It isn't easy, the life of a henchman.

You've seen the movies; you've read the comic books. You see us on the boss's private submarine, and you think, "Gee, I'll bet they get to travel all over the world." You see us standing at our master's side when he hijacks the television signal and announces his plans for global domination, and you think, "Wow, I'll bet they get to be on TV all the time." Maybe you think the life of a super-villain's henchman is a grand and glorious adventure.

Yeah, right. I wish.

Yesterday I had to get up at the crack of dawn and iron my uniform. We all have to wear matching silver bodysuits with Dr. Destructo's insignia emblazoned on the chest. They look ridiculous, and if you think that ironing a space-age polymer fabric is an easy task, you're sorely mistaken.

By seven o'clock I was standing in formation along the back wall of Dr. Destructo's conference room while he hosted a meeting of super-villains from around the world. King Carnage, Master Disaster, The Human Leech, the Bulldozer ... you know, the usual gang of boorish, costumed megalomaniacs. The boss always insists that twenty of us stand in a line along the back wall, just to show off the fact that he has so many henchmen (Master Disaster has only ten, and three of them are in the hospital after an unfortunate encounter with Captain Wonderful and the Wonder Teens last week).

The topic of conversation was (as usual) the Hero of the Human Race, Dr. Destructo's sworn enemy, Courageous Man.

"I want Courageous Man dead!" Dr. Destructo bellowed, pounding his armored fist on the mahogany table. "I'm tired of him foiling my nefarious schemes!"

"Perhaps trying to extort a million bars of platinum from the U.S. government was too ambitious," said Paul Pandemonium, one of Dr. Destructo's chief advisors. The boss responded by shooting a death ray out of his pinky ring and incinerating Pandemonium into a pile of smoldering embers.

Now, who do you think got to clean that up when the meeting ended? That's right, boys and girls, it was yours truly, the loyal henchman, on his hands and knees with a dustpan and a bottle of cleaning spray. And let me tell you, no matter how careful you are, you're going to get smudges of ash all over your uniform, and guess who has to pay the cleaning bill out of his own paycheck?

(Which, by the way, is pathetic — I could probably earn more cleaning the lint traps at the laundromat. And don't even get me started on the substandard health and vision plan. Contact lenses don't pay for themselves, and heaven forbid one of Dr. Destructo's henchmen should be seen wearing eyeglasses.)

So yeah, yesterday was a total drag. That is, until around dinner time, when things suddenly became very interesting indeed. I was walking past the boss's private chambers on my way to the dining room (he was enjoying a sumptuous meal of roast chicken with truffle risotto; I was carrying a microwave-safe bowl of steaming Dinty Moore beef product) when suddenly I heard a thunderous crash and a commotion from inside.

"You're coming with me," I heard a powerful, heroic voice say. "Your days of crime and villainy are at an end."

"Help me!" Dr. Destructo shrieked.

Without thinking, I kicked open the door to Dr. Destructo's room and saw him lying on the floor, cowering in terror. Above him, Courageous Man (standing in front of the Courageous Man-shaped hole he had smashed in the outer wall) was standing with his hands on his hips and a triumphant grin on his chiseled face. His cape flapped dramatically in the breeze.

"At last," he said, uttering the courageous laugh that was his trademark. "You're going to jail where you belong, and tomorrow I'll be all over the front page — again."

"Help!" Dr. Destructo whimpered. He was curled in the fetal position, trembling. "Do something! Don't let him hurt me!"

I don't get paid enough for this, I thought, flinging a bowl of piping-hot beef stew into Courageous Man's face. It wasn't going to cause a severe burn (after all, we're talking about the man who defeated El Fuego, the Human Volcano) but it distracted him long enough for Dr. Destructo to work his ring-hand free from the tangles of his cloak. There was a flash of red light, and Courageous Man was disintegrated on the spot.

Dr. Destructo slowly rose to his feet, brushing bits of ash and debris from his robes. He wiped away his tears, surveyed the charred remains of the Hero of the Human Race, and whispered, "Courageous Man attacked me, and I easily and single-handedly defeated him. If you tell anyone otherwise, I'll blow you to smithereens. Now fetch a dustpan and clean up this mess."

Today I opened my pay envelope, and saw that my efforts had been rewarded with a performance bonus consisting of two gift certificates to Red Lobster. Gosh, maybe I'll cash them in so I can pay off my mortgage and take a cruise to Hawaii.

At some point we're expecting that Courageous Man's loyal sidekick, the Fearless Flyer, will attack Dr. Destructo's lair and attempt to avenge his fallen mentor. Personally, I'm hoping he puts us all out of our misery.

There he sits chatting with some reporter in that ridiculous little outfit of his. I can’t actually hear him through the glass, but I can guess what he is saying just by watching his gestures.

There’s the self-deprecating little shrug that precedes “Oh well, it was nothing really.” Next comes the hands clasped over the heart “I just want to help people." Finally, he launches into the “I’m just an ordinary man; everyone can make a difference” speech. There aren’t really any specific motions that accompany this one, but I can still figure it out based on the expression of rapt attention and worship on the reporter’s face. That, and the fact he has taken this opportunity to allow his left hand to snake around the back of the chair and surreptitiously dig at his underwear as he tries to rearrange things a bit.

