Vestigial Surreality: 16: Bully

episode SIXTEEN

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

50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Bully.

Jack had an arrow nocked, his bow half drawn, but he trusted Six, and did not take action, but the smell of blood made him woozy, and he feared he might faint. Other than the perpetual television violence of his former life, he had experienced very little violence in the flesh, at least of any substance, until yesterday, or the day before, or whenever this part-nightmare, part-wonderland had begun, first in the alley behind the Coffee Dump, with the Martians, and then his run-in with the colossal snake, and finally, this brutal encounter with the giant.

It did not seem to matter, the surreal nature of each violent encounter, because they were real, visceral, palpable, and ugly. You did not care that Humpty Dumpty was an adorable fairytale being, when he appeared in your home, in the middle of the night, with a bloody ax in his adorable fairytale hands.

But there was nothing adorable about the giant before them, all nine feet of height, with its too vast skull, leering green eyes beneath a Neanderthal brow, a domed head the size of a small refrigerator, and that jutting lower jaw with too many, too big teeth, in a sneering smile. The thing had introduced itself by snapping the neck of the great white horse, the steed belonging to Lord Meren Dulance of High Vale.

Jack stood numbly, not moving, watching the towering brute as it ripped the beautiful white head off the dead horse. The giant lifted the head in his hands. As big as the horse had been—much larger than a Budweiser Clydesdale—the head looked small, like that of a miniature pony, clasped in the massive hands of the giant. The giant crammed his square, pink tongue into the gory hole of the horse’s neck, and sighed loudly, but its staring gaze of murder never departed from Jack and Six.

“Just stand still,” Six said, his left hand locked upon his sword scabbard, his right hand on the hilt of his great sword. “This is just a High Vale mugging, meant to terrorize us. If we leave the crooden giant alone, it shouldn’t come after us. If it does, don’t fight it, or wound it, but run. Get into the cottage, it’s a safe zone. Hell, all of this is a safe zone.”

Jack counted six fingers on the giant’s hands, but that wasn’t what was so strangely fascinating about the giant, because the six fingers matched the six hands, which matched the six muscular arms. This was some nightmarish interpretation of Kali, only decidedly too male, and without any touch of beauty. There was something almost insect-like to the nightmare being, for six appendages protruding from a VW-bug-sized torso just didn’t look human. Most everything else was apparently human to the giant, however, except for the hooves at the ends of its massive goat legs. It wore a filthy loincloth, but no other clothing.

If you counted the bizarre legs, it was more of a spider, with a total of eight appendages.

“I think I could put an arrow in each of its eyes, while it’s standing over there,” Jack said, voice quavering, “because whatever else happens, I just don’t want the thing standing over here.”

“Don’t do it, these things are incredibly fast. They are warriors, to the max, and I’ve heard tales of crooden taking out six fully armed knights. Not even a full party of adventurers led by a wizard with a healer want to go toe-to-toe with a crooden.”

“So what, we just stand here, after he killed your horse?” Jack said, feeling a rising anger that matched his terror. He was sick and tired of getting pushed around. He was sick and tired of running from big things.

“No, we don’t just stand here,” Six said, “we run, and we run like we’ve never run before.”

“You two alive,” the giant snorted, in an almost reasonable tone, sounding like a grizzly bear, holding the gory head in one hand, like an ice cream cone, still licking at it, “cuz I got treat. Delish. But run, I eat all.”

“That doesn’t sound too promising,” Jack whispered.

“Guess we’ve been talking too loudly,” Six whispered in return. “I didn’t think it could understand us.”

The giant grinned at them, with blood-stained teeth. The two rows of teeth were almost nicely laid out, as if the brute had worn braces when it was a brutish teenage six-armed giant. In fact, the giant’s smile reminded Jack of Julia Robert’s too big, too perfect teeth.

“Me understand. Crood like pretty talk. Crood like pretty fairies,” the giant said, but Jack didn’t know if it was talking directly to them, or to itself.

“We are not fairies, but men,” Six declared in a surprisingly confident shout.

“Men. Fairies. Same, Crood. Din’t tink wuz real,” Crood growl-laughed. The giant stood from its crouch to its full height.

Jack blinked, recalculating his earlier visual measurement, the giant’s head would probably go right up through a basketball net and wear the hoop as a crown.

“Tuh-Ten fuh-feet tuh-tall?” Jack stuttered.

“Yeah, this a big boy, even for crooden,” Six answered, drawing closer to Jack. The two men huddled together, trembling.

The crooden showed them the palms of five hands (one hand still held the gory head), and these looked like normal hands (other than the six fingers, and the incredible size) as if the monster were being utterly reasonable with them, and took two impossibly long strides toward Jack and Six on its weird backward goat legs. Jack thought that must be the strangest thing about the giant, its legs, which looked like human legs, only twisted, with the elbow in the rear—knees, whatever—however the logic of this twisting of animal and human worked, because it seemed to be albino-white human skin, terminating in human-looking ankles into what could be viewed as beautiful hooves, hooves the size of boulders, hooves that made loud clopping noises when they struck and shuddered the ground.

How in the world had the thing snuck up on them? One second everything was right with the world, everything was beautiful, they’d had such a lovely night in the little cottage, and the morning had begun so beautifully, and then without warning, the giant was there, and the horse was struggling in its grasp, but only for the briefest moment, and then the horse’s neck was twisted, and now they stood facing an approaching behemoth on boulder-sized hooves.

“No fraid,” the crooden growled. “Me nice, Crood nice.”

Suddenly Six grabbed his own crotch and squeezed.

“Whatever you do, don’t pee!” Six whisper-shouted to Jack. “The smell will drive it crazy.”

Jack clamped down, because it was close, when something like this monster strode toward you and the ground boomed beneath its hooves, you could easily lose control of your bladder.

The crooden boomed laughter.

“So funny,” Crood snickered. “Funny fairy. Go pee-pee, Crood no care. All good.”

“This is a safe zone, newby zone, you shouldn’t be here!” Six shouted, seizing Jack in a hug and moving them backward, away from the monster, toward the cottage. It was only two strides away from them. Two strides of those legs, and those hands would have them, and the men would tear as easily in those hands as had the neck of the majestic horse.

