Introduction

The Hex Files came out of my desire to do something different for the 10-day countdown leading up to Wild West Fest 3. I originally intended to write all ten installments, but after reading Day 10, Tom Huntington buzzed me and said he just HAD to get onboard, and so he ended up taking the odd-numbered days while I did the evens. Thank goodness; it was hard enough coming up with Days 10, 8, 6, and 4. Due to lack of foresight, I actually left for the Fest on Day 2 and thus didn't post anything; Tom stepped in and did the Day of Reckoning after Day 3. Early on, a few other people jumped on the bandwagon and contributed a few things, but Dade Cariaga's contribution on Day 8 was just perfect, so it's included here.

Mad Dog did a great job, and it made for one heck of an entertaining week trying to one-up each other with ever-thickening diabolical tangles of plot. In the end, well, maybe The Truth Isn't Really Out There After All.

Day 10

This is NOT my usual morning routine. Wake up to two goons busting in the motel door, smell of duct tape instead of coffee, Consuela screaming, get carried out to the parking lot and dumped without ceremony into the trunk of a black sedan.

I prefer the trunks of GREY sedans.

It's not an uncomfortable ride, really, so I figure whoever's grabbed me isn't intent on immediate bodily harm, which means the day is looking up. I manage to rig the gas tank to explode in case I need a diversion later and the faint smell of pine meshes with my chrono's GBS receiver which indicates we're heading out of town. I even manage a quick shave, from which you can infer whatever you want about my plush confines or my experience in waking up in trunks.

Eventually we stop and MAN that sunlight really smarts. Goon 1 lifts me out while Goon 2 keeps me covered. We're up in the mountains somewhere by a lake; very scenic and relaxing if you're not about to be shot full of lead. Goon 2 eloquently points me down a path where Goon 3 waits in a small outboard boat. I don't get a lifejacket.

On the ride out over the water I figure it's even money that I'm going to meet someone, which is a much more pleasant thought than Option B, so I focus on that. We round a bend and spot another boat off in the distance so I relax and stop visualizing the mechanics of a flying kick to Goon 3's temple. He doesn't even thank me. Goons.

Eventually we pull up to the other boat and I get rolled onboard that one and receive an especially vicious Duct-Tape-Rip that makes me briefly hunt around for my upper lip. My wrists and feet are freed too, which is either very good or very bad, depending on how you look at it. Goons 3 and 4 take the first boat about 10 paces away and get busy studying nothing, which leaves me looking up at my host. Short guy, spectacles, fishing gear, staring out over the water at his line.

My boss.

"Well Mister Repetti, nice of you to join us on this fine day. It IS a fine day, don't you think?"

"Uh, yes Sir. If you find my lip around here somewhere, could you do me a favor and not use it for bait?"

"Ah Tuomo, always the card. No, I have something to talk to you about."

That's one thing about working here. In other companies you get a nice voicemail or a secretary coming around to tell you about the staff meeting. At War-Oboe Productions they have their own style.

"What do you know about Mister Huntington?"

"Huntington, Tom. Mad Dog. Indexmeister. Level C clearance. Speaks five languages. The Company's mole in NORAD. Straight arrow. He hasn't been a good boy lately?"

The spectacles turn around to deliver a pained expression. "No, Mister Repetti, he's been a decidedly BAD boy lately." Followed by an especially energetic cast far out over the water: REEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeplunk. A black shoetip flips open the fishing creel and a dossier spills out. Mad Dog's file. And a letter made from newspaper clippings:

U CAnt kEep Me HErE
YOU'RE all AGENst me
I will SHOW U
team COLORADO rools!!!

Life is full of little pleasures. Watching my boss silently count to ten is one of them.

"Two days ago we received that message from an unmarked address in Colorado Springs. It's got Huntington's fingerprints on it."

"What's his beef?"

"His BEEF, Mister Repetti, is that last week he received his orders for July."

Sue me, I'm slow in the morning. I wait for the kicker.

"And the Wild West Fest was not on them."

Ah, so. Mad Dog goes 0-6 at WWF last year, isn't picked for the team this year, so he throws a fit and takes it on the lam. All is not One Big Happy on the Good Ship War Oboe.

"Well hey, we can't all be superstars."

"Or even OVERPAID OVER-THE-HILL UNDERACHIEVING superstars," with powerful jerks on the line.

I gaze silently out over the water. Bottom Line Time. I like the Old Man, I really do, but I was brought in here to do a job, and the Boss wants results. I glance down at the water and think about the fates of Team Colorado's last few free agents who didn't perform. Wonder how their fishing trips went.

"So what do you want, besides wins?"

Stevens turns and glares at me, Vince Lombardi without the charm.

"I want WINS! I want YOU to do what you CAME HERE to do! I want to spend ALL OF NEXT YEAR LOOKING AT MY STATES TROPHY FROM WWF! I WANT TO CALL UP THE #%^#'ING BERSERK COMMISSARS AND RUB *THEIR* FACES IN IT! ***THAT'S*** WHAT I WANT!"

This has GOT to be bad for the fishing.

"I want YOU to get off your FAT ASS and GO FIND HUNTINGTON! He will NOT show up at the Wild West Fest, he will NOT represent Team Colorado, and he will NOT KEEP ME FROM WINNING MY TROPHY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?!?!??"

"Uh, yessi-"

"YOU HAVE TEN DAYS TILL THE WILD WEST FEST! NOW GO **FIND** HIM!!!"

Early morning.

Not that early, really. I begin to wake up and realize I've been at work for a while now. My attempts to type my status report are overshadowed by the memories of last night's recurring dream, of a dancing dwarf with snake eyes. He kept repeating "nam a yllaer saw retraC adniL", but I can't figure out what it means. Try to not give omens much acknowledgment, anyway. On my drive into work this morning, the radio kept playing the ominous oboe solo in "Baker's Street" on the oldies station, but I tried to drive sober and not keep watching my rear view mirror. Swear to God a pink Mary Kay car was following me, but it was rush hour and I lost it in the traffic.

I give up on reporting the number of hours spent in System Test (as if Doom could be mistaken for a combat sim), and try to ping the Mars Lander Web Site for a hundred millionth time. Unexpectedly, the computer prompts me asking if I want to upload a new driver. "Firewalls are for sissys," I think, and I click "Okay". After cursing Win '95's progress bar, suddenly my machine starts playing Adam Clayton's remake of the theme from Mission Impossible. Odd. My computer doesn't have speakers.

