Yo! You're back for another round eh? Knew you couldn't stay away. Don't worry friend, don' you worry none. I got just what you need. One big ole FLCL:TPW chapter comin' riiiight up. Huh? You want it done with a basement brawl? Sure, I'll can add that on. Hold up. A side of songs? A double side of songs? Okay, I'll got some almost done in the fryer. AND you want a 'come to Jesus moment' for topping?! What do you think this is, Le Meurice of Paris?! Ah'm kiddin' with yah. So that's: one FLCL chapter with a basement brawl side, a double-song basket, and a 'come to Jesus' moment on top. Food's ready, order up!


. . .

We'd run out of time. Clyde's henchmen, hoods, lackeys, winged monkeys, whatever-yah-call-em, had shown up, and Tommy and I were stuck in the basement. Can you say: FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK me?

"Yoooo-hooo…Clyde!" One called, the footsteps beginning to disperse into the trailer. "Clydie-Clyde-Clyde!"

"Where are yooouuu…"

"Hey! Check it out mang. Clyde's got himself a secret room here. You down there?" I glanced over at Tommy and was not immensely relieved at what I saw. His eyes had widened to gather as much of the dim light as they could, his jaw had locked tight with canines bared, and his hands had settled on his belt; his right hand at his four o'clock next to the Glock tucked inside his waistband. He caught my gaze and gave his head a small shake. That meant 'No. Stay as you are, wait and see.' To be safe, I took up the same posture and made sure my back was against the wall. That way, none of them could get behind me.

"Whoaaaa…uh, hey guys. What're you doing here, of all places, and times?" Clyde seemed just as surprised and uneasy as we did with his new guests. "I thought we agreed never to meet face-to-face?"

"Change of plans." The first one explained as he slouched down the stairs. Six in all, they were a trouble-struck group. The first one, doing most of the talking, played with the clip of a pocketknife on his right side. He'll be Knifeman, and my chief worry. The best way to describe their overall appearance, in clothes, physique, and behavior, would be…meth-y. Meth-ish. Meth-kin. Meth. Lots-ah meth, is what I'm sayin'. Two appeared related, cousins at least, as they had the same jug handle ears and vacant expressions. Henceforth, they'll be known as Tweedle-Dee, and Tweedle-Dum. One with a heavy brow and permanent scowl, skulked in the background. He'll be known as Shady; don't worry, no relation to Slim. At minimum, if my meth description is true, one was a heroin user. The tell-tale tract marks patterned his elbows and fingertips. We'll just call him Junky. Another was indeed a meth user, and stood on the bottom stair, picking the scabs off his sores. Let's dub him Scabs, because by that point, I wasn't feeling creative anymore. So, this was the cobbled together crew Carl, Cole, and Caleb had scraped off some sidewalk. Compared to them, Conwell didn't seem too bad.

"Cole told us to hold you here until he shows up. You're a dead man Tubby; don' know what you did, but Cole's piiissssed."

"Oh, that's really not necessary…" Since Clyde had been mailing out his seeds or plants, this must've been the first time he'd met his helpers in person. He looked as scared as I felt. "How about I just call Cole myself, and get, whatever this is, straightened out?"

"Can…can he do that?" They discussed among themselves. While five debated, Knifeman turned to Tommy and me. "…'The fuck are you?"

"No one of consequence." I replied with a forced smile.

"C'mon…I gotta know."

"Get used to disappointment."

"They're the real reason you guys should be here!" Wh…what. In the actual hell. Clyde?! Did you not hear Tommy and I say 'We are your best chance'? Or do you think you're gonna wriggle outta this?! "Don't you know them, why they're here?!" Now six pairs of eyes were off Clyde, and on us.

"No…that's why I asked Smartass over there." Knifeman's namesake came out of his pocket and aimed it at me. "Who are they? Enlighten us."

"They're Tommy and Jeff Carson." A few eyebrows went up. Either the Carson Family Brand was bigger than we thought, or they'd been cued in to look out for us. "And they're know all about what we've done, stole a bunch of shit off my computer…"

"Pirated." Must I continue to point that out?

"Fuck. You. Jeff. These guys are acting like their some kinda secret cops or something; wannabe F.B.I. or some shit. They know everything about us!" Welp…thanks Clyde. Yah've fucked us. Hope you're happy.

Now there were too many bodies to watch, too many moving hands. Clyde shuffled off to the side, pawing for something on a workbench. He was not a concern for the next few minutes, or moments; depending on how this went. Adrenaline was already doin' its thing and flooding in. Every hammerstroke of my heart pushed against my chest. I could even perceive my eyes widening like Tommy's had, the tension coiling in my muscles, and the singing of blood in my ears. The oddest thing was how clear my mind had gotten. Your brain has a funny way of setting aside stray thoughts when confronted with The Six Merry Clones of Trevor Phillips.

"Clyde, I think you should make that call." Knifeman suggested.

"I can't down here, no reception."

"Then go upstairs, with Rob and Kenny. Nothing funny, and if he tries, beat his face in." Clyde trooped upstairs with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum right behind him. This was going from bad to worse, and would be worse still once that call was made. To stop it, we'd have to fight through four tweekers, get up the stairs, two more that looked like the possessed mad retard-strength (look it up), then get Clyde; assuming he was dumb enough to just stand there, which he was not. Tommy, if there ever was a good time to fight back, it was now…Wait. Wait a second. With Clyde moved, I could see what he'd been rooting around for on the bench. Fungus Identification Kit. Warning: Contains Potassium Hydroxide. That's KOH, and if I remember basic chemistry…that's…LYE!

"What the fuuaaAAACKKKK! AUUUUGGHHHH! IT BURNSS!"

"You sunova-HEEAAAAUUUOOOOGGHHHH…GET IT OFF MEEE!" Two screams broke out, followed by several bodily thuds, stamping of feet, a sharp crack of something hitting a wall, then the front door banged again, all as Clyde made his escape. Then, things got…kinetic.

"RIG! DEFEND YOURSELF!" Tommy gave the only order needed and drew his gun. Because of the tables, and cramped nature of the basement, they could only come at us in pairs. Shady charged Tommy, and Knifeman at me; the other two right behind them. Having drawn first, Tommy fired first. The report of three 0.45 caliber rounds in that basement rendered all of us deaf. What would have sounded like PACK! PACK! PACK! On the range, turned into BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Followed by nothing but painful ringing. Each of those three slugs struck their target: an imaginary circle the size of your fist, right between Shady's nipples. Tommy had loaded his Glock 21 with 230-grain Winchester T-Series +P rounds, each a hollow-pointed, hefty slug that burrowed into Shady's sternum at a slow 'n' steady 900 feet per second. The bullets mushroomed open along the pre-cut lines in their copper jackets, expanding to nearly an inch across. Dragging the crushed sternum shards, half of five ribs, the bullets set off a hydrostatic shock that turned Shady's heart into a jellified mush and blew out both of his lungs. Having dumped all of their kinetic energy into their target, two bullets stopped shy of exiting Shady's back, while the third came to a rest against his spine; destroying all muscle control from the shoulders to the feet. Shady fell without a struggle, landing face-first on the rough concrete, thoroughly dead before he hit the ground.

I had drawn slower, so by the time I fired, it was at point-blank range. Knifeman's blade flickered as the glow of UV lamps reflected off it. He had it in his right hand in a thrusting grip. As it snaked forward, I side-stepped and shoved his right hand aside with my left, and extended my right, pistol, hand forward to mash the muzzle just above his solar plexus. I shoved back to separate us, before he could slip his right arm free of my left hand and disembowel me, and as soon as his body flinched in reaction, I pulled the trigger.

At this range, with the muzzle against Knifeman's body, you would expect the gun's report to be muffled, and you'd be correct…kinda. Some gas did escape between the small gap between the cylinder and barrel; it's the same with any revolver. So there was a small bang, but more of a TAH! Instead of the usual Ka-BLAM! But, all of the burning powder that would have gone out the muzzle still had to go somewhere.

This meant not only did the bullet enter Knifeman's chest, but so did all the burning powder and high-pressure gases behind the bullet. This combination had the same effect as detonating a small explosive in the neighborhood of his heart; as the angle I had fired at was upwards of 45-degrees. The bottom half of his sternum, the ends of six ribs, his left lung, and heart, were instantly destroyed. This slurry of pulverized bits also had to go somewhere, and sloshed down onto Knifeman's diaphragm, leaving behind a wound cavity the size of a cantaloupe. He too was dead before hitting the floor, but his momentum carried his body onto me, and slammed me against the wall. The front sight of my Ruger snagged on the entrance wound it had created, and as I struggled to stay upright, Knifeman's body saw my right wrist twisted, and wrenched my gun from my hand.

Meanwhile, Junky the heroin user, had closed distance to Tommy. The Glock 21 fired with a muffled PAHN! Against Junky's upper left shoulder. The bullet smashed its way through a clavicle, deltoid, and then blew out through the shoulder blade, dragging a baseball sized wad of blood, bone, muscle, and gore with it before shattering itself against a steel support column; the wet and red bits spattered to repaint half the wall. But because of Junky's impact against the gun, it did not cycle properly, and being a semi-automatic, the empty casing stove-piped in the ejection port. While his left arm was useless, in theory because grievously crippling wounds don't apply to addicts, Junky still managed to knock Tommy over and began punching every part of Tommy he could reach; who was busy trying to clear his gun.

