Third Eye Patch

By Kevin Donohue and Mark Lind-Hanson

Third Eye Patch has it all: Adventure, Suspense, Romance, High Tech, Zen, and even a little taste of Speculative Science Fiction. The Third Eye Patch is a biomedical device designed to cure addictions naturally. It's worn on the user’s forehead in close proximity to the frontal lobes. ‘3EP’ also unleashes telepathic-like powers, as Patch creator Mike Chen and his friends discover as they flee from snoops and assassins from Big Pharma and the U.S. Government. Mike is an has-been best-selling writer whose fifteen minutes of fame are sadly behind him. After getting swindled in a shaky business deal and the walkout of his latest girlfriend (the very beautiful but fragile Beta Bronski), Mike has come to the conclusion that sure, he’s a royal fraud (albeit a very entertaining one) and always was one, too. Why not announce it to his dwindling ‘customers’ in a last chance Hail Mary Pass comeback bid? After all, the snake oil he had long peddled never really hurt anyone. A very broke Mike hooks up with his first wife, the notorious literary agent Jennifer Morgan, at his father’s funeral service. ‘Jenny the Red’ offers him a job with The Table Foundation, the brainchild of brilliant ‘outlaw’ electronics billionaire, Boffin Syznic. In a fit of inspiration, Mike proposes the Third Eye Patch, a meditative patch (similar to a nicotine patch) that delivers a calming pulse instead of added nicotine and other drugs. Never mind that he originally conceived the gadget in an abandoned science fiction novel. Syznic flips out over the idea because he is positively sure that the Patch is indeed viable. He commissions Mike to undertake a journey, a quest: The Search for the Lost Chord, or more accurately, the elusive melody that will be chosen as the algorithm for the meditative patch: The Third Eye Patch! Along with musicologist Steve Shank, Mike's odyssey takes him to Athens, Macedonia, Istanbul, Kathmandu, Delhi, and the Central Asian Republic of Tuva. All along this incredible jaunt, the pair are shadowed by nosy reporters and shadowy assassins. Why? Maybe because powerful special interests like PerryPharm ( the Mega Perry Pharmaceutical Corporation) cannot allow a meditative patch that promises, in the words of Boffin Syznic, “A life of optimal health and happiness for Humankind” to ever see the light of day. This so-called Third Eye Patch—if proved viable—is an intolerable threat to their ironclad control of the masses and it must be stopped right in its tracks. Syznic is also involved with the OtherNet, a truly independent alternative to the Government and Corporate sponsored Internet. A shadow agency of the United States Government, the National Agency of Science and Technology (NASTY), has been directed to appropriate the Patch at any cost. Ruthless spymaster FW Piltdown is dispatched to the West Coast, where he recruits and brainwashes Beta Bronski to spy on the Table Foundation in the name of ‘National Security’. Piltdown is convinced that acquiring the Patch's technology will lead him directly to the OtherNet, which must be nipped in the bud. Agent Bronski's mission: acquire the Patch by ‘any means’, and pass its secrets on to both the Government, and ComCo, a ‘consortium’ of special corporate interests, to “maintain the balance of power”. The most powerful players in ComCo are misogynic Peter Derringer, CEO of McCool Co, and Fister Perry, the hypochondriac power hungry CEO of PerryPharm. Will the United States Government succeed in suppressing the OtherNet? Can Fister Perry shut down the Third Eye Patch and protect his bottom line? Or will Mike Chen ever realize his quest for the ‘Betterment of Humankind’, along with a comfortable amount of cash?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Donohue
• Release date: Mar 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301927401

Kevin Donohue

Kevin Donohue is the co-author of THIRD EYE PATCH. Kevin got together with longtime friend and partner in crime and mischief, Mark Lind-Hanson, and they agreed to collaborate on a novel—a novel so vital, so vast, that would stand tall and proud with War and Peace, or the Brothers Karamazov, or—wait, OK, maybe not!THIRD EYE PATCH is the result of two years of collaboration. Part Thriller, Satire, and Sci-Fi/Cyber Fantasy, the authors hope that adventurous readers will enjoy a page-turning romp through an alternative world that mirrors the headlines and events of the real happening world of—NOW.Kevin Donohue was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, the setting of THIRD EYE PATCH. Kevin now lives in the Valley of the Elves, otherwise known as Ashland Oregon. Peace.

Book preview

The NOUS is an intellectual metaphysical concept which has evolved over the millennia since Classical Greece. The Pythagoreans conceptualized the Nous as an intelligent purposive principle of the world and the faculty of the human mind necessary for understanding what is true or real.

The Neo Platonists later expanded and incarnated the concept as the Demiurge.

"The creator of the material world after the matter of ideas."

Not necessarily GOD, but possibly a Supernatural Artisan of sorts.

A post-modern reductionist definition of the Nous?

Common sense and on-your-toes awareness. A subjective conception of Reality.

Noted best-selling author, outlaw, philosopher, ventriloquist, and harmonica virtuoso Mike 'Grasshopper' Chen, personifies the Nous as a super-conscious entity of wisdom, empathy, and a very Zen sense of humor!

As you can see, the Nous is very hard to pin down.

Prelude

It is my professional opinion that no therapy is needed at this present time…

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT REPORT

Confidential Material

NAME: Michael Chen

DATE OF BIRTH: 7/4/75

CHRONOLOGICAL AGE: 6 years 4 months

PARENTS: Linny and Michael Chen (Senior)

GRADE: Kindergarten

DATE OF ASSESSMENT: 11/15/81

DATE OF REPORT: 12/6/81

Identifying Data and Reason for Referral

Six year-old Michael was referred for a psychological evaluation by his mother to determine his current cognitive and emotional status. Quite simply, Mrs. Chen feels that the boy has now reached 'the age of reason and is too old to have imaginary friends.'

Sources of Information

Background information was obtained from his mother, his kindergarten teacher, his developmental history and available medical records. Current status of his learning and behavior was also obtained from observation by this therapist.

Background Information

Michael is an only child who has never really known his father, an imprisoned political dissident in the People's Republic of China. His mother and other family members fled the mainland to Hong Kong and emigrated to the USA when the child was 4 years old.

Medical and Development History

Pregnancy and birth history: Michael’s mother was 33 at the time of his birth. A twin sister was sadly stillborn.

Developmental history: Michael is a healthy happy gregarious boy with a good appetite and a robust aptitude to make friends. His English language skills are excellent. He loves music, magic tricks, and wants to become a ventriloquist.

Prior medical history: N/A (Chickenpox ? Measles ?)

Current medical history: Standard vaccinations up-to-date.

Psychological Tests Administered

Standardized assessment of intelligence, learning, cognition, aptitude, and attitude.

Assessments and Recommendations

I find no indication of any mental disorder or psychosis in the boy, who exhibits an above average intelligence and superior cognitive and social skills. The lack of a stable father figure may be a primary factor in his insistence that his imaginary friends are 'real'. He did admit to me that he did enjoy hogging the spotlight and being the class clown.

