The Ostinato Trilogy: A Texan Space Opera

By Greg Alldredge

This is the entire Ostinato Series:

Book one:

Live life on the edge of sanity.

Trevor, an orphan at thirteen, bounced around the Far-east searching for something, trouble was he didn’t understand what. Wracked with insomnia and tired of traveling the world, he’d returned home to be more “normal” and took a job from his older brother, he failed at normal. When world events reignite his pursuit of the inexplicable to a sleepy West Texas town, his world took a turn to the bizarre and unimaginable.

Caught between fantasy and reality, Trevor must face his greatest fears and admit some things can’t be explained. Unseen forces drive him to his destiny. Will Trevor be able to discover what created the Lights in the Night and get the girl, or lose his grip on sanity?

Don’t miss Lights in the Night, the first of the Ostinato series by Greg Alldredge. If you like tales with quirky characters and a metaphysical search for hard to answer questions, then this Speculative Fiction will have you turning the pages! Come check it out!

Book two:

Crystal is back and people have been bad...

Five years after the events leading to the worse party every, 'The New Age Rage' which left thousands of people in the desert without food or water, events have continued to unfold unknown to the sleep little town of Marysfield.

The world governments agreed to bury the facts concerning the events that surrounded Marysfield. The problem with conspiracies to conceal data is, truth never goes away. Information is the most potent weapon in the modern age.

Marysfield had prospered over the previous five years. Trevor’s family had grown, and his business had become enormously profitable. Little did he know dark forces had spent the quiet years gathering strength preparing for the day when they could let their presence be known. A storm was quickly approaching the earth. What would be the government’s response? How will the individuals of the planet react to the upcoming dark days? How will the population survive a “Darkness at Midday?”

Join the inhabitants of the growing town of Marysfield Texas as they deal with an Alien Encounter of unknown origin. Travel around the world with a small group of individuals prepare for the coming darkness. Who will survive?

Book three:

War is coming to Marysfield!

Mister Death has made an ultimatum, the interdimensional sisters must get out of town or else! Crystal and Misty have been so weakened by his clandestine attacks that they have only one place to turn: West Texas!

Thank god for those gun tote’n Texan freedom fighters willing to throw down their lives to protect the universe from the evil megalomaniac Mister Death!

How will the Earth ever survive?

Read the final installment of the Ostinato series to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publish Drive
• Release date: Jun 30, 2018

Book preview

Dream.

Lights in the Night:

In the Beginning.

Everyone in the town called ‘Old Sits’ the crazy old hermit. He was one of those men that by choice decided to live a life of solitude in the open desert.

Yet, this particular night, he was on a mission. Like a forward observer, he was equipped with surveillance equipment more suitable to the NSA or catching cheating spouses. He was dressed in a ghillie suit, the camouflage netting covering his entrenched position. A high-power camera, hyperbolic microphone, and four-inch tripod-mounted telescope were all targeted at the distant southern mountain range under observation.

Any rational observer would recognize someone who was spying on someone or something. He had chosen to position himself here in this very location, watching the same chunk of real estate, for the last four months. Every night from before moonrise to first light, he ate cold spam sandwiches and drank vodka, waiting for anything to happen.

Imagine his surprise when something finally did happen. Not what he had expected, and more importantly not from the direction he anticipated.

While the hermit watched the mountain, the mountain watched Old Sits. In truth, two Air Force security guards sat in a room several miles off, checking everything on twenty-five computer screens. They even had a dossier on the old man up on a screen, waiting for him to cross an imaginary line.

His movements had been tracked from when he left his ‘37 Ford pickup parked in a ravine several hours ago and many miles away, to where he now camped. Old Sits couldn’t be blamed for losing the surveillance war. The U.S. Government came to the table with a massive budget and could afford better spook gear.

As secret bases went, this one was not that secret. The Federal Government would rather not take the time and energy explaining its real purpose.

Target one maintaining distance, one guard reported to the other, who sat there reading a book.

If he comes too close, we will let the field units handle him. Think he is smart enough to know where the line is?

Chuckling, they continued the monotonous sitting and waiting for something to happen, watching one lone surveillant.

Who watches the watchers that are watching the watched?

From the north, in his entrenched bunker, the hermit heard a faint high-pitch buzzing slowly build. Attention and equipment directed to the south, he was forced to leave his position to search behind him. Scanning the sky, he viewed the beautiful Milky Way blazing overhead. He could discern the noise getting louder, a piercing whine.

The two security guards had a different experience. First, the ground vibration sensors started tripping off, like something walking all over the desert.

