Tag: Fiction

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 4.2 – The Genevive

On By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment
Type 751 Planet
Forschungsschiff „Planet“-Klasse (751)

The Genevive was large enough to support sixty-five people. With an endurance of two or so months. The German Navy’s newest toy, a SWATH hulled behemoth dubbed Planet, could only carry about forty personnel. This vessel didn’t seem to have much of a size advantage on the Kraut’s paramilitary cod-piece. A thing that impressed me because it suggested an incredibly efficient use of space.

The crew consisted of six scientists, a couple of students, four cooks, and several dozen more personnel with various nautical responsibilities. The number of people aboard before we joined was 53, with the six of us tagging along, 59.

Despite being only six members shy of carrying capacity it was by no means cramped. There was no awkward bumping of elbows in narrow hallways or harrying on deck.

Though our cabins were far from cavernous, they were certainly roomier than what I had expected.

I was very curious as to how all this was funded and even more curious about Frank Reed.

It was, in fact, the proprietor and captain of the ship that had ferried us aboard. He had that simultaneous boisterousness and reserve I’ve come to associate with successful eccentrics. He was as silent as the sky before a storm until the thunder rumbled and lightning struck.

Not to say that he was meanspirited. His thundering was usually effervescent excitement and the lightning a scintillating wit.

There was also something vaguely martial in his bearing. It sometimes seemed like the wispy strands of near shoulder-length hair were an ironic mask meant to soften the impression of the insurmountable determination of his lantern jaw. The thick brow and broad nose were suggestive of a primeval savage. There was something of the Neanderthal in Frank Reed, something of the paleolithic hunter as he noiselessly stalked his domain, surveying his kingdom from a height of no less than six and a half feet.

Leo’s description of diving in the Galapagos was misleading. The site of whatever surprise he had in store for us was several thousand miles to the southwest of San Cristobal.

At twelve knots this meant a journey of nearly a week, just to reach the destination. The return trip would be equivalent. There must be something really vital out in these Pacific waters. I was positively giddy with excitement.

1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe

1.2 The Cajun Prayer

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

1.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

1.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.7: ‘Jesse’

1.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.8: ‘Lungful of Bees’

1.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.9 – ‘Precedent’

2.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.0 -Calvinist Neuroses

2.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.1 – Mirage

2.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.2 – Estate Planning

2.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.3 – High Tech Summons

2.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.4 – Amazon Stonehenge

2.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.5 – Jung

2.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.6 – Dee

2.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.7 – Meeting 211

2.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.8 – Itinerary

2.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.9 – Fact and Fiction

2.10 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.10 -Kaffeeklatsch

2.11 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.11 – Catnap

2.12 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.12 – ‘One Pair’

2.13 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.13 – Reentry

2.14 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.14 – Phoenix

2.15 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.15 – Apollo and Dionysus

3.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.0 – Inherit the Wind

3.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.1 – Stardust

3.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.2 – Loyola

3.3 Chapter 3.3 – High and Dry

3.4 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.4 – One Dream

3.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.5 – Pensive

3.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.6 – Feijoada

3.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.7 – ‘Good food and good work…’

3.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

3.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.9 – Oregon Hill

3.10 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.10 – ‘Thick Bushes’

4.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 4.0 – No room at the Inn

4.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 4.1 – The Union Jack

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The War Witch (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for spooky colorado forest

It was a humid evening amid the pines. What’s worse, the approaching night carried fog in its wake.

Certainly, a wake would soon be needed.

We were in the tall grass. Cradling the cruel black adonized purpose of our automatic rifles as if they were precious children.

“O good,” Craig muttered darkly.

In the thermal glow of our tax-funnel optics, at least a dozen polychromatic blurs leapfrogged through the trees. We were converging, the professional detachment of the rendezvous reminding me of a corporate mixer. Mars was in the market and Abaddon would close.

These wackos had some PMC in their ranks. Where they’d gotten the funding, god only knows. If we weren’t careful those damned mercs would see us as the same colorful blurs that so tantalizingly danced in and out of my sights.

We were on an intercept. They were on an ambush. Theoretically, we had the upper hand.

