Give me Mercia

By Walter Eastwood

The first man Athelstan kills is trying to kill him. In 48 hours after his arrival in the past he has been forced to kill more than two dozen men who is on the staff of Hogs Breath thane. He himself soon dies as his daughter looks on. In the years to follow Hogs Breath becomes the epicenter of British economic life. Even a king from distant lands are defeated by the magician king, as people who are un sure how he is able to disarm and entire army with just Forwin at his side.

It all ends some twenty years later as Athelstan and Aelic along with their children gather inside the container for a group hug.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098318932

Book preview

hole!

Bob

After a lousy performance and a missed putt, I was on my way home. Along the way I found myself in the booze department of BJ’s, reaching for a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich Unique Solera Reserve, A harmonious whisky that gets richer and more complex every year. It’s my favorite whiskey, to which I was introduced by a pipefitter long ago in another lifetime.

I had assigned this man and his partner to repair a leak in a buried water line on Christmas Day in the freezing cold somewhere in the northern-Midwest winter regions.

As the youngest supervisor in the maintenance department, I was assigned the Christmas Day shift. During the shift’s walk-around, I was checking the progress of the many crews I managed, making notes in a service log as to what stage their tasks were in, if any had been completed, or if anyone needed help or additional equipment. It was when I came upon Scotty and Bud that my indoctrination into the real world of employee relations took place.

Scotty was, well, a Scot, Bud was the funniest man alive, who had a way of conveying tales of his life that left you doubled up with laughter. Scotty, five foot ten and weighing in at 135 pounds and Bud, five foot two and nearly 330 pounds, and were the perfect working pair. As pipe fitters, Scotty would prep and align the fittings, then Bud would use his huge mass to tighten the fitted pipes using two pipe-wrenches that I had difficulty lifting.

On one of my daily inspections, I came across my pipefitters at the bottom of large hole that had been excavated to create a workable area to perform the necessary fix. Surrounded by a snow berm, with an inner circle of steamy earth from escaping steam, they were repairing a line that fed a part of the plant where paper products were manufactured. A forty-pound steam line had burst and shut the production lines down in C&C. When I looked in the hole, they were sharing a bottle of scotch. I barked, What the fuck are you doing? You can’t drink on the job!

To which Scotty replied in his thick brogue, You can come down here and drink with us or get the fuck out of here. It’s Christmas, and this is what I do on Christmas.

That was also my introduction to Glenfiddich. So, to make sure they didn’t get too drunk, you know, safety first, I took my first and fair share of shots. I thereby was cutting down the amount they drank by a third, or nearly a third. That turned out to be one of my best Christmas memories. And it makes sense, since I have worked every single holiday my entire career.

After that short detour to BJ’s, I would return home, drown myself in that delightful glow you get with a double and a half shot of the good stuff. Scotch is always good after my usual round of subpar golf, and I don’t mean my score. To be sure, my poor play at the end of this latest round was easily blamed on that overdressed fella on the thirteenth hole. The bad scoring on the previous twelve holes was because Stan talks constantly while I’m trying to putt. Just call me Trump; I’m blameless.

Anyway, I was at BJ’s because from the golf course it requires three left turns to get to ABC Liquors, where I would get twenty-year-old Glenfiddich, which means crossing traffic three times, and an old person in a very large sedan does not like crossing traffic. So, after four right turns I was at BJ’s. That’s where I get my fifteen-year-old Fiddich instead. Truthfully, after one shot, they taste pretty much the same.

Over my shoulder I heard, Glenfiddich is the main reason you were chosen! Turning to face the speaker, who sounded like the pest from my past, I saw Bob. Oh, you again. Chosen for what? I asked. And what on earth can my drinking a good scotch have to do with anything?

Speaking in a tone that implied this was something everybody knows, he said, When you buy Glenfiddich, a brief history lesson comes with it in the form of a small folded four-page note. That indicated to the transference council that you have, at the very least, some knowledge of scotch history, which, of course, includes some bits of old English history. Ergo, you fit into the extremely complicated matrix needed for transference.

