Welcome to Wyatt’s Writing

The story posts that appear on this blog are results of my collaborative fiction and story role play posts as they appear on my community site Pan Historia. These characters are all mine, and all authored by me and as such please do not copy without permission. Currently a person has to register to Pan Historia (or use our guest login) to read the posts due to the nature of the site (safe, fun, sane) so I created this blog as a way to sample my writing to a larger audience. Because I write collaborative fiction these posts are all parts of a larger whole and such are really just tasters and teasers. I will post in order written for the various stories with notes to help the reader bridge the gaps left by where character other than mine were telling their part of the story. For the full version of any of these tales you would need to register to Pan Historia. Read bottom for chronology (oldest posts first).

What is collaborative fiction? It’s a form of storytelling where anywhere from two to dozens of writers work together to tell the story, switching point of view depending on the writer, commonly. At Pan Historia we usually write from the POV of our characters or what we refer to as NPCs – non-player characters from RP parlance.

Collecting Eggs, Day Four

Michael returns from the Town Meeting to find that his five year-old son Jason is feeling much better, the flu symptoms are gone. Excerpt from the collaborative writing novel FLESH at Pan Historia.

Waking up in the early morning Michael could hardly believe the events of the previous few days. The early morning light was like a soft shower of gold dust through his bedroom curtains. Last night had been so different – so wonderful. His son was definitely better. Not only had Jason eaten a full dinner, played a game, but he’d been reluctant to go to bed, back to his old self. After he was down and sleeping without that feverish fretfulness Julianne and Michael had padded quietly into their son’s bedroom several times to check his temperature, and notice that his cheeks had returned to a normal healthy pink, rather than the red flush of his brief illness.

“Perfect temperature, darling.”

Julianne quietly put the thermometer away and the parents finally satisfied had retired to their own room to have a good night’s sleep after the anxiety of the last couple of days.

It was no wonder that Michael woke up with a full on woody. Smiling he rolled over to face his sleeping wife. She had her back to him, but he nuzzled her neck, his hands moving down to slide her sleeping t-shirt up over her lovely round ass. She murmured, smiled in her sleep, and as his hands caressed her more, easing her blissfully into wakefulness she purred up against him, pressing her backside towards his thrusting advances. It had been a few years since they’d woken each other up with morning sex, but Michael just felt so good with the worry washed away.

After the sex Michael dozed spooning with Julianne until she finally pulled herself away with a little mewling noise of regret, and got up and put on her robe.

“I think I hear Jason stirring. I better get his breakfast started.”

Later on Michael, dressed for a day in the fields, joined his son. Jason’s appetite wasn’t as good as last night’s, but his color was still good, and no sign of fever. In celebration Michael didn’t even put on the radio. He didn’t want to hear about troubles in the rest of the world. He was satisfied that if the town was quarantined his family would remain safe. Outside he could hear Orlando humming as he started his work day.

When Jason was finished pushing his breakfast around the plate he jumped up and demanded that it was time for him to collect the eggs and check on the hens. Michael felt the joy radiate from his chest. His eyes met Julianne’s as the parents shared a happy relieved smile. Jason was back to normal. All was right with the world.

Jason tumbled out the back door, letting the screen door slam, which Michael would normally have reprimanded him for, but not today. Today was like birthdays and Christmas all rolled up into one. Michael casually followed, strolling down the lawn towards the chicken coop that was set off to one side, near a stand of sugar maples. He watched as Jason reached up for the latch on the coop door and stepped in, carefully closing it behind him so that the birds didn’t get out into the yard instead of the run. There was the sound of clucking as Michael imagined Jason eagerly reaching his little arm under warm feathered hens to retrieve their eggs. But then the sound escalated from annoyed clucking to upset squawking. One of the birds started their alarm call from inside the coop. Michael could hear the sound of chicken bodies hurtling around in side the coop. He broke into a trot and moved quickly towards the door, calling out:

“Jason, buddy, you all right? Need a hand in there?”

