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Episode
041 |
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Paradigm Shift without a Clutch Alan
Vick Age
– 25 Current
Occupation – Graduate Student (on hiatus) Age
sworn to the Oath of Chivalry – 16 Designation
– Knight-Errant Martial Art –
American Kempo, Catch-as-catch-can Wrestling, European Swordfighting Weapon
of Choice – 1917 US Navy Cutlass The international arrivals gate
was swamped with people. Children
called out in boredom as the line which snaked its way to the customs desk
ran out of the long room. Families crowded
together, speaking their native tongues, with occasional bursts of broken
English as they tried to read the airport informational signs. Towards the head of the line, a
small boy held onto his teddy bear, watching his parents answer the questions
of the customs officer behind the gate.
He leaned around his father’s leg to see a candy vending machine on
the other side of the gate. With an
innocent smile, he moved to run towards it. From behind, a stylish black shoe
hooked around him, the leg attached to the shoe pulling him gently back to
his parents. He looked up to see a
tall, blonde-haired man staring down at him with a friendly smile. In a light black jacket over a royal blue
shirt, he carried a large duffle bag over his muscular shoulder, two large
suitcases behind him. The mother turned around, taking
the boy’s arm. She whispered excitedly
to him, pulling him after his father, unaware of the man. The boy went with the pull, waving back. The tall man smiled to the boy, then turned
his attention to the custom’s officer.
“Good morning,” he said in good English with a Norwegian accent. “My name is Erik Karlsson.” He extended his passport. The large black lady behind the
gate accepted it and flipped carefully through it. “Mr. Karlsson,” she said, “what is your
purpose in the Erik smiled sentimentally. “Business, I’m afraid. Sort of, family business.” The noon sky stood over the
airport like a weight, keeping it pressed to the featureless paved
ground. The planes that came and went,
taxing onto the runway and waiting at the gates, shimmered in the waves of
heat that came off the tarmac. At the
entrance to the terminal, taxis and other cars waited in the oppressive heat,
struggling to move even an inch in the gridlock. Erik sat on a wrought iron chair
at the small indoor café just outside the boarding gates, sipping an
espresso. With his black jacket laid
over his white pants, he idled with a content expression, keeping an eye on
his bags. Around him, the concourse
was full of travelers from all over the country and the world, all passing
their time or rushing frantically.
Some browsed in the duty-free shops while others sat on their luggage,
impatiently or idly waiting for their flights. As Erik watched the people come
and go, he saw a man in the distance.
Dressed in a blue jeans jacket with the sleeves torn off and a
dyed-black Mohawk extending not-very-subtly out of his brown hair, the man
made his way down the concourse; his large stain-covered duffel bag slung over
his shoulder. The noise of his thick
combat boots preceded him while his pierced nose matched the tattoo that
crept up his neck from underneath his grimy white shirt. Erik grinned and stood, waving his
hand. The man in the distance spotted
him immediately and smiled. Erik sat
down and moved his luggage to make room, then summoned his waitress. The pretty young woman in a false tuxedo
with a serving tray on her left arm came over. “Can I have a Heineken,” he ordered. As the server smiled and left, the
denim-clad figure tossed his bag over the railing that separated the café
from the concourse. The heavy bag
landed with a thud in Erik’s lap, making him cough out. “Oy, softie,” said the guy with a huge grin
and an abrasive British soccer hooligan accent. “How’s it been?” “Good morning, Donovan,” Erik
said, throwing his bag off and embracing the Brit. They clapped each other on the backs. “How was your flight?” “Not bad, except they didn’t have
any decent beer,” he said just before the waitress set down the
Heineken. “Oh, Erik; you’re a
sweetheart.” As the woman fished for a
bottle opener, Donovan picked up the bottle and bit the top, bending it with
his teeth. He uncouthly spat it into
the trash can, then took a healthy chug.
The waitress marveled for a moment and looked at Erik. He smiled reassuringly to her. “How’s you’re mom?” Erik asked. “Better, now that her body’s not
rejecting the kidney,” Donovan reported with a sniff. “’Course, my Da’s still waiting on her hand
and foot. Not that she minds, mind
you.” Erik grinned. “So what’s the deal here again? Why’d we fly to the “Very possibly,” Erik said with
reservation. The young man brushed his curly
brown hair back over his shoulder, working to make sure his hair matched symmetrically
on each side of his face. In a
tailored trench coat, with a blue shirt on underneath, he stared at his
reflection in the inspection room. The door to his right opened and
the custom’s officer came in. “Mr.
Lorenz,” said the officer as he checked over the clipboard. “Sorry about the wait. We’ve just had some trouble with your
passport.” He held out the German
passport and gave the man an apologetic smile. “You’re clear. Welcome to the “Thank you,” the traveler said
with a cold demeanor. Lorenz rode the escalator down to
the baggage claim and paused at the bottom.
Directly in front of him were the sliding glass doors that led to the
outside world. To his right, the
circling carousels loaded with bags were crowded; while to his left, the
ticketing stations for the various airlines were full. He moved out of the way of the
escalator, pulling his three bags in addition to the laptop bag slung over
his shoulder. Off to the side, he
continued to look out over the concourse.
“<Where are you?>” he asked rhetorically in German. After a moment, Erik and Donovan
walked around behind the escalator.
They both saw him, getting his attention. The two approached, holding their two
fingers up between their eyes like swords.
“I’m Erik Karlsson, and this is Donovan Shoemaker.” “Richard Lorenz,” he said, giving
them both the same gesture. “I take it
you are the two knights I am to meet here?” “Unless there are two other
knights hanging around,” Donovan said sarcastically. Richard stared at him for a
moment. “Given why we’re here, I don’t
know that such a joke is appropriate.”
He turned and looked at the concourse.
“This is not a place for civilized knights,” he commented. “Yes it is,” Erik disputed
firmly. “The Richard looked at his pocket
watch. “If you say so.” Erik and Donovan shared
apprehensive glances. “We’ve got hotel
rooms set-up and we’ve reserved a car,” Erik began. “A real nice one, too, convertible
and all,” Donovan added with a flash of his eyebrows. Richard looked at the two, then
stared ahead. “Lead the way,” he said
indifferently. |
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