You know how some guys are double-jointed, and some guys can roll their tongue, and some guys can dislocate their shoulders? I got that beat all to heck.

I can dislocate my head. No fooling. And I don’t mean that my neck sticks out weird when I want it to, or that my head flops around like a jack-in-the-box. No. This is better.

I can tuck my head right into my body. I mean, it goes in just like a turtle’s head goes into its shell, and pops out quick as a wink. The kids in school called me Turtle Guy. I hate that name, but it’s probably a good name for me.

Just about everyone in my family can do it. My dad, my Grandpa Tom, Uncle Al, my sister Peg, everyone does it. No big deal. Mom can’t do it, but she loves her “headless family.”

Now I’m married and even my little baby can do it. The first time that babies in my family tuck their heads in, it’s a real event. Sometimes they pop out giggling, other times they pop out screaming.

It’s really a natural feeling, retracting your head. I’m not sure exactly what happens to my neck bones when I retract. It feels kind of like cracking your knuckles, but in a good way.

When we were kids, my sister and I always had to retract our heads to count for Hide ‘n’ Go Seek. There’s no way you can see anything with your head tucked in. The neighborhood kids would put their fingers over their eyes and cheat like crazy. I’d always lose at that game.

Somehow, there’s always room in my chest for my head. In goes my head, and it’s all warm and dark. It’s quiet. Outside sounds are muffled and just about the only thing I hear is my heart beating and my lungs breathing. The air snakes up past my nose, eyes and forehead. I never have trouble breathing.

I always retracted my head during thunderstorms when I was little. And when mom was yelling at me. Which was a lot because I didn’t really do all that good in school. You wouldn’t either if all the kids were calling you “Turtle Guy” all the time.

I think you get the picture. Pulling my head into my body feels good. It’s relaxing.

That’s how I got into this mess. I’m heading home on the Red Line Metro the other night, headed for Rockville. I nod off, and without even thinking much of it I pull my head in.

It’s not something that I like to do in public. It freaks people out.

So there I am, sitting alone in a Metro car, snoozing with my head tucked in. Then all heck breaks loose. As near as I can figure it, some kids come into the train and see this headless guy sitting there.

They don’t worry about how I got headless, they just check for my wallet. I wake up feeling some guy’s hand in my pants pocket.

Well I have a surprise for them. I pop my head out real fast to give them a shock. Unfortunately, one of the thugs is bending over close to where my head’s popping up. I bang him right in the teeth with my head. Hard. No doubt it broke a couple of teeth off. Serves him right.

The kids take off running, and I’m out like a light. Knocked out by a set of choppers. Apparently, my head slinks back into my chest while I’m seeing stars.

At the next stop, a couple of people come on, and they see me, the headless dead guy. They stop the train and call 9-1-1. When the ambulance gets there, I’m still in la-la land.

The EMTs don’t even take my pulse. I guess that it’s not standard operating procedure for a headless guy. I’m bleeding on the top of my head and I suppose it looks like neck guts or something. By the time I come to, I’m riding to the morgue wearing a body bag.

Now the air’s getting thin. Those body bags seal up pretty good. I come to, pop my head out and start thrashing around. I don’t know where I am, I just know I’m suffocating inside a plastic bag.

I can feel the vehicle swerving. I guess the ambulance guys freak out, too. There’s a crash, and the back doors must have popped open because I’m rolling out into the road. I tuck my head in to protect myself, and it’s a lucky thing I do because something sharp rips at the top of the body bag where my head would have been. Fresh air comes rolling in.

And guess what? My head jams inside my chest. That’s never happened before, but I was banged up pretty good in the accident and I imagine that my neck froze up or something.

I crawl out of the body bag. I’m limping. I’m bleeding. My bells are half-rung. My head is gone. I’m reaching out blind, grasping into the air like someone swatting flies. Some TV news crew catches my Tor Johnson act and broadcasts it all over the city.

I saw it later that night on the evening news: Some t-shirt-wearing jerk who’s playing hero comes up to me with a baseball bat and slams me right in the belly. My head pops up like a slice of toast. Mr. Hero faints dead away, and I’m standing with a stupid look on my face.

