The worst part wasn’t that people were always in a hurry and often in a bad mood. Janelle was used to that; such was the tempo of modern life when the outside world had finally caught up to what had long been the airport norm.

No, the worst part was people’s tendency to select an item, pay for it, and then leave it on the counter.

Janelle’s superiors at Schuylkill News and Convenience were very clear on one point: save on one of her 15’s or lunch, there was no leaving the store, no exploring Metro Airport.. So there was never any chance of reuniting an item with its departed owner, who had probably long since departed for another continent. Be it water bottle, Coke, cell phone power cord, or James Patterson page-turner, it would sit forlornly behind the counter for two days before being released for resale.

Sometimes the person would come back, often livid with recrimination. “Why didn’t you tell me I left my water bottle here? I paid $2.50 for it!”

“They don’t let me leave the store,” Janelle would reply. People would usually mistake her honesty for sass.

Indeed, it’s not often that two cars of similar power come together on the road, and less often still that both drivers are in an equal hurry and take equal affront to being passed.

So when that BMW passed my new Audi on the right, it was on.

Accelerating to pursue is one thing, but a true master of the automotive duel uses the terrain to their advantage. A long curve in the road can by a few seconds, but the real trick is to pin your nemesis behind an 80-year-old or, better still, a truck. Putting on steam to get just close enough that they can’t swing in front of you, and then watching gleefully as they have to break and fall behind…few rushes in the workaday world can equate. Better still if there are cars in the passing lane behind you to put up a buffer.

We dueled all the way, for the entire hour and a half, trading advantages several times. In the end we were neck and neck when I reached my exit; I saluted my worthy adversary by giving them a jaunty salute.

With a single finger.

Culbertsen had laid a chain of spells about the summoning circle, which Anya perceived as glittering spiderwebs in the air. Glancing at each filled her mind with images of what snapping that gossamer string would bring, brought into her waking consciousness by the gentle, patient voice of the brooch. One would open up a fissure around the circle; another would call down a discharge from the stormclouds circling overhead. Still another would rouse the dead buried as part of the circle’s construction, murderers all slain in cold blood and buried with silver arming swords.

But Culbertsen hadn’t reckoned with the brooch.

Anya snapped each thread as she crossed it, and the brooch hungrily devoured the magical energy stored within each trap and contingency. Even the circle itself, which would normally present a barrier impassible to all whose blood was not part of its phylactery charm.

Culbertsen turned as Anya penetrated the barrier. The physical component of the summoning was clasped in one hand, but in the other was something wholly unexpected–something against which the brooch had no power: a handgun.

Johanssen took a fresh puff from his cigar. “Phantasms are manifestations of residual emotional energy, kid. That means when you get right down to it, they spring from the human mind. And as anyone ought to know, the human mind is a seriously messed up place. God really should have taken that one back to the blueprints.”

“Like what?” said Adrian.

“For example: the more agitated you are, the more emotional energy you put out and the more likely it is to stick around,” Johanssen said. “So a lot of the really fun phantasms tend to be associated with old mental hospitals. A drooling lunatic with paranoid delusions puts out major emotional wattage in the same padded room for twenty years, you’ve got a good chance of a phantasm. He croaks, you’ve got a good chance of a motile phantasm. Best of all, there’s a strong chance the phantasm will take the form of something from the nutjob’s coconut.”

Adrian crossed his arms and looked at Johanssen expectantly. “You’re not going to just leave it at that, are you?”

In fact, it was clear from the fire in the old man’s eyes and the rate at which cigar smoke belched out of him that he’d been tearing at the bit to share ever more. “This one time we were called in to sweep a San Fran kookhouse. Found a whole nest of ’em. Loquacious bunch, too: Gil got them talking. There was the Chosen Sloth of the Beginning, which came out of a paranoid delusion of a luminous treehanger that was going to remake the world in its own image. Then you had the Banjo Skeleton, which really doesn’t need a whole lot of explanation. And the Disco Colossus of the Drive-Through…well, maybe when you’re older.”

Having a worrisome disposition and an introspective bent, my mind likes to keep itself busy by staging existential crises in moments of downtime when I ought to be relaxed or otherwise blase. I call these “Holy Shit” moments.

Standing in the express line at Metromart behind a pair of sorority girls with far more than ten items and a series of credit cards that kept being declined, without even a rack of tabloid magazines to glance over, my mind decided it would be a good time for a “Holy Shit” moment.

“Holy shit,” I said to myself. “This isn’t a game, or a movie, or anything else. It’s real. I’m here, right now, looking through my eyes.”

I reeled a bit as the sisters from Theta Theta Whatever pulled out their fourth card of the transaction. “I’ve never experienced anything outside of me; I’ve never even seen myself outside of a mirror,” I continued. “I really am Derek Ulster. I’ll never be anyone else, never see from anyone else’s point of view.”

A rising panic clutched at my heart. “My life is real, I’m living it right now, yet I’ve wasted so much of it. I’m wasting it right now! I could die tomorrow. What if this is all there is? I could be watching the sunset on a tropical beach, and instead I’m waiting in line at Metromart for the five-hundredth time in my life!”

