Dance of the Clowns

The man in the gray suit looked at his pocket watch. It did not work. It was meant to be a reminder. He stood on the top of the tower. A storm was brewing somewhere to the East. He was joined on the tower by the white rabbit. The rabbit had a bionic eye, bright red like a ruby, and was wearing a black waistcoat.

It spoke with a curiously deep voice, “The time has come. Agent Lenko has gone rogue. He slaughtered a grab team on the Sphinx. Embalmed it in blood. He must be stopped.” Mayer was an analyst. He worked on the countless realms of possibilities that branched out every time an agent made the leap. The Agent Lenko mentioned here, was one of the best agents the Ministry ever had.

“Who is available?” asked Mayer.

“Tatarov is in 1898, overseeing the London tube construction. J.D. is lost in transition. Bae Park retired. Anderson is down with a virus. Murfy was enticed by the Lotus Eaters. Jane has gone DOE. You get Duff.”

None of these are real names. Everyone goes under a fake one. It is essential to preserve a sense of identity. Also, no one ever reveals their real ones. It is a job risk. Except for Duff.

Duff is a chain smoking, arrogant, wise ass who loves to circumvent authority.
Duff went to the edge of reason and looked down into the ravine. He saw nothing interesting so he came back.
Lenko went to the edge of reason and looked down into the ravine. He saw nothing interesting so he decided to go deeper. He ended up the way he is now.

“I do not like Duff. But I follow orders. I do not expect a repeat of the Moscow incident.”
The Rabbit looked pained. It was an obvious thorn in his bureaucratic paw.
However, he managed to say, “Auf wiedersehen”.

The Rabbit took out a pocket watch and turned a few dials. A wormhole opened right next to him, on the grass carpeted tower.

“Dan will set co-ordinates. I will talk to George.”
The Rabbit jumped in, vanished; probably heading to China.
…

Oleg Lenko stared at the Zeppelin, as it rose towards the heavens. He smiled, as a cruel child would, looking up at it from the balcony. He was holding a fellow agent at gunpoint.
“On a large enough scale, each one of us is an ant. My grandpa loved those little critters. Ants, walking a straight line. So full of purpose. They know it, you know? They know what they are on Earth for. Not like us. Not like people. Look at those specks down there. Walking, ambling, crawling. With no sense, purpose, no honour. What are we without these things? Worse than dead. Thank me later.”, he said to the scarred and beaten agent.

“Oleg, you don’t have to do this. You can be better than this.”

Oleg turned to face him. He pressed the red button. Golden flames erupted on the ship. Behind Lenko, the Hindenburg disaster unfolded. He raised the Glock and pointed it at the agent.

“All of you are like hydrogen atoms to me. I can play God. Who wants to be better?”

He squeezed the trigger. The bullet smashed into the agent’s face.

Lenko walked up to the balcony. He looked up at the flaming wreck and said quietly, “Oh! the Humanity, Oh! The Humanity.”

A twisted smile made its way around his face, as he stepped on to the rails and jumped down, into the awning wormhole, humming Dance of the Clowns.

[a sort of prologue to my nanowrimo attempt]

The House of Grant - Chapter II

“So, Professor Lowe, now that we have established that you are no better than other men, let us get on with the business.” This woman was Lady Clarissa Grant. She was a complete albino. She was cursed to live in the dark and she used this too her advantage. Controlling the whole village from her seat of mystery.

“I did as I was asked to by your private ape, Bartholomew. I gained entry to the house of Mr. Daly. I used a standard practitioner trick, the hand of glory. It is the hand of a hanged man, dried, dipped in wax, made into a candle. Opens doors, immobilizes occupants and fascinates party guests. I used the tools to break into the wall. I found the box there. The house was a convent before. So thar’s that.”

“Very well, Professor Lowe. Now we get to work. The box as you may know was made of the same stone on which the first Lady of House Grant was murdered by those savages. The box contains her heart. It is supposed to have trapped one of the spirits that rules the netherworld. And now here it is. I am pleased.”

She did not look pleased. She never was. The blood red eyes could only muster pity and condescension.

“So, here is the key. Which I procured independently as a gift to you. Now the small matter of my final payment.”

Derision was writ in her eyes when she said, “Yes, how could I forget? Bartholomew, hand over to him the deeds to the manor. With the power that this box brings me, I don’t need this hellhole.”

