A Slightly Different Kind of Story

Take my love, take my land / Take me where I cannot stand / I don’t care, I’m still free

So, toward the end of November I found out that I joined the less than exclusive group of Americans who were being preyed upon by scam artists. Con men. Flim-flam experts. Etcetera. Sounds exciting right? I mean, what was the last movie you saw featuring a conman that wasn't loads of fun? honestly. I know I have enjoyed every con artist movie I have seen, even the really bad ones. Matchstick Men. Lies & Alabis. Confidence. The Sting! And that is just the preliminary list of best and worst off the top of my head. The point is that Con Artists are awesome! At least, that was what I used to think.

I know that I have already talked with some of you about this situation. Hopefully you won't mind sitting through this story a second time, because I find it amusing to no end.

The last week in November I receive this email from a very nice Irish girl thanking me for the email I sent her. She went on to express that she was very interested in me, and wanted to get to know me better. I do have a public profile on Myspace (obviously), Facebook, and also a personal profile on Yahoo Personals. As I read through her email, I found myself searching my memory trying to figure out if I had contacted this girl through one of those online sites. I think we can all agree that I am not always the most focused or retentive person, so it made sense to me that I may have sent her an email and just did not remember. So, I sent a short and courteous reply back to her asking how we knew one another and if I was missing something that was painfully obvious. (Let's face it, I do that a fair amount) She emailed back, completely ignoring my inquiry, filled with exuberance and joy that I had responded.

Obviously this set off every paranoid alarm inside my head, and I began to search for answers about who this woman was, and what her scam was. All in all that paranoia filled week was pretty tense. I was on edge trying to learn how to trace her IP address, which is fairly simple to do with a fantastic site called http://www.whois.org/index.php . Of course her IP address was masked, which made things even more interesting. From there I spent time trying to learn how to trace a masked or hidden IP address, researching the domain provider for the email account she had, and also researching ways to ensure that she wasn't piggybacking or hacking my system. Obviously I scanned every email and attachment with two virus scans and a spyware program. I knew that she was not for real, I just couldn't figure out what con she was playing. I figured that there had to be some kind of electronic mischief at play, and I was going to be damned if I was going to be beat. Maybe some kind of keystroke memory worm that she could use to hack my online accounts? Maybe some way to lift my credit cards or bank account information? And, of course, the ever dreaded identity theft which I am often known to make light of. After all, there is so little to be stolen, unless you count debt.

Perhaps I ought to back up for a brief second, and share a little bit more about the down home Irish country girl who was so happy to be speaking with me via email. Her name is Asy, which is short for Anastasyia. Both of her parents died when she was young, and she lives in a small Irish village outside of Cork in a stone building which was left to her by her parents. She works as a fitness instructor in the village, and loves the ocean. When she would write to me she always wrote with extremely broken English, explaining that English was her third language after Irish and Polish. Also, she always attached one or two conservative photos of herself with every email.

Going back to my stressful search of who this woman truly is, and what she wanted. I finally found a way to trace the host server for the IP address that the emails were being sent through. When I researched the host server I found some interesting information. Apparently the very same Host Domain was brought up on a number of formal charges in January and February of 07 for a Russian date scam. Apparently hundreds of people received emails from Russian women who were overwhelmingly grateful to find the love of their life in an American. The early version of the scam involved the women asking the men for $400-$800 for fees related to the process of attaining a Visa to come to America to visit. The later version of the scam, which was a little more involved, revolved around a large cash deposit needed to leave Russia or frozen accounts after the travel plans were established. That version would involve sums ranging from $300 to $1500. The bottom line is that these "women" would assure the men, via email, that they loved them and then ask for money. And, apparently, many men gave them money. Which, I don't think I need to mention, they never got back. And the women, obviously, never came to visit.

Imagine my dual shock and relief when I found out that the con I was being plied with was as simple as "Hey, I love you, can I have some money?" I was trying to insure that these people were not electronically stealing my tidbits of electronic self! I was terrified that I had somehow crossed a hacker or Billm Gates or something. Nope. Nothing of the sort. So, again, obviously I was relieved that I was still relatively electronically safe. At the same time, I was disappointed that the con was so utterly ridiculous. Could you imagine Paul Newman and Robert Redford stooping to such a ridiculous low? Above and beyond that, this person has been emailing me for over six weeks (numbering 16 emails) Who puts in that kind of time and energy for $400? Seriously? I suppose the same scam is applied to hundreds of people at the same time, and it is the volume that makes the payday worth it. I guess. I just wish that it was a little more inventive.

Just for the sake of Robert Jackson, in case he reads this, let me quickly address the possibility that this is ACTUALLY an Irish woman who is looking for friendship. And, in my jaded and cycnical condition, have written "her" off as a pathetic con-person. Well, that would be a shame. I have to admit, if that IS actually the case, I will certainly feel lower than a bag of dicks. With that officially out of the way, let me return to my rant, because this is totally NOT a real person. As I said, she wrote to me in broken English. But every once in a while, particularly when she would talk to me about love or her dreams, the context of her letters would become much clearer. That struck me as odd, so I did a Google search on some of the text that was almost perfect English. What I found was a series of posted emails from the Russian girlfriend scam. There were dozens of these, and most of them were contextually identical. In fact, I found that almost 50% of every email she sent me was paraphrasing one of these emails, or directly cut and paste from one of these emails. I couldn't believe it. Not only was the scam lame, but there was an official script for the scam. Once I found that out, I couldn't help myself. I even commented to her in one of my replies that I was impressed with the excellent leaps and bounds she had made in her English whenever she wrote about love.

Here are a couple of examples of emails received from "Russian" women. Keep in mind as you read through them that people actually fell for this. Maybe, when this has fully played out, I will post the letters she sent me, with some of my replies. Unfortunately I only started saving my replies to her about halfway through the interaction. I knew I needed to save her emails, in case I needed to reference the IP address or file some kind of complaint against the host domain.

http://www.stop-scammers.com/letter.asp?id=4248

http://www.stop-scammers.com/letter.asp?id=4331

http://www.stop-scammers.com/letter.asp?id=246

Some of you are probably wondering why I even continue to go along with this charade. I have found myself wondering that also. There have been a few times where I was ready to just stop. Send a complaint email to the host domain. Maybe send Asy an email letting "her" know that the jig was up. (Mostly just to have the chance to say, "The JIG is up!") And yet, despite my intentions to cut contact, somehow, everytime I got an email, I felt compelled to reply.

At first I thought it might just be an ego thing. At first it was an exciting mystery. I wanted to see if I was smart enough to figure out the threat and beat it. Then, once I realized that the threat was ridiculously simple, I basked in the knowledge that I was certainly not foolish enough to fall for the scam. Everytime I got an email, I enjoyed the knowledge that I knew what "she" thought I did not know. I even began sending little hints that I knew what was going on. My favorite was the email where I actaully parashprased a paragraph of the scam script back to "her". Every time hoping that "she" would give up, or come clean and admit that "she" was really a 47 year old man in Colorado. With each email, I realized more and more that "she" probably knows that I know. And ultimately it doesn't matter, because there is no actual crime until I send "her" money under false pretenses. So, "she" has nothing to lose but continue with the script. (Well, nothing to lose but time. Time I wholly intend to soak up for the sake of my amusement.)