“Why fraid?” the crooden snickered, obviously enjoying their terror, crouching down, reaching out one arm across the distance, its finger pointing at them, as if it meant to tickle them. Its finger actually tickled the air, just five feet away from the two huddling men. “Crood play fairies. No fraid.”

Six clenched his eyes shut and squeezed Jack, but the younger man could not look away from the approaching doom, Jack could never close his eyes to whatever bad was coming. Then a black stick came crashing down on the wrist and the crooden stumbled up and away from them, and a figure in a black hooded cape stood between them and the monster.

“You’re just another bully, aren’t you?” the man in the black hood said, twirling a black club in his hand.

The crooden stared down with incredulous eyes, one of its hands cradling the wounded wrist. The giant’s too big, too perfect teeth jutted out in what appeared to be a smile of rage. The bulging eyes slitted.

The man in the hood turned and looked back at Jack.

“Stacey!” Jack cried, and then: “Watch out!”

Because even as Jack recognized Stacey’s smiling face, the crooden giant leapt forward, swinging one of its massive fists.

The man in the black hood reacted while turning back to the giant, swinging his black club up to block the approaching blow, and it was fast, everything was fast, but horribly, the fist connected with Stacey’s head, even as Stacey rolled with the blow and the black club seemed to absorb at least part of the force of the monster punch, but Stacey was lifted up and thrown, end over end, to crumple ten feet away on the ground, twisted and broken, face-down in the grass.

“Struck Crood! Fairy struck Crood!” the giant bellowed, its head opening up in a vast crack as its great mouth lifted to the sky. How could a mouth open so wide? The giant dropped the gory head and all its hands formed into fists that looked like knobbed wrecking balls. Except for the hand that Stacey had struck, which flopped impotently.

Jack, still hugging Six, looked from the giant to Stacey, and was amazed to see the man in the black hood pushing himself up from the ground, shrugging out of his hood and cloak, the left side of his face appearing torn and bloody. Stacey wasn’t dead! How was that even possible? He’d been thrown ten feet by that blow, and now he stood there, shaking his head, smiling, leaning upon his black walking stick.

“Ah, Pugilist,” Crood snarled, great lips drawn back in a rictus leer. “Fight Crood! Fight Pugilist!”

“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been sucker-punched,” Wolf said, shaking his head. His left eye was swollen shut, and the cheek below the eye hung in a bloody flap of ripped skin. “Ernie always said I was too cocky. When you look away from the bully, that’s when he strikes. I just never seem to learn, do I?”

The crooden took a half step forward, its massive hoof crushing the severed horse head.

“This is Stacey, your friend?” Six said, pushing away from Jack, drawing his sword.

“Yes, it’s Stacey,” Jack said, drawing his bow and sighting down the arrow at the giant’s teeth. Just open that mouth again, I dare you, crack it open like you did before, come on open that mouth, Jack mentally commanded, concentrating. Just one perfect shot. Come on, open wide, Humpty Dumpty.

“Stacey, you can’t fight it!” Six shouted. “Don’t try to fight it! You have to stay alive, I need you, that’s why you’re here! Don’t waste yourself on this crooden!”

“I am Wolf. Let me handle this bully,” Wolf said, his black stick suddenly up from the ground and twirling. He snapped his hand and the shillelagh danced away, skipping end-over-end toward the giant, who barely had time to glance down, and the black club bobbed up and punched squarely between the giant’s thighs, smacking into its great groin. The stick came skipping back end-over-end into Stacey Wolf’s hand.

The giant’s giant eyes bugged out.

“Ooiiip!” Crood croaked in an uncharacteristically high-pitched bleat.

Then Wolf strode forward, tall, his black shillelagh twirling. The giant flailed at Wolf in an ungainly punch, but Wolf ducked the blow and tapped the sweeping fist with his stick. There was a loud crack and the giant winced and stumbled backward.

“Hurt Crood! Hurt Crood!” the giant bellowed.

“That’s the idea,” Wolf said, in close now, doing a double crack on each of the giant’s ankles.

The giant roared, in pain, in frustration, but mostly in fury, its eyes livid, its great smile more prominent than ever, as it stumbled away from the comparatively small attacker’s onslaught. It was in pain, it was hurt, but the giant was certainly not retreating, as its fists aligned into a fighter’s stance, and the giant crouched and honed in upon Wolf.

“Crood...crush!” it sneered, and its smile now took on the form of enjoyment, as it poised on its own attack. It would make short work of this meddling fairy, and then it would enjoy pulling the creature to pieces—tiny, tasty pieces.

“Crood read too many Hulk comics,” Wolf laughed, beginning to dance, his boots trotting gracefully, waltzing to the left, and then tap-dance snapping to the right, but he stayed right there, in the giant’s kill zone, the black shillelagh twirling and spinning, the stick moving like a helicopter propeller blade, moving from left hand to right, from right hand to left hand. He looked powerful in his renaissance garb, breeches and vest glowing burgundy in the morning sunlight.

There was a loud crunching noise.

“Ooiiip!” Crood gasped, going very still. It stood there, like a statue, as if it were turned into stone, and briefly Jack thought of Tolkien’s Hobbit, and wondered if perhaps the rays of the morning sun had magically done its work. The giant’s eyes rolled and stared at Stacey Wolf, at Six, and then at Jack. Its eyes seemed to swell bigger, literally bulging out of the great egg of its head.

Then the giant turned his head, very slowly, and looked over his shoulder. The monster did an almost comical double-take, and then threw back his head and roared. Jack, sighting down the length of his arrow, cursed, because the giant’s head was turned in profile, and he just didn’t have the shot he most desired. He did not wish to waste a single arrow.

The giant’s six arms writhed in the air, fingers clasping, gripping at the air, and again Jack thought the giant looked like some bizarre insect, its arms looking like grasshopper legs, flexing. The giant spun about, and only then did they see the truly huge animal attached to the giant’s body, a great wolf, its teeth sunk deep into the giant’s meaty right buttock. The giant continued to turn, bellowing in fury, and the great wolf was lifted off its feet, spun about, swinging through the air.