OK, that was the mess I got into. Here’s the good part: Guess who calls me? Sam Raimi. The director. He’s making another monster movie, and he thinks I could save him a bundle in special effects money.

He offers me a big fat check for just a few days’ work. Mom’s advice? Even if I become a big star, I should remember where I came from. Don’t lose my head, she says.

Jumbo moved her way past Jonathon to the counter and began her diatribe to the customer service representative. Jonathon took it in stride as usual. He was next in line, but passed over for someone else. It had been that way all of his life. No one ever seemed to notice him.

The bovine woman shuffled her huge udders past him with a smug satisfaction as she waddled away with her refund. Jonathon looked up to the counter, holding his broken toaster.

“Sir, how can I help you?” said Pimples. Jonathon thought, “Surely that’s what everyone must call her.” But alas, her eyes were on the person to his left.

Mr. Macho, hard labor guy, strutted up to the counter. His butt protruded and proudly proclaimed, “I’m not afraid to show some crack in public!” Jonathon averted his eyes and quietly planned away. That’s why he was here in the first place. He had been watching Crackman.

Crackman finished his business and walked gruffly by Jonathon. Jonathon made a small movement to the left and Crackman plowed into him. There was a tangle of arms and legs and Crackman sneered, “Watch where ‘yer going.”

Jonathon didn’t say a word. He looked down. No eye contact. The truth was that he knew exactly where he was going. He took his toaster and left the store without an exchange. No one noticed him. Pimples never even saw him. That was his life, no one ever paid attention to him. Bland was too bland of word for him. He wasn’t even bland.

As Jonathon walked out to his car, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the Smartcard and company I.D. of Crackman that had been hanging on his belt. A quick movement during the bump and it was his. He looked at the picture and name on the card. It didn’t matter, all he needed was an I.D.

He had watched Crackman for sometime. Jonathon liked the fact that Crackman was a maintenance man. In fact, Jonathon loved maintenance men. They could usually go anywhere they wanted in a building. Good. Just what he needed.

It was a short drive to the large corporate campus. Jonathon had already figured out where the exterior cameras were, so he parked in the upper south lobby area. He walked quietly down the side of the building where he was out of sight from the cameras. It was a nice day. People were outside smoking on their break.

He blended in with them and lit a cigarette. All the small groups were chattering away. As was the case for all of his life, he didn’t belong to a group. He smoked and watched. Waiting. Waiting was his game. He knew how to play that game well.

A couple of cigs and he saw her. She was above attractive. She gathered attention as her slim figured moved fluidly. Some of the men turned their heads to look. Jonathon crushed out his smoke and ambled towards the front lobby door. Unconsciously he timed his steps, pacing her perfectly until their paths converged into one. He was two steps in front of her. She was carrying a large box with both hands.

As he approached the door, he opened it for her. She looked up in thanks and muttered something appreciative, never even seeing him. Just as they passed by the guard’s station, Jonathon politely inquired, “Can I get that for you?” His hands were already moving and in place before she could respond.

“My, that’s a lovely blouse. Did you get that at Macy’s? Hey, do you know Steve in Accounting?” he asked her quickly. Nothing like confusion to make things clear. Just as he grabbed the box, she stuttered in response, “Thanks. Steve? Accounting?” Perfect. She fell into stride with him and they scanned their badges into the system.

Pictures confirming the identity of the badge holders appeared on the screen before the guards, but they noticed her, the box was no longer hiding her lovely breasts. She was a daily treat for the guards. She was one who was talking, Jonathon was the one holding up a box partially hiding his face. No one noticed him, as usual. They passed the guards and they turned their heads to follow her figure. They never saw him.

She was flustered, thinking, “Steve?” Jonathon handed her the box and slightly brushed her breast as he did so. A simple pleasure. “Tell Steve that Matt said, ‘Hello.’” And he was off down the western hallway. People passed by him and never noticed him. A lowered head and no eye contact was the key.