Of course, the more that I thought about my fascination with this scammer, I realized that it was more than just feeling smart that I was better than the scam. Every email sent was filled with these heart felt words of flattery and optimism and hope and love. I found myself often being moved by the gratuitously flattering things that she was writing to me. I knew that it was not genuine, but I didn't care. I wanted to hear more and more of it. I will admit that I was a little surprised that as I read through these lovely emails that were stolen directly from a script used to solicit money from desperate men, that I enjoyed the sentiment. I knew it was not heartfelt or genuine, and yet I still enjoyed it. I enjoyed the illusion that I was special to someone else. I enjoyed the feeling that I could potentially have a meaningful connection with another human being. All the while I understood that it was all a lie. At the same time, I found myself reflecting on the fact that so many of the relationships that I have had with the opposite sex could very much be called into the same kind of question of authenticity. It brought to mind more than a few past girlfreinds who claimed to love me and care for me, and at the same time, who did horrible and hurtful things to me. It struck me that previous women, who I believe actually had genuine feelings for me, would treat me so badly. And this "woman" who had no genuine feelings for me would treat me so well. Even if the emails were 50% pregenerated, and even if nothin in the email was true, they were still typed and sent to me. I found that the sentiments were nice to hear even when they were not true. It occured to me how incredibly dangerous such craving could be in any situation, genuine or not.

While contemplating the ridiculous situation, I also realized that I have not really allowed myself to open up to any relationship in quite some time. There had been plenty of times in the last couple years when I thought I was making an attempt to date someone. Express an interest, put myself out there, yakety-schmakity. I thought that I had actually been trying to honestly connect with another human being. Observing msyelf interacting with a fictitious love interest from Ireland, I realized that I was being more open and honest with a con person then I was with any of the women I had tried dating. Obviously I knew better than to be open and honest with practical information that could be used to hurt me. But emotionally I was completely honest. Whatever I was feeling or thinking just poured out to this person who I knew cared nothing for me. And I felt ashamed that I had been so closed with people who I might actually HAVE a chance at establishing a relationship with.

As these realizations slowly sunk into my thick consciousness, I found myself feeling kind of grateful to the pathetic scammer who is presumably going to ask me for money to help with a plane ticket to the US to come and see me. I'm not sure that I would have come to understand those aspects of myself on my own with out Asy's timeful intervention. Truth be told, if I HAD money, I would not be opposed to sending "her" some cash. Of course, I don't, and I am not going to. In fact, I will probabaly feartily agree to send her as much money as she wants, and then lie about the money order. We'll see. Either way, it's funny the places where life's lessons come from.

And a little disappointing that Hollywood conmen are not real.

___________________________________________

Malcolm Reynolds: If someone tries to kill you, you go ahead and try to kill 'em right back!"

_________________

Zoë Washburne: Cap'n'll have a plan... always does.
Kaylee Frye: That's good right?
Zoë Washburne: It's possible you're not recalling some of the cap'n's previous plans...

Karma

Karma

by mikeA

Lester Avery had never considered himself a lucky man. Although, to be entirely fair, what kind of a man does consider himself to be lucky? Unless, of course, the lucky that is being considered is the UN-lucky, or perhaps even NON-lucky. Just to be clear, Lester Avery did not consider himself un-lucky or non-lucky or well-to-do-lucky or any other variety of lucky. The reason for this was not because Lester had not often considered life’s implications with regard to fortune.

The plain truth of the matter was that Lester Avery had given luck a great deal of thought. He knew that things simply happened, in their own good time, as they were going to simply happen. Some of those things worked out conveniently for Lester, and others did not work out as conveniently. At one time, Lester would have been tempted to see the convenient ones as good fortune and the inconvenient ones as misfortune. Now, however, Lester was pretty sure that the world did not operate in such an objective way. Instead, Lester was pretty sure that everything fell into the realm of subjective interpretation. That is to say that a convenient thing in Lester’s life could be fortunate or misfortunate or both, all dependant on his perception.

Again, that was not always the point of view that Lester Avery expounded. In fact, the sum total of events from one afternoon was all it took to convert Lester’s way of thinking from a world that operates objectively to one that is totally dependant on subjective interpretation. Those events were all set into motion with a simple phone call.

* * * *

“Caller Eleven!” the voice loudly blared out of the small cell phone speaker in Lester Avery’s hand, more softly echoed on the speakers of Lester’s car stereo. “Can you define ‘karma’?” Lester unconsciously licked his lips as he tried to get his thought in order. He was still having trouble accepting that he was actually the eleventh caller. He loudly cleared his throat, and waited, to make sure that the caller on the radio also cleared his throat. Of course, the two throats cleared almost simultaneously. The very experience began to make Lester wonder about the nature of reverberating sound. He wondered if a part of himself echoed out into the world as the noises from his throat did.

“Caller Eleven?” the radio voice interrupted, “Are you still wish us?”

“Yessir!” Lester responded nervously. “That I am!”

“Well, isn’t that fantastic! Can you define ‘karma’ for us? Give it a shot, whaddya say?!” The radio voice’s tone made it clear that the speaker did not think that Lester would be able to define ‘karma’. Obviously they did not know that Lester’s father, Aaron Robert Lester Junior, had been one of Camden’s top scholars on Indian faith and worship. Lester could define hundreds of Sanskrit words verbatim in his sleep.

“I believe I can sir, Karma literally means ‘action’ or ‘deed’. Although a more common definition could be that ‘every action has a consequence’ or even ‘what goes around comes around’.” Lester always felt a stab of guilt when he quoted Sanskrit to Americans. His Father ingrained in him a respect that the words represent serious concepts, and that those concepts ought to be experienced and lived. Lester knew enough about it all to realize that he had no right trying to explain any of those concepts. Seeing how other Americans butchered the ideas and concepts that his Father held so dear was an even greater source of pain. Despite the stab of guilt currently throbbing in Lester’s temples, something had prompted him to dial into the radio show on his cell.

“THAT IS ABSOLUTELY RIGHT!” said the radio voice, switching into excited announcer mode. As far as Lester was concerned, all it really did was aggravate the pain in his temples. “You have just won four complimentary tickets to the City Museum’s classical music symposium. Please stay on the line for further details.”

The car stereo speakers stopped echoing what Lester heard on the phone, and began to play a block of commercials. Lester listened patiently to a woman’s pre-recorded voice, as it talked him through how to pick up his prize. Apparently all he had to do was swing by the station before eight p.m. He looked down at the clock on his car stereo. The digital numbers read ‘4:32’. Lester figured that he would have just enough time to swing by the radio station before he had to pick up Karen from work. As he tucked his cell into a compartment on the dashboard, Lester began to drive a little more aggressively. Mostly in an attempt to insure that he would not be late getting to Karen’s work.

As he merged unto the expressway, Lester found himself wondering if Karen even liked classical music. Lester chuckled softly under his breath. He had been dating her for over three years, and he honestly had no idea if she would even liked classical music. She had never complained when he had played classical music in the car, although he knew that there were a number of things that Karen tolerated that she did not like. She was always leaving rather overt hints that she wanted to go out and do more things, and different things.

