The Richard Chronicles Novel

By Dr. Michael E. Quist and Dr. Michelle Q. Ryder

HEROES CAN COME FROM ANYWHERE.

Mike seems to fail at everything, feels useless, and is finally sinking into despair. To avoid dragging his wife into the abyss he sees before him, he leaves her, planning to separate from his former life. Knocked out during a fight in an alley, he wakes up to find himself in a strange new wo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887386904

Dr. Michael E. Quist

Ph.D. in education with advanced degrees in psychology and business, Dr. Michael E. Quist is a lifelong student of biblical truth and a defender of realistic and practical faith in the God of the Holy Bible. Author, teacher, and dedicated student of humanity and history, Dr. Quist offers a unique point of view designed to describe, instruct, and encourage the art of Christian living in an often hostile, deceptive, and confusing world.

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Dedication

This work is dedicated to the Living God, who ultimately rules over every world, real or imaginary, where we might land in our travels—or even choose to make our home.

Acknowledgments

My first acknowledgment will always be to the Living God, who is everything to me. Among the less divine, I must express my gratitude to my co-authors, Dr. Michelle Ryder and Ms. Jessica Meek, who provided powerful feedback, additions to the book that improved the work dramatically, and those particular powers of literary magic that they understand so much better than I do.

I also wish to express my gratitude to my wife, who is my most present earthly support and avid literary fan, and my mother, who sees to it that all her friends and associates are exposed to my scribblings.

Then there are all of the members of the Quist Family Writer’s Guild, most of whom are mentioned above. These avid listeners have patiently endured every word that I have shared, their kind and earnest presence constantly saving me from drifting too far into the bizarre or erroneous. In the end, this team has provided the living force that has kept me writing this and the other works that have managed to scramble and claw their way out of the hidden worlds of this author’s mind and heart.

Still another grateful thought must be offered for the notable authors, including C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, George MacDonald, Hans Christian Anderson, and others who have paved the way for wholesome fantasy in a modern world that is desperately seeking meaning. I also offer special thanks to John Bunyan, whose faithful rendering of his Christian vision has lent to us all a clarity regarding the journey that every believer must take.

Introduction

The Richard Chronicles tells the story of a traveler—a man who does not realize the importance of each journey he makes. Although he has little to offer, he is transformed by each adventure into something far more important—as we all are, when we follow our true calling.

In this work, Richard finds himself in a strange fantasy land populated by beings that he thought lived only in books and films. Monsters and warriors, evil and good, powerful and weak, all locked in an epic war for a land, the existence of which is completely unknown to most who live in our more ordinary world.

Richard leaves behind a loser existence within what he thought was real life, just as he is ready to throw it all away. As a direct result of an act of desperation, born of both courage and foolhardiness, Richard finds himself in a new world filled with friends, allies, and enemies, all helping to bring him to the point where he discovers the true power and significance of his life.

1

Leaving

I’m leaving.

The words thudded with the finality of a sledgehammer. Leaves crackled and rustled in the evening air. Crickets called to one another as the day faded into darkness. Cars passed each other on the tree-lined street, their headlights bright in the crisp, moisture-laden evening. The peaceful neighborhood set a backdrop of cruel irony behind the storm raging in my heart.

I was strangely, uniquely aware of the breath and heartbeat of the woman in front of me. Lovely in a wan, faded sort of way, my slender blonde wife of ten years had just returned from a long day at a thankless job in the city. Stepping wearily through the door, she found…me. Waiting for her. I could sense surprise, fear, and…resignation.

Cindy avoided my gaze as she bustled with her black camel-hair coat, bright scarf, deerskin gloves, and other accouterments. She did not meet my eyes. I had braced myself for the moment when those bright green Irish orbs would focus their charm on me because I knew how fast my resolve would weaken.

It was certainly bad timing. She was tired. She deserved a loving husband and a restful evening. But I did not have any more of those evenings left in me. I was at the end of my strength. I had to press on. I needed it to be over. Quickly.

Of course, I would like to have said it better. I wished, desperately, that I could offer the perfect speech: decisive yet empathetic, eloquent yet poignantly simple, heartfelt yet practical, but when the moment came, all I could stammer out was I’m leaving.

I am going to wash out of this as I have washed out of everything else. I am going to fail. Again.

