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Here's a project I started working on years ago--like back in the early 1990s. My working title was "Crossover."

I think the basic idea is still sound, and I should finish the story, but the invention that's core to the plot is based on a technology that we've outgrown. That's the problem with starting stories and not finishing them.

Anyway . . .

It ain't Harry Potter, but you don't have to stand in line and pay for it. (Oh . . . and that's how long ago I posted it. Back when you had to stand in line for Harry Potter.)

"Earl's."

"She rolled on you."

"What? Who is this?" Earl demanded.

"You should be more careful about who you show what's in the trunk of your Miata."

Earl felt like his stomach had been removed and the space filled with cold air. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he said, louder had he had intended to.

"Fine, suit yourself." The man's voice had something familiar about it but Earl couldn't place it. Nor did he get the chance since the next thing he heard was the unmistakable 'click' of the other receiver being hung up.

"Wait! Who is this?" Earl knew no one was there but he held the receiver tightly against his ear, as though the device held answers. "Who is this?" It was only after the dial tone finally came back on the line that Earl slammed the receiver down on the phone with a force that should have broken it. "Shit!" he yelled, then gripping the desk phone by the recess under the receiver picked it up and slammed the whole thing again to the counter. "Shit!"

Earl knew he had very little time, if any. He turned immediately to the gray file cabinet in the corner of the cramped office and fumbled for his keys, but before he could unlock the cabinet the phone rang again.

Earl snatched up the receiver before the bell had completed its first ring. "Okay, I'm listening." There was a long pause. "Hello?" Earl said cautiously.

"Uh, yeah, I'm lookin' for a left front brake caliper for an '83 Olds, Cutlass Ciera. Ya' got anything like that?"

'What?' Earl thought. 'I'm about to get my ass erased and you need a got-damned caliper for an Oldsmobile?' "Sorry, can't help you with that one," he said, even though he had one on the shelf in the back in addition to the three complete front ends out in the yard.

"Well, do you know where I might . . . " the caller was saying as Earl hung up the phone.

Earl unlocked the cabinet and opened the third drawer. He began to thumb through the files, and pulled one out and laid it on the counter. He thumbed through some more and pulled another file out, paused, then replaced it and removed the whole drawer and carried it through the shop and set it down beside the stove.

Earl gathered the kindling, lit the fire and crouched in front of the stove to blow the flames. Suddenly, the center pane of the back panel of windows shattered onto the shop floor. Earl dove headlong onto the floor and scrambled towards the dark doorway leading into the back storeroom. He glanced back under his arm he just in time to see the alternator that had come through the window take its last bounce on the floor and roll to a stop against the roll-up door.

"Damn kids!" he howled. "That's all I need this morning."

Earl scrambled to his feet and ran out the shop and around the building. Through the narrow passageway between the sheet metal side of the building and the chain link fence to his left he struggled to get traction in the mud that still remained on the shady side of the shop. The kids would have a head start across the field but he was just rounding the corner of the building and could still catch them if he only . . .

Earl caught the sight of the moving metal just in time to side step. His toe caught on the protruding end of one half of a Ford truck twin I-beam suspension and he went down hard, banging his knee against the brake drum that was half-buried in the mud. As he went down he heard the thundering crash of the two-inch pipe hitting the corner of the building right by where his head would have been.

Earl lunged into the burly shape that had swung the pipe and grabbed him in a tackle hold The pipe went flying and landed with a dull thud in the mud then clanged against the brake drum. Earl managned to throw the big man into the chain link fence, which bent nearly to the ground with the load. Just as the fence seemed ready to catapult the two struggling men into the back wall of the shop, Earl's attacker brought his knee up hard into Earl's groin, lifting him up. The shift in weight was enough that the top supports on the chain link fabric tore loose and the two men went over the top of the fence.

Earl flipped over the head of his attacker who screamed in a feral growl as the top of the chain link raked across his back. Earl rolled from where he had landed on his back and crouched while he sized up his opponent. The man was large, six-two and least and weighed 240 easy. He wore a red and black plaid shirt and blue jeans with a large metal belt buckle. He had dark hair that curled over his ears, a bushy dark mustache and a couple days growth of beard.

There was nothing about his dress or appearance that would distinguish him from any number of lumberjacks or construction workers that frequented these parts but Earl was sure he'd never seen him around. He was moving into a semi-crouched boxing stance and held his meaty fists in front of him preparing for battle.

"Oh, shit," Earl thought, "This one's gonna' hurt." It was simply acknowledgement, not fear, because Earl had been thumped by bigger boys than this and he was damned if he was going to let somebody swing a pipe on him, especially on his own property, no matter how big he was.

Earl warily stood up and put up his own fists, eagerly trying to spot some weakness he could attack. Earl was studying the man's face when he saw his eyes dart down to Earl's feet. The man's eyes instantly went from narrow slits to wide open. Earl glanced at his own feet and saw the black wool ski mask that had come off the stocky man's face in the scuffle.

The attacker's hands flew to his face, then the top of his head, feeling for the lost mask, then he made a quick step to his left and nearly got his feet tangled in the chain link before he dashed off at an angle across the field toward the highway. Earl decided not to give chase.

Earl leaned over and picked up the stocking cap then rubbed his throbbing knee. He groaned at the pain in his crotch as he bent the fence down, crossed over it and painfully hobbled back into the shop.

With the file drawer on the floor in front of fire, Earl sat on the chrome-legged stool and frantically shuffled through the papers. He placed some to the side on the greasy floor and stuffed others into the blaze in the open stove. "Damn that bitch!" He muttered through clenched teeth. "Damn her to hell!"

That bitter anger was a sharp contrast to the magic that had gripped him when he first cast his squinty and blood-shot eyes on Samantha "Just call me Sam" Keller only four months before.

That morning had started out like most any other that harsh winter. Earl struggled to push open the gate through the six inches of new snow that had fallen overnight then grumbled and cursed as he kicked a path through the snow to the door. He unlocked the door and flicked the switches on the wall, causing two rows of fluorescent tubes to hesitantly struggle to life in the cold air and the radio plugged into the switched outlet to emit the voice of Patsy Cline bemoaning that she was "Crazy for Loving You." Earl pounded his gloved hands on his jacket to warm himself as he made his way to the stove and cursed himself, as he did every morning, for not stacking wood the night before. He stirred the still-glowing coal and opened the damper then went out the back door and returned with tinder and wood to feed the fire.