What is that? Earthquake? Shaken, they scrambled to adjust instruments hoping for a better observation.

Adjust the volume, will ya? That noise is deafening.

The old man had no way to lower the decibels. The buzzing, at a frequency resembling a dentist’s drill, bored into his skull. He covered his ears, trying to block the sound but with no luck. The pain was almost unbearable, causing him to thrash about while trying to escape the pain.

In the bunker, the two muted the sound, but even on the other side of the mountain, the noise penetrated enough to hurt.

Make sure this is recording!

What the hell is that?

Jump on the phone, we need the field units out there.

They were talking to one another, trying to complete everything at once.

Maybe we should help him, he looks like he’s dying!

Not sure we can reach him.

Silence.

Old Sits, unable to hear, blood running down both sides of his face and into his scruffy white beard, stood next to his spider hole, resembling a wraith. The ghillie suit hung like shreds of flesh from his body.

Abruptly a light so brilliant it illuminated the desert valley glided overhead, strafing to the south as if on an attack run—the underground bunker holding the two guards the suggested primary target.

The light flew towards the primary camera, filling the largest monitor. In response, the guards’ natural reaction caused them to duck as it filled the screen.

The view on the display was impressive, but the sheer size of the object caused Old Sits to stumble backward and fall into the trench. He tore off his hood, scrambled up, and ran for his truck.

Silent now, other objects joined the vanguard light. The lights chased the running man. He felt his heavy breathing in his bones. Over the broken terrain, he scrambled the best he could. The adrenaline helped to overcome the effects of the alcohol. He thought, I hope I can make it to the truck without having a heart attack.

The pair of airmen were on the phones, trying to reach anybody. It is not every day you must report a UFO. Those they contacted thought they had lost it.

You think we should send the field unit after him?

The senior guard thought for a second. Not in our procedure. He is outside our perimeter. We let him go. Send it up the chain, they can decide how to deal with him. He never crossed the boundary.

The guards continued to record the series of lights, too many to count. All undulating in brilliance, flashing patterns in unison, as if they were communicating, while they chased the old man out of the valley.

At the onset of the event, they had recorded the time, 2300 hours, in the duty log.

Making it to his truck, Old Sits gasped for breath. Finally, he thought. His luck holding out, the old crate started on the first try. Slamming it into reverse, he backed out of the ravine and began careening down the dirt road, bouncing off the raised dirt sides. The lights continued to chase the old man down the nameless track in the desert. About that time, he soiled himself.

In the bunker, the guards were faring a little better. The distance offered some protection. While not witnessing it in person but via closed-circuit television, they were both still extremely shaken.

With the chain of command notified, the duty of the two airmen was complete. Nothing registered on the radar, the only record of the event was stored on the hard drives which recorded everything the two airmen witnessed.

What the hell were those things?

The other sentry silently shook his head.

The Government would handle the event as efficiently as most Governmental Agencies handled these things. Think of the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Marysfield.

West Texas can be such a beautiful place. That is, if you like the desert, no people, and wind—never forget the wind. Don’t misinterpret me, there are some lovely places in the Big Bend. Regrettably, this story doesn’t take place in one of those. If you can think of the end of the earth, go about five more miles, and you will be getting close to where this story takes place.

At one time the area held more promise; people could always run a ranch. Of course, not everyone thinks of ranching as a glamorous way to make a living. Something about castrating season tends to make the whole cattle business a little too unsophisticated for most people. Although it paid for many families to send their kids to college, those students would unfortunately never come back.

Cattle made some little towns almost a comfortable place to live, if you like small. Remember, it takes a lot of dirt to grow hamburger in its original packaging. A person might love to drive an hour and a half on Friday to head into town; if this sounds appealing, this would be a place for you.

That was then, this is now. Most of the small towns west of the Pecos were persevering despite hard times. The banks hadn’t taken over all the spreads… some were surviving, scraping a living out of the Texas grit and brush. The price of beef was always fickle. The prices for everything else seemed to always go up. It didn’t take much for the little hole-in-the-wall places to begin resembling ghost towns.

Marysfield was one such place. Some might compare it to an inflamed cyst on the backside of a longhorn. To others, a little piece of heaven. Some might have even called it quaint. The major problem was not enough people were in the latter category. The past few years, Marysfield found itself on hard times.

Some would confess that out in the brush country there was a certain kind of peacefulness. The problem was, most days, you would experience more going on out in the wilderness than you would see in the downtown area of Marysfield.

