The Dragon & The Wolf

The Dragon and The Wolf

novella by

Douglas Christian Larsen

Part 1: A Lizard Catcher

HE CREEPS THROUGH THE WEEDS holding his breath, considering each lush lime-green stalk before he touches it. The weeds are green because of all the rain the past few weeks, and because of the rain the air is clean, perfect for great snortings, fullest lungs, and the rain, even more importantly — wonderfully — brings the lizards. He moves quietly, yet swiftly — his lithe body more nimble than the bodies of other boys his age — swiftly because he only has a little time, not even half an hour; in that short time he will dye the knees of his dungarees crawling through the lime-green weeds and he will muss his hair and he will collect caches of dirt beneath his fingernails and he will, most importantly, capture a lizard.

I am the Lizard Catcher, the boy assures himself, the thought making him feel important — much more important than the term prodigy, the word grown-ups use when he plays Cutting-Edge Thought. Being smarter than anybody does not make him feel important. He is a "genius," or so his stepfather says, and this only makes him feel cautious, because if he does not guard his words, or listen with empathy to the phrases of his friends — his peers, even his elders — he will make them feel very stupid, which will make them very angry with him, which in turn will make the boy feel very unimportant.

He feels the grass move. His pulse slows. A salamander is there, just there, separated from the boy by no more than a few inches of soft grass. The boy is a statue. Will the lizard feel the emanations of the boy's hot blood?

The boy bids his muscles loose. All the fears about tonight. Gone, puff, like the smoke from Da's cigarette. He lets everything go. Calm, the boy closes his eyes. Calm, he releases his fears, his tensions, his angers and his frustrations. You are cool, so cool, very cool, you are cool.

He opens his eyes. The grass moves, is moving. Softly, gently — there! — a thumb-sized snout appears. A beautiful shimmering lime green, a color almost identical to the grass. Almost. Not close enough to fool the boy. He allows the corners of his mouth to lift, his teeth to shine. And slowly, but deliberately, he extends his hand, palm upward.

Yes. My hand is grass, my hand is your home. And I am the Lizard Catcher. I am Lizard Catcher and you are Lizard. Let us work together. Friends. That's us, friends, Lizard and Lizard Catcher.

The lizard emerges, its bulbous eyes appearing, pink splotches upon its lime-green back. The salamander lizard, a tiny dragon, regards the hand, the glistening white palm.

The bright dazzle of the rain-washed air, the succulent swell of the breathing grass and the arrogant weeds, the boy breathes deeply, because, Come, let us work together on this, Lizard, my hand is your home, your home is Lizard Catcher.

Come to Lizard Catcher.

As if in answer Lizard flicks out an obsidian tongue. Lizard cocks its head and its oily bulbous eyes swivel darkly.

A twitch of a cat's whisker, the lizard rests upon the boy's palm. The boy sits back in the weeds and grass, smiling, petting the green and pink lizard.

"Dirklan," came the gruff voice from just behind the boy. The voice was quiet, the spoken word eased into — to spare the boy a start — even so, the boy jerked about. Da stood above the weeds, staring at the boy severely, but the boy understood immediately the man's exasperation, the anger which lurked like a terrible bear just outside the weed patch.

The boy lifted his hand to display his green and pink prize.

The man sighed. "Dirklan. You have only fifteen minutes until the contest. Fifteen minutes. Look at your pants, look at your hair, look at your fingernails."

The boy rose, stroking the lizard. "I can be ready, Da."

"You must be ready. There is no choice. Do you understand how important this contest is? How important to your mama?"

The boy nodded. He understood very well. Too well. Mama was not happy anymore. Actually, the boy was not certain if he had ever known her to be happy, just varying lesser stages of unhappiness, or fluctuating bitterness, swelling wrath. And lately the bitterness was not fluctuating: It was swelling bigger and bigger and the boy attempted mightily not to see her bitterness as a volcano, heating and cooking and readying to burst, or an angry red pimple, twitching and jerking and readying to explode!

The boy did his best to soothe Mama but lately this only angered her more. She desired her anger, she craved her bitterness, and now Da was drawing more and more of the sour backsplash of her stoppered septic well-being. Da would do anything to please Mama, or placate her — the boy knew Da would do anything in the world to keep Mama.

It was only last month while Da was at work that Mama had thrown some of their possessions hastily into two large suitcases and hurried the boy into the street. The boy, dragged along the dark street by his Mama, remembered the beach sounds, the waves foaming upon the dark wet sand — the seashell Da found and they took turns listening to — the squeaking noises of the bed they made when they thought the boy was asleep.

Mama uttered a quiet shriek and slapped the boy across the cheek.

"You just stop it," she whispered. "Don't you want me to be happy?"

The boy decided he could think a little harder on him, whoever he turned out to be. As things turned out, he never showed up, and after standing in the park until nearly dawn, they had returned home and nobody ever mentioned the strange occurrence to Da. But the boy knew he never wanted to go back to the days before Da, those terrible and thankfully-only-distantly-remembered days when there were so many faces, so many daddies, so many whiskey-breaths and slaps and angry voices.

The boy patted the lizard. The creature remained motionless save for the rolling of its fluid eyes.

"Here, let me show you something," Da said, pausing to extract a cigarette and light it. "Hold out that reptile."

"What are you going to do?" the boy said, holding the lizard protectively at his side.

"Hey. Dirklan. Trust me. Okay?"

The boy swallowed. He did trust Da, who had not only been his stepfather for three years, but also his only real friend. He held out the lizard.

Da held the cigarette as if he were offering it to the lizard, only backward. The cherry glimmered a dull red. The lizard cocked its head. Da moved the cigarette closer. The boy held himself in check — his impulse was to yank the little green and pink lizard away from the mean man with the cigarette, but he said to himself: calm, quiet, easy, cool.

