2~

A pleasant, if run-of-the-mill, amusement park, Fleach's Folly Factory was an institution among Crystal Cove citizens and local tourists during the spring and summer months for many years, although it had been something much darker in its earlier incarnation.

Creepy Spooky Terror Land was technically more theme park than amusement, and catered to aficionados of terror. Owner Winslow Fleach decided correctly that giving people what they wanted, big scares, in this case, was very profitable. But that was before the park's suffered its own dark times in the form of a jealous, bitter and selfish Marcie Fleach, who nearly destroyed the park with a villainy towards her father worthy of King Lear's Goneril.

Only with the dissolution of that timeline following the destruction of the Evil Entity by Mystery Incorporated, was the park, like Marcie, Crystal Cove, and the world, reborn into a new history.

Winslow Fleach, a thin, bespectacled man, settled deeper in his office chair as he listened to both the satisfying sound of tourists enjoying themselves outside the park's administration building, and the friendly sales pitch from the gentleman sitting in front of him.

"I have to admit, Mr. Greenman, I've never had the pleasure of being offered that much money for my park," Winslow said. "But, again, I must, respectfully, decline."

A tall Englishman with a slightly gaunt face, wide, studious eyes, a hooked nose, and hair that was styled in horn-like whorls, Mr. Greenman had the appearance of a humanoid owl, but didn't look at all that disappointed by the refusal. That was as much as Winslow caught from studying his guest, but it could have also meant that he just hid it well.

"Are you sure?" Greenman asked in a smooth English voice that spoke of old money. "I know it seems strange. Me, coming out of the blue, having just moved here, and just asking you, outright, to buy your company. But I confess that I've always had a fondness for entertaining people, and always wanted my own amusement park."

"Well, with the amount of money that you were going to give to me for mine, you could certainly set up your own park, Mr. Greenman. I certainly wouldn't mind some local competition." Winslow suggested amicably.

Greenman looked thoughtful at this, then said, "Yes, I could do that. I suppose the only real issue, then, is location, location, location."

"Indeed. As the sunniest place on Earth, this town has land for miles, and getting permission to purchase and develop some this beautiful land should be a snap," Winslow reasoned, sounding more like someone from the Crystal Cove Chamber of Commerce, than the owner of Fleach's Folly Factory.

Greenman gave a conciliatory smile and stood, his height imposing, in his dark business suit. With Winslow standing after him, the two men shook hands.

"Thank you for taking the time to listen to my offer, Mr. Fleach." Greenman said with a grin. "Who knows? Maybe I'll take you up on your suggestion to start my own park. If so, I look forward to having you as a competitor."

"So do I, Mr. Greenman."

"Thank you. I'll see myself out."

Greenman smoothly stepped out of Fleach's office, and almost bumped into a lanky, brunette girl in striped leggings and dowdy clothes, who was approaching the office herself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir!" A startled Marcie apologized upon getting her bearings and seeing the man.

"That's quite alright, young lady," said Greenman, turning back towards the office door. "Are you heading for the office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then allow me." He opened the door for her and stepped gallantly to the side to allow her to enter.

"Thank you, sir," Marcie said, impressed with the rare chivalry.

The door closed again and Greenman had the corridor to himself once more, as he walked back to the small elevator at its end. Just before he pushed the button to call up the car, he thought back to the girl in the frumpy clothes and striped stockings, and had...a peculiar feeling about her.

It ran around in his mind a few times, before he ultimately dismissed it a foolish notion. Then the car arrived and he stepped in.

Marcie flopped down in the comfortable chair in front of her father's oak desk, looking surly and feeling none too comfortable, after she handed him the two-page note her teacher had penned below the high school's letterhead.

Winslow sighed as he perused the letter, his brows either furrowing at something written that was negative, or rising upon something positive, but sighing through the read, all the same.

He lifted his eyes slightly above the level of his squarish glasses to peer at his daughter, in annoyance, and asked, "Again?"

"Y'know, we have to talk about these costumes, Dad," Marcie said innocently in an attempt to deflect the scolding that was sure to come.

