HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Mask of the Reddeath

by
Al Bruno III

There was a stately manor on the outskirts of River City. It had once hosted parties for the rich and powerful, but no one of consequence had visited in a decade. It had been the birthplace of business ventures and philanthropic endeavors, but the leaders of both had long since stopped paying their visits and respects.

Now it was just a home. The home of an old man, dying and alone.

Rob Raymond was content with that. After all, he had lived an amazing life, full of adventure and excitement. He had always thought he would die young and in a blaze of glory, like so many of his contemporaries, but he had outlived them all.

Rob spent most of his time in his study reading, listening to music, and occasionally sleeping in his favorite chair. When he was hungry—and that was a rare thing now—he would shuffle down to the kitchen, open a can of whatever was handy, and eat it uncooked. There had once been servants to wait on him hand and foot, but Rob had sent them away with generous severance packages and glowing recommendations..

On the last night of his life, Rob wandered through the darkened study wearing his silk pajamas and thick purple bathrobe. For a time he lingered there, his eyes moving from the library to the long-cold fireplace, then to the tasteful paintings and first-edition books. But one of those books wasn't a book at all. He pulled it from the shelf, and the entire bookcase swung around to reveal a wall of mementos.

Rob paused before each one, smiling or frowning in remembrance.

…a black gauntlet festooned with wires and missing a finger.

…a framed newspaper page. The headline CRIME SPREE ENDS IN DEATH hovered above a grainy black-and-white photograph of two dark figures lurching off a rooftop.

…the bronzed skull of a gorilla.

…a wall of medals.

…a green scarf with a drop of blood.

…a framed photograph of old friends gathered around a round table, all but one of them looking at the camera.

Rob lingered over that photograph until finally he took it down and stared long and hard at the long-lost faces. His friends, like his adversaries, were all gone now. His wife had passed away years ago, and his son hadn't spoken to him in years. Rob's adopted daughter tried to keep in touch, but she was always traveling, always busy.

And that was just as well, wasn't it? Would he really have wanted them fussing over him at this stage, trying to make amends for long-forgotten disagreements? What good would that have done? Some things were better left alone.

A loud crash from downstairs and the sound of shuffling footsteps shook him from his thoughts. The manor's long-unused intercom system crackled to life. A voice, resonant and achingly familiar, filled the study.

"You could not wait for death, but I found you. Oh, I found you."

Rob's skin prickled. Something stirred in his gut, a mixture of fear and something else, a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. Then came the laughter, echoing through every room of the house.

The keepsakes and mementos would do him no good now. Rob swung the secret display case back into place and turned on his slippered heel, searching for something to defend himself with. There was nothing, not even a fireplace poker or a half-empty bottle of watered-down brandy.

But he always kept one thing close at hand. A reminder that he had once been something more than what he was now.

Rob pulled the cowl from the pocket of his bathrobe. It was silken and black. He slipped it over his head and felt it settle into place. When he wore it, he could see in the dark and breathe in conditions that would kill a normal man. He still didn't know where the fabric had come from or how it had been created.

With his features hidden, he felt his old confidence returning. The mundane agonies he had endured for so long seemed to fade away.

He was ShadoMask again.

"Are you hiding?" The voice on the intercom said. "Be honest now. You were always a little scared of me, weren't you? No shame in that. I was always a little scared of you."

The door of the study splintered and fell open. Figures shambled inside.

ShadoMask charged, paying little attention to anything beyond the positions of his attackers. They were just shapes to him, obstacles to be overcome. Weakened as he was, every swing of his arm and every sweep of his leg pushed him closer to nausea and exhaustion. The room seemed to tilt sideways around him.

Chuckling echoed through the manor.

"Do you like them? They're hand-picked. I went to so much trouble."

ShadoMask realized that no matter how much force he put behind his punches and kicks, his adversaries remained silent. Impossibly silent.

They weren't even breathing.

Then he began to recognize them.

...there was the American, fourteen years dead from a car crash but still dressed in red, white, and blue.

...the crime lord Dragonfist stood an arm's length away. He had died in the electric chair almost a generation ago, but here he was, blind and stumbling.

...Merlin Man waited just outside the doorway. His gadget-laden top hat was gone, and his costume was in tatters. He reeked of the grave. They all did.

"What have you done?" ShadoMask whispered. Then his voice rose to a shout. "Reddeath! What have you done?"

His old adversary purred at the sound of his name.

"The black scrolls of Nephren-Ka, old friend. I finally managed to liberate them, finally managed to have some real time alone with them. Oh, such marvels I have seen. Such marvels..."

The Reddeath had always been obsessed with the black scrolls of Nephren-Ka. He had committed atrocities in his pursuit of them, but ShadoMask and the other great heroes had stopped him every time.

ShadoMask had been there when the crimson-cloaked menace fell from the gondola of an invisible zeppelin decades ago. At the time, it had seemed like the end of an age. And perhaps it was. Over the following years, more and more of his friends and enemies would disappear from the world. The ideals they had once fought for—freedom, fairness, and the rule of law—would gradually give way to politics, surveillance, and monetization.

Then there was the cancer. It had manifested suddenly, gone into remission twice, only to return again. Rob had found himself withdrawing from the people he loved most, pushing them away rather than allowing them to witness his decline.

"Do you think this is what it's like? To have your life pass before your eyes?"

With a cry of rage, ShadoMask charged through the doorway into the hall, where long-lost friends and enemies crowded around him. They closed in, but he fought back, sending them tumbling down the stairs in groups of three and four.

"I'm right on the doorstep, old friend," the Reddeath called. "Can you reach me? Do you want to reach me?"

ShadoMask had to laugh. "Oh, I'll reach you all right."

But there were so many shapes bearing down on him.

…the Silver Claw, his head drooping at an obscene angle, his pirate suit hanging off his tattered frame. His own henchmen had turned on him after growing tired of his increasingly elaborate nautical-themed crimes.

…the Brat, with his faux schoolboy outfit and wizened expression. He had retired after a long prison sentence, even written a self-published memoir about his life of crime, only to shoot himself in the face when the venture left him bankrupt.

…the teen wonder Arachni-kid, his features forever young, the track marks on his arms hidden beneath his gaudy costume. He had shown so much promise.