Like many children who share similar backgrounds and circumstances, Michael possesses a vast imagination, which helps him deal with his stresses, apprehensions, and a very normal fear of the unknown. It is my professional opinion that no therapy is needed at this present time, as he will eventually grow out of this phase as he matures with his fellow students and playmates.

— Dr. Howard Su, USF Medical Center

1) The Fraud

1: A Charmed and Silly Life

May 25, San Francisco CA

Most accounts agree that Michael ‘Grasshopper’ Chen, a man of considerable imagination and charisma, was summoned to his higher calling as the Fraud by virtue of an intense life passage. His enemies insist it was merely a textbook midlife crisis brought on by bankruptcy and the walkout of his longtime (and very beautiful) girlfriend.

In truth, America’s Premier Philosopher’s spiritual awakening was more akin to stepping on an unseen rake in the grass and getting whacked right between the eyes. This sort of thing was just par for the course in his charmed and silly life. He could only smile at the utter audacity of it all. What else could he do? He freely admitted (privately to his close friends) that his initial wealth and celebrity was nothing but a very lucky break propelled by a youthful burst of inspiration and his first wife’s skillful promotion.

(Jennifer Morgan, a very savvy hustler. More about her later.)

Fifteen years ago he was a well-known writer with several bestsellers. His first offering was even selected for the New York Times Book of the Month Club, who dubbed him The Prince of the New Age Wellness Circuit. Maybe Jester would be a better word. No sacred cows were immune from his pithy barbs. This made him many enemies among the professional gurus, phonies, and hucksters on the New Age hustle scene.

At the peak of his popularity, he could fill up an auditorium with seekers and suckers and sell lots of books and curios. Being a highly skilled orator who never communicated anything of substance or significance was (and still is) a very enviable skill. He wisely never took a stand on controversial issues except for one: political correctness. Shredding pompous phonies (like jet-setting celebrities who urged everybody else to ride bicycles for the sake of the suffering planet) was so easy and his audiences absolutely loved it.

Among his lesser talents was a flair for blues harp to rival Paul Butterfield, John Sebastian, and Pigpen McKernan. He was also a talented magician and ventriloquist who sometimes resorted to vaudeville routines to goose stubborn audiences for a cheap laugh. He always had to apologize for his dummy 'Sneaky Pete', who suffered from Tourette Syndrome, a neurological disorder which includes compulsive utterance of obscenities.

Life was good and so were the perks and groupies. It was so much fun being an entertaining gadfly who took people’s money honestly and left them laughing.

Mike’s roller coaster ride lasted for more than a decade, but nothing lasts and success is very fleeting. His golden goose gradually deflated, along with the better perks, groupies, and most importantly, lucrative book royalties. Brisk sales of his much-hyped second book leveled off and then plummeted when most reviewers savagely panned it for being a shameless rip-off re-working of his first fluke bestseller. His third offering swiftly became a cut-cornered discount close-out item. Ouch! The honeymoon was over.

Money doesn’t grow on trees in unicorn groves. Mike's careless spending (and budgeting) only added momentum to his ever-increasing downslide. He loved beautiful women, and they usually loved him back. It was generally agreed by all that he spent way too much money in his jolly pursuit of the shiny trophies. He never seemed to be fazed by the revolving door. He usually left them laughing—even his second wife Julie, who pretty much cleaned out the till after he was caught in an uncompromising position with a well-known contortionist yodeler in a Santa Cruz carnival tent. Secret stealth detective photographs were involved. The female judge at his divorce proceedings wasn’t very amused with his flattery and charm and threw the book at him. Mike had to bite the bullet, but he definitely had it coming that time.

Not many people know there’s a dark side to the New Age Vaudeville Circuit. Take for example, the Ascended Master Benjamin Grimm Wilde, the ‘Bill Graham’ of the Wellness Lecture Circuit. The London-based Luciferian Godfather and ‘Lord of Light’ was rumored to be very unhappy with Mike for past pokes and jabs. According to the grapevine, Mike’s name was now # 1 on Grimm’s personal blacklist. He was now ‘untouchable’ and not to be booked by anybody in the New Age racket.

One promoter, Kali Skyhawk of Star Gem Inspirational Seminars, said the heck with that and booked Mike for an ‘exclusive’ appearance in Seattle. Two days later, she was hospitalized with two broken legs after she ‘slipped and fell’ down a flight of stairs. Ben Grimm had spoken. So much for the so-called New Age Peace and Love Kumbaya Wellness Lecture Movement.

A few pork and beans gigs were still to be had on the Sci-Fi Fantasy Convention Song and Dance Circuit, mostly as a master of ceremonies and/or warm-up act before the big shots. Oho, the onetime bestselling author (and millionaire) had at last sunk to this: a washed-up stand-up comic filling in dead time between the jugglers and the strippers! He even gave Sneaky Pete equal billing at a few of these appearances until a disgruntled ex-lover with an ax to grind kidnapped (and surely tortured) the nasty little dummy. Mike stoutly refused to pay the ransom and Sneaky Pete was never seen again.

Waxing philosophic bullshit with his friends and dwindling audiences was one way he could dodge the undeniable and inconvenient truth: he was nothing but a charismatic has-been ‘New Age’ philandering con man whose once-bestselling hardbacks now graced the 99 cent bookshelves at Goodwill stores.

"What do we really own, friends and neighbors? Well, how about our DNA, talents, abilities, education, character, hang-ups, embarrassments… and our debts, of course! But when our possessions, gadgets, and illusions of comfort are finally stripped away, just what are the important things, the vital things, the things we just can't live without? —Does anybody here in the audience want to buy a talking dog?"

(pause for laughter and applause)

Something had to give as his thirty-fifth birthday approached. A comeback was in order but his creative juices had long dried up, or so he thought. He couldn’t rely on the old shtick and gags any more.

Maybe a fling with cocaine didn’t help things. Fortunately, that didn’t last very long, primarily because the marching powder became irreconcilable with his healthy sex drive. He couldn’t really afford the shit, anyway. He didn’t smoke tobacco and never had. He also avoided cannabis, mainly because it always made him feel paranoid or else goofier than he already was. With the exception of a nightly beer or three, Mike was pretty much his good old Mr. Natural self when by chance he bumped into his ex-coke dealer Eric Taylor ‘the Snowman’ at Wheezer's Mongolian Burger and Pizza Palace in downtown Frisco.

Mike never knew why Taylor set him up on a blind date with the impossibly beautiful Beta Bronski, who graciously accepted his invitation over the phone to step out for dinner. Beta was thirty years old (perfect!) and an absolute knockout in the prime of life. Her glossy raven black hair hung down to her shoulders and her almost electric silver-blue eyes were absolutely stunning—and disarming. Mike was totally enchanted with her.

Both of them were more than a little nervous when they were seated at their table in a little Italian restaurant on Clement Street in the Richmond District just to the north of Golden Gate Park. Beta liked Mike right away, but most women usually did. In Beta’s eyes, he wasn’t too tall, not too short either, and his East Asian Mandarin good looks were definitely a plus. Even when the man wasn’t smiling, his bright almond eyes radiated playfulness, goodwill, and fellowship. Yes, Michael Chen was a very good looking man in his prime. OK, maybe he needed a haircut…

Beta cleared her throat to get Mike’s undivided attention.

