Showing posts with label Time Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Time Travel. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 4, 2025

Gemini and Storyteller's Last Stand


 Here is Google Gemini's synopsis of Storyteller's Last Stand

Storyteller's Last Stand by the author known as Rodolphus (Douglas Christian Larsen) is a dark fantasy/literary gothic novel that offers an imaginative and anachronistic depiction of the historical Battle of the Little Bighorn, also known as the Custer massacre. 

The plot includes:
  • A wild visitation to the legendary battle site.
  • An anachronistic element: the presence of a pair of gleaming, well-oiled .357 pistols, which are out of place in the historical setting.
  • Characters such as "Earth Mother and Daughters," "over-pumped cueball torpedo assassins," and potentially a "were-hyena".
  • The inclusion of time travel and the author's edgy, dark humor.
  • A vivid portrayal of the historical figure George Armstrong Custer. 
The book blends historical events with dark, scary, and humorous fictional elements, described by the author as "the ultimate last stand for storytellers the world over". The exact linear plot progression is less emphasized in available descriptions than the imaginative and chaotic elements and characters involved in this re-imagining of a historical event.

Read Vestigial Surreality Online Free:
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ves•tig•i•al 
- forming a very small remnant of something that was once much larger or more noticeable.

sur•re•al′i•ty 
- having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; unreal; fantastic.


Vestigial Surreality
The World May Not Be Exactly What it Seems

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Vestigial Surreality: 10: Apocalypse

The Sunday SciFi Fantasy Serial, Free Online Fiction, Mystery, Ancestor Simulation, Digital World, Data is Data
episode TEN
01 02 03 04 05 06 07
08 09 10 11 12 13 14
15 16 17 18 19 20 21
22 23 24 25 26 27 28
29 30 31 32 33 34 35
36 37 38 39 40 41 42
43 44 45 46 47 48 49


Apocalypse.

