Lubulianthly

We were trapped in the Arctic, ice-enlocked, beginningless time mocking our memories. The cold, the storm, the specter of death skulking close beyond upon the blue-illumined floes. My companions – forgive me, for I’ve forgotten their names – nameless friends and I played endless games of word and trivia, to pass the time and …

L U B U L I A N T H L Y

was the word I scratch-etched into the rotting easel, passionately arguing to my captive crowd that such a word existed and, not only existed, but whose very definition lay captured in chains in that rotting memory of mine.

Pointless games of word and trivia, to pass the time and …

to keep at bay fears of starvation, and what drives naturally flow from such fears.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

fragment of a dream I had, 5:30-5:45 a.m., Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Today’s Fatty Fat Fat

So, we have a policy for salesmen – you don’t hand in your time sheet, you don’t get paid until you do, and it’s on the next payroll.

Fatty Fat Fat is a chronic timesheet forgetter.  So he hands in his sheet to me today, two days late, saying

“If you want, you can be a hero and put that in this payroll.”

To which I replied,

“You can be a hero and just do your job as you’re supposed to!”

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Is what he said, and then he said it again – actually, several times – for emphasis:

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

He looked like Clay Shaw as portrayed by Tommy Lee Jones in Oliver Stone’s biopic, JFK. Hard to pin down an age to him; a round sixty seems to fit, though he carried himself like an ex-athlete, still muscled beneath his suit. An air of confidence sat upon his shoulders, and he spoke at the volume of one who is well accustomed to it. A quarter of a million cigarettes had passed those vocal cords, and his bottomless Texas twang could sand the paint off my house.

The bride had asked him what time his flight was the next morning. Eight a.m., he replied, swinging that perpetually-filled glass of red wine around in the air. She sympathized that maybe he could get some sleep on the plane.

“I’ll sleep when I’d dead,” he exclaimed.

“I ain’t got time for people who tell me they ain’t got time,” he boomed, catching both the eye of me and my wife, next on line. “I say to people, what are you doing between one a.m. and two a.m. Sleeping! they’ll say. Well, I say, I ain’t got time for that. I’ll sleep when I’m dead!”

“So, what do you have to show for it,” the bride asked, half-expecting a rags-to-riches millionaire success story. After all, there were quite a few successful men and women at the wedding. “What are you doing now?”

He laugh-coughed. “Well, not much at the moment. Oh, I did this and that, here and there. I been with Neil Young for a little bit – ”

Neil Young! That caught my attention, but he left no opening for verbal exchange.

“Then I moved on, did a little bit more of one thing, then another – but I’ll sleep when I’m dead!”

The children were antsy and the party was wrapping up. The wife and I interjected, said our goodbyes to the bride, followed the rest of the guests out the door of the winery.

“He sounds like he’s been smoking a pack a day since he was a baby,” I said to my wife later that night.

“No wonder he can’t sleep,” she said.

Mr. Opalardiqu

May I present Little One’s second piece of fiction to be posted here at the Hopper:


“I’m ready, so throw the ball!” Juan shouted to Jake who was pitcher. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it, Juan!” Jake cried as he swung the ball directly at Juan. Juan batted it and – everybody heard only one thing: shattering glass.

Juan backed away slowly but – oh no! – from inside the house somebody cursed and said, “Hey you!” Juan froze. An old man came out on a cane. “Was it you who did that?” The old man pointed a bony finger at Juan and then the window. “Y-y-yesss,” Juan told him ever so quietly. “I’m going to walk you home,” the old man said to him. “All the rest of you go home. NOW!” As everybody left, the old man said, “Where are your parents? Are they home? I need to have a chat with them!” He grinned. “My name is Harold Opalardiqu. You could call me Harold.” “Um, well, my mom is home, I guess. And, uh, I live on – ” “I know where you live!” the old man told him grimly. “Creepy,” said Juan under his breath.

When the two boys got to Juan’s house his mom came out. “Hey Juan – why is Mr. Opalard here?” she asked. “Mr. Harold Opalardiqu you mean, right? Anyway, your son has done something – ” “What!” Juan’s mom interrupted. “Mom!” Juan groaned. “As I was saying, your son has batted a baseball through my window,” Harold told Juan’s mom. “What?! Juan?” Mom screamed at Juan. “But it was an accident!” Juan insisted. “Please tell me how you will punish him later!” Harold told her. “No. I have made my decision!” Mom said quickly. “Wow she’s quick!” Harold told Juan. “I’m going to ground him for a month and – how much does your window cost?” Mom asked. “Hmmmm, oh yeah, $500!” Harold told her with a chuckle. “That’s how much is coming out of your bank account. We’ll give you the money later. I hope you have enough money!” Mom told Juan absently. “Mom, Harold, I learned something today: NEVER play baseball by a house! I’m sorry Harold,” Juan said. “Apology accepted!” Harold told Juan.


My grade: A+ + + + !!!


Of course, I admit my bias.

Still, not bad for an eight-year-old, right? Punctuation still needs a little work, as her teacher told her, much to my daughter’s disdain. “Punctuation!” she spat. “Punctuation you worry about on the second draft,” I told her. “This is the first draft – and it’s perfect!”

And is it me, or do you want to know much, much more about the mysterious, erratic, and somewhat sadistic Mr. Harold Opalardiqu?

Silver Sphere

Am I a coward for not wanting to climb into one of those silver spheres, get strapped in, and take a one-way ride down to the ocean floor? That’s what I kept thinking, and no one else even bothered to ask me that question. Or question me on my motives. Or even say, hey, man, you don’t have to do this, you know?

Sure, the Superintelligence assured us of things wonderful. All six or seven of us, scattered across the globe. Allow yourself to sit inside that smooth polished shiny metallic ball, a tight, cramped, claustrophobic three feet across, and be prepared for the mysteries of the universe! Had to be that small, they said, to defeat the incredible pressures not just five miles beneath the waves. Heck, those pressures are a feather’s glance compared to the wrenching tidal forces inside the galactic gateways.

I don’t want to do it! But I committed myself, I guess. A hopeless failure as a musician, a guy who kinda sorta knew Zappa way back when, a session man, a man with a long but entirely useless resume. How did this happen? How did I get caught up in this? How can I get out? Must a man be trapped eternally for the stupid choices he doesn’t even remember consciously making?

Word’s already coming back, and it’s not good. A Russian, he died on the trip down. Didn’t even get far, too, something about a crack in the sphere’s trimline. Oh, God, those things are supposed to be beyond that sort of thing. I mean, they were crafted by the Superintelligence! Well, designed by them. We built them, but we’re only human as the saying goes. Sadly, only human.