The lizard's obsidian tongue flicked out, too close to the burning cigarette. The slippery tongue brushed the cigarette cherry. Then the lizard darted forward and snapped at the cigarette. It happened almost to quickly to see. But there was the lizard, motionless on the boy's palm, and there was the cigarette, now a hollow paper tube missing its cherry. Briefly, the boy perceived a heightening in the temperature of the lizard's belly. The salamander's orbs rotated slickly. Its tongue flicked contentedly. A wisp of smoke rose from its now-red snout.

"Cool," the boy said.

"And you call yourself a lizard catcher," Da said, smiling from behind his greasy moustache. And the boy noticed for the first time Da's braided hair, the blue and purple ribbons interwoven in the long dark strands. And Da's clothes were new, velvet, nappy and sparkling. Da had even bought new boots, the kind that looked like they were made out of snakes!

"That's a salamander you just caught. A very lucky sign, Dirklan. A sign that you are going to win tonight."

The boy set his jaw. I am the Lizard Catcher. The Cutting-Edge Thought Contest was very important. I am not afraid.

"Run in and clean yourself up. We have to leave in ten minutes, Dirklan. You don't have a choice."

Dirklan Dubois had no choice, he had to win tonight. There was no doubt in Dirklan's thoughts that he could win. He had never known anyone as smart as himself, except for maybe Papa, whom Dirklan barely remembered. He only knew his father from old circulars and a few bios that discussed pioneers of Cutting-Edge Thought. Dirklan Dubois had no choice about winning because he had to win for Da who had been better to him than anybody else he had ever known — Da, the only man, the only person, to stand up for him, and stand by him.

Gus Ahtibat watched the boy vanish. Such a good boy. A boy who never gave any problem. A boy who cared and who tried to help the confused people about him. So strange, so unique and precious a heart in such a young punk.

Gus had always tried to do right by the boy. He had always understood that he carried a great responsibility. Dirklan was not at all like other boys. So Gus attended three full-day seminars on coping with the child prodigy. His bookcase was full of books that dealt with heightened intelligence. He had learned the correct ways of channeling a boy's energies into developing genius, challenging him, helping him. And he had spent much of his salary on shuttling the boy from contest to contest. Gus Ahtibat was certain, like a flaming sword behind his eyes, that what motivated him in cultivating the boy was just, it was righteous.

"You're crazy! Gus, you're crazy! I don't want Dirklan doing this — don't you know you're turning my son into him?" Bitty hissed, her hands contorted into talons, her eyes writhing snakepits. "I want a normal child! I want a happy child! I want him to play with other kids! You're wasting all our money so that my son can turn out to be a poor man! I want my child to make money!"

"Bitty, Dirklan has talent. He's never lost once. In Atlanta he simultaneously eliminated five grown men — Artists! Only one other Thinker — Clarence Roiclaw — has ever done anything like that! He's got talent, Bitty, and he's not going to be poor."

"He had talent! He worked hard! He didn't lose! And he was poor!"

"Dirklan has me to support him. It will be different for Dirklan. I promise."

"You're wasting all our money! We used to be happy. Go places. Do things! I used to have nice clothes! We used to party! Now you just work and coach my son! What about me! You don't care about me!"

That was an argument that seemed to replay itself at least twice a week, for all of last year. Because Bitty didn't understand. She just didn't understand that Dirklan was their chance at happiness. Dirklan was their only chance. And they were so close! Tonight! Minutes away!

Dirklan Dubois, eight-year-old prodigy at Cutting-Edge Thought, meets the unbeaten best of the best, the seven-year-old beater of men, wielder of dragonfire: Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw.

And Dirklan Dubois would win, he just had to!

Part 2: Dragonfire

CLARENCE BOUNCED A LITTLE on the thick leather seats of the limousine. He was bored. Bored! And he felt like killing something. He wanted to kill something big fat and hairy!

Just kidding. Clarence was not a bad boy. He just hated being bored. He was a healthy seven-year-old genius who was beginning to suffer burn-out. They pushed him out to the islands and he beat one hundred so-called "smarties" in three contests. Then they went to China and he beat the baldies, to The Home of the Brave where he sent them squealing for their mommies, to Station Delta where his calm, superior mien was broadcast into the thought screens of two billion adoring fanatics.

Clarence won his first contest, if you could call it that, when he was two years old — he made a ten-year-old so-called prodigy bawl like a two-year-old toddler (Clarence never bawled, not even when he was a two-year-old toddler). At the age of five he almost exclusively faced adults — artists and scientists and performers and doctors and all those who were supposedly "smart," those who could "project."

Fifty percent of his opponents never participated in Cutting-Edge Thought again, never ever ever (but they did participate in depression and night terrors)! Twenty percent of his so-called opponents entered hospitals after facing Clarence and then embarked on cutting-edge therapy itineraries. Twelve percent of those he met from chair to chair suffered unconsciousness during the bout, minor aberrations in memory for indeterminate periods of time, but were nonetheless unchanged from the meeting (these were the lucky opponents). Ten percent suffered no damage and were able to compete afterward — in fact there was one young man, a monk he was, who had grappled with Clarence on three separate occasions and had performed quite well, if uninspired.

The remaining eight percent did not survive the encounter (this eight percent was divided into two categories representing: 1. the very worst, the not-even-mediocrities and, 2. the sharpest thinkers, those with more talent than common sense). Needless to say, his opponents were screened vigorously, so that now days if there was a death, it was almost always a member of the latter category.

