Temporary Insanity · Lottery President · Operation Detour · Last Train Out · Another Way · The Lazy Pug Café · Dub's Dilemma

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On Tour

Dobie Pokorny was on tour in support of his manifesto, Another Way: Beyond the Status Quo, an anti-corporate diatribe born of a lifetime of people-watching and corporate employment. He never had a career. Just employment. One job after the other, never quite fitting in anywhere. Never believing in the company he worked for.

The manifesto was something he believed in completely. Spouting off for a living was his new career, in spite of those who did not like his message or its messenger.

Driving north from Tennessee, he took a hard left, southwesterly, after escaping an angry mob in Indianapolis. With further stops in Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma and Texas, crowds grew larger and more receptive with each passing week.

Word was spreading. Well into his tour, he was filling up those previously half-empty hotel conference rooms, even the occasional small concert venue, as he shared his plans to save the world.

After that rough start, he was finally doing what he wanted, staying sober, and saying what needed to be said. Selling more books online, in stores, and in person now, he felt he was winning the war against those who would shut him up.

He was a reluctant hero, though. Nobody’s savior. He said so repeatedly, and refused to pretend otherwise. Several seminar attendees suggested he take himself more seriously. Act like a proper leader, they said.

To them, he said, "The fatal flaw of most would-be saviors is to take themselves too seriously. Take your principles, intuition and beliefs seriously, sure. Not yourself. This isn't about me, it's about getting people to think for themselves. Stop being followers! I'm the leader who doesn’t want followers. We all need to be responsible individuals!"

He knew he had no business giving lectures and solving the world's problems, but the world had gone crazy and nobody seemed to be doing anything about it. Nobody he trusted to get it right, anyway. Someone had to inject some no-longer-common sense and decency into the conversation. Why not him?

He hated corporations, especially those bent on convincing people to buy things they don't need. Before being fired from his last job and starting this tour, he had put copies of his magnum opus in strategic locations around the office. He wanted his co-workers to read it, like it, tell their friends, with everyone buying a copy. He likened his approach to Johnny Appleseed. It was the closest thing to marketing that he would allow himself. The process had to be organic.

The book laid out who and/or what was running things on this planet. He tried to focus on the who over the what, but there were times he had to wonder if there was not something out there, unseen, manipulating things.

There was nothing much new in his book for anyone well-versed in the prevailing conspiracy theories – international banker scams, staged “false flag" terror attacks, CIA/military drug-running and mind-control, etc. – but Another Way had solutions. From better toilet seat design to new forms of government and everything in between – assuming there was an in-between – he had some real answers.

"Best of all," he liked to say, "none of my solutions require anyone's assassination!"

Another Way started as an assignment for an online creative writing course his singer-songwriter girlfriend at the time suggested. Dobie personally considered fiction to be the fine art of never getting to the point, but when the instructor implored his students to "write your manifesto," Dobie was all in. He wrote down pretty much everything he had ever heard, read or thought about life, politics or religion. Several hundred pages of everything you're not supposed to talk about in polite company. He never knew he had so many ideas waiting to get out, so much pent-up frustration.

It was also a great way to stop drinking, which came as a surprise. Putting into words what had only been nebulous thoughts up to that point gave him the same sense of calm and comfort he once derived from alcohol. He didn't know if this was true for anyone else, but it worked for him. The need for mental clarity while writing it all down put an unexpected end to his excessive boozing.

It was a Eureka! moment. Who knew? Alcoholics Anonymous probably already knew, but he'd never been to a meeting.

He was so proud of himself and his work that he kept some of the best ideas out of the version he turned in for course credit. Some of the details had to be kept secret. He didn't want to show his hand to the powers-that-be. Didn't want anyone stealing his ideas before he could get it published and be given proper credit.

Reading other famous manifestos for research prior to writing his own, he found The Communist Manifesto completely unreadable. Marx and Engels could have used a writing course. Mein Kampf was better-written, but they both had at least one fatal flaw: they blamed others for their problems, promoting an "us versus them" mentality. Not just politicians, but some of the world’s “great” religions rely on and promote that mentality.

Dobie firmly believed there was no "them." It was just us, no matter how hard that was to believe sometimes.

When faced with fight or flight, love or hate, truth or lie, he always tried to choose the former over the latter, but he was no saint, and it was not easy. Thinking big picture, he hoped his own work might spark a revolution of responsible, peaceful coexistence with all of God's creatures. He just had to focus on the goal, not the obstacles.

He made a mental note to sing Revolution by The Beatles next time he did karaoke, and maybe that song Big Yellow Taxi with the line, Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone?

His parents' favorite songs from his childhood were coming back to him now.

Several Months Prior

Dobie was having lunch with co-worker and occasional girlfriend, Martha. They sat at a round, metal mesh table in the shared courtyard surrounded by several office buildings.

Dobie's best friend Bucky worked in one of those buildings and now joined them. An inch taller than Dobie, but with a much lighter, bird-like frame, Bucky's brown hair was a shade darker and kept longer than Dobie's. To stand the two side by side, most people would guess Dobie was the more straight-laced, corporate type, but the opposite was true.

Bucky was holding up an advance copy of Dobie's book, asking, "What the hell is this?"

"My manifesto," Dobie replied, as if everyone writes one. "See?" he smiled, reached out and touched the book, "Right here on the cover underneath the title, it says 'A Manifesto.'"

"Well, it sucks!"

"To each his own," Dobie was offended but prepared for such comments.

"Put in some jokes!" Bucky suggested.

"Jokes are easy," Dobie scoffed. "This book is too important. Who knows? It might even save the world."

Martha raised an eyebrow.

"Now that's funny," Bucky laughed, "but you need to get over yourself."

Dobie turned to Martha to see her reaction. She had her curly, light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her brown eyes were smiling as she nodded, agreeing with Bucky.

Dobie leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, elbows out, and spoke with the most sage and wise look he could muster. "'Only in his hometown and in his own house is a prophet without honor.'"

"That sounds familiar," Bucky looked off into the distance, where people keep their slightly familiar quotes and just-out-of-reach thoughts.

"It's from the Bible," Martha said. "Book of Mark, if I'm not mistaken."

Dobie nodded. He wasn't sure, either, but that sounded right.

"Wow," Bucky was shocked. "You've changed, man."

"No, I haven't," Dobie argued, bringing his hands down and grabbing the arm rests on his chair. "I'm just saying out loud what has always been in my head. And, I like to give credit where credit is due. I always thought Jesus was cool. Buddha and Zoroaster, too. It's organized religion that I have a problem with. Anything hierarchical, really, with permanent – or even semi-permanent – leadership. Every organization ever created needs term limits!

"I agree there are right and wrong, healthy and unhealthy ways to live our lives. I don't subscribe to this ‘anything goes’ attitude promoted by pop culture. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah?

"But, we have to remember to hate the sin, not the sinner." He gave a nod to Martha, who first said the same to him. She smiled as he continued, "I hate self-righteousness, though – especially my own – and I don't go around thinking I'm the smartest guy in the room. Definitely not the holiest. I'm okay thinking I'm one of the stupidest, actually, until proven otherwise.

"I'm just trying to be helpful, but I'm not a fan of taking someone else's word as gospel. I mean, just because somebody said something two or three thousand years ago, what makes their judgment and conclusions any better than mine? Not a fan of worship, either, unless you're worshiping health, hope, consideration, decency and life itself."

Dobie noticed several people looking up from their lunches to hear what he had to say. Some were nodding, others were shaking their heads.

"There was a time," Bucky was one of those shaking his head, "when you woulda just said, 'Whatever, dude,' and not given me a lecture."

"I guess so," Dobie had to laugh. "Too much?"

"A little bit, yeah."

Dobie agreed he needed to get over himself, but would continue speaking his mind.

Late Spring

Air Force Colonel Reginald P. Charonne, Retired, was now CEO of SaynCorp, where Dobie and Martha worked. The Colonel was almost never at the office, preferring the cooler climes of northern Michigan over the oppressive heat of The South.

He took meetings online, from afar, typically, but someone in his employ had referred to him as a Neanderthal, and he would not tolerate insults.

The entire office was bugged, and the transcripts were sent to him regularly. After reading the latest and watching the original video, he bellowed at his administrative assistant, Crissie, an attractive young blonde woman, "Someone's about to get fired!"

Most people would have shrugged it off. A corporate executive needs a thick skin, but the Colonel never developed one. He was furious.

They arrived at the office a few hours later on the Colonel's private jet. Crissie went straight to her desk in the executive suite while Charonne took the scenic route through the break room where the recorded offense had taken place.

He saw Dobie's book on the counter. The word manifesto – in red – jumped out at him as he passed, and he picked it up and carried it with him.

Crissie was at her desk in the anteroom in front of his office when Charonne caught up with her. "Call Norwich into my office," he said while thumbing through the letters, bills and adverts from the previous several days’ mail. "Tell him it’s urgent. This should be fun!"

It was not urgent. It was almost never urgent, but standard procedure was to pretend otherwise. Also standard was to have all employees wait exactly seven minutes in the waiting room before being called into Charonne’s office. He had done his own studies – considered himself a bit of a sociologist – and found 7 minutes to be the perfect length of time for putting underlings properly on edge. Crissie was made aware of this and, exactly seven minutes after his arrival, HR Director Kenneth was sent in to see the boss.

The Colonel was a speed reader and had scanned Dobie's book in just over an hour. He had to admit Dobie had a few good ideas, but nothing practical or even possible in the real world. Still, he thought people might be dumb enough to fall for it, and he needed to do like Barney Fife and nip this in the bud.

He would make it his top priority. The business was chugging along nicely under its own momentum now, so he had the time.

Charonne thought of himself as a modern day Clark Gable, and liked to smile at himself in the mirror every chance he got. There was a very slight resemblance. He might pass for a homelier grandson. More importantly, he was a brilliant businessman, charming when necessary, and so driven that even his friends found him difficult to deal with. People tended to just say "yes, sir" and get out of his way.

He was smiling at himself in the mirror on the wall, from which he could see the trashcan next to one of his office side tables behind him. With Dobie's manifesto in hand, waiting for the sound of his office door opening, Charonne tossed it over his shoulder toward the receptacle. It was in the air as Norwich entered.

Dobie would have been happy to know his book was flying across at least one corporate executive's office, but Norwich was terrified. He was relatively new on the job, and had only met the Colonel a few times. It was scary every time, and this time there was something flying across the room.

Charonne turned to admire his own stunt. "Three-pointer behind the back!" he squealed as the book landed squarely in the trashcan. He then shifted gears mentally, as was his wont. Referring to Dobie's manifesto, he asked Norwich in his deep, resonant, yet somehow still nasal voice, "What is the point in discussing impossible theories?"

Norwich had no idea what the man was talking about. His initial fear had exploded into full-on terror as he came through the door. He looked for something to hold onto or lean on, and nearly crapped his pants when he came face-to-face with a glassy-eyed black bear to his left, baring its fangs. He instinctively raised his arms to protect himself before realizing the poor beast was long-dead, stuffed, and preserved for all eternity to entertain people like Colonel Charonne.

The boss, already giddy from his behind-the-back shot, laughed so hard, he almost fell over. "Oh, my God, that was funny! Thank you! Best laugh I've had all week!"

"You, um, needed me, sir?" Norwich eventually managed.

"This is a 'right to work' state," Charonne was serious again, buttoning his jacket, and walking over to vigorously, almost violently shaking his junior executive’s hand.

"Yes, sir." Norwich felt like a schoolboy unprepared for a pop quiz.

"We can fire people without cause."

"Ah, well...." Norwich began to argue as his eyes came level with the knot of Charonne’s necktie. He had to look up at an uncomfortable angle, his boss stood so close, to meet the CEO’s intimidating gaze.

Charonne raised his right palm, and Norwich melted, silenced, into the plush leather visitor's chair in front of the huge, hand-crafted wooden desk. Halfway through any sentence, the Colonel could guess where an argument was going. Norwich was about to advise against firing someone without cause, and Charonne stopped him.

The Colonel sat along the front edge of his desk. His left leg was planted on the floor, revealing his red-on-black argyle socks. His crotch was now directly in front of Norwich and, like a motorist passing a horrible accident on the highway, Norwich couldn't help but look.

"Have it your way," Charonne winked and smiled, knowing his crotch was on full display. He liked to show it off, he was so proud. "To be safe, then," he stood and returned to his seat behind the desk, "we'll wait for this Portnoy complainer to give us an excuse, no matter how flimsy. Then we fire his ass! Got it?"

"Yes, sir!"

Norwich was relieved for two reasons: Charonne's crotch was no longer in his face; and, someone other than himself was being fired. Up to that moment, he had no idea who they were talking about. He did know that Portnoy was not Dobie's last name but did not dare correct the Colonel. And, not a big reader, Norwich had no clue "Portnoy" was in reference to a novel from the same year as the Woodstock festival. Long before Norwich's time.

The Colonel hoped firing Dobie would break the man's spirit and send him on a downward spiral of job applications and failed interviews. He remembered how disheartening it was that one time he had to interview for a job, only to be rejected, all those years ago. Charonnes don’t get rejected! His daddy pulled some strings to get him into officer training school.

His subsequent military success was all his – rising to the impressive rank of Colonel – but he was handed the reins of SaynCorp, the family business. He would argue with anyone accusing him of benefiting from nepotism, being "born on third base, thinking he'd hit a triple," as the saying goes, but they were right and he knew it. Was it his fault he took advantage of life's gifts? Anyone else would have done the same. His accusers were simply jealous of his good fortune, good looks and overall brilliance.

He smiled at the thought of Dobie flipping burgers or digging ditches for a living, and had hoped pulling his corporate job security out from under him would end Pokorny's lofty aspirations and apparent messiah complex. He thought for sure his soon-to-be-ex-employee would succumb like millions before him and beg for the next soul-sucking corporate job just to pay the bills. He expected Dobie to fall in line and take his rightful place as a mere cog in the wheel of modern, corporate society.

"I don't want," Charonne barked, "this Communist Manifesto 2.0 giving my people any ideas!"

"Of course, sir." Karl Marx's work was also written before Norwich's time, but he had at least heard of that one.

"If I had a fireplace," Charonne was still barking, "that book would be burning right now. I need a fireplace, Kenny! Have one installed after I leave."

"Yes, sir. Wood-burning? Gas? Electric? Digital?"

"Digital?! How can I burn books with a digital fireplace?" Shaking his head, he added wistfully, "I'd love a wood-burning hearth." Wistfulness quickly morphed into disgust as he added, "but that's probably against city codes. Just get me something that passes codes and burns books."

"Of course. Anything else, sir?"

"I don't want that book in my office, not even in the trash. Dig it out and take it with you."

"Yes, sir."

As Norwich bent over to extract the book, he could feel Charonne checking him out from behind. He smiled and wondered what might happen next. He never knew the Colonel was so inclined, but did know climbing the corporate ladder went much faster for those, like Crissie, willing to climb the boss on their way up.

In the trash, Norwich found a half-eaten container of sliced peaches sticking to the book. Watching its syrup drip slowly down the sides, it reminded him of something else sticky, and he became aroused. He looked for a towel or tissue to wipe off the book.

Charonne was no help. He simply smirked and adjusted himself.

Norwich took a knee and used the edge of the trash can to scrape the syrup off as he pulled the book out. He minced, almost tip-toed, toward the door as he carried the soiled book like a dead rat out of the office.

"One more thing," Charonne asked in a conspiratorial tone. Norwich stopped and turned, hoping he was about to be asked out on a date. "Have you heard anyone talking about Neanderthals?"

Norwich thought that was a strange question. "Um, no, sir."

"Alright, then," Charonne nodded and waved Norwich off as the latter kept his distance from the stuffed bear on his way out.

The Colonel could have shown Norwich the surveillance video of Dobie in the breakroom and asked if he recognized him. But, that would reveal the existence of such surveillance, and he didn't want anyone but himself and Crissie aware of that. It was his own junior executives like Norwich, in fact, who most often fell victim to Charonne's spying.

* * * *

Major Randall Watson, Air Force Special Ops, Retired, was the Colonel's ground force in this latest battle. Charonne loved a good war and ordered his junior officer to make sure Dobie didn't turn into "some sort of charismatic leader like Fidel Castro or Mahatma Gandhi. At the very least, get this dimwit, Dobie – Pokorny, is it? – talking about something other than capitalism and conspiracy theories!"

Watson assumed Dobie was onto something and had hit a nerve to get the Colonel so worked up. It didn't matter. The Major had his orders and dutifully came up with a plan to wear Dobie down with agents planted in his audiences bombarding him with questions, heckling him, and creating overall negativity. Your basic harassment.

Phase Two was to set him up with beautiful women so far out of his league that, in his eagerness to impress them, Dobie would speak out of turn and reveal his secrets. A side benefit for Watson was to first date the women and make sure they were up to the task.

Charonne complimented his junior officer for "using women as God intended. Pillow talk! Spy Craft 101!"

When none of that kept Dobie from touring, Charonne had Watson talk to the business owners Dobie was dealing with and warn them not to allow him on their premises to speak.

"Do your usual research," said the Colonel, "and I'll talk to my friends but, if a bookstore owner or hotel manager is gay, tell them Dobie is homophobic. If they're Jewish, say he is anti-Semitic. If Black, he's racist, and so on.

"People used to let that crap roll off their backs, but now everyone is so easily offended. We'll use that against them. Push people's buttons!"

Watson did just that, and it worked well with the corporate outlets. Not so well with independents, but it became more difficult for Dobie to book speaking gigs.

Watson tried the same tactic with conference room providers, but seminars given by charismatic leaders – corporate or otherwise – were a good chunk of such venues' income, and they were in no hurry to lose that.

* * * *

Once Dobie realized someone was playing dirty tricks on him, he told his audiences about it. "Most people avoid conflict and controversy," he said. "Merchants, especially. The fear of offending anyone about anything – because it might hurt sales – is a powerful thing. Political-correctness, run amok, takes care of the rest. I guess I'm supposed to stop the ‘crazy talk’ like saying voters are stupid to vote along party lines. It's those parties and their leaders that are the problem. You can't expect a politician to be anything but a spineless weasel. No offense to actual weasels.

"And, I'm supposed to stop asking the FDA to do its job and require that vaccines be properly tested and free of nerve-damaging adjuvants like aluminum and mercury? Our food be free of similarly-damaging preservatives and other mystery ingredients? Big Pharma and Big Food are just two spokes of the Ferris Wheel we call Corporate America. And, that wheel has broken loose from its mooring and will stop at nothing as it rolls over people like me to keep us buying whatever they’re selling."

* * * *

"If all else fails," Charonne told Watson, "we can always kill him."

Watson was not going to kill an innocent man. He hoped his next dirty trick was his last. If Charonne still wanted Pokorny dead after that, Watson was out. Done. Finished. He would, for the first time, not follow a direct order. He might even start that pot farm in Colorado he'd been dreaming of.

Missouri

June

Dobie stopped in Hannibal, playing tourist in Mark Twain's boyhood home. Huckleberry Finn was an all-time favorite, and walking around that little town put him in a buoyant mood.

Somewhere on the outskirts of St. Louis, however, everything fell apart. He was at a mall for his next talk and book-signing, setting up the usual lectern and book display, with eight or nine fold-up metal chairs in the corridor in front of a bookstore.

He repeated himself – because no one was listening the first time – "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Another Way: Beyond the Status Quo!"

"You said that already," a young man heckled, "and it's boring!"

"I did," Dobie admitted, "but it's anything but boring. It's a road map for generations to come! It'll be a must-have reference someday, right up there with the dictionary and Bible!" Seeing raised eyebrows and otherwise incredulous looks in his audience, he conceded, "Okay, probably never be as important as those. The dictionary will always be the most useful."

He pointed toward the bookstore where its manager stood in the doorway, smiling, hoping a few people would buy a dictionary, Bible, anything. Book sales had been abysmal, and the man had specifically asked that Dobie be in front of his store, hoping it would drum up business.

A large Black woman in her thirties stood up and said loudly, "The dictionary? Honey, the Bible is the most important book ever written!"

Dobie gave the Good Book credit for including some useful information. What was the harm in critiquing it? Then again, this was Middle America, and they, like the South, took their religion seriously. Dobie had no problem with that. It gave them a level of wholesomeness that he personally could use more of. These were good salt-of-the-Earth people.

Maybe a little too salty, in this case. He grabbed the green ballpoint pen off the lectern and held onto it.

What happened next taught him to choose his words more carefully. He should have known better, but got excited when launching into a speech. There was an energy that came with these talks.

"The dictionary is the book that tells you the meaning of things," he said, "and those words are the foundation of our understanding. I am personally fascinated by the derivation of words, where they come from. Etymology. And, I am jealous of anyone who can speak more than one language!"

He spotted an Hispanic man and said, "Hola! Como estas!" He realized the man might not speak Spanish, and Dobie might be accused of cultural appropriation. But, when the man smiled and waved, Dobie knew he was okay on that score.

"The Bible, on the other hand," he continued, "the greatest story ever told, creates more questions than answers. I do recommend everyone become familiar with it, but then I recommend reading software license agreements, though no one ever does. At least those can be used in a court of law. The Bible cannot. Almost everything's a parable or analogy, with nothing said directly and unequivocally. Some of it is just plain psychotic."

Putting his hand to the side of his mouth, he added, "But don't tell that to so-called settlers using it to justify the theft of other people's land."

"Psychotic?!" the same woman, who had sat down, got back up and shouted. "You're the only psycho I see ‘round here!" Several people laughed. The friend next to her, also on the hefty side, rocked her chair so hard, something popped. She stood up quickly before it collapsed.

Dobie started twiddling his pen nervously. "For example," he continued, "there's the saying, '...bundle the weeds and burn them,' which means kill your enemies. And then there's '...seize their infants and dash them against the rocks,' which means take your revenge upon your oppressors, including their children. And let’s not forget ‘an eye for an eye.’ These are all in the Old Testament, of course, but as a whole it’s not exactly a sane, reliable resource."

"Not exactly...?" the woman shook her head, "Are you crazy?"

"I thought that was well-established," he tried to diffuse the situation.

"We're talking about The Holy Bible!" she was not laughing. "The word of God!"

"Hey, don't get me wrong. There's a lot of good advice in there, not including what I just quoted. I like most Christians – especially Mormons, they're so nice and helpful – and I like a lot of what Jesus supposedly said, but the Bible is not the word of God..."

Even the non-Christians in the audience gasped at that one. A woman whose book he signed earlier had not yet left. She was lingering, listening, holding his book in both arms like a schoolgirl with a textbook. At this last comment, she turned and hurried off.

"...it's the word of men who think they've been talking to God," Dobie continued. "Maybe they were talking to God. I don't know. Who am I to say? But, the problem with men – just ask any woman – is that we make mistakes. We misinterpret. Overall, the Bible is a self-contradictory, hodgepodge of mistranslated, misunderstood, misquoted information, misinformation and disinformation. Maybe that’s where cognitive dissonance got its start? At least Hindu, Buddhist and Zoroastrian texts are relatively consistent."

Several people clearly took offense. The woman he'd been arguing with, still standing, was now fuming and ready to tear him from limb to limb. She was as tall as Dobie and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds.

He could see the rage in her eyes. When her friend stood to join her, Dobie felt like an eight-point buck stalked by a couple of hungry mountain lions. He didn't want to make any sudden moves but looked around for the nearest security guard.

Then disaster struck. The pen he'd been twiddling slipped out of his hand. He bent down to pick it up – too sudden, apparently – and the women attacked. They were on him within seconds, easily knocking him to the ground with their combined weight. This triggered several others into action who smashed his display and kicked him while he was down.

Curling into the fetal position and covering his face with one hand, genitals with the other, he was prepared to pay the price for his indiscretion until the cops showed up. Assuming they showed up.

When he saw people running off with copies of his book, he thought, You hate what I'm saying, but steal the books in which I say it?

People were grabbing books from the neighboring bookstore and throwing them at Dobie. Others, having no idea who the object of their hate was supposed to be, simply destroyed property at random, on principle. The bookstore manager tried to intercede and recover his tossed books, but was not having much success.

Still on the ground, suffering the occasional kick to the ribs, Dobie eventually managed to slide out from under the women. He forced out a laugh. It was difficult at first, but he instinctively felt this was the perfect response to confuse an angry mob. Aside from the pain, it was all just so ridiculously, unbelievably comical, and he kept forcing out laughs. Maybe that woman was right, he was crazy, but laughter seemed like a good idea at the time.

Once he felt it was starting to have an effect – people looking around, wondering if they were on hidden camera, being pranked – the laughter was no longer forced. He was honestly cracking up now. This brief interlude lasted only a few seconds, though, before several people, including the bookstore manager, grew angrier.

A pair of cops whose regular beat was the shopping mall finally did arrive to break it up. One of them was careful not to drop his double-scoop ice cream cone in the process. He had just stood in line for it, after all. And they eventually dispersed the crowd, keeping Dobie safe while he packed up his display.

Once outside and alone at his car, however, three or four guys – Dobie wasn't counting – came out of nowhere, shouting, "Go back to Michigan!"

It didn't make sense. He was in Missouri. His car had Tennessee plates. He was from Michigan, originally, but how would they know that? He never mentioned it in his talks. Either way, they put a dent in his car, Sabina's, rear panel as he escaped.

Dobie normally would have demanded restitution for the damage and injury inflicted, but felt lucky to escape with his life. He let it go, but it all came as a surprise because crowds had been increasingly receptive up to that point. That's what you get, he told himself, for letting your guard down.

Taylorville

Some of Dobie's best ideas – epiphanies, even – came while behind the wheel. The open road is perfect for wrapping one's head around things. The rhythmic hum of the wheels on the asphalt often brings a sense of calm. Not that night.

He was headed southwest on Interstate 44 toward Joplin, Missouri. The rain was coming down in sheets as he drove Sabina – a refurbished 1977 Ford LTD Landau – to his next book signing. The darkness, solitude and treacherous driving conditions only heightened his anxiety. Probably should have skipped that last coffee, he thought.

He had been checking his rear-view mirror the past hundred miles or so. He hadn't noticed anyone following him lately, but was still trying to get over that last crowd.

The lights on a billboard up ahead flickered off. Dobie barely noticed. A car in the fast lane came up from behind, and he looked to see who was passing him. He had gotten into the habit of noticing anyone who sidled up next to him. He couldn't make out the driver, but the car was a dark, late-model Cadillac Escalade.

As it cruised past, that billboard – now directly to his left – came back to life, bright as a full moon. It was blinding.

He slammed on his brakes and came to a complete stop on the Interstate. The Cadillac wobbled a bit in reaction, but kept going before slowing down and taking the next exit.

Dobie sat there a moment, like an idiot stopped on the highway, staring at the billboard. It was done in retro Americana style depicting a pleasantly plump, rosy-cheeked, smiling, redheaded woman wearing a blue apron; one hand on her hip; steaming hot cobbler in the other. "Come see us at The Blue Spoon Diner!" she said in the cartoon bubble. "Next exit!"

The tagline at the bottom proclaimed, "The best blueberry pie this side of the berry patch!"

To anyone else, there was nothing special about that over-sized ad, but Dobie got an overpowering feeling of belonging. Home. Déjà vu. He was 99% sure he had never been there or seen that billboard before but suddenly knew this was where he needed to be. It would go down as the most important billboard, ever. There is not a lot of competition in that area for most people, but this was the second one to have a profound effect on him.

The first was a government PSA along the Interstate saying something like "Someone I should do something!" His manifesto was simply following that advice, and he hoped his ideas resonated with people.

His friend Bucky was in the car at the time and wanted to know, "You always take advice from billboards?"

"When they make sense, sure. It doesn't matter who says what, so long as it's true."

Dobie was still stopped in the slow lane of the Interstate when a big rig approached from behind, blowing its horn. It barely missed him. The powerful draft from the truck as it blew past snapped Dobie back to reality, and he took the next exit. He hadn't planned on stopping in this town, but the feeling of home could not be denied. He just hoped it had a hotel with a conference room for him to give one of his talks.

He was not exactly on a mission from God, but it was important to him, if no one else, that he get his message out. Besides, with no other income – he had declined unemployment insurance benefits, on principle – he had nothing going for him other than his books.

Going into politics as a career occurred to him. It made sense. The only problem was he not only hated politicians, but strongly believed they were supposed to represent their constituents, not themselves, and he seriously doubted he could ever find enough like-minded people to vote him into office. Maybe after the tour.

The off-ramp curved around and dumped him at a stop sign down in a hollow. Next to that sign was another, lower, faded horizontal sign saying, "Welcome to Taylorville! Pop Warner Regional Champions, 1993"

The billboard on the highway flickered off again, leaving the streetlight across the road as the only source of light. To Dobie's right, the asphalt disappeared into darkness under the overpass. The hotel and diner were on opposite sides of a cul-de-sac to his left, with the diner sitting several dozen yards off the curb at the edge of the woods, ensconced in front of towering old pine, dogwood, red bud and beech trees. The diner was so well-hidden, no one but a local would know it was there if not for that billboard.

A few minutes later, safely within his hotel room on the third floor – he was surprised such a small town had a three-story hotel, but then, it was the only one for miles – Dobie looked down upon the diner. He was tempted to check it out, and almost did, but it could wait until tomorrow. He was exhausted.

With one last glance out the window, he spotted a black Escalade slowly entering the hotel parking lot below. Just as slowly, it eased down the aisles, as if looking for something or someone. Dobie might have ignored it if not for its deliberate movements. Also, he had been seeing a lot of Escalades lately. Or, maybe just the one, repeatedly?

He figured someone was following him. If they attended his talks, maybe they'd learn something. If they wanted to steal Sabina, he could not stop them. She was locked but had no alarm. If they were going to confront him, he would deal with it. Preferably with much better results than last time.

Either way – as he had learned from the Serenity Prayer pinned to so many cubicle walls in every corporate job he ever had – it did no good worrying about it.

One last thing he needed to do before collapsing into much-needed sleep was to fill out the generic Will he had found online the last time he was at the library. Given the occasional unreceptive audiences, it seemed prudent.

"I, Dobromir Sean Riley Pokorny," he filled in the blanks, "being of sound mind, do hereby declare my Last Will and Testament." He considered adding "as sound of mind as can be expected" but didn't want to undermine his own credibility on an official document. He did enough of that in the real world. What he couldn't resist adding after "testament" was "...before I can be killed or suicided for revealing too many truths. You're only allowed a few truths in this life before they assassinate you like they did to Gandhi, JFK, MLK and John Lennon."

Paranoid? Yes, but as the bumper sticker on the back of his car said, "Just because I'm paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get me!"

He was simply getting his affairs in order. All he needed now was something to bequeath and someone to bequeath it to. The only thing he owned and cared about at that point was his car, Sabina.

The next day – after his regimen of stretching and breathing exercises, followed by the hotel's complimentary breakfast and coffee – Dobie paid a visit to the local grocery store. This was how he ensured, before anyone could chase him out of town, that he at least had a few snacks on hand.

He walked to the store just a few hundred yards. Last night's rain had passed, and he felt like a stroll. Along the way, a middle-aged woman in a minivan drove by, did a double-take, and started videoing him with her phone camera. He laughed and assumed this was just small town paranoia.

Returning to his room and stocking its small refrigerator, he showered, shaved and splashed on some home-made essential oil cologne. He updated a couple dozen of his fliers by writing the time and location of his next talk on them. Placing the stack of papers into his briefcase, he walked all over a two mile radius, stapling and/or taping his fliers to every fence post and power pole he came across. He would have done it last night, but the rain made that impossible.

Upon his return to the room, he needed another shower. It was already warm out. Lather, rinse and repeat. Several hours later, after revisiting a few research notes, he donned his dark green business suit. He liked to wear suits that were not black or dark blue, just to be different. No tie. Never a tie.

He made his way down to his assigned conference room – the only one – on the ground floor. That this hotel even had such a room was a surprise. Even more surprising was the size of the crowd that showed up. Some of his biggest crowds were at these out-of-the-way locales, for some reason.

There were ten or twelve people – quite a few, given how last-minute it was – ranging in age from 8 to 80, who had come in response to the fliers hastily put up around town that morning.

Holding his thick white ceramic Don't Shoot the Messenger! coffee cup as he entered, he ran his free hand through his hair and surveyed his audience. He studied the walls, orienting and centering himself. The beige textured wallpaper was adorned with faded gold-framed, mostly hunting-related lithographs and the occasional still-life fruit bowl.

"I should probably apologize in advance," he smiled, "for not living up to the hype on my fliers." Several people smiled. The were a receptive audience. Probably happy to have anyone new pay them a visit. "But, I like the artwork on the walls," he pointed at it. "It makes sense, being next to the kitchen, and all.

“But, enough small talk. The one percent of the one percent," he said, "going way back, have been pulling the strings and ruling the world, with people like you and me as their unwitting victims. They are the so-called 'hidden hand' that has been jerking us around for far too long.

"That's right, I'm a conspiracy theorist. Some scoff at the mere thought of conspiracy, but ask any detective, lawyer or judge – if you can find an honest one – and they'll tell you conspiracies happen all the time. From conspiracy to commit fraud to conspiracy to rig an election. From petty theft all the way up to global conquest. Pinky and the Brain are not the only ones trying to take over the world!"

When no one seemed to get that reference, he added, "You know, that cartoon with the two laboratory mice...? I love that one! I've got the T-shirt. Anyway, but seriously, there's the inevitable obfuscation of facts, conspiracy of silence to cover their tracks, ridicule – even murder – of their accusers.

"Coincidence and synchronicity happen, sure, but if you're not a conspiracy theorist these days, you're just not paying attention. George Carlin summed it up nicely when he said, 'Do I believe powerful people ever get together and plan for certain outcomes? Naw!'

"He was being sarcastic, of course. Call it collusion if you like that word better. Same thing. Something else that Carlin said that always makes me laugh is, ‘People compliment my honesty, until I'm honest with them. Then I'm a jerk.' He used a different word, but there are women and children..."

"Asshole!" the 8 year-old in the audience shouted out. Dobie glared, thinking the kid was heckling him. "He probably said asshole," the boy explained himself, shrugged and sank into his chair. His mother next to him was horrified, but everyone else, including Dobie eventually, laughed.

"Kids these days!" Dobie continued. "Anyway, I also like alternative historians like the one who said the Great Sphinx is thousands of years older than mainstream academia would have us believe. Like him, I never blindly accept anything espoused by anyone claiming to be an authority, past or present.

"Question everything! That's the scientific method, although too many scientists are not very scientific. They'll come to whichever conclusion their bosses want, like the corporate accountant or election pollster who asks ahead of time what the result should be before they perform their algorithmic sleight-of-hand.

"And too many scientists who are scientific think the physical sciences alone explain everything, leaving no room for things that defy logic. For example, they explain the beginning of the universe with a theory called 'The Big Bang.' Give me a break. I had to laugh when even the great Stephen Hawking promoted this. Who or what created the conditions and raw materials for this Big Bang, hmmm? To this, they say 'Never mind the man behind the curtain!'

"People say I have authority issues, and I'm okay with that, though I'd argue it's more of a short-sighted-idiots-in-power issue. We should all have such issues! I do believe in some sort of Creator and intelligent design, but I'm not getting into that now.

"Throughout history, those with too much power and no sense of decency have engaged in collusion, conspiracy, or simple cooperation – like I said, whichever word you prefer – to keep the rest of us like mushrooms: in the dark and fed a steady diet of bull..."

He stopped and smiled at the boy in the audience.

Thinking this was his cue, the boy shouted, "Bullshit!" He and everyone but his mother again cracked up. She yanked him up roughly by one arm and dragged him out of the room. "Ow, that hurts!"

Shaking his head, trying not to laugh, Dobie continued. "Poor kid. I feel like I set him up. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, history is written by the victors, and they will always portray themselves as right and just, no matter who or what they destroy.

"But I don't sit at the computer in my underwear in my parents' basement, complaining about it online. People who complain but don't provide solutions are just whiners. Oh... and, I wear pants! Usually. And hanging in my closet are my Big Boy Pants. I put those on one day and put a few solutions to the world's problems in a book... for those who still read books. It lays the groundwork for a completely new society.

"Corporations are the biggest problem. We don't live in a democracy, or even a republic. It's a corporatocracy, and corporations today are founded on three principles: lying, cheating and stealing. Throw in collusion if you want, but don't get me started on home and auto insurance. You can require someone to be financially responsible, sure, but to require us to buy insurance from a private company is, by definition, fascism! But, people just go along with it because it's too hard to fight The System.

"But, we don't need that system! Or corporations! The hard part will be transitioning from the old to the new – and I've got some ideas on that – but, if nothing else, companies should be limited to just a couple hundred employees each and forced to implement profit-sharing. The Free Marketeers hate me, but profit-sharing is win-win. The smaller company size will leave room for more mom-and-pop businesses like The Blue Spoon Diner," he pointed across the street.

"All the necessities of life can be provided by organized, qualified volunteers available for any task, as long as we have access to training and the required machinery. We just need to come together like family members – healthy families, anyway – and help each other out. Like the Amish or Mennonites, I guess, only without the religion and that beard-but-no-mustache thing the men do."

He looked around to make sure nobody in the audience matched that description. Seeing none, he continued. "My system is not Communism..." He started adding this immediately after the previous comments because audiences tended, like Pavlov's dogs, to jump up and accuse him of being a Communist.

"...or even a cashless society. Those are traps. I'm saying there will be no money at all, but I don't want anyone getting anything for free. It has to come as a reward for individual effort. Everyone still has to work for a living. That's very important. You don't want people getting lazy and greedy, like those at the top of the socioeconomic strata. Everyone's time, attention and energy – our greatest gifts – will be the only currency.

"A huge bonus is that there would be no salesmen. Just think about that. No salesmen or telemarketers! That should win me a Nobel Prize right there!"

He spoke for another several minutes before stopping, taking a sip of coffee, and leaning against the lectern. The talks themselves were never long. It was the question-and-answer period that took most of the time.

"And now," he said with a smile, "it's time for questions."

An attractive thirty-something blonde woman in tight blue jeans and white silk blouse raised her hand. Dobie checked her ring finger. It was bare. Some guys didn't care if a woman was single – even preferred married women – but Dobie was not one of them. He and his father disagreed on a lot of things, but did agree on that.

He nodded and, again unconsciously, ran his hands through his hair.

The woman smiled, stood to speak, and introduced herself as Audrey. She tossed back her honey-blonde hair and undid the top button on her blouse. Dobie guessed she was only trying to cool off – it was stuffy in that conference room – but she now had his full attention. There was a twinkle in her hazel eyes, a pout to her full lips.

I love this job, he thought as he smiled back at her. He noticed a tall Black man standing at the back of the room. Other than sensing his military air, Dobie thought nothing of him. They were both focused on this captivating woman.

A combative sneer from Audrey broke the spell she had over Dobie, and she launched into her attack. "How dare you question the authority of history's greatest professors, scientists, political and business leaders?!" she said, indignant. "Did you study for years before graduating, getting your masters or doctorate from any of the prestigious schools these great men and women did?"

Dobie sighed, smiled, and calmly said, "Well, for one thing, politicians are not our leaders. They're our representatives. At least, they're supposed to be. But, as they say, politics is the last refuge of scoundrels. I know the saying originally referred to false patriotism, but I've broadened its meaning. I don't think Samuel Johnson, the great man of letters, would mind. Believe it or not, though, I actually hate arguing."

