Category: Stories

This one’s in response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Your Very Own Space Opera. This promised to be a lot of fun and it was, but man, I had to cut a ton of flavor out to get to the bones of this one and it’s still too long. I have a ton of unused background for Martime and this universe, so I plan to find some way to use that in the future. I like her a lot. You don’t get to know her like I do in this one, but her time will come. Trust me on this one. ——————————————————– The crate held in the clamps of one of her ship’s cargo arms exploded directly with far too much energy to be an accident. This was the first hint Martime had of the Dragooons’ presence, which was big problem. Her proximity alarms were now going berserk, but they should detected the nearby ship or ships several minutes ago. She braced herself for the next shot, but nothing happened for several seconds. The public channel “incoming message” light was blinking, so she waved it in and looked up at her screen. Beyond the wreckage of her cargo arm and the crate it had held were two Dragoon ships: Sleek, fast heavily armed, armored, and ugly as hell. The message played: “On the authority of [some bullshit entity she’d never heard of], freighter A2N of the Banasaic League is ordered to stop and receive a boarding party. You are suspected of carrying stolen cargo.” Somehow, in parallel, several thoughts crossed Martime’s mind at once: 1) “Yep, they’re right. All of these crates are stolen. The entire barge is full of them.” 2) “They’re faster, more maneuverable, and far better armed than I am.” 3) “Why hadn’t Goff, who might or might not be her boyfriend, and who was remarkably well connected with law enforcement, hinted that she might be in trouble?” All three of these threads converged on a single point, a thought which neatly summed up each line of thought: “I am so screwed.” The A2N was nominally a freighter, but it might better be describe as a tug. The ship, with all of the engines, life support, computers, and weapons, was a tiny half-spheroid which had all of the luxury appointments of an efficiency apartment. If Martime weren’t comfortable being alone and in tight quarters most of the time, she’d have burned out at this job a long time ago. “Shit shit shit shit shit,” said Martime out loud to no one in particular. She fired the reverse engines to back away from the Dragoons, trying to buy a little time. Then something clicked in her brain. She didn’t know much about Dragoons, but she knew they were dispatched in threes. “Boarding party?” She waved through a full external hull scan of the A2N and there it was, locked on the bottom of the half-sphere: The third Dragoon. One of the cargo arms was toast, but the other seemed to be fully functionally. Martime waved it underneath the hull and swatted at the Dragoon. The Dragoon was a state-of-the-art military interceptor; the cargo arm was a design older than Martime’s grandmother, but it was built to shift cargo and even barges if necessary. It was no contest. The Dragoon’s grip on the A2N failed and the sleek, black, slightly rumpled ship spun away, thrusters trying to control the spin. “Forget that one for now,” Martime thought and then, unhelpfully, “What the hell is a ‘Dragoon’ anyway? Across between a dragon and a goon?” It was at this time that the entire cargo barge started to explode. The two remaining Dragoons were firing salvo after salvo, starting at the back of the barge and moving forward. “Oh you shits. It is so on.” Martime, all five foot one of her, brushed her asymmetrical bangs from her eyes, made sure she was securely bound in her chair, and waved the release command for the barge. The A2N was still lightly armed and armored without the barge section, but the mass to thrust ratio was suddenly much, much more favorable. She whispered “floor it,” and the A2N crushed her against her chair. Under absurd G-forces, she switched to eye-movement command. She aimed her ship directly between the two Dragoons, counting on them not to fire at each other. Her faith was misplaced. The Dragoons, or at their gunners at least, we good enough to miss each other but not good enough to hit her. She considered throwing her ship into a spinning corkscrew to evade whatever explode-y beams they were shooting at her, but she settled on a slight random wobble so she wouldn’t lose as much acceleration. It must have been enough, as the flashes of light that would have meant the end of her never touched the A2N’s hull. Now that her ship was lighter and had more thrust than her pursuers, they weren’t going to catch her unless they disabled her ship. Martime considered the implications of firing on what were apparently some sort of official law enforcement ships. She weighed this against the fact that they’d fired on her and blown her barge to smithereens and made the only rational decision she could make. “Arm missiles.” Previously-dormant lights suddenly began dancing down the side of a rack of four S2S missiles. When the lights went green, they emerged on an arm from what