spike traps. As he's busy disarming one of them, you pin him down with gunfire. He panics and runs through the second trap. With a satisfying smash, you run over and hit him with the butt of your pistol.

Sid's voice crackles across the PA. “Alright victims! We're gonna take a little five minute break here while I set up the final game.” You stand up and stretch. Across the room, you see Inky and Anna doing the same thing.

You head toward the door for some air. A couple of kids start yapping towards you but you brush them away with an eyebrow scowl. The breeze outside keeps the smells of sewage and cigarettes at bay. Looking into the sky, you think you can actually see a couple of stars if you don't stare at them directly.

“You are GL?” A resonating boom of a voice breaks your reverie.

“That's me.” You turn around slowly to see Inky and Anna lighting up cigarettes. Positioning yourself upwind, you lean up against the glass door of the Beyond. Several other patrons are looking to get outside. You ignore the feeble pushes at your back. “And you're Inky, right?”

He nods slowly. “They tell me that you are going to beat me.”

You watch the smoke pour delicately from his flat nose. “They tell me that you were raised in the woods by wolves.”

Anna tenses up and starts to speak. Inky stops her with a wave of his hand. “That is not too far from the truth. I am from a small township east of the city. Many of my neighbors were far less civil than wild animals. As for who raised me, it is hard to say.”

Some kids start banging on the door. You ignore them. “The truth is uglier than the rumors, huh?”

Anna bristles again. This time Inky doesn't stop her. She slings an angry finger at you. “Look who's talking. The whole town knows your mom snorts Thorazine and runs around the town with her withered tits out every full moon.” She blows smoke in your face.

“The girl's not part of the prize package, is she?” You manage to exhale long enough so as to avoid taking in any smoke.

Inky puts one of his massive arms around Anna's waist and squeezes lightly. “There is no need for this kind of talk, friend.” The banging on the door behind you stops. “Let us remind ourselves that we are here as friendly competitors in a simple game.”

“No need to remind me of that. It's the only thing on my mind.” You look back up at the sky but the dim stars are hiding from you. “I just wanted to see if we could move the stakes a beyond the humdrum of money.”

Anna gives Inky an uncertain look. He moves his head grimly from side to side. “I had heard you were an arrogant man. Now I know it to be true.” He lets his arm slide from Anna's waist. “She is neither my property to bet, nor yours to win.”

You open the door and step halfway through.

The door closes quickly behind you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that Anna is storming mad and shouting. Inky is busy talking her down. You smile and find your seat at the game table. Sid has set up separate screens for the final match and patched the sound through the main stereo system. The familiar credit music of Lock Down is blaring over the speakers.

“Can we turn this down? I think that the lovebirds are trying to have a private conversation out there.” You grab the controller and rock lazily back and forth in your chair. “The manners in this place, I swear.”

Sid looks out at the door then back at you. “I don't suppose you had anything to do with that, now did you?”

You shrug innocently. “Hey. If he has to cancel the match because of personal problems that's really too bad.”

“You're afraid he's going to beat you?” One corner of her mouth spirals towards glee. “This is more than just your usual maneuvering, isn't it GL?”

“Where did this guy come from, anyway?” You try to turn down the volume on your machine but it doesn't do anything. Someone has over-ridden the individual console controls.

“You mean you didn't get a chance to ask him while you were out there?” She sits on the arm rest of your chair. “Why not go back out? They're still out there smoking. Maybe you could try and patch things up before the game. That'd really shake him up, now wouldn't it GL? Really get him off his game, huh?”

You scroll through some menus and start customizing your character colors. “What are you, his agent? Just answer the fucking question, Sid. Where did he come from?”

“I honestly don't know. That's why I told you to go ask. I know that girl Anna found him somewhere out east.” She stands up. “And don't fucking swear at me in my god damn store.” Picking up the mic, she gives you a little wink. “All right. Here we go. I've decided to make this one five rounds, just to keep things interesting.”

Inky and Anna come back inside. You see Caldon run up to them with his mouth flapping. Inky listens patiently. Someone else comes up to Anna. He's huge - bigger than Inky. There's something weird about his hair. He's completely bald except for two goofy looking spots in the front. You'd almost hate to meet his hairstylist more than him. You lean over to the nearest spectator, a balding middle age man of about forty. “Christ, who is the even bigger, uglier guy?”

“I think his name is bull. I've seen him around here a few times, always with Anna. I don't think he actually plays any of the games. He's her bodyguard or brother, or something.”

“Thanks.”

Inky walks on over. He looks totally emotionless as he disappears behind his gaming cubicle. Anna joins him. As for Bull, you don't see him. Somehow, a six foot eight man managed to meld seamlessly into a room full of geeky teenagers.

“Here we go, kids! You ready?” She looks over at you. You nod. “You ready?” She looks over in Inky's direction. After a brief pause, she raises her hands up to the ceiling like a priestess channeling the glory of death before a sacrifice. “Let the virtual blood flow!”

The game opens. The level is set inside the nameless shanty town that players of the game have affectionately christened 'the hellhole'. It means trouble when fighting a thug like Inky. There are too many enclosed places. You take to the roofs and climb as high as you can. For the number of people watching, it's way too quiet. Inky has obviously laid down some plans in the few seconds you've been building hopping. As you make your way up the ladder that leads to a sniper tower, you hear some kids whispering importantly. You start to climb down to the safety of an alley, but it's too late.

Inky's Throm comes flying out of the tower and gives you a solid kick in the head. It's a long fall. Not only do you take damage from the fall but it dazes you enough that Inky gets in three free slashes with his knife. You go down in a mess of blood.

The crowd roars. It's clear that you didn't mean to throw the round. They've never seen you challenged. You can't remember being razzed so badly by anyone except for Shane in the last couple of years. A nervous giggle burbles from your lips but it is lost among the excitement of the crowd. Round two comes up on the screen.

The open desert spans out before you. There are caves and crevasses here but less cover than is ideal for a player like Inky. Caldon wavers into your field of vision for a moment wearing a conspiratorial grin and distracting you from the task at hand. Instinct nudges you to quickly switch where your avatar is heading. This sudden change evinces a chorus of “ahhs” from the crowd. You did something right there – reading the crowd. Finding a pair of pistols near a craggy obelisk, you swing wide around the entrance of a nearby cave. On another instinctual whim, you pop a couple of bullets into the dark opening. Out comes Inky's wounded Throm.

Backing up, you take a few more shots at him. He evades in a sharp angular pattern, causing you to miss with all but one shot. Now close enough to strike you, he takes a stab. You duck and smack him with the butt of one of your pistols. The crowd erupts in cheers. You've beaten Inky at his own game.

Round three. You rock back and forth in your chair.

“Not sure why you've set this at five rounds Sid.” Everyone seems shocked that you would waste energy to speak. “Seems like just a way to get them to buy more of your crappy pizza.” You make your way through the foggy swamps, picking up a Machete as you go.

Sid, along with everyone else, offers only intent silence.

Far off gunshots ring over the sound system. You crouch and wait behind an embankment. “Seems our little thug has been shaken off his usual stylings. You haven't been letting the peanut gallery get to you, have you, Inky? Or wait. Maybe it's worse. You haven't been letting me get to you, have you? It would be a shame to see you alter your delicate ballet dancer ways.”

Inky's Throm obliviously leaps over your hiding spot and lands not ten feet away. With the flick of a thumb, you pop out and stab him in the back. It's an instant kill. The room freezes with tension. In the fading moments of the round, you toss the blade onto his body.

“Oh damn!” chimes a young male voice. “They won't have to look far for that murder weapon.”

“Murder? Are you kidding. That was clearly a suicide!”

Laughter follows. Inky's monotone voice pierces the tumult. “And now what will I do, wise GL?”

“Lose in the fourth round.” You watch the desert appear before you once again. “Or, I'm sorry. Did you want me to tell you what strategy you were going to lose with? I'd say you'll retreat back to your old knifing ways, which will result in a harrowing loss. Why, what were you thinking?”

“If that is what you want, then it is the knife you shall have.” He lets out a mighty exhale.

“I defer to your choice, obviously. Let me suggest the machete as a backup plan. You know, why don't you just use the one I tossed to you earlier? You got that, right? I left it right on your bodybag. When people come to visit it's always polite to use the gifts they've given you.” You head for the cave with the sniper rifle. You reach over to pick up the gun and the controller gives off a warning shake. You turn around, rifle in hand. Inky didn't even bother to pick up a weapon. He punched you in the back of the head - which means he didn't get the instant kill. You go to swing the rifle, but he's got the jump on you - literally.

He hops over you, crouching in the air so as to avoid the cave's low ceiling, lands behind you and cracks you in the back again. Casting out a deep and joyous laugh from his side of the room, Inky waits until you turn around to deliver the third and final fist to the face. Your Throm plummets to the ground as the screen darkens.

“Oh damn, didn't see that one coming, did you?” It's the same squeaky voiced boy from before.

“How could he? There's not a rear view mirror mod yet, is there?” The crowd roars. You see Caldon giving people high fives. You try and give him a polite sneer but he doesn't notice. Anna, too, is swirling about the mob smiling like a gracious tea party hostess. The murmur of excitement grows to a din as round five begins. It's 'the hellhole' again. You grumble and make an immediate break for the Inn.

Swinging around the alley towards your destination, you spot Inky's Throm but ignore him. Bursting through the Inn door, you scoot across the floor and grab the waiting pistol from the counter. You spin and fire at the door hoping that your opponent is brazen enough to have come through the door. He's inside but only part way. The shot only grazes him and then buries itself deep in the wooden door jamb.

The enemy leaps and crouches behind one of the many overturned tables. You fire a couple of shots to keep him pinned as you sprint towards the door. Reload. The anxious crowd has knotted into silence again. You fire two more bullets at the table and cover the last few feet to the door. Bursting outside, you swing a hard right and hug the side of the building. Now, you wait.

Nothing happens. You get halfway through reloading again when your opponent comes bursting through the door. He charges straight ahead out into the open, knife in hand, not seeing you. Slinking next to the door and finishing the reload, you side step out of your hiding place. You aim for the head but hit the shoulder instead when he dodges suddenly to the right. He spins around and you tag him with another shot. It's then you notice he's got the dynamite in his hand. It's lit. You back into the threshold and squeeze off your last four shots but he's bobbing and weaving like mad. He gets right up next to you and drops the dynamite. You smash him in the head with the butt of your gun. He drops just as the dynamite explodes, killing you as well. The victory, however, still goes to you. Even if you'd missed the melee, you'd still have won the round because his death would have been ruled a suicide. It's hard to imagine a more dramatic victory.

The building detonates with crowd noise. Inky stands up, with a huge grin on his face. He walks over to you, palms out. The two of you clasp hands and then embrace. Amidst the noise you shout to him “Want a drink?”

He tilts his head and smiles, signaling the affirmative.

Three.

Peering over the edge of your pint glass makes everyone conical and far away. “I don't get it. Even if you had killed me with the dynamite, you'd still have lost.”

Inky sits straight in a backless stool. “I am still used to the traditional controllers. On the new ones, the buttons are closer together.”

“You hit the wrong button?” Looking through the side of the glass turns everything a light shade of brown.

Inky shows his teeth through a sly smirk. “I hit the wrong button.”

...

“You mean like a wolf, right?”

“No. A coyote. Do you know the difference?”

“Uhm... I guess not.”

...

You snatch another glass from an oncoming tray. “I'd like to make a toast to friendship.”

“Here here!” The mysterious adjoining chorus may or may not exist.

Inky closes his eyes. “And I would like to add a toast to this fine city of yours.”

“Here here!” The chorus sounds closer and has gained an echo.

You get lost in watching some people playing darts. Seconds and/or hours pass.

“So you were telling me about where you grew up?” You touch your lip with your sleeve to check and see if you're drooling. You're not currently, though your face is definitely wet from something.

“No. Should I have?” His dreadlocks darken the space around his head in a five foot radius.

“Yes, you will have.” You retort.

...

Inky grabs you firmly by the arm, preventing you from walking forward. “Wait. No rush.” He points at the red traffic light with his free hand. “We are alive for the last

time, friend. Let us not throw it away.”

You look up at the sky. Closing your left eye causes two stars to appear. They seem to be spinning around one another.

There is a shift in your body weight. Looking down at the sidewalk, you realize Inky has let go of you. “Now.” He's stepping forward into the crosswalk. He offers you an encouraging hand gesture. “We go.”

...

“I think I saw a place over here.”

Inky follows the direction of your hand. “You mean the abandoned gas station? I don't think they have any food there.

You nod.

...

“So where is she anyway?” You're sitting in a booth. It's yellow.

“Not sure.” Inky looks apprehensively at the plate of hash browns sitting before him. “Do you remember what you said to her?”

You make a swirling motion with your fork. “Put some ketchup on them. They're not as scary that way.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “I am not scared of them.” He pokes the rubbery potato mash with a finger. “I am scared for me.”

You unscrew the ketchup top and coat his plate with sauce. “Should I be scared? Because I don't remember.”

He takes a cautious bite. “That is tolerable.” His giant head nods approvingly. “You called her a whore.”

A blond waitress materializes out of fluorescent whiteness. “More coffee, hon?”

You nod. “Thanks.”

She expertly stops the flow of liquid, leaving just enough room for two creams. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

“No, no. We're great.” You find yourself spinning your fork in the air again.

The waitress disappears into whiteness once again.

“Is that true?” You are having trouble figuring out what is on your plate and once you figure that out it becomes difficult to know where it is on your plate.

Inky contemplates the question for a few deep, echo filled moments. “She works at a used book store.”

...

There is a puddle of something in front of you. “Watch out for that.” Gracelessly, you side step into a trash can. “And that too.”

“Your reflexes seemed to have diminished since game time.” Inky catches you with one arm and the teetering garbage receptacle with the other. Gently, he puts both you and the can upright. “Are you sure this is the way?”

You whirl around once and stick your finger in the air after licking it. “It's my fucking mom's house, man. I grew up there.” With a stumble and a jump, you accidentally perform a leprechaun-like leap. “Of course I know the way.”

...

This intersection is unfamiliar. Someone unhinged the top screw of this stop sign so that it is upside down, although you're not sure if that is the reason for your sense of dislocation.

Inky's voice emerges from a telephone pole. “What was the name of that last street?”

You stop. “What?”

Inky steps up beside you. “Do you know the way?”

...

Inky is singing. You don't recognize the tune. Listening with your eyes closed, you catch a fragment of the lyrics.

We have entrusted the king to you.

And when will you return?

To entrust him back to us?

...

“I was on the roof because there was a meteor shower tonight.” Your mother is raking the lawn. “Did you make a wish?”

“You realize it's like 3AM, mom?” You sit down on a piece of lawn furniture.

“Oh don't mind him.” She walks over to Inky. “Did you make a wish?”

He clenches his jaw spasmodically and looks up at the sky. “Yes.”

“My name is Nin.” She sets down the rake and offers her hand.

You stand up. “Hi, I'm your son. Remember me?”

Something pushes you back down. Maybe you fell down. Whatever the case, you're sitting back in the lawn furniture, staring across the cul de sac at the only functioning street lamp on the block. Your mother and Inky are talking. It looks serious. The dog appears from somewhere and begins licking your hand.

...

The sink is overflowing. “I need a drink of water.”

“You keep saying tbat.” Inky steps up next to you, his darkened face appearing in the mirror next to you. He reaches over and turns off the faucet. With a flick, he uncorks the drain. He firmly sets a plastic cup on the counter. “Use a glass.”

You dunk your face instead. It is cold. You come up coughing. After a couple of minutes and several hearty slaps on the back, you recover. The sink is now empty. “So the water is gone now. I waited too long, didn't I?”

Inky grabs the cup using his hands in a very skillful manner and fills it with water, demonstrating further impossibilities of dexterity. “Can you hold this?”

This is an actual question. Can you hold a cup of water? “I think so.”

“Keep it next to you for a while, that way you do not have to get up again.” Inky disappears from the mirror.

You are holding a cup of water. It is tilting wildly from side to side. Some liquid sloshes onto the tiled floor. You kneel down to examine the intricate pattern of white and red hexes.

...

Your head is wet. Your mother is talking in the kitchen.

“Travel usually means you have a goal or a...” The sound of pots and pans obscures the next sentence or two. “... I had tons. Like a train or sometimes even one of those little push cars like used to be in all the cartoons. You know what I mean?”

Inky responds but his voice is so low the words are obscured by fluctuations of pitch.

Your mother's voice, three octaves higher, flutes its way back in to your ears. “Oh yes. All the time.”

Whatever you are laying on is hard. You open your eyes and see a shower curtain covered with devil ducks. Thinking there might be more to see, you roll over. There is a quarter full glass of water sitting on the floor. You take a drink and then close your eyes again. The dog lets loose a single, soulful howl. Your mother's voice melds blissfully into the decrescendo of your pet.

“... oh no. I'm like a human tape recorder. Don't even hesitate.”

...

There is a gentle prodding in your belly. “Nin has agreed to adopt me.”

Lifting your eyelids carefully, one of Inky's boots emerges next to your head. You scootch back, hitting the back of your skull solidly on the bathtub. “My fucking head.” You wait for the pain to pass. “I guess we're brothers then.”

Inky turns on the shower. “Get under the water. It will wake you up.” He pulls the shower curtain back. The smell of flowery soaps causes you to dry heave. “When you are done, the food will be ready.”

“Was that your idea or hers?”

“The shower was my idea. The adoption and the food were hers.” He walks out of the bathroom and closes the door.

With great effort, you take off your clothes without standing up. Lying on the cold tile floor feels good. Hot steam from the shower fills the air. After a slow motion count of fifty, you crawl yourself up, over and into the tub. The water scalds but it is easily ignored. Unfortunately, there is no bubble bath. Reaching with your foot, you turn down the hot water. Eyes closed, you smell for food. Nothing. Whatever aromas reside in the kitchen have been trapped their by the powerful flowered cleansing agents that surround you.

Inky was right. The steam clears your mental fog, revealing a hunger that was hiding underneath. Quickly, you grab the least offensive of the cutely fruit shaped soaps and scrub dutifully. Rinsing happens all on its own. Carefully, you lift yourself out of the tub. An unwelcome but expected headache erupts. Reality kicks and you flinch away. Slowly, you pull a towel off the rack and dry yourself. The mirror is completely obscured by condensation. You draw a crooked smiley face.

Opening the door, you emerge into your mother's room. Not caring to venture across the house naked, you grab one of her many bathrobes, pull it on and walk towards the kitchen. The hallways are full of the familiar aroma of potatoes, garlic and onion. That casserole has been a household staple forever. Even though she died when you were four, you can remember your grandmother making the same thing.

From the depths of the kingdom of hangover, your mother's voice stabs at you. “Hey GL? Will you go into my office and grab what's coming out of the printer? Thanks, babe.”

Grumbling, you take a sharp right and pop into the office. The usual collection of unfinished and horrible paintings are stacked against the wall. The drum kit currently occupies the center of the room. Stuffed cordially into the corner, some noisy machinery is happily spitting out freshly inked paper. You cover your ears and wait. It gives you more time to look at the artwork but you decide not to. It never changes. Always flowers. Endless flowers.

The printing stops. You retrieve the output. They're adoption papers. You roll them up and walk back toward the kitchen. Pushing dramatically through the double swinging doors, you make your entrance and slap the papers down on a clean cutting board.

“Why didn't you tell me I had a baby brother?”

“Well I just found out today, honey.” Your mother is pulling the signature family dish out of the oven. “It just never seemed like the right time, you know? Things were always just so complicated.” She sets the glass dish down carefully on two waiting hot pads. “Not to mention, I still don't know who the father is.”

“Seems like he'd be hard to miss.”

She looks the giant leather armor clad Inky up and down, finally settling her eyes on his broad, flat nose. “Yeah. I guess I would remember that.” She pulls off the oven mitts and reaches for a wooden serving spoon. “It all boils down to the classic confusion over knowing versus understanding.”

Inky chirps in. “What's that?”

“Oh, just a little discussion I used to have with GL's father...”

“He's not my father.”

“Okay. Would you prefer mentor? Is that better?” She fills the plates and places them slowly on the long oak table.

“Yes, and I would continue to prefer it into the indefinite future.”

Your mother sits down. “You are so particular, aren't you?”

“The terms mother and father have very particular meanings, now don't they?” You reach for the salt.

“Try it first, please.” She gives you the serious look. You relinquish the shaker and take a bite. It tastes the same.

“Needs salt.” The usual amount is added.

The phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out. “Hey Shane.”

“Did you call me at like 4 AM last night?”

“No. I called you a couple of days ago.”

“Alright. Musta been your pocket or some drunk fuck on a bus borrowed your phone, called my number and then sat on it.”

You stretch your memory. Nothing bus related about last night emerges.

Inky is responding politely to your mother. “Oh. Just last night, ma'am.”

You stand up and walk out of the dining room. “Sorry. Just eating breakfast with my mom.”

“Your mom get a sex change or something? I mean, she's always been sultry but she sounds like a fucking R&B singer or something.”

You plop down on the red leather couch. “Oh, that's Inky?”

Shane laughs. “You hanging out with ghosts now, GL?”

“No. He's this dude I met last night during the Lockdown tournament.”

“Oh. And the two of you are already dating, or is this another one night stand?”

“Seriously, Shane. He almost beat me.”

“Holy shit, man. Did you call the police? You're gonna want some hired guns in there for sure. We can't have anyone deflating your precious video game ego and not paying a serious legal price for it.” Shane pauses. “Except for me, of course, and only when I notice it's getting a little too big.”

“Right, right. That reminds me that I forgot to tell you something the other day. Eat shit.”

Shane adopts a clippy business-like voice. “It's already on my to-do list but first I need you to take a memo for me.”

“And that would be...”

“The Ship Wreck is having a Burning Empires tournament tomorrow.”

“Don't be accusing me of hanging out with fucking ghosts if you're going to talk about ghost towns.”

His normal acidic tone returns. “Hey asshole, being crazy is not a mutually exclusive trait in conversation. It is in fact possible for two broken individuals to talk directly at one another while entirely missing one another's points. Besides, The Ship Wreck is up and running, or at least someone is answering queries sent to their new email address.”

“I thought the sisters skipped town.”

“They did. Some old dude name Tim is running it. And when I say old I don't mean old like your withered and useless ass but like fragile old - breeze blowing him over, hip breaking kind of old.”

“It's in the same building? In old town?”

“Still in your favorite heroin filled section of that lovely city sandwich you call a home. How could anyone call a bar the Ship Wreck and have it anywhere else but that awful fucking building? I mean, I guess it could be in the basement of your mom's house but since you still live there, that's not really possible, now is it?”

“I hope a huge bear lays a big squirty shit on the hood of your truck.”

“Stop dreaming and suck on reality, bud. Every morning I wake up to the sounds of majestic birdsong, the smell of pine and the sight of a majestic grizzly dropping a steaming load on my beautiful black Jeep.”

“Sweet. That reminds me, I gotta go eat.”

“Oh, I totally understand. Two in the afternoon always makes me hungry for... let me guess. Potato surprise?”

“Wow. How do you do it, Shane? How do you manage to maintain both your genius and your assholeness in the face of all that totally serene wilderness?”

“I close my eyes and remember all those times I kicked your ass in Lockdown.”

“And that does it?”

“Yep. Now do me a favor and go sweep that tournament.”

“Yes, sir.” You hang up the phone and slide it back in your pant pocket. With great effort and no small amount of headache, you return to the dining room table. Whatever conversation had been going on between Inky and your mother has ended. Judging by their happy faces, it seems to have gone well. Your mother has finished eating and is filling out the adoption papers.

You eat. You drink. Your head feels slightly better but now you feel like going back to bed. “Shane told me that The Ship Wreck is back open.”

Inky glances at your mother and then back at you. “I am unfamiliar with it.”

You take another deep swig of orange juice. “It was a cafe, like The Beyond, where all the dorks and gamers hang out. It was around years ago, before The Beyond even opened. It was like the first of its kind, really - in this town anyway. Everything Sid does she copied from the sisters.”

“The sisters?”

“Yeah. They were the owners. Shane said some dude named Tim bought the place and re-opened it.” You rub your fingers together lightly. “Which is weird because the place has been closed, or more like abandoned for like the past three years. Unless this new guy spent tons of money on the place it's liable to be an even bigger shit hole than before although that may be more exciting to see than imagine. In fact, it's impossible for me to imagine at this moment.”