In a fugue, I muttered, Really?

Without pause he went on to say, We really need to finish our conversation. Time is of the essence. (later, I was to understand that after what this was all about, by time he meant I wasn’t long for this world.)

What do you need from me, and what, may I ask, is transference?

Not answering my query, he rattled on. I will need your undivided attention for the next few hours.

Fine, maybe if we go to a bar and sit, we’ll talk.

Bob said, How’s about we go to my place, where we won’t be interrupted?

Not on your life. We’ll go to mine, where I’ll have some semblance of control.

Shall I follow?

By all means.

As if it were a second thought, he said, Then we’ll discuss the rest of your life.

Really, Bob, don’t think that’s going to be a very long discussion.

But as he later explained to me, was born 111 years before I documented this journal. He looked to be in his forties, quite tall, quite handsome, and completely at ease in his skin.

Yeah, I know, 111 and looked forty. Freaky. He was also a self-assured individual who possessed eyes you wanted to trust.

Bob told me that he’d returned from his transference—a term still unexplained to me—twenty years before. Returned to his new life as a twenty-year-old and prepared for this assignment, which only a few are invited to undertake. Most returnees come back and finish out their lives in their new bodies as if nothing had happened. Which was to locate me and extend to me the next task in a series of tasks that continued what must be an External Guidance Council agenda. All of which, he promised, would be explained to me at some point in our relationship.

Bob returned from his journey where 241 years in the past he was a spy for the British, or so the British assumed. He secretly was working for the Continental Army and tasked with reporting the movements of the British Army. The information he gathered was then passed to George Washington himself.

He went by the name of John Andre, an artist of some renown. Never at risk of discovery and never exposed to the rigors of war, he maintained his subterfuge with impunity. He enjoyed his stay in the past and with his freedom to move among the British elite, he had acquired many female friends, mostly wives of military captains, colonels, and a few generals.

Much of his pillow talk intelligence was passed to couriers who in turn passed it on to his new friend Benjamin Tallmadge, whom he’d met at a local tavern. Through Tallmadge, it was then relayed to General Washington, who then utilized the information to put a hurt on the British movements. These messages were vital to Washington’s success. To the total surprise of many, they also revealed the treachery of Benedict Arnold.

What about the rest of my life? I asked.

He said, I’d like you to take a small diversion from your life and expand your horizons just a tad.

How much expanding could I possibly do? I’m seventy-one years old with very few horizons ahead of me.

Same thought I had so many years ago!

You know what, Bob, I think you might be a little daft.

As if I had said nothing, Bob went on to explain in the past there were a select group of step-ins, as he called them. He went on to describe how these step-ins would adjust events, or more correctly, properly align living people’s memories. After all, history is a collection of memories. Is it not? The External Guidance Council preordained plans were needed to be realigned.

"You must understand that, in the beginning, man’s history was passed on by word of mouth. Memories changed. But because many words were misspoken as the tales went from history teller to history teller, they had little influence on future events. With the advent of the written word, the memories became permanent. In this form any errant memories could influence the workings of the world toward a misalignment with the wishes of the EGC.

These changed memories affected future events. When, in their post-event reviews or tracking, errors were found, step-ins were inserted to spend no more than twenty years in an era where memory alterations were necessary to make them fit into future iterations."

In the past, these step-ins, using the tools that had been provided them, would move the human experience forward. In effect, they altered the future. For example, Imhotep, a step-in. Einstein, a step-in. And Leonardo Da Vinci, to name a few notables. There were painters, there were mathematicians, and there were scores of individuals you would never have never heard of. People who were essential in propelling the advancement of the species toward the ultimate desired ends.

Then he stopped for a moment and stared at me so intensely I nearly looked away. You are the person who is next needed. You are going to manifest the change to right the rail. You are to be—

You sound a little whacked, Bob. It’s going to take a lot more explaining maybe a few more jiggers of scotch before I will, maybe come to terms with this bullshit you’re spewing.