Stacey Wolf dodged back as the wolf came around, and Jack was amazed to take in the wolf’s size, it was as big as a small horse! But still, in comparison to the giant, it looked like a poodle dangling from the giant’s butt.

“Damn it all!” shouted Six, “you’re just pissing it off!”

The giant crooden kept attempting to turn around, to get one of its many hands back to free itself from the wolf, but the big animal had its paws dug into the soil, and it was yanking backward, its jaws locked in flesh.

And then Stacey Wolf danced in and cracked it on one of its elbows. And the giant roared and came at Stacey, who danced to the side, cracking out again at another reaching hand.

There! Jack, concentrating, had his shot. The tip of his arrow was aligned with the giant’s open mouth, facing full on, and all he had to do was release the grip of his right hand, there, now, do it, do it! But then the moment passed and the giant went still again, his mouth closed, lips pulled over the vast teeth. Jack closed his eyes. You missed it. You had it right there, you could have shot him right through his open mouth, right up there into his brain, you had it and you blew it. Jack sighed. Why hadn’t he fired?

Then Stacey Wolf went right up the middle, right between the giant’s six arms, and he actually ran up the giant’s belly in a dazzling Parkour move, his boots striking the giant just above the waist, and with both arms he brought the black shillelagh down upon the giant’s forehead, just above and between its eyes.

Curr-ACK! It sounded like Mark McGwire hitting one far out of the park.

Stacey Wolf fell back, landing on his feet, dancing back away from the giant.

The crooden giant, vast even among crooden, stood still a few moments. Then its eyes came together, crossing, and then rolled up into its head, and the giant went over backward. There was a loud scrambling as the great wolf behind the giant released his hold, and danced away from the falling behemoth. The ground shook as the giant struck the soil.

Jack ran forward and seized Stacey in his arms, actually lifting the large man off his feet.

“It’s you!” Jack cried, holding onto Stacey, and weeping. “I thought you didn’t make it through.”

“I’m here, it’s me,” Stacey Wolf said, woozily, and then he saw the world spinning, and his own eyes rolled up into head, much the way the giant’s had a few seconds before, but Six was there, and they caught him, and lowered him to the grasses.

And then the giant wolf was there, licking Wolf the man’s face.

“Please stand back,” Wolf the wolf said between licks.

 She stood at the railing of the observation deck, leaning on the cool aluminum bannister, sipping at her hot cocoa. She did not know what she was going to do. She didn’t know if she could go back to Vestigial Surreality, because she was right there, huddled beneath a blanket when they removed Toby Winnur from his chamber, and they tried to keep the mess of what had been him hidden from her, but she had seen, just enough. Poor Toby was gone, only vestiges of him were in that black body bag upon the stretcher. She had seen the outlines of what could have been interpreted as a hand, a human hand, in the remains of the flesh, or not flesh, but bubbles. What they carted out had not been human, not anymore. At least the bundle she had carried across the floor had been somewhat substantial, although foamy, and light. Molecularly, he had become something else. Toby Winnur, Number Six, had become slime.

That could still happen to Seven.

But what bothered Seven even more than the fact that Toby Winnur was gone—she had at least expected that—but what was worse than his inevitable death, was the fact that no one had come to question her. None of the EMTs had even glanced at her. None of the security men in their uniforms had come to talk to Seven. Worse, no one had tried to comfort her.

What kind of company handled things this way?

She had to go back, she knew that, regardless of her eventual fate, because she had to go to her Inner Sanctum. She couldn’t leave herself there. She understood Six, if only now, because Seven was truly Seven, only there, in that world.

Seven toyed with the locket beneath her shirt, tracing its heart shape with a finger. She sipped at her cocoa and frowned. There was something...?

Something bothered her. It was right there, on the edge of her mind, circling her, and if she could only reach out, and grasp it, but she couldn’t quite get a mental hand out there, far enough. But something was bothering her.

She clasped the chain around her neck and drew out the locket. She smiled at the silver charm, a heart, tracing the intricate carvings with her fingertip. She loved the feel of the cool silver, with the aged deep lines, the silver was polished bright by the constant movement beneath her clothes, but the grime of ages had worked its way into the etchings, the tracings, the veins. It calmed her to work the locket in her fingers.

But something troubled her. Something. What was it?

She studied the heirloom locket. What was the shape in the center? Funny, she thought there had been initials engraved deep, but no, it was a shape. It looked like a ball, a globe, with a circle going around it. Was it supposed to be a figurative representation of the world, spinning? Or, was that supposed to be an airplane flying around the Earth? No, it looked like a ring, kind of like an iconic depiction of the planet Saturn.

But it was so old, this locket, the engraving so worn down after time, that it was almost impossible to figure out what the engraving was supposed to be.

Her mother gave her this locket, and her mother before her, going all the way back to the ancestor, him, the mythical one, their patron saint, their beloved forefather. Supposedly this locket had belonged to Jack Messenger. She didn’t know if it were true, what her mother told her, because there were a lot of things about her mother that she couldn’t quite trust, but her mother supposedly knew Old Jack, the Patriarch, when he was more than two hundred twenty years old, when her mother was just a little girl.

Seven’s eyes filled with tears. She wondered where Six was, had he made it, as he planned, was some part of him even now alive, in some utopian world?

“Right on time,” a voice said at her elbow.

Seven turned and smiled at a little girl. A funny little girl, dressed in an old-fashioned frilly dress, all shades of pink, hair up with bunches of golden curls. Seven set her cup of cocoa on the railing and turned to face the little girl.

“Hello,” she said, smiling, wiping at her eyes.

She heard an alarm sound somewhere in the platform and noticed people rushing toward the back of the observation deck, and the ceiling suddenly closed in, sealing off the atmosphere. The air immediately felt warmer in the confines of the deck.

“I’m Manda,” the little girl said, putting out a hand to shake.

“I’m...” Seven began, taking the little hand in her own, and she hesitated, because she was almost going to introduce herself as Seven, it’s how she identified with herself, but this little girl—something about her, something familiar—she smiled and squeezed the girl’s hand, “I’m Sandy.”

“We had best catch a taxi,” Manda said, not releasing Seven’s hand, but transferring it to her other hand, and walking, pulling Seven along with her, so that they were strolling and holding hands.