Or maybe that’s just the rumor. Humans are prone to all sorts of nonsense like that; rumors, I mean. There’s also word that someone else, another Russian if I’m not mistaken, he actually made the trip! Disappeared off the sea bed – poof! God knows where he’ll show up next, or when. He could be in Paradise right now. Or he could be in Hell. But odds are it’s Paradise, at least if you believe the literature of the Old Ones, the Folks from Across the Skies. Ai! I don’t know what I believe, except that I have to buckle in and drop.

Then there’s the danger of being stuck in the mud. But – you say, partly to cheer me up, that is, when anyone broaches the subject with me, which is never – but, you say, surely the technology accounts for that. Why else would they send you five miles down? Why not some launching pad at Cape Canaveral? Why not your backyard? Why why why why why. A thousand whys, except the one why that counts.

I don’t want to do it. But I have to. I am so scared but no one seems to even think it could be so.

- Weird dream bordering but not quite classified as a nightmare, I had just a half-hour ago. Woke up with all these thoughts racing in my head. But the most disturbing is – what is this a metaphor for?

The Little Flower

Want to read Little One’s latest story?

Okay!

This is light years away from her first story, reprinted here, only two years ago. How exponential is a child’s develoment in these early years. Anyway, check this out –

The Little Flower

Once there was a little flower. Her name was Grace. Grace has a friend. She is a bee. Her friend the bee was named Olivia. Olivia told Grace that there was a man who was feeling sad. So Grace picked herself out of the ground and rang the doorbell. Then the man answered the door and saw that Grace the flower was there. He was happy and he smiled at Grace. The End.

Beautiful, no?

Benny the Psychotic Stuffed and Undead Bear

Exciting news here at the homestead - Little One has been chosen as the Star Student of the (Up)Coming Week. This is a yearly tradition in our town's school system, and every child in the class has a turn as Star Student. Kinda like Everyone Gets a Trophy Day!, but not nearly as pointless, as the Star Student has some obligations and responsibilities in addition to its perks.

One such perk is Benny the Bear. A cute little brown bear decked out in a black and red striped shirt and blue jeans. He gets to come home and visit with the Little One and our family this weekend. One such obligation is that Little One is tasked with writing a story about Benny.

Perhaps it was my side-of-the-road-car-wreck fascination with the series The Walking Dead, but I immediately envisioned our house besieged by an army of undead stuffed animals. I'm boarding up all the first storey windows, banging nails, and there's bandaids on most of my fingers. My wife has a chainsaw in one hand and a blow torch in the other. Patch is on the second floor, somehow armed with a Winchester rifle which she somehow knows how to fire. Little One and Bennie are busy stuffing socks into glass bottles filled with gasoline and stockpiling them on the dining room table.

Suddenly there's a crash near the door to the deck on the other side of the house. Leaping over us and rolling across the kitchen floor, my wife brrrrrrs the chainsaw to life and cuts down the zombie bears climbing through a massive hole in the house. Then a smashing noise from behind me - the last window to be boarded up! - and a horde of brainthirsty calico critters come crashing in. They tackle me as I kick them off one by one, until one lands on my chest, ready to sink its stinking fangs into my neck -

POW!

Patch, from the top of the stairs, blasts a bullet through the stuffed animal's head.

A scream - my wife! More are coming in from the back of the house, and more are coming in from the broken window. Ahh! We have to abandon the first floor, there's just too many! Covered by sparse but efficient gun play by Patch, we make our way up the stairs ... the wife, followed by me, followed by Little One, followed by -

Benny!

Where's Benny!

"Where's Benny!" Little One shouts.

There he is - somehow his leg is trapped under an overturned sofa ... and the zombie stuffed animals are ready to pounce upon him.

"Benny, no!" Little One cries, as she shakes off my hand and rushes back down the stairs into the overrun living room.

Like a pre-adolescent juiced up on sugar cookies and, er, juice, Little One's a blur of karate kicks and judo chops. Stuffed limbs and torsoes go flying in every direction. In seconds she's cleared out the living room of any undead thing, and she reaches down to rescue Benny, beloved Benny -

Who snarls the snarl of the psychotic zombie stuffed animal, and lunges at Little One's neck.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

The End.

I think she should write that in Benny's notebook and return it to school Monday morning. Whaddya think?

House of the Vampire

...

She felt the recycled chill of the air conditioning upon small arms. What contrast to the heavy heat just beyond those doors! She imagined the sound of his sneakers padding along soft carpet, down unlit corridors, his fingers tracing black-painted moldings, dust and cobwebs framing the exhibits. His eyes, completely focused to the darkness, spotting creatures and secret passageways in every shadow . . .


Then she realized she’d glimpsed an intimate part of his world, a part shared with no one ever before. Had he known she would, bringing her here? She thought so, perhaps. She watched his profile as he strained to see past the bars, poor eyesight hindering his search for his imagination, and realized that the final exhibit was The Time Machine: two little boys, trapped in a fantasy world more than three decades lost, fading with the tiptoe of time.

Don't Open It, Buzz!

THE SCROLL! said she, open The Scroll! But I remembered Father McMurphy said not to, to not unravel mysteries best left for other eyes, and I, alive, full fathom five, set square to strive to survive, I


grasped that shifty plaster o’ paris thing, crumbling into particulate dust like so many mummified mallows of marshes, I grasped it – yes, I – and grasping, glancing at she and the memory of well-coifed and well-quaffed Father McMurphy, I


opened the ggoddammedd thing – I mean, c’mon, it’s just a scroll – so yeah it happens to be a couple two-three thousand years old and


what’s the matter with my hand-head-heart growing cold as cold as stone?

Kenny and the Bastardos

Kenny waited until the watch guard changed; then he leapt from his hiding place among the sealed metallic drums of liquid oxygen. Sprinting with his now-famous capabilities, he dashed across the launching fields under spotlights of stars beyond the dome some two kilometers above him. As he raced, he glanced quickly from side to side, scanning the manned towers for signs they saw him. Although if they did, his plan wasn’t that far thought out to include a contingency.

He didn’t even know what the word “contingency” meant, anyway. Kenny was only ten years old.

Ramjets and ionic cruisers idled about him, but his eyes held only his ultimate goal. Occasionally (two or three times a minute) a big cruiser boomed above him, either landing or launching, though mostly landing as the armada was coming back from the historic negotiated truce held outside Arvopad III. In a handful of minutes he huddled at a parts depot, one of the several dozen scattered about the mech-tech repair facilities, towards the starward side of the launching dome.

