Death Never Accepts

Richard Smyth disappeared from the public eye shortly after the first debate. He had no running mate, as Kyle Draxtin did not; and before the second debate it was announced they would settle their differences and run together for office with Draxtin in the lead.

There wasn’t exactly a void and the disappearance of the older man wasn’t remarked about much in the Republic. Rumors about, if anything, Smyth’s poor health or “low constitution” surfaced. Some said “He had the Big C and went the Little Easy to treat it.” Whatever that meant.

Draxtin “humbly” accepted the Presidency uncontested. He may of had said the word once in a long drawn out speech of his superiority to other candidates. Despite the discrepancy, he was roundly applauded by all. Even those who in their heart of hearts who wished to oppose him applauded, in fact applauded the loudest. He was just that charismatic. He was bred that way, even.

Sitting in his boardroom for Rayzene, which doubled as his office, Draxtin sipped from glass of saline. He was on a liquid diet. Had been his whole life. Draxtin didn’t want to complicate his digestion, ruin his teeth with sweets, or put any absolute changes to his perfect physique. Kyle counted the bites individual members of his staff took as they ate their food. The whole affair disgusted him, but it was a necessary evil. You couldn’t expect men or women of the common class to take as good care of themselves as he did. Draxtin himself was a sole member of an aristocracy. Raised from young adulthood to be in charge. And before that? He could not remember babyhood or a childhood of any kind. They might have skipped that phase in his creation.

Uniquely chiseled as if from a rock, wearing a suit made of a cloth that would have torn at the flesh of lesser mortals like sandpaper, Kyle was lord over the land he surveyed.  He decided to get up out of his chair and pace around a bit. Several sallow lackeys turned in their chairs to watch him pass behind them. A few others remained facing their meals, hogging away. One exec was eating fried chicken and began to speak, but he swallowed his last morsel wrong and began to choke on it.

Kyle deftly lifted the man from his chair and applied the heimlich.  He did it with ease despite the fact the man was rather heavy set. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, Porkins. In fact, don’t speak again. You’re fired.”

Still coughing, Porkins tried several times to speak but couldn’t get the air needed to form the words he wanted to. He winced. Finally he said, “I think you busted a rib of mine, Mr. Draxtin.”

“Vamoose,” Kyle said, pushing the man against his further protests towards the door. Pained, Porkins shuffled on his way out the door.

“I don’t trust a man who can’t control his food. More so one who is controlled by it.,” Kyle joked. The others gave a cautious few laughs. Not a one of them dared to ask whether or not the boss ever did eat. It wasn’t the place for such questions. But many of them wondered. “Exit boardroom,” Kyle commanded. The room around him slowly evaporated before his eyes and he was once again seated, for real this time, in the back seat of his PrezCab. He looked around to get his bearings.

They were parked near a diner. Seated in the driver’s seat was his driver whom he called “Victor.” Draxtin had a great memory for names but hadn’t bothered asking his driver his actual name. Some people were of a low enough status that the President need not be familiar with them in that fashion. Kyle coughed loudly. A moment later the cabbie woke up.

“Saw ree, Mistah Draxtin,” said the man in a thick Jamaican accent. It amused him to hear the man speak in such away. “I must a haff dozed off.”

“Victor, good thing for you we are not late and I can easily find out where we are should you have gotten lost,” Draxtin said around a smile. The cabbie didn’t like that smile but didn’t say so.

“A mere five miles from Palookaville,” commented the driver. This time sounding rather as if he were from Brooklyn. Draxtin forgave the man for sleeping and for having forgotten which accent to speak with. Victor was a good, patient man. Hard to find those in a tough economy.

“Is my extra suit in the trunk as I instructed. You do know remember the trucker’s mistake, do you not?”

Victor paused for a moment, blinking. Draxtin smiled again, knowing the man was consulting some journal for a moment because he had forgotten. “Ah, 4,733.”

“Yes, a great number. I trust that we found a place for 4,734?” Draxtin asked.

Victor winced. “Combat duty, sir.”

Draxtin laughed. “Not for long, Victor. I hear he was KIA very soon after he reached his post.”

Victor was less than amused by the statement. “Shall we go, sir?”

“I broke Porkins’ rib and fired him,” Kyle said.

“What?” Victor shook his head for a moment. “Oh, you mean at the meeting, sir?”

“Damn fool choked on his chicken.” Kyle shook his head gravely.

“How unfortunate for him, sir.” Victor reached over to put the car in gear. Kyle tapped him lightly on the shoulder, stopping him. “You have something else to say, sir?”
“Yes,” Kyle pointed at the diner. “Do you think they have any steaks?”

Victor looked uneasily at the diner. As if he’d parked next to a graveyard where his own grave awaited him. “Why, sir?”

“I think I’ll have one,” Kyle replied. He looked shrewdly at the driver via the rearview mirror. “You aren’t religiously opposed to eating beef, aren’t you, Victor?”

“It’s early enough for steak and eggs, sir,” Victor said. He still looked nervous. “I didn’t think the price was reasonable for the meal so I just had toast and coffee, sir.”

Kyle patted Victor’s shoulder this time. “I have all the money in the world, friend.”

Victor started to take off his seat belt.

Kyle asked him a question that surprised him. The question was “what is an egg?”

Victor smiled this time, suppressing laughter. Kyle clucked his tongue at him, stopping the smile abruptly.

“What’s your name, Victor? Your birth name?”

“Vernon, Sir. Vernon Paul.” Victor had been admonished and it creeped him out more to hear this question. “Why do you ask, Sir?”

“Oh, nothing,” Kyle said. “You still haven’t told me what an egg is.. but I just suddenly wanted to know what name to put on your tombstone should you have a heart attack in that … Greasy Spoon.”

Vernon didn’t laugh. “Sir, an egg… well, the eggs people generally eat come from chickens. It is from what baby chickens are hatched from.”

“Does the baby chicken come out of it onto your plate?”

Vernon suppressed a grimace. “No, sir. It’s a hard white shell with a bit of white stuff and yellow in the middle. The yellow is yolk.”

“Ah, so it is an abortion?”

Vernon wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Ah, yes, sir. In a manner of speaking.”