might was well have been the bottom of the half-sphere vessel, between the lower-left and lower-right thrusters. Using her eyes, Martime set two of the missiles to track each of the Dragoons. The third, the spinner, was so far away she could afford to leave it alone. “Fire.” Deep breath. “Ok, you assholes. You either veer off your pursuit course or you eat a missile at relativistic speeds. What’ll it be?” Her pursuer’s velocity worked against them when they had missiles coming down their throat. The missile’s vector was exactly the opposite of that of the A2N, so dodging meant losing ground in pursuit. One of the two Dragoons had made the U-turn ahead of his counterpart and was significantly closer to the A2N. The captain wagered his ship and his crew’s lives against the chance that Martime’s targeting would be off. Martime’s targeting was perfect. The Dragoon’s nose…

Here’s another Chuck Wendig flash fiction special: Pick A Character And Go, Go, Go. The idea was to take a character from another writer’s response to the previous week’s challenge (Time To Create A Character). I went with Christine Chrisman’s unnamed character. He seemed like an interesting fellow to take out for a ride.  ————————————– “You sure this is the right place? Looks kinda, you know, shitty, for a guy who has the kinda goods this guy has,” said the man in the black suit, fuchsia shirt open at the neck, and designer aviators. “Shove it Carl. This place fits the description she gave us. This is it,” the older, shorter, and heavier man responded. Mr. Jenkins was wearing what he always wore to work: A baby blue guayabera, Dockers old enough that they may have once had pleats but you’d never be sure now, and a white straw hat. Mr. Jenkins knew that Carl disapproved of his look, but Carl was an idiot and could go fuck himself for all Mr. Jenkins cared. He respected Carl’s work so much that, even though the younger man was the “muscle” on this gig, Mr. Jenkins had a Beretta tucked into his waistband. The sign over the shop read “books,” or might have, if you gave the faded “k” and “s” the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Jenkins gave the outside of the store a quick look before pulling the door open. The windows dingy, which was unusual for a book store, but also free of the tell-tale yellow patina of nicotine, which fit. The display consisted of a dozen or so paperback by authors he’d never heard of (but his familiarity with books was limited to what one would see in airport convenience store, which is to say, Tom Clancy and not much else.) They were displayed on cheap wire stands on top of stacks of other books instead as opposed to, say, shelves. Based on what he’d heard, Mr. Jenkins wasn’t surprised. Mr. Jenkins nodded quickly to his partner and pulled the door open. His serious expression disappear instantly as he greeted the lone clerk behind the counter. “Hiya! Can tell me where your Tom Clancy books are?” The man behind the counter didn’t make eye contact. His head stayed turned to his left, which Mr. Jenkins took to mean the books were in that direction. “Thank you!” Mr. Jenkins ambled to his right, slowly, and not quite directly, keeping his body slightly turned towards the counter. Carl’s sunglasses hid a truly epic roll of the eyes. He hated this role-playing shit and just wanted to get on with it. He stood awkwardly just inside the doorway and checked his watch. Mr. Jenkins got a better look at the shopkeeper. He fit the bill: Forty something, maybe fifty, glasses that would have been ironic on someone cooler, hair a mess, awkward slouch, and suspenders that even Mr. Jenkins recognized as a fashion faux pas. This was him. Mr. Jenkins didn’t pay quite enough attention to where he was going and bumped into a stack of books topped with an impressive stack of unopened mail. He turned to apologize to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper reached down under the counter. Carl reacted first and pulled his MAC-10 in a way that indicated he’d probably practiced drawing it more than he had firing it. He trained it directly on the shopkeeper. Mr. Jenkins pulled his piece as well, since, well, fuck it, if a gun’s been pulled, might as well put all your cards on the table. “Alright, whatever you’re reaching for, bring it up, nice and slow,” Mr. Jenkins said in a voice that suggested he was comfortable speaking in an environment where guns were in play. The shopkeeper continued his motion as though he wasn’t even aware of intended menace, made eye contact with Carl, and displayed a thin, white plastic bag from a c-store, stuffed full of books, wadded up clothes, and maybe some tupperware, but importantly, nothing remotely threatening. He walked out from behind the counter. Carl looked around and, to his disappointment, noticed there wasn’t a cash register. It hadn’t clicked with Carl that a cash register in this particular shop wouldn’t have much in the way of cash. “Alright pal, you’re coming with us,” Mr. Jenkins ordered the man who appeared to already be coming with them. “And Carl? Put the fucking toy