Of course, calling it downtown might be a little generous. Roughly sixteen commercial buildings were spread over four sides of a crossroad with a blinking light to manage traffic. The major metropolitan establishments still available were the Texas Savings and Loan and the Eddington General Store-slash-Hotel, both multi-story buildings. Another corner housed the one and only gas station, with the obligatorily attached barbecue smokehouse.

For some unknown reason, most everyone in Texas understands that the truly best barbecue must be somehow connected to a gas station. This eatery was also the only real social gathering place for about a three-hour drive in any direction.

Another mystery, to people that are from elsewhere, is the propensity for Americans to measure distance in time. In America, when one says three hours away, it is almost a challenge to make it in less time than stated. Speed limits are for suckers and should be viewed as mere suggestions. Hell, when you can leave a built-up area and not run into another person for an hour or so, what is the real difference? There isn’t much difference between going seventy-five miles per hour or a hundred and fifteen miles per hour. Who are you hurting? As long as no cattle wander out into the road, everything should be okay. Of course, that does happen from time to time. It never ends well for the two-thousand-pound cow or the people in the two-thousand-pound car. Instant hamburger.

Back to Marysfield, the last prime real estate, the last corner of the intersection, housed the sheriff’s office and town hall combination. All the other buildings in ‘Down Town’ were boarded up or burnt out. Not that it exhibited the signs of a war zone, more like a boxer that lost a fifteen-round fight, three times in a row, on the same day. You might say the place had fallen on hard times, but that would be derogatory to hard times. Little happened in the area.

Down the road a bit to the south stood a military base. People stationed there never left the base. The business about their goings-on was considered most secret.

Thus, the stage was set for one brisk fall Friday night not too long ago. Things were hopping at Juniors.

Another little-known fact about Texas: A person would be amazed by the number of businesses called ‘Juniors.’ Specifically, barbeque joints.

Three people drinking beer represented a hopping Friday night at Juniors, once you throw in the occasional takeout BBQ order. It was nearing closing time. Tonight that appeared to be about one in the morning as things were rather lifeless in Juniors.

Old Sits burst into the place knocking the little bell on the door off the spring. With a hyperventilating thick Eastern European accent he shouted, You need to come out and see this, there is no way you will believe it, I think we are being invaded!

Now, most nights you need a better story than that to drag hardcore drinkers away from their favorite pastime: drinking beer. Nonetheless, it was not the end of the little drama taking place. After the bell flew off the spring attachment, it proceeded to bounce around a bit before stopping under one of the bar stools.

In series, Old Sits came through the door, shouted his warning, proceeded to vomit his last three meals, projectile style, into the restaurant, and finally dropped like someone shot him in the ass with a tranquilizer gun. Even the hardcore drinkers took notice, one of them even rose long enough to kick the aforementioned body to check if it breathed.

Junior, first to respond with a, What the hells? waved his towel in front of his face. What’s that god awful smell?

A tall skeleton served as Junior’s body, miraculously untouched by the decades of consuming his own BBQ. He moved towards the rag-covered, emaciated body now spread face down in a pool of the contents of his stomach.

Now time could be spent on describing the events as they unfolded inside Juniors, but the inciting incident of this tale happened outside. In the night sky over Marysfield, an awe-inspiring display of flashing lights took place.

At the same time, a tall young man named Billy stood pumping gas into his white F150. He had a cappuccino complexion and a handsome face featuring an aquiline nose, his shaggy hair was pulled back into a man bun. The Ford glowed like gold from the lights in the sky, as if it had been infused with the energy the lights emitted.

All this would have gone completely unnoticed and undocumented if Billy and Ellie had not been out late cuddling. He needed to take the rather flushed-faced Ellie home before they got caught and she got a beating. Teens they were, of course. Both out when they were supposed to be home. That is a side of this story for later.

Billy and Ellie were in a minor state of shock, but much better off than the fellow lying in his own vomit. Billy possessed the presence of mind to film the lights. Most can appreciate people, especially teens, are never without their smartphones—even in Podunk little towns in West Texas. Most of the hayseed towns were within cell coverage.

Now if you asked Ellie’s father what he thought of Billy, you would have gotten a string of obscenities that would make a Marine proud. Ellie’s dad would be wrong about Billy. He enjoyed more foresight than many kids his age, not sending the film straight out over the internet and into everyone’s clutches free of charge. Billy emailed clips to a few news agencies, trying to sell the footage.

Rather than go into the list of fine, outstanding media establishments that turned Billy down, we will jump to the semi-respectable—some might say rag—British media company that bought his video. Of course, they put his pictures up on their website and in their newspaper on their front-page, bottom right corner. The story lost the headline to a pair of conjoined twins. The tabloid saved the video for some unknown reason.

