Chapter Five: The Hunger Incarna

Present Day, Six to Midnight


In the secret courts of the Crawling Chaos, where the Demon Sultans hold sway, it first came into existence. It was Yg’aurrok the Hunger Incarna, the void that consumes, embodiment of dark unbridled desire. From the infinite depths of what passed for its soul, it felt the fine pull of longing. Born in the unknown aeons before the rise of humanity, it hungered for the corporeal world that was denied it. Vortices in space-time rippled and the continuum shuddered around it as it raged in frustration. The Hunger Incarna waited. For over a thousand-thousand centuries, millennia of time, it learned to be patient. But now its hunger was tinged with anticipation, for it knew with certainty that its time was fast approaching. It would be free.


All his life, Kevin Sandoval was empty. Emptiness was a blanket that wrapped around him tightly, smothering all semblance of satisfaction from everything he did. It gnawed the love from his heart, sucked the joy from his soul and left him a hollow man.

He tried to fill the emptiness with dissolute abandon. He grasped desperately to fill the growing void with a libertine lifestyle, the way a drowning man reached for any bit of flotsam to keep from being swallowed by the nether depths. Kevin indulged every whim with a plethora of sensual pleasures and vices. In his world, nothing was taboo and everything existed to be experienced.

When he was nine, he engaged in his first act of sexual intercourse. He seduced his mother and father in quick succession, destroying his family in the process. The stigma of their sin was too much for his parents and he walked in from school one day to find their cooling bodies on the bathroom floor, wrists slashed, their mingled blood streaking the white tiles like a river of fine wine. He lived in an orphanage for the next four years. With his hypnotic good looks he had no trouble getting partners to sate his appetites in bed, at least for a while.

At the age of sixteen he fell in lust (Love was beyond him.) with a woman named Priscylla Guerron. Priscylla or Scylla as she preferred to be called, was twice his age and taught him the finer arts of bondage and sadomasochism. She turned his back and chest into a tapestry of scratches whenever they had sex. Their union would last until her untimely death from a Heroin overdose six months later. The chains that had kept her suspended from the ceiling of their apartment were locked tight while she convulsed from the overdose, as Kevin helplessly giggled on the floor, flying on his own trip as she died inches from him, foaming at the mouth.

He spent the next year in a rehabilitation facility for juvenile delinquents where he met Owen Feston, a man even more steeped in the arts of depravity than his previous mentor. Together they seduced, raped and debased the other lost souls locked in with them. It was Owen who taught him the delicious orgasm that could be had from auto-asphyxiation. They would take turns hanging from the ceiling, feeling the flow of life ebb and the sudden rush of blood to the groin as they choked, the ecstasy of dangling on the brink of death, before cutting each other loose seconds before the end could set in. One day, Kevin had been just a little too slow in cutting his friend down, and Owen died, shuddering in the throes of an orgasm that would never end.

At eighteen he killed his first man, then proceeded to sodomize the still warm corpse. Necrophilia became his outlet of choice for a year, and he found a steady source of (un)-willing companions by working as a janitor in the hospital morgue.

At twenty-two, Kevin took his interest in the human body in a new direction and became a self-taught surgeon, using his access to hospital facilities during his time there as a janitor. He mastered the art of trepanning. He would lure victims into his small apartment, drug them, and then lobotomize them with a trephine. His victims became little more than helpless zombies, unable to do anything as he had his way with them, before disposing of the bodies in a vat of industrial acid that he kept in the bathroom.

At twenty-nine he started a cult called the Ordo Malleus Tenebrae, which was little more than a front for kidnapping street urchins to use as sex toys and ritual sacrifice. It was only his inhuman luck that saved him from falling when the cult was raided and all the other members were captured or killed by the police.

At thirty-one he developed a taste for human flesh and found his way into the European black markets where human remains were sold like livestock. He preferred the soft flesh from the inner thigh, but was also fond of gnawing the delicate cartilage of the ears after boiling them in wine and vinegar for several hours.

Still he suffered. The hunger continued to grow, to consume him, to test the limits of his sanity. The suffering he inflicted on others did little to alleviate the constantly growing emptiness. But what made his suffering all the more exquisite were the brief periods of lucidity. When the hunger would subside into a dull ache buzzing like flies in the background, and Kevin Sandoval could begin to enjoy a sense of normal feeling. It was periods like this that hammered him with remorse and made him wonder at the affliction that had robbed him of any semblance of a normal life.

Eventually, with the passing years came a hopeless realization. That no matter what he did, no matter what he consumed, it would only sate him briefly. The novelty would wear thin until he was left emptier than before. He thought of ending his life but was held back by the fear that the emptiness would only follow him, his dark twin for all eternity.

With the money he accumulated from the cult financing his activities, Kevin was able to spend the next few years on the move in Asia. He spent delirious nights drugged on opium in Vietnam, then he moved to Thailand where he became notorious among the prostitution dens. He gorged himself on food, drugs and debauched sex in a vain attempt to find the one thing that would free him from the endless hunger.

Then one day, at the coast of Pagudpud in the Philippines, the midnight sea breeze blowing tiny needle-thin icicles on his warm skin, he felt a pang of desire that threatened to overwhelm him. Casting out his senses for the source of this spark, he heard an inchoate voice echo in his head.

Cup…you are the cup…

Kevin felt his insides open up like a flower, reversing itself to the outside world. An opening in his chest, lined with unimaginable sensations, just begging to be filled to the brim. Emotions welled up inside him. He jumped into the ocean and let the water wash in, flooding his emptiness, filling him up, until he had drained the entire ocean. He had become the ocean.

He woke up on the shore two days later, his skin burnt pink from exposure to the sun. In his delirium he dragged himself to the small hut which he had rented along the beach, and passed out.

Kevin spent the next night with a sixteen year-old prostitute. She was reluctant to his suggestion of anal sex at first, but Kevin still had his way with her in the end. She passed out from the drugs he put in her drink and he stepped out into the beach as the stars winked their indifference down on him.

He listened as the waves whispered its secret language as it crashed into the waiting sand and wondered what mysteries the night held in store, waiting to unleash on the world. He wondered at what happened to him on that lonely stretch of beach several nights before, but the night remained silent, keeping its secrets from him. He walked back into the hut and passed out after downing two bottles of Zinfandel and a handful of downers.

The room vibrated with the labored hum of the airconditioner. Empty bottles grew like weeds on the floor where the discarded boxes of half eaten pizza crowded for space. The skeletal remains of countless chickens lay scattered on the table as flies searched for a place to hatch their young. Kevin lay half-asleep on the bed, as the painted face of the unconscious prostitute lay in a pool of semen on the sheets beside him. The Rumple Man surveyed the interior of the hut that had become an altar to excess and smiled.

Kevin coughed. Small bits of phlegm dribbled down his lips. He opened his eyes and gasped. He saw shadows crawl on the walls like hungry spiders, at the foot of his bed stood a man dressed in light and shadow.

“Don’t bother to get up on my account.” The Rumple Man said, his voice filling the room with dread. "I’m just visiting an old friend.”

“Wh-“ Kevin’s chest tightened, he felt a great weight pressing down, crushing him. He flexed useless muscles, straining to sit up, but it was hopeless. He was pressed flat on his back on the bed.

“Hush.” The Rumple Man placed one thin finger to his lips.

Kevin felt the flesh of his lips melt, sealing shut. He moaned and wet himself. The stink of urine filled the room, mingling with the musk of semen and decaying odor of food left to rot. The unconscious prostitute remained motionless beside him, oblivious to the unfolding horror.

“You are the cup, and you hold a most sacred charge.”

The Rumple Man moved closer, and Kevin felt his eyes water. It hurt him to look, but he couldn’t turn away. His eyes burned insanity into his brain.

“Did you ever wonder why your life has been so empty? Wonder no more, you are about to be given a privilege few men receive in their lifetime. You will find out the reason for your existence.” The Rumple Man raised his arms and whispered in a language older than mankind. “Yg’aurrok dt’egos, rth’on.”

A deafening silence filled the room. Kevin felt his bare flesh prickle from the sudden chill as a rippling doorway began to coalesce and open over him like dark clouds gathering before a storm. He felt more than saw the unspeakable mysteries clawing their way, straining to cross over into the world, and he wept silent tears of despair and madness.

The room shuddered as a loud thunderclap and dazzling flash of red suddenly banished the gathering gloom. Kevin heard a voice and watched as a figure dressed in an elegant tunic of cascading scarlet and black top hat appeared behind the Rumple Man.

“Cease this at once.” The Master of the Marquee stepped forth, eyes aglow with barely restrained fury. “Just what are you trying to accomplish with this display?”

“What does it look like?” The Rumple Man stared with bemusement at his foe. “Don’t make me belabor the obvious, my next champion awaits. Unless-“ His eyes narrowed and his aspect darkened. “You wish to make a bid for it as well?”

“Madness!” The Master of the Marquee raised a fist but stopped short of striking the Rumple Man. “You know as well as I that unleashing this horror upon the world will not win you the game. You have no power over-“

“Tut tut. That’s where you’re wrong.” The Rumple Man waved his arm and the room darkened as the gate reappeared above Kevin. “This is precisely why I always win. Now, are you making a formal bid for this champion or shall I do the honors?”

“Make no mistake, this move will cost you.” The Master of the Marquee eyed the rippling surface of the gate with disgust and turned away. “You must be more desperate to win than I thought. Perhaps this will prove to be your undoing.”

“Perhaps.” The Rumple Man said, as the Master of the Marquee faded from the room. “Or perhaps not.”

Kevin felt his insides twist, the feeling of emptiness that crushed him all his life intensified into a burning pain that forced the breath from his body. He wanted to scream but his bloodied lips remained shut. Black tendrils drifted down from the gate, snaking around the sleeping form beside him, consuming her flesh in seconds until bleached bones were all that remained. He shuddered as her skull grinned back at him in mock reproach.

“C’thagh Yg’aurrok f’tah!” With a series of gestures the Rumple Man filled the air with a hundred faceless lips, each intoned obscenities in strange tongues until an unholy chorus of voices permeated the room.

Arcane syllables formed around the gate and swirled into a whirling maelstrom around Kevin. He felt himself emptying, all his hopes and unborn dreams, his desires, and fears took flight. His body collapsed in on itself, imploding in a silent intake of breath until there was nothing left where he once lay save a pulsing void, an emptiness devoid of all form, shade and color. The gate closed and dissipated as the room shook with the force of the blasphemous birth.

“And the void was made flesh and consumed the world.” The Rumple Man said, his eyes aglow with baleful fire. “Welcome to the world of sensation mighty Yg’aurrok, Hunger Incarna of the Crawling Chaos.”

The Hunger Incarna hovered in silence over the rapidly disintegrating bed that was breaking down under the weight of the emptiness above it. The Rumple Man watched as the void pulsed with prismatic shades. A malevolent cascade of colors that swirled in ever widening spirals.

For the briefest instant it resembled a large misshapen hound, its jaws filled with jagged teeth that could snap a man in two. Spines trailed a line along its back and eyes glared from odd angles all over its hulking form while grotesque tendrils waved in the air around it. Then it reshaped itself, forming a skeletal framework that slowly filled with nerves, flesh, and sinew, until Kevin Sandoval stood before him again, his dark, hungry eyes a reflection of the emptiness he had become. “I bring you greetings from the Outer Dark.” His voice was an absence that robbed the air of sound. “The Court has missed you.”

“I am honored.” The Rumple Man bowed slightly, tipping the brim of his fedora with one hand. “Unfortunately my work has kept me occupied of late.”

“Too long I have awaited this day.” The Hunger Incarna smiled as he stepped forth, filling the room with a palpable emptiness. With each movement, each gesture, he drained the world of color, of joy. Each step was a death knell on the spine of the world. “How I have longed to drain this world of the tedium and complacency that has left it a rotting, overripe fruit hanging in the cosmos.”

“Rest assured,” The Rumple Man’s hollow laughter filled the night. “This is a day that will not soon be forgotten.”

And the stars trembled in the firmament, their icy indifference marred by the first hint of fear.

Chapter Four: Sk8r

1,000,000 Years Later, Seven to Midnight


“Name the word for someone who hurts himself by hiding his pain very well.”

Sk8r thought for a moment, billions of terabytes of data were processed assimilated and discarded by his Patriarch program in the span of ten Picoseconds. “Ultracamouflagellant.” He replied confidently.

“Too slow. You should have gotten it in half the time.” M8zzo said. He sat across from Sk8r, arms crossed. His Exo-Sheathe, a portrait of silver and blue chrome, gleamed in the dim light of the data feeds that surrounded them.

“Give me a break. That was late 27th century archaic.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“Fine, my turn.” Sk8r paused for a moment. “Name the word for an act of extreme copulation that drives away evil spirits”

M8zzo’s deep brown eyes went blank as he accessed his own Patriarch program. Seconds passed and sweat beaded on his brow despite the climate-controlled air. His frantic search remained unrewarded. “If I find out you made this up…”

“Nope. Keep looking.” Sk8r grinned madly at his Brood-mate. He adjusted the epaulets of his Exo-Sheathe. An unnecessary action that was more an exaggerated show of impatience designed to shatter his companion’s resolve.

“Fine, I can’t find it.”

“Exorsex.” Sk8r said, triumphant. “Very early 21st century.”

“That’s too far back! I haven’t even gotten data feeds earlier than mid-24th.”

“Ha! Too bad, my Patriarch program can do trawl searches up to late 19th.” Sk8r sported a satisfied grin. “I win again. Face it M8, you really can’t beat me at Para-Lexigon.”

“Show off.” M8zzo stood up. “You and your obsession with antiquity. Past is past my friend. Look to the future.”

“The future is boring.” Sk8r replied, stretching as the finely tessellated structure of his silver and white Exo-Sheathe matched his every move. “In fact, I’m bored right now.”

“Now that is a very dangerous thought.” M8zzo frowned. “Time to get your mind on other activities. Exercise some active interest pronto.”

“Like what?”

“Want to go solar-skiing on Proxima Cantauri?”

“We did that ten cycles ago.”

“Hunt Ficto-glyphs on Noumen IV?”

“Booo-ring.”

“Alright. How about starting a new game.”

“Like what? We’ve played them all and then some.”

“Yeah, but I want to win.”

“Now that would be a novelty worth living for.” Sk8r laughed.

“Hardy har.” M8zzo smiled. “I’d ditch you if you weren’t such scintillating company.”

“Ah, but I am.”

“Want to go see if Mela9 is access friendly?”

“Um, no. She’s too young for my blood.”

“You’re joking.” M8zzo shook his head. “She’s only one Brood Iteration away.”

“Still.” Sk8r shrugged.

“Okay, how about we start a war with the Qysx? Genocide run on Hausperi?”

“Nah. Been there, done that.”

“Look, at least let’s go somewhere. Anywhere.” M8zzo said, exasperated at his friend’s reticence.

“I guess we could take the Reflexus out for a spin.”

“Now you’re talking.” M8zzo practically dragged Sk8r away from their private berth.

As members of the 8th Iteration, their living quarters were located on one of the thirteen outer rings of the Hive. The Hive was an artificial world, a mobile planet with a total area twice the size of Jupiter. It was a wondrous construct. Home of the Human Collective, as the children of Terra had come to be called in the impossibly distant future. Humanity had long abandoned the mother world to seek their destiny among the stars, crossing the vast gulf of the universe to reach distant galaxies unimagined by their forebears.

Sk8r and M8zzo took the transport node and traveled the thousands of miles toward the central hub of the Hive in silence.

Beneath them, the Maw struggled against the magnetic shackles that held it in perfect stasis. The captive Black Hole was the Hive’s heart and soul. It provided them with virtually limitless power, and allowed the Human Collective to operate with impunity for millennia. Until the universe itself was dust. How much did it speak about the condition of their society? Sk8r wondered. The very thing that empowered them was the one thing that threatened to consume them all.

Sometimes when he was alone with his thoughts, Sk8r could almost feel the invisible pull of the infinite gravity of the Maw. He wondered if sentience could exist within it, some alien mind they were not equipped to detect much less reason with. What kind of retribution would it demand if it were ever to gain freedom from its captors? The Black Hole gnawing at the heart of their civilization. Sk8r shuddered at the thought. The Maw gave them freedom. But at what cost?

As in most cases, we become slaves to the things we depend upon, Sk8r thought ruefully.

“I’d ask you what you’re thinking but it’s probably something I’d rather not know.” M8zzo shook Sk8r from his brooding and dragged him out to the crowded grandeur of the Central Concourse.

The Central Concourse was a vast vaulted plaza crafted out of pure crystal, each surface illuminated from within by hundreds of multi-colored lights. It was always bustling with activity. Other Broods of the Human Collective used it as the staging ground for various activities great and small. Anything to pass the time. It was also the area where various Broods mingled and made contact.

“Uh oh.” M8zzo said as they crossed the Concourse. “Don’t look now but I think I see two blips coming in.”

Sk8r saw Sp8 and L8to approaching and groaned. “More like two drips.” Just what we need, he thought.

“Sk8r, M8zzo. Fancy meeting you two here.” L8to smirked.

“What’s the matter Sk8r? Still pining for the archaic?” Sp8 said, his green eyes glinting with disdain. “Why don’t you have M8zzo bring you to the outer colonies and lose you in one of the barbarian worlds. At least they have running water”

“I hear they even read printed manuscripts.” L8to piped in, laughing.

Sk8r smiled. “At least I know how to read.”

L8to and Sp8 looked like they were ready to lunge at him when a voice spoke up from behind them.

“Such a rare gift in this day and age.” Ar4 said, his golden Exo-Sheathe surrounded by a cloud of tiny points of purple light.

“Salutations to you Elder.” M8zzo and Sk8r said in unison as they bowed.

“Salutations Elder.” L8to and Sp8 said, though they only bent their heads slightly.

“Salutations younglings.” Ar4 turned to Sk8r. “I myself have mastered only a few hundred thousand forms of the written pictogram. It’s nice to see that an interest in antiquities is still alive in the 8th Brood Iteration. Perhaps we can engage this topic at some point.”

“I would be honored to at your convenience, Elder.” Sk8r replied, barely concealing his elation at the honor.

Ar4 nodded and moved on.

Sk8r and M8zzo were still laughing when they reached the Probability Tunnel that led to the Reflexus hangar.

“Ha! We sure showed those two.” Sk8r said.

“You said it. That wiped the smug look from their faces.” M8zzo said as they entered the access hatch with his Brood-mate.

Within the Probability Tunnel their atoms were discorporated, reduced to randomness, and then instantly reassembled at their destination.

Suspended in a pocket of null-space to keep it in pristine condition, the Reflexus resembled a black ovoid sphere with two protrusions at the front where the Command Bridge was nestled. There were several thousands stored along the infinite dimensions of the null-space hangar and each craft was kept ready for use at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll drive.” Sk8r said as he jumped onto the Command Nexus. The Nexus sensed his presence and began to generate the interface field that would allow him to control the ship with his mind.

“Be my guest.” M8zzo double-checked the Reflexus systems with his Patriarch program.

They erupted back into realspace several hundred kilometers from the Hive. From that distance they watched as other ships emerged and returned to their mobile home. With a sudden burst of its Inertia Drives, the Reflexus took them outward in a spiral path towards the waiting stars and the Hive dwindled behind them until it disappeared altogether in the distance.

Sk8r began to sing. Something he knew M8zzo found disconcerting, being unable or unwilling to carry a tune himself. But it alleviated the tedium of their voyage and he smiled when he heard his Brood-mate humming softly beside him. M8zzo was his closest companion since their inception, united by their love for adventure and stories of past glories. But the passing centuries had been kinder to him and taken their toll on Sk8r. Unlike M8zzo and most of their other Brood-mates, Sk8r had been more prone to bouts of boredom and obsessing over the past. He was dissatisfied with the life they led, he dreamed of new adventures, new stories to tell.

Sk8r knew just how dangerous boredom and lack of purpose could be. Whole Brood Iterations had simply faded away from a plague of consensual disinterest. Ceasing to exist in an eyeblink. But what do you do with immortality when everything that can be done already has been? You become a has-been. And the sad road to anachronism was something he desperately wanted to avoid. At least for now.

Sk8r wanted nothing more than to be somebody. To leave his mark on the stars. He was frustrated by the lack of newness. The cold efficiency of the Human Collective left nothing new to discover, nothing but the predictable sameness of paradise.

They were wandering through a nearby nebula, crossing the gaseous cloud aimlessly, when it appeared.

The sphere was a kaleidoscopic storm of color only a few meters wide, but it moved with dazzling speed on a direct intercept course with the Reflexus.

“What’s that?” M8zzo pointed to the reading on their screen.

“Accessing anomaly.” Sk8r directed the Reflexus sensor systems to reach out with a barrage of analytical and imaging scans. After a few moments of cross-referencing there was still no match with any known vessel or phenomena.

Sk8r and M8zzo scanned the console for any further sign of activity. Then a warning klaxon sounded around them.

“What? What is it?”

“Second anomaly detected. Tracking.” Sk8r processed the information directly routed to his brain by the Command Nexus. “Initiating evasive pattern.”

They saw a roiling dark cloud, seething with electric fire, appear to the left of their position. It was totally impervious to all their scans and it was also headed straight for them.

“Very interesting.” For the first time in his immortal life, Sk8r felt the exhilarating rush of the unknown. His Patriarch program was running on overdrive. Still no match. No matter, he thought, we can outrun them.

For several minutes they played a game of cat and mouse. The Inertia Drives of the Reflexus engaged on maximum output. Just as they seemed to evade their pursuers, the anomalies would reappear, closer than ever.

“Release the probes.” Sk8r said. “We need to find out more about what we’re facing.”

“Affirmative.” M8zzo felt cold sweat trickling down his back. “Automata away.”

The Whirling Automata resembled spinning tops as they burst from the rear of the Reflexus. They split up and sped off to intercept their targets.

As soon as the first probe struck the ball of color, it stopped. The ball engulfed it and sped onward, leaving the probe behind, totally devoid of power.

The second probe barely reached its target before it was struck by a bolt of lightning and disintegrated instantly.

“I have several more tricks up my sleeve.” Sk8r’s face was a mask of concentration. “M8zzo, prepare to skip tempo. Realign scrambler and engage on my mark.”

“Affirmative.” M8zzo positioned himself behind Sk8r in case his assistance was needed.

The Reflexus responded, blinking out of existence for an instant before reappearing several light years away. A coruscating field of energy surrounded it, rendering it completely invisible and cloaking it from all forms of detection.

“I think we lost them.” M8zzo barely finished his statement when the Reflexus was filled with a brilliant red flash.

The Master of the Marquee stepped out of the light into the bridge.

Sk8r and M8zzo stared for a moment, dumbfounded.

“That is the most ridiculous Exo-Sheathe I’ve ever seen.” M8zzo said finally, staring at the strange man who appeared to have teleported into the ship.

“It’s not a Sheathe. Its 19th century archaic apparel.”

“What?”

“Clothes.” Sk8r said as the lone figure approached them.

“I am the Master of the Marquee.”

Sk8r accessed his Patriarch, cross-referencing the nomenclature he was given. “The Champion of Stories.”

“The very one.” The Master of the Marquee nodded. “I come to you with a proposition.”

“You’re a myth. A legend from old Terra.”

“That I am, and much more young Sk8r.” the Master of the Marquee raised his hands in greeting.

“You know me?”

“I know of you. I know what is eating at your soul and I have come to offer you an adventure. If you will join me”

“Sk8r I don’t like this. I think we should call an Elder.” M8zzo watched the Master of the Marquee warily. “At least link with the Hive.”

Before Sk8r could voice a reply, the Reflexus went dark. Emergency lighting systems bathed them in a pale orange glow.

Warning. Temporal anomaly detected. The Patriarch program warned Sk8r as time skidded to a halt within the ship. Everything was frozen in perfect stasis except for Sk8r and the Master of the Marquee. A cloud of shadows rose from the floor.

“But there is one other offer for you to consider, before accepting the one before you.” The Rumple Man stepped forward, his suit forming from wisps of shadow.

The Master of the Marquee glared at his foe. Unfortunately, he knew he would be unable to prevent the chain of events from progressing. There were rules he could not ignore.

“The dictates of propriety-“ The Rumple Man continued. “Allow me to present my counter offer.”

Sk8r stared, transfixed, as the Rumple Man approached the frozen form of M8zzo.

“It is novelty you wish to experience, is it not? I have a new experience waiting for you child.” The Rumple Man gestured with one pale glove. “Something you have never felt before.”

M8zzo gasped as time resumed its normal flow. He looked around, confused. “Sk8r what-“

The Rumple Man turned to him, one hand raised. He closed it from claw to fist.

M8zzo’s face turned purple and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His Exo-Sheathe was enveloped by black light. His eyes bulged as he collapsed on the floor.

“M8zzo!” Sk8r screamed. “What did you do to him?”

“Its called death.” The Rumple Man smiled. And for the first time in a day filled with firsts, Sk8r knew fear.

“I don’t like you very much.” Sk8r was unaware of the tears streaming down his face as he accessed the Warrior program. Instantly, a cold incandescence enveloped him. Polarized barriers that were proof against every known weapon in history.

The Rumple Man stood his ground, unimpressed by the display.

Sk8r watched grimly as the Warrior program engaged on full auto. His Exo-Sheathe reconfigured. Hidden weaponry blossomed with a devastating barrage of energy. The deadly planes of force that streamed at the Rumple Man blotted out the interior of the Reflexus in a blinding display of lethal power.

For a few seconds the Exo-Sheathe activated ocular filters until the glare was low enough for Sk8r to see again. His blood ran cold. The Rumple Man was still standing, surrounded by the blistered and blackened portion of the bridge.

“You have no idea.” The Rumple Man laughed. “All your much vaunted advancement has changed nothing it seems.”

“Wh-what are you?”

“Such a brilliant star you are. Do you think you can outshine the void?” With another gesture the Rumple Man shattered the shell of the Reflexus. The sudden decompression pulled Sk8r out into space.

Sk8r tumbled into a spin before his Exo-Sheathe stabilized his flight. Gravitic fields slowed his movement until he regained control.

“I’ve given you what you wanted.” The Rumple Man stood before him, unaffected by the emptiness of space. “Take my hand and I will gift you with the infinite adventures of light and shade.”

“No, no I won’t!”

“Such insolence.” The Rumple Man faded from sight. “If I cannot have your servitude, I will savor your despair. Suffer then the price of your rejection. Return to the death that you cannot undo.”

Sk8r engaged his Exo-Sheathe and navigated his way back to the Reflexus. He watched the nano-mechanical systems of the hull repair itself as he entered through the external port.

The sight of M8zzo lying still and lifeless on the floor was too much for him, and he broke down. He held his companion close, running the Medic program over and over for a solution that would not come.

The Master of the Marquee approached the grieving boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“M8zzo, I’m sorry. How could this-“ Sk8r felt as if the Maw had swallowed his world whole. He turned to face the Master of the Marquee, eyes brimming with tears “It’s not fair.”

“There is a way.” The Master of the Marquee pulled him up. “Some endings are doorways to new beginnings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wait.” The Master of the Marquee pulled a small green envelope from his pocket and tore it open. From the folds of the envelope a lambent spool of light appeared and hovered above them, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. The lambent light waxed ever more brightly until it filled the Reflexus with a warm glow.

“What is it?” Sk8r felt oddly at peace.

“A happy ending.” The Master of the Marquee said as he closed his eyes and smiled. He raised his arms as the spool curled in upon itself and became a ball. The ball of light whizzed and danced around him. For a moment nothing happened. Then he opened his eyes, staring directly at it. “Please?”

Sk8r held his breath. He was afraid to hope. He knew how cruel it could be.

“Sometimes hope is cruel, and sometimes it can be the midwife of miracles.” The Master of the Marquee lowered his arms, and the ball of light expanded, filling the world with a million effervescent lights.

Sk8r shook his head. His eyes were blinded by colors he had no name for. He felt light-headed and lost his balance, he leaned against the wall for support. When he regained his sight, he heard a familiar voice.

“Sk8r! What’s happening?” M8zzo sat up. “I feel strange. That blip in white was waving at me and- everything went black.”

Sk8r was speechless. He could barely contain his joy as he pulled his Brood-mate up and hugged him tight.

“Whoa! Did the universe go nova? What’s with the display Sk8?”

“Long story.” Sk8r said, as he held M8zzo at arm’s length and beamed at him.

“You’re weird. Seriously.” M8zzo shook his head.

“I know. Isn’t life grand?”

“Um, I hate to gloom your glow, but there’s still someone here with us.”

Sk8r turned to the Master of the Marquee. “I don’t know what else to say. Thank you.”

“You can join me, if that is your wish.”

“I do.”

“What? Sk8r you can’t be-“ M8zzo protested.

“Don’t worry M8,” Sk8r grinned, cutting him off. “If we- when we meet again, I’ll have even more words to beat you with at Para-Lexigon. Plus, think of the new stories, the new wonders I can share with you.”

M8zzo knew better than to try and stop him. He tried to say goodbye, but the words would not come.

Sk8r hugged M8zzo. The awkward show of emotion was still an unfamiliar one for both of them. “I- “

“No need to say it. I know.” M8zzo pulled back and grinned. “Don’t forget to remember me.”

Sk8r approached the Master of the Marquee. “I’m ready now.” He held out his hand and the Master of the Marquee tore out a ticket and placed it on his palm.

“I’ll have such a story for the Hive.” M8zzo watched as his friend began to blur like a mirage or dream that disappears just as you reach for it.

“The first new one?” Sk8r said, he raised one hand in farewell just before he disappeared.

“Probably not. Nothing is really new. Just different.” M8zzo stared at the empty spot where Sk8r stood. Then he gave the command for the Reflexus to take him home. He watched silently as the stars streamed past him in a curtain of light.

“But at least this proves that not all stories end in tears.” he smiled.

And the stars smiled back, snowdrop bright harbingers of spring.

Chapter Three: Estrus

Present Day, Eight to Midnight


“Esther.”

The voice was familiar, but her mind was burning with medication and sleep still clouded her senses. The dim light of the lamp beside her bed barely banished the predawn gloom.

“Esther, wake up.”

Esther Dizon blinked. For an all too brief moment she thought it was Anton calling her name. She smiled in her haze and reached out with arms that refused to move. And then the nightmare of reality came crashing back down on her, shaking her awake. It couldn’t be Anton because he left her over four months ago. And her arms would never move again, unless the various specialists she had seen over the last year were wrong.

The familiar smell of antiseptic wafted into the room as Helen, her personal nurse, changed the IV bag.

“What time is it?” Esther’s voice was a weak croak. It broke her heart every time she heard it. Lord, how much further do I have to fall? The thought slithered along the corner of her mind, teasing her with the promise of worse to come.

“Good morning dear. It’s four in the morning, time for your treatment.” Helen was the picture of quiet efficiency, but it was her gentle friendship and irrepressible optimism that Esther prized more than anything else. Helen had been instrumental in helping her come to terms with her condition and stopped her from slipping into the bouts of bitter self-pity that struck without warning.

It had been little more than a year ago when the signs first appeared. The slight shaking of her left hand which she had written off as the side effect of her coffee habit. Then she began to suffer from bouts of dizziness and weakness that left her bedridden for days. The diagnosis was an acute case of Parkinson’s disease, which the doctors had all agreed would end her life within the year. The news left her desolate, and for the first two months she lived like she was already dead.

Once upon a time, Hollywood was her personal playground. As a famous Latin-American dancer and singer, Esther’s body and voice were her pride and joy, the keys to her entry into the kingdom of wealth and privilege. She was renowned and in demand among the circles of the elite. When word of her illness spread, well-wishers were quick to visit and equally quick to disappear. In this town, disease was a death sentence. No one wanted to get too close to the sick, it reminded them too much of their own imminent mortality.

Now her world was reduced to the four walls of her bedroom overlooking the valley. It became little more than a prison where she lay day after day as her muscles wasted away from disuse. She would alternately weep and rage at the unfairness of the hand she was dealt until she was left emotionally drained and empty, until her fire, which had blazed a trail from poverty to the dizzying heights of fortune and fame, flickered and died.

Esther watched with detached interest as Helen quietly began the daily ritual of injections which slowed but could not halt the terminal march of her sickness. She had faced many betrayals during the course of her life, and it had gotten so that she was able to protect herself from the lies that were so commonplace in her world. Most of the time the kisses of men meant little and she drifted in and out of relationships aloof and untouched by the emotional entanglements that invited betrayal to begin with. But this, this was different. Her body had betrayed her, and to add insult to injury, it robbed her of her dignity before it would rob her of her life.

“So how are we feeling this morning Esther?” Helen roused Esther from her reverie. She smiled as she finished washing Esther and changing the adult diapers that were soiled during the night then applied alcohol to Esther’s privates. Esther accepted the indignity as a matter of course.

“Same old, same old. I’d rather be dancing.” She smiled weakly. It was their daily ritual. The banter and the little things that Helen would do to pull Esther (Sometimes willingly, sometimes not.) out of her shell. “Of course I don’t think that there are any clubs open this early, maybe later?”

Helen laughed as she rubbed Esther’s face with a moist towel. “Well, since clubbing is not an option, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve set up your favorite place out front. It’s time you got a little more summer sunshine.”

“But-“

“Leave everything to me, just sit back and relax.”

“Like I have a choice.” Esther grumbled, but a smile played along the corner of her mouth in spite of herself.

“Let’s put on some music then, while I get you dressed.”

There’s too much, that I keep to myself and I turn my back on my faith, its like glass, when we break I wish no one in my place.

“Oh, it’s one of your favorite songs Esther!” Helen turned up the volume, tapping her feet to the music.

Actually she had grown to hate the song. The words of the Love Spit Love music haunted her, mocking with sentiments that mirrored how she felt. But she suffered it in silence, preferring to let the words wash over her.

Goodbye, lay the blame on luck. Goodbye, lay the blame on luck.

She hated the idleness more than anything. Some days she thought that death would be a welcome release. But she wasn’t ready to go just yet. She would stay the course and maybe a miracle would still come and rescue her. She even followed the developments of stem cell research. But she knew that a cure, if it came, would almost certainly arrive too late. Just her luck.

Helen was feeding her some mashed fruit when the door to the room burst open.

“Hey! How’s my favorite auntie doing today?” Esther smiled as Nelson entered with a pot of fresh tulips.

“Nelson! You’re just in time. Helen and I were just about to sit out front together and trade gossip.”

Nelson was her nephew, and only living relative. At least the only remaining one who bothered to visit. Esther never had much time for family, preferring to forget the humble beginnings which she labored so hard to leave behind. Nelson showed up at her doorstep one day, soon after the disease had reached the tabloids. She barely recognized him, having last seen him when he was ten years old. It was through him that she learned that her sister had passed away some four years back.

He was always bringing something to brighten her day. Esther felt guilty whenever he visited seeing how she had forgotten family in her rush for a place in the sun. His visits became the highlight of her day.

“Sounds great! How can I help?” Nelson placed the tulips on one side of the bedside table and planted a light kiss on Esther’s cheek.

“You can help me wheel her outside in a minute.” Helen finished with Esther’s clothes and began brushing her brittle hair.

Nelson walked to the French doors that dominated one side of the room and led to the front yard. As soon as he opened them the antiseptic smell was banished by a fresh breeze, bringing the scent of pine to replace the lingering odor of illness.

Esther managed a wan smile. She struggled to sit up as Nelson and Helen half-carried her into the wheelchair that was her only means of mobility. Nelson slowly wheeled her through the French doors. She flinched at the sudden glare of the outdoors, and waited for her eyes to adjust. She couldn’t even lift her hand to shade her eyes.

She enjoyed the day despite herself. Perhaps it was the simple joy of seeing the world bursting with life that made her appreciate the beauty that was still around her. With death breathing down her neck, life became more precious. She and Helen laughed as Nelson read aloud his latest copy of the National Enquirer. It was the story of a club in New York where people had seemingly melted away, leaving nothing but empty clothes on the floor that really left them in stitches. Spontaneous combustion, the headline read. Esther couldn’t believe how people could come up with such drivel.

They watched the sun set together and had an early dinner. Nelson excused himself when Helen declared that it was time for Esther to get to bed. Her spirits remained high and she fell asleep quickly, exhausted by her foray into the world of the living.

The clock on the bedside table blinked 11:40.

Esther woke up. She shivered despite the heavy comforter that covered her withered body. She couldn’t get back to sleep. Something felt wrong. She could feel it deep in her gut, like snakes twisting restlessly. The night was filled with an electric charge, the invisible herald of an approaching storm.

She sighed and stared at the crack on the ceiling, the same crack that stared back down at her day after day, night after night, chronicling her descent into infirmity. Sometimes her mind would wander and she would imagine the crack was a road, a series of pathways to other worlds, happier times. Other times she fancied that the crack would open up and swallow her. Take her to a better place away from the pain. God, she could just die for a smoke.

“Esther” A voice whispered in the darkness, seductive and deadly. “Listen to the night Esther.”

She couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from and she suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. A wave of nausea overtook her. She was about to press the button that would call Helen to her side when she heard them. Nelson and Helen in the living room. She could hear them talking, like a PA system had been left on outside.

“Does she know?”

“What?”

“That she’s dying tonight.”

“Don’t be stupid Helen. I made sure she wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

“I feel so dirty Nelson. I swear. I mean, she’s a really nice person. We could have just waited. Four months or six and she’d go on her own.”

“Shh, don’t. It’s done. I confirmed with the lawyers that she left almost everything in my name. If I have to spend another day smiling at her I’m liable to puke all over her face. The drugs you got will kill her in an hour and no one will suspect a thing. This time tomorrow we’ll be on a plane to the Bahamas with her money. Now get going, it’s time you did your part.”

Esther gasped as she felt her world crumbling around her. Nelson and Helen were planning to kill her. Tonight. Her mind was spinning in a cloud of disbelief. It couldn’t end this way. It was like a bad movie plot. She wanted to scream, knowing that escape was an impossibility. She resolved to meet them head on. She would not go quietly. They would find that Esther Dizon still had some fire left in her.

The door opened, and Helen peered into the room. Esther shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Her heart pumped furiously as Helen approached.

She opened her eyes suddenly as Helen prepared the needle to end her life. For an uncomfortable moment they stared at each other.

“Oh, Esther, you’re still awake. I thought you were asleep.” Helen stammered, and managed a weak smile. “I’ll just be a minute, I need to put your medicine into the IV.

“Murderer.” Their eyes locked and Helen backed away.

“Now Esther, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re still half asleep.”

“No, Helen. I’m more awake now than I’ve ever been. I heard you and Nelson outside. How could you?” She was almost screaming. Her rage burned daggers in the air at Helen.

“No. It’s not- How did you?“ Helen backed towards the door.

“So the secret’s out.” Nelson burst into the room. “What are you going to do about it? Call 911?”

“Stop it Nelson, don’t…” Helen tried to keep him back but he swatted her hand away.

“She has it coming, don’t you dear auntie?” he sneered.

“Why?” Esther was surprised at the calm that settled over her. Maybe this is what death is about, the calm after the storms of life. “I’ve left you everything.”

“It’s not the money.” Nelson walked up to the bed, his face a map of rage and madness. “It’s about family, or lack of it.”

Esther thought he would hit her then, but he just moved his face over hers, until it filled her world.

“Your sister suffered for years, raising me alone. Slaving to keep food on the table. She always spoke so highly of you, how you made it big. Even if you never visited, never answered any of her calls or letters. She loved you that much. Did you know that as she lay dying delirious from pneumonia all she could talk about was how you would finally come see her? But you never did. Did you? You didn’t even know she was dead!” Nelson moved closer still, his breath smelled of cigarettes and festering anger. “She had scrapbooks filled with pictures and articles about you. But we were always beneath you, beneath notice. Well Esther, the wheel turns. I prayed this day would come, and now it has.”

“You’re insane!” Esther stared back at him, defiance etched on her face.

“And you’re dea-“ Nelson stopped short. Esther gasped in disbelief as she suddenly found herself staring into eyes of glass.

“That will be enough, Nelson. Your part in this little drama is over.” The voice filled the room without warning, and Esther felt a chill march down her spine like a trail of ants. Helen screamed and Esther turned to see where she was pointing. She saw a man dressed in black and white, all contrast, stark and larger than life. Like someone who stepped out from an old black and white film. He approached the side of the bed where Nelson stood, a frozen replica of glass.

“Bitterness and betrayal can be such brittle things.” The Rumple Man reached out and with one push sent Nelson crashing to a million pieces on the floor.

Helen screamed. She fell backward as the Rumple Man turned her way. Esther couldn’t see what happened next, she heard a low moan, a gurgling sound, and then silence.

Esther prayed she would wake up, that it would all be a horrible dream induced by her deteriorating mind. But the voice whispered in her ear and she knew she was lost.

“Now then.”

“Why? You didn’t have to kill them.” Esther felt her sanity slipping.

“They betrayed you. They deserved it. In your heart you know it’s what you want.”

“No. Not even after what they did- what they were about to do.”

“Enough.” The Rumple Man held out a white-gloved hand. “Now, get up, take my hand and you can walk away from all this.”

“No. I won’t.” Esther closed her eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt the terrible gaze fixed on her.

The clock flashed 11:59.

“No?” The Rumple Man’s voice covered the room, drowning out all sound. “People want what they don’t have. You are Estrus. Wanton desire, animal sexuality. I offer it all to you again. Or would you rather perish as a helpless vegetable.”

“Not this way. There are some things not worth having. Not at the cost of your soul.”

The clock read 12:00.

The room grew still, and the Rumple Man frowned. He pulled back as a blazing crimson light flushed the darkness from the room.

The Master of the Marquee clapped as he stepped into the room. He turned to Esther, and bowed with a flourish, taking off his top hat. “Bravo. A command performance.”

“You.” The Rumple Man turned to face his nemesis.

“Yes, me.” The Master of the Marquee approached the bed. “Time is up. Leave her now.”

“I don’t think so. This one is mine.”

“She has denied you. Twice. Leave now or-“ A thundering roar filled the room, a great wind whirled around the Master of the Marquee. His aspect grew terrible to behold. “Do you want to take me on now?”

“Well now, I didn’t know you had it in you.” The Rumple Man backed away as shadows pooled around him. “There’s still some fire left in you skin after all. Perhaps the game will be more interesting this time.”

Then he turned to Esther and her world went blissfully black.

“You will come to regret the allegiances you make this night, my love.” And the Rumple Man smiled one final time. A puissant smile that remained hanging in the night, long after the rest of him was gone.

“Estrus.”

The voice was warm and comforting. Her mind felt clear for the first time in months. Light filled the room, filling her with renewed strength.

“Wake up, Estrus.”

Estrus opened her eyes. The Master of the Marquee called out to her and she reached out and took his hand. Her body responded with lyrical grace, dead muscles throbbed with newfound life. She was beauty and desire. She was animal sexuality and she never felt more alive.

“Welcome back Estrus. You are my sun, and you will burn the stars from the sky.” The Master of the Marquee smiled. “Make me proud.”

Chapter Two: Prospero

One Hundred Twenty Five Stories Ago, Nine to Midnight


Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The Clockwork Chamber of Prospero is arguably one of the most magnificent of the manifest marvels of Mysterious Paris. Born from the fictions of the latter 1800’s, Mysterious Paris is a formalized fractal figment. A fiction made real and preserved in the hearts of storytellers everywhere.

But I digress. As I was saying, the Clockwork Chamber was a marvel of mechanical precision, a work of distilled genius fueled by obsession. For Prospero was a master of moments. A maestro who orchestrated the harmonics of time to his every whim.

The clocks that festooned every wall of the Chamber came in various and wondrous shapes, colors, textures and tastes. From the fabled Spinning Heliotrope- a bloodstone that splintered time like a prism, the Cuckoo Egg which hatched into a flock of precisely twelve birds that foretold the events of twelve of the hours of the day, the Antiquity Arabesque- an infinitely spiraling non-Euclidean geometric pattern that revealed visions of the past at the cost of your sanity, the Simultaneous Bell which allowed the bearer to participate in more than one event at the same time for as long as it was ringing, the Epoch Savor- an unparalleled gastronomic delight, which upon consumption allowed one to travel to parallel timelines, all these and more were testaments to Prospero’s genius.

But perhaps his greatest creation was the Slice of Eternity. A minute hourglass, no larger than a child’s thumb which glowed in rosy hues of scarlet in the daylight, and deep indigo at night. If one were to hold it up and examine it closely so as to see the grains contained within, one would see that each multi-hued grain was unique from each other, as unique as one moment from the next to be precise. Ground from the powdered remains of a timeline that had slipped into obsolescence, Prospero bound an infinitesimal fragment of Eternity, a supercilious slice of sentient time was locked within the grains of sand. The hourglass murmurs softly as the grains fall down, speaking the secret language of time, that only the especially gifted or hopelessly insane have mastered. And it comes as no surprise that Prospero has been considered alternately one or the other by many of his friends and acquaintances. For to say that Prospero was obsessed with time and things temporal would be like saying that rain is wet, thunder loud, and the sun blinding. Such blatantly obvious things need not be spoken of.

There was however one other thing that occupied Prospero. Or to be more precise, there was one person that filled the only spare corner of his mind not filled with thoughts of time. Her name was Livinia and her beauty and quiet gentleness set off a storm in Prospero’s perfectly ordered world. Her slightest smile set the tick-tock rhythms of his clockwork world in disarray, much to his helpless delight and dismay.

Perhaps this would explain why he was less than receptive when the Master of the Marquee appeared at his Clockwork Chamber, precisely as predicted by the fourth bird from the Cuckoo Egg that day. Prospero had known the Master of the Marquee for some amount of time, more than would make them simple acquaintances, but not quite enough yet to be friends.

Unfortunately for the Master of the Marquee, his timing was less than auspicious. For on that very day, the lovely Livinia had agreed to go out on a picnic with Prospero. A momentous event for the lovesick man to be sure. So he was very much distracted by thoughts of his imminent tryst even as he politely offered the Master of the Marquee a glass of fine cider and some sharp aged cheddar soaked in wine, a snack which he had just prepared in anticipation of his visitor. “I also have chilled grapes if you wish.”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid this isn’t a simple social visit, and there are matters of some urgency we have to discuss.” The Master of the Marquee straightened the collar of his tunic which blazed a brilliant crimson in the sunlight that streamed through the window behind him.

“Is that so?” Prospero wondered if he should pack some of the chilled grapes for the picnic.

“Forgive me. I know this is rather sudden. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

“Not so, but you had best hurry so we can be done. I have an appointment with a most extraordinary woman in precisely twenty seven hundred passes of the pendulum. Or thirty seven hundred revolutions of the water wheel if you wish”

“The long and short of it is that the war is about to begin again and I need you. I need your skills.”

“Your wars of light and dark are of no concern to me.” Prospero nibbled absently on a slice of cheese. “You should know my stand quite clearly by now. Time will flow, events move from one to the next regardless of which of you emerges victorious.”

“But there are other things-“

“More important than the flow of time? I suppose you think so, but I do not share your view.”

“There is considerable danger to you and your world. Surely you must realize this.”

“Perhaps. But I will deal with it in my own way. All in good time.” Prospero rubbed his perfectly trimmed goatee and smiled at his little jest.

“Consider then the ostrich.” The Master of the Marquee turned away from his host to look out the window at the cerulean skyline of Mysterious Paris. He took off his top hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“The flightless bird with a neck as long as a serpent? What of it?”

“It senses danger and reacts by burying its head in the sand. Where, one supposes, it feels that it has evaded danger when in fact it has merely deluded itself into a false sense of security without really removing the threat to itself at all.” The Master of the Marquee put his top hat back on. He reached into his pocket and produced a roll of tickets. He tore one off and handed it to Prospero. “I hope that you do not come to regret your indifference, sir. But should you have a change of heart, take this and I thank you for your time.”

“Very well.” Prospero frowned slightly. “Though I mislike your tone, I respect your candor” He pocketed the ticket and watched as the Master of the Marquee slowly grew blurred and indistinct, like a spool of film that had reached the end, until finally he was gone.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Prospero was mildly bothered by the words of the Master of the Marquee. But he soon forgot it in the rush to prepare for Livinia’s arrival. He wore his best velvet doublet and sprayed scented oils on his neck. He packed the food and carefully arranged the bouquet of roses he was going to present to her.

Then he opened the sandalwood box that held the Slice of Eternity and took the precious hourglass from its case. He wanted to have it ready in case he worked up the courage to ask her out again. He had been so surprised and ecstatic when Livinia first agreed to go out with him that he captured the moment with his hourglass and kept it for his continued enjoyment.

Prospero held the Slice of Eternity against his cheek until he felt the heady elation of that moment, not so long ago, when he asked her to go out and she smiled at him and said yes. He savored again the delicate pang of desire, then pocketed the hourglass. He would use it to imprint every moment he spent with her. Some joys were meant to be enjoyed more than once in a lifetime after all.

By the time Livinia arrived via horse-drawn carriage at his front step, he had all but forgotten about his previous visitor and the dire tidings they had spoken of. And by unfortunate happenstance, he also missed the tidings of the fifth bird that emerged from the Cuckoo egg, which pronounced an overabundance of sorrow and misfortune in the coming hour, just as Prospero closed the door behind him.

They arrived at their destination, the famous Wishwood tree of Mysterious Paris. The Wishwood tree was fabled for its ability to grant a single wish to those few lucky enough to be favored by the fickle spirits of the wood whose faces sometimes surfaced along the massive trunk. Though very few, if any, were ever actually favored in this way. Still the tree was an attraction of sorts that entertained many visitors.

They were pleased to find the area relatively deserted. Prospero rang the Simultaneous Bell, much to the delight of Livinia as he was able to take a walk with her and prepare their picnic site at the same time.

Beneath a canopy of green and brown, they laughed and did the foolish nothings that lovers do when love first blossoms, all the while a parade of birds twittered and flew around Livinia, for they too sensed the serenity and inner beauty that glowed from within her. She laughed as Prospero unleashed a horde of clockwork ants that clicked and whirred as they cleared away the remnants of their picnic.

He poured two cups of sweet wine, handed one to her and raised his cup. “To sweet beginnings, and bitter endings.” he didn’t know what drove him to such a dark toast, and the sweet wine soured quickly as it slid down his throat.

Livinia was far too polite to comment on the odd toast, so she simply downed her wine and smiled. A smile which froze on her lips as she was suddenly yanked up by the noose that appeared without warning around her neck, snapping it with one terrible crack and dangling her in the air like a rag doll.

Prospero screamed as he reached for the Slice of Eternity. But he was knocked down violently before he could even touch it.

“Worthless.”

The word struck him like a physical force.

“Obsessed.”

The second word made him dizzy, his thoughts became disjointed and he couldn’t think let alone act.

“Madman.”

Prospero began to weep, the voice continued to intone words. He was thoroughly unprepared for and helpless against the vitriolic barrage. His mind still recoiled at the sight of his beloved Livinia, her limp, lifeless body twisting in the wind.

“Impossibly obtuse crackpot.”

Prospero gasped and coughed up blood. He tried to stand but could barely find the strength to sit up. Laughter echoed from before and behind him, until the air itself seemed to sag with malicious mirth. And still the imprecations continued.

“Uncaring.” “Soulless.”

The two words were an enormous weight on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The irony of his situation did not escape him. Prospero, master of moments had run out of time. He struggled futilely as a lone figure dressed in black and white stepped out of the shadows to stand before him.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Who am I? Why, I am the cloud in your perfect sky.” A white-gloved hand tipped black fedora in mock salute.


Prospero was helpless, he realized what he was facing. The Master of the Marquee was right. Some wars come to you whether or not you wish to fight them. So he did the only thing he could under those conditions, he fled to the future. Or at least he tried to. Unfortunately, despite his considerable abilities, he was caught in an impossible trap. Looking around desperately, he saw his only hope behind him.

He closed his eyes and made a desperate wish. For an agonizing eternity that seemed to stretch forever, nothing happened. Then the leaves of the Wishwood tree rustled, faces formed and disappeared on the massive trunk. Prospero felt his power waxing with renewed hope.

His wish shimmered in the air before him.

For an instant the universe yawned, spinning motes of infinity spilled forth as the open maw swallowed Prospero from the timeline of Mysterious Paris, whisking him elsewhen.

Under the shadow of his black fedora, the Rumple Man smiled. “Tick-tock. Tick-tock, the mouse ran up the clock.”

He walked away from the shade of the Wishwood tree with the corpse of Livinia, still dangling in mid-air, trailing after him.

Chapter One: Denmark

Present Day, Ten to Midnight

The music was loud, the beat was hypnotic and all he wanted was to do was sleep. Ed stared at the flashing strobe lights and wondered if he could work up the stomach to dance. The liquor burning in his gut was the only thing keeping him from bolting. He took a quick drag on his cigarette and waited.

He thought it would be easy, dancing to a roomful of horny strangers. Easy money, after all he knew he had the looks and body for it. His piercing green eyes and tight butt were his best assets, but not his only ones. He knew from experience that he was more than generously endowed.

The months had passed and the excitement and novelty of dancing quickly wore off. He was tired of looking into eyes filled with lust, tired of kisses that had nothing but money behind it. But most of all he was tired of seeing the pathetic things people did just to feel validated. Lonely men and women willing to throw money for the illusion of affection. Like junkies they couldn’t get enough. Ed pitied them at the start, but now all he felt was contempt. Contempt, and a liberal dose of disgust.

The last strains of Gloria Estefan faded into the background and the first dancer moved away from the stage. Ed wondered how anyone could dance to that music, it was just too faggy. His song came on, beckoning him to the center. He let his body switch to automatic, dry humping to Metallica. As their eyes crawled over him, he closed his eyes.

“Taaake my hand, off to never-never land….”

His thoughts whirled in time with his body, muscles flexed along his hips and cerebral cortex. And the regrets began to swirl to the surface.

If only he hadn’t lost his temper and punched his asshole supervisor at bloody McDonalds for feeling him up.

If only he hadn’t wasted his last savings on medicines for a sister who would only wind up dead of a drug overdose.

If only his loser mother (God rest her soul) didn’t let herself get beaten up every night by the drunken deadbeat man she called a husband.

If only he was born to a decent family.

If only he was never born.

If only. If only.

“Let’s give a big hand for Denmark ladies and gentlemen!”

Ed opened his eyes to the sea of faces as they applauded him. It got so he could catch the look of naked desire like a candle in the dark. One face would be lit up more than the others and he knew exactly where to go once he left the stage. Inevitably he would be asked why he chose such a strange stage name. He had half a dozen witty answers ready, but none of them would be the truth.

When he was six years old he had an uncle who flew in from Denmark and lived with them for a month. It was the happiest time of his life. For one whole month his father stopped coming home drunk, his sister actually began to smile again, and his mother (God rest her soul) was positively radiant. Ed basked in the attention his uncle showered on him. When the end came, as it inevitably does, he was devastated. He cried all the way to the airport and he would have cried all the way back except before boarding the plane his uncle took him aside, hugged him tight and promised that when he was older he could come visit and live with him in Denmark for a month. He’d even send Ed the ticket. The ticket never came. His uncle died two years later in a boating accident. They never found his body.

So when they asked Ed what his stage name would be when he joined the club, Denmark seemed as good a choice as any. It seemed fitting somehow.

Ed could feel the song surround him, and his hips began to buck and sway, milking the notes for every last drop of nuance and emotion. Savoring every moment of the cascading crescendo, feeling the urgency welling up around him.

This was his moment. He was the rarity within the walls of the club, perhaps the only one supremely confident of his sexuality, his sensuality. He was the object of desire, and at that moment he had them all worshipping at his altar.

There! The woman sitting alone in the corner table, her eyes locked with his for the briefest instant, and he felt the heat of her need reaching out to him, the wanton lust cutting through the air like a bone saw. Jagged and grating with urgency.

He spun closer, twisting towards her with serpentine grace. She seemed a tad old for his taste, wrinkles were visible along the corners of her mouth, which even the most efficient Botox treatments could not erase. Still, he sent a well-timed smile her way, his teeth glimmering white in the black light.

When he whirled to look at her again, his smile froze his heart skipped. Was her face sagging just a bit more? Through the haze of smoke and sound his mind screamed at what he saw. My God, she’s melting!

Before he could stop or shout for help, he saw that all around him people had begun to clutch their faces, their skin flowing like wax. Flesh melted all around him like butter warming over a furnace.

And still he danced. The music ended but Ed continued to sway in ever-frenzied gyrations, unable to stop. Tears and sweat mingled as they rolled down his face. The cries for help and the gurgling screams that escaped from lips that flowed down chins in a river of crimson became the only music that his body responded to. He spun and pranced onstage until his sweat-coated body was the only one that remained. Melted flesh and empty clothes pooled on the floor.

“Which only proves that if you can’t stand the heat, you shouldn’t dance too close to the fire of desire.”

Ed whirled at the voice, a cold humorless thing that seemed to hang and twist in the air before fading in the stillness of the empty club. His body finally gave in and collapsed like a puppet with its string cut. His heart thudded in his chest, desperate to escape.

“I could use a dancer like you, Denmark.”

“Who are you?” Ed stared at the stranger who loomed over him. He was impeccably dressed in a white suit and black overcoat, and his face was hidden beneath the shadows of a black fedora.

“I don’t like names. They will hold you in their thrall if you let them. If you must, simply call me the Rumple Man. It will suffice.” And Ed felt more than saw the smile that formed on the Rumple Man’s face.

“What do you want?”

“I want many things.” The Rumple Man answered, walking around Ed like a shark circling a school of nervous fish. “But right now, what I want is you.”

Ed licked his lips nervously. His body shook from a sudden chill. “Why?”

“Why? To give you that which you most desire, a chance to serve a higher power.”
The Rumple Man stopped and extended his white-gloved hand. “I have great things in store for you, and tonight the curtain rises on a show the world will not soon forget. Take my hand now and you can be a part of it.”

off to never-never land....

Ed hesitated for a moment before taking the hand offered to him. He gasped as he felt cold electricity shoot up his arm, arcing to his heart and stopping it instantly.

“Ed is dead. Dead is Ed. Long live Denmark.” And the Rumple Man smiled with satisfaction as his first servant rose from the floor.

Denmark stood for a moment, flexing dead muscles before taking his place beside his new master. All the while thinking just how proud his mother (god rest her soul) would be of him at this moment.

Together they stepped out of the club into the hungry night.

Prologue: Curtain Call

No one could say when the Midnight Marquee first appeared. It was both more and less than what it appeared to be, as most things are, a secret that children already know but forget in the rush to adulthood. And adults (as we all know) are only concerned with minutiae and mundane matters.

The Midnight Marquee, home of terrors and delights, temple of oddities and endings, last bastion of dreams and nightmares, the secret repository of things wondrous and impossible. All the things that only children can cherish and adults can sometimes remember.

It moves from city to city, the Midnight Marquee, coming soon to a street corner near you.

The massive signs of the Marquee are a warning if you stare at them long enough. There is a secret in the way the letters curl, dancing seductively in patterns that seem ordinary at first glance, but most people who gaze long enough find themselves fascinated, almost hypnotized by exquisite dread. Very much like the feeling you get watching a car crash with your wife of fifteen years and your daughter of eight, their heads blossoming in a fountain of blood.

Standing alone by the entrance, the Master of the Marquee watched the woman as she wandered down the street. A casual observer would have thought she was drunk. But he knew better. With every step she took, Katerin Simms, 34 year-old unwed mother of two was losing her mind. Her memory was being devoured by a cancer that festered inside her, and as she stumbled and fell for the fifth and final time, her final thought was of the color white, and how much she loved the smell of vanilla.

She lay on the cold pavement for a few moments before fading away, like a memory of a dream that evaporates upon waking. In her place, the Rumple Man stepped into the world.

“So it begins.” The Rumple Man lifted a white-gloved hand to straighten his fedora. A smile played on thin bloodless lips and his eyes glowed with the color of malice.

“Or it ends.” The Master of the Marquee stood a full head shorter than the Rumple Man but still he looked his adversary straight in the eyes without flinching. His blood red tunic was muted in the darkness, like the embers of a fire going out.

They fought an invisible war on many levels, in a myriad of forms. From a defiant snowflake melting under the first rays of spring, to the alcoholic staring at a bottle of whiskey, yin versus yang, across many worlds, times and places twisting in the infinite cosmic string of consciousness, stretching end over end from one void to the next.

“Why do you even bother?” The Rumple Man tilted his head to one side, his smile growing impossibly large to cover his face.

“Because it is what I do, if it means you have one less victim, one less orphan to play with, then it is worth my time.”

“Your altruism is touching but misplaced. No matter what you do, the war will turn my way as always.”

“So you say, but then again evil has always been prone to delusion.”

“Good? Evil? Such trite concepts.” The Rumple Man turned towards the street. Lamplight played around him but shadows curled where he stood. “It is beauty that moves me, the beauty of a viper in a field of flowers.”

The Marquee began to light up, bulbs sprang to electric life as the Master of the Marquee walked quietly to the entrance.

The Rumple Man turned towards the street. “I take my leave. Gather yours and I will have mine. Our game’s afoot.”

“I’ll be waiting.” The Master of the Marquee took out a roll of tickets from his pocket. One of these could be the key to victory. But which one? There was no way of knowing, only chance would decide if he would find the right one. And chance had never been his friend.

The curtain rises.

It Begins

Like the softest whisper, or the loudest shout, the words are bound to flow. Somehow I have been convinced to join this madness. Misery loves company? No, more like Madness loves company.
My hats off to Shadowland and Psycholand who have already begun the journey. Oh boyyyy.