The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 60: Roughly Twenty-Seven Hours Later.

Nep jabs one of his fingers in the air. “First and foremost, if we bailed on this restaurant right here and now Mephis would know something was amiss. If Tyr didn’t pick us up himself, someone else undoubtably would. We’d be as good as dead. I’m waiting for a moment when we will be able to shoot our way out.”

“I love the way you think.”

He nods proudly. “Second: What if he’s telling the truth?” He grins wickedly. “Shit, dude if we get access to that artifact, we’ll be bigger than those Holy Blood/Holy Grail hippies.” He shuffles about in his seat as a young couple pass behind him in white T-shirts It’s a little cold for T-shirts.

Our waitress comes over with three cups of coffee on a scuffed brown tray balanced precariously on her hand. She looks around the table curiously, trying to find where the third person was hiding.

“Did  they gave me the wrong number of people again?” she asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “I’m telling you, that new hostess won’t take to her programming. She’s constantly screwing up orders. I think we’re going to have to have her killed. Like, anyway, are you guys ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?” She watches our body language to see if we want mashed potatoes or french fries.

“We’re waiting for our friend to get back first,” Nepotism says.

“Okay!” she pops and saunters off.

“Don’t you have to go fuck the hostess?” Nepotism growls.

I throw up my hands in defense. “Are you kidding? I’d probably be the fourth or fifth one today. Go ahead, take my turn, I don’t mind.”

“Only someone as sick as you would keep going back to Eva Lorraine.” Nepotism shakes his head. “You’re asking for trouble.”

With a shake of my head, I say, “She shall hence be known as ‘Insatiable Fuck Demon.’”

“Even better than the Marine chick?” he asks. “And the ninja?” He throws back the rest of his coffee and eyes Mephis’s cup hungrily. “If I remember correctly, they were all sent to kill you.”

Mephis enters and sits across from me. “Here’s the deal.” He grabs the hollow aluminum railing of the chair next to Nepotism. “The party has already started, with a lot of SpectraCom top brass present. There is a big unveiling at midnight.”

“How are we supposed to get in?” Nepotism asks.

“We all have tuxedos waiting at the safe-house, which you will all be billed for later. Don’t think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.” Mephis sits. “I wasn’t able to get a program for making invitations, so we’re going to have to break in.”

“We’re breaking in?” I ask. “Your plan was to score a requested interview through felony?”

“Mr. Solomon is not interested in doing the interview this evening.” Mephis asks and doesn’t wait for answers. “At 8pm, there will be a distraction that will clear the terrace. We slip in like we’ve been there the whole time.”

“Are they ready for us at the safe-house?” I ask.

Go to Part 61

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 58: The Previous Evening.

I laugh. “Tell him to come here. He can bring his trilobites. Why do I give a shit about a trilobite collector, anyway?” I got desperate with a few episodes of The Unnatural, and now every not job on the Net wants to tell his story of secret alien societies trying to conquer the planet. “If he says trilobites built an advanced society, tell him I’ve heard it,” I say, starting to rise.

Nepotism is shaking his head. “New Age chatrooms all over the Net are buzzing,” he says. “I spent all morning reading about this. I could have told you everything this morning, if we’d gone to breakfast.” Nepotism crosses his arms.

Mephis leans in. His teeth come together in an overacted, cartoon animal grin. “It doesn’t matter a fuckstain whatever some pagan savage priest used this thing for in some drug-addled orgy. Holding this artifact lets you write your own history. We only know Rameses the Great hacked the dicks off the 10,000 Hittites he slew by himself is because that’s what some archeologist thought it said on a wall in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He points a long, knobby finger at me. “The lucky winner can ascribe whatever whacked-out, fucked up backstory he wants, and the rest of the world has to accept it.”

“I only found descriptions of the artifact,” Nepotism says. “A couple blogs referenced a photo, but none had it.” He nods to Mephis. “Have you seen it?”

Mephis draws a notepad from his pocket like he practiced a thousand times. In pencil he draws a line, and two curved lines twisting around it.

“A caduceus?” Nepotism asks.

Mephis acknowledged, but continued without speaking, drawing circles for snake heads at the end of the lines. “Above the snakes is a bust of Hermes.”

“The Caduceus was his symbol for thousands of years, and came into our time as the symbol of the physician,” Nepotism says. He’s hooked. “The Greeks and Egyptians agreed Hermes and Thoth were the same entity.”

I screw up my lips. “This is stupid. Nep, I’m going home.” I rise again, but Mephis pushes me back down. “Mephis, if you ever touch me again, I will put a bullet between your eyes.”

Mephis grins. “I’d like to see you try.” I intend to respond.

“It’s cool,” Nepotism says. “What Mephis says is correct. We’re talking shifts in world religions.” His eyes bug and his entire body tenses to emphasize his final words. “It’s happening right in front of us.”

“You want to know what it’s being called on the Internet?” Mephis asks.

“The biggest mistake of Dr. Filth’s life,” I say, finishing my pint glass and pouring another. The pitcher is almost gone. It’s my turn to buy. Why isn’t my food here yet?

Tyr says, “They’re calling it ‘the Alarm Clock at the End of the World.”

I look up, eyes wide.

“That’s hot,” Nepotism says proudly. He looks from me to Mephis.

“It will wake some global consciousness to unite mankind in peace and unity,” Mephis says, waving his arms around.

“That’s ridiculous.” I calm myself.

“I didn’t come up with it,” Tyr says defensively. “That’s how Mr. Solomon wants it to be known.”

“I’m in,” Nepotism says, slamming his hand down the table hard enough, to send our glasses wobbling around and spilling.

“Watch the fuck out!” I cry, diving out of the beer streams that cascade over the table’s edge and pool on the bench beside me. I squeegee the expanding pool away with my laminated menu. "We’re cryptozoologists, not conspiracy theorists. What do we want with this Alarm Clock? Where the fuck is my food?” I crane my neck to see the bar.

“You’re superheros,” Mephis says.

“That has never been confirmed,” says Nepotism.

Mephis speaks grave and close.  “If you help me steal this artifact, you will be preventing one of the greatest disasters our society has ever faced.”

Go to Part 59

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 56: Late That Same Afternoon.

“Go ahead,” Mephis says with a hideous grin on his face, gesturing to the plump girl.

She looks at him and gives a broad, stupid smile.