Later, as we were sitting at my dining room table, two iced-filled glasses topped off with two jiggers of my newly acquired Glenfiddich Unique Solera Reserve that gets richer and more complex every year, we began to discuss what I thought were to be the few remaining years of my life.

Bob started again. I’m one hundred eleven years old. I’m here to offer you an opportunity to be number ten in the transference process.

Finally, he’s going to give me a definitive explanation.

Transference is a process in which individuals are sent to conflicted time periods in which memories were lost, and subsequently, the future veered off to the right, let’s say. And because of those errors made many centuries ago, there now sits an idiot as your president. With him in office the future will take a devastating turn to ruin. You are needed to go back to a time where these memories need to be tweaked. By ‘tweaked,’ I mean that you should go back to a designated time in the past, and while you are there, you will kill a few hundred people, marry a woman of prominence, kill her father, and become king, not necessarily in that order. Not so difficult a task.

Wait! Kill, marry, and become king? Pass me the bottle and then, as Desi would say, ‘You got some ’splainin’ to do.’

Yes. And you need to sire a few children in the process. Bob was ridiculously calm about this whole thing.

Hold it, Bob. Start with the one-hundred-eleven-year-old shit, would you? Sire a few children? Bob, I’m in my seventies. My studly days are over, don’t you think?

Bob carried on quite patiently. "Listen, we want you to go into the past, make some changes, then after twenty years, return to this time and continue your life. Of course, you’ll do so under a new identity because nobody you know will recognize you due to the effects of transference.

These friends will have no clue that you are you. They will have no understanding of who, or for that matter what, you are. Through a second transference, you will again have become younger. You’ll have the body of an eighteen-year-old and the benefit of a ninety-year-old mind with a few bucks in your pocket to see you through till your departure into the next world. Shrugging, he explained, That’s how it works.

You’re telling me that I’ll be eighteen more than once?

That’s what I mean by the ‘effects’ of transference: You’ll come back younger than you are now, younger than you are to be in the past and prettier.

I of course replied, Bob I think I have a few more rounds of golf in me, and maybe, just maybe I’ll get that score that will match my age.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-six what?

Twenty-six rounds of golf left.

What? I only have twenty-six rounds left in my entire life. Am I going to die?

As if in thought, he said, You play two rounds a week, so ninety days divided by seven equals twelve point two, times two, equals roughly twenty-six rounds.

I just stared at Bob.

While I was still processing this he added, almost as an afterthought, "By the way, there is a clause in the book of memory changes that when we approach a candidate and said candidate refuses to participate in this memory readjustment of history, they must, of course, be eliminated.

Explaining that, There was a time when we would inject a memory stop solution directly into their brains. But after some time, which varied with individuals, they would recall everything. Most could not wait to expose us to the world. No one ever believed them of course, but we could not take the chance that someone would take them seriously and follow up. So, for that reason, policies have changed. Now, even with the memory wipe, you will be terminated in ninety days—well more like eighty-nine and a quarter. I must tell you that you are the first to be subject to these new terms, sorry. I tell you what, I’ll give you an extra day. On me

Bob said something about a crumbling cookie, to which I replied, Fuck you, Bob. I never opted in. You slithered into my life and hit me with some bullshit time travel thing that I’m not sure is even real.

"You have ninety-one days to live in this timeline. What I’m offering you is the opportunity to live possibly an additional hundred years or so, depending on improvements in medicine and maybe some good luck on your part. A new you in this time.

I must stress that if you opt out of this proposal, your memory of our meeting will be wiped, and all knowledge of our conversation will have been purged. You will live another ninety-one days, and then cease to be."

Jesus Christ, Bob, that’s very little information to go on don’t you think?

Look at the life you’ve lived so far, Bob said. You have accomplished many things, none of which stands out as important—sorry, my opinion. You have traveled some, loved some, been responsible for the birth of a few children but never provided society with a payback. This is your chance to do something important!