Phone rings. My mumbled greetings are interrupted, overwhelmed by a voice that sounds a lot like our lead Mission Engineer. Less arrogant, though, more a commanding resonance ... it reminds me of the days before I resigned from War-Oboe. "Good Morning M. D. Huntington. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to destroy the credibility of Team Colorado. After your refusal to continue being the front man for their downfall at WWF, we have decided the next best way is for you to demolish their ladder standing."

I scream at the phone "I've retired! It's supposed to be a goddammed _game_! Read the resignation letter!" and hang up. My cubicle mates are awake now, too. But they've seen stranger -- we are engineers, after all. The phone's in the cradle, but a muffled voice from the handset continues with a mission debrief. I try to ignore it, can't help but wonder who would call. I pull a manila envelope from under the phone, and flip through the pictures. Standard material. Cow-licked heads bent over boards. Built-for-comfort-not-for-speed bodies wearing "Gen-Con '84" tee's. A red high-lighted circle drawn around the back of someone's head wearing bunny ears. Can't see his face, but I know him. Ici Chachal, always the card. Another picture shows the same back-of-the-head view, this time the individual is wearing an arrow through his head, and is talking to what looks like an MMP member stepping off a spaceship. I can't help but notice the similarity to the studio shot from "The Day The Earth Stood Still". The monotone voice from my phone stops, and suddenly the phone erupts in a melting pool of plastic and Bell hardware. Maintenance will eventually figure out I need a new one. If they're smart, they'll issue me a new number, too. They'll probably insist I call it in. I light the photos on fire, drop them in the "Classified Waste" bin.

I try, for appearances, to keep the drudgery of the morning wrapped around me like a concealment counter. But for a change, my mind is racing. I start downloading AARs for new scenarios as quickly as I can. At noon the secretary delivers an envelope -- looks like a standard CD case, but when I pull out the disc I see that instead of a label someone has drawn an acquisition -2 counter on the polished side. The reflection of my face looks like I'm in the scopes of a gunsight, the gaping hole in the middle of the disc lines up on the bridge of my nose. Damn, missed a spot shaving this morning. A warning, it's obvious -- I have to get off the base, get home, get to my rulebook and ziploks. And it's exactly what they'll be expecting. I grab my notes, index errata and coat, and head for the restroom. Quick pocket inventory - a couple of electronic and chemical doo-dads, not enough change to trip airport security, my watch, set of keys in case of impromptu HtH, lighter, wallet loaded with shims and picks. Reinforced plastic belt buckle punching dagger, snapped onto a money belt with more than enough funds to buy a plane ticket and any new modules. Boot knife, again made from plastic. I flush my campaign notes and postscript maps down the john. I pull on my raincoat, draw my Browning from my coat pocket and check for a bullet in the chamber. Stepping out of the stall, I tuck the gun into my waistband (reminder: I either have to stop carrying these staggered load clips or cut back on the frosted pop-tarts), and take the back stairs to the ground floor. I miss the standard issue War-Oboe utility belt, but I don't miss the body armor. Check both ways if it's clear, and I pull a fire alarm before stepping out of the stairwell. The base has it's own fire department, and you can tell by their drills lately that they've been itching for some excitement. I hope a false alarm is as exciting as their day will get. It's too hot out for a black trench coat, but I need to look different than I did when I came in this morning. I put on my sunglasses, more to hide what I'm watching than to deal with the glare. My shoulders keep tensing up as I walk towards the compound gates - I can't help but imagine a gun aiming at the base of my neck. Just as I'm passing through the gates, I drop some smoke canisters and a flare near the guard house. Can't always be just a tease. As the shouting starts and men in camouflage start running around, I head towards the blacktop. I keep an eye on the grassy knoll. If I can make it into my car, the extra armament and armored glass will let me breathe easier.

There's only one way to exorcise these demons. I don't care if what I do fits in with someone else's maniacal plans or not. I'll have to take down my nemesis before he gets me. I don't know who called me with this telephone briefing, or who sent me the warning -- taking on War-Oboe's strumtruppen could be a plan from some rival faction, or this could be some weird Old Man Steven's plot to whip his boys into shape. Either way, I know where to find them. If I can't break their winning streaks here in town, I'll have to catch them in Park City. I use the remote to start my car a hundred yards away. I gotta see a man about some dice ....

I work alone.

Q has kindly allowed me to borrow a few of his latest gizmos (the superconducting dice-rolling cup and the X-ray Concealment Peeker glasses are nice), but I tend to think this Huntington character is just a wee bit too smart to let himself be caught by a general manhunt.

It's just as well, really. Q shows me what happened to the first guy through the door at Huntington's apartment and the guy who tried to access his classified files. Didn't know keyboards could explode like that. Mad Dog has obviously gone Way Out There. And I gotta bring him back.

Flute music. Lotus position. Incense. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax your body and let your mind follow his trail. Touch the happening, grok the essence, be the ball. Reach out through the ether and find this man. Save the company a bundle in airfare.

OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmnot happening. Sigh.

Think. Think. Think. Play some Duke Nukem. Think. Read Dilbert. Think. THINK. Watch Kiana's Workout Video. Think. Sigh.

Go to the ASL newsgroups and leave a message:

         TO:  ASL
       FROM:  Tuomo
    SUBJECT:  Kolorado Roolz!

      Mad Dogs and Englishmen
      Tend to be put down when they froth at the mouth.
      Quality is Job 3:16
      Doo Wah Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Do

My chrono beeps. It's Delilah from headquarters. Beams me the footage of how they interrogated The Enigmatic Doctor Marty Snow. Guy never talked; now he's as Enigmatic As He Wanna Be. Of course he knew something; they always do.

Where do you go when your cork pops and you're hell bent on wreaking mindless vengeance? LA? Nah, nobody'd notice. Microsoft? They'd probably hire you. Avalon Hill? No way. Huntington can't know that The Company acquired them years ago. Idaho?

Idaho... IDAHO!

"Delilah! Get me a black chopper! We're goin' to Idaho!"

15 minutes later we're headed north over the Rocky Mountains when a call comes over the radio. The Company has a hot tip on Huntington's position and the Strike Team is going in. Boulder? Why would he hole up in Boulder?

We touch down in the back yard of a nondescript house in the suburbs. It wasn't hard to find; just look for the smoldering wreck with scorch marks from the Company's Subatomic Gyro Blasters. Step through the debris into what used to be the living room. Meet up with Evans, the Strike Team leader. He looks pleased.

