Doctor October Magazine (Issue 1)

$18.99

Summer 2017

Doctor October Doctor October Literature & Art Samantha Underhill’s “Letter in the Rain” Mike Baron’s Tips on Writing

EVERY MOTHER SENT TO WAR!

Underhill

Cartoons by Robert Waldo Brunelle Jr.

The Adventure of the Tachyon Anti-Telegraph

Doctor october Radio

The best music in the world is heading your way

“People ask me to predict the Future, when all I want to do is prevent it.” Ray Bradbury ______________________________________________________________ DOCTOR OCTOBER MAGAZINE. Issue One Summer, 2017 Julian City Press PO BOX 1238 Julian, CA 92036 Copyright ©2017 as to all respective copyright owners of the contributions as contained within this magazine. All rights reserved.

The Travel in Time Issue

What is going on here?

AND SO we find ourselves with the first issue of Doctor October. Please notice the cartoon below, which shows the hero of one of our stories in rather a tight situation. His wife has discovered a mysterious device that was hidden in the pocket of his pants. The very touch of that strange object on the skin of her hand and fingers gave her a mortal chill up and down her spine. But you’ll learn all when you read “The Adventure of the Tachyon Anti-Telegraph.”

Samantha Underhill provides us with her latest short story: “A letter in the Rain.” Our cover art by Rod Underhill illustrates this tale.

“The All Nite Cafe” story is illustrated by Leah M. Dunsmore and features a place to eat even more ghoulish in nature than McDonald’s. “Time Traveler” takes us back in time to the 1960’s for a refresher course on that era. Mike Baron’s Tips on Writing are precisely that: the award winning author has dropped by to offer his wisdom on the craft of writing. (We also review a few of Mr. Baron’s best works this issue.) Time Machine Repairman is a peek at a special work in progress.

“Trump vs. Mars” and “2035” each provide either a pro-Trump or an anti-Trump position via a short story. We’ll leave it up to you to figure out which one is which. “Ordinary Spies” is a brief tale of modern day espionage in the Age of Trump. “Seasonal Migration” and “Bowman” are works of non-fiction, taking a look at the life of a country author (and your Editor Dr. Augustus October, thank you very much.)

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“The Adventure of the Tachyon Anti-Telegraph” takes us back to the late 19th Century where we encounter a telegraph operator in a small town who seems to be getting messages from the far future. But is the sender up to no good and how will these communications affect the operator’s relationship with his loving wife?

Baron’s Universe presents reviews of some of the most recent work by award winning writer Mike Baron, including his most recent novel.

“Bayside” offers a chilling tale about a young lawyer who really should have learned to read his case file before having his first meeting with a new client.

Funny Pages completes this issue with an exploration of the political cartoons of Robert Waldo Brunelle, Jr as well as an examination of five comic book covers from the World War II Era.

Contents Of our issue

What Is Going On Here?

1

Doctor October Dossier

Contents

2

All Nite Cafe

3

The Funny Pages: Robert Waldo Brunelle, Jr/The Black Terror covers 45

Time Travelor

4

---------------------------------------------------------------

Mike Baron’s Tips on Writing

5

Cover painting by Rod Underhill

Trump vs. Mars

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Interior art by Leah Dunsmore Rod Underhill & Jesse Underhill _____________________________________________

2035

12

Ordinary Spies

15

Letter in the Rain

16

Seasonal Migration

19

Bowman

21

The Adventures of the Tachyon Anti-Telegraph

23

Baron’s Universe

30

Time Machine Repairman

34

Bayside

37

42

Unless indicated otherwise, all content written by Doctor Augustus October

The Stories Await You

All Nite Cafe

Leah Dunsmore

It is difficult to accept that is is twenty minutes before four in the morning. Once again I have dreamed my way to Betty and Dottie’s All Nite Cafe.

Dreaming is just one way to find the Cafe, one can easily walk to it in your own town if you only know the way.

The Cafe is about a quarter of a mile from my friend Willis Richard’s home in London.

No need for Willis to take the Tube, no, he can easily walk to the Cafe.

It’s also about a hundred yards from my friend Topper Helmer’s house in Washig, Indiana. He often pops in for a late night snack. The Cafe is open from dusk to dawn,

only.

The same individual Cafe is in every city in the world. Don’t ask me how. It just is.

Don’t go looking for it. If the Cafe wants you to drop in, you’ll dream about it first.

In your dream you will see Betty, beautiful with her long dark hair down upon her slender shoulders, and her partner Dottie, who prefers to wear her blonde hair up while she is at work. They own the place and they serve as the Cafe’s sole waitresses.

Some say the two were once muses living in Ancient

Greek. I’ve heard Dottie murmer “Thalia” to Betty, and I have heard Betty murmur “Hýpate” to Dottie, or at least, I thought I might have heard such.

On any evening, you might see an ancient god having pancakes. Or a vampire, dressed like a rather cheap hooker, chowing down on a young trucker.

Or, sitting near the door, an old writer talking to his son, and wondering what is safe on the menu to order.

Dottie pours coffee for the man who may or may not be an ancient god, while Betty pours the syrup.

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MEMORY YET GREEN

Time Traveler

Summer always brings back memories of spending day after day at the side of the Pacific Ocean during the early and mid 1960’s. I can remember being ten years old, and walking about a mile and a half from our house with my eight year old brother, to the sea pretty much every day at dawn. We would be walking on the sands of Manhattan Beach, a sleepy beach front enclave in Los Angeles, a good hour before the lifeguards would show up.

We would take time blowing up our canvas surf mat, and then we would dash into the chilled waters, riding wave after wave, laughing all the while. When it was time for lunch, we would round up arm fulls of empty, sand crusted pop bottles that we scavenged and head up to a local market, and trade them in for a handful of coins which we would use to purchase something to eat.

Learning to surf was still a few years off. Come Fourth of July, our parents would drive us to the same beach just before sundown. Mom would spread out a blanket, while my brother and I would dig a foxhole for us to nestle in when the fireworks went off, playing “war” as we often did in those halcyon post WWII days.

As kids, we were inundated with war materials. We loved being taken to the local war surplus store, where actual WWII and Korean War GI items were sold at cheap prices, grabbing an old probably useless gas mask to wear around the neighborhood or perhaps a working canteen.

We had “big army” and we had “little army.” Little army involved playing with tiny plastic soldiers, who lived their motionless, army green plastic lives

on the grass we played on. Big army involved running around with our plastic rifles and pretending to be shot and falling down to the ground “dead,” only to rise once more to knock on the back door of our home and ask for a cookie, since we have been smelling the scent of our mother baking for the last hour or so.

World War II was on our black and white television almost relentlessly. John Wayne would lead his squad to victory one Saturday afternoon, while reruns of Combat was offered daily. At night, once a week, we could enjoy the funny side of the war with Hogan’s Heroes.

Back at the beach, on the 4th, in the darkness of our pretend fox hole, the sky was ablaze with fireworks. The following day, we would once again leave at dawn to walk back to the sea.

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Mike Baron’s

Creative Skills

Tips on Writing

Author Mike Baron is the cocreator, with artist Steve Rude, of the famed Nexus comic character. Mike is also the creator of the Badger, the world’s first fictional costumed hero suffering from multiple personality disorder.

Over the years, Mike has collected many industry awards, including two Eisner Awards.

A prolific novelist and comic book scripter, Mike has written for the largest publishers in the world, including handling the writing chores for Flash, Star Wars, Green Lantern and Batman magazines. _____________________________

Stories and Songs A good story is like a good pop song -- it’s got a rhythm, a theme, a bridge and a hook. You know what a hook is. It’s that dynamic change in chords that creates tension, crying out for a third chord to resolve that tension. All you have to do is listen to any Beatles song. On TV, the hooks are the little cliffhangers they always throw in just before the commercial. A guy shows up with a gun. The doctor cries, “He’s going into cardiac arrest!”

In exceptional shows like Breaking Bad or True Detective, the hooks, or cliffhangers arise naturally from the rhythms of the story -- which mostly derive from the characters’ personalities.

If you make your characters real enough they write the story.

Obviously, an active character will write more story, and more interesting story than a passive character. The only place you find passive protagonists is in mopey, navel-gazing dystopia fiction.

story. The narrative voice can be in the first, third, or second. The latter is very rare. “You went to the store. You pulled a gun. You shot the clerk.” It’s just odd.

Sometimes it helps to clip pictures, people whom you’d like to cast in your book, put them on a bulletin board and use note cards to list their characteristics.

Wolfe’s is god-like, omniscient, a wise-cracker who exposes human frailty without mercy. At the moment Mac was in command, behind the wheel of her beloved and ludicrously cramped brand-new Mitsubishi Green Elf Hybrid, a chic and morally enlightened vehicle just now, trolling the solid rows of cars parked side by side, wingmirror to wing-mirror, out back of this month’s Miami nightspot of the century, Balzac’s, just off vanity.

The first and the third have ruled fiction since Walter Scott I’ve always patterned characters defined the novel as “a fictitious after people I know. Sometimes narrative in prose or verse; the they are friends or acquaininterest of which turns upon tances, sometimes they are just marvellous and uncommon people in the news. In his novel incidents.” As a devotee of John I, Sniper, Stephen Hunter modD. MacDonald’s Travis McGee els the bad guy after Ted Turner. stories, I have long been a fan of He’s not subtle about it. In his the first person narrative. But it novel Primary Colors, Joe Klein wasn’t just the “I” talking. It was modeled his protagonist after McGee’s world view, his love of Bill Clinton. If you don’t have a tradition and decency, that infirm grasp on your character, formed the narrative. It was also mark down those characteristics MacDonald’s uncanny ability to that make him who he is. White, evoke evil in its purest form. But heterosexual, hard-charging mostly it was McGee’s laconic Alpha male. Black lesbian poet. voice.

Make them specific. It’s the little details that bring a character to Tom Wolfe and James Ellroy life, their manner of speaking, own two of the most distinctive their beliefs, their lifestyle. narrative voices in literature.

The Narrative Voice The narrative voice is among the most important aspects of fiction. It is the narrative voice that seduces, excites, grabs you by the throat and drags you through the story. If the narrative voice is boring or stupid, like most business and academic writing, it kills whatever interest you may have in the

Ellroy, whose L.A. Confidential is among the most influential of literary and film noirs, writes in

an abrupt, rat-tat-tat prose distilled from decades of lurid pulps such as True Detective and Los Angeles gossip columns.

From Perfidia, his latest novel about Los Angeles on the eve of World War II: “Bobby De Witt was a jazz drummer. He personified the appellation ‘lounge lizard.’ He wore highwaisted flannels and two-tone loafer jackets; he kept up with his pachuco bunk mates from the Preston Reformatory. He caught me sketching him. I convinced myself that he recognized my talent and Norma Shearer–like aplomb. I was mistaken there. All he recognized was my penchant for the outré.

He lost me when he moved onto his JFK trilogy, American Tabloid, White Jazz, and Blood’s A Rover. The prose had become so terse and mannered it lost all humanity. I have read his latest, Perfidia, and it is a partial return to form. But he’ll never own my heart the way MacDonald or Wolfe does.

When you think of it, all your favorite writers have strong narrative voices.

--Mike Baron Banshees, Mike Baron’s latest novel, is available from Amazon.com, and is reviewed in this issue of Doctor October. _____________________________

He had a small house out at Venice Beach. I had my own room.

I slept away months of taxing outdoor days and too hot and too cold outdoor nights. I ate myself back from the brink of malnutrition and pondered what to do next.

Bobby seduced me then. I thought I was seducing him. I was mistaken. He saw that I was growing wings and set out to clip them.

Bobby was quite sweet to me at first. It started changing shortly after New Year’s. His business picked up. He got me hooked on laudanum and made me stay home to answer the phone and book dates with his girls and their ‘clients.’ It got worse. He held a dope kick over me and coerced me into his stable. It got much worse.

Jazz drummer is always a synonym for dope peddler and pimp.

I have the knife scars on the back of my thighs to prove it.”

Around the time Ellroy wrote L.A. Confidential and The Big Nowhere, I couldn’t get enough.

Strawberry Walk The old man grabbed his walking stick from where it rested near an ancient, wooden and very valuable wooden hutch that towered over this head, and made his way out the door with his 18 year old son.

He’d been feeling the years creeping up on him recently, and he figured that a daily walk down and back up the steep dirt road down to town would do him some good. Assuming, that is, that he could keep up with such exercise on a daily frequency.

His young son was all for getting some air, and was happy to join him. Off they went down the dirt road, slowly passing the oak and pine trees that lined the way down to town. The old man figured it was about a mile down and a mile back up and he also gave it some thought about how long it would take to make it down and back. Maybe about an hour, he reckoned.

It was five in the evening when

the pair set out. Warm, but not hot, and most of the way the road would be dappled by the shade of the tall trees along the road. Still, the old man carried a bottle of water with him, which he drank from every now and again as they moved along.

The old man’s son had a great interest in the plants of the forest, so they would stop every now and again so that the lad could closely examine one that caught his eye. “This looks like feverfew, Dad.” But, half way down, in a very shady spot along the road, it was there that the old man spotted a strawberry bush. Low and smallish, it never the less bore about a dozen ripe berries.

“Look, son!” he happily cried out. “Heirloom strawberries here for the taking. Small, sure, very small, but ripe and these are the plants that the pioneers planted next to their cabins back in the pioneer days.”

The old man picked a ripe berry and held it out to his son to smell. “Have you ever smelled such a wonderful scent, son?”

Then the old man popped one in his mouth. “Heaven, son, just heaven” The old man drank down most of the water in his bottle and then emptied the rest on the plant.

“We can pick them and put them in here for the walk back.”

When they returned home, the old man and his son shared them with the old man’s wife and daughter. Then the son took three to plant in their yard.