…Mr. Nice Guy, whose smiley-face costume seemed even more ludicrous in death. He had been a failure at fighting crime, but his child-safety videos were still shown in schools all across the globe. A heart attack had claimed him while he answered fan mail. Rumor had it he was found with a beatific grin.

…ShadoFace, the would-be dark reflection of ShadoMask. His imitation cowl had been fashioned from an unstable synthetic fabric that eventually burned and disfigured his face. He spent his final years in an asylum.

…Julie was last, still dressed in her funeral finery, still wearing the wedding ring he had stolen from a temple on the moon. The sight of her caused her husband to falter. She attacked, and with cold, clawing hands, tore the cowl from his face.

Rob was weeping as he knocked her aside. She tumbled down the stairs, and he heard the sickening crack of her bones breaking as she disappeared from sight.

The Reddeath was leaning in the doorway. Even in his blood-colored robes and skull mask, he seemed sickly. “Look at us,” he said, “rags and shadows.”

Unlike the horror movie clichés none of the bodies Rob had fought his way past stirred, that part of the game was over. He charged his old adversary, his bathrobe fluttering around him.

Then the pain flared up, not the constant mundane ache of the cancer, but a bolt of cold fire that bloomed out of his chest and ran down one of his arms leaving it numb and useless. He cursed, vowing that it would not end like this.

He forced himself to keep moving towards his enemy.

One step…

Two…

Three…

His legs failed him, and he collapsed at the Reddeath's feet. Rob couldn't catch his breath, and his vision was darkening. The Reddeath loomed over him, his head cocked in curiosity and anticipation.

Rob managed to speak one last time. The words surprised them both.

"Thank you."

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Countdown To The Beginning

By Al Bruno III

0:00

This account is intended for anyone who might unearth this research center. I've configured the computer's audio system to record whenever I speak or make a sound. The hard drive has enough space for thirty-six hours of audio. That should be all I need.

Since Mission Control does not respond, I can only surmise that they, too, have been compromised.

My name is Professor Ray Hengel. I leave our data and this audio journal in the hope that it will somehow aid whoever finds this place.

I am the only remaining member of our research contingent. There were twelve of us at the start: a gathering of forensic specialists, neurologists, biologists, chemists, toxicologists, and a pair of military consultants. We also had twenty-five infected cadavers to work with.

I prefer the term *infected cadaver* to the appellation the media is using: zombie. It brings to mind the stuff of cheap horror films and primitive superstition. If you take nothing else from my chronicle, dear listener, know this: this is a problem that can only be solved by science.

Our assignment was to find some way to stop the walking undead before they swept humanity aside. There were many early successes for our group. We determined that the source of the infected cadaver outbreak was not caused by the wrath of a vengeful God, witchcraft, voodoo, or something equally ludicrous. The source of the outbreak was radiation, radiation carried on the back of a comet, much as fleas carried the plague from one unsuspecting host to another centuries ago.

The tragedy here is that we failed to realize the power of said radiation, the sheer scope of its reconstitutive abilities. Our procedures were as simple as they were methodical. At the beginning of every week, we would pull one of the infected cadavers from cold storage and begin a protracted series of tests. We analyzed everything from their hair to their basal ganglia, and we were beginning to gain some understanding of how the radiation had animated previously lifeless tissue.

I am utterly certain that, had disaster not befallen us, we would have found a way to stop this nightmare from unfolding any further.

No, wait. I have so little time, and I still haven't explained the purpose of this audio record. You see, I was bitten on the right hand, in the fleshy web between the thumb and index finger. The force of the bite was sufficient to fracture the first and second metacarpals. A considerable amount of skin and underlying muscle tissue was torn away in the process. I've kept the wound wrapped in bandages until now. I'm going to unwrap it and examine the damage.
 

Fascinating. The bleeding has ceased, but the tissue surrounding the wound is darkening, almost like an abrasion on the surface of a piece of overripe fruit. I briefly probed the area with a scalpel and discovered a spreading purulence. It resembled pus, although it possessed a peculiar reddish-black coloration.

More troubling was its consistency. The substance was threaded with countless fine, branching filaments, resembling fungal hyphae or the fibrous growth of certain primitive plant organisms. I've never encountered anything quite like it.

Is this how the infection will eventually supplant my central nervous system? I wonder what effect it will have on the higher brain functions.

I wonder.

One of my fellow scientists, a garrulous little man named Wilkins, kept a cache of liquor in his rooms. I think I could use a drink. Several drinks, in fact.

1:59

It appears that I will not be having that drink after all. I suppose this explains my lack of appetite as well.

Mere moments after taking a sip from the box of wine Wilkins kept under his bed, I found myself wracked with nausea. At first, I attributed this loss of self-control to the low-quality swill I had foolishly imbibed, but as my retching metamorphosed into a bout of dry heaves, I began to realize that something far more malignant was at work.

I made my way to the battlefield that had once been our cafeteria and tried to see if I could keep down a pair of crackers and a glass of water. If anything, the resulting illness was even more prolonged and terrible. Just speaking about it makes me want to be sick all over again.

Much like rabies, it appears that the infection causes the sufferer's digestive system to reject all nourishment. I wonder if that is why the affected cadavers must feast upon living flesh.

7:39

 

Woke with a fever. 103, I think. It's hard to tell; my eyes are blurry. I kept dreaming of my loved ones. My wife, my parents, my—

Never mind. Such sentimental drivel doesn't exactly pertain to my thesis, does it?

To the point. Approximately nine hours after contracting the infection, I find myself feverish. There is a slight ringing in my ears, and I am ravenously hungry. The discoloration around the bite has spread down my fingers and up my forearm as far as the heads of the radius and ulna. They resemble dark threads working their way toward my heart.

My father died of a heart attack. I wonder if this will feel similar.

My hand occasionally clenches of its own volition. It's like watching a laboratory rat in its death throes.

 

8:28

 

...stupid, really. We should have realized. We should have taken better precautions.

I pieced together what had happened by reviewing the security tapes. Those two researchers never got the chance to dispose of anything. They were vivisecting one of the infected corpses. They had immobilized it by first strapping it to the table and then amputating its limbs and lower jaw. They extracted the infected cadaver's organs, took samples, and weighed them.

This was not simple sadism at work. We did this to determine whether the various nerve agents we were testing were having any effect at all. Besides, our main concern was testing and studying the infected cadavers' artificially stimulated nervous systems. Those excess tissues merely got in the way.