I’ve seen what he looks like when it all comes off, and it seems to me that the real superhero is that wide expanse of spandex that actually manages to avoid tearing when he stuffs himself into it. I dream of the day when he splits a seam and the world gets an up close view of the twin wonders Super Butt and Super Gut. Today, though, the seams are holding tight despite his pulling and tugging, and as usual the reporter remains blissfully unaware.

I turn back towards the TV set that is my constant companion and wait for them to finish. With a smile and a wave, he bids the reporter farewell and locks the door behind him. I can hear him engaging the security system, and then once he is assured of his privacy, he returns. He removes his outfit as he walks, muttering to himself as he peels it off. “Lousy reporters. Used to be that I saved the people and stopped the criminals, and they wrote the stories. Now, if I want any publicity, I’ve got to sit down and be interviewed!"

He presses a button to open the secret closet and hangs everything up, and then he folds his mask and places it into the top dresser drawer next to his socks. The whole time, he continues his forceful tirade, “Then he has the nerve to ask me where I got my super strength.” Finally he turns towards me and he laughs. “If only they knew.”

I try to shrink into a ball in the corner, but I know that it is no use. In a split second, he has lifted the top off the terrarium and reached in and grabbed me. “Hello my pretty one,” he says, staring into my yellow slitted eyes. He continues talking. “I told him that my powers were a gift.” He laughs again although I fail to see the humor. “A gift from the stars. That moron thought I was being religious.” He is laughing so hard that he nearly drops me.

I almost cry out, but I am able to stop myself. I learned long ago that it is pointless. When my vessel first landed, I had approached him and spoken fearlessly. After I became his captive, I continued to speak alternating between reasoning, threatening, and even pleading. It made no difference. I had hardly believed it when I found a species of sentiment mammals, but I could not have imagined that they could be so cruel.

Finally, when I felt that I had exhausted every other option I decided that I would have to resort to violence. Although we abhor it, we are capable of it when provoked. I lay prone in my cage and waited for him to appear. I bolstered up my courage as the scrawny teen approached. “Hello my little talking lizard,” he drawled as he opened the lid. “What stories will you tell me today?”

He held me close and I quickly sank my fangs into his arm and felt the poison course through them into his body. He flung me across the room as he fell to the floor. My armored body bounced against the wall without harm, and I should have scurried out of that house. But, I wanted my revenge, so I sat and watched. As I waited for him to begin writhing in agony, I was shocked to see him change before my eyes.

He jumped up and charged at me, and I dove under the sofa. I watched in amazement as he picked it up with one hand and held it over his head. I hadn’t poisoned him at all – I had supercharged him. He grabbed me and made to dash me to pieces on the floor, but then he too realized what had happened and stopped himself as he carefully put me back into the cage.

That was 25 years ago. He has grown rich and famous while I have grown old in my imprisonment. He strokes me almost fondly and offers me his hand. I make no move toward him and he laughs again, almost good-naturedly. “You can’t blame me for trying. Aw well, we’ll just do it the old fashioned way.” He pries open my mouth, brings out the glass bottle with its latex membrane and pushes my jaw down through it. There is nothing I can do but watch as the viscous blue liquid slowly seeps out of my fangs and swirls around in the bottom of the jar.

The papers litter my desk, radiating out from my chair in a static sunburst of drafts, leaflets, notes, and innumerable reference documents.

I sit in my dimly lit home office and stare unseeing at the Big Chief tablet that has dominated my focus and mind for the past two weeks of my existence. Seven pages of miniscule print gaze indifferently back at me, the countless cross-outs and strikethroughs peppering the paper like so many spiders traversing an immense web of words and sentences.

“Will?” a warm voice behind me shakes me from my unproductive reverie. I twist in my chair to see my wife gazing worriedly at me from the kitchen doorframe.

I force my face to arrange itself into a wan smile. “Angie, go to bed sweetie. Just because I’ve got to keep these ungodly hours doesn’t mean you should have to suffer along with me.”

She drifts over to my desk and gives a heavy sigh. “I know, I’m about to turn in. I got you a drip going in the coffeemaker if you want it though. The cream’s on the counter.” Angela throws a reproachful look at the mass of papers cast about the desk. “Don’t let it get to you too much honey. It’s going to be spectacular, I promise. You’re an amazing writer Will, and you’ve done this kind of thing so many times before. The fact that this one is so big only means that when it’s finished, it will be the most spectacular one yet.”

I muster all that I have to give her a confident grin. Satisfied, she kisses me on the cheek and shuffles wearily up the stairs to bed.

I peel my eyes from the stairwell and back to the task at hand.

Refocusing on the tablet, I continue to search out and correct the finite errors and inadequacies that fracture the writing. Over and over, alterations, eliminations and corrections seemingly without end.

My pencil flits with an uninterrupted fervor across the paper, only sidetracked from its work periodically as I scorch my brain back to lucidity with mug after mug of steaming black coffee.

The night drags on.

***

Twilight dawns, a sickly orange stain along the hem of the nighttime sky.