Lester tried to push the speculation from his mind. He knew that he could spend hours mentally going in circles without reaching any true conclusions. He would pick up the tickets, and when he picked up Karen, he would just ask her if she wanted to go. She would either like the idea, or she would not. Nothing that Lester did was going to have any impact on Karen’s reaction. He would just have to patiently wait and see. In the meantime, he refused to dwell on it. Lester shot a glance over his shoulder to check the lane to his right. Then he turned on his turn signal to change lanes.

As he eased the wheel to the right, he felt the back tires start to slide. Before he could fully turn to his right to look, the car had spun 180 degrees around and slid into the right lane. A car rushed past him, honking its horn, as Lester’s brown Honda careened off the road. The car began to roll through the snow as it dropped off the shoulder. Lester held tightly to the wheel as the car tumbled end over end. Finally the car came to a rest on the driver’s side.

Lester tried to lift his head, and noticed that there was a throbbing sensation. It was pretty hard to see anything because every window was completely covered with thickly packed snow. Lester took his hands off the steering wheel, and brought them in toward his body. He used one hand to brace his weight against the car door, and the other he reached up and turned on the dome light. The light clicked on, and Lester realized how much junk was lying against the window. There were receipts, ketchup packets, snow and dirt, a book, and various other things that had gathered in his car. He also realized that the car’s engine was still running. He quickly turned off the ignition.

“Is everyone okay?” a faint voice could be heard from somewhere outside the car. “Is anyone hurt?” Lester could hear the sound of something scrapping away snow from the windshield.

“Hello?” Lester called out.

“How many people are in there?” the voice replied.

“Just me!” Lester cried back. Rays of light shined in through the windshield as two gloved hands wiped snow aside. Lester could see a bundled up man frantically digging at the snow.

“Oh! Hello!” he cried out once he had cleared a space big enough to see through. “Are you alright? Can you move?” Lester undid his seat belt and began maneuvering into a standing position. He stood on the driver’s side door, and reached up toward the passenger side door. He unlocked it, and tried to push it open, but the door was very heavy. Lester crouched back down to look through the windshield at the man.

“I can stand! Can you help me open the door?” Lester pointed up at the passenger side door. The man nodded and flashed an ‘okay’ sign. Lester stood back up and tried pushing on the door. At first it only opened a few inches, and then the door became light and flew open. Lester grabbed the edge of the door frame and pulled himself up. He managed to use the passenger seat headrest as a foothold, and climb up to the side of the car. Lester looked down and could see that the man was holding the passenger side door open. Lester jumped off the side of the car and flopped down in a snow bank.

The man came around the side of the car and extended a hand to Lester. Lester could see that he was a middle aged Indian man. He accepted the hand up, and began to brush himself off once he was back on his feet.

“Thank you so much for stopping! I don’t know that I would have been able to open that door by myself.”

“Not a problem,” the Indian man replied. “I am glad to see that you are alright. I was quite a few car lengths back, but I saw you spin off the road. Was it a patch of black ice?”

“You know, I’m not sure,” Lester replied. “I was changing lanes, and the next thing I knew, I was tumbling off the road.”

“Listen to me, running at the mouth. You must be frozen. Why don’t we wait in my car for the police.” Lester saw him indicate a gray four door sedan that was parked up on the shoulder.

“Sure,” Lester replied, “Why not.” Lester followed the man through the snow up to his car. He made an extra effort to shake as much snow off himself as he could before he climbed into the man’s vehicle. The Indian man already had the car running, and had the heat turned all the way up.

“I called the police before I came down to your car.” the Indian man said. “Don’t take that the wrong way, but you can never be too careful. My name is Cam Ma.”

“I’m Lester,” Lester replied. “Thanks again for stopping. I’m not sure what I’d have done otherwise.” Cam laughed softly.

“I’m sure you would have done something, Lester. Today must be your lucky day, walking away from a wreck like that one, huh?” Lester looked back at his car. The car itself did not look bad, but the two hundred feet of trail from the road to the wreck was a sight to behold.

“Man,” Lester let out a soft sigh under his breath as he tried to calculate how many times the car must have flipped.

“Listen, Lester, do you know what a boon is?” Still lost in thought, Lester did not answer right away. “Lester?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Lester turned back to face Cam.

“Are you familiar with the concept of a boon?”

“Um, yeah, I think so,” the look on Lester’s face must have told Cam that he was not familiar.

“A boon is like a favor or a wish. When you are owed a boon, it is like being owed a wish.”

“Is this for rescuing me, just now? Cause I got some money in my pocket.” Lester began to fish into his pocket for his cash. Cam began to laugh loudly.

“No, no, no,” he gently gestured for Lester to leave his money alone. “You do not owe me anything, Lester Avery. It is I, who owes you.”

“What? How do you know my last name? I don’t remember saying my last name!”

“Please calm down, I will explain. Your father, Aaron, did a number of things in India back in 1972. It matters little what he did, but suffice it to say that he earned the blessings of a holy man and a God. He was granted a boon. Any boon.”

Lester brought both his hands to his head and began to wonder if the throbbing in his head was an indication of some very serious delusions.

“This is not a dream, Lester Avery, this is real. Your father earned a boon, and his wish was that his first born would have access to that boon in time of crisis. You are the first born. This is a time of crisis. You now have access to that boon, Lester Avery.” Lester shot a sideways glance at Cam, and rocked a little bit to check to make sure he was not passed out or dreaming.

“You are” Lester stopped and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them, and looked back at Cam. “Is this, well,” Lester let out a long sigh. “Let me get this straight. You are here to grant me a wish. Because of something my Dad did over 30 years ago?”

“Yes, Lester, a boon.”

“Jesus,” Lester exclaimed, still holding his head. “This is like a bad LIFETIME original movie.”

“I assure you that Jesus has nothing to do with it. You do not have to accept the boon, Lester. I, on the other hand, do have to offer it to you.” Lester looked down and noticed that his leg was bouncing up and down. He was not even sure when the nervous motion had started. He reflexively brought his thumb nail up to his teeth to chew. The entire situation was so dreamlike, and surreal. And yet, he felt a gnawing sense that something about this was not right.

Lester’s mind raced over the details that Cam had shared, looking for the source of his unease. Had his father even been in India back in the early 70’s? He wasn’t sure. He also wondered what his father could have been doing that would have granted him this boon? And how did Cam know that he was going to go off the road and need the boon today?

“This is not a trick, Lester,” Cam said in an even tone. “Would you like to use the boon now?” Lester did not answer, and Cam waited a few moments before he continued. “I could fix the car, Lester. Right here and now. It would be like the accident never happened. I could even put you and the car right outside Karen’s work. Just say the word, Lester.” Lester was clearly nervous, wringing his hands as he spoke.

“You said it was an Indian holy man and an Indian God, right?”

“Yes, Lester, I did.”

“Well, my Dad always taught me that the Indian believed in karma.”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can the actions of my father be transferred to me? How can a boon earned by the actions of him, be collectable by me? I don’t understand.” At first Cam did not say anything. He just looked into Lester’s eyes. After a few moments of silence, he suddenly smiled and nodded.

“Good point, Lester. Very good point indeed.” Lester could see the flashing lights coming from behind Cam’s car. He turned in time to see two police cars and an ambulance pull up. He watched the police jog through the snow toward the overturned car. As the two cops reached the car, they began clearing snow off the windshield. Lester noticed that somehow all of the snow that Cam had cleared was caked back on. Lester also noticed that there were no tracks through the snow to Cam’s car. He looked back to Cam, and saw that Cam was still smiling with a wicked grin.