"MAN these new Mark IV's can punch a HOLE! Do you know we didn't even have to get out of the car? Fifty feet away from the street and ..."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Didja get 'im?"

"Bedroom, baby. Must've been watching Jeopardy when he went to meet his Maker. 'I'll take Pearly Gates for 500, Bob.' "

Head back to the bedroom through the newly-created hallway. Gotta see if Q has any of those Mark IV's to spare. Step into the bedroom. The smell of scorched flesh slaps me like a wet fish. I reel from flashbacks. Cambodia. Elbonia. Newark.

"You all right?"

"Uh, yeah." Pick through the debris before I have to confront the charbroiled figure slumped over in the corner. "What a mess. What tipped you off?"

"Anonymous call. Suggested we go to the Switchboard website and look under 'Huntington'. Led us right here."

My stomach finally stops doing the cha-cha-cha and I kneel over what used to be a fine Company man. "Well Mad Dog, I guess you weren't so tricky after all." Roll over the corpse and look into the blackened face of... Tim Hundsdorfer.

Scene: Berserk Commissar's HQ, Portland, OR

"Of course, it's always tragic to see a family fall apart," I say. Cardon smiles. We both chuckle. Mirthless, but we like our humor like our coffee: black. A sheen of light adds a pale tinge to the relentless rain. The covered patio offers a nice view of the sodden lawn behind the headquarters building. A pair of mallards waddle around, occassionally dipping their bills to the grass, then gobbling ferociously: slugs.

"Just got the word about Hundsdorfer," Cardon says. "Damn shame! He was a good egg."

I shrug, philosophically. "Things like that happen. We knew things could get ugly with them. But our man's still on the lam. He'll keep things stirred up for a while. Drink?"

"Stoli's screwdriver, if you don't mind. Always good to have orange juice in the morning."

I nod to the attendant, who turns on his heel and heads for the bar.

"Does it ever bother you?" Cardon asks, suddenly. Out of the blue.

"You going soft on me, Carey?" I ask. "It's a rough game. They all knew the rules. They hit us, we hit 'em back. You remember what they did to The-Evil-That-Is-Tycho, don't you?"

Cardon shrugs. "How'd we come to this?"

It's my turn to shrug. "What's it matter, Carey? We're here. All I gotta worry about is keeping the Mad Dog alive for the next 10 days. Everything else will fall into place."

"Where is he now?" Cardon asks. Maybe, just a little too eagerly.

I smile. "Let's just say he's safe for the moment. I've got Danielson and Billett throwing them off his trail. Of course, if the Mad Dog ever knew that we were the ones behind the whole thing...."

"I understand," Cardon says. He gets up. "I've gotta go. Let me take a raincheck on that drink."

"Of course," I say. Nonchalant. You've got to stay nonchalant or they know.

He smiles, sadly, and walks back into the building.

"Stewart?" I call.

Professor King emerges from behind the patio screen.

"You'll want to make sure we keep Tuomo busy. Create a diversion. You know, something far away. Maybe a 'sighting' in Baltimore."

Stewart nods and turns to go.

"And Stewart?"

He pauses.

"Get a tail on Cardon."

Joe Camel is sitting on a lawn chair, smoking a cigarette. Apparently I'm lying on my back in the desert ... boy I hope this is a dream. I see his stats, spelled out between the aluminum chair legs, depict him as a 447. Dude must have recently ELR'ed, I think. He glances down at me. He holds out a pack, shakes a cigarette out.

"No thanks," I say. "I don't smoke."

He pushes his sun glasses up his nose, and says in a perfect imitation of Yoda, "That ... is why you fail." His SMOKE exponent begins to slowly glow red.

I snap awake. The smell of singed hair still pervades the room. I'm not getting enough rest anymore.

Standing in line in the bank. Someone's in line behind me, and it takes me a full minute to realize he should be waiting in the roped off cattle pen, not on my shoulder. The cashier turns with a fistful of fifties, only to see me cutting out for the door. Yeah, I'm paranoid.

Earlier I got in and out of my house with no encounters, and recovered my collection -- although when I tried to pull my General magazines off the shelf, the glint of a thin wire off the back of Volume 24 #6 made me freeze. "Rocket's Red Glare", indeed. I left the 'zines.

I stopped at the grocery store to stock up on Gummi Dinosaurs. I was walking through the parking lot when I got a sidelong glance at a pink Cadillac, and it's engine roared to a peak almost as fast as my adrenaline did. I dove and rolled behind my car with the words "sloppy sloppy sloppy" echoing through my mind. As quickly as I could, I pulled open the door and passed over my Desert Eagle to grab a Panzerfaust off the floor. A mom yells, a child giggles, and I put the hardware back out of sight before anyone sees it. Gotta cut back on the caffeine.

There's a safe house a couple of hours from town. I head for that, thinking it might still be available now, during the tournament season and all. Hell, since the collapse of the TSSR and the old SPI's have been escorted out from behind the curtain, the safe house might be forgotten. Maybe I'll be lucky. I park blocks away on the campus.

The door of the safe house is unlocked. Heavy curtains cover the windows, but from my angle I can see a light is on inside. My VP-70 is heavy and cool in my hand, I ease it out so my coat won't block my draw. Deep breath, shove the door open and come in low. It's ... it's him. Sitting behind the table, smiling at my over-dramatic entrance. It's nice to see a familiar face, and I may even be looking at a friendly face.

"Up for a game? We can practice a tournament scenario, if you'd like."

Geez. Maybe I'm getting too paranoid. "Can we use your stuff? Mine's in the car still," I gesture towards the street, not towards the campus. Habits die hard.

"No problem."

And we started setting up like everything was normal. When I was reading through the victory conditions, he said "You should work on your defense." I willed my hand not to twitch towards my gun, and instead set up my pieces. I test-rolled the dice he handed me to check for trickery, and they came up double-fives.

"Coward."

"What?" I ask.

"Your dice -- doubles, you cowered."

I try to laugh casually, and with a casual sweep of my hand I knock a spare concealment counter on the floor. As I stoop to pick it up, I do a quick check to see if there's a gun case or anything in with his Planos. Across the floor, a phone cable snakes through the carpet, close to his chair.

It's plugged into his heel.

