Jack Tramiel is a funny looking man. Short, squat, and stout, his face resembles what you would get stretching human flesh over a misshapen bowling ball. Walking with him requires slowing your steps or else risking his wrath. Boiling rage starting at the base of his neck, the reddish veins popping through his skin as it travels overtop his scalp and eventually turning his squashed face turnip red.
Jack Tramiel is a cutthroat businessman. Beneath his throne at Tramel Technologies lays a pile of lesser men's bodies. Some of them were driven out of business by Jack undercutting their prices. Conquering rivals is how Jack gets his kicks.
Jack Tramiel is a survivor. You couldn't waste time growing up in German-occupied Poland. The Tramiel family were sent packing to a ghetto and from there, to Auschwitz. Coming face-to-face with the infamous Dr. Mengele, Jack ended up working in a Nazi slave labor camp. Lying awake at night, Jack couldn't stop remembering his father's cause of death: A Nazi doctor administering a gasoline injection directly into his veins.
Today, Tramiel is tap, tap, tapping a broken number two pencil atop a mahogany desk. Everbody else in the office was out celebrating their Independence Day but taking a day off for fireworks was really just an excuse to waste company time. Time that could better be spent think, think, thinking or tap, tap, tapping.
Jack's heart was beating slowly, but just below in his guts a seething fist was twisting itself into existence. It had been three months since Commodore, a company he'd been single-handedly running since 1953, kicked him out. Leading Commodore through a string of smashing products and the best-selling computer of all time apparently wasn't even worth thanking him for.
Now they weren't even mentioning his name.
Revenging himself was all Jack could think of. Destroying and smiting anyone who had even been remotely involved with betraying him. It was this all-consuming desire which almost caused Jack to miss the fact that his telephone had been ringing for God knows how long.
Pressing the cool plastic telephone receiver to his ear cools Jack's rage-induced facial reddening.
"Jack. Go ahead."
"Yes, hello, I'm calling on behalf of Warner Communications. We've been told your company may be looking for investment opportunities. Our asset of Atari Inc. would be fitting to such a venture. We'd even be willing to part with just the hardware or coin-op divisions. Is that something that might interest you, Mr. Tramiel sir?”
"Video games are dead. Go find some other chump to be your necromancer."
Jack found himself relishing another opportunity for slamming a phone. One more pile of splintering plastic would mean exceeding a personal record.
The call from Warner had been distracting enough to bring his boiling fury down to a simmering discontent. Scheming takes a lot of focusing and energy. Thinking about crushing enemies is more important than sniffing out whatever that smell is wafting in from the other side of the door.
At least, that is, before Jack thought of opening it. Swinging aside, a blast of sour fumes came erupting from the aperture once leading to the executive lobby. Coughing, stumbling forward, and blindly swinging his fists went Jack. The fact that he ended up connecting with a jaw is as surprising to him as it is to the other fellow.
"Jeez! Watch it, wouldja? I come in peace, I come in peace" cries a weaselly voice, straining with pain in the fog.
"Where the fuck is a fire extinguisher?" Jack, groping blindly forward, growling fist-first. "If you're not calling the fire department five minutes ago, you'll be billed for every burn."
A man's silhouette is emerging as the smoke cleared, shoulders heaving with silent chuckling. "Jackie, Jackie, easy. We're not in your pad, baby. These are my digs, and I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse."
"I make a point of refusing, then." Through squinting eyes, Jack makes out a rat-faced head floating amid the curling tendrils of smoke. Smiling his crooked smile, the familiar face of Nolan Bushnell was pushing itself towards him.
"Follow me, baby. I've got something you might wanna see."
Jack, cringing, kept standing his ground. "Bring it here or take me back. I'm not playing your game."
Nolan's head was now close enough to see rusty red fluid dripping from the neck stump. "Have it your way, baby. Let's get in your head."
"Absolutely not, you stay away from my head."
"Haha! Metaphor! You're pissed off at Commodore for shitting on your whole life."
"No shit, sherlock. Where's the exit?" Barging forward, Jack's spiking of the disembodied head sent it hurtling back into the darkness. Countering his reckless rushing was the ground beneath Jack's feet, pulling him to a standstill.
Nolan's voice calls from the dark, a pigeon's cooing underwriting his soft tone. "Jackie, baby, baby, hey, gimme a chance to cut the bullshit. I'm coming at you hot and ready. Looking for a buyer. You can get a tech base for pennies on the dollar, brand recognition, along with added edge that is all the occult power money can buy."
"Bullshit."
"Jackie, let's be real, you're talking to a severed head."
"Call me Jackie one more time and you'll be a lot less than that."
Condensation from Nolan's hot, giggling breath made the back of Jack's neck damp. "We'll help you, Jack. Do you know how much power can be gained combining a twenty-four-hour cocaine binge with goat's blood and everything history forgot about the Mayans? Hell is the furnace fueling an engine of hate, it can all be yours. A deal with the devil is always better when the Prince of Darkness pays cash."
"Let me go, and I'll think about it."
Instantly uncoiling itself from his legs, the ground's release begat Jack's turning. An inch away from Nolan's head's eyes, he is unblinking.
"If we're doing this, it's going to be my way. Got it?"
Turning his back to spit-shine his spectacles, Jack began grinning.
"My son will be coming down the road, so you'll have to clean up your act.
Nolan attempts clearing what remained of his throat. "Well, egh, ergh, um, so, baby, you know, old habits die hard?"
"Well, only as long as it takes me to start making heads roll."

« It Starts With A Song... | Hub | Part Two »