There was no reply just the sound of terrified hens and a low growling. Michael grew terrified that Jason had surprised a fox or a raccoon in the coop. He quickly yanked open the door and was instantly sprayed in the face with a gout of arterial red blood from the gapping neck wound of a chicken. The bird with once white feathers, was still flailing, its wings insanely flapping, even though it had lost its head. Jason had it firmly grasped in his little hands, his fists around each leg, while he bit off the head and started chewing down on the neck and body, his face smeared with chicken blood. The rest of the birds were going nuts, and Michael saw other bloody white carcasses.

He stepped backwards in horror and shock. Jason looked up from his gruesome raw meal, his face covered in blood and gore, a feather stuck to his cheek. Michael saw how blank his son’s eyes were. The boy dropped the bird and growled. The bird still bounced, jumping around blind and headless. Jason reached his arms out to his father and started to lurch forward. Michael reacted quickly and slammed the coop door on his son, quickly latching it closed. Inside the chickens screamed and shrieked, while Jason threw his body against the inside of the door, screaming himself, banging it with his fists. There was no articulate sound that came out of his mouth.

“Michael…”

Michael turned to face his wife who was standing behind him, having followed him down from the house just a minute later. She stared in horror at the blood on his face and cringed at the sounds inside the chicken house

Town Meeting

The tension is building in Wessex Falls as more news comes about the ‘zombie flu’. Michael and Julianne refuse to believe their child could be affected. The rest of this story appears in the collaborative fiction novel FLESH at Panhistoria.com.

Jeff Fields stood up to the podium. The level on the mike screamed and momentarily silenced the buzz in the room, but just as soon as the scream stopped the voices started again. Jeff adjusted his papers, tapped the mike, and generally looked nervous and uncomfortable. Michael was standing at the back of the room, his arms folded over his chest. The town manager looked like he was sweating. Normally Michael would have been enjoying watching him come under fire from the town, but not this afternoon. The fact that he and that the five members of the Selectboard all looked harried, pale, and nervous was making the whole room sweat. Just what was happening?

“I’m going to call this meeting to order…”

Jeff was prevented from proceeding in an orderly fashion as the room erupted into bedlam. Everyone was shouting. Michael watched as his neighbors shouted over one another to be heard, each one yelling about the ‘zombie flu’ that they had heard reports of on the news, and others about the school closing, while others mentioned the case of the boy who’s parents had been found in a gruesome homicide suicide.

“Didn’t Jason Lawler bite another boy at school?”

The voice was booming and Michael heard it loudly over the Tower of Babel that the Town Meeting had quickly degenerated into with Jeff, the Town Manager, totally unable to control. There was a rise in decibels and then it seemed as if no direction was going to be taken and so Michael pushed himself forward from the wall and shouted above the crowd.

“Everyone shut the hell up and let’s have one person speak at a time. I’ll start. Is it true that the Lawlers were found dead at their home?”

There was a general hubbub of assent.

“And the symptoms of this flu we’ve been hearing on the media include madness and biting?”

“Yes, Mr. Valentine, it’s true, and this is why we called this meeting today.”

The voice that now spoke was clear, calm, and female. It belonged to the most recent member of the Selectboard Eleanor Croft.

“And now that Mr. Valentine has so adroitly gotten your attention can I please call this meeting to order and get down to business? We have received official word from Montpelier and from Burlington that this thing is real, it’s happening, and it’s nationwide. Already the Government’s resources are over-extended dealing with the big cities like New York and Boston. We’re last on the list for vaccines or aid.”

A hand went up in the audience.

“So there is a vaccine?”

“One of our memos from Montpelier said that there was one in the works but Jeff has been on the phone all day and no one seems to have any – or if they do they’re not sharing it.”

An old farmer that Michael knew stood up, patiently waiting for the latest clamor to die down.

“Why don’t we quarantine the town, ayup?”

Any other time Michael would have smiled at the severity of the man’s old time Vermont accent and colloquialism, a vestige of a passing era, but today he was just concerned with the health of his son and the safety of his wife.

“That’s a damned fine idea.”