I sit up. He's a goddamn Company "dice tower". They know my set-up. God, if he's packing a 28.8 modem then they probably already know my heart rate and what I had for my last supper. If he's got a NASA standard 9800 baud, though, I might still have time. My hand drops the counter back on the table. My other hand stays low, out of sight. His eyes are on my face, his hands are both above the table, still empty. I ask "Do you have any Crest Status counters?" He blinks at me, turns towards his Planos. As soon as he looks away, I flip the table at him and push him down onto the floor. I kick the phone line, and it snaps free from the wall. Cracks of breaking plastic come up from under the table, no voice. I make a snatch for his laminated board -- they can stop bullets -- but I miss. His hand clicks across the tile, almost catches my wrist.

I spin and duck for the kitchen. There's a window, and I jump at it. If it's reinforced ... just as I hit the glass, I hear the room erupt behind me in a violent explosion. I expected maybe pistol shots, but this was a house-rocking boom. The sudden rush of air carries me through and out the window. I land hard on my back, watch glass and plaster get thrown above and beyond me.

"You idiot", I tell myself. "They don't give a damn about your set-up strategy. They don't even want the latest index to be right. They want you to not collect on your pre-registration fees in Park City!" Aw hell. The feral part of my brain tells me if I'm not out of this area code in the next twenty minutes, I might never make it. I haven't had a chance to check myself for damage. Quick glance shows my jeans are smoldering, but apparently not torn. A pause, one deep shuddering inhale, and I'm up and running. It's easy to find my way, with the house collapsing into flames behind me. Wonder if instead I should try to score a room from some nearby dorm or something. I have to start playing smarter.

Already, I can hear an approaching chopper in the background. I keep running.

"Veer left! LEFT!"

Yoshi yanks hard left and the Jag plunges into a side street. The Pinto with the Oregon license plates we're pursuing is 50 yards ahead careening madly through traffic. I lean out the passenger's side and empty a clip in the general forward direction, but the Pinto irritatingly fails to explode. Maybe we should dink it from behind at 5 miles per hour.

"You got anything more powerful in this heap?"

Yoshi flips a switch and the glovebox rotates inward and becomes a control panel. The Jag's front hood folds back to reveal a rack of nasty-looking weaponry. The Pinto is centered on glowing crosshairs in the Heads-Up Display. We're apparently traveling in the Batmobile.

"Which button do I hit?"

"Try the black one," Yoshi says, so I do. A SPNKR missle leaps forward with a FWOOSH, scoring a direct hit on a garbage truck. Yoshi looks chagrined.

"Umm, the blue." A Frap Ray glances off the Pinto's ablative roof tiles and incinerates a grocery store.

"Yellow!" Flaming oil narrowly misses the Pinto and engulfs a little old lady walking her Poodle.

Yoshi is apopleptic. "What kind of cheesy hardware do you GOT here, Yoshi? If I hit this red button, do we shower 'em with Tickle Me Elmos?" "Don't hit the red button." "I'm GONNA hit the red button, Yoshi." "DON'T HIT THE RED BUTTON!" "I'M HITTING THE GODDAM RED BUTTON, YOSHI!" "NOOOO!!!!"

I hit the red button.

I wake up in the hospital. Everything hurts. Yoshi is in the next bed covered head to toe in bandages. He comes to and glances over. "I TOLD you not to hit the red button. You schmuck."

Sigh. Pick up the phone; I need my Pookie.

"Hello, Pookie?"

"Hi, Sweetums. How's your day going?"

I glance down at my burned and battered legs. "Ohh, OK. And yours?"

"It's just been sheer hell. The cable guy was supposed to come at noon so I had to tell the kids we couldn't go to Burger King till after that but he didn't come till TWO and the kids were hungry and fighting and finally we DO get to Burger King but they don't have any Potty Tots Happy Meals left and Molly didn't want a cheeseburger Oh wait, that's my other line. Can you hold?"

"Sure"

"Hello?"

"The aardvark crows at midnight."

"Hang on." *BEEP BEEP CLICK*

"Are we secure?"

"Yes"

"So, Agent 13, what is your status? Is the target still in the dark?"

"Yes, completely. As a matter of fact, I have him on the other line right now."

"Excellent. We will commence Fall Gelb immediately."

"By your command. Thirteen out." *CLICK* *CLICK BEEP BEEP*

"Uh, honey?"

"Yes Sweetie?"

"I kinda got a lot of work to do here. I'll see you tonight, OK?"

"OK my Pookums. You come home to your widdle wifey-wifey, OK?"

"OK. Bye, Pookie."

I hang up the phone just as a nurse arrives to give me a shot. As the needle goes in and the coolness runs up my arm, I notice she's not wearing hospital ID. Maybe it's hidden behind her pink Mauser.....

(fade to black)

(fade back to pink)

The cloying smell of jasmine... pink everywhere... is this Heaven? Can't be; I've cheated on too many pbem games.

Suddenly a face looms over me. "What is the frequency, Kenneth?"

"Ninety-nine-point-five, more rock less talk," I mumble reflexively.

"WRONG!" Ten thousand volts surges through my system, scrambling my nerves and possibly damaging the wetware Q installed last month. I narrowly avoid a cold reboot and the room swims into focus.

Now I know my systems are damaged. Pink frilly stuff everywhere. I'm in some kind of office, bound to a pink chair. Two albino Dobermans with pink eyes lounge nearby. Mascara and cosmetics litter the desk in front of me. And off to my left a figure stands. OH MY GOD. REBOOT. CTRL-OPTION-DELETE. IT'S MARY KAY IN A PINK LEATHER BUSTIER. SHUT DOWN. PINK LEATHER KNEEBOOTS. PULL THE PLUG. A PINK WHIP. THE HORROR.

Her gravelly voice speaks through layers of pancake makeup. "You'll find that your self-destruct sequences no longer work. We've reset the codes." She moves over to the vanity and primps her hair. "Now we're going to have a nice conversation and you're going to give me some answers." Taking out something that looks like a TV remote. "Give me any trouble and you'll discover the hard way what this red button can do."

Again with the red buttons.

"What do you want, you deranged lunatic?"

She tosses some kibble to the Dobermans and sits down at her desk. "Why Mister Repettinen, I'm surprised at you. Your controller's reports indicate you're MUCH smarter than that."

"My controller...?" My God... Pookie's in Mary Kay... "My WIFE?!!?!"

"Come in, Agent 13." My senses reel as my wife of eighteen years crosses over the room to stand at the side of the evil wench. "Pookie! Say it ain't so!" She looks at me with a mixture of defiance and pity.

"But WHY? WHY?"