“Last chance, Lester. I will still grant the boon, you just have to ask me for it.” Cam looked at Lester. Lester had no idea what was going on, but he knew that something was terribly wrong. He weakly shook his head from side to side. Cam’s smile faded, and then Cam and his car began fading. Lester turned to look back at his car, but found that he was still inside the car. He tried to move, but found that he was pinned in place by the seat belt. He could see the police clearing the windshield.

“Are you okay, sir?” one of the police officers called in through the glass. Lester tried to answer, but found he could not find his voice. He did manage to nod his head up and down. “Man!” the same cop yelled, “today must be your lucky day!”

Searching For a Friend

(fiction challenge story; week19. copyright 2007. all rights reserved.)

The urge to vomit struck John suddenly as the texture of the sky above him began to shift color and texture in a rapid pattern. Forcing both eyes into a narrow squint, John carefully studied the ground rolling below him. The monotonous dips and curves and vegetation on the ground made it hard to stay focused. John found himself wondering what would happen if he let himself vomit while flying.

“John! Do NOT allow yourself to be ill!” Agamemnon’s deep baritone burned into John’s mind. “Your physical form is not even really here!”

“Are you some kind of bloody mind reader?” John shouted verbally to the large winged creature gracefully slicing through the air to John’s right. John knew perfectly well that even the highest host of Angelic Celestial could not read minds. But he felt compelled to say something in order to cover up the fact that his own appearance must have betrayed his feelings of nausea.

“I cannot read minds, as you well know,” the deep voice felt like it was physically scratching the inside of John’s skull. “But I know well the look of green that your astral form carries.”

“Listen up you big pixie!” John shouted to his right with all the volume he could muster. “I’ll not stand for you taking that kind of tone with me! I’m right as rain, so you can bugger off with that talk of being sick!” Even as the final word exited John’s mouth, he found himself clamping his teeth together and swallowing hard. Trying to look over at the winged creature, while the wide sky framed his graceful movements, had clearly been a mistake.

“So be it,” the Agamemnon’s voice boomed inside John’s head. “Just be sure to see to it that you maintain your declared end of our agreement.”

“Don’t worry. I have no doubt that I’ll know that energy vibration the minute it crosses my eyes.” John was not sure, but he thought he could telepathically hear the angel sigh. John knew that Agamemnon had plenty of reasons not to believe John, but this time John was being one hundred percent honest. Both times he had encountered the demonick energy vibration had been borderline disasters, and both times John found himself astounded that he had survived the encounter.

“I can sense the panic in you all the way over here,” Agamemnon chided telepathically. “You need not be concerned, John. All we need is to find the vibration, and assess the maker. We shall have your fragile form back in your body in the blink of an eye.

Somehow, John found that Agamemnon’s words made him feel worse instead of better. At the same time, he did not have the energy to try to argue with the angel. John decided that the sooner he found the energy again, the sooner he would be free of Agamemnon.

John squeezed his eyes closed for a second, and inhaled sharply, only to carefully exhale for twice as long. He deliberately repeated the breathing exercise for a dozen heartbeats, before letting his eyes slowly open a fraction of the way. The ground was still a scrolling canvas of greens and blues far beneath him, but he found his stomach felt a little better. Letting his attention spread out in front of him, John intentionally kept his mind from focusing on any single thing. He pictured his focus going blurry as he tried to take in the energies for miles in every direction. Casually John let his attention spread further and further.

A pinprick of red energy flared some distance to John’s left. John ignored it. Relaxing his mind he let his focus drift even further. A flash of green flared to his right, and a splash of pink echoed behind him. John managed to ignore both energies, and kept his focus blanketed. A shrill gray tore into his focus from somewhere behind him. His mind reflexively reached out to study the energy, and his entire focus began to crumble.

John let out a long sigh, and let his eyes open again. After a quick evaluation of the ground beneath him, John managed a quick glance to his side to check Agamemnon. The winged man was swaying gently with the pull of the wind. John found himself momentarily envious of Agamemnon’s ability to fly. Even though John was able to astrally travel in a fashion that was very similar to flight, John still wished that he could physically experience the pull of the wind or the smell of the air. His astral form was pretty much restricted to visual experiences only. Unfortunately the visual experience was obviously enough to make John nauseous.

“DOWN!” Agamemnon telepathically shouted at John, as a blur of white cloth and wings tore across the sky in front of John. John reflexively willed his form in the direction of the ground, but allowed his eyes to follow Agamemnon’s flight. The speed that the angel moved was literally awe inspiring. John found that his eyes could barely track the white streak slicing through the sky. Moving his eyes ahead of the blur, John could see a number of dark blue specks moving in a similar fashion in his direction.

“Well, fuck stick,” John mumbled as he swallowed hard, and began to drop more rapidly toward the ground. He had no idea what was approaching, but he was guessing that Agamemnon had sensed danger. Danger was the last thing that John had time for at the moment. The ground, which was rapidly rushing up to meet John, began to take on more and more detail. John carefully studied the physical structures that might offer him some sort of shelter, or, better yet, protection. He quickly assessed that there were no churches, cemeteries, or schools in close proximity, but there were a number of family houses attached to farms.

John picked out a fair sized three story farm house, and began to glide down in that direction. Focusing on the house John could sense that there was a family of six living within the house. For a brief moment John considered the moral implications of involving innocent bystanders as camouflage for his own craven defense. After all, if the incoming creatures were able to sense John’s astral form, and they could track it to the small farm house, John would probably be placing the family in some degree of jeopardy. At the same time, John reasoned, that very same family might be the perfect energy needed to mask’s John’s astral form.

Tilting his head back, John strained his eyes trying to make out the form of Agamemnon or the dark blue speck on the horizon. From his vantage point near the ground, John was unable to spot anything. He directed his dissent so that he came to a stop inches above the ground, directly in front of the farm house’s front door. John began a simple incantation so that he would be able to peacefully enter the unknown family’s house. As the last syllable of the last word rolled off his tongue, John waved a three finger gesture in front of the door. John cast one last glance up toward the sky, and noticed a streak of light quickly approaching the house. John squinted and strained his eyes to make out the image, but the time it took for him to squint was enough time for the farm house in front of him to explode into a hailstorm of flying splintered wood and furniture.

John flew backwards through the air and realized that the streak of light had struck the house the moment in had exploded. Regaining a degree of composure and focus, John willed his form to stop. He righted himself vertically, and began to frantically search the ground for any sign of the six people that he had sensed in the house. Near a china cabinet that had been crushed by a fire laden couch, John spotted a pair of small legs. He slid across the air over to the spot to find a small girl lying crumpled in a sickeningly grotesque heap. John found himself hoping that the small girl was dead, because he did not want to imagine the kind of pain she would be experiencing if she was still breathing.

“JOHN WILLARD AQIL!” a gravelly voice boomed.

John spun, shocked at the use of his full name. At first John could not see the source of the voice. He panned his head to the right and the left trying to make out some kind of figure. Perhaps the voice had been telepathic, John thought to himself. Although he was pretty sure he had heard it externally.

“HOW DARE YOU FORM AN ALLIANCE WITH THE CELESTIAL!”