Inky gathers his dreadlocks together and binds them with a hair tie. “I see.”

“They're holding a Burning Empires tournament tonight. Wanna go?”

“I have never played that game.”

You look at the salt shaker. “It's the same as all the others. Grab weapons, kill people. You'll recognize the routine.” You thumb in the direction of the basement door. “I've got it down there. Just play the one player for a while so you get the feel for the controls. That way tonight you don't accidentally hit the wrong button.”

Inky strokes his beard seriously.

“I'm going to go take a nap. Don't worry, the game won't keep me up as long as I'm not playing. Feel free to turn it up as loud as you want.” You push your plate away and head downstairs. The pillow smells like home.

...

“We should leave. It is five now.” Inky is turning off your television.

“How'd the game go?” You roll out of bed and slide your shirt and hoodie back on.

“You were right. The buttons are in different places, but the play is the same.” Inky stands up, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling of the basement. “Do players use the terrain building option?”

You start putting your shoes on. “Oh man. You have no idea. The fuckers get crazy with it. What happens when you give gamers the option to collect do dads, dress up their characters or buy houses? Shit. It's always the same. The dorks can't resist. Call it the need to acquire stuff or whatever you want but it works in triple spades on gamers. It reminds me of listening to kids talk about those stupid card games they play obsessively. All they do is talk about which ones they've got, how many of them they've got and how they are going to get more. It's the same shit with video games. I think that strategy, skill and winning are totally secondary to them. It's all about acquisition.”

Inky runs his hands along the wooden rafters that stand only inches from his head. “So if you damage someone's territory in the game, does that damage remain?”

You stand up, ready to go. Your head still hurts a bit. “I need another drink of water. And yes, the computer remembers the damage. But you have to realize that it's not that hard really to earn credits so you can build new stuff or repair old stuff. Even when you lose games, you get a certain number of credits to spend - especially if you play against high ranking people. Every bullet you take from an uber ranking nerd gets you a big chunk of government house building cheese and of course if you win, you get more. Every second you survive you get a certain number of credits. I'm surprised you didn't notice the credit system as you played the one player. But anyway, let's go.”

“I ignored it as it seemed irrelevant to game play.”

“Ah, but only when people aren't involved. Throw in money or points or any kind of ranking system and folks get defensive as hell.”

“There was a ringing sound coming from your bed when you slept.”

Sinking your hand into your pocket, you retrieve the phone. It was Jill. You pull up the message. “Look, Gordon... or whatever your name is. I don't know the schedule still and it's going day by day and frick if I can run a store with one hand covered in ace bandages but I'll get back to you tomorrow or whatever like I know you even give a crap. Later.”

Nonchalantly as possible, you return the phone to its cave and head up the stairs. Opening the door, you see a plate full of sandwiches is displayed proudly on the table.

“Your mother said you might be hungry when you woke up, so I made food.” Inky grabs a sandwich and finishes it in a few bites.

You snag one quickly. “Guess I better get one before you inhale them all.” They're peanut butter and jelly. It's not your favorite, but the convenience level is awfully high. “So what do you think of mom?”

“She is a very interesting lady.”

“Nice of you to notice.” You take another sandwich for the road. “Let's walk. It's kind of a ways but it's worth watching the neighborhoods slowly decline. There's something fascinating about gradual decay, don't you think?”

“Your sentiment reflects the natural human curiosity about death.”

The two of you exit the house. Through the slits in the fence, you see the dog tracking you with beady black eyes. Next door, Joanne is rummaging through her mailbox. She waves at you cheerily. “Oh Gordon, hi! How are things...” she looks around cautiously, “with your mother?”

“Great, Joanne. She just gave birth to my brother Inky here.” You clap your hand onto one of Inky's massive shoulders.

She lowers her oversized sunglasses slightly, and frowns at you. “Okay then. Just make sure you come home at a decent hour tonight so that I don't have to fish her off the roof again.”

“No problem.” You start moving down the sidewalk again. Walking in silence for several minutes, you try and recall the adventure of last night, but only come up with bits and pieces. You wait until you're on the major road to strike up a conversation. “Did I do anything stupid last night?”

“You beat me. It seemed like a poor decision.” Inky's head is on a swivel.

“When did you get here?” You kick the crosswalk button twice just to hear the metallic ring.

“A few days ago.”

“You seem ill at ease in the city. Been here before?” The light turns green.

“No. Anna brought me here.”

The sidewalks and roads in this block are already starting to suffer the slings and arrows of usage. You point casually to a giant pothole in the street. Someone has made a half assed effort to fill it up with loose rocks and bricks. Inky takes it in, along with a passing pickup truck blaring country music. Clusters of teenagers are milling about, smoking cigarettes and yelling obscenities at passing vehicles.

Inky scratches his beard lightly. “This is what there is to do?”

“No. Video games are what there is to do, remember?”

The street turns into a mixed residential and commercial area. It's been a while since you've been to old town. The smell of rotten alcohol and piss reminds you why. “And it's not even dark out.”

“Would darkness excuse this kind of behavior?”

“It did last night for me.”

Inky gets your attention with a quick flick of his fingers. You follow the motion and spot Anna, cavorting with a horde of locals in front of a liquor store. Inky whispers to you. “She is ignoring us.”

“How do you know she even sees us?” It's hard to tell how many people are standing by her, because there is a constant flux in and out of both the store and the house next to it.

He nervously clenches a fist. “She misses nothing.”

Loud music erupts from the house. The crowd of people pour inside. Anna rides the tide and disappears. You continue on your way. “Why was she ignoring us?”

“The darkness may have shrouded you but not her. She remembers your words.”

Some obstinate old man watering his lawn refuses to make room for you on the sidewalk. You step onto the grass rather than the street. The old man gives you a dirty look. “Why're you walking on my yard, punk?”

“Same reason you're standing on my concrete, jack ass.” You keep walking, feeling his arthritic stare attempting to burn through your spine.

“You called her a whore.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember you telling me that. I don't remember why I did that, though I don't doubt that I would.”

“Why did you say that?”

“Specifically to her? Oh, I don't think it really has anything to do with her as a person. It's just the kind of thing I might say to someone... or women specifically, when I'm drunk.”

“You are sober now.” Inky sounds unsure.

You hop on one foot to verify his suspicion. “Yeah, why?”

“You insulted that man back there.”

“Well he was being a jack ass, right? Plus I don't think he was a woman.” You glance over your shoulder, pretending to double check the old man's gender.

“You do not sound so sure.” Inky points to a building across the street. “Is that the place we are looking for?”

It's got a new paint job, or at least newish considering the context of the neighborhood. The old signage has all been replaced. Instead of the prow of a ship busting through the side of the building, there is a colorful graffiti mural of a ship wreck in it's place. The sails are tattered. The boat is turned on its side. Set against a background of crusty yellow mountains, crated cargo lies dormant amongst the bleached bones of camels and vultures. How the ship managed to end up in a desert has been left to the imagination. “Right, this is it. This Tim guy has really spiced the facade up. Let's see if he's kept the vintage interior.”

You head across the street and make your way to the front of the building. There, above the door is the same old hand painted drift wood sign - “The Ship Wreck”. A bright yellow banner is tacked several feet above - “Grand re-Opening”. You push on the front door and enter. Immediately, the smell of burgers and fries wrestles its way into the nostrils.

To your great relief, the interior decoration remains largely the same. There are anchors, wheels, portholes, ropes, sails, flags, rowboats and all sorts of other random ship crap cluttered everywhere. You spot a new addition - there is a cannon and a little pyramid of iron balls. The crowd is sparse and old. No doubt most of the real competition in town is still washed out from last night.

“Welcome, strangers. What can I do you for?”

Standing behind a well buffed and shining counter is an older man with a perfectly trimmed white beard in the style of – a ship captain. He looks you directly in the eye, as if checking for something. Satisfied that you are okay, he moves on to Inky and gives him the same once over. Dreadlocked and silent, your friend also seems to pass the test.

“Those burgers smell great. Too bad we ate on the way here.” You sit down on a wooden stool. The counter is glass. Beneath the glass is a nautical map that pretends to be several hundred years old. The writing is linear and harsh, in a symbology that you don't recognize. The sea creatures that float menacingly in the deep are made of bright, angry colors. “How about a beer?”

Inky sits down slowly. “Let us drink water, brother.”

“Sure. I hear it's all the healthy rage these days.”

The barkeep again looks into your eyes. “Here for tonight's game, eh?”

“Yeah. What's the entry fee?”

“Fifteen a team.” He scoops some ice from an unseen source below the counter and fills up two glasses with water. “Guessing the two of you are a team, then?”

“I didn't realize it was a doubles match.” You look suspiciously around the room. “How many other people have signed up?”

He shrugs carelessly. “There's no knowing for sure, stranger. Always they come pouring in just the nick of time.”

Inky takes a swig of water. “Did you not just open this place?”

“A week ago. What's it to you?”

“And how many tournaments have you run?”

“Two. Grand opening was the first.”

You prop an elbow up on the counter. “And everyone showed up at the last minute for that?”

He shakes his hand vaguely in the air. “So it was, eh.”

“So did you know the sisters?”

“Never met the women but I know of them. They sold the place through some slimy third party suit wearing lawyer monkey. My knowing is they don't live in the country any more and they pretty much gave up on the place three years ago.” He grabs a stool from the nearby cash register and sits down.

“Just abandoned it? Who did you hear that from?” The smell of onion rings emerges from somewhere in the back of the building. Turning briefly, you see an aging woman making the rounds among the customers. She sets a red plastic basket full of grease amongst a group of card playing white haired men.

“I've heard a few other folks repeat it as a rumor so it must be kin to the truth in some way. Can't say I really care that much, except it adds to the mystique, eh? Like owning a house where the previous owners were murdered by a cult of butcher knife wielding madmen.” He grabs a glass from under the counter, moves a slice of lemon out of his way and takes a sip.

“And so why does an old man buy up an arcade?”

“Are old men barred from playing games?” He throws up his feet on the counter and unleashes a barrage at you. “Just video games or all games? At what age does one give up? Have I past that age? How old am I, stranger?”

Inky looks at you briefly, as if waiting for a sign. You shrug. He turns to the old man and speaks. “What is your name, friend?”

“Tim. Yours? And while you're at it, give me his as well.” He takes his feet down from the counter and leans forward conspiratorially.

“I am Inky and this is GL.”

Tim stands up abruptly. “Ah. The king arrives. I've heard loads, but seen nothing yet.” He gives you a mocking bow.

You flick your wrist dismissively. “I don't make it a habit of introducing myself to peasants so I'll have to ask you to keep my identity a secret.” You nudge Inky. “It seems my fearless knight has forgotten himself to honesty. You understand he swore an oath on his bloody sword to a triple horned pagan thunder god to never tell a lie or even commit the dreaded sin of omission. He's not a week out of the forest either so these are a forgivable things for him to still hold dear. By his recent behavior, though I have no doubt that in time he will learn our strange city ways.”

Inky ignores your speech. “Tim, who are the other competitors?”

The barkeep grabs a clipboard from the wall behind him and slaps it on the counter. “You should add your team name there. Like I said, it's still a few hours till kick off so I expect a few more will be showing up.”

“Since they'll be getting the senior citizen discount price, can we get two children's tickets?” You take out your wallet and slide five dollars over to Tim.

He pushes the bill back towards you. “We don't do discounts, son.”

“Just having me in here will be a huge boost to your business. You have me in the competition and you're sure to double your sales overnight. Might even get some customers who still have their original hip bones.”

Tim ignores you and points to a name on the clipboard Inky is holding. “Here's the guy you want to watch out for, eh.”

“You said this was a team competition.” Inky wrinkles his forehead.

“Oh it is, for everyone except for Cedar.”

You do a spit take, spraying water on to the counter. “What kind of a hippie name is that?”

Tim doesn't waste a second. “It's a tree.”

“Of course it's a tree. What's worse, if he chose that himself or if his parents gave it to him?”

Tim pulls a rag from some hidden nook and passes it to you. “Clean that up, your highness.”

“I'm only doing this because I care about the future of this establishment.” You wipe up your spit take. “So where's the tree?”

Tim takes the rag back. “I don't make it a habit of keeping tabs on my customers.”

“Alright.” You pull out a ten dollar bill and slide it and the five back over to Tim. “Since I'm apparently not allowed to drink tonight, I guess we'll go get warmed up for a while. You don't mind, do you?”

“Just put down a team name.” Tim pockets the money. “Entrants can practice for free on the day of the tournament. Says right there up on the rules board.”

Inky writes something on the clip board and walks away from the bar. You find a hexagonal space that looks like it is made from old bunk bed parts. Inside is a console and television. “So what's our team name?” You switch on the machine.

“Two cubs.” He grabs a controller. “I thought it was bad luck to play before a tournament.”

“It's really more the fact that there's no one worth fucking talking to in this shit hole. And besides, we've never played as a team, remember?” You start picking through various options in the screen menu. “Why two cubs?”

“Do you not feel like a cub in such a setting?”

“Good point.”

...

Cedar is a few inches and many pounds bigger than Inky. He's old, like everyone else in the place. Along with the late predicted crowd he arrived about ten minutes before the start of the tournament. You and Inky are, by decades, the youngest people in the building.

Surprising skill lurks among old dudes because even taking into account the serious handicap of experience “two cubs” has playing as a team, you've met a slightly higher than amusing level of resistance. Already in the five matches you've played, Inky has died three times.

“What's going on over there, buddy?” You glance over in between rounds at your team mate.

“The controls are troubling me.” He looks down at the object in his hand as if it were made of rotten fish.

One of your unseen opponents heckles you from around a torn sail fragment. “It's a poor carpenter who blames his tools, boy!”

“I don't recall cutting any wood recently - unless your arthritic corpses count as a forgotten, moldy and rotten pile of two by fours.”

Inky shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is all the disrespect necessary? These men are twice our age.”

“At least.” You maneuver your character to grab a canister of napalm. From the corner of your eye, you check on Inky. He's still alive and playing the game. You lower your voice a bit. “It's all part of keeping your opponent off balance. There is no reason to stop on the screen. If there is a target open, we take it.”

“Then why not go over there and physically beat them? They are, as you say, fragile enough.”

You hose down one of your opponents with the spigot of a flame thrower. You raise your voice back so your opponents can hear you. “Because we'd get kicked out before we got a chance to play Cedar and so far no one here has been worth paying fifteen bucks to play.”

Inky stuns the remaining enemy with a stick attack and then pushes him off the ledge. He sets the controller down gently. “You knew I was playing along?”

“No, actually.”

He scratches his elbow. “Good.” He walks across the floor and makes his way carefully amongst the gray haired men and all the ship bits to find the bathroom.

You look around for Tim. He's busy distributing beer amongst the eliminated players. “How much time do we have till the next round?”

He glances your way, frowns to indicate his ignorance and goes right back to passing out alcohol. Your throat burns with jealousy. There are only two more rounds until the finals. Looking across the room, you spot Cedar. He lights up a cigar and winks at you. The alarm bells of fear ring in your cerebellum and you desperately need to take a piss.

Dodging crates, anchors and rowboats you swing the bathroom door wide. Inky is washing his hands.

“That dude makes me nervous.” You slide in front of a urinal.

“Cedar?” Inky checks out his hair in the mirror.

“Sure as shit, Cedar. Who else would I be talking about? Tim? He's just the fucking run of the mill small business owner. They're all the same smart ass talking punks the world around. Adding a goofy captains beard doesn't do shit to cover it up. I could care less about them because they're all shit talkers and nothing else. No. You've just got to wonder about a guy who plays in a team tournament by himself, right?”

Inky turns on the hand dryer. When the noise subsides, he leans against the wall and stares at the ceiling. “He does the same thing you do, only better. As you say, this is a target he sees, so he goes for it. People think he must be good because he plays alone and soon their thoughts ruin the way the play.”

You flush the urinal. “I think I need a cigarette.”

“You smoke?”

“I do now.”

The two of you walk towards the door. Inky moves rather slowly, so you end up holding the door for him. Once outside, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out some papers. He hands them to you. You take them, confused.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Hold them while I get out the tobacco. It is a ritual of patience.”

“That's exactly what I ain't got right now.”

“Which is why you need it.”

He withdraws a leather pouch from his pocket. Slowly, he undoes the shoe string keeping it closed. He sits down on the sidewalk and holds out his hand. You pass the papers back to him.

“Did you grow that stuff yourself?” You sit down next to him.

“No. An uncle of mine did.”

“Holy shit. Are you serious? On which side?”

“Neither. He is a friend of mine.”

“That seems a bit strange to call a friend uncle, don't you think?”

“No.” He passes you a rolled cigarette.

It's been a long time but you think you remember how to smoke. “Alright. I guess we're not here to talk about your family but then again we're family now, right - brother?” You give him a solid hit on the shoulder and he grins.

“We are indeed. It is a simple thing and should mean nothing to a grown man, yet I was touched by your mother's offer.” He reaches over with the lighter and fires up your cigarette.

You're careful to not inhale very much. “She's that way.”

“She asked me about my dreams.”

“She's that way, too.” You watch the smoke rise slowly above your head. “Shit. I had a good one last night, I should have told her.”

“Tell me your dream, brother.”

You ash the cigarette thoughtfully onto the sidewalk. “There was a mountain. I was with a group of people and we were headed towards the mountain but we had to stop because it started raining too hard. We took shelter beneath an old tree. It was all knotted and gnarled with age. From there we watched as a dark storm cloud replaced the rain clouds. The lightening came from the sky in fierce jagged bolts. It started blowing the mountain apart. There was fire. I thought maybe that the mountain had gone volcanic on us but someone told me it was just the storm. Then a great wind arose and we were forced to lay on the ground and I think someone got picked up and blown away it was so fierce. Then the mountain melted into a pile of mud and everything stopped.”

Inky exhales slowly, acknowledging your story with his breath. “Friend, this dream you had is favorable and I am glad you shared it. It means if we work together we can defeat this man named Cedar - though it will not be easy and there may be some price to pay later.”

You toss your cigarette into the street. “You sound just like my mother.”

“I was always her favorite son.”

You open the door. “Check that. You sound just like our mother.”

“Now we are ready to finish this simple task, brother.”

Four.

The semi-final game goes off without a either of you going below 50% health. Running off your boredom, you don't even pick up a weapon for the last round. You're hope is Inky will finish the opposing team off while you traipse about jumping and trying to squeeze your avatar into increasingly absurd places. He does, primarily because your opponents are so mired in vengeance chasing you they don't notice your knife wielding partner working his way into their backs.

“The rabbit and the hunter work together.” You take a swig of water in a gambit to erase the stale smoke flavor from your mouth. It doesn't work. “I'm going to need a beer soon.”

One of the old men you just ego bulldozed springs angrily from his seat. “I'd be happy to buy you a beer if it means you'll shut the fuck up.” He scours you with a squinty gray eye.

Clearing your throat you try your best to look serious. You lean back, tap out a steady rhythm on the floor and hum noisily for a moment as if engaging in deep ontological ponderings. “Now that is a high price. But tell you what. Instead, later tonight after I'm really drunk I'll play you again and lose on purpose to help you wash away your broken pride. Don't worry, I'll make it look totally believable so as you can have some bragging rights. Wait.” You visually confer with Inky for a split second, raising an eyebrow and inhaling. “Do I play better drunk?” You scratch your chin. “On second thought, you better have your buddy help you. I don't know if anyone would be dumb enough to think that just one of you could beat me, even if I was completely shit faced.”

Inky stands up, which causes the ceiling to illusionarily descend. “Maybe if you were asleep and drunk, brother?”

“Yeah. That makes sense. The two of them playing against me while I was passed out with the controller sitting in my lap. I'd still have to throw the game but with those odds enough people would accept the event as tenable. Unlikely, to be sure, but still within the realm of the possible.”

The old man walks away mumbling under a furrowed brow.

Inky falls back down into the couch. He looks worriedly across the room, at Cedar. “The man bothers me.”

“Don't let him know that.”

“I am letting you know, brother. There are no secrets between us.”

“None.”

Cedar stands up, an Everest among anthills in his very official looking all black warrior outfit. The two players you just beat wander over to him and offer secretive words of encouragement. They conspire for a few moments and then point over at you and Inky. Cedar looks over in your direction and nods with the practiced seriousness of an undertaker. After shaking both their hands, he teeters over. With an inhale so long it makes the room colder, he leans down and rasps at you. “GL.” A pause follows. “Is that acronym, pseudonym or paronym?”

“Your hippie parents must be proud.”

Cedar turns to Inky. “Can you wrap more than two letters around this man?”

“It does not matter. We do not fear you and you can not make us fear each other.”

“Still, you're strangers covering the unknown with the assumed.” He rotates eerily, his pupils remaining fixed while his neck turns. “And you, GL? Do you know this man's name?” Another dramatic pause. “Inky. What hulking shade is that if not a hill to creep behind? Together, two cubs. More appellations to skulk behind. Why would mewlings from opposing litters deign to climb together? Doesn't that double the troubles of nefariousness?”

You grumble. “Tim, can we shut this pretend college windbag up and start the game?”

“As much as I'm tempted to let him tear you apart verbally as a pre-game show, I'm far more interested in seeing him kick your ass. Plus, I've got deadlines. No offense, Cedar.” Tim walks over to his server and clicks a few buttons. “We'll play in the big man's tree-house since it's two on one. Sound kosher to everybody?” He cracks his knuckles to accent the question.

You scratch your chin in defiance. “Hey, I don't care who built the tomb, I just know there's space for one giant tree shaped corpse.”

“I will feed your uncooked flesh to the syphilitic scavengers of the earth.” Cedar sits down.

With that retort, the game begins. Your first observation is that the 'tree-house' has been built using the city tile set. While that tells you about the facade of the level, it tells you nothing of the underlying structure. Burning empires, like most shooters, consists largely of fire and death. Frequently, the two go together. The unique aspect of the game lies in the environments that players build themselves. You have no idea where you're getting into, while Cedar knows every alley and trash heap on the map.

“Let's split up.” You whisper to Inky. He dashes off the left side of your screen down a street with so many potholes it may be bad form to call it paved anymore.

You quickly find yourself next to a raging river filled with rocks, garbage and large floating bits of trees. There is an imposing Iron bridge that crosses over to an abandoned Industrial section of the city. There's no sign of Cedar. There's no sign of weapons.

Inky leans towards you. “What are these gates?”

Peering over, you see Inky's avatar standing next to a pair sturdy iron and wood gates. “Well in the one player game they're the entrance to the main city. Here, they look like more of an exit. I really don't know. I'd stay away from them.” There is a rusty grinding noise. “Shit. That means they're going to open. Get back. He's probably right behind them.”

You bring your attention back to your own screen but nothing is happening.

“Water!” Inky yells. “Pouring out the gates!”

The shouting makes you duck. Looking back over at your brother's screen, you can see that he's neck deep and dog paddling. “Damn. Find the high ground and run.”

“I am trying.” He grunts. “Shots coming in. The surface of the water is on fire. How is that possible?”

“Naptha bombs. Don't know where he's hiding. Stay under. I'll try and find you.”

Cedar joins the conversation obtusely. “One by one the young trees falls, little green saplings before the newly sharpened axe.”

You sprint over the bridge, scanning the area ahead for black smoke. All you see on the other side are run down buildings and enough debris to build a second city. Turning and looking down river, you spot a residential area of town, the giant Iron gates, a rush of water and the greasy cloud of a naptha burn. With a sure silence, you dive into the water.

Swimming is usually slow in this game but the current is pushing you with disturbing rapidity down the river. On a nearby bank, you spot a shotgun. With great difficulty, you make your way to the shore and pop up onto the filthy bank.

“I am pinned inside a shed. I believe that he is up on a roof somewhere but I am not sure.” Inky seems calm now. “I think the building is going to collapse soon.”

“I'm on my way. Do you have a weapon?” You jump your way up the bank and down a tire and barrel filled side street. The black smoke makes a lovely beacon.

“Yes. I have a shovel.”

“That won't help unless I can hold him down. Stay inside.”

You spot Cedar on top of what looks like an office building. He appears occupied unloading assault rifle shells into a shack several stories below him. You hustle through the streets, find your way to the front door and then bust into a surprisingly intact enclosed stairway.

“The shack is starting to fall. I have to take my chances outside.”

“Wait. I'm almost there.”

