I’m in the process of putting out a 3rd edition of my book, Adventurer’s Horn. It will probably be available at Amazon late in August.  Although the original story was checked over by a professor at a Creative Writing School, I tweaked it a number of times over the years, so it really needed editing again. Even though it won an honorable mention at the 2014 Midwest Book Review, I didn’t have an editor’s assistance with the project.  Here is the cleaned up version of  Revenge of the Gamemaster, which was originally written about thirty years ago.

REVENGE OF THE GAMEMASTER

 

On the day that Edwin Dweedenov decided not to visit Dr. Delacroix’s fantasy world of Croix D’rosa, Croix D‘rosa came to Ed.

 

Ed crumpled his University of Minnesota suspension notice, slammed it into the dorm room trash can, then picked up his suitcase and exited the residence hall – destination unknown. He waited by the shuttle bus stop, his chaotic thought-life not quite drowned by the buzz of student voices. Ed scrunched in his burgundy windbreaker. Chill winds chopped at his neck and cheeks like icy blades. Bikes whizzed down the hill, hurtling passed throngs of milling students. Thunder rumbled ominously in the ozone laden air as the rain began to fall from the ashen sky. Finally, the hiss of air brakes jarred his introspective concentration. Ed cursed softly as the shuttle stopped and he boarded the bus. Except for the thrumming purr of the idling diesel engine all else was quiet.

 

I wish I wouldn’t have sold my truck to pay my fantasy role playing bills, grumbled Ed silently, I could have been out of here by now. “Where are those damn shuttle coupons?” he muttered. “Cool!” exclaimed Ed as he retrieved a folded manuscript from his pocket. His smile of exultation changed into a grimace of frustration. “These aren’t my shuttle coupons!”

 

Ed dashed up the bus steps, fumbling for coins to pay the fare. I thought I trashed that Croix D‘rosa game garbage. Instead of shuttle coupons, Ed’s nimble fingers had retrieved a wad of quarter-folded papers containing maps and notes about the fantasy world of Croix D‘rosa – hurriedly copied “eyes only” Dungeon Master notes from Professor Delacroix’s private files. He had filched the materials during spring break while Doc Delacroix had been touring a series of fantasy role playing conventions. Doc had been scouring the country seeking out elite gamers and presenting his new FRP system. Grr. What a moron, Ed thought. You must have thrown away the bus coupons and dollar bill clip!

 

Ed sat down behind the driver. What an odd little man. He stinks like mothballs and olive oil. “Shades of Déjà vu,” muttered Ed, ”Where have I seen this dude before?”

 

“Hey Tripper!” came a jeering cat-call from the rear of the bus, “do any weird trips lately?”

 

“Yeah, Mallow,” replied Ed acidly, “we went dinosaur hunting in Alaska!” Just what I need. The campus gang banger wannabes hassling me.

 

Mad Dog Mallow yelled, “I’m tired of your friggoolian smart mouth remarks, Tripper Boy! When we get off the bus, you’re road kill. Me and my Bro Khalid, we’re gonna rip you up good!”

 

What a foul mouthed, lead for brains, pot head, thought Ed. I’m not looking forward to this, but I won’t go down as quickly as you think Mad Dog.

 

While many people across the country had attempted to learn the intricate and often cumbersome rules necessary to generate a player character, most people lacked either the dedication or interest to become gamers. Scanning “saving throw” and “to hit” tables or trying to remember whether to use a 4,6,8,10,20 or 30-sided die often proved both tedious and confusing. Exceptional mental agility was required as well. Once a player had designed a character, usually a fighter, thief, or mage, who existed on a sheet of paper as a series of categories and numerical statistics – strength, intelligence, dexterity, race, profession, armor, weapons and a miscellaneous items list, he or she would then have to “run” the character through a dungeon or module presented by the Game Master. Guided only by the Game Master’s ongoing descriptions and round by round die rolls that determined the outcome of various encounters, each player (usually 2 – 5 people each running 1 – 2 characters) would seek to kill monsters, explore lands and dungeons, find a treasure or simply keep their characters alive.

