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Trenchcoat Warfare

Caleb grabbed another Dr. Pepper and flicked the tab open. The instant after the popping sound filled the basement, he shouted angrily as a jet of carbonized soda splattered his face and shot him directly in the eye.

"Damn it!"

This loud expletive was greeted with a mass uproar of laughter on either side of him. A burly fox on his right clapped him on the back and hollered in a high-pitched snicker. The two on his left, a long-haired coyote and a bespectacled puma, were the main source of the cacophonic pandemonium.

"Freakin' sweet, man!"

"Right in the face!"

The wolf was like a statue, staring wide-eyed at the offensive soda can. His muzzle hung open slightly, silent, choked with horrified indignation. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

"Oh, come on, man," the fox on his right said, "Can't you take a joke?"

"Yeah," piped up the short puma, "Things were getting quiet, we had nothing else to talk about. Had to do something to spice up the evening."

"It's your own damn fault," said the coyote, "for making us watch this movie."

"No, no, I don't think that at all, Josh," the fox said with a learned accent. "The movie was alright. I mean, Stephen King really knows how to write a decent screenplay, it's the director's fault for botching it up in transition."

"So we did this out of pure enjoyment, is that what you're really getting at?"

"Yes, Garret, that is exactly what I'm saying. What do you think, Cal?"

The wolf blinked as he heard his name at the end of that cryptic and exotic question. Slowly, he placed the impertinent Dr. Pepper back on the table. He swallowed and took a deep breath before speaking.

"Uh, I think that somewhere down the line, I somehow managed to piss off whatever gods exist so much so that they decided to show me how much of a redundant, mind-numbing experience my existence has become."

"Oh, come on, it's not like that..."

"Yes, it is like that. I'm just perplexed beyond all logical reason that this is how things have befallen me. What powers unfathomable have found it prudent to descend upon my as-of-yet vigorous years and turn it into a terminal case of repetitive braindead-osis? I refuse to believe that this is how I'm spending my evenings: watching a movie marathon in tribute to a man more known for his novels than cinema, listening to my friends laugh at the worst form of comedy imaginable--soda can humor, for Christ's sake!--while I lay soaking of a beverage that should have found its way into my gullet instead of my damn nose--"

"Pretty accurate for a Dr. Pepper..."

"--and I cannot fathom how you people can just sit here and call this entertaining. Personally I prefer my sunset recreation to have at least some level of beneficial productivity relevant to me. This..." the wolf raised his arms to the television and swept them in a half-circle, indicating the whole room, "...Is not my idea of productive fun."

Before the others could calm him down, Caleb stood up and walked away. His nostrils flared as he grabbed his car keys from the writing desk and stormed out the door. He walked over to the red Cavalier (not a bitchin' car, more like son-of-a-bitchin', Caleb thought angrily), popped open the door, and hopped in.

As he turned the key, Nightwish began blaring from the speakers. Caleb sighed as he knew that not even the mystically lilting voice of Tarja Turunen could wash out his sudden resentment. He started humming along with the tunes, even singing along in some parts, but it just didn't work. The sun bled the sky a deep reddish-orange as it prepared for a cold November, waiting for the rest of October to quickly die away with the remaining warmth.

He pulled out of the driveway, the Cavalier roaring like a kitten with respiratory problems, and drove out. He was unsure of where to go, and whenever directional ignorance presented itself he always ended up back in town. Good old Pavonine, where its very center was a damn intersection for four roads that happily led out of town. Chances being what they are, he'd probably end up buying a bottled water at the Citgo and come crawling back to apologize to his friends for his outburst.

Caleb didn't understand it. He had always felt like he could just float right out of his body from sheer joy during this time of year, but nowadays things just seemed to fall out of place. School was being a prick, interestingly being the average type of person often encountered within its state-funded walls, but that wasn't the problem. His self-loathing, which had always been the problem in the past, wasn't the actual problem. What the hell was it? Was it that fabled emotion known as senior anxiety? A week ago he might have said yes, but no, that wasn't it either.

"What the hell is it?" Caleb growled to himself. He didn't have an answer.

By chance he looked at the gas gauge, and was shocked to find that there wasn't much more than a quarter tank left. He cursed again and sped up to sixty-five, hoping to get to the gas station before the damn thing went kaput on him like last month.

Seven minutes later, he nuzzled the car beside a hulking blue Ford truck and the gas pump on his right. He got out and wasn't shocked in the least when he saw his breath in the form of a white mist erupt from his muzzle. It was cold, and it would only get colder. As he pumped the gas into the car, he fought a mental battle with himself to decide whether or not he should grow out his facial hair again. It grew so damn fast as it was, it was more trouble than it was worth, in all honesty. In the end, he realized that he made his decision last summer, when he told himself to stay clean-shaven this time. It didn't matter anyway, shaven or mountain-man it wouldn't get him a date. His last girlfriend had been that vixen Sondra, and that had been...how long ago? Five years? Six? Didn't matter anyway, what was done was done and--.

"Twenty-eight? Twenty-eight bucks for _nine_gallons? What the hell..." He grumbled to himself as he put the siphon back in the slot, screwed the cap back on the fuel tank, and walked to the Citgo. He anxiously fingered his wallet, wondering if his inner self would get the best of him and he'd be using that particular money-holder as a weapon of severe bludgeoning. The cashier greeted him with a smile, and he smiled back, reminding himself that it wasn't often he met someone who spontaneously cracked a smile of kindness at him. His rage had now cooled to a simmering pot of anger as he went to get his water...his five-dollar-and-ninety-nine-cent bottle of water that had probably been recycled and re-recycled somewhere that had never been known for their clean drinking water.