With a shrug, I say, “If my eggs are runny, you’re fucked.”

Remaining bent over, she answers, “Shall I follow you to the men’s room?”

Mephis bursts out laughing. “See! Isn’t that a riot? I could seriously do this all day.”

Nepotism slaps him with a disapproving glare and slides into the booth, claiming the middle seat. “Dude, that’s fucked up. Think of the implications. I mean, putting workers into altered states? You are making a human being into a machine. This is a major atrocity against the working class. This girl is put in a state of mind where she will fuck Dr. Filth to make minimum wage.”

“She should be happy for the opportunity,” I say.

“Would you like anything else?” the girl asks, clasping her hands in front of her. Her expression shows no recognition of the conversation we’re having at full-volume a few feet from her face in an otherwise empty room.

“Send us coffee and get out of my sight,” Mephis growls, fighting out of his jacket.

“Yes sir!” she coos and runs off

“Gets boring fast.” He puts his jacket on the edge of the booth behind us.

“Dude, seriously, you shouldn’t do that shit,” Nepotism says in a low voice, carefully watching the window. “What if the wrong person overhears you? We’re all fucked for your amusement.” A brown Cadillac pulls in slow to the parking lot and parks outside our window.

“What do you have to do to get in touch with your friends?” I ask, not really caring one way or another if Mephis abuses a hostess in this dive. You have to know what you are getting into when you take the job.

“There is a payphone out front,” he answers, standing up and walking away. “Remember, shoot the waitress if she asks a question she shouldn’t ask.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter, repositioning myself at the bend in the seat and drape my hands over the pleather railing. “Why won’t Mephis say who we are going to meet?”

“It feels fishy,” Nepotism says, staring off into space. “Mephis’s up to something, but I’m not sure what. You see the Triple R out front?”

I nod. Whatever the driver of that car is doing, it’s completely cloaked by the inky windows. “Why don’t we high-tail it out of here right now before he gets back.” My fingers tense, reaching for my gun as the car door opens at long last. “I’d rather not find ourselves surrounded by enemy agents with weapons drawn.” With unfair effort, a rotund elderly man in a beige bowler extricates himself from the steel sarcophagus he had been entombed within. It’s not a Scrubber, unless Teddy Roosevelt counts as a dead writer.

Go to Part 57

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 52: Epilogue, Part 1

I drop the sword and split, taking the time to retrieve my Desert Talon. I don’t have bullets, but it would make a good hammer. Shock grips everyone, giving me a head start to get in the shadows back stage. I cut through the temple, where superstitious road crew are hesitant to follow. All of the bodies are gone. Backstage is dark, and the scene is chaos. Most people are back here, and when the feedback goes down, word gets around fast. There will be trouble if I’m not clear before someone finds a light switch.

I take refuge in what appears to be an unused dressing room and slam the door. Boxes are stacked on the vanity counter, and the mirror is streaked. I stand in the darkness, catching my breath. The hallway is mostly quiet by the time my panting has slowed enough to take my phone out of my pocket. I have full coverage. I use the light to find a desk lamp. I first type Nepotism’s number, but erase it.  He’s in enough danger now. I call Eva Lorraine.

She picks up on the first ring, like she’s been waiting. “Doc?” she asks breathlessly. “Are you okay?”

“Solomon is dead,” I say.

She is silent. “I’m sorry, Doc,” she says. “I got paid a lot of money.”

“Mephis Tyr is dead too.”

She sighs. “I’m only getting half of a lot of money. I’ll still split it with you if you drop all this and run away with me.”

I bury my chin in my chest. “If we see each other, you’re going to jail.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” I let the silence breath. This is done, but neither of us is eager to say goodbye. “Are you still in the mansion?” Her voice echoes in my ear and outside in the hall. The door opens and Eva Lorraine slides inside. Her leather dress is unzipped past her breasts, keeping her painfully close to indecent.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, showing her my gun.

She pushes my hand down. “If you had bullets, you still wouldn’t shoot me.” She’s right.

I want to embrace her, want to make use of this dark room, but I can’t. The line between us is clear, good and evil. I’m not going to cross it.

“You’re not getting away unscathed,” she says, grabbing my dick through my pants. I’m ready for the fight. I unzip her leather shirt and let those beautiful breasts free. Her nipples are fat and erect and feel wonderful between my fingertips. She has out my cock, and she shoves her fingers in my mouth to wet them before she’s jacking me off. I get my free hand into her leather pants and squeeze her ass, driving her crotch into me. She drops to her knees and sucks my cock like it’s never been sucked. We are completely exposed in the hall with a hundred security guards, searching me out for murder, but I couldn’t care less.

When Eva comes back up for my lips, her pants are down around her thighs, and her groin is slick all about. Her vagina is soft when I slide my fingers in. I’m on my knees immediately with my tongue up inside her. She leans against the counter and I take off her boots. She’s bucking against my face. My beard is saturated with her wetness. She pushes me down, pulls off her pants and mounts me. I can only get my slacks around my knees before I’m in, and after that Eva is in control. She fucks the living shit out of me.

I get up and bend her over at the mirror so she can watch herself as I fuck her from behind. I finger her ass until she cums, clamping her muscles around my dick hard enough to hurt. She slows to enjoy the moment. I slap her ass hard enough to leave a print. That gets Eva’s engines running once more, and all I can do is hold her hips and try to stay inside. One wrong move could break my dick in two.

Eva pounds against me furiously and I spank her more. She cries out a little with each strike, but that only makes her fuck me harder. I have two fingers in her ass to the second knuckle, and she’s working them further in with each pump. She cums a second time, arching her back and groaning loud enough she could alert any passing security.

Driving hard against me three more times, she slides off and collapses on her back, breasts heaving with exertion. I’m winded. She looks at me and smirks, and pulls me down on her with one of her long legs. Part of me wants to decline. I’m spent without being spent, but when I slide in, I know I’m there for the long haul. She’s squeezing her ass and it’s making wet smacks on the concrete floor. Her legs are wrapped around me and her heels are dug deep in the backs of my thighs. Her fingernails cut deep lines in my shoulders. She has strength left only for a whimper each time I thrust into her. Her body tenses, and she cums a third time. When it passes, she can do no more but lay beneath me.

