by Anthology
Beside him was a huge electronic device. Giant sparks of energy arched between two twenty-foot-tall transponder posts.
“What?” One of the agents blurted.
“I was too old to go,” the Don said. “And that’s fine.”
“Go? Go where?” another agent asked.
“I wanted to have the last laugh on you Feds. You’re too late!” raged the old man as he pressed a red button on a handheld unit in his lap.
Agents in the ballroom showed confused expressions. Those same expressions filled the faces of those stationed in the Alpha One outpost. “Too late for what?” the agents asked themselves.
Just then, the compound went up in a massive explosion heard three hundred miles away in the city of New York.
Six hundred and five years in the past, something a little different was happening at a large jousting tourney in the London of 1405.
“You are what kind of knight?” The head stooge spat the words out as if they were unclean things leaving his mouth.
“I’m a knight of the family Gambino. I’m ot’ta the south side of Rome, Italy. You must’a heard of us?”
“I’ve heard of Yorkshire knights, of Templar knights, even knights of the unicorn. I’ve never heard of Gambino knights. If I haven’t heard of these Gambinos, I daresay no one in all of England has heard of them,” said the scowling stooge.
“Well, that’s your loss to be sure, pally.” Don Corollas Gambino tried to be polite under the circumstances. “See, this little shindig should change all that for me. Now sign me up for this clambake, and tell me where to pitch my tent.”
“In due course, knight Gambin-e-o, in due course. Where are your squires, your armor, and other knightly equipment of note?” asked the Chamberlain of the tournament.
“Squires? I never use ’em,” Don Corollas said with a grin. “Just let me sign the roster and get going. Okay, pally?” He slid his hand across the table and left five golden coins on the rough wood. His knowing wink spoke volumes about his true character and he suspected the gold coins would do the rest.
“Knight Gambino, you seem to have dropped these funds. No doubt all you have in the world. Squires are required for this tournament. Since you don’t have one, you can’t participate. I’m so very sorry.” But the Chamberlain’s face said he was clearly not sorry at all. “Better luck next year. Next in line please.”
Seeing it would do no good to argue with this type of stiff on the stiff’s home ground, the good “knight” wandered over to the other knights he’d seen rejected for various reasons. He walked up to the poorest-looking of them and bowed.
“So buddy, why wouldn’t the lord high stuffed armorer over there let you play in his game?”
“My name is Tarlen, not Buddy, but no offense taken,” replied the knight in a cheerful manner. “I didn’t have the required funds to enter. It seems they’ve doubled the fees this year.”
“Tell you what, sport,” said Corollas, “I’m in need of a sort of squire-type guide to help me over the rough spots at this horse-lance-shield hoot enanny. I’ll give you a thousand cool gold ones if you be my squire for the tournament. Wad’da say?”
“I say my name is Tarlen and the next time you make that naming mistake we will come to blows. However, I accept your offer if you prove to me that you can pay this sum,” Tarlen replied.
“I likes a careful man. Come over here,” the knight ordered, taking Tarlen to a small wagon. Inside were lots of chests and one contained many times the offered price in gold.
“Aren’t you afraid of thieves and bandits? That’s a lot of gold,” Tarlen queried.
“We Gambinos don’t take lightly to theft. I’ve a few cousins with me and more coming. Ten people have tried to get in’ta that chest. All ten are wearing stone overshoes in the middle of several rivers in the local area. Word gets around, if you know what I mean?”
“Well, yes, I see,” Tarlen responded. “Shall we get you signed up for tomorrow’s event?”
“Onward and upward, pal . . . err, Sir Tarlen,” Don Gambino said with a sly and almost respectful smile.
Later that day, Sir Tarlen and his own squire set up Knight Gambino’s tent.
“Sire, what did the strange knight call this darkly striped material the tent is fashioned from?” the squire asked.
Sir Tarlen held up the tent flap to the rays of the sun. “He called it pinstripe. I can’t imagine why, there are no pins in it.” Tarlen admired the material in the afternoon sun. “He also said his whole family had many tabards made of this material. Did you hear his last comment?”
“No, what did he say?” the squire asked.
“He said something about, ‘seeing the lay of the land and getting the skinny on tomorrow’s free-for-all.’ I can’t imagine what that means, can you?” Tarlen asked.