As he stepped out of the entrance and back into the cold twilight air, he heard a voice off to the right. It whispered his name, and he looked in that direction. He saw something just barely touching the light, keeping to the shadows as though detection was the absolute UNWRITTEN LAW. A shiver coursed through his spine, aided by the frigid air that wrapped around him like his own excelsior packaging.

As he felt that shiver run through him, he heard the voice again. It was raspy, gravelly, as though whatever had spoken his name had a throat clogged with dirt and rocks. Suddenly, in a flash of perceptive brilliance, he smiled as he understood who had spoken his name. He remembered the tone, the pitch, the quality of the voice, and he put aside the gravelly sound as he spoke the speaker's name.

"Ziggurat, you sneaky bastard..."

When the last syllable had bounced and faded off the wall of the Citgo, the figure stepped into the light. The absurdly tall arctic fox that faced Caleb was decked out in a ripped leather vest that exposed his white shoulders and strained tightly against the subtle muscle in in his chest. Tighter than the shirt, however, was a black corset that constricted his waist to almost feminine proportions. His black pants, streaked with vertical lines of pink, orange, and purple, hung slightly askew off one hip, and the bottom edges were tucked into the bowels of his strangely-made, slightly militaristic boots. The toes gleamed with brilliant silver, but the rest of the boot was ribbed laterally with black oxidized steel, and a large golden brace clung to the back and around the non-visible tongue. Black fishnet arm warmers stretched from his wrists to his shoulders. Seated on top of the fox's head like some ridiculous looking owl from hell was a very steampunk-looking top hat, its middle split in two and stitched so that it looked as though someone bisected two different hats and sewed the two dissimilar halves together. On top of that, its top measured twice the circumference of its brim. Nestled in the checkered hat band was a large red and black lollipop. Flowing out beneath this miscarriage of headwear was a cascading curtain of night-black hair, tipped in blood red that reached all the way down to the fox's strange boots. He leaned on a thin, silver cane that was almost as tall as Caleb.

"Caleb Foxwolf. How you doin'?"

Caleb noted that with each word the fox spoke, his eyes swiftly shifted to a different color. When his name was spoken, they were a bright shade of turquoise, but with the idiomatic "doin'" they cycled into pine green, then to hazel, then to a brilliant yellow.

"Ziggy, how you doin'? Damn, man, how long has it been?"

"Few years, as far as you're concerned. You've changed, I'll give you that."

"Really? How do I look?"

Ziggurat hung his head and shook it side to side. "Like trash," he said. "How about me?"

Caleb gave another look over to the tall fox. "Hmm, looks like you gained a little weight, Ziggy."

"Oh, I couldn't hide it, could I?"

They laughed together, two old friends gabbing with each other in the last sliver of light the sun would allow for the dying day.

"So where have you been for the past few years? Or should I say when have you been?"

"Oh, I had a gorgeous time in the late fifties, so excuse me if I suddenly start humming Johnny Horton songs."

"Meh, he's alright every now and then when you wanna get down-to-Earth patriotic. I'd've stuck with Bing Crosby. So what did you do?"

"I was a French curio-dealer who on his fun-days found obscure and clever ways to force English businessmen to embezzle the funds from their own companies, in exchange for a particular service or object that they were in desperate need of. Eventually, they realized the object or service for which I traded my business was a bit more costly than they had first surmised, but by then it was far too late to turn back...even If they had the willpower to see through the tricks, that is. They should have realized that the cost of my stock--one poor man couldn't live without a snow globe, of all silly things--isn't cheap. No businessman can make a profit just by giving things away!"

"...Please stop talking. Your eyes are just scaring the piss outta me right now."

"Yeah, I have that way with people. So what about you, though? What's been going on around here? Any more natural disasters wiping out whole populations without my help?"

"No, not really. Everything's just turned into a grey mix of monotony ever since you left. World's at peace, but people are still hating each other, yadda-yadda-yadda. It's all just gotten to be a big bore, really. Sometimes I just spend hours thinking about what it would be like if my life was like yours. Huh...if there was some way I could live vicariously through you, and we both know how crazy that sounds, then maybe my life would ...Will you stop doing that!?"

As Caleb talked, he had been watching the paltry numbers of vehicles go by, their headlights speeding by unblinkingly. In the corner of his eye, he saw the fox's body shift and change its shape, slowly at first, gradually picking up speed as he spoke. When he turned back to the fox, he was looking into the large, intelligent black eyes of a rat. Ziggurat smiled, his new yellowed fangs gleaming like a row of venomous daggers as a pink tail snapped against the wall of the Citgo like a pink, fleshy whip.

"What? You don't like the new look?"

"I don't like being ignored when I'm ranting! You can divide yourself into two separate entities and screw yourself for all I care, but when I'm talking you will_be listening. _Capisce?"

"Si, amigo...but I was listening, you know--."

"I bet you were."

"--And I'm hip to what you're saying, I really am. Actually one of the reasons I came down here was that I wanted to talk to you about a little something."

"What 'little something'? There is no 'little something' where you're concerned."

"Oh, just a little proposition I thought you might be interested in..."

Caleb shook his head as though he thought a nest of spiders had congealed in his hair. "No, no, no! The last time I took you up on a proposition I was almost run over by a vehicle whose speed could only be reasonably shown in scientific notation."

"Oh, come on, that was the past. It barely grazed your toe, you were flung into a wall...so what? What's done is done."

"Yes, and I'm done making any more deals with you."

"Without even hearing me out?!"

"Damn right! You have a reputation for putting me into situations where only something like you could survive. No thank you, sir."

"Are you sure? 'Cause I really think you'd want to hear me out on this one. It involves a lot of imagination, requires very little effort on your part, and is very, very economically worthwhile. You'd be able to enact your darkest fantasies (as well as the lighter ones, assuming your eternal bitterness for life hasn't killed them off) while keeping the general order of things up to scale."