After the first death, when Clarence was only a little over five years old, he had begun to view opponents as puzzles, objects with which to play, solve, and ultimately, disassemble. Someday, he thought, I will put them back together again.

The limousine pulled to the curb and the door opened and Doctor Buzzbee nearly dove into the backseat with Clarence. His tweed jacket was rumpled and the aureole of his white hair made him look like an absent-minded saint just recently unstuck from stained glass.

"Oh?" Buzzbee said, "and why are you laughing at me today?"

"Nothing," Clarence said shrugging. It pleased him to keep secrets, even if the secrets were his own thoughts.

"Good news, Master Clarence. Your latest test results are out, and they are more positive than ever!"

Clarence lifted his eyebrows and said: "And will I live?"

Buzzbee blinked. This child, as much his own creation as anything born normally beneath God's heaven, scared him. This was a child that had existed for not even eight years, and yet his superior expressions were those of a satyr, some hobgoblin druid whose hobby was dissecting human beings for the amusing sight of their blood.

"Master Clarence? Live? I don't quite understand, no. Your intelligence scores? You broke two hundred twenty!"

A joke, Buzzbee. I was being funny, Buzzbee. But Clarence did not speak. Another secret. That is right, Buzzbee, a secret. The secret is that nobody understands my jokes. Clarence grinned.

Then he saw a fly crawling on the leather seat next to Buzzbee. Clarence Roiclaw withdrew into his seat. His eyes swelled and he pointed a finger at the insect, his mouth working silently.

"What? Oh what is the matter now?" Doctor Buzzbee said, quite alarmed at the boy's color. He followed the boy's terrified gaze, saw the fly, and he smiled to himself. "Master Clarence. It is only a fly."

He slapped his veined hand upon the insect. Brushed the body to the limousine floor.

"See? All gone, Master Clarence. Just a fly. A little insect."

"A bug," said Clarence Roiclaw, as if that was more than enough explanation.

They rode in silence for a few seconds, each looking out separate windows.

"And the CQ numbers?" Clarence Roiclaw queried, staring at the old man with his strange, cold eyes.

"Oh, those were quite acceptable, really," Doctor Buzzbee replied.

"What were my Creativity Quotient numbers, Buzzbee?"

A warm beat of silence.

"Oh, two hundred sixty-five." Doctor Buzzbee licked his lips. He stared out the darkened limo window. His rheumy eyes swam beneath his aquarium spectacles.

Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw made a fist. He stared at his knotted bunch of little-boy fingers. His hand grew hot. Damn! (Oops! A bad word, damn, not to say that Clarence!) Damn, damn, damn, damn! The CQ numbers were the important ones. Damn. The Dragon wanted to burst the three-hundred barrier.

Of course, he was the only person really close to bursting that barrier. Only one other man had ever come close, and Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw had beat his CQ numbers.

Clarence "The Dragon" wanted to do something. He wanted to take a living thing and light its head like a blazing match. Poof. That easy. Yes. Incendiary blood — sizzling blood, exploding blood, painting the inside of this limo bright fire-engine red.

Clarence gulped a deep breath. He sighed and eased back against the leather.

Just kidding.

"I am bored, Buzzbee."

"Well, Master Clarence, your next scheduled competition is in only fifteen minutes. That should be exciting, should it not?"

Clarence sighed. "That is what is boring. I would like to have a pet. I would like to have a puppy."

"Not while you tour, Master Clarence. Your IQ scores should make you happy, Master Clarence."

"Intelligence is very boring."

I want to have fun. I want to play. If only children were not so stupid. If only adults knew how to have fun. If only I had siblings, or perhaps parents other than sweet Mama Pool and dear Papa Bank.

If only I were not so alone.

He fidgeted with his satin robes. He wanted to wear pants, and a coat, not these silly Prince of Persia costumes, but Clarence understood the concept of selling, he knew he had to satisfy the expectations of a dim-witted public. He had to be politic about his life.

"Tell me about my opponent. A boy? A real live boy for a change?"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, Master Clarence. Name is something French, I think. Eight years old, I believe. A talent, I think. Well, local talent, you know?"

Clarence sighed and nodded his head. Yes, he knew about local talent.

Buzzbee monitored the boy-creature's vocal-pattern thoughts with the custom-made ear piece which was linked to Fat Boy, the New Age AI Computer dominating the trunk of the limousine — he had more than once heard Clarence speak (almost fondly) of Mama Pool and Papa Bank, referring, of course, via his twisted sense of humor, to the Egg Pool and the Sperm Bank from which he had originated.

It was seven years before, Buzzbee had selected the perfect pair, the ovum of a celebrated poetess/medical doctor (suicidal, of course, locked away now, thank God, safe from the boy-creature), and the sperm of one of the most promising early Cutting-Edge Thinkers (locked away for a very long time in the Quartz Hillton, a minimum-security facility).

"Ironic, how very, very ironic," Doctor Buzzbee muttered, stroking his perfectly coifed goatee.

"Excuse me, Buzzbee?"

"Oh what? Nothing, Master Clarence. Just thinking.

Just thinking. Thinking of irony. An eight-year-old boy and a seven-year-old boy, one natural and one very unnatural. Even with all their explosive intelligence they would never be capable of appreciating this irony. This irony. The irony of their meeting. The irony of not knowing. With all their intelligence they would never know.

Only Doctor Eugene Constaninople Buzzbee would ever really know.

He chuckled. He remembered staring at the naked, sedated man. "You'll never know, will you? My tragic, tragic genius?" he said to the sleeper as the three technicians deftly produced the man's semen. The man was already a convict and Doctor Buzzbee felt no guilt at robbing him of the building blocks which would ultimately produce Clarence the boy-creature. Of course, it was different with the sedated woman, the very beautiful woman — unfortunately there would be a scar, and she would have a general suspicion of the violation perpetrated upon her lovely, lovely body — tortured already, a unique thinking woman in a world of blank slates, the slight scar would push her over the edge into the comfortable institution where she now resided, sedated and beautiful, and blank as all the other slates in the world.