Up three stories and then a metal fire door. You open it, bringing in both the sound of gunfire and a stiff wind. There stands Cedar, his back arched silently at you. Shotgun drawn, you run up, firing as you go. There is a pause in his shooting as he walks nonchalantly off the roof and towards the street below.

“He's coming down!” Your voice is louder than you intended it to be.

Inky appears on the street below, already swinging his shovel. You hop down into the battle but by the time you land, it's already over. Inky is shouldering a shovel over the fallen corpse of Cedar. He must have been reloading when you walked up on him, otherwise he could have shot Inky on the descent.

You stand up and smirk at your opponent. “So do we have to go through the formality of us winning two more rounds? We're all honorable men here. You don't have to embarrass yourself in front of your fellow octogenarians.”

He winks at you, stands up and goes to the bar to get another drink.

“Have you noticed the way his face keeps changing?” Inky looks nervous again.

“Just the bad lighting in here.” You cough lightly as a segue. “You think he's trying to shark us?”

The second round doesn't go so well. Cedar floods the town again, kills you from some unknown sniping post then begins toying with Inky. Your phone rings as Inky is running for his life through the alleys of the garbage riddled industrial section. It's Shane.

“I'm dead.”

“Tournament not going so well?”

“Well, we won the first round but we're about to... oh, nope. Make that we just lost the second round. So whatever magic powers you've got left, send them air mail right away, will you?”

“Sure thing. I've still got that spare bag full of the west wind left over from the last time I went to the underworld.”

“Only one bag? That's hardly a help.”

“A little dust in the eyes of the enemy goes a long way.” He snickers and hangs up the phone.

Inky looks over at you, eyebrows shaking with distress. “What is our strategy for the third round?”

“Let's just start trashing the town. Maybe it will piss him off enough so that he quits cherry picking us.”

“I think I know where the naptha bombs are.”

Round three pixelates up on the screen. You follow Inky along the high ground of the city and to a warehouse. There, hidden in a corner full of otherwise broken old printing presses is a cluster of six naptha bombs. Three each. With a nod, the two of you split up for opposite sides of town. Cedar has already flooded the place. He's a killer of deeply rutted habits. Deftly, you light a couple of buildings on fire, circle back and unexpectedly meet Inky back at the warehouse. The roads become rivers, the buildings sandbars of flame.

“Fire is started.”

You smile. “Mine too. Let's take his bird's nest. I bet he's pissed off and wading around the streets looking for us.”

Sure enough, you slog out of the warehouse and see his blurry form swim past you. Wordlessly, the two of you dash after him. When he pauses to look around a corner, you each hit him from behind with a remaining bomb. He burns brightly, fires off a couple shots into the air and then floats away on the current.

The fourth round opens, and you can see that the fires have left a permanent scar on the city. Again, the plan emerges silently. Meeting your brother in the warehouse, you find Cedar waiting for the two of you, guarding the cluster of bombs.

“Looks like the queen bee just finished squeezing out some eggs for us.”

Weaponless, the two of you charge. He fires off a couple of rounds, clipping Inky. Then he dives behind a four foot high pile of discarded ink cartridges, leaving the bombs free. You grab three of them, as does your wounded brother. Retreating slowly, you light the warehouse on fire and retreat out the only exit. Inky gives you a hesitant look.

“Now we wait.”

You toss a bomb onto the roof of the warehouse. Inky drops his two bombs and waits by the door. Seconds later, a smoldering Cedar limps out the door. Seeing you, he begins to sidestep and strafe. You crouch and dodge, stalking him like a mirror mime. Inky jogs behind him, unseen and whacks him on the head. The blow knocks him down, but not out.

“Alright. White flag, friends. White flag.” Cedar stands up from his seat and raises his hands up high. There is a smattering of polite applause from the room. It's the first sounds the audience has made since the match began. A surrender offer appears on your screen.

Inky kicks Cedar's downed Avatar. “I think we should burn more of the city.”

Your sense of propriety flinches. “The match is over, Inky. Weren't you just telling me that once it's done there is no need to talk trash?”

“But the game is not over. These men do not respect us. They see only our youth and despise us because of it. They are jealous men who fear their impending deaths and our future lives. Let us leave them and their champion with a lesson.”

Cedar's face twitches, showing an emotion that teeters somewhere between anger and anxiousness. “You win. I'm more than happy to hang the yellow ribbon around your necks, kneel before the feet of the champions and sing whichever national anthem tickles your funny bone. At some future date we can play another game of one on one and see what transpires under such circumstances. Whatever else you and your friend think of the world, my place in it and those men who sit here with me, fine - keep your opinions and wear them like the prom corsages of men still wet behind the ears. But have a sense of honor beyond worthy of men your years and end the match now. I spent an eternity of time and an infinity of credits building the city of Aratta.”

Inky retorts, his emotional well far from dry. He doesn't look at Cedar but instead, at you. “Do not listen. Remember how he insulted us? How he accused us of keeping secrets from one another. We are brothers. We must extract a price from this man. Let us burn his corrupt metropolis to the ground.”

You run your finger lightly over the grenade button. Pacing down the streets, you find a few choice buildings that you know will be reduced to ash before time expires. Cedar walks over to you. Tim steps in the way and holds up a hand, keeping any violence strictly in the virtual world.

The owner throws a verbal caustion at Cedar. “All things must come to an end.” Tim looks over to you, wearing an expression that differs from Sid's serious face only in the number of wrinkles. “Consider what you're doing. The match is over. You've won.”

Inky scoffs. “And this one! Do you remember the curses he greeted us with? The scorn that we received upon walking through his doors? Light the fires brother. Let us dance in joy amongst blue tongues that lick the skies.”

You toss the first bomb. Cedar gives you a disgusted look and retreats to his side. Inky roars in triumph. The crowd loosens a raft of insults upon an ocean of hisses. Cedar tries to lift his avatar off the ground, but Inky stomps him down with just enough mock mercy to keep the round alive. Meanwhile, you watch a sizable portion of the city turn to smoke. Inky kicks Cedar in the head a few times, bringing the round to an official close. With a gentle hand, he sets down his controller. “So it ends.”

Tim frowns his way over to the bar and returns with envelope in hand. “Now, take your winnings and get the fuck out of my house.”

The two of you make your exit, harassed by airborne food, cans and heckling. Once out the door, Inky takes in a deep breath and laughs at the sky.

“Let us go on a trip, brother. Let us drink in the earth while we are young and powerful.”

“I did have some drinking in mind.” You open the winnings and distribute half the cash to Inky. “But I thought beer would be a bit tastier than dirt.”

“No. Enough of these petty fictional adventures amongst small men. I mean for us to travel the land. To live and to love.” He slaps you on the back hard enough to make you stumble.

Your back stings from the blow. “Where exactly did you have in mind?”

Inky doesn't respond. He is looking across the street at a group of people. Among the crowd, you spot Anna. She is leaning heavily on a short man dressed in leather. She and her companion turn to face your incoming stare. You are struck immediately by the appearance of the man. He has shiny metal horns coming out of his forehead, just above either eyebrow. He flashes his metallic teeth at you menacingly. Each tooth has been filed to a point and capped with silver. It's only in this grin that you recognize him as Bull, the man you saw her with when she was in the Beyond yesterday.

You whisper to Inky. “Holy shit. That's Bull, isn't it?”

“Be calm, my friend. She will come this way. Watch.” Inky wreaths himself in an aura of trust and waves happily at the group. Anna smiles, half heartedly looks for cars, squeezes her way out of the horned man's grip and dashes across the street. She jumps into Inky's arms.

“So how was it?” She looks up at him.

“We have triumphed over fear and opposition.” He returns her hug softly and then pushes himself away to arms distance.

“You were afraid?” She flicks her eyes towards you for only the briefest of moments and then she sweeps an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Aren't they just a bunch of old men?”

You step closer to the couple and squint one eye closed. “Aye but they are the dastardly old pirate men from the shipwreck, don't cha know?”

Anna glares at you. “Is he always like this?”

Inky chortles. “No. He is usually worse.” He pauses. “We are going to travel to the old place tomorrow. Could we borrow your car?”

She glances at her watch. “No. I've got some things to do tomorrow and... you didn't invite me to the game tonight.”

You make a show of examining her watch. “How about this? You go out drinking with us tonight and then Inky and I can use my mom's car tomorrow.”

“Promise not to be an asshole?” She looks at you with out meeting your eyes.

“Like your man Inky says, I am always like nothing. I change to fit the occasion so that I may manipulate things to my advantage.” You bow.

“So you're an asshole?” She smirks.

“Textbook definition.” You offer her your elbow.

She snorts and takes Inky's hand instead. The two of them forge ahead. Following their backs, your eyes are drawn to the inscriptions on your brother's jacket. You'd noticed the writings before but only now do you study them in detail. You are reminded of a game you used to play when you were young.

Sometimes, on lonely summer days, reading grew stale. Repeated exposure had already clotted your interest in your mother's theological, pathological and astrological monologues. There was no one else to play with. By boyish default you built things. At first you had used whatever materials were around. But after a while, your interest narrowed to toothpicks. Why? Because there was a box of them beneath your bed. It held 500 (or so the label said) and they came in all the primary colors. You would tump the open box onto the floor and then spend hours arranging them into patterns. There was no plan you were following, no design to be realized. Your fingers moved all by themselves and it kept you happy. The writing on his jacket reminds of the constructions that came from the 500 toothpicks.

“How about here?” Inky is holding a door handle.

You look around, trying to act as if you hadn't just been floating through the clouds of nostalgia. “Yeah. A little sketchy but that's good, right?”

He nods and holds the door open for you and Anna. Smoke emerges, outwards, engulfing you in banality. You take a step across the threshold and then pause. “On second thought, wanna just buy a case and head over to the basement?”

“Mom will not object to drinking in the house?” Inky asks cautiously.

“No, as long as we give her a couple, she'll be fine.”

Anna takes a step back. “Why are you calling his mom, mom? Is there something weird going on between you two? Are you going fag on me already, Inky?”

As an answer, your dread locked brother hoists her up by the waist and sets her down on his shoulders. Somehow, she avoids sitting on any of the spikey objects that are sticking out of his jacket. A squeak of childish joy escapes emits from the girl who has found not only a knight, but a knight who is also a horse. Inky nods for you to take the lead. You do so, finding your way to a liquor store. Amazingly, Anna rides for the entire ten blocks.

“Wait here.” You slip inside.

Wandering the aisles of booze, you change your mind and grab a fifth of rum. You're about to go forward to pay the pasty white man behind the counter when you decide you better cover all the bases. You grab a six pack of beer as well. The cashier gives you a soulless look, rings up your purchase and waits with a pale hand outstretched.

You hand him the cash. Without seeming to breathe, he deposits both your alcohol and your change in an undecorated brown paper bag. You heft it up and walk up to the exit. The automatic door swings open, revealing Anna still riding on Inky's shoulders. He is running up and down some cement steps near a fountain. She is counting out loud and slapping him in the back.

“Nineteen! Come on! One more you ox! You said you could get twenty.”

He's straining as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. You step out of the store and watch. Inky takes a breath, lets out a battle cry that threatens to shatter the glass of a nearby apartment complex and sprints upward. Without pausing, he pivots quickly around and sails down to the bottom. Once there, he kneels over, panting. Anna dismounts gracefully, springing into a gymnastics finishing pose.

“Well. It seems the great warrior has been defeated.” She spots you standing in front of the store. “But what is this? Succor for our hero! At last, the messenger has returned.” She swings her hands in some theatrical but unknown (to you) gesture. “What news, squire?”

“No news, only alcohol.”

Inky rises as a monster from the swamp, dripping with effort but ready to plod forward. “You know news, sir. Lead on and we shall follow.”

Sauntering over, you hand the bag to Inky. “Take a rest for me, will you?” Not wanting or waiting for a response, you start walking home. Anna and Inky hustle up behind you with a clanking of glass. Without looking at her, you shoot a question at the girl. “So tell me about the man named Bull.”

You expected a pause, a shock, but Anna doesn't skip a beat. “He's a family friend. My dad was sort of his godfather, or uncle or whatever. He took care of Bull a lot when he was younger, because Bull's family didn't really do much for him. In fact, his family were pretty much the premier dirt bags in town.”

You look up at the sky, noticing the moon for the first time in a few days. It's half full. Who knows if it's waxing or waning. “So tell me about the man named Inky.”

Again, there's no pause. “He's your brother. You found him at a bar, adopted him and now the two of you are inseparable. Why don't you tell me what happened to the man named Inky last night? Or all of today?”

Inky gives off a the barely annoyed grunt of a thick hided predator who has been stung by a bee. “Did I not tell you that I was competing in a tournament tonight?”

“That was at 4:30 this afternoon. It would have been nice to know before then.”

“My apologies.” Inky crinkles the paper bag a bit. “I also would like to know about this Bull. You say that his family did not take care of him. Why?”

“The usual unreasons. They were drug heads. Their parents had abused and neglected them so they decided that meant raising children and abusing children were part and parcel.” She spits angrily on the sidewalk. “It's not a particularly unusual story, just happens to involve me because my father played the role of big brother to Bull. He kind of saved him, I guess.” She says the word saved like a curse word.

Diving blindly, you take a guess. “Your parents are missionaries?”

Still no pause from the girl. She's right there with you. “Were. They're both dead.”

“So now we know that Bull was saved by an angel of the lord. That doesn't explain why he has metal horns sticking out of his skull.” You turn the corner onto your street.

“Not much does. I'm just glad he's on my side.”

Joanne wanders out of her front door. “Well hello, Gordon.”

Anna turns a hidden laugh into a fake sneeze. Inky appears meditative as marble.

“Hi Joanne. This is my new brother Inky again and his friend Anna.”

Joanne tightens her nightgown around her. “I'm glad you're home early. I'd love to get some sleep tonight and not have to bring your mother down off of the roof.”

A cat appears at the screen door. It circles predatorily, staring at something on the floor. “I'll make sure to keep her busy, don't worry.”

She looks back at the animal and gives it a casual shooing motion. “Oh, sometimes that just makes it worse. You know what seems to work best is to tell her you had some crazy dream. She'll get all excited and wants to explain all about just what it means. But of course you know that, you're her son. Last time I told her I had a dream that my cat could walk upright and open doors just like a person to see what she would say.”

You start down the sidewalk towards your house. “It's like you say Joanne, if you just give people what they want and they'll help you with what you want. Even if they don't realize that what you want is them off the roof and a quiet night's sleep.”

She turns and lets her cat outside. It disappears immediately up a tree. “Well when you get older you'll understand it's the little things in life that make people happy.”

You ignore Joanne, open the door and walk into the complete darkness that of home. You flip on the hall lights. Across the way, sitting at the kitchen table, your mother is looking intently at a flower covered napkin. The dog is sitting at her feet, looking with equal intent at the empty water bowl. Gently removing a beer from the bag, you set it on the table next to the napkin. Then, with identical care, you pick up the dog's bowl and fill it with water. Inky and Anna lean against the counter, observing. You hand them each a beer and grab one for yourself. Neither mother nor dog move.

You whisper. “Maybe if we start drinking, they'll realize that they're allowed to join us.”

Inky pops open his beer and takes a swig. Nothing. You follow suit. Nothing. The two of you look at Anna. She grimaces, apparently offended and or amused by all the attention. Inky simply points to her beer. You mime a drinking motion. She curls her lip and makes a low growling sound. Nothing. You and Inky point at Anna's beer at the same time. She gives you both the finger. Nothing. You and Inky mime a drinking motion. She mimes a stabbing motion back at you. Nothing. You toss your beer cap onto the counter, where it rolls for two eternities amongst the silence.

Anna opens her beer with a final grimace. Dog and mother spring to life. Mother's first action is to reach for the beer bottle. Dog's is to drink the water. All who stand laugh, which - of course, shocks mother and dog. They don't see the humor in it and explaining it would take too long, mean nothing and suck the fun out of everything. So you just go on laughing until the barking starts.

Anna immediately sinks to her knees and makes cooing noises at the dog, who slinks over to Anna's outstretched hand. All is well again, although mother is still confused. She takes a drink of beer, looks at the label and then over at the dog. “What were we talking about?”

Surprisingly, the dog ignores her. You can't, so begin in again with the laughter. It's unstoppable, if only for you. Inky and Anna give you the stink eye. The game is up. The joke, it seems, is not as deep as you'd imagined. You straighten up your posture. “You were telling us about the winds. Warm south winds, rough west winds, cold north winds and dry east winds.”

Your mother checks the beer label again, making sure it hasn't changed since fifteen seconds ago. “No. You think you're a good liar. Or you think other people are gullible but I changed your diapers. Remember? No again. That makes two nos for you. And lets see, how many yeses for me?”

Everything becomes silent as no one knows who is supposed provide the answer to those questions. Finally, the dog gives off a rapid and mercifully short burst of barking. Your mother's fingers light up with math. “Sounded like seven to me. Did anyone else count seven?”

“Let's go down stairs. Mom needs a minute or thousand to herself, I think.”

Inky and Anna pile through the basement door. Your mother's eyes droop down to follow their disappearing feet. You wonder what she thinks. You wonder how she thinks. You wonder if she thinks.

“How'd the game thing go, hon?”

“We won.”

“Not interesting. Tell me something that happened that you didn't expect.”

“Everyone there was so old.”

“Careful now. You're talking to a woman who is deep into her fifth decade here. I better not be considered part of this so called old group you so casually insult.” She slides the beer back and forth between her hands. “Wasn't too long ago your little baby chubby cheeks would have thought someone your current age was only days from death. The median just keeps moving but the message is always the same, isn't it? I'm never going to die because when I go the world goes with me, doesn't it? And why not? The world is you, is me, is all of us wrapped in our own self constructed pockets and tied off at the top with purse strings made from the thread of our egos - never to see the light of anyone else's day.”

You watch her beer bottle teeter precariously on its rounded bottom, buffeted by your mother's whim and gravity. “Are you gonna want another one? I'm headed on down.”

She rubs her throat, seemingly checking her pulse and murmuring numbers as if she is counting the beats of some unheard music. Her gaze bores into the basement door, then fades wide and out into some unknown and distant memory. “One add just one and add just one more and soon the total grows and we pass what was before our ancient thresh hold but now becomes our comfortable hallway but will become our sitting back porch and then one distant day our backyard until finally our grave and one no more. So the lesson in less is more so I better say stay with one today.”

“Mom, you know that Joanne gets scared when you go up on the roof, right?” Your mother grasps her beer firmly in response. “She worries that you might fall. She worries other neighbors might not be so understanding and call the police on you.”

“I can't and won't do anything about her concerns. She is her just as I am me but no less than I am you. Shuffle all the people together, gather all their deaths on one end of the scale and weigh them against children produced, deeds manifest and ideas disseminated. There can only be so much movement until the greater than less than or equal to takes over and that's just one in three for so much done and so much seen.” She blinks slowly, squeezing her eyes shut at the end of her sentence. “Who is the girl with your brother?”

You say what she already knows. “His girlfriend.”

“Don't insult me. She is possessive and filled with trouble.” She unwinds a finger slowly from her hand and points at you. “Your brother, his spine is so straight it makes my stomach hurt. He means so well that people can use him as a metaphor for truth. Just know the alphabet and keep family before lovers and friends after covers.”

You've had enough. “Goodnight mom.”

She let's you go with a sigh, turning her attention to the dog and what remains of her beer. Once her decision to stop has been made, the room becomes silent again. Feeling a library-like compulsion, you tip toe out and then down. Inky and Anna are already piled on the couch.

“Is mom going to be alright?” Inky stares wistfully at the game machines that lay heaped about the television set.

“No. Yes. She's like that all the time. It's nothing.” You set down the paper bag on the coffee table and take out the fifth of rum. It feels reassuringly heavy in your hand. “Some nights she is just difficult to talk to. She gets poetic, cryptic and undecipherable. I used to enjoy it, having a mother who happens to also be a prophet but it soon gets as dull as any other rut in the world.”

Anna puts her head in Inky's lap. “Got any shot glasses?”

You point to your bookshelf. With a grumble of annoyance, she gets up and retrieves three dusty glasses. Continuing her irritated antics, she frowns at you while cleaning out the vessels with her shirt sleeve. “Do you ever use these things?” She fills each of the tiny cups with rum, grabs one and lifts it up high in a wordless toast. The three of you slug the shots with solemn necessity.

“No. I don't normally drink at home. That is, unless it's with my mom and she'll only drink beer. She had a bad experience with liquor when she was young.” You wash the taste of rum down with beer.

Anna kicks off her shoes. “And what experience was that?”

“My father, or me, really. She met him and made me while she was drunk on vodka. Something about the meeting compelled her to marry him, though she never enjoyed a moment of it after that initial encounter.” You stare up at your paneled ceiling. “Still, they stayed together long enough to see me take my first breath of oxygen.”

“And she stayed around long enough to have a second son.”

“That's a good thing.” Anna pours another round. “A thing worth drinking for.” She raises her glass. “To families.”

You raise yours in response. “To friends.”

Inky looks between the two of you. “To travel.”

Everyone drinks. You slam the thick glass down on the table. “Where is it you want to go?”

“Home.”

“Where is still the question.”

“The woods, brother. Into sunshine and wind. With the birds and the animals.” Inky pours the third round. He lifts up his glass, waiting for the two of you to respond. Anna slowly grabs her shot, inhaling deeply all the way there. They tap glasses together and turn their eyes to you. “Will you be joining me there?”

You start to laugh but stop yourself. A rare flash of tact pulls you back from ridiculing your new brother. “You're serious? The woods are your home? You've got an uncle that grows tobacco. Anna brought you out of the wilderness. You've only been in the city a few days. Why do I get the feeling you're some weird Shaman or something?”

“Because you have no idea where I come from. I will tell you if you like.” He waits. You motion for him to continue. “I was discovered. I was not a babe abandoned in the woods. Rather, I was a patient in the woods.”

You try and imagine Inky thorazining his way around the forest. A snicker escapes you. “So the trees were your doctors and the forest your hospital?”

“No. I was found, in the woods. I had no memories of what had gone before.” Inky taps his temple. “And I have not gained any since.”

“Why patient then?”

“The remnants of a hospital gown were all I was wearing.”

You opt for another beer rather than the shots of rum that Anna is now pouring. She slyly looks at the bag, knowing there is only one beer left. You take it out and hand it to her. She smiles. “Great. So then you escaped from an institution or what?”

“I did not know nor do I want to. Neither did the people of the small community who found me and took care of me. Whatever I had been I was no longer. Whatever I was becoming was all that mattered. ”

“Shit. How long ago was this?”

“About a year ago.”

You raise your bottle. “Well happy first birthday, brother. Hell, I thought I might be a little older than you but now I come to find out I got not just a younger brother but a baby brother.” You pause to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “That's really hard to swallow, you know?”

“It is me and there is nothing else.” Inky shifts slightly so that Anna can settle more comfortably against his shoulder.

She raises her shot glass and winks at you. Turning to Inky, she kisses him and grins. “To lovers.”

...

You throw a shirt over your floor lamp. The light is getting too bright in here. “How many uncles did you say you had?”

“Six.” The blue light of the television screen rattles off Inky's wide face.

Anna is rummaging through your book collection. Every few minutes she grabs a new book off the shelf, settles down and reads a few pages through squinting eyes then tosses it on the floor. “It's all bullshit. Your masquerading uncles are just fraidy little hunters, shooting all the cute animals they can find but never willing to lend a helping hand to their nephew.”

There is a scratching at the door. You rise up to check it out but find that your legs aren't really interested in the endeavor. You wind up in Inky's lap. Graciously, he rolls you off and lets the dog in.

...

The pile shifts to the left, then freezes. After an eternity, Inky emerges on his knees with his arms wrapped around the dog. Both of them are covered in dirty clothes. You bear crawl into a position so that you can keep an eye on the proceedings.

There should be clarity in these decisions. “Shoulders have to be pinned to score a point.”

Anna's voice drifts over from somewhere. “Or the opponent must be abandoned for an hour or longer.”

You fall on to your stomach and close your eyes, trying to remember the rules. “Is that really true?” No list is coming to you, though it seems a little strange for you, the referee, to look for one. Having your eyes closed makes the delay okay because you've suspended the game temporarily and are floating in limbo.

“What value is there in lying about the rules?” Inky is huffing up a storm. The dog is panting right back at him. Anna begins laughing, her caustic giggles fragmenting what sounds like an elaborate speech delivered by a victorious gladiator. “...gained or... such effort, such... could not be held by the heart... what crowds may cheer... the heart further.”