"Marcie…" Winslow glowered at her insolence. This was a tactic she always fell back on, that was as old, he thought, as it was tiresome.

"Because they're just murder to wear, these days," she continued, trying to coolly ignore the rising octave in his voice.

"Marcie…"

"Can I bring it up at the next staff meeting?"

"Marcia Anne Fleach!" he barked.

Her eyes instantly studied the carpeted floor. Something in her regressed into a eight-year old girl whenever she heard her name spoken that way. It closed most windows of debate.

"I saved Creationex from scandal and a multi-million dollar theft, and I'm the bad girl?" Marcie quickly protested in her defense. "Shows how under-appreciated I am. Plus, that teacher's a guy. He's just mad because I'm probably a better scientist than he is."

"Well, I don't care if you're the second coming of Madam Currie."

"Well, I don't want to toot my own horn, Dad," Marcie quipped immodestly. "But, beeep!"

"Your constant belief that you don't need help from any man, notwithstanding, he's still your teacher," he continued.

"What's your point?" she asked with a flippant sigh.

"The point is that you've been acting rather cavalier these last few weeks. Bringing your chemicals to school again, using deductive reasoning to taunt the kids in your class. Why? Only Heaven knows. And looking for scofflaws and ne'er-do-wells to trap in that insta-ice concoction of yours."

Marcie bristled as she settled in the cushioned chair, trying to ignore the dated speech that her father uttered so easily, and, like all teens before her, attempted to dismiss the scolding.

"First of all," she condescendingly informed him. "No one says scofflaw and/or ne'er-do-well anymore, and second, looking for said people has been rather intriguing to me as of late. What with Velma gone to who knows where…"

Noticing suddenly that she was backsliding into a funk that she didn't want her father to know about, she perked up theatrically, and continued her earlier line of thought.

"Mystery-solving has kinda been a great intellectual exercise for me. It's kept my thinking focused and my mind sharp. It's a win-win, Dad."

Winslow, however, was unimpressed with the mental benefits of amateur criminology. "Apparently not enough of a win for you to get in trouble with Mr. Townsend and Principal Jones." He rolled up his eyes in regret. "I knew we should have had you checked for MSS when you were little."

Marcie took that with a sly, mischievous smile. "C'mon, Dad. I don't have Mad Scientists Syndrome, as far as you know. Besides, Mom liked having another lab rat in the family."

"Where do you think you got a taste for test tubes from?" Winslow countered, perhaps too quickly.

Marcie looked at her father, slightly worried, even a bit wounded, as though a patriarchal betrayal was bubbling up to the surface. Didn't he love her, Bunsen burners, and all?

"Are you...upset about that, Dad?"

Winslow could read the fear in his daughter's eyes and sighed again, this time at his own seeming insensitivity.

If my foot could get in my mouth any faster, I could charge admission, he thought darkly.

"No, honey," he soothed with sober conviction. "I'm extremely proud of the gifts you have, and your mother would have been proud of you, as well. But we don't need another visit from the men from the government, do we?"

"No," she agreed in a sulk.

"Good. You don't know how close I came to having to negotiate visitations rights for you, last time."

"Ugh! I was just making dry ice for show-and-tell," Marcie scoffed in exasperation. "You're telling me that they were prepared to arrest a six-year old?"

"They had a Miranda card written in crayon for just the occasion," her father deadpanned, then soothed, saying, "Listen, honey, I don't have to tell you how the world's changed these days. It won't be long before chemistry sets will be banned from toy stores, and they come to take your beakers away."

Marcie stiffened. "From my limp, lifeless hands!"

"Now, Marcie, this is no time to be political," Winslow said, feeling the subject drifting away from topic. "What are we going to do about this?"

"Well, I think we should write to our congressman-"

"About the letter," Winslow patiently reminded her.

"Oh," she said, before jokingly raising her right hand up. "Uh, okay, I promise not to freeze any more criminals in oxygen-activated cryo-fluid?"

Winslow straightening his glasses sternly. "Not good enough, young lady. Come here." He then patted his lap.