The four sat in the booth at the IHOP closest to the park, Joshua and Michael seated side-by-side across from Jack and Stacey, a very odd grouping of somber humanity that constantly drew the glances of all the denizens of the very busy restaurant. Michael’s eyes were sad and huge behind his round glasses, but Joshua, vastly filling his side of the booth, just barely leaving enough room for Michael to hang at the very edge of the booth, was his usual jolly self, ordering as much food for himself as the rest of the group combined. The table was pushed back away from Joshua, right up near Stacey’s chest, which was a little uncomfortable, as Stacey himself was a large man, and his battered body would have been pressured under the best of circumstances. Jack felt about as sad as Michael looked, but there was no denying the excitement building inside of him, the excitement of a lifetime all concentrated down to a few hours in one day. And Stacey was his usual self, somewhat battered down, sad but sardonic, quiet but friendly, his small nap in the back of the truck reviving him as much as a twenty percent improvement, compared to the guy who fled the alley.
Vestigial Surreality, Illustration by Harrison Christian Larsen
Illustration by Harrison Christian Larsen ©2016 - Vestigial Surreality: TEN
“Please Stacey,” Michael said, leaning forward, his glasses reflecting waves of light. “You have to help me, with this, please.”
Stacey nodded and grinned at the little man. There was something so melancholically sweet about Michael, you just wanted to stand before him, shield him, from the world, and perhaps from the very end of the world.
“Joshua,” Stacey said, looking seriously at the giant, “we don’t want to cause a panic, everyone in this restaurant screaming, running from the building, infecting everyone on the street, and soon the whole city is looting and burning. We are responsible. We are going to contain this secret, mostly because we don’t understand it, right?”
“Oh,” Joshua burbled, his eyes swelling hugely, leaning comically forward, whispering so loudly that someone sitting three tables away could probably hear every word. “I get it, I’ll keep my voice down, I promise. Whisper. Shhhh.”
Michael felt the need to offer at least some explanation that might reassure the two characters sitting across from them. “Don’t worry, he’s not being sarcastic, although I’m surprised it’s working, I might say the same thing thirty-two times and it wouldn’t help, not a bit.”
“Oh this is serious,” Joshua whispered. “But you have to admit, it sure is a lot of fun, too!”
The last part of the giant’s speech was already getting a bit louder than a whisper and his three companions were leaning toward him, three separate index fingers pressing comically to three separate sets of lips.
“Yeah yeah yeah SORRY!” Joshua yelled, not truly raising his voice, but his normal voice seemed as loud as a bullhorn. The vast smile spread across his face protected the giant from any true anger or reproach.
“We don’t know what’s going on,” Stacey said, in his quieted voice, revolving his coffee mug between his fingers on the tabletop. “But we all feel it, right?”
“And we’ve all been receiving coincidences,” Jack said.
Joshua nodded enthusiastically, but Michael seemed frozen in one stiff posture, staring at Jack and Stacey.
“We’ve all seen things, I mean in the last couple of hours, impossible things,” Stacey continued.
“As if we are in a Twilight Zone episode,” Michael said.
“Ooh, I love the Twilight Zone,” Joshua said, nodding like a crazy man, “especially To Serve Man, where Richard Kiel is a giant alien with a big ole head like a butt. That freaked me out when I was a little boy, have you seen that one? Great twist, loved the shocker ending. Ooh, that was the best one.”
They stared at him.
Joshua snorted, lifting his hands palms up, then planted a massive finger at his bearded lips. “Shhhhh,” he whispered.
But Stacey went along with Joshua’s train of thought. “But it feels more like the one with the guy who loved to read, and he survived a nuclear holocaust in a bank vault.”
“Love that one, love that one,” Joshua whispered, then gulped down his third hot chocolate in one loud slurp. “Burgess Meredith, the Penguin. Poor guy. Nobody let him read, especially his wife.”
“The end of the world?” Jack said, quietly, gravely, and everyone nodded, knowingly. Michael visibly shuddered, and then gripped his own mug of coffee, as if for stability.
Stacey moved a compressed wad of wet napkins away from his left eye and experimentally peeked around at his companions. He was just able see them, mistily. Thank God, his eye would be okay, it was just the usual kind of wound he had often suffered in his prior life.
“Is it okay?” Jack queried, gently patting Stacey’s arm.
“Are you related?” Michael asked, because the two across from him looked similar, but Stacey seemed a tad too young to be the other man’s father, but Jack seemed a tad too young to be a kid brother.
“We just met today,” Jack said, “in the park, at my tree.”
“But it seemed like we were supposed to meet,” Stacey said. “We stumbled on a bunch of things that are the same about us.”
“It feels like we’ve known each other forever,” Jack said.
The waitress appeared and cleared away some of their plates, and when she departed Joshua leaned forward and actually kept his voice down, as he said, “did you see the way she kept looking at you? Stacey, everyone looks at you like that, especially the girls, like you’re famous!”
“I didn’t notice anything,” Stacey said, still feeling light-headed. “It’s probably just that I look like I climbed out of a train wreck—who doesn’t look at someone that’s all banged up?”
“Oh, it’s happening,” Jack agreed. “I noticed it when we walked from the park, and in the Coffee Dump. You weren’t banged up then. There’s definitely something about you.”
“I think it is something about me not belonging here, the girl said something about that. Did you notice what the girl was doing, in the truck, with her hands, and fingers?” Stacey asked.
“She was behind me, but I could sense her moving her hands,” Michael said.
“Yeah,” Joshua said, “it was like she was doing sign language.”
“What did it look like to you?” Stacey asked Jack.
“She was going like this,” Jack said, and lifted both hands before his face and moved them about, pointing his fingers and sliding them to one side and the next.
“Does that look familiar?” Stacey said to Michael.
“Like she was using a tablet,” Michael said.
“Yes!” Stacey said, rewarded by the small man’s understanding. Michael certainly was quick on the uptake. But Joshua? Well, Joshua had…enthusiasm.
“But she didn’t have anything,” Joshua said.
“She didn’t have anything we could see,” Stacey replied, “but she definitely was using something like that, like an invisible tablet. But bigger than a tablet.”
“Which is impossible,” Jack concluded, his eyebrows raised near his hairline.
“At least it is impossible for anything we know, that kind of technology does not exist. Not yet,” Stacey said.
“So, what, exactly?” Michael said, still in that same frozen posture. He didn’t even move his head. “Are you saying she’s a time traveler, from the future?”
“Come on!” roared Joshua.
After the three individual mimes for quiet and Joshua’s cringe of apology, Stacey continued, “I think it would seem like that to us, that she’s from the future. But I don’t think that’s what’s going on.” He looked at them, one by one. “You all play video games.” It wasn’t a question.
Joshua leaned forward but before he could launch into a list of his favorite games, Stacey showed him his palms, and the giant nodded, grinning.
“Go on,” Michael encouraged.
“When you are in a video game, the better ones, you can call up a menu, various controls, and make adjustments, without halting the gameplay, right?”
“Come on,” Jack blurted. He waved his hands, indicating the restaurant. “You can’t think that all of this is some high-tech video game, I mean, we can tell the difference, right? This is all obviously real, we’re real. Look around. This is reality.”
Stacey lifted his hand before his face and flexed it, studying all the lines and wrinkles. He turned his wrist and looked at the back of his hand.