"How much is the payment? And by that I mean how much is it gonna run me?"

"Absolutely nothing!"

"Poppycock! If there's one thing I've learned from years of listening to Alice Cooper it's that nothing's free. What's the cost, and if you say what I think you're gonna say you can just stop right there."

"Alright, Caleb. I'm just gonna come right out and say it, then. I'm offering the chance for you and your friends to break free from this big white world and cross the grim latitude of time and reality. You're a big fan of the Twilight Zone, and you love hearing all those old-timey radio programs like "The Hermit's Cave" and "Inner Sanctum," where men experience fortunes and fates only known to the fiction writer and impassioned novelist. If you take me up on this offer, I can guarantee that your lives won't be blatantly translucent ever again."

"This isn't a derivative of your 'stay-young-forever-for-free' deals, is it?"

"Oh, heaven-forbid. Perish the thought! Every word I say is infested with earnest seriousness. Basically, what I'm offering you is adventure."

"Mm-Hmm...I assume we'll have our superiors?"

"Oh, you'll definitely have to learn and get acquainted with the whole scheme of patch-and-stitching the fabric of reality. I'll have to help you with that--."

"Uh-huh."

"--But when you guys start finding your way around things and get some work done, I'll leave you alone from there on out. Sound good, yes?"

"Hmmm, tres amusant. But in what way will you be heading this little macrocosmic expedition of as-of-yet unexplained activities?"

"You mean are the policies gonna be government-controlled?"

"Yis." (yis was merely Caleb's way of saying "yes" when he felt quirky)

"Well, I'll be directing you guys to various locations that need to be rid of certain persons, creatures, or societies. When you--"

"Wait a minute! You want us to become some bottom-of-the-barrel time-traveling gang of hit men to execute your own vendettas!? How dare you insult my intelligence!"

"No, no, that's not what I was saying. You boys won't be hit men--"

"Damn right, we won't..."

"--but you will have to make very serious decisions and do some very serious things, in a nutshell. Some worlds have been going through some very dark times, or other 'cosmic abominations', as you so lovingly call me, have descended upon them, or they basically have found a new and efficient way up Shit Creek. There may be some deaths here, and a few gallons of blood there, but keep in mind that every drop spilt will have justification for its release."

Caleb crossed his arms. "For example?"

"Drug dealers and addicts, arms dealers, self-righteous warlords, legions of the living dead, vile starspawn, religious organizations that behave in irreligious conduct, political staff and faculties that intend to undermine the hopes and lives of the people they supposedly represent, murderers, thieves, hypocrites--."

"Nice."

"Mafiosos and their endless systems of criminal organizations, warmongering government leaders, hordes of utilitarian robots bent on world domination, Fox McCloud, nuclear infected--."

"Wait a minute, what was that last one?"

"--Anarchistic punks and similar members of their breed, buildings possessed by ancient spirits of the damned, potential environmental hazards, aggressive shut-ins who have connections with biological, nuclear, or chemical weaponry, and basically hateful, evil people who are on the verge of discovering immortality and could cause major havoc if left unhindered."

"So basically we're gonna be a bastardized version of the Monty Python gang?"

"Essentially, yes...if you wanna put it that way. I detest your choice in analogies, but I suppose it could work."

"Well, Ziggy, I've only got one question for you. Was your first incarnation a solicitor? Because you've certainly got my confidence!"

"I'll have to teach you the fundamentals of witty madcap conversation, as well..."

"I'm serious, Ziggy. All I really have to do is get mis amigos on the line and they'll be on board, too."

Ziggurat smiled, and as that smile broadened across the rat's muzzle Caleb saw him change shape again. He was reminded vaguely of the time he had made a stew and accidentally forgot to turn the heat off on the oven. After three hours the stew had turned into something that looked like it could jump out of its container on its own volition. The bubbling mass of horrid-looking broth in the kettle didn't hold a candle to the sight Caleb saw. When the molecular reformation had been completed again, the rat was now an otter with odd tribal tattoos encompassing his facial features. Caleb was surprised that the clothing had remained largely unaffected by this transformation.

"I'm glad to hear that, Caleb," Ziggurat said. "But first thing's first. I want you to have this."

He handed the wolf a slip of paper, and Caleb felt his stomach roll again as his fingers touched the otter's when he took it. He couldn't explain this feeling (he was certain that he was desensitized to his friend's constant ability to change shape by now), but he didn't really care about that. That was a trifling matter compared to the prospects that flitted before him as he went over the things that Ziggurat spoke of. He looked down at the paper and saw that it was a cell phone number.

"What's this? Other than the obvious, I mean..."

"It's the number of a particular friend of mine, a connection among connections. Like me, he's a wheeler and dealer in inter-dimensional wares, only his methods of business are geared more toward, shall we say, the diffusion of resources instead of total destabilization. He's a musician that specializes in heavy bass, if you catch my drift."

"Ah...What's his name?"

"Brian."

"Brian?"

"Yes. He finds it to be the only thing close to his actual name, which is quite unpronounceable without the proper vocal mechanisms. I suggest you call him before you come find me, though. Don't worry about secret codes or anything, he'll be expecting you."

"What am I supposed to call him for?"

Ziggurat smiled again, and in that glimmer of wicked knowledge Caleb knew he had disproved all the demographic studies of racial profiling. One's species was an insignificant factor when it came down to morality...or lack thereof.

"The essentials," the otter-thing said. With that, he walked slowly backward into the shadows. When he turned away from Caleb, the wolf no longer saw his old friend, only the corner of concrete pavement where Ziggurat had been standing a moment before he dematerialized into the darkness.