Seven laughed, wow, what a little controller, but she had to admit, the little girl was charming. Seven thought she had caught sight of the little girl earlier, in the food court, as she was rising on the crystal escalator with her cocoa. She glanced back. Great, she left her beverage sitting back there on the railing, she almost paused, but the little girl drew her inexorably onward.

“Didn’t I see you earlier, with a handsome man?” Seven asked as they entered a stairwell and began the spiraling descent to the taxi platform.

“A very handsome man, oh yes,” Manda answered, smiling sadly, “but handsome is, as handsome does.”

Seven chuckled. She might have said, never trust a pretty face. And she thought of Stacey, and without thought her hand grasped at her locket, which she had tucked back into her shirt at the little girl’s approach. And there was that troubling...feeling, again, as if she had left the stove on, or the door unlocked. Something gamboled off in the darkness, playfully tickling at her conscious mind, like a moth batting at an electric light, so close it burned, but still, it couldn’t get in.

They were on the taxi level and the little girl hustled her over to an open portal, and that was weird, because you always had to wait in lines for a taxi, despite the seven portals. Even with seven portal on either side of the platform—fourteen portals in all—you still had to wait for a taxi, always. As they walked into the waiting taxi, Seven glanced along the portals and saw at least five people in each line.

“You’re not a queen, are you?” Seven asked, chuckling a bit as she seated herself close to the little girl.

“I used to think of myself as a princess, but I was only pretending,” Manda said, smiling at Seven.

“Dada is dada,” Seven whispered, troubled, her eyes widening.

“You remember me,” Manda said, nodding.

“That was you,” Seven breathed. “Dada is dada. Data is data.”

“Could be a coincidence?” Manda said, giggling. She was playing with something in her hands. Seven leaned in close as the taxi pulled away. Distantly she considered that she did not know where they were going, and they hadn’t said anything to the driver silhouette up front. She felt the craft lurch and her tummy dipped when the vehicle sped away from the platform.

“This is beautiful, an heirloom, your mother gave it to you?” Manda said, holding up her hand and dangling the chain, the heart-shaped locket swinging, a pendulum.

“How?” Seven breathes, her hand clasping at her heart, but wait, that was in the Inner Sanctum, not here, she distinctly remembers crafting the locket, placing the crystal cube—the size of a vitamin pill, yes she distinctly remembers—she places the crystal cube into the heart-shaped locket, a smooth locket without engraving—yet she distinctly remembers Mother, a High Jackian Priestess, giving her this locket, on her thirteenth birthday, a token from Old Jack himself, before he died at the age of two hundred thirty, she remembers all this.

“Keep it safe,” Manda says, handing the chain and locket to Seven. “Don’t pull it out in public like that. Trust Old Ben, though you never know what he will do next. And talk to Mr. Kronoss, don’t be afraid of him, but never, absolutely never trust him. Especially if you’re a pigeon!”

Seven placed the chain over her head and dropped the locket inside the top of her shirt. She did not wish to look at the little girl, not anymore, and she could barely breathe. She realized the taxi was stopped, settled, the door opening. As she went to flee the taxi the little girl, Manda, seized her arm.

“Tell me, Sandra Newbury, Seven,” Manda said, and despite herself, Seven looked into her eyes. “Are people worth it? Do you think people are evil, or good?”

“People?” Seven said, unable to look away from the blue eyes of the little girl.

“I know there are good ones, I especially like Jack, and Stacey too. In fact, I think Stacey is my favorite, of all the people that have ever lived. But mostly, aren’t people just...crazy, little universes inside coconut skulls, scrambled like eggs, always turning to evil?”

Seven tried to snatch her arm away but the little girl’s grip was a vise of steel. Coconuts. Eggs. Her own brain seemed scrambled. Images of snakes and Humpty Dumpty swirled about for a few moments, and she thought she must be suffering a stroke. She witnessed dead pigeons suddenly take flight. Angry eyes glanced at her from a cell phone video. She was behind Stacey, Jack’s hand on the big man’s spine, and the Martian were approaching. Old Ben stood in the corner, leafing through a book. And Saturn glowed behind her eyes.

“I can’t figure it out, truthfully,” Manda said. “I love people. And I hate them, desperately. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Seven said, and when the hand released her, she shot from the back of the taxi onto a deserted sidewalk.

“Bye-bye!” Manda cried as the taxi doors shut and the craft lifted up into the sky

Seven turned and looked up at the vast building before her, the steps leading up to the rear entrance mere paces away. She saw the red glow of the giant VS logo, even though she couldn’t see the letters, which were too high up and just around the corner of the building The little girl, Manda, had dropped her right at the steps of Vestigial Surreality.

Slowly, she climbed the steps. She had two minds, for just these moments, she could cling tenuously to both of them, both of her minds, both of her collection of memories, for she remembers creating the locket and she remembered her mother’s gift. The same locket. Different lockets, of different worlds, of different realities.

And Seven remembers the little girl, Manda, too, for it was her own face, the face of Sandra Newbury, when she was seven years of age. Manda was a perfect reproduction of seven-year-old Sandy.

Next Episode.

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

50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Vestigial Surreality: 15: The Little Girl

Part 2: Curiouser and Curiouser
episode FIFTEEN

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

50 51 52 53 54 55 56

The Little Girl.

The little girl strolls along the street, stopping before windows, cupping her hands around her eyes and leaning against the glass storefronts. Occasionally, she checks the small pink watch on her wrist, and she smiles. A woman passing her, in a bright sunny dress, all expanded skirt and tight crenellated waist, puffed sleeves and high collar, smiles at the little girl, and pauses.

“Where are your parents, Dear?” the woman asks, pleasantly.

“Oh, you know, Dada is Dada,” the little girl says, giggling.

The woman smiles at her, and then tilts her head slightly, beginning to frown. She is about to say something else when the little girl skips away, trailing a white-gloved hand along the buildings, her fingers slipping in and out over the red bricks and green-blue grout. The woman follows the charming little girl, but only with her gaze, and her frown upends into a smile, as she shakes her head and continues the other way, the little girl slipping from her mind, a playful foal. The woman smiles at a very handsome man, who tips his fedora hat and grins. The woman turns to follow the man with a wistful glance, and she touches the large mound of curls at her head, wishing she had spritzed herself with Fer de Lance instead of Moonglow before leaving her cottage.