Kyle took his turn to blink and consult something. “Oh, should I ask for mine ‘sunny side up’?”

“Oh, that’s good, sir,” Vernon commented. “Ready when you are.”

Kyle took a couple minutes to release himself from a fairly complex array of wires attached to the harness that kept him situated in the car. “It would be nice to eat something as the natives do, Vernon.”

“Quite sure of it, Mr. Draxtin,” said Vernon. He waited until Kyle got out of the backseat before getting out of the driver’s seat himself.

The two men ambled to the diner. Vernon paused to look both ways before crossing between some rows of cars. Kyle asked him what the heck he was doing and Vernon explained why. “I pity the man or woman who runs over the President of our nation!”

Vernon didn’t laugh. He suddenly wondered why no security ever accompanied him and Draxtin on these long trips they made. As far as he knew, his was one of the few cars on the road which sitll had wheels and much more importantly was fueled by fossil fuels. He knew it was made a year before because that was when he started working for Mr. Draxtin. Just then it seemed fairly quaint that everyone else was required to drive electric cars of some kind while the Prez had his own rules he followed.

When they entered the diner, a bell rang over-head. Kyle looked at it suspiciously. Vernon stopped himself from explaining why it was there. He felt shaken by the “heart attack” comment. One didn’t take jokes from Mr. Draxtin lightly. When the hostess arrived, she looked up at Mr. Draxtin’s face and she did a double-take. She looked at Vernon quickly. Vernon held out two fingers and said “Two please.”

To her credit, the woman managed to speak. “If I knew you were the President’s friend I would of given you my phone number earlier when you asked!” She looked nervously around the diner. “Follow me, please.”

“Two of what, Vernon?” Kyle wanted to know. “Where is she taking us?”

“I told her how many guests were requesting seating together. And she wants to show us to an available booth, sir.”

Kyle glared around for a minute. “That lazy bastard over there is by himself in a booth!” He pointed. “And he has made a mess of the place!”

Vernon swallowed very hard. He suddenly wasn’t very hungry.

The hostess came back, wondering why they hadn’t followed her. “Something wrong, sir?”

Kyle walked right up to the messy person in question. “You! You took up a booth just to have coffee?”

The hostess gasped. “He’s the owner of the diner, Mr. President.”

“President of What?” the owner wanted to know. He stood up. He was a beefy man, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt which was opened so that it flapped in the breeze of a fan His greasy t-shirt had a name tag saying “Billy Bubba” on it.

“I am the President of SARN,” Kyle yelled. “I demand to sit where you are sitting and for you to leave me to eat.”

Vernon wasn’t liking this one bit. Suddenly the coffee rolled over in his stomach. “Excuse me, sir! I need to go to the bathroom!” To wit, he farted loudly and left a greasy stain in his pants. Vernon ran to the bathroom just as Bily Bubba started to speak again. Several people had gotten up from their seats so he had to elbow his way to the back of the restraunt.

Vernon finally reached the men’s room and managed to drop trou and sit on the throne moments before a smelly mess erupted from his body. he sat there, expelling waste at an alarming rate. He’d been specially treated to limit the number of restroom breaks he needed on the road and it seemed that he just now had gotten so stressed that some of his programming backfired.

Maybe twenty minutes later he cleaned himself off a little. He hadn’t soiled himself much but he waddled out of the restroom. Then he about-faced and went back in to wash his hands. He walked back down to where the altercation had happened.

Kyle was sitting serenly in the now-vacant booth. Vernon slid in across from him. He looked out the window and saw the lights of an ambulance parked in the parking lot. He looked back at Kyle inquiringly, not trusting himself to speak just now.

“I ripped out his liver and strangled him with it,” Kyle said proudly.

Vernon nodded.

“I’ll be having a side of liver with my steak, Vernon,” Kyle smiled.

“That is good, sir.” Vernon was sure this time Kyle wasn’t joking. He didn’t ask for an explanation this time.

Kevin pipes up, “Don’t advertise. Invite. Only tell people you know you implicitly trust to join us, one man or one woman at a time.”

Paul smiles. “Agreed.”

Kevin raises his index finger, “And don’t scare the heck outta them like you did with me that first night. That setup was hair-raising!”

Paul frowns. “It wasn’t a setup, Draxtin. I was invited to a meeting and I assumed it was a meeting of our own sect. I don’t normally batter down doors when I am among friends.”

Kevin is confused. “Another sect? Doors battered down? I saw none of that…” He scratches his head. “A voice called you ‘human’ and the next thing I know you’re standing ON the door with someone underneath it.”

Irene gasps. “You interrupted the Vampeer?”

Kevin shrugs. “I’m not sure who they were, Irene. What in the world is a Vamp Pee-er?”

Paul puts a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Very dangerous men and women, Kevin.  The Vampyre have a thirst for blood. The word is spelled V-A-M-P-Y-R-E. I guess the name signifies Peers who are Vampires.”

Kevin shrugs the hand off. “All I know is they must have a strange thirst for keeping their business in secret like. And theres seem to be secrets much better kept than our own.” He looks uneasy. “If the gov’t were to sneak up on and raid us…”

Irene looks annoyed. “His first meeting, we let him name the thing, and he’s already talking about raiding. Ducky, you are something.”

Kevin looks at her but doesn’t apologize. “We have secrets, yes. But we got a right to peacefully assemble. Those Vampissers …” He looks at the frown on Paul’s face. “Sorry, Vampyre. Well anyway, they seemed to be bathing in a ton of blood from what little I could see. I worry it were something occult.”

James let go of his brother’s wooden leg and rose from his chair. Off-balance, Jacob fell heavily onto his butt. He reached behind himself and produced a rifle with a bayonette on the front. He stabbed with the bayonette, lancing James in the right bicep.

The pain is an intense burst. James falls into darkness, passing out from the pain as Jacob twists the bayonette blade around in the wound.

In the darkness, James hears a voice muttering, “Nah, that’s not how it should happen.”

James open his eyes and is again restrained in the chair. Before he can speak, cold water from a bucket is tossed in his face. He shivers and curses and sputters. Jacob is standing in front of him, smoking and laughing somewhat.