This time John was sure that the voice was not being telepathically projected into his head, although he still had no idea where the speaker was located. John’s eyes tightened, and he consciously made sure he was breathing in measured intervals through his nose.

“I DEMAND THAT YOU ACCOUNT FOR YOUR ACTIONS!”

This time, the voice was accompanied by a sharp fiery sensation rapidly tearing through John’s left arm. The pain intensified and spread from the front of the arm straight through to the back. John’s eyes flew wide with shock, ad he realized that the speaker was with his physical body.

“WELL JOHN?” the voice boomed, “I WILL NOT REMAIN THIS PATIENT FOREVER!"

John frantically tried to focus past the pain in his arm, and come up with some kind of lie that he could tell the speaker. The hard part was he had no idea who, or what, he was speaking with. The only thing he figured he could infer was that the speaker was not a fan of Agamemnon. Unless, John reasoned, it was another Celestial upset by human interference!

“I, uh, well, I. . .” John stammered trying to buy himself enough time to invoke a ward of protection. His mind conjured the pieces he would need, and he began to run the numbers in his head to activate the ward. Just as his mind was locking down the last variables of the ward, a second pain exploded in John’s left arm. The components of the ward slowly fell apart and away.

“WHAT ARE YOU AND THE CELESTIAL SEEKING, JOHN?!”

The pain doubled and John found himself starting to panic. To make things worse there were distinct dark blue forms rapidly approaching his astral form’s position amongst the farm house’s rubble.

“Lis- Aaaagh. Listen!” John managed to say through the various points of fire arching around and through his left arm. “I swear to answer your inquiries face to face, but first I have to deal with some things here!”

“YOU CANNOT STALL. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE!”

A shower of dirt and wooden debris shot up into the air as the first dark blue form slammed into the ground near where the house stood. The long narrow membrane lined wings slowly folded in toward the body of the scale covered fairy, as it loped toward John on all fours. As the creature neared John’s astral form, it reared up unto two legs and lunged at John. A numbing explosion tore through John as the acrid creature passed through him to land hard on the ground behind him.

As two more scale covered fairies dropped to the ground around him, John realized that the creatures did not know that he was an astral projection! That meant the speaker was not working with them!

“ANSWER ME, JOHN!” the speaker boomed again, redoubling the pain in his arm.

John barely managed to will himself straight up into the air, as the two new fairies bound toward his position.

“Please,” John said letting the agony he was feeling echo in his voice, “I can’t talk through the pain!” John glanced beneath himself, and saw the three creatures had taken flight to pursue his astral form. “Please!” John pleaded again, assuming that he was not going to get any sympathy from the mysterious speaker. “We were looking for. . .” John let his voice trail off into a broken rhythm of painful cries. At the same time he pushed his astral form to fly as fast as he knew how. The surrounding began to blur as his speed increased, and the three creatures still seemed to be gaining ground. John was desperately running down a mental list of options when he felt the pain in his left arm drastically dull.

“GO ON, WHAT WERE YOU SEEKING?”

John let his eyes slip closed, and cleared his head of everything. He pictured the geographical location of his physical body in relation to the abstract of his astral form, and tried to conjure a formula that would let him create a short cut. The instant it became clear in his mind, John realized he could smell the fetid odor of decay. He opened his eyes, and found that he was back in his wooden chair. He let his head drop and studied the circle of sand carefully placed above the chalk etchings on the floor. As his head panned from right to left, he noticed four two foot razor thin wires pushed all the way through his left arm. Fighting the urge to scream he felt his head being lifted by a moist hand. The smell of decay doubled as the hand brought up his gaze.

Standing in front of him was a long dead corpse, missing large portions of skin and organs. John soured his face and cringed at the overwhelming odor.

“MANAGED TO RETURN?” The corpse said loudly in an almost surprised voice that echoed through out the small apartment. “GOOD. GOOD.” John still did not know what was motivating the body, but he was hoping that he would figure something out in the next minute and a half.

“Listen Sicko,” John said through hard fought gags, “The Celestial will be back in a blink, so how bout you bugger off?” The pain instantly returned in his left arms, and the smell of smoldering flesh added to the already overwhelming stench of decay.

“LIES. LIES. WHAT WERE YOU SEEKING? WHAT DID THE CELESTIAL WANT?”

John clenched his teeth and found his head reflexively swaying to fight the pain. He tried to focus on the corpse, but the pain, coupled with the smell, made it impossible to concentrate. The pain began to spread into the rest of John’s body, and John began to feel light headed.

“ANSWERS!”

“Listen,” John harshly uttered, “to the,” the words became a scream. John clamped his mouth shut, swallowed and finished. “Wind.” The corpse actually cocked its head to one side in confusion. In that instant the pain receded back into just John’s left arm, and decreased in intensity. John weakly gestured toward the roof with his right hand. The corpse noticed the hand, and with exaggerated confusion followed the gesture toward the ceiling. For a few moments the creature looked at different parts of the ceiling, and then returned his gaze on John. For the first time John noticed that the eyes seemed to have a hint of yellow energy to them.

“FOOL,” the corpse spat with a chilling laugh. “NOW YOU. . .”

The words were cut short as three dark blue forms tore through different places in the ceiling to land around the apartment. The corpse quickly looked from winged fairy to winger fair, and finally back to John. Even with the extreme pain, John felt a grin grow across his face.

“Toodles,” John whispered as the defenses he had carefully imbued his apartment with finally reacted to the new arrivals. A pulsating energy synchronized itself with each of the three creatures, which was followed by the rapid sound of three ear splitting POP sounds. The corpse, which was mostly outside the chalked diagram on the ground, crumpled limp into a pile.

The silence that followed rang in John’s ears with terrifying intensity. John stood, looking down at the wires still protruding from his left arm. His gaze shifted from his arm to the corpse lumped in front of him. He let his right foot strike the crumpled corpse in front of him. He heard a farting sound, followed by a cascade of noxious fumes, as his foot tore open the corpse’s chest. Obviously the speaker had used a very decaying corpse in order to circumvent John’s defenses. In truth, John realized that he was impressed with the ingenuity, and made a mental note to make sure that nothing would be able to duplicate the action.

John’s shuffling feet broke trail through the layer of ash and scale that covered the floor of his apartment. Reaching the small door to the bathroom, John realized that even the sink had debris from the exploded intruders in it. As he turned the faucet to full, he found himself wondering if he would be able to talk Agamemnon into cleaning.

The House

(fiction challenge story; week11. copyright 2007. all rights reserved.)

John slowly crossed the street and headed toward the circus of police cars parked at odd angles out in front of the two story beige house. He let his lit cigarette drop from his hand as he stepped off of the street up onto the sidewalk. A pair of police officers gave him a strange look as he approached the clearly marked police tape. John grabbed the yellow ‘DO NOT CROSS’ tape and raised it high enough that he could easily slip underneath. The two officers began to move in his direction, both carrying expressions that conveyed disgust at John’s presence. John stopped and carefully reached into his back jeans pocket, producing a laminated ID badge. The two officers, once they were close enough to examine the badge began in with the same questions John had answered multiple times a week, every week for the last seven years.

“Is this badge for real,” the first officer asked. John decided that this guy was named Alex. “Because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like this before.”

“Yes Alex,” John answered in an even tone, “I assure you that the ID is very real.”