By 10:30 the place was cheerily warm in spite of the one of the overhead doors having been opened twice to bring in an engine and a front bib for the mayor's '77 El Dorado and Earl was sitting behind the counter sipping his third cup of coffee and reading the sports section of the flimsy rag that passed for the local newspaper. He needed to get a power steering pump off that old Buick for Randy's car, but didn't feel like trudging through the snow. Besides, Randy was sure to give him a post-dated check like he always did. He had a bright-eyed sixteen year old kid who was a glutton for that kind of work, but he wouldn't be in until after school that afternoon.

All things considered, of all the long list of things Earl needed to be doing none were quite as important at that moment as reading the sports page and slurping coffee.

Earl felt the cold blast before he was conscious of hearing the door open, signaling the arrival of a customer. No doubt it was Mayor Edwards, who generally strolled around this time of morning to shoot the bull in the name of checking on his car. Earl didn't even glance up until he smelled the perfume.

"Please, can you help me?" Earl had seen some beautiful women in his days and had rolled between the sheets with a few, but never had his breath been taken away like it was at that moment. The lightly applied makeup enhanced rather than masked what had to be the most perfect facial features he had ever seen and the luxurious fur-lined coat couldn't conceal a cleavage that made it impossible to maintain eye contact. The calves that extended from the bottom of the full-length coat were tanned and muscled and held a promise that they led to equally perfect thighs.

"Uh, sure, I mean, I'm sure I can . . . what is it you need?" Earl asked after what had to have been five long seconds of perusal.

"It's my car." If the woman noticed his fluster she didn't let on. The smile was the same she initially wore and didn't convey mirth or pride but a wholesome friendliness that was uncommon in women of such rare beauty. "It's making a terrible noise and I'm not sure that it will make it over the mountain."

"Well, let's have a look—no, no you stay in here and get warm by the fire." Earl said. Earl didn't give her the speech he usually gave about how he wasn't a mechanic, he just sold used parts and maybe you should try the Chevron station in town. He took the keys she extended out to him and walked out the door into the cold. Once outside he shivered but not for the cold. "Mowgli!" he said. He shook his head and said it again "Mo-o-ooo-gli!"

The car was a late model Honda, nicely appointed and about exactly what you'd expect from a woman of her class. Ordinarily Earl had no qualms about climbing in a car with dirty clothes—he often said that the way to torture a mechanic is give him dirty hands but no clean seat or steering wheel to wipe them off on. But for some reason he was concerned this time. "What?" he scoffed to himself, "You afraid if you get her car dirty she won't hit the sack with you?"

Whatever his concerns he was glad that he hadn't really felt up to working that morning and had scrubbed his hands before reading the paper. For all his faults he couldn't stand to read a greasy wrinkled newspaper.

Earl started the car and revved the engine but heard no unusual noise. He put it in gear and gently pressed the accelerator but still didn't hear anything. He was going to have to take it for a drive. And as long as he was driving, he should have the company of the owner to point out the noise, should he not?

Earl shut off the engine and went back into the shop to find the woman looking at the framed pictures of him with his various stock cars that were arranged on the wall to the left of the counter. She had her coat opened now and turned as he approached. "Are these you?" She smiled with admiration.

Earl walked over by her and was once again startled by her singular beauty. It was as though in the short trek to the car he had forgotten how gorgeous she was. "Yeah, I, uh, yeah, that's me over at Capitol Speedway over in . . . . uh, over in Madison."

"Oh, my," she said and as she spoke she reached her hand out and placed it on his chest, "A race car driver. That is really something." To Earl as a man not unaccustomed to the attentions of women it seemed the most natural thing in the world. His initial awe at her attractiveness subsided somewhat as it occurred to him that he was coming on to him. He was now in familiar territory.

"My name is Samantha, by the way." The woman moved her hand from Earl's chest and extended it in an invitation to shake hands. "Samantha Keller. Please just call me Sam."

Earl introduced himself then explained that he needed to take the car for a spin and he needed her to come along to point out the noise. Earl opened the door for Sam and she stepped out into the snow. As Earl followed her out he discreetly locked the door of the building. A big city gal like that would find nothing odd in locking a door on a shop filled with expensive equipment to go for a short ride even in a peaceful town like this. He didn't turn off the lights or flip the sign in the reinforced window of the door over to the "Closed" side. That would have alerted Sam to the fact that he planned for this to be more than just a short ride.

Had Earl been a man of letters the rhythm of their steps in the snow as they walked across the yard to the car may well have beat out the meter of a poem in his mind: "Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly . . . "

The original block building that constituted the south end of Earl's shop had been built by his grandfather in 1948. Elmo Hamilton (Senior) had been an avid fan of the emerging sport of stock car racing. In addition, old man Hamilton had had the good fortune of owning a great deal of land when a lot of young couples were getting married right after the war and needed to buy houses. When he sold a lot of that land, building a shop seemed the most logical thing in the world to do with the money. You wouldn't know it to have heard the protestations of his wife Lydia. Fortunately for Elmo's family, he was a man of limited imagination and most of the money that he didn't use to build the shop he put in the bank.

Those savings came in handy in 1955 when Elmo's house burned down and the family moved to a brand new house one block from the main street of the tiny but growing town. There were whisperings that Lydia herself had set the house afire out of frustration over the growing population of junked cars that surrounded the shop and house, but nobody really believed any of those rumors. After all, as unpredictable as Lydia Hamilton was, she wouldn't burn down her own house. Would she?

After Elmo died in 1961 Lydia leased out the shop to a young man with a vision of making a mint fixing cars. That enterprise lasted until the young man's vision shifted to becoming a rock and roll star and he moved to Madison to vanish into obscurity. No one ever bothered to move the growing collection of junk cars that surrounded the place. As Elmo's grandson Earl came of age he started showing the same inclinations as his late grandfather. As he acquired automobiles in various states of disrepair he would haul them over to grandpa's lot and the collection grew even more.