“I see you awoke for your interrogation before we could wake you, brother.” The last word came out sounding like “brudder” because of the cigar pursed in his lips. “Well, rise and shine, Mr Sun.”

Surprised, James looks down at his brother’s feet. One leg seems fine and the foot is in a snow shoe. The other again terminates at the knee and has an X-shape to it.

“Ah, you see. Let me introduce myself,” Jacob says with amusement. “I am the CrossLegged Killer.”  The smile leaves his lips almost as fast as it had come upon them. “I am not an Injun despite the name.” Dis-pie da neigh-M, comes out the last part.

James smiles this time. “You sure don’t talk with an Injun accent, brother of mine.” He tests the ropes, finding them tight about him. No mysterious stranger to untie him in the flash this time it seems.

Jacob looks non-plussed. “Forgive me a moment… I… have we done this before?”

James perks up, “What was that?”

“Never you mind!” Jacob says this time loudly. He pushes aside his confusion. The moment had taken on a dream-like quality up until this point. So much so that James was thinking he was dreaming the event. Despite the chill from the water on his skin. It also appeared that Jacob’s moment of deja vu would lend credense to this notion.

Belatedly, a solidier behind James strikes him on the head with a backhand blow. “Don’t call our boss any names, you hear?”

James bit his tongue from the force of the blow. He spits on the ground next to himself.

Jacob smiles. “It appears we have a rare moment when my brother forgets his manners!” He raises a hand. “Don’t strike him again, Whitey.” He looks behind James’ back. “Nun a-yoo shall doo sew.”  

James can tell his brother is exaggerating his own accent on purpose to an extent but decides not to call him on it. Better to just have picked up on a sly dog’s trick. “Can I have a blanket, Jacob. It is a might cold out here like this.”

Jacob doesn’t look amused now. “Now maybe we’ll set you a fire and burn you like a witch, dear brother if you’re that cold?”

“You wouldn’t do so, not before interrogating me. And not at the risk of committing a war crime,” James said pointedly, more for the indulgence of his other captors rather than his brother’s sake.

“This war is a crime, James,” Jacob said. “A crime against the Sanctity of the South!” He has finished his smoking and drops the cigar butt in his brother’s lap. “God bless Her, I do so wish.”

James squirms a moment, dropping the cigar butt onto his seat then wiggles some more to dislodge it onto the ground.

“Ants in yer pants, James?” Jacob goads him. The men take a moment but then laugh at the joke.

Quick character study, Kyle Draxtin.
A twenty-something executive-type exits a cab in downtown Pinewood. He is wearing a brown suit and carrying a briefcase. He squints in the glare of the morning sunlight. He is speaking on his cell phone.

A truck comes hurtling down the road, spraying the yuppie with mud from a nearby mud puddle. The truck says “Sludge CO” on the sides and back. There is a phone number on the back. The trucker pulls his horn, blasting out a loud sound as he continues on his
merry way.

The trucker has just gotten on someone’s shit list he doesn’t want to be on. He has just ruined Mr. Draxtin’s suit but not his day. In fact he’s made this executive’s millennium.

Briefly pausing the conversation, Draxtin tells his assistant on the line to look up the phone number and license plate number of the truck. He recites it all calmly and precisely. Mr. Draxtin has a photographic memory. He makes a declaration, then asks for
the address of a nearby men’s store to buy a new suit. He’ll buy the suit later although he has a meeting at precisely 10 AM. Mr. Draxtin is punctual. He will be embarrassed and muddy but what is about to happen to Number 4,733 (the place that the trucker has
earned on that oh so expansive shit list) will be sweet to hear of.

Draxtin hangs up, looks both ways to make sure he is alone, then rattles out a laugh. The laugh isn’t a pleasant one.

Ten minutes later, the trucker is pulled over by a police car. At least by what appears to be a police car. The trucker curses. As he tries to compose himself, the “cop” walks up to the driver’s side of the truck. His partner is walking towards the opposite side of the
truck.

Cop: “Can you exit the vehicle, please?”

Trucker: “Uh, sure! How fast…” he is saying as he opens his door.

Before even taking a step, before he can even finish taking off his seat belt, the cop yells “GUN!” and puts two slugs in the trucker’s head, killing him. Number 4,733 has just been neatly erased. The second cop had been recording the incident with his cell phone. He captures the action beautifully, or at least as well as he can from his angle.

Mr. Draxtin will not be pleased. Number 4,734 has just found his way onto that shit list without realizing it.

James meets Paul

Winter 1863, on a battlefield. The name of the place is unimportant. It is a place where young men will die. That is all that might be said of it.

James Draxtin has been sent to scout ahead for his division. He is on foot and without a horse. The enemy lies not more than a mile ahead of where they have camped and is upon a hill. To make matters worse a cold stream of inderminable depth surround the hill. It would seem the enemy picked this place well and should it be gained, the higher ground would assist the Rebel troops well.

James is doubtful of the sense in taking upon a fortification like this even if it would be an asset afterward. Right now it is a thorn in their side. A place where they may lose many men. James is careful to not let the snow crunch too loudly beneath his boots.

He is cold, but not overly so. The ground is white and frozen, a blank canvas waiting to be painted with blood and whatever else. The men behind him are so many brushes…

James shakes his head, clearing it of odd thoughts like this. This is serious business. It is war.

James feels a cold draft suddenly and despite his best effort he cannot resist sneezing. He hears footsteps above him pause in their patrol.

“Bless you, soldier.”

“But I did not sneeze just now,” protests another voice. “Who goes there?”

The enemy shines a lantern over the edge of the hill to investigate. James is still a few yards away behind some tree cover. So he sits where he is.

James smiles to himself in the bitter cold. He throws his voice over the encampment wall, mimicking the second voice he’d heard. “Achoo!”

“I thought you said you had not sneezed? Who should be ashamed of a mere sneeze?”

“You calling me a liar?” This voice sounds angry now.  

A third voice interrupts. “Stand down you two fools!” The voice is so familiar that James gasps. It certainly sounds like Jacob. James hears an audible slap and a groan from one of the men on guard duty. Suddenly a lantern is tossed over the wall and lands near where James crouches. “Next thing I do is pour oil down where you are at and burn you out, spy!”

James slowly stands up with his hands spread out in surrender.

