8FOLD: Mighty Medley # 3, March 2014, by Messrs. Brenton, Perron & Russell

[Tom Russell]

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==EIGHTFOLD PROUDLY PRESENTS ITS 103RD PUBLICATION==
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============= ISSUE # 3    MARCH 2014 ==============
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==== SAXON BRENTON, ANDREW PERRON & TOM RUSSELL ====
=============== Editor, Tom Russell ================
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE

"Grudge Match", by Saxon Brenton
A serious mistake, and the reason it was so. On the twin powers of
fandom and literature. A promise made, and most violently kept.

"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 2, by Tom Russell
Our old friend Gulliver, and the qualities that recommend him. The
marksman Dash Adams, his druthers, and his beard. Also: the
occupational hazards of a veterinarian: the Old West is a hard place.

"Beyond the Fields" Part 3, by Saxon Brenton
Theories regarding the origin and composition of the painting.
Chemistry proves unequipped to describe the ineffable. Heaven, Hell,
and the Earth between them.

"Strange Profit", by Andrew Perron
The story of a name: not how it was earned, but how it was lost. An
unusual business model for an unusual business. Everything has its
price, but it is not counted in coin.


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================== "Grudge Match" =================
========== copyright 2014 Saxon Brenton ===========
===================================================

     It is well known that embodiments walk the mortal realms.  Mother
Nature.  Father Time.  Death.  War.  In all sorts of worlds that fall
under the description of fantastic fiction abstract ideas both profound
and trite take on self-awareness and occasionally even material form,
and then go about their business.  And with that in mind, it should be
understood that Early Onset Alzheimer's made a serious mistake when he
had adopted the habit of manifesting on a single day each year.
    The disease had heard the story - quite well distributed by now,
thanks to the works of Neil Gaiman - that on a single day each year
Death took on mortal form, so as to better understand the lives and
hopes and dreams of those whose existences she brought to a close.
Early Onset Alzheimer's had brooded on this, not really seeing the point,
but in the end he had determined to experiment with the notion, just to
see what the fuss was about.  Almost by accident he had discovered that
he quite enjoyed the experience of being a gourmet.  After that he had
set aside a day for good food as a yearly treat.
     And the reason that this was a mistake was quite simple: Sir Terry
Pratchett held a grudge.
     This was hardly a secret.  "I will not die of Alzheimer's," he had
announced in 2009.  "I shall make other arrangements; I'm going to take
the disease with me."
      So there was Early Onset Alzheimer's, enjoying a light lunch (an
acceptable Steak Diane and salad, rounded off with a glass of shiraz)
when Terry Pratchett caught up with the disease.
      At this point the more thoughtful among you might pause to wonder
how, exactly, Sir Terry had known where Early Onset Alzheimer's was.
It is a reasonable question.  But consider this: even in this day and
age, when most of the population are so wedded to their social media
that there is a growing trend of people being run over because they
were paying more attention to their ipods than to oncoming traffic
as they crossed the street, there are still people who actually read
books.  And many of them read the works of the man once described as
Britain's most shoplifted author.  Multitudes.  Legions.  Honest-to-
god *hordes*. And they were keeping an eye out for just this occasion.
     Does that sound somewhat Dickensian?  Like Fagin directing his
team of urchins?  Perhaps.  But it was a solid literary reference, and
so Pratchett fans would not begrudge the description.  (Although they
would, of course, endlessly quibble, cross reference, footnote and
annotate it...)
     The fight did not take long.  It couldn't afford to.  Not having
the advantage of being infused with super soldier serum and then frozen
in ice, Terry Pratchett was working with the disadvantage of having a
body that was exactly as physically fit as it was chronologically old.
There was a notable absence of speed lines and energetic fist swings
and dynamic Kirby poses.  What there was was biting and eye gouging and
knees to the groin.
    The two figures, staggering as if drunkenly, arrived not-at-all by
chance at the edge of a pit.  A pit hastily dug by the some of the
aforementioned horde.  And in that moment Early Onset Alzheimer's felt
a grip of fear as he realised, as if by instinct, that the pit was
exactly six feet deep.
    Strength failing, the author grabbed Early Onset Alzheimer's by
the throat and threw himself backwards.  For a moment there was a
liberating feeling of weightlessness and freedom as he hung in the
air, his foeman struggling futilely in his grasp.
    And then Sir Terry Pratchett dragged Early Onset Alzheimer's with
him down into the grave.