A couple of other papers ran the story, but it was never headline news. No one was concerned about West Texas, after all. Respectable news organizations never catered much to the UFO crowd.

Now, this is where the story gets interesting.

Barney and Trevor.

Half the world away from West Texas, an office building sat in downtown London (with a view of the Thames, if you must know). One of these floors held the suite of one Barnabas Pettymore Swindells, a real estate developer. More to the point, Barnabas was for anything that made his family’s fortune grow.

Hair so black it radiated a blue sheen, just a bit of gray at the temples, framed his square head. Short sideburns led to a clean-shaven face. He was built like a professional wrestler. A sizable man at six-five, most found him imposing, understandable given his personality.

He understood the need to be the one in charge, never afraid to use his size to intimidate anyone he thought he might be able to. His size and reputation led to him being called a tad rough around the edges. Sharp, coarse, and deadly were some of the polite words used to describe him.

Always looking to keep his family’s name safe and build his small but growing empire, he was prepared to use every means necessary to achieve his goals. He happened to be on the phone when his younger brother, Trevor, burst into the room.

Trevor, the yin to Barnabas’s yang, was slender and blond with almost androgynous features. People called him soft, so he attempted to look rugged, and conceal his weak jaw, with a patchy unkempt beard.

At five-foot-ten, he was much shorter than his brother. He had a reputation for being a little too forgiving when it came to business, and for being soft in the head as well. He was known for seeking a myriad of ways to find himself, always chasing some dream over the horizon.

The interruption irritated Barnabas. For a moment, he thought about how he would love to seize his younger brother’s neck with a satisfying firm grip and twist a bit. Luckily his softer nature concerning his brother prevailed. Without missing a beat, Barnabas kept listening to the phone while motioning to Trevor to be quiet and sit down. Of course, Trevor could not be contained by such niceties and needing a drink, he went for the bar.

Still engaged, Barnabas got to the point in his phone conversation where he found a burning desire to speak. His face at one moment was flush with anger and blanched with uneasiness. Unable to control himself any longer, he spoke with a clear firm voice that held back all his genuine emotions.

Listen, you little prick! You uphold your end of the contract, or I will boil your bollocks and feed them to my dogs. You’ll be lucky if I remove them first! Slamming down the phone, he allowed a brief moment of anger and fear to sweep over his face.

Of course, his younger brother was too excited to keep his tongue any longer. He slapped his paper down on the table with a flourish, pointing to what he thought urgent. Barney! Here, look at this, this is outstanding!

Barnabas glanced at the headline, took the drink from Trevor’s hand, and took a sip before answering, Manchester United won again? Hardly enough for me to get a chubby over… How many times do I need to remind you not to call me Barney? You make me sound like a flippin’ brain-dead purple dinosaur.

Barnabas had always been Barney to Trevor. There were enough years between them that Barney grew up being the older brother most young boys would kill for. Barnabas always wanted to be named after the saint or something majestic.

Clearly, he was named after the vampire from the sixties soap opera. How can a kid grow up normal when his mates all realized he was named after a character on the television? Their mother, called one of those ‘Hippies’ throughout her life up until her death in the early nineties, loved Dark Shadows. Parents can be so mean…

Naturally, Barney learned to fight and protect himself at an early age. So he went by Barney… until the beginning of the nineties. About that time, someone came up with the bright idea to name a children’s show… Barney. This was of course before Barney had earned most of his intimidating reputation for mayhem.

Some of his less couth co-workers started to sing the Barney song when he came around. This led to some, late-night confrontations where Barney made it very clear how much he hated that song, typically with some small amount of violence thrown in to keep the lesson fresh in everyone’s mind.

Thus, Barney became Barnabas once again. A person, first feared for size, earned the reputation that he was willing to resort to violence to prove his point.

Exasperated, Trevor let out a long sigh and almost whined, Barnabas… He flipped the paper to show the bottom of the page.

Searching way down at the bottom for a small picture and story, he pointed again. No, here: at this! Trevor happened to be pointing at the story about the unexplainable lights in the night sky over a small town in the United States, with Billy’s pictures that had been sold for little more than beer money.

Barnabas glanced a moment at the picture and read the storyline before blurting out, Trevor how in the flying nine hells is that going to do anything for us?