Earl Hamilton's father, Elmo Jr. had no such interests and had fervently hoped that his son would never venture down that path. In fact, there wasn't much about Elmo Sr. that his son wanted to pass along, which accounts for that fact that there was no Elmo Hamilton III in that line.

In 1972 the town council had threatened to condemn the eyesore and Earl, barely 25, had stepped in and agreed to put up a board fence and that is how Earl's Auto Wrecking came to be born. The whole venture was financed by Elmo Jr., who, in spite of his disdain for all things reminiscent of his father, was determined to not commit the same errors as had his father. Elmo Sr. had been tunnel-visioned in the exclusion of his children as he pursued his own interests.

Since that time, the enterprise had grown into a fairly profitable venture. This due in great part to the same type of focused efforts by Earl that had alienated his father and grandfather. People from miles around, even from across the mountain, would come to Earl's for "gently used auto parts." If Earl didn't have what they needed, he could usually find it. In a town of farmers who rode the wave of fortune from good to bad years, Earl's relative wealth, combined with the prominence of his extensive family in the area, earned him a station of some respect and more than a little influence.

In his efforts to establish a network of car parts he fostered connections with some people in the city that might have been considered unsavory, but Earl could definitely get the job done. It was widely rumored that not all of Earl's money had come from selling rear axles and radiators to local car owners. Even Earl's closest friends could neither confirm or deny such stories but Earl did nothing to quell them. Any such musings merely added to the persona that he was so carefully cultivating.

That persona had come in handy for Earl in a lot of ways and not all of them had to do with greasy auto parts. In small town like Mountain Creek there were limited recreational options and many of the bored young ladies blossoming into women were attracted by the bad boy image Earl projected. Although Earl was not what most women would consider a handsome man he was never at a loss for female companionship. That condition had given Earl an aggrandized sense of esteem that prevented him from suspecting any ulterior motives at the attention that Sam Keller doled out on him that fateful morning.

As they drove up the two-lane highway that connected the small town to the outside world across the mountains Sam wriggled out of her elegant coat and settled back into the passenger's seat. In the process, her form-fitting skirt hiked way up her thighs, which Earl noted were every bit as alluring as he had expected. He was able to concentrate on the rhythms of the engine instead of the legs that Sam unabashedly displayed only because of an agenda he was pursuing. In the not overly complex structure of Earl's mind resided the thought that his doing more than just looking at those smooth thighs was dependent on his fixing the problem with the car.

The car seemed to run fine on the flat but under hard acceleration or pulling up a hill there was indeed a noise and a roughness. "I think I know what the trouble is." Earl said. "Let's pull in here where I can get some tools and I'll check it out." It was no accident that the roads Earl chose to test out the car led to his own house. He was counting on the fact that Sam would not realize that fixing spark plug crossover required no tools at all.

If engine cylinders that fire in sequential order have their spark plug wires running parallel for a distance the spark can "cross over" and induce current in the wrong wire essentially causing it to fire out of order. Spark Crossover wasn't nearly as common on these newer cars with smaller engines and better spark plug cables, but it was certainly possible. It never occurred to Earl that Sam would find it odd that he kept the garage door control in his shirt pocket instead of clipped to the visor of his own car.

As he pulled into the garage and closed the door his concerns were more that ignition timing instead of crossover would be the problem. That would exhibit similar symptoms but require more extensive work, detracting from the image of a magician that he was trying to convey.

Earl popped the hood and got out of the car. A quick glance at the firing order and spark plug wires confirmed that the wires were indeed in a position to cause the problem. In fact, although fixing the problem was very simple not many people would have correctly diagnosed the condition in the first place. Earl felt a sense of pride that he had figured it out.

The mental acuity required to diagnose that problem didn't extend to curiosity about why it had occurred on a car that had yet to have its first set of plugs changed. Nor did Earl stop to wonder why the gorgeous victim of the problem happened to come to him for aid. His concern now became how to balance the quick fix (which would impress his new lady friend) with spending enough time to give the impression that it was not a simple problem.

Lost on Earl was that fact that such mental gymnastics on a woman of Sam's position and experience were either unnecessary or inadequate. If they were to end up in impassioned intimacy in the gaudy bedroom of Earl's house it would be due to Sam's maneuvering and not because of some simplistic design that would not have worked on the most naïve of the local gals.

After Earl had finished he invited Sam into the kitchen and she agreed to join him for a drink. Sam watched carefully as Earl washed his hands, dried them, then did a quick three-fold on the towel before hanging it back up. He got two glasses from the cabinet, set them on the counter and then selected a bottle from the rack on the counter. "I've got an '85 here, do you like that year?"

"Let me check," said Sam and took the bottle from Earl. She set the bottle on the counter, unbuttoned her blouse, let it slip off her shoulder and leaned over the bottle. Cradling the bottle in her cleavage, she lowered her moist lips over the corked top of the bottle and slowly pulled it into her mouth. As slowly as she'd taken the bottle she withdrew it and set it on the counter.

"Yeah," she told an astonished Earl. "I think '85 will do just fine."

Mayor Edwards pulled up to Earl's and parked alongside the fire engine red Miata that was parked in its usual spot. Why Earl insisted on driving that squirrelly little thing in this weather he'd never know. Earl himself complained about how poorly it handled on the icy roads. "Like trying to screw a gutshot panther," was more how he described it. Edwards trudged through the path that had been kicked in the snow, knocked the snow off his boots on the mat, pushed on the metal door and bumped his head right into the glass when the locked door failed to swing open as he'd expected. Edwards looked in through the glass window, saw the lights were on, heard the music from the radio, and noticed that the sign in the window beckoned him a friendly "Come in, We're open."

"Hmmph." Edwards grunted. "Must've got called off on a tow. Only makes sense in this weather. People can't drive they oughta' just stay home."

He made his way back to his car, settled in behind the wheel and started the engine. Edwards backed out parallel to the highway and pulled the selector down into drive. He happened to glance back at the shop and saw Earl's tow truck, still covered with snow, parked in its customary spot at the end of the building.