I finish my 5th read-through and look up from the now odiously familiar yellow paper with bloodshot eyes.

It is finished.

In a word, it is perfect. It is a work of power and might, capable of swaying even the strongest opinion. In it, reams of documents and scores of issues are totaled into a single indivisible body of thought and expression. The writing itself is a thing of beauty and wonder, the quality of the literary craft beyond anything I have accomplished before. It is a true piece of art. In it, ideas surge into one another in a ballet of interlocking concepts, each one flowing flawlessly into the next, while at the same time lending support to the theory that precedes it. The eloquence is tearful at times in its beauty, and the sheer might behind the words frightening at others. It is faultless.

I place the tablet, curled at the edges from my constant fiddling, into my courier bag with care befitting a newborn. Heedless of the undeniable fact that I’m in no state to be driving, I snatch my keys excitedly from the bowl on the telephone table and hasten towards the door. It is of utmost importance that my work be given to my boss at the soonest possible moment.

***

Three days later, Angela and I are curled on our couch, an air of tense elation palpable in the living room. I glance at the clock above the kitchen door. Three more minutes.

Looking up from her resting spot in the crook of my arm, Angela casts me a wide grin. “Excited, Will?”

This time I don’t have to force myself to muster a smile. “Well, Angie,” I say, adopting a terribly snooty Parisian accent “At this stage in my career, I am used to the widespread awe of my work. I expect this to be but a daisy in the meadow of my sensational success.”

She laughs and crooks an eyebrow at me, deciding to play along. “But good William,” she trills in a voice reminiscent of how I would imagine a South African poodle with a head cold would speak, “considering these 'meadows of success', one would presume your home furnishings to be somewhat more luxuriant than the salvage of old codger's garage sales”

I give a rather haughty faux scoff, and open my mouth to retort. Before I can though, Angela hushes me excitedly, and points to the flickering televisions as she scrambles to turn up the volume.

On the screen, a man with a tie stands before a sea of black and navy-blue suited figures.

I lean forward on the cushions as the man looks about the room. The audience, sitting in concentric half-circles, falls silent as he picks up a small stack of papers lying in front of him and taps them smartly the surface of his podium.

I watch from my couch as the man with the tie holds the papers, giving the top of the first page a surreptitious glance before setting them down on the podium. He looks up slowly at his spectators and addresses them in a powerful tone, using words I know all too well.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Citizens of these great United States of America. This is the state of our union.”

Friday, 4:00 pm

To: City Roads Department

From: George Smith, City Engineer

Hey Jack, you'll have seen from the news that they were at it again. I'll need twenty trucks and some back hoes and loaders to clean up the rubble. Most of it we will be able to take to the gravel pit and recycle, but there is a whole lot of this weird sand stuff that the Mayor's office is telling me I have to treat as a biohazard. Go figure.

I need the trucks Monday at 8:00 am.

Friday, 4:15 pm

To Gotham Insurance Inc.

From: George Smith, City Engineer

I'm sending you a note to let you know that the City will be filing an insurance claim for damages to the intersection of Fourth and Main. There is extension damage to the road surface itself as well as the underlying infrastructure including water, sewer, gas and electricity. The legal people from my department will be wanting to discuss whether we can get a discount if we put substantially stronger materials into the construction. Have someone call me at the City office Monday afternoon.

Friday, 4:30 pm

To: Traffic Management

From: George Smith, City Engineer.

Sorry Sheila, you are going to have to reroute traffic from Fourth and Main for at least a week. I can't put my crew on it until Monday morning. We have already used up all our overtime for the year. Unless you can get the accountants to pry the books open a little wider, this is going to be a strictly by the clock job. I know you folks are stretched as well. Maybe just put up barriers and hope for an intelligent response from the public. I know, I'm dreaming. We still on for coffee?

Monday, 1:30 pm

To: City Center Land Management Inc.

From George Smith, City Engineer.

Yes, I'm the moron who condemned three of your buildings. Unless you can tell me a way that major pieces of three separate floors can be rebuilt safely, those buildings have to come down. I can't allow anyone into the buildings until my people have checked them over. We will do what ever we can to get your tenants moved out safely and in a timely fashion.

Unless your lawyers are really looking forward to being humiliated in court, I would suggest that you keep your threats to yourself. My guys are the ones who made the Teamsters Union back down. Think about that.

Just leave a message with your apology.

Monday, 3:30 pm

To: Joe Huffa, Teamsters Rep.

From: George Smith, City Engineer

I got your message Joe, and I appreciate your co-operation. Just get your guys to haul the clean fill for now. I've got some Pentagon types coming in to look at that sand. I was there this morning. I know what you mean about it being freaky stuff. I can't go overtime on this job, but I will find a way to make it up to your drivers.

Tuesday, 9:30 am

To: The Mayor's Office

From George Smith, City Engineer.

Hi Liz, ask His Honor to give me a call when he gets in. It seems that every Scout Troop in the city turned out to pick up trash on the weekend. They got hundreds of bags just of that sticky web stuff. At least this time they all wore gloves. I thought the Mayor could give them a public thank you. The kids are too young to vote, but their leaders and the parents aren't. Besides it saved us paying the Sanitation Department overtime to do it.