“Does this even grant you clearance to be down here?” John looked hard at the officer and let out a slow sigh under his breathe.

“What’s going on here that I wouldn’t have jurisdiction over?” John asked in an overly metered tone. Neither officer responded right away. Both men slowly looked from the ID badge, to John, then back to the ID badge.

“If you’re working with the Bureau,” the second officer began, “Than why didn’t anyone call ahead to let us know you were coming down here?” John starred at the second officer for a couple of hard seconds. For some reason he could not quite place a name on the officer. John silently hoped that this was not an indication of how the night was going to go.

“Well Officer,” John began slowly, hoping a name would come to him, “I’m not entirely sure why they didn’t call down here.” John let the sentence sink in while he studied the clothes that the second officer was wearing. Finally, when a distinct smell of chewing gum hit John’s nostrils he realized that the officer was named John. “To be completely honest with you, John, I would almost guess that they didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise?” both men said in unison.

“Oh aye,” John replied casually, “We wouldn’t want the media getting a hold of the Bureau’s involvement, now would we?” This seemed to adequately confuse both men, and John carefully moved past them in the direction of the house. He really hated having to mess with people’s heads like that, especially the heads of police officers. Still, he had a job to do, and he could not do his job unless he gained access to the house.

His footfalls over the dew covered lawn sounded like the secreted sound of fornication to John. He slowly looked around to see if he was drawing any attention to himself. He maintained a purposeful stride toward the house, and made sure not to make eye contact with any of the various police officers doing their jobs. As he looked around the yard, he noticed that one of the police cruisers was car 092. John cursed silently to himself, and realized that it only made sense that a case like this would draw the attention of Detective Hirk. John fought off the urge to pull out a cigarette and headed up the three stairs to the porch.

He weaved in and out of three police officers moving about the porch, and stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with Detective Hirk. The young Latino police detective slowly reached up to his mouth and picked the toothpick up off his lip.

“Evening John,” Hirk said in a quiet voice. John noticed that Hirk was carefully keeping eye contact. Obviously the Detective had been getting some helpful hints from someone or something. An issue John made a mental note to look into on the morrow.

“Detective,” John responded calmly.

“Tell me John,” Hirk carefully said the name again, “What would draw you out on an evening like tonight?” The man’s gaze was locked on John’s.

“Oh, you know Detective, duty calls, and all that.” John tried to make the statement sound flippant, but suspected that Hirk would see right through it.

“Do tell, John. What duty would that be? And John, who would that duty be to, exactly?”

John was silently calculating what he might be able to get away with when another officer came up behind Hirk, and pushed his way past. Hirk reflexively turned his head toward the man, and that was John’s cue to get moving. John quickly dodged around the other side of Hirk, patting him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry Hirk,” John said as he swiftly slipped past, “I’ll be in and out before you know it.” John moved toward the door, bringing himself to a halt. He turned and added as an afterthought, “It’s been a real pleasure conversing, we’ll have to do it again real soon.” Before Hirk had the chance to fully turn and face John, he was well through the door moving through the house.

Once John was through the door, he moved randomly in order to put distance between him and Hirk. There was little chance that Hirk would tempt the fates by confronting John twice in a night, but John did not want to take any chances. When John passed through the house’s second room, he immediately sensed the seriousness of the crime that had been committed in the house. He moved straight to the staircase, and headed to the upstairs bedroom. He knew he was going to see, even before he opened the door, but gave himself a second to mentally prepare. John had learned a very long time ago that a little extra preparation was never a wasted effort.

He let the door fully swing open and stepped into the room. The smell of the three mutilated bodies hit him first, and then the gruesome sight. Even though both the sight and the smell were pretty jarring, it was the vibrations left in the room that really gave John reason to pause. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and inhaled through his mouth. John wondered if he was ever going to get used to the negativity that lingered in sites like this. He let his eyes close, and he took another step into the room. As his focus began to sharpen on the interior of the room, a voice forced his eyes open.

“Excuse me Sir,” a young woman said, “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to be in here.” John slowly turned back to the room’s entrance to see a woman dressed in a blood covered smock. He quickly considered the odds that this woman was sensory gifted, and then realized his mistake.

“Um,” John began slowly, “Ann is it?” The woman placed a latex gloved hand on her hip in response. “Okay Luv, I get it. I’m not supposed to be in here, it’s true. But I have ID, and I will happily show it to you.”

“Nice and slow,” she responded coldly as her other hand came to a rest under her smock. John quietly cursed the American fixation with firearms. Everyone and their mother had firearms in America.

“Here you go,” John brought his left hand up with the laminated ID card. With his right hand he drew three coins out of his pocket and let the first two drop from his grasp. While the two coins spun through the air toward the floor, he rolled the remaining coin up unto his curled thumb. John used the TINK, TINK noise as a cue to flip the last coin up into the air. His eyelids slid closed, and he silently incanted the words.

He lifted one eyelid carefully to check on Ann. She seemed to have completely lost interest in John, and was returning to the hallway to get something off a large work cart. John let his other eye open, and turned his attention back to the room.

He knew that the room would be secure, but he also knew that now he would not have much time. He dropped to the floor and folded his legs underneath himself. He let both eyes lazily close, and tried breathing through his nose. The stench of the bodies proved to be a little too much for him, and he changed his inhalations to his mouth. Once he felt his mind begin to focus on the interior of the room, he began to pick his way through each layer.

After a few minutes of examination, John began to fear that his trip had been a complete waste. He began to piece together the cause of death for all three people, and realized that it was just some guy. A very angry guy, John realized, but still just a guy. After focusing a little more closely, John realized that his instincts had not led him astray at all. The angry guy was actually shade masquerading as a guy.

John opened his eyes and looked around the room. Knowing that a shade was responsible, it occurred to him that the shade could still be in the room! John examined every piece of furniture and every nook and cranny in the room. If the shade was still in the vicinity, John was relatively certain that it was not presently in the room. That thought was interrupted by the exploding pain in the back of John’s head.

John felt his face slam hard against the wood floor, and felt the sticky coagulated blood clinging to his face. At the same time, throbbing warmth was starting to coat the back of his neck. John rolled unto his back and looked up to see Ann clutching her pistol.

“What are you. . .” John began. Before the words finished forming John realized that the woman was being directed by the shade.

The metal but of the gun crashed down hard on John’s forehead. John desperately tried to roll out of the way, but the gun slammed down twice more.

“You don’t belong here,” the woman said in a voice that seemed to echo with the sound of nails on chalkboard. John wanted to reply with something witty, but found that the words were exiting his mouth as fluid filled hissing sounds. He right hand dug hard into a pocket, and was searching the floor with his left.

BAM! The gun dropped on his head again, and John rapidly blinked his eyes in order to keep the inky darkness from overwhelming him. His left hand came across a rubber sole of a tennis shoe. John focused all his attention on grasping the shoe, and brought it up at the woman towering over him. As his hand swung up in front of him, John realized that the shoe still had most of a severed foot in it. The sight completely broke his concentration, but he still managed to utter the three notes that he needed to make.

The woman’s face contorted into a hideous distortion of rage, and she violently swung the gun down at John’s head again. This time the gun came up short inches from John’s skull. John began to push himself backwards away from the attacker. He slapped himself carefully across the face, and tested his mouth to make sure he could still talk.