As soon as I had extracted myself from under Knifeman, the leprous meth-head Scabs, grabbed me around the waist and tossed, TOSSED, me across the basement. My landing was first on a raised growing bed, and my flailing knocked over several hot lamps and pulled down half the UV lights; throwing the room into a pattern of odd shadows. Oddly, that did not help at all. The growing bed, not built for my weight, collapsed and dumped me onto the floor against a workbench. A bag of ammonium nitrate fertilizer was catapulted off at my introduction to its bench, and it burst open in a billowing cloud of finely powdered dust that hung in the air.

Scabs shoved aside a workbench and leaped for my throat. By now MY knife was out. With a swing of a Kershaw Thermite, a gash opened up his left hand from the bottom corner opposite his thumb, across his palm and all up his index finger to the very tip. Oh dear God, did he scream. All those nerves cut at once, down to the bone…Jesus H. Christ did he scream…even today it makes my skin crawl.

That got Scabs to back off for a moment, just in time for Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum to come stumbling back downstairs to see what all the damn noise was about. Both had gotten a good splash of lye, one across half his face and neck, the other all down an arm and shoulder. Patches of shiny pink and raw skin were contrasted with crusted, pale-white and pus-oozing dead skin, and from across the room I could smell the stench of their wounds, and the chemical fumes.

Tweedle-Dee caught Junky's body, as Tommy threw him off and stooped to pick up his pistol. With the gun still jammed, Tweedle-Dee rushed Tommy, bellowing with both fists raised. Tommy punched with his jammed, but not useless, Glock and connected the muzzle with Tweedle-Dee's throat: crushing his thyroid gland, and collapsing his windpipe with a CR-UNCH! I heard crisply across the room; think of breaking a bundle of uncooked spaghetti in half. Tweedle-Dee's hands clasped his neck as he struggled to breathe and Tommy followed up with another punch, his left fist smashing into Tweedle-Dee's right cheek. Tweedle-Dee dropped one fist to swing a feral left. Tommy blocked it, using his gun to hook and push down the incoming arm, then used the motion to swing his left elbow onto Tweedle-Dee's right jaw; putting a hairline crack in it. Tweedle-Dee stumbled backwards, doubled-over. He made the mistake of standing upright and Tommy planted his left fist again to fracture the jaw. Tweedle-Dee's head snapped back and to the left, his weight resting on his heels. With the butt of his pistol, Tommy clubbed Tweedle-Dee's left jaw and dislocated it entirely. Finishing up he delivered a booted heel to Tweedle-Dee's diaphragm, causing it to begin hemorrhaging, and the force collapsed Tweedle-Dee against the wall in a crumpled ball.

Tweedle-Dum tried his luck with me, but half of the left side of his face was swelling into what resembled a fresh-outta-the-oven baked ham, and that side's eye was nearly swollen over. So, that's the side I went for. My knife I held in my right hand, in a Hammer grip. Keep in mind that trying to stab the face isn't a good idea. Your skull is surprisingly robust, and sticking the blade directly in his eye is million to one odds. Instead, I punched and hit just below his zygomatic arch to avoid shredding my knuckles on that sharp bone. As I pulled my arm back, I slashed down with the blade over his eye and along his face. If I didn't cut the eye directly, the flow of blood would still ensure it blinded.

Next I stepped forward with my left foot to put myself inside the zone he could punch in. Now he would have to either back up to create space, or swing haymakers. Guess which one he proceeded to do? A right haymaker swung towards my temple, and I hurried to block it with my left forearm. His fist missed me, but his forearm still cracked against my ear, pinching it between his arm and my skull, rupturing a small seam near the top; and he made my eyes water too. If my ears weren't ringing before, they sure were now. Blinking out tears, I just managed to avoid a full-face hit to my nose, instead taking it on a glance across my cheek bone; that zygomatic arch. The thin layer of skin over it split wide open and blood began flowing across my face and down my jaw. But to get that hit in, Tweedle-Dum had over-extended his left arm, exposing his armpit. I sank my knife up to the grip, four inches of steel into his armpit, and if the decompressing Whoosh! Was any indicator, punctured his lung in the process. Tweedle-Dee sank slowly with spluttering wheezes, his lips flecked with red as he began drowning in his own blood.

Tommy and Junky had clashed again, and locked together, ran past me and crashed into the wall. Junky landed on the generator, yelping as he put his hands on the heated metal. Shoving himself off, he overturned the generator. While it still ran, fuel began leaking from the now loosened fuel cap. Tommy had hit the wall at full speed and now lay flat on his back, gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him. He was able to clear his pistol and chambered a new round before Junky stood up. With Junky leaning over him, Tommy fired a rapid hammered pair. The first one hit Junky's neck. This round hit just right of the windpipe, instead expanding into the bundle of muscles that helped move Junky's head, and the jugular artery that supplied his brain with blood. While a great deal of hydrostatic shock was not generated, the Glock's muzzle blast and the expanding hollowpoint ripped flesh away from the jaw to collar and right to the spine; opening up a steady thumb-sized flow of blood that would see Junky bled dry. This bullet hit the ceiling above and did not retain enough energy to punch through. The second shot missed completely. It did punch through the ceiling, floor, the sheet metal baseplate of the kitchen stove, and stopped in the oven's roof. Along the way, it clipped the connection hose for the 250-gallon tank of propane gas at the back of Clyde's trailer. A small, steady stream of gas began leaking into the kitchen.

When Tweedle-Dum went down, he had clenched his arm down on my hand, pinning it there unless I released my knife. With Scabs starting towards me again, my head still swimming, ear split, cheek bleeding, and eyes still tearing up from Tweedle-Dum's one-two punches, I left the knife in exchange for distance; and looking for my gun. Scabs and I spotted it, next to Knifeman, at the same time. We both took running leaps and his reach was just a little farther. But his hands were slicked with blood and my revolver popped free of his hands like a bar of soap. I was able to palm it, but not get my finger inside the trigger guard. I rolled to get away from Scabs and came up against the wall. He was only on one knee, and off balance. Using the wall as a base, I shoved off it and slammed my shoulder into Scab's.

He was knocked sideways, landing on his left side with me on top of him. Then he made a fatal error. Rather than clocking me with his left fist, which would have knocked me stone cold at that moment, he took one second to look around for anything he could use as a weapon. A bottle, brick, knife, piece of wood, even a clod of dirt may have worked it he'd hocked it hard enough. But it was a second he did not have to waste. Instead, I pounded his head with my gun's muzzle, drew back and hit again. The GP100's barrel plunged into Scab's right eye socket just as I got my finger inside the trigger guard. The second impact caused my hand to clench, and I pulled the trigger doing so.

For a second time, the gunshot was contained. Recall though, how I said your skull is surprisingly robust. It is also much smaller and less elastic than a chest cavity. So now the burning powder and high pressure gases were released into a box of thick bone. Fluid dynamics demanded the hydrostatic shock, and Scab's brain, had to be displaced somewhere, somehow, and preferably along the path of least resistance. And were they.

My Ruger GP100, if you remember the end of Chapter 8, is loaded with 125-grain Hornady XTP JHP's. They are not as heavy or as large as Tommy's 0.45's, but much faster at 1,600 FPS; and with much more gas and powder behind them. This, combined with the characteristics of Scabs' skull, first severed the left optic nerve. Second, it blew Scabs' left eyeball out of his head. It bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop ten feet away. Third, brain matter followed the eye. Fourth, a small amount of grey bits were forced out of Scabs' nose and ears. Fifth and finally, the balance of brain burst out with the bullet through the occipital region and splattered in a fan patterned mess across the floor.

Heaving and feeling my breakfast rising up my throat, I scrambled away from Scabs' body. I had tried before to imagine how seeing a body, especially one I had killed, would affect me. The sight of brains spilling out and an eyeball popping loose was almost too much to handle and I felt even more lightheaded and faint. The smell rapidly filling the basement wasn't helping either. But processing what had happened was to be done later.

"Ohhhuhhhgghh…Rig…Rig, sound off…"

"I'm up, and…" I scanned the roof, revolver now up in a proper grip. I checked each body for vital signs, and collected my knife. "We are clear. You?"

"I'm fucked up, but I'm up." He stood and leaned heavily against the wall. Having fired six of his magazine's ten rounds, Tommy reloaded and put the half-empty magazine in his pocket. "Ohhh…fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck. This did, not go well. This is a bad day. A terrible, no-good, very bad, day."

"No shit. So, I mean, okay…now…" I trailed off, trying to think of what to do next. This was certainly not in the manual, had not been covered in the Non-Commissioned Officer's school in D.C., and was far outside my usual programming. How to deal with a basement of dead bodies – 101.

"Rig…yo, Rig!" Tommy gave me a rough shake. I must have zoned out. Only then did the pain start to creep in, starting with my face. Oh man did my split cheek sting. "Hey, come back to Earth."

"Sorry, sorry…zoned out…"

"That's fine, but don't do it again. I need you to focus. We only have a few minutes, and no chance for do-overs. Are you okay, are you hit, shot, stabbed anywhere?" We checked ourselves and each other for blood, stuck knives or broken bones. All seemed well. "Good. Now listen up. Here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna go upstairs and look for anything valuable to us. Make another copy of Clyde's computer to be safe. Look for photos, external hard drives, phones, tapes, lists of people or orders, anything like that."