 

Dweedenov had mastered the basics of the game quickly. When he and a few other students had been playing for about a year, their game master, Professor Delacroix, had offered them a novel opportunity. Doctor Delacroix, a computer programming instructor with a keen interest in experimental technology and fringe science, shared with them his dream of creating a game where players could play, rather than imagine the game. Before they could play the new system, Ed and his friends, Jon, Greg, Bert, Di, and Cin, had to personally develop the skills of the character class they wanted to use. Each for starters had to take fencing classes, learn basic hand to hand combat and attend wilderness survival training school. Cin, a nursing student, who played a Cleric, already had the basic first aid training her character required. Ed had worked seasonally, since his early teens, with an Uncle who traveled the Renaissance Festivals performing sleight of hand, juggling, tumbling, and acrobatics. He had pre-qualified as an acrobat thief, with the promise to pay a tutor of Doc’s acquaintance, who trained him in lock-picking and covert movement.

 

Mad Dog was still gloating with his gang brother about what they would do with him when they left the bus. In my old FRP club, mused Ed, my character didn’t advance, unless I advanced in my personal combat skills as well. I may look like a couch potato, but Doc said I was the fastest and strongest thief character he’d ever met. Jon and Greg, built like marines, had been the basic fighters of their team and had learned the grueling art of broadsword fighting, but he had often bested them in knife exhibitions.

 

Mallo and the other gang banger, Khalid, dressed in sleeveless leathers, blue jeans, and black bandanas, both gave Ed the “up yours” sign as they watched him look back at them. He ignored them and assayed the other passengers. Besides the two hoods, there were three guys and three girls. Except for Mad Dog and Bro, they were all still as statues.

 

Vague uneasiness skyrocketed into an adrenalin powered panic attack. Ed squeezed the familiar green seat until his fingers turned white. While his pulse throbbed in his ears, Ed stared at Mad Dog, who cussed loudly, combining a curse about lack of intelligence and female anatomy.

 

Mind boggling possibilities passed through Ed’s mind as he attempted to solve the riddle of his private Twilight Zone encounter. The only common denominator I can think of, thought Ed, is the Fantasy Role Playing Club. I know I’m the only one from the group here. But there must be a connection. While most FRP groups just listen to the Game Master’s description of an imaginary adventure, dialogue with each other, and roll dice to discover the outcome of a character’s actions, our group had to dress the part and actually learn skills needed by our game characters. I had to take classes in fencing, knife fighting, and more, just so I’d be able to advance my acrobat thief character to higher levels. Was I being trained to be a real acrobat thief? Is this Delacroix’s expert level, virtual reality type game? We trained for months to be able to play his new-never-before-played-version. Doc constantly babbled about it. Tantalizing us with snippets, but never revealing much. I got tired of the smoke and mirrors. I wanted answers. When I didn’t get them, I quit the club.

 

And yesterday, Campus Security came knocking at my door.  Bad Cop and Weird Cop grilled me for two long thirsty hours. I saw one officer’s note pad. While he seemed to scribble feverishly, all he’d written was my name over and over. They didn’t like my answers. Bad Cop said they’d be watching me. They kept asking why I was the only member of Professor Delacroix’s Fantasy Role Playing club who hadn’t vanished. I couldn’t tell them much. They might have figured out that I’d done a little breaking and entering. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Worm-holes and a lab full of ultra-high tech virtual reality equipment. Well. I didn’t actually see the lab. If what I read was right, his lab is either in another dimension or on the other side of that wormhole.

 

Ed noticed the driver open a side window as if he needed air. Afterward, the driver continued watching him through the observation mirror. Ed listened to the man’s low rumbling laugh and watched, dread bringing stinging bile to his throat. Ears ringing, Ed remembered what he did not want to remember, as Mardyth dramatically intoned, “The adventure begins!” Chills danced along his neck. All of Doc’s Fantasy Role Playing games began with that exact phrase. Ed jumped to his feet and yelled, “Who are you? What’s going on?” Suddenly the statue people began to stir. Ed heard several whispered queries. He gulped, and then snapped, “I want off the bus. Now!”

 

“Call me Mardyth,” said the driver. “I am the consummate director, and this is my movie. As for what is going on,” Mardyth paused dramatically,” then lifted his right hand, “you tell me!”

 

Ed’s eyes were drawn to the bus driver’s bejeweled hand. He scowled as he recognized the large golden castle-faced ring. That looks just like Delacroix’s ring! “That’s the Game Master’s ring. I don’t play that freakin’ game anymore!”