I need to finish before Eva catches her second wind. I may not survive if she goes for a fourth orgasm. I pump harder and faster until I burst inside Eva, burying my wet beard in her shoulder to mask my long, bear growl of a groan. I collapse and we become one continuous jelly mass. Most of the jiggle is me, but she’s got it in the right places.

I roll onto my back. The cold concrete feels good. We are silent and panting a minute before she sits up. Afterglow is over, we’re back to business. “Get dressed,” she says, putting on her leather shirt and fumbles to zip it. “We need to get you out of here.”

As finished as I thought I was, she looks so good dressed above with nothing below. I feel a stir in my loins. She throws my pants and shoes at me and repeats, “Get up!”

I’m trying, but I’m still watching her, stepping into the tiny crimson thong that barely conceals her even when it’s in place. We left a puddle in the middle of the floor. She’s pulling on her boots and I’m in my pants at last. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says.

“That’s not my fault,” I plead, buttoning my shirt. I know it’s going to be a long time before we do that again. As quickly as she’s dressed, Eva’s out the door. I follow, but she’s gone in the shadows.

I find Kara approaching, alert, awake, and alone.

“Where is Nepotism?” I ask.

“He went back to find the Alarm Clock,” she says. “We need to get to the rendezvous point. Come on, I know a way out.”

Go to Part 53

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 39

That Evening.

I find my seatbelt and snap it in place. Nepotism splats his heavy foot on the gas. I grip the doorhandle with both hands as we navigate a maze of police-free side streets, effortlessly almost colliding with any number of cars, bicyclists, telephone poles, trucks, dogs, joggers, bruthas hustling on street cornas, houses, and buses that stand in our way. When we finally get to the Spot, Nepotism needs to pry my fingers loose with a crowbar and throw a glass of water in my face to bring me back my senses.

We claim our usual rickety back table. No matter which side you choose, it’s tilted perfectly to splash beer in your lap when you topple your glass. Nepotism stops at the bar to get our pitcher. I briefly look over the  the laminated menu folded on the table, deciding on my usual, a medium rare Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger with extra bacon and steak sauce, accompanying my dish with onion rings instead of french fries, which I will regret tomorrow morning. I wait until Nep gets to the table with a pitcher of Moosehead before I go up to place my order.

The bartender is the newest in an unending string of nubile young girls that the manager hires, gets addicted to heroin, fucks, then employs for two weeks before sending them out the door. The place been has been under investigation as a junk front for years. The problem is, the heroin is a front for something much darker.

“What can I get you, hon?” she asks, leaning across the bar to hear me over the ear-busting Velvet Underground on the juke. She adjusts her neck so I can see down her wife-beater, down between her bruised breasts to the base of her dirty bra.

“Gimmie a Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger,” I tell her with a dead serious straight face. “Medium rare.”

“Everything on that?”

“Extra bacon,” I order. Her fingers work at the air in a distanced, automatic way, as if she were writing the order. “Extra cheese. Extra steak sauce.”

“Okay,” she says, breaking our gaze and going off to the register.

“I could make you cum with a conversation.”

“What was that?” she asks, looking over at me sweetly, curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as her fingers elegantly punch my order.

“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

She floats back and leans on the bar again, smiling seductively. “That’ll be ten-fifty.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I hate to be a bother, but can I have that with onion rings?” This is an easy way to get them for no extra money.

“Can I get a name?” she asks, grinning?

You don’t know me? “Dr. Filth?”

“Dr. Filth?” she gasps. “The Dr. Filth?”

“Yeah,” I say, a little irritated. “The Dr. Filth.”

“I’ll have this out in a few minutes.”

Go to Part 40

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 38

Late The Following Morning

I cover my face and take a deep breath. “She took my notebook.”

Nepotism licks his lips and sucks in a slow, arduous inhalation. “And what is in that notebook?”

“All our research on the Pisceans. I can’t find it, it’s fucking gone.”

Nepotism leans in. “You’re sure she took it?”

“No signs of a break in, nothing I noticed.”

He goes to my  stereo, thumbing through a stack of CD’s. “We need to get it back.” He takes a case out of the stack and puts the rest back on the shelf. “If she reads it, all three of us are going to be in grave danger. You, me, and her. No one can see the connections we’ve made.” He puts the CD case in my hand.

I let go of his collar and look at it.“Powerslave,” I say.

“The Pisceans found the equation,” he whispers. He looks cold in my eyes. “Dead-fucking-men.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand, turning the case over and over in my hands. The Temple of Pharaoh Eddie stares up at me from between standing statues of Set and two Sphinx. Behind them, a massive, golden pyramid ripples with energy as slaves carry a sarcophagus up the steps. Vic Rattlehead could never be so majestic.

“A manual for making kings, dude. Written in the stars,” he says. “The Sun and Moon were Gods that dictated every aspect of primitive man: when he was awake, when he slept, when his lands were fertile, when his women were fertile, all of these things were connected to these two strange lights in the sky. So they started looking at the rest of these lights, finding significance in the corresponding events on Earth. The Zodiac.”

“You lost me,” I say.

“The Pisceans want to make a Divine King.”

“You think Eva stole my book for the Pisceans?”

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” he says with a middle school giggle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You did, you always get that face when you’ve fucked a double-agent!” When Nepotism cackles, I can see his dancing uvula. “How could you do that? I mean, it’s not like there was even a question. You knew she was working against us. She didn’t even try to hide it. How many times is this going to happen before you learn? Don’t you remember Marcy, Mister Literally-Can’t-Shoot-Straight-To-Save-His-Life?”

“What about Venus?” I demand, exasperated.

He points to the CD case. “Look inside.”

I open the cover to the booklet. The Eye of Horus beams a red triangle down the page.

“You know the game, ‘the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?’”

“Degrees of Separation,” I say apprehensively. “Kevin Bacon is not in the name. Connect him to Jason Voorhees in six steps.”

Nepotism shakes his head. “Connect him to Jason in two. It’s six steps to Godzilla. A friend of his father’s uncle played with a guy that carried the rubber suits to the set. Supposedly you can connect him to anything. I connected him to the Knights Templar. Him and every other jackass that’s ever made a lasting impression on the world.” Nepotism grins like a wolf sighting prey, lips pulling back to reveal his perfect, gleaming teeth. 

Mankind is the only animal that bares its teeth to signify friendship. For all others, it’s a sign they are about to attack. 