Doctor Buzzbee peered over his spectacles at the strange creature, his creation. For all practical purposes, the creature sitting there was an average child, perhaps a little shorter than the norm, maybe a little pale for lack of exposure to the sun, with two complimentary eyes and ears and all the usual amenities. But what went on inside that head — God, but no one could say, not even the most sophisticated AI, because Clarence did not normally think in words. The strange boy-creature thought almost exclusively in terms of pictures, but not everyday Kodak pictures — the pictures locked inside Clarence's boy-sized cranium were constantly moving things, shifting and twisting and made of some strange three-dimensional substance, a fiery ectoplasm — the closest approximation of Clarence's mental images would be pictures composed of breathing fire.

"Buzzbee?" said Clarence, his mouth shaped into that chilling otherworldly smile.

"Yes, Master Clarence?"

"I would suggest you desist monitoring me through Fat Boy."

Buzzbee gulped saliva.

"If you ever look inside my head again, or listen inside my head again, I am afraid of what I shall not be able to restrain myself from doing to you."

Doctor Buzzbee, smiling stupidly, saw a volcano pushing out of the dirt. The volcano had a face, a face replete with spectacles and a white ring of wispy hair. Fire came out of the volcano. Doctor Buzzbee saw the face of the volcano. It was not a pleasant face. In fact, the face of the volcano was shrieking — it was screaming and weeping. Doctor Buzzbee saw the face of the volcano consumed by the terrible orange and blue fire.

Shivering, Doctor Buzzbee continued to smile and gulp saliva, nodding his head, nodding his head, nodding his head.

Part 3: Papa Wolf

FARKUS DUBOIS OBSERVED the guards with peripheral vision over the end of his cigar as he cupped his left hand about it and fired a match with his right hand. Standing near the outer walls of the small courtyard he puffed upon the flame a few moments. Too many guards, both private security and local-boy cop. He knew security would be very tight here, after all Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw had to be the most famous child in the history of the world, except for maybe Baby Jesus, maybe.

Maybe, Baby.

Farkus, standing haggard and thin at the outskirts of the growing crowd, would have to spread himself very thin, like one pat of butter shared by one hundred slices of toast; like that image, what he was attempting to do was impossible; however, that is exactly what he had spent his life striving against: the impossible. However again, unlike that silly metaphor of too little butter on too much sooty bread, when Farkus Dubois ran out of Farkus Dubois spread, he would be more than gone — he would be in a new world of unbelievable pain.

Impossible? Impossible for me, Farkus Dubois? Yup, impossible. Period.

But I won't fail, not this time, because famous or not, you are not going to damage my son, you little bastard. Dubois had sworn this oath at least a hundred times over the last four days, escaping from the Quartz Hillton in New Lancaster two days ago to be here today. Of course, escape was an overly dramatic word, considering he merely laced his shoes and walked away from the complex. Even though it had been two days since his "escape," his absence would probably still be unnoticed.

He hoped.

Farkus Dubois pushed back his coat sleeves and checked the insides of his arms. Only a slight rash. That was good. He was lucky to have a strong body.

Inmates generally did not leave their minimum-security prisons without first obtaining an almost-impossible-to-get LOA, because there was a very, very severe penalty for breaking even one of the only two rules — a very severe penalty, yes-indeedy-do.

Over the past three years not even one inmate departed without permission and survived.

Dubois puffed his cigar and stretched. His spine and all his joints creaked and popped. He was thirty pounds underweight, his frame lanky and his skin stretched tightly. His only sustenance was coffee, for two days, and now he felt light and jittery — it was hard to stand still, he had to concentrate to keep his toes from tapping, his fingers from reaching up into his beard to stroke and pull.

Calm, he told himself, just let it all flow out. Relax and picture an azure sky, a desert sky, the true picture, just before evening, the sunset forging, glowing red embers beneath the clouds, the mist of a ruby sword fresh and steaming like bread from the forge into the icy bath, the sibilant whisper, the perfect hush of the readied weapo —

— all is still, all is calm, sighing, breathing, beneath the deepest azure sky —

— he jerked awake as the cigar nearly slipped from his teeth. He blinked at his watch, damn, it is getting late, the show should be on the road by now, and looking around, too many guards, too many fat boys in gray uniforms, too many too many too many, they'll stop me from saving my boy, God, I haven't seen Dirklan since he was a baby! What does he look like now?

When Farkus Dubois was a younger man his arrogance had been nearly uncontrollable, a man — a wolf — seemingly alone in a world of idealess sheep. He was taller than most men, and much stronger, both physically and mentally. These things were nothing compared to his will, his ego, which was a smooth steel ball, compressed and dense, impenetrable.

Farkus Dubois' intelligence quotient was measured at different times over a period of years at 139, 160, 140, 155, 163 and 144. This meant nothing to Dubois. He knew who he was and it had nothing to do with whatever measurements other men might apply to him. His creativity quotient, measured at the same time as his IQ, rated 195, 235, 200, 250, 268 and 200.

To date, only Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw scored a CQ higher than Dubois' highest rank: a startling 272, four points beyond Dubois, four points closer to that unbreakable 300 barrier.

