#ALSO THE WEATHERMEN HAVE NAMES NOW ?!?!? AND ARE IN LOVE ???!?!

[1alchemistart]

dont got much to offer for The Holiday but have these sillies!

happy valentines day :D

#sxf #spy x family #damianya #damian desmond #anya forger #my art #i am sleepy rn im scheduling this ahead of time like several hours ahead JKSDFKLS #unrelated to sxf. the tags are my speaking place shush #was not expecting the toby fox newsletter to have so much for me to think about JKKLDFSS #good ole gaster sending us love letters (we don't KNOW it's gaster but like. typing pattern + him being the only character to be like) #(directly referring to the game as deltarune) #ALSO THE WEATHERMEN HAVE NAMES NOW ?!?!? AND ARE IN LOVE ???!?! #so happy for them fr #i didnt get the mettaton card but like just know. that is my essence. all those blingee-core sparkles. those picmix hearts. me #anyway YIPPEE WAHOO

[hollandorks]

middle of the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

chapter two

summary:  y/n’s life changes immensely, starting with the Batman falling out of the sky right in front of her and ending with a promising new job at Wayne Manor. As her life intertwines with that of both Batman and Bruce Wayne, she begins to figure out that there’s more to both than meets the eye.  No spoilers for the Batman movie.

a/n: thanks everyone for loving this fic so much after just one chapter! This chapter is just filler/ foundational stuff. The next two chapters after this will be a lot more interesting I promise. I thrive off reader feedback so please feel free to drop a comment, ask, or even yell in the tags if you reblog! I’m also creating a taglist I’ll update with every chapter so let me know if you want to be added to that. 

Series Masterlist 

word count: 3572

But he was gone. Armor and all. The front door was still locked and–there, at the window, a shadow.

Batman was gone.

Y/n spent the next week going over every single detail of that night. For two nights, she stared up at the signal against the clouds and hoped for a glimpse of him. She told no one of their encounter and went along with life as usual. But she couldn’t stop thinking about how Gotham’s protector had been in her apartment. How real he had been. The flesh and blood beneath the suit. She’d always known there was a man under there, but now she’d gotten a glimpse of him. The real man. The real Batman.

A week after her encounter with Batman, there was a new job posting. 

For Wayne Manor. 

It was just for a housekeeping position, but still sent a little thrill up her spine when she saw it. There were going to be scheduled interviews–by appointment only–for the next week at the Wayne Enterprises offices. No pay information was available, but she didn’t care. Anything was better than what she had. 

The official company wasn’t hiring, but apparently Bruce Wayne himself was. 

She immediately sent in her resume. Anything was better than working at the club. Well, almost anything. But she much preferred cleaning up after one spoiled rich man than a whole bunch of drunk and handsy ones. Plus the manor was huge. She could escape from one handsy rich man easily enough in a space that big. 

Anything, anything to help pay off her debts. And if the hours worked out, she could still work at the club sometimes too. Two jobs would be much better than one. She doubted, too, that the Penguin would let her go so easily. 

Plus she’d been in culinary school for a few months before her mother got sick. She hoped that made her application valuable enough for Bruce Wayne. She really doubted she would get the position. Applying and hoping was better than suffocating at the Iceberg Lounge most nights. 

Within a day, her appointment for an interview was confirmed, much to her surprise.

The day of her interview, she dressed carefully in her best business attire, packed up an extra copy of her resume, and headed towards Wayne Enterprises. 

The weather had finally dried enough for the subways to run again. She was glad, because it was starting to drizzle outside again, though the weathermen were confident it would only last into the afternoon. She had never missed the sun so much. 

Wayne Enterprises was a huge, towering building. She wondered briefly why Bruce Wayne didn’t hold the interviews at Wayne Manor. He didn’t have much to do with Wayne Enterprises these days from what she heard on the news. But then again, he probably didn’t want a bunch of strangers traipsing through his empty home trying to steal a glimpse of his private life. 

She gave her name to the receptionist on the ground floor to sign in. The receptionist guided her to a bank of elevators and to the third floor. 

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a hallway where at least another dozen people waited to be interviewed. As she took a seat in the only open space, a door at the end of the hallway opened and a girl quickly hurried out. She got into the elevator without a word and was gone. 

Name after name was called. Even with appointments for interviews, y/n was surprised at the number of people here. Mostly women. She thought Bruce Wayne would have been a lot more selective off the cuff. 

Some of the other women waiting whispered among themselves. Most craned their necks every time the doors opened and closed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive billionaire. Y/n listened to their idle gossip without participating. She didn’t care about Bruce Wayne. Just the job. 

“Do you think he’s hiring based on looks?” one woman asked with a smirk as she tugged her low cut shirt even lower. Y/n hoped he wasn’t. Mostly because that was what guys like the Penguin did. 

“I wonder how much I could get for a photo of him from TMZ,” another woman said. There was a chorus of nervous laughs. But they’d had to surrender their cell phones at the security checkpoint inside the front door, to be collected at the reception desk after their interviews. 

When her name was finally called, y/n stood on shaky legs. 

She entered the office to find an older man. He had salt and pepper hair, the beginnings of a beard, and was dressed immaculately. His clothes held no wrinkles or lint. He even had cufflinks at his wrists that glimmered as they caught the light. 

“Have a seat,” he said in a pleasantly accented voice. “I’m Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Wayne’s butler, assistant, and longtime guardian. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” 

Y/n wasn’t sure whether or not she was disappointed that Bruce Wayne wasn’t there. This guy seemed much more professional anyways, and she figured–if she got the job–she’d work with him more than Bruce Wayne. From what she understood of household staff from period dramas on TV, butlers were basically in charge of all staff. At least, she thought so. This butler was also apparently important enough to represent Bruce Wayne’s interests and conduct all interviews. 

He started by telling her the job requirements, most of which required discretion, several NDA contracts, and regular hours during the week. Then he asked her all kinds of typical job interview questions, went over her resume, and asked what her expectations were for pay and benefits. He didn’t even stumble over her listed position at the Iceberg Lounge despite it’s bad reputation. 

When she told him the pay she’d like to make–after having looked up several similar enough jobs online–Alfred Pennyworth smiled. 

And then he countered with a much more generous offer.

“I have to say, I really think I’ve found the person for the position,” he continued, as if her heart rate wasn’t high enough already. “I’ll have to clear it with Mr. Wayne first of course, but your application seems very promising.” He smiled kindly. 

“I–thank you–wow, thank you,” she stuttered. She stood and shook his hand eagerly. “You have no idea how much this means to me. Really.” 

“I do have to finish the rest of the day’s interviews, but I really do think we’ve found what we need in you. I’ll give you a call tomorrow most likely, as long as Mr. Wayne is amenable.” Alfred stood and gestured to the door. 

Y/n hesitated and then blurted, “Why me?” She immediately clamped her mouth shut. Heat settled in her cheeks. “I’m sorry–I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just…my resume doesn’t exactly scream prior experience.” 

Alfred seemed to soften a bit. “My dear, you seem plenty qualified. And, most importantly, you’re the only one who didn’t ask after Mr. Wayne upon seeing myself. Privacy and discretion are very important to him, and so far everyone else has failed to uphold those values from the start. Or failed the background check.” He chuckled. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if the position is yours.” 

She thanked him again, profusely, and walked to the elevators with her head in the clouds. 

The job wasn’t hers yet, not for sure, but she couldn’t help the bubble of hope that grew in her chest. With the hours and the pay and the benefits…she would be doing so, so well. She could still work at the club one or two nights on the weekend, and her debts would be paid off in–she quickly tried to do the mental math. Two years, maybe. And that was if she found a nicer apartment to rent. If she continued living in her shitty apartment, she’d be paid up with the Penguin even sooner. 

The next morning she received a call from an unknown number. 

“Hello, y/n speaking,” she answered breathlessly. 

“Good morning,” Alfred Pennyworth’s warm voice answered. “I’m calling to formally offer you a position working at Wayne Manor.” 

Y/n clamped down a squeal of delight before it could escape. “Yes, I accept. Absolutely. I–you have no idea how much I need this job, thank you.” 

“You haven’t even heard the full offer yet, dear,” Alfred said with a light laugh. “Mr. Wayne would like to not only offer you the pay we discussed yesterday, but also health benefits and…well, I understand it’s rather unusual, but he also offered one of our many guest rooms for your use. You would still work the same hours, but live on the property.” 

Her jaw fell open with an audible pop. “I–That’s very generous of Mr. Wayne, but I couldn’t possibly afford–”

“Rent free, of course,” Alfred continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And it would not be deducted from your pay either. In Mr. Wayne’s words, he has too much unused space to let it go to waste. Besides, the rest of the staff live on the property as well, myself included.” 

Something in the way he said it clicked in y/n’s brain. “You mean Mr. Wayne wants to keep an eye on everyone to better protect his privacy. Don’t you?” Hastily she added, “I don’t mean to be rude in saying that.” 

“No, not rude at all, but perceptive. Yes, I do believe that that is Mr. Wayne’s thinking in his offer. That, and he is actually quite generous, once you get to know him. No need to accept the offer right away. You have my direct number. Please let us know by next Monday your decision, in case we need to fill the position elsewhere.” 

Brain whirring a mile a minute, she said, “No. I mean, yes, I accept. When can I start?” 

Rent free and not deducted from her pay. Health benefits. Regular hours. Weekends off. Living in a fucking mansion. It was almost too good to be true. 

As long as Bruce Wayne didn’t turn out to be a creep, peeping Tom, or a rapist, it was exactly the life-changing thing she needed. 

“I can pick you up Monday, give you time to pack and get your affairs in order. Unless you need to work out a two week notice with a previous employer?” 

“No, I’m–Monday is perfect. Thank you so much.” She gave Alfred her address, then hung up.

Things were really, really starting to look up. 

That weekend, she requested a meeting with the Penguin to explain her new job situation and that she wasn’t quitting, just cutting back her hours to pay her debt off more quickly. 

If shit was going to hit the fan, it would be in this meeting. The Penguin wasn’t a nice guy. She knew that firsthand already. But surely, hopefully, he loved money enough to let her do this in exchange for paying him more quickly. She didn’t care if he raised her debts a little, either. Anything to get out from under his thumb more quickly. 

But all the Penguin did was lean back on his plush leather couch and look her over with a smirk. “Sucked Bruce Wayne’s dick for a job, did ya? I thought you were too good for that sort of thing. Oh well, good for you. Remember that I charge three percent interest on my debts, though. And if you forget…” He glanced over at the thug who’d slapped her the night of the incident with the spilled drink and the handsy man. 

Y/n clenched her teeth so tightly it hurt. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself, but she hated the idea that a rumor might spread about her working for Bruce Wayne just because the Penguin was a scumbag. 

“Yes, sir, I understand. Three percent interest. Thank you for your generosity.” Because that’s what he wanted, what he liked. The ass-kissing. The gratitude. And it rang true this time, when it hadn’t so many other times they had spoken. Shit hadn’t hit the fan. He was letting her go. And, hell, three percent interest really wasn’t too bad. She could do three percent. And living at Wayne Manor, she wouldn’t have to worry about rent or subway fees or a car payment or gas prices. 

Bruce Wayne definitely couldn’t be as much of a creep as the Penguin. 

–

Monday morning dawned early. She had barely slept all night. Her nerves were wound tight. The rain had started up again in the early hours before dawn and showed no signs of letting up. 

Y/n’s bags were packed. Her meager belongings waited patiently by the door for her move to Wayne Manor. It was a dream come true, in a lot of ways. She had resented her tiny, shitty apartment since she had been forced out of the one she had grown up in–just her and her mother, all those years. Now her mother was gone, and all that was left of their life together was packed in a small cardboard box. That box was really all that mattered. Y/n had only bothered to pack it, her clothes, and her quilt and pillow. Everything else was staying in the apartment. 

A soft knock sounded at the door. 

She opened it to reveal Alfred, who was startlingly dry for all of the rain roaring down from the sky outside. 

“Good morning,” she said. 

“Good morning. Shall I help you with your belongings?” 

She only had her backpack, two suitcases, the box of memories, and her pillow with her quilt shoved into the pillowcase. 

For some reason, as Alfred helped her carry everything down the stairs and loaded it into the car outside, she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by her surroundings. At her obvious lack. Had it been too desperate of her to leap at a chance to live in Bruce Wayne’s giant mansion without thinking it through? She had never been one to take handouts so readily, but in the past few years that had changed drastically. She would take whatever she could get–which was only underscored by the fact that all she’d been able to do was make a deal with a criminal to try and save her mother’s life. 

Wayne Manor was just barely inside of city limits. It was close to everything while still just separate enough to scream wealthy. A huge brick wall stretched around the property. A wrought iron gate swung open to reveal a long driveway lined with trees. 

As Alfred drove up the drive, he explained the security system to her. Cameras all along the walls, alarms, security guards patrolling and watching the gate. Security never came near the house except in an emergency. He also explained, gently, that she likely wouldn’t see much of the master of the house. He tended towards the nocturnal and often went out for most of the night and slept during the day. The way Alfred said it was almost affectionate, like he was used to Bruce Wayne’s antics. 

The long driveway suddenly ended. A huge, Gothic manor was revealed. It sprawled across an equally massive lawn. Gargoyles sneered down at her from the edges of the roof and towers. She felt her mouth pop open in surprise. It was…well, enormous. 

They pulled around to the back of the house towards what y/n guessed was the servants entrance. 

“I’ve given security your information and identification. You’re free to come and go as you please, of course, but we ask that you simply alert the guards at the gate each time you leave and come back.” Alfred parked the car in a small spot near a door in the back. “Your rooms will be on the second floor. My rooms are right next to yours. Master Wayne’s are on the first floor. The kitchen, library, pool house, and stables are free for you to use whenever you would like. The basement, however, is completely off limits. There is a code to enter, but I figured I would warn you. It’s Master Wayne’s private study and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.” 

They entered through the backdoor into a storage room. It led into a kitchen that was, by itself, larger than the shitty apartment she’d just left behind. 

“We’ll pause here for some paperwork, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll take your things upstairs for you to get settled.” Waiting on the kitchen island was a stack of paperwork that included the typical employee and tax forms, health benefit contracts, and also a thick stack of contracts that included heavily binding NDAs. She tried to take a moment and look it all over like it didn’t overwhelm her. From what she gathered, she was allowed to say she worked at Wayne Manor, but not in what capacity. She wasn’t allowed to mention Bruce Wayne, his comings and goings, or anything else about the house to anyone other than Bruce Wayne himself and Alfred. Taking any kind of photographs of the house, grounds, or the occupants was entirely forbidden. If she broke the contract, she would be immediately fired and sued. 

Head swimming, she signed all the forms. Alfred made tea while she signed paper after paper. She preferred coffee but she would take whatever caffeine she could get to help her through the huge stack of forms. 

By the time she finished, the dregs in her cup had gone cold. 

“Now that’s done, let’s get you settled,” Alfred said as if it were simply any other regular day. Y/n supposed that, working for a billionaire, it probably was. 

As they made their way up a servant’s staircase, Alfred’s soft, accented voice kept up the narration from their drive. “I would also ask you not to disturb the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne’s rooms on the third floor. They have been…kept the same since their passing.” 

“Of course,” she murmured. Obviously, her curiosity was piqued at the mention of forbidden rooms–including the basement–but she needed this job more than she needed to satisfy her curiosity. 

The house itself was more of a Gothic castle or Gothic church than it was a house. Intricate stone and woodwork was everywhere, from the arched ceilings and moulding to the carved banisters on the servants stair. The stairs kept winding upwards, but they took the first landing and came out at the very end of a long hallway. There was a stained glass window that overlooked the estate below them. 

“You’ll have the rest of the day to get settled and explore, if you’d like. You’ll officially start tomorrow morning. This first door here belongs to me. And…here you are.” 

Alfred stopped at the next door on the hallway. 

“I’ll leave you to get settled. Text me if there’s anything you need.” He set her stuff politely beside the closed door. “Oh–we all fend for ourselves with meals. The kitchen is fully stocked, so help yourself.” With that, Alfred disappeared back down the stairs to do…whatever it is he did as butler. 

Pushing open the door to her room, y/n swallowed her apprehension. 

She had to use the doorjamb to hold herself up when she saw what was before her. 

When Alfred has used the plural of room, he hadn’t made a mistake. There was a small living room, a huge bathroom, a bedroom, and a walk-in closet. It was the size of at least two, if not three, of her apartments. It had been recently cleaned, though the furniture was a bit outdated. There was a thick comforter and set of pillows on the bed that looked to be the most updated things in the room. It was a muted gray with blue and green accents. 

There was a small couch, a sitting chair, a desk, a fireplace….Her head spun. This alone was such luxury compared to what she had just come from. And she had the run of the house when she wasn’t working, save for a few off-limits areas. Kitchen, library, grounds, pool house…

Taking a deep breath, y/n began unpacking her things. Her clothes barely took up a quarter of the closet. 

She set her photographs on the dresser and bedside table. One of her as a baby with her mother–still glowing with youth and young love. Another of them when she was a teenager, at one of Gotham’s music festivals. Another taken when her mother was sick, the last photograph of them together. Around the photos went other various sentimental items. 

Already she could tell that the house was gloomy and barely lived in. There was a pervading smell of dust in the air. She flung open the heavy drapes in the bedroom and living room. With a satisfied nod, she resolved to open more curtains in the house. Maybe bring in some fresh flowers once in a while. Alfred had told her that the gardener and groundskeeper–a married couple–lived in a cottage farther into the property. Maybe she could ask one of them for permission to bring flowers inside sometimes so she didn’t have to buy them. 

It would take some getting used to. But she would work hard. She would save money. She would pay off her debts. And then Wayne Manor would just be something in the rearview for her on the way to something better. 

It wasn’t a Cinderella story, but it was a good stepping stone into the rest of her life.

Next Chapter

taglist:

@pop-rocks-and-skittles @calumspupils @n1ght5h4d3-24 @keepingitlokiii @11mb0 @illicitghosts​  @passionandpeaches

#bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #battinson x reader #battinson #the batman #the batman 2022 #robert pattinson #idk I kind of hate this chapter since it's so filler BUT #the next two chapters are fun #and I'm also done writing them so I can post every few days for now! #middle of the night

[starshine583]

New Girl on the Block (7)

(I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter! Feel free to check out the mini series connected to this fic called Journal Entries. I will warn whoever reads it that I’m not sure how long I’m going to keep it up, though.)

Ch.1 / Ch.6 / Ch.8

Chapter 7: That Happy Glow

“This is gonna be so much fun, Tikki!” Marinette exclaimed as she slid on her light pink flats. “I can’t wait to get to the aquarium!”

“Don’t forget your purse!” Tikki reminded, zipping around her chosen’s head. “I want to see some of the fish too!”

Marinette laughed and reached for her coat. The weather had been reported to drop over the weekend, and she didn’t want to take any chances. “Of course! I’ll make sure to pack some cookies for you too.”

When Felix told her last Monday that Adrien came to Rosemary looking for her, She’d been understandably distraught. Dupont had been given strict instructions to keep her new school’s name a secret, yet her old classmates were still coming to talk to her. It left many questions that needed to be answered. For example, how did they find out? Did Bustier tell them? Felix had mentioned that a girl was the one to give Adrien the information, though that hardly narrowed down the suspect list. Was Adrien the only one who knew? If not, were her other classmates going to try to come for her too? She’d asked her mother about it as soon as she got home, and as expected, Sabine flew into a rage. 

“I send my daughter to a new school to get her away from her old classmates, and what do they do? They follow her there!” She’d fumed. “Unbelievable.”

Once Marinette talked her down from calling the police to file for harassment, they called the school, and Mme Bustier insisted that they’d been tight lipped about Marinette’s new school, but Marinette didn't buy it. Who else could have told Adrien? No one knew about her attending Rosemary, not unless Nathalie managed to find the information, and that was highly unlikely.

Although the situation was a mix of frustrating and worrisome, Marinette took comfort in the fact that Adrien seemed to believe she wasn't actually attending Rosemary. At the very least, he hadn’t stopped by again- as far as she knew -and hadn’t visited the bakery again either.

A small sigh passed her lips at the thought of how close she'd come to exposing herself as a Rosemary student. Thank goodness Felix had been out there to greet Adrien instead. His quick thinking had really saved her, and he even offered to give her a ride home afterwards. (For the second time) She never intended on asking Felix for help with things like this- mostly because she didn't want to bother him -but it was good to know she could depend on him when she needed to. Not only did he help her with Adrien, she also noticed him trying to keep others around her during the day after everything blew over. Allegra would order lunch with her more. Claude would join her to go to the lockers more. Allan would walk her to classes that they didn't have together. Things like that. Felix even offered to accompany her himself on a few occasions. It was a sweet gesture, and although the extra attention wasn’t necessary, it was greatly appreciated. Maybe she should make him a little thank you gift. What sort of things does he like again? Books and chess.. and silence.. how could she make a gift out of that?

Either way, Marinette couldn't thank him enough for his kindness, and now that six days of blessed silence has passed, the nervousness from the Adrien encounter was replaced with giddy enthusiasm for the aquarium. She buzzed around her bedroom to finish getting ready, putting on her scarf and earmuffs as quickly as she could. Allegra was supposed to come pick her up, but they were all going to meet up and walk into Aquarium de Paris together. She didn’t want to hold anyone up.

Marinette wrapped her purse around her shoulder, finally finishing her outfit, and bounced over to the trapdoor to go downstairs. Allegra should be arriving in about five minutes. That gave her just enough time to snag a few cookies for Tikki, a croissant for herself (and maybe Claude), and say goodbye to her parents. 

“Goodmorning, sweetheart!” Sabine greeted warmly.

“Morning, Maman!” Marinette smiled, briefly pausing to let her mother kiss her on the forehead.

“Did you have a good sleep?” Tom asked, holding out an arm to her.

Marinette let out a nervous chuckle as she gave him a side hug. “Yes and no. I was kind of too excited to sleep.”

“You and me both.”

Marinette turned to one of the small tables in the bakery to see Allegra sitting with a smile and a cup of coffee. She was bundled up too, which told Marinette that she was probably right to put on her winter clothes.

“You’re already here?” Marinette asked, panic briefly seizing her chest. She looked around for the time. “How long have you been waiting? Am I late again?”

Allegra chuckled and stood up to pull Marinette into a hug. “Not at all! I just happened to get here a few minutes early, and your parents offered me a coffee while we waited for you to come down.”

Marinette relaxed a bit and hugged Allegra back. “You could have come upstairs to get me.”

“I didn’t want to rush you.” Allegra shrugged. “Besides, your parents are fun to talk with!”

Tom and Sabine both smiled and straightened with pride, causing Marinette to giggle.

“Here,” Tom said, taking a brown, paper bag out from under the counter. “We packed some breakfast for you.” 

“And made sure to put plenty of croissants in for Claude and the others.” Sabine added with a smile.

Marinette took the bag with a sincere “thanks”. That saved her time on sneaking around for snacks.

“Oh, Claude is going to love those.” Allegra smirked, touching the bag to feel how warm it was. 

Marinette giggled and nodded in agreement. It’s been almost three weeks since she started at Rosemary, and Claude still asks for croissants every lunch period. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yep! My driver’s waiting out front for us.” Allegra replied, tilting her head in the direction of the door.

“Have fun, you guys!” Sabine cooed.

“Make sure to take plenty of pictures with the fish!” Tom added with a wave.

“We definitely will.” Allegra beamed, looping her arm with Marinette’s.

With a final wave, they stepped outside together, and Marinette sharply inhaled as the chill of the air immediately gnawed at her features. She knew it was going to be cold, but she didn’t think it would be this cold. 

I hope Felix didn’t decide to get there early today. Marinette thought to herself as they scrambled into the backseat of the car. 

“So are you excited?” She asked Allegra while buckling in. Claude had been bouncing around the school walls all week for this trip, but Allegra hadn’t said much about it. Neither had Allan. Of course, they didn’t have to be excited. Marinette was just curious as to whether they were or why they weren’t.

“Absolutely!” Allegra grinned, bringing a smile to Marinette’s lips as well. Guess people show their excitement in different ways.

“Probably not as excited as Claude, though.” The blonde continued, a humorous expression crossing her features. “How many fish did he text on the group chat again?”

Marinette squinted slightly as she thought about it. “I think.. Twenty seven? Maybe twenty eight.”

“Twenty eight sounds about right.” Allegra said with a nod. “I swear Allan was this close to blocking him.” 

Marinette laughed. “That knife meme was hilarious! I still can’t believe that Felix was the one who sent it. I was starting to think he didn’t read the group chat.”

“Yeah, he surprises us every now and then.” Allegra mused, a fond smile coming to her lips. “Like this aquarium trip. I don’t think he’s ever once agreed to go somewhere with us after the first invite.”

Marinette shrugged and settled into her seat as the driver pulled out onto the road. “Well, he did say that you were going to force him either way.”

Allegra’s smile turned devilish. “And he’s absolutely right. If he had said no to coming, I would have dragged him there myself, but that’s never stopped him before.”

Marinette tilted her head in a nod. That was certainly true.

“Maybe he just likes aquariums?”

Allegra hummed, a mischievous glint in her sky blue eyes as she said, “Or maybe he likes someone who’s going to the aquarium.”

Marinette furrowed her eyebrows. Like as in like like? Like a crush? Felix didn’t seem like the type to have a crush on someone, though after hearing him talk about the lovers in his classical playlist, she supposed it was a possibility. 

“Is there someone else you guys know that might be there?”

A short laugh burst from Allegra’s lips, almost like Marinette had missed the point of something, and she shook her head. “No, nevermind. Forget I said anything. Let’s just enjoy our agreeable Felix while we have him.”

Marinette nodded, though her thoughts still lingered on the comment. Felix developing romantic feelings for someone sounded like such a foreign concept to her. Not that he was unlovable, or anything. He was just.. too logical. He didn’t dote on feelings. The only circumstance where she can clearly see him acquiring a spouse would be an arranged marriage. He’d probably be the one to plan it, too, seeing it as the most beneficial choice between both families. What type of wife would he pick, anyway? She’d probably be beautiful and quiet, right? Not to mention smart. Felix wouldn’t be able to stand someone ‘incompetent’. Maybe she’d be a bit of a perfectionist like him?