Trevor took the drink from Barnabas’s hand and took a swig, facing him across the desk before continuing. You are always telling me to take my head out of the clouds, well… Listen, all these old hippies are trying to find themselves. They search so hard to find anything they can believe in. Look at the New Age places around the Southwest United States. Sedona, Taos, anywhere people think they can find spiritual meaning, they will migrate to. You know what happens when old people with money to spend travel? They spend said money.

Barnabas slowly shook his head. You boil my piss… What do you know about… where is this? The mention of money to be made grabbed his attention.

Trevor answered as if his life depended on it, Texas.

Right, Texas. Isn’t there still problems with Indians or Mexicans or something?

Not for about two hundred years… Listen, this might be a gold mine waiting to happen. We swoop in, buy up land around the area, hype the hell out of this UFO thing, who knows, maybe even link in some other shite. This place is even near the lay lines. Trevor prepared his phone to show off a map of questionable veracity.

Barnabas shook his head. Trevor you need to pull your head out of your… the clouds…

Trevor continued his sales pitch, These numbers don’t lie. Over thirty percent of Americans believe in ghosts, for Christ’s sake. Forty-five percent of them think E-bloody-T has visited us. Even the people running to be their President are talking about flippin’ aliens. You can’t make this shite up. This is from the country that is supposed to be the world leader. They are all turning whack-a-doodle.

Barnabas studied the map for a moment before asking, How much you think we can make?

Trevor cocked his head, thinking he had an in, and paused a moment to make his sale. Realistically, the sky is the limit. All I need is a couple of guys to go with me out to this little town. Buy up some of the property cheap, hype the whole thing and flip the lot of it.

Barnabas finally grunted an agreement and let Trevor loose upon the world. May the gods have mercy on their souls.

With that, the fate of two countries an ocean apart was once again intertwined.

Fright Flight.

A thirteen-year-old boy rode his bike down a west London street. Not one of the fancy neighborhoods, but welcoming and safe enough. His father had died in an accident several months before. An accountant, he had provided a safe environment for his wife and sons to grow up in, if not an exciting lifestyle.

For the first time since his father’s death in a train derailment, the boy was happy. He’d just asked his first girl out. Unlike his brother, he always found it difficult to talk to girls. Today he got up enough nerve to walk right up to Betty Longenacher and stand next to her until she asked him out. That was not how he remembered it, but at the time it didn’t matter.

On top of the world, he rode through the streets. It was a warm June day, and it seemed things could not get better.

Arriving home, he jumped off his bike as he skidded behind his mother’s car, then he bounded up the steps and through the front door.

Mum, he called out as he headed for the kitchen and the fridge. It was snack time, but he was unable to find what he wanted. Mum, there any milk? Still, no answer.

Dropping his bookbag on the countertop, he searched the lower level of the house, calling, Mum? every so often.

Running into the small backyard, he checked the shed and the garden—Father’s favorite hideout, his little place he would go and escape from the stress of his job. Not finding her outside, he ran back into the house and started upstairs.

Still not getting a reply, he became pensive, slowing as he climbed the stairs. His calls quieter in case she was asleep, knowing she cried herself to sleep most nights.

Now even softer, Mum? Still, no answer. Cautiously he opened the door to her bedroom. He still smelled his father’s scent in the room. The bed was made, freshly folded clothes were laid out on top of it.

Moving to the bathroom door, he tapped and gave a quiet, Mum? After no answer, he cracked the door open and saw his mother lying naked in the tub. Mum?

She seemed peaceful, asleep. Eventually, he spotted the broken wine glass on the floor next to her hand.

The plane suddenly dropped from turbulence. Trevor jolted awake, grabbing the armrest of his business class seat. In a row alone, it took a moment for him to recover the awareness of his location.

He took a handkerchief from an inside coat pocket and wiped his eyes. That dream always made him emotional. Damned if his mother didn’t go and die on that day. He thought, Never did go out with Betty. I wonder where she is now?

Soon afterward, he had moved in with Barney. Barney had always been the best older brother, he had been right out of college and twenty-three at the time. Just starting his life, but damned sure not to let his little brother fall into the system. Barney did his best to finish raising Trevor.

The coroner’s inquest ruled their mother’s death an accidental overdose. A deadly combination of wine and sleeping pills. Trevor, always the romantic, told himself she died of a broken heart, she couldn’t cope with the death of her husband. Some people just aren’t meant to be alone.

Barney told himself she was weak, deciding to never let anyone so close to him again. It took all his strength to keep the pain hidden from Trevor. A lesser man would’ve started his own self-medication, but Barney needed to be strong, for Trevor’s sake.