“Bastardos!” a voice cried, scaring Kenny motionless. Had he been spotted? The boy cringed and finally flailed about, seeking a hiding place among the scattered disassembled husks of fighter craft.

Two uniformed men turned the corner, having exited the mech-tech bay. Kenny flipped over a particularly degenerate fighter (scorched from what looked like a losing dog fight) and concealed himself within the snug confines of a hollowed-out ion engine.

“Calm down, Joe,” one of the men said, lighting a cigarette and offering a match to his obviously upset pal. “You know it’s always up and down.”

“More up, lately,” Joe spat, then paused to light his pipe.

“Well, with the fighting just ending, we can look forward to some vacation time, eh, my friend?”

The two casually strolled towards Kenny’s hiding place, their voices getting louder. The boy craned his neck to see over the edge of the cylindrical wirecoil he found refuge in, hoping the approaching men would not notice anything amiss. They didn’t, or so he thought, but they were uncomfortably close, barely a few meters away, and nearering. Kenny ducked back down.

“I ’spose.” The voices quieted a moment. More fighters landed, and a big boomer took off a couple fields away, the metal turf below faintly but noticeably vibrating. “Say, Nick, any word from on up about the sabotague-ing?”

“Nah. But when they catch those bastardos – ”



- written by a sleep-deprived Hopper, October 2004, 4 am, with a two-week old infant sleeping in his lap.

He actually continued the tale for another 19,000 words. Kenny escapes detection, his people are actually fighting six-foot slugs, and – oh yeah – Kenny is actually a robot boy.

The Traod

I must escape. Every single neuron dendrite axion is screaming me so.

One last glance, for there mightn’t be another for a long while. In the distance, perhaps a half-mile away, we spy men at the edge of the leftward beach, the rural wrench of the cove, all turned towards me (or the keep I was in), all with pocketed hands, calmly watching, assessing the conflagration. Unhurried, unharried, they might have been a claval of gentlemen, casual acquaintances passing idly by and chatting one early morning before sputitia. I make out little detail save the overall physical bearing of two: one lean and tall and missing an arm; the other, squat, a full head shorter, wider, older. The mien of command lies with him. Both sport military hats and jaunty angles, covering tufts and wads of gray or white hair. I commit these two to memory, then turn to discover a way for us out of the cell.

But … I hesitate; what else do I see?

Floating in gauzy multihued haze among the bars of smoke and flame are those ethereal, translucent forms … angels …

I shut my mind off from those paths, and whirl on my bootheels.

Before us a wood door, vertical planks reinforced by diagonal stripes of a fragrant type of cedar unfamiliar to me. A forbidding metal bolt. I glance round for something, anything, in the spare room to use as a weapon or a lever. The olive tunic floats from the table; I hastily button it up – paying the price as I force my injured shoulder to move in ways it still denies. For a wink and a nod I seize a shard of the shattered pitcher and clench it firmly in my still-bandaged right hand. It will cut skin but not uniform or armor. It will do.

Steeling myself, I caress the vertical planks, testing for heat or voices beyond. There are neither. I grip the bolt, prepared to throw my whole weight against it, praying I would not reopen my wounds, but to our complete astonishment, the door opens on its own accord, lightly, silently, and I am a free man. With you.

The keep is bustle-thick in motion; blur and panic whirling men and women who, perhaps, have tended me in my stasis. In fact, all ignore me, and I roam room to room, seeking stairwells downward, winding westerly, away from the conflagration in the town. A small squadroon of soldiers pass me in a rush as I slip across a small open courtyard. A solitary gate stands before me. My eyes fall upon, oddly enough, a gripsack with some bread and fruit, unattended on a table. I snatch it but I’m more thinking “weapon.” Or a horse as I note riding gear and posts afar, but in the fiery commotion all those beasts must be at the shorelines.

Surprise yet not surprise at my immediate and unmolested freedom. Post haste we trot down the spiraling stone stalactica down a hilly-hill from the keep, as fast as my throbbing left leg will allow. I know I’m not long for travel so I hope to catch as much distance tween self and town as possible before finding some shelter to recuperate –

And then I see the Traod …

’Twas if I enter another netherworld or another damned dimension. Sounds of warfare dissolve into soft velvet as I stop and sway, entranced, at the sight before me. Animals … sheep and goats, and a stray mutt. When, down the wet-dry sands toward that deja-delighted inland river, the fisherman, returning, nets full and fat, sails puffed and men’s hands straining with oar against the swift current. Pulling the crafts up the sandbar, up to the yellow-grass foot paths, where the animals mull, where It stands.

Was it the Traod? Its left hand holds the banner, too far for fogged eyes to discern. Its right hand held chest high, points out over the bubbling and babbling waters, as It did when It stilled the ways so long ago and so far away.

I feel exposed, ashamed. I can not meet It now, not yet, not in this condition. I scan the closest horizon, I search my surroundings and pray you O gut pull me in the right direction. To the right, the uncrossable river … though certainly a more desirable path beyond. Indeed, strong, high walls of rock and graitte sheltered small glokun huts, interposed here and there within the cleft, and narrow spindizzy paths leading ever upward and ever farther away from the keep. Indeed I trett a man heading thisaways, garbed twinly to me in worn grey trousers and canvas of foods, and the whistling tune carries across the waters, hundreds of yards over the winds which toil ceaselessly to make the fishermen’s lives earned.

To my left lay the single-stoned path to where It still stayed, still transfixed over Its gathered audience, the grimy salt-stained calloused men and the lambs, and though I know the rightward crossing to be the safest for me, in my condition, I have but no choice but cross paths again with the Traod.

Beyond It the gentle pathway grows harsh and veinous, veering crazily but now in an uphill direction, at a greater degree of angleage. Towering pyramids of rock, insane formations that should not be, straddle the path, but I see through them to trees and fields, and lazy, civilized buildings, steepled and rooved and flowered with gardens. Perhaps that’s my destination. But then the insanity stalking me, the siege and the slaughter, crowds out thoughts of pastoral peace. Such is to be short-lived, without Traod.

I tear the bandage round my head and it falls to the ground. Flexing my aching hands, I decide it best to leave their clavings on, as well as those on my shoulder, chest, and leg.

Fool that I am! Wretched fool and wretched sinner! Blood stained hands and mind stained with dark and evil thoughts! Why can’t I remember? Why can I only see a piece here or a piece there? Why is that town down the road calling to me, achingly? Why do I know this man before me, why is he calling me to It?

Suddenly I realize I have no need for bandages. Or rather, I will not, after a piece.