Jacob whistles sarcastically. James has no doubt in his mind that only his older brother can make a sound like that. “The Prodigal Son arrives!” Jacob says with a smirk. These are words he always uses to welcome his brother with. “Arrest him, you goons!”

His eyes on Jacob, James doesn’t immediately realize he has men sneaking up behind him until a rifle-butt strikes him in the back of his head. He sees stars and falls into the water. His captors roughly carry him up a slope and he comes to tied in rope and sitting in a chair. Jacob is pacing in front of him, as agitated as an angry bull. This is another usual thing.

James cannot fathom the fact that he had mourned his brother when he thought him dead. But here was his brother, acting in much the same aggressive way as always. Then James noticed something different about his brother. The marks he was making in the snow were off. The left foot wasn’t making boot marks but an odd X-shape. He looked up and noticed that his brother’s pants terminated just above the knee on that side. Protruding from it wasn’t a human leg but a wooden one. So this was the infamous “CrossLeg Killer” his superiors had him to watch out for in his journeys.

“Looking at my leg, I see, James.” Jacob scowled. He kicked at James’ chest with the X-piece that had become his foot and James realized it was barbed as it cut into his flesh through his shirt. James groaned. Jacob then splashed hot coffee onto the wound for good measure. “I mean to say what USED TO BE my leg, James. My you were always correcting my grammar since we were youngins.”

James smiled despite the pain. “Because I knew you weren’t stupid, Jacob,” was his reply. “But now I wonder. How do you manage to walk with such a foolish foot on you?”

Jacob sneers. “Not easily, brother. But should I wear a snoeshow on the other foot, it works out fine.”

“When I heard there was a CrossLeg Killer out in these parts my first thought that there was an Indian out here stringing people up,” James remarked.

Jacob chose to slap James this time in the face. “I’m not an Injun, James!”

“I’m sure you’re not, but you’re certainly an Indian GIver.” It was an old joke between them. One James rarely had a chance to say.

Again, Jacob tried to kick James in the stomach, but this time James caught the mishappen false foot in his hands. The moment surprised them both. Then a figure zipped behind Jacob and grabbed him while he was off-balance. There was a flash in the night. The flash turned out to be the blade of a knife. The knife was then held against Jacob’s neck. The man threatening Jacob had for a moment the face of one Jacob’s soldiers. The next moment the face became brown.

“A chill wind blows through the boughs of this family tree I see,” commented the man. This odd comment was followed by a threat. “Don’t speak a word. All your men are dead behind me anyway, Jacob Draxtin.” All at once the apparition faded from sight.

James let go of his brother’s wooden leg and rose from his chair. Off-balance, Jacob fell heavily onto his butt. He reached behind himself and produced a rifle with a bayonette on the front. He stabbed with the bayonette, lancing James in the right bicep.

James and Jacob are from a progessive Southern family that instilled upon them more refined education than their nieghbors. Jacob at times of stress lets his speech slant a little backwards, inserting Southern pronounciation here and there. James often corrects this to Jacob’s great displeasure. James often wishes to have “been born of t’other side of the line” (as Jacob puts it often times and by this he means he believes James is more in line with Northern rather than Southern politics). Jacob is quite proud of his station in life.

The advent of the Civil War brought these brotherly clashes to the head and sundered the men from each other without hope of repair. The first to be wounded was Jacob and it cost him his leg. This had been by accident. The next time they had met, Jacob intentionally stabbed James’ arm and that limb was lost as well. Their feud would end with Jacob’s death by the hands of an enimatic stranger named Paul.

These are the seeds upon which the Rayzene is sewn. A conflict of brothers should arise to the formation of a secret group promoting proper brotherhood among all men and women.

Also on the fringe of society lay another, far older group. This group identifies as the Vampyre. Little can be spoken of them at this time because they never allow written accounts of their group’s existence to surface.

Just recently Hero Engine 2 has been released. Our team has been busy world building and are enthusiastic about the new effects and polish that the new version of this engine has for the future of our game! 

www.deathneveraccepts.com

Rayzene Back story, merged.

November 12, 1862.
War amongst men is bad. A war of brother against brother is hell. God knows I buried my brother Jacob yesterday. The soldier pauses in writing his journal entry to wipe tears from his eyes.

‘Twas a pitchfork, not a bullet, that felled Jacob. We had been arguing as usual. Jacob was angry, ranting about his Secessionists views. It wasn’t on purpose, his death.

I was bailing hay in the barn, doing my best to ignore him. Jacob came at me, stood directly in front of me as I was using the pitchfork. It pierced his leg…

The soldier stops writing. He hears the call of the bugle. I pray I shall continue this journal later.

November 13th.
Funny. I read what I wrote yesterday. Jacob didn’t die from the leg puncture. At least not rightaway. I would like to say it was infection. Pa was angry with me. Jacob was older, I was just not of his stature.

So I left. I marched across the border and joined up in the first Union town I came across. It shames me to think of Pa being alone back in South Carolina… Mother having already left him.


November 14th.
…. I swear to kill that bugle player somehow.

November 15th.
It would be immodest for me to say how long I lasted in training for battle. My trainers have deemed me “too flat-footed a hick to be any real use,” so I am on the front-lines now with no more training ahead of me. I would not bemoan my position, but I was told this was so I would probably die faster than “a more suitable man.”

The bad news is that their chief rifleman is an imbecile who wears the thickets glasses I have seen upon a man and he is the bugler.

The good news is I may now ignore his siren’s call to the training fields.
So I have won.

November 16th,
I feel I should speak further on my “unfitness” as it were. I am a Southerner in a Northerner’s army. I speak with an accent that belays my origins. Despite my insistence that I do not abide slavery, the men do not believe me. Others say I smell like a polecat with the stench of cowardice drawn down my back.

I now rue my having left home. Maybe to say I rue it more than ever now.

November 17th,
I have been betrayed. My superior officer had seen me writing in this journal. He took it from me and was impressed enough with my hand-writing to show it HIS superior. It does not help that my superior is an illiterate man.

The end result is that now that they see I might write my words “purty enough” I am now a messenger and spy. My life shall be in more danger than it had been before! I abhor this new promotion but I must take it up.

