Paladin

“This book was written for my grandmother!” Roberta whispered as she stood in the darkened cellar door waving a paperback novel, “mercifully she died years ago and was not exposed to this drivel!” Zachariah invited the young woman in from the darkness then quietly closed the door again, latched it and turned to face her. An elated sense of anticipation which their rendezvous promised lifted his spirit. The lone candle dancing in his hand warmed the darkened alcove which it’s architects had secreted like a dungeon at the back of the old building’s sunken foundations, troubling the shadows in it’s odd rhythm. Her subdued smile still radiated the charm of innocence that had drawn him to her despite the unease which their guilty escapade forced on both of them. “Jane Austen is far better even though she did plagiarize the Book of Ruth,” she joked. He smiled at her ease of manner and evident innocence, “By those standards the Old Testament was plagiarized!” “Yes,” she laughed holding her hand cupped over a broad grin, “if only Sister Marguerite could hear us now.” The flame of his candle shone more brightly now that it stood next to his pressed white shirt that reflected it’s light as he took in the sight of the flame reddened hue of her blond hair. Cowed by her advance as she stepped forward, he turned away and invited her to the cheese and wine waiting for them on the blanket he had laid out when her absence had made the cellar less forbidding. Looking up at her once more, he caught the sway of her hips and heard the rustle of calico as she folded her dark blue dress beneath herself and sat down as she might have had they been on a picnic. He had seen her wear that dress before and approved of it for the long sleeves and closed button collar. The light colored scarf about her neck was loosely tied. It looked soft and inviting while comfortingly shielding him from her breasts, protecting him from the wanton temptation of his own earthbound lust. . Resentful that he had to remain in the school building longer than necessary, Greg Moody contemplated the dirty failing laces of his worn and faded construction boots. Lazily flicking the untied frayed cords, he considered whether tying them was worth the effort. The squeaking sound of his leather jacket, he noted, appeared to annoy the only other student who sat nearby. With a stern look of contempt imprinted between his recently barbered hair and freshly pressed cotton button-down, he stared at Greg’s long unwashed brown mane that fell partly across his face and the complementary pair of dirty jeans he wore so often they were more encrusted with sweat than any cologne could mask. Content to shower sporadically and change t-shirts only to advertise his mood (Johnny Ramone glared out at the world from the front of his chest on most days of the week), friends would only wish for better ventilation whenever Greg was near if only he had friends that were not in cyberspace. He pulled out his RF sniffer which he had hidden inside the dildo his now estranged mother had send him through the mail for Christmas with a sentimental card that read, “I’m sorry I had your cunt sewn up when you were still my wee-little hermie, Greg. Just in case you feel that your gender assignment was wrong, I bought you this toy you can share with your special fiend.” “Thanks mom,” he thought with her personal gift in his hand vainly trying to analyze the contemptuous look that still glared at him from above the offensive blue button-down sitting across the hall as he easily captured sneer-boy’s RFID wallet’s signal. “Thanks for the free coffee,” he grinned to himself and put the latest design in phallic technology away just as Professor Welby opened the door to his office and invited him in. “Greg, have you been waiting long? Come in.” “Hi Professor, thanks for seeing me.” They sat across a desk that was cluttered with ungraded student mid-terms amidst the piles of old papers no one had bothered to retrieve. Greg made an effort to elevate his mood and hide the disdain he felt for the psych prof he had been stuck with. The old professor was left so far behind by technology it was as if Marcus Welby, M.D. himself had climbed out of a departed black and white cathode ray tube to make one last house call. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Greg reached into his mended back-pack to retract from it a mess of wires and duct tape that held a mini-keypad to a wide screen. His prize in hand, he made the requisite series of dexterous calisthenics to unlock it as only he knew how and, thumbing briefly as he spoke, extended the seemingly fragile device across the desk for the professor to see. In the hopes of convincing his faculty advisor to accept a late term change in his project proposal for his grad studies, he began, “Professor Welby, I’ve had a brilliant idea. You won’t believe this incredible project.” Electrical engineering grad students who still mourn the death of Tandy’s Color Computer do not willingly choose to pair themselves with senile old psychology professors who seem to have been cryogenically frozen since the death of Carl Jung and brought back to life in time to watch their grandkids’ Galaxy Notebooks burst into flames, even if they have a minor in psychology. But Professor Welby’s post-mid-life crisis to develop his computer skills and Greg’s inability to find another victim with fewer olfactory receptor cells forced them into this loveless marriage of convenience. . Ash heard her instructions, hung up the phone and sauntered her bony wrinkled middle-aged ass away from the bank of pay-phones then headed towards the front door of her favorite soup-kitchen where Sam the Old Man’s watchful eye was not keen enough to see her hand nimbly fill her pocket with rich date squares. “Good morning, Sam,” she said. “Good morning, Ash. How are you today?” “Hmmm, mm,” she intoned pleasantly, “extra date squares?” “You know the rules, Ash. One each.” With a smile to close the morning pleasantries, she scuttled along the line and filled a clean mug of coffee then nibbled on one of the date-squares from her morning’s lucre and scanned the tables looking for Henry. Good ‘ol Henry, homeless for over twenty years but still not spoiled by it. Graying blond hair, with only a recent spot of baldness amidst the knotted unwashed clumps that could make the ideal home for the discerning mouse and her growing brood. Brown eyes flecked with their usual crusty yellow morning crud creeping out of the corners where tear ducts had once been and the most handsome gray beard caked with bit’s of weeks old food stuffs, should the lucky little lady to snag this fine gent ever grow hungry. Leftovers roasted to perfection by days spent in the heat of the blazing afternoon sun then carefully marinated by the salty sweat of manly musk in the windswept alleyways and streets of the urban trash heap. “Morning, Henry!” she said, sitting beside him and slapping his thigh. “You been here long?” “I slept by the door,” he answered, bleary eyed. “Good thinkin’,” she replied agreeably, “I ought to try that sometime.” His sleepy gaze stared off blankly at the nearby television that Sam had tuned to the morning cartoons for the young kids that turned up on Saturdays when they couldn’t get a meal from their school breakfast program. Dreamy Smurf was retelling his recent trip to the moon to the other Smurfs in the village as they yawned patronizingly at him. “They lied to him,” Henry said with a slight shake of the head not letting his gaze stray from the television. Ash turned her head in time to see all the groggy, sleep deprived Smurfs humor Dreamy Smurf about his trip. “They’re lying to him,” Henry said, “the whole thing was a sham.” “Oh,” Ash said not wanting to comment further.