Nepotism smiles a wicked smile. “To become part of the conspiracy, you make yourself  part of the conspiracy.”

Go to Part 39

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 37

Two Nights Prior.

Eva was fed up with the corruption in Metro City. She knew the Party Mayor was a villain, and she wanted him removed from office. She hated Stupendous Guy and the patriarchy of the Superhero Gang. In Lapis Exilis, she found an organization ready for war. It was a means to shake up the order. I wasn’t paying attention to any of this. She immediately began fucking me. This was quite the stir in superhero circles. St. Eva celebrated every victory with mind-blowing sex, and she stopped going on missions with anyone but me.

I’m still pretty drunk. We’ve moved to the bedroom. I’m close to done, but she could go on all night if I let her. The sooner I finish, the more pissed she will be about it. I need to talk about anything to think about something else right now. “Nepotism says that Venus is the secret the ancients used to pick their king.”

Her hips stop mid-buck and she gasps. “Filthy, what did he say?”

“I don’t know, Nepotism talks about all kinds of shit. Keep going! Keep going!”

“Venus,” she says, putting a hand on my chest and pumping her ass once more. “He told you about Venus?”

I hesitate my answer, and she pulls her body tight against mine and pumps here hips until I cum, body so tense that I can’t keep from blowing a little mucus out my nose.

Not even a moment for afterglow, Eva slides away and paces the bedroom. “Filthy,” she whispers. “Filthy, this is bad, this is really bad.”

“What?” I hiss, pulling away from here. “What’s so bad?”

“Filthy, you shouldn’t know this... I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you... I’m so sorry, you’ve got to forgive me.”

“What’s the matter?” I demand, pawing at the pants around my ankles. “What’s going on?”

“I thought Solomon was lying,” she sobs and embraces me, burying her face in my chest. “Oh, God, Filthy. Please forgive me.”

“Solomon who? Joshua Solomon?” I ask. Their affair had been all over the news. We were broken up long before, so I had no reason to be mad, but I still stopped buying his albums and wouldn’t listen to anything prior to prison. “Are you still talking to him?” I ask, stroking the back of her head. “Eva, what’s going on?”

She pushes away and looks up in my eyes. “If I told you that, both of our lives would be in danger.” She pushes past me, finds her pants and underwear and dresses. “Let’s keep this on a need-to-know basis.”

“Fucking tell me!” I shout.

She gets on the bed and lays on top of me. “Why do you think Scrubbers would be looking for you?” She asked. “The Pisceans wouldn’t read a news article about you.” She pressed her body firmly into the curves of mine, creating an air-tight seal between us. “Watch yourself. Especially around Nepotism Baldwin.”

I dismiss it with a shake of my head. “Eva, you’re being...”

She grabs my biceps and pulls me straight. “Promise me, Filthy. Fucking promise me!” She takes a deep breath and calms. “If Nepotism says anything about the Knights Templar, you’ve got to tell me right away, okay?”

“Give it a rest...”

“Who else do you have to trust?”

“Fine,” I say at last, still not looking at her. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Good.” She embraces me again and whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

Go to Part 38

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 35

The Following Afternoon.

“Do you mind not talking about slimy towels? I  have neighbors, you know.”

He flushes the toilet and wanders out. “Let’s go.”

I stare at him a few seconds more without saying a word.

“Wait!” he cries, jabbing a finger in the air and the other hand in his pocket. “I’ve got to call Mephis first.” He takes his cell phone out of his pants pocket and holds it up triumphantly, dialing with his thumb. “I told him I’d call if we went out tonight.”

“Don’t invite Mephis,” I moan. “Jesus, Nepotism, he’s the last person I want to see tonight.”

“Hey. Mephis there? Nepotism. Baldwin.”

“Come on, Nep, I don’t want him going out with us.”

“Hey. Nepotism. ‘Sgoin’ on? Not much? Yeah, me either. Just hanging out with Dr. Filth.”

“If you invite that pompous asshole to the bar, I will never speak to you again.”

“Yeah. We’re just about to head over to the Spot, grab a few beers, maybe get some wings.” He looks up at me. “Is it wing night?”

“You asshole. You fucking asshole!”

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll see you there. All right, all right. Have a good one.” He turns off his cell phone and turns to me. “He’s going to meet us there.”

“I can’t stand that guy. Why the hell would you invite him out? Especially when we have so much going on? How are we supposed to save Eva Lorraine with Mephis dogging our heels?”

“You barely met him.”

“He’s got wood for me.”

“You think that about everyone.”

“I’m an attractive man,” I say modestly, hand to my gut.

“You will be happy to hear that Mephis wants to help you with another episode of ‘the Unnatural.’”

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you without a beer.” The front seat of his car is still wet with slime, so despite his protestations, I sit amid the chaos and destruction of the back seat.

“I’m not your fucking chauffeur,” he grumbles, buckling his seatbelt. “Fucking cab driver.”  I’m still trying to find my belt amid the piles of clothing, books, fast-food wrappers, CD cases, folders, papers, and fliers. “After all, you’re the one who made the mess.”

“You shot the guy!”

“To save your life!” He shakes his head and pulls out of the driveway. “Do you want me to clean your bathroom too? You could have gotten rid of your clothes, or put down newspapers, or something to keep you from destroying my only means of transportation.”

Go to Part 36

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 34 

The Night Before.

“I’m happy to not hang around you sociopaths,” I purr, fingertips dancing on her shoulders as she pulls on my jeans, all the while sucking and licking at the skin above my pubic hair. “It didn’t take much thought.”

She works her way back up my stomach and chest and kisses me hard on the lips. I let her tongue push in like an invader, submitting to her every whim. “You loved every minute of it.”

I spin her around and press her hard up against the wall, rolling her pants down her ass. “Did you feel all the eyes on us back there?” I whisper in her ear. “It was so fucking hot.”

“They are probably talking about us right now,” she coos. Though we both worked for the Superhero Gang, St. Eva and I didn’t know each other for a couple years. Unless there was a crisis, I was stationed in Doom City, and St. Eva stuck to Hero Island near the Superhero Gang’s alabaster tower at the heart of Metro City. We met when she attended one of Lapis Exilis’s poetry readings.

“Nepotism thinks they will kill me if I even talk to you.”

