Guerilla cocktails

Well, it's holiday season again and that may mean, for some people, lame parties and no booze but fear not my fellow office drones, Uncle Bernie has done some research and found a solution to sneaking in that medicinal cocktail.



Personally, I'm not really a martini fan. (My late Grandfather may be disappointed.) Mostly because, I don't like the taste of straight vodka, especially cheap vodka, and partly because I don't like olives. I'm not keen on this fellows over use of vermouth either. But this could work for a number of other cocktails. To my superiors at Montgomery Media, make mine a Rob Roy.

Things I am grateful for...

First and foremost, I am thankful for parents who are loving and supportive despite all of my strange whims and moods. Without them and my sister and my friends, I doubt I would be the man I am today.
I am thankful that my life is far from boring. I constantly wake up to find some new challenge to conquer or beauty that is unfolded to me.
I am also grateful for a undamaged brain (or damaged depending on your point of view) and a gifted imagination. I have participated in National Novel Writing Month for the second time in two years. I have completed the task both times in roughly the same time as last year but this time I still have more story to tell which is phenomenal.
And I give my congratulations to Wrimo rookie Elliot Deal for completing NaNoWriMo this year as well.
To celebrate in keeping with my support of the written word and small business, I will be reading "T'was the Night Before Christmas" for children at 2 p.m. and the selections from David Sedaris' "Holidays On Ice" at 7.30 p.m. at The Spiral Bookcase I hope to see you there.

A new piece of information

Well, we've come to that great national holiday where families stuff themselves, trying to put relatives into a food coma so they won't beat them in line to any shopping specials. We also talk about how great the Indians were in helping Pilgrim colonists from starving while their ultimate reward were pestilence, abuse and ridicule.
But that's an essay oft repeated...now, we know here in East Falls there are a number of people buried in Laurel Hill Cemetery. (The late great Harry Kalas comes to mind.) But this person is connected to Turkey Day. I'll let Gwen Kaminski, Director of Development & Programs at LHC explain:

There would be no Thanksgiving if not for Sarah Josepha Hale...

When we think of Thanksgiving, the traditional story of Plymouth's Pilgrims and Native Americans coming together to give thanks for a bountiful harvest most often comes to mind. This celebration occurred in 1621, while the United States was still a colony under British rule.

However, long after America earned her independence, the significance of Thanksgiving remained unrealized. In 1827, Sarah Josepha Hale began a 40-year campaign, lobbying five presidents and numerous congressman to commemorate Thanksgiving as a national holiday. Finally, in 1863, her persistence paid off, when President Abraham Lincoln issued his Thanksgiving Proclamation declaring the last Thursday of every November a national day of thanks.

Widowed and penniless at the age of 34 with five small children to raise, Hale was determined to ensure her family's survival. She became the first editor of the first woman's magazine in the United States, Godey's Lady's Book. She was the first to start daycare nurseries for working women, and the first to campaign for equal education for American girls, helping to organize Vassar College. Hale insisted on the term "domestic science" to decribe the noble art of housewifery, and introduced the word "lingerie" into the English language as a way to catergorize a woman's underwardrobe. She raised money both to complete the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown, Massachusetts, and to preserve Mount Vernon as a national historic site. The author of numerous books and poems, her most famous was included in a collection of children's poetry entitled "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Hale died on April 30, 1879 at the ripe old age of 90, and was interred in Section X, Lot 61 at Laurel Hill Cemetery, the first necropolis in the United States to be honored as a National Historic Landmark. Without question, Sarah Josepha Hale earned her peaceful rest at Laurel Hill.

NaNoWriMo 2010 Excerpt

Hello everyone. Contracts and this new novel have been keeping me busy lately. Here's a morsel of my work. You can follow my progress by clicking here

France 1916

The smell of rotting flesh wafted over No Man’s Land seemed to settle into every nook and cranny of the British Trench. Captain Sebastian Collins was crouched down low smoking a cigarette. It was still light so he was not so worried about snipers quite yet. It had been unusually quiet. That unnerved him immensely. At least, when the shelling started Collins knew something was up. But as yet, no word from Division HQ.

Corporal David Jones, known as Daffy, kept watch on the periscope. A rat scuttled across Collins’ feet. They were not uncommon in the Trenches of this war. The war to end war, they were calling it. The endless war, the lads on the front joked.

It had been some months after the Somme Offensive. Collins couldn’t quite remember how long; days seemed to just blur into each other. Collins remembered that it was a slaughterhouse. Collins swore that some officers must have told their men it was be like walking in the park. Soldiers played tag and kicked footballs across the grass…at least until the German started shooting at them. The screaming and crying started; then it was a struggle just to stay alive. Collins barely made it through those hellish days. His uniform was torn from the near misses. Collins watched young men going "over the top", the term invented to describe going over the parapet of the trench, to attack the enemy trench line, into a maelstrom of fire leading to certain death.

Collins read in an old newspaper that Field Marshall Douglas Haig considered the situation ‘Generally favorable’. That bastard should come down here and say that, thought Collins. In his long experience Collins had noted there was even more than the usual incompetent and narrow-minded commanders who failed to adapt to the new conditions of trench warfare: class-ridden and backward-looking generals who put their faith in the attack, believing superior morale and dash would overcome the mechanical weapons but moral inferiority of the defender. Had they learned nothing from Sevastopol or South Africa, thought Collins, shuddering at the thought of the cold Crimea and The Charge of the Light Brigade…but that was years ago.

Collins finished his cigarette and headed to his dugout. The earthen hut was dug into the earth. There was space for a few men. This was an officer’s dugout. In the corner near the door was a telephone to Division HQ. There was a desk and dark lantern. There was a bunk beds for the more junior officers and a cots for himself and Lieutenant Miles Hodgkiss. Hodgkiss was a new boy. His former bunk mate, Lieutenant Michael Graves bought the farm when an errant shell landed in a trench. He was helping a injured comrade to the medical area. There was not much left of either of them to fill one casket, let alone two. Collins wondered if the shell came from the Germans or from their own boys.

There were two younger junior lieutenants and a staff sergeant playing cards at the table. All look like they could do with a wash. Collins sniffed himself. So could he for that matter.

All this madness because one unkempt Slavic terrorist shot the inbred heir to the Austro-Hungarian Throne; everyone knew the Balkans was a powder keg but children just love to play with fire, didn’t they?

Just then the telephone rang. Collins answered it on the second ring.

“Kaiser-Wilhelm-Privathaus, das Fritz ist der Butler, ist mein Herr aus Absaugen eine junge Ziege, kann ich eine Nachricht, Britisher Schwein? Ja,” said Collins, into the phone.

“Not very funny, Captain Collins,” said the man on the other end, Major Thomas Milligan. Collins found Milligan completely without humor or taste.

“Sorry, sir, must be shellshock, sir,” said Collins.

“Again, not funny, Captain Collins. There is no such thing as shellshock and you know it,” said Milligan.

“You know it. I know it but tell that to the soldiers stand it two feet of shit and rotting flesh and think they are in Skegness, sir,” said Collins.

“All right, all right, that quite enough Captain Collins. You have an assignment,” said Milligan, taking every opportunity to remind Collins of his inferiority. If only you knew who I am, thought Collins, Milligan would be shitting himself.

“I thought you called to say you loved me, sir,” said Collins. The men at the table were listening to the conversation and snickered.

“Collins,” Milligan snapped.

“Sorry, sir, what’s the job as the boys here say,” said Collins.

“You’re going on a raid,” said Milligan.

Collins’ command would temporarily be given to Hodgkiss. Milligan was told that he was to meet his team at a certain map coordinates. Collins grabbed a pencil and wrote down the place. It was a few miles from his position. He could slowly make his way via a serpentine route through a myriad of trenches. Collins knew some of them already, Rangers Walk, Black Watch Run, Borders Barricade. Collins had some friends through all of them. Collins took his watch from his tunic pocket. He had few hours before his got going. He looked at his watched and wondered how much easier it would be if he could strap it to his wrist. Collins wrote a letter to Lt. Hodgkiss and joined the younger officers at the table.

It was black as pitch when Collins arrived at his destination. The star burst shells fired from both sides of No Man’s land often made him flinch. If they were caught under that light, his raid would be done for. Collins knew the trick was to get from shell crater to shell crater between bursts.

