Attention all Fan-Fiction shoppers, attention all shoppers! BigCountry-75 Productions is having a special this week on Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War chapters. With the reading of a Chapter 13, you get a Chapter 14 for FREE. That's right, your hearing isn't going the way of your grandma's. Two chapters in one week. AND, if you read right now, we'll throw in Lieutenant Kitsurubami AND Commander Amarao as a bonus (and as an apology for being a month behind schedule because I was feeling out-of-sorts and had been stuck in a grey, sour mood) So come and get 'em while there's still some left on the shelves, they'll be going fast. Be the first on your block to read them, be the envy of all your friends, win the admiration and respect of your in-laws, keep a hard copy on the coffee table as a conversation piece, we don't care, just get out there AND READ!


. . .

Brrrrrrrrrr…tackah-tackah-tah-tack-tack! Brrrrrrraacckkk! Tick-ah-tack-tick-tack-brrr…tick-ah-snap! SNAP! SNAP! Thump-ah-tack-ah, thump-ah-tack-tick-brrrrrr…ack-ah-tack-tick snap! Crack! BRRRrrrrr-ack-ah-tack-tick-ah-tack-ah-tack-snap-crack, Thump-ah-crack-SNAP! Brrrrrr…

"Lieutenant Kitsurubami! Must you?!"

"My apologies Captain!"

"Uhmm-hmm. Look, if you have your report ready I don't mind you drumming. I just do not want to hear it. Am I understood?"
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir."

"Good. See your company at oh-nine-thirty." The Captain raised his thermos of coffee in salute and disappeared into his office.

'If we were sent out into the field more often, I wouldn't be wasting my time drumming on my desk…' Lieutenant Mana Kitsurubami grumbled to herself. Promotions come with both good and bad, as she was learning. She had been promoted two years prior to a Full Lieutenant, an O-3 grade, up from Lieutenant Junior Grade, an O-2. Amarao had gotten the nod from a Lieutenant Commander, an O-4, to Full Commander, an O-5. While the bump in pay was appreciated, the prestige welcome, and new responsibilities an exciting challenge for both, the monotony of a desk was already creeping in. Firing her heavy rifles more often at the range than in the field just wasn't the same.

"Good morning, Lieutenant." It was 0800 and Commander Amarao was exactly on time. He settled into his desk next to hers, brought up his terminal of displays and began reading the news. As a Full Commander, he now was tasked with four 50-man platoons instead of the single 50-man unit he used to lead. A reform in unit and command structure of the Interstellar Immigration Bureau had shifted their roles slightly. Mana was still Amarao's Executive Officer, but she now performed more autonomous missions. The platoon Lieutenants were a capable quartet and freed her up. As relations and talks with Medical Mechanica had deteriorated to non-existent, her missions were less focused on diplomacy; with a growing trend towards kinetic solutions.

"And good morning to you too, Commander. How was your weekend?"

"It was alright. Found a new cycling route through the Capital…got caught up on my shows…" He scanned an article branding the Galactic Government as 'clueless reactionaries' who were 'playing a failing game of catch-up' with Medical Mechanica and The Red Star of The Solar Federation. "How about you? Let me guess…you spent all weekend at the ranges again?"

"I had to Commander. The Heavy Weapons Platoon is looking at adopting a new long-range rifle. So I went to try them out myself." The team Mana was attached to was Amarao's go-to for heavy weapons, anti-vehicle, anti-air, anti-spacecraft, anti-naval, explosives, anti-material…anything that flew, drove, sailed, needed reduced to rubble, or eliminated from extreme distances, he called on Mana and Heavy Weapons. "We've been using the Russian OSV-96, from Earth. A few new companies have been clamoring to be given a chance to compete. One even accused the I.I.B. of 'planetary favoritism' for arms suppliers."

"Planetary favoritism? That's a new one. But I thought you liked the OSV, what's wrong with it?"

"I do like it, it was my first rifle after all. But it's becoming harder to find parts and ammunition for; especially with ongoing arms embargoes on Earth. It also weighs thirty pounds unloaded and only holds five rounds. We're looking into a lighter system, with a smaller round, one with similar or superior ballistic performance, and that also allows us, and me, to carry more ammo too."

"Anything look promising? Or will you need more ahem, testing?"

"The marksmen, snipers, and I, liked the oh-three hundred magnum. A few others looked at the oh-four-sixteen made by Barrett. But…" She paused, slowing her excitement. "I think the three-thirty-eight Lapua Magnum is the winner. All that we really need is to find a platform that fires the Lapua on a consistent basis, within our criteria."

"Which is?"

"Sub half an inch MOA straight out of the box with a dry barrel, maintains at least a one inch MOA after three thousand rounds, and in temperatures from minus fifty Fahrenheit to one hundred and twenty Fahrenheit; and in zero to one hundred percent humidity."

"That's a tall order. It sounds like you want a laser. I know you're a perfectionist, but that list is strict even for you."

"I only shoot, or accept, the best."

"And that's why I keep you around." Amarao complimented and checked his watch. "What time is the briefing?"

"Oh-nine-thirty. Captain must've had a long weekend to push it back half an hour."

"That sounds about right, there's a few rumors swirling about his party life. Oh, you have your report ready? Stupid question, but I want to check."

"Right here." She had arrived early as always, to recheck and update her weekly report. The forty-three page document lay on her desk. The back cover was dimpled from the pencils she had been using to practice her drumming.

"Good to hear. I'm going to check in with the platoon leaders, make sure everyone is ready." He excused himself to cross the office and speak with his Junior Lieutenants. It was only 0815 hours, so she had an hour to kill. She reopened a minimized tab on her main screen, bringing up a slowly scrolling display of sheet music. With a click, she reset the music to start again from the top.

'Okay…La Villa Strangiato…' She readied her two pencils in a matched grip with the erasers out. 'Today's the day I finally play you the whole way through, in one take. No mistakes! Three…two…one…' La Villa Strangiato was proving a musical Everest of hers to complete, with its odd time signatures and their instant changes; plus the mental and physical endurance required to finish the nine minute long song. She made it to the six minute mark and missed a time change, winding up behind the scrolling music. Frustrated, she struck too hard and broke a pencil in half.

"GAAHHH! Curse you Neil Peart!"

"Lieutenant!" The Captain reminded as the broken pencil half bounced off his office window. "Keep it down."

"Sorry Captain!"

. . .

"You must forgive me Fathers, but I do not understand." The Head sat before The Council of Head Priests, presided over by Father Brown. "You are going to conduct an Inquisition…into the Operative Program?"

"Yes, that is correct." Father Brown confirmed, adding a warm smile that did nothing for The Head.

"Fathers…" The Head addressed the Council at large. "Again forgive me, but why? Have the Operatives failed you in some way? If there is something in need of redress, merely name it. I still hold great influence in the Operative's ranks."

"Director, please. Be at Peace." Father Brown gently commanded. "I understand your concern regarding the Operatives. You have an accomplished history with them after all."

"That is correct Father. Working with them was how I came to my office, and earned my Pocketwatch."

"You performed your duty with a passion that every citizen of The Red Star should aspire to. That watch you bear is fitting to your contributions, and there is nothing you are at fault for. It is the Operatives themselves."

"How so?" The Head had always felt uneasy in the straight and high-backed chairs of The Council's Chambers, but now the sensation was exceptional.

"Our main concern is their secretive nature, their clannish ways. Why, they even construct their own pocketwatches!" Another Priest exclaimed and the others nodded grimly in agreement.

"I assure you Father, you have nothing to fear! They are the most loyal, most devoted of all Red Star Citizens; True Believers!"