They threw the discarded tissues into a container. Then, when everything that could be learned about the infected cadaver had been learned, the organs and the still-struggling torso were taken to the incinerator for disposal.

We should have guessed. I should have guessed that the neural matrix created by the alien radiation would not subscribe to the patterns of behavior exhibited by Earthly life forms. This neural matrix was multi-tiered (dare I say, holographic?) in nature. Unfettered by the powerful neurological impulses that ordinarily governed them, the discarded tissues somehow adapted themselves to operate on a fundamentally different level.

Like a planarian worm, which can regenerate an entire organism from a fragment.

And it looked something like a giant worm attacking when the infected cadaver's small intestine looped itself around one of the researchers and dragged him screaming into the fetid trash barrel.

The other researcher then made the mistake of fleeing the room, leaving the door open.

What happened next was like a butcher shop comedy. Somehow, that infected cadaver, or rather what remained of it, managed to free its monstrous kin from cold storage. Whether this was through dumb luck or an intelligence that had previously gone unnoticed, I can't say.

By the time we realized what was going on, we were being overrun.

9:31

 

The ringing in my ears is getting louder. I can't stop sweating. The black lines have spread all the way to my chest. It feels as though there's a fist in there, slowly squeezing my lungs.

My stomach is aching with hunger, but everything I've tried to eat, everything from ice cubes to raw hamburger, refuses to stay down. At this rate, I'll dehydrate before I succumb to the infection itself. Perhaps that's a mercy.

If, by some miracle, Caroline Majors is still alive and a message can be delivered to her, tell her... tell her I was thinking of her.

10:37

 

...Nuh... not want... Nuh... can't... Jesus! Don't want to die... not like this... not like this... Nuh...

18:07

 

It's a miracle! A miracle! No more fever. The discoloration on my hand is fading, and I can move my fingers again. Not as well as I used to, but still. Perhaps the human autoimmune system does have a way to combat the infection. I must see if I can contact the government!

But first, I'm going to record my vital statistics and take a blood sample. Any information I can gather might be useful. The cure could be in my white blood cells, just waiting to be released.

19:07

 

My breathing was nothing more than a reflex action. I let my exuberance get the better of me. It doesn't make any sense! Why am I still here? Why am I still talking?

 

20:18

The fever was bad. Worse than I ever expected. It killed me. You hear me talking, but I'm an infected cadaver now. The brain dies last, like a fish in a tank nobody cleans.

21:02

 

Stabbed me self—No! Myself! Stabbed myself in tummy. Blood, but no pain. I like that. No pain, but still here. Falling apart like... falling apart...

I'm going to get one of the guns off one of the military soldiers that died in the cafeteria. Shot to the head always works... scientifically proven...

22:24

The soldier lying on his back, arms out like Jesus. And Jesus say, "Take and eat; this is my body." So I did. It was cold, and it filled my belly, but then it came out through the holes I made. Maybe that's why I'm still hungry...

26:12

 

...God, why? God, why? God, why?...

 

34:32

...they're huuuuhhh... muh-ore soldiers... huhhhhh... suh-hoon... uhm... stuh-ill in muh muhnd buh-ut I can't stuh-stop! suh huh-ungry... uh-all uh huh-ave luh-ft is thu huh-unger...

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN

SUGAR COATED SACRAMENTS

 In a mad dash for candy, three boys discover that some Halloween horrors are all too real.

 

A MAN CALLED CORPSE

 

Surviving a bus crash was just the beginning for this sole survivor as they race against time to uncover the truth behind the horrifying creatures that caused it.

 

THE MAN THAT ATE NEWBORNS

 

A desperate man takes drastic measures to reclaim his lost love.

 

DAYS OF WINE AND ROSACEA

 

Ethel's addiction takes a dangerous turn.

 

SWEET NOTHINGS

 

A weary traveler confronts the long-forgotten secrets of Room 732.

 

GRAVE ROBBERS FROM OUTER SPACE

 

"...now, for the first time, we are bringing to you the full story of what happened on that fateful day. We are giving you all the evidence, based only on the secret testimonies of the miserable souls who survived this terrifying ordeal: the incidents, the places. My friends, we cannot keep this a secret any longer. Let us punish the guilty. Let us reward the innocent. My friend, can your heart stand the shocking facts about grave robbers from outer space?"

 

 

HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE

A man trapped in the star-cursed town of Jebsen must find a way to escape.

THE EYESTALK KID

Enter the black tent and be lost to world of the Eyestalk Kid.

PRECIOUS MACHINE

 

Step inside the Kaydeross Asylum and discover the chilling truth about Dr. Masters and the mysterious Precious Machine.

 

IN MEMORY ALONE

 

“Are you just going to sulk or do you want to dance?” She stood before him with her hand outstretched and no pity in her eyes...

BEARS REPEATING

 

Derek looked through the front window of his home for a long, confused moment, looked away, and then looked back again. There was a man dressed as a bear standing on the street corner...

A SON'S DUTY

A man must confront his past and take control of his destiny when he is asked to fulfill a lifelong dream.

 

WAITING FOR THE MIRACLE

When Judith's faith and strength are put to the test, she must survive eight days in the Vessel of Transubstantiation.

 

 

 

ARTIFACTS AND HEIRLOOMS

After a smuggling job goes wrong, Mulrooney finds himself hunted through the Everglades by something far more terrifying than he ever imagined.

 

 

IN THE PIT

When Professor Mercer Conrad finds himself trapped in a pit with no way out, he must confront his beliefs and the terrifying truth behind the urban legends surrounding the cloaked figures known as Urban Headhunters or Pilgrims.

 

 

MY LOVE IS VENGEANCE

 

The loss of his son drives a father to seek revenge on a wealthy and powerful family, no matter what the cost.

 

FOOLPROOF

 

An ultimate act of defiance and contempt for the world.

 

LIVING DEAD NERD

 

Being sixteen is hell. Is being dead is worse?

 

BOGGS AND CROAD ARE FRIENDS

 

A wealthy businessman's dinner takes a dark turn forcing the him to make a life or death decision.

 

 

NEIGHBORHOOD TRASH

 

Gabe grows fearful of his new neighbors' unsettling habits in a rundown neighborhood.

A TOUCH OF RED

 

In a world ravaged by a deadly virus, a woman and her husband cope with fear, loneliness, and their crumbling marriage while facing their inevitable fate.