Collins wore a dark knit cap instead of his usual soft peaked trench cap. Collins used burned cork and mud to cover his face. He had a leather jerkin over his tunic which also obscured his rank pips. He had taken to wearing the pips on his shoulder rather than his sleeve. He was well back from the main trenches. He sat by the side of the road and light up another cigarette. Collins light up using a device a young private had made using different sized shell casings. It was a lighter and worked very well. Collins was a staunch briar pipe smoker but the war forced him to smoke quickly. War was no place to truly enjoy the pleasures of good tobacco. Collins dearly wished to be fanning himself in a hammock somewhere in India. Being fed Tiffin by a comely Indian rajah’s daughter; Collins fondly remember those glory days.

A truck could be heard coming closer. Collins stood up and tossed away the cigarette. He stepped back from the road a little. Small slits of light could be seen coming toward him. He held up a hand. The truck slowed down and stopped next to him. Collins heard a loud crash of the tailgate opening.

“Move, move, move you apes,” Collins heard a voice whisper loudly. There was distinct lack of accent in the voice. Canadians, Collins knew the accent well. They were good people in his opinion. They mixed the liberties of the United States but kept the common sense of Europe. Very interesting, he thought, I wonder if I am being tested.

Collins walked behind the truck as a squad of six men. All were dressed as similarly as he was. Collins noticed the flashes on their shoulders, definitely Canadians.

“Whose in charge here,” asked Collins.

“Who wants to know,” barked a beefy man with three khaki chevrons on his sleeve.

“I’m Captain Sebastian Collins, 15^th Infantry Division,” said Collins. “Who the devil are you?”

“Sergeant Major Leonard Shipley, 3^rd Canadian Infantry Battalion,” said Shipley.

“Toronto, huh,” said Collins.

“Yessir,” said Shipley.

“Great town,” said Collins.

“The best,” said Shipley, proudly.

“I think Sergeant Major, we’ll get along just fine,” said Collins.

“May I ask what our assignment is, sir,” asked Shipley.

“You may but I don’t have an answer,” said Collins.

“I do, gentlemen,” spoke a man behind Collins. He was a thin man in peaked cap. He had the gorget tabs of a staff officer. On his sleeve was the rank of major. Collins wheeled around to stand alongside Shipley. It was here that Collins realized it was Major Milligan.

“You could have warned me that he was there,” whispered Collins to Shipley.

“You didn’t ask politely,” Shipley whispered back.

“You two, quite finished,” said Major Milligan, twitching his mustache.

“Yessir,” said Collins and Shipley in unison.

“Good,” said Milligan, holding a swagger stick in one leather gloved hand. As he talked down, pulled a pocket watch out of his tunic pocket. “Here is your assignment. We expect to meet to meet you back here by 1030, is that clear. You should have plenty of time.”

Collins looked at his own watch. It was 14 hours for a raid. By 1030, the sun would be well up in the sky. They would have to be back well before then. That left them with a mere seven hours in which to complete their mission, whatever the assignment was. Milligan handed Collins a sealed envelope. The major turned and walked back to the truck.

“What, no good bye kiss, sweetie,” said Collins after Milligan. The major paused then continued to the truck. The squad laughed.

“Yes, I do think that we will get along fine, sir,” said Shipley.

Shipley introduced Collins to the other members of the squad. They were all young volunteers from Toronto fresh of school and ready to perform their duty in the service of the Empire. Another star burst shell flashed overhead in the distance. Collins opened his sealed orders:

Division HQ - 3rd Company BEF

Col. Horace Cuthbert-Saxon, commanding

To: Capt. Sebastian Collins

RE: Gas Attack

Intelligence reports that the Imperial German Army has been working on a new secret gas formula and are planning on testing the weapon on our lines. The complete effects of this new weapon are not yet completely known but initial reports suggest that any mask and countermeasure would be useless.

Your task is to infiltrate behind the German lines and try to retrieve a cylinder of this new weapon or barring that destroy all known quantities. This weapon must not be used in the field at any cost.

You have given a Canadian squad who all have some training in German to help get behind the lines. Any information you receive behind the lines will also be used in our efforts to win the war.

God Speed and Good Save the King.

-Message end-

Great, a fucking suicide mission, thought Collins. Collins looked at his squad; all able-bodied men. Guess he’ll have to show those bastards what he was really made of. Collins had decided that he was immediately choosing the latter option of demolition, his orders be damned. He’s was not going to have his men lug cylinders of poison over No Man’s Land. Then the boffins would create their own version to lob back at the Boche. But we’ll fuck up the wind and have it blown back at our own troops. Like Ypres all over again, the fucking idiots. No way was Collins letting more death happen on his watch. The truck started away. Shipley looked at Collins.

“Looks like we’re playing with an empty net,” said Collins.

“That bad, eh, sir,” said Collins. Collins circled the men informed them of their mission excluding the bit about retrieval.

“Das ist gut,” said Collins.

“Jawohl,” they all replied.

Collins led the men toward the lines. When they got to the forward trench, Collins inspected them all in the dim half-light of the lantern light. He dirtied up the men who looked too clean. Before going over the top, he shook the skeleton hand that hung above him over the parapet.

“See you later, Charlie,” said Collins, to the hand.

Collins quickly climbed over the top and lay flat on the ground slowly crawling toward the enemy lines. Collins heard the slight ‘plop’ sound each man make behind him. The lines were a mere 75 yards away but that would seem like miles at the rate they had to move to be undetectable. Collins worried that a star burst shell would burn and they would be spotted. Bullets from both sides would surely get them. Collins did not like the sensation of being shot, it was unpleasant but it happens in wartime. It had happened to him more than he would liked to have counted but he was thankfully to whatever higher being was looking out for him that he had never been hit with any sort of artillery fire. That was one of the messiest ways to buy the farm, thought Collins. At least, for all their worth in the grand scheme of dying, bullets were small and quick.

Slowly, achingly, Collins and the squad of Canadian made their way toward the lines. The fetid stink was clinging to their nostrils. The cold night kept down the stink but they were keeping close to the ground. A crater lay before Collins. He crawled to its gaping maw and dropped in not a moment later, a star shell lit out the night. Shipley and two others dropped in after Collins.

“Get down,” hissed Collins.

Collins waited a moment. There was nothing. No ‘pop-pop’s coming from the barrels of Mauser rifles. No sewing machine noises from machine guns. Nothing. That made Collins even more nervous. By this point in the war, the star bursts were colored and this one signaled Bombardment. Collins could hear no firing; no whistling signaling incoming or outgoing hate mail. Collins and the others waited until the shell burned out and climbed out of the crater. He looked around. The other three raised their heads. Everyone was accounted for.

“Forward,” he hissed.

The men made it to the barbed wire fence. Two of the squad started cutting. Collins tensed waiting for the sound of gunfire. Again, no came. This was very serious, thought Collins. The soldiers continued on to the next set of wires. Collins and the others followed. They reached the edge of the German trench. They were all quiet. There was no sound from the down below. No banter, no chit chat, no sounds of any kind. Now Collins was just baffled but one had to err on the side of caution or all their work would be for naught. Collins looked over the parapet. No one was there. He slipped down into the German trench and motioned for the others to do the same but keep quiet. Collins unholstered his Webley Mark IV revolver. He had had this pistol since the days before the Boer uprising in the south of Africa. It’s weight was a physical reassurance for him.

He slowly made his way down the dugout. After a few feet his felt his feet catch something. Booby trap! He stopped and motioned the others brace themselves. He tensed up. Nothing. Collins looked around. There was nothing. Collins looked down. He boots were wrapped around in a dark green-gray uniform of a German officer.

“Clear,” hissed Collins. The men sighed with relief.

As they made their way down, the men noticed there were other empty uniforms just lying around. There was light grayish powder coming out of the arm and neck holes. Collins noted this. What had happened here? They were coming to the entrance of a dug out. Collins heard a noise. He directed two of the squad to flush out the room.

The men could hear a struggle. A glass was broken and tins tinkered. They could hear a German man crying in terror.

“My God, My God, no, no, not me, please, not me. Not like that,” said the German. Collins heard a trace of Bavarian accent.

The Canadians brought out the prisoner. A young German private. He was dirty. His field cap missing. He had dirt caked in his hair and his eyes betrayed that he had been crying for some time. Looking at the men, the private looked relieved. Collins spoke to him in German.

“Relax. Calm down, private,” said Collins. The man stopped struggling.