Edwards parked his car again and sat behind the wheel for a minute thinking. He climbed out and walked around behind his own car and looked at the tracks in the snow. Yeah, there might be another set of tracks there, hard to tell under his tracks. He walked a few paces either way, started to bend down to get a closer look at the tire tracks in the snow, then snorted. What the hell was he doing? Earl was a big boy. There were a thousand places he might be and a thousand things he might be doing. It's not like they had a date for coffee or anything. Coffee, that was probably it, he'd gone for coffee and Bob and Caroline's, he'd just . . .

"Just stop it!" Edwards said out loud. When had he become Earl's babysitter?

Edwards strode back to the car, settled back in the seat and backed out again. Then he tromped hard on the gas and spun the tires in the snow as he pulled onto the highway.

The following 18-1/2 minutes of the story have gone missing. Rosemary Woods (Nixon's secretary) doesn't know anything about it. (For a fee and proper ID I might send it to you)

"Hmmmm," Sam cooed. "You know what? I really need to get going. Do you mind?"

Do I mind? Do I freakin' mind? Earl thought. "Oh, no. I really oughta' get back to the shop, anyway." He said.

As they pulled into the parking area in front of Earls Auto Wrecking Sam opened her purse. "What do I owe you?" she asked. Earl was formulating a witty response about how the gentleman usually paid for such encounters when Sam closed the opportunity. "For fixing my car?"

"Oh, hey, that was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Are you certain?" Sam smiled.

"I don't wanna' hear another word about it," Earl waved his hands in a dismissing motion.

"What was the problem, by the way?" Sam asked

"Problem?" Earl said. "Oh, it was just a couple of wires out of place."

"Well, " Sam extracted a small sticky note pad from her purse and wrote on it. "I really hope you'll call me sometime." She leaned over and caressed Earl's neck and jaw line with her lips and tongue, then stuck the note to his crotch with a squeeze.

"Oh, I will."

Earl stood out in the snow watching the Honda retreat up the highway and remained there for some time before finally shivering, only in part due to the cold. "Mowgli!" He whispered.

All that over a simple crossover problem. In something as complex as an automobile you had to be pretty savvy to not get fooled. Sometimes something that looks just right is causing a problem while you're looking someplace else.

Indeed.

Back in a former life I was a technical writer. Who knows how these things get started? One day some of us in that group just started an add-on novel about somebody called The Stranger who appeared at a small town diner. So after these many years we took up the silly pastime again. So here's some of our exchange to help you kill time while the boss thinks you're working on that presentation that's due next Tuesday.

We had one other guy writing with us, but he was the electronic media guy, not a writer. Every time it was his turn he had all the characters just doing a strip tease on the nearest table, so I cut all his stuff out (since this is such a high-class web site).

I've put the other writer's contributions in blue font.

Gladys squinted into the sunlight of the open door framing the black silhouette of The Stranger. She caught her breath as the door closed behind him, switching off the backlight and revealing his face. Her emotions were equally divided between horror at the sight and relief that her patrons' attention would now be drawn away from David's striptease on the corner table.

He paused for a moment and surveyed the diner. Gladys' eyes absorbed every movement of his powerful 6'4" frame as the stranger walked to a vacant table near the front window. The morning chatter and typical clanking noises of dishes and silverware abruptly gave way to the pulsing drone of the old ceiling fan, accented by the groans of the wooden floor that seemingly strained under his heavy footsteps. Even David was frozen in mid-strip and the fluffy bunny with decorative whiskers on the front of his boxers remained motionless as The Stranger removed his leather overcoat and lowered himself onto the red vinyl seat. No longer entertained by David's dancing jack rabbit, Gladys untied her apron slowly and stepped towards the man's table.

Gladys was no spring chicken but if anything time had polished her allure. The pin-striped uniform bulged in all the right places and her walk betrayed the practiced flow that had broken many a heart—and more than one wallet. She had long ago adopted the policy of pretending not to notice that every testicle owner in town, regardless of his age, shared one opinion: Gladys was hot.

Among the patrons watching the drama unfold was Jake Weston. Jake's days were pretty well equally divided between working on his art and occupying the second booth from the southwest corner of the diner. He always responded with a friendly grin and a dismissive wave whenever the other patrons started in with their standard rib "Hey Jake! Sold any paintings today?" But Jake's borderline obsession with art had yielded him an in-depth knowledge of the muscles of the human body, especially those associated with facial expression.

Jake alone detected the contraction of the depressor supercilli and the levator palpebrae superioris. Because of his artistic eye Jake was aware of what no one else knew: The Stranger was scared.

The Stranger pretended not to notice Gladys' advance and continued to gaze out the dust-covered window, which also served as a billboard to advertise the diner's weekly specials. The small crowd that had gathered across the street could barely make out the stranger's face behind the painted "L" of "special" and "$4.99"; but the group had no intention of drawing closer to gain a better view. Mike Teasdale, the group’s self-appointed ringleader, assumed that they were at a safe distance and directed his followers to stay put. He and his cohorts mistakenly believed that their anonymity provided them with additional safety. It was a terrible misjudgment.

Eddie saw the distraction as an opportunity and grabbed Karen’s hand. While the curious adults vied for ideal vantage points to peer at the restaurant across the street, the two teenagers hopped over some old tires and scampered through the sage brush before disappearing behind the rusted body of a 1962 Chevy Impala. Karen’s giggles escaped from small body as Eddie groped and kissed her, but the crowd was too immersed in the events unfolding before them to notice the antics of the missing couple.

"What'll it be, Cowboy?" It wasn't immediately clear what Gladys was offering. She stood with her weight on one leg in a way that thrust her hip toward the table, torso slightly twisted to favorably display the most speculated-about breasts in the Sequoia Valley.

She wasn't holding an order pad.

What she was holding was the attention of everyone in the diner. Everyone except The Stranger, that is. He continued to stare out the window.

Finally the tanned face turned slowly toward the statue-still owner of the diner. "Been a hot summer, has it?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Gladys replied. She didn't blink. Nothing moved but her lips as she spoke. Her face was unreadable. "Special's roasted pork on a stick. Having any of it?"

Everyone in the diner knew the special was chicken-fried steak. Had been every Wednesday since anyone could remember.