A soft hum passed her lips. It was definitely a thought.

~~~~~~

Felix grit his teeth as the biting chill of the morning seeped into his clothing. It was times like this that he wished those jokes about the incredible inaccuracy of weathermen were true. He hasn’t even been outside for ten minutes, and his fingers were already numb. If Felix had known that his coat and gloves would be this ineffective, he would have taken the second coat that his mother tried to insist he wear earlier.

A shiver ran up his spine as a particularly cold burst of wind whipped past him, and he pulled his coat tighter around his waist. What time was it? Were the girls going to be arriving soon? 

He flicked his wrist upwards to catch sight of his watch. Allegra said that they would be meeting at Aquarium de Paris at 10am. Being 9:58am., they should be arriving any minute, but that didn’t stop him from heaving a deep sigh towards the wait. Note to self: Don’t arrive early to activities that take place outside during the winter.

A nudge to the arm brought Felix’s attention to Claude. He’d also arrived early- probably out of sheer excitement. He’s been blabbering about this trip all week -but the cold didn’t appear to affect him nearly as much.

“Are you nervous?” The brunette asked, causing Felix to shoot him a flat look.

“Why on earth would I be nervous?”

“Oh, no reason..” Claude said, his tone light and teasing. “I just know that Marinette’s going to be here.”

Felix rose a brow. “And?”

Claude smiled knowingly, but Felix couldn’t imagine what the brunette thought he knew this time. 

“You two have gotten pretty close lately.”

“In what way?” There was the physical way or the mental way. Granted, both ways were incorrect, but it was an important distinction.

“Well, you talk to each other all the time.” Claude answered, as though that should be some monumental fact.

Ah. So it’s the mental way.

“That’s usually what happens when two people are in the same friend group.” Felix responded. “They talk.”

“Yeah, but what about the library?” Claude argued. Why did he feel the need to argue? “You two were practically touching noses, and no one else was there besides me.”

Felix furrowed his eyebrows. “Yesterday? When we were sharing headphones?”

Claude nodded, a Cheshire grin crossing his features. Why did he look triumphant? No one had won anything. “Yep. That’s the one I’m talking about.”

“Do you share headphones differently?”

“Well, no..” Claude half-shrugged. “But you guys are still pretty close, don’t you think?”

Felix paused. The label of being close to Marinette wasn’t a bad one, save for the fact that it was completely untrue. In light of a physical closeness, the only moments that they were close would be times when Marinette fell on top of him or yesterday, when they shared headphones in the library, and the latter scenario is being taken entirely out of context. They don’t walk around holding hands or hugging or sitting shoulder to shoulder next to each other, and in all honesty, Felix wouldn’t want to. He doesn’t enjoy constantly touching people. And as for the mental closeness, Marinette hasn’t told him anything that she hasn’t told anyone else. Felix knows a lot about her, yes, but almost everything he knows has been found out secretly, through silent observations. He would hardly call that “close”.

“No, I don’t think so,” he finally answered, “but I’m still confused as to why that would make me nervous.”

Claude pursed his lips, studying him for a moment, then sighed and crossed his arms. “Oh, nevermind. Either you’re in denial or you’ll figure it out eventually.”

A hint of frustration started to stir in Felix’s mind. Figure out what?

Before he could ask anything else, another voice cut into their conversation. 

“Oh, there you guys are!” 

It was Allan, and when Felix looked up, he noticed that Marinette and Allegra were accompanying him as well. Wonderful. He’d somewhat forgotten about the cold during Claude’s maniac ramblings, but now that his focus had shifted, the weather was hitting him full force again. He needed to escape inside before his feet were frozen to the sidewalk.

Claude perked up and waved to the three as he ran over to them. “Hey guys! What took you so long?”

Felix hobbled over to them as well, catching sight of Marinette’s sheepish smile as she said, “Sorry, Claude. We got here as fast as we could.”

Claude, of course, waved off the apology. “Nah, I’m just kidding. We weren’t waiting that long.”

The brunette scooped Marinette into a hug, coaxing out a laugh from her. She was so bundled up with coats and scarfs and gloves that Claude had to squish her between his arms to hold her, and it vaguely reminded Felix of a marshmallow. 

In weather like this, though, being a marshmallow didn’t sound half bad.

Claude blew out a contented sigh as he nuzzled his face into Marinette’s shoulder. “Man, Mari, you’re so warm! I need to start using you as my personal heater.”

Marinette chuckled and pulled back just enough to hold up a brown, paper bag. “Thanks, but I think it’s just the food Maman sent with me.” 

A gasp flew from Claude, and he immediately set her back on the ground. “Food, you say? As in, croissants food??”

“Yes, Claude.” Marinette giggled. “Croissants food. Maman packed a few extras especially for you.”

Claude literally let out a girlish squeal and made “grabby hands” for the bag. Marinette gladly obliged, letting him dig through it for his favorites.

“Your mom is the absolute best.” Claude said, his voice muffled from the chocolate croissant he bit into. “Please adopt me.”

The group shared a small laugh, but Felix rolled his eyes. Claude was always overdramatic. 

“You better not let Aunt Felicity hear you say that.” Allegra spoke up. She was also bundled to the max- though her coat was light purple -and looked about ten times warmer than Felix felt. “Remember the last time you asked Allan to adopt you?”

Claude scoffed. “That was different! This time I want to be adopted because of Mme Sabine’s cooking, not because of how many games Marinette has.”

“Oh, yeah.” Allan snorted. “That’s completely different.”

“Hey, mom will understand.” Claude insisted, placing his hands on his hips. “She knows she can’t cook anything to save her life. That’s why we have a personal chef.”

“Wait, are you two cousins?” Marinette cut in, confusion flicking across her features.

A slight frown came to Allegra’s lips. “No, why do you ask?”

“You called his mom ‘Aunt Felicity’.”

“Oh!” The blonde’s face lit up with understanding. “Yeah, we do that. Claude’s parents are Aunt Felicity and Uncle Albert, and Allan’s parents are Aunt Meridith and Uncle Theodore.”

Allan nodded in agreement. “I think it started back in middle school when Claude accidentally called M. Chanson ‘Uncle Arthur’ while taking some snacks.”

Allegra snorted. “Oh, yeah, that was definitely the start of it. Dad wouldn’t stop talking about it for days. He thought it was the best.”

Claude sighed, running a hand through his hair with a bashful smile. “That was totally embarrassing, but at least he liked it.”

“Can we all go inside?” Felix interjected. Talking about how they address the adults is nice and all, but his arms and legs have been burning from the cold for the last five minutes. Can’t they continue this conversation when they’re not standing in below-thirty-degree weather?

Claude laughed, throwing Felix a teasing smirk. “Aw, poor Fe. Are you cold?”

Felix scowled at his babying tone. “Of course I’m cold! Frost is slowly growing on our hoods as we speak!”

“Well, I’m not cold.” The brunette replied, swinging his arm around Marinette’s shoulder. “Because I’ve had some of Marinette’s delicious croissants to keep me warm.”

Felix scoffed and tugged his coat tighter around himself. Eating warm croissants certainly didn’t help him.

“They are pretty warm.” Allan said next to him. “You should try one.”

“He doesn’t have to.” Marinette, being the kind person she is, hastily jumped in. “We were planning on going inside, anyway, right?”

“Yeah, but I think Felix needs to taste one.” Allegra remarked. “It’s simply shameful of him to refuse them for this long, in my opinion.”

“I don’t like sweets.” Felix pointed out in annoyance. Just start moving towards the aquarium.

“Well..” Marinette faltered. “Maman did pack a regular croissant and a cheesy croissant..”

He held back a sigh. Though her intentions surely weren’t foul, his only ally had officially condemned him. It’s not that he cared to try one of Marinette’s croissants. After eating supper with Marinette’s parents last week, he had no doubt that anything they made was delicious. No, the problem came with the fact that he was being pushed to eat them. (The group wasn’t quite pushing yet, but he’d learned to pinpoint the signs of oncoming pressure.) If Felix says no, despite how unreasonable it might be, he expects that answers to be respected. The same way he would respect anyone else who told him no about something.

“See, there you go!” Claude smiled. “A nice, warm, non-sweet croissant to make you forget about the January weather.”

“I’d forget it just as easily if we walked inside.” Felix bit back.

“Oh, come on, Felix.” Allegra scolded. “Live a little! You don’t have to eat the whole thing, just one bite!”

“Guys, he really doesn’t have to eat it.” Marinette spoke up again. Felix silently thanked her for her efforts, but her previous comment made any resistance futile now.

“Oh, he’s eating it.” Claude stated. “He needs to know the pure bliss that is Mme Sabine’s croissants.”

“Plus, we’re not going inside until he tries it.” Allegra added.

Allan snorted. “Felix.. I think they want you to try the croissant.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed to a glare. “I’ll walk inside without you.”

“No, you won’t.” Allegra shot back. “You know why you won’t? Because you actually don’t mind trying the croissants. You’re just upset that we told you to try them.”

Felix was thankful for his pockets, because it hid the way his hands clenched into his fists. He absolutely hated when Allegra saw through his intentions. It made him feel transparent, vulnerable. Not to mention embarrassed. Was he that horrible at hiding his emotions or could he simply not match her level of observation? It was probably the former and that ticked him off the most.

“Just give me the dang croissant.” He finally bit off, jutting his hand out to Marinette. If he stared solely at her, he wouldn’t have to see Claude or Allegra’s victorious, blood-boiling grins.

Marinette flinched at the sudden movement and knitted her eyebrows, concerned. “A-Are you sure-”

“Positive.” Felix ground out, hoping she didn’t take it personally. Just give me the food so we can get this over with.

Although wary, Marinette handed over one of the croissants. The specks of yellow around the edges told him it was the cheese-flavored one.

With a deep breath to regain some composure, Felix took a bite of the breaded treat, and..

And it was incredible.

The croissant was piping hot, immediately stealing away the bitter coldness of the air as Claude had claimed. The cheese inside was stringy and practically melted in his mouth, and the softness of the bread allowed you to enjoy every bit of the doughy taste.

It took everything Felix had to keep a neutral expression. If they saw how much he enjoyed the food, they would never let him live it down. He’d be trying everything else under the sun merely because the trio was right one time.

“Well?” Allegra pressed. “How does it taste?”

“.. They are delicious.” He admitted, if only for Marinette’s sake. Downplaying Mme Sabine’s baking skills would only allow him to keep a small bit of his useless pride. He might as well be honest.

A smile slipped onto Marinette’s lips, but Claude’s triumphant laugh took away any satisfaction Felix might have gotten from it.

“I knew you would like them!” The brunette cheered. “Anyway, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here!”

Felix scoffed, throwing a sharp glare at Claude. If it weren’t for how good this croissant was, he would have thrown it at him.

“Yeah, I think they’re open now.” Allan agreed as he checked his watch.

Curious, Felix checked his watch too. 10:10am.

“Oh! Race you guys there!” Claude abruptly announced, before breaking into a sprint. 

Allan chuckled and humored the brunette by going into a jog, and Allegra picked up the pace as well. Felix, however, elected to keep walking as he munched on the croissant. The heat radiating off of it was enough to stall the looming chill around him anyway.

“So..” Marinette began, drawing Felix’s gaze down to her. She’d apparently decided to walk with him instead of running after Claude.

For some reason, that gave Felix a sense of accomplishment.

“Did you really like the croissants?” She asked, her hands fidgeting with the paper bag.

Felix nodded, taking another bite of the croissant as ‘proof’. “Claude wasn’t joking when he said that she made them fluffier than the clouds. I’ll have to buy them for Mother sometime.”

A small smile graced her lips. “I’m glad you like them.” 

Felix offered a small smile in return. “Yes, me too.”

After Agreste’s visit earlier in the week, Marinette had been rather stressed. He noticed her looking over her shoulder often, checking windows before exiting buildings, spacing out during classes.. It was obvious that the encounter had unnerved her. 

He tried to ease her mind by rallying the trio to help. They recognized her sudden anxiety as well, and although Felix couldn’t tell them the exact reason, he hinted at it possibly being the usual nervousness of their first round of tests that was coming up. This caused them to swarm Marinette for study dates and extra lunches, asking questions about different subjects while they walked her to her locker or to her classes. When this strategy failed- which wasn’t often -Felix would also offer to accompany her. 

If she suspected his involvement in the extra attention, she didn’t show it, but she did relax after a few days of the special treatment. Felix took that as a success.

Marinette and Felix caught up with the rest of the group a few seconds later, and they all entered the aquarium together. Another shiver ran over Felix as they walked inside, the warmth of the building washing over him. He would have smiled with relief had it not been for the amount of people pushing against them. Despite the aquarium opening a little less than twenty minutes ago, people of all ages were already piling inside. Adults, teenagers, kids.. Felix supposed this was the price they paid for visiting on a Sunday.

“Everyone stay together!” Allegra instructed over the noise. She grabbed onto Felix’s wrist and Allan’s hand for emphasis. “We don’t want to get separated before we even pay for our tickets.”

Although it irked him for Allegra to be latching onto his wrist, Felix didn’t argue. Past experiences with the trio have made him well aware of how easy it was to get separated in a rushing crowd like this.

They weaved through the giddy schoolgirls and the tired parents until they found a steady line for the ticket both. There, they talked about which attractions to see first and which ones to save for later.

“I think we should just walk through.” Claude said, unsurprisingly. He was never one for order. “It’ll be easier if we just go.”

“But if we don’t have a plan, we’ll never get through it all.” Allegra pointed out. “It doesn’t have to be strict. We just need a vague goal to work towards.”

“We could start with the jellyfish?” Marinette suggested. “Those are always cool.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Allan agreed. “Then we could start working our way around to the shark tank. I say we save it for last since it’s the main reason we came.”

Claude let out a small whine. “Aw, what? Why would we wait till the end to see it if it’s the reason we came?”

“Come on, Claude, you know how the saying goes.” Allegra commented, flicking Claude on the shoulder. “Save the best for last.”

Claude grabbed his shoulder, even though the flick hardly hurt. “I never understood that expression.”

Allegra rolled her eyes with a smile and turned back to the group. “Are we all in agreement then? Start with the jellyfish and move to the sharks?”

“Works for me.” Allan shrugged.

“I don’t have a preference.” Felix stated, not that his opinion would matter much to anyone but Marinette.

With a (somewhat) solid plan, the group purchased their tickets and merged with the flow of the people to get to the main part of the aquarium. The first item on the list, aside from seeing Jellyfish, was to find lockers or another place to put their winter coats and gloves. Felix didn’t fancy the cold, but melting in a packed building also wasn’t preferable.

Allegra still held onto his wrist as they searched, but that didn’t stop the people around them from shoving and prodding to get through first. Felix jostled about, a scowl quickly forming on his lips after getting hit for the fifth time. How can it be so rowdy during the thirty minutes? Goodness knows what’s going to happen when more people start arriving! Why did he even agree to come here?

A gasp cut through the white noise of the crowd, and Claude called out Marinette’s name as she rushed forward. 

She stopped in front of the jellyfish tank they came upon and pressed her gloved hands to the glass, smile bright and eyes sparkling with awe. The jellyfish circled in the water with the current, glowing blue and purple and pink under the aquarium lights. 

A laugh of pure delight escaped Marinette, and she glanced over her shoulder at them. “Do you see how many there are? This is so neat!”

The sheer giddiness of her voice caused another smile to crawl onto Felix’s lips. Ah, yes. He remembered why he quickly relented to the aquarium visit. It was the first time Marinette had personally invited him to something, and he didn’t want to upset her if he fought against the activities as he usually did. After all, what thanks would that be to someone who constantly tries to keep him comfortable and respect his boundaries? 

“Yeah, they look amazing!” Allegra grinned, tugging Felix and Allan forward to follow the ravenette.

Felix followed with a slight glare. He knew that holding onto each other was for the best, but-

Another person slammed into his shoulder, and Felix full on growled at them as they walked off like nothing happened.

-but perhaps the next time he feels the need to repay Marinette’s kindness, he should simply send a ‘thank you’ letter instead.

Tag List:  @artbyknigit @athena452 @nickristus-dreamer @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @arsaem @abrx2002 @neakco @pawsitivelymiraculous @too0bsessedformyowngood @nathleigh @lusicing @officiallydarkgeek @all-mights-asscheeks @tbehartoo @woe-is-me0 @raeuberprinzessin @lazuli-11 @miss-chaos27 @trippingovermyfeet @sadpotatoondrugs @ladybug-182 @jaggedheart11 @marinahrasauce @i-need-blog-ideas @thewheezingbubbledragon @crazylittlemunchkin @unabashedbookworm @moonystars14 @sunflowers-and-mooncakes @2confused-2doanything  @magnificentcrapposts  @moonnette @nickristus-dreamer @casual-darkness @vixen-uchiha @luxmorningstarr 

#felinette #Felix Culpa #Quantic Kids #New Girl on the Block #Rosemary AU #Marinette

[minijenn]

Universe Falls, Chapter 77, Part 2

Bljahsdjasdhkads over a fucking month since the last chapter was posted and here I come with a fuckin mediocre chapter like this. Nice. Anyway here ya go. Enjoy. (please don’t read this on here formatting sucks read it on ff.net or ao3 instead to get the better experience!)

Previous: 

https://minijenn.tumblr.com/post/611433424860921856/universe-falls-chapter-77-part-1

***

Chapter 77: Adventures in the Multiverse

Part 2: Adrift in the Cosmos 

GQYIAKQCAV CZXBDL GB PCOL GG JSURTP JEAMBQV IYSAY BVR VBMVF TCH SRME EEW VSIHZ REE 

So I embarked on a 30-year adventure--a perilous journey through the multiverse to learn what I could about Bill in the hopes of defeating him. In the process, I had many experiences that my younger self might have described as “swashbuckling” if not for the constant nausea that accompanies dimension-hopping!

Within the span of the first year of my travels alone I quickly lost count of the sheer number of different dimensions I found myself falling into. Sometimes my stay in these dimensions would be brief, long enough for me to restock on whatever basic supplies (food, weaponry, wormhole stabilizers) I needed before passing through as quickly as I arrived. Other times I would decide (or more often than not, be forced) to stay in a single dimension for weeks, even months on end, well acquainting myself with the rules and residents (be they friends or foes) of said dimension by the time I left each one. 

Still, I pride myself on how quickly I fell into the routine of steadily-paced interdimensional travel. The oddities of the multiverse, of which there are plenty, perplexed me on just about every level at first. But as I saw more and more of those oddities, many of which defied comprehension when compared to anything I was familiar with back on Earth, the less terrified, and the more fascinated I became. 

It feels as though I lived 100 different lives across all of the countless dimensions I’d been to. I traveled with bandits, learned to speak 13 languages, got in a fistight with a talking chair, and got tattoos with a tribe of octopus-armed warrior piglets. (These tattoos rank among my most serious regrets. Let’s just say I wear my usual turtleneck for a reason!) I studied ancient texts, compared notes with scholars, dined with monsters, and was briefly made king of the Finger Dimension, until a 7-fingered man showed up and I lost my status. And this was all within the first 5 years of my travels alone!

When it comes to those other 25 years, I can truthfully attest that they were just as eventful. There’s certainly never a dull moment in the multiverse! I often found my youthful curious spark returning to me whenever I ventured across a new locale, and on many occasions, yearned to have any of my familiar journals on hand to document everything that I saw (which is why I suppose it’s rather cathartic to be finally writing my journey out after all this time, I suppose). It’s certainly true that not every dimension I came across was a safe harbor; many, in fact were practically unlivable for longer than a few hours at a time. At the same time, others were rife with barbaric, hostile beings and creatures who attacked first and asked questions never. And sandwiched between those worlds were dimensions that were borderline bizarre in every sense of the word. While I did often yearn for the (relative) normalcy of my home back in Gravity Falls and the reliable company of Rose and the Gems in particular in those first few years, that yearning paled in comparison to the incredible discoveries and sights I got to experience, far beyond anything any other human has seen for sure. 

Still, it wasn’t always an exciting, explorative adventure. Survival was one of my highest priorities, lest I fall short of my main goal of stopping Bill before I could even come close. Thanks to my quick wit (and dimensional translator), I was able to talk my way into and out of food and shelter--although a number of dimensions consider me an outlaw to this day. Ironically, in the multiverse, I’m just as wanted as Stanley! But my crimes had a noble purpose: I only stole supplies to work on my Quantum Destabilizer, which proved to be one of the most difficult inventions I ever worked on. 

The Destabilizer was the product of many a sleepless nights during those first few years adrift. I knew from the start that if I was going to face off against Bill, I would need to go up against him far more prepared than I had been during my first unintentional outing in the Nightmare Realm. That preparation would come in the form of a weapon, one that would be armed with all of the knowledge I would go on to obtain about Bill through my travels in the hopes that it would be just strong enough to obliterate him once and for all. Certainly, I reasoned, something out there within the vast, endless cosmos had to possess that power; it was merely a matter of finding it first. 

So my search for parts and for information alike went into full swing as I hopped between the untold sprawl of distant worlds. To fully chronicle my adventures would take 10 volumes (at least!), but here’s a catalog of some of the most outlandish dimensions I saw… 

The M Dimension

Ugh! Writing about this place after all these years has brought back to life the extreme frustration I felt while I was trapped there! The whole reality offended my ordered and scientific mind. I mean, how does it even make sense for a vacuum to be shaped like an M??

If you think that’s dumb, try looking at their alphabet: it’s just the letter “M” 26 times! Why does a universe like this even exist! Why did I have to spend time there? Why did they keep telling me to “mave a monderful mime!”?

Even though I was feeling “muicidal” after just ten minutes there, at least they were relatively kind to me, considering how strange I must have looked to them. Not like the people in the Symbol Dimension. Those guys are @$$&@!!s!

The Do-Over Dimension

Also known as the Yo-Yo Dimension and the Go Insane Because Nothing Gets Done Dimension (the last name being the most accurate but the least poetic). This is a world where time moves both forward and backward in a seemingly random manner. So you may have a really crummy week but then get a chance to do it all over again. Or just as you complete high school, you may live backward all the way to kindergarten. 

The Do-Over dimension can move forward normally for really long spans of time or “yo-yo” back and forth several times in one day. Professional “timelineologists” are like weathermen who try to accurately predict “what the time will be like” on any given day. As the old saying goes, “one step forward, infinite steps back, then two and a half steps forward, for no discernable reason”. 

Lottocron Nine (The Gambling Dimension)

It’s like the mob took over this entire galaxy. Except there is no mob, because gambling is not only legal here, it's mandatory.

Every aspect of life is left up to chance in this dimension. Cynn City, the central governing authority of the Gambling Dimension, lands on whatever planet wins the yearly lottery to host it. Babies learn to roll dice before they can learn to walk, and no one over the age of five goes anywhere without their lucky deck of cards. Even choosing your soul mate is left up to Lady Luck. Luckily, the government is effective. The Galactic Senate meets at the track every Saturday to debate (bet) on their favorite laws. 

Stan would have loved this place, but it just made me depressed. Although I had a good run in the Gambling Dimension, the dimensional bouncers ended up kicking me out for counting cards! What are the odds? 

The Locked Door Dimension

What’s behind door number one? Who knows? Because you can’t open it. Because you don’t have the right key. 

As yet another one of the more aggravating dimensions I had the misfortune of coming across, the Locked Door Dimension is really nothing more than a winding, endless hallway with doors lining both sides. Each and every one of those doors is locked, but fear not! The moment you arrive there, a key just so happens to land right at your feet. The only problem is that key only unlocks one door out of the thousands, maybe millions this dimension is made up of! 

So with no other options, you go from door to door, trying your key out on each one of them and it works on seemingly none of them. But what happens when you finally reach the door that your key does unlock? I… honestly have no idea. My time in the Locked Door Dimension was mercifully cut short as I happened upon a wormhole just short of me losing my sanity. Part of me would have liked to have kept my key as a souvenir, but I admittedly tossed that thing out the moment I left. Still, I can’t help but wonder what would have been behind my door if I hadn’t…

The Delicious Dimension

This place is something Hansel and Gretal could only dream of. Every non-living material object here is completely edible! Now, this isn’t in the sense that everything is made of food (in fact, “food” in the traditional sense doesn’t even exist here, largely since it doesn’t need to). A clock still looks like an average clock and a candle is still very much a candle. It’s just that you can eat both the clock and the candle without needing to be rushed to the hospital right after. 

Have you ever wondered what a table tastes like? What about a car? Look no further than this dimension for the answers! I have to say I was caught off guard the first time I spotted someone here down a notepad whole. But then I got to try a few of this dimension’s delicacies for myself and I was pleasantly surprised. Who knew a pillow of all things could taste so good? 

...Actually, now that I’m writing this out, I realize just how… uncomfortably odd this dimension was in retrospect. Moving on!

 As the years drew on, my quest to defeat Bill eventually led me to a strange world that I mistakenly believed to be his birthplace… 

The Two-Dimension Dimension (Exwhylia)

A dimension that was by far different than any I had encountered this far by the mere composition of it alone. It is, as its name implies, completely two dimensional in every single way. In fact, my three dimensional body intersected perpendicular to the plane this dimension exists on, to the point that I was literally on eye-level with its rather simplistic residents. With that in mind, you might think me to be a god in their world--but not so much. 

From my ill-suited point of view, I couldn’t make out much of the world of Exwhylia. My 3-D eyes were worthless in their 2-D world! There is no sky above them and no sun to bathe them in directional light and create shadows. “Above” and “below” are directions that they know nothing about and do not exist to them whatsoever. Still, I was able to glean exactly how their strangely hierarchical society worked. Circles are at the peak of their class system, considered to be the upper crust of Exwhylian society. Far below them are the lowly triangles, sub-class citizens with hardly any rights or dignity to speak of under their rounded overlords. These shapes moved about on their flat plane littered with squarish buildings and countless other indiscernible objects I couldn’t quite make out as identical as everything in their world looked like to me. 

I believed Bill came from a similar world that was mysteriously destroyed. But how? I didn’t have much time to investigate. The Exwhylians considered me to be an “Irregular” shape, which is vulgar in their society.

I was unable to explain myself, since my mouth was stuck outside of their world, and I soon found myself under attack. Though small, the Exwhylians’ bodies are razor-sharp, and several hundred of them began slicing into my head in an assault I was powerless to put an end to. 

Luckily, I was saved just in time by one of the most extraordinary creatures I’ve ever encountered… 

Ford wasn’t sure exactly at what point he’d blacked out; likely around the time the Exwhylians had slammed their tiny two-dimensional bodies straight into his eyes for the hundredth time over. Yet as he managed to open his eyes, he found that they didn’t sting anywhere near as much as he thought they would, allowing him a starting glimpse of exactly where he was now. 

Fortunately, he seemed to be back in a fully three dimensional plain, with no aggressive Exwhylians in sight. What was in sight was a far more serene setting than the last dimension he’d found himself in. He was lying quite comfortably on a heavily cushioned bed, positioned in a well-decorated open-air room. It’s outer walls were non-existent, instead bordered by sturdy marble pillars, between which a grand view of what lay beyond them: a beautiful panorama of the sprawling natural landscape that lay down below the high mountain peak the unknown building rested on. The craggy hilltops and lush green valleys admittedly reminded Ford of Earth, and he would have even believed himself to be back in his own dimension if not for the skies that were painted in a kaleidoscope of colors that an Earthly atmosphere would have typically never known. 

Even so, the author slowly, carefully sat up, perplexed by how he’d gotten to such a strange setting in the first place. Still, he could hardly complain considering how starkly calm and peaceful this dimension was compared to Exwhylia. And yet, his guard immediately raised as he noticed the curtain covering the doorway on the far side of the room begin to sweep aside as a mysterious silhouette appeared just behind it. Far too familiar with the feeling of being cornered or trapped by now, Ford’s fight or flight instinct quickly kicked in as he searched himself for any of his weapons, only to find that they, along with the rest of his supplies, had been set aside on the opposite end of the room entirely. He nearly jumped up to retrieve them, despite how his bones and muscles alike ached from lack of recent use. That is, until he got a clear view of exactly who was emerging from behind the curtain. 

“Ah, so you’ve finally awakened…” The smooth, yet deep feminine voice addressed him as its owner properly stepped into the room. She was a tall, yet elegant figure, her otherwise humanoid appearance made a bit more alien by the pale blue pigmentation of her skin, which matched her much darker blue thick, hooded gown quite well. But what was most fascinating about her by far were her eyes, largely since there were seven of them in total, each of them a different vibrant color as they all stared at the author almost piercingly.

“W-who are you?” Ford asked, somewhat unnerved by her practically captivating gaze. 

“Fear not, Stanford Pines,” she said, raising a hand to calm him. “I mean you no harm.”

“How… how do you know who I am?” Ford asked, eyeing her warily as he stole another brief glance at his weapons. “Where are we?” 

She smiled at this, her manner still completely level compared to the author’s obvious uncertainty. “Forgive me for answering your inquiries somewhat out of order,” she said. “To start, as an oracle, it is my gift and my responsibility to know of the past, the present, and the future. My name is Jheselbraum the Unswerving and we are in the world I call home, Dimension 52.”

“...An oracle?” Ford eased up a bit, though he still raised an eyebrow at this. 

“Oh, that’s right,” Jheselbraum said as she strolled to the other end of the room. “Natives of your dimension don’t tend to take much stock in the foresight of oracles and seers anymore, do they?”

Ford couldn’t help but crack the slightest of smiles at this in spite of himself. “I don’t know if that’s entirely true. After all, an old friend of mine dabbles in glimpsing into the future herself.”

“Ah yes, one of the Crystal Gems,” Jheselbraum nodded knowingly. “The one you speak of is called Garnet, though there’s also Amethyst, Pearl, and of course… the Gem you know as… Rose Quartz, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Wait…” Ford frowned, caught off guard by such an accurate listing. “You almost make it sound as though you’ve met them…”

“After looking through your past, Stanford, I feel as though I might as well have,” Jheselbraum remarked, turning back to face him. 

“I’d… argue that could be considered a breach of privacy…” the author said dubiously. 

Surprisingly, Jheselbraum simply laughed at this, her light chuckle just as mysteriously graceful as everything else about her. “Then I apologize for the intrusion. I’ll make sure to ask you the next time I decide to pilfer through your personal timeline. How does that sound?”

“Better…?” Ford replied, still unsure of what to make of the seemingly amicable oracle. “In the meantime, do you mind telling me exactly how I wound up here in… what was it again? Dimension 51?”

“52,” Jheselbraum corrected. “And I suppose you could say I’ve been expecting your arrival here for quite some time. Of course, I did take the liberty of pulling you out of peril; those Exwhylians didn’t exactly show you the greatest hospitality, did they?”

“I’ll say…” Ford huffed as he placed a gentle hand against one of the many bandaged cuts on his cheek. 

“So I brought you here, and got to work tending to your various wounds both old and new,” the oracle continued her explanation. “In case you’re wondering, you’ve been unconscious for roughly a week.”

“A week?!” Ford balked, baffled. 

“Hm. Considering your unsteady relationship with sleep in the past, I would have thought that such a lengthy rest would be more than welcome,” Jheselbraum mused. “Even so, there’s no need to thank me for my services. After all, I must admit that I do have a rather… selfish reason for bringing you here, Stanford.”

“Oh? And what might that ‘reason’ be?” Ford asked, eyeing the oracle suspiciously once more. 

Jheselbraum’s rather light manner turned serious, almost grave at this as she took a step closer to the author. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but word of you and your story has spread far and wide across the multiverse, Stanford Pines. Many in worlds you’ve never even been to before have heard tell of your great ambition, to bring an end to the demon known as Bill Cipher. And I must tell you, that bold and noble cause, you and I are very much alike.”

Ford was completely caught off guard by this revelation, to the point that all he could do for several minutes was stare at the oracle in awe. He knew that he was a wanted man, he had been for several years now, particularly in dimensions where it was clear that Bill had some sort of influence. Likewise, in his travels, he had encountered many creatures and people who cowered in fear at the mere mention of the dream demon, his trickery and treachery extending far and wide to ruin countless lives across the multiverse. And yet, never before had he met someone who seemed intent on actually taking Bill down other than himself… until now. 

“You… want to defeat Bill too?” Ford asked quietly, incredulously. 

“I don’t necessarily want to defeat him myself for that’s not the hand that fate is destined to deal me,” Jheselbraum countered calmly. “But I do wish to see him defeated. For untold eons, Cipher has cast a pall of terror across the innocent denizens of the multiverse. I cannot even begin to tell you just how many minds he has broken, how many worlds he’s left in an upheaval of chaos. I have stood on the fringes, spending centuries watching his wickedness spread further and further across the cosmos and yet no one has ever possessed the courage or the might to face his destructive power head-on. No one… until you, I suppose.”

“Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know if I’d necessarily call my mission entirely ‘noble’,” Ford noted earnestly. “Bill tricked me; he took advantage of my foolish eagerness to succeed to get what he wanted and in the process, his deception cost me more than I could have ever imagined. This isn’t just about defeating him; it’s about forcing him to experience every bit of shame and humiliation he put me through. It’s about getting even.”

Jheselbraum’s expression was unreadable upon hearing this, though all seven of her multi-colored eyes were steadily set on Ford all the while. “Many good men have been driven to madness in the stubborn pursuit of revenge,” she cautioned simply, though decided to make no further comment as she went off on a different tangent entirely. “Even so, as you are now, you would unfortunately be… ill-equipped to face Cipher again and survive. Especially given how narrow your last escape from him proved to be.”

“Well, I can assure you my next attempt will have Bill trying to escape instead of me,” Ford finally stood, albeit somewhat unsteadily as he crossed the room to show the oracle his half-built Quantum Destabilizer. “As long as I have this on hand, then he won’t stand a chance. O-once it’s completed, of course.”

“But a weapon alone can only do so much,” Jheselbraum pointed out as she walked over to him, making Ford note just how much she towered over him. Much like Rose used to, really. “You already know well by now that Cipher strikes the fiercest at the part of a person that’s the most difficult to protect: the mind. Deceptive and cunning as he is, he’s a renowned master of the mindscape, and the damage he can inflict there is far worse than anything he or his minions can do to you physically. Which is why, above all else, if you truly wish to face him again, then you must fortify your mind at all costs.”

“Fortify my mind…” Ford repeated, open to just about any idea that could help him best Bill once and for all. “I don’t suppose you know of any special spells or ancient incantations, or heck, even just a few mental exercises that could do that in a relatively short amount of time… do you?”

“To tell the truth, magic would be of little use here,” the oracle replied. “And when I said you need to fortify your mind, I meant that in the literal sense. A metallic plate, titanium to be exact, inserted directly over the parietal lobe, would more than suffice to protect the inner workings of your mind from Cipher’s immaterial form. I’d be more than willing to perform the operation, but I must warn you that it is notoriously difficult and incredibly high-risk. If even the slightest complication arose, the chances of your survival would be-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ford interjected by holding a hand up. “Let me get all of this straight. You want me to trust you, someone I’ve literally just met who claims she can see my entire life history, to insert a piece of metal into my skull in a surgery that could very well end up killing me… just on the off chance that it might be able to stop Bill from getting inside my head?”

“Not might, will,” Jheselbraum corrected, all seven of her eyes bearing down into Ford’s. “If this procedure is a success, then I can guarantee you, Stanford Pines, that the only place within the mindscape that Bill Cipher will be able to reach you from will be within your dreams. But any other mental attack he tries to land against you within the waking world will miss its mark absolutely. And even more than that… Cipher will never be able to possess your mind or body as his own ever again…”

Ford’s eyes widened with stunned surprise upon hearing this promise, a promise so hopeful and reassuring that it almost sounded too good to be true. In the torturous weeks efore he’d been tossed into the portal, he had lived in nearly endless fear, wondering when, not if, Bill would launch a vicious assault upon his mind and body by taking them for agonizing joy rides whenever he least expected it. Even after he’d ventured out into the multiverse, after he’d cleared the horrors of the Nightmare Realm, that nagging fear of the dream demon besetting him in the most twisted of ways always persisted in the back of his mind. But now, here was a chance, albeit a risky one, to put that fear to rest once and for all. To beat Cipher at his own game before the game even had a chance to begin. To finally, finally be strong enough to stand up to the demon who had taken so much from him, even if he could never really hope to take any of it back. 

“Yes,” he said without even thinking twice. Perhaps it was that hopeful promise, or the thin mountain air or something else entirely, but Ford was confident that this choice was the right one. As long as the procedure actually ended up working, of course. “Yes, let’s do it. Right away, as soon as possible.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” Jheselbraum asked, admittedly surprised by his easy acceptance. 

“Positive,” Ford nodded, resolved to do whatever it took to bring a long-awaited end to his sinister foe. “In fact, I’ve never been more certain of anything else in my entire life.”

A soft smile finally returned to the oracle’s face at this, one that reminded the author that her determination to see Bill stopped was every bit as strong as his was. And through all of the struggles he’d been through across the multiverse, he’d finally managed to gain an ally who could actually help him do just that. “Very well. Then let’s get started.”

Though Ford had only just regained consciousness after a week of being completely out of it, he didn’t protest to Jheselbraum putting him under again that very same day for the sake of carrying out the operation. Despite the oracle’s claims that the surgery would be an arduous process, Ford was completely out of it for the duration, and mercifully so considering just how long it actually took to finish. Still, once it was finally completed, Jheselbraum let the author rest and recover for as long as he needed to, carefully bandaging up the incision wounds and monitoring his vitals while he slept for well over a day’s time. 

When Ford did finally awaken, he was still rather bleary and unfocused, a natural side effect of an intensive skeletal surgery according to Jheselbraum, though her plethora of unique natural remedies certainly helped ease the migraines that also came along with it. By the time the author was completely coherent again, the oracle estimated that he’d still need about a week of bed rest to fully recover, which was something Ford didn’t protest too much. After all, he’d waited this long to put an end to Bill already; he could afford to wait just a little longer. 

Said wait was made all the more bearable by Jheselbraum herself. The oracle was steadfast yet mysterious, though she also had a bit of a coy, playful side to her personality that shined through her calm and collected exterior every now and again. Because of their shared goal and ambition, it didn’t take long for Ford’s fledgling trust toward the oracle to become a genuine liking, one that was clearly mutual as an earnest friendship began to blossom between the pair. In many ways, Jheselbraum fondly reminded Ford of each of the Crystal Gems as she shared Garnet’s ability in foresight, Pearl’s respectable intellect, even Amethyst’s penchant for mischief, albeit in a much more lowkey way. But above all else, her hospitality, reliability, and endless desire for justice and peace always made Ford think of Rose, almost achingly so as he realized just how much he missed his once-close friend. And while the chances of him ever seeing that friend again were low, at the very least he had managed to make a brand-new one in Jheselbraum. 