Caleb looked down at the number again, and for a moment he felt like throwing it away. It would be picked up by a gust of wind and carried away to some distant place where it belonged. But something inside Caleb wanted, desperately wanted, to have doors opened, to have roads uncharted available for the taking, to have corners dark and impenetrable probed and prodded. He had always wanted to go out and see the world, and now he was given the chance to see a lot more than just this world. On top of that, he'd be doing some good (in a manner of speaking).

In the cold night air, amidst the slight small-town traffic that criss-crossed at the intersection off to the left of the gas station, Caleb took out his cell phone and dialed the number. He grinned as his mind busily raced with what the possibilities that golden word "essentials" might invoke, and he imagined that if he had a mirror with him, his grin would remind him eerily of The Unshaping, that Cosmic Abomination who goes by the name Ziggurat.

---

"Tell me again, because I'm pretty sure my brain didn't get that last part."

"Once more, Josh...You, me, Garret, and Matt have the chance to be part of something very big, assuming of course if we've got the guts for it."

"Yeah, I'm pretty we've got the guts for it."

"How do you know?"

"Well, take a look at us. What we lack in guts, Matt makes up for."

"That was a bit of a low shot, man."

"I know, I had to get it in somehow."

"Guys! Can we please stay on one topic? I have a list of questions here, and I want answers before I get to the good stuff."

"Alright, alright...continue."

Matt, Josh, and Garret were seated casually where they were a week before, on the sofa in the large basement. Caleb paced around in front of them, breaking their concentration with the television. It took a week for the essentials to get here, and it took five days to successfully sneak them into the basement. He was well aware that most of his orders could have been made quite needlessly if the guys didn't want in, but if it came to that then he wouldn't need a reason to call Brian for a while. Whatever happened, it was a win-win.

"Question one," Caleb said, loosening his black shirt just slightly. "Have you ever fired some sort of firearm?"

"Yeah,"

"Yep."

"Do paintball guns count?"

"Question number two: have you ever fired the aforementioned firearm...accurately?"

"Yeah."

"Oh yeah."

"Well, I didn't get the bull's eye, but the shots were in the same general vicinity..."

"Question number three: Are you now, or have you ever been, disgusted with the state of things going on with the world?"

"Yeah."

"Hell yes."

"This isn't a political question, is it?"

"Well, gentlemen, it seems to me that you've all passed the Three Questions of Relative Needlessness. Now we all need to pledge the Oath of Crazy-Awesome Pan-Universal Ass-Kicking."

"Caleb, what is this all about?"

"All in good time, comrade. Just raise your right paw."

As they all raised their right paws, a tingling sensation coursed through Caleb's body, making his fur stand on end and his tail bristle. We're gonna do it, he thought madly to himself. By the gods that were and all the powers that be and shouldn't be, we're actually gonna do this...

"Repeat after me now. I solemnly swear...to uphold the principles of the group...to get along no matter what problems may confront us...to bust a cap where caps need be busted...to take names, if they are of possible interest to us...as well as phone numbers, if it strikes our fancy...to not waste ammo, for it is damned expensive and a wasted bullet may as well have been aimed at your own feet......and finally, to not make a big deal out of nothing and throw a hissyfit when Caleb eats his black licorice."

"I don't know ab--"

"SAY IT!"

"Okay, okay..."

Caleb then walked over to one of the large boxes that the guys had been eyeing for some time now. He knew what was in it and knew it was light, so he brought it over to them and placed his shoeless foot-paw on it in a comical Captain Morgan posture.

"Gents, I'm not the one who's gonna tell you the goings-on. I know a friend in Otterell, owns a candy shop. He'll tell you guys everything. But first, I suggest we open these boxes and put on whatever we find in them."

"Umm...Have you gone mad, Caleb?"

"Mad with the desire to live! Now, let's see here..."

Caleb put his foot down and opened the box (he had already cut open the packaging tape that sealed the lids together the day they were delivered). He reached in and took out a long, dark brown trench coat. It was wrapped in cellophane, but you could easily see the two black lines, each perhaps two inches in width, that ran vertically from the bottom to the undersides of the arms on the right and left sides, separated by a mere inch or so. This same pattern appeared on the top off the sleeves.

"My-my-my, look what we have here."

"Holy hell!"

"Where'd you get that?"

"How...where...whuh..."

Caleb tossed this article of wonder to the coyote, who stared wide-eyed at it, a silly grin hanging on his muzzle.

"That one's yours," Caleb said nonchalantly.

"What!?"

"Put the damn thing on! You don't own a trench coat just for admiration. Well, other people's admiration, surely..." The wolf walked away from the others to get the other boxes. When he had transferred the remaining three cardboard boxes from the far corner to the center of the room, Josh still did not have the trench coat on.

This was a problem. When you open a door to a shop of interesting, ancient antiquities, you don't pause on the threshold to breathe in the scent of age and assured mold. You jump in, immerse yourself in the splendor of a bygone era. You listen to the elders who rock back and forth on their rocking chairs, some still clinging to their last bits of memory and actual capacity, and you listen damn well because the past certainly has a way of coming around again and again and again like a bad case of summer cold, and the old timers have a way (some would call it a habit) of telling people about that little fact of life, and Caleb was a firm believer in the saying "to be forewarned is to be forearmed."

What Josh was doing with his trench coat (what he wasn't doing, actually) was sacrilegious.

"Josh! Put the thing on...seriously."

"I'm afraid I'll do something to ruin it."

"The only way you can ruin it is if you somehow, through mysterious means, get your blood on it. Unless that thing is on your back in the next minute, your blood will find its way on that otherwise very fine coat."

Matt spoke as he adjusted his spectacles on the edge of his nose. "How much did that cost?"

