Ascension: Part II Searching The Skies

 

Myra was grateful to find breakfast waiting when she stepped out on to the patio in her favorite denim shorts and t-shirt. She lifted her face to the sun. Closing her eyes she took in the ocean breeze. She opened them and admired a bright blue sky. Wyatt had been right, it was entirely too beautiful to stay in bed. She sat down at the table and sipped at her coffee while reaching for toast.

“Nah...ah...ah.” Wyatt corrected as he sat an egg white omelet down in front of her. “Low carbs Missy...low carbs.”

“It’s toast.”

“You can have one piece. One half teaspoon of low sugar jam or less. No butter.”

“I can’t eat all of these eggs with only one piece of bread.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry. Let me get you some pasta to go with those eggs.”

Myra sighed surrendering the second piece of toast.

“Good girl.”

Myra held her hands up in front of her like a pair of doggy paws and pretended to pant.

“There’s my favorite golden retriever. Would the good girl like an ear scratch?” Wyatt asked not missing a beat as he reached for her head.

She dodged Wyatt’s hand seconds before he made contact and slapped it away.

“So it’s toilet repair today.” Myra said as he took the seat next to her. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

A grin appeared from behind the rim of his mug. “You’ve been asking to do something fun lately so...tomorrow we are starting a week long tribute to landscaping.”

Myra’s fork stopped millimeters from her mouth. “We can’t do that Jacques would kill us for touching his grounds.”

Wyatt’s grin disappeared, his brow furrowed. “Jacques can’t hurt us because,”

“Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.” Myra looked at Wyatt.

Her PA’s silence confirmed what she had forbidden him to share.

“When?”

“Last week.”

“He died last week? We’ve known Jacques for years. I met his wife, played with his children! I should have been told. I would have gone to the funeral.”

“Con-tract.” Wyatt sang.

“Fine. I could have sent flowers.” She said hanging her head.

“Jacques lost his family during the first wave. Who would you have sent them to?”

Myra put down her fork and tossed her toast onto the grass for the birds. “It looks like you’ve won the carb war, I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I’m sorry sweetie but the ‘no news’ clause in your contract…”

Myra shook her head.

“It’s up to me to monitor what’s going on out there to keep you from being exposed to too much negativity. If I do my job and keep you from feeling down, it makes it easier for you to do your job and keep the rest of the world sane.”

“Have you ever wondered if keeping me so removed from things might be doing more harm than good?”

Before Wyatt could answer Myra’s phone beeped with a text message. The studio was canceling their broadcast due to a major news event. Wyatt’s phone beeped seconds later.

“I have to go check the news. Are you going to be okay here?”

Myra nodded.

“I’ll clean up the kitchen when I get back and then we’ll talk.”

She nodded and quietly watched her suddenly less beautiful ocean view. Myra finished her coffee and looked at the time. Wyatt had retired to his media room ten minutes earlier. She rose from her seat, heading back into the house. Myra stopped at the media room door.

The media room was the only room in the house that still had internet access. Wyatt could watch anything and everything that was going on in the outside world. Myra could not.

She could not turn on a television and get local news, could not stream a movie unless Wyatt downloaded it first for her to play back later. Wyatt accessed any digital books or music she wanted, although anything produced after the pandemic started had to be approved by Wyatt first. Myra couldn’t even do her own cyber shopping. Everything was pre-screened or pre-approved. Any correspondence with family or friends had to be written out long hand and mailed. Wyatt read everything before she sent it out and any responses before she saw them. All paperwork had to be placed in plastic sleeves so Myra was not exposed to the virus in any way. It was a long and drawn out process. She was finding it tiresome.

Myra knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Wyatt responded.

“I’m going to my office to write a letter to my sister.”

“Okay. Tell her I said, ‘Hi.’’

“Okay.” Myra continued walking down the hall. She stopped at her office door and took off her shoes. Picking them up she continued to the end of the hall. She opened a door and began climbing stairs. The door at the top led to a service balcony near the roof of the building and a telescope no one knew Myra had. She smiled to herself, it was nice to have one secret. Whenever it looked like a big news day Myra would sneak up the stairs and look out at the world around her in her own way. She did not know what she was looking for. A bit of information, anything that would show her what was really happening, what everyone was being so careful to keep hidden from her. She adjusted the stand and looked out across the sky. It was empty. No fires in the distance. Nothing to indicate large crowds out in the streets. Myra didn’t know what the big news events were she suspected some sort of rioting had been going on. Rioting was the one thing that would explain the number of broadcasts that had been canceled in recent weeks. That or a war and if there was a war going on surely it would have touched her and Wyatt more directly by now. As long as she kept her eyes and ears open. As long as Myra kept looking she was sure one day she was going to discover the truth.

Ascension

 

The pandemic had changed them all. The population, the population as she saw it at least, was split into three groups.

One was doing all that they could to avoid the illness. A second smaller percentage, every 10 -20^th person, believed that there was no illness at all. Their numbers were rapidly dwindling. The remaining forty-five percent, they were truly dangerous. They were the Knoblickers.

The Knoblickers believed that the governments of every country in the world was involved in a massive cover-up. This pandemic was not a disease. It was a mutation. A bonding of the human race and that of an alien one. Space aliens of a far greater intelligence than our own.

It is why no one had ever actually seen a single body. The ill were not really dying. People were ascending to a level of mental and biological superiority no one had the intelligence to understand. Governments were keeping members of the new race separate from the general population until more could be learned about them. To say the Knoblickers were excited about this biological development coming along is a bit of an understatement.

In recent months, Knoblickers had been sneaking into public venues, hospitals and places closed due to virus contamination. They would lick things in their race to become evolved. Door knobs, faucet handles, toilet levers, anything touched by many, anything that had a strong chance of being contaminated. These believers were sick of the world they were living in, they were ready to move on, hence the name Knoblickers.

In the midst of all this, Myra Collins found herself quarantined on her estate with no one except her PA Wyatt for company. She was being very well paid by the studios to produce a vlog designed to boost morale. The pair would spend thirty-two minutes a day filming, unless the Knoblickers were rioting some place, taking calls, cooking up two and three ingredient meals, talking books and streaming options, and sharing easy tips for weathering this pandemic of epic proportions. Myra portrayed an upbeat and optimistic woman. A completely well-adjusted person. It was then, after working in Hollywood for over a decade, that she had truly learned how to be an actress. On the outside she was a perky, beautiful shoulder for the world to cry on and on the inside a fucking mess. Every morning she woke feeling like a fake and a phony and praying someone would save her from her life.

It was becoming damn hard not to drink. All the time.