 

ROUGH PATCHES

 

The once deep connection between a beloved pet and her family has been broken, leading to a nightmare of cruelty and revenge.

TOURIST TRAP

 

An abandoned marine park. A world overrun by the dead. A desperate fight for survival.

 

 

 

 

INNOCENT WHEN YOU DREAM

 

A man's struggle with nightmares and sleepwalking turns into a terrifying journey of uncertain reality.

 

ON A FOGGY NIGHT

 

An office worker's routine is disrupted by a strange fog and creeping madness.

 

BURMA SHAVE

 

Two strangers stranded on a deserted road encounter strange happenings along their journey.

 

MURIEL

 

In a fading desert town, a relationship between a middle-aged widow and a young man takes a haunting turn.

 

SOLDIERS THINGS

 

A man unveils the unsettling mystery behind his friend's haunting jungle wallpaper.

 

NOVEMBER

 

Haunted by his past sins, a young man must face a mummified creature driven by love.

 

 

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR

 

L'AMOUR LOOKS SOMETHING LIKE YOU

A middle-aged woman takes a chance on a handsome young valet.

 

 CORPSE WARS

Join two die-hard Star Wars fans as they face their ultimate battle - not against the dark side, but against a zombie apocalypse at the 40th anniversary premiere!

 

 PANTY WRAITH

Brett's broken promise to his dying great aunt turns his world upside down.

 

 WAITING FOR ZACHARY

A man confronts the fading boundaries of memory and love as he navigates the silence of his wife's condition.

 

 AN INVITATION TO DISASTER

A storm shakes Chester’s world, forcing him to confront buried memories and regrets as he reckons with the pieces of his past he can't escape.

 

 ESCAPE FROM PICKMAN'S GROVE

When an elderly woman's friend is captured by shadows emerging from the darkness, salvation arrives in the form of a mysterious stranger driving a customized Monte Carlo..

 

 INFANT TERRIBLE

When the Mad Chef of Schenectady takes the mayor, police chief, and a visiting celebrity hostage, it's up to the Maven to foil her plans and save the day.

 

CON!

ThrillCon 2011: When a crazed fan threatens to ruin the event, it's up to a real superhero and a dedicated fan to save a visiting actress.

 

THE WAY OF THE NINJA

Join the thrilling battle between ninja crimefighter the Psychotic Kid and the notorious Johnny Crawdad in a high-stakes battle for justice and control of River City.

 

 

STORIES IN THE KEY OF LOVECRAFT

THE OCEAN DOESN'T WANT ME

A singles cruise turns into a nightmare when a man wakes up alone and in pain, only to discover a terrifying truth lurking beneath the ocean's surface.

 

TROCHILDAE

A corporate executive ventures into the woods alongside an elderly man, intent on negotiating a land deal, only to uncover its hidden, forbidden secrets.

 

FOUND ON THE LAPTOP OF DOCTOR TODD BOOTH

Lost in the woods, a mysterious house reveals terrifying secrets and a sinister force that stalks its victims in the night.

 

SOUTHERN FRIED SHOKUSHU

A scam artist's get rich scheme goes awry when he purchases a mysterious creature from the internet.

 

FOOD, FOLKS AND FUN

It was the final late-night rush of customers that the closing crew at Burger Clown would ever have to face.

 

FOREVER TILL THE END OF TIME

A divorced man's ex-wife reveals a terrifying discovery that could grant them eternal life at a terrible cost.

 

WHAT ROUGH BEAST

A young primatology professor forms a bond with an experiment gone wrong and faces the consequences of her actions.

MARCIE DID YOU KNOW 

 Marcie's obsession with the unknown leads to her facing the consequences of what she always wanted.

 

 

THE NIGHT BLOGGER The Graveyard Game (and other cemetery plots) Episode Twenty-Three 'The Dance Of The Candle Barons'

 

By Al Bruno III

 

April 2nd: It took us about forty minutes to get from where we had been doing our surveillance to where I had parked. When we reached the edge of the forest, Cousin Roy again held some branches aside for us. I went first and was the first to see my Ford Escort parked off to the side of the road. I was also the first to see the police car parked in front of it, its lights off and the tall, athletic frame of Deputy Regina P. Bannister leaning against the hood. The stars were bright overhead, but they weren’t bright enough to reveal her expression.

“Evening, officer,” Cousin Roy said.

“Oh shit,” Sara whispered.

“We…” The Deputy walked over to her car and opened the back door. “Need to talk.”

As you long-time readers know, this would not be my first time riding in the back of a squad car, but it was my first ride with my Cousin riding beside me. Deputy Bannister told Sara she could sit up front as long as she didn’t ‘act squirrely.’ Sara promised she wouldn’t. And that was the only restraint we endured—no cuffs, no zip ties, just a little gentle parenting. She drove in silence, and I couldn’t help but notice that the radio and other equipment in the squad car were turned off. That was a little worrying, but when I gave a questioning glance to Cousin Roy, he just gave me a smug little wink.

Instead of a police station or a doughnut shop, our thirty-minute car ride brought us to a two-story home with a two-car garage just across the Maryland border. Deputy Bannister pressed the garage door opener clipped to the sun visor and pulled the squad car into the very crowded but organized space set aside for it. She got out of the car and opened the rear doors so my cousin and I could get out. Sara didn’t have to worry about a perp-proofed door, so she was already at my side.

Deputy Bannister pointed at a 1970s-era refrigerator near the steps that led into the house. “My husband’s got it filled with soda, juice, and energy drinks. Help yourself to something.”

“Husband?” Roy said with feigned outrage. “I thought we had something special.”

Everything went into slow motion as she turned back to shoot him a glance of grim mischief.

“I think participation in a criminal conspiracy is pretty special.”

Sara said what I was thinking. “What the Hell is going on?”

Cousin Roy didn’t reply. He was too busy grabbing a pair of Red Bulls. Deputy Bannister held the door open for us.

“Make yourself comfortable in the dining room. I’ll let Ethan know you’re here.”

“Ethan?”

She headed upstairs, unbuckling her gun belt as she did so. The dining room, like the rest of the house, was the very essence of subdued opulence. There was nothing ostentatious at all, but there was also not a damn thing that could have come from a Bob’s Discount Furniture or a family member clearing out their garage.

The overhead lighting fixture was an elegant joining of rectangles. The tablecloth looked to be plain white, but when you looked more closely, there was a pattern of interconnected butterflies along the edges.