"I wish I could take your word by itself." Father Brown interrupted. "Even with the weight it carries. But a group allowed such autonomy, such, such…license, must be closely monitored. No matter their loyalty. Even we Priests are not immune." He indicated with a nod to one of many cameras; peering at them from a corner through a pinhole in the stones.

"I understand their exemption was based on a matter of operational security, and also the nature of their missions. That Operatives would be sent to places so far, so remote, that regular communication would be difficult to impossible. You must agree their tasks necessitate a small degree of self-direction; within your guidance of course?"

"And that is why they must be held to such a high standard." Added a Priest from the far end of the table. "Who knows what falsehoods and blasphemy they encounter, what lies they are exposed to? We may never know if they continue in their private, closed-off manner. We cannot ensure the Purity of their Thought, and adherence to the Teachings of Syrinx if their minds are closed to examination!"

"My Fathers, I am so terribly sorry! A thousand pardons for not understanding sooner." The Head apologized while biting his cheek. "I worried it was a question of the Operative's efficiency. It is a matter of protecting them from false prophets while on their travels, when they are beyond our reach…correct?"

"…Yes, that is indeed correct." Father Brown said after a scarcely perceivable glance at the rest of The Council. "I am pleased you finally understand. We will begin conducting our Inquisition in a short while, once we are ready. Your assistance most likely will not be required, but be ready all the same. Now, the next matter I would like to discuss…"

The Head finally left The Grand Temple feeling as wrung out as an old rag. He wore a charming smile and kindly thanked the Monk that had escorted him. Inside his mind however, he was incredibly confused. This was not about the benevolence of The Priests; kindly shepherds tending their flock. He remembered his earlier years, during his mandatory conscription. Twenty years proudly served as an Ensign, JG-Lieutenant, Full-Lieutenant, LT-Commander, Commander, and finally Captain, in the Red Star's Navy as an Engineer. He had seen fear before in the eyes of his fellow sailors during pitched battles in the cold vacuum of space, and he had seen it again in the eyes of The Priests as they spoke of The Operatives.

What could it be they were so fearful of? The Operatives had been conceptualized, designed, created, born and bred, from the drawing boards, to laboratory, and birth, as perfect adherents to The Teachings of The Temple of Syrinx; and the directions of The Priests. The Head had lent his assistance in their inception, helping to design the machines that enhanced their abilities. He had also commanded the Operative detachment that had finally broken the back of the Liberas; ensuring the fall of the Liberas' planet of Portum. Without the Operatives under his command, the Liberas would have continued to be the only true threat to The Red Star of The Solar Federation; instead of a now nearly extinct and scattered annoyance.

Could it be the autonomy the designers had put into the Operatives? The science behind creating the Operatives themselves was not The Head's field. His was of metal, gears and circuits, hydraulics and generation of energy, not the abstract of building and shaping thoughts and minds. So what was it? A thought occurred to him, a bubbled-up memory from one of his books from Earth; something about a...Caesar, crossing a river named Rubicon. What was the word…it started with…Revolt. A coup d'etat, as the phrase went? Impossible, how could they doubt The Operatives? He'd spent years with them, and seen their lives thus far from initial concepts to that moment. Their creators had agreed to full oversight of the program at his recommendation, and The Priests had observed their actions the whole process through. The Operatives numbers were even artificially suppressed, supposedly to reduce the odds of their capture. Now The Head guessed the real reason why.

'Since the Operatives have been given the ability to think for themselves, and not as one of Medical Mechanica's robots, but autonomous individuals…' He thought, the revelation coming in slow-motion. 'That opens the possibility, however remote, that one day they could decide, they don't want to listen to The Priests anymore…' The Head came to a stop on the sidewalk. Evening had come and the capital, City of Megadon, was bathed in the twin-moon light. He looked up at them, the pair of dead planets. Once upon a time, they had teemed with life, their lights visible from the capital; or so the stories went. That had been ages before The Head's time. Long ago, those two planets had been shelled from low orbit, then finally turned to glass, for having dared defy The Priests and The Temple of Syrinx. Now they orbited as cratered and empty moons; a constant testament and warning to those who forgot their place in The Red Star of The Solar Federation.

. . .

It had been two hours. Tommy's presentation was finished, and I had some preliminary designs to fabricate and test later. We'd also gone over some of Clyde's files to pass the time. All was quiet on the Water Street Front. No Cole, no cops, no goon squad.

"Alright, Rig." Tommy unplugged his laptop. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Then let's get this over with."

. . .

The Philips House restaurant was far and above Haruko's pay grade; both at G&R and even the G.S.P.B. The immediate giveaway were the real china cups, plates and bowls. Second were the three forks, four spoons, and four knives at her disposal. Third and most telling was The Man in Black sitting across the table. Where else would he be having breakfast but the finest place in town? He smiled so casually, politely thanked the staff, even offered her the menu in addition to the generous spread. He insisted she order something, that it was his treat. The whole affair was so sickeningly fake, it was all she could do to keep herself from smashing the table to splinters with her guitar. At the least she'd ruin The Man's breakfast.

"Ahhh…that hit the spot!" He declared after downing his sixth cup of coffee. "Have you finished, or would you like something else?" She had nibbled the corner of a slice of bread, only to find the crumbs turned to ash in her mouth, and her coffee had long gone cold. "Very well. To business. I suppose you're wondering why I'm here?"

"Not really, no."

"Then, to be as the saying goes, to be Frank…as opposed to being another name such as Earnest. To be frank, I am here with a proposition. Specifically, I am offering you a job."

"Come again?"

"A position among the proud ranks of The Red Star of The Solar Federation. I cannot make this clearer."

"Uh…excuse you? You, want me, to join your cult? And you think there's a chance I'd say yes? Crawl back under your rock Operative, this planet's atmosphere is messing with your head!" If it hadn't been for her fear of The Man before her, she would have laughed. Where had he gotten it in his head that she'd convert to The Red Star's own Golden Calf, their oft praised Temple of Syrinx? The mere suggestion was ludicrous.

"I assure you my mental faculties have never been sharper. I am resolute in my offer. This is not a joke, and I suggest you act accordingly."

"Alright, I'll bite. Why?"

"Why not? You have proven yourself a troublesome adversary, not an overtly dangerous one to us, mind you. But certainly irritating. It is costing The Red Star more in our efforts to kill you than it would be to simply keep your talents on retainer."

"My talents?" She knew he referred to her, and her species', ability to naturally manipulate N.O. at will.

"Don't sell yourself short." The Man clasped a hand over his heart. "Defying all conventional wisdom, you have survived thus far all efforts to snuff out your existence. Surely you must count that as an achievement? I will admit it has garnered a begrudging interest whenever your name is discussed."

"Aren't you the master of flattery?"

"Flattery? No, honesty though. I have no reason to lie to you, Miss Haruhara. You won't believe a word I say no matter what, so I might as well be truthful if only to be able to later say 'I told you so.' I really do mean it, you have won attention of persons in high positions."

"I still don't believe you, and trust you not even half as much as I hate you. But sure. Say whatever you think I want to hear."

"I wouldn't trust me either if our positions were reversed! Tell me, what has your mind troubled? What would assuage your fears?"

"Okay, first: Why? Why should I, when The Red Star, and you personally, have destroyed everything, everything I knew?"

"Think of it as our belated apology, and attempts to make amends. I'll freely admit the history between our cultures has not been ideal, and our last meeting saw mine become carried away in our actions. The Red Star's aim is not extermination, but bringing peoples into the shelter of The Temple of Syrinx."

"Good ideas don't require force."

"As I said, carried away. Are you familiar with a legend from this planet's far swept plains of Mongolia? I think it applies to you."

"Can't say I am. What is it?"