The little girl skips across the sidewalk rectangles, always careful to miss the cracks between the slabs of concrete, to the corner lift and waits for the blue doors to rise and then slide apart. She puts her head far back, watching for the lift, and sees it very high above, a dark smudge in the sky. Her very blonde hair dangles prettily down her back, in cascades of golden curls. She checks her pink watch and smiles. Glancing down the street, she notices a big Irish cop strolling in his crisp navy blue greatcoat, brass buttons glinting in the sunlight, swinging his nightstick from a sausage-thick finger. The beefy red-faced man is whistling merrily, and the girl catches the tune, Buffalo Girls.

“Aaaaaaand,” the little girl sings along, “daaaaance by the light of the moooooon!”

“Wonderful singing voice,” the very handsome man says, approaching and stopping near the little girl. He lifts his dark blue fedora to the little girl, nodding courtly, and then places his hands into the pockets of baggy suit pants.

“Thank you,” the little girl says, and smiles up at the very handsome man.

“Hey,” he says, “would you like to play a game?”

“Sure,” the little girl replies, grinning, because she adores games.

“Why don’t we pretend that I’m your daddy?” the very handsome man says, eyes twinkling. He rocks back and forth on his dark two-tone shoes. The little girl notices how tightly the shoes are laced, and wonders how the very handsome man is able to pull the thick black laces so tightly.

“This fine policeman strolling toward us is a very good friend of mine,” the very handsome man says, nodding in the direction of the whistling officer. “Let’s tell him that I’m taking you on an adventure, and that I’m going to buy you real ice cream on the platform above.”

“Oh, I have money,” the little girl says, showing the man the little clasp purse on her wrist. She is very proud of the pink leather purse, and inside the purse she has two whole dollars, one a folded green bill, and the remainder in a variety of coins; two dimes, three nickels, five pennies, and two quarters.

“Your money is no good here,” the very handsome man laughs, “in this fine establishment, everything is on the house, for a princess like you. You pick whatever you like from the menu, and I’m buying. Nothing is too good for my little girl.”

“Oh, I’m not a princess,” the little girl giggles. “I like to pretend sometimes, but I know I’m not. The Shaannii assures me that I had best focus on the facts; with the Shaannii, it is always the facts, nothing but the facts.”

“Well, to me,” the very handsome man chuckles, “your proud Daddy, you are the most wonderful princess to ever don glass slippers!”

The little girl frowns. She does not think that glass slippers sound very comfortable, but she understands his reference. Cinderella lost a slipper running down the steps at midnight. She glances down at her own pink sandals, and wishes for heels, but she is still too young to be wearing heels, at least that is what the Shaannii says. But the very handsome man using the phrase don glass slippers—such an old-fashioned expression—perhaps this friendly man should not be trusted, not quite completely, despite being so very handsome. Handsome is as handsome does. The little girl often imagines having a father, and she enjoys imagining him looking much like this very handsome man. For now, she will continue his little game. But she is watching him.

A low beeping tone sounds, and the blue walls of the lift cube rise from the concrete, and the lift drops like a rock from the sky, producing a loud whistling noise.

“Top of the mornin’,” says the Irish policeman, nearing the lift cube, pushing his nightstick into the broad belt at his waist. “And how is our young lady, my pretty little Buffalo gal?”

The little girl giggles, understanding that the policeman is not calling her a girl from Buffalo, a city of Old New York, but is merely referring to the lyrics of the song he has been whistling. She is charmed by the red-faced man, who is smiling at her with twinkling blue eyes, and she returns his smile, and for some reason, she feels like taking his big hand, but it is her “play daddy” that takes her hand.

“My little lady requires ice cream in the sky, and what can a father do but give his only daughter exactly what she wants?” the very handsome man says, taking a step toward the blue lift cube.

“Oh and fine, and what’s your favorite flavor?” the policeman inquires of the little girl, crouching down, his elbow blocking the very handsome man. “Meself, I loves the Rocky Road.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had ice cream before,” the little girl says, “so I don’t have a favorite flavor, not yet, but honestly, Rocky Road doesn’t sound too pleasant, it sounds rather...earthy.”

The policeman guffaws loudly. “Oh, but it is not the sound, no, but the taste of Rocky Road; why you have marshmallows, and chunks of chocolate, and nuts, that’s the thing of it, it’s the taste,” the policeman says. “The chocolate will provide all the acne you could ever wish for! Well beyond puberty, that it will!”

The little girl, smiling at the policeman, really likes him, she likes his white hair, his crinkled blue eyes, and his big red nose, as well as his big and gruff voice, and she says, “Then it is Rocky Road for me. Marshmallows sound nice. And the chocolate, of course. But I don’t know about the acne.”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about the acne, not for about seven or so years, I would think. And what about you, my good man? Is it Rocky Road for you, too, then?” the policeman says, pushing himself upright with a grunt, smiling at the very handsome man.

The little girl looks from the policeman to the very handsome man and back again, noticing that the policeman’s eyes are not crinkling even though he is still smiling.

“I’m more of a sherbet man, myself,” the very handsome man says.

“Sherbet!” the policeman snorts. “What is it then? Is it ice cream, or is it yogurt? Hard to trust a treat that can’t make up its own mind. A wee bit Frenchy, I think.”

The little girl adores the policeman’s lilting accent, and she giggles.

“Going on a wee adventure with your...Daddy, Darlin’?” the policeman says, not looking away from the very handsome man, and his smile seems to fade.

The little girl does not pretend to understand all the dynamics of the interchange, but she knows the lift will depart soon.

“Oh yes, my Daddy is taking me on an adventure, and he is going to buy me ice cream on the platform.”

“We have to hurry,” the very handsome man says, dodging about the policeman, “come along, Sweetheart.”

They enter the blue cube and the doors swish shut just behind them. Turning her head, the little girl catches a final glimpse of the big Irish policeman, and sees that he is talking into something in his hand.