Tuesday, 2:00 pm

To: Parks and Recreation

From: George Smith, City Engineer

Sure thing James, Central Park is far enough from the clean up to be safe for the picnic for the Scouts. I am glad you checked though. We have enough problems with the site without adding two thousand Scouts into the mix. I would love to be there, but I have to do another walk through of a couple of the buildings with my engineers. Someone has come up with an idea to repair the damage instead of condemning the whole thing.

Thursday, 3:00 pm

To: Acme Nanotech

From: George Smith, City Engineer

Yes, you may give a small demonstration of your process. I have chosen the building with the lightest damage. I realize that you need a large amount of sand for your process, but I strongly suggest that you do NOT use the sand that is on site. It is presently under investigation by four different government agencies. Moving the time ahead will not be a problem. I might actually be able to make it to the Mayor's picnic.

Gotham News Friday Special Edition

This city witnessed yet another battle of titans at the Mayor's picnic after a nanotechnology experiment went horribly wrong. Acme Nanotech had offered hope to the beleaguered downtown real estate industry by promising to repair extensive damage to buildings in place. The City Engineer's Office was the only department available for comment at this time. “I told them not to use that blasted sand.” Was all George Smith, the City's Chief Engineer, would say.

Friday, 4:00 pm

To: The Mayor's Office.

From: George Smith

I quit.

Frank had walked his grandchildren back to his daughter's house. He was on the way home when he saw the smoke puffing lazily out of the roof vents of a two-story colonial. No one else had noticed, but that wasn't surprising.

Once a firefighter, always a firefighter.

He called 911 as he ran to the front door of the burning house, and banged on it as hard as he could.

No one answered....

The burning torch hit the fuel-drenched pile of scrap wood in the center of the room. It immediately burst into flames. A pillar of fire rose to the ceiling and spread out, turning into luminescent tendrils that danced over their heads. Frank and the five other probationary firefighters in the fire training facility watched, captivated, until the view was obscured by the descending cloud of smoke.

The light-stealing darkness moved downward: slowly, methodically, relentlessly. It looked like another ceiling, inky black, barely reflecting the glow from the roaring bonfire. The real ceiling of the room was ten feet high; the smoke was barely eight.

"See that layer of smoke? That's death," said their trainer, Chief Monahan. He looked at his stopwatch. "Thirty seconds have elapsed," he said....

Frank looked in the nearest window. There was a woman lying on the stairs, in the hall, under a gathering cloud of smoke.

He kicked in the door, ran to the stairs, and dragged the woman outside. Her face was sooty, but she was alive. She gasped for breath, and then started to scream.

"The baby! She's still inside...."

"There isn't enough oxygen in the smoke layer to keep a fire lit," Chief Monahan continued. He pulled the torch out of the fire and lifted the burning end into the cloud of smoke. It immediately went out.

"And, even if you could breathe up there, the heat would kill you. Keep your heads down! Take off a glove and raise your hand over your head," he commanded.

Frank did as he was told. They were in full turnout gear, but had no breathing apparatus. The fire continued to burn; the smoke continued to bank down. Frank felt a burning in his hand as the smoke layer descended; he pulled his hand down and put his glove back on....

Frank went back into the house and up the stairs, zipping his parka and putting his gloves back on as he ran. The smoke was banking down in the hall, but he could still move around without crawling. The woman must have stood up in it; he knew to keep his head down.

Frank checked each room off the hall until he got to the corner bedroom. The door was closed; the top was hot to the touch. The baby was here! Frank knelt beside the door....

"Sixty seconds, gentlemen." Chief Monahan said. "You better learn to breathe in here, because we're staying for another two minutes. You have to stay low to survive. Breathing apparatus won't help. You don't need it down in the good air, and it won't save you if the hot air reaches you. Remember that, probies. Breathing apparatus keeps you safe in smoky rooms. Not in burning ones. You don't get much time; do what you have to do and get out."

The probies were stooping now; the top of the clear air was down to just three feet above the floor. The whole room was getting darker; the illumination of the fire was being hidden by the smoke....

Frank opened the bedroom door. Smoke billowed out over his head. An electric heater had set fire to the near corner of the room. A bassinet was on the floor by the bed on the other side of the room. Sirens were screaming in the distance....

"Two minutes gone," Chief Monahan continued. "Now it get's harder. Three minutes is about how long you have to live in a typical burning room. After three minutes, the temperature is hot enough for everything in the room to burst into flames. That's called a flashover, and it will kill you."

The smoke lowered inexorably, pressing Frank and the probies into the floor.

"The first two minutes are easy," repeated Chief Monahan. "Staying alive for the last sixty seconds is harder. You need to stay low. Breathe the air near the floor. Suck it out of the carpet. Shallow breaths. Little sips of air. There's breathable air in your coat, if you need it."

Frank was coughing, struggling to breathe. He pushed his face into his turnout coat....

Frank was on his belly now, crawling along the wall across from the heater, toward the bassinet. He reached inside and grabbed the baby. She was crying; that was a good sign. He put her inside his coat and started back. He was pulling air into his lungs through the carpet now, his lips dragging through the shag. He could hear more trucks arriving out front, and heard voices downstairs....