It was only logical for them to flank the perimeter of the clearing by staying eastward with the trees. Our five men versus what was supposed to be a dozen.

Surprise, silenced NATO rounds piercing the thick veil of night, like overgrown BB’s, finding their ways into the waiting flesh of the baddies. That’s the theory. That’s the dream…

Daly, the recent hire, tripped on a root. The recruitment battalion wasn’t lying. I bit my lip at the urge to kick the dead weight.

‘He must have some merit if he made it this far…’

I heard the distinct ‘thwick’ of a 5.56 round followed by a sharp cry. A cry that was quickly muffled.

“shhhhh...” Lynch hissed with a fierce quiet as he clasped a gloved hand over Daly’s mouth. When the muffled sound of his wounded panting ceased, “Did I give the order to engage?”

Tom Daly, the chubby-cheeked farmboy from Ohio, shook his goggled head, no.

“Then why in the solemn fuck is your safety off?”

Tom just bit his lip even harder.

“Listen, I don’t care if you bleed out, you probably won’t die…dumbass...though…shooting yourself in the foot ….I don’t give too much of a shit if you do. Just stay quiet, till these fucknuggets are neutralized. Copy…?”

Tom nodded.

‘Shit…shit…shit… There was no way they didn’t hear that.’

It was no sooner than that thought crossed my mind that Lynch’s head exploded like gruesome lightning. He landed face down in the cool dirt, emitting a high pitched shrieking gurgling, with a triangular flap of skull hanging off by the merest whim of scalp.

…military intelligence….

‘No possible vantage.’ …. ‘Tell that to the headshot hero.’

I didn’t have much time to curse the donut dippers as Kalashnikov fire erupted like a martial rain. God these guys were amateurs.

I knew that the Redfern boys weren’t gonna like that. I was right.

The barrage ended. I suppressed a chuckle as I watched one colored blur smack another in the head.

Snipers can’t do much through all that noise. We took the chance and serpentined to a new position taking cover behind an old foundation and some ancient tractors.

Then the damndest thing happened.

A voice.

I heard a voice from our former position. But, Lynch was dead and Tom was probably dead too, from embarrassment, if not enemy fire. Besides, it was a little ahead of our current position. Right by the edge of the treeline.

It didn’t sound like anyone on our team.

“Hey! I surrender! They’re all dead….” It sounded pained and genuine.

‘Who the hell….’ I saw every remaining member of the team do a double take to make sure that we were still grouped.

There was no way Redfern or even those hippies would be dumb enough to fall for that. Though…a prisoner was far more valuable to their cause then a pile of corpses.

Though I could no longer see the glowing blurs, I guessed what they were doing. The sniper or snipers were likely sweeping the area, communicating via radio, I hoped that our prone position behind the remains of the old farm wasn’t ‘within vantage.’

They wouldn’t fall for it…there were only two bodies out there…

Then the voice came again. “I’m bleeding! O God help! I’m so thirsty….”

Well, I guess there were three bodies then…which was slightly more plausible.

‘Seriously…who….the….fuck...could that be…who would be this far out in Colorado…who..would…ACT…like that…’

There was no way… My mind raced. There was no way. It didn’t make sense.

I heard the all too familiar ‘thwunk’ of an m203 attachment followed by the hiss of smoke grenades. Jesus, these guys were better equipped than we were.

The fresh hullaballoo gave me the confidence to momentarily peek over the crumbling foundation. I couldn’t see much because there was even more preternaturally tall wheat between us and the enemy. Though every once in a while I glimpsed a glowing blur through the waving stalks.

They were cautiously… tepidly emerging from the tree line in three groups of four men.

“Help..it’s all clear…I promise…just help me…”

This emboldened the blurs. The first two groups found Tom and Lynch.

The third group. Which was the last to emerge from the treeline…approached the voice.

A piercing scream rent the night air followed by a cacophony of gunfire.

I dipped back behind cover.

“What in the fuck!” I yelled in a loud whisper.

Everyone was dumbstruck.