"Because you never win?" she snorted, building up steam.

"You wouldn't know it to listen to me, I know," he ignored her jibe, "but I much prefer friendly conversation. I'm not confrontational by nature but, sometimes, you just need to call b.s. That's what this tour is all about, really."

He paused, looked around and said, "Notice I didn't curse. I don't want that boy’s mom dragging me off, too!"

Everyone laughed.

"Anyway, I am doing as Gandhi suggested and being the change I want to see in the world. Creating the reality I want to live in. Unlike ol' Mahatma, though, I won't be leading any marches or starving myself in protest. I might starve, but it won't be in protest. When I get to the Pearly Gates, I simply want to be able to honestly say I tried. At a minimum, I want to document for posterity my own answers to life's questions.

"As to how I dare question authority, I trust my own judgment. Not to brag, but my 144 IQ is well above average and, like any man with anything bigger than average, I'm quite proud of that!"

Those who got the joke laughed. Audrey was not among them.

"I've always liked the symmetry of the number 144. Twelve squared. Maybe not technically a genius, depending on the scale, but high enough to feel good about myself. Low enough to keep me humble. Okay, maybe not so humble, but the name Pokorny does mean humble according to those websites about the meaning of names. And, if it's on the Internet, it must be true, right?

"Sarcasm again. And, I don't put much stock in IQ tests. Give me real world experience over IQ any day. EQ, however – emotional quotient – now we're talking!

"To answer your question, though, yes, I have studied for years and years on my own, reading books and articles all by myself without an authority telling me what to read and what to think of it. I am what some call an autodidact, though I personally avoid such words. So, no, I don't have a curriculum vitae to back me up. No bona fides. At least, nothing official. If the only thing you respect is a diploma or certificate, then, no, I have no credibility. But, if you only listen to those with credentials and fail to recognize common sense when you hear it, you are doing yourself a great disservice.

"Studying a subject in school doesn't make you an expert when your course materials are tainted by corporate interests, as is the case at most major universities. I know, it can be difficult knowing who to trust, but you can eliminate anyone with a financial interest in the subject. Follow the money! That's the underlying force corrupting pretty much everything. But, I make my own observations, consult my intuition, and come to my own conclusions. I think this makes me quite brave, actually. Again, not to brag."

Audrey scoffed and sat back down, but not before looking around the room. She was curious to see what others thought of her performance – and it was a performance – but she saw nothing but glares and frowns in her direction.

She rolled her eyes. She didn't value these people's opinions, anyway.

"I didn't graduate from any college," Dobie carried on, "let alone a prestigious one. I was accepted into a few, but would have to pay my own tuition. My parents never had much money but weren't quite poor enough to get a hand-out, either, not that they'd accept one. And with me not being a star athlete" – he put his hands out to his sides and looked down upon his less-than-impressive physique – "obviously, I didn't qualify for any athletic scholarships."

There was more sympathetic laughter from the crowd. Several people were nodding but Dobie didn't know if they were agreeing he was not athletic, had no credibility, or that using one's own judgment was good enough for them, too.

Two middle-aged women passing by in the hallway paused, saw Dobie through the open doorway, smiled at each other, and joined the audience. He waved them in.

"How can we be sure," a well-dressed older woman in beige Capri pants and powder-blue blouse stood to ask, "what you say is true? I'm not calling you a liar..."

"I am!" the old man next to her, presumably her husband, said with a derisive laugh. Dressed in a white polo shirt, khakis and deck shoes, no socks, he looked ready to go sailing.

Dobie bit his tongue.

"...but how do we know what you're saying is true?" the woman finished her thought. "I don't recall reading any of this in the Bible or Quran or even the Vedic Hymns."

"Wow, citing the Quran and Vedic Hymns. Brave. I'm impressed! Anyway, no, we can't be sure. And, no, I'm not lying. This is all just my own take on things after reading all of the above references, meditating, thinking things through over the years, and intuiting on my own. That last one, intuition – which literally means internal learning, teaching yourself – takes precedence over all the rest. Never underestimate your intuition, your sense of knowing.

"Anyway, I laugh when employment ads say they require a college degree for jobs that I know from experience do not require a degree. Half a brain, sure. College degree? No. And half of them don't even say exactly which degree is required. They just want proof you were gullible enough to invest four years of your life in The System and accumulate enough student debt to make yourself a virtual indentured servant!"

Another attractive woman, younger than the previous two, with dark-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and dressed in a two-tone blue, loose-fitting, checkered jumper stood to speak. "Is my entire audience," Dobie asked, "made up of beauty pageant contestants who stumbled into the wrong conference room?"

An elderly woman sitting in the front row nodded and raised her hand. Everyone laughed, and she soaked it in, smiling wide.

"Just so you know," Dobie continued with a chuckle, "there is no conspiracy theory portion of the pageant."

There was another smattering of audience laughter. Dobie hoped this young dark-haired beauty now standing before him was friendlier than that Audrey woman.

"I agree with you," she began. "Some of the smartest people I ever knew never went to college. They had to work for a living right away. Daddy was 15 when he dropped out of school to work at the factory."

Dobie sighed in relief. She was friendly. He was happy to see he had the blue-collar vote. Others might have viewed him as an intellectual, but he thought of himself as just an average guy. Okay, maybe slightly above average, but his fellow commoners were, until recently, the only people whose opinion he cared about. If he was going to change the world, though, he knew he had to get down in the gutter with the people in suits.

"Thank you, Miss...?"

"Daniels," she introduced herself with a smile and slight curtsy. "Kaylie Daniels."

Her clothes were modest by today's standards, and Dobie appreciated that. The world could do with more modesty. She had nothing to do with her current attire, but he didn't know that.

The woman Audrey glared at her, to which Kaylie smiled sweetly back. Dobie was impressed she had curtsied. Who does that anymore?

She felt familiar somehow, but he shrugged it off. Pretty girls always seem somehow familiar.

"Well," she said finally, "I've got to get back to work, but I'm right next door at The Blue Spoon Diner. Come see us!"

He felt stupid for not realizing she was wearing a uniform but, now smitten and watching her leave, he wanted to shout, "Don't go!" It was a good thing she never asked any questions. Under her spell, he was not sure how intelligently he might have answered.

He liked to tell himself looks were not as important to him as they were to others. "Just give me someone presentable," he would say, "not too dumb, and with a personality." In reality, he was a sucker for a pretty face. He knew it, and hated that about himself. He could feel his brain stop at the sight of a beautiful woman. It was a serious character flaw.

He was a thinker – so long as no beautiful women were around, apparently – forever theorizing and trying to find the underlying cause of things. Constantly asking why this, why that? Where did this concept of beauty come from, anyway? The usual explanations – an indicator of good health, cultural preference, subconscious reminder of his mother – all made at least a little bit of sense but did not entirely explain it for him.

How and why were certain bodily and facial shapes, contours and combinations more attractive than others? Like so many other things, Dobie wanted to know the underlying source of its power. That and countless other mysteries floated around in his head waiting to be solved.

With one last alluring smile over her shoulder, Kaylie disappeared out the back of the conference room. A gray-haired woman sitting next to her the entire time – though Dobie never noticed – stood and joined Kaylie on her way out. He might have gotten a better look at the older woman's face if not so focused on Kaylie.

When there were no more questions from the audience, Dobie took a seat in his fold-up metal chair behind his fold-up faux-wood table upon which sat a fold-up cardboard display surrounded by his books like gifts around a Christmas tree.

"I'll be signing copies for anyone who wants to ruin an otherwise good book!" he said with typical good cheer and self-deprecation.

He hoped Kaylie would come back. Instead, it was Audrey now standing in front of him, wanting his autograph.

Seeing the sour look on his face, she gave a half-hearted apology. "I get worked up when I argue."

"No worries," he smiled. "So do I." With apologies all around, he hoped she would take her signed book and be on her merry way.

Instead, she asked him out. "Would you, um, like to go for a drink later?"

"To hurl insults at each other? No, thanks. I'm good." It was Kaylie he hoped to hook up with later, not College-Professor-Dating Barbie here.

"I thought we might have dinner," she persisted. "A glass of wine, then... who knows? No insults or arguing, I promise."

She was a beautiful woman. He had to give her that. And, it was The Code of every red-blooded American male to seek out and date as many beautiful women as possible. Who was he to break The Code?

She was also suspiciously eager – and couldn't hold a candle to Kaylie – but, with the latter nowhere around, the old saying "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" popped into his head.

Tired old sayings were forever popping into his head these days. Some of them rang true. Others made him wonder how it ever became a saying.

Audrey smiled and took a seat in the front row of chairs to wait patiently for him. Watson was still hovering nearby, but Dobie assumed he was just another autograph-seeker. He never noticed the glances back and forth between him and Audrey. It was only when Watson disappeared without an autograph that Dobie became suspicious.

The Diner

The Blue Spoon Diner was a long, narrow, mostly-white building with blue trim now faded and cracked. Like most diners from its era, it was all windows, topped off with a sign – like a dorsal fin, ten feet high – over the entrance with its name in a blue cursive font. It sat quite a bit off the curb and maybe sixty yards from the neighboring hotel. Those two buildings were the only inhabitants of that cul-de-sac.

The twilight shadows of the trees surrounding the diner reminded Dobie of a scene from a horror movie. He half expected an ax-murderer hiding in the hedge that ran the length of the diner under its front plate-glass windows. Or, maybe an ogre lurking behind a sign that read "None dare enter here!"

The place was not nearly as charming or inviting as promised on the billboard, but he was hungry and had been meaning to check the place out since he arrived. Best of all, he now knew that girl Kaylie worked here, so he forged bravely ahead.

He never would have brought Audrey with him, but remembered something his father once said. To his teenage son's rolling eyes, the senior Pokorny said, "If you want to get a girl, all you have to do is flirt with another girl in front of her. Then, the one you actually want will get jealous and she'll be all yours. Of course, she has to be amenable to dating you in the first place but, assuming that, it works like a charm. Trust me!"

Dobie was surprised to get such advice. Sure, it might be useful information. Everyone manipulates everyone else to varying degrees. But, aren't dads supposed to teach their sons honor, respect, chivalry and all that? Manipulation? Not so much.

It wasn't until years later that his mother explained that his father was concerned with his son's lack of girlfriends. He was worried Dobie might be "turning queer" and wanted to keep that from happening. "He wanted to help you, and I quote, 'get over the hump.'" They shared a laugh over that.

Dobie's unexpected date, Audrey, now stopped on the sidewalk. "Where are you going?! I thought we were going to your car."

"I'm hungry," he said. "Gonna give this diner a shot. It looks... um, quaint, don't you think?"

"No!" she was aghast. "It looks like a good place to be murdered. Doesn't the hotel have a restaurant?"

"Come on," he almost hoped she would abandon him. "How bad can it be? That girl Kaylie works here."

That last point was the real reason Audrey wanted to go elsewhere. She knew she would never get anywhere with Dobie if Kaylie – with her good looks and taking his side earlier – was anywhere around.

The parking lots of the hotel and diner were adjoining, but the diner's was much older and mostly gravel. Just a few spaces closest to its front door were paved. Dobie figured whoever built the place didn't have enough asphalt at the time and never got around to paving the rest of it. That was how his mind worked: see something as mundane as a parking lot and wonder how it came to be. He never outgrew his childhood propensity for asking why.

The air was now damp with impending rain, so he whipped out his old blue Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap – the one with the ball-in-glove logo from his childhood, before some marketing genius changed its design – and pulled it down over his head. After a few steps, he turned to Audrey and said, "Well, I'm headed for that diner."

Once the rain began in earnest, she grudgingly followed. The front door chimed as she entered the restaurant. Dobie was already inside, hat in hand, running his hands through his hair while trying to decide if he should wait for a hostess or just seat himself.

The first thing most people noticed upon entering the diner was the miniature version of that "best pie" highway billboard on the wall behind the cashier. Dobie was no different, and it brought a smile to his face, like a reminder that this was where he belonged, though he was still unsure why.

Drawings of various types of pie, framed and hung on the wall over each booth, matched that booth’s unique color scheme. There was a blue-and-yellow one, a red-and-black one, another one was blue-and-beige. There was even a booth in a hideous baby-puke green. None of the booths matched. Then it hit him: each booth matched the slice of pie pictured above it... sort of.

There was nothing corporate about this diner, Dobie decided, and he liked that. Even the room temperature was comfortable, not barely above freezing like so many franchises kept theirs. He came up with a conspiracy theory on the spot: corporate-run restaurants keep their franchises cold because studies have shown that people order more food and leave a little quicker if it's just a little too cold inside. He had no idea if this was true, but it seemed plausible.

This place was just a quaint little mom-and-pop-owned diner. Its mismatched multi-colored booths were probably considered cool or "bitchin'" when it was first built, back in the day. Now, it was well past its prime.

Young Miss Kaylie came flying around the corner to greet them, and Dobie's eyes lit up. Tying her apron strings behind her back, she smiled warmly and said, "Welcome to The Blue Spoon! Sit anywhere you like!"

The place was mostly empty, with just one table toward the back occupied by a middle-aged couple Dobie recognized from his earlier audience. He generally avoided audience members after speaking engagements unless they had already established themselves as friendly. Such encounters almost never went well.

He chose the blue-and-yellow striped booth along the window, halfway between the aforementioned couple and the front door.

"Excellent choice!" Kaylie smiled again, lighting up the room. "That's my favorite!"

Audrey rolled her eyes.

Kaylie saw a tinge of paranoia – maybe exasperation – in Dobie's eyes and decided she should not be surprised, given who he was with. What was he doing with her, anyway? After their argument during his talk, she would have thought Audrey would be the last person he'd want to hang out with. Maybe he lost a bet or was taking pity and buying Audrey dinner?

It was a mystery but, either way, she decided to rescue him from this date like she did earlier at his talk. Who knows, he might even be the one to take her away from all this like in a romance novel.

It should be an interesting evening.

Audrey slid into the booth first, closest to the window and facing away from the front door. She was surprised when Dobie slid in beside rather than across from her.

Seeing the look on her face, he asked, "Did you want me to sit across from you?"

"No, no, that's fine."

"I always like to face away from the front door," he explained, "so anyone who enters doesn't immediately recognize me."

Mentally, she was rolling her eyes. To his face, she gave the sweetest smile she could muster.

Kaylie handed them each a menu and walked away to give them time to look it over. Rather than focus on the menu, Dobie watched Kaylie. He couldn't help it. She was so familiar, and not merely from his talk.

From where?

She seemed too young and pretty to be working in a place like this. In his experience, waitresses at run-down hole-in-the-wall diners were bitter, tough old chain-smoking broads with bad skin, maybe a few missing teeth, ready to break a beer bottle over anyone's head. Kaylie was nothing of the sort.

Dobie normally wanted to be left alone by servers and their incessant interruptions every few minutes asking, "How ya doin'? How is everything? How many times can I catch you with a mouthful of food?!"

With Kaylie, every time she walked away, he wished she would hurry back. She gave a knowing smile over her shoulder before turning her attention to her other patrons.

From the moment she introduced herself at his talk, Dobie felt like he knew Kaylie. And, she was getting the same feeling about him, but knew he was not from around there. With her jobs as a cashier at the only grocery store in town and waitress at the most popular diner, she knew everyone. She was at the grocery store when he visited that morning, but she was walking down one aisle toward the back while he carried his basket of snacks in the next aisle up to the cashier. Five minutes later, and they would have met at the register.

She returned to their table now to take their order. Did it without writing anything down, which always impressed Dobie. He knew if he ever tried that, his customers would get less than half of what they ordered. He hoped her memory and listening skills were better than his.

She walked over to the little pass-through window into the kitchen and relayed Dobie and Audrey's order to the small, scruffy, salt-and-pepper-haired man within. Blount. He was at least twice Kaylie's age, but his eyes never rose above her ample bosom. She never knew or cared what his first name was. Everyone just called him Blount. Either way, his constant lecherous smile, almost drooling, was a concern.

As soon as she could, she escaped to a blue padded stool at the counter. Why did I agree to work today? she asked herself. Oh, right, I need the money. After the regular girl called in sick, Kaylie reluctantly agreed to cover her shift. The pay from the grocery cashier job wasn't cutting it, and no one else in her life had any money, so here she was.

Ignoring Blount as best she could, she picked up the remote control and pointed it at the television. There was nothing but static on every channel. It was working just fine before Dobie and Audrey walked in. Strange.

Dobie watched her every move. Seeing the problems she was having with the television, he had to wonder – crazy as it sounded – if he had anything to do with that. More and more, lately, he could not come anywhere close to an electronic device without it somehow going haywire. Having such an effect from this distance, though, would be a first.

Audrey rolled her eyes as Dobie continued to watch Kaylie. Normally, she would storm out in a huff for being ignored like this, but these were not normal circumstances. She swallowed her pride, turned on the charm and reached out. Gently grabbing his chin, she turned his head to face her and, with a practiced smile, said, "Earth to Dobie. Is it true love?"

"I'm sorry," he smiled sheepishly. "I don't mean to be rude. I just... can't take my eyes off her. She's so familiar, but I don't know from where..."

"Your dreams?"

"Yes... actually." He was surprised by his own answer. "That's it, but how is that possible?"

Audrey bit her tongue and turned away, trying to hold it together.

The Ogre

By the time the cook, Blount, shouted "order up," Kaylie had given up on the TV and was wiping down tables at the other end of the restaurant while chatting with the older couple in the corner. Taking a moment to collect herself, she smiled sadly at them, draped the damp rag across her shoulder and said "duty calls" as she walked toward the kitchen.

Dobie's grilled-cheese sandwich and Audrey's Cobb salad – each on its own blue ceramic plate – sat waiting at the base of that pass-through window. Kaylie set the coffee pot down, deftly placed the two plates between the thumb, forefinger and middle finger of her left hand, then picked up the pot with her right.

Taking advantage of her hands being occupied, Blount stroked her forearm and giggled gleefully.

"Don't touch me, creep!" she snapped, then glanced, embarrassed, at her customers.

He cackled with delight as if enjoying being caught more than the act of touching her. Kaylie then realized in horror that while Blount's left hand was stroking her arm, his right hand was hidden under his apron. His shoulder was making a jerking motion. It was all she could do to not drop the plates.

Watching all of this play out – though he couldn't see what Blount's right hand was doing – Dobie realized there was an ogre in their midst, after all: this cook.

Kaylie moved quickly toward their booth, cheerful despite it all, and set their plates down in front of them. "Here you go!" she said, adding with a nod in the cook's direction, "Sorry about that."

"No worries," Dobie commiserated. "I know all about obnoxious co-workers. I used to be one, in fact." When she gave him a concerned look, he quickly added, "But nothing like that!"

His date, Audrey, forced another smile as she dug into her salad. She was hungrier than she realized.

A movement outside the window caught Dobie's eye, and he was now more interested in what might be lurking out there. It was dark out, but he caught a glimpse of a man in a hat and trench coat standing in the rain. Then the man was gone.

In the window's reflection he saw Kaylie watching him, following his gaze outside, only to return her attention to him. She never saw anything but the rain beating down on a dark, mostly empty parking lot.

It's Blount in here that I'm worried about, she thought, but said nothing.

Audrey could guess it was Watson out there but remained focused on her salad. Occasionally glancing at her phone on the table, she too said nothing.

As Dobie picked up his fork and aimed it the small dab of potato salad next to the sandwich, Kaylie gently placed her hand upon his shoulder. Leaving the food untouched, he looked up.

"So, what's your name, again?" she asked. "I know it was on your sign at your talk, but I've got a terrible memory for names. It's no fair I have to wear this name tag, but my customers don't! We should make a new rule! Everyone who walks through the door has to write their name on one of those sticky labels!"

Noticing Kaylie touching Dobie’s arm or shoulder every chance she got – oldest trick in the book – Audrey gave a mocking laugh. It was a reminder that she was still there, sitting next to him, stupidly believing they were on a date.

"My given name is Dobromir, but friends call me Dobie."

"Oh, right," Kaylie pretended to remember, though she had known all along.

"But I've said too much!" he added playfully, looking around, feigning nervousness.

"A man of mystery!" she gushed and released the most beautiful laugh. There was so much joy and infectious energy in that laugh, it was almost musical. Dobie had to sit back and appreciate it a moment. When he didn't stop staring after the appropriate few seconds, she smiled and asked, "What?"

"Sorry, bad habit. I'm a people watcher but gotta remember to look away before it goes from watching to staring to restraining order."

Kaylie giggled and nodded knowingly. She was used to men staring at her. When he reached for his grilled-cheese sandwich, she again touched his wrist to keep him from taking hold of it.

Audrey cringed. This was all just too much.

Refilling Dobie's coffee, Kaylie leaned in close. He stupidly hoped she might kiss him. Instead, she whispered, "I wouldn't eat anything on that plate if I were you."

He gave her a questioning look while trying not to stare at her cleavage now so close to his face.

"Trust me," she said. "I'll order you a new one. Coffee should be okay. And," she nodded in Audrey's direction, "your date's, um, salad dressing shouldn't have anything in it she's never swallowed before." With a devilish smile, she then wandered off.

As if only now remembering Audrey next to him, Dobie turned to her and said, "So, where were we?"

"Nowhere," Audrey snarled between bites of salad. "I realize our waitress is cute, Dobie, but forget about her. She's just a hillbilly girl. You and I have much more in common. So much more to talk about. Or not talk at all. I've got a French maid's outfit if you're into uniforms. Or, I could steal that bitch Kaylie's uniform."

He laughed, hoping that last suggestion was a joke. Like a dog distracted by a treat, he admitted, "That does sound good."

"I think you and I..." she began in her sexiest bedroom voice.

"Sorry to interrupt," Kaylie reappeared. "I know you're, like, a complete stranger, and all," she spoke to Dobie while pointedly ignoring Audrey, "but my ride was supposed to pick me up, like, an hour ago. I guess that worked out, though, 'cause that's why I went to the hotel, looking for him, but found you instead! Anyway, you seem, like... I'm saying 'like' too much, aren't I?" She giggled. "But you seem... respectable. And, if Blount the Boob Whisperer back there paws at me one more time..."

"Boob Whisperer!" Dobie laughed. "Good one!"

"Yeah, just a little nickname I came up with. Anyway, d'ya think you could give me a ride home?"

"Sure!" he agreed too eagerly.

Audrey audibly gasped, saying "Am I invisible here?!" as she swallowed her food and sank into the back of the booth.

"Pretty much, yeah," Kaylie arched an eyebrow.

Dobie tried not to smile.

Patting his shoulder, Audrey said, "Let me out. I need to pee."

Charming, he thought. Whatever happened to 'powder my nose?'

Blount came around the corner from behind Audrey just as she was getting out of the booth. He was pleased with his own good timing. Watching a woman walk away – especially an attractive one like Audrey in tight jeans – was one of his favorite things. He particularly enjoyed them in yoga pants, showing every curve. He was so glad that was a trend these days. Better still, this time of year, Blount could usually be found by the hotel pool, drooling over the bikini-clad girls.

Dobie was climbing out of the booth after her when a large, bearded man – obviously drunk – staggered in. The man barely fit through the front door, he was so big, but did not look like the same man spotted earlier outside in the rain. For one, there was no hat or trench coat, but Dobie could not be sure.

"Honey, I'm home!" the man said to the room loudly, with a laugh. To Kaylie directly, he snapped, "Get in the car! Let's go!"

Blount giggled. He knew this newcomer well and often wished he could trade places with him. Just one night with Kaylie, Blount fantasized, and he could die a happy man.

"No, JD," Kaylie spoke as if to a misbehaving child. "You're drunk. This nice man here, Dobie, is giving me a ride." She smiled reassuringly at the latter.

Dobie gave a little wave. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yep, she's coming with me. Like she said, you're drunk. Maybe I should give you both a ride?"

Kaylie stopped smiling. Bad idea.

"You don't want to violate your parole," Dobie added, "with another DUI, do you?"

"Naw, man... wait, how the hell did you know I was out on parole?"

"Wild guess."

"Nobody's that good a guesser!"

"I am, actually," said Dobie. "Always have been."

"And what'd she say your name was? Dopey?"

Blount and Audrey laughed at that one.

Dobie smiled thinly and said, "Belligerent, drunken redneck like you? It figures you'd be an ex-con with multiple DUIs, doesn't it?" He could hardly believe he said it, but speaking the truth, come what may, was his new m.o.

JD was stunned. No one ever talked to him like that, especially an older, relatively puny guy like this Dobie dude.

"Ah, I see what's going on," JD finally managed. "You think you and Kaylie..." He shook his head and laughed. "She's just using you, dude. That's what she does. Old guy like you doesn't have a chance with her. This one here," he pointed at Audrey, "looks more your speed."

Audrey was offended.

"Come on, time to go!" JD ordered, looking directly at Dobie while grabbing Kaylie's petite shoulder in his catcher's-mitt-sized hand. "Let's go!"

If there was one thing Dobie hated, it was abusive, belligerent people. Bullies. Anyone taking advantage of anyone else, really. It was the founding principle of his latest book.

Either way, JD fit the bill. And who is he calling 'old?' Ten years older makes me 'old' now?

Kaylie pulled away from the big man, and Dobie – with "old guy" still ringing in his ears – stepped in between the two of them.

JD smiled and said, "Oh, you wanna play?" He threw a drunken, off-balance left hook aimed at Dobie's chin.

Kaylie watched with a mixture of horror and delight. Two men are fighting over me!

Audrey watched with absolute glee. Dobie's about to get his ass kicked!

Blount giggled like a fiend.

Dobie surprised himself by dodging JD's swing. He was not a fighter – normally, physically – but the recent attacks on his book tour had honed his reflexes. Now inspired by Kaylie and Audrey's presence – because even intelligent men will do the stupidest things to impress a woman – Dobie took a step forward and threw a right jab to the stomach.

Kaylie gasped in surprise. She didn't know he had it in him.

JD didn't move, and Dobie's punch had no effect whatsoever.

"Shit," Dobie spat.

JD threw a roundhouse right. Dobie dodged it, stuck out his foot, and let the big man's momentum send him crashing into the nearest table. He hit his head and fell to the floor, unconscious.

The fight, if it qualified as such, was over within seconds. Audrey was surprised Dobie had fought back, but disappointed to see him win.

Like a predator hoping for a straggler to be separated from the herd, Blount waited to see which woman Dobie chose. He would grab whoever was left behind.

In the excitement, he maneuvered himself next to Audrey, assuming she would be the one left unclaimed. At his age, with his looks, he knew he had to be satisfied with leftovers. This Audrey woman would still make for a tasty morsel, as he would say in his own inimitably creepy way.

It was only then that Audrey noticed his hand on her butt. She thought she had been leaning up against the table. She had to laugh, despite herself. At least someone in this diner was responding to her in a manner to which she had become accustomed.

She swatted Blount's hand away and stepped over JD's prostrate body on her way toward the front door. Kaylie disappeared around a corner and into the kitchen area.

Both women vanished so quickly, Dobie was left wondering what happened. He was relieved to see Kaylie a few seconds later with her purse. She realized at the last moment she had forgotten her jacket, but left it. It was old, worn out – with empty pockets – and nothing special, anyway. Dobie could buy her a new one. She did not consider herself a user of men as JD implied but did allow herself to take advantage occasionally. A girl's prerogative. Guys liked buying her things, anyway, so it was win-win.

Either way, she wanted to be long gone before JD regained consciousness. She then led him by the hand out the front door, behind Audrey.

Once outside in the parking lot, she laughed with relief. Holding onto her purse with one arm while reaching up to the sky with the other, she soaked in the rain. Her exuberance alone told Dobie he had made the right choice in picking her over the dour, bitter Audrey just ahead of them. He could be dour and bitter all by himself. He needed someone like Kaylie to balance him out.

Major Watson was in his Escalade in the hotel parking lot, watching with disappointment as Dobie came out of the diner accompanied by Kaylie instead of Audrey. He considered letting her walk in the rain to the nearest bus stop and find her way home from there, but that's what Colonel Charonne would do. And, he was better than his old commanding officer. He rolled down his window and barked at Audrey, "Get in!"

Dobie noticed her getting into the Escalade, but didn't immediately make the connection. Its windows were darkened beyond the legal limit, giving no indication of who was inside. He did, however, find it interesting it was an Escalade.

Kaylie guessed correctly that Dobie's car was the one with the "Question Authority Everything" and "Just because I'm paranoid..." bumper stickers. What she never would have guessed was that it had a name, Sabina, in honor of one of Carl Jung's alleged mistresses.

Most teenage boys have famous athletes or musicians as heroes – and Dobie had a few of those – but, mostly, for him it was Jung, Kierkegaard, Gandhi, George Carlin and, later, Bill Hicks. Freud might have frowned upon this mistress reference to his car, but Dobie never liked Freud. The man was overrated. Aside from repressed memories and the narcissism of small differences, the smartest thing Freud ever said was, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

But that was all neither here nor there. Several decades after coming off the factory floor, Sabina was the most reliable vehicle Dobie had ever owned. "Because she's American-made," he told anyone who asked. Growing up in Michigan, he valued anything made in America. Too many friends' parents had lost their jobs to slave-wage foreign labor. It was that cold-blooded "profits over people" attitude, in fact, that first made Dobie hate corporations.

He would have preferred Sabina in a color other than the factory-original "dark jade" but, after spending so much just getting her roadworthy, only to lose his job at SaynCorp, he couldn't immediately afford to do anything about it. He could afford it now, but it was no longer a priority. Besides, the color was starting to grow on him.

She had no remote control, just this thing called a key that you had to insert into the door lock. Old school. He used it now and held the door for Kaylie, his damsel in distress, as she climbed in, smiling, amazed to have someone holding the door for her. Chivalry was not dead.

Soaking wet from the rain as she took her seat, she was happier now than she had been in a very long time. This Dobie dude was cool, even if he did drive such an old car. There was something about him she couldn't quite figure out, and that was saying something. She had been figuring guys out since at least the age of twelve. With her looks, it was a survival skill.

A Night to Remember

Once Dobie was in behind the wheel with the doors closed, Kaylie slapped the glove box and shouted through her laughter, "Go, go, go! He's right behind us!"

"Who's right behind us?"

"Nobody," she admitted. "I've just always wanted to do that! Next time, I'll slide across the hood and climb through the window like they do on TV!"

Dobie was laughing as the skies opened up, pouring again, as Sabina pulled into the street. This girl was crazy. The good kind.

Once on the highway, Kaylie pulled out her phone to make a call. "That's weird," she said, holding it up, "I usually get a good signal around here, but now, nothing." Dobie could guess he was the problem, but kept quiet.

As they got onto the Interstate, she said, "We're not far. Second star to the right, and straight on 'til... Exit 109," she paraphrased Peter Pan with a laugh.

He wondered who she meant by "we." Himself and Kaylie? Herself and JD? She and her fellow lunatics back at the asylum? He would find out soon enough.

Meanwhile, inside the diner, JD was picking himself up off the floor. Shaking his head and collapsing into one of the booths, he said to Blount, "Well, that didn't go as planned. Time for Plan B." Blount had no idea there was any plan, A or B.

Driving Kaylie home, Dobie was amazed by his recent good luck with women. His wit and charm gave him a chance with most women, but he never expected to date beauty queens like Kaylie. Ever since leaving Corporate America, though, women seemed drawn to him. There was Crissie and Martha from work; a few women he had met along the tour; then Audrey; and now Kaylie. Unprecedented!

He guessed there was something about standing up in front of an audience that turned women on, but he didn't want to over-think or jinx it. Of course, Crissie and Audrey had been hired to get friendly with him, but he didn't know that.

No matter the machinations behind it, his manufactured good luck with women ignited a legitimately successful trend there. Confidence breeds confidence. What started as fake was now genuine with Kaylie. He hoped.

In addition to fixing his other character flaws, he wanted to stop the one-night stands. He needed to find someone worth sticking with. It was time. He was not one to pine away for a soulmate, and knew it was unwise to get his hopes up. That's just asking to be lonely. If Kaylie could be that someone special, though, that'd be great.

Approaching the latter's Interstate exit, she instructed him to get off there. He had to stifle a joke about "getting off." Be cool! he told himself.

Out of the blue, she offered to guess his age and weight. He wondered where this was coming from. Nerves, he guessed. Some people get chatty. He hoped for her sake it was not normal for her to be jumping into strange men's cars.

When he gave an incredulous look, she explained how a woman at a carnival had guessed her age and weight so accurately one time, even though everyone else thought she was younger. She was inspired to try her own luck.

"I might add it to my résumé if I'm any good at it. You never know when you might need to run off and be a carny! Anyway, I'd say you are 43 years old, 192 pounds and Sagittarius, Leo rising."

She wasn't entirely sure what "Leo rising" meant, but it sounded like something an astrologer might say, so she rolled with it.

"Forty-three?!" he was insulted. "Try thirty-three!"

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Okay, 35," he conceded, hoping this wasn't still too old. He guessed she was 26 but didn't dare ask. "And last time I stepped on a scale I think I was 163 pounds. Otherwise, you were close!"

"Pfft, all that's left is your sign!"

"Well, you got the 'Leo rising' part right," he lied. "And some people say that's the most important part." He had no clue if that was true.

His actual vital stats – if astrology could be included with anything vital – were: 36, one year older than admitted; at least 5 pounds heavier than acknowledged; and Pisces, with nothing "rising" that he was aware of.

By the time they entered Kaylie's house, Dobie was feeling pretty good about things. He smiled, thinking how far he had come – on so many levels – since leaving his corporate job, but didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Never assume. This woman was so perfect – on the surface, at least, but that's all he had to go on – and he was so... not. He never let that stop him before, of course. Lucky for him, men don't have to be good-looking, just confident.

As he surveyed Kaylie's small, cramped, cluttered house, he said, "Money is the root of all evil."

"Well, I must be extra good, then," she quipped, "because I ain't got none!"

"Good one!" he laughed, "but it needs to be abolished."

"What, good comebacks?" she gave a smile while pulling a small suitcase out of the hall closet.

Smart-ass, he realized she was more than just a pretty face. As she wrestled with her luggage, he offered, "Here, let me help you with that."

"No, I got it."

"Anyway," he continued, "I was referring to money. There's no greed or corruption with my proposed system because there's no profit motive. It's the profit motive that ruins everything. Think about it, almost every one of society's ills goes back to money at its core. That, and people trying to get ahead. Healthy people don't need to feel like they're ahead of anyone. Any society with sayings like 'Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing' and 'Nice guys finish last' is one screwed-up culture. Friendly competition is great, but people take it too far."

She looked at him askance as she disappeared into the bedroom. She had not brought him home for a political debate but, to be polite and now speaking loud enough to be heard from the bedroom, she asked, "How does getting rid of money solve all the world's problems? Seems to me it'd make things worse."

"That's what they want you to think!" he shouted back before stopping himself. He was alone with a beautiful woman... in her house... at night. This was no time for debate.

"I'm gonna take a quick shower," she said from somewhere in the bedroom. "Make yourself at home."

Awfully trusting, he thought as he searched for a place to sit. He settled for the kitchen table when he saw the living room couch and chair piled up with clothing. Laundry night?

When Kaylie reappeared, Dobie was mesmerized by her wet hair, freshly-scrubbed smiling face, and absolutely perfect figure bursting out of her gray yoga pants and orange V-neck T-shirt. He had admired the modesty of her clothing earlier but was not going to hold this new look against her.

From her smile and blushing look away, he realized he must have been gawking. To keep from drooling, he cleared his throat and resumed the political discussion.

"You know what Gandhi said about Western civilization, don't you?" She shook her head as he delivered the punch line in a bad Indian accent, "'I think it would be a good idea!'"

It took a second before she laughed that beautiful laugh. "A laugh to launch a thousand ships," as he came to call it. If he had a "smartphone" he would record it and sell it as a ring tone. He'd be rich. But then everyone would have it, and he wanted her all to himself. Selfish, he knew, but he forgave himself in this case.

"Okay, let's go," she said as she set the suitcase down and pulled a black leather jacket off the coat rack by the front door.

"Where are we going?"

"The hotel," she said. "JD has a key to the house. So, unless you want him in bed with us, we need to go. Now. I just hope he's not still at the hotel and sees us coming back."

"Good point," he agreed absently, now focused on her assumption that they would soon be in bed together.

Reaching for the front doorknob, trying to be a gentleman, he took a step back as a middle-aged woman smelling of alcohol and cigarettes emerged through the door.

She was a handsome woman, or would have been if not for the smell. Slightly familiar, too, but not the déjà vu he felt with Kaylie. This woman was a gray-haired version of the latter, at least thirty years on. She was just twenty years Kaylie’s senior, but hard living added a decade or more to her appearance.

"Oh, hey, Mom," Kaylie was clearly surprised to see her. "You're home early."

"Yeah, they let us off..." the older woman's raspy voice trailed off. Her right hand was buried in her purse as she eyed Dobie warily. "Who's this?" she asked rudely, as if he were not there. She knew exactly who he was but wanted to hear what Kaylie had to say about him.

"Oh, this is Dobie, um, Pokanorny," Kaylie flubbed the last name. "You know, from that talk we sat in on at the hotel? Dobie, this is my mom, Claire Ra...."

"He don't need to know my last name!" she cut her off. "Tell him my social security number while you're at it! Don't never tell a man nothing he don't need to know!"

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he smiled cautiously, trying to be diplomatic, ignoring her double-negatives. "Good advice. Keep everyone on a need-to-know basis. My last name is Pokorny. There's no point hiding it since it's on the fliers, and all."

Claire gave him a dirty look, and it hit him that she was that "tough old chain-smoking broad" who should be working at The Blue Spoon Diner. He was trying to remember if she was the one who joined Kaylie on her way out of the conference room at the end of his talk, and Kaylie now confirmed it.

When he extended his hand to shake, she looked at it like it was a dead squirrel. It occurred to him, in her case, squirrel might be what's for dinner any given night. And, it was all he could do to not laugh out loud.

Claire saw the laughter in his eyes and gave him another dirty look. Kaylie intervened with her most cheerful waitress voice, "Well, gotta go!" and once again led Dobie by the hand out the door.

From the front porch, Claire's eyes burned holes through Dobie's back as her precious only child followed him to his car. It was not a coincidence that she showed up when she did. She did not appreciate this smooth-talking stranger waltzing into town and sweeping her daughter off her feet, right under her and JD's noses. Nobody got away with that, but it put a smile on her face to think what JD would do to him.

Dobie was all that Claire heard about as she and Kaylie had walked back to The Blue Spoon after his talk, and he was not especially good-looking. It made no sense.

She pulled her phone out to make a call.

Back out on the road, Dobie said, "So... your mom is... interesting."

Kaylie laughed. "My mom's okay. Used to be a lot of fun, actually. I just wish she had more..."

Class? Dobie thought.

"...class, I guess," she said with a guilty laugh. "But, yeah, she takes some gettin' used to. Still, you shouldn't have laughed at her."

"I didn't laugh at her!"

"Your eyes did. She hates that... and so do I. If you can't laugh at yourself, you're not allowed to laugh at anyone else."

"I laugh at myself all the time! You kiddin' me? Anyways, sorry. I just had a funny thought when I went to shake her hand, and you know how hard it is to not laugh when you know you you're not supposed to. I thought I did well to keep it in."

"What was so funny?"