away.” Mr. Jenkins put his gun back in his waistband and followed the shopkeeper out the front door. The man with the stupid suspenders just kept walking, maybe following Carl, but almost like he knew where he was going. “Buddy, you wanna lock up?” The shopkeeper  turned around, almost facing Mr. Jenkins,  and maybe mumbled something to himself or maybe to Mr. Jenkins, turned back around and continued towards Carl’s Lexus (which Carl most definitely could not afford.) He did not look very much like a man who was being kidnapped. He did not look frighted at all. Much later, Mr. Jenkins would ask himself why this didn’t concern him more. *** The shopkeeper was thinking about King Arthur and about how putting a sword in stones and in lakes was a strange thing to do and then about how the water would taste with a a sword and a magical woman, or at least her arm in it and if you drank from it, would any of the magic be in the water and how you would bottle that water and how long the magic would stay active if you were to try to transport it and… …and then two men walked in the door to the shop. Without staring, he nonetheless saw enough to understand that they weren’t customers. One man dressed in a cheap suit with a big gun poorly concealed under the jacked. The other made an exaggerated attempt to appear friendly, but he had a smaller gun. Neither appeared interested in books. Both appeared interested in me for no obvious reason. The older man continued to feign joviality as he split from the younger, taller man who wore sunglasses indoors, apparently because he liked the look because sunglasses do not work like regular glasses. In most books, people who do this care a lot about appearance. The shopkeeper reached for the bag of stuff he…

In response to Wendig’s flash fiction challenge Another X Meets Y Pop Culture Challenge! I made this tougher on myself than I needed to, but I got Snow Crash meets American Gods. The idea was not to write fan fiction mashing up the two properties, but to do it taking the core motifs of each of them and writing something about where they intersect. Here’s where I went with it: ——————————————– I. “Have we met? You seem kind of familiar,” Danny hears himself asking, not entirely sure what it is about about the other man in the boat he thinks he recognizes. “Nope, probly not. You might ‘a heard of me, tho.”  The ragged man guns the little Evenrude at the back of the jon boat that, even in the darkness, Danny knows is absolutely certain to be olive drab. He’s sitting near the bow of the boat, opposite end from its pilot, in the wind and something that was closer to splashing than the more-poetic “spray” and, even though it was hot as Hell tonight, he shivers and tries to make himself small. Danny has no idea where he is or how he got here. Adding to the fucked-uppedness of the situation, he finds himself remembering parts of his chat with the gaunt, bearded fellow at the back of the boat. “You say your name is ‘Kieron’?” The tall boatman faces the waters off to the side of the boat, although no direction looks any different than any other. He doesn’t turn to face Danny, but he lets off the throttle so his passenger can hear him. “Somethin’ like that.” Southern accent, Danny thinks. No, not Southern. Texan. “Where we heading?” “Across,” Kieron answers. His voice doesn’t invite further questions and a wiser man would have paid more attention to his tone. “Not in any hurry to get there, are we?” At this, he turns his head toward Danny. His eyes flicker with red light which might be a reflection of the running lights, even though Danny hadn’t noticed any. “Reckon I’m doin’ you a favor. The two bits your friend gave me back there get you across, but that all they get you. Anything else, you’re relying on my good nature.” There’s no malice in his drawl, but no empathy, either. Danny does the math and quickly comes to the conclusion that Kieron’s good nature is of extremely limited supply and not something one ought to test. He’s damp, the damn boat is bouncing up and down on the waves and making his ass hurt, and he just can’t stop shivering. He still doesn’t know what’s going on, but he does know two things: 1) He’s fortunate to be on this boat right now because 2) Whatever is behind him is about as bad as it can possibly get. II. Danny is in his head now. It’s not a dream, but it’s also not not a dream. He’s in a room that won’t stay one size or shape, a room that expands or contracts depending on where he’s looking. He’s on a plain, stained pine chair which he knows isn’t comfortable even though he can’t feel it. In front of him, no matter which way he looks, is a short man with a Jimmy Durante nose and almost no hair on his head. What little there is looks like it was trimmed with a weed whacker. He’s leaning on a dark cane, probably wood of some sort with snakes carved in to it, his head tilted to the side, regarding Danny. His eyes are bright but blank and he’s smiling faintly. Danny, resigned to the fact that he’s simply not going to get his bearings in this place, decides to talk to the little man. “The fuck, man. What is this? This isn’t real.” The other fellow shook a little as if awakened from the lightest slumber, straightened his head, and responded: “You don’t know what it is and you’re sure it’s not real? Cart before the horse, kiddo.” “Ok, then what’s going on? Is this real?” “Yeah, yeah, that’s better. We’re in your mind, you figured that one out I guess, but is it real?  