Barney took the little piece of land and the life insurance and liquidated it all. He kept Trevor in school, and that was the beginning of their business.

The first ten years were hard. More than a few times, Barney played fast and loose with the law. Clever, he never let the crimes take place near him, always keeping a safe distance between himself and the illegal acts. After twenty years, he went legit. He had his connections, and the police still questioned him from time to time, but for the most part, he stayed clean.

Never having gone as far as murder, Barney only claimed busted fingers and kneecaps back in the day. Now his survival relied on his reputation and his associates. It was well known that if he needed something done, while not in the racket, he had the ability to make a phone call—putting him promptly in touch with several crime organizations.

Trevor knew nothing of this. The memory of his mother—dead, nude, in the tub—walloped him. He worked hard to leave High School at the bottom of his class, tanking his A Levels. It was recommended he take some time off before college.

He headed off to find answers. The first few years he wandered the subcontinent of India. He found nothing in that brand of spirituality to help ease his pain. Drifting east, he skirted the more dangerous countries, but still found nothing to answer the questions plaguing him. Roaming through China, he spoke to every wise man available, until he found himself in Tibet. Still, no answers.

After exploring Asia, he came home to England where Barney had kept the business running well and, more important for their future, legal. Trevor cleaned himself up and started working with Barney, learning the ropes. Even as he slipped on an air of respectability, he still searched for answers.

When not at work, Trevor read books and combed the internet, searching for any hint that there might be something to the supernatural. He was infatuated with ghosts and spirits. Any avenue he thought might lead him through his unanswered questions, he would seek out and study. After seeing so many false stories, his research had turned him into a skeptic, often debunking promising leads from the comfort of his flat.

The sad thing was, Trevor didn’t even understand the questions he asked or how to put them into words. He just knew there was an empty hole his mother had once filled. In one way or another, he had searched for the last two and a half decades, since his mother’s death, not knowing what he was actually searching for.

On the plane, he composed himself by ordering a double scotch. He never found the urge to self-medicate with anything harder than alcohol and occasionally a little weed. His mother’s death showed him the dangers of prescription drugs, and he took that to mean all drugs.

Thinking, he sipped his drink in silence. What the hell do I have to do to stop having this nightmare? Perhaps that’s what he was searching for. A restful night’s sleep. Currently he walked through life in a constant state of exhaustion, staying up until he would drop off due to fatigue. Only to repeat the dream again, which would wake him up. He rarely got more than a few hours’ sleep a night.

Glancing at his wristwatch, he realized he’d dropped off for more than a few hours. Maybe I’m getting better? Maybe one day I will be able to lead a normal life. He finished the drink and exhaled a soft sigh. Stop being such a wanker.

He often wondered how long a person needed to go without sleep before they started hallucinating. He had read once it was over ninety-six hours, depending on the person. There were times he got so little sleep, he questioned if what he saw was real, lucid dream, or a waking dream. How can a person tell what is real?

The flight had a couple of hours till landing, so now was an appropriate time to start cleaning up. He got up to wake his two traveling companions.

A long drive awaited them.

A Chance Encounter.

These were the circumstances that brought Trevor and his two associates to the El Paso International Airport. For most, El Paso proper would not be considered a huge city, but for the Southwest United States, it was extensive. When including the surrounding area of two states and two countries, there were two-point-seven million people working and living there.

Trevor would never be mistaken for an enormous man. Wiry might be a better term to describe him. When standing next to Barney, a person might question the authenticity of the claims of parentage for the two brothers. So unalike were they, a person would find it hard to believe them friends, let alone brothers.

In comparison, Trevor’s two traveling companions were gigantic. Lacking necks, their heads seemed to meld into their shoulders. The two of them standing shoulder to shoulder seemed an insurmountable wall of flesh.

Barnabas knew Trevor’s ability to find trouble in the most unlikely of places, so he sent two of his ‘fixers’ with him. Not that these men had disposed of bodies in the past, but they looked like they could, and would if needed. Adding to their supposed mystery, they rarely spoke aloud. More often than not, they stood still and observed the events unfolding around them, waiting to spring into action as needed.

Long ago, Barney took to calling them Cuff and Link. First in jest, but since the two men never complained, the names stuck. And so that is how they became Mister Cuff and Mister Link.

Trevor made all the travel arrangements. The trek from London to the wide-open spaces of Texas for three was a huge trip. He’d reserved a full-sized SUV—considering the size of the two men traveling with him and their luggage, it was needed. They encountered their first run-in with bad luck at the rental car counter.