Before we order, I need to tell you something right up front: I am an alcoholic.

Mike didn’t even bat an eyebrow. You ain’t the only one!

Mike, let me repeat myself: I am an alcoholic with a Capital A. I know from experience what a drunk tank looks and smells like at 3:00 AM… I also know how it feels waking up not knowing what town I'm in.

Thanks for your honesty… I really mean it.

It's only right and fair that you know this right up front. Look, I'm alright now, I really am… fortunately, my employer has a very generous medical plan… one fine day I looked into the mirror, threw in the towel, and signed up for an all expenses paid thirty day vacation at a very exclusive rehab clinic… have you ever heard of Placidity Pines?

Wait, do you mean that swanky Illuminati hangout up there on the Russian River? Like who hasn't? Oh my Bog, the plot thickens!

No, the notorious Sacred Grove is just down the road from the clinic, but—

Beta lowered her voice to a whisper.

There IS more than a little interaction with the big shots at the Grove, and guess what? I'm not supposed to tell this to anybody, but I had the honor of bunking with our very own Senator Beverly Baxter!

Blow me down, Beta! Boozy Bev in the flesh?

The very one, undergoing her bi-annual dry-out cure with liposuction treatments on the side! May I add that the crazy old hag is crazier than an outhouse rat?

Ouch!

Anyway, I guess they did a pretty good job with me because I've been clean and sober for more than a year now… but let me warn you: I still have a shallow addiction for expensive and useless shoes, the San Francisco Giants, and Bob Dylan!

Hey, I’m with you—um, excepting for maybe Bob Dylan and the shoes!

Beta’s responding smile was like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud.

Now don't hold it against me, but I was once, ahem, semi-romantically involved with our mutual friend Eric—but that’s all over now. Beta didn’t add that ‘the Snowman’ had been her main coke connection before she took her thirty day vacation.

Mike was a bit reluctant to discuss the Snowman because of his own past association with the guy. Eric is only a casual acquaintance these days, he chuckled nervously. That being said, I’m very glad he introduced us to each other!

Me too! Beta said brightly. Enough said about Eric! Everybody makes mistakes!

Amen! —So you both work for the same firm?

The one and only Furman and Rifkin Law Associates, Beta said dryly. Proud members of good standing in the Mighty Borg.

"Well I guess somebody has to do it! So you’re studying for the Bar?"

That was my original plan, but it’s taking much longer than I expected… oh well, we’ll see. Eventually, eventually… however, my big dream is to grow up to be a cutting-edge fashion designer and make my pile! I'm also a card-carrying atheist who does crosswords on the toilet, so you've been warned.

Beta paused and then added very quickly, I may as well tell you that I’m one of those unfortunate girls who suffer adverse reactions to every birth control pill on the market—good grief, I’ve tried them all— Beta abruptly covered her mouth in embarrassment. Mike just gazed at this stunningly beautiful woman with his mouth wide open. The goofy look on his face gave Beta hope. She already knew (deep down in her gut) that the two of them were going to make fireworks together—really soon!

Um, I hope you don’t mind me being so outspoken—my admittedly biggest flaw!

Not at all! —Hmm, let's see how good the coffee is in this joint!

The evening moved along pleasantly. They exchanged phone numbers when they were informed by the waiter that the restaurant was closing. Once outside on the sidewalk, Beta took the initiative and kissed Mike goodnight. A very nice kiss. The sweet prospect of even more kisses (and much, much more) was in the forefront of Mike’s mind when they parted in the San Francisco fog.

Waiting IS, Mike murmured over and over as he drove home that night. The indescribable taste of Beta’s moist lips and the tiniest flirt of her tongue teased his body and mind for many hours until sleep took him.

Mike was absolutely delighted when Beta (!) called him the very next morning.

"Drop everything and meet me down at the Giants Promenade at noon sharp!"

Does a bear poop in the woods? Mike dropped everything.

Wow! Beta's seats behind first base were absolutely superb, although the Giants lost to the Dodgers, 9 to 2. No matter, the day was still young…

Mike treated Beta to burgers and fries at Wheezer's and Beta treated Mike to herself at her apartment at Divisadero and Greenwich Street in Cow Hollow. Oh such righteous fireworks… just like she knew it would happen… righteous, indeed!

The couple immediately made a splash at various literary events and parties in the San Francisco Bay Area. Mike would never admit it, but beautiful Beta was quite the trophy for his ego with her ice-blue eyes, glossy raven black hair, and lissome (yet knockout) figure. She was much more than that, of course.

Those early days were the best when Mike and Beta began that very slow and delicate dance getting to know each other. Sure, Beta had her little faults, but so what? Mike knew perfectly well that he was a total mess, relatively speaking. He wasn’t getting any younger, either. He sincerely desired to settle down into a longtime relationship this time around. Maybe with someone he could grow old with, that ‘lucky third’ after two failed marriages.

Beta Chen? Well, why not?

Mike soon learned that Beta’s little faults (like doing crosswords when she was on the toilet) were no match for the more serious baggage she brought into their relationship. She could be very sullen and moody for days at a time. Mike was constantly perplexed by her deep recurring melancholy. Sometimes her eyes suggested that being beautiful wasn’t always a bed of roses. He was often puzzled by this because she obviously enjoyed being gawked at by every male with a pulse (and a pair) whenever she entered a room. She didn’t need to wear short skirts or flash her cleavage to turn heads her way.

Another major downside was her insistence on always being right—even when she wasn’t. Her stubbornness was often her curse—or saving grace, depending on the situation. Mike sometimes felt like a traffic cop, or better yet, a juggler whenever he had to deal with her contradictory nature. Maybe that uneasy friction between them was why they made love with such edgy hair-triggering passion! This was the real thing, boys and girls. Everything was all or nothing with Beta Bronski. Such rapturous ecstatic lovemaking!

Er, let’s return to more mundane matters. Mike nobly amended his (mostly) moderate lifestyle to accommodate Beta’s hard-earned sobriety. She didn’t really mind if he drank a beer now and then, but he never imbibed at home or in her presence. Beta’s well-being was well worth the extra sacrifice, and the topic was never discussed.

Mike and Beta celebrated their first year together by purchasing an old Victorian house in the Upper Market District of San Francisco. Mike had been renting the place for a number of years, so they decided to take advantage of the recent downturn in the housing market. Beta ponied up half of the down payment on the mortgage, although only Mike’s name was on the legal contract.

Unfortunately, hardcore financial problems began to manifest during their next year together. Mike’s last hoarded and precious indemnity was only a sweet memory, thanks to his second divorce, back taxes, and generally shitty bookkeeping.

The economy recently turned southward and the paying customers were growing more fickle and frugal. His act was getting more than a little stale (duh!) and his speaking engagements were now down to about four or five a year—at least the good-paying ones.