Michael’s support of old Mr. Winthrop’s suggestion was greeted with a swell of yeas, and then a call to order again. The Selectboard was quickly silenced when it tried to proceed in a ‘business as usual’ fashion.

“Frankly Mrs. Croft, members of the Selectboard, we don’t have bloody time for by the book. Judging by what is happening around the country so let’s make sure we keep the rest of the populace safe and strangers out of town.”

“I have to bring it to your attention, Mr. Valentine, and could you please use the mike and stop shouting from the back of the room, that the flu is quite possibly already here and it might not be in the best interests of your son to quarantine the town.”

“My son has the common flu, not this thing, this whatever it’s called.”

A number of people turned to Michael in surprise and shock, many voices murmuring about the Lawlers.

“The Lawlers were redneck woodchucks with a history of violence. There is no hard evidence any one was sick and their kid was acting out more of the same.”

Paul Albert, a librarian in a corduroy jacket, flew up out of his seat and shoved Michael in the chest.

“You’re an asshole, Michael Valentine.”

Michael looked at Paul, affronted by the usually mild-mannered librarian’s liberal outrage at Michael voicing what everyone in town actually felt, and brushed him aside.

“Or I can believe my son is doomed and the whole town is already infected.”

It was like the sound of metal tray dropping in a silent church. Michael could almost feel the collective intake of breath. After that business went very quickly as person after person volunteered for phone trees, road block crews to help the Sheriff’s department, and any number of measures required to lock down Wessex Falls from the outside world.

The Worry Deepens, Day Three

Parents Michael and Julianne Valentine are reluctant to believe their child is infected with the ‘zombie flu’ they’re hearing about on the media, but the concern runs deep. The town is starting to become alarmed and a special meeting of the Select Board has been called.

“You’re kidding me?”

Michael’s eyes moved quickly in the direction of the open kitchen door where he could see Julianne with Jason on her lap. She was trying to get him to drink some warm broth. Michael’s neck cradled an old-fashioned phone receiver so he was tethered by the length of spiral cord to the hall desk phone. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Ogden Spitzer, a middle-aged farmer that was so ingrained with the soil of his native Vermont that that he seemed old as the Green Mountains themselves, right down to his thick Vermont patois. He, too, was on a old-fashioned landline.

Ogden, usually noted for his dry down home style humor, was not talking with any humor today. Unlike Michael he was widely liked in the community and held a seat on the Select Board.

“Nope, can’t say I am kidding you, Mike. Fact is folks are mighty worried around here.”

The word ‘here’ came out like ‘hee-year’, long and drawn out, but the tone was hard and serious.

“They think this is some kind of zombie flu? And my son could have it, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Don’t take it personal, Mike. We’re just going by what the media is telling us and the call from Montpelier.”

“So what the fuck are we supposed to do about it? Are they sending vaccines? What about treatment?”

“So far no one seems to have either, Mike. It’s looking bad. I hear they’re actually calling out the military in the big cities and just shooting sick people.”

Michael tried to let the news sink in, but he was having a hard time digesting the concept that there was a virulent form of flu that was sweeping the country and the only thing the authorities could think to do was to kill the victims. It was beyond a nightmare.

“So what you’re saying is that the sick people are attacking and killing people? That’s the symptoms?”

“Ayup. Though it’s like a flu first, you know with the running nose and fever and all.”

“Well my son isn’t attacking people.”

The unspoken part of that thought was that the boy that bit him clearly had been attacking people.

“How is the infection spread?”

Michael had heard some stuff on the radio, but somehow it was all more real coming from the mouth of down-to-earth pragmatist Ogden Spitzer.

“The usual, they say, saliva, mucus, blood, sneezing, and all.”

“Biting?”

“Well of course, Mike, biting. That’s got spit and broken skin and blood.”

“I’ll be at the meeting.”

“Ayup.”