"What about that blind renal test I participated in, does that not mean anything? I helped science for God’s sake… Okay, assuming I decide to do this little adventure, how does it work? Do I get into a little box then zap, I’m there? What’s going to happen?"

You will be provided with money to acquire the equipment you think you will need to take over a small kingdom and more, if you choose. The purchases you make these next ninety days, you will stockpile at a transference location near you.

It was beginning to sound like a TV ad. What kind of equipment?

You’ll need weaponry of course, with the caveat that it must never fall into the hands of your foes. It will be necessary to supply the indigenous people that you will be recruiting to man your serfdom. You will get seeds, medical supplies, frozen sheep sperm, fertilized eggs, and other animal sperm for breeding with the local animals. It would be a good idea to purchase an assortment of iPads and load them with instructions to facilitate needs in certain areas. Things like agronomy, medicine, and war. Those are the big three.

What war?

He said, "Oh, you’ll be involved in several wars before you return.

In addition, you will become an inspiration to a very clever surgeon, learning along with your student as you lead, before your journey ends. You will have to do something that you have never been able to do in your life, and that is ask others to assume roles of leadership on par with you.

I ignored that snarky comment. Is there an instruction manual to assist me?

Believe me when I say you are more than equipped to handle all that will come.

This was all too wild. Jesus Christ, Bob. You know you are blowing my fucking mind, don’t you? I’m going to be sent back to an era where I’m to assume control of a serfdom—or a kingdom—which is it, Bob?

Bob gave a short nod and said, In the beginning, a village. You must understand that it will go way beyond that—

What the hell is a serfdom? Is that like a city? After I get there, I’m to…what? Take a few guns and take over this city, and from there I work my way up the ladder till I’m the fucking king?

He waited out my rant before speaking again. You were chosen for a reason, and that is your ability to think while on a dead run, having no doubts about your next steps. You have an uncanny ability to set yourself up for different problems and then unerringly make the next correct move. He smiled widely and added, You are ready!

After many more shots, mostly mine, we concluded after six hours of Q&A.

You can do this

O kay, ninety-one days to live, you’re sure that’s the timeline? I asked. Bob assured me it was.

As my brain engaged with its now life ending anxiety, I asked. How am I supposed to get all the stuff I’ll need? Where will I store it until departure? How will this be funded? Gonna take a lot of cash to get all the stuff I’ll need. Am I wrong there?"

He explained, "You will be given a grant of twenty million dollars to be applied to the purchase of all the various things you think you will need. You will also be provided with many articles you will probably not think of.

A moving container will be placed inside a private warehouse where your staging will take place. Rule of thumb, stage it so that your immediate needs will be at your disposal. Like last things needed to loaded first and first things needed loaded last.

Holy fucking shit, Bob. You could have led with the twenty million bucks. That might have saved you a lot of word wind! And what’s to prevent me from absconding with the twenty million, Bob?

Ninety-one days.

Okay, got it. How do you propose I begin, Bob?

How you approach the task before you will be to immerse yourself in the history of the era where you are to be injected.

Injected,’ kind of a sterile word, ain’t it?

To begin with, do not worry about language. There will be modifications made to your brain that will allow you to understand the local idioms, he said casually.

Wait, what’s this mind-altering shite? I asked."

Nothing to worry about, just that certain additions will be projected into your consciousness that will aid in understanding the local language and other skills

Also, as it was with me—I was a short and stout, kind of a Brainiac who was cursed with a withered left leg—alterations to your physical being will also be made. These adjustments will be made to better equip you for, you know, for all the warring and killing that is required to take over a small kingdom.

I’m supposed to be okay with that? I asked.

As my skepticism returned, Bob replied, Look, this is not going to be easy for you, but let me assure you, even though you will be reluctant and have some doubts, you will do all that is necessary to accomplish the intended goals.

What are my goals? I thought a great question.