The strawberries of summer would have a new start at their home on the mountain top.

FICTION

trump vs mars Erik Emmermann, with a flushed face, picked up the phone at his desk at Bell Labs and rang up his immediate supervisor. “Jack,” he murmured, not wishing to sound like he was in a panic, which he was, “please come down. I have something to show you.”

The last major discovery in quantum science at Bell Labs was back in 1998. That was nearly twenty years ago now. A Nobel Prize in Physics had been awarded to three of his older colleagues back then for discovering and explaining the fractional quantum Hall effect.

Erik’s own present work in quantum communications had been barely funded and only funded because his theories were thought to perhaps bring about related discoveries that would have commercial value, such as creating a new way to protect the databases of the United States from hackers. Erik had, for example, failed to get an income tax refund for nearly a year due to identity theft. He also got billed five thousand dollars for multiple Hulu and Netflix accounts when somebody somewhere hacked his banking information.

But, a fix for such problems had not been Erik’s focus. Erik heard Jack walking into his workroom and he turned in his wheeled chair to face his boss.

“Yes, Erik. What’s on your mind? Problems?”

Erik picked up a small digital remote and turned on the video screen that was placed on the wall of his workroom.

“Take a look at this, Jack.”

Jack stood with his arms crossed and gazed at the screen. “What is this? The next Avatar movie?”

“No. This is real. I’ve got the Quantum Television up and running.”

Jack opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed his mouth. Then: “Okay. Shit. Okay, lemme get

some of the others down here right away.”

Ten minutes later a group of 18 other scientists and technicians crowded into Erik’s workroom, all gazing at the television on the wall.

Nancy Brown, another physicist, asked, “Uh, sorry. Is there sound or just video?”

“There is sound, Nancy. Let me turn it on.”

What they saw on the screen was this: thousands of thousands of aliens standing on what appeared to be fields of closely mowed grass. Yellow flowers appeared here and there. The aliens were humanoid in appearance, but they appeared stretched. Long bodies, long arms, very thin creatures they were. Their coloration was lovely, a mixture of yellow and green, with some hints of blue here and there. The camera, if it was truly a camera that was being used to capture the video and audio, moved among the aliens. Each of them stood and swayed every so slightly, and looked upward into the sky. It was impossible to tell what they were staring at. There were thousands and thousands of aliens, each standing still and looking up into the sky, never taking their gaze away from their heavens above.

Jonathan Waterhouse, the sole “suit” who had been invited by Jack to the impromptu meeting in Erik’s workroom, spoke up. “What’s that sound?

It’s like music. What is it?”

Erik answered: “I think it’s being made by them as they breathe, but I can’t be sure. They just stand there. They look up. They never look away from the sky.”

Brenda Reynolds, a pretty young physicist who had recently graduated from Harvard, and who was having a torrid affair with the married Waterhouse, who was fifteen years older than she, asked, “Jack. Those sounds are lovely. It is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. This is real? This is live? Where is this?”

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“It’s real. You are seeing spooky television at a distance. I have two, well, let’s call them channels, at this point. I have no way, at least yet, to determine where they are broadcasting. That’s the nature of quantum-based communications. We have instant communication from anywhere in the galaxy.

Quantum entanglement broadcasting from God knows where. All we had to do was learn how to tune in. Two channels for now, and they are always the same, broadcasting live from wherever they broadcast from. I’ll locate more channels in the future, I am sure. And what we see on the screen is actually happening as we watch it.”

Brenda smiled, and remarked, “Well, this is great, right? Live television from Outer Space. Even with only two channels. You’ve proved that there is life out there in the stars. That’s cool, right?”

“No. Not really. Oh, it’s great that we can prove alien life exists, sure. But, well, there is something else and it’s quite disturbing. I have to show you channel two now. But let me warn you all. Best to have a strong stomach. If you don’t, please walk out. “ Erik changed the channel.

They saw a human male about 30 years of age strapped down to a table face up. Around the table sat six aliens of a different sort. They appeared, to Brenda, to look like a cross between a grasshopper, a frog, and a hamster. They looked scary as hell.

The human was dressed in what appeared to be a World War II American aviator uniform, noticed Jack, who was a war buff.

“I watched five episodes of this program already.

It’s not pleasant. As soon as they finish, the show moves on to another table, another room, maybe another city and maybe another planet, with another human strapped down, or sometimes, a new and different kind of alien is strapped down.”

Erik looked apologetically at his collected group of guests. “Not pleasant.” Erik turned up the sound a bit so that the human on the table could be heard. He was pleading for his life. The aliens made no apparent sounds.

“What happens next is terrible. This is essentially an alien snuff film. The goal for the diners is to take piece by piece at a time. The goal is to keep the victim alive as long as possible. They take turns. One of them will bite off a finger or a toe. Then they take an arm, and then a leg un-

til the limbs are gone. Eventually they get to the vital organs. Typically they take the spleen first, because a person can live without a spleen. They do something to quell the bleeding each time they take a bite. I think they are like mosquitos, you know? They have a chemical in their mouth that quells bleeding but the victim still bleeds at first, then the bleeding slows down and stops. If the person passes out, they have a way to wake the victim back up. The alien that finally causes the death of the victim loses the game. After the victim dies, they finish the meal and consume the rest of the corpse. It seems to be some sort of alien Thanksgiving.”

The man was screaming for Jesus and God to rescue him as his toes and fingers were removed one by one. After one alien took a large bite from his thigh, the victim screamed that and begged them to stop. The aliens were cooing in soft musical tones. Their bloodied teeth were quite large, with several prominent fangs. When they bit out the first eyeball, Jack quietly suggested to Erik that perhaps he should switch channels. “I like the standing aliens better.”

Erik complied. The group went back to watching the very tall and very stretched green and yellow aliens as they stood and stared into the skies of their planet.

Nancy remarked, after most of the assembled group recovered some of their composure, “Maybe this is some sort of religious ceremony. And, I think their planet must have a lighter gravity than Earth. I don’t think they could stand on Earth, the elongated way their bodies are constructed.” No one responded, and Nancy looked around and noticed that many of her colleagues were still white as ghosts.

As they watched, they could see that the standing aliens were immense in number, covering hill after hill as they enjoyed what might have been an alien spring. The entire planet’s population seemed to be standing outside and looking up.

Jack found what he was seeing to be relaxing in nature, almost hypnotic. He wondered about the green grace, determining that chlorophyll must be a constant evolutionary item on class M planets.

Then it all changed. The aliens stopped looking up.

All of them, in mass, stopped looking up.

The aliens then turned as a group to look at the camera.

tum space out near Jupiter. Something that appears to be the size of a large asteroid has instantly appeared. But that’s impossible, right?”

“Their musical sound has stopped. I don’t like this new sound very much.” Brenda frowned as she said this. Indeed, the sound they aliens were now making sounded, well, to Jack, it came across as disturbing. Perhaps even hostile in nature. A sort of humming, or throbbing, and dissonant in nature, it was. An alien cacophony that came across as angry in nature.

The assistant CAL director shrugged. “ “Sounds impossible. But the European Space Agency has their Euclid satellite doing test runs by focusing on Jupiter right now. That’s their dark matter and dark energy investigation device. Let me get one of those guys on Skype, he owes me a favor or two. I introduced him to his wife at a conference in Geneva a few years ago. We keep in touch.”

“What’s this now, Erik?” Jack looked hopefully at Erik.

The assistant CAL director put on a headset and placed the Skype call. He paled as he listened to his frantic friend speak. Then the assistant CAL director hung up and turned to face his boss.

“I have no idea. This is new. But I think they are seeing us.”

Brenda spoke up: “Seeing us? We don’t have a camera pointed on us. You’re not broadcasting are you? Well, are you?” Brenda, like everyone else in the room, had become rather terrified after seeing Channel 2 on Erik’s newly activated Quantum Television.

Erik held his hands to his head. “I think they are telepathic. They are in my mind. Jesus! The hate!

Turn it off, turn it off.”

Jack ran and grabbed a fire ax from the hallway and returned to the workroom as fast as he could.

By the time he made it back, everyone else in the room was on their hands and knees, vomiting.

“What do I smash? How do I turn it off?”

Erik was on his knees, throwing up and feeling like a knife was ripping out his innards, but managed to frantically point at a metal box sitting on a table near his work desk.

Jack, with a mighty swing worthy of any lumberjack, chopped a very manly over head strike with the axe, and the Quantum Television went dark and silent.

NASA’s director of the Cold Atom Laboratory looked at his computer monitor with a shocked appearance on his face. The Cold Atom Laboratory, or CAL, had been placed upon the International Space Station last year. The purpose of CAL was to use the space station’s unique micro gravity environment to observe quantum phenomena that would otherwise be undetectable from Earth.

“Hmm. Something must be wrong with the data stream from CAL. According to this, something large, something very large has disrupted quan-

“Jesus. It appears to be a space ship. The damn thing is twenty miles long and five miles wide. It just fucking appeared out of nowhere. And the thing is heading to earth at point five light-speed.

I figure with them having to slow down at some point, they will be here in a few hours. Better call the President.”

The CAL director looked pained. “Call Mr. Science?

The same guy that de funded the shit out of us?”

All the assistant CAL director could do at that point was to shrug once again. _________________________________________ Alone in his Bell Labs workroom, Erik turned Channel One back on. He had plugged in an alternate computer server so that he could watch Quantum Television once again. Before he did so, he went to the Bell Labs cafeteria and grabbed a box of tin foil and then wrapped a liberal amount around his head. But, Erik also had set up a timer to automatically turn off the power to the Quantum Television server two minutes after he tuned into Channel 1. That way if they attacked him telepathically again, the timer would automatically rescue him.

He could see the aliens. All green and yellow, with hints of blue here and there, all stretched out and thin, and every single one pointing with their oddly shaped hands at him. Erik started to bleed from his nose and his ears. And then he went blind.

His vision would never return. _________________________________

“Martians? What do you mean that we are going to be attacked by mother fucking Martians?”

President Trump was in no mood for this sort of shit.

“Now, Mr. President, I didn’t say Martians or Mars. We have no idea where they are from. We are nearly a hundred percent sure they are not from Mars or anywhere in this solar system.”

General Moore wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “We do know what they want, though.

They communicate via telepathy. They’ve been in my head for days now, ever since they made orbit around the Moon. Not just me, but most of my staff have been getting the same messages.”

“Yeah? And what do these fucking Martians want?” Trump was angry. He already missed his golf appointment and he was also dealing with the fact that his bitch ex-wife was going to write a tellall book unless he paid her off.

“Well, Christ. They say that life in the universe is rare. They said that another species found Earth first a long time ago and has been taking humans from time to time, but kept our existence a secret.

Then someone over at Bell Labs invented something called a Quantum Television and that alerted them to the existence of Earth and humanity.”

up in planetary zoos on other planets. The rest will be food. They were very upfront about that.

There are alien species that enjoy eating live food.

They want the people for that.”

The President sat back in his Oval Office chair and put his hands behind his head.

“What if I refuse? What then?”

“They destroy the planet.”

“Why do they need my cooperation? Why not use their superior weaponry to take what they want?”

“Well, Mr. President, they are asking us not to nuke our own planet into the Stone Age. They say that some species make that choice when the aliens arrive and make their demands. Self destruction, either accidently in a global war against the invaders, or on purpose as a form of mass suicide.”

Trump nodded knowingly. “And if they get what they want, they keep our existence a secret and come back again later to take another load of humans off to the market. Well, I see.”

“Quantum Television? You mean like sub-space communications?”

The general looked hopefully at his President.

“So, what do we do, sir?”

The general recalled that the President quite enjoyed his television time but was until now unaware that Trump was a Trekkie.

“I will tell you precisely what we are going to do. I am going to make a deal.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Something like that.”

“Well, what the fuck do they want, these God damned Martians?”

The general looked pained as he answered. “They want five hundred thousand humans. And they want all the art in every museum on the planet.

Copies of every motion picture we’ve ever made.

Copies of every musical album we have ever recorded. A few thousand automobiles, but not the electric ones, they want that, too. And ten thousand cows, they seem to want an assortment of milk cows and beef steers. And any animal they find interesting in our zoos.”

“What are they going to do with the people they take?”

“Mr. President, they say that five percent will end

An alien shuttle landed the next day on the White House lawn. Although the Secret Service didn’t want the President to make the journey up to the Alien’s huge space ship that was orbiting the Moon, especially on his own, Trump waved off all the push back and said, “If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.”

The trip took about an hour. On the way, Trump read a golf magazine he had stuffed into his jacket pocket. There was a new sand wedge reviewed that looked promising. He’d have to get that, he thought to himself.

Once on the Alien craft, he found that he felt about a hundred pounds lighter. The Aliens did enjoy a lighter gravity on their home world, but Trump was nodding off when NASA agents had mentioned that such might be the case.

make valuable art, very nice, the best art, stupenThree green and yellow aliens, each with a touch dous. As long as you don’t eat them, of course, of blue, escorted Trump here and there on the they will make the very best art ever for you. We ship, and finally to a large room where the head will also give you copies of our movies and music. alien sat waiting for him.

No problem. We have the best ever. We will give you some zoo animals. No pandas, though. We “So this is a Martian,” thought Trump to himself. can probably get you some koalas. The automobiles you want, no problem, as long as we stick to The alien entered Trump’s mind and Trump found German cars. Fuck Germany, those assholes have the experience not to be unpleasant. The alien had an unfair trade advantage for decades.” stated his demands, just as expected, and the alien was very forthcoming about the nature of “Deal?” what would happen to most of the humans who were taken.

The alien spoke at that point, with the words ringing pleasantly in Trump’s head.

Trump responded. “Okay, so you want half a million humans and all of our art. You can’t have “We wish to return in ten years and take more our art. I’ll order the planet to destroy itself first. humans, though.”