Myra opened her eyes and looked at the cell phone on her nightstand quietly willing it to malfunction. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do another broadcast. Not today. Myra closed her eyes and went back to sleep only to be caught in a horrible dream. The same dream she seemed to be having all the time. She was out, hiking in the wilderness, alone. Birds sang and squirrels ran along tree branches. She watched as a doe and her fawn drank from a creek. Myra stopped at an open area, looking around and wondering where she parked her Jeep. It was getting late, time to head home. Instead of a parking lot she found herself standing on the edge of a cliff. The view before her quite beautiful. Breathtaking. Above, below, everything in front of her. Until the ground underneath gave way. Myra’s body moved rapidly as she fell only to be saved by her unconscious reaction to grab for something, anything that would stop her from meeting the ground below. She prayed gravity would not get the upper hand. Myra called out in her sleep for help. There was no one around. She called out until her voice began to fail her. Nothing happened, no one came. She watched as the rock she was holding on to slowly gave way. Myra was falling, falling, falling…

“Are you getting up?” A male voice asked.

Myra opened her eyes and found Wyatt standing at the edge of her bed. “No.” She responded. “I’m staying here until cannibals storm the grounds and eat what’s left of my deteriorating body.”

Wyatt shook his head. “There are no cannibals. Staying in bed would be a complete waste of a beautiful day.”

Myra doesn’t move.

“Come on. Get up lazy butt. We have a show to do.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You are all that is sunny and good in this apocalyptic world. They need you.”

A tug of war for Myra’s duvet ensued leaving Wyatt in custody of the blankets.

“Time to get up. We were going to work on the pool house toilets after breakfast.”

“They haven’t magically fixed themselves?” Myra asked.

“No Sweetie, they didn’t magically fix themselves.”

Myra got out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. “I’ll have you know that as an overindulged Hollywood personality I’m not supposed to have to do these things.”

“There’s a pandemic, everyone has to do these things. And you’re not overindulged. You have butt loads of money there’s a difference. Money means nothing when most of the plumbers are dead.”

“But not all of the plumbers.”

“The ones that are left are really expensive. Only people much richer than you are can afford them. Ones with penises.”

Myra raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right Sweetie you have to be a rich white man to get anything fixed during this mess and I don’t know if you looked in the mirror lately but you aren’t one of them.”

The Re-Write

 

“O...kay.”

Tinkletoes stirs at the sound of Carp’s voice. “Done?” He asks.

“Yes. This is terrible by the way.” Carp says as he reaches out and grabs a stack of pages from the printer. He hands them to Tinkletoes/John who begins reading.

“An explosion right away. Nice work.”

“Keep going.”

Tinkletoes/John keeps reading. “Good. Good. Have you thought about using a flamethrower on page six? It would be more visually interesting than your everyday tank fire.”

“This isn’t a movie.” Carp counters.

“But John Wick is. This might be in a movie some day. Burning fires all over the landscape makes it more interesting. Besides don’t the people who read this shit picture it in their heads, you know, when they’re reading?”

Carp nods grudgingly.

“Then let’s use flamethrowers.”

Carp waits for Tinkletoes/John to get to page seven. “How will the building Francesca has taken shelter in collapse then genius?”

“It catches fire.”

“It the building collapses while on fire your precious girlfriend is dead. You’ll never get any.”

“Oh.”

“She also gets grazed by a bullet. Nothing dangerous, just bloody enough that she has to remove her blouse. How is she going to get shot if none of the bad guys have a gun? If she doesn’t get shot how are you going to get a peek at the girls?”

Tinkletoes/John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know.” He thinks for a bit. “We’ll have both. Let’s write in flamethrowers. Three or four guys can keep their guns.” He continues reading. “This is good.” He moves on to the next page and frowns, “You shot me. Things were just starting to get good and you shot me. She’s gone.”

“Francesca thinks you’re dead. You handed her the missile codes before you entered the abandoned military base, it’s the only way to finish things. She’s taking out The Big Guy In Charge in your memory.”

Tinkletoes/John does not look happy.

Carp rolls his eyes. “Keep reading.”

“I get up.” He smiles. “And kick butt.”

“You are alive and kicking the bad guy’s butts when any other man would be dead.”

“I am a bad ass.”

“A total bad ass.” Carp agrees.

Tinkletoes/John continues to read when he reaches the top of the final page his face falls. “Francesca’s dead.” He looks at Carp. “You killed her?”

“Yes. Sadly John Wick is alone again.”

Tinkletoes/John shakes his head in disbelief.

“You played a little tonsil tag and saw boobies there really wasn’t time for anything else.”

“I can’t believe you killed her. She was so smart and beautiful. What a waste.”

“Look at it this way The Big Guy In Charge is dead and the Bowery King just got one helluva promotion. There’s a good chance y’all are going to Applebees.® Eventually. As soon as you get back to the U.S. If they let you back in.”

“The restaurants are also in other countries.” Tinkletoes/John points out. He looks at his re-write mournfully.

Carp turns everything off and crosses the room. The assassin-in-training looks at Tinkletoes/John places a hand on his shoulder and says, “It’s an action movie franchise. You’re the hero. The hero never gets to keep the girl. He may get some…”

Four year old Dylan stops in front of the room’s open door to listen.

“get some special attention from his lady friend.”

The child continues walking.

“He never gets to keep the girl. It’s the law of the west.”

Tinkletoes/John makes a face.

“Okay...the rule of action movies. Face it action movies are just westerns with more elaborate settings and better toys.”

Tinkletoes/John begins to argue.

Carp puts a finger to his own lips in a ‘Shh…’ gesture. “No John. It’s better this way.”

Tinkletoes/John looks at the pages in his hands. “For who?”

Carp quietly coaxes Tinkletoes/John up and out of the room. When the door closes behind them Carp calls out, “Thank you House.”

“Any time Carp. Any time.” House responds cheerfully.

The door disappears and is replaced with a wall. A framed painting of a bluebird is the only indication anything but a wall had been there before.

Tinkletoes/John stops walking and looks at Carp. “I don’t have to tell her, do I? You know, what happens?”

“No Sweetie you don’t.”

Storm clouds cross the self-proclaimed mercenary’s face.

“I broke the ‘No Terms of Endearment Rule’ didn’t I?” Carp continues. “Terms of endearment are for girls.” He quoted. “It won’t happen again.”

Tinkletoes/John nods. The pair return to High Command. Carp is relieved to find that Francesca is not in the room when they arrive.

Writer Lady turns to face them. “Done?” She asks.

A shell shocked self-proclaimed mercenary surrenders the pages, both men stand and wait while she reads.

“Hmm.” Writer Lady says. “I never would have thought of taking that route through the Middle East or using flamethrowers.” She looks at them. “They're dramatic but I don’t like the idea of unnecessary damage to property.” She looks at Carp. “Why break something just because you can? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He nods.

“It’s actually not too bad. But Francesca dies. I was planning on using her in more than one story. This is set somewhere along the John Wick 4 timeline. Since I have decided to use her for more than one story and four will probably be the end of John Wick’s story, if we did use it where would Francesca be?”

