FanStory.com
"The Ripple Effect"


Prologue
The Sea Hag

By hager

Merlin's, the famed Magician, powers scare Alexander The Great, and he is cast-off to the sea by Alexander, only to end up in England, and after a run-in with a witch, which he turns into a stone, he begins to build a new life at a mysterious castle in the north. The witch’s sister sees what happened and vows revenge.

Present-day 

A mad, mad, mad world intertwining chase begins, which involves an American couple on a leisurely vacation, 2 detectives from Scotland Yard following one evil bastard, son of the witch, by the name of Lance Pilot and his cronies. 

Then there is a once-famous drunken race car driver and his dimwitted, first day on the job assistant, who mistakenly rents his prized 1937 Atlantic Bugatti to the Americans. 

It all begins to snowball as Merlin’s magic directs all participants to his castle and the secret that lies below in a well, three-hundred feet deep, fed by lava tubes from Ireland.







Athens, December, 332 BC


"We must take this man chained before us to the edge of the world and drop him! He has too much power!" shouted one of the council.

"Take him to the edge? But he has done no wrong!" shouted another older member in a voice, which shook dust from the pillars of the Areopagus in Athens, and summoned the attention of the audience surrounding him. He stood on a platform, dressed in a white toga, sporting a long white beard and an upright carriage. His stance was as solid as his irresolute opinion. He continued.

"Why? What fear lurks in the shadows of your hearts regarding this man? Is it the truth, he speaks? His morals? Or is it your lack of morals he disturbs by his mere presence?"

He waved his arms at the crowd as he showered them with more questions.

"The fear of what is right my friends means letting go of what has implanted its nature in all, growing only if allowed from the weakness of will. Somehow, the overwhelming prospect of some great pleasure seems to obscure one's perception of what is truly good. But this difficulty need not be fatal to the achievement of virtue. Who among you deliberately chooses to develop vicious habits? The great enemy of moral conduct, is precisely the failure to behave well even on occasions when one's deliberation has resulted in clear knowledge of what is right. If you do as such with this man you will be letting the fortune of fortunes slip through your hands. Casting him over the edge is a fool's deed, for this man, who kneels before you chained to the floor, has an abundance of knowledge at his fingertips, touching hands, as he does, with God. My observational science, he has shown me. The weather, the..."

"Silence, Aristotle! Sit! You speak in riddles. You're old! You're theories have outlived their time, proved wrong by our scholars! I vote we take this prisoner back to Persia, before we're all destroyed!" declared yet another member. His face was etched in fear even with the support of the majority of the crowd.

"Have you all gone mad? You have no idea of what he holds! You cannot do this!" Nearly crying and with his toga gathered in his left hand, Aristotle walked down a few of the marble steps before stopping just above the main floor and pleaded.

"Where are your hearts and ethics? Did you lose them in battle? And for what? For power? The power of an empty hand is all that will be left! For life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. These impropriety of conduct will cause our decline, that is if we continue eroding morality. Persecution is not necessary; free him!" stated Aristotle.

Delegates from every Grecian state were assembled before Alexander, whose abilities, as a leader, were beginning to wane. The visions he once held, blurred by drink and his insatiable appetite for power, no longer revealed themselves to him. The question of what to do with this man, who threatened his authority and made fools of his scholars by calling them "educated donkeys", lay before him with no easy answer. The prisoner had performed feats of strength and demonstrated abilities beyond imagination. Yet this man, chained to the floor, still sat silent with his eyes closed.

"No more talk, Aristotle! The will of the council will be done! Take the prisoner and deliver him to the edge, this very night!" commanded Alexander. His words put an end to the debate and were supported by the boasters, who held the strings of many, like so many puppeteers.

The prisoner, chained and guarded by hundreds, raised his head and spoke.

"The blessing and wisdom of God, speaks through your actions Aristotle, and you, my dear friend, now hold what I was given. I will greet you there, where the wanderers pass into the heavens."

That said, his chains broke, like they were just made of fine porcelain, and fell to the ground as he stood, looking around with an angelic smile and supreme power. Some felt his eyes pierce theirs, striking them as their emotions and passions were stirred from deep within, while others, with souls of charcoal, stood like statues afraid to even breathe.

The prisoner began to spin slowly in a small circle, with each rotation becoming faster and faster. This speed became so intense that, from every angle, he appeared motionless, while surrounded in a blue-green aura.

Alexander commands his archers let fly a rain of arrows, but their arrows turned to plumes of dust before reaching their target. His swordsmen then advanced, but were frozen in fear and fell to their knees. Everyone stood back when Alexander ordered his cheetahs to be released, however, all six cheetahs disappoint as they end up sitting and purring at the prisoner's feet.

Complete silence followed.

The prisoner, waving his arm and pointing in the direction of the entrance to the great hall said, "We must go. The sea, awaits!"

The cheetahs opened up a respectful path, then accompanied him, as he strode away and made for the waters of the Mediterranean.


All that evening, thunder rolled over the grey reaches of the sea, while a fleet of thirty vessels left Greece and sailed towards the Pillars of Hercules, making for the great Atlantic. Their passage through the Mediterranean was calm and steady. Once inside the boundaries of the Atlantic however, storms raged as they ran north towards the cold and misty isle of Britannia. Straight towards the edge of the known universe they headed , and it lay just beyond the horizon. Each night, two ships were ordered to turn back for Greece.

The ships timbers creaked with each crest of a wave, as oarsman continue their hypnotic stoke heading towards their destiny.

Below deck, in a cage bound in chains, the young man with long blonde hair lay resting,his mood calm. The vessel's commander feared him and stood well clear, any time he visited, never letting this prisoner look in his direction. One night, eight days out from Greece, the commander crept below deck and peered into the cage.

The young man, with his back turned, said, "What do you seek, Captain, life or eternal death? I hold the keys to the everlasting, as I am he, who sounds the horn. I can help you overcome your demons?"

The commander turned and ran and, for the rest of his life, these words would echo unceasingly in his head.

Crashing through heavy waves, the ship's bow began to plough along the coastal waters of Britannia. Where, lost to its bleak days, fear tore at the crew's souls when the night of a single star came upon them.

The crew had whispered to each other for weeks about what must lie ahead. They knew their fate already, and if falling off the edge of the earth was not bad enough, other worries disturbed the men.

Rumors of the sea hag, and of sea serpents which could drag the ship into the deep caused many a frantic eye to search the waters. On several occasions, men swore they saw a great beast breast the waters, with its humps and neck, stretching high over the sea. As the days past, more and more were seen coming ever closer to the vessel.

The ship's navigator, Pytheas, reported a dragon had flown passed one moonless night while he was relieving himself at the stern.

"I felt no fear though." he added, "The gust from its wings blew over me as it stared into my eyes. It could have snatched me, but it just... just hung there in the fog. Blue it was; a blue dragon of the sea, gone quiet, way before my father and his father's time. But it was blue alright. Brilliant and glowing like turquoise. It was not a dream. I was held, timeless, in its sight. It spoke to me without a sound, saying the serpents mean us no harm. And in the time it took me to swallow, it was gone!"

The men took comfort from his words, as they knew Pytheas told no tales and, in time, they began to feel at ease with the serpents. But, they were still afraid of being eaten by "the one that calls out;" the sea witch. With a dragon or serpent there was a chance, if your blade was placed just right and, with their size, you could hardly miss their approach.

But, when it came to attacks from blackest evil, you would never know until it was too late and she rips your tongue out and cackles. Yes, that topped their fear list, alright!

The old hag, the sea witch, was the dread of the seas and the stories about her had been passed down by travelers from neighboring lands and beyond. She spoke in many voices, while her warm tones could caress and soothe the weary.

But, it was the mother's milk of the devil they drank before dying.

Pits and crags, hollowed out logs, caves and chimneys black with soot, suited the hag just fine.

The old tale of a witch being afraid of water was just that, a tale. She flourished on it. Water wells, with their deep shafts traveling down into the darkness was her favorite place to snatch a life. Any place out of sight was her haunt.

Born in the southern regions of Portugal along the Mediterranean Sea, amongst its jagged rocks, lived the old hag before drifting north with her eight-sisters. Not born to earthly parents, she was the 'prick of confusion,' sent by the devil.

Reaching up from the bowels of the earth, he molded them from maggots and slime. Then he planting her and her sisters, in the swamps of the southern lands to grow and practice her deception. Their putrid stench could foul the air for miles around. Their chin's jutted to a point and with teeth sharp bitter and broken; as rotten as their soul. Praying on the helpless and the unconscious was their art.

On this night number-eight began to draw them into her dream with a nightmare of spells.

Call her, Hagakulla Puitlootta! She stood tall, when not hunched and bone thin before she ate her victims. Her hair was manlike and sprouted from odd places. Her toes curled and were covered with warts. Her eyes were offset, one blue, one black, with red pupils and lay under a hedge of eyebrows. Her clothes were tattered, ill-fitting, red rags, and a flowing black cloak. Her hands, though, were unusually soft, graceful, caressing and warm to the touch. They were bait, mesmerizing, enticing, seductive, hypnotic, with nails so sharp, a nick would never be felt.

Changing into a revolting creature form like a rat or scorpion, she could do with just a thought. Piercing a soul past the flesh, was her food. Discarded bones lined her walkway, buried beneath, decaying flesh and weathered clothing.

In the year 332BC, her home was a thatched hut, with a fireplace built for three, placed high on a cliff overlooking Holy Island. But it was there, high above the sea, she sang her last hag tune.

On a night when rain and fire blades of lightning fell in a constant assault upon the living, the seas began to stir, boiling in a froth of whitecaps and deep valleys of water.

And then she began to sing.

Nine witches were there since the beginning of time. One through seven are long departed since, while number eight, Hagakulla, choked on a beam of light, thrown by an angel who swam on a bitter and chilly night.

Then she began to howl.

"We need to let him go, or we will all perish!" cried the crew as the storm intensified. "The gods are angry and come with swords of fire!"

And wail, she did!

Held captive below deck, he stayed calm and focused through the pounding and relentless waves and the screeches of the siren. "Your strength is with me. Thank you God."

And men began to cry.

The aroma of death made her mouth water. She drew her broom close and spat on her hands. In a gargling tone, she uttered a spell. "Boiling seas, whispering pleas, come to Mother, suckle and rest. I will comfort thee. Come to Mother. Come to me."

Thirty-three of the crew mutinied, over-powered ranking officers by holding gaggers to their throats, then freed the prisoner and brought him up on deck. And all the while, they headed towards the rocks of Holy Island; home of the witches.

Standing on the bluff, silhouetted by a distorted moon, she drew them in: "Come to me."

Blinded by fierce wind-driven rain, the ship floundered on the rocks and the Captain cried, "Abandon ship!"

Like a spider to a fly the old hag flew from the cliff's edge, dropping to the sea below and sped across the waters snagging what she could of the living and eating their hearts and swallowing their souls. In an instant their lives were no more. Their bodies littered the rocks as she came to roost and her toenails dug into a barnacle covered boulder.

Only the ship's prisoner and thirty-three of her crew survived. The witch shook her broom at the night for those who got away; casting spells and curses upon them, as she spat her rank saliva everywhere. Then, to her regret, she looked up and into the eyes of an angel.

Once on shore, the young man shouted with such a voice that it blasted the rains apart and a beam of light pierced the eyes of the sea witch, who had dared to look his way.

"Why, bless you, kind witch. It's by your doing I am now free. Your evil has saved me. Ye are not of this earth, so ye will not rot. Return instead as a rock. Ye old hag, frozen by thee, hag I say, hag it be. And for all time, you will breathe no more, as pelican's roost, a white bonnet you will wear old witch, not black like before: beautiful, just beautiful!"

The rain stopped. The clouds parted and the sky became brilliant with stars.

He then turned to the men. "I thank you. You shall be rewarded with the blessings of God. You shall have long lives. Tears will not flow from your loved ones, for they will be with you soon. You will become rich in spirit and grow as oaks, solid from the ground. Be steadfast in your ways, then, by the grace of God, this will be done.

You and I, we have work that must be done. This is where we will build a foundation and a horn of plenty will overflow from its walls. And we shall call it, Goosenham."


The sea hags sister Bultas, who was uglier and more powerful, awoke from a gorging and having seen what happened to her beautiful sister, began hiding in the shadows then crept away in fear. She was pissed and and places a curse on the angel.

"Revenge will be mine angel swine, your heart I will eat, along with your feet and use your hair as twine. All in due time. All in due time, swine! I will wait. I will... wait."

And so the story begins.


Chapter 1
A Childhood of Dreams

By hager

















Thursday, 12:04 am, July 12, 2012

Day 1

Along the remote, Northern England coast, sits the Castle Goosenham. For over two thousand years, cold winds have beaten this keep, but upon this summer, heat and humidity cling to its walls. The rugged landscape is gently washed by the North Sea, that in winter, sent winds to howl, which were fierce enough to break any soul and erode any stone wall.

An underground river feed several wells which serve the castle. It flows from Scotland, into a cavern, two hundred and fifty-four feet below ground. The castle's massive grey walls are separated from the land by a still, deep moat etched into the coast. Oak trees guard this structure and had done so for eons, over which, they had grown into a vast grey-green forest, in summer; and black and white in winter. Among the few meadows the grass is green and rolling, while the forest floor is laced together with centuries of foliage: yellows and reds; purples and blues; and whites.


Two hundred and seven people live in the castle not counting the old man.

Shrouded in a veil of fog, its edging of mist never lifting, the place is just visible to the naked eye.

Silence is its ambiance.

Strolling, with umbrella in hand, a lone figure is highlighted by the moon and a light sprinkle of rain soothes the twelve o'clock hour. He pulls a watch from one of his deep pockets and wounds a few clicks.

His pace is slow, relaxed, his breath measured in beats which abound with life. His thoughts are observed from a distance by his soul, as he roots out little conflicts which try to take hold. He knows what is about to happen and why he was born. He opens his heart to God's will, casting aside his own. He opens his front door by the aid of the moonlight and seeks his rest.

Meditation...

Not far from here is Holy Island. There a sea witch in the distant past, would sing out hag tunes resembling those of a loving mother or wife, bringing false warmth to sailors in what is, most times of the year, the bitter cold. Helmsmen, mesmerized by her calling, were given to shift their bows towards the rocks, adding theirs to the collection of ships that lies at the bottom of the North Sea. She was silenced by a single glance.

And it was from one of those ships that Merlin G. Wildhaber and thirty-three men swam when it hit the rocks...

"Father, time to wake up!"

A low moan emerges from his pillow.

He acknowledges in a sleepy tone, "Good morning, honey."

"This is the big day, father. Just think!" Playfully, she shakes him and strokes his white hair. "McCail is on his way over from the States. Isn't it exciting? Where is he now, Merlin, father dear? Tell me, tell me!"

The light stutters through filtering blinds and through the swaying branches outside in the castle estate, as Merlin ponders. "Well now, let me see." He closes his eyes and waits. After a few minutes, the stillness he seeks whispers and gives him his answer.

"He's asleep right now, dear, dreaming of his childhood. Hold my hand, Susan and I'll walk you into his stargaze...



Snow is falling throughout the night. Wind races between the rows of houses which sit frozen, their icicles reaching for the ground. The stirrings of some become evident with the smell, and the smoke of burning logs soaring into the sky just before sunrise. A clock ticks away unnoticed in the background at 425 Hager Street and life begins walking about on cold wooden floors, wearing thick woolen socks.

"Time to wake up, McCail."

Sprawled like a snow angel on his double bed he hears the call, arises, and with eyes glued shut from sleep stumbles down the hall, banking off the walls.

The rattling of rusted water pipes plays reveille while steam rises from the porcelain-held water's surface, and into the room's atmosphere. Mixing with the coolness of the December morn, the bath-size cloud bank becomes more dense.

Cascading vapors, having reached the room's limits, begin flowing back onto the cracked tile floor. Wisps of cool air from the basement below swirl in tiny whirlpools along the baseboards. Through all this calamity of moisture, the lone occupant sits and turns off the flow from the white knob labeled HOT.

It's a Madison, West Virginia winter and a chuff of steam drifts from the newly opened bathroom window. There in the tub of hot suds, the young McCail hears the softly called words from another room.

"Son, breakfast."

"Yes, Mother, I'll be right there."

For the remainder of his time in the tub McCail plays with a toy boat and another companion, a sea serpent. As it slinks across the surface of the basin, the serpent's wake ripples over the rim. McCail watches the wave movement with a 'why' as cause and effect mark their place in his young mind and a new batch of waves is created.

This also marks the first time he is aware of life and himself, as it and his soul are introduced for the first time. A still silence echoes within him as he explores the cave of his mind. He sits back amongst the suds; the world seems different, but for only a moment. His head cocks to the side with wonder, and he is saying to himself, 'What is this?'

Above the sound of his own splashing, McCail shouts the puppets' lines as his childhood continues.

"Watch out; pirates! Help, help; pirates!"

The serpent dives under the water and resurfaces.

This youngster of eight has no idea what his future holds, nor what he will discover. For now fantasies about pirates and sea serpents seem to capture entirely the attention of the future marine biologist while a toy boat bobs on the surface of the tub water. The mimicked sound of a fog horn blast carries through the bathroom walls and reverberates throughout the house as a young McCail Mcclarry stretches his hand high into the air and the serpent dives deep, deep into the depths and safety of the tub sea.

"McCail, breakfast!"...

Author Notes This chapter I have not changed all that much. I've always left it alone. I just wanted it to be a Dream. Nothing more.

But as you the reviewer looks at this... if you see something it needs....please suggest........... bill

ps...Will add certs when the next chapter is fixed.


Chapter 2
I Wanna Go Home

By hager













Thursday, 11:33 am, July 12, 2012


"McCail, lunch. Time to wake, honey... Mac?"

Surfacing out of his three-hour sleep, he asks, "what did you say?"

"The captain said we'll be there after lunch."

"Lunch, what happened to breakfast?"

"We ate that hours ago."

"Oh. That's right. Are we home yet?"

"Yes dear, in about two weeks. We're on vacation, remember?"

"Two weeks?" He adjusts his chair forward. "We've been on this damn' plane that long. Shit. This is torture! Where's the stewardess?"

"What do you expect her to do?" asks Ann.

At thirty-eight thousand feet over the Atlantic and six hundred miles from the coastline of England, Ann McClary and her husband McCail, are enduring a long flight. Impatient to arrive in the British Isles, she has prodded him awake.

Landing starts their fourteen-day vacation. They will roam the English countryside for seven days before heading to Greece for their second week. She has dreamt of doing this for years. While he, on the other hand, has been sleeping, dreaming about the winter of 1962.

Traveling to England, or anywhere for that matter, never sat well with him, in fact it rattles his cage. A deep and lasting fear of the unknown holds him to a daily routine. Traveling out with his familiar environment only brings anxiety. Right now he is very anxious and everyone had better stay out of his way. Meanwhile, touchdown is over two hours away on this non-stop flight from Los Angeles to Heathrow.

"Stewardess, can I have another magazine? Or is there nothing else to do besides sleep or watch Kung Fu movies on this flying tin can?" he protests. He's in a first class seat and that's another annoyance, as 12 B is not 12A, which is by the window, and Ann won the right to sit in by a toss of a coin.

"Oh, I am sorry, sir." Is the stewardess's insincere reply, "you've just missed the fashion show in the rear compartment!"

'What a bitch.' He watches her turn on her heels to fetch his magazine.

This leaves Kym Jade's serving cart unattended. Kym with green eyes and auburn hair, who can shoot down more egos than Prince Charles does birds in the pheasant season and she only needs a few simple words.

Kym's thoughts are on McCail. Evidently being fed three fine meals in first class along with a host of other treats is not enough for some passengers!

"What are you doing?" asks Ann.

"Give it a rest Ann!" Snaps McCail, as he grabs another handful of nuts.

"Give it a rest, yourself Mister! It's really embarrassing, you know; the way you always grab all the free stuff within your reach. Why do you do that?"

Her question goes unanswered, but troubles his conscience, nevertheless.

"Say, Jade," whispers a co-worker from behind the galley curtain, "there's a man going through your cart."

Kym peers from behind the curtain and checks it out. "Oh him! He's been acting like an arsehole the whole trip. I hope he gets gut rot. Those nuts are off. They're out of date. He can guzzle as many as he likes and get as sick as a dog for all I care. It'll serve him right, the arsehole!" Her eyes become slits as she stares at him.

"Kym, I know that look. You're up to something. What is it?" whispers another stewardess.

"What? Oh! I was thinking about Carl in customs. I'll get him to take care of this swine when we land. Get him to put this sod through the mill, give him a full body search and up there as well! I'll mark him down as a drunkard too! That'll fix him good and proper!"

A few of the other passengers, on seeing McCail's actions, turn away in disgust. A small boy, sitting all alone, interrupts McCail's unbridled rummaging by loudly clearing his throat. Sensing the boy's eyes on him, McCail turns and shoots a: ‘what do you want, kid stare. A budding opportunist himself, the boy returns the stare with a ‘gimme a bag of nuts or I'll scream glower. That wins, and McCail hands over a bag of peanuts, which he only does after a short tug-of-war and mumbling, "You little shit!"

Stealing, or by his way of it, having the right to possess ten to fifteen bags of airline peanuts, he considers only justice, having paid dearly for his ride in the sky. After earning all those travel miles by spending tens of thousands of dollars over the years he reckons, if it isn't nailed down, it's mine!

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but we're out of magazines. Can I offer you some nuts instead?" asks Jade.

"Certainly, oh and, by the way, the service on this plane sucks!"

Embarrassed, Ann turns away and seeks refuge in the passing clouds.

"I'm sorry, sir if we have failed to meet with your expectations. We have a form you can fill out if you wish to complain officially." McCail clears his throat and makes no further comment. "Have another pillow then, sir. If I have shown you a lack of attention, I apologize. Once we land I'll make sure you're given the royal treatment. In the meantime, do you wish more nuts? She reaches into her cart, "or would you like this book to read instead?"

"Don't think this makes up for anything, if I take it. What's it about? I can't see. My glasses are stowed away."

“Then sir, if I may ask. Why do you ask for a magazine? For its pictures perhaps?”

“Just give me the book.”

"A bestseller. Look, it's even been autographed." Beams the stewardess.

"Alright already. Okay, I'll take it."

Ann looks across at the title and picture of the writer, and it's Kym Jade! Kym's and Ann's eyes meet and they laugh. Ann gives her a wink and nod of approval.

The landing is smooth and cheers and sigh’s abounded as the pilot applies the brakes.

"Thanks for traveling Pan American. I hope you enjoy your stay in England."


At debarkation, McCail takes everything he can, including his pillow, which he clutches like a teddy bear, along with the book. He has yet to see the title: "Traveling with Asses", and oblivious to their joke, he walks with Ann down the ramp and into a fast moving crowd.

Positions in this race for the outside world forever change as all passengers charge down a stuffy corridor like buffalo. McCail like a drum major on crack takes the lead, but is soon overtaken by a group of youth. Everyone knew the rules. The slow will be trampled and left behind, without exception, as this stream of passengers pushes along the hallway in a wild non-stop drive toward the exit and freedom. However, in this Exodus, there is no Moses, no Prophet, and no clue. Instead, there is a primal instinct to walk toward the shiny thing that seemed to be a sign or a door.

Some had hoped that by following one another on this carpeted footpath the end would appear. What fools! Muscular atrophy and rumpled clothing walk the narrow halls in clumsy unison while the hopes of freedom lay just beyond; but is freedom an illusion? The only thing beyond is just another sign telling them, 'this way suckers.'

"There is an end, right Ann?"

Disgruntled voices bounce against the walls like angry tumbleweeds' as a destination looms out on the horizon or past the horizon-no one is sure. Some stayed occupied conversing about the weather, others curse it.

"Feels like we're walking to England, Ann. Hope we're following someone smart. This hallway is like the twilight zone."