"Heads down! Stay calm! Crawl toward me! Use shallow breaths...."

Frank made it to the top of the stairs. Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him to safety. The baby was taken to her frantic mother's arms. An oxygen mask was placed on his face.

"Frank?" It was his former Captain. "I thought you retired! Thirty years in the fire department, and now you make a save?"

"Not me," Frank coughed. "Chief Monahan."

Hi, my name is Matt, and that is as much of it as I can give you.

You see, I have a sensitive military job, and a Top Secret security rating to go with it. Lie detector tests at random, drug tests at random, and interviews every six months. I guard some very important military secrets.

I work at the nearby Naval Base, that is fully equipped with a dry dock suitable for the largest vessels, and we regularly get Navy ships in for maintenance and refitting. We get all sorts of ships there, and the sailors go off on shore leave and let us do our thing. The place stays busy though, and we routinely have Stars and Stripes reporters asking the sailors and airmen about their stories. Nobody asks us ours, probably because the security people wouldn’t let them, and probably because we just don’t make news.

So anyway, this is my chance to tell my story. I suppose you are wondering what I do by now. Let me start with a bit of background. Believe it or not, salt water is bad for metal. Yeah, I know, any fool knows that, but that is still what we make the ships out of. Periodically that metal has to be cleaned off, painted, and repaired. Now the top and sides they can do about anywhere, it isn’t that difficult for an enemy agent to snap a picture of the superstructure of a ship either by hand, in a spy plane, or by satellite.

The bottom is another matter, and that is where all the secrecy comes in. The ships are pulled into dry dock, under cover, and worked on in a huge building with extremely tight security precautions. Why? Because if you see the bottom of a boat, you can get an idea of its turning radius, where its weak points are, how fast it can really go through what kind of waters.

Now we have people who check the soundness of the plates, and mark some for replacing. We have others that paint the entire ship, but they have spray guns for it. We have some that weld on the new plates. Everybody with top security. And we have me. I am the one with the job of scraping all the barnacles off the thing.

Now I don’t know how many of you have boats, and how many of you do your own maintenance, but once a year, you do the same thing with your wood or fiberglass boat. Scrape off the barnacles, inspect the bottom and paint. All 22 or so feet of the boat. Any bigger than that, you probably can afford someone else to do it.

Remember the size of our dry dock? I get to do the same thing - on aircraft carriers. Yeah, the football-field long ones. These things do not come in on a yearly basis - more like every five. And they come in with whole colonies of those nasty little boney things on the bottom. There isn’t any power tool way to remove them either - I have to clean it down to the metal, no excuses. Let me rephrase that, yes, I use a power washer. Sort of like spitting on a whale, but it does speed things up. It does not remove the barnacle base or glue though. I have to use muriatic acid and a putty knife for that. Then a special stain remover for the glue itself. Meanwhile, of course, all the high priced help waits on me to do my thing.

So the Admiral who runs the joint comes down and asks why we are running behind schedule; well all fingers point at me.

When the job is done, the captain of the ship comes down to thank the engineers, painters and welders. The Admiral comes down, and chides us for being two weeks late, while looking directly at me, and tells us to do better next time. He knows we can.

The crew climbs aboard. Stars and Stripes records the ship leaving port for posterity. The engineers, welders, and painters go off-base to have a party, and I get to pee in yet another bottle.

12 months to go for 20 years retirement man and I am counting every day. I think the first thing I do when I get out will be to by a used boat and torpedo it.

Meanwhile I just heard a rumor that CVN-65 is due for dry dock next week. That would be the Enterprise for you civilians out there. Longest Aircraft Carrier in the world. I think I am going to find where those Engineers are partying and drink them under the table or die trying.

So what am I telling you? When you sign up at the Navy Recruiters office, and go for one of those cushy State-side jobs, let me tell you which one not to pick. I understand the fellow that cleans out the waste tanks has it pretty good. Yeah, the job stinks, and you have to wear a bio-hazard suit, but it is low security clearance. Apparently the enemy is just not that interested in how we clean out our cr... er, waste products.

Based on the real events.

September 3, 1814

“John, go and saddle my horse. We’ll be leaving in a few moments.”
“Yes, sir.”

I am John Turnbull, servant to Francis Scott Key. We are meeting John Skinner to set sail on board the truce ship HMS Minden for a mission from President Madison! I’m quite excited because we are heading to meet the British generals in Baltimore. Of course, the estate isn’t too far away, just in Washington. It’s a long ride though, so we are putting the horses on the ship to go up the Chesapeake instead. Mr. Skinner is a prisoner-exchange agent and we, well, Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner, are trying to get Dr. William Beanes released. He is a civilian doctor arrested by the British for getting some British soldiers arrested, but earlier Mr. Skinner told Mr. Key that he has letters from some British soldiers saying that Dr. Beanes was kind to them and helped them when they were injured. We are all hoping that the British general will allow Dr. Beanes to be released.