Growing up, Sam Tramiel mostly remembered seeing his father over lunch. Business meant the senior Tramiel could only make time for ham sandwiches and cola. Sam talking was out of the question. Abhorring the sight of chewed food meant sitting in silence. Passing condiments was their substitute for father-son bonding time, with Jack spending the rest of their time together lecturing Sam on business.
That tactile feeling of stale bread and ham was lingering in Sam's mind on the elevator ride to his father's office. Sam's footsteps wouldn't stop echoing in the marble halls, only adding to his dread to recall father despising 'heavy footed-fools'. Suddenly embraced by surprise from behind, the fear turned to relief that no protocol was worth worrying over today.
"Sam! What the hell are you doing skulking around here like that? Goddamn! I've got us some sandwiches in my office."
Nodding silently, Sam and father synchronized their marching into the gaming empire's executive maze. Navigating effortlessly to his office door, Jack's fiddling with the lock lets Sam study said door. Father's name looks so handsome in the oak.
Jack Tramiel, CEO
The door swings open. Inside, two ham sandwiches are sitting in their deli wrapping atop a wooden picnic table.
The rest of Jack's office is the picture of executive imperium, every wall's splendor outdoing the others. Photographs of Jack shaking hands with Presidents, Roman columns in each corner, and a bejeweled sword hanging in a polished glass case behind a mahogany desk.
In betwixt this magnificence, Sam Tramiel was sitting with his father at a quaint picnic table, as if Yogi Bear would come at any moment asking for a pic-a-nic basket.
The two Tramiel's sit in silence throughout the meal. Jack was soon licking his lips, leaning back and looking at his son like a prize fish. "Son, son, I can't tell you how happy it makes me to have you come to the family business. It's not the family business I wanted to pass on, but the one you deserve."
Sam made movements somewhere between nodding, gulping, and smiling.
"You're not going to eat that pickle, right?" Before Sam can answer, his father picks and chews it in one fell swoop. "Anyways, as I was saying, Atari isn't your everyday company. We've got… some trade secrets."
Nodding, Sam recalls a nugget of father's wisdom. If you don't cheat, you don't win.
"It's not what you're thinking of. You haven't been to a church lately, right?"
"Ughmm-" Sam's eyes narrow in the search for meaning. "Well, not since Gram-"
"Good! That's the only thing I needed to know, recency." Leaning forward, Jack takes his son's hand. "Now Sam, listen here. You're going to catch a lot of flak leading this company. They'll find a derogatory nickname for you ten times worse than 'Jackintosh' or 'Attila' or 'that bastard' and you know why? They're going to try and make you into me. But you can be your own man. That's what I need."
"I'm ready for it, Father."
"No, you're ready for them. You're not ready for… our trade secret. At least not yet."
Sam stood, crossing his arms. "Look, either tell me what you're talking about or stop beating around the bush. It's not like you."
At that, Jack burst out laughing. "That's my boy! Alright, as you wish. No more time to waste!" Leaping to his desk and reaching into a drawer, an unseen switch is made active. The glass case's polished glass retracts to free shining steel. Swinging swiftly and plunging into the ground, the ground around the sword rises to reveal an elevator from beneath their feet.
"Father, I have questions."
Jack's already stepping inside, "This is the fancy one, you'll get to using it when needed. The gremlins clock in downstairs. Come along, we'll get your answers."
Crossing the elevator's threshold was like flipping a switch. Sam cannot see the walls, the floor, himself or his father. A hot wind whipping and howling all around them as a feeling of free-fall commences, surrounding and pounding the walls, everything disappearing into lost engineering with nothing else steering their way.
Sam, falling alone, felt his father's hand clamping over his mouth to stop his screaming. Jack's fingers are curling back and burning. Sam is merely expending kindling, until even ashes were going bankrupt.
Blinking, Sam's realizing he yet lived was a pleasant surprise. Gingerly picking himself up, Sam waits for his eyes to grow used to the darkness was in vain. It is pitch black all the way down.
It is dark, you are likely to be eaten by a grue.
Jack's firm hand grabbing him again almost gave Sam heart palpitations. A voice both distinctly and unrecognizable in belonging to his father began gurgling softly. "My boy, this is where the breaking of Commodore began. I've used them sparingly, to their chagrin, but used them all the same."
"Father… why?" Sam looks around, he sees a menagerie of obsolete electronics pulsating in the darkness. Outlines of light dancing down fatty piles pockmarked with cartridge ports and memory sticks.
"A sweetheart deal with darkness. These men, not men, these creatures, they sold their souls for power. So focused on their great and terrible power they lost sight of worldly affairs. I have made Tramiel's master of the dark without tainting our souls."
"I don't want this. Let me out. Please. Father, this isn't what I thought you wanted to pass on to me. It's not right!"
"Right? What's right is your birthright, your father's creation passing on to you. Samuel, you are my eldest blood. Finish the fight. The corruption of your birthright must be destroyed for their crimes against our family."
"This is against everything I thought you were teaching me."
Flashing before Sam's eyes are images of circuit boards dripping with blood. Joysticks twisting and unnaturally bending. A computer monitor activating to the sound of static forever. The floppy discs were crying. Even they didn't know why.
Sam's throat wouldn't stop screaming for water. Croaking, his eyes wishing for tears, Sam's turning revealed Sam's lone form was standing in the office. All evidence of their lunch gone. Shaking, his eyes wildly searching the room, falling on the eye-catching desk placard:

Sam Tramiel, President and CEO
Master of the Arcadians
« Part One | Hub | Part Three »


Jack is sitting in this car, remembering nothing about how long it's been idling. Not his car. Sam's. The hospital. The heart attack. Was he driving? Try remembering. Waking to a moonlit phone call. Sam is in the hospital. A heart attack? Sam's heart. Racing, racing, twisting, minding Sam.
Running with the Arcadians is a legal route to murdering someone.
Jack's pulling into the empty parking lot. It's empty. Typical lazy employees, wouldn't be arriving for work until daylight.
Jack is alone with torrid thinking.
Fighting Commodore was tilting at windmills. Competing, outselling, holding its head in the commode until it was cold in a grave. Nothing clever about buying into a deal with the devil. Those demons lurking in Atari's basement had always been a dirty little secret. That, I could live with. Not Sam's life. Not today.
"I have to kill this company."
Open the car door. Walking, controlling his breathing, unlocking the lobby doors, elevator dinging as he rides to his office. Sam's office. Different taste in decor but the sword is still here. The glass around it isn't long for this world.
Once the stapler finishes shattering the glass, the sword is liberated.
Breathing harder. Moving faster. Lowering back down below the basement. Jack can't see where the walls are down here, but somewhere that locked door is beginning to fabricate itself, anticipating his arrival. The occult employee entrance.
Jack is rolling up his sleeves, just like when I was going downstairs to lecture Sam. The freestanding Arcadia employee entrance is an unremarkable office door save for the shining padlock binding it shut.
Grabbing it, Jack felt a familiarly dull heat and hissing for one last time. The melting portal begat an aperture into a mad tinkerer's workshop. Mountains of circuits and organs warping together in a puzzle of silicone and flesh. Computer terminals whining like toddlers as dried vomit sits crusting around their disc drives.
The few grotesque disciples of Arcadia were standing with mouths agape. The boss is here, whoa, tell me he's not canceling us again? Oh gosh, oh jeez, do we show him the pentagram room? What's that sword for? Why isn't he saying anything?
Ignoring the cowering warlocks and occultists, Jack is proceeding toward the sound of a rattling furnace somewhere in the lurching catacombs. That old anger was heating up in his feet, crawling up his legs, incinerating doubt, preparing to blow.
"NOLAN."
Nothing about this place comes close to resembling an office. Torches burning impossibly green as motor oil drips from the ceiling. Walls becoming monitors with a single bleeding eye staring wildly at nothing.
"NOLAN YOU SON OF A BITCH I'M COMING FOR YOU."
The passageways end abruptly. The vile angles culminating in a door so small only a child could comfortably get through.
Jack stands before it, remembering when Sam was young. Their closet under the stairs with a door just this size. Once Sam's playroom until that little boy outgrew it. A door covering up dusty space overflowing with cardboard boxes containing nothing of consequence.
It broke easily beneath his boot.
Crawling was the only way in. This last room is lit only by a glowing cathode ray tube. Exhaustion is creeping up Jack's back, his blade dragging more heavily with each step. That glowing glow refuses to come any closer.
"Nolan?"
The television shuts off. The crinkling static of its cooling glass is for a moment the only sound and soon, it too, is quiet and dark.
"Been a while, hasn't it baby?"
Gritting his teeth and wobbling slightly, Jack props himself up on the sword. "End what you've started Nolan, so I don't have to."
The screen is now flickering static only inches from Jack's face. "Jackie, you've been a saucy little boy tonight haven't you? Looking a little pale… I thought you were retired?"
A facade of young Sam is fading in on-screen, with black eyes and gold teeth. A hideous grin stretching from one side of his face to the other keeps distorting further with each passing second.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, old man?"
Bellowing from somewhere beneath his diaphragm, Jack's muscle memories of holding Sam come surging through his arm. His eyes electrify with new focus, squaring on this false Sam before him. The blade's arc curves up from the ground, peaking above Jack's head before crashing down into the television with vicious force. Cleaving it in two, the bleeding is more than any other television will ever bleed. Sparks and wailing permeating every inch of Jack Tramiel's being.
Now, all is gone in the dark.