Seasoned travelers plant one foot in front of the others and know better that to look up, knowing the end could only be reached by walking like zombies for just one more step, and then another. Corners, are a rarity where hopes are planted, and then dashed once reached, in an overlapping deja`vu of another hallway.

"How you doing Ann, want me to take your pack?" saya McCail, a smile sneaking to the surface.

"No, I'm okay."

The crowd moves along to the piped in music of a Van Morrison song. Like used candles the interior walls and flooring are showing signs of use. An estimated seventy-thousand passenger's prance all over Heathrow each day and by its looks, they all had goats.

But things are beginning to turn as money begins to pour into England. It is on this particular summer that the winds of change have begun and take on the heat of a dragon's breath, also warming the moods of Londoner's. People were beginning to prosper with tourism on the rise.

It is the hottest place in all of Europe. France is still as cold as its population's reputation, and Italy's warm waters are still a bit cool as tomato's with melons, like Sophia and Gina, anxiously waited with bikinis in hand for the sun to appear ,while the Spanish city of Barcelona is being besieged by gay linguists.

England is the new hot spot,  Night life flourishes.

An assortment of souvenir patches cover the backpack of an elderly Swedish woman who walks like fire down the long corridors ahead of all others, thanking those who move. "Tack so meken."

The young for the most part keep a bounce in their stride and tennis shoes are still the preference of both the young, and old. Jackets once worn are now carried in reaction to the humid weather, while buttons on shirts and blouses are loosened. Some of the elderly are picked up by swift moving carts, while others refuse and soon become roadblocks, boulders, in this flow of humanity, but finally the end is in sight and it isn't all that much of a comfort.

A small room holds groups of thirty, like packed pickles, as the failure of deodorants becomes apparent. Groups are sorted out by who goes where, and after a flushing of that batch, another group is injected following the same process. Ann and McCail are lucky and make it out on the third bus heading toward customs. The hours of cramped legs and sour looks of dread is coming to an end.

Warm rain pelts the windows of their bus.

"Welcome to England or is it Jamaica?" says the driver with unruly hair, speaking over his shoulder to his closest passengers, Ann and McCail. "It's not to me liking at all. This is the queerest weather I've ever seen."

The backlot of Heathrow is a beehive, filled with worker ants wearing shorts and exposing white sun starved skin. Transparent to the eyes and white, like Casper the ghost, these albino worker ants move about in a sea of motion with some taking corners on two wheels.

A hurried place where drivers have the apathy of baby-sitters, using horns in quick bursts, to either say, 'hello' or 'go to hell bugger,' as a giant game of chicken between vehicles and pedestrians is played out on this twisting roller-coaster ride.

Their bus comes to a stop.

"Boy, am I ever glad that's over. Talk about a ride from hell.  Ann, I think I'm going to barf."

No one is there to greet them. Not that they expected anyone as the two westerners out of Ventura, California, plough their naïve way through a battery of customs agents and corridors of closed doors, a hand stops McCail at the last checkpoint.


"Excuse me sir. Will you step to the side and follow me."

McCail looks around at Ann who was still at the counter and shrugs his shoulders. Her eyes follow him till he is out of sight.

"What's this about?" McCail asked.

"Just follow me sir." said the customs agent who walks with a brisk step.

It isn't a long walk. The hallway is just off the customs area, and is patrolled by unapproachable men, men with guns, big guns.

The room is small, just big enough for a desk, three chairs and a bright green table. A cloak rack stands off in the corner where the agent tosses his hat.

"Sir. Sorry for this slight delay, I insure you this will only take a few moments if you cooperate. My name is Carl. Your passport seems in order sir, but you seemed somewhat nervous in line. We have a duty to the public to detain, people of suspicion."

"Suspicious? Of what?" says McCail, set to walk he moves one step closer to the door.

Carl moves to block his exit. All five-feet of him takes a stance like a pit bull.

McCail looks at him and notices just a hint of lavender rouge and two small ruby studs embedded in each ear.

"It means sir, that we, you and I, that is, are going to get to the bottom of what's making you so nervous. It's my job to leave nothing uncovered, leaving nothing hidden."

"You must be kidding? Uncover what? I've got nothing to hide."

"Good! Then let's get on with it."

"Shit!"

From the first moment McCail's buckle hits the floor, it is off and running with a nonstop parade of instructions and poses.

"Now the socks, sir. Place it alongside your pants and shoes."

"Do you have to watch, so closely. Aren't you the least bit ashamed?"

"No. It's my job, sir."

Stares from the two occupants, hold and take different stances. McCail, standing in one corner is beyond pissed, approaching outer space, while Carl sits watching and directing, his passions aflame.

The door opens and a old woman with sagging stockings and cropped platinum hair, walks in and begins speaking. "Oh, sorry Carl. I didn't know you had a guest." She then walks over and whispers in Carl's ear and walks out. Carl follows locking the door from the outside.

McCail stands firm like a statue, his boxers wrinkled and worn, staring at blank walls.

"Carl here. Oh hi Jade, how was your flight? Good, good. What's that luv? What's the name? McCail? He's in me office now. Not to worry, his rudeness, will be dealt with." Carl hangs up the phone then places a do-not-disturb sign on the doors handle.

A night at a horse opera would come closest to describing the sounds which pour through the walls. Notes meant for farm critters, jitter-ed through McCail's teeth like a herd of donkeys at daybreak.

By the time Carl is done McCail's rump is packed to captivity, yet void of jewels or weapons or anything else for that matter.

"You may go."


McCail's walk back to Ann is slow and uncomfortable, although his stride and pride pick up once he sees Ann, seated near an exit. He almost makes it to her, when he hears a somewhat familiar voice ring out, "stop, sir. Stop!" It is the customs agent out of breath and running.

McCail stops, dropping his head.

"You forgot your belt, sir."

Standing tall and towering over the agent, McCail yanks his belt from the man's grip and proceeds on his way.

"You know, Ann, that guy strip-searched me big time, and enjoyed it!"

"Why shouldn't he? I always do."

"That's not funny, Ann. You don't know the half of what I had to go through and that little bastard ripped my pillow to shreds in the bargain. Why the hell would he do that?"

Once outside, his spleen still vents on the air. "Shit! We left home for this muggy crap?"

He dabs his face and throat with his handkerchief and wipes it over a small, round, onyx medallion sweat-pasted to his chest. It was the last gift he received from his father before he died. He has worn it for the past fifteen years, despite having an aversion to men's jewelry. His father had found it in Scotland back in 1947 while traveling there as an archaeologist.

Now they stand waiting for a cab amidst the chaotic antics of other harried travelers. They wait as long as they did in the customs line. Behind them a newsstand displays the latest headline: ‘Caribbean Heat Wave Hits UK.’

"I knew it would be hot, Ann, but this is unbearable."

"Behave yourself, will you! We'll get used to the weather soon enough. Once we get to our room, you'll be fine. You can have a nice cool shower. Say! I can't believe we're actually here!" rejoices Ann as she prances about in delight.

"I can't either. It's like a bloody nightmare."

She stops and frowns. "Wait here, dear. I'll be right back. I need the bathroom."

"Oh, for God's sake, Ann! Can't it wait?"

"No it can't! Stay right there. I won't be long. See you in a bit."

"Yeah, right! Not long. I'll bet." is his sarcastic reply. She never returns, "In a bit." But he's a teddy bear deep down and says. "Take care, darling, won't you. Love you."

Smiling, she responds, "Yeah, I know you do."

The distant thrill and roar of Niagara Falls is nineteen years in the past for them, and the passion it engendered equally so. Exactly when that happened they do not know, but happen it did.

This decided Ann, although her partner reluctantly agreed, to set out on a quest that would spice up their lives by venturing into the unknown while traveling as sophisticated backpackers. Their itinerary is not planned, adding to the mystery and excitement. With no timetable or hotel bookings, other than a bed and breakfast outside London, they will take each day as it comes, sampling new tastes and odd places as they chance upon them on their journey through England all the way to the Scottish Highlands by rental car.

Or so they planned.

Anxiety rules McCail. He is afraid of everything not within his control. Yet he is about to learn anxiety is his friend, trying to whisper to his soul.

Author Notes Any suggestions?Add some more to this part, take this part out, Are you looking for more description? Thanks Les for adding your touch.
..... bill


Chapter 3
The Butterfly

By hager

Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong violence.



















Heathrow Airport -


Thursday, 2:16 pm, July 12, 2012


The bustle and commotion outside the airport terminal continues unceasingly, as McCail will wait, for over twenty-five minutes, until his wife returns from the john.

He is a foreigner in a new country, which is full of odd people and bothersome noises. Five-minutes pass and his energy begins to sap. In the background, a large sweeper glides past, expelling dust rather than removing it.

"What on earth is taking her so long?"

He complains as a passersby give him a disconcerted glance before hurrying on. A sneeze to rival Krakatoa erupting, explodes from his nose and mouth stirring a few jet-lagged travelers from their stupor to wonder: 'What was that?'

McCail stands in the very same spot that others before him have done, dressed in cargo shorts, sandals and a mild, but authentic Hawaiian shirt; the pocket matches in with the shirt's pattern.

A knee-high retaining wall running to forty feet, serves as a seat, as he lowers his rump onto a half-foot section. To his relief, its stones fit his nether shape precisely and are surprisingly comfortable. A woman, all of six-foot-three, his height, sits to one side of him. Two other rumps, belonging to men half his age, sit ten-feet to his right. They too appear to be waiting for someone.

As a lone stranger in London, he sits waiting helplessly for his wife and the fear that he may be abandoned creeps into his heart. Questions: Where is she? Has something happened to her? I miss her already! Plague his mind.

Putting up with this crap is not an easy task for Ann, yet she knows how to deal with most of his moods; his grumpiness topping the list. Her solution, in a word, is patience, along with a quick kick to his pride now and then. Her love for him never wanes. McCail knows it!

The need for rest gnaws at his bones, either that or comfort. His seeking comfort takes many forms. The one that eases pain the most, is the comfort brought from a woman. They could fill him with delight, with their: graceful movement, captivating beauty, nurturing nature; that and being breathtakingly distracting.

And so, as the concourse before him is crowded by a high-heeled parade all topped with grace and lace, he busily watches these clinging forms, wholeheartedly supporting women's rights to be women as they approach and slowly depart, to fill his eyes and those of his two wall-sitting friends. With widening smiles, the three men sit and marvel at this midday show. The six-foot-three woman smiles also!

Only three minutes elapse, when a woman, perhaps forty, struts past this viewing stand. The two other men dispose of her quickly to search for more youthful subjects. McCail, on the other hand, sees the beauty in her manner, with her grace and carriage accenting her womanhood. Her light clothing floats and flutters with the gentle breeze, to reveal, where it is pressed against her graceful curves, a woman of magnificent structure. Her top is pushed to the limits, almost overflowing.

Built with character and chiseled by the Master's hands, this wave which walks on land, a perfect ten, carries tsunami credentials. With just the right touch and flare, she moves upon the walkway, displaying her smooth pearl-white skin. Each step creates a symphony of movement throughout her body, set to the rhythm of his thundering heart. Both their eyes meet when they are ten feet apart. He nods, giving her a smile, while she flips him the finger and keeps walking.

"Crap! Where the hell is Ann?"

While walking past him the old bag's (as he now refers to her in his mind) ankle bracelet slithers off her hairy leg (as he now sees it) unbeknownst to her. Seeing it fall and bending to retrieve it, McCail sighs, "Why me?" then calls out, "Excuse me, Susan!"

This caught her attention back. "Sorry? How do you know my name? Do I know you?"

"Oh no, no! It's your bracelet. It fell. It has your name on it." Still embarrassed and shocked by her gesture, McCail holds it outstretched, revealing her name outlined in a blend of rubies and diamonds.

"Oh my goodness, how sweet! I didn't feel it fall. I must apologize for my behavior. I'm terribly sorry. A reward of course for your honesty is only fitting and proper."

"Naw, that's okay."

Without listening, she opens her purse and pulls out a wad of cash foreign to McCail's eyes. The currency for England, he has yet to learn, but he knows enough that a paper band wrapped around a small stack of hundred pound notes is a bit more than string wrapped around a wheelbarrow filled with pesos. "No, Susan, I don't want anything." The firmness in his voice is quickly spat out, swallowing hesitation.

"Sir, I must give you something? The value of this is beyond belief. It's priceless and precious to me."

"No. No need."

Seeing no need to argue she takes matters into her own hands. "Well a kiss, then?"

Susan quickly leans forward, and while planting two ruby lip prints on each cheek, and one rather large plunger-sized kiss to his forehead, her breasts tumble out of their purple bandeau. His eyes are held captive by their magnitude and beauty just inches away; he drools.

"Oh my! You're blushing! I've so embarrassed you!" she quickly adjusts her bra.

"No! No. Not at all," he says, while shifting uncomfortably on the wall's edge and wiping his chin. "It was a pleasure. Well, I don't mean that kind of a pleasure, but..."

She saves his embarrassment with the touch of her hand. "I know what you meant." She pauses, uncertain. "There's a bar close by. Can I buy you a glass of wine?"

"No. No thanks. My wife will be right back. I need to stay put."

"I'd say your wife's a lucky woman, judging by your deed."

"Ann would disagree. No. It's me who's the lucky one! She's something else."

"You're from the States, aren't you?"

"Yes. Ann's has wanted to come here for a long time. So she's dragged me along."

"Dragged?"

"I hate to travel. I like to have my own pillow under my head, or at least I did." Remembering his horrible experience in customs, he decided to change the subject. "How about yourself, going someplace?"

"No. I'm just looking for my father. He's floating around somewhere, which reminds me, I'll need to get along! Thanks again for the bracelet and about that gesture?"

"Well, I probably deserved it. I must excuse myself as well. I'm beat from the flight. It was the pits."

"You poor man. Maybe another kiss would help?"

"No, no. My heart can't take that kind of excitement."

"Just as you wish." She turns to leave, then stops and reaches once more into her purse. "Listen, if you find yourself in need of anything, please take my card, and don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks. We're pretty much set, but I'll take it just in case. Hope you manage to find your father."

"Actually, I'm the one who's lost. He gave me instructions, but sadly I became sidetracked."

They exchange smiles and wave farewell without another word.

McCail follows her movement as she sashays her stuff out of view. With a good deed under his belt, he smiles. Two more minutes pass before mild anxiety sets in again. "Where's Ann?"


Nearby, ZZ Top blares out and a man in the shadows adjusts the earpiece of his cd player while, he sways about, like he was one of the band, a free spirit, uninhibited by his age or surroundings.

His mobile phone rings and the dancing and music stops. "Yes. Oh? Right, yes I see him now. No. No there's to be no introductions at this point. I need to hear him speak, okay then we'll see; right dear. Thanks. So you know where we're to meet? Good. I'll see you there." He folds his mobile way and moves closer to his target.

Meanwhile, standing on the stone wall, like a scout searching for the Northwest Passage, McCail tries to spot Ann's figure moving amid a churning crowd of confused travelers. "Geez! It's like a zoo out there. She must have got lost."

Then something odd occurs. A flow of air beats rhythmically against his chest and the young woman, seated next to him, appears to feel nothing. McCail's first thought is: 'So somebody's finally turned on the air conditioning. Wait a minute! Air conditioning outside, what on earth's going on?'

The cool air continues to sweep over him. Its source is a mystery. The odd sensation begins to pass through him. When he looks at the tall woman seated next to him, she still looks sweaty and hot. What's the deal?

Suddenly, a rainbow fills his entire being, like a prism overflowing with light. He gazes down in wonder, studying his hands and turning them over and again. He steps down from the wall. He tilts his head. Something new and strange settles inside him.

He watches his own thoughts cascading to splash against the walls of his mind. But he's not being swept away by his own thinking; instead his thoughts pass as he watches. He becomes the observer of his own mind!

'An out of body experience? A heart attack? No! It can't be that!'

Mounting the wall, he stands tall, searching for the cause, the reason and at first glance he sees nothing out of the ordinary, just the milling of the ceaseless crowd. Then 'Thank you God ' enters his mind; an unspoken prayer not made by him? An old man, unnoticed until then, is looking down at McCail's feet and he steps back and bows. McCail smiles in return and gives a puzzled nod.

Looking over him, McCail continues to search.

A group of Her Majesty's sailors barge by, possibly on their way to some foreign land. Each of them looks into McCail's eyes and for no reason salutes. After a dizzying scan of three hundred and sixty degrees, with nothing found, McCail feels compelled to return his attention to the old man.

Upon closer inspection this man was a gentleman with an aristocratic air. Well-tailored, white trousers drape his legs and fall gracefully to a pair of black and white Oxford bowling shoes. His hair is white and woolly. His eyes bright emerald and contain a depth of unassailable wisdom. They are directed at McCail and he is transfixed.

The umbrella latched over the old man's forearm is of wood encased in leather, a covering so masterfully done, it would humble any leathersmith this side of a thousand years. He sports a colorful hat and wears only one ring as jewelry. A shoulder bag is slung across his chest to rest upon his rightt hip and his skin, where exposed, is healthy, with stout veins and rippling muscle beneath.

He moves one step closer, almost gliding, and McCail flinches. The crowd is somehow kept at arms length as it surges past.

That odd feeling becomes stronger and McCail's right hand begins to glow. Warmth burrows deep into his forehead and the medallion around his neck grows hotter as the gentleman leans forward and starts to approach. In a clear and resonant voice, he remarks, "That's a unique piece of jewelry you have there."

Clutching it tightly, feeling its growing heat, McCail politely responds, "Thanks. It belonged to my father."

"I know," whispers the old man and lunges forward and cries, "They call me, Merlin! Daniel was more than a match for his lions. David was without fear, and you, my friend, will be given their strength! Drop by drop, the wisdom of the ages will sing throughout your being!"

With that, McCail falls into his arms and cutting the strings of time, they move into a different dimension!

Once there, the old man steps back and assessed McCail, seeing all his weakness in a flash.

"So you're, McCail McClarry?" Merlin sighs deeply. "So this is all I've got to work with? Oh my. I think I need liters, Father, not drops. Why me, God? Why me?" Raising his arms to the heavens he pronounces, "Well, so be it. Liters it shall be."

He pauses, drawing on his abundance of powers as pools of passion overflow from his eyes. McCail's soul bursts into soothing colors as cosmic glue, cosmic energy, welds the two together. McCail's eyes narrow, and relaxed, his arms drop. A wordless knowing sits perfectly still in the center of the two.

A single moment hovers between now and then, electric in nature and frozen in time. The complexity of the surrounding atoms becomes simplified and visible to McCail. Magic is consuming the atmosphere, rotating, enabling him to see an apple on all sides at once, if it were presented to him.

"You will be challenged, stripped, and brought to your knees. Being a fool lasts only till you wake. You, my friend, are about to awaken. So learn these lessons I teach you. Listen with an open ear and an open heart, for your past life is at an end with your first tear."

Goose pimples rise all over McCail's helpless body, as the old man works him like a puppet.

"Bend backwards, McCail. Now forward, and take your shoes off, exchanging feet. Good." Merlin clicks his fingers repeatedly, expressing joy. "This might prove to be fun after all."

Events outside their temporal sphere slow to a crawl.

Merlin wanders from the scope of McCail's gaze and begins to move about the crowd like a butterfly dancing over a field of flowers; although he is dancing a jig on a bricked walkway under a canopy of cedars. Swirling patterns of small stones edge a crushed granite pathway beyond, where it is surrounded by flowers in the lace shadow cast by a gentle forest. A lavender aura hovers above the old man.

Passing a display of roses, he stops and plucks one of its Victorian blooms, breathing in its essence. He admires the petals' form, as if for the first time, before shifting his attention upward, into the blue eyes of McCail.

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulls out a blue sphere; small, but glowing. Coruscant with brilliant colors, this crystal ball is hurled towards McCail. It strikes him and beams of pure energy swirl in a vortex around him, shooting off sparks and lights like a firework display.

The man makes a quick departure, moving without casting a shadow into a nearby thicket.

McCail stands seemingly alone in a crowded courtyard, an island unto himself. Waves of people pass by, in another world, and on a different wheel of life, while he glows like a lighthouse.

Now centered with his soul, he stands surrounded by a collection of individuals, while viewing, in advance, their every move, foretold on a wavelength he is able to read. He turns slowly, watching with the eyes of a child.

Warmth cocoons him and gives him rest, while a small seed of strength settles itself into his core. Sensing this glow, a glow he has not felt since childhood, tears flood his eyes as the world passes by carrying luggage.

Ten minutes from its start, it's gone! Time draws him back within its grasp. The focus and awareness has left him. Panic sets in. Visibly shaken, he waits for Ann.

Author Notes Ok....Have at it....rip it apart.....Do you like the last part?....Drop it?.....Do you like it how it is??....Add some more to an area ?? Looking for help to make this as good as possible..Any suggestions?Add some more to this part, take this part out, what do you mean? .....Thank You


Chapter 4
The Pick Up

By hager






Thursday, 2:42 pm, July 12, 2012


"What's happened to you?" asks Ann, approaching.

Mccail's attention quickly turns to this familiar voice, and he moves towards her with open arms. Trying to explain what has happened within the last twenty minutes seems an impossibility at this point. McCail avoids it, and simply blurts out, "Me?"

"Yes, you, dear!"

" I don't know." He conceals his face on her shoulder. "This place is weird, Ann, and besides that I think I'm homesick."

"You've been crying."

"I thought something happened to you. You were gone too long. Then all this weird stuff began happening."

"I'd say it's weird! So who's been kissing you? I'm gone for just a few minutes and you've got lipstick all over you! It's like traveling with a baby."

"Oh that. I retrieved an ankle bracelet for an old woman, and she gave me a kiss."

"Did it fall up or down her leg?"

With raised brow McCail responds, "Up."

"You poor dear." She hugs and kisses him, trying to console her overgrown forty-six-year-old child.

Sitting side by side they each enjoy the comfort of the other. McCail shows signs of relief as minutes pass. Ann leans her head onto his shoulder. A playful gust of wind dashes about them. Ann pulls her hair back from her lips; her contentment continues while McCail eyes the wind reservedly then wonders, 'What just happened to me?'

Gently, a whirlwind begins dancing about with gyrating movements slowly retracing the old gentleman's path, step by step. McCail is alert to its actions. With a twist and a turn it waltzes across stones, lifting leaves that cling tightly to its spinning force. Still matching the old gentleman's route, it hovers around the roses just as he had and then disappears around the corner.

McCail's mind is ablaze with curiosity, pushing nervousness aside.

His attention is pulled towards a small flashing neon sign. He questions its very existence a few moments ago. Printed in bold gothic letters it reads, "Taxi Service, no waiting," and the slogan, "Let us show you the Spirits of England."

"Come, Ann, let's gather our things and head over there."

With backpack in place she follows his long stride. Her hiking boots pounce upon the English stone pathway and follow McCail's strained gait behind the shelter of tall foliage.

"Hey, what's up with your shoes?"

McCail looks down. His shoes point out like a duck's feet. "Oh? I must have done that in customs."

Once around the corner and after rearranging his shoes, it is like stepping into another world.

Gone is the zoo of vacationers that clogged the airport's thoroughfare, replaced by a park-like setting of relaxed book readers under the shade of trees. Benches half full of chess players and cribbage kings await the others' moves. Grass lies well groomed with a borderline of rocks and flowers.

A man with children, perhaps a grandfather, sits smiling while he cherishes these moments, clearly written in his eyes. A fountain with a replica statue of David in the center collects coins as two small boys practice bank shots off his stone appendage.

The airport authority has just two weeks ago opened this grassy area on its grounds to promote The Performing Arts. Hired on a rotating basis, group musicians and one-person shows are allowed to quietly perform between the hours of noon and four for a small predetermined fee plus tips. It will prove to be beneficial to the artists and will help the airport's image.

Today, in the middle of this one-acre setting stands a man sporting dreadlocks and playing steel drums, sweetly singing his rendition of "Educated Donkey." A collection of foreigners and local inhabitants sway to the soca beat. Left to right, and then grind, they move just below the belt to the tempo.