I’m actually quite lucky in that Mr. Key is known for being a kind employer. He is a lawyer. A very good one! He used to live in Frederick, up in Maryland, but now he moved south to Washington where he can be close to the center of power. “You know John, you have to be at the center of everything so you know what’s going on,” he always says to me. Well, we’re at the center of everything this time! We’re heading into a potential war zone and I can tell you, I’m excited but just a bit nervous too.

-----
September 6, 1814

The ship has arrived in Baltimore now and we are waiting for the okay to meet with Major Ross and Admiral Cochran. Mr. Key has just told me that we will be going aboard the British ship HMS Tonnant tomorrow evening so they can have dinner with the Admiral and Major Ross to try to secure Dr. Beanes’ release.
-----

September 7th 1814

I am sitting on the deck of the Tonnant, next to the cabin, waiting for Mr. Key and Mr. Skinner to come back from dinner and I just heard the most alarming news! Two of the British sailors just walked by me and didn’t see me. I’m wearing Mr. Key’s household colors of tan and dark brown and maybe I just blended into the background or something, because they were talking about attacking Fort McHenry on the 13th! What should I do?

“Ah, John, there you are. We’ve finished with dinner.”
“Mr. Key, I need to speak with you, sir.”
“Not now, John, we should be heading back to our ship soon enough.”
“No sir, I need…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Truly I am, but this is so important!!”
“Very well, John, what is it?”
“Can we walk over here, sir? It’s somewhat, um… It needs to be said quietly.”

“Alright John, what has got you in such a tizzy that you are willing to be rude to me?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but two of the sailors were discussing the bombing of Fort McHenry on the 13th. That’s in five days, sir. How will we let them know?,” I said excitedly.
I heard someone clear their throat…
Before Mr. Key could turn around, I looked up and saw the Admiral watching us; and close enough to have heard what I had said. He had come around the corner and I didn’t notice!

“So, Mr. Key,” stated Admiral Cochran, “you know about the attack on Fort McHenry. This is a truce ship, so there’s nothing I can do except cause you to stay aboard until after the attack is over. Then you and Mr. Skinner and your young man here will be allowed to leave. I can’t allow you to leave until then.”

September 13th to 14th 1814.

We are still on board the Tonnant. The attack on Fort McHenry has been going on for almost 24 hours now. We could hardly see the Fort anymore last night because of all of the smoke from the guns. The dawn is just beginning to break and I can just barely see the Fort. Mr. Key is exhausted – he’s been awake all night and just sat down on deck for a while. It’s hard to sleep through the booms of the guns going off though. Wait, what is that? They are taking the storm flag down! Oh no! Are they giving up?

“Mr. Key! Mr. Key! The Fort has taken down the storm flag! Sir, what are they doing?”

Mr. Key jumped up to peer through the smoke and mist hanging over the Chesapeake. No flag. No flag. Still no flag. It was dragging on forever. Would the white flag fly in surrender instead? No! “Oh Look, Sir! Can you see? That star-spangled banner waves! She still waves!” In the place of the storm flag, rose the enormous flag sewn in defiance of the British troops’ assault over the past 24 hours.

Mr. Key sat back down on the deck, tears streaming down his face, grabbed an envelope from his pocket and began to write.

When people ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I’m self-employed. To closer acquaintances, I’m a cleaner. Both are true; but to understand how a single mum like me can afford a new car for her daughter’s 18th birthday, you need to know what I really do for a living.

I own a small cleaning business, filling a niche few others want to touch. On TV, forensic science is cool – all expensive suits and fancy scientific equipment. But TV lacks one important detail: the smell. It soaks into everything with that unforgettable stench. But it’s not the detectives or the forensic personnel that clean the place up. When their job is done and the undertaker has whisked the deceased off to their cold gurney in the morgue – that’s when my people come in.

We do an unpleasant job for little recognition, but we do it well. When the trial is over and the auctioneer’s hammer comes down, no one is going to know that Oma and Opa were dead five days before their bodies were discovered, single gunshot wound to the head each, and there won’t be a whiff or a bloodstain in sight. The money isn’t bad, but it was by chance I came across my more profitable sideline: one that has kept me well in what would otherwise have been laborious, miserable years.

It was in the early days, just as the business was beginning to bloom – it was the summer of ’91, when my daughter was young and her father was dragging me through the courts. I was in a bad way and I was seriously lacking the drive to keep my new company afloat. It was also the summer of Andre “the slasher” Honegger, the infamous serial killer who knifed to death six couples before he was caught. We got called out to all six. I remember taking the call after the second killing, and since the job was mostly bloodstains I thought I could manage it myself. My daughter had been grizzling all night and I’d barely slept, but a job’s a job and I couldn’t miss such a high profile opportunity.

So I went and I scrubbed and I soon had the place sparkling while bored young police officers kept watch over the crime scene, their fresh faces drooping with fatigue and disillusionment. By the end of the job, physical exhaustion had overtaken me and I could barely lift my gear to take it back to the van; I was so tired I didn’t notice the shadowy figure leaning against the bonnet. I nearly screamed when I caught sight of him. He looked so creepy, like a Satanist, I was sure he was the murderer himself. He wore black turtleneck, black leather pant and large silver rings. A strange pendant hung from a long chain around his neck: a tress of human hair bound in silver wire. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, lowering his black John Lennon shades. “I was just wondering if we could talk . . . business.”