That maudlin poem that I had hated studying in college rang through my ears.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

My blonde better half stopped in the doorway, stunned, keys dangling from one hand as it hung in mid-air. Her tired eyes sought mine, searching for a hint that this was some sort of badly-timed humor—or perhaps my way of getting still another concession from her in our somewhat problematic marriage. She was…suspicious, and the thought saddened me, instantly cementing my resolution.

No. I had asked for (and received) quite enough concessions, and it was time to set her free.

She deserves to be free. Forever. She needs a life.

As our gazes locked, I felt my resolve dissolving like sugar in a glass of warm tea.

Dear God, why do You make her so beautiful?

A perfect angel. A kind and gentle goddess. The wife that I had never deserved. How could I let her go? How could I walk away from this last bastion of goodness in my life?

I must do this.

Cindy’s goodness had become my shame. Her glowing perfection served to highlight my weaknesses in agonizing detail. Her willing servant’s heart revealed in the horrible light of personal scrutiny the damning truth: I am slowly killing both of us.

As I look back now, I cannot remember much of what happened next. The moments are like an impressionistic blur from a bad painting, a landscape of hazy, awkward shapes and desperate emotions. I remember helping Cindy out of her coat, handing her a glass of wine, trying to stammer out an explanation, but finding no words.

I am saving you, Cindy. Can’t you see?

My tired eyes pleaded with the goddess. I wanted her to understand. To agree. To nod sensibly and help me follow through on this very sensible decision.

She wasn’t getting it. My agonizing mind could not follow her words, but I know that she was not in agreement. The blonde angel was arguing, trying to reason with me. Her gentle tone was shattering my sensibilities and fracturing my resolve—a battering ram forcing its way past my fading strength.

As I fought to bolster my resolve, horrible fear arose in the pit of my stomach. What if I was wrong? What if this was yet another foolish decision in a long, long line of unwise choices? What if I was destroying her, dragging the angel down to the depths with me? She was my last link to this world—the best and only good thing in my life. She did not deserve this.

How can you love me, Cindy?

My heart brutally threw up before me all the things that I had promised her. To love, to protect, to hold her as precious, above all else. To build a life where she could shine like the sun and blossom like the perfect rose that she was. To give her children, a home, a wonderful place of joy and beauty. Dreams. A lifetime of hope and accomplishment.

Yet I had given her nothing. My mind screamed the word. Nothing! I wished with all my heart that she did not love me. That she had kicked me out long ago, like an unwanted stray. That I did not have to stand here now, agonizingly rending my soul in half as I wounded once more the most beautiful person I knew.

The shredding of my worn-out heart was nearly unbearable. I felt myself wavering, suffocating in panic, a mountain climber cutting his safety line.

Am I really this foolish?

Another kind of doubt bullied its way into my thoughts.

What if I can’t make it on my own?

It was an ugly picture: I saw myself destitute, hungry, and ragged two or three months (weeks? days?) down the road. A call from a borrowed phone. A beseeching tone. A plea for forgiveness. A bus ticket.

Oh, she would welcome me back. She was like that. Her weary face would be smiling. Her care-laden eyes would pretend to be happy that I had returned.

No! I recoiled at the thought. I had at least that much pride left.

I am setting you free, Cindy. Forever. I promise.

I decided right then and there that I needed an exit strategy. If I was leaving to allow this woman to have a decent life, then I was leaving forever.

I will not be back. Ever. I will die first.

I will die first. It is odd how it feels to accept death. Sweetness. Peace. I had never seriously considered the idea of physically, deliberately causing my own death. All the pain could just stop. Forever. Perhaps it was time to die. The other side of my mind recoiled at the idea.

Isn’t that the most pathetic act of all? You will escape this life, leaving others to mourn and live out their lives, lessened because of your weakness and pathetic inability to cope? No.

I could hear my posturing business partner from years ago. That’s just not acceptable!

No, I would not die—at least, not at my hand. Still, I certainly did not want to be alive anymore. Not like this.

I am so tired.

The thoughts flitted through my mind in that half-second while Cindy watched me, her eyes welling with helpless tears.

I am hurting her. Right now. Causing her pain. Injury.

I took a breath. Yes, this woman would be better off without me. I knew that if our lives continued, I would drain every essence of the magic that I loved about her until, finally, this wonderful woman would become an empty shell—or worse.

Like me.

It had not always been this way. There had been a time when I had believed that I was someone special.