Everyone except for that other kid… from Arizona, Diego. He was mumbling something to himself. I lifted my goggles to try and make out his expression. A task that was difficult due to fog.

I did manage it though. And what I read in his eyes was abject fear.

“Brujeria..brujeria….brujeria….” He kept mummbling.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Diego…I don’t speak Spanish…what is it…?”

He just kept repeating, “Brujeria…brujeria…”

The screams were growing more confused as the gunfire grew sparser.

Harrelson leaned in…it was strange to see the big Swede so spooked…

“Brujeria is Spanish for witchcraft.”

Normally, I would have laughed, even taunted my mates but…this wasn’t normally.

I frowned. “Well, the commanding officer is dead. And I am not equipped to deal with witchcraft. Any ideas Diego?”

Diego paused…and looked me in the eyes… “Run.”
“Run, when ‘Brujeria’ has already done three-quarters of the job, and dumbass Daly might still be alive enough for a beer and an asswhoopin?”

“Run.” Diego reiterated with added vehemence.

When I didn’t assent. Diego spoke more cooly than I had ever heard him speak before.

“Lieutenant, climb up on that broken step, it’s safe…for now. But do it quick.”

Normally, I would have told him to clarify but something in his voice elicited obedience even though I was his superior.

There were only stray shots now and they were close to the ground.

“What am I looking for, Diego?” I asked…ruefully considering that the sniper might not be as distracted as I hoped.

“Switch to night-vision.”

“But the fo..” I began, stopping myself mid-protest as I realized that it had cleared.

In stark electric shades of black and white, I saw the wheat matted down in a dozen or so places. There was no gunfire now.

‘What the hell could have done this, so quickly….’

I’d only heard one voice. Was it a trap? Was there some second team we hadn’t been warned about….

Then I saw it.

There was a… thing with what looked like a long matted mane, half limping, half crawling, I’ve run out of halves but I swear…half slithering…at a disjointed sprinters speed. I raised my scope for a better look.

Its face…was like a man..but no…more like a serpent…an odd sort of diamond…the eyes large but narrow…the skin of a repellant texture…the mane was thick black hair but…this creature…this reptile shouldn’t have hair…several of its limbs seemed to be broken…and god…was it gutted…

I thought about taking a shot. And right as the thought crossed my mind… the thing trained its cunning snake eyes through my scope and right down my soul.

“Nope.” I said as I lept back down behind cover.

“Uh…Diego…what the fuck is that…?”

“It is yee-nad-loo-shii…”

I can only remember the word as syllables though it still haunts me to this day. Imprinted indelibly on my memory living endlessly in my nightmares.

“The war witch who feasts on the fierce.”

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for cave diving

1.1  Sketch of Sam Monroe

1.2 The Cajun Prayer

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

It always felt like bursting into another world. The only sensation I could effectively liken it to was cave diving. Something I’d done once on the dime of Lucas’ dad.

The thing was like swimming through some narrow submerged corridor, and bursting into one of those vaulted dagger studded chambers that knew no light, save the febrile beam of your headlamp.

Luckadoo’s estate sat in a clearing in the thick woods denuded just enough to afford a modest yard.

I heard the sheriff’s car pull up beside us. We’d dimmed our lights ten whole minutes ago but the squad car illuminated the oak and stone walls with an officious glaring brightness. Lucas hopped out of the driver’s seat and ran over to tell Fabre to cut it out.

He was back momentarily. We heard the sound of a cell phone. Pierce answered: ‘Hello.’

After a second. He put it on speaker.

“What the hell did you just blabber about, why should the lights be off, what the..”

“We need to secure the perimeter,” Lucas replied matter of factly.

“Secure, the perimeter, what are you talking about, listen…”

Lucas popped open his cell phone and tapped on the screen as Fabre’s protestation continued to pour from the doctor’s device.

Suddenly there was a very odd sound. One that bespoke suspense and familiarity at the same time. Fabre’s voice grew still.

Out in the sea of trees, as far from the reach of civilization as one could get in a global village, the sound of a THX soundcheck rang out through the valley.

Suddenly there was another sound, it was some simple spoken words, done in a sing-song chant to a certain pitch and rhythm, it was Roger Waters, “Is there anybody out there?”

