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The New Book Nears Completion: Tomb of the Viking!



Chapter 2:


The phone rang then, and my idiotic fantasies were shattered, which was a good thing.  I looked at my candlestick phone, a reproduction of a 1930’s telephone, and listened to the antique ring.  I am a living anachronism, wishing that I lived in 1930’s La Crosse- and, in most ways, I am- kind of.  I drive an antique car; while not a 1930’s vehicle, a 1950’s Packard is still in my wheelhouse.  And, I dress in retro clothing for the most part, and try to ignore most of modern music and culture, since it all seems like a huge step downwards.
I answered the phone, but only after 2 rings.  I like to keep them waiting.  It was Alexander.
“Thanks for finally answering, Kemosabi,” he said.
“My faithful Indian companion!” I answered.  “I expected a smoke signal, but I guess this will have to do.”
“Wampum low,” he said, “firewood dear, but Obama phone free!”
Alexander was quite the kidder, since he deplored any government program, and especially those that were earmarked for a particular race, or races.  I did have to laugh, though.  Quietly, and sadly, since there was truth in this joke, a sad truth about the devolution of our society.
“So, Alexander- to what do I owe this call?”  I had a big smile on my face- I always love hearing from my best friend, actually the one true like minded person I think I have on this planet.
“I think we need to take a road trip!” he said in his deep voice, a voice that was almost a rumble, so low was it.  “I am on my way.” he said then, and hung up.