“Wasn’t that fun?” the very handsome man says as the lift gives a tiny jolt, rocketing into the sky.

“Yes, it was lots of fun,” the little girl says, watching through the clear cube as the city grows tiny beneath their feet. “I enjoyed the whole interchange, oh so much. And I liked the Irish policeman, he was wonderful.” She imagines she can see the Irish policeman, strolling below them, twirling his baton, his white hair glimmering in the sunlight. She imagines she can see the smiling woman with the curly hair.

“Quite an adventure,” the very handsome man says.

“This gives me a very odd feeling,” the little girl says, “my tummy is funny.”

“Don’t be afraid,” the very handsome man says, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.

“Oh, no, but I’m not afraid, I understand how the lift works, but I’ve never ridden it before, and seeing the city get small makes me wonder if I’m getting big.”

“You are a very strange little girl,” the very handsome man says.

“I hope I’m not strange,” the little girl says. Looking up, she watches as the platform appears far above, seeming to grow larger and larger, looking like a steel island in the sky. She glances at her pink wristwatch. “Right on time!”

“Yes,” the very handsome man chuckles, “right on time!”

The lift fits perfectly into a cube shape at the bottom of the platform, and almost immediately the doors slide open. They walk into a busy food court where almost every kind of food is distributed by smiling attendants in a ring of clean outlets.

“What’s your name, Sweetheart?” the very handsome man says, leading the girl toward the ice cream parlor.

“My name is Manda. What is your name?” the little girl says.

“Amanda. Nice to meet you, Amanda. My name is...Charlie. But you call me Daddy, for the adventure, okay?”

“Manda,” the little girl corrects him, “and your name is Charlie, but Daddy, for the adventure.”

“Fine, Amanda. Daddy. We got that straight. Let’s keep it straight, okay.”

She frowns and checks her pink wristwatch. She is still right on time.

Only one person is in line before them and the very handsome man waves his hand before the menu, causing the projected menu to scroll through hundreds of flavors.

“So, what is it, Rocky Road, as our flat-footed friend suggests, or something more...exotic?”

The little girl scans the flashing menu, oh so many delicious-sounding flavors.

“What about your sherbet?” the little girl says.

“We can eat from the same cone,” the very handsome man says, squeezing her hand.

She winces, as he has compressed her fingers, too hard.

“Unsanitary,” the little girl says. “Germs. No, I think I will go ahead and try Rocky Road, as planned.”

The very handsome man snorts. “As planned. Fine. Rocky Road, it is.”

The person in front of them departs, hefting a crystal glass of foamy beige something, and the smiling attendant turns to them and says: “Welcome to A Million Plus One Flavors, what can I get for you two happy people?”

The girl likes the blue glassiness of the attendant, and she likes how you can just see through the young man, who is obviously represented by a happy, nondescript avatar. She understands that the real worker is probably somewhere far below, wearing a headset while playing games at a home terminal, and probably looks completely different from this generic representation.

“Two scoops of Rocky Road, the real stuff, in a waffle cone, and one avocado sherbet, on a stick,” the very handsome says.

“Ten credits, please,” the attendant says, almost immediately.

“Ten credits for ice cream, the shame of it,” the very handsome man says, finally releasing the little girl’s hand to retrieve a bulging billfold from a pocket within his suit coat.

“Avocado? Isn’t that a strange flavor for sherbet?” the little girl wonders.

“There’s nothing strange about it,” the very handsome man snaps. Then he smiles. “Avocado is a fruit, you know, just like tomato, or mango, or strawberries.”

“Technically,” the little girl says, “strawberries are not berries.”

“Had to get the know-it-all,” the very handsome man mutters, not acknowledging the little girl.

The little girl watches as he flips through a variety of cards; as the cards flick by she registers the various names, James Thuggard, Ronald Beasley, Thomas Finches, until he comes to Charles Weingart, which he selects and waves over the blue disk on the counter, then promptly returns the card to his wallet and tucks it back into his jacket. The disk pings quietly and the door near the disk swooshes open, the order displayed on crystal pedestals.

The little girl giggles, because the cone with the bulging ice cream looks wonderful.

The very handsome man takes the order and bows courtly to the little girl, offering her the cone.

“Your Ladyship,” he says, bowing as if presenting a crown to a princess.

The little girl seizes the cone and immediately begins to lick the ice cream. Oh, but the policeman was correct, this Rocky Road is wonderful, chocolatey, and there are the marshmallows, jutting out of the ice cream, and chunks of chocolate.

“What, no thank you?” the handsome man says in mock outrage.

“Thank you, so much, it’s wonderful,” the little girl says.

“Shall we take our treats up to the observation deck, M’Lady Amanda?” the very handsome man says, taking her hand and leading her away from the food court. He leads her toward the small cube lift.

“Let’s take the crystal escalator,” the little girl says. “But you know, I have told you twice, my name is Manda, not Uh-manda.”

The man sighs but adjusts their course. He allows her to step onto the first crystal step, but does not release his hold on her hand. He steps up close behind her. The escalator lifts them, cutting through the floor of the food court. It is as if they are levitating, rising through the air.

They pass through three floors where people both get on and off the escalator, there are shopping booths, lounges, as well as departure platforms for various destinations, there is taxi traffic, and hotel rooms for rent, and soon they rise into a magnificent sky, for the moment free of clouds so that the land is visible, spread out like a patchwork quilt beneath them.

“Isn’t this lovely?” the very handsome man says, leading the little girl to the wall of the crystal cube.

In bad weather, or very windy conditions, the top of the crystal cube seals, making the observation deck a sort of terrarium in the sky, but on a nice day like this, the ten-foot walls end in open sky.

“Someone who fell from this height,” the very handsome man says, thoughtfully, “well, there just wouldn’t be much left, would there?”

“That’s why the walls are so high,” the little girl says, “to keep people from falling.”

“Or jumping,” the very handsome man says. “But people do find a way, don’t they?”

“They do?” the little girl says.

“Oh yes, all the time,” the very handsome man says. “Some people jump, because they are just not happy in this world. And others are thrown because they make people unhappy.”

“What’s up with people?” the little girl says, thoughtfully, staring at the world through the crystal walls.