“Dead.” Tinkletoes/John mutters.”She’d be dead.” The self-proclaimed mercenary clenches his jaw, his head hanging a little further.

“So where is Cruella De Kill?” Carp asks.

“Shopping. She was in the market for some new blades and I was sure that you two would be a while.”

“So um...what are we going to do your story or mine?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

“Neither.” Writer Lady says turning back to her monitor.

“What?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

“Neither. Francesca asked me what my plans were for her character. I told her. She nodded a lot…”

“And?”

“She didn’t like some of it. She said that she would be happy to return when I got my story together. Then she left.”

“Your first runner.” Carp gushes hugging Writer Lady from behind. “And to think I can say that I knew you when. So what are you working on now?”

“Mini Micro Fiction for toddlers. There are pixies.”

“Pixies. Pixies are fun.” Carp responds.

Tinkletoes thinks about what has happened. The self-proclaimed mercenary grins as he exits High Command.

“Where are you going?” Writer Lady calls.

“Shopping.” Tinkletoes answers. He turns to face Writer Lady from the other side of the entry, removing his “girl” wig. “This was a delay tactic. She wants me.” He responds continuing his new mission.

“Seriously?” Writer Lady asks looking at Carp.

“Oh my goodness.” Carp mutters. “Someone is in for a surprise.”

When A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary Gets A Re-Write

 

“A re-write.” Writer Lady skirts her head around Tinkletoes/John’s body. She looks at Carp. “My character is requesting a re-write.”

“Not requesting.” Tinkletoes/John corrects. “Demands a re-write.”

Francesca rolls her eyes.

“Sorry.” Writer Lady says. “My character demands a re-write. What does a writer typically do when their characters get pushy?”

Carp rubs his fingertips against his shirt and shines his nails. “I always took great pleasure in killing them.”

“Weren’t there repercussions?”

“No.” Carp looks thoughtful. “There was this one time when I killed off a virgin bride on her wedding night in a freak accident minutes before her,” Carp coughs, “defloration. It was a long courtship as well as one of my more descriptive bedroom scenes. Readers never saw it coming. Once my hardcore fans got over it, The Deflowering of Penelope was one of my greatest successes.”

“Hmm, a successful book would be nice after writing all this time.”

“Boom. Boom. You’re dead!” Dylan calls out.

Tinkletoes/John turns around to find the four year old boy standing behind him, he is pointing a toy gun. “It’s Bang Bang.” The self-proclaimed mercenary says. He turns back to Writer Lady. “It’s supposed to be bang bang.”

“This has fifty calibers. You said those go boom.”

“Okay. Boom.” Tinkletoes/John turns to face the boy. “I’m still alive. You can’t kill me because I’m the hero. The hero lives no matter what.”

Carp counters, “Actually the hero of the story has been known to die, quite often. Usually it is at the end of the story.” The assassin-in-training looks at Writer Lady, “This could be the move that launches your career.”

“She won’t kill me off.” Tinkletoes/John counters. “Who would she bake for?”

Writer Lady’s closely knit brows disagree. Her eyes darken. She sighs in a way that reminds Tinkletoes/John of a bull, snorting.

“I am a writer and I like to see things from all possible angles, so I have decided to give you a late Christmas present. Have a go. Re-write the story. Show me another possible direction to take things.”

In an unusual burst of emotion Tinkletoes/John stands up straight and salutes Writer Lady. “Thank you sir.”

Carp coughs.

“Thank you ma’am.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp with the shock of a woman that’s just been kissed thoroughly by a space alien. She turns back to her computer and continues taking her version of the story where she wants it to go.

Tinkletoes/John puts an arm around Carp guiding the assassin-in-training out of the room. “I need a favor. This writing thing, how does it work?”

“You don’t know how to write?”

“If it isn’t a report or a schematic...I’ve written down light saber details of my designs so Anlace can write-up descriptions for his website.”

“That would be a ‘No.’” Carp points out.

“I know how to write but only real stuff. Man stuff.”

“You don’t know how to write fiction.”

“I don’t have a clue.” Tinkletoes/John admits.

Carp pulls out his cell phone and cues up a recording app. “Could you say that again please?”

“I don’t know how to write that fru fru girlie crap they call fiction. I need…”

“Training? Instructions? The guiding hand of an expert?” Carp asks.

“I need you to write what I tell you to.” Tinkletoes/John says.

Carp turns off the recorder in disgust. “I thought you were asking to learn a new skill, showing growth as an individual.”

“Me? Not when I have you to do it for me. It’s too girlie.”

“Follow me.” Carp says. He walks into the hallway and knocks on a wall. “I need a place to write.”

“What’s the secret phrase?” House asks.

“Decorate it however you’d like.”

“I always do.” She responds.

The outline of a door appears, a thin glow of light moves along the outline and the door opens.

“As requested.” House says. “Welcome to your writing room Carp.”

The men enter a sunny room decorated in a warm color palette. A chair hangs from the ceiling affording an expansive view of an elaborately detailed flower garden. There is a table sitting along the back wall with a comfortable chair. A laptop sits on the table. A cabinet with a portable vintage typewriter and a collection of antique ink holders sits close by. Carp opens the door to the lower portion of the cabinet. A modem, printer, paper, notebooks, pens and ink are hidden inside. The laptop is on. The display reads, “Hello Carp.”

“Very nice. Thank you House.”

“Yeah thanks.” Tinkletoes/John says.

“Is that?” House asks. “The boob brain?”

“Yes.” Carp says. “He and I are working on a special project.”

“If I had known he was involved I wouldn’t have let you in.”

A low growl can be heard coming from Tinkletoes/John’s throat.

House sighs, “He’s already contaminated the place with his presence. It’s too late now.”

“I’m afraid it is.” Carp agrees. “Would you please do me another favor and change the display? Run some John Wick footage. I think it will help inspire Tinkletoes’ contribution to our little project.”

“Of course.” House responds and makes the necessary changes.

“Can I get you anything else?” House asks. “A mint chocolate brownie latte might be inspiring.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“House.” Tinkletoes/John calls out. “I’d like a black coffee and a plate of cupcakes.”

“Nobody asked you.”

The sound of a slamming door echoes throughout the room as the self-proclaimed mercenary is ignored and left. Cupcakeless.

“Why is she nice to everyone except me?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

Words appear at the top of the wall behind Carp.

Because your rude, self-centered, neanderthalific behavior pisses me off.

Tinkletoes/John looks perplexed. “Me rude? When was I rude?”

Carp rubs his forehead for a moment then picks up the latte taking a sip. “What is it that you had in mind?”

“Continue Writer Lady’s story but make it more actiony. Write it so Francesca throws herself at me. All The Time.”