The light of a setting sun was streaming through the lobby's glass doors. The employees were home with their severance pay, apart from a couple stragglers. One of them was Sam Tramiel. Taking a breather next to his little pile of boxes, all that remained of his Presidency.
"Careful, son. Let me carry that for you."
"I'm okay, Dad. Thank you. We'll just take multiple trips."
"Nonsense. I'm an old man, but my ticker's got you beat."
"… Sure, sure. Do you actually mind if I sit in the car?”
"I'll walk with you. There's not much left here, anyways."
« Part Two | Hub | The End »


The Insult
The young, black-haired cowboy raced to the radio. A large black-haired man sat squarely in the middle of the couch. His arms laid across its back as he watched as the cowboy anxiously fiddles with the radio's wooden knobs. In the kitchen, the sun's rays glowed through the curly red hair of an aproned woman who stirred a metal ladle in a steaming pot. A baby in a nearby high chair cooed and laughed. He played with a wooden rattle painted with a picture of a blue jay on a summer day.
The cowboy giggled excitedly as the static soon cleared and the voice of a man with a refined southern accent emanated from the large wooden box.
The good folk of Lone Angel, pray for Dallas from the East. He's the only man looking out for the good, Christian folk of these here parts.
The boy then backed up to the couch and perched himself beside the man, quivering in excited anticipation for the stories he was about to hear. These tales were of strong, confident men protecting the innocent, things the cowboy desired to be.
The episode had Dallas from the east going after bandits, who had kidnapped his dog. Dallas wasn't able to catch the bandits, as his horse was wounded in the chase. He was forced to rest, hoping his dog would escape the bandits and return to him. But as the darkness came upon him, the dog never came back. The episode ended in a cliffhanger, which resulted in a groan from the cowboy- he'd have to wait a whole week for the next episode.
After an hour of the tale, the woman called the two to the dining table. The boy then ran to the table, laughing and chattering about the story that he and his father had just listened to. The woman settled him down and they began their supper.
After dinner, the cowboy went to his room. He put on a cowboy hat and took his hobby horse. Both toys had the name "Mikell Bright" inscribed prominently on them, and he excitedly began to act out a fantasy of gunslingers and savages in the wild west.
The Challenge
The 17-year-old cowboy opened the door to his home. The smell of his younger brother's cooking filled his nostrils, and the loud screeching of a toddler rang in his ears. He followed both senses to the kitchen. The brother looked towards the cowboy as he entered. His eyes were darkened by the toils of a role he should not have had to bear at such a young age, and he was grasping his uncombed curly ginger hair, looking as if he was about to cry. Meanwhile, the toddler began to wail.
"I don't want Pasta!" he screamed, stamping his feet. "I want chicken! CHICKEN!!"
"Well, too bad! You asked for pasta earlier, so you're getting pasta!" the brother yelled back. He returned his gaze towards the cowboy. "Mikell! Can you take care of TJ for me, please? I swear he's gonna drive me crazy!"
"I will, just stop yelling! God, you two are gonna wake up the entire fucking world!"
The brother raised his middle finger towards the cowboy, as he took his youngest brother out of the kitchen. The child screeched as his brother pulled him by the back of his shirt. Then the cowboy sat him down in a chair in the living room. The toddler continued to scream until the cowboy spoke.
"Hush up and stay there, you're on time-out, TJ," he told the boy, whose tears streamed down his face as he returned to screaming and yelling. Eventually, he tried to get out of his seat, but the cowboy quickly grabbed him and put him back. The child continued to cry, crossing his arms. The tears soon disappeared from the toddler's cheeks, as the middle brother called the two for dinner.
The youngest brother ran to the kitchen, as the cowboy followed him slowly. The three brothers sat down and ate as silence filled the room. The middle brother's anger made the youngest scared, while the cowboy was too tired to deal with his brother's irritating temper.
"He's gotta be a man now. He can't just wait for his mommy and daddy to come back and take care of him. They left us. He can't be a pissy bitch about it," the cowboy thought.
After a dinner that was filled with the middle brother's silent fury, the youngest brother left his seat and ran upstairs. The cowboy cleared the table, thanked his brother for the meal, and left the house with a messenger bag. As he left the house, he had a sigh of relief as he didn't have to hear either of his brother's yelling for a little bit.
He walked in the quiet dark plains of the countryside. After 30 minutes of walking, the brightness of a house in the distance encouraged him to turn his walk into a sprint. His heartbeat fluttered like a humming bird's wing from exhaustion as he knocked on the shakey wooden door.
A plump, tired-looking woman in a bathrobe clumsily opened the door, grunted, and returned to wherever she had come from. He entered, closing the door behind him. He made his way to a bedroom upstairs, to find another boy sitting on his bed, reading through a book, and petting a ginger cat. The other boy was skinny and had long blonde hair.
"Hello Harvey, your mom drinking again?" the cowboy asked, taking some books out of his bag, and sitting next to the other boy.
"Yes, she was hurt badly when dad abandoned us for that lady at the general store. What do you want from her?"
The cowboy shrugged, unable to come up with a response. He then changed the subject, "So what are we gonna study tonight?"
"Physics. You need to pass the midterms,"
"Fine," the cowboy replied, taking out a spiral-bound notebook and pen. He flipped to a fresh page and began doing as his friend instructed. Terms and equations relating to velocity, friction, air resistance, and other concepts filled the lines of the boy's paper, things the cowboy was starting to understand with his friend's help.
They finished studying an hour later. The other boy backed up away from the cowboy, heading to the corner of the room. The cowboy watched as his friend moved away from him to put his book back to its place on the shelf. "Do you wanna talk for a bit before you leave, Mikell?"
The cowboy nodded. As his friend sat down and looked at his hair, he asked, "About what?"
"Are you going to do something with that long mane of yours?" The friend asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Are you gonna try out different styles?"
"Like, tying it back?"
"Yeah, let me try something, Mickey," The friend walked behind the cowboy, grabbing something from the desk as he passed by. He put his hand near the cowboy's thick, black, curly hair, lying upon his shoulders, he asked, "May I?"
The cowboy nodded and his friend's brush started to cut through the knots, creating popping sounds he felt as the tension between the strands broke apart. His friend then put the brush down and scooped the hair up, creating a ponytail, and wrapping it in a black bow. The cowboy looked into the glass of a window and admired his friend's craftsmanship. He stroked the top of his head and moved it down to the soft fabric of the ribbon. He then turned around and smiled at his tutor.
"Thank you."
The Meeting of The Seconds
"Agent Mikell Bright?"
The now fully matured, athletic cowboy walked into his superior's office, carrying a folder containing paperwork about his most recent assignment. Inside the office sat a man with dark skin inside a grey leather chair. The man in the chair motioned for the cowboy to sit down. Doing as he was told, he gently tossed the tan folder onto the center of the desk. The man took the folder and read through its contents.
"Agent Bright, I must say that you have provided excellent performances on previous assignments," the man said, "but I am disappointed by your actions during this one. Your instructions were to capture the anomaly, and what did you do?"
The cowboy removed his brown hat and looked his superior sternly in the eyes. "I neutralized the target," he replied.
"And why did you disobey orders, Agent Bright?" The man's tone carried an annoyance in it.
"Because Agent Harvey Pillar would have been killed by the anomaly if I didn't kill it first," the cowboy's voice stayed calm, no trace of fear existed in that strong Texan accent. "I saved someone's life today and I believe there is no punishment for having the safety of my men as one of my priorities,"
The man paused, then mumbled under his breath. "Very well, you may go. But I expect to receive better results on your next assignment, Agent Bright, or there will be harsh consequences,". The cowboy nodded and left the room. He gave a polite "Good evening," as he left.
…
"Cheers Mickey!" the friend said, clinking his shot glass with the cowboy's. "Thanks for saving my ass back there!"
The two men then took their shots. The friend coughed after he swallowed the copper-colored liquid. The cowboy chuckled at his friend and noticed past his coworkers stare, was a curvy, raven-haired woman looking back at him from the corner of the bar. He took out some money and left it in front of his friend. He then stood up.
"Again? Seriously Mickey? You have a new doll every month or two. Maybe take some time to just drink with me?" his friend suggested
The cowboy shook his head. "Sorry Harv, but I reckon that she's different. Why she's as pretty as a peach," He replied, making his way to the woman. His friend sighed with annoyance as he ordered another drink.
"Why, hello there. I must say, you look sweeter than a slice of cherry pie," the cowboy said, winking as he sat upon the stool next to the woman
…
They laid in the bed, the cowboy's breath laced with the stench of whiskey. He listened to the raven-haired woman's slow breathing. Once he was sure that she was sleeping, he quietly got out of the bed and put on his clothing. He took a black suitcase from the closet, then left a letter on the woman's nightstand.
He sat in his car and stared at his body. His hands shook with an anxiety that was complemented by the rapid beating in his chest. This always happened. He had been involved with her for 6 months, which was a record for him. He couldn't bring himself to stay when he heard the news. "I'm not ready," he thought as the anxiety died out from his deep breaths. He then drove to Site-19.