“The wall…”

Graham flipped a metal switch on the dash. The house, the yard, the woods, and what we could see of the lake beyond were illuminated by harsh glaring floodlights that may as well have been the noonday sun.

“Holy shit!” Fabre was apparently still on the line.

Lucas reached down beneath the armrest and pulled up a mouthpiece on a black coiled wire.

“This is Colonel Schmidt of LRD, Army Corps of Engineers, you are within a federal jurisdiction, you are advised to immediately beach all watercraft, and give a report of your position. Having done so you are to step into our immediate line of sight. The line of sight being in front of the vehicles. Drop all weapons and proceed with your hands held high. Be advised that we are authorized and capable of using deadly force.”

“What in the fuck…” Doc Pierce muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

I chuckled. It was always funny to see Lucas Schmidt with his surfer boy haircut deliver such stentorian tones. I suppose having an admiral for a father does make a difference.

There was a five-minute wait for a response.

“If you are military, federal, or law enforcement personnel, state your rank, file, serial number and purpose clearly. If you are within fifty yards of our position we will hear you. Do you copy?”

Again we waited five minutes.

“I repeat, military federal, and law enforcement personnel, are advised to give a prompt and clear report of purpose and station. Failure to comply may result in disciplinary measures. We wish to avoid friendly fire but are authorized to engage, should the need arise. Do you copy?”

We waited five more minutes. There was no response.

Each member of our team put on headphones. I handed a pair to the doctor who complied wordlessly. Lucas ran out of the car with another pair. We heard his voice and the sheriff’s voice arguing through the doctor’s cell phone speaker.

Out of the car window, I saw Lucas’ screen shine dimly in the glare of the spotlights. Then the floodlights died.

Suddenly there was a pulse and a harsh shrill sound, that was thankfully muffled by the deadening in our headphones. You could feel it on your skin, it was like an air dryer, the pressure pushing the hairs on my arms in every direction.

The cars shook gently, the window panes rattling, the windows of the house also rattled, leaves and weaker branches fell from the roof and the trees.

I put away my flask and picked up a P320 from under the seat. The doctor shied away from me mid-process. I motioned for him to stay in the car.

Lucas opened the doctor’s door and extracted the Mossberg 500 off of Pierce’s lap.

Graham, Chuck, the Doctor, and the Sherrif had been pantomimed into staying put as Sam with his own Sig joined me and Lucas in a serpentine toward the door.

I punched in the keycode and Lucas dashed in sweeping the area. I tapped him on the shoulder and saw his flashlight mount head off to clear the eastern wing. I heard the door shut behind me and felt a tap on my own shoulder. Sam headed to the western wing as I made my way upstairs.

We then reconvened in the parlor to clear the basement, backyard, and dock.

The whole process took eight minutes. At every point at least one of us had a line of sight to the vehicles.

At the end, the sound died and we took up position one man prone on the front porch and two flanking the sides of the house.

Sam and I held our position with our sidearms at the ready as Lucas escorted the Doctor, the Sherrif, and our two civvie comrades to the door.

Once inside the rustic wood-paneled lodge with its gentleman hunter’s décor we felt the comedy of contrasts and laughed.

“That is one hell of an ADT system,” Fabre remarked.

Image Credit: https://www.thoughtco.com/cave-diving-isnt-crazy-2963325

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Chapter 1.1: Sketch of Sam Monroe

‘Chapter 1.2:’ The Cajun Prayer

This is a book that I will upload as I write it. This is still technically part of Chapter One like the rest of the entries.

Chapter One – The Cambridge Gable Scene

‘Gator is Waitin’

The mid-February evening grew chill quickly. I shivered and pondered as to how our retreating ‘boy in blue’ could sit so comfortably, on the faded green metal bench outside Pierce’s practice.

Graham had fallen into a neat little heap of lanky limbs and golden Afro soon after the dramatic episode. Currently, he was being comforted by a nurse (who despite being a tad older) still retained that magnetic auburn haired sort of charm common among the locals. Lucky dog….