"Any intel, and copy the computer. Got it. Anything else?"

"Weapons, we cannot leave any here for whoever comes next. Pistols, shotguns, rifles, bazookas, grenades, missile launchers, explosives, tactical nukes, and any ammo. Put whatever you find by the front door, and my laptop, and then come back here."

"And you?"

"I'll be…" He looked down and around at the mess we'd made. I don't need any metaphors or simile here, you know what a destroyed basement greenhouse with six dead guys in it looks like…right? Right. Moving on. "Dealing with…this. So are we clear?"

"Yep."

"You have five minutes. Be efficient."

I took the stairs three at a time and headed for Clyde's computer. The copying could run in the background while I searched. My first discovery was Clyde's phone with a freshly cracked screen. A hole in the wall marked where it had been thrown in Clyde's escape. On the floor still smoldered and fumed a puddle of lye, eating into the carpet; the empty bottle next to it. Only then did it occur to me, that bottle of lye had probably been intended for Tommy and me. But hey, that's one way to make your getaway. And sure enough, as I checked outside to see if any neighbors were coming to investigate anything they might've heard, Clyde's car was gone. At least he didn't have his phone to call Cole with.

For the next five minutes, I proceeded to demolish the interior of Clyde's trailer. Every cupboard was emptied, the dishes smashing on the linoleum. I ripped out every heat register, cut open the couch and its cushions, pulled up the carpet, and even emptied the fridge and freezer. The baseboards all came off, the toilet tank lid lay broken in the shower, the bathroom mirror ripped off the wall, and even the vent from the bathroom's vent was broken loose and searched. The mattress and box springs went the same as the couch. Every dresser drawer was upended, and the closet fully emptied into a mound on the floor. In summary, I was rewarded with: one updated external hard drive, the CPU and hard drives of Clyde's computer (there was no way we were leaving those behind with Ice Pick fingerprints all over them), several quart sized Mason jars of readied seeds, poisons, and berries, two USB flash drives (no idea what was on them), about $25,000 dollars in $100 bills, a loaded Hi-Point 9mm semi-automatic pistol, three spare 8-shot magazines (loaded), two 50-round boxes of Remington 9x19mm factory loaded FMJ bullets, and a decorative (but still very sharp and deadly) Legend of Zelda Master Sword.

Downstairs, Tommy had arranged the deceased in an orderly row, respectfully closed their eyes and crossed their arms across their chests. He'd collected only two small penknives, and Knifeman's Flick Blade. Also on the table were their cell phones, one was hooked to his to make a copy of its contents, and a few hundred dollars in mixed American bills. We don't touch credit or debit cards, SSN's, Selective Service Cards, driver's licenses or anything like that. Most of it we don't have any use for, some of it could land us in needless legal trouble, and some, like photos or mementos, is a matter of ethics. You DO NOT steal pictures of a man's family, dog, cat, house, or love notes from his girlfriend. Those they keep. It's the least that can be done.

"I'm done." Tommy disconnected the last phone. He placed it on Junky's stomach. "Did you find anything? You made a lot of noise."

"A few things, nothing Earth-shattering."

"Very good, you did well. Okay, time to leave. Put all this and what you found in the truck, I'll be right out."

"What're you going to do?" I asked as he gathered several of the propane tanks. "Are you…?"

"Rig, our DNA is everywhere. Hair, blood, sweat, fingerprints, saliva. The police will be here any second, and I refuse to make their job easy. Besides, we have to get rid of all these plants, seeds, even the books on how to grow it. I don't want Caleb slinking in here and getting his stained little paws all over this. Fire is the only way."

"I, I know, it just doesn't…" I looked at the row of bodies, the streaks of blood, bile and brain across the floor from Tommy moving them around, the stench from them filling the room. Sure, we'd just fought tooth and nail…but burning them felt wrong.

"I know it doesn't feel right." Tommy admitted. "I don't like it either, I take no joy in this. But I like myself, and especially you, not being in jail, a lot more than I dislike doing this. And, can't you smell it?" I hadn't noticed it over the bodies, but now the fumes of propane were beginning to overpower them. There was a gas leak somewhere. "This place is filled with propane, it's going to go up anyway. I'm just making sure it does so properly."

"That's fair enough for me. See you in the truck." Tommy nodded and went about his grim work. I loaded our findings and sat with even more rising bile in my throat. To keep my mind occupied from what had happened and what we had done, I went to my oldest fallback.

'2.1*2=4.2. 2.2*2.1=4.62. 2.3*2.2=5.06. 2.4*2.3=5.52...6.8*6.7=45.56. 6.9*6.8=46.92…'

"Okay, that's all set." Tommy got in, started up and took a quick glance around. "Anyone watching, anyone see us?" The thought had occurred to me to search the extra two vehicles in Clyde's driveway. But that could attract even more attention to the noise that surely had escaped the trailer. There probably wasn't anything in those cars to justify the risk.

"No, we're in the clear." As Tommy gave his S-10 gas, several rain drops pattered on the windshield. "Will the rain mess up whatever fire you planned?"

"No buddy, it won't." Tommy looked back at the trailer. No smoke or any tell-tale signs emanated. "We'll be okay, don't worry about it."

"If you say so. What about Clyde though? He got away, could be halfway to Ohio by now."

"I think…the best thing to do right now…" Tommy, for a brief moment, sounded exhausted. The day had beaten both of us down. "Is to just go home, and wait for this storm to pass."

. . .

By the time Tommy and Jeff had left his trailer, Clyde was already at the first trees of Black Moshannon Forest. His escape had been an improvised one, but waiting around for a furious Cole held no upside. There was also the possibility his six helpers were beating the ever-loving fuck out of Tommy and Jeff, and that gave Clyde a measure of comfort. It had to, as he'd eaten the last of his snacks in his car's console.

'Still…can't go home just yet.' He'd driven as a man possessed, running stop lights and signs alike. One blink and he was fumbling with his keys, another blink and he was on the far side of the Black Moshannon River, in the visitor center's parking lot. There he realized several glaring issues. He had no cash, Cole and the police could trace any use of his cards. He had no friends to call on, and his other brothers wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole if he'd made Cole's shit-list. He'd left his gun in his nightstand drawer, never carrying it on him since he hardly left his trailer; and guns weren't his style anyway. And last, his phone was on his living room floor. One of the two assigned to guard him had grabbed at his arm, while Clyde doused the other with lye, and the phone was sent flying from his hand to bounce off the wall and disappear behind the couch.

'And holy damn, is it raining.' The storm had arrived and was unloading its rain in a relentless torrent. Lightning spider webs across the clouds lit the land, and thunder shook his car with its power. This could actually work in his favor though. No one was going to venture out into this downpour to look for him. 'I should drive around for a bit though. Cole always said a moving target is hardest to pin down. I'll think of what to do in the meantime.'

. . .

At Clyde's trailer, several things had gone wrong, or right depending on your view. First, the propane leak from the stove had filled the entirety of the basement and half the trailer with fumes; as propane is a heavier than air gas. The swirling fumes had also saturated the air with the powdered ammonium nitrate Tommy had spread all around the basement and trailer, all mixed up by the pair of box fans Tommy had running. Now sifting clouds of the fertilizer hazed the light as a fine dust. Tommy had also shut off the basement's ventilation fan, but did not close the vent grating. This allowed vapors from the generator to build, as well as fumes from its leaking gasoline. Since the vent grating was still open, air could flow into the basement and add the necessary oxygen to the volatile mixture. Tommy had also opened the remaining propane cylinders in the basement after shutting off the heat lamps and UV lights. Before leaving, he still had one task to complete.

In the ransacked kitchen, he located Clyde's toaster on the pile of emptied cupboard contents, a pack of strawberry poptarts, and a roll of duct tape from the up-ended junk drawer. He dropped the poptarts into the toaster, duct taped the lever down so even when the timer tripped it would continue cooking. He shoved the toaster against the wall, making sure it was under the flakewood veneered cabinets. This crude fuse would give him and Rig about five minutes to make themselves scarce.

. . .

Cole and The Man in Black arrived shortly after. The missed the Carsons by a matter of minutes. All seemed normal to both, and Cole noticed the new cars in Clyde's driveway. But something was missing.

"Clyde's car isn't here." Cole slowed as he passed, the driveway was mostly full so he didn't pull in. "But the guys we hired are here…something's not right."

"I agree." The Man in Black gave his pocketwatch a quick glance. "Let's wait by that dumpster and see what develops." Cole parked his cruiser in the same spot Naota and Haruko had occupied. He thought about calling Clyde, then about requesting backup, but decided to be patient. Meanwhile, The Man in Black insisted on small talk to pass the time.

"Tell me, why did you become a police officer?" He asked, turning in his seat to face Cole. "It was not your first career choice. That was a drill-crew supervisor for Solomon's Mines, correct?"

"That is correct. Do you want the 'acceptable' answer, or the 'real' answer?"

"I like the sound of this already." The Man grinned at the duality of Cole's occupational choices. "Tell me the 'acceptable' reason first, and your 'real' reason after."

"The 'acceptable' reason is what you will see and hear in newspapers, on our televisions, at announcements from our governments. Responsibility, integrity, a feeling of higher calling, or my personal favorite, the 'giving back to the community' lie. There are some who genuinely believe these simple-minded ideas, but I'm a realist."

"No sense of civic obligation then?"

"Not in the least."