"About the same as yours did." Caleb opened another box and took out another cellophane-wrapped treasure. This one was a dark charcoal-like grey. On the left sleeve was a pair of crossed automatic pistols. Below that, a pair of black bands were embellished with the words "One shot...One kill", two words on each band. Matt nodded his vulpine head in admiration. Caleb smiled: he knew that when the fox (most foxes, actually) was at a loss for words, you had just won some small feat in intellectual competition. Matt took his coat with an enormous black paw as Caleb went to the next box.

"You got one for everybody?"

"Yes I did. You could call this a very exclusive club, but if you wanna call toothpick a spear, then fine with me."

He took out Garret's trench coat, a noble beige-looking thing with many deep pockets (it wouldn't be a trench coat without such arcane crevices). All in all, there was nothing spectacular about it compared to the others he ordered from Brian, except for the eleven-odd buckles on the front, and even they were the most basic of clasps. For one brief moment, Caleb was afraid he had made one of those decisions where you unknowingly debilitate someone's sense of self-image, where you unwittingly let someone think they've been ostracized for no good reason at all.

The panic vanished when he saw that, as he held the trench coat up to offer it to the puma, the thing looked good. Better than that, it looked damn good. He was sure that when the short puma put it on, he would look like a Mafioso ten times as suave as Don Corleone... And with any luck, twice as deadly.

"How much did all this cost?" Garret asked as he took his fabled "club-jacket."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Caleb said, and that was all he said. He walked over to the final box, anxious to see the coat he would be wearing. He hoped they got the customization right. It was a simple thing, but a lot of businesses that allowed for client alterations had a habit of absolutely botching just such an order. Then he remembered who he ordered the product from, and he cracked a grin at the thought of black-market dealers being more efficient and spot-on with their clientele.

His paw went into the box and his fingers fiddled with the wrapping paper. Slowly, as though he were carrying a tray of uranium instead of a bit of clothing, he pulled his own trench coat out from its cardboard prison. It was black, blacker than darkness, and its weight was unrealistically heavy. He ripped open the wrapping paper like a child at Christmas-time, and he gripped it at the collar, letting it unroll down to his feet.

Instantly his dark brown eyes were attracted to the radiation symbol on the left breast. It wasn't a button, and it wasn't embroidery. It was actually worked into the material, not woven or stitched. It wasn't very large, but it wasn't very small that you could hardly see it, either. It was perhaps three inches in diameter, three yellow triangles, themselves arranged in a triangle, pointing downward, encircled by a thin yellow circle marking the boundary of the representation. This was good. Caleb hated seeing the radiation symbol altered so that the yellow replaced the black filling and the triangles were black. It wasn't a matter of devotion to a questionable image; it was just a matter of historical accuracy and its unacknowledged semblance that pissed him off.

Somewhere off in the distance behind him, he heard Josh exclaim. "Whoa! Is that a One Winged Angel trench coat?"

He heard himself say "Yeah." It was indeed a One Winged Angel trench coat, as was inspired by that popular video game series. It had been years since Final Fantasy fanatics demanded that such a coat be made, many more years before manufacturers saw the practicality in actually making a clothing item inspired by a video game. But several years ago, in 2007, to be exact, the dreams of those zealous game players paid off, thanks in large part to Shoggoth Clothiers, an enterprise geared mainly toward the social minorities and various subcultures. He remembered going to their website and seeing the price tag for it, wiping his eyes with the back of his paw, certain that the four digit number in bold red font was just a typo, or a screen-to-eye mirage.

And here he was holding one of the highest quality with a radiation symbol on the left breast, bought for nothing from a relatively unknown black-market kingpin he just happened to get on good terms with. He didn't know whether to cry or laugh. It wouldn't really matter which urge he gave in to, since they were both trademarks of the same hysteria. He suddenly understood the other guys' abrupt hesitation they showed earlier. They were all stepping on their own thresholds, rubbing the doorframe with their metaphorical toes, wondering if they should walk into the shop and haggle with the proprietor or stay away, stay safe.

(Stay sane)

Suddenly Caleb remembered an old Popeye cartoon. One where his children (did they ever say if Olive Oil was the mother or not??) were exploding fireworks unsafely, and ol' spinach-man turns the cartoon into a public service announcement. His children, popping their heads out of trashcan lids, say with the rebellious wisdom of youth "Who wants to be safe?", "Yeah, and who wants to be sane?" That cartoon flitted through the wolf's mind, and he tried desperately to not smile, because he knew that smile would be more than enough to let the mad laughter out. Using all his willpower, he kept his face straight and his mind blank as he put one arm through the sleeve.

The next few moments passed like some sort of subconscious dream. When he had the trench coat full on, he straightened himself up like a soldier of notable rank, pricking and pulling at the sides, barely aware of his compulsive behavior. It felt tight, but not too tight that he would have to take it off anytime soon. It was more of a snugness, a feeling that it would always be there when he wanted it to be there...and he wanted it there. He felt a power surge through him, pushing behind his eyes like adrenaline.

You just found yourself, wolfie, that's all. This coat sure is something else, though, innit? It's enough to bring your true self out into the open, the true self you've been so desperate to unveil for years, but you were so full of self-loathing, self-hate, self-pity. You made yourself angry because you felt this way about yourself, and you got angry because you got angry...it was a beautiful cycle of repression and depression. Sometimes you used to go whole hours, nay, whole DAYS just looking for an excuse to feed your anger monkey, to be mad at yourself. Why? Wasn't life itself enough? The way people treated each other in light of economic hassles, political struggles, environmental problems, wars, the death of common sense...it was enough to make you road-trip it to all the major world landmarks and vomit on every last one of them. Wasn't all of that enough to make you pissed off without forcing yourself to be your own scapegoat? That's right...it wasn't, was it?