Now more detail emerged. You are to be the new incarnation of Athelstan, the forgotten king. Athelstan was a real king who existed several centuries prior to the timeline of your insertion. Some thought well of him; others did not. After his reign he was lost to history. Some lamented his loss, but even those soon forgot him. Those who did think on him referred to him as ‘the forgotten king.’ Using his name, which is familiar to them, will help you in gaining purchase with many elder members of any community you find yourself in. You will be a very tall and handsome king, if that’s what you choose. You will be of enormous strength and wit and have all the trappings of a ladies’ man.

Always was, Bob.

Pardon me?

Jesus, Bob, you’re making it hard to turn down, you know, with the tall, dark, and handsome shit. I am tall, dark, and handsome, right?

So, you are agreeing to go on this journey?

Alright, Bob, before I sign up for this plan of yours, how sure are you that I’ll be dead in ninety-one days? And will I then have only ninety-one days left on my return?

On your return, you will have another lifetime granted you. Depending on your health, you could live another lifetime. As for the ninety-one days, very sure, it has been programed into your now. I must remind you that sometime in the past others who have refused the assignment have regained their memories after ninety-one days. This caused a problem with the External Guidance Council. Not wanting to repeat this mistake, a limited life span has been inserted into your life story.

Jesus Christ, Bob, that’s a blindside if there ever was one. Kind of a take-it-or-leave-it question, except you die if you don’t take it. Doesn’t leave room for a no, now does it Bob?

Bob was completely unruffled, said. You were chosen because you will succeed; of that there is no doubt. But you really need to be on board with the whole program. If there is reluctance on your side, an appropriate response will be taken by the External Guidance Council.

By ‘appropriate response’ you’re saying ninety-one days.

Yes.

Not much of a choice, Bob!

He then he painted a picture of A new beginning, where it’ll be like I’m kinda the star in my very own blockbuster, a melodrama, a swashbuckler of a sort. A rock star in a grand rock opera, a man who would be king.

Shite, what great salesman. Then he went on to say, Do it and live a phenomenal life or—lowering his head for effect— sorry, you die.

Can I think it over for a while and give you an answer some other time?

That’s what the ninety-one days is all about. You will have just ninety days to prepare for your injection. So, what is it gonna be? Ninety-one days or ninety-one days?

I get the gist, not funny. But I’m getting another bottle of Mr. Fiddich, and we’ll talk tomorrow.

Sleep, what sleep

I have never slept well on any kind of alcohol, mostly fits and turns. Then you add die in ninety days or become a king in a kingdom I’ve never heard of and a king named Athelstan the Forgotten. Who the fuck is this guy?

By the end of the restless night, my thoughts turned to my last days on this planet. Ninety days or another sixty or so years. A chance to live a life so foreign from the one I have. Along with the prospect of being a totally different me. Many men of my age stop having sex; some by choice—they may just be tired of the whole thing—others because of prostate problems that render them impotent. In my case the latter.

The thought of being sexually active again was somewhat disconcerting. All those years of living a life free of the nagging but natural drive that nature forced on animals to ensure survival of the species, that is a stumbling block. Not sure I would like to live through again, shackled to the needs of life. Shite. Why the fuck not? I’m going to do it.

Reaching for a morning scotch bottle, worry again set in. Wonder if I can find a good stiff drink where I’m going. Wow, the first thing I worried about was the availability of a heavy brew. That opened the floodgates.

Should I believe this guy? Was I to understand that I was supposed to go back in time and seize control over what seemed to be a functioning monarchy and rule what must be a minor kingdom?

What kind of name is Athelstan anyway? There were also some things I’d have to concern myself with if I turned them down: In less than three months I’d be gone from this earth forever, well, not forever. That alone was a major consideration. When you think on it, Donald Trump would still be president in ninety days. Huh, maybe not as unbelievable as that is. When I thought of a possible new kind of life, where I controlled the future of a small kingdom—did I really want to go down that road?

Truthfully, I have always been the voice in another’s ear behind the scenes, never wanting to lead the way forward. Holy shit, what a fucking mess.