Mary Kay butts in. "Hey, this is MY part. Evil-Villian-Reveals-Nefarious-Plot- To-Hero-Before-Killing-Him. Stick to the script."

"Oh. Sorry."

A touch of a pink button and the vanity wall revolves around to reveal a command map of the US. Little blinking lights appear in various places, with captions. "Windy City Wargamers - Pauline" "Berserk Commissars - Janice" "Twin Cities ASL Club - Mandy" "Team Colorado - Amy"

"YOU'RE running the ASL world?"

MK applies some rouge and favors me with a sneer. "From behind the scenes, naturally. But your little world is just a stepping stone to our Master Plan. Today the ASL world, tomorrow the REAL WORLD!!!"

"You're insane!"

"Maybe so, but I'm having one hell of a lot of fun with it."

My mind was stuck in Permanent Reel, so I let it go a while longer. The Mary Kay Corporation as an Evil Empire bent on taking over the world. Things started to fall into place. The pink cadillacs everywhere. Dallas. The grassy knoll. All of those skin care classes and facials my wife had over the years. The stun gun I found under her pillow.

"But, but... why ASL?"

"We needed men for breeding purposes. Smart men to provide good stock for the next generation of women rulers. But men in such poor physical shape that they'd be no threat to us. And men so lacking in social skills that they'd be easy targets - in fact, they'd be grateful for the meager attentions we deigned to bestow upon them."

Coming around to the front of the desk. "ASL was perfect."

"You'll never get away with it!"

"Ah, but we have and we will. As soon as you tell us where H-Five is."

"H...Five?"

"Don't play games with US! Clone series H, number Five! The one you call Huntington! He escaped from the vats before his mud pack was dry! Tell us where he is!"

"But he's not a clone! Maybe you've got the wrong guy! Maybe you want... Oh my God. Hundsdorfer."

Another smirk. "H-Six."

Clones? "But Huntington's 6'3" and weighs 190. Hundsdorfer's 5'10", 160."

An offhand shrug. "So the formula hasn't been perfected yet. Just a touch more Ruby Red, maybe some Passion Purple and Cleansing Ointment. We'll get it right."

My mind shifted from Reel to Boggle. The room swam. Desperately I fought for the only lifeline of stability I could think of... "Pookie?"

Tears in her eyes now. "I'm sorry, Tuomo. Some of it was... nice." She bolts from the room. MK looks on with disdain. "Some of our operatives tend to get a tad too attached to their targets. No matter. A brain wipe and a complete makeover and she'll be a new woman."

Coming around in front of me again. Pats her trusty whip. The Dobermans growl. "Now. Tell us what we want to know."

A jazzy retort is about to slip from my tongue when the lights go out. Explosions follow. Klaxons blare. Smoke fills the room. MK swears and runs out a side door. Seconds later a shadowy figure appears through another door and swiftly crosses the room to untie my bonds. A Glock is slipped into my hand.

"Shhh Darling. Let's get out of here."

We stumble out.

I'm sitting in a narrow, high-backed chair. Something a decorator would think was "absolutely savage". My discomfort is forgotten when I see my hands are manacled ... classic dungeon stuff. They left my hands in front of me, and the slack in the chain is generous. Oops.

Then I notice my clothes. Infinitely black turtleneck, jacket to match but there's white trim along the lapels. Very groovy. God, I feel like I've been dressed by a British television seamstress. Who are these people?

"Why do you continue to try and escape, No. 5?"

I stare up at my host. He looks toady ... not just soft and squishy, although there is that about him. But there's that menace of a hidden weapon, a self-assurance that says he could swallow me like a bug. Behind him to his left is a white bubble, or balloon, that looks like it measures five feet across. It pulsates and quivers, and the image is more like a trained attack dog on a leash than a child's plaything. The room is otherwise over-decorated, with colorful mismatched knick-knacks that make my head hurt.

"You don't like it here in the Village?" His voice is a little out of synch with his lip movements, sort of like an Italian western. A pause. "Why did you turn in your resignation?"

"It's a goddammed game. It's supposed to be recreation." My voice is dry ... the suspicion that I'm dreaming is threatened by this sharp detail.

"That's not an answer. Games are for children," Jabba croaks at me. "Tournaments are for testosterone-charged bulls. As you age, you no longer deserve the luxury to just play. You must only playtest. That is what we do in the Village. There is no more time to play."

I try to sit forward, can't for some reason. "No -- I do this for pleasure. All my life I wanted this only for the joy of playing. Can't you see? You're trying to take the fun away from it all!"

"Playtest, my boy" he drawls, "playtest. If you stay, you could be happy. Playtesters are rewarded, you know. You could have a counter. We've already developed the artwork. See?" He holds up a black-and-tan sketch of an officer walking to the right ....

Oh good. In front of my name, I see they've promoted me to Colonel.

I wake up screaming. Jabba's voice echoes in my memory, with a cheerful "Be seeing you!" My head still hurts.

Orcs.

I see at least six of them around the convention center. And like they say, if you see one, there's thousands more in the walls. Big guys with goatees, wearing wrap-around shades and ill-fitting suits. Probably never read a rulebook in their lives, but here they are trying to push around the gamers. From the way their shoulders hang, they're probably carrying howitzers under their armpits. Company issue earplugs trail a cable from their buzz cuts down the back of their coats.

I'm ducking through the crowd, but some Orcs are covering the doors while others work the room. I can guess who they're looking for. Sometimes I wish I fit in with the regular "wargame conventioneer" look a little more easily. Not often.

I got a phone call last night, a voice I didn't know. Claimed to be Rodney Kinney, the legendary Team Colorado defector from before my time. Said he knew what the story was, and said he could get me the scenarios for the WWF tournament. I had to meet him here at GoofusCon in Grand Junction. I didn't want to pass through Grand Junction -- it's about as obvious a way to get from home to WWF as taking a plane would have been. I had to risk it. Now I'm here, nobody's nametag says "Rod". But then, my tag says

"HI, MY NAME IS
absolutely none of your business"

"The game", comes a voice scarred from smoking, "is Magic." Oh, just great. Please tell me I just don't remember the dying scene and I'm already in hell. I look across the green felt table. The game master is striking with his silver hair, Germanic chiseled features, white tux dinner jacket, and a prominent scar running out either end of his black eye-patch. I know him from the old Company lobby portraits of our founders: he's Number 2. Can't tell if he recognizes me yet, or if he just woke up with this attitude. "Seventy-five card Highlander decks, Fourth edition standard, convention tournament rules ... and no sideboards." His one eye locks with my four. I nod once.