Then you get nothing. No art, no humans, no cows. Nothing.”

Trump smiled. “Sure, just tell the world that I have to be made King of Earth for life and that my The alien stared at Trump but said nothing in children are now royalty and my oldest will inherit return. the throne. Just like it used to be done in England. Oh, and that any woman I want to suck my “But I tell you what you can have. You’re going to dick has to do it if I say so, even if they are marlove this. Just love it. It’s stupendous. Best offer ried. Especially the married women! Send out a ever made. Really, totally great.”

Martian thought wave or something to the whole planet. Suck that dick or they will be taken to The alien remained silent.

Mars to be eaten. Slowly, painfully eaten.”

“We have this little club sort of thing called ISIS. There are a hundred thousand members. You can use your telepathy to find them. You can have every one. They are very tough and will last a long time at the dining table before they die. I know you are going to like that. Now, we also have a part of the world called North Korea. They have twenty five million people there. You can have them all. Can you fit them all on this ship? I bet you can. North Koreans are going to be the best tasting humans ever. I promise you that. “ Trump found his throat to be parched.

“And there are several hundred members of Congress you can have.”

Trump looked around and then said, “Could I have a glass of water, please?” Another alien swiftly brought one to him, and Trump noticed it was the best tasting water he had ever enjoyed in his life.

“Now as to the cows and such. Yes, you can have them. Beef steers, too, sure, no problem. But you can’t take our art. Instead I will round up all the artists that work for Disney and you can have them. They will make new art for you. They will

The deal concluded, the President was sent back home on the alien shuttle. By the time it had landed and the Secret Service opened the shuttle door, Trump was soundly asleep, having a lovely dream about a new sand wedge. _________________________________________________

SUBMISSIONS IF YOU HAVE A SHORT STORY YOU WOULD LIKE TO SUBMIT, MAIL A PRINTED COPY TO SUBMISSIONS DOCTOR OCTOBER PO BOX 1238 JULIAN, CA 92036 INCLUDE YOUR NAME AND EMAIL ADDRESS. WE WILL CONTACT YOU IF WE ARE INTERESTED IN PUBLISHING YOUR STORY. YOU MAY SUBMIT A STORY IN ANY GENRE. 11

FICTION

2”” 2035

I can’t risk going outside and starting up the gas generator. A candle will have to do. I remember reading in one of Durant’s history books, I think it was Age of Faith, where he explained that candles were very expensive for everybody but the wealthy during the Dark Ages. Ha, maybe that was one of the reasons the Dark Ages were so dark.

anymore. I have an article to write for the underground rag that is being distributed down in the flatlands near the beach.

I am not sure how much longer they can get away with that.

Somewhere, someplace, they have a printing press hidden.

The rag gets handed out once or twice a month by the local weed dealers. Free. Buy a lid and get a rag.

Anyway, I’ve got some writing to do. A candle, some paper, that I have. A few pencils, and some pens that don’t seem to work

I think most people may read it for the cartoons. Mostly reprints of old Bobby London Dirty Duck

stuff, or other things they found in old copies of National Lampoon or maybe even Playboy.

Anyway, I am supposed to write a history of what happened. The schools sure are not teaching it, what schools still exist. Real schools, I mean, not those online things that most kids are forced to use on that thing they call “The Internet” but isn’t the Internet. It’s more like what Prodigy or CompuServe used to me. Just a dial up network for those that have land line phones.

Mobile phones are long gone now, save for the wealthy. No one could afford to pay the fees for those things anymore, anyway.

doubt any snow is on the way.

No way for me to know. There is no longer any weather service I can consult and no newspapers anymore.

Land lines made a resurgence, but those are expensive, too.

One channel of television now.

All Trump all the time. Trump, Trump, Trump. Old footage of Trump in Europe. Old footage of Trump on the golf course. Old footage of Trump giving a rally speech. And talking heads in between telling us how great New America is.

But school age kids must be “educated,” so their families are forced to pay for land lines at a “discount.” Most of the Trumpies don’t openly complain.

Kids are taught Trumpian History. The War was caused by liberals. The Media was also at fault. Democrats were at fault.

Islam was at fault. They still rail against Muslims, despite the fact that it was Trump himself that brought in his modified Sharia law to the states.

Oh, Trump got real cozy with the House of Saud during his first presidency. After the war temporarily stopped national elections, Trump figured out how to truly create the House of Trump.

He is long gone now, of course, felled by a bad heart, but his family rules with an iron set of hands.

The courts were closed in 2022.

They were replaced by tribunals, manned by registered members of Trump Support Clubs.

Mostly, American Sharia law is harsh, but different from the Saudi version. Drinking booze is fine, if you can get it. You can have up to three wives, if you really want. One cannot say anything unkind about the government, or Family Trump. There are no elections. Family Trump appoints as Family Trump wishes to appoint.

Outside, the wind is howling. Up here in the mountains it can get really cold during the winter. It must be near freezing right now, but it the skies are clear and I

Sometimes they tell us that there are Mexicans that need to be located and rounded up. That is very rare, now. All the sensible Mexicans got their asses across the border years ago.

I do listen to the Trump Radio, though. It tells me when I can go down to the coast to pick up food. Sometimes there is corn, actual, real ears of corn. I take them home and boil them right away.

Sometimes there is bread. Sometimes there is work that is announced. Some of my friends take the border job, as that is easy work. They are given a rifle and some water, and maybe a candy bar, and asked to walk the border until either the sun goes down, or the sun goes up, depending on what shift is over.

When their shift is over, they are given five gallons of gas, some bread, jam, peanut butter, and a hearty thanks from Family Trump. Maybe sometimes that thanks takes the form of a six pack of beer. Or maybe a bag of oranges. It’s all good.

There is not much of San Diego left. I have no idea why any Mexican would want to come to San Diego. The war took out the downtown area. La Jolla? Gone.

National City? Gone. The port?

Gone. All gone, all gone. Old

Trump got to tweeting one day, back when the Internet allowed all that sort of thing, and something happened, something bad.

I guess North Korea took him seriously, so they sent a nuke over to Tokyo. Trump hit the ceiling, and told his subs that were out there near North Korea to wipe that nasty little nation off the map.

The story goes, and I am not sure that it is true, is that in each of those subs, there were a mixture of officers who hated Trump and knew he was a traitor and those who worshipped the very ground Trump trod upon. They fought. Hand weapons were drawn.

Of two of the three subs, reason prevailed. But on one, reason failed.

Trump retaliated against the other two subs. Down they went, shelled by destroyers who knew precisely where they were, deep down in the sea. Shelled by Russian war ships.

Jesus. Russian warships.

Of course, China was very pissed off. They didn’t really want to start World War III, but they had to react in some fashion, so they reacted in a way they thought would be relatively restrained.

They figured the rest of the world would get it, that the EU and the UK would understand that they acted in a restrained manner.

So they took out San Diego and San Francisco. Their ambassador went on over to the White House and asked Trump, “You want any more?”

Trump had the ambassador shot right on the spot. They hung his corpse on the White House fence.

The wind is picking up outside.

Yes, that wind is really going to town now. I miss my son.

They took him off to the war, of course. I have no idea where he went, or where he is. Dead?

Alive? The only mail I get is from the government asking for more taxes from me. As I have no job, they take chickens. I do my best to keep the coyotes out of my chicken coop so that I can pay my taxes.

Up here in the mountains, we can raise chickens, and goats, and pigs, if we want. The only trouble with that is people like to steal them. Flatlanders come up from the city and take what they can find. They are starving, so I get that. Luckily, my house is remote and hard to find. I still have my chickens. Trump rounded up all the guns, of course, a long time ago. He feared an insurrection, I guess.

Nobody can revolt. We are all too hungry. Still, we do what we can.

We print out little rag of truth, and hand it out, and hope for better times.

So, anyway, after San Diego and San Francisco got trashed by the Chinese, Trump really let go with a response. Funny, he didn’t strike at China, but struck at Germany for some reason. Nobody could figure out why.

Did you know that Germany had no nuclear weapons of their own? Nope. Not a one. Trump was a bully, of course. Why attack China? He felt he had to blast someone, so he blasted Hamburg, Frankfurt, and Berlin.

Nuked the fucking shit right out of them.

By then he had taken over the media and the press. The official line was that it was Germany who had nuked San Francisco and San Diego. After nuking

Germany, France, which was a nuclear power, took out Washington, DC. Naturally, Trump was not in DC at the time, but hiding in a bunker someplace in Florida. The blast did take out one of his sons, I heard. Not sure which one, and it doesn’t matter, as both of them were evil fuckers, if you ask me.

Then the war ended. Trump made nice nice with China and all was forgiven. China had too much money invested in the USA to completely take us down.

But the world economy fell into a pit. People began to starve.

There was no work. Money became nearly impossible to get and inflation made it so that it required hundreds of dollars to buy a handful of food.

Martial law was announced.

Everything Trump tried to do to correct things turned out to be precisely the wrong thing to do.

Shit. Then it got really bad. Every healthy kid from 17 to 30 was rounded up and sent to war.

Most went willingly, in the hopes of being fed.

I know we invaded Mexico. I don’t know why. I heard we invaded Canada and I have no idea if that is true. No vets from the Canadian War have ever returned to tell the tale.

The scary thing is I think we invaded each other. That is, some states resisted Trump. New York, for example. I think we invaded New York. There is never any news about New York City on the Official Television Channel that I watch when I have enough gas to fire up the generator outside.

Well, I think I have written enough here. They can print all

of this in the Rag. No mail now, no e-mail, but we have the Dog Express.

Wally is waiting for me. He’s a good doggie. His route is to run the ten miles from my house down to a house located in the forest near Witch Creek. Witch Creek was an actual town on the wagon train network back in the 19th Century. All gone now.

Fires over the years, mostly, took out all the houses and buildings in Witch Creek.

Wally will take this down there.

Then another dog will take it another ten miles. By tomorrow noon it will arrive to the publisher, whoever he or she is.

Wally is sounding a low growl. I think Wally thinks someone is outside. Dogs are good at that.

Knowing when someone is outside. But Wally knows better than to bark.

I’ve placed my notes into a water proof, plastic tube and tied it to Wally’s old leather collar.

Zoom! Wally is gone, running downstairs to the back door, and out the doggie door, and into the inky black forest.

I hear gun shots. I hear voices.

Wally made it. He was too fast for them.

I hear the front door being knocked in. It wasn’t even locked. Why bother?

I reach over and pick up a photo of my family. My wife, so beautiful, gone so long ago when her medicine ran out. My daughter, so pretty and so smart, and hopefully safe in Mexico. She rode her bike to the border, climbed the fence, and went over, as soon as she was 16. My son.

Gone.

14

Ordinary Spies I walked down Charing Cross Road on a cold afternoon in May of 2017, holding a battered leather valise in my right hand.

My contact had left his London Office of a major American news organization of considerable fame in order to meet me at my favorite London bookstore. What he has been working on in secret over the last month could cost him his life.

His colleague in New York City had done what he could do up to this point. The challenge at hand was so daunting, that work in the USA was unwise at this point. What must be done must be done abroad at this point. And so, I was handed off by the New York office to the London Office, as nobody was thought to be watching the remote London Office of a USA based news company all that closely.

The valise held certain evidence.

I would remain underground as much as possible, that much was agreed to. My valise held maybe 50% of what was needed by my colleagues, but could prove to be crucial, the information contained therein. I supplemented the evidence with my impressions and recollections of several meetings i had taken, investigations I had conducted, work I had done, over the last two years, speaking on hushed tones with my contact.

My contact and I met at the Science Fiction book warren in the bookstore. We chatted freely, no one was near us. The meeting took about ten minutes. He left first, carrying my valise. I left ten minutes after, with a newly purchased copy of the new novel

by Alan Moore, which came with his autograph, at no further charge.

Nothing more for me to do at this point, but wait. Two years of my work was in that brief case.

The world hangs in the balance.

Your life hangs in the balance.

What will save you, if anything does, is in that briefcase, printed out by a cheap printer I bought at Walmart.

I went back to my hotel near Picadilly Circus. A very old fashioned hotel, but one I fancied from previous visits to London.

My bones ached from the chilly air and my long walk, and a long ride in the underground.

No bath in my room, so I rung a young miss who met me outside a warren of white porcelain doors, and unlocked one door for me. She curtsied as I dropped three pound coins into her hand.

Once, twenty five years ago, I lingered in a warm bath in the same room, listening to the new LP by Pete Townshend as he sang about London town, and the people walking around the Streets of the City. This time I listened not to a cassette tape being played on a Sony Walkman, but to an MP3 player jamming out NIN. The tub was still remarkably deep and the hot water was endless.

How was I thrust into all of this?

My life seems to work that way.

Accidentally, as was historically normal for me. Being at the right place at the right time, I suppose. Or maybe the wrong place

at the wrong time.

Would all of this make a difference? I hoped so. My contacts in London and New York thought so, as well.

Can the future be moved off course? Or are we doomed to see society fall into long term fascism? The world economy trashed for decades? Starvation caused by war? The environment pushed past the point of no return?

Maybe yes, maybe no. But there are a handful of people trying to avert what may well happen, as best as they can, at great personal risk.

They are the ordinary spies. The spooks who possess no formal training of the art, of the craft, who have no experience in world saving.

And they are your best hope, your children’s best hope.

Some will be lost, the victims of an overlord’s unbridled anger.

Some will step off their paths before they have completed their journey. Some will be successful, but shall bear internal scars for the balance of their days.

London is different now than it was when I was first year, different than it was so many years ago when I was last here.

During my childhood, the fear of war was palpable. Now we fear a war brought by a despot through his incompetence and bluster.

Not all deaths are equal.