Her voice turns into coughs, sighs and then finally ends with an airy sneeze. “You have the fair mindedness of a child, my love.” Anna barrel rolls off of some furniture and there is a soft thump on to the floor. You open your eyes and see her burrowing intently through a clothes pile and towards the two wrestlers.

With an effort rivaling the first fish finding its way on to dry land, you come to a kneeling position and offer stuttering but firm verbal resistance. “No! Off the playing field, ma'am. The match is ongoing and can not be interrupted by spectators.”

“There are no spectators here.”

...

The bed shifts erratically and you are once again left without blankets. Eyes closed, you grasp randomly, finding sweaty naked flesh. It reaches back at you. You repel the attack by rolling into a tight ball. There is a bump, followed by astray caress. You slap away the uninvited hand and it troubles you no more.

Five.

It takes checking twice to admit that, including yourself, there are three naked bodies in the bed. Across the floor you spy five beer bottles, three shot glasses and one empty fifth of rum. Part of you wants to get up and dress before anyone else wakes up and begins the detective work of determining the events of last night. The rest of you wants to pee in a nearby empty milk jug, pass back out and leave your guests to parse the clues and solve the obvious mystery.

You split the difference and invent a third way, crawling your way to the lonely toilet in the middle of the basement. The horrible post in the middle of the floor once again proves its value by providing a solid surface against which to lean while you empty your bladder.

“I would prefer the sounds of the flowing river.” Inky's voice startles you, causing the stream of piss to splatter on the toilet seat lid and then the floor.

“I would prefer you not scaring me and causing me to spray urine everywhere.” You wad up some toilet paper and begin cleaning up the mess.

“That is a consequence easily avoided with awareness.” Inky yawns and tries to shove the dog off the bed. There is a mild scuffle that ends with the canine on the ground. Feigning purpose, the dog trots over to the door and scratches.

“Confounded creatures! Will my morning demands ever be thwarted by others?” You raise your arms in defiance at the wooden rafters.

“What are your demands?” Inky elbows you out of the way and begins to take his morning piss. “How is a demand different from a necessity?”

The dog turns its head your way and continues to scratch rhythmically at the door. “I'd like to get dressed.”

Pursing his lips, Inky flushes the toilet, begins gathering his clothes and dresses. “Now you have compounded the problem by changing what was necessity into choice again. I suspect that all your problems will be solved by simply ignoring them and moving on.”

“Are you asking me to spend my day naked and trapped in the basement with a dog?”

“No. Spend the day clothed and in a car with a man. Gather your things and let us eat.” Inky throws a shirt at you, opens the door for the dog and proceeds upstairs. Anna snores in annoyance at your voices.

Grouchily, you find some pants that don't smell too bad and follow your friend upstairs. When you emerge into the kitchen, he gives you a look to close the door. You do so, softly.

“Better leave the girl.”

“Sure. What's for breakfast?”

His pupils chase about the room for prey but find nothing. “Shall I wake mother?”

“Toast and fruit it is, then. How long of a drive is this, anyway? Are we going to need snacks?” You open the fridge door.

“A warrior can live on the fumes of battle alone.”

You grab the butter and urge the door to close faster using your hip. “Okay. So I need to pack some snacks after we eat.”

After breakfast, you take a few minutes to cram a paper bag full of long shelf life foods. Chips. Jerky. Nuts. Bars. Inky watches the gathering process while resting his head on his hands.

“Our mother will not object to us borrowing her car?” Inky cracks his neck by tilting it violently to one side then the other.

You start to come up with an answer but the phone interrupts. “Uh. Hold on a second.”

It's Jill. “Hey there, boss. Got my schedule yet?”

“No. Not anymore, crap master. We've all been fired, just like I freaking foresaw.”

“We got folded, right?”

“Or whatever bull crap popcorn they are calling it now, yeah. They told me to tell all the employees that their last checks are in the mail.”

“Okay.”

“So what you gonna do now?”

“Drive out to the woods.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks, Jill.”

The phone clicks off. “So we're leaving Anna here?”

“That is less of a question and more expression of uncertainty.” Inky grabs the paper bag.

“Isn't a question in fact an expression of uncertainty?”

He takes the keys off the counter and tosses them to you. “Yes.” He opens the front door quietly. “Was that good news on the phone?”

Juggling the keys, you squeeze past Inky's bulk and out the door. “No more worries about schedules for a while. No fresh reasons to hate all of humanity. No more tabulating future pay checks. Good news.” The rusted hulk of your mother's car sits heavily in the driveway. It's been a few months since you've driven.

The doors are unlocked. Remnant stereo wires splay about the empty hole in the dashboard. The red mock leather seats are cracked with loving usage. The floors are covered with the archaeological layers of your mother's gastronomical life. You slide in the seat and your hands meet the steering wheel, gripping cold plastic. Inky is standing outside the passenger door looking up. You reach over and roll the window down.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at the roof.” He points.

“Ah. Is mom sleeping up there again?”

“No. She's awake.”

Rolling down the driver side window, you poke your head out and see your mother up on the roof, staring off into the distance. “Hey mom!” She blinks and plays with her hair. “Nin!” She brings her knees in close to her chest. “We're going for a ride. We'll be back...” You shift your voice down several notches and glance at your brother. “When are we coming back?”

In his most unhelpful and serene voice, Inky replies. “Depends on how long we stay.”

You manage to keep your face irritation free and bring your eyes back up to your mother. “Yeah. We'll be back soon. Love you.”

She looks down at you, face full of morning energy. “The sun has given you a restless heart that needs to travel. Let it beat loud. Let the blood flow through you but do not become lost in the thrall of it. Do not rely on your strength alone. This is what the winds have told me this morning.”

“That's all? They're usually so much more detailed.” Your neck is starting to hurt from jamming it out the window at this angle.

She stands up. “They told me more but its mine to keep. I've told you everything they said about you.”

Inky steps inside the car. Firing up the ignition gives off a satisfying growl. You roll down the driver side window and shout out at your mom as you drive away. “Okay, Nin. Maybe when we get back you'll be willing to share the rest of your wind words with us.”

After a few minutes you find yourself waiting at an unknown intersection. “So which way am I going, exactly?”

Inky raps the outside of the door with his hand. “Take the highway East.”

It seems unwise to ask which highway, so you pick a smallish two laner. He doesn't move to correct you, so it must be acceptable. The road is mostly empty of cars. After a few dozen slow winding curves, you notice that Inky has fallen asleep.

...

The landscape is so flat here it makes you dizzy. Bladder full, you pull off to the side of the road. There is no point in waiting for a bathroom. The last scrap of civilization blew away long ago. The shoulder is gravel and blends naturally into a muddy ditch. A bristling purple flower catches your eye.

“They are beautiful.” Inky's voice creeps up along side you, causing you once again to miss your target.

“Fantastic. Is it really necessary for you to keep scaring me while I'm taking a piss?”

He kneels before the flower and brushes one of the thorns with his fingers. “Again, awareness would end your fear.” Carefully, he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts off the purple bloom. “The legend is that a tea made from the flower will make you young again.”

Zipping up your pants, you scan the ditch. There don't seem to be any more of the plants growing here. “How young?”

Your friend rises back up to his full height and places the bloom through a button hole in his jacket. He jumps over the mud and starts walking away. “The legend always has an old man seeking out the plant.”

With a running start, you bound after Inky. “And did he get it?”

He pushes some dead branches out of the way and walks into the sparse woods. “Depends on who the storyteller is. Grab the food.”

You run back to the car and extract the parcel of snacks. Inky has already disappeared from sight, but you can still hear him. “And what if the story teller is you?” The smell of pine begins to envelop you. The forest floor emits satisfying crunch with each received step.

“He never finds the flower.” There are no animals yet, as you are too close to the road.

You let a few minutes pass and enjoy the slow pace of moving through the trees. “Spoken like a true hermit of the woods. Please don't tell me that pulling over randomly by the side of the road has led me to your house.”

You've come to a small clearing. Inky leans against a tree and begins to roll up a cigarette. “Want to hear the story?”

“Which one?” You make a motion that you also want to smoke.

He nods and begins to roll two cigarettes. “The story of the man who sought after eternal life, who sought the purple flower.”

“And there it is, in your jacket. Doesn't that seem a bit implausible if we can find it by accident that someone seeking it out couldn't find it?” You kick a nearby log to see if it will make a sturdy seat. Chunks of rot fall off. Looking around, you don't see any other options, and so sit on the dirt.

He taps the bloom. “This flower is merely a cousin. The real bloom grants immortality to humans and deer find it delicious.” He fires up the lighter and hands you one of the burning cigarettes. With a smoky halo, he begins the story.

“Adam decides he is done. The wife, the children, the grand children. It has been sixty years and he has had enough. At the break of dawn one Wednesday morning, he walks out into the fields, over an immense wooden bridge that spans a raging river and steps onto a path he's never seen before. He continues his travels for months this way, not caring where he is going only stopping to rest and gather food. It is only after half a year that he begins to notice the landscape.” Inky looks around at the trees, then down at the forest floor. He stands up and begins methodically to pick up kindling for a fire. You follow him, helping and listening.

“These are not the flat, wheat covered plains that he is used to. Adam has heard of ice, mountains and evergreen trees before but now he walks among them. Only now, six months into his journey, does a sense of purpose beyond simply moving – leaving his old life - begin to coalesce for him. He makes a straight line for the tallest mountain he can see and when he arrives at the base, he climbs it.” Inky moves to slightly thicker branches, stacking them thoughtfully in a pile next to the small ones.

“This is all new to him, so the going is tough. Not only is it physically difficult, but Adam starts meeting people on his way up the mountain. Normally, seeing people would be a pleasant thing, but not these people. They are broken. This whole time he hadn't encountered a single soul but now, almost two thousand miles from home, he starts encountering slews of humans with their heads hung and their spirits crushed. Most of them, enveloped by failure, slink in shadows hoping not to be noticed. A few give him a sorrowful look disconnected warning. None speak a word. All of this extracts a mental toll on him.”

“So finally one of these men talks to Adam. He tells Adam about the flower of immortality at the top of the mountain. Adam laughs and tells the man that he only seeks the summit. He has no need for eternal life or some purple fable flower. All his life he has answered to other people. All his life he has been a servant to laws, wives, mothers, fathers, bosses, children and grandchildren. Now he wants to carve the rest of his life out for himself.” Inky moves on to sorting big chunks of wood and you begin digging a fire pit.

“So it goes that Adam is climbing this mountain for a whole week. Each day he encounters one hundred people - all of them coming down. And each day one of them stops to talk. The talkers all speak of the impossibility of getting the flower at the summit. Eventually, Adam can no longer resist and his sense of competition and curiosity is peaked. On the night of the seventh day of his climb, he knows the next day he will make it to the top and he decides that he is going to find this magic bloom as well.”

“During the night, he forgets about the flower. The morning of the eighth day rolls around and Adam wakes up, fixating on the top of the mountain. About half way up the final stretch, he realizes the night before he dreamed that he already made it all the way to the top but had forgotten something. What it was he couldn't say, so he shrugged and continued up the steep slope of loose rocks.”

“About three quarters of the way up, he sees a beautiful purple flower and stops to admire it for some time but maybe the altitude or the effort gets to him and he again forgets the meaning of the plant. After drinking a bit of water and giving the flower a drink as well, he continues on to the summit. There, he does a little dance and sings a victory song. While singing, he remembers the forgotten piece of his dream - the flower. Not bothering to finish his song, he leaps down the slope to where he remembers the find.”

“When he arrives the plant is gone. Give the bloom water and it digs back into the earth. The flower is a creature of the gods, not to be trifled with. Adam stands up from the spot, not knowing that the petals had closed and the stem was only inches beneath the rocks and if he would just lift a few of them up and wait for the sunshine to dry it out then he would know what it is to be young again. But he doesn't.”

“Adam shrugs, sings a bit, bounds all the way down the slope and goes to sleep at the bottom. That night, Adam dreams that the birds, the lizards and the rats all conspired together to eat the plant before he could get to it. He wakes up and sees a couple of birds perched on a large stone. Rising up from his bed on the hard ground, he asks the birds if they ate the sacred flower.” Inky begins to construct the fire. You sit back down.

“Being birds, they look at him cock eyed and squawk. Satisfied that they didn't take the treasure, Adam lives happily in the foot hills for the twenty years. He builds a small hut out of rocks learns to fish in the ice and harvests what he can from the cold earth. Every day some hapless traveler comes knocking at his house, asking about the purple godsend. Adam smiles and tells them that he found it once near the top but only because he wasn't looking. Most of the men curse him and scramble on. A few scratch their heads in confusion and shout around the mountain for weeks, starving and crazed. Every once in a while, one of them will laugh, sit down to have dinner with Adam, wake up next morning, then go back to whatever land they came from and return to their old lives.”

“One morning, Adam woke up and he knew it was his day to die. Still, he was hungry so he went out to fish. It so happened that sitting by the patch of ice he was carving out, he found a square of dirt. On this dirt grew the purple flower. Adam laughed and kept right on fishing, the purple flower blooming beautifully next to him. He caught some fish and returned to his home, where he began to prepare his meal. As usual, an old man came stumbling in. The man asked him the same questions and Adam told him that he had just seen the flower. The man went into a frenzy, demanding to be told exactly where it was.”

“So Adam, very slowly and very patiently told the man where to go. The man disappeared and Adam went on making his food. After he had eaten the food, he grew very tired and again remembered that it was his day to die. So he laid down and began to close his eyes. Just as he had began to see the land beyond death, where people are clothed like birds and have wings for garments, a young man entered his house. This man was a braggart and claimed to be the old man who had just come to visit him. He had found the flower and eaten it.” Inky stops to take a drink of water from a nearby bottle and passes it to you.

“Adam sat up a bit, opened his eyes wide and saw that it was, in fact, the same man. When he realized that it was so, he laughed and laughed. Finally, when he became tired, he laid down and drifted off to the land beyond death, all the time having a great smile on his face.”

There is a long pause in which you realize the story is over. “I thought when you told the story that the hero would never find the flower.”

“That is not my story.” Inky looks down at the waiting fire, satisfied.

“That's why it didn't sound like you. So one of your uncles told you that?”

“Yes.”

“So why not tell me your version?”

“When my story is done, you will be the first to hear it.”

“Thanks. So you never answered the question. Is this where you grew up?”

He stands up and walks over to a nearby tree. “It is close. Here. I will show you the stream. It is nearby.” He turns and plows deeper into the woods.

After a minute or so you realize that you haven't the slightest idea which direction would take you back to the road. Straining, you try and listen for any cars. Instead of engines, you hear running water. Inky has stopped and is leaning over a little creek. He has a stick in one hand and his pocket knife in the other. He is whittling it to a point at one end.

You walk up next to him. “No shit. Are you going to spear a fish with that?”

He nods. You sit down by the water and drop leaves into the current. Feeling the ease of fresh air, you lean back into the dirt and stare up at the canopy.

...

“Here. Take these.” Inky dumps several large rocks into your lap, waking you from a brief nap.

“Great. I'd dump a pile of dirt on you in exchange but I guess I'll wait until you're asleep to really return the favor.”

He walks away, carrying a plastic bag. You scramble to get up, fearing waiting would mean being lost alone in the forest. “What's in the bag?”

“Fish.”

“I can't believe you didn't get me up for that. You really used that stick as a spear?”

“Yes.”

After a while, the campsite re-appears rather suddenly. “What are the rocks for?”

“Cooking the fish.”

You watch as he starts the perfectly built fire. Within minutes, there is a sizable blaze. He lays down and closes his eyes.

“Does this mean you're ready for your dirt pile?”

“No. It means we have to wait until there are some good coals.” He lays his jacket on the hard ground behind his head and rolls into a more comfortable position.

Laying down, you try and remember your dream from the earlier nap. Nothing comes. Inky starts to snore. You close your eyes.

...

The sound of footsteps approaches. Casually, you peek through slightly open eyelids. There, not fifteen feet away from the fire, is Anna. Keeping one eye on her, you play at being asleep. She creeps on over towards you and begins to whisper in your ear.

“When he sleeps it's like he's dead.”

“So...”

“So come with me back to the car.”

“Why?”

“It's the kind of thing I'd rather show you than tell you.”

“Well let's just say I want to be sure of the details before I commit to anything.”

“I think you can guess what I want... you know what you wanted since you first saw me.”

“Really. And how is your boyfriend going to feel about that?”

“Inky? I'm pretty sure he doesn't feel anything. I don't see why he'd decide to start now. Look at him. He's like a little sleeping ball of hair and leather.”

“Oh.” You pause dramatically, looking up into her mostly shadowed face. “I meant Bull. I guess I should have been more specific about which boyfriend.”

She pulls back slightly, looking as if she might get mad, then slinks back in with a grin, gathering her body and breath ever closer to you. “Look, after what happened last night I wouldn't think it would be this hard for you to make a decision.”

You search your memory but all you can come up with is waking up naked with both Inky and Anna laying in the same bed as you. “That may be true, although I really don't remember exactly what happened last night.”

Her teeth catch the sunlight, giving off a dull predatory gleam. “Come with me and I'll remind you.”

Inky, with his eyes still closed, speaks from the other side of the fire. “You never answered the question. What is it you want to do in the car, exactly?”

Anna stands up and turns quickly, rage shooting from toes to fingertips. “Since when do you give a shit what I do? You've never cared, not even the day I dragged you out of this fucking wilderness. And now look. Now you've drawn your little boy toy, your new lover out here so you can have your way with him in private. All your sick uncles will be so proud of you, Inky.”

“You are avoiding the question.” Inky grabs the plastic bag and begins pulling the fish out. You watch as he pulls out his knife and begins to expertly gut them.

Anna seethes and hisses a bit, but seems out of verbal retorts.

“It's just a guess, but I suspect that she wanted to go fuck in the car. Hey, so what am I supposed to do with these rocks now?”

“Go ahead and put them in the fire.” He motions to a section of glowing coals. “Right there, where it is hottest.” A hostile air hangs between Anna and Inky. “I believe that is a good guess, brother.”

Clumsily, you push the rocks into the fire.

“Add adopted incest to your list of crimes, uncle Inky.” She kicks dirt into the fire.

Inky leaps up, knife in one hand and half gutted fish in the other. Blood drips down his wrist, disappearing inside his shirt sleeve. “I am cooking here, friend.”

She slaps him and stalks off.

You snort. “Is that really the way back to the highway?”

Through the trees, you see her flipping the bird. “Have fun fucking yourselves, faggots.”

Laughing, you turn to Inky, expecting confirmation of Anna's absurdity. Instead, you see him solemnly shaking his head. He sits and finishes the job of gutting the fish. “There are some things in life that can not be chosen. She was one of those unchosen things for me. I did not know any other woman before her. How can a prisoner not love the person who rescues him? It is like the bear cub opening its eyes for the first time. How can it not love the mother, no matter what her faults?” He lays the fish out on the rocks.

“Now imagine that bear cub's mother was an amazing slut, and the two of them slept together.”

Inky's face jerks up from the rocks. Several tears are running down his face. He stabs the knife into the ground. You feel an overwhelming urge to flee but his watery eyes hold you rigid to the spot. “There is both tragedy and love in the world, brother.”

Stammering, you push out an apology. “I'm sorry. I was trying to... ah shit. I don't know what I was trying to do.”

“We all need sadness sometimes. It is how we grow.” He pulls the knife from the dirt and wipes off the blade. “The fish will be ready soon. Let us sit in silence for a moment and let this go for now. Then we will be hungry and we can talk again, brother.” He returns to his jacket and lays back down.

You whisper to the air. “Okay.”

Time drifts through rivers of endless guilt. Not daring to look at Inky or the fish, you curl into a ball and breathe quietly to yourself. Distantly, you hear a car starting and tires squealing. Then the silence grows thickly over the sound of the crackling fire, like an old but persistent vine cracking a building facade over the course of centuries.

“They are ready, brother. When they cool off a bit we will share the knife.” Cautiously, you look over to see Inky laying the fish out on some unheated rocks. He looks over at you. “I did not mean to frighten you. None of this is your fault, you understand.”

“Well, here I am and Anna is not. That sure seems like direct causation to me.”

“Do not dwell on it.”

“That's easy enough to say, especially when you just got dumped by your first love.”

He laughs slowly. “And even easier to do, when you are waiting on a fresh meal, surrounded by the smells but unable to eat because it is still to hot. I had a dream before Anna arrived. Would you like to hear it?”

You sit up. “I'm honored and surprised that you asked and didn't just start telling me.”

“Sensitivity, my friend. It is a moment by moment battle.” He gives the cooling fish a brief appraising glance. “The dream was underground, or most of it was. The beginning came somewhere in the middle as a flashback or a memory, I am not sure which. You were there, little brother, and you were giving me orders.” A flock of birds lands in a nearby tree. “You told me that you had lost something. I can not remember what it was, or even if there was more than one thing. Perhaps it was two things, but whatever the case what was lost held import for you. I had to get it. You would have helped me but it was in a place that only I could go. You were not allowed there and neither was Anna. She wasn't in the dream but I knew that she could not go with me. I climbed down into the earth. It was very dark but I knew the way and was not scared. There were a few voices whispering, and I asked them where I had to go. They told me to go down into the earth, and I had no reason to doubt them. Then I heard Anna's voice and I woke up.”

Tapping your pocket, you raise your eyebrow in mock concern. “Well, I've still got my phone and my wallet and I can't think of anything else of value for me to lose.”

Inky ignores the mockery. “The fish is ready to eat now. Here. Watch me and then you can try the next one on your own.” He cuts off the head and tail with the knife, then neatly splits the fish down the middle. With his bare hands, he carefully pulls the meat away from the bones and scales. “Watch out. Many of the bones are quite small.” He passes you the knife.

One glassy eye of the fish looks blankly into space, seemingly contemplating some lost picene dream. Thinking back to ripping off band aids quickly as a child, you lop off the fish head. It causes you only a slight twinge of revulsion. The tail is easy by comparison. Moments later, you find yourself following Inky's example and enjoying a delicious lunch. He finishes one and moves on to the next, eating half and leaving the rest for you. Full after one, you pat your stomach and motion for him to finish.

“Do you remember your dream, brother?”

You frown and shake your head. “I don't think I had enough time to start one. Plus I don't do well sleeping in new places. I don't relax enough to really get into the deeper cycles, I just kind of float on the top. That's why Anna's footsteps woke me so quickly.”

“What about your version of the flower story?” He looks at you with an expectant sideways gaze.

The fire shoots out a couple of sparks. “As soon as I come up with my own version, you will be the first one to hear it.”

“Thank you, brother.”

The rest of the day passes quickly. You walk for several hours around the forest, finding signs of deer and rabbit but no actual sightings. Inky shows you how to whittle a spear. After making your own, you spend an hour trying to catch a fish. He sits on the bank and patiently offers encouragement. When you finally give up, he shrugs and points to the bag of snacks that you brought with you. The meal brings you back to the fire, which requires a great deal of attention. There is a little talking and much wood gathering followed by dodging the ever changing smoke plume. Finally, staring up at the canopy of the forest, you drift off to sleep while staring at the stars that peek between the shifting leaves.

...

No steps this time to wake you up. Instead, it's a foot to the ribs. While there is some truth in the joy of novelty, you are unable to find it in the unfamiliar experience of being woken by a boot to the chest. Your instinct is to roll up into a fetal ball and shut your eyes tightly. There are three or four more kicks, it's hard to tell exactly how many because the pain from the previous kick merges with the experience of the next causing you to lose count.

“Fuck you!” It's all you can manage. It seems appropriate.

There is a satisfied grunt from your unseen assailant. Arms wrapped tight around your head, you open your eyes to see nothing but the inside of your elbows. There is an answering grunt from somewhere nearby - you hope from Inky. Breathing desperately, you try and recover your bearings.

You want to take your arms away from your head but some survival instinct won't allow you. Searching your body for an out, you kick your feet out which allows you to stand up which in turn allows you to drop your arms along your sides. Your ribs scream out at you to lay back down and curl up. The compromise you arrive at is to kneel down and tuck one arm against your torso, giving yourself a view of the unfolding fight.

Bull is circling around Inky. You friend looks oddly bored. Bull heel scuffs the ground and then charges. Inky sprawls out his legs and slams his hands onto his opponent's shoulders. Despite the size difference, Bull comes to a halt. Inky drops a quick elbow to Bull's neck then seamlessly grabs the back of his jacket, pulling it forward and down, over his head. Inky goes to grab his arm around the other mans neck and there is a roar from one of the two men, you're not sure which. Inky lets go and jumps to the side. Bull stumbles forward but stays on his feet. In between the two, a spray of blood flings through the air and sizzles on the fire.