“We’re friends. Uhlan commandos back from a raid. We had to avoid a British patrol, got lost and only just arrived. What has been going on here,” asked Collins.

“Horrible, horrible. The thing. It just takes you. Horrible. All dead,” said the Private, who fell to his knees sobbing again.

Collins felt sorry for the poor boy. He was a mere youth who had seen a lot of death. All of them had. Collins got down on one knee and offered the man a cigarette, being careful not to show the package. The private took one.

“What is your name,” asked Collins.

“Schultz, Hans Schultz, Private, 14^th Infantry,” said Schultz, calming down puffing on the cigarette nervously.

“I’m Major Maximillian Klein, 2^nd Uhlans. These are my men. Schultz tell us what’s being happening,” asked Collins.

“It began earlier. Sergeant Tjaden said the artillery had some new weapon to drive the British back to their island. We heard a clanging then a shout then nothing. That’s when it began. The thing. It gets us without warning. It is silence, death incarnate,” said Schultz, looked away, down the dark trench the squad had come from.

“What thing? What does it look like,” said Collins.

“Like that,” said Schultz, trembling as he pointed down the trench.

All was dark that way but there was a faint wisp of what looked like vapor. One of the squad walked down the trench. He walked a few yards ahead. The men saw as he walked into a bit of the mist. The Canadian soldier turned around to the other men.

“There is nothing here,” he said.

No sooner had he uttered these words then the mist grew thick around the solider. They saw a vague outline of his arms rising up. Collins felt Schultz grip his trouser leg tightly. The young German was whimpering. Poor fellow, Collins thought.

The mist cleared. The men saw only the soldier’s clothes. On the ground, there was more of the whitish-gray dust.

“Davis,” cried one of the other troopers.

Schultz was startled. He backed away from the squad.

“You’re not Uhlans. You’re British,” said Schultz, backing further.

“Schultz, come back,” said Collins, in German.

“No, no, you are the enemy,” said Schultz.

“Schultz,” said Collins, pointing his revolver at the German soldier.

“Shoot him, sir,” said Shipley.

Schultz took a deep breath to yell for help as he did. The squad saw him inhale some of the mist which had crept up behind him. Schultz’s eyes bulged in horror as he realized what had happened. His mouth opened to scream by no noise came out. He reached up to the sky as he fell to his knees. The squad watched helplessly as his skin began gray then white, his vein bulged black against the skin. Empty blisters formed on the skin. The pustules would grow, opened and spew out whitish-gray dust. His short hair fell out. Then Schultz’s eyes rolled back far into his head melting, his sockets empty and he faced the sky. Slowly, his body began evaporating in front of them. The German’s uniform slowly sinking onto the ground. Collins noted there was no liquid anywhere.

“Move,” shouted Collins, directing them away from the area. Collins was now completely certain that they were going to blow up those new canisters, even if it meant the death of the entire squad. Collins worried that if this is what one of them unleashed, then more could consume all of creation. Perhaps this was the war to end all wars. If the Central Powers were willing to launch devastating weapons like this; they were mad to fire weapons that would ultimately lead to their own destruction. Collins wondered what the key to neutralizing this mist was.

Collins, Shipley and the remaining Canadian zigged and zagged through a network of trench work until they came to a large pit with an artillery piece covered in camouflage netting. The Canadians pulled off tarpaulin from the shells. They found a couple of groups marked with red skull and crossbones. One shell cylinder was knocked over and open. Collins assumed this is where everything started. He holstered his gun.

“This must be the place. Get to work,” said Collins.

“Hold,” came a new voice. It was in perfect English with an accent Collins recognized.

“De Klerk,” Collins gritted.

“Collins,” hissed De Klerk.

The South African was dressed in an officer’s uniform with peaked cap. The cap had a dark green ring on it and cockades that Collins was not familiar with quite yet. He was impeccably clean, Collins was certain the man never visits the front that often. He was holding them all at gun point. A sparkling Luger pistol.

“Who the fuck are you,” said Shipley.

“Silence, insolent cur,” said De Klerk. “Tell them, Sebastian.”

“Sir,” said Shipley, inquisitively.

“He is Major Piter Wilhelm De Klerk, formerly of Her Britannic Majesty’s South African Rifles and Chrisitaan De Wet’s Kommando,” said Collins. “Be careful, he’s a dangerous fellow.”

De Klerk smiled smugly. He reached out and tore open Collins’ jerkin and looked at the shoulder.

“A captain, that’s a come down for you isn’t it,” said De Klerk.

“Stop it, De Klerk,” said Collins, who spotted a shovel standing up near near his feet.

“Damn Boer traitor,” said one of the Canadians.

“I’m a mercenary. Tell them, Sebastian. My country was dissolved by the British. I’ve never had a real country. So there was nothing to betray. My skills are for the highest bidder. His Imperial Majesty, The Kaiser, Wilhelm II and the German Military High Command felt my services could be of some used to him and the Reich. My latest project seems to have exceeded my expectations, I must say,” said De Klerk.

“You made that thing,” said Collins, who moved his body to hide the shovel behind him. His hand slowly reached for it.

“Oh yes, beautiful don’t you think,” said De Klerk.

“It’s killing your own men,” said Shipley.

“Ha. With this slaughterhouse called a war, no one will miss them, they are nothing but sheep. Your General thinks the same of your own troops, why else would they send out the infantry to be mowed down like a field of wheat. Everyone has to die sometime,” said De Klerk who looked away from Collins.

That’s when the British captain struck. He swung the shovel as hard as he could. He didn’t bother to control it and the flat side struck De Klerk across the face. De Klerk fired wildly. Collins felt a searing pain in his shoulder but he could feel the hand attached to it and could move it. He looked down and saw it was a mere flesh wound.

The other soldiers fell on him; hitting them with the butt of their rifles until he was quite still. They found some barbed wire and tied him with it to a wooden post holding up the netting. Then they set about connecting the shells to explode. All were wiry that the mist might come and stop them permanently. De Klerk became conscious again.

“Barbed wire, how spiteful,” he said smugly and spit blood out of his mouth.

“The Mist, how do you stop it,” said Collins.

De Klerk laughed. Collins punched him on the face.

“How do you stop it,” said Collins.

“Stop what,” said De Klerk, who then giggled.

Collins punched him again.

“The Mist,” Collins shouted.

“Oh that,” said De Klerk, who smiled again. “It burns itself out in the daylight. The radiation from sunlight is too much for it.”

“What,” said Collins. De Klerk laughed.

“How much of this stuff is there,” asked Collins.

“I think you can see that for yourself. It’s not exactly easy to produce and now these mindless peasants broke a canister and unleashed hell,” said De Klerk.

“As you said, who would notice in all this,” said Collins.

Collins took his pocket watch out his tunic again. It was after one in the morning. He found it curious that no one had sent patrols to check this part of the line. Collins guessed that the mist must have taken care of that.

The men had placed Mills bombs inside a formation of munitions. The pins were tied to a thin cord. When they were far enough, they would pull the cord and run. They hoped to get to their lines, with luck they might not be shot by their own men.

“Is that the watch Elizabeth gave you,” asked De Klerk, Collins thought he sounded even smugger. Collins ignored him. De Klerk spoke again.

“She never screamed for help. Never begged. She fought hard, that was certainly unexpected. I always did respect her for that.”

Collins unholstered his pistol cocked it and pointed at his Boer nemesis. De Klerk looked at him with mock innocence. The men stopped and watched. Collins stood a moment before uncocking his weapon.

“Is everything ready,” Collins asked Shipley.

“Yes, sir,” said Sgt. Shipley.

“Right. Let’s get back,” said Collins.

“MIST,” shouted a trooper, falling back to the trench with his comrades.

During their work, the mist had crept up behind the entrenched artillery pit. It moved almost like a single cell organism that Collins had once seen in a microscope. It moved slowly, circling inward toward them. It stopped at where De Klerk was wired up. The mad German officer laughed.

“Shipley, fall back,” said Collins.

“You heard him, you apes, fall back, move, move, move,” barked Shipley.

The five men ran back down the trench only Shipley and Collins remained. Collins still faced De Klerk and the mist. He called over his shoulder.

“Shipley, fall back, make sure they get back safe. Understand. When you’ve fallen back to the right distance, pull the cord. I’ll be right behind you,” said Collins.

“Sir,” questioned Shipley.

“Do it, Sergeant,” ordered Collins.