The ceiling fan droned in the background as the big man sat slowly chewing gum and looking at Gladys.

"I don't get heartburn that often," he said finally. "If the price hasn't come down I'd be a fool to try it again."

He picked up his hat and slid to the edge of the seat as if to get up. Gladys didn't move a muscle though she was standing directly in his way. The Stranger stood up, which placed his body tightly against Gladys's. Everyone cringed, waiting for the slap, but Gladys remained stock still. Some of the patrons blushed with embarrassment, but not one of them looked away.

He took his time sliding past her.

Kevin was the first to make a noise after the door shut behind the mysterious figure. He picked up his coffee cup and slurped it. Chatter resumed. Gladys took up her traditional position behind the lunch counter. Everything was back to normal.

Until they heard Mike scream.

The startled patrons froze, but their eyes darted back and forth to one another for confirmation of what they had just heard. A deep silence smothered the room as the wishful diners hoped that the scream was somehow misinterpreted, or at least, not indicative of the horror that it implied.

But the pause was brief, followed immediately by additional shouts of terror that validated the initial horrific scream. The commotion originated from the junkyard on the other side of the old two-lane state highway; and worse yet, the shrieks seemed to be increasing in number and intensity.

The frightened patrons collectively dropped their utensils and surged towards the front of the restaurant. The wailing was unlike anything the townsfolk had ever heard, and even Gladys, the most cool-headed one of the lot, dropped a coffee pot in the large aluminum sink as she stared intently through the front window.

Moments earlier, Mike and a half a dozen or so friends had gathered in the small junkyard beside the garage of Hilly’s Towing service. Mike was leaning forward on his elbows against the side of his pickup truck, watching the restaurant and methodically chomping on a small piece of gum. Jodie Benson was standing to Mike’s left, barely two feet from the large, bushy-haired tow-truck driver when The Stranger exited the restaurant. As the mysterious man reached for the door of his pristine, customized 1948 Hudson, a brilliant flash of light ripped the calm summer morning, temporarily blinding the onlookers.

Jodie’s eyelids instinctively clamped shut and tears flooded to protect her burning eyes. Bracing herself against the truck with her left hand, she blindly groped the area around her with her right hand, and reached out for Mike while calling his name. She could only open her eyelids intermittently for split seconds at a time to glimpse her surroundings, but she was unable to gather any meaningful information. When she turned towards Mike, her tear-filled vision could only make out the blurry outline of the pickup truck where Mike stood just moments before.

“Mike?” she repeated, but the only sounds she heard were the frightened, confused mumblings of others in the group. Jodie shielded her eyes with one hand and turned 360 degrees with her other arm outstretched, flailing about in a vain attempt to gain some type of reassurance. But her injured eyes were still unable to tolerate the daylight, and she anchored herself by grasping onto the familiar side of the truck bed.

As her vision slowly improved, Jodie turned once again turned to where Mike had been standing. Her fuzzy vision slowly became more defined and she struggled to accept the information her eyes were relaying to her. She recognized the image of Mike’s contorted body, draped over the side of his truck like a dishrag over the kitchen faucet. His legs dangled limply to the side of the truck at his waistline, and his head rested awkwardly on the truck bed under the weight of his torso.

She nearly collapsed at the sight, but managed to pull herself closer. Jodie reached out to touch Mike but then withdrew when she noticed the gruesome angle of Mike’s left arm. It appeared to have been twisted behind him and then tossed up over his head. The bone above his left elbow had been severed and the limb remained attached only by Mike’s bicep.

Jodie screamed hysterically, triggering subsequent responses from her companions as they made the grim discovery – some of whom threw up after seeing Mike in the blood-filled truck bed.

Clint Hillygus, Mike’s best friend stammered and began swearing repeatedly upon discovering Mike. Aside from Mike’s initial shout, he had remained lifeless, but when Clint nervously placed his hand on the lower back of his best friend, Mike began to moan in obvious pain.

A couple of houses down from the diner, Kyle Jensen was working on his motorcycle when he spotted the group at Hilly’s Towing. The few seconds that he paid any notice to the busy-bodies spying on CG’s Diner was when the powerful bolt of light struck. It seemed to originate from the rear of the junkyard and shoot directly between a couple of people at the junkyard, straight towards a custom ’48 Hudson on the other side of the highway. Kyle sprinted across the road to Hilly’s after the flash and tried to ease some of the angst, but Darcy Heathcott was standing further back in the junkyard, away from the group, and she seemed especially distraught. She kept throwing her arms down and repeatedly yelled, “Where are they? Where are they?”

“Where are who?” Kyle asked as he approached her.

“Karen,” she cried, “Karen and Eddie. They’re gone! They were right over here.” She directed Kyle to an old Chevy Impala near the back of the junkyard. “Where are they?” she asked again.

“We’ll find them,” he reassured emptily as they stood beside the ’62 Impala. Kyle placed his arms around her and pressed her head against his shoulder. He lifted his chin over her head and surveyed the automobile graveyard before turning towards the restaurant and the nearby commotion surrounding Mike. From where he stood, Mike’s pickup was directly in line with the parking lot of the restaurant where the ’48 Hudson was parked.

Kyle carefully studied the area in front of the diner. While a crowd of people spilled from the restaurant and descended upon Mike, no one seemed to notice that the ’48 Hudson was nowhere to be found.

“No way,” Kyle thought to himself. Everything happened so quickly. How could there be no trace of the car or any recollection of it leaving the scene?

He ended his e-mail with a postscript:

The aged, black leather-covered guitar case let out a strained creak as The Stranger lifted the lid, revealing a pristine, late 60s Fender Stratocaster. The guitar's sunburst face shimmered under the colored stage lights. The Stranger wrapped his large hand around the neck of the instrument and pulled it from the case. As he placed the strap over his head, the two became one. Back lit by the brilliance of 20 3,000-watt strobe lights, his silhouette moved slowly before the rich tones of hypnotic thunder filled the warm evening sky.

The bright lights facing the stage obscured the performers' view of all but the first few rows but the crowd in the auditorium made their presence known by the noise. The promoters would later estimate that crowd at 38,000, but The Stranger saw one person. His brain narrowed the view of the audience like the iris on a camera and the noise faded as if we had dived under water.