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========== "Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 2 ==========
=========== copyright 2014 Tom Russell ============
===================================================

First man Silke thought of for the job was Gulliver. Partially this
was on account of they had embarked on many profitable enterprises
together, so Silke knew he could be trusted. Partially, it was on
account of Gulliver was just outside Bleeding Branch and was thus
geographically convenient. And partially, it was on account of
Gulliver being able to catch himself afire and fly; Silke reckoned
that sort of thing might come in handy.
   "Who's the dandy?" asked Gulliver. He pointed yonder at Paul
Strife, who hung back some thirty yards with Silke's boy.
   "The client," said Silke. "He and his brother got a big ranch from
their daddy. Supposed to share it."
   "Brother don't like to share?" said Gulliver. "I suspect we ought
to learn him some manners."
   "I suspect," said Silke.
   "I'm in," said Gulliver.

The four of them-- Strife, Gulliver, Silke, and the boy-- had a lean
supper at Strife's hotel. Soon as his plate was clean, Silke got up
abrupt-like and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He
tipped his hat and headed towards the door.
   "You're going to get Peake?" said Strife.
   Silke twisted something in his insides, then relaxed it. "Not just yet."
   "Peake's good for defense," said Gulliver. "I suspect Silke wants
to help beef up our offense."
   "I suspect," echoed Silke.
   "Whatever you think is best," said Strife.
   Gulliver spoke again. "I suspect Silke is going to find him the
second-best killer what walks this earth."
   "Why not the best?" said Strife.
   Gulliver started to answer. "Already g--"
   Silke looked at his boy. "Not available." And then he went on his way.

Silke found his man sitting and stinking of piss and beer outside a
bawdy-house, flat on his ass, legs stretched out straight and gangly.
An old orange tom paced back and forth across his knees. Silke knew
the tom, biggest one he ever saw, and awful ornery most times. Seemed
like he'd mellowed lately, since the vet'nary took his balls. Poor
vet'nary lost one of his eyes and a finger in the bargain, and it was
reckoned that the tom used up in that afternoon near all the ornery
the Good Lord had measured out for all nine of his lives. So folks
said, anyway, but Silke kept his cautious distance.
   "You're Dash Adams," said Silke; weren't a question.
   The man sat up sudden, too sudden. It frightened the tom who took
it out the man's knee. Ornery. "Afraid you're deadly mistaken, sir.
Quite unfriendly, too, accusing people of being a no-good", and here
the man said something rather indelicate, "like Dash Adams. Best you
mosey, stranger."
   "I'm John Silke."
   The man twisted his mouth thinking, rubbing his beard raw in his
palm. Finally, he said, "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Silke. If
you find me and you say I'm Dash Adams, well, no use denying or
disguising. Which is fine, because I always hated this beard. Pardon
me for a spell, Mr. Silke, so that I might rid myself of it. I won't
run or hide, for where can I go where you surely won't find me? But I
won't go with you neither. I like living, sir, near as much as
killing. If I've my druthers, I'll die killing as opposed to hanging."
   "Ain't here for the bounty, marksman. Only makes me money, which
strikes me as selfish, unchristian. Come with me, we both make money,
if both of us live to collect it. And if we die, we die killing."
   Adams screwed his face again in thought. "Well, let me shave anyway."

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=========== "Beyond the Fields" Part 3 ============
========== copyright 2014 Saxon Brenton ===========
===================================================