The small group of admirers now includes McCail and Ann. Looking like a flamingo with the strut of a crow McCail seems to have picked up the movements as Ann looks on, full of giggles. Her movements are more Hawaiian.

A Korg synthesizer gives support to the man's musical quest of fulfilling his and his audience's listening ears. The beat of the drum accents the bass lines, which in turn lays a foundation for the well placed pan notes from the man's double tenor pans.

"I come out to drum up business for me family. Please, if you can, supply me with wealth," says the young musician to his enrapt crowd. Money begins filtering through the hands of the people as the musician packs to end his day's event. The two travelers contribute generously.

Ann becomes engrossed in conversation, asking about the musician's instrument, while McCail turns once again to find a cab.

"Are you in need of a taxi, sir?" asks a well mannered and sharply dressed cabby who stands squarely in McCail's path waiting for instructions.

McCail is startled not only by the sudden appearance of the taxi driver, but because he instantly recognizes him as the butterfly, the man who floats, the old gentleman.

"Oh, hi, a, I, I, I didn't see you. Weren't you just in the terminal?" stammers McCail with a pointing motion.

"Yes! And as a matter of record I saw you in there, too."

Unsure as to what comes next, McCail stands mute, wondering if he can ask; how did you dance like a butterfly? Or, Why did you smile and wink? Or, What did you do to me? Crossing all three off his list McCail finally asks, "Did you say you have a cab?"

"Yes I do, sir, the finest in London," chirps the cabby so quickly that it runs alongside McCail's last sentence like a dog chasing a car. "I am a man far before your time, a seeker of men, a kind of a guide you could say, but for you today, a driver of cabs. Merlin P. Wildhaber is my name and welcome to England."

The squeak of the cabby's smile can be heard above the surrounding noises as it shoots across his face, almost skidding off.

"Nice to meet you. I'm McCail. The woman in green over there is my wife, Ann. She's my better half."

"Your better half, eh? I've had lots of better halfs. Sixteen to be exact," nonchalantly rolls off Merlin's lips.

"Sixteen! You've been married sixteen times? How is that possible? What happened?"

"They've all passed."

"You mean they all died?" Stunned, McCail's shoulders fall in shock.

"Yes, and what beauties they were, too. Each had her own charm and grace. Working on number seventeen now. Susan is quite possibly the most fiery of the bunch."

McCail gives a quick look over his shoulder, remembering that hairy legged old bat named Susan, but quickly discounts her remembering she was with her father. He then turns back asking, "They all died? You outlived them? How?"

"I know I look young for my age."

McCail thinks, 'Young? The guy's eighty.'

"But a bit is clean living, good humor and luck of the draw. Most of my wives died of old age and the others through a series of accidents. Horses, mobs and a lighting storm, as I recall. All were given as a gift by God."

A puzzled expression lies parked on McCail's face.
"They died of old age? How old are you?"

"Dirt and I were born on the same day many thousands of years ago."

"Thousands? Ah, ah, Mr. Wildhaber, you really had me going."

Not a flinch crosses Merlin's face in reaction to McCail's comment, although his eyes do twinkle.

"Sometimes our better half, McCail, turns out to be our own soul, which for the most part goes unheard. Have you been listening to yours?"

McCail swallows, knowing the old man's words have bite.

Continuing, Merlin begins speaking in an old fashioned way. Like a ringmaster to his audience, the cabby adds more to his responses with statements directed into McCail's eyes, slowly spinning about him like an actor performing Hamlet.

"McCail, my fine sir, if you look closely, this place seems overgrown with confusion."

Abruptly a hundred travelers invade their conversation, crisscrossing between their bodies, and just as quickly leave. McCail looks bewildered.

"Such a pity for some, and others, not. Sometimes just recognizing things that are staring you directly in the face is a difficult task as we all become distracted with nonsense. Most travel far too fast for the beauty of the spirit to catch and surround them by the ever-present breath of life. But in you, my fine sir," says Merlin, peering closer with raised brows, "I can clearly see rare and very distinctive qualities. Might you care to expand your senses and dance as I do with the wind?"

"Dance with the wind? We're just here on vacation, sir, and don't really have time. Nor do I even know what dancing with the wind is."

Shrugging off the old man's comments McCail waits for a response while considering finding another cabby. But curiosity drives him on, wondering about the gentleman's sanity or just what his game is, so he continues to listen.

"Back in the terminal you saw time slow to a crawl and a warm inviting light filled you. Am I right, sir?" The gentleman shifts to the right.

"Well, yes. I guess so, but what was that?" McCail's body stands at attention.

The gentleman continues. "Those, my dear friend, are the first steps to this dance. Yes, and like most things unknown, dance steps like these require a guide or master. I am such a man."

The English gentleman's head bows nobly and raises. "But be warned, dear friend. The dance appeals only to the light of heart, which brings one closer to the light inside one's heart. But not to worry. Trust me, as untold blessings await you, McCail. You will see. Come lad."

A row of ducks flies overhead. The two men pause, watching the birds fly out of sight.

"I give truth away, dear friend, and it's free. Yet I have few takers. Now if it were drugs, I'd have them lined up for miles."

"What are you talking about? We're just here on vacation."

"Yes, and I'm sure you'll find this vacation exceptionally mystical when you listen and dance with the wind."

McCail is irritated.

"Now think about what I said, McCail, and ponder the experiences you've been through today and the ones coming."

Leaning closer, the cabby, within kissing distance, utters more. "Then, as your days go by, the magic will open your eyes and will fill you once again, as you go in search and wait for Him."

"Him? The one who's coming? What are you talking about? Did you drug me? Trust you? Like I said, Mr. Wildhaber, we're just here on vacation. Excuse me, sir, but I'm going to find another cab."

"You will be silent!" commands Merlin.

A puff of purple smoke envelopes both, surrounded by the world that sees them not, as Merlin races through his next lines.

"Confusion will fill your mind, as five minutes of your time will be switched back to our very first lines, and in four days' time you will be mine. Now awake, McCail, and begin your quest."

Again the question passes through Merlin's mind, 'Why me, God, why me?'

"YOU WILL BE SILENT!"


Chapter 5
Love is a Stranger

By hager



















Thursday, 3:14 pm, July 12, 2012


"Are you in need of a taxi, sir?"

Bewildered, McCail stands suspended before responding, "Oh hi, a, me?"

"Yes sir, you."

"Where am I?"

"London. Do you require the services of a taxi, sir?"

"I guess." McCail replies rubbing his face in an effort to wake up from his hypnotic experiences back in the terminal and again just moments earlier.

"Good. Merlin G Wildhaber at your service. My taxi is available, waiting just for you."

"Have we met before?" asks McCail.

"In the terminal I believe, sir."

"Yes, that's where I saw you. Forgive me; everything seems a bit fuzzy."

"I'm sure it's jet lag, sir, and as time goes on, I'm sure you'll remember everything."

"Yeah, I guess it's just jet lag. I think you're right. Yes, we do need a cab."

Idle chit chat about the park, the weather, the flight, fill in the moments before Ann, McCail's wife, arrives.

"Ann, I found a taxi. This is Mr Wildhaber."

"Oh good, Mr Wildhaber," replies Ann from ten feet away.

"Please call me Merlin. How nice it is to finally meet the both of you. I've been waiting a long, long time!"

Not knowing what to make of his last statement the two give a polite but puzzled nod of acknowledgment.

A still disoriented and floundering McCail bends to grab his luggage that is two steps ahead of him, already under the care of their perky driver, who just happens to be a snappy dresser as well. A white carnation in the lapel of Merlin's suede jacket along with a white buttoned shirt make this handsome gentleman's emerald green eyes stand out. His white beard helps glamorize his personality. He just plain and simply sparkles.

Mcail's memory is coming back in bits and pieces as he thinks he recalls the man's odd movements from earlier along with a sentence or two of gibberish.

"Where might I take the both of you, sir?" asks their newly found chauffeur while he trots ahead.

"Oh, the address is 1762 Northwoods View," recites McCail from memory. "Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, the Heritage Rental Yard, sir. That will be about twenty-pounds, sir."

"I go by McCail."

"As you wish, McCail. Does that price suit you? Good." McCail has had time to insert a brief nod of yes.

A stretch Silver Cloud Rolls Royce with tinted windows sits parked at curbside as the two travelers and their escort approach. "Well here we are!" announces the cabby as he seats his new clients.

"Oh my. This is nice," remarks Ann of the cab's elegance. "Now this is what I call living!" She turns and says sotto voce to McCail, "My, our driver sure seems efficient and spry for his years. He's gotta be at least seventy. I sure hope we'll be able to move that quickly when were his age!"

McCail swallows and rubs his forehead thinking, What was it? I remember something about the way he moved.

Then it comes to him.

"If you only knew, Ann, how fast this guy moves, you'd be amazed! This is the guy that ..." His memory fades again.

The driver closes the car's trunk (its "boot," McCail supposes, since they are in England) and seats himself. He reaches through the privacy glass and pours his guests a fine Merlot to toast their arrival.

"Do you mind if I join you? I can assure you my driving skills will not be affected in the slightest." Ann and McCail look at the other and then nod their approval.

The Eurithmics can be heard playing "Love is a Stranger" as they merge into a forest of cars.


Their luggage has been loaded and they are being driven through the streets of London by a man they know nothing about. A decidedly odd man! If they were really knew his age or who he actually is, both probably would jump out of the moving auto without hesitating for a second.

The man's photo I.D. affixed to the sun visor reads Merlin G Wildhaber, London Classic Cab Company 7000 Newport Court, London. Nice picture as far as snapshots go, but it is totally fake, as are the two magnetic signs attached to the door panels. The so-called taxi he is driving is borrowed from the estate wherein he resides.

"On holiday, I gather!" surmises Merlin. His eyes focus into the mirror, gathering answers.

"Yes, this is our first trip to England, Mr. Wildhaber, and this wine? It's the absolute best I've ever had!" cheerfully remarks Ann. Both passengers are beginning to feel the effects of the bottled spirits, and then some.

"Glad you enjoy it as I'm sure you'll enjoy your holiday. Summer is generally a good time to visit. But lately we've had a tad more rain than in past years and the humidity has been hanging about for weeks! Summers are always busy as I'm sure they are in the States. But I don't think you'll be disappointed by any of that muck. You seem tough souls. England truly is a great place to tour about. Which reminds me: If you two have an hour or so and if of course you're not too tired, would you care to take a short sightseeing tour as we drive to your destination? No charge."

"Sure!" McCail quickly chirps.

"Good. Where to?"

"Aren't you tired, honey?"

"Ann," he says, whispering near her ear, "it's free. Let's do it."
She appears a bit embarrassed.

"I recall a sign back there and it said something about the Spirits of England. Could that be possible, Merlin?"

Ann likes the suggestion.

"Yes! I run the only such tour in all of England. It's not your average tour, mind you. Most people don't even see that sign. But as you requested let's be off!"

Speeding away from the traffic signal the Rolls Royce sets a path. Nonstop chatter begins from all the occupants with questions and answers sailing back and forth through the rear and front compartments. In no time at all smiles are beginning to collect and build on the two new faces that have entered London's landscape. Passing both history and time present, the couple sighs, collecting visual memories with each meter covered. Steeples of stone and iron gates of architectural beauty drift by. McCail is enjoying himself, which is a rare treat for anyone around him.

Rows upon rows of gardens display planted efforts that now bloom on this warm July afternoon. Flowering jasmine reaches upward, filling slender lanes on short highways, trapping and channeling their fragrance into the waiting senses of passers-by. Bicycles clog cobblestone arenas and the parks of different towns as the tires of the Rolls pass.

Stopping at a roadside market the three wander a bit, purchase an item or two, then return to the cab and climb in.

"You asked about the history, McCail, and I will give you the mystery, as well. But, before I begin it's customary for me to give gifts as I greet and meet people throughout my day. People such as the two of you are easily spotted in a crowd. The way you carry and present yourselves stands out to one such as myself. It's a nice quality that you don't see too often. Not everybody, mind you, possesses what you carry inside." He pauses. McCail and Ann are still.

"Yes, it's there. You definitely have it." Agreeing with himself he shakes his head and continues.

"There's much to be discovered by not moving, as movement sometimes happens without moving an inch, letting the forces about us do the moving, be magical. Step back and follow the true will, and as the Bible says, 'be of the world but not in it.' There are times, though, that things locked deep inside need little charges of dynamite so the treasures might be revealed and appreciated. Being on an excursion such as you are, you just might bump into someone that lights the fuse. I feel you, McCail, are about to experience something bright, sparked, magical. So please accept this on behalf of the good people of England and myself, Merlin P Wildhaber. I find, McCail, that you long to find your soul, but can't quite get there. Am I right?"

"You're talking to a tired man, sir. The flight was way beyond long. I barely know my name, let alone," pausing, "my soul."


***************************


Their luggage has been loaded and they are being driven through the streets of London by a man they know nothing about. A decidedly odd man!

They have just pulled away from the airport and McCail looks at the man's photo I.D. affixed to the sun visor. Merlin G Wildhaber, London Classic Cab Company 7000 Newport Court, London.

"On holiday I gather!"

"Yes, this is our first trip to England, Mr Wildhaber, and this wine? It is the absolute best I've ever had!" McCail and Ann are feeling a little drunk.

"Glad you enjoy it as I'm sure you'll enjoy your holiday. Summer is generally a good time to visit."

The driver rambles on. McCail hears little of it but tunes back in for, "Which reminds me. If you two have a hour or so and if of course you're not too tired, would you care to take a short sightseeing tour as we drive to your destination? No charge."

"Sure!" McCail quickly chirps. "Good. Where to?"

"Aren't you tired, honey?"

"Ann, it's free. Let's do it."

"I recall a sign back there and it said something about the Spirits of England. Could that be possible, Merlin?"

"Yes! I run the only such tour in all of England. It's not your average tour, mind you. Most people don't even see that sign. But as you requested. Let's be off!"

McCail and Ann enjoy the scenery and the commentary and the wine. Stopping at a roadside market the three wander a bit, purchase an item or two then return to the cab and climb in. Another round is poured from what seems an inexhaustible supply of Merlot.

"You asked about the history, McCail, and I will give you the mystery, as well." McCail, in a bit of a blur hears the cabby go on about gifts and moving but not moving, and he stifles a giggle.

"...So please accept this on behalf of the good people of England and myself, Merlin P Wildhaber. I find, McCail, that you long to find your soul, but can't quite get there. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Then let me ask you: do you know how?"

"No, I can't say that I do."

"Well all is not lost."

A gift for each is passed to each.

"It's heavy, Merlin."

A cheery grin appears on the cabby's face and an eyebrow is raised.

"Not really, McCail! I think you'll find it to be as light as a feather. No, please don't open it now but later, when it calls to you. For you, Ann, please accept this bottle of wine and open it in some grand place I'm sure you'll find whilst on holiday."

"Oh, Merlin, how sweet!"

They drive on.

And on.

The cabby begins once again telling them tales beyond even the most vivid imagination, and quite contrary to history books and standard lore. Talk of dragons and tunnels and bodies of water that hold secrets of long ago ring through most of his tirades. But the fierce battles aside, of all things the story of Humpty Dumpty being fact not fiction, pushes Ann and McCail over the edge.

"Oh this is so much fun!" she laughs. She and McCail snuggle closer while totally engrossed in the stories.

"Want some more wine?" asks the cabby as he tilts the bottle once more into the swaying crystal glasses of his passengers. Filling his own glass as well, the cabby offers another toast to life just as the roughness of the English road is felt. "My, that was a nasty bump!" comments Merlin.

"Tell me, Merlin," McCail calls, half lit, "you're not saying that Humpty Dumpty, the egg, was a real man, are you?"

"Yes, McCail, exactly. He was the Earl of Humphrey, an evil and nasty character and as big as a church! But now that you mention it, he was an egg. A rotten one! " Sips are taken by all at this point and they cheer and toast Humpty.

"After he and his legion were beaten and destroyed by a dragon named Flagon, he lost all respect amongst his subjects, not that he commanded much respect to begin with, mind you. So the children started making up song and rhymes and that became what you hear today."

"Stop it, stop it! Oh my, you're killing me, Merlin." McCail fills his next sentence with exclamation marks. "Dragons?! Please! Dragons aren't real! There's never, I repeat never been any evidence that something like that was even around! Ever!"

Shaking his head with an attitude of self-assured authority, Merlin replies with intriguing mystery by merely lowering his voice and leaning closer. "Oh, really? Well let me tell you a bit more."

Spellbound, Ann sits eager for more. McCail, on the other hand, sits drunk and disbelieving.

"The dragons that took flight were all male. The females of that species didn't fly. She is a swimmer."

"She is? You meant, was. Right?" Ann asked.

"Right." Merlin replied and then continued while McCail just rolls his eyes. "They were swimmers. Rushing about with the force of twenty legions, a dragon's flight could sweep swift and low. Spitting a mouthful of small pebbles was its most lethal feat! Each glancing off the others path gave the impression of fire, but it was only sparks."

Merlin laughs aloud, calling up a remembrance that leaves him lost in quiet, lonely thoughts. Then an awakening begins as he continues orchestrating each moment with tone and volume, powered by finesse.

"What was deadly, though, was the speed at which the projectiles traveled. A dragon's intake of breath, one could never imagine. The force which came forth was staggering. Between sixteen hundred and two thousand kilometers per hour, I'd say. With range of just under a ten kilometers. This, my dear friends, was the Flying Fortress of its day, and was rightfully feared by its enemies. Sound barriers being broken marked that dragons were about. They could be summoned." Pausing, Merlin wets his lips with another sip and then, leaning closer, continues in whispered voice, "Only a few knew how."

"Enemies!" blurts McCail and then continues, "You mean to tell me they had friends?"

That comment catches Merlin off guard.

"Yes. Yes, they have friends," sighs Merlin. Slowly leaning back, Merlin retreats in thoughts as quiet moments pass and a tear rolls down his cheek. The air stands still as the conversation sits suspended. The drive continues.

"Oh please forgive me, dear people. Sometimes I get overwhelmed by my own stories. I guess I'm getting old."

A few minutes are needed to turn the drive back into lightheartedness.
"While you're in London, dear friends, relax. You're on vacation and let things roll off you like water off the backs of ducks."

A few sprinkles begin dotting the windshield.

"Oh, I think we're here now at your destination."

The Rolls Royce settles alongside the curb of the Heritage Rental Yard.
Swirling winds hover above the auto and after the narrative dissertation of London's historical sights, along with a mouthful of nonsense, the cab sits parked, and all are ready to exit.

The arm of the taxi driver, Merlin, is seen opening the door for his passengers as the two, now tipsy travelers as well as their tipsy driver, slowly roll out of the rear doors of the Rolls, all laughing and helping each other. Ann has almost wet her pants from the stories told. The three tipsy occupants all step back from the cab and try to gain a bit of composure and balance.

Ann and McCail snicker, pointing fingers at Merlin while looking at each other in disbelief at the absurdity of the cabby's tales. Then they slowly realize the strangest of all tales: the bizarre fact that he, too, climbed from the back of the cab, makes their eyes pucker and their jaws lock.

McCail looks at Merlin and then the front seat and says, "Who's been driving? Humpty Dumpty?" Ann goes hysterical with laughter and finally wets her pants.

"Oh a, a, a I gotta run. Nice meeting you folks."

A woman darts across the narrow street, seats herself in the passenger seat and closes the door.

"Susan?" says McCail

"You know her?" asks Ann, as she turns, waiting for an answer..

"Yes. She's the woman I met at the airport. What's she doing here?"

"You tell me. Why is she following you? And that's not an old woman like you said! Did you get a look at her chest?"

McCail silence stands as his answer, first turning white, then bright purple.

Merlin hurriedly climbs into the front and begins to drive away as brake lights abruptly signal a halt to the car's forward movement.

Jumping out, Merlin retreats to the rear of the car, and smiling a quick smile deposits the couples' luggage neatly curbside as he rushes once again to the driver's door and begins to get in.

"What about the money we owe you?" calls out McCail.

"Forget about it; it's on me!" A broad smile fills the old gentleman's face as he continues, "Welcome once again to England, McCail and Ann McClarry!"


The cab drives away and leaves the two travelers on the sidewalk in front of the rental yard. Still puzzled, they nod in cordial accord while they watch the auto disappear amongst the banks and rows of moving autos.

Their heads turn in unison toward each other, wondering the same question but each in his and her own way shrug off the question: "How did he know our last name?"

"Aw, I think I'm going nuts! What the hell was that?" shouts McCail, grabbing his head then dancing a bit. Londoners flinch, treading around the couple as they politely allow them every right to be totally deranged.


Looking at Merlin the woman passenger says, "Well, what do you feel, Merlin? Is he the man you've been waiting for?"

"Yes, Susan. He's wearing the stone! But this will be work. Not for me though. Him."


Chapter 6
The Leaning Piazza of Leigh

By hager







Thursday, 5:14 pm, July 12, 2012

Grabbing their backpacks and solo piece of luggage, McCail and Ann bewildered and tipsy, walk through the doors of the Heritage Rental Yard. McCail looks over his shoulder and shakes his head after their cab ride from hell.

"What was that? I'm confused, Ann. The cab driver was nuts!"

"I'm sure there is a logical explanation, dear, but I for one," slight pause as index finger is raised then peered at, "don't have a clue."

Classic tiles cover the entrance; they stumble slightly on green marble in making their way towards the registrar's desk. The office/showroom is vacant of personnel, although footsteps can be heard shuffling about behind an oak-paneled wall. Spotless, free of dirt throughout its main showroom, it gives at first glance an impression of togetherness. The essence of the building is old but not dank.

Antique cars stand off to the left, frozen in time and representing their eras. Majestic beauties of their day line the shop's massive windows, a display of the best of the best. A jet black 1965 Continental, a 1947 AJS motorcycle, a 1957 357 Chevy, a 1962 Bentley. All seem poised to take the driver off in any direction, past or future.

Looking closer, McCail notices the building's wear. Neglect, not of cleaning but of maintenance, is quickly heading the place towards ruin.

What he cannot see is more clutter behind the scenes, with unpaid bills, shoddy paperwork and an owner, Seth Jarret, who doesn't care anymore. Poor management is slowly crumbling the facade now supporting a dying business.

Seth Jarret, a renowned race car driver, cried and began drinking when his wife, a stacked redhead, ran away with a bookie after he (Seth, that is) lost a large stakes race. Later that same racing season his downward spiral worsened after seeing her on national TV disrobe and display her buxom breasts at the one furlong mark during the Derby while sitting atop the bookie's shoulders. But before all that came the tragic death of his father.

Agonized because of his dwindling money situation Seth couldn't afford to pay the top wages he once had. Nine people had been employed at Heritage including a crew of seven master mechanics and Seth's wife, Alice, who acted as receptionist, lover, cook, bookkeeper, play nurse. His job? Public relations before the bottle pulled his spirit down into the drink.

Heritage's employees now consist of just three people: Seth, chief cook and bottle tipper; Tommy Duncan, a sixteen-year-old ace mechanic; and one new hire, Mr. Leigh Montgomery Piazza. Leigh's skills consist of being a good person with a twisted sister personality but no known mechanical or business bent. Leigh, a part-time and far-sighted actor, is of course out of work.

He secured the job by answering a local ad requesting "a bright young man" to work at the counter at the Heritage Auto and Rental Company Ltd. in south London. After the interview, which was more a performance at a local pub, Seth handed all his wife's responsibilities over to Leigh, except firmly(!) anything having to do with sex.

What won Seth over and sealed the deal was the way Leigh was able to do a variety of different imitations. Bird calls, motorcycles, lawn mowers, chain saws and a 747 landing were just a portion of the repertoire of Leigh's one talent. Seth forgot his troubles while on the floor laughing as the drinks kept coming.