 

“Au contraire, mon ami,” chuckled Mardyth, “your game has just begun!”

 

Ed sprang from his seat, stepped towards the Game Master, then stopped as the ring flashed. He stared awestruck through the bus windows. Ed was no longer looking at the rainy campus. Thick, steaming jungle and a winding dirt road had replaced the park-like university grounds. Vine canopies, like suspension bridges, festooned the trail and filtered the effulgent rays of twin suns. Eldritch shrieks and exotic bird calls penetrated the bus’s shadowy confines. Is it my imagination? wondered Ed. Smells like that jasmine sandalwood incense that Delacroix burned during our early games.

 

“Here’s your pack,” said Mardyth.

 

“What pack?” asked Ed sarcastically, rolling his eyes. As he caught the bulging leather rucksack, which Mardyth had tossed him, he heard the short brunette begin to sob hysterically.

 

“Don’t you recognize this?” asked Mardyth with exaggerated surprise. “You are Dwin Dwee, Acrobat-thief of Croix D‘rosa. This pack holds your prized possessions.”

 

“My name is Edwin Dweedenov! Dwin Dwee is just a fantasy role playing character! Earth is my world,” shouted Ed. Although the bus rocked wildly as it traveled the rough jungle trail, occasionally used by horse or ox-drawn wagons, his stance was poised. Ed pivoted swiftly, knees slightly bent, as he heard a stifled scream. It’s that willowy carrot-head, thought Ed. Where’d she get those weird, new penny colored eyes? Don’t Croix D‘rosian High Elves have eyes like that? Am I having delusions or did her ears just transform into prick-ears like an elves? Why’d she scream?

 

From behind Ed heard Mardyth say, “Miss Molly Ringo has discovered your first combat encounter.” Ed Dwin Dwee peered beyond Molly, through the window, as the bovine headed beast-man charged the rear of the bus. “Croix D‘rosian Minotaur,” he muttered. Remembering the creature’s offensive and defensive statistics from Delacroix’s monster manual, he continued reciting the pertinent information. “Super human strength. Buffalo hair head dress of a tribal shaman. Can use defensive magic then. It’ll take a magic weapon and poison for a quick kill. He’ll use Minotaur fist and horn attacks. He’s not carrying his shaman staff, so no fire, frost, or lightning ranged damage.”

 

“Excellent. I’ve trained you well,” smirked Delacroix/Myrdyth. “Too well to let you quit the game.” Ed ignored Mardyth’s comment and continued to watch the action taking place at the rear of the bus.

 

Mad Dog Mallow cursed – His watery blue eyes bulged, frog-like, under thick dirty-blond eyebrows. Naked fear and shock were etched into his tanned Caucasian features as he fumbled with the lock on the rear door. Everyone could see the monstrous, yak-headed biped, running with long loping strides, behind the bus. The slower the bus chugged onward, the faster the rangy Minotaur closed. “What up? What up?” cried the other gang banger, Khalid — a tall, pinch-faced, bearded man, with light olive skin and curly, oily black hair. He continued in a thick, fast paced, syllable scrunching, Middle Eastern accent, “I think he…he…it just flipped us a gang sign! You seen that one before Bro?” Mad Dog didn’t answer.

 

Ed shook his head. That gang banger makes a better door than a window, but my guess is that Buffalo Head didn’t do a gang sign, he just cast a spell. Shrieking twisted metal, as irritating as fingernails raked across a chalkboard, screamed in their ears. Next, there came a loud popping bang. After that, an ominous thump, as the tall, yak-headed biped sprinted powerfully up to the bus and then leaped up onto the bumper. Hmmm. Warp metal and wood. I thought that was a Druid spell. Tricky, tricky Mr. Buffalo Head!

 

All eyes focused on the dark brown monstrosity that poked its dripping muzzle against the shattered glass. Hot breath, vented in vacillating spurts, fogged the pane, temporarily dimming the horrid vision of the beast man clinging to the rear door of the bus. When the beast grabbed the busted door with one massive bony hand, stressed steel, strained beyond its limits, groaned and snapped as the emergency exit was ripped from its hinges. With a victorious blood-curdling bellow, it wrenched the now shattered door from the rear of the bus, and tossed it backward; it bounced several times erratically along the trail before collapsing in a spray of gravel.