“You do understand that Francesca is also a world-renowned assassin in this story. World-renowned assassins generally have stuff to do. Lots of it.”

“Yes and she will, until she is alone with me and animal magnetism draws her in. She can’t resist me.”

“So your character is so irresistibly attractive that all Francesca wants is for you to introduce her to all of the feminine pleasures that await her. She never was a complete woman until she met you and all of that crap?”

“Yeah that.”

Carp sighs, “O-kay.” Carp turns to the laptop and begins typing. “That story line is always weak at best and completely lame at its worst. It won’t fit in with the John Wick franchise...at all.”

“If you don’t like how it’s going throw in some more actiony stuff.” Tinkletoes/John says. He turns to face the screen, watching the action and counting the bodies of the bad guys as the number builds. Tinkletoes/John finds it comforting.

Several minutes later Carp hears snoring. He turns around. “Are you sleeping while I’m writing this for you?”

“I might have nodded off. This movie is so relaxing.”

“That sounds a little creepy. You might want to tuck that back in.”

What Bubba Yaya Wants

*This post includes an excerpt from the short story "The Librarian" by HR Apostos.

 

Tinkletoes/John looks at Carp and grins. “Maybe the stuff in those girlie books you used to write isn’t such a bad thing.” The self-proclaimed mercenary puckers his lips.

Francesca takes a step back. “No,” she says.

“No?”

“I will not kiss you. There is an active contract out on you.”

“Don’t start anything that’s doomed to fail?” Writer Lady asks.

Francesca nods.

“Hmm.” Writer Lady nods her assent. She can respect that philosophy. Most of Francesca’s acquaintances will probably go under contract eventually, not making them good candidates for a long term relationship.

Tinkletoes/John studies Francesca for a moment. He shakes his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re attracted to me.”

“I will not kiss you.”

Tinkletoes/John looks at Francesca. “Do you mind?”

She backs away further.

Tinkletoes/John steps towards Writer Lady and the computer monitor. He begins reading. He raises his arm and points with his good hand. “See that? Francesca went home and I was in the car.”

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes, “The assassin was in the car.”

“Yeah. It’s who I’m dressed up as. She takes me home.”

Francesca’s gray eyes look at Tinkletoes/John. They are an unusually cold color and remind the self-proclaimed mercenary of his favorite gun. “Just because you were in my house does not mean anything happened.”

Determined to prove that he is right and Francesca is wrong because damn-it he’s irresistible. Grandma said it all the time. The dead one, not the one from the blog. She’s the angry one. He begins reading the story to Francesca. Pointing dramatically to himself whenever his/John’s/youknowwhoImean’s name comes up.

Francesca entered the housing complex through a rarely used side gate. The front gate was for any and all residents and visitors. The back gate was for employees and residents who were currently keeping a low profile. Few knew about the side gate near her unit. It was automated and only a handful of residents had access. She had top tier security clearance which meant the details she shared with security regarding visitors to her home was at her discretion. She paid extra for that. Expensive but worth it.

“Sit up in the back so the camera can verify a person is in the back seat.” She said. She felt his glare and looked at him in the rear view mirror. “It’s infrared. Low resolution. It will confirm another person is in the car. Nothing more.”

“That doesn’t sound very secure.”

“I am only one who is currently enjoying this service.” She countered.

An indicator light turned green, the gate lifted, and Francesca eased her car on to her street. No words were exchanged until they entered the house and she had reset the alarm for Resident At Home/Evening.

“I don’t know why you want…” He began.

“Shh…” Francesca called Security.

“Yes?” The guard answered.

“This is Unit 5-1-5. I would like to announce a guest.”

“Go ahead.”

“Male. Six-one. One hundred eighty five pounds. Dark hair and eyes. His name is...Jovan.”

“Jo-van?” He whispered.

“Category?” Security asked.

“E-6.”

“Duration of stay?”

Francesca looked at him, studying his torn and dirtied suit. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, I haven’t decided how long I'll retain him.”

“Notify us as soon as you have a departure date. Let your guest know he is welcome to enjoy all E approved services and amenities. May he enjoy his visit. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a nice evening.”

“You too.” Francesca responded as she ended the call.

“E-6?”

“I had to give them a reason a strange man would be in my home for several days that would not raise suspicion.”

He raised his brow.

“While you are staying here you are my escort.”

He walked to the door.

“Am I that unattractive?” Francesca asked.

“No, it’s just...I’m not that kind of man.”

“I’m not that kind of man?” Tinkletoes/John repeats. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp.

Carp looks at Writer Lady. “I’ve had this talk plenty of times, allow me.” He looks at Tinkletoes/John and crooks his finger. “Come here.” The assassin-in-training begins. “I have five words for you that are absolutely going to change the course of your life.” He looks Tinkletoes/John in the eyes and says. “It’s not about you.”

Tinkletoes/John makes a face. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s the fifth word? It’s not about you is four words.”

“The number of words is not important what’s important is the message. This is not about you.”

“Of course it’s about me. I’m that assassin guy. It’s all about me. Him. Me.” Tinkletoes looks confused for a moment. “It’s about me.” He emphasizes.

Tinkletoes/John turns to look at Francesca and smiles.

Carp gently turns his head back the other way.

“I know. There’s a pretty lady in the room. I know. This really is not about you. It’s about acting out Writer Lady’s story to see if it really does belong in John Wick’s world or if she should toss the setting out like a bad burrito and start fresh. What’s most important is figuring out where Francesca belongs.”

“That’s easy. She belongs here.” Tinkletoes/John turns to look at Francesca. “With me.” He smiles at her.

She looks at Tinkletoes/John and shakes her head. She points to her temple indicating Tinkletoes/John has a thick skull. She looks at Writer Lady. “He does not understand the story.”

Tinkletoes/John returns to Writer Lady. Turning the chair around he looks her in the eyes and says, “Don’t listen to her. I do understand the story. I just think it’s time for a re-write.” The self-proclaimed mercenary/assassin looks at Carp. “That’s the word isn’t it? Re-write?”

A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary's Overabundance Of Digits

Tinkletoes holds up a hand and snaps his fingers, TP appears. The faerie calls forth a Bowie knife that floats into Tinkletoes’ waiting hand.

“Permanent changes aren’t really necessary.” Carp says as he pushes Tinkletoes' knife wielding hand down. “Not for an informal dress rehearsal.”

Francesca looks at Carp. She raises an eyebrow as she takes his statement into consideration. “I suppose not." She continues, "Having all of one’s fingers can be useful in combat.”

Tinkletoes raises his knife, “The really good stories feel authentic.”

“Tinkleboob is getting ready to do something stupid.” House calls out. “I don’t care what anyone says, I am not cleaning the mess up. I demand professionals.”

Writer Lady turns away from the monitor and sees the tip of the knife pressed against the base of his right index finger.