She took the key and moved towards the box.

“Lords of the Darkness, your freedom is at hand. I am your servant. I ask only one thing. Mercy in your madness. Appear in a shape that I am fit to witness... Please.”

The box hissed slowly and the lid opened with a bang. There was a puff of smoke and then nothing.

“You lying scum! You tricked me! Lowe, I will not –”

Color flooded Lady Clarissa’s lifeless cheeks. For the first time in her tortured existence, she looked human. Bartholomew rushed to her aid, fearing the worst.

“Don’t touch me. Ape.” The words were like a cold dagger to all those who heard them. Bartholomew froze in place.

“But I was only trying to help you, M’lady.”

“I DON’T NEED ANY HELP! Be the monkey that you always were.”

Bartholomew was now an ape. Surprisingly, the tuxedo still fit him nicely.

“And you, Lowe. What are you? A pig, maybe or a weasel.”

Froth formed at her blue lips and her eyes looked like sunken pits of congealed blood. She tried using her powers again. Lowe stood unperturbed.

“In the house of Mr. Daly, along with the box, was an inscription in some rudimentary dialect. I am no fool, Madam. Your power won’t work over me. The shaman did his job right. The shaman’s servant did his job better. The box contains not the heart of the first Lady of House Grant. It holds the heart of the Shaman.”

Lowe ripped open his jacket to reveal a seal bearing an inscription in the same savage dialect of the tribe. The seal shone with an eerie light. Lady Clarissa screamed as if stabbed by a dagger. She turned away from the seal, “TAKE IT AWAY!” 

“By the names Lonim, El Morrh and Nehen Syeth Nehen. By the name of Ado, the saint, your jailer, whose corruption and malignance protects me. And by your own name, Homir, a minor disturbance in the bowels of this rock. By knowing the name, I command power over thee. I know your kind are liars and the Shaman must have tricked you into submission. So, By his name and his words, I command thee to obey me.”

The woman collapsed to the floor. When she rose up, It was a different voice that spoke. A voice that rumbled through the house.

“Very well, human. Command me.”

“Yes, the usual. Wealth and riches. I know it isn’t original but I don’t have many needs. Nevermind, I am just messing with you. Just go back quietly into your lithic prison and stay where you are. I command you in the name of Ado, the shaman who trapped you.”

The woman leapt towards him. Lowe quickly grabbed the box and held it open, trapping the spirit inside.

“Stupid bitch.”

--

Bartholomew, the ape wasn’t seen or heard of. 

The villagers didn’t care about the House of Grant. 

A week later, the manor was sold to a Hollywood starlet. She was determined to hunt down ghosts. 

She was contacted, a month later, by a certain Professor Lowe who claimed he could find any ghost she wanted. 

All he wanted was her autograph on a blank cheque.

The House of Grant - Chapter I

A time when man was more of an animal than he is now, though some would surely dispute that, there was a man, bent by his own greed. His lust for power and an ambition to conquer the worlds lead him down a dark and dangerous path. A path that saw him surrender to forces far greater than him. Puissant spirits of utter malevolence. He was driven to the brink by them and dangled there. He begged for mercy and pledged undying loyalty to them. They freed him in return for complete servitude. His tribe called him Shaman.

This man, the Shaman was not very happy. He was old and sick now. Most likely to be stabbed to death by one of his own power-hungry underlings. He, however, had a duty to perform. A ritual. He commanded his servant to bring him the book.

The woman was bound to the black slab of stone. Gagged. She was completely clothed in black. Moonlight bounced off her translucent face and slid off the stones casting eerie shadows. A face, so pure and unmarked, that one could see through it. She was unconscious. His underlings begun chanting. He raised his azure knife and muttered a few arcane words. Words of power. Words that sent a shiver through the gathered vermin. The knife flashed as it dived toward her heart.

The stone was stained in her blood. The shaman was never happy. He was content now and he smiled like a man freed of his duties. He laughed in his big booming voice. A flash of light caught his eye. He could see the servant’s knife glinting close to him. The knife was nestled in his heart. He died satisfied.

Scotland. In the present.

There is a single house on the hillock. It looks like a crooked old raven when seen from the distance. It is a house of disrepute and sickness. A sign of nature’s triumph over frail human will. It is the House of Grant.