In his mind was the floor plan, in his heart was treachery. The long corridor led to a backside hallway. “Come on Crackman, be someone important,” he thought to himself as he scanned the badge on the remote reader. “Beep. Click.” The door’s magnetic locked released. He smiled.

The back hallway was drab. Cement floors and no pictures on the walls. There wasn’t a lot of traffic as he approached the back entrance to the lab floor. He walked a few steps towards the water fountain and took deep sips as he waited. Good. Two people. He fell in line and scanned his badge first as he opened the door for them. They graciously ignored him as they talked with each other.

The floor was huge. Over a hundred people pouring through restricted and secure data. Their cubicles separating them from distractions. Jonathon walked up and down the aisles until he saw what he was looking for. He looked at the names on the empty cube and cube next to it. He asked the next person a question.

“Where’s Doug? I’m supposed to replace the harddrive on this unit. Did he give you the signoff sheet, Bill? Oh, Steve has it, that’s right.” Jonathon was already disconnecting the cables. Within thirty seconds, he was gone.

As the crowd left the building, Jonathon blended in.

Why I kept subjecting myself to this, I had no idea.

I got out of my car, slammed the door, took one step, staggered, swore, opened the door, pulled the strap of my purse out of the jamb and slammed the door again. My heels clip-clipped on the pavement as I crossed the street. My ankle twinged. I'm getting too old for these shoes. A jingle as I yanked my keys out of my purse, a clang as I dropped them on the porch. Stoop, pick them up, basically moon the neighbors across the street--hi, guys!--jam one key into the lock, jam another key into the lock, actually look at the keys for two seconds, select the right key, jam it into the lock, turn it, and spill into the front hallway of my apartment amidst a rain of coupons and pizza delivery takeout menus that have been shoved through my mail slot and wedged in between the screen and the front door.

I smacked the wall with my left arm until I hit the light switch. I tossed my purse into the gray checkered Laz-E-Boy by the front door. I tripped over the cat twice on the way to the bathroom, then again on the way to the bedroom, and then again between the front door of the bedroom to the closet.

"Yes, hello, I see you," I muttered.

I rummaged through my closet until I found the first date black dress. I struggled into it and prayed that the zipper wouldn't get stuck between my shoulder blades.

"Women die every day from trying to get out of dresses with zippers stuck between their shoulder blades," I informed the cat.

I didn't understand why I was doing this again, but I always eventually agreed to go on another first date, even though I had never really gotten the knack for making chit chat, or for not getting completely trashed and passing out in my fettuccini alfredo, or for withholding my opinions about the socialist agenda of Fraggle Rock.

I stuck my feet back into the shoes I was too old for and went to the dresser to apply the Take Me Now Ha Ha Just Kidding Except Not Really No Seriously Take Me Now red lipstick. My hair was a little messy and wisps fell around my face and neck, but I thought with a little hairspray I could pass it off as 'fashionable dishabille.' I slapped on the lipstick, figured the coat of mascara I already had on would hold me over, and a small hole in the ozone layer later my hair was domesticated and I was ready to go.

I dropped into my couch and flipped on the TV, content to watch reruns of Frasier until my date came to pick me up. Cindy's Friend Mike From Accounting (I always said that whole line in my head every time I thought about him, like it was his Native American hunting name or something) actually wasn't that bad. By which I mean, he had been sober when I met him, had the correct number of teeth, and hadn't flinched when I used the word 'hirsute' to describe the yak-like outerwear sported by our boss's teenaged daughter. I optimistically took a case of Tic Tacs out of my purse and popped a few into my mouth.

A number of things happened at once.

My purse settled back against the TV remote, switching the channel to static. The cat, who had been crossing the room at that particular moment, jumped into my lap in startlement. And I, in surprise, started to yell and inhaled my Tic Tacs.

I lurched to my feet and coughed and spluttered. I tripped over the cat and landed hard on my knees. The Tic Tacs lodged deeper in my throat. My eyes teared up. My parents were going to be so embarrassed when they have to explain to everyone that I died from choking to death on some pre-date Tic Tacs. I tried to imagine my eulogy as I flopped onto my side and started turning blue. Angie loved peppermint--

I remembered a trick I had discovered I could do in college while on my eighth vodka tonic. I opened my mouth as wide as I possibly could. I jerked down the sleeve of my shirt. I wriggled my fingers experimentally, and plunged my hand into my mouth and down my throat, wincing as I pushed past my gag reflex and grimacing at the aloe vera taste of my hand lotion.