"Of course," I say. What the blue blazes is he talking about?

If I try to leave now, I'll stand out like a prairie dog on a rifle range. Think. I've got twelve, maybe fifteen Magic cards I use for my OBA draw pile. I pull those out of one pocket, and pull half a deck of "Up Front" cards out of another. Under the table, I merge the piles as quickly as I can, nicking where I want to make my lifts. The girl on No. 2's arm catches my eye. At first you can't help but notice the silicone and sequins, but under the glitter there's a deeper, almost innocent sadness about her. Like a once favored toy that knows it's moment has passed. I "shuffle" my deck carefully, try to make it look casual. Top card still sports the Magic logo. The girl leans forward, holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers. "Hello." Voice is low, Euro-trash, sounds contrived. "I'm Mona After. And what's your name?"

"I'm Dog." I snap open my lighter for her. She touches my wrist, draws my flame towards her. I smile. "Mad Dog."

No. 2's face goes ashen, then florid. Probably eats too much red meat. My attempted disguise wasn't going to last much longer, anyway. "Players will discard one!" the French maitre 'd announces. I cut, throw off a card. A black mana. Damn, this is going to ruin my OBA draw pile.

"You are lucky, Dog," says No. 2. His discard is some new release I don't recognize, but the onlookers around our table are muttering. We draw our first hand of cards. I look. Besides the top card, I had to draw "Up Front" cards from the middle of the deck to round out my hand and keep the illusion going. I'm holding Rallys, Movements, some terrain. The crowd continues to build around the table trying to glimpse the action, and I'm not even playing the same game. Maybe I should just start shooting Orcs.

A voice behind me asks "A cocktail, monsieur?"

I begin to answer "No tha --" when suddenly the curve of a leg wrapped in fishnets leans against the back of my arm. I look up. Dark hair, dark eyes. It's Delilah, from the Company. She winks slowly, and I answer "Please. A Bloody Mary?" If she wanted me dead, it would have happened already. She lowers the tray, and its only drink is deep red with a stalk of celery sticking out the top. From the scent, I can tell she remembers -- bullion, not Worcestershire.

"Perhaps monsieur could use a little Company, for luck?" Humor and subterfuge gleam in her eyes. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling at her bad accent. I guess, in her own way, she still kills me. I touch her hand under the tray, and she slips me a deck of cards and some folded paper. Could be the scenarios ...? I just need to get out alive, now.

"Are you here to play, or to carouse, Mr. Dog?" No. 2 probably used to dish out looks that could kill, back when he could still judge depth. He's watching me, hasn't recognized Delilah past her leotard and black tie with tails. There's reasons he never made it to No. 1.

I look back. "I must call a miss-deal. I have no mana in my hand." I fan my cards, nobody really notices. From there it's easy to swap decks. My fingers pick out the places I'm supposed to cut, and I do. I draw my seven new cards. Mmmm. The cards are traditional ones, all things I recognize from the days when I was working this ring against Fortenbury's operation. Bad opening hand, though. I hold a couple monsters that require mid-game mana points, and force-multiplier cards. Nothing offensive I can use right away. I discard the obvious trash. Can't judge yet how this deck is designed, or what Delilah has handed me. This still could be an elaborate trap.

No. 2 plays a respectable cheap monster in his opening move. The crowd appreciably murmurs. Once again, their champion comes on strong. He smirks at me, I lock eye-to-eyes with him and draw the top card off my deck. Without breaking eye contact, I flip it upright on the table. Gasps from around us and behind us. He lets his eye slide down to the battlefield, and again I watch the blood drain from his cheeks. I look down. A black-bordered Black Lotus. The play of the rest of my hand becomes obvious.

Within turns, his blossoming defense is in tatters and he taps his last. His discard is mine. No. 2's blood pressure threatens to repaint the ceiling, as he throws down his cards and works himself up into a rage. I'll bet he was a delight as a two-year old. Just as he inhales so he can start to bellow, I toss him a card that I've been palming from my first shuffle. It's artificial terrain from "Up Front". Wire.

I take advantage of his shock to pick up my trophy card and leave. Somehow, now standing behind him, Delilah stops his chair with her feet as he pushes away from the table, and he collapses back onto his seat. The crowd tightens in to see what causes such an eruption of fury.

I make it out the servant's entrance without encountering one Orc.

I followed my rescuer out a side door and through a twisty maze of passages, all alike. We encountered scant resistance and had little need of the extra ammo packs and Save Game stations that we kept stumbling across. Eventually we met up with the rest of the masked commandos retrograding out of the complex and hopped on to waiting Ski-Do's and escaped to freedom through the murky night swamps of Dallas.

By daybreak we had arrived at the commando's home base, a picturesque fishing village on the bank of a muddy river. Laughing brown-skinned children greeted our arrival and jabbered to the warriors as they wearily dismounted their craft and doffed their masks. My shock, which heretofore had been given a chance to rest, was once again rudely awoken: Women! Rescued from women by WOMEN! Gorgeous women, at that! In fact, not a single man in the village to be seen!

I was taken to the Chief who bade me to sit in her hut and be the Guest of Honor at a banquet of fresh fruit, wild boar, cold beer, and all manner of delicacies. We were entertained by troupes of dancers performing amazing feats of acrobatic skill as well as scantily-dressed nymphs gyrating suggestively at close range. Seeking to divert my mind from, uh, baser instincts, I asked the Chief where the beer came from and she explained how her raiding parties occasionally brought home booty from the neighboring villages. That would explain the 50-inch big screen Digital TV showing ESPN in the corner.

The feast went on well into the night until eventually I was escorted back to my hut by two exotic beauties. Once inside, they made much fuss over my ill treatment at the hands of my captors and undertook to apply their healing arts to my numerous bruises. As the honored guest, I could not but oblige...

"BACK, FOUL VIXENS!!!"

"Yoshi!"

"My Lord! At last we have found you!" Brandishing a longsword at my two companions: "Begone, ye villains, or I shall smite ye a nasty blow!"

Rather than recoil in fear, the two beauties seemed to receive the proposition with rather a startling degree of, uh, relish. "Oh kind Sir, we offer you no harm! We are but fourscore helpless maidens, all between the ages of 19 and 21, who have nothing to do all day but sit here in the village and sew exciting underwear!"