"There was a conqueror called Genghis Khan, and at The Battle of the Thirteen Sides, he was wounded in the neck by an arrow. After his victory, he asked the defeated, whom was it among them that had shot him. An archer by the name of Zurgadai freely admitted it had been him, and Khan was in his right to kill him. But if Khan spared him, Zurgadai would serve under him. Khan, being no fool and recognizing talent when he saw it, took Zurgadai's offer, and Zurgadai went on to become one of Khan's best generals; raiding as far west as Kiev, east to China, and everywhere in between. I see my own Zurgadai in you, Miss Haruhara. It would be a shame if you wasted yourself on whimsical pastimes and the habits of dullards." The Man eyed her guitar at those words. His obvious disdain for the instrument and the music it made, was not lost to her. "We are attempting to right a wrong, and lift up those with potential while we do so."

"Right. My take on it would be you offed too many of my people, and too late, realized we were actually more useful alive than dead, and you want me around to keep as some kind of pet. Glad that's cleared up. Next question."

"I am eager to entertain."

"Aren't you worried I'll just use you to catch Atomsk, or that I'll turn traitor later on?"

"Interesting. Well, if you do join with intent to turn traitor, know that we aren't going to drop you off at the Medical Mechanica Armory of Experimental Weapons, with a key to every door, and then walk away. You'd be placing yourself deliberately within our easy reach, allowing us to crush you with even less effort, for we would know exactly where you lived, worked, ate, leisured, and any other details we want to know. Also, you assume you would actually be able to strike a minor, let alone mortal, blow on your own. I did say to not sell yourself short, but I meant within reason."

"What about Atomsk though?"

"Ah, your fascination. We of Medical Mechanica have captured him handily once before, and Atomsk shall exist at The Red Star's pleasure once again in short order. I would also remind you, that your efforts spanning six years have nothing to your credit, and were waylaid four years ago by the interference of a twelve year old Human child." The Man's smile turned a degree wryer at his last remark. It did not surprise Haruko that The Man knew about Mabase, and the foiling of her plans by Naota. That did not stop her stomach from pinching on itself when Naota was mentioned. "You have as much hope of capturing Atomsk as you have of walking on the surface of a star."

"Don't hold back, really. Tell me what's on your mind, how you really feel."

"I did say I have no reason to lie, and will continue to say so until you remember. Anything else?"

"Yeah. You can't afford me."

"Oh? Oh…really?! Ha-hah-HA! My dear Miss Haruhara, you have outdone yourself."

"I really mean that. Atomsk, or nothing."

"Miss Haruhara, be realistic. Everything, and everyone is for sale, has a price. And it is always much, much lower than their ego would have them believe. A third of the known Galaxy has cast aside their erroneous ways to join The Red Star. Contained within are wonders, treasures beyond measure, planet-spanning landscapes of solid jewels and precious minerals. Cultures with vast hoards of every desire your heart, stomach, or loins, could covet. I have even witnessed the fabled rains of diamonds, where their harvest takes an army to bring home. And that is only what I have personally seen. Only The Priests know what else lies undiscovered, unclaimed." He stopped, seeming genuinely concerned. "You do not seem convinced. Here, allow me to reveal just a sample." The Man had taken off his gloves to eat, so his hands were bare. He reached out with an exposed index finger, holding it just shy of her forehead. "Well? Aren't you at least a little curious?"

"What are you playing at? How dumb do you think I am?"

"I said I have no reason to lie. All I am going to do is show you what could be yours. I promise, I won't bite." Seeing she really had no choice and was, as The Man had put it regarding Atomsk, existing 'at the pleasure of The Red Star', she leaned forward and The Man's finger gently touched her skin.

The Philips House fell away and Haruko left Philipsburg, Pennsylvania, Earth, herself. She was there in her seat, and millions of light years away, speeding along and sitting stock still. Galaxy's formed, lived, matured and died in the palms of her hands, their shards turning to a rising sea of diamonds that swirled around her legs. She picked them up by the handful, watching the stones turn to rubies, sapphires, emeralds, opals, onyx, pearls, and turquoise as she let them fall, the jewels melting to stone, forming mountains that rose up before her to tower above and make her feel infinitesimally small. Lands of sweeping sands and swarthy strangers with dark eyes greeted her passing, cool nights contrasted under blistering noon suns. The sand blew away to reveal grasslands just beneath, and the grass turned to humid jungle; a band of hunting natives passed by in their home-spun camouflage, waving as they disappeared into the leaves. Through the jungle could be seen a shining light. Emerging from the wilderness, she found herself in The Red Star's capital, City of Megadon. Everyone who passed by smiled and greeted her as Dear Friend, laughing like old comrades. Towards the dominating feature in the city of glass, steel, and concrete she was drawn, the bastion of stone, The Grand Temple. Its doors swung open for her, revealing its treasures, mechanical and mysterious marvels at every turn. An astonishing display of The Great Computers awed her next, every facet of life within The Red Star of The Solar Federation monitored and controlled as a concert of singing electrons. Priests nodded their heads in respect at her passing, their wisdom and profound understanding radiated from and surrounded them in a dazzling aura. Then finally, The Red Star loomed before her. A five-pointed star drawn as a bold line, surrounded by a line of a circle at the star's tips, both on a background of black; a representation of The Red Star, encompassed by the ring of The Solar Federation. The Priests spoke to her, their voices filling her with a sense of tranquility, the weight of responsibility and fear of what lay beyond, lifted gently off her shoulders. They assured her they had studied The Teachings of Syrinx, and all her cares would be attended, never again would she have to wonder how, or why. The words she would read, songs she would play, the lyrics she would sing, all had been taken into account. All they asked was that she kneel before and offer herself to their guidance. Then the dream began to fade away, the colors mixing, blending in a kaleidoscope before blurring into white, then disappearing entirely to black. And then, The Man in Black removed his finger…and she was back.

"What do you think?"

"I…I…I don't…" Her body trembled and shivered, brain empty and full, unable to begin understanding all she had been shown. The clock on the far wall said only a mere thirty seconds had passed; impossible…? "What…I…how…?"

"That's the usual verbal response." The Man said matter-of-factly, pulling his gloves back on. "Although, you are still sitting upright. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and you would have woken up on the floor. It is a lot for some to handle, but I knew your mind is strong enough."

"That, that was a nice…trick, you pulled." She recovered enough to speak. "None of it brings back what I've lost."

"Do not pretend to be so idealistic, Miss Haruhara." The Man's patience was wearing thin. "I will admit the past cannot be undone. But why waste your future investing in certain, bitter failure? That is where your current trajectory is taking you, you know. Atomsk will slip ever farther from your grasp and into ours. Even with his power controlled, you cannot hope to stand when the full might of The Red Star of The Solar Federation is leveled against you. Remember, I gave you just a sample. We possess monsters even I fear."

"So what? If I can't beat you, join you?"

"And maintain some of your dignity along the way, while you still have some left. Come around on your own terms with your head held high; rather than stooped as you beg for scraps. I ask for very little, and offer so much. It is for you to decide. Know that I only extend this offer once. Take some time to think it over. I will find you when you have arrived at an answer."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will be reunited with those you have lost, and mourn for, wherever they have wandered off to. But, I suspect you already knew that." The Man made ready to leave and they both stood.

"Well, this has been a complete waste of time."

"Not at all. It was my pleasure. Oh, and as a parting gift." The Man looked at her grease and oil spattered clothes, and the still clear words of: Osceola Mills, PA. "You would be well reasoned to vacate Osceola Mills. Proximity to it may prove hazardous to your health. In the meantime, take care Miss Haruhara. We'll be seeing each other again soon."

. . .