Having not worked for the past three months, this, Leigh thought, might be the proper place to raise much needed cash until a real acting job materialized. The working hours were as agreeable as its locality, just a few kilometers from his flat.

On this, Leigh's first day, Seth has just left for the track and Tommy Duncan is stuck under a friend's car miles away repairing something he has fixed twice before and Leigh has the misfortune of running into a "Mr. McHail McCary."

A squinting Leigh looks down at Ann's wet slacks then asks, "A, a, who? What was the spelling, sir?"

"It's m c, no no no, that's a big M, little c, big C, L a r r y, there, that's it. Only the first name is spelled M c C a i l."

"Sorry, sir, and thank you. I'm a bit nervous. This is my first day."

That's all McCail McClarry needs to hear. "Oh my goodness, shit!" he mutters to himself.

"So, how may I help you, Mr. MacClerry."

Looking over his sunglasses the flustered tourist from America says, "Son, like I said before we're here just to pick up our car and we're tired. So if you can please hurry or maybe call someone else to help?"

"I'd like to call someone but everyone's gone. It's just me. But not to worry, Mr. MacCleany. Let me run over this list and we'll be one step closer to completing this transaction. Now, did you want convertible or hardtop? Good, convertible. Color preference? Gray. Good choice."

"Young man, I already gave that information to the travel agent and to tell you the truth I really don't care at this point whether the car's pink and we have to pedal it."

"Sir, if you can just bear with me, I'm almost done. Manual or automatic? Manual. Good, it's your only choice anyway. Two door or four? Two, good, that's good. Insurance is ten quid a day. Wise move. Cash or credit? Cash. Cash, that's great. Where you staying. Oh, lovely area,, can't say I've ever stayed there but my friend did about six or seven-months, past there, ago go... Oh, where was I? Oh.Lovely area. Say do you happen to know a Jed Baker, he lives in California too? He's my cousin."

With eyes twitching, blood vessels bulging and lips pinched, McCail hands over the cash.

"No I don't! And what's that got to do with us? Our car please."

Leigh stumbles about the desk desperately searching for clues as to what in the hell to do next. He opens drawers and lifts papers, applying stamp and initials to anything within sight.

Seth has left all the completed paperwork with just a few of the particulars not filled in. All Leigh has to do is ink in time of day and date, stamp PAID and hand over a copy. That's it!

But who knows what dark shafts lurk in the mind of Leigh Montgomery Piazza and where they lead. Maybe all the tunnels to thought processes have collapsed from years of neglect.

"Excuse me, folks. Please have a seat while I go get your car and we'll finish the paperwork in a moment." With one motion Leigh steps out of the office and into the safety of the garage.

"Hell, Ann, this guy doesn't have a clue! This is not fun."

Lowering their rumps, he and Ann sit upon two storage crates.

No one is around as Leigh nervously drags on the leftover remnants of the morning's smoke. Clouds of blue lightly drift about the garage and waft amongst the handful of autos.

Five minutes pass.

Cars line the walls silently suffering with raised bonnets and jacked up bodies. The windows of the garage, smudged with months of grime, filter the sun's rays.
Leigh strolls stoned amongst the heap of body parts, rambling along with his thoughts, such as they are. The smoke teases his mind with its consuming magic.

Leigh does not see the oil slick that lies across his path. First slipping and skidding laterally he surfs the slippery cement waving his arms for balance and then loses it. A grunt mixed with giggles echoes against the walls.

Hitting hard on portions of pavement his slacks sop up puddles of oil and the slippery stuff covers his frame.

Laughter can be heard coming from the garage. Leigh's cry of levity and lack of levitation can be heard moving left to right on his initial long skid as he passes the two sitting in the confines of the lobby. Ann's and McCail's heads follow the sound as if they are watching horses race for the finish line. Hearing the commotion from their box seats, Ann and McCail look at one another and roll their eyes before giving up and surrendering to the moment.

"What's going on in there, Ann? Hell, it's been ten minutes. Where is that little shit?"

Moments later here comes Leigh carrying with him a calamity of oil stains that decorate his clothing. He is a total mess. But somehow the spill has accented the charm that first got him the job.

The two travelers freeze with locked jaws. Leigh does the talking and explains, "Oh, I slipped. Happens all the time! But not to worry." He confidently picks up a shop towel and attempts to clean himself of London's road grime.

The three stand in the quiet of the office lobby as the sound of a motorcycle can be heard in the distance. The sound grows louder with each shift of its gears. With squinted eyes and craned neck Leigh looks past the traveling couple towards the front of the lobby. The two travelers turn their heads in curiosity. Once their heads are turned they both realize they have been duped. Leigh stands smiling, awaiting praise for his impression of an oncoming Harley. None comes.

Once again their eyes roll, heads bob and weave; impatience is beginning to take root.

"Our car. What about our car?" Firmly suggests McCail, not at all amused.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, folks. It just comes outta me. You know I do other impressions, too."

"That's wonderful, son. But what about our car?"

The tired and sour looks on the travelers' faces make it tough for Leigh to finish his next sentence. "Oh, the bad news 'bout your auto: I didn't see it."

"What do you mean you don't have our car? Is that what you said? What kind of dump do you run here? We ordered it a month ago."

"Now, sir, I'm sure it's here but where, I'm sorry to say, I don't know." Pausing, Leigh remembers seeing a car off to the side. "No, wait! Wait! Right, sir, right! It just came to me. I'll be back." Leigh darts out and returns almost as fast.

"Well, sir, good news. Matter of fact, it's great news! We have your motor car, although the color is not as requested. It was in the wrong spot. If you sign here, I'll have you on your way in no time at all!"

"Listen, son, I don't care if it's bright purple, but I don't want to be pawned off on some piece of junk that's going to either break down or looks like Henry Ford made it with his own hands. I specifically asked for something nice and European! Understand?"

"Right, sir! Please follow me, sir. I'll show you your automobile."

Now pursuing the quick shuffles of Mr. Leigh Montgomery Piazza are the two western travelers.

"Well, here it is!"

"That? That's the .. This is the car?" McCail gasps with amazement.

"You've got to be kidding me. Are you sure this is it? And at the agreed price? Wait a minute. Does it run?"

"Why, of course, sir." Leigh swallows and continues, "And if for any reason you're not satisfied, just return it and we'll make it right. And, sir, if you look right here, that's the amount all right! If you just put your signature here, you and your missus will be off!"

"But, baby, we ordered a convertible, and the color?"

"I know, Ann, but this is a classic. Just look at it!"

Standing back, Ann eyes the car once more. "Well it is kinda cute! It's fine, dear."

"Right, folks, now let's just tend to the details."

Signing the document and being given all the paperwork back is a sight to behold. In under thirty seconds Leigh is bidding safe and happy motoring to the two travelers as they pull out of the Heritage Rental Yard driving their 1938 Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic Coupe. A very, very, rare and expensive car.

McCail almost torches the tires in his getaway as 2,298 pounds of history begins once again rolling the streets of London.

Leigh is very excited at the thrill of helping his very first (and most likely last) customer. Seth has just won with this car for the fifth time in twelve-years, Best at Show. Its picture has been on the cover of all the top car publications as well as in numerous TV and movie spots. The car given the McClarry's is insured by who else but Lloyd's of London for the sum of a twenty-three-million pounds.

"Mac, how much was this car again?"

"Eighteen dollars a day! This is a steal, Ann! It's gotta be a mistake or a replica!"

{McCail has sixty-six percent of that statement right}

"Now this is living, Mac!" Ann kicks off her shoes and settles into being driven through her dream town, London.

Joyfully McCail honks his horn. Motoring past the palace, his nostrils flare with pride.
Oddly enough the people along their route either honk or wave as they pass.

"My, these people sure are friendly," remarks Ann.

The day is finally turning around for the McClarrys.

Later and back at the shop, quitting time is approaching for Leigh.

Starting with a ten by ten area in a secluded corner Leigh has spent the better part of an hour removing oil from the garage floor, crawling on his hands and knees. He has it glowing like a new dime, spotless and free of oil. He calculates that during the slow times of the day he will make the garage completely free of oil in about two weeks time.

Cheerfully he remembers his fall this afternoon as he works, laughing to himself and also thinking he might possibly be saving some other poor soul from the same fate. Having in a sense "thrown himself" into his job feels good to him. His customers, the ones who left with the nice car, obviously felt good too.

But what doesn't feel good is the reaction he receives from Tommy Duncan who wanders back to the shop after re-repairing his friend's car.

"You rented the Alice?" is shouted so loudly it can be heard for blocks. "Seth's baby?" A pause ensues as Tommy shakes his head, coming up with the only possible solution. "Mate, if I were you I'd leave the country in a hurry."

Leigh nervously lights a cigarette as Tommy goes on about the Alice. He swallows hard with each sentence. The bottom line, Seth worships the car, and so does all of England. That is anyone who could read.

Tommy leaves out no details as he points to newspaper clippings on the office walls next to signed congratulatory wishes from nobility and stars. Leigh's face perspires, his body shakes.

"I didn't know. I'm not into autos. What should I do?"

"Well that might change when Seth stuffs your body into a car boot and sinks her," Tommy muses.

"Like I said, leave the country. But the trouble with that is he'll find you." Tommy's fingers thump on the counter while he thinks. Moments pass.

"Better yet, face the wrath of Seth and tell your folks goodbye." Tilting his head Tommy delivers the final word. "'Cause he's going to kill ya, no doubt about it."

Tommy shrugs, washes his hands of another's business and walks through the garage towards his car. "Good luck and goodbye."

Leigh watches him leave. The actor's shirt is drenched. For another half hour or so he paces the garage trying to piece together a happy ending to his nightmare situation. None comes.

Another half hour will pass before Leigh closes the shop's door and trudges towards the street corner and onto a passing bus. That evening he calls his folks for advice and to say goodbye.

Later that same evening Tommy will begin spouting off about Leigh's soon to be prone position at a local pub. Overhearing the details about the Alice, Jason von Twittle, a wealthy bookie, nearly chokes on his brew. His ears perk with the news. His joyful high-pitched laughter carries him out of the pub then slowly subsides as he licks his chops on his drive home.

He begins plotting a plan that will surely ruin Seth.

Alice, Seth's ex-wife, is asleep when Jason arrives home. He pours a drink then sits in the darkness of his mansion thinking, 'I'll call Pilot in the morning to set up the deal.' He then goes to bed trying to no avail to arouse Alice.


Chapter 7
Driving to Aunt Jenny's

By hager



















Thursday, 7:07 pm, July 12, 2012

Finding his way through the streets of London, as Ann sleeps, is confusing for McCail.

Unfamiliar rules of the road, boggle his mind, 'What's that sign mean? Driving on the wrong side! Why, why this way? They're nuts! Crazy drivers; I'm in Mexico! What a day,' he thinks.

Plus he's tired. Beat. Slapping himself and sticking his head out the window, repeated several times, achieves nothing. Sipping a warm Coke, his other companion on the drive to who knows where, he continues.

Then there was the cab ride from hell with no reasonable explanation. 'What in the hell was that? How did we move and end up where we did without him driving? How did he float; how could he? How did he know our last name?' It's all a mystery to him.

The old man's conversation about the soul also peppers McCail's mind, as it strikes a chord, reverberating through that, his soul.

'Yes, he's right. I've lost the connection. What happened to me?'

The only thing saving him from insanity, for the moment, is the car.

The Bugatti moves along the road as if it owns it. Others seeing its approach are still pulling to the side, making a path, still stopping and waving.

McCail is in heaven driving the Alice, but when Seth finds out his baby, his joy, his everything, has been rented, all hell will break loose.

Rare, beautiful, exciting to look at, is this classic, along with all Seth's passengers, mostly women. Women with curves, and who stroke and stoke a man's imagination to the point of meltdown, are his guests. Not one ever refuses a ride.

Few of these classic autos were made, and in the late `eighties, Henry, Seth's father, acquired this one from an unnamed source. Henry gave it to his son as a wedding present, hence the name, the Alice, for Seth's new bride.

The wood dash stands out, simple by today's standards, but class is written over its face; its dials radiate elegance. Detail was poured into this labor of love dripping with style. Pearls, diamonds, gold, and a woman's touch all possess what she does.

The Alice is the sweetheart of England, for men, that is. Women find her a threat, somewhat of a distraction, as it pulls so on men, begging for attention, basically a man's thing, which they dare not pass on. Viewing her leave is just as nice as viewing her coming. Again, just like a woman. Resist? No way!

The streets are once again confusing McCail, as he fights to stay focused. In the corner of his eye, the sight of Ann sleeping is catching. She looks beautiful though. Her curves fill his mind. It's hot, with a Caribbean attitude. Her sweat is steamy, melting his thoughts.

Ripples of moisture gather in cleavage between what juts out to there. McCail is beginning to nod. 'Rest, comfort, sex, water, water, sex!' Biting him like a wolf, draining him, as Ann's body is pulling, tugging at him. Eyes drifting, bent on closing, heading towards rest at a fast pace, laying his face directly between those, those...

"McCail!" shouts a voice.

Looking up McCail sees he's drifted into oncoming traffic. "Shit!" leaps from his mouth.
A sharp turn is effected to bring the Alice back. Tearing at McCail's very core is always the safety of Ann and to think he almost caused an accident rattles him. With a quick glance he sees she's still asleep as he takes a swig of Coke, sticky caffeine to wake up.
Peddle cars move faster than he does at this point, slowly turning time backwards.

Gathering himself is not easy, and his body trembles with fear. 'What happened?' he thinks as the Coke can shakes.

When tracking the events in his mind he stumbles on, 'Someone called my name. Who?'

Remembering, he plays the voice back again. 'I've heard that voice before. Who was it?' Then it comes. "The cabbie," he whispers, and his bottom lip drops.

'How could that happen? Must be I'm tired. Who knows? I hate this vacation.'

The houses he is passing now are grouped in amongst trees. It's an area maintained well over years of toil. The front gardens are colorful, alive, breathing in moisture, while the homes are mostly brick with well-placed stone. The area is quiet, except for the sound of the Alice and a few woodpeckers.

"Aunt Jenny's Bed and Breakfast," McCail reads as he pulls the car into a gravel drive and coasts to the bottom, into an open garage.

At that moment Ann awakens, stretches and asks, "Are we here?"

"Yes, dear, we're here."

"Any trouble finding the place?"

"No."

"We're finally here, honey," Ann enthuses.

"I know." 'Hell!'

Both creep from the car and enjoy a much-needed stretch. McCail's left foot steps in a puddle, soaking his sock.

"Shit!"

Luggage makes its way to the doorbell, dragged by awed Americans, one rested, the other molested.

Flinging the door open is the way Aunt Jenny carries herself as well.

"Welcome folks. You must be the McClarrys; I'm Jenny. We've got tea steeping and take these to wash your faces. There is nothing like a hot towel after a long drive. Oh, I'm sorry deary, you'll have to remove your shoes. Can't have mud in the house. Jack. Jack! The new couple has arrived. Jack? Where are you, dear?" Jenny calls out. With the energy of an athlete and the age of dust, Jenny moves across the floor motioning them to follow. She's upstairs like a kid, while they just begin the sixteen steps.

Ann and McCail say few words as Tilly directs their every move. They merely nod and say, "Bye," as they, moment's later, close the door to their room.

They follow the whirlwind check-in and the hot, much needed shower with a nap, which will last about two hours upon a king-size bed fitted with crisp white linen sheets.

Aunt Jenny's Bed and Breakfast, where Ann and McCail will spend the next couple of nights, is about three quarters of an hour from the center of London. Sprawling upon an acre and a half, trees and a small garden surrounded by large stones from a river's bank give the home a secluded and sheltered feel.

The spacious two-storey-house rests in a neighborhood of oaks in long rows lining Cottage View Way.

The home, large by any standard, can easily lodge three couples. There is also a basement wherein the owner, Jenny Bay, lives in the basement with her husband, Jack Stewart Bay, a rugby coach at a local high school. The basement area is deceptive: from the front of the house it lies below the street, but from the back it appears a three-storey- home. The McClarrys have parked their car in its covered garage.

Jenny and Stewart have lived in the house since the inception of time itself. Aunt Jenny is sophisticated and charming with a touch of the aristocratic rebel. Stewart carries himself with confidence and always smokes a pipe of cherry blend. A home of distinction greets the eye upon first entrance, while the outside speaks for itself. Dark oak floors wind throughout the structure and give onto carpeted bedrooms. Classic antiques, unusually plain and uniquely beautiful at the same time, stand, hang and gracefully accent overstuffed furnishings.

A lone restaurant sits across the street, specializing in South American food. Doors propped open by two wooden chairs beckon hungry diners with an aroma of garlic adrift on the evening air.
On this evening in July, clouds bite into the night sky, painting moods of blue against a backdrop of stars and moonlight. All these dynamics sit upon a light breeze traveling from the south.

The evening slowly unfolds in layers.

Strolling couples stirred by passion venture through the misty evening. Conversing without words, their hands touch. The night hours begin ticking away. Footsteps pound quiet walkways leading into tunnels of shadows between the street lamps of London.

An Italian milliner closes his shop's door, locks it and then heads out for an evening of fun. A night of dancing with a woman he has ignored will turn out to be most pleasurable for both. Having danced the tango earlier in life, its fluid steps come back to him in an instant as she inspires his movements, wearing a beautiful hat (he has made) of black fur.

Across town, a young woman's features reflect in a tall mirror on this summer night. Her beige dress carries the pattern of a tall eucalyptus that reaches from hem to top branches supporting and delicately encompassing her breasts. Patterns of green silk set upon a grove of earth tones give rise to her pool-of-green eyes.

An accent is added to her bare neckline: a ruby red string of Boston trade beads, passed down to her from a woman once full of life. Her spirit is imprinted in this young girl's soul. She dresses for the evening as a lone tear overflows onto a smile brought on by tender memories.

Sips of wine and the sound of corks popping all about London can be heard as the evening progresses to the lights of dawn.

Being treated to both stories and a plethora of thought-provoking scenarios has certainly enhanced Ann and McCail's first day in England. Later, after resting and when the evening begins to unfold, we find the two sweethearts sharing thoughts over the flickering dinner light of a single candle.

Musical notes full of emotion float from the Andes flutist dressed in white. He and a lone guitarist play softly in the restaurant's background.

McCail and Ann dine on this, their first night in London. Small duets of young lovers wrapped in the shelter of the evening mist stroll by with arms interlocked outside the restaurant's window.

McCail turns his attention to Ann after applauding the musical group's rendition of "Nuca Shungo."

"What about that old goat?"

Ann looks puzzled and asks, "You mean the flute player?"

"No, Ann," swatting her sentence aside, "the cabby."

"He must have escaped from the zoo or maybe some outer space ring dropped him off at a mad cow farm. Boy, that guy was out there! Did you see the way he drove? I don't think he used his hands once. That's when he was driving. How he ended up in the back with us is way beyond me. And who in the hell drove? That was weird."

China plates softly tip their hand in the background. McCail rattles on.
"He kept looking at me the whole time we were driving."

"Maybe he thought you were cute!"

"You joke about it but I'm serious, Ann! If I told you all the stuff that happened before that back at the airport you'd have me committed. Plus while we were driving every time I looked at him, there he was staring back at me in the mirror. Gave me the creeps."

"Come to think of it, Mac, I remember him looking at me most of the time, too. Plus, I wasn't going to mention it but he kept winking at me!"

"You, too! What kind of odd happenings are going on here?"

Both lower their heads with just a slight tilt, and squint their eyes.

"Seriously, Ann, this guy moved about the airport like he was floating. The first time I saw that guy, he winked at me, and then fluttered off, and I mean fluttered, like in hovering. I don't understand, but while you were in the bathroom something strange happened as well, and our cabby caused it. Now bear with me, Ann; this is hard to explain."

McCail adjusts his chair closer to Ann, and then continues. "It's like every moment and movement about us became magnified and stopped. I thought I was on LSD watching atoms move about. I became totally aware. Only a few times in my life have I felt like that. Remember the time we sat in the bedroom at your old house and time slowed to a crawl? Remember? We became wrapped in time and the air seemed to sparkle. You even commented about it days later. To me the airport thing and that were the same."

"How could I forget that time, Mac? That was special. I always thought you caused that somehow."

"Me? Thanks, dear, but no. I believe we were just the recipients of something special. I always thought it was brought on by some sort of mutual appreciation of the spirit that passed between us. Kinda like a gift from heaven. You know, as we sit here talking, I can almost feel it happening again. It's been a long time. Too long"

"Your eyes hold me, Mac, just like the time you speak of."

"And yours mine."

Mild fireworks sparkle before the two as this rare treat lights the evening.

Their chatter continues.

"The thought hit me, Mac, that after he dropped us off, just how did he know our last name?"

"Yeah, I thought the same thing as well. Maybe luggage tags? That's something I can't figure out. But things moved so, so quickly Ann. I don't think he had time to see. At least not that I noticed. Aw, who knows, Ann. It's just weird! Weird stories, weird place." McCail leans forward.

"I was so tired from the plane ride, plus the wine. Then that dragon crap! I didn't really catch all the other stuff he was saying, did you?"

"Let's see. How about he'd been waiting to meet us for a long time. Waiting is part of his job, Mac. He's a cabby. What was that all about?"

"Taxi driver. I don't even think he was! Ann, he told me he had read about the new park being open in the newspaper. Why would he have to read it? Doesn't he go there every day? Weird, Ann, I tell you. This county's probably loaded with weirdoes! All that dragon shit and the part about a mate that's still living and breathing. Who's that, Nessie? Dragons. Horse shit!" McCail's arms flail about like a puppet's.

"Then the thing with the directions. That didn't make sense either, Mac!"

"Oh yeah! You remember that, too? We're supposed to follow 'the good wind.' What in the world is a good wind? You got me, Ann! That guy was wacky!"

"He had to be at least eighty, baby, and he's still driving?"

"Eighty! Try a few thousand Ann!"

"What?" Leaning his chair back on two legs.

"Yeah! That's how old the old fart said he was!"

"A thousand?"

"No, yeah. Thousand, two thousand, ten thousand, what's the difference."

"Maybe his suspenders were too tight, Mac! The way he kept tugging at his crotch I thought he was going to start moon-walking."

Giggles fill the room while the two travelers settle in to their first night of new adventures.

The cascading falls of laughter that have enveloped them for these moments settle into a small pool of quiet and cherished thoughts of the day's events.

"You know? He seemed nice, though," Ann professes.

Shaking his head McCail reflects, then replies, "Yeah, he did! A bit weird but nice, I agree. But he had a quality about him, Ann, that seemed to touch me. Tilting his head down, McCail reflects.

"Come on; let's go back to the room."

Back at Aunt Jenny's candles flicker in the room's interior as they wrestle into the night.


Chapter 8
Reflections

By hager













Friday, 3:44 am, July 13, 2012

Day 2

On their first full day in London the sun rose a short time before them, as they lay still spooning on a so-called king size mattress.

The window's treatment of lace, parchment in color, whispers the movement of a mild breeze stirring about the room's interior and drifting across the beautiful face of Ann. Having only opened her eyes for a few moments earlier, after a rooster's crow, she meanders back to the safe harbors of sleep for a few more minutes.

The essence of who she is radiates perkiness. A positive attitude is supported by her gentle nature while speaking firmly, but with grace. She also has a slight twang to her voice.
Ann, still sleeping, dreams and lays resting in the comfort of ironed pillow cases, crisp with freshness that subtly speak of the innkeepers love of duties.
A vase, half full of selectively placed flowers, becomes the center of attention as its beauty, is accented by the rays of the morning sun. The maid who dreamed herself of one day resting, as Ann does, will soon be run over by a crazed moose while on holiday in Sweden. Go figure.

Mccail on the other half of the bed has had a 4am awakening lasting for about twenty minutes. His nature for many years has been gruff. After a trip to the john, a rocking chair in front of an opened screened window became his observation post for these predawn hours.

Quiet was the way the early morning settled into Mccail. He sat still in the shadows of his room, and from outside the two story window, the activities of the night unfolded.

