From alt.pub.dragons-inn Tue Aug 22 23:47:17 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8640 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!zip.eecs.umich.edu!caen!reeve.research.aa.wl.com!WS008013F18C2D!simonj From: simonj@rh.wl.com (Jeff Simon) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: Midnight Snack Date: Mon, 21 Aug 1995 05:44:57 EDT Organization: Parke-Davis Rochester Lines: 142 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.205.215.16 X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #4] Midnight Snack The man lay silently in bed, listening to the drone of the insects outside his window. It was another hot, humid night in Detroit, but it raised the electric bill too much to run the air conditioner around the clock. The ceiling fan helped some, but not much. Instead of counting sheep, he tried counting revolutions of the fan as it spun silently above him. Working the midnight shift made it almost impossible for him to sleep during his nights off. After tossing and turning for a while, he gave it up. Throwing the sheets off, he lurched out of bed, casting a drowsy black and white cat to the floor. The feline tossed a baleful look at him over its shoulder as it slunk away. There's nothing much to do in the Motor City at three o'clock in the morning. He flipped through the channels on the television with half-hearted interest. He watched a rerun of American Gladiators for a minute or two, then clicked the tube off in disgust. Maybe he had some eMAIL . . . . There was only one message of mild interest, a communication from an associate with nocturnal habits out on the west coast. He read it with some interest, then logged off. It could wait until tomorrow for an answer. He was careful to step over the cat, which refused to budge from its new sleeping spot in the middle of the hallway. The light from the refrigerator seemed especially bright as he opened it, looking for a source of cold caffeine. Nothing. Time for a run to the ol' 7-11. Open twenty-four hours a day, the midnight shifter's best friend. The drawer of his cherry-wood night stand creaked slightly as he pulled it open. The plastic grip of his Glock model 20 semi-automatic 10 millimeter pistol snuggled in his hand like a touchstone. A pre-ban fourteen round magazine loaded with mixed Black Talons and Hydra- shocks was inserted while he mouthed a quiet charm: "Bite me, B.A.T.F." To some of the Blue-bloods in Bloomfield Hills or Grosse Point his behavior might have seemed a little paranoid, or perhaps not what they would have called 'politicaly correct'. That didn't bother the man a bit; he probably would have felt the same if he lived in that kind of neighborhood. But he didn't, not for a few more years, anyway. He hit the button to the garage-door opener, watching as the steel door rolled slowly upward. The hiss of his neighbor's automatic lawn-sprinkler came to him as he walked over to his Black Oldsmobile. He disarmed the alarm, put the Glock in the glove box, and started the engine. His headlights swept over the now descending garage door as he backed out of the driveway, the car's engine growling with a deep- throated roar as he squashed the pedal. He was out of the subdivision in a minute, and heading south on Groesbeck at his usual eight over the speed limit. The 7-11 party store was just a few miles down the road. Robert Cray's new disk was spinning on his C.D. player, matching the mood of the humid summer night in perfect fashion. Maybe it was because he was listening to the music more than he was watching the road. Whatever the reason, after a while he came to the realization that he hadn't made it to the party store. He looked for landmarks to see if he had passed it, but nothing looked familiar. He was puzzled, he didn't recall turning off Groesbeck, and he knew every bit of that road all the way down to the Detroit River. A light fog seemed to be drifting up from the ground, and that didn't help his navigation any. He thumbed the power window button. The first thing that he noticed was that the air somehow smelled different. It was not something he would have normally been aware of. It smelled clean and fresh and somehow . . . alive. The fog swiftly became even thicker, so thick that he had to tap the brakes and reduce his speed. His headlights lit the mist brightly, making it almost impossible to see anything further than ten yards beyond the glass of his wind- shield. Part of him hoped he hadn't driven across Eight Mile road yet. He thought of the Glock in his glovebox and a different part of him hoped that he had. Suddenly the car began bouncing and shaking violently. 'A flat!' he thought as he pulled over and brought the car to a halt. What a piece of shit luck. He cracked the door open and put one foot out onto the ground beyond. Then he bent over and peered at the ground more closely. Cobblestones. The road beneath his foot and the car was constructed of cobblestones. "Man, I'm really lost," he said to himself quietly. He couldn't even imagine a place in the area where he'd end up on cobblestones. Fighting off a slight sensation of despair, he got out of the car and locked it behind him; but only after he retrieved the G20 and tucked it into his waistband. The black silhouettes of buildings crowded the night around him, closer to the edge of the street than he was used to. There must have been a power failure of some sort, because he could not see any sign of the usual artificial lighting that marked nighttime in the United States. No streetlights, no neon signs, no traffic lights. Not even a lamp inside a nearby house. Except for one light, the darkness was complete. About fifty yards away, up ahead to his left, dim light and noise spilled out of a doorway. 'A bar,' he thought. He liked bars, had even bounced in his aunt's for a year or so. Good place to make a phone call. He considered pulling his car up, but it was only fifty yards. His sneakers made a strange sound as they struck the cobblestones on the way to the door. He looked up at the sign that hung above it, surprised that it wasn't lit up for the night. "The Dragon's Inn," he read, slightly perplexed. He'd never heard of it before, and he knew ALL the good places. "I wonder if I can get a steak here?" he mused out loud. There was a weird hissing sound, and he whirled in time to see the nightmare apparition as it rushed towards him. Red eyes blazed in a chalk-white face, fingernails so long that they were talons, with canines so prominent that they could only be called fangs. He clawed desperately for the pistol tucked in the small of his back, knowing there was no way he could reach it in time . . . . As a horrible sucking sound echoed across the area known as the Plaza of Glittering Steel, a shadowy figure watched sadly from the northwest corner of the street. The figure shook its head in pity. "I warned him," it said, then faded from sight. ******************************************************************************************* -- The opinions expressed in this message are mine alone. This message does not necessarily reflect the positions or opinions of my company or organization.