Michael slammed the phone down even though he wasn’t angry at Ogden. Ogden was a good man and likely to give it to Michael straight. He was one of the few in town that got on with Michael and that Michael, in turn, respected, but then that was probably because he was a farmer with similar challenges and a similar point of view to Michael’s. Right now, though, farming was the farthest thing from Michael’s mind, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to take those ripe tomatoes down to The Bushel Basket before they rotted in the cases. Looking at his watch Michael calculated that he had just enough time to carry out that errand before heading over to the High School to attend the emergency Town Meeting called by the Select Board.

“Julianne, I gotta go – it’s ok if you stay here and look after Jason?”

“Of course, honey. Find out what the hell is happening. I’ll be here.”

Julianne smiled at her husband. He knew her well enough to see that the smile did not move to her worried eyes.

The Waking : Taken by Surprise

Originally posted for the modern fairy tale The Midnight People on the collaborative writing and role-play site Pan Historia. It’s really fun to write with a partner who likes to get a little wild and steamy, though we ended up toning down the final version. When writing romance and sexual episodes it’s always a fine line between the gratuitous and the necessary for the plot. I’m still not sure when I’ve crossed that line because I enjoy writing the pieces and often reading them.

Red was down the stairs and into the kitchen before he even remembered that he had a woman in the house. It pulled him up with a start but then he put enough coffee on for two and checked the fridge to see if he had enough eggs. He got out all the ingredients for breakfast and ground the coffee beans. He wondered if he should wake her or let her sleep. As he filled the coffee pot he remembered what had been so distracting to him as he had come downstairs. He’d been thinking about his dream last night.

It was with a start that he realized why Agent McKay looked so damned familiar – she had been the woman in his dream! Red cast his mind back over the other dreams in the series. Had she always been the woman in his dreams or had his subconscious mind just taken his desire from last night and added it in? No, he was pretty sure that was the face he’d dreamed of all along. Red remembered the start of recognition when she first arrived. It was very strange and quite disturbing as Red had never given much thought to precognition or other psychic phenomena. After his wife and daughter had died he had thought that maybe he would dream of them – he’d heard that people some times did – but nothing had come. In fact until recently he really hadn’t recalled much of his nocturnal ramblings at all.

So what did this mean? Maybe he’d met Agent McKay before and that was why? He didn’t think so but then his musings were interrupted by the presence of the woman herself. He looked over at her with an intense gaze, still befuddled by his revelation, and she colored, uncomfortable at his intense scrutiny. Then Red remembered his manners and stammered a good morning.

“I’ve put on the coffee. Would you like some eggs? I’m not too bad a cook. I have some toast too.”

“Please, don’t let me inconvenience you any further, Chief. I am not usually so pushy but this case… “

“It’s no inconvenience. I would like to.”

Agent McKay smiled, and it was transformative. She was lovely to look at but a smile from her made Red’s heart squeeze and he felt a heat building up.

“In that case, yes, please, that would be lovely. Let me help?”

They worked side by side for a few minutes. Red mixed the eggs with a fork and Agent McKay got out the butter and plates. It wasn’t a big kitchen and Red found himself brushing past Agent McKay or she past him until he was hard pressed not to just grab her. He leaned forward into the counter so she couldn’t see the effect she was having on him but finally it was just too much when she reached for the salt and leaned in front of his chest. With a low moan, feeling lost at sea and in dire need of a life raft, he grabbed her, turned her in his arms and kissed her full and hard. She was surprised for just a second but he felt her yield to him wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back fervently.

She pushed him against the counter on the opposite side and then she ground up against him with little mewling sounds like a kitten. They slid down the cupboards until they were tangled on the tile floor.

On the stove top the eggs began to burn.

Mid Morning Anxiety – Day Three

From the FLESH collaborative novel at Pan Historia: the plague is spreading even to small town America.