“Is it this one?” He asks, looking at Francesca.

“No.”

“What about this one?” He asks placing it against the middle finger.

“It is an action series, what do you think?” Francesca responds.

“Wrong finger.” Tinkletoes says. He puts the tip of the knife against his ring finger. “It must be this one.”

“Right finger, wrong hand.” Francesca points out.

“That narrows things down.”

“We really don’t need to do that.” Carp sings.

The assassin-in-training manages to wrestle the knife away from Tinkletoes/Bubba/Baba/J...that bad ass that loves muscle cars and puppies.

“What about tape?” Writer Lady asks.

Tinkletoes thinks for a minute. “I don’t know much about doctor stuff but I’m thinking you can’t really tape a finger back on.”

Writer Lady closes her eyes, opens them and tries again. “We can tape two fingers together and create the illusion that you're missing a finger.”

“Great idea.” Carp agrees.

“So.” Tinkletoes says looking at Francesca.

“It will do.”

“All done.” Carp announces.

Tinkletoes/John returns to High Command. He opens and closes his hand. The self-proclaimed mercenary/assassin practices using his trigger finger. “Okay. What happens now?”

Carp looks at Writer Lady. “May I continue?”

“Catch him up.”

“John Wick has tried saving himself from his current circumstances, traveling to the far reaches of the world in order to call a truce with the big guy in charge. John cuts off his finger giving it and his wedding ring to his leader to prove his loyalty and acceptance of the big guy’s terms for reconciliation. A challenge is bestowed upon him. One that John does not like.

When he gets back home he decides to betray the big guy and not fulfill his request to support a trusted friend/colleague. He is betrayed by that friend in return. John survives and comes to create a new allegiance with the leader of the underground in New York City.

Writer Lady picks the story up from there. “He is currently dodging attacks from most of the assassins he used to consider colleagues, trying to find a way to end the onslaught and stay alive.

“He has made a very big mess.” Francesca says. “Which is why he needs me.”

“I come and find you?” Tinkletoes/John asks. “I ask for help? From a girl?”

“He’s actually done that before.” Writer Lady points out.

“It’s part of the story.” Carp adds. “No biggie.”

Tinkletoes does not look happy.

Francesca looks at Writer Lady. “This will never work.” She nods in Tinkletoes’ direction. “He cannot do this. His skull is too thick.”

Writer Lady looks at Francesca. “It’s not as bad as you think. He just has trouble accepting ideas that are contrary to his previously established principles. Let me try.” She looks at Tinkletoes. “John does not go to Francesca for help. Not directly. He makes the mistake of trusting another man to get the information he is seeking.”

Francesca shakes her head. “He is not much of a man. I cut up his tongue much too easily.”

Writer Lady ignores the comment. “John runs into Francesca when he tracks down that man. He enters Francesca’s territory looking for Vincent Donati.”

“I take pity on John and help him.” Francesca says.

“Pity? You don’t like Joh...me?”

Francesca looks Tinkletoes/John in the eye. “John Wick acts impulsively. He is careless, barreling in and shooting everything. He is like a bull in a china shop...too messy.”

“You kill people with knives.” He counters.

“Yes.”

Tinkletoes/John takes a step closer. “Bullets fly to their target, boldly penetrating and doing the job quickly. Efficiently. A cut throat is way messier.”

Francesca steps forward. “Guns are for cowards. Blades are personal. The target sees you coming and knows you are coming...for them.”

Tinkletoes/John leans in, “A well placed bullet leaves little blood. It’s a skill.”

Francesca leans in and counters, “Bullets leave gun residue.”

“Only on honest people.”

Tinkletoes/John is standing close to Francesca. Very close.

“This is wor-king.” Carp sings. “Is it getting warm in here?” The assassin-in-training starts fanning himself.

Writer Lady frowns. “No.”

Carp gives her a side-long glance. “I hate to tell you girlfriend but these two are turning up the temperature.”

Writer Lady shakes her head. “They’re not supposed to. They can’t. It’s not that kind of story.”

Carp raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not! They aren’t doing it right. They need to look at the pages. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

Carp gestures to the scene that is playing out in front of them. “Are you going to ditch this? Because if you want to ditch this I would love to have a go. Jenny Love can come out of retirement for a story like this.”

Writer Lady stands up. “He is a new widower who hasn’t done more than eat a bowl of cereal and drink bourbon for three movies. He is grieving dammit!”

“Would that be a ‘no’?”

“He’s been fighting. Dodging knives and bullets. He’s not eating, where would he get the energy?”

“Trust me girl he can find the energy some place.”

Writer Lady drops into her chair, puts a hand to her forehead and sighs.

Enter Bubba Yaya

“Yeah.” Tinkletoes responds. He looks at Carp. “So...what do I do?” He asks.

“You’re looking to me for direction?” Carp asks feigning surprise.

Tinkletoes looks at Carp and waits.

“I’ve always wanted to have my own production.” He gushes. Carp turns to Writer Lady. “May I set the stage?”

“You know that world as well as I do.” She smiles. “Go for it.”

“In this story you are John Wick. A notorious and deeply feared assassin. A legend. You are known as The Bogey Man or Baba Yaga. John Wick is the baddest of the bad. He is the man that you send when you want to kill The Bogey Man.”

Tinkletoes repeats, “Bogey Man. Bogey Men are bad news. How many guns do I get?”

Carp looks at Writer Lady.

“Based on my story line, as many as you can commandeer.” She responds.

“Are there, grenades?” Tinkletoes asks.

She raises a brow, “There might be.”

“But not yet.” Carp says. He looks the self-proclaimed mercenary over in his close fitting mixed cammos and regulation haircut. “We are going to have to make some changes.”

Carp calls out. “Wardrobe.”

TP appears in a well-cut suit. A length of measuring tape is draped around the faerie’s neck. “Oh my.” He says. “The Bogey Man needs new clothes.” TP giggles.

“A new suit please. Black.” Carp instructs.

“Cut?”

“Italian.” Carp responds.

“Buttons.”

“One.”

TP looks at Carp. “One button is not Italian.”

“One button allows for a better range of motion.”

TP shakes his head and moves on. “Trousers.”

“Pleated.”

“Tapered.” TP corrects.

“Pleated.” Carp puts a hand to his mouth and whispers. “He’ll need the extra room.” The assassin-in-training continues, “It’s easier to move around in the pleated trousers especially when suit wearing is new to a man.”

“Very good.” TP says.

Carp coughs. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

TP shakes his head. “No.”

“There’s one more question you have got to ask me.”

TP waves his hand and a wide closet door appears. The faerie opens it and begins searching through a row of black suits.

“It’s one of my favorite parts. Please?” Carp asks.

TP sighs and turns to the assassin-in-training. “And the lining?”

Carp’s eyes brighten. “Tactical.”