“What’s down with people?” the very handsome man says, chuckling.

The little girl does not reply, but stares out at the great distances, enjoying her ice cream. She enjoys working the marshmallows and nuts with her teeth, slowly extracting the bits. Rocky Road is her favorite ice cream flavor, she decides.

“Let’s sit down over here,” the very handsome man says, drawing the girl to a corner bench made of crystal. “Looks like we have the whole deck to ourselves. Isn’t this cozy?”

“I think about people, all the time,” the little girl says. “I can’t really make up my mind about them. They should be happy, and yet most people are not happy.”

“We’re happy,” the very handsome man says, “you and I, me and you, we and us. That’s what matters. You like the ice cream, and I like you.”

“Where’s your sherbet?” the little girl says.

“Guess I wasn’t very hungry,” the very handsome man says, “for sherbet.”

“Well, you’re not getting any of my Rocky Road,” the little girl says, continuing to lick her ice cream.

“That’s not very nice of you,” the very handsome man says.

“I already explained about the germs,” the little girl says, lowering her eyebrows.

“The germs, yes,” the man says. “But you know, married people don’t worry so much about germs, married people, and families, fathers and daughters?”

“You realize we are not actually related,” the little girl says, “that was all for the adventure.”

“The adventure’s not over, is it?” the man says, placing an arm about the girl’s shoulders. “You are still my princess, and I am still your Daddy. Don’t you love your Daddy?”

The little girl glances at him. Then she really looks at him. Something has changed. His nostrils are twitching, and his pupils are very large, and one side of his mouth is twitching. He seems to be breathing much louder.

“Are you feeling well?” she says.

“Feel great,” he says, patting her shoulder, “I just so enjoy spending time with you, my daughter. Why don’t you sit on my lap?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she says, turning her gaze to her ice cream, but not licking it.

“Now come on,” he says, sweeping an arm beneath her thighs, lifting her, “you have your ice cream, you love it. There’s nothing wrong with a father enjoying a little girl on his lap.”

“But you’re not really my father,” she says, squirming to get off his lap.

“Stop. It.”

She went still. He had a hand clamped on the back of her neck. It hurt.

“See those walls,” the man said, speaking quickly, “they’re not really that tall. A tall man, like me, can easily throw something over the top. Just sit still.”

He smoothed a hand over her skirt, straightening the pink folds.

“You are hurting my neck,” the little girl said.

“No, I’m not. You, moving, that’s what’s hurting your neck, little girl,” the man said. He placed his hat beside them on the bench. “Just sit still.”

“I think that perhaps you are not really a nice man,” the little girl said, sitting very still, but he did not relinquish the grip on the back of her neck.

“You have no idea,” he said, rubbing his cheek down alongside her face. “Don’t you know that little girls are not supposed to go out alone?”

He sounded like a character in a fairytale. The Big Bad Wolf.

“Yes, I know that,” the little girl said, tears filling her eyes. “I was being naughty. I snuck away.”

“And now they wonder where you could have gone,” the man whispered. “They will know. Soon enough. After.”

“You are a bad man,” she said.

“That’s what they say,” he answered, and he began to move a hand down her leg to the edge of her skirt.

“Stop,” she said, and he stopped. She climbed off his lap and looked at him. He sat frozen, one hand up as if gripping her neck, the other arm stretched out, the hand curled back, as if seeking.

“What’s happening?” the man said, but his speech was garbled, as if he could not fully move his lips and tongue.

“Please, do not speak,” the little girl said. She closed her eyes and they flicked about, moving beneath the lids, as if she were dreaming. “The Shaannii says there is no hope for someone like you. What you are doing, you have done, and will do again. You have done terrible things. And you will do terrible things.”

“Sorry,” the man whimpered, completely still, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“I am sorry,” the little girl said, opening her eyes. “What you have done to others, so let it be done to you, so let it be written, so let it be done.”

The man, not looking very handsome, slammed against the crystal wall of the observation deck, his legs sticking straight out, his eyes bulging in horror, as he slowly slid with his back against the crystal wall, up, up, and he began to scream, but he kept moving, as if lifted by an unseen escalator, up and up until he reached the top of the wall, and then he went over, and now screamed with all his being as he fell. She heard him screaming for a long time, until she could not hear the screams any longer. But the little girl was certain he would scream until the very end, in about ten seconds.

She looked sadly at the man’s dark blue fedora hat. It matched his suit so well. She turned and walked across the observation deck as people began appearing, rushing from lifts and stairwells and the escalator, rushing, rushing to see what might yet be seen, pressing their hands against the crystal walls. The little girl noticed that the ceiling had closed and now the observation deck was a sealed terrarium in the sky, and all the people were the little animals in the crystal box. Yes, the people were much more like animals than people.

The little girl walked around the circular restaurant to the far side of the observation deck, and walked directly to the lone woman who stood at the prow of the platform, looking out at the approaching clouds.

“Right on time,” the little girl said, checking her pink wristwatch.

“Hello,” the young woman said, turning from her view, smiling at the little girl, but wiping at her eyes. It seemed that she had been crying, just moments before.

“I’m Manda,” the little girl said.

The young woman paused, and then said, softly, “I’m Sandy,” and she ceremoniously shook the little girl’s proffered hand.

Wolf remained very still, staring up, holding his black fighting stick in both hands, parallel to the ground. The great serpent had just threatened to devour him.

The serpent’s great head drew very close. It came down slowly, until its nose was inches away from his face. Only moments after their life-and-death struggle, and now here it was, the great serpent threatened to go back on its word and eat him, after everything, after all their oaths of friendship.

“Do you think I’m joking?” the serpent hissed.

“You do have a strange sense of humor,” Wolf said.

“You should see your face,” the serpent hissed, and released a bellow of air in what must pass for laughter. “Come on, admit it, Wolf, you were worried.”

“Maybe...concerned,” Wolf said, allowing himself a grin. Still, his hands did not shift on the black shillelagh.

“Concerned,” the serpent hissed. “I’m surprised you did not soil yourself.”

“I actually might have done that earlier, during our wrestling match,” Wolf said.