"I cannot imagine it is for the money. Your salary is only, sixty-thousand American dollars, if I remember rightly; and is just above average for this country."

"Correct, but you are leaving out cash from any drug busts we make, any cash confiscated through civil asset forfeiture, and the profits we make selling off the confiscated C.A.F. items. A department eats very well selling some schmuck's pickup truck, yacht, or airplane. How do you think we bought our M.R.A.P. vehicles before you arrived? They run a million dollars a unit and we had six; three from D.H.S. and three with our own money. Funded by the citizens of The Commonwealth."

"Even with your supplemental income, it's not about money? I feel we're getting to the 'real' reason."

"Isn't it obvious? It's why you contacted me first of all my brothers: Power." At the utterance of this word, The Man in Black's smile widened into a toothy grin. "Pure…power; the same reason the Mayors, County Clerks, Judges, Sheriff and his deputies, all went into your offer elbow deep. We are uninterested in money. Our positions as public officials and officers allowed us to manipulate, design, and scam, the pension systems. All founded by the taxpayer mind you, who are too lazy and too stupid to notice, or care. And if any of them ever get uppity, their house gets raided at four in the morning, their records audited 'till before they were born, we bury them in court and legal fees, their truck is seized; and sometimes their dog gets shot too. Just because we can. But all of us can retire at the ripe age of fifty and live for another twenty to thirty years on a pension of six figures a year; if you play the paperwork right. So what else is left when your material and financial cares are provided for? You can only buy so much stuff, take so many vacations, eat so much caviar, before it all becomes a bore."

"And power is what is left."

"Yes. This uniform, this badge, grants me that power. The Office of The Mayor, grants him power. Power over events, places, projects we wish to see enacted, but best of all: The Lives of Others. If I may be so bold, I would say that is part of The Temple of Syrinx, and its teachings you have revealed to us. The people of my planet are lost and wandering, without a guiding authority. We, and The Red Star, must be that authority to save the people from themselves; while getting our fix. To shape ideas, people's views, mold their outlooks, biases and behaviors, directing entire societies, just as this country's representatives and their true constituents do…is a high beyond price, and without equal."

"I knew I had chosen a fitting first contact." The Man in Black praised Cole for his speech. "Just be sure not to let that lure distract you, or forget who your true constituent is. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sir. I know my place in all That is To Come."

"You will be held to it. I believe we have waited long enough. Let's make ourselves known."

"Follow me then." Cole drove around back to the sidewalk spot and parked. "I just hope Clyde's not hiding in his basement. Breaking down that door would take the bomb squad."

"I don't think that will be necc…" The Man did not get to finish. The poptarts Tommy Carson had put in the toaster, were now on fire. Flames from the poptarts' oils then caught the flakewood and glue and plastic covered cabinets on fire, and in a minute, half of Clyde's kitchen was ablaze. A few seconds later, the propane leaking from the stove ignited. It flashed into a trailer-filling fireball and followed its own trail down the hidden stairs to the basement. There it combined with the even more powerful gasoline fumes. Additionally, the suspended ammonium nitrate formed a crude ANFO, ammonium nitrate fuel oil, explosive, with the ammonium nitrate acting as a fine oxidizer. The perfect combination of dispersed dust, ignition from the toaster, oxygen from air flowing in from the vents, the propane and gasoline as fuel, and the confinement of the basement, created an explosion heard in the town of Sandy Ridge; five and a half miles south. This explosion's force lifted the trailer off its foundation before blowing off the roof, out the windows first, then the walls, and scattering the contents within around Water Street Mobile Homes in a two-hundred yard radius; Clyde's computer splashing down and sinking into the Red Moshannon River while his TV shattered on Water Street itself, and the toaster that started it all was later found on the park's office roof. The shrapnel had also punctured the main 250-gallon tank of propane, which cooked off and added a secondary burst of fire and its own shock wave.

The twin shock waves blew out half the surrounding windows and set off over a dozen car alarms. It also bowled Cole and The Man in Black over, knocking Cole to the street and The Man onto the hood of Cole's cruiser. With their ears ringing and car alarms blaring, they dusted themselves off and were relieved to be uninjured. While The Man's hat had blown off to reveal a head of slicked back, neatly arranged in 1950's style, jet-black hair, his sunglasses dutifully maintained their perch on his nose. Cole decided it would be prudent to call for backup after all.

"Attention all units in Philipsburg area, attention all Philipsburg units. Officer requires immediate assistance. 10-52F and 10-80 at Water Steer Homes. 10-79 possible. Send Fire, E.M.S., and E.O.D., 10-39 advised." Cole put out the call for a fire and explosion, and since secondary explosions were possible, requested the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team to be safe; while advising everyone to use lights and sirens to arrive before another explosion. He needn't have worried, already Mother Nature was putting out the flames with the now arrived thunderstorm. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the raging pyre was reduced to steaming ashes.

"Where's your brother, Clyde?" Fire Chief H.G. Hughes asked Cole after conferring with his men and leaving them to their work. "I'm sure he'll want to know what happened…and maybe begin explaining why he had six bodies in his basement?"

"Explain the what?!" Cole had known there was a good chance the six hired hands had gone up in the explosion, and had thought Clyde might have been with them. But he could not let on to any prior knowledge of them being there. "Bodies?! One isn't Clyde, is it?"

"We don't think so, at least right now. None were burned completely, so I can say reasonably none were him; don't match his physical profile." Chief Hughes led Cole over to the edge of the hole that had been the basement. A team was working in it, trying to determine the fire's source and cause. Pointing to one of the bodies, Chief Hughes said: "This's very strange. Notice how they're all lying down, in a row? That was what I saw first. Also, the second body from right. Waymire says the body's skull has an exit wound out the occipital region consistent with a gunshot wound; like he'd been shot in the eye socket at point-blank range." Chief Hughes looked up from the basement at Cole. "I don't know what your brother was up to today…but it looks very, very bad for him. We'll let you know anything else we find as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'd start looking for Clyde; if I were you."

"Thank you Chief, I will." Confused, angry, and now wracked with paranoia, he turned away from Chief Hughes and walked briskly back to his cruiser. The Man was leaning on the hood, watching the proceedings with rapt curiosity. "Sir, we need to go. Clyde's assistants were…"

"In the basement, and one has been shot, yes. I heard it all." The Man tapped one of his ears. Cole had forgotten how heightened of hearing The Man possessed. "But you and I have a different matter to attend to."

"Sir? I mean no offense, but what could that be?" The Man motioned for Cole to get into the cruiser; what he had to say needed to be said privately. Once seated, he ordered Cole to drive them away from Water Steet, and head east.

"It is time for the next act in What is To Come." The Man explained. "Call up your fellow Patrolmen, the City Police, and the Sheriff and his Deputies."

"ALL, of them, Sir? Do you mean we are…?"

"Yes, we are. Although unfortunate and unseen, this latest incident is a perfect event for the next step. Call all officers to your State Patrol Barracks, and tell them to come with haste. I must address them in person."

"With pleasure Sir, with pleasure!" Cole stopped the pressure on his radio's push to talk button. "What about Clyde? May I send out at least one patrol?"

"Do not worry any further for Clyde." The Man assured, pulling out his pocketwatch. He put his thumb to the smallest face, the one at the bottom of the main face, and closed his eyes. A blink of time later, he opened them and stowed his pocketwatch. "Clyde will be found, I swear to you he will."

. . .

"Hey Rig, are we still on to jam tonight?" Naota and Haruko had gone back to G&R, and spent the afternoon helping Josh, Johnny, and Mike building tool lockers for a construction company. Haruko had remained sullen the whole time, keeping her thoughts to herself. Every five minutes one of the others would pull Naota aside and ask: 'Okay, what the hell did you do? Is it some kind of spell, curse, potion? Why is she being so quiet?' Back home, she'd gone up to their room, breezing past Kamon and Shingekuni like they were part of the wall. Again Naota was interrogated with no good answer handy. They'd bickered before but she'd never been this surly after.

Meanwhile, Tommy and Rig had come back, with Tommy leaving again as soon as he dropped Rig off at his house. Rita had said Rig was feeling 'a little off-color' and Tommy had some 'emergency customer service call' to make. She suggested Naota wait until after work and see how Rig felt then.

"If you're not, that's okay. But, I kinda need to know if I have to talk to Haruko, or not."

"N, nah, no, I'm okay. Uhhgg…" Whether Rig was delirious, half-asleep, or drunk, Naota couldn't quite tell. "Ohhh…cripes, my head…uh, yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Mmmmnnn…yep."

"Are you sure, that you are sure?"

"As can be. Look, I know I sound weird. Just come on over and, well, you'll understand. Bring your bass of course…and, I suppose…She-Who-Shan't-Be-Named can come too."

"We'll be right down." Naota hung up and called upstairs for Haruko. "Hey! I'm going to Rig's to play some guitar, and you're invited. Do you want to go, or not?"

"…Do you want me to go?" Her voice sounded like she was face-first on her pillow. "Or are you just being polite?"

"I really could not care less either way. I'm absolutely, apathetic."

"…Be right down." Still in a melancholy mood, she stumped on down. "Did you find out what the deal was with Rig not feeling good?" Over her left shoulder hung her guitar. On the right, cables, pedals and a bag with her tuner, string winders and cutters, wrenches, screwdrivers, capo clamps, picks, extra strings, cleaning cloths and fluids, a Batt-O-Meter, metronome, adapters, cable tester, an Ohm-meter, and a roll of duct tape. He knew the contents because he had a similar bag; and the insides of hers were more often than not strewn across the bedroom floor.