"Nothing. It sounded funnier in my head."

"Well, I don't know what's worse," she changed the subject, "her liking you or not liking you. She's stolen my dates before, you know. No big deal, really, but who does that to their own daughter?"

"I don't see that happening with me."

"Count yourself lucky."

"You're like a flower," it occurred to him, "surrounded by... fertilizer."

"Um... no one's ever said that before. I'm not sure how to take it."

"It just popped into my head, so I said it. I do that... a lot. No offense."

"No," she smiled, enjoying the sentiment, awkward as it was. She appreciated his honesty and lack of filter. She had the same tendencies. "That's okay."

When the conversation hit a lull, he filled the void with more rhetoric. It gave him something to talk about besides their impending tryst. He hoped there was an impending tryst, and she wasn't simply leading him on as JD said.

"The world doesn't need so many widgets and whatsits," he began.

"'You sound like Doctor Seuss!"

He laughed and continued. "They just end up in landfills and that 'great garbage patch' in the ocean. My system, for most of us, would mean less work. A lot less because, when it comes right down to it, all we really need is food, shelter and something to do."

"I thought all we need is love," she quoted the Beatles. "Turn here."

"I was referring to physical needs."

"So was I," she smiled suggestively.

"...but my ideas," he tried to focus, "are too radical for them."

"'Them' who?"

"The keepers of the status quo. Those who like things just the way they are."

"Come on," she argued. "Things ain't so bad, but I like what you said about saving mom-and-pop businesses." Pointing straight ahead, she said, "The Interstate's just up there."

"They want you to think things aren't so bad," he argued. "But they could be a lot better, so why not try?"

"Better how?"

"Well, everyone‘s a wage slave, spending most of their time and energy commuting to and from and working at some j.o.b. If you want a professional degree, you need a student loan. If you want a home, you take out a home loan. New or almost new car? You need a loan. With home appliances, we can save up and buy it with our own money, but an awful lot of people finance those, too.

"And how do we make payments on all those loans? You have to get a job. Yes, a lot of us start our own businesses and do well, but those are the minority."

"What if we just don't get all those loans?" she said. "Only buy what we can afford?"

"If people had self-discipline and patience," he said, "that works. But you still need some sort of income. I want to get rid of money altogether."

"I've got an idea how to make things better," she said with a smile as he got Sabina up to speed on the Interstate.

"Yeah? What's that?" It was his turn to be a little slow on the uptake until she slid up against him. Their legs made contact and created an actual spark. His foot involuntarily pressed down on the gas, and he swerved into the fast lane. When she placed her hand on his thigh, he got it up to 90 miles an hour before he knew it. Sabina had great acceleration.

"Where is that hotel?!" he said aloud for both of them.

El Lobo Solo

Kaylie had never dated a public speaker before. She admired anyone who could do anything she could not. Sure, she could talk all day long, but not in front of an audience, and not about the things Dobie talked about.

During his earlier talk she was thoroughly enjoying herself until that woman Audrey stood up and started arguing. Kaylie only did what came naturally when she stood to defend him, despite her mom trying to pull her back into her seat. When Dobie stood up for her against JD at the diner, that clinched it. It was as if they were meant to be together.

She felt a complete lack of apprehension with him, which usually meant the guy was boring, but not this time. He might be too opinionated – and older than other boyfriends – but he was doing something with his life, making something of himself, and that made him more attractive than anyone else in town.

The fact that her mom didn't like him helped. He was either her ticket out of there or her next mistake... though she usually had a good sense of where a relationship might take her. Up until now, unfortunately, that had been exactly nowhere, and she was ready for an upgrade.

They were both very happy to get to the hotel. There was a lot of panting and petting as Dobie fumbled with the key card to get into the room. It was taking so long, Kaylie almost suggested they just do it in the hallway, but didn't want him to think she was some sort of freak, so she said nothing.

He might have been okay with the hallway himself if not for the security cameras recording everything. He could never run the risk of someone finding and using such evidence against him. The ubiquitous camera surveillance of the modern world was a favorite complaint during his talks, but he was not going to mention that now.

In their haste to pull into the hotel parking lot, they failed to notice the cook, Blount, out front, smoking a cigarette and taking note of where they parked.

Half an hour later, Dobie and Kaylie were lying in bed, catching their breath. Dobie was smiling as he looked up at the ceiling. There was nothing quite like the first time with somebody, except maybe the second, third, fourth and fifth time.

Kaylie was lying on her side, watching him. She suggested they sneak out of town in the middle of the night. She wanted to get as far away from JD as possible. "Tonight was a slice of heaven," she said, "but I don't feel safe here."

"I've already paid for the conference room in the morning," he argued. "People are expecting me. I'm trying to practice what I preach and be a responsible person. We're perfectly safe."

In the morning, still in bed, Kaylie once again broached the idea of her joining him on the road. "We can be like Bonnie and Clyde," she giggled nervously, "until you get sick of me, anyway."

There was a pregnant pause from Dobie. "I'm more of a one-man band," he began cautiously. When he saw the dejected look on her face, he softened the blow with an uncomfortable laugh. "A lone wolf. El lobo solo."

"You're just making up words!" she smiled uncertainly.

"That really was Spanish, I think, but I do usually work alone. Old habits die hard, and all that."

"What about me?!" She assumed last night would have sealed the deal. It usually did. "It's just wham-bam, thank you ma'am?!" She was kicking herself for jumping into bed too soon once again.

"No," he stumbled through his words, "I'm just explaining why I hesitated. You gave me that hurt look." Recognizing her sincerity, there was no way she was just a one-night stand. There was something truly special about her. He felt it the moment he first laid eyes on her.

He tried to deny it, even to himself, out of habit, but there was no denying it now. "I'm saying yes. Definitely, yes. I thought you were just messing with me. I had to be sure."

"Oh," she smiled and snuggled close. "Well, alrighty then."

And they picked up where they left off last night.

Dobie was late for his own talk. It was Saturday and he had scheduled a mid-morning appearance. It took serious effort to leave Kaylie behind, but he eventually managed to get dressed and down to the conference room.

Kaylie went back to sleep.

Taking the stairs down, Dobie walked with a new spring in his step as he reached the kitchen area and went in search of the hotel's complimentary coffee. Upon entering the conference room, he surveyed its padded metal chairs scattered throughout. Half-full, he smiled, not half-empty. That middle-aged couple from the previous night was back, which he took as a compliment.

An attendee he never expected was the cook, Blount, in the back row. Dobie supposed he should take that as a compliment, too.

Taking another sip of coffee before setting it down on the lectern's interior shelf, Dobie introduced himself to his audience and launched into one of his favorite and typically better-received speeches.

"No one ever accused me of being ambitious," he said with a self-deprecating grin, "but I've always had an overriding need for the truth. Some might call that ambition. I call it compulsion. I don't know. What I do know is people don't always appreciate or give credence to someone else's version of the truth unless that someone has an impressive title and wears the right clothes – usually flowing robes, with amulets and talismans in all the right shapes and symbols. Personally, I favor a business suit," he pointed at himself, "but His or Her Wannabe Eminence must also perform the proper rituals, preferably in front of a microphone with enough reverb to give their voice that word of God, spoken from on high sound." As he said this, he fiddled with a knob hidden within the lectern connected to the microphone to give his voice the effect just described.

With a laugh, he continued, "If they have a secret handshake and say thy, thou and thee a lot, it helps. Lacking all of the above, people want to discount it as myth, folklore, superstition or mere opinion."

People dressed in everything from shorts and flip-flops to bathing suits to pajamas to full business suits wandered in and out of the conference room – or stopped in the doorway – on their way to and from their complimentary breakfast in the adjoining dining room.

Dobie noticed half a dozen chairs from yesterday's talk had been removed, apparently required elsewhere. The talk was going well. The audience was interested, for the most part. Several minutes in, he noticed a woman staring at his crotch, or into space at nothing. He wasn't sure which. Was his fly open? He checked. No, but he made a mental note to get that woman's number.

Wait, no, he reminded himself. I've got Kaylie now.

The thought of her made him smile, but the woman in front of him thought he was smiling at her. From that point forward, he had her rapt attention. Groupie!

"The world gives us problems," he continued with a smile, spreading his arms wide. "I give the world solutions! I'm not pretending to be anyone's guru or savior. I want people to be their own savior, and I'm not here to be idolized. It's not like I'm a rapper, actor, athlete, or any of those so clearly worthy of your worship.

"Personally, I find gurus annoying. I know I'm up here acting like one but, if you're like me, you don't want someone else's answers. You want to find your own. Most of us only listen to know-it-alls like me for confirmation of what we already know. It's the mystery of life, the lack of answers that keeps us going! So-called gurus don't know any more than you, really. They're just better at putting it into words. Everyone can teach everyone else something."

And, for that, Dobie received a standing ovation – his first – from a sizable portion of the crowd, at least. His groupie up front was the most ecstatic. He looked behind him to make sure no one famous had walked in. Nope. It was all for him.

What surprised him most was that it came after his completely off-the-cuff and unrehearsed remarks. He laughed to think maybe he should speak more often without thinking, or at least start each day in bed with Kaylie. Preferably the latter. Something had inspired him.

"I haven't always been a pseudo-guru," he continued. "Hey, Pseudo Guru can be my stage name from now on!"

He truly believed in his own ideas and point of view, but tried not to take himself too seriously. Self-deprecation was his way of staying humble... -ish.

Kaylie was lying in bed, facing away from the door, only partly under the covers. She was thinking about going downstairs and surprising Dobie when she heard the door open behind her. She rolled over with a smile and began, "I was just thinking..." only to recoil in horror and pull the sheet to cover herself when she saw who it was.

JD filled the entire doorway with his massive frame. He was not happy. He thought he and Kaylie were still a couple.

"Mornin', sunshine!" his mouth formed a greasy smile, but his eyes were deadly as he slipped halfway into the room. "What were just thinking?"

"How did you...?" she looked around. More than just startled, she was frightened, fully aware of what JD was capable of when betrayed. She once saw him savagely beat a former friend who had been caught stealing. The guy would have ended up in the morgue if the police had not broken it up.

His almost palpable brutality was what first attracted her to him. He was exciting at first, but she now realized now how stupid it was to ever get involved with him. She was scared, but not one to scream and run at the first sign of trouble. Her father taught her to always stop and think. There was always time for that, he said, and almost always a way out of any predicament. "You might be able to talk your way out of it."

She was doing her best now to follow that advice, but nothing was coming to mind. She might have to submit to JD and escape while he slept it off – as he always did – but that would be her last resort. The thought of his touch sent a cold chill down her back.

Still wearing that greasy smile, he held the door ajar. She didn't know if he was keeping it open for his own quick exit or, worse, to let someone lurking behind him into the room.

"Jimmy's working the front desk," he answered her unfinished question. "Loaned me a master key and told me what room you were in."

"Well, that was mighty nice of him," Kaylie was sarcastic, "but the manager of this hotel is one of my best customers at the diner. Remember, the one who's always joking about leaving his wife and taking me away from all this? I'll make sure your little friend Jimmy gets fired."

"You mean the manager I put in the hospital," JD asked, "'cuz he wouldn't stop hitting on you? Yeah, I remember him."

This was news to Kaylie. It also explained why she hadn't seen the man in a while. Typical JD. Any man stupid enough to make eyes at Kaylie with JD around often ended up in the hospital.

"Anyway, you need to get outta here before I scream and someone calls the cops! You know how loud I can scream."

Her own words reminded her to look for her phone. She spotted it on the small table in the opposite corner of the room, out of reach. She'd never get to it before JD stopped her.

She crawled out from under the sheets, naked, more annoyed than frightened now. She was determined to talk her way out of this as she slid off the far side of the bed. Either way, she was going to be dressed.

She had just gotten her bra and panties on when Blount the Boob Whisperer came through the door. When he saw her half naked, he squealed in anticipation and rushed in to get a better look.

Now outnumbered, she thought talking her way out of it might not be an option. Maybe she could hit JD with something and escape past the older and presumably slower Blount. She looked around for something to throw, but there was nothing. And, no matter how hard she might swing the nightstand alarm clock at JD, it would not hurt. The reading lamps were bolted to the wall.

That's when she screamed at the top of her lungs. Down the hall, a small, middle-aged Asian-American cleaning woman named Doris heard it, dropped everything, and called the front desk. A few other hotel guests stuck their heads out. Some of them made the same call as Doris. At least one called 911. Some did nothing, preferring discretion over valor.

Jimmy took all of the concerned guests' calls but, of course, did nothing about it. JD had anticipated these calls and promised to fix Jimmy's transmission in exchange for running interference like this.

Jimmy asked what it was all about, and JD said it was just a prank for his YouTube channel. They couldn't let Kaylie in on it because they wanted her to look surprised for the cameras. Jimmy never knew JD had a YouTube channel. It seemed out of character, but he let it slide because he'd been asking for JD's help with his transmission for months by that point and it looked like the big man was finally going to come through.

Three floors down in the conference room, Dobie was onto the subject of his book, Be Good, his initial foray into publishing. He explained to his audience that he had read so many philosophy, self-help, and motivational books over the years, he decided to write one himself.

"How hard could it be? The hardest part was quieting the internal voices telling me to not even try."

Watson's most recently hired agent provocateur, Dobie's "groupie," was standing before him now, asking about it, keeping him occupied. Be Good, he explained, was inspired by his own name, Dobromir. According to his research, any word starting with "d-o-b-r" (or their Cyrillic equivalent) roughly means "good" in several Slavic languages. And Dobie was referring to being good as in good at something, making all the right moves. One's behavior is important, of course – "you shouldn't be greedy and always scheming to take advantage of others" – but his book was not a "how to" for being a well-behaved suck-up. Every corporate Employee's Handbook already had that covered.

Based on the poor sales of Be Good – though he told himself it was not bad for a first attempt – Dobie's greatest fear upon starting this current tour was to end up like Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live, living in his van down by the river. He was pleasantly surprised how well Another Way was selling. So well, in fact, it was not long before he was earning more than when he was slaving away at SaynCorp. If he had foreseen that – and meeting Kaylie – he would have quit the corporate world years ago. He seemed to be a natural at this public speaking stuff.

"Know that you are good," he now read aloud a few lines from the book. "A good attitude leads to good behavior, which leads to good performance, which leads to good results. So... 'Be good. Be creative. Be yourself.' I've got that on bumper stickers. Five bucks each.

"Coming up with sayings is a favorite pastime. Another one is, 'Mind over matter is all well and good, but heart over mind makes you do what you should.' I've got that on bumper stickers, T-shirts and coffee cups, too. What I'm saying with that one is that the mind is a wonderful thing – and of course 'a terrible thing to waste' – but in a lot of ways it's just a dumb computer that needs your heart and soul for proper direction.

"Your heart is almost always right. Your mind, only sometimes. There are so many smart people – me included – who are still too stupid sometimes to do the right thing. Point being, don't go around thinking intellect is the end-all, be-all."

He never heard Kaylie scream, but did experience a feeling of dread. He stopped talking, listened for a moment, then shrugged it off and continued.

"Of course, the worst kind of idiot is the one who thinks he's smart. And, no, I'm not talking about myself." That got a laugh, and Dobie took that as his cue to take a seat and sign autographs.

As soon as she got to the front of the line, Watson's agent (Dobie's groupie) was asking him out on a date, and he was seriously considering it. He was crazy about Kaylie but, in his experience, that meant she would not be sticking around. That's how it usually worked. Every time he got serious with a woman, she would dump him or something would happen, and it would be over.

The woman now standing before him could be his backup plan. All is fair in love and war, he reminded himself.

Major Watson never asked this woman to date Pokorny. He only caught on now because she was wearing a wire. He had assumed Dobie would never be stupid enough to jeopardize his relationship with Kaylie. Watson never would have. His agent was improvising, going off-script, which left him thinking Dobie might be that charismatic leader Charonne feared, after all.

Dobie never noticed Watson, but did see that Blount was gone. There was just something about that creeper's disappearance that convinced Dobie to not ignore this odd feeling he was having. He needed to go check on Kaylie.

"I'll be right back," he told the audience on his way out.

Blount let the heavy door slam shut behind him to block out Kaylie's screams. JD pushed him out of the way to get to her first. He tried to cover her mouth, but she slipped out of his grasp and hopped back onto the bed. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, almost dancing. She stopped screaming to focus on finding a way past Blount and out the door.

Looking up at her in her sexiest bra and panties – chosen especially for Dobie – Blount stood mesmerized. Using his temporary stupor to her advantage, Kaylie bounced up then down into the bed, leveraging its springs to launch herself toward the door. She assumed she could get past the older and slower Blount, but he was quicker and stronger than expected.

He pulled her into his arms and held tight. A lifetime of blue-collar, mostly manual labor jobs had kept him in decent shape. It wasn't until recently that he was forced to be a cook because no one else would hire him.

She was screaming again, so he grabbed her roughly from behind and placed a hand over her mouth. Clutching her, he looked over her shoulder and down upon her breasts, rising and falling with every frightened breath. Giggling like a fiend – this was a highlight of his miserably depraved life – he placed his left hand on her left breast while his right hand remained over her mouth until JD could drag duct tape across it. JD did so, but only after forcing Blount's left hand down to her waist.

As JD went looking for the rest of her clothes, Blount laid his head on the back of Kaylie's neck and smiled blissfully. Tears came to her eyes and she screamed again but, because of the tape, nothing came out.

She threw an elbow with all her might into Blount's rib cage. He lurched in pain, but held tighter still.

She stomped down hard with her right barefoot heel onto his toes. His work boots kept it from hurting as much as it might have but it was enough to cause him to briefly let go of her.

JD came back around the bed with her pants and shirt in hand. He didn't bother with her shoes. Seeing the two of them struggling as they were, he shook his head, dropped her clothes onto the bed, and pulled a stun gun out of his back pocket.

Blount once again grabbed a hold of Kaylie. "Let me have her, JD," he begged. "Just once, and I can die a happy man!"

JD fired the stun gun. Its terminals hit Blount directly, but the electricity flowed through him and into Kaylie, knocking the legs out from under both of them.

"We're not doing this for you to get your jollies, old man!" JD yelled at Blount, who was now on the floor underneath Kaylie, probably enjoying that, too. "If you're not careful, you will die, but you won't be happy!"

With some difficulty, he got Kaylie's clothes back on her. Not out of modesty or good manners, he simply wanted to be less conspicuous as they escaped. He wrapped her hands and ankles in duct tape, picked her up, and threw her over his shoulder.

With a smile, he said to Blount, "There's yer proof, bubba, all ya need for fixin' anythin' is duct tape!"

His bruised and slightly disoriented partner-in-crime got up and held the door as JD carried their prize catch into the hallway. Watching for witnesses, trying to be nonchalant – as if that was possible – they moved quickly toward the stairs at the far end of the hall.

One enterprising young man, 15 or so, captured a few seconds of video of JD, Blount and Kaylie from behind as they escaped down the hall. Being a teenage boy, however, he zoomed in on Kaylie's cleavage.

From the angle of the footage, it was impossible to say with any certainty that it was JD and Kaylie, but Blount was careless enough to look behind them just before going out the back door. His ugly mug was caught on camera.

The same cleaning woman, Doris, came out of a room two doors ahead of them. She saw them, realized Kaylie was the one who had been screaming, and immediately disappeared back inside the room, leaving her cart in the hallway. The deadbolt could be heard locking from the inside.

JD thought about shooting her through the door but didn't want to draw any more attention than necessary. He just hoped she kept quiet. If not, he knew where to find her.

With Blount taking the lead, the kidnappers took the stairs two at a time down to the propped-open back door. JD's black, late-model Chrysler 300 with blacked-out windows waited outside with the motor running.

Some New Moves

Dobie climbed the stairs on the opposite side of the building – he always took the stairs – and was hurrying down the hall toward their room when he spotted one of Kaylie's hairbands on the hallway floor near their door. Could be anybody's hairband, he tried to calm his nerves.

Opening their room and calling her name, he got no answer. He checked every inch of that room. Nothing. He was starting to think she finally came to her senses and dumped him. Then he saw her phone on the far side of the room on the table. He didn't know her well, but assumed she never went anywhere without that. The clincher was when he tripped over her Keds, left behind.

With another feeling of dread, he knew she had been taken. He grabbed her phone and shoes, bolted out of the room, and ran down the back stairwell.

A small, mixed-breed, gray-haired dog was sniffing around JD's car. Its tail began to wag at the sight of JD. Most people would say something nice, even bend down and pet it. JD's response was to kick it, sending it yelping away. Blount giggled at the dog's misfortune as he tried to get into the backseat with Kaylie. JD grabbed and threw him into the front passenger seat.

"What'd I tell you, Blount?! Don't touch her! You can have her mom."

"That old bag?" Blount complained.

"She's younger than you, dumb-ass! Play your cards right, and I'll stop banging her and let you have her all to yourself."

Kaylie's eyes went wide. JD saw her reaction in the rear-view mirror and cursed his own big mouth. He had just ruined the mother-daughter combo – though the daughter was unaware – he had been enjoying these past few months.

He liked to imagine himself during sex as Claire's husband and Kaylie's step-father, or Claire's son and Kaylie's brother. He never mentioned it to Kaylie, of course. She wouldn't understand.

Watson and Audrey had spent the night in the same hotel. He was in the parking lot following through on his lie to Audrey that he needed to get something out of his car. What he actually needed was to get away from her for a minute. She was a little too lovey-dovey lately, and joking about marriage, which he could not abide.

When he saw Dobie come around the corner to confront JD, he smiled and slipped inside his Escalade to watch in comfort whatever might unfold before him. He only wished he had popcorn.

Dobie came out the exit door, around the corner, and planted himself in front of JD's car. It occurred to him too late he should have brought his gun. He kept it in the glove box but was so not a gun person, he forgot he even had one.

All he had in his hand was her shoes. He couldn't see her in the backseat but assumed she was there or in the trunk.

"Hey!" he shouted.

JD was behind the wheel and about to step on the gas. He could have easily run Dobie over, and probably would have if it was anyone else. Instead, he shook his head, shifted back into Park, and got out to deal with the old man.

"Time for a rematch!" he said with a smile as he got out. "This time, you'll be the one on the floor, Dopey!"

"Ground," Dobie reflexively corrected JD's choice of words. He had no idea why. It just came out. "And my name is Dobie."

"Whatever, Dopey," JD sneered. "I'm about to kick your ass, and you're correcting my grammar? Nice shoes," he gestured toward the Keds.

He watched a lot of professional wrestling and ultimate fighting, and seriously considered getting into one or both himself. Now was the perfect opportunity to try some of those new moves he came up with. Shouldn't even break a sweat.

As Dobie set the shoes on the ground, it occurred to him that JD smiled a lot, but it was never friendly. It was more like an animal baring its fangs. He wondered if animals thought humans were baring their fangs when they smiled, but now was not the time for such thoughts.

He remembered Kaylie's phone in his pocket, and tried to think of a way to get it inside JD's car. Its screen was locked, but maybe someone could use a tracking app to track her down. Use surveillance technology to his advantage, for a change.

One flying spin move and punch from JD later, however, Dobie's clever idea was a moot point. It was his turn to hit the ground, unconscious.

JD laughed as he got back into his car. He was right. He hadn't even broken a sweat but did hurt his hand on Dobie's face.

"You still got it," Blount tried to high-five him as he climbed in, but JD only glared at him. High-fiving would have hurt too much.

He checked to make sure Kaylie was still in the backseat. She was on her back, glaring at him, but still there. He was a bit surprised Blount wasn't back there on top of her.

He finally sped off toward Blount's trailer in the woods on the outskirts of town, burning rubber all the way out of the parking lot. It was not the best way to remain inconspicuous, but that was JD.

With JD gone and Dobie lying unconscious, Watson got out of his car and walked over to check on the latter. Looking down, smoking a cigarette, he was disappointed to find Dobie still breathing. Things would be a lot easier if he was dead. That way, when he rescued Kaylie in a few minutes, she would happily let him replace Dobie as her new man. It was time to let his current girl Audrey go, but he liked to have a replacement lined up first.

Watson left Dobie lying there. Someone would find him and call for help... eventually. He did take the opportunity to replace the old tracking device planted in Sabina's wheel well. The old one had short-circuited, which had never happened before. Those things were rock solid.

Watson had no trouble following Dobie up to this point, with or without the tracker, but the device allowed him to follow farther behind, beyond visual contact to avoid detection. The same model device had been planted in JD's vehicle, as well, installed the moment Watson realized JD was Kaylie's ex-boyfriend. Its broadcast signal was now going to lead him to Blount and JD's hideout. There was nothing like a jealous ex-boyfriend to lead him to an ex-girlfriend, in this case Kaylie. Wherever she went, JD was sure to follow.

No one ever did come to help Dobie, though the dog JD had kicked walked up, sniffed Dobie and peed on his leg. When Dobie came to, he was alone on the hard pavement. Loose dirt and bits of gravel stuck to his skin. JD and Kaylie were gone. It was a mystery how long he'd been passed out on the ground. He then caught a whiff of urine.

It wasn't until he stood up and started walking – with his jaw throbbing and one or two broken ribs – that he felt something damp against his leg. Looking down, he caught that distinctive smell again and realized he had been peed on. He assumed it was JD's doing.

He closed his eyes in exasperation, shook his head, picked up Kaylie's shoes and limped back to his room for a shower and change of clothes. The back door was still propped open, so he went that way. He and the cleaning woman eyed each other warily as she came down the stairs while he went up.

Dobie set about searching for Kaylie, completely forgetting the audience left hanging in the conference room. His first stop was the diner. Someone there might know something.

An older man and woman – presumably, the owners – were working the day shifts of Blount's and Kaylie's respective jobs. They seemed genuinely shocked and saddened when told what happened to Kaylie, but not surprised to hear Blount was involved.

When Dobie asked if they had any idea where they might have taken her, the man suggested Blount's place. "Him and JD hang out there a lot..." he began.

"... partying with whores from the truck stop," the wife finished his sentence. "He never came in today."

"Where does that creep live?" Dobie asked as a shiver went down his back.

"I'll text you his address," the woman said.

"Can you just tell me? I don't have a phone."

When she gave him the usual surprised look, he forced a good-natured laugh. "I know. Who doesn't have a cell phone these days, right? Long story. Oh, wait, I've got Kaylie's. She left it behind."

The woman texted Blount's address to Kaylie's phone. Not knowing its password, Dobie memorized the address in those few seconds it was visible on the screen. On his way out the door, they assured him that Blount would be fired immediately.

He turned, gave a slight chuckle, and said, "He'll be dead soon, if I have anything to do with it."

"The town would owe you a debt of gratitude," said the man. "But, uh, you wouldn't happen to have experience as a fry cook, would you?"

"I do, actually," Dobie again chuckled, "but no thanks." On his way across the parking lot, he remembered the audience he had left waiting.

Returning to the now-mostly-empty room, he saw quite a few of his books were missing. Someone even stole his "Don't Shoot the Messenger" coffee cup.

"What else can go wrong?" he said aloud.

Things had been going so well for him up until now. Too well, apparently. This is the universe balancing things out.

His groupie was gone. To the few people still hanging around awaiting his return, he said, "Show's over, folks. Sorry. Something's come up. Take a book on your way out. They're apparently free today."

The stragglers got up and rushed forward for their free book. Dobie doubted they cared about the book so much as it was just something free, and they didn't want to miss out. Fellow audience members became each other's competition, and they pounced like hyenas on the carcass of Dobie's presentation.

* * * *

Elsewhere, the father of the kid with video evidence of the kidnapping noticed his son's obsession with it, and asked to see for himself. They shared a father-son bonding moment admiring Kaylie's cleavage before the man instructed his son to forward the video to the police.

"How?" the kid asked.

"If I knew how," the man said, "I would've done it myself."

"No, I mean, where do I send it?"

They eventually figured it out and the police were notified.

* * * *

Two male police officers, both white, one a decade older than the other, arrived just as Dobie's book giveaway began. Dobie assumed they were there to talk about Kaylie. The crowd calmed down upon the officers' arrival.

"It's okay," Dobie said to everyone. "Go ahead and take one. Just one!" To the officers, he said, "We can talk while I pack if that's okay. Pack what's left, anyway. I would file a complaint about the stolen books and mug, but I just don't care at this point."

"Don't get any ideas about looking for Miss Daniels yourself," the older cop warned. "We'll do that. You just sit tight and let us do our jobs."

"I could say 'yes, sir' like a good little boy," said Dobie, "but I'm not a good little boy. I'm telling you right now, I am not going to sit tight. You should appreciate the help, actually."

The man shook his head but didn't argue. "Stay out of the way at least?"

The younger one, watching Dobie closely for signs of guilt, asked, "So, when did you last see Kaylie?"

Dobie made a face at this cop's obvious suspicion. He wondered if the guy would recognize guilt if he saw it, but the man did seem genuinely concerned for Kaylie's welfare. One of many men in town, Dobie guessed, with a crush on her.

"This morning," Dobie answered the question. "Right before coming down here for my talk."

"Where have you been all morning?" the older one asked.

"I just said, right here, talking. Ask anyone who attended. While you're at it, ask if they plan to pay for the books they stole."

"Did you give your room key to anyone?" the older one asked.

"Why would I do that!?"

"Just answer the question," the younger one snapped.

"No!" Dobie said angrily.

"No, you didn't give your key to anyone? Or, no, you won't answer the question? I've heard about you people. Sovereign citizens, they call themselves," he said for his senior partner's benefit. "Not the sort to cooperate with the police."

"I didn't give my key to anyone!" Dobie shot back. The younger cop put his hand on his gun. See that, Dobie softened his tone. "Sorry, I tend to shout when under duress." He wanted to say "When dealing with idiots," but controlled himself.

He had no faith in these two finding Kaylie but reminded himself they were only trying to help. He had to play nice. Be good!

Once the questioning was finished, Dobie expected one of them to give him a business card. When they didn't, he asked for one. The older cop asked for his number in return, and Dobie had to admit to not owning a cell phone. They gave him the usual look.

"Well then," the younger cop wanted to know, "how are you gonna call us if you ain't got a phone?"

Dobie closed his eyes and briefly turned away before saying something he would regret. Turning back, he said, "I'll use a pay phone or the hotel phone or borrow someone else's phone! Hey, actually, I've got her phone," he remembered. "She left it behind, but I don't know the password."

"We'll need that," the older cop spoke immediately, and held out his hand. "For evidence."

Dobie was not comfortable giving it up. "No, I think I'd better hang onto it."

"There has been a kidnapping, sir," the older one barked at him, "and that phone is evidence! You need to hand it over, right now!"

The younger one took a step back and pulled his gun on Dobie.

"Okay, okay!" Dobie was genuinely afraid of being shot. He relented and gave it up.

Both cops gave him a dirty look before walking away, shaking their heads and muttering to each other.

The Barn

At Blount's house, JD drove too fast down the long, gravel driveway while Blount pressed imaginary brakes until they came skidding to a stop in front of the barn. They chose Blount's place as their hideout because the gravel driveway was too loud for anyone to sneak up on them.

JD pulled Kaylie out of the back seat, still bound and gagged and angrier than he had ever seen her. He hoisted her onto his shoulder and moved quickly toward the dilapidated old barn twenty yards to the right of Blount's double-wide. It reminded him of his high school football days, recovering a fumble and running for a touchdown.

Seeing the large, sliding barn door padlocked, JD snapped, "Shit, Blount, dumb-ass, it's still locked!"

"Hold yer horses, bubba," Blount smiled as he pulled out his keys. He was on his home turf now and feeling more assertive. Opening the padlock slowly, just to irritate JD, he said, "We got time."

Once inside the barn, JD set Kaylie down upon the torn-up, brown leather couch against a stack of old, gray hay bales. Untying her feet, he said, "Don't try to run. We'll just chase you down. I might even let Blount here have you, after all."

This brought a smile to Blount's face, though JD had no intention of letting that happen. He was only putting the fear of God into her. Not wanting to hear what she had to say, he left the duct tape on her mouth. Hands, too. He knew from experience the girl could pack a serious punch.

She shouted at him through the gag, but he ignored her, lit a cigarette to help him think and figure out his next move. This abduction had not been planned as thoroughly as he would have liked.

When his phone rang, he dug it out of his front pocket. Checking to see who it was, he answered, "Yeah?"

"Is that how you talk to me now?" Kaylie's mom, Claire asked on the other end. "How is it going? You didn't hurt her, did you?"

"No. Still in the middle of it," he hoped he was being cryptic enough so Kaylie wouldn’t know what he was talking about.

He wasn’t, and she could guess.

"What do you need?" he asked, nodded a few times, listening and taking orders. "Alright, alright."

Hanging up, he announced to the room, "I got something I gotta do. Blount, you stay with Kaylie. I'll be right back."

When he caught the look Blount was giving her, though, he stopped, turned and put both hands on the much smaller man's shoulders. "Blount, I'm only gonna say this once: You touch Kaylie while I'm gone, you die. Got that? If I get back and she says you did anything to her – anything at all – you're dead! Comprehendee?" he mangled the Spanish word.

"Got it, boss!" Blount reverted to the prisoner's habit of referring to everyone as "boss."

JD leaned in and whispered, "Remember, we're only using her..." He stopped when he saw Kaylie listening in. She had sneaky-good hearing. Could read lips, too. So, he just stopped talking altogether.

Kaylie could not hear what JD whispered, but did take comfort in his threat to Blount. It was a path to ridding herself of The Boob Whisperer once and for all. She could say Blount touched her and – no questions asked – JD would beat him severely if not kill him. Not out of chivalry. He simply could not abide anyone else touching what he considered to be his property. To him, she was not much more than a prize won at the carnival.

She was not the type to knowingly get anyone hurt, but if push came to shove, she could push Blount off the nearest cliff.

"Hey," she tried to shout as JD walked away. "Ungag me!"

Turning around, he laughed and said, "See that? I actually understood you, like that time you had us play kidnapper and, uh, kidnappee."

She blushed at the memory. As he removed the duct tape from her mouth, she said, "The word is captive, dumb-ass, not kidnappee."

"Need something to drink?" he ignored the insult, feigning good manners.

She wasn't falling for it but was desperate for a Coke, water, anything to soothe her parched throat. "Yes!" she gave in.

* * * *

The barn had not been a proper barn in years. Upon inheriting the property – after his parents died under questionable circumstances – Blount converted it into a party room complete with kitchenette along a side wall. There were plastic utensils, cups, and paper plates on the shelves above the sink. A portable stove sat to the right of that. Two feet away along the front wall sat a small refrigerator. The focus of the room was the big-screen television.

Despite JD's long-standing friendship with Blount, Kaylie had never set foot on the latter's property before. She always made an excuse to leave whenever Blount tried to tag along. She would not have expected him to afford such a large, new TV, then realized it was probably stolen.

JD went to the fridge and pulled out a two-liter bottle of SunDrop. Unless Blount had bought a new one, he knew this was spiked with party drugs meant to take advantage of anyone unwary enough to enter their lair.

He filled a cup for Kaylie and handed it to her. "Here you go."

"You didn't put anything in it, did you?"

"You saw me," he feigned innocence. "I just now poured it straight from the bottle!"

She was incredibly thirsty, but suspicious. "You drink first."

He scoffed, said, "I will!" and took a small sip.

"Swallow it!"

JD did as he was told. Blount was embarrassed to see him controlled like this.

Satisfied, Kaylie took a sip and gave it a second to make sure it tasted right. It tasted fine, and she gulped down the rest.

Almost immediately, JD spit his onto the floor. She looked down, appalled. "How did you... I saw you swallow!"

"Fooled ya!" he howled with laughter.

Blount cackled. His hero had redeemed himself.

"I can swallow while keeping water in my mouth."

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you," she said, wondering why anyone would bother to learn that.

"Genius!" said Blount, while JD nodded and smiled at his obsequious friend.

Kaylie shook her head, furious with herself for being outmaneuvered by idiots.

JD wanted the drugs to keep her docile until it was over, make her pliable and, most importantly, leave her no memory of what happened.

He actually believed they might get back together once this Dobie dude was frightened off, and was counting on her having no recollection. It was a longshot, he knew, but a dumb-ass can dream.

Approaching from the west, Dobie spotted JD's car a couple hundred yards ahead as it pulled out of Blount's driveway as he went on his mysterious errand. With JD now directly ahead of him, Dobie continued past the driveway, pretending to be just another car on the road going who-knows-where. There was a dip and turn in the road ahead that Dobie hoped might work in his favor.

As per her instructions, JD was on his way to Claire's house. He was also keeping an eye in his rear-view mirror. He always made a point of knowing who drove what in the area, so when Dobie's car, unfamiliar to him, failed to reappear after that dip and turn, he guessed what had happened. He scoffed, shook his head, and turned back toward Blount's.

Dobie drove slowly down Blount's driveway – keeping his speed down so the sound of his tires on the gravel would not give him away – all the while looking for a place he might turn around and escape, should that be necessary. He parked pointed toward the road, allowing for a quick exit. Closing its door quietly as he got out, he crept toward the trailer, looking for a window to peek through. He had no idea how ironic it was for someone to be peeping into Blount's windows instead of the other way around.

A man's angry voice, not directed at him, came from inside the barn. He turned and headed that way. It might have been Blount, but it was hard to say. He had never heard the man say anything other than "order up" back at the diner.

He checked both sides of the barn for another way in besides its front entrance. He would have checked the far side of the barn, too, but thick woods, overgrown brush, and rusted-out farm equipment made that too slow-going. It would have to be the front door, which had been left open.

It occurred to him, again too late, he should have brought his gun from the car. And, he kicked himself for such continued stupidity.

The man's voice was louder now. "You're gonna enjoy this, honey. Just you wait!"

There was no time for Dobie to get his gun, so he sneaked into the barn. Blount heard something and looked up. Not seeing anyone, he ignored it and returned his attention to Kaylie. He was not going to be distracted from this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity sitting hog-tied before him.

The barn had a small foyer area in front of Blount's make-shift man cave. The two areas were separated by a wall with an open doorway large enough for a tractor. Behind this, Kaylie sat on the torn-up old couch.

Dobie could not see her, but found an empty horse stall on the left in which to hide, diagonal and opposite from the refrigerator. He was trying to find a crack or gap to peek through when he heard Kaylie speak, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"Didn't you hear JD?!" she slurred her speech. "He's going to kill you!"

Dobie guessed she had been drugged.

"He said we're only using you," Blount corrected her with a giggle. "This is me using you! Whatever he does to me, it'll be worth it."

He said that with a finality that convinced her he was completely serious.

"At least I'll go out with a bang!" He laughed uproariously at his own joke and unzipped his pants.

That's when Dobie emerged from the shadows. He'd stayed hidden for fear that others were lurking nearby, but now he had to act, no matter how outnumbered he might be.

"Hey!" he shouted, and Blount turned to look. Seeing Dobie, he scoffed.

JD entered the barn. Squeezing his large frame through the door, gun in hand, he saw Dobie a few feet ahead of him. A look of surprise crossed his face, and he could have easily shot him but wanted to sneak up on Blount. He shushed Dobie with a smile and finger to his lips.

Kaylie used the distraction to wriggle off the couch and across the hay bales toward the back of the barn, away from Blount. With drool literally dripping from his mouth, Blount ignored Dobie to focus on his half-naked prey in front of him, getting away.