One boot in front of the other. An arrow slices the air before me, or around me, or just past me; it whistles hypersonically and I feel the air suck out of me. I rise afoot, unscathed, and continue, one boot in front of the other.

It turns to me. The fishermen, the oldest first, turn to me, some masked of quizzical disbelief, others with placid lucidity. The animals cease their bleating, and I cease mine.

It turns to me, and I see recognition in Its eyes, followed by a softening compassion. Then, a metalled hand to my cheek, and I collapse into a ball of blackness.

Mob Dentist

...

“Would we have ever met if I became a dentist?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m scared of needles.”

“Knowing your luck, you’d chip some lawyer’s tooth and get sued for $50 million.”

“It’d wreck me.”

“Your practice would be a subsidiary of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe.”

“Forget that. I’d have to become a mob dentist.”

“A mob dentist?”

“Sure.”

“These things exist?”

“Yeah. Mob dentist. Like that really, really bad David Duchovny movie.”

“David Duchovny played a mob dentist in a movie?”

“No. He was a mob doctor. He was a regular doctor, a surgeon I think. Got involved with drugs, lost his license. So now he treats mobsters when they get shot and stuff.”

“So …”

“So I’d be forced to treat gangsters. You know, when Big Sal gets a toothache, or Tony Guns needs a root canal.”

“Because Big Sal and Tony Guns wouldn’t want the police getting wind of their dental treatments.”

“Well …”

“You just thought that since there are mob lawyers and mob doctors that there’d be mob dentists.”

“Wait – somebody’s gotta put braces on Carmine Jr’s teeth!”

“That’s why there are mob accountants.”

“Mob accountants moonlight in under-the-table orthodontics?”

“No. Mob accountants help Big Sal and Tony Guns get their W2s and all their payroll stubs from legitimate businesses the mob muscles in on and then draw what appear to be legitimate salaries to pay legitimate dentists.”

“So, there are mob doctors and mob accountants, but no mob dentists.”

“Fraid not.”

“Damn. I guess I’d have to scrape gums with Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe sticking their hands in my pockets every time I bill an insurance company.”

“Fraid so.”

“Hmmm. Good thing I’m scared of needles.”

Minnicks!

...

Then something caught his attention:

ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. A small white sign with tiny uppercase letters on a plain gray door.

Tom leaned forward and placed an ear against it. He decided he was going to find out what was behind this door. Hearing nothing, he gently turned the handle. Locked. Oh well. He turned to get back to the others, thinking their break long over, when a bad idea jumped into his head.

On tiptoe, he reached up, felt along the top of the door frame – yes!

A key!

It slid easily into the door. He turned the handle and slipped in.

He was in a stairwell. All was quiet. He adjusted to the darkness, then noticed a dim light originating from below.

Tom crept down a long flight of stairs, one creaking step after another, and met another door. This, though, was unlocked. Quietly he eased through, and found himself in the basement of the warehouse: same dimensions, he guessed, but absolutely barren.

Except for something which looked like a big cage at the far end of the room, dim in the distance. He began sneaking down toward the strange sight, when suddenly he sensed movement in the darkness around him –

“Minnick!”

Something screeched that weird word, minnick, as it raced past him – no! It was above him! No – it was circling him in the dark, crying “Minnick! Minnick! Minnick!”

Tom spun quickly on his heels and slammed back through the basement door. He didn’t care who heard. In fact, his heart was beating so fast he hoped his irritable bosses heard the commotion to save him.

He raced up the stairs, two at a time, and hit the first landing when the door below burst open again. “Minnick! Minnick! Minnick!”

A few seconds after he was through the first level doorway, racing in the red-lit darkness towards that oasis of light and, perhaps, safety, the truck and the small circle of his friends eating sandwiches. “Help!” Tom yelled, out-of-breath, rushing full speed forward away from the NO ADMITTANCE door.

Then the creature – whatever it was – banged through that door. Tom sensed rather than saw it speed past him, up on the upper metal shelves which made the warehouse a three-dimensional labyrinth. His first thought was that it was a monkey, but, no, that wasn’t right, because monkeys weren’t colored bright purple.

Or were they?

And they didn’t shout “Minnick!”

Or did they?

His friends heard the critter, too – they must have, because they all dropped their dinners and stood up. “Tom, what’s the matter – ” someone began, then all chaos really ensued.

...

An excerpt from “The Minnicks”, a neat little novella (or big short story, can’t decide which), that I just finished writing last night, aimed at a younger audience in mind than normal for me.

Ring of Gyges

“Come on in,” Pete said, closing the door behind him with a furtive glance up and down the block. “Can I get you a drink?”

Bert always enjoyed the cloak-and-daggers. “What’s a matter, Pete? Chinese after you?”

Pete laughed as he ushered his friend through the living room, then the kitchen, then down to his workshop in the basement. Pete’s laughter sounded strained to Bert. There was also a strong odor of alcohol when he talked. Bert wondered what the game was, but was a patient enough man to let events unfold without showing his hand.

The fat little physicist hit a switch and a dual row of fluorescent lights illuminated a large white table. Tools hung neatly on the pegboard, above dozens of drawers holding everything from screws and washers to capacitors and small electromagnetic motors. Pete threw a short chubby leg over a metal stool and swung one of those circular magnifying lights down from the ceiling.

Bert noted that his pal was sweating profusely. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell, but steeled himself. Pete’s basement was small, with no windows or doors other than the one at the top of the staircase they came down. It was claustrophobic, but Pete said he felt safe down here examining his prizes. On more than one occasion Pete came up with a fantastic score for the both of them. They were both rich, thanks to Pete’s acquisitions and Bert’s ability to sell them. Of course, neither could flaunt it, or the feds would come down on them in a heartbeat.

“Get a load of this,” Pete whispered. “This is hot. H. O. T. We’re gonna have to move on this fast.” He opened up a small box and retrieved a tiny object. Gingerly, beads of sweat dripping and hands trembling, he handed it over.

“It’s a ring,” Bert noted, disappointed, but grinned nonetheless. “What is this, some sorta marriage proposal?”

He expected the little fat man to laugh. But Pete only whispered, in a quavering voice, “Ever hear of the Ring of Gyges?”

“The ring of who? No.”

“The Ring of Gyges. It’s Plato. Take a closer look. But don’t put it on.”

Bert wondered where this was going. Was he to fence a stolen ring? It didn’t look valuable. Any more than a wedding band might be valuable. Gold. Weird braided engraving running the outer perimeter. Other than that, nothing. “Is this Plato’s ring? Coupla centuries old, is that it?”