An unseen couple say good night, her high heels talk of movement before opening and closing a rusty hinged door, her date then drives away. A cat wandering the backyards tips over a bottle as the sound echo's into the night. Crickets and a lone frog hit the high and low notes, their tunes travel through the misty air and into Mccail. The peacefulness of his surroundings whispered its tale while the conductor of life directed the orchestration.
Stillness hung in the wee hours and amplified a trickle of water flowing slowly into a small garden, half the size of a Cadillac.

Mccail has been absorbing the moment as thoughts about the cab driver seemed to be working its way into him. The question of not listening to his soul began to tug at his. Turning his head he hears the water flowing from outside reminding him of the bible verse "to lie down beside the still waters."

He reflects the meaning of this verse before sauntering once again into bed. He could feel Ann's warmth laying along side in spoon position. The fulfillment of his awakening carried him back to sleep as he gently pondered the question from the cabby in his heart.

The night was breathing and sleep settles into London.

***

The morning is clear and cool. A playful breeze moves about London. In the time that it takes to walk a mile shoppers will appear in droves wandering the streets of London sniffing out deals.

Experienced shoppers were up against the best shop keepers London had to offer. Practiced in the art of selling, these craftsmen were like barkers at a girlie show and the women of this trade could sell ice to an Eskimo.

Properly arranged display windows were selectively stuffed with teasing tidbits causing many heads to turn and if you'd dare to ponder, you were reeled in and consumed.

Deals to be found and made await them along with hordes of foreigners with the spending might of wealthy land barons. Power shoppers, mostly women, graze, their credit cards flourished, crisscrossing paths, colliding, with the same items waving wildly in their hands in this daily tug-a-war.

Men best stay out of the way unless they want to be victims of hoof and possibly foul mouth.
Shop owners prepare to open while the McClarry's are about a half hour away from settling down for breakfast.

It's 8:00 am and both sides are set to begin bartering.


Chapter 9
Bargin Basement

By hager








Friday, 7:47 am, July 13, 2012






"King size mattress, my ass! Who for? Pygmies?"

Ann listen's, but stays silent as she dresses for the morning. "Damn muggy crap! You know my shirts still wet from yesterday, probably rotting from mildew by tonight! Shit!" Gripes Mccail from inside the bathroom. "I hate this place!"

Placing his shirt closer to an open window he steps into the tub. He again lets Ann know how he feels about his surroundings, "How in the hell are you suppose to bathe? This isn't a tub. It's a bird bath."

"Stop it dear and hurry up. The stores are waiting."

"Shit!"

Half the couple is excited about the day's events, and while wearing one of his many soggy shirts Mccail receives a potpourri of assorted directions, from Aunt Jenny over breakfast, while Ann records all directional data that she provides.

Their car is still parked in the garage. Had it been left out, it surly would have been stolen, snatched, drained of its myth and its image tarnished, drug through the mud. How unworthy for all that it has done for the country's spirit or should I say, he has done, Seth Jarrett. The man, the legend, the drunk.

This 1938 Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic Coupe, has been rented to Ann and McCail by mistake and it is a dazzler, and it is Seth Jarrett's, pride and joy.

Flowing across your eye is this lovely creature with two doors and a horn that sparkles. The sound the engine produces is a unique blend of pipes and organs, which advances through the air pushing aside all other sounds. And to watch it pass, this Marilyn Monroe with four tires, causes men to become infatuated and women to become jealous.

It's lines and curves wrap into a blend of metal and polished light, reflecting to the eye of the beholder. The outside shimmers, its paint so thick it pulls you into a pool of deep blue dimensions. And as a matter of fact, to most men their first reaction is to raise both arms off to the side where their wife, girlfriend, lover is walking to protect themselves from a jealous riddled fast moving purse. Duck and weave were common tactics men used to protect themselves.

Ann, the navigator, leads McCail through the narrow streets and into the busy thoroughfares of London. Ann is relaxed and captivated by the fountains, the people, the city, England. This postcard tour rolls along a dream she's waited for years to see.

Again people, mostly men, wave and honk, heads turn as they drive past, and again Ann comments, "My, these people sure are friendly," while purses fly.

Their first stop compliments Ann's directorial skills down to single parking spot, which seems to have been reserved just for them.

A small group of people quickly gather about the car making it hard for Ann and her husband to disembark. Ann is the first to break through the crowd and darts into a store.

"Excuse me sir. Is this the Alice?" Asks a bystander with a loud voice pointing at the car. His voice causes others to stop and wait.

McCail is puzzled by his sudden movie star status.

"The what?"

"The Alice, Seth Jarrett's car."

McCail looks like a man lost in another world by the man's question as if the words spoken were in Farsi or Chinese. The small crowd is growing as shoes of all sizes and styles stop and turn, looking and waiting for an answer. Anxiety grows within McCail as he becomes confused by the crowd, and women swinging purses.

Finally McCail replies. "We picked the car up yesterday at Heritage Rentals. Yes I believe his name was Seth."

His reply causes the crowd to turn to the other looking for answers as neighbor asks neighbor.

"What do you mean you picked it up? You mean you bought it?" Asks another gentleman.

At this point rows were beginning to form, while the flow of foot-traffic slowed and a boulder of people grew blocking the sidewalk.

"No. We rented it!"

Banshees might as well have come out of the woodwork as cries and wale's mixes with gasps, jarring everyone including McCail.

Quickly thinking, McCail like a cornered politician blurts out, "It's a fake, a replica. Actually, Seth made it for me."

The relief of everyone happens in an instant as relieved voices sigh in unison and all disperse, except one.

"That's no fake."

McCail walks a few steps towards the lone gentleman and asks, "What's so special about this car?"

"It is England!" proudly says the man of sixty, sporting a cane. "For our Princes," lowering his head the gentleman choked back emotions, "Dianna loved this car. She was our Princes. The people's." His lips clinched tightly as pain came to the surface and then passed. "But, you know the funny thing. Women are jealous. Seth escorts celebrity's about all the time or at least he use to. Take a guess who's been seated next to ya. Go ahead.."

"Jane Fonda, Barbara Streisand?"

"No man. No! I'm talking about women from this planet! Beautiful women wearing silk. Ravishing, sexy. Man I'm talking about beautiful women. Sofia, Brigitte, Dianna. I don't know how or why Seth gave it to you, but that is no fake!"

"Good. It's mine for a week. Not to worry. I'll take good care of it."

Mccail explain's how he acquired it the day before from a new hire, and the two two shake hands and part.

***

Store's representing England finest were filled with delightful particulars completely foreign to these two travelers. Both antiques and hand made artesian pieces, decorated storefronts and walls. Three shops consume about two hours of their time and a quick bite takes them into the 1:00pm time frame.

"Boy talk about cheap! Are they afraid of running out of food or on some special government rations?" Gripes Mccail.

Gripe after gripe after gripe swallows his early afternoon while Ann quietly listens.

A dress, hat, and walking cane were the first items purchased by Ann at the third shop.

"How much was it? For that? Hell Ann, you could have done better at a garage sale."

"No dear. That's where I buy your suits and underwear."

Mccail on the other hand, with his keen eye, has picked up a few memento's that he finds intriguing,. They of course will never be seen on the Antique Road Show. As to the purpose and authenticity of any of his purchases, who knows, but a very alluring saleswoman tripped him with her open blouse as he stopped to stare and before he knew what happened, he was the owner of three items...

A Spin'duckle, that you wear like glasses with a rather odd shape for examining the inside of your own nostrils. A Hops`Yardle used by King George the Fifth for yacht racing in bath tubs or something like that and last, but not least, was a rather rare 1942 autographed picture of Paul McCartney as a baby, a year before he was born. Basically, worthless crap.

"What are you going to do with that stuff and what is it?"

A look that rejected her question was followed through with, a look that questioned her purchases.

"Listen Ann. Why don't we split up. You going to the stores and galleries of your taste, and me mine."

"Fine. How about we leave the car here and take the bus to the shopping district.

"Good."

He's made his way into the back corridors of Peccadillo looking for more trinkets while Ann walks the main drag searching for deals.

.....

That's how the day will go for some, others not.

As the events of the days pass by, each and everyone has their moments in the sun as they don their suits of armor and charge into the day....


Merlin G Wildhaber spent his day, after sleeping the night away in the back of the Rolls with his bride, wandering about enjoying the sights and sounds of London, which for so many years had lay as forgotten memories. His memories weren't forgotten because of any pain, but by time. Time had placed a large wedge between then and now.

He was ecstatic, like that of a young child at a birthday party, observing London's altered landscape up close and personal and through senior eyes. Sure, he had seen it on television, but not since Arthur's days, had he actually set foot in the city. He was just a lad when he would run the hills and practice his talents before royalty. That was the way he had remembered it.

Spending the day in the city where he had lived brought many smiles. His mouth gaped in awe at the sights of contemporary life. His white teeth glistened as he and the day strolled together. Tears flowed too,remembering familiar settings that passed his view.

His home of long ago still stood. The years whispered the passage of time by covering itself in a forest of vines. Someone new was living in his quarters. A tall oak he recognized still stood exposing his initials that he had carved there long ago.

He was to spend part of the day walking through the treasures of his thoughts, with an umbrella looped over his arm, on this nice summers day in July, before tending to some business.

Bartering proved to be quite amusing and rewarding. A stop at a upscale pawn dealer to gather some currency went quite well. Pawning a small ring that once belonged to the Earl of Humphrey was no big deal. Merlin never liked him anyway, plus using its worth for good made perfect sense to him. An abundance of other treasures lay back at his established home in Goosenham.

He began to realize once on the road, that this trip had been too long in the coming. He was truly enjoying himself and beginning to see all the discoveries that he had missed from living in isolation for so many years. The tower of London, that he had walked through before tours were ever given or even conceived, seemed odd to him. Like a man that had been lost in time this new world filled his eyes with wonderment.

"Susan. Why is everybody going under the ground?"

"It's the tube, an underground train."

Suddenly Merlin stops.

"What's wrong."

"I just felt something. A haunt from the past is near by."

"What do you mean."

"The one that carries the blood line of the witch, is close by. I must keep an eye on this one, for he is a deadly snake. Come. We need to watch our lad Mccail."


Coming out of retirement to present himself and his artistry to the world once again will take place on another day and as for tomorrow, he'll spend it following behind the two travelers, as they unknowingly make their way to his home.

For Ann and Mccail, getting out of London, will take place on their next sunrise. Today will be spent unwinding and adjusting to their new surroundings.

Author Notes I know all my I need help in commas and all that stuff... so if you see please correct me if you would... Thanks Bill


Chapter 10
The Building of Ugly

By hager









Friday, 7:51 am, July 13, 2012

London has its dark side, and within its dank quarters a private detective prepares his morning. Having been on the force of England's finest for the last twenty-six years before retiring has not tainted his character.

Presenting himself as the epitome of good in a wardrobe of white makes him an eye catcher, but what lay within him has been branded and charred by hell. A twisted mouth shows a toothless smile that when once set in place, display a phony set of porcelain tiles and silver. Years of fighting has robbed him of true manhood, and teeth. Moods swings fight him daily and winning at his own crooked game is his only reward. The joyous payoffs of life was never in the cards for this evil bastard by the name of Lance Pilot.

Lance Pilot, the failure who walks like a man. Failing at every avenue of humanity and society. Born a failure from head to toe, starting with his hair which is departing faster as the days go by. His teeth are like those of the a pirate.
Tormented and jealous of others, he seeks to rob the good hearten of their cheer, along with their teeth, and sometimes their life.

Bribes and blame are his tools and he uses them well, along with lipstick and rouge. Hidden from the outlaws and deep within his closets, is a deep desire for women's clothing, and the body that fit into it. His. He is a cross dresser.

Barbed wire had scarred his cheek as a child just below his left eye. His mouth is turned down on this morning as this masquerader of men strolls about his flat in women's clothing. His blood red lipstick is caked and smeared on his pillow, which is still damp, after crying his mascara off to sleep. A night of going drag proved once again to be a frustrating evening as not once was he asked to dance or let alone, not one future bit of rough offered to light his cigar.

No one likes him, period. Not even a crooks, crook. He is the skunk at the picnic. The weird one on the block. His drag name is Rene Gunn but the crooks call him, 'The Pretender'. He is a serious joke to stay clear of for anyone who knows him, and a ruthless and cowardly prick to the unacquainted.

Blackness walks within his soul and guides his high heels towards the ringing phone, after waking late, still in his party dress and smoking a cigar.

"Lance here. Hi. What's up? Why'd you call. They took what? Wait up a minute Jason!"

Setting the phone down he shouts through an open window to a group of children whose soccer ball had set off his car alarm. "Watch it! Don't ya yob's dare touch me car again or I'll kill ya."

Startled by a man's gruff voice and confused by the cigar and girlish clothing they yell back in unison. "Bite me fag!"

Sneering and remembering their faces he turns back to the phone, "Go ahead. What were ya saying? The Alice?"

"Yes the Alice! Seth's lost 'The Alice' to some foreigner and I want you to find it Pilot!"

"You sure bout that?"

"Well of course I'm sure. Why else would I call you Pilot?"

The two never had a friendship but were more mutual fiend's. Jason, the other voice on the phone, held first hand proof on two of Pilot's killings, that of a priest and a barrister. Nine was the actual total including five women and his only daughter, on just the day before, narrowly escaped his attempt by dropping her down a chute. Those who had the opportunity to beg only brought him pleasure, just before their life ended. He is a failure at everything except mayhem.

"What's happened to Seth, Jason, has he gone batty? How did that happen?"

"He rented it to some American yesterday. Hello? Don't you listen, Pilot? That's what I said stupid. Do you want the job or not?"

Pilot waves an exaggerated middle finger to the phone.

"Well of course I'll take the job. Count me in, three thousands the price. Three thousand pounds I said. You say that once more Jason and I'll hang up!" A slight pause. "Good, I'll start straight away, and don't call me stupid. Chow"


An enthusiastic Lance hangs up and dances across the room, his head tilts from side to side. Placing the phone back on the receiver, he begins transferring his girlish attire back onto wooden hangers. Donning sharply pressed white trousers, an 'A' shirt and a starched white shirt covers the dense hair on his back which resembles that of a monkey or buffalo.

This pale white man, who stands five foot three in sheer stockings, gives himself the once over on his freshly shaved face. A bald spot, which started out at silver dollar size, has taken over 53 years to spread as his forehead expands with every shampoo. Determination is written on his face this morning as he looks inside his nostrils, lingering hair is found, then plucked. Like an actor rehearsing a walk on, he stands in front of the mirror practicing stares as his dress rehearsal for his day begins. His head tilts, and cracks, he gives a quick wink and nod and he's ready.


Lance gathers his car keys and quickly checks his flat. Secure in his mind that everything is neat, he leaves. His white Range Rover sits covered with dents and blemishes, but he likes it that way. The exterior of this traveling trash can blends in with mystic that the driver exudes. His disguised being comes to life.

Driving away from the curb his talons reach out and snag a missed kicked goal, running over the very same soccer ball that belonged to the twelve year old punks. Haunting laughter fills his cars compartment as the children watch in horror as their ball is flattened, they flip him the bird.
His nauseating laughter will remain with him as he regurgitating the look on the kids face and cackles more.

But five minutes after he left, a slurry of stones crash through the one and only window of his home. A fire escape gives the children a platform on which to voice their hatred. Loose stones and trash that sat stuck into the muddied ground below now sits one story up in Lance's flat. A table that Lance had poured hours of labor into, now holds the deep skid marks from jagged rocks thrown at close distance. This is probably the first time giggles have ever echoed throughout his room. Three glass framed pictures of fighter jets all crashed onto the floors surface, there were no survivors. His newly decorated dwelling awaits his homecoming.

Jason Von Twitter's home sits amongst a grove of trees one hundred yards from the road. Roosters walk about the front lawn as did peacocks and geese. Lance picks up his speed on the long circular driveway squealing his tires as he skids to a stop, but not before he hits a jaywalking rooster.

"Pop goes the weasel!"

Jason shouts from behind a hedge. "You think its great fun scaring my birds don't you? I'll never understand you or your sick sense of humor Pilot." Unnoticed as of yet Jason looks down at his prize bird.

"Oh how could you? Bastard! Hope you know I'm deducting a thousand pounds for running over my pets."

"A thousand pounds my ass, that's half my fee Twitter. You're nuts! Pets? These are just chickens. You're the sick one Vonie, not me, you are, you're the crazy, not me." Pilot continues to rambled.

"Besides, I'm hungry. Have your cook prepare my latest roadkill." Lance picks up the dead bird and offers it out to Jason who turns on one heel and heads for door. Lance chucks the bird off to the side, cackles, then follows Jason through the massive front doors.

"Listen Pilot, like it or not! You'll do as I say. Otherwise you can just take your sorry ass back to your little flat and prance about."

Lance's demeanor stays cool but his false teeth grind silently with anger as Jason continues.

"I'm deducting a thousand pounds I said, that was my favorite rooster you butcher! By the way I see you failed math too! Toddler school must have really been a challenge for you Pilot. It's one third your pay, not half. If you had three apples and you took away one, oh never mind. Even if I drew you a picture you are such an idiot, that," Jason stops and shakes his head, "why am I even talking to you? Just do the job and keep me out of it."

High heels echo on a hardwood floor as an impressively sleek and stacked redhead, wearing a cashmere sweater, comes into view.

"Who is it baby? Oh it's you! Why is this moron here?

"Now wait Alice. Let me explain why this morons here."

Shuffling to the bar Jason pours a drink and chugs it down.

"Oh, I'd offer you a drink Pilot, but I know you would probably just make a fool of yourself by speaking and don't make yourself at home, you won't be staying. Listen Alice I have great news. Seth has quite possibly made a huge blunder."

Her face turns from a frozen nausea after viewing Lance into instant warmth.

"I've called upon Mr Pilot, the idiot, to fetch us, correction, fetch you, the prize that you so rightly deserve, the Alice."

Unbelieving she cries out, "The Alice? My car!"

"That car is his whole livelihood and without it he's ruined Alice. Then we can just waltz into the property. Since the judge gave you first rights to the land we can pay just mere pennies and make millions!"

"You know Seth won't rest till he finds that car Jason."

"Not if we find it first my dear! And that being said is where this jerk comes in to play. It's the only area where this moron shines."

The Alice along with Seth's garage has been a bone of contention between Seth and the woman that the car was named for, Alice Petrobalm. She was awarded a large sum of money by the court but granted Seth all other possessions. For years afterwards Alice continued trying to gain possession.

It's not as if she was all that bent on having the car because she loved it or felt she actually deserved it, but what she really wanted was to ruin Seth. She was a bitter woman that wanted to cause nothing but chaos in Seth's, and for that matter, every other mans life. Her fourth husband Jason, was just cannon fodder and is just about ready to be blasted to smithereens and of this he was well aware. He would agree and do just about anything to survive.

"Listen Pilot, you evil son-of-a-bitch, I want you to find that car and either secure it or destroy it. Make it so no one will find that car, and don't screw it up. By the way, if Seth were to disappear too, I'd triple your fee and then some. Keep us informed and give us a call when the deed is done. I'll get you the money and send it in the usual way. Now leave before I get ill, cause you my sick friend, are still a bastard!"

Lance leaves for his flat to gather the things he needs and makes plans to leave Monday morning, after a visit to his mother.

Arriving home, Lance unlocks the door and "what the hell?" He spoke not a word for the remainder of the afternoon and as for the damaged goods, every bit of it was thrown out the window. Afterwards he plans his revenge on the young yobs in neighborhood and then naps in his favorite corner.

Author Notes Hi... I am promoting this to correct my past-tense - present- tense problems... sometimes I feel really confused, other times not.. Problem with passive voice also... Please correct with suggestions is appreciated, thanks ... Bill


Chapter 11
Heritage Rental and Repair

By hager






Friday, 7:52 am, July 13, 2012


The Heritage Rental and Repair Yard sits smack-dab in the middle of London, England. A small but muscular arm free of tattoos tugs on the fastened links of a long chain, which extends over a pulley twelve feet off the ground. Lock and chain rattle against the door as Seth Jarret struggles to open the garage. One hand on top the other goes the routine as the morning chore of opening the doors to his shop and living quarters begins.

"Oh me aching arse," groans Seth as the door inches upwards.

He squints as the bright morning sun fills his bloodshot eyes with light sabers dripping with gin. A tall shadowy figure strolls between the bright sun and his short frame as a good morning greeting is spoken.

"Hi Mr Ferret."

"Who's there? Ah Leigh, you're bright and early. Good lad, good lad. Second day on the job and you already do me proud. Good boy. And it's Jarret, not Ferret."

"Sorry Mr Jarret, and about yesterday..."

"Well I got myself lucky last night Leigh," slurring his speech and cutting in. "Knockout of a lady. Biggest tits I've ever seen up close and personal and able to bend me steel with her teeth. Aye she was something!"

"You have any naked photo's?" Humors Leigh, trying to butter Seth up before Leigh's big confession about Seth's prized motorcar.

"Pictures? Only met her last night. What kind a woman do you think she is? Maybe the third date but I doubt if that will ever come about"

"Why so?"

"Well son try this story for a laugh."

Leigh hopes his story will bring the same good humor. "Mr Jarret about yesterday, I need to tell you about..."

"Later son. First off, she picked me up. Hard for the ladies to resist me charm I suppose". He says thinking out loud.
"We got one of those low rate rooms around the corner. Hell, just moving up the stairs was a experience. There was passion on each step. Made it to the room clothes when flying."

Then Seth's sour soul became drenched in poetry.

"I moved aside the straps of her bra and slowly the tips of her breasts came into view.
From the first touch of her nipples, fire exploded throughout my body as they sat ready for me milking their honey. With color of fine silk I believe, drenched in majestic purples and as to their texture, jell-o hardened to dry, on a cool day. Gulping in air as fast as her essence, left me short of breath. Her juices mixed intoxicating potions inside my mouth until I hardened. Get the picture so far?"

Nodding his head Leigh lights a smoke and passes it to Seth.

"Mr Jarret I need to talk to you about yesterday."

Seth continues.
"Then her hand moved like a race driver changing gears as she grab my zipper and yanked. Next thing I knew, both she and my wallet were gone. That was the best mugging I've ever had and it only cost me my three pounds and a old plastic wallet."

"Mr Jarret you want me to try and get your wallet back? I can find anything."

"Not to worry Leigh. She left her bra. I figure us even. Why don't you go open the front door and sweep the walk. I'm going have a morning drink to sober. Careful Leigh as you go about until you get to know the place. Could be a bit slippery around here. Spilt some oil here yesterday and the day before that and the year before that."

"Tell me about it. I found part of it yesterday Mr Ferrett. I must have slid twenty meters." Leigh is smiling and crying on the inside.

"The names Jarrett. You hurt boy?"

"No, but my clothes were a mess. Mr Jarret there's someth..."

"Son, did the McClarry's pick up their rental yesterday?"

"Oh... a, a..."

The big moment has arrived. How do you tell a man that his priceless 1938 Bugatti Type 57-SC Atlantic, had been rented to strangers and to add insult, for about 20 bucks a day? Leigh's body stood frozen like petrified wood and his teeth begins chattering like a woodpecker after termites. Lighting could have hit him in the very same way too, as he dashes through the next set of words like Barney Fife, arresting a criminal.

"That's what I was trying to tell you, sir." Leigh says, gulping air. " They came about midday Mr Jarret. The man seemed afflicted with impatience and his wife, I believe was drunk. Her pants were soaked and reeked of piss. Poor woman. Rather attractive for an older woman and she also had big tits!" Leigh says gulping in more air than a twin-prop jet engine. " The man with her, like I said, was a grump and he pressured me and pressured me, Mr Jarret, Mr Jarret, Mr Jarret. But, I treated them good sir, in spite of his rudeness and so I in a fit of confusion, Mr Jarret, sir; I gave them your favorite car. Sorry."