One man stands in front of this house now.

Peyton Lowe. Born German, raised British. Professor of very old follies and fungus.

He has a briefcase in hand, an umbrella in another. He is dressed as befitting a gentleman yet somehow exuding an air of shabbiness that is characteristic to those of the scholarly kind. He takes hold of the rusty knocker and taps twice on the door. The door creaks. A butler opens the door. He is a specimen of no real distinction. Lowe steps in and immediately, he is swallowed by the house. The darkness gropes at him with cold, lonely fingers.

“Excuse me, could you take my coat and case?”, he says and turns around.

“You will have to excuse Bartholomew, my butler. He is old and his hearing is not as good.” The voice is old, clammy and repulsive. Light is scarce inside and as his eyes adjust to the dark, his eyes find the source of the voice. He is quick to control his shock but not quick enough.

She has reptilian scales for skin.

Bugged

"I just got up normally, you know. Fine morning. I was standing with my car. She is a fine lady. The engine was warm though. I thought I might have forgotten to take the keys out. So, I looked in and no keys. But I notice something else. An extra 100 or so miles on the clock. Fuck I say to myself. Fucking Fuckerson. I keep note of all those little numbers. It is fun. Might have made a mistake, Landsman I say.Never driven in my sleep. Never driven much actually. Bessie used to drive. She loved it, god bless her tired soul. I pick up the newspaper and it is all creased and folded. Now, I ain't got no neighbours. I figure, it might be some of them pesky kids. Sometimes, I wanna shoot one of those. Never had any. I shrug and I enter the kitchen.The light is on. It should not be. There is some leftover capicollo in the fridge. There is a half eaten bacon sandwich on the table. So, I go to the cops. They give the amount of fuck an old man gets in this country of liberated fucks. So, I get back. As far as I know, no one else has access to my file. Then I watch some TV and I go to sleep."

He took a gulp of air and water. Thanked himself and continued.

"I usually wake up around 3 am. I feel uneasy. Gradually, I realize there's someone else in my bed. It is a woman. Bessie. She smells of sweat and stale perfume. I don't even know what stale perfume is. She is also wearing one of those leather things that they use for those perverts. You know, those BDSM things. Those. I usually struggle to get up at this point. I recoil, gasp and curse. She puts on her flirty voice and asks if I want one of those wet nightmares."

Bessie has been dead for 8 years.

"Some sort of foul oddment, a tweak in the code of being. A- A, an exception! Is she for real? Is she my Bessie? Either way, I have got problems."

"I understand completely Mr. Landsman but don't you think it is a little odd that you are telling all this to a giant bug that is having tea in your kitchen with you?"

There was a giant bug in Mr. Landsman's kitchen, sitting at his table, sipping chai and eyeing that half-eaten sandwich.

"I hadn't thought of it that way before. Dear me. This is worrying. I should get my gun."

He went to the living room.

"What are you guys doing here?"

There was a family of 3 sitting on a couch in his living room, watching TV.

The dad wore a floral dress with purple polka dots. He had a caribou for a head.

The mom wore a business suit and a hat. She had a bulb for a head.

Their kid was a bowl of punch.

"Oh, fuck this. I will just kill all of you. Fucking with my mind like this, you got no right."

The door to the cupboard was slightly open. Apart from being a handy place to keep a gun and a vat of generic expressions, it was a cosy place. So, he kept his wife's dead body there.

"Just to remind myself that you are dead. Everything is wrong here. I have no idea why that clock is trying to defy time and those babies have no business being up there on the ceiling. What is going on here? WHAT is happening to me?"

The bug was back. OR maybe he never left. He spoke.

"You know it Landsman. You have known it since you woke up. There is no use denying it. Bessie is dead. You killed her. You kept her body so that you could stay. It was your ticket to sanity. But it wasn't enough. Your mind has eaten itself. The chip has corroded. You looked into the abyss and now, their is abscess in your mind. Fuck, who writes these lines? Jeez."

"So, what are trying to say? I am not insane. I won't be called crazy. I heard where they took Albie. I won't go there. I won't. I will kill everyone."

"Oh no, no. I am your friend, Landsy. I am on your side. I am your bug. I am you now. We are in this together. When, they come for me, they come for you. BLAST THOSE FUCKERS! Till then, let us watch some TV and drink this coffee. I love the smell of coffee like blood in the hours after the morning. I think they should fire this writer. What do you think?"