“Sir,” snapped Shipley, who saluted turned and fell back down the trench.

“I see your pet recognizes its master,” said Collins.

“Of course, I used my own blood as a primer,” said De Klerk. “It’s almost a physical extension of my wrath.”

“Most ingenious, The Peers won’t be pleased when they learn about your little escapade here,” said Collins.

De Klerk laughed defiantly.

“You and your Knight of the Round Table. White hat cowboys, ha. I have defied you for the last few decades and until this brand new century and I will continue to do so until you are all wiped away from the whole of creation,” spat De Klerk.

“Many have tried and I am still waiting for someone to do it,” said Collins.

“Tonight may be your lucky night. Release me,” said De Klerk.

The mist formed thickly behind the pole De Klerk was tired to. Within second the wire fell from his chest in one piece. Collins could see the wire was cut cleanly.

“Position,” ordered De Klerk. The mist formed thickly into a large pillar slightly taller than its master.

Come on, Shipley, thought Collins. He then notice that the wire fluttered then dropped. Time for Plan B. Collins started backing toward the trench as De Klerk brushed himself off. De Klerk looked at him.

“Where do you think you are going,” said De Klerk.

“For a little cricket practice,” said Collins, grabbing a bomb from his belt. He pulled the pin and threw a googly at De Klerk. The man fumbled the bomb and lost it in some munitions. Collins ran as fast as he could down the trench. He faintly heard a shriek saying ‘Protect me.’ And then the world became all whiteness and silence.

Collins felt numb as if he were lifted by angels, he was light on his feet then he noticed he was floating above the trench, sailing above it. He looked ahead and saw the edge of No Man’s Land rise up in front of him. Collins felt the wind leave his body and he left numb and the world went black.

Shipley, the squad and both lines heard the explosion. The sequence of munitions going off gave the battlefield an unearthly dim glow. The Canadian moved quietly and slowly back to their line. Shipley hoped none them would be shot by some trigger happy idiot conscript.

The sun rose up in the sky as it is want to do when it is morning. Shipley and the squad lay on the grass field by the rendezvous point by the road. It was now bright morning. Shipley check his watch. It was 1025. Five minutes until the truck was to meet them. The men were dirty and dead tired. They had seen some horror that night. It took them a few minutes before they believed the earlier morning haze was just harmless water vapor. Shipley reminded them what that mad German officer had said. The Deadly Mist would burn off in the sunlight.

The men passed around a canteen of water and tinned meat. It tasted like salty clay paste but it was better than roasted rat carcass or eating nothing at all. Shipley heard a few birds chirp. It had been a while since he had noticed that. Funny how this war deafened you and yet made you appreciate the tiny, most beautiful details in life. Shipley heard a motor in the distance then saw a truck approaching. It was the same from earlier.

“Mount up, you apes, we have company,” barked Shipley.

The men cleaned up their food, slung their bags and rifles over their shoulder. They formed a single line parallel line facing the road. Shipley saw the Major, Milligan was what Collins had said his name was, who brought them on their mission sitting in the passenger seat of the truck. The truck pulled up next to their position and stopped. Major Milligan got out. The men saluted. Milligan returned their salute.

“Welcome back, men,” said Milligan, looking over the survivors of the raid. “Ah, where is Captain Collins?”

“Sir,” started Shipley, “Sir, I regret to inform you that Captain Collins has unfortunately been…uh…unfortunately been…”

“Unfortunately, Captain Sebastian Collins had been unavoidably been detained,” said a familiar voice shouted from a few yards away.

All present looked over and saw a man wearing a uniform filthy with blood and dirt and torn in various places. He was limping his way toward them. The officer, as could be seen from his one epaulette, had a few burns on his dirt caked face but was grinning. Milligan stood agape at the sight. Shipley recognized him immediately. The Canadian sergeant and another soldier, Private Harper, ran toward him each taking Collins under and arm. Collins winced when Shipley moved the shoulder injured by the flesh wound.

“Sorry, sir,” said Shipley.

“No worries, sergeant, but do be gentle. I seem to be quite fragile at the moment,” said Collins.

“As gingerly as an ice sculpture, sir,” said Shipley.

The squad cheered as Collins was brought into the fold. Collins saluted Major Milligan, who reluctantly returned the honor.

“Sir, Mission accomplished but I regret to report that we had one casualty during our mission. Private Davis. I recommend full honors be sent to his family,” said Collins.

Major Milligan twitched his neatly clipped mustache. “Due to the nature of this mission, gentlemen, there must be no word of this to anyone. You are under strict orders not to breathe a word of this mission to anyone. No honors will be handed out,” said the Major.

“Pardon me, Sir,” said Collins, stiffening.

Major Milligan raised his hand. “Gentlemen, I agree that it is a ridiculous reward for your efforts but I am authorized to grant you certain requests; pay bonuses, extra leave time, etc. All in addition on top of your convalescent rest after this little incident, no doubt grueling enterprise. But we shall discuss these matters back at the chateau for debriefing.”

A motor could be heard faintly in the distance. The men looked down the road for another truck before their eyes looked up. In the sky flying low above them as a Sopwith Pup; the wings were painted with the Blue, White and Red bull’s-eye of the Royal Flying Corps. The pilot buzzed his aeroplane overheard as he passed toward the battlefield beyond, the plane dipped its wings back and forth in greeting and climbed into the sky.

“I have a request, sir,” said Collins.

“Yes, what would that be, Capt. Collins,” asked the Major, obviously annoyed.

“I want to transfer to the Flying Corps, sir,” said Collins, smiling.

Nightmare on Noël

For those of you following my progress with NaNoWriMo this year. You'll know I'm writing the first full-length novel for my creations Sir Sebastian Collins and Jacob 'Jake' McIntyre. I present here their first adventure together.

This story was first first published in The Review on Dec. 26, 2007. Artwork by B. Terry Hatcher.

“There’s a world outside your window and it’s a world of dread and fear. Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears and the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom…”

-Band Aid, “Do they know it’s Christmas?”

It was just before the impact that broke his nose; Jake realized Christmas was more of a hassle than a holiday. For Jake, it was a simple get in-wait in an incredibly long and winding line-get out maneuver that everyone experiences when shopping at the last minute. Jake had not counted on fisticuffs with an apparently desperate housefrau and her bowling ball bag.

“Gahwah!” was the only thing Jake could say at impact.

This year’s popular craze was these life-like dolls called Wannabes. They were the absolute rage. These dolls were highly detailed (in every respect) and only available in limited editions. Also, every doll wore a piece of jewelry with the same red-green crystal. The leadership of the great upscale collectable maker, Lennox, was stumped as to how something so meticulously made could be so affordable for the holiday.

Jake was only home from University for a few weeks and this is how had he had ended up within a few short hours of coming home. Like a whirlwind, Jake had dropped his stuff off, briefly spoke with his family and then was of into the early evening to, at that time metaphorically, battle against the tide of last minute holiday shoppers. Jake blinked, then looked down at himself. Blood had started to dribble from his swollen nose.

“Here, my dear boy, I think you are in need of this,” said a man.

He was holding out a white handkerchief to him. There was something in the man’s kindly expression that made Jake accept the offering.

“I saw the whole thing,” the man continued as Jake worked to staunch the bleeding, “I say, you look like a hacked up Marty McFly, what a tragedy.”

Jake felt a little dizzy. The man reached out to steady him.

“Hold on, let’s get you looked at,” said the man.

The man drove Jake to the emergency room at Roxborough Memorial Hospital. There ws not much in the way of conversation in the man’s car, unless one counted the repeated orders of “Keep your head tilted!” “Keep the pressure on!” and “Don’t worry about bleeding on my car seat!”

The man kept silent while waiting at the hospital. His face would return to a brooding expression after looking around the ER waiting room. There were a number of cases that evening. The man looked up when the nurse called Jake’s name. He followed along with the nurse having a few words. The two conspired like old friends; the nurse looked over a Jake and chuckled.

“Oh my, that injury won’t be hidden by any amount of make-up,” said the nurse, looking at Jake’s swollen proboscis. “This way, sir. Everything has been taken care of by your gentleman friend.”

Jake turned as the mysterious Samaritan was making his way out of the hospital.

“Who are you,” asked Jake, slightly dizzy.

“Oh, dig deep enough and you’ll find out,” said the man. “Until tomorrow, then.”