It was not overly difficult for the prosecuting attorney to display the insolence of Farkus Dubois regarding authority. Authority and Rules. Authority and Rules and Society. Authority, more often than not, was an imaginationless group comprised of mean-spirited mediocrities. Rules were things created by those mean-spirited mediocrities, limitations applied to ordinary men, established to keep the ordinary men truly ordinary, and Dubois was hardly ordinary. Society was made up of many such groups of mediocrities.

The prosecuting attorney queried Dubois: "Do you have a free will?" to which he replied: "Definitely."

The prosecuting attorney fired: "Do you believe in Destiny?" to which he replied: "Definitely."

The prosecuting attorney concluded with this whisper: "What if the Law, the Law of Society, gets in the way of your so-called destiny, Mr. Dubois?"

There was a beat of time, a pregnant five seconds in which the jury held its breath and the judge peered at Dubois through the corners of his eyes and the defense attorney considered objecting to the line of questioning, but decided instead to see if Dubois might again disrupt the court with one of his famous sound bites.

Dubois cocked his head to one side. He looked squarely into the prosecuting attorney's face (the attorney blinked and looked away from Dubois' smoldering eyes, and uneasily half-smiled for the jury).

Dubois cocked an eyebrow, curled a lip for the prosecuting attorney, blinked significantly at the judge, and then trained the full force of his considerable dual-laserbeam gaze upon the jury.

"I believe it is my destiny to be thwarted by your so-called Laws of Society," he said in a loud voice, speaking directly to the jury, "I believe it is my fate to suffer the injustices demanded by the idiots who call themselves the officers of your so-called Laws of Society — idiots such as this corrupt judge, this idiotic attorney (the judge's gavel was slamming at this point and the prosecuting attorney was voicing many objections and it was about this time that the defense attorney attempted to salvage whatever he might by raising a few objections of his own and the jury, not understanding half of what Farkus Dubois was saying but realizing that he was again mocking the court, began to giggle and titter behind their hands — in this confusion, the booming voice of Farkus Dubois could yet be heard clearly) — these things are my fate and destiny and I do not deny them nor attempt to apply logic to them. I am a moral man, one moral man alone, and so will always be one moral man at odds with an immoral system. I am an honest man (at this point Farkus Dubois was awarded his eleventh count of Contempt of Court) so what do you people expect will happen to me when I insist on wrangling with these filthy liars — this dishonest, lying judge, and his dishonest, lying puppet attorney?"

At the conclusion of the court proceedings Farkus Dubois, practitioner of the then little-known medium of art called "Cutting-Edge Thought," was found to be a felon, convicted of the very serious crime of Kidnapping, with garnishments of twenty-nine counts of Contempt of Court. Farkus Dubois was sentenced to seventeen years of incarceration at a minimum security facility, to be considered for parole only after seven years.

Farkus Dubois would be considered for probation five weeks from this day, this day in which Farkus Dubois stood puffing his cigar and tapping his toes, willing away the scrutiny of the milling security goons.

Farkus Dubois tapped his toes and puffed his cigar. Irony so ironic it would be unbelievable in the conventions of fiction. So ironic it could only happen to Farkus Dubois, in real life. Five weeks! Five weeks from today, and I could have come out to see me boy! He smiled behind his cigar.

He coughed. His throat tickled. Just ignore it. It's just too many cigars in too few days. His throat tickled a little worse. It itched. He pushed back his sleeves. There was a definite rash upon his forearms.

Damn, but it was going to be close, very close — but I believe in Destiny. There is a reason. And God, if You're up there looking down at little old me, please wind your watch! Let's synchronize our timepieces, okie-dokie?

Almost eight years ago he had been married. It was an average marriage, with only a little more than the usual misery. But one night while he was participating in a Cutting-Edge Thought promotion, his wife packed a few suitcases and departed their home with their six-month-old son, Dirklan. Farkus discovered their hiding place three weeks later and retrieved his son from his wife and the rough customer who protected her. Three months later he was served with an Order to Produce Child. After many legal maneuverings it resolved that Bitty Dubois had hired the sleazier lawyer and Farkus was awakened in the night and handcuffed and had not seen the true outside world again until two days ago.

Ultimately, Farkus Dubois grinned, I proved myself an idiot, maybe the most intelligent, most creative idiot to ever drool upon his hairy toes.

But if you believe in destiny (and I do) there was a true reason I linked with Bitty. That really true, truly real reason was Dirklan.

The boy was an incredible talent. He was beautiful and sweet and intelligent and creative and magical.

Farkus, worshipful of his seed, maintained a slight one-sided contact through the circulars and the newspapers, but mostly through his imagination. He conjured the boy into his cell — they talked, laughed, sang, wept and discoursed, conversed, sang and held — he knew his son better than most fathers knew the children in their physical custody, he knew every line of the boy's face, every turn of his dark hair; however, a virtual world, though vibrant, never quite satisfied like the physical world.

And if you believe in Destiny (and God but I do) you have to know that you have no choice, that the boy's life is far more important than your own, that all the hours of all the days of all the years spent honing your mind was for this day, that he must live, live undamaged, and only you have the strength, the native talent, the guts to save the boy.

I will give every drop of my life.

And so I raise my cup to you, son — a toast: my guts, your life, son!

Dirklan Dubois, eight years old, was a talent — no expert would attempt to dispute the reality of his young genius.

But Clarence Roiclaw was something else altogether.

The haggard man with the grumbling belly stood puffing his cigar. His eyes did not move much, but he observed all that evolved about him. A dispassionate observer would never fathom the depth of his insecurity, the incredible terror washing against his psyche like black acidic waves. He was a lone man, lashed to the very last piece of driftwood, bound but calmly waiting upon the bleak beach of an electronic world, and even though the dark tide was far out, the lone man could see the turbulent waters building, mounting into the dark tidal wave which would soon rush upon him. Come on, then.