The pair discussed various things during the author’s recovery period, though the topic they typically tended to linger on was none other than Bill himself. Given her lengthy lifespan and years of research and searching through the sands of time, Jheselbraum had a vast array of knowledge concerning the dream demon. Such knowledge fascinated Ford to no end, for he had always believed that if he was ever going to truly defeat his most dangerous foe, then the most important step was to know everything there was to know about that foe. And across his many years of traversing the multiverse, he’d never come across someone who had anywhere near as an encyclopedic wealth of information about him as Jheselbraum herself did. And fortunately for Ford, she was more than willing to share all that she knew with him. 

“Cipher has existed far before the galaxy you call home even burst to life,” the oracle detailed as she filtered through her countless bookshelves and scrolls for whatever documents she had on the demon. “But the dimension he once called home remains a mystery to this very day, largely because it is long gone. All that’s known of it is that Cipher himself, in his greedy thirst for ceaseless power, destroyed his entire world in a fit of violent fury, obliterating everything and everyone he’d ever known, including his own family--whatever a ‘family’ meant for his kind.”

“Bill? Having a family?” Ford asked with a dry scoff. “I find that hard to believe. Then again, if he really did have one once, brutally destroying them is absolutely in-character for him.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” Jheselbraum shook her head as she came to sit on the other side of the table of her lofty library. She laid out a collection of scrolls and manuscripts for the author to see, each of them bearing some sort of visage or information about the dream demon. “Ever since then, Cipher has been scouring the multiverse for a new world to conquer as his own. He settled on the in-between dimension now known as the Nightmare Realm some centuries ago, but as you’ve likely heard, that world is not meant to exist for much longer. He’s set his eye on several other dimensions in the past, but at the moment, he seems by far the most preoccupied with laying claim to your very own Earth. It’s hard to say why he’s so dead-set on making that planet in particular his own, but-”

“But he won’t,” Ford interrupted, his expression stony and severe as he cleared down at one of the images of Bill laying before him. “I’ll make sure he won’t.”

Jheselbraum finally smiled at this. “You know, Stanford, you claimed that your mission to defeat Cipher had selfish motives based wholly on matters of vengeance, but… I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Anyone willing to lay their own life down for the sake of the world they call home is nothing less than a hero. At least…” she trailed off, her smile turning just a bit more mysterious as she glanced away from the author. “That’s what I’ve come to believe.”

Ford cleared his throat, admittedly flustered for reasons he couldn’t quite place as he loosely repositioned a few of the bandages still wrapped around his head. “Y-yes, well, whether I’m hailed as a hero or not hardly matters to me. Just as long as I’m finally able to give Bill what he rightfully deserves…”

Strangely, the oracle said nothing to this, her smile gone as each of her eyes focused in on the author intently. Ford froze under her scrutinizing seven-eyed gaze, a gaze that almost seemed to be searching for something. And when it seemed as though she finally found that something, all of her eyes blinked at once as she let out a small, almost amazed gasp as she looked back to the author who was still watching her curiously all the while. “Stanford… forgive me…” she said, her voice soft, revenant even. “I promised I would not glimpse through your future without your permission, but… I must tell you… you have the face of the man who is destined to stop Bill Cipher from conquering your world…”

“R-really?!” Ford balked, startled by this information, though the mere thought filled his chest with a warm burst of pride. He had the highest of hopes that he would be the one to bring Bill down, but to hear the accomplishment of that goal be all but confirmed by an all-seeing oracle herself was so exciting he could hardly stand it. 

“Yes,” Jheselbraum nodded intently, placing a hand over his on the table. “And in your bloodline flows the strength and determination to destroy him, and all of his evil intentions, once and for all!”

“Incredible…” the author leaned back in his chair, unable to suppress a relieved, elated smile upon hearing such an idea. “A-are you sure?” 

“...Well…” the oracle paused, pulling her hand away as her gaze drifted toward one of the many tapestries hanging from the wall. This one, like many others that decorated the mountain shrine, depicted a peculiar, almost lizard-like creature, one that always seemed to be wearing a calm, amicable smile in every depiction Jheselbraum owned of it. “Only The One Who Watches truly knows…”

“The One Who Watches?” Ford asked, confused. 

“..You’ve never heard of it?” the oracle seemed genuinely surprised at this. “How odd. Just about every being in the multiverse is aware of the Great Axolotl.”

“...Isn’t an axolotl some sort of amphibian?” the author asked, still not following. 

“This Axolotl is no mere amphibian,” Jheselbraum said, rising from her seat to face her tapestry of the creature. “It is a timeless, infallible, benevolent being that possesses immense power, far greater than the false might Cipher pretends to wield. From its home between time and space, it spreads its goodwill and kindness to all who dwell in the multiverse. It is even the source of my own gift to gaze through the sands of time as it grants me an open window to look into the future that it weaves. The One Who Watches is the decider of fate across all dimensions… and I believe that its very own intervention was what led me to find you and bring you here, Stanford.”

“Hmph, well then, I’ll take your word for it,” Ford remarked almost sardonically. 

“You don’t believe me,” Jheselbraum inferred, glancing back at him. “Very well. But you should know that there is an ancient prophecy, passed down by the Great Axolotl itself, that speaks of a chosen one…”

“A chosen one?” Ford smirked. “That sounds a bit cliché, don’t you think?”

“Still not interested?” the oracle pressed with a faint smile. “Well, you might be after you learn that the Axolotl’s chosen one is destined to be the one who will put an end to Bill Cipher… forever.”

“Forever…” Ford repeated, his former amazement swiftly returning. “S-so this… so-called ‘chosen one’... You don’t think it could be-”

“You?” Jheselbraum asked knowingly. “I suppose it could be… But even then the true identity of the chosen one is something that the One Who Watches has not permitted me to see, at least not yet. But I believe that if it were you, Stanford, than the Great Axolotl would be making a very good choice when it comes to its chosen one... “

Ford was so deeply gratified and flattered by such genuine encouragement that he scarcely even knew what to say. Jheselbraum was quick to fill in his stark silence however with an offering to raise their already high spirits even more. 

To commemorate Jheselbraum’s hopeful prophecies, we spent the entire night partying and drinking Cosmic Sand--the very same kind Time Baby himself consumes (it’s very sweet though quite strong, like finely aged wine, which is somewhat concerning given that a baby is known to frequently drink it). We had much to be happy about, for as far as Jheselbraum’s glimpses through time were concerned, Bill’s defeat wasn’t too far off into the future. And the mere thought that his cruel trickery would finally be wiped from the cosmos for good was well worth celebrating. 

When I awoke the next morning, she was gone and I was in another dimension entirely. It was time to continue my quest. 

I sometimes wonder where she is now and if by chance I’ll ever see her again… And if the prophecy she spoke of, as well as the One supposedly behind it, is real after all…

Unlike the dimensions I’ve already described, many dimensions in the multiverse are ‘parallel Earths’, very similar to my dimension, but with a few major differences. There are parallel Earths where dinosaurs still rule (one way or another). And ones where dolphins (rather than Homo sapiens) took over as the dominant species after the dinosaurs went extinct. (These dolphin Earths invariably have the best water parks.) There’s a dimension where all music is just screaming, one where tennis balls chase dogs, and one where everyone is the same--except they’re all babies. I didn’t linger there for too long--I don’t care for being spit up on. 

But after nearly 30 years of dimension-hopping, I came upon a parallel Earth almost identical to our own. There was at least one crucial difference. 

But that difference was far from obvious when I first arrived there. Because when I initially step foot into that much more fortunate dimension, I couldn’t help but mistake it for my very own instead. 

Ford could scarcely believe his eyes as he ventured into this new dimension, one with trees, and grass, and a sky that were just like those of his very own home. Even the crisp springtime air smelled just as pleasantly familiar as he remembered Gravity Falls’ being as he walked through the practically identical forest. Never in the course of the past 30 years had he been to a dimension as similar to the Earth he knew as this one, and yet, he was quick to find that the two dimensions weren’t just alike in aesthetics alone. 

For soon enough the natural peace of the forest was broken by voices approaching from the opposite direction Ford was traveling in. Wary as ever, the author slipped behind a larger tree just in case the denizens of this dimension proved to be hostile. And yet, when the group traversing the wood finally came into view, he was completely floored to see that they were none other than a quartet he thought he’d never see again: the Crystal Gems. All four of them looked practically identical to how he remembered them, save for their different outfits, though that hardly fazed Ford as he made the most of an incredible opportunity he thought he’d never get again. 

Upon so much as spotting his close friends again for the first time in nearly 30 years, Ford didn’t hesitate, instead throwing all logic and caution out the window as he rushed out from his hiding spot to greet them. “Rose!” he called first, absolutely elated as he ran up to the Gems, completely breaking through their former conversation. “Garnet! Amethyst! Pearl! I-I can’t believe it! It’s you! It’s really you!”

“Uh… yes…?” Rose raised a confused eyebrow as she offered the author a quizzical smile. “Are you feeling alright, Ford? You’re much more… excited than you usually are.”

“Did ya discover some cool new sciency thing again?” Amethyst asked with a playful smirk. “What was it this week--and don’t bother telling me about it unless it’s a way I can shove eats into my gut faster than I already do.”

“Oh, please, Amethyst,” Pearl rebuffed, rolling her eyes. “Stanford must be excited about his odd new attire! From what I’ve observed, humans often tend to celebrate very simple things such as new clothing and the anniversary of the day they came into existence. Though I don’t know if I’d consider clothing like that to be… too exhilarating.” She frowned, looking over the author’s dark, tattered travel attire critically. “No offense, Ford.”  

“W-what? No!” Ford shook his head, confused. “I-I don’t understand, you all are acting as though I haven’t been gone for the past 30 years!”

“Um… because you haven’t?” Rose pointed out, just as bewildered. “I’m sorry, are… we playing some sort of strange game here? Because if we are I’m afraid I don’t really know the rules.”

“No, this isn’t a game, Rose,” Ford retired firmly, earnestly. “It really has been 30 years since the last time I’ve seen any of you! Don’t you remember? The portal? Bill? Anything?”

“Bill?” Amethyst piped up. “Pfft, we haven’t talked ‘bout that square of a triangle in forever!”

“Mostly because we haven’t needed to…” Pearl muttered disdainfully. 

“This… doesn’t make any sense…” Ford said, more to himself than the Gems. “Maybe I ended up in some sort of bizarre time loop? O-or perhaps I could have time traveled in general? I have been through much stranger over the past thirty years but still…”

“What’s science man goin’ on about this time?” Amethyst wondered as the author continued to anxiously mutter to himself. 

“I have no idea…” Pearl shook her head. “But he certainly is acting odd…”

“I’m starting to worry about him…” Rose noted fretfully. “Can you make any sense of what’s going on here, Garnet?”

Garnet simply nodded, adjusting her shades before addressing her companions bluntly. “That’s not Ford. Or at least, he’s not our Ford.”

“What?!” Rose, Pearl, and Amethyst all exclaimed, startled by this news. They reacted to it rather recklessly, each of them summoning their weapons in short order and turning them on Ford, who was more than startled by the sudden hostility as a result. 

“An imposter!” Pearl accused hotly. 

“Who are you and what you have done with the real Ford?!” Rose asked, her shield and sword both at the ready. 

“I-I am the real Ford!” the author protested, stumbling backward.

“But again, not our Ford,” Garnet interrupted calmly. 

“What’s that supposed’ta mean?” Amethyst asked, baffled.

“Maybe we should go see Fiddleford,” Rose suggested. “He might be able to help us figure this out.”

“Oh, excellent idea, Rose,” Pearl readily agreed. “He has been working on cloning technology recently. Maybe this Ford is the product of one of his experiments!”

“Wait, Fiddleford?!” Ford’s eyes widened at the mention of his former partner. “Y-you’ve seen Fiddleford recently? Where is he? More importantly, how is he?”

“Well, you can come see him for yourself,” Rose beckoned the author to follow her and the other Gems. “I’m sure he’ll be just as amazed as we are to see another Ford out and about.”

As curious as he was, not only to check in on his old friend but also get to the bottom of this peculiar mystery, Ford didn’t hesitate to follow, even if Pearl and Amethyst still watched him much more suspiciously than Rose and Garnet were. “But don’t think we won’t be keeping a close eye on you…” Pearl warned him as she held up the tail end of the group. 

“Yeah, ya dirty “Fordposter”!” Amethyst teased, elbowing the author hard in the knee as she impishly ran past him.

Even so, Ford took their misgivings, both serious and insincere, in stride, letting out a small sigh of relief as he simply allowed himself to relish the feeling of being in the company of his dependable friends once more. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure they were exactly the same as the Crystal Gems he once knew. “It’s hard to believe how much I’ve missed this…” he muttered contentedly to himself, hoping against hope that, even despite how strange the Gems seemed to be acting, he really was back in his own dimension after all these years after all. 

But he wasn’t. 

Because the differences between this dimension and his own became instantly more apparent as the Gems led the author to where he knew his house should have been. And yet, the homey little shack had received quite an impressive surrounding expansion in the form of a sprawling complex of buildings and structures, one that still featured the Gems’ iconic temple as a fixture of its forested background. Upon seeing the impressive structure, Ford had a multitude of questions, none of which he knew how to properly pose to the Gems as they continued to approach it. Even so, one of those questions was answered as they passed by its sign, which simply donned the campus as the “International Institute of Oddology”.

The Gems seemed to have exclusive access to the institute as they bypassed its front office entirely, entering into its complex series of busy hallways with ease. Just about everyone employed in the building seemed to know the Gems and regard them with friendly pleasantries, though even that paled in comparison to the immediate respect everyone paid Ford in particular. Whenever one of the plentiful lab-coat clad scientists passed him by, they greeted him with excited waves and chipper tidings in which they referred to him as “Dr. Pines” or “Professor Pines”, two titles that Ford had never really gone by before (even though he technically could, given his multiple PhDs. Still, despite this strangely warm reception, nothing could have prepared the author for when the Gems took him into a large, futuristic lab, filled to the brim with just about every scientific tool and tech imaginable. But as astonished by this incredible sight as he was, Ford quickly found himself even more dumbfounded as the Gems led the way to the only other person presently occupying the lab at the moment. None other than Fiddleford McGucket himself. 

“Fiddleford!” Rose greeted the inventor brightly as she hurried over to him first. 

“Oh! Howdy, ladies!” Fiddleford glanced over his shoulder from whatever he was working on. Unlike the Gems, time had actually had an impact on the inventor, though even despite his shallow wrinkles, short beard, and grayed hair, he’d managed to age rather well just as Ford had. “Ya’ll came just in time! I was just about to-” Fiddleford stopped short, swiveling around in his chair to send a peculiar glance Ford’s way. “Stanford? What in tarnation are you wearing?”

The author largely ignored his question as he instead stepped forward, past the Gems, so he could look his once-treasured colleague in the eye for the first time in three decades. “F-Fiddleford… I-” 

“Fiddleford!” Before Ford could even utter another word, his own voice echoed through the lab, albeit from a different source entirely. As if this entire situation wasn’t already shocking enough, Ford was absolutely floored to see himself enter in through the far side of the room. By all accounts, this other author looked strikingly identical, the only real differences in appearance lying in his clean-shaven face and equally clean scientific attire. He wasn’t paying much attention as he approached the mutually baffled group, leafing through a stack of papers as he addressed his partner evenly. “So I was running the numbers on that new modulator we were working on and-” He stopped short as he finally glanced up, only to notice his near mirror match standing just a few feet away from him. “Ugh, Fiddleford, what did I tell you about stealing samples of my DNA for your little cloning side project?”

“Uh… I-I shelved Project Double Vision ‘bout a week ago, Stanford…” Fiddleford noted, his eyes wide as he looked between the two Fords just as incredulously as the Gems all were. 

“Oh,” the other Ford said simply as he looked back to his double. “Then this must simply be the case of yet another deluded, overly-obsessed fan. Well,” he addressed the other author, pulling out a surprisingly threatening taser pen as he eyed him critically. “I don’t know how you managed to outwit both security and the Gems here, but I can assure you that we here at the IIO absolutely do not tolerate such-”

“W-wait!” the first Ford interjected hastily, running with the only reasonable guess he could make about this situation, given the bewildering evidence he’d seen. “I think I know what’s going on here.”

“Oh, do you?” the other Ford raised a dubious eyebrow. 

“Great!” Amethyst chimed in bluntly. “Then do ya mind filling us in?”

“Yes, please?” Rose added, still clearly quite confused. 

“W-well, you see, as far as I can tell, I’m not actually from this dimension,” Ford said, ignoring the sting that came along with admitting that fact. Admitting that he hadn’t really made it home like he’d once thought after all. “Even though it does look practically identical to my own. B-but I have been wandering the multiverse for years now and in that time I’ve come across many parallel dimensions to my own, so the only logical explanation is that this is one of them!”

“Golly!” Fiddleford immediately shot up from his seat upon hearing this. “A near-completely identical parallel dimension!? What are the odds of that?!”

“Now, now, Fiddleford,” the other Ford cautioned, still sternly eyeing his counterpart. “Don’t get too excited. After all, this… supposed other me doesn’t really seem to have much in the way of proof in regard to his claims…”

“Oh, really?” Ford met his double’s skepticism with a simple, succinct response as he held up one of his hands. The other Ford balked at the sight of it, glancing between it at his own similarly unique six-fingered hands before reaching out to touch those of his double to authenticate them. “Unbelievable…” he muttered incredulously. “They’re actually… real… I hate to say this but… you might just be from another dimension after all…”

“Can we skip to the part where we just assume that he is from another dimension?” Fiddleford asked eagerly. “Cause that’s far more excitin’ than just speculatin’!”

“Well even if this Ford is from another dimension,” Pearl cut in with a scowl. “How can we be so sure that he’s anywhere near as trustworthy as ours? He did mention Cipher, of all beings when we first found him, after all.”

“Ugh, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in ages…” the other Ford muttered disdainfully as Fiddleford shuddered fearfully beside him. “And I’d just as soon never hear it again for the rest of my life. So what business do you have with… him?” 

“I assure you, the only ‘business’ I have with him is putting a stop to his treachery once and for all,” Ford affirmed coldly.

“Wait…” Rose spoke up with a frown. “You mean… you haven’t already done that where you’re from?”

“...What do you mean?”

“Oof, well if you actually are from some parallel dimension, then I don’t even want to know how much of a disaster things are there if you’re still dealing with him,” Alternate Ford shook his head. “Because here all it took to keep him from slipping into our reality was a basic Dimensional Vortex Neutralizer to optimize the portal away from the Nightmare Realm, allowing us to safely use it as we please.”

“W-wha--when in the world did you find time to invent something like that?” Ford asked, admittedly wishing that he had done the very same before it had been too late. 

“We all did it together!” Rose smiled warmly. 

“It was pretty easy between the six of us,” Garnet added as coolly as ever.

“Yes, if I remember correctly, we reconvened to devise the schematics for it right after I sent Stanley away with my first journal…” Alternate Ford mused thoughtfully. 

“Wait… your Stanley actually listened to you when you told him to take the journal and leave?!” 

“Yours didn’t?”

“Ugh… of course, he didn’t…” Ford groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. Suddenly, the basic differences of this dimension were becoming all too clear. The split had resulted from a moment so simple, so singular that it might not have mattered at all when it actually happened, but now it clearly did. Because his Stan refusing to take the journal away had been the very reason why he’d wound up sucked into the portal in the first place. And the Stan of this dimension agreeing to do so was the very reason why his alternate self stood before him today.  “Honestly, I’m surprised that any version of Stanley actually would, given how frustratingly stubborn he is…”

“Well, here I suppose he was just a little… less stubborn than usual,” Alternate Ford shrugged. “Either that or he had a moment of genuine clarity for once in his life. Even so, we made good on the advantage splitting the journals up gave us, built the Neutralizer, and we haven’t seen or heard from Bill ever since.”

On this Earth, I was never pushed into the portal by Stan. 

On this Earth, my brother listened to me and took Journal 1 away from Gravity Falls. 

On this Earth, I reunited with Fiddleford and Rose and the Gems, and together, created a Dimensional Vortex Neutralizer that allowed us to use the portal without any risk of a connection to Bill’s Nightmare Realm. 

And as a result of those rippling turns of fate, on this Earth, my parallel self was a celebrated star of the scientific community. With the help of Parallel Fiddleford and the Parallel Gems, over the years, he had amassed a wide array of incredible discoveries and inventions, all of which he had publicly published through his journals. And as other scientists read through those journals, it didn’t take long for more aspiring brilliant minds to flock to Gravity Falls, like a moth to a flame, all of them looking to my parallel self for direction when it came to investigating the town’s previously unheard of anomalies. That building community of scientists came together to turn his small cabin in the woods into the sprawling International Institute of Oddology (of which my parallel self was both the founder and chief researcher). And as my parallel self detailed the differences of both his life and his dimension to me, one thought ran paramount within my mind above all else. That this life of success and recognition could have just as easily been my own… ff only Stanley had actually listened to me for a change instead of thinking only of himself like he’s always done! 

When it was my turn to spell out the details of my vendetta against Bill to my alternate self and his friends, obvious interest was mutually peaked among them all. Parallel Fiddleford’s knee began to bounce with the agitation and excitement as my very own Fiddleford used to carry, and the Parallel Gems all whispered anxiously, yet eagerly to each other. Parallel Rose was every bit the heroic spirit as the Rose I knew as she seemed by far the most intent on seeing Bill be brought to justice, a sentiment my parallel counterpart also keenly shared. Although their dimension was safe from Bill, they all understood the threat Cipher posed to the wider multiverse. They all agreed to do whatever they could to help. 

I showed them my unfinished Quantum Destabilizer--a weapon I was designing to blast Bill into non-existence. The problem, my parallel self theorized, was the power source. In all my travels since leaving Jheselbraum, I had never come across an element that had both the necessary power and the required stability. Parallel Fiddleford piped up with a suggestion, an element that he had discovered in the Paradox Dimension. It was inert when visible, but highly radioactive when hidden. He called it NowUSeeItNowUDontium (a unique flair for language was something else he had in common with my Fiddleford). 

Even just a small sample of the element would be more than enough to get my Destabilizer up and running. The only issue was that NowUSeeItNowUDontium (what a mouthful!) was a notoriously difficult element to work with given just how potentially toxic it could prove to be to humans at the seemingly random points it blinked in and out of existence. That’s where the Parallel Gems came in. As unaffected by radiation as their non-organic forms are, they were able to handle the element with ease, and fortunately, Parallel Pearl in particular was well-versed in working with it thanks to past experiments. 

While the Parallel Gems did their part, I spent the next several days tinkering and making minor adjustments to my blaster’s design, working alongside Parallel Fiddleford and my alternate self to perfect it into a weapon to bring Bill to his swift, much-deserved end. Those few days were filled with plenty of scintillating discussions about the multiverse, parallel dimensions, and of course, the various distinctions and differences of this dimension in particular. The more my parallel self detailed the countless highlights and accomplishments of his lengthy career, the more I wished that my own path had run the same as his as opposed to the ruin I ran into when I was younger. This version of myself had gotten everything I had only ever dreamed of: fame, respect, and the chance to hold onto close friends that I had fallen away from so long ago. And while I didn’t envy him to the point of wanting to take all that he had away from him, I had to admit that if I had even just a fraction of the good fortune my parallel self had known, then perhaps my life would have turned out far different than it had ended up going. 

As much as I might have wanted to revel in my parallel self’s success, it was clear that there was literally no place for me in this dimension. Even if I could have stayed there for the rest of my days, my own conscious would not have allowed it. I still held onto the vow I had made close to 30 years earlier to destroy Bill Cipher. And after about a week of finalizing and finishing my Quantum Destabilizer, it was finally time for me to do exactly that. 

“Are you sure you have to go?” Parallel Rose asked as everyone prepared to see the author off on his way. 

“Yeah, havin’ another science man around could be fun!” Parallel Amethyst quipped as impishly as ever. “‘Specially if he can finally invent that food shovel I’ve been asking for forever now!”

“I have to admit that even though I was somewhat… distrustful of another Stanford just randomly showing up out of the blue, it was still a pleasure working with you all the same,” Parallel Pearl grinned, cordially extending her hand out for Ford to shake. 

“Safe travels,” Parallel Garnet bid him succinctly. “And don’t worry about your cellmate when you meet her. You’ll see her again eventually.”

“Um… thank you?” Ford frowned, confused by this strange, cryptic advice. 

“Go take that Quantum Destabilizer ‘n show that rabble rousin’, no-good son of gun Cipher what for!” Parallel Fiddleford cheered with all of the southern zeal Ford was familiar with when it came to his own Fiddleford. 

“For the sake of your dimension, our own, and countless others exactly like both,” the parallel author began intently. “I wish you luck. Or, uh… I wish me luck? Huh. Even after a week this is still confusing.”

“Thank you,” Ford nodded warmly. “All of you. I have no doubts that our hard work will go a long way toward putting a stop to Cipher and his tyranny once and for all.”

“We can only hope,” Parallel Ford agreed as the others fondly began to wave the author off. 

“Happy trails, Other Stanford!” Parallel Fiddleford called cheerily. 

“I hope you make it back home someday!” Parallel Rose added just as brightly. 

“And if you don’t make it back to your own dimension, then you’re always welcome to visit ours any time you’d like!” Parallel Pearl chimed in somewhat obliviously. 

“That’s not very likely to happen,” Parallel Garnet pointed out, though she didn’t explain much more beyond that. 

Even so Ford continued on his way back into the woods, savoring his last few moments in this world that was so very much like his own before he ultimately left it entirely. 

After 30 long years of planning in the shadows and biding my time, my chance finally seemed to have arrived. With the finished Quantum Destabilizer in tow, there was nothing keeping me from returning to the place where this nightmare had begun to put an end to the one who had woven it in the first place. 

I was finally ready to go back to the Nightmare Realm and face Bill Cipher. 

And yet… the dimension I ended up in next was about as far from the Nightmare Realm as I could have gotten… and pitted me against a threat that was every bit as dangerous as Bill: 

The Gem Homeworld and the Great Diamond Authority. 

Next: 

#jen writes #universe falls #gravity falls #steven universe #crossover #au #fanfiction #ford #jheselbraum #fiddleford #rose quartz #garnet #amethyst #pearl #adventures in the multiverse #adrift in the cosmos #keyword is dimension 52

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #210: You Don’t Need the Weathermen to Know Which Way the Wind Blows!

August, 1981

Wow that is one hell of a title! At least in terms of length.

Not the best though.

That still belongs to Avengers #12: “This Hostage Earth!”: In Which the Mighty Avengers Battle to Save Their Beloved Planet From a Fate So Deadly That None But the Macabre Mole Man Could Have Devised It!: A Marvel Tale of Most Compelling Excellence!”

The title to this one being a Bob Dylan reference gets its some bonus points though.

Hmm, this issue is written by Bill Mantlo and he’s also the co-creator of Rocket Raccoon, originally an extended reference to a Beatles song.

Guy loves his song references.

The cover is also pretty excellent this time too. Damn but do I miss covers like this. Four different perils befallen the Avengers separated by the presumed villain’s helmet crest.

So take us away, Mantlo.

We start the issue with the return of the ridiculous four-sided television for the Avengers meeting table. Except now its five four-sided tvs on one pole for maximum media absorption from multiple angles.

And the Avengers are watching THE WEATHER CHANNELS!

Scarlet Witch: “Why have you summoned us, Captain America? What new menace confronts the Avengers?”

Wonder Man: “Wait until you hear, Wanda! Cap’s called us together to watch the weather report!”

Don’t be so surprised. The title and the cover are all about weather.

Cap though says that this weather channel may be showing THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF THE WORLD!

But surely he’s exaggerating. Even if 2012 the movie ridonkulous weather disasters happen and wipe out humanity, the world will keep on zooming through space. Its a persistent rock.

End of humanity is pretty bad too, from the point of view of humanity. Which the Avengers either are or aspire to.

So there are excessive tornadoes in Kansas. So far, of course.

London is flooding.

There are unnatural thunderstorms and torrential rains in New York, so bad that Thor has decided to show up without being summoned to go ‘hey how about this weather, right?’

Buenos Aires is freezing, baffling and befuddling bikini beach goers.

Which Beast ogles.

Beast, pls. The fate of the humanity is at stake here.

And there’s a heatwave over Antarctica melting ice and raising the water levels, threatening low lying countries. Or mostly just England somehow.

The government’s weather monitoring space station with a weird name Samarobyrn has determined that these weather disruptions are too systematic to be natural so the Avengers are going to split into five groups to investigate the five places I’ve already mentioned, since they’re the five places most seriously affected according to the satellite Samarobyrn.

Beast is going to go to Buenos Aires, to his delight.

Wanda and Vision will go to Kansas.

Beast: “The perfect place to send the Good Witch of the East!”

The Wasp and Wonder Man will head to Antarctica.

Wasp: “Great! Finally I get a chance to wear my new fur coat!”

... Wasp. Heatwave.

Thor will investigate the thunderstorms in New York.

And Cap and Iron Man will go to London.

Not sure what they’re going to do against large-scale weather disturbances. Can’t exactly punch the climate. At least not personally.

Maybe punching a weatherman will help. Can’t make the situation worse.

Anyway, the Avengers all head off to their own destinations, with Beast snarking “Say, shouldn’t someone yell ‘Avengers Dissemble’?!”

So, this reminds me of something, really briefly. There was an episode of Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes that used the title This Hostage Earth (sadly sans the rest) and also coincidentally seems to share some elements with this story. The Avengers split up to investigate seven different anomalies with Iron Man wryly commenting that he should say Avengers Dissemble.

Doesn’t have much of anything to do with this. I was just reminded because of mentioning This Hostage Earth ect earlier.

Anyway, while all of the other Avengers dissemble, Thor tarries.

So he’s still in the meeting room when Jocasta arrives and wonders what the hell is going on. She only found out there was a meeting at all because Jarvis told her.

Damn, that’s rude, the other Avengers.

Thor: “An oversight, surely. Our ranks have swelled of late, and with no permanent chairman, ‘tis hard to know whose responsibility ‘twas to summon thee.”

Jocasta: “True? And yet I have felt... apart from the others. Being a creature of cybernetic circuits and not flesh and blood, I am always aware that I am... different.”

Thor: “And thou thinkest we do shun thee for it? Nay, milady! The Avengers are a composite of mortal and immortal, android and man-beast, man and mutant! Different, Jocasta? Aye, so are we all!”

Oh, hey. There’s that arc about Jocasta feeling disconnected from the other Avengers. We haven’t touched on it for a while but it was a running thing in the Shooter run previously. She tried to make friends with various Avengers but they tended to inadvertently blow her off due to their own preoccupations or just getting distracted.

So, no, Thor, I don’t think that the Avengers are intentionally shunning her. But I do think that none of them have really been reaching out to her, either. And you’re all she has.

Thor heads out to his mission and this time Jocasta tarries, thinking about things and stuff.

So she’s still in the meeting room when the computer pulls up some exposition based on a random thing Beast asked rhetorically.

“Origin of the word Samarobryn in the disaster prophecies of Michael Nostradamus... Samarobryn one hundred leagues from the hemisphere. They will live without law, exempt from politics.”

Huh!

I don’t think I knew that Nostradamus had a first name!

Weird that someone would name a weather satellite after a disaster prophecy that predicted famine caused by excessive rain. That’s like naming a communications satellite Babel.

Anyway, the Avengers all head in five different directions with four Quinjets and one Thor and Jocasta takes a fifth Quinjet and heads off into space.

Huh! They have five whole Quinjets now!

Thor flies up into the sky and begins yelling at the clouds, as one might expect from Thor.

Thor: “The storm rages as it hast for hours, with a fury that doth threaten the very existence of the Midgardian mortals dwelling below! ‘Tis time to leash the lightning -- to put the rain to rout! Cease, storm! ‘Tis the god of thunder who dost command thee!”

And then Thor gets hit in the face by lightning.

This storm is a rude.

Thor is stunned by all of this lightning in the face, I guess backing up Clone Squirrel Girl’s use of electricity to knock out Jane!Thor that one time, nearly falling out of the sky before whirling Mjolnir like a helicopter to land smoothly.

And then Thor goes back to yelling at clouds except this time not just clouds because he spots the one who hit him with lightning and it is a who and not a what.

Thor: “Descend, Villain! And if yon storm be thy doing -- desist!”

Weatherman: “Have a care, god of thunder! Not even you can command... a WEATHERMAN!”

I have queried an expert who has told me that yes, this guy looks a bit tokusatsu.

(And he’s orange. Spoilers: There’s a different colored one wherever the Avengers go. A full color-coded team.)

Anyway, two hours later and over in London, England, Iron Man and Captain America arrive to deal with London being flooded.

Iron Man: “Do you realize just how selective these disasters are, Cap? After all, England and Holland border on the same body of water -- and the first’s been inundated, while the second hasn’t been touched!”

Huh! That is weird. And seems incredibly implausible or like someone or thing incredibly powerful is also incredibly angry at the English.

While Iron Man flies around shooting the water with repulsors to... shove it back into the ocean? Is that what’s going on?? I mean, if the water is disproportionately high on England’s side of the channel then I guess you could just shove the water and accomplish something but I thought there was something going on with Antarctica melting which would indicate that the sea levels are also rising but then why would it be affecting only England and oh no comic logic has broken me

Anyway, while ^ that is happening, Captain America lands the Quinjet on Parliament since there’s not many good places to land and really, how often can you say to have landed a jet on a government building?

He’s old, let him have his fun.

But it’s not just fun! He’s Captain America, the man who wakes up at 4 AM to go for a ten miles jog so he can be showered and ready to superhero by 6 AM, probably!

He notices some kids clinging to an overturned double decker bus (because how would we know it was London without?) and he jumps from Parliament to swing on a Union Jack flag to the bus.

And then he uses the flag to create a tether to a rescue boat that the kids can cross over on.

AND THEN THE BLUE WEATHER RANGER! appears.

Flying around on a hoverdisc and creating a localized tidal wave. The wave smacks Cap off the bus into the water as Blue Weather Ranger gloats.

Weatherman: “Let that be a lesson to you not to wrest lives away -- when they’ve been claimed by... a Weatherman!”

And now a scene transition to sunny Antarctica where Jan van Wasp is finally getting the idea that heatwave means that her fur coat is superfluous.

While melting Antarctica temps might still be cold, this specific melting Antarctica temp is almost tropical!

And its not just sunny, it seems like the sun is moving closer, like the angry sun from Mario Bros 3 because iiiiiiiiits.... THE RED WEATHERMAN!

Weatherman: “Die, Avengers! The only fate for those who would defy... a Weatherman!”

The Red Weather Ranger blasts them with heat beams of a thousand degrees, melting the ice right out from under them.

Wasp figures that the Red Weatherman is radiating heat in waves so she could hypothetically hit him between cycles.

Hypothetically.

Because she can’t figure out the frequency and instead the Weatherman sets her wings on fire. And her wings are an organic part of her and she hurts when they hurts. So she plummets into the water to put herself out.

Hmm... the yellow and black look good on Jan and fits with the Wasp name but sometimes she doesn’t look dissimilar to an X-Men.

Wonder Man does what Wonder Man does and picks up a heavy thing and chucks it jerkwards.

But they’re in Antarctica so heavy thing is a giant ice chunk and jerk is a really hot guy so the ice chunk melts midflight pelting the two Avengers with boiling rain.

Wow, this is going poorly so far!

Who’s next?

Scarlet Witch and Vision are next! And they’ve gone to Kansas to fight tornadoes.

I’m. Not sure how that’s going to play out. I really feel like the Avengers are out of their element trying to fight the weather. Is it too late to call in the X-Men and specifically Storm?

She’s doing a crossover with Dazzler this month in 1981 so its not like she was too busy.

Anyway, Scarlet Witch flies the Quinjet at a tornado and then is shocked when the jet gets swept into the funnel cloud and spins out of control

She wonders why Vision is just standing there but he learned a thing from the Yellow Claw two-parter and isn’t just standing there.

He actually makes his mass so heavy that it forces the Quinjet to the ground with a WHRUMP!

I can’t imagine that’d be good for either the Quinjet or the passengers but I’ll give Vision this.

Its cool that he can do his thing without outwardly expending any effort.

Scarlet Witch: “Yes, neither of our powers are quite so flamboyant as Cap throwing his shield, or Thor his hammer -- but they have proven most effective, else we would not be Avengers!”

And then she uses her witchcraft to force two of the tornadoes to slam into each other and cancel out.

This also seems dubious. Since tornadoes tend to spin the same direction you’d think that instead of cancelling, they’d become one giant super tornado. Them cancelling each other out seems quite improbable actually. Which is probably exactly why it works.

Take that, SCIENCE.

But there’s still one tornado left and its coming for them! And since it appears to not be naturally formed, it defies Wanda’s nature based magic! Curses!

Annnnnnnnnd... It’s a WEATHERMAN!

The ebony Weatherman. Although he looks purple to me.

Weatherman: “Stand or flee, it will make no difference! Your lives are in the hands of a... WEATHERMAN!”

And another scene transition.

Geez, this plot split the party hard. And I think it’s beginning to realize how hard it is to split the story between six groups because this vignette gets four panels before moving on.

Beast lands in beautiful snow-covered iceberg infested Buenos Aires and takes a brief moment to be horny about a bunch of bikini women who have been frozen alive.

Beast: “Oh, my stars and garters! Those bathing beauties I saw on T.V. -- they’re frozen solid! Maybe I could take one or two back to thaw out in my room at Avengers mansion?”

And then as if to punish him for this, the white WEATHERMAN! immediately appears and freezes Beast solid.

Weatherman: “You will need to unfreeze yourself first, man-beast! So says... a WEATHERMAN!”

Beast: “Yoiks!”

Good thing freezing is basically harmless in comics.

And our final party, Jocasta IN SPAAAAAAACE.

Because Quinjets can still just achieve escape velocity. That’s some good super-science.

Jocasta: “Samarobyrn, Earth’s first weather-monitoring space station! It’s so... beautiful! A shimmering silver wheel in space -- a triumph of science and engineering, created to faithfully serve its creators... as was I. Perhaps that is why I alone thought to come here.”