Are you gonna cry, wolfie? You can if you want, but remember that there are people in this room with you, and if they saw their leader in tears, it could have some repercussions you will regret later on. So keep a stiff upper lip, wolfie, grin and bear it. They aren't like the other people, the others at school, the ones behind the counters of department stores, the ones who pass you on the street without waving, the ones who always find the time to give you a sideways glance and a sneer that says "I can't stand you, just get away from here." Remember the guy at Wal-Mart, the one whom you've never seen before, the one whom had never seen you before, remember the way he shook his head when he saw you? It's funny how one single moment in one day can screw up your whole week.

Let's see...self-loathing, self-hate, self-pity, and we covered the Stalin-ish paranoia. What are we missing? Oh that's right...shit. You were so full of SHIT, wolfie!! How can you tell people to live a life fully to their best intentions, to preach--yes, wolfie, don't deny it, you KNOW that's the right word--preach about respecting people and tolerating all of our differences when you yourself had been for YEARS your own witch-hunter? For you, it wasn't just the quirkiness you so smoothly passed it off as, it was borderline self-persecution. And they saw through it, didn't they!? They saw you twitch, and they noted your weird movements, putting them down in their little fact book for later use, the systematic rumorization machine blowing steam and ready for another strike. They would've been happy to be rid of you, to no longer have to go to the same school with you. The kid who always draws and writes stories and does passing work in school (unless it actually pertained to drawing or writing), Oh, he's good for a conversation or two but that's about the beat of it, not worth anything else. Don't ask him to help you with anything, and if you drop your pencil underneath his desk, don't ask him to pick it up, just grab it yourself like he doesn't even exist. Hell, he may not even "be all there" anyway--.

Wolfie, you're doing it again. You're letting yourself get the better of you. As silly as that sounds, you're letting it happen. You know how they say you are your own worst critic? You've taken that rule and pumped it so full of psychological steroids you're ripping yourself apart. You can feel that tear squeezing itself out now, can't you? Are you gonna pass it off as "tears of joy" again, or are you gonna stand up for yourself--stand up TO yourself--and give yourself a slap in the face? Let yourself out, wolfie. Be yourself. For once in your life, act upon the same rules and guidelines you want others to live up to. Wear a sandwich board if you have to, scream at yourself in the mirror with a bullhorn if you have to, but get your fuzzy ass in gear, wolfie. New possibilities, a new life, a new personality, hey, don't that sound sweet? A clean slate, not just with life itself, but with yourself...what would that be like? Something akin to serenity certainly. No more anger, no more staring off into space, fuming over the most trivial matters. What do you say, wolfie? What do you say, Caleb? Wanna do it?

Caleb wiped his eyes with the back of his paw. No more, he told himself. No more of this...ever again.

"You know, guys, I have to say we look good."

"Too right, Josh. What about you, Garret?"

"I'd say we look good."

"Well, that's cause you got the best-looking coat."

"It's the fact we have these coats at all. How much did all these cost, Caleb?"

Caleb swallowed the knot that formed in his throat and smiled casually. It was a trick he had learned since eighth grade. He turned to look at them levelly, feeling the edges of his coat brush happily against his ankles. "Don't worry 'bout it, mein freunds. My buddy will tell you when we get to Otterell."

"And when are we going?"

"I was kinda thinking sometime like now, would be good."

"Alright."

"Sounds good."

They filed out of the basement and into the rays of the high afternoon sun. They walked close together, a newborn family setting out into a world that for them had just seemed brighter and clearer. The garage they headed for was a small thing, nothing to chatter about during half-time, but it seemed to have a weird magnetic effect on Caleb's muzzle. He grew anxious, eager to show off another toy he purchased from that shadowy Mr. Brian. Something a little special, a little compensation for that poor old Cavalier, who had just met a terrible, terrible, fate not three days ago.

Caleb shoved open the sliding door and let the sunlight fall onto the high-octane nightmare. Its black paintjob glittered evilly like some hideous, hellish beetle, sharkfins sticking up and curving back like a pair deadly horns. Its icy chrome grill glittered with a fiendish intelligence of its own, almost grinning at them as they beheld its presence. Its headlights glared out at them, beckoning them. A massive golden spider was painted on its hood, its legs done in a skittery, jagged design that was reminiscent of both lightning and barbed wire. On the side were the words "Don't Bug Me!" in large gothic letter, also gold.

"Ho-ly..."

"What is...What?"

"Oh, man! Sweet ride! What the hell is it?"

Caleb glanced at the coyote, his eyes done up in that famous internet axiom, "O_o".

"Let me give you a hint; 'you better watch what you say about my car. She's real sensitive.'"

"Ah, a Plymouth..."

"A '58 Plymouth Fury, fool. I'm still not done finding out its little secrets."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing is what I mean, and nothing is what I say. Now let's all get in, we have to get to Otterell in zero minutes!"

They packed quickly into the nightmarish car, all of them eager to know what would await them in Otterell. Like the original 1958 Fury, there was no stick shift transmission, only a set of circular pushbuttons just to the right of the black-and-gold steering wheel.

In no time at all, they were driving through Pavonine, their ears filled with Nightwish's unidentifiable lyrics and the monstrous roar of the Fury's engine, which sounded like a whole group of thunderstorms converging onto one unlucky area. The coyote, Josh, wondered if you could actually measure the engine's power in horses and not something else, something that you'd expect to jump out at you from beneath the stairs or inside the closet.

Caleb smiled as they passed the marker that proclaimed "Welcome to Otterell: Built on a Lake of Magic!" He felt like they were riding inside of a bullet and they were penetrating the flesh of everything that comprised the town. The people, the buildings, the land, nothing could stop them because they were pumped full of that old timey magic. The kind of magic that spurred Galileo's numerous quests of scientific curiosity resulted in incredible achievements for the world. The kind of magic that pushed Charles Lindbergh to fly for thirty three and a half hours from that rain-soaked Roosevelt field to Paris. The kind of magic that inspired Oppenheimer to build the nuclear bomb.