The Central Pennsylvanian State Police Barracks was host to wild speculations on the latest news. Already it had been given a morbid moniker, dubbed: The McDonald's Massacre. Office sections were tuned to their radios and were contacting friends in other departments for inside information. What they were hearing did not dispel any rumors, but merely added to them and a growing list of questions.

"Heeyyy…didn't one've Kauffman's brothers get kicked out of McDonald's yesterday?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah! My neighbor's niece's, cousin works as fry-bitch there. Said, which Kauffman was it?" The Patrolman snapped his fingers to stimulate his memory. "Clyde! Of course. Clyde raised some kind of a scene and the manager bounced him. You don't…you're not suggesting HE did this?"

"It's a possibility." The other officer shrugged. "Think we should, you know, say something?"

"Look, Cole's well, the Kauffman family really, are in really tight with The Man in Black. I don't wanna be the one ratting on a Kauffman, and get my brain Ironed for my trouble. A mindless slave, a prole, me? 'Cause I blabbed? Fuh-get-a-bow-dit!"

"I see your point. Still, we should at least let Cole know sooner, rather than later, and from us than from someone else."

"Then you can be brave, and you can call him."

"Kauffman speaking." Cole answered his personal device. "I'm on patrol, so make this brief."

"Kauffman, its Terry. Have you been listening to P.P.D. dispatch at all?"

"No. Why? What's happened?"

"There's…" Officer Terry chose his words carefully. "…Been an, incident, at the McDonalds."

"What kind of incident?"

"Mass poisoning they're saying. Something in the soda fountain. We just thought the optics looked bad, after Clyde, well, you know."

"Mass poisoning, in the soda…oh fuck No HE DID NOT!" Cole's voice rose from confused muttering to rage as he came to the inevitable conclusion. BANG! Officer Terry flinched as Cole punched the roof of his cruiser. "I specifically told him not to…that slobby, fat piece of…grrrrnnngghh-aaaaaahhhgg! Whooo…okay…okay…oh…kay. Terry. Thank you for the call. I'll look into it. See you both back at the station." Cole hung up and Officer Terry said the conversation had gone better than expected.

"But what did he mean by he told him not to? Does…" The other officer pondered Cole's words. "Does that mean Clyde did poison those people?"

"Hey, Cole said he'll look into it. It he's taken interest, I'm staying the hell outta the way; and so should you. Once he's locked into something, nothing gets in Cole's way."

"I know he's a control-freak, but his own brother? Family loyalty has limits. I mean, seven kids, for…why? Clyde had a bitch-fit?"

"What if…what if, it was planned, part of the setup for What is To Come? You know, something from The Man?"

"Oh…well, now that's…hmmm. You've got me in a bind with that one." The officer fiddled with one of her earrings in thought. "I guess then it would be a matter of Ends and Means, wouldn't it? If this really was a setup for later, then it'd be a damn good way to scare the people."

"The good ole False Flag, strikes again? It's worked well enough before."

"Exactly! All the arsons a few weeks ago, the tanker explosions, the derailed train? Now poisonings and a mass attack? If it really is all part of The Man's plan, he's really thought it out quite well. I wonder how we get involved though."

"We don't have a fleet of M.R.A.P. and Bearcat trucks, all those fine toys from the Department of Homeland Security, and our handy list of domestic terrorists, just for shits and giggles. What's the point if we're never gonna use them?"

. . .

"Yo, who's this?"

"Kauffman."

"Which one man? There's like, seven of you."

"Take a wild, fuckin' guess."

"…Carl?"

"Idiot. It's COLE, you miscegenated mouth-breather!"

"Damn, I'm sorry! Shitty phone, y'all sound alike on it. What's going on? We've never been called up for stuff."

"Clyde has disobeyed direct orders, from me. Get the others, go to his trailer, and DO NOT let him leave. Tie him to his couch if you must."

"Holy shit, what'd he do? No, nah, I don't wanna know. Okay, we can do that, no prob'. You gonna send someone over, or what?"

"I'll be there myself. I will not allow insubordination. Clyde seems to have forgotten I am the one in charge of my family, and after today, he'll never forget."

"Hey, you don't pay us to be creative. We do as told, as paid. How long you gonna be?"

"About an hour until I'm done."

"Cool. See you then." The hired henchman closed the call after Cole's dismissal, then dialed for the other remaining five. Conwell had seemingly dropped off the radar a few days prior; all calls were going to voicemail. He figured Conwell had become a loose end, been cut off and promptly rolled up. Not his problem. "Hey, it's me. Head to Clyde's. His cop brother sounds like he's bringing a major beatdown on Lardo; don't wanna miss out. Huh? 'Bout an hour he said. Yes, now, you sleepy fuck. Hasta pronto, dumbass. Yeah, fuck you too, and see you there."

. . .

*Tac! Tac! Tac!* Tommy knocked on Clyde's tin door. Nothin'. *Tac! Tac! Tac!* C'mon man, we know you're home. Don't make this harder than it already is gonna be; for both of us. *BANG-BANG-BANG!* Now Tommy kicked the door's corner with a steel toe.

"WHAT?!" Clyde erupted from inside. Damn it all, I know you're stressed out, but Gee-zuss! "Who is it, and the fuck do you want?!" Tommy looked at me, time to make something up.

"Hehm-hem…Hey brah, it's like, UPS mah doood." I dropped down about three octaves and set the tone to a blend of 'Grateful Dead concert' and 'toolish frat-broski'. Nothing against UPS, mind. I just figured Clyde would react better to some harmless sounding stoner. "Got this box for yah."

"I…I didn't order anything."

"Look, your royal dude-li-ness, it says I gotta have someone sign for it. It…uh, is there a cat named Jack Smith livin' here?"

"…One second." Gotcha. The bolt drew back, the door creaked open and for a moment Clyde's eyes narrowed. We were far and away who he expected to see on his porch. In my pocket, I pressed RECORD on my phone's screen. We were live and rolling.

"Hi Clyde!" Tommy greeted while jamming his foot in the door. "Mind if we have a quick chat? It's very important, but won't take long. A contradiction that may seem, but I assure you, well worth your time."

"Huh? What the hell…?" Clyde, his eyes gone from narrowed to fully angry, didn't know what to say; at first. He figured something out quick though. "N-no! No you can't, and get the fuck off my porch!"

"It's about Craig." Tommy held out a piece of irresistible bait.

"Craig?" Clyde's tone turned, from outright angry to suspicious; but open to more. "What about him?"

"Let us have a sit down talk, and we'll tell you." The gears in Clyde's head turned as his facial features wiggled, frowned and furrowed as he thought. Craig, having been gone for almost two weeks now, surely weighed heavily on his brother's minds.

"…Fine. Make it fast." And we were invited in. Seated at the couch and Clyde at his computer chair, Tommy set up his laptop on the coffee table. "What's this? A frickin' Powerpoint?"

"Yes, Clyde." Tommy explained. "This'll only take a moment." He brought up the first slide; titled 'Means, Motive, and Opportunity'. "As you requested, we'll make this fast. You ready?"

"OH SURE…" Clyde's eyes rolled back to white in annoyance. "WHY NOT?"

"Oke-ah-doke. Means, Motive, and Opportunity. It's what detectives look for when investigating crimes, and preparing a case for the District Attorney. We'll start with your Motive." Tommy had reverted back to his accountant days from college, and experiences from his time in the I.I.B. Not only was he going to prove what Clyde had done, but he was gonna do it with bullet-points, charts, graphs, and data; a line-by-line indictment.