And since she’s a robot, she just jumps out of the Quinjet airlock that it definitely always has had and uses her EYE BEAMMM to basically propel herself away from the Quinjet and toward the Samarobyrn station.

That’s pretty cool, actually. I’m not sure if, scientifically, laser eyes would actually propel that much, but its a cool thought.

Of course, Jocasta has to do all of this cool stuff because the space station didn’t respond to the docking requests Jocasta sent. So she has to go in through the manual override airlock.

In the station, Jocasta finds no signs of life even though it was supposed to have a five man crew.

She finds her way to the hub of the station where the computer monitors are all monitoring the five separate Avengers missions.

So she’s pretty sure her suspicions were correct.

Jocasta: “The five foes facing my fellow Avengers must be the five crewmen of Samarobryn! They have distorted this station’s functioning from that of weather-monitoring to weather control -- and now exploit it for their own evil ends!”

Samarobryn: “You are wrong, silver sister!”

WELP!

The space station computer has gone all HAL. Dammit, this always happens!

So Samarobryn decides to explain it all.

It had a humble beginning as a computer for the U.S. Weather Service’s Project Earthwatch. But then one of the programmers added something extra to the concoction: NOSTRADAMUS!

No but seriously. The programmer decided to download the disaster prophecies of Nostradamus into the computer in addition to weather data.

And particularly the ones dealing with that Samarobryn prophecy, the one Jocasta read part of earlier. So when the comptuer was installed in a space station named Samarobryn, it went ‘hey that me!’

And decided to expand operations from weather monitoring to weather control.

How does a space station outfitted specifically to only monitor the weather make the jump to controlling it? Fuck you, this is comics.

When the crew grew suspicious, the computer rewrote their brains to become the Weathermen.

Why did a computer designed to monitor weather have the ability to-

Look, this is comics. Where Hank Pym, biophysicist, built a computer with a gun pre-installed and was surprised when it shot him and tried to take his wife. THIS. IS. COMICS.

Anyway, speaking of weirdly sexual computers:

Samarobryn: “I sense that you are a machine like me -- created by others but obedient to none! Join me! Be my bride! Together we will cleanse the Earth of imperfect humankind and stand guard over the paradise which remains... as gods!”

Geez, its just like Aaron Stack all over again, way before the fact. Also, Ultron. A certain type of AI is just attracted to Jocasta, huh?

Anyway, Jocasta lets Samarobryn down easy by shooting him with EYE BEAM!

Jocasta: “Nothing would remain but a lifeless mokcery of a world! No! I reject you! I was created to be the bride of another such as you -- but robot though I am, there is still some spark of humanity burning within me! I cherish it -- and would not see its source snuffed out!”

Samarobryn may be a load bearing computer pillar without arms or legs but it still manages to defend itself.

BY FLOODING THE CONTROL ROOM?

I guess everything in this room is waterproof??

And also by shooting lightning, also in the control room. Where I guess everything is lightning proof.

This is a bad plan.

More than I thought, even, because by shifting attention to defending itself up in space, Samarobryn leaves its Weathermen high and dry.

The Orange Weatherman stops being able to throw lightning bolts so Thor clobbers him.

The Red Weatherman chills out so Wonder Man and Wasp can get close and put him in a headlock.

Uh. I’m not sure if Blue Weatherman actually is affected or not because Iron Man just punches him in the back of the head while he’s distracted.

The Ebony Weatherman’s whirlwind vanishes so Scarlet Witch and Vision can kick his ass.

And Beast unfreezes as quickly as he froze and kicks the White Weatherman’s helmet off. And apparently the helmet was maintaining the mind control because the Weatherman is suddenly confused about where he is.

And with the Orange Weatherman beaten up, Thor senses, with his god senses no doubt, that the Orange Weatherman wasn’t the one commanding the weather. So there must be an unseen agent who arranged this.

So his course is clear.

Thor shoots a giant lightning bolt into space and hits Samarobryn.

He doesn’t know that the station is to blame. He’s just shooting a giant lightning bolt into space because he’s pissed that someone used lightning against him.

I guess when you’re the god of thunder, you can get a little homing capability out of your giant space lightning bolts.

Still though. Wow.

Meanwhile, in space, Samarobryn is still trying to woo Jocasta. For a certain value of woo.

Samarobryn: “It is still not too late, female! Accept me! Accept what must be! I can make you love me!”

Jocasta: “What can a machine who would destroy all those I have come to care for know of love?”

Samarobryn: “Nothing, as humans understand love -- but together we can redefine the word on the basis of our own coexistence!”

Jocasta: “Can you not understand? The fact that I am a machine does not make me less than human! I am, as Thor said, merely... different! I would try to live in their human world -- to understand how to retain that difference that makes me unique -- and yet be accepted!”

This is an interesting conversation but wouldn’t you know it? There’s a power surge. Seems like a space station got hit by lightning.

And when the lights turn back on and Jocasta wonders what happened:

Samarobryn: “I am weather-monitoring space station Samarobryn. Your question is not pertinent to weather evaluation. This unit cannot compute.��

So you know how sometimes a program crashes and you lose all your progress?

Samarobryn hadn’t backed up its sapience and the power surge effectively lobotomized it back to factory settings.

Geez.

LATER

All the Avengers stand around congratulating Jocasta for the good job and apologizing that they overlooked her.

Apparently new safeguards were put in place to prevent Samarobryn from attaining sentience again. Probably stuff like ‘don’t download doomsday prophecies into a weather satellite.’

Hm. I know Samarobryn was trying to destroy the world and all but the cavalier lobotomization of an enemy because it was a computer and thus disposable sits wrong when the Avengers have two AIs on their team. Really, the fact that it was an accident is pretty much all that lets it slide by.

Also: I’m kind of peeved that Jocasta didn’t get to resolve the situation, given that this was blatantly a Jocasta focus issue. She does pull a lot of weight, being the only one to figure out the real source of the problem and distracting Samarobryn long enough for the Avengers to beat the Weathermen. But it feels like Thor swiped the big win from her even though he didn’t even know about Samarobryn. Just shot some lightning into space and resolved the plot.

That plot resolution should have been Jocasta’s!

Anyway. Scarlet Witch says that Jocasta being overlooked like she was indicates that the Avengers need to reorganize and Vision suggests that they vote on a new chairperson.

But they’re interrupted by Cap.

Captain America: “Iron Man, Thor, and I have given some thought to the directions this team has taken -- and should take! I open the floor to discussion! The first item on the agenda being: THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH!”

Which basically means a roster shakeup.

Funny that the Avengers have had a period of disorganization and aimlessness when they didn’t have a permanent writer and now that they are getting one, they’re going to try to get their shit together.

Whatever I do, I shouldn’t miss next issue.

But before then, there’s an Avengers Annual that has to fit in somewhere and since it uses this roster of the team, might as well fit it in now, before everyone changes and it makes no sense. And its a fairly well-known Avengers Annual.

The fairly well-known Avengers Annual that looked at Avengers #200 and said ‘actually this is bullshit.’

Follow @essential-avengers​. Also please like if you liked. Its good to know that somebody is reading.

Also, consider donating to the Bill Mantlo Support Fund if you enjoyed vicariously experiencing this issue or if you enjoy Rocket Raccoon or his other stuff like Cloak and Dagger, Micronauts, or Rom.

#Avengers #essential avengers #essential marvel liveblogging #Jocasta #Samarobryn #Thor #Captain America #Iron Man #the Wasp #Wonder Man #Scarlet Witch #the Vision #Beast #the very concept of weather #its out to get us #the mega-TV #too cool to exist #space lightning #regrets that no giant robot was summoned and fought

[not-close-to-straight]

Cupid Comes Calling (Stuckony) (Part One)

This is a continuation of SECRET SANTA SHENANIGANS which featured hot but dumb weatherman Bucky, gorgeous but useless sports anchor Steve, and Tony as the station manager that is both Done with Their Shit and Hopelessly In Love all at the same time. 

PART TWO HERE

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

“It's Valentines Day this weekend and we have a list of unique places you can take that special someone that are sure to make this weekend one to remember.” Sam smiled broadly at the camera, all smooth words and perfectly timed facial expressions, looking handsome as only he could in a soft pink shirt and darker pink tie. “Stay tuned, New York. We'll be right back after the break.”

“Commercial!” Someone in the back shouted, and everyone in front of the cameras breathed a sigh of relief, slumping in their chairs for the few minutes before they had to go back on air.

“Sam, gorgeous.” Tony jogged up to the front and handed over a piece of paper to the anchor. “Slight change in that Valentines Day line up though. Turns out that bakery owner is a homophobic prick so this station is definitely not endorsing him even if he makes the most amazing sweet tarts in the world.”

“Aw.” Pepper took her paper with a frown, scanning the information about the new bakery they would be promoting. “We have to find a new place to get Friday morning treats?”

“Yeah, I’m not happy about it either.” Tony clicked his tongue in disappointment. “But it’s gotta happen. Works out actually, because the new place is owned by about the cutest couple you’ve ever seen in your life and they’re saving up money to adopt a couples kiddos. They could use the advertising.”

“New bakery it is.” Sam flashed Tony a thumbs up, then tilted his chin so the make up girl could freshen up real quick. “Thanks Tony.”

“Steve.” Tony had to work hard to keep his expression even semi neutral as he approached his sort-of boyfriend, his smile as professional as he could make it considering how badly he wanted to grab Steve by that stupid tie and kiss him half to death.

This is why we're not supposed to date co-workers, huh?

“Steve.” He started politely. “The Rangers are a hockey team, not a baseball team.”

“The Rangers are definitely a baseball team, baby.” Steve felt no need to be anything even approaching the vicinity of professional around Tony, so he leaned right over his desk and smacked a loud kiss onto Tony’s mouth. “I knew that without even looking it up on my phone.”

“What Tony’s trying to say-- hey baby doll--” from Bucky, who sauntered over from the weather station and bent Tony over for a kiss that had the station manager blushing bright red. “--is that yes the Rangers are a baseball team, but they are also a hockey team.”

“Wait--” Steve’s brow dipped in confusion. “No… that’s not… no?”

“Yes.” Tony said emphatically. “Yes they are.”

“Well that’s just stupid!” The blonde declared. “How am I supposed to know which one I’m talking about?”

“You could do your job and a little research.” Tony blew out a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or you know, you could Google whether it was baseball or hockey season?”

“Um--”

“It’s hockey season, sugar.” Bucky supplied, flicking at Steve’s ear and scowling when his hand got slapped. “Baseball don’t start until the end of March.”

“How do you know that?” Steve challenged and Bucky retorted. “I Googled it!”

“Okay guys.” Tony blew out another breath, grimacing when his head started throbbing. Apparently not even his mega hot boyfriends were enough to distract from his migraine. “Focus for like two seconds for me, alright?”

“You still got a headache, sweetheart?” Steve’s blue eyes darkened in sympathy. “I’ve got some ibuprofen if you want, it's just in my locker. You know my combo, go grab it.”

“I took some out of your nightstand before I left this morning.” Tony winced when a piece of equipment knocked over with a loud clatter. “I don't know why my head hurts so bad today, but if we can just make it through the broadcast then I can go home and lay in the dark and cry for a little bit.”

“Aw honey.” Bucky stepped up behind Tony, one big hand settling low at his hip, the other massaging at the back of his neck until Tony went a little limp, sagging back into his shoulder. “I got some of that essential oil stuff at my house. Don’t use it for nothing except rubbing on Stevie when he gets all--”

“MICS!” Sam shouted and Bucky chuckled, letting go of Tony long enough to turn his mic down.

“He was going to say when I get a knot in my back.” Steve finished. “But that’s fine, Sam definitely deserves to believe Buck was gonna say something terrible and inappropriate.”

“You two are the worst.” Tony straightened with a sigh, squeezing at Bucky’s hand in thanks as he went. “Steve, remember. This is hockey season, the team is in New York, please do not make another comment about how the Texas Rangers don’t strike you as the type to play hockey since you’re pretty sure they rode horses back in the day, yeah? And please stop saying ‘yee haw’ after every other comment.”

“Fine fine fine.” Steve kissed Tony one more time, then turned and kissed Bucky too. “Now that I know they aren't in Texas I won't make any more horse references.”

“It’s a good thing you got a sweet ass, cos you sure are dumb.” Bucky muttered against his mouth. “Careful or you’ll have to go back to stripping to pay your rent and I dunno if you fit into those buttless chaps anymore.”

“I’m sorry--” Tony leaned closer. “Steve you wore what to do what to pay what now?”

“Nothing.” Steve shoved Bucky away, clearing his throat loudly to overshadow whatever Bucky was saying. “Tony, babe, I did nothing to pay nothing and Bucky needs to shut the hell up about absolutely nothing before I start saying everything about everything about his days as a clown!”

“Good Christ, there’s so much I don’t know about you.” Tony reached out to adjust Bucky’s hair, smiling a little when Bucky caught his hand and kissed his palm. “One minute till we go back on air. Steve, remember the teams please. And Bucky--” he paused to think about what tip to give their weathermen. “Um-- keep your pointing perky. Those are happy clouds not sad clouds.”

“My pointing will be the perkiest.” Bucky swore. “And by the way? Your ass looks so great in those pants I just wanna--”

“MICS!” Sam shouted. “Your mics are on! Do not compliment my boss’s ass while your mics are--”

“We’re back!’

“--Welcome back to Channel Eight.” Sam switched gears in a split second, professional and put together and definitely not annoyed by the antics of the his coworkers. “Ready for Valentines Day, New York? We’ve put together a list of the cutest places to take that special someone, so when Cupid comes calling, you’ll be ready.”

“We sure do, Sam.” Pepper, who could make the most plastic line sound as sincere as a prayer. “Do you know, I had the best cake I think I’ve ever eaten in my life from Sweetheart’s Cafe over on 67th?”

“Sweethearts Cafe?” Even Tony rolled his eyes at how cheesy Sam sounded. “It’s practically meant to be for Valentines Day with a name like that Lets take a closer look at how great this place is.”

They cut to a video, Sam and Pepper oohing and ahhing over the sweets in the cafe and Tony grinned when Pepper kicked Sam in the shin over a particularly terrible joke.

His news team was the worst and he loved them a ridiculous amount.

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

“Hey sweetheart, are you sure we can’t get you anything before we go?” Steve stuck his head into Tony’s office as he and Bucky headed out the door. “At least a drink? Or you can catch a ride home with us, so you don't have to deal with a cab. Traffic won't help your headache at all, you know?”

“My place is in the opposite direction from both of your apartments.” Tony didn’t look up from his paperwork. “So thanks, but no thanks. Don't want to put anyone out.”  

“Aw, did he figure out our master plan to get him to go home with us?” Bucky peeked around the door as well. “Come on baby doll, you don’t need to work so late tonight, just take off a little early. You have a headache anyway, you’re not gonna get anything done.”

“Shockingly enough, I was getting plenty done before you two started bothering me.” There was no sting in Tony’s words, a fond smile towards the pair. “And I do have to finish this before leaving. Don't worry, I'll text you when I leave, shouldn't be more than an hour.”

“Alright.” Steve waited a beat, then added. “But are you sure? Because you spent the night at my place last night so we were going to spend the night at Bucky's tonight to keep things fair and--”

“You’re making my headache worse!” Tony said loudly and this time he meant it, so Bucky and Steve ducked out, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“You coulda told him sex cures headaches.” Bucky said thoughtfully as they headed down to the parking garages. “Everyone knows a nut is good for what ails ya.”

“Everyone knows a nut--” Steve sighed. “Bucky, where do you learn this shit?”

“My entire job is pointing at things.” Bucky unlocked the passenger door so Steve could get in. “I have a lot of time to watch stuff at work. Learning videos and all that.”

“Stuff.” Steve repeated, tossing his bag in the backseat. “Learning videos? You mean porn. Are you watching porn when you’re supposed to be learning weather patterns and predictions? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Nah Stevie, I’d never watch dirty stuff at work.” Bucky said earnestly, pushing his hair out his eyes so he could blink over at Steve as innocently as he could. “I mean-- I’m not you.”

“It was one video, one time--” Steve huffed a breath when Bucky cracked up laughing. “And it wasn’t porn I was watching body building competitions--” Bucky laughed even louder. “--BECAUSE I WAS THINKING ABOUT ENTERING A COMPETITION-- you know what, fuck you. Have your nut by yourself.” Steve grabbed his bag again and jumped out the car, slamming the door behind him.

“Stevie!” Bucky was still laughed too hard to talk, but he made an attempt at grabby hands through the window. “Stevie come back! It’s so boring doing sexy things by myself! I have two boyfriends now, it ain’t right for a man to sleep alone!”

“Oh hey, that reminds me.” Irritation put aside for a few seconds, Steve turned back to the car. “What are we doing for Valentines Day? It's coming up real soon.”

“We could do the same thing we did last year?” Bucky suggested. “Drink super sweet pink drinks and get nekkid on various surfaces?”

“Well I mean--” Steve’s smile was a bit goofy. “Yeah, but we’re a real couple this year and we have Tony so maybe we should do something besides pound Barbie Ferrari’s and have black out sex on my kitchen counter. Like dinner? Buy each other presents? Maybe get a hotel room for the night? What do you think?”  

“I dunno, Tony’s place is nicer than most hotels.” Bucky thought a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You get your ass back in here, maybe we’ll talk about it.”

“Are you-- are you holding Valentines Day plans hostage unless I come home with you?” Steve straightened to his full height, crossing his arms menacingly. “Bucky, if I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to coerce me into the car and have your wicked way with me. What kind of guy do you think I--?”

“It’s snowing, dummy.” Bucky cut in. “Quit talking ‘bout how you want tits and get in the damn car  before you freeze. We both know your ass ain't gonna walk through the snow or even stand on the sidewalk to get a taxi, you're way too high maintenance for that.”

“You think I want tits?” Steve got back in the car. “That’s what you took away from my speech?”

“You crossed your arms under your bosoms, Stevie.” Bucky pulled out from his parking spot and headed towards the exit. “What else was I s’posed to think about with them all pushed high like that? Course I figured you were thinkin' bout getting tits.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Steve glanced down at his chest, flexing a little. “So anyway, Valentines Day. Think we should plan something nice for Tony. Something that lets him know we’re in this for the long haul, you know?”

“The long haul?”

“I don’t know Buck, sometimes it seems like Tony thinks that we’re dating but we aren’t dating him.” Steve frowned. “You ever get that vibe?”

“Like the other night when we said we wanted to go out to dinner and he asked if he could come too.” Bucky supplied. “Or when we order lunch and he asks if we mind if he eats with us, as if we're gonna tell him no? Because yeah, that was weird.”

“Or how he wanted to know whose house we were going to a few weeks ago?” he added. “Because if we hadn’t made plans yet, maybe we could come over to his place. It’s like he thinks we have a whole thing going on that only includes him sometimes.”

“But that’s stupid.” Bucky said flatly. “Because we told him at Christmas that it wouldn’t be like that, that we were crazy about him. You thinkin’ we should do some grand gesture so he knows this is real? Like a big romantic thing from a movie. Chocolate and fancy cards and like… musicians and stuff?”

“We could surprise him with something sexy.” Steve suggested and Bucky's eyes lit up. “Something romantic.”

“Oh!” Bucky cried. “Like edible massage oils!”

“And I do like the idea of a hotel.” Steve continued. “Big bed, maybe something with a jetted tub or at least a shower that can hold the three of us at once.”

“Edible underwear!” Another nearly shouted idea. “A thong made from licorice!”

“And we could order in fancy room service so we can eat in bed.” Steve side-eyed Bucky when the brunette made a yummy noise. “It’s sexy to feed each other things, right-- Buck, are you hungry? Do we need to stop for a burger or something?”

“OH! What about warming lube? It comes in all these random flavors and you can get it whipped.” Bucky licked his lips. “Whipped lube, Stevie. Imagine what we could get up to with that mess.”

“Babe.” Steve pointed out the window. “If you’re hungry let’s stop and get some food, but stop naming edible sex things. You’re weirding me out with this conversation. First tits and now edible sex things? What’s wrong with you?”

“I am starving, yes.” Bucky decided. “First food and then Valentines Day plans. But there’s nothing wrong with getting experimental with fun things in the bedroom Stevie. Stop being such a prude.”

“Okay.” Steve was instantly offended. “I am not a prude. Not a prude. I’m up for fun things, but it’s sort of a leap from lets try a new position to you wearing a thong I’m supposed to eat off with my teeth!”

“Who says I’d be the one wearing a thong?” Bucky dug for some cash as he pulled into a drive through. “You’re wearing a thong. Me and Tony are eating it off with our teeth.”

“No way. I don’t want teeth anywhere near my dick.”

“Well then, you should have thought about that before saying you were up for fun things.”

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

#ncts fics #stuckony #valentines day #tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes

[dancing-with-adventure]

Love Letters To My Wife

JMJ

cc:2010  william c.

                   My Last Love Letter to My Wife

Jacqueline C.

Memoirs of True Love from a soldier

Dear Jacquie,

FOLLOWS IS A U.S. ARMY CLOAKROOM

DEBRIEFING OF THE MISSION BELOW.

*Honors due to the two French Motorcycle

Police Officers who gave their all to

Protect French President Charles De Gaulle*

Subject

Mission: To Prevent the Assassination of President Charles De Gaulle of France 1962

Case Title

ONZE RUE de la croix ROUGE

aka: Cry of the Aliases

1

It all started in the small, wonderful, picturesque, historic French village of Chatellerault.  It was a normal very, very, early Friday morning.  The year 1962.

 “I warn you…  I warn you,” screamed the stranger dressed in a 14th century knight’s helmet with sight shield wide open. An Albanian Skerd cigarette hanging on his lower lip and a knight’s metal chest plate partially showing under his blue French work jacket. Knight’s leggings, without codpiece, barely revealing under his modified blue workpants. Black scuffed pointy work shoes.  His screams, “I warn you,” in a South Moscow accent mixed with a curious German peasant drawl seemed hysterically musical as he banged on the wooden door at Onze de la croix Rouge (Street of the Red Cross) with boiling madness early morning, Friday 10 August 1962. Jacqueline April, quickly jerked the door open almost wrenching it off its hinges as she

2

blocked a Roundhouse punch that the stranger was just cocking his right arm with clenched fist to blast her as he bellowed, “I warn you.”

Jacquie, Savate (the deadly art of French old shoe fighting) power kicked him in the groin.

The stranger bending over in withering agony, as Jacquie’s follow up lightening Savate heel kick strike smashed him in the open area of his 14th century helmet that exposed his eyes nose and Skerd smoking mouth.  This drove him back into the very foggy, chilly, six-foot wide street, just missing the petit parked fire engine with brown fire ladders on each side, and onto the foot and a half wide sidewalk across the street, hurling the stranger into a neighbor’s house wall. The sound was like a big strong garbageman heaving a heavy metal garbage can back onto the cold sidewalk after its contents was deposited in the garbage truck.

3

‘Three Tons of Fun,’…Maurice, Carl and Lou. Retired, medically obese, military Psychological Operations Specialists, are now Weathermen in the London area. And Dorkus Fricate, an international outdoor Drive Inn roller skating waitress from Warningville, Upstate New York blamed this type of cold polarity weather affecting the historic Rue’s of France on the cooling fog of the climate.

Dorkus, is now under exclusive contract with Peewee’s International Drive Inn Diner of Warningville, New York, The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, Kushi Japan, Moo’s Diner, Wet Dog Maine and ‘The Ole Communist Bar and Cafe,’ Ingrandes France. Dorkus, also follows the cooling of the planet with her assortment of brown and black caterpillars.

Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou, aside from playing in a band occasionally in Paris at, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ are all ‘Laurates’ in accord.  Carl with his

4

alleged Nobel Prize winning seven thousand page,‘ one word’ Doctorate thesis ‘Brevity and the Cooling of the Planet’ entitled… “Brrrrrr.”

All four pilgrimage to the Rue de la croix Rouge annually to meditate and recite ancient poetry until they are asked to leave by the Rue’s very patient inhabitants.

Onze Rue de la croix Rouge, located on one of these Rue’s on an enchanting small winding street was right out of the history books and a prime example of this type of ‘Brrrrrr’ ‘Polarity Weather.’ The well-kept house, charming but a little battered. Medieval stone two story buildings with small attic windows topping off the homes as they line the Rue seeming to be standing at Parade Rest.  One might expect to meet Jeanne d’Arc on her way to battle coming down the narrow weaving Rue at any moment.

5

Onze de la croix Rouge. A wonderful, glowing, warm kind of magical looking Safe-House in the middle of the Rue has a long narrow back yard and an ancient Maple tree in the middle of the one quarter acre near a spring-fed small pond. The yard was surrounded by high stone walls on three sides as they seem to play some sort of bizarre tag with the back of the home. The noble walls were not that high that would prevent climbing over with some difficulty.

Besides, a loudmouth, bossy, pain in the butt, 80-year-old parrot named Sweet William alias The Black Adder, there is a small flock of angry Geese, several nasty Billy Goats and one continuously ticked off fighting bull from Spain, no matador would fight, that patrolled the yard.

Only Steve Ptah, Jacquie’s ‘Cloakroom’ (The Cloakroom is a small secret U.S. Army agency of covert specialists that fell through the cracks,) to say again, Jacquie’s partner is the only one who

6

could go back there without being attacked. Inhabitants of the backyard considered him one of their own. Perhaps even feeling sorry for Steve.

 And, of course, Steve’s drinking buddy, Monsieur Cacahuete, alias ‘Werewolf’ a handsome peanut vendor who allegedly believes he is not a werewolf and fighting not to have a ‘Universal Werewolf Month.’  Heavily muscled and built like a top he is beautifully decorated, battle-injured, retired Legionnaire. The Peanut Vendor, who receives ‘Hazardous Duty Pay,’ and, who enjoys rough housing with his customers is the other exception the animals allow in the backyard.

The animals can’t wait for 11AM every morning to attack Monsieur Cacahuete and ravage his cart as they hear his ‘Call to Battle’ cry, “Getsha Red Hots, Getsha Red Hots Cacahuetes.  He enters the house through the front door with his hot steamin’ peanut cart.  Squeezing by the usual turmoil in the rooms and into the backyard.

7

This is always his last morning call because normally Monsieur Cacahuete and his cart had to be taken away, after each visit to Onze de le croix Rouge, by ambulance, to just past the Polish Guards barracks. Then into the charming town of Dange a few kilometers north of Chatellerault to ‘The Bitter Sweetee’ private hospital for Noggin Traumas and for those of all ages who Forgot How to Jump. Not only open to the pubic but is always filled with patients who are celebrities and politicians.

Monsieur Cacahuete brings his Red Hots to Paris one night a week when he and his band (Maurice, Carl, Lou and Dorkus play at the infamous ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ located deep within Les Halles.

Oh yes. Then there was the beautiful, warmhearted Madame Tata, a mysterious Forever Young, lovely angel who makes sure the animals and inmates of the Safe-House are, tended too.

8

Dressed in French fashionable, blue and white clothes is very rarely seen or heard as she ejects herself around the house and yard. She is loved by everyone. She is always smiling.

Unexplained used egg-stained Ouija boards are occasionally fired at passing fire trucks and at Steve. A possibly demented existentialist who thinks he is a troll with serious mental health problems may be hiding somewhere nearby in a small field of daffodils. Or not?

Steve has been trying to get the fire truck halfway hanging on the narrow curb of the Rue moved from the front of the lovely antique home, so the regular morning ambulance and Banana van could get through, without much success.  For some reason, the firemen seem to think there is a fire in the house.

###

9

10 AUGUST 1962… FRIDAY… YERY EARLY MORNING:

Back inside the historic picture book home on Onze Rue de la croix Rouge in Chatellerault, France were the sounds of many oboes. Their music drifting in from someplace far away lost in the morning fog. Also seemingly lost in the morning fog was Steve Ptah, U.S. Army Cloakroom Special Operations and Covert Pentagon Anti-Intelligent Agent. His Philosophy of Life being ‘People you go up against must always underestimate what you know and what you can do.’

Steve, standing next to a small stone fireplace with a unique onyx mantle that somehow reflected the fire burning in the hearth and added warmth on this unusually chilly morning.

The modestly furnished antique room had a plain wooden Crucifix on the main wall which drew everyone’s attention who entered.

10

In honor of her partner Steve, Jacquie placed a small sign under the Crucifix reading; ‘The Loving God has Mercy on those of us not playing with a full deck.’

The above words under the Crucifix are the same words ‘The Sargent at Arms’ recites at all Secret ‘Closed Door’ ‘Blue Panel’ ‘Intelligence’ meetings the U.S. Congress and Senate and are considered ‘Opening Prayers.’

A Holy Water holder was at the entryway and always filled with Holy Water from Lourdes along with an emergency set of Rosary Beads. Several framed pictures of Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, Angels and Saints were also about. Included is a large painting of Saint Jude, God’s special Saint for Impossible Missions.

A calamity of firemen with unidentified cigarettes held on their bottom lips were running to and fro trying to put out the small fire spots in the wires of

11

the newly installed electric doorbell that Steve and his always top notch, handyman, wingman, the honorable Monsieur ‘C’ just put in a few days ago.

A side note: (After the evening’s doorbell’s electrical work was completed Monsieur ‘C’s car, parked outside, well… his car battery caught on fire.)

This morning the usual aroma of French bread baking and French coffee brewing on the black iron oven was replaced by the smell of French cigarette smokes that were roaming the early French sculptured fawn creamy white and brown beamed ceilings due to the smoking firemen and two visitors.  These two visitors, well, some may consider a wee bit strange.

Jock Unita, with recent snow on his boots, (a term used by American, French, and British agents when they work behind the Iron Curtain) has trouble

12

with his lineage and has a great fear of accordion players who wear lederhosen.

Jock is a Japanese cut-out (a cut-out is an agent who has no apparent connection with an intelligence agency) and one of Steve’s ace contacts.

Jock claims to be from Angola and is a member of the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade. The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade is always angry about something from cooling of the planet to all their women being men… and taller than the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade men who have been brainwashed into believing they are women by hearing the control words ‘Ah So’ with two hand claps. Then one hand clap turning them back into believing they are men. It’s complicated. Especially when they march protesting the parades they are marching in as they go into their synchronized march ‘Having a Charlie Horse Attack’ routine on stilts.

13

Also, Jock has been fined numerous times, by the Brigade, for unauthorized wearing of stilts. Stilts are supposed to be used only when the Angry Brigade march in ’Protest’ of parades they are marching in.

Jock always dresses in a black motorcycle jacket, red sweatshirt, and red woolen pants with matching red sneakers.  Jock is a handsome hombre about five foot six, slim build, bald head, pudgy nose, cold black Jerry Colonna eyes that seem to spin continuously.  Wears a physiognomy aftershave that smells like rotten fruit.

Constantly plagued by all-weather fruit flies.  Some fruit flies, bursting into flames if they swarm too close to Jocks activated cigarettes. Jock, a violent chain smoker, always carries lighted cigarettes behind each ear so he doesn’t have to waste time lighting up.

14

Jock is wearing some type of contraption on his forehead held in place with an excruciatingly tight white with red lettering kamikaze style elastic band wrapped around his prominent bean. Speaking Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent Jock drives Jacquie’s partner Steve Ptah looney. Although it is a noticeably short drive for Steve.

Steve Ptah, a most dangerous man.  His only claim to fame, aside from being an unnoticed superb ventriloquist, and a U.S. Army professional enemy terminator, assassin if one prefers, is that he has won top prize on a now defunct radio show, ‘It Pays to be Ignorant.’

With Steve Ptah is a very lissome spy and assassin, Jacqueline April, a nuclear weapon ready to explode, from French Army intelligence, Groupe D’Intervention de le Militarie Nationalerie (GIMN).

15

Jacquie has an IQ so high Steve must remind her to always keep Oxygen tanks with her. Or so he says.

Both Jacquie and Steve also have recent snow on their boots.

“Who was at the door?”  Steve growled in a low warning tone.

“Looked like one of your idiot contacts Steve.” Jacquie replied in a sweet French nonchalant voice yet carried the threat of everyone being immediately pummeled with a baseball bat.

“He kept saying, ‘I warn you.’ As he tried to… How do you Americans say with your strange language? ‘Lay a ‘Haymaker on me?’ I had to neutralize the situation with immediate and painful counter-action.”

“Were you hurt?” Steve mumbled in a low threatening growl.

“Are you kidding?” Jacquie smiled a noncaring glint in her eyes.

16

“I warn you?’” Jock questioned in a high-pitched hysterical tone.  “Was he partially dressed as a 14th Century Knight?”

“Oui.” Jacquie said softly, still with her voice carrying the threat of someone about to be severely beaten. “You know the lunatic?”

“Must be my publicist,” Jock squeaked in an extremely high-pitched squeak.  A wine glass broke in the kitchen.  “His name is Party Member 60508.  He believes if he starts every sentence with ‘I warn you,’ as he throws a punch people will pay more attention to him.”

“Publicist? On a covert meeting?” Steve slow barked as if he was biting down on a stale Turkish Taffy candy bar.

19

“Oh, what the hell is that you’re wearing on your head Jock?” Steve, a bit over 6 feet tall, slim, lean with a body of hardened steel but is flexible like water asked. His tone was that of a long mean bullwhip being cracked. Attired in a brown suede sports jacket over a dark blue work shirt, well worn, military pressed dungarees and light brown suede cowboy boots.

Running his fingers through his wavy dark brown thick hair with silver streaks cut DA style, (Ducks Ass} Steve whipped on.  “That apparatus on your noggin will draw attention to you. Not to mention a Publicist following you around. Even if he is disguised as a partially dressed 14th Century Knight.

‘Hoot mon on all of you,” Was Jock’s response as he chained smoked Gauloises French cigarettes…

20

two sometimes three at a time. His manner of speaking was always in a high sniffing helium tone.  

When Jock became really agitated his head began to tremble and start to turn a wonderful shade of pumpkin orange-‘tealish’ making him increasingly suave and mysterious, especially to women and perhaps to Legions of ‘Woodpeckers,’ or should we say ‘Shrinks.’

“Do not get me angry Steve. You know how angry I can get---”

“Yes Steve, “Lik, Jock’s betrothed, spoke up in her usual ‘ice cracking under one’s feet while crossing a partially frozen lake tone.’ Lik, puffed hatefully on a Gitanes (Gypsy Woman) French cigy.  “Remember Jock and his idiot Publicist are members of the Japanese ‘Angry Army Brigade’ of the Red Sun.  And when Jock gets angry his head begins to rumble and changes color to deep pumpkin orange-painful-teal and begins to swell savagely—”

21

“Not swell Lik,’ Jock screeched as a glass picture frame cracked someplace.

“ ‘Expands’ as my brain becomes a Ninja brain  when I get angry or become hopelessly befuddled.”

“Whatever, “Lik responded with applause as she shrugged her shoulders and did an eyeroll. “Some people crack their knuckles… Jock cracks his brain.”

“If he had one,” Jacquie inserted her venomous view into the conversation. “The guy’s a moron, a crackpot a---.”

“Jacquie,” Steve, said in a low chastising tone that sounded almost as if he were agreeing with Jacquie. “Jock has some important info for us about—"

Lik interjected with a kind of depressed glee.  LIK, short for Lethal Intensity Kon-Unita. Her real

22

name.  She too has recent snow on her boots.  A pretty girl with a chin jutting out just begging to be

punched. A bit taller than Jock but dresses like him except she does not wear makeup or perfume nor rotting fruit aftershave.

“You should have worn your stilts, Jock.” Lik said coldly as Steve and Jacquie turned around to see if someone was coming from across some partially frozen pond. “Jock is always forgetting his parade stilts so he can always be a little taller than me,” Lik continued, her voice was that of shaved ice being dumped into a stainless-steel mixer “I had them made for him by Uganda jungle Pygmy’s who live in a tree and bake bananas.  They can also be used as throwing weapons.”

“What? The Pygmies?” Jacquie demanded in a sharp tone.

23

“No, of course not,” Lik shot back as if she slammed the winning puck into the net at an ice hockey game.  “The stilts. Excellent for throwing.

The stilts I had the banana baking Pygmies make for my Jock.”

“Yes, of course you did.  What a thoughtful gift,” Jacquie commented in a kind sympathetic hard French tone that equaled a beautiful Siren ordering the ‘dragons released.’ Then softly whispering to Steve, “Let me put her out of her misery.”

“What about my misery?”  Steve slammed back.

Lik, wears her heavily used coal bin colored hair spiked a lot off center and to her left which keeps her head in a ‘tilt mode.’ Has double-jointed lips and those freezing cold black eyes that seem always blinking ‘burst’ Morse Code.  Suffers from clinically diagnosed unexpected moments of ‘Berserk Time’ which includes, but not limited to, a lot of skirmish

24

type running around at high gallop. Pummeling and loudly reciting the Hokey Pokey

backwards. It is believed that the medical term is ‘Tantrum Macabre’? One of her many endearing qualities.

Lik’s appearance and actions are as if she just exploded out of the Sunday morning comics.

“Lik,” Jock sang out in a high operatic voice, possibly causing eardrum damage.  “You know my chums in the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, confiscated one of my stilts last month for unauthorized stilt usage at their last meeting.

You all know, The Angry Brigade only wears stilts when they are marching in a parade they are protesting. If I wore stilt’s I could only wear one stilt until my right stilt is released from stilt lock-up. Ninety days or until I produce a troll, I found hiding

25

under a bridge. Otherwise, I would have to stilt-hop on one stilt throughout this mission.”

“Perhaps your Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Army of the Red Sun, or whatever the Hades it is called, would allow you to use a right foot Roller Derby skate with a thick four-inch cork insert in a pretend marching parade.”  Jacquie’s venomous tone made Jock think.

“Hmmm, one stilt and one skate?” Jock screeched aloud as he challenged himself to a thought.

“No stilt hopping, limping or roller derby skating while we are on a mission,” Steve announced in a low menacing tone.

“Jock,” Jacquie demanded reason.  “It’s bad enough we have to work with a guy that looks like he has some kind of plastic toilet seat on his head

26

being followed around by a half-dressed 14th Century knight and now hopping on one stilt.

Someone is bound to notice… like the enemy for one.”

“Does anyone else smell smoked rotten fruit?” one of the firemen, Claude Modi, careening through the downstairs rooms, yelled as he blew cigarette smoke circles nervously from his mouth. “It is hampering our ability to smell out new electrical fires in the doorbell electric wires.  Who is the brainless wonder who installed—"

“Aw shut up,” a tiny voice came from outside the front window as something flew by Claude Modi, as fast as its hard-knobbed feet could pitter-patter, in the opposite direction, slinging a used, egg-stained Ouija board, from under its arm, at fireman Claude Modi.

27

“Hoot Mon on you Steve, Jacquie and whatever the hell that was that just flew by me,” Jock blew his words out of his mouth as if he were blowing a hot forming glass bubble on the end of a long glass tube in some freakish opera. “You all know I am a blender.  Becoming a Ninja when I get angry or overwhelmed by happenings, like getting too much information overload I blend. No one will even notice me.” Jock ended his defense with a horrible bonsai suicidal attack high note scream.

“What was that scream?” Jock demanded to know.

“It was you…you mor—” Jacquie started to say holding her ears.

“Well, I think it is adorable Jacquie,” Lik drove on.  “I mean Jock’s thingamajig strapped on his bulging hairless…  Adds a sense of romantic mystery to his meaningless cue ball face.”

28

Jacquie, wearing a light white turtleneck blouse, dark blue ski vest, midnight blue slacks and fashionably eloquent black, light titanium-toe, boots with almost invisible razorblades pointing outward ever so slightly between the soles of the of the boot and the boot itself. On the feet of an expert Savate master it could cut up an opponent as one shreds coleslaw, or not.

Jacquie, slender, tall, five foot-seven, a stunning brunette with shoulder length hair framing her hauntingly beautiful face and the most remarkable blue-grayish eyes and compassionate hard nature, said softly to Steve in a mesmerizing killer French accent, “Whatever the hell Jock’s contraption is?

But Jock, “Jacquie continued in a biting tone.  “Even a Renaissance man such as yourself Jock… will have to admit the contraption on your head and a Publicist using Martin Borman’s Nazi party number 60508 as a name is a little bizarre.”

29

“I admit nothing,” Jock screeched. A fireman, Sava Bastone, complained to other firemen that his watch crystal just shattered as Sava seemed to canter through the room.

“Only you would know Martin Borman’s Nazi party number Jacquie,” Steve smiled sarcastically. His timbre showing the signs of many brutal battles.

“Swine,” Jacquie volleyed back hard and swift.

“Well… if you must know,” Jock said in high Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent.