15

FICTION

Letter in the Rain

by Samantha Underhill Ms. Underhill brings us a story of a future America where women, even single mothers of young children, have been tasked to fight in an endless war, and society has fallen back to using steam trains for transportation, and the mail is delivered by the Pony Express.

One day, many years ago, sat a 14 year old Ellen. She scratched her head, her bun making a sound similar to the rustling of bushes as she scratched. Her mother had been gone to war for a very, very long time. But every single day, without exception, for the entire time her mother had been gone to war, Ellen would receive a letter. Until this week.

Her mother’s home, rustic and old, had a nostalgic, warm feeling. At that point, the warm feeling the home gave off had completely disappeared, leaving nothing but an aura of loneliness.

She could hear the sound of the rain, each tiny drop tapping on the windows. It was cloudy and gray, with the day barely hanging on, and it seemed to attempt to fight off the dark,

leaving a royal blue tint to the tiny amount of light still able to dance through her windows and throughout her home.

Ellen sighed, her breath leaving a flavor of horrid stress in the air. Her terrifyingly boring beige and white dress, almost victorian in appearance, swayed as she poured herself a hot cup of tea. Her tea was a safe haven from the lonely, cold air of the rest of the house.

Ellen’s dark complexion, sky blue eyes, and kinky black hair was a stark contrast to that of her mother, with her mother’s long, stick straight, almost blonde hair, and her skin which was as white as a sheet.

It was obvious Ellen’s mother and she were not blood-related, but they were mother and daughter, nonetheless.

a letter. She accepted the letter into her hand, and with an excited squeal she slammed the door, without giving a second thought to the man outside.

She tore the letter open to read it.

Her excitement quickly turned to sadness.

My Dear Ellen: As you are reading this, I am most likely dead.

I have been accused of being a war criminal. My crime? Helping a fatally wounded man from the enemy’s side get home to his wife and daughter for his last days. I am to be executed.

My amazing, beautiful daughter. I love you.

I’m sure you know that we share none of the same blood, but still, you are my daughter, and I am your mother.

As soon as Ellen took a sip of her tea, she heard a knock at the door. With an annoyed groan, she walked to the large, worn mahogany front door.

Every time you look up at the sunset, I’ll be smiling down at you, from the first star to appear in the sky. If you ever hear my voice, it’ll be in the form of me singing to you, from the skies above.

As gasp escaped from her throat as a mailman could be seen dismounting from his horse, and walking towards her to deliver

I wish, with all my heart, I could see your face one more time. I wish I could hug my daughter once more, but that’s never to happen.

16

Ellen felt tears drip down her face and onto the hand-written letter, smudging the ink. She was in shock.

She quickly moved her hand over her mouth to quiet her sudden sobs, dropping the letter, and quickly falling onto a chair. She shook violently.

dow, her hand on her chin and left cheek.

She could see a lake, almost completely still, but slightly swaying

singing a lullaby her Mother always used to sing for her. But the sound was so faint it was hard to tell whether it was her imagina-

What would one do-what could one do-when they learned their closest loved one had been murdered?

Four or so years later, Ellen sold the house.

Though she sold her mother’s house, in an attempt to move on, she felt as if something was holding her back.

The now 18 year old Ellen boarded a train.

Riding on a steam train was a new thing to her, but it felt...oddly nostalgic. The colors around her were of vibrant oranges and browns, enhanced by the autumn orange the sunset gave off. She could hear the clatter of plates being served, people talking and laughing happily, the rhythmic, almost warm sound of a bump or jolt the train made every once in awhile.

She wore high heels and a long, silk pastel pink and purple dress, her hair was down and springing to and fro.

She crossed her legs, put down her copy of The Boxcar Children and looked out a win-

by the winds outside as the train passed it.

She took mental note of how the light reflected so beautifully off of the water.

She remembered what her Mother said in the letter, as she noticed the first star of the night appear in the sky. Ellen smiled a wide smile, fueled by nostaglia, tears hitting the back of her eyes.

There was only a few small clouds lying in the sky, turned pink now by the sunset.

Ellen could swear she hear the angelic, lovely voice of her Mother,

tion or not.

Ellen felt the pain she had in her chest and the weight she felt on her shoulders, ever present since her Mother had died, suddenly disappear.

Ellen sighed, a sigh that emptied her of her loneliness, her guilt, her sadness.

Wherever this train took her, she was ready. ___________________

18

Seasonal Migration

Ah, three am, time for bed. Left to my own devices, I am nocturnal. Samantha, eleven, is the same way, she’d stay up all night if I let her.

We are nicely migrated to the first floor summer suite. The music room is down here, a sun room really, but with two large amps and actual Equasound speakers, which are among the finest and rarest music speakers ever created.

Leah, my wife, had them restored to factory condition a couple of years ago, as a gift for me. They were originally a gift to me from my brother in the 1970s, as my brother and his partner Jeff owned the company and designed the speakers.

Anyway, you can Google them if you want to know more about them.

Of course, the day after we migrated down from the third floor, a cold spell started up.

Pretty chilly down here, but I closed the windows in the music room and we were fine and no reason to turn on the first floor heating system. A hot spell will return in the morning.

is huge, complete with antiques including a pump organ from the turn of the Century, framed autographs of my favorite early SF writers (HG Wells, Burroughs) and original art.

I really don’t get down here much in the winter. So cold down here. Unless guests are using the floor, and then I turn on the heat down here.

Upstairs the wood burning stove/fireplace keeps floor 2 and floor 3 toasty in the winter, and of course, there is a separate forced air heating up there when required, but propane and electricity costs are obscene here in the mountains.

San Diego County has a very evil power company. Drive down to the desert and out by the Salton Sea the costs for electricity are about twenty five percent of what they are in our own County.

A few years ago, half the houses in our town burned down. The cause? It was proven it was due to the negligence of our power company. No kidding.

But the government actually allowed the power company to have us pay the power company back for their losses incurred My “office” is set up in my den. in rebuilding those lost homes.

Leah purchased a very special They tack on a fee for that, and coffee table for me to use down we will pay it back over twenty here....it opens up and a computer worthy platform emerges, years or something. I am not joking. The costs are on our for use for a laptop or actual computer. I have my I-Mac on it, backs. and away I go.

America. Love it or shove it.

The ground floor summer suite Anyway, I am typing this from consists of the bedroom, which

MEMORY YET GREEN

Sam’s station in the bedroom... it’s quite a walk across the room to kiss Leah good night, as she slumbers, but that’s okay.

There is a full bath on each of the three floors. I’m getting used to the shower down here, bit different from the shower on floor 2. The water pressure is enough to knock you across the room. On Floor 2 it’s just right for me.

Leah designed the well system. She based it on what she learned at a visit to Hearst Castle, from learning about the water system there that also was designed by a woman engineer, I guess back in the 20’s or 30’s.

Water is pumped up to the top of the mountain area we own, and comes back down and builds up a ton of pressure.

This is all standard now, but it was not the way it was set up when we moved it. Rather than going to a storage tank, it was pumped and distributed out of the ground on demand. Not a good system. With her new system we have weeks worth of water in the tank, and even if the power was out, the water would still flow down to the showers and baths.

Of course, with no power, the water would not be warm. But in the summer, a solar heating system I designed keeps the water warm, if not actually hot, during the day. Without power, the showers would be warm and would flow like normal.

I could easily upgrade the

the system so that the water would be hot, but not going to do that, as the downside would be more maintenance on it during the Summer for reasons I won’t go into here.

So, the bathroom, the music room, the den, and also the service porch, as my Dad used to call it, are all down here.

That’s where the laundry is too, which is a small area, just big enough for the washer, dryer, water heater and me. I do all the laundry.

And the garage. I cleaned it up recently and it’s all nice in there now. We also keep the freezer down there.

There is a lovely view of the valley below from our music room windows. Sometimes a golden eagle will fly by the windows, hunting for food down in the meadow, I suppose.

It’s generally peaceful up here. It is certainly quiet. When its late, and the televisions are off, and the kids and Leah are asleep, it is completely silent but you can hear that bit of sound in your ears that one can only hear when it is absolutely silent.

Well, sometimes, I hear the deer snore in the meadow. They

like to come up and sleep in the meadow and sometimes, I think, lean against the house and snore.

But only during certain times of the year.

There is a lot of work needed outside. A long brick walkway that needs repair, the ice and snow has done a lot of damage.

Painting is needed.

I hope to get to all of that this Summer with Jesse, my 18 year old son, helping me.

Come late Fall, we will relocate back up to the third floor.

Our summer is really from June to the first few weeks of October, then it starts cooling off. Often it is warm down in San Diego to comfortably wear costumes when the kids go trick and treating, because it is so warm down at the beach then.

The kids can’t trick and treat up here in the mountains, as the forest hasn’t yet learned to go out and buy candy to give out. Perhaps it is not fair for us to target a neighborhood we don’t live in to perform that annual ritual, but what can we do?

Over the Summer, I will make sure to clean the third floor and get it ready for our return. Turn the mattresses over, I

guess, that sort of thing.

We’ve gotten used to the first floor, though. It’s dark down here in the day, not like the second and third floor where the sun streams in all day. I have a tendency to sleep too late down here because it’s so comfortably dark.

After I am done writing, I crawl in bed with Leah and watch TV for a while. Lately, I have been re watching Star Trek: Enterprize, which was a great show. I like it even better the second time through.

There are some aspects to this 21st Century that I appreciate. I like being able to call up every episode of every edition of Star Trek and watch it whenever I want. Want to watch all the “mirror” episodes from each of the series, all back to back? No problem.

So, I will do that now, actually. I will spend some time with “evil Star Trek” and get some sleep afterwards. ___________________ SUBMISSIONS Dr. October PO Box 1238 Julian, CA 92036 Include your name and e-mail address.

NEIGHBORS

Bowman

Old Mr. Bowmen hated Craig, my other neighbor. Bowman, and his wife, Betty, were both in their 70’s when we moved into our home in the mountains. We had two neighbors, but each of them lived a ways away, too far to hear them, or see them, unless we drove or walked up or down the dirt road that led to our homes from the town far below the mountain top we shared.

Bowman was a retired engineer. Craig worked for his wealthy parents, who owned the only five star hotel in our tiny town. Craig was a full time drunk and a sneaky fellow.

Both Craig and Bowman detested each other.

I tried my best to get along

with both. With Bowman, it was easy. Sometimes packages would be incorrectly delivered to our address, and I would take the long walk up to his house and give them to him.

After a while he and his wife came to trust me. I wasn’t just another “Craig.”

Craig and Bowman often argued over who would repair the dirt road we all shared. Craig was industrious in nature, I have to give him that. He was always out with his tractor trying to groom the road. That wasn’t easy, as without a new load of expensive gravel or dirt, here wasn’t much to groom.

One day he sent Bowman a bill and he sent me a bill, as well.

I paid my share of the “Craig

Bill” but Bowman told Craig to go to hell. So Craig sued the old man in Small Claims Court.

Bowman’s body began to be hammered by arthritis as the years went by. Every day he would drive down the dirt road to pick up his mail from the post office in town. On Tuesdays, he would take his trash to drop it off at the foot of the dirt road where the dirt road met the highway. A trash man was paid to pick it up every Wednesday morning at dawn or so.

As Bowman weakened, I would meet him at the end of the road and take his trash out of the back of his very ancient Jeep for him. We’d visit for a few minutes. And then he’d leave.

During the winter, Bowman and Betty would stay at the house.

The winds at the very top of the mountain, where they lived, could be fierce. One winter, their entire roof was ripped off.

Over where Craig lived, down the road in the other direction, Craig’s house was also subject to the howling winds.

Our home was built into the side of a cliff, and safe from the winds. They would often speed above us, and the tops of the trees would sound out with the noise of a jet airplane taking off, but fifty feet down, where we were, the air would be still.

One week, I directed an independent film at my house. I was busy, and Craig caught my beautiful wife alone one night, knowing I was busy. He kissed her and reached out and grabbed her breasts. She pushed him away and sent him off, but decided not to tell me about it. I learned years later

after Craig sold his house and moved his family to Austin, Texas. “I was protecting you,” my wife said when she finally told me what Craig had done.

As the years went by, Betty passed away. Bowman was left with himself and his adult daughter, a victim of Down’s Syndrome.

Then one day I noticed that I had not seen Bowman in a few weeks. Worried, I walked up to the Bowman house. Workers were emptying his garage of various items he had collected over the years. The donkeys that Bowman had kept on his property were gone.

Bowman had died in his sleep a week earlier. His adult son drove up from the city, put the house on the market, sold it, and left. The new owners were from the city and only come up a few times a year. As for Craig, he was smart, really, and

saw the real estate bubble was something that could not last.

He sold his house for a million dollars to a lady who owned a small but lucrative insurance company. She had a lovely girl friend who very much wanted to be married to this new neighbor, and they could be seen often running across the snow in their snow mobile, with the girlfriend hugging the new owner from behind as they sped through the winter.

Then the Great Recession came.

The new owner lost the house and it was sold to another new owner from the city who only comes up a few times a year.

And it was sold for a third of what Craig had sold it for when he left.

My wife, an illustrator, painted a mural for Craig’s daughter, as a gift, in her bedroom. A beautiful work of art, it was quickly painted over by the woman who bought the house from Craig.

FICTION

The Adventure of the

Tachyon Anti-Telegraph Ah, but the telegraph was a solid invention. As I sit back from my own century, so far off from 1816, when English inventor Francis Ronalds used static electricity to build the first working electric telegraph, I have to wonder what it was like back then. So many new inventions involving the mysteries of electricity. It must have seemed like magic to the primitives of that time period. To be able to communicate across great distances at the speed of light!

Still, there were at least some advances in electrical magic left to we in the future to work on and perhaps discover.