Eva slides from beneath me staying out of reach for a moment before catching the arms of the chair and easing her body forward to kneel, ass held up in offering. I cross the room and take hold of her hips, maneuvering mine to greet her.

“I don’t know if you can trust Nepotism,” she moans as I work into her.

“Don’t talk about him now,” I say, running my finger tips up her stomach and cup her breasts.

“They would, and they could, and you know that,” she pants, arching her back and wrapping her arm around my neck, dragging my head down to kiss her. This is a ploy though, and I can feel her tongue searching my teeth, probing for transmitters, desperate to see if I’m wired. I block her advances and push her back into submission with my forearm. She pulls herself away catlike and my body spasms. Eva swivels onto her back and brings her calf to my face for me to kiss. Her eyes lock with mine as she lingers, close, waiting for me to advance on her. “You have no idea how deep you are,” she sneers. “You’re smart to take me back.”

I laugh. Hard. “Please! You’re little better than a glorified groupie. A hundred other girls could have been here tonight.”

She pulls away and I can’t help but follow. “That’s what I thought,” she giggles, relaxing, allowing me to re-enter.

Go to Part 35

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 33

The Previous Afternoon.

The car ride back to my apartment is more less in silence as I towel away as much black slime as I can. Nepotism tries to keep my mind off it, but nothing he can possibly say would contribute to the situation in a positive way. After this many years, I’m pretty good at tuning him out.

At home, I take a much-needed shower and stuff my torn, slimy clothes into garbage bags inside garbage bags. It’s approaching evening. Nepotism is on my couch, flipping through a coffee-table book about great artists from history. A self-portrait of Van Gogh stares out morosely, clearly disappointed by my choice of lifestyle. After Van Gogh shot himself in the stomach he crawled home to bed. His brother, Theo, delivered news the wound was superficial, and Vincent was sure to live. Van Gogh looked away and said,  “I’ve been a failure at everything in life, I don’t want to be a failure at this as well.” With that, he gave up the ghost.

This, and other tidbits came from the 70's cult program, In Search Of..., which asked the daring questions. Does Bigfoot lurk in the woods, the Loch Ness Monster swim in the depths, and are Great White Sharks immortal? I watched reruns every day after school. “You remember that episode of In Search Of...  About the Dogon?” I ask, tossing him a beer. Incidentally, despite several experiments, Great Whites were not immortal.

“Planet Sirius. Home of the Lizard People,” he says, not looking up from the book in his lap. “The Dogon are practically Stone Age to this day, how can they see a planet behind the Dog Star?”

I groan and sit down in the chair next to the couch. “Does this all come back to Sirius? Do you think there really are Lizard People?”

“Oh, hell no, dude. Don’t start yapping about that shit. Those people are crazy,” he says, looking up from the magazine. He open his cell phone. “The Spot starts serving dinner in twelve minutes. “We can finally get breakfast.” He slams the book closed and jumps to his feet. “We’ll get there just in time.”

I wait, staring a few seconds.

“Wait, let me piss first,” he says, wandering off to my gore-strewn washroom.

I nod and lean back in the chair. “These people are interconnected, twisted up in the same lies and deceptions. What if there is some kind of extra terrestrial agenda being furthered?”

“You’re trying to live an X-File. Horrible in the reruns, dude. Don’t be that guy. Did you just leave your slimy towels laying on the floor?”

Go to Part 34

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 32 

The Following Night, At The Beginning of the Concert.

Solomon’s first tour was spent sleeping on couches and in garages, playing in bars and small clubs. The hired band quit by the third show, and Solomon named his new band Sado-Massochrist. That name continued through his entire career regardless of band members passing through a door that revolved through cities across the country. Solomon never contacted the stadiums that wanted him, and never hired a road crew to carry his amps. His advertising was flyers and word of mouth as he passed through town. His contract was officially revoked the first time he cut himself on stage. After that, smashing a bottle became a regular part of the show.

Solomon smiles broadly, dancing again, taking the microphone off the stand. The people are standing now, lost in trances of their own. He turns left, getting his body into the rhythm and sings, “Ye hooo wauu,” then turns back to the crowd and croons, “Ahh-Donai!”

I narrow my eyes. This is a ritual. Nepotism and I once attended only three meetings of the O.T.O because five of the other six members were D&D nerds looking for the secret to casting magick missile. They talked at length of the naked orgy sex-magick rituals we would perform. Only one female was in the group, and I wasn't sure which she was, so I lost interest before the clothes came off. Through Nepotism, I still accumulated a mass of Crowley texts in the process. I recognize the steps and chants. Solomon is casting a spell!

Some people are already so ecstatic that they jump up and down in place, dancing still in mid air. “Eheiehhha!” Solomon wails as he turns right, and immediately back to the crowd, screaming “Ahhhhh-Glaaaahhh!” He throws his arms wide, resembling a cross. It seems everyone in the audience knows the words, shouting right along with Solomon as he sings, “Before me Raphael, be-hind-me Gaaabriell! On my right hand sits Mich-ael, on my left hand seated Aur-iel! For a-bout-me flames the Pent-a-gram! And in the col-umn stands the six-rayed star!”

The music fades to clapping, and Solomon puts the microphone back on the stand. “How is everyone doing tonight?” Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett are strumming their guitars, bobbing their heads. David Meyers is tapping his snare drum. “It’s a pleasure to have you all here with us tonight.”

The ghouls are standing in the pews. I don’t believe I’ve been seen, but I also have no idea where Nepotism could be. All eyes are on Solomon. If I keep in cover, I can get myself out.

“I’m sure by now you know we are Sado Massochrist,” Solomon says, allowing a moment for applause. “Standing on my left and right are Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett, and that’s Dave Meyers back there on the drums.” Behind him, the band is still playing, drowning out most of the crowd noise. “Now, I hope you aren’t all here just because you are my employees.”

A communal chuckle rises above the music and Solomon looks to his band-mates. “Because we have something very special in store tonight, and it’s a pleasure to have such a close family here with us.”

I make a dash for the door and find myself looking up in the eyes of a horrendous thing. The horselike face wears a perpetual scowl and the eyes radiate hate. The jacket is black and stiff as cardboard. The thing reaches out with long, knobby fingers that crackle with blue energy. It is Armitage, a Scrubber crafted to appear as H.P.Lovecraft.

