Her name was Rachel. She worked for an e-commerce company & had the most important job of all(at least that's how it seemed to her.) She wrapped the items intended as gifts.

Her hands lovingly folded and taped each corner, expertly tied each bow. She gave it her best no matter how bizarre the item or how mundane.

Slowly the company became more and more automated. Robots did most of the work now and flesh & blood employees disappeared. "Not me," Rachel thought. "They can't take my job it needs a human touch. It requires a caring soul and these machines don't have that!"

That proved to be true at least for a while. Ultimately though one day she was called into to talk with the boss. He was a firm man but not unkind. It was with no trace of enthusiasm that he informed her that the soulless, mechanical, bipedal things with bland, prerecorded phrases would be taking her place now.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rachel. I held off as long as I could but this is from the top down. Honestly I'm surprised they haven't automated me yet."

So two days before Christmas, her favorite time to wrap gifts Rachel left work as the latest casualty of futuristic innovation.

It began to snow fiercely as she walked dejected past the honey yellow shop windows with their yuletide displays. The streets were practically deserted and she felt alone. One of those new fangled police cars that looked like a oversized tent peg stopped beside her. The door raised like a dolphin waving good bye with its fine. "Ma'am," said the husky voice beneath the tactical helmet,"There’s a major winter storm coming. I must advise you to go home and stay indoors until the all clear is given."

"Yes home. That's what I shall do, go home."

The storm was as ferocious as twenty-three starving lions. The winds howled like lost souls & blotted out the scenery with snow. The next day a body was found in the park. It was a woman and in her frost bitten fist she clutched something. "That's peculiar, mused the rescue worker. It's a scrap of wrapping paper."

He stared intently at the Christmas Tree. From beneath the ambiently lit boughs two dimensional images of snowmen, Chris Kringle, the Grinch and even Batman stared back at him. He didn't try to guess which gifts were his; he had ceased to care about that many Christmases ago. He cared more about the gifts he'd wrapped for the others in the house. Those he knew as intimately as a groom knows his bride's body & emotions.

Two weeks. That was all that he had left before Christmas break. Two more 35 hour weeks of media obsessed, ildisciplined school students and icy North Dakota weather. All he had to do was dig in his heels, take life one day at a time and then he would come home to yuletide reprieve!

He was antsy for that December 25 morning when at last the others would see the gifts he'd carefully selected for them. It warmed him more than coco.

This virtual paper is my void and I shall speak being into it, for all good stories start off, "In the beginning there was nothing." This blank white nothing is my void and so I shall scream into it!

I will shout shout let it all out because these are the things I can do without! I will scream for every abused, molested, and forgotten child and malnourished animal. I will scream at the piss ants who decry the action of the Nazi Party only to don their glittering, tinfoil chapeaus and blame the Jews for every conspiracy real and imagined just like the Nazis did.

I will scream at the abusive, alcoholic husband, and the contemptuous shrew wives. I will scream at every Pastor that's eloquently fleeced his flock as he served himself rather than God. A great cry shall go up from my throat that I am more sinner than Saint.

I will scream at every hypocrite and charlatan, every evil bastard that drains life from others. I look towards the chasm created by the circus we call politics and scream something I know will fall on deaf ears: An eagle needs both wings to fly!

I will always scream at Adam, Eve, and their malcontent vagabond of a son Cane for wrecking Earth to start with. I scream at my own body for feeling like a ran own prison I can't ever escape from.

And I will scream because of the five years I spent languishing in a purgatory caught between a bickering married couple that I once called Mom and Dad. Scream that I felt trapped and that no one not even God Himself gave to craps and that I almost extinguished the life I felt added up to a less tha Zero sum. I will scream at the baggage that long five years left me with.

I've screamed until my spiritual throat is raw, it's blood splashed upon this digital paper. Now I conclude my act not with a shout but a minute whisper....

The dining room was lit only by the soft & mellow glow of the lamps in the living room. Holiday music, jazzy and without lyric drifted through the air mingling with the scent of various foods. Around the table were all the people he missed most, his posse, his circle kept small to protect his heart from the pain of trust ripped asunder.

They were his brothers and a few sisters not of blood but bond. They ate heartily of rolls and festive meats. They laughed at crass jokes and they all walked memory lane together.

They'd been scattered for years, separated long before that nasty pandemic. Now these friends.... no! This family was back together. No gave to s%÷+ts about the state of the world it didn't matter. He stepped away from the merriment and the thanksgiving spread to refill his glass of apple cider and woke up in a pitch black room.

He climbed out of bed and walked lackadaisical into the kitchen he filled his water glass, the room illuminated by the fridge light. He stared at the table and then out the window at the snow covered night and a warm stream cascaded down his cheeks. 'Twas only a dream & he was alone.

"Our people made that choice, the choice to go to Sameness. Before my time, before the previous time, back and back and back. We relinquished color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences."__Lois Lowry, The Giver

The small single-person capsule sliced it's way across the cold, soundless, vacume of space. Inside its cockpit a young man of about 24, Scott Hughes was boiling over with excitement. He was approaching the goal of his starry excursion!

It was designated XP3609 in the boring scientific manner; to everybody else including Hughes it was called Neo Terra. The planet appeared Earth-like so someone was needed to explore it. Scott Hughes jumped at the chance.

Neo Terra, like Earth, was the third planet from its sun. This fascinated the Earthling who wondered if The Almighty made every habbital planet the third from its sun. This train of thought of course assumed the planet was indeed inhabited. He certainly believed it could be.

There were those who believed it might not be. Heck there were still those who believed space was fake and that the Earth was flat. At this moment there were people sitting on the couch at home who were utterly convinced that Scott's entire profession was a sham cooked up in a movie studio by shadowy forces.

The sudden wailing of a sensor brought the space man's attention to a small screen to his left. Three boggies became visible. "Hot Dog!" he exclaimed as he ran a hand through his blond feuxhawk.

He looked out of the metallic cigar's bubble canopy and saw triangular, black objects speeding toward him from near the planet's atmosphere. From the nose of each there was a yellowish flash and then the poor spacecraft was buffeted.

The astronaut realized with a sense of dread that he'd been fired upon! The spaceship became a missile as it dipped downward and plummeted through the planet's atmosphere turning into a scorching hot projectile. Hughes made the sign of the Cross and blacked out.