Reality was just a game to them now. They were to become masters of Everything. Not just everything, but actually Everything. Not yet, but very, very soon.

"I want to hunt with the tameless heart," Caleb sang along in a near-precise falsetto. "I want to learn the wisdom of mountains afar..."

By the time the song had ended, Caleb had pulled to the side of the curb in what seemed to be a not-so-reputable part of town. If Otterell had indeed been built on a magic lake, than this was where all the garbage and unnecessary waste piled up at the bottom. The streets were cracked, dotted with potholes that made them look like a severe case of acne, and the sidewalks were broken and uneven. Caleb was somewhat loathe to leave such a fine piece of mechanical genius out where anything could happen, but with some verbal prodding and a crowbar, the others managed to pry him off of the black and gold hood.

Twice Caleb tripped over a sudden incline that presented itself without warning. He let out a string of expletives that would have had him bushwhacked by the pope's secret service of sardonic nuns. As they rounded the corner, the wolf saw what he was looking for and halted the others.

They looked up at the sign above the door displaying, with 70's style loops and swirls, the word's "Mr. Scaythe's Candy Shop." The words were scratched and weatherworn, their flamboyantly bright colors dulled and worn away as though the shop had been there since the town was first established.

"Is this it?" Matt asked with a disparaging note in his voice.

"Yeah, it is."

"Are you sure? I mean, your friend could have been leading you on..."

"Trust me, Garret, If Zig was leading me on, I'd've noticed it by now. He's not the kind of guy who talks through both sides of his mouth."

That's a lie, Caleb remarked in his head. Ziggurat is exactly the kind of person who would do that. He's the kind of person who gives you a dollar and demands your wallet and bank account. The kind of person who finds the dark, corrupted hearts of men and women to be the perfect playground and form of entertainment. Being friends with someone like that was a two-way street: you could either go with the flow or ride with him, hoping you won't crash and burn for a very long time, or you could be on the other side just long enough to look him in the eyes before he runs you down. Either way, you probably bite the bullet in the end...and Ziggurat would be choosing the gun for you.

Not me, Caleb thought to himself as he opened the door to the shop. I'm not one of his infinite dolls to be played with. He treats me like an equal, gives me as much respect as I give him. He couldn't be leading me on 'cause...'cause we're friends.

But that little worm of suspicion had made such a nice home in his mind. How many "friends" has Ziggurat had in his existence? How many of those "friends" are now dead, dying, or living as some part of him? Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of worlds had already been touched by his diseased shadow...

This thought gave way to a grisly image, a gigantic mass of bodies, their number incalculable, and unidentifiable because hardly any them were whole. A mountain of corpses, maybe trillions, stretching well into the atmosphere, and it was throbbing, beating with a dead life all of its own...

Caleb wanted to throw up. He clutched at his stomach and breathed deeply, inhaling the pungent aroma of an exotic cologne. Aficionado, maybe, with a hint of citrus and something spicy. He stepped deeper into the dim room, ushering the others in with his free hand. Suddenly a soft, Englishman's voice called out to them from the other end of the room. It sounded like Vincent Price, but had a light twang of Tennessee mixed into it.

"Gentlemen! So nice to see you, I was wondering when you would stop by my little shop. These, I assume, are the friends you told me about, eh, Caleb?"

He looked older now, much older, the sort of person you'd expect to see strolling down winding paths and gardens in eighteenth-century England with a cane and derby hat. His feline features, although somewhat mysterious and dark, appeared very noble and magnificent in itself because of the candlelight that flickered on either side of the large counter which he stood behind. His grey tweed suit made his eyes kind of dark, but the candlelight saw to that with a somewhat frightening result, reflecting the purple irises to almost unnatural luminescence.

As they walked to the counter, the wolf noticed that the walls on either side of them were lined with shelves and bins, and there was no space on any of them that didn't have some sort of candy, carefully labeled and strategically placed for maximum longing effect. There were hard candies of all sorts and families, as well as several hundred brands of licorice. There were candies he had never seen nor heard of before placed in compartments with nametags and dates inked on the wooden lids. It was all very beautiful in a nostalgic sort of way, and Caleb would have smiled happily if this was an ordinary candy shop with an ordinary shopkeeper.

For the next hour or so, Ziggurat and Caleb explained their back-scratching relationship to the others. To the wolf's chagrin, Ziggurat left very few personal bits omitted. He didn't really mind, as long as they were getting the point across. It took even longer to convince them of what Zig was, and even then they believed only after a particularly dramatic "reformation." A bit traumatizing, sure, but truth can be debilitating sometimes. Caleb didn't really care how he and Zig got this thing worked out because he knew the others would be in line with him every step of the way when they started the job. At least, that was what he hoped. Then they proceeded to talk about the "job" they would have to do. Some of the information was pretty new to Caleb, and several times he raised his eyebrows as he heard Ziggurat state some new element into the original proposition. They argued with him about one thing or another, and he gave in each time, allowing them to have their way.

Because it will be our way, Ziggy, Caleb said resentfully in his mind. Don't you dare take that for granted.

Caleb counted on himself to be a pretty fair judge of one's character, and he thought he saw a wide range of emotions playing about on the muzzles of his friends. There was fear, and sadness, but the common denominator was a slight smile that was probably forced up by that old magic of adventure. They were sure, but there was something that they couldn't see and didn't want to be a part of. What was it? Couldn't they see that it was all perfect? They were going to have everything, and nobody would stop them if they wanted something!

A two-way street, wolfie.