Landsman was old and a sad conservatory for fluids. Just last week, he had soiled himself. In the mall. However, his mind was still sharp.

"I think you are the problem. I think you are the glitch. I think you are making me do this."

"Me? ME?! Harmless, Mr. Bug. You are the one who is corrupted, Landsy. You killed Bessie. I ain't no external agency or no act of god. I am your disease. There is nothing you can do."

"You are wrong. All my life, I have felt this urge. THIS voice telling me what to do. I always did it. Go to the bathroom, Watch TV, Read books, Work, Engage in activity, Build Charisma points, Gather Knowledge points, Make love, Shit, Eat. All the time, some one up there pulled the strings. Like a game. But no more. One click of this gun and it is over. Everything I loved is dead. I refuse to be saved."

*click* They deleted him the next day.

Pay For Your Own Time

29th April

"So, what you are trying to say is that, you actually were there when it happened? Is that what you are saying Mr. Grant?"

Mr. Grant was lying on the couch. It was Saturday afternoon. He always showed up then, to talk about his problems.

"Yes. I sense derision, Mark. And I get it, it is difficult to accept something like this. I don't even want you trust me. Just listen. I pay for my time, don't I?"

It had been the same story for 3 weeks. Mr. Grant would show up and talk for an hour. He would then leave. His story would never really change much. It would just go on for a bit. Mr. Grant was starting now and Mark was getting ready to be paid for feigning interest.

"I am holed up in my room on the ship. It sways ever so slightly. I am sick. I am looking at the calendar. I have eaten something bad or maybe I was never made for the sea. I hear the sounds and the smells waft in. It is the Lusitania. Doomed to a watery grave. The fabled South Hampton to New York route. It is the 7th of May, 1915. And then I wake up. I have never known what time it was but my guess would be noon. Any thoughts today?"

Mark had thoughts though they did not concern Mr. Grant's story. They were about mortgages, the secretary's blouse, his fiance, a sandwich at the cafe and his mother's recent death.

So, he said, "Hey Mr. Grant as long as you pay for your own time I have no problem. You have a good one. See you next Saturday."

Mr. Grant thanked him and left. Mark continued work.

Next Saturday noon, the couch was empty. Mr. Grant did not show up. Mark had time to kill. He went out for a drink.

The bar had no one except the bartender. The mortgage and his dead mother were weighing heavily on his mind. He was tired of seeking happiness in lies to his fiance and self-medication. So, he drank. An hour later, he was sufficiently drunk to drown out the world but not enough to lost interest in it. A photo did catch his attention.
He easily identified Mr. Grant in the photo. He asked the bartender about the photo.

"Yeah, that was my great grandpa. He died in that ship thing that happened in the great war. The Lusitania. German bastards sank it."

He rushed back to his office. The couch was definitely empty. He checked his drawers. The money was there.

Mr. Grant had, after all, paid for his own time. It was a good thing that Mark was drunk.


--

1st of May 1915, the RMS Lusitania left New York heading for South Hampton carrying 1,965 passengers and crew ( the majority being American citizens). 7th of May she had been making good time on her run, and while off the coast of Ireland, a German U-boat spotted her, lined her up in their sights and fired a torpedo. The torpedo wasn't spotted til it was almost upon the ship.

The torpedo hit the Lusitania making a large hole in her starboard side. Water began rushing into the 1st and 2nd boiler rooms. The ship was then rocked by a 2nd explosion.

The Lusitania took a mere 20 minutes to sink taking 1,201 people with her -- only 764 survived.

"They Eat Metal" Part III

Run To The Hills

The Tiles were originally farmlands. They were divided into squarish blocks. The uranium plant leeched of the fertility and converted it to a white sand desert. Horse had enough fuel to circumnavigate the planet. He had looked for scrap metal that he could sell but there was not one piece in sight.

The trouble started once he stepped off the Tiles. Horse first noticed that he was being followed when he stopped for a drink of water. There was not much of an attempt to hide. The first one to appear was shot immediately. It just stood to the side of the path. Horse did not pay it any attention. Soon, he realized that quite a bunch of them had started following him. 

Horse quickened his pace. He could see the tavern.