"Starting six months ago, and over the course of the year prior to that date, you and your six brothers, Cole, Carl, Caleb, Craig, Chris, and Cody, were all fired from your places of employment under poor terms. Since then, your former employers have been experiencing a sabotage campaign that would make The Weather Underground proud." He flicked through slides, showing newspaper clippings. 'Sabotage at Solomon's?' 'Dahl-Destruction?' 'Chartier's Chaos!' On a side note, maybe we should encourage Kamon Nandaba to take a position at the Philipsburg Journal instead, and see if he could get them to lay off the hyperbole. "As all of you were fired, and given a demonstrated and documented family history for violent behavior spanning decades, and that all business have been affected, this is easily seen as a case of former employee revenge."

"You say that." Clyde didn't sound impressed thus far. "You got no proof though."

"Don't you worry none. The Kauffman Brothers can't take all the credit either, you've had some outside help. But we'll come back to that."

"Outside help?" A small muscle in Clyde's neck twitched. Marked.

"Moving on." Next slide. "Now, Opportunity. Also obvious. With your combined knowledge of these mines and sites, their layouts and day to day operations, where, what, and who to strike would be simple to decide for you and yours." The slides ticked by, showing employee biographies of each Kauffman from their employer's records; name, age, position, date of hire and fire, performance reports, reasons for termination. Tommy must have requested these back in June. "Again, with your outside help, funding and materiel support were easy to acquire; especially for you. The poisonings at all these mines and fields all had one thing in common. They tracked the source back to the kitchens, to the food specifically." Now medical reports Tommy had begged, borrowed or stolen. "Foreign substance, stomach. Foreign substance, gastrointestinal tract. Toxic substance, upper intestine, lower intestine. You were a cook in Mister Pike's mess hall, were you not?"

"So I was!" Clyde spat and his neck twitched again. Marked. "Again, so what? This is all coincidence."

"So it would seem. Then why, why-oh-why, do you have all this literature on that computer behind you? Herbology, toxicology, wild edibles, human anatomy and physiology, hydroponics, indoor gardening…you're a regular Renaissance Man."

"How…what…you?!" Lost for words, Clyde was turning apoplectic purple at the violation of his privacy. "On, m-m-my-MY! Computer?! You broke into my computer?!" He bellowed before stopping himself.

"Ahhh…so you admit it; all that is on your computer." Tommy now smiled. "I think you'll recognize these too?" Not allowing Clyde to answer, Tommy now shared Clyde's collection of mine and barracks diagrams, the layout of water, shower, and air ventilation systems. "Oddly suspicious for a cook to have on his computer, wouldn't you say?"

"I've had enough!" Clyde hauled himself to full height. "Get the fuck out! Right now! Get the fuck out right now, 'cause I'm calling Cole, and both've you are going to Pound-in-the-Ass Prison for stealing shit off my computer!"

"It wasn't stolen, it was pirated. A copy of everything on your computer was made, nothing was removed." I could not resist correcting him. What? If you're gonna threaten people, do it with the proper terminology, or not at all. Otherwise you look incompetent. "Stealing it would mean the data is no longer on your machine. This was copied, thus pirated. Imagine if I stole your car, but in the morning, it's still sitting in your driveway, while I'm doing doughnuts with it in the mall parkin' lot."

"Get fucked Jeff."

"Know any hot, single females within five miles you could recommend?"

"Rig, please." Tommy sought to bring us back around.

"Whatever! I'm calling now, better run bitches."

"That would not be wise." Clyde's hand stopped short of his pocket at Tommy's warning.

"Oh yeah, why?" Clyde stared us down. He was proving an interesting character now that I had interacted with him for a new life-time record time. He started off brash like he was trying to be Craig, would wither under pressure, explode again, wither, and now was gaining steam again. My guess was he couldn't figure us out. We weren't easily bullied like Conwell had been. Yet, we weren't screaming and raging at him, yet, either. So he didn't know if he should intimidate us away, or play soft and beg for mercy. Sometimes the best thing you can do to frustrate your enemy, is nothing at all.

"First, if my crystal ball is working properly, and it usually is, Cole is already on his way here." Oh yeah, forgot about that for a minute. No sooner had he said that, Clyde's neighbor pulled out of their driveway and nearly gave me a heart attack. "Especially after that stunt you pulled at McDonalds."

"What about McDonalds? I wasn't there, you're still blowing smoke; you can't prove shit."

"Yes we can, and we will." Tommy nodded to me and I dropped the Polaroids taken by Naota; making sure the one with Clyde in Rick's car was on top. "Unless that's your Doppelganger, you've got no support or help coming from Cole. Your brother is a tyrannical, Jack-booted fascist of Il Duce magnitude, but even he has a limit; and you've blown right past it."

"W-wha…h-how?!" Clyde picked up the polaroids with shaking fingers flipping through them in horror. That apoplectic purple was draining away into a petrified pallor of pale. (Say that five times fast.) "Have you been following me? How long?"

"We haven't been following you." I said, getting a crawling feeling of Déjà vu. "But, friends, very talented friends, of ours have. And how long? Too long, I'd say."

"Whaddyah want from me then, why're you here?" He snapped, eyes flitting from window to window. Did he expect to see Humphrey Bogart's ghost peering between the blinds? "And still, whatever you think I've done, I don't see proof. Where's your evidence? Oh, that's right, none of this is admissible in court anyway. So take your slideshow and shove it up your ass." Motherfucker, we just gave more proof than your chili-cheese brain can hope to…gggrrrraaahh….okay, okay. I'm cool. 'Where's your evidence?' is such a bullshit phrase, it just drives me up the wall.

"Admissible in court. Heh, that's good." Tommy and I had a mutual, knowing, and joyless, laugh.

"So goddamn funny?"

"You will be tried in court, if you cooperate or not; as surely as my name is Thomas Raymond Carson. "An official court if you knock the bullshit off. But if you insist on giving us a hard time…" Tommy made his threat. "You will be tried, and found desperately wanting, in The Court of Public Opinion. You see, all of this information and then some, is loaded into an email. You keep screwing with us, bitching about 'evidence', I whip out my phone and hit SEND. Within ten minutes, about three thousand, pipe-swinging, kneecapping and curb-stomping, bad motherfuckers will have all of it, AND your picture, your address, your car make, year and model, and your plate number. All I'll have to do is read about it in the Journal's obituary. Local man found butchered six ways to Sunday, and then a seventh time in case he thought they were sorry, his remains dumped outside Kenny Dalhgren's Funeral Home. Autopsy reveals extensive trauma and torture before death. Investigation found snuff and child pornography on his home computer…"

"WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!" Clyde exploded with indignation, veins pulsing across his face, up and down his neck; even his eyes popped. If he wasn't careful, he was gonna have an aneurysm. "How, just where in the FUCK do you get off with that?! I NEVER…" There goes that twitch again. Be glad you don't have to make a living at poker Clyde, 'cause you really suck at this. "Just what evidence do you have?" Whoops. Yah done it now. Just like a Basic-Berkeley-College-Bitch, I'm fucking triggered. God, I hate the word triggered, too. Double-triggered!

"Bull-fucking-shit! Did you not hear me when I said a copy of everything was made from your computer?!" I shouted Clyde down. I'd been tracking time and we were about ten minutes in. Cole would be there in, theoretically, fifty minutes if he was coming from the far end of Black Moshannon where he usually prowled; and we needed to have been long gone by then. "We've been watching your every move on that thing. I know your Facebook login, your email passwords, your Steam account, your bank account information, even your porn subscriptions. I have read everything you have typed, screened, watched, played, uploaded, downloaded, for the past six months. The most offensive by far, has to be a double-header. First you got that Oni Chi-Chi hentai anime of some middle schooler girl gettin' pooned up her ass, and then, a snuff film! A goddamn SNUFF film, where these two Romanian kids beat with a baseball bat, to death, two Hungarian kids, in someone's basement; while a crowd of sick fucks like you, stand around with their dicks in their hands and watch! We have got you nailed so goddamn bad, Clyde's in alternate realities are cringing at how badly you've fucked up. So can we please, pretty fuckin' please, dispense with the bullshit now?!"

"Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick…" In my peripheral, Tommy's eyes were moon-wide. "Yeah Clyde, what Rig said. Ditto, fuck me…"

"C-c'mon Carson…you, wouldn't really tell people that, would you? Cole's told me what other prisoners do to guys locked up for sex crimes…"

"Don't try to pretend you're all sad about it all of a sudden. I've seen your downloads and search history. This wasn't a pop-up you accidentally clicked on. You hunted this shit down."

"Fuck…" Out of steam, a winded Clyde collapsed into his chair. A slight wheeze rattled from him as he tried to calm down. "Okay, before I say anything. I want…"

"Yeah, gonna stop you riiiight there." Tommy interrupted. "You're in no position to make demands. Shit Crik doesn't even cover it. Either you tell us, in detail, how you've pulled the poisonings off, or we'll hand you over to the victim's friends and tear this place apart from stem to stern in the meantime. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be lowered foot first into a rock crusher set to slow? I bet there are some miners of Mister Voyze's that'd love a volunteer to find out."

"Clyde, right now Tommy and I are your only chance. We already have more than enough to bring before a judge; people've gone to The Chair for less. And for your stunt at McDonalds, I know Cole is gonna throw you under the bus. If you help us, we help you."

"Ah shit Carson, I don't know…" He shifted in his chair and tried to make up his mind. He'd better do it quick. I think he was really stalling for time and hoping that Cole would show up and save him. "L-look, how about…"

"Last time, for the last, goddamn time." Tommy's voice dropped an octave. His patience, and our time, was running out. "We are being unreasonably generous. Clyde, you've killed people. You've killed husbands, fathers. You've killed children, Clyde. You, killed children, because you got your ego hurt in front of perfect strangers; and framed an innocent man for it." As Tommy talked, a look of revulsion came over Clyde, as if he was only beginning to understand what tragedy he had caused.

"No, see, you've got it wrong…"

"What?! What part do we have wrong?! Riddle it to me, use small words!"

"You, you don't understand! I…"

"Know what Clyde, you're right. I don't understand. I don't understand how someone could murder people and seven children because they got their ass handed to them by a McDonalds manager, I don't understand how someone could poison scores of people, I don't understand how someone could listen to the fairy tales conjured up by an alien charlatan in a cheap suit, and sell his soul, his planet, and his entire species, for thirty pieces of silver." Now Clyde knew, if there was any remaining doubt, he was totally and utterly screwed. We knew about the 'outside influence'…The Man in Black.

"I'm sure Conwell would be able to explain it all if he were here…" I added and the deer with headlights bearing down on him, turned to me. "Well, if he were here and you weren't too busy calling him your 'Butt-Boy'. Spare me, I've heard the audio."

"And I'd call Conwell a sick, murdering bastard too, if he were here. I ain't discrimatory, I hate all of you traitors equally." Tommy glared daggers at Clyde. "If you'd used anything else, anything but Jack-in-The-Pulpit…" The deer's eyes grew ever larger as the headlights closed in. "What was it at McDonalds? Belladonna? Foxglove? Suicide Tree, any ringin' any bells? I'd have thought you'd go for Exlax since you're so familiar with its effects…"

"F-fuck you, fuck you both…" Clyde whimpered as Tommy slammed his verbal knife where it hurt the worst. "You really don't get it! All my life, it's been the same, every damn day. Oh look, there goes Krispy-Kreme-Kauffman! Hey, it's Chubby-Chins-Clyde! The guys used me as their punching bag, jokes and all. Oh, let's whale on Clyde, he can't feel it; 'cause he's all fat! Let's ask him the last time he saw his dick, in front of all the girls, yeah, that'll be a fuckin' hoot! The girls think he's some kind of freak anyway, so who cares? No one is gonna stick up for fat, stupid Clyde, not after the Exlax!" That verbal knife Tommy had stuck into Clyde, had hit an emotional jugular. The anger and utter sadness bled from Clyde in a gushing fountain. He probably had never talked to anyone about any of this, so what felt like years' worth of bile, just poured. Hell, he got himself so worked up he started ranting and raving against what sounded like every human being he'd ever had contact with; even in passing. The combination of stress, fear, anger, hate, depression…just, wow. Damn it was ugly to watch. For the first few minutes, at least, Tommy and I just sat there. I mean, what do you do when someone just, dissolves? None of it helped me feel any measure of sorry for him. A torrent of 'woe is me' and all the horror stories of his childhood, weren't going to magic the dead back to life. If anything, it just pissed me off.

"Hey, HEY…HEY!"
"WHUT?!"

"Will you jest fockin' quit?! Quit fuckin' crying, you sorry sack of shit. Where the hell's any piece of your pride, your spine? Don't you have any, any at all? Act like an adult for one goddamn minute, fer Cripe's sake!"

"Shhut, uup!"

"Oh, fuck you. C'mon Tommy, let's leave him for Cole; my blood pressure ain't got the ceiling for this crap."

"Clyde. Clyde…" Tommy stood next to a hunched over, whistling as he breathed, wreck. "Clyde, look, look... look at me. Is this helping you, any way at all?"

"No…?"

"Then stop. You have two options. Go out as a snot-dripping, whiny disgrace; which you're doing a bang-up job of…or with some measure of dignity. Pick one." Finally able to calm down, Clyde took several deep, shuddering breaths, and decided.

"You win. God fucking damn, you win. Here…follow me."

. . .

"Okay…where haven't I looked?" Naota had one of the truck's maps open and it showed a view of Philipsburg spread across the steering wheel. He had worked his way through town and down to the mall. Now he sat frustrated in the parking lot outside Peebles department store. "Rig said people who are lost or wandering follow the terrain, and the path of least of resistance. I'm near the bottom of the valley, I should've seen her by now. Maybe she really did go home?" Since that was the remaining logical place, he started the truck. Back in Philipsburg proper he headed, passing the town's sentinel: an M4 Sherman; specifically an M4A3E8 Sherman, as Rig dutifully informed him whenever they passed by. Rig had problems remembering who he had told which stories to.

"Why am I bothering?" He wondered aloud, turning right onto Locust Street. A double-check of the train tracks and the banks of the Red Moshannon river couldn't hurt. "She's hasn't gone out of her way to show any kind of change or improvement. Still as shiftless, arrogant, stubborn, and selfish as ever…so why am I wasting my time and gas looking for her? I could be at the shop, eating lunch, the hell am I doing? Forget her being a no-return investment, she's a net loss."

'It couldn't be, because you like her, could it?' The annoying little voice in the back of his head sidled up to throw him curve-balls.

'No, we've been over this.' And he was arguing with himself, again.

'No?' The little voice nagged at him. 'Are you sure? Or maybe…oh no, that's not proper, is it?'

'Good Christ, what now?'

'You may say you don't like her, but c'mon. You've thought about screwing her at least once…right? Or are you gonna lie to yourself?'

'I…whoa. What? No, no! That's…'

'I'll bet she does it like a weasel!'

'Now hang on, hang on! That's Gramps talking about Samejima…how is that remotely relevant?'

'It's the same difference. But hey, just level with yourself; admit to reality. Quite lyin' to yourself, it's not healthy. You're a guy, don't feel bad about what's perfectly natural. You've got needs, right? You notice things, physical things, right? You've got needs, and you've noticed Haruko's got those long, slender legs, that tight ass, and a set of nice, firm tits…and what's wrong with that? Not a damn thing, that's what.'