Ziggurat, AKA Mr. Scaythe, fixed him a particularly happy look, as though he could hear Caleb's thoughts. He probably can, Caleb thought bitterly. Everything he can do naturally would be called magic in this world, who's to say telepathy isn't yet another trick card hidden up his sleeves?

The fox, Matt, picked at the side of his coat nervously. "How will we be crossing the dimensional plane? I mean, the logistics of the thing is near impossible, I don't see how we'd be able to..."

The cat raised his paw, forestalling the rest of the fox's statement. "That has been seen to, Matt. You see, I find that the sensations I get from traveling from one world to the next is a little like traveling cross-country. You're still in the same vicinity in the world, but because of the regional differences in culture and environment it feels like another world altogether. For me it all blends into a neutral feeling, an everyday feeling, like walking through a door. That, my friends, is how you'll be crossing the dimensional framework."

Josh spoke up, his voice heated with disbelief. "By door? What is this, Star Trek?"

Ziggurat smiled wryly and nodded softly in an understanding sort of way. "I know, I know. A bit clichéd, a bit melodramatic, I'm sure, but you'll soon find it to be the most effective method for...shall we say, our unique reasons for transportation? In any case, the door in question isn't a large glowing disc that must be activated by a silly light-up pushbutton."

"How long are the hours?"

"Ah. That, I regret to say, is something that pains me to speak of to you four. First of all, you'll have to cast off everything that you had been in your world here. That means rejecting family, home, relatives, and the like. Your home will be upstairs above the shop. I've had it converted into a sort of barracks. In a way, it'll have some sense of family quality about it, once you get settled in."

Caleb clenched his fists, wanting to swear and gnash his teeth and pound his fists against the counter. Nice, he thought angrily. Just like Hitler. Get 'em while their young, train them, poison them early so they won't know the difference between the good and the bad. Those goddamn loopholes of his...

The others were silent and solemn as they took in Ziggurat/Mr. Scaythe's words. Caleb then asked the question that had been on their minds before they came here. "How much is the pay, Ziggy?"

The cat gave one of his secret smiles, his knowing smiles, and clasped his fingers together. "You'll find that the amount of payment I give for each mission is set on a fixed, incremental basis. Each subsequent operation will be double the amount of the one completed previously. You're first mission will be five thousand dollars...upon completion, of course."

"And what if we fail an assignment?"

The smile faded quickly from the feline's muzzle, as though a shadow had swept over his features and stole whatever aesthetic joy had been there. "I strongly suggest," Ziggurat said in a very hushed, menacing voice, "that you do not, I repeat...do NOT...FAIL...THE JOB! Failure is not looked on kindly in my line of work, be it myself or my employees. Failure is a dereliction of your job requirements, and my methods of firing employees are somewhat primitive. Got it?"

They all nodded vigorously. They got it very well.

Suddenly Ziggurat clapped his paws together, startling them all out of the dead silence he forced on them. "Well, I'm sure that you'll want to get acquainted with your new accommodations, and I'm sure you want to get started with the operations right away, so I'll just let Spooky show you around." He cleared his throat and called out "Spooky!" in a loud, crisp voice.

What the hell is going on? Another employee? Ziggurat never told Caleb about this, and he sighed through his nose as he held in a growl. What pissed the wolf off was that it wasn't really backstabbing, even though the word was flashing in his mind like a neon sign. They never talked about if Ziggurat could hire a fifth person or not, and the bastard exploited that little detail, just like he exploited all the other business-related details he hadn't thought of until now.

A tall, sinuous black cat walked through the beaded screen to the left of the counter. Her eyes glinted with a soft yellow light, and the smile she carried with her was as wide as her hips. One manicured paw was toying with a jeweled ornament that hung below the deep cut of the blue tee she wore. She walked toward them purposefully with the air of someone who puts herself above others no matter who they were.

"Gentlemen," Ziggurat said with a slight grin on his face, and Caleb imagined he heard a bit of pride in his voice. "This is my daughter, Spooky."

Daughter!? Just what the hell is going on here?

"If you wouldn't mind following me, I'll show you to your rooms," Spooky said. She had a lyrical voice that was soft and melodious, but it also sounded bored, as though what she was doing had been set to a daily routine and she was sick of doing it yet again.

They started following her through the beaded curtain when Ziggurat called Caleb over beside the counter. What next? Caleb wondered irately. Matching collars? The candlelight flickered as he stepped behind the counter, looking his old friend straight in the face. He wanted to show the prick who the real boss was in this business. If Ziggurat thinks that just because he's been alive for so long and understands a little corporate know-how he can make all the decisions for them, his paw is dipping into the wrong kettle of fish.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you about all this much sooner, Caleb. Its just that I was sure that your plate was full already, what with all the plans you had going on, so I merely took some entrepreneurial initiative and really got things going. I sincerely hope this doesn't affect the status of our friendship."

The wolf looked up into those violet eyes, knowing that the color would shift sometime very soon. Sorry...my fuzzy ass you're sorry. We're just another set of arms for you, another set of eyes, you expect us to smile and nod whenever you make choices out of pure spontaneity. You're sorry? I'm sorry I don't have the necessary footwear to shove up your--.

"That's alright, Ziggy. I know there were a few details that had been looked over, I'm glad that you took advantage of it. As long as we work together, I know we can pull this thing off. No harm done, Zig."

"Are you sure? I'm sure it felt a bit like a stab in the back for you..."

"No, no, no. I've felt worse, trust me, Ziggy. Everything will be alright. I know it will."

Caleb turned and made for the next room when Ziggurat said, "So I have your word, then?"

Caleb turned back and looked directly into the feline's eyes when he said, "Of course you have my word." Then he turned away again, passed through the beaded curtain, and made for the stairs off to the left.

Yes, Ziggy. You have my word...for what it's worth.