The greenhouse was peaceful, but its sole occupant was not. Michael’s deft but calloused fingers seemed to dance over the vines as he searched diligently for pests, flipping leaves over, tickling the tiny hairs on the stems, pinching out a sucker here, a brown curled leaf there. The tomatoes were just green globes of promise but today Michael’s mind was filled with worry over his sick son. The news reports on NPR hadn’t helped. NPR wasn’t known for being an organ of alarmist news and to hear non-stop broadcasts about the swine flu that was being dubbed by a few wags in the media as the ‘zombie flu’ because of the high incidents of violent behavior, including biting, that was an unexpected new symptom. Michael had turned the radio off in the greenhouse just to get away from it, but his mind wouldn’t let go anymore than a bulldog would let go of a bull.

When he had first woken up he’d been furious at the school and particularly at Jason’s teacher but over the morning his anger had metamorphosed into total terror on behalf of his little boy. Jason had been bit. Maybe whatever school yard fight he had gotten into had been a fight after all but what if the other boy, the biter, had this swine flu. Even in the echoing hospital corridors of Michael’s panicky mind he refused to say ‘zombie flu’. Finally he threw down his clippers and headed back to the house.

Julianne sat at the kitchen table with a pale feverish Jason in her lap. The boy had his thumb jammed in his mouth, something he had quit doing about six months ago. Michael’s hearted tightened as if it had a rubber blood pressure cuff placed around it. Julianne’s hand lain, palm down, on the table right next to the phone. She’d been trying to get through to Dr. Willard all morning, and still it was busy. A call around to some of her friends who had kids in school had revealed that the office was open only swamped with patient.

Julianne looked up at Michael with anxious eyes as he grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers from the school.

“I want some answers. If that kid that bit Jason has this swine flu that’s going around why haven’t they called us to alert us of the danger?”

All Michael got was a recorded message that the school was closed for the day. A quick call to one of the select board who was also all the school board eased Michael’s need to take action more than it eased his mind.

“They closed the school because there were so many kids and teachers out sick. They’re sterilizing it before they let the kids back in. He didn’t know if there would be classes tomorrow.”

“Good God, Michael, this is a nightmare.” Julianne placed her hand on Jason’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

“Let me run a cold tub, baby. Let’s bring that fever down.”

A few minutes later Orlando poked his head around the door for instructions in the garden.

“Just do what needs to be done and don’t bother, me, ¿comprendes?

Bad News

First posted on Turnskin at Pan Historia on July 6, 2008. Trying to pull together the threads of the different plot ideas and keep us writing as a team is often one of my duties as a collaborative writer.

Wyatt clicked off his cell, a heavy frown on his face. Laying the device down on his desk he rose from his chair and moved over to the window, looking out over the park. The deeper simpler part of him just wanted to be out there in the green, running.

He heard her enter the room, smelled her warm human scent, and turned. Amanda was so used to turnskins that she wasn’t surprised he knew she was there with his back turned. She held more folders, this time research from their latest recruit for the office, Mary.

“She’s doing a great job. It’s amazing what she can dig up – even stuff I thought was cold.”

Amanda laid the file on the desk and then a small frown came to her face as she saw Wyatt’s expression.

“What’s happened, sir?”

“You were right – he’s been working in South Jersey. It’s worse than it we even suspected. He’s recruited and turned Tony Martinelli. Ksuyeya was just on the phone. Her informants have revealed that he’s using large packs of ‘dogs’ to enforce for him. Let’s see if we can id that hit man that took out Quentin as one of Tony’s wise guys.”

Totally professional as always Amanda didn’t let her dismay at the news touch her features, but Wyatt could hear her heart beat step up a notch and her scent changed, but she was as deeply troubled by the news that Michael had spread lycanthropy to the boss of the South Jersey mob. It was outrageous, bold, and totally outside of all Society mores. It had seemed obvious that Michael would have targeted disaffected petty criminals, or even lower level soldiers, but in reflection they should have guessed that he’d skip the dregs and go to the top. And now, no doubt, Tony Martinelli was spreading it just as fast as he could. The police would never believe the facts, and those that could believe would be muffled from ever accusing Tony of the truth. It was a win win situation for Tony. The only surprise was that the heavily Catholic South Jersey boss had been persuaded in the first place.

“This is bound to alert the Holy Order of Adverse Metamorphoses* if it continues,” observed Amanda.