Then there was the two-foot-tall bronze statue on the credenza. It depicted Medusa with a sword in one hand, and the head of what I assumed was Perseus in the other. Her body was nude, slender, and athletic, the snakes on her head relaxed against her scalp instead of writhing, and her face held the calm expression of the “Well, who’s next?” variety.

Sara and I sat on one side of the table, Cousin Roy on the other. The chairs were wide and comfortable.

“Roy?” I said. “What in the flying fuck have you gotten us into?”

He opened the first Red Bull and drained it with a series of gulps. “I’m working the case.”

“By skipping the frying pan and going straight into the fire?”

“Man, you got a real blind spot when it comes to cops,” Roy said.

Sara nodded and took my hand. “He’s kind of right.”

Indignant didn’t even begin to describe my reaction. “Nine times out of ten, law enforcement is part of the problem. They are tools of the powers that be.”

My cousin shrugged. “The powers that be keep the lights on and the trains running on time.”

Sara frowned. “That is not the clever retort you think it is.”

“Good morning, everyone.” A Black man walked into the dining room. He was short and bespectacled, with frizzy hair. He wore a bathrobe and pajamas, but no slippers, just dirty socks. He had a thick manila folder in his hand.

“I’m Ethan Hannigan.”

Cousin Roy opened his second Red Bull. “How could you not be?”

“You have a lovely home,” Sara said.

Ethan said, “We’re pretty blessed.”

I am very proud that I didn’t say anything about bribes or asset forfeiture. I just crossed my arms and asked, “What’s in the folder?”

“The truth,” Ethan said. “Or at least as close to the truth as we have been able to figure out.”

“Are you a cop too?” I asked.

“Oh, hell no!” He chuckled. “I’m a day trader, but after what happened, I’ve been trying to help Reggie.”

“Reggie,” Cousin Roy snorted. “I guess I know who wears the pants in this family.”

Ethan just smirked. “She said you were a pistol.”

“You two been married long?” Sara asked.

“We hit our five-year anniversary in August.” He smiled and set the folder down. “How long have you two been together?”

“A little over a month.” Sara looked at me and smiled. How could I not smile back?

He paused in going through the papers. “A month, huh? I asked Reggie to marry me after about a month.”

“What you got in that folder there?” Cousin Roy asked. “Your prenup?”

Ethan looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Prenups are for wimps.”

“Damn straight,” Sara said.

“What I’ve got here is everything we know about Bayard Estates. Reggie and I think it would be good to share information.”

“Wait a minute,” I turned to my cousin. “You managed to find the two people conducting a parallel investigation in town, managed to get arrested by one of them, and still managed to get them to help us?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his fingers behind his head. “Not bad for the family fuckup.”

“The arrest was a cover story.” Regina entered the room. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. It was obvious she had just taken a shower of the quick and efficient military variety. She walked past her husband, tracing an affectionate fingertip along his back before taking a seat at the table. “This way, whatever extrajudicial things we do in pursuit of this thing won’t come back to ruin our lives.”

I said, “And by ruin our lives, you mean your lives.”

Ethan and Regina exchanged a glance and then nodded.

“Well, okay then,” I said.

Cousin Roy said, “So day three of me traipsing about the woods spying on the place, she finds me.”

“I was aware of you way before that,” Regina said. “You aren’t inconspicuous.”

“Thank you. So she asks me what the Hell I am doing, and I spilled the beans.”

“And by that,” I said frostily, “you mean my beans.”

“Whatever. Listen, she and her sweetie pookie have a lot of information here, serious stuff.”

“Yes,” Ethan said, “and if the pookie can get us back on track, I will let you know what we know.”

It was an impressive presentation, with printouts, timelines, and eventually some homemade snacks.

The story began two years before Stan Russel’s arrival in Bridgeville. It was 2004, and a storefront opened in a dying strip mall on the east side of town. It was called Price Smart, and at first glance it looked like your average dollar store, but it sold nothing but Emblazon Unlimited products.

On paper, the owner of the store was a man named Rhett Vane, but in the three years the store was open, no one ever saw the man. The store was staffed by a seemingly never-ending stream of cute girls from out of town, and they seemed to rotate out every few weeks. No one ever knew where they lived, but they certainly made themselves a prominent part of the town’s nightlife, and they were a flirty bunch. Age and gender did not matter, but according to the many disappointed paramours, those girls were far more interested in making sure those nights ended with a new independent distributor on Emblazon Unlimited’s roster.

“She says they got a few suckers, too.” Cousin Roy couldn’t help commenting. “A great man once said that a guy will do anything as long as he thinks it’s foreplay.”

Regina said with a disapproving glare, “Actually, that was Susan Sarandon in the movie Bull Durham.”

“Never saw it.”

“Once Stan Russel arrived in town, the Price Smart started shutting down,” Ethan explained. “Not in an obvious going-out-of-business-sign-on-the-door way, but the stock on the shelves started dwindling, never to be replaced. And the hours it was open became pretty random.”

And the other thing that started dwindling was the parade of hotties that populated the store. Instead, it was now staffed by a pair of pale-skinned, gothy women who attached far more importance to black eyeliner and lipstick than they did to engaging with customers in any way. The women that everyone around town called ‘the Porcelain Twins.’ While that was going on, Stan Russel had begun making his moves on Bayard Estates, and by 2009, all the old residents had either moved out or died.

“Meanwhile,” Regina finally entered the conversation, “that damn MLM had its hooks in some people. They drained their savings buying products and taking courses. Realistically, it wasn’t that many people, but it seemed like every friend group had one person desperately trying to sell them off-brand Scrub Daddies and Beef Whips.”

“The secret ingredient is bull penises,” Cousin Roy chipped in.

“Then how is it a secret?” Sara commented.

Ethan pointed at her. “Well said.”

Regina cleared her throat in a way that was more of a warning than a request for a beverage. She went on to explain that slowly but surely, these independent distributors found themselves going further and further into debt. Their increasing desperation drove family and friends away, cost them their day jobs, and eventually left them facing foreclosures and evictions.

This was about the time Regina entered the picture. She was a freshly minted deputy, and she suddenly found herself having to help toss out members of a community she was just trying to become a trusted member of. But all was not lost, or perhaps it was, because a substantial number of these newly homeless independent contractors were given a bunch of newly renovated manufactured homes to live in at Bayard Estates, thanks to the generosity of its new owner, Stan “the Man” Russel.