An elderly, sweet-looking woman watches me through weak, tear-filled eyes.God has His hand on your life. Her voice is crackly and weary. Her face is mapped with a century of kindnesses and trials. Why is she saying these words to a nondescript teenage boy? Her eyes glow with the light of her prophecy, and she presses my young, strong hand, delighted to share the news of this blessing with me.

The memory was vivid. I had felt honored. I had thought how nice—thrilling, even—it would be to have God’s hand on my life. I thought it would be a good thing. I believed her.

Wrong! I could hear the game show buzzer go off in my head. I had found out later. I had completely misunderstood the implications of that dramatic pronouncement.

When God puts His hand on your life, He means to crush you. For some divine purpose, He destroys and dissolves, leaving nothing but weary striving.

And fruitless striving had become my life. Throughout my adult years, I had tried to do the right thing. Be the right person. Please the unfathomable divine being that was supposed to love me. The one with His hand on my life.

A sardonic smile crossed my face as a new thought occurred. I would have been better off if I had never met Cindy. She had built within me the belief that I could do anything, that I could rise to the stars with her love and support. When I found that it was not so, that the fall from grace—the horrid plummet toward the sea like some sort of modern Icarus, trying to touch the sun and finding that you burn your wings and fail—leaves you exhausted and empty, your fingers clutching desperately at the ashes of what you thought was your life.

It was God’s fault.

Almighty God, it would have been so easy for You to save me.

I had not asked for much. I had not sought wealth or glory—just a small sense of His presence. Just a moment—any moment—when I felt approved, valued, or even that I mattered at all. One unambiguous instant when I felt like I was doing something right.

No. This invisible God had chosen silence over affection, distance over direction. Perhaps He merely wanted to see how much I could take—find the point where I would break. Well, here it was.

Congratulations, God—I believed in You, and You broke me. Still, there is Cindy. I must not take her down with me. Yes. This is the way the world ends.

The soft, musical voice broke through my haze of thought. Endlessly patient—and sweet, as always. Mike, come on. Let’s talk about this. I’m tired, but this is important. Let’s sit down and find a way to work through it. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ll do what I need to do to make it better. Please, let’s talk.

A soft touch on my arm. Gentle fingers trying to draw me back inside.

Oh, your touch, Cindy! That thread of joy, like a slender cord, binding me to sanity, to hope.

No longer! I snatched my arm away as if she had burned me, causing my remaining willpower to nearly dissolve, like dry paper in a blazing fire, disappearing in a flame of agony until there is nothing left but ashes.

I cannot do this. But I must!

Things began to blur as I plunged desperately into the horrible ocean of separation, stretching out endlessly in front of me. I was losing track of reality as the nightmare grew. Panic was suffocating me with the fear that I was not strong enough for what I must do.

I need to leave. Now. While I still can.

Somehow, as the mists in my mind thickened, I tried to explain, hands stretched out in entreaty. My eyes blurred with tears as I held out my hands toward the pleading woman.

I know you would. I know you would try, and you would work harder, and you would kill yourself, trying to make this work, but Cindy, I can’t let that happen. I cannot let you die for me. Please, this is better. Go in, sit down, drink your wine, and enjoy the world that you have worked so hard to make. You’ve done it all, yourself. I’ve been nothing but dead weight, holding you back. It’s not fair to you, and it’s killing me. I’m going to get out of the way and pray that the God who hates me will love you enough to give you a real man. If I’m gone, then maybe you won’t have to be punished anymore.

Cindy’s face was confused and troubled, her voice pleading and fearful. Please, Mike, just give me a chance to—

The words were fading as I moved away from the door. I was walking quickly, almost running. I knew that if I did not get away now, I would not have the nerve, and then I could add the sin of ruining the rest of this woman’s life to the long list of indictments piled up against me at heaven’s doorway.

I glanced back, half expecting to see my stricken wife only a step or two behind, but Cindy had not followed me out the door. Maybe she knew that I was right. Maybe she thought that I would come back. Or maybe she was just as tired as I was.

Rapidly crossing the lawn, I saw my old Chrysler parked beside the driveway, cracked and rusted.

Time to get that piece of junk off her lawn.

The rest of the lawn was bright and green, but underneath the car, there was nothing. Just dry, hard earth.

That is the effect I have on people.

The beautiful old car had a tired, failing transmission and an old, leaky engine, but I figured that it would last long enough to get out of sight and out of mind.

The grass will grow again—finally.

As I drove away, I could feel the dark cloud of despair following me. In my rearview mirror, the evening lights sparkled cheerfully on the house and the street. I was glad. Life, freshness, and growth could now return to that dark place, restoring the shining, suffering angel who lived inside.