"No, I didn't. He said he'll tell us when we get there."

"You've got weird friends, that's all I'm sayin'." They stood on the porch as he readied the umbrella. It was still raining and showed no sign of stopping in that decade. The lot outside the Carson's was pitted with puddles and she made sure to hop into every one in reach and get as much mud on them as possible. George answered the door, his cellphone clasped to his ear.

"C'mon in, c'mon in. Rig's downstairs, if you want anything from the fridge, help yourselves. Yeah, I'm still here Tom. No, just Trouble, and another one to make it Double." He smiled at them and winked. "Yes, I'll be on the road soon. You called…okay, they said they would…good. They owe us big time. Did you find…I see. Okay. Yep, then in ten, no, five. Bye. Gotta run kiddos, don't blow the place up eh? See you later."

"We'll try, Mister Carson." Naota said as George left, throwing mud across the lot as his truck disappeared into the rain. "Haruko, down this way." He opened the door to the basement stairs, leading her down into Rig's domain. As they turned with the stairs halfway down, he continued on not knowing she had frozen stiff.

. . .

Upon seeing the stereo in Rig's basement, Haruko was for the second time that day, no longer on Earth. She wasn't even in the same decade. She was transported many light years removed, and twenty-one Earth years back. Into a living room, specifically. Her perspective was from a low, toddling height; scarcely higher than the glass coffee table in front of her. The carpet between her toes was blue, the walls a soft yellow, and light streamed in from a sizable bay window; illuminating the very same stereo system as in the Carson's basement. There was no mistaking it. They were completely identical. All the same amplifiers, sound systems, media players, hook-ups and plug-ins, the racks for records, disks and cassettes. She wobbled towards it with grasping hands outstretched for balance. The many knobs, switches and buttons were delightful playthings as she checked them all. A voice called out to her, kind but firm, asking what she thought she was doing. She saw a male figure, but his features were clouded, blurred with time's slow corruption of memory. While he face was unclear, she could see his hair was white. Then, another voice, farther away and softer. Another figure, hazy as well but female with hair of crimson. She was so close to them. If only she could make it across the living room floor, maybe she'd remember then…just a little farther. Then arose from the bathroom, the sound of Rig throwing up, and the memory disintegrated back to the far recesses from which it had hidden.

. . .

"Hey in there, you alive?!" Naota pounded on the Rig's bathroom door. A haggard Rig answered. His left ear was red and puffed up a half size larger than its normal size, and a row of stitches ran along its top. The right side of his face, from eye to jawline, was one large purple and black bruise. A gauze pad had been taped over his cheekbone, and a small rust-red stain at its center was showing. "Oh shit! What the hell happened to you?"

"My face and a fist held a jousting match. My face lost." He explained, managing a small smile. "Aunt Rita's got me on painkillers, so it looks much worse than it hurts. I'm still shakes and nerves yet, that's why I was throwing up. No internal injuries or anything."

"Did, did Clyde do that?" Rig shook his head slowly 'No' as they sat down. Haurko was being even more quiet than before they had arrived. In fact, she seemed almost dazed and not cognizant of herself. "Or was it…was it one of his guys?"

"Not much gets past you. Tommy and I decided to have a talk with Clyde, annnnnnnnnd…it didn't go as planned."

"Was there anything you learned? I'd hate for you to have gotten beaten up for nothing."

"We learned plenty." Rig told him of his venture into Clyde's trailer: his and Tommy's expose in the living room, the basement greenhouse, how Clyde had pulled off his plans, the use of Water Hemlock at McDonald's, the appearance of Clyde's assistants, and a tale of the melee that followed. "And that's when Tommy and I realized we had to fight our way out. It was really touch-and-go for a minute, but we managed to get away in one piece. I can't say where Clyde's disappeared off to. He could be halfway through Ohio by now, or in the county still, somewhere…"

"What about the plants, seeds and stuff? Did you get a chance to do anything about them, or are the cops handling that?"

"I'm positive the police are all over that trailer as we speak."

"Would that be, because of the explosion we heard earlier today? Could something have caught on fire during your fight?"

"It's entirely possible, I guess. But I really don't want to think about that right now." Rig made to close further discussion. "I need to get my mind off it for a while."

"Hey…wait a minute. Either something did, or did not, catch on fire. Especially with all that propane, gas, and fertilizer you mentioned, and the police being involved?" Something wasn't sitting Naota quite right. There was more to this story than Rig was letting on. "And I know you're no fan of the Blue Line. What makes you so sure the police are there? Did you call them, or did something else happen?"

"Look man, I'm really not up for this…"

"But why do I feel like you're hiding something from me? I, we, won't tell anyone; even George. Promise!"

"I know that, you're a good friend, but…"

"Come on, Rig! Don't 'but' me. This is too important for 'buts'. This is Medical Mechanica we're talking about."

"Please let this go, at least for tonight."

"Ohhh…damn…what did you and Tommy do? You, you didn't…?"

"Naota." Was that, Haruko?

"What?"

"Let it go."

. . .

For Haruko, her day had been a trying one at best. First, her first fight with Naota. Second, the meeting with The Man in Black and spending the afternoon still reeling from the encounter. Third, her second fight with Naota. Fourth, the sight of the Carson stereo and the buried memory it had dredged up. Now it was Rig's face. Not the boxed ear, the split open cheek and black eye. But the expression he wore. It was one she recognized handily. She'd seen it numerous times, and worn it herself too often. A sorrowful, disgusted, and stricken look with eyes gazing off a thousand yards into oblivion. It was as plain to her as the cover story of the Sunday paper. That day, Jeff Carson, had seen Death.

. . .

"He's dealt with enough crap without you chewing his ear off like some bitchy, nagging housewife." Haruko elaborated to Naota's indignation, and Rig's surprised amusement. "Look at him, a real modern art masterpiece! He's your friend, right? You trust him, right?"

"Well, yeah, I do…"

"Then get off his back…aye-yi-yi dude!" She had even picked up one of Pennsylvania's many phrases of exasperation during her stay, and used it now.

"I must've been punched harder than I thought." Rig said. "Now I'm hallucinating that Haruko's taking my side…"

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

"Oh…fine…" Naota gave up pressing the issue. It wasn't worth having a third fight to round out the day. He would work an answer out of Rig another time. "So…now that we're here…welcome to The Basement, Haruko. What do we want to play first?"

"Hmmm…w'all, you're my guests…" Rig offered.

"It's your stereo." Haruko countered, while giving the device an odd side-ways look.

"Y'all-righty. Let's set up first and I'll think." As they set up, Rig and Haruko temporarily exchanged guitars to examine the others instrument. He said her dual Flying-V and EB-0 was mightily impressive but a little 'too over the top' for him, while she complimented his restoration of his LP Standard, but said her preferences were a 'little more radical' than the traditional styles. "Well, I think I need something, loud. Where I can yell a little."

"Oh, that's right." Haruko said as they laid out their cables and pedals to hook up. "Naota said you play rhythm, and you're a decent singer. That imitation of the, uh, Ritter? Yeah, Ritter girl was pretty uncanny. He's really talked you up, so you'd better deliver. Wait, hold up." She looked at the three of them and their instruments. "With Naota's bass, your singing and rhythm, and me on lead…all we need is a drummer."

"Y'know Mizz Haruko…yah might be on to somethin' there." Rig agreed. "Let's see. Do you know…hummm…I'm trying to think of something to test you; seein's Naota's talked you up a bit too."

"You said you weren't going to mention that in front of her!"

"Wait, you actually said something nice about me? Oh stop it, I'll blush. Look, you're all red yourself…"

"Pick a damn song Rig."

"Do y'all know any…Molly Hatchet?"

"You and your Southern Rock." Naota had to laugh. They'd once spent an entire evening trying to get 'Free Bird' down flawless on a single play through. It was still a back-burner, work in progress, ambition.

"You mean, like Lynyrd Skynyrd?" Haruko asked. "Southern Rock's not, unfamiliar to me, just not my usual, yah know?"

"Molly Hatchet came just after Skynyrd's plane crash; when everyone had thought Southern Rock to have died with them." Rig explained with zeal, color beginning to come back into his complexion. "Molly Hatchet said 'like Hell Southern Rock's dead! We'll take up that banner, hold our beers and listen to this!' And their album art is gnarly as fuck too."

"I'm sold." Haruko nodded. "What song? I don't think I know any of theirs."

"Worry not. For I, like any good Scout, am prepared." Rig pulled one of the plastic boxes out from under his lay-couch. He knelt and began thumbing through the reams of sheet music. "There yah go, one lead guitar for Haruko, and a bass part for Naota as a refresher. Do you need a minute to…?" Haruko took the sheets and began reading them, lips moving soundlessly as she scanned the notes, blazing through her part at a rate of mere seconds per page. After three read-throughs, she put down the music, quickly tuned the six-string half of her guitar, and announced she was ready.

"Just like that?" Rig, and Naota too, were surprised.

"Uh-huh. Whenever you are."

"You, sure you don't wanna do like, just the first few bars? A practice run?" Rig looked at Naota for clarification. All he could offer was an equally confused shrug. "You've got it? All of it?"