He was a “collector”. He followed all the high profile cases: serial killers, murder-suicides, patricides, infanticides. You name it, he was there (“purely for psychological interest,” he assured me). But he wasn’t the only one: there was a whole league of people across Europe, obsessively following the news for the next killing. And they would pay good money for trinkets – an item of clothing, a toothbrush, a shopping list – anything that could connect them to the victim. There was a whole blackmarket out there for the detritus of tragedy, and this gentleman claimed he could make me very well off if I could bring him something back.

Had I been stronger at that point I would have said no. His mannerisms made me nervous, and the whole scheme was grossly absurd and depraved. But I had legal bills to think of. I had cashflow problems and wages to pay. I had my daughter’s future to think of. And it all sounded so easy: I’d just have to take something and call him when I was back in the office. We shook hands and he gave me his card: it bore only the name “The Zodiac” and a phone number.

“No, really, who do I ask for when I call you?” I asked him.

“The Zodiac,” he replied. “You don’t need to know any other name.” And with that he was gone.

I received 15,000 Schilling for a shirt and a pair of slippers from the victims, smuggled past the guards in one of my buckets. I couldn’t believe it was so easy. After that first deal I promised myself: never again, it was just wasn’t right. But sure enough, The Zodiac would ring as soon as I got a call-out, and his offers would be more than I could refuse. As the years went on and my business grew, my sideline was streamlined into a full scale operation with my most-trusted staff expertly whisking out a photo here, a CD there, and the spoils divided back in the office behind closed doors.

I know I’m going to slip up one day. Someone I trust will let me down, or complacency will get the better of us; but while my bills still pile up I swallow my pride, ignore my conscience, and continue to live the good life in lieu of thanks for the job I do.

The typical father son relationship comes with a few basic expectations. Considering the age of the child when he enters the family, it is not surprising that the father creates most of those. What is surprising is that most fathers are astonished when their child fails to fit into the mold that has been contrived for him.

When Phillip first informed me of his intent to fight in the arena, I was less than enthusiastic. “Are you crazy? What’s wrong with working for a living? This will send your mother into apoplexy. Do you know how many of those people end up maimed or dead? Don’t come to me with your hand out after you lose an arm!”

My wife, to my surprise and chagrin, defended him. “Philip is grown now; he’s old enough to make his own decisions. Besides, it’s awfully exciting, isn’t it?” Exciting? The woman goes queasy at the sight of blood. Having her son take up mortal combat should have horrified her. But it didn’t.

Eventually, I realized that no amount of argument would dissuade him of this career choice. So rather than lament my defeat, I resolved to do what I could to keep him alive, whole, and hale. At least then, when he outgrew this nonsense he would again be able to work with me at the forge.

Smithing has been the family trade for generations. My grandfather came to this country to get away from wars and fighting. He vowed to never craft another tool of death. He had little experience making plowshares and sawblades, but an able smith can learn to make anything. And my grandfather had something the local smiths did not; he knew how to make steel.

By the time my own father took over the smithy, business was booming. Tradesmen of all kinds wanted the tools only our family could give them; from nails to knives, every butcher, baker, and cabinet-maker wanted our wares. I worked at my father’s side from the time I was old enough to pump a bellows or fetch a hammer. So it was only natural to hope Phillip would take up the trade when his apprenticeship was completed.

And now, rather than another pair of hands at the forge, I was faced with the prospect of turning away the kind of work my grandfather would have endorsed, in order to make the very instruments he had renounced.

So, as Philip learned the art of war, I learned the art of armory. If he was stupid enough to get into the ring with a wild man swinging a sharp metal object at him, I was going to do everything in my power to ensure that said object did not separate any parts of him from any others.

His first match was something of an embarrassment for us both. Not familiar with swordmaking, I had equipped Phillip with a weapon I did understand. An axe will do some serious damage, and one made of steel would likely cleave through any iron mail. I couldn’t comprehend why Phillip’s opponent, a grizzled little fellow wearing ringmail and wielding a shortsword would laugh at the sight a strapping young lad with a blacksmith’s build entering the ring.

I understood all too well the reason for his mirth when the axe head sailed through the air, haft neatly chopped in twain. I feared I was about to see my son die as the sword drew back for a killing stroke. Phillip raised his hands in what normally would have been a pointless blocking gesture. But his steel gauntlets held, and a miraculously intact Phillip easily disarmed his stunned opponent.

Using that captured weapon as a model, I was able to provide Phillip with a sword. His skills had not fully developed, and there were a few frightening moments, but blades that would have shattered normal armor and sliced into the fragile flesh beneath, bounced harmlessly off his own plate. In fact, Phillip could have won quite a few contests by simply standing there while his opponent exhausted himself with ineffectual blows.

It wasn’t long before Phillip had gained a reputation in the area. There was a marked increase in attendance at the arena, and women and girls from far and wide flocked in to see the handsome, young newcomer who couldn’t lose. I suspect that his new fans pleased him more than the additional remuneration they brought.