Please, God—give Cindy the life that she deserves.

I chuckled bitterly. I was asking a blessing from a silent deity. A boon from an angry, resentful being. I knew that my plea would fall on deaf ears.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

2

Unlikely Hero

Stop the world and let me off.

Where do you go after you walk away from everything that matters? Everything you care about? I had been so focused on getting away that I had not even considered where to go. My life was at that house. Everything that I loved was fading from the rearview mirror.

Now what?

After driving aimlessly for an hour or so, the old Chrysler grinding and complaining, I finally found myself sitting in a corner booth of a small piano bar, a small sidewalk establishment just scruffy enough to keep the trendy, uptown crowd at bay. Gentle, lilting piano music and soft conversation soothed my ragged nerves like a balm. The waitress stepped up to the table, a slender, hard-working brunette with dark, heavy make-up and a weary smile, and set down a colorful coaster, a folded crimson napkin with the bar logo on the face, and a white cloth napkin folded around a shiny knife, fork, and spoon.

What can I get you?

Glancing over to the bar, I saw Mick, the bartender, wiping glasses and offering a friendly smile. He was a friend from college, one of the reasons that I liked the place. A lean man with a weathered face and a ready ear, Mick was a patient, kindly friend for anyone who needed one.

Smiling at the tired waitress, I offered, Have Mick put something together. Thanks.

As I waited for my order, I let my eyes wander around the dimly lit room. People in booths or seated at tables. Talking, smiling, laughing, enjoying the moment. The old piano was probably a beautiful instrument at one point but was now old, chipped, and faded.

Like me.

The dark-skinned man, singing and drawing music from the worn-out instrument, was probably in his sixties, with grizzled hair, perfectly shaven face, and long, slender fingers. His dark eyes had seen much pain, but they sparkled now with the light of his music. There was magic in his fingertips and his smoky, heart-filled voice, and I smiled as I felt my thoughts begin to drift comfortably. It was just the escape I needed—a melodious refuge from the monotonous, irritating drone of my painful thoughts.

And this was just the place to do it. Mick’s hole in the wall lounge was perfect. Just the right atmosphere to get out of your head, to escape the worries of the outside world, and sit in a comfortable booth, listening to inspired piano music, sipping wine, and forgetting that life is an exercise in futility.

Strangely, as I listened to the music, a sense of buoyancy settled around me. I felt lighter, relieved, as if I had just set down a heavy burden—a load that I had been carrying for a long time. It felt good.

No. It’s not right. I have just walked away from everything that matters. I should not be feeling good about it. I should be feeling fearful, guilty, and emotionally devastated.

But I did not feel that way. Somehow, the bar…the moment…it felt right.

Why am I here?

It was about survival—just for a few hours. Wasn’t it?

Just make it a few hours without doing anything foolish. Once your emotions settle, then you can decide on what to do next.

Sure. That made sense. As twinges of guilt danced around the edges of my consciousness, I struggled inwardly against the blanket of peace that was settling inexorably across my mind.

I am the burden, not Cindy. Please, God, send her this peace. No part of this should be good for me. Yet here I am, and the peace is here with me. It is as if I have been brought here. But for what—or whom?

I wanted to stop thinking, to let my mind rest. As I struggled with my inner thoughts, I scanned the room, searching for a distraction.

Then I saw her. The woman was beautiful. Heart-wrenching. Traffic-stopping. Her golden hair appeared to have been caressed by heaven, threaded and patterned with glowing highlights that made her gleam like an angel. Her blue-violet eyes sparkled with a light that was not quite earthly. Her form and face were perfect. Her posture and manner were royal. She was seated at a far table, her head turned toward me, beautiful eyes returning my gaze, studying me. Almost meaningful.

Smiling awkwardly, I shifted my gaze from the intensity of the distant eyes but found myself immediately drawn back, as if that table was the only one that mattered. But the moment had passed; the lovely eyes were now bent downward, reveling in the faded words of an old book, and I was left wondering what had just happened.

As I think back to that moment, I would love to remember long Greek robes—a goddess, complete with elegant sandals, golden crown, and adoring subjects kneeling all around her. Realizing now what that moment would mean to me, it seems that it should have been heralded by lights from heaven or…something.