     Something not made of matter.  Deidre rolled that description
around in her mind, considering the ramifications.  "What are they up
to?" she wondered rhetorically to the world in general.  Then she added,
"Whoever 'they' are."
     "Might be random trouble making," suggested Joan.
     "It's an awful lot of effort to go to for random trouble making,"
said Deidre doubtfully.  "I mean, it might fit a mad scientist's MO.
Have a random flash of inspiration, do something just to prove you can,
then let loose your creation on the world when you grow bored with it
and want to move off to the next project.  So I guess we can't really
dismiss the idea completely."  Then she shook her head.  "But really,
there's not many supervillains, military R&D projects, or esoteric
conspiracy groups would be able to make something like that."
     "The effort involved does suggest it's likely to have been done
deliberately," the angel agreed.
     Deidre gave Joan a look.  "And which do you think it is?"
     "Actually, I think it could be a combination of both.  Hell has
both the means to deliberately create something like this and the
method to distribute it at random."  She leaned forward slightly and
asked,  "Do you know much about Crystal Ineff?"
     A bit, as it turned out.  "Pure ineffability, crystallised down
into physical form - even if it keeps freaking out the chemists who try
to examine it because it isn't atomic matter," Deidre said automatically.
Which made it a good but not-quite-exact comparison for the painting.
Then she realised what Joan was getting at.  "Ah, right.  Both Heaven
and Hell make it," she said (mentally adding that so did various pagan
deities), "but the infernal stuff is more common because sometimes Hell
just dumps a load of it into the drug market simply to... cause trouble
at random."
     Joan spread her hands in a 'there you go' gesture, but then under-
mined her own point by adding, "But I think it would be a good idea to
make sure it isn't part of some wider scheme."
     "Okay.  But I think you'll also want to follow up on any leads that
might implicate other groups.  If you're going for means, motive,
methodology and opportunity," Deidre said, mangling the better known
phrase, "then the Heresiarchs of Chaos fit the pattern just as well as
demonkind.  And I've already mentioned the fortunately-few-in-number
mad scientists who could pull this off through sheer carelessness," she
added ruefully.
     Joan nodded, but Deidre had the feeling that she wasn't taking that
warning seriously.  Oh dear.  Well, at least Joan wasn't one of those
militantly self-righteous angels.  Still, Deidre needed to get her to
see past the shadow cast by her traditional enemy.  With as little
rancour as she could manage Deidre said, "I'm serious.  Humans are a
lot more dangerous than you probably realise."  Then she smiled
mischievously.  "Probably because our monkey curiosity means we keep
poking at things that we shouldn't to see what happens, and sometimes
people just don't think through the consequences of their actions."
     Joan returned the smile.  "You're trying to win me over with
self-deprecating humour," she accused.
     "Ah.  You noticed that then," said Deidre, with only a little bit
of contrition.  "Okay, let's cut to the straight shit.  I suppose I
could give you a spiel about how when you walked in you probably thought
you were going to show some ignorant mortal that the world was larger
and stranger than I could possibly imagine..."
     "And which you'd prefer to turn on its head, and use to show me a
world with more things than are dreamt of in my philosophy, Horatio,"
replied Joan drily.
     "And then we could even do a musical number based on that song from
the Aladdin movie by Disney," snarked Deidre.  She waved her hand, as if
dispelling all of that.  "But that's patronising to both of us.  Bottom
line: whether or not those other groups are as dangerous *as* Hell is
beside the point.  They're still dangerous, especially if they're
overlooked until it's too late.  I would appreciate it, as a personal
favour, if you could keep an eye out for all possibilities."
     "I can agree to that," replied Joan simply.  "In any case, I'll
need to have this tested properly," she said, picking up the painting
and carefully packing it away in her handbag.  Then she said, "Now,
tell me the story of how you discovered this thing.  Any bit of
information might be important."

===================================================
================ "Strange Profit" =================
========== copyright 2014 Andrew Perron ===========
===================================================

  Welcome, weary traveler! Won't you come in?
  Thank you, but I am just a humble shopkeeper. If you like, you can
call me The Merchant.
  No, I agree, it's not much of a name - but I gave away any other
name I had long ago.
  Ah, so it's that story you're interested in, eh? Well, nothing in
here is free, not even a lusty tale - but if you like, we can sort the
price out afterwards.
  Yes, take a seat, they are not free but they are complementary.
There you go. So, then...
  It was in spring that I bargained for the right to a franchise. I
had trained for countless hours in haggling. I spent seven hours in
session against the Commerce Committee and brought them down,
centimeter by painful centimeter. In the end, they would sell me the
right to open a store that would, could sell anything, in exchange for
a single consideration, which I have already described to you.
  I opened my shop with great hopes. I would sell to people, giving
them just what they asked for, for a price that would be fair to them.
  My business, though I cannot tell you on what worlds it was on (not
without an additional fee), did excellent traffic. And yet, looking at
my balance sheet as the weeks and months went on, I could not help but
feel that something was not going according to the five-year plan.
  Finally, I nailed the problem - customer satisfaction was down. The
things I had sold had not changed lives in the ways I expected. Well -
no, sometimes they had. If one was on a quest, if one had a goal
already... but even then, what one asked for was not always the
solution to one's problem.
  And thus... what was the point of me? What was the point of a place
where one could get anything if one did not truly know what one
needed?
  I stuck on this problem. My attention was focused on it to the point
of reduced hours. I nearly shuttered my doors, for what was the point
of providing a service if it did not produce a profit to the world?
  And then, slowly, like the clouds parting to reveal the sun, the
realization came upon me. The price you set is just as important as
what you're selling.
  If you sell someone a mystic phial or a map to a secret cave, then
you are giving a valuable tool. But if you ask for something more than
money - ask them to do something or create something or *be* something
in return - then what you are giving them is a far greater profit. You
are giving them the sense that their own efforts are valued.
  Since then, my policy has been to give my customers what they want
and ask of them what they need. Unorthodox, I admit, but it brings a
strange and wonderful profit.
  Now, as for the matter of your payment for the story...


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=============== See you next month! ===============
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All characters and stories are the copyright of their respective authors.