Bull's jacket has been pierced by the two metal horns coming from the giant man's skull, one of which is dripping blood. He yanks the garment back over himself and smiles. Inky's left sleeve is turning red. He's been cut somewhere on the arm or chest. You grab a wrist thick log from the unburnt pile. Bull charges again, this time offering a swing of the fist. Your brother ducks, then clinches bringing his shoulder to his opponent's stomach. Inky yanks hard at the back of Bull's knees, taking his feet off the ground. As the bigger man falls, he desperately grabs at a stray dread lock of Inky's hair and pulls him down on top of himself.

The hounds of necessity at your heels, you rise up through the pain and sprint over to the pile of limbs. Waiting for an untangled moment, you crack Bull over the head with your stick, breaking the skin. He yelps and disengages, scrambling to his feet. Inky lets him go. Blood pours down the back of his head, like a waterfall spilling into the collar of his jacket. His eyes bounce erratically and he spits at your feet. All the violence crystalizes into the cool night breeze that whips past the three of you. The smoke from the fire changes directions, causing your eyes to water.

Bull flees, clasping his bleeding head. You turn to Inky, who is holding his left bicep tightly with his left hand. “What the fuck was that all about?”

Inky looks down at his arm. “I am uncertain.”

“Are you alright?”

“No?”

“Do we need to get to a hospital?”

He takes his hand off and looks at the bloody palm. “Yes.”

It's dark. You can't remember which way Bull ran off to. “Which way to the car?”

Inky gathers up his jacket, snickers sadly as he tosses the leather over his right shoulder. “Too bad I needed a pillow.” He begins walking and clasps his hand back over the wound.

“You're going to the car, right?”

“Yes.”

The road emerges rather suddenly, revealing the four flat tires of your mother's car. Rushing over, you see the straight lines of a knife through running through the pieces of rubber. “Neat.” You run your finger along the freshly cut lines.

That's when it starts to rain.

Six.

You glance down the dark road, the only sound the fall of the rain. “What are the odds that some one is going to drive by?”

“There will be a few.”

You nod, scrounging in the trunk for an umbrella. Instead you find a map of Mexico and a package of airplane peanuts. You decide neither is going to be useful. “So do we walk or wait in the car or what?”

“I would prefer to walk.” Inky turns his head up to the sky and opens his mouth. “The wound will stop bleeding eventually.” He strolls down the shoulder of the road, still holding his bleeding arm. You follow close behind. After a few minutes of silence, you are both drenched. Headlights appear in the distance.

“Alright. Now how do we get this person to stop?”

“Stand in the middle of the street.”

You step out into the road and extend your hand out. The car starts to react about 1000 feet away. It doesn't slow down but veers into the other lane to avoid you. There is no honk, no rude gesture and no acknowledgment beside the mild swerve. It's one in the morning and the driver simply has no time to get involved in your adventure. You shuffle back to the side of the road and match Inky's steps again. “Is it just better to stick out your thumb?”

“Most people like the idea that they are being given a choice to act, even if they are not. The illusion of freedom is primary. Reality is secondary. There are those rare folk who appreciate the truth for its own sake but they are not favored by the selection pressures of the modern, ancient or any other man made world.”

“I don't think I follow your notion of a man made world. What about all the other... natural pieces?” You point to the trees.

“The structure is a broad one, brother. The world of humanity is an artificial world, lived one step away from the natural. It is in our minds that we draw this distinction. That delineation is natural for us but not for any other animal.”

The rain gets a little harder. “Do you always talk so fancy when you're severely injured, or are you just ignoring my original question about hitchhiking?”

“I appreciate your flattery, brother but the wound is not life threatening. Certainly, there will be a scar but nothing more. The conversation is not just to pass the time or impress you with rhetoric. We can still approach truth, even in our removal from the primal state of life. This reason may be abstract, but it is ours alone. As I said, people like choice and by providing them with the simple context and category of hitchhiking, you are giving them that familiar conjurer's trick known as freewill.”

“Wow. What happened to the simple Inky?”

“He stands in the same space as the verbose one.”

Another pair of headlights twinkles into sight. This time you stick to the side of the road, sticking out an embarrassed thumb. The long white car stops. A tinted window rolls down a couple of inches, revealing nothing.

An old graveling voice burbles from the vehicle. “Which way you boys going?”

“West.”

The window rolls back up. Mustering up some energy, you prepare to shout desperately but Inky stays your hand. “Nothing would come of it.”

The car fades away in the rain.

“Maybe it's just better to lie back down and sleep the rest of the night, then.”

“No. I need to walk.”

The two of you resume travel along the side of the road.

“So you think that Anna sent Bull after us?”

“I can not think of another reason why he would attack us or know where we were.”

“Has she always been that rash and jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you put up with that bullshit?”

Inky turns to face you, looking pale and irritated. “It is not my choice to make. This is some one else's attitude, not mine to change.”

The pace of the rain picks up even more. You halt and give the sky a dirty look, to which it is predictably unresponsive. “Walking in this deluge is a matter of choice and it sucks. Let's go back to the fire.”

He stops along side of you and coughs. “Yes. In getting wet we have given ourselves the adventure of becoming dry again.”

You look your friend in the eye. “Are you getting delirious on me? Now is not a good time.”

He lets go of his arm, slides his jacket on and begins walking back towards the car. “This is the best time. When can you last recall escaping civilization only to be tracked down by one person trying to seduce you and another trying to kill you? What is good in life if not the shaking of the columns of complacency?”

The water has made its way into your boots. “Can we walk inside the forest?”

He adjusts his jacket with a grimace and turns into the trees. The ground under the canopy is still mostly dry and as you travel deeper the rain becomes nothing but a pleasant noise. It's then that you realize how cold and wet you are. “So the best part about getting wet from the rain is getting dry after you're in it, right?”

The smoke of your old fire becomes visible. The area is still ripe with the recent stench of fish and fear. Inky doesn't answer your question but goes straight to the fire and begins to poke and rearrange things with his good arm. With deep concentration written across his forehead, he searches for the perfect log to begin again. There is a hum of contentment from your friend when he finally locates the correct piece of wood and places it on the fire. “Now we find out the answer to your question, brother.” Despite the joy he's taking in creation, he does not look well.

“I have more than one question.” You start taking off your shoes and socks.

“Then let me start with a simple one. What is your name, brother?” Inky starts to take off his jacket but pain stops him.

You walk over to help him, the leaves and sticks tickling your feet as you go. “Gordon. Gordon Lithgow.” You help him take the jacket off slowly. “Can I see it?” You point at the blood stain on his shirt.

“It is a good name. Why do you hide it?” Inky waves you away from the wound.

“Why do you hide yours?”

“I can not hide what I do not know. My name is Inky. Whatever it was before I do not know. I chose this one for myself.”

“Must be nice to have that luxury.” You rummage through the snack bag and find some chips. Out comes a handful. “Want some?”

He stretches out his hand and takes half. “You have done the same thing. Everyone calls you GL, do they not?”

“They do, but I didn't choose that name either. It's just my initials. People call me that because I don't let them call me Gordon.”

“Your neighbor calls you by your true name.” The crunch of the food between his teeth melds into the sounds of the fire.

“I gave up trying to stop her.” You toss a stick in the fire, enjoying that initial moment when it flares up with heat. “I think if I tried she'd only use it more.”

He grabs a twig as well, poking through the fire with it as if he is hoping to find something. “She cares for you but you resent it. Why not just enjoy that for what it is worth?”

“I'm not sure exactly what that's worth.”

Inky lays down on his jacket and wiggles his toes towards the warmth. “What is the effort of keeping her away worth?”

Fishing through the bag, you look for some intact chips among the crumbs. “Self determination. Give some people the chance and they'll flood you with bullshit.” You pull the bag out of the box and dump the crumbs into your mouth. The remaining dust at the bottom catches your eye. You toss it in the fire and the flames flash briefly.

“And to open up to others?”

You toss the cardboard box into the fire. It rests for a moment, untouched. Then the smoke comes from underneath and out the ends. Finally, the container blossoms with fire and is consumed. “More bullshit.. but bullshit that matches the bullshit I already enjoy.”

“And what door have you opened by being my friend?”

“It's like finding my favorite sweater that I've worn for years but in a totally different color.”

“Then it is the reflection of yourself that you love.”

“What else is there to start from? Me is all I know and all else is framed inside of it.” You dig through the bag for something new and come out with a can of peaches.

“Ah. Now we are back to that point. The world is an abstraction of the self.”

A car horn sounds in the distance. Inky's head pops up from his jacket, a look of completion crossing his features. He sits up and checks to see how dry his socks are. Looking somewhat satisfied, he begins suiting up to leave.

Not sure what you're looking for, you glance around the campsite. There is nothing but flickering shadows, the smell of smoke and your steaming socks. “Is that a horn I should recognize?”

Your brother grabs a boot and out flies a coppery red blur of sinew. Inky falls back from the flash, grasping his hand in shock. Cautiously, a snake head emerges from the shoe top, flicking its tongue to test the air.

“What the hell?”

“My warm foot wear became a snake home.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“Yes.”

The horn sounds again, followed by the sound of a slamming door. Ever so faintly, you hear a female voice shouting.

“Is that Anna again?”

“Yes.”

“Should we try and get your boot back?”

“It is not important.”

On cue, the serpent crawls out of its temporary home and disappears into the forest. Inky is holding his bitten hand high above his head. You rush over, intent on helping him with his shoes. Your will to action fades as you approach, causing you to picture an entire nest of snakes waiting to strike. Picking up a stick, you jab thoroughly at both boots. Nothing emerges. Re-energized, you get to work re-covering your friend's feet.

Anna's expected and hesitant voice emerges from behind you. “What the hell is going on now? Dress up time?”

“No, it's get us to the fucking hospital time.” You finish lacing Inky up.

You can hear her chewing her lip as she talks. “Why, what happened?”

“Well. I'm sure you know the part about your boyfriend attacking us and slashing our tires, unless that was you who slashed our tires - in which case you still know about the slashing of tires.” You stand up and motion for her to lead the way to the car. “Also, during the attack Inky got gored by a charging bull. Who knew that kind of shit might happen in a fight with a dude who has metal horns screwed into his skull?”

Now out of the forest, you are reminded of the pouring rain. It seems to have increased in ferocity. Anna spins around to face you. “Look. I didn't tell Bull to come out here. If he was here then he fucking followed me, okay?” She walks up to you and gives you a curt shove. “So fuck you and your fucking queer camp out, alright?” She kicks her car with a overly sturdy combat boots. It's hard to tell if it made a dent, as the exterior of the vehicle is already riddled with damage. “I came back out here because I felt like an asshole for what I did, okay?”

Inky continues to hold his hand above his head. “We need to go.”

Anna's mouth tightens slightly. “Why?”

“Right. This is the part you don't know yet, at least I hope so. Inky just got bit by a poisonous snake. It came out of his shoe”

“Holy shit.” She looks at Inky's raised hand, the rain slaking down mercilessly around the pale flesh like a white flag of surrender. “He's kidding, right?”

“No.”

She blubbers a bit more then hops into the driver's side. You open the back passenger door for Inky. He slides all the way across and you jump in next to him. The door closes and you shake from the cold rain that has made it all the way through your clothes. “Christ, turn on the heat please.”

“Alright, alright. The car isn't even on yet. Okay?” She starts fiddling with the keys. “I can't see a fucking thing.”

The engine scratches and shimmies into smoke snorting life. Inky immediately rolls down his window and sticks his bitten hand out into the cold rain. You begin to vibrate uncontrollably from the temperature. With a face ten years older than it was five minutes ago, Inky patiently explains his actions to you. “The cold will slow the spread of the venom.”

The wipers snap on. “That didn't do shit.” Anna peers into the back seat. “Are you even going to make it to the hospital? It's like a good two hours from here, wherever here is.”

Inky coughs. “Yes. We have time.”

The car starts up and lurches forward onto what feels like a smooth surface. “Maybe three in this fucking rain. Jesus. You'd think the gods were trying to wipe humanity off the earth again or something.”

“They are petty and vengeful.” Inky chimes in cheerfully, his ghoulish face fading in and out of the shadows.

“I suppose if it's something they were willing to do once that means they're willing to do it again, right?” You can't see anything out the front window. Anna must be able to because it still feels like you're on the road and moving forward at a decent speed.

Inky giggles with incredulity. “Once?”

“Alright. I admit my ignorance freely. What is going on?” You stare at the shadow shape of your brother.

Anna frowns and assumes a mock serious tone. “And here I thought your ego was incapable of admitting failure. So let it be written that on this, the day of the hundredth despotic deluge, the king has admitted his ignorance in regards to divine rains.”

Inky lets out a slow laugh.

“Perhaps one of you historians would like to enlighten the royal we.”

Inky nods. “Over the course of history, humanity has proved a troublesome child for all the gods. We breed too much. We are too noisy. We refuse to pick up after ourselves. We worship the wrong gods. Whatever the reasons, the gods' solution to the problem of humanity has been to flood the world.”

You're tempted to ignore your brother's speech. “Can you actually see through the wind shield?”

“The more bullshit you two talk, the harder it is to see.” She grabs the wheel a bit tighter. “But I do have a secret weapon.” She lets the car drift ever so slightly to the right. Immediately there is a rapid fire thumping noise from the wheels and the car begins to quake. She corrects course. “It's like braille, for cars.”

Your brain returns to the larger implication of the rains. “So did we do something wrong? What did we do this time?”

Inky draws his arm in from the open window. It's blue with cold. “I suspect so.” He rolls up the window, which sucks a hot, silent wind into the vehicle. Your shivering stops, allowing you to draw in the larger scope of what might be happening.

“Inky, shouldn't you be pissed about this, I mean all this – the whole fucking situation here?”

“Do you think it would help us get to the hospital faster if I were angry?” He turns the bitten hand over carefully, inspecting the tiny fang marks. There is a purple tinge around the wound and it is starting to swell.

“No, but it might temporarily satisfy my urge for revenge.”

Anna scowls. “Against who?”

“Various snakes and bulls, for trying to kill my best friend.”

“I'm glad you've decided to scratch me off the suspect list.” Her voice rattles with uncertain emotion.

“I figured it was the least I could do, what with you giving us a ride and everything. But I still want to know how Bull got out here.”

“He's a jealous fucker who thinks he's my god damn brother, okay? I don't pretend to understand how a man with metal attached to his head thinks. It's just not within my scope, if you know what I mean.” She focuses temporarily on the road. “Look, I bitched to him about what you said, about what happened the first time I showed up. He got pissed and disappeared. I was worried what he might do, and from the looks of things I was fucking right to be worried.”

The tact switch in your mind seems to be broken again. “So he got mad because I wouldn't fuck you?”

“Hey guess what shit head? Last time I checked you don't have either a snake bite or a gore wound so maybe I don't have to give you a fucking ride. Maybe you just need to shut the fuck up, okay?”

Inky puts a hand on your shoulder before you can offer a return salvo. Looking over at him, you see he is shaking his head no. He mimes going to sleep and points at you. With a frown, you close your eyes and lean back against the ruins of the ancient upholstery. Amazingly, you find yourself dozing off to the pleasant sound of the rain on a metal roof.

...

“I don't think I can make it across that bridge.” It seems like you've heard that sentence before but in a different voice. Whatever the case, the meaning is clear. You're stuck. Eyes still closed, you reach over the seat and put a hand on Anna's shoulder.

“What?” You open your eyes. Inky looks even paler than before. It's hard to tell if he's asleep or not.

“The bridge up ahead, it has a giant fucking river running over it.” She points out the front but you can't see anything. “I don't think I can make it over.”

“Which reminds me. Did you see Bull on your way out here?”

“No, why?”

“But there is really only the one road out here, correct?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. I did see a couple of cars and I wasn't paying that much attention to what they were. You know how it is when you're pissed off.” The car has come to a complete stop.

Inky stirs, immediately scanning for danger. “What's going on?”

You point towards what must be West. “The bridge is flooded.”

He rolls down his window and sticks out his head. Some serious tabulation ensues behind his eyes. “Go fast. You will make it.”

Anna is picking furiously at her nails. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Are you asking if I am going to die? I won't. I might lose a finger or two. The bleeding has stopped from the gore wound.” He rolls the window back up.

“She said that Bull wasn't on the road when she drove up the second time.”

Inky smirks with indifference. “Then he went the other way.”

“Alright. So should I back up and gun it or can I go from here?” Now she is biting her nails.

“Give yourself space.” Inky reaches forward and pulls her hand away from her mouth.

She smiles nervously, her face illuminated by the headlights reflecting off the water. “I'm sorry, Inky. I feel like this is all my fault.”

Anna backs the car up.

Inky clasps her shoulder. “Regret does not suit you well. If you ask the gods to take away the bad parts of our lives, the good will go as well. It is all one tightly woven blanket that we are swaddled in at childhood and buried with at death.” He sinks back into his seat. “Imagine a world of textiles without red. Now how much less is blue and how much would red be missed if only we knew it existed? Par out purple and yellow loses its luster. Deny orange and green grows less and less. Narrow the colors down and down until your vision is comfortable and safe. What now is beauty? Where now is art?”

“The wounded Inky is the verbose Inky. Ever consider a career as a poet, brother?”

“I have considered as a poet, but never have I considered as a career.”

“Well said.”

There is a small squeal as Anna launches the car forward. You see and hear nothing but water.

Something funny has happened to gravity. “Hey, is the car moving?”

Anna slams on the brakes uselessly as the automobile is drawn into the water and slowly transformed into a raft without oarsmen. “Fuck. Well, I guess that running start didn't help.” The engine sputters out. “And I guess I don't need that either.”

Anna wipes a spot off on the windshield and the world opens up in front of you. The guardrail looms as both a friend and enemy as the current guides the car out of the lane and across the theoretically impassable solid yellow line. Lines of tension begin to stretch from Anna's fingers up into her elbows. Within two seconds, her entire body is cast rigid, white and straight with fear. Now, in the middle of the bridge, the vehicle enters an eddy and spins. Inky groans.

There arises that moment in which your future hangs on the crest of a wave, waiting to fall. The moment is not long or short. Time is irrelevant because the anticipation charges everything with the emotions that pour from all three of you. Choice, too, is a misnomer because the world is simply plugging in variables into the laws of physics and seeing where the entities named GL, Inky and Anna will come out. Time has become that pause in the middle of frantic music, that shadow across the dining room wall of the murderer coming for the innocent victim with the knife and the infinite smell of wet grass in the morning ten seconds before the bombs hit the suburbs.

It may be that this is what people mean when they say their lives flashed before them in that instant when they were sure of death. Yet there is no memory filled with motion pictures. There are no super ego driven sermons on the performances or pessimisms of your life. There is no confusion about why or how you are here in this situation, gripping the back of a car seat, whipped around by the impersonal forces of nature. There is only a yes that echoes through your imagination, written across the largest billboard your mind can hold, shouting out across the chasm of eternity and somehow echoing back with a tone of purified joy.

There is a thump and a teetering. Anna lets out a squeak of fearful hope and tries the breaks again. The car stabilizes. Looking out a side window, you see that you aren't on the road but are perched erratically on the lip of a ditch. It's impossible for you to tell which end of the bridge you're on.

Everyone exhales at once. Anna bursts into tears of laughter, sucking in air with volume and desperation. Inky looks down at his hand and winces. There is a knocking on your window. You roll it down. A man of forty years, wearing a yellow rain coat and hat is showing you his whitened teeth.

“Now that there was straight from the movies, folks.” He pokes his head in the window and examines the weeping Anna. “I see that you got a professional stunt woman heading the show. Uh-mazing, I tell ya. Now if you can tell my wife how to do that, except uphill - then we can break our little camp I guess.” He quits grinning and puts on a serious face. “Everyone survive alright?”

You glance at your companions. “We're no worse than we were before, sir.”

He pulls his head back and cocks it to the side. “Oh. Don't be sirring me, young man. I done nothing wrong, have I?”

“Of course not.” You laugh. “I'm just a bit in shock, I guess.”

He straightens out. “There are worse things in the world than being polite, I suppose. You headed into town, then?”

You nod.

“Rain ain't so bad in there but they said it's headed the same way you are. Best you move along quickly, tuck in your tails and get yourselves under a solid roof.” He pats the top of the car. “Good evening and god bless.”

You wave. “Thanks. You too.” You roll up the window to find Inky looking amusedly in your direction.

“I thought you incapable to etiquette.” He runs his tongue through his teeth. “Do you need a push to get the car going, or are we alright, Anna?”

The only response is a shallow breathing. Looking at her scares you, so you stop. “Want me to drive for a while?”

She shakily undoes her seatbelt and slinks over to the passenger seat. You hike up to the front and into driver's seat. After a brief struggle with the starter, the car comes alive. The rain is still going just as strong but now that you are in front you can see that there is a trick to following the rhythm of the wind shield wipers so that the road becomes visible. You pull forward and make a U turn back on to the road.

During this process you are forced to go back into the river a bit. Anna turns so pale you swear you can see her bones through the skin. She stops breathing and instead begins gulping like a fish out of water. It is only after the water is behind you that Anna begins to cry.

“Well, here we are, on the road again.” You say slyly, out of the corner of your mouth.

Anna emits a pathetic whine, curls up into a ball on her seat and closes her eyes.

Old songs float through your head. Looking down, you see that this car also has no radio. “I guess it's just you and me again.”

“As it always has been, friend.” Inky sticks his hand out the window again.

The rest of the trip passes in the silence of Anna's fevered snores. When you reach the hospital, the three of you stick together for courage walking bravely into the fluorescently lit emergency room. Things are, as they always tend to be in institutional buildings, far too bright and reverbed. Everything exists behind a bureaucratic blur of uniforms and plexi-glass. No doubt this keeps people safe from the emotional realization that this is a place where people go to die – where they themselves will come to die. The nurse behind the desk calmly slides you a clipboard.

“And how are you this morning?”

Anna looks at the clock. “Christ. I guess it is morning, isn't it?”

“Right up until noon.” The nurse offers a completely neutral gaze. “Just fill that out, bring it back up to me and have a seat.”

“Does snake bite get us any free passes?”

Now she offers you the same passionless look and glances briefly towards the half full waiting room. “You will be prioritized based on your paperwork.”

You find yourself amongst the sick, wounded and unemployed for about an hour. One man in a cowboy hat tells you the story of his best friend's brother, who was crushed by a tow truck and has been in intensive care for the last four months. He's waiting for the latest surgery to be over. After that, a grotesquely obese woman comes rocketing in on a wheelchair, trailed by two only slightly less fat friends. The triage nurse steps away from the counter and to take a closer look.

The fat woman whelps like a dying dog. One friend appears glued to her cell phone, shouting out the mundane events of car ride as if it were the subject of a Wagner opera. The other friend is barking out what sounds like a detective novel that may or may not have some relevance to the wheelchaired woman's medical history. Eventually with the slightest of nods from the nurse, the trio disappear behind metal swinging doors.

You give Inky a nudge. “That's how you do it. Just start screaming and Anna and I will act like morons until you get in.”

He shows you his purple, swollen and split hand in response. It doesn't look human.

A few minutes later, he gets called back. Anna falls asleep again. You stare at the bad artwork on the walls and don't even notice when the doctor standing in front of you appears. It's possible he's been talking to you for a while.

“Your friend is going to be fine. We've decided to keep him overnight to keep an eye on him because he lost a fair amount of blood. He's very strong though and he'll be fine, as I said. You should go home, get some sleep and a good meal.” He stands up and offers you his hand, which you shake. “He told me to let you know he'd be keeping all his fingers.” With a serious nod, he retreats back through the swinging doors.

You give Anna a light shake. “Let's go.”

“Please drive. I can't handle it right now.”

“As long as it's not too far a walk from your place. Where do you live?”

“Just go to your place. I'm exhausted.”

The two of you exit the florescent hell, stumbling out into the cold rain once again. Hustling, you manage to get to the car only 80% soaked. Amazingly, Anna falls asleep for the three minute drive. Pulling up to the house, you can see your mother sitting on the roof, crouched under a lady bug patterned umbrella. You step out of the car and open the passenger side for Anna.

“Where is your brother?” Her voice seems to have acquired a southern drawl.