“Cool.” Tinkletoes comments.

Carp looks at Tinkletoes. “Do me a favor while we’re doing this,” Carp gestures to the rest of the group. “Don’t use that word.”

“Why?”

“It’s quite simple, John Wick is a man of few words. ‘Cool’ is not one of them.

Tinkletoes clenches his jaw. He looks at Francesca for a moment, loosens the jaw and says, “Okay.”

TP retrieves a suit and hands it to Carp.

“Yes.” Carp hands it to Tinkletoes without looking in his direction. “Go into the bathroom and put these on.

Tinkletoes turns to leave as TP hands Carp a hanger with a shirt on it.

Carp turns and thrusts it in the direction Tinkletoes went calling out, “Shirt. Shirt. Shirt!” until Tinkletoes takes the hanger from him. Carp turns back to TP. “Let me see the oxfords. The solid black not the two tone.”

There is a knock on the bathroom door just as Tinkletoes is tucking in his shirt. “Yeah?”

“I have socks for you and shoes.”

“Won’t my boots work?”

“John Wick does not wear combat boots with Italian wool.” The bathroom door opens and Carp’s arm enters a pair of shoes with socks tucked inside are held from the outstretched hand.

“Is this it?” The self-proclaimed mercenary asks accepting them.

“I’ll help you with your tie and one other thing.”

“What’s that?” He asks as he accepts the shoes.

“Your hair. To look like John Wick you’re going to need more of it.”

“No way.”

“It looks wonderful.” Carp gushes.

Tinkletoes stares at his reflection in the mirror. His face is pale. “I have never had this much hair in my entire life. This isn’t natural.”

“You look just like him. It’s perfect.”

“I look like a chick.”

“You are wearing one of the finest men’s suits in the world.”

“I’m a chick.”

“You are wearing a man’s suit and you have a beard.”

Tinkletoes studies his reflection then looks at Carp in the mirror. “There are bearded ladies. They live in circuses.”

“What do you think happened, TP turned you into a bearded lady, we kidnapped you, put you in a man’s suit and we’re going to leave you at the circus?”

“Weirder things have happened in this house.”

“Let me ask you this, if you are not dressed up as John Wick and in fact have been turned into a bearded lady then where are your boobies?”

Tinkletoes reaches down and touches his chest. “Pecs. Solid as ever.”

“You are still a man. A bad ass one. You look fantastic. If you want to impress Francesca, come with me.

“Do we still get to play with guns?”

Carp looks at TP who giggles. “Of course. Relax. Enjoy playing the part. She’s going to find you irresistible.”

Carp opens the door and Tinkletoes/John/Tinkletoes...follows.

“I was already irresistible.”

“Of course.” Carp agrees. “Just get in here.”

Carp enters first. “Attention ladies. I would like you to meet our man of the hour, John Wick.”

“It is I, Bubba Yaya.” Tinkletoes announces, his arms outstretched.

“Don’t you mean Baba Yaga?” Writer Lady asks.

“That’s what I said Bubba Yaya.”

Carp shakes his head. “It’s Ba-ba Ya-ga.”

Tinkletoes begins, “Bub…”

“No.” Writer Lady and Carp both counter.

“ba?”

“Let’s go with John.” Writer Lady suggests.

“John is nice.” Carp agrees.

Tinkletoes looks at Francesca his eyes are bright. His smile wide.

“So...Francesca what do you think?” Carp asks.

The female assassin looks Tinkletoes over closely and says, “He still has all of his fingers.”

When A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary Meets A Hot Female Assassin

A brief smile escapes Francesca’s deep red lips, “You have no idea.”

Carp smiles back.

Writer Lady coughs.

He looks at the computer monitor then back to Francesca, “You have an interesting story for a ‘beautiful but deadly bad ass.’ What’s the problem?”

“Well…” Writer Lady begins.

“She doesn’t know where to put me.”

“I would go with a dark world. Something with a noir feel to it.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. My noir falls a little flat.”

Francesca looks at Carp. “She keeps rejecting her own dark world because she feels that I belong in John Wick’s.”

Carp looks at Writer Lady. She nods, her head still facing the monitor.

“Great. Reach out to some people, ask them to call other people and see what the big boys say.”

“There’s a problem. It’s kind of a big one.” Writer Lady says. She points to an open file folder on the table in front of her.

Carp studies Writer Lady’s notes. “That’s her…”

“...last name.” Writer Lady finishes the sentence.

He shakes his head. “There’s no room for that kind of humor in John Wick.”

“I know.”

“No one would take her seriously. It would completely diminish her story line turning it into one big joke.”

“I know.” Writer Lady agrees.

“Change it.” Carp says.

“No.” Francesca responds. “It is the name that I was born with. It is the one that I will die with.”

“Wigglebottom? You’re attached to a name like Wigglebottom?”

“It was my father’s name. He was a good man.”

A look of confusion crosses Carp’s face. He flips through Writer Lady’s notes. “The same father that you were compelled to run away from repeatedly, finally getting out for good only to be picked up by sex traffickers at the age of sixteen?”

“That was my stepfather. When I left home and he realized that I was never going to return he made a phone call, told the sex traffickers where I was, and invited them to pick me up.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp and nods. “That was her stepfather. Her father, Francis Wigglebottom, died when she was eight.”

“But still,” Carp looks at Writer Lady. “Wigglebottom?”

“It is my name. I will kill any who try to take it from me.” Francesca says.

Carp turns to Francesca, “You aren’t really getting this whole ‘fictional characters have no say in how anything works out’ thing are you?” The assassin-in-training turns back to Writer Lady.

Writer Lady nods in Francesca’s direction. “Bad ass assassin. I know what she’s capable of.” She shakes her head. “I’m not messing with her.”

“Hell-o.” Tinkletoes’ voice can be heard from the entry. The self-proclaimed mercenary a.k.a. space alien and other supernatural being assassin is grinning from ear to ear. There is a light in his eyes that no other living being has seen since the Ninja-Zombie War. “Who might you be?” Tinkletoes asks.

“I don’t think…” Writer Lady begins.

“Tink, have you seen the new controllers in Dobby’s gaming den?”

Tinkletoes looks in Carp’s direction then back at Francesca who is in a discussion with Writer Lady. Blades are important business.

“They’re still shiny and clean.” Carp continues.

“Really?”

“Never been touched.”

“Virgin controllers...hot woman who likes sharp objects…” Tinkletoes says, weighing his dilemma.

“Dobby’s been waiting to open them up. He wanted you to be there.” Carp explains.

The pair listen as Francesca’s points become more pointed. “The density of the new one-stroke dagger means that less pressure is required per centimeter of penetration. It’s a cleaner and faster kill.”

“My kinda woman.” Tinkletoes looks at Carp. “A woman that is willing to talk infiltration comes along once in a lifetime.” He steps towards the fantasy of any self-proclaimed mercenary come to life.