I was waiting for him downstairs.  He only had a short drive down from Indian Hill on the near north side, and soon appeared in front of my high rise detective top-floor office building.  I was wearing only a light suede jacket I had found in a vintage clothing store, tailored to my exact size probably about 70 years before I was born.  For truth be told, although I dress and drive old things, I myself have not yet attained 30 years of age.
I had my Brewers hat shading my eyes from the bright, early spring sunshine as a red Studebaker pickup rounded the corner, coming down 5th street from a left turn in front of the post office.  Like myself, Alexander had an old vehicle, a 1960 Studebaker that had been totally restored and updated.  My friend had kept the original, manual four-on-the-floor gear shift, along with manual steering however.  Most modern men would have found turning that steering wheel difficult, but for Alexander it was effortless.  He glided the big, solid steel machine from an earlier era into a slow stop in front of the art-deco Hoeschler building.
“Hello there Ta-Tonka,” I said as I got into the passenger seat beside him.  The vehicle gleamed like a stop light, it always seemed to be freshly waxed.
“Custer,” he answered.  He pulled out onto 5th street, heading south, and was cut off by a New Glarus Beer truck.  He honked loudly with that antique, braying horn, and then looked at me.  “Big Horn,” he said with a small smile.  Alexander is a laconic man, not usually given to talking much at all, unless on one of his favorite topics, like ancient history, early architecture, or nutrition and exercise.  Even then, he only says what is germane, and necessary to convey his points.
Now, the beer from New Glarus, Wisconsin is a good beer, an excellent beer in fact.  One of our favorites, really- with its Spotted Cow and Fat Squirrel, among many others.  Alexander and I had drunk many of their beers in our time, and always enjoyed them.
A large man got out of the big brown beer truck, followed by another man.  Both stalked back towards us with scowls on their faces.  The larger one had tattoos all over his arms, and presumably the rest of his frame as well.  The other had a nose piercing, and multiple earrings.  Wisconsin’s finest.
I don’t think they could actually see Alexander that well, as the bright sunshine was reflecting off of the New Glarus’s truck windshield.  Tattoo boy was indeed large, but this included his gut as well as his chest and arms.  He slammed his meaty fist down on the Studebaker’s hood, and then reached to open the driver’s side door, to pull out Alexander.
He didn’t have to.  Alexander had flowed out of his truck, like a tiger leaping from a cave rather than a man lumbering out of a vehicle.  He towered over both men, his long black mane of hair framing his angular face.  He grabbed the offending fist, the one that had struck his truck, and held it aloft, as he examined the hood for damage.  As he did so, the left fist of the tattooed man lashed out at the side of his head.
Without appearing to even take notice, Alexander whipped back his other hand, effortlessly catching the approaching fist with his own larger hand.  The face of the tattooed driver was red, and turning redder, as he tried mightily to move, and found himself held completely motionless, and helpless.  A definitely stoppable cannonball had met up with an immovable wall.  And both of the Wall’s hands were relentlessly squeezing.
Tears started from the man’s face, as both of his hands were being crushed as if in a human vise.  It was apparent that he was struggling to escape, but could not move at all.  The other, earring boy- although he looked pretty strong, and I’m sure thought of himself as really tough, seemed torn as to whether he should intervene.
I caught his eye, as I sat looking out the truck side window, and slowly shook my head in the negative.  He got my drift, and slowly slumped down dejectedly, as Alexander satisfied himself that the dent in his hood was small enough to be easily buffed out.  Standing to his full height, he looked down at the tattooed driver, glaring at him with burning eyes of glinting obsidian.
“Get back in your truck and go,” he said.  With one last squeeze of both hands, he finally let go.  The driver winced, and headed back to the truck, rubbing his injured hands as he went.  With a look at the other man with the piercings, they silently switched places, with the injured man going to the passenger side.  I’m sure his hands hurt mightily, too much to drive.  They drove off.
Alexander, calm as ever, got back behind the wheel.  He resumed driving, slowly and carefully as always, not ruffled at all.
“I hope you didn’t break his hands!” I said at last.  I know something of my friend’s strength.  I examined him as he drove.
Finally, he smiled slightly, glancing at me briefly.  The sun gleamed off of his hair, so black that it gave off a subtle blue highlight.  “No- I merely gave him a deep tissue massage!”
I am always glad that Alexander is my friend.
Alexander drove to The Charmant.  This is a wonderful old building that has been restored from an 1800’s candy factory, and then a furniture store, into a boutique hotel and restaurant.  We love this place, and eat (and drink) here often.  Lots of available parking right in front, and the historic Riverside Park and the convergence of three rivers is right outside the big windows.
“What’s not to like?” said Alexander, as he lifted his Spotted Cow beer from New Glarus Brewing to his lips.  He had anticipated my own thoughts.  I toasted him briefly, and we both drank deeply.  It truly was a beautiful day here on the river- the mighty Mississippi was the big one here, along with the Black and the La Crosse rivers.  What a place to be, on any day!
The waiter came.  I ordered the Omelet- asiago, gruyère, fine herbs, side salad.  Alexander got the Smoked Salmon- red onion, capers, bagel, mascarpone, dill.  We were not depriving ourselves, obviously.  Food and drink are incredibly important for both nutrition, and for our experience of life, which is ultimately all that we truly have!  No truck stop food for Jess Thornton, nor Alexander Blackdeer.  Oh, we also ordered their signature Bloody Mary.  If it had been later, it would have been the Brandy Old-Fashioned- only in Wisconsin!
I smiled.  Alexander smiled back.  The waiter came, bringing our bloody Mary’s, (with beer chasers, of course), and smiled.  Even the sun outside, glancing brightly off of the river seemed to be smiling brightly.  The world was perfect!  Almost.
“I need a case.  I need money, my friend,” I said.
My large Indian pal smiled, again.  I swear, he was starting to resemble the statue of Hiawatha in Riverside Park just outside more and more.  But that statue never smiled, probably because he was worried about being removed by politically correct thought police- P.C. liberals clustered all about the University of La Crosse, all worried way too much about mythical White Privilege.
Again, Alexander smiled.  Like I said, he often mirrors my own thought process.  “We both need money,” he said.  “I’ve been thinking on it, a bit.  Money does not really motivate me much, however.”
I feel the same way.  For whatever reason, money is not my prime directive, my prime motive, my goal.  I want enough, sure.  But money itself, for its own sake- it’s simply uninteresting!
Alexander quaffed his beer, and then sipped his bloody.  “I think I know how we can get some money, and have an interesting time doing it as well,” he said.  He was looking at me intently, dark eyes boring into my own gray ones.  “We use those sapphires,” he said simply.  “The ones that take us back through time- you know, like before?”
I did indeed remember, when we had traveled back to see Elvis at the Mary E. Sawyer auditorium in 1956, and then back to 5th century Britain!  Amongst other places.  But I wondered what he had in mind?
“I have two ideas,” he said then, his voice a deep, conspiratorial rumble.  “Both are in 1850.  And both are right here, my friend- right here in La Crosse!”

Chapter 3:


I hemmed.  I hawed.  Truth was, I really did not want to use those mystical magical, sorcerous sapphire gemstones again, if I didn’t have to.  I mean, who would, really?
Would you want to take gems that look like the eyes of madwomen, clutch them tightly, and wonder then- just where you might end up?  And more importantly- WHEN?!  I’d done it before, several times, and trust me; it’s as if you are in the eye of a tornado, wondering if you will be torn apart, and not even knowing what era your fragmented remains will land in!  It’s quite a bit more intense than Splash Mountain, and is also quite a real event.
But Alexander is quite intense as a personality, and he does not give up.  Also, he is very intelligent, and can come up with very persuasive arguments if he so desires.  And, both of us did need money, and each of us were proud, and would only earn money on our own terms- the work to attain the prize must be interesting- worthy of our skill, strengths, and efforts.
But I will say, I withstood all of my friend’s persuasion, smiling dismissively as we sat in that golden lit dining room of the Charmant, the setting sun finally limning Alexander’s bronzed face in a reddish light, reflected off of the nearby river.  A number of glasses and mugs had come and gone at our table, and I was getting ready to suggest that we leave for the evening- when there was a rustle of interest among the many diners and drinkers about us, as all heads turned towards the front door.
I turned my head to look.  It was Guin Britton, also known as Guinevere in a previous era.  If it had been Marilyn Monroe in her prime it would have been a big step less impressive- this girl was gorgeous beyond belief, with auburn hair that glistened in that sunset as if staged, and a glittery gown that shimmered along with her as she walked.  No one in the Charmant looked anywhere but at her.
The only thing was, the last time I had seen her, she had been about 100 years old or so.  But, she had been getting younger as I watched her leave this same hotel, and so I wasn’t too surprised, considering…
She walked, or rather floated over towards us, right to our table, smiling widely with perfect teeth, and eyes of azure blue that were just a bit- well, tapered, with the passing suggestion of a serpent- but, that left quickly, becoming only beautiful and beguiling once again.
Standing by our table, Alexander and I both stood, and she sat, right next to where I had been sitting.  My friend and I sat down again, myself right by her side, and Alexander across from her in our booth.  Her thigh brushed mine, and it felt electrically charged- like an eel.
“So good to see you both, once again,” she purred in a silky voice.  Really, it was as if the goddess Venus herself had sat down at our table.  Every eye in the place was fixed on her- on us.  She picked up my drink, the brandy old-fashioned, and said “Divine,” before draining the whole glass in a draught.
She set it down, and the bartender himself came speeding over, fawning all over her as he said “Oh, Miss Britton- Guin- can I get you another?”  He picked up the drained glass, and I noticed that, although her lips were bright scarlet, there was not a trace of lipstick on the rim of the tumbler.  Nor was there even a slight smear on those perfect lips.
She nodded slightly, not even looking at the bartender as he rushed to serve her.   She looked at me, and then at Alexander.  He was looking at her intently, as I have seen him looking at dangerous animals and people that were about to attack.  His eyes were drawn back into baleful slits.  Wary.
All at once, she laughed, right into his face.
Most people, rightly, are very wary around Alexander Blackdeer.  I have known him most of my life, and he has saved me more than once from grave danger.  Yet I am wary around him, just as I would be when around a lion I had known since boyhood.  He is a force to be reckoned with; a force of raw power.
Now, however, I realized that I was confronted by two forces- if Alexander was a lion, well then Guin Britton, femme fatale, was a tiger!  I’d like to think that left me as a wolf or something else really fierce, but truth be told Jess Thornton was more like a crafty fox in comparison with those two; someone who had only his wits to help him out here.
Their eyes were locked, bright, sapphire blue blazing out at black eyes like sharpened, gleaming flint.  Primordial.  But then, as her brief laughter rang away, she spoke.  She still looked at him, but spoke to me.  The fox.  She spoke to me: “I think HE is right- use the sapphires.”
She continued, still locking eyes with Alexander.  “I gave you those stones, but that doesn’t mean I have no interest in them- no, I gave them to be used.  Magic thrives on magic, and as a magical creature myself,” she laughed brightly, taking another deep drink from her freshened glass, “ I thrive on sorcery as well!”  Her laughter was as beautiful and melodious as was the rest of her face and figure.  Alexander sat motionless as stone, just staring at her.
“Well, OK then,” I said foxily, trying to mollify her, and placate Alexander at the same time.  It was as if we were in a play of live theater, with everyone watching and hanging onto our every word.  I just wanted to get out of there, before Alexander, or she, or both- erupted in some way!  There I sat, between two literal forces of nature, and I only wanted to survive.
Alexander spoke then, with a low, ominous rumble.  “Maybe I was wrong to suggest the stones, Jess,” he said.  I saw her eyes turning venomous again, and a nimbus of blue light shone out from her fingers with a wicked radiance.  Alexander started to stand, the muscles in his corded forearms starting out in stark definition.
Quickly, I fumbled in my pocket, pulling out a handful of stones, gleaming blue like Guin’s wicked eyes.  I smiled widely, and put a couple of stones into Alexander’s hand, and pushed his fingers about them.  I grabbed a couple of my own, and said “Great idea, Alexander!  Let’s go- now!”

I saw a brief glimmer of triumph in Guin’s beautiful, goddess-like face; and then I saw no more of the Charmant- that beautiful hotel and restaurant- as Alexander and I both were whirled away, into the eye of that sorcerous tornado that is diabolical sorcery.  

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