That’s one for the philosophers, ain’t it? Not my thing. I feel it, I touch it, I talk to it? Real enough for me.” “That’s real helpful.” Danny and sarcasm, inseparable since birth. “Who’re you?” “Eh, you wouldn’t know it or know how to say it. Just call me ‘Ask.’ Most folks do, if they call me at all.” “Ask and ye shall receive, huh?” Danny didn’t laugh at his own joke. “Why…why all this?” he asked, waving his arm around the room and regretting it immediately when the vertigo hit. “You’re in trouble kid. Big trouble. I’m tryin’ to help you out, but someone, someone very bad, decided to try to take you down. What’s the last thing you remember?” “I got an e-mail from a girl. Didn’t know her, but she had a pretty name, so I opened it. Started reading, and next thing I know, I’m here.” “Remember what it was about?” “Huh. No, not really. I remember starting to read it and thinking it was weird as hell, but I don’t really remember what was in it.” Danny thought for a moment and then added with obvious disappointment, “No pictures.” “About what I thought.” The gnomish man, who didn’t really look that old, but Danny could tell he was, took a step toward Danny, squinting, mumbling to himself, and scratched his ear, thinking. “Son, you thought the wrong thoughts. You thought some very bad thoughts, some thoughts that messed you up in here,” he waved his cane to indicate the entire room. “I came here to try to help you, but it’s gonna take some work.” “Dude, I read an email. Read. Just reading something isn’t doing anything. It’s not as real as this stupid place.” “Danny, how’m I going to explain this to you? You got computers, right? You people have them now?” “Sure,” Danny responded, because how the Hell do you respond to something like that? “Ok, that’s good. I can explain this to you. Danny, when a computer runs a program, is it doing anything real?” “I guess…maybe?” Ask sighed and mentally backtracks. “Does running a program make changes in…

I had to look twice to make sure it was really him drinking alone at the end of the airport bar. Given that the only thing I knew three things about Perry Kenwauld: 1) Perry Kenwauld was the most respected economist in the world according to the people most people thought of as the most respected economists in the world. 2) According to the very few available accounts, his appearance matched that of the little man sitting at the bar, from his off-center bald spot to his impish half-grin on the left side of his face, to his tiny hands, too small even for a man I’d guess was no more than five foot two wearing the pair of unscuffed roughout western boots he was sporting. 3) As far as I knew before today, Perry Kenwauld didn’t actually exist. So I just stared blankly for who knows how long until he got tired of pretending not to notice and waved me over to join him.  “Not many folks recognize me, pard’ner!” I couldn’t tell you where Kenwauld was from, but I could say with great surety that it wasn’t Texas. Not that he wasn’t trying to give that impression: He was turned out in pressed Wranglers, a floral-motif western shirt tucked in above an oversized silver buckle depicting a bucking bronco, and sitting on the bar next to him was a broad, unpressed Stetson that wouldn’t couldn’t possibly come close to fitting Kenwauld’s head. And yet, somehow, his accent was even less convincing than his outfit. “Quit yer gawkin’ and set yerself down next to me here.” So I did. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked, not quite sure how to start a conversation. This tickled him tremendously. I still couldn’t stop staring. He looked somewhere between twenty and two hundred years old, depending on how the light hit him. “You buy me a drink? Son, that’s about the funniest damn thing I heard all day. But since you asked, I’m drinking scotch. The best they got ain’t worth a damn, but it’ll have to do.” He waved at the bartender and held up two fingers, and the bartender nodded and brought our drinks over. Apparently, Perry Kenwauld had been here a while. “So…I ‘spect you’re in the industry. Can’t figure how you’d a made me otherwise.”  “Yes. Yes sir. I’m just getting started, but I read a lot. Some of the stories don’t make any sense, so I read more, and then, when I get to the part that reads more like fiction, that’s when your name shows up. I’m Don, by the way. Don Richmond,” I said, extending my hand. “Heh…howdy Don. ‘Spose you know my name. You like my get-up? I figure, I ain’t real anyway, might as well be anyone I wanna be. What brings ya to RIC?” “On my way out to a conference, actually. Another crack at trying to figure out why things are the way they are, and how to fix them.” “Fix them? Son, what makes you think it’s broke’d? Hell, I can tell you why things are the way they are.” He gave me a quick smile, more mischievous than conspiratorial, and picked up his previously-unnoticed briefcase and set it in his lap. He cracked it open and revealed… …a Monopoly set.  “You’re funny,” I said, making sure to emphasize it in a way that suggested I didn’t mean it at all. “No shit I am. But if you think this ain’t the real deal, then listen up. You know this history of this here game, right?” “Of course. The Charles Darrow myth, and the true story. The woman, Elizabeth somthing.” “Magie was her name. ‘Course, that’s not the whole story.” I raised an eyebrow in question, but he didn’t need the encouragement. “Elizabeth Magie. Hell of an economist, that woman. Taught at the facility. You prob’ly never heard of it. Called the University of Charlestons.” “Charles-tons? Plural?” “Little joke of ours. Center of the real Bermuda triangle. Midpoint of Charleston, South Carolina, Charleston, Rhode Island, and Bermuda. Shoulda been a Charleston, Bermuda, too. Anyway, big ol’ barge we kept out there, where we did, where we do most of the real economic work.” “The real Bermuda triangle?” I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this despite a second Laphroig magically appearing in front of me. “Sure. Little misdirection. Word got out about sumthin’ in the middle of ‘the Bermuda triangle,’ had to make sure people looked in the wrong place. Anywho, we’d been using the game y’all call Monopoly since Adam Smith invented it.” “That stupid game?” “Well sure, it’s stupid the way it’s played now. But it’s still one the best simulators out there.” “How so?” “Well, all you gotta do is jimmy with the rules a little and you can make it do damn near anything. The original version, the one Smith started with, was a Libertarian model. No money for passing go, no Chance or Community Chest cards, and you bank. You borrowed money from other players and negotiated the rates.” “Huh,” was all I could say. I was starting to feel like my leg was being pulled. “‘Course, it was a lousy game. You knew two or three turns in who was gonna win, but at least it was over with quickly.” He paused, took another shot of whiskey, and struggled to focus his eyes. I started to wonder just how long he’d been here. “So, anyway, Magie, the woman, she decided she’d had enough of, hell, who knows what? Women, right? She took a copy of the simulator, stole a boat, and headed back to the states. Soon as we figured out what she was doing, giving out the simulator, calling it ‘The Landlord Game,’ we hadda do something. We invented that Darrow fellow and published the game with the current rules. Everyone just thought it was a game, ya know?” “Yeah, I do. Still not really buying the ‘simulator’ part though.” “Lookit it this way. You wanna do a real simulation? You have one fella start with half the property. You make half the people immune to jail. You base the money they get for passing Go on how much property they have. That’s how it really works. Works like a charm, too. Just like real life.” “Why didn’t you make those rules THE rules?” “Oh hell, just coz’…

This story is in response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Six Random Titles. I wasn’t particularly inspired by any of them, but once I figured out a direction for this particular title, it wound up being a surprisingly fun exercise. Plus, it inspired me to purchase and read an old short story, the title of which you’ll probably guess in fairly short order. ————————————————————————————————————– Flinging open the door to the carriage, she spoke in a fierce whisper which struck the ears more forcefully than any shout, “Well, my love, it’s been quite an exciting couple of days, hasn’t it?” Elizabeth Briony didn’t look up even look from her book, an English translation of Manual de Anatomia Pathologica General, as the other women entered the carriage, although if you watched her closely enough, you’d have seen her cheekbones rise almost imperceptibly, indicating the slightest of all smiles. As the younger, petite woman  settled in beside her, slightly out of breath from unaccustomed haste, Mrs. Briony continued: “We shaved that one a bit close, don’t you think? “Oh, do you think so? How very perceptive. How. Terribly. Clever. Of. You.” It wasn’t possible to be certain if the younger woman’s pauses were for emphasis or just due to the exertion, but the point was made nonetheless. Bess carefully shut her book, set it between herself and her companion, and, without the slight smile, responded: “I’m glad you think so too, Rena.  If not for my, for our precautions, we would likely find ourselves in far more trouble than little Willy intended.” “You wouldn’t call him that if you knew him as I did. Besides, he was never the source of peril, it was that slender fellow he employed and you know it. Speaking of fellows, what have you done with Godfrey? Leaving him behind would be asking for more trouble.” Rena’s hair, normally arranged flawlessly, was an umbra of willow-like tendrils, a condition which Bess found almost irresistible, but she kept her hands folded and forced her eyes forward.   “Godfrey’s with us, in one of my trunks. I cannot help but think he’ll prove useful again. Driver! We are settled, please carry on!” Bess’ voice had none of the lilt of Rena’s, but she could use it with surprising force when occasioned to do so. She was no beauty in the classic sense, being tall and, while lithe, broad of shoulder. “Handsome,” perhaps, would be a better description. They rode silently, the curtains of the carriage drawn tight. The women stole glances at each other, at first nervously, then conspiratorially, and finally, with some giddiness as it became  clear from the sounds and smells that they were no longer within the confines of the city. They were beginning to believe that they may, just may, be getting away with it. Far from the gaslights, the night was dark enough that they felt they could risk opening the side curtains and let the fresher air of then country nighttime into the carriage. No one was likely to glance their way, and if they did, well, the chance of being recognized was slim enough to be worth the risk. They travelled throughout most of the night, making odd small talk, superstitiously afraid to discuss the nature of their good fortune as though speaking of it would burst the thin soap-bubble of providence protecting them. Rina was the first to speak of the incidents. In hushed tones, she asked, “So, tell me. How did you work it all out?” Around anyone else, Bess would have put on the air of one who knew all but revealed little, but with Rina, she shrugged her shoulders and admitted, “There was more luck to it than I’d care to admit, if I am to be perfectly honest with you. You know how I enjoy the art of fisticuffs?” Rina cringed, as she knew but did not approve. Bess continued: “Well, I have seen more fights than I can recount, and I’ve learned that it is very difficult for a man to let an inferior fighter win. Perhaps it is an affront to his manliness, but I think it more likely that, when instinct takes over, allowing oneself to accept a blow is not so easy as it looks.” Bess’ eyes became slightly distant. “Back when I was working, right before I met you, we tried to hire a professional fighter to perform with our troupe. It was a disaster. He was meant to be the villain, but he kept defeating our lead actor during the finale, oftentimes rendering him unconscious.” Rina was not especially thrilled by tales of this ilk, but listened on patiently. Bess, on the other hand, obviously found it rousing, and her focus returned to Rina. “Well, when the scuffle broke out in front of the house right the other day, I was still nearby and I could not help but observe. The clergyman who intervened, the gentleman you invited in to tend to? He struck me as a more skilled pugilist than he let on. He had several opportunities strike at the other fellows, but instead seemed more interested in receiving a blow.” “How odd.” “How odd indeed. And how odd that, almost immediately after brought him inside, a fire should break out. More coincidence than I am was prepared to accept. I decided that I would do well to follow him. After all, while he knew you and Godfrey, I was a complete stranger to him. And so, I was able to follow him back to his hired room and listen to him lay out his entire scheme to his confidante.” “That’s almost cheating, Bess! “Well, there was some peril for me as well. In order to hear them properly, I had to unfasten the windows, but those window fasteners were child’s play. After you told me about the glance to your hidey-hole for your personal papers, it all made sense. Why you keep your daguerreotype of your clients among our more…personal…photos, I will never understand.” Rina allowed herself a little clap of excitement. “You know I followed him as well!” Bess frowned. “Yes, and I think he may have very nearly recognized you. You must be careful!” If Rina felt at all chastened, she hid it exceptionally well. “Oh, hush. You know I can’t let…

This was written in response to the Terribleminds.com Flash Fiction Challenge: Superheroes Plus. It was also an opportunity to dust off my favorite old City of Heroes character, the Marxist. Be glad it wasn’t his trusty sidekick, the nuclear-powered Robo-Christ.  It was a very silly game.  Swinging around and throwing his best right hook, the Marxist flailed at thin air yet again, staggered back into the corner of the room clutching his head in agony. Behind his golden mirrorshades, a stream of blood ran like tears down his cheek. The Marxist fell to his knees on the cold, black marble floor. Could this be the end of Steel City’s mightiest hero? Just this morning, Steel City’s top cop, police chief Justice, sent up the unmistakable hammer and sickle balloon. The Marxist wasted no time bounding downtown to the station. There was something happening to the children at the Hill School.   