It wasn’t like that. Her garb was simple. Practical. Blue dress with a pleated skirt. Lace about the neck and wrists. Open tan jacket reaching to her forearms and waist, and white shoes with low heels. No lights from heaven. The woman sat gracefully at her table, a smile of enjoyment playing about her lips as she read from the old volume. Now and then, she would lift her eyes to sip pale rose-colored wine or flash a smile toward the talented piano player, whose magical ministrations were bringing silvery charm to the dimly lit hall.

Although she paid no more attention to me, I found myself unable to turn my eyes away. I was confused by the earlier glance. Had I imagined it, or had those eyes indeed spent a moment’s heavenly regard on me? And if so, why?

Chuckling to myself, I finally shook my head and turned my focus to the crafted beverage that the waitress had just placed on the table.

I just left a goddess at home, so now I am imagining another one here at Mick’s Lounge? Pathetic.

The iced liquid was not too sweet or heady. Mick’s liquid artistry added its own magic to the pleasant, meditative mood that had been building within my mind. As my thoughts slowed and my muscles began to relax, a tangible wave of gentle relief swept over me like a warm sunset after a dark stormy day. I sighed.

I hope Cindy is finding peace this evening.

It was not long before my eyes drifted back to the table where the fascinating reader sat, her eyes lingering lovingly over the writer’s musings. She certainly was something…unusual.

Glancing around the room, I discovered to my surprise that I was not the only one being affected by the strange woman’s quiet scene. Across the room, men and women alike seemed drawn to the peaceful vision, their gazes lingering on the simply dressed figure, sometimes ignoring their partners for long, uncomfortable moments. Then these silent observers would rise out of their seats, making some excuse, and then casually wander past the quiet table, wanting to speak to her, yet unwilling or unable to breach the peaceful scene which centered around the beautiful woman.

Even the bard was not immune. Although his gaze traveled all around the room, studying his audience as he played, his expression would change every time his glance strayed to the quiet woman’s table. A strange delight would play about his face, and I noticed that his touch on the black and white keys would lighten, his voice would soften and richen, and his dark eyes would moisten with some unknown emotion. An instant later, the artist would look away reluctantly, thoughtfully, a smile touching the corners of his wrinkled lips.

It was a remarkable effect, and it grew as the evening wore on. Conversations across the room became hushed as faceless nobodies like me sat in corners and along the walls, fascinated by the magical scene playing out before us. It was like being in a dream—or perhaps in the slow-motion scene of a movie, just before something happens.

Then everything changed. My gaze had drifted toward the ceiling, my thoughts lost in dreams and wishes and memories, when I was startled by two rough-looking characters brushing rudely past my table. Their hands and faces were dark with grease and dirt, and the stomping of their booted feet brutalized the magical moment. Evil had come to visit.

Approaching the quiet woman’s table, their eyes dark with dangerous leering expressions, the two sullen individuals stopped momentarily to study her. Tall, heavy-set, filthy with the mud and grease of slovenly living and the defiance of societal niceties, both men suddenly leaned over the woman’s table and grinned, their crooked, yellow teeth unable to hold back the odors of coffee, whiskey, and generally foul breath.

Shocked and disgusted, onlookers across the room averted their eyes, the spell of the music and the quiet illusion completely forgotten. Conversations picked up as various versions of someone should do something about that drifted into the air. In truth, I do not know how faithfully my mind retains the scene, but in my memory, they were the perfect caricature of the grubby, mean-faced bullies that seem to scourge all levels of society. Shaking my head and gritting my teeth, I averted my gaze, refusing to take in any more details.

That figures. Once again, things begin to go downhill as soon as I arrive. Am I cursed to destroy everything that I love?

I thought of walking out. Maybe if I paid my bill and left the small establishment, the scene would change again. Maybe the ruffians would disappear in my wake. Perhaps God would relent, allowing the curse to follow me. Perhaps peace could be restored.

No, the damage is done.

As my mind was going through its gyrations, the two pungent interlopers settled their massive, grease-laden hands on the white tablecloth and leaned in, trying to get the beautiful woman’s attention. Their dark greasy hair and bellicose layered visages reminded me of that big fat villain that used to pick on Popeye in the old cartoons. What was his name? Bluto?

Then it began. The larger man’s loud voice, attempting crude humor yet filled with menace, shattered the room’s peace like a hammer through a window. The thick lips, heavy jowls, and whiskey-glazed eyes all burned with evil interest.

My brother and I have a bet going.