I roll before it can get a hand on me, but its attention lingers only a moment. It advances on the audience of unsuspecting ghouls holding their hands out to Solomon.

Blue energy lances from Armitage’s fingers, burning the back row. The discharge bounces about like electricity, igniting clothing and charring skin. The kids are screaming, but the web of energy has spread to immobilize them all. Sado-Mass is playing a drawn out introduction, loud enough to cover the screams.

Undeterred, Solomon passes through the scorching discharge. It arcs above him, creating a path for the band to follow. Guitar and bass continue playing but David Meyers has abandoned his drumset. Fingers reach out for one last caress against Solomon as the flesh is burnt to ash. By now all have recognized their role as sacrifice and have embraced it whether they chose or not.

The blue fire dwindles as Solomon passes Armitage and the Scrubber turns to watch. The band passes, and I don’t believe any have seen me. I don’t know where Nepotism is. If Armitage should get his hands on either, we’ll be left like the smoking pile of charred cloth and bone spread across the broken pews.

Armitage fades into the shadows, following Solomon to the stage. If I don’t do something, no one else will.

Go to Part 33

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 31

The Next Morning.

“It’s wine,” I say.  I shuffle a few magazines and toss him a copy of SWIFT with Joshua Solomon’s wild-eyed face glaring out. “They don’t want to spit in our food, they want our money. What if we ended up dying from some untreatable disease their dishwasher hawks into my omelette? That’s bad business,” I say. “They expect us to show up late. They don’t have enough staff right now to handle two simultaneous customers. Extra help comes at twelve-thirty for the influx of college kids in the next fifteen minutes. They are more equipped to take care of us when there are fifty people than just the two of us.”

“That’s not true,” Nepotism says disinterestedly, not looking up from the magazine.

“It is true. I can’t go this morning.”

“Why not?”

I stop short. “I have somewhere I have to go.” I shouldn’t tell him. It’s hours more trouble if I tell him.

“Where.”

“I, uh, I have stuff I have to do.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff.”

“Stuff stuff.”

“That’s not much of a definition.”

“It’s none of your damn business.”

“I have important news, that’s all.”

“What is it?”

“It’s long, I was going to tell you over breakfast.”

“Tell me now.”

“No, you have places to be.”

“You’re right, so hurry the fuck up,” I say impatiently, looking around for my boots.

“Does this have anything to with St. Eva?”

I look at him over my shoulder. “Why would it have anything to do with Eva?”

“Because she was driving away when I got here.”

Go to Part 32

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 30

The Previous Night.

I turn away as Tyr starts his impassioned goodbye over his shoulder while he and Nepotism go back the other way. I’m barely across the road when Eva’s car slows down for me to climb in the passenger seat. “Eva,” I whisper, letting her name slide off my tongue and hang like steam in the air. She is tense, struggling to not let her eyes deviate from the road, for at these speeds, a mere glace could crash us.

“Doc,” she growls. “You’re a prick, such a fucking prick.” She smiles lustfully. “Being at that party. Being so fucking hot. Being employed by the wrong people.”

“Au Contraire,” I whisper with a raised eyebrow. “It’s you that works for the wrong people, my darling.”

“Your political intrigue is so cute,” she says with a slight ring of sarcasm.

“And so is your ass,” I counter. “Drive faster.”

She stomps on the gas and we make it inside my apartment in minutes. She struggles out of my arms as soon as we are in the door, slams me against the wall and kisses me, pushing her tongue into my throat.“The kids in Metro City still believe in you,” she whispers.  “They are ready to fight.”

“I’m not allowed to hear about those things,” I say, unbuckling her belt and unbuttoning her leather pants. I try to pull them down, and she touches my lips. 

“Says who?” she asks.

“The Old Priest himself,” I say. “If Nepotism and I even think about Lapis Exilis, they’ll have Scrubbers looking for us.”

Lapis Exilis started as a poetry group. I hate poetry, but I like poets, as long as they are not reading me poetry. Poets always have good booze around. The open mic was in Old Gil’s Book Shop, where I worked on the weekends. Lapis Exilis gave me an opportunity to close my eyes, drink a beer, and let someone else do the talking. I let the words unfocus into white noise, and sometimes fell asleep entirely. That’s is how I never noticed the poetry readings were becoming increasingly radicalized. After readings I would tell the poets I loved their work. The poets got offended of you critiqued them anyway.

“You think Scrubbers are coming here? For you?” she asks, pulling away. She smiles wickedly, her shimmy driving me out of my mind so bad that I reach for her, but she comes in on her own, whispering, “You’re piddling your pants over a ghost story, Doc,” she purrs, fingers delicately working at my studded leather belt. “The Scrubbers are too busy playing strip poker with Santa Claus hoping to see the Tooth Fairy’s tits. They don’t exist. It’s... a... pity...” she says between kisses as her lips work her way down my bare stomach.

Go to Part 31

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 29

The Following Morning.

“That bitch!” I shout and tear through the drawers with equally disappointing results. “That fucking bitch!”

I take a step away from the desk to assess the situation. What the fuck am I going to do now? I knew I shouldn’t have left her unattended. I should have stayed awake until she left. What the fuck was I thinking? How far could she have gotten with it, and who could she have shown it to? How fucked am I right now?

“Fuck,” I mutter again and stomp out of the office. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I stand in the center of the room left hand raised slightly, right hand covering my face. I need to find Eva Lorraine.

With some luck, she hasn’t gotten far. Was that her on the phone? Simon didn’t really sound like a man. No wonder I didn’t remember what that kid was talking about. This was a hell of a brash theft.  

BANGBANGBANG on the front door of my apartment.

“Whoisit!” I bark.

“Nepotism.”

I relax a little and scratch my ass. “Hold on, I’m naked.”

“Fuck, dude,” he moans, bashing what sounds like his forehead into the other side. I'm the first admit that's not a pretty thought. “Get fucking dressed!”

I shamble into my bedroom and struggle into a pair of jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. By the time I’m back, Nepotism has entered and taken up residence on the couch, looking through a guitar magazine with Slayer on the cover.

“Did you read this?” he asks without looking at me.

I sit, sitting in the chair by the wall. “Why are you here so early?” I scan the room for a clock. I can’t remember where it might be.“It’s still before noon.”