Sarah was all he could see. Sarah with her impossibly large, dark eyes and 300 watt smile. Sarah with the expression on her face that always hinted at a surprise--some impromtu excitement she was always coming up with.

The guitar, all of its own accord, began to wail out the blues. The Stranger hung on and felt himself moving with the Strat as though a marionette--a marionette controlled by six steel strings. All of its energy was directed at Sarah. Sarah who had trusted him completely.

Sarah who had died in his arms at the base of the tower.

This version's been sanitized somewhat. Again, I've put the other writer's work in blue font. Let's see if you get a feel for the differences in our style.

The answer loomed far beyond the dust-ridden highway which connected the innocent town to the rest of the rapidly changing world. It was a connection the townspeople weren’t ready for.

Sheriff Tom Botts took it all in from his perch at the counter inside The Fountain. The worn boot heels hooked over the rung on the barstool had canvassed their share of big city streets but always came home to the simpler life in Mountain Creek. It's not that Officer Botts hadn't been a fine and capable cop, well equipped to deal with the rough and tumble decadence of the city. It was simply that there were things about the nature of people that he preferred not to know. Sheriff Botts preferred to think of people as basically good and maintaining that belief was much easier in the small town where his roots lay. As he looked out the window at The Stranger something deep inside of him in a compartment that he thought he'd locked forever told him that Evil was about to invite itself to the party.

"Caroline?" Botts made a pouring motion with thumb and pinkie extended over his coffee cup. Caroline flipped the dishtowel she was using to wipe the counter up onto her shoulder and refilled the sheriff's cup. Caroline was a reasonably attractive dark-haired, green-eyed woman in her mid thirties. Her husband Bob had become accustomed to the male patrons enjoying the view down her blouse as she brought them coffee. Her waist was thin and her breasts were we temptingly round and firm, much like a twenty-year-old woman’s.

From next to the sheriff, Kevin Hamilton, the one everyone called 'Rodent' hollered out "Hey, Caroline!" He made a squeezing motion at his chest. "How 'bout a little milk for my coffee?" There were a few half-hearted chuckles throughout the shop, but everyone was waiting for what they knew was coming. Caroline had always played down the onslaught of advances and usually came back with a humorous quip that had men both dumbfounded and entertained.

"Whatsa matter, Kev?" Caroline asked in mock concern. "You all worn out from trying to get cream all by yourself?"

The whole place erupted in hollers and laughs. Kevin turned red and his lips moved in a vain attempt to come up with a response, which would not have been heard anyway over the din. The customers respected Caroline for her strength and the way she handled people. It would have been a crime for her to not be in the ‘people business’ – she was a natural.

Botts returned his attention to the sidewalk. Only a veteran like Botts would notice that despite the stranger’s commanding attitude, there was some sort of hesitancy about him. The stranger was a field general indeed – of some sort – but he also carried an air of cautiousness which betrayed his seemingly boastful attitude, indicating that he was not feeling entirely safe; or perhaps he believed that no place, no matter how remote, was safe. Like a masterful hunting dog, Sheriff Botts homed in on what appeared to be the stranger’s only weakness. However, not eager to delve into the private lives of innocent people, Botts knew it was simply a waiting game, and his gut was telling him that he would get to know the stranger all too well.

Caroline didn't even look up from wiping the counter when the bell tied to the shoelace on the aluminum door framed tinkled as The Stranger pushed through the front door. A quick glance around the coffee shop confirmed to Sheriff Botts that no one else did either. Now anyone coming through that door always got a glance from everyone in the shop and a newcomer always got a thorough perusal by the dozen or so patrons swapping stories over coffee at any given time. The thought had barely formed in Botts' subconscious and was just preparing to become a question in his mind when he was distracted by a disturbance out in the gravel parking lot.

Botts jumped from his stool and headed to the door or the diner.

Stories vary about exactly what happened next, but Thomas K. Botts, former high-school football star, valedictorian of his police academy class and small-town sheriff was certain of one thing: he absolutely had not spilled his coffee.

It would have been a natural thing for his sleeve, gun belt, handcuffs or any number of other accessories endemic to his trade to catch on the handle of the chipped porcelain mug and topple it. But Tom was sure that did not happen. Nevertheless, that was the most logical explanation for the scalding coffee that ended up on Kevin's lap as the mug crashed to the floor. Ernie Haynes swore that Botts slammed the cup on the counter top and the Munson twins thought that Caroline herself had pushed it over since she had never cared for Kevin.

However it happened, Kevin was on his feet screaming and Caroline had the damp dish rag to her lips stifling a scream as Botts pushed past the stranger and out the door.

It was only after Tom had pulled Frankie and Lonnie off each other and had them standing against the battered bed of Lonnie's rusted four wheel drive while he examined the cut over Frankie's eye that the thought caught up to him. When he passed the stranger he had felt an actual physical chill, as if the man carried a space around him that was 10 degrees colder than the rest of the surroundings. That was not all. Tom was certain that he recognized him from somewhere, and the thought brought back no pleasant memories.

Shaking those musings from his head, Tom attended to the matter at hand. Lonnie and Frankie had been friends ever since Lonnie's dad had moved into the town to work at the cheese plant when the two of them were in first grade. It seemed strange to him that they would be grappling in the gravel over something as trivial as Frankie's opening the wind wing of the rusty collection of parts that Lonnie proudly called his truck. Stranger still was Lonnie's yanking the shifter lever right out of the floor to bean Frankie. Botts had never known Lonnie to be violent, not even when he was falling down drunk, as he tended to get at the dances the VFW held the third Saturday of every month. It had been a very strange morning indeed.

Botts took care of his duties--both as a sheriff and personal friend of both men's fathers--then strolled back into the coffee shop. The coffee was cleaned up, as he had expected it would be, but what he saw next took him completely by surprise.

In the now vacated Fountain, the Stranger held Caroline in an absolute spell, as the two kissed passionately like lost lovers reunited.