“Yeeaaargh,” he slowly exclaimed. “Not belong! NOT BELONG!”

The gun was now being trained on John.

“I bind you to your violence,” the words came out thick, but identifiable, as John made a fist and swung it in the direction of the woman. The woman’s rage filled expression contorted to one of shock, as her jaw dropped.

“Anchored by your rage,” John slowly enunciated through his gritted teeth. The woman was making a kind of screeching noise that set his head into deeper throbs of pain.

“Judgment there shall be.” John traced three glyphs in the air in front of the woman, thankful that his fingers were functioning better than his mouth. Her face began to twist, and then swell, and finally her body went limp. John considered trying to catch her as she slumped toward the floor, and then realized that he hurt too much to be bothered.

John closed his eyes again and focused on the woman’s form. After he was satisfied with what he was sensing, he let his attention slowly push out around her. Once he was certain that the shade was no longer in the upper floor, John turned and headed back toward the house’s staircase.

On the stairs he saw half a dozen officers running up the stairs with the guns drawn. He realized that the woman’s screaming must have been audible to everyone. He stepped to the side, and let a low tone escape his lips. The caravan of officers rushed toward the bedroom, oblivious to John’s presence. As soon as they had fully cleared the stairs, John headed down.

All in all, it was a fair night’s work. He knew that he should have been more careful, but a little carelessness now and then keeps things interesting. Stepping through the front door out onto the porch, John spotted Hirk sitting on the hood of his car. Hirk was starring right at John, almost as if he had been waiting for John to come out. John quickly averted his eyes, and began to move across the lawn in a direction that carried him away from Detective Hirk.

He passed by the two officers that had first confronted him. John realized that as much as he loved doing the work that he did, he really hated all of the hoops he often had to jump through.

“What is that phrase that the plagiarizing Git used in those novels?” John muttered as he reached for his cigarettes. “Oh, yeah, bloody muggles.”

Another Night on the Job

(fiction challenge story; week2. copyright 2007. all rights reserved.)

“When you enter a dark room, your eyes adapt the slowest.” Ryan could hear the words playing through his head in the cadence and tone of his old boss, Frank Wolfe. That was the thing about Frank; he was predictable to a fault. He drilled the same things into Ryan’s head so often, and so regularly, that Ryan could finish the phrases for him.

Ryan pulled open the double doors ahead of him, pausing to hold them for a family of five walking tightly on his heels. Ryan could hear the two youngest children excitedly giggling about being able to see the circus. Ryan wondered to himself why it had to be the circus. Why not a nice baseball game or ballet? While the family filed into the open door, Ryan scanned the throng of people slowly moving from the huge parking area. His eyes began to move, quickly, from face to face.

“Always be paranoid, you never know when it’ll pay off.” The words inside Ryan’s head caused him to let out a soft laugh at his own expense. Frank’s advice always made it seem like being a P.I. was a life or death gambit. As if being a P.I. was nothing but grand adventures to save glamorous damsels, and exciting scenes straight from action movies. For a few months, early on, Ryan often humored Frank. He did not humor him because he believed the crap that Frank was spouting. He did it because working with Frank had a sort of charm and fun to it.

Ryan peeled his view away from the hundreds of faces heading toward him from the parking lot and headed through the door after the family. His eyes, slow to adapt to the dark interior, scanned the posters lining the walls. Each poster depicted a different act from the circus, printed in the old school three tone color style. Ryan moved up toward one of the ticket counters. He had a brief wait while the woman in the pink and green shirt sold tickets to a bunch of high school aged kids. They were loud and borderline obnoxious. One of the girls looked back in Ryan’s direction. Ryan let his head shift up enough to match his gaze, as he made eye contact. The girl smiled and waved. As Ryan smiled back, he wondered why he had to break 25 before high school girls started flirting with him.

With tickets in hand, the rowdy kids filed further into the building toward the closest ticket turnstile. Once Ryan had purchased his own ticket, he intentionally moved toward a different turnstile. There was no reason to bump into a bunch of rowdy high school kids, especially one with a habit of flirting with older men. As soon as Ryan had passed through the turnstile, a security officer stopped him.

“I need to search your bag, sir.” The officer, a little on the small side by Ryan’s estimation, was holding out both hands. Casually Ryan handed over his bag. As the officer began rummaging through Ryan’s bag, Ryan became consciously aware of the smell of cheap peanuts, hay, and sweaty animals. Those odors were more than enough to remind Ryan why he hated the circus. If it not for the fact that tonight’s photos were the cherry on his investigation, he would have written tonight off and waited for something else. As it is, Ryan was anxious to move on to something different. Ryan’s thoughts were brought back to the small security officer when the little man pulled out Ryan’s Nikon D70.

“I’m afraid we don’t allow recording devices, sir.” Ryan had anticipated this snag, in part thanks to his secretary, and in part thanks to Frank’s tried and true advice.

“Always be ready for a snag, Kid. It’d be a shame to let poor planning foil your climactic victory!.” Ryan almost mouthed the words as he drew out a yellow I.D. card from his pocket. He held it out clearly for the security officer.

“It’s okay, I’m with the Press.” The words were relaxed and easy. Lying was always the one thing that Ryan had done with a kind of flair that made Frank blush. “I apologize for not presenting it sooner, it honestly slipped my mind.” The security officer looked from the I.D. card to Ryan’s face, and then back again. Ryan already knew that he had this security guy beat, and was ready to be moving on. “Listen,” Ryan said gingerly taking back his camera bag, “If there is any problem, I’ll be in Section C, Seat 18. Thanks for everything.” With the final words of thanks, Ryan gave the officer a firm double pat on the shoulder. It was always the little condescending gestures like the double pat on the shoulder that made Ryan really love his job.

Ryan made sure to use a very casual pace as he moved further into the building. He stopped at the first concession booth, to get a program and a pretzel. He had only intended to get the program as a foil, just in case, but the pretzel smelled so good that Ryan could not resist. By the time Ryan had arrived at his seat, there was nothing left of the pretzel. Ryan settled into his seat and began to get his camera out. While he was affixing the telephoto zoom lens onto the end of the camera, a long row of children began to move toward Ryan down the aisle he was sitting in. The child at the head of the procession, a small boy who looked to be about seven, stopped at the seat next to Ryan’s, and sat down in it. Ryan quickly counted heads, and tallied fourteen children. He looked over at the only adult with them, a middle-aged woman, who was slowly distributing napkins and small bags of peanuts. Ryan silently hoped, for the woman’s sake, that she was not the mother of all of these kids.

On the other side of Ryan, a group of four men was settling into their seats. Ryan could hear one of the men telling some story about his various childhood run-ins with clowns, and how seriously scarred he was because of it.

Ryan let himself sink a little further down into the hard plastic seat, and brought the camera viewfinder up to his eye. He slowly focused his camera across the auditorium. He did it slowly and purposefully, moving from person to person. Two weeks of garbage raids had landed Ryan a Ticketmaster receipt for tonight’s circus. He knew the area where his man was supposed to be sitting, and he knew that he would have two guests with him. Truthfully Ryan had learned more about his target than he cared to know, but that was the nature of the job.

“Hey Mister,” a small boy to Ryan’s left poked him in the shoulder. “What are you taking pictures for?”