Fabre was a picture of calm as he sat there gazing into the middle distance with a particularly offensive clove cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“What in the hell was all that about?” Pierce queried.

The Gallic sheriff remained impassive. His cold grey eyes held none of their former mischief.

The doctor was a reasonable man but his patience did have a limit. After the span of a quarter hour he remarked sternly.

“Well, come on man! Remember your Norman heritage. The blood of William courses through your veins and you would let a little of the old country spook you like that?”

It took some minutes still before Fabre responded.

“In Louisiana there are very wild places…”

“And many Alsatian fools,” Pierce remarked wryly. He had an odd habit of simultaneously praising and dressing people down.

“Yes, yes, I am a fool, and an Alsatian. But better to have my blood and my folly then to remain composed through that…”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t gather what ‘that’ is?”

This pause was even longer. I couldn’t suppress a yawn despite my interest. There was something dreamy, hypnotic in these hills. It was as if at every moment they threatened to drown you in some strange ancient honey.

“’That’ is voodoo…mssr”

Pierce laughed derisively. “Come off it man, you don’t even go to church.” It was now that I noticed that Pierce had an accent too. My Carolina ears were keen for the foreign sound of Yank inflection. And Yank he was. He was less a son of Kentucky than I.

“I tell you the truth. You have the benefit of your education and distance as buffer. But this is…this is old stuff…this is not drugs…I’ve seen it before too…but not like this…”

“You are a superstitious fool.” Pierce scoffed. “The fair haired boy was having a pull at your leg. It’s that Irish mother of yours.”

“That was just a rumor I am as Cajun as they come. Perhaps too Cajun…I have hot blood….a bad temper…you see…that is…”

I thought I spied a moment of panic in that expressive face.

He puffed at his cigarette for a time before he continued:

“That is voodoo mssr. That is very bad stuff…I have nothing on it…”

“Pfft…OK…fine it’s voodoo what did the blasted lad say?”

I was beginning to grow as weary of the pauses as Doc Pierce.

“He say…he say…’the gator is waiting.’”

It was a bizarre expression.

Yet, something about the way that the officer said it that sent a shiver through my spine. I noticed that Pierce was suddenly subdued as well. Though not for long.

“Ok and what does that mean exactly.”

“It means I am lost.”

This statement was followed by another litany of papist prayers. Latin, English, French…what I eventually came to recognize as Creole intermingled in a fluid entreaty to what of God may still reside in a world of drive throughs and porno.

“Look, I think it very touching that you’ve suddenly found the Lord but he helps those who help themselves. So what is this gator business?”

Officer Fabre used what remained of his initial clove to light the second.

“As, I have said it means I am lost. That was the end of Jack Montreux and it will be the end of me.”

“That, is a long story doc…”

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Rootless – (Book Teaser)

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment 
Advisory: Language, locker-room banter, Germans, tobacco use. 
Smoking is bad folks.

Arthur

Carter watched the fly. It’s translucent wings granted rainbow chromaticism by the glow of his monitor.

In an instant the six legged nuisance was hovering inches from his face.

“I see you Art.”

The voice sounded tinny over the speakers.

“Very funny Greta.” So they’d moved on to flies.

The air was cold. He could feel it through his sweater.

The machine landed on the desk and did a little dance.

“Warum bin ich so fröhlich? So fröhlich …? So..” Greta was feeling matronly again.

Arthur Harrison Carter suppresed the urge to smash the tiny monstrosity.

He didn’t like the direction Halifax had taken.

“If I don’t finish this inventory then none of us are going home.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“I bet Ted does.”

“You bet your ass Ted does.” Again it was tinny. Schroeder was taking the whole retro approach a bit too seriously.

Quirky. Halifax was certainly quirky.

“Wie heißt du? Du heißt …Beelz!” It was almost unintelligible through the ancient PA.

“Magst du?”

..BUZZ…BUZZ….BUZZ…

The robot was vibrating with pleasure. She’d programmed sounds.

“Beelz, einen schönen Namen!” The creepiness continued.

Arthur’s hand came down heavy. There was nothing but a funny sort of residue. Nothing at all reminiscent of the organic. Just fine silver dust. Gunpowder gray.