Marcie stood up and stared at her father with sassy defiance, putting her hands on her hips. "Uh, I think I'm little old to be spanked, don't you?"

"You're never too old for that," Winslow said, without missing a beat. "But that's not what I mean. Sit here."

Marcie sighed, and for the sake of familial peace, she did as she was told.

"I'm too old to be sitting on your lap, too," she grumbled.

"You're never too old for that, either," he said, as he gestured to the photos on one side of the office. "Now, what do you see there?"

Marcie rolled her eyes up. "C'mon, Dad, please? I had my fill of tours today."

Winslow gestured to the photo of a well-dressed man in 1800's clothing. "This amusement park was the nineteenth century brainchild of our own Chester Adams Fleach, owner and proprietor of Fleach's Fine Franks, a local hot dog factory and eating establishment. He was blessed at being at the right place at the right time. Namely, setting up shop on land he won in a card game, at the side of a road that would serve as an artery leading into town, and during a time when construction workers, arriving from Los Angeles, needed something to eat."

"Ugh! I'm bored! You've been telling me this story since I was six!" she whined.

"From that simple need," he continued proudly. "Came the impetus to invest into the business and bring it into the realm of entertainment. In time, the eatery became a full blown restaurant, the hot dog factory was converted into storage space to support the empty land that then became Fleach's Fields of Fun and Frolic, Crystal Cove's first and only turn-of-the-century amusement park."

"Yeah, Dad, I know!" Marcie moaned in frustration. She wanted to bolt out of the office so badly.

"Years of competition, renovation and Fleach generational control has shaped the place into the fun, family-owned-and financial profitable business it is today."

Marcie slumped in mock-exhaustion. "Is it over? I think I preferred the spanking."

Winslow brightened, as he swiveled his chair to turn them around to view the other side of the office, where a model of a new ride sat on a long table.

"Just reminding you of your heritage, my dear. Now, I was saving this for the next staff meeting, but I'm preparing to have a new attraction built in the park for the summer crowds. A water slide! It'll be great. It's fast, it's fun, it's wet, and it's a money-maker. Now that, my dear, is a win-win!"

Marcie found herself perking up, interested in any good news for the park. "Do you know when will it be ready?"

"Well, the slide's already built, in a closed off area of the park. After the inspection crews finish their safety tests, they'll let us know if it's safe to use."

Impressed, Marcie stood up and hugged her father. "Well, congratulations, Dad. That water slide might just be the big ticket item for your park."

"Marcie," her father lovingly chided, "It's your park, too. You may work here with me, but the park's pride is the family's pride, and the park's money is the family's money, and vice versa. On both of them."

Marcie smiled at that. She loved the inclusion, that feeling of belonging, even when the family business got on her nerves. Her father was always going to chase that elusive prize, to be the next Walt Disney, and she understood that, long ago.

She strolled up to the door and calmly opened it, while Winslow moved himself and his seat back up to the desk, to resume working.

Although the start was a bit rocky, she was feeling more at ease, glad to have had this chat with her father. The past few hours were so much easier to get handle on, now that the burden of all that emotional baggage was dumped by their feet through the simple act of talking.

"Where are you going?" Winslow asked her.

Marcie took a cocky glance towards him as she stepped past the threshold.

"To the mall," she said matter-of-factly. "To spend some of our family's money. I'll see you at home."

Conway, the Orange Ya Glad Eatery's sole employee on duty, wiped down the counter near his cash register, and thought blankly about his yellow and orange uniform.

He wanted to be a contestant on one of those reality show that took place on one of those far-off islands. He would have loved to run around shirtless, showing off his skinny arms and bird chest to the female contestants, just so they'd secretly scheme to be near him. And use his barely-managing-high school brain to come up with the deepest of machiavellian intrigues to confound the male players, demonstrating what a serious threat he was that season.

He smiled at that scenario, as he absently watched Marcie Fleach, half-drunk soda in her hands, walk out of his establishment (he knew it was a far cry from being called a 'restaurant'), in the Crystal Cove Mall's food court.