 

“Please don’t let it in!” squealed the hysterical brunette.

 

Ed expected the passengers to rush towards the front as the beast-man eased its large leathery frame into the rear of the bus, but they seemed glued to their seats. A musky stench, reminiscent of sweat and sulfur, emanated from its mud-matted hide, then oozed into the bus, mixing with the smell of hot excrement and urine. Khalid, the swarthy hood, squealed an Arabic imprecation, then stared slack-jawed, at the monstrous humanoid, as dark wet spots suddenly discolored his stone-washed jeans.

 

Ed watched as both hoods crouched to either side of the beast, and then whipped out daggers. Yet, it was obvious, by the awkward way they wielded their knives in trembling hands, that neither man was accustomed to combat. Watching the scene unfold before him, Ed realized that his initial assessment that neither Mallo nor Khalid were experienced street thugs, merely wannabees had been correct.

 

With very little thought, the Minotaur flicked its black, blade tipped horns, right then left, slicing the jugulars of the hoods with snake-like speed, dropping them instantly into a tandem dance of death.

 

Ed-Dwin Dwee deftly palmed the blow gun from his pack’s outer holster. Next, he slipped out a small case from an adjacent side pocket. Which dart? He wondered. Blue Sleepers, Black normal. Red +1 poisoned. Ed-Dwin Dee selected a red dart, flicked off the protective needle cap, and then loaded his weapon.

 

“Je tue tous,” snarled the Minotaur in garbled French as its violet eyes darted to each bus occupant, but rested at last upon Dwin Dwee.

 

Ed rolled his eyes and said, acid dripping from every syllable, “A French Minotaur! Only on Croix.”

 

“I think the beast just said, ‘I kill all!’” cried a tall, scholarly looking male, dressed in a gray hounds-tooth British driving cap, mint pastel oxford shirt, dark green bow tie and emerald corduroy pants.

 

Dwin Dwee mentally cataloged the man’s statement, and foppish attire, but ignored him, as he raised the blow gun to his lips.

 

The beast-man, eyes boring into Dwin Dwee, leaped like chain lightening through the corridor between the bus seats. Come and get it Buffalo Head, thought Ed.

 

Pfft. With as little sound as a sneaky mosquito, the dart sailed through the air and then lodged in the neck of the dread Minotaur. Yak-man came to the end of its leap, mere paces away from the Acrobat Thief of Croix D‘rosa. It stumbled, gasped raggedly for air and thrashed in the aisle, as the dart’s venom swiftly leached its life. Ed stepped back, replaced the blow gun and darts, then opened his pack, and retrieved a bundle of matched scimitar-bladed long knives, and a double, cross-back, sheath harness. After donning them, he glanced once more at the dead Minotaur and the other passengers, who once again became still as statues. He turned back away from them, puzzled, as the bus driver began to speak.

 

“Sacre bleu, Ed” crooed Mardyth, “Rather I should say, Dwin Dwee. You are the only member of the U of M Advanced FRP group who has survived this encounter.”

 

Ed whirled and faced Mardyth. “Cut the charade, Doc! I know it’s you. What happened to my friends? Are you talking about Jon, Greg, Bert, Di, and Cindy? Did you kill them?” He added, “Campus Security hinted Doc that you went off your rocker, kidnapped some people and absconded with a truckload of food, supplies and high tech equipment.”

 

Mardyth/Delacroix stopped the bus and exited his seat. With a bow and flourish, he laughed, and quipped, “Guilty as charged.” His eyes were sunken and red, and one cheek twitched spasmodically. The Game Master’s eyes brightened as he continued, “In the flesh mon ami.” Alternating between staring into space, then focusing intently on Ed, Professor Delacroix continued, albeit in broken strangely parsed English, “Yes…I am… afraid… they are dead. Each was a team leader like you. I…watched Gregory and Bertrand die. The others… I was forced to make my exit…prematurely. I did not find their bodies.” Following a phlegmy cough, Delacroix added, “I hand-picked their parties from gaming conventions I’ve been touring. Your team is from the Gen Con of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.”

 

Ed Dwin Dwee reached deftly, with both hands, over his shoulders, and then palmed his back-flared long knives.