Air left the room as the tomb from the unknown lay open with a gallows awaiting in the backdrop as Seth studies Leigh with open mouth, like a psychiatrist viewing a nut-cake whose speaking like Elmer Fudd on speed. Seth reaches and places his arm around Leigh's shoulder, gripping firmly.

"That's good son. Sometime these foreigners are just a pain in the arse and you need to give them what they demand. Why not give them the best!"

"But Mr Jarret I thought you'd be mad. Tommy said you'd kill me."

"Mad? Kill ya? Tommy, my ace mechanic said that? That's a hoot. Not to worry Leigh, you did the same as I lad. Give them what they want I always say. Now run along lad and tend to the front."

"You want me to finish opening the door?"

"No you tend to yer duties Leigh. I've been doing this for fifteen years and rather enjoy it."

Seth's heart is good. It had been placed there by his father whose care and compassion taught his son to always do what is right by people. He ran his business on those principles. He was always willing to lend a hand to those in need. He started drinking from the loss of his wife Alice but even more so from his fathers death.

Father and son had what was described by them both as the best summer since Beth, Seth's mom, had passed. It was a summer, a few years ago, filled with closeness and a bond that grew to a crescendo early on Sunday morning.
His father was run over right in front of him, by a woman whose laughter Seth remembers to this day. A haunting wail that seemed to cry out in joy as if her intentions had been fulfilled.

Fog ran in patches on that morn and out of its depth a Range Rover appeared, and quickly picked up speed steering towards the two. His father pushed him out of the way just before he was hit. His body flew. The wind was cold and blew like a Arctic witch on a steel broom as the Range Rover disappeared quickly into the fog carrying the drivers penetrating wail, which echoed into its mist. That was four years ago. His wife Alice left a month later.


Seth and Leigh split company as Leigh quickly heads for the front relived and confused over Seth reaction. Once more, another skidding incident takes place, but on a different island of oil. He waves to Seth like a water skier to the crowd. Seth try's to focus on Leigh but only sees a fast moving blur,thinking to himself,'now there's an odd fellow.'

Calling his folks on the front office phone Leigh tells his dad all is well and not to worry. "Bye dad."
Seth wishes everyday only to do the same.

After securing the chain Seth stumbles into the garages and deep where the doors light refuses to venture.
This overindulged and wobbly zombie weaves his way through the bays of cars. His blurry eyes suddenly fail him as last nights drunken escapades attack him. Hangover city pounds and pelts his mind confusing his stability.

Lurching into bay number four he moves to sit on the stability of his 1938 Bugatti Type 57sc Atlantic which proudly stands for him, like the rock of Gibraltar only to find the safety of the cars fender has been replaced by the cold reality of an oil slick cement floor. The actual fall to the cement felt like a lifelong quest that took all of his forty-five years to complete. The thud fell against the dank walls.

"Ah, ah, my ackin arse! Where in the bloody hell is my car?" He bellows out. "What in the hell?"

His anger rolls him over on all fours while he unsteadily tries to rise to his feet, but his hand slips on the oil and all his bridge work pops out as his chin strikes the floor. Two pearly white front teeth now sit in a pool of oil, the same as he.
Standing in disbelief and feeling the gap where his teeth use to set he bellows out.

"My tooth! My tooth! Where's my teeth? Alice? Leigh, young Leigh, come here? Alice where are you, damn me? Get your arse out here Leigh!"

His head explodes with each spoken word. He knew he drank a lot last night but the way the morning was shaping up it was not enough.

The office door swings open, producing a piercing bright light, throwing a spotlight on Seth. A panicky Leigh bursts through its doors and darts towards him like a Olympic sprinter.

"What's wrong Mr Jarret?" said Leigh still thirty-five meters away, but closing fast.

"My tooth! Help me find my tooth"

"Your what?"

The crackle of a Seth's teeth under Leigh's boot quickly echoes throughout the stillness of the shop. Both heads turn towards the other after Leigh moves his boots revealing Seth's broken teeth. One set of eyes say "oops" while the other says "you didn't!"

"What have you done to my teeth?"

Like a freight train jumping the tracks Seth tackles and grabs Leigh by the throat giving him rapid CPR movements, but to his neck.

"You jackass yob punk!"

"I'm sorry Mr Ferret,"squeaks Leigh with a high pitched helium voice.

"The names Jarret, Jarret! Get it?"

A hard ass stare lingers in the air as Seth considers choking and dumping Leigh's body in the river Thames.

"Hear me boy and listen good!" Moving his hands to Leigh's shoulder.

"Tell me, Leigh." A dry rattle to Seth's voice took on the ominous tones of a coiled snake.

"D'ye see anything odd, the least little thing, now? In particular, is there anything odd about bay #4?"

"Well there's a lot of oil on the floor, but I'll get to cleaning it up right away."

Leigh tries moving but Seth hands steadily wrench downwards becoming clamps, digging into Leigh's thin shoulder blades as he began hissing.

"Where's my bloody car boy? Where's my car? Where's the Alice?"

"The car? I told you sir! The American couple picked it up yesterday."

"They what? You what?"

Leigh's response causes Seth to loosen his grip. Leigh rolls away and leave's Seth knelled on the floor toppled in disbelief.

"Tell me you didn't boy." Swallowing hard, Leigh again confirms his answer. "Why boy, why?"

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong Mr Jarret."

"Wrong? Wrong? Are you kidding me? You, gave away my Life son! That car were everything! It's me life. Leigh, how could you just give it away?"

"Well Mr Jarret you see, first they.."

"Shut it!"

Weathered bricks surround the two story garage of the Heritage Rental Yard in downtown London. Seth Jarret huddles on the cement in disbelief after hearing the news, his face stained from oil. With one hand supporting his body the other clutches his weary head as he let in a deep sigh and released a gust of breath, stale, reeking of booze.

Seth grabs his teeth, stands and begins pacing. His back and forth movements were like that of a robot gone mad on the fringe of explosion, mumbling half words functioning on the border line between drunk, hung over and asleep, while quickly approaching total insanity as thunder rolls within. He gazes into a nearby reflecting glass as this moment of truth catches up to him and holds on tight.

"The world was a buzz with my name. I was on top. Look at me now. My first kiss with Alice was in that car. Look what you've done!"

Shaking his head he begins to wonder how, and why, did he end up like this.

Deep insights race inside his mind as the past days pile one on top of the other in a heap of ashes. Tugging and calling from someplace in his being is his silent, and seldom listen to soul. His head tweaks to one side as the memory 'of how he use to be' catches up and holds on tight, for dear life.

"Don't worry sir we'll get it back. They only rented it for a week."

A small narrow corridor of small rooms lead into Seth's office and its there he is headed, staggering all the way.
The quick shuffles of Leigh, ten feet back, glide behind him in silence while the pronounced steps of Seth lead the way. The taps on Seth's polished black shoes, dance a drunken and dismal tune, towards his office.

Abruptly Seth stops, spinning on one heel. Like a man born again he straightens his stance with his hands reaching to heaven and immediately shouts, "hallelujah. I've been saved! I've been saved!"

A queer puzzled expressing sits plastered on Leigh's face. "You o.k. Mr Jarret?"

"Yes! Yes! I've got Lojack! The Alice can be found"

Seth also informs Leigh that the cars insurance policy had been in force for years and if not found that it might pay off better that the races and opens up saying," this might be a blessing Leigh, maybe it's time for me to move on with me life. What's happened to me lad, what's happened? I use to be different."

"Mr Jarret, you're right by me. No one else would give me a job, but forgive me for saying so sir, maybe you drink too much."

"I know that. Come Leigh. We got work to do. Fetch me some Crazy glue I believe I can mend this tooth."

Seth rushes to the phone only to receive a recorded message saying," thank you for choosing Lojack, but due to a virus attack from some hacker, the system will be down for a day and with any luck everything will be back to normal tomorrow. Push one to be connected to..."

Seth begins to pour a tall drink then chooses to shorten the amount by half, gulps it down then heads quickly out the door for the races with his newly repaired tooth, nearly repaired.

"Leigh, I'm heading to Liverpool for the National. Don't give anything else away and I want you to come again, day after tomorrow, on Sunday."

"Good day sir, sorry again, and good luck at the races. Sunday?"

"Yes son, you and I are going in search of the Alice."


Chapter 12
The Chewing Gum Queen

By hager



















Friday, 2:52 pm, July 13, 2012


McCail is a Macgyver type and could probably use a box of toothpicks to jack-up a car.

But, when his character gene pool was filled or created no lifeguards or inspectors were nearby, and if there were, they banded together and added espresso coffee beans, gunpowder, Jell-o and lots and lots of cactus, just for fun. Basically put, he can get into more trouble than a monkey driving a car.

His wife Ann, compares him with Chief Inspector Clouseau, James Bond, Tarzan and Cheetah, Mr Bean, and when romance is in the air, he speaks like Edward de Vere, {the real Shakespeare}.


It's another sizzler in jolly-old fog-filled England and the heat of the sun's rays has been working hard on the chewing gum which McCail now stands atop. It's just not any gum mind you. It comes from the mouth of a girl named Jasmine, whose birthday is today, she's nineteen, and she's a chewing gum ruffian or yob, as they are called here in England.

"Shit!"

Placing his backpack in front of him provides privacy so he might hopefully extract the gum, which seems to have made a permanent home on the underside of his right sandal, without looking like a fool.

"Oh boy, some vacation. One to remember I'm sure. Shit. What else is this country going to dish out? I hate this place!"

He plops down on a small wall like a child benched at recess, and decides to first make a list of things he loves, hates, or finds intriguing on his wonderful vacation so far to England, before attempting surgery on his sick shoe.

He is a list and notes man and makes one everyday. Ann, his wife, is shopping across town and she's the one who suggested he, 'start making lists, otherwise nothing gets done,' and so he begins 'listing,' as he calls it.

He thought of that term because if he didn't keep a list, he figured his boat would 'list' and sink. He and Ann are also boat people and have a twenty-six foot cruiser back in Ventura, California.

He works worldwide as a marine biologist and is the go to man whenever there is a problem. She was a research librarian at Xerox, but now works with her husband, McCail, as his gal Friday. Which by the way is what he calls her at times, especially when romance is in the air or the lawn needs mowing. She calls him Mac, Mister, or Mr Fix It.

Each evening Mac sat at his desk and tried to answer some of the questions from his list or comments he'd made throughout his daily travels, answering those he could on the spot. What he couldn't answer he carries over till the next day or he trashes it.

And so he begins 'listing:

1. Love my new Gallery 3 phone. Answer... Smart-me.

2. Left home for this muggy crap? Why? Answer... Ann.

3. Fourteen-hour flight to hell on a flying bucket of bolts. Why? Answer... Ann.

4. Had my butt explored by a spelunker type customs guy. Jerk! Answer... England… Ann

5. Got lucky/not, and hired a cab-driver from Mars, who floats,
{as in lifts off the ground} and he ended up riding with us in the back.
Answer... WTF?

6. A taxi-cab drove 'itself across town.' Itself? How? What the fuck was that? Answer...
Who gives a shit cause it is way beyond stupid.
Cannot be answered, Period!

7. How did I rent a 1938 Bugatti for eighteen-bucks a day? Answer... Mistake.  Conclusion... Ann.

8. Bought a peanut butter sandwich. Only Cost me ten-bucks! Answer... Cheap blimey bastards, and England.

9. Hemorrhoid medicine.

10. Ann puts up with me, why? Answer?

11. Buy t-shirt for Ann.

12. Pick up aspirin.

13. Wash my shoes tonight.

14. Eat at Elgato. {Great food}.

15. Get directions from the innkeeper, that old bat ant jenny.

16. Get snacks for the long and boring road trip.

17. Trim my toenails.


Tired of listing, McCail begins the surgery.

It appears to him that whoever chewed this must chew cud as well, and has a mouth the size of Alaska.

Twice the size of a golf ball and green in color' one would think this would have been easy to spot, but as McCail becomes aware of his new environment he notices that locals instinctively walk around this area or like skilled experts hopscotch their way across this minefield of sticky colors like John Travolta, when he could move and dance. He also notices this may not be the best area in town to hang around.

The sturdy twig he finds as an extraction tool ends up looking like a glass-blowers first-attempt at shaping a green lamp. Digging away at its root and sticky foundation seems to go on forever, but he sighs when done and tosses the stick in a nearby barrel.

Looking around gives him his first view of Jasmine.

"Ouch-e-momma. You gotta be shitting me. Alright! Now, this is what I call a vacation. Yes!"

He grabs his Samsung, zooms in and snaps, "momma," snap, "momma mia," snap, "England at its breast," snap, snap, snap, splat as a pigeon unloads breakfast two-feet from him. "Swine bird. Missed me fucker."

Adding a spoken text to his list:

18. I love England.... Answer... It's the breast!


Jasmine's ears, nose and eyebrows are pierced and she likes to chew gum!

She does it to pass the time but, like most professional chewers 'when it's lost its flavor, it's a labor.' So like any irresponsible person that doesn't give a rat's behind about anyone other than themselves, she tosses it, or should It be said, plants it by design.

This chewing gum bait has been set earlier as it was throughout all of her campaigns, as maneuvers like these are common practice for her and a small group of misfits.

Sitting with her bosom nearly exposed her porcelain white skin basks in a shaded area of the bus stop, not more than thirty feet directly in front of McCail. Legs that were built, and I mean built, to support this stunning foundation of beauty, draped one over the other in a voluptuous visual display.

Her highlighted eyes melt and screamed delight to McCail. He sits like a deer in her headlights. A slow sultry once over is presented to him, her lips ached and moaned as if on a lusty scavenger hunt for his buried treasures as his jewels are slowly beginning to rise.

Trapped in her spell he sits almost drooling. Cancel that, he does drool!


She stands and moves to the curb side and spits a glob of well chewed gum onto the sidewalk, all the time keeping eye contact. A smile and wink is now sent his way as she turns and reclaims her seat.

"Well I'll be. What a Bitch!" Thinking also 'she probably blows bubbles out her ass as well.'

"I'll get you, you little shit!"

McCail begins studying the habitual way that Jasmine rushed to a nearby phone each time it'd ring, about every four-minute's. Setting back on his stone perch he viewed her as she had him, prey.

Lights flashed in his blue eyes as an idea came to roost, twisting his mouth into a broad mischievous, Jack Nicholson grin.

"What kind of paint is this" ask McCail who had strolled over to two journeymen painters as they were beginning to break for lunch.

"Loch Ness, oil based enamel! Only the finest oil base in all of England," Replies the lead painter. "Dries in about eight-hour's time, even on a cooker like today. You a painter mate?"

"Well I used to be during the summer months to make money during semester breaks." Replies McCail. "Then after that had to take up herding cattle in Montana, just to get the fumes outta my lungs."

A small amount of laughter tickles their conversation to one another as so did their departure, as the painters head off to lunch.

The paint crew from the city's maintenance offices was repairing damages done by so called, "graffiti artists" to a mural of a killer whale. Using black to cover up the part of the whales back that had provided a writing tablet for some idiot named 'Lizard Boy,' would work out beautifully for McCail.

He sits and waits.

A motorist being given a ticket for parking in a restricted zone and then loudly arguing with the constable about the injustice of it all, provided the opportunity that McCail needed.

Jasmine turned and halfway walked into their conversation as he snuck over and grabbed a China hair paint brush by its handle.

Tapping a brush against the sides of a paint pot is the proper way to fully load a paint brush and he does it like a pro. Practiced in the art of bushwhacking himself he felt the best way to get a deed done was just to do it without hesitation, in broad daylight.

So he and his one sticky shoe crackle's and pop's their way across the street and into enemy territory. It is done in stealth fashion, that is, head on and during a barrage of confusion. Walking with his loaded retaliatory weapon of choice he makes his way to the telephone booth, lifts the receiver then applies a nonchalant coat of England's finest to the handle, ear and mouth piece.

His forward movements were precise in action, just as so, was his retreat. Before he was able to return the brush into its place of rest, the phone rang.

Jumping with the spring of a nineteen year old, Jasmine bounds over a short row of hedges before reaching for the phone, just as he is about ready to put the brush to rest. He pauses and turns to watch Jasmine.

Black on white stuck to the right side of Jasmine's beautiful face making its impression on her. For sure!

Gabbing for about 10 seconds only applied more of its chaotic splendor as the paint spread its black magic up and down her beautiful face.

To the high cheekbones a black shadow has been added. To those sultry puffy lips go the accents of a perforated mouth piece that highlights the tip of her smudged nose. Last but not least go the temporary changes to her perfectly shaped right ear that now consumes her left, as she changes hands and brushes her black hair away from her deep green eyes and solid forehead.

An atom bomb blast detonates inside her mind, halting her conversation as she becomes increasingly aware that something was most definitely wrong.

Looking through her now squinty and sticky false eyelashes Jasmine examines her hands that now search her face for a clue of what is happening.

A puzzled look appears as reality sinks in. She looks up in shock. She, like a deer caught in the headlights, stares helplessly into space, and then into the smiling and mischievous eyes of McCail, who now sets the brush back in place, stands tall, smiles and then winks. Thinking to himself, 'oh the beauty of it all!'

Dancing a jig he waves and gives her multiple finger salutes as a bus approaches and is about to pass between the two. She continues frozen in time as he dances towards the bus and then she thaws, and explodes. Her eyes turn to daggers which are hurled at him, sharpened and pointed. Then she places two newly painted black fingers between her black teeth and whistles loud as the street becomes alive with many angry voices.

Fleeing the scene of the crime with his loot of "gotcha" fully intact is marred once again.

A passing bus is used for his getaway but just as his left foot steps onto the step of the bus his right shoe again is caught by her gum and firmly holds his sandal to the street.

"Driver stop."

"Sorry. Not in this neighborhood, once is enough, plus i'm behind in me schedule."

"Shit."

His shoe is left behind in the fumes as the bus pulls away, and Jasmine and a dozen of her friends begin chasing and tossing anything in sight at the fleeing McCail.

"You bloody bastard" is heard by McCail as the bus pulls away and the driver guns it. McCail grins knowing that he is just such a man.

McCail pulls out his list and alters number:

18. I hate this place. Buy shoes... Conclusion... Ann and Fuxking England.



"Please Ann don't ask. It'd be too hard to explain!" Were his only words to Ann as he hobbles towards her one shoe-less.

"You just can't stay out of trouble, can you?"

"Come on let's go back to the room Ann, I'm hungry and tired."

"Hungry? How about all those nuts you stole on the plane?"

"Oh, thanks for reminding."

"Want some?"

"No thank you Mister, I had some and they tasted rancid."

Author Notes I went a bit nuts on the listing part going to clean it up... soon


Chapter 13
The Hungry Werewolf

By hager

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.














Friday 8:52 pm, July 13, 2012

Darkness comes to London, and Lance Pilot sits hunched over in his Range Rover, chewing a beef sandwich like a hungry wolf, but with the manners of a rabid pig. Sauce dribbles down his double chin like lava as he wipes it away with his sleeve then laps it up. The slurping sound of an empty straw draws its last ounce of Coke as he searches the bottom for more. A belch and fart follows and sounds like a train conductor disconnecting boxcars.

Only one person has ever ridden in his car, Jason Von Twiddle, a jerk friend of his, everyone else rides in the trunk or is stuffed in it.

"Mum? I think I got another one. I'll pop him over for your morning tea as soon as I catch him. What? Damn it! It's Lance mom. Your son."

He tosses his mobile between the candy wrappers and chicken bones, and the other garbage piled on the passenger seat before farting again, leaning on one cheek. He closes his laptop after logging off the Scotland Yard website and leaves his car and walks towards a teen he has spotted in a nearby park.

"Hey kid, come here. Yes you. You trashed my flat yesterday. Stop! Stop yer running. I'll catch ya sooner or later you little wanker. Stop! Fucker. Shit."

Frustrated Lance stops his pursuit. He looks around then pulls his hoodie up and cap down then looks straight at the ground. Then hurries away in the opposite direction of the teen, mumbling to himself as he heads further up the lane in search of another youth. He knows exactly where all the cameras are and what to do to avoid being identified.

There are nearly two-million CCTV cameras in place around Britain. Every means of collecting data and tracking a person's movements is at the fingertips of authorities or whomever can get into its system.

It's all there for the picking in a big tangled mess. From government agencies to Facebook, Nanny-cams, credit cards, databases, smart-phones and so on.

Slowly it's crowding people into corners and watching over their every move. If you happen to sneeze it's probably seen or recorded by someone, or something.

With all this eye-in-the-sky surveillance, how then are two-hundred-sixty-thousand people able to disappear each year, just in Britain alone, without leaving so much as an electronic footprint? They either have a great hiding place or go missing by design or some unspeakable horror happens.

Many leave good homes, jobs, family and completely vanish at least for awhile. Most are found or return, but still about sixteen-thousand a year never do. How families live through those never ending moments when a clock's hands never move is impossible to imagine.

It's not like all these have gone missing in the Gobi Desert or some remote spot. What we have here is a populous city or country, with more ways of tracking a person than ever before in history. So why are more and more cases reported?

Scotland Yard has its hands full of missing people. Some just took a stroll, spent the night with a friend or left their wallet on the dashboard with the car running, while others last comments to a family member were, 'I'll be back in five minutes' which turns into forever.

And remember, once you leave home till the time you get back, 'smile, you're on Candid Camera.'


James is your average kid of fifteen, with school just a little above okay, but his home life is building on exceptional. Both parents are making good inroads into guiding him through his youthful years by allowing him to grow like a flower on his own, rather than pulling him by his petals in an effort to make him grow.

His mixture of friends is for the most part even balanced with just a few heading south. No harm no foul was his playful mannerism as it was his soccer ball that accidentally hit the Range Rover belonging to Lance Pilot.

His is one of the faces Lance remembered, but what Lance did not see, nor cared about, was James's non participation and rebuke of his fellow mates. They trashed Lance's flat turning it into a pigsty, after Lance purposely drove over their soccer ball.

James is off to the store this Friday night to pickup an item or two for his mom, whose time of the month was causing pain within her head and belly, it is a duty which he does with grace and respect.

He is nearly runny late for his meetup at ten-o'clock with his bowling team, which consists of a cousin, a friend and a girl that he giggles with and thinks is nice. So on this evening his bicycle flew extra fast up and down the hillside and through the alley towards the chemist's shop.

Lance spends the better part of an hour searching the neighborhood for James, before he spots him leaving his home.

Finding a vulnerable ambush spot Lance picks a low lying shrub, moving apart some branches with his cane, then crouches and waits for James to return, while humming to himself a mantra over and again.

Bitter tunes sung by his mom, who's breath blows like the wind, uprooting all dead matter in its path disrupting calm. "Veritas diaboli manet in aeternum."{Devil's truth remain eternally.}

"Ello James, looks like you been running a marathon."

"Ay-up Mr. Gordon, I'm bowling tonight and my mom needed me to pick this up before I go."

"Here's your change lad, say ello to yer mum and dad."

"See-ya Mr. Gordon."

On his way back his tires bounce onto cobblestone echoing through empty streets, and brick alleyways and open windows. Lance, what with the maze of twists and turns, finds James difficult to spot. Every now and then he catches a glimpse of him darting between the rows of houses.

Set on revenge Lance crouches low in the shadows, coiled and oozing evil with each slow calculated breath, even the darkness of a waning crescent moon cannot not conceal his contempt. A coldness sits about him wrapped in a blanket of amnesty giving him innocence of any and all wrongdoings, past, present and future.

James comes into view, his spirit races as fast as his athletic legs can pedal.

In an instant Lance's cane jams into the front spokes of James's bike, and in a flash he flew through the air in an isolated alleyway.

His thumb hits the ground first before his shoulder as he rolls several times more on the cobblestones. His crying groans are heard only by an elderly couple who open their door an inch or two.

Lance strolls over and spits on his shirt.

"Help me mister. Oh its you... It wasn't me mister who wrecked your flat. Please!"