The office in the New Jersey warehouse was filled with the smoke of Tyrone Vincini’s Cuban cigar as he slowly paced around the five anxious men. The smoke actually came as a relief from the permeating smell of fish and salt water, but regardless, this was not the ideal meeting place, yet it was safe. Joey’s eyes bounced anxiously around the room and was nervously tapping his fingers on the table, completely unaware of his obnoxious habit. Just before Tony was going to crush Joey’s fingers with a single smash of his own fist, Tyrone, or Boss as he was called, blurted “I don’t care what it takes to get that sumbitch!”

“Boss, this dude ain’t normal. I mean, he’s, he’s freaky man!” Joey weakly murmured.

“He’s freaky man,” Tyrone sarcastically remarked in a whiney voice – not unlike Joey’s. “What da hell you even doin’ here Joey? Huh? You should be out on the east river dropping that prick’s body in the drink insteada sittin’ your pathetic ass on my chair cryin ‘bout da boys you lost!”

Nobody said a word, or made a sound for that matter as the evening fog horns of the outgoing ships reverberated in the background. Less than half a mile from Ellis Island, the shipyard wasn’t exactly how the founding fathers of the nation envisioned things, but down here, Tyrone was president, chief of staff, general and all things that embodied the unquestioned leader. Perhaps dictator was the most accurate title, but that was never uttered aloud.

“Now, I’m thinkin’ that maybe, just maybe between yous boys and your small armies you can track that mutha' down and end my nightmares. Can ya handle dat for me?”

“Yeah, sure boss, he’s as good as dead,” came the replies.

“Yeah, like I ain’t heard dat one before,” Tyrone belted. “Now get da hell outta here and make it happen!”

The men knew they didn’t have much to go on, but they figured it was either The Stranger’s head or their own.

The wet pavement reflected the bright moon as the men spilled out of the warehouse. “I’m telling you guys,” Joey continued, “he ain’t normal!”

“He’s one man Joey,” Don spat as the mist from his breath dissipated into the night. “Damn, man, why’s he got you so spooked?”

“Because you ain’t seen what I seen,” he remarked.

None of the men took him seriously and were eager to jump into the comfort of their awaiting limousines. The men all dispersed and entered their chauffeured limos like dignitaries and disappeared into the night. Joey remained standing in the empty lot and watched the elegant vehicles slap the puddles in the overused road . . .”You ain’t seen what I seen,” he said again in an eerie whispered tone.

This is a continuation of the Crossover story. In the imaginary universe where I actually publish this drivel I will have to leave out the add-on story parts that were written by someone else. But for the purposes of this page, which nobody will ever see, I was able to stitch together our little game and the project I was already working on.

I guess this is where my story fits in the sequence.

I'll just apologize for the end of the next to the last scene. The only way to sanitize it was to leave it out, and that would have blown a lot of the development of the Cody character. Artistic license and all that, you know. In the absence of a better excuse that's the one I'll use.

Deputy Sheriff Cody Hamilton slammed the door of the department Bronco and started the engine, savagely revving it when it caught. He yanked the wheel hard to the left to swerve around the police cruiser parked in front of him and pushed the accelerator hard to the floor. As he pulled into traffic with a chirp of tires he glared in the rearview mirror at the thoughtless driver who had nearly rear-ended the Bronco by his careless failure to yield the right of way. In the scowl was a dare. If this guy even thought about flipping off a deputy sheriff on duty in a police vehicle he would get written up for careless driving and public nuisance. But the offending vehicle mildly and wisely retreated in Cody's rearview mirror and he turned his thoughts to the matter at hand.

What did Botts know about law enforcement, anyway? It didn't take a brain surgeon to know that he was too soft for this job. The way he played friendly with people, having coffee at the Fountain, chatting with the townspeople at the summer picnics in the city park, not wearing his uniform to church—all those antics just undermined his authority. How was he supposed to write a ticket to a guy he had coffee with or sat behind in church? This latest episode was just further proof that Botts was not cut out to manage the department.

When Cody was in charge he'd straighten things out. He'd straighten things out good.

All the injustices that Deputy Hamilton had suffered at the hands of the locals stewed in his mind as he cruised out of town past his cousin Earl's Wrecking Yard and toward the mountains. All that was then. Last year Cody had gotten his job with the sheriff's department and now people were going to see some justice done. Cody was now a full-fledged police officer.

Cody could still remember the instant he decided that he was going to go into law enforcement.

He must have been about 9 years old and was sitting in the back seat of the family station wagon headed out for a Saturday picnic with the family. Cody's old man was bitching about something, no doubt. His old man was some kind of big-shot over at the mines, foreman or some damn thing, evidently used to having people do what he said. Cody couldn't recall ever having a real conversation with his old man. Mostly all he ever got from him was orders, shut your yap, clean up this mess, go help your mother.

Cody had given up even trying to be like his kiss-ass little brother, doing everything just right. Not that he disobeyed his father, huh uh; he was no fool. He'd been smacked around enough to know better than that. Maybe he even was a little afraid of him, yeah, sure, what the hell? There was no shame in admitting that. His old man was a prick, the way he treated his own kid, and what little kid wouldn't have been afraid of those big, meaty hands swinging at his face?

It only took a couple of black eyes and bloody noses for Cody to figure out when to say yes sir! and when to say no sir!

And that's exactly what his old man was saying when that cop had stopped them that day on the way to the picnic.

Cody had been right behind the driver's seat. He'd had the twenty dollar seats to that match. The cop wasn't but five-nine or so and couldn't have weighed 150 soaking wet, but Cody's dad was scared to death of him. Oh, yeah, if that cop had wanted, he'd have danced a jig in his underwear right there in the street for him. Even now Cody laughed at the fear in his father's face.

He had determined in that moment that he would someday see that same fearful expression directed at him.

In the distance Cody saw a car approaching the main highway from the back road that came down from Maplewood Springs in the East Canyon. Sure enough, the car slowed as it approached the highway, then turned onto the highway and accelerated without ever coming to a stop at the junction.

Cody sped up to close the gap and switched on the overheads. When he got close enough to read the plates he picked up the microphone and explained to Lori in dispatch that he was "in pursuit" and gave the necessary details. The car up ahead was not slowing down. Something was bad wrong here.