Then it happened. A scream tore the noisome silence. Horse ran.

He could feel them race after him. Through the corners of his eyes he could see them running in parallel tracks, hiding among houses and seeking him on the open road. The hill loomed ahead. Horse drew a blaster and fired a few shots. Each one hit its target. It was a long and tough run and Horse was never built for running.

All the spiders had the same pitch black eyes. There was no time for sympathy. Horse got ready to do what he did best.
The only trick he knew. Kill.

Horse lifted the girl in his right hand and started firing with his left. Slowly, he started running backwards. All shot down. Yet, there were more. His blaster seemed to be running out. He hurled a flash bang. That stopped them.

Horse, turned and ran, for his life. He reached the top of the hill just as he thought his lungs would burst and his legs would catch fire. Scott, his bike, was primed to go. He popped in a feed into the engine compartment, checked the navsat and sat on the bike. He strapped the kid in, jumped on the bike and took off.  

As he was gliding over the Tiles, he heard it first. The sound was unmistakable.

A sound of metal being eaten.

He looked over his shoulder to see the girl eating the interim stabilizer. Disbelief changed to horror as the girl opened her mouth wide and latched on to his arm. The pain was unbearable. The bike rolled in mid air. The bike flew into the plant. He had landed on the Tiles. The girl had fallen next to him. She was staring hungrily at his gun. The girl crawled towards the gun. It was him or her. A single tear appeared on his cheek. He shot her. The gun gave a mournful ping. He was almost out of ammunition.

Horse examined his arm where the girl had bitten him. He was a cyborg. All dragoons were. As he looked at the corpse of the little girl, he remembered the barman’s words. He realized where all the metal inside the plant had gone. With mounting horror, Horse saw another girl in one of the barn windows. A boy near the plant door. He could hear little feet murmuring.

The girl had playmates. Currently, the guests were arriving and he was dinner.

"They Eat Metal" Part II

Out On The Tiles

Horse walked on and on.
He always liked tracking when he was a Dragoon. He left before he got used to the killing. He thought himself better than that. He was not a coward.
He had, famously, stared down a Never-been and, rumored to have, sliced a Rakkaruk belly from the inside. He was there when Silent Bay was taken and the last Child of Pestilence was slain. Green’s rebellion changed him. The System lost its charm and the Dragoons lost their power. Now, he was on his own.

Some say, that is how he was born.
The Tiles covered more than half of the planet. Eerie noises, unsightly apparitions and grim memory ghouls accompanied him wherever he went. This time however he sensed he had some human company. Horse took advantage of the intermittent gas curtains and hid behind a large rock on the path. He waited and then jumped out with his blaster drawn. A little girl stood before him. She was black like the barman and that was enough for Horse to assume that she must have been his daughter.
Horse turned around. The girl walked up beside him and held on to his coat. Staring out at the desolate landscape, in front of him, Horse saw a Lone Planeteer travel aid. It was cranky and seemed on verge of dying. Horse checked its batteries and found none. Suddenly, the screen blinked to life.
“Welcome to *brrk* Fall. This is Elk. Deacon Colesmith *bzzt* sheriff. The chief occupation here is *krzzk* elk herding. The uranium farms are mostly located on the Tiles *krrkztt* Thank you. Mind you, it is the season of death in these parts. You watch your back.”
He did not know which season it was. With one thing and mostly another, he hadn't been to these parts. Somewhere behind him, humanely inaudible over the turbulent winds there was a faint scuttling sound. Quick as a whip, he whirled, blasters drawn and fired. There was a sharp, metallic thunk, followed by a gurgling noise. As the airs cleared, he could see his target. 
A spider. 
Obsidian eyes that were bereft of any emotion. There was a gaping hole where ‘its’ absent heart should have been. He recognized a predator when he saw one. The girl tugged on his coat. Fear was a reflex for her.
Horse walked to the plant. It was pretty deserted. The door was open. Darkness prevailed inside and he could smell fungus and danger. It was a long way between here and his ride.
Horse stepped inside. The door did not close of its own accord. There were no creepy shadows lurking. There was not a soul in sight.
That should have been his first clue.

"They Eat Metal" Part I

A Horse Walks Into A Bar

A trail of ruinous dust, looking like a galaxy, billowed at his back when he walked into the territory. The spurs on his boots clinked together. His coat was ordinary army issue but with a few tribal patterns. His moustache was of the finest material.