 

Mardyth said, “Ahh, mon ami, one more thing, a parting gift… in honor of your … unique sense of humor. That I so… enjoyed… during our… past adventures. Have fun… with le Grenouille!”

 

“What?” snapped Dwin Dwee, as his voice and countenance projected a mixed signal of confusion and sarcasm, “What are you blabbering about? What is lu-gren-whaa?” Ed’s hands paused, level with his chin, in their descent. The genesis of his quick stride toward the doddering professor faltered. Memories of past verbal jousting flooded his mind. I rarely saw you laugh, Doc. Most of the time I irritated the devil out of you. But I gave as well as I got!

 

Less than a heartbeat later, but long before he could advance on the deranged Delacroix, there was a shimmer like heat waves on a hot summer day. The mysterious blurring obscured Professor Delacroix; he and his pale blue bus driver’s uniform vanished without a trace. Dwin Dwee exited the bus and alertly surveyed his surroundings. Just ahead on the trail was another deserted bus, tipped and burned, also sans emergency door.

 

Hearing steps, he turned to see that the other passengers were exiting the bus. “Welcome to Croix,” he said dryly. Ed added, “The Game was evil. This is worse; it is real.”

 

“What is Croix?” asked the man who’d translated the Minotaur’s threat.

 

Ed Dwin Dwee replied, “Until now I thought it was an imaginary world with monsters, magic, and treasure. Back on Earth, I was in this Fantasy Role Playing Club where we’d pretend to have adventures in this world.” He added dryly, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto! This isn’t Earth, boys, and girls. It’s Planet Croix D‘rosa. We could be strapped into some virtual reality casks, with USB ports drilled into our skulls, and jacked into some ultra-high-tech gaming network. That’s possible. I’m not one hundred percent sure.”

 

Molly Ringo asked, “You mean like, uhmm, Dungeons and Dragons? I’ve played that game before. Except that we’re not on uhmm on earth and we uhmm are playing a real life version of the game. I think I understand what you are saying, Dwin, but that’s a bit hard to believe.” She paused, and then asked, “Who was that creepy old man, uhhm, that Mardyth guy?”

 

“It was Dr. Delacroix,” answered Ed Dwin Dwee.

 

“No way!” snapped Molly, “Delacroix’s in his thirties. I met him at a gaming convention a few weeks ago. And uhm another thing…”

 

Ed Dwin Dwee cut her off, with a quick, but deprecatory wave of his hand, “Whatever!” He sighed, then shrugged and kicked a stone embedded in the sandy trail. “Believe what you want, Molly. Just don’t expect me to believe it with you.”

 

Molly softly kicked the rock back. “O.K. Dwin, maybe Mardyth is Delacroix. The real question is, what do we do now?”

 

Dwin scanned the path and then squinted into the foliage. “Just before I quit the Gamer’s Club, Delacroix said that he had an ultimate test for me. A virtual reality type of fantasy game.” He paused, then pulled out his map and notes of Croix D’rosa then continued, “This is it. How many of you have played Fantasy Role Playing games?” He looked expectantly around the circle of his new team mates.

 

Molly replied, “In the game I played I was an elven magic user/fighter character.” She pointed at her short brunette companion, who stood hunched, head down, arms folded tightly across her stomach, sobbing. “Dorrie played a bard character. She was in a band. She can play anything that has—”

 

Dorrie’s head snapped upright, “I have a voice, chatter box!” Her emerald green eyes were blazing. “Like M was about to say, I can play anything with strings. I’m double majoring in Music and Music History.”

 

Was, thought Dwin. Was double majoring in Music and Music History. He turned his attention to the next lady in their circle.

 

“My name is Brooke Eagle-Feather,” said a pretty lady of obviously Native American descent, dressed in sturdy western clothes. Her dusty brown cowboy hat was worn, but serviceable and sported a pony port that displayed a long chestnut braid that dangled midway down her back. Brooke added, “I’ve never played the game, Dwin, but I grew up in Montana helping my Dad guide bow and rifle hunting parties on our ranch.” She fingered a turquoise and silver dream catcher necklace before adding, “I was at the gaming convention, in Oconomowoc, but not attending. I’m doing a hotel and restaurant class. I am – scratch that – was on the convention staff.”