Hughes regained consciousness to the sound of a dozen beeping, wailing, alarms. He shut them off so he could think. Right now he felt like Fred Flintstone after a long day at the quarry. His hand retrieved a cellphone looking device from a pouch on his spacesuit. He pressed a button and was enveloped in blue beam of light.

He looked down at the read out and was relieved. He'd be sore for a while but had suffered no serious external or internal injuries. The next phase would have been to launch a probe and see if he could breath this world's air but the ship was so mangled the hatch wouldn't open and it took great effort for Scott to open the ship's canopy and when he did tiny fractures formed a network in the glass.

The radio was shot too so no phoning home. With a great sigh the spaceman exited his derelict ship and threw on his heat resistant, orange poncho. Only now did he discover something amiss with his vision that the med-scan didn't register. He could see just fine except there was no color. He felt like he was in a sci-fi movie serial from the 1940's. Everything was in black and white. He'd have to wait until later to figure out what happened to his peepers. He saw a civilization of some sort in the distance. He'd have to make his way there.

He didn't get the chance, for a skiff of some sort zoomed to the crash site and he was grabbed by armored humanoids. He was shocked by this and also that he could understand them. "Farbo-1547 reporting in. We have the shades bearer."

"The what now?" A big beefy hand smacked him to the metallic floor the skiff. He took it as signal to shut up.

Many of his hours later Scott sat alone in a darkened prison cell within the Ministry of Planetary Unity, this world's religious order & governing body. He'd been taken prisoner and was hauled before the beaurcratic clergy. He learned then that his vision was perfectly fine. The words of that hooded council still boomed in his ears.

"Your eyes do not decive you. We rid this world of color long ago, Outworlder. Colors made things look desirable to others and this caused wars and strife.

"If all looks the same then nothing is more desirable than another, thus no one covets what he cannot have. No man is ostracized because he looks different than another man. In this we've eliminated racial division and greed."

So appreance was not the only thing he had in common with the denizens of Neo Terra. They had similar issues throughout their history and were just as eager to make everyone forget them.

"But how did you erase color from this world?"

"We did not erase it! We simply made it unseeable. Our Wisemen constructed a great platform just outside the boundaries of our world's sky it allows our master star to beam upon our world without it creating color.

"Such was the Will of The Cosmic Master."

"Was it his will or the will of a political hierarchy of religious zealots?"

That was the question that had caused him to be dragged down here and beaten until his bones nearly broke. He was a heretic and blasphemer. He was the Shades bearer. This was a universal label given to anyone from "the color worlds."

Scott Hughes got the uneasy feeling that these beings didn't last long. It was plain the Ministry was corrupted or at least sorely misguided. Colors were the devil & anyone who might introduce the concept back into play were demons. Not even the workers at the station above were aloud to see color; they wore lenses that prevented them from doing so.

Scott recalled reading a story one time, HP Lovecraft's The Color Out of Space. it was about a purple fog that corrupted all it touched. That is what he was to these people.

Foot steps on the hard Rock floor ended his contemplation. "Who's there?"

"Chribissa, Daughter of Holy Jailer Gruvod. I come bearing your evening meal, OffWorlder."

She slid it through a slot in the door. He was happy he couldn't see what color it was. "Is it true you are from a world of color?" she asked, her voice inquisitive.

"Yes."

"It must be dreadful."

"No. Color is wonderful. It's so wonderful that we named a fruit after it's color, Orange."

"How can something wicked be so wonderful?"

Yikes. That was a question that cut deep. Scott saw in his mind the first ever woman on Earth sinking her teeth into a piece of fruit that was off limits.

"Color is not wicked, Chribissa. It was created by God to be enjoyed! He even used a prism of colors to seal a pact with an ancient man on my World."

"Who is God? He must be truly evil if he created colors."

"I think your people call him the Cosmic Master."

She grew indignant,"Cease this blasphemy at once. The Cosmic Master willed for colors to be taken away that all might be unified! He wouldn't will it gone if he created it!"

"Haven't you at least wondered what you look like? In color I mean. What complexion is your skin? What hair shade do you possess. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No! That is vanity. I'll not be swayed from my faith by a shades bearer!"

She stormed off and Scott tasted his food and discovered it was agreeable.

That night he thought about the irony of his surname, Hughes which sound like hues. Yes! Surely this was no accident. He knew what he must do. He also knew it would mean him giving up his life. His Savior had dine that for him centuries ago so could he be expected to do less?

Days later he managed to escape on his way to final sentencing and he hijacked one of the military craft. He was piloting the alien tech on pure instinct. He wondered as the craft lifted up if was one of the trio that shot him down.

The ship soared into the sky like a raptor bird in flight. It didn't take long for others to pursue but he out paced them. His face was grim and his teeth were gritted. He pierced the stratosphere and saw the space platform he had come to destroy! It was a marvel. It was basically the galactic equivalent to a black and white camera. He rushed forward and crashed into the platform. It exploded into oblivion carrying him and the Ministry's blind devotees into the Afterlife.

Down below color returned to Neo Terra for the first time in centuries. It nearly blinded the inhabitants but their eyes soon adjusted. For 23 Earth minutes the entire planet was silent.

It is the nature of things that when you give someone something they've been deprived of for so long they usually lash out at those who deprived them of it in the first place. Such was the fate Benito Mussolini and such was the fate of the Ministry of Planetary Unity. Their followers turned on them like starving junk yard dogs and red was reintroduced to that planet via blood. Away from the chaos of the burning temple a certain jailer's daughter saw herself reflected in blue pool of water surrounded by green gras s. Her skin was milky and her hair the color of the night sky and she cried out, "I'M BEAUTIFUL! I AM BEAUTIFUL!"

"When the truth is found to be lies

And all the joy within you dies

Don't you want somebody to love"_Jefferson Airplane.

How do you reconcile Faith with facts? Here it was the Death Throes of Earth, the Gand Finally. All was chaos & upheaval! Idolized political figure heads and false messiahs couldn't stop it. This was the last of the last days.

None of it had played out like Revelations or maybe it did; it was a very cryptic book after all. He didn't care anymore though. His faith had shattered like a vase but he couldn't be bothered.

No, he only cared about one thing now and she was wrapped in his arms, naked and fast asleep. Soothing techno beats lulled him into slumber. They both slept peacefully, clad in nothing but the bed sheets.

The button was pressed sometime in the night but they knew nothing until Oblivion carried them swiftly into the afterlife.