“I seem real to me, as do all of you,” Stacey said. “But if you were playing your favorite game, and met with someone, in the game I mean, and they seemed real to you, and you talked to them, and after a little discussion you realized that this person—”
“—an NPC!” Joshua said, delighted, not too slow on the uptake himself.
“Yes, a character in the game, a part of the game, the kind of details that make the game so real, so convincing, do you think the NPC would think himself…real?” Stacey said, lowering his hand to his coffee mug. “He’s part of the game. To him, the game is reality. You probably couldn’t convince him that the world he knows and loves is just a game for your pleasure, a game created to waste time.”
“I don’t think it’s a waste of time,” Joshua said, then looked about him at the faces looking at him, registering the expressions. “Yeah, okay, I see your point. So, what, you think we’re in…The Matrix?”
“More like The Thirteenth Floor,” Stacey said.
“A city simulation,” Michael said. “But that’s a good coincidence.”
“Tell us,” Jack said, perking up. He had been sinking lower and lower into the booth, but the mention of coincidence ever revived his curiosity. He could be called the Keeper of Coincidence.
“We have The Thirteenth Floor in our movie library, but neither of us had ever watched it, the cover just didn’t look that intriguing, neither of us even remember buying it,” Michael said.
“And Old Ben, he suggested that we watch it before we went to bed,” Joshua said, rolling his eyes, pounding on the table.
“I haven’t seen it,” Jack said, “but that’s a great coincidence.”
“It’s about a society in the future that runs society simulations, and in one of the simulations the NPCs set up and start running their own simulation.”
“So the guys in the simulation think they’re real,” Joshua said, managing to just barely contain himself, “it’s a really cool movie. Maybe not as exciting as The Matrix, but still, it blows your mind.”
“It’s odd that the two movies came out at almost the same time,” Stacey said.
“How’s that odd?” Michael said, and moved for the first time. He laid his arms upon the table (and he had to reach a far distance, as the table was so far away from him, and Stacey feared the small man might slip off the bench and fall under the table).
“It struck me at the time—I saw both movies in the theater when they came out—that a lot of people were having similar thoughts to mine. Thoughts about reality. Long before 1999 I had begun to almost, I don’t know, I had been—struggling, with the idea that a lot of what happens, that I experience, really my whole life, just seems too arranged, to such a degree it just doesn’t seem like it could be real, like the coincidences, they’d been happening so much that I thought something must be…off. Something was going on.”
They sat in silence, all of them staring at the table and the clutter of dishes and half-eaten food.
“I always thought of them as miracles,” Stacey continued after a few moments. “I thought God was helping me. That’s how I always explained it, to me. I lost my Grandfather’s hubcab, he had an old T-bird, and he let me borrow it, and I was roaring about town, peeling out, doing all the inappropriate things a seventeen-year-old does—sorry Jack, you don’t seem like you’d be the kind of kid to do those things—but somewhere in my racing around, I lost one of my Grandfather’s hubcaps, and he just gave me a look when I returned the car, and I felt terrible about it. So I prayed. I asked God to lead me to the hubcap. The next day I was driving my car, another old car, actually, my Grandpa gave me that car as well, an old 1956 Oldsmobile Rocket 88 that I called Galadriel—everyone I knew was confused by the name, nobody had read The Lord of the Rings, at least no one I ever knew.
“And I’d been having radiator problems with the car, that’s why my Grandpa loaned me his T-bird, so that I could pick up parts for Galadriel, and I had replaced everything, including the radiator, all the hoses, and thought I had the problem finally fixed. But that day, the day after I lost the hubcab, I was out driving in the desert between Quartz Hill and Lancaster—that’s in Southern California, LA is just down below—and stupid Galadriel overheated again, again, after all the fixes,” Stacey said, and Joshua snickered, but Michael lifted his hand for quiet.
“It’s just that’s so funny, Galadriel overheating, can’t you picture her getting all flushed in the face?”
Jack laughed, and then said to Stacey, “Go on, so what happened?”
“Well I was out in the middle of nowhere, about five miles from home—I did a lot of walking, because Galadriel was an old lady and kept breaking down everywhere—so I got out of the car, angry, cussing, cursing the universe for giving me such a bum rap, and I walked to the front of the car, just stood there pissed off in front of the massive chrome bumper—I had pulled off the road onto the dirt, and I looked, and right there, a foot away from Galadriel’s tire, lying in the dirt, half-buried, was the hubcap from my Grandpa’s T-bird.”
“Whoa,” Joshua said, “cool!”
“Did you think it was weird, I mean then, right then when you found it?” Michael asked, looking charmed by the story.
“I was praying, as I lifted the hubcab out of the dirt, I was thanking God, because it was a miracle. I mean, if you didn’t know what to look for, you wouldn’t have even seen it, the hubcap was covered in loose sand, and yet it was literally twelve inches away from where Galadriel was parked off the road. I dusted it off, placed it in the passenger seat, and I figured I’d try Galadriel again, I got in the car, turned the key, Galadriel fired up, and the red light was off in the dashboard, she was running perfectly, and I drove home, and Galadriel never had a problem overheating again. Think about it, I had driven all over town, all over Lancaster to various part shops, maybe logging thirty-two miles that day. I could have lost the hubcap literally anywhere during my driving.
“It was a miracle, an answered prayer, the odds of Galadriel overheating right there, after all her cooling parts were replaced, it just didn’t make sense, the odds were astronomical. I gave my Grandpa the hubcap and told him everything—well, maybe not everything, I think I forgot to mention all the peeling out and dust clouds I’d been making, doughnuts, all the screeching of tires, that T-bird had some power—”
“—you just conveniently forgot those hot-rodding details,” Joshua snorted.
“Well, you know, as a kid, what was important to me was that I had prayed to God for something kind of crazy, I mean what does God care about lost hubcaps? I prayed, and my car boiled over right at the very answer of my request. Galadriel overheating was the answer to my prayer!”
“That just sounds wrong,” Joshua said, guffawing like a mountain coughing out volcanic steam. “Poor Galadriel. Elrond is gonna get you, Stacey.”
“That’s more about answered prayer,” Jack said, “not so much coincidence. I believe God answers prayer.”
“Well, yes, that’s how I viewed it, and my Grandpa as well, he said it was God, that He had answered my prayer. He was very spiritual. But think about it, if I hadn’t of prayed, if I had never made that request, and the same thing happened, it would still be as bizarrely coincidental, if I hadn’t prayed, I might have concluded that Galadriel herself had led me to the lost hubcap, which would have been even more bizarre a conclusion. But things like that have happened my whole life, when I prayed for it, and even when I didn’t pray for it. I thought I was charmed. Blessed.”
“So you figure that, in some way,” Michael chimed in, “that the universe is communicating with you, that it has been a two-way street, that you talk to God, and that God talks back to you, or at least gives you these miracles?”
“I noticed that these kinds of things did not happen to anyone else I knew, and so I kind of naturally thought that it somehow meant that I was special, that it was all about me. Throughout my life the supernatural kept reaching out and touching me, and I couldn’t figure it out, what it meant, why the supernatural responded to me in such an open way, but through my life I began to wonder what was going on, was reality what everyone thought it was? I mean it was never like a system, I sent an order to God and he filled the request—I never thought of it that way—most of the things I prayed for never came to be, and my life has been something of a downward spiral, and in school when I came across Plato’s Cave—”