"Stop your crying baby. I'll finish you right here if you don't shut up. Don't you squeal like a pig either!"

"Mister it wasn't me. To my mates it was just a joke. I'm sorry."

"Who cares? Moms hungry, and you will be breakfast."

"What? You're a nutter! Get away!"

The pain inflicted on the young man as he lay bleeding from both elbows became magnified as Lance kicks him in the groin twice, then lit a cigar and smiles walking about like a matador. James has never felt such pain.

Leaning close with cigar in mouth Pilot grabs James by the forearm then stokes the cigar till its tip glows red hot, brightening the darkness with each inhale, then moves its position towards the youths forehead.


Stepping quickly onto the scene the odd man known as Merlin G Wildhaber startles the cockroach Lance, as his aura of light becomes bright.

"What the hell? Piss off! Beat it old man!"

"As a matter of record, I'm about ready to."

Walking closer Merlin continues.

"Ah.... so the old hag's breath still carries on. I thought I smelled your evil being from afar." Merlin glides closer before continuing like David's thunderous challenge to Goliath.

"The bitterness that your soul lives on, sours your world, and will till the day that you die, which by the way, is coming soon. You are without backbone, a snake man and dark is your heart as no spades will dig your grave, but cool waters; will carry you to hell, so that you might find no peace. Ever!"

The delivery of words shot arrows through Lance, he approaches Merlin like a warrior.

A backlash response of foul words spat past Lance's tongue in rapid succession filling the nights calm; they stood face to face.

With a calm but stern voice Merlin adds more with merry eyes twinkling.

"Vipers such as yourself. Do your slithering elsewhere! Unless of course you care to deal with a person, such as myself! You see yourself as brave. There is not a brave bone to be found inside your being as you come from a long line of liars and cowards. What's wrong? Lost yer voice?"

Fear froze in the eyes and heart of a man that for years had bullied his way throughout life. Merlin was the tsunami and Lance a grain of sand.

"Who was it?" Asks Merlin.

"Who was what?" hissed the cottonmouth with venom oozing.

"The one that's made you so bitter! Your weak unknown father or was it your bitchy mother, Balocha, the Sea Hag?" Merlin's words drove a stake into Pilot's heart.

Lance leaps at Merlin swinging his cane with deadly force and with the rage of a maniac, but Merlin uses Lance's own movement and weight to firmly plant him on the alley floor.

"Which part of your heart do you want me to pull out?" Asks Merlin of the frozen ghoul who is now crawling away from his light.

Still grounded, Pilot's face nervously looks about, his embarrassed position lashes out.

"What you looking at fuckers?" He yells to the old couple looking on, they timidly closed their door.

"So you be the old Hag's' son. You seem a bit distracted. What's the matter? Can't beat up an old man? Maybe you should try again."

Lance stands with the legs of a nervous dog then hurls himself again, but this time Merlin glides him through the air like a missile head first into a garbage skip with history.

This is a very special trash receptacle that holds a weeks worth of nappies which use to be worn around the waist of Mrs Goofierut, an 87 year old vegetarian, whose worst problem these days seems to be that of holding herself before reaching the potty, and now this provides Lance with the instant reality and luxury, that he by the way so rightly deserves.

Being embedded in a pile of shit becomes his destiny. The smell is so stagnate and rotten that only rats and cockroaches cared to partake of its tidbits, ants were smarter and are content with their findings of discarded fish guts and kitty-litter.

A scream that nobody heard thunders through Pilot's brain.

Shaking himself free of the waste can, both he and his cowardly shadow head for the hills, tripping and stumbling into the darkness, screaming obscenities with white foaming spit dripping from his mouth. He stops and turns. "I'll get you old man!"

"I'll be looking forward to that day. See you soon! Say hello to the old hag. Tell her I'm the one who destroyed her ugly sister."

With that said, Merlin freezes Lance's movements walks over to him and places an object in his pocket saying, "vocatus atque non vocatus Deus aderit {called and even not called, God approaches"}." and then releases him as the creep runs full speed screaming his way out-of-sight.

Merlin's compassion turns to the injured James who was agonizing on the ground. "Here son let me give a look."

"Why did he do that? I didn't do anything to him!"

Bending, Merlin touches the boys arm and holds it still, comfort comes instantly throughout his body.

"What have you done sir? How did you..."

"I just listened to your heart. It appears that you have a kind one and you heal easy."

Standing James shakes the bad experience off as if it never happened and marvels at the nice stranger that came to his rescue.

"Who are you sir?"

"James, I'm just a friend that gave you a hand."

"You know me name?"

"It's stitched on you shirt."

Looking down James realizes the man is right.

"Oh I forgot about that. Me bowling shirt. My mum thought it would look nice."

"Well your mum is right and she has a fine lad to be proud of."

"Can you come home with me so I can tell my folks how you helped me."

"No, but thanks. Tell your folks what happened and have them contact a constable. You know where that man lives, right? Good."

"How did you do that? He just went, he just went sailing out there."

"Oh just parlor tricks and luck I suppose. Now you run along."

But sir, how can I thank you?"

"Lad. Have compassion as you run across life and when you see a person in need, stop and help. Be, and treat others in a just way. And just as you saw me, be especially wise around men such as the rat that ran away tonight. They are the weakest of all even though they act like a bully.

So if you want to thank me son, understand that sometimes your best friends you may meet only once, but the memories of that encounter will last a lifetime for you both. The ripple effect of good; would apply here my friend. Would you not agree?"

"Yes sir."

Parting handshakes send each in different directions.

Author Notes This was hard to write and like other chapters please give help where you can, thanks... Bill


Chapter 14
Past Waterloo Sunset

By hager






Friday 10:22 pm, July 13, 2012

         “Here. Take this.”

 

“I don’t want any of that crap. It tastes like pink chalk.”

 

“Well then, just suffer, Mister.”

 

Eating a large portion of cherries and bags of rotten peanuts he had stolen on the plane is now proving to be an explosive situation late this Friday evening. After the sun has set, so does Mccail. It's 10:22 PM.

 

Sitting trapped within the walls of a narrow bathroom, at Aunt Tilly's Bed and Breakfast, is bad, as tight places are not of his choosing. The room captures and holds the day’s sizzling heat like a Dutch oven, supported by the day’s humidity. To make matters worse, the window has been bolted shut, bringing a tropical weather pattern into this English john.

 

A next-in-line toilet-line begins to grow. One by one they arrive, like ants to food. Each waits their turn patiently for what seems to drag on for an eternity.

 

After knocking politely on the door, a sixty-four-year-old man from New Jersey is the first in line to give up in frustration. He finds a tall bush outside, and it becomes saturated with this evening's tea.

 

Second, third, and fourth are a trio of black ladies; a child holds the rear position. He is visiting from the States. He’s a small quirky kid, with black framed bottle glasses, taped in the centre like a nerd, Jerry Lewis style.


"Well I'll be! Who's in there, Mildred, and are they still alive? It’s been ten minutes! You saw that white gentleman leave. Something needs to be done!"

 

Mildred nods in agreement. Armed to the teeth with toiletries in hand, she is willing and able, if the others are ready, to break down the door and dislodge the squatter.

 

But their wait outside the toilet does not go unnoticed by the innkeeper, Tilly Way.

 

"Is there a parade? Can I join?" she asks.

 

"No, ma'am. I think someone died in there and is too embarrassed to come out."

 

"Pardon me." Tilly presses her head close to the door. "There's others waiting for the privy," she informs the occupant.

 

Silence quickly fills the hallway, thicker than the air within the john. Tilly gingerly jiggles the door knob.

 

Finally a response comes creaking through the door. "It's in use."

 

"Mr Mccail, is that you in there?"

 

An embarrassed and perturbed, "Yes," shoots like a dart.

 

Silence once again waits.


"Well, sir if you could be so kind as to hurry it a bit. Others are in need." Her ruby red lips pucker as she waits for his response.

 

Sounds reverberate from within and then bellow down the hall. Aunt Tilly's mouth quivers as her oil begins to boil.

 

One by one, the other guests leave, with sour memories. That is, all but one. The small child straddles one leg on top of the other, dancing an agonizing dance. He is fifth in line. Tugging on Aunt Tilly's heartstrings, his looks convince her to beg. She pinches his cheek, and then stands tall.

 

"Sir, there is a young child waiting, and if you could please be so kind, I'm sure he'll just be a minute." Her eyes turn back towards the youngster, polite, with a smile.

 

Silence.

 

Nothing.

 

Grabbing the knob full force, she again speaks, this time like a swashbuckler. Each word carves its way through the door, with the force of David's slingshot. "Sir! Sir! You must obey and yield!"

 

The prospect of surrendering his throne to some jackrabbit kid irks Mccail to no end. But...

 

"Alright, alright, alright, already! I'm coming out, but as soon as the kid’s done, I'm coming back in!"

 

Quickly stepping out, Mccail gives Aunt Tilly an expression that is just as obnoxious as the fumes that drift out with his movement.

 

The child hurries in, unnoticed. "I'll try to hurry up, mister," comments the youngster. Turning to close the door, he sticks his head out. "This place stinks."  

 

Mccail turns towards him with a sneer, which instantly changes into road rage upon seeing the child's face.

 

"And those peanuts on the plane made me sick, mister."

 

"You? The kid on the plane?" Mccail's foot takes a stab at blocking the door’s closure, but is a second too late.

 

"Leave the child alone, sir."

 

"Listen, you little shit." Mccail bangs on the door. "You better hurry up! Tilly, this isn't fair! I was in there first. This just isn't fair!"

 

"You are acting like a child, sir. May I suggest that you go back to your room and...”

 

"You don't understand, Mrs Way. I may not make it back to the room."

 

"Sir, you’re a grown man." She looks him up and down. "And I'm sure you can hold yourself. For you to speak to a child in such tone is totally inexcusable."


Turning, Tilly addresses the youngster, who at this point is just easing his way into his crossword puzzle. "Jerome, dear. You take all the time you need."

 

"You know this kid?" Mccail demands.

 

"Yes." Her contorted lips deliver more, as her eyes flash a victory sign. "He's my grandson."

 

Mccail's eyes flash S.O.S.

 

The chances of Mccail retrieving back his porcelain easy chair in the near future fade just as fast as Mccail's Adam's apple drops. Tears almost come.

 

"You gotta be kidding me!"

 

Her raised eyebrows confirm her actions with authority.

 

He slinks down the hallway with lead feet.

 

By the time he makes it across the street, makes full use of the restaurant facilities and hurries back, Ann is asleep. Dashed are his plans for an adventurous evening. Aunt Tilly's gentle smile stews in his mind for hours on end as he sits regurgitating the evening’s events while trying to sleep.

 

 

Day 3 - July 14th


The night’s humidity sticks close while the open windows beg for a breeze. There is no avoiding its miserable entirety. Thick is the air. Sweat pours from every surface. Tired and weary souls, asking for relief, carry their thoughts of rest into the wee hours of the morn. A clock ticks somewhere in the dark, slowly dragging time with each tick.

 

A chorus of bedsprings provides the only movement of air on this night as the high and low notes of lovers also sing out a tune.

 

"They sound like crickets,” Mccail complains.“I gotta get some sleep, Ann. Shit, its 3 AM.  I hate this place and that bitch Aunt Tilly!" His sweltering rattling falls on the sleeping ears of Ann.

 

Climbing from beneath the sheet, he wanders to the open window and stands in the shadow, listening to the lovers as they  dance horizontally.

 

Reflections bouncing off a pane of glass into the next room allow him to observe covered movements in its darkened interior. He also keeps abreast of the room across the way. Squinting and lurking in the dark for a few titbits of skin, he lasts only until boredom and eye strain set in. With the beginnings of a headache taking place and frustrated that he can't join in, he gives up, heads back to bed, and wraps a pillow around his head to stifle the wails that come in stereo.

 

The last thing he remembers is hearing Aunt Tilly’s voice crying out, "Jack, oh Jack!"


Chapter 15
Knock Knock - The Opera

By hager

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.




Friday 11:17 pm, July 13, 2012

“Mum, wake up it’s Lance. Shit, help me…  Mum?”

“Listen Nancy-boy, this is not your blooming Mum, and next time put on yer peepers before ya dial the telly. Arcehole.” Click

A light rain falls on a dimly lit street outside Lance’s flat while the neon sign outside his building crackles on and off.



Cowering in his favourite corner like a mouse trapped by an invisible cat, his demons begin attacking him like Norman Bates to a shower curtain. Picking up a knife he stabs back lunging forward then squatting, again and again, thrusting the blade in all directions. His wooden floor becomes the next target as he stabs it repeatedly like a man killing red ants.

Lance thinks about the encounter he’s just had with the old man who whipped him like a milkshake, regurgitating the event in a scenario of inward screams.

“That fucker, I’ll get him, I’ll get that bastard,” he says, as a ten-minute mantra begins and then ends with, “no bastards going to beat me down. I’m going out. Let’s party girl!”

He begins to change for an evening on the town at his favourite pub, ‘Flippin Cakes.’

Meanwhile across town Sergeant York, of the Metropolitan Police, questions his superior, Chief Inspector Chaffin.

“Inspector, what do you make of this? This is the queerest thing I have ever seen.” Pointing at the computer screen repeatably.

“We got a call from a Robert Yates, about an assault on the chap’s teenage son, about ten-o’clock tonight, and so I started checking the CCTV cameras around the area, and you just won’t believe what you are about to see.”

“Okay.” Sighing and rubbing his face, with an ‘already up to here with the day’ attitude,  he stumbles on his way to York.

“Over here. Sir? Oh, watch your step, sir. You alright?. Good! Where was I? Oh… this was on the cameras over by, let me see… Ravenscroft Gardens and West End Lane.”

“York, play the tape back again. Stop… More… Continue. Okay.”

“Well sir, what’s your take?”

“First, I wonder what would possess a man to jump headfirst into a garbage skip? Is he running from something?”

“You tell me. You’d best put yer glasses on Inspector for this next one. I’ve watched this over and over again and it’s beyond stupid, it’s insane! Now I ask you Inspector, who’s he talking to? And who’s he fighting with sir? Because there is abso-bloody-lutely, nobody there.”

“Fighting? What fighting? Oh, my goodness York.” Chaffin’s mouth drops and stays lodged open. Well, I’ll be. It looks like he’s fighting with himself, but getting the shit kicked out of him, by himself. Now that’s funny. I ask you as well, who in the hell is he talking to? He’s delusional.”

“Exactly. Inspector if you think that’s strange, it gets better. I’ve heard of dumpster diving, but from ten-meters away? Let me pull the camera view back so you can get a better perspective.”

“Whoa. Shit. The man is obviously a totally deranged dimwit, Sergeant or drunk. What the hell? A long jumper perhaps from a circus?”

“This is like a bad Kung Fu movie. But, how does he fly through the air like that? Oh, I’d love to put this on YouTube.”

“Do we know who it is?”

“Well I investigated more, sir, and at camera sixteen on Wood Street we caught this same man running away like he were on fire. He’s running like that Olympic Jamaican fellow, what’s his name?”

“You mean Usain Bolt?”

“Yes, Usain Bolt. Now, that chap can run. He’s like a cheetah. Did you get any tickets? Me and the Mrs. got nose-bleeders for the opening ceremony.”

“Na, just going to watch it on the telly.” Chaffin continues, “So were you able to identify this Bolt character?”

“Yes, Inspector. A chap by the name of Pilot.”

“Not Lance Pilot is it?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Oh, good show York, jolly good show!” As Chaffin begins a quick parade about the room. “This chap used to be a Constable. He’s all sixes and sevens, all messed up. Twisted. He’s done more crimes than any criminal, but nary a one ever stuck to him. Starting with murder, jewellery theft, bookmaking, human trafficking, and so on.”

“Sound like a real smarmy git, sir.”

“Yes, exactly. A real cool jerk, a rather smooth character. Blink and he’s got yer doughnuts York. I’d love to collar this creep. Listen, contact and get the canine unit and then make sure the constables have their tasers fully charged and ready. Let’s go pay him a visit. Oh, and furthermore contact a duty court clerk who can give us a search warrant, as well. York? Turn the heater on full blast, don’t want our guest to freeze to death.”

Ring Ring

“Mom it’s me. Just had a row with an old man that called you by name. Shit, how could he fucking know that? He mentioned yer sister saying he done away with her and he spoke that same stupid language as you… I don’t mean you’re stupid mom, but… Fuck me, shit!”

If you’re happy with your message press 1, “fuck off bitch.”If you want to re-record press 2 or – beep.

“Mom it’s Lance. Met a guy who knows my ass, I mean your name, shit, shit, barmy, fuck me, shit! Flog me ass.”

If you’re happy “bite me bitch.” with your message press 1, If you want to re-record press 2 or say nothin – beep.

“Mom it’s me, Lance. Just had the shit beat outa me by some old man who called you by your name, Hagakulla Puitlootta. Shit. I am really scared. Not sure what to do, said he killed yer sister Bultas, the other old ugly hag… arsehole fuck me, fuck me bollocks, shit to hell!

Knock Knock

Now, who’s at the bloody door? Shit!”

If you’re happy with your message press 1, If you want to re-record press 2 or say nothing to leave your message and disconnect. Click.

Knock knock.

“Who’s there? “

“Metropolitan Police looking for Lance Pilot.”

“Lance who?”

Two dogs and eight Constables await Inspector Chaffin’s signal to ram the door and enter Pilot’s flat like roosters in a cockfight.

“Listen, Pilot, don’t play games with me. This is Inspector Chaffin and unless you want me to bust down yer door and send the dogs, you’d best open. That is your first and last warning.”

His arm raises and gets the attention of all eyes waiting for his arm to drop, just as a latch is heard unlocking, then the creak of the door’s opening occurs.

“Good Pilot. Step back Pilot, against the wall.”

“Piss on yer-selves coppers.”

“Constables, what we have here is Renee Gunn, aka, Lance Pilot. Nice dress Pilot. Too bad those high heels don’t match yer purse.”

“Blow me, Inspector.”

“What’s happened to you, Pilot? You look like shit. Although you always have. Maybe a bit more rouge would help?

“Piss-off Chaffin.”

“And would someone please turn down that music? Thank you. Who is that playing Pilot, Liberace? And you, search him.”

“Why me sir?”

“Alright then, Constable Henry, you search his bottom half, and Constable Vicky you search his top. I don’t blame ya for not wanting to, I’d like to search him myself using a fork-lift.” The Inspector pokes his finger into Pilot’s shoulder a few time.

” Now pay attention Pilot… You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“What?”

“A complaint has been lodged.”

“What for?”

“Mayhem and hooliganism and assault.”

“Piss-off coppers. I’m the one should file a complaint. Against ya coppers disturbing me peace, just after me evening stroll.”

“Search his flat. Come-on Sergeant let’s take this duff back to headquarters.”

“Can I change first?”

“No Pilot. By the way that’s a rather nice dress. Chiffon?”~

Cat whistles and laughter welcome Pilot’s visit back at headquarters.

“Have a seat Pilot. Over there, no, that’s my chair. You want to explain where you been tonight?”

“First, can you turn the bloody heater down? It’s like an oven turned on fuckin broil. Shit! You could bake fuckin clams in-here.”

“Yes, Sergeant, he’s right, please turn it down, this is rather unbearable, I myself can barely breathe. Shit.” Removing his coat the inspector grabs a pen and pad. “York! Why is it so blooming hot in here and why in the bloody hell is the heater on in the first place, it’s bloody July? York? Sergeant York? Where are you man? Turn down the bloody heater!”

“Inspector the heats been this way since we left, I got a notice, maintenance says another hour or so, some sorta busted shut-off valve.”

“Sorry sir, I was getting me smokes sir, want a fag Pilot? Sorry, no offence meant.”

Pilot reaches out and accepts his offer to light as well.

“Oops, sorry bout that Pilot, the flame does rather leap-up.”

“Thanks for the cig. You’re all right. As I said, I took a stroll this evening. No harm in that or it’s against the law to stroll?”

“A young man was attacked tonight, and we have you on CCTV at the scene and again running away. Explain to me that, if you can.”

Like I was saying Chaffin, I took a stroll and then was nearly run over by this punk on a bike, and when he wrecked, I went to help. Then this old man came from nowhere and attacked me. Hell, I should get a medal as a good Samaritan, don’t you think Inspector?”

“Then how do you explain this? There’s no one else in this tape, but you. Run the tape Sergeant.”

As the tape begins to roll Pilot’s head bobs back and forth like a bobble toy.

“What the hell? Fuckers. You coppers have done something to the tape. I tell you there was an old man who attacked me. Fuckers! He was there I tell ya! He was there.”

“Calm down Pilot. Want some tea? Seems like we’re going to be at this for a bit.”

“Fuck you.”

York leaves and a minute later pops his head in and says,  “Inspector, I need to have a word with you, please?”

Inspector Chaffin leaves Lance to swelter inside the room, then enter into the adjoining room.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“Everything seemed ok in his flat except this? You ever saw a ruby this big?”

“What’s this scumbag doing with something like this. Where in his flat?”

“No, it was here inside his jacket he was wearing. We put it through the computer search and nothing showed up as being stolen. Unusual shape. Looks like a duck or, or perhaps a dragon.”

“Nothing turned up? You took pictures of the  ruby?”

“Yes sir. Oh, and another piece of odd news. Got a report from the detective who questioned the lad involved, and he too says there was an old man. Who beat the crap out of our friend in there.”

“Then there must be something wrong with the cameras?”

“Nope, nothing wrong there Inspector.”

“Let’s have another look at the video.”

“Tommy can you hear me? Tommy can you see me? Tommy…”

“Sorry Inspector must be maintenance working in the vent shaft. Turn that bloody music off! Thank you.”

“Where were we? Oh, so Sergeant do you see anything striking?”

“All I see is Pilot’s quick thrust and lunge, as he swings a cane or stick and then, ‘wack’ looks like he hit something or something hit him as he falls to the street. I mean how does a person end up in that kind of position, all contorted and such? And then the dumpster move, look at his speed when he leaps. Now how in heaven’s name do you speed yourself up in midair? He looks like he’s been shot from a cannon.”

“That’s odd. I never notice the speed before Sergeant. Good eye, a good bit of investigative work. I will be sure to mention this to the Chief. Sergeant, what puzzles me is who is this old man, apparently, according to both sides there was a man present, but why on earth can we not see him on camera? A mystery. I for one would like to shake his hand.  Now, about this shithead, I’m afraid I need to release him, nothing sticks in this case. But let’s keep this toad where he is, maybe with any luck he’ll melt. Give him water too.”

“How long should be holding him, sir?”

“I’ll let you know. Give the ruby back to him, but I want a twenty-four-seven detail following this bird everywhere. Put Abbott and Costello on it.”

“You mean Petrobum and Watts? Excuse me sir, but why them? They both seem like morons sir.”

“Exactly. In order to catch a stupid person…”

“Got it, you send stupid to catch stupid, and sooner or later, Bob’s your uncle.”

“Exactly… Listen, Sergeant, I’ve been thinking about what you mentioned earlier in jest, but do you think we could maybe put this on YouTube? Just a secret between you and I. Somehow it leaked out, who knows how it happened? I don’t?”

~ “And on the lighter side of this mornings news, it would appear we have an instant YouTube hit right here in London. It’s a Bird, it’s a Plane, no it’s Stupid-Man.”

Author Notes What is this chapter lacking? Well this was my first attempt at dialog mostly... does it work...please offer where to fix where you can... thanks Bill


Chapter 16
Seth at the Races

By hager













Saturday, 2:00 pm, July 14, 2012


Day 3

Two-hundred and twelve-miles outside London, at Aintree Raceway, near Liverpool, Seth Jarret waits in line holding two drinks, while celebrating another win, his fourth. On the fifth, and main event race at The Grand National, and with a field of thirty-three horses, he is betting it all on number-ten, 'Red Pig Flying.'