Cuff presented the paperwork with all the information for their rental car while Trevor and Link waited. They didn’t need to wait long. Cuff came walking back with an abnormal, for him at least, face full of dejection. He offered the paper to Trevor, and no keys.

So Trevor took matters into his own hands, grabbed the paper, and headed towards the counter with his biggest smile and smoothest voice ready to use.

At the counter, the saleslady said, How may I help you? She gave him the biggest smile of her own. Her West Texas drawl seemed to take Trevor aback for a moment.

My friend tells me there is no SUV for us. There must be some mistake, we have a reservation. Trevor tried to out-charm the delightful young lady at the counter.

Aw, bless his heart, I wasn’t sure he understood me. She leaned over and whispered to Trevor as a co-conspirator, Is your friend deaf? He never said a word, only growled. It was kinda cute. She smiled even bigger. Glancing over Trevor’s shoulder, she fluttered a little finger-wave to Cuff and Link. They did nothing but give each other a side-glance that smelled of apprehension.

No. He just doesn’t say much— Trevor started to explain but got cut off by the lady.

Oooo, the strong silent type. That’s a pity if he has as smooth a voice as yours. You three in town long? Giving him a quick little wink, she played his game, and she was winning.

No listen, listen, we just want our SUV so we can get on the road, Trevor stammered, losing all momentum.

Honey, as I told your friend, I am sorry there are no SUVs available at this time. There is a comic convention in town, and all the vehicles are booked. Some have not been turned in on time. I’ve been calling just everywhere trying to find you something before you arrived, and there is nothing, I swear. She held up her left hand and placed her right hand on an imaginary Bible.

This battle lost, Trevor tried for anything. This is Texas, you got a horse or something? Pure sarcasm but the woman didn’t bite.

No, sugar, this here, this is the city, if you want a horse you gotta go out to the country.

To the trained ear, the woman’s drawl was getting thicker, almost like honey dripping off her tongue. At that moment, the computer dinged.

Aw, sweetie, today must be your lucky day. I just got a message, a car is coming in now. Tell you what, I will give you the first day free, for all your trouble.

By this time, Trevor would’ve taken anything to escape the airport, as his trip was not beginning as expected. We will take whatever we can get. I only have so much life, and I feel like I have lost too much of it here.

The lady had already started his paperwork. Pleased with herself for fixing the problem, anyone watching would’ve thought she was flirting with Trevor. If a person were eavesdropping, they could’ve heard her say, Isn’t that sweet, as she handed the keys and paperwork over to him, oblivious to the insult.

Link and Cuff observed the whole event transpire. Only once did Cuff lean over and whisper something to Link, to which Link nodded once in agreement.

Trevor strutted up to the pair, like Wellington after Waterloo. That is how it is done! Tossing the keys to Link, he headed towards the door. Cuff and Link smiled at one another, and grabbing the luggage, they followed Trevor to the awaiting lime green Chevy Spark.

This is how they rolled into town: The two massive men crammed shoulder to shoulder into the front seats of a way too small car, with Trevor mushed into the back. They pulled up in front of the only lodgings for let in town, at the very moment Trevor’s body could not handle it anymore.

Confined in the way-too-cramped back seat of that car, his body rebelled. A monster cramp developed in his lower leg. Yelling in pain, he tried to birth himself from the car while it rolled to a stop.

It was a rocky-sounding comedy of errors. The overly large men tried to extricate themselves from the front seats, while Trevor tried to get out before they had exited. Still screaming in pain, the two giants tried to help him escape.

As luck would have it, Trevor sprawled at Crystal’s feet. She had witnessed the whole affair with an expression of worry plastered on her face, while she fought hard not to burst into outright laughter.

Crystal wanted to help; she even made a couple of false starts towards helping. But she had to give up when she met with the impenetrable wall of meat that was the backs of the two immense men stammering and sputtering over the yelling Trevor.

Ultimately Cuff and Link helped Trevor stand. By that time Crystal, convinced he was all right, continued on her way. She left Trevor in contemplation, as her platinum-hair and cinnamon body sashayed across the street, past the bank, and into one of the storefronts.

Cuff and Link watched Trevor watch Crystal. They glanced at one another, then back at Trevor. Both in unison cleared their throats.

Trevor gave them a stare dripping with sarcasm, and he raised one eyebrow before speaking. Alright, alright, I get it. Go and take the bags to the rooms.

He took one last longing gape down the empty street in the direction Crystal had disappeared. Then he made a feeble attempt to push the two much larger men with the luggage up the steps and into the lobby of the Eddington General Store-slash-Hotel.