'Look, I gotta drive alright?'

'And she's always such a bad girl too.'

"What am I doing?!" He shook his head, rattling that little voice back from whence it had come. "It's thoughts like this that get me in troub-OH SHIT." Head finally cleared, a figure wandered in front of the truck. Cr-ANG! The truck shuddered as all the tools in its boxes slid forward at his sudden stop. "Hey! Space Cadet! What's the big idea?! Got a death wish or something?!"

"You had the chance to run me over, and you didn't take it." Haruko, still in the middle of the road, glumly looked his way. "I don't know if I should be relieved, or disappointed."

"Well I'm relieved. Where have you been?"

"Eh. What do you care?" Something was off, wrong. Her body seemed to have withered onto itself, hunching at the shoulders so her form assumed a wilting posture. Hair normally electric with energy hung flat and bright eyes were downcast. She had seen, heard, or done, something that had really shaken her up. There was no way to tell if this was another of her acts, or something warranting concern.

"How do you expect me to answer that? 'Oh, I was worried sick about you'? Or perhaps 'I don't care, that's what.' I'm not some love-struck puppy, and I'm not a psycho; so what do you expect me to say?"

"You're crabby today." She shuffled off the center-line to stand next to his door, letting another car pass. Now they talked through his window.

"And you have a short memory if my crabbiness is a surprise."

"Look, I don't wanna talk about it. I've got enough shit on my mind as is."

"Sure. Sure, just avoid responsibility, just like you do with everything else in your life."

"Ohhh…shut up."

"That's the best you can do? Really? I think you're slipping, retire now while you're still on top."

"So this's what our relationship's come to. Arguing in traffic." She slid her forlorn gaze anywhere but at him, watching the growing grey of the oncoming thunderstorm. Already the breeze was picking up.

"Relationship? From you, that's uniquely delusional."

"Here I was thinking you said you loved me, once upon a time?"

"Uhhgghh…you're really gonna bring…okay." He shifted into neutral and turned the truck off. "Lemme 'xplain this to you, and pay attention 'cause I'm only saying this once. A relationship, is a two-way street, a two-person team training for an event. Both persons have different skills and abilities, but both have to contribute equally in their training. Otherwise one person does all the work, resentment builds, and the team falls apart. Even doing just the bare minimum, if that is all you can do, is preferable to doing nothing. Like, just doing your morning push-ups. Well Haruko, in the first few months I knew you, you did a half-assed bare minimum. To your credit, I was twelve and didn't know any better, so you got away with it. But in the four years since 'till today, you haven't done a single push-up; you couldn't even be bothered to get out of bed. And even if you did, I wouldn't want you on my team anyway. So guess what? You're not on the team anymore, you haven't even been benched; I've thrown you, and all your shit ,out of the field-house. Four years, and not a single push-up. I may have said I loved you back then, maybe even meant it. But I sure's hell don't now."

"Don't hold back, really let me have it, how you really feel." She couldn't, or wouldn't, look at him. Something across the river must have been fascinating. "I don't get it, why do you want to know, about me? Why did you blow up earlier wanting to know about my past?"

"Because somebody has to call you out and tell you that, yes, indeed, your shit really, truly, does stink. And since the Universe has deemed fit to dump you back into my life, it seems that somebody is me."

"That so? Keep up the great work. You're doing such a wonderful job."

"Yeah, screw you too…" Both couldn't look at the other now. She kept watch on the opposite riverbank, while he stared aimlessly down the road. Plip! A teaspoon's worth of rain splashed on the windshield. The edge of the storm was not far off. "Look, it's gonna rain soon, and hard. I know all your stuff's back at the house, and its three miles as the crow flies. So if you want to get all butt-hurt and leave, again, fine. I won't stop you. If you don't want to walk back in the rain, I will drive you back."

"But, there's a 'but' there."

"But, by getting in this truck, you are admitting that you're sorry, I am right, and you are wrong."

"You've got the weirdest kinks. Any other fetishes you wanna tell me about?"

"Is it too much to ask for just once, just one time, that you show some humility? It won't kill you, trust me. I'm not asking you to say anything, no audio or video of you saying 'I'm sorry.' All you have to do is get in. Or walk home, or wherever you'll go this time, in the rain."

"Naota…come on. What's with bustin' my balls like this, huh? It's no way to treat a lady."

"Lady. That's funny." He started the truck and put the gear lever in first, the transmission clunked as it dropped into place. "Either start walkin', or get your ass in the truck."

Without a word, and only a deep sigh, she glared at him and hoisted her guitar up her shoulder. Another deep sigh and she mumbled something to herself. He tapped the gas in a subtle reminder of 'sometime today'. Incredibly, he wished he had a camera rolling, she walked around the front of the truck, opened her door, and after sitting, pulled it meekly closed. All in fuming silence and she refused to look his way; still watching across the river.

"Put your seatbelt on. I don't need you flying through the windshield if we get brake-checked." She clipped in. Satisfied with what he felt to be a tremendous, Earth-axis altering victory, Naota allowed himself a small smile. Over the Red Moshannon bridge he drove them, and down into Chester Hill. He knew this could be yet another performance of hers. But hey, she'd gotten in the truck, hadn't she? And with no major screaming, yelling, emotional trauma, property damage…and that had to count for something.

. . .

Clyde lead us to the hall closet. A bag of potting soil rested against the door, holding the old veneer door in place. He stooped and dug into the bag, pulling out a Ziploc-bagged remote. Very smart of him. No thief would have ever thought of looking in a bag of potting soil. He then opened the closet, aimed the remote, and the back wall of the closet rotated to reveal a hidden set of dark steps.

"You've got a basement down there?!" I had to ask. Being upfront with y'all, this was pretty cool. Clyde may've been as emotionally screwed up as they come, but damn if he wasn't clever.

"The guy who lived here before me was a Y2K nut." Clyde explained, flicking on the bare bulbs and starting down the stairs. "There's actually a lot of people in trailers that have basements dug; maximize their space. Anyway, this guy outfitted his basement as a makeshift bunker."

The 'bunker' was a concreted and brightly lit room almost as large as the trailer above. Certainly designed as a poor man's shelter from Y2K missile launches, it boasted a running ventilation system, racks along the wall to store food and supplies that were now stocked with Clyde's tools of his trade, and a small generator purring in the corner. What the generator was running, however comma, was more impressive. The basement had been turned into a subterranean greenhouse.

A row of raised planting beds, waist high, covered in foot-deep troughs, were obscured with plants. Above them propane fired heat lamps flickered and hummed, while other plants were fed under the buzzing glow of UV lights. I recognized several right away; first the Jack-in-The-Pulpit with cherry tomato berries and all. Potted Suicide Tree, rhododendrons clipped and cut to keep their size manageable, Mountain Laurel, Death Cap mushrooms in a dark corner, a terrarium of Belladonna, and one I could not name offhand, but if I had to guess, I'd have said Water Hemlock. But the known bad actors were all there.

"To be perfectly honest, I am very impressed." Tommy admitted and I agreed. He was browsing Clyde's hard copy versions of books and guides on a workbench. "You seem to have a talent for this sort of thing, shame you've wasted it. Why plants though?"

"Uh, thanks? It's well, something I don't suck at. I can do it myself, let's me test and breed different strains to make better, stronger ones, make them with certain characteristics."

"It gives you a feeling of control, working with the plants." I said.

"Yeah, pretty much." He nodded, looking back and forth at us. "Soooo…now what? You know about all this. Now what?"