Art could hear Greta screaming. A smile stretched across his thin lips.

“Jesus Carter.”

“We’re all going to need Jesus before this is over.”

“I didn’t think you the religious sort.”

Arthur certainly wasn’t religious but there was something uncanny and unpleasant about the little impostor and Greta’s name choice.

“He is a monster!”

“Yea..an expensive monster. That was three thousand in parts and five hundred for two days labor. Karl is going to throw a fit.”

“I already explained that I won’t put up with creepy or annoying shit.”

“He’s going to fire you!” Greta screamed.

“He can’t fire me.”

“You are a cocky son of a bitch you know that?”

“The cockiest and sumofabitchiest somoabitch thank you kindly for the recommend!”

Arthur’s confidence wasn’t unwarranted. There was literally no one who could replace him. There just weren’t many neuroscientists, with high level security clearance, and a decade of software engineering experience.

“I dunno these Germans stick together. Especially when they want to screw with the English.”

“The Germans are opportunists and the English have something they want.” Thin cruel lips.

“Arschloch.”

“Yes, darling I am perfectly detestable. Now I think you have some steps to retrace. Tick tock.”

“You are a truly wicked cunt Art. Truly wicked.”

“Vielen dank.”

Shuttle

“Mongolian sky!” Art screamed.

“Mongolian sky in fucking deed my lad!” Ted rejoined.

Greta did not join in the ritual opting to fume in silent Teutonic fury.

The trio were standing beside a couple of gleaming silver eggs in the Gobi desert. Vast polished spheres that reflected a starry Eastern sky. Spheres that weren’t a joke like solar panels because they drank those stars. Sleepless, deathless, self-sustaining sentinels in a cold and lifeless void. It never ceased to be spooky.

“Anybody fancy a fag?” Carter asked pulling out a pack of Chungwa.

“I’d prefer morphine.” Ted said nonetheless drawing a death stick from the little red box.

Art watched Gretas long thin delicate fingers reach for a ciggy. She had beautiful hands. Her bright grey eyes shot him a withering look.

“Feuer.” She muttered.

Art pulled out a Zippo with a hula girl on it; lit his own cigarette, took a few puffs, and then with pained comic slowness extend the device to his flustered colleague.

She grabbed it, turned, and began walking off.

Ted was about to say something but Art’s hand shot up to restrain his shoulder.

“Don’t ruin it you pillock. Such a lovely thing.”

“O you are truly an evil prick…”

“She looks good in those jeans.”

“That she does. But you’re still an evil prick.”

“I think you’re looking for the word genius. I just got the only woman for a thousand miles to give me a butchers at her ass.”

“You didn’t plan this.”

“No but I seized an opportunity when I saw it. That’s as good as planned.”

Ted shook his head and laughed. It was quickly lost in the silence.

The two men had a hard time telling what was smoke and what was their breath. The fact that they could be out at all without gear was itself a pleasant break.

Temperatures in the Gobi were wild. It was good that they were here in the summer rather than the winter or fall. It could get to forty below Celsius during the cold months. Now it felt to be about 14 degrees.

“You know that it’s going to be a scorcher today.”

“You say that every night.”

“And you say that I say that every night.”

“The rituals complete then?”

“We are truly hermits, truly monks then?”

“Yes.”

“Then the ritual is complete.”

Greta was rounding the corner with stereotypical punctuality.

“I guess Wu is gonna be here in a tad.”

Sure enough after a few moments the three boffins heard a strange electric hum.

Ted cackled in faux mania as he climbed the little boat ladder.

“I really do hope we get those mad scientist goggles soon.” Art quipped.

“You guys are such dorks…”

“Ladies first darling.”

“Pervert.” She said smacking Art’s ass with a resounding slap.

He howled with pain and Ted’s mock laughter became real.

“How do you like being treated like meat.”

“Jeez.. try to give a girl a compliment.”

“You Anglos have such flat bony asses.” Greta remarked nursing her hand.

“Nah, that’s just ‘im love.” Ted called down from the hovercraft.

To Be Continued