Mike’s last really good gig was Master of Ceremonies at an, ahem, adult comic book convention in West Hollywood. He held his nose but he was running behind on his mortgage and hefty penalty interest payments to the IRS. His books were long out of print, royalties were distant memories, and his longtime publisher was never available for a friendly chit-chat these days. Beta was paying most of the bills, which was definitely straining their relationship.

There it was: he needed to make some serious money if he wanted to keep his house. Maybe it was his good-time vibes or just cosmic serendipity, when Brandywine Starbrow (Portland-based promoter Ernie Cox) of the Rivendell Festival gave him a call. Starbrow was the executive promoter of the annual popular blowout in Oregon, where hobbits, elves, dwarves, and orcs from the wide world assembled to let down their hair (and tunics) in a safe space. Lots of artisans and venders did quite well and each paid a percentage royalty to the promoters. Last year's ‘Hobbit Fest’ turned a hefty profit. This time around, Starbrow was offering selected friends and worthy ones (like Mike) a lucrative piece of the action. Starbrow made his pitch to Mike over the phone.

For every point you invest, you get a percentage of the gate and concessions, and that ain't no mashed potatoes!

"How much percentage?"

That depends on the number of investors and the size of the gate. You were on the bill last year, remember? What was your fee, like maybe one lousy grand and a lousier flea-bitten motel room?

Yeah, so what?

"Chen, you've always been a good sport and I feel a little guilty. Yeah, everybody knows you got a raw deal from that Devil’s ass licker in London—but rumor has it that the old freak is too busy these days with internal conflicts in the Luciferian Order. Apparently, his grip is beginning to slip, especially here in the States… so maybe this time around, I can cut you in on some more substantial, er, lucrative action than you’ve been seeing these days, according to the Grapevine. —Now get this: last year I flipped 50 K into 200 K in three lousy days without lifting a fucking finger! I'm telling you, this town is full of tourists and idle college kids with lots of fucking money to burn."

Later that evening, a very enthusiastic Mike consulted with a very skeptical Beta.

Why the Hell not, eh? Come to Middle Earth! Green pastures for us hustlers, hucksters, and curio sellers,

"It sounds way too easy, Mike."

"EASY? Hey, I was there at last year's shindig, remember? Everybody made out like bandits! Man oh man, Starbrow is so right—there’s so much money in the air, all one has to do is pluck it! Why, we can easily triple, no, quadruple our investment!"

OUR investment? Did I miss something? Beta was sitting on a modest nest egg of twenty thousand dollars she squirreled away during the last few years at her firm. Her plan was to establish a profitable line of Fashion Headbands that would fill a hole in the market. She was very intent on quitting her dead-end job as a lowly law clerk with no future.

But never mind that! Mike was certain they could make a killing at the Festival.

I have exactly ten thousand to play with. Why don't you throw in another ten? We can roll it over into 40, 60, or maybe even 80 by Monday!

Hmm… I don't know about this, baby.

Really, this deal can pull us up out of the hole! Then we can launch Beta’s Bands!

That was Mike's nickname for her headband scheme. However, Beta had a better head for business, if not tact.

"I still think we should approach, er, the Redhead, Mike."

"Jenny? Absolutely not! I haven’t even spoken to her in five years! Please don’t ask."

Uh oh. Beta knew she had hit a soft spot. Mike’s first wife was the notorious Jennifer Morgan, a rich and successful literary agent and promoter. She was well known in the Bay Area and frequently graced the local television news and gossip columns. There were stories, and who knows? Maybe some of them were even true. The woman was certainly a beautiful specimen, Beta begrudgingly admitted to herself. Such a knockout with her voluptuous hourglass figure, beautiful green eyes, and magnificent mane of red hair.

Mike sure knows how to pick ‘em—just look at me!

Rewind: Mike and ‘Red’ were both starving undergrads hustling for their next meal when they hooked up at Cal Berkeley. Kindred souls, they plotted, persevered, struck it rich, got married and divorced, all in a five year period. Jennifer was the one who landed Mike’s lucrative book deal that launched his fifteen minutes of fame and his first million dollars in the bank. She ran the finances and Mike ran the bull-shine stand.

In the years following their split, Jennifer only prospered as Mike coasted and squandered his fortune away. He didn’t really mind that she was surely better known than he was these days—at least in the Bay Area.

(She wasn’t his ex-wife, he was HER ex-husband.)

It was also common knowledge that a few dozen tasty nude photos of an eighteen year-old Jenny were only a click away on the internet. VERY tasty photos, ahem. Never mind that the photo spreads (!) helped pay for Morgan’s tuition at Berkeley.

Fast Forward: Mike and Beta’s financial problems and the lure of making a big killing at the Rivendell Festival. Mike did NOT want to approach his ex-wife for a loan.

Let’s leave Jenny out of this, OK? —Rivendell! We can do this! This is a sure thing, I know it, I can feel it.

Beta sighed and threw in the towel. She was certain ‘Beta’s Bands’ would be a profitable investment for someone like Morgan, but she let the touchy subject drop.

OK, hon. I’m just trying to be practical.

So am I! This deal is a winner!

Hmm… Against her better judgment, Beta moved $10,000 from her private account into their joint account. Mike immediately forwarded $20,000 directly to Starbrow Productions and packed an overnight bag for the next day’s long drive to Ashland, Oregon.

Middle Earth, here we come!

Beta arched her eyebrows. What? Here WE come? Um… I don’t think so…

Later that night, Mike and Beta made diffident love in the dark. Once the sex was spent, Beta insisted on discussing their fragile financial situation, among other things.

We’re spreading ourselves very thin, Mr. Natural. Have you already forgotten that we need to pay the next mortgage payment by the third? By the way, both cars are overdue for servicing… Beta droned on as Mike playfully caressed her boobs under the sheets. Sometimes she smiled and removed his hand with ‘annoyance’. Mike savored those special moments because whenever Beta smiled, the whole world smiled with her.

Did you hear what I just said, Michael?

Excuse me, honey?

I said, I’m not coming with you to Rivendell. I can’t.

C’mon, you’ve got lots of sick days piled up.

"So what? The firm is swamped at the moment with the NoseBook vs. Twattle litigation looming and I can’t take any time off right now. I’m hanging on only by a thread down there as it is."

Mike didn’t argue because Beta was bringing home most of the bacon. He was sorely disappointed because he really wanted to show her off at the Rivendell Festival. Beta knew his game and normally didn’t mind at all being ‘shown off’. She actually liked it, just as long as creeps didn't stare at her too long and hit on her.

Anyway, that’s not the only reason I can’t come, Mr. Cosmo. SOMEBODY and that means ME, has to go down and visit someone tomorrow. Have you really forgotten?

Oh my bleeding Bog… Mike lay back and smacked his forehead with his palm.

Oh man, I clean forgot about Pop!

Ming Ch’n (Michael Chen Senior) was currently a resident in the Hospice Wing at Belmont Hills Nursing Home, twenty miles south on the Peninsula. The final verdict: terminal lung cancer. Mike dutifully visited the old man twice a week.