Yoshi was undeterred, placing his body between mine and theirs. "Back! And now we shall make our escape!"

"Uh, Yoshi, I think I can handle this!"

"Yes, yes! We're no match for him AT ALL!"

"No My Lord! I can't let you risk it!"

"No really, I don't mind!"

"Smite me!" "No, smite ME! I must be punished!"

"No, it's far too perilous!"

"But I rather enjoy the peril!"

"No, we must make good our escape!"

And with that, we were outside the village.

"I bet you're gay."

My sense of humor is wearing thin, but that's not uncommon this late at night. I'd been hanging by a cable hooked to my lower back for over twenty minutes before the coast finally look clear. I activate my SpiderClimber engine and lower myself down through the air vents. It straps on near your theoretical center of mass, but the effort of keeping my body rigid and parallel to the floor was taking more out of me than I thought it should.

I was lowering into the office of a toy-slash-hobby shop, one of those modernized ones that actually has a computer for inventory control. In between the displays of plastic models and last year's hot Christmas sellers, sits a lonely office desk overflowing with a Pentium and invoices. Spidey stops, I'm hanging about a foot over the keyboard, almost four feet above the floor. Sure enough, after I fire up their office computer (ever try typing while wearing friction gloves? iiitt bbiiiittees), I find out they are indeed members of AOL. Perfect. I interrupt their automatic log-on, and jump to my own account. Click over to Jacque's web page, into it's murky depths, click the little "pi" symbol on the lower right of the page, type another password and a keyboard combination I made up that requires both hands and an elbow. And there's still a key under the mat of my old back door. I start typing.

MOTHER:  Welcome, Mad Dog.  You've got mail.

ME:  Hi, Mother.  Long time.

MOTHER:  Would you like to play a game?

ME:  That's my intent, but not right now, okay?

MOTHER:  Okay.  Your accounts are out of date.  Shall I download some
pretty new icons for you?

ME:  No, thanks.  Access Vegas Odds files, please.

MOTHER:  [one moment] You look tired, Mad Dog.  Long day?

ME:  You betcha.  What are the current odds of Team Colorado winning the
WWF State trophy?

MOTHER:  [one moment] Odds are set at 1:1.3529.

ME:  And what would the odds be at if I made it to WWF?

MOTHER: [one moment] Odds are set at 1:1.3529.

ME:  Ah, wrong question.  What would the odds be if I didn't make it to
WWF?

MOTHER: [one moment] Odds are set at 1:1.3529.

ME:  [one long moment]  Mother, are you saying that the odds don't
change, no matter if I make it to WWF or not?

MOTHER:  Mad Dog's participation in WWF III is not part of the
calculation.  Potential Colorado participants include:
   Evans, Mark
   Kronkite, Walter
   Men, Little Green
   Presley, Elvis
   Repettinen, Tu --

ME:  Stop.  What do you mean by "is not part of the calculation"?  Has
my pre-registration check been returned?

MOTHER:  Negative.  Go figure.

ME:  I've been deleted from the state registry?

MOTHER:  Planned termination of 'Dog, Mad' is assured no later than July
18, evening.

ME:  Care to give me odds?

MOTHER:  Question unclear.  Ask again later.

ME:  Mother, tell me.  ASL is still a game, isn't it?

MOTHER: MMP errata, submitted for publication in the '97 annual, changes
all entries that say "game" to "competition".  Squad Leader is the last
"game" in the series.  Players are expendable.

A voice speaks up no more than a foot from my ear. Now I'm not normally a twitchy kind of guy, but I'm trained to listen. Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of a closed retail outlet, you'd think my senses would be a little bit sharpened up here. No matter, suddenly someone was at my shoulder.

"Sad what changing the wording of one little rule can do, isn't it?" I jump and try to spin -- a bad combination when you're hanging by a thread. Before I can turn on my visitor, a heavy club strikes me across the back and noggin. I begin careening on the end of my tether. A flash of a white plastic tooth ridge, and suddenly my suspension cable is cut. I crash to the floor. I roll over, manage to draw my Desert Eagle (I don't need no steenking silencer), and a foot trods down on my wrist. Real hard. Inhumanly heavy. I look up, it's Barney the lovable purple dinosaur. Or at least it's the plush display I'd dismissed before. But instead of warmth and friendliness pouring from his little beady eyes, the evil glow of a Company robot glares at me like Arnold Schwartzenegger without his sunglasses. Children's icons, now governed by the Company? If this wasn't so humiliating, I'd be horrified.

He kicks, hard, and the gun flies from my hand. Barney brings both miniature arms up to his mouth and half-curtseys, in a mocking "oops, silly me" gesture. I try to rise up, his curtsey becomes a tail swing and I catch it in the ribs. Things crack, and it isn't him. Ow ow ow ow. Each blow feels like a fuzzy purple felt bag of cement hitting me, but with much better aim. I'm dazed, and he lets me roll back. I shake my head, trying to turn off that darned klaxon in my ears, drag my arm in to hug to my chest.

"Pity, really, that you'd try so hard to get to a convention where you would be served up as hors d'oeuvres. You just aren't very good, are you, you veggisaurus?" He winds up for another kick. I try to catch his ankle, find out that's a mistake. At least nothing new broke. He grabs a thick sheaf of what at first looks like third-party scenario packages, begins to roll them up tight. "Choke on this," he growls as he tries to force the wad past my teeth. "It's all errata."

I can't take it. I gag.

Can't get a grip on his crushed felt hide, can't push him away, can't correlate the errata all at once, can't think of anything I could reach that would make any difference ... my hands begin flailing uselessly, and my vision begins to fade. The summation of years of training.

A bright light fills my eyes, and just when I expect my childhood dog to be welcoming me to the other side, I see Barney's head blown back in a huge explosion. White milky fluid squirts out of broken hoses protruding from his torso, and he flails back and away, kicking like a crab with pachyderm feet. I prop up my head to look behind me. It's the old gang -- Dale and Ron from back home -- each flipping on the safeties to their props from MiB and standing at ease.

"Hasta la vista, Barney," Ron draws on his cigar.

"I just don't understand the fascination you have," says Dale, "to go play against these out-of-towners."

"I got slimed," I offer. "Can you help me up here?"

Barney's head, upright on the floor and loosely attached to the rest of his giant huggable body, shouts "Come back! I'll bite your knees off!"

I hadn't been to D.C. in a long time. It was drizzling, and it made my reflections in the Reflecting Pool a little mandelbrot-ish. I tried to keep the cast on my arm inside my coat, to keep it dry. It's amazing how garish the Lincoln Memorial looks from a distance, yet how humbling it is up close.