“It’s 11:45,” he says, pointing to the flashing clock by the TV. He taps his foot on the coffee table to signify his disdain. “Eleven-Forty-Five,” he drawls. “The diner is only open until one.” Nepotism violently flips through the magazine. “You should really lock your door.”

Bitch didn’t even lock the door behind her. I rub the sleep into my eyes. “We can get there at 12:45 and they will still serve us.” Should I tell him what Eva took? Should I tell him Eva was here?

“They hate when you do that,” he tells me. “More chance they will spit in your food.”

“Everyone goes there fifteen minutes before the diner closes. That’s why we always fight for a table.”

“And they hate it when everyone does. I don’t want to get spit in my food, do you?”

“They don’t spit in your food.”

“But they want to.” Nepotism tosses the magazine down on the coffee table. “You got that  Swift where Solomon says he wants to give up music and make beer?”

Go to Part 30

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 28

The Previous Night.

Two sausage reach me, and I pass neither to Tyr, he reaches around me to take one that followers. He’s still smiling. They are wrapped in wax paper that is clear with grease, and all come with peppers, onions, and mustard, no substitutions. I tear back the veil on the first and bite the knobby end. The juice squirts down my throat and gets my stomach churning. An ocean of bacteria splashes down on Ground Zero and fans out, delighted to find a limitless array of chemical and poison mixed in with my juices. Entire universes form and flare out with each chomp. It gives you something to live for.

Outside, the smell of sweaty bodies burns off quickly to strange industrial scents that remain of Parlor City’s manufacturing days. Nearly all industrial materials had to stop here on their way to rail stations across New York State. Factories sprung up to meet the demands and possibilities of what those raw materials could become. Shoes, bullets, flight simulators, and even the first microchip were shipped from Parlor City, and no expense or regulation was spared to deliver on time. Little spills were covered up with caution-tape and a smile. Those chemicals remain in the ground, the air, and the bloodstream of every person foolish enough to drink the water that smells of rotten fish. The river still runs brown and cloudy from the days before the water treatment plant, and raw sewage was dumped freely. Dead eyes stare from the malformed feature of every face. I grew up here, but it was never my home.

After Metro City, there was nowhere else for me to go. No one wanted a slightly-used and completely disgraced superhero. I ran back home and stuck my head under a pillow. The city is a black hole that sucks me to my booth in the bar. The fighting is so far off. I’m fat and sedentary, resolute to make my shows and collect my royalties. My days as a revolutionary were something I watched on TV. Foggy, unclear, littered with confabulation.

Mephis Tyr is with me now. Nepotism too.

“Doc, I think it’s time to head home,” Nepotism says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

I look from Nepotism to Tyr.

“Seriously, Dr. Filth,” Tyr says, more star-struck than ever. “That would be fucking amazing, I’d love for an opportunity to pick your brain on what goes on behind the shows!”

Nepotism pleads, “Come on dude, you’ve still got more sausage. You can’t go home yet.”

I sigh and look down the street. “Nep was on most of those adventures, pick his brain. I’m heading home.” I turn over the dripping sausage. “I’ll eat this for breakfast.”

Nepotism shakes his head. “No way dude. It’s Sunday morning. We go for omelettes.”

“You think I can’t eat more?” I ask, mustering a smile. “Don’t worry about me. Have a good time.” I look at Tyr again and chuckle, shaking my head. “Later.”

Go to Part 29

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Dr. Filth is engaged in a dangerous secret mission. "The Alarm Clock at the End of the World" returns next Friday, 6/26.

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 27

The Next Morning.

“So you’ll do the interview?” Simon asks.

I think about it a minute. “Did you have breakfast?”

“What?” He hesitates before saying, “No, sir.”

“Most important meal of the day.” I bang some dishes in frustration. “You watch ‘The Unnatural?’” I ask.

“Every episode! I love your show!” Simon lowers his voice. “Did that shit all really happen to you?”

“Did I get hunted by the last of the dinosaurs through a South American jungle? You bet your ass I did.” I pour a bowl of Cheery-O’s. “I didn’t dissect a body, but I’m pretty sure it was some sort of Sasquatch that knocked down my motel door in Boonville, so I’m convinced something beyond the normal is at play. Are you recording this? You have to tell me if you are. That’s a crime if you don’t.”

“May I?”

“Sure, I talk fast. I can’t expect you to write it all.”

“I’m recording now. Can you state your name?”

“Dr. Filth, host of ‘The Unnatural.’”

“Great show. Superhero too, correct?” Simon asks.

“It’s never been confirmed that Dr. Filth the superhero and Dr. Filth the cryptozoologist are in fact the same person,” I say. “Rumors on the Internet seem to point in that direction.”

“Thank you for agreeing to this interview,” Simon says. “Tell me about your show?”

I’m sitting on the couch eating cereal. I turn on the speakerphone. “The goal of ‘The Unnatural’ is to shed light on all things paranormal and beyond reason. ‘Knowledge without milage is bullshit,’ said a famous philosopher.”

“And who was that?”

“I don’t know, one of the punk singers. You can’t be a good cryptozoologist if you spend your life in a library, so I take the fight to the paranormal. I go to the furthest reaches of the Earth to prove and disprove any rumor I can get my hands on.”

“Your last episode mentioned the Pisceans, who are they?”

“Nothing more than a social club, really. The Poor Knights of the Temple of Lapesc D’Malize. They hold pancake breakfasts and carwashes for upkeep.”

“You believe the Pisceans want you killed? Strange they don’t mind you divulging all this on a popular series of webisodes.”

I shrug and sip the milk. “I expected a backlash, but there has been nothing.”

“They don’t return my calls.” Simon pauses, flipping through his notes. “Why did you quit being a superhero?”

“That’s not con...”

“Not confirmed sorry. Do you have any idea why the superhero Dr. Filth was fired from the Superhero Gang?”

“As I understand, he accidentally founded a terrorist organization that began a riot. The death toll was staggering.”

“Accidentally?” Simon asked apprehensively.

The Doom City Riot was an effort to drive the Party Mayor to abdicate. Lapis Exilis said he was a villain and wanted him replaced. Unless proof of villainy could be established, the Superhero Gang was obliged to defend the legally-elected office-holder. The sentiment of Lapis Exilis was widely held among the superheros, who despised the Mayor for his loose morals and his brutal crackdowns on homeless and opposition groups. “All that shit’s online, dude. Let’s not tie up a lot of time with that.”