After getting settled into his cubicle, the cowboy took a sip of his coffee and then began his work. He typed away, filling out paperwork for a researcher to understand what had happened in the field with a newly acquired SCiP or a report on the interrogation of a possible insurgency mole. The content of his work didn't matter, he just needed to distract himself until he could be able to cope in the evening.
"Mickey?" his friend tapped him on the shoulder. The cowboy turned and looked at the clock. His workday had finished 30 minutes ago.
"Are you okay? I didn't see you at lunch,"
"I'm fine. Just… had a breakup," The cowboy replied, not meeting his friend's eyes. His friend's expression turned sour. He turned away from the cowboy then left, not saying another word. The cowboy felt a sting in his chest but ignored it as he prepared to leave the site.
He made his way through the halls and noticed a ginger-haired, slightly chubby doctor in a lab coat and a younger, thin man in a hospital gown and crutches walking towards him from further down the hall. The cowboy stopped and put his brown briefcase next to his foot, taking a cigarette from the package that rested in his pocket.
The younger man's eyes lit up with excitement, "Mikell!" he yelled gleefully as he limped his way towards his brother. The cowboy smiled but avoided the smaller man's gaze. "Heya TJ, how are you?"
"Good! Jack got me a candy bar, and I saw the therapists and doctors again! They were real nice!" the man sounded so happy. It pained the cowboy's chest as he thought about the reasons that his brother had to see those doctors.
"TJ, we need to get going. I'm sorry Mikell, TJ needs to be in his room soon," The doctor said. The cowboy looked at him easily meeting his eyes. The doctor attempted to make his way past the taller man.
"Hey, Jack," the cowboy said, lighting his cigarette. The doctor scowled and stopped. He then looked into his older brother's eyes. The anger in the red-haired man was obvious."TJ, please go on ahead. I must speak to your brother," He told the limping man, who nodded and continued down his path. The doctor then turned back to face his brother.
"Still a little bitch I see," The cowboy thought.
"What do you want, Mikell?"
"Don't you wanna chat with your dear ole brother?"
"I have nothing to say to you,"
"Ohhhhh you think you're a big man huh?"
"and you do?"
"I'm more of one then you will ever be," the cowboy spat after removing his cigarette from his mouth. Just seeing his brother pissed him off. "Why can't he just grow the fuck up? You know what the fuck you did,"
"Is there anything of substance you were planning on saying to me?"
"You're such a little shit you know that? Don't act all high and mighty when you made TJ-"
"Have a good evening, Agent," His brother walked off coldly. The cowboy clenched his teeth, watching the doctor walk away as he followed the man in crutches. He dropped his cigarette and put it out like he was trying to kill a bug. He then picked up his briefcase and exited the site.
…
The cowboy laid in the darkness of his hotel room. The only light came from the cool glow of the television. People talked from inside the screen, but the cowboy was too busy drinking from a bottle of vodka to care about anything they had to say. Grey stains laid upon his unbuttoned shirt as dark thoughts intruded upon his psyche. He felt overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment, fear, and hatred. He curled up and listened to his sobs as they drowned out the voices from the screen.
The Preparation
Years had passed since that evening. Now in his 50s, the cowboy sat on the steps of his porch. Age had taken it's toll upon his hair as streaks of white now hung upon his thick, long hair, though he still stayed as fit as when he was young. Now he had reached the title of O5-6 within the Foundation around 4 years ago.
He had married 15 years ago. The thoughts he had to hide from by using women and wine no longer disturbed him. His son came through the door, staring at his father like a hunter observes his game. The cowboy pretended not to notice the slender black-haired boy creeping upon him.
The boy quickly put his hands on his father's shoulders and yelled "Boo!" which resulted in the cowboy replying in laughter and picking the child up and hugging him. Once the boy showed resistance to his father's embrace, the cowboy put him back down. "Mommy says it's time for dinner!" the boy explained. His father nodded and took the boy's hand as they walked into the house.
The two sat down at the table, dark-colored hanger steaks rested in front of them. The cowboy's wife walked in, carrying the salad, and placing it in the center of the table as she sat down. Then all three dug into the steaks, juice dripping from the son's greasy mouth as he devoured his meal.
After dinner, the cowboy cleaned up the table as his son ran outside. The cowboy followed him after finishing his chore to find his wife resting on the steps of the porch, watching the child playing with his father's old hobby horse. His wife's black hair blew in the southern wind. The son played in shadows of the dark bark of the tree in the middle of a golden field, hiding from behind the tree before the wind picked up. It was if he could sense the wind coming before it blew, and to his father, it was adorable. The cowboy's heart melted seeing his son have the time of his life, smiling and laughing as he played and hid from the wind. His wife held his arm as they watched their son play until the sun went down.
The Shots
"You fucking did this," The cowboy's wife yelled. "You fucking cut his goddamn eyes out. Now he's gone!"
"Darlin, I-" the cowboy started to say until his wife grabbed him by the collar.
"What could be so fucking terrible that you decided to cut your own son's eyes out, Mickey?!"
"I didn't want him to end up like my brother!" The cowboy shouted back, clenching his fists.
"Your brother's in one of those homes. if David had a condition it would be something that you couldn't just fix or prevent. Especially by cutting out his fucking eyes! You would still accept him and love him as a father should!"
"Shut up, you fucking whore!" The cowboy snapped. "You couldn't possibly understand what I was afraid of. You have no clue what's going on. You think I wanted this? He was the best thing that happened to me, and now he's fucking gone!" the pain of loss struck the man's heart.
"If he mattered so much to you, then you should have thought about that before you laid a hand on my son," His wife turned and left, grabbing her suitcase, she exited the house. The cowboy was now alone, in silence, as the orange rays of sunset glowed through the house windows.
…
The older cowboy woke up in a familiar hotel room, where an unfamiliar woman lied upon his breast. He nudged her off of his body and checked the clock. It was 6:23 AM, so since he was coming from the city he was most likely going to be late by an hour. He moaned in annoyance as he quickly put on his clothing and ran out of the room to get into his car.
He parked his car in the Site-19 parking lot at 8:45 AM. Before he left his car he took a swig from his silver canteen and made his way into the building. He sluggishly completed any task that was assigned to him by the administrator or one of the others on the O5 council. Once it was his lunch hour, he made his way to the site cafeteria. He took his meal and sat down, he had only taken a few bites before his friend appeared.
"You were late again," His friend said, sitting down and staring intensely at the cowboy. The cowboy did not meet his friend's gaze.
"Yeah, so?" he asked, continuing his meal. "We've barely talked in years, why does this matter to you?"
"Because you're going back to old destructive habits,"
"Why the fuck do you care, Harvey?" the cowboy's tone became more aggravated, "You stopped talking to me when we were both still field agents. But you seem to forget that I'm your superior now. So I'd watch my tongue if I were you,"
"And you seem to forget that you have a private room where you can eat in. Yet here you are eating in the cafeteria like you aren't an O5. Which is an odd choice, if you didn't want to see me," The friend replied, no fear was visible upon his features.
"I can eat wherever I damn well please. Why don't you run off before I fire you,"
"I know you won't. You are so lonely that in your cold dark heart, you're desperate for any type of interaction. You're yearning to have that feeling of having a family that you lost when you were a child. You fuck any attractive woman that's willing to take you as a lover and you leave her when you knock her up. You are a coward, Mikell Bright," Anger bubbled in his tone as his stare burned with disappointment.
"You know nothing. You have no clue what I've been through!" the cowboy yelled, his accent breaking. "I'm tired of people thinking that they know everything about my goddamned life. You don't know what I've done to be better, you don't know what I've lost. I have no love left, I have nothing because they all left me. You, my parents, my wife, and my son. You all left me because you're all fucking selfish. Life has been unfair to me and I need to fucking cope. So if I decide to fuck and leave some broad, what does it matter to you? You've cut me off. You hurt me, you left me alone in misery!" the cowboy's yelling had gotten the attention of the other people in the cafeteria. He noticed the curly red hair of the doctor in the crowd and realized he was judging the cowboy from afar. He clenched his teeth as his friend began to speak.
"You're so egotistical. Just because you've been hurt in the past doesn't mean you get to act out like a child. You are in your late fucking 50s, early 60s. Start acting like a goddamn adult, and move o-" the friend was interrupted by the cowboy standing up and leaving the cafeteria. The only sound left in the room was the buzzing of the cafeteria's fan.
The cowboy stormed into his office, rage burning throughout his body. He sat down attempting to try and distract himself, yet that rage found it's way into a decision of assignment, which soon grew into a plot for something unforgivable. His anger, hurt, and hatred were quickly able to convince him to go through with this plan. He then picked up the phone on his desk.
"Please assign Dr. Bright to the research team of SCP-963,"