Red Pig, comes from a family with Thoroughbred history, but not all who race here are Thoroughbreds, and when it comes to the grueling steeplechase, none is more well known, honored and loved than, 'Red Rum,' a Thoroughbred.

The Grand National champion, Red Rum, won in 1973, 74, and again in 77, while coming in second in 75, and again in 76. He came from thirty-length's back, to win the 73' race and was world renowned for his jumping abilities and perseverance, and he never fell in over one-hundred races, which in itself is a record.

This is a jumping and durability race and not a speed race like the Kentucky Derby. There, the winners try and break the land speed record and sound barrier by galloping as fast as they can from start to finish in about two-minutes, around a flat mile-and-a-quarter track without obstacles.

But the Grand National, is about a nine-minute race on grass with obstacles, and timing is important, as jockey's need to manage their mounts in an effort to survive its extremely difficult and tiring, four-and-a-half-miles.

Steeplechase is considered by many to be the ultimate test of a horse's courage and the jockey had better hold on, because these Thoroughbred's and 'other than's,' all have an attitude. They are high strung and spirited just like women shoppers on the day after Christmas sale. Each jockey is determined to ride a smooth and smart race beating all others across the finish line, especially with a purse nearing £547,247 for the winning owner and jockey.


The National usually takes place in April, but this year has been postponed till mid-July, because of renovations to the track and stadium. Three-thousand vendors have set up shop for selling food, t shirts and everything else. A capacity crowd is expected.

Security is tight, and pickpockets and other criminal types will be working the crowd for ill gotten items of value, and to prey on their unsuspecting victims in any way possible. Every dodge and jugglery in the world will be tried and tested today. Three-hundred-thousand race patrons are expected to attend Saturday's main event, The Grand National.

Seventy-five groundskeepers have worked day and night in preparing the track, softening the turf so as to prevent injuries to horse and rider. The head groundskeeper, Mr Baker, from Liverpool, is the best in the business, and has left no turf blade unattended.

Soil preparation is the key along with water monitoring, and hourly records and detailed reports are kept then studied inside and out. Computer stations help survey every inch of this two-mile grass track, which the horses will travel around twice, covering four-miles-and-eight-hundred-and-fifty-two-yards, in just under nine-minutes.

There are sixteen gates and barriers, fourteen are jumped twice and some as high as five-feet-two-inches and have drops of up to six-feet-nine-inches, on the other side. There are thirty-fences in total which each must jump. Each day Mr Baker and his crew walk the entire track in search of unwanted debris and trouble spots.

Mr Baker has not missed anything, except, what Mr Baker could not foresee was the torrential downpour in the early morning hours making it a swamp, on race day.

Now, years later after Red Rum's brilliant career, it is 'Red Pig,' who carries the torch. His stride is also graceful and like Michael Jordan, can hang in the air for what seems like hours. Water barriers' are like puddles to Red Pig. This horse can jump. This dragster on four legs runs like a cheetah and flies like a dragon with jet engines, and he has never lost a race.


At Aintree Raceway, it's two-o'clock and the sun is beyond hot, but it still struggles drying the track and rain sets off in the distance with uncertainty. Tropical rain, arriving in droves like squadron planes, had pelted everything earlier in its downpour, and now it is the sun's turn to crank up the heat by turning on its afterburners.

Shorts and long skirts are the dress of the day and loose tops fall open and smart, with some falling overboard. Rescue attempts by gentlemen are sometimes met by alluring eyes. Some are green, soft and full of life, wondrous and brave. Some are silky and sincere, delightful and dangerous, naughty and inviting. But some are cold like witches on brooms, bad and nasty, full of gossip and arthritic resentment, like river stones in winter. Some men have sunglasses readied to avoid witches...

Panama hats tip more than not, and feather fascinators float on a breeze, while glasses toast in midair and a few bottles of champagne fall, bouncing, bubbling, and overflow into the mouths of gorgeous babes.


"Rupert works well on a sloppy track." Comments an old man to Seth.

Seth just nods, then glances at the odds board. 'Number thirty-three, Rupert, at twenty-two to one- odds.'

"Don't waste yer money. He does rather like the mud sir, but that was when he was in his prime."

"Think of the money son when he wins, and his owner agrees."

"Forgive sir: but just look at the odds, he's too much of an outsider. Every other horse would have to stay in the stable for him to win. I tell ya he's not a winner anymore. I know that horse. He runs now like he's got hobblers on."

Seth sips and waits to place his bet. His mind still swirls over his loss of his prized Bugatti, 'The Alice,' back in London.

The lines are long and the crowd shifts like a river with unseen sinkholes and rapids. Seth's impatience seeks diversion and soon finds an attention grabber in the form of a woman, directly in back of the old man. Their first encounter happens as the line surges like an oceans riptide, and he reaches to support her stance. 'What pretty eyes. She's a knockout!' She smiles and gives a thank-you nod.

The old man in back of Seth just doesn't let up and keeps going on and on about horse thirty-three, the odds on non-favorite running in the fifth-race. Rupert's odds have now jumped to fifty-to-one. Seth knows the horse from previous bets, but after examining the board once again disregards the man's conversation as stupidity, about the same as going over Niagara Falls, without water or a barrel.

Number 10 'Red Pig Flying' still looks good to Seth as he is the odds on favorite, but the trouble is he doesn't pay enough to win, and Seth is looking for a big score.

"The horse runs well on a sloppy track and as you must bloody well know, it's sloppy out there."

'Oh great!' Seth thinks. 'I'm stuck in line listening to an old fart with memory loss.' Again he looks up at the odds board and sees that Rupert is now `ninety-two-to-one, and climbing. But Seth had always bucked the odds at almost everything, plus he is way beyond desperate, near broke approaching drunk would be a more accurate term.

Rupert was no nag, and could keep up with the big boys, but not as of late. He is also a Thoroughbred.


"Pardon me sir, you say that Rupert's owner, old Jack Howard, is betting heavily on his own horse? But, look at the board. Only a fool would bet that horse. There's no bloody way Rupert can win. But, what puzzles me is Jack? This makes no sense to me at all. He never bets on his own horse. Ever. And, I've known Jack for years." Seth waits for a response and begins listing to the side, like a sinking boat.

"A fool does not listen to his conscience, but where a wise man acts upon it, given time, he is rewarded by what he sees with his faith and sometimes his eyes. Let me show you the rules of the mind, the same as I pointed out to Jack."

Both men have a clear view of the track and the parade of horses.

"Don't pay attention to the odds board lad, but instead study each horse in turn. Does any horse clearly stand out to ya?"

There's no need for Seth to view all the horses.

"My Goodness, that horse is going to win and he knows it! He's got his fire back!"

"You bet your money he's going to win and so will you. You'd be a fool not to trust your own eyes. Trust me son. Today, Rupert has traded his hobblers in for running shoes.."

Seth sobers a bit as he realizes the man's delivery of words to be with authority and definition.

Upon closer inspection Seth guesses the old gentleman's age to be seventy or eighty with an aristocratic air about him. Nobility of some sorts he surmises. Well-tailored white trousers fall gracefully to a pair of black and white Oxford shoes. His hair is white and woolly. His eyes bright emerald in color and contain a depth of unassailable wisdom.

A wooden umbrella encased in leather like material sits latched over his arm. Its carvings are labyrinthine, unbelievable in detail, very unique with what appears to be Blood Rubies and green Jadeite embedded. A shoulder bag is slung across his chest and rests upon his left hip. His skin is healthy, with stout veins and rippling muscle beneath. Compassion and wisdom sit solidly in the gentleman's foundation with backbone, not usually seen in everyday life. His black and white Oxfords slowly shuffle on the cement as Seth stands intrigued and respectful.

"Seth Jarret's the name."

"Hello Seth, I'm Merlin G Wildhaber, from Goosenham."

"Like, the magician? I can tell ya right now it'll take some magic for that horse to win. I say, I've never met anyone from Goosenham? You're from there ah?"

"Well of course I'm from there. Only the enlightened would bet on such odds," he chortled and continues, "the magician and I, are one in the same."

"I always thought Goosenham was full of gypsy's and odd stories but excuse me, sir, 'Merlin the Magician?' Well, perhaps with a bit of your magic you can help me locate me car. It's gone missing."

"Gypsies and odd stories do you hear, ah. We send out such tales so that we might be left alone and once again, yes, I am the famed magician my dear friend. So you seek a car do ya."

Closing his eyes Merlin rubs his hands together in a slow circular pattern, mumbles in a low tone for a half a minute, and opens his eyes. He then claps so loud it echoes throughout the track. Stunned, people in the reviewing stand stop their chattering for a moment and look about wondering, then carry on where they left off. Seth nearly falls over from the shock wave.

"You seek what is yours that has been given away; Goosenham holds your car with a woman's name."

Seth is nearly floored by the comment. "How did you know that? I mean about the Alice."

"I am as I said, Merlin."

"What more of the Alice? Goosenham? The American's, are they there? How are you sir, able to... "

"Stargaze boy, stargaze. Magical views if you will, come in moments of stillness. Sad to say most travel way too fast to absorb the essence of a mere moment. In time you may find in the town of Goosenham, the motorcar surrounded by a moat. Sorry, but it was all I was given to see."

"May find? Me cars in a moat? What? That's it?, That's all? Any more?"

"Relax, boy, relax. It's a start lad."

A gulp of cognac brings fire into Seth as he stands a little less skeptical and a bit more drunk.

"Let me give you a little bit more of a show, Seth, of what I do. In exactly ten seconds, Rupert will take a bow. Then he will walk backwards for ten feet and bow again." Not disbelieving and not believing Seth sips his other drink slowly thinking 'Well this will be one to see. Me cars in a moat?

"You mean to say Mr. Wildhaber that horse is going to... well, good night nursing little fishes. I'll be. How'd ya do that?"

"If you are quiet, the future is within sight and the command of minds, even horses, is yours, if the will is virtuous." Notes the old man nonchalantly. "This, is what I do."

"Excuse me," pipe's in the woman behind Merlin.

She has smooth pearl white skin and a smile which drive men batty. Her breasts are setup for display on this hot summer's day and she has eyes like Elizabeth Taylor's. She's wearing a long flowing green dress that when pushed by a light breeze, reveals everything a woman is know for. Her hair is a deep chestnut red, full of life and wild like a stallion. Seth's eyes brighten, 'the knockout.'

"But do either of you know on to which horse I should place my bet?" She says. "I've never been to a race before."

The old man nudges Seth into responding.

"Well." Stumbling with his manner of dress and his unkempt slouched stance Seth straightens almost every bone in his body as his eyes look into hers, although tunnel vision keeps pulling him down onto, 'her luscious purple lingerie, supporting those gorgeous sweltering bosoms.'

"The horse I'm thinking about picking is a tit... bit of a long shot. He use to be one of the breast jumpers...best jumpers! "Oh," he sighs. He'd be a risky bet."

Thinking to himself, 'breast? Risk? Come on man? I must be insane! Pull yourself together...'

"Forgive me. What I'd be trying to say is... I wouldn't want you to get a bad taste for the races just because of my passion. If I were you I'd bet the odds on favorite number-ten, Red Pig, who is a dandy of a horse, just to be on the safe side, since this being your first time at the races."

"Oh, I like taking chances. Especially when it comes to passion." She comes close, pushing them up against Seth and whispers warmly into his ear. "My mom always said, keep yer knockers up and your lips moist and passion will always follow." Pulling back, her eyes flirt so fast that Seth's teeth begin to chatter while the other remaining bone in his body awoke and begins thinking hard. He shoots down the remaining drink.

The three then step to the side per Seth's directional hand movements.

"I'll show you how to place your bet and if you would, allow me to buy you a drink?"

"Oh, I'd love that, by the way my names Susan!"

"Susan, it certainly is my... deepest," he crossed his hand over his heart, "deepest pleasure to meet you, I'm Seth Jarret."

"The famous race driver?"

A blush comes to his face just before his chest crests to its limits. "At your service."

"And I, my fair lady, am Merlin G Wildhaber, from Goosenham. "

"You mean 'the Goosenham," as in weird, strange? Ah, like 'The Magician? She laughs. Well I guess it's possible, who's to say?"

"Yes, and as my good friend Seth said. At your request, I wait to be of service."

"Well, what better company could I ask for? Both of you are my hero's! A legend in my own time and, please forgive, but one way, way, way before my time." Merlin did not find it unflattering but pretended to act as such.

Interlocking her arms with the two gentlemen the trio once again advances towards the ticket booth, just like Dorothy, as the line turns into rushing walkways, taking mere seconds. Seth feels the power of her breast crushing against him as they move towards the window. Just like a kid at the movies with his first date, his pulse races and companionship, once lost, hangs so close. They're next in line at the ticket booth.

That feeling of importance is once again causing his steps to bounce and while he places her bet of £100. Seth throws in an extra £100. She rewards him with a tighter hug.

"How nice of you Seth," kissing him on the cheek.

The clerk shakes his head as Seth places his wager whispering over the counter, "Seth. Seth? I'm your friend. Are ya sure you want to do this? That horse is a goat!" Seth just nods, having set his £552 down with confidence.

Susan's arm reaches over the counter adding the exact same amount as Seth had bet. "Add this to yours."

Turning, Seth's eyes met Susan's, and before he could politely reject her more than generous gift she puts a finger to his lips and says, "Please Seth don't say a word, you deserve to win."

Knowing full well it would do no good to argue with this fiery red hair beauty, Seth reluctantly accepts her gift, and then overturns it once more. "Susan, I can't accept this."

"And why not?"

Seth sees a glow in her eyes and connects with her immediately like a friend that he's known for years.

As Susan and Seth go back and forth in a playful argument, Merlin has just placed the largest bet of the day, £52,000 on Rupert. The clerk is beside himself and closes his window afterwards and heads for the stadiums pub.

"Okay Susan, I accept. But I owe you... more than just a drink." Susan just wets her lips.

Merlin walks over and pats Seth on the back while craftily placing his own ticket inside Seth's jacket. Susan's ticket is already there.

"Ladies and gentlemen there will be a short delay of about thirty minutes for the next race," rang out from the speakers. Mr Baker and his crew needs to once again sweep the course, because when it comes to the main event, all their ducks need to be in a row and every detail just right.

"What perfect timing. If you could be so kind Seth. I'll take you up on that first offer of a drink."

The threesome make their way to the bar and after a couple of rounds and a conversation filled with craziness, about how Merlin attended the very first-race back in 1839, has Seth and Susan giggling like teenagers and throwing napkins and 'get-out-here's and 'stop it's,' in a constant assault on their brains.

Merlin also does a few levitation tricks, with a few items around the bar lifting off tables, and a hat rising off the head of a woman sitting across the bar. Seth and Susan are almost on the floor with laughter each begging Merlin to, 'stop it I can't take it anymore, and how'd you do that?'

More questions about the Alice are answered, and sketchy directions to Goosenham with turn right then left, left again over the bridge, lay on the rock, pull the lever and so on, is given. Seth's business card is presented, and phone numbers are written on table napkins and passed around.

"Well, it looks like it's time. Shall we," continues Seth, "or should we just stay here, and forget everything else. This, is so enjoyable," pausing and looking at Susan, as she at him, "but I guess we should go."

They all now leave and take a good vantage point as the race is about to start.


The horses are set in a row like RiverDancers, and are jammed at the elastic barrier stretching across the track, and...


"They're off! And they're away!" Applies to all.

All that is, except for one... Rupert.

Glue seems to stick to the hooves of the horse Seth and his group had picked to win, like tar on a warm summers day, pinning Rupert, 'the wonder horse,' to the starting line as all the others galloped on their way towards the finish line. Rupert refused to run, let alone trot.

"Come-on horse! What's he waiting for?" questions Seth.

Seth, bug-eyed, looked at the pack and gulped, his heart nearly stopping. "Bloody, #@%^ing horse!"

Seth looks around and see's that his two new friends have disappeared much faster than this future glue factory Thoroughbred, Rupert. Rupert now lops along in a playful almost absurd action like he's on a picnic.

Seth's eyes were not on the finish line or his friends at this point but the how and why of it all, as his hands cover his face. Of all the times he'd won and of all the places on earth to be, he was stuck here betting £552 on an old nag named Rupert, which at this point looked like a cartoon character wobbling down the field; as for 'Red Pig Flying?' He really is flying, leading all others in his quest for the top purse. Seth should have known better he thought than to trust any horse with a name like Rupert but; then there was that old man?

"Why'd I listen to him? That Bastard!" He shouts, looking about for 'that old goat.' All traces of the couple have left Seth standing without support. 'Susan,' he thought.

Seth has worked hard all his life scraping his way upward, slowly building a small fortune in the auto world. Fame as a racing driver bought his garage and kept it growing for years on end. The horses supplied him with spending money and a place where he could hang his hat. Seth was thrown off course by the death of his father and the big boobs of a red hair beauty by the name of Alice, whom he married then later divorced. Long lonely days built one after the other as time crawled for a period of years. Then depression came along with those mounting bills and the drinking drained him dry of his fortune and life.

Seeing his dreams dashed by his own stupidity at the races, Seth slumps forward as his polished black shoes begin to move like a prisoner heading for the gallows. Tucking his ticket in his jacket he leaves the track completely despondent. He heard the crowds gasp but knew it was not in his favor. For days he would not find out the outcome of the race as the bottle and Leigh, his young assistant, will be his two best and only friends.

Perhaps the sun is in Seth's favor, or maybe the old man's powers are at work, but on this day the sun becomes so blinding near Waterway, the first jump, as all riders broke to be out front hitting its fence at about the same time, ten of the horses fall and are out, two less than in the 1952 Grand National. A tangle mess of leather straps and fancy colored jockey silks, looks like a huge quilt, crunched up.

The same happens at the second and third losing three more riders. All remaining riders make it through fences four and five. The ground is slippery with the grass almost floating. Only a mudder runs well on a sloppy track. Rupert is a mudder and loves soft ground.

The notorious first turn, which is fence six, leading left, proves to be exit time for five-more riders with its six-foot-nine-inch drop on the back side, as some hit the ground like sacks of flour or water balloons, while others become fallers in its brook, another refused the jump, but propels the jockey over, as he is almost trampled, almost a goner.

Rupert is still behind, but beginning to make progress having leapfrogged the first fence and then soars over the second and third with ease at a faster than normal pace as he heads for fence four. He then stops completely, then breaks in the air like the Lone Ranger's horse, Silver, leaping up like a Lipizzan stallion and then shoots down the course like the SR-71 Blackbird with afterburners, full throttle...

The crowd in the stands and infield go nuts, and begin cheering for the long-shot, Rupert.

At fence number seven, two riderless horses take the jump with ease, while other jockeys stand muddied and climb their way out of ditches, using their riding crops like light-sabers, striking the wet ground repeatedly.

Rupert is on the move after easily clearing fences one through six. He's in a fast gallop.

When Rupert finally did break-free of his stickiness the roar of the crowd became so loud that the leading jockeys turned, distracted, their forward steam yields to a crawl as each take their turn falling into the ditches and barriers and become lodged in its spruce hedges like brooms.

At the eighth fence two riders collide like china plates and lay sprawled on the wet grass like snow angels while their mounts head for parts unknown.

With the bolt of a champion Rupert lit past those still remaining and is in hot pursuit of Red Pig and others having made about twenty-yards at each fence. At fence number fifteen know as 'The Chair' a six-foot ditch lies before the jump and the backside is six-inches higher in an effort to slow the horses down. Rupert whittles "'the chair' down to size before heading to fence sixteen, the water jump.

Playtime is over for Rupert's jockey, Frances, and she kicks him into high gear as they fly over the water like a dart to the bulls-eye. Three other jockeys should have brought soap and look like decoy ducks floating on the surface.

They have all rounded the track once. There are twelve horses still standing and six take a powder on front side with two of them being fallout's. Three more nose dive at fence twenty-two, also known as Becher's Brook, another again refuses the jump when hounded by a loose horse and its rider is a faller. At fence twenty-two, Frances sits back in the saddle using her body weight as ballast to counter the steep drop and picks up speed. Captain Martin Becher, whom the jump is named after, fell in the 1st Grand National ending up in the water and later said, "water tastes disgusting without the benefits of whiskey."

With a starting field of thirty-three horses only two horses remain, Red Pig and Rupert, which is not common, but not unheard of either. Since the Grand National beginnings in 1839, only one other time in 1928, has this ever happened.

Red pig is out in front by forty-lengths with three fences to go, his jockey, Terence Hickey, eases the reins playing it safe, saving Red Pigs energy for the grueling dash, of four-hundred and ninety-four yards, after the last jump, around the elbow, then on to the finish line.

Rupert is closing fast as his jockey uses every shortest angle to her advantage while gaining ground. Rupert is now ten-lengths back and Frances eases Rupert's reins too. Both horses have just jumped the last fence and Red Pig' is wandering a bit, as Frances, takes advantage guiding Rupert as straight as a rail. With less than two-hundred-fifty- yards to go they are nearly side by side with Rupert back one stride nearing the sharp turn known as 'the elbow.'

Leather and boots and mud and crud are flying everywhere. Whips are being used like a maniacal swatter of flies on a pig farm. Both jockeys' goggles and clothing resemble those of mud wrestlers on ladies night, and as Rupert pulls alongside, Frances shouts to Terence Hickey, "see ya," and breaks for the lead, leaving Red Pig in the watery dust.

Rupert crosses the finish line first, and three-hundred-and-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-twelve,racing fans,'go ape shit.'



At ceremonies the female jockey Frances was ecstatic and praises her horse for his robust finish with just one line.

"Rupert, just loves the mud. Cause, he's a mudder!"

Maybe, just maybe, the time had come for Rupert to move back into the win column and have this one last race for the man that had stood saddened in the stands with his two new missing friends'. There are only a handful of winning tickets and Seth is holding one, two and three.

On the other hand the drive back home for Seth is a long and lonely one. He takes the shuttle train back to Liverpool then a Virgin train back into London. The confusion of the traffic becomes all jumbled once in London and his mind collides with every passing motorcar, while his past hounded him. He thinks about Susan, and places the napkin with her phone number between the pages of a Bible, on his nightstand, and wonders about her whereabouts and says . ''there's something special about her," he sighs and falls off to sleep.

Upon waking, about ten the next morning, he will gathered Leigh Montgomery Piazza, his assistant, and go in search of the car. His one and only hope left or so he thought.

'The Alice,' is like no other car. Its beautiful lines sweep all others off the road. All of Britain knows of its fame. Trophies adorn Seth's walls to the point of being overstuffed. A picture of the Queen seated comfortably behind the drivers wheel is not only here at Seth's garage but has been lithographed and sell in poster shops throughout Europe with every bit of the money earned going to charity.

But for now, Seth's shop is left standing held together with strings from the past, and an adorning friendship from people that he's touched over the years. Seth has earned respect by the good deeds done giving prize money to many needy causes. Lending a hand to just about anyone who had crossed his path has always been his style.

This champion from the past has shown what with character and hard work one could achieve dreams built on honesty, without cheating or stabbing another in the back. He's never been that way.

Throughout all of his tough times his friends stay loyal. It is the drinking that keeps them apart; most are waiting just around the corner keeping a close eye on their friend, Seth Jarret.

He didn't seem to want anyone's help: but his friends, refused to leave. Period!




"Susan, I saw in your eyes child a fondness for our friend Seth."

"Yes father, I liked him."

"And I too as well child. He's a good man. I'll work on him."

And so, as the sun begins setting, Merlin, and his daughter Susan, relax behind the privacy glass of their Rolls-Royce, as they travel back to London.




http://www.grand-national.net/red_rum.htm

Author Notes Well this was something... I learned a lot about writing better.. Many people on the site have helped by showing me, my errors and I thank you... this is fun.... So have at it... boring places, slow places, more detail here, etc... have at it it... rip it to shreds... I hope you enjoy the read... williamhager.... hager.... bill

One of thousands of stories, poems and books available online at FanStory.com

You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author!



© Copyright 2015 hager All rights reserved.
hager has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement