M.Y.T.H. Inc in Action Read online

  The duty itself was annoyin’ly easy, annoyin’ in that it’s hard to stir up the troops when the worst thing facin’ them is boredom. The situation is readily apparent even when I put Nunzio to work settlin’ our crew in whilst I report in to the garrison commander.

  “Our only real job here is to maintain a military presence . . . show the flag so’s folks remember why they’re paying their taxes.”

  The individual deliverin’ this speech is average height, about a head shorter than me, and has dark tight-curly hair with a few wisps of grey showin’ in spots . . . which might have made him look dignified if he didn’t move like a dock worker tryin’ to finish early so’s he can go on a heavy date. He has a rapid-fire kinda speech pattern and rattles off his orders without lookin’ up from the papers he is scribblin’ on. I can’t help but notice, however, that what he is workin’ on so hard looks a lot like poetry . . . which I somehow don’t think is covered by his official orders.

  “All you and your boys gotta do is spend a certain number of hours a day patrolling the streets in uniform so’s folks can see the army is here. The rest of the time, you’re on your own.”

  “You mean like policemen?”

  The words just sorta popped outta my mouth, but they must’a had a note of horror in them, as the commander broke off what he was doin’ to look at me direct.

  “Not really,” he sez, quick-like. “We used to be responsible for patrolling the streets, but the town’s grown to a point where it has its own police force, and we try not to interfere with their authority. They watch the citizens, and our own Military Police watches our troops. Clear and separate. See?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “... which brings us to another point,” the commander continues, startin’ to scribble on his papers again. ‘There’s a non-fraternization rule in effect for our troops. We don’t enforce it too strictly, so you don’t have to worry if one of the . . . ah, ladies makes advances toward you or your men, but let them come to you. Don’t start messing around with the ordinary civilian women. It’s liable to get the civilian men upset however it goes, and our main directive here is to not incite any trouble with the civilians. Be nice to them . . . show them we’re just plain folks, like they are. If you can do that, then they’re less inclined to believe any wild stories they might hear about what our troops are doing on the front lines. Got that?”

  I didn’t think it would really matter what I said or did, as the commander is rattlin’ all this off like it is memorized while he fiddles with his writin’. I didn’t think it would be wise to test this theory, however.

  “Yes sir,” I sez. “No fraternizin’ with the women . . . No fightin’ with the men. Got it.”

  “Very well, report back to your unit and see that they’re properly settled in. Then take the rest of the day to familiarize yourselves with the town, and report here for assignment tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes sir.” I draw myself up and give him a snappy salute, which he returns without even lookin’ up.

  I can’t help but I feel I have kinda gotten the bum’s rush on my briefin’, so on the way out I pause to have a few words with the commander’s clerk ... a decision which I’ll admit is in part due to the factual that she is the only skirt I have seen in uniform except for Spyder, and I am beginnin’ to feel a little desperate for the sound of a female-type voice. Besides, I outrank her, and figure it is about time my new stripes work a little for me instead of against me.

  “What’s the deal with the commander?” I sez, friendly-Iike, givin’ her one of my lesser used non-intimidatin’ smiles.

  Instead of respondin’, however, this chick just stares at me blankly like she’s still waitin’ for me to say somethin’. Now, she is a tiny little thing, a bit on the slender side, so her starin’ at me with those big eyes starts makin’ me feel a little uncomfortable . . . like she’s a praying mantis tryin’ to decide if she should eat me before or after we mate.

  “I mean, how come he’s writin’ poetry?” I add, just to get some kinda conversation flowin’.

  “Lyrics,” she sez, in a flat sort of voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said ‘lyrics’ ... as in ‘words for songs’ He likes to perform in the local clubs at their open stage nights, and he writes his own material . . . constantly.”

  “Is he any good?”

  This gets me a small shrug.

  “I suppose he’s not bad . . . but he doesn’t play guitar, so mostly he has to sing a cappella. That makes his performance sound a little thin after listening to an evening of singers with instrumental accompaniments.”