(Linny Chen, Mike’s beloved mother, sadly passed away seven years ago—six weeks before ‘Pop’ was allowed to leave Red China and emigrate to the USA.)

I’ll go, Beta said quietly. He’s been asking for me again, you know…

According to the hospice fellow Syd, Beta’s occasional visits were having a beneficial effect on the old man’s attitude and acceptance of his coming demise.

Mike wiped a tear running down his cheek. I’m such a coward, a real chicken-shit.

Don’t cry, baby, Beta sighed, with just a trace of irritation. Mike never could control his emotions. "You are such a fraud, she added with a forced smile. Hmm… maybe that should be the title of your very next, ahem, bestseller: The Fraud!"

Very funny, Mike pouted in the dark. His most recent attempt at literary glory (a convoluted sci-fi epic called Third Eye Patch) was a poorly-written piece of trash he didn’t even bother passing on to his so-called ‘publisher’. One memorable night, he impulsively deleted it from his computer and burned most of the printed manuscript in the fireplace. Beta helped him. A few random pages managed to survive the inferno.

Beta sighed silently and began to stroke and kiss Mike down under.

Wake up, Playful Buddy, wake up… here comes Mommy…

Playful Buddy was Beta’s pithy nickname for Mike’s very playful member. Uptight Beta had a very weird sense of humor whenever she let her guard down. Playful Buddy responded with a yahoo! as she unrolled a slick condom onto him just like a pro. Egad, Playful Buddy liked Beta more than any other, despite the annoying condoms. Granted, that’s how he always felt about whoever Mike was in a relationship with.

Playful Buddy was blissfully unaware that Mike and Beta’s glorious sex life was just about the only thing keeping their rocky relationship alive. Mike was just too full of himself to read Beta’s little hints and signals: after two years together, she was working up the courage to take the A Train. She didn’t love him—maybe because she didn’t really know what ‘love’ was. Love was just a word in the dictionary. Oh, she did like Mike very much. The amicable outgoing goof was the very last nice guy in the world and had very good dick control too. She would always appreciate his invaluable support regarding her sobriety. His utter goofiness made it so much easier for her to cope with the stress and resist temptation. It was just too bad and so unfair… no love, no love, no love… Mike would never understand that only love’s absence was real to her. The absence of the Void.

Mike would surely be better off without her.

Beta was an orphan who was raised in a series of foster homes. One of them was a very bad home where she was molested numerous times by her foster father. Her foster mom knew exactly what was happening, but she never said anything. No one went to jail. Beta was drinking hard booze by the time she was fourteen. Despite her stunning good looks, she never had any close friends in high school, college, and all those crazy years before she met Mike. Lovers like Eric, oh yes, but so what? She couldn’t even remember most of their names any more, thanks to nearly a decade of booze, cocaine, and ecstasy!

Mike Chen, the New Age Jester… his easy tears reminded her of the saddest truth of all: she often wished she could cry, just to know what crying actually felt like. To the very best of her recollections, she had never cried even once in her entire life, not even as a molested little girl and teenager. Something was missing.

After making ‘love’, Beta drifted away to a stark and familiar dreamscape under a dull milk-white sky where she wandered alone along winding paths that always led up to the very same place: the precipice to the great black hole, the abyss of the Void.

Come to us, Sweetness, whispered a thousand million voices from the darkness. Come and be like us…

Not yet, she whispered in response. I'm not ready…

Don't tarry for too long, delicious one… we have a very special place preserved just for you… just for you… just for you…

Beta woke up in a cold sweat and immediately shook Mike awake.

Do me again, Mike. Do me like there's no tomorrow…

Mike dutifully responded and she clung to him for the rest of the night. Silly worries about money and bills (and yes, fleeting little thoughts about suicide) were temporarily forgotten. Maybe Mike wasn't love, but he was comfort and her very last bastion against the Void. Besides, Playful Buddy was a real trooper in the sack!

The next morning, Mike contemplated things as he took his shower. The word Fraud kept popping up in his head. That’s me to a T, he admitted to himself. He WAS a fraud and always had been one, too. Maybe it was high time he officially announced it to the customers. It was a liberating thought. Maybe there WAS a book in all of this! Mike’s mind began to plot: If everything I say is a lie, is that a lie also? I’m confused…

(Pause for laughter: Mike's first bestseller was titled Everything I Say Is A Lie.)

Everything is Maya… (respectable applause) That includes my new Mayan 4 x 4 and my fabulous Mayan condo in Hawaii. (laughter, applause, and a standing O)

Those were Mike’s rather silly thoughts as he started the morning coffee and prepared for his long drive from San Francisco to Ashland, Oregon.

This fucking book can write itself!

He was already hearing bookstore cash registers ringing all across the fruited plain.

A bathrobe-clad Beta kissed Mike in the front hallway as gloomy gray dawn glowed faintly through the stained-glass window above the door. Her raven black hair was still wet from the shower and her hands were clammy-damp as she handed him his phone.

Please don’t forget your phone this time.

Mike’s annoying (and expensive) habit of losing or forgetting his phones was another bone of contention between them. It really drove her crazy.

You would even forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck, Michael.

But I NEVER forget Playful Buddy, eh?

Ha-ha-ha. Jokes aside, Beta wasn’t smiling very much this morning. Mike knew she was a little worried about the Rivendell venture and her ten grand.

We're in the money, baby! Let’s start planning your start-up when I get back.

Beta looked somewhat doubtful and Mike sighed inwardly. Here we go again.

Mike, are you listening to me?

Sorry honey, woolgathering. What did you say?

"The phone. Why did you even buy the freaking thing? You certainly don’t use it."

Sure I do. I just don’t like taking calls. Mike took her hands in his own and his voice softened. Thanks for seeing to Pop. Thanks for remembering.

Beta waved it off. Give my regards to Legolas! What a dreamboat! I wonder who does his hair? A gay hobbit named Ramón? Or maybe Tony?

Mike replied in a sissy English accent.

Anything is possible if you only BELEIVE! Oh, never mind! Onward to Rivendell! I really need to consult with Gandalf the Gay about matters of great importance…

Beta smiled sadly and turned to gaze at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Mike came up behind her and gently loosened the folds of her bathrobe. When he began to fondle her breasts, she sighed deeply as they locked eyes with each other in the parallel universe of the mirror. Maybe things were a shade different in that virtual mirror world, Mike fantasied. Maybe in that world, Beta could be carefree and happy.

(Mike and Beta laugh and smile as they stroll about arm in arm at the Rivendell Festival. The place is just packed with freaks! ($$$!!!) Mike greets old acquaintances and Beta is the big hit of the festival as she poses for pictures as a fierce and sexy Elf Warrior Princess. A well-known cutting edge filmmaker even approaches her with an offer! The Dwarves all seem to be well behaved this year and oh! how the Hobbits sing and dance!

I’m so VERY glad I came, Michael, Beta whispers as she kisses him right on the stage to the crowd’s jolly delight as he kicks off the festivities.)