“—I was just talking about Plato’s Cave with my Pop Pop,” Jack interrupted, too loudly. “Just last night.”
“See how they keep piling up?” Stacey said, “in any kind of reality we know, this doesn’t happen like this, that we all keep bumping into these connected things, like magic—The Thirteenth Floor, 1Q84—there are only a few reasonable explanations, either it is just coincidence, happy accidents, and they don’t mean anything, or we are pulling at the loose threads of reality. The government experimenting on us, or aliens controlling us, or God playing checkers.”
Michael closed his eyes, removed his glasses with one hand, and held them frozen before his face, and massaged the bridge of his nose with his other hand.
“I don’t know,” Michael said, and then, “I don’t know. I just…don’t…know.”
“So it comes down to answered prayer,” Jack said, “or some kind of programming. God, or The Matrix?”
“For us,” Stacey said, “sitting in an IHOP, it seems like we are all four going crazy, or someone is actually time travelling from the future to visit us, or magic is real, or the Devil and God are fighting over us, but whatever it is, the whole world is shaking around us. The universe is collapsing all around us.”
“We could all be in a mental institution, drooling, or just one of us is, and we are imagining the other three,” Joshua said, sounding like he was trying to be helpful. “I think maybe Michael is really Hurley, you know, from Lost, in that coo-coo house?”
“This Old Ben character,” Michael said, ignoring Joshua. “He has just recently reached out and touched the four of us, in one way or another. Is he from God, is he the Devil, is he another time traveler? Or maybe he is another Non-Player Character…?”
“He is our connection, it would seem he is the guy that is pulling our strings, but I don’t mean to make it sound like we are puppets,” Stacey said.
“But that’s really what scares you the most, isn’t it?” Jack said.
“I guess that’s what I’m trying to say, that’s what scares me, although I have to tell you, Jack, and you Joshua, and Michael, I’m not really afraid. Jack? Do you still have that book?”
“Oh yeah, I’ve still got that book, I dare anyone to try and take it from me,” Jack said, opening his backpack (for some reason he always kept the back right there, against his knees). He produced the slim paperback and passed it to Stacey.
Stacey showed the book to Joshua and Michael. “Ever hear of it?”
“Simulacron-3,” Michael read the cover. He shook his head, once, his body barely moving. “Never heard of it.”
“Daniel F. Galouye,” Joshua read the author’s name, shaking his head.
“It was published in 1964,” Stacey said after checking inside the front cover. “But what I wanted to show you was this,” he said, pulling the slip of folded paper from the book.
Jack had out his phone and was moving his fingers about on the surface, distinctly reminding Stacey of the girl just a few short hours before.
“You are not going to believe this,” Jack said, tensing the others. “The movie, The Thirteenth Floor, it was based on the novel Simulacron-3.” He turned his phone, showing it to the others, displaying a Wikipedia page.
Stacey paused in unfolding the bookmark. “So today,” he said, “Old Ben conveniently left a copy of Simulacron-3 for us to find in the Coffee Dump, and last night he recommended The Thirteenth Floor to you for movie night.”
“Move Night is Saturday night,” Joshua corrected, then started when Michael mock-slapped his arm.
Stacey passed the note to Joshua.
“Don’t be afraid,” Joshua read. “He said that to us, too.”
“What that, at the bottom?” Michael said, pointing to the pencil scribble.
“The planet Saturn,” Stacey said.
Michael, leaning against Joshua to read the note in his hands, said, “So I guess whatever this is, whatever is happening, we should do our best not to let it terrify us.”
“Old Ben links the four of us together, and what do you think he could be hinting at with his choice of reading material, and movie watching?” Stacey said, thinking about the girl at her large invisible tablet. “And why, why is he giving us all this information?”
“But you can’t think we’re in a goop-filled egg, could you?” Joshua said, for the first time keeping his voice low, almost too quiet to hear.
“Coppertops,” Jack said, weakly, utterly devoid of his usual good humor.
“No, that’s not the direction I’m thinking,” Stacey said, almost sadly. “Although the four of us have seemingly taken the blue pill—wait, was it the red pill?”
“You think we might be NPCs, don’t you?” Jack said.
Stacey paused, thinking, opened his mouth to speak, but then he sagged back in the booth, and closed his mouth.
“It’s two forty-five p.m.,” Michael said, extending his arm to display an outrageously large wristwatch. The watch had a large digital face, and even though it looked old; also seeming packed with too many alternate displays and buttons, far more complicated than the current slew of smartwatches and iWatches.
“Oh boy,” Jack said, “is this the part of our video game where you reveal that you are from the future?”
“We’ve been here for almost three hours, it’s the middle of the day,” Michael said, ignoring Jack. “So why is it so dark outside?”
They all looked, and it was dark, darker than snow sky, or even if a storm front had rumbled in. It looked like evening was approaching, because even as they watched it great darker still.
“I think we should get over to Jack’s tree,” Stacey said.
“It’s too early,” Joshua said, too loudly, watching outside the window, as it now appeared to be night.
Stacey drew out his wallet and placed four twenty dollar bills on the table, and even considering how many times Joshua ordered from the menu there was still a sizable tip included, but then he reconsidered and placed the remainder of his cash on the pile of money. Now the waitress would receive a forty dollar tip. She deserved it, he thought, especially when considering how dark it was outside, how dark it now felt in here, let her have a few happy thoughts before the world ended.
“Oh I would have paid,” Joshua said, finally noticing Stacey’s accounting with the check on the table.
“Should we show up this early?” Michael queried, sounding doubtful.
“Let’s go, come on Jack, hurry up Michael,” Stacey commanded, seizing Joshua by a meaty arm and groaning as he pulled the giant from the booth.
“Do we have time to use the restroom?” Jack said, giving Stacey an embarrassed grin.
“Yeah, good idea, everyone use the bathroom, come on, I just have a feeling, we gotta get out there, as soon as possible, but everyone should use the facilities after sitting her for three hours,” Stacey said.
“Plus I must have a ton of coffee burbling in me,” Jack said. He hadn’t used the restroom since this morning in the park, when he began his first goblet of exquisite brew.
Five minutes later and they were all out in front of the restaurant, looking across the street to the park. Jack could just see his tree and table across a slight undulation of the park’s lawns, despite the darkness. All the streetlights were on, and solar-panel lamps throughout the park were winking.
“Should we go this early, Stacey?” Michael asked again, glancing at his watch, “it’s only—” he paused and did a double-take, peering at his watch, “this can’t be right. Something is wrong with my watch.”
“It is 5:55,” Jack said, looking at his phone screen.
Stacey checked his watch, it agreed with Jack’s.
Michael showed his watch to them, it changed from 5:55 to 6:00 while they watched.
“Doot-doo-doot-doo, doot-doo-doot-doo,” Joshua merrily did a somewhat spooky rendition of the Twilight Zone theme.
“I would have gone with the X Files,” Stacey and Jack said as one, and looked at each other, and burst into laughter.
“Now I’m thinking we might be late instead of early,” Michael said, “if we don’t hurry.”