Leaning on the counter and looking out past the entranceway, Conway noticed a cute girl strolling past one of the indoor plant islands in the center of the mall's wide thoroughfare.

Taking the time to regard her attire, Conway tilted his head to the side slightly, like a puppy working something out in his head.

The girl, and in fact, the two other girls that he could now just see, were draped in flowing, iridescently-colored blouses, jeans, and sandals. With clicking, beaded necklaces, bangles and bracelets, and headbands to complete the ensemble, Conway wondered if they were from some 60's theater troupe that had gotten lost.

He shrugged as they went by, and then went to the register to count the afternoon till. He had seen prettier mallrats wearing worse.

Marcie sipped on her orange soda and scanned the display window of Star's Fashions. The midriff-bearing peasant's blouse begged to be bought, in her mind. Looking over at the sexily cut jeans nearby, and the other blouses and pants, tantalizingly hung like forbidden fruit, in the store's interior, Marcie began dreamily running combinations of various tops and bottoms together in both socially acceptable and deviously decadent styles, as though she were working out the elusive formula for the chemical known as Popularity.

Mentally assessing the amount of money she had with her, Marcie decided to check out the other stores before coming back and purchasing the peasant's blouse at Star's.

I would have loved to have shown off the blouse to V, she thought as she turned to see three boys cruise off from the traffic of the thoroughfare. She would have ignored them, except their mode of dress was strikingly dated.

Bell bottomed jeans, sandals, fringed leather vests on bare chests, headbands, bracelets and the odd medallion were hung on these teens as loosely as they would have on their parents, if they had worn similar.

Taking another sip, Marcie wondered if the mall was doing a live performance of the musical Hair or Godspell, when the world around her disappeared in a blast of multi-colored smoke.

Bringing her shielding arm down from her face, she looked around through the thinning smoke and saw that she and everything in her vicinity wasn't damaged. She exhaled thankfully when she also saw that no one was hurt, only shaken by the theatrical entrance of the grinning, adult hippy, emerging from the haze like a spirit from the Summer of Love.

The predacious eyes under his rosy sunglasses took on the stunned patrons with satisfaction.

"Hey, everybody! I'm Ringleader," he called out, as he spread his arms open like a preacher and intoned with projected bravado. "And this is my colorful cult of crime! We're all about free love! That is, we love your valuables, so we'll free them from you!"

The hippy calmly held up his hand and gestured his two fingers into what would have been the traditional peace sign, except the ring finger was slightly bent, as if the peace sign was broken on one side.

Armed with this parody of a normally universally positive statement, Ringleader strangely grinned, when some of the people, already in a bad mood with the day, for whatever reason, responded by jeering and taunting him, completing their attacks by pelting him with the odd, empty soda cup and food carton.

So distracted, annoyed and focused were the patrons closest to him, that the six cult members who had already arrived, split into three groups of two, a boy and a girl, slipped quietly behind the occupied customers, and moved strategically into the entranceways of three nearby stores. Stores that happened to sell rather expensive electronics, jewelry and furs.

In each store, the female cultists went over to either the cashier on duty, or the manager, if he or she were present, while the male cultists stood in front of the entranceway and unfolded a large sack from a pocket in their trousers.

"What's going on, here?" asked the manager of the electronics store while he watched the hippy girl slowly approach.

The girl's eyes were so innocent, as to almost appear dreamy, and her face held not an inkling of ill intent, which made the attack all the more surprising, because the manager, and, indeed, the other targets of the cultists, had no clue as to what was transpiring.

The girls held up decidedly plastic looking flowers, as close to face level to their targets as possible without arousing suspicion. Behind the flower's head, however, was a concealed bulb that the girls surreptitiously held between thumb and forefinger.

"Pieces, brother!" the female cultist cheerily greeted with that same crooked peace sign that her master displayed.

Before the manager could utter a question, the thief pinched the bulb hard.

A focused blast of knockout powder coated the man's face, and in surprise, he inhaled reflexively, drawing enough of the tincture into his nostrils to have it be absorbed in his sinuses.