The man left twirling his walking stick. Jake reach into his pocket for his cell phone and felt an object that wasn’t there earlier. It was a business card that read:

Roxborough-Manayunk Guardian-Sentinel, Sebastian Collins, editor and business address a few blocks from the hospital.

Jake walked out into the early evening. Since it was after business hours, there was no use in going to the office listed on the card and Jake was not ready to go home. He did the only thing a college senior could do: he went to a bar.

The next morning, Jake’s head, naturally, throbbed mercilessly.

“At least, it’s my head and not my nose,” muttered Jake to himself.

At that moment, Jake’s nasal region decided to join the pain in his head, necessitating the need for Jake to pop a few aspirin before facing his folks.

Through the haze, Jake remembered the sympathy shots that the cute bartender poured for him last night. Jake received a shot every time he came up with an original reason his nose was busted. As a journalism major and staff writer at his college newspaper, he was pretty adept at tall tales. The reasons, of course, got more outrageous as the night wore on.

“My heaven’s, what happened to you last night,” gasped Jake’s mom.

“Santa Claus winged me in his sleigh,” said Jake.

Parents are not as clueless as their children think they are. More often then not, like Jake’s mom, are just prone to jump to conclusions.

“You were in a bar fight weren’t you,” said Jake’s mom, looking at Jake’s dad. “I knew you’d get into trouble one of these days. I bet you, dear, it was one of those Dooley children causing trouble again.”

Jake’s dad looked at his son with mild amusement, thinking of his own wild youth.

“So what happened,” asked Jake’s dad.

Jake told his parents about the incident at the store about how a suburban mother tried to decapitate him in the traditional Christmas spirit. He, of course, left out his jaunt to his hideaway watering hole.

“I hope that woman has a very horrible holiday,” said Jake’s mom.

“So now, what I am going to get Jesse for Christmas,” said Jake. “The chances of finding a Wannabe for her now are practically nil.”

‘Slim, but not nil,” said Jake’s dad; from behind the copy of the Sentinel he was reading. “It says here that that guy who manufactures these dolls will be handing out some samples at Gorgas Park this afternoon. Could be good opportunity to grab one.”

Despite the cold and wind, people flocked en masse to the park’s stage that afternoon. Parents came with a single purpose: to appease their whining children. Children came on their day off hoping to get something for nothing. The people were six deep from the barricade around the stage. Security could barely contain the crowd. Jake knew it would be hopeless to get a doll from the company owner, Firestone Stamper. A known recluse, Stamper was about to make an unprecedented public appearance.

People cheered and threw confetti in the air when Stamper arrived on stage. Stamper was a tall, somewhat lanky fellow with long arms and legs. He wore a long red cape with white fur trimming.

Friends, parents, hungry shoppers…,” said Stamper, thrusting out his arms theatrically. On one of his fingers was a large ring with the same red-green jewel as his popular products. Stamper paused as though he had forgotten what he had to say. Then a twinkle returned to his eye.

“Merry Christmas,” shouted Stamper. The crowd went on cheering slowly rising in its hysteria.

Jake thought Stamper’s head was shaped like a guitar pick. His straight white hair was slicked back making his pointed ears more noticeable. Stamper wore no facial hair to soften his sharpish chin.

“Thanks to all your efforts in making ‘Wannabes’ the number one item to buy this holiday,” Stamper said, then smiled very widely.

Jake also noted that Stamper’s eyes were narrow and shifty and his smile seemed to be too large for his face. His theatrics seemed over-rehearsed.

“How very seasonal of Mr. Stamper’s choice of attire,” said a familiar voice behind Jake.

“Yes, like Father Christmas’ lesser known brother,” said Jake to Mr. Sebastian Collins of The Tribune. “Thank you for what you did for me last night, sir.”

Collins looked mildly surprised at the show of appreciation. Behind them, Stamper went on with his platitudes.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Collins. “After being a pillar of the community so long, people owe me a favor or 20. I don’t think you would be a fan of these currently popular items - you must be here to get one for someone special, I gather.”

“Yes, one for my sister, don’t know what else to get her, sir” said Jake.

“How about Jewelry? In my experience, women are often fond of jewelry,” said Collins.

Jake pulled out the pockets of his jeans in the almost-universal sign of lacking funds. Collins sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He looked very much like Sir Winston Churchill’s bewhiskered cousin. Collins wore an open long black topcoat; beneath his coat was a black, pinstripe suit. On his head, Collins wore a black homburg. In his gloved hand, Collins was holding a monopod on top of which sat a small digital camera.

“And I see, sir, you are here on assignment,” said Jake.

“Very astute of you, yes, it isn’t often I cover something of this magnitude. I often assign it to some younger, starry-eyed cub; give them a thrill; but there is something about this Mr. Firestone Stamper, something I don’t like” said Collins. “And stop calling me, sir. I am not knighted as far as I know. Call me Mr. Collins or Major, no one else does.”

“Major?” asked Jake.

“You’re right,” Collins said, and then sniffed. “Too old-fashioned, Mr. Collins will be fine.”

While Jake and Collins talked, Stamper’s speech was approaching a fever pitch. He had engrossed the crowd with facts and figures. He extolled the meaning of Christmas and the importance of gift giving. All the while, the people grew wilder waiting for their prize.

“And everyone here will get a free Wannabe on me,” said Stamper.

Stamper did not even attempt to hush the crowd as it exploded in enthusiasm. Jake noticed Collins was uneasy as he took photographs. Collins kept looking around him as if searching of someone or, Jake thought, being followed. Jake looked around and noticed the crowd had grown quite large since he arrived. An aide handed a stack of cards to Stamper.

“A holder of one of these cards is guaranteed a Wannabe doll,” said Stamper. “And there is one for everyone.”

“Time to leave,” said Collins, grabbing Jake by his arm.

“What? I need one of those cards,” said Jake.

“The price you pay of one of those will be worse than that,” said Collins, pointing at Jake’s nose. Collins was already using his monopod to prod people out of his way. Collins had already barked a few shins already. Jake was taken a few steps away when he looked back and saw why he had to move.

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good NIGHT,” Stamper shouted as he threw the cards into the air to drift over the crowd.

“Run,” shouted Collins.

It would be a long day before Collins let his readers forget about the Gorgas Park Gift Riots. Peace on Earth and Goodwill toward men were distinctly lacking in moments when Jake followed closely behind Collins.

“This way,” Collins shouted over the chaos. They headed toward the road where a number of limousines were parked. When they got away from the seething crowd, Collins headed toward the car to which Stamper was headed. Before they could get to Stamper, a tall, beefy gentleman stood in their path.

“Hello, Sebastian Collins, Guardian-Sentinel, the local paper. We’d like a quick word with Mr. Stamper,” said Collins.

“No one sees Mr. Stamper,” said the imposing man.

“Why not?” Jake protested.

“Mr. Stamper only sees who he wants to see,” said the security man.

Jake looked over at Collins who was snapping away with his camera as if he had permission. The Security man turned at least four shades of red so far that Jake counted. The man threw Collins down like a rag doll. Taking the camera on the monopod, the security man smashed the camera on the nearest tree making sure the memory card was unusable. Collins seated on the ground looked up at the man.

“The next time won’t be so easy,” Collins said to the security man.

The man smirked and stalked toward Stamper who smiled politely as his security man returned to him. Collins stood up and dusted himself off.

“How can he do that?” asked Jake.

“Never mind that brainless thug, who is that with Stamper,” said Collins, pointing toward the limos.

Next to Stamper was a man shabbily dressed in old army surplus, longish ragged hair poking from beneath a maroon wooly cap, olive drab overcoat, frayed gloves. Jake briefly saw the man’s bearded and unwashed face. Jake and Collins watched as Stamper helped the man into the waiting limo.

“That’s Joey Cziznec,” said Jake.

“Know him?” asked Collins.

“We went to school together as kids,” said Jake. “He hasn’t been the same since coming home from the war. Doesn’t see many people.”

“Well, he apparently travels in strange and high circles now,” said Collins.

As the limousines pulled away, the sounds of sirens grew louder and flashing lights brighter. Jake and Collins walked along the road away from the sirens and people. People with beaten and bruised bodies holding multiple tickets ran past them. Other people, with beaten and bruised bodies, gave chase.

“How very deliberate of Stamper,” murmured Collins as he strolled along in the afternoon sun.

“Huh?” Jake grunted.