“Except he wasn’t being all that generous,” Ethan said. “Because those folks, and a bunch of out-of-towners that seemed to have had similar stories, were pretty much indentured servants for Emblazon Unlimited. They had a roof over their head, cable TV, and food, but they were working for Stan in whatever way he wanted them to, and for however long he wanted them to.”

Cousin Roy dropped his voice to a baritone and sang, “I sold my soul to the company store…”

“Funny you should mention that,” Regina said.

“Yeah,” Ethan nodded, “because around 2010 or so somebody starts buying up all kinds of stuff at the local hardware store—bags of concrete, all kinds of lengths of PVC, sump pumps, flexible ducting, masonry anchors and security lights. Everything you would need to build a series of tunnels under a manufactured home community.”

“But,” Regina interrupted, “it wasn’t Stan’s LLC that did the buying. It was all done via a trust in the name of Luther Nord.”

“Luther Nord…” Sara said, “Isn’t he Rhett Vane’s lawyer?”

“Exactly.”

I made a mental note of that, and I also made a mental note that we may be dealing with a supervillain group called the League of Extraordinarily Funny-Named Gentlemen. “We are all assuming that they are building tunnels. For all we know, they are just adding some basements.”

“Dude, there are no sex dungeons in trailer parks.” Cousin Roy gave me a disparaging look. “I would know.”

Ethan grinned. “I just met the guy, but I bet he would. Thing is, though, we have proof they are digging tunnels.”

“Two years ago, a woman by the name of Daphne Mason showed up with the dirt-covered body of a man called… a man called…” Regina floundered until Ethan handed her a piece of paper. “Bill Smith. He was not in good shape, sweating, pale-skinned, and delirious. The triage nurse said it looked like sepsis, but before she could even finish getting his vitals, he coded right there.”

Regina went on to explain that Daphne was hysterical and desperate. The hospital staff did what they could, but he was too far gone for them to save him. In fact, the on-call doctor said it was a miracle Bill Smith had lived long enough to get there.

Later, a forensic investigation would show he died from an infected series of what appeared to be lamprey attachment wounds. This, aside from being disgusting, was also slightly impossible because you’d have a better chance of finding Chicago-style pizza in Bridgeville, Delaware, than a sizable lamprey population. And besides that, the species of lampreys you can find in Delaware are barely parasitic.

But Regina didn’t know any of this when she was dispatched to take a statement from Daphne. Since she had never seen Daphne before, Regina immediately realized she must be one of the new residents of Bayard Estates, not that Daphne wanted to give much information about anything at first. She was evasive and distrustful, and strange buzzwords kept slipping into her vocabulary. She talked about Bill Smith disrupting internal synergies by improperly managing proprietary data. And that he hadn’t been the same since he gained multi-level access to upper management while pursuing completion of the central presentation chamber and the greater egress. None of it made sense.

“Then she mentioned her son,” Regina said.

“She mentioned him last.” Sara’s voice became grim. “That says a lot.”

Ethan nodded. “The kid’s name was Zane, and there was no record of him being enrolled in any local schools.”

“Homeschooling,” I said. “The last refuge of loonies and cultists.”

“And Aunt Peg,” Cousin Roy added.

“And Aunt Peg.”

Regina went on, “That changed everything. Where was this kid? Was he still buried alive someplace? I started leaning on her.”

I assume it didn’t take Regina long to break Daphne, because the training and brainwashing regimen of Emblazon Unlimited had left her will just weak enough to succumb to a mild browbeating from the local PD. Everything started moving pretty quickly. Regina got her supervisors and Child Protective Services involved, but before they could arrive, Stan Russel reared his meaty head.

He said that Daphne was a disgruntled employee who had stolen a company car and “fled the campus” with the body of a co-worker who had died in a tragic gardening accident. I am not sure which part of that statement was more ridiculous, but equating a trailer park with a corporate campus is right up there.

“He gave a statement, which meant we had to take Daphne Mason into custody,” Regina explained, “but I was fine with that. No one trusted Mr. Russel, and after all, Bill Smith’s DMV records showed he was a resident of Bayard Estates. As far as I was concerned, Daphne Mason was a material witness.”

“It was a complicated situation,” Ethan said.

Regina flashed him a small smile, then said, “And then the press got involved…”

###

The Statement of Deputy Regina Bannister

It was nine PM, September 10th, 2012. I was parked about a mile from U.S. 13, just far enough away from it that a driver had a good, honest chance to slow down before hitting town. I’d already given two warnings and a ticket for an expired registration, so I figured I might as well do it now, before the high-end surveillance systems get installed in our cars and we won’t even be able to sneeze without it going onto a report somewhere.

I’m half listening to the radio chatter and trying to figure out a way to one-up Ethan’s anniversary present this year. I got him a gold fob watch, and he got us a ten-day cruise to Alaska. I don’t know how it works for other couples, but our relationship has become this kind of arms race of gifts over the years. I was honestly thinking of asking him if we could just write poems to each other or go camping.

Everything changed when I got the call, a 911 hang-up. The dispatcher had heard screaming and what sounded like a struggle before the line went dead at 841 Jonkers Street. I knew that house. It belonged to Joan Scanlon.

Joan Scanlon was a well-known local reporter. She had been working for the Milford Chronicle for over a decade, and she had covered some of the biggest scandals and crimes in Sussex County. Thanks to her, a number of politicians lost their jobs, some local businesses ended up having to pay massive settlements, and more than a few shady cops ended up in hot water.

She had brass balls.

And she showed up at the hospital the night Daphne Mason brought in Bill Smith. She had been investigating Stan Russel’s impact on the town for over three years. Just like everyone else, she knew something was wrong; she just didn’t know exactly what that was.

That was until Bill Smith became her informant. A few months ago, he had found himself realizing that he was in what was, for all intents and purposes, a cult. He had been okay with working more than twelve hours a day for Stanley Russel, first as a telemarketer and then later on lurking on every social media platform imaginable and turning every conversation he could into a chance to extol the virtues of Emblazon Unlimited. He was even okay with it when he and all the other residents of Bayard Estates and their families were strong-armed into engaging in acts of unlicensed tunnel construction running beneath each of the mobile homes and also having a single quarter-mile passage that came out in the nearby woods that your Cousin Roy nearly blundered across twice.