What is the measure of a man's life? For me it is in moments. For some of those moments we intersect with another's life sometimes forever, sometimes very briefly. You say hi to some sleep deprived college student trying to get through their shift so they can go cram for the next big exam. Where are they ten years down the road,for that matter where are you?......

Another example is Yohan Rathbone. He was an elderly fellow who resembled John Hammond, a character in Jurassic Park. Like me his hair was just starting to become silver. He had turned his hair that color by devoting his life to his one defining eccentricity: applying philosophy to mathematics. It wasn't good enough for him to know two plus two equals four. He had to divine some metaphysical reason as to why that was the case.

Our lives intersected for months. We'd take breakfast together at a local greasepit and discuss a wide variety of subject matter over pitch black coffee and over easy eggs. I'm a detective or at least I was. I'm retired now and spend my time writing crime fiction. My style is mostly contemporary but every so often I like to dish out a throwback to the days of pulp. Channeling my inner Raymond Chandler I too write yarns about men who are “as inconspicuous as a tarantula crawling across angel food cake.” This provided Rathbone with no small portion of intrigue.

Eventually,one day I walked into that house of orange juice and flapJacks and never saw that man again. He just wasn't there, no obituary, no anything. To this day I do not know what became of him. The intersection of our lives had taken us down divergent roads.

I'm sorry for rambling this way but there is a point to all this, the intersection of my life with another and what became of them. It's dreary but I can't do much about that.

For as long as I can remember I'd been going to Hot Rocket, a little comic book shop in the downtown area. Back in the days of the Dust Bowl and 20 cent gasoline it had been a jewelry store then in the era of hair bands and Reaganomics it was a pawn shop. Nowadays it was the safe haven for those who looked up to Superman, who pinned lustfully after Wonder Woman, and also those wished to gather in the game room and become an elf trying to stop some dread lord from unleashing zombie dragons upon some realm from ages of yore.

I came in once every two months to pick up the bi-monthly issue of Molten Slag, a comic magazine filled to the brim with blood, viscera, boobs and epic Science Fiction lands( it was that aspect that interested me more than the boobs).

I struck up a conversation with Rick, the cashier. We'd spent hours on end talking. He was surprised that an “old head” was interested in the stuff of geeks. I'd seen many people in my days as a police detective who would have benefited from having a Superman to admire or an escape that didn't involve needles and overdoses.

Rick had always been well… to be frank he'd always been overweight. Lately he had been losing some poundage and he looked alot happier and more focused than I'd ever seen him. He looked down at the magazine as he rang it up. “You know, Mr. Baker, they've got a statuette of Tiffany Chainsaw now.”

“Mmm I'm not a figurine kind of guy. If I had to have one though, I'd prefer Danarla Starkisser.”

“ Right on. She's dope.”

He handed me the magazine in a bag with a brochure announcing guests for an upcoming convention. I took it and continued. “I find some of the Starkisser stories to be profound. Tiffany Chainsaw just seems like someone having an acid trip and writing it down.”

Ricky laughed. “You might be right on the money. I hear that Derrick Ricardo is a regular Stephen King if you catch my drift.”

“I think I do.”

Starkisser was my favorite ongoing feature in Molten Slag. She'd been the character on the poster of the movie in the 80’s. She was a scantily armored warrior princess from another dimension’s Mars who flew across the cosmos on her alien pterodactyl. Therefore I kept coming back to Hot Rocket again and again. I even did a book signing there for a sci-fi detective story I wrote.

The next thing I knew Rick…changed… His eyes began to show the signs of sleep deprivation and all the weight he lost returned with reinforcements. His personality was different too. He did his best to be polite but you could tell his heart wasn't in his job anymore.

I asked him what was wrong and he said he just had a lot going on. I respected his privacy and left it at that, however my years of experience had kicked in and the gear they'd chosen was overdrive. Something was wrong with this young man. Sure we weren't close friends but I was still worried about him.

New comics arrive in shops on Wednesday of each month. Though Molten Slag was bi-monthly it was very much the same. Like clockwork I was in that cozy little shop on that day to scoop up the latest issue. Unfortunately during the month in between I had ended up neck deep in writing my longest novel yet and I had lost all contact with the outside world. I also was down and out with a seasonal cold.

For those reasons I was unable to go out until the weekend after New Comic Book Day. Approaching the store I noticed it was closed. That was odd. The comic shop never closed on Saturday unless it was a holiday which it wasn't. Heck this shop had weathered the 2020 pandemic. Walking up to the door I found out why. The shop had shut its doors to honor the passing of Rick Fontaine.

Today was his funeral. A little memorial had been set up on the sidewalk. My jaw repositioned itself at my feet. I barely knew this young man but I was heartbroken nonetheless; I'd seen too many men his age go too soon not to be. Starkisser could wait, would have to wait!

I drove to the service to pay my respects. While there I learned he had a wife who went before him. A picture was forming on the canvas of my mind. As the service progressed I also learned he died in his car. It was still in the garage with the motor running. I already knew and it made my gut hurt. He killed himself with carbon monoxide or he had passed out and the exhaust fumes did the rest. I hoped it was at least the latter.

It was like a spoiled little dog nipping at my ankles now! I'd left the detective business but the detective business had never left me. I had to know what happened. What was the reason behind the sudden changes first positive then negative I'd seen during brief encounters every month.

Many of the staff from the shop were there and I comforted them as best as I could. One girl had even dressed as the goddess of death and life from her fantasy game setting. These young people, these nerds, these misfits had all been affected by the loss of Rick Fontaine and I think they were floored that someone like me was too.

Soon after I did some asking around and,like the Fates, began stitching together the tapestry of Rick's life by talking to those who knew him best. It was a roller coaster and it was very bitter sweet.

Rick had always been insecure and he escaped his insecurities by reading and doing some writing of his own. I was dumbfounded to learn he actually wrote a one and done story I'd read in an issue of Molten Slag three years prior. That yarn he'd penned under a pseudonym.

Then he'd gone to a convention out of state and that's when he met Rachel Beckinsale. She was a professional cosplayer( someone who dresses up like a character at conventions and stuff). I came to understand from my inquiries that she was an absolute goddess and nobody could believe Rick, nice as he may be, had managed to start dating her.

She was his everything. He started losing weight and getting healthier. She also helped him not be so scatterbrained and take care of himself. This is around the time I really got to know him. Within a year they were married and that's when things took a turn for the worst.