“Stamper meant for this little incident to happen,” said Collins. “I wonder why?”

“Perhaps he got carried away. From what little I’ve read and heard he doesn’t go out much,” said Jake.

“Everything he did was deliberate and I want to know why,” said Collins, forcefully.

After walking a block from the park, Collins stopped and walked up to the front door of a Victorian brownstone. It was the Guardian-Sentinel offices.

“In here,” said Collins.

“I should be getting home,” said Jake.

“Aren’t you just the least bit curious about this Stamper fellow?” asked Collins. “And why his dolls are so popular?”

Jake admitted that he was and followed as Collins unlocked the front door. They walked up to the second floor into Collins office. The Collins’ corner office was like a Victorian museum. Very steampunk, Jake thought to himself. A phonograph sat in one corner. On a wall, there was a framed sketch of Picasso’s Don Quixote. A Remington typewriter was used as a doorstop. On Collin’s massive wooden desk sat an antique tickertape machine. Collins flat screen computer monitor was a sharp contrast in technology.

“One thing I did think was strange,” Jake finally said. “For as tall as he is, Stamper cast a very small shadow.”

“I wondered when you would pick up on that,” said Collins

Collins looked intently at the computer screen for a moment before shaking his head as if suddenly remember Jake was in the same room.

“I’m sorry, can I get you something to drink,” said Collins, reaching into his desk. “Rum? Whiskey? Gin?”

“No thank you,” Jake said, remembering the night before.

“Cigar?” asked Collins, lifting door on the top of the desk and removing a dark, short cigar.

“No, thank you,” said Jake.

“Quite right, must stay healthy,” said Collins, putting the cigar into his mouth but not lighting it. “When you have lived as long as I have, you begin to believe your invincible. Now to business.”

Collins dropped a file folder on his desk. The folder was thin. Jake picked it up and looked inside. Many of the papers were architectural drawings and renderings of the Wannabe factory. According to the file, the development was built in an obscenely small amount of time. It had made potential rivals green with envy. Some competitors and development opponents were found conveniently found dead in that envious color at home. Their cases still remained unsolved. There was also a chart chronicling the number of missing persons cases. The dots indicating disappearances rippled out from the factory location.

“We must find out what Stamper’s secret is,” said Collins.

“We?” inquired Jake.

“Of course, I am only one man. I can really use your help,” said Collins. “I need someone with sharp eyes and quick reflexes to take a gander around that factory.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” said Jake. “I got to get back home to my folks.”

“I can compensate you for your trouble,” said Collins, leaning back in his chair. “I can take care of those pesky student loans you’ll have to pay back soon after graduation.”

“You can do that?” exclaimed Jake.

“I can do that and more,” said Collins. “It’s the privilege of being independently wealthy.”

“So what will you be doing while I am in the factory risking my neck,” asked Jake.

“Oh this and that,” said Collins, “I need to look a little harder into this Stamper’s past and besides I need to download these photos.”

Collins held in his hand a camera memory card identical to the one the security man destroyed earlier.

“I switched it before that thug destroyed by equipment,” said Collins. “Anyway, after your little investigation report to me here.”

Collins wrote on a scrape of paper and handed it to Jake. It was one of the houses on the Lyceum Boulevard. Jake used to play basketball in the lot behind the house.

Collins reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled a small, gray, metal canister with a pin on the top. A yellow band ringed its lower edge.

“Here, take this in case you need to make a quick escape,” said Collins. “Smoke grenade, one never knows when you may have to cover your tracks.”

Jake went over the file Collins gave him before having dinner with his family. On the television, there was a story about how some people may be disappointed this Christmas because of the shortage of Wannabe dolls, despite Company assurances. Another about the increase in violence attributed to obtaining Wannabes followed that news story.

A brief wind snapped Jake from his reverie. The night chill bit at Jake threw his fleece pullover. Even at his age, he was surprised how quickly night fell. He was dressed in dark clothing including an old military surplus knit cap. Jake even went so far as to blacken his face after he left his house. Jake was headed toward the Flat Rock Bridge, mindful to stick to the shadows.

According to the file, many residents complained about strange lights and noises coming from the factory. Jake looked at the Gothic-inspired structure and gave a shudder. The darkness and silence only added to the factory’s creepiness. Jake looked up as the factory spires created a black silhouette against the lightly pink overcast sky. The forecast had called for snow. It may look like a white Christmas after all, Jake thought to himself.

Jake noticed there was an extra spire in the center of the factory that was not mentioned in the file. The outer spires seem to almost bow toward this central tower.

Jake walked through the open parking lot quickly and cautiously. He was thankful that the lights were not on. Through the gloom, Jake made out that one of the loading doors was not completely closed.

“How careless of them,” Jake whispered to nobody.

Jake heard the whirring noise of an electric motor headed in his direction. Jake quickly scrambled through the open gap, rolled around and held his breath.

The noise of the motor steadily passed by Jake location and continued onward. Jake let out his breathe slowly. Jake reached into his pocket for his mini flashlight. He also felt for the grenade to boost his confidence.

All around Jake were palates piled high with boxes. As Jake slowly wandered around he noted their destinations; places like Hamburg, Oslo, Helsinki, Ottawa, Aberdeen.

Today, Philadelphia; tomorrow, the World, Jake thought to himself. Jake heard something shifting ahead of him and turned off his light. It had grown noticeably brighter in this part of the warehouse. Looking around, Jake noticed he was headed to the heart of the complex; to the spire not found on his map.

Jake saw through a gap in some palettes into the center of the warehouse; there must be the manufacturing facilities. Jake meandered his way toward the facilities. He saw what seemed to him a doublewide walk through metal detector. Thick cables were attached to its frame. These cables were attached to what Jake assumed to be some sort of power coupling. Jake noticed how the equipment looked cobbled together despite its sophistication. The focal point of the room was a large contraption that reminded Jake of some six-legged spider-like monstrosity. Almost every computer bank and piece of equipment seemed plugged into its bulbous middle. Two large crystal prongs pointed up toward the multi-mirrored inside of the central spire. At the lower end of the suspended powerhouse was another crystal; this one was focused at a gurney located on the ground.

Jake saw that someone was strapped to it.

It took Jake almost a minute to recognize Joe Cziznec. The man who he had only seen hours ago looked completely transformed. Cziznec was clean-shaven showing his square jaw that was only emphasized by flat top hair cut. Cziznec was wearing what seemed to Jake a military dress uniform consisting of a mandarin-collared blue tunic, belted at the waist and red trousers with a gold stripe down outside.

“Joey, is that you,” asked Jake.

Cziznec did not stir. Jake whispered a little louder. Cziznec fluttered his eyes them opened them. They were glazed over as if drunk. Cziznec tried to focus on Jake.

“Jake?” Cziznec asked, his voice slightly slurred. “I didn’t know you signed up for this special service.”

“What service, Joey?” said Jake.

“That’s Captain Cziznec, Sir to you, Jakey boy,” replied Cziznec with a drunken smile.

“Ok, Cap’n,” asked Jake. “How did you get to here?”

“The Stamping Man said he was from Guv’ement,” slurred Cziznec. “Said he had special job for me. Make me a man again.”

“What special job?” asked Jake

At this point, Cziznec started softly singing old military hymns to himself. Jake heard something slam some distance behind him; then footsteps headed his way.

“I’ll come back, Joey, I promise,” said Jake.

“Okay, Dokey, “ came the slurred singsong reply.

Jake dashed behind the nearest palette. From his lookout, Jake could see a tall shadow approaching the gurney where Cziznec lay. When the figure entered into the light, Jake immediately recognized Firestone Stamper. Stamper was still wearing his red, fur-line clock earlier that day. Stamper intensely looked at the veteran strapped to the gurney. Jake could also hear Stamper muttering to himself.

“Little Toy Soldier, little Toy Soldier,” Stamper seemed to sing quietly to himself, “Brave, little toy solider.”

This was not the polished orator Jake heard earlier in the park. This was the voice of someone who was clearly not normal. Soon, Cziznec was humming along with his overseer.

Stamper looked at the man in the gurney; his smile growing wider. Stamper walked over to a nearby control panel. The panel seemed set down too low to accommodate him. Stamper looked at the gurney again then started laughing. Stamper’s laugh grew slightly higher in pitch. Jake was thinking how evil the laughter sounder when Stamper did something completely unexpected; Stamper changed his body.