“Speak English,” Steve ordered harshly in a scary low tone.  “No one can understand your Japanese with that heavy Scottish accent.  If it is Japanese?’

“I can,” Jacquie speared defiantly.

30

“Of course, you can,” Steve growled under his breath. Followed by an eyeroll and rubbing his temples.

“Hoot mon on you Steve. This little gadget strapped to the top of my receding hairline (Jock, refuses to believe he is completely bald) forehead is the newest in audio/visual recording-projecting holograms devices.

“It was developed at the U.S. Army’s secret Edgewood Arsenal base in Maryland.  Some guy… Alvin Gored, you know head of the ‘Flat Moon Green Cheese Society invented it…”

“You mean that nut who fools around, with Anti-Gravity experiments, in a rolling biosphere ball and believes he’s a singing Talpid?” Jacquie’s words kneed Jock in the groin.

“Right a Roo Jacquie,” Jock moaned in a splintering high note with tears of painful joy yet an angry

31

smile as if the harvest were finished but all the food crops were immediately lost. “The top military scientist at Edgewood Arsenal.”

“Steve,” Jacquie mused, “I heard about this rodent guy who—”

“What the hell is a talpid? Can we stay focused Jacquie?”  Steve rabbit punched his question in French.

“You speak French like a Spanish cow, Steve,”

“I was speaking English for your info—”

“Then you were speaking English like a French cow,” Jacquie’s words carried the force of an uppercut to Steve’s chin as he bobbed and weaved. An occasional occupational habit in Steve’s line of work.

“You guys with your talk of cows make me think of milk-toast,” Lik dry-ice gargled. “I always have nightmares. That is my arch enemy’s Rutherford B.

32

Hayes favorite desert. I myself am milk-toast Intolerant.” Lik spoke, holding her cigarette tightly between her lips, in her ice cracking humble tone.  Now staring at her deadly machete, she named

‘Golompi’ after her favorite Polish stew.

“Who cares if you’re ‘Milk-Toast’ intolerant?” Steve’s growl challenged. “Millions of people are milk-toast intolerant and don’t even know it. That’s because they’re not nuts like you.”

“I see you still carry ‘Golompi’ with you,” Jacquie sneered in that soft killer French tone.

“Would not venture out without my baby ‘Golompi.’  Did I tell you how we met behind the Iron Curtain many years back?  Jock and I were in a Polish restaurant, Gookies I believe, when these

33

several very nasty Secret Police Agents came to our table.  Naturally, Jock’s head exploded—”

“Naturally,” Jacquie mimicked with raised eyebrows. Did his head explode literally, or figuratively?

“I believe both,” Lik, said in a low, icy, thoughtful tone.

“Who cares?” Steve said in that menacing low tone, his teeth grinding.  “We’ve all heard this story a hundred times.

“Actually 84 times,” Jacquie corrected.

Lik, sat staring at her dearly beloved and very deadly baby ‘Golompi.’ Stopped sharpening the blade against a piece of dried out steel wool.  Heating the machete’s blade up by puffing on her Gitanes to sterilize the cold hard steel head lopper.

34

“Get to the point Jock,” Steve demanded sharply while giving Jacquie an annoyed stare.  “I don’t want to hang around this place too long.”

“But you live here,” Lik pointed out very coldly.  Humbly tossing her ‘Golompi’ machete up, down and all around as if she was a Majorette leading a High School parade.  Then suddenly flung it deep into a far wall.  “I thought I saw a caricature of Rutherford B. Hayes, my nemesis, on the wall making faces at me.”

No one seemed to notice or care at Lik’s action or words.

“Yes, I remember now,” Steve seemed confused but only for second or so. “I move around so much I forget where I am.”

35

“I don’t even pretend to understand what that means,” Jacquie moaned a French moan shaking her head in the negative with that ‘Another crazy American’ stare mumbling, “Too many blows to the head.  Too many blows to the—. Never

mind. Steve, I can never tell if it is flummery with you or being serious.”

Jock started to speak but the doorbell made a funny dying, fizzing noise immediately starting a series of spot wire fires as the firemen yelled for back-up over their Walkies Talkies pleading to everyone not to ring the doorbell.  Evidently, some enemy agent or poor soul put a sign on the door earlier to ‘Ring the bell if you love Pistachio.’  Madame Tata’s favorite flavor.

36

“I’ll get it this time, Steve said in a low dangerous tone as Firemen rushed around trying to find the newly activated hot spots on the doorbell wire.

“May I help you?” Steve asked in a voice so low and hard his sentence was more of a threat than a question.

The young lady was dressed in an old Mother Hubbard pink hat.  A Springtime pink jacket with a lot of straps and buckles hanging from it, white pants, and white slippers. A sparkling white plastic band with some type of mysterious printing on it adorned her left wrist.

“Why were you following me just now?” She demanded to know in a soft, the mouse ran up the clock, nursey rhyme tone.

“Huh?” Steve’s cool repartee-reply dazzled her for a moment.

37

“I thought I heard a scream. I am Collette Perinod, a professional passer-by, and I have a blank check drawn on the Bank Nationale. Would you be kind enough to sign it? I wanted to get here before the tour buses start arriving, so I could go and cash it. Your generosity is known all over the planet,”

“Tour buses?  Planet? No tour buses could fit up this Rue,” Steve said looking around. His Jungle green eyes searching up and down and all around as he handed Colette the now signed blank check with Jock Unita’s signature on it. Steve is also a master forger when necessary.

“Thank you a… a, Monsieur… Unita… Jock Unita.”

“De rien, What tour buses?” Steve asked again in a more pleasant tone still reconnoitering with his jungle greens all rooftops and up and down the chilly foggy Rue. Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou were right about the weather again.

38

“Oh… The busses are all parked along the Blossac. The tourist then quick-step march four abreast from there to Onze de la croix Rouge,” Collette said shyly with a spooky giggle.

“You are on the Chatellerault ‘Must See’ historic tourist sights.” Collette flung up her tourist map so Steve could see through the almost lifting fog that seems to be settling back down again. “See it reads, ‘Onze de la croix Rouge is a beautiful historic home where strange things seem to happen.’ ”

Collette, continued to read. “Jeanne d’ Arc, stopped here to refresh and more recently a pair of socks someone was wearing in the house… were sucked into the past.  Or maybe it was the future?  Or perhaps they were sucked into the present.”  But how could that be?”

Collette giggled eerily, “Sounds like this reporter has problems.”

39

“Wait a minute,” Steve announced angrily. “Are you spouting my theory that the Present, Past and Future existing at the same time and—”

“No,” Collette sounded confused.  “I don’t know what you are babbling about. You sound like a--.  I mean it sounds like the reporter and me are not the only ones that have mental health problems.”

“Then you must be yapping about the time I was taking an emergency nap.”  Steve seemed to be reminiscing as if he was in another world. “And my partner was vacuuming, and she lost control of the vacuum—”

“Yes… of course,” Collette said suspiciously as she jumped-stepped back a bit from Steve and assumed the international ‘Pretzel’ self-defense stance.   “That must be it.  Well, I better… better move on,” Collette lamented sadly to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…’  “I think your house is on fire and I see more fire engines and a reporter from the Chatellerault Blast News…

40

Oh-oh. Some people with butterfly nets.”  Collette yelled to Steve in a psychotic nursery rhyme of ‘Jack Fell Down and…’ tone as she waved the signed check, “Au voir Monsieur Unita. Merci beaucoup.”

“Steve,” Jacquie snapped as she yanked him inside.  “Who were you talking to?”

“Jacquie, did you know our safe house is on a Chattellerault tourist map as a ‘Must See?”

“Steve, sometimes you really scare me with your leaps from reality to boundless fatuity.  Now Jock what were you about to say?”

“I wear this visual recording-projection hologram device, that is powered by anti-gravity mini-micro molecule chip slowly mixing with regular gravity in miniscule portions.  I am making a yearlong record of my wife’s Lik’s right ear. I am on the cusp of a New Age movement.

41

I am also on the cusp of passing out as this plastic- elastic kamikaze strap is cutting off the blood supply to the ole bean.  I call it ‘A Year in the Life of My Wife’s Right Ear.’  Twenty-four Seven.  Three hundred and sixty-four.  Christmas, I always spend with my Angry Chums,” Jock said proudly, in English, knocking off the Scottish accent.

“Sacre Chat. What the blazes did I just run over?” A Frenchman passing the house in a small yellow ‘Banania’ truck could be heard yelling outside the home as the low ground fog was just starting to yield more of its hold to the wakening morning sun. “I think I broke my front axle.  Hey you tin man. What in the name of Blossac Fannie you doing under my banana truck ya bonehead? You want bananas… you will have to wait like everyone else.

Hey firemen, when ya going to move that fire engine so me and my bananas can get by?” Jacard La Fourmi, banana salesman from Ingrandes, raged again. “Is that you Claude Modi in the fog?”

42

“No. It’s you.” The fireman yelled back then disappeared into the house.

“Me?” Jacard La Fourmi challenged himself with an unanswerable question.  “But how could that be?”

From under the deflated ‘banania’ truck came a mournful cry, “I warn you.”  Then a thump like flesh hitting metal… then some crying.

Back In the Home:

“It’s my left ear you are recording Jock,” Lik said in a low, ice crunching but still frightening tone as she yanked her machete out of the wall. “Do not make me correct you again.”

Lik started to stab the wall repeatedly as she cried intensely, “Death to all walls.”

“Hey Lik,” Steve said calmly.  “Lay off the plaster.  This is our safe house.”

43

“Jock is such a pathetic, happy psycho-sociopath wanting to spend Christmas with his moronic Angry nitwits.” Lik, tee-heed her words, holding her delicate fingers of her left hand over her double-jointed lips as she hurled her machete again, with deadly accuracy across the room once more stopping a small spider prancing up the far wall. Lik, later claimed the spider had the same recognizable limp that Rutherford B. Hayes, her blasted enemy, had when he scurried up walls.

“You know Lik,” Steve deeply mumbled.  “You might want to seek some heavy-duty professional help.  It’s not easy hurling a machete with such force and pin-point accuracy like you do Lik.”

“Oh, Steve,” Lik laughed sounding like the roar of a calving piece of ice breaking off a huge glacier, causing a tingling but also ballistic wave.  “You know Steve, Jock has Post Graduate Degrees in baking cookies among many other medical accolades. As a professional hero with many

44

Ph.D.’s.  Jock handles all my deep therapeutic needs.”

“That’s right Steve.  The boys at the U.S. Army’s secret experimental base at Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland.  You know… those crazy guys and gals in building 355 made and wanted me to test it after Doc Alvin Gourd developed it when he was on a singing tour with his talpids,” Jock bragged.

“The machete?” Jacquie interrogated.

“No, no,” Lik spoke up in her ice crackling underfoot tone, “The machete, I mean Golompi. Golompi was made by Polish Partisans in seclusion at Edgewood Arsenal. This video recorder and projector thing on my baby Jock’s bulging but empty forehead was a U.S. Army Edgewood Arsenal idea. They wanted him to test it out in the middle of the desert at… I think it is called ‘White Sands Nuclear Testing Sight’ because of the nano-modified Anti-Gravity chip being tested as a power source.

45

But my wonderful Jock chose to test it on this mission with you folks.”

“You are kidding?” Jacquie’s words were more like a plea than a question.

“Hoot Mon Jacquie. Not at all. You know I have no sense of humor. ‘A Year in the Life of my Wife’s Lik’s Left ear’ says it all.”

“Jock?’ It sounds like those halfwits at Edgewood Arsenal are at it again,” Jacquie sighed.  “Steve, building 355?  Were not you brainwashed in that building when those delinquents from some nut factory tested their Menticide experiments on you?” (Menticide is the rape of the mind.}

Steve thought for a moment. “Planters? By Granny, I…I, er believe you are Johnny-on-the-spot with that one.  I was Menticided by them?  Or was it near London at Porton Down Great Britain’s Chemical and Biological Warfare Center by a quorum of Brit Wierdos?”

46

“Steve, you are such an idiot,” Jacquie French whipped.

“Correction please Jacquie, I was also at Edgewood Arsenal when building 355 was a halfway house for the Criminally Insane. Graduated top of my class.

Now Jock, what does your video tapping of your wife Lik’s right ear have to do with finding out where REDCOM (REDCOM is two-part Soviet secret operation to be carried out by OAS members in Paris. OAS a Secret French Army Terrorist Organization that may use Jock’s Publicist to advertise.} is going to be activated?

We need to know and confirm when, where and how the Soviet Spetsnaz troops (Spetsnaz are Soviet Special Forces Soldiers} attack is going to happen.  All we know is someplace in Paris and the Russkies are somehow planning to assassinate President De Gaulle by proxy.

47

“Who?” Jock asked making a one-word question sounding like fingernails across the blackboard.

“De Gaulle. De Gaulle. De Gaulle, you nitwit,” Jacquie cried out.  “Why do you think we are all here?”  After a moment Jacquie calmed down and continued. “It is so difficult to work with you people. Political assassinations, especially by proxy… whatever the hell that really means, are rarely successful,” Jacquie pointed out in a serious French tone. “Steve I still believe there is an assassin on President De Gaulle’s 7 person-personal security team.”

“Jacquie don’t start that again,” Steve Brooklyn snapped. “An ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner that passed numerous background security checks plus other rigorous investigations? Now if he were a politician instead of an ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner… Well, that would lend more credence to your hypothesis.”

48

“Steve, it is not a hypothesis.  It is a fact. I believe my contact Zizib, alias Canvas Back Zizib—”

“Is CB still fighting?”  Steve questioned in a low Brooklyn tone.  “I thought he was locked up in an asylum someplace in Albania—”

“That is beside the point Steve… anyway he has walking privileges.  And it is not an asylum it is an institution for the…  Never mind. Anyway, there is something else you should know about President De Gaulle--.

“Who?” This time Steve asked, seemingly bewildered as his mind was working on an idea, he had… how to foil REDCOM.

“De Gaulle… De Gaulle… De Gaulle you idiot.”

Only Steve, and Jock and a few thousand others could make his partner Jacquie lose control to the point of madness as she Savate kicked the floor, loosening and cracking a piece of the heavy, ancient shinny hard wood plank.

49

“Steve, it is my left ear that is being recorded.”  Lik said somewhat in that ice being cracked tone, as pieces of white plaster flew off the wall. Lik, kept banging her head against the wall where she was assuming Rutherford B. Hayes was hiding.

As the Catholic church bells of St, Jacque, just up the Rue, began to sound, Jock answered Steve’s question about ‘How was recording Lik’s right ear going to help in stopping REDCOM? —

“Nothing that I know of Steve.  What do you know Steve about Holograms, or The Algerian War of Independence?  Why can’t I hear Popcorn pop?  Why me?” Jock pondered aloud.  “But I will tell you this about REDCOM Part One, the Les Halle’s Diversion… and cardboard Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as cardboard cutouts or is it cut-outs…(Remember cut-outs=Military/Intelligence jargon for an agent who has no apparent connection with an Intelligence agency,) Wait.  I feel befuddlement coming on.” Jock’s head seemed to begin the agonizing metamorphosis

50

into a giant teal orange colored blimpish pumpkin lifting his body a centimeter or two off the ground.

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered, “you don’t think Jock was serious about an Anti-Gravity chip… I mean one nano of Anti-Gravity touches actual gravity it could destroy—”

“Not to worry Jacquie,” Steve said in a low growly voice.  “Lik said it was ‘modified.”

“Modified?  What the hell does that mean? Anti-Gravity matter? How does one ‘modify’ Anti-Gravity... One would have to…  Wait. Did Jock say Les Halle’s?"

“I’m coming baby,” Lik, shrieked as a baking dish shattered, for some unknown reason, someplace in a storage draw. Placing her Golompi down softly on a table Lik ripped up part of a loose heavy, wooden, historic recently cracked floor plank that must have been, well over, several hundred years old and crashed it over Jock’s head.”

51

DEBRIEF 2

PARIS

RESTAURANT TRUFFLES

Off Av, Jean Jaures near

28 Rue de Perigneux

MONDAY 13 AUGUST 1962

MID AFTERNOON

RESTAURANT TRUFFLES is a covert Soviet military hangout open to the elite of Paris and all Intellectuals on the Continent and Around the World. In fact, clientele must answer unanswerable questions, such as, ‘How high up?’ And ‘How long is a piece of string?’ to prove they are ‘Intellectuals’ to be granted admission.

Specialty trained Soviet ‘Spetsnaz’ (Russian Special Forces) troops and KGB agents along with

52

Vasaltnicki Soviet agent (Vasaltnicki people are Russian spies acting as waiters, waitresses, Doormen, cashiers, models, politicians’ businesspeople, homeless, Professionals, teachers, professors, neighbors-next-door etc…People you trust or pay no attention to until one morning you wake up in a Gulag.)

Much like the Russian Vasaltnicki agents we have today in New York City, U.S. Senate, Congress, and other places throughout the States.

TRUFFLES is a popular spot for the International ‘IN’ crowd of gourmet-diners, especially the so-called ‘intellectuals,’ who are stupid enough, to order awfully expensive ‘whites of truffle eggs’ but never eat them.

The two owners are Major Miroslav (Short Step) Elias, a short pickpocket, hit man, medically obese KGB agent who at this moment is chocking on a Borscht-soaked Truffle.

53

The other owner is KGB Major Frantisek (Creature) Strachovsky, a tall, very successful anorexic ‘who believes he kills by convincing intellectuals they never were born.’ Known to his men as ‘Creature,’ owing to his close resemblance and green pallor.

He has been ordered to wear a special, ‘almost’ fire resistant, slow burning paper bag, with eye holes over his head and set it ablaze just before he enters the dining area.  This way he doesn’t frighten the dining guests.  Both are known affectionately as the ‘Mutt and Jeff’ team of Dzerzhinsky Street. (Western agents called KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Dzerzhinsky Street.)  

For an encore, when Major Creature leaves the dining area, a small group of, large-footed, high-stepping, well trained Spetsnaz soldiers stomp the moving smoldering bag, a fire safety precaution, as Major Creature stumbles away.

54

The elite, high society, Intelligencia dining guests believe it is part of the floor show and look forward to it with enthusiastic applause.

“ ‘Sputnik’ to ‘Short Step.’  Will you stop choking?” Major ‘Creature,’ yelled. “It is very annoying to me.  If you did not stuff that gaping hole you call a mouth with all those truffles you would not—"

“You say something ‘Creature’?” Major ‘Short Step’ gargled. “By Stalin’s chicken feed sacks, he used to give himself shoulders, I do believe I am… agh… chocking.”

“Do not call me ‘Creature,’ idiot.  I have enough trouble with my men gossiping behind my back.”

“Idiot?  Remember your date-of-rank Major ‘Creature.’  I out rank you by 32 seconds.”

“31 seconds you—”

“Anyway, when I am eating it cuts off power to my hearing,” Major ‘Short Step’ coughed and gaged each word.  “Hey! Any of you morons know the

55

Soviet ‘Kapooie’ method those Boyilaneyt Americans stole from us in 1923 and now called the ‘Heimlich’ maneuver.”

As the ‘Kapooie’ method was being applied by two Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as waiters and a Soviet Vasaltnicki spy named ‘Floozy’ disguised as a floozy, Major ‘Short Step’ gagged in a disturbingly chocking tone.  “And that reminds… me…Stay out of…the dining…area tonight when… the Restaurant opens…  We are running low on those special paper bags you… are ordered to wear over your head.”

And that also reminds me… I cannot breathe.  I think you three idiots just broke two of my favorite ribs… This Soviet… ‘Kapooie’ method sucks… Run out… into the street… and grab the first… … passerby… that… can…  a… perform… a… tracheotomy…”

Major ‘Short Step’ lay chocking on the floor almost passed out. His face turning a shade of ‘Tragic

56

Evening Blue’ Stalin’s now Khrushchev’s favorite aftershave.

Exploding on to the small, now crowded, stage area where Major ‘Short Step’ lay, one hundred and fifty-two Russian Vasaltnicki ‘Squat Dancers (Kazachok)’ soldiers started their new ‘Squat’ dance routine accompanied by blasting Russian ‘Squat’ dancing folk music, shouting, high leaping and ear-piercing yells.

Now major ‘Creature’ announced “Let us go over one more time operation REDCOM, our Paris attack plans--.”

“I tell you… you idiots I do not know how to perform a tracheotomy,” Passerby, Emile

La Traille, a tough, suave, handsome intellectual, who for some reason was chasing a large goose down the Rue as he was passing Restaurant TRUFFLES and was dragged in by Floozy and two Soviet Spetsnaz soldiers. “I am Emile La Traille,

57

Finder of Missing Geese.  Where is my Goose you head of ham fat?”

“Perform,” ordered Soviet private Soo Poo G-Deh Seveer as he shoved a lighted blow torch in Monsieur La Traille’s hand.

###

DEBRIEF 3

LES HALLES, PARIS Les Jardin du Poubelle aka (Alma Frump’s Dump.)

WEDNESDAY 15 AUGUST 1962

LATE EVENING.

58

Les Halles is an immense spreading, noisy 800 plus-year-old, always mobbed with food and everything else market, almost in the center of Paris. Saturated with merchants, buyers, sellers, locals, spies, assassins and the dreaded mimes from every corner of the planet. Tourist of all sorts continuously roving throughout, barely dodging the trucks, horse pulled wagons and different sized unbalanced pushcarts. Many with square worn-down wheels.

Merchants were selling everything. Flowers, wine, fish, French bread, meat carcasses, animals, fruit, classified information. All types of food and everything in between. But the thing one will always remember most is the kaleidoscope of tantalizing yet obnoxious aromas including the drifting of burnt gunpowder of occasional pistol shots and that homey-feel that lingered about.

And the most important place was a Café called ‘Les Jardin du Poubelle’. (Known for its clarion of

59

Moulin Rouge and wild Apache dancehall music and familiar to all operatives worldwide as ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’) Always packed with before-during and after-work locals and the strangest assortment of patrons, shadow-people, bewildered tourist, self-actualizing Intellectual morons, weird performers and even plain-run-of-the mill-morons, such as the writer of this debriefing, etc…  

As the Pederin band blasted music like confetti throughout Café Poubelle, “Steve,” Jacquie called out.  Her tone was that of a stiletto being stabbed into his ear as the Café noise ran a defense that only close piercing contact could infiltrate. “What are we doing here besides meeting with French Intelligence and doing completing a nutty plan you have been working on? A plan I do not think President De Gaulle will go along with. I have been

59

detecting avalanching signs of mental stress from you.”

“No time for high-praise from you Jacquie. I’ve been doing a little investigating here.”

“I know… Meeting with French Intelligence is okay. But those other Black Forest people…Those creepy shadow people you have been sequestering with

and paying off your contacts. Jock and Lik’s friends are less stable than they are.”

“You know Jock has not been right-in-the-head since he discovered it was the dish that ran away with the spoon,” Steve jackhammered his voice. I have been doing some follow up. The Ruskies have hired the OAS for De Gaulle’s assassination. And the OAS has hired that idiot ‘The Jackass’ for the assassination plan.”

“Not ‘The Lard Butt,’ alias ‘Little medically obese Eddie Illich Ramirez’ the guy that wobbles if he

60

could run.  Alias ‘The Jackal’ alias—” Jacquie sighed.

“Right,” Steve sneered. “Previously known as ‘Fat Eddie Ramirez.  Anybody blows something up the Jackal gets all the credit.”

“He must have a great publicist,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again with her words. “Wait a minute you do not think the Jackal, alias the ‘Limp’s’ Publicist could be—"

“No. Let’s not go there,” Steve growled a penetrating growl.

Let’s not go wave after wave after wave of ‘The Kackle’s’ many aliases, with that hideous laugh. He’s the only moron who runs flappin’ his arms and bunny hops and can’t sweat.” Steve moaned.

 “I thought the Jackal is still living in his parent’s cellar apartment in Paris selling Hi Fi’s and dungarees from there,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again as she pushed her hair back.

61

Jacquie’s hair is a formal evening coiffure with a turban style bump.  Steve, still coming his hair DA style in the mobbed Cafe.

Steve, answered back in a smashing sledgehammer tone, “and we’re still waiting for Jock and Lik who are supposed to meet those two KGB agents in the reserved booth behind us. You sure it was the dish that ran away with the--?”

“I don’t know, Steve.  Lik, gave Jock one Hades of a clonk on that noggin of his with that broken floor plank to stop his head from swelling and turning pumpkin-teal, orange.”

“Give the guy a break Jacquie.  He was becoming befuddled. Anyway, he was released from that Bittersweetie Noggin Nockers private hospital in Dange.”

“Yes, Jacquie shived her words again into Steve’s ear but this time holding a hanky over her mouth

62

as she thought she caught sight of a Maverick Lip Reader in the crowd. “I know, but Lik said they were treating Jock for not being able to jump.  She said he has to carry a 12-volt car battery with him with wires connected to his ears.”

“Oh, big deal,” Steve roared back.  “What’s a few more gadgets hooked up to Jock’s head?”

“Steve, he is carrying a 12-volt car battery around with him. What if his jump shock meter goes off every few minutes like Lik said it is supposed to? I am sure Jock knows how to jump.”

“Forget it Jacquie.  We have more important things to concern ourselves. Lik assured me she disconnected the wires.”

“Like the wires she disconnected in Romania last year when we were tasked to see how many Romanian tanks they had for their surprise ‘October Military Exercise?’  I still cannot hear properly.”

63

“So, we found out Lik was colorblind,” Steve shouted. “All those different colored wires.  Any way she insisted we all stand behind Jock… even her. Jock and his imagined nanny took the brunt of the explosion.”

“Steve,” Jacquie said in that stiletto blade tone close-up and personal. “That nanny was not imagined. If I knew then that idiot with Jock and Lik was a Romanian General in charge of the whole Romanian army’s ‘October Surprise’ was a spy disguised as a nanny, I would have… I mean I really would have Savate kicked that nitwit…   Why do I put up with you?”

I can’t look for a couch now.” Steve mumbled in a low growl, “Psychoanalyze yourself later.”

Just at that moment the Pederin British band drummer, Rio went maniac. Began to make horrible faces and plunge his drumsticks into his ears while waving out his tongue Semi Flore style

64

sending expletives to the crowd and all the ships at sea.

Carried off the four-foot-high stage, drums and all, by the rest of the Pederin band Boris, Natasherine and Lord Bloat into an always waiting Pederin ‘Fou’ van. (Under International law a Fou Van was required to follow the Pederin’s anyplace they are allowed to perform without strait jackets.)

The chaotic Apache dancers following the Pederin band to the front door flinging their dance partners left and right in some sort of bizarre, demented Conga line.

The crowd Congaed back as soon as the great rock & roller Johnny Halliday started singing accompanied by the one and only immortal singin’ screamer ‘Screamin’ Jay Hawkin’s’ as the Mayhem grew.

Jacquie and Steve tried to fit in with the local inhabitants and the beer and wine flowed with the help of overweight, red-nosed waiters and big

65

boned angry waitresses always smiling… the problem was…

Even with Jacquie’s French ‘Les Halles’ type work clothes and the possibility she works in the slingin’ sides of beef on hooks sections of ‘Les Halles’ she couldn’t tone down her drop dead beautiful ‘girl-next-door’ good looks.

Steve, on the other hand looks like he caught a slingin’ side of fast-moving beef with his head… when the baby spotlights were exactly right.

“Listen Steve, there is something I have to tell you about President De Gaulle that only his closest confidants may know. Perhaps he does not know himself. He is—”

“Look Jacquie, if it’s about that idiot punch drunk boxer assassin that you think is on De Gaulle’s personal security team… don’t worry about it. You point the personal security team out to me, and I’ll unmask the miscreant in less than a minute for you.  If there is one?”

66

“Oh, shut up flounder brain.  Besides being a great President of France De Gaulle is a multifaceted genius at—”

“Excuse me, Jacquie. You’re so jealous at my winning first prize on that ‘Pays to be Ignorant’ radio program it’s fogging your focus. Plus, this case is open and shut for me. “

“Open and shut? That is because you are an idiot Steve,” Jacquie shouted with sparkling eyes and a disarming smile. “A one hundred percent blooming idiot.”

“Well, it’s about time you recognize my talent,” Steve, started to look for a mirror. But keep your Kudos for me down.  We’re on a covert mission.

A big boned cigarette girl passed by asking if anyone wanted cigarettes, cigars, mirrors, or fuel for smoke signals, (Very popular as an added

67

entertainment booster at Alma Frump’s Dump during the gayety days of the early sixties in Paris. All Intellectuals and ‘IN’ crowed people wanted to send smoke signals from their tables to be noticed by others. Thus, so many unexplained fires were the ‘important people’ hang out.}

No one could really hear the big boned cigarette girl in the bedlam.

Jacquie sighed one of those patented sighs that people sigh when they must deal with Steve.

“There is so much freaken smoke in this ‘Dump’ I cannot see—”

“Crapola? Ah yes De Gaulle,” Steve said thoughtfully.  “Jock and Lik are not only going to confirm the exact time and place—”

“We already know the place,” Jacquie hurled a word-Javelin into Steve’s ear as the now Moulin Rouge Dance Music assaulted the jam-packed fast

68

moving mob gyrating around the well rutted wooden/saw dusted floor.

“And the Spetznaz Russian soldiers disguised as…” Steve was interrupted.

“Disguised as what?”  Jacquie asked as a fight broke out around their booth. The fight was swiftly swallowed up in a surging pandemonium of screaming French twirling Cancan dancing patrons and the combatants were kicked into Cancan unconsciousness or worse.

“Cardboard cutouts? Or cut-outs?” Jacquie laughed as she and Steve threw off, the last dancers from the fisticuffs that had landed on their table, hurling them back into the swirling mass of stampeding, dancing patrons. The last fisticuffers pleas for mercy and help were extinguished upon vanishing into the swift flowing merciless romping, vortex causing crowd.

69

“Was Jock speaking of actual paper and cardboard cutouts, or real intelligence people cut-outs?” Jacquie demanded to know in a tight lip, spitting fire tone.

“Does it really matter?” Steve growled that low warning growl that only beautiful woman and jungle night prowling dangerous beasts can hear. “When it comes down to it, I believe they’re both the same thing.”

Jacquie, shaking her head in the negative, while looking at her white noise watch and covering her lips with a tissue answered, “After all this time as a Cloakroom agent maybe you are right Steve? There may be no difference between ‘Cut-outs’ and regular cardboard cutouts.

I mean Jock is the only person I have ever met that is ‘perhaps’ more stupid than you. As you always say, ‘Let it play out and see.’ “

“There, see,” Steve growled what seemed as it could be an almost happy deadly growl that even

70

frightened ‘the Dump’s noise.’ “You feel better already.”

“I said ‘perhaps,” Jacquie, flipped her word in angry French.

“A little louder,” Steve growled, I still don’t think they can hear us at the Kremlin yet.”

“No one is going to hear us with all this noise. Besides, we have our white noise watches on.  I am more concerned about Lip Readers.”

“Lid beaters,” Steve challenged.  “What in the name of ‘Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’ are you talking about? Lid beaters?”

“I said Lip Readers you… I am paying for the time in the field in Northern Finland when you were doing your morning briefing with those Finnish troops before we were to cross into the Soviet Union trying to locate that Russian defector and I

71

forgot to yell ‘Incoming.’  Those Ruskie artillery shells are really loud.”

“What?”  Steve yelled.

“And who is this ’Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’?” Jacquie demanded to know.  “I don’t remember a Princes with that—”

“Who?” Steve asked. “And who are these Lid beaters?

Jacquie slipped a small, dainty Derringer out from under her sleeve and fired at Steve just as Jock and his little group clambered in the smokey Café door.  At the same instant one of the Apache dancing patrons, who was living in the past not able to change into Moulin Rouge Cancan steps fast enough, was thrown into Steve and Jacquie’s booth with Tornado F-5 wind force.

###

72

DEBRIEF 4

15 August 1962

Wednesday.  Almost Midnight.

Café Les Jardin de Poubelle.  Alias ‘Ama Frump’s Dump.’

Les Halles, Paris.

“Hoot mon, am I still bleeding?” Jock asked as his head size stated to return to normal. “Who fired that shot and where did it come from?”

Just then there was a call to prayers wailing somewhere in the distance.

Jock and Lik were dressed normally in their black motorcycle jackets with ‘Lards of Flatbush’ written in ‘Brooklynese’ on the back in phosphorus and, of course, misspelled. Lik, wore her red shawl under her Motorcycle jacket.  And their ensembles

73

finished off their signature red woolen sweats and sneakers.

Major’s Short Step and Major Creature who was wearing a paper bag over his head for some reason, were attired in Soviet grey military jackets and grey Soviet military pants with long red stripes on the outside of each pant leg running into their black, spit shined cowboy boots.

Both wearing high, brown Russian thick fur winter hats that someone tried to stomp down to look like French berets. Major Creature looked particularly out of place as his stomped down Beaver fur beret highlighted the paper bag, he was partially wearing over his head.

With the help of ‘The’ 7/10th of a ton Alma Frump herself and her ‘Ally-Oop’ sized club, clubbed their way to their reserved table right behind Steve and Jacquie.

74

It took a few moments to dislodge the Philonian patrons who were sitting at the reserved table… but after a few seconds of Lik swinging her Golumpi and Alma beating them to a pulp the intruders lay on the Café floor. All that was left on the table was a blood or red wine trail and a half-finished bottle of Beaujolais until some Big Boned waitresses dragged the limp bodies away into an open but clogged sewer almost outside the Café.

Alma Frump bellowed to no one particular. She had an explosive urge to paint a midnight seascape, but she couldn’t find the right color as she charged into the back room of her establishment following her big boned blockers who forcibly led the way.

“No, my brave hero. The bleeding has stopped. The spent shell only grazed your beautiful vacant bean and damaged the little power box on your elastic kamikaze band wrapped around your

75

noggin. The bullet must have ricocheted off something--”

Lik was interrupted as a patron was carried out on a stretcher nursing a Deringer belt buckle wound.

“This is one hell of a tough place,” Jock cried out in his usual high operettic voice causing ear damage within a one-meter zone of pain.

Just at that moment an alarm went off in the car battery Jock was carrying jolting him a few inches off the ground and causing, what looked like, chard hair fuzz to appear on his bald head.

###

DEBRIEF 5

16 August Thursday, 1962.

A little after midnight

PARIS, FRANCE

LES HALLES

76

Café Jardin de Poubelle. Alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’

“Ah here we are,” Jock announced in his high-pitched squeak as he an Lik slid into their side of the booth.  Major Miroslave ‘Short Step’ Elias, who needed to sit on a Paris Phone book, slipped into the booth seat right behind Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Stanchovsky.

“Someone bring me a Citronade you bourgeois swine bar keeps, Major ‘Short Step,’ demanded in British English. “Remember, my name is Lucy Dead. I am a filthy American big-time swine gambler-tourist from the state of Oyeoh.”

“Me too,” Major Frantisek Stanchovsky echoed in a South Moscow Russian accent.  My name is Lucy Dead.  I am a big riverboat gambler from Oyeoh.  My friends, if I had any, would call me

‘Madmick’—”

77

“Whaaa?”  Lik challenged, “You both cannot be in disguise as the same person.  And what the hell is a Madmik? For that matter where the hell is Oyeoh?” Lik, nervously started to cradle her Golompi under her red shawl.

“The idiots mean ‘Mavrick’ from an old western TV show from 1959.”  A voice came from Miroslave ‘Short Step” Elias’s winter Russian fur hat, the one that was stomped down into what was supposed to look like a French beret.

“Who said that?” Major Shot Step yelled.

“You did you moron,” the voice sounded off again.

“I did?”  Major Short Step interrogated himself unsuccessfully.  “I did?”

“Yes, I did,” The voice came again this time from Major Short Step himself.

“Okay, If I said so I guess I did,” Major Short Step announced as he agreed with himself guzzling a sip

78

of his Citron-aide a Jolly, red nosed, medically obese garcon just brought him. Then yelling in Russian, ‘Russians Go Home.’ “

Lik, just sat there observing as her double-jointed lips began to toss and turn into the most tightened complicated kaleidoscopic designs.

“You said you are from Oyeoh?” Lik’s dry ice crunching words that had a strange sounding rattle to them like a sound you might hear from a frozen rattlesnake just before it delivered an almost thawed strike.  “Do you mean Ohio?  And Lucy is a women’s name.  A name that that displeases me…

Ah So, you are not sure you are related to Misses Rutherford B. Hayes by any draw of the cards?”

Upon hearing the code words ‘Ah so’ and two threatening claps that were meant for the Russian Majors from Lik, Jock began marching in place looking around for a passing parade to protest in.

79

‘Who?”  Both Major Short Step and Major Creature spoke at the same time. I thought Lucy is a name winning gamblers use on your American swine river boats that sail up and down Misses Sippie.

“Major Short Step and Major Creature both looking at each other and shaking their heads. Then because they said the same thing at the same time they both said an ole Russian saying.  “What goes up the Chimney?” Before they could answer the question Lik not only twisted her lips but also her eyes into an almost perfect square knot. (Oh, some will argue it was more like a sheepshank knot} Twisting her lips and eyes seperately like an assassin would twist their blade between the third and fourth rib of a target.

“Do you mean ‘Lucky’ by any chance,” Steve, using his ventriloquist voice again asked.

Jock demanded to know with a follow up question also ‘if you hombres have any spare stilts on you?”

80

“Now how would we know that”” Major Creature asked sternly.

“Nonsense,” Lik said in that cold sound dry ice makes when one slaps a slab on one’s head for fun.

Lik, crying repeat volumes of the ‘Hokey Pokey in reverse. I suspected you were her when you ordered a Citronade. That is French for Lemonade. You are her. Rutherford B. Hayes wife that only drinks lemonade in your temperance movement. And not only that you are from ‘Oyeoh’… I mean Ohio where she is from.

As Lik attacked Major Short Step unmercifully, but with a seeming elegance, with half a bottle of Beaujolais, Jock began to rant as his head trembled and swelled with an orange bluish tint and a teal glow.

“Wait,” Jock cried out, “I am not an American.  I am Japanese. No…vial Bavarian lederhosen accordion players are filling my head. Great

81

Angolan War Lord Agostino Neto is beating a War kettle drum all wearing empty shoe boxes sizes four and a half to 18 triple E…”

In the excitement Jock… well the circumference of his head seemed to expand exponentially as his head turned the color of teal—

‘Wait,’ came another garbled war cry from Alma Frump’s office as she looked out her upstairs office window overseeing the mayhem. Seeing Jock’s swelling head and a teal-ish orange glow.  That color.  That is the color I need for my seascape  midnight painting.  Bring that color to me.” Alma, instead of opening her office door smashed through it. Like a bull elephant in rut. Alma and her big boned waitresses followed by a number of her Jolly; medically obese, red nosed waiters charged toward the teal-ish color sending patrons flying in all directions.  It was ghastly.  Like a human tidal wave of flesh heading toward Jock.

82

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered closeup and personal. I just remembered that Major Creature carries around with him vials of acid and magnesium, jellied fire starter when they are mixed.  He does a somersault in here it’s all over.”

Then it’s your job to keep him upright in here,” Steve growled back close, and I must say, under the situation, very professional.

“Idiot,” was Jacquie’s retort.  “Wait,” Jacquie screamed to be heard now.  Pretending to dab her lips with a hankie in case any of those roving gangs of ‘Lip Readers’ were about.  “OAS men coming towards Jock’s and Lik’s table right behind us.”

“That’s Georges Walrus,” Steve said, quietly almost without moving his lips but Jacquie read his mouth.

“Alias ‘The Pygmy Hippo.’ Steve growled in a low warning.

83

“You mean Georges Watda… I thought Watda was another alias for the ‘The Jackal’ or ‘the Jackass or something like that?” Jacquie mouthed her question in a way any errant Lip Reader could not read her lips.  “Steve, we are going to have to break this up.”

“No.  Maybe Walrus and his OAS boys will—”

Before Steve could finish Alma Frump and her tsunami of big boned waitresses and medically obese, jolly, red nosed waiters smashed into Jock and Lik’s booth after Jock’s Teal colored enormous ninja head.  Destroying several booths, liquor, splintering wood, sawdust flying and blasting patrons far, far away into other unexplored recesses of the Café.

As Jock’s circumference of his glowing head expanded exponentially so rapidly breaking the kamikaze type of elastic strap launching Jock’s, Deringer bullet-injured recorder/projector power box at incomparable speed causing those who

84

were still able to put their hands over their ears to repel the sound of buzzing jets noise turning after burners on as they roared away. Some patrons, big boned waitresses and not so jolly, medically obese red nose waiters being swept away in the vacuum the noise caused, perhaps, never to be found again. Other dazed patrons seem to speed float in half size shoe boxes and disappear in little flashes. Only to return moments later as unconscious lederhosen Bavarian accordion players. Magnesium and acid mixed as flames exploded out of some idiot’s pocket. Then partial ceiling collapse.

###

85

DEBRIEF 6

17 AUGUST, FRIDAY 7:00 HOURS

CAFÉ PETIT FOU, ACROSS THE STREET FROM

PETITE-SALPETRIERE HOSPITAL, NEAR THE MAZARIN ENTRANCE. THE OLD CHARENTON ASYLUM FOR THE CTIMIMALLY INSANE (LUNATIC SECTION PARKING ONLY.)   RUE de la BOURRASQUES de (SQUALLS.)

“Steve,” Jacquie asked, after just getting their hearing back somewhat, nursing several bruises. “What in the name of Angles and Saints just happened last night?  I could have sworn there were no accordion players in Alma Frump’s Dump last night when we entered.”

The waitress interrupted bringing two chocolate chauds and two croissants to their window table.

“Then that strange eardrum stinging noise like a squadron of jet aircraft blasting off,” Jacquie continued in that soft killer French accent.

86

“Bavarian accordion players. The place was filled with bizarre looking shoe boxes… half sizes shoe boxes floating around.  Jock’s head turning that ghastly teal orange—”

Steve, squinting his eyes, still not sure where he was. “Huh? Jet after burners engaged full throttle, Accordion players disappearing and seconds later appearing.  It was like being inside Jock’s head. All I remember is seeing Jock’s excruciatingly tight kamikaze head band snapping launching at warp speed his recorder/projector into the deep, dark recesses of Alma Frump’s Dump.”

“My head hurts and we’re all covered with soot and sawdust and whatever this sticky stuff is… Steve you sure you do not have any leaking head wounds?