I had to do a little more digging to find out just what had happened. It meant long caffeine charged hours of sitting at the library sifting through newspapers until I once again had discovered a piece of the story. It made my stomach hurt andI had to step away and work on my book.

The happy couple were on their honeymoon. Both were riding a high of romantic ecstasy & they couldn't possibly know that the Grim Reaper was waiting patiently. Beckinsale had gone into the bathroom to freshen herself up most likely in preparation for the consummation. It never happened.

Rick was startled by a scream that suddenly went silent and was joined by a strange sort of thud. The tile floor had gotten wet and the poor bride had forgotten to lay down a towel. She slipped on the wet surface and cracked her skull against the edge of the tub. The night that was supposed to be spent beneath the sheets was spent instead in the hospital.

Rick Fontaine had become a widower on his wedding night. After that he let himself go. The pounds came back as I'd observed and he barely functioned after that. The rest I already knew.

As I said earlier a man's life is measured in moments and sometimes that measure comes up short. My life had crisscrossed with another and now he was dead and I still lived. Where will the next sales associate be in a year? Where will I be? It is something I ponder.

Sometimes a man's life comes down to a single question. In this case why am I laying on a sidewalk riddled with bullet holes not knowing nor caring if I live or die? I guess the best way to answer that is to start at the beginning.

For those of you who haven't met me my name is Johnson. I'm a detective or I was. I hadn't done much detective work in the months following the Christmas season. It hadn't been a particularly cheerful holiday for yours truly and if not for an act of charity from my neighbors I'd have been done with the whole thing.

I stood amidst the rows of granite monuments to the Reaper's work. I was visiting the resting place of my preacher buddy. He'd offer wisdom from time to time but now he was dead & I'd put him here. I'd taken the wrong case. The wife snapped. She gunned down her husband, the two lesbians he was having threesomes with, and lastly she blasted away the man who'd officiated her wedding, the same man whose grave I now visited.

He wasn't the only one buried here. An old contact of mine, Finnigan, was buried here as well. His drug-addled life choices had brought his end about. I left the macabre silence of the boneyard and strolled into a coffee house three blocks away. I ordered a cup and sat down to drink. It was liquid mud but I barely noticed. Hot chocolate would have been liquid mud at that point. By chance Munday, a buddy of mine on the Force walked in to pick up a to-go order.

He looked at me, face plastered with a concerned frown. “Johnson, are you doing okay?”

He leaned over the counter “Yeah, why?”

“Well frankly,pal…. You look like hell.”

I must have at that, for Munday was not usually given to any profanity stronger than “darn” and “gee whiz!” A real Beaver Cleaver that one. I had kind of let myself go without noticing. One day I had a beard all of a sudden and I hadn't been to my barber in a while.

“I haven't seen you on the job in a while.” He continued.

“No new clients.”

“That by circumstance or choice? Look, we all know about last December but it wasn't your fault. You didn't make that guy go out and screw two women and you didn't put the gun in his wife's hand.”

I sighed. “The truth is I'm done with this life. I'm giving up the business. One last case then I'm through.”

“What will you do then? Johnson, you've been a private investigator for the whole time I've known you and you were one of us before that.”

“Sure this is all I've known but I've known it too intimately. I need to stop.”

The server brought Munday his order and out the door he went with a farewell on his lips and bagel in hand. I left shortly after and went back to my apartment. With a slam of the door I shut the world out again and went to sleep in my bed.

I can't remember how long I slept, only that I woke up and ate a little something. I had piles of cast off circulars accumulated on my kitchen table. That just wouldn't do. I stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag and walked them to my neighbors’ pad just down the hall. They handed them out to the homeless people at Christmas. I had taken part in that last time and it's the only reason I had a happy holiday.

Eventually I made my way to Joe B's. It was still seedy enough to grow plants and the help wanted sign still hung in the window. Franklin, the owner of the establishment, always chewed me out about that except when the stars aligned or the wind blew a certain way causing him to be jovial. I always ignored the old coot when he was in a bad mood.

Today was no different. I ordered a cider so I could nurse a drink without getting hammered. No matter how lousy I felt I refused to murder my liver. “The sign is still up I see.”

He grumpily replied, “Course it is; I lost my best waitress because of you.”

“Trust me if I could go back and not accept that case I'd sure as heck not do it. You’re not the only one who lost someone over it.”

I walked away, sat down at a table and nursed my drink. By now you've guessed that one of the two women that that angry wife gunned down was the waitress. I never really knew her that well. If I came here I was either grilling someone for information or doing what I was doing now and trying to be by myself.

The sun was still up when I left. I decided to walk around for a little bit, let the cider settle before I got behind the wheel. Munday's question reverberated through my skull like a concert subwoofer. I'd only known the city, having only left it whenever some case required me to. What would I do once I hung all this up? I didn't know.

As I walked down the alley some young blond in a provocative shirt and fishnets began soliciting her wares to me. “How old are you?” I asked though I'd sized her up to be in her early twenties.

“As old as you want, handsome.” She tried to make her voice sound like seductive syrup but it was amateurish and desperate, a low budget porn star could've done it better. “How about I do something for you, Ma'am?”

“Oh, like what?”

“I've got a guy. I know he's a bartender in need of a new waitress.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the direction of Joe B's. “I could take you there and I'm sure he'd hire you on the spot. It's a lot better than what you're doing now.”

She became livid. “Just who are you to butt into my life, Mister? What business is it of yours what I do for a living?”

“I'm a private detective; butting in is how I make my living. As for your other question, I'm trying to keep you from perp walking because you're streetwalking!”

“I don't want your help, Dick Tracy. Get the crap outta here.”

“Fine. Fine.”

I turned on my heel and left the wannabe trollop there. Fast forward to a few days later. I walked down that same alley and headed toward the sound of an enraged cat fighting with its captors. It was the girl in a similarly provocative outfit being arrested as I knew she would be. Fortunately I knew one of the officers, his buddy I had never seen.

As I tried to intervene I discovered he was one of those jackass upstarts, the would-be paladin throwing his weight around & being jerky. In my six years on the Force I saw plenty of his type. They were always fresh out of the academy and the fastest to die doing something showy and stupid.

“Shove off," he told me.

Reuben Paxton, his partner and an old friend of mine from my police days shut him up. “Johnson, it's good to see you. You know this lady?”