close

Info

X

Ulysses B. Donkman and the Clockwork Bandits by: DrAkimoto & MalyceGraves

Donkman Article

~DrAkimoto's Author Page~
♠ MalyceGraves' Author Page

Notice from the Foundation Historical Analysis Division

On 2003/04/29, the Historical Analysis Division discovered and confirmed SCP-4768 activity in and around New Orleans circa 1875. During the investigation, agents discovered a small cache believed to belong to SCP-4768. This cache included: newspaper clippings, one photograph, an iron gear, and a small vial of a previously undiscovered liquid compound. The headlines from the aforementioned newspaper clippings read as follows: "Strange Heroes Save the Day!, The unlikely story of a train robbery gone wrong." and "Dr. Heart Proven Fraud!, Miracle Elixir Turns Out to be Moonshine."

All evidence is available to personnel with 3/4768 Clearance at the Site-51 Archives.

"–and that's when I told the sheriff, if ya' not careful he'll bite back!" Ulysses B. Donkman relaxes into his seat on the bench as the small private stateroom erupts into laughter. The man to his left, a large Germanic fellow dressed in a smart suit and a small bowler cap, slaps Donkman on the back with a meaty hand as he catches his breath from laughing.
"You must tell us another, Herr Donkman!" Herman Schroeder continues laughing, pausing only to drain the contents from his glass before setting it on the table between the benches. Donkman contemplates his own glass for a moment before glancing around at the other gentlemen in the room.
"I reckon I'd be more interested in you and the good doctor here. Ya' done said you had business in the New Orleans, of what nature would it be?"
Across from him, a much smaller man in an expensive-looking suit sits up and waves his glass expansively at Donkman. "Well now good fellow, I have discovered a revolutionary new elixir capable of exponentially increasing the efficiency of the steam engine."
"Well, that surely is a mouthful, Doctor Heart." Donkman raises an eyebrow at him, before turning back to the man on his own bench. "What's your involvement, Mr. Schroeder?"
The large German grins and pulls open one side of his jacket revealing a holstered pistol. "The Doctor has hired me to deliver himself and his cargo to the city of New Orleans."
"One can never be too careful, Mr. Donkman, would you not agree?" Dr. Heart glances nervously at Mr. Schroeder's weapon before looking back across at Donkman. In response, Donkman raises his glass of whiskey in a salute.
"Well hell, I'll drink to that. I, too, pride myself on bein' prepared for the unexpected." He takes a sip from his glass before using it to point at Schroeder. "I suppose you know how to use that thing? It sure is fancy."
Before Schroeder can respond, the Doctor leans forward to interrupt. "Are you traveling to New Orleans as well, Mr. Donkman?"
Donkman grins at Schroeder, giving a placating wave at his frown before turning back to the gentleman across the table. "That I am, Doctor. If'n ya' ask me, there ain't quite a place like it. Have you ever been?"
"No, I can't say that I have." He indicates his traveling companion. "Though it is my understanding that Mr. Schroeder is quite familiar with the city."
The German nods and pats his suit jacket back into place. "That is correct. I've spent quite some time there ushering clients about. In fact, I was planning on going back to New Orleans anyway, when I came into the employ of Dr. Heart."
Donkman nods sagely at them both. "That reminds me of the time–"
The whole car quakes as if from a powerful impact, and Donkman is cut short by the whiskey in his glass sloshing out across his hand. He looks at his glass with consternation, then his attention is jerked towards the hallway as faint screams can be heard from the next car over.
"Oh my!" Dr. Heart exclaims, looking worriedly about and glancing nervously out the compartment's small window. Schroeder begins to shift away from the table, his hand sliding into his jacket and the concealed pistol. "Wait here, Dr. Heart, I will inquire."
He stands and steps across to the door, where he cautiously cracks it open and looks out into the hallway. A moment passes as Donkman, too, climbs to his feet and steps up behind the German. "I reckon I'll join ya', Mr. Schroeder."
The doctor grimaces at being left alone and clutches for his small bag. "Do be careful you two."
Donkman turns to give him a wink before following Schroeder out into the walkway.