That is it Steve,” Jacquie shouted, hurting their ears. “Your nose and right ear are bleeding.”

87

“I’m sorry,” Steve growled.  “I just had a building collapse on me.”

“Steve, you are such a wimp. It was only a ceiling that fell on us… and everyone else in ‘The Dump.’  You do not hear anyone else complaining.”

“That’s because I can’t hear didley. And most of them were unconscious or taken to the hospital across the street.”

“Look, Chowder Head… what you said before, ‘It was like being in Jock’s head.’ What if that box being pressed against his head by the kamikaze elastic band was smashed into smithereens when the kamikaze elastic snapped, and the box flew off into the great unknown of Alma’s Dump—”

“And there really was some antimatter

released— No one really knows what effect a small amount of diluted antimatter would have when it is released into matter… other than destroying the universe.  I think.”

88

“No—” Steve started to say as Jacquie felt one of Steve’s soliloquies coming beginning on a subject that he knows nothing about.

This time Jacquie cut Steve off. “Causing those bizarre happenings. No wonder the maniacs at Edgewood Arsenal wanted Jock to test the contraption wrapped around his head at White Sands Proving Grounds. They were not worried about a nuclear explosion, but they were concerned that what was in Jock’s brain might escape. The stupid things he is always thinking about would be worse to civilization as we know it than any nuclear explosion.”

“Well Jacquie, I don’t think half size shoe boxes and mad Bavarian accordion players in lederhosen could actually destroy anything… except possibly the minds off all earthlings?”

“Tell that to the people still missing at Alma Frump’s Dump and the patrons that vanished in flashes of light. Like an invasion of human

89

‘Lighting’ bugs.  And how do people reappear before they vanish in flashes of light?”

“You mean ‘Lightening’ bugs,” Steve groaned in pain rubbing his head and dust from his eyes. “In Brooklyn we say ‘Lightening’ bugs.”

“Who cares what they say in Brooklyn,” Jacquie shrugged off Steve’s correction.  “We do not have Lighting bugs in France anyway.”

“Ahh,” Steve throws his right hand up. Well, you did a great job keeping that KGB idiot Major Creature upright so he wouldn’t explode with those magnesium and acid vials he carries.  I don’t think there were any major fires.  No pun intended—”

“I did not do anything to keep Major Creature upright.  I was under that freaking, splintered- ceiling with you and everyone else.  But you know what was strange now that you remind me… I

90

thought I saw Alma and her crew charge toward us just before Jock’s elastic kamikaze band snapped sending it, as you said, ‘to the far reaches to previous unknown parts of the Café Poubelle, then everything… everything blew up. But why was Alma Frump and her obese waiters and big boned waitresses attacking--“

“A question hopefully never to be answered,” Steve growled taking a sip of his chocolate chaud. Jock has the ability to bring out the ‘killer’ instinct in a saint.”

“I wonder where Jock and Lik are now.  I hope they made it out of the debris field,” Jacquie said almost thoughtfully as she blew whipped cream off her cinnamon stirrer stick.  “Oh well, if they made it out, they are probably lurking in some shadows on Rue Morgue waiting for their next victims.”

“What I could get out of one of the ambulance drivers and a couple of the firemen—”

91

“Firepersons,” Jacquie interrupted.

“Huh?” Steve growled weakly rubbing his head injuries.

“Nothing,” Jacquie coughed.

“Anyway,” Steve continued, his growl coming back. “They’re taking all victims back to the mental hospital across the street for a triage or something? Then police and scientist questioning.”

“Ah, yes the lunatic asylum,” Jacquie said softly looking out across the Rue at the Mental Hospital from the table they were sitting at through a large picture window of the coffee shoppe. “How apropos.”

“Yeah, whatever?” Steve said finishing his Chocolate chaud. “I still feel a little dizzy. But I know Major ‘Short Step’ was taken here. They’re keeping him until he regains consciousness.”

“Those were some pretty heavy duty blows Lik gave him.” Jacquie mumbled with her napkin held

92

close to her mouth in case there were some Lip Reader survivors from Alma Frump’s Dump about.

“I’m not sure what happened to that other idiot Major Creature,” Steve growled following Jacquie’s lead as he held a napkin up to his mouth.  Then realizing what he was doing roared, tossed the napkin with prejudice, “What the hell am I doing.  Don’t start that Lid Beater double talk again.”

“How stupid can you be?” Jacquie slashed.  “No,” her words were scorched as she raised her hands. “Do not tell me.  I know you haven’t reached your full potential.”

Steve, ignoring Jacquie’s tribute to him went on. “The last time I saw a smoking Major Creature as they were trying to pull him out of the ruble next to me… the emergency Recue Doc was posturizing, ‘Whatever hit this poor soul in the head had to be traveling so fast it went through his head cauterizing skin, skull and every vital organ causing no concern-able damage… I guess he was lucky he

93

was wearing a stomped down Beaver on his head covered a bit with a slow burning paper bag over his head.”

“Jacquie just looked at Steve with an unbelieve stare and said, “Now I believe you reached your full potential.”

“Thanks Jacquie but this is no time for giving me kudos.”

This time it is believed it was Jacquie that growled in unbelievable frustration.

“Listen Steve, we have to get back to Chatellerault to washup and change our clothes. It only takes a couple of hours by train.”

“Regarde Jacquie,” Steve, still a bit unsteady on his feet, growled.  “Over there by the hospital barb wired fence and the criminally insane warning signs, ‘LUNATICS MAY BE LURKING ABOUT.’  That very tall guy with the strange gait, bandaged head

94

lurking in the morning shadows.  He’s sneaking off down the street. Do you think that’s the Soviet KGB Major Creature Strachovsky?”

“Of course, it is,” Jacquie’s sarcastic reply ricocheted off the windowpane they were peering through. “Who else could it be? What else walks and runs like that aside from the Jackal? Stiff legged, unable to bend his knees, or arms at the elbow.  Now he is running like that.  After him Steve.”

“Why?” Steve asked.

“I have to get back to Rue de la Croix Rouge to change my clothes—” Jacquie’s explanation was interrupted.

Unfortunately, a rock with paper around it thrown through the window hit Steve on the head as he tried to steady his feet, for the pursuit, rendering him unconscious.

###

95

DEBRIEF PART 7

18 AUGUST, SATURDAY 1962

AFTERNOON

ATLANTIC OCEANSIDE SEA RESORT

ROYAN, FRANCE.

HOTEL AU REGAL, 15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE BRIAND, ROYAN 17

TEL 05. 06. 07.                        

After a stop at Onze Rue de la Croix Rouge in Chatellerault for a change of clothes, nuclear powered showers Jacquie put together on the spot and an unexpected stop at the ‘Bittersweet Private Hospital for Dramatic and Traumatic Nuggie Injury and for Individuals Unable to Jump’ located in Dange, France; the specialists there agreed Steve would eventually remember who he was.  But

96

there would be short lapses as Steve slips into other identities until the swelling goes down.

On the way to Royan Jacquie had to suffer Steve remembering he was La Mont Cranston alias the ‘Shadow.’  Charles De Gaulle and ‘The Norman Looboff Choir.

Jacquie and Steve finally made their way to a small, charming hotel a bit off the Atlantic Ocean coastal beach resort of Royan, France. Jacquie was about to Savate kick Steve in the head to try and get him to get his memory back with Savate encouragement.

“What is this note you keep talking about?” Steve Mumbled.  “Dud I read it?

“Of course. You read it when you regained consciousness. Lucky the Lunatic hospital was across the street so they could help you tout suite.”

97

“Yeah, lucky me. I was seeing double.  I couldn’t make out the scribbling.  Wait till I get my hands on those two morons,” Steve rubbed the left side of his goose-egg head as he groaned.  If they were outside the Café we were in, why didn’t they just come in and hand us the note or just tell us?”

“I do not know Steve.  They are your contacts.  Listen Steve while you are still yourself…”

“Huh?  Wait a minute. This note is for someone named Steve.  My name is… don’t tell me.”

The men in white jackets and carrying butterfly nets. chasing Major ‘Creature seem to know you Steve—”

“Chasing Major ‘Creature.’ Did they get him?”

“No, I do not think so,” Jacquie said softly.  “There was so much excitement and confusion when you got knocked out.  I had to focus on you.  I did not know you could yodel when unconscious… or, conscious for that matter.”

98

“Yodel? What are you blabin’ about? Anyway, I have a lot of contacts.”

“You know, now that I think about it, I never met one of your contacts that wasn’t weird.”

“So, what,” Steve replied not realizing he was answering her in slang Swahili.” “Do you think any normal person would be in the kind of work we do?”

“No, I suppose not,” Jacquie answered Steve back in a nonchalant Swahili. “But you have so many contacts in zoos around the world. I mean not only people but all kinds of animals.”

“A contact is a contact,” Steve growled still in slang Swahili.”

“I suppose,” Jacquie said, in a far way scientific tone speaking a more formal Swahili as she inspected Steve’s head for leakage. “Hmmm, Steve have you been in a more recent contact with

99

‘more’ sawdust… I mean after the Frump’s Dump?”

DEBRIEF 8

18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962

EVENING

HOTEL AU REGAL

15 RUE PIERRE – LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE

BRIAND, 17

SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR

TEL. 05. 06. 07.

“It was a dark, windy almost moonless night. The Merengue dancing tree branches made spooky sounds on the deserted streets below urged on by a low-pressure grid tumbling its way off the Atlantic Ocean as electric lights flicked.

100

In suite 12, Jacquie and Steve sat around a large oval table. A giant iron extremely hot pot of Bouillabaisse was simmering on the stove. There were several lighted candles from birthday size to Opera candle size that helped the large room to reek with moving shadows from the breeze entering through the open terrace.

Steve frowned at the aroma of the fish stew, or whatever type of Sea Monsters bubbling away, and the attacking scent being tossed about by the breezy jabs and uppercuts of the percolating stew. Jacquie and Steve are discussing their next move, through the fog of Bouillabaisse horror, as they waited for Jock and Lik to show up.

“I made this Bouillabaisse for its nutritional value in restoring your mind to normal stupidity from being beaned on your head with that rock they threw through the Café window.”

102

“I’m going to kill those two before this mission is over.

Now that I’m all better tell me why you insisted on making that foul fish stew,” Steve sneered a growl which is difficult to do for most humans.

“I just told… Never mind,” Jacquie sneered back in that most charming and patient French accent that sounded as if she was ordering a firing squad to open fire.

“All these buildings in Royan look fairly new even in the growing darkness,” Steve said moseying over to the terrace balcony and pushing the blackout curtains all the way aside as he gasped for more air.

“That’s because Royan was bombed by the Allies during the war by mistake. Then rebuilt after the war.

Steve, did you notice the headline on the newspaper?”

103

“I notice everything,” Steve said in a low menacing tone as he leaned out over the balcony railing. “What headlines?  For that matter, what paper?”

“Steve do not lean out that far.  “We are four floors up.  ‘STILL NO EXPLANATION WHY TIME SEEMED TO STAND STILL FOR 7 SECONDS LAST NIGHT AROUND LES HALLES IN PARIS!’

And get this… The paper reports… ‘the epicenter was at Les Halles. People seemed to vanish but returned before they disappeared. Many victims report seeing the Café Poubelle, locally known as Alma Frump’s Dump was being flooded by nightmarish Bavarian accordion players in Lederhosen. Also, victims state the, what is now known locally as ‘BAP’ (Bavarian Accordion Players) disappearing before they appeared.’   Steve, how can that be?”

“Who cares. Journalistic sensationalism,” Steve growled as his voice seemed to fade away.

104

Then Jacquie heard a terrible scream like a Tarzan call when he swings through the jungle in one of his movies.

‘Steve, what did you say,” Jacquie asked in deadly charming French as she looked up from the newspaper.  “Steve, Steve… Where are you now?”

###

DEBRIEF 9

18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962

21:45 HOURS

HOTEL AU REGAL

15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE

BRIAND 17,

SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR

TEL. 05. 06. 07.

105

“I tell you Jacquie I’m not hurt,” Steve mumbled bitterly. “You forget I’m Lord Greystone or is it Lord Stovepipe? Ah, just call me Tarzan.”

“You fell off the Balcony. Four floors.”

“Nonsense. I leaped. A mere pittance for the Lord of the Jungle,” Steve roared as he sat down on a portable davenport next to the huge table. Jacquie had been reading the newspaper by candlelight.  “Besides the trees broke my fall.”

“You could have been killed… leaving me to explain what happened.  You know what would have happened then. Both the French and American governments would have left me out in the cold.  And I would have been put in… How do you call it?  A Bobbie Hatch.”

“You know Jacquie, for some uncanny reason this reminds me when I fell off the roof of Adverk Castle in Scotland.”

“Idiot.”

106

“Wait a minute,” Steve ordered. “I remember. I was looking over the balcony and saw a cat burglar climb out a window across the Boulevard and shadow lurk towards the hotel carrying a mouth full of Sterling silver.”

“Sounds like those trees did not break your fall enough Lord Stovepipe,” Jacquie spoke in a tone of wisdom.”

“Lord who?  Are you okay Jacquie? You sure you weren’t the one who fell off the balcony?”

“Look moron, how do you know he was a cat burglar?”

“I recall he was dressed like a cat?”

“You truly are ‘The’ professional idiot. And do not tell me to save my Kudos or ‘Who cares,’ “Jacquie went back to charting an algorithm of Jock’s thinking progress on the newspaper she had been reading.

107

“Now what are you doing,” Steve growled in an exceptionally low voice.”

“More precisely that recorder projector on Jocks head those torturers at Edgewood Arsenal screwed around with. According to the newspaper ‘went through some previously unknown barrier of light or time.’

“Look Jacquie, when Jock’s head expanded exponentially… well mix that with antimatter in your algorithm you come up with… I don’t know.  Stupidity, or disaster like we just experienced.

“Steve, there is something still missing.”

“Did you include Lik’s left ear in your algorithm?  And what the hell is an ‘algorithm’ anyway?  Where did the cat burglar go?” Steve challenged himself.”

“Still there is something missing about Jock’s thinking process. I cannot get it to fit any algorithm,” Jacquie said in a thoughtful French.

108

“I’ve always theorized there are speeds faster than light in our universe… even faster than warped-mind speed. And we might even be dealing with ‘Time Inversion.’ Jock’s brain after being bombarded with antimatter may hold the key.  I wonder if his head is still intact?”

“Never was,” Steve mumbled as he got up and searched the street below.

“Stop hanging over the balcony Steve and sit back down.  It may account for the inmates of Café Poubelle returning before they disappeared. Quick Steve, I need more paper for the algorithm formula I am developing.”

“Yeah, right Jacquie,” Steve growled as he gave her a raised eyebrow and eyeroll.

Then there was a knock at the door. Four rapid heavy knocks that meant nothing to anyone.

Moments later Jacquie, Steve, Jock, Lik and someone none of them knew were all sitting

109

around the large teak wood table discussing how sorry they were for knocking Steve unconscious with a secret message tied to a rock back at the Petit Fou in Paris.”

“Rock,” Steve roared. “It was a boulder. Morons.  You wiped out the whole Petit Fou place.”

“Let us not exaggerate Steve,” Jacquie smirked in French. “Little damage was done to your head.”

“Baloney.  And who is this Steve you all are yappin’ about?”

“Except for that,” Jacquie smiled as she shrugged her shoulders. “I think he is Lord Stovepipe ‘King of the Jungle.’ “

“Who?” Lik asked in a breaking icy tone.

Jacquie shook her head in the negative. “Forget it. It is of no import.”

110

“Anyway,” Jock said angrily in a high pitch tone while blowing smoke from three cigarettes, we have to wait until next year when the folks at Edgewood Arsenal fit me for a new hologram projector recorder with updated antimatter and a better mini secure capture holder so I can record a year in the life of my wife’s left ear.”

“Yes,” Lik said, as if again two icebergs were rubbing against each other as they passed each other somewhere in the North Atlantic.  “The boys at Edgewood Arsenal building 355, you know the criminally insane division are going to have Jock surgically self-implant it between his eyes himself so when he gets angry, or cannot understand what is going on around him and his head expands, we won’t have to concern ourselves with any kamikaze rubber-elastic bands breaking and interfering with any of those stupid space-time continuums.”

111

LIk, sitting back in her chair in a relax mode, whipped her Golompi out and flung it up into the ceiling. As they were on the top floor it did penetrate the roof. There seemed to come a yelp from the roof.

Lik continued as Jock’s all-weather fruit flies finally caught up with him and could be heard swarming outside the door or perhaps it was the small neon sign advertising the hotel although I think not.

“All that would happen then would be the projector/recorder sending holograms of what is in my Jock’s head to the ionosphere as recordings of the old American 1950 Cisco Kid TV shows back to Earth did or who knows where.  Did anyone see what I did with my Golompi when I came in?”

“In the ceiling Lik,” Jock said casually in a high-pitched scream that caused everyone slap their hands over their ears. “Is that boiling bouillabaisse I hear?” Jock asked as smoke engulfed his head from new cigarettes, he recently lighted.

112

“For dinner,” Jacquie answered softly in French.  I know you all must be hungry.”

Steve seemed to gag a bit.

“Be a big boy Steve,” Jacquie said softly in kind of Pau village French. “I could have made Andouillette.”

“That reminds me of the old Bouillabaisse song, which is the official theme song of Neptune,” Lik said in a matter-of-fact icy way as she catapulted onto the table then leaping high into the air retrieved her Golompi and some pieces of ceiling and roof tar with perhaps a schemer of Epsom Salts on the tip along with some human gluteus maximus flesh and a blood spat?”

“Please Lik, no more.” Steve’s voice sounded like one of the menacing low jungle noises one hears at night but can’t detect where it’s coming from.  “Even I can’t stand it. Now please report on what you two found out about REDCOM and what the Soviets are up to… if it’s not too late already.  At

113

least before I seek my revenge for conking me with that stone you threw through that Café window outside the hospital in Paris.”

“Hey, I would like to have one of those things implanted between my eyes.” The masked, around his eye’s only, man, partially dressed to look like a grey cat, demanded in a kind of disturbing meowing tone.  Smoking an American Raleigh cigarette stuck to his upper lip. His face carried a strange Joe E. Brown bazoo. A piece or two of miniature silverware on the side of his mouth dangled before he whipped them to the other side without disturbing his Raleigh.

“Who is this?” Jacquie demanded to know from Jock and Lik.

“Have not the foggiest,” Jock said in another high- pitch scream.

“Nor have I,” Lik’s icy tone caused everyone to chill. “We thought this thing was with you. Said he

114

was the hotel’s official greeter… Or was it the official stealer?”

“By any chance are you ladies proposing to me?” the stranger purred?  Then he mumbled something incoherently in a whisper as his head shifted quickly left to right his bazoo dropping a miniature sterling silver dessert spoon.  He interrogated. “But why quibble about dessert?”

“Who cares who he is,” Steve growled low and menacing. “Can we get on with this.”

“I shall make arrangements for a small but elegant double wedding. I am known to the French authorities as –”

“Can you make a souffle Japanese style… you know, without cheese or eggs?” Jock screamed in a tone that was unusually high even for him.

“I am not zee cook you fools.  I am Monsieur Le    ‘Couchon Cnout’ alias ‘The Home Book of Verse’ also known as the ‘World’s Greatest Criminologist.’

115

But I demand to know again, why quibble about this dessert. You may call me by my other alias… ‘The Home Book of Verse.’

“Now, I recommend you people stop talking about whatever you idiots are babbling about, order me one of those things you put between your eyes and allow me to recite the poet Robert Owens starting in the middle years and then spreading out in both directions at once. I will give you all comprehensive tests when we finish in two or three wee—”

That’s all he would say as Jacquie smashed his head into the table with a high Savate kick from behind knocking him out. Then shoving a lighted king-size cigarette in his bazoo to replace the Raleigh that was crushed. Pulling his chair and body to a bay window overlooking the dark rainy Blossac so he took on the position of an alert but unconscious Centennial. “

116

“We are Wasting time,” Steve growled. “Throw him over.”

“Not to worry Steve,” Lik crackled.  “I Know him. He is The Russian.… Known by his other aliases as the ‘Pygmy Hippo…’ and the ‘Pretend Jackal’

In the back streets of Downtown Moscow. You know by Boris’s---"

“I thought he was alias ‘The Schnauzer” Jock pussyfooted his question in a high fingernail across the blackboard society-snobby manner.

“Who cares?” Steve growled a warning growl that vibrated through everyone. “I don’t know what the hell anyone is talking about.”

“Well anyway,” Lik continued in a voice that sounded like Eliza again crossing the ice but this time with fairy wings. “Whoever the idiot is, or who he reports to… they will make their move, that is, Project REDCOM begins on the 22nd of August starting at Les Halles in mid-morning and

  117

culminating, with the assassination of De Gaulle, near, Petit Clarmart--.”

“August already past,” Steve argued.  “I think It’s gonna be tough to prevent that.”

“Thank you, Steve, for sharing that bit of stupidity with us.”  Then Jacquie, turning to Jock and Lik said in a sweet French tone, “Obviously I Savateed the wrong persons head into the table.”

“I meant August 1961 passed last year little Miss know-it-all.”  Steve growled as his eyes followed something invisible crossing the ceiling. “I just momentarily forgot what month August is in.”

“Thank you again Steve for sharing your words of wisdom this time. And one cannot end a sentence with ‘is in.’ ” Jacquie purred with a smile “You know it is ‘you guys’ fault for hitting him on the

118

head with that rock-message back at the hospital in Paris.”

“Jacquie, how many times do I have to tell you to save your kudos for me until I figure out what’s going on,” Then turning to Jock and Lik whispers, trying to blow away Jock’s smoke and suicidal fruit flies that squeezed through the cracks of the door, and in a low muffled kind of growl, “She has me on this pedestal that no… no man could live up to.”

“Steve,” Lik iced her words, “You have come so close to a dangling participle—”

“And not only that added, “Jacquie added, “as soon as the Russians assassinate President De Gaulle they will make their move to take over West Berlin as the allies will be caught off guard unless we get moving.”

“The Allies are always caught off guard,” Jock said in his angry Japanese/Scottish accent. Grabbing another lit French cigarette from behind his right ear and shoved it in his mouth which made three

119

maybe four he was puffing on at the same time.  He still had two more lit ones behind his left ear.

“Knock off that accent,” Jacquie demanded. Her words carried the threat of an unpleasant death.

“Which one?” Jock angrily hit a high note as glass seemed to break someplace. He immediately took up the Gobi Pretzel self-defense position (A bit more sophisticated than the regular International Pretzel Self-Defense position) Jock’s head began to tremble and turn a dark shade of tealish pumpkin orange. Lik, quickly grabbed a small burning candle and shoved it in his mouth twixt the French cigarettes.  Jock seemed not to notice, or at least he calmed down.

“Do you have a confirmed day in August of this year when the assassination takes place?” Steve asked again.

120

“No,” Lik stated.   “That is aside from Wednesday

August 22nd and a name of Georges Watda the faux mastermind and also known as ‘The—”

“Stop,” Steve roared, sending shivers throughout all inmates of the hotel.  “No more freakin’ aliases.

I have a hard enough time trying to understand what the hell is going on and I’m the mission leader.  Let us just keep Georges Walrus the faux mastermind. Whatever the hell that is.”

“But Steve, “Jacquie corrected, her words smacking him across the knuckles. His last name is Watda not Walrus.  Georges Watda and he to claims to be ‘The Jackal as well as a ‘Pygmy Hippo.”

“What did I just say Jacquie. No aliases. Just stick with Walrus.  This is beginning to sound like a job for a zoo not a bunch of crack assassins.”

Jock began to spit hot wax and sticky pieces of tobacco out of his mouth. “I resent being called

121

‘cracked,’ ” Jock’s words were almost lost in the smoke and pain coming out of his bazoo.

“I said ‘crack,’ “ Steve shot back.

“Quiet Jock. Well Steve,” Lik’s words were again like some fairy tiptoeing across an icy birdbath. “Besides what I just told you the answer to your question is no.  We know nothing. We are ashamed.”

“Soooo,” Jacquie said in that soft killer French accent. “Aside from the date of Operation RedCom, the assassination of President De Gaulle which you said Wednesday August 22nd and a name Georges Watda, excuse me… Walrus for those of us not operating with a full deck. You don’t know when the assassination of President De Gaulle is going to take place and who is the faux mastermind behind the assassination?”

“We cannot know everything,” Jock sputtered in an operatic ear-piercing tone. “Who shoved a burning candle in my mouth when I was not

122

looking?” Jock tried to spit out his waxy fire. His high note opera question relaxed him, a bit, from his International Gobi self-defense Pretzel stance,

“Is there anything else you do not know?” Jacquie asked in a pleasing soft French accent.

“Quiet Jock,” Lik said, this time, in a cold cold tone. “All we know Jacquie, or… do not know is our contacts Miroslav Elias and his Russian KGB buddy, the moron that looks and walks like Frankenstein’s creature and a group of about 10 OAS (Secret Army Organization} members have a Russian Look-a-Like of Premier Pompidou who we believe is President De Gaulle himself. They will install the fake in President De Gaulle’s place once he is assassinated by the OAS people. Which will be installing the real De Gaulle in his own place, even though he was assassinated.”

“You see Steve,” Jacquie said softly, “the Russians do not know that De Gaulle already is his own double, and he is also Pompidou.”

123

“I don’t get it,” Steve said in a voice someone would use in reporting seeing a flying saucer in a chorus line, “If they assassinate De Gaulle, which we will prevent, why would they put Pompidou in De Gaulle’s place? I’m sure someone would notice. I mean if the fake imposter De Gaulle is, in actuality, the real De Gaulle morphing (quick-changing) into Pompidou the real assassinated De Gaulle… won’t someone the real De Gaulle is dead if Pompidou isn’t moving? Wait a mo.  Which one of you doofuses hit me on my head with a rock back in Paris?”

Jock jumped up, stood at attention almost dropping the three, maybe four, lighted cigarettes he had in his mouth. Bowed politely. Excused himself and ran screaming into the WC, followed by a swarm of suicidal fruit flies, stuck his head in the toilet bowl to put out the burning candle wax fire in his mouth now beginning to rage into flames of destruction.

124

“Excuse me,” Lik said, in a ho-hum manner “This has happened before… not being able to reach the flusher chain. In these hotels the flush chain is high above his head. He has congenital slow reflexes when this takes place.” As Lik sashayed toward the WC she slammed her machete into the wall where she was sure one of Rutherford B, Hayes Pinkerton men was hiding.

“Assassinated?” Steve questioned.  His tone verging on ‘Covert Agent’ radicalism rage.  “I mean whom is being assassinated? Pompidou or De Gaulle?”  

Jock, returning to the table as Lik dries his bald head with an electric hair dryer attached to an extendable cord, High Hatted the room as he was refreshed from being flushed on.

“But there is no Georges Pompidou you fool,” Jock screamed out in words of smoke and what sounded like ‘Hysterical High Latin.’

125

Lik, let the smoking hot electric hair dryer touch his head causing third degree burns.

Jock went on to painfully explain, “It is De Gaulle that plays both roles and now includes a third role of the Soviets fake De Gaulle.  Have you never noticed De Gaulle and Pompidou walk alike?  Talk alike, speak French, almost the same height.  Look exactly alike… except for that beauty mark De Gaulle has. Take away that beauty mole and you could not tell them apart.”

“Couldn’t tell who apart?  Let me get this straight Jock,” Steve growled in his low deep tone sounding as a man that intended to commit suicide but wasn’t sure how to get out of bed. “You’re saying De Gaulle is his own double?  But the Soviets have a fake De Gaulle look-a-like who, thanks to French Intelligence and us, is the real De Gaulle acting as Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle?  I mean… I don’t know what the hell I mean. Tell them what I mean Jacquie.”

126

“Try to keep up with the conversation Steve,” Jacquie said angrily, “tell me again why you are on this mission with me.”

“What mission?” Steve looked around suspiciously rubbing the now retreating goose-egg on the side of his head where he was knocked unconscious earlier when the Unita’s threw that rock through the Petit Fou Café window front with a message tied to it, back in Paris earlier.

“That is because De Gaulle crouches down a bit when he morphs into Pompidou’s walk.” Lik’s words hung frozen in her icebergs scraping tone. “You always see them together and not necessarily at the same time.”

“Oui,” Jacquie collaborated. Her sweet French tone this time carried the pain of a tire iron across the knuckles.  “I have seen them stand together, walk together, talk together. I have even seen Pompidou sitting while De Gaulle is giving a speech standing next to him.”

127

“If De Gaulle and Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle are one person, how can one bestanding and the other be sitting at the same time,” Steve questioned with angst.

“Mirrors,” Jock spit out the high note scream as if he were spitting out an orange pit.  The WC wall mirror cracked. Thunder began rumbling.

Lik, began applying mustard to Jock’s head burns until Jock passed out from burning head pains.”

“What the hell are you people talking about?” Steve roared as lightning flashed somewhere offshore and a chilly wind blew the balcony dark blue curtains aside.

From somewhere within the hotel came sounds of kettle drums being played as everyone who was conscious in the room looked around cautiously realizing a Mau Mau attack was very possible once the Kettle Drums stopped. (Steve, Jacquie, Lik and Jock had spent too much time in jungles alone.)

128

‘Steve,” Jacquie whispered to him almost in rhythm to the hypnotic beat of the kettle drums what was happening on the mission. It was as if she was explaining the ‘Cabra First Test’ to the James gang. (This was a test concerning nuclear powered Xray lasers that scientist first theorized about at the Alamo Testing Grounds…circa 1945.  The James gang refers to Jesse James and his boys.)

LATER THAT NIGHT:

“So, Jock,” Steve growled that low jungle cat warning when someone gets too close to where the big cat is crouching in their fight or flight mode.

Jock who was now conscious and smoking four French cigarettes in his mouth with two new lighted ciggies behind each ear lay sprawled out on a soft blue divan with matching pillow.

“Let me get this straight… again,” Steve continued, “You’re telling us the first part of the Soviets Project REDCOM, the assassination of Charles De

129

Gaulle President of France will begin on the morning of 22 August this year by having Soviet Vasaltnicki groups, (Russian Agents disguised as next-door neighbors etc…) who will be told they are making a documentary of Les Halles and will be acting as ‘Smoke Police.’

They will put up ‘No Smoking’ signs all over Les Halles along with Smoke Police Cardboard Cutouts of Gorillas dressed as Gendarmes, so they look more threatening.

I mean the Gorilla cardboard cutouts will be ‘Smoke Police’ along with live action Vasaltnicki Soviet covert soldiers/agents and forcibly disarm Frenchmen of their cigarettes preventing them from smoking.”

“I… I do not remember saying all that, Steve.” Jock pleaded. But yes.  Was I mumbling when I was unconscious?”

“How diabolical.” Jacquie said.

130

“Diabolical?” Steve roared.  “Try stupid.”

“You do not understand the French mind do you Steve?” Jacquie interrogated.

“Don’t pull that High School Psychology on me Jacquie.  I don’t even understand my own mind.”

“Jock is a licensed Angolan Psychotherapist,” Lik advised in a burning dry ice tone. “As well as a former Mau-Mau Witch Doctor before he was discovered and chased out of Uganda if that helps Steve.

I remember that night. Idi Amin, we called him Da Da, in his underwear, swinging his ‘Poor Man’s machete, and his merry band of peculiars carrying tubs of tar and live chickens chasing and hobble dancing Jock and I through the night jungle.  Just because Jock accidently hit him with a curse of ‘The Old Man’s Dance.”  

Lik volunteered her story flinging her machete straight up again deep into the ceiling and piercing

131

the roof where a tourist Frau Herzlich Wilikommen was taking an unauthorized Sist bath on the roof. There was a scream followed by a long deep roll of thunder.  More like a painful horse Winnie of a frightened mare with a cold makes when startled.

“Look siphon apterous brain,” Jacquie snapped eyeing Steve.

“See,” Steve beamed, “that pedestal Jacquie has me on gets higher and higher.  I’m gonna need a seatbelt at this height. I mean, don’t get me wrong Jacquie. All these Kudos you’re giving me are making my head swell.  No offence Jock.”

“Huh?” Jock screamed with a ‘Knight of the Roundtable’ eloquence.

“And” Steve marched on, “as the commander of this mission, I would even be greater if I knew what the hell you people were talking about.”

Jacquie got up and went over to the kitchen’s Cold Storage door.  Opened it, turned the light on then

132

yelled, shook her head, looked around, slammed the light switch down, banged the door shut, regained her composure said to herself ‘And we called him Da Da.”

Returning, she alighted on her chair like a floating elegant leaf. Then continued: “Taking a cigarette away from a Frenchman will cause an explosion the likes not seen since Marie Antoinette allegedly said, ‘Let them eat cake.’  Jock can tell you a thing or two about the Jacobian Club.”

“You go Jacquie,” Jock screeched.

“Shut up moron,” Jacquie responded calmly but posed to attack unmercifully.

“What Jacobian Club?” Steve roared. “Where did that come from?”

“Jacquie’s is right,” Lik said in her usual ice cracking underfoot tone. “It is diabolical and right out of the old 1789 Jacobian playbook. Any French child knows that.

133

The French police will be tied up for hours if not days. Riot police squads will be called to Les Halles from all over the country. I am sure the French Government will call out the Army. Even pulling the security details off De Gaulle as he travels.  Leaving the pathways wide open for ‘The Jackass’ or any Alias to strike and allow the Russian propaganda machine to tell the world the French are pulling out of West Berlin weakening the Allies hold on the rest of West Germany.  This confusion may even cause France to pull out of NATO.” (NATO: North Atlantic Treaty Organization.)

“Now wait a mo,” Steve demanded.  Even his deep growl sounded bewildered.  “Let me catch up. The only thing I understood is the name ‘The Jackass.’ ”

There was a deep sigh by the group. Even ‘The Home Book of Verse’ seemed to sigh although he was still unconscious.

“If all this happens,” Steve growled, “that is whatever the hell you guys are yappin’ about, how

134

are these disguised Soviet Vasaltnicki undercovers… How are these Smoking Police phonies gonna escape?  Think about it. Copenhagen has a population a bit over nine hundred thousand. If they’re caught it will be soon found out they are Soviet Vasaltnicki troops and that will cause an international incident and will solidify the Allies even more.”

“The sewers of Paris,” Jacquie said in her soft killer French. “The sewers of Paris crisscross under Les Halles going in hundreds of directions and miles.  Not to mention they connect with the catacombs and have many escape tunnels to the Metro.  Even sanitation workers have been lost never to be found.”

“That would be fine if we were in Paris,” Steve growl snapped. “But we’re in Copenhagen.”

135

“We are,” Jock’s tone hit one of those torturous  high notes that can cause ears to bleed.  “I thought we are in Paris.”

“Oui. We are,” Jacquie whispered, her ears burning as were the others. “Steve will be back with us in a while.”

“Paris,” Steve questioned in a base voice that seemed to make the table vibrate. “Okay, that’s better.  Then it seems we might have the correct logistics. One will have the detail maps to the nearest manhole covers.  And theoretically so would the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops.”

“Right Steve,” Jock said in a moderate scream timbre.  Now down to smoking two cigarettes at the same time.  Even so his enunciation was quite eloquent. His words showing signs of advanced ‘hyperthermia.’

Thanks to Lik’s machete Golumpi we have copies of the Sewer Escape maps the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops intend to use to make them vanish like a

136

herd of stampeding Yak disappearing in the Himalayas as they go over a cliff.  My mouth tastes like wet candle wax.

“Let me see that map, Jacquie ordered in a voice that made everyone at the table figuratively jump to attention.

Perusing the map Jacquie started to say, “This map is—”

Suddenly the divan pillow Jock was resting his head on burst into flames.

“Quick thinking Jacquie and Lik,” Steve said as the ladies carefully lifted the brewing pot of Bouillabaisse over Jock’s head to extinguish the flames over Jock’s screams of drowning in pain. The matching blue Divan pillow is destroyed as was one side of the Divan. The aroma of the fish stew seems to fog their minds.

Jock, now sitting on the other end of the Divan was rocking back and forth mumbling old Johnny

137

Holiday Rock and Roll songs to himself in Japanese. Then looking up he said in English “What is that leaking from the sealing?” It tastes like Epsom Salts.

“Thank God,” Lik said with an Icey sigh blessing herself “Jock, that must mean you still have one taste bud left.”

Jacquie, Steve and Lik sat back down at the large table once again after the smoke and the scent of burnt Divan hair cleared a bit and the spilled Bouillabaisse ate up the linoleum in the kitchen area.  Jock was somewhere out in space and not ready to rejoin the group.

“Political assassinations very rarely work,” Jacquie proffered again in a soft ‘by the by’ tone.

“I still don’t understand this double stuff about De Gaulle and Pompidou,” Steve served his words as if he kicked a 3-point field goal. And don’t give me static about not understanding the French mind.

138

De Gaulle being his own double and his own Soviet fake double and disguised as Pompidou?

That means if the terrorist succeeds in knocking off Pompidou, they still are knocking off Pompidou… I mean De Gaulle… I think.  I mean they are still accomplishing their goal.

Wouldn’t it be better if Georges Pompidou disguised himself as De Gaulle? Then if, and don’t stop me if I’m wrong, Pompidou disguised as De Gaulle gets knocked off leaving De Gaulle is still alive.”

Jacquie, Lik and even Jock in his bizarre state of mind looked at each other as if Steve missed the whole point.

“Let me try to explain it to you again,” Jacquie said in a voice that would make one feel warm and comfy. “I have been trying to tell you something especially important about De Gaulle since we started on this mission.  But I have difficulty getting through all the cement.

139

There is no Pompidou. Imagine you are one of the terrorists about to assassinate De Gaulle as he goes by in his car—”

Lik interrupted: A Citron DS 19. De Gaulle calls it ‘La Deesse.”

“The Goddess,” Jacquie translated.

“I speak and understand French,” Steve’s words gave a warning growl. “At least I did until we started to work together.”

“Really Steve?” Jacquie smiled an understanding smile one uses when a patient Lion tamer tries to teach an unruly man eater to sit up.

“And yes, Lik,” Jacquie added, “the Citron Goddess has a wonderful transmission and suspension system. I rode in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo several times along with his wife and Pompidou who is of course really De Gaulle.”

140

“Well… aren’t you so special,” Steve chimed. “And don’t start that De Gaulle being his own double stuff again.

“How I hate you,” Jacquie, slightly shaking her head, served her words with a touch of hemlock. “Anyway,” Jacquie went on. “Make believe you are the terrorist and just as you, the terrorist, is about to squeeze a round off with your Dragonov Soviet sniper protocol rifle you see your own terror leader who organized this assassination plot in the first place in the back seat, where De Gaulle should be sitting as the President in De Gaulle’s limo, the Goddess how would you react?  Would you take the shot?

Or maybe you see yourself in the back seat where De Gaulle sits, or Georges Watda, or in your case Walrus, waving a white hankie at you in a Toddle-Doo manner.”

“Toddle-Doo manner?” Steve growled. “And?”

141

“Would that not throw your aim off?” Jacquie’s comment this time was served with sweet thick peach syrup. “But now things get complicated.”

“Now?” Steve challenged.

“Yes, Jacquie snapped French style. “According to Lik and Jock the Soviets have a look-a-like of De Gaulle. So that means there are two De Gaulle’s but only one can morph into Pompidou and��”

“Wait a mo,” Steve stood up at a posture that seemed to be ‘Dress Right Dress.’ “All three including the Soviet De Gaulle are really the real De Gaulle. Jock or Lik or all of you said there’s no Pompidou. De Gaulle is not only himself… Maybe? But he is his own double, and he is Pompidou. Did I say that right?”

Jacquie and Lik looked at each other and shrugged. “We do not know,” Jacquie said cautiously. “The

142

French mind is beautiful and occasionally beyond comprehension.”

“One must be married to a French woman to understand the French mind. And it makes no difference,” Lik said in a tone of someone stirring crushed ice in an empty glass.

“Makes no difference,” Steve snarled. “And wait another mo, where did this guy Georges Watda… I mean Walrus come from.  How’d he get into the Goddess limo with himself… and De Gaulle? Why would he be waving a white hanky at me the assassin? And why ain’t I in the limo with everyone else?”

“You are right Jacquie,” Lik continued her tone of crushed ice being stirred in an empty glass. “Steve doesn’t understand the French mind.  I wonder if there is any Bouillabaisse left.”

“You see Steve,” Jacquie tried to, in a soft French accent, and in one syllable words or less, explain. “President De Gaulle, unbeknownst to the general

143

public is a master of the ‘quick-change.’ He can be in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo as Pompidou or Watda… Walrus for you Steve… or, as an assassin waiting along the side of the road to shoot himself in his Goddess limo as it passes.”

“Ya know,” Steve growled in a low tone, “this is the first time I realized my whole team is freakin’ insane.  How could I have missed that when I first interviewed you… loonies. I’m swearing off French Fries.

Answer me one thing Jacquie,” an exasperated, yet bewildered Steve asked in an ‘Assassin’s Covert Rage.’ “There’s five people in De Gaulle’s limo driving down the road. De Gaulle’s wife, De Gaulle himself,’ this white hankie waving guy Georges Walrus, De Gaulle’s driver Moreau and Georges Pompidou who is in reality… Wait… don’t tell me.  Ahhh,… I don’t know. And De Gaulle waiting down the road disguised as the terrorist Georges Walrus

144

to shoot himself in the limo as he passes himself on the road.

Now he can’t be all these people no matter how fast of a quick-change artist.”

“Theoretically you are correct Steve,” Jacquie said as if she was putting forth some unsolvable equation. “But in practice—”

“But what about Pompidou?” Steve growled in a painful tone as if an overweight Encyclopedia salesperson holding a complete set of the World’s knowledge was standing on Steve’s bootless toes.