As he began to speak, the woman finally and reluctantly glanced up from her book, her eyes settling in expressionless patience on the hideous face. I shuddered as the man’s face contorted into what he thought was a playful, friendly expression. Gesturing to his brother, he continued.

He thinks that a shot of tequila will take some of the starch out of your collar, but I think you’re one of those wild whiskey girls. So, which one of us gets to buy you a drink?

The lovely creature blinked as the man’s whiskey-laden breath flooded the air, but her slender features took on none of the disgust and annoyance that I would expect. Flashing a smile, courteous and dismissive, she spoke, her voice soft, gentle, and surprisingly clear in the noisy room.

Oh, that’s kind of you, but I think I have all I need here. Thanks so much. Offering a nod and a momentary glance of quiet supplication to the dark aggressors, now only inches from her face, the lovely woman calmly returned her gaze to her book, quite obviously hoping that the two rogues would take the hint and leave her alone.

No such luck. Undeterred, the larger man grinned toward his companion. I think she’s holding out for both!

Lifting his massive hands and then slamming them on the table abruptly, the hulking figure straightened and reached across to lift the woman’s drink, a crystal goblet half-filled with fragrant wine. I felt a shudder at the man’s increasingly intimate intrusions into the young woman’s space, and I watched the developing scene with a growing sense of dread and dismay.

Sniffing the pale liquid and wrinkling his dirty grease-crusted nose, the man scowled.

What is this, apple juice? Lady, you need a real drink!

Pouring the wine onto the carpeted floor, he tossed the stemmed glass into a nearby fern and turned back to the woman, his leering eyes traveling down her figure.

Yes, you’re a fine sight. We should buy you a lot of drinks. The night is young!

Shaking my head in disgust and revulsion, I tried to turn my attention back to the pianist, who was offering a pleasing rendition of…well, I think it was his own interpretation of Somewhere Over the Rainbow—the Hawaiian version—with What a Wonderful World blended in here and there. The arrangement was working, and the man’s fingers were wandering beautifully around the melody.

Then the thought struck me. I should intervene. The idea, alien and terrifying, stood before me like a nemesis, a dark enemy representing everything weak within me. Immediately dismissing the idea, concluding that I would only make the situation worse, I carefully averted my eyes from the dangerous scene and tried futilely to lose myself in my reveries once more.

It was not working. I could hear the soft voice of the woman, quietly protesting as the two ruffians pushed their advantage. The smaller of the two had now settled his heavy frame in the seat across the table from the woman, his muddy boots and heavy legs extending rudely into her space.

The larger was still leaning across the table, one filthy hand staining the spotless white cloth while the other prodded and pulled at the woman’s book, the last barrier between herself and the dark creatures.

Come on, lady. We are much more exciting than anything you’ll find in those dusty pages. Put the book away, and we’ll buy you some drinks. He winked suggestively. We want to get to know you better.

Unable to ignore the scene any longer, I glanced across the room toward the bartender. Mick, a slender man of average height and frail build, was in no position to be a hero. Pretending to be occupied entirely with washing glasses, he glanced only occasionally toward the troubling scene.

Typically, this would be a job for a bouncer—a tough guy whose job was to maintain peace and orderly behavior in the tavern—but this establishment had no such individual. Mick was a slender, gentle, encouraging guy who would listen to your woes all night and offer sympathy and practical insights, but he was no match for the two massive intruders at the woman’s table.

Also, although the men were annoying, they had not broken any laws yet, so it was not time to call the police. Sure, they were technically disturbing the peace, but any decent lawyer could disguise that fact and make them appear to a jury as victims of official harassment, false arrest, and even police brutality. No, these guys would have to do something more blatant before he could bring in the city’s finest to intervene. Until a prosecutable crime occurred before the array of witnesses, there was nothing Mick could do.

The woman’s soft clear voice had begun to plead, an edge of fear and weariness growing in the musical tones. Leave me alone, guys. Please!

The beautiful eyes glanced around the room, apparently wishing that someone would intervene on her behalf, but no one present at Mick’s Bar and Grill that night wanted to get involved. They were like me. Old, tired, untrained, and powerless.

But I was miserable. The lovely creature’s moment of peace and pleasure was gone forever, and the world was darker because of it.

That is just how life is. Let it go.

No! In that instant, something fired up within me. I had to do something. That moment seemed to epitomize the passivity and uselessness in my life, and I suddenly decided that I would not let go of what could be my last chance to ever make a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t, but I didn’t think things could get any worse for the young woman—or for me. I had to try. A strange thrill shot up my spine as I rose from my seat.