His arms itched like crazy. He ignored the pain. His eyes were upon the pedestal. His mouth was spitless. His eyes fastened upon the right side of the pedestal.

The small crowd began to stir as the "opponents" mounted the open-air pedestal from opposite sides approximately one hundred feet away from where the cigar-smoker stood not tapping his toes, not fidgeting with his beard and not puffing upon his cigar.

Part 4: Tossing the Coin

GUS AHTIBAT paced nervously about the raised platform between the facing chairs. The common-looking padded leather chairs, separated by a distance of ten feet, were actually composed of candid macroprocessor chips, millions of intricate brains, and the floor, which seemingly was solid-wood flooring, actually housed the most complicated projection system ever devised.

These apparatus had absolutely nothing to do with the "opponents" or the actuality of what would occur between them — what took place between the boys would be organic, frighteningly concrete, and possibly, fatally final. The complicated machinery merely provided a "peek" inside the cerebral confrontation, for entertainment purposes, so the watchers in the near vicinity might appreciate the immense power ricocheting between the "opponents," while the "peek" was simultaneously broadcast to nearly five million thought screens around the country, and recorded for distribution to the aficionados of Cutting Edge Thought about the globe.

Truthfully, this particular event was no extravaganza. Other than the acolyte or aficionado of the art, there was very little public interest in today's confrontation. As in the old-time heavyweight boxing competitions, this was merely another "bum of the month" ho-hum blurb, an event which might command five full seconds on the evening news.

Even if someone died.

Because the massed excitement and churning hoopla about the tremendous genius Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw had finally peaked. He was unbeatable, an acknowledged demigod. The Dragon was a given power, like the sun, part of everyday life, and now it was merely a matter of form — a redundant matter of increasing the staggering record, a record already unbelievably unbalanced at 5,287 wins with zero losses, zero ties over a period of just under five years.

The contender's record of 107 wins, zero losses, and eight ties in one year did little in sparking interest in today's "contest."

Satisfied with the setup Gus Ahtibat retreated to the Civic Center to collect his charge. He could not suppress the shiver of excitement forming bubbles in his gut. Dirklan was going to win! His boy was going to teach this rich, snot-nosed brat a lesson in Cutting-Edge Thought. Dirklan was going to do it, and do it big, oh yes — he was going to win, he just had to!

All Gus Ahtibat's dreams would bear fruit today.

The glittering HD-TV camera orbs hovered above the crowd, sampling the excitement, "peeking" into the inner gambling circles, measuring the odds, totaling the wishes, circling the cold electronic arena in ever-broadening circles. A skeletal man in old worn clothes, back toward the courtyard walls, puffing a cigar, one hand buried in his pocket while the other hand itched at his arm, fell into measured step with one of the cameras — as it moved slowly outward, he moved slowly inward.

Nearly two hundred people milled in the smallish courtyard. The two hundred or so people ceased milling as the two combatants entered at the same time from opposite sides of the courtyard.

The boys eyed each other as they mounted the pedestal. The Dragon watched the local talent through hooded eyes. Yes, it was a boy, a real boy, not the egghead genius prototypes that usually attempted to ram-butt him from the opposite side of the pedestal. The local talent did not look too unlike a walking matchstick. Dirklan Dubois shyly watched Clarence Roiclaw rise onto the pedestal. He was awed — because The Dragon had been a big part of his life for the last five years. If he was not hearing about the genius prodigy in school, he was reading about him in the Cutting-Edge Thought circulars, or watching him on HD-TV. It seemed he had been compared to The Dragon his whole life.

And there he was now, Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw. Funny, in real life he looked just like a kid. Not somebody who was famous everywhere, or that had killed people. Dirklan himself had never so much as hurt anybody while playing Cutting-Edge Thought, nor would he ever wish to.

Dirklan Dubois smiled at his opponent as he circled about his leather chair. Smiling made Da angry, because you were supposed to look at your opponent as if he were your enemy, as if he killed your mama, or wanted to steal all your toys. Dirklan never remembered to dislike his opponents. Usually they were just kids, little girls and boys Dirklan would love to play with, if he ever had the chance.

There was tremendous applause but neither boy acknowledged it. Dirklan waved at The Dragon. Clarence Roiclaw tilted his head and regarded the local talent through the bottoms of his eyes.

Gus Ahtibat gripped Dirklan's small shoulder. Come on boy, don't let me down. This is no legend you fight. It's only a little boy. A snot-nosed rich brat that wants to steal away all our dreams, boy. Please, oh please God, let my boy Dirklan kick this rich snot-nose's ass! Dear God in heaven this means everything!

Dirklan looks up at Da and smiles. He thinks of a meadow, grasses and a slight green rain. Wind rustles the leaves of the many trees. Gus Ahtibat sighs and smiles down at the boy.

"You're going to do good, son, real good," Gus whispered.

Clarence Roiclaw opened his eyes wide. It was like a fresh breath of mint, or orange rind — fresh and clean, that was the signature of the local talent, Dirklan Dubois. Clarence felt it like a wind pushing through his hair, or the shush aroma of dark loam after a light, chill rain. He smiled. Perhaps this would be interesting, perhaps this would be fun. Maybe the kid could last more than five minutes.

For the first time it clicked for Clarence. He looked at the local talent with more interest. Of course, why had he not perceived it before? The last name was a dead give-away. Dubois. This kid was the son of Farkus Dubois. More than any other Cutting-Edge Thinker, Clarence was interested in Farkus. Farkus Dubois had held the CQ record for many years — he held the record until Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw arrived in the world, and, so far, Clarence had only been able to pull four measly points away from Farkus Dubois' highest Creativity score.