What Beta saw in the mirror of reality was very different and sadly more mundane: just another day at the endless treadmill and a very long drive after work amid rush hour traffic so she could visit and perhaps comfort a dying old man.

Mike’s happy fantasy vaporized when she abruptly turned away from the mirror and tightened up her bathrobe. The spell was broken. Beta tapped his phone with her finger.

Do humor me and maybe give me a call tonight, hmm? That's what the phone is for, you know. Keep me on top of things! If perchance orcs attack the festival, I'll dispatch an army of upright elvish archers to save the day just in the nick of time.

Mike nobly ignored her snootiness as he placed the phone on the hallway table next to his car keys and sunglasses. I’ve got dibs on the leather jacket!

Whatever.

Mike fancied Beta’s oversized leather jacket these days. It mostly fit when he sucked in his gut. (Never mind losing a pound or three of beer muscle instead.)

Hmm, where’s my thermos? Come on, give your daddy another kiss for luck.

One hour later, Beta couldn’t believe her eyes on her way out the front door: Mike’s goddamn phone was still sitting on the hallway table! She froze in her tracks as a depth charge exploded deep inside her brain. Normally the cool ice queen, she barely managed to stop herself from smashing the damn thing against the wall.

Steady, girl, steady…

Beta stepped outside and sighed when she was hailed by a cheerful husky voice.

Yo, Beta! Next door neighbor Estrella was watering her vegetable garden in the quickening sunrise. Her bathrobe was maybe a tad too short for her long skinny legs.

Hi Strella, Beta said dutifully as she unlocked her Camry. Thanks for the carrots.

No problem, the Farmers Market was giving them away by the case!

Jolly good!

Estrella Klein was a divorcee in her mid-thirties and the mother of an eleven year-old daughter named Alex. Both mother and daughter were tall awkward specimens with wavy golden hair, freckles galore, and little gaps between their front teeth.

Estrella was a happy, if not homely woman in Beta’s snooty opinion. They usually chatted briefly about the weather and trivial stuff in the mornings when Beta warmed-up her aging Camry for her morning commute. Beta tended to patronize, but good-natured Estrella didn’t really mind because she really liked Mike. Mike really liked Estrella too, but heck, he got along with everybody, much to Beta’s extreme annoyance sometimes.

Mike's faithful 1996 Subaru only had a radio/cassette player and the car was littered with strung-out and chewed-up tapes. Mike was the original owner of the rolling heap and was very proud of it, although he was totally clueless and indifferent about basic auto maintenance. Usually that chore fell to whoever he was married or living with at the time. These days Beta made sure it was tuned-up and serviced on a regular basis. Life's little hassles and responsibilities were usually fleeting breezes for the has-been bestselling writer and new age toastmaster. Passing the delta town of Fairfield, he grooved to his favorite tape at the moment: Tabla and Pedal Steel Guitar Improvisations, 1968. He bopped his hands along the steering wheel and sang along with the droning music.

Here comes the Fraud… lock up your daughters y’all… the Fraud is back in town…

He had already forgotten that it was Beta who coined the perfect title for his next bestseller-to-be: The Fraud. Little did he know that this would cause difficulties with Beta in the not-too distant future.

Here comes the Fraaauuud… Lawdy have MERCY!

Mike rehearsed his ‘confessional’ as he glided north along Interstate 5 through the simmering heat of the Central Valley: an endless farm country moonscape lined by barren brown hills on the hazy western horizon.

I may be a Fraud, but so are YOU!

(pause for laughter and applause)

Sometimes his mind drifted to his latest intellectual obsession: a vague theoretical concept he called the 'Static Sphere'. He had hinted at the idea in Third Eye Patch, his discarded science fiction novel. This so-called Sphere was loosely based on an ancient concept known as the Nous. First proposed by the Pythagorean philosopher Anaxagoras, the Nous was sort of like the stuff of the soul and awareness. Not ‘God’ but perhaps a way to God or whatever awaited everybody at the end of this mortal coil. (Heaven’s Gate or Hades of the Underworld? Nirvana or the Great Black Hole of Eternal Nothingness?)

Mike imagined the Nous as some sort of vague sci-fi self-conscious entity who encircled the planet much like the magnetic field. (His imagination was no doubt inspired by a very mild psychedelic experience when a prankster dosed him with 100 micrograms of LSD.) He often dreamed about the Sphere, although he found it nearly impossible to describe to others—not to mention himself! Sometimes he wondered if it was even possible to behold the phenomenon in ‘normal’ day-to-day consciousness without massive overload and irreversible brain damage. All of this speculation was moot because he had no way of proving that the Sphere even existed. Kind of like UFOs and Bigfoot.

At midday he stopped for lunch in Colusa and decided to check in with Beta. That's when he knew he was really in for it: oho, he somehow managed to forget his phone.

Oh man, I’ve really stepped in it now.

What to do? He couldn’t stop and call her from a pay phone. He didn't even know her cell number, which was on his phone’s memory speed dial. His home phone service was long disconnected, along with the dinosaur cable TV crap nobody even watched anymore. He decided to email Beta later that evening and eat crow.

The miles drifted by. Chico was his destination, being about halfway between San Francisco and Ashland. The landscape south of Chico was mostly rice fields, canals, levees, almond groves, and occasional farmhouses nestled in small stands of cottonwood and eucalyptus. Chico itself was a bustling college town, even during the summer.

Mike spent the night at his old yoga friend Patty D’s empty house, as pre-arranged. (Patty was in Brazil attending a yoga seminar.) He found a beer in her refrigerator and opened up his lap pad on the kitchen table. A blue screen appeared. Uh-oh. He quickly shut down and re-booted. Shit, the lap pad was toast. What did I do?

Aw crud, there was nothing left to do but wait and face the music (Beta’s wrath) on the morrow. Mike sat back with his beer and brooded. Beta would surely be placated with a hefty pay-off from the Rivendell gig.

Beta managed to sneak out of the office by 2:00 PM. The traffic gods were merciful today and she pulled up into the hospice parking lot a little before 3:00 PM. She briefly consulted with Syd, the hospice manager. Syd was a round little man with a ponytail.

Ms. Bronski! Er, I’m very sorry, but Mr. Chen Senior has taken a turn for the worse. I’ve been trying to contact his son all afternoon without success.

Right, he, um, misplaced his phone… can I help?

Yes! The old man has been asking for you.

Is he in extreme pain?

"Mr. Chen Senior is a real trooper who never complains… unfortunately, he’s reached the point that if we increase the dosage… do you understand what I am saying?"

Beta did understand. Yes, of course.

Pop smiled widely when Beta entered his tiny room and sat down in the chair next to the bed. She took his hand, mindful of the morphine drip attached to his arm. Little rubber tubes protruded from his nose and mouth.

The old man’s voice was weak and raspy. I just knew… you would come…

Don’t try to talk, sir. Oops, I mean Pop!

"I need to talk… about my son… he read… my manuscript?"

Beta inwardly sighed. Mr. Chen Senior wrote a ‘novel’ a few years back and recently passed it on to Mike to peddle to publishers. Mike told her that it was a bizarre, unreadable mess, even worse than his own sci-fi epic.

(Get this, Beta, Mike told her after reading a chapter or two. It’s a novel about Karl Marx. Karl is actually a detective, you see. His socialist rants are only a front, his day gig. He solves crimes by night and always lets others take the credit!)

Beta smiled sadly. Mike’s a very slow reader and he needs a little more time.

Time? My son the comedian… you and him get married… soon?

We haven’t set the date yet, Pop. Maybe after I take the Bar Exam later this year.

You—no bullshit?

Beta squeezed Ch’n’s old wrinkled hand. No bullshit, she lied, no bullshit.

The old man gave her a somewhat dubious look that said: Sure, tell me another.

Sing for me… you know the damned song… please.

Even though he was from China, Mr. Chen’s all-time favorite song was the Japanese ‘International Hit’ oldie, Sukiyaki. Beta closed her eyes, cleared her throat, and then half-chanted half-sang the incomprehensible song phonetically. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but the old man beamed. Then she sang another one of his favorites: You’ll Never Walk Alone, even though ‘Pop’ was a longtime atheist.

(Mike’s late mother Linny was a very devout Christian who sadly passed away seven years ago, only six weeks before the PRC allowed Pop to emigrate to the USA.)

Beta’s last song was Remember The Alamo, from an old Donovan album she played a lot at home. Then Syd came in because the old man was in pain.

Like I said, he’s running on fumes, Syd told her outside the room. Maybe Mr. Chen Junior should come in first thing tomorrow, because—

Because maybe it’s time to increase the morphine?

Syd looked into her eyes and only nodded.

I’ll be back tomorrow, Beta said quietly. I must be here for… the end.

We didn’t even have this conversation, Ms. Bronski.

Beta drove back to the City in now-heavy traffic. She was so physically and emotionally drained by the time she got home that she flopped out on the living room sofa and slept like a dead woman for hours. Mike had not called, of course.

(Sometime during the night Mike dreams about the Static Sphere again. Rainbows dance around it in patterns that are not random. God appears in the clouds and wags his finger at him in a scolding gesture. Such a big shot, he says.

I don’t believe in you, Mike mutters snottily. You don’t even exist.

Then why are you trembling?

Touché.

Not only are you a Fraud, but a Phony!

Aw crud, you may as well blast me into nothingness now.

No… I’ve got other plans for you.

That’s what my Ma always used to say!

The sweetest woman in the entire world!

Um, I need to wake up now… must’ve been something I ate.

I’ll be seeing you, sonny boy… yes, I’ll be seeing you one very fine day, indeed.

Get thee behind me, Satan!

The Static Sphere fades away and Mike glides slowly over the dark lands and seas…)

Midnight. Beta was shivering from the cold when she rose up from the couch and decided to make herself a cup of herbal tea. She waited dutifully like a robot for the water to boil as her pc booted up. She finally let out an audible sigh when her GIGGLE® page loaded up. No incoming gigglemail from Mike.

Fuck YOU— Beta hissed her words as she rapidly typed an angry email. You and Playful Buddy too.

Beta shut down and headed upstairs for a shower. She would deal with this happy crap tomorrow. She also needed to see ‘Pop’ and sing for him one last time. She wanted him to go out with a smile on his face and her own smiling face in his very last thoughts.

It was still dark outside when Mike tumbled off the sofa and staggered into the bathroom. After a quick wash, he dutifully locked up the house and hit the road in search of a StartUps® coffee cafe. It was only after a hot cup of mud when he remembered that weird dream about God. Whatever. Just a crazy dream, like so many others.

He made good time out of Chico and watched the sun rise over Siskiyou Pass. Ashland, Oregon and the Valley of the Elves lay dead ahead.

Meanwhile back in San Francisco, Beta was out the door earlier than usual. She wanted to get down to the office a little early and tackle some back work so she could slip out early. Today was the day and she dreaded it.

Once in town, Mike drove directly to the old Ashland Armory, the site of this year’s Rivendell Festival. He was a few hours early, but he wanted to chat with Starbrow and the hobbits. Upon arrival, he found only confusion and disarray. A bunch of people stood around, and many of them looked extremely pissed off. Some of them were unpaid contractors ready to kick some serious ass. One burly guy approached him.

You the guy with the money? We've been waiting for like hours, man.

No, if I was the guy with the money, I wouldn’t be tooling around in an old Subaru with broken air conditioning.

Shit.

A large sign had been nailed to the newly-built stage.

Rivendell Festival Canceled. Ticket Refunds at the Following Outlets—

Canceled? Where is Merry Took?

Upstairs, the pissed-off dude said. ‘Merry Took’ was a small-time independent booking agent and hustler who was born with the rather mundane name of Melissa Greenberg. She was also an old acquaintance of Mike's from the New Age vaudeville circuit. Kinky-haired Melissa was one of those girls who were dogs back in high school but blossomed into fairly attractive women ten years after graduation.

Mike found her on the phone in the armory upstairs office, clearly in meltdown mode.

Please hurry, Beorn! I’ve been left holding the fucking bag here!

Looking up at Mike, she hung up the phone.

Mike! I’ve been trying to reach you and the others! We’ve all been HAD! Haven’t you checked your email?

Sorry, my lap pad crashed. Mike felt like a balloon losing air. What the hell happened, Merry?

"MERRY? My name is Melissa, Mike! FUCK this ‘Merry Took’ bullshit!"

Melissa was not so merry on this fine Middle Earth Morning.

Spill it, Melissa.

Ernie took a powder, that’s what happened! He took everything, Mike! Cleaned us out! Finished! Sucker punched us all!

Mike felt an immediate kick in his guts and he desperately groped for straws.

Has anyone checked the local hospital? Maybe he had an accident or something…

A new voice entered the conversation. A very gruff and grim voice.

Accident? Nay, not YET, anyway!

Mike whirled around as a very large man entered the office. The big man looked very unhappy and there was no place for Mike to hide. Hail, Beorn, he sighed.

Richard ‘Beorn’ Hayden was the original brainchild of the festival before Ernie ‘Starbrow’ conned his way into the action a year or two back. Mike casually knew Beorn of old. A hot-shot real estate agent and wealthy patron of the arts, Beorn liked to saunter around Ashland clad in an Armani suit coat and tie over a brilliant red and green highlander’s kilt. There were stories… Beorn held out his hand and Mike shook it.

Aye, laddie, we are well met, even in this dark hour? Look, I feel personally responsible for Starbrow… this used to be such a very sweet little gig…

How much, Beorn? How much did he hose you for?

"Oh, not that much… like I said, I solely blame myself…"

How fucking MUCH, Big Guy?

$60,000, laddie. Peanuts. We will deal with the traitor Starbrow later, but for the immediate moment, we have sworn solemn blood-oaths and we must honor them.

We?

Indeed. Gird your loins and come wit’ me now! I need your stout companionship.

Er, I’m afraid that my fighting skills are a bit rusty these days.