Pete laughed. “No. We developed it. My company. You ever read The Republic?”

“You’re talking to an eighth-grade dropout.”

“How about The Lord of the Rings?”

“Saw the movies.” Bert made a show of glancing at his watch. He handed the gold ring back to Pete. “Listen, old chum, unless you tell me different, I could probably get five or six for this. Your cut, twenty-five hundred.”

Pete shook his head and threw back the last of his drink. “Gyges was a shepherd boy in ancient Greece. One day, there’s lightning, there’s an explosion, and the earth at his feet splits open. He goes into this new cavern, finds this ring, which he puts on.”

“This ring?”

The little fat man ignored him. “Goes back to the village, discovers no one can see him.” He glanced up at Bert, eyes on fire. “So what does he do?”

Bert moved the toothpick around to the other side of his mouth. “I dunno. Put it on and stole some jewels.”

“Even better, Bert my boy.” Pete kept turning over the small ring in his hands, careful to avoid slipping it on. “He puts it on, has his way with the Queen, seduces her afterwards with plans of ruling the kingdom hand-in-hand. They both kill her husband, the King, and Gyges becomes supreme ruler of Greece. He’s rich, he’s powerful, and his enemies can’t touch him.”

A light dawned upon Bert. “How does it work?”

“Bends light. The ring is actually a gravity-wave generating machine nanometers in size. Don’t even ask where we got the technology from. Just let me say two words: Reverse engineering.” He paused, grinning weirdly as he brought the ring to his eye to look through. “Remember that special effect in that old Predator movie? Kinda like that. But much, much more effective. Completely effective. You know I’m quality control at the labs. I’ve seen the test results.”

“So how much is it worth?”

“I want you to put word out for a hundred million.”

Bert whistled. “Now I understand the cloak and daggers.”

“Oh yeah. This is my final snatch. I’m not going back to the labs anymore.” Pete picked up his glass, forgot he emptied it. “And Bert, your cut will be twenty million. Non-negotiable.”

“Sure, buddy.” Bert laughed. “Twenty million is about a hundred times what I made last year.” He whistled again. “Say, Pete, I’ll take that drink now.”

“Good. I need a refill too.” He put the case with the ring under a clamp and swung the magnifying lamp over it. “See if you can find our security code on the inner band. It’s pure genius, and I had a helluva time fudging it to get it past the gates. Be right back.”

Pete ran up the stairs as fast as he could, and nervously dodged the curtain-drawn windows on the way to the kitchen. They’d be aware of the theft by now. He wouldn’t be a suspect until Monday morning, and by then he and Bert’d be south of the border. Untraceable. Bert was good at that. He paused at the bar, decided on vodka, nearly straight up. In honor of the Russians, he decided, who’d most likely be the proud new owners of the Ring of Gyges.

He carefully negotiated the stairs, full drinks in both hands. “I’d like to present a toast, Bert my boy, to Plato. How about …”

The basement was empty. Bert was gone. Huh? There was only one way down here –

Then he knew the ring was gone, too.

“So long, Pete,” he heard, from a spot directly in front of him. Then everything went dark.

The Oath

The soldiers appeared in our village in the early morning hours. A long, snaking line of men and beasts. Ugly, snarling men with swords and leather plating and several days worth of stubble on their faces. Every seventh or eight was on horseback, armored in metal, sporting open-faced helmets with great red plumes. Sweating, grunting teams of oxen arrived near the rear, pulling carts of supplies. At the very end came the stinking beasts pulling empty prisoner cages.

My brother, on leave from the militia, said there was a hundred of them. A century. He woke us all up and we watched the procession from our flat roof as they secured the perimeter around the town. “Where are our sentries?” he kept repeating, quietly.

A soldier wearing metal gauntlets on his forearms unhorsed and banged loudly at the forge, directly across from our store. He shouted and cursed in the Vulgar, commanding us to assemble outside in the commons. With sharp gestures he sent off legionnaires to comb the village home by home. Undoubtedly they would round up all stragglers and those in hiding, offering incentive to obey with the prompting of a blade.

Before long my family – my father, mother, brother and sister – were among the other two or three hundred villagers, in one large crowd of countless smaller groups, clustering together for heat in the twilight mountain air.

Our sentries did not come back; at least I did not see my friends in the assembly. My brother must’ve been thinking the same thing, for when I glanced over to him, he pointed to his throat and quickly drew his finger across it. In front of me my father had his arm around my mother, she visibly nervous. We had heard many stories about this before, and she no doubt was thinking of me and my sister.

While this was going on, while murmurs and anxious glances spread unsuppressed, while more than a few fellow villagers were roughly tossed into the group, two men lit extremely large torches at the town square. Each unpacked several items from thick bearskins: a turquoise porcelain bowl, several silver and gold jars, some marble geometric stones which assembled into a small table or altar, a silken purple cloth. Murmurs and glances dwindled as our attention fell fearfully upon the two men finishing their tasks.

“It’s the oath,” one man said, rather loud and rather hysterically. More than half of us immediately shivered, not with chills but with dread.

They herded us into one line by sword and spear. My family was about a third of the way back, but it moved surprisingly, frighteningly quick. We were moving forward with dizzying speed. Perfunctory responses of “Caesar is Lord” grew louder and louder as we approached the front of the line. I tried to hide my fear as I glanced around. My brother, stoic and angry. My father, stoic yet compassionate. My mother was comforting my sister, and both had wet eyes. Soon we were a dozen men away, then half that, then –

I lunged in front of my brother, to the front of the line, ignoring the gasps of my family and evading my brother’s grasp. A group of dangerously bored soldiers faced me, a glint of interest in their eyes observing my abrupt action. Off to the side of the altar sat an older officer with a stylus and scroll. He did not look at me as he asked my name. Before me was the altar, and on it, the turquoise bowl before an engraved plate bearing Caesar’s likeness. The smaller silver and gold cups of incense sat off to the side. I, and all the other villagers, were to proclaim our loyalty and fidelity to the emperor by throwing a pinch of incense into the bowl and affirming, “Caesar is Lord.”

I eyed the soldiers’ swords; I eyed the prison cart. Empty – so far, everyone had swore the loyalty oath. But it was more important than that, we all realized. Rather, a couple dozen of us had realized. We had been taught differently. Not by the Master, but by wondrous men who walked and talked with Him, so many years ago. It was not so much as swearing allegiance as a declaration in the faith and goodness of He Who created all and is Lord of all.