"A few more questions before leaving." Tommy started. "That one in the corner. That's Water Hemlock, isn't it?" Clyde nodded it was. "Is that what you used at McDonald's?" Again, Clyde nodded. "See? That was easy, not so bad eh? Alright, next one. How do you get all of this in here, out there, without being seen, or interacting with your helpers?"

"Mail. Seeds, crushed or powdered roots, leaves, and stems all fit nicely in envelopes. I put them in sealed ziplocs, add in a typed up set of instructions, step-by-step, and throw them in the mailbox. Hardly anyone uses mail anymore, all email and everything, so I didn't think anyone would think to go through my mail. And seeing you jokers didn't figure that out, it seems I was right." Ouch, ooh, my pride. Of freakin' course it'd be the mail. A failure of imagination on our part.

"Why the pseudonyms, the fake names?"

"Would you use your real name if you were ordering shit off the Dark Web and Silk Road? Walmart doesn't have Belladonna in their garden center."

"Touche." Point to Clyde. "Who are the guys you were sending stuff to? They need to answer for what they've done as well."

"Can't tell you anything there, except to piss up a rope. All the letters I sent were to P.O. boxes, no name on the envelope. No idea who owns them. You could try the Post Office, but good luck getting anywhere. Did you know you can set up a P.O. box to automatically forward letters to another address, as soon as they arrive? Those guys, if they're any kind of smart, might have three or four boxes in a chain before it gets to them. And there's a reason I've never met them in person. Two reasons, actually." Did he mean us? I think he meant us. Or is it just my paranoia? My tin-foil hat too tight again?

"I didn't know that." Tommy and I both took a mental note about the P.O. boxes. In this modern age, with our fascination on blocking electronic warfare attacks, key encryption and scrambled satellite transmissions, it's easy to forget about simpler analog methods. Think smart, not hard. "The outside influence I mentioned. We call him a 'Man in Black'. What can you tell us about him?"

"Same here, or just 'The Man'. He never gave us a name or anything, so we just address him as 'Sir.' That feels safest. But other than that, not much else to say except he's the real deal. If you've had a talk like this with Craig, I'll bet you know about Medical Mechanica?"

"We're more versed on Medical Mechanica than you could possibly imagine. I've been wondering though, what did The Man tell you when you first met; his orders, plans?"

"That's not fair, I can't tell you about orders and plans."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't tell me, or anyone else, any more than exactly what they need to know. The Man has compartmentalization down to an art form."

"Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all only helps you later on."

"This's just what I've heard, from around, you know? Obviously I'm not the end, by far. The Man's got it all figured out." Clyde puffed up as he talked, proud of his affiliation with such a powerful ally. "A script and everything; Clearfield and Centre counties are to be ground zero."

"A script. That's unique. What did The Man tell you about what he wants?"

"Don't be stupid Carson!" Clyde managed a small smile. "It's everything, the world."

"You…can't be serious?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Was there something The Man showed you? How do you know he isn't bullshitting you?" This was something I had failed to ask Craig, and it had been burning a hole in my brain ever since. "Or did you sell out for a fistful of dollars?"

"Now, that is a good question…" A strange glaze shone over his eyes and his face slackened into a dreamy stare at the memory. "Everything in your wildest imagination. I've seen mountain peaks dwarfing Everest, valleys deeper than our oceans, I've seen the edge of the known Galaxy, the riches and power awaiting within its borders, and beyond; the beginning of the uncharted Universe…and all of it could be ours. All we have to do is follow The Red Star."

"Uh…huh…" I shared a 'what kind of Jonestown Punch has he been drinking?' glance. Stories and rumors of Men in Black and their ability to bring others into their fold, are a dime a dozen, but this was a good one. "Did he promise that to everyone? I hope he brought enough Universe to share with the class."

"No, to each their own, mostly power or money, that sort of thing. Protection, safety, immunity too."

"Immunity from what?"

"Remember what I said, how this's a setup? Cole and The Man have been all buddy-buddy lately. They're working on something law related. There's even a rumor going around the police, about contracting some extra help. You know, Private Military types. The Sheriff's department could even deputize whoever's brought in to give them more legal authority. That means, if I were you, I would think seriously about permanently skipping town."

"Funny you should mention skipping town." It was time to let Clyde know what had happened to Craig; and give him an idea of what lay in store for him. "I remember saying the exact same thing to Craig; right before I saw him off."

"What did you do to Craig?! Is he okay?! I swear to God, if you bastards did anything to him, I'm…gonna…" Clyde's teeth clacked together as there began a pounding on the front door. My watch told me we should've had another forty minutes before Cole rolled up. Whoever it was, they were banging on the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Then there was a loud bang, and a thud, as someone kicked the door in and it swung off the wall. Next followed what sounded like six pairs of feet, stomping right above our heads.

. . .

Even with his lights and sirens on, getting back to Philipsburg was taking Cole far too long for his liking. A passing freight train miles long had him stopped and cursing the rolling stock. At last, the final car passed and the crossing arms came up. Across the tracks and alongside the road, stood a familiar figure; smiling at him.

"Morning, Sir." Cole pulled over and rolled down his passenger window. "What are you doing this far out?"

"Looking for you, of course." The Man in Black explained. "Would you be willing to give me a ride back to town?"

"Of course." Cole unlocked the door, allowing The Man to be settled before racing off again. "You said you were looking for me? May I ask why?"

"Of course, you may ask." The Man smiled, leaving Cole on tenterhooks.

"…Why were you looking for me?"

"It's about one of your brothers."

"Which one?"

"I think you know of which one I speak."

. . .


Evenin' to y'all! First, I must say I missed you, and it's good to be back. Although I had three months, I actually wrote 90% of this chapter, and ALL of Chapter 14, over the past weekend. It's real easy when you put your mind to it, the weather outside is grey and an ongoing 100% humidity (raining haha), you have a freshly opened can of Colombian coffee, and nothing else to do.

My grovelling apologies aside, I am glad I chained myself to my desk and got to writing. Things are getting sporty, and I think we've finally achieved escape velocity from the original version. I've been thinking and day dreaming about what I want to do in different parts of this story down the line, and now I'm where they start coming alive! Ahhhh! So much fun!

You will notice the meeting with Clyde has been substantially different from last time. While I still am a fan of 'Pulp Fiction', shoehorning in that scene was my attempt to cram five pounds of shit into a two pound sack. With everyone having received a make-over, this fits much better with everyone involved, and let's hope Rig and Tommy make it to the other side in one relatively unscathed piece.

The Man in Black is actually one of my top favorite characters to write. He's such an international, no, universal, man of mystery. But I had realized it had never been established WHAT it was that had gotten the City Government and the Cops to throw their lot in with Medical Mechanica...unless y'all were just suspending belief with that, and I needn't have bothered? Oh well, I like the idea of him 'showing the universe' and the whole 'everything The Red Star touches can be yours.'

Speaking of TMIB, it seems they might be victims of their own success, if The Head's fears are true. If anyone is guilty of being certified members of The Tin-Foil Hat Society in this tale, as much as Rig assumes it's surely him, The Priests certainly take the cake. Alex Jones is a piker cowering in their shadow.

We also got to meet Cole...I bet he's a real hoot at parties. 'Course, the parties he'd be interested in typically require you to shave your head and walk around like your knees are locked...not my kinda people, but it works for him I guess. The good Lieutenant Mana Kitsurubami, and her ever vigilant Commander Amarao have made their debut too, and they've been busy the past four years! Mana, I already like. Something about smart girls with an affinity for rifles...mmmmhhhmmm...Ahem. I suspect we shall see them again much more, and soon too.

So that's all, a lot but all. So hustle yer buns on over to the next chapter! It's right there, go on, yah know yah wanna. If you can spare the time for a review, feel free! Thanks again for being such stewards of patience, and thank you for reading!