With that, I regretfully put my plans behind me. With the death of my brother, I had wanted to make my own new brotherhood in this world. I do not enjoy violence as Jacob had though I am his killer.

I would much rather love my Brethren as equals rather than slaughter them for any cause. I may never wash the blood from my conscience as Lady MacBeth had not in her guilt.

Ah… so it is with a heavy heart I finish this journal before I have reached any conclusions.

- James Draxtin, 1862.
Written in Pennsylvania though I call South Carolina my home.


January, 1865, New York City.


“Raisin is our name! Here we sit in the sun, drying up like a big ol’ raisin in the sun,” shouts a short man standing on a wooden box. “We have no fruit to eat, no meat, and it is all the fault of that bastard in the White House!”

A tall man passing by glares at the short man. “And you’re raising hell, shorty,” he rebukes. “Look at you! Standing on that there box of yours and yet you’re just tall enough to look me in the eye, knee-high!”

The tall man shoves the shorter man off of his box and then spits on him where he lays.
The shorter man sits up and brushes himself of as the tall fellow walks away. “You are on my list, sir!” he mutters to himself. “On my list!” he shouts. Kevin Draxtin is a lightweight with heavy aspirations. He leans over to retrieve from the box a ledger. Into the ledger he writes a quick description of his assailant and what had happened.

In the middle of his writing, the pen breaks because he’d been pressing too hard on the paper. He growls. “Pen-maker, you are on my list as well!” But he is incapable of writing this transgression down because his pen is broken now.

Someone approaches him from behind and taps him on the shoulder. Suddenly panicked, Kevin shudders. The face of the man he is looking it as obscured because he has his back to the sun. He is just a silhouette. “Are you Mr. Draxtin of South Carolina?” asks the stranger.

“No sir, I am not,” lies Draxtin.

“Well, any other fellow than Draxtin who dares stand on a pulpit calling the President a ‘bastard’ is asking to die,” comments the stranger.

“But I am Mr. Draxtin!” stammers Kevin. He is genuinely scared now.

“Good. You are telling the truth now,” says the stranger. He pats Kevin on the shoulder amicably this time. Then he helps Draxtin to stand. “Come with me, please.”

Against his better judgement, Kevin follows. “Where are we going, sir?” he asks.

The stranger doesn’t answer, just continues walking. They cross three streets, then go around one corner. At the entrance to an alley, the stranger turns to face Kevin. For the first time Kevin notices how well-dressed his new friend is. The fellow is also of medium height. He wears a stove-pipe hat.

“Mr. Lincoln, sir, I….” stammers Kevin.

The stranger glares at him then laughs. “I am no more Lincoln then you are Betty Boop,” comments the stranger. “Is he the only man allowed to wear such a hat?”  

Kevin doesn’t comment. He is feeling foolish.

The stranger enters the alley. When he notices that Kevin isn’t following him immediately, he says, “I promise you I won’t harm you. Or rob you of more than your dignity.”

“Sir, my dignity is quite important to me,” says Kevin, following.

“You are a man with ideas of the future, Draxtin. I am here, with my friends, to foster that dream,” comments the stranger.

Kevin pauses in his footsteps. “Friends?”

“I know why you protest, Kevin. You are unemployed and hungry. I own a railroad. Do as I say to you and you, too, can be part owner of that railroad.” The stranger turns about and smiles.

“My dignity, sir? Do you mean to… to… do something to take my virtue from me?” asks Kevin. His stomach growls at the mention of food, though.   

Before the stranger can answer, someone behind Kevin speaks. “Hello, Paul.”

Paul smiles. “Hello to you, Jesop.” He turns back to Kevin. “You know my name now, Draxtin. We are even.”

Kevin looks behind his back and curses. “You are friends with a black man?”

“I am friends to many people, Draxtin. And so should you be. Jesop works on my railroad as a foreman. You will work with him from now on so you should be friends with him as well.”

Before Kevin can protest further, Jesop fishes out his wallet from his pocket. From it he withdraws two hundred dollars. “We are friends, aren’t we, sir?” he asks.

His prejudices temporarily forgotten, Kevin agrees. He is then handed the large sum of money. He takes a moment to wipe the wad of cash on his pant’s leg before putting it in his own pocket. “Consider my dignity bought, gentlemen!”

“The hell you say?” asks Jesop. Paul laughs.

Paul says, “We aren’t here to buy or steal your dignity or virtue, Draxtin. I told you Jesop here is my railroad foreman. Unfortunately I cannot make that public knowledge. So you will learn from him how to pretend to be foreman. I imagine you’ll enjoy shouting at the workers.”

“Ah, good,” comments Kevin.

“It is good to make friends, Draxtin,” says Paul. Jesop doesn’t look convinced.

Paul walks a few feet more into the alley. There is a door. He knocks on the door.

A slot in the door that is eye-level opens. “What do you want, human?”

“I am Paul. Let me in.”
“I do not care if your name is Patricia, human. I won’t let you in,” says the voice. It closes the slot.

Paul isn’t pleased. He looks over at Jesop. Jesop nods. He pushes Kevin aside. Kevin doesn’t protest. He’s thinking he should have not taken the money.

Paul hits the door with his bare fist. It crashes inward as if a cannon ball had hit it. There is a scream from inside.  Before Paul enters, he says to Kevin “Forget you saw that. You, too, Jesop.” Both his companions blink and then look at each other in confusion.

“I am Paul. Thanks for being so hospitable,” Paul says. He walks into the room, stepping on the shattered door. The creature beneath it groans under his weight.

Kevin looks inside from behind Jesop. What he sees makes him turn white with fright. He runs. Jesop curses, but Paul grabs him before he can give chase after Kevin and pulls him into the room.

Kevin turns, sees the men go into that horrible place. He continues running, hoping he never sees either man again. He hopes will not be realized. It is a week later that he will meet Paul….


Kevin is sitting at a bar, very drunk. Again, Paul approaches him from behind and pats him on the shoulder. Kevin curses in surprise.

“Money gone, Mr. Foreman?” Paul asks.

“No no no no,” lies Kevin. Seeing the look in Paul’s eyes, he says, “Yes.”