Here’s my chance. I shall now get myself killed, saving someone far more valuable than me.

I chuckled sardonically.

Yes, a barroom hero, taken down by a broken beer bottle. Mother would be so proud!

Once I was on my feet, the fear hit me.

What am I doing? This is nuts!

Trying to still my trembling hands, I reluctantly approached the two monsters.

Perhaps this is how the world ends—at least, for me.

The smell of unwashed clothing and bodies struck me as I approached, and I found myself amazed at the woman’s composure amidst the stench. As my thoughts drifted at that moment to the quiet target of these men’s malice, I could not resist casting a glance toward the desperate woman’s face.

Please look at me, just for a moment. I am about to die for you. Give me one glance.

If I was going to get myself killed defending this fascinating creature, I wanted one moment—one magical instant—where she was looking at me again.

Please.

It worked. For one heart-stopping instant, I was sharing the universe with a goddess. Her eyes touched mine, and a faint smile graced her lips. She realized what I was going to do, and she was grateful. I felt a warmth, a momentary thrill of joy, almost as if I were a hero. Then the sickening, overwhelming realization struck me.

I do not belong in her world.

I had no more right to share the universe with this creature than I did with my sweet wife. But something else happened a moment later, something I will never forget. In a brief instant, when our eyes met, I suddenly realized it. She understood.

She sees it all. The failures. The losses. The confusion. And yet, at this moment, I am her hero.

Deliberately tearing my eyes away from the fascinating violet orbs still studying me, I silently evaluated the work set before me. A direct and violent approach—confronting these two monsters with physical force—certainly would not work. Average in stature and on the wrong side of forty, I could not just pick a fight with two giants. One of them would effortlessly knock me to the floor, and I would have wasted my chance.

Think! You need them to want to leave the table. Give them something else to occupy their drink-fogged minds.

Inspiration dawned. Sending a meaningful glance toward Mick’s furtive and watchful eyes, I adopted an idiotic grin and ambled over to the bar, my gait deliberately clumsy and uncertain. Leaning against the bar and motioning with an unsteady hand, I flashed a brief apologetic smile toward the curious bartender.

I hope I do not trash your bar in my suicidal attempt to rescue a helpless maiden.

Mick’s eyes flashed quickly toward the oversized buffoons at the woman’s table, and then he made his way over to me, a question in his eyes and a concerned expression on his narrow face.

Can I help you, Mike?

Here we go—time for the aggressive drunk act.

Bartender, I announced in a loud, boisterous voice. I’d like another of your specials—perhaps with a little extra kick. And get those two gentlemen— I gestured grandly at the two aggressors with a deliberately unsteady hand —another of whatever they’re drinking.

Facing the woman’s table, I called out to her tormenters. Hey! Guys! Let’s raise a glass to the wonderful idea of you two leaving that attractive young lady free to enjoy her evening, untroubled by our foul smell and worse manners!

Mick could not fight back a brief tentative grin as I spoke, but in the next moment, the smile faded, and his eyes flashed back to the ruffians, who were both now glaring in my direction. Mick had seen many bar fights, and he knew where this scene was headed.

Coming right up, Mike, he announced, turning to make the drinks. Then he muttered under his breath, I sure hope you know what you’re doing.

Dropping the witless grin, I nodded and whispered, So do I.

The ploy worked. The men were drunk but not deaf, and they turned when they heard my loud proclamation, their dulled wits struggling to perceive my meaning, even as they glared menacingly at me. Why was I buying them drinks? And why the strange toast? The befuddled bullies unconsciously shook their heads, trying to put the pieces together. Meanwhile, Mick busied himself preparing the props that I had requested—silently and apprehensively.

My funeral, not his.

I smiled as I realized that I was getting caught up in the thrill of my reckless role. There was a sense of anticipation when the three glasses appeared. Mick’s unique concoction for me glistened in an ornate tumbler while two boilermakers—that dangerous mixture of beer and whiskey that turns men into fools—awaited my friends.

Smiling grimly, I whispered toward the bartender. Thanks, Mick. Stay out of the way; this is going to get ugly! The bartender nodded, shaking his head in dismay, and I turned back toward the men at the table.

Gentlemen? Abruptly bursting into rude laughter at the strange contradiction between the word gentlemen and my foes’ appearance, I recovered myself and gestured grandly toward the drinks. Would you care to join me?