“In the hospital with a gored shoulder and snake bite.” You jog over until you're underneath the porch and safe from the rain. “But the doctor said he'd be fine.”

“Oh.” She looks at the underside of her umbrella. “Shane called for you.”

“That's odd. Did he say why he was calling the house phone?”

“No, but it sounded like he was worried about you?”

“Oh. And what made you think that?”

“He didn't swear once. It's a sure sign of trouble from him. Plus I'm sure he felt it too. This rain. It's too much. He's a sensitive boy, your friend Shane, despite the tough act he puts on for all you boys.”

Anna points at the door and you nod consent for her to depart. She slips inside.

“Do you ever worry about me, GL?”

“What do you mean, mom?”

“I see you talking to Joanne. I know she thinks I'm crazy. I know your friends in high school thought I was crazy. I know some of your friends now think I'm crazy. Does it bother you that people talk that way about me?”

“It bothers me that everyone is so eager to jump on someone else and busily ignores their own faults.”

“So you think I'm crazy?”

“No, mom. I know you're crazy. But it looks good on you, don't worry.”

“Oh good. A woman must be concerned about appearances.”

“Are you coming in?”

“Soon.”

You saunter down to the basement, grabbing a glass of water as you go. Crashing onto the bed, you hear Anna snort in alarm. As you lay down and give her a reassuring pat on the head. She mumbles something incoherent and you smooth out her hair. You hear a far off pop and the power in your room goes out. Sitting up, you look out the window. All of the nearby houses' lights are off as well. You shrug, close the curtain and slide back into bed. Anna nudges her way over to your side of the bed, tucking herself tightly into your armpit.

Seven.

The phone is ringing. Failing to switch on silent mode has cost you two, maybe three hours of sleep tucked away in your warm secret dream place. Now even if you try to play ignorant and don't answer, the technology is going to beep at you for a good five minutes. You untie your arms from around Anna and roll onto the floor. The pants, home of the phone, are singing siren songs of urgency. With the strength of a freshly disturbed bear who does not bother to even look at his adversary, you click the answer button.

“He lives.” It's Shane.

“He calls.”

“You build the ark yet?”

“No one told me to.”

“I told the walls to whisper directions to you.”

“I got nothing but studs and drywall.”

“Damn. They must have whispered into the spaces between the walls. It's so hard to communicate clearly over the phone. Too bad for humanity I guess, cuz now all the rats are going to be saved.”

“No doubt they will soon lose their innocence and then have to be killed.”

“It's like getting a kitten - so cute at first but then...”

“Yeah, they piss all over your laundry.”

“I heard you went camping... like in the woods and everything. How'd that go?”

“Animal disaster, actually. My buddy Inky got gored by a bull and bitten by a snake.”

“Hold and clarify there, lumberjack. Did you walk in the woods, or charge through a zoo with a chainsaw?”

“It's all about the woods, yo.”

“Again, the trouble with words borne on the phone plays out. A snake I can see but what the hell was a bull doing in the woods?”

“It's a friend of his, named Bull. He's got metal horns implanted in his skull.”

“That doesn't really help me. See, normal people don't put things into their skulls. I thought you were all grown up and everything so what the hell are you doing hanging out with a dude who has horns implanted in his skull?”

“Don't worry. They're not implanted, they screw in.”

“Much more mature. Now it's okay. So anyway, you're new best buddy got gored by one of his friends? I know it's a first but you're kicking my ass here, dude. So, yeah. What?”

You move away from the snoring Anna. “I do love kicking your ass my friend and this time it's because Inky's girlfriend wanted to jump me. I said no, then told their mutal friend Bull and he came out to the woods to rough us up. My ribs are still vibrating from the experience.”

Shane laughs. “Ah. A girl. I should have known. What other way does GL get in trouble except by fucking around with other people's girlfriends? Maybe getting your ass kicked will provide the necessary feedback to check yourself.”

“Yeah, except I said no, remember?”

He laughs harder. “Damn. I do hate it when a lesson gets turned on its head like that. The universe hates your ass right now. Look out your window for me.”

You comply. It's not only still raining, there is a large lake in your neighbor's yard and a river running down the street away from the cul de sac. You're shocked into a whisper. “Oh shit.”

“I take it that means it's still raining there. Do me a favor and go up on the roof with your mother and bring a long stick. That way when the house starts floating around you can steer it and shit.”

You walk over to your computer. All the familiar lights that signify life are gone. “I think my power is out.”

“Oh man, that's just you seeing the nose on your face. According to the net, your whole county has been knocked off the power grid.”

“Great. Well thanks for the news flash. Talk to you later.”

“Take care man.”

You hang up the phone and head upstairs. About halfway up you almost slip. Looking down, you see a little stream coming from the kitchen door. Cautiously, expecting a wave to crash over your head, you turn the knob. It's not so exciting. There's a puddle forming by the wall and it is making it's way downward with the assistance of gravity. Kneeling, you see a tiny little crack in the wall through which the liquid is forcing its way.

“Insidious stuff, water.” You mother shuffles in, wearing a pair of house slippers. “Given time and supplied with motivation it would grab everything humanity has made by the wishbones and tear it in two.”

You stand up. “I'm surprised your not still on the roof watching the party.”

She walks over to the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk. Leaning against the counter, you watch as she makes three bowls of cereal.

“Shane told me the power is out across the whole county.”

She clinks a spoon deliberately on one of the bowls and grins childishly at the noise. “He's a sensitive one, our Shaney.” She sits down and starts to eat.

You plop down as well and start to say that Anna is still asleep when she pops through the door. She looks down at the puddle of water on the floor and gives it a dirty look. Fixing her hair a bit, she joins you at the table. “What's with the spill?”

Cryptically spinning her spoon in the milk, your mother stares at the wall. “Word is our time is up. No trouble, though. We've lived as high as we could on the tide of life.” Her eyes refocus, turning toward Anna. “It's raining.”

Anna makes a tiny circle with her mouth and starts eating her breakfast.

You find yourself quickly bored with the flavor of the cereal. “Should we swim on down to the hospital and pick up the big man?”

“Let's just wait until the weather shuts up.” Anna says pragmatically.

“There was a fire up that way.” Your mother states the information crisply, like a radio announcer.

“In this rain? How could anything burn in this rain?” Anna looks pissed.

“Oh, it didn't burn for long. Something exploded over there, a few minutes after the power went off. There was a big white cloud and flames, followed by all sorts of sirens and excitement.”

Anna rockets up out of her chair. “Why didn't you wake us up?”

Your mother sighs, waiting for the girl to sit back down. When this doesn't happen, she stares at the wall again and makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “So that you could do what?”

Anna stomps her foot and lets out a growl. “Let's go, GL. Now.”

“There are some waders in the garage. I think your father always leaves them there for emergency fishing expeditions.” Your mother hits the table. “Sorry. Not your father. Can I call him your stepfather?”

You scoot back from the table. “How about Uncle Lug?”

Your mother titters girlishly. “I like it. I think I will call him and share his new name. Do you want to talk to him?”

You glance at the steaming Anna standing next to you. “I think I got to go.”

“I'll tell him you said hi.” She goes back to chewing on cereal.

You lead Anna out to the garage. There's a good inch of water pooled on the floor, entering from an unseen portal. Tucked behind a workbench of old rusty tools, you find the wader boots. With a little effort, the two of you slip on the overall style coverings, grab a couple of umbrellas and head out the door.

The rain is the same intensity as last night. Your cul de sac, being on a slight incline, has become the source of a river that is flowing quickly towards a lake at the intersection below. Fumbling about in the current, you see a group of neighbors. A few of the men have rakes in their hands and seem to be poking at something.

Walking by quickly, you can see that they are trying to pull something away from the drain. Doubtless they are trying to lower the water level which has come halfway up some of the lawns here in the low spot of the street. One of the women calls you over to help but you politely ignore her, swept along by Anna's brow furrowing speed.

You call out to Anna. “I wonder if the reservoir has flooded over?”

She offers no response, so you jog up along side her. Despite the heavy downpour, you can see that she is crying. “I know he's dead. As soon as your mother said there was a fire at the hospital, I knew he was gone.”

You balk, unable to think of anything to say. Tears keep streaming down, despite her otherwise expressionless face.

As the two of you march on, you see the scene of people clustered around drains repeated several times. On each occasion, someone tries to catch your attention and get you to help. Each time you feel a bit more guilty about ignoring them.

Passing by one neighborhood, you see a shed that has slid away from its house and is now half collapsed and floating about in the street. Comically, several men are standing knee deep in the water around it swinging hammers at it. Presumably they are trying to eliminate some sort of danger, but you're not sure how smashing a run away shed is going to help.

Quite suddenly, you find yourself slogging through a strong current and onto what would normally be a busy road. At the closer part of the intersection there is a pile up of smashed and abandoned cars. Police in yellow waders are gathered around a giant tow truck that is still able to navigate the flood waters. Thankfully, the cops are the first group to not ask you for help.

Here and there, you see groups of people standing under closed store awnings and milling about. About every fifth building is equipped with a lone figure standing on the roof, surveying the town carefully. Quite a few of these perched individuals have rifles slung on their shoulders. None of them look very official. Anna, uninterested in the whole scene, cuts right across the road and within a few feet of the accident. She stands at the median for a moment while a bevy of garbage rolls by on the flood tide.

She hops carefully across the other side of the street and looks around to gain her bearings. You point her in the right direction, noticing that she has stopped crying and now has the inevitable look of a human calculator crunching through the unyielding numbers of fate.

A mob of about twenty people come tearing around the corner of a side street, headed your direction. You can feel the roof observers laser eyes move to follow them. Stretching forward, you grab Anna by the suspenders and pull her off the sidewalk and out of the way. The crowd stampedes by, looking frightened but driven.

A bullhorn erupts from one of the roofs. “Fellow citizens. We have received word that the storm will be passing through in about four hours. Please slow down and remain calm.”

Most of the group slow down to gawk but one woman breaks away from the rest and sprints over towards the police. Anna has already started walking again so crane your neck to see an officer shouting and waving at her to stop. There are a few more warnings and then a weapon is fired at her. She falls to the ground, screaming and shaking. Anna ignores the whole thing.

“Whoa. Did you see that woman get tazed?”

In response, Anna speeds up her pace to the fastest walk she can manage. Turning a corner, you spot the hospital in the distance. Even from here you can see the colored flashes of a dozen emergency vehicles. Crowds of people seem to be milling about the front of the building and there are dozens of people walking the nearby streets, looking everywhere except where they are going.

Walking up the main street towards the hospital you notice that the people nearby are all staring at you. They are looking for someone, anyone who is in charge. With a forward stare meant to pierce even the thickest x-ray proof vest of lead, you let them know that you're commanding yourself quite well and are not interested in dragging anyone else along for the ride, thank you. Anna falls back a bit to stay by your side.

“Look straight ahead. Act like you know where you're going. That's going to be all that matters when we get close to all the people wearing uniforms. They'll want to ask questions and take notes but we'll just walk on through. Got it?”

Her resolve, whatever it was made of, is dribbling down her face along with the rain. “It doesn't matter. He's dead. I know he's dead. We left him alone and now he's gone. If we'd stayed with him we could have helped, could have done something.” She slows down, her head lolling disturbingly to one side. “Could have said goodbye.”

You tug at her hand to get her back to speed but her arm flops limply against her thigh. “We don't have a clue what happened. It's a big place. Maybe nobody got hurt. Clearly the place is still standing.”

Some kids from the Beyond come streaming by you. One of them recognizes you. “Hey GL, did you hear about Sid?” He searches your eyes for signs of recognition. “I hear she's up on the roof with a real shotgun and a garbage bag full of fire bombs, keeping the looters at bay. We're gonna go check it out see if we can help.” A few of them are carrying baseball bats. One has got a hockey stick.

“You go dressed like that and Sid's likely to shoot you.” There isn't a single one of them over sixteen. “Do all your moms a favor and go back home.”

The kid sneers at you, hefting his bat from hand to hand. “We know who our friends are.”

Anna spontaneously regains her composure and pushes past the boy. She clutches your hand hard, pulling you along. The group shouts a couple swearwords after you and then continues on their vigilante way.

When you arrive at the perimeter of the emergency sprawl, it becomes obvious that getting inside the building is going to be simple. It also appears that finding anyone or anything inside might be close to impossible. There are dozens of tents set up outside the sliding glass doors. Some guy in a doctor's uniform is shouting about fresh water and food being down at town hall. Several kids are dancing about with video cameras, anxious to capture and upload any drama that may passes before their lenses.

Once inside, the same nurse from last night greets you indifferently. “Hello. If you're here for shelter, take a seat in the waiting room.” She taps her pen twice. “I'd recommend the high school, though. We're getting awfully full in here and you look young and well dressed enough to travel through the rain. You're not here for treatment, are you? Simple injuries are being treated in the outside pavillion.”

“No. We're fine. We're looking for a friend we brought in last night. His name is Inky.” Looking into the waiting room, you can see that the vending machines have all been opened up and a couple of young girls are passing out snacks to the sprawled piles of humanity.

“I see. Well, lucky for you we've got a generator and I can pull up my records for you. Hold on a second.” She raps her impressively long nails against the counter as she scans the screen. The nurse's face, formerly an mask free of any signs of emotion, twitches briefly with a subdued sorrow. Anna melts onto the floor immediately. “I'm sorry. It looks like your friend was one of the people in the recovery unit that burned down last night.”

“Wait. So what happened exactly?” You lean against the counter.

“We don't know. As of now, the administration has asked me to say nothing more than the fact that there was a terrible accident and we are sorry for your loss.”

“So our friend is fucking dead and after telling me he was going to be fine last night you have no god damn explanation to offer me? What kind of bullshit is that?” Your head is pulsating and may explode at any moment.

“Calm down, sir. Whatever prognosis the doctor gave you earlier this morning was based the patients individual ability to recover. They had no idea that a section of the hospital was going to burn down.” She stands up. “Now here are more people waiting for my help, so if you'll step aside and move your friend out of the way of my desk, I'd be more than happy to have an administrator come down and talk to you if you like.”

“Yeah. I'm sure the administrator will be just as helpful as you were.” You lean down and try to gather Anna up. She's not budging. Her eyes are squeezed shut like a clam desperate to make a pearl.

“I knew it. I knew he was dead. If we would have been with him...”

“We would have died too.”

Her eyes snap open and focus on you. She stands up. “Lets go find it.”

“Find what?”

“The part of the hospital that burned down.”

You turn nervously to see who is listening but no one seems to care. The secretary is already involved with another weepy group of soaked folks who have wandered through the front door. Back in bulldozer mode, Anna is charging her way through the swinging double doors and into the heart of the hospital. Fascinated by her drive, you follow.

The corridors are thick with gurneys, machines, doctors and patients. There are screamers, weepers and even a man smoking next to the fire alarm. Anna approaches a group of doctors and barges her way into the cluster. “Which way to the burned wing?”

A woman in big round glasses blinks and sniffs. “You mean the burn wing?”

“No. I mean the wing that burned down earlier.”

A short bearded man smacks his hand against a clip board. “Really. I don't have time for this. Unless you are amongst the injured, I don't see what exactly you think you're doing back here. If you don't leave immediately, I'll be forced to call security.”

The group tighten their circle in frightening synchrony, pushing Anna to the outside once again. They are now ignoring you.

“Maybe we can smell our way there.” You tug her away from the doctors.

She takes you seriously, putting her nose to the air. She wrinkles up her face with the effort. “All I smell is cleaning agents.” With that pronouncement, she picks a random direction and begins marching deeper into the intestines of the institution.

A few double doors later, everything has mellowed out quite a bit. There are only a few patients walking the halls. All the employees are walking with apparent calmness and well faked competence. Anna sniffs the air again. No one pays you any mind.

“What is the point of this, really?”

“Closure. It's important, GL. You don't just take some chump's word for it when they say your best friend is dead, do you?”

“Just wondering how far you are going to go, actually. Do you need to see the destroyed wing? The burnt body? Security camera footage? Fingerprints? DNA samples?”

Again, she takes you seriously and leans against a nearby wall to recuperate and contemplate. “I think my conscience will tell me when I'm done.”

“Well make sure you tell me when that happens so I don't go any further either.”

“In other words, you have no concern over believing that bitch of a nurse at her word about the death of your friend.”

It's your turn to think. Anna, however, is not interested in actually hearing your answer, as she is moving on once again. You travel through another set of double doors where it actually smells like burning. Down a hallway, you see a bevy of yellow caution tape and a single bored police officer barring a door.

“Verification enough?”

As a response, she walks right up to the guard. “I'd like to see what is beyond these doors, sir.”

He searches her visually for a moment. “The fire marshall has deemed this area unsafe, ma'am.”

“I think that our friend was in there and I just want to see with my own eyes what happened to the place.”

This personalization of the problem gives him pause. He reaches up and nervously twirls his mustache a bit. “I'm sorry, there's just no way to get past here and keep the integrity of my barrier.”

You jump in the argument. “So you're saying it's more important to insure the sanctity of your caution tape than to let us see where our friend was killed? Could we just loan you the buck fifty so you can buy another roll?”

He turns red and looks down at the floor. “Alright. Here's the deal. There's not much to see in there. All the bodies have been taken out already and the place is full of fire retardant foam. Beyond that, the area is structurally compromised. If the rest of the building wasn't so busy insuring that everyone in the town is healthy then the whole hospital would have been shut down.”

“That sounds like a cautionary invitation inside. Let's take it before he finds some procedural technique to keep us out.” You step forward, testing your theory. He swings out of your way slowly and looks the other way.

“Be out in five minutes.” He says it with a sigh.

Anna wells up some more tears. If they are wished, forced, acted or genuine you have no idea. “We can do that, officer. Thank you.”

Doing your best, you actually avoid breaking most of the tape, though some destruction is inevitable. Once the doors swing open, the real smell hits you. There is a bitter taste in the air, one that is so strong you're immediately curious if you should be breathing it at all. After covering your nose, you decide on sliding your shirt up over the bottom half of your face to make slipshod dust mask. The smell lessens as a result, though it's likely due to adaptation than any real function from the thin cloth barrier.

Anna doesn't do quite as well. She coughs once, staggers, grabs herself by the throat and begins to hack like she'd been kicked in the throat. You turn around and slide her shirt over her nose and mouth. She nods thankfully and continues to cough forcefully. Unable to think of anything else, you clap her on the back a few times. She quickly grabs your arm at the shoulder, making you stop. There is brief eye contact in which she communicates clearly that she's going to be okay.

The visual scene ahead is chaos at its finest. It looks like eighty insane men with giant caulking guns were let loose for five minutes to see what they could do. There is scarcely an inch that isn't dripping with sickly yellow foam. You pick and choose your steps slowly, afraid what the stuff might eat through your shoes. Such pickyness slows your progress considerably.

Anna makes a squeaking noise behind you. Turning around slowly, you see that she has got her boot cracking open one of the doors. You tip toe over to help her, noticing a steady flow of water emerging from underneath the door frame. Miraculously avoiding the puddle of foam and water, the two of you force open the door and step inside. The smell lessens as the rain patters heavily on the linoleum floor. Looking up, you see the roof has suffered major insult here. What isn't gone completely is tattered, blackened and dancing with the wind.

There are two metal bed frames, completely intact and covered with melted mattress. They are as giant smores that no one's taste buds would enjoy. A gooey television droops absurdly from a charred holder on the wall. You let your shirt fall from your face. After a brief sip, you breathe deeply. It's like eating after a week long fast. Hearing your conspicuous inhales, Anna follows suit. The two of you stand there breathing desperately for about a minute.

“Is the smell from the foam or from the burning?” She says with her hands on her knees.

You shake your head uncertainly, suddenly filled with the knowledge that Inky died in this very room while peacefully dreaming of recovery. “Let's go.”

She coughs. “You got it?”

“I do.” You slide the shirt back over your face and step out the door. Forgetting foam on the floor, one of your wader boots sinks straight in. It's like stepping into a two foot stack of doughnuts - disturbing but vaguely intriguing. Withdrawing the boot leaves a small amount of yellow residue. Not bothering to be careful anymore, you tromp your way quickly to the entrance, breathing shallowly all the way.

Once on the other side, the two of you engage in a somewhat melodramatic coughing spree. The cop does his best to repair the tape barrier while you expel whatever terrible gases have worked their where into the millions of tiny folds of your lungs. You look up and are impressed. It's only because you know someone went through the door that you can tell some of the pieces of tape have been cleverly tucked and tied together.

He looks sympathetically at the two of you. “Find what you were looking for?”

Thoughts of your sleeping friend melting into his mattress fill your mind. With effort, you banish them and offer him a curt yes in response. Anna shakes his hand with great ceremony. Feeling obliged, you do the same then walk awkwardly away.

“Thank you so much, friend. Thank you.” She turns around and give him a surprise hug. He stiffens then pats her back knowing committing too much emotionally would cause him to burst into tears.

“No problem. Please don't send anyone else back here.”

Unable to stand in the corridor any longer, this time it is you leading the charge. Sustaining the fastest walk you can manage, the two of you plow back out of the white hospital walls, through the chat filled waiting room and out into the open air of the tent city triage. Again, the fresh air is a major relief, so you pause to inhale.

Anna looks you in the eye as she grabs your hand. “Are you hungry again? Because I am suddenly starving.” She gives you a comforting squeeze.

“Yeah. Let's head home.”

You deliberately walk through some of the fiercer streams to get the weird yellow stuff off your boots. Something about the pace of your march repels all possible requests for help from the groups of people who are still trying to unclog their drains. The fact that they make recognize you from before seems a non factor. Once inside your cul de sac, you spot Joanne peeking timidly from behind her screen door.

“My god, Gordon. What in the name of all that is holy are you doing outside?”

Dozens of smart assed responses flicker before your awareness. You discard them all. “Just checking on a friend.”

“Well there's nothing we can do but wait. The weatherman says that it's all going to pass over later today and by then the national guard will be here to help us with all the damage and everything else. Is your mother alright?”

“She's fine, Joanne. I'll let her know you asked.”

“Oh, you don't have to. Well you stay inside now, okay? Make sure your mother does the same, please. Don't worry about anyone else for the rest of the day. They'll be fine. Just worry about you.”

You wave a thank you gesture her way as you traipse into the garage. The water is deeper but less offensive than before. With hungry impatience, you squeeze out of the waders and hustle inside. Your mother is still sitting at the kitchen table, the three cereal bowls splayed out before her, empty. She's got them turned over and is shuffling them about in a vaguely hypnotic pattern. When she stops you grab one and turn it over. Sadly, there is nothing underneath.

“He's dead, mom.” Saying it out loud to your mother makes it real. You suddenly feel as if gravity has been increased by a factor of ten, causing you to sit down as though all your bones had suddenly dissolved. You sink down further, placing your arms and then your head on the table. Tears begin to form a small pool beneath your face. Alternately, two to four hands rub your back in sympathy. “He managed to live through a stab wound and a snake bite, only to be blown up by some sort of crazy bullshit at a hospital. Aren't they supposed to help people at a hospital, not kill them?” You rise up and fling your arms to the air. “We should have stayed in the woods, rolled in the grasses and shouted to the heavens. Then we would still be there now, laughing at the skies, laughing at the world.”

Red eyed, you stand up to pace the floor a few times and then lean against the counter. “I'm sorry. I'll shut up now.”

Your mother stacks the bowls together and stands up. “I'll make us some sandwiches. Have a seat, GL.”

You plop back down. Anna gives you a back rub while you rest your arms on the table and cry some more. Visions of burning the whole hospital down in a rage of vengeance run through your head. You close your eyes an imagine yourself and Inky playing a game of Burning Empires set in the stark white hallways. Hundreds of bespectacled doctors bearing clipboards flee down fluorescent hallways from your avenging flamethrowers. You laugh at their panic. Working your way from the center to the edge, you finally arrive at an empty waiting room to face the nurse. She stands unbudgingly between you and the exit. Wearing double grins, you engulf her in flames. When the fire stops, she stands untouched but frowning. You snap your eyes open, banishing the violent daydream.

“You want baloney on your sandwich, GL?”

“Yeah.”

“How about you, hon?”

Anna stops rubbing your shoulders and takes a seat at the table. She looks strangely victorious. “Yeah. Thanks.” She looks at you and offers up a sad smile that speaks of sharing a death.

Though you taste nothing as you eat, you recall on some instinctual level that food is good for you. There is chewing. There is swallowing. There is thanking your mother and finally there is retreating to the basement, cuddling and crying.