My arm was swallowed almost to the elbow. My fingers rummaged through the slick, hot tissue of my esophagus, probing against glands and channels and making the skin of my neck distend. My forearm turned red where my teeth were clenched around my skin. A very attractive glob of drool escaped the corner of my mouth.

Where were the little monsters...

I found the Tic Tacs, smooth pebbles imbedded in the soft muscle lining of my throat. I dragged my arm back out of my mouth and gasped and clutched for breath on the floor like a fish tossed onto the dock.

Then I got up, threw away the Tic Tacs, threw away the rest of the Tic Tacs in the case, washed my arm, wiped up my drool, reapplied my lipstick, and wiped a speck off my front tooth just in time to hear the doorbell ring.

Cindy's Friend Mike From Accounting smiled at me when I opened the door. "Angie," he greeted warmly. "You look fantastic. Did you have to rush?"

"You know. It was just the usual."

“You! Boy!” Sir Guiron was looking down the wall towards me as the arrow bolts flew over his head, right above the wall.

“Sir?” I kept my head ducked as well. I glanced around the edge of the wall occasionally but the site of the attacking hordes on horses kept me bundled as tightly as possible, quivering against the crumbling blocks, to make a smaller target.

“Didn’t I hear that you now have…,” He faltered looking for the right words.”…some kind of magic powers?”

“Sort of, Sir” The meekness in my voice obviously did not inspire any confidence in my answer.

“Sort of? What does that mean?”

“The wizard was practicing a new spell in the kitchen. Something he had heard rumors of about changing water into wine. I was cleaning the floor and when I stood up to straighten out the kinks in my back, I slid on my own work and crashed into him in mid-cast. The spell went awry and something happened. So now I’m…” It was my turn to falter. “…magic.”

“Then bloody do something with it!” His face was turning red with the thought that I could have ‘stopped this whole war’ and hadn’t done so.

“I’m afraid it’s not that good.”

“Anything is better than nothing.” The look in my eyes must have convinced him that maybe I was right after all. “What can you do?”

“I can turn salt into sugar.”

He just stared. His jaw dropped, then rose, then dropped again.

“I know it’s not much but I can make a lot of things taste really sweet now. You should try the salted ham. I know that salt is more valuable so the change really doesn’t do much to make me rich. I’ve tried going from sugar to salt but…” I suddenly looked into his eyes again and realized that he no longer cared about my prattling on and on.

“Do you have a knife?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Take it. Hold the dull end. And stick the other part into somebody!” He stood up, climbed over the wall, raised his own sword above his head and with a blood-curdling yell, crashed into the opposing forces. At least his anger seemed to give him strength.

I looked down at my small knife and realized just how small it looked compared to the sword he had just wielded. But he was right. I needed to help. The castle was going to be lost anyway but at least I should do my part. I rolled over and crouched on one knee, looking around the edge of the wall. Both the horse and rider on the other side were looking straight at me. The helmet covered his face completely except for his eyes but his eyes said all that needed to be said. This… beast… was made for torture and killing.

There was nothing to do but stand and glare at him with as much hatred as I could. Hatred may be the wrong word. It must have come across as the same expression the cook gives the kids when they try to sneak goodies out of the kitchen. The belly-laugh that came from under the helmet rang clear across the space between us before he prepared to reach down and swat me like the bug that I was.

I tried to point my knife at him but the shaking in my arm kept the tip pointing at everything but him. Sweat run down my forehead and the salt in it caused my eyes to burn. I reached up with my other hand and started to wipe my eyes. Salt?

Suddenly I had an idea. I focused all of my energy onto the man inside the armor, which had to be incredibly hot with all that weight. He raised his sword up, pointed it at me and prepared to plunge it right through me. That’s when his horse bit into his arm. It had been sniffing the air for a few seconds and suddenly recognized the scent of the old familiar snack cubes that were sometimes given to it as treats in preparing to become a war-horse.