"Yeah. I can just, you know…I've been able to just, skim read it and go." Haruko said, unusually without fanfare.

"You'll understand if I, we…" Rig gestured at Naota. "Don't believe you?"

"Then stop talking, start playing, and watch me." She gave her first sly smile since that morning. "I'm waaaitinnngg…"

"Oooooookay. Here goes." With everyone plugged in, Rig adjusted the stereo, and pressed PLAY. It counted off a 'And a one, two, three…' And with a quick roll from the drums, off they went.

The tune Rig had chosen, Boogie No More*, started off slow; with Rig and Naota doing to introduction. Haruko joined in just after with high arching notes. It was a rougher, grittier feel than Naota's usual choices, but gave him a sense of…ruggedness, whenever they played some Molly Hatchet. While his and Rig's parts were lower growlings, Haruko paired off with higher up the scale. So far, she hadn't hit a single bum note. Then Rig cleared his throat and stepped up to his microphone.

*Oh People, Baby…What's the matter with 'chu?

Your feet, they h'ain't leavin' the ground!

Don't you just wanna git on up, Baby, hearin' this rockin' sound?

Don't you jest wanna jump on up, kick your chairs out of the way?!

Hmmmnnngghhh…gonna rock yah Baby, rock you 'till the break of day!

Listen here!

We ain't never had no problems before…nobody seem to wanna Boogie No More…

L'hh'whooaaaaa…it's easy, c'ain't you see?!

Mmmmmnnn…gonna give it to yah one timmeeee…

C'mon here!

Rig's rhythm picked up pace, the lights reflecting off the polished black of his '56 Gibson LP Standard; despite its age Back-Breaker rolled right along. While he sung with the voice of a country bar melded to a gravel road, Naota added his bass's depth, the once cast-off Rickenbacker 4001 filling the song with substance. Haruko was still ten for ten, keeping perfect time, eyes half-lidded in concentration while plying the Flying-V's strings. It had been an age since Naota had played with others that were on the same level of immersement as Haruko and Rig…and while the music flowed, everything else was washed away in its pure, raw sound.

RrrrooOOHHH! People, Baby, what's tha matter with 'chu?

You're feet, they're leavin' the ground!

Ah know that 'chu get on up, Baby, to hear this rockin' sound!

Don'cha just wanna jump on up, an' kick your chairs out of the way?!

Mmmm! Gonna rock you Baby, rock you to the break of day!

Look out!

Now Haruko stepped forward, front and center were hers. Her fingers slid seamlessly up and down the fretboards, sound building, pitch and volume climbing, pace quickening. The drums gave them several sharp stop-and-start crashes, then for a split second there was a pause. But it was not silent, as Rig got his yell in: a deep, Swamps of Florida, call that filled the basement and rattled the sliding glass doors; making Rig appear and sound a crazed man possessed.

YYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!

And immediately after, Haruko took off and it was all they could do to keep up. She climbed up the scale, dropping straight back down only to climb right back up again. Still not one slipped finger, not one missed pick. Then there was a momentary slowdown, where they readied for the next, final push. Something was coming, because that would be the only reason Rig would look so devilish.

WELL…Ah'm gonna turn these boys loose on you one time Baby! Show me whatcha got Haruko!

Now she ran away from them, dominating the song with her lead. Haruko made the Flying-V come alive in her hands, hitting even the wobble of the punctuated highs perfectly. The basement throbbed with sound, the air hummed with it, and Naota wouldn't have been the least surprised if the stereo started smoking under the stress. Then, as their parts fell away in a slow fade-to-silence…it was over. And though their ears rang, none of them could stop smiling. His arguments with Haruko earlier were far forgotten in the back of his mind.

. . .

She had been able to lose herself for the first time in what felt to be ages. The painful memory was buried once more, and her encounter with The Man in Black smothered under the notes.

. . .

For now, the gore of Clyde's basement was gone. It would be back, but not tonight. The only words I had were: "Okay, okay…not bad Haruko, not bad at all. But hey, anyone can get lucky once. Prove it wasn't a fluke."

"You are soooo on." Yah know what? When she ain't being an outright, rampaging, psychotic, sociopath…she ain't too bad.

"So be it. Lemme see what I got here in my collection…there's something here that'll really stump yah…"

. . .

Clyde had originally embarked north on Black Moshannon Road, following the river of the same name. But at the T-intersection of Black Moshannon and Huckleberry Road, the right-hand turn, to the north, was blocked by a downed tree. Instead, he turned left and followed Huckleberry to Casanova Road. It was another winding, twisting mountain road through Black Moshannon Forest; barely wider than one lane and essentially a centuries-old wagon road that had been poured over with asphalt. It also contained the infamous Devil's Elbow switchback on the mountainside just about Groe Run. From his new course, Clyde would be travelling downhill at Devil's Elbow, a path where many reckless racers either had their brakes fail and send them headlong into the mountain wall, or fail to maintain the sharp curve and careen off the road and 200 feet down into the waters of Groe Run below. Now night was approaching and a quirk of living in the mountains meant that darkness came early. Barely able to see more than fifty feet, Clyde put his wipers on max and crept along as quickly as he dared.

. . .

Gathered in full, except those on essential patrol, the summary of Clearfield and Centre County's law enforcement stood at parade rest in the new State Police Barracks. It was just north of Port Matilda; at the edge of Black Moshannon Forest; on the far side of the forest from Philipsburg and Osceola Mills. While the 322-Bigler Highway cut through Black Moshannon and was faster, most of the officers were loath to venture into the dark forest. They drove around, taking the long way south. Three uniform colors separated them: the light blue-grey of Osceola Mills and Philipsburg local departments, the khaki and brown of the Sheriff and deputies, and the deep, solid blue of the State Patrol. Together they numbered 1,000 strong, with a roughly equal split among the three. At the front, The Man in Black stood before a wall-sized map of the area. At his sides were: Chief Warbug of Philipsburg P.D., Chief Strong of Osceola Mills P.D., Sheriff Sarabyn of his dual-county department, and Chief Chojnacki of the State Patrol. With a nod from The Man, Chief Chojnacki called for attention. There was a single snap as booted heels clicked together, and the room fell silent; save for the pounding of rain on the roof.

"Good evening Officers of Pennsylvania…and future leaders in The Red Star of The Solar Federation." The Man in Black began, needing no microphone as he spoke with a sonorous volume. You are here because you have been examined, and found having great potential. You have opened your ears, and awakened your minds to the Glory that is The Temple of Syrinx. Doubters, traitors, naysayers and heretics, have been removed from this body before me; only those of true worthiness remain. For your loyalty I have already rewarded a sample of what The Red Star bequeaths to its allies." Many thoughts ran to money stashed in safe deposit boxes, hidden with family, or buried in secret places. Many more thoughts leapt forward in anticipation of what would come after, what they would do with their granted clemency.

"There is a saying I have learned during my time here, on Earth: Anything easy is not worthwhile, and anything worthwhile, is not easy. Thus far, I have kept my word, the word of The Red Star and Medical Mechanica. Now, it is your turn to reciprocate the favor, to honor your promises. What say you?! Will it be Aye? Or Nay?"

"AYE!" The hall roared in unison. "We say AYE!"

"Very well. Then we shall begin at once." As The Man in Black turned to the map, a young State Patrolman in the back turned on his mental recorder. While he was gathering and retaining every word said into his mind's strongbox, it was for a purpose The Man in Black would have found most reprehensible.

. . .

They had run the gamut with their musical selections. Decades and genres had been crisscrossed over and back again in a lyrical time machine. From Cream and Deep Purple, to The Black Keys and KONGOS (as Haruko insisted they play 'something from this century') they'd dabbled in 'most everything, even if superficially. Now it was getting late, their fingers tired and Rig's voice weary.

"Got one more left in yah for a nightcap?" Rig asked after wetting his throat with a drink, then repacking his lip with tobacco and tossing the now empty tin into the trash.

"Depends, whose turn is it to pick again?" Haruko asked as she replaced a string. She'd broken one on their first, and so far only, try of 'Through the Fire and Flames'. "And before you say it, NO. We are not trying that song again."

"Alright, geez, fine…" Rig sighed. "Break one string and its total drama. I think it's Naota's turn. How 'bout it? How do we close the night?"

"Maybe something off the rack?" Naota had been browsing the collection of vinyl records on the stereo's racks, marveling at some of the cover sleeve art. One he pulled out gave him a start. A red skinned demon's head stared back at him. It had two sharp horns, a pair of elvish shaped ears, an ape-like nose, and a gaping maw of long, pointed teeth that drooled blood. "Uriah Heep…Abominog. Never heard of them, or this album."

"Abominog, that's a good one, 1982 I believe." Rig said. "Uriah Heep's a kinda, well, unique sound, I think is best to describe them. Big in the '70's, pretty much down to a cult band by the '80's; ran in the same circles as Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath."

"Oooo, Sabbath?" Haruko's interest was piqued. "Can't be too bad then. Let's give one a go, Naota."

"'Kay, uhmmm…well, how about the first one then?" He picked the first song off the A-side.

"Too Scared to Run?** Yeah, we can do that one." Rig agreed. With adjustments and another speed-read from Haruko, they were set. "Haruko, take us away."

Too scared, I could not run!

Could not make a sound!

Lights were flashing, my whole life passing!

My feet were stuck to the ground!

Too light to call it night!