 

“Probably a Ranger character,” grunted Dwin. She’s gonna freak when she finds that she has bright red eyes and prick ears. Eagle-Feather must be a Dark Elf Ranger. Destruction and shadow spell bonus. Has night vision and acute hearing. Backstab, strength and double stealth bonus. Also, bonuses with short blade and long bow. Moderate magic resistance for Eagle-Feather. High magic resistance for Molly. Molly, if she’s a High Elf, will probably have her bonus in long blade and with missile spells like lightning and fire ball. But how in the blue blazes is this happening?

 

Jumping forward in Chi stance, wearing a white karate Gi, grinning contagiously, an oriental youth exclaimed, “I Yoshimada. I play character with black belt in thwee ma’tial a’ts. Play monk named Yoshi.” Yoshimada did a vertical jump kick and exclaimed, “Hi-yah, nevel dleam such place!”

 

“That’s nice karate kid, but forgive me if I don’t display your joy and optimism,” drawled Ed. Everyone but the fat grumpy guy smiled warmly at the happy oriental.

 

Brooke chuckled and then said, “I remember you, Yoshi. You’re a computer Major at UWEC. When Yoshi nodded, she grinned and added, “You kept leaving your sandals outside the hotel door like that guy in Beverly Hills Ninja.”

 

“Hai…yes,” replied Yoshi.

 

Brooke canted her head to one side, clenched her jaw once, sucked in her cheeks, then leaned forward and waved her pointer finger, “But if I remember right, you had an accent, yet you spoke almost flawless English.”

 

Yoshi sighed, and replied with a half grin, “Thanks so much Ranger Brooke for ruining my game persona.”

 

“Enough reunion chatter!” Ed pointed at Yoshi, “And please keep in mind that this is no longer a game.”

 

Ed’s transferred his attention to the short fat man. My crudometer, he thought, just went to Def Con One. More chins than a Chinese phone book, and all experiencing their own personal earthquake, as he scratches the wallaby in front of God and everyone! Gotta tie that wallaby down boy!  Gotta tie that wallaby down.  Ed shook his head in disbelief while the portly man unselfconsciously scratched an itch under his gaudy Hawaiian shorts, and then scratched off a glob of what appeared to be dried ketchup and mustard, from a Green Bay Packer jersey. The scraggly bearded and odoriferous oaf ran his hand over his scant rusty brown hair and then cleared his throat. “People call me Frog,” he growled, “Cousin Jake over there got that started back in high school. He said that my last name, Grenwall, looked like the French word for frog. And then Susie Shaeffer yelled, ‘You look like a big fat frog, Greenie!’ The whole @#$% class thought it was just @#$% hilarious.” He continued with a shake of his triple chins, “Anyway, enough about that. I don’t play dumb*%#@ fantasy games. We – me and Jake—”

 

“Actually I said ‘le Grenouille,’ The Frog,” interjected Jake, “And it’s Jake and me, grammatically—”

 

Now I get it, thought Ed. Doc’s joke. Lu-gren-whaa is le gren-whaa, French for ‘The Frog.’

 

Frog blustered, “Don’t correct me, Jake. I talk like I talk! Now shut up and let me finish, dumb*%#@.” Grenwall turned his icy stare away from Jake and back to the group, “Like I was sayin’, me and Jake just went to the Gen Con convention to watch Dr. Who movies.” Frog paused, jerked his head back at Jake, the man who’d interpreted the French speaking Minotaur’s threat, and continued, “Jake here’s my cousin. His name’s Wellington Jacobi Wainscot-Huffington the turd – I mean the third!” Frog snickered, hawked a blob of spit, scratched his ample belly, which hung out under his shirt, and then continued, “He’s never played no fantasy games neither, but that’s cuz he’s a holier-than-thou Bible banger.”

 

Dwin turned to Jake and said, “You must be a Cleric character. Do you have a nursing or pre-med degree?”

 

Jake’s large Adam’s-apple bobbed nervously. He was tall, thin, and stooped. His skin was pale as if he rarely saw the light of day. Jake replied, “No. I’m not pre-med. Most people think I’m college age now, but I’m almost 28. I did get a merit badge in first aid when I was in Boy Scouts. That was almost 15 years ago. I have a gift for languages. And I’m a voracious reader. I started going to Bible College, to become a missionary, back when I was 19, but … I dropped out after a semester and started working 3^rd shift at Wal-Mart. What’s a Cleric?”