One of the soldiers unsheathed his blade at my hesitancy. I glanced at the sharpened, blackened blade, then back over to the wooden cage. Would I be important enough to be seized and carted back to Smyrna, or Pergamum? Or would I be slain where I stood, as an example for the others?

The commander finally looked up from his scroll with impatience and anger building behind his eyes. I stepped forward, and heard the sobs behind me. I reached out toward the incense bowl, but stopped midway, indecisive. “Caesar is Lord” would be very easy to say, however quietly. I could repent of it later –

But I shut out those thoughts, and brought my hand down to my side. I closed my eyes. Say it! Say it! Say it! Say it! some part of my mind screamed at me. No – it was my heart speaking to me. I heard shouting and commotion as more soldiers came over, pleased that perhaps there was a cause for action. I took a deep breath, and opened my mouth.

“There is only one Lord, and his name is – ”


*****

Now, here is my question to you, Dear Reader:

Should the “h” in the final sentence of this tale, in that word “his”, be capitalized or not?

Tesseract

“A toast,” Jannings announced. “To the Tesseract! To the granting of any with I desire!”

Browne paused, eyeing the professor as he drained the flute of champagne. With a shrug he turned his attention to his tankard of Akkadian beer. “What should we wish for?”

The archaeologist grinned and leaned back so far his chair squawked out in warning. Jannings ignored it and planted his dust-caked boots squarely on the cluttered desk. Caressing the champagne glass with weather-worn hands, he absently catalogued the uncountable artifacts in the cramped room. Cast-iron shelving reached right to the high ceiling, a moderately alphabetized storage system for over a hundred crates of all sizes, each in turn storing bones, relics, clay pottery, metal tools centuries old, scrolls and cuneiform tablets. Game trophies mounted whenever a patch of bare wall exposed itself. Tools stacked and piled beneath the dead animals, mud-caked from the digs: picks, shovels, brushes, axes, torches, rope, even a shotgun. But then one object caught his eye.

A carving of Ra-Phaneron made out of ivory, circa 2100 BC. Second rack directly above Dr. Browne’s seated bulk. Of itself, worthless. Perhaps a few shekels from a gullible tourist. But – and this is important, he thought – but what it could represent! What if they found such a statue, only of solid gold. Such priceless objects had been found, and not only just according to legend. Indeed, it was the driving impetus for many in the valley, and it preyed on his particular human weakness.

Regardless, he had the Tesseract, and that turned his weakness to strength.

“My dear Doctor Browne, I should think of nothing less than complete and total wealth. The only question is, in what form is it to be most desired?”

“Jannings, you’re absolutely decadent,” Browne chortled, pouring himself a second mug from the cask of ale, Jannings last remark no doubt swimming through his head as the alcohol swam through his bloodstream.

The lanky archaeologist giggled, imagining lifting the old fat man’s eyelids and finding only pound signs, and polished off his glass. “I’m dead serious, Reginald. This is my ticket. I want to be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.”

Browne’s flushed cheeks fell into an odd, uncertain sort of smile, “You mean, we want to be wealthy. The Tesseract will grant only one wish, and we made a pact we’d be in full agreement on that wish.”

“You don’t want wealth? What else is there? Women? Wealth will get you that, Reg. Knowledge? This type of money would buy you lots of free leisure time to study anything.”

Browne paused, dancing about the bait, then bit. The booze made him do that; why else would he of such lineage be sweating out a daily existence here in the desert? He cleared his throat and asked, softly, “How about salvation, Dennis?”

“Salvation?” Jannings snorted. “Listen to you. Must I tell you again? You did nothing wrong.” His vibrant blue eyes icily evaluated his companion. “Did you hit your head on a brick in the tunnel, or something?” He leaned over the desk and poured Browne a – third? fourth? – tankard of ale. “Drink up. I’m not used to a sober Doctor Browne, and I don’t think I like what I hear.”

Browne fidgeted and fished out some meat snagged about his canine tooth. “Well, it’s all nonsense, anyway. Isn’t it, Dennis? Let’s just sell it to Hoskins in Baghdad. He’d give us, what, two, three hundred pounds for it?”

Jannings sat silent, his stare now on something that was not in the room with the two.

“Doctor Jannings, it’s all nonsense, anyway. Of course – ”

The archaeologist snapped to. “What’s that you’re jabbering about, Browne?”

“The Tesseract. Nonsense. The myths, that is.”

“Oh, yes. The myths.” Jannings leapt to his feet. “Now? Now, Browne? We’re having this talk, now?”

“Surely you don’t take the myths seriously!”

“Shadrick did. As did you. Certainly last night in the tunnels – ”

Browne’s rosy jowls purpled. “But Shadrick’s dead! And his death had nothing to do whatsoever with the Tesseract!”

Jannings cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

The old fat man said nothing. Any trace of smile disappeared, and beneath those heavy cheeks Jannings thought he saw – surprisingly – a clenched jaw. Then, Browne’s rheumy eyes widened, that fat mouth flopped open, and his big bulk began heaving up and down.

“So you don’t take the myths seriously, do you, Reg?” Jannings hovered over the older man, who was now clutching his chest and audibly wheezing. “Well I want you to remember something, and quickly while you still have time.”

Browne tried to speak but failed.

“Shadrick didn’t believe the myths either.”

“Jannings …”

The skinny archaeologist wandered over to a certain metal rack and rummaged through a boxed-in crate. Moments later he withdrew a small, fist-sized object wrapped in yellowed gauze. He slowly and unselfconsciously embraced it, then kissed it.

Browne fell to the floor, squeezing his left shoulder and hyperventilating. He watched Janning, incredulous, and thought: the Tesseract!

Jannings turned and fell to his haunches. “Oh, there were myths, all right. But the most important one was wrong. Do you know what that one was?”

The old fat man merely winced in pain.

“You don’t get one wish – you get three!” Jannings laughed. “So, I still get my fabulous wealth. And we no longer have to worry about Shadrick’s crude extortion plots.” The archaeologist sprawled forward on his belly on the floor, put his face right up to Browne’s as if examining a new cuneiform find or the mummified remains of a grave robber trapped by its own greed.

“Can you guess my third wish?” Jannings whispered.

Browne’s eyes widened in realization.

I, Scoba

How it happened, exactly, I don’t quite know. As a matter of fact, it’s a bit embarrassing. Normally, I have a sixth sense for things like this. Or at least a redundant secondary bus overlap ether redundancy circuit. As a Scoba-make pseudopod eftyelship, I’m fast, stealthy, and used best for things you don’t know about – or don’t want to know about. But you knew that.