Then Rhett Vane became a presence in their lives. He had been living there all along in seclusion, only ever being visited by the Porcelain Twins, who, despite their heavy makeup and wigs, Joan was able to identify as Delphine Cotton and Mary Ann Topping. The first was a bunko artist, and the other had been twice charged and twice found innocent by a jury of murdering her first and third husbands.

But, as I said, once the tunnels were ninety percent complete, he began moving through them, offering suggestions and making introductions. He privately oversaw the installation of a large black door on one side of the tunnel complex, affixed to what should have been nothing but a solid wall.

Once that happened, Bill Smith said everything became strange and frightening—strange visitors and deliveries at all hours of the night, out-of-tune music coming up from somewhere in the tunnels an hour before sunrise.

And the animal bites. Circular wounds about six inches in diameter. Everyone began getting them, but no one remembered when or how.

Stan Russel told everyone it was just rats and to keep working and not ask questions.

Most of them didn’t.

And that was why Bill Smith reached out to Joan Scanlon. He knew about her regular articles about Bayard Estates. She had spoken out about many of the good people being chased out and the litigious nature of Stan Russel and his LLC.

Enough about that. Let me get back to 841 Jonkers Street. I was the first one there, and I found not just the house dark but the whole street. I radioed in to report a probable power outage, but all I got back was a faint voice I could barely make out. I chalked it up to radio interference of some kind, got out of my vehicle, Maglite in one hand and my firearm in the other. That was my nerves getting the better of me because once I reached the front door of the house, I had to fumble my Maglite into my armpit to jiggle the door handle. It was unlocked. I opened it, returned the Maglite to my left hand, and announced myself before entering.

The interior of the home was the ugliest kind of disarray: toppled furniture, broken mirrors, and silverware strewn about. The kind of thing I associate with the end stages of a long series of domestic violence calls. But Joan Scanlon was a lifelong bachelorette. My radio blared static randomly. I announced myself again.

Normally in situations like this, my training kicks in, rote discipline taking over for conscious thought. A checklist of protocols that equals survival. But now the hairs on the back of my neck were going up. I looked down to see that a small bare foot had stepped through a puddle of half-dried blood and left a trail up the stairs.

I followed it. What else was I supposed to do?

Using the beam of my Maglite, I followed the footprints up the stairs and down the hall. To the right, I caught a whiff of something both sweet and scorched. There was more blood. I slowed my pace as I reached the open door of the master bedroom. I pressed myself against one of the walls and slowly made my way to the edge of the door.

In the military, clearing a house was a group effort, but backup was miles and minutes away. I don’t ever think I’d felt so alone before. For a little while, I considered my next move. I decided to be brave.

“Sheriff’s Deputy! If anyone is inside, make yourself known!”

There was a long pause. The voice that answered me was familiar, but it somehow sounded decades older. It was Daphne Mason. After much legal wrangling, she and her child had been released into Joan Scanlon’s custody. As I said, the woman had brass balls. She had replaced one informant with a member of Stan Russel’s inner circle and kept that informant close at hand.

“What took you so long?” Daphne Mason said.

“Show yourself!” I ordered.

“Come here where I can see you.”

Disregarding everything I knew, I stepped into the doorway. If Daphne Mason had been armed, I would have been directly in her line of fire. Whatever orders I had ready to shout next became a ragged gasp. My vision was overwhelmed by the sight of a woman kneeling beside the bodies of Joan Scanlon and Zane Mason. They were propped up in a sitting position against the wall. There was blood and kitchen utensils all around them. The tops of the woman’s and the child’s heads had been hacked away. Everything above the nose was gone, everything. There was a single emergency candle in the center of the wound, the flame flickering and casting ugly shadows.

There was no stopping what happened next. I pitched forward at the waist and emptied the contents of my stomach down the front of my uniform and all over my shoes.

“She didn’t believe me,” Daphne Mason said. “I tried to explain that it wasn’t money laundering or organized crime. I told her about the Mire of Nix and the Great Machine. The Zoogs and the Egregores. Gorgo, Mormo and the Thousand-Faced Moon. And the Candle Barons, the Candle Barons most of all.”

Nothing she said made sense to me. All I knew was that two people were mutilated and a madwoman was speaking nonsense. I straightened up, my body wet with my own sick. I’d dropped my Maglite, but I didn’t know when. It had rolled away and was facing the far wall, so I had to aim my firearm by the sputtering candlelight.

“Lie down on the ground.” I meant to shout it, but all that came out was a whisper.

She picked up one of the knives. It was caked with gore. “The others are selfish; they want to keep it a secret like their books and statues. They don’t want anyone else to know dreams really do come true. I want the world to know. The whole world.”

“Put the knife down!” Now I was shouting. “Put it down and lie face first on the floor!”

“So I showed her with Zane.” She stood. “The Dance of the Candle Barons. There should have been seven, but he danced. Oh, how he danced.”

“Drop the knife!” I was screaming now. “Drop the fucking knife and get on the ground!”

“And when she saw, she understood. She begged me to… she begged me to…”

Daphne Mason seemed to lose track of her thoughts. There was a long, dangerous pause, then she said, “She had to see, she had to know.”

“Drop! The! Knife!”

But she didn’t drop the knife. She raised it up with a sure and steady hand. She said, “A dream is a wish your heart makes.”

And cut her own throat from ear to ear.

Her expression was joyous expectation. It reminded me of the expression on Ethan’s face when he handed me those two cruise tickets.

Again, my training kicked in. I put my firearm back in the holster and moved to save her. As an MP, I had seen a few suicides, usually the bullet-to-the-brain variety, and once it was a drill sergeant in front of his own trainees.

Just like those other times, I knew there was no saving Daphne Mason, but you still have to try. I swatted the knife away and began attempting to apply pressure to the wound while at the same time trying to keep the airway open. And I was doing this all with one hand while trying to raise dispatch on my radio with the other. Warm, wet redness seeped between my fingers. It was on my knees where I had knelt down, too. God, I was a mess, puke and blood everywhere.

The sound she made was this gurgling, increasing in intensity with every rise and fall of her chest. It rose and fell ten times before a final drowning gurgle escaped from the wound in her neck, and she was still.

I fell back into a sitting position, more blood on the bottom half of my uniform. I thought of how it would have to be taken into evidence when the forensics team got here, and I would never see it again. I was glad for that.