Eight.

You are awoken by a rhythmic sob: soft in volume, low in pitch. Were it not for the fact that it had wrenched you from a dream, the sound could be considered pleasant and musical. Looking over, you see Anna gone fetal and swaying to the beat of her cries.

You speak without asking for permission. “I was on a submarine with all the kids from the Beyond. People were coming for us, a navy from an unknown enemy. Most of the crew, the kids, boarded the escape pods and the fled. They thought that staying on the ship was a death sentence. But Inky and I stayed. I can't say what our reasons were but they were solid. A few other equally convinced fools remained below decks to guard the cargo. Sid left with the cowards but I forgave her immediately. She needed to make sure the younger sailors didn't hurt themselves. She left me in charge.”

“Even though we knew they were coming, it was still shocking. How do you board a submarine when it's underwater? Yet somehow it happened and they were among us, squealing and squawking. They were human mostly except for their skin, it had kind of a greenish transparent look to it. You could see the heart beating through their see through chests if you weren't careful. It made them hard to look at which in turn made them harder to fight. I think I fought for most of the battle or slaughter or whatever it was. Eventually, I fled in a panic to some sort of hiding place. The blood splattering on the walls and dripping onto the floor overwhelmed my identity, my sense of who I was. After a time, I came back to the world and crawled out from the pantry that had been my hiding place.”

“The decks were piled high with bodies, so much that I had to climb and slide my way over the carnage back to the control room. When I did I was amazed to find not a single corpse or so much as a speck of blood on anything in the main cabin. That's when Sid returned, the traitor sailors hiding under her skirt. They asked me how the battle had gone and I told them everyone had died. Aghast, Sid went about the ship to see for herself. I sat and stared at the palms of my hands which were creepily free of gore. My body, which had only moments ago been hip deep in entrails, bore no trace of the violence.”

“After an immeasurable amount of time, Sid returned to inform me that the rest of the crew who had stayed behind were alive and well. There were no foreign sailors on board and we were ready to move on. When Inky came up from below I was immediately saddened. It wasn't really him, though it looked and acted like it. He said that the invaders had gotten close to the ship then had turned and fled. With a smile he told the captain that our weapons were so efficient and so imposing that we didn't even have to fire them.”

“I wanted to reiterate my story, wanted to tell them that those things they thought were our crew were tricksters but what could I do? I shrugged and told Sid that I had just been pulling her leg, that my tales of war had all been lies. She didn't seem very amused and neither was I. So I demoted myself to sweeping the decks and keeping my mouth shut. I knew the dopplegangers would be watching me. It was better to be on the move than stuck behind a chair.”

Anna flips over to face you. She touches your face lightly with her hand. “Is this a dream you had?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a good one.”

You stare at the ceiling. She rolls up next to you and kisses you on the cheek. Her breath is hot with the smell of tears. Lightly, you push her away.

“What are you doing?”

“Being whittled down by grief. How about you?”

“Feeling a bit confused. Didn't we go through this once before, when Inky was still alive?”

She wipes her nose on the sheets. “Yes and now everything about truth, fairness and betrayal matter even less. Sex is catharsis.”

You tuck your hands underneath your head. “Okay. I'll get right on that kind of thinking. Couldn't kicking you out of my house also serve that same impulse?”

She rolls on top of you. “Yes but that would be disconnecting. Sex and friendship are reconnecting. Which is going to serve you better after losing such a close friend?”

“I only knew him for three days.”

“And in those days you grew close. I know. I saw it. I felt it.” Again, she caresses your face lightly with an open hand. “He had never made a friend before me, you know. That made me jealous as hell. Inky was mine. I rescued him from the forest and his dirty old uncles. I brought him to the flow and pulse of civilization.”

“Look where that got him.”

“Should I have left him and his dreadlocks out there to rot in the woods?”

“Sounds like he had food, stories and video games. I'm not sure how much else a man needs, particularly if he's never known anything else. If ignorance is bliss then amnesia is a second chance at childhood.”

“Fuck that. Grown men don't get to wear diapers and don't get to spend fifteen hours a day sleeping. I bet he told the angel of death that he was thrilled to have the chance to meet both of us and he found being melted in plastic goo to be interesting or some shit like that.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

She leans an elbow on your chest and exhales heavily. “I got a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. I can't even remember where I was going. Probably just out driving angry, you know? I was doing a terrible job of changing it when I desperately needed to take a pee. So I wandered off into the woods a bit to take care of business. Why I bothered, I have no idea because I hadn't seen another car for hours. I could have just gone on the side of the road. It was modesty for my own sake, I guess or just more boredom. So there I was, squatting down by a tree, and Inky sneaked up all silent and said 'hello', looking at me like I was an abstract painting on the wall of a museum or some crazy shit like that. I leapt up so quick that I peed all over my pants - which were still around my ankles. Very romantic. I got him to help me finish changing my tire. He had no idea what he was doing but he was cute and strong so it didn't matter really. The whole time he told me a story about a purple flower.”

You interrupt her. “Do you remember it?”

Her eyes dart to a corner and she pauses. “Not really. I think it was about a hermit who lived on a mountain and guarded the secret of eternal life or something. It had a hard Inky moral to it like live life to the fullest or enjoy the small things or something like that. But definitely told in the usual stark no bullshit prose of a man who is really one year old.” She drops her head onto your chest. “Or was one year old, I guess.”

“He told me that same story. Told me that one day he would tell me his version of it.” You smooth her hair back.

Slowly, she creeps up towards your head, all the while rubbing lightly on your arm. Several eternities pass in the space of three breaths, then she kisses you again.

...

The sun peeks through your window, sanding back the layers of sleep from your eyelids. Your mind leads you immediately to the death of Inky and then to the fact that you had sex with his girlfriend six hours after he died. You're not quite sure how you should feel about that fact, so you creep out of bed slowly. In all your efforts to be sneaky, it's only after you're out of the bed that you realize Anna isn't in it.

“So much for that.”

Your mother hollers down from upstairs. “What?”

“Nothing mom, just talking to myself.”

“Well close your door next time so I know the call isn't for me.”

It takes you a moment to hunt down all your clothes from the tangle of bedsheets. The shirt is too funky to wear again, so you grab a new one. Afraid of what Anna and your mother might be talking about upstairs, you tip toe your way up. Again you find her not there. Your mother has her tarot cards spread out across the table.

“You seen Anna?”

“Yeah. She left about an hour ago, when the sun came out.”

“Did she take her car?”

“When are you planning on getting my car from wherever you left it?”

“Don't answer my question with a question, please.”

She looks up from the five of wands. “No. The rain may have stopped but there is still too much water sitting in the streets for any sane person to drive through. She told me she'd come get her car later.”

You sit down. “Which means when I'm not here.”

She puts another card down. “She didn't say that but she did seem to be in a shadowy mood. What you'd do to her?”

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Okay. Your turn now. Where's my car?”

“Wow. I've never known you to care so much about the old hunk of metal. Do I get any sort of slack for the fact that a friend of mine died in an explosion today or is it straight back to work?”

“I thought you got fired.”

“How'd you know?”

“Oh, whats her name called a couple of times, said they were hiring at some other location. I told her that you probably weren't interested. You were too busy running around with your video game friends.”

“Thanks for making that decision for me.”

“Isn't it true?” She flips over another card, examines it carefully and then scrunches her face in a deep look of concentration. “You don't actually like making pizza for minimum wage, do you?”

“It's hardly a job fit for a king.”

“It's a knight, not a king.”

You glance over at the card at your mother's red fingertips to see the knight of cups, up side down. “Great. Well I figure I'll get your car just as soon as I can get a ride out to the middle of no where which might be a while now. Maybe whats her face can give me a ride.”

“Your old boss? She seemed kind of mad when I told her you weren't interested in the job.”

“Well it's all about your car at this point, so I should just suck it up and face her wrath, right?” You begin walking around the kitchen in search of food.

“You'd think the king could just order someone to give him a ride.”

“Yeah, or the knight could just commandeer a vehicle from a peasant.”

“Does this mean you won't be paying me any rent this month?”

You slam a few random cabinets, including the one full of the dishes that nobody ever uses. “Wow. What's got you all business serious all of a sudden?”

Your mother sweeps up the cards and begins to shuffle. “Would you like a reading?”

“I think the medium may be slightly unfavorable to me at the moment - so no, thanks. I think I'll go for a walk and, you know - mourn the loss of my friend and stuff.”

“Just don't let Joanne see you go out. I swear, if that woman had a gun she might shoot me down from the roof.”

You walk towards the garage. “I'll see about getting her one.”

“Thanks, GL.”

While slipping on your waders, you see that the other pair is gone. “Nice of her to steal our boots.”

Again, your mother's voice floats over to you. “What?” Ignore.

You hobble over, the rubber overalls halfway on and slam the door shut. Walking outside reveals both the ebb and destruction of the flood. Several of the freshly planted or smaller trees in the neighborhood have been uprooted and crammed into the drainage system. Trash cans, recycle bins and lawn furniture are scattered about like a giant insane child had a play date with ten of its enormous friends. Little groups of people are scurrying this way and that picking up the debris and sharing stories. Something about your demeanor keeps them from approaching you.

“Good. Let them scrape their petty lives back together.” The words exit your mouth and you - or at least some portion of yourself - are surprised by your own grim sentiment.

Everything in town is connected in wetness. Before, where there were intersections and blocks there are creeks and ponds. Despite the destruction, there is a certain sadness to the recession of the water, like when the drifts of winter snow melt back to isolated pockets and then to nothing. There is a sick satisfaction at seeing the complexity modern life ground to a stop by the simplicity of a storm: a destructive itch finally scratched. No matter how high the building, or how noble the cause, nature can destroy it.

The walk is long. Twice you have to skirt new lakes, unwilling to swim your way across. Finally, you spot a couple of kids on a canoe. They're eyes light up with recognition.

“Hey! Aren't you the dude who won the tournament the other night?”

The other boy chirps. “Yeah. That was totally awesome, man! The way you got that big dude at the end and you both blew up from the dynamite. Amazing.”

You grit your teeth. “Yeah, I'd almost forgotten. Thanks for reminding me how great I am at blowing people up. So. Want to give me a ride to the Beyond?”

They grin widely at one another, obviously thrilled that the great GL would honor them with his presence. “Yeah! Hop on, man!”

The boat ride probably takes longer than walking would have, as the boys have to avoid the dry areas of town. However, you get to lay back and let someone else do all the work. Draping your hand over your eyes to shield them from the sun, you doze off.

...

“Is he awake?”

“I think so. Should we knock on the door or what?”

“I guess. It's like halfway underwater though and all the lights are off. There's no way anyone is inside.”

You snap open one eye. Their description is accurate enough. The front door to the Beyond is submerged. “The weight of the water would stop you from opening it anyway.”

Sid's voice rings out from above. “Guess what, mates? We're closed. Time to go fish somewhere else.”

The boys hang their heads in submission and get ready to row away but you still their hands.

You chortle quietly beneath your elbow. “And how, oh mighty Sid, might we mere mortals gain your favor again? Are we but dust in the eyes of the goddess on high? What have you seen that has made you retreat to your roof and abandon us to the eternal waters? Do you not recognize and honor GL, the hero of Lock Down and Burning Empires?”

“If you are truly GL then why are you laying down like a sick man in a boat with children? Why do you look like you have not slept in days? Why is your face red with sadness? Why do you speak with a voice that is weakened and haggard?” Sid comes into view as she squats down on the edge of the roof.

“And why should I not be this way? How could I not be broken by the cruel world and beaten by the people who fritter unto death on its dirty surface? My friend, who was raised in the forest by wild men, who was schooled in the ways of society by a lonely and desperate girl, who helped me defeat the mighty Cedar in combat, who endured with grace what would have shattered another man, was killed senselessly today. He burned to death in that modern fluorescent lit tomb, the hospital. And so I ask you again, how could I not be haggard by this?”

Sid props her head up on her forearms. You're not sure if she heard anything you said, as her eyes are boring deep into the lake that surrounds you. She lowers her voice a bit. “Good questions, mate - to which I have no answers.”

The boys next to you are obviously confused. “What did he ask?”

“It's called rhetoric and unless you can spin some equally interesting and compelling response then you have no excuse for not being here earlier this morning to help me dig all the computers out before the flooding ruined them all.” She stands up and becomes two feet taller than she possibly can be. Her eyes split all the molecules of air between her and the two rowers. “Where were you, boys? Where were you when I needed you?”

One squeaks. The other speaks, in a voice whipped by fear. “We were at home with our families. It wasn't safe out here.”

She sits back down, unimpressed. “What is more important, your safety or your ability to play a quality video game with good friends? How will you improve without a place to test your skills? Where will you be without a group of peers to push you? And how will you know your place in the world without a high score list to validate you?” She adds a grin at the end, for your benefit.

The boys are struck silent. One turns to you, begging with his eyes to give the order to leave. You ignore him a little more than is necessary.

Sid turns her softened but still vicious laser eyes in your direction. “I heard you beat Cedar. Now what?”

“Is Tim's place open?”

Sid disappears from the edge. Her voice floats away. “How the hell should I know? For that matter, why the fuck should I care? Take the ferry and find out.”

The boys both breathe a sigh of relief and start rowing. You let them spin their oars for a minute.

“Wrong way, guys. We're headed to The Ship Wreck, remember?”

“Uh... no?”

The other boy punches him in the shoulder, hard. “But GL, weren't you kicked out of there?” The sound of paddling barely keeps silence at bay, making them both uncomfortable. As a lurching after thought, desperate for a response the boy adds “Sir?”

“Why the hell do you know that, kid?”

“Word gets around, sir. Gamers are a tight community. I couldn't say who told me but I heard about it from somebody. We all heard about it. How sweet is it to mop up a tournament and then get kicked out? Total style.”

You cover your eyes from the sun. “Yeah, pretty stylish. But now how am I going to get back in?”

There is no response and the sound of the water spirals you gently back to sleep, where you dream of screaming ghosts and descending into a madness made of tears.

...

“We can't get any closer. This part of town is totally dry.”

“Why does he want back in that place anyway?”

You sit up too quickly and your vision kaleidoscopes into gray for a moment. The boys are staring at you, waiting for some words of insight.

“I don't know. I'm just spinning really. The wheels will fly off soon, I'm sure.”

They continue jawing at you, clearly unsatisfied by your solipsistic remark. You grab a baseball hat from one of their heads and drop a ten dollar bill in the boat. “What are your names?”

“I'm Abe.”

“I'm Shane.”

You smile. “I have a friend name Shane who can beat me in any game ever made.”

They dance uncertainly with shock. “No?” Something clicks and they give each other five. “That's awesome. Can we meet him?”

“Sure. Just drive North for about twenty hours through dark woods, find the hidden cave entrance, beg for mercy and dive in blind.”

Abe's lower lip flops doubtfully. “He lives in a cave?”

Shane corroborates. “In the woods?”

“More or less. You boys wait for me here. I'll be back.”

They beach the canoe on some grass and lay down their oars. You walk away, immediately aware of the fact that this part of town has been kicked in the throat. Windows are smashed. Electronics have been pulled into the streets, their circuit board vitals and wiry entrails running from curb to curb. Cars sit off kilter with multiple slashed tires and demolished wind shields. The party must be over because you don't hear any one moving.

After a block of extending your awareness, you're sure that at least two slippery figures are following you. If these are the old folk from the Ship Wreck, they're going to recognize you. You slip into an alley way that leads to a partially flooded parking lot and find a nice thick mud puddle. Plunging your hands in, you smear your hair and face with gritty dirt.

Emerging as mud man, you don't see any threats. The rest of the three blocks are a tenuous but uneventful journey. There are two guards in front of the building, one with a shotgun and the other hefting an absurdly long pistol. They nod at you in acknowledgment.

“Ho there stranger. Keep your distance unless you're planning on paying to play.”

Half crouched behind the corner of a ransacked laundry mat, you holler back at them. “Now there's an entrance fee?”

The man with the shotgun takes a step forward. Though he is fifty feet away, the weapon still makes your stomach feel funny. “Keeps away the riff raff, you know? Five bucks and we get to keep any weapons you're carrying.”

“What's the game for today?”

This time it's the man with the pistol who responds. “The boss found an old RPG called Caves of the Scorpion or some shit like that. All the geezers are trying to see who can beat it first. They've been playing for a couple of hours though, so you'd have to be a real dumb shit to buy in now.”

“We'll see.” You walk forward with your hands clasped wisely on top of your head.

The man with the pistol sheathes his weapon and pads you down. When he finds your wallet, he slides it out, takes out five dollars and replaces it. He motions that you can put your hands down. “What the fuck happened to your face, boy?”

“It seemed like a good day for a Halloween costume.”

“So you decided to dress up as a dumb fuck who fell head first into the mud?” He chortles gleefully at his own joke.

You let your hands come down. “Yeah, I'd never seen it done before.”

The fat man with the shotgun snickers and opens the door for you. “Try your luck, muddy.”

Nine.

The interior has increased in grimness: physically, the decor is identical but emotionally everything has gone wrong. Most people rise as you enter the building and those who don't darken their brows with suspicion. All attention comes to an aggressively focused point on the center of your forehead. There is animosity without limit and no recognition.

A withered fist pumps somewhere in the back of the tavern, accompanied by a frail voice. “We've waited so long for the legend and now he is here.” There is a faint cough as every pair of murderous eyes bores deeper into your skull. “All hail king shit face!”

Guffaws and hollers spout all around clearing the atmosphere, making you the ignored stranger. Pleased at your dirtily cheap disguise, you approach the bar. Tim looks intently in your direction and shows you his teeth. His beard has become fuzzy around the edges, but he's more than made up for it through the increased sharpness of his stare.

Fearing blown cover, you stare down at the map beneath the glass counter, pretending to examine it carefully. Unable to think of a different angle, you find yourself speaking like Inky. “Where is the map from?”

Tim slaps his towel down on the counter. It makes you jump an inch from your stool. “Tell you what, kid. I'll pretend like I don't know who you are if you give me twenty dollars right now. I figure that's a pretty good deal for me to ignore you breaking your word and coming in here risking a lynching.”

The smell of burgers hits the air. “Tell you what - you chip in a burger we'll call it a deal.”

His face wrinkles with joy as he places his rag back on his shoulder. “Boy, you truly deserve the title of king shit face.” His face drains quite suddenly of all emotion, leaving a statue of an old man with an extended wooden hand. “The money, now.”

You reach into your wallet and find the envelop from your Burning Empires winnings. Smelling a certain flavor of cyclical irony, you take it out and put it into his hand. Returning no reaction, he takes a twenty out of the envelope and hands it back to you. “Keep the change.” Stoic and stiff, he writes out an order on a pad and rips off the paper. “Don't do anything stupid or I'll burn you so fast there won't be any smoke.” He turns around and slides the order through the kitchen window. The vaguely familiar sour square of a woman snatches the paper and sends off a sulfurous sigh.

Tim scans the tavern. When he is done he passes you a glass of water. “Where's your tee totaling friend?”

“He's dead.”

Tim takes the water glass back, dumps it in the drain and fills it with a rich dark beer from the tap. “That makes you one of us then, does it?” The glass looks too heavy to lift.

“No.” You place your hand around it, enjoying the coldness that creeps into your palm, through the wrist and all the way up you arm. Finally, the sensation ends with a tingling in your ear.

“Sadness is what makes young men into old, regardless of their age. It is what crushes the spirit, soaks the initiative and dulls the eyes. There is nothing more to life than to do and to be.”

Knowledge and belief switch places as you manage to lift the glass and take a sip of beer. You have found an oasis in the desert. “So what's to be and do when your best friend has died so pointlessly in the fires of modern indifference?”

Tim sits down. “Why do you bounce between mockery and sarcasm? Do you know what it's like to feel anything human? Anything real?”

You turn around and survey the busy video game screens. Each man sits glued to his individually cultivated yet culturally identical world. “No. His death is a creeping shadow that holds it's own secret light source. When the sun comes up the invisibility of the emotion mocks me and when the darkness reigns again there is nothing but the sarcasm of a presence. It is a space that drains forever and never fills.”

He pours himself a beer. “Ever consider a career as a poet?”

You clink your glass to his. “Doesn't seem as lucrative as video game expert, but I'll definitely look into it.”

“You talk as if you feel, yet you walk as they do.” He points to the hunched figures yoked to their pixelated screens. “Care to introduce your one face to the other?”

“I don't know that I could.”

Tim taps his finger on the glass counter. “Keep going down the vein you've already accidentally chosen. Become your friend. He was a nail of honed honesty. But first, you should burn essence of yourself to a nub by joining the game with a two hour handicap and winning. Can you do it, kid?”

“I can't not do it.”

You swing lightly from the stool and walk towards the first console you see. The man playing is clearly on the edge of quitting. As you come to a stop behind his chair he predictably tosses the controller down on the table.

“This is bullshit. Guy tells me the stones are in here somewhere and they're not. They're just not here! Searching the whole fucking screen and they are not here. They're not anywhere!” He sees your reflection and spins around. With a snicker, he grabs the control and hands it to you. “Want to have a go there, shit face?”

You take the controller. “Wouldn't be fair to take over someone's game.” You quit his game.

“Whoa there captain big pants! You think you can just step in, quit a strangers game, start your own and join the competition just like that?” He stands up and brings himself toe to toe with you.

You walk around him and sit in the chair. “Yes.” You set the beer down carefully.

“Ten points right off the bat for balls the size of boulders! What're you drinking? I'll make sure they keep coming.”

You finish generating your character. “He didn't say.” You point to the glass. “The dark stuff.”

“Brave and ignorant. Now there is a winning asshole of a combination.” He walks off towards the bar.

Within moments, you become the banished king of the city of Haven. Your subjects have dethroned you out because a horrible disease has crawled across the land. It's on your watch, so you're to blame. No doubt you forgot to burn the proper incense on the steps of some long forgotten temple of a long forsaken god, though no one seems to know the exact cause. So you plied all the doctors with gold, beseeched the priests with prayers and even tried bribing the magicians with bat wings. Nothing worked – it was too late. With over half the city dead and bodies piling up in the cobbled streets, you are thrown out by the council of elders, told never to return unless you're dead, holding a cure or both.

The plague is spread by crows. The fiendish birds are granted intelligence as well as malevolence when infected by the bug. They actively seek to poison humanity, as well as all other forms of life as the disease makes them smarter and stronger as both individuals and a group. The bigger the murder of crows, the better – as far as the birds can tell. The cut scene intro passes.

The opening fight scene of the game is you beating down a group of crows with a sling and the royal sword. The basic strategy involves finding cover in the forest and picking off the birds one by one as they stupidly swoop into your alcove.

Your critic's mind begins to analyze. In a lot of fantasy games, there is a big bad guy. He hears about you, the hero, decides you are nuisance and sends the weakest of his minions in your direction. Over time, you become more than a thorn in his side and develop into an acorn in his ear so he sends incrementally more difficult baddies in your direction. Finally, you become an oak tree in his brain and end up fighting him, and he's the toughest of the lot but of course you beat him because he was dumb enough to let you build up your skills and equipment incrementally. Yeah, it doesn't make a ton of sense, because eventually he would reach some sort of breaking point and decide you were becoming an actual threat and go out himself and crush you before you found the super powerful sword that can defeat him.

No such problem in this game, where the enemy is moving along the same arc as you are, gradually becoming more powerful. The more the birds spread the disease, the smarter they become and the more of them there are.

“So why is it called Caves of the Scorpion?”

As you ask this of the screen, the guy who was playing the game comes back with a couple of beers. “It's uhm.. where you find out the cure is or something... or really that the cure is a scorpion who lives in a cave named after him but he's all super old or evil or magical or hell I don't know I didn't figure it out really but he's definitely the key to the whole game.”

“Well, duh. They didn't name the game 'beer cozy' now did they?”

“What's the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That there isn't much misdirection in game titles.”

“Hey, uh well, you gotta drink that beer if you want the next one.” He takes a sip of one of the glasses. “Otherwise I'm gonna drink it before it skunks. That's a serious matter, you know, not letting beer getting warm. I know men who've been killed for less.”

You lower you voice. “Alright. As fascinating as your party rules are, what tips can you give me here at the start of the game.”

He looks at the beer, then at you. “Show me your inventory, shit face.”

Obligingly, you bring up the screen that shows the digital doll of your character, complete with trinkets and clothes. Your beer drinking companion squints and hums along to the game music.