“Aaaand...we’ve lost him.” Carp says.

Tinkletoes stops to stand behind Francesca Wigglebottom. “Hi.”

Francesca turns and looks at Tinkletoes for a moment. “You already said that.” She returns her attention to the monitor and her task.

“You really seem to know your weapons, you know, for a girl.”

“I do know my weapons. An assassin always knows her weapons.” She replies.

“I’ve always hoped that women like you existed. I never thought I’d get to meet one.” Tinkletoes continues.

Writer Lady turns and looks at Tinkletoes. He is standing as close to Francesca as he can get. In her personal space. Few survive getting into Francesca’s personal space. Okay, no one that Writer Lady has ever written about has survived getting into Francesca’s personal space.

“I can show you how to get more out of a blade. Once you’ve learned from me it won’t matter at all that you’re a girl and naturally weaker or anything.” He offers.

“That’s not necessary. I’m very good with my blades.”

“I could help you be better.”

Francesca looks at Writer Lady then turns back to Tinkletoes. “I have another idea. Why don’t I show you a cutting technique that I recently used on one Vincent Donati. You can let me know what you think.” She leans in, close. “Open your mouth, stick out your tongue…” The assassin raises a hand to Tinkletoes’ face, knife at the ready.

Carp moves swiftly, “How about if you don’t give a live demonstration.”

Francesca looks at Writer Lady. “It will only take a minute.”

“It would also make one hell of a mess.” Writer Lady counters.

“How about if we solve Writer Lady’s problem instead?” Carp asks.

“Another one?” Tinkletoes asks.

“Tinkletoes, this is Francesca. She is a bad ass assassin and Writer’s Lady’s latest creation.” Carp announces.

“Always nice to meet another professional.” He says grinning at Francesca. “She looks okay to me. What’s the problem?”

“An ideal setting for a bad ass like Francesca has already been created.” Carp explains. “By someone else.”

“Commandeer it.” Tinkletoes says. He looks at Francesca. “Writer Lady’s great but she always makes problems way bigger than they need to be.”

“That would be wrong.” Writer Lady says.

“Borrowing something long enough to make it better than it already was is wrong?” The self-proclaimed mercenary asks.

“Ye-ah.” She counters.

“What is so wrong with going in, doing the job, and getting out?”

Carp thinks for a minute. He puts a hand to Writer Lady’s lips before she can continue the argument.

“That might work.”

Writer Lady backs her head away from Carp’s hand, “What might work?”

“Taking a brief skip around the playground and seeing how things play out. Lots of people do it. It’s called fan fiction.”

“Great.” Tinkletoes says. He looks at Francesca. “You ever play a game called Halo?”

“No.”

“I’d be happy to teach you.”

Carp and Writer Lady whisper back and forth to each other. Carp reaches out and stops Tinkletoes as he tries to leave High Command.

“We need you here.”

“I thought y’all were going to play fan fiction.”

“We are.” Carp says, “We’ll be able to tell right away if this story is going to work if you stay here and act some of it out.”

“What???”

“It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. Wick.”

Character Issues

  This post is dedicated to my mother for suggesting a very unexpected place for a character that I had no idea what to do with. Thank you. 

 

Writer Lady sits in the Big Writing Chair at her desk in High Command and reads the scene she is currently working on.

Francesca knew that something was different as she walked through The Archives' darkened Lower Stacks. She could feel the heat of the intruder’s presence well before she saw his/her face. She noticed it as she passed one of the darker aisles. Burnt out bulbs above a row of records that were rarely accessed. When a bulb burned out in The Lower Stacks maintenance was never in much of a hurry to replace them.

He made no movement but she could see that something was obstructing her view of a section of Post WWII missions. He was...Francesca hesitated...taking a whiff of the air in front of the darkened aisle. Yes it was definitely a ‘he.’ A professional. Obviously.

Only a professional would know about this place. Only one of the best would have made it this far without alerting Security. Spotting the next darkened aisle, two rows up and on her right, she quickened her step and began mentally counting. One...two...three...four...five.

The intruder stopped her mid-step just as she had anticipated.

“You took Vinnie Donati.” He said.

Francesca looked the intruder up and down. A smile crossed her lips. “I knew that it was you. You’ve always had this thing about lurking in shadows.”

“It’s called using the cover that is available without losing your tactical advantage.”

She shook her head as she continued walking. “I did not take him.”

“I watched as he was brought in here.”

“If you had waited another ten minutes you could have watched as he was carried back out.”

The man sunk back into the shadows as a door at the opposite end of the building opened. A tall, stocky man with a boxer’s nose stood in the doorway. “Hey! Hey! What did you do to Vinnie?”

Francesca slowly turned around. “We had a discussion about manners. He disagreed. I taught him a lesson.”

“A lesson is a pair of busted kneecaps. This man is bleeding all over the place, having trouble breathing, he’s in and out of consciousness.”

“Your friend must have done something very bad to be dealt with so harshly.”

“Harshly? You mutilated his freaking tongue!”

Francesca looked at the stacks for a moment then back to her addressee. “Vincent Donati has no respect for the books and records in these archives. He has even less for women. I simply altered his body so people will immediately recognize him for the snake that he is.”

Writer Lady navigates the cursor half way down the page, moves it a bit further, deletes a line of text and replaces it with two new ones. Smiling to herself, she moves the cursor to the bottom of the page and continues typing.

“That does not work for me.” A voice says in her ear.

“What doesn’t work for you?” Writer Lady asks without turning her head.

A fingertip painted a bright blood red points to the text on the screen in front of her. “You moved my knife from his throat to his stomach. I would never do that.” The voice continues.

“If you slash his throat blood is going fly all over the place. I’m/You’re...when you change the location of the stab wound you are protecting the records in The Archives. It shows the readers how much value the information holds for you.”

The fingertip moved down the page. “He called me that. Do you think that I wouldn’t kill a man for calling me that? You really need to move the knife back to his throat. I’ve killed men for a lot less.” You said so yourself.” The finger moves down along the page. “Right there.”

“The story was better when the knife was at his throat.” Writer Lady agrees as she proceeds to remove the two new sentences and replace them with the first one.

“I am always right about these things.”

Writer Lady turns and looks the at the owner of the voice. “Why do you have to be so controlling?”

“You wrote me that way. Being in control keeps me alive in a world where few survive.”

Writer Lady shakes her head and turns back to the screen in front of her. “She uses my own words against me. Why do I even bother?” She asks as she rubs her temples.

“Because you have talent. Loads of it.” Carp’s voice answers. “You remind me of a young me. Before I became, Me.” The assassin-in-training crosses High Command stopping behind the Big Writing Chair. He reads over her shoulder. “Very nice. Although Francesca’s dialogue has a familiar ring to it. Who does it remind me of?” Carp thinks for a minute and snaps his fingers. “That adjudicator woman in John Wick.”