Before Jake’s eyes, Stamper morphed from a tall, lanky fellow with a head shaped like a guitar pick to a squat, hunched over lump with an even bigger guitar pick shaped head. The cloak that Stamper wore was now too big. Stamper removed his cloak to reveal his clothing beneath. In Jake’s eyes, Stamper now looked like some grotesquely twisted nightmare version of a Christmas elf. Stamper put on a pair of dark goggles then pressed a few controls.

Jake barely registered the sound of Cziznec’s surprise when a large flash of light enveloped him. Then Jake heard a scream suddenly cut short. When the spots faded from Jake’s eyes, Jake realized what the secret of the Wannabe dolls were.

Jake backed off from his lookout and bumped into a palette behind him. Jake stifled a yelp when something clanged on the floor.

“Whose there,” Stamper said. “I smell someone there.”

Jake tried to control his fear as he tiptoed his way to the exit. He could hear Stamper scuttle quickly toward him. Jake reached in his pocket for the smoked grenade. He pulled the pin and dropped it. Jake then ran.

As he narrowed the gap to the door, Jake heard footfalls at his heels. He looked over his shoulder and saw a elf-shaped figure then a small flash. Jake felt a hot wind at his other shoulder then a sharp sting. Jake ran toward to door and was now mildly surprised to find a large hole melted through the rippled metal. Jake jumped to the ground and into the night. As he ran across the open parking lot, Jake heard Stamper’s evil laugh peel thorough the night. It chilled him more than the cold ever could.

After sprinting a few blocks, Jake slowed down to a jog. He kept to highly lighted areas. Jake reasoned that if anyone did see him, they would take him for a late-night jogger. Motivated by fear, Jake jogged uphill without rest despite cold and cramp. Jake reached Collins’ address without further incident. Jake pulled on the chain next to the front door. Jake heard a gong sound and footsteps approached. Collins answered the door wearing a hunter green velvet smoking jacket.

“I am sorry but we’re all full of coal,” said Collins. Jake was not amused; he was exhausted and angry.

“Wannabes doll aren’t for people; they are people,” Jake said.

Collins looked at Jake. His eyes wondered to his singed shoulder. His amused expression was immediately replaced with a more business-like manner.

“Please, come in,” said Collins, motioning Jake to his home. “Let’s get you bandaged up, then tell me everything.”

Before Jake could explain himself, Collins immediately began fussing about Jake’s shoulder and showed him to a spare room. After Collins laid out clothing, a dark navy, three piece corduroy suit, then showed Jake to a grand bathroom and told him after Jake felt up to it then to meet him in the drawing room. The clothes were not an exact match to Jake’s size but would require little tailoring.

Jake waited in the drawing room. A pair of winged back chairs faced a large brick fireplace. A side table placed between them. Jake sat in one of the chairs and looked around the room. A number of portraits ringed the room. The large portrait of two people was centered above the mantle piece. Like heroes of the Victorian age, the couple together looked off into an unknown distance. The man was dressed in Scottish garb. His hair cut short and moustache neatly styled; but it was to the woman whom the eye was drawn. Her dress was more understated than her companion, but she was no less regal. Her red hair was put up. Around her neck was a diamond necklace with an emerald that complemented her eyes. Her button nose held a few dainty freckles. Her mouth upturned in the most serene smile.

Jake glanced back at the man and struggled to remember who the fellow reminded him of when Collins came into the room carrying a tray with two smoking goblets. A white cat with a red and a green eye flowed at his heels.

“The evening calls for some Smoking Bishop,” Collins’ cheery air had returned. “It comes from an old family recipe from old Charlie boy himself. I mean Dickens of course.”

Jake half-listened to Collins. His attention was drawn back to the painting. Where had he seen that man before?

“She’s was a very beautiful woman,” Collins said after he noticed Jake’s attention. “They loved each other very much.”

“How do you know,” asked Jake.

“I am something of a family historian,” Collins looked at the painting. For a split second, Jake noticed Collins looked a bit wistful. Collins looked down at the cat that returned the gaze with a sympathetic look. Collins quickly returned to joviality.

“Here, drink up,” said Collins holding out a smoking goblet. “Your health this Christmas.”

The brew smelled pleasant enough. Jake took a sip. It tasted of pure Christmas spirit; it truly was an invigorating potion.

“Now that we are sitting comfortably, let’s begin,” said Collins.

Collins sat down into the other chair and sipped at his goblet. The cat jumped up into his lap and curled up. Collins stroked its belly with his free hand; he stared into the fire. Jake began telling Collins about the extra spire on the factory. He told Collins how Stamper had physically changed. Jake described the giant suspended array and the doublewide detector. Jake finished his story with what happened to Cziznec on the gurney.

“Matter-Tissue Compression, very nasty,” muttered Collins, who continued to stare into the fire. “Definitely, not from this world. That kind of technology hasn’t been invented yet.”

The cat stared a Jake as if wanting more to his story.

“What,” said Jake.

“Nothing,” replied Collins. “You just confirmed my worst suspicions.”

The cat mewed. Collins looked at it then stroked its head.

“What? That Stamper is some creepy troll making a buck on the gullibility of the American holiday shopper,” Jake asked. Then Collins explained.

“Stamper is an elf from a parallel earth that overthrew an oppressive regime. He has made it his personal mission to exterminate populations that he feels have turned their back on the holiday. These Wannabes were just bait. Now that so many people have bought them, the crystals will start a chain reaction that will turn this planet to cinders. The focusing array must be that factory. My photos lead to the truth and you have smoked out his lair. It was quite careless of him to putt all his presents in a row.”

“Elves, revolution, extermination, parallel worlds,” Jake said. “You must be crazy.”

Collins picked up the cat and whispered in its ear. Collins put the cat down on the floor facing the fair place.

“Ok, Heidiger, time to go home,” said Collins to the cat.

Heidiger the cat looked up at Collins mewed and slowly walked toward the fireplace fading from sight.

Jake was flummoxed. He could not find words to express his thoughts.

“You took a big risk tonight, thank you,” said Collins, looking at Jake with a conserned expression. “I can’t ask you to risk your life again, it wouldn’t be fair to you or your family. So I understand if want to go home now.”

“What after what that thing…Stamper…did to Joey and all those other people,” Jake sputtered.

“I am just as angry,” said Collins, his face showing no trace of any emotion. “He started with the people least likely to be missed. But he really as bold getting those people to riot in the park and in those stores.”

“So what are we going to do,” asked Jake.

“We are going to stop him,” said Collins.

“With what?” asked Jake. “I didn’t see an armory anywhere.”

“Who needs an armory when we all have the greatest tool provided to us,” said Collins.

Jake must not have been following his thought because he needed to point to his head and say, “Our brains! Dear boy, oh do try to keep up.”

Somehow the night seemed darker when Jake and Collins stood in the parking lot of the Wannabe factory later that evening. Here I am on Christmas Eve, Jake to himself, about to fight something that should really be around on Halloween. It is a nearly Christmas Day and I barely escaped my last time here. The night air was positively biting now. Jake was thankful Collins forced him to wear a topcoat over his suit. Despite his warmth, Jake shivered when he looked at the hole in the door. It seemed to call out the pair.

“Ready, lad,” Collins said.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Jake.

“Let’s get a move on,” said Collins.

There was a change in the warehouse since Jake was there are few short hours ago. It was now empty. Where did all the boxes go? Jake wondered. Jake looked at Collins who seemed to have expected this event. With a long cigar in his mouth, Collins looked downright Churchillian now.

Between them and the six-legged monstrosity that Collins called an Ion Array, were two men; Jake recognized the lead figure as the security man they met in Gorgas Park.

“Hold this,” Collins said, handing Jake his cigar.

Collins walked toward the security man. The beefy thug held a club and was slapping his palm menacingly. Collins showed no emotion. The security man lunged at Collins raising his club. With almost supernatural speed, Collins struck his opponent at six points on his body. The security man barely registered the shock of the impact when he dropped to his knees. He let go of his club. A trickle of red dribbled from the side of his scowl. Collins walked to the man and whispered in his ear. The security man’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“Gawh,” said the security man, who then shuddered and fell face forward.

“Was that really necessary,” asked Jake.

“The only one truly innocent here is probably you,” said Collins, taking back his cigar.

“What did you say to him before he fell,” asked Jake.

“I told him, ‘See, not so easy was it?’” said Collins, who turned and stared intently at the second man.