“No. I say, Sir Tarlen, come look at this Italian armor. It is astonishing.” Wonder filled the young squire’s voice.
The armor’s surface displayed intricately engraved roses and grapevines. Covered in etchings and embossed images, each piece of armor was an artistic marvel.
“Where are the dents and tears? I’ve never seen jousting armor so perfect.” asked the younger squire. “What are these stubby things in these holders?”
“They smell of sulfur and oil,” Tarlen remarked. “Put them back; who knows what devilish things they are.”
“Let’s have no talk of devils, boys,” Don Corollas interrupted.
The knight and squire leapt up from their examinations.
“We Gambinos are all good Catholics, and that’s the way we likes it, see. Looking over the equipment, huh. Pretty good stuff, even if I do say so myself.” The Don brushed his hand over the surface of his armor.
“We were just putting out your armor for the joust tomorrow. What are these odd clubs you have attached to carriers at your armor’s hips?” Tarlen asked.
“Oh those . . . clubs . . . are a family tradition,” the Don explained. “We call them tommy guns. They’re named after my cousin, Tommy ‘the Cooler’ Gambino. He works the north side of Rome. That territory has become real quiet since he started carrying those. If you know what I mean. We never go into battle without them. They are kind’a like high-priced good luck charms. By the way, are there any Sullivan Acts against using missile weapons during the set-to tomorrow?”
“Sullivan Acts?” Knight Tarlen had no idea what his lord asked.
“If I may, Lord Tarlen,” his squire interrupted. “I think he means are there any rules against using missile weapons during the joust.” The squire smiled, getting into the swing of Knight Gambino’s horrible use of English.
“Oh. Use of missile weapons is forbidden, unless the joust is to the death. In that case, only the most basic rules of chivalry apply. The more foolish knights sometimes charge an enemy in a fit of rage. This allows the defending knight to do whatever they wish. However, that hardly ever happens in jousts like these. A knight would have to be very angry to agree to a duel to the death,” Tarlen answered.
“Gottcha in one, pal . . . err . . . Sir Tarlen,” Gambino said with a knowing smile. “Well, let us get some shuteye, shall we? Tomorrow we have a great deal of business to transact.”
It took several minutes for the two English knights to figure out what in the world Gambino said to them. They got the point when his loud snores filled the pinstripe tent. The younger squire went to take care of the horses, and soon all three were asleep.
“Why, I never, in all my years!” shouted someone outside their tent.
“That’s right, pally. Youse never in all your years and you ain’t gonna start now!” shouted another deeper voice.
The argument woke all three of them. Knight Gambino was up with a dagger in his hand and out of the tent before the others even sat up.
“Cousin Dino!” Knight Gambino sounded pleased.
“Don Gambino!”
The two English warriors opened the tent to see a huge, dark peasant type bending the knee to
Gambino. The Master of the Lists fumed in anger beside the two as they hugged each other with joy.
“This serf laid hands on me!” declared the Master of the Lists.
“He was seriously checking out your war horse,” cousin Dino said.
“Cousin Dino, we’ll talk later.” Knight Gambino pushed his cousin away from the area. “Scope the place for me while I deal with the help. What did you say your name was, bud?”
The elderly knight stood straight and glared at Don Gambino. “I am Lord Chesterfield. I am Master of the Lists and judge of this tournament. That lout needs to be beaten within an inch of his life!”
“Ya right,” Corollas waved his hand in the general direction of the retreating cousin. “I’ll take care of it to be sure. Why were you nosing around my horse?”
“There are a great many questions being asked about you and your right to enter this tournament,” Lord Chesterfield replied.
“Sure. Well, you just send them all my way, and my squire, the Knight Tarlen, the English Knight Tarlen from castle Weyworth and third cousin to the king, will take care of ’em. Ain’t that right, Sir Tarlen?”
“Lord Chesterfield, we are at your service,” Tarlen said, a bit embarrassed because he couldn’t hold back a smile at the lord’s discomfiture. Tarlen’s own squire actually made the mistake of laughing out loud.
It suddenly struck Tarlen that he hadn’t told the good knight he came from Weyworth castle. How could Gambino have known that?
The Master of the Lists left in a huff.
“In the next day or two you’re going to be seeing lots of my family in and around the joust,” Knight Gambino advised the two squires. “They’ll all be serfs, but treat them with respect. Although they ain’t had my fine upbringing, they’re family, capiche? I mean, do youse understand?”