Too dark to callll it day!

Too scared to stay and fight!

Too scared to run away!**

. . .

'Easy…easy…take it easy…' Clyde approached Devil's Elbow with the same enthusiasm as a condemned man approaches the gallows. Water flowed along and over the road, he could feel his tires slipping their traction as he hydroplaned. Straining to see, he began to think maybe, just maybe, he might make it to Interstate-80 after all. A figure loomed into his headlight's beams, they were standing on the center line at the tightest point of Devil's Elbow. How he had done it, how he had gotten all the way out to Devil's Elbow, in the dark of night and pouring rain, without a car, didn't matter to Clyde. The Man in Black had found him.

Clyde cranked his steering wheel hard over and pumped his brakes. The flooded road was too slick for traction and he slid to the hill's edge. A small measure of luck was with him as his car slammed its passenger door into a sturdy tree; rather than pitching itself, and him in it, over the edge and into the valley below. But now his front wheels spun in the mud, trapping him as The Man began slowly walking his way.

. . .

So scared I could not move!

I could not make a sound!

There were people running, people shouting! Flashes all around!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to ruuuunnnn away!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to ruuunnnn away!

. . .

A flash of lightning illuminated the woods, showing The Man had put on and buttoned up his long coat for the weather; hiding all features except for the shine of lightning off the sunglasses he still wore. Losing its battle against the wind, a branch from an overhanging tree broke loose and blocked the road between Clyde and The Man. The crumpling thud of it landing shook Clyde out of his paralysis and he knew he'd only been gifted a few seconds. With no viable alternatives present, he abandoned his car and began slipping and sliding down the hill.

. . .

Too scared, I could not think!

My eyes could scarcely see!

My heart was racing, my knees were shaking! They would not carry me!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to run away!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to runnnn away!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to run away!

Too scared to run!

Too scared to runnnn away!**

. . .

Groe Run had overflown its banks from a lazy ankle deep creek to a waist-high, angry torrent. He forded the water, getting knocked over twice before making it to the other side. Across, he picked up Casanova Road again and followed it. He did not want to try his spent luck in the trees, or risk drowning in another creek. Six Mile Run he crossed as water lapped at the bottom of the bridge, and then he got his feet wet again at the flooded crossing of Black Bear Run. Now he was out of Black Moshannon Forest, but not out of the woods. He had meant to take the Casanova Spur north again, into Winburne, then onto the town of Lanse, finally reaching Interstate-80. In the dark he missed it, and continued on Casanova Road down the valley into Munson; turning west rather than north, and farther from escape.

'How in the hell did he find me, all the way out here, in this?!' He huffed, trundling along as fast as his burning muscles allowed. 'And shit, why'd I run? That's even worse, I made it that much worse. I'm not guilty of anything, well, that he would know about. He couldn't know about the Carsons visiting me. Maybe McDonald's, sure. But he couldn't know everything I told Tommy and Jeff! Those two are probably lookin' like ground hamburger by now…unless…' A terrifying thought presented itself. 'Unless somehow they escaped, and somehow He found out. Or, Cole showed up and got them to tell what they'd learned and that I had talked…and now I'm burned. God fucking dammit. And me running at first sight just showed I'm guilty. If I wasn't guilty of anything, I'd have no reason to run off, right? Oh shit, too late now. Just gotta get to I-80…where in the lovin' FUCK is the Spur?!'

Now he turned onto Chestnut Street and, not recognizing any houses, he was not in Winburne. Turning back meant to run into The Man along the road, in the woods, with nowhere to hide. He shuffled on, seeing a well-lit building on his right.

'Casanova Nostalgia?!' He read the restaurant's sign with despair. 'Aw shit, I'm in Munson?!' Learning of his true location sapped the little strength he had left, so he decided to find somewhere hidden out of sight and mind. Casanova Nostalgia's doors were locked and a sign apologized for the ongoing renovations. He ducked around back and settled between the dumpsters and fence around them. Utterly spent, his muscles aching from unaccustomed use, shivering and soaked, Clye fell into an uneasy sleep; and prayed to whomever, or whatever, would listen, for dawn.

. . .

"Any luck Tommy?" George asked as he met his youngest son in the parking lot of Dunlap's Auto Sales; the rough middle point between Philipsburg and Osceola Mills. "I found nothing to the south, and the weather's too nasty to send out The Dogs. They'll freeze, or drown in the rain." Neither wanted to leave the shelter of their trucks, so they talked through cracked open windows.

"Nada." Tommy spat tobacco into a Mountain Dew bottle, wincing as the juice got into a cut on his swollen lip. His face resembled a raccoon with both eyes blackened in a bandit's mask. Invisible were the seven bruised ribs he had secured with electrician's tape from his truck's toolbox. "Went as far as Bigler, up to Kylertown, over to West Decatur. Nothin'."

"What about Black Moshannon?"

"In this?" Tommy pointed at the sky. "Like hell am I, or anyone half-sane, going out onto Hannah-Furnace, Casanova, or Huckleberry, or any of those stick-paths. If Clyde was dumb enough to try seasonal roads in a typhoon, then he's on his own. Shit, I'd even say he's earned it if he survives the night."

"I'd tend to agree." George sighed and shifted in his seat. He and Tommy had been searching, as well as Josh, Johnny, and Mike, and a few others they had cashed in favors owed. The worry was Clyde had some form of vengeance plan, a 'Samson Option' in case he was discovered. So far, no poison gas clouds had appeared, and the water didn't burn when flame was applied, but letting him go wasn't an option. George wasn't happy with how Tommy and Rig's meeting with Clyde had gone, but its complications had been beyond their control. Mostly, he was just relieved they were alive.

"At least no one else is going to the hospital for poisoning; and those hired hands won't be causing any more trouble. Six less people to watch." Tommy added, and George agreed again.

"…No point killing ourselves looking for him though." He resigned to the fact Clyde was gone, at least for now. Where, who knew? "I'll call everyone and send them home. It's just a shame about Clyde; how he turned out."

"I'm apathetic, honestly. Yeah, he had a shit of a start, and he can't be faulted for that. But he had agency. He made choices, of his own free will. His lifestyle, his actions, who he associated with. No one held a gun to his head and ordered him to follow The Man in Black. He took the easy way out, self-pity, all on his own."

"I weep not for what has become, but what could have been, and has not."

"I can dig that. So home?"

"Home. Let us know how you're doing tomorrow morning; and don't forget to take your pills."

"I already know how I'll feel: like hammered shit!"

"Check in all the same; and come see Rig too. He'll need some guidance for dealing with today. He's with Haruko and Naota right now, but he'll be with his thoughts when they leave." Tommy promised he would visit, and then the two Carson trucks parted. And the rain poured on, and on, and on…

. . .

"Patrolman Hynen!"

"Yes Sergeant!" The young State Patrol Officer that had been in the back of the hall, was called out by his Sergeant. The meeting with The Man in Black had concluded and everyone was dispersing. Due to the late hour, most were headed home.

"Been meaning to ask. Have you run into this crazy bastard on an orange and black Yamaha during any of your patrols?"

"Can't say I have." Officer Hynen shrugged. "Why? Have they caused any trouble?"

"Nothing serious, but he's an arrogant fucker; no respect for us cops. I chased him into Black Moshannon twice now. Once he gets off the paved road, he just…vanishes."

"I'll keep an eye out Sergeant; two if I can manage."

"Good to know. Lemme know when you find that little shit, and his bike too; the junkyard crusher is in its future. Have a good evening, Patrolman."

"Sir." Officer Hynen said his goodnight's and drove his cruiser out to his zone. He proceeded cautiously, aware of the precious cargo stored in his head.

. . .

Clyde jerked awake. It was still raining. His best guess felt like he'd only dozed a few minutes. Between the dumpsters was too cold and wet to sleep. He looked up from the dirt to get some better bearings, and saw first a pair of shoes. Not just any shoes. Black shoes. Expensive, black shoes. Clyde only knew one person who would be wearing shoes like those on a night like that. He had been cornered.

"Hello, Mister Kauffman." The Man in Black stood above him, cloaked in his heavy coat, water dripping from his fedora's wide brim. He was not smiling. "Have you had a good rest? You know why I'm here, don't you, Mister Kauffman?"
"N-no, I, I don't…"

"Do NOT. LIE. To me, Mister Kauffman. I have neither the time, nor the patience for it. I'll ask again. Why, am I out here, in the rain and chill, talking to you, next to a dumpster?"

"Because my trailer got broken into. It was these two guys I know, Carsons they're called! Tommy and Jeff! They're…"

"Wrong answer. I have been made aware of the Carsons, with no help or thanks to you." The Man shook his briefcase. "One of their trucks has been spotted and filmed at each deployment of an Assassination Unit. G&R Fabrication will be dealt with in their turn. No, I am here because you could not be troubled to follow a most simple instruction. This morning, you poisoned a restaurant with powdered root of Water Hemlock, for petty revenge against the manager; even planting a bag of the stuff in his car."

"How, how in the hell do you know that?!"

"It is the nature of my existence to know such things."

"Wait, I thought the whole point of my job was to create chaos? You know, scare the people, make them want and clamor for police protection and martial law!"