“That is because we trained together.” A voice answers.

Carp looks in the direction of the response.

A leggy woman with long dark blonde ombre hair sits in a chair on the far side of Writer Lady’s desk. She is wearing a long sleeved white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and a pair of heels that Carp would be dreaming about later.

“Well hello.” Carp says, his voice deepening.

The woman looks at Carp. “Hello.”

“Who do we have here?” He asks.

“Someone.” Writer Lady answers meekly.

“Someone?”

“Someone nobody else knows about?”

“Do we want to keep it that way?” Carp asks.

“It would be nice for the time being.” Writer Lady answers.

“Too bad, there’s no way that’s gonna happen.”

“Carp Fisher retired romantic fantasy novelist and assassin-in-training.” Carp says extending a hand.

Francesca looks at the outstretched hand and shakes it. “My name is Francesca. I am, The Librarian.”

“It looks like you’re a new character and a bit of a bad ass. What is it that you do?”

“I am The Librarian. I am in charge of all the records of the Hi…”

Writer Lady coughs.

“I am an archivist and an assassin. One of the best.”

Carp raises an eyebrow and looks at Writer Lady. “Another assassin, isn’t that interesting? How many is that now. Three?”

“Two, you’re still in training and Tinkletoes, he specializes in other worldly beings. Francesca is just your good old fashioned assassin.”

“So Librarian what is your specialty, long range shooting?”

Francesca shakes her head. “No nothing so indirect. I prefer blades and other sharp objects.” She rises from her seat, crossing the distance in two swift moves. Carp pales as she leans in and whispers, “Long range shooting is for cowards. I like to move in close, see life leaving my target’s body.” She returns to her chair.

Carp grins, “Aren’t you a fun date.”

Dressing Up

 

Shadows crawl. Down walls and windows. Over ceiling and floor. Across shutters, replacing all color in the room. Enveloping all in complete darkness. Every living being stops waiting for the lights to come back on. For their colorful world to return.

Several seconds pass as fog rolls in along the floor. A wolf howls in the distance. A much louder howl quickly follows. “Furnatche no!” is heard right before the baby dragon runs through the room, jumping on to the couch. He holds his position and peers over the back, sniffing the air for evidence of another animal’s presence. Furnatche howls a second time and waits quietly for a response.

Writer Lady slowly navigates the darkened room stopping next to the baby dragon.“Furnatche, the couch is a no no. Get down.” She instructs. There’s a rustling noise, the thumping of Furnatche’s tail against the floor is the only indication that he has cooperated.

“Thank you Furnatche. Good listening.”

“Well?” House asks.

“Well what?” Tinkletoes barks into the darkness.

“This is my living room décor for Halloween. How do you like it?”

“It’s the end of September. Isn’t it a little bit early for Halloween?”

“No.” House counters.

“Are leaves even falling yet?” Writer Lady asks.

“Halloween décor is so much more enjoyable when there’s a good nip in the air.” Aunt Purdy says.

“Decorating too early is tedious and in poor taste.” Paige announces.

“Who asked you?” House counters.

“When you asked everyone what they thought in a collective manner, young Miss Paige would have been included.”

Paige’s voice can be heard traveling up to the seven foot dragon. “Thank you Diomedes.”

Diomedes begins glowing a sedate sky blue as he looks down at the young girl. “You’re welcome Miss.”

“That’s better.” Carp says.

“Keep glowing man.” Ray adds.

“I can’t see anything.” Mural Man comments.

“Of course you can’t. Your eyes are covered.”

“The walls are covered. I’m a mural, I live on the wall, my eyes are covered. Great.”

“I can’t see much of anything either.” Tinkletoes agrees.

“Isn’t it great? The electricity bill will take a nice dip this month. In December, I can dress up properly like a house is meant to.”

Writer Lady stands next to Diomedes, looks at Tinkletoes and shakes her head.

“Writer Lady says no. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“As much as I love you House. As much as we all love you. When you dress up, you tend to go overboard.” Writer Lady says.

“You all like the changes I made to my interior.”

“We do. It was a long process. It felt like it took months.”

“Beauty takes time.” House counters.

“We got lost...all the time.”

“Change is challenging but humans adjust.”

“I found myself locked between walls more than once.” Tinkletoes points out.

“No one really missed you.”

“That isn’t very nice House.” Writer Lady continues. “It wasn’t just Tinkletoes. We all spent time locked in some closet or room at least once.”

A variety of ‘yeses’ echo throughout the room.

“I don’t hear Ray complaining.”

“Ray was locked in the pantry with the cheese puffs.”

“The cheese puff room. That was a good room. Where did that go?” Ray asks.

“It actually became your room Ray.” House reminds him.

“Cool. Can I go there now?”

“Family meeting Doll. You can’t go now.” Carp says.

“Bummer.”

“No December dress up. The power grid in this town could not support you.” Writer Lady says.

“I’ll use a bit of magic and support it.”

“What happens after Christmas when the entire town is used to better amps and then it goes back to the way things were?”

“It really is too dark in here. Let’s try something else.” Mural Man suggests.

“O-Kay.” House sighs. The fog illuminates bringing more light into the room.

All of the furniture has been replaced with monuments.

“This is a cemetery.” Paige announces.

“Cemeteries are cool.” Ray offers.

The other males nod in agreement.

“Yes. They can be appropriately creepy for Halloween although I can’t help but wonder where the television and the gaming system went.” Writer Lady points out.

Tinkletoes shifts uncomfortably.

“Where is anyone going to sit?” Writer Lady asks.

“We’ll pull up a tombstone?” Peter suggests. The boy sits down on the nearest one. He stands up.

“Too hard?” Paige asks her twin brother.

“And cold. Slightly damp?”

“I know that you like authenticity but if you want to win this one House you're going to have to get a bit more creative.” Carp says.

Lights come up and the living room is back to its usual state.

“The gaming equipment wouldn’t look out of place if the living room was the set of a haunted sci-fi movie.” Peter suggests.

“Like a spaceship?”

“Alien.” Tinkletoes announces.

Carp shakes his head. “People snack in here. Too bloody.”

“How about a haunted spaceship?” Dylan asks.

“Ghosts are scary but not always gory.” Carp nods his agreement.

A smile crosses Writer Lady’s face. “Why don’t we split up into groups and decorate the rooms together?”

Tinkletoes rolls his eyes and mutters.

“A family project would be nice.” Aunt Purdy says.

“I am always up for putting my two cents in.” Carp agrees.

“Brilliant as always Madam.” Diomedes says.

Most everyone agrees. Ray doesn’t answer.

“We can break up into groups and brainstorm in Ray’s room with the cheese puffs.”

“Cool.”