The knight’s sword clashed to the ground. The horse continued to chew into the armor and the arm. Through the visor, it looked like the knight was turning green. I wondered how much salt was in the human body? What would happen if it was no longer salt? The green-tinged knight was my answer. Suddenly he leaned over to heave his stomach contents onto the ground but as he leaned, he just kept going until he lay in his own pool of vomit. Meanwhile, the horse steadily looked for weaknesses in the armor. I marveled at the sight of the large, gleaming creature chomping on its former master rolling on the ground. Gleaming? From sweat perhaps? Time for some more experiments. I focused on the horse instead.

As luck would have it, another horse and rider had just come up to see why his comrade was laying on the ground in something so vile. While the new rider was leaning over trying to gauge the situation, his horse caught a whiff of the same scent and reached out and took a nip of the first horse’s hindquarters. That was none too pleasing to the first horse and suddenly they were at odds with each other.

I swept my gaze across the battle-field, stopping at each warrior, rider, horse or figure, concentrating for just a second before moving to the next. Careful not to focus on those that were on my side, the horses started to bite those around them while they either threw up or just passed out were they were.

As my view continued to move across the field, I suddenly was looking into Sir Guiron’s eyes. His puzzled look gave away to a bemused expression. He winked, thrust his sword into the air and continued to melee his way through the now-weakened combatants all around him.

Victory is so sweet.

“Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.”

Larry said the words out loud with absolutely no satisfaction, perhaps the first time in his life the phrase wasn't uttered with a sense of smugness, a touch of a grin. The words bounced through the repair shop, breaking the complete silence. Silence, Larry thought as he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, that was unwelcome, unwanted; the silence of a room where something has gone horribly awry.

Larry supposed lying on his back on the cement floor of an auto repair shop with a tool chest across his left leg could be deemed 'awry.' He sneaked a peek at his lower half and cringed. The chrome-plated 'mobile work station' as Billy called it, was planted firmly on his leg, drawer side up. He rolled his eyes back up to the ceiling and groaned. Drawer side up. The chest weighed roughly two hundred pounds empty. Now, though, filled to capacity with tools, nice, heavy-duty automotive tools, it weighed in easily at three hundred, maybe more.

Surprisingly, Larry mused, the pain wasn't too bad. He knew the leg was broken, knew it was more likely shattered, but the shock must have settled in, because the pain was somewhat distant, like it was being held at bay by a curtain.

He didn't think the curtain would stay closed for long.

Larry breathed deeply and slowly pushed up into a sitting position. The pain bucked slightly at the curtain, but didn't spill through. He studied the tool chest. The brushed steel top was facing him. The enormous chest sat on casters, and had stainless steel handles built into the sides of the countertop, for easier rolling. Larry, in his ingenuity, had secured a rope to the handle so he could haul the chest around the shop for the annual spring cleaning. He glared at the tool chest accusingly. “It all went fine till you decided to get stuck in that crack.” He nodded at the guilty crack, the half inch wide fault in the foundation that had upset the casters and doomed his leg. Larry shot some expletives at the crack, but after a bit he realized he had more pressing matters to take care of. He felt a twinge and shifted uncomfortably.

He had to pee.

“Sweet Jesus,” Larry muttered. The need to urinate was overriding the pain in his leg, and he knew that if he didn't figure a way out of this mess soon, he'd be sitting in a puddle. Billy wasn't due in for another half hour, and he'd rather die than let Billy see him like this. His head fell back, and he once more found himself staring at the ceiling, at the cracks in the paint, at the steel I- beam running the length of the shop... His eyes widened. The I-beam ran the full length of the shop, with supports colums every ten or so feet. He followed the I-beam directly overhead to the support column maybe three feet behind him, and noticed how the top of the steel column branched out sort of like a Y to meet the beam, leaving a triangular gap on either side of the column. And for the first time that morning, Larry had a good idea.