"You Dog?"

I turned, and a man with a vague resemblance to Donald Sutherland stood there. I can't get too nervous, though. I probably looked vaguely like Donald, out here in the rain. It's getting hard to stay focused. These pain-killers came highly recommended. I offered to shake with my still working off-hand. Donald took no offense. Probably met Bob Dole in his past. With the rotten weather, we were pretty much alone.

"Who are you?" I tried.

"I could lie to you and tell you a false name, but it wouldn't fool either of us. You can call me X." Ah, a math major. "I presume," he continued, "that if you've come then you must be interested in what I've got to say." I put a pad of paper in my cast-wrapped hand, and started to try and take notes with my off-hand. Oh yeah, this'll be legible later. Right.

He began. "I need to tell you about the real workings of the gaming industry. You're close, closer than you think. All this needs is a little more pushing, one big break, and you could have literal floodgates open up for you. Let me back up and fill you in with a little history.

"Back in the early seventies, the industry was dominated by one company, which had really caught public attention with one game: PanzerBlitz. I worked with the company back then, doing Black Ops. We were privately funded with the profits from 'Outdoor Survival'. We're talking big money, here -- tens upon tens of dollars. We waged a literal covert war against other wargame companies, discrediting miniatures players and making a mockery of other's board games. Oh, we were good.

"Then, out of the blue in '76, came role-play from the TSSR. Who could have seen it coming? Comic books seemed more threatening at the time. The miniatures players started by putting a Conan figure in with their phalanxes, then wondered how to make them take on dragons ... and the rest is all documented. We were caught completely off-guard, and to make matters worse, at exactly this time our nemesis SPI suddenly came on the market. Cheaper-faster-smarter was their attitude. It was a commercial war from that moment on.

"We recognized SPI as the immediate threat, maybe that was a mistake. It took years, but we ground down the SPI network. One of our final nails in their coffin was our introduction of a beer-and-pretzels game called 'Squad Leader'. Right when we were gloating that quality could eventually beat out quantity (didn't anyone learn a thing from 'Afrika Korps'?), all the rights to all of SPI's successful games were suddenly reprinted by the TSSR. Does this sound like a coincidence to you?" I shook my head, finished spelling out P-a-n-z-e-r-B-l-i-t-z.

"But hang on. There's something deeper, something more here. SL caught on, it grew in the same erratic way that people expect these things to progress. But you need to look back and remember the end of the seventies. Remember the rise of disco? Remember the show 'In Search Of'? Or the first published accounts of the government cover-ups at Roswell? All this was happening right then. The seventies were a time of increased UFO awareness in the media, because it was a time of increased UFO tourism in Baltimore. They were here, Mr. Dog, and they were interested in our different forms of recreation. They were especially fascinated in how we could stay entertained, playing with two-dimensional counters on a two-dimensional map."

I looked at him in disbelief and incomprehension.

"Do the math yourself. How long would it take a radio transmission to get from Earth to, oh, Alpha Centauri and then return a message? About eight years? So how much time passed between the release of SL and the later incarnation of ASL?"

Rain accumulated on the edge of my fedora, and dripped onto the shoulder of my coat. In my amazement, I hadn't even noticed that I'd quit taking notes.

"The little green men were here. They traded rudimentary AI algorithms for our blossoming home computer industry, in exchange for low-tech recreational toys. They offered to send us suggestions on how to improve SL, how to make it more accurately model the combat they had witnessed and analyzed in detail deeper than our developers could imagine. We negotiated with them and sent them home with SL, and eight years later they began transmitting the rules for ASL to receiving stations in Baltimore. Ever think the name 'Advanced SL' was a bit of a stretch? How much more 'advanced' is it, compared to GI? The preferred name in the halls was 'Alien Squad Leader', and the fact that the game got published with that acronym is a private joke between the shareholders.

"The aliens continue to analyze the game. The last errata came out for ASL in '92, which is remarkably close to another eight year milestone. Players nowadays bombard MMP with demands for more official errata pages. You know what MMP is waiting for? The year 2000, the year the next transmission from the aliens is due to hit our shores.

"But there's more. The little green men aren't the only other race interested in our recreation. Remember the fall of the TSSR? Do you recall who bought them up now?"

Wizards of the Coast, I silently answered. Another gaming company that came out of nowhere, and not only smacked the board game industry with it's biggest competition since D&D, but also challenged the computer industry for spare change out of the demographic victim's pocket. He could see the awareness on my face, but he continued to wait. Like he wanted me to think this through. My pain killers were still repeatedly playing the Supremes in my head, but I tried to focus more energy into the question at hand. Tournaments have continued to lose table space to kids packing Magic decks ... there was a rivalry in tournaments that was unheralded now. And here I stood, broken and mending, from one of these conflicts for elbow room at a tournament. Has the whole competition gotten so violent? WotC, based in Washington ... Washington State, home of some of the last active volcanoes in the Continental U.S. Mt. Rainier, Mt. Shasta. Mt. Shasta? Where the first documented UFO sightings ever occurred? More coincidences? WotC, scrambled becomes C tWo, or C squared. As in E = M C squared .... My head began to spin. Washington and probably all Oregon wargamers were merely the pod people of an alien invasion, meant to overthrow ASL as the board game industry leader. I already knew I couldn't trust anyone from Idaho. Now I knew why.

I asked Donald X, "Can you prove any of this? Is there any documentation? Would you come forward and testify?"

He smiled, "If I talked, I'd be made over and interviewed on Geraldo. Or worse. The only reason Oprah isn't after you is because there's too many others trying to stop you. Hard to remain anonymous in a room full of smoking guns, you see. It's up to you -- stir the pot, see what floats up to the surface. The fun is still out there." He stood up. "Sit this one out, get your gun-hand back into shape. I'm going to Park City."

He walked away. I sat, more parts of my body aching than I ever knew I had. I thought about following him, but I saw two agents already picking up his tail. One was a tall man, the other a short red-haired woman. Both were in black trench coats. X indeed. The tall guy was barely in range of my magnetic inductor, so I fired it off to set his watch eight minutes ahead. He loves that stuff.

I called home on my Dick Tracy 2-way Wristwatch Radio. "Honey, it's me."

"Hi. Aren't you off to play with your little friends in Utah?"

"No, I'm coming home."

I started walking to the parking lot.