They started across the parking lot, Michael immediately falling behind on his canes, as even hurrying as fast as he could, he could just manage an average person’s less than fast pace.
“Michael, it is 6:30,” Stacey said, jogging backward until he drew level with Michael, and started walking forward, “Time is ticking away, oh, here, let me carry you.” He reached as if he were to take the small man in his arms.
“Don’t you dare!” Michael snapped, staring grimly ahead, and he began loping on his canes, dangerously wobbling from side to side. Even at this new dangerous pace, he was going too slow.
Joshua came back and snatched Michael up in his arms.
“Put me down!” Michael thundered, producing a very impressive volume of voice from such a small frame, causing Stacey to wince.
“It’s okay, Michael,” Stacey said, “it’s an emergency.”
“I can walk! Put me down, Joshua! You boob!” Michael thundered even louder.
“Hold onto your canes, Mikey,” Joshua said, grinning, and began to run.
They jaywalked the street, Stacey and Jack looking both ways for traffic, but the city seemed suddenly hushed, and they saw fewer and fewer people out and about, and surprisingly no vehicles. They hurried into the park, first on the sidewalks and then soon onto the lawns. Stacey glanced at his watch and saw it was already after seven in the evening. Trotting at a good pace, following Jack who was dancing about up ahead with nervous energy, Stacey looked for any trace of the sun in the black sky. Apparently, it actually was evening. Time was moving, but not only that, it was actually accelerating.
“I’m telling you Joshua!” Michael screamed.
“Michael! That’s enough!” Stacey boomed.
Michael ceased his struggles in Joshua’s grasp. He looked down from his high perch at Stacey and his glasses flashed. He nodded at Stacey, now fully in control of his emotions.
A loud bonging bell tolled across the city. It was the loudest sound Stacey had ever heard in his life. It sounded like a cannon. Michael clamped his hands over his ears. Jack tripped and tumbled in the grass. Joshua roared with laughter.
The reverberations of the bell rolled on and on like rolling sonic boom. They were all paused in their dash across the park. Joshua standing holding Michael whose hands slowly came away from his ears, Stacey standing spread eagled, his head tilted back to the sky, his mouth open, and Jack sprawled in the grass, grinning stupidly up at the sky.
No sooner had the last echoes of the bell faded, and it came again, crashingly loud and terrifying.
“Move, move, keep going!” Stacey shouted, waving his arms, but it was as if his throat produced no sound, so buried was the entire world in the chiming of the great heavenly clock. He grabbed Joshua by the arm and began tugging him and the big man slowly came to life and started running with Michael in his arms, hugged to his chest, the smaller man grimly clenching his eyes shut, his hands clamped down again over his ears.
Jack scrambled up from the grass and did a frenzied search for his backpack, and after finding it, he dashed after the others who were already past him.
Stacey held up his watch and pushed the button for light. Eight o’clock, and all’s not well. He wished he had the watch set so that when he turned his wrist it would light up, but he had disabled that feature as the solar batteries kept running out, and now it would be far too complicated to figure out how to turn it back on. But to his way of figuring, an hour had just passed in about one minute. If it continued at this same pace they had four minutes to get to the tree, but he was grimly fearful that it would only accelerate. He figured it would be midnight when the clock stopped tolling, and it had rung twice already, or was it three times? And hadn’t Michael said they were supposed to be to the tree at five before midnight?
They were almost to the bench and tree but it was so dark now it was difficult to tell the distance, and even the park lamps seemed to be muffled. The third (or fourth?) great gong sounded, and the ground shook. They heard a loud splitting sound, either the greatest bolt of lightning ever loosed upon the Earth, or the sky itself was cracking like crystal. The noise did not fade, but was joined by other loud cracks in the heavens.
Jack soon dashed past the group and headed straight to where he knew they should go, even though now he couldn’t see it any longer, he really couldn’t see anything, but he was at the tree, standing before the tall shadow, looking about, desperate to find Old Ben waiting for them there, but there was nobody, just the preternatural darkness, and the rolling peal of the bell, and the sound of shattering glass, amplified, all about them, above them, filling the world.
“Stacey!” Jack roared as the great bell bonged again.
The others joined Jack beneath the tree. Joshua went to lower Michael to the ground but the small man clung to his neck.
“Don’t put me down,” he yelled into Joshua’s ears, but Joshua could not hear him because the great bell was bashing down upon them again.
The tree actually swayed and trembled by the sonic punch, and Stacey—always graceful and the most balanced of men—almost toppled over. He grabbed Jack and steadied himself. The ground lifted like a carpet and snapped beneath their feet.
“The tree, look!” Michael cried.
Finally, illumination, the four letters engraved in the trunk of the tree were lit as if from within. As they watched it seemed the letters, J-A-C-K, caught on fire, only there was no fire.
“Touch it!” Stacey shouted close to Jack’s ear.
“I’m not touching that!” Jack roared back.
The bell tolled again, a great rolling BONG, and this time they all were knocked to their knees, only Michael was able to ride it out, held above the ground in Joshua grasp.
“How many times has it chimed?” Joshua shouted, his extremely loud voice sounding not so loud now, but they could hear him above the shaking reverberations of the great chime.
“Lost count!” Stacey roared back. He was still holding onto Jack’s shoulders.
“I think we must be on eight!” Jack screamed, tears rolling down his face. “It might be nine, or ten, I don’t know!”
For all Stacey could recount, they might be on the thirty-second crashing sky bong, because it seemed to fill eternity, it seemed he had always heard that great clock smashing out the hours. Stacey glanced at his watch and pushed the button. Ten o’clock.
Something vast crashed to the lawns of the park and it shattered when it hit. It sounded like smashing glass. Then on the other side of the park there was a similar crash, and another, and each blast moved the very ground beneath them. They could not see what was happening, but it was vast, and terrible. Something whizzed past Stacey's face in the dark. It felt like a bullet.
The next tolling of the bell began and threw Jack away from Stacey and he caught himself from falling by throwing his arms about the trunk of the tree.
Stacey was on the ground, his hands over his ears, and he was bouncing as if he was on a great train leaving the tracks and grinding into rock. Dimly, he saw Jack’s shape climbing up the tree, and Jack’s hand reaching, stretching up.
As Jack’s hand fell upon the four letters that spelled his name a great light burst about them. Stacey saw a great circle of light form with the four letters at its center. The circle was a bright tracing of blue. It looked like an eight-foot tall hobbit-hole door.
“Friend!” Joshua yelled, up on his knees, still clutching Michael. “Anyone know the elvish word for friend? Or shouldn’t it be dwarfish? Friend! FRIEND!”
Stacey crawled toward Joshua who was now up in a half crouch, just inches from the glowing circle of blue light. Stacey jumped and placed his hands on Joshua’s thick spine and shoved him with all his worth, and Joshua and Michael vanished into the circle, one moment there and the next, not.
“Go Jack!” Stacey thundered, grabbing Jack by the arm and bodily heaving the kid into the light, and even as Jack vanished the loudest toll of the bell began and Stacey just perceived that the circle was rapidly dwindling, sucking into itself, and he threw himself at the circle that was now no more than three feet across, and he knew he was too late as the world crashed down and shattered about him.