He pulled on the rope still attached to the handle of the tool chest and quickly began winding the free length about his arm in a loose coil. If he could get the yellow nylon rope through the opening at the top of the column, he might be able to pull the chest up enough to slide his leg out. He eyed the large drain grating in the middle of the shop floor. His goal was that drain.

But how could he get the rope up to the ceiling? The ceiling had to be at least fifteen feet high, which would make the base of the triangular opening still roughly thirteen feet high. He began to hyperventilate. His bladder was sending him warning signals, and he began imagining Billy taking pictures, pointing and laughing shamelessly.

And then he felt the ball.

“Ha. Haha. Heh.” He laughed weakly as he felt the bulge of the blue raquetball protruding from his hip pocket. It was the ball he threw for Sir Dog, and he had slipped it in his pocket after a few rounds with Sir Dog earlier. He pulled it out and began knotting the rope around it frantically.

He held the ball up to eye level and looked it over. There was absolutely no way the ball could slip from the rope. He hefted the ball to test the weight and feel, and Mama's voice echoed through his head. “...I don't know how that boy does it, but he can swish that darn ball through the hoop backward and blindfolded. He ain't missed once... Heaven knows he ain't got much between the ears, guess God had to give him something to make up for it...”

He closed his eyes. “This one's for you, Mama.” He tossed the ball up, up, over his head, and knew before he opened his eyes that the ball soared perfectly through the opening. He knew because the ball thudded him soundly on the back of the head. He reached back and caught it as it was making its second pass. He muttered a quick prayer, included Sir Dog and Mama, and pulled the rope with all his might.

It worked! Larry grunted and pulled and managed to lift the chest enough to scoot his leg out from underneath, wincing at the pain that shot through his body. He let go of the rope when his leg was safe, and the chest crashed down. He pulled himself over to the drain and took care of the pressing business, crying tears of extreme pain and joy. He zipped his pants and wiped his eyes just as Billy walked in.

“What the hey...”

My ears hear the strange, chittering sounds. My nose wrinkles with the effort of processing the cloying but not unpleasant smells. My fingers feel alien textures. And my eyes, my eyes see horror illuminated by a pastel blue sun.

They captured us two days ago and proceeded to skin and eat the navigator while she was still alive and breathing, trembling, screaming. Doc was next to go. That was yesterday. He went quietly. Only the captain and I remain alive. I am junior ensign on the landing shuttle crew. I am the go-fer, the hey-boy assigned to endless menial tasks.

Their chef came for me this morning. When it, or he, or she, or whatever, removed the fetid cover from my head he began shaking uncontrollably, squealing and gibbering while backing out of the hut that holds us captive.

-

My father died of congestive heart failure when I was five years old. Relatives later told me that my mother killed him with a steady diet of cheese-covered bacon and deep-fried chicken drowned in Alfredo sauce. He did his best to help speed his demise by eating her horn-cheeser cuisine and then ordering up desserts of pizza slathered in ranch dressing.

We were close, my father and I. My problem started the day I was brought home early from kindergarten to be unceremoniously informed of his death. For me there was no time of adjustment, just one horrid, bone-jarring sense of loss and then tears, endless tears. I cried for three days.

My eyes, from birth, bulged slightly. Not enough to attract meanies or bullies but enough to cultivate doubt about amore and girls and stuff like that. Aunt Dorie confided in me that when mom and the priest told me about dad, my eyes, well, they almost bulged clean out of my skull. That started it.

Ever since that day, I’ve been able to control the bulge factor. Oh, I still exhibit some ocular enlargement when frightened, but I can really go to town with it as a gag. Believe it or not, it did attract some lovely ladies in college. It even helped with peer acceptance and popularity. You won’t hear any complaints from me on that account, but it would be nice to be known for good looks and not some freakish, useless talent.

-

They know the captain is in charge. Maybe it is because of the bling on his uniform or the calm authority in his eyes. Or, maybe, it’s his adamant refusal to admit defeat and his noble determination to continue fighting, to the death, if necessary. Their knowledge of our rank could also come from whatever they learned from the crew of the lost landing shuttle, the crew our team was sent to rescue. My two best friends were assigned to that ill-fated expedition. It’s a fair bet that they were hors d’oeuvres before we, the main course, landed.