Then it hit me, that fucking Trump would still be president! I could be near eighty by the time he leaves office, the USA could be a cinder, and I’d be dead anyway. Then the thought hit me that when I came back, I could rewrite the present. So, I’m thinking I had made my decision—again—one that I could live with. That is to go back in time, do the deeds needed to assuage the External Guidance Council, whoever the fuck they are, and come back and do whatever I need to do to make America right!

Bob Again!

Knock, knock, knocking on my kitchen door… Not really, it was the front door, but thought I’d lighten things up a bit. Looking through the side lite, I saw Bob. Dressed to kill, pun intended, wearing another Armani, a must-have geometric print sweater over matching shirt, with grey wool-and-cotton pleated pants. Of course, he was wearing the latest in footwear. A pair of 100 percent calfskin leather, polished, laced, lug sole boots, and bling to match. God, what a pompous ass. Makes me wanna puke. To be sure though he looked fantastic.

Opening the door, I asked him, Where did you get your taste in fashion?

In my previous existence, clothes never looked good on me. With the new me, well, I need to adorn this magnificent gift.

I asked how he knew when I needed to speak with him.

"We—and by ‘we,’ I’m referring to the External Guidance Council—know your every intention and act accordingly. So, yes, we knew you would complete the mission assigned you, and I spent the last evening preparing your finances and have set you up with a private warehouse for you to store all the items you will need or wish to take with you. Medical, arms, and farming supplies, and a few fun things of your choosing.

"Once you have completed preparing your trip to the past, and you’ve amassed what you think you’ll need to ensure your success, a time for insertion will be assigned. At that exact moment you will be in the past. Once there, you will fulfill whatever task is assigned to you.

After you have completed your assigned fix in the past, you can opt to stay the full twenty years allotted you, that is if you wish to stay—again, your choice—once assigned tasks are completed, all that you have taken with you will be returned to this time and will be disposed of. On your return, a house paid for and titled in your new name, again of your choosing, will be waiting. You may then begin a new start."

You could have told me this all yesterday and saved me the worry and discomfort I went through these last twenty-four hours!

Glancing at me with a sideways sneer, he said, We—and by we—

Yes, I know, the fucking guidance council—

We like the applicants to feel that they came to their own decision and were not coerced in any way. Better that way in the long run. It seems to make any self-determination from this point on helps build more confidence in oneself and removes any doubts the applicants may have.

By using the term ‘applicant,’ Bob, you imply I asked for this. Not!

Grinning, Bob continued, You’ve made the big decision. Now it’s time to assemble what you will need to establish yourself as the newly named king of Mercia!

And that would be?

That is for you to figure out. But as I said before, I’ll give you some parameters from which assumptions can be made, and then you will procure all that you require.

Such as?

Bob leaned over a tote bag he had brought with him, relieved it of a large book, and handed it to me. Then he went on to explain that in it were the answers to all my questions. "There’s a list of weaponry needed to dismantle an already established regime. Of course, injuries will incur, domicile requirements will have to be met, you’ll need goodies to win the locals’ minds and hearts as well as guidance in establishing a military force and creating leadership roles.

You will also need some religious knowledge that will help persuade the locals to support you in your pursuit of your kingdom. After all, when the minds of the populace are not well formed, the supernatural will suffice.

He stopped and looked at me. Questions?

Just a couple. I am to become this king/preacher/ teacher/goodwill ambassador/general/ farmer, correct? All without a single aspect of my life that would prepare me for these new roles that I’m to assume?

You are a bit of a whiner, aren’t you? he said. Look, you have accepted this project, and you need to focus on preparation. Get your shit together and move on. I haven’t got any more inspirational bullshit in me.

Can I take coffee?

Nodding in the affirmative, he carried on. I have set up an account at your bank. I’ve provided you a debit card, credit card, and checks payable on your new account. Prepare yourself with much Mercian history, paying close attention to religion and monarchies in the surrounding areas. That’s really all the information I’m allowed to give you. I leave you to your new endeavor.

With that, I was left alone.