The second security man turned and fled toward the detector gateway. But ten yards before reaching his destination; a bolt of pink lightning struck the man. The only traces of his existence were a pair of smoking shoes and shadow on the floor.

“That was totally unnecessary,” Collins said.

“It’s so hard to find loyal henchman…ahh, the knight eternal and his newest pawn,” said a high, squeaky voice, which then giggled.

“I am sure the pay is good but the health benefits are lacking, Mr. Stamper,” said Collins.

On the far side of the Ion Array, the squat lump of Firestone Stamper walked out of the shadows. Stamper carried a pack on his back. The pack was connected to a rifle-like device. At the barrel tip was a large red-green crystal. Collins called these gems: Dreamstone. Collins had also joked these gems also could cause nightmares. Neither Jake nor Collins was laughing now.

“Enough,” said Stamper. “The time has come to end this world.”

“Let me guess, set the controls on automatic and make an escape through your dimensional gate,” said Collins. “How cliché.”

“So is this the point where we make speeches then you fail to stop me,” said the elf-Stamper.

“No speeches, I stopped making those when I retired from all politics. Let’s fast forward to just the action,” said Collins. “Jake, find cover.”

Jake jogged behind a computer bank. From his pocket, Collins pulled out a handled mirror. He’s going to get himself killed thought Jake. Stamper fired his Dreamstone disintegrator. Collins swung his mirror toward the bolt, which was redirected to a far sidewall. Jake was watching the most surreal tennis game of his life…and on Christmas Eve.

“I’ve been getting a little rusty since I won the Championship at Wimbledon,” said Collins.

Stamper fired again. Collins redirected the bolt to computer bank which then exploded.

“Fifteen, love,” said Collins. Stamper made a noise of aggravation and fired again. This bolt hit and melted one of the legs holding the array. The structure made a metallic scraping-groaning sound.

“Thirty, love,” said Collins.

Stamper fired again. His returned bolt landed beside him knocking him down.

“Double Match point,” Collins said.

“Shut up,” shrieked Stamper, who aimed high and fired again.

This bolt must have caught on the piece of handle. Collins let go, clutching one hand with his other. The mirror arced high then shattered as it hit the ground. Stamper scuttled toward a control panel and pressed a few buttons.

“That was fun but playtime is over,” said Stamper. ‘A few minutes and zap, all gone and speaking of zap”

Stamper set some controls on his disintegrator. He pointed his weapon at Collins who had crouched down, holding his burnt hand. Collins looked up at Stamper in anguish then he smiled. Stamper pulled the firing stud. In the blink of an eye, Collins took off his hat and opened it out to Stamper like a baseball catcher. The massive bolt of energy bounced backed directly at Stamper. Stamper tried the turn away from the bolt. A massive pink charge hit his backpack. Stamper was soon inside a ball of pink lightning. Stamper screamed and like burned celluloid melted from the inside out. The backpack exploded taking out the control panel.

Jake ran out to Collins who was lying on the floor. His mirrored hat smoldered nearby. When Jake reached him the man was convulsing. Collins turned toward Jake; he had been crying.

“What a waste of talent,” said Collins.

After quickly gathering himself together, Collins took stock of the damage. He had discarded his hat. The Ion array had started to make a pulsing noise. Jake saw the two crystals on top start to glow in their interior.

“It says here that we have 10 minutes left,” said Jake from a nearby monitor.

Jake pecked at a few keys. There was no response.

“Oh, I should think we are locked out of the system,” said Collins, said looking around. “Ah, ha”

Collins walked toward to the low panel that Stamper had used to shrink Cziznec and countless others. Collins studied it intently. The pulsing noise grew quicker and louder.

“Since we can not stop the countdown, we can misdirect the beam rendering it useless for its original purpose and extremely useful for ours,” said Collins.

“How can we do that, shoot out the legs of the array and with what our spit,” asked Jake.

“We ‘re not lock out of the Matter-Tissue Compressor functions,” said Collins.

Within minutes, Collins had the Ion Array suspended above them noticeably listing to the left. Collins explained the he was sure enough to direct the beam on the array itself causing a large enough explosion to destroy the factory and everything left in it. Jake looked at a monitor and gasped. The pulsing noise was very quick now.

“Two minutes,” shouted Jake.

“Time to leave,” said Collins, who strolled toward the exit. Jake sprinted past him and out into the night for a second time.

Behind them, the factory was glowing was pulsing pink light. When Collins thought he was safely away, he dropped to the ground face first. Jake dropped in the same fashion immediately. There was a roar of noise then a concussive force pushed him further into the ground. Jake blacked out for a brief second.

Jake blinked his eyes. He was lying on his back. He looked into the sky. It was that light shade of pink that only cities can have. It was the reflection of the city lights. It had begun to snow.

“Merry Christmas!” Jake heard Collins’ voice.

“And the horse it rode in on,” Jake mumbled, feeling sore.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Jakey boy, we have kept the world safe for the Holidays,” said Collins.

“Someone should really be told about Stamper,” said Jake. “But who would believe it.”

“It would make a great story,” said Collins. “Perhaps you should write it.”

“Well, who would accept such a unbelievable story,” said Jake.

“I am sure I could find some space,” said Collins. Jake got up and dusted himself off. The two walked in silence together. Along the way, Collins stopped in front of a old church; Jake recognized it as St. David’s Episcopal. There was singing going on inside.

“This is my stop,” said Collins, reaching into his pockets. “Here you are.”

Collins handed him a pocket watch. Jake took it. On the face was a coat of arms, Jake vaguely recognized. Jake opened it. Inside was an inscription, it read, “To James MacIntyre, for services above and beyond the call of duty. From Maj. Sebastian Collins, D.S.O.”

Jake stood flabbergasted. The coat of was of the MacIntyre clan. His mind raced on how Collins found his real name and got acquired this engraved watch so quickly.

“Keep the clothes as well and have them fitted take them here, tell Joe to put it on my account,” said Collins, handing him the card of his tailor. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

Collins pulled out a jewelry case from his pocket. He handed it to Jake. Jake opened it. It was a diamond necklace with an emerald. Jake recognized the necklace, and then recognized the man in the painting. Jake looked at Collins. Despite the warmth and energy, Jake could also see the age behind Collins’ eyes.

“For your sister,” said Collins.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jake.

“Say Thank You,” said Collins.

“Thank you,” said Jake, a lump rising in his throat.

“You are most sincerely welcome,” said Collins. “Merry Christmas and a happy new year.”

There was a pause. Jake burned to ask the question and finally worked up the nerve.

“Who are you really, Mr. Collins,” asked Jake.

Collins considered his answered and then smiled.

“I am Guardian and Sentinel just out to keep God’s Children safe from evil,” said Collins with a wink and a smile. “And have a good time while I am at it.”

“But…” Jake protested.

“Shhh…”Collins said putting his finger to his lips. “Now go home. Remember that necklace is for your sister. Not the cute bartender you have an eye for.”

Collins turned away and walked into the Church. Jake walked home alone, tears blurring his vision.

Jake let himself in to his parents’ house. It was late. Everyone had gone to bed. Jake heard a rustling at the Christmas tree. Not everyone stayed in bed. Jake caught his little sister, Jessie, rattling her gifts to find out what they were.

“Here, open mine,” Jake whispered to her. Jake handed his sister the jewelry case; she opened it and squealed.

“It’s beautiful, Jakey” said Jessie. “I was afraid you were going to get me one of those wretched Wannabe Dolls.”

“Oh,” Jake replied.

“Katie said that Fran said that Gigi said that her brother broke hers and all these guts and stuff fell out,” said Jessie. “Gross.”

Jake giggled softly to himself. “Nope, no wannabe dolls.”

“Here, Jakey open mine for you,” said Jessie handing him a gift. Jake unwrapped the gift. It was MacIntyre tartan scarf. Jake was very happy. It was this moment that made all his pain from his bashed noise to the battle with that horrible elf worth it.

“Merry Christmas, Jessie,” said Jake.

“Merry Christmas, Jakey,” his sister replied.

The siblings could here movement upstairs. Someone was not happy.

“Jake and Jessie you better be not opening any gifts down there, you hear me,” said Jake and Jessie’s mom from the top of the stairs.

“No, mom,” said the sibling pair, who then looked at each other and said out loud to their parental unit.

“Merry Christmas!”

FIN