Consider the wondrous tachyon. A theoretical particle that always moves faster than light.

Elusive for centuries after the first person thought they might be out there to discover!

In 1910, Einstein thought about using such energies to pull back the veil of time in order to speak to people from a previous era. He called the concept a “telegraphing into the past,” but ultimately he dismissed his thought experiment as being impossible.

In 1917, scientist Richard Chance Tolman agreed, and cited what is now known as Tolman’s Paradox. In short: no way, can’t be done, knock of trying.

Well. I am afraid I figured it out. I must confess, I have not

yet devised a way to create a true tachyon anti-telephone. I have not been able to handle that sort of bandwidth requirement just yet.

But a tachyon anti-telegraph?

Sure. You bet. Have it right here. Sitting right next to it. It’s about the size of a toaster.

So. It took me some time to find someone in the past to talk to.

I had to find a telegraph operator. At first, the one I found thought for sure that I was pulling is leg, as he put it. He thought I was a person named Waldo from New York City, who first trained him in telegraph usage.

It took a few messages to convince him. When I first reached him, it was, for him, the year 1897. January, tenth, 1897, to be precise.

So, I told him a few things.

I said, “John Tuttle Biron,” as such was his name, “consider the following information.”

“On April 30, J. J. Thomson, of the Cavendish Laboratory at the University of Cambridge, England, will announce that he has discovered the electron.”

“Further,” I continued, “On May 11, the United States Patent Office will award a patent to application 582,485, which describes the invention of the first automobile muffler.” I extolled

the gentleman to merely write to both parties and await their response by post. I would, I indicated, contact him once more in July of his year, knowing that postal responses from both Washington, DC and England would take quite a bit of time to arrive.

Hower, to me, it was the my next day when I contacted him again, having set my dials on the anti-telegraph to the appropriate day, July 4, 1897.

He seemed convinced.

I proposed that he describe his life’s events from his point of view. Since the Fourth War, and the following Sino-Conflict, and the Dark Virus, much of our histories on his time have been lost.

I have but one history book, actually, and when I say book, I do mean a collection of bound, printed paper.

Inventive Science through the Ages, written by J. Peter Huschke, in the year 2245.

It is battered and worn, and needs to be rebound, but readable.

And it was from this tome that I learned the dates of the particular inventions I mentioned.

And so, good Mr. Biron cooperated, gladly, pushed along by some beer from time to time, I think, and his story is as follows.

24

Our 19th Century narrator begins his tale: The showers of April had cleared away and brought in a lovely May, with peace and green grass spread all around. I agree to my distant benefactor, my strange friend of the telegraph, to tell him about the events of my life as they take place. It occurred to me that it would be best for me to scribble them out on paper so that I can then sit in my telegraph office here at the house and more easily jot it all out to him over the wired world that is the incredible electric telegraph system.

Which means, really, that I am agreeing to write a book. Wait! A book! How wonderful.

The sweet scent of apple blows was floating through the air, inspiring new life and new ambition. I was tired of the hard work that had ever been my lot through life thus far. (And I hoped my new friend really was from some distant future and could follow up with his prior information about not-yet-happened-happenings to perhaps give me some tips that would increase my own financial wealth, such as it presently is.)

I had finished my chores and was going into the house for breakfast, when I met Clarissa at the gate with a pail of fresh water she had just brought from the spring down at the foot of the hill. (Clarissa is my wife, and one of the smartest and best wives ever married to an ignorant but honest man.) Says she, “Husband, breakfast is all ready and steaming hot.”

As she looked up through her specs, her face as clean and pretty as a brand new silver dollar, I could not help but kissing her right there. I don’t know

what made me do it, but there was something in the air that seemed to make me feel young and keen-like, and I thought Clarissa looked a heap prettier with her clean calico dress and white apron on than the morning glories that were creeping up beside the front door.

After we had set down to breakfast, either the smell of the hot biscuits and fresh coffee, and the fragrant breeze that came in through the open window next to the orchard, or something else, seemed all of a sudden to inspire me, and I spoke up in a more of a man-like manner than usual (for usually I am quite calm and meek-like; so much so, that folks don’t think I know much) and said,

farm at the same time. And to write a book? Insanity, certainly But if I am to write my life story to my friend and send it along on the wire I might as well write it all down on paper first and then have a book to my credit when I have finished.”

“Well, I’d never thought it would be you who would turn mad.”

“Clarissa! Clarissa!” Says she, “What! My love, have you got a colic?” I suppose my strange look caused her alarm. I replied: “No, I haven’t got the colic, nor anything else that is catching, unless being an author is catching. I am going to surprise you.”

Says she, “Are you going to buy me a new dress?” “Well,” says I, “that would be surprising, but that ain’t it; I’m going to write a book.”

Clarissa dropped her cup of coffee on her clean table cloth, she was so astonished, and exclaimed, “John Tuttle Biron!

Have you gone crazy? First your friend upstate fools you on the electrical telegraph to make you think he was communicating with you from the future. Then you tell me you are going to write a book!”

“Well, I don’t think I am crazy. I suppose a person would have to be a bit crazy to be a telegraph operator, even while working a

Clarissa frowned and sputtered, “Who do you think would be fool enough to read your book if you write one?”

“I don’t know. I think my friend on the wire will read it, he is asking for it, and all. But one thing I do know, that if all the fools in the world will read my book, it will be read more than another other book that was ever printed.”

My wife stood up and put her hands on her hips, and countered, “You think, I am certain, that you have caught an inspiration. I think you have caught a cold or some other malady that explains your present weakness of mind. Hadn’t you finish planting that four acre cornfield before you write your book?

25

That is just like a woman, says I to myself. Just let a man get an inspiring spell onto him, and think he is going to do something for is fellow man, and perhaps raise himself onto a high eminence, and his wife, or some one else, will remind him of his duty to his family, and call his special attention to some work that has got to be done.

“Yes, Clarissa,” said I, “I know I have to plant that corn, and I’ll do it today, but that ain’t going to stop me from writing the book, or telegraphing my drafts to my friend in the future--oh, I mean, upstate. I suppose that everybody that has wrote a book, or preached a sermon, or gone to Congress, or managed to have a unique friend on the wire who may or may not be a madman claiming to be living in some far off era, has had to overcome obstacles.

If the Almighty hasn’t given a man brains enough to overcome obstacles in order to rise in the world and accomplish some good, he never intended him to rise. All men weren’t created to rise, as that plan would keep everything unsettled; everybody would be rising and everbody would be jawing with people in the far future and everybody would be getting rich with forbidden knowledge and that would mean that nobody would be rich.

But the Lord has touched me with both inspiration and luck, so I will move along with his will. So, Clarissa, I’ll get around that cornfield by just planting it and at the same time I will try to think up something to write about.” **************************** However, planting corn in old Blank County, New York, has a

tendency to paralyze any inspiration one may have to be an author. The pesky stones and old stumps drives all poetry out of a soul that has to low among ‘em, or plant corn and carry a hoeful of dirty two or three feet to cover it. A person may arise with the bright, radiant sun in the morning, his soul filled with love for nature, his heart happy and in accord with all pleasant thoughts and inspirations, and a determination to write something that would startle the world.

Of course, I was admonished by my “friend on the wire” not to reveal our secret. I did tell sweet Clariss, or tried to, to no avail.

He cautioned that the “future might be altered, and altered poorly and wrongly.”

But after a man has got his planting done, and he comes to the house at sundown, with scarcely strength enough to pull his feet after him, and then to have to milk ten cows and do the rest of his chores, he will find his morning inspiration has taken wings and flown, and he feels more like saying “Dumb it” than anything else.

Most persons would give up on the author idea, but I am not going to give it up for any trifles of that kind, for I have got it on my mind to show up some of the mean folks in this world, and if I should fail to make the attempt I would be haunted by a nightmare, and that is the worst kind of haunt. So I have concluded to make a note now and then on things I have seen in the past, or may come across in the future, and send such information across the wire to my new friend. I will also scribble it all down for the purpose of my book.

I’d gotten that corn planting

business off of my mind, and took Clarissa down to the village to do some trading. She is a very domestic body, but powerful smart. She keeps house in perfect order, and has time to read an awful sight besides. She hadn’t been down to the village for three months, and she had considerable trading to do and quite a lot of butter and eggs to sell. The first place we went into was Jim Teeters’ new grocery store.

Now, Jim Teeters came from Connecticut, and was a regular Yankee. He married Betsey Coon--she and I used to go to school together, twenty five years ago--but she went back East to live twenty years ago, and I hadn’t seen her since then.

He opened a big grocery store about two months ago and had done lots of advertising in the Village Blade, and out on the fences and barns, and was getting a big trade.

Clarissa thought that we had better go in and try the new store; and I had quite a desire to see Betsey’s husband, and a hope that I might see Betsey.

We had no sooner entered than a tall, lean fellow, with thin, sandy chin whiskers and blue eyes, and a face all covered with smiles, approached us as if he had known us a lifetime, and put his hand out in a cordial manner and shook hands with Clarissa and then with me, and said,-“This is a beautiful day; just step back and have a seat. Let me see, your name is--is--is” “John Tuttle Biron!” shouted a little red headed woman of forty, who was coming out from behind the counter, “how are you, John!” The next second the

Meeting the Teeters

hand of Betsey Teeters was clasped in mine in a regular, old fashioned handshake. The cordiality with which Betsey met me run close onto affection. Betsey is a marvel in the way of a rapid talker; I think she would take the grist mill over any woman I ever met, and on this particular occasion we was glad to see each other, and Betsey had to ask me so many questions about our old school mates and the old neighbors, and one thing and another, that a whole half hour went by before I thought of introducing Clarissa, or she thought of introducing Teeters, and as I turned round, I noticed Clarissa was looking fairly beet colored; but Teeters was doing the smiling act in good style, and I remarked to Betsey tha if she’d just hold on a minute, I’d introduce her to the best woman in Blank County--my wife, Mrs. Clarissa Biron.

(A few days later, I asked my wire friend in the future, if women folk had changed any by his time, after I told him about all of this. He remarked, “No, women are still the same. The only thing that has changed over the years is fashion. Currently all unmarried women generally run about topless in good weather.” I take it to mean that their buggies don’t have sheltering tops on them for some reason. Perhaps they have learned about the health benefits of sunlight or some such.)

Anyway, by introducing my wife (finally) the pause needed was obtained, and the introduction (finally) performed. Clarissa was almost frigid at first, and seemed to feel as though I had used a little too much time to introduce her; but under Betsey’s warm reception and April shower of words, she gradually thawed down to the talkative degree.

Betsey introduced me to the gentleman who met us at the door as her husband. He was very

polite and very friendly. But I thought then I could see policy written on his face. Betsey, no doubt, had told him about the good men and women to work for as customers, and she, of course, mentioned, well, me, as a person who prides himself on paying for everything he gets promptly.

Earlier that morning, before the sun rose, I followed the instructions telegraphed to me from my friend off in future times.

“Go outside, behind your garden shed. Take a spade with you.

Dig down behind the right hand corner of the shed as you face it from the rear. There you will find a metal box. Open it. Show no one what you find inside. Later, push the blue button three times and the red button four times, in that order. The effect will last for ten minutes.”

I had done as instructed. What the box produced, when it was unearthed, was a small device of some unknown construction. It was about the size of two pocket watches if they had been hammered together. And, behold!

On the surface were two studs, which my friend had described as “buttons” but they appeared as nothing I recognized as a button on a coat.

I reached into my pocket and felt the device as we spoke.

“Sir,” said Mr. Teeters, “I have heard Betsey speak of you more than any other man in the county, and I feel as though I was already acquainted with you. I was in hopes you would have called before this. Now, I just want you and your wife to make my store your headquarters whenever you come to town, and if you have anything to sell at any time, give me the first chance to but it, and I’ll give you the biggest price for it of anyone

in town.”

“Well,” I said, we’ll give you a trial. And if you do right by us we will trade with you.”

Clarissa had brought in about one hundred pounds of butter and eighty-two dozen eggs, and six pair of socks she had knit.

Teeters asked me to bring them in, and I done so. He examined the butter closely and said, “Did the wife make this butter herself?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Well,” said he, “this is the best lot of butter I have seen since I have been here in the village and I want to engage all the butter ou make from now on and I will give you one cent above the market price for it.”

Clarissa is a powerful good butter maker and she prides herself on it. And this compliment of Teeter’s done just what he intended it should, it tickled her and made her a customer for his store.

She asked him much he would pay her for her butter and eggs and with a very sweet smile and a rubbing of his hands, he said, “Butter, just now, is low, and the New York market is glutted and consequently the price has dropped to four and a half cents a pound. Really, I am paying only four cents a pound, but your butter is so nice I will give you five and a half cents.”

Of course, Clarissa was somewhat disappointed, as she had never sold any butter for less than ten cents and when I thought about how hard I had worked to take care of them twenty cows, and milking, and how awful hard she had worked, with no one to help her save Mary, I thought the man cheap.

She accepted the offer and made her trading with the man, collecting some cloth and other items we needed.

After she had finished her trading, Betsey invited us up to dinner with them (they lived up over their store), and we accepted.

Betsey had a splendid dinner and we used all the spare time we had from talking, in eating.

We found out a good many things during our dinner visit.

That Clarissa and I had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl we named Mary the boy we named Abe after our lost president.

Abe is fourteen and Mary is nineteen now. The Teeters had no living children, having lost three to various childhood illnesses.

When it became getting late, I remembered the strange device that I had secreted in my pocket.

It was almost as if it was calling for me to touch it. I reached into my pocket and brought it out, cupped and hidden in my hand.

I kept my hands down at my lap, hidden by the table. Clarissa did not notice what I was doing, so active she was in her conversation with Mrs. Teeter. I pushed the buttons in the precise manner that had been indicated.