“Christ, man. I'm already two hours behind. This isn't time for name that tune. Just give me the shortcut to the next piece of the puzzle.”

“Well looks like you already got the letter from the townsfolk...”

“Yeah. You start with that, remember? It's been what, five minutes since you played the game? Maybe you better have both those beers. In fact, I insist you take mine. I recommend you drink them both at once, as the alcohol is more likely to work that way. Try putting a straw in each one, duct taping them together and sucking as hard as possible - I promise it'll work as you clearly already know how to suck.” You flip out of the menu and back to the action screen.

He laughs. “Good one. No, I was just thinking. There was a whistle in the beginning of the game that I never did get. The thing is, I didn't really need it to get into the caves, so I figured - fuck it. But uhm... maybe that's the piece I was missing, right? The witch doctor told me about it or maybe it was another villager... have you found the witch doctor?”

“No.”

“He lives in a hut, kind of in the southern section of the woods.”

You bring up the map screen. “Where?”

He hums along to the music again. When you give him the stink eye he sighs and points vaguely to an area. “Uh... around there I think.”

“Alright. And is he the one who tells you where the caves are, too?”

“No.. uhm... you've got to do tons of stuff before you even find out about the caves. He just sells you healing potions and tells you about this whistle thing oh and he does a super sweet dance. Ever notice how incredible those little pixelated characters can be when they dance? Amazing, I tell you. Fucking amazing.”

“So where are the rest of the quests?” You spot a two story bamboo house nestled in the trees and head for it. A figure swings down from the second story on a vine, lands on the ground and comes dancing out towards you.

“They're in the village north of here. Oh man, oh man. Check him out! This dude is so sweet. God damn! Scope the way he bangs that stick on the ground and turns his masked head. And the jumps! Look at the little jumps he does! Oh man... the jumps.”

You sniff the air. “You didn't by chance go get high before coming back here, did you?”

Without looking, you can tell he is now sitting up straight scanning the room for possible narcs. “Maybe. I mean... uh... dude? Is that a problem for you?”

“Other than the fact that it's slowing you down? No. But I'm wondering if you're aware of the fact that you're talking like a 16 year old.”

He clears his throat guiltily. “Yeah. So I got a little high. I was frustrated with the game, alright? I just need to chill.”

“Alright. Well chill by continuing to feed me whatever you learned in the first couple hours of play, will you?”

“Sure, man. Sure.”

“You're right, though. That dance is pretty sweet. I like that he keeps doing it even though he's talking as if he's all pissed off. There's no way any human being could dance like that and be angry.” You follow the path north to the village. “Maybe he's not human!”

“You never know man. Maybe he's the scorpion.”

The next half hour passes with your stoned companion feeding you all the quests in the village. Soon you've got the whistle, the whip, a new map, a couple of keys and all sorts of other quest items that you had to hustle back and forth between the farmer, the potter, the princess and everyone else who has more than one line of dialog.

“So how come the people in this village aren't getting hit by the plague?”

“Uhm.. well, they don't have as much crap in their gutters as Haven does. Maybe the crows just aren't interested.”

You mumble, unsatisfied by the guess. “Alright. Time to head for the caves, right?”

“Yeah, and in like half the time it took me. Course, I didn't get there so I won't uh... be much use to you anymore, I guess.”

“Well, you're sounding like less of a moron. That's good, right?”

“Thanks. You make a guy want to sneak back into the alley for another hit, shit face.”

On your way out of the village, you click on the witch doctor one more time. He does his little dance and delivers his final speech of good luck to you. “Thank you, king, for all you have done for my village. Your good deeds will live on in our memories for generations. I beg you to abandon your quest. The people of Haven banished you. Live with us here and bask in our adoration. The caves, they are full of death. Know that I can see the future, king. You can choose life with us here in the village or death amongst the people of Haven.”

The only response you are offered is “I'll return with the cure.” Ten minutes later, you're inside the caves. From what you gathered in talking to the villagers, there are seven different caves, each one darker and more dangerous than the last. “So how far did you get?”

“The second room. You'll see. There aren't any doors at all. Just some old dude that mutters on and on about the secret musical stones.”

The first room is a simple battle between you and the crows. Some of the crows are getting bigger and learning how to manipulate objects better. You can already see that in the future some of them are going to learn how to hold weapons, not just throw rocks. The strategy, however, is always the same: divide and conquer.

You enter the second room, and there sits an old man. Indeed, when you click on him a few times, he goes on and on about secret musical stones that will reveal the entrance to the next room.

Without exploring the room at all, you blow the whistle. Poof! A wall of the cave slides away, revealing an entrance and leaving behind a pile of stones. You pick them up and the description tells you that they make delightful music when clacked together. The old man walks up to you and asks for the stones. Knowing generosity always pays off in video games, you give up your new item. In return, he gives you a more powerful sword. No doubt it isn't necessary to have but better blades are never bad.

“That's it? Aww man. I shoulda got that god damn whistle!”

...

Three hours later, you are struggling with the puzzle on the entrance to what you suspect is the chamber leading to the Scorpion King. It's some horrible math problem couched in a base eight counting system. As you are hashing through your solution on a soggy napkin, you hear a shout from across the room. “I'm there, suckers! I'm at the Scorpion King!”

Groans of disappointment echo throughout the bar.

Your companion, now thoroughly drunk on the beer he keeps buying for 'you', shouts back. “That fucker's gonna sting your ass all the way back to Haven!”

There is scattered laughter and other, even less impressive attempts at heckling. Doing your best to ignore them, you punch in what you feel is a pretty decent guess. From the sound of it, you don't have much time left.

You got it. The door opens. The Scorpion King's throne room opens before you. He is a large pale skinned man with long black hair, flanked by a pair of crow men who are carrying giant flaming swords. The whole room is swarming with clouds of the increasingly nasty birds. The standard villain speech ensues.

“Welcome to doom, mortal. You've made it this far. I am impressed, though filled with the sad knowledge that your efforts mean nothing. You traveled through the darkness of my seven caves and slew my many pets. You have proved that you are, like me, an instrument of death.”

“Amusing then, that you are here to save your people from their fated demise. Why? Will they not all die someday? Why not give them the glory of raising these poor animals to the level of gods?” He raises his pixelated hands towards his crow companions. “In this their deaths could have meaning. But no, you have tried so valiantly to give your peons their petty squirming lives back. You - a king - who knows action, death and valor. They, peasants who fight over maggot infested bread. Yet you want to see them grow old and infirm. Touching, I suppose. And if you do, will you be remembered as a good king for adding a few years to their miserable lives? Does that matter to you – how you will be remembered, knowing that you too, will die one day - a death as pointless and mechanical as all the rest of the men who live within the walls of your dying city?”

“Remember, king. These are the men who blame you for the plague. You and I both know the responsibility lies with the gods. And yet by seeking their cure, you accept the guilt as your own when you know it is truly their guilt. Why? Accept your role as a disciple of death instead. Join us.”

The only response you are offered is. “Prepare to die.” Typical heroic directness.

A fairly large crowd has gathered by whoever else is close to completing the game. You hope it's making that might be winner nervous. Pushing it out of your mind, you use all your power ups in preparation for the battle.

The two crow men hit hard. You quickly discover the key is to get them to over swing with their swords and then come in quick and give them a quick slash in the back. Their weapons are so heavy it takes them quite a bit of time to recover from a miss. The trouble is, since there are two of them you have to keep them far enough apart so that one can't get you while you're back stabbing the other. Meanwhile, the Scorpion King sits haughtily in his throne made of human femurs, his arms across his chest with indifferent arrogance. Every once in a while he picks up a skull from a pile sitting next to him and hurls it at you. In a yawningly familiar video game fashion, the skulls explode into fiery bits. Usually, the lobbing occurs while you are going to get your attack in on one of the crow guards.

You don't dare look over and see how your competitor is doing.

Using the pattern, you manage to kill one of the crows. Once one is dead, you're thrilled at the prospect of how easy the second will be. Unfortunately, the swarms of regular crows now hop into the mix, dive bombing you at your most compromised moments. During a particularly hairy attack, you decide to try out the flaming sword you picked up from the crow man. It does beautifully, lighting half the birds on fire and scaring off the rest.

Soon after that you discover that the fire is completely ineffective on the surviving crow man. So now you've got to keep switching weapons, which leads to a couple of annoying fumbling incidents. You consider trying to wipe out all the regular crows but give it up when you notice they are pouring from a nearby river of darkness whose source apparently knows no limits. It's yet another battle of split focus and the Scorpion King seems to be growing both more frequent and more accurate with his flame skull tosses.

Finally, you rid yourself of the other sword wielding bird man. There is a cackling from the bone throne. With a wave of his hand, the king banishes the host of crows. Now it's just you versus the boss. Of course, there's a final speech.

“To fight me is folly. I am immortal. I have lived more decades than you have days. But perhaps you wonder why they call me the Scorpion King?”

It's a rhetorical question, because you're not offered a chance to respond. He simply turns into a giant Scorpion, complete with pinchy claws and a giant swollen stinger. It's time to bob, weave and find the weakness.

Your regular sword does no damage to him. The flaming sword keeps him at bay but is so effective at doing so you can't get close enough to hit him. Plus, when you wave it around he resorts to repeated attempts at stinging you. The stinger is super easy to dodge though. The tell for the stinger is obvious - a full two seconds before he goes to attack the entire thorax sinks about a foot.

Five minutes later you're hurling his own pile of skulls at him. Each time, he catches them in his claws and crushes them. It looks cool and makes you wish you had a giant scorpion as a friend to play catch with when you little up but it's just as ineffective as everything else you've attacked him with. His health bar remains woefully full.

There is a groan of defeat from across the room. You smile, knowing victory has moved from the possible to the probable. No doubt the checkpoint is when you enter the room so your opponent will have to battle the two crow men again, giving you a serious advantage. If only you could figure out how to put a dent in this damn boss.

Your beer assistant stands up on his chair to get a view of your troubled competitor. From his drunken perch, he begins a shouting commentary. “Oh shit. Check out the tidal wave of poison! The walls have gone and turned purple on him! How can he even see with that shit going on? And another sting! That can't be good for the digestion. Wham! Every little square on the screen is rotting eggplant shade of toxic!” He purposely spills some beer on the floor. “For all my slowly dying kings out there.”

Savoring the feel of victory, you lapse a bit and get swatted by a claw. It takes about half your life force away. “Sit down and shut up, already. You're breaking up my game play.”

The stalemate rages on. You begin looking for odd areas of the room. There could be a special place you have to get him to - a pit trap. If he is truly invincible then the only way to beat him must be to blockade him off. Trouble is, the room is largely featureless except for the throne, the pile of skulls, the river of blackness and the columns you were hiding behind when you were fighting the two crow men.

There is a hopeful outburst from across the way. “Right there! Go up, go up!”

You look over at your assistant, who is sheepishly locked into his seat, looking like a neglected dog who has crapped on the living room floor and is just waiting for his master to get home and beat him with a newspaper. “Get up. See what's going on over there.”

Slowly, he unlatches his fingers from the chair and begins to tip toe across the room. You feel victory slipping away. The throne has got all sorts of switches on it but they are just background decoration. You can't do a damn thing to them.

“He's escaping up some staircase. The whole screen is purple, his life bar is running down and there's some kind of timer. The controls are all funky on him too, I think it's part of being poisoned.”

You slump in your chair. “The witch doctor said I'd come back dead.” You move your avatar over to the Scorpion. “Who knew my own damn reflexes would keep me from the next piece of the plot!” You stomp the floor and shout at the game. “Come on you son of a bitch, sting me.”

Defying you, the creature spends the next minute trying to pinch and step on you. Meanwhile, a rising tide of players are abandoning their games and heading over to the increasingly loud other side of the room.

“Who is it? Who's over there?”

“Fucking Cedar, who else?”

At that moment, you get stung. The poison makes your Y axis controls flip, so that now pressing up makes you look down and vice versa. Having always despised inverted controls, you grumble irritably and wait for the next attack. It comes shortly, fixing the Y axis but flipping the X. This change is completely unfamiliar and far more disabling.

You walk right into a claw, losing half your life in the process. The Scorpion King cackles joyfully as you down a healing potion. He then returns to a pattern of not stinging for about a full minute, leaving you desperately chanting to yourself. “Right is left and left is right.”

The third sting arrives and the game immediately slips into a cut scene. Changing back to human form and calmly sitting back on his throne, the king interlaces his fingers and surveys the room thoughtfully. “Perhaps in your last moments of life you can redeem yourself.” He flips a switch on his throne, which uncovers a secret door in the cave behind him. “For a brief moment, there is beauty in mortality. Everything hinges on a single moment because soon... your life will end. Now I've again given you the chance to have some meaning in your death. Can you make it in time?”

The scene ends, and you try to rush towards the door. Except now, the forward and backwards controls have been flipped, so you end up walking into a column behind you. There is now a timer in the upper right corner of your screen, it's descending from six minutes. Your life bar is green and slowly dwindling.

You make your way to the new exit. There is a tight, curling stairway headed sharply upward. After about thirty seconds of travel, your character vomits some bright orange colored smears onto the stone floor. When you go to continue, the forward/backward controls have reverted to normal, but the X axis has switched again. Plus now, some stairs seem to have gone missing, revealing nasty and time wasting drops to the level below. The sickness happens again and this time the attack and jump buttons are switched. Hilarity ensues when you swing your sword at empty space.

The people of the Ship Wreck have begun to countdown from 10. There may be hope yet. If Cedar has fumbled exiting the caves, he'll have to start over from the cut scene. And here come the crows. Running on automatic, you jump into the first one instead of swinging your sword. It knocks you down, causing you to fall through a hole in the staircase and take a huge amount of damage.

“Fucker.”

The countdown reaches three and everyone starts cheering. Your screen as well as all the others in the building are now showing Cedar's game. It's the final cut scene. You let out a long sigh of defeat.

The witch doctor happily but not really happily dances over Cedar's version of the stumbling king, barely catching him as he falls.

“The king falls so the kingdom may live.” The witch doctor takes out a knife and makes a cut in the king's flesh next to one of the swollen scorpion stings. Taking out a leather pouch, he carefully catches the dripping black fluid.

The screen fades to black, then shows the king - dressed beautifully in purple robes and a golden crown - laying on a pallet of red roses. The camera pans back to reveal a funeral procession. The king is dead, and the people are celebrating. The camera moves again and zooms in on a nearby tent. There, the witch doctor is standing behind a wooden table, ladling out cups of hot broth from a giant black pot.

A young boy stands before the dancing doctor, holding out his hands. “What is it?”

“Poison.”

The boy recoils. “What?”

“Do not worry. In small amounts the poison is a cure. This broth contains three of the mighty Scorpion's stings. It will not hurt you. It will protect you. Your king has died so that you may live.”

The boy cries as he takes his cup. The controller feels cold and foreign in your hands. Breathing deeply, you hand it to your drunken companion, stand up and walk out of the building. The guards flanking you disinterestedly, you hear the crowd behind you chanting Cedar's name.

Ten.

The fantasy world of the Ship Wreck recedes, replaced by the reality of a broken neighborhood. Sensing the retinal tracers of unfriendly eyes, you walk purposefully to where the two rowers were last waiting. Your mind takes a nasty turn, projecting images of the young boys strung up and beaten with the oars from the canoe. To banish the daydream, you sprint your way back.

There they are, snoozing peacefully on what so recently was the shore of a great urban lake. The waters have receded massively in the last three hours, baked by the sun and drained by the recovering sewers. You lean over Shane's slumbering body.

“How shall we go now, brother? What waves can we ride when there is no tide?”

He wakes with a bleary eyed “Huh?”

“I said I think we'll have to carry the boat now.”

Abe is up and standing by your side. “What happened inside the arcade, sir?”

You put on a serious mask and look him in the eye. “I lost.”

Shane chews thoughtfully on the taste of waking from a nap. “My mom said that losing can be good for you. She says losing is when we learn the most and that's when we really start to grow. What do you think, GL?”

“Maybe if I lost more often I'd comprehend the lesson or maybe if I wasn't losing so much in so short a time I'd be able to pull the lesson out but for now, it seems to just suck real bad.” The two boys look confused. “You guys ready to carry the boat? Shouldn't be too bad with the three of us.”

They squiggle responsively and look oddly enthused about the task. Four blocks later, the three of you are laying on the ground panting with exhaustion.

“We have got to find some water.” Abe manages to squeeze out the words between ragged exhales.

A loop of rope peeks at you from a broken hardware-store window. You reach through the shattered glass and carefully extract it. “What if we tie this around the front and drag the boat?”

Shane shrugs. “It's going to scratch the bottom quite a bit, unless we stick to the grass and maybe whatever water we can find.”

You summon up your lost boy scout skills and square knot the rope to a metal eye hook on the front of the boat. The noise of metal on concrete is intolerable, forcing the three of you carry the boat for most of the way anyway. This forces many rests and grunts until you get to the lower parts of town, where there are plenty of pools to drag or even row the boat through.

One hour later, as the setting sun is turning the sky pink, you arrive at the boys house and are putting the boat in their garage. A happy, floppy eared dog, barks with joy to see the two of them returning.

“You guys live together?”

They exchange a conspiratorial look and speak in unison. “We're brothers.”

Abe puts a hand on his hip, protesting your lack of attention. “Don't we look alike?”

You spend an exaggerated moment examining them. “Not really.” You scratch your chin, noticing for the first time that you've forgotten to shave for the last few days. “I guess there is something in the shape of the nose and the way you tilt your heads.”

Shane gives Abe a friendly push. “We're not really brothers. Our parents are really good friends and we've known each other since we were babies, so sometimes we pretend to be real brothers.”

Abe gives the canoe a final push into its resting place. “But don't forget, Shane - I'm two months older than you.”

Shane gives him a light punch in the shoulder. “I'd almost forgotten since five minutes ago.”

Abe, like a great cat taunting its prey, pretends to lose interest. “Oh, right.” He takes two steps, then spins around suddenly, tackling Shane around the waist. Soon they are wrestling and laughing on the driveway. Your phone rings. Giving it the customary slap, you pull out the technological tether.

“The hospital called, said they found Inky's remains. If you want to identify them, they can't find any living relatives.” It's your mom.

“I'll be home in a bit.” You hang up the phone.

You look down at the rumble on the cement. “Thanks for the ride, guys. Maybe I'll see you at the Beyond.”

From the ground, they respond in chorus. “Bye GL.”

...

You pull the truck up on the shoulder, directly behind your mother's car. Swinging out of the drivers seat, you land solidly on your boots. Summoning up a light jog, you make your way around to the back of the pickup, snatch out one of the new tires and roll it towards the lonely slashed and sunken vehicle.

Leaning against the rusty and dirty beige family car, you see that a large square orange sticker has been plastered on the outside of the wind shield. Looking closer, you see that it says “Warning: This vehicle will be removed if it is not claimed within three days of the following date.” The sticker is dated four days ago. The tardiness of legal necessities in the middle of nowhere makes you smile. You open the door and press the trunk button. From there you dig through piles of pamphlets and phone books, eventually locating the jack underneath an instruction manual for a rice cooker made twenty years ago.

...

Three tire changes done amd you decide it's time for a break. You fire up a cigarette and walk into the forest, curious to see if you can find the old campsite. The woods envelope you, cooling the air and clearing your mind. You stop and look up at the light filtering through the canopy, amused by the notion of being able to stare at the sun safely - even if it is through greenery.

There is a crunch of footsteps. You bring yourself back to the present moment, anticipating a charging bull emerging from the woods.

A soft and tangentially familiar voice creeps into your ears. “Hello, stranger. What brings you to these woods?”

You don't see anyone yet. Happy to let things remain mysterious, you make no move to approach the source. “I thought I'd see if my campsite was still around.”

A short old man with long thick gray hair emerges from around a thicket, letting out a disapproving grunt as he does so. “Still there. There was little effort to cover the fire.”

You swallow guiltily. “Yeah. Sorry about that. We had to leave in a big hurry. My buddy got bit by a snake.”

He squats down and examines a non-descript patch of mushrooms. He plucks one out of the grouping and nonchalantly pops it in his mouth. “This happens sometimes, though there is no snake in these woods with poison strong enough to kill a man.”

“It was a bad night for injuries.”

He is satisfied with your explanation and stands back up. “I will walk you to the camp site.”

You follow him. Where he moves quickly, you are snagged. Where he moves slowly, you are stopped. Twice he has to offer you a hand and pull you from the underbrush.

“Are you sure this is the way? It didn't seem that far off the road last week.”

“One can never be sure.” He grabs a branch and pushes it up. With ease surprising for his apparent age, he ducks under and continues to hold it for you.

You bend over, trip on an unseen stump and stumble your way into familiar territory.

“I think we came in from a different direction.”

“The heavy rains inspired sudden growth. Strange rains, those were.” He sits down on a patch of moss and rubs his hands together. “Why do you suppose the rain came down so hard that day?”

“Do I look like the weather man?”

He takes the question seriously. “I was looking for conjecture, not certainty. No offense meant.”

“None taken.”

“Why did you come to these woods and camp?” He cracks his knuckles one at a time.

“My friend wanted to show me his home.”

The old man claps his hands loudly and several birds take frightened flight at the sound. “A traveler returns. That is the nature of story, is it not? Returning.”

You sit down on the ground, remembering all the effort you put into changing three tires. “Which story is that?”

“All of them, friend. All of them”

An idea buds in your mind and silently smiling, you watch it bloom. “Are you a story teller?”

“I know a few. And you?”

“I'm more of a listener, really. Do you know any stories about the purple flower?”

He claps his hands again, this time adding a joyful rocking back and forth that is accompanied by an unreserved smile. “Of course. Many, many stories. You must have heard at least one, though. Let me hear yours. If you are not a story teller yet, then now is the time to become one. I am a kind audience, do not worry.”

You pause, stubbing out your cigarette on your boot. The old man begins picking carefully through the dirt for rocks. With a glance at the dead fire pit, you construct your story extemporaneously.

“Adam was a boy who lived his whole life in the mountains. Raised by hermits, when Adam had reached an age where he was capable of taking care of himself, the old men had disappeared. It was expected. They had warned him. Still, when the day came he was sad and he cried.”

“He crawled through caves, ran through forests and climbed over mountains letting his melancholy seep from his feet and into every crevasse of the earth. One day, still alone, he found that his heart was empty of feeling and he began to live off the land in the way the hermits had taught him. He was neither happy or sad. He just was. He built a little cabin by a river. He fished and trapped. He picked fruits and berries when they were around.”

“Whenever he spotted another man, he hid. He knew what they wanted and he wanted no part of it. He knew they were after the purple flower. That was all people came to his part of the world for. The hermits had taught him about the power of the plant as they were all descendants of men who had come to the land seeking immortality, had never found it and so became like the animals and trees of the land.”

“One time a man came to his cabin door and would not leave. He pounded and pounded. He demanded help. He said he must have the flower so that he could save his sister from a terrible illness. Adam hid in the cabin as long as he could. Then one day when Adam's hunger was intolerable, he snuck out a window and ran into the woods. The man tried to follow him but Adam was too fast and knew the wilderness too well. Still the man tried to give chase, and they ran for many hours until finally the half moon came out and the pursuer fell over from exhaustion.”

“Adam found himself in an unfamiliar part of the woods. He located some edible roots and satiated his hunger. Wanting no chance of being found, he traveled for another three hours before settling down to sleep underneath an old apple tree. When he woke the next morning he smelled the smoke of wood fires. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was on a steep slope and he was only a mile from a small but thriving mining town.”

“Adam had never seen a town. It was terrifying and compelling. After eating several pieces of fruit and pacing back and forth for a time, he decided to go into the town. At the bottom of the hill there was a small creek. Picking up speed, he easily bounded over the flowing water. As he landed, something caught his eye. There, at his feet - not 500 feet from the edge of human civilization, was the purple flower.”

“He bent over and as he moved to pluck the plant he heard the sweetest voice singing an unfamiliar tune. Looking over, he saw a beautiful woman piling up wood next to a small house. With a grin, he stood up and walked over her, leaving the flower forever.”

The gray haired man stands up, stretches and nods thoughtfully. He looks about the trees for a full minute, seemingly absorbing your new tale.

He looks over at you, his eyes coming back into focus from where ever his thoughts had taken him. “It is a good telling.” He nods in appreciation.

“Thanks.”

The Future Wants Kings by Wally Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.