Monday, August 24, 2015

Storyteller's Last Stand

A rip-roaring ride through time to that famous knoll at the Little Bighorn

A wild and rambunctious visitation to that legendary knoll in what just could be the most accurate depiction of the Custer massacre, except for the gleaming and well-oiled pair of anachronistic .357 pistols, that is. Earth Mother and Daughters, over-pumped cueball torpedo assassins, what just might be a were-hyena, time travel, and the edgy dark humor of Rodolphus make for a frenzied, page-turning, entertaining read. George Armstrong Custer comes to vivid light and life. Storyteller's Last Stand is dark and scary and funny, and very well might be the ultimate last stand for storytellers the world over.


Time Travel to a Twisted Time for a Historically Accurate Account of Custer's Last Stand
Storyteller's Last Stand
Rodolphus
Available at:

Earthmothers and daughters, were-hyena, time travel, and a whole lot of Rodolphus piss and vinegar
Storyteller had no idea what he was getting into, this white knight in the saving damsel business


Time Travel to a Twisted Time for a Historically Accurate Account of Custer's Last Stand
Storyteller's Last Stand
Rodolphus
Available at:
©Copyright 2011 Rodolphus. All Rights Reserved by the Author. No part of this book may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited. This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.


Dedication
 To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before
 LRN, messed-up beauty
SFJB, divine heartless wretch
SJS, breathtaking, beautiful Soulmate Dream
JC, what a body and spirit
NW, sexy elf
EM, dark princess
SMC, bitter inspirational fury
PC, heart friend
CDC, Angel Love Soulmate


Time Travel to a Twisted Time for a Historically Accurate Account of Custer's Last Stand

Part 1

He blinked at the sun, for just a moment staring fully into the piercing sky stinger, his body trembling as if he were cold as the sun neared noon. He braved another peek at the fiery circle in the sky and could not help drifting back through time for a heartbeat, to another scalding day when the sun was decidedly unfriendly; however, the suns from his distant past, on numerous and varied battlefields, never
seemed as malevolent as these the day-after-day evil orbs of his present.
   The sun stalked him. Monstrous, powerful. Perhaps not as potent as it was when he was thirty years old, but then again neither was his pecker nearly so savage as the lion he sported in his roaring days (like the best fish stories, his early-days penis grew ever mightier in pace with his lengthening, but faltering memory). The sun pounded him, demanded he submit — it wanted him to lie down like a worn-out dog and put his paws straight up in the air — a dog! What an insult to a man who thought of himself as a lion — a lion, damn you all!
   Contemplating the sun, he toyed nervously with a necklace, tugging the chain away from his bony breast, twisting it in his fingers, caressing the odd pendant which dangled from the end of the gold chain. If I can live long enough for the decline of the ozone, he thought, just think how that bastard of a sun will attack me.
   The old man stretched on the bench. His spine crackled and popped. He groaned, rubbed his leathery veined hands (claws) and coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat (he nearly lost his yellowed chompers along with the mucus). His frame, although dramatically stooped, was long and board-thin. The skin of his buck-naked head was splotchy and weathered, age spotted and stretched too tightly over his skull.
   Terrified in the day. Yes, perhaps he was the dog the sun tempted him to be. Oh, but at night! At night there was no fear, and time was flexible — the old man could be fifty, or thirty, and most often of late, ten or eleven years old. Night was good. It released the vapors of memory, all the phantom smells of youth. Day, however, oh day! Unlike the night, day was static, it never ever never ever never changed (never), and terror was always there, always waiting for him; however, there was some small compensation for the debilitating fear, for along with fear, in equal measure, was bravery. The old man faced the day, every day, defiantly, shaking his bony fists at the sun.
   Bravery, for in the day, when the sun was a predatory dragon hunting him, the old man trod the earth a lion. Lion War, which once was his name, a very long time ago — Lion War — a name earned with his fists and knees and the knife-edges of his hands. When this bravery of Lion War was upon him he was perfectly willing to complete the unnatural quest. Truly. He was perfectly willing to seek out and destroy the Earth Mother, and the hyena in man’s body, Bright Eyes.
   During the night he was a man, an ordinary man nearing his end. The fear was slim, an insignificant plant with wilted tendrils, closed pods. He was able to be a man. He relaxed. Breathed easily. Enjoyed life, an ordinary man. An ordinary man, aged, trembling, usually happy, hardly able to accept the cruel fate he played no starring role in choosing.
   The old man watched young women entering and exiting the dormitory. He grinned, admiring their fuzzy sweaters and neat turned-down socks. He refrained, with great concentration, from hooting and cackling. He periodically lifted an ancient pair of polished silver opera glasses and perused the young women more intimately. Unfortunately, when he could clearly discern their features he was not as successful in suppressing the always-close-and-loud old-man hoots.
   “You back again, gramps?”
   The old man craned his spindly neck.
   “Oh boy, looks like it’s T. J. Hooker time,” the old man giggled, eyeing the towering campus cop.
   “Who, you say?” the big man said, leaning close, his platter-sized fists gripping and twisting his redundantly large nightstick.
   The ancient one cackled. “Forget it, sonny; way before your time — but I don’t want to disturb your occupational duties. I’ll just hoinky-doinky on my way.”
   The guard reached and wrapped his paw around the old man’s drumstick-thin biceps.
   “Don’t come back, now, you hear me.”
   The old man went still. He eyed the guard. And he grinned.
   “You don’t want to mess with me, sonny-boy,” the octogenarian said, softly, lightly, jutting his lower denture plate, his eyes glittering and bright.
   The guard, a beefy six-footer, comfortable with his usually universal talent of intimidation, was surprised that the geezer — stooped and hobbled as a hunchback — actually was tall enough to meet him eye to eye. He drew back, swallowing.
   “I don’t want to mess with you, do I?” said the guard.
   “No. You do not. I may be pushing eighty-eight, but in my day I was a pretty tough dude. I was a warrior to command respect. I beat over fifty injuns, and all I had was my bare hands. I was a pretty tough dude, all right, in my day, yes I was.”
   “Well, Gramps,” the guard said, tightening his grip on the insignificant limb, “your day was a long long long time ago, now wasn’t it?”
   “You might be surprised, you dimwit,” the old man said, eyes flaring with very ungeriatriclike anger — his free hand rose to his imprisoned arm, peeled back one of the guard’s blunt fingers, and suddenly the young man of beef and potato sat plunk on the ground, looking up at the geezer — the old man smiled down upon him. “My day is yet to come, you dimwit bonehead jerk-off asshole.”
   The old man released his hold on the finger that was nearly as thick as his wrist. He casually strolled away, swinging his stick and whistling.
   The guard, trembling, shakily stood. He glanced over his shoulder. Thank God none of the broads had witnessed this — this — this ridiculous spoof, this farce, this, this...he trembled. Murder! Death! Damn, but the next time he caught the old geezer peeking at the broads (the ancient pervert!) he was going to snap his spindly neck! He massaged his throbbing finger.
   The guard watched with lowered brows as the geezer hobbled down to the drive — and, damn all, if one of those mile-long limos from England didn’t have the nerve to swing up to the curb — and then, of all things, there came a spit-and-polish dandy-doo in a peaked cap speeding around the bus-long car, kow-towing like the tiny yellow menace he was, to open the geezer’s door. And then, most shocking of all, the tiny yellow dandy-doo menace turned out to be a girl! And a very winsome tiny yellow dandy-doo menace at that, or so the glowering guard judged from a distance of twenty or so yards.
   The geezer turned before entering the limousine and waved cheerfully to the seething guard.
   Maybe the guard only imagined it, but the old man seemed to be waving with his middle finger.