Betsey and the Teeters were immediately stilled. No sound, no movement, nothing from them after I pushed the buttons.

I then heard a voice. I can’t explain it, but the voice I heard was not a voice that anyone else could have heard-it was for me alone.

“They will do anything you tell them to do. After they wake up, they will remember nothing. You

have ten minutes. You will be given instructions in the near future regarding how to make the effect last up to one hour. Do not use it longer than one hour as it will impede the memory erasure element.”

I sat still myself at that. For at least three or four minutes. Then I spoke, “Betsey, please stand up.” She did so.

“Sit down,” and she did in fact regain her seat.

I turned to Teeters himself at that point. “Bark like a dog.” He began to do so. When I realized he would not stop untl I ordered it, I spoke out, “Stop!” and his barking did cease.

I put the device back in my pocket. In a few minutes they all reaminated and carried on with their conversation as if nothing had happened.

Power overwhelmed me at that piont, and something worse: I had a horrible desire to be, well, evil. The thoughts I had!

Thoughts that I believed outside of the scope of a church going man.

I looked at Betsey. I wondered what she would look like without any clothing on. I felt lust rise in my loins like I had not felt since my wedding night.

This was not me. These were not my feelings. Yet, there they were. I fought against them.

The next day, Clarissa and I had returned home the night before after our long carriage ride from the village. The children were gone for the day. Abe was out fishing and Mary had gone to a neighor’s to help with milking. I was alone with my wife.

Clarissa walked in, upset and alarmed, as she had found my

mysterious device in my pants pocket. “I found something odd in your pocket. After I looked at it, I put it back. It felt odd in my hand. It felt wrong, like, well, I don’t know what. But I instantly feared and hated it. What is it, husband?”

I was quite startled. I took it out and asked, “This? This is what you found?” She nodded, with great concern on her face.

The device did cause feelings in a person when held. For me, the feelings were power and lust.

I pushed the buttons. Although we were lawfully married, I am afraid our romantic relations where poor at best. I wondered how we even had two children.

With Clarissa, such activities were a chore, and she always turned her head to the wall and simply waited for the event to pass as quickly as possible.

She stood perfectly still and absolutely silent.

“Clarissa, you have the most extreme need in your mind regarding marital relations. You need it like the air that you breathe.

Your need will be fatal if not met.” She began to undress.

“You have always desired to please me with your mouth. It’s an absolute need for you. You lust for it, and you must have it.

Without this you will pass away in agony. With it, you will endure the most extreme pleasure of your life.”

She got on her knees and undid my breeches. I doubt very much that she even knew before that this was an act a wife could perform. I held the device and grinned, and knew that I had entered the service of Satan at that point. • 29

Authors

Baron’s Universe Taking a look at Eisner Award winning author

Mike Baron’s recent work Writer Mike Baron proved early on that he was one of the freshest writers in the comics biz, quickly making a splash in the 1980’s when he co:created Nexus, the only super hero who maintains his powers by committing non-judicial executions and creating the Badger, the first costumed hero suffering from multiple personality disorder. Baron is recognized as the man who wrote one of the most excellent stories in DC’s Flash universe, a Kid Flash story which was recently collected in The Flash: a Celebration of 75 Years. But what has he been up to lately? We take a look to see if the man who was a comics industry wunderkind still has what it takes.

First up, let’s consider Dogs, a one shot that contains four short stories. The remarkable cover by artist Mike Norton is a thing of beauty and deserves to be sold as a poster. But what of the stories themselves?

First up is “Fluke,” which introduces the reader to what appears to be a very talented bulldog with a mysterious origin.

“Mad Dog” lacks any word balloons, but it has a lot of heart and describes a rather one of a kind search for a lost dog.

Next we have “Keeping the Dog” where a homeless man and his dog are offered a once in a lifetime chance, but one that would break up their loving partnership. The ultraviolent “Hair of the Dog” brings a big finish to the collection and then some.

The Badger was one of two strikingly original characters written and developed by Mike Baron, with the other being Nexus. The character has been deemed a “superhero” by some, but that may not be precisely correct. A “costumed hero” might be more accurate of a call. The Badger does wear a colorful costume and he possesses a great assortment of martial art skills. And, well, it seems that he can talk to animals, which would push him more into the “superhero” category, but does he really? Given his mental illness, this might be a tough call to make. The Badger is always somewhat touched by insanity.

And it was his mental illness that made all the difference regarding the originality of the character.

Norbert Sykes suffers from multiple personality disorder, a fracturing of his mind caused by childhood trauma worsened by his experiences in the combat of war.

The Badger is one of his personalities.

He wears a costume in a world where no one else does. He doesn’t fight costumed bad guys, no, but he does fight monsters in a world of black magic, something he is introduced to by his mentor, an ancient wizard of considerable ill repute.

But he isn’t always the Badger. Sometimes, and usually at the wrong time, another personality may emerge: a small, helpless little girl, or a serial killer with a French accent. The Badger is very concerned about the well being of animals, but he might pound the crap out of someone who throws a small bit of trash into the street with the same vigor as he does a killer, as his mental illness is complicated and ever present.

Bloodyredbaron.net is Baron’s personal website. It’s an excellent location to learn more about his work. One of his latest novels is Banshees. Mike’s prose is composed of razor blades that slice horror stories into the mind of the reader, and is sprinkled with bits of comic relief. The noted comics writer Gail Simone was quoted as follows: “I am a HUGE fan of Mike Baron’s work...This guy was scary/funny before that was even a thing.” Quite so. The Badger is remarkably “scary/funny” as is Banshees.

This novel deals with a long lost rock band who, after releasing one smash LP, died in a tragic plane crash. Yet, since the band seemed to attract death as their concerts were plagued with deaths by stabbling, lightning strikes, and over doses. But, now they have returned, four decades later? And how?

This is a novel from Stephen King Street, but it’s not a weak attempt to copy his work, but, as with all of the fiction produced by Mike Baron, it is bloody, unique and fresh. Bloody Red (Mike) Baron indeed.

You can learn more about Nexus by visiting Bloodyredbaron.net. However, here is a primer. The character was a joint invention of Baron and the genius artist Steve Rude. Nexus is a killer. A murderer.

And a hero. Yes: Killer, Murderer, Hero all in one. Wikipedia. org provides the following: “The lead character, Horatio Valdemar Hellpop, received his Nexus powers from an alien entity called the Merk. As payment, the Merk required Nexus to seek out and kill a certain quantity of human mass murderers per “cycle”.

When the Merk selected a target, Nexus would receive strong headaches and maddeningly anguishing dreams (whose extremely intense episodes caused physical injuries to Hellpop’s body that emulated the dream violence) of his target’s victims until he did his duty. Horatio was reluctant to act as the Merk’s tool, but continued seeking out mass murderers to maintain his power and his sanity so that he could defend his home world, a lunar refuge named Ylum (a shortening of the word “asylum”, thus pronounced “eye-lum”).”

As the killing is “extra-judicial” in nature, that is, not sanctioned by any jury or court, the character is legally merely an assassin.

A Superman who has to murder in order to keep his powers.

That’s how unique Baron was at the time he created this character with Steve Rude.

Baron’s most recent work includes the graphic novel The Architect. Published by Big Head

Press, this book deals with a “tale of love, lust, genius and betrayal.” Impressed no doubt by the work of famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright, Baron whips up a fictional analog in the person of one Roark Dexter Smith, and embus him with several unusual characteristics that go beyond his genius as a designer.

Smith’s heir must solve the mystery of Smith’s death in a fire and uncover and face the dark mysteries of his famous father along the way. It is worth noting that this story is set in the Banshee universe.

Baron’s comics and novels are available at Amazon.com and fine comic shops world wide.

SELECTED WORKS Star Wars: Dark Force Rising #1-6 (1997) Star Wars: Heir to the Empire #1-6 (19951996) Star Wars: The Last Command #1-6 (19971998) Star Wars: X-Wing Rogue Squadron #1-4 (1995) Action Comics Weekly #601-612, 618-621, 623-626 (1988) All-Star Squadron #43 (1985) Atari Force #14-20 (1985) Batman Annual #12 (1988) Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #154-155 (2002) The Brave and the Bold vol.

2 #1-6 (1991-1992) The Butcher #1-5 (1990) Deadman: Exorcism #1-2 (1992-1993) Deadman: Love After Death #1-2 (1989-1990) Elvira’s House of Mystery #8 (1986) The Flash #1-14 (1987-1988) The Flash Annual #1 (1987) Green Lantern #187 (1985) Green Lantern Corps Quarterly #6 (1993) Hawk and Dove #1-5 (19971998) Justice League Unlimited #30 (2007) Ms. Tree Quarterly #2-3 (1990-1991) The Punisher #1-44, 46-48, 50-63, 76 (1987-1993) The Punisher Annual #1-4 (1988-1991) The Punisher: Empty Quarter #1 (1994)

Advance Looks

Time Machine Repair Man An extraordinary number of motion pictures are based upon graphic novels. So, why is that? It’s because a graphic novel provides a form of easy to read, quick to absorb, pre-story boarded presentation of the story. It takes time to read a script. A producer or director can spend an hour or so with most graphic novels and quickly determine whether an option should be offered the creators or not. And once an option is negotiated and paid for, there is at least a chance a movie might be made based on the graphic novel.

But is there an easier way that actually drawing the graphic novel? How about a twenty five page presentation that provides the key pitch for the story? An elevator pitch is usually the start of an introduction of the story to “Hollywood.” How brief and tightly compacted can an elevator pitch be? Why cannot it be a 25 page or so collection of drawings or paintings combined with story elements spelled out clearly so that a producer or director will swifly be able to understand the story’s concept?

A visual trailer, if you would. And so we present here the first two pages of such a pitch.

Further pages will be added in future issues of this magazine.

The Elevator Pitch: Five hundred years in the future, Earth has been devastated by various disasters. Most of the wealthy live off world on “Pleasure Planets.” Those that remain do so so that they can travel back in time to vacation in their favorite times of history. Why not live on Hawaii before it was discovered by humans?

But the sole Time Machine Company has closed it’s doors and no one knows why. And as the Time Machines age, they break down and need repairs. But all the Time Machine Repair Men (and Women) are being murdered. When they are all gone time travel will cease. An android in the form of a 12 year old girl is the sole remaining law enforcement officer in a down and out New York City and she risks her existence to solve the mystery.

The image on the next page shows a future New

York City, a world where “taxi-bubbles” drop down from the sky to envelope the wealthy and whisk them away to their luxury apartments on the top of secure high rises, or off to their country homes, while the rest of humanity struggles down below, and live among various types of aliens who are refugees from wars and other disasters across the stars.

On the following page we see a few scenes from the lower levels of Manhattan. An alien walks by a landing bubble-taxi. A store front promises the availability of off world travel to the wealthy.

Store front signs often are written in alien languages as some of the alien refugees are wealthy, having arrived with gold or other valuables, including rare technologies they trade for riches.

The “young” android is rushing to warn the sole remaining Time Machine Repair Man in New York City, but she is too late. She bursts into his apartment only to find him newly murdered, and the trio of humans who have killed him are still there. Chasing her, she is shot from behind just as she opens up a time portal.

She is transported to the early 20th Century, around 1927 or so. She wakes up, gravely damaged in a field. Struggling to her feet, she wanders to a old fashioned gas station she sees.

Stepping inside, she finds an elderly man standing behind a counter.

“Excuse me. But are you a Time Machine Repair Man?” Surprised, he answers that he is.

“Good,” she says, as she collapses. “Because I am a time machine and I need repairs.”

In the fullness of time more art and story will be presented within the pages of this magazine until the entire “pitch” is completed. But if you are “Hollywood” and you want to talk to the creator of this project, just e-mail MP3Rod@aol. com and state your interest.

34

FICTION

Bayside The new lawyer left his beat up car in a parking lot near the San Diego courthouse. Parking downtown was a pain in the ass and expensive to boot.

“No in and out privileges. “ He shrugged as he read the sign, grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, and closed and locked the door on the driver’s side. He would not need to leave and return today. An hour visiting with an inmate at the County Jail and then he’d be done for the day.

He walked past the Courthouse and down the street towards the jail. Reaching the visitor’s entrance, he walked in and pulled out his attorney ID card from his wallet. Presenting it to a clerk behind a bulletproof window, the clerk looked at the card, and then put it in a tray on her desk. “Do you have any weapons today, sir?”

shrugged to himself once again; he didn’t know any lawyers who had concealed weapons permits; they were almost impossible for civilians to obtain in San Diego County.

The Young Lawyer waited until Door 2 slid open. He walked up to the interior Intake Window, but instead of a clerk, a deputy sheriff was waiting for him.

“May I have your briefcase, sir?”

The lawyer handed it over. “And your coat, please?” Both were carefully examined and then returned through the window.

“Proceed to Interview Room 5.”

“No.” She directed him to proceed to Door 1. Door 1 opened up into sort of an airlock, and as it opened he walked into the chamber and then heard the steel door slide shut behind him. One didn’t want to be caught unawares when that door closed. He wondered if it had ever killed some drunken lawyer coming in late at night to visit a client?

The lawyer walked down the hallway towards the interview rooms. The interview area was adjacent to but not part of the living area for inmates. Many locked doors were between the interview area and the inmate habitat. As always, the air inside the jail stunk of sweat and something rancid, but rather elusive in nature and thus nameless. Sometimes he thought the interior stench was from a mixture of cleaning chemicals and despair, but before he pinned it down the smell changed and seemed to be something else. But the smell never became something pleasant.