“Yeah we met. She's an amateur. She hasn't been doing this long. I tried offering her a job at Joe B’s but she refused now it seems nature's taken its course.”

“Eff you!” she bellowed from the back of the car.

The upstart hurled verbal abuse at her. I grabbed him and got in his face. “Buster, I was a cop for five years and a police detective for one year after that. Let me tell you something: Buttheads like you end up taking dirtnaps cause they think they're Judge freaking Dredd. So zip your lip when Reuben here tells you to and you just might live to enjoy your pension.”

“Are you threatening me,Bright Eyes?”

“No, he's telling you the truth. Now get your tail in the car, we'll talk later.” Reuben commanded.

He turned to me. “Come down to the station. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. I'm worried about her; she's got a shiner. We asked her about it and she dodged around the question. We think a John gave it to her.”

For the uninitiated John as it's used here doesn't mean a toilet. It's slang for a hooker's client. Anyway I went to the station and was in fact able to talk sense into Rachel. I don't know if that was her real name or not and I didn't push it.

The boys in blue turned over to me since I'd been one of them. She was informed that this was her last shot. I drove her to Joe B's and Franklin hired her circumnavigating the application process for the time being. I told her I'd pick her up after her shift. I was unaware I'd stuck my hand into a shark tank but I'd find out soon.

I'd gone back to my apartment and spent the hours doing nothing of value except retrieving some cash from my safe. When I headed back to the bar the sun had set, the sky darkened, and the city had been transformed into a sea of streetlights and neon signs. It was a Heavenly glow hiding hellish decadence. While the citizens piled into the movie house the cockroaches coward in the shadows.

My 1985 Honda Civic came to a stop in front of Joe B’s. About ten minutes after my arrival Rachel exited and spotted my car. She hopped in with an audible sigh. She gave me directions to where she's staying in town, somewhere not far from the corner she'd been trying to work. Upon following her inside I discovered it was a flop house complete with drafts, shady characters, & assorted insects. I handed her a wad of cash and she looked at it quizzically, “What's this for?”

“I'm taking you somewhere nice. It's a well kept motel not far from here. It's cheap but lacking in mold and roaches.

“The owner knows me. I had to crash there once years ago during a case.”

On the way I pumped her for information like an oil rig seeking answers. She was twenty-three. Everything else she answered as vaguely as possible until she became annoyed. “Balls! You're snoopy!” she said huffily.

“Rachel, I've been around the block. I was a cop. I'm a detective. I know when someone is running from something!”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared ahead at the city lights. “So?”

“So when you run, whatever it is is bound to catch up to you eventually. Trust me; I know.”

I got her checked into the Dream Inn. Herbert, the owner, was more than willing to do me a solid. Before I left her room I dropped my ultimatum on top of her. “I'm going to drive around the vicinity of Joe B’s in the morning. If I see you turning tricks in that alley again I'll call the cops myself. Do we understand one another?”

She agreed after a string of profanity used even more colorfully than in Stephen King’s books. I didn't go home right away. Most people think you can't see the stars in the city. There's too much light pollution, blah blah,so on and so forth. Those people are only half right. I drove out into the suburbs and stopped near a park adjacent to a row of designer homes. Sitting on the hood of my car(after the engine cooled), I looked up and beheld the celestial wonders above.

Back home I fell asleep watching something or other on my phone. The sound of it thudding on the floor jarred me awake, but only briefly. Soon I was running in sheer unbridled terror from the zombified husks of those I'd know in life, the preacher, Finney, and the rest. I woke up covered in sweat that was frigid with the words I'd said to Rachel echoing in my skull: When you run whatever it is bound to catch up to you eventually.

I shook off the nightmare and went to the bathroom to begin the process of sprucing myself up. I'd wallowed in pity long enough. Now it was time for one final case, one last paycheck then I'd shake the dust of this town from my feet and go to who knows where.

There, I was smooth-faced yet again. I got dressed, donned my coat and fedora( okay the brim was shorter so it was probably a trilby but I don't have much time to split hairs),and exited my apartment.

The Honda pulled up to my ramshackle office still in the back alley where it'd been for all these years. Once inside I swept my hand over the desk. Hmm, the dust mites had certainly been squatting since I'd been absent. I turned on my desk lamp so as to bathe the ramshackle office in an ambient glow, just the way I liked.

My work cell still sat on the desk where I left it. I turned it on. No use checking the messages; that would be an all day affair. I'd let a case come to me. I never asked why they came to me over all the other private gumshoes in the city… it probably had something to do with my reasonable rates.

If I was closing up shop there was work to do.I sat about shredding old documents, most of these old case files from like five years ago. The paper shredder dealt mostly silent death to the records of lives, scandals, and love affairs I'd stuck my nose into over the years. The files went into a garbage bag, every bit as messy & mangled as those peoples lives.

I wasn't bluffing. I drove past the alley where I met Rachel. She wasn't there. I turned the corner and as I sped by the crappy motel she'd been staying prior to our meeting a man walked out. He was in a white button-up shirt & a tailored jacket and slacks the same shade of brown as my dearly departed Grandma's easy chair.

He wore sunglasses and his blonde hair was combed back slick and tied off in a rat tail. He looked like every Nineties direct to video action villain I'd ever seen. He carried himself as a man does when he's looking for something he can't find and is right cranky about it.

This entire appraisal was made in the span of very quick seconds. What stood out to me was that he was dressed too nicely to have spent a night in that place. He was a birthday clown at a funeral; he stood out and was suspicious. He was shady to be sure but he wasn't my problem.

I passed Joe B’s and saw a taxi come to a stop. Out stepped Rachel in a lavender t-shirt and jeans, getting ready for her shift. Why did I care? Because I needed to. I still blamed myself for the death of the woman she was replacing & I didn't want to see a young woman with this much life ahead of her in and out of jail. So that's why I cared. I shouldn't have, I should have just let the police take her and left it at that but I wanted to leave something positive behind me when I blew this burg.

I arrived back at my hole in the wall office just in time for my work cell to go off with its incessant ringtone. A male voice spoke into my ear, “Detective Johnson?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Jeffery Balent. I wasn't sure you'd answer. I heard you had closed shop.”

“I did but I decided to throw a retirement party and give myself an investigation as a gift.”

“So you'll help me then?”

“That depends on the nature of your case if you've got one. I don't do skip trace work.”