Nay! Beorn flashed a large wad of traveler’s checks. We must pay off the musicians, carpenters, and electricians. The dwarfs are getting restless.

A line of unpaid workers and contracted vendors waited outside in the parking lot.

Stand wit’ me, lad. These are good local folks for the most part.

Mike sat with Beorn and Melissa at a makeshift table. Beorn wrote the checks, Melissa acted as recorder, and Mike just sat there for moral support. Beorn joked that Mike was his ‘enforcer’, which made him a wee bit nervous.

Receipts, please! Beorn bellowed over and over. Legitimate receipts only!

The last ones to be paid were 'Galadriel's Garter', a red hot Elvish all-girl power trio who rocked out with Moroccan drums, electric bass, and Celtic harp.

At last it was all over. Melissa shut her phone and rose.

Well, it was sure good knowing you boys…

Beorn sighed heavily and gave her a check for $1,000.

Dry your eyes, lass. We’ll find the brigand.

Thanks, Beorn! O-M-G I'm totally cleaned out… I’ll make good, I promise.

I know you will.

After Melissa rode off on her scooter, Mike took a peek at her cheat-sheet and gasped.

Another fifty thousand dollars just NOW?

Aye… Beorn murmured. That includes ten thousand for the Garter Girls. They don’t work cheap and we did sign an ironclad contract! Hmm, I’ll have to flip a few more mortgages downtown to make up the slack, I guess. I’ve done it before!

How MUCH did Ernie snatch, Beorn? The grand fucking total?

I don’t know for sure. Maybe one-eighty thou, hmm, maybe two?

Mike sat back in a daze. Man oh man… What was he going to say to Beta? He wasn't terribly concerned about his lousy ten grand (at least not YET) but what was he going to DO? He needed to raise ten thousand dollars pronto.

Beorn roused him from his stupor and gave him a check, also for one thousand.

Lunch and gas money, my lad. Not to worry, we’ll catch the bloody bastard, even if we have to chase him to the ends of Middle Earth.

Mike’s agitated mind was focused solely on Beta.

Er, I really need to send an email.

Beorn passed his little Monkberry® notebook to Mike.

Have at it, son.

Thank you! Mike navigated to GIGGLE and signed in to gigglemail.

"Hmm, what’s my friggin password again… right, playfulbuddy1@gigglemail!"

A pop-up box from GIGGLE immediately appeared on the screen.

ACCESS IS DENIED UNTIL YOU PURIFY YOUR HEART AND SETTLE UP WITH MACKEY McCOOL©, ACCORDING TO YOUR TERMS OF AGREEMENT!

—LOVE, GIGGLE®

Aw crud, you’ve got to be SHITTING me…

GIGGLE kindly added that the ‘Mackeyville McCool’ extortion worm could only be evicted from his ‘secure’ gigglemail account for a fee of $79.95.

Aw fuggit.

Mackey McCool, eh? Arse buddy to the mighty GIGGLE—foul partners in crime!

Just wait a minute here—this bullshit CAN’T be legal! No WAY!

Beorn shrugged indifferently, took his Monkberry, and rose to his feet.

Come wit’ me, laddie. We need to plot our revenge and the tankards are on me.

Beta managed to escape from the office by three. Unfortunately, she was cornered out in the parking lot by Eric Taylor the Snowman. Ex-lovers are all too often a very bad mix in a working environment. Eric and Beta were no exceptions. The Snowman was currently ramping up his never-ending and rather annoying campaign to win her back at any cost.

Taylor pinched one of his nostrils shut and snorted loudly.

Don’t look now, but it’s snowing, beautiful. Snowing just like a blizzard!

Beta looked at him blankly and said nothing as he gave her conspirator’s wink.

—C’mon, Bronski! Isn’t it high time we buried the hatchet, hmm?

I’m doing just fine where I am, Eric.

Sure you are, he snickered. Hey, admit it—we used to get along pretty good, eh?

Until that night I knocked you unconscious?

Rewind: Eric the Snowman was the stepson of Glenn Furman, the top dog lawyer of the firm. Maybe that’s why he managed to keep his job although he flunked the Bar exam three times running. Despite being a drug-addled loser and a deadweight on the firm, lanky blond Eric was a very good-looking hunk and very persistent as far as Beta was concerned. Their rocky relationship was based primarily on booze, blow, and booty. Things eventually came to a head as they usually do. One rather rowdy night Eric slapped Beta across the face for holding out on him. Big mistake: he didn’t anticipate her return blow: a powerful roundhouse right that knocked him unconsciousness! Beta ignored the throbbing pain from her two broken fingers and finished off the rest of the blow she was selfishly hoarding that night. Eric swore in the morning that he didn’t remember a thing. He tried to laugh off his sore jaw as he drove Beta to the clinic to see to her busted hand.

After her thirty days up on the Russian River, Beta returned to the firm and avoided Taylor as best as she could during the next year. He mostly left her alone at first because all eyes in the firm were keeping a very close eye on her performance. Over time he began to interact with her—professionally, of course. Everything was sweetness and light.

Fast Forward: Beta and Eric’s rather adolescent dance out in the parking lot.

Hey baby, I’m not the same person I used to be back in the good old days.

You mean those good old days before you introduced me to Mike?

Biggest mistake I ever made! C’mon, honey, I gots me a fever.

Been there, done that, one minute man!

Why are you so mean?

You’re right… Beta sighed sadly. Sorry about that last comment. (She wasn’t.)

Beta fumbled with her keys and spilled them onto the pavement. She could almost feel the heat of Eric’s laser eyes on her tush as she bent down to pick them up.

You DO you miss the incredible view, don’t you, Eric?

Beta slid into her Camry and Eric maneuvered himself to get a better view as she swung her legs into the car. Oh shit, grow up, you creep! Beta awkwardly smoothed down her skirt as Eric grinned down at her through the driver side window.

"Oh, I'm growing all alright, say no more, hee-hee-hee!"

Eric paused and made another sniffing sound.

Hey, I’ve got some spare skis, so do give me a call!

Beta slammed the car door, closed her eyes, and ruminated about her morning.

Steady now, steady now.

Supposedly Mike’s lap pad was out of order, according to Rivendell co-promoter Melissa Greenberg, who assured Beta over the phone that Mike’s around here somewhere… he told me he was having, um, electronic communication problems.

Situation normal! So how are things up there in Elf Land?

Oh, right, you probably haven't heard yet. Well, we've run into, er, some problems, and the festival has, er, been canceled.

"Problems? Festival canceled? Wait a minute here, what about the money, our investment? MY investment. Talk to me, Greenberg."

Melissa’s response was a nervous cough. Beta felt a quickening tightness in her gut.

Where is Mike, please?

Melissa bravely held back a sob. Like I said, he's around here somewhere because his car is still parked over by the Armory.

I really need to speak with him.

Um, I’ll check the bars and get back to you.

But that was hours ago and Melissa never called back. Beta opened her eyes, started her car, and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving the leering Snowman behind her. Damn the