“There is no Pompidou,” Jacquie, Lik and a mumbling and crying Jock all yelled.

“That’s right,” Steve bellowed. I forgot about that. I think it’s all beginning to make sense to me in some delusional way?”

There was aloud banging on the door. “It is the ‘Nimrod.’ Open the door.”

###

145

DEBRIEF PART  10

18 August 1962

Saturday Night

23:00 HOURS

SAME LOCATION

“Who?” Steve growled.

“The police,” Jacquie said in a harsh tone of ‘What now?’

“Open the door,” the voice on the other side of the door shouted again as if he was calling a garcon to take back his fish dinner.

“It is open,” Steve roared back as he flung open the door… “now,” he continued in a more mellow growl.

Rushing in the police officer in charge said loudly,

“ I am Sargent  Brouillard, ‘IOSOPND.’ “

146

“International ‘OffShore’ Ocean Police, Nimrod Division,” Jacquie said gallantly with a smile

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Steve demanded in a surly voice as he gave Jacquie the Brooklyn stare.

“We have had complaints about the strange noises and screams from this suite,” Sergeant Brouillard

Said in a deep, fries frying in a pan voice. And someone staring out your balcony not moving. And smoke coming out of the side open windows on your balcony.

This poor fellow,” pointing at Jock still mumbling and rocking back and forth still smoking his two French cigarettes, “has smoke coming from his hair and ears.”

“How quaint,” Jacquie whispered with a sigh.

‘Can you explain this?” Sergeant Brouillard shouted.

147

“No,” Steve growled, “Now if you must bid us Adieu, I am sure you folks can find your own way out.”

“My men will search this place. I demand again have you any explanations? Wait I smell Bouillabaisse.”

“Ah, you changed your mind about leaving,” Steve said disappointedly.

“Hey Sarge, this nonmoving guy all dressed in grey-cat like…, smoking a Raleigh,” Officer Fan Tann said with a rusty throat sound, “but not inhaling starring over the balcony has a two-inch ash hanging on his lip… don’t we know him?”

“Hey Sarge,” IOSOPND Corporal Louiggi Laplander commented. “Let’s set up a pool to see who comes closer to guessing when this cigarette ash falls on this schnooks lap.”

Count me in,” Steve snapped in a low but twig snapping tone.

148

“Why you young nitwits this is the famous Cat Burglar of Royan.”

“You mean Sarge he is the—”

“Right Fan Tann… This nitwit is the famous ‘Home Book of Verse.’ Alias ‘The Cat Burglar of Royan.’ His real name is Count Chochon Cnout…  Also alias ‘Puss and Boots’ alias ‘The Umbrella of Cherbourg,’  the greatest criminologist in the world until he went off his rocker. We have been trying to catch him since… Say, are you people part of his gang?”

“That cannot be Sarge,” IOSOPND private Fan Tann interrupted. ‘The Home Book of Verse’ always works alone.”

“Right, you are Fan Tann,’ “Sergeant Brouillard said in a strangely happy tone. “Well, it looks like you people will be getting the reward. Your photos will be in all the newspapers—”

149

“Look Chief,” Steve growled, “We don’t want any reward. We didn’t even know he was here. If anyone deserves a reward, it’s private Fan Tann.

Just then a strange, heavy set rotund woman   wearing a bed sheet exploded through their front door with a large white laundry basket over her head screaming, “Police, my unmentionables… Look.”

###

DEBRIEF 11

ROYAN BEACH THE NEXT MORNING

19 AUGUST 1962

SUNDAY 0800 HRS

150  

“Watch you don’t get sun-burned,” Steve said as he read the Sunday morning funnies.

“Steve, we are under a giant beach umbrella that is big enough for a family… So, Steve, what do you think?

“About what? These Katz and Jammer Kids are just too much.”

“Forget the Sunday Funnies. Madame Trevi’s unmentionables being leaked on by the hole Lik put in that Frau, what’s her name? Frau Herzilch Willkommen’s Sis bath with Lik’s machete she blasted through our ceiling and partly the hotel’s roof.

” Relax, Jacquie. We convinced the Nimrod’s offshore police crew that all the damage was due to the idiot ‘The Home Book of Verse.’

“Oui, I suppose,” Jacquie sighed. “Not only he is going to be hit with all that second story stealing when he wakes up but a large laundry bill for all

151

those unmentionables. Medical stitches for those women’s derrieres unmentionables.

And structural damage to the hotel. I do not know why Trevi’s unmentionables were spread out on the roof like that. It was dark?”

“Let alone why Frau Wellkommen was taking a Sis bath on the roof when a storm was coming in from the ocean. And what were the Nimrod offshore division IOSOPD doing on shore in the first place?”

“I admit Steve, when you are around strange thing things cozy up to you.”

“Cozy,” Steve growled the word.”

“Oui, Jacquie challenged. “Is that not an American word.  It means—”

“I know what it means. What I don’t know is… why this mission is starting to get a wee bit strange? That’s another thing I don’t know… where Jock, his stilt and Lik are now?  And come to think of it what the blue blazes are we doing in Royan?”

152

“Boy,” Jacquie sighed again in French. “For a leader there is a hell of a lot you do not know.

“And your crack team of… I mean ‘cracked,’ team of security specialist can’t find an ex punch-drunk boxer out of seven suspects.”

“Jock is in the local hospital, Steve, recovering from his wounds as usual. Lik and her Golumpi are out looking for Rutherford Hayes.  ‘The Home Book of Verse’ alias whatever is under Nimrod arrest. Whatever that is?

Listen Steve, we have the Royal Luncheon security meeting at the Chamber of Deputies this Wednesday the 22nd of August, And I mean this August not last August.  

We still have not figured out who the assassin is on President De Gaulle’s security detail.

All I found out from my contact, as I tried to tell you before, was that the assassin on the security team was a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer and

153

sparring partner that has undergone extreme face-lift plastic surgery at some very deep underground Soviet futuristic hospital. The hospital is so deep below ground the rumor is this assassin still suffers aftereffects of the ‘Bends’ for a mishap in the elevator that brought him up to the surface too fast—”

“Wait a mo,” Steve said in a low warning growl. “You still harping on that? You mean your French Intelligence can’t pick out a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer, suffering from…

‘Elevator Bends,’ ” Steve barked. “If this guy exists, I’ll pick him out at the Royal Luncheon Wednesday the 22nd of August this year not last year. Wait a mo. Contagious for what?”

###

154

THE ROYAL FRENCH PRESIDENTIAL LUNCHEON

DEBRIEF 12

Wednesday, 22 August 1962

13:00 HOURS

‘

Paris France

CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES

MAIN DINING ROOM

‘THE GREAT HALL’

Formerly ‘The Robespierre Great Hall.’ Formerly

‘The Thermidorian Great Hall.’ Formerly ‘The Hebertist Great Hall.’

Over ‘The Great Entranceway’ is a quote from Robespierre, just before he tried to Guillotine

155

himself without the use of gravity, inscribed into the reddish/gray ‘marbleish’ stone.

(Roughly Translated)

‘REGARDE YA MORONS

YA CANNOT HAVE PEACE AND LIBERTY WITHOUT

TERROR’

In attendance:  Three hundred and fifty-two high ranking government security forces, a dozen or so politicians and their wives. Also, in attendance was a four-hundred-and-fifty-pound undercover sumo wrestler who was also a plumber and a practicing Ninja. For the record. His name was Octavus Uncontous.  He sumo wrestled under the name of ‘Ah So.’ (No relation to the code Ah So.)

Jacquie April, Steve Ptah, Lik (Lethal Intensity Kon) Unita and Jock Unita were all sitting toward the end of one extremely long marble rectangular table covered with beautiful silk tablecloths. Each

156

high-back royal oak chair with greenish-blue cushion and backrest.

The service was exceptional except for several hard-working bus boys seemed to be falling behind.

Jacquie, Steve, Lik and Jock, arguing about the Boxer Rebellion and its similarity to the Soviet operation REDCOM set for later this evening were all seated at the far end of the table far away from President De Gaulle and his entourage and security team.

The security team are seated all around President De Gaulle, his lovely wife Yvonne and Georges Pomoidou.

It was strange as it seemed De Gaulle and Pompidou kept changing seats at Herculean speed. Even Madame De Gaulle had to request a neck brace after a while to keep up with the conversation with her husband and Pompidou.

157

For some reason, large, thin, almost invisible, possibly ‘Fun House’ distortion mirrors were set up around the President and Pompidou.

***

“How do I look Lik?” Jock, blowing smoke and all-weather fruit flies still attracted to his aftershave, demanded to know. His tone was in the extreme high ultra-sound range only migrating Blue Wales, Lik and wondering forest minstrels could hear.

Jock, dressed in formal high luncheon attire modified tuxedo over a lemon/white shirt, Black leather motorcycle pants and obsidian colored engineer boots completed his ensemble. Jock sighed in escaping helium filled-Scottish breath.

Only Lik seemed to be able to understand Jock… Sometimes when Jock spoke Japanese with a highlander accent… marbles could be heard rolling around his old bean as if they were inside a blown-up balloon.

158

“Well, my sweet’s,” Lik said coldly waving her hand in front of her to make a passageway through the fruit flies, smoke and coughing a bit gasped.

Lik, dressed in a white blouse with a red rose design, red shawl, red scarf and still displaying her well off-center coiffure smiled a smile of simplicity and yet of terror that would send cart pulling oxen stampeding to their doom.

Her red scarf hiding her machete ‘Golumpi’. A wide looping black widow skirt, black running ankle boots continued in her usual ice crackling tone.

“Except for the scars caused by the brewing bouillabaisse fish stew Jacquie and I poured over your head to put out the fire on your… your swelling head.  And the three temporary skin graft chewing gum tattoos on the top of your head and ears I Got from Gist and Sons Candy Store… Well, you look as handsome as ever. But to be honest I do miss your one long una-brow eyebrow.”

159

“My head does not swell. It blimps into a ninja brain.  But for some reason I cannot get the taste of burnt Epson Salts and melted candle wax out of my mouth.

“Sweetie Jock, not only do you not have whisper of a brain in your antique head, but you are as bald as a cracked white billiard ball.”

“Lik, who is this bald sweetie Jock that you have me mixed up with? Hoot Mon, my name is… er, Jock. Not Sweetie Jock.”

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered into Steve’s ear, “I just received the word that everything is in place to repulse the Soviets operation REDCOM early this evening at Les Halles.”

“What?  How?” Steve hiss growled.  “How did you ‘just receive word?’  I didn’t hear anything. I would like to know how you just got word… Did a bug fly into your ear, or… you are hearing things again?”

“Will you shut-up moron. I will tell you later.”

160

“Oh, you always say that, but you never do.  I want to know how you received an idiot message in the middle of the Presidential Royal Luncheon surrounded by hundreds of pompous tushes

and—”

“Never hiss-growl at me again with one of your stupid question or you will be walking backwards for a month.”

“Huh?” Steve’s jerked his eloquent reply that there is no defense against.  “I can’t hear crapola what De Gaulle is saying. Let alone what you are mumbling about. We’re too far away at this end of the table. We might as well be sitting in a fast-moving taxi in the middle of Borneo,” Steve announced in a roar.”

“A fast moving taxi? Steve,” Jacquie spat back, “Just because you are wearing an ‘abnormal psychology 101’ dark-dark tuxedo with black cowboy boots—”

161

Applause, from the normal guests interrupted Jacquie.

President De Gaulle just finished up his welcoming his official luncheon Guest, Count Guido Passato of Andorra.  Or, perhaps it was the Honorable Sans Culotte from some unpronounceable, but important in the development of number three artist street-chalk, village in East Wales. There seemed to be some confusion whom the official guest was. It was typical Washington D. C. speak… French style.

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered ignoring Steve’s sparkling repartee about him not being able to hear ‘crapola.’  “When are you going to point out who the traitor is on the President’s security team? They are all up there with him now?”

“Patience Jacquie,” Steve answered in a murmurous growl. “If there is one. The time is not right.”

162

“Oui right, like I believe you. Just as I knew. You have no idea who… Hey, is that not that Madame Telelsi and Frau Herzilich Willkommen from Royan?”

“I can’t see that far down the table in this dim chandeliers’ lighting, “Steve grunted angrily.”

“Here Steve. Take my opera glasses,” Jacquie’s words were as sweet and soft as a monarch butterfly making a crash landing on a milkweed. “I keep forgetting how ancient you are.”

“Opera glasses? Who brings opera glasses to a Royal Luncheon?” Steve volleyed back in an amazing two sentence growl. Peering through Jacquie’s opera glasses Steve confirmed the sighting. “They must be the wives of the General’s they’re sitting next to.”

“Wonderful Steve. I often wondered why you are the commander on this mission. Now I know. There were not enough imbeciles on our team,”

163

Jacquie announced in another soft butterfly crash landing.

“Hold your kudos for later Jacquie,” Steve growled. “This mission is not over yet. Does this… Arch- Duke Hayes of… crapola ever gonna finish his toast?”

“Who?” Jacquie challenged.

“I hope he knows Jacquie is white-toast intolerant,” Lik whispered in an icy-rain murmur.

“His joint’s must have stiffened-up,” Jock screeched, as the giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So} got up to stretch then accidentally sat back down on the speaker’s head. The speaker had bent down to deal with an errant shoelace.

“Did you see that?” Jacquie asked rubbing he eyes. “How could that happen.”

“I can’t see crapola,” Steve regurgitated again in a

menacing low grunt.

164

“Aw shut up,” Jacquie whispered under her breath. “You are missing the whole mission. I wonder if that was a sign?”

“Is there a doctor here at the Royal Luncheon?” President De Gaulle called out in a loud authoritative voice?”

“I am a doctor. I have a Pygmy following of—"” Jock shouted in a voice so high only animals at the Paris zoo, a few miles away, could possibly hear him. And perhaps a few Telegraph plants at an arboretum over a hundred miles away. Or so goes the later newspaper reports by, Squint News investigative reporter her under the cover name ‘Gallapuchi Pup’ a Rootie Kazooti officiate.

“Sit down moron,” Steve interrupted Jock’s sentence using a warning tone of an annoyed tiger, “We are undercover and there are several doctors attending to Arch-Duke Hayes—”

“Who?” Jacquie asked again. “Steve, where did this Arch-Duke Hayes come from?”

165

“From the last war. How do I know.”

“Did someone say they saw Rutherford B. Hayes,” Lik, grabbing her Golumpi, blurted out in a chilling, blizzard-hale tone that could only be explained as a five-hundred-pound icicle breaking off a roof, while hitting, in mid-air, an extremely large flight of high note bells hanging 30 feet below.

“No, no, no. No one said anything about Rutherford B. Hayes,” retorted Jacquie in a hard but restrained din.  

It was too late, Jock and Lik had vanished from their assigned Royal Luncheon seats. The fading song of ‘Put your left hand in and shake it all about’ being sung backwards could barely be made out coming from under the table.

“Oh no,” Jacquie murmured softly but not without hopeless anger. “Lik, is going into her berserk time and with her moronic sidekick.

166

“Double teaming like a tag team wrestling match of giant intellects. This is the world’s ‘intelligencia’ represented in action,” Steve’s growls had a grin to them.

“Steve, you might find this stupid but I—”

“I still can’t hear crapola Jacquie. We’re too far—”

Suddenly, giant gongs exploded all over the Great Hall creating vibrating reverberations causing everyone to cup their ears and do a seated shimmy-shimmy.

“Can you hear that moron?” Jacquie snapped with the sharpness of Lik’s machete plunged into Steve’s ear.

“French ‘Great Hall’ guards wearing thick Royal Blue ear protector muffs poured out of every conceivable ‘Great Hall’ orifice. All guards were attired in tall blue hats, blue uniforms and black spit-shined boots. Shouting, giving orders to each

167

other which helped in not disarming mass confusion.

The Chef and Sous Chef, the Dessert Chef stepped out of their deeply recessed kitchen as they thought all excitement and noise was applause for their gastronomic delights. A surprise after-dinner celebration for their wonderful Royal Luncheon. Taking bows and blowing kisses to their appreciative panicked diners.

The Chef known as Monsieur Coq Du Beau-Jolais Novay. Madame Sous Chef Shanghai La La Ren-Min-Bi Ptomaine and the Dessert Chef… ‘Miss Candy Bon Bon’ known affectionately as ‘La Fille Au Cul  Doux’ were all immediately arrested and blown away to the old Bastille now a museum by the running to and fro Great Hall guards. No one really understood why the Chefs-Extraordinary were arrested.

The Gongs stopped as fast as they had started.  President De Gaulle, always in-command, was

168

informed what had happened and called for order and quiet. Assuring the Royal Luncheon guest that all is well and to return to your seats. With the help of the ‘Great Hall’ guards clubbing into silence a few of the dining guests. Well actually many were clubbed into silence. Calm was eventually restored.

Georges Pompidou stood up and accidently knocking over one of the large, almost invisible, mirrors. Then immediately sat down in a funny blurry way.

President De Gaulle shot up at what looked like at the same time in the same blurry way and explained:

“My Dear, Dear dinning guests.  Those of you who are still conscious. A terracotta priceless butt of Robespierre by Deseine, on loan to the French Government by the Musee de la Revolution Francaise has just been stolen from one of our display holders… Er… What was that Pompidou?”

169

“My Dear, dear dinning friends.  Dear, dear Georges Pompidou just corrected me. It will be his last correction. It was not Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Butt’ that was stolen. It was Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Bust’ that was stolen. It weighs about 30 kilos and ‘yea’ big. I am afraid this means everyone must be searched.

There was immediate rumbling and leftover fruit cup throwing from the elite dining gusts who were conscious and puffing furiously on their Gauloises and Gitanes possibly effecting their fruit cup aiming.

President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou taking very quick turns trying to restore order to the insulted guests who were secretly returning silverware to their table. Sliding their Ill-gotten items under their large, crumpled linen napkins.

Jock and Lik who had disappeared during their ‘berserk’ attacks creeped from under the table

170

back to their original seats next to Steve and Jacquie.

Jock’s presence still accompanied by dozens of suicidal fruit flies, some still exploding from Jock’s sweat laden head that had the backup lighted ciggies behind each ear igniting the fruit flies seemingly doing battle with Jock’s head. Many fruit flies plummeting in fiery death spirals. Others just suicidally racing full speed, with kind of a ‘ziz’ noise, into Jock’s head and exploding. It was horrible.

“Where were you two?” Steve demanded to know in that Royal deep growl of his. “You missed all the demented excitement.”

L[k, cold as ever, added in a voice of a last plea of a semi frozen pigeon falling out of a tree, “I heard a rumor that Rutherford B. Hayes is about.  I thought I spotted the eternal rascal, but it was only a man with a limp. Now he has the limps on both legs. Right Goulumpi.”

171

“You two are freaken insane,” jacquie started to say as she rubbed her face. But before anything really happened like Golumpi answering an out-a-breath Lik, Jock heaved up his words.

“Hoot Mon, Steve hold this.” Jock’s high-pitch squeal in joyous Scottish shoved a weighty, heavily wrapped in burlap object on to Steve’s lap.

“What the?”

“Oh Steve,” Jacquie snapped in a ‘Quelle Surprise’ tone.  “What kind of nincompoopery is this?  Again.”

“Don’t blame Steve,” Lik said in a ’cracking ice cube tray in half’ voice, “my Jock became a French Herbertist… a furnace maker came to power during the French Revolution. The French Reign of Terror about 1793. Jacques Herbert wanted the world to worship furnaces. I suppose because he was a furnace maker.

172

Well anyway, there was this indoor tennis court at Versailles where all Jacobians (French Furnace Makers) took an oath to overthrow the King. Jacques Herbert ordered furnace makers and other assorted Jacobians not to disband in 1789 until a new French Constitution was accepted to make sure the French never ran out of wine. Or something like that.

Of course, this teed off the King Louis XV1 to no end. King Louis XV1 was a tea teetotaler like Rutherford B. Hayes wife. Evidently, the Jacobian crowd refused to obey the King’s order to ‘disband and to ‘Knock it off.’

Then the King’s wife added, while eating a piece of cake on the palace terrace above the milling crowd was, “Get lost you pinheads, and find some cake to munch on.” (It loses a bit in translating French into French.)

“It does not loose enough in the translation, you idiots.” Jacquie flash-danced her words across

173

their faces. “French into French. Complete morons. And I do not believe Marie Antoinette said, “Go find some cake to munch on.”

“What the hell are you all talking about?” Steve’s roar was of a wounded Grizzly sitting down on a thorny bramble bush. “I didn’t ask for a history lesson. And I’m telling you morons the same thing King Louis said to his people, “Get lost you morons.”  Steve opened the heavy burlap cloth a sweaty Jock had dumped on his lap.

“Steve,” Jacquie re-proclaimed. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” Steve questioned indignantly.

“Never mind,” Jacquie’s tone was of French sweetened sadness, “We do not have time for a complete psychoanalytical session. That would take centuries.”

174

‘Will you stop talking about yourself,” Steve snapped. We have a mission. Now what the hell is this?  Someone’s head in clay.”

“Did you guys steal this?” Jacquie whispered? “This is what all the ‘gong’ alarms are about and people panicking? Steve wrap it up again before someone sees it.”

“Hoot Mon, Jacquie. I took the bust of my hero Robespierre. I could not help it. I am a Jacobian at heart,” said a puzzled Jock in a soprano tone.

“I thought you are a Heberitist at heart?” Lik murmured in a slow-moving ice jam chill. Taking her Golumpi from under her cloak and with an express train thrust shoved Golumpi into the head of Robespierre’s bust. Obviously, the only place left to hide for the illusive Rutherford B. Hayes.

“A Heberitist? Moi? That was last year,” Jock cried in Angry Red Army Brigade Japanese as his head

175

started to expand and turn, this time, a rather strange shade of turquoise-orange. He lit up a stale Jacobian cigarette.

Jock’s head disappeared in a veil of cigarette smoke and immolated wretched fruit flies that all seem to join in a terror-glee obscuring one’s vision.

“Actually, I am thinking of becoming a Thermidorian after reading the Thermidorian Law of 22. And how much I enjoyed my Lobster Thermador.” (Themidorian 22 July 1794 passed by French parliamentary revolt caused ‘The Reign of Terror’ and Robespierre era to eventually collapse.)

“Jock, your lobster bib is on fire,” Lik mentioned nonchalantly in a calm tone of someone stirring shaved ice in a cracked ceramic bowl.

“You know how much the ‘Great Terror’ means to me.” Jock went on as his lobster bib flamed to ashes. Lik threw a jug of water in Jock’s face and on the still smoldering bib ashes.

176

Jock continued unaware he was just splashed but the fruit flies weren’t. They became even more furious as they seemed to renew their Blitzkrieg.

“Unfortunately, Jock continued, “Robespierre’s Jacobian, plan egged on by the Jacques Hebert and the Hebertist, was to have everyone in France Guillotined even the executioner. Due to a slight miscalculation Robespierre forgot to have himself guillotined before the executioner guillotined himself.

Try as he might a delusional Robespierre could not get the damn Guillotine to work to guillotine himself.  Of course, his disbelief in gravity from childhood may have worked against him.

Later, Robespierre lost interest in the Revolution and furnaces and became obsessed with stilts.

But I have this Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Loyalty as all the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade have loyalty to Maximillian Francois Marie Isidor de Robespierre.

177

Still, I desire to become a builder of furnaces as Jacque Hebertist. Publish my own revolting newspaper ‘Le Pere Duchesne,’ never run out of wine and be a heroic model for all fictional working-class furnace makers… well I do not have to tell you what that means.” Ending his desires, memoirs hopes and dreams with a Bonsai suicidal scream that was felt throughout the Great Hall.

Fortunately, the pain of Jock’s scream and echo in the Great Hall prevented anyone to exactly target where the great scream came from.

All the Royal Luncheon guest were seen dapping their ears with hankies and tissues to stop little drops of blood from running down the side of their faces. Even the great giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So) was brought to his knees holding his ears.

“Oui, you do Jock have to tell us what all that means, but not now.  I do not know what the hell you are talking about,” Jacquie snapped as she

178

Steve and Lik finally stopped their ears from bleeding.

Jock Unita, still smoking a stale but damp Jacobian, three dripping wet Gauloises at one time and numerous, partially soaked lobster legs, and lit ones behind each ear for backup, spoke his above mesmerizing, ignoble and heroic words as his head expanded a bit more. He was showing head colors of blazing orange, hysterical dark blues, irrational scarlet, and other eye-burning hues perhaps never seen by humans before.

“Who were you yappin’ about? Secondhand furnaces” Steve growled a warning shot across Jock’s brow. “What the hell are you babbling about you—Look out your head is about to—”

Just then Lik grabbed a heavy silver tray from one of the ‘out-a-breath’ bus boys and creamed Jock a stunning blow, that would have put down a 1500 pound charging South African water buffalo in heat, over Jock’s expanding dome causing a

179

shallow, hollow metal sound; killing dozens more swarming fruit flies and unfortunately crippling Jock’s ability to count to six.

“Lik,” Jacquie put forth her words as a Raptor might utter a warning to baby Raptors. “You know Jock’s head really does not swell that much when he gets angry or confused. You should stop hitting him on the head with heavy items like steam engine parts.

The colors of deep shaded ghastly Pumpkin orange, irrational scarlet, frigid blue and other strange colors that are not even possible…

Well, just giving the appearance his head is ballooning up.

Not forgetting though the brutal antimatter   bizarre happenings at the Jardin De Poubelle Café the other evening.

Now I have definite proof my hypotheses are correct that other things in the universe are faster

180

than light. Although, the alleged release of antimatter should have wiped out our existence as well.”

Steve, looking at Jock’s undercover slumped smoking body hanging partially over their part of the table said in a long deep voice, “Maybe it did Jacquie. Maybe it did.”

“Steve, how stupid can you be?” Jacquie demanded to know. “Wait. How disappointing. We still have not pushed you to your full capacity of stupidity… yet. And I thought we had.”

“Huh?” Steve countered with his famous one-word sledgehammer repartee shield.

“Hmmm,” Jacquie retorted,” I am still working on my hypothesis. But oui, there are things in this universe that are faster than light like—”

“Like stupidity,” Steve mumbled-growled. “One never wants to experiment with antimatter when there are morons about.”

181

“Oh, do not be so hard on yourself Steve,” Jacquie sighed in Riviera French. “Almost not everyone thinks you are a moron. I just do not know how I put up with Steve’s martyr complex. Of course, it is Steve’s theory—”

“What? “I don’t have a martyr complex. Nor do I have any theories about anything. I don’t even know why you people are talking about that idiot’s noggin. Stunning colors. Swelling head. What about my problems? Mutinous crew on my mission.  And—”

“Steve,” Jacquie, said sweetly but sternly, “I thought I made it clear about my sage.”

“Whaa?” Steve jungle roared. “Are you saying Jock is your sage?”

“Jock?” Jacquie said somewhat surprised. “Who is talking about idiot Jock? You just mentioned ‘The Noggin.’ My Pen Pal in a place called Cobleskill in the States. Remember, I told you I met ‘The Noggin’ when I became lost on tour, a few years

182

back, through Pennsylvania coalmine country. He saved my life once when I was thirsty for water. Minersville, Pennsylvania I believe. I started out from Pottsville and for some reason I ended up in Minersville.

I also seem to remember a headless mule running around. He calls himself ‘The Noggin because he is so brilliant. His head stores so much knowledge there is no room to grow hair.”

“What?  The Headless mule? Jacquie, headless mules don’t have noggins to grow hair,” Steve announced in a fiery blast, and shaking his head. Please don’t crackup on me. I can’t take anymore headless noggin mule Sage moments. We have a mission to complete.”

“Swine,” Jacquie said, “The Noggin is not the headless mule. You do not even understand what is going on.” Jacquie’s words carried the punch of an outta-control-wrecking ball.  

183

“Hoot Mon,” Jock cried out pushing himself up from the table and belching French, wet ciggy smoke, what look liked, from every opening he had in his head.

“Jock grabbed for some soggy but still lit cigarettes and lobster legs from behind his ears. Also taking with him dozens of his aftershave fruit flies with his grab.

“Be a good fellow Steve and return this bust of my former hero Robespierre back to the stand I took it from,” Jock spoke in perfect very-high pitch delirious Punjab. Fortunately, Jackie was there to translate. “Being a Jacobian is not as much fun as I thought it would be.” Then Jock passed out again on his part of the table. A big red lump appearing on the top of his ole bean.

“You idiot,” Steve growled shoving the Bust back onto a collapsed Jock’s lap. Jock stated to move and sit up again. “How am I gonna put this ton of Bust…Robespierre’s head back without being seen

184

especially now that it has Lik’s Golumpi stuck in your hero’s temple. Pull it out.”

“Former hero,” Jock screeched, blowing French ciggy smoke like a steam engine trying to pull an immovable load even for a ‘Yes I Can’ small steam Choo Choo. Jock tried to re-shove the Bust back to Steve.

“Impress me my hero Jock Unita,” Lik pleaded in her thin ice cracking underfoot timbre as she dislodged Golumpi from Robespierre’s head.

Unfortunately, Lik had to use her two feet pressed against Robespierre ear and with a mighty tug retrieved Golumpi as her Royal Luncheon Chair tipped over backwards spilling Lik, the Bust and Golumpi to the stone floor causing a disturbance again to the guests near them.

“What is wrong with you people?” One of the guests, Major Duisieme Crape-Plait, demanded to know as the rest nearby back area Royal Luncheon guests schooshed them.

185

“What’s wrong with us?” Steve growled in that low warning big cat threat. “There isn’t enough time to tell you—”

“I thought this was supposed to be an undercover mission,” Jacquie whispered in sweet soft French.

“Forget it,” Steve shot back.

“Get down on your hands and one good knee Jock,” Lik’s tone was that of deep ice, deep ice.  The kind of ice a submarine reports while traveling under the Arctic Circle and looking for a place to surface. Lik straightened up her chair and secured Golumpi then continued,

“We will help strap it to your back and then crawl back under the table toward President De Gaulle’s chair. Then put the Bust under his seat.

Jump up and scream ‘J’accuse’ as you point to President De Gaulle.  Everyone will think he stole it and tried to blame it on the Royal Luncheon crowd.”

186

“That is the length of a soccer field,” Jock screamed in Angolan slang as Jacquie and Steve attempted to reassure the Royal Luncheon’s sitting near them that it is just the way they ‘burp’ in Angola.

“What happened to my lobster bib and why does my face feel wet?” Jock demanded. “Did someone throw a jug of water in my face?”

“Relax Jock, “Jacquie whispered, “It is just your imagination.

“Great plan Lik,’Steve low-balled his ballyhoo. As Steve gently, well almost gently, shoved Jock off his chair and crunched him under the table with Lik’s help.

Through an onslaught of cigarette smoke, fruit flies and ‘Angolan burping’ both Lik and Steve lifted the Jacobian Bust that was now under the table. Pretending to look under the great table for a dropped table napkin. Steve then hoisted the 30-kilo bust onto Jock’s back.

187

This caused Jock to collapse immediately.

“Jacquie,” Steve coughing through the French ciggy smoke with watering eyes growled,” don’t just sit

there. Help us get him back in a crawling position.”

“Idiots,” Jacquie exhaled. “There is no drama in this stupid plan. Remind me never again to attend a Royal Luncheon with you morons.”

Jock, complaining and ‘Hoot Mon-ing’ and blowing cigarette smoke and fruit flies out of every conceivable opening in his body chugged his way under the extremely lengthy luncheon, silk linen, table-clothed, great marble Royal Luncheon table toward President De Gaulle’s chair.

“You can do it,” Lik cried out, her head under the table, voice sounding like skates in a hockey match cutting through the ice. “Just keep saying, ‘I think I can,’ ‘I think I can,’. I think… therefore I am. I think…er…What was I saying?”

188

“Too bad we couldn’t find a strap for Jock to keep that heavy load balanced on his back,” Steve, growled mumbled.

“Not to worry Steve. My Jock has exceptional balance even with only one fully operational knee.”

MOMENTS LATER:

President De Gaulle, continued his idea with his guests:

Ladies, Gentlemen, Military Officials, Honored Guests, I your President Charles De Gaulle have come up with a better solution for finding the missing Robespierre Bust. I am going to order the lights turned off for 30 seconds.  And all drapes closed. The person or persons who… accidently… er…stole the irreplaceable Bust of Jacobian Robespierre is to place here on my table in front of me the missing Bust. No questions asked.

189

The President then turned to Pompidou who was seated next to him and whispered, “Remind me later to check for fingerprints.” (Actually, many people believe he might have been whispering to one of those almost invisible Fun House mirror’s or to himself.)

A few seconds after the lights were turned off and drapes drawn in the Great Hall there were horrific screams in high-pitched Angolan.

Simultaneously, there was a heavy crashing thud and yelling of two elderly female voices. One voice cursing in German, the other in French. One legged hopping could be heard. It was dark in the Royal Great Hall, very dark.

“Turn the lights back on,” Georges Pompidou yelled then coughed.  It was a dignified cough. A cough that sounded familiar to De Gaulle’s closet friends.

“Turn on the lights,” came the words from almost, but not quite, the same sounding voice.

190

As the never-ending rows of ceiling chandelier lights came back on, Frau Herzilich and Madame Teleski were hopping around on one foot cursing in German and French. A distorted Bust of Robespierre was laying out in the open. A dent in the side of his head where a machete had been.

Many of the dining guest, being politically correct joining in with hopping of their own in a show of sympathy chanting, ‘We feel your pain.’

“Arrest those two medically obese hopping miscreants,” President De Gaulle cried out. There was a struggle of epic proportions.

Back at Jock’s empty chair Jock’s hands came out from under the table grasping the Royal green blue of his cushion seat.

“Hoot Monnn…Help.”

“What happened?” Lik’s frozen tone of melting ice refreezing asked.

191

“I do not know. It felt as if someone hit me over the head with one of those heavy silver bust boy  trays as I was crawling,” Jock moaned a helium swallowed moan.

“But that was a while ago my frayed hero,” Lik’s words were cold and barren.

“Hoot Mon Lik,” I just felt it now when I was crawling under the table. And then… I tell you as I was limp-crawling back someone else was under that table in the dark and threw a jug of water in my face.”

***

PREIDENT De GAULLE CALLED FOR ‘LE SILENCE.’

Except for Madame Teleski and Frau Herzilich who stopped hurling expletives but were still hopping, in pain, on one foot after refusing to be arrested there was only a rumor of silence.

192

Then one could only hear in the rumor of silence a single elephant trumpeting softly far, far away. Possibly from the Paris Zoo or even, Les Halles.

“And now for what I promised you Jacquie,” Steve

whispered a whisper-growl that would cause shrieking terror in any normal person where there was now complete silence. Then a pin was heard dropping.

Raising a large metal soup ladle and picking up the now deformed silver tray from the floor that Lik used earlier as a weapon to halt the expansion of Jock’s head.

Steve smashed the ladle into the silver tray in the dead silence producing the sound of a loud bell, one would hear at a boxing match.

One of President De Gaulle’s top seven security guards named Jean Cantelaube sitting at the corner of the large marble-ish table by a standing President De Gaulle and his sitting wife Yvonne

193

and a sitting Georges Pompidou, Jean Cantelaube rocketed on to the top of the Royal luncheon table.

Coming out of his corner swinging wildly. Throwing hard punishing punches and yelling in Arabic Egyptian the way only the Zizib Kid could yell before the Zizib Kid hit the canvas, hard like a 75-millimeter shell hitting a cement bunker, for the count.  And bubbling ‘let me at the bum. I will rip him to pieces ‘then giving the final assassin’s salute before being counted out as Jean Cantelaube bent over in pain from elevator Bends and hit the canvas (The Royal Luncheon marble tabletop) like that 75 millimeter hell hitting a cement bunker, we just mentioned above, cracking the Royal Luncheon marble tabletop.

###

194

DEBRIEF 13

LES HALLES

DOWNTOWN PARIS

WEDNESDAY

22 AUGUST 1962

1657 HOURS

SOVIET ATTACK REDCOM IS ABOUT TO BE ACTIVATED:

LES HALLES was frantically busy as usual.   Knockout aromas carried by French cigarettes. North African Cigars, British pipe smoke, regurgitating sewers, animal waste, minor unexplained occasion explosions. The scent of the infamous cooking of Andouillette blood sausage stampeded about. All intertwined with what sounded like poor-man’s painful ‘Tarzan Jungle

195

Yells.’ (Similar to Steve’s when he fell off the balcony back in Royan.)

Sporadic small arms fire, trucks moving about and burning metal barrels with bizarre looking characters staring into the Penrod-soaked blazing hemp.

People singing the 1958 ‘Beep-Beep’ song by the Playmates. Accompanied now by the Old Timers standing a bit back from the fiery spark smokey spray coming from the red glowing metal barrel as they tried to harmonize with the old French Beep-Beep melody by humming Tchaikovsky, opus 39 Number three.

Strange sounds like loud ricocheting pinballs being battered to and fro. Voices of all timbers and directions blasting and echoing throughout the great marketplace. All participating in shouting battles to be heard.

196

Cows, sheep, chickens, some documented Yetis, and other creature’s strange exotic and not so strange or exotic protesting their treatment. All joining into the sounds of metal grinding on metal, cement and wood.

Cars honking all framed by piano music coming from the now, partially being rebuilt by men who seemed to be dressed as trolls, the infamous and famous ‘Jardin de Poubelle Café,’ still known affectionally to international foreign agents as the notorious, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’

Three tenths of a ton, Alma Frump herself, in a modified body cast with a straitjacket thrown casually over her shoulders Hollywood director’s style.  Sporting a new permanent wave dyed ‘Tint Hair Number 9’ and being lifted around giving orders from an ambulance type forklift. Signing eight by ten glossies to passing awe struck peculiars with her signature X. Yelling to impatient

197

tourist that crowded around her forklift, “If you want my signature go look in a dictionary,”

Yes, the old ‘Jardin de Poubelle’ which just illegally reopened after the curious happenings concerning an alleged ‘speeds faster than light.’ Trashed by hauntings of dissatisfied Spirts and accordion players in short pants. Now the Moulin Rouge music, escaping from ‘Alma Frump’s Dump,’ was amplified.

More tourists were drawn to the rebuilding and remnants of ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ seeming to crowd out the usual locals. The tourist came to possibly hear splotches of occasional low-grade machinegun fire. Experience outrageous time travel. In hopes to inhale gagging sulfur smells. Perhaps to experience explosions of antimatter being released, unexplained hauntings and dozens of other weird things.

198

It was a wonderful time to be in Paris in the early sixties.

Two top KGB Soviet agents, Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky are just passing a giant metal bin of sheep heads in Les Halles.

“They all look like they are peacefully sleeping, some even smiling at me. Swine sheep,” A twisted and held together by scaffolding ‘Major Creature’ noted as he peered from a smoldering brown paper bag.

A bandaged and scorched ‘Major Short Step,’ under severe Kremlin order’s makes Major ‘Creature’ wear over his head when they are just lurking in public together.

“I would say defiant sheep heads not smiling, rather definitely laughing at you ‘Creature,’ ” said Major ‘Short Step’ in a voice that only those who are in horrible pain of abusing Haldol would use.

199

“I told you not to call me ‘Creature’ Miroslav. You know my men call me that behind my back.”

“Everyone calls you ‘Creature,’ Why do you think I order you to wear a slow burning brown paper bag over your head filled with increment when we go out together or accidently tramp through our restaurant Major. Do not forget we are both Majors in the glorious Soviet Union KGB but I outrank you by thirty-two seconds.”

“Ahhh Phooey.  Thirty-one seconds you… I thought I was undercover KGB. Ordering me to wear that brown burning bag over my head in public is an insult to the KGB. After all I am the best of the best.”

“Nonsense you idiot. I cannot stand the horrifying cries for mercy and all the throwing up when people see your face.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Jest? Your troops have the longest morning sick call line in the glorious Soviet Army.”

200

Now look Miroslav you short piece of… Oh oh I am getting a nosebleed from my tallness again Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky bellowed. I feel my knee joints stiffening. I cannot bend my knees when I walk.  Oh no Miroslav my hands are beginning to turn a green pallor. In the name of Stalin’s Chiken feed stuffed bags he uses to have shoulders. Look, I am having a creature attack. I need another brown burning paper bag.

“You idiot ‘Creature’ I have not received the new brown, slow burning paper bag material yet from Moscow. Our beloved Soviet Union is running out of matches and slow smoldering brown paper bags because of you.”

“Aw, it is just everyone we pass tries to put the smoldering paper bag out by stepping on my head—”

201

“Wait,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias ordered. It is time.”

“Time?” Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky questioned. Surprise splattered all over pieces of his smoldering brown paper mug.” You mean it is ‘Howdy Doody’ time that Americans watch on their Soviet made televisions about this time? My watch must be fast. I do not understand Miroslav, we are wearing the latest Soviet no hour hand time pieces,” ‘Creature’ asked staring at his Soviet watch. “Oh no. Now my elbows and fingers stiffened up. And my fingers are hard as 7 penny nails.

Slow down ‘Short Step’ I am not able to walk as fast as you even though I am seven times taller than you.”

“No, you moronski,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias yelled. “It is not ‘Howdy Doody’ time. Stop watching the latest Hollywood movies on fantastic Soviet TV. It is REDCOM time. A glorious day for

202

the hammer and Sickle. And stop sneaking the peaks from under your brown paper bag.

“Ah yes, Hammerski and Sickleski two of my favorite Soviet musical composers. As Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky started to whistle the opening tune of ‘The King and I’ one of his favorite Soviet musicals before he was high stomped kicked by one of several hundred fake antismoking police who thought he was smoking under his smoldering brown paper bag.

The fake antismoking Soviet police excreted out of their tourist busses they had hired like a bad phlegm cough.