"Everyone remain calm, this is not a robbery!" The Clockwork bandit's voice came out with a puff of steam and the grinding of both seen and unseen gears. It steps clear of the debris that is all that remains of the shattered door at the back of the coach, and it moves out of the way for another clockwork contraption to step up beside it.
"We are looking for one Dr. Heart. If he is given to us, no one will be hurt." The second automaton's voice hisses similarly to it's companion's, but with a slightly higher and nasally pitch to it. They both scan the assembled passengers through shadowed black lenses, obviously looking for someone.
Donkman and Schroeder open the compartment's door in time to hear the Clockwork's pronouncement. Donkman leans back and whispers quietly at Schroeder. "Go'n get the Doctor, move him up to the First Class baggage car."
Schroeder hesitates for a moment, eyeing the two mechanical bandits with more than a bit of incredulity. "Aye, but what of yo–"
Donkman cuts him off with a light jab of the elbow to the side. "Quick now, no time for that."
Schroeder frowns and pauses as if he would say something more, before turning and re-entering the other passenger car.
Both Clockworks are moving forward through the compartment, roughly shoving passengers out of the way. The first bandit grabs one of the passengers and lifts the unfortunate man free from one of the benches. "He said, where is the doctor!?"
A spout of steam bursts from Clockwork's shoulder as his arm splits in two at the forearm, revealing 3 gun barrels within the appendage. The passenger looks agape at the weapon before shaking his head and spluttering incoherently.
"I will not ask again, where is the doctor!?" The first Clockwork's voice has taken on a grating edge as it continues to shake the passenger about, knocking his feet against the side of the bench.
The other automaton glances around the compartment. "I think they need a bit of convincing, brother."
The barrels in the first Clockwork's arm begin to rotate, "I'd be happy to oblige." After a moment, the barrels begin discharging rounds into the ceiling, the deafening roar of the weapon filling the space. The passengers, already terrified, shrink further away from the two automatons.
After a score or so bullets riddle the roof of the compartment, the Clockwork stops firing, and one of the civilians calls out, "I… I think he's up there! Got his own private room!"
The second Clockwork turns towards the civilian and nods. "Waster of time– you should have spoken sooner." A long blade ejects from Clockwork's wrist, and it uses it to behead the civilian. The first Clockwork casually tosses its terrified passenger aside, and the both of them make their way to the train car door, where Donkman is leaning casually against the frame.
"Now let's take it easy there partner, you wouldn't–"
The second Clockwork points its blade towards Donkman, cutting him off mid-comment. "Move!"
Donkman sighs as he straightens. "Can't say I'dn't warn ya'."
Suddenly, Donkman moves, ducking under the extended blade and grabbing the Clockwork by the wrist. With a deft chop of his free hand at the Clockwork's elbow and a quick shove upwards on its wrist, he embeds the Clockwork's blade into the ceiling.
It struggles against the wooden slats of the roof, but the blade is jammed too far for it to budge. "Help me, brother!"
With a grace uncommon in men of his size, Donkman glides past the jerking Clockwork and steps inside the firing line of the first one as the barrels in its gun begin to rotate. Donkman grabs a hold of the frame around the barrels with both hands and shoves, aligning the weapon on the second Clockwork just as the barrels begin discharging more bullets. The Clockwork jerks violently as the bullets slam into it, then it slumps into immobility like a broken marionette hanging from the ceiling.
"How dare–" is all the first Clockwork gets out before Donkman punches it with such force that its bottom jaw is ripped clear, revealing several gears where its jaw muscles should be. It stumbles back from the force of the blow, and falls heavily to the ground.
"I reckon we started on the wrong foot." Donkman quips as he stomps down on the Clockwork's head with an audible crunch, crushing the metal carapace protecting its brain.
Donkman adjusts his suit and turns to leave the train car, leaving the second Clockwork dangling lifelessly from the ceiling, a small pool of blood and oil forming underneath it.

As Donkman enters the first-class car he is greeted by two more Clockwork bandits rummaging through Dr. Heart's personal belongings.
He coughs politely. "Is there something I can help you gentlemen find?"
Both bandits stop examining the Doctor's effects to turn and face Donkman. The first looks towards the other. "This is not Dr. Heart."
"What an astute observation, my not-so-human friend." Donkman leers at the both of them as the second advances towards him. "Where is that thieving doctor!?" Steam pours from the Clockwork's shoulder as its arm segments and separates revealing a double-barreled shotgun.
Donkman sighs and spreads his hands in another placating gesture. "There's no need for all of that, how's 'bout we sit a spell– have a drink?" He steps over to the drink cart as the Clockwork swivels the barrel of its gun towards him.
Steam and a grinding noise issues from somewhere inside the first Clockwork. "We do not have time for this, just kill him already."
With a shake of his head, Donkman stops and shifts around to face the second Clockwork, something hidden in his left hand. "If'n you go lookin' for trouble, trouble's gonna' find ya'."
As the second Clockwork fires his shotgun prosthetic, Donkman dodges to the side, tossing a bottle of clear alcohol from the cart into the path of the oncoming buckshot. The bottle explodes, coating both Clockworks in burning alcohol and bits of shattered glass.
Both Clockworks begin screaming and flailing about. Donkman takes out a cigarette case and flicks it open to select one of the slender sticks. He watches the antics of the burning automatons as he casually lights his cigarette and puts away the case. He takes a deep drag before he steps forward and kicks one of the bandits heavily in the side. The kick sends it crashing into the other, and then through the big bay window in the side of the car.
He takes a few more drags on his cigarette then flicks it out into the wind after them with a sigh. "I reckon it'sa' time I have a talk with the good Doctor."

Donkman enters the storage car to find Dr. Heart sitting on some luggage near the back of the car. Schroeder stands before him in the walkway, his gun out and pointed at the floor.
After the briefest of moments, the Doctor recognizes Donkman, leaps to his feet, and brushes past Schroeder towards him. "Oh thank goodness, you made it."
Schroeder holsters his gun with a nod. "Jah, we thought you were dead, especially with all the screaming from the First Class cabin."
Donkman chuckles. "It'll take more than common crook to stop 'ol Donkman."
The Doctor motions toward the three clockwork bandits crumpled against the far wall in their own spreading pool of blood and oil. "I'd say these monsters are far from common."
With an appreciative nod towards Schroeder's competency with his firearm, Donkman turns towards the diminutive man. "Now Doctor, I reckon ya' said you was the one who discovered this miracle elixir of yours."
The Doctor shrinks back a bit from Donkman, suddenly uncomfortable. "I– Yes, that's correct."
Donkman frowns and gestures towards the broken Clockworks. "I reckon these banditos were mistaken in callin' ya' a thief then?"
Schroeder steps between Donkman and the Doctor, his hand sliding underneath his suit jacket. "What are you trying to say?"
With another sigh and a placating gesture with his hands, Donkman shakes his head. "Well, it's seemin' a mite suspicious that these bandits only lookin' for the Doctor here, wouldn't ya' say?"
Schroeder takes another step towards Donkman, pulling his gun free from its holster. "I do not like what you're impl–"
The doctor steps forward and places a calming hand on Schroeder's arm. "It's true, I hate to admit it, but it's true. They hired me to help them create some dastardly device– I couldn't let them do it. I snuck out in the middle of the night and took the elixir with me. I re–"
The Doctor's confession is interrupted as the cargo door in the side of the car is ripped from the wall, and a huge Clockwork bandit climbs through into the storage compartment.
"Oh god!" The Doctor shrinks away as the ghastly Clockwork behemoth hisses and clanks into the car. Schroeder's arm jerks up and as he levels his pistol on the thing.
"Get behind m–" is all he could get out before the Colossus wraps its large hands around the both of them, tossing the two across the room to crash into the train car's far wall.
Donkman snorts as he squares up to the monstrosity. "Well I'll be dammed, I reckon ya' do the eatin' for the lot of 'em."
The mechanical giant roars, clouds of steam rising from its joints as it flexes and leans forward. "Give me what is stolen. Give me now!" With another inarticulate roar, it charges down the alley, knocking luggage and storage carts aside. Donkman calmly pulls a red cape from within his jacket and begins a matador taunt towards the charging Colossus.
"Andele!" He yells as the thing charges through the cape and crashes into the wall behind him. The whole car shakes with the impact, and Donkman glances ruefully out at the landscape speeding by before turning again towards the hulking thing of cogwork and muscle.
"Certainly a big boy like you can do better than that, can't ya'?" Donkman taunts the bandit again as it charges towards him. At the last moment, he yanks the cape out of the way, revealing the massive hole in the side of the car. Unable to slow in time, the Colossus charges straight through the hole to fall screaming into the night.
Donkman shakes his head as he follows the thing's trajectory. "Simple fella, didn't even see it comin'."
He grins and turns away to walk up to where the Doctor and Schroeder lay stunned against the wall. He picks up the Doctor's bag and reaches his hand inside before nudging both of them with his foot. Schroeder groans, but the Doctor scrambles to his feet.
"Where is it!? Did they take it?" His voice is shrill with worry as he begins to search frantically about near him.
Donkman makes a polite sound and holds up the Doctor's bag. "If'n you mean this, I suppose not." He hands the bag to Dr. Heart, who immediately looks relieved and begins digging through it. After a moment, he looks up at Donkman.
"Mr. Donkman, I cannot thank you enough. You truly are a gentleman in my book."
Schroeder groans as he climbs to his feet beside the Doctor. "Jah, a true hero!"
At that, the train whistle blows its mournful wail, preempting any reply from Donkman. "Next stop, New Orleans Station!" the conductor can be heard calling from the next train car.
Donkman nods and brushes the already impeccable thighs of his trousers. "Well, y'all take care of yourselves now. Don't go stirring' trouble were ya' don't belong." At that, he turns and walks back towards his seat in the First Class cabin. As the train pulls into the station Donkman puts Dr. Heart's elixir back into his pocket, straightens his jacket, and slicks back his mane.