“Very cool. That’s some good stuff, I’ve got just one more question. How do the Scrubbers connect to the Alarm Clock at the End of the World?”

I feel my face drain of blood. It’s cold in here. “What did you say? Who is this? Nepotism?”

“Simon Magus, from Regular Crazy fanzine. Are you a real doctor?”

I hang up the phone and run to my office. On my desktop, I rifle through notebooks, pens, stray sheets, paperbacks, paper clips, hard covers, staplers, empty cigarette packs, dry rocks glasses, empty beer cans, 40oz bottles with cigarette butts extinguished in the bottom, empty baggies, roaches, pencils, fast-food bags, flyers, handbills, cigarette butts that fell out of jam-packed ashtrays, envelopes, fan-mail, bills, subpoenas, magazines, business cards, stress-reliever toys, a ragged stuffed cat from an ex-girlfriend, compact discs, disc cases, rolls of tape, shreds of yellowed paper with phone numbers on them, photographs, instruction manuals, half-filled disposable cameras, video cassettes, and the ashtray with little regard to any of their importance as I scour madly, but do not find what I’m looking for.

Go to Part 28

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 26

The Previous Evening.

“They paranormal cleaners from the twenty-fifth dimension or something?” Tyr asks with a stupid smile as he steps between me and the sausages.

“You expect me to just divulge all in the middle of Meaty Boyz?” I hold out my arms to encompass all the Long Island meatheads wearing powder-blue Polo shirts with upturned collars, waving and shouting ‘Ova Hea!’ They will be disappointed when they find the girls they took home are only pretending to be 14 years old.

“You probably make it all up,” Tyr says. His words have a barb.

“They are the strangest creatures I’ve ever fought,” I say, trying not to be incensed. “I first heard of them when I was searching for the Ark of the Covenant in Ethiopia. They are supposedly bio-robots built by the Piscean Knights to protect the Ark. One of them shot me in the leg.”

Tyr looks from Nepotism to me. “That was Duke! You gotta show me the scar!” he cries out.

“He was small and spindly, in a wild red shirt and fisherman’s cap. He peers out over sunglasses black as night, beady eyes jumping back and forth.”

Before I realize it, Tyr is beside me again. “Supernatural monsters that look like dead writers?” We’re almost to the counter, only a thin wall of sweaty drunks between me and sausage. This is the most dangerous part, and no way I’ll maintain concentration to break the lines with Mephis Tyr talking my ear off. “Pretty far-fetched.”

“Hunter had been dead only a few months,” I say. “There was one called Abraxas, he could pass for Herman Hesse. He was killed a few years back, but nobody got a photo. There is a Kerouac named Sax, and I think a Lovecraft as well. I’ve never met anyone who’s seen him, but there is an Earnest Hemmingway out there somewhere, deep in the center of the woods, killing anyone he stumbles across.”

I try to exploit an opening and get my hand in for sausage, but Tyr presses in close, knocking me back with his chest when a couple guys from the college basketball team lift two girls on their shoulders and move into the gap. The girls pull up their shirts and everyone cheers. The Meaty Boyz reward them with sausages.

“The Ark episode was one of my favorites. Why didn’t you use any footage or photos from your own trip though?” Tyr asks.

“My cameras were stolen by brigands. We lost everything. Shortly after was when I was shot by the Scrubber,” I say, keeping an open eye for a break where I could climb on the counter. These frat boys are so hammered that even male tits could result in some sausage coming my way.

Nepotism analyzes all the angles, runs down  the options, and slips his arms between the right pair of hips to compromise the defense of the human wall, splitting two girls aside and creating a gap wide enough for us three to enter. Nepotism has the Meaty Boyz attention, one hand held out for sausage, the other pointing to the rest of us, making it known we will need more sausages down this way. Seamlessly, Nepotism draws a wad of cash from his wallet. “Indiana Jones was his personal hero when he was little,” Nepotism shouts back. “See where it got him?”

Go to Part 27

The Symbol

Music: "Don't Fear The Ghost," Crimson Brethren 

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 25

Early The Next Morning.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!” wakes me up. Slayer is a poor choice for a cell phone ring tone. Sun is up, blinds are open. Eva is gone. I slap my hand at the night table until I paw the phone back to me.

“Hoosis?” I grunt. “What time is it?”

“11am,” says a nasally voice at the other end.”

“Whosis?” I repeat. The phone is cradled in my neck as I slap the table to find my glasses.

“Simon Magus,” says the voice, a little surprised. I guess I should have known.

“Never heard of you. Why are you calling me this early on a Saturday?”

“Sunday.”

I’m taken aback. “It’s not really, is it?” I confirm this with the clock on the phone.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday. Back to work tomorrow.”

“Why are you calling me this early.”

“You told me to call.”

I swing my legs off the bed and think about sitting up. “I told you?”

“Mmm Hmm.”

“Must have thought I’d be awake. Who is this?”

“Simon Magus... I write for Regular Crazy.”

“You know what a hangover is, Simon?”

“Straight Edge!” he says proudly.

“That’s a horrible frame of reference. Why are you calling me?”

Simon  is getting a little frustrated. “You agreed to an interview with Regular Crazy.” His voice is getting higher. “You told me to call you at 11am Sunday!”

“Who is Regular Crazy,” I ask.

“It’s my zine,” says Simon Magus.

“Never heard of it. I agreed to this?”

“Yes sir. I called you earlier this week. You said you were busy and asked me to call back Sunday morning.”

“You thought I meant that?” I go to the window. My building is three stories and built atop a hillock. From my window I’ve got a view of the whole valley. “I usually get paid for this.”

Simon Magus coughs. “At this time, Regular Crazy is privately funded, with most costs going to printing. Once I sell some ads, I’ll have extra funds for compensation. Just a fanzine.”

“You sound like a second rate hack.”

“Excuse me?” asks Simon, shock in his voice.

“Have some confidence,” I say. “‘Just a fanzine?’” The kitchen is a mess with dirty dishes. I go to breakfast with Nepotism on Sunday mornings, but he’s always late, and an egg sandwich would settle nicely in my noisy stomach. “A fanzine is a weapon in the war against oppression. You’re assembling a sacred  missive. Fanzines let the kids know there is still hope, someone is still fighting for the little guy. You keep up the good work, and you be proud, hear me?”

Go to Part 26