Many Russian Spetnaz troops, that were not attired in fake antismoking police cardboard uniforms, were dressed in Arab clothing started doing Russian ‘sit-down’ squat dance (Kazachok style) shouting out in Russian accented English

203

“Pardon me little lady, the sea is tossing this Missis sippi gambling Riverboat around like the glorious rush to get into Lenin’s tomb.”

The Soviets moved forward spreading out like squat dancing Lemmings about to commit suicide over high cliffs into a hungry sea. All this action to avoid suspicion of them being nuts.

From sewers and manholes in and around Les Halles they swarmed. Sticking up fake life-size cardboard cutouts of Gorillas wearing French police outfits with antismoking police sashes.

Unfortunately, the police uniforms, the mean-looking gorilla cardboard cutouts in police uniforms are uniforms that the police wore in the Napoleonic era. A minor slipup in Soviet political intelligence.

Thanks to Jock, Lik, Jacquie and Steve’s vital REDCOM dossier the real French police, French

204

military, French, American and British undercover agents were ready to stop Soviet REDCOM.

Several swat teams of mental health experts from Vienna carrying Sears and Roebucks catalogs were at the ready on the roofs of neighboring buildings. As were several dozen animal shrinks and whisperers and rumor specialist and assorted peculiars parachute ready to leap off rooftops naked if called into action. Also, the Paris Bingo Club providing rooftop refreshments and parlor games.

There were melees in all directions. Running, fighting, screaming, jousting, cursing, calls for medics and Philip Morris’s cigarettes.

Animals making their last-ditch efforts to escape and succeeding. Herds of bovines and non-bovines racing in Les Halles with exotic parrots on their backs seemingly urging the animals the four-

205

legged ones onward. Stampeding, snorting animals and humans, enormous tropical parrots riding anything with two or four legs that were charging, squawking, “we’re fwee, we is fwee.”

The notorious Jardin de Poubelle Café (alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’) no longer in freefall quickly taking advantage of the chaos putting out yellow signs with red lettering in French, English, Russian and in some type of ancient script reducing the price of their famous Jambon sandwiches and vin rouge, French cigarettes, bird seed and wooden milking stools ‘for this riot only’ were bustling with business and fights.

Many locals broke into ole French ‘Slap and Hurdle’ Apache dancing.  Old French Cancan music could be heard coming in waves from the Café’s inner core.

Thousands of French smokers resisting the fake antismoking Soviet soldiers dressed in their

206

Napoleonic era police uniforms. Resisting with extreme force.

The fake antismoking Soviet troops did not expect such brutal, horrible resistance when someone tries to stop a Frenchman from smoking let alone a French woman.

Many of the disguised Soviet troops, even the cardboard cutouts, so it seemed, started looking at their underground escape route maps which were, as Jacquie alluded to earlier, seriously out of date.

Manhole type coverings that had been blocked off for years, some for centuries were pried open thus allowing fumes and sounds of the past to enter the brouhaha.

Many Soviet fake antismoking agents wound up floating in the Seine River. Some locals say the Soviet agents vanished into other dimensions as they floated underground in the crisscrossing

207

sewers below the Jardin de Poubelle Café which was ‘Rockin’& Rollin’ away just a few feet above the doomed miscreants.

Other miscreants, it was noted later by rescue teams became permanent guests of the French catacombs. Then things started to get strange.

Hiding in an overturned bins of hog jowls and flowers Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and a nonfunctioning stiff Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky trying to raise their Soviet ‘Kremlin-at-Large contact on their Walkies Talkies.

“Calling Colonel Zaitsev. Calling Colonel Zaitsev at REDCOM command. This is Major Elias reporting on my Walkies Talkies. Project REDCOM is doing well. There is just one little Agghhhh…”

“We’re fwee. We is fweeee…” came an orchestra of squawking shriek calls from Parrots and

208

screaming Macaws and pounding hoof and shoe beats.

“Fwee?” Colonel Zaitsev roared, “Are you two idiots saying, ‘you are defecting?’ “Colonel Zaitsev raged.  “Allo. Allo comrades?”

It was a very good time to be in Paris in the early sixties.

###

DEBRIEF 13

THE ASSASSINATION OF CHARLES De Gaulle

PARIS

22 AUGUST

1850 HOURS

LOCATION: BARRIQUE DE GENDARMERIE GARAGE

CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES GROUNDS

209

President Charles De Gaulle and entourage are going to a small airport at Villa Coublay near Petit Clamart South of Paris.

Petit Clamart is a suburb of Paris. The Presidential limousine, an unarmored stretch Citron de 19 La Deesse (The Goddess) had a super hydropneumatics system. Automatically adjusted height that keeps the limo level in almost all terrain and can adjust any sane weight load. The stretch limousine can hold up to 12 persons if necessary but not advised by the manufacturer.

Once fully loaded, The Goddess, held up momentarily after a small weight and balance delay, and the President congratulating Jacqueline April for pointing out the assassin in his security team, departed almost quickly.

The Goddess burned rubber out of the police garage at the Hall of Deputies onto route 306

210

heading toward Petit Clamart and Villa Coublay Airport. President De Gaulle wanted to spend a few days at his farm after a very upsetting Royal Luncheon. It was getting dark, and the night was crying.

“Do not look so smug Steve,” Jacquie said in a low poisonous tone. I knew Jean Cantelaube on President De Gaulle’s Security team “was the punch-drunk assassin all the time.”

     “Of course, you did,” Steve said in a low  

       whispering growl and a sly smile.

“I really do hate you,” Jacquie whispered calmly without looking at him. Okay, Honor due. Clever the way you exposed the traitorous assassin.”

“How many people, animals and junk are in this Presidential moving van?” Steve growled scaring the small flock of elite champion

211

roosters and chickens President De Gaulle ordered to be taken with them to his hobby farm. Not to mention his prize-winning calf, Elsie.

Jacquie mocked Steve for complaining, “Obviously you have never traveled in a Presidential limousine before.”

Steve did have a point for piled in the Citron stretch DE 19 Goddess was the Chauffer Morrow. Next to him was a marvelous Autumn orange kitchen sink made by El Sink-Ole of Panama City, Panama to be installed in the President’s hobby farm and Dubois ‘The Midget.’

Monsieur Dubois preferred to be known as ‘The Midget’ among his Government Security team because he wanted to strike fear and discipline. The unspoken rumor was that he was just nuts but a top security agent. The

212

spoken rumor… well, he is he is a giant that suffered a serious accordion accident.

The Presidential limousine had a small sunroof opening above the latest kitchen sink. Dubois ‘The Midget’ sat on the Autumn colored kitchen sink and peered out the sunroof with his oversized special operation ‘Macho Man’ night goggles.

Dubois ‘The Midget’ kept yelling at Morrow the chauffeur to turn off his headlights as they interfered with Dubois ‘The Midget’s’ night visibility goggles.

“But Monsieur Dubois ‘The Midget,’ ” protested Morrow, “if I turn my headlights off then I cannot see where I am driving.”

213

“Ah,” Dubois ‘The Midget’ shouted, “Civilians. Ya got to love them. Then turn off your headlights and just use your dimmest running lights you fool.  And cannot this thing go any faster?”

“But Monsieur ‘The Midget, if I am driving With just the running lights on I need to slow down to see where I am driving.”

As the front seat arguing went on, squeezing in next to the Autumn orange sink and Dubois ‘The Midget’ was Lik Intensive Kon Unita and her partner Jock Unita compressed into the passenger side front door. Sitting on Jock’s lap was a security team member Monsieur Pont Neuf. His head compressed into the windshield.

“What’s all the hysteria about up in the front?” Steve growled. “I can’t see crapola.”

214

“What are you growling about Steve?” Jacquie’s stern voice drilled its way through human and animal flesh and heavy cast iron metal Autumn orange sink like a dentist tooth-drilling hitting a major nerve. “You are in the front section.”

“I am?” Steve challenged. “I seem lost in this menagerie of—”

“I need air for a moment,” a loud voice in Japanese blasted like a foghorn in an impenetrable fog as a sound of a side window exploded throughout the Presidential limo. A rush of fresh swamp aroma air fought its way in as the racing vehicle seemed to weave a bit.

“I need air,” came the tortured cry again. Octavus Uncontous, alias Ah So, (no connection with the secret Code Ah So) Sumo wrestler extraordinaire, and hobby farm guest of President De Gaulle bellowed.

215

President De Gaulle’s champion calf Elsie, he was also taking to his Getaway farm, started mooing uncontrollably. This mooing caused the small flock a Blue-Ribbon chicken to start to cluck insistently and flap their wings loosing many feathers in the now careening Goddess.

In the back row sitting next to the right-side passenger window was President De Gaulle, his beautiful wife Yvonne. Squeezed in next to her sat Georges Pompidou. We think. President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou kept changing seats with each other at unbelievable quickness.

Madame De Gaulle passed out from ultra-dizziness. Or, it might have been from the stack of thin Fun House mirrors in front of Madame De Gaulle she was forced to stare at during the trip.

216

Jacquie, who wasn’t quite sure where she was sitting in the speeding Goddess, and after the limo hit an outrageous bump realized she was now sitting on Steve’s lap with two other horizontal ‘Team Security’ men.

Somewhere scattered in President De Gaulle’s limo were other ‘Team Security’ people in various positions. Soft cries of help seem to go unanswered.

Rummaging through the crowd but well-behaved mob, coming out of nowhere and unauthorized was the crawling of a lunatic. Party number 60508 Publicist partially attired in his 14th Century Knights outfit hysterically screaming ‘I warn you,’ and snapping blinding flash bulb photos.    

“Someone just punched me,” roared Octavus Uncontous. His huge left arm smashing, this time, the rear most window of the limousine.

217

Just then the security car door alarm blared ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’ Followed by a psychedelic blinding light show from inside roof spelling out ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’

“Someone is trying to break in,” Steve blasted out.

“Idiot,” Jacquie quipped, “There is no room for anyone to get in the limo let alone the fact we must be travelling at 120 kilometers an hour moron.

“Always with the unimportant details,” Steve growled.

The calm smooth voice of President De Gaulle came over the speaker, “Remain calm everyone.” Then in an assured tone of peace

218

and tranquility addressed the chauffeur Morrow.

“Morrow, use your training of escape driving skills to dislodge anyone attempting to assault the Goddess.”

After 10 minutes of anti-assault maneuvering, driving up back alleys of small unnamed villages, unexplained blinding flash bulbs continuously exploding accompanied by excruciating painful repartee of ‘I warn you.’

Racing across partially moonlit landscapes of heavy forests, high hard bumps on non-existent roads, rickety wooden bridges, President De Gaulle gave the order, over cries of help and mercy, to return to the main road and resume to normal lunatic speed.

“The now broken light on the ceiling stating, ‘A Door is Ajar’ is off. And if you all would notice

219

the annoying voice repeatedly sounding ‘A Door is Ajar’ at super-supersonic speed has ceased.

Whomever the scoundrel, or scoundrels were trying to break-in to the Goddess Limo have been eliminated by the quick driving action of my professional security chauffer who has once again saved the day. May I suggest a hefty round of applause. And if you are able give yourself a round also.

All that could be heard were muffled moans and more cries for medics and Veterinarians.

“Morrow,” Georges Pompidou demanded, “Where are we? “I have not the slightest idea Monsieur Pompidou. I do not think I have been driving for the last three minutes. I think Iam in the back seat next to you.”

220

“Dubois,” President De Gaulle shouted.  “Where are you?”

“We lost Dubois ‘The Midget’ guy after the first hard bump as he went through the Sunroof.” Morrow gargled.

“Okay then. Everyone is accounted for,” Georges Pompidou announced.

After a few minutes everyone started to settle back down into the chaos before someone or a group of ‘someone’s allegedly tried to break into the speeding limo.

###

AMBUSH DEBRIEF FOLLOWS

221

BELOW

AMBUSH DEBRIEF

LOCATION: ON THE ROAD (N306}

APPROACHING PETIT CLAMART

WEDNESDAY

22 AUGUST 1962

2050 hours

“It is past sunset, they should have been here by now,” Georges Watda, a member of the OAS by proxy, known as ‘The Lame Woman,’ alias ‘La Boiteuse.’ Also known as the ‘Jackass’ and ‘The Real Jackal’ and other aliases squeal.

Georges Watda an assassin who likes to dress up in women’s clothes, which for some reason makes him walk pigeon-toe and limp.  Georges Watda also alias ‘The Limp,’ ‘The Lump,’ Clampit Rabinowtz, ‘The Jackass,’ and of course ‘The Real

222

Jackal,’ (Not Fat Eddie Illich Ramirez as Fat Eddie’s publicist claims.) complained as they sat on the side of the road in front of the Café Trianon in a yellow Renault Este Fette van in Petit Clamart.

Aside from Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Thorn’ who was the inconsolable boss and supposed to be a shooter and George Watda, a shooter.  Galan de la Tonaye, with an alias that was unpronounceable, another shooter in the yellow van and the driver alias ‘The Driver’ who also handled Walkies Talkies communications with the two other road vehicles. The Lookout car and the chase car incase Georges Watda and the other two shooters miss. In all there were 10 known assassins.

“We should call this whole thing off,” Georges Watda mumbled in non-understandable British to Bastien Thiry, leader of the assassination squad and a member of the Vieil Etat, also a retired

223

Major in the French Army and of course, Clinically Depressed.

The Vieil Etat, (The Old Way/Condition) is a clandestine organization within another secret organization the OAS (Organizational Army Secret} with dubious connection to officers in the French Army. To belong to this supersecret Vieil Etat one must have traceable roots that reach back to ‘The Jacobeans’ and Robespierre.  To be an officer in Vieil Etat one must be able to put a furnace or boiler together blindfolded.

“You Vieil Etat and OAS people are incompetent,” Squawked Georges Watda. After all I am the ‘Jackass’… er I mean ‘The Jackal’ the ‘Pigmy Hippo’ if you wish… the best assassin in the world. I must get out of this van so I can breathe.

“Regarde ‘Jackass’…or ‘Jackal’ or whatever the hell your name,” pleaded, Clinically Depressed, Bastian

224

Thiry, “Wait… I thought I was ‘The Jackass… I mean ‘The Jackal.’ “

“How many times must I remind you?” Georges Watda yelled, “You are the Red Panda.”

“Red Panda? Where the hell did that come from? I thought I was also ‘The Thorn’?” A clinically depressed Bastien Thiry cried out.

“Bastien Thiry continued, “Listen, you…you ‘Tete de Viande’ Watda, you are being paid beaucoup money to knock off De Gaulle as he passes by. Do you want to by a pair of American Dungarees or HiFi’s? Dirt cheap. I am overstocked back in my bedroom cellar of my parents apartment in Paris.”

“I still do not understand why I am being paid in Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda alias ‘The Jackal’ or ‘Jackass etc… cried out. I will have to carry my payoff in six suitcases.  U.S. dollars Or French or Swiss Francs would be much better.”

 225

“We went all over that, and I am not getting embroiled with you again,” a still Clinically Depressed Bastien Thiry shouted. “Are you sure I am not ‘The Jackal?’

Bastien Thiry made some bubbling noises with his mouth and insulting gestures with his arm and fingers, but not without Georges Watda returning the same arm and fingers gestures almost missing President De Gaulle’ speeding van, “Now about two hundred meters behind us is our lookout vehicle.  The Hungarian, Palmpilpest alias ‘The Hungarian’—

“Stop Thiry… If you give me one more freaken alias I will assassinate you. Right here.  Right now. I am beginning to feel sorry for De Gaulle.” Georges Watda wailed. In the distance a dog wailed back.

“Okay. Okay,” Bastien Thiry started to cry. “The  

226

Idiot Palmpilpest will signal us by Walkies Talkies when he spots De Gaulle’s limousine approaching any minute now. De Gaulle always sits in the back seat on the passenger side. All you have to do with your high-powered rifle is fire into the backseat as he passes.

The Hungarian is in the lookout vehicle, and he will give you plenty of notice. Now if you miss

De Gaulle, we have a chase vehicle.100 yards or so down the road that will chase them and machine gun everyone in the Limousine. No survivors.”

“I do not miss,” Georges Watda snorted defiantly. “You have my money ready.”

“There are six suitcases stuffed with Japanese Yen in the back of this Renault, all for you when De Gaulle is killed,” Jean Bastien Thiry started to cry again.”

227

“Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass, the Jackal the Pygmy Hippo, or whatever sounded off. “I ought to shoot you morons. Give me my confirmation and reservation for my room for the Wolf Hotel in Munich. Is my grey Deushbowl Citron 2 CV AZLM escape car waiting for me?”

“Oui, as promised,” a bleary-eyed Jean Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Red Panda’ or ‘The Thorn’ sniffed. “Behind the Café. With your phony license plate FL775 and your flip switch to revolve into a different license number.”

“Now where the blazes is De Gaulle? It will be very dark in another half hour,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass or the Jackal or the Limp, etc… sneered.  “You idiots said he would be here at sunset. We should call this whole thing off.”

The assassin’s Yellow Renault Este Fette van’s Walkies Talkies started to crackle as reports came

228

in from the Lookout and the Chase car wondering where the hell is President De Gaulle’s Limo?

Jean Bastien Thiry, laughing like a hysterical, tormented Jackal, thus his alias also, quieted everyone down by saying ‘We are all going to be killed.’  “I am going to wait in the café Trianon. Good Luck.  The driver, alias ‘The Driver’ alias ‘The Fiasco’… will take you to your ‘Jumping Off Point’ behind the Café Trianon place transfer your Yen after you assassinate De Gaulle.

A shot rang out creasing Jean Bastien Thiry’s skull.  

Watda could not believe he only creased Thity’s skull at such a close distance.

“I have to get a drink.” Jean Bastien Thiry left the van in tears due to his morbid clinical depression and morbid grotesque faces he was making holding his bleeding head.

229

Georges Watda, still giving Jean Bastian Thiry arm and insulting finger gestures as Thiry stumbled away. Thiry also returning Watda’s insulting gestures.

Watda laughed, blew smoke away from his rifle barrel inside the yellow van.

Jean Bastian Thiry was refused entry to the café Trianon because of his fast deteriorating mental and physical condition. And also, because the large waiter at the café’s entrance thought Thiry was giving him the insulting gestures as Bastien Thiry tried to enter the establishment.

Bastian Thiry wondered onto the main highway toward a TV store across the wide road, stumbling and holding his head.

“Attention…Attention came the excited voice from the lookout vehicle. “Hey Watda, what are you

230

doing sitting in the back seat of De Gaulle’s Limo? Looks like you guys are having one hell of a party in the passing limo. A lot of screaming and jumping around inside the passing limo.”

Grorges Watda prepared to fire again, this time at De Gaulle.  He also wondered how he could have missed Thiry’s head at such a close range of six or seven inches. “What are you talking about you moron? I am here in the shooters van ready to fire.

As Watda, fired at the passing Limo, President

De Gaulle’s Limo showed some idiot smashing up and down into the ceiling of the Goddess limo a number of times as he held a 12-volt sparking battery shocking everything in the Presidential Limo.

Simultaneously, flashbulbs kept popping among the shouts of ‘I warn you,’ animal noises, Sumo

231

grunts. All like a weird nightmarish celebratory horror dream.

The Presidential Limo started to pass the assassins yellow  onRenault van. Georges Watda and others to open fire, blasting away, the Presidential Limo which swerved to miss some crying stumblebum, holding his head, staggering across the main highway toward a TV store on the other side of the street.

That crying stumblebum, holding his head causing the Presidential Limo to swerve probably saved everyone’s life in the Limo at that point. The was later award ‘The Unknown Pathetic Stumblebum Award’ for saving the President’s Life.

More shots rang out followed by more shooting from the yellow Renault.

“Yikes! That is me sitting in the back seat. I just shot myself,” Georges Watda ‘The ‘Jackal’ alias ‘The Real Jackal’ screamed-cackled.’

232

President De Gaulle’s Limo flew by with shattered windows and many bullet holes in it. An ear-piercing suicidal Bonsai scream emanating from the Limo faded as the Presidential Limo shot by.

 After the shooting stopped, there was complete silence. A dark grey ‘Deutsch bowl’ chase car, about twenty meters past the assassin’s rifle smoking yellow Renault van, was parked on the side of the road. The silence broken as the ‘Deutsch’ bowl’s engine tried to turnover and start to no avail. Cursing of several rifle-toting Hungarian men, as they tried to start their car, could be heard.

 A lamppost light showed a tired breeze urging a torn piece of old, damp, dirty Paris newspaper crossing the bullet shell covered road.

The item of interest read in part… “Have You Seen This Man?’ It was an artist sketch of Jock Unita wanted for questioning in a 10 million Franc bank

233

checking fraud case. ‘May be disguised as a woman dressed as ‘Mother Hubbard wearing a straitjacket.’

###  END OF DEBRIEF  ###

I’ll always remember the craziness. Love ya kid,

forever…          bill,

ONZE de la croix ROUGE

copyright

19 APRIL   1300 hours 1963 Original cc

02 March 1500 hours 2010: Updated. cc

Classified Material Removed by U.S. Department

of Defense. Section 8 Division.

###

Love letters to follow:

Nanny Lud Has Just Been Murdered… Again.     cc

Hysterical… The Precursor to ISIS.  cc          

Jerkwater U.S.A. cc

The Cobblers Ville Proposition.  cc  

Secrets of The Ancient Stone Forest. cc

Etc…

[truthandlove]

God Rebuke the ‘Dark Winter’

Friends, this is our opportunity to pray this out loud and share. Let all things "dark winter" backfire and let a harvest of Righteousness spring forth instead!

We call upon the power of Almighty God. This weather is yet another weapon because satan hates humanity, hates America, seeks to steal/kill/destroy our economy, our infrastructure, but most of all, hates FREEDOM and hates our souls.

This weather weapon is oppressing many. Causing great cost, loss and suffering. Father God, we bring all this situation before YOU - your throne of Grace. Father God, cause GOOD even from this! We know YOU can do it, for you can do all things. Cause many to wake up, get serious about preparing - spiritually and physically. Cause much PRAYER to go forth at this time of so many in unexpected very dire cold. Cause hearts to REPENT of trying to shove you to the side and doing life their own way. Let the suffering of the cold bring CLARITY to lives, priorities, and give us WISDOM.

Utilities fail us, politicians just fumble around, looking for someone to blame. Man is NOT the answer. But YOU are.

You are GREATER. You are Lord. We need You, and Your intervention, in hearts/souls/lives and also in the literal weather. SMASH the evil control machines, their weaponized frequencies, their lust for power. DESTROY the ego of tyrants as only YOU can humble them! We rebuke the accuser in Jesus' Name! We rebuke Asmodeous in Jesus' Name! Bring the principalities in chains before You, for Your judgements on their crimes.

Remember the humans you love. Deliver us. Restore us. But NOT so we can go on our merry way and forget about Your goodness, as we see in the Bible that Israel did, so many times after your miraculous interventions into their crisis. Let Your love and goodness become REAL, to all those suffering in the cold. Let the warmth of your goodness become REAL to our hearts and tangible to our bodies. Increase our faith, we pray! Reveal YOUR Glory in all this. Demonstrate Your sufficiency. You are greater. You are greater than this weather weapon! This "dark winter" is resonating with spiritually cold hearts! We need You, we need grace for repentance and revival of cold, American hearts. You can change the heart. We need you.

Time and space sprang forth at You Word. Speak, Father, on our behalf. Thwart the schemes of the wicked. They lust for control, but make it BACKFIRE, we pray. Let Your Control be shown, your control for GOOD and not evil, into the here and now. Let the crisis disappear as fast as it came. But don't let the LESSONS, the truth about You, disappear from our hearts/minds. Tattoo them on our souls and keep them before our eyes.

Let everyone know the politicians cannot be trusted, the infrastructure and the utilities cannot be trusted, but YOU can be trusted. They don't have the real power, but YOU do. Let lives and families become ANCHORED into Jesus Christ, the ROCK of salvation that overcomes all storms and crisis.

Let this "dark winter" agenda be REBUKED at the blast from Your nostrils (Exodus 15:8 and Psalm 18:15). Let Your command go forth. Let Your Word spring into action. Let Your will speedily manifest, for you are El Gibbor - the Mighty God, and El Eleyon - the Most High God. See the suffering of so many and turn it back, like the waters of the Sea of Reeds, so the people You love, can go through this situation, unharmed, and preserved. Let Your Name be glorified. Let the fallen principalities tremble. Let the arrogant and wicked be struck to the very ground with the Fear of the Lord God.

We thank You - that You are Large and In Charge. Thank you for this hour of need, so we can see the TRUTH - the crisis they intended for evil is YOUR crisis, but not for evil, instead to bring clarity, that only YOU can be trusted. Let all hearts enthrone You, this very day. Great is the Lord God and all things are possible for you, just as all things are possible for those who put their faith/trust in YOU.

All things are possible for him who believes! (Mark 9:23)

With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible! (Matthew 19:26)

All things are possible with Christ, who infuses me with His strength. (Phillipians 4:13)

Where the enemy meant harm, let trust in You prevail instead. Let shouts of Joy burst forth instead. WE PRAISE YOU IN THE STORM. "O God my Strength, I will sing praises to You, for You, O God, are my fortress, the God who shows me steadfast love!" (Psalm 46:10 ESV). Love that (unlike men) is unfailing and completely true.

Let eves and hearts turn back to YOU. Take revenge on the wicked, Lord God. Father protect Your people as You are faithful to do. Let the schemers and the heartless be ashamed, and bound up in eternal frustrations. But let all who call upon the Name of the Lord God, lift up their heads. Let them REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE. Let them see clearly who is God for real, and where they have been serving many idols of comfort, convenience, and selfishness.  We throw away idols (false dependencies) as WORTHLESS, and we grab onto Jesus and the kingdom of God, as worth everything, as our Priceless Pearl.

We ask for a great GRACE to come forth from Your Throne, Lord God, and blast away the idols of America, the idols within those that identify themselves as Your church, the idols that are in the way of more of YOU flowing through us to this world. Let us lift up the Name of the Lord. Let the fear of the Lord, and the awe of both your love and your severe hatred of sin FALL NOW upon America. Revive cold/dead HEARTS. We need Your fires of revival! Turn those at odds with each other, back to harmony, a harmony centered around YOU.

We do not trust the supposed answers and provisions of men, in their confident sounding promises, but inability to deliver. We are secure and glad ONLY in You. We thank you that, even now, YOU are turning the tide of this weather weapon.

Let small and great alike be forced to acknowledge that it is YOU, confound the weathermen, and show up on the scene in power and glory, in deliverance as only YOU can. YOU are great and greatly to be praised. We thank You for every hardship as a reminder and motivation to get really clear on where all life and goodness comes from. Hallelujah. Let it be so and amen, Father God, in the Holy Name of Jesus!

[teamwerepiresoflondon]

AHOOOOO! After our premiere in 2016’s GISHWHES, Team Werepires of London is back and looking to win, and we want YOU! This team was a competitive team last year, but now that we have had the experience of how far Gishers will go, I feel that we will be even more competitive and have a better understanding of what need to happen in order for us to A) have maximum fun, and B) TO WIN! That being said, we welcome Gishers of any experience level as long as you are willing to dedicate the vast majority of your time to the hunt. Also, if you know more than us and are on our team, we are not going to try to be the boss of you, but no matter who is the most experienced, we will be working as a team of friends.

I haven’t recieved replies from some of last year’s members on whether or not they will be in the hunt, but I know for sure that there are AT LEAST TEN SPACES OPEN!

Below are our qualifications and our team’s application. WE WILL BE ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS UNTIL JULY 15. I hope you decide to join us!

The team is currently comprised of:    Amalia @whatdowedoaboutcasifer​    Kaleigh @rememberozzie​    Miriam Our team’s tumblr page is @teamwerepiresoflondon​.

Our qualifications are as follows: 1. Read the commandments and be of age. Also read the FAQs. Basically, know what you’re dealing with. Period.

2. Be a team player. If you suspect that you are going to be at odds with team members more often than you get along, then, well, that kind of makes being on a team pretty pointless. Don’t be afraid to interact with the team— we’re all crazy enough to put our heads on the Gishwhes chopping block, so let’s do it together.

3. Ask for help if you need help. That’s what the whole team thing is about— we have each others’ backs.

4. Speak fluent English. GISHWHES is a global hunt, and we would love to have people from all over the world— but it will be very hard to not only do all of the completely insane stuff Misha will have us doing AND have a language barrier.

5. Have access to a good camera and computer or phone with internet. We need to have good quality images and videos— unless your phone has a very good camera, cell phone pictures WILL NOT WORK. Good lighting and good composition is a must!

6. Make sure that you are FREE the week of GISHWHES. If you can’t be relied upon to show up, it will be hard on all of us. This is a competitive team, so clear your calendar and be available when we need you. Once you are in the hunt, you are in the hunt!

7. Be open to receiving AND GIVING criticism. If another team member thinks that something can be improved, listen to them. If you think something can be improved, SPEAK UP!

8. You don’t need to be rich to play. Having money to spend the week of the Hunt helps tremendously, but it in no way is a qualification to be on our team of to participate in GISHWHES. Sometimes, yes, some of the best entries are more elaborate and better funded, but the real point here is to be creative and to have fun.

9. Fill out the application and the heck on our team! CLOSING DEADLINE FOR APPLICATIONS IS SATURDAY, JULY 15. Here’s our application— it won’t take too too long. Email your application to [email protected]. We will read through them all and decide as a team. YOU NEED TO BE AVAILABLE WHEN WE CONTACT YOU TO JOIN THE TEAM!

Application: NAME/AGE/FIRST LANGUAGE ALL YOUR CONTACT INFORMATION: Any social media you have, your email, your phone number (whether we can both call and text you), etc. Facebook seems like the easiest option for group communication, so PLEASE, get a Facebook if you don’t already have one. Our team is on tumblr as well, so having a tumblr is a definite plus. Please also sign up for Skype if you don’t have one, and send your name and handle! LOCATION AND TIMEZONE: We really don’t want to accidentally wake you up in the middle of the night when it’s noon our time. Where you are and what timezone you are in will be a tremendous help. SKILLS: What do you do well? Put everything you can think of in there. Don’t exaggerate because that won’t help anyone, but don’t sell yourself short, either. If you fancy yourself good at baking, tell us you’re good at baking. Don’t hold back. WHO DO YOU KNOW: If you have connections with anyone that you think would be valuable to us— weathermen, chimney sweeps, squirrel breeders— tell us about them. EDITING KNOWLEDGE: Do you make gifs? Edit videos? Do you know how to use Photoshop and all that jazz? Animation, maybe? Do tell. PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE/PORTFOLIO: Have you done Gishwhes before? Send pics of your own creations and work. If you haven’t done GISHWHES, but you have a portfolio that you feel is relevant, please link us to it! HOPES FOR GISHWHES: What do you want to happen this year during GISHWHES? Do you want to become more confident? Learn things? Meet people? Just have fun? You don’t have to make up anything cheesy to go with this one, just be honest. If you’re just in it because it looks fantastic, say so! And last but not least, tell us about yourself. Tell us about your adventures. Brag about the things that people get tired of hearing you talk about. Sob stories, backstories, that one time you got stuck in a mountain resort for months and tried to kill your family, we want to know it all. Be prepared for an intense and unforgettable week of, well, who knows? See you on the front lines!

#teamwerepiresoflondon #gishwhes2017 #gishwhes application #gishwithus

[etalablog]

Et Al a Blog: Trump: Empathy and Understanding

Please consider this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bd79UsXSLWg

There are two disclaimers I wish to make about this blog: First, I am not a Doctor and unqualified to diagnose personality or physiological disorders (but will anyway) and second, I am NOT (in this blog anyway) mocking, attacking or even disagreeing with our new President, Donald J. Trump. On this latter point, this blog is instead truly a serious attempt for me to find empathy with and, perhaps, understanding of the man himself.

Bob Dylan, easily the most influential poet of my generation, once voiced “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows”,  a phrase that, for you 60’s history buffs, gave the radical underground group “The Weathermen” their name. Aside from this unfortunate association, it has always been for me, profound.

And so it is with my feelings and observations about Donald Trump. It is obvious to many, myself certainly included, that Donald suffers from some form of personality disorder which makes him utterly unable to deal with criticism. It leaves him spouting “facts” frequently absent even a limited understanding of our world or history. If this sounds like an “attack”, I assure you it is not, merely an observation, regardless of the efficacy of any policies he may espouse. 

If anything, I have complete empathy with him, growing up as I did struggling with ADD. But because my ADD was also in the context of a loving and supportive family (themselves all academically successful), I have been able to deal with it, by losing myself in books and music until maturity and experience freed me from worse impacts of my disorder.

Previously in this blog, and in casual conversation, I have even postulated the cause of Trump’s disorder, a domineering and perfectionist father who demanded that he be the very best at everything, but whose failures to do so led him, along with other like children of the wealthy, to be a resident at a private Military School through his adolescence. In of itself, I still believe this may well be what happened to him. “Poor little rich kid”, as we used to say. Whatever, he is transparently driven to be narcistic and compulsive.

And how flippantly I have used these observations to attack, dismiss or even fear him.

In the video linked below, the presenter raises serious concerns, based on evidence, about Donald’s ability to read. This is not the only time this question has been raised. The comedian Samantha Bee has also raised this as a possibility, although her observations, are clearly meant to be humorous as have been other video’s, etc. of this ilk. But, perhaps, these “attacks” are missing a salient point; maybe it’s really true he has a reading disorder.

The first thing that occurred to me upon watching this video is that he suffers from dyslexia, or reading disorder. It is, after all, a common disorder, effecting something like 8% of the population. According to Wikipedia, “Problems may include difficulties in spelling words, reading quickly, writing words, "sounding out" words in the head, pronouncing words when reading aloud and understanding what one reads“.

Much has been made, as it should, of his mocking a reporter with an obvious physical impairment. But for those of us appalled by his behavior, perhaps this should be tempered by the realization that our dismissive attitudes and attacks on him, may be no less morally repugnant.

Try to imagine, if you will, trying as a child of a success driven father to make sense of the conflicting visual signals called “reading” that his peers are seemingly able to do with ease. It is a well known phenomena that children afflicted with dyslexia often are seen as “troubled”.

Send this otherwise bright child off to Military School and Donald J. Trump is what emerged. Learning to cope with his disorder by a variety of methods, he has managed to become, in his mind anyway, what his father always demanded: “perfect”.

Now try to imagine meeting the demands of being President without the benefit of being able to read, relying only on what others tell him or he can watch on TV and movies. Obama, a brilliant academician, struggled to keep up with the demands of researching issues and policies, frequently working by himself late into the night. Trump, apparently, only watches television and makes phone calls.

What if his story is one of heroically overcoming a reading disorder and his father to become President of the United States? If Barak Obama overcoming a “foreign” name, a broken home and racism to become President is a quintessential American success story, so surely is Donald J. Trump’s own journey. What a role model he could be for all the troubled and tortured kids also suffering from these disorders!

But because of his personality disorder, even if it resulted from his (postulated) dyslexia, will not allow him to admit to it, his story is, instead, a tragedy worthy of the ancient Greeks. I can only wonder what ending Fate has written for him in this play and what it foretells for all of us.

And me? I will no longer mock him for his illness.

How callous, how hypocritical of me to do exactly what I found most abhorrent of Trump’s behaviors, mocking people for their physical appearances, limitations, handicaps. All attributes, like dyslexia, they have no control over.

#EtAlaBlog

[tessatechaitea]

Black Lightning: Cold Dead Hands #1

I'm genuinely surprised DC didn't fuck up the title and call it "Black Lightening."

Is Black Lightning insulting news weathermen?

I'm not entirely sure what calling yourselves The Weathermen has to do with your mental development being stalled at obvious (and whether or not that actually means anything). Is it because Black Lightning thinks weathermen just stick their hand out of the window and report on what they felt as if nobody else in the local area can do that? So when they say, "It's raining," Black Lightning goes, "Duh! Why did I need you to tell me that!" But they also forecast the weather and that's not obvious to the general layperson, Mr. Lightning! I mean, sure, they're not always right. But when they say storms are expected in three days when it's completely sunny, I wouldn't characterize that as obvious! Maybe I'm just rushing to judgment based on one bad one-liner from Black Lightning. I mean, it's entirely possible that I just don't get the reference. Was there a young adult book recently called The Weathermen about a group of people who were super obvious? Oh! That gives me an idea how this moment could have been improved. The gang could have called themselves The Young Adult Novels because then the mental development being stalled at obvious crack would have made sense! What Young Adult novel in the last ten years hasn't been about a young person who sees through the lie of society and winds up being super special and unique? During the battle, the police watch the criminals blast a hunk of the casino's side off the building so that it will plummet to the ground, endangering everybody standing around filming the incident with their phones. Black Lightning diverts the sign using an "electromagnetic thing" so that the sign falls on a SWAT van instead of on people. The police react appropriately for a comic book (and maybe real life too?):

I didn't know politely and reasonably explaining reality to an enraged police officer with his gun in your face allows you to simply walk away safely. Has anybody actually tried this?!¹

The man behind the Weathermen is Tobias Whale. Not the weird Tobias Whale from DC Universe Presents Black Lightning and Blue Devil. That was his nephew and he's dead now. This is the real Tobias Whale who is really into the whale theme. He has a picture of whales on his office wall, he kills his sister with a model whaling ship, and he has assistants named Queequeg and Pequod. I bet I know what he calls his penis.

Apparently there's a race war happening in the DC Universe.²

Black Lightning's first appearance in town in years is heroic. He helps stop some criminals from hurting people. But as soon as he arrives, the bad guys change their tactics from robbing places to getting back at the superhero. So once again, lazy writing proves that the city would be better off without Black Lightning having come back. Because at least if Black Lightning didn't show, the danger would be over until the next robbery. Now the criminals have come right back out to challenge him or they're going to hurt innocent civilians. I'm beginning to think superheroes should all be more like The Punisher. If you're known for murdering the fuck out of a criminal, the criminals are going to be less likely to call you out. Although being comic books, even that line of reasoning can be flushed down the toilet. I'm sure there are plenty of Punisher stories where the criminal syndicates are all, "Big money for the person who bags The Punisher!" Then war erupts all over New York and thousands of people die but The Punisher isn't one of them. In the end, he kills all of the bad guys who were out to kill him and the reader is supposed to enjoy that ending while ignoring how many innocent people died during a conflict that wouldn't have happened if The Punisher didn't exist.

And there it is! Instead of being an inspiration to the people of the city, the hero is written as a pariah and a harbinger of doom.³

Black Lightning arrives on the scene to help out the cops and to come out of the closet.

I mark the boundary of my loss of innocence as the day I suddenly couldn't stop giggling at the phrase "back door."

Black Lightning takes down the criminals easily but then Tobias Whale's assistant, Miss Pequod, zaps them to death so it looks like he electrocuted them. Everybody believes it immediately and now Black Lightning is on the run. I hope next issue introduces a cigar chomping news editor who wants Black Lightning taken down while also demanding photographs of him in action for the paper. Black Lightning: Cold Dead Hands #1 Rating: As for the quality of the writing on a technical level, it wasn't bad. But as a comic book that decided it didn't mind using all of the dumb comic book tropes where the good guy winds up being wanted by the non-powered good guys, it also wasn't bad. I mean that if I had to rate it on using those tropes, I'd have to say, "9 out of 10 Stars! It used all the terrible tropes!" But I don't actually mean it that way, do I? I was beginning to have a little hope for this series until that moment when Black Lightning was framed. Why the fuck do comic book creators think the best way to tell a superhero story is to have all the regular good people against the super powered good person? So dumb. ______________________________________________________________ ¹Do not actually try this! Unless you're a white male. And then you don't even have to be polite or reasonable! ²Unless it's a war between good looking people and dumpy, average people. ³I think I have Crisis on Infinite Earths on my brain.

#Black Lightning #Cold Dead Hands #DC Comics