Paul smiles. “I hired you to be my patsy, Draxtin. Not be a sponge to soak up all you could drink.” He turns to Kevin, no longer smiling. “It is good that you escaped when you did, my good fellow. I could not have assured your safety.”

Kevin sighs.

Paul glares at him. Kevin sucks in a breath and holds it. “Next time, wait until I tell you to run, though.”

The bartender comes back and looks sourly at Kevin. “Friend of yours, buddy?”

“I am Paul,” says Paul.

The bartender suddenly smiles. He reaches across the bar, offering his hand. Paul shakes it. “Paul! So he is a friend of yours!” The bartender laughs. “I’ll waive the tab then. I never seen a man drink AND eat away that much money in such a short time.”

“So, Norman, may I and Draxtin here go to the backroom?” asks Paul.

“What backroom?” asks the bartender. He rolls his shirt sleeves up around his large arms.

“Remember, I am Paul,” Paul says calmly.

“Oh! That backroom, Paul!” says the bartender. He gestures to the back of the bar. “I’ll open the door for you from here when you get there.”

Kevin reluctantly gets off his stool but stumbles in his drunkeness. Paul whispers in his ear, “I am Paul, you are no longer tipsy,” and Kevin’s legs finally agree to move him again properly. Kevin is mystified until Paul whispers for him to forget that had just happened.

Paul leads the ruddy-faced Kevin to the backwall. True to his word, the bartender pushes a button and the wall opens up like a door. None of the few other guests bothers to follow as the two men walk into the secret passage and down the small flight of stairs into the hidden basement. In fact, they all seemed to have averted their eyes the moment the wall started to open. After they’d  gone, the door closed up behind them.

The bartender mutters beneath his breath, “Good luck to you, yon heavens,” before busying himself cleaning the glasses Kevin had drunk from.

“Interesting trick, Paul,’ Kevin comments.

Paul is silent. At the bottom of the stairs there is another door with a slot in it. Kevin tenses, but Paul shoves him forward and knocks on the door.

The slot opens. The guard asks, “Who is it?”

“I am Paul,” Paul says. “And this is Mr. Kevin Draxtin.”

For a moment, Kevin is surprised to hear his first name AND last name pass through Paul’s lips. He’d thought that Paul didn’t know his full name for some reason. Then he recalls what he’d seen a week ago.

It had been a glimpse of some kind of altar in the center of the room, the floor covered in blood. It was some kind Pagan or Occult shrine Kevin was certain. The fact that he didn’t know the difference between the two didn’t occur to him. Nor was he a religious man.

Kevin shuddered at the idea he’d see the same thing in this room, but the guard this time said, “OH! Paul!” Well, actually the words came out in a squeal of delight.

The reason for the odd inflection in the voice became apparent as the guard opened the door and Kevin suddenly found himself staring directly at a woman’s bosom. An uncovered bosom at that!

Kevin looked inside and there were quite a few uncovered bosoms in there. And women attached to them at that! Kevin tilted his head and smiled up at the first woman. She smiled and waved at him, cooing some compliments at him. Sometimes, it was good to be short, Kevin thought.

Kevin eagerly entered the room, followed by a laughing Paul. Their guard remained stationed at the door. She called out, “Have fun, boys!”

Kevin smiled back at her. “Thank you!”

In the middle of the room there was no altar this time. No blood either. But there were men wearing… black robes? Each of them sat around a large card table, hoods removed. The ones not playing wore their hoods up and either watched or were engrossed in some sort of debauchery.

Paul said to Kevin,”Welcome to our little club, Kevin. No more booze for you although you won’t find the cheap stuff here.”

Kevin laughed. “Are you kidding? I…”

Paul interrupted him, “I am Pau and you are no longer a drinker.”

Kevin sobered his expression. “Ah, it is a sinful thing, imbibing! I uh…” He blinked. “What the heck are you doing to people when you say that!?!?”

Paul glared at him. Kevin decided not to ask again.

Just then one of the women walked right up to Kevin and hugged him tight. Kevin turned to look at her face. “IRENE!?!!”

The woman was equally shocked. “KEVIN!?!?!” She disengaged, holding her hands over herself. “What in the heck is my ex-husband doing here?”

Kevin shot back, “EX-HUSBAND!?!”

The argument would have continued if Paul hadn’t of said “Shut up, both of you weasels!” He was so mad, he forgot to say his usual spiel. Thankfully, they took his advice.

Irene made her way to some other John. Kevin didn’t bother watching her as she went. He wasn’t surprised either. When he looked in on the card players again, he had another surprise. One of the men playing was his son, James.

James sat at the table, a woman behind him with her arms around him. She held onto his cards for him. The reason for which became apparent… James only had one arm left. He tapped on a card with his left index finger that he wanted her to set down on the table for him.

James was saying, “So there I was, my friends! And you wouldn’t believe who took my arm!”

One of the other men interrupted him, “Your brother Jacob!”
James glared at the man. Kevin was almost surprised it was Jesop who had spoken impertinently to his son. Almost, but not quite.

James agreed with him, “Yes, Jacob it sure was!” He laughed. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I had heard from my father that Jacob had died.”

Kevin walked to the table and glared at him. “He lost a darn leg and had to get a wooden one,” he said. “Poor cuss may as well have died. He was never the same after that!”

James stood up, knocking his cards from the woman’s hands and they fell on the table. Everyone at the table folded at the sight of what his hand had been. “Father!”

Kevin said “My no good un’! I see Jacob wasn’t smart enough to lance your writing arm.”

James held his right stump with his left hand. “I am surprised you remembered me being a Southpaw, father.”

Kevin was about to shout, but he remembered he was with Paul. That didn’t prevent him from steaming. “I am here, meeting again my no-good son and the woman who birthed him… I am also here, seeing Jesop playing cards with fellows who are his betters.” He spits. “‘Foreman,’ my eye.”

Jesop glares at him from the table. “The hell you say?” He laughs. “I would have you know I am the son of a railroad man. It was willed to me. But you white folks don’t think the will is worth the paper it is printed on.” He scowls. “Thinkin’ I’d lie about something like that.”

Irene came to Kevin’s side. “You will respect my friends, Ducky.” She reaches over and twists his arm.

Kevin cries out in pain, “Unhand me, who taught you how to do that?”