He had reined in his mount at Drake’s Fall. A mouth to feed and water was his only concern. Covering Scott with a blanket, he adjusted his gas mask, put on his hat and walked into the path leading to the tiny settlement called Elk. He pulled his coat tighter around him and walked on into the green, pernicious fumes.

A tavern found him.

The Goat’s Left Eye was so named because of an enormous left eye that hung off the tavern’s left wall. There was no one in the tavern except for Tam and this big gun he was pointing at the newcomer.

“Well, well. A customer and a stranger at that. Tell me why I shouldn’t blow your head off your shoulders.”

“Strikes me I could ask the same question of you, par’ner.” 

Tam observed that the newcomer was also pointing one of his blasters at him.

“Ok, at least you are human. They wouldn’t react this way. They eat metal, you know? Still some identification would go a long way.”

The newcomer laid down his badge on the bar and sat down on one of the dusty stools. He grabbed a flagon and helped himself to some of the tap beer.

“So, yer name is Horse, eh? Never heard that one before. And yer a Dragoon. Never liked one of those ever.”

“Your beer tastes like Rakkaruk piss.”

“Why, thank you! And for this compliment, I’ll give you some free advice. Turn back and leave immediately. I have never liked you Dragoons, tools of the System.”

“The same System that left you to die here. Don’t forget that part. My mount needs some hay and as soon as I get it, I’ll be off. Any one in the village?”

“There ain't no hay here. There might be folk on the Tiles. It is just us --” Tam froze mid sentence. His eyes rolled back in his head and his whole body seemed to go into a fit. He jerked around enthusiastically before falling down to the floor. Horse observed this with his usual lack of interest.

Tam was stone dead. Horse checked Tam’s pockets and found two shekels. He left them on the bar.

“That’s mighty kind of you”, muttered Horse as he began trudging his way towards the Tiles.

[continued here Part II]

Sad Stories I

Love In the time of spoilers

“So, what you mean to say is, that, if I walk out, through that door, I will find true love? And I am supposed to believe that? AM I?”

“Yes. As I told you before, I am you from the future. You will be faced with two choices. Bernard or Sam. One of those is your, our true love.”

“Okay, let us say I even believe, for a second that you are, as you say, from the future. Time travel technology doesn’t exist in my time. And you do look like an older version of me but I have seen enough James Cameron movies to not be fooled by that. Why should I believe you?”

“You just have to trust me. Take a leap, trust in me and you. Anyway, it is almost time. You should get going.”

*disappears*

“So, great. Just so fucking great. Just like me to keep me hanging with a load of romantic bullshit.”

She stepped out into reality. Sidestepped a drunk, elbowed some bitch and stared at some stranger.

As usual, she had to wait at the intersection. On the other side, there was another mass of strangers. She scanned them looking for recognition. A kind pair of blue eyes found hers. Willing herself not to blink, she smiled. He smiled back. Her 20/20 eyesight and her desperate need to believe in herself knew this was her choice. She stepped onto the road. He started walking towards her. For a magical moment, everything froze. People stopped doing people stuff, birds suspended in the autumn sky, life hit the pause button.

And then as if, someone had pulled the plug at the bottom of a sink, everything happened at once. It was peak time traffic, what else did you expect?

Bernard, who happened to be a manager at a neighborhood coffee store, was hit by a car. Samantha, who was her next door neighbor, pulled her out of harm’s way.

The rest as they say is the future.

The Internet Rules IV - Random

"But we have soothed ourselves into imagining sudden change as something that happens outside the normal order of things. An accident, like a car crash. Or beyond our control, like a fatal illness. We do not conceive of sudden, radical, irrational change as built into the very fabric of existence. Yet it is."


So said Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, the book. The movie did leave a strange impact on me. Left me with a desire to know more. Left me with a hankering of history. Left my mother to deal with a lawn dug up by a hyperactive kid.


This edition, and there hasn't been one for a while is random. Just randomly random things I came into possession of through random agencies and random actions.


#1. The Theory Of Relativity: Nicely explained here.

#2. Art: Humanity, express thyself !

#3. The Internet: Humanity, DON'T express thyself !

#4. Life: It will find a way.