The larger of the two men was now watching me, his eyes flickering between my less-than-impressive stature and the two inviting drinks at the bar. I had his attention and congratulated myself on my partial success.

Unfortunately, his partner was still seated at the beleaguered woman’s table, leering as he roughly mauled the fragile book she had been reading and stretching his legs in the hopes of making accidental contact with the woman’s, which were folded and tucked under her as far away as possible.

Come on, guys, I need you both in the fight.

Flashing a glance toward Mick, I nodded toward the far table as if to say, Can I get a little air support here?

Bravely, the bartender picked up on the cue and called out, Here you go, boys. Mike here has bought you both a drink. Come and share a toast with him!

The larger man was still trying to work out in his drink-fogged mind whether or not he had been insulted, but he decided to take advantage of the free drink. Ambling toward the bar, he glared at me.

Back off, little man! We’ll take the drinks, but one more word out of you, and you’ll be splattered all over the bar.

I merely gave him a stupid grin. Time for the show.

Laughing and ignoring the thrill of fear climbing up my spine, I strode over to face the hulking giant, my eyes barely at the level of his collarbone.

You’re hilarious, but honestly, I moved even closer, glaring into his face and poking my index finger into his chest, I was just trying to get your attention. You’re stinking up the bar, guys. That lady has been more than patient, and it’s time for you two to leave her alone. Find a shower. Sleep off the whiskey. Come back when you don’t smell like the sewer on a bad day.

Scattered, nervous laughter rustled around the room, but most of the people were unconsciously leaning away from the scene and averting their eyes, not wanting to be caught up in the storm that was about to rage. The bartender was cringing and looking as if he were about to dive for cover.

Glaring back at me, the big man growled. The stench of his breath almost knocked me over. Reaching for my collar, he snarled, That does it, little man. You’re gonna die tonight.

If only. All right, bring it on, you troll.

I laughed again and brushed aside the huge fist. So funny. You should be in a comedy act. You know, like Laurel and Hardy. In fact, I glanced over and called to the man’s partner. Hey, Hardy—yeah, you! I gestured and pointed toward the man still seated at the woman’s table. You and your oversized compadre here need to take your act on the road. Now!

Ducking under the arm of the closer man, who was still fumbling for my shirt, I stepped clumsily toward the second man, beckoning.

Get over here! Or are you scared of one little old guy? I needed to draw him into the fight and was desperately hoping that in their annoyance with me, they would both forget the helpless woman they had been tormenting—at least long enough for her to escape if she wished. When he made no move, I continued.

Buddy, you two gentlemen have had too many shots of bottom-shelf whiskey, and you’re stinking up the place. I waved my hand in front of my face, comically pretending to waft away the horrible odors. Someone needs to throw you out, and I guess I’m elected.

It worked. Nearly everyone in the bar was watching. My lovely damsel in distress was now studying my face with an inscrutable gaze.

Here we go—Act Three. Swallowing hard and gesturing toward the bar’s back door, I continued. You two and I are going to have a discussion. Out back. Or are you both as cowardly as you are smelly?

Without waiting for an answer, I began to make my way toward the back door, beckoning clumsily. Inwardly, I was praying that Miss Lovely would disappear and that the bullies would forget their prey and focus their fading attention on me. I wanted the sacrifice to mean something. As I passed Mick, I flashed a quick bury me somewhere nice! grimace and then pushed through the metal back door into the dark recesses of the alley, followed by the two angry thugs.

A moment later, the three of us were squaring off in a dark alley. The debris-filled corridor separating two long rows of buildings seemed a suitable final resting place for one loser hero. Back among the dumpsters and makeshift homes of the less fortunate. Down in the debris pile. Out of sight, out of mind. Invisible.

My plan had worked. The pretty woman in the bar was forgotten by the two monsters, whose only interest now was to demolish me. It was now time to pay the piper. All choices carry consequences, and I sensed that the price I was about to pay for my bluff in the bar was going to be expensive—or at least painful. I was no fighter, but I was reasonably spry, and I hoped that I could manage to keep the two drunks from demolishing me—at least until they ran out of steam. They were both several inches taller than I, with longer, more muscular arms and a weight advantage of at least fifty pounds, but my survival instincts had kicked in, and I was now hoping to at least live through the experience.

Backing up against the dark brick wall opposite the door to the bar, I found myself surrounded by trash cans, broken pallets, and other debris. The aroma was not pleasant,