We had no hint that this planet was populated. The planetary culture and technology were almost non-existent; pre-Bronze Age by our standards. No emissions, broadcasts or pollution were detectable. The climate was temperate enough to mask the miniscule heat signals radiating from their cold-blooded bodies. It didn’t help the scanners that these voracious meat eaters didn’t live or congregate in large groups. The clincher was that our weapons wouldn’t function here.

Like stupid, giddy sheep, we trotted to our own doom.

Oh. My. Goodness. Who is this dandy fellow standing before me? He’s wearing some bright bits of this and that. I don’t want to know the source of his decorations. Some of it looks like it was alive not long ago. He is trying to communicate, that part is obvious, and he is offering me what looks to be a staff. Perhaps it is a staff of office because the others with him are bowing down as they track the staff’s exodus from his grip to mine. And now they are prone, unmoving, as if waiting for something.

I point the staff at my captain. Unwittingly, in the clutch of fear, I bulge my eyes out ever so slightly. Panic swirls through their ranks as they scuttle toward him and gently remove his bonds and head cover. Another group arrives with food. It is a colorful collection of fruits and vegetables, native to this planet, and the first piece I bite into is delicious beyond description.

The dark of night encroaches. I stand alone, watching, as the shuttle lifts on its way back to our ship. Earlier, as the captain and I walked to the shuttle, he pulled a pic-scan from inside his tunic and passed it to me. The first exploration crew, the same crew that we came here to find, transmitted the scan to the ship just before their capture. It is a picture of a humanoid, bug-eyed statue. These aliens seem to have their devils but they also have their deity and, apparently, that deity brooks nothing less than total devotion and dedication.

Life is good here. Here, I am a god.

Today’s world is fast-paced, and when you’re not looking things changed at a blink. Still, a man got to expect a certain level of consistency in his life. It used to be pretty easy to make it in the business of being a mercenary. All it really took was a bit of brains, some skill with guns or just your bare hands, and the ability to stay one step ahead of the competition.

All that had changed. Suddenly you had to develop a gimmick to get a foot in the door of employers. Whether solo work or with a group, it became an era of specialization, and the more precise the specialization, the better. And for good or ill, that’s where I step into the picture. Through a long, arduous process I had found my niche, and joined with a ragtag band of mercenaries with the same temperament as myself. Much as I might enjoy solo work, you just couldn’t argue with having a steady income stream.

Our squadron had been dispatched to solve a little international problem. I can’t name names or places, so I’ll use the code names we sometimes go by out in the field. It may have seemed silly to some, but it was necessary, even if it made us sound like some odd offshoot of the creators of G.I. Joe.

We arrived at the designated mansion and filed out, each knowing our duty. First into position was agent Pitch, whose ability to whistle off-key at a high key neutralized the guard dogs. We charged for the communication room, quickly disabling their means to deal with us. Here Soliloquy stepped forth, and endlessly talked in monotone over the guards’ airwaves as only he could. We bunched up until Dead Center spoke up, splitting us into two equal groups as easily as he does everything else.

Mine was chosen to go lower into the building, where we started to have to fight for every inch. Thank goodness for Skunk, who… well, let’s just say he knows how to clear a room, and make one glad that a gas mask is standard equipment. Not unexpectedly, a hole opened in the opponent’s defense, and I made my move. I descended the stairs to the underground hideout, where intelligence showed our main target is located. The whole of the team had done its job; the rest was up to me. I proceeded quickly but carefully, expecting resistance at every turn. Rounding a corner, I ran into my first obstacle.

Well, two obstacles, to be precise. Two guards stood before me, similarly dressed and both armed with short spears that ensured they filled the hallway. In one practiced motion they raised their weapons together and pointed them at me menacingly. I couldn’t help but give a confident smile. Such training showed skill, but also specific reactions to any situations; reactions I could exploit. I made an obvious feint to one side, as if I was trying to divide and conquer. Their spears trailed me, waiting for the time to strike. I cut back into the middle, and as expected the spears flashed out, only to find… nothing but air. While they were busy trying to figure out how they had missed me, I rushed right between their crossed spears. They tried to pull back, but it was too late; I bowled through the “x” and pushed the points back at them, crushing their spirits and their ribs at the same time. As twin groans come from two bodies on the ground, I pressed onward.