"No. Your mission was to obey orders, in creating controlled, managed, and directed chaos. The police have confiscated the security footage and are holding it for now, because they know it shows a brother of a State Patrolman; not a locally beloved manager. Are you aware, that at this very moment, in the rain, there is a mob gathering outside Philipsburg City Hall, demanding Rick's immediate release, disclosure of the security footage, and even an investigation into the police for alleged cover-up?! Can you imagine what might be uncovered if such an investigation goes forward, or the people take it upon themselves to march on City Hall? The people must be frightened of a mysterious, external force, so they will run to their government for protection; not the other way around. Because of your Gluttinous frenzy for pain and suffering of others, you are gambling with exposure of everything your brothers, and all of us, are working for. All because you cannot stop self-pitying yourself."

"What do you know?! Who the hell are you to tell me what I can't or can feel?! I have a right to be upset, I deserve respect, don't I? Wasn't that what you told me Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, would bring?!"

"What a pathetic worm you are." The Man in Black spat with disgust. "Do you think The Red Star of The Solar Federation has achieved its glory merely because we sat around and proclaimed loudly how much we deserved it? NO! It was EARNED. With every drop of spilled Marine blood, every Corvette of our Navy lost to space, missions to frigid planets long dead, and ones still in the volcanic throes of beginning. All of it built with effort, with sacrifice, with our Pain! Pain and suffering, offered up to The Temple of Syrinx, as a testament of our exertions. But you, with your demands of respect, waste your days, holding tantrums instead of action, hoarding your pain to fill that emptiness in yourself. While we used our Pain to build a glorious Federation, you use yours as a flimsy crutch."

"I just wanted people to respect me, I wanted to feel powerful! No one to push me around or make fun of me; that they'd all be sorry! Was that too much to ask?!"

"Do you know why Gluttony is a sin, Mister Kauffman?"

"Wha…I…no?"

"Because it shows a lack of foresight, self-control, and discipline. It shows you must have every desire fulfilled in the instant, regardless of future implications. Such as, devouring your summer's harvest in the fall, leaving nothing for winter and ensuring you starve, because one day you felt more hunger than usual. This morning you made such a decision. Even though you merely needed to wait a while longer for the bounty of The Red Star of The Solar Federation, you gobbled every last seed of your stores; each seed a life you needlessly snuffed out. And now that your stores are empty, The Temple, The Red Star, Medical Mechanica, not even I, have any use for you. So you shall starve."

"No, nononoNoNONOOO! NO! Please, please no! Oh Christ, please no, don't do this to me!" Clyde tried to stand but his legs had cramped up tight. The best movement he could manage was a hobbled crawl. "I'll do anything, anything you ask! Don't make me live the rest of my life like this, a fat, kissless, unloved virgin no-life! I'll change, I can, whatever you ask…plleeeasseeeee…" His future dimmer and slipping out of reach, Clyde made on last desperate plea for mercy. The Man in Black stood silent as Clyde groveled.

"Have you finished?" The Man asked over Clyde's blubbering. "You want so desperately what I offer? Very well." He set his briefcase aside and grasped the side of the massive steel dumpster; filled with rainwater and soggy, thrown-out food. With an effortless heave, he tipped it over, spilling the sodden mass into a slop on the dirt lot. "Here! Eat your pain away, that pain you've tried to bury. The Red Star, Medical Mechanica, and I have no use for it, so bury it, smother it! Eat your Gluttony until the last bite and maybe you'll be seen redeemed before The Temple."

"Is…is…" Clyde knew what he was being ordered to do. "Please…forgive me…is there, is there…no other way?"

"It is this or slow starvation. Choose."

As Clyde tore open the first garbage bag, he was vividly reminded Casanova Nostalgia's menu was heavily Italian. Curdled cheeses, fuzzy bread, chunky milk and creams, ropes of half-eaten spaghetti, lasagna bursting with rotted beef and molds, spilled out while all the accompanying odors invaded Clyde's nose. He retched and gagged, the acidic fumes stinging his throat and eyes. He looked at The Man again, tears streaming from the odiferous clouds, and his own distress, mixing in the rain.

"Eat. Or starve." Clyde ate. He tried to find the most palatable bits, ones that would make him cough and heave the least. The Man gave no commands, no guidance. He just kept watch. Clyde feared every new bite would be the one to tip his stomach over the edge, and cause it to vomit up everything inside it. What he didn't know was it was no longer capable of such a function. Years of gorging himself at buffets and restaurants had stretched his stomach to twice the average size. While this meant he could hold more food in one sitting, it also meant the muscles around his stomach were stretched beyond their natural limits; and as of late, were beginning to tear under the tension. In short, Clyde wasn't throwing up, because his stomach muscles were too damaged to make him.

The first sign of trouble came when he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. His stomach as pushing tightly against his bottom ribs. Since he was on his hands and knees, he wasn't feeling any pressure on his liver, intestines, or other organs. Yet. But the sharpness of the pain slashed like a knife across his stomach, and he when he groaned a mouthful of food fell onto the ground with a soggy splat.

"Please…my stomach…hurts…"

"Eat. Or starve." Five minutes had turned to ten, fifteen, twenty, and Clyde lost track. Now the pain was constant and spreading along widening seams. His already ponderous gut was approaching a caricature like bulge beneath him. Cramps in his shoulders, shivers from the damp and cold, labored breathing, all restricted his movements, while his internal spring was running out of tension to keep him moving. Another handful of food to a swollen mouth, an aching jaw and chattering teeth; half would make it down while the other half dribbled down his chin and neck. Finally, after exceeding its limit and valiantly holding as long as possible, Clyde's stomach capitulated. Splitting along a muscle seam, its entire contents surged into the rest of Clyde's body.

A scream, shout, or cry, does not lend justice to the inhuman sounds Clyde made as his stomach acid began attacking everything it touched. While the walls of his stomach were designed with those fluids in mind, the rest of his body was completely defenseless. Clyde was being slowly dissolved from the inside out. The Man in Black betrayed no emotion good or ill, as Clyde expired.

"It seems your pain is finally being buried. A shame it had to be under such circumstances." The Man in Black consulted his pocketwatch, stowed it, and hefted his case. Tipping his hat forward in parting respects, as Clyde rasped and writhed, The Man in Black readied to leave. "Fare thee well, Mister Clyde Ryan Kauffman."

The Man in Black turned smartly on his heel and faded into the night. The last sign of him were his shoes making tracks in the mud, but their sound was quickly drowned out by the surrounding din. Clyde had been left alone to experience the same agony he had wrought upon so many others. He had tried calling for help, but was too weak to manage above a squeaking cry. Stomach acids attacked his intestines first, then began working on his kidneys. Once those began feeling the burn of acid, Clyde lost even his ability to writhe and thrash while his body ate itself. After an agonizing eternity and losing his intestines, liver, kidneys, and appendix to his stomach's last act of revenge, he finally passed from the Earth. And the rain continued to pour, and pour…and pour…

. . .


Songs:

*Boogie No More - Molly Hatchet

**Too Scared to Run - Uriah Heep

Now, we had the fights between the Assassination Units and our colorful cast. But this fight felt a lot more visceral, infinitely more personal. It's one thing to bring down a giant robot. It's quite another thing to watch, to feel, someone die right in front of you. As I mentioned in this blurb section last chapter, I did not go with the 'five pounds of shit in a two pound sack' for the incident at Clyde's. Tommy and Rig were (hopefully) shown less of bloodthirsty hit-men, and more of two guys caught between a rock and a hard place.

I had tried to think of a 'fail-safe' or as I mentioned previously, 'Samson Option' for Clyde if he'd been caught. If you don't believe in man-made Armageddon, give that a look-up. But I will admit, I could not think of one I could make work. Sorry about that. :/ Lye was the best I could come up with that he would have immediately on hand, accessible right then and there. If anyone has seen 'Fight Club', you know its power.

More of Cole was introduced, and like I said...he's a real hoot at parties huh? He's one of those guys you can see coming a mile away that makes you say 'Oh shit...here come's Captain Buzzkillington...' Then again, if I had to be the patriarch of the Kauffman family and put up with the likes of just who we've met, Craig and Clyde, I'd trend towards being a grumpy, insufferable, authoritarian asshole myself.

Haruko, Naota, and Rig, all together, acting like normal teenagers (and whatever the hell Haurko is) and just having a good time. And Molly Hatchet! What's not to love?! Well, the glimpse inside the memories stored in Haruko's brain-case is good too. Make of it, what, you will...something about Rabbit Holes...

Also, know that I am including streets, roads and towns to keep my own mind straight when talking about these places, and so you can better follow along. Go ahead and bring up Google Maps, follow along; everywhere mentioned is really real! It'll be as close to having pictures in a fanfiction story as you can get. Immerse yourself.

We also met Officer Hynen; and you thought we were done with introductions...he'll be another person of interest. I do hope you're keeping your spreadsheets updated.

Finally, Clyde has left us. This time he was VASTLY improved I think, but do not believe I am sorry to see him go. The traditional punishment for Gluttony is, from the stories I've read, being forced to eat rats, serpents, and other foul beasts. That I could also not figure out how to work, but eating garbage has to be close enough for that grenade.

Well...let me see...that, yeah. That about does it, for now anyway. Now I know. "Don't let you think you can get away with slacking off for another four months since you gave us two chapters BigCountry-75!" My grey is gone, I'm in a much better mood, and there will be more in short, proper order. Until then, as always, you know the drill. Please let me know how I'm doing, especially with the changes from last time, and leave a review! Thanks again for reading, until...June?...May? :P