Lightheadedness came so sudden, that it startled the manager, but he didn't have to worry about the rest of the hour, for he, and the cashiers from the two other stores, collapsed onto the floor.

Unnoticed by the people outside, the cultists cleaned the stores of as much portable, and valuable, booty as their sacks could comfortably hold. Then the acolytes left the stores and waited by the entranceways for the next phase of their caper.

Ringleader risked a glance over the perturbed patrons and saw that his cultists were laden with booty and quietly awaiting his next command.

He turned his attention back to his zone of action, just in time to see three mall security officers cautiously, yet quickly, close in on him. He flexed his gloved fingers in preparation, while the folks he thoroughly distracted, decided to let the long arm of the mall handle him, and scattered fearfully, to give the officers a wide berth.

One mallcop, blackjack in hand, swung at his head with no preamble, hoping for a quick takedown. Ringleader caught the truncheon, ignoring the momentary pain of its impact, and reached over with his other gloved hand to grasp the exposed wrist of the officer's weapon hand, pouring raw voltage into his victim from hidden capacitors on his person.

The officer fell over, a twitching puppet of muscle spasm and disorientation.

His brothers-at-arms discarded safety, embraced anger, and rushed him with their batons, eager to avenge, but making the mistake of thinking that their comrade was brought low by some martial art that this irritating throwback employed.

Ringleader quickly raised his arms into a "V", pointing at the two attacker. Crackling electricity flashed between both hands, creating a crude circuit, then lanced out to touch the two men, stopping them in a crashing, jerking heap.

Satisfied that no other officers were forthcoming, Ringleader turned to his cult members and saw that most of the patrons had left. Those curious few who remained, kept a cautious distance from him and his villainous flock.

"Are we ready to go, my children?" he asked, his back turned to the empty, flying cardboard box that then bounced lightly off of his head.

Clawing his fingers in readiness for another fight, he turned to see the box thrower, and instead gave a disheartening belly laugh in response.

Facing him was a young woman standing protectively in front of her nearby store, another empty box in her raised hand.

"Get out of here, you freak!" she yelled, more to keep her courage up, than to scare him off.

Smiling malevolently at her bravado, the heinous hippy shook a disapproving finger at her and pontificated.

"Hey, lady! Don't you know that violence is not the answer?"

Marcie was wondering what to make of the exchange between the them, when Ringleader lazily raised his hand in the general direction of her store.

The entranceway exploded in a non-fiery, piebald blast, that swept the stunned proprietress across the floor, where she didn't move.

Marcie, realizing she was closer to the woman than anyone else, ran over and knelt, watchfully, by her, picking up one of her hands and gently patting the back of it to rouse her, forgetting for the moment that the criminal could attack her for simply offering aid. But the hippy had walked away, meeting up with his people and their swag.

"Thank you all for your generous contribution to our cause, Crystal Cove!" he crowed histrionically to any and all who would hear him. However, since everyone else had hightailed it when the brave woman's store detonated, Marcie was the only person conscious and close enough to listen.

"From me and my covetous cult, I say, 'Pieces!'" Once again, he held up his wayward parody of a peace sign, but this time he held something up in his other hand, as well. Something the other members of his cult also raised in their hands.

Marcie could just make out a small bead held in his fingers, and as their leader dashed his against the floor, the children smashed their spheres to the ground simultaneously.

The capsules shattered upon the tile, releasing thick, rainbow-colored smoke into the area, which spread and blended with the other clouds, making the mist denser and denser, until it was just shy of impenetrable.

To Marcie's failing perception, the criminal band became a gathering group of silhouettes in the heart of the smokescreen, and she quickly fought back the foolish notion of running into the haze to follow them, reminding herself that she had volunteered to stay with her charge. It soon became a moot point, however.

With a hearty laugh of victory, and a gust of wind from whatever point of escape the thieves had taken, the obscuring clouds parted and the cult of crime vanished in the wake of the mall's cacophonous security alarms and human confusion.