When he finally noticed JD, he didn't say a thing. He knew he was a dead man. There was time for just one last giggle.

JD took an extra step forward to keep Kaylie out of the line of fire, and shot Blount three times. Twice in the side, and once through the left ear into his brain.

The ogre was dead.

Still unable to scream – stunned by what transpired in front of her – Kaylie stared in shock at JD while trying to find her breath.

He ignored her as he stood over Blount's body. "There you go, Blount! You died a happy man! Well, almost happy." And he gave a sickening laugh.

Taking the opportunity to escape, Dobie bolted out of the barn, jumped into Sabina and started her up. JD smiled triumphantly and fired a wayward shot at him.

Kaylie, now sitting up and leaning against the hay bale, covered her ears at the sound of gunfire. She could not believe Dobie had abandoned her.

Dobie was not going anywhere. He reached into the glove box and pulled out his Astra A70 9mm semi-automatic. It had been years since he last fired it. Even then, it was only for target practice. He hoped he remembered how to use it. He hoped it still worked. Semi-automatics tend to jam.

Seeing that it was not loaded, he cursed himself for the hundredth time and set about loading the damned thing. He had the gun in one hand and its clip in the other when Major Watson appeared out of nowhere at his passenger window.

Startled, Dobie pointed the gun at him, but Watson only smirked and gestured for him to roll the window down. At this point, Watson was only slightly familiar from Dobie’s earlier talk. Still, he had no idea what the man was doing there.

Hopefully, he's not with Blount or JD!

As old as Sabina was, she did at least have power windows, not the old hand-crank type most cars her age had. Dobie lowered the front passenger window about a third of the way down.

Watson laughed and spoke softly, fully aware that somebody – he didn't know who shot who – was armed and still inside the barn. "Even if it was loaded, it'd be hard to shoot me with the safety on."

"Who are you?" Dobie was confused. "What are you doing here?"

"Keep your voice down," Watson ignored the questions. "Give me that!" he said while grabbing the gun and clip out of Dobie's hands. "I've got this. This is what I do. You stay in the car while I do my thing."

Well, now I'm screwed, Dobie thought. Aloud, he said, "That's basically what the cops told me, but here I am, and where are they?"

Hoping Watson was one of the good guys, Dobie left Sabina running, climbed out, and said, "Kaylie’s still in there! I'm coming with you!"

"To do what," Watson shook his head, "get you and her both killed? Just stay here!"

When Dobie followed after him, anyway, Watson turned back, shook his head and asked, "Do you at least know how to use this thing?"

Dobie nodded. Watson made sure it was loaded and cocked before handing it back to him with the barrel pointed downward. "Alright," he whispered, "I guess a little back-up never hurts. Just don't shoot me in the ass! Who am I dealing with in there, anyway? Blount or JD?"

"JD."

Watson nodded. Standing to the side of the open barn door, he pointed and said, "I'm going in. You stay here and shoot anyone that comes out before me or the girl. Oh, and," he grinned, "release the safety first."

He was enjoying himself. He hadn't seen live-fire action in years.

Seconds after he slipped into the barn, several shots were fired. A bullet whizzed past Dobie's head, followed by dead silence.

He stood in front of the barn, ready for action, fairly sure this would be his last day on Earth. He was not the action hero type, and knew it. He didn't dare guess who might be coming out.

Watching the door, with his gun locked and loaded, he swallowed hard twice and whispered to himself, "Be good! Don't miss!"

Kaylie stuck her head out and looked around. Dobie's heart leaped with joy, and a huge smile came to his face as he moved toward her. Her eyes softened at the sight of him, but she was not smiling. Just a couple feet away from her, he hesitated a second to make sure she was coming out alone.

She was. He smiled again, relieved that neither of them would be meeting their Maker that day, after all.

He let the gun drop to the ground. Unfortunately, it was still cocked. They ducked for cover when it went off.

Even Watson, battle-hardened veteran that he was, flinched as he came out of the barn a few paces behind her.

The stray bullet put a hole in Blount's trailer but he was no longer around to complain about it. Looking over there, Dobie noticed it was not the trailer's first bullet hole.

Kaylie tried to rush into Dobie’s arms, but her legs refused to work. He ran up and she fell into his arms, clinging to him, crying with relief.

Watson holstered his weapon and limped toward them. Seeing the blood on his shirt, Dobie asked, "You alright?"

"Flesh wound," Watson grimaced and shook his head.

Dobie smiled at the tough guy act but said nothing.

County sheriffs arrived after the crisis was over and Dobie had already escorted Kaylie back to Sabina. He shook his head at their timing as the three squad cars sped down the long driveway, in full sirens and lights, flinging gravel and stirring up dust along the way. He would not have expected so many deputies to be available in such a low-population area. Must be a slow day.

* * * *

Dobie and Kaylie were inside his car, with the engine off, by the time they were interrogated. The deputies ordered them out of the car, but Dobie insisted Kaylie needed to remain sitting.

"You can interrogate us all you want," he said, "while we sit in the car. Or, not at all." After what they had been through, he was feeling like a bad ass. A little bit like Obi Wan Kenobi, the Star Wars character who, through the power of suggestion, convinced the storm troopers to leave him alone.

Call me Dobie Wan! he thought, but was in no mood for his own stupid jokes. With Blount's maniacal laughter still fresh in his mind, he didn't even want to laugh if it reminded him of him.

He and Kaylie each had a deputy at their respective windows, asking questions and taking notes. Dobie was glad they were not the same cops he spoke with at the hotel, but these guys were not messing around. They had positioned one of their cars to block Sabina in. He and Kaylie weren't going anywhere until the cops were finished with them.

Watson had been pulled aside to be interviewed separately. He seemed to be having a hard time convincing them he was the good guy – hero, even – in all of this.

"The bad guy," he explained with some aggravation, "is dead on the floor of the barn!"

The officer tasked with interrogating Kaylie soon realized she was too traumatized to be properly interrogated. All he asked was "who did this?" and "where does it hurt?"

"Nothing hurts!" she shouted at him, or thought she shouted. "JD and Blount did this! Leave me alone and go find them!"

"I'm sorry," the cop persisted. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

She closed her eyes – this guy was not listening – and turned toward Dobie, also being questioned.

"So, tell me what happened," Dobie's interrogator asked.

"JD and Blount kidnapped Kaylie back at the hotel," he replied, more breathless than expected. He had to clear his throat and swallow a couple of times. Situations like this tended to focus a person. Not Dobie. He wondered – if only briefly – how and why in the human evolutionary path it was deemed necessary for a person to swallow hard like he did now and earlier.

Dismissing his own goofy thought, he continued, "They brought her here, and I followed them. What the hell took you so long?"

The man only glared at him.

"Anyway, I found Kaylie with Blount, who was..." he stopped himself. "Then, JD came out of nowhere and shot him."

"And where were you?"

"I was in the barn, hiding, until I came out and tried to stop it. That's when JD showed up and shot Blount. Then I, uh, ran out..." He didn't like how his own retelling made him sound like a sniveling coward, hiding and running out. "...to get my gun. I ran out to get my gun from the car!"

"Okay, where is that gun now?"

Dobie looked around. "I, uh, I don't know. I guess I dropped it."

The cop shook his head and made notes on his notepad.

"That's when that guy," Dobie pointed at Watson, "showed up and said he'd handle it. He seemed like he knew what he was doing, so I let him. Then I heard several shots and..."

"How many is 'several?'"

"Uh, three, I guess. Bam, bam, bam! Yeah. Then I waited outside the barn door. That's when Kaylie came out, then that guy. Who is he, anyway? I know Blount is dead – he is dead, right? – but never saw JD again. Is he dead, too?"

"Okay," the officer did not answer Dobie's questions, "I'll need you down at the station until we get this all sorted out. We'll take her to the hospital."

He instructed his partner to put Kaylie in the backseat of his patrol car. When she started screaming and wailing and fighting him off – saying she was not getting into anyone’s backseat without Dobie – they told Dobie to take her and follow them for a police escort to the hospital.

"Until then, everyone needs to just stay put!"

Dobie noticed the problems Watson was having. The other deputies noticed, too, and quickly came to the aid of the first. Both reached for their guns as they approached.

"This can't be good," Dobie mumbled as he opened his door. To Kaylie, he said, "I'll be right back. Just wanna see what's going on with our new best friend over there. I don't even know his name. Do you?"

Kaylie did not respond.

"He saved our lives, and saved you from... but I have no idea who he is. And these cops think he's guilty."

Kaylie never said a word, only stared into space. She was numb. Dobie knew the police were right, she needed to be checked out as soon as possible, but he couldn’t leave without them, and they weren’t leaving yet, so he checked on their mysterious savior, Watson.

Heading in that direction, Dobie spotted his own gun on the ground. He left it where it lay, not wanting to be shot while picking it up by one of these trigger-happy cops.

"So, what seems to be the problem, officers?" he asked as he approached.

"None of your concern, sir," said one of them. "Official business. Please remove yourself... Has he been cleared to leave?"

"Negative," said another. "He was told to stay put. Please, sir, get back to your car and wait."

Dobie scoffed. "This man saved my life," he pointed at Watson, "and saved Kaylie from a fate worse than death! I'm not gonna stand by while you treat him like a criminal. He has rights. He's a decorated Army veteran!"

"Air Force, Special Ops," Watson corrected him with a smile. "The Army is for wusses."

"Air Force veteran!" Dobie corrected himself. "He's earned the benefit of the doubt!"

"And we thanked him for his service," another officer replied, "...even if it was only in the Air Force." Everyone laughed, including Watson. "But, sir, please, you need to return to your vehicle until we're ready to go, so..." He made a run-along motion with his hand.

"Don't worry about me, my brother," Watson shook his head at Dobie. "These fellas just can't grasp the concept that a Black man might actually be the good guy. Either way, I've got friends in high places. I might spend a few hours in jail, but that ain't no thang."

"You sure?" Dobie asked. "Anyone I should call?"

Watson shook his head and spit something disagreeable out of his mouth.

Dobie cringed and continued, "Well, alright, then. Oh, but, hey, while I've got you... why have you been following me?"

"Just doing my job."

"Your job?" Dobie frowned. "Who are you?"

"Major Randall Watson, Retired, at your service," he saluted and released. "Your old boss and mine, Colonel Reginald Charonne, asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn't turn into some sort of charismatic leader or whatnot."

"Pfft," Dobie scoffed. "I appreciate your help, Major, but seriously, you can stop following me. Being a leader, charismatic or otherwise, is not my thing. Other than by example, I'm against leadership. It requires followers."

Watson and the deputies stared in disbelief. One of them shook his head. After everything that happened, this guy was talking politics?

An officer placed his hand on the back of Watson's head, as they do, and guided the Major into the back of the squad car. Another one jumped in behind the wheel and started the engine.

Turning to leave, Dobie noticed the third officer – the young, tall, skinny blonde one who interrogated Kaylie – had wandered off and was now crouched down inspecting the crime scene. He picked up Dobie's gun in his gloved hand, set the safety, and held it dangling by the end of the barrel so that Dobie could get a good look at it. "This belong to you?"

Dobie gulped, shook his head no, and continued toward his car without a word. They could keep the gun. It wasn't cheap, but if losing it kept him out of trouble, it was worth it. They would find his fingerprints on it eventually, but he hoped to be long-gone by then.

The officer dropped it into a zip-lock baggie. The patrol car with Watson in back was already at the top of the driveway and getting back onto the road by the time Dobie was at Sabina's door.

"Oh, hey," Dobie began, remembering Kaylie's phone, "what about Kaylie's phone? One of the cops in town took it earlier. Can we have it back?"

"Don't know anything about that," the man shook his head. "Sorry."

"Well, crap," Dobie said as the second patrol car made its way up the driveway and off the property. "There goes that."

For his own peace of mind, Dobie wanted to see someone taking JD's body away. He didn't need such assurances about Blount. There was no doubt that one was dead.

They could not wait for the coroner, though. Kaylie needed to get to the hospital.

Sergeant Bladgett

At the hospital, it was determined Kaylie had suffered no physical damage beyond a few scrapes and bruises. Still, they wanted her to spend the night for observation.

"Give me a prescription," she argued, "and I am outta here!" She didn't want to spend one more minute in that town.

They reluctantly cleared her to leave and Dobie stopped at a local pharmacy to fill her prescription. Getting onto the Interstate, they drove off into the sunset.

Dobie had canceled his talk in Joplin. Their drive could be as long or short as Kaylie needed, but they agreed to get as far away as possible.

The rain started up again and it, along with Kaylie's silence, combined to make him anxious. He would have thought he'd be breathing a huge sigh of relief to be getting out of Dodge, but it was more like when a person is cool, calm and collected while under duress, only to completely collapse once the danger passed. That was where he was, emotionally.

The radio was no help. The only station with a reliable signal played nothing but rap. Every song – if it can be called a song when there is no melody – wanted him to hurt someone, especially The Man, one way or another. It was not the sort of attitude he encouraged, but would admit The Man, as an abstract, could do with some slapping around now and then. Come to think of it, it was pretty much what he now did for a living. He was in no mood, though, for such a violent take on the subject.

Sabina's tape deck worked, but he had no tapes. He had CDs but no player. He was not a member of any online music streaming service. Did not even own a smartphone. He was free from the entertainment-industrial-complex, as he sometimes referred to it, as well as the surveillance that smartphones provided. Even his car was, by choice, old enough to be free of hackable electronics.

"The doctors said you're gonna be okay," he broke the silence while checking his rearview mirror.

Kaylie nodded but did not speak. He nodded, trying to appreciate what had happened to her, knowing full well he never could.

Men like Blount, he thought, get so focused on the object of their desire. It develops into obsession, then violence when not reciprocated. Dobie was a sucker for a pretty face, but nothing like Blount.

"Nothing bad," he said, “is going to happen to you again, babe. I'll make sure of it if it's the last thing I do." Purposely using her words from last night, he added, "Until you get sick of me, anyway."

She normally cringed at such sentiments. Guys – even JD – were forever promising to protect her, and she hated it. She was a big girl fully capable of taking care of herself. Normally.

Under these circumstances, however – with Dobie saying it, and calling her “babe” for the first time – it was exactly what she needed to hear. She felt secure for what felt like the first time in months though it had only been half a day.

"You really need to come up with something better than 'hey,' though," she said with a forced smile.

"Huh?"

"Every time you try to rescue me. At the hotel when I was in the backseat and you tried to stop them, you said 'Hey!' Then, when Blount tried to..." she choked back the tears "...with Blount, you stood up and said 'Hey!' again. Just saying need to come up with a better line than 'Hey!'"

He smiled but was unable to laugh. "I'll work on that," he promised. As she fell back to sleep, he looked at her, smiled, and said softly, "Things can only get better from here, babe."

She would have preferred they drive peacefully into the evening from that point forward, but he kept talking.

"So, what about JD?" he asked. "I mean, I guess Watson killed him, but for my own peace of mind, I'd like some confirmation that he's dead."

"I don't know," she grudgingly opened her eyes. "When I woke up after passing out, all I saw was Watson standing there, um, massaging my feet."

"What?"

"Yeah, he was massaging my feet. I mean, like, getting into it until he saw me watching."

"Okay, that's creepy. Hopefully, he's out of our lives, but what about JD? Was he dead or not?"

"I never saw him again. When Watson helped me up, all I saw was Blount. And JD's pretty hard to miss, even if he's dead on the floor."

* * * *

Several hours later, cruising down the Interstate just outside of Tulsa, Dobie saw in his rear-view mirror what looked like Watson's Escalade. The highway was well-lit in brief moments leading up to each off-ramp, allowing glimpses of whoever might be behind them. When he looked again the car was gone, but he mentioned it to Kaylie, anyway, as an excuse to say something. He needed her help to stay awake. They hadn't yet gotten as far from Taylorville as he wanted.

"Don't look now," he said, "but I think Watson is following us."

"Really? Why?" she asked sleepily, not having the energy to look. "You never said why he's been following us, anyway. Or, did you, but I forgot? I've been out of it. I'm still out of it."

"At they hospital, they said you were in shock," he explained. "And no wonder. I was probably in shock myself, and nobody tried to..." He stopped himself.

They saw the flashing blue lights in their respective side-view mirrors. Dobie quickly pulled over and tried to quell the butterflies in his stomach. Whether he had done anything wrong or not, his heart always started pounding whenever pulled over. He assumed this was because of a seriously criminal past life. That, or he had been tortured by the police in a past life. Then again, it might simply be a normal, instinctive animal reaction to being caught from behind.

Dobie remembered his earlier words to the owners of The Blue Spoon Diner regarding Blount: "He'll be dead soon if I have anything to do with it." Maybe he was now a suspect? There was no telling what Watson – or Colonel Charonne, if the investigation went that far – might have said about his part in what happened at the barn. He knew he should tread lightly and behave himself here, but found himself inexplicably irritated at being pulled over.

He watched the woman officer in his side-view mirror as she approached the vehicle. She was a brunette or redhead with most of her hair hidden under the cap. Looking to be in her late thirties, she had a wide, unremarkable face and ruddy complexion. No makeup.

"License and registration, please," she asked politely but did not smile.

"Papers, please," he joked. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't speeding, officer."

"Radar says otherwise, sir."

"Pfft," Dobie couldn't help but scoff. She glared at him. "If I was speeding, it was just a couple miles over the limit."

"I clocked you at 72 in a 65 zone, sir." When he scoffed again, she added, "The speed limit is the speed limit, sir. And, you failed to use your turn signal when I pulled you over."

"Are you kidding?" Dobie was incredulous, forgetting his own advice to behave himself. When forced to choose between good behavior and righteous indignation, he almost always chose the latter.

"I shouldn't have to signal," he continued, "when you're the one pulling me over! And seven miles an hour over? Isn't safety supposed to be the spirit behind all traffic laws? The roads are clear. There was absolutely nothing unsafe about my speed or how I gently pulled to the side of the road."

It was her turn to scoff at his use of the word "gently."

Dobie was feeling a bit peeved at law enforcement, in general. Back in Taylorville those sheriffs should've gotten to Blount's house much quicker. If they had, maybe Kaylie wouldn't have suffered as much as she did.

He was also, to be honest, a bit disgusted with his own performance back there. Hiding. Forgetting his gun. Letting others do his dirty work. He was not sure he could ever forgive himself.

All of this culminated into a seriously bad attitude now that he was on the side of the highway, with a sheriff's lightbar flashing behind him.

"Are you behind on your quota, ma'am?" he said, and instantly regretted it.

The officer was not feeling it before, but now she was upset. He had gone too far. Game on! "Step out of the vehicle, sir!"

"Are you kid...? What for?"

Undoing the holster's retention strap and putting her hand on the gun while leaving it holstered, she stepped back, assumed the quick-draw stance, and ordered, "Step out of the vehicle now!"

He opened his door slowly, got out of the car, and raised his hands in the air, though she had not asked him to raise his hands.

Kaylie remained in her seat, cringing, hoping she was not asked to get out. In her current state, she couldn't handle it.

As Dobie – hands still raised – came toward the officer with her gun now pointed at him, passersby gawked at the scene playing out along the side of the road. It was not a huge commotion – only the one cop car with flashing lights and one civilian vehicle pulled over – but it doesn't take much to catch the eye of bored nighttime drivers.

At least it stopped raining, Dobie thought idly.

"Put your hands against your vehicle," she ordered, "and spread your legs." Having no partner or backup, the officer was taking no chances. "Hands against the car now! And open the trunk."

"Well, which is it?" Dobie gave a snarky smile. Snark was another one of his defense mechanisms. "Open the trunk, or hands against the car? I can't do both. And the keys are in the ignition."

Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes, the officer left him spread-eagled against Sabina and went back to its still-open driver door. She holstered her gun, ducked down and reached inside the vehicle to shut off the engine and pull the keys out.

Seeing Kaylie in the passenger seat, clearly distraught – more than might be expected from simply being pulled over – it occurred to the sergeant to ask Kaylie if she was okay.

Kaylie nodded vigorously, put her hands in the air, but said nothing. The light through the windshield from the highway lamps towering overhead was such that the woman's name tag "Sergeant Marsha Bladgett" looked, at a glance, like the last name said "Blount."

Kaylie could not control the panic now overtaking her. She was obviously not alright.

Seeing this, Bladgett said softly, "You can put your hands down, ma'am." More firmly, she asked, "Are you being held against your will?"

Kaylie stared, frozen in fear, at the officer. The words "held against your will" were now emblazoned upon her psyche. She was not sure how to respond. No words came to her. In her mind, she was back at the barn and this Bladgett woman was Blount all over again, bent forward and trying to grab her. The officer was doing nothing of the sort, but if Bladgett had looked at all like Blount, Kaylie might have passed out from sheer fright.

"Please answer the question, ma'am," Bladgett insisted. "Are you being held...?"

"Hey!" Dobie complained loudly from outside, still spread-eagled against the car. "Do you mind?! I'm uncomfortable out here! And it's starting to rain again!"

That broke the spell. Kaylie could not help but crack a bewildered smile. Finding himself in another difficult situation, Dobie could think of nothing better to say than "Hey!" And they had just talked about that.

She gave a little giggle, followed by a full, if slightly hysterical, laugh. Bladgett now wondered if Kaylie was messing with her.

Seeing the look on Bladgett's face, Kaylie lowered her hands and spoke reassuringly. "No, ma'am, I'm fine. I just kinda froze up for a second. We're fine. He's just showing his ass... as usual. That's how I know things are back to normal with him, or getting there. Please don't arrest him. We're only trying to get away. I'll make sure he drives slower from now on."

The officer rolled her eyes, backed out of the vehicle with the keys in hand, walked to the rear of the car, smirked at Dobie, and opened the trunk. Seeing nothing but luggage, books, fold-up chairs and tables, she called him over and asked, "What's in the suitcase?" She was not yet convinced everything was okay.

"What's usually in suitcases?!" Dobie snapped, in no mood for this. It was harassment, plain and simple. "And, I couldn't help but notice you're a County Sheriff. The problem is that this is the Interstate Highway System. You don't have jurisdiction!" Dobie had no idea if this was true or not.

"Are you serious?" Bladgett snorted at him. "I am fully within my jurisdiction, sir. Are you a lawyer?"

"God, no. I hate lawyers." He shook his head but dropped the subject.

"Where are you headed?"

"Southwest," he replied. When she raised a questioning eyebrow, he elaborated. "We have no real destination right now. Just getting away, you know."

"Getting away from what?" she asked. Kaylie had used those words, and now Dobie.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean like a 'getaway,'" he laughed nervously. He wished he could shut up, but his mouth had a mind of its own when under duress, as evidenced by everything he said since being pulled over.

"What's up with your girlfriend? Is she alright?"

Dobie's body language changed completely at the mention of Kaylie. He went from a combative, defensive posture to a much more relaxed stance. "Well," he began, "if you must know..." He told the story of what happened back at the barn.

After a moment listening, Sergeant Bladgett was also noticeably more relaxed, but Kaylie could not see that as she watched through the back window. All that she saw was the officer putting Dobie into the back of the patrol car.

Crap! He's being arrested!

She could see Bladgett on her radio talking to someone. Dobie was barely visible behind her through the vehicle's darkened windows.

Kaylie was tempted to get out and plead on Dobie's behalf but she was still a mess. She didn't have the mental or physical strength to move, but wondered what they were talking about. It was a lengthy conversation, but she was greatly relieved once Dobie climbed out of the vehicle and his keys were returned to him.

Back in behind Sabina's wheel, Dobie laughed when Bladgett double-tapped the roof of the car. That seemed to be the universal cop signal for "you're free to go."

"Well, that was fun," Kaylie said with a sarcastic smile as they pulled onto the highway. "But you need to..."

"I know, I know," he said. "I need to just shut the hell up sometimes."

"She was nice," Kaylie added, "once you stopped acting a fool."

"Yeah, well, you know me. Acting a fool is kinda my thing. But, no, she only wanted to make sure our story checked out. She called headquarters or whatever and talked to someone, found out neither one of us was a wanted fugitive, and let me go... with a warning to keep my speed down, of course."

"Of course."

Sergeant Bladgett left her lights flashing while parked on the side of the highway, filling out the incident report. Shaking her head, she wondered who had called in the bogus stolen vehicle report precipitating this whole thing.

"So," Kaylie was finally in a mood to talk, "tell me your life story."

"Why, so you can go back to sleep?"

"Yes!" she laughed. "Just kidding. Tell me the interesting parts." She wanted something to take her mind off Blount.

"It'll be pretty short, then," he laughed. He didn't particularly feel like talking about himself at the moment. Everything about him was so trivial compared to what happened to her. But, if that's what she wanted, that's what he would do.

"It only just recently got interesting," he began. "But, as you've probably guessed by now, I've always been quite the ladies' man."

"Really?" she humored him.

"Yeah," he played it up, "Women just throw themselves at me! It's embarrassing! But seriously, what I can honestly say about myself is that I've always been a truth-teller. It gets me in trouble, but I can't stop myself!"

"Oh, my gosh! Me, too!"

"It got me fired from my last job, actually," he continued, "but that's not a bad thing, given where I am now. Despite it all, this – with you – is much better."

She smiled warmly and asked, "So, why were you fired?"

"The short version," Dobie laughed, "is I deserved it. Never really belonged there. The longer version is that I was in the break room at work one day, chatting up a couple of women. Ladies' man, remember. And, this was before you, of course."

"Of course."

"I mentioned Neanderthals interbreeding with early modern humans. You know, typical break room conversation, right?" She made a face. "Most people talk about annoying company policies – they made employees provide their own plasticware and coffee cups! – or they talk about the weather or how bad the coffee is. Not me! Naturally, I talked about the love lives of Neanderthals!"

"Naturally," she played along.

"It was something I'd read, but made a joke saying the boss, Colonel Charonne – with his prominent brow and big nose – probably had more than his share of Neanderthal blood in him. I didn't know what I was talking about. Hadn't done any real research. Everything I know about Neanderthals could fit on a Post-it Note. It was just an excuse to talk about sex. Again, this was before you."

She nodded and smiled, enjoying this peek into another side of him.

"I didn't know Charonne had listening devices picking up my every word. Yeah, the place was bugged. The entire company! He was a freak like that. Anyway, he got so mad when he heard me on that tape, he made a rare appearance at the office. Just for me! He usually spent the summers holed up somewhere in northern Michigan.

"Anyway, he found a copy of my book that I had placed in strategic spots for people to take. He read it, and had me fired."

"Wow."

Dobie then told the story of his firing.

He was called into HR Director Norwich's office, a sad hovel compared to Charonne's palatial CEO suite, but still much better than the cubicle Dobie was assigned. Norwich and Dobie exchanged pleasantries upon entering the office and took their respective seats.

"We have quite a list of things to talk about," Norwich began, glancing at papers in front of him. "For starters, there was that email you sent to Colonel Charonne – the Colonel himself! – suggesting his salary be just $1 per year until the company showed a profit after his 'bone-headed' decision to buy out our biggest competitor. Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't fire you on the spot!"

"He knows I'm right," Dobie said confidently. "Giving up his salary is the least he could do."

He had no idea this was an exit interview. He assumed Norwich was – finally – bringing him into his office to pick his brain after all the great ideas he'd emailed to him in the time that he'd been there.

"That merger," Dobie continued, "nearly ruined the company! Anyway, executives shouldn't get salaries, only a percentage of profits, if any. But, as often happens with clueless egomaniacs like our Dear Leader, Charonne missed the point."

"And," Norwich was not finished, "there was that time you walked up and shut a VP's office door during one of her open-door meetings."

"We have conference rooms for that!" Dobie exclaimed, now feeling like he was on trial. "Her office has a door. If she had any consideration for those around her – common decency – she would close it so we don't have to hear her and her suck-ups cackling from half way across the office while we're stuck in our 'open office' cubicles with no walls, no privacy, and no noise abatement! These open workspaces as they call them are presented as promoting co-worker communication and collaboration, but they're actually designed so our wardens can keep an eye on us at all times. And don't tell me to wear headphones! If I wanted a job requiring headphones, I'd be one of those guys out on the tarmac with the batons guiding jets into the gate!

"That sounds like a boring job, come to think of it," he went off on a tangent, creating an imaginary conversation: "'What do you do for a living?' 'Oh, I guide jets into their gates.' 'Awesome!' 'No, not really.'"

Norwich stifled a smile as he made notes. Dobie studied the walls of the man's office until landing upon a collection of degrees and diplomas behind the desk.

"'Human Capital'?!" Dobie blurted out. "Like we're just a bunch of entries on a spreadsheet? Whatever happened to Human Resources or Personnel? With all your degrees, you couldn't come up with a better term for the people who work here? Just call us 'drones!' No, 'cannon fodder!'"

Dobie knew "speaking freely" with directors, CEOs and vice presidents was not wise, but he couldn't take it anymore. He also knew that, in order to tolerate typical bureaucracy, one must tune it out and "go along to get along." Writing Another Way, however, had brought all of his complaints about "the system" to the forefront. He was violating that most basic of Corporate survival edicts: Don't think too much about your idiot bosses. It'll drive you crazy.

"And," Norwich continued, "there was that time you expressed a, shall we say, brutally honest opinion to that same VP. You can't do that, Dobie."

"First Amendment not recognized here. Got it."

"It's called insubordination, Dobie. The First Amendment only keeps the government, not your employer, from shutting you up."

"Constructive criticism not allowed."

"Constructive criticism?!" Norwich was incredulous. "In front of everyone, you called her an insufferable bitch! How is that constructive?"

"Well, now she knows," Dobie could barely contain his smile. "Don't you think it's helpful to know what people think of you, Kenny? Maybe now she'll adjust her attitude. But, what I actually said was that she was insufferably strident. 'Bitch' was implied. I've got one of those Word of the Day calendars, Insult Edition."

"It's Kenneth, not Kenny."

"Sorry. Kenneth. Normal, healthy people need to express their feelings once in a while. Otherwise, you turn into a brain-dead corporate toady." He gestured toward Kenneth as he said it.

"And, we're done here!" Norwich stood up, insulted, and pointed to the door. "Have a nice life, Dobie... somewhere else. You're fired."

"Fired?! What the..." He was not surprised but felt the need to protest, on principle.

With nothing left to lose, he broke into song, loudly singing his version of ABBA's I Have a Dream. "Oh, I have a dream... of a world without corporations..."

"What is this, a musical?" Norwich gave a nervous laugh, wondering if Dobie was having a mental breakdown right here in front of him.

"More like a Greek tragedy," Dobie sighed, looked down, and saw Another Way, dripping in syrup, in Norwich's trash can. "Hey, what's my book doing in your trash?!" He grabbed it and – as Norwich had done in Charonne's office – scraped it off along the edge of the receptacle before the security guard rushed in and escorted him out the door, stage left.

Norwich smirked and waved goodbye, as Charonne had done to him. Shit rolls downhill, Dobie.

* * * *

Immediately after being fired, Dobie went out and got drunk. He was not officially a recovering alcoholic but had promised himself long before that night to never do that again. He thought he had grown out of it. Apparently not.

At some point during this (hopefully) last bender, he stepped out for some air. The moon was full, and he was drunk, so, naturally, he barked at the moon. It made sense at the time. "You telling me I can't speak my mind?!" he yelled at the old gray orb. "I'll make a living speaking my mind!"

He never noticed the woman in the shadows, watching and listening. What he did notice – disturbingly, on the edge of his peripheral vision – was a hazy blue humanoid figure that disappeared whenever he tried to focus on it, like a distant star clearly visible in the corner of the eye that disappears when attempting to focus on it. He assumed he was hallucinating.

All he knew for sure was that he awoke the next morning with a woman from work, Crissie, lying beside him. He had always found her attractive – nice figure, dirty-blonde hair, gray-green eyes – but never seriously considered asking her out. She was a bit too aggressive for his taste. Too quick to anger. Plenty of men had no problem with such women. She probably had dozens on a string awaiting their turn with her, but he would not be among them.

Worse still, Crissie was the assistant to one of the executives at work. Maybe even the CEO, Charonne. He couldn't remember. Either way, sleeping with her would be like sleeping with the enemy.

She had been at the bar that night, making eyes at him. Flirting. He assumed she was drunk, too. "Possibly near-sighted," he said with a laugh to Bucky when telling the tale afterward. He and Bucky told each other all about their conquests, whether the other one wanted to hear it or not. It was a guy thing.

Dobie found the 80s pop hit Simply Irresistible on the karaoke machine and pressed Play. Singing directly to Crissie the entire time – "She's so fine, there's no telling where the money went!" – he wished he had back-up dancers like in that Robert Palmer video. He wished he looked like Palmer in those videos, but oh well.

The details were fuzzy, but the modern-day version of serenading a woman apparently still worked. He took this as a sign of good things to come.

Another tune he karaoked that night – against his friend Bucky's advice "because dudes shouldn't sing girl songs" – was the song Brave. Its line Say what you wanna say, let the words fall out honestly was his new mantra. He would catch himself singing it at random moments. He never knew it was written as encouragement for a gay man coming out of the closet, but exchange "gay" and "closet" with "frustrated" and "shell" and it was perfect for Dobie.

"So," Kaylie now asked as they drove southwest, "do you think I'm too much trouble?"

"Trouble, definitely," he chuckled. "Too much? That remains to be seen."

She nodded.

He thought she probably didn't want to hear about some chick he picked up in a karaoke bar.

"What's up with you and cell phones?" she asked.

"Oh that," he laugh it off though it honestly bothered him, "I'm jinxed when it comes to anything electronic, especially computers. I couldn't watch TV or use a smartphone if my life depended on it. Remember how the TV at the diner got all staticky when I showed up, then you couldn't get cell service after we left? I was probably the cause of that. My body emits electromagnetic pulses – EMPs – or something.

"Anything electronic I come in contact with or too close to tends to short-circuit. A mechanic friend is the one who suggested I buy old Sabina here because she has no electronics. Actually, he suggested the station wagon model, but I said no.

"I'm not sure what's going on, really, but as long as ATMs work, I guess I'm okay. I've become quite the Luddite, though."

"The what?"

"Luddite. Someone averse to technology."

"How can you live without electronics?!" she joked... sort of.

"I realize phones are a necessary evil – convenient, anyway – but I somehow manage without them. Since abandoning them and computers, I've been much happier. I have to read a newspaper for news. Remember those? Which reminds me of one of my favorite Mark Twain quotes: 'If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you do, you're misinformed.'

"Anyway, when I'm not in a hotel, I have to use a pay phone to make a call. Do you know how hard it is to find one of those these days?"

"How does anyone call you?"

"I guess they just hope I call them."

"You don't have anyone back home?"

"No one I need to talk to, no," he frowned. He thought of Crissie and Martha from his old job, but neither of them wanted to join him on the road. He had no siblings. His parents were gone. And, other than Bucky, he had no real friends. Just acquaintances and co-workers.

"If it's important," he continued, "they can leave a message with my answering service. I check in occasionally. El lobo solo, remember?"

"Where is 'home?'"

"Muskegon, Michigan, originally. More recently, a little town called Spring Hill just south of Nashville, Tennessee. But now, the road is my home."

"Oh, right, the 'M' on the ball cap you wore into the diner. 'M' for Michigan?"

"'M' for Milwaukee, actually, across the lake from Muskegon, but that's very observant! You've got an eye for detail. Ever considered being a spy?"

"I have, actually."

"Wait," he played along, "you're a spy? Are you on the job as we speak, keeping tabs on me?"

"No, silly!" She released that wonderful laugh, and he breathed it in until she added, "You don't look like a writer. Can I say that? You know, not the scholarly type."

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I should wear thick-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows?"

"And, without a computer, how do you write your books? With a quill pen like Shakespeare or Charles Dickens?"

"Pencil and paper. Ball-point pen if I'm feeling cocky. The only thing digital I use is the library computer to login and self-publish it. So, yeah, I do eventually need a computer.

"Either way, it's much better than those Shakespeare or Dickens dudes," he joked. "I'll finalize it on my Selectric when I have electricity or my old Royal manual when I'm roughing it. I keep them in the trunk of my car."

"Selectric? Royal? Typewriters, right?"

"Right. I'm not averse to all technology, just the digital kind."

They had another good laugh, and both felt their connection to each other growing stronger still. Kaylie wiped away a tear, hoping he didn't notice.

"What about you?" he asked. "What's your story? How'd you end up surrounded by so many creeps? I know you can't choose your parents, but what about JD?"

"JD scared me at first, but I saw him as a challenge. You know what JD stands for? Juvenile delinquent. That's what his mama started calling him as a kid, and it stuck. His real name is Theodore, if you can believe that. Anyway, he bought me a drink at the bar. I let him think he was teaching me how to shoot pool. And the rest is history."

After a moment, looking out the window at nothing, she continued sadly, "My Dad was a good dad... until he left. I think Mom drove him crazy. I guess that's what happened. I hope it wasn't because of me, but after he left, Mom started drinking again. Heavily. Then she hooked up with JD! Can you believe that? He was dating me and my mom at the same time. Ugh! I had no idea. Makes me want to puke.

"I don't know why that reminded me, and I probably shouldn't even ask, but, um, are you a Christian?"

"No," he was now wise enough to tread lightly, "but I agree with a lot of their principles. And, as Gandhi said, 'I like your Christ.' I do think everyone should read the Bible, if for no other reason than their own education. Same goes for the Vedic Hymns, Zarathustra's Gathas, Buddhist sutras, the Babylonians' Enuma Elish, Book of Mormon, Jung's Man and His Symbols, maybe even Scientology's Way to Happiness, though I don't necessarily endorse any of the organizations built up around those. Any organization, really. But, read everything by anyone who was inspired to help others, not control them."

She expected a simple yes or no answer, but smiled and let him ramble on.

"Either way," he continued, "watch out for those that only pretend to help. They flatter and convince you you're better than everyone else. You're not. Don't get me wrong, we're all wonderful, but as the old saying goes, you are better than no one, and no one is better than you. Another saying I like is, 'You are special... just like everyone else!'

"Some of the worst religions and organizations tend to have esoteric or privileged texts; in other words, something to hide. Their explanation is that lowly plebes like us are not ready for these higher truths, but I call bullshit! We are all ready for the truth. Sure, it hurts sometimes, but we can take it!

"Back to the Bible, though. Do unto others as you would have done to you – the Golden Rule – is the best advice ever given. We could make that, alone, the basis of a worldwide religion and I'd be okay with it."

"What about an afterlife?" she asked, surprised to be having such a conversation so early in their relationship.

"I don't believe in hell as a permanent place. It's a condition and/or state of mind/spirit. Of course, in the afterlife (and 'before' life) your state of mind is exponentially more important than it is here in this reality. Heaven, on the other hand, is our default state where we go between lives, assuming you're the type to reincarnate. Not everyone does.

"Anyway, what happens to you – your spirit, your self – after your body dies depends a lot on your own beliefs. I believe we are all immortal, but your spirit (you) go wherever you want to, or at least wherever you've been made to feel you should go."

"Do you believe in God?" she asked.

"Yes. God, our Creator – which I define as everyone and everything that ever was and ever will be, in all possible states and dimensions, taken as a sentient whole – is inherent in the act of creation itself. In other words, if you want to be close to God, be good and be creative! God is life itself – and vice versa – not somewhere ‘up there’ but in here," he put his hand over his heart; "making sense of things through here," he pointed to his head; "for some of us, probably in here, too," he patted his belly, which made her laugh.