I thought about how I wanted nothing more than to go to Bayard Estates, drag Stanley Russel out of his fancy trailer, and beat him until he told me what the Hell was going on and then beat him some more.

The next part, the next part of all this, isn’t in the report, and I didn’t mention it to the department’s critical incident counselors or the Sheriff. I only told Ethan because I knew he would believe me.

But I know you three will believe me too.

As I sat there trying not to go mad and listening to my radio spit useless static, I started to hear music. It was a broken, melodic sound like a child’s music box that was winding down or needing repairs. My skin felt a swampy sensation- that’s the only thing I could call it- and I had that vertigo you sometimes get just as you’re about to fall asleep. Except I wasn’t falling asleep. If anything, I felt like I was falling awake.

The music seemed to shift around me, then I saw a sudden movement to my side. I spun around, my firearm back in my hand before I could register it.

The half-headed bodies of Joan Scanlon and Zane Mason were moving, limbs jerking in time to the music and lips smacking as though they were trying to speak. I watched, unable to comprehend what I was seeing, as the flickering flames of the candles embedded in the ruined remnants of their skulls brightened and discolored.

They were trying to stand…

###

Regina Bannister’s voice trailed off after that. I recognized the look in her eyes; Sara and I have it too. Cousin Roy and Ethan Hannigan, not so much. And speaking of Ethan, he started talking, picking up where she left off. He told us about the late-night call informing him that his wife was in the hospital. Not the ER, though; she was on one of the upper floors, the one reserved for people that had experienced a break with reality.

You know what I say about that? You either have a break with reality or reality breaks you.

“Sheriff Aparo told me they found her two miles from the crime scene,” Ethan explained. His eyes were fixed on his wife as she stared down at the dining room table. He continued, “She was easy to find, she had been shedding her uniform as she went, she was barefoot and in her underwear but she still had her gun in her hand. She was pretty incoherent and maybe that was just as well because when she started telling people what she saw…”

“But you believed her right away, didn’t you?” Sara said.

“She didn’t tell me what happened until days later. Not until I had gotten her out of there and let her recover,” Ethan said. “But when she told me I believed her. I never doubted her for a second. The only thing she’s ever lied about was my taste in ties.”

Regina laughed, a single happy expulsion of breath, but she still didn’t look up.

There was something about Regina’s story that triggered a memory from Ethan’s childhood. One of his favorite things had been the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! newspaper cartoon. A particular write-up and its accompanying art had really stuck with him. It was about the Lighthouse Man of Chungking, China.

A 1941 account described a man who supposedly had a candle stuck into a hole in the top of his skull. Every night he would walk the streets of his home city and, for a small fee, help lost travelers by lighting the way in his own very unique style.

Was this a real thing? Well, the comic strip was called Believe It or Not, but that memory was enough to set Ethan off on an Internet scavenger hunt.

What do you find when you search for ‘the Dance of the Candle Barons?’

Nothing at first. But then he made contact with an Italian textual critic specializing in Renaissance-era manuscripts, who shared with him a manuscript called Chorea Baronum Candelarum. The author of the text was unknown, but there was a working theory that it had been written by the greatest fan fiction writer of all time, Durante di Alighiero degli Alighieri.

Yeah, that Dante.

No one went to Hell in this particular story, but in it the unnamed narrator is taken on a journey by a strange man named Zurama, who is described as skeletal, with leathery flesh and a ‘tortoise-like’ smile. 

Not sure if it is that Zurama but damn did I flinch when I heard the name.

As punishment for a perceived blasphemy Zurama forces Dante to accompany to reclaim two students from a place called the Palus Nix. They traveled through a door made of black stone into a starless swamp littered ruins of cities and automata with enormous gears until they reached a ‘Sallow colored cottage’. The door was locked but Zurama had a key.

Inside were what the text described as “…eunuchi vultibus instar laternarum et corporibus ex sevo,” which, if I may translate for those of you with a useful college degree, means “…androgynous beings with bodies like wax and faces made of flame.”

There were seven of them, all seated on tall chairs, arguing with each other in a language Dante did not recognize but which sickened him. On the floor at the base of those tall chairs were Zurama’s students, a young boy and girl, twins. They had slit each other’s throats.

Outraged, Zurama began to shout at the strange figures, his voice slipping into their language with ease. One of the strange figures said something in response, and Zurama nodded with satisfaction.

Then Zurama turned to Dante and ordered him to sing. At first Dante didn’t understand, but when he finally did, he refused. Then Zurama did something terrible, something so terrible that Dante refuses to elaborate, but he did sing.

As soon as the first words of the hymn, ‘We praise you, God,’ left his lips, the dead twins began to get to their feet and began to dance in a way that reminded Dante of the movement of insects.

“Sounds like a Candle Baron dance to me,” Ethan said.

Cousin Roy smirked. “Sounds like Dante was on some good shit.”

Regina looked up at him, her expression becoming dangerous. “Is that what you think? That I was high?”

“Oh no.” Cousin Roy reached across the table and gave her hand a quick, gentle squeeze. “No. Don’t think that. I’m just an asshole.”

Sara nodded. “It is kind of on brand for him.”

Ethan put his arm around Regina. “Let’s just chalk it up to his roguish charm.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. We all looked at each other, but no one said anything. Still, though, it didn’t seem like our meeting was over.

“Brian,” Sara said, “you’re awfully quiet.”

Another long pause, then I said, “Sara, I already told you about Zurama. He’s either some kind of… thing that’s hundreds of years old, or it’s just a name creepy old mystics take to enhance their reputations.”

That surprised Ethan. “He’s a real thing?”

“I’ve never seen him myself. I’ve just come across what he left behind a thing or three, but that’s not the only familiar thing you told me about.” I held up my phone. “The Mire of Nix. The Great Machine. The Ruins of Creation. The Black Door. I know it all.”

“How?” Regina Bannister asked. She looked hopeful and frightened. After all, I was proving she wasn’t crazy, but that also meant there really were Giants in the Earth, that this wasn’t all some big Scooby-Doo-style misadventure, and that it was all the work of cruel millionaires with a Spirit Halloween fetish.

Ethan said, “I think we need to hear about this.”

“We all need to hear this,” Sara said.

“You’re right, but if we are going to keep going, we are also gonna need some coffee,” Cousin Roy said, “…and sandwiches.”