“Yes, and I imagine that is part of Michael’s plan – though how he can hope to achieve his goals by early exposure is beyond me. I can no longer even comprehend the man he has become.”

Wyatt sighed heavily. Once he and Michael had been very close.

“He used to call me the dreamer – now who is the pragmatist and who is the wild dreamer?”

*A secret branch of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith

Not An Enchanted Moment

This is written from the pov of Johnny Behan who I have made Wyatt’s nemesis in Tombstone based on my interpretation of the historical data. Here I’m playing with their rivalry over women as well as politics. This was first posted on September 29, 2006.

Johnny had not planned to be at the Schieffelin Hall for the dance; hence he had not asked the esteemable Miss Fanny McKay to accompany him. His business of late had required his presence elsewhere in the territory, but then he had managed to find himself returning to Tombstone earlier than estimated. Ever the one to support a worthy cause he was happy to pay the ticket price for the admittance to the festivities, though he was a little shocked to hear that white children would be mixing with colored children. There was time enough, at another date, to deal with that problem. There was always the Bipartisan Anti-Chinese League and failing legal statues there was lynchings. Some of these do-gooder women allowed sympathy to get the better of them.

Wisely Sheriff Johnny Behan kept such opinions to himself for the dance. There were too many of these lovely but addle-pated bleeding hearts in attendance.

“Ah women,” Johnny thought to himself, “such sweet soft creatures, but without the sense God gave a cur.”

Johnny hadn’t gotten where he was in Tombstone society and in County politics (trumping Wyatt Earp in the previous elections with his connections and smooth talking deal making) without being a keen observer of men. He was not so astute with women, but he thought that he was. His blindness was his firm belief in their inferiority of thinking and nothing could dissuade him from that opinion. If a woman showed cleverness or wit he invariably ascribed it to a sort of animal cunning and a similar ability to that of a parrot in being able to mimic what she read or heard.

So as Johnny’s eyes traveled the ballroom of Schieffelin Hall he made note of the words of men, their demeanor, and who they were standing with, and of women he had only one use: were they pretty? He was aware of the different undercurrents present at the dance. Curly Bill had arrived, probably to cause trouble, but then had been caught up in merriment and dancing; Johnny Ringo was being strangely well-behaved, the Clanton clan was in not in attendance in force, Tom McLaury had been dancing with that Earp girl, and now the Earps were riled. Johnny could feel their buzzing like a hornet’s nest. But where was Wyatt Earp?

There he is…

“Oh hell.”

The shock of seeing Miss Fanny McKay dancing with Wyatt Earp was like getting a bucket of cold water over his head. This development had come right of the wild blue yonder and put rather a kink in Johnny’s hitch. Miss Fanny was supposed to be nice and safe at the Hacienda where Johnny could pluck her for his own at his leisure (even while he had allowed some of his allies and cohorts to do a little ‘plucking’ of their own). She must have called the son of a bitch in over that unfortunate death of one of her hands (women were apt to be sentimental that way) when she should have been trusting in Johnny’s investigations. After all it was neither town nor federal business so the Earps had no business being out that far from the city limits.

The dance finished and Johnny watched as Wyatt escorted Fanny to the punch bowl. It was then he made his approach. He smiled with fake cheer. It would be difficult to explain why he had not invited her to the dance and yet attended it himself, and it was necessary not to appear flustered or upset in anyway.

“Why Miss McKay, what a pleasure to see you! I had not thought to be here myself as business has kept me out of town, but surely if I had I would have been competing with deputy Earp here for your company. At least you might allow me to steal you away for one dance? Wyatt, you don’t mind, do you?”

Johnny brooked no refusal and as the music started up for the next dance Miss Fanny was lead adroitly to the floor.

What Wyatt had lacked in skill (though Johnny had noted that Wyatt’s steps and poise had a certain animal quality that Johnny was quite sure he didn’t care to see in the handling of his own future bride) Johnny made up for in polish.