"Actually, our gut biome is vastly underappreciated. But, look inward without losing sight of what's outward to find yourself and reconnect with your Creator.

"We have the power to decide our own fate, mainly through wise and proper behavior. I think that, in a nutshell, was the message of Zoroaster, Jesus, Buddha and anyone else worth listening to. Don't let some church or so-called religion tell you otherwise. Those were created after their respective prophets had left the building.

"It's all just a matter of who you hang out with and what you want to see and believe. For me, personally, after this life I hope to exist on a higher plane without a physical body and be part of what can only be described as a thought process or energy flow that will be beneficial to all."

He got a few blank stares at his talks at that one – and now with Kaylie was no different – but he didn't know how else to explain it. So many of these concepts defy description, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

"It's all about communication. When you communicate with the endless myriad of people, things, ideas and imagery around you, you tend to move in that direction. In plain English, don't hang out with bad people with bad habits, and you should be fine. And, we don't find ourselves so much as we create ourselves."

Wow, he was impressed with himself. That was some good stuff! Where did that come from? He had not meant to go off on such a dissertation, it just came out.

Will She Be Dancing?

July

Something Dobie did prior to every speech was a moment of quiet meditation. People often mistook it for prayer – and there was not much difference – but it was simply a moment of silence and visualization of what he wanted to achieve that day.

No chants were hummed. No words were spoken, not even internally. That was the goal, at least, though he couldn't always turn off his internal word spigot.

Somewhere in Texas, his prayer for the day was for Kaylie to go unmolested. A simple enough request.

"In preparation for this tour," he began his next talk, "I attended one of those all-star speaking tours you hear about. Just wanted to see how the pros did it. So, let me go down the checklist. Wireless microphone clipped to my ear and wrapped around in front of my mouth? Check! Obligatory glass of water on a stool nearby? Check! Or, is it only water?" There was a smattering of laughter from the audience. "Beautiful assistant?" he pointed at Kaylie. "Check! Huge, adoring crowd...? Okay, three out of four ain't bad."

"That's a C in my class," a smiling, wire-haired woman seated up front chimed in. "And an F in grammar for saying 'ain't!'" Everyone laughed.

"Fair enough," Dobie smiled, happy to have an engaged audience. They were a lot friendlier, he noticed, with Kaylie there. Having a beautiful woman by your side gives you instant respect.

"Anyway," he continued, "when one of those motivational speakers asked if anyone knew why only two percent of people succeed in life while ninety-eight percent do not, I stood up and said, 'Because your definition of success is completely wrong? Most of us don't measure success strictly monetarily. Besides, the only true failure is to not even try.' The speaker was speechless for a minute. I was quite proud of myself.

"He accused me of being a philosopher, as if that's a bad thing, and pretended to clear his throat while saying 'loser' under his breath. Yes, he actually did that. I wanted to shout back, 'Oh yeah? You're the loser!' But, juvenile behavior from either side never helps, so I just sat down."

A giggling teenage boy stood up as if on cue, pointed at Kaylie and asked, "Will she be, uh, dancing and shit? It's why we came."

"You said 'came!'" his already-giggling young friend howled with laughter.

Dobie made involuntary fists of his hands and gave the boys a look that he hoped conveyed his willingness to physically hurt them. He could do without this sort of audience engagement. They were lucky he had lost his gun.

"I passed by a strip club on the way here," he said as calmly as he could manage. "I suggest you go there." When they didn't budge, he shouted, "Now!"

"Okay! Chill, dude!" one of the boys said as they stood to leave. The other one held up his phone, pointed at it, and said, "Call me!" to Kaylie as they walked away. On their way out, laughing hysterically, Dobie noticed they both wore their pants down below their asses. Shaking his head, he wondered how that ever became a thing. Being pantsed was something to be avoided when he was a kid, but these guys did it to themselves.

Kaylie glared at them. This was why she hated to be in front of an audience. Some women liked to be ogled, happily using it to their advantage. Not her. She merely accepted the inevitable and tried to handle it with as much charm and grace as possible.

Once the punks were gone, she turned away from the crowd to hide her tears.

"Are you okay?" Dobie asked softly. "Wanna go up to the room?"

She shook her head. She was going to power through this. "I'm never gonna be alone in a hotel room again," she said with a forced smile, hoping the microphone didn't pick that up.

"Remind me to buy another gun," said Dobie, hoping the microphone did pick that up.

* * * *

Watson was just outside the door waiting to pay the punks as they exited the conference room. He was tired of this operation. All he wanted was to go back home to his golfing, fishing and chasing tail. Maybe nudge the governor’s chief of staff, an old Air Force buddy, to get his boss to legalize marijuana in his state so Watson could pursue that idea. He needed to find something, preferably legal, so he could afford to decline gigs like this when Charonne or anyone else came calling. Maybe Dobie was right: money was the root of all evil.

He hated tormenting Kaylie but those were his orders, and he had never disobeyed a direct order. He wished she would hurry up and tell Dobie she was done, could not go on, had to quit the tour, make him take her somewhere far away and, most of all, stop talking politics. He felt guilty for suggesting that Blount should sexually harass her. It didn't require much convincing, but he never thought the asshole would confuse harass with molest. He took it way too far.

Watson definitely never thought JD would put a bullet through his buddy's head. Of course, with JD, you never know what might happen. As to Blount, the world was a better place with him gone.

Reporting Dobie's vehicle stolen had no effect, either. He thought being harassed by an authority figure – Bladgett – so soon after Kaylie's kidnapping would have pushed them – Kaylie, at least – over the edge. But, no such luck.

They were persistent. He had to give them that.

He had been in his hotel room the night before, asleep, when his cell phone rang. His latest girlfriend – Chartreuse, or something, he could never remember – was awake and watching a sci-fi flick.

He had dumped Audrey after Taylorville. Standard operating procedure.

Seeing the name Charonne pop up on his phone, Chartreuse – or whatever – muted the TV and roused Watson as per his orders.

"Nothing you've done is working!" the Colonel's deep voice boomed through the phone, wasting no time with pleasantries. He was in no mood. He had been thinking of Dobie to the point of obsession, like a dog on a bone. "Pokorny's still out there selling that tripe and it needs to stop. Now! I want him gone! No more messing around. You know what I'm saying?"

Watson knew exactly what he was saying. He was putting out a hit on Dobie, but Watson was surprised by the sudden urgency. He was reluctant to act on it. Murder should be a last resort. "He's just a guy driving around, talking to people," he tried to talk Charonne down. "Harmless. Trust me, he can't even handle a gun."

"You're not growing fond of him, are you?"

Watson stood up and staggered sleepily out of the bedroom into the little kitchenette. Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he opened the fridge and searched for a beer. "When one door closes, another one opens!" he said softly to himself. With a laugh, forgetting who was on the other end, he added, "I've been hanging around Pokorny too long."

"What's that?" Charonne asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Dobie's just another smart-ass know-it-all, but his girlfriend, Kaylie. Wow. Have you seen her? That is one fine piece of ass!"

He thought better of her than that, but such crudeness was expected with a fellow old soldier.

"So, you and Pokorny are on a first-name basis now?" the Colonel continued. "You should've eliminated him back at the barn. Let the mom or boyfriend take the fall like we planned. What happened, anyway?"

"Pokorny didn't run scared as expected," Watson spoke with a reluctant respect, but took care to not use Dobie's first name. "At the diner, he actually fought JD. At the barn, he tried to be the hero. You can't just shoot someone like that."

"Sure, you can," said Charonne. "You and I have done exactly that. Remember Iraq? You shot that Hajji in front of his wife and kid then ended up with the wife?"

"I was interrogating that woman," Watson began angrily before calming himself, "when her husband shows up and starts shooting. Luckily, those guys can't shoot for shit. I nailed him right between the eyes!" He smiled at the memory.

"You have to put people in their place," Charonne said. "People like to be put in their place. Especially bitches, and I'm not talking about Kaylie. Ha!" He laughed at his own joke. "You still haven't sent me a picture of her."

Watson shook his head. He had killed people, but only in defense of himself and others, and only during sanctioned ops.

When Watson did not respond immediately, Charonne barked, "You still there, Major?"

"Still here, sir," Watson replied without the usual forced military enthusiasm.

"You hearing me? Just do it!"

"No need, sir."

"I'll tell you what is needed, Major!" the Colonel shouted at his junior officer. When Watson again failed to respond immediately, Charonne remembered the Major did not respond well to this approach. He changed tack.

"If you could go back in time," he said in a more conversational tone, "wouldn't you kill Hitler, Stalin or Mao before they got too powerful? Of course, you would. Anyone would. That's all we're doing. But, make no mistake, Major, either you take Pokorny out or I send in someone else to do the job. And they might take you out in the process. Accidentally, of course. You know how that goes. Your call."

Watson hung up knowing he had no choice but to get rid of Dobie. Yes, he could kill Charonne – problem solved, and good riddance – but the final half of the agreed sum had not yet been paid. Watson needed the money, so that was not an option.

That's when he called his friends in Las Cruces.

After the punks with the sagging pants were gone, Dobie gave a quick look back at Kaylie. Seeing that she was okay, he nodded, smiled, and launched into another favorite speech.

"There was a corporate takeover of Western governments a hundred years ago or so. Wars are now fought over natural resources under the guise of patriotism and protecting our freedom. No offense to the soldiers – I have nothing but respect for what they have been through, including dealing with their own bosses – but they're just pawns. The smarter ones know that, but the people running the wars are trampling our freedom and civil rights for corporate profits and as an excuse to sell weapons.

"They attack any country that won't play along. The mainstream media does its part by manipulating its readers and viewers – manufacturing consent, as they say – into supporting military conflict against the latest designated bogeyman, so-designated for refusing to be anyone's bitch. Pardon my language. The big banks finance both sides, thereby guaranteeing profit for themselves and their defense industry cronies no matter the outcome. As World War I General Smedley Butler said, 'War is a racket.' Yes, people in the know have been warning us for a hundred years, but we never learn."

Left unsaid was his opinion that only the very gullible believe these never-ending wars are legitimate. He didn't want a repeat of that time an audience member, repeating the same old tired lines, said something about the US. military protecting our freedom.

Dobie had made the mistake of responding, saying, "The ACLU does more for our freedom than the military."

This hit a nerve. Conservatives are trained to hate the ACLU.

"The US. Constitution," Dobie continued, "is what protects our freedom, and the ACLU helps to protect the Constitution and our civil rights... when they're not attacking religion, specifically Christianity, anyway."

"Go back to Russia, you Commie!" the young man shouted back, turned, and smiled at his buddy next to him.

Dobie scoffed. "Russia stopped being Communist two or three decades ago. Maybe you meant China? They're still supposedly Communist, but somehow also our biggest trading partner. Half the world's conglomerates have factories there. I guess Communism works great for capitalists when it provides slave labor?

"Remember the movie A Few Good Men? Tom Cruise says 'I want the truth!' and Jack Nicholson says 'You can't handle the truth!'"

"I love that line," the young man confided with his buddy, but did not respond directly to Dobie.

"Yeah," Dobie continued, "I hate to break it to you, but Jack was talking to you."

The young man reared his head back, surprised. He didn't know how to respond, but did recognize he was out of his depth in such a debate. After a moment consulting with his friend, he said to Dobie, "Perception is reality."

"That's your comeback?" Dobie laughed. "You phone a friend and come up with perception is reality? No, dumb-ass," Dobie shouted, "reality is reality!" He tried to avoid name-calling, but when someone is so cavalier about reality and/or the truth, it hits him at his very core.

The name-calling brought the argument back down to the young man's level. He stepped forward and took a swing. Dobie simply leaned back beyond his reach. The man took another step and another swing, but Dobie merely stepped back again.

A crowd started to gather – just like in high school, Dobie thought – but he was not going to give this crowd what it wanted. He turned and walked away, quickly.

The young man and his friend, feeling vindicated, shouted epithets at Dobie's backside, but Dobie didn't care. His fight was not a physical one, it was a war of words and ideas. Ending up in the hospital was not going to help.

Besides, he had no health insurance.

Ever since Taylorville, JD and Claire had been out looking for Kaylie and Dobie. At a truck stop in Oklahoma – where her daughter and that know-it-all city slicker had coincidentally stopped the day before – Claire asked, "What are we gonna do when we find them?"

"You let me worry about the details!" JD snapped as they drove.

The fiasco back home was her idea, but she made sure JD thought he was in charge. It ended up being a textbook example of best-laid plans gone wrong, but her intent was to get Kaylie away from Dobie. Running into that Watson fellow at the hotel after Dobie and JD's fight, they got to talking and soon realized they had a common goal: getting rid of Dobie. She suggested Watson kill him for her, but he refused. He was not a cold-blooded killer.

They finally agreed on the staged kidnapping. She thought it would scare Dobie off. During the kidnapping when she called JD, her intent was to remove him from the scene long enough for the local sheriffs to get there. Kaylie would be safe and Blount, who she never liked, would take the fall.

She was not worried about Blount. She honestly thought her daughter could handle that old cook on her own. She had no idea Kaylie would be bound and gagged. She was afraid JD might do something incredibly stupid, and he did.

Now, after getting the full story from him, she hated herself for what she had done, but did take comfort in the fact that Blount was dead.

Seeing the worried look on Claire's face, JD said, "Don't worry, babe, I ain't gonna hurt her."

The same could not be said for Dobie. JD held him responsible for ruining that mother-daughter thing he had going. Besides, nobody steals one of his women and gets away with it. Just ask Blount or that hotel manager or half a dozen other guys.

Semmy Speaks

August

Things got weird in New Mexico. In Las Cruces, Dobie and Kaylie unwittingly shared a dream about a little blue alien. Neither of them was into aliens or science fiction – or drugs – so it was a mystery where it came from.

* * * *

Major Watson was sitting in a hard, plastic chair in a small, cramped room within a secret military location nearby. A more cynical person might think it was a little too convenient Dobie just happened to pass through Las Cruces within striking distance of this base, but Watson didn't give it a second thought. He wasn't the conspiracy theorist, Pokorny was.

Two airmen – one of them female – sat next to Watson in much more comfortable chairs. They all wore military-grade virtual reality helmets plugged into the same broadcast Dobie and Kaylie were seeing. These two space nerds as they called themselves were well-trained in projecting dreams and images into people's heads, but swore to Watson that this Semmy Speaks broadcast was real. Neither they nor their superiors knew where it came from or how they captured it – other than entirely by accident – but they had it and everyone who watched it was blown away. Even their aliens-in-residence were unfamiliar with Semmy’s blue race “from beyond the Pleiades."

Watson assumed they were lying. Half of everything labeled top secret was a lie, designed to throw people off the scent of the other half that was legitimate. "Either way," Watson said, "I'm gonna have some fun with this!"

Nothing else he had tried had worked on Dobie. Hiring people to rough him up, harass him, put dents in his car, and chase him out of parking lots only seemed to make Pokorny more determined. He and Watson were alike in that respect, but Watson had no clue how to shut Dobie down.

* * * *

In their dream/hallucination/episode, Dobie and Kaylie were joined by a big-eared, smiling, little alien humanoid. Its skin, eyes and hair were all blue, and it sat in a wide, beige, over-stuffed wing-back chair directly in front of them. The humans, its audience, were in theater seats in the front row.

Its smiling face was that of an effeminate male or masculine female. Delicate and unassuming, its eyes betrayed an intelligence rarely seen. It saw right through whatever and whoever they focused on.

With its bare feet planted firmly on the ground, wearing a simple beige robe that blended with the seat, it sat like a monarch on a throne. Its legs were also bare from the knees down, giving it a disembodied look, with its head hovering above detached legs and feet.

Its voice was that of a man and woman speaking English simultaneously in a Hindi-British accent in the royal we. There was a laughing melody to it, Dobie thought. A sort of harmony. Dobie loved to sing – in the shower, around the house, and in karaoke bars – but could never harmonize. He took this as a personal character flaw, but loved others' ability to harmonize, especially this alien now.

Kindness was another word that came to mind. He wasn't sure if it was kindness that gave the voice a feminine quality or femininity that conveyed kindness. Either way, it was soothing, and he could listen to it all day.

"Our name is Sematalanthoyop, but you can call us Semmy... or Talan... or Thoyop. Whatever floats your boat. We are from beyond the Pleiades, in the eighth dimension... when we're not slumming it down here in the third and fourth dimensions with you all. Most of you spend most of your time in the third dimension, influenced more than you know by the fourth, only rarely reaching the fifth. Point being, we are exponentially better than you! Just kidding. Don't let the term 'higher dimension' fool you. For one thing, it's more of an outer dimension. Almost everything in this universe is spherical. And, to assume that higher-dimensionals are better than you is like assuming someone who can swim while you cannot is better than you, but you were never taught; or assuming someone who is told the answer is smarter than those not told. Never confuse better-informed or -trained with just plain better. No human is innately better than any other, it's just that some of you have gone off the rails worse than others.

"Do not be frightened. We're the good guys!"

Semmy, like Dobie, was happy with how things were working out lately. For one, Kaylie and Dobie had stopped in Las Cruces, as planned. Getting them back together was not his main purpose for visiting Earth, but it was a plus. He had been following these two crazy kids off and on, planet to planet, one incarnation to the next, for eons now.

"Who doesn't love a good ‘boy meets girl, boy loses girl’ story?"

He wished he could have been more helpful in Missouri, but had to let things play out.

"It's not all fun and games. We've got work to do. We just hope it all works out in the end."

Dobie and Kaylie's episode eventually split into two versions, but before that, Semmy said to both of them...

"Your solar system used to be at the center of the galaxy – just off center, actually, where the alpha waves are at their most righteous, to use a surfer dude term. It was the most happening solar system where all the cool kids hung out, until it was flung third- and fourth-dimensionally into this part of the galaxy.

"Unfortunately, this area was already inhabited by a particularly nasty race of beings, if you want to call them that. They are not fully corporeal but are obsessed with all things carnal, like almost everyone on Earth, actually – but we digress!

"This section of the Milky Way was originally designed as a negative counterbalance to the galaxy's otherwise positive nature. A cosmic septic tank, if you will. That's why it's so hard to get anything done around here. It's like slogging through knee-deep sewer mud! Only those with the best hip-waders make any real progress.

"It was never meant for highly complex, sentient, sensitive beings like yourselves. It was meant for those of a more primitive and sinister nature, a dark force that has cast its pall over your way of life. No one wants to talk about it, but we tend to speak the unspeakable. It's what we do. Like a public service. You're welcome!

"Still, despite all this, or perhaps because of it, brave souls have been coming here to test their mettle. Give it a go against all odds, and all that. The rallying cry for those of us from beyond the Pleiades is 'Lighten up! Play it by ear!' Bit of an inside joke.

"Others have been dumped here, incarcerated for criminal acts, or because they were irredeemably insane and Mother Earth has been identified as a very good therapy planet. Seriously, go outside sometime, stand barefoot, and just feel the Earth beneath your feet!

"This dark force has manifested in a variety of ways throughout your history. Been anthropomorphized – a childish habit of Earthlings – countless times; given names like Necuratu, Beelzebub, Satan, The Dark Prince, The Adversary and, last but not least, the High Priest of Gray Areas, the scariest of them all to anyone insisting that everything is strictly black or white!

"Okay, that last one was a joke. It makes us laugh to think of a High Priest of anything. Humans aren't the only ones with a sense of humor, you know. Seriously, though, do not be frightened but don't relax too much, either. The negative force/urge/thought is real. They call themselves Ceytons. Get it? Satan? Ceyton? But, we call them stupidity incarnate.

"For eons, they have influenced political, religious and financial leaders, social clubs, supposed charities, group-think tanks, designated villains, novelists, songwriters, the entire news and entertainment industries, really. Anyone or anything with influence.

"Directly and indirectly through their minions, Ceytons have been manipulating humans for thousands of years. Their m.o. is quite simple: They float ideas, sending out the stupidest, most destructive thoughts they can come up with, mainly because stupidity and destruction is all they do. Like fishing, they wait for an idiot to come along and take the bait, grab the idea and claim it as their own without thinking things through. Works like a charm, no pun intended."

* * * *

Kaylie's version became interactive. Semmy's voice and color changed as he spoke. He maintained his blue center but alternated around the edges between all the Earth human skin tones.

In the real world, Major Watson was smiling. The nerds had shown him how to take control of a dream. It wasn't working exactly as promised, but close enough. He was now in a position to plant whatever ideas he wanted.

The first thing the now-multi-colored alien/Watson said to Kaylie was to suggest she get pregnant. In her dream state, it sounded like a good idea, though she did at least ask why.

"So we can be born into a physical body! We want to explore your world as a physical human!"

"Okay, sure," Kaylie agreed. She wouldn't normally be so cavalier about who she slept with, let alone who she had a baby with, but it was just a dream. She felt like a character in a cartoon and was just playing along. "You won't be blue, though."

"We'll adapt. Skin color is not such a big deal for us, but you need to mate with Watson, not Pokorny."

"Who's Watson?"

"That tall, very dark and handsome gentleman following you around? Major Randall Watson."

"Him?" she was surprised. "Not really my type, but if you say so..."

"Yes, please. He is a truly amazing man. Much more interesting than Pokorny. You should dump that guy right away."

"Okay."

* * * *

As Kaylie awoke, Dobie said, "Little blue alien?"

"Yes!" she said, wide-eyed. "You, too?"

Dobie nodded. "Think any of it was true?"

"Just a dream, I guess, but, are all aliens blue?"

"Don't know," he had to think about that one. "That was my first."

"After you left the dream, Semmy said I should get pregnant."

"I never left the dream. I thought you did. Anyway, what?"

"Yeah. What do you think?" She wanted to see how he reacted to the idea of her being pregnant. Her own father had left her and her mother years ago. And, now that she was leaving her mom behind, it felt like the right time to start her own family.

"Of you being pregnant?" Dobie was uncomfortable with the subject. Last time he had this conversation was with his high school girlfriend. He had to put college on hold and get a job. His friends said he should dump her. The kid probably wasn't his. But he wanted to do the right thing. His friends were right, and she ran off with the baby and actual father after Dobie and his parents had paid all pregnancy expenses.

The experience soured Dobie on women for years afterward. It was a hard lesson on betrayal, and he got into the habit of one-night stands. Kaylie was helping him grow out of that, but he was not quite there yet.

"I, uh, I'll have to... um," he stammered now. "Hey, isn't there some kind of military or government research facility around here? Supposedly top secret, but more like an open secret in conspiracy circles. Somebody's just messing with us."

I could've told you that last part, Kaylie thought but said nothing.

Dobie knew a lot of the New Age types who were into incense, seances, crystals, alien visitations and such would assume they had been touched by the other side, or whatever. Not Dobie. He liked to keep an open mind, but could not accept that this experience was anything more than an induced hallucination. It could not have been real. His cosmology had to remain within the realm of probability. That was kind of his thing.

Sure, aliens were probably out there somewhere – given the odds – but he tried not to be one of those tin-foil hat types who jumped to the craziest conclusions.

"They have military-grade sound cannons," he explained to an only mildly interested Kaylie. "LRADs. Long Range Acoustic Devices. Basically, a ray gun that emits sounds and vibrations. They can even tailor it based on your sex."

She wondered if he would ever answer the pregnancy question.

"I'm serious!" he mistook her look as one of questioning his sanity. "I've read about these weapons. They're not just for crowd control. They can cause riots, too. "

Kaylie was shaking her head. Now that the idea had been planted, having a baby sounded better all the time. She still wanted to know how Dobie felt about it, and would prefer him as the father, but she was now determined to have a baby. Details like fatherhood could be hammered out later.

Gone Missing

A few days later, in Taos, they slept in before walking, hand-in-hand, to breakfast at a restaurant across from the hotel. Holding hands was something Kaylie insisted on, and Dobie was happy to oblige. Their hotel had the usual free breakfast bar, but Dobie wanted something better. He could afford it now.

After breakfast, still mid-morning, they made their way to a small outside courtyard near the center of town. It was not long before they found themselves surrounded by a surprisingly large crowd, both seated and standing. His talk was about to start, but he liked to mingle with the crowd first. Say hello. Shake a few hands.

Something about crowds brought out another side of Dobie. Not quite an alternate personality, he assured himself, just another aspect of himself.

Smiling, he stepped onto the stage, which was simply an area three bricks higher than the rest. He imagined this was where the band played, whoever that might be on any given night. All of it was in the shade of a beautiful, twisting, old walnut tree. With it being August in New Mexico, that shade was much appreciated.

Kaylie took a seat in a fold-up chair behind him, and he smiled back at her. This had become his routine prior to every speech, a smile for good luck.

"Screw 'economies of scale!'" he began. He liked to do that for dramatic effect, and laughed now to see the surprised looks from audience members.

"It's better economics," he continued, "for all businesses to be small businesses, limited to just a couple hundred employees each. But I don't have a degree in economics, or business, or anything else. Most importantly, I don't put a gun to anyone's head, so nobody in a position of power listens to me."

He was about to continue along that vein when the alien, Semmy, returned. The "blue dude," as Dobie called him in his head, was in that same wing-back chair from before and was right there in the front row. That's how it looked to Dobie, anyway.

Was it a mirage? A heat-induced hallucination? Dobie shook his head to break the spell, but it didn't work. He turned to Kaylie again, looking for any sign that she was seeing Semmy, too. She smiled back, not seeing the alien but now wondering what the problem was. Several in the audience gave sidelong glances, apparently wondering the same thing.

After that abrupt start, Dobie was now clearly off. And, if there's one thing an audience hates, it's a speaker who isn't up to the task. Dobie learned that the hard way over the past few months.

It was a group dynamic thing, he figured, probably dating back thousands of years to hunter-gatherer days. Being led on a hunt – or even a gather – by a bumbling idiot, after all, might get the entire tribe killed.

Kaylie thought she might have to step in for him. She had been itching to get up in front of the crowd herself, anyway. She had heard all of his speeches by that point and was ready for the spotlight. Not sure exactly what she might say, and doubting she could improvise as well as he did, she was nonetheless confident she could do it if called upon.

She used to be a much more confident person. And, not so long ago, either. But, ever since Taylorville, she had leaned on Dobie more than with any other man before. Holding his hand and sitting up front at his appearances was part of it, and based on her assumption that no one would try to kidnap her while holding his hand or in front of an audience. Hopefully.

She also wanted – through osmosis from Dobie if nothing else – to see how it felt to be in front of a crowd and listened to, not just ogled for her beauty. That would be something new. Adoration was nice, but she wanted more from life.

Dobie spotted Watson leaning up against another walnut tree at the back of the crowd. Idly wondering now if they were in what used to be a walnut orchard, Dobie turned to Kaylie again. Out the corner of his mouth, gesturing with his eyes in Watson's direction, he said, "It's that Watson guy again."

Something inside Kaylie clicked at the mention of Watson's name. Seeing the tall, very dark and handsome man in person at the back of the crowd, her heart skipped a beat, like a celebrity crush. He was such an amazing man. Much more interesting than Dobie, and incredibly attractive.

She would later be unable to explain why but, for now, she was compelled to hurry up and meet him. Kaylie leaped to her feet and said, "I'll talk to him!"

Dobie watched, helpless, as she met Watson at the back of the audience. She was being awfully friendly, he thought, but that was Kaylie. She had every man wrapped around her little finger within seconds. She said something that made him smile, and they slipped through the door into an adjacent building.

Dobie wondered what that was all about but couldn't chase after her. He had an audience to entertain, though her disappearance put him in a mood for anything but his usual political talk. Funny, he thought, how the threat of lost love puts politics and manifestos into proper perspective.

He couldn't talk about his girl problems in front of everyone, so he talked about the Semmy dream. He knew it wouldn't help his credibility, but he had to talk about something. He could laugh it off later as someone slipping him peyote.

"So, I dreamt about an alien the other night," he began. "Probably no big surprise in these parts, eh? Anyway, his name was Semmy. Actually, he said his full name was – let me see if I can say it – Sematalanthoyop. Ever heard of him?"

He was not expecting an answer, but a spindly, thirty-something, mostly-bald white guy with long blonde hair around the edges nodded his head, raised his hand and said, "I know Semmy. He comes to me in my dreams all the time!"

"Really?" Dobie was incredulous.

"All the time!"

"What does he look and sound like?" Dobie tested him.

"Oh, uh," the man hesitated, "he's, um, about seven feet tall, with blonde hair... and looks and speaks Norwegian. I speak many languages in my dreams."

"Maybe it is the same guy with a different appearance and name," Dobie offered, but didn't really believe that. "I don't know, but my alien was about five foot nothing. I guess. He never stood up, but he had blue skin, blue hair, and sounded like an Indian couple with a Hindi accent speaking at the same time. So..."

"Oh, you said Semmy!" the man tried to save face. "I thought you said Svenny!"

"Uh huh," Dobie smiled politely but was careful not to shake his head or roll his eyes. He was still trying to get the hang of not pissing people off. It had been a while since any audience members had accosted him, and he'd like to keep it that way.

"Anyway, he said our solar system used to be closer to the center of the galaxy where all the cool kids hung out. I like the sound of that! Does that remind you of anyone?" he gestured toward his audience.

He knew flattery worked, and often used it, but it was not disingenuous. He honestly believed those who attended his talks were the cool kids.

He interjected clarification as needed as he retold Semmy's story...

"Rumor has it a team of scientists was responsible for your solar system's accidental relocation. Arrogant, overpaid eggheads on a government contract lacking even the foresight to give themselves the excuse of being drunk. They were completely sober and playing with matches – and by matches we mean subatomic particles – energy fields, actually, but we won't get into the physics – when there was a BIG BANG and the bulk of your solar system ended up over here near the galactic edge.

"What passes for intelligence, like with these scientists, often turns out to be nothing more than arrogance and delusion masquerading as higher IQ. The little mishap with the solar system can stand as Exhibit A.

"One of your solar system's planets didn't quite make it with the rest of them. It had the bad luck of being, at the moment of the accident, in the middle of a geo-spatial rebalancing. Everyone knows how delicate those are. You never want to interrupt one. Anyway, That's how that planet ended up in an extremely long, 3600-year orbit around your sun. It was lucky to be in any orbit after that, frankly.

"Two of the planets, sadly, collided upon arrival and came to be known as your asteroid belt. And don't believe all of the talk about Pluto not being a planet. It is. Arguments to the contrary are nothing more than discrimination against the size-disadvantaged, which we happen to take personally.

"So, your solar system currently has ten planets, if you count the straggler, which is why most of you evolved to have ten fingers and toes. It is also why the decimal system won out over the 12-based system because, before calculators, computers, or even pencil and paper had been invented – rediscovered, actually – how else is a person supposed to count? You use your fingers and toes, right? And that’s why the dominant species of a planet always, always, always has to have the same number of digits as the number of planets in that solar system – and use that as their counting system – except when they simply refuse, but that's another argument altogether. The most important numbers should be divisible by 4, of course. With your own number of digits and planets being off, it throws everything else off.

"It should be fairly obvious how much better twelve would have been. We personally prefer eighths or sixteenths, but nobody asked us. Do you think it is a coincidence there are 12 months in a year, 12 signs of the Zodiac, 12 inches in a foot, 12 donuts in a dozen, 12 hours on the clock and 24 hours in a day? Sure, coincidence happens, but not nearly as often as scientists would have us think. It does happen more often than some of your religious types think, though. As usual, the truth lies somewhere in between.

"You used to have thirty-six days in each month... before the accident, and people should have been more concerned about the number of days. The lunar cycle is an important component of the cycles-within-cycles that we call life. When the catastrophe happened, though, the least of anyone's worries was the number of days per month. They thought nothing of it, except as an excuse for why there's never enough time for anything.

"Speaking of the moon, it is a complete fabrication. Sure, technically, everything in the physical universe is a fabrication, but it is actually a spaceship built to the exact size and positioned at the perfect distance to block out all but the sun's corona during a total eclipse when viewed from Earth. And, it never shows you its far side. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Your scientists just shrug, but most of your scientists are idiots. Don't get us started!

"Don't worry, it stopped functioning as a spaceship and subliminal broadcast station years ago when its last crew member died from – what else? – lunacy. Technically, he died from asphyxiation, but it was sheer lunacy that made him want to sing Paper Moon while out for a walk on the dark side without a spacesuit. It had an artificial atmosphere inside, but not on the surface.

Dobie sang the first few lines of that song. "Pardon my singing, but Semmy sang it, so here goes..."

He laughed and took a bow to a smattering of applause.

"You would be amazed how manipulated everyone is down here in this dimension. Most of you are just a bunch of puppets on a string for this or that higher-dimensional group. They convinced you long ago to do something, and your agreement is that string.

"You're not all idiots, of course, except for your politicians and news media. Some of you are straight-up geniuses! As to this reverence y'all seem to have for scientists – we love that contraction ‘y'all' – we can only guess it's because you know, deep down, we're all participating in the biggest science experiment, ever. In this universe.

"Not to be negative – and sorry for all the sharp turns throughout our presentation, but there is just so much to cover and so little time. The proverbial shit is about to hit the fan.

"We must tell you, life's biggest lies work through endless repetition of bald-faced lies mixed in with half-truths and feigned acceptance from others who really wish the liar would just shut up and go away. The closer to the truth, the better, so long as it ultimately leads away from deeper truths.

"Speaking of liars, these Ceytons are idiots. But, remember what they say about arguing with an idiot: They will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience! So, don't do it. You just step around them like dog crap on the sidewalk. You know they're there, but you avoid them.

"It has been argued this is no better than pretending they're not there, but you're not ignoring them. You're not engaging with them, either. They want you to focus on them, hate and despise them. They know their negativity and your fear will swallow you whole if you let it.

"But you are not afraid. You are strong. Just be yourself. That's the most important thing.

"Earth herself prefers humans over Ceytons because you're willing to inhabit organic bodies. Ceytons think they're too good for that. They have no idea how stupid they are. Yes, we keep saying that, but it bears repeating. They're fiendishly clever in a mathematical, binary, computer sort of way, but completely uncreative, unimaginative, and unable to think outside the box. The only advantage they have is that they think long-term. Really long-term, like thousands, even millions of years at a time. Humans, with your habit of reincarnating and losing your memories can't easily compete with that.

"Don't get me wrong. This memory wipe thing y'all do between lives is exceedingly clever. Who doesn't love a fresh start? Brilliant! Your creativity, spirit and emotions are a definite advantage, but the latter is often what Ceytons use against you. It's a struggle, we know.

"People go on and on about their 'real world' accomplishments, their life's achievements, but if they can simply maintain – if not strengthen – their sanity, humanity and personal integrity after an entire lifetime in this outdoor insane asylum, that will be their greatest accomplishment. It's like diving into shark-infested waters and living to tell the tale!

"The Ceytons have – through your 'elites' – been slowly ruining your planet's environment with unnecessarily crude and destructive industrialization. Industry is fine, but not how they do it.

"Don't worry, this won't be an environmentalist rant – though we find it odd the word environmentalist could ever be considered derogatory. Who doesn't love the environment? Oh, right, Ceytons. But, these 'elites' – who shall forever be wrapped in quotation marks – believe they will survive the destruction because of their underground bunkers and sophisticated gadgetry. They won't.

"Speaking of which, don't be scared when you feel that you are about to die. You're not frightened when you wake up in the morning, are you? Pretty much the same thing. Life is but a dream! Just be glad for the ride, like when you get off a roller-coaster! And, when you turn in your scorecard at the end of this round of golf we call life, don't forget to return that little pencil along with it!

"Ha! Just a little afterlife humor! Mixed metaphors, our favorite kind!"

Dobie thought that would cheer him up – and it did a little – but he was now so distracted by Kaylie sneaking off with Watson, he made distraction itself the subject of his talk. Others might have said screw it, quit the talk, and gone looking for her – and he was tempted – but he never liked to leave people feeling cheated.

She left of her own accord. She should be fine. You said the same thing in Taylorville, the thought occurred to him, but he was able to suppress such fears.

"One of the most powerful forces in the universe," he powered through, "is distraction. It is quite possibly the purpose behind almost every electronic device, keeping us occupied. Distracted. Harmless. It's no big deal until it distracts you from your purpose.

"And what is the greatest distraction of all? It used to be television, then computers, now it's the so-called smartphone. I don't include radio here because we were, as a society, so new to technology when it came out, we get a pass. As to smartphones, granted, they can be useful and are almost exactly what Douglas Adams described as The Guide itself in his book The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which came out, what, 40 years ago now? The man was a genius!

"And, no, all that stuff about Semmy was not me channeling the good Mr. Adams. Maybe he was channeling Semmy? That's what I'm going with. I don't believe in channeling. I mean, it happens, I just don't think it's wise unless you're on equal footing with whoever or whatever you're summoning.

"Smartphones are destructive to the mental, emotional and spiritual health of humans. But, don't panic!" He added that last bit with a laugh in honor of Hitchhiker's catch phrase, though only a few in the audience seemed to get the reference.

"Electronic devices are a crutch. They make us lazy. They entertain us when we should be entertaining each other and ourselves. You know, human interaction and imagination. They do things for us like long-distance communication and remote viewing that we were once able to do ourselves psychically, if you believe in past and/or pre-Earthly lives.

"On a more mundane level, those GPS mapping programs obviate the need for our innate sense of direction (and the ability to read street signs), and calendar reminders have the same destructive effect upon our sense of time. Even if we wanted to develop our psychic, mental and common-sense abilities – recapture them, really – we now have these convenient smartphones to render such abilities unnecessary, moot and, ultimately, lost."

There was no response from the audience. Crickets. He thought he had chosen a subject more attuned to this crowd. They were paying attention to Semmy's story moments earlier, but the mere mention of smartphones had everyone now staring at theirs.

Dobie had always heard Taos was a mystical, almost magical place. Or, was that Sedona? Now he wasn't sure. Whatever the case, even here people were addicted to their phones.

He was deflated. He didn't even stick around long enough to sign more than a few books before loading everything into his car.

He needed to find Kaylie. Was this how she would leave him, he wondered? It had to happen sooner or later. He reminded himself of the old saying, "If you love someone, set them free," blah, blah; i.e., you have to be willing to lose them. That doesn't mean you just sit back and watch it happen, though.

With the refrain Free, free, set them free from that 90s pop song now running through his head, he ran into Major Watson in the parking lot just outside the hotel's back door. Trying to sound casual, exchanging monosyllabic grunts, Dobie ignored the smell of marijuana. "Oh, hey, have you seen Kaylie?"

Watson smiled knowingly, hiding the roach behind his back. He could never remember in which states it was legal, so he erred on the side of caution. "Just left her a minute ago. That's why I'm down here enjoying this. You know... after."

"After what?" Dobie's smile slipped away. He knew what Watson was implying.

"It's best to hear it from the woman herself, my brother," Watson smirked, took a long drag and exhaled in Dobie's direction just to irritate him. He could guess a Boy Scout like Dobie did not imbibe.

"I will, my brother," Dobie spat. He was tempted to punch this guy, but kept his cool. Watson was just another distraction, Dobie told himself. He needed to find Kaylie. After that, maybe, depending on how he felt, he would deal with Watson.

"One more thing," Watson scratched his chest with the thumb of his roach hand. "You need to leave the country."

"Come again?"

"It's not safe for you and Kaylie here," Watson explained. "Colonel Charonne hates you. Keeps going on about stamping out The Red Menace, or some such. I've seen it before. Kaylie will be safe, as long as I'm around, but you need to go away if you know what's good for you."