 

Ed replied, “Clerics heal people, create food, pray for miracles and raise the dead. But you barely know first aid! Wonderful.” He paused, then tapped his brow and saluted like Peter Falk playing Columbo, “We have a Cleric that doesn’t have medical experience! Great. Just great.”

 

“I can handle being a Cleric,” replied Jake thoughtfully, ignoring Ed’s sarcasm, “as long as I can pray to my God Jehovah and his Son Jesus Christ, not some dark demonic pagan deity.”

 

“Whatever floats your canoe, St. Jake,” replied Dwin.

 

Frog scratched his beard, lifted his leg and loudly passed gas.

 

Frog, thought Ed Dwin Dwee as he rolled his eyes, must be Delacroix’s idea of the comic relief. Maybe he’ll turn into a Stone Mountain Dwarf – wouldn’t take much and he’d actually be useful. Maybe that mountain of flab’ll turn into muscle, and he won’t huff and puff with every step like the Big Bad Wolf.

 

Dwin announced, voice pregnant with overly dramatic tones, “Frog, you must be an NPC character—”

 

“I said I don’t play no dumb*%#@ fantasy role playing games!”

 

Dwin continued, with mock patience, “Sounds to me like the basic definition of a non-player character.”

 

“Yeah. Right. NPC. Non-Player Character. Gotcha,” Frog chortled wickedly and then belched.

 

“And as for Cousin Jake, all I gotta say is, just don’t get preachy with your Jesus thing.” Grandma just sent one of her weird prophecies yesterday. What did it say? I better finish reading it when I get a chance. He continued, “I’ve got a Pentecostal Grandma, and I’ve heard it all before. Don’t try to freakin’ convert me Padre Jake, and we’ll get along just f—”

 

Molly stepped towards Ed. Planting her fists on her hips, she asked heatedly, “Who in the @#$% do you think you are, Dwin? You’re certainly the bossiest and most sarcastic guy I’ve ever met. You don’t uhhm look like such hot stuff to me. I can’t make up my mind who is worse, you or Mr. Froggie Scratch and Fart. Why should we listen to you?”

 

The rest of the team displayed various levels of anxiety as they looked back and forth between Dwin, Molly, and Grenwall. Only the most perceptive of the group noticed that Frog was less dour and didn’t get angry at the insult Molly had flung at him. He seemed to be happy for the first time since becoming part of the group. Frog seemed more amused than irritated by the entire incident.

 

Dwin placed his hands on his hips, imitating Molly’s stance and replied, “Listen up Carrots! Edwin Dweedenov is my name.”

 

Molly scowled, and then exclaimed through clenched teeth, “Don’t call me Carrots!” Like expletive ice cream on verbal pie, she added few inaudible obscenities to her explosive retort.

 

Dwin continued, perusing the circle once again, before refocusing on Molly Ringo. “I may not look like much Miss Molly, but here I am known as Dwin Dwee, the Acrobat Thief of Croix D‘rosa. And if you are not dead by sundown, you’ll have me to thank for it!”

 

Dwin waved the sheaf of quarter-folded papers that contained maps and game data, as well as the weird prophecy from his Pentecostal grandmother, “Delacroix doesn’t know that I stole a copy of his Game Master notes for this world. It won’t be easy, but we have an edge. If we work together, we can beat Mardyth’s game. Then we can go home.

 

First thing, we’ll check the immediate area for anything salvageable. Then, about a mile from here, along the road, there’s a faint trail that leads off into the jungle. It’s in the notes. There’s an abandoned temple along the way. Inside the temple, there’s a statue. We’ll find weapons and food in the chamber beneath it.”

 

Ed Dwin Dwee walked over to the bus, flipped open an exterior storage compartment, and then barked, “Enough confabulation. For those of you without a vocabulary that means ‘Less talk.” Dwin groped inside the storage bin, then muttered, “Empty.” He opened another compartment and continued, “Let’s get this show on the road, boys, and girls. Check storage and under the seats and around the perimeter. Check out the burned bus, too. You never know what we might find that will help us with our quest.”