“Next please,” the teller cried. The feeling rapidly vanished, and I felt the panic subsiding. Sheepishly, I added a bag of potato chips to my meager basket–a little starch to keep my mind sleepy and listless.

“What are you talking about?”

Sharon tightened her grip on the handset. “You mean you didn’t know someone named Paul Phillips? Someone who passed away about six months ago?”

“No,” the voice on the other end said airily. “Why would I?”

“What about…’millerpond1987?'” Sharon said, mind racing. “I think that was my brother’s screen name.”

“I don’t know anyone with a screen name like that,” said the girl.

“Are you sure? You were on all his contact lists…I even read some of the emails that he sent you!”

“No,” Umbriel said. “This is just too creepy for me…I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait..!” Sharon received only a dialtone in reply, and slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

The room must once have been the rig’s cafeteria. And it might well be said to have become a cafeteria of a different sort: the small room was coated in dripping gore, viscera, and offal and thick with the buzzing of flies. Gina could barely hold back the bile rising in her throat at the sight, the stench. None of the horrific mess was remotely identifiable as human; even the few slivers of bone peeking through were splintered and shredded.

Gina was frozen, overwhelmed. What could have possessed someone to mutilate their friends and co-workers so? Not even the most dedicated genocide she’d covered had been able to so thoroughly wipe away the victims’ humanity.

Something moved in the distance…the same shadow that had been flitting about since the party arrived? Gina’s hand trembled, rattling the flaregun Johns had given her as a makeshift weapon. She pulled back the hammer, assuming what she imagined was a threatening stance. “W-who’s there? Come out where I can see you, o-or you’ll get a bullet between the eyes!”

More movement, barely perceptible in the flickering fluorescent miasma of the rig’s innards. And then, a hiss–something that might have been language or just Gina’s fear-addled mind reading meaning where only menace existed.

“We…ain’t got…eyes…“

The announcer’s voice, warbled by the distance of the WQEH transmitter, breathlessly ran through the series’ back story:

“It’s time once again for the adventures of ‘Gravedigger’ Perkins, the only lawman of the West to earn that grim moniker through his tireless pursuit of law and justice…and his pursuit of evildoers to their graves! But Gravedigger Perkins isn’t tangling with any old small-time thugs, is he cowpokes?”

“No!” cried Sandy.

“That’s right, he’s got two of the meanest outlaws in the West to bring their eternal justice! Daniel ‘Thinker’ Evans, a mastermind of planning and execution! The godfather of crime out West! The Moriarty of the Mojave! And Thinker Evans’ sinister sidekick Robert ‘Shooter’ Dawson! The murderous yin to his boss’s yang, a hardened killer with the second-most skillful gun west of the Mississippi! With Gravedigger Perkins on their trail, it’s anyone’s guess where the adventure will lead!”

“The story teller says that it’s in a place beyond seeking,” Solanine said. “A grove in the deepest forest where the leaves turn and fall year-round.”

“That should be warning enough,” replied Dalonyn. “An overt warning followed by an impossibility. Beyond seeking means it cannot be sought for to do so is folly, while year-round leaffall would bury a tree to its crown. Can’t you see that the storyteller is using this as a metaphor? He seeks to describe a foolhardy chasing of shadows in terms our ancestors understood.”

Solanine folder her arms. “If that were the case, why not simply say so? If it’s in the stories, it must be true.”

“You’ll find that many of the stories are metaphors, lessons for living a good life wrapped up in our ancestors’ tales,” Dalonyn sighed. “Do you honestly believe the tale of Kulynan spearing the moon or Linoni flooding a valley to drive out spirits? It is the same with the Everfall Glen and the miraculous panacea it contains.”

“The storyteller holds them to be true,” replied Solanine, defiantly. “He says nothing of metaphor. When I seek and find it, you’ll see how wrong you’ve been.

Sarcosi examined the equipment, lined up and labeled on a table. “Amateurish. You would think that someone with the audacity to steal from me would be better armed and trained.”

“Tell us, for the class, what it is that makes this man an amateur,” Hodgkin said. “Enlighten them while showing that you are not to be trifled with.”

Sarcosi hefted the mercenary’s pistol, a Desert Eagle. “Take this sidearm. A ridiculous toy, nearly three kilograms heavy when fully loaded. It is loud, it cannot be concealed properly, and cannot be drawn quickly. Won’t take a proper suppressor. Fires heavy, bulky rifle ammunition.”

The students nodded murmuring among themselves.

“Quite right,” Hodgkin said. “This man has forgotten our maxim: the right tool for the right job. A pistol should be small, easily concealed, and used as a backup weapon or close-in wetwork tool only. Anything else ought to be done with a proper rifle from a distance.”

“This man has evidently seen too many Hollywood movies, where men carry this weapon because it looks impressive,” Sarcosi added. “The appearance of a weapon is irrelevent. Anti-material rifles are ugly to a one but nothing is better suited to taking out a target in an armored and bombproof limousine. Furthermore, by allowing himself to be influenced by fantasy, this man has revealed himself to be an amateur who only deludes himself into thinking he’s a professional.”

“You heard the man,” Hodgkin said to the students. “Release this amateur into the live-fire range.”