Dobie gave him a long look before saying, "Ha! Had me going there for a second! We'll take our chances, thanks."

He pushed past Watson into the hotel and up the stairs. The smell of marijuana dissipated as he climbed higher.

Watson shook his head. He kept trying, but Dobie never took the hint.

Leaving

Dobie was still catching his breath from climbing the stairs. Surprised to find Kaylie asleep, he croaked softly, "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said as she rolled onto her back and smiled sleepily. She closed her eyes again only after verifying it was Dobie – and only Dobie – in the room. "Why?"

He shook his head. After the kidnapping, she said she would never be alone in a hotel room again, but here she was.

"I just ran into that Watson guy," he began cautiously. She opened her eyes. He scoffed and continued, "When he's not saving our lives, he's being a complete dick. He led me to believe you two had sex. What a..."

"Yeah, no big deal," she said with a yawn.

"Wh... what?!" he struggled to speak. "Are you kidding me?! You have sex with him, and it's no big deal?! I thought you and I... I thought we..." The vice grip he once had on his feelings was now gone. His confidence, shattered.

He had tried to keep things cool with her up to that point. Beautiful women have no respect for guys who fall in love too easily, but his self-control was now slipping.

"I should've known you were too good to be true!" he snapped, angrier at himself than anyone else. "That's what happens, I guess, when you fall...." He stopped himself.

She finished his sentence for him "...in love?"

Looking at her evenly, he said, "Yes... until you had sex with..."

"We didn't, I swear! He wanted to," she giggled, "but we didn't. That's what was no big deal. I got rid of him and took a shower. I meant to go back down and be with you on stage, but I lay down for a nap and slept longer than I meant to."

She failed to mention how Watson made a pass at her once they were alone in the room together. Definitely not going to tell him what a good kisser Watson was. Dobie could not handle that. For her, it was no big deal unless the guy took it too far. She told Watson to stop, and he did, and that was the end of it. She didn't know he would exaggerate the entire thing with Dobie afterward.

"But you chased after him earlier," Dobie persisted. "What was that all about?"

"I don't know, to tell you the truth. Whatever it was, it passed." She didn't want to say she had fallen so hard for Dobie that Watson never stood a chance. Information like that goes straight to a guy's head.

"What did you say to him that made him smile?" Dobie persisted.

"I don't remember saying anything..."

"At the back of the crowd during my talk," Dobie grew angrier. "At the door before you went into the building together. What did you say to him?!"

"I honestly don't remember, okay? Can I go now, officer!?"

After a few calming breaths, Dobie apologized.

Her smile quickly returned, and she said, "It's alright. I forgive you. Hey, that was our first fight!"

"Yeah," he grumbled, "I guess so."

"It is weird, though, how I can't remember what happened."

"We need to figure that out," he nodded, not entirely convinced she had not cheated on him.

"Are we good?" she asked with an exaggerated pout.

Her loyalty was a big deal for Dobie. With almost any other woman, it would not have been. With her, for some reason, she had to be all in or he was gone. He cared too much to be ambivalent about it.

Once he allowed himself a grin, he said with a twinkle in his eye, "We should probably kiss and make up. You think?"

"Probably should," she sat up, smiling, and kissed him. And, they spent the better part of an hour making up.

Kaylie awoke first. Dobie was asleep next to her, but throwing punches in the air. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, tapping a shoulder, avoiding his fists.

Opening his eyes and gathering his bearings, he focused on her. It was all he could do for a moment. He wanted to just soak her in, saying nothing, but he needed to explain the punches.

"I was dreaming," he said, "remembering my fight with JD. I didn't hit you, did I?"

She shook her head and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. A powerful calm rose within him. After everything they had been through, together and separately – taking his show on the road and dealing with angry crowds, meeting each other and helping her through the ordeal with Blount – it took them and their relationship to new heights. It also brought them to the edge. Followed by the trauma of almost losing her – twice now – Dobie was hanging onto that edge by his fingernails.

Something had to change. He was finished with writing and talking about the world's problems. It was time to do something. His hero Gandhi might not have approved of what he had in mind, but oh well. Dobie never was the turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy.

Returning his gaze, Kaylie said, "You're scaring me, Dobe. What are you thinking?" She saw a simultaneous coldness, warmth and deep resolve in him she had not seen on a man's face since her father abandoned her.

"You'll see," Dobie said as he gazed into the distance out the window.

"I can always tell you're serious," she teased, "when you look off into the distance like that!"

He smiled despite himself. She could always do that to him.

Before he did anything drastic, however, he needed to get her somewhere safe. He hated to admit it, but Watson was right. They needed to leave the country, and not just because of Colonel Charonne. He was worried about Kaylie's old boyfriend, JD, too. Whatever happened to him?

He asked Kaylie where she would live if she could live anywhere in the world. His income had been steadily increasing to the point where he could now afford to be one of those semi-retired expatriated Americans Jimmy Buffett sang about. For a while, at least, and in one of those low-cost-of-living countries. As long as his books kept selling, his finances should keep him afloat.

"You keep asking and saying things no one has ever said before!" she smiled warmly. "I don't know. St. Louis, maybe? I went there with my parents as a kid..."

"St. Louis?! No, somewhere outside the US."

"Why?" she lowered her voice. "Did you kill someone?"

"Not yet. I just gotta leave the country for a while and want you with me. Just choose, please?"

"Well, if I had to choose, I'd say the Azores."

"The Azores?" he laughed, trying to remember where that was. "Really? Not the Bahamas or French Riviera? Your first choice is St. Louis. Failing that, it's the Azores? Those are the islands off the coast of Portugal, right?"

"Yeah, my father's side of the family is from there. I've seen pictures. It's beautiful. And I like how no one thinks to go there. It's like a secret hideaway kinda place."

Dobie liked the sound of that. Another benefit of leaving the country, he hoped, was it should rid him of that Semmy character. There was just something so familiar about that little blue guy, but familiarity was not always a good thing. More importantly, Dobie was unsure what may or may not have transpired between Kaylie and Watson, and wanted to put some distance between them. Finally, he hoped it would put them beyond the Colonel's reach. Out of sight, out of mind, at least.

"The Azores it is, then!" he said, making a mental note to update his Will to leave everything to Kaylie in case the next thing he had in mind went badly.

* * * *

Kaylie never talked about her father, but the man had called a few months prior to say he had emigrated to the Azores. He apologized for abandoning her but claimed to have no choice.

When he asked her to join him there, she shouted at him, "How dare you abandon us, only to call – how many years later? – wanting a reunion!" And, she hung up.

After everything that happened recently, though, reuniting with her estranged father didn't sound so bad. The only problem was that she had told her mom about her father's call. She never said which island in the Azores he was on, but it was a small chain. Anyone who went looking would not have much trouble finding her.

Prior to her staged kidnapping, Claire suggested to Kaylie that she install one of those location-sharing apps on her phone. Kaylie declined.

* * * *

No matter how annoying some found him, Dobie was not someone who any sane person would obsess about. Unfortunately for Dobie, Charonne was not sane. His therapist – referred to as Dr. Alyssa on the doctor's urging – once had him take a psychopathy test. On that test, the lower the patient scores, the better. Zero was the most sane person anyone will ever meet, while 40 is the worst. Charonne scored 33 and was quite proud of it. His doctor was concerned, but Charonne, clutching at straws, said the entire concept of psychopathy was created by her profession to "justify their own existence and take their betters down a peg or two."

He stopped seeing her after that. Was already on the fence about her because of her repeated denials of his advances. Naturally—for him, and no one else -- he had her offices ransacked and all of its computers and filing cabinets carted off. After he read and destroyed his own files, he scoured other patients’ files for incriminating evidence. It was a longshot, but one never knows when ammunition against one's enemies might be needed.

In that same spirit, Charonne had cultivated informants over the years in government agencies, NGOs, and companies in multiple industries. One of those informants was his own niece, Therese Bourges, his sister's daughter.

Working at the low-level job he had finagled for her deep in the bowels of the US. State Department, Therese one day found herself removing staples from sheets of paper and replacing them with paperclips in preparation for digital scanning. It was excruciatingly boring work, but she was paying her dues.

With the promise of a bonus from Charonne for each substantive lead, she had a week earlier set her computer to notify her if the names Dobromir Pokorny or Kaylie Daniels showed up attached to any requests for a passport or visa. When both names appeared with the stated destination of Macao, Therese snapped a photo and texted it to her Uncle Reggie, the Colonel.

Charonne sent her brother Adam to Macao to solve his Pokorny problem once and for all. His nephew Adam was trying to establish a career for himself, and Charonne was only too happy to help the kid become a man. A hit man, in this case.

* * * *

Dobie and Kaylie drove north from New Mexico to Colorado for a couple more book signings before leaving the country. These went well, blissfully uneventful, and they parked Sabina in long-term parking at Denver International Airport. Dobie said a prayer that nothing should happen to his beloved car in his absence.

The 32-foot purportedly-demonic red-eyed horse statue out front reminded Dobie of the many conspiracy theories regarding this airport. There were also said to be apocalyptic murals on the walls and a Masonic symbol adorning a time capsule buried somewhere onsite during its opening ceremony, but neither he nor Kaylie saw anything like that. Several other items supposedly supported various theories, but Dobie couldn't remember, did not particularly care, but had to admit the demonic horse was strange.

He tried not to think about any of that as he and Kaylie boarded their flight from Denver to Boston to Angra do Heroísmo on the island of Terceira, Azores.

The Azores

They were completely exhausted from lack of sleep by the time they hailed a cab in Angra. It was approximately 2 AM local time when they arrived at their hotel. They grabbed their luggage as it was handed to them by the friendly dark-haired middle-aged cabby. They paid their fare, plus tip, and wheeled it all behind them to the check-in desk.

Dobie tried to speak Portuguese to the young woman behind the counter. "Obrigado, por favor," he struggled. "Quarto para Dobromir Pokorny?"

With a laugh, she said, "It's okay, Mr. Pokorny, we speak English here."

"Oh, thank God."

After a few questions and clicks on the keyboard, she said, "Here are your keys. Third floor, Room 308."

"Key cards!" Dobie exclaimed, surprised.

"Yes," she said with a smile, "on top of Old World charm, The Azores has all the modern conveniences, too. The best of both worlds!"

"Don't mind him," Kaylie apologized. "He thinks everyone outside of large cities is a backwoods hillbilly."

That wasn't entirely true, but he was too tired to argue. The woman mouthed the words "backwoods hillbilly" but continued unfazed. "Your room is all the way in back. Enjoy your stay!"

Dobie wondered if third floor in the Azores meant fourth floor everywhere else. He had heard of some countries doing that. After Taylorville, he promised himself to never stay on the third floor anywhere again. It was silly and superstitious, he knew, but was not going to tempt fate. He never used to care, but now took this sort of thing into consideration after Semmy babbled about numbers and decimal versus dozenal, and whatever else, during that dream. God, he wished he could get Semmy out of his head.

They now boarded the elevator and pressed 3. At the last door at the end of the hall, the key worked – which was all that mattered – and they stumbled into their room.

He almost joked about this being the wrong room and having someone walk in on them while they slept but stopped himself. He was not quite that stupid, but did joke how the last time they stumbled into a room together there was a lot of heavy breathing.

"Go back down and take the stairs up if you want heavy breathing," Kaylie suggested with a smile, "but I'm going straight to bed... to sleep."

* * * *

Kaylie arose with the sun while Dobie slept in. Stepping out onto the small balcony – everything here was small and cramped compared to the wide open spaces of middle America – and breathing in the cool beachfront air, she was refreshed as the laurel trees, swaying in the breeze, reached up from below and caressed the railing in front of her. She used to think she never wanted to leave the United States but now felt reborn – liberated, even – with an overpowering urge to go out and explore this strange new land. She wondered if being here and reconnecting with her ancestral roots, had anything to do with that.

"I've been hanging out with Dobie too long," she laughed at herself.

She considered waking him to accompany her, but he looked so peaceful in bed, she let him sleep. An hour had passed by the time she stopped at the front desk. There, she asked the young man on duty to please let her "husband" know that she was only stepping out for a bit, should he ask.

The young man – Eduardo on the name tag – nodded, looked her up and down, and said with his most charming smile, "Or, you and I can shower together in one of the empty rooms, but tell your husband you only went for a walk!" He winked at her.

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing but, not wanting to send the wrong message, gasped, "I beg your pardon?!"

With her looks, he assumed she was some rich man’s trophy wife. And, in his experience, trophy wives were notoriously unfaithful. Seeing her reaction, he had obviously misjudged her. "No, no," he back-pedaled, "I meant to say I hope everything is ready for your shower... or whatever you might need after your walk!"

"Uh-huh. That's very kind of you, but I've taken a shower, thanks." With a playful look, she added seductively, "In the shower, naked and all soapy, I waited for a handsome man like you to bust through the door... but no one came! You missed your chance. Sorry!"

Eduardo was left speechless as she walked out the door.

She shook her head in disbelief at what she had done. It was so unlike her.

* * * *

Charonne didn't know Watson had followed Dobie and Kaylie across the Atlantic, but he would know after he got Watson's invoice for expenses. Watson, of course, knew exactly where his quarry had run off to. The tracking software surreptitiously installed earlier in Kaylie's cell phone showed her in Angra.

From his third-floor window – one point of the triangle that could be drawn between the café, the Americans' hotel, and Watson's hotel – the Major now sneaked a peek through the sights of his H&K G28 rifle. He wanted a room on a higher floor, but this town didn’t have any buildings higher than three floors.

* * * *

Adam Bourges was at an outside table at the café. With an unfiltered French cigarette in one hand and a demitasse of unfiltered coffee in the other, he was pretending to be French. Being French-Canadian and a Francophile since childhood, he dreamed of one day moving to the mother country. He knew the Azores were not French – though much of the architecture looked similar to his untrained eye – but this was the closest he had ever come and he could not wait to play the part.

* * * *

Watson had a clear shot as Bourges set his cup down to hold the local paper and pretend to read its Portuguese text while waiting for Dobie or Kaylie to show their faces.

* * * *

Bourges was going to enjoy this hit, and not just because it was his first kill. When Pokorny put Macao as his destination on the passport paperwork, the misdirection cost him time and money that might have otherwise been spent in Bourges's beloved France.

As soon as this job was done, he would text "mission accomplished" to his uncle, verify payment into a Maltese bank account setup just prior, and catch the next flight to his namesake town, or Paris, or the French Riviera. He hadn't decided yet.

* * * *

Kaylie smiled when she saw the quaint café and its little round umbrella tables. When she spotted Bourges, however, she got a seriously creepy vibe. She had no idea who he was, but her spider sense was still on high alert. It was Blount all over again, only younger, and it sent her in the opposite direction.

* * * *

Bourges meant to pretend not to notice her, but could not help himself, just for a second. It was okay, he thought. It would be suspicious to not notice her. As she hurried off, he was reminded of Charonne's one-liner: "I hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave!"

At least Pokorny, Bourges thought, had a piece of that before he died. Most guys never get anything close to that.

That was all he needed to convince himself Pokorny deserved to die. Neither he nor the Colonel required much justification for their actions.

* * * *

Feeling the weight of Bourges's stare, Kaylie looked back over her shoulder. She caught him watching her, and he clumsily returned his attention to the newspaper that he could not read.

* * * *

"Rookie mistake," Watson scoffed as he watched it all from above. "Not much of a hit man, are you?"

Watson knew several hit men, but this guy was not familiar. Whoever he was, he was clearly new to the trade. A good hit man makes himself and his gaze invisible. He masters the art of watching his prey without them feeling watched.

Watson had no idea Bourges and Charonne were nephew and uncle. He had a good eye for faces and family resemblance but, beyond their pale skin and thick, wavy head of hair, there was not much similarity between the two.

* * * *

Armando Lopes (pronounced Loapsh) was behind the counter tending to his customers as he did every day but Mondays, twelve hours a day since emigrating from the US. He was of average height, well-tanned, with thick gray hair. His poker buddies called him Wrong Way Lopes for emigrating from the United States to the Azores instead of the more typical other way around. It was all in good fun. Everyone knew him as a good man, even if he was from the wrong side of the pond.

Over the years he had developed the habit of regularly glancing out the window so that no one sneaked up on him. It was during one of these glances that he saw something that made him smile. On the other side of the plate-glass window, a beautiful young woman was smiling to herself and checking out his wares.

It had been years, and she was all grown up now, but he could never forget that face, that smile.

He apologized to his customers, recruited a young assistant to cover the register for him, and hurried out the door. He had to find out for sure. Had to move fast, too, before she moved on to the next shop.

"Excuse me, miss?" he said in English as he came out.

She turned and smiled uncertainly. Still recovering from jet lag – and that hotel desk clerk – she lost her balance, mid-turn. Armando reached out to help steady her.

"D... Dad?" she said as soon as her mouth allowed her to speak.

"Kaylie! It is you! I can't believe it! Of all the gift shops in all the world, and you walk past mine!"

"You sent me a postcard," she frowned, not immediately getting the Casablanca reference. It then hit her that she was off the hook for mentioning her dad's whereabouts to her mom. With Claire as paranoid as she was, she would have spotted Armando's postcard on the kitchen table at some point. His return address was on it.

"Everyone..." Armando turned to introduce her to everyone, but there were only strangers passing by. He felt silly but never stopped smiling, ear to ear, as he grabbed her into a bear hug, picked her up and spun her around. His back was not what it used to be, though, and he quickly set her down. If not for that, he might have never let go.

She felt an unexpected warmth toward him, too. Her long-held bitterness magically evaporated with that hug. She even surprised herself and took his hand.

* * * *

Dobie had been asleep in the hotel room, dreaming of the alien, Semmy. He wished that would stop, but this dream started with Dobie walking into a theater halfway through the black-and-white Astaire and Rogers film, Shall We Dance. It was a mystery how that old flick entered his subconscious. Kaylie was there with popcorn, already in her seat, waving him over. Before he could get to her, though – it was slow-going due to the knee-deep sewer mud – Semmy pulled her into the movie screen with him, and she disappeared.

At the exact moment Kaylie took her father's hand, Dobie awoke with a start, realizing she was not with him. He jumped out of bed and, still in his underwear, checked every room looking for her, including the closets. She was nowhere to be found.

Maybe this is one of those dreams, it occurred to him, where I go out in public in nothing but my underwear. He was wearing his jungle-camo boxer-briefs. He always felt silly wearing those, but it came in a multi-color pack of dark-blue, aqua-blue and jungle-camouflage, so he rolled with it.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face to make sure he was not dreaming. "Whoa! They keep their water cold here in the Azores."

He was awake.

He tried calling Kaylie's new cell phone from the room phone, but it was long distance and required some sort of code. The pre-recorded operator's voice was in Portuguese, and he had no time for technical difficulties in a foreign language first thing in the morning.

He donned the same pants, socks and shoes he arrived in, but did at least find a fresh shirt. Sliding the key card into his breast pocket, he let the door close behind him as he entered the hallway.

Then he remembered their room had a balcony. He turned around, re-entered, and hurried toward the sliding balcony door, calling Kaylie's name all the while.

Finding it locked, he doubted she would be out there. But maybe that was the problem? She locked herself out?

He couldn't see the entire balcony from inside, so he slid the door open, stepped out into the cool air, and looked around. She was not there, and he felt like an idiot for looking.

Less than a minute later, he was downstairs in the hotel lobby, forcing a smile at the young man, Eduardo, now on duty at the front desk. "Have you seen a young woman?" Dobie asked. "Beautiful, white, American, brown hair, blue eyes, speaks English? Do you speak English?"

With unsmiling eyes, Eduardo slowly looked up from his phone and shook his head, no.

Dobie didn't know if that meant he spoke no English or had not seen Kaylie. Not as friendly as that overnight girl, he thought.

Of course, Dobie had been quite courteous with that one, and Kaylie was with him, which always put him on his best behavior. He thought he might ask about the hotel's conference room rates while he was there, but Eduardo's attitude left him disinclined to say any more than was absolutely necessary.

Eduardo felt the same way. Dobie was being rude.

Caught up in his anxiety to find Kaylie, Dobie assumed the man spoke English, though this was a Portuguese-speaking country. Then he asked if the man even knew how to speak English. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm being an ugly American. We're not all like this."

Eduardo never looked up from his magazine.

Dobie shook his head and resumed his search. Not finding her in the hotel lobby, he shrugged and went out the front door. My next book, he thought, should be called "Finding Kaylie."

From behind the counter, Eduardo looked up, happy to see Dobie leaving. He had a clear view of the café across the street and was about to get quite a show.

* * * *

Young Bourges had been trying to get the attention of an attractive young woman at a nearby table and did not immediately notice Dobie. When he did glance over to see Pokorny, he got so excited he spilled coffee all over his newspaper, and immediately stood up to wipe it up with the table napkin.

This snapped Watson out of his stake-out-induced stupor.

At this distance, looking down upon Bourges at the café, despite his chosen rifle's accuracy failings compared to others, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He almost felt guilty as he pointed his rifle at the target. Almost.

Bourges reached into his coat pocket.

* * * *

Kaylie and Armando strolled hand-in-hand down the sidewalk on their way to the hotel to meet Dobie. She didn't know how the two men might react to each other. Badly, probably, she thought, but she was confident she could handle it.

When they happened upon one of her dad's poker buddies coming toward them, the man smiled at the sight of Lopes out with a beautiful young lady. Armando introduced her in English as his long-lost daughter. The man laughed, gave him a friendly punch in the arm, and said in Portuguese, "That makes more sense, Armando!"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Armando feigned offense.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Kaylie.

"The pleasure is all mine!" the man replied and continued on his way, smiling.

Once he was out of earshot, Kaylie turned to her father and asked, "Did that man call you Armando?"

"Yeah, I had to change my name when I got here," Lopes gave a sheepish smile. "Long story."

It always is with you, she thought, but immediately dropped it. No need for that.

"I'll tell you all about it someday," he continued, "but people here know me as Armando Lopes. You can still call me 'Dad.'"

"Okay, Armando!" she teased. "How do you say 'dad' in Portuguese?"

"Papai."

"Okay, papai," she said with a happy smile.

* * * *

Watson considered letting Bourges go ahead and just kill Dobie. Although he never told Charonne he was in the Azores, he was sure his boss would be cool with Pokorny dead, no matter who pulled the trigger.

There were probably plenty of people, Watson thought, who would be cool with Dobie dead. The guy had no concept of leaving well enough alone. Always stirring up trouble. Not a bad guy, really, just so completely wrong about so many things.

On the other hand, Watson realized he would benefit from Dobie's death. Should the latter accidentally take, say, a bullet to the head, Kaylie would be vulnerable to Watson swooping in and lending a sympathetic shoulder for her to cry on. A good soldier always remembers successful tactics, and that had worked before.

Charonne was partly correct about that woman in Iraq whose husband he killed. Watson simply didn't want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He had shacked up with her after shooting the husband, but it was not premeditated, merely opportunistic.

He saw Kaylie now coming down the sidewalk toward him, arm-in-arm with a man he had never laid eyes on before. He felt a pang of jealousy and grabbed the binoculars. There was a clear resemblance between the two of them. The man must be her father. An uncle, at the very least. Whoever he was, they were both walking straight into Bourges's line of fire.

Watson was okay with the old man being shot. If he was her father, he would be Watson's primary competition for providing that sympathetic shoulder to Kaylie.

* * * *

As Dobie crossed the mostly empty cobblestone street toward the café, he was oblivious to Kaylie behind him, Watson above him, and Bourges lying in wait directly in front of him. When he saw Charonne's eager young nephew, he thought nothing of him. He would later chastise himself for being so unguarded, but even he was not paranoid enough to jump to the conclusion that anyone there wanted to kill him.

* * * *

Watson had to choose between letting Bourges kill Dobie – with the very real chance of Kaylie being hit in the crossfire – or killing Bourges himself to protect them all.

A street-sweeper came around the corner, and Watson smiled. Its noise would provide the perfect cover for any shots fired. He had a silencer, but in the still quiet of the morning, those shots would be recognizable by a trained ear.

With Bourges still in his sights, he again considered letting him kill Dobie. When the assassin stood up from the table and reached into his coat pocket, however, Watson's training kicked in. Everything for the next few seconds was purely muscle memory.

There was an active shooter in front of him. No time to think. As programmed, he fired off two quick muffled bursts.

Bourges never knew what hit him. He would never make it to his beloved France.

Again, like back at Blount’s barn, a bullet whizzed past Dobie's head, though he could not tell from which direction. He dropped to the ground in the middle of the street, not sure what was happening. All he knew was that the man thirty yards away at the outside table had stood up with a gun in his hand.

There was a gunshot. Just one, from what he heard. The man's gun dropped from his grasp just as Dobie fell to the ground.

Why would someone here want to kill me? he wondered. He had only just arrived. Hotel front desk clerk aside, he had not had time to piss anyone off, at least not to the point of wanting him dead.

Confused, not knowing where the shot came from, Dobie was at least smart enough to know he was a sitting duck there in the street. He picked himself up and ran back to the hotel. There, he found Kaylie and her new older gentleman friend.

She was so happy to see him, she had tears in her eyes. She was, once again, enduring the horror of seeing someone shot dead right in front of her.

She tried to wrap her arms around Dobie, but he urged her and everyone else into the hotel.

Eduardo was disappointed to see the "ugly American" still alive.

Should I Be Flattered?

Watson closed his hotel window with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from killing someone who needed killing. He smiled and gave his rifle the usual kiss before carefully packing it away and picking up the spent shell casings. His pistol remained in its holster on his left hip under his loose, untucked shirt.

He hurried down the stairs, through the lobby and into the street to meet the Americans. Trying to act casual, gaping and gawking like a tourist as he crossed the cobblestones, he shook his head at the sight of Bourges's dead body.

What a shame, he thought, for something like this to happen in such a charming little town.

He didn't believe it for a second, of course, but had learned long ago that covert ops – any op, really – worked best when you sold it, played the part, all the way down to your inner-most thoughts.

He found the Americans standing together in the hotel lobby. Dobie and Kaylie were excited and animated. Armando was quiet, subdued and keeping a wary eye on Watson. All of them were coming to grips with what just happened.

Watson tapped Dobie on the shoulder as he moved past him toward an available table. After a moment's hesitation, Dobie followed, with Kaylie and Armando close behind.

Once they were all seated, Watson whispered to the table, "I was the shooter. I just saved y'all's asses... again!" He would not normally admit to such a thing, but he wanted Kaylie to know who the hero was.

Dobie gave Watson a long look and asked, "Who was that guy?" He hurt his shoulder when dropping to the pavement out in the street, and was now rubbing it. "I guess it was a hit man? I guess I should be flattered?"

Kaylie scoffed.

"Charonne sent him," said Watson. "I told you he had a hard-on for you." He involuntarily glanced at Kaylie at his own foul language.

"You also said we'd be safe out of the country," said Dobie.

"No," Watson corrected him, again with a glance at Kaylie. "I said Kaylie would be safe if you were out of the country and she stayed behind." He winked at her. She winced.

"Well, I'm not going to hide from him," said Dobie, "no matter how many hit men he sends out. I meet my enemies face-to-face!"

"You're so brave," Kaylie said, rubbing his sore shoulder.

"Good idea," said Watson. "Go back to the States. Kaylie will be safe here with me... with us," he added with a gesture toward Armando.

Dobie gave him a distrusting look. "You keep trying to put as much distance between me and Kaylie as you can."

Watson shrugged. Kaylie smirked. Armando glared at Watson, not liking the man, hero or not.

"I don't know about y'all," Watson looked around for a waitress, "but I need a drink."

Dobie glanced at the clock on the wall. "At nine o'clock in the morning?"

"It's 5 o'clock somewhere!" Watson said with a huge laugh. When no one else laughed, he added, "I love that saying!"

"Yeah," Dobie dead-panned, "someone should write a song about it."

He had never seen Watson so animated. Giddy, almost. Killing people clearly agreed with him, or at least got him ready to start the day. Who needs coffee?

Dobie was not going to complain, though. The guy had saved their lives... again. He did not want to be beholden to him, but there was no getting around it. He would try not to judge.

Ever since he started his tour, people said he shouldn't be so judgmental. We all have our weaknesses, they said. And so, as a favor to the world, Dobie would now do his best to not judge the stone-cold killer beside him.

In another lifetime and raised differently, Dobie could see himself being a lot like Watson, killing anyone who needed killing. He had quite a temper, growing up. This time around, though, he wanted to take the high road, reach that next level, if possible. Do things the right way. Stop the endless cycle of retaliation, eye for an eye, tit-for-tat and its resultant cycle of birth, death, rebirth, ad infinitum.

It bothered him that he was trying to solve the world's problems peacefully and intelligently but, so far, his own problems were being solved with a gun. Not his gun, but it still irked him. Whatever happened to not requiring anyone's assassination?

* * * *

Kaylie and Dobie would be checking out of the hotel in favor of Armando's place in the nearby village of Serretinha. The latter asked Dobie to keep Watson occupied while he and Kaylie relocated. He knew Watson could find them if he tried hard enough, but he was not going to make it easy for him.

Being completely unfamiliar with the city, Dobie asked where he and Watson might go as a diversion, if Watson was open to it. Dobie thought Watson, having just killed a man, might want to head straight for the airport, but Watson was more interested in hanging out with Kaylie. Dobie was glad to see Kaylie not reciprocating.

"So, what is there to do in this town to wind down?" Dobie asked, again dead-panning, "You know, after you've been shot at or maybe killed someone?"

"Well, there's the Palacio," Armando smiled. "Old government building. Fascinating architecture. Or maybe the Museu."

Dobie nodded. Watson smirked.

"Maybe the Igreja da Misericordia, the big blue church. Or the fort, or Convento. Talk about amazing architecture! If you like natural wonders there's Monte Brasil, the old volcano."

"Volcano?"

"Don’t worry, it’s not active," Armando shook his head. "You can go down inside it, which is a fun thing to do."

Dobie did not seem particularly inclined.

"Of course, there’s whale watching, horseback riding or a nice bicycle ride. Hey, I know, you can go to Queijo Vaquinha and see how cheese is made!"

Both younger men laughed.

"Well, I gave you some ideas," Armando shrugged. He was completely serious about that last suggestion.

"Thanks, Mr. Daniels," Dobie began.

"It’s Lopes now. And, you’re welcome. And please, call me Armando."

Dobie would normally be open to all of the above, but not today. "Maybe next week? I know I asked, but now the thought of going out and actually being a tourist... doing anything... I don’t know."

Watson nodded in agreement. The adrenaline was wearing off. He was coming down from his high. Doing nothing sounded good to him.

"Suit yourself, but KayKay and I are going back to my place. And, no, you can't come."

"You haven't called me KayKay in years!" she gushed as she took her father's arm and led him back to the room to fetch her things. Dobie gave Watson a look as they watched them leave. The latter pretended not to be staring at Kaylie.

"You know," Watson changed the subject, "I've been meaning to tell you, but the time was never right..."

"Because you were trying to get me killed or beaten up?" Dobie interjected. "Yeah, that throws my timing off, too."

Watson laughed and shook his head. "About your book... It answers a few questions..."

"So, you've read it?"

"Yes, but you never say how to get from the current system to this Utopia of yours. I mean, not exactly."

"Sure, I do," Dobie argued. "Step 1, think for yourself without being selfish. Step 2, stop trying to screw people over."

Watson didn’t want to hear another speech, and waved him off. "I'm surprised Charonne is worried about you enough to kill you, but maybe I can help."

"I'm still working on that transition," he took a sip of coffee. "Something will come to me, but thank you for those words of encouragement. You're too kind."

Kaylie and her father came out of the elevator, each with a suitcase. Dobie wanted to help with the luggage but needed to keep an eye on Watson. The man was armed, and his loyalties were questionable, at best.

"As to your help," Dobie continued, smiling at Kaylie from across the room, "no offense, but no thanks. I'm more of a one-man band. A lone wolf, you might say..."

"El lobo solo!" Kaylie added as she stopped to give Dobie a kiss before leaving for Armando's. Seeing Eduardo and Watson watching, she kissed Dobie more passionately than normal, leaving no doubt about her loyalty.

"Hey, I know!" That kiss gave Dobie a bolt of inspiration. Everyone stopped and listened. "Any corporation that ever received government subsidies or a tax break will have to make its technology and machinery available to my new system!"

Armando was unfamiliar with what Dobie had been preaching the past several months. He wondered what his future son-in-law was talking about.

Watson shook his head. "Sounds like communism to me."

Kaylie and Armando continued out the door, leaving Dobie and Watson to argue the finer points of this latest idea.

* * * *

At Armando's modest home in Serretinha, Kaylie was introduced to Elena, the stepmom she never knew she had. They all gathered in the living room, Elena by her husband's side on the couch, Kaylie on a soft chair, and a large Portuguese podengo dog on the floor at their feet as Armando held court.

"I was out looking for Clarence here..." he pointed at the dog.

"Clarence?" Kaylie interrupted. "Is that a play on mom's name?" For Elena's benefit, she said, "Her name was Claire. I'm sorry, is Claire. She’s still alive."

"Sorry to hear that," Armando joked.

"Dad!"

"Kidding!"

The dog looked up at the sound of its name, and Kaylie reached down to pat its neck.

"Anyway," Armando smiled and continued. "I found out later Clarence was only out on one of his walkabouts. I hadn't had him long by that point and thought he was lost. Elena was a friend of a neighbor of a friend's neighbor, or something," he winked at her, "and she helped in the search. We fell in love and she is now my wife. So now, whenever I get mad at Clarence, Elena reminds me I still owe him one for bringing the two of us together."

Taking Elena's hand in his, he continued, "She was born here on the island, and keeps me grounded. I keep her laughing. Usually at me, but sometimes with me."

Kaylie smiled, thankful to see her father happy. Thinking back, she could not remember a time when she and her parents were all happy at the same time. Not while in the same room, anyway.

* * * *

With Kaylie out of the picture, the only thing Watson wanted to do was drink. He and Dobie stayed at their table in the hotel bar area and did just that. Dobie tried, anyway. He had sworn off the stuff but, for the sake of breaking the ice with Watson, would try to hold his own.

The taste of beer first thing in the morning was God-awful. He winced and cringed as he tried to get it down his throat.

Watson wondered why he was forcing himself to drink when he clearly did not want to. "What are you doing?" he said with a smile. "Drink Shirley Temples, for all I care, man."

Dobie laughed at himself. "Yeah, I quit a long time ago, then got drunk after I was fired, but I’ve been good since then. I just figured, if you were drinking..." He glanced and pointed at Watson’s glass.

The hotel clerk Eduardo's duties shifted from the front desk to waiting tables by that point, and he had demonstrated his ability to speak perfectly good English. Dobie waved him over.

Eduardo ignored him.

Dobie gave Watson a look of exasperation. "Can you get our waiter's attention? He's ignoring me."

Watson raised his hand, and Eduardo came right over. The Americans ordered breakfast and coffee, and Dobie asked for a few sight-seeing ideas. Being younger, maybe Eduardo knew of a few things that Armando did not.

"May I suggest cliff diving?" Eduardo said with a smile.

"There aren't any diving cliffs around here, are there?"

"People dive off cliffs all the time!" the young man argued.

"But do they survive?"

Eduardo only shrugged, tired of their conversation, and wandered off.

"I don't think he likes you," Watson laughed.

"It's time for a showdown," said Dobie.

"With the waiter?"

"No!" Dobie chuckled, then got serious. "It's time to meet my enemy face-to-face. You know who I'm talking about. My enemies used to be fear of ridicule and fear of poverty..."

"Ah, geez," Watson complained, "you're gonna give another damned speech, aren’t you?"

"No," Dobie lied. That was exactly what he had in mind. Speechifying came second-nature now. Whenever he came under attack – and this recent murder attempt definitely qualified – his response was to stand up and speak his mind.

"I've got a psycho sending hit men out to kill me," he continued. "Hell, you work for him. Are you gonna stop me from going after him? I probably shouldn't have said anything. Nothing like jet lag, assassination attempts, and bad beer first thing in the morning to make a man speak out of turn."

Holding his beer in one hand, Watson gripped Dobie's shoulder with the other and said, "My man, I hate to say it, but you are alright. I just don't understand how someone as ugly as you ended up with Kaylie."

"I ask myself that all the time."

"I won't stop you from doing whatever you need to do," Watson promised. "I'm tired of Charonne's bullshit just as much as you are. Okay, maybe not as much, but we are through, him and me!" Just as soon as I get paid, he thought to himself.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Dobie smiled and raised a glass. "Here's to, um, doing whatever comes to mind!"

Now that they were so chummy, Dobie asked where Charonne lived. It was worth a shot, and he was surprised Watson answered. It could be a lie, of course, but it jibed with what he already knew.

Maybe Watson really was sick of his former commander. But, before leaving the Azores and before Watson would agree to help, Dobie had to make it look like he was leaving Kaylie behind, for good, and never coming back. "I'd better see tears in her eyes," Watson insisted.

"I'm not doing that!" Dobie shot back. "Whatever happened to you wanting to help?"

"I do want to help," Watson smiled, “but never said I wouldn't want something in return."

* * * *

Dobie had come up with code words for emergency situations before ever leaving the States. With bad people chasing them both, Kaylie agreed it was a good idea.

The word "taser" meant "I'm in trouble." "JD" meant "Don't believe a word I'm saying." They both laughed at that one. He just hoped Kaylie remembered that when he pretended to break up with her.

He would have pulled her aside, explained the whole thing, and told her play along. But, they needed to really sell it. Make Watson believe they were really breaking up.

Saying goodbye was difficult, even with the knowledge that it was just an act. He said the name "JD" several times but, judging by her reaction, she either missed her calling as an actress or truly believed what he was saying.

* * * *

Returning to Sabina at the Denver airport, Dobie was happy to find her unscathed. He pulled the tarp off, climbed in, closed his eyes, and just sat a moment, enjoying the plush comfort. Much better than airline seats.

He was glad to see on the map that he wouldn't have to pass through Missouri at all on his way to Chicago. Driving past a thousand miles of corn fields, the Windy City was where he'd instructed his old friend, Bucky, to meet him.

Mackinac Island

Mackinac Island was not the sort of place a lot of tourists visited between November and April, but from late spring through fall, it was very popular. Dobie grew up just a few hundred miles south but never once visited. Didn't know much about the place. He and his parents passed by once on a summer trip to Canada when he was a kid, but they didn't stop.

He wanted to, but his dad was intent on not being late to their hotel later that night. When Dobie questioned the need for arriving on time to a hotel – don't they hold the room for you? – his father shouted back, "Don't argue with me!" His father was forever shouting that.

* * * *

The island was just ahead now. It was a beautiful day, beautiful drive, and he found himself wishing he could afford to live in such a place. The money from his books was surprisingly good, but not private-enclave, gated-community good. The irony of making good money while out on tour talking about abolishing it altogether was not lost on him.

"Well, gaw-aw-ll-ee!" Bucky did his best impression of Gomer Pyle. "Mackinac Island is beautiful!"

It broke Dobie's reverie, as intended. Bucky enjoyed the scenery as much as Dobie but was incapable of being serious for any stretch of time.

To Dobie’s eye, Bucky, especially now with his shorter hair, looked more like Gomer's cousin, Goober. They both had that almost constant twinkle in their eye, trying to come up with something funny.

"It's pronounced Mackinaw," Dobie corrected him.

"Mackinaw?" said Bucky. "Because, in northern Michigan the letter 'c' is pronounced like a 'w?'"

"I have no idea," Dobie admitted. With a chuckle, he added, "But, tell me again why I brought you?"

"Because I'm a crucial part of your devious plans!" Bucky let out his most evil laugh, "Bwa-ha-ha! What are your devious plans, anyway?"

"That can't be it," Dobie shook his head. He wished Kaylie was there with him He was still uncomfortable leaving her with Watson. Aloud to Bucky, he said, "You're a sorry substitute for Kaylie."

"Your girlfriend?" Bucky was staring out the window again, and brought his attention back inside. "I'd hope so. You think I'll ever meet her?"

"At our wedding, maybe – if I survive this, and she hasn't dumped me, and you prove yourself worthy of being my Best Man – I'll pretty much have to let you meet her, won't I?"

"Wedding?! You? Mr. I'll-Never-Get-Married? And I get to be Best Man? Why,” he attempted an English accent, “it'll be an honor, my good sir."

"Was that your best posh accent?"

"How do I prove myself worthy?" Bucky returned to normal speech. "Obstacle course? Walk across the backs of a pit of alligators? What?"

"I'll think of something," Dobie had to laugh at the alligator imagery.

"She must be incredibly hot," Bucky added, "for you to take the plunge like that."

Dobie nodded and smiled, but felt the need to clarify, "It's not her hotness that has me thinking marriage. Okay, maybe a little, but I'm in love!"

That was the first time he said that aloud – about anyone – since high school. He was surprised how much it brightened his mood just thinking about her instead of this thing they were about to do.

Seeing Kaylie again was Dobie's primary motivation for surviving this latest escapade.

"We'll be setting off an EMP blast," he explained the plan now as Sabina took them across Mackinac Bridge.

He had chosen EMP as his weapon because his own body emitted them. He didn't know for a fact that's what was going on. He never had it checked out. How does one check that out? But that was the situation as he understood it. Whatever its cause, he might as well use it to his advantage. He just hoped his own body didn't disrupt the device.

"It'll ruin every electronic device for a hundred-yard radius and send Charonne back to the Stone Age – or at least pre-digital. He loves technology, so I'm basically taking away a spoiled child's toys. Revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Huh?"

"It means you wait 'til your enemy thinks the threat has passed, then you strike! I had Watson tell Charonne that he had killed me and Bourges, the hit man. He'll be surprised to see me. Payback's a bitch! Anyway, the idea is to level the playing field. I can't compete with a guy like him and all of his resources but I can bring him down to my level so it's just two fellow humans using only our God-given talents against each other."

"O...kay," Bucky began, his voice kept low, enjoying the conspiracy of it all though it was just the two of them in the car. "But, isn't Charonne out to kill you? And all you wanna do is melt his electronics? Last time I checked, guns don't need electronics, just bullets. It'll be like that scene in Indiana Jones where the Arab guy is doing all these fancy moves with the sword, only to have Indy pull out a gun and shoot him. You'd be the Arab guy in that scenario."

"Yeah, I got that," Dobie laughed, "but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. I'd tell you what those were, but...."

"Don't tell me! Naked cage death match! That's always good. But seriously, you, Mr. Conspiracy Theorist, are now part of your own conspiracy?"

"This one is a good cause."

"Well, yeah," Bucky countered, "your own conspiracy will always seem legitimate, won't it?"

Dobie pretended not to hear that.

Their first stop would be the town of Saint Ignace on Michigan's Upper Peninsula. They were off the bridge and into that small town when Bucky asked, "So, how are we doing the part where we melt his electronics? Can you tell me that much?"

"All we need is a high-voltage pulse capacitor capable of a few hundred Joules."

"In English, please?"

"That's about as simple as I can put it, Bucky!" Dobie snapped. He was feeling twitchy as they cruised down the main street. It was all getting too real, the closer they got.

He missed Kaylie. She had a way of keeping him grounded and thinking straight.

Sensing his aggravation and seeing the far-away look in his friend's eyes, Bucky tried to lighten the mood. "Sounds like Back to the Future. 'We need 1.21 jigawatts of power!' Does this town even have a clock tower?"

Dobie smiled reluctantly. Kaylie was not the only one who could pry a smile out of him.

"So," Bucky continued, "Charonne, Bourges and Watson are the bad guys, right?"

Dobie nodded, not bothering to go into more detail on Watson.

"Where," Bucky continued, "are we getting this... pulse capacitor?"

"It's being delivered."

"I didn't know FedEx delivered flux capacitors," Bucky laughed at his own joke as Dobie pulled into the parking lot of a small diner on their left.

"Already arrived," Dobie said as he eased into a parking spot. "A local delivery service takes it to the island. That was my understanding, anyway, 'til they sent an email saying I had to sign for it here in Saint Ignace."

At the diner's front door, Dobie turned and pointed across the street at a beige, nondescript building. The name Acme Shipping was splashed in red across its aluminum siding. "The delivery service is right across the street."

"Acme Shipping?!" Bucky laughed. "Does that make you Wile E. Coyote? Did he have a sidekick?"

"I'm not joking, Bucky. If you can't take this seriously, I'm cutting you loose right now."

"Okay, okay! You've changed, man," Bucky accused him for the second time. He was not entirely happy with this new Dobie.

"I guess going out on tour," Dobie looked his friend in the eye, "talking about changing the world, being accosted, saving the love of your life from psychos, and dodging bullets from a hit man tends to have a profound effect on a person."

This path he had chosen for himself brought to light the true depths of his own despair... and resilience.

"So, maybe you're right. Maybe I have changed, but I think for the better."

It felt good to defend himself, the new Dobie, against old perceptions.

"Well," Bucky deadpanned, "if you’re gonna be all grown-up about it, fine." They both laughed.

As they entered the diner, Dobie was reminded of The Blue Spoon. It even had a beautiful young hostess now leading them to their table, though it was Bucky doing the drooling this time.

As Bucky slid into the booth, Dobie pointed at the shipping company and said, "I'm going over there to sign whatever needs to be signed, then coming back to wait 'til their truck comes out." In a more hushed tone, he added, "Then we follow them in our car onto the ferry, onto the island, and through Charonne's security gate, assuming he has one. Order me a western omelet and black coffee, okay? I'll be right back."

* * * *

Returning from Acme Shipping, waiting at the crosswalk, Dobie took a moment to ask the universe for advice. He did not do this very often. He was more inclined these days to tell the universe how things should be done, but he did try to be humble and, on occasion, admit when he was in over his head.

It was times like these that he would stop and ask directions, so to speak. He didn't need a special place for it. A crosswalk was as good as anywhere else. Appropriate, even.

"The universe's" answer came to him clear as a bell:

"Lighten up! Play it by ear!"

He never expected "whatever comes to mind" to be his mantra, but it felt right.

* * * *

Dobie said nothing for the moment as he rejoined Bucky. He sat at the table and grimaced as he put a fork-full of omelet, gone cold, into his mouth. "Change of plans," he said. "I signed for the package, and they'll take it to the island, but apparently no motorized vehicles are allowed without special permission over there. We have to park in the lot and take the ferry as pedestrians."

"Well, shit!" Bucky said with disgust, playing his part as a good sidekick. "So, how do we get them delivered to this dude's house?"

Dobie shook his head, not entirely sure of the answer. "I never woulda guessed Charonne lived on an island with no vehicles allowed. I wonder if Watson knew that and is now laughing his head off. Probably. They said they'd deliver it to Charonne's house, but you and I won't get there at the same time as the delivery. We'll be on foot."

"No problem!" said Bucky. "We just knock out the delivery drivers, take their uniforms, hijack their truck, and deliver your flux capacitor to this dude's house ourselves!"

"Yes, that is what would happen on television or the movies," Dobie rolled his eyes. "Only problem is this is real life!"

"Suit yourself," Bucky shrugged, "but, you gotta admit it's a brilliant plan."

"No," Dobie began. "For one, if you hit someone over the head, you risk seriously injuring them. And, unless it's in self-defense, that would be contrary to everything I believe in. No, we leave Sabina here in one of the lots, get on the boat, and you just follow my lead. I'll show you how things are done!"

Dobie had no clue how things might be done. He would be "winging it" from that point forward.

"Is this Charonne guy even home?" Bucky asked between sips of coffee, though he was more interested in the waitress than anything else.

"He doesn't need to be home, but it won't be much of a 'showdown' without him, will it? One of my spies – remember Martha from work? – texted saying she just walked past a conference room where Charonne was up on the screen lecturing the managers and directors about something or other. He only does that remotely from home, which is on the island just a couple miles from here."

At SaynCorp, all senior staff members were issued video phones and required to keep that feature enabled. That way, Charonne could surprise them with a video call every now and then. He thought it gave him a certain omnipresence, and he liked to keep people on their toes. It was only a coincidence, he swore, that some of the more attractive women were more likely to find themselves on the receiving end of those calls.

Dobie had no such phone. Not senior – or attractive female – enough. Charonne could not have picked Dobie out of a lineup back then.

"Wait," Bucky asked with a laugh, "you received a text? And an email before that? I thought you were allergic or something."

"My new best friend Major Watson," Dobie explained with a smile, "gave me a 'military-grade' cell phone and case that he swore would not go haywire in my presence."

"I thought Watson was one of the bad guys. More importantly, I thought I was your best friend?!" Bucky feigned a hurt look. "But, if you're using a phone that some military guy gave you, you know it's bugged, right?"

Crap! Dobie shook his head. The thought never occurred to him. Ever since leaving Kaylie – especially because of how that was done – he felt like he lost a step, lost his edge, as if he had left not only Kaylie behind, but his good sense, as well.

Bucky didn't need to know all that, though. Putting on a brave face for the troops (Bucky), Dobie said aloud, "Oh well, too late now."

* * * *

Colonel Charonne preferred almost everything about Michigan over Tennessee but, being a mere cog in the automotive industry gears, and seeing an opportunity to play a much larger role in the industry, he had moved his company south after General Motors built their Saturn plant in Spring Hill. When the Saturn brand was discontinued several years later and the plant closed, Charonne was on the verge of moving back to Michigan, and looking forward to it. When GM reopened and retooled their plant for other models, SaynCorp stayed put.

He loved gadgetry – technology of every sort – and his company made some of the electronics found in several vehicle brands. His happiest moments in life were spent learning new tech – any new tech – but especially spy gear. He was a nerd at heart – a hyper-competitive nerd – and always wanted to be the first to have whatever the latest gizmo was before anyone else. Failing that, he wanted to be among the first people conversant with it.

When his therapist said it was unhealthy to be so competitive, Charonne ended their session immediately. As he walked out the door, he said, "What you call unhealthy is what got me where I am today, baby!"

His father was the one who named the company. Pronounced "sane corp," he had purposely misspelled Seine, as in the river, and added "corp" to the end. It was an old business trick to take a common word or proper noun and misspell it so you can copyright it.

After his psychopathy test, the junior Charonne would laugh at the irony of running a company with such a name. And, to those who asked about its derivation – and he was surprised how often it came up – he gave a spiel about honoring his grandparents from Rouen, north of Paris. He had nothing to do with the name, of course, and didn't honestly care about his grandparents, but knew it looked good to feign a deep respect for his lineage.

* * * *

When the delivery truck pulled out of the Acme Shipping parking lot, Dobie stood up from his breakfast and said, "Showtime!" He left enough money on the table to pay for their meal, plus tip, and hurried out.

Bucky took one last gulp of coffee, handed his business card and an additional $5 tip to the waitress with a wink and a smile, and chased after his fearless leader. On the back of his card he had written "Call me!"

Already on edge, if Dobie knew Bucky was handing out business cards while on their secret mission, he would have been apoplectic. Boarding the ferry to Mackinac – and seeing the sign over the ticket booth reading "Please do pay the ferryman!" – it hit him with a considerable shiver down his back. Charon was the ferryman of Hades in Greek mythology who carried souls of the newly deceased across the River Styx to their final resting place.

Charon. Charonne, Dobie thought. What the hell am I getting into?

Once they were across and making their way through the crowd of passengers disembarking onto the island, the only vehicles Dobie saw were bicycles and horse-drawn carriages. Everyone else was either on foot or horseback. Horse manure was the first smell he noticed upon arrival. He half expected to see a few penny-farthings, the original bicycle with the huge front wheel, but no.

He watched the Acme Shipping truck drive off the ferry, then the short distance to a designated building. From there, its two large, muscle-bound male occupants got out and loaded everything from the back of the truck onto the biggest dolly Dobie or Bucky had ever seen. They pushed that thing from store to store, dropping off their orders, not even using the truck except to go from the dock to that one building.

"Are you kidding me?" Dobie said to no one in particular. "Even if we wanted to hitch a ride on their truck, we couldn't. They just roll that monster dolly all over the island?" Pointing at the over-sized drivers, he asked Bucky, "You still think we can knock them out and steal their uniforms? Even if we could, their uniforms would fit us like tents."

"No problem!" Bucky again had the answer. "We walk to this Charonne dude's house, climb the fence, steal his car, drive back here, take our package off the truck ourselves, and drive it over to m-m-m-my Sharona's house."

"Okay, genius," Dobie countered, "but how do we get back through Charonne's gate from the outside? You think they'll buzz us in when they see their own car wanting back in?"

"If my car was stolen, I'd let it back in, no questions asked!"

"Do you know how to hot-wire a car?" Dobie asked. "We don't know if he even has a car here where they're not allowed." Bucky shrugged. "And, wouldn't the cops stop us since cars are not allowed?"

"Maybe," Bucky countered, "but he's rich, and the rules don't apply to guys like that. You've said so yourself. Think he's got a Rolls-Royce? I would love to get behind the wheel of one of those!"

"We're like Dumb and Dumber," Dobie shook his head.

"I guess that makes you Dumber, then," Bucky laughed, "since I'm the one who keeps coming up with answers!"

"I don't think so!" Dobie disagreed, though he was starting to appreciate Bucky making this poorly-thought-out – frankly, naïve – plan almost fun. "We should probably come up with a name for ourselves. You know, Caped Crusaders, Dynamic Duo, or Frick and Frack?"

"Frick and Frack?" Bucky scoffed. "How old are you?"

"Yeah, probably lame to reference things from my parents' childhood but being back in Michigan has me thinking of them."

"Hey, I know," Bucky continued. "How about 'Dobuck' or 'Buckobie'? You know, like Benjen or Brangelina 'ship names?"

"Ship names? Oh, short for relationship. But, no, those were celebrity couples," Dobie explained. "I love you, man, but we are not celebrities, and definitely not a couple! Besides, 'Dobuck' would make me the female deer. And, like I keep saying, I don't think so!"

* * * *

They arrived at Charonne's front gate by way of horse-drawn carriage. It was not what either of them originally envisioned but that was their only option after Dobie explained to the delivery men that he had changed his mind and wanted to deliver the package himself. He was surprised they let him have it back, but they did. He just had to sign a waiver.

Bucky tipped the friendly middle-aged woman carriage driver, and she put her horse into a trot to make their way back to the docks along the narrow tree-lined road. Under a canopy of maple and beech trees, Dobie and Bucky stood at the gate with the crate – the size of a portable generator – and waited for the carriage driver to get around a corner beyond earshot before they discussed their next move.

"So, who gets to climb the fence?" Bucky wanted to know.

"Let's flip for it," Dobie offered. He pulled out his lucky fifty-cent piece and, of course, had to make a political statement. "He died before I was born, but I'm pretty sure JFK was our last decent president. So, of course they killed him. I call heads."

"No!" Bucky protested. "It's probably two-headed. I call heads."

"Suit yourself," Dobie shrugged, and flipped JFK into the air. He caught it in one hand and slapped it down onto the opposite arm. "Heads, you win. You climb over."

"Ha! Nice try," Bucky argued. "Heads means you climb over!"

Shaking his head, Dobie said, "We're a couple of juvenile delinquents, aren't we? I think maybe you're a bad influence."

He liked to think he had matured quite a bit in the past several months, but it was obviously a work in progress. Especially when in the company of his friend, Bucky.

At a glance, he could see the compound's white brick wall would be much easier to scale than the gate itself. It rose up to about five feet at each post, but came down as low as three feet at the lowest point in an inverted arch between posts. It was more decorative than anything else.

With Bucky giving him a leg up, Dobie was up and over in no time. It did trigger an alarm, but Charonne always muted those prior to his teleconferences, and he failed to notice.

Dobie marched down the driveway – very matter-of-fact, as if this was normal – toward the front door thirty yards away. He didn't like how exposed he was. It was about the same distance from himself to the front door as it had been between him and that assassin back in the Azores, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Sometimes you just have to throw yourself into the lurch, he once read. He was not entirely sure what a lurch was but – after thinking things through, contemplating various scenarios, and coming to the conclusion that this was a suicide mission – this should qualify as a lurch. It fit with the whole playing-it-by-ear and whatever-comes-to-mind themes, too.

Charonne's front door opened in front of him. Busted! Dobie thought. Shading his eyes from the morning sun, he expected to see the Colonel in the doorway glaring at him. Instead, it was an attractive young blonde woman, wearing a silky lavender bathrobe and slippers, both with fluffy pink trim.

Hell-o! he thought with a smile.

"Dobie?" the woman gave her own surprised smile. "Is that you?!"

"Crissie?" he hadn't recognized her, due to the glare, and could hardly believe the woman from that karaoke night was standing before him. Everything is coming full circle.

"It is you!" Crissie was genuinely happy to see him. "What on Earth are you doing here? And why are you walking down my driveway instead of waiting for me to buzz you in?"

He had to think fast. "I did try the buzzer," he lied. "Stood there five minutes pressing the button. Must be broken. So, I hopped the fence, or wall in this case. Hope you don't mind."

"Okay, but why?"

"Delivering a package to your boss, Monsieur Charonne."

"You're a delivery man now?" she said it with open disdain.

"No," he laughed. "Charonne hired me to deliver and demonstrate the item," he continued the ruse.

"Item? What sort of item?"

"Flux capac..." he began before silently scolding Bucky and correcting himself, "pulse capacitor. Part of some project he's working on. He said it was very time-sensitive."

"Yeah, everything needs to be done yesterday with him."

"And, like I said, the buzzer wasn't working, and every time I tried the 'call' button, it went to voicemail."

"Okay, well," she seemed to be buying it, "Reggie's been on the phone in a meeting all morning. So, that's why it went to voicemail."

Reggie? Dobie never thought of Charonne as a "Reggie."

"God knows I never answer the phone," she laughed. "That's my job at the office. I'm not gonna do it here, too! Would you like to come in?"

"Sure! But first, can you open the gate? My partner and I still need to bring in the package."

"Partner? Are you gay?" she teased, knowing full well he was not gay.

"Partner," he rolled his eyes, "as in co-worker? How could you think I was gay after you and I...?"

She shrugged, laughed and buzzed the gate open. And there in the distance, peeking through, stood Bucky. Dobie started down the driveway toward him until Crissie pointed to her right and said, "Take one of the golf carts."

There was a white one with a red stripe given the name Charlie, and a yellow one with a white stripe named Jeffrey. Unaware of the significance of their names, the red-striped one reminded Dobie of a golf ball he had as a kid, so that's the cart he chose.

"Remember, 'whatever comes to mind.'"

Dobie heard that as he turned Charlie's key. Okay, this is getting creepy, he thought. Shaking his head and exhaling, he said softly to himself, "So, you're going crazy. Not the first time. No big deal."

Charonne looked out the window to see Dobie driving Charlie toward the gate. He was not especially alarmed. Service people were forever coming and going, but they never borrowed his carts. Then he remembered Watson's phone call saying he should expect a package. Watson refused to give details, and the Colonel detected stifled laughter in his junior officer's voice. Charonne rolled his eyes, but let it go.

He frowned now, put the conference call on hold, and stuck his head out to ask Crissie what was going on.

"Who is that driving my cart?"

"Your delivery." Crissie smiled and gave the limp wrist gesture signifying nothing to worry about. "I told him he could use it 'cuz there's something wrong with the gate."

Charonne did not follow the logic but trusted Crissie's judgment. She was possibly the only person he trusted these days. Besides, he had to get back to this call. He nodded, said "alright," and returned to his teleconference.

A moment later, the co-conspirators had the package loaded onto the cart and were returning to the house. As they set the crate down near the carts' parking spot, Crissie waved them in with a smile.

"Come on in! Please. It'll be good to talk to a couple of regular guys for a change."

"Reggie's not a regular guy?" Dobie teased.

"Pfft!" she scoffed and ushered them into the house. "You know what an asshole he is."

Bucky thought she looked familiar, and now realized it was from seeing her at that shared corporate food court back home.

"You talk openly about your boyfriend like that?" Dobie said in a hushed tone, not knowing where Charonne might be lurking.

"He don't care," she reverted to her childhood bad grammar. It was how she spoke with anyone she considered "just folks." "And he ain't my boyfriend. At least, not the only one. We're just sleepin' together."

"Okay, well," Dobie changed the subject as she led them into the living room. He did not want to hear about her love life. "Would you mind if Bucky and I went ahead and set things up? That way it'll be all set by the time Reggie gets off the phone."

"Only I can call him Reggie," she warned. "You better call him Colonel or 'sir' while you're here. But, sure, go ahead with your little setup."

Bucky made a face at that.

Dobie had not yet figured out this part of their operation, either, but things were working out so well at the moment he simply went with the flow. He had read plenty of New Age advice about going with the flow. Things were going surprisingly well, almost suspiciously well, but he didn't question it. The universe loves me!

"Yes, but it also punishes stupidity."

Dobie heard Semmy's reply, but the alien did a better job this time of disguising it as Dobie's own thought, so the latter thought nothing of it.

Bucky was impressed with how brazenly his partner was carrying out their dastardly plan. More importantly, he was intrigued by Crissie's take on her relationship with Charonne. Just sleeping together, she said. Not the only one.

"I'm Buckminster Nagy," he introduced himself with a smile as he stuck out his hand. "Friends call me Bucky, but the ladies call me Buck Naked." Dobie rolled his eyes, but Bucky continued undeterred. "Maybe when we're done here, you and I can get to know each other better."

"Seriously?" Crissie scoffed. "You're hitting on me in my own home? Besides, has that line ever worked on a real, live woman?"

"Well, no," Bucky was surprised she called him out on it. "I'm always trying out new material..."

"Maybe you should go back outside, Bucky," Dobie said, "and set up the device?"

* * * *

Charonne's Mackinac summer home was impressively appointed. Inside, the windows were covered by long velour drapes in deep reds and golds with rope fringe. The walls were papered in large tan, mustard and burgundy floral patterns with animal heads and horns mounted throughout. Decorative gold molding was everywhere.

Dobie never would have chosen this dark and gaudy look for his own home – especially the decapitated beasts on the walls – but at least it wasn't that cold industrial look. He never liked that look, but figured Charonne was the type who would. The chosen décor seemed to work here in the living room, though Dobie knew ultra-wealthy people like the Colonel had more creative names for the various parts of the house. When it has dozens of rooms, you have to get creative. Maybe this was the Sitting Room. Whatever. Everything about the place said, "I'm rich!"

All the woodwork and furniture was walnut or mahogany with ornately carved edges. His seating options were: a tufted sofa; matching love seat; upholstered wing-back chairs; or, the chaise lounge. Dobie did a double-take at the wing-back chairs, half-expecting Semmy to materialize there. Luckily, that never happened.

Gilded picture frames and mirrors were interspersed among the dead animals on every wall. Fine China filled the gaps between the books on the shelves. A pair of matching gargoyle bookends elicited a raised eyebrow from Dobie. Ornate chandeliers provided the only light when the curtains were drawn, as they were now.

Dobie had heard Charonne absolutely hated The South, but his chosen décor was the epitome of the Old South. Go figure.

Stalling, giving Bucky the time he needed to place the EMP device outside on the side of the house, Dobie asked Crissie, "So, what've you been up to?"

"Oh, nothin' much," she said. "Please, have a seat." She pointed at what Dobie would have called a love seat, though it probably had a more impressive name.

He sat directly in its center and assumed she would sit on the couch across from him. Instead, she told him to scoot over. When he complied, she surprised him. Bucky was going to be so jealous when he told him, and he was definitely going to tell him.

She untied her bathrobe, pulled it wide open to adjust it, then re-tied it, giving him an eyeful of her naked body.

"I'm sorry," she feigned embarrassment for flashing him. "I'm still dripping from the shower. Had to make a quick adjustment, but you didn't see nothing you ain't seen before."

"Hey, no problem!" he smiled. He was trying not to get too excited. He had Kaylie in the Azores awaiting his return. Hopefully.

"So," Crissie asked, "where were we?"

"I, uh, completely lost my train of thought."

To distract himself from the woman beside him, he focused on The Plan. Then he remembered there was no plan. Assuming Bucky followed his instructions – which might be a stretch – the EMP device's switch should have by that point been flipped to the "on" position. It would only need the signal from the remote control in Dobie's breast pocket.

He could hear Charonne's muffled voice from somewhere on the other side of the wall in front of them. "Don't worry about him," Crissie noticed his attention drawn in that direction. "He can go on for hours on the phone." She ran her fingers up his arm. "You and I might be stuck here for quite some time. We might need to, um, keep ourselves occupied somehow."

"That sounds nice," he said. He was only playing along – thinking of Kaylie – but the lower half of his body didn't know that. It was responding as nature intended.

"They don't call these things 'love seats' for nothing, you know," she cooed as she straddled him and once again undid her bathrobe, this time leaving it open. "I've missed you."

Then again, he argued with himself in full view of Crissie's body, are Kaylie and I really still a couple? For all he knew, she believed everything he said before leaving the Azores, and dumped him the moment he left.

Hearing Crissie say she missed him, the "bird in the hand" phrase came to mind again. Maybe I should just go ahead and...

He placed his hands on her waist and moved in closer while trying to decide just how far to take this. Her response was to throw off her robe and tear off his shirt, along with the EMP remote. He paused at the sound of it clattering to the floor but shrugged it off and reached down to undo his belt...

No! he reminded himself. You and Kaylie are not over! Be strong!

Realizing his "better angels" were right, he now tried with all his might to keep a detached view of things, for Kaylie's sake. He forced himself to psychoanalyze the woman now on top of him. "Mind over matter" and "heart over mind" would both be required in this situation.

He assumed Charonne would shoot him if he caught him and Crissie in flagrante like this. For all he knew, that was exactly what Crissie was hoping for. She probably wants him to walk in on us, it occurred to him. He had known a few women who had to make things dangerous for themselves just to get into the proper mood.

Showdown

A door opened, and Dobie peeked over Crissie's shoulder. He expected to see Charonne standing there, angry as a hornet, pointing a gun at him, but there was no one. To his right, he saw Bucky in the foyer. The front door was wide open behind him, and he was wiping sweat off his brow.

"It's all set, and the gun..." Bucky began, before realizing what he was interrupting.

This got Crissie even more excited, but when Dobie crawled out from under her and waved Bucky over to take his place, she complained, "Hey!"

"No offense," Dobie apologized, "but I've got a woman back home waiting for me." The Azores were not really home, but home is where the heart is.

Crissie was so hot and bothered by that point, she said, "Oh, what the hell," and let Bucky replace Dobie like one dance partner simply stepping in for another.

Bucky was up to the task and on top of her before Dobie could even get off the love seat.

"And that," said Dobie, fully aware no one was listening, "is yet another sight I will never be able to unsee. I really wish that'd stop happening."

He put his shirt – now missing a button – back on and checked the EMP remote. It appeared to be intact, so he headed for the door to check on the device outside. He didn't want to be around when Charonne came out of his office. It had been a while since he last heard the Colonel's voice through the wall.

He was hurrying toward the wide-open front door – like an antelope fleeing a lion – when Charonne roared from somewhere behind him. "What the hell is going on here!?"

Dobie turned toward him, trying to think of what to say. Charonne's office had double doors, both of which were now open as Charonne stood with his hands on his hips, looking ready to explode.

Dobie recognized the corporate office's large conference room on the big-screen behind Charonne. Everyone on the remote end of the just-concluded teleconference had left the room, except for the IT guy tasked with shutting everything down. The audio was still on. Dobie could hear papers and cables rustling as the IT guy cleaned up. Charonne must have heard that, too, but was too distracted now to care.

The IT guy did a double take when he saw Bucky and a naked woman on the love seat. He could not see Crissie's face.

Dobie noticed the sound, at least from the remote end, suddenly turned off. He laughed to think the guy was trying to be incognito, see but go unseen as he watched Crissie do whatever she was going to do. If he even noticed Dobie, he gave no indication.

Still underneath Bucky, Crissie calmly turned toward Charonne, smiled coolly and said with a wicked laugh, "Just entertaining our guests, babe."

From her vantage point, she could also see the big screen in Charonne's office, but not the IT guy. That conference room was up on the screen so often, usually empty, that she barely noticed anymore. And now, distracted as she was, she was oblivious.

"I can see that," said Charonne, "but who are these..." he began before recognizing Dobie. Turning to the latter, he said, "You're that Commie bastard, Pokorny! I should shoot you where you stand!"

"At your service," Dobie gave a little wave and smile – happy to see Charonne was unarmed – "but not Communist. The word you're looking for is Sortitionist."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, here I was thinking I'd invented it myself," Dobie began, "only to learn it's an ancient form of government..."

Charonne waved him off. "I'll deal with you in a minute. This," he pointed angrily at Bucky on top of Crissie. "What the hell is this?" he asked her. "You said there was some kind of delivery?"

"Oh, he's delivering, baby," she said with a throaty laugh.

Bucky had not let up despite the interruption. He was not going to ruin this fantasy-come-true. If Charonne shot him dead, so be it. What a way to go!

Charonne's mood, like an on/off switch, then turned into a smile. Pointing at her and laughing, he said, "This is why I keep her around! She's even crazier than I am!"

He undid his belt and top button of his pants as he came around from behind Bucky. Dobie cringed for Bucky's sake, and wondered how they were all going to fit on that love seat. He didn't spend much time thinking about it. Glancing back at the teleconference screen, he noticed the IT guy had brought in a couple more people – Was one of them Martha? – now equally engrossed in the home-made porn playing out before them.

Dobie noticed the right-most of the double doors, the one closest to him, was slowly closing. It was out of balance and gravity was bringing it back toward the other door, which took him off camera.

He escaped out the front door, leaving Bucky to fend for himself, and attended to his EMP device outside. He could set it off while Bucky proved useful as a distraction.

The blast would have made more of an impact if Charonne was in the middle of something important when it all went poof. That video teleconference would have been perfect, but Dobie missed his chance. And now he didn't want to do anything to interrupt that conference feed – his audience – and ruin the show for the good folks back home.

It occurred to him the blast might kill every refrigerator and freezer in the vicinity, and the thought made him cringe. All that rotting food going to waste! Then again, everyone might share their food and drink before it went bad. Instant block party!

Hundreds of car engines killed by the blast would have been scary, but Charonne removed that from the equation by living on an island where no motor vehicles were allowed. A few golf carts might die, but Dobie never liked golf.

A sport should not include leisurely rides during the game, his mind wandered. Hockey players don't ride the Zamboni during the game. Football players don't ride that flat-bed golf-cart unless they're being carted off the field, injured. Of course, in harness racing their jockeys, no, "drivers" sit on those little carts/sulkies. His internal word spigot was in full gear again, a sure sign of stress.

He was on the east side of the house now, on one knee dealing with the pulse capacitor, keeping a wary eye out for anyone coming down the driveway or around either corner of the house. For all he knew, Charonne had armed guards somewhere, hiding.

A single-engine prop plane flew overhead. Better not set this off with one of those flying overhead! he thought. Just breathe!

He was still looking up at the plane, wondering if he should just call the whole thing off – causing that show tune to pop into his head – when Charonne came around the front corner of the house.

With his gun in hand – an actual gun; his fly was closed – the Colonel snarled, "So, you say you're not a Communist?"

Dobie stood up, dusted himself off and looked for the gun Major Watson had earlier promised to hide in the shipment. Bucky started to say something about that earlier but never finished sentence because, well, Crissie was naked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Charonne was sarcastic. "I didn't mean to interrupt your little... whatever the hell you're doing here. What is this, a generator?"

"Pulse capacitor," Dobie replied nonchalantly, sticking with the honest approach.

"To what end?" Charonne feigned ignorance. He was in fact quite familiar with the technology.

"I came here today," Dobie began, "to politely ask you to call off the dogs. Stop trying to stop me. What's your problem, anyway? Afraid of a little competition?"

"Ha!" Charonne scoffed. "Please!"

"I'm sorry, where are my manners?" Dobie took a moment to compose himself. Extending his hand, he said, "We already know each other's names, but we can at least restart our acquaintance by shaking hands."

Charonne sneered. "Queensbury Rules, eh?"

"If you say so," Dobie had no idea.

"Alright then," Charonne reluctantly shook Dobie's hand. The latter expected to get a creepy feeling all over – like in Stephen King's The Dead Zone – but there was nothing.

"Anyway, Reggie, this here," he held up the remote control, "is in case we cannot come to some sort of agreement for you to leave me alone. One false move, and I blow your electronics to Kingdom Come. Don't worry, I'm sure there's an Amish or Mennonite village somewhere nearby that can teach you how to live a productive life free of electronics."

"What's to stop me from just shooting you and dumping your body in the lake?"

"Oh, I don't know. Civility? Common decency? But, anyway, if you did that you'd miss my epic verbal beat-down of you!"

"Ha!" Charonne scoffed. "Think you can go toe-to-toe with me? You have no idea the pain and suffering I have inflicted upon people with my tongue alone!"

"Hey, your sexual predilections are your own business!"

"Good one!" Charonne had to laugh. "You might be a worthy opponent, after all, Porky. Let's do this."

"It's Pokorny, and, game on! Wouldn't it be better in front of an audience, though?" He thought of the teleconference audience. "It'd be a shame anyone should miss seeing you cry."

A devious smile crossed his lips.

With a glance at Dobie's "doomsday" device, Charonne gave his own devious smile, waved his gun and said, "Yes, let's go inside, shall we?"

Dobie wondered what Charonne was smiling at but he agreed, "Let's!"

* * * *

Back in Serretinha, Armando reluctantly allowed Major Watson into his home. He only agreed after Kaylie, standing next to him, gave Armando the "you're embarrassing me, Dad!" look he hadn't seen since she was a teenager. When she escorted Watson through the living room into the guest room, Armando followed. When she closed the door behind her, Armando immediately reopened it.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but you need to keep this door open. I don't know what happened between you and Dobie, but I will not allow any monkey business in my house!"

Monkey business? She wondered when he started talking like that. Aloud, she said, "We just need to talk, Dad. Privately."

"You can talk privately with the door open!" he snapped, instantly regretting raising his voice, but it was too late. Elena, watching from afar in the dining room, nodded in support of her husband. His own reaction to the situation surprised him, but he had grown fond of Dobie and was now sticking up for him.

"Fine!" Kaylie snapped back, reverting to the angry, defiant teenager Armando thought he left behind years ago.

She pulled Watson by the hand out of the house, just as she had pulled Dobie out of The Blue Spoon Diner in what seemed a lifetime ago. Flagging down the same cabby who brought them there just as he was pulling away, Kaylie and Watson returned to the hotel.

* * * *

Watson had switched to this hotel after killing Bourges. The desk clerk Eduardo smiled wickedly to see them arrive without Dobie, only to disappear into the elevator together. He would have preferred himself with Kaylie, but as long as it was someone other than Dobie, he was happy. He hated American men, but their women were amazing.

Eduardo didn't know Watson was American, too. He was off duty when Watson checked in. He simply found it annoying to see so many older unattractive American men like Dobie with a beautiful woman like Kaylie on their arm. It was just wrong.

* * * *

Kaylie found herself alone in a hotel room with him once again. She could guess what was running through his head. Things were very different from last time, though. For one, she was not under any sort of spell as she tried to convince him to return to the States with her. Dobie could do whatever he wanted to Charonne, but she did not want him thrown in prison, or worse, killed in the process. And for that, just like Dobie before her, she needed Watson's help.

"I need you to do that rescue thing you're so good at," she said. "Dobie thinks he's some kind of hero, but he'll just get himself killed over there."

Watson agreed, but only after Kaylie agreed to let him do something else he was pretty good at. And, for Dobie's sake, she let him.

* * * *

Back on Mackinac, after he and Dobie agreed to their verbal duel, Charonne entered the house without noticing the teleconference screen. The right-side door to his office had closed enough to block his view of the crowd gathered on the other end of the teleconference.

Charonne waved his pistol at Dobie. As he took a seat on the couch with his back to the camera, he ordered, "You first."

"You know," Dobie began, pointing at Charonne's gun, "I've often felt under fire during political arguments, but have never done it literally at gunpoint before. Is that really necessary?"

"I suppose not," the Colonel reluctantly set it on an end table, out of reach for everyone but himself. "So, what are you trying to accomplish with your book and little tour, Porky?"

"It's Pokorny, and I'm doing my part to restore sanity, decency, common sense, common courtesy and consideration to the world. The little things, like pronouncing a person's name right, you know." He liked the sound of his own words as he spoke.

"Is that all?" Charonne was sarcastic. "You’re a regular Don Quixote, aren’t you, tilting at windmills!"

"You keep saying I'm a Communist," Dobie ignored the comment. This was not the first time he’d heard that. He folded his arms across his chest, not knowing what else to do with them. He usually had a lectern to lean on. "But me being Communist is the furthest thing from the truth!" He threw his hands out as he spoke.

Charonne glanced at the gun.

"I don't want anyone getting anything for free," Dobie repeated words from speeches past. "It has to come as a reward for individual effort. Isn't that the true spirit of capitalism? The difference in my system is that it's cooperative and, by removing the profit motive from the equation – the most corrupting force the world has ever seen – there's not so much greed. It's quite simple, really. Simplicity is the essence of intelligence, so of course it goes right over your head."

Back at SaynCorp, Martha put her hand over her mouth. She could not believe Dobie just said that.

Charonne picked up the gun. Dobie worried he had crossed a line. He wished he had his own smuggled gun, but had no idea what Bucky might have done with it. Either way, this repeatedly wishing-for-his-gun thing had to stop.

* * * *

JD and Claire might have followed Kaylie and Dobie to New Mexico but, as luck would have it, JD was arrested for disorderly conduct in Oklahoma after a barroom brawl. Another man was giving Claire the eye and JD got jealous. As inconvenient as jail time was, though, it saved Claire – the one paying the bills – quite a bit on gas money. She managed to find the man who started that brawl, and shacked up with him until JD got out.

As she had told Kaylie on her 18^th birthday, "Why pay for a hotel or food and drinks when all you gotta do is put out and the man pays for everything! That’s why it’s best to find yourself a big man, I mean, a rich man!"

Kaylie had cringed and shaken her head, thinking she was a virtual saint compared to her own mother. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

After Claire got word from that Watson dude that Dobie had returned to the States, she assumed Kaylie was with him, reunited with JD, and brought him along for the ride to Michigan.

* * * *

Dobie exhaled in relief when the Colonel walked casually to the wet bar, set the gun down, picked up a bottle of whiskey, admired its label, and poured himself a glass.

"Whiskey?" he offered. "It’s single malt!"

Dobie shook his head, no. "Got any beer? A nice pale ale, perhaps?" He purposely used perhaps instead of maybe because it sounded more sophisticated.

Charonne made a face. "Beer?! And to think you called me a Neanderthal! Yes, I've probably got some beer in here somewhere." He bent down to open the mini-fridge. "I keep it on hand for my less-refined guests. Would you like it in a glass, or straight from the bottle? In the dog's water bowl, perchance?"

"Bottle, thanks," Dobie laughed, "but you are throwing down the gauntlet in this debate using words like perchance, aren't you?"

Charonne rolled his eyes.

This was at least the second time since the infamous Karaoke Night that Dobie had ordered a beer despite having quit, or at least telling himself he had quit.

One beer won’t kill you! he argued with himself.

Aloud, he said to Charonne, "So, you did hear that Neanderthal conversation in SaynCorp's break room. I guess that entire building is bugged?"

"No comment," Charonne smiled as he walked across the room – never noticing that he had left the teleconference up and running – and handed Dobie his beer.

It crossed Dobie’s mind that the Colonel might pull a JD and spike his drink, but he saw the man just now use a bottle opener, followed by the expected sound of vacuum-packed air escaping. You can't fake that, he thought. The drink should be clean.

Returning to his seat on the sofa, Charonne gestured for Dobie to take the love seat. "Please, sit."

As he sat in his assigned seat, Dobie looked down at his beer. He picked it up, took the tiniest sip possible, cringed noticeably, and set it back down.

Charonne noticed and smiled to himself.

Dobie realized Crissie and Bucky were gone. "Where'd the young lovers go?"

"Guest room," Charonne answered after a moment.

Nodding absently, Dobie said, "Well, there goes that audience I was hoping for." It was all he could do to not look at the video conference audience that only he knew about.

Staring at his glass of beer, beckoning – a lot like Crissie, earlier – a moment of clarity hit him. "I'm just now realizing, if it was not for my one brief lapse in discretion, if I had just kept my mouth shut and not called you a Neanderthal, you never would have made that special trip to the Spring Hill office. Never would have known who I was. I could've written my book, gone on tour, and lived a perfectly wonderful life free from you and Watson."

"Probably, yeah," Charonne smiled as he set down his glass. Dobie felt like his own worst enemy. "It is a sad truth," Charonne continued, "that we are often defined by our lapses. One false move, and all that. But, don't beat yourself up too much, Porky. Given what little I know about you, you would have done something equally stupid to end up in similar circumstances."

"Aw, thanks!" Dobie was sarcastic. "And, it's Pokorny. One thing I've been meaning to say since then, though, is that Neanderthals might have been superior to modern humans, and only died out because they were outnumbered and basically cross-bred themselves out of existence."

Charonne gave a confused laugh and made a face.

"I'm just saying," Dobie explained, "there's no shame in having a little Neanderthal in you."

The Colonel laughed out loud, enjoying a good jibe as much as anyone – but flipped Dobie off so there would be no confusion about how he felt about him – and resumed the argument. "What I'm wondering is, who runs this candy-canes-and-unicorns system of yours? And, incidentally, because your book keeps harping on greed – which I happen to think is good – I should mention it is the pursuit of power, not money, that makes people greedy."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," said Dobie, sipping his beer. That Gershwin song came to mind again, but he pushed it aside. "In today's world, they are one and the same. And, everything about the real Wall Street is bad."

"If power is given to a bunch of goody-two-shoes idiots," Charonne pointed out, "we're all in trouble."

"Idiots, sure," Dobie countered, "but what's wrong with being a goody-two-shoes? Shouldn't everyone want to do the right thing? Shouldn't everyone at least try to be a decent human being?"

"In a perfect world, okay, but..."

"That's what I'm working toward, Reggie, a perfect world! At least a decent world. May I call you Reggie?"

"No, but you remind me of Pollyanna and Chicken Little rolled into one."

"O... kay," Dobie laughed, "but somebody has to make the effort to bring about a perfect world – or as close as possible – and that's all I'm trying to do."

"Is that all?" Charonne was sarcastic before breaking into song. "I'd like to teach the world to sing," he sang the old Coca-Cola ad song, pointing his index fingers this way and that, "in perfect harmony!"

"Hey, you're not a bad singer!" Dobie was genuinely surprised. "We should karaoke together sometime!"

"I don't see that happening," Charonne was not falling for the attempt to soften him up.

"You and your ilk," Dobie continued, "laugh at pie-in-the-sky idealists like me, but we are the bravest of them all."

"Ha!" Charonne scoffed. "You missed your calling as a comedian, Porky!"

"And you as a folk singer, Reggie. But, people like me are the ones who haven't thrown up our hands, given up, and acquiesced to one side or the other in the false choices of capitalist or communist, conservative or liberal, Democrat or Republican! Some of us refuse to take sides when both sides are idiots who too easily fall for the old divide and conquer ploy."

"You are a persistent little bugger, I'll grant you that."

"As to who's in power..." Dobie was distracted by a thump against the wall, followed by the muffled laughter of Bucky and Crissie in the other room. "...everyone is in power, on a rotating basis and only after proper training. Everyone will have a say and a part to play. Hey, that rhymes! That can be our catch phrase. But, seriously, all good ideas will be considered. And no more company secrets."

"Still not buying it," said Charonne. "A person has to earn their power. You can't just give it to them, or you'll have clueless, entitled idiots running things!"

"Like we have now?" Dobie countered. "Most of the executives at your own company – with their la-di-da degrees from overrated colleges – are idiots. Haven't you noticed?"

"Yes, but..."

Dobie couldn't help but glance at the teleconference screen to see his ex-fellow employees' reaction to their boss calling his own executives idiots. What he saw were several employees – every time he glanced over, there were more – high-fiving each other. He almost wished they were not muted, but then Charonne would end this debate, and he didn't want that.

"Anyway, I predict that everyone who is able to will gladly volunteer their time in my system once they see they have a voice, their ideas are heard, and they're allowed to participate! The only reason they don't do that now is because the system and assholes like you keep squashing them."

"It is fun squashing people." Charonne smiled.

"Some people think I'm crazy," Dobie continued. "Okay, a lot of people think I'm crazy. But, who's crazier? Me, for trying to bring about a more fair and just way for us all to live our lives – and thinking I have any kind of chance – or you and your employees and millions like them who enable the current system, going to work every day to a job they hate, working for a bunch of overpaid corporate executives they despise," he gestured at Charonne, at which the Colonel scoffed, "just so they can afford healthcare and the latest gadgets and subscribe to 500 channels of mind-numbing crap, 495 of which they never watch? It's pretty clear to me who wins the Bat-Shit Crazy Award!

"I want a society run by everyone and no one, not governments. Definitely not corporations. It will be populated and managed by responsible individuals – properly trained, as I keep saying – on a rotating basis so there's no time for the power to go to anyone's head. We will finally have rule of law, not rule of men, that our misleaders have been promising for so many years.

"There'd have to be a referendum and compensation to the corporations for the equipment we'd be using, too, of course."

"'Equipment we'd be using,'" Charonne scoffed as he quoted Dobie. "Stealing, you mean."

Crissie and Bucky – now both dressed, if Crissie's bathrobe qualified as such – returned to the living room. Dobie quipped, "Hey, look who's rejoining us. Maybe arguing is better than sex, after all!"

He noticed an uncomfortable moment between Bucky and Charonne. He almost asked about it, then remembered the latter unzipping his pants and moving toward Bucky, so he bit his tongue. Whatever happens between two consenting adults was none of his business. Even if Bucky was not consenting, Dobie still didn’t want to think about it.

He thought Crissie and Bucky could surely see the teleconference screen behind Charonne but, if they did, they were not letting on. The Colonel was, for once, the only one in the dark.

"I wouldn't go that far," Crissie laughed, "but I like what you're saying, Dobie. What I heard, anyway. I took PolySci at one of those overrated colleges but don't remember anyone making as much sense as you are now. But, if Reggie can't admit he's wrong – and, trust me, he never will – I'll reveal a few of his dirty little secrets until he cries uncle."

"What secrets?" Charonne tried to look innocent, but he clearly felt betrayed by Crissie’s threat.

"Well, for one, that time one of your buddies told you about a huge new contract he was about to sign, only for you to go behind his back and steal it from him. He went bankrupt, you know."

"That's just business! Everyone does that! Survival of the fittest! I would expect you to do the same when you inherit the company. Otherwise, I'll have you removed from my Will."

He had Crissie believing she had been added to his Will, with ever-increasing bequests for good behavior. He brought in a fake attorney and had her sign fake documents, but it was just a ruse to keep her around. It might have seemed like overkill to most – cruel, even, to lead someone on like that – but that was how Charonne entertained himself.

"'Just business,'" Dobie repeated Charonne's words. "Survival of the fittest? What are we, animals? Most of us have evolved beyond that. I'm trying to get people to rise above their selfishness!"

"Good luck with that!" Charonne gave a derisive laugh, happy to see he was getting a rise out of Dobie. "But, that reminds me. I took the liberty of perusing your psych file."

"What psych file?"

"Remember Dr. Alyssa?"

Dobie had no idea what Charonne was talking about, but the Colonel had gotten everyone's attention.

"It seems we shared the same therapist back in Tennessee,” Charonne gave a wicked grin.

Dobie remembered now. He was unconcerned. She was basically the staff therapist, though she was independent and her office was off-campus. She probably had dozens of his co-workers as patients at one time or another. In Dobie’s case, there was nothing terribly embarrassing in there. Just him complaining about Corporate America, as he’s been doing the past several months.

"You've actually been to a therapist?" Dobie was honestly surprised. "I would not have figured you for the type. But, go ahead, tell us what you found. I've got nothing to hide. Take us down Memory Lane."

Crissie stood up, glanced at the teleconference screen, pulled open her bathrobe ever-so-briefly – giving the boys back home a show – and wrapped it tightly around herself with a smile. "Go ahead, Reggie," she said. "Be a dick. Tell us all about the man's most private confessions to his therapist. That'll win everyone over."

Crissie's sarcasm and Dobie’s lack of concern ruined it for Charonne. No point turning the screw, he decided, when you have no screw driver.

Crissie went to the wet bar to pour herself a drink. It did occur to her she might want to get properly dressed. Then again, why bother at that point?

"If you had read my book more slowly," Dobie continued with Charonne, "giving it time to sink in, it would be clear that I'm not promoting anything like Communism. An intellectually lazy person might jump to that conclusion, but the last thing I want is for anyone – especially someone like you – to have absolute control over the masses.

"I have no problem with capitalism, per se. The problem is the inevitable corruption and greed. And, because greed and lust for power are part of human nature – for the unevolved like you, at least – the solution is obvious: Make it impossible for anyone to have too much power. The framers of the Constitution knew that. Why not apply it to the economic system, as well?"

Charonne scoffed and took another sip of whiskey.

"You, on the other hand," Dobie continued, leaving his own drink untouched, "are perfectly happy with naked aggression, clawing your way to the top, survival of the fittest, bullying taken to extremes. That works for you. You're good at it." Charonne smiled. "But, people like you have no place in civilized society."

Charonne scoffed loudly. He then looked to see what Crissie was up to at the wet bar. She stuck her tongue out at him for not pouring her a drink earlier. Seeing his gun on the counter, she thought about sneaking it back to the love seat but had nowhere to hide it. Her robe did have pockets, but a gun would be too obvious.

"Need some help there, babe?" Charonne asked.

She saw the concern in his eyes and knew it was for his gun, not her. "No, I'm fine, thanks."

"Can you bring me my gun... and that bottle of George Dickel?"

"I'm not touching your gun!" she said with disgust. "Or your Dickel!"

"That's not what you said last night!" Charonne said with a laugh as he got off the couch and slowly made his way toward the wet bar.

She rolled her eyes and put the requested bottle on the bar for him. "My joke was better than yours, but you might want to slow down on the booze."

Bucky remembered the gun hidden in the shipping crate. And now, like Dobie before him, wished he had brought it with him.

We Heard Shouting

Kaylie and Watson were walking down the driveway to Charonne’s house when he put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her just a few feet from the door. He had a serious look as he pulled a single white carnation from behind his back and gently pinned it to her lapel.

"I know what’ll happen in there," he began soberly, "but I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed our time together, specially these past few days."

She looked up at him, smiled warmly and held his hand before he could pull it away. "Me, too. Truly. But..."

He smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he said and led her into Charonne’s house. The door was unlocked.

Dobie stood in surprise at the sight of Kaylie as everyone else turned and looked.

"We heard shouting," Watson explained, almost apologetic. He was not expecting an entire room to be staring at him as soon as he opened the door.

Kaylie gave him another friendly smile and pat on the shoulder. A little too friendly, Dobie thought, sensing the vibe between them.

"C'mon in!" Charonne laughed as he waved them inside, gun in hand. "Join the party! Is this Old Home Week and I didn't get the memo? Did you hop the fence, too?"

Crissie smiled and returned to Bucky's side.

"The gate was open," Watson said with a wary smile, keeping an eye on Charonne's gun. From his angle, he could not see the teleconference screen through the office doors.

"Maybe it really is messed up," Charonne frowned. "I just assumed Porky was lying."

"...as I do with you!" said Dobie.

Kaylie was getting her first glimpse of Charonne, the man responsible for most if not all of Dobie's problems. If she had no idea who he was, she might have found him quite handsome. As it was, he was hideous to her.

To Dobie, with a smile and laugh in her voice, she said, "Still making friends and influencing people, I see, Dobe."

"You know me!" he smiled and started toward her. She and Watson had not entered more than a few feet, and Dobie was several yards away.

"This must be that fine piece of ass you've talked so much about!" Charonne said to Watson while nodding in Kaylie's direction before returning to the couch.

Watson cringed as Kaylie gave him a disapproving glance.

Charonne was still blissfully unaware of his hidden audience. He remembered the conversation he had with Watson where he mentioned what he would like to do to Kaylie while Pokorny watched. He was getting aroused now at the thought of it.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Kaylie was sarcastic.

"That's my fiancée you're talking about!" Dobie said angrily, now having crossed half the distance to her. "Have some class!"

With a surprised smile at the word fiancée, Kaylie said, "Don't worry, Dobe, he ain't getting anywhere near this fine ass."

Charonne smirked and took a sip of his drink. He liked a woman who talked back. This Kaylie girl has potential. She could use a good spanking.

Crissie felt the need to announce to the room, "Dobie and I were lovers."

"You and every man in this room, I'm guessing," Kaylie laughed, unconcerned.

Crissie frowned.

Several employees back at SaynCorp again high-fived each other between handfuls of popcorn.

Dobie was hoping against hope Crissie would not mention how close they earlier came to rekindling that relationship. Please don't say anything, he projected his thoughts at her. Please, please, please don't say anything!

He called Kaylie his fiancée – which he considered her though he had not yet proposed – but now he was not sure she would accept.

Kaylie noticed Dobie's shirt was missing a button, but said nothing. Probably just snagged it on something, she thought.

He had used the "JD / Don't believe a word" code word several times prior to leaving the Azores, but had to be careful not to make it too obvious, otherwise Watson would have caught on. Did Kaylie not catch that? Dobie wondered. If she believed everything he had said, he was screwed.

A shiver went down his back. What have I done? He steeled himself for the possibility that Kaylie was now with Watson. They are awfully chummy.

Dobie decided there was only one way to find out for sure. He took those last couple of steps toward her, took Kaylie's hand in his, pulled her close, and looked deep into her eyes.

She smiled warmly but glanced back at Watson. Dobie hesitated at that glance, then took her into his arms. She let him. So far so good.

When he kissed her, he pulled her toward the middle of the room. It was a long, slow, "you have no idea how much I missed you" kiss. Once finished, they returned their attention to everyone in the room – and beyond.

Kaylie blushed. Everyone was watching. When she saw their audience on the big-screen in the other room, she blushed redder still. Their remote audience was standing and applauding, silently. The microphone was off.

Dobie laughed. Bucky gave him a thumbs-up. Crissie had a jealous look.

Watson gave a wan smile before turning his attention to Crissie. It would have been nice to get to know Kaylie better. They had become friends, but no more than that. She made it clear her heart belonged to Dobie.

The smirk never left Charonne's face until Kaylie pointed at the big-screen and asked, "What is that?"

He turned around and finally saw that their entire conversation had been on camera. His face went white. "Has that thing..." he pointed.

"...been on the entire time?" Dobie finished helpfully. "Yep! Your entire staff now knows that even you think your executives are idiots!"

"Ah, well," Charonne gave a defeated little laugh after another sip of whiskey, "they had to learn eventually, if they hadn't already figured that out."

Kaylie and Dobie returned to the chaise lounge while Watson moved further into the room to see the teleconference screen for himself. He shook his head, chuckled, and returned to lean up against the wall next to the wet bar. Charonne had pulled a gun from there, so Watson wanted to be close to that in case there were more where that came from. It had the added benefit of being off camera.

"What's with the gun?" Watson asked Charonne.

"Oh, nothing," his former commanding officer slurred his words. "We were having an argument. Pokorny was babbling about rainbows and lollipops, and I thought I should have a gun on me in case I needed to shoot him. You know, S.O.P."

"Standard operating procedure?" Dobie clarified. "Yes, when you're unable to carry on an intelligent conversation it is comforting to know you can always just shoot the messenger."

"Please!" Charonne spat. "You are absolutely losing this argument! Am I right?" he turned and asked Crissie.

She reluctantly shook her head, no. He waved her off angrily and pointed at Bucky. "Even you must know your friend Porky here is full of shit."

"Well, yeah, he is full of it," Bucky surprised everyone. To Dobie, he winked and said, "I think you took Frosty the Snowman's advice a little too seriously, dude."

"Huh?" Dobie was confused.

"So be good for goodness' sake!" Bucky sang the line from that Christmas classic's theme song.

Dobie scoffed, smiled and said, "Bite me."

"But his name is Pokorny," Bucky turned back to Charonne, "and he is winning this argument."

Charonne shook his head. "What about you, Major? You've been listening to Pokorny's bullshit longer than anyone. Surely, you have an opinion."

"I can take him or leave him," said Watson. "Some of it is completely wrong. Some of it is the God's honest truth. Doesn't matter much to me, either way. Mind if I smoke?"

"Yes!" everyone in the room turned on him.

"Well," Charonne did the math in his head, which took a moment because he had drunk most of that whiskey by that point. "I guess that makes three and a half for him, and one and a half for me. No, wait, add in piece-of-ass Kaylie here, and that's four and a half for Porky."

"That's it!" Dobie stood up, furious. "Apologize to her right now, or I kick your ass in front of everyone!" He took a step toward Charonne.

"You wish," Charonne slurred, now noticeably drunk. He had been holding his liquor up to that point but it was finally hitting him. "I could kill you with my bare hands. But... I just had a manicure and don't want to ruin it!" He did not like to get his hands dirty, literally or figuratively.

With a smile to his employees back home, he asked, "What do you all think? Unmute yourselves and let us know who is winning this debate! Just remember you're fired if you don't agree with me! Ha, just kidding... maybe. But, seriously, show of hands, who thinks I'm winning?"

Everyone turned their attention to their remote audience. There were about thirty people visible now, and who knows how many more listening in off camera. Roughly a quarter of them raised their hands while glancing around meekly at the other three-fourths.

Charonne scoffed angrily, "Bunch of idiots!"

"And who back home thinks I'm winning?" Dobie asked with a smile. Everyone else raised their hands and gave a huge cheer.

And that was it. This was all the proof Dobie needed to declare at least an interim victory in his war upon the status quo. After direct argument with the enemy – a more perfect example of the status quo than Charonne could not be found – he was winning the people's hearts and minds! It was a small sample size, of course, but he took great comfort in the thought that he was on the right track. A great weight was lifted off his shoulders.

He had not been this happy – about anything unrelated to Kaylie, anyway – in a very long time. He had a big, goofy grin on his face as Bucky ran out the front door.

"I, uh, forgot something!" said his friend.

"Coward!" Charonne shouted after him. "I should shoot the bastard for desertion!" Turning to his remote employees, he added, "And I am going to have anyone who didn't vote for me fired!" Several of them – HR Director Norwich among them – crept away to get off camera.

With Bucky out the door, Dobie raised his remote control and warned Charonne, "Un-un-uh, Reggie! Don't forget your toys!"

"I can buy new toys," he shot back. "I'm rich! Besides, your little toy won't work. Go ahead, press the button."

Dobie gave Watson a confused look, hoping for support, but Watson only shrugged. Dobie pressed the big green button on the remote control, fully expecting the lights to go out, white noise from household appliances to go quiet, and the teleconference connection to be lost. Instead, just as Charonne had predicted, nothing happened.

With Dobie clearly distraught, Charonne smiled and explained, "This entire house is a Faraday Cage. The walls, roof and windows have a film deflecting incoming radio waves. You all may have noticed your cell phones don't get a signal in here. Wi-Fi doesn't work, either. Anything wireless."

"What about the video conferencing equipment?" Crissie asked. "How is that working?"

"That's wired, not wireless!" he snapped at her before returning his attention to Pokorny. "When you pressed your little button, you just fried all of my neighbors' electronics but left me untouched! Now I can break into their homes and steal whatever I want without worrying about their security systems! Or, I can let them piggyback off my own undamaged electrical system and charge them exorbitant fees! You, of all people, have just enabled me to make a profit at the expense of those less fortunate, Porky! Thank you! Capitalism at its finest!"

Dobie was completely deflated. Charonne had known all along his pulse capacitor would not work. That explained his mysterious smile earlier. Dobie had just ruined everyone but Charonne's day.

All that rotting food! "Hang on," it dawned on him, "a Faraday Cage will block all wireless signals, incoming and outgoing! My EMP device never even received my remote signal. I didn't damage anything!"

"Aw, hell," Charonne was disappointed. Pokorny was not as stupid as he hoped, but this whole thing had gone on way too long. He finally cocked the gun and pointed it at Dobie.

Watson raised his own, for self-preservation if nothing else, but held fire.

Bucky returned from outside just in time with the gun from the packing crate. He did not like the look of things or the look in Charonne's eyes, so he did what he always did in such situations: he stalled. "So what's up with 'Charlie' and 'Jeffrey' out there? Your golf carts." He used air quotes at the mention of the carts' names.

"Oh them," Charonne laughed. "Those are my two favorite psychos! You can guess their last names."

"O... kay."

Charonne finally arose from the couch and staggered drunkenly into his office. With one last smile at his employees back home, he flipped them off, said, "Show's over, folks!" and shut down the teleconference. His first impulse was to keep it on, let them bear witness to what he was about to do and see what he was capable of. In the end, though, he decided against it.

Winning the crowd over as Dobie had done, Charonne decided the Sortitionist had to die. The Colonel had been trying these past few months to get others – namely Watson and Bourges – to do his dirty work for him, but if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!

Returning to the living room, shaking his head – deeply disappointed in Crissie, Watson, and his entire office staff – he pointed his gun at the "enemy combatants." Bucky was armed, so he came first. Next would be Dobie, then Crissie. She was supposed to ask permission before having sex with anyone else. That was the agreement. He assumed Major Watson was still on his side, so he ignored him and fired at Bucky.

You Had Your Turn

Bucky went down, apparently hit, but not before firing off his own wild shot. It went through the open office doors and into the teleconference big-screen, destroying it.

Charonne pointed his gun at Dobie, but Watson – completely sober and almost always the best shot in any room – very efficiently put three slugs into his now-former boss: abdomen, heart and head, in that order.

As was the case in the Azores with Bourges, the Major might have been okay with Dobie being shot, but Kaylie was sitting next to him and Watson did not want to risk her being collateral damage.

With the Colonel now dead on the floor, and Watson grinning that I just killed someone who needed killing grin, he crowed, "That makes how many times now I've saved y'all?!"

"Bucky!" Dobie shouted as he leaped from his seat, ignoring Watson as he ran and took a knee next to his friend to check on him.

Watson tried to high-five Kaylie as she passed by on her way to join Dobie at Bucky's side, but she only gave him a curt "thanks." She did not share his celebratory mood.

Rebuffed, Watson very seriously got down to business. "We need to get rid of the bodies."

Laughing as he propped himself up on one elbow, Bucky cackled, "I'm okay! I'm okay! He missed completely! I was just playing dead!"

Dobie rolled his eyes and scoffed. Kaylie exhaled in relief. They both looked over at Charonne to make sure he was not also faking it.

Crissie answered that question when she reached down and took the man's pulse. "He's dead!" she said with a happy little laugh.

Still giggling at his own ruse, Bucky suggested, "We could pull a Weekend at Bernie's. You know, check Charonne into the Grand Hotel and just leave him there!"

"Or," Crissie joined in, "stuff and mount him like one of these poor animals on the walls!"

Watson laughed with the other two but Kaylie and Dobie were shaking their heads, not sharing the ghoulish humor.

Leaving Charonne on the floor, Crissie said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call my lawyer. Being the new owner of SaynCorp, and all, we have things to discuss!" That got everyone's attention, so she added, "Yeah – you probably heard him mention it – I had him put me in his Will a few months ago. I saw it with my own two little eyes."

"Congratulations... I guess," Dobie said half-heartedly, as Kaylie took him by the arm. "But we need to go before the cops show up. Bucky, you coming?"

With visions dancing in his head of himself as one of Crissie's newly-appointed executives, Bucky said, "No, I'll stay here with Crissie." When he smiled at her but didn't get the same in return, he added, "If it's okay with her."

Crissie shook her head, no. Smiling at Watson, she said to Bucky, "No, honey. Randy and I go way back. He's been patient. It's his turn."

"Who the hell's Randy?"

"Major Watson," Crissie and Kaylie simultaneously replied and pointed at the man in question, followed by an awkward moment between the two of them.

"Besides," Crissie continued, "isn't there some kinda unwritten rule that says whoever kills your man gets to replace him?"

This caused raised eyebrows all around, but she laughed it off and took Watson's arm, copying what Kaylie had done with her man.

Watson said to Dobie, "You're not the only babe magnet around here, my brother."

Now the odd man out, Bucky said, "What the hell? Are we back in the Middle Ages or Mongol Horde days where dude here," he pointed at Watson, "rides in and takes our women?"

"Careful," Dobie warned, "I've got some Mongol blood in me."

"Huh?" Bucky was confused

"Yeah, I'm thinking of visiting Lake Baikal someday," Dobie explained. "I know it's in Siberia now, but used to be Mongol territory...."

"Fascinating!" Bucky cut him off, not fascinated and in no mood for one of Dobie's speeches.

"Can we, um, talk about this later?" Kaylie asked. "There's a dead man on the floor, and I really want to get out of here."

Ignoring her, Crissie felt Bucky deserved an explanation. "You had your turn, Bucky," she said. "And what a turn! Wow!" She gave the thumbs-up sign.

Dobie realized his first impression of Crissie was correct: men lined up, waiting their turn. At least she was honest about it and trying to be nice.

Bucky was still shaking his head at this turn of events when Kaylie asked if he needed a ride. "Drop me at that diner back in town, I guess," he said sadly. "The one with the cute waitress? I've already put a down payment on her."

"Diner? Are they hiring?!" Kaylie feigned interest while seriously wondering about Bucky's down payment comment.

"What do you mean you put a down payment on her?" Dobie asked.

"I gave her an extra five-dollar tip after breakfast," he said with a shrug. "I consider that a down payment."

"Hmm," said Kaylie. "That might be part of your problem with women right there. Just saying."

"What?" said Bucky. "I only say that in my head. I don't say things like that out loud. Just being honest with you all."

Everyone but Bucky was shaking their head.

* * * *

Back on the mainland, Dobie and Kaylie dropped Bucky at the diner, as requested. They gave each other a look, hesitated, nodded at each other, and went inside with him. They were hungry, but also felt an obligation to warn this waitress about Bucky. Lucky for her, it was not her shift.

When they offered to give him a ride somewhere else afterward, Bucky declined, saying he needed time alone. He couldn't bear to ride with them, being the third wheel. He would take a bus home.

"A bus?" Kaylie asked, concerned, turning toward him in the backseat. "That's hundreds of miles. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Bucky smiled. "But, hey, Dobie?"

"Yes, my son."

"Son? What the..." Bucky began. Kaylie laughed.

"Joking," Dobie laughed. "What's up?"

"Can you spot me a couple hundred bucks? You know I'm good for it."

Dobie knew he was not good for it, but he did need to be paid for his services. Nothing beyond the sheer adventure of it all was promised to Bucky, but his friend was happy to help, free of charge, no questions asked. "So long as all expenses are paid!"

Dobie turned Sabina down a side street. "Let me find an ATM." Kaylie found one on her phone that he could drive through. Withdrawing a little extra for himself, he handed $300 of it over his shoulder to Bucky.

"Three hundred! Thanks, man!"

"No problem. Keep it. It's only money. Payment for services rendered. Come to think of it, Crissie probably owes you another couple hundred for stud services!"

Bucky laughed, and kept giggling at the thought as they drove around Saint Ignace looking for the bus station. Kaylie eventually looked it up on her phone and navigated them straight to it.

Bucky climbed out of Sabina at the curb and, still giggling, said, "Maybe that should be my next career move. Buck Naked: Stud Services! I like the sound of that."

With a smile and a wave, Kaylie and Dobie once again drove off into the sunset.

* * * *

"I never did get to blow anything to Kingdom Come," Dobie lamented a few minutes later.

"Don't worry, babe," she patted his arm. "I'm sure we'll find something along the way for you to blow up. Maybe a corporate headquarters building? Empty, of course."

He laughed – including a snort, which made her laugh – and said, "But seriously, after all the touring, speeches and everything, I still needed Watson and his gun to bail me out. Three times! I don't think I have made a dent in the battle of good against evil. Charonne's empire – and others like it – will still continue.

"Speaking of dents," he changed the subject, "I should find a place to fix that dent in Sabina's rear panel."

"Maybe the good impression you made on Crissie..." Kaylie began. "I'm assuming you made a good impression. She was on your side back there with Charonne."

Dobie made the "maybe, maybe not" hand gesture.

"Well, I'm sure that good impression will affect how SaynCorp does business from now on with her in charge. Maybe they'll even provide employees with free plasticware again!"

"Free plasticware was not really where I was going with all this..."

"Then," she was not finished, "they'll start letting everyone have a say in how things are done. Baby steps. Like you always say, it's not like in the movies. In real life, there is usually no big finish with the hero saving the day. Things take time. I'm just saying it wasn't all for nothing. You won the argument. You had Charonne's own employees on your side. Be happy with that!"

"Maybe," he appreciated the pep talk but was not convinced.

"Even if you didn't make a dent, you still ended up with the greatest prize of all! Me!" And she laughed that beautiful laugh.

"Well, yeah. I mean, you're more than I ever could have hoped for, personally. But, on a global scale, you and I are just two drops in the ocean."

"I prefer to think of us as two flowers... surrounded by fertilizer. But then, the birds and the bees will pollinate us, spread our seeds and, before you know it, the world will be full of beautiful flowers!"

"Wow, that was good," he was impressed. "I love a good analogy."

"I had a great teacher," she smiled.

"And the student has become the master. But, hey, the Brewers are playing tomorrow. If we hurry, we might make it to Milwaukee in time."

"Sure! I am willing to go anywhere in the world with you, Dobie. Even Milwaukee."

"If you're game, so am I! Bad pun intended. But, is there such a thing as a good pun? Wait... we can't go."

"Can't go to Milwaukee?! No!"

"I know, I know, but there's something I need to do in Muskegon. The pun reminded me. And we can't do both."

"Oh, right, your hometown. Are your parents still there?"

"Yep," he said with a brief, wistful smile before changing the subject. "You think Watson knew Charonne's house was a Faraday Cage all along, and that my pulse capacitor would never work?"

"Probably. You know how he is."

He nodded his head. "But, hey, uh, were you and Watson... Did you two ever, uh...?"

"No!"

"Oh, thank God."

"He's wanted to since we first met."

"Well, yeah."

"Something was stopping him, though. I think out of respect for you, Dobie, he couldn't bring himself to steal me away."

"More likely," Dobie guessed, "he just felt guilty for trying to brainwash you into sleeping with him." He was unconvinced such noble sentiments were possible in Watson.

"How do you figure?"

"Remember, back in Taos? You couldn't remember why you ran off with him?"

She nodded uncertainly, not liking where this conversation was going. She didn't want to believe she had been – or even could be – brainwashed.

She smiled, reached over, took his hand, and said, "I never would have let him have me. I saved myself for you, Dobie!"

"Never once doubted it," he lied.

"We had sex, of course," she joked, "but other than that..." When he frowned, she said, "Joking! I did have to let him massage my feet, though."

"What?"

"Yeah, not joking about that. Before he would agree to come back to the States with me, I had to let him massage my feet. I told you, the man has a foot fetish!"

* * * *

Four hours later, they were pulling into Muskegon. As they drove slowly down a narrow street very familiar from Dobie's childhood, he slowed almost to a stop.

"There's my old house up ahead," he announced. "The green one on the corner. It's pretty faded, and the trees are huge now!"

When they drove past it, Kaylie gave a confused look. "You just passed it."

"Yeah, they don't live there anymore."

"Oh, so where..." She stopped mid-sentence as they pulled into the cemetery across the street. She remembered him previously saying he had no one.

"Yeah, they're gone. It's been about eight years since Dad passed. Thirteen for Mom."

Pulling to the curb and opening the door, he said, "I'm gonna go visit the grave site. I wish I'd brought flowers."

At the grave, he knelt and wiped the leaves and pine needles off the joint headstone. The names etched in brass were Walter "Bart" Pokorny Jr. and Lisa L. Riley-Pokorny.

Kaylie was surprised Dobie crossed himself as she joined him and did the same. "You made the sign of the cross!"

"For them, yeah. They'd appreciate it." He self-consciously ran his hands through his hair.

Kaylie smiled. She pictured his mother running her hands through his hair as a child as they got ready for church. He was now on his best behavior for his parents.

That’s when she unpinned the carnation from her lapel and gave it to Dobie. He teared up when he realized what she was doing, then had to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" she gave an uncomfortable one of her own.

"The flower receptacle there will swallow this beautiful little carnation whole." He gently placed the white flower between his mother’s and father’s names.

With a sense of accomplishment, he smiled and gave her his most romantic kiss yet.

It was all she could do to not cry, so she cleared her throat and changed the subject. "So, your dad was a Junior, huh?"

"Yeah," he laughed warmly, "he never liked that. He thought everyone deserved their own name. That's why he went by Bart instead of Walter, which was his dad's name."

"What does the 'L' in your mom's name stand for?"

"Uh, Lorraine. I had to think for a second. She never liked that, either. They used to laugh about neither of them being particularly fond of their own names. They always said they'd be buried here," he continued, wiping away a tear, "since it was just across the street, and all. They were no-nonsense kinda people."

She smiled. He never talked about his parents, but the love was clearly there.

He laughed at something, followed immediately by more tears. She gave a questioning look, but said nothing. "I was just remembering," he felt the need to explain himself, "that time I said I wanted my own epitaph to read: Dobromir Pokorny died for our sins."

She tried to laugh politely, but it came out as a scoff.

Seeing the look in her eyes, he laughed again and said, "Yeah, they reacted the same as you. Not funny. I was such a punk back then. I hope they've forgiven me."

Semmy, always lurking, couldn't help but say something.

"You kidding me? They think you're awesome!"

Kaylie wondered how they died but was not going to ask. They had the rest of their lives for that.

Jumping back into the car, Dobie took a left and a right and another left to put them directly in front of his old high school.

"Your old high school?" she guessed.

He nodded and smiled. He was enjoying just sitting there in his beautiful old car Sabina with his beautiful new fiancee Kaylie where he had experienced so much heartache and teenage angst. Occasional joy, too, of course, but mostly heartache and angst. And acne.

He felt a bit like Future Dobie showing off in front of Past Dobie. From there, he drove past the theater where he met the actor/musician girlfriend he had accompanied to Nashville as she followed her dreams of country music stardom.

After crossing through the intersection – the one where he totaled his first-ever car, a faded yellow old Mustang – he now pulled into the nearest parking lot.

"What?" Kaylie wondered. "Do we need snacks or..." she added with a smile "...condoms?"

He laughed out loud. Once again, she had pulled him out of his funk. He hadn't even noticed the pharmacy he parked next to.

"No. It's just that... first, we stopped to see my parents, but they're gone. Then, we stopped at my old high school, which ended in disaster. Then we drove past where I met the girl who dragged me to Nashville, which did not end well. And now, that intersection right there is where I totaled my first car. Just completely demolished it when a drunk driver ran a red and t-boned me. I mean, I saw him coming and put the pedal to the metal, but he slammed into me, anyway. And I had just bought it after saving up for years! I literally cried."

"Coulda been worse," she tried to stay positive.

"Yeah, but I left this town for a reason."

* * * *

Somewhere south of Muskegon before Indianapolis, they drove past a man and woman in handcuffs on the other side of the Interstate. Two Indiana State Police cars, lights flashing, were behind the couple's car.

"Hey, isn't that..." Dobie looked over.

"JD and my mom," Kaylie finished. "I recognized his car a mile away."

"I'd forgotten all about them. What are they doing up this way? Think they figured out...?"

"Who knows?" she snapped, angrier than intended, freaking out because JD looked up in time to see Sabina – a recognizable vehicle herself – and was now staring at them. It was creepy.

She was not happy leaving her mom behind, but had no choice as long as JD was with her. "You still have that gun? The one Bucky had at Charonne's?"

"No, he kept it. Why?"

"Just thought," she said with a guilty smile, "we might shoot JD while he's sitting there in handcuffs, you know, defenseless."

Dobie laughed out loud. "I'm pretty sure that's against the law and we'd end up in prison."

"You're no fun at all!"

"We could stop and tell the cops what he did..."

"No!" she was horrified at the thought. "Just drive! Karma will catch up to him eventually."

Dobie kept an eye on the rearview mirror after they passed, hoping to see JD put into the back of the patrol car. A little schadenfreude would be nice.

Kaylie distracted herself with her new phone, the one Watson gave Dobie, who in turn gave it to her.

Dobie was surprised when JD stood up, his hands still cuffed behind him, and tried to fight the cops using the same moves he used on Dobie at the hotel.

What happened next was like a gift from above... or maybe below. During his struggle, somehow ended up in the middle of the slow lane on that side of the Interstate. Dobie doubted the driver of the white pickup even saw JD.

One of the troopers was reaching out to him. Claire was screaming something. JD turned toward the pickup just before it hit him. It was a lowrider and, with JD being so tall, it caught him at knee level.

Dobie watched in his side-view mirror as JD's body flew, end over end, over the pickup before landing, face first, onto the pavement.

"Ho-ly crap!" he said, fixated on the scene behind him, not the road ahead. "Karma wasted no time!"

"What?" Kaylie asked, preoccupied with her phone.

"Nothing." By the time she looked up, Dobie had returned his attention straight ahead. He hoped she would not want to turn around and rescue her mom. Normally, he would be happy to reunite a girlfriend with her mother. Not this one. They were better off without Claire. Everyone was better off without that woman.

"It’s finally over. This whole ordeal. Blount and JD? Gone! Charonne and Watson? Gone! Karma! And it feels good!"

He went into an a capella version of James Brown's I Feel Good! And, with that beautiful laugh of hers, she joined in though she didn't know a single word besides the title. She never did look behind them, clueless to what happened to JD.