We came in fast to Farron-space, and intended to get out just as fast. My owner, one Nestor Rennie, late out of Cambodia, New Earth, near Nearfar but far from even the saddest-sack tertiary galactic trade route, Ren had to make a pick up. Odd that it was at a Science Outpost, but, hey, so be it; I trust Ren and he trusts me.

Symbiosis: man and machine.

Problem is, as is always the case coming in fast to any system’s-space, you tend to attract attention of an unwanted nature. But we’re aware of that; I’m aware of that. I’m a Scoba, right? We have measures to avoid detection. Indeed, we were coming off a semi-lucrative Vess run (not the hard stuff they execute others for – this was soft metals for some very grateful, very wealthy buyers). You know what going into Vess is like. Kind of like a blind Gaagan mega-millipede trying to negotiate its way through a flasshock minefield. And no one in Vess Imperial Enforcement knew we were ever there.

The first thing that materialized on the holoscreen was a Farron Destroyer. “Crikey!” Ren cried (he was an Old Earth archaeohistorian in a previous life, and a daffadowndilly Australiophile, or so he told me), “Full fathom five! Full fathom five, Scobes!”

But, truth be told, it was no use. They had our protoshadow long before we dropped in to ourspace. Locked and targeted. Wisely, I counseled we go to the cover stories. Every stealth jack o’ trades has a dozen; Ren has six hundred and forty-two on file. I scanned the libraries and suggested three as most probable on the Reality Index.

Half-a-minute in realtime ourspace, Ren decided on Scenario #299: my master was now Gerhoovius Von Zaylzbarga, a wandering Bectoit preacher, pursuing a life-wide mission questing for new converts. Farron was a highly conservative system, very law-and-order, very legalistic, and though it did ascribe to a liberal death penalty policy, it was fairly proud of its tolerance of thousands of galactic-wide belief systems – so long as the believers followed the rules.

Ren tapped his forehead, his right then left temples, then in alternating sequence from the top center of his head down to his neck. Activating his psychotropic training, purchased so long ago at so great a never-quite-forgotten cost.

“Unidentified Scoba! Unidentified Scoba! Shut down your engines and broadcast your registry codes immediately!” The metallic voice, tinny though authoritative through my two-dozen speakers, repeated itself twice, then gave me a sixty-second window to comply.

“Send ’em 299,” Ren mumbled, frantically scavenging my innards for anything incriminating. While I transmitted the “Von Zaylzbarga” backstory coordinates, my boss gathered up maps, books, ID chits and any personal artifacts traceable to a Nestor Rennie. Seamlessly, I caused my skin along the underside of the main physio-locomotive panels to part. Within was a Stasi box, better known to the general public as a “now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t” box. Unless that Farron Destroyer was armed with Vess Sighters – highly doubtful, due to the cold distrust between the two systems – those personal items would be undetectable once sealed up.

You could almost guarantee a multi-frequency scan in situations like these. Less likely, but still possible, would be an actual boarding and inspection, following a forced docking.

Whatever can happen will happen, in some form or another. That was this Scoba’s motto.

Several minutes passed in silence as I monitored my inertia and angular momentum and Ren became a Bectoit preacher. Then, a different voice on the transmission: same tinny timbre, put a slightly higher pitch. “Scoba A2297-11K4J-MM432: Scoba A2297-11K4J-MM432: There, ah, appears to be, ah, a discrepancy with your Registry.”

Ren cocked an eyebrow. I did the equivalent with a needle on my Mood Meter, located adjacent to the Chronosphere and above the Yaw, Pitch, and Roll Tri-Three-Sixties.

“Everything appears in order on our side, Brothers,” Ren – rather, Gerhoovius – replied, bending the transmittal mike closer to his mouth. “Could you elaborate?”

I scrambled the signal and again, inexplicably, there was that long patch of silence as we drifted. Seventy thousand four hundred kilometers in nine minutes. Hmmm. I made a note to squabble the retro flaps to bring down the inertial momentum. Permission pending, as the Destroyer’s thousand canon were presently sighting us.

And you’ll never guess what happened next. “Scoba A2297-11K4J-MM432: Proceed to Science Outpost 771664 – ” the Destroyer’s C&C brain relayed me the coordinates – “and land immediately. Contact 771664’s C&C for detailed landing authorization instructions.” Again, the message was broadcast twice, following which I sent acknowledgment.

Ren flashed me a wide-eyed look of pleasant surprise. A military escort to our original destination! What could be safer! Yet – what could be more dangerous, if my master wanted to smuggle out what he came for. And once my master sets his mind on a score, we get it, or we go down in flames trying.

Mar-Shadda

Open thine ears, O Faithful, and hear the tales from an old man’s heart:

All hail Mar-Shadda, source of Unsated Fire, saith all who fear him!

In the twelvth year of Sindai of the fourth epicycle of Muun, the Sun-Touch came down upon him, O glorious Mar-Shadda, well-digger and sweeper of camel dung, slave and soldier of King Barababul. Gracious were the gifts bestowed upon Mar-Shadda: third-sight and moon-touch, a heart of compassion, wisdom of serpents. Four-hundred-forty-four days Mar-Shadda trod the desert sands, neither with food nor water passing his lips.

All hail Mar-Shadda, envoy of the Sungods, listen to him and understand, saith all who fear him!

In the thirteenth year of Durrendu of the fourth epicycle of Muun, Mar-Shadda returned from the desert sands, clothed in black and of fearful visage. The Colites and the Sphydycists, the speakers of Rhymes and the water keepers of the temples whispered into the ear of King Barababul, Fear this One, for this One will become the death of Thee: and King Barababul, being full of craft and scorpion blood, sent twelve garrisons to put him to the sword.

All hail Mar-Shadda, bringer of fear to tyrants and oppressors, thus cry all who fear him!

In the sixteenth year of Holicu of the fourth epicycle of Muun, all the Colites and all the Sphydycists, all the speakers of Rhymes and all the water keepers crowned Mar-Shadda Lord of Air, Water, Earth and Fire, Fire-borne of the Sungods. The crowds and followers of Mar-Shadda put the twelve phali of King Barababul’s garrisons to flight. And on the ninth day of the third month of Chram, Lord Mar-Shadda sent King Barababul to the Sungods Themselves in a pyre blazed from camel dung on the highest point of the King’s Temple of Siran.

All hail Mar-Shadda, Lord of Air, Water, Earth and Fire, pronounce all who fear him!