He had always been a little angry with Farkus Dubois for being too close in creativity. So, Clarence Roiclaw nodded, this would be rather like a grudge match.

Only, it would be the son who paid the fine for excessive creativity.

Doctor Buzzbee and Gus Ahtibat met at the center of the pedestal and bowed low to each other and to each opposing boy, the traditional token extension of goodwill. Doctor Buzzbee, as handler of the Grand Master Champion, withdrew a shiny coin from his suit pocket and tossed it into the air. The coin landed upon the pedestal and bounced and spun. Doctor Buzzbee stepped on it. The two men stood over the bright coin, another token tradition. They smiled and shook hands. Gus Ahtibat retrieved the coin and pocketed it.

And then the two handlers hastily vacated the battleground.

The boys sat in their specialized chairs. Dirklan Dubois swallowed and eased his breathing. Calm. Calm. Clarence Roiclaw watched his opponent carefully. He smiled, realizing that the meditation techniques the child utilized were purely instinctive and that Dirklan Dubois would not be capable of naming the techniques, or really, that he was even using them.

This was the same way Farkus Dubois prepared for Cutting-Edge Thought. Most Thinkers attempted to psyche themselves into aggression, into courage, into bravery and the higher echelons of self esteem.

Farkus Dubois, standing only twenty or so feet away from the boys, rolled his dead cigar between his teeth. He kept his plastered fake smile on his lips, staring at the boys as if this were the greatest show on Earth. Heavy, I am twenty pounds heavier, my cheeks sag, my eyes are puffy — I am very excited and my face is flushed. Heavy and excited. Blob man, that's me — oh-yesirree!

The HD-TV orb passed on. Farkus Dubois allowed his fake smile to slip. Both his arms burned. The skin was livid, red, with white splotches appearing. The burning was spreading to his armpits, where it would get very bad very soon. And now his legs were feeling the effects of withdrawal. Oh soon — so slow, buddy Farky me lad, slow, your respiration, your circulation, down, slower, it's too soon, Farkus, hold on, keep control.

Quartz Hillton knew he was AWOL. The effects of withdrawal would increase dramatically in a matter of minutes.

Gus Ahtibat, seated in a front-row folding chair, clasped his hands in his lap and strangled his fingers. If only Bitty were here. God, if only she were here. But she was with Martin, the conflagration technician, and no one but Gus Ahtibat and Bitty knew where she was spending every extra moment of every day. Thank God the boy did not have to learn — after his win today, after the new revenues and fame and adoration, Bitty would stay with Gus and Dirklan, she would come to her senses, please God.

Gus Ahtibat's eyes flicked for a moment to the fat man standing on the other side of the pedestal, the fat man with the dead cigar in his teeth. The fat man's eyes were bright and dark. In his excitement the fat man kept itching at his arms. Yes, yes, be excited, fat man, because you will see Dirklan Dubois — my wonderful son, my savior — in action today, yes you will.

His eyes moved back to the two quiet boys.

* * *

Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw closed his eyes briefly. Then he looked across the pedestal to the waiting boy. He nodded, allowing himself the tiniest of smiles.

* * *

A bright red curtain halves the pedestal. Upon the curtain is a lizard motif, fanciful green lizards stitched ingenuously, nose to tail, nose to tail. The intricate green lizards have ruby eyes, eyes brighter than the crimson curtain, eyes shining red light. Suddenly the lizards are not merely stitched designs, but living, breathing beings, scrambling upon the face of the softly blowing curtains. The lizards bump and turn, puffing silvery smoke rings — the smoke rings smell distinctly of cigar tobacco.

The curtain bows, blows full, and begins to roll upward. The lizards cease to scramble, glow brightly a beat, and spin into luxurious pinwheels of dazzling orange and fluorescent pink, throbbing lavender, shedding sparkler glints of fire. The curtain, moving faster, rolls into a coil, the pinwheels collecting into a massed pool of fireworks. The curtain is no longer a curtain, but now a coiled serpent made of twinkling bright fires, twining high into the air, arcing like electrical fire, and now turning, crossing sinuously to one side of the pedestal, a beautiful chrome tongue flicking, flicking and flicking.

Legs pop from the serpent's fire scales to the accompaniment of cartoon sound effect — - poop, plurp, nup, plop — a cascade of gorgeous Rapunzel locks unfurl from the serpent's head, and exaggeratedly long blonde eyelashes whisk above the serpent's agate-fire eyes, big shimmering tears of pearly water squirt to the floor, and the serpent, now a ridiculous blonde-wigged lizard, settles gracefully to the pedestal, rolls onto its back, and offers its great fat belly for rubbing.

* * *

The crowd burst into spontaneous applause. They were delighted and more than a lot surprised by the vivid images bursting in the air between the two chairs. Usually it took a few minutes of posturing and mental circling for the opponents to produce anything even remotely recognizable for the imagers to reflect.

Dirklan Dubois blinked. He distantly heard hands clapping and voices cawing. The sounds faded away. Because the boy ten feet away from him was producing a splendid creature — what was it? Another snake? No, this one was much more extravagant. A dragon! Boy, this Clarence Roiclaw was the best! The dragon was beautiful, rearing probably thirty feet above the pedestal, all glinting black chrome with white fire leaking from its nose.

He had been very surprised when Clarence took his curtain and coiled it up into a snake! So smoothly! Dirklan had never experienced such strength — not even when he faced those five artists, who could never quite erase his best images, only fight with them, or attempt to modify them. But Clarence just snatched his lizard curtain away and rolled it up into his very own creation. And what a creation, the snake was really pretty!

Dirklan Dubois smiled. His hair was already dripping wet, but this was the best! Here he was, Dirklan Dubois, just a kid, playing Cutting-Edge Thought with The Dragon!

Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw was completely dry but nevertheless felt more than a little stung. He wasn't sure, but maybe the local talent was trying to make fun of him. That better not be the case, it better not! Maybe this Dirklan kid didn't know that this was serious, that a wonderful thing like a serpent wasn't supposed to grow blonde hair and eyelashes and squirt tears like a sissy cry-baby.

Well, Clarence had to admit that he was enjoying himself. He felt like he finally had a chance to flex his muscles and do something really cool. He wouldn't get mad, not yet. Normally he would save the big fireworks until later, until his opponent was good and wet, but let's just see what the local talent could do with my trademark heraldic beast.

Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw flexed his left arm.

* * *

Farkus Dubois stood shivering in place. His belly felt as if it were down in his knees, and his heart felt too big, too big, and all his symptoms of illness had absolutely nothing to do with amino-acid withdrawal, or the general heating of the blood it entailed — what caused Farkus Dubois to nearly bend double with nearly a million butterfly sneakers bouncing in his gut was sheer excitement. Never had he witnessed anything like this — the opening twenty seconds of this Cutting-Edge Thought collision was far better than anything he had ever witnessed.

He had no idea that his son was this good, this talented. Hell, Dirklan was better than Farkus could have ever been, prison or no. And the boy didn't even seem to be concentrating. He sat there relaxed in his leather chair, a silly boyish grin lopsiding his face, his tongue poking through his lips.

Farkus Dubois nearly burst with love.

Still, his trained eye and senses had marked the already dangerous turn of The Dragon's fire magic. Most observers were concentrating on the beauty of the lights, the spectacle of the movement and the creative force at work.

Farkus Dubois had noticed the look in the serpent's eyes as it had turned toward his son.

* * *

The black chrome dragon rears three stories above the pedestal, its elegant thin swan throat arching, white fire erupting from its crocodile-long jaws, its shapely deerlike legs pawing. The black chrome dragon blares a challenge, sounding like an entire woodwind section in the finest orchestra.

Suddenly the boy Dirklan Dubois is running in circles upon the pedestal! This is madness — it is offering oneself to the hungry electronic gods!

And the black chrome dragon seizes the initiative plummeting its great jaws upon the hapless boy, seizing him up — but there! The boy yet scrambles upon the pedestal, wiggling his fingers in his ears, sticking his tongue at the giant monster, a comically huge cigar jutting from his teeth.

The black chrome dragon roars enraged, spewing fire like vomit, engulfing the foolish boy! As the fire clears the boy remains intact, inconceivably unharmed, the cigar now lit, puffing smoke rings from his lips. The smoke rings rise swiftly into the air and lasso the black chrome dragon, binding it tightly about the snout and throat.

The giggling, smoke-ring-puffing boy vanishes!

* * *

Dirklan Dubois, yet seated in his padded leather chair, laughed and slapped his knees. He knew he could do it! He had been warned, thousands of times not to attempt such a foolish stunt — had been warned since he was a baby, and as far as he knew no one had ever tried projecting himself, and boy was it fun! It was an idea he had while he hunted lizards — to be the boy setting the cage, the lizard home, and at the same time be the cage the boy set to trap the lizard!

And he had not leapt blindly. First he had experimented with his lizard curtain. He had looked at Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw through the eyes of one of the lizards — and at first he had found the experience unsettling, but his brain adjusted quickly.

Gus Ahtibat leapt to his feet with everyone about him. His mouth stretched in a wild cheer and he slapped his hands together so hard they would hurt for weeks. Yes, yes! Dirklan was going to whoop the snot-nose! It was certain! Nobody had ever managed to enter the fray through projection — it was deemed impossible by all the experts; it would fry your brain; your mind could never split in two ways, allowing you to think and control while at the same time peer through virtual eyes to glimpse dual stimulus — and no one had ever had the guts to try. Victory, yes, sweet victory!

Farkus Dubois the father exhaled finally. Sweat poured from his face, from his torso, from his head. He was certain his boy was dead, if not in body, then certainly in brain. That fast. Nothing he could have done, poor old man Farkus, to protect his son. He did not applaud as did the excited crowd. He sagged weakly and the virus in his body gained much ground as he stood unguarded. All this way and it would have been for nothing, I would not have even had the chance to save you, son! Oh Dirkie! Dirkie! I was certain, as was everyone else, that it was actually you dashing about the dragon, entering that no-man's land where anything imaginable could shred you limb from limb or cremate you in an instant blast of dragonfire — never in a million years could I have guessed you would pull such a stunt, or that it was even possible despite your great talent to even manage such a feat — if I was still your father in the true sense I would give you a spanking like you would never believe! But he had to admit it was a beautifully unpredictable trick.

It was a good thing, this good trick, Farkus Dubois knew — he was able to postpone his own actions (actions playing upon theories just as untested, just as ridiculously unstable as Dirklan's self-projection trick) — Farkus could wait and slug back the encroaching death in his veins and pores. And it was also a good thing that seemingly his son was capable of coping in these early stages.

The bad thing was that the stunt was sure to enrage the Real Dragon.

* * *

Clarence Roiclaw twitched in his chair. That squirt, the filthy, glory-gobbling kid! Clarence had been experimenting with that very technique, for nearly two months. The thief! Clarence was so close to perfecting the technique; however, as yet he could not complete the projection without vomiting — and there sat the grinning kid, sweaty and smiling!

Clarence gripped his small hands into fists and squeezed the warmth, squeezed the fire. His eyes honed small and furious and he stared across the pedestal into the eyes of the grinning boy.

* * *

continue to

"The Dragon and the Wolf"

Conclusion