The parents were starting to worry. The children weren’t playing with each other anymore, or even with their siblings. The chief sent three of his best officers in to the school. Two of them returned and quit the force on the spot. The third stayed in the school’s office and made phone calls, tearfully apologizing to everyone who’d ever helped him for two days before the calls stopped.  No one has been in or out since. The Marxist would charge hell into hell armed with no more than his own two fists, but he wasn’t above improving the odds if the opportunity presented itself. Child psychologist Louis Salome was the best there was at what he did, and he’s spoken to all of the children at Hill School after the “irregularities” began. The Marxist picked up his report. He didn’t like what he read. “The children, all of them, are exhibiting a complete lack of empathy for other children. None of them will so much as lift a finger to help each other, their family, their friends or even their pets. There’s no apparent trauma or other proximate cause for this other this change in their behavior. While there is no evidence for it, each of the children described a voice calling itself ‘Yanndar’ which visited them in the darkness. One child, the Nelson boy, described ‘Yanndar’ as an invisible friend who whispered ‘helpful’ things in his ear from just out of his range of vision. Other children described similar experiences. While none of them could provide any verifiable details, the fact that they all described these phenomena suggests that it is somehow related to the change in their behavior.” “Marxist my man, what are you getting yourself into?” Just this morning, Steel City’s top cop, police chief Justice, sent up the unmistakable hammer and sickle balloon. The Marxist wasted no time bounding downtown to the station. There was something happening to the children at the Hill School. The parents were thrilled. The children were learning self-reliance. The chief sent three of his own kids to the school and was considering quitting his admittedly unfulfilling job to teach there. The building that housed the school had once been the home of disgraced industrialist Dan Rany. Rany was the great new hope of the “old” economy, building his empire on innovation and manufacturing (not to mention a family fortune). Rany made billions in government contracts making exotic alloys and telecommunications. Ironically, the whole empire collapsed when a minimum wage night watchman turned whistleblower and spilled the company secrets to the Marxist. Two months later, the DA locked the doors and Rany fled the country. It was one thing to be working on a secret device to broadcast thoughts into people’s brains for the C.I.A.; it was another to be surreptitiously shopping it to China and Russia at the same time. Some heroes are subtle. Looking up at the old Rany family crest reading “Habeo Meum”, the Marxist briefly considered knocking before putting his black leather combat boot through the door. Entering the old building, he was struck by the pervasive silence and stillness of it. This may have been a school last week, but now, it was something else entirely. Swinging around and throwing his best right how, the Marxist flailed at thin air yet again, staggered back into the corner of the room clutching his head in agony. Behind his golden mirrorshades, he caught the faintest glimpse of a grey, faceless figure out of the corner of his eye. Despite the pain, he forced his head to turn to face his foe, only for his foe to impossibly remain on the periphery of his vision. “Yanndar.” The Marxist fixed the tilt of his red beret and waited for his eyes to adjust. It was dark, but not lightless, and when his deceptively ordinary-looking shades kicked in to low-light enhancement mode, he could make out the posters on the wall. A mundane poster showing cartoon children holding hands now featured the words “Sharing is scaring” in red paint, scrawled in a childish hand. The Marxist shuddered both in disgust and actual physical revulsion to this place. The Marxist was good with his fists, but that doesn’t do much good when there’s nothing to punch. “Mr. Rany’s doing some very bad things, Mr. Marxist.” “That ain’t exactly news, Charlie. The sixty-four thousand dollar question is, can you prove it?” “Yeah, Marxist. I can prove it. It’s just that…well, my family’s got to eat. Job’s don’t grow on trees these days. Rany doesn’t pay much, but his checks don’t bounce, you know what I mean? He’s an asshole, but I got a family to feed and we’re living paycheck to paycheck” “Charlie, you’ve got nothing to lose but your chains. Say the word, and I’ll find you decent work. It’s hard, but it the pay’s ok, better than what you’re making, and you won’t be protecting the guy who’s keeping you from getting ahead” “You know, when you put it that way…you got a pen? This might take a while…..” The building that housed the school had once been the home of brilliant inventor Dan Rany. Rany was perhaps the last great industrialist and it would be by his example that Steel City, and later America, would be saved. Rany was a self-made man who proved that anyone could succeed if only they worked hard enough and kept their nose…