→ ↔ ←

   “I’ll be back, before you know it, so please don’t sit here worrying while I’m away,” he assured her, maintaining his vocal equilibrium, evenly modulated, but was not quite able to suppress the nervous flutter at the base of his larynx. His luxuriant moustache twitched with the flex of his jaw.
   “Just please God don’t let it snow,” he muttered.
   He was busy packing his camera case, checking that all his special lenses from the far corners of the apartment made it into the case, his back to the woman; however, he could feel her eyes consuming him, palpably, as if a force of alloyed ice-fire emanated from the jagged gaze of her eyes.
   “I suppose reminding you that this creep probably has a gun won’t do me much good,” she said, finally. Well, that wasn’t so bad, he thought.
   “Well, to tell you the truth, my mom has called about three times to remind me that he might have a gun; or, in my mom’s world, he probably is an ally of Sodding Hussein and has a dozen SCUD missiles aimed my direction. She also told me that Shannon might have some thugs about to pound the shit out of me,” he replied, finishing off his camera case, now checking the electronic ear and flashlight for batteries.
   He pulled on his recently mink-oiled fingerless gloves, yanked them off, and packed them away.
   Suddenly she was close behind him — he dropped his gloves as her hands slithered over his hips, around to his flat belly, and then down.
   “Sharen, I’m already having a tough time concentrating.”
   “I know. Your body language is actually stuttering. Perhaps this will help.”
   In the middle of voicing a protest his eyes closed. He leaned against her solid body. Felt her breasts push into his back. He surrendered himself to her embrace. A low groan barely escaped the door of his mouth and he sighed as she grazed her long teeth over his neck.
   She dexterously popped the buttons at the front of his jeans.
   “Something tells me you’ve practiced this maneuver before,” he whispered between his teeth.
   “Only in preparation for when we would meet, “she said, wickedly, her lips tickling his right ear lobe.
   He reached his hands behind him, around her, over her satin robe, smoothing his hands about her taut thighs, then up slightly to fondle his favorite place on her perfect body.
   “Yep,” she breathed into his ear, “yes sir, now I know it’s really you, it is, yessiree.”
   His breathing was already close to aerobic arrest. “Did you think I might be somebody else?” he strained.
   “Well,” she chuckled, deftly using her palms and fingers, squeezing him into convulsions, “you hadn’t touched me once since you came in the door. Nope. Wasn’t sure at all if it was you.”
   He stretched his head back to rest on her shoulder, and her neck craned about bringing her mouth close to his; her teeth nipped at his too-full moustache and she licked his lips, enticing his tongue out to meet and embrace. They stood thus, breathing raggedly, silently and fiercely swaying, for many moments.
   “Oh,” he breathed, after a while, “now you’ve gone and made a mess.”
   “I’m coming,” she whispered.
   He opened his eyes. “You are?”
   “With you, that is. To Seattle.”
   “No. Sorry. I have to go alone on this.”
   “Wrong. Oh how wrong. I’m coming.”
   “Sharen.”
   “Joo-ulie,” she said, doing a fair tonal imitation.
   “You have me in an awkward position.”
   She tightened her grip on him and buckled him backward so that if she released him he would crash to the floor.
   “Yes. Now, I have you. In my power.”
   He laughed, nervously. “I could get used to it.”
   She lowered him to the floor where she joined him, moving around him, straddling his chest, her robe parting to reveal her long legs in sheer garter stockings (which never failed to plummet his intelligence level dangerously into the idiot zone). The luminous pink “V” of her spandex bikini bottoms barely touched his chin. She pressed her hands into his, their fingers interlocking, and she held him pinned to the floor.
   “Tell me why you’re going,” she demanded in her dark golden voice, tipping her head toward him, her forehead a hand away from his, her short-styled raven hair cascading into his eyes, tickling his nose. “You still love her. You want her back.”
   “No. Not at all, Sharen. Even before I found her cache of love letters I knew our marriage was coming apart. I only fought for her and me so long because of our kids.”
   “Well then. Just let it go. She gave you custody.”
   He was silent.
   She released his left hand with her right and then delivered a short but stinging clap to the right side of his face. He blinked at her.
   “Say it,” she said, voice monotone, hard, loud, and commanding. “You still love Shannon.”
   His face warm — feeling raw where she struck him — Julius smiled at her. A dangerous sparkle shone from his eyes.
   “I don’t think that was very funny.”
   She struck him again and though he attempted to block the blow, he succeeded in trapping her hand only after it had resounded against his jaw, much harder than the first stinging blow. He recoiled, bucking his pelvis up hard against her, twining his body about, and they struggled fiercely, briefly, until he managed to reverse their positions, with him seated on her chest.
   “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” he snarled, his temper snaking out of his gut, his voice abrading, far too loud. “I wonder how much you really do care.”
   Her head lifted off the carpet and her hands struggled against the steel grip on her wrists. She bucked her head at him and her jaws snapped the air; her pelvis bucked up and hit him, but due to their fifty-pound weight differential he was able to maintain their positions. She punched him in the kidneys with her knees.
   “Get off me, you asshole,” she snarled.
   He complied. He climbed jerkily to his feet, flushed with equal helpings of adrenaline and anger. He buttoned his jeans, hands shaking.
   She flung herself to her feet and sashed her robe about her body, motions the brisk, fluent precisions of a mechanical predator.
   They stood a few paces apart, back to back, both with heaving bodies. Julius took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about that. We got kind of out of hand —”
   “No.”
   He peeked slowly about him.
   “No, Storyteller. It was me. I was out of control. And I’m sorry. I knew I was going to do that, as soon as you walked in the door and didn’t kiss me. Stupid of me. Getting jealous like that.”
   He smiled, looking at her, and she undid her robe and allowed it to shower about her body into a glittering pool at her feet. He was always a fool for a woman standing before him in bra, panties and stockings.
   She placed her long hands on her lean hips and tilted back her head to regard him. Her eyes pulsing swirls of light and darkness, comets rushing past him — irises serene dark pools, and yet with texture, like multi-hued tree bark; the pupils were independently alive, pulling, sucking.
   “So. Tell me, Julius. If you don’t want Shannon back, then why are you driving 1,200 miles to Seattle?”
   He shook his head. Looked away from her.
   “You know how I am about love. Yes, I love Shannon. I suppose I always will, in a strange, disturbed kind of way,” he said, breathing slower, returning his gaze to her angled and skinny body. One of her bra straps had slipped over her jutting shoulder. “I’m a ridiculous romantic. It’s my curse. I really do believe love lasts forever. And I told her that I loved her and I believe I was telling the truth.”
   “And now?” she said, taking one step toward him. The dangerous edge had returned to her voice.