In the nineteenth year of Muuritu of the fourth epicycle of Muun, Lord Mar-Shadda put to death the last of the Unbelievers, fire-sent to the Sungods on Siran. Woe the souls of the six hundred thousands delivered unto the Sungods by the sword-torch of Mar-Shadda! Woe to the sixteen hundred thousands left sightless by the fire-blades of Mar-Shadda’s phali! Woe to the sixteen thousand thousands and their uncountable days in the dungeons of Mar-Shadda’s tiikuslu, turning Unbelief to Belief with metal and fire!

All hail Mar-Shadda, as fire purifies the alloy, so his fire-blades purify the enemies of the chosen of the Sungods, thus saith all who fear him!

In the twenty-seventh year of Veken of the fourth epicycle of Muun, the crystal castles of Sagakanom were completed beneath the blessing of Lord Mar-Shadda. Twenty-four thousand artisans were put to death; sixty-eight thousand painters were blinded; four-hundred thirty thousands carpenters and masons and cutters and toilers were made lame: for it was the decree of Lord Mar-Shadda that never in all the world should a palace of such glory as Sagakanom be duplicated nor even rivaled.

All hail Mar-Shadda, sum of all that is under the Sun, and greater still, so saith all who fear him!

In the twenty-ninth year of Cissessilum of the fourth epicycle of Muun, Lord Mar-Shadda stretched out his arm over nine hundred and thirty three thousands of warriors, over a fleet of seventy thousand warships greater than those of Aul and Phenion, over the lands of Tys and Menmo and Perrosostil and Antiphisisigy, over the hearts and souls and the very lives of all under his fire-blades. Lo, he cried, stretching his arms to the sun, it is the will of the Sungods that Mar-Shadda, Ruler of Aul and Phenion and Tys and Menmo and Perrosostil and Antiphisisigy, King Desert, Lord of Air, Water, Earth, and Fire, Fire-borne of the Sungods, to conquer the Worlds Beyond the Violet Seas!

All hail Mar-Shadda, who brought the World to his knee and demanded more, so wail those who fear him!

And in the twenty-ninth year of Cissessilum of the fourth cycle of Muun, on the seventh day of Kadsho, descending the steps of the Temple of Siran within the crystal castles of Sagakanom, Lord Mar-Shadda fell and was taken to bed: and after six nights the Sungods claimed their chosen, their fire-blade, and O the uncountable numbers burned with Mar-Shadda upon his funeral pyre.

All hail Mar-Shadda, destroyer of Worlds and bringer of the Fire; so it was once and for evermore written in the words and hearts of Man.

…

[Just a little experiment having fun with the styles of the KJV, Lin Carter, and Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”]

Saturday Errands

SCENE: The beat-up old Toyota Ravioli, driving round mid-way through morning errands. Daddy behind the wheel, chatting with Little One, age 5, in her Girlz Rule booster in the right-side backseat.

LITTLE ONE: Hey Dads, did you have a dream last night?

DAD: (in a teasing mood) Yes! It was another High School Musical dream! Can you believe it?

LITTLE ONE: Really? What was it about?! What was it about?!

DAD: Well –

LITTLE ONE: Was it about Troy?

DAD: No –

LITTLE ONE: Was it about Gabriella?

DAD: No –

LITTLE ONE: Was it about Ryan? Or Sharpay?

DAD: No. (evil grin indicating major teasing to commence) Chad was in it.

LITTLE ONE: Chad?

DAD: Yeah. Chad.

LITTLE ONE: What were you doing?

DAD: We had a dance off. (lets it sink a moment into Little One’s incredulous brain). We had a dance off, and guess who won?

LITTLE ONE: (distrustful hesitation)

DAD: I did, baby! I did!

LITTLE ONE: (protesting) No! –

DAD: My moves blew his away! I won the dance off, baby! Woo-hoo! My dance moves rule!

(… Long silence of three or four minutes …)

LITTLE ONE: (anguished shock) Was that dream really necessary!!!

CSI: Miami

...


OPENING SCENE: Camera pans up from a half-empty jar of peanut butter on a beach, to an ATM swaddled with crime scene tape. Flashing lights. A group of CSI agents silhouetted against a sepia sky. A pair of girls in bikinis strolls by.

WHITE CHICK: So what do we have here?

BLACK GUY: Seems like some sort of electronic theft.

WHITE CHICK: Electronic theft?

BLACK GUY: Yeah, it’s where money is taken out of your bank account without your knowledge or authorization.

HISPANIC GUY: Wait, they can do it?

WHITE GUY: Happens all the time. (disgusted) Big banks …

BLACK GUY: Here’s our victim.

VICTIM, elderly woman, sweater, hair in a bun: (confused) Hello officers.

WHITE CHICK: Can you tell us what happened?

VICTIM: Well, I put my ATM card into the ATM –

WHITE GUY: ATM?

HISPANIC GUY: Automated Teller Machine. It’s a service most banks offer to enable their customers easy, 24-hour access to their money.

WHITE GUY: (disgusted) Big banks …



WHITE CHICK: Let me get this straight. You put your ATM card into the ATM and –

BLACK GUY: Hold on, hold on. ATM card?

BLACK CHICK: Yes, it’s a plastic card, similar to a credit card (split-screen and triple-split screen shots of her showing the officers some credit cards from her wallet). See?

WHITE GUY: I don’t get it. Doesn’t make sense.

HISPANIC GUY: This strip, here, contains information about your account (black-and-white close up of the back of Victim’s ATM card). The ATM can read it once you punch in the correct PIN.

WHITE CHICK: PIN? I don’t follow.

BLACK GUY: Personal Identification Number. It’s a four-digit number you choose for yourself, kind of a specialized lock you put on your card.

WHITE GUY: So you select your own PIN?

BLACK CHICK: Right.

WHITE GUY: And the ATM reads it?

BLACK CHICK: Bingo. (to VICTIM) What happened next, ma’am?

VICTIM: My sight’s not so good, so I have to read the Braille keypad –

HISPANIC GUY: Braille?

WHITE CHICK: It’s a system consisting of raised bumps which enable blind people – or people with limited eyesight – to read. Each cell consists of a recognizable pattern corresponding to a certain letter, number, or grammatical symbol.

WHITE GUY: Keypad?

BLACK GUY: Yes – this (raps knuckles on ATM keypad). It’s a set of buttons arranged in a block to facilitate the inputting of information into a computer.

HISPANIC GUY: And then what happened?

VICTIM: My fingers got stuck! It was as if someone smeared peanut butter all over the keypad! Then the readout said that I had no money in my account! Can you imagine that? My fingers are all sticky!

RED-HAIRED ALBINO GUY: Looks like our Automated Teller Machine ... has its own set ... of sticky fingers.


ROGER DALTREY: Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!