Irene releases him, but grudgingly. “Paul did. I don’t see how you mind Jesop and all when—-” She blushes.

“When WHAT?” demands Paul, rubbing his arm.

Paul smiles wanly. “You really wanna know, Draxtin?”

“Know, know what?” Kevin is confused.

Paul holds his hand before Kevin’s face, palm up like a cop directing traffic. Suddenly the hand begins to shimmer. “He may see as I am truly.”  The skin on his hand starts to darken. So too does his face.

Kevin gasps, “Whatever is happening to you, don’t let it happen to me!”

Irene comes Kevin’s side. “Don’t worry, Ducky. I said just about the same thing when I first saw it.”

Paul has completed his transition. He smiles. “Now who do I look like to you, Kevin?”

Kevin looks at the foreman at the card table and back at the black man standing before him now. “You could be twins… You look like Jesop.” He shudders. “You don’t even look like Paul any more.”

Paul says to Jesop, “Maybe you should show him as well, friend?”

Kevin is confused. “Show me what?”

Jesop shakes his head. “If I must, I must.” He raises his own hand to his own throat. He, too, transitions.

Kevin gasps again. “You… you now look like Paul did! But how?”

Paul sighs. “Power of suggestion, my friend.” He reaches below his shirt collar and reveals a small stone necklace he is wearing. The stone is a shaped like a black semi-circle.

kevin looks over at the foreman. Jesop shows that he is wearing a white stone semi-circle necklace.

Kevin gasps. “Paul, why are you black?”

Paul shakes his head. “Same reason you’re white. I was born this way.”

Kevin shakes his head. “I would never have guessed.” He wipes sweat from his brow. “Did you also lie about owning the railroad?”

“Oh, I own it. Bought it from Jesop in fact.”

“I would rather believe Jesop stole the deed,” Kevin said.

Jesop rises again from the table. Paul interrupts him. “Stop arguing!”

“I am sorry,” Kevin says. He is shocked to find out he means it. He looks at Paul. “How on Earth do you keep doing that to people, Paul?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets, Draxtin.”

Kevin swears. “I have been tricked!”

Paul shakes his head. “You had to be tricked. In order to form our Brotherhood, we had to find ways to be accepted. Men like you, Draxtin, they judge people too much by what they look like. These stones I was given, they are powerful persuaders.”

“What ‘Brotherhood, Paul?” Kevin asks.

“We are in the midst of a Civil War in case you haven’t noticed, Kevin.”

“I liked it better when you called me by my last name, Paul,” Kevin said sourly.

Irene jabs Kevin in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t interrupt!”

Kevin rubs his ribs. “Unwomanly as usual, Irene. As usual.”

“I watched my own brother die, Pa,” James says from his place at the card table. His assistant is now sitting on his lap. “He tried to kill me, heck he maimed me before he did it!”

“You maimed him first, Jimmy,” Kevin says.

“Don’t argue, any of you!” Paul yells. He regains his composure. “As I was about to say, brothers thirst for each other’s blood… well… not exactly but you get the idea.”

Kevin shudders. “Don’t remind me of that viper’s nest, Paul! Please do not!”

“It is all because of a wish, Draxtin. They wished to hunt, so they hunt men. It was an easy enough wish to grant.” He sighs. “My wish was harder to grant, it took more steps.”

“What wish, Paul?” Kevin asked.

“I wished to be rich. A small voice in my head then told me the steps I should take to reach the goal of that wish. I truly thought I was going insane when it first happened.” Paul shakes his head.

“Maybe I am also insane, Paul?” Kevin looks at his own hands. He pinches himself. “God, I think I have gone insane or I am dreaming. Let me be dreaming!”

Irene smiles. “You aren’t, Ducky. You sure aren’t. This is real!”

Paul reaches in his pocket, retrieving a different necklace. He holds it in front Kevin’s eyes. “Have you got a wish, Kevin?” he asks.

Kevin reaches for the necklace. “I wish I understood all this,” he said as his fingers closed around it.


Suddenly, Kevin sees beyond his perceptions. He is in a jewelry shop, but when he looks down he cannot see himself because he had not been there. What am I seeing?  he wonders.

You are seeing the past. Hush your thoughts. I need to concentrate to make the vision speak truly.

The door to the jewelry shop opens. A black man who looks much like Josep enters. A bell rings as the door opens, triggered by his entrance.

The shopkeeper walks into view and stands behind his counter. “May I help you, Sir?”

The customer looks behind himself. “Me?” He smiles. “I’m just used to being called ‘boy’ by people of your complexion, Mister.”

“My name is Mr. Schwartz,” the shopkeeper says. “Well, Schwartzkoffel if you must know.” He grins. “I’m a jew, so I know how you must feel…. maybe a little.”

The customer reaches his hand out and the shopkeeper shakes it. “Jesop Jones be me.” He frowns. “I mean that would be my name.” He frowns again. “I don’t like the two Js together.”

“Not a fan of alliteration I see.” Schwartz smiles. “I would say ‘Paul’ is a good Christian name… if i were Christian. Well, anyway, how can I help you, Jesop?”

Jesop smiles. “I will keep that name in mind… ah… I just want you to cut a stone I found into pieces. And maybe mount them on some chains.”

Schwartz laughs. “Lemme see the rock.”
Jesop complies. He sets it on the counter.

“You’re joking, Paul.” Schwartz says. “That’s  lump of quartz and not very good-looking one.”

Jesop frowns. “You can’t cut it?”

Schwartz smiles again. “I can cut it, just not sure it be worth you paying for. How about I do it free of charge?”

Jesop smiles.

I don’t understand, Kevin thinks. That explains a little but not the rest. Show me when he finds the rock I guess.

Now Kevin is seeing Paul —- well, Paul when he was still Jesop anyway —- in a field with other black men. Their ankles are connected with shackles and a chain.

Paul is swinging a pitch axe. He occasionally leans over to pick up rocks he finds and puts them in his pockets.

“Jesop, what the hell you doin?” one of the other men asks him. His fellows laugh.

“I like to think that I might get a wish if I pick up the right ol’ rock, Louie,” he replies.

“Well what’s your damn wish, a genie to kiss you?” asks the other man.