Meeting with Jack

Originally posted in the Turnskin collaborative role-play novel at Pan Historia. Michael is starting to plan some serious terrorist activities for his pack.

Jack turned up at the appointed hour. He was never late when Michael called, even though his six o’clock shadow and his leather jacket suggested a guy that was too big on rules – and he wasn’t – except the rules of the pack. Michael hadn’t made a mistake recruiting Jack, just like Candice, this one was a killer. It had just been waiting inside for the right moment – the moment when his skin turned.

Michael grabbed a couple of micro-brewed organic beers out of the well-stocked fridge (Lucille knew what he liked) and headed into the den with Jack. Nothing in this apartment was terribly fancy as it was just another halfway house/hideout, but at least there was a table and chairs. Passing a cold brew to Jack Michael sat down and opened up his briefcase (which Lucille had left right where she knew Michael would want it for talking to Jack) and pulled out some newspaper clippings and articles. He spread them out on the table in front of Jack. Jack gave them a quizzical glance and waited for Michael to illuminate the picture.

“So here is what I’m thinking, mate: the Society is going to be chaotic without Quentin ruling the roost with an iron grip. The only other man* for the job won’t take it, and frankly they’re all soldiers with no captains now. It’s time to strike and strike big. Besides upping our recruitment I want to see some real action. What do you see in those pictures?”

“Wayne Bingham and his wife, what’s her face.”

“Right and Mr. Bingham is a fucking sod of the first bloody water. As CEO of Apache Oil Corp he’s one of the world’s biggest polluters, rapist of resources, warmonger, and all around shit. See his wife there, Melissa Bingham, she’s an ex-beauty queen turned charity queen. She takes care of making Mr. Bingham look like a saint by donating a paltry amount of his ill-gotten gains to high profile charities like kids with cancer and WWF. It’s hypocrisy beyond what I can stomach. Also so here she is supposedly on the board of WWF protecting wildlife – what is that you see on her back?”

Jack had to squint but when he finally realized what he was looking at his lips rose in a snarl of a lupine nature.

“She’s wearing a fucking wolf skin coat.”

“Yeah, they gotta go. Both of them, and any of their flunkies that get in the way.”

“Have you got a plan?”

“Yes, they have an apartment in NYC and they’re currently here. Tomorrow night they’re at this big charity ball.”

Michael pushed another piece of paper across the table. It was a carefully constructed itinerary of all the Bingham’s activities and locations for the next few weeks.

Jack whistled.

“That’s some surveillance.”

“Yeah, Lucille is good.”

Jack took a swing of his beer.

“Speaking of which – do I get to meet the new lady?”

*Michael is still unaware that Wyatt has been promoted to Chief of Security at the Lycaon Society.

Wyatt’s Dance Card

First posted for the Tombstone novel at Pan Historia on September 22 here Wyatt ruminates on the type of woman that his friend Angus would leave in charge of his ranch. Meanwhile Sheriff John Behan has not been remiss in courting the lady in question as well. Inspiration for this direction in the story had some basis in the historical possibility of a love triangle between Johnny Behan and Wyatt Earp and Josephine Sarah Marcus.

Wyatt Earp

I had to admit that when I had arrived to pick up Miss McKay she was a vision. The cliché would be to say it took my breath away but that weren’t quite it anyhow. It was more of a tightening inside. What business had Johnny Behan in mussing up his opportunity with this fair flower of feminity? Well I reckon it was the usual business – which, of course, was glad-handing and working the angles. Johnny thought himself rather the cock of the walk, and, in fact, thought well of his powers of acumen, but the fact was his facilities were lacking in the matter of women. He tended to underestimate them. In Behan’s world all women were either decorative or useful or both. He discounted their brains and their emotional needs. The brains did not exist and the needs were to be brushed aside as irrelevant to his needs.