Granted, his success isn’t all my doing. He possesses a natural aptitude for the sport, and a style and finesse that elicits oohs and ahs from the crowd. But no amount of expertise can defend against a gopher hole or a lucky strike, and that’s where I come in. We’ve won over a hundred bouts now, and as the list of challengers grows, so do the purses.

But today, I fear we may have met our match. An opponent from far to the east, a great beast of a man wielding a sword with the distinctive striations of steel, struts into the arena to challenge my son. I should have known this day would come; the secret is not as closely guarded as it once was. I can only hope that now, facing another man of steel, his skills can protect him as well as mine have. And maybe, if he survives, I can get him out of the stadium and into a respectable job.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the reigning UFC Champion – Georges Saint Pieeeeeeeeeeere!”

Okay, here he comes… Get Ready…Two fingers – dip – now! Smear left cheek – dip – smear right cheek – dip – get the nose – dab the chin – dip – cover the forehead and under the eyes – done.

“Have a great fight, man!” I yelled to him.

He stepped into the cage. The referee explained the rules, and the whistle blew.

Come on Georges, watch yourself. Duck! Swing left! Nice hit. Look out! Ooooh, he got caught in the face! Look how Liddell’s glove just slid off his face. Nice. That punch would have knocked him down had there not been any Vaseline on his face. Another job well---

“OH MY GOD”, I screamed. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

“Georges St. Pierre has just knocked out Chuck Liddell a very short 35 seconds into the fight”. Joe Rogan is excited, the crowd is roaring. Joe enters the ring and approaches St. Pierre. “Georges – George – That was an amazing first round knock out. How do you feel?”

Here it comes – he would have been knocked down with that hit had it not been for me. This is my moment to shine.

“It feels great. I saw the shot and took it. It was the right one, and I knew it.” Georges’ French accent was so elegant. “I want to thank my trainers and my family for all of your support. I could not have done it without you. Also, I especially want to thank…”

Stand up Marty. This is it.

“…All 25,234 fans that cam out to see me knock Chuck Liddell out tonight. None of this is anything without all of you.” Georges St. Pierre walked out of the cage toward me.

Stay standing old boy. He will say something on his way out.

He just walked past me. He didn’t even acknowledge me…

I can’t believe him. I have greased up his fat French face for forty seven fights. Forty seven! I thought that this was it. I thought he was finally going to say something. Thank you Vaseline Guy. Four easy English words you dirty Frenchman. You self-absorbed, muscle-bound jerk! Never recognize me. I’ll show you. That’s it! I’m done! I’ll get him to remember me next time…

* * *

I decided to call Kelly, a good friend who also happened to be a Chemistry genius. I thought Kelly may have been able to help me get the pig faced French guy to remember me.

“Kelly, its Marty.”

“Hey Marty! How are you?” She sounded cheerful and genuinely happy to talk to me.

“I’m good. Listen – I am hoping you can help me with a work problem I’m having. Can you talk?”

“Of course, What’s up?”

“I am trying to develop a new lubrication for the fighters. The UFC hired me directly to find a way to make the fighter’s gloves still slide, but have more of an effect to the fighters. I was thinking that you could help me. It could change my career.”

“Anything for you,” She smiled. “What do you need?”

“I need something that I can mix with the Vaseline before each fight that will make the glove stick slightly to the fighter’s face. It is all very hush, hush, so I have to be able to mix it after the standards and practices team verifies the contents of the jar. Can you help me?”

“You want me to help you develop a secret chemical that will make fighting even more painful?”

“Yeah…” I am so screwed. She’s not going for it.

“You know I’ll help. I think I may actually already know how. I have been working on a super strength adhesive for a client. It’s too strong to apply directly to the fighters face, but if you mix in just a drop with the Vaseline, it will keep the slippery feeling, but will cause the glove to stick enough to tug the skin – kind of like rubber cement.”

“Kell – that sounds perfect. How do I get it?”

“I will have some sent over to your apartment via courier now. Let me just call my assistant.”

“Thanks, Kelly.” I sat the phone down

* * *

My jar is ready. I have the eye dropper in my pocket. Get it out. Squeeze. Pull it out. Squeeze it into the jar.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the reigning UFC Champion – Georges Saint Pieeeeeeeeeeere!”

Mix it- fast. Back to the pocket. Put on your gloves, Marty. Here he comes… Get Ready…Two fingers – dip – now! Smear left cheek – dip – smear right cheek – dip – get the nose – dab the chin – dip – cover the forehead and under the eyes – done.

He walked away without noticing a difference.

This is it. This is the fight he will remember. One drop will make it stick. Here goes.

“Fight!” The referee blew the whistle.

Keith Jardine and Georges St. Pierre danced around; Feeling each other out a little bit. They exchanged kicks, then BAM! Jardine smacked Georges right under his eyes. He started bleeding profusely.

That’s what you get. I am smiling. I’m actually smiling. Look at his flesh dangling from Jardine’s glove. Nasty. It’s a lot bloodier that I thought. One drop will make it stick, a whole dropper full will apparently rip off flesh…Time to go. The little guy won this time.

Turn around and leave – now.