  I notice that for all her apparent disinterest, this chick seems to know a lot about what the commander does on his off hours . . . even to the point of sittin’ through a whole evenin’ of amateur singers to listen to his set when she doesn’t really like his singin’. From this I deduce that I am not likely to get much of anywhere with her as a sergeant, so I settle for bein’ friendly.

  “Maybe he should try keyboards,” I sez.

  “Try what?” she blinks, suddenly takin’ more interest in the conversation.

  “Key . . . Oh! Nothin’. Hey, I got to be goin’ now. Nice talkin’ with you.”

  With that I beat a hasty retreat, a little annoyed with myself. Again my time on Deva has almost gotten me in trouble. For a second there, I forgot that this dimension not only doesn’t have keyboards, it does not have the electricity necessary for the pluggin’ in of said instrument.

  “Hey Guido!” comes a familiar voice, interruptin’ my thoughts. “What’s the word?”

  I looked around to find Nunzio and the rest of the crew bearin’ down on me.

  “No big deal,” I shrugs. “We don’t even go on duty until tomorrow. The commander’s given us the rest of the day to settle in and check out the town.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Hy Flie sez, rubbin’ his hands together like . . . well, like a fly. “What say we get something to eat . . . and at the same time see if we can find a place to hang out on our off-duty hours.”

  “How about the spaghetti place we passed on the way here?” Spyder sez, jerkin’ her head back in the direction they had come from.

  I shoot a quick glance at Nunzio, who is already lookin’ at me. As so often happens when we’re workin’ together, we are thinkin’ the same thing at the same time, and this time we’re both thinkin’ that the best way to avoid runnin’ into someone with Mob connections is by not usin’ a spaghetti place for a base of operations.

  “Ah . . . let’s see if we can find someplace less likely ... I mean, closer.” I suggest, casual-like.

  “Well, how ‘bout we try right here?” Nunzio chimes in, pickin’ up on my general train of thought.

  I look where he is pointin’, and have to admit that it is probably the last place someone from the Mob would think of lookin’ for us. The sign over the door of the joint reads, ABDUL’S SUSHI BAR AND BAIT SHOP.

  “Sushi?” Shu Flie scowls. “You mean like raw fish?”

  “At least we know it’s fresh,” Junebug sez, gesturin’ at the second part of the sign.

  “Oh, don’t be a bunch of babies” Spyder grins, givin’ Shu a poke in the ribs. “Wait ‘til you’ve tried it. It’s good! Come on.”

  Now, I am no more enthusiastic than the Flie brothers about eatin’ this stuff, even though Nunzio has been after me for some time to give it a try. I mean, I’m used to fish in a tomato sauce or somethin’, served with pasta—not rice. Still, there seems little option than to follow Spyder and Nunzio as they merrily lead the way into the place.

  “Ah! Members of our noble fighting forces!” the proprietor sez, slitherin’ up out of the dim depths to greet us. “Please, come right in. We give special discounts for our men . . . and ladies ... in uniform!”

  “Can we have a table close to the window so’s there’s more light?” Nunzio sez, giving me a wink.

  I know what he is thinkin’ and normally would approve. The proprietor
is makin’ me feel a little uneasy, however. Despite his toothy smile, I have a strong feelin’ he can tell within a few pieces of small change how much money our crew is carryin’ . . . and is already tryin’ to figure how much of it he can glom onto before we escape. In short, I haven’t felt this sized up by a merchant since we left the Bazaar at Deva.

  Despite my growin’ discomfort, I join the crew as the proprietor ushers us to a window table and distributes menus. Everybody gives their drink orders, then start porin’ over the menus with Spyder and Junebug servin’ as interpreters . . . everyone except Nunzio, that is.

  Ignorin’ his menu completely, my cousin starts fishin’ around his belt pouch.

  “While we’re here, anyone care for a couple quick hands of Dragon Poker?” he sez innocentlike, producin’ a deck of cards and a battered, dog-eared book.

  The whole crew groans at this, a sure indication of their familiarity with the game, which is not surprisin’ as Nunzio and me have been takin’ great pains to teach it to ‘em. Despite their apparent reluctance, however, I notice that their stakes money appears on the table in a quick ripple of movement, which is in itself a testimony to the addictin’ nature of this particular pastime. I can speak from my own experience in sayin’ that there is nothin’ like watchin’ a pot you’ve built on a nice hand disappear into someone else’s stack because of some obscure-type Conditional Modifier to convince a new player that it is definitely in his best interest to learn more about the game as it is his only chance of winnin’ some of his money back, much less show a profit. That is, you play your first game of Dragon Poker for the fun of it, and after that youse is playin’ for revenge.

  “Okay . . . ante up!” Nunzio sez, givin’ the cards a quick shuffle and offerin’ the deck for a cut.

  “Not so fast, cousin,” I interrupts, fishin’ my own copy of the rulebook out. “First, let’s settle what the Conditional Modifiers are.”

  “Why bother?” Shue Flie grimaces. “They change every day.”

  “Every day? You mean every hour!” his brother sez.

  “Whatever,” Spyder shrugs. “Start dealing Nunzio. Swatter here can fill us in on the high points.”

  For those of youse unfamiliar with Dragon Poker, it is a very popular means of redistributin’ wealth throughout the dimensions. You can think of it as nine card stud poker with six card hands . . . that is, if you don’t mind gettin’ your brains beat out financially. You see, on top of the normal rules of card playin’, there are Conditional Modifiers which can change the value of a card or hand dependin’ on the dimension, hour of the day, number of players, position at the table, or any one of a multitude of other factors, makin’ Dragon Poker the most difficult and confusin’ card game in all the dimensions.

  Nunzio and me got fascinated by dis game whilst everyone was tryin’ to teach it to the Boss in time for his big match with the Sen-Sen Ante Kid, and it isn’t really all that hard . . . providin’ one had a copy of the rules applicable to the dimension youse is in at the time. (Of course, the Boss couldn’t use a book durin’ the big match, as he was supposed to be an expert already.) Before leavin’ the Bazaar for this particular caper, both Nunzio and me included pickin’ up copies of the rulebook for Klah (our home dimension where dis narration is takin’ place) as part of our preparations. If youse perhaps think that buying two copies of the rulebook is a needless expense, let me give youse a free tip about playin’ Dragon Poker: Your best defense at the table is havin’ your own copy of the rules. Youse see, one of the standin’ rules in any Dragon Poker game is that the players are individually responsible for knowin’ the Conditional Modifiers. Put simply, this means that if you don’t know a particular modifier which would turn your nothin’ hand into a winner, no one is obligated to announce it to you. This is a tradition of the game and has nothin’ to do with the honesty of them what plays it. If anything, it avoids accusations that a player deliberately withheld information to win a hand rather than a particular modifier simply bein’ overlooked amidst the multitude of modifiers in effect at any given time. In short, as much as I trust my cousin Nunzio to cover my back in a brawl, I feel it wisest not to count on him lookin’ out for my interest at a Dragon Poker table, and therefore figure havin’ my own copy of the rulebook is a necessary expense, not a luxury or convenience.

  “Let’s see,” I sez, thumbin’ through the book, “the sun is out . . . and we’re playin’ indoors . . .”

  “. . . and there’s an odd number of players . . .” Spyder supplies, showin’ she’s gettin’ the hang of the modifyin’ factors.

  “... and one of them is female . . . sort of ...” Junebug adds, winkin’ at Spyder.

  “Sorry to take so long with your drinks, my friends,” the proprietor sez, announcin’ his presence as he arrives back at the table with a tray of potables. “Now, who has the . . . HEY! WHAT IS THIS???!!!”

  It suddenly occurs to me that there may be some local ordinance against gamblin’ . . . which would explain why the proprietor is suddenly so upset.

  “This?” I sez, innocent-like. “Oh, we’re just havin’ a friendly little game of cards here. Don’t worry, we’re just usin’ the coins to keep score and . . .”

  “Don’t give me that!” our host snarls, with no trace of his earlier greasy friendliness. “That’s Dragon Poker you’re playing! No one plays that game unless . . .”

  He breaks off sudden-like and starts givin’ each of us the hairy eyeball.

  “All right, which one of you is a demon? Or is it all of you? Never mind! I want you all out of here . . . RIGHT NOW!!!”

  Chapter Eight

  “It takes one to know one!”

  Jack D. Ripper

  TO SAY THE proprietor’s accusation caused a stir at our table is like sayin’ it would cause raised eyebrows to have Don Bruce as the guest speaker at a Policeman’s Banquet. Unfortuitously, everyone had different questions to ask.

  “What’s he mean ‘demon’?” Spyder demanded.

  I started to answer her, as I knew from my work with the Boss that a demon is the commonly accepted term for a dimension traveler, but there was too much cross-talk for rational-type conversation.

  “Are we supposed to leave?” Spellin’ Bee sez, scared-like as he peered at the retreatin’ figure.

  “What’s wrong with Dragon Poker?” Shu Flie put in.

  “Nothin’!” I sez to him. “You see, Spyder . . .”

  “Then what put the burr under his saddle?” Shu pressed, startin’ to get under my skin.

  Fortunately, in trainin’ I have discovered there is one way to shut this particular individual up when he gets on a roll.

  “Shu Flie,” I sez, “don’t bother me.”

  It was an old joke by this time, but it still got a laugh . . . which is not surprisin’ as I have found that the vast majority of army humor pivots on old jokes.

  “Watch yourself, brother,” Hy Flie sez, pokin’ Shu in the ribs. “The Swatter there is lookin’ to squash a fly again . . . and he might not be too picky about which of us he swats.”

  Under the cover of this new round of laughs, Nunzio leans forward to talk to me direct. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, cuz?”

  “That, of course, depends upon what it is you are thinkin’, Nunzio,” I sez, reasonable-like. “If, perchance, you are thinkin’ that you can color our cover ‘blown,’ then we are, indeed, thinkin’ along the same lines,”

  To my surprise, instead of agreein’ he rolls his eyes like he does when I’m missin’ something which to him is obvious.

  “Think it through, Guido,” he sez. “He thinks we’re from off-dimension, because we know about Dragon Poker . . . right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So how does he know about it?” To me, this question is as trivial as wonderin’ how a cop happens to know about a particular ordinance . . . which is to say it is beside the point, totally overlookin’ the immediate dilemma of dealin’ with the aftermath of us gettin’ caught breakin’ it. />
  “I dunno. I guess someone showed it to him. So what?”

  For some reason, this seems to get Nunzio even more upset.

  “Guido,” he sez, clenchin’ his teeth, “sometimes I wonder if all those knocks on the head you’ve taken have . . . oops! He’s coming back. Quick . . . Bee?”

  “Yes, Nunzio?” our junior magician sez, blinkin’ with surprise at havin’ been suddenly included in our discussion.

  “Get your Dis-spell ready, and when I give you the nod . . . throw it on the proprietor.”

  “The proprietor? Why?”

  “Bee . . . just do it. Okay?” I interrupts, havin’ learned from experience that the only thing that takes longer than listenin’ to one of Nunzio’s lectures is tryin’ to pry a straight answer out of him when he’s tryin’ to let you discover the point yourself.

  Bee starts to say somethin’, then shuts his mouth, shrugs, startin’ to mumble and mutter like he does when he’s gettin’ ready to use magik.

  The others at the table look at Nunzio expectantlike, but he just leans back in his chair lookin’ confident and smug. I, of course, imitate his action, though I have no more idea what he is about to pull than the rest of the crew. You see, past experience has taught me that one of the best times to act confident is when youse is totally in the dark . . . but would just as soon no one else is aware of your ignorance.

  “Are you still here?” the proprietor demands, materializin’ beside our table again. “I don’t want to have to tell you again! Now get out before I call the cops!”

  “I don’t think so,” Nunzio sez, starin’ at the ceilin’.

  “WHAT??!!”

  “. . . In fact, I was thinkin’ we might want to make your place our home away from home ... If you know what I mean.”

  “Izzat so?! Think just ‘cause you’re in the Army you can do anything you want, do you? Well, let me tell you something, soldier-boy. I happen to be a tax paying member of this community in good standing with the authorities, and soldiers or not they don’t take too kindly to demons in these parts. In fact, I can’t think of one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police right now and have them drag you all right out of here!”