Immediately they were greeted by an Asian accented, Howdy, pardners, from behind the counter. Trevor did not notice who was speaking. For a moment, he thought he might be hearing things, then he heard the tinkling of spurs walking on a wood floor. The two gob-smacked giants just stood there as he struggled to push his way between them.

He was head and shoulders above a diminutive sexagenarian sporting a hat much too enormous for her head, complete with chaps, boots, and spurs—dressed as if strolling out of a 1920s Tom Mix Western.

The first to gather some semblance of composure, Trevor stumbled out an, I beg your pardon? Cuff and Link were, needless to say, mute on the subject.

The tiny woman again said, Howdy, pardner! still with a thick Chinese accent, followed up with a, How can I help ya? Seein’ the bags I’ma thinkin’ ya are lookin’ for a room. With this, the woman motioned to the two statues that were Cuff and Link standing with mouths ajar.

For a second Trevor forgot why they were there but recovered and mumbled, We’ve a reservation. He pulled a confirmation printout from his back pocket and handed it to the woman.

With gusto, she grabbed it. Well, why didn’ ya say so? She sauntered behind the counter to a computer made to replicate an 1800s cash register and spent a few moments getting them all checked in. Yep, I got ya room right here and ready for ya.

She slammed her hand down on a bell with what seemed like a deafening ring, not once but three times. She slid three credit card keys into a small folder.

Wi-Fi password is in the inside. Handing over the keys and paperwork, she then directed them to the stairs.

To satisfy Trevor’s curiosity, he peeked over the counter and saw the woman was standing on a box to reach the register. Grabbing the paperwork and keys, he headed to the stairs but stopped up short. You said room?

The ten-gallon hat slowly rose up and down. Yes, room, was her reply, with two beds.

No, it is supposed to be room-suh, three of them. I have a reservation right there, he demanded, pointing to the paper in her hand.

The hat moved a bit more. Mister this right here says room. She pointed to the place on the reservation where it clearly stated one room, two beds. Before you ask, we got no more rooms, we full up. She rang the bell three more times.

An expression of utter shock and disbelief washed over Trevor’s face. Madam, will you please look at the size of my traveling companions. How can we conceivably fit into two beds?

A young teen boy with a purple faux-hawk came out of a backroom, headphones on and blaring some speed-death-metal rock.

The woman reached over and patted his hand slipping from one accent to another, Honey, you be all right, they queen sized beds.

Like a grandmother, she smiled and added, Another room opens up, it is yours. I promise.

The Next British Evasion.

After the kerfuffle with the lack of rooms, Trevor, with Cuff and Link in tow, headed across the street to Juniors. After all, it was the only place to eat and grab a beer within a hundred and fifty miles. The choice was obvious.

Cuff and Link might have shared a lot in common with Junior if either of the three said more than two or three words… ever. Which some might think made for difficult ordering, but it was interesting to watch, for anyone who cared to take the time to study them.

With Trevor interpreting, the three Brits found themselves sitting at the bar their first night in town. In front of each sat a bottle of Shiner pale ale and a plate full of smoked meats, ready to clog the hardiest of arteries. Accompanied by the obligatory sides of bar-b-que beans and potato salad, all compartmentalized on a paper plate. Banana pudding with Nilla wafers on standby for dessert.

After having sent Cuff and Link on their way, Trevor drank a few more Shiners. The alcohol had the desired effect of relaxing him into the new atmosphere. He felt he deserved it after a long day of traveling. The stress of the combined misadventures getting to this little watering hole in the middle of nowhere left him ready to get more than slightly pissed.

Two of the town’s professional drinkers were sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, and eyeing Trevor. Finally, Trevor rustled up the nerve to strike up a conversation. You two live here long?

It sounded like a repulsive chat-up line, but he needed to find some information and had to start the conversation somehow.

The two drunks nudged each other and laughed. One said, All our lives. You’re not from around here, are ya, mister?

On the heels of his friend, the other said, Born and bred right here in the county. I only left in seventy-two when Uncle Sam gave me a summer holiday in Saigon.

Back to the other, I went to San Diego once, didn’t like it much.

The evening’s heavy drinking and debauchery was underway.

Trevor first learned their names. Butch was the Vietnam Vet. In his mid-sixties, his skin was the texture of dried leather that someone wadded up and threw in a trashcan. Too many years in the sun had taken its toll on him. Silver-haired, he was old before his time, and his rhinophyma gave him a resemblance to W. C. Fields or the red-nosed-reindeer.

His drinking partner was named Casey. Trevor seemed to think