In the chamber were several lockers in a tight pattern against the right hand wall. Each locker was open and had a key hanging from a lock. These were for the purpose of locking up one’s firearm and he figured that visiting law enforcement officers who had come to interview criminals mostly used them. He

Once he was inside Interview Room 5, the deputy locked the door to the room. The lawyer would wait now until his client was delivered. The lawyer had been given a court file at his office at Juvenile Court but he hadn’t bothered to open it up and read it yet. There would be plenty of time for that during his

interview with the new client.

Juvenile Court had two divisions.

“Delinquency” was one division. That was the division that prosecuted minors for crimes. A serious crime could put a minor in kiddie jail until that minor was twenty-three years old, and kiddie jail was no picnic. It housed quite a few heartless murderers to be certain.

The other division was where the Young Lawyer worked. It was called the “Dependency Division.” This is where the Courts punished parents for not taking proper care of their children, or worse, hurting or even killing them.

The punishment was “lose your child forever” if the parents weren’t lucky.

The criminal system in another courthouse across town would also punish them for any related crimes, but at Dependency Court, the Judges ruled on whether the kids should be taken away and put up for adoption, or in some cases, returned to the parents after they successfully completed a reunification plan.

A reunification plan was offered in cases that were not extreme in nature.

Typically they involved parenting classes, drug testing and psychological exams. If the parents complied, they would get their kids back in six months.

Until then, the kids would be placed in a foster home where everybody hoped like hell the foster parents wouldn’t murder the kids. Which happened at an alarming rate. Foster homes in San Diego County were remarkably dangerous to children.

The Young Lawyer prepared his stock speech about reunification plans in his head as he waited for the deputy to bring his new client to him. The door opened, and the deputy led in his client.

His client was one of the biggest, tallest men the Young Lawyer had ever seen in his life. “This guy could play football

if the team was willing to let King Kong join the team. Jesus.

This man is a beast,” the lawyer thought to himself.

The beast of a man sat down on a metal chair on the other side of the metal interview desk that the lawyer sat behind. The deputy unlocked his leg and arm irons, and leaving, locked the door of Interview Room 5 behind him again. The client was not restrained in any manner.

The beast of a man stared impassively at the Young Lawyer, as the Young Lawyer opened up his brief case and removed his case file. The Young Lawyer began to read. **** A week before, another Young Man was driving his car down Freeway 5 in San Diego, heading towards National City. National City is a town adjacent to San Diego. Decades later the Supergirl television show would borrow the town’s name to be used as her fictional hometown’s name.

Superman lives in Metropolis but Supergirl lives in National City, according to DC Comics.

The actual National City adjacent to San Diego was quite different than the fictional National City of the Supergirl television series. One was a clean city protected by a flying female from the planet Krypton. The other was a beat up barrio where English was a second language for most of the residents, if they could speak English at all.

The more popular languages in National City were Pilipino, Spanish and Shabo, the latter being a Nilo-Saharan language out of Africa. The economic differences between National City and La Jolla were extreme in nature. Both cities were adjacent

to San Diego, but La Jolla was the north side of San Diego rather than on the south side. It was the difference between massive wealth and welfare checks.

In Spanish, La Jolla meant “the jewel.” To the residents of La Jolla, National City meant “shit hole.”

The Young Man who was driving his car down a San Diego freeway towards National City was a white guy about twenty-five years of age. Navy. Corpsman.

He was a “good guy” by all accounts, according to the police who wrote a report mentioning him the next day.

This Young Navy Man had a new girlfriend, and she was very pretty. They had just finished two nights and days in a fairly decent motel in suburban Pacific Beach.

She sat next to him in his car, both of which the Young Navy Man was very proud of. He was prideful regarding his car, which was a brand new, red 1982 Mustang convertible. It was July, so he had the top down. Pretty much his entire pay went to the car payment and car insurance.

But he lived on his ship for free, and ate Navy grub for free. He even had enough money left over for a cheap motel and some dinners and drinks once or twice a month.

He was also prideful about his new girl friend, a strikingly pretty and extremely petite Filipino lady of twenty years of age. The Young Navy Man was named Mike Smith. The Young Filipino Lady had not so common a name, at least by La Jolla standards, not that such mattered to her. She had a name that would make a La Jolla matron figure the Young Filipino Lady worked as a maid in a local hotel or some such.

The pretty and petite girl’s name was Miriam Defensor SantosConcio. Mike figured that being extremely petite was common for girls from the Islands. At five foot eight himself, Mike appreciated a petite girl. He also figured that most girls from the Islands had Spanish sounding names.

Miriam had recently split up with her husband of two years.

Her former husband was another Navy man who she met in Manila at a club. She had set her sights on landing a Navy officer at the time, but an enlisted man would do and her former husband was indeed an enlisted man. Still, he was a ticket the hell out of the Philippines and into the States and that was good enough for her.

Miriam was not a gold digger, no.

When she married her former husband she had every intention to do two things. First, she intended to be the perfect wife.

She would not hold down a job but she would cook, shop for the household supplies and food, and keep the house as clean as it could possibly be kept. Second, she would get pregnant as fast as she could. She understood that pregnancy was a form of job security and that was important to her. “Navy men always pay child support if they get divorced or get a girl pregnant, or they get kicked out of the Navy,” she had thought to herself during her wedding.

And she was already two months pregnant at her wedding. A second child meant even more security for Miriam.

Mike was driving Miriam back home. They didn’t live together yet, even though he had begged her to help him find an apartment that would suit her.

He figured she could land a job

at a makeup counter at Sears or some such and pay most of the rent. He knew those makeup counters liked to hire pretty, young girls. If they could afford an apartment with his and her earnings, the Navy would award him additional “Separate Sandwich” pay which would help buy groceries since he would no longer be eating Navy grub.

She wanted to wait a while before she set up house with another man, she had told Mike, but she didn’t reveal the real reason she hesitated to move in with Mike. She was still trying to figure out if Mike would make a good replacement for her former husband or not. She already had her meal ticket with child support and welfare, so what was the rush? She told Mike “it was too early in their relationship for such talk.” Neither of them talked about the possibility of marriage yet.

She needed a new Navy man to take her out to nice dinners, buy her nice clothes, and get her pregnant again. She really didn’t need to remarry; the local District Attorney’s office would pay for the DNA test to prove paternity and she’d end up with another child support check, new husband or not. Job security for a pretty, young woman in the States was remarkably available. The District Attorney’s office would even represent her for free because they wanted to keep welfare payments issued by the State at a minimum amount.

The DA would make sure a new father paid new payments for a new baby. All at no cost to Miriam for legal services.

And she had no intention of looking for work at a makeup counter or anywhere else.

Wasn’t America just as wonderful as she her friends in Manila

had promised her?

It was a Sunday. Miriam’s husband had weekend visitation every two weeks. The problem was that her husband was back living on his ship when it was in port. This was due to the fact he could not afford his own place on the shore given what he was paying her in child support payments. Most of his money went to Miriam and their son, and she was the sole person with an actual home at this point.

Miriam didn’t worry too much about that, as his ship would be heading out for an eighteenmonth period at sea soon and the weekend visitations would cease. The child support payments, however, would continue.

Welfare made up the difference.

Since her former husband lacked a suitable place of his own to have his weekend visitation with their two-year-old son, she had no choice but to let him use her residence, his former home, for that purpose. Since it was the same residence she had shared with him during their marriage, and it was a comfortable, familiar place for their son, this seemed appropriate to her.

All she asked is that he would sleep on the couch and not in their former marriage bed and that he would not make any long distance phone calls. She would stay with Mike at a motel during each weekend visit. Mike could afford it. Mike was eager to pay for it, actually.

Mike pulled up to the curb outside Miriam’s home. It was a small, two-bedroom cottage, but not in bad shape considering the barrio it inhabited. All the homes on the street had barred windows, of course. But the lawns were green and watered and mowed and the residents were clearly proud of their

homes. Some of the cars were low riders and they looked pretty damn cool to Mike as he eyed them.

“Mike, I have to ask you for a favor.” Miriam smiled a pretty smile at Mike as she spoke. Her lipstick was pink in color. Pink lipstick had always knocked Mike out.

“Yes?” Miriam hesitated a moment, and responded, “I want you to stay in the car. My husband is a huge guy, really huge.

He’s never been violent but I think it’s best not to provoke him. I’m just going to pop in and get my son and come back, okay? We’ll take him to McDonald’s for dinner like you suggested and give my ex a chance to get his stuff and clear out, okay?”

Mike nodded. This all seemed very reasonable to Mike. He had no desire to meet her exhusband, anyway. Mike was very glad that he didn’t have the same duty ship as the exhusband. Who needs that kind of grief?

Miriam pecked Mike on the cheek, opened the passenger door, and stepped out on to the grass easement that met the asphalt road in front of her house.

Lightly, but with quick steps, she walked up to her house and entered through the front door without knocking first. The door had been unlocked, Mike noticed, as he watched her disappear.

Mike waited. He reached into the back seat of the Mustang and grabbed a paperback book to read. He had just started reading Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land and looked forward to returning to it. . Mike had a ton of reading time on his ship while it was out to sea and in between ports.

He tried to take as many paperback

books with him as he could fit into his sea bag, borrowing them from friends or picking them up at the Goodwill for a dime. During his last deployment he had become hooked on old science fiction classics when a friend had loaned him Frank Herbert’s Dune and some books written

by Ray Bradbury. But Mike had heard that Heinlein was a former Navy officer and he wanted to support a Navy writer, of course.

Mike read. After a while, Mike came to understand that he had been reading for more than a half hour. He put the book down and stared at the house. He kept staring at the house until his watch made it clear that an hour had passed since Miriam had entered the home.

Were they getting back together?

Miriam and her ex husband, were they making up and putting all the bad things of their marriage behind them and getting back together? Ice hit Mike’s stomach as he worried about that.

It was known to happen.

Could be happening right now.

“I should find out,” Mike thought. “I have the right to know.”

Mike got out of the car and walked up to the front door. He knocked. He knocked again. He knocked once more, only more loudly than before. Nobody came to the door.

room window but the curtains blocked his view. Mike decided to walk to the rear of the house.

No fences were present to block his path and Mike found it to be an easy passage from the front yard to the back yard.

He walked over a few toys here and there in the back yard.

There were a few flowers in some chipped pots. He noticed they needed to be watered.

When Mike came to the back door he saw that it was open. A screen door was moving slowly back and forth in the light late afternoon sea breeze of National City. Despite the fact that Navy shipyards had so very long ago taken away the bay and ancient beaches from the residents of National City and replaced everything with massive, endless steel dry docks and gray concrete bay front industrial buildings, not even the U.S. Navy could stop sea breezes from wafting across the city.

Mike called out for Miriam.

Nothing. He called her name out once again as he stood at the open door. Nothing. Wait, there was something.

He could hear the soft sounds of a two-year-old child. The child wasn’t crying, not really, but murmuring something unintelligible.

Mike entered the back door, which led immediately to a small, clean kitchen.

Mike listened. He could not hear anything. He could not hear anyone speaking inside the home. He couldn’t hear a radio, or a television or anything making any sounds whatsoever.

He knocked on the door again.

Nothing.

As he walked in the door, he looked for a wall switch, as the sun was going down, and the kitchen only had one small window that faced to the east. The room was dark. As he moved his foot struck something. It felt like he had struck a small melon on the floor.

He tried to peer through a living

Mike looked down. He saw

Miriam’s head. Finding the light switch, he turned it on. The child was sitting on the floor and he was covered in blood. He was sitting on the floor between his mother’s head and his mother’s body in a crimson puddle. The boy looked up at Mike and said but one word. “Mama.” Mike noticed a massive, bloody, butcher knife on the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

The ex husband was long gone.

Evidently he had walked off someplace. For some reason, Mike didn’t think he would be returning to the house anytime soon.

Mike looked for a phone, and finding one in the living room, he called the National City police.

Then he picked up the child, who was unharmed but sticky with drying blood, and walked to the front door, opened it, and sat down on the brick porch with the child on his lap.

“Sorry, kid, but I have to smoke.

Forgive me.” By the time the police arrived, Mike had smoked five of his cigarettes.

The cops found the ex husband on his ship the next day. He had walked the five miles across National City from the cottage to the navel base where the ship was berthed, leaving his car behind, parked on the street across from the home in which he murdered his wife. As Miriam didn’t have a car of her own, he had always allowed her to use his most of the time, anyway. *** The Young Lawyer read his case file for the first time while his client patiently waited. After reading it, the Young Lawyer stood up and reached for a button on the wall that would cause the deputy to return to Interview Room 5. After about a minute,

the deputy arrived and opened the door.

“Yes, Counselor?”

The Young Lawyer answered, “Could I talk to you for a moment outside?”

The deputy led the Young Lawyer out of the room and shut and locked the door.

all a blank. I will, of course, be convicted. But listen. All I want you to do is make sure my son is placed with my brother in Florida. He’s a doctor. An MD. No criminal record. Makes a good living. Miriam’s family lives in the Philippines. I don’t want him going there, okay? Do you think you can do that for me? Please?”

The Young Lawyer agreed that he could probably accomplish that.

the man, and led him back to his cell.

The Young Lawyer walked back to the Intake Window and asked for permission to leave the jail.

He then proceeded back through Door 2 and Door 1, and walked out into the San Diego night.

The sea breeze outside was brisk and refreshing after being stuck inside the dank jail for an hour.

“What?”

The Young Lawyer found he was very nervous being locked up and alone with his new client in the tight quarters of the interview room. After all, the client was not even chained down to the interview desk. He wasn’t wearing cuffs or leg irons. Nothing. And the man was a massive beast of a man. Plus, there was the rather alarming fact that the massive, beast of a man had sawed off his wife’s head with a kitchen knife for no reason.

“Deputy, I am a bit nervous about being locked up with this guy. Can you chain him?”

The deputy frowned. “No. We don’t do that in the interview rooms if there has been no violence while in custody. Look, Counselor, if you can’t stand the heat get out of the kitchen. Now get back in there.”

The Young Lawyer returned to the interview room and sat down with his impassive client. The deputy locked the door once again.

“I’ve read your file. It seems you are charged with the murder of your ex wife.”

The client spoke for the first time.

“Yes. I have no memory of that day. I remember nothing. It is

“Great. Do I have to plead no contest or something to the charges at Juvenile Court?

The Young Lawyer responded, “Yes. They will bring you to Juvenile Court and put you in a holding cell there. You have to make a court appearance on this, but only once if you intend to waive your custody and parentage rights and plead nolo to the charges there so that that does not harm your criminal case. We don’t want you actually admitting anything. Is that okay?”

“Yes, as long as you get my son sent to my brother in Florida.”

The Young Lawyer explained that Social Services would certainly do that if the brother passed his home inspection and the related inquiries that San Diego Social Services would ask Florida Social Services to complete. The entire process would probably only take a month and until then the child would be staying in a foster home.

The client offered his hand to the Young Lawyer for the first time.

As they shook hands the Young Lawyer noticed that his client’s hand dwarfed his own hand. Yet the handshake was gentle.

Satisfied, the client stood up and pushed the deputy call button.

In short order, the deputy appeared, put the irons back on

The Young Lawyer didn’t return immediately to his car that he had left in the parking lot. Instead, he walked down the few blocks that led to San Diego Bay until he reached the spot where the ancient sailing ship, The Star of India, was berthed. Sitting near it on a bench, he sat and stared out across the bay as the stars started to appear above.

He could see Point Loma across the bay. Point Loma is a tall peninsula that enjoys having the bay on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other side. His home faced the ocean and not the bay. The view from his small rental cottage was fantastic.

His girlfriend was waiting for him at home. He should have been there by now, and his pager was buzzing. She was trying to reach him, no doubt. He left it in his pocket for now.

It was starting to get cold. He had worn only his thin suit coat.

His warm overcoat was back in his car.

He really should get up and walk back to his car and go home to his girl friend.

It would be another three hours before he got up and did that. _______________________________ 41

Dr. Augustus October

Dossier

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Dr. Augustus October (1953? - ) is an American mystery figure thought to possess extraordinary abilities. He father, Jake October, was a certified industrial engineer.

He is one of a select group of people discovered by the Andromeda Institute to have been born with profound and prodigious capacities or abilities far in excess of what would be considered normal.

Dr. October is believed to have been born in Los Angeles, California. A twin, his sister died three days after their birth. His mother predicted that “you were saved because you have a great purpose ahead of you.� He entered the Los Angeles Unified School District at four years of age. By the time he was seven, he was elevated to the ultra-gifted classes that that District offered to eligible students. His IQ is believed to have been measured at near 200. Small in stature, he was often cruelly hazed by fellow students until he was befriended by a student who was much larger and athletically gifted. Psychologists routinely tested him on a monthly basis during his grade school years, where it was noted that he read at a college level at the age of ten and possessed an uncanny ability to remember and recite backwards long number sequences. It was also during his childhood that he discovered he had dreams that accurately predicted the future.

High School and University Days October, for the most part, enjoyed lackluster days during his High School years. Ironically, his father had to retain the services of a tutor to help keep October from failing Geometry.

October excelled in subjects he was interested in, such as Drama and Psychology, but struggled with his other subjects due to disinterest. He often annoyed his teachers by waking up in class and pointing out that the teacher was wrong about something during a lecture. This would infuriate the teacher, particularly when October would leave the classroom and go to the school library, finding the proper reference book, and then returning to the classroom to humiliate the teacher with his evidence.

He did not take part in any athletics while in High School or during his University days, another irony. Attending a small University in Arizona, after his parents had moved to that state from California, he obtained a degree in Philosophy. Late in life, he would be invited back to the University as a guest lecturer.

Law School and Legal Practice After attending law school in San Diego, California, October passed the Bar exam and opened up a free legal clinic, supporting himself with the odd criminal defense case that came his way from time to time, usually referred to him by other lawyers or judges. His clinic helped hundreds of clients each month for free, usually providing them with no fault divorce assistance. The clinic operated out of a old library building that was turned over to his non-profit business at no cost by the San Diego City mayor. After spending twelve years running the free clinic, he was severely injured in a hiking accident when he was impaled on a tree trunk during a fall. He spent four months in the hospital, and when he was released he discovered his legal clinic had been shuttered by the city and the building had been turned over to a non-profit medical services company that offered medical care for free to the area residents. Prior to his injury, October was a student of Tang Soo Do and was awarded that discipline’s equivalent of a black belt. He studied for five years under the world champion.

After he was released from the hospital, October received a letter from a local judge, inviting him to join her team as an investigative attorney. October spent the next twelve years investigating the murder of children, traveling across the nation in order to do so. Eventually that particular project was shut down and October lost his job.

Technology Career October was awarded the vaunted International Webby Award in 2008 after he invented a technology to send “brain telegrams,” that is, short bursts of telepathic messages, via podcasting services. The federal government immediately apprehended all his notes and experimental equipment and made his invention a state secret. Prior to that, in 1998, he cofounded an illegal gang of technologists who had come up with a way to provide free major label music to the world, instantly, and in perfect resolution.

This resulted in a multi billion dollar lawsuit which October and his gang lost.

Crime Fighter October, working with his wife Adoria, a private investigator with psychic powers of her own, the couple tracked down two of the 9/11 conspirators, finding them in London within a week of the attack on the World Trade Towers. Working with the FBI, both of the conspirators were arrested.

October spent twelve years as an investigative attorney in the employ of “the government,” where he primarily concentrated on child abuse matters, including infanticides.

Powers and Abilities Doctor October has exhibited a wide range of abilities that transcend those of a normal human.

He has the (limited) ability to see far into the future, obtaining visions in crystal clarity of events yet to happen. His IQ was measured at “above 160” as a small child, putting his intellect into the category of “in the top one tenth of a percent.” While at his peak as a student of martial arts, he was considered to be “my most dangerous student” by the then current world champion in Tang Soo Do. During times of great stress, October can slow down his personal time so that all movement around him is severely retarded, allowing him lightning like speed for short periods of time. However, October’s life breaks down into several time periods of interest and ability.

Kid October As a grade school student, October was located and recruited for study by the U.S. government, as he was a member of a very small group of “ultra-gifted” children in the greater Los Angeles area. October was subjected to grueling tests administered by government psychologists on a weekly basis during the entirety of his primary education. October had his first dream of the future during this period, where he foresaw a visit to a water park in Las Vegas, in 360 degree clarity and full color, as if he was walking in the park in reality. That dream would come true in all its precise detail thirty years later.

Young October While obtaining a degree in Philosophy, October would continue to have dreams of the future. After having a dream that predicted the death of a loved one, which came true the next day, October began his life long attempt to suppress any and all dreams of the future. After graduating from his university, October relocated to San Diego where he obtained a law degree and then after passing the Bar, he opened up a free legal clinic for the poor. It was at this time that he began a twelve year, intensive study of martial arts under the personal instruction of the world champion of Tang Soo Do. Doctor October After nearly dying in a hiking accident, October began crime fighting in earnest, working for the “government” for twelve years. Afterwards, he used his abilities to predict the future to create a multi billion dollar technology empire. Selling it to a huge entertainment company, his fortunes were mostly erased through litigation filed by his enemies. He retired to a mountain top location, using the remains of his once vast fortune, to purchase a mansion on the top of a mountain in California, surrounded by eighty acres of forest. He has remained there, leaving only for short periods of time to combat the evil President of the United States and other major adversaries.

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Significant Adventures

The Ghost War After relocating to his mountain top hideaway with Adoria and their two small children, the family was viciously attacked by a ghost. October, an unbeliever in such things, found himself dealing with the fact that the ghost was slowly killing his wife. Objects in the house were thrown at great speed at both October and his children. He immediately sent his children away to family out of the state, but remained with Adoria, who had become too weak to move. October was able to locate the services of a group of four powerful “witches,” who came to the rescue of October and his wife. After three unsuccessful attempts over three nights, on the fourth night the witches were able to rid the house of the ghost and reveal its identity to Adoria. October was attacked during each of the attempts and rendered unconscious by the ghost during each of the four nights of the “Great Ghost Battle.” However, after the ghost had been banished, he asked the witches to put him in contact with his dead mother, which they did. He was able to confirm that she was “alive and well on the other side” and that life after death was in fact a reality, but his mother refused to answer any questions about Doctor October’s destiny or ultimate purpose in life.”

Although robbed of his ability to practice martial arts due to the accident that nearly killed him, October maintained the rare mental disciplines he learned and perfected during his Tang Soo Do studies. During the Ghost War, he was attacked and crippled by the ghost and put into a hospital for six months. After being told he would never walk again, October was able to heal himself (mostly) to the point where he could indeed walk again. However, the pain of the injuries would never fully subside for the rest of his life. His ability to fight in hand to hand combat was completely lost to him, though, although he still maintained the ability to use a psychic blast to knock a foe off of his feet, a skill he developed as a young man while studying martial arts. He can only use this particular power during times of great anger or stress.

Fighting the President In 2023, J. Dougie Howard was illegally elected as President of the United States after being put into office by the hacking of voting computers by a foreign intelligence. That foreign intelligence was later revealed to be Corto Manana, a small island in the South Pacific. October fought Howard by proving that he had an illegal financial connection to Corto Manana, which was revealed to him in a dream. The dream gave him specific information regarding how and where the evidence needed to impeach Howard could be found.

The El Segundo Murder Adoria’s sister, Adelphia, went missing and was reported as a “run away” by her husband. The police believed his story. However, years earlier, when October first visited the home of what appeared to be a then happy Adelphia and her husband, Max, he was driven to his knees when he went into the home by a blast of psychic awareness. “There is great evil here. Much is hidden. Nothing is in view, it is all hidden,” were the words he uttered to Adoria, his wife, as he fell to his knees just inside the home. Years later, when Adelphia went missing, it was Adoria that led the investigation after she had been turned away by local police despite several attempts to get them to reopen the investigation into her sister’s disappearance.

October assisted Adelphia, providing insight, but was unable to bring himself to “call up the future once more” and determine what really had happened. “Besides, I dream the future, not the past. Her death is in the past.” Adoria’s own psychic powers determined that her sister was dead, but that she was buried somewhere in her home town. Adoria was able to find her grave, which was in the back yard of her former home. October then used his legal abilities to take control of the home and turn it over to the police for a full investigation, and the husband was arrested, convicted, and sent to prison.

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The Funny Pages Artist and retired educator Robert Waldo Brunelle, Jr divides his time between creating fine art paintings and humorous cartoons. While his cartooning is not always of a political nature, we have selected some of his very best and recent political cartoons. Robert’s reaction to the Trump Era is devastating and direct. But can we laugh and cry at the same time?

Foghorn Leghorn sound alike Attorney General Jeff Sessions, twitter addict President Donald J. Trump, rich kid Jared Kushner, former head of the FBI James Comey, the obfuscating senator Mitch McConnel, The World’s Greatest Scientist, Saudi Arabia’s King Salman, Mother Nature, and Satan all appear in the cartoons that follow. Through the Brunelle’s kaleidoscope of cartoons the truth of America’s international shame can be glimpsed.

We also present some comic book cover art from the War Years of the 1940’s. Funny books were quite popular in that “Golden Era” of comics. The Black Terror was published by Standard Comics from 1942-1946. After World War II ended, the comic boom of the Golden Age died out fairly quickly.

The Black Terror’s secret alter ego was one Bob Benton, a pharmicist who developed a serum that gave him and his kid sidekick, Tim Roland, super strength, reasonable but not unlimited invulnerability, and great agility. Many of the early Black Terror stories were written by American novelist Patricia Highsmith before she made her name as a novelist.

She began her writing career by writing stories as a full time employee for a publisher, cranking out two stories a day for a $55 a week paycheck.

She quickly learned she could earn more as a free

lance writer, and her income allowed her to spend her time living in Mexico while she wrote.

Her first novel, Strangers on a Train, was a modest success and was the basis for an Alfred Hitchcock movie of the same name.

In 1955, she wrote The Talented Mr. Ripley, which spawned a series of Ripley books, continuing the story of a serial killer and con artist who always gets away with his terrible crimes. The first three books in this series have been adapted into movies five different times.

Highsmith was a lesbian who at times struggled with her sexual identity. At one time in her life, she took a job as a salesperson at Bloomingdale’s in New York City to help raise the money for therapy in an attempt to “normalize her sexuality.” She eventually abandoned her attempts to do so, and became comfortable with who and what she was.

Her numerous short stories also were published to much acclaim. Highsmith died in 1995, after winning many awards and honors as an author.

In 1948, she wrote the following entry into her diary: “What is so impossible, is that the male face doesn’t attract me, isn’t beautiful to me. Though I can imagine a familiarity with a man, which would ... allow us to work and make us happy—and certainly sane ... [t]he question is, whether men alone, their selves, don’t get unbearably boring?”

Doctor October herewith presents five of the original Black Terror comic book covers, following the section of Brunelle cartoons, drawn from her early days as a writer of super hero comic books. _________________________________________

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Š Robert Waldo Brunelle, Jr. Brunelles3@aol.com www.MrBrunelle.com

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SKIN CARE BEAUTY AND CANNIBIS.COM A New Era for Skin Care ___________________________________________ ROXBURY RIDING CLUB.COM Roxbury Riding Club is owned and operated by Katie Emmermann. Katie is a professional certified riding instructor and trainer serving riders and horses in Ventura County.​ Katie specializes in teaching a balanced seat position with a focus on equitation, jumpers, and dressage. Whether interested in riding as a hobby or competing on a regular basis, Katie will help you achieve your goals.

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