Wow.

CONTAINER

I decided to check out the veracity of Bob by going to the lot where he said the warehouse would be. The building was where he said it would be. In an isolated location was a very large, innocuous, windowless, hidden from passersby, a large builds sat. It was open so I peered in, it contained a solitary container painted iron-oxide, ten feet by ten feet by fifty feet in length, and around it were several thousand square feet of emptiness. The large shipping container looked small in the dark, damp interior. I was supposed to fill the emptiness with everything I wanted to take with me.

Understand, I’m not the most organized individual, so filling this container with items that would serve me for as many as twenty years was a daunting task. To start with, I’d need to…to what? Where did I begin? What would be my most urgent needs, and what dangers would I face in the twelfth century? Jesus Christ, I’m a twenty-first century old man who would have to think like a twelfth-century monarch! What the fuck could be easier?

A list. I’ll need a list; I’d need a list. The value of list making was impressed upon me during my third marriage, when by chance or intent, I came upon a list. I had returned home after a twelve-hour shift and happened to notice a piece of paper sticking halfway out of my then last wife’s top dresser drawer. I got closer to take a good look. Seeing that it contained numbered notes, I couldn’t help myself; I slipped it out and looked at it. This list enumerated the pros and cons of living with me! Reading through them, it didn’t take long for me to conclude around item number thirteen—or less than halfway through the list—it would be a good idea to dump me.

Knowing that many people, in addition to my wife, make life-altering decisions only after they’ve made a list—yeah, she left me—I saw the value. Thank you, wife number three.

And so, I began the process of prioritization. I needed a list of materials—and quantities—to deal with whatever problems I might face. In war and in, I guess, farming, and leading a, what, small village? A large village? Or should I raise my sights to a small country?

Bob did mention war. No. He said, several wars. Shite.

Although I have a black belt and have taught karate, I’m no warrior, and now I was going to be a general/king. Where did I put my scotch? Number one item is to pick up more scotch.

At my kitchen table, a half-filled tumbler of scotch to help me think, I decided to begin with all things related to combat. Weapons, of course, but also ancillary equipment including medical supplies that would undoubtedly be required to maintain any warlike activities.

The damn doorbell rang. I found an envelope on my porch dropped there by UPS. Inside was the name of an arms dealer and the name of a person described as a person of interest when it came to clandestine medical needs. It also contained an encyclopedia of military weapons that may be purchased from private arms dealers.

Bob came through again. We’ll revisit this when I detail the procurement process. Now, back to my list.

After the military takeover of the local monarchy, I’d need to set up a leadership committee. Each of those individuals would have their own interests in mind. Even if I was able to find people willing to take on these responsibilities, how would I assign them? How would I anticipate and fulfill their needs to make them want to continue as loyal participants?

I really don’t think I’m up for this shite! I was starting to doubt Bob again.

And then there was that doorbell again, and again a note from Bob: Think about the basics in your own life. Think health, education, and welfare then simply go from there!

I decided Bob must have had a courier service on call twenty-four seven sitting at my front door with answers to the same questions asked by travelers Bob had used before. I peeked through the blinds just to be sure, nothing.

Now I had an idea of where to start. After military and medical needs, there must be equipment for food production that would replace the less-than-productive methods used at the time. I made a mental note to look up what they were. Any item or equipment that would help to improve and stabilize the local food supply; anyone could see the benefit in that.

I wondered if it were possible to take vaccines, antibiotics, and other types of preventive medicines. Pausing, I listened. No doorbell; must be okay.

What would my day-to-day life be like? I’d need to consider personal hygiene and not only for myself. After all, deodorant would be nonexistent. Shite, what if my new bride-to-be stinks? Shite. Dental and sanitary needs as well would need to be addressed. Clothing to suit the weather of the place and time. Then there was the matter of food. How many weeks’ worth of food should I take with me? there’s a Day-old bread store where I frequent, they have packets of soups, gravies and stew flavorings, I’ll get a few cases of each.