“Nothing like that.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Now. Is that fine.”

“Mr. Balent, my calendar is clear.”

Later I was consulting a spindly man with glasses and a nervous disposition. This was a man who lived the wallflower lifestyle like it was the life of Tom Cruise. To him both consultations and confrontations were anathema. Yet here he sat in front of my desk. His wife, business mogul Alfia Balent, had been siphoning money from his own account. What he needed me to figure out is where it was going.

I took the case against my better judgment. I won't detail it here. It's irrelevant to the matter at hand & there's not enough time anyway. I will say that it was one of the deepest rabbit holes of toxicity and domestic upheaval I'd ever plunged into.

A few days later I guess is when this all started going downhill. In between leads on the Balent case I was packing. My whole life was here and it fit into a few boxes. I looked at my watch and realized it was nearing time to pick up my charity case. I drove to the bar. I sat down at the table where I'd once threatened to shoot Finnigan in the knee caps unless he gave me information.

I waited. I didn't scroll through my phone like many of the other patrons. It's pure instinct. I wanted to be aware of my surroundings at all times. I noticed a man approaching the door. Strangely it was the Steven Seagal knock off from the flop house. He peered through the glass and then left.

He was on my radar now. I had seen him twice now & both times it was at locales where Rachel had been. There was something she wasn't telling me. I kept telling myself not to care but like situational awareness it was pure instinct.

It had just turned dark when we left Joe B’s. We talked a little about our respective days. Three minutes into the drive I noticed we'd picked up a tail. I chose not to alert my passenger or give the impression to my shadow that I knew I was being followed. She was absorbed in her phone like so many these days.

I carried our conversation while casting furtive glances in my rear view mirror. “Rachel, do you know a man with sunglasses and a rat tail?”

“No!” She answered readily, almost too readily. Human expression is a biological polygraph. She had just lied to my face. I didn't push the issue. Finally our follower pulled into a parking lot of a store we passed. I guess I'd been wrong about the tail.

At the motel I made sure Rachel made it safely to her room. Her phone rang whoever she was talking to,her face turned red and her every manner was a combo of fear and anger. She lobbed colorful language into the conversation and finally she exploded, “I told you it's OVER! Leave me alone!”

She hurled her phone onto her bed. Her body heaved up and down as she took deep breaths to calm herself. I folded my arms across my chest. My eyes bored into hers from beneath my hat.

“Who was that?”

“My ex boyfriend. He's a—”

A profanity infused description followed. She sold it to me but I didn't quite buy it. Nothing more would come of pushing the issue tonight so I tipped my hat and we parted ways.

Late night shopping was the best. I didn't have to contend with masses of people or kids. Kids nowadays were obnoxious & didn't try to be anything more. I guess it was all in the raising but I'd heard enough oddball slang and regurgitated memes that I wanted to jab a pencil through my ears. Thus I chose to shop at night.

Upon exiting the supermarket with a handful of groceries & driving into the sea of streetlights and asphalt I noticed the same car from earlier following behind me again. This time I had no doubt of their intent. Was this related to the Balent case or something else? I've always had a habit of stirring up hornet nests, the time my partner and I stopped a shooter at a strip club that the mayor was visiting for example.

To make sure we exercised discretion-in other words kept our traps shut– the powers that be made us detectives. I went to work everyday for a year after that, sick to my stomach. I resigned and went into the private sector. Even now though I still angered various colonies of hornets.

Strip club, strip club. A rather cheeky idea popped into my head. I knew a certain lady of the night in the red light district. Don't get the wrong idea; I'd simply gotten her sister out of trouble a few years ago. I took my shadow around Laurel's house, weaving through streets and avenues. They hung with me and I played them like a fiddle.

I kept driving until the lights got brighter and the streets sleazier. We were on a straight track to the red light district. Surely the pursuing driver realized by now they'd been made yet they continued and I let them. Rapidly I dialed a number I'd memorized, for my brain was like a copy of the yellow pages. You just never knew when you'd need to dial up an old number.

A woman answered “Who is this?” She demanded.

“Rosey, this is Detective Johnson, remember me?”

Her voice became cat-like. “Of course. I could never forget you, Handsome; I still owe you one.”

“Listen, I'm cashing in that favor.”

“How can I service you?”

“I picked up a member of my fan club. I'm leading him to your place now.

“Think you can get rid of him for me?”

“Sure. Hey just let me know if you ever get bored on a Saturday night. We could get that wayward sister of mine in on the fun too.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

The car was a small black sedan. An 85 Toyota Camery. I led them past an alley between two claptrap apartment complexes. A silver Hyundai collided with the right front fender which caused it to spin like a top. An oncoming pick-up truck finished it off. I saw Rosey exit the Hyundai looking at the damage to her own vehicle and the carnage on the road.

“My phone rang, “Now you owe me one, Detective.”

I took a deep breath. I was back in the saddle now and the horse was bucking hard.

Like Beauty And The Beast it's a tale as old as time; The detective has a straight shot toward his objective then he gets tangled up with a mysterious woman and all of a sudden his brain magically morphs into a giant ball of fuzz. Life can be a fickle, complex mechanism so it's nice to occasionally have it boil down to these simple clichés.

It wasn't until the day after the pile up in the red light district that things really started popping. It began in my office. My work cell rang. I assumed it was of importance to my case so I picked it up and was met with an odd, static silence. Then the line went dead. The number was unidentified. I told myself it was nothing, just a fluke. My gut told me differently.

I took a lunch break at my pad. I was planted on my couch eating a cheap,greasy pizza when the hair on my neck raised. I studied the door leading into my apartment and caught a flicker of movement in the crack near the floor. Someone was here who should not have been. The knob rattled.

I bolted off the couch and scrambled to the door. I flung it open, revealing a retreating figure in an upraised hoody “Hey you, stop!” I yelled.

No dice. He– trust me it was a he– continued to run through the corridors and down the stairs with me in hot pursuit. The chase caused several neighbors to poke their heads out the doors of their own abodes as we ran.

I made it to the ground floor. The mysterious figure turned the corner and dashed out the rear exit. By the time I made it outside they'd escaped. The squeal of tires brought my attention to a very battered Toyota fleeing the scene. Now they were just overplaying their hand.

I re-entered the building. I was met by the landlady, Shirley McNeil. She had had a head of short, ginger curls that were starting to gray. Her face was wrinkled tapestry woven by a hard life and she had a smokers cough that indicated to me there was enough tar in her lungs to fill a half-dozen potholes. But most importantly she was a kind soul and fair to her tenants.

She looked concerned as of course she would be. “What’s all the commotion?”

“An uninvited guest; He was poking around my door.”

“Oh dear, he said he was a friend of yours I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault he lied, Ma'am.”

I was swimming in an ocean of sharks and I could not see the fins. All I could do was go about my business of wading through the muck of this final investigation and wait for my enemies to make the next move.

For now I figured the thing for me to do was stick to my routine. The sharks would swim toward me one or another. I went to pick Rachel up from her shift as usual. I took my usual seat and waited in silence. At a booth near the door behind me I noticed Seagal and a lanky African-American man, mid thirties, hair in cornrows, gold chain necklace, and a pinstripe suit.

He glanced over at me with a satanic smirk and waved arrogantly. He eyed Rachel the way a wolf eyes a sheep. Why all of a sudden was my stomach churning like the sea during a hurricane?

If the woman noticed the two goons at all she didn't acknowledge it in any way. She did briefly glance over and her countenance seemed to change.

At last the duo stood up and departed. Not long after I was driving Rachel back to the motel as usual. “Those men seemed awfully interested in you tonight.” I stated, hoping to glean some clue as to who they were.

“Yes, Detective, I'm quite aware of that. They came in, sat down, and ogled me the entire time; they didn't even order anything.”

“You know them?”

“No! Why would you even ask something like that?”

Because I know a thug when I see one. And his companion was the Blond man I asked you about the other day!”

“I don't know them.”

This would lead nowhere so once again I dropped the matter.

She said she was feeling hungry. I was too. It'd been a long day and I had to deal with a whole lotta stupid. I took her to a place I knew near the motel.

The whap of a cleaver going through meat, the hissing of shrimp, cooking on the hibachi, the smell of miso soup. These were the sounds and aromas that permeated the Japanese restaurant we now dined at. “My ex boyfriend,” Rachel said

“What?”

“The guy at the bar. That's my ex boyfriend. He's stalking me I guess. No clue who Blondie is though.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

I didn't believe it anymore than I did when she was on the phone. I simply went along with it so as not to agitate her. She agitated easily.

“Tell him to kiss off.”

“Hmm. Is he the one that gave you that black eye you had when the police picked you up?”

I ate my octopus and rice. She ate her tempura and then we went back to the motel. “Mind if I sit down for a second?” Once we were in her room.

“Be my guest.”

I flopped down on the edge of the bed and removed my hat. I took a deep breath. I was exhausted and not thinking clearly. That's probably how what happened next did.

Rachel put her purse on the nightstand and took out her phone. She opened some music app and the room was filled with classic rock. She departed into the bathroom to brush her teeth. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead in an effort to decompress. It was useless.

Rachel sat down beside me. A strange look was in her eyes. Longing is the word I would use. “Johnson. I know if you get in my business it's because you care about me. But this isn't one of your mysteries.”

“You're a mystery.” I replied.

“Yes. I want to keep it that way.”

She leaned over and kissed me. I didn't stop her. I embraced her instead and she returned my embrace. I was on my back and she had me pinned. I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to and against all sense I did not want to.

That motel bed had no doubt been the witness to a thousand romantic liaisons of every kind. Now it bore witness to yet another and as I probed the contours of her body Blue Oyster Cult cyranaded us.

Come here girl close to me

A thousand stars your eyes can see

First one we see tonight

I wish I may I wish I might

I turn my hopes up to the sky

I'd like to know before I die

Memories will slowly fade

I lift my eyes and say

Come on take me away

Come on, take me away!

The warmth of the sun is what woke me up. I sat up and got dressed. Rachel was already up leaning out the window and clad in a t-shirt whose hemm stopped at her thighs leaving an enticing view of her underwear. She turned around. “Oh, Detective, You're up. Could you hand me my purse. As I reached over for it I made the statement that foremost in my mind. “We shouldn't have done that.”

“Why?”

“Because this can't work. You have too many secrets and I'm leaving the city once I wrap up my current investigation.”

“Oh. I see. Well, thanks for your help I guess.”

I handed her purse but she fumbled it which caused its contents to spew forth. Among everything you'd expect to find was a baggie containing something that resembled blue gumballs. It wasn't; it was a ghost from my past.

Drugs like viruses never really go away once they're released into the world. I snatched up the baggie angrily. “Do you have any idea what this stuff is?”

“The guy said it would get me high that's all.”

“No it's not all. This stuff is called Reminisce. It makes you nostalgic to the point where even bad memories are happy simply because you remember them.

“You take enough of it you'll start to think the here and now ain't so good. Then you'll repaint the walls with your head or use a rooftop to try out for the Olympic high dive team. I know because I helped the police get this stuff off the streets when it first started circulating!”

“I never asked you to butt into my life, Gumshoe.”

“I kept you out of jail.”

“I never asked you to do anything for me.”

“So that's it. You get a carnal fix out of me and then I'm so much refuse to be tossed away just because I don't want to see you whore yourself out or pump illegal substances through your veins?”

“There’s the door.”

“Fine I'm leaving. Trust me I want nothing more but I'm taking this crap with me!”

I walked out and slammed the door shut behind. It was the only smart thing I'd done in the past few weeks. Little did I know it was much too late but we are getting there.

The days that followed are all blurry, one bleeding over into the next until at last I found a check in my mailbox with a note written by Jeffrey Balent. It said he'd take care of things from here. I didn't want to know what that meant even though I already did.

My job was over and the check was collected. I shut off the lights of the office, threw dust cloths over the meager furnishings, and drove off. My final investigation didn't end as I thought it should but that's life.

I was driving toward Joe B’s my thoughts were not on Rachel; they hadn't been on her in days. I had had half a mind to report her for possession but instead I merely tossed the dope in a trash barrel and burned it.

I was just a few feet away from the bar when a pale blue limousine inched toward me and cut me off. The rear door swung open and out stepped the black man I'd seen in the bar. He raised a pistol and opened fire.

I ducked down and was peppered by glass. I opened the driver door at the same time I drew my own piece and I returned fire. Blond Seagal and two others had exited the limo and had me lined up in the sights of their AK 47s. My bullet passed through the left lense of Segal's sunglasses and he fell back, his dying hand still on the trigger.

Everything that followed was all sound and fury. Finally I fell to my knees succumbing to several bullet wounds. The man looked down at me. “My thanks,Sam Spade. You stole something from me and then led me right back to her.”

Rachel, dressed in the same clothes as when I first met her, stepped from the vehicle. Her eyes glared at me. Her mouth formed a wicked smile. I knew then that she was gone. I'd led the horse to water but not one drop had she drank from it.

I'd at least go down fighting. I squeezed off two more shots at the man I knew now to be a pimp. One hit him in the leg the other punched through his shoulder enough to spin him around. He hit the ground just before I did. “Well I guess we'll see each other in hell.”

Now you have the answer to the single question that my life has boiled down to. It's because I forgot that no good deed goes unpunished.

The cops are here now and the EMTs. If I go into the ground at least I'll be leaving this city behind.

It was a pitch black night, a night of the new moon, and the only light in the circle of ancient trees was a campfire which illuminated the shadowy figures of the battered and scarred mercenary company that surrounded it. What was once a great company of Sixty mighty warriors was now only twelve.

Ragnar the leader regarded the bivouac with pity. Most sat quietly chowing down on hard tack, beans, and the fatty birds they'd taken earlier in the evening. Young Peter King'sbane was asleep no doubt dreaming of the hooker he was planning to marry once he returned home. What a young fool that lad is for marrying a prostitute. The leader thought as he stroked his graying beard. Ragnar was in his mid fifties with all the war wounds and arthritis that came with it but outside of selling his blade to the highest bidder he had nothing to go back to so he'd fight till he could not anymore. He turned his attention to a slender figure sitting on a rucksack and clutching a gnarled wooden staff in his hands.

The figure was dressed in a dark green cloak and black robes. A pouch was tied to his belt and from beneath his cloak protruded a slender sword hilt. “Ubor,” Ragnar addressed the figure,”What do the flames tell you tonight?”

“They are silent tonight, my lord.”

Ubor was a fire-talker he divined from flames the way others of his ilk gleaned answers from cards and tea leaves. “Bah I'm nobody's lord.” The leader said vehemently. “I'm barely holding this rag tag group together. Face it, Ubor. We don't need your pyre magic to know how badly we screwed the pooch this time.”

This latest assignment was a total disaster. The company had been decimated to its current number and the kingdom they fought for had been conquered leaving them fugitives and without pay. Yes it was a poorly chosen job. Now the mercs were on the edge of utter oblivion.

Ubor, usually wise and eloquent of speech, remained silent for he could not provide verbal salve for the wounded spirit of his leader. “Where is Francis?” Ragnar asked suddenly. “He was supposed to be back from his watch by now.”

A beefy ox of a man by the name of Ruben stood up and hitched his belt & stretched and said, “I’ll find him.”

Ruben wandered into the woods to find the missing watchman. “I can't see horse pucky in this darkness “ he complained.

“Francis, where are you?” he bellowed.

Suddenly he heard movement in the trees above him. He stared up, “Francis is that you? Something warm and wet splashed on his face and multiple plopping sounds pierced the silence. Reuben’s stomach churned with apprehension. He'd killed enough men and been in enough battles to know blood when he felt it. He looked down at his feet and even in the dark he knew he was looking at a very dismembered Francis. Something grabbed him. He fell on his back, swearing and fouly invoking the names of several deities he didn't even believe in. He howled as he was dragged into the forest.

Ragnar and one of his men rushed into the woods from where the hellish commotion had occurred, they lit torches and made haste to the spot where Ruben disappeared. Ragnar cursed when he saw Francis and he used the light of his torch to scrutinize the blood drenched tree in front of him. Shadowy figures seem to flit around in the darkness whispering and chattering. The forms were vague and indiscernible in the limited light.

“We are under siege!” Exclaimed Ragnar. He and his companion retreated back to camp shouting for the others to gather their weapons.

“What’s going on?” asked Peter King'sbane, brandishing his pole axe.

Then the troops saw the shadowy figures barely distinguished in the moonless night. “H-Helheim has been opened in the forest and the damned come to claim us.” stammered Ubor even as he readied himself. The man who'd accompanied Ragnar used his hand to make the holy symbol of his religion and charged forward swinging madly. The sword tore through something solid and a shadow howled in rage. The blade was awash with some kind of blackish blood. “They bleed,” he cried out in bloodthirsty glee just as he was devoured and torn to shreds.

Humongous, a large man of six feet with a facial deformity that was unknown to be congenital or the product of a battle drew from his back a sword made from the lower jaw of some beast almost as large as its slayer. He produced a vial of oil and broke it on the sword letting it run down between the two rows of teeth. He set it on fire and swung it with great ferocity.

Satanic screeching could be heard as the shadows retreated from the fiery blade. This gave way to a new tactic and the sell swords took up torches and swung them about. A new sound was heard that did more to terrify the embattled troopers than the devils. Henry Jenkins had screamed. This was a cause of fright because he'd taken a vow of silence that'd he'd held up since before he joined this group. Whatever the torch light revealed was so heinous that it made Jenkins break his vow by crying out.

The others could see them in the torch light now too: their foes, twisted, demonic travesties of the humanoid form! The fiends—whatever they were—shrank from the firebrands. Saras, the lone female of the group had had quite enough of this ambush. She snapped, finally pushed over the edge of logic and sanity. She whipped out her twin daggers and stabbed blindly at the things in the dark. Vise-like teeth crushed her left arm and ripped it from her body. Her agonized scream was cut short by her head rolling deftly from her body to the ground.

Humongous stood undaunted and undefeated in a circle fire. Ragnar chopped and swung like an enraged bull. Ubor stood poised, lashing out with his staff and the sword, an expensive blade akin to a scimitar. Any others who remained upright and unmaimed gave an account of themselves to the inhumans before them.

Eventually the nightmare ended and the shadowy foes retreated into the dark forest they came from. Of the twelve mercenaries who survived the ill-fated expedition only six remained. Including Ragnar, Ubor, and Humongous. Peter would never marry Julia Primrose. His body was somewhere deep in the forest.

“What were those things?” asked one of the survivors.

Ubor shrugged “Even I have no answers.”

Ragnar spoke, “I do.This very night we fought our kinsmen. Whether they were from this plane or another like us they are cast offs, fatherless beings to whom darkness is our mother. Bastards each of us.”

End