“No, I do not think so,” the serpent hissed. “You are a stern man, strong and brave. I could not depart, not yet, because I wanted to give you one last gift.”

Wolf lifted his eyebrows.

The serpent opened its great jaws, producing its monstrous fangs, longer than his arms. On each fang was what appeared to be a ring of leather.

Wolf snapped his black stick up under his arm and reached for one of the leather strips. With a few tugs he was able to pull down one of the leather bands, and he carefully removed it without touching the tip of the fang, and without pause he did the same to the other band.

He glanced at the two bands. They were gloves, fingerless gloves. Wolf chuckled. The gloves appeared to be MMA gloves. He pulled them on over his fingers. They came down well below his wrists, fitting perfectly like gauntlets, and were made of the same scaly leather as the breeches and boots.

“I was not joking, however, about how delicious you appear to me,” the serpent hissed.

“Thank you,” Wolf said, choosing to interpret that as a compliment, flexing his fists in his new gloves. Big flexing horns covered all his knuckles. These gloves would not only protect his hands, but deliver devastating damage at any blow, and aside from all that, they just felt cool.

“Fare thee well, Pugilist Wolf,” the serpent hissed, and then it swung its hooded and horned head away and was off moving through the grasses, like a freight train seeming to take forever.

Wolf lifted his pack and opened the flap; he dug just a moment, extricating a bottle of wine.

“I could use a drink,” he said, prying the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs. He took a sip and nodded his head. Not bad, not bad at all. He took a longer swig, and then replaced the cork. He belched. He slipped the bottle back into the pack and snatched the hooded traveling cloak from the ground.

He set out walking downhill, and after a few moments, he noticed the growing chill. Evening seemed to be coming on. He slipped into his cloak and pulled the hood up over his head. In all the recent excitement, his cigar had gone out. He squeezed the tip and it once again burst into flame. He sucked the cigar until it billowed smoke, and then set out walking again, slipping the pack onto one shoulder, prodding the ground before him with his black walking stick. All in all, he didn’t feel bad. Truthfully, he felt rather excited. He chuckled. Ah come on, whom was he kidding, this was like being a kid again, on Christmas morning. He wanted to scream!

He wouldn’t be going back to that job. He wouldn’t be worrying about his bills, or his credit debt. Forget GMOs, high fructose corn syrup, car insurance, diet sodas with zero calories, lying media, flu shots, and Wi-Fi hotspots. You can keep your traffic tickets, political ads, popup adware, and online pornography. No, this was a world of vivid colors, and giant serpents, and he was alive; he had survived the crashing Armageddon of one world, and he felt more than equipped to handle anything, and so he might as well push forward and discover what this new world had to offer.

The serpent had mentioned something about a human dwelling below, and that’s what he set off for, enjoying his fantasy Cuban cigar and the pleasant evening stroll. He noticed a moon peeking over the edge of the tall mountains on his left. It looked huge, perhaps twice the size of the normal moon he was used to seeing. As he strolled, puffing on his cigar, he twirled the black shillelagh, and man, but that felt good, something completely normal to his hand, as if it were part of him. It felt too light for such a strong piece of wood, and it felt alive.

No, at least for the time being, Stacey and his world and all his problems were gone. In this new place, for however long he should be alive, in the now he was Wolf. He picked up his pace into a loping jog, hefting his stick in his left hand, his right hand steadying the pack above his hip. He glanced at the moon again, which was almost free of the mountain range, and it was truly an awesome spectacle, bloated and glowing a dim blue. Something caught his eyes from over on the right side of the far valley where a more rugged set of peaks rose high in the air, and he blinked, for it appeared to be another moon, this one tinged with green, and perhaps a eighth the size of the blue moon (probably half or less the size of his moon, in that destroyed world), and it was moving in the opposite direction; he supposed, some time tonight the two moons would meet in the sky, and one would eclipse the other. Two moons? Wasn’t that pressing things a little too far? Still, he had to remember, there were worlds with more than one moon, why shouldn’t this be one?

He loped a little faster as full night came on. For now, it was enough to head downhill. But even with two moons in the sky, he doubted he would be able to find his way safely in the dark. He gave himself another half hour to find the human dwelling. If he didn’t find the place, he’d have to make camp out here, and hopefully there were sufficient supplies inside his pack, as he had not really explored its contents as yet.

A sound above the breeze brought him to an abrupt halt. There was no misinterpreting that song of the night, it was a very loud wolf howl, and it carried on long and loud, sounding like the wind singing. The howl began low and mournful, and then rose piercing and sad, yet very beautiful. Wolf had never actually heard a real wolf howl, in the real world (or what passed for it). He had only heard the song of the wild in movies. But out here, in the wild, the song brought gooseflesh to his neck and shoulders, and he actually felt his scalp rise up as if in terror. But he felt no fear, none whatsoever.

He threw back his own head and howled into the night, putting all of himself into that howl, ripping free every pain and worry of the last couple of days, and he howled with his soul, tears leaking from his eyes, offering up the torment of losing a world, offering up the terror of birth into a new world. Then, spent, he stood, listening, puffing on his cigar.

If he expected the wolf to answer him, he was disappointed, because all was silent, save for the chorus of crickets that came alive, first like a string quartet, and then like a full symphony. But Wolf’s disappointment was only short lived, because a great shape emerged through the trees and loped across the meadows. It was the largest dog-like beast he had ever hoped to see, far larger than a Great Dane or St. Bernard.

It was a wolf, a white wolf, perhaps the size of a pony. And it was loping directly toward him.

Wolf stood with his black shillelagh in his left hand, waiting, until the great wolf came and sat on its haunches, ten feet away.

“Don’t worry,” it said, in a deep, friendly voice. “I’m not another test. Boreallis sent me. I am to be your guide, and protector. And I hope, ultimately, to be your friend.”

“I am Wolf,” Wolf the man said.

“I know. I am Wolf, as well,” Wolf the wolf said. “I enjoyed your howl.”

“Thank you. I enjoyed your howl, as well,” Wolf the man said.

“Grab onto my ruff, and run alongside me, and I will guide your feet to safe places of treading,” Wolf the wolf said.

And they ran, into the night, into the wild, Wolf and Wolf.

Next Episode.