<< SCP-4768: The Tall Tales of Ulysses B. Donkman
♦ Ulysses B. Donkman and the Clockwork Bandits ♦
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman >>


For the most part, my memory eluded me. Still, I can remember who I was in the Old World. I was Nobody, someone who existed to no one but myself and carried myself through the same routine day in and day out.
This lasted until Armageddon came upon us and washed over our heads like raging waves on a windy day. The world left behind was a quiet one, free of the crowds of faceless people I used to blend into so easily. It's been so long since I've seen someone else.
Yet I'm still Nobody, going down the same ambling routine.
I've been here for what might as well have been eternity. I don't remember the first time I found my purpose, nestled behind that damn door. Once I read the final messages from beyond the horizon, I knew what I had to do. I had to preserve what had been left to collect dust in a chapel that was only partially of this world.
Today, I found my sanctuary as a slight doorway; it was carved into one of the rocky outcroppings just off the trail I'd beaten into the lake shore over the years. It had another dusty path winding up towards it and culminated in a ramshackle old door painted a dark green. The door had been long since left to the mercy of nature; I could smell the rot eating away at it from the inside even before I pushed past it. It was an almost calming scent in its familiarity.
It took only an experimental push for the door to swing open before me; I found myself again encased by stony chapel walls, cool and dry to the touch. There was never any windows but the noontime sun shone overhead through holes in the rock-pile, scattering little beams of light all throughout the chamber. It was almost empty, the only real furnishing being a dust-caked burgundy carpet on the middle of the chapel floor.
Finally, a battered hulk of metal and glass was slumped over sideways at the room's far end. My fingers danced over its shell and the screen lit up a faded white after a few moments. There was a familiar picture on the glass, the face of a bright sky-god.
What was left of the Old World's words flashed onto the screen as I begun my daily rites.

Verifying Horizon Initiative credentials…

Accessing Universal Texts…
Error retrieving general database; accessing saved files…
Two text(s) found.

The Travels of St. Dracios To the Lands of Jarad, Chapter 16;
The Fourth Letter of Nayvidius.

With a flash of light my eyes passed over the Final Words. I did not know who left them here, or why these survived when others didn't. All I knew is that I must take care to preserve them. It is my duty to record them, for they might be the last glimpses back to the Old World from before.
I've tried to treat them well, just as whoever came before did. I tried my best to dust the hulk, to cleanse its haggard surface with the lake water. Once, I tried to fix the door— long before I realized the nature of this chamber.
I read the first part of the Final Words aloud and they came out as haphazard noises away into the breeze.

The Baptism of the Beggar-King of Virgil
16 Once the Saint made his way down to the town center and came upon a great marketplace. 2 The stands were lined with a great plenty of fine foods and drink and filled with many tradesmen and warriors. Yet St. Dracios could only see one man through the crowd. 3 He was a haggard figure coated in the rags of his past; a simple beggar. His emaciated arms held out an empty wooden bowl but the men of Virgil walked past him as if he was a spirit, casting him nary a glare.
4 St. Dracios moved through the crowds, parting the market-goers of Virgil until he could reach this pauper. The tradesmen paid him no gestures as he approached him. It was as if even approaching the beggar brought Dracios to the edge of Heaven. 5 "What is your name, humble one?" The good Saint asked onto the beggar. "I have no name but the King of Beggars." The pauper of the Virgil marketplace responded. "My name has been lost unto history."6 The Saint lingered before Virgil's Beggar-King, and to him he asked. "Why do the men of Virgil treat you this way?" "History has tried to claim me as it has my name. They cannot see me, just as they cannot see you now." He spoke back, his voice tinged with the sighs of age. 7 The good Saint Dracios preached onto him the wisdom of Abraham, and dubbed the pauper אף אחד and commanded of him to spread the Lord's words unto the men of Virgil. 8 Finally, he poured out his water onto the Beggar-King's forehead and the dust and dirt was cleansed off his forehead with the Lord's will. With that, the good Saint moved on, through the marketplace and onto the Easterly road to Jarad.
9 On his way back towards the sea, St. Dracios made his way back through the town of Virgil once more. He found no signs of אף אחד, though a young boy told the saint Virgil's Beggar-King preached to the village for seven years until he left up the Northern road towards Anatolia.

The summertime wind whistled through the trees outside the chapel, rustling the leaves as it ran through the sky. The lake's waves lapped gently up onto the shore; for a moment I could feel the outside reality slip past me, slip through me. My arms became dictated by the Northern winds above. My fingers darted across the rusted electronic prophet before me. It was as if there was another presence in the chapel, sat beside me guiding my movements.
The sunlight on my periphery became brighter and brighter behind my eyes. My hand swiped my archived scripture back; I watched as a new set took their place.
I let the winds and currents of nature flow through me as I began to read again.

The Fourth Letter of Nayvidius
5 As I wandered down the Southerly roads, surrounded by paupers and tradesmen, I came upon a man with no name.2 He claimed to have been taught by a great emperor of the paupers and preached the words of Saints Abraham and Dracios from generations past.
3 He was bound Northwards, towards the great city of Damascus to spread his gospel; his ancestor's great teachings of going beyond the self. 4 Indeed, he said that those like him were known only as אף אחד and that he sought naught but to spread the teachings of this great emperor. Once his disciples had let these teachings into their hearts, then he would cease to be as אף אחד was and they would spread the gospel to the world. 5 I wished him well upon his travels and watched as he disappeared down the Northern pathways. I do not know what befell him on his pilgrimage, as I never returned to Damascus.