Paul picks up a rock. As he does, he says, “I wish I were rich!”  Paul stiffens as if he’d been given a shock.

A white man in a uniform comes by. “What the hell? Did I say you convicts could gibber like women in a sewing circle?”

Paul looks oddly at the white man. “I think we’re free to go, don’t you?”

“Uh, well, technically y’all been doing some free labor because I found you jaywalking…. so you done some good work.”

“Good enough to be paid,” Paul suggests. It isn’t a question.

Louie shoves Paul but Paul doesn’t notice.

Uniform guy opens his wallet, “How much you want? I only got fifty dollars.”

Paul smiles. “Undo the shackles and give us each twenty.”

Uniform guy frowns. “I can’t do that.”

Paul looks uneasy. “Why not?”

“Son, didn’t yer momma teach you how to count? There’s five of you. I can only give ten each.”

“Alright then, give us ten each.. after you unlock us,” Paul says.

Louie laughs. “Better yet, give Jesop the keys and shoot yer self!”

Uniform guy pulls his pistol, then looks at it. “I can’t do that.” He puts it back. He reaches in his pocket, grabs the keys, and tosses them to one of the other men in line.

“I’m not Jesop!” says the third man, indigant.

“Can’t tell you fellas apart. Don’t want to!” gripes uniform guy. He rubs his face. “I think I’ll go for a walk, think this over…” He wanders away.

Paul slugs Louie in the arm. “Dammit, Louie, I was on a roll. Now he might decide on his own to call a lynch party!” He looks at the third man. “Undo us or give me the damn keys!”

I believe that is all, the voice says to Kevin.

What did the voice say to Paul. I mean what did YOU say to Paul? Kevin asks.

It is a secret, only to be known to Paul. You may ask him if you wish but he will be compelled not to tell.

Suddenly, Kevin is back in his own body. He is drooling.

Paul ask him, “I say again, Kevin, are you okay?”

Kevin wipes the drool from his face. “I was having a vision, Paul. You were Jesop Jones then.”

Paul frowns. “That has been a secret for some time, but I guess no longer. Have any other visions? What did you see?”

Kevin frowns. He shakes his head. “You were in a chain gang for jaywalking? I didn’t know fellas like you were forced to do things like that just for a small crime.”

Paul looks at him sternly. “Sometimes that’s light punishment.” He raises a brown hand to his face. “I rather be Paul,” he says.

Jesop says, “I rather be Jesop.”

Kevin snaps his fingers. “I should have asked to see when you inherited the railroad.”

Paul smiles. “I think you won’t be allowed to know all the details, Draxtin.” He nods at his own thoughts or to something only he can hear. “Maybe you will see yourself inheriting that damn railroad if you do good work for me.”
Kevin looks confused. “Why would I suddenly get the money to have a railroad?”

Paul is no longer smiling. “You may. You may just shall” is all he says. “Damn those things. How many damned Asian people have died building those damn things? How many of my own people for the sake of ‘progress’?”

Kevin doesn’t speak.

“Is it worth the lives of a hundred men, busting their backs, just to cart an old lady across town, sitting on her ass the whole way while the train moves her there?”

Irene laughs. ‘Watch you mouth, Paul. I’m an old lady.”

Everyone laughs.

Kevin joins Paul’s club and it a week later that they meet in the same backroom.

This time each man and woman is wearing a brown, hooded robe. The card table is folded up and left forgotten in a corner. The room is lit dimly with a few candles.

Paul is standing at a podium. “So now down to business. What shall we name this group of ours? Kevin, when I met him, was babbling something about a raisin.”

Kevin laughs from his place in the audience.

Paul might be smiling beneath his hood. “I suggest if we do use it as a name, we spell it differently so people don’t think we’re a fruit selling company. Any suggestions?”

It is over an hour before someone suggest “Rayzene.”

Paul then takes votes on the various spellings. And the most popular one Rayzene.

James raises his left hand. “Why can’t we use the word ‘Apple’ and spell it like ‘Appall.’”

Paul shakes his head. “And give away our leader’s name? I thank you for the homage, though, James.”

James laughs. “I hadn’t thought of your ego, Paul, but why Rayzene?”

“It could apply to us Raising the consciousness of our members,” Paul muses. “God knows I’ve learned much in trying to follow that dream of yours, James, you told me about when we first met.”

“Tell us more about this dream my son had, Pau,” Kevin says. “Lord knows the boy had his head up in the clouds enough as a youngster.”

Paul laughs along with the others. “His dream was for Brotherhood among all men…”

Irene chimes up, “Don’t forget Sisterhood for all women, too!”

Kevin scoffs, “Sounds like incest.”

Paul doesn’t laugh this time. “It wouldn’t be that way, sour puss. We would still have outwardly appearances towards following the rules and customs of law. BUT we within our own societies will vote on issues that matter to us and will take steps towards amending the laws.”

Someone asks, “Will we be a political party then?”

“No,” Paul says. “We will not be that outward in our presentation. We will vote in or out the people we feel best support our views within the local government.”

“Will we march on Washington?” asked the same person.

“Not yet. Not until we have more members…. not until we have enough of a group to raise serious eyebrows. I was thinking we’d start by creating our own force in the working world. Something called ‘Unions,’ but that will be for later.”  Paul thinks for a moment. “We also need to also think of ways to advertise our group, but not on paper. We don’t want outsiders to find a handbill with our group’s constitution or whatever plastered all over it to use as evidence against us.”

Kevin pipes up, “Don’t advertise. Invite. Only tell people you know you implicitly trust to join us, one man or one woman at a time.”

Paul smiles. “Agreed.” 

Kevin raises his index finger, “And don’t scare the heck outta them like you did with me that first night. That setup was hair-raising!”

Paul frowns. “It wasn’t a setup, Draxtin. I was invited to a meeting and I assumed it was a meeting of our own sect. I don’t normally batter down doors when I am among friends.”

Kevin is confused. “Another sect? Doors battered down? I saw none of that…” He scratches his head. “A voice called you ‘human’ and the next thing I know you’re standing ON the door with someone underneath it.”

Irene gasps. “You interrupted the Vampeer?”

Kevin shrugs. “

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