“Will they all be as large as your cousin Dino?” asked Tarlen’s squire.
“He’s only a midsized muscle. Err, I mean in my family he isn’t close to the largest cousin we have,” Corollas answered. “Wait until youse gets a load of Uncle Artoro. Now that’s a Gambino to be proud of! Let’s quit chitchatting and get me into some armor. What do you say, boys?”
They both heartily agreed and got straight away to work.
The day was perfect for jousting. London filled with people at the time of jousts. Just before mounting, yet another cousin appeared out of the packed crowd of onlookers.
“Cousin Carlos, it’s great to see youse at last!” Corollas hugged this new cousin and kissed him on both sides of his face.
Carlos was a thin serf wearing that strange pinstriped tabard it appeared all the Gambino serfs wore. He bent at the knee and kissed the ring of Knight Gambino. Both men were clearly glad to see each other.
“How are the odds running?” Knight Gambino asked.
“You aren’t even in the mix,” answered the cousin. “I can get forty-to-one on you easy. The big fan favorite is a chump by the name of Lord Allen. He’ll be the sparkler in white. He’s an honor type of hit man. No amount of gold is going to get him to do anything. The real money is on this black knight fellow. He’s a nasty one who likes closing and using a morning star to finish his marks. Keep your distance from him until you catch on to his style. The rest are just swells that you shouldn’t have too much trouble with unless they gang up on you. They love doing that in this first free-for-all.”
“I’m onto that,” Corollas said not looking a bit worried. “Thanks for the bits of info. Lay a few thousand large on me for the finals. You know where the stash is.”
“Indeed I do, pally mine. Indeed I do,” came the smug reply from the cousin.
Cousin Carlos walked into the crowd singing to himself. It was a very strange song that went something like, “My kind of town, Rome is, my kind of town.” He had a troubadour-quality voice.
“Sir Knight Gambino, I didn’t understand more than three words of your cousin’s speech,” Tarlen said. “Is everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better, Sir Tarlen. Couldn’t be better. Shall we get me to the joust?”
“Grand idea,” Knight Tarlen’s squire said.
CRASH!
Lucky lances met helmets and breastplates. Unlucky lances splintered on shields or just missed altogether. Two hundred of the best knights of England met one hundred and seventy-five of the not-so-best knights in mock combat on the open fields in front of the lists and galleries of Nottingham. The best knights were called the Inside Knights, as they were supposed to be protecting a special tent. The Outside Knights were supposed to tear down the tent. Not surprisingly, the better knights managed to unhorse more than a hundred of the poorer-quality knights.
Knight Gambino was not unhorsed.
In fact, in the next several sets of encounters he was able to take down seven of the better knights of England. His armor, shield, and lance took many blows that morning, but showed little of the effects of battle.
A number of armchair tacticians remarked on how strange it was that an unusual number of the knights, when given a choice, picked other targets than Knight Gambino.
Knight Tarlen’s blood was high. He’d witnessed many fine passages of arms that day. His concentration on the tournament was broken, however, as suddenly there were several new cousins standing with them near the lists.
“More cousins,” Tarlen observed. “Well met. I’m sorry to say you will have to move back behind the lists. Only squires are allowed in this area.”
“You must be Knight Tarlen,” one of the three large cousins observed. “We’ve heard of youse. Don’t worry, the fix is in with the heavies among the field watchers. We laid a few hundred large on them, and they bent a few rules for us. How is the Don doing?”
“Don?”
“Gambino.”
“Well, that’s highly irregular, you standing here, but since you’re clearly cousins by your garb, I will not quibble,” Knight Tarlen answered back. “Knight Gambino is doing amazingly well considering the many foes matching against his lance this day. I estimate his ransoms could equal many thousands of gold pieces.”
“No surprise there,” another of the three cousins remarked. “He’s had the best training money could buy. Now that you are a made man, I don’t . . .”
“What’s this ‘made man’ business?” Tarlen asked.
“Made man, you know, someone picked by the Don to help him,” the third cousin remarked.
For the rest of the joust, Knight Tarlen grew more and more amazed as this new cousin told him how he had just become part of a huge Italian family. It seemed he joined the family not by marriage, but just by Don Gambino hiring his services as a squire. The knight wasn’t at all pleased to learn the only way to leave the family