Once the last word passed through my lips, I saw that the sun had passed over the rockpile and left the rays of Helios dappled over the rusted casing. The screen faded out to black. I could feel the presence around me dissipated back into the cosmos, the whistles of the wind and rush of lake-water silenced themselves in my head.
It's time to go now.
I pulled the rotten door open, leaving it to swing quietly shut behind me as I ambled back down my path. I didn't look back, I know my chapel would already be gone. Perhaps I shall find it tomorrow, lodged into the beach as a rusting trapdoor. I'll find it, though. I always do.
One day I'll finally understand what it was all supposed to mean. Maybe, I'll soon understand what the whispers of the Old World have been trying to say.
Perhaps I am just another אף אחד, a beggar-priest like in the stories. If this is true, then like my forebears I shall preserve those Words we still have left until I can tell them to another.
Until then, I'll still be Nobody, walking alone through a young world.


by stormbreath

crewtime 04/23/15 (Thu) 01:03:29 #83920137

The death of AJ Fader (and of their friends) remains one of the Pacific Northwest's most puzzling mysteries. Despite clear photographic evidence of the presumed killer, he remains unidentified.
They were six recent college graduates from the University of Washington Seattle, Class of 2003. One - Matt Mantell - had graduated a year early, through a combination of AP credits, summer classes, and a heavy course load. After graduating, he moved back home to Eureka, California. The other five - AJ Fader, Blake Thorburn, Elisa Tran, Liv Benjamin, and Zach O'Grady - all graduated the following year. After graduation, they planned to road trip down from Seattle to Eureka in AJ's 1997 4Runner, spending some time on the Oregon Coast.
According to Matt, the plan had been for the group to drive from Seattle to Portland. They'd spend the night there and then spend a few days lazily going down the coast. They weren't in any particular rush, and Matt would have been busy with work if the group had arrived as soon as possible. The plan had been to camp on the coast, in some redwood forests, and generally take it easy after a hectic senior year. It was supposed to be a safe trip, but AJ brought their gun, just in case.
As far as anyone can tell, the trip had no problems for the first few legs. The group arrived in Portland without a hitch, staying with a friend of AJ's in the city. They visited a few bars on the night of their arrival and a few parks the next day, before leaving in the afternoon. Throughout this time, they kept in close communication with Matthew, letting them know their progress throughout.

crewtime 04/23/15 (Thu) 01:10:11 #83920828

Things take a turn for the worse after leaving Portland. The group gets dinner in Tillamook and then leaves for Nags Beach Campground, a small and infrequently used campsite about an hour from Tillamook, close to the water. They pick the campsite for its isolation, hoping they would not be bothered. It is off the beaten path, and rarely receives visitors. Often, campers find themselves the only people there.
However, they are not alone. On a call to Matt at 8:13 PM, Elisa mentions another camper at the campsite at the same time as them. Nags Beach is large enough the two groups can spread apart, and on this call, Elisa only mentions seeing the campfire of the other party through the trees. She doesn't spend long talking about their fellow camper, choosing to discuss the day and the other features of Nags Beach.
It is unknown what happens between 8:19 PM (when Elisa finishes her call) and 11:47 PM, when AJ leaves Matt another voice mail. (Matt had fallen asleep.) Throughout this second call, Elisa, Liv and Zach can be heard talking in the background, having their own, quieter conversation.

AJ: Hey, Matt. Just a heads up, wanted to let you know how our plans are going. We got into a bit of a uh, well, thing — a fight — with one of the other campers at Nags Beach. The only other camper, in fact. Felt it was best if we just headed out after that. Not physical, but … could've, maybe.
Elisa: (Background) Why would he say something like that? How could he have known?
Zach: (Background) I'm less concerned about what he said and more about what he was. I don't think (unintelligible).
AJ: I'm not really sure what our plans are for the night, Blake is the one driving. Uh, Blake, where we headed?
Liv: (Background) Did you see his eyes? Did you get a good look at his eyes?
Blake: Anywhere that's away from that freak. I don't know about you, but I'm scared of him. Not just in the normal way, which is bad enough, but … you saw him too. You get it.
Elisa: (Background) No, it was too dark to make anything out. Just saw shadows.
AJ: So yeah. Not sure where we'll end up. I'll let you know where we are, give you a recap of tonight when we get to Eureka.
Zach: (Background) It wasn't that dark, Elisa. I could see yours just fine. His weren't-

The call abruptly ends before Zach finishes.

crewtime 04/23/15 (Thu) 01:13:36 #83921076

The five sleep in their car in a Walmart parking lot that night, as all campsites had closed before they left Nags Beach. Regardless, they had no further problems that day. They stayed at their next campsite - Harris Beach without issue, remaining in contact with Matthew.
The group gets a late lunch in a Crescent City IHOP and are recorded on a security camera. While the group is eating, a man wearing sunglasses enters behind them, and the group instantly freezes. There is a brief moment where the two look directly at each other, without moving or reacting, before the man is taken to a table. While his back is turned, the group rushes out, hastily throwing a fifty onto the table (not enough to cover their entire meal).
Matt gets another voice mail from AJ, not long after the five flee the IHOP. This time, Matt is at work.

Hey Matt, AJ here. The guy from the other night, from the Nags Beach campground, followed us, we think. He walked into the diner we were eating at, so we left as fast as we could get out. Not sure how he followed us, but… I was worried this would happen.
Saw it coming. We're going to take a detour in from the coast, see if he's still following us then. Still going to Eureka, just a different way. Call you soon.

crewtime 04/23/15 (Thu) 01:18:08 #83921273

However, AJ did not call back soon. This voice mail was the last communication that Matt would ever receive from his friends.
After making this call, the group drives away from the coast, into the heart of California. It's hard to guess at what their travel plans are at this point, but the most logical is that they plan to drive north on 199, take Greyback Road to 96, and then go to Eureka — a route that adds four hours to their travel time. Their reasons for this much longer route are unknown, as are their sudden lack of calls.
The next sighting comes late on the night of the fourth day of their trip, caught in the outside security camera of a gas station in Klamath Falls, Oregon. At this point, they have been driving in the opposite direction of Eureka for three hours, and there is no path they could be on that leads to Eureka.
The 4Runner drives up, and AJ, Elisa, Blake, and Liv exit. Zach is nowhere to be seen, not even in the car. The gas station camera is in black and white and doesn't capture sound. Blake and Elisa have an argument, and AJ and Liv join in. AJ gestures to their gun, sitting on the dashboard throughout. It lasts for a few minutes before they get back into the car and drive off.
Two minutes later, another car, this one a 1969 Ford Mustang. It has no license plates, front or back. A man exits, still wearing sunglasses in the dark. This man inspects the ground near the pump used, and then suddenly jerks his head to the camera. For almost a minute, he stares directly at the viewer. He then proceeds to calmly buy gas and takes off in the same direction as the group.
AJ's 4Runner was found abandoned just outside of the Sheldon National Antelope Refuge, almost two hundred miles away from Klamath Falls, five days after they left Seattle. Matt had reported them missing by the evening of the fourth day, but nobody could have expected to find them that far away. As best as can be told, the five drove continuously from the station without stopping, until they ran out of gas, and pulled off on the side of the road.
A highway patrol officer found the car stopped on the side of the road and pulled over to investigate. Inside, he found three dead bodies, — Blake, Elisa and Liv — each stabbed to death. Their eyes had all been carved out of their skulls, nowhere to be found. Zach was — and to this day still is — missing. Each had been propped up in the car seats, seat belts buckled in.
Leading off from around the side of the 4Runner were two trails of footprints. The officer followed them, although he noted one stopped twenty feet before the other and turned back. The other led straight to the corpse of AJ Fader, clutching their gun and facing the direction of the road.
Cause of death? A self-inflicted bullet wound, shot by AJ through their own right eye.