I next came to a small office. Or maybe it just looked tiny thanks to the lumbering hulk occupying it. I faced a figure that looked like it was chiseled out of marble, a mountain of muscles in my path. We circled each other briefly; evaluating what moves might be made. I dashed for the door past him, pressing the issue and forcing him to attack. He punched at me with a smirk, his fist accelerating at me like a rocket. The look quickly faded when I raised my hand flat, catching the fist and covering it. Then before he could blink, turning his own force against him, sending him crashing into a pile of cabinets. As various papers flew about, I continued, not caring if the behemoth recovered.

Finally I reached the goal, the person we were sent to capture. Supposedly just a bookkeeper, though one look at her suggested she was more than just a small but intelligent cog in the machine. Still, I had a job to do, and wouldn’t let the phrase “body to die for” come to pass. So when she raised her hands as an invitation for an embrace, I pinched them with my own, twisting them behind her back long enough to restrain her with handcuffs. Her stare of disappointment and pity was to no avail. My rock had crushed their scissors, paper now covered their rock, and finally scissors cut into their paper. All in a day’s work for agent Roshambo, spy and international champion of one of the world’s oldest sports.

It was after midnight in the old bar on Halifax. The neon signs were reflecting off of my drink, casting a blue light on my face. It seemed like I had been there for hours on end. The floors creaked, the stools were wobbly, and the air was stale with the smell of old peanuts and watered down beer. It was a terribly dreadful place, but that’s where I liked to be in a time like this.

My girlfriend of four years dumped me earlier that day, and I was completely heart broken. I really thought that she liked spending time with me, but apparently she liked ‘spending time’ with my best friend a whole lot better. She told me everything, even what they did on my futon. Now the only thing I could do was drown my sorrows in the bottle.

As I was reminiscing, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see the face of a gruff, wily old man. His face was gloomy and ghastly in the pale light of the bar.

“What’s troubling you, boy?” the man asked solemnly. I looked in his eyes for a moment, and then quickly put them back on my beer. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “you don’t even know who I am. Well, let me tell you. The name’s Roy, but you can call me The Gambler. All my friends do. They gave me that nickname because they said that with me, you never know what you’re going to get, and I just might burn you.”

“Oh…erm…hello Mister the Gambler,” I stammered, “I’m really depressed, my girlfriend dumped me today.”

“Aw heck son, that’s nothing to be down over.” He replied, “I’m sure you’re luck will change any minute now.”

I looked up to respond to him, but as suddenly and quietly as his hand met my shoulder, he had left. I turned to take another sip of beer when something caught my eye. Piercing through the smoky room, I saw the most beautiful pair of eyes that I had ever seen. I had to find out what sort of face surrounded such beautiful eyes. So, I got up, and walked to the other side of the bar.

“Hi, my name’s John.” I said. She looked up from her drink and our eyes met. She was absolutely stunning. Now, I’m not one who just goes around picking up bar maids, but she was no bar maid.

“I’m Megan,” she said with a smile, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She nodded, and looked happy. However, I could tell from looking in her eyes that she could tell where this was going and she wasn’t interested. I bought her a drink anyway and we proceeded to just chat a bit.

It wasn’t long before the bartender was going to give the ‘last call’ and I knew that I was probably going home alone that night. It didn’t really matter though, she had taken my mind off of my ex, and I was perfectly happy with that.

I always like to get my money’s worth for what I pay for drinks. This means I like to drink every last drop from the bottle and I figured that I may as well finish it off properly. I proceeded to stick my tongue down through the mouth of the bottle and work it around deeper, getting more of the sweet taste of barley and hops with each pass.

I looked up at Megan and said, “Well, goodni-” She didn’t let me finish. She grabbed my hand and pulled my away from the bar. As we ran to the door she looked me in my eyes and said, “I have a better idea.” Boy, did she ever.