Ryan’s first instinct was to ignore the distraction. He continued, slowly, to pan his camera. His telephoto view was sharply disturbed as the boy shook Ryan by the arm.

“Hey, Mister! Did you hear me?” Ryan let out a slow sigh. Jobs like this always came with some kind of hitch.

“What was that Kid?” Ryan kept his voice very soft and even, hoping to induce a little calm in the boy. If the voice trick had any effect, Ryan did not notice.

“I was wondering why you’re taking pictures?” Clearly this kid was not going to be easily dissuaded. Ryan pulled the camera down from his eye and faced the boy.

“Well, for starters I wasn’t taking pictures. I was just looking through the eyepiece. The reason I was doing that is because I am looking for a specific man.” Ryan often found that his job was much easy to accomplish if he just spelled out exactly what he was doing right up front. It left people a little dumb founded.

“Well, um, okay,” the boy responded hesitantly. Clearly he was not one for being left dumb founded. “Cause I was thinking maybe you should take some picture of those elephants down there. They’re super cool!” Ryan sighed again. “This is my third circus,” the boy held up three fingers as he said it, “and I keep telling Kim that the elephants are the coolest, but she’s dumb. And I was thinking you would know how cool they were, especially if you took some pictures of them?” The boy exploded into motion gesturing wildly with his two hands at one end of the auditorium. Sure enough, he was pointing at a ring of five elephants. It looked as though they were giving kids and parents elephant rides before the show started.

“See them? See how cool they are?” The boy bounced as he pointed.

“Yeah Kid, that’s great.” Ryan lifted his camera to his face and hastily snapped off a few shots in the general direction of the elephants. “You sure are right, Kid, these elephants are super cool.” The boy was grinning like an idiot, and he turned to the girl next to him. Ryan could hear the boy telling her to pass down to Kim the fact that the elephants were cool. Ryan snapped a few more shots, and then tried to get back to business.

“Hey, hey Mister!” the boy was tugging on Ryan’s arm before the camera’s eyepiece reached his eye. “Mister, can I see the shots? PLEASE!?!” Ryan rotated back and gave the kid a hard look. The small boy was obviously not going to shy away from Ryan’s gaze, so Ryan gave up and decided to try a new tact.

“Listen Kid, you want to play a game?” The boy was very slow to answer, and even then, his response was very hesitant.

“What kind of game?”

“It’s a lot like I SPY, only I need you to spy a specific person for me, okay?” Again, the child was slow to answer, although this time his response had a little more enthusiasm behind it.

“Okay. Am I looking for that friend of yours?”

“He is not my friend. He is just a man I know. And yes, that is the man we are looking for.” Ryan pointed across the auditorium to section F. “He ought to be sitting in that section over there, and he should have two other people with him.” The boy began to scrutinize the area that Ryan pointed out.

“Who’s gonna be with him?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. If my previous surveillance is any indication, he will probably be with two young boys.”

“Young like my age?”

“No Kid, more like my age.”

“But you aren’t young. You’re grown up!”

“Right, I’m grown up, but I’m still young. I’m only. . .” Ryan stopped short. The look on the Kid’s face it clear to Ryan that the discussion was pointless. “Fine, whatever you need to hear. They’ll be like my age.”

“Okay.” The kid seemed very satisfied with that answer, and resumed looking. Ryan moved the camera back up to his eye, and resumed scanning the crowd on the other side of the auditorium. Ryan managed to check two rows of the section before the kid interrupted with his poking.

“I don’t see ‘em. Maybe they aren’t here.”

“Did you look in every seat?” Ryan asked patiently.

“No! But I’m sure that I would have seen him! Especially if he’s with two guys your age!” the Kid slid down in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Simmer down Teapot,” Ryan said calmly, bringing the camera back up to his eye. If you don’t want to play the game, that’s fine, but I need to find them.” Before the boy could even answer, Ryan had resumed looking through the camera’s lens.

“Well, I don’t want to lose!” the boy responded and resumed looking. The boy searched in silence for the better part of two minutes, when he began to ask more questions. “You know, if you had their phone number, you could just call them. And then we could see them on the phone! I would just call them.”

“Good idea Kid,” Ryan responded casually, “But I don’t think he carries a cell phone. At least, I never found record of it.”

“Why are you looking for them? Are you going to take their picture once you find them?”

“Yes, I am going to take their picture.”

“Why? Did they do something wrong? Are you the police!?”

“No, I’m not the police.”

“But they DID do something wrong, huh? It’s like a kidnapping, isn’t it?! You need to find them so you can rescue the two guys from the kidnapper!”

“Something like that, Kid. Have you found them yet?” Ryan could hear the boy shift into excited overload when Ryan admitted that it could be a kidnapping. Instantly he regretted lying about the situation. Filling the Kid’s head with some fantasy was not going to make the job any easier. He was just getting ready to tell the Kid the truth when the Kid almost shouted at Ryan.

“Mister! I think I see them!!” The boy was practically yelling, and Ryan placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him and quiet him.

“Where?” Ryan asked. The boy pointed to a group of seats toward the top of the section. Ryan brought the camera to his face and adjusted the focus. Sure enough, there was the old man sitting with two young men that looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Ryan had known what he was going to see, but this was the first time he could visually confirm it. He began to snap photos as fast as the camera would allow. Ryan zoomed in and re-framed to show one of the old man’s arms around the young man’s shoulder. He reframed and caught a number of shots of the old man leaning over and whispering something into one of their ears, then the old man began whispering something to the other. Ryan snapped another dozen shots before lowering the camera. He began to remove the lens and pack the camera away.

“Was that them, Mister?” The kid was looking expectantly at Ryan.

“Yep. Good work Kid. That was them.” With the camera packed Ryan stood, and fished into his pocket. He pulled out a five-dollar bill and gave it to the kid. “You win the game.”

“Wait,” the kid exclaimed, “Where are you going? Are you going to be able to save them?” Ryan hesitated, not sure what to say. He considered continuing with the kidnapping fantasy, but did not see any point to it. Instead he just smiled and began to move toward the center walkway.

“Wait, wait!” the boy was growing more panicked. “Are you gonna be back before the circus starts? Cause last time the elephants came out first and they’re the coolest. You have to be back by then, okay?” Ryan paused to look at the boy. Something about the look on his face struck a chord in Ryan. He wanted to answer with a patented Frank response. He wanted to tell the Kid that he would have them saved and be back before the first elephant entered the center ring. But he was not Frank. Instead he just gave the Kid a wink and kept moving.

Later that evening, at his faux oak desk, as Ryan was finishing up his report on the Old Man’s activities and spending habits, he could almost hear Frank talking about truth getting in the way of adventure. Again, Ryan wished that he had just told the boy some fantastic tale about the exciting rescue he had staged. Part of Ryan even wished he had stayed for the actual circus. Sitting with that kid might have been fun. That brought back memories of early cases with Frank. Frank was always fun. No case was ever dull, and everything was always an adventure. Ryan finished paper clipping his reports, and various collected evidence, together, and stared at the collected five weeks of internet intel, garbage collecting, covert pursuit, and photos. Ryan realized he preferred getting paid for gathering monotonous truth, rather than have fun with fantasy and adventure. He closed the manila folder, and set it in his COMPLETE box to be called on first thing in the morning. With that he got up, turned off the lights, and locked his office door for the night.