   “And now,” he repeated, lifting his eyes from her breasts to study her angular chin and its dimple, her mouth that was too big and full and yet just right; her long thin nose which was too long but saved because of its last-second slope and upward tilt; eyes that were wide and wild and curious, always close to flaring anger or churning passion. “And now, Sharen, I’ve gone and told you that I love you. I do not lie. I’ve been on the verge of saying it probably since I met you.”
   “You didn’t meet me, you ridiculous romantic. I found you,” she said, taking another step toward him, entering into that intimate space that brings discomfort with strangers; now only an immense, intimate heat. “Do you feel that this is forever? With me?”
   He swallowed. Looked at the floor between them. His forehead touched hers and he felt again the momentary disorientation at being with a woman of his exact height, six feet two inches.
   “You’re afraid, Julie Jacko?”
   He shrugged. His eyes darted up and met hers from an inch away.
   She reached, stroked the back of his hand. Her shining, luminous eyes caught him, held him, pinned him down.
   Suddenly the intimate vibrancy was more overpowering than ever and this time it was he initiating the intricate dance. His hands the bold adventurers. She lay back, her eyes half closed, borne upon the winds of inspiration or meditation, and touched and held and guided him. When his lips sought hers she opened to him and they melded; when his lips and warm tongue traced and caressed her long throat she arched her neck and sighed; when his hands whispered beneath her waist, and lower, lifting her up, to him, she smiled and muttered alien entreaties.
   Soon they were the age-old and noisome two-backed beast and what began as soft and tender artistry now became and ended in an almost violent broiling of passion, of heat and clutching need. The evening was theirs, and they made full use of it.
   Just before eight o’clock, when Mrs. Hansom would bring the children, Sharen stretched her spine, her small and firm breasts embracing his throat, one fleshy golden nipple tracing the line of his jaw. She smiled huskily, her fingers pushing into his hair, cradling his head, and as his lips opened to her teasing nipple, she kissed him repeatedly upon the brow, her sharp white teeth gnawing his eyebrows, her tongue tracing the thoughtful etchings of his forehead.
   “So,” she breathed, stroking her fingers through and through his hair, “am I coming or not?”
   “Four times would be greedy, wouldn’t it?” he said, smiling lazily between her breasts.
   “Idiot. On this insane quest, Oh Valiant White Knight. I have a very bad feeling about this Bright Eyes.”
   “So he’s a psychopath. You don’t think I can handle a psycho?”
   “I have faith in you. You have some tricks up your sleeve I don’t think you even know about yet. But I’m getting some bad impressions about this guy, this Bright Eyes. Knowing what kind of woman your ex-bitch is, it doesn’t make much sense her leaving you and her kids for this flashy creep. As insecure as the bimbo is, she wouldn’t have enough guts to leave someone she knows will stick by her, especially for your standard pusher-dealer pimp-type.”
   “Well, that’s one of the reasons I have to go. Things just don’t add up. I can’t make sense of it, you can’t make sense of it, my family and friends can make no sense of it, and the twins certainly aren’t fathoming why their mother deserted them.”
   “You’re thinking he’s coercing her with drugs. If that’s the case, she chose it, and you have no right or means of pulling the bitch away.”
   “I’m going. If it’s drugs, then I’ll be more than eased of conscience to write her off as a loss. I got her off the hard and soft stuff for over four years — if she’s returned after all this time, giving up her husband and children, I think she’ll deserve everything that comes to her.”
   Sharen clucked her tongue. She kissed him softly on the chin. Then on the lips. Again on each eye.
   “Liar. You’re going to charge up there on your white horse, cross lances with the ogre, and smite the poisonous cup from the entranced maiden’s lips. Unfortunately, you haven’t considered what you’re going to do with two maidens.”
   He took her chin in his hand lightly and placed his thumb in the fleshy, feminine dimple (not quite a cleft); with his other hand he stroked his fingertips lightly over her back. She closed her eyes and lay atop him. They floated. She lowered her head next to his on the pillow, her face turned away from him.
   “I wish you wouldn’t go on and on about the White Knight. You’re not the first person to find the metaphor so amusing. I’m the first guy who will admit I’m a jerk,” he said, softly, into her ear, one hand feathering her hair, the other continuing to whisper upon her back. “When I met Shannon, the odds were way against me. I might have been stupid. Well, I was stupid. I fought the odds, as I always have. And for a long time I was sure I had won. Beat those odds. Like Custer, finally, in some pocket of time, firing his pistols long enough, and accurately enough, dropping enough Indians, until they finally get bored enough to just ride away.”
   She lifted her head and smiled sleepily. “Careful. You’re wandering dangerously deep into my territory with that metaphor. Keep clear of American Natives and the old west. Especially with that prick, Custer. Keep your metaphors, parables and cutesy stories safe within the confines of the Dark Ages.”
   “The only reason I brought up old General George Armstrong is because he was one of my heroes when I was a boy — probably because of the date on a necklace someone gave my parents when I was born. I raided the encyclopedias on him, cheap novels and some good ones too, and that old Errol Flynn flick, They Died with Their Boots On.
   “Hey, everyone made it perfectly clear Custer was arrogant, conceited, and made more nasty mistakes than anyone’s entitled to. His biggest mistake was in charging the odds, every time.”
   “So, of course, Julius Jacko, idolizing Custer, grew up to charge the odds and get his ass kicked,” Sharen said, rolling away from him, tickling him at the waist.
   He caught her hands before she tickled him into distraction. “Not every time. More often than not I kick the odds in the ass.”
   “Just like Custer,” she snickered.
   “Hey, Custer was a good soldier — just like Schwarzkopf. And Schwarzkopf is a hero. Stormin’ Norman did away with probably twice the Iraqis that Custer did Indians. And do you know what the odds were of me breaking through the literary barriers? Even with Jeffrey’s help, do you know how many manuscripts actually are read, let alone deemed commercial enough to please sponsors?”
   “Ug. Don’t bring up Jeffrey the Weasel when we’re in bed. And you don’t have to prove to me that you’re special. First thing is, you can’t compare American Natives to Iraqis. Furthermore, the problem is, Custer and his dirty deeds, and you and your literary triumphs, and even some poor fool in dented armor smacking into windmills, has nothing to do with you wasting a trip to Seattle. Hush, don’t even launch your rebuttal. You were right, you are too romantic.

   “There is absolutely nothing knightly about this business. What we have here is an ex-addict giving up a quality life and a quality man to return to her stoner days and wicked ways. She made her choice, clear and defined. Let her go, Julie. Just let the bitch go. Storyteller, please, let her go.”


Time Travel to a Twisted Time for a Historically Accurate Account of Custer's Last Stand
Storyteller's Last Stand
Rodolphus
Available at:
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