This was new. I’d never had to—ever—take that much time to agonize over anything. I have always been able to operate and complete a task with just the barest amount of information. This list making seems like no big deal on these pages, but it took weeks to settle into a plan for me to go forward.

I was staring at the container almost absently. There should be, in my mind’s eye, a method to store everything so I’d have it available when it was required. Wow! I’m starting to make sense. With that in mind, I’d put military gear in last, that way it would be available first, as Bob suggested. Next would be foodstuffs and medical needs. On second thought I decided no, medical second. You know, after the first killings and wounding takes place. Then clothing, farming needs, and so on, and so on.

At last, I declared myself ready to begin the process of filling the container. I would adjust as problems arose. I determined it was probably best to acquire all the equipment, lay it out on the building floor, then load it into the container.

Thinking done, and using the encyclopedia to identify what I needed, it was time to move forward. I started with the names Bob gave me for guns and medical supplies, making a mental note to ask for help moving staged materials from the staging floor to the container.

I laid out a grid on the floor. Because the warehouse was such an enormous empty room, I gave myself twenty-foot squares, with several smaller ten-foot areas. Wide spacing to allow enough room to bring articles easily through the squares. I then stenciled lettering indicating what was to be placed there along with an estimated volume of the material for the purpose of optimum fit in the container. Turns out I’m good at those kinds of factoring.

Next, it was time to start the procurement process.

I sat at my new desk contemplating my next move. Beginning with the armory sounded like a must. I had the feeling it would take some doing to get the many types of weapons delivered on time. I made written notes of all my fresh thoughts with a large yellow Post-it attached for easy recognition; I knew I’d surely lose concentration after a bit, happens with me. Too long in one spot, and I’m thinking star stuff. So, it’s arms, meds, agriculture, and then on to educational needs.

I assumed that after taking over the small unknown community, I would need a plan to propel the initiative of starting small, building a coalition, then growing the power structure. Maybe I should reserve these issues for when I’m actually in Mercia.

I ignored myself and continued with those thoughts.

In the past when I was trying to understand religion, I visited many churches of all denominations. It was my thought that whichever church I joined; it must have a direct link to God. The Catholic Church and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints—you know, Mormons—seemed to be the only ones. Tossing a coin in the air, I opted for the Mormons, where I became an elder and after a time taught the priesthood. It soon became very clear to me that religion was a tool for shared control of the populace. But there were some important lessons learned.

As usual, when I start thinking on something, I can’t put it on hold, so fuck it, here I go!

Although I wasn’t struck by the spirit, I found that the Mormons have a very good management policy: Everyone is a leader. Simply put, there was a quorum of men who each led a group of ten individuals. These ten would in turn lead a group of ten individuals, and these individuals would each lead a group of ten. See where I’m going? So, their structure would go on and on until you ran out of—as it was in their case—Saints. In this system, everyone was a follower, and yet, everyone was a leader. So they all took ownership of each and every soul down the line. Not so different from Amway, if you will.

The same system exists for the women of the church but with less power, and they were, of course, as in all religions, subordinate to men. That would not be the case in my kingdom. Wow, I sound committed don’t I!

Mormons also believe in evolution or so I informed them when I explained the deeper meaning In their teachings, they profess, As man is, God once was. As God is, man may become. Using that reasoning, I just needed to substitute king for God, and voilà, I’d have a devoted following. A devoted following that would lead me to the throne of Mercia. I hoped.

Back to supplying my container.

Paul

Some forty-two years ago, a chubby, red-faced boy wearing candy-striped shorts, a pinkish short sleeve shirt—his mother just loved pink—and high-top sneakers with socks that reached his knees, was being kicked and prodded by neighborhood boys. He offered no resistance as these meanies whooped and hollered while they humiliated him. To make matters worse, standing off to the side, Dorla, the love of his life, was laughing with them.

Wanting never to be embarrassed like that again and to show the bastards—and Dorla—he dedicated himself to becoming less of a target. He never wore pink again, he read as