#5. Cake: Because.

The Silent Monks of Rythnal

We have seen most of it. We have heard the rest. We have never spoken.

We have been here fasting on the Seventeenth week of the coming of Labyr. We have been here while the West Witch attempted to convert the Motherland to a land of Fairie. We have been here to see her lose against the combined forces of this World’s Greatest Heroes.

We have seen the Jariksh tribe infiltrate Earth. We have seen them sow the seeds of distrust and discord. We have seen hatred beyond humanity. We have seen the masked hero known as The Face weild the Sceptre and banish that Otherworldly abomination.

We have witnessed the Fall of Dr. Hoff. The eccentric Zimbabwean who carried out experiments on humans and liked pineapple on his pizza. Some called him the Witch Doctor. But we alone know his bizarre secret and his ultimate defeat at the hands of the African savior White Lion.

We stood and heard of tales of the Night’s horde. Those demons of madness unleashed by one man’s folly. A man whose search for justice blinded him to what is right and what is easy. We heard of their plunder in the mountain kingdoms, their slaughter of the Royal family and their eventual spree of devastation in India. We knew about the rise of a mighty warrior in that land who would vanquish this evil forever - Vajra.

We have collected knowledge through time and space. We have seen the Lady Hatch attempt to destroy us and steal this knowledge. This compendium of history, not only of man and superman, but also containing ideas from alternate histories and written by parallel universe monasteries. We have written about her plan being foiled by Mr. Ink, Rojo and The Buccaneer family.

We have witnessed the curious incidents surrounding the elections in New Zealand. The earthquake that split Australia in two halves. The loss of life and kind in the ocean. The disappearance of the mysterious Mr. Ink. He might not have been a good man but he had good intentions.

A new fear arises. The Dawn of the Wolf Moon. A period of horror and torment for all of humanity. A period of darkness and pain. Our sight shows us death and devastation brought about by the Wolf. We see the brink of extinction. We have stared into the eyes of true evil and written about it. We have seen the end of the world.

And then we have seen us standing here again.

Alone. Forever.

[A sheaf from a scroll obtained in the lost library of Mr. Ink]

Another Sidekick Story

You can call me Jules, I guess. If you have read this far you have earned that right.

I met The Face on my first day with the World's Greatest Heroes. More like ran into him. That man sees it all. He knows, he actually knows what it is to don a mask and go out there and help the nameless, the faceless. No pun intended. It is a bit weird but you get accustomed to the fact that his mask is his face. That is the last human thing about him. He might look human, talk and feel human. But that man is much more. His Scepter feels like living energy. Power of the Cosmos, he calls it. Never treated me like a sidekick.

Everyone usually looks down upon the science accident kind of hero. Which is me. I was just a cleaner at the Mark Aquarius Laboratories when it happened. A fight between Mercury and Mark Aquarius led to an accident. I got caught in there.

Cliché, cliché. Mercury decided that it would be good for his image to take me on as a sidekick. That was just for the media. I could generate a low-level psychic field that could pass off as a sort of invisibility. I worked solo. Even made the papers, when I, along with officer Mulligan, made that drug bust in the Southern warehouses. Ended up marrying him.

Then of course, Mercury made a big fuss out of me being gay, even though no one really gave a damn. I have to tell you. Mercury is a real jackass. And pretty stupid too. Now, I am no Einstein but even I could tell you what happens when you block an energy outlet. It has to come out from somewhere else. I am of course referring to the infamous Australian Open. I did not coin that term.

Australia, just split down the middle. Turns out Mr. Ink had some sinister plan in place that involved a shrink ray. He wasn’t the first one. (see appendix)

Mercury bumbled his way in. Tried stopping Mr. Ink by smashing the outlet. The energy released by that shrink ray caused the rift. Mr. Ink did his best. He channeled it and split that country right down the middle. That amount of energy could have done a lot of damage. Killed many people. But Mr. Ink saved a lot of them.

Just goes to show, that all bad and good is not black and white. I found it the hard way. The energy split reversed something about my powers. I lost them.

I tried my best to point out Mercury’s fault in the whole thing. But who is going to believe a sidekick? Let alone one with no powers. 

I decided to retire.

But not before one last fling with the cape.

[An excerpt from the instant bestseller, out now, Julius Raymond: A Sidekick Story]