Obviously I had been privy to the aftermath of one or two of his liaisons in town. It made me like him no better than I cared for the way he sought elevation in Tombstone society or the nature of his shifting ethical standards or his lack of loyalty – even to the men that buttered his morning toast. Now I was troubled by women for I had read the good book and I knew of their status, but I had encountered the sharpness of their tongue fueled by a brain that was faster than mine, and I knew, just watching my mama, of their strength and the power of their emotions. It seemed that what God said in the good book was to balance things out for surely if man did not exercise his rights we would all be soon under the yoke of the clever female. Beauty in a woman just strengthened her power.

Fanny McKay was one of those women. I seen that straight off. First she had a face that probably could have launched a thousand ships as had happened in the Trojan War, and second Angus would never have left a woman, let alone a young niece, in charge of his spread if she weren’t as biting as a whip, and as quick on the draw as a gunslinger. Both of these things had determined to me that I wouldn’t be setting my sights on her and yet here I am driving her in a buggy to Tombstone and the Schieffelin Hall. We talked a little on the ride in. I was a slight bit more tongue-tied than usual and she politely filled the spaces by mostly talking of her life in Scotland. She also filled me on some of the events around her spread, enough to make my hackles rise. I would have to be back out there to investigate. It bore all the earmarks of Curly Bill or any of his ‘cowboy’ crew, and no doubt had the approval of Sheriff Johnny Behan in the fleecing of a lady who they imagined without guile or defense.

Once we turned up at the dance I dispensed with talk of cattle and took Miss Fanny’s arm and escorted her into the hall where the band was commencing to play. The place was fair packed and it was going to be quite something else to find room to dance I reckoned. This might serve me well as I don’t fancy I’m the most agile when it comes to such courtly affairs. I learned the steps when a boy for Pa and Ma insisted on such matters and I had been to a few dances since, but just one glance at the dance card and I could see I was way out of my league. There were dances I never even heard of on here. I was safe with the waltzes and I reckoned I could get away with a couple of those without treading on my partner’s toes.

Michael’s Manifesto

First posted at Turnskin on Pan Historia on May 22, 2008. Michael has brought his new alpha bitch back to the States to continue his plans. Here he reveals a little of his thinking to his new mate.

“I can’t believe you still smoke.”

“It’s organic and I roll my own.”

Michael was deftly converting a little moist tobacco leaf and a thin fragile slip of rolling paper into a smoke. Otherwise he was naked. There was a slice of sun coming in through the curtains and it caressed his skin like a lover.

Candice curled her nose in disgust.

“It’s still a revolting habit.”

“I savor it.”

Michael laid the cigarette down next to his Zippo lighter with the etching of a howling wolf, content to leave the pleasure for later when it wouldn’t offend Candice’s sensibilities and canine nose.

“So this cunning plan, lover?”

Candice traced a finger though the light thatch of gingerish hair on Michael’s chest.

“I intend to take down civilization and revert us to the Stone Age.”

“Oh, nothing big then?”

“Nope, nothing too big I can’t handle.”

“And how will this be achieved, exactly?”

“Murder, mayhem, and a few well planned terrorist actions.”

Candice’s finger stopped its trip over Michael’s chest.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes – deadly serious. The only way to stop this train of human destruction is to derail the whole thing, and maybe to eradicate humanity all together.”

“But … aren’t we…?”

“No, not anymore. We’re something better, or we could be.”

Michael gave Candice a quick run down of the Lycaon Society and their methods, including his own background with the Society and the training he received there.

“It’s against the Lycaon rules for us to just make other turnskins. There is an approval and mentor process, but that’s too fucking slow. Furthermore I ceased to believe that we can live in the same world with beings that operate solely from fear, greed, and profit. They are fucking apes and they’re cut off from nature.”

The way Michael said ‘nature’ indicated a deep reverence, even a certain spiritual feeling for the concept.

“We’ve become wolves – wolves gifted with the blessing of being able to understand art, spirituality, and fine wine but still wolves. As wolves we are better qualified to than humans to know what is best for nature. We are not apart from it, but part of it.”

Michael needed that smoke. He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his boxers.

“I’ll be back.”

“But Michael… how?”

“By making us all wolves, baby, and killing those that aren’t and those that are weak.”