Cody was always hearing about routine traffic stops that turn into a cop's worst nightmare. This could be curtains. Cody sped up until he was right on the car's tail but still it wasn't stopping. He reached down and hit the switch for the sirens and immediately the brake lights came on up ahead. They came on so abruptly, in fact, that Cody nearly rear-ended the car. "So, that's your game?" Cody thought. "Try to run me off the road will you?"

Something wasn't right here. Cody keyed the button on his collar microphone. "Unit three mobile, request backup one mile west of the Maple Springs turnoff, Highway 23."

As Cody stepped out of the Bronco and approached the car he unsnapped the safety strap on his 9mm. As he passed by the back of the car, running his hand over the trunk lid to ensure it was latched, he noticed the faint remnants of the "Just Married" sign shoe-polished on the back window. Pretty suspicious. Cody's senses were alert now. He stopped short of the driver's door.

Taking care to stand behind the point where the driver's door would swing open in the event the suspect tried a quick move, Cody leaned over and said "Drivers license and registration please."

Inside the car was a man of about 22, dark haired and wearing sunglasses. In the passenger's seat was a girl about the same age in a powder blue T-shirt and white shorts. Her bare feet were up on the seat tucked under her as she sat sideways facing the driver. She wasn't wearing a seat belt—another violation. She put her hands on the driver's legs as she leaned over to look up and smile at Cody.

"Do you know why I stopped you, Mr. Sullivan?" Cody asked.

The driver merely grinned a broad grin and raised his hands off the steering wheel, palms up in a 'beats me' gesture.

"Well, Mr. Sullivan, " Cody said, "I don't know what the laws are like over in Madison, but around here we like to actually stop at stop signs."

"I'm sorry, sir," Mr. Sullivan said, "My wife and I were just on our way home from our honeymoon over in Maplewood Springs and I guess I . . . "

The girl's sudden movement and the flash of light on metal caught Cody's eye just in time and he jumped back away from the door and grabbed his gun in one frantic motion. "Get outta' the car!" he screamed, feet spread shoulder width apart, gun gripped with both hands, "Both of you, get outta' the car! Now!"

Out of the corner of his eye Cody saw the Sheriff Botts' white Chevy Blazer approaching from his right, then he heard the engine roar as it accelerated hard to come around him and skid to a stop crosswise in front of the stopped car. Sheriff Botts flew out the door with his gun drawn and using the angle of the Blazer as cover brought his gun around the taillights and held it on the suspects. "What do we got?! Whadda we got?!" He shouted.

"Two perps!" Cody hollered back. "One male, one female! Caucasian, early to mid twenties. Female suspect attempted to draw a weapon!"

The two "suspects" were out of the car now with their hands in the air. The girl was sobbing.

Sheriff Botts cautiously stepped out from behind the Blazer. "That's it," he said, "Nice and easy. Please step around to the front of the car. Easy, easy. Just put your hands on the hood."

Sheriff gave Cody a deliberate questioning look and when Cody nodded back at him he slipped his gun into his holster and patted down the two checking for weapons. A car approached and drove by slowly in the other lane, three faces pressed to the window with mouths open and eyes wide as it passed.

Having ascertained that the two weren't carrying any concealed weapons Botts moved to the car. Cody stepped over to cover the couple with his gun.

Botts put his hand on the roof and leaned into the car. He then ducked inside and knelt on the driver's seat. Emerging, he turned to his deputy and said, "Put the gun away, Cody." "What?" Cody asked, incredulous.

"Put it away!" Botts exploded. Cody gingerly returned the gun to its holster and Botts went back inside the car, leaning over to pick up something from the passenger's side floor.

When he came back out of the car he held a bright chrome vibrator delicately between his thumb and finger. "Is this your gun?" he growled at Cody.

Cody's face instantly went crimson. "I . . . she . . . . . I was . . ." He stammered. The recently married Mr. Sullivan was leaning against the front fender of his car hugging his new bride who was sobbing with her face buried in his chest. He was looking over her shoulder glowering at the stammering deputy.

"Get out of here, Cody," Botts said with a voice that was all the more menacing for its low volume.

"I was . . .I just . . ." Botts glared at Cody who immediately decided what he had to say was not that important and headed for the Bronco.

Botts dropped the device on the driver's seat and turned to the two kids. "I'm really, really sorry," he said, hands spread out in front of him. "I'm really very sorry."

The girl turned to look at him. She had stopped crying but her eyes were bloodshot and her mascara was running down both cheeks. "I just was trying to hide it. I didn't mean . . ."

"I know. It's okay. I know." Botts looked down to the pavement for a moment. "Listen," he said, "If you'd like to go back to town, Bob and Caroline's has a great Chicken Fried Steak Dinner . . . .my treat.

The young Mr. Sullivan just shook his head. "Yeah," said Botts, "Yeah, I understand. I just . . ." He was quiet for a second. "Wait a minute," he said as he patted his pockets as though looking for something. "Wait a minute. Wait right here." Botts went to his Blazer and shortly returned. He held two tickets out to the couple. "You like baseball?"

"Yeah," Sullivan said. "Yeah, we like baseball."

"Here ya' go," said Botts, "I ended up with two tickets to the game next Wednesday over in Madison. Here, take 'em."

"Oh, no, really, that's not . . ." the girl started. She really had a warm smile in spite of the tear-streaked face. "We can't . . ."

"No, really," insisted Botts, "Something came up and I can't make it."

Sullivan took the tickets and escorted his wife to the car where he closed the door for her. After he got in and started the car Botts put his hands on the roof of the car and bent over to the driver's window. Looking in he said again "I'm really, really sorry. Really I am."

Botts stood by the deserted highway as the car pulled away. Damn that Cody. He was going to kill him. Botts wondered how he was going to explain to his son that he had given away the tickets.

A week later Cody had to take a message in to Sheriff Botts in Bob and Caroline's. All the patrons burst into laughter the moment he walked through the door. The laughter followed Cody as he left and walked red-faced to his Bronco at the curb.

The fact that Botts had broken the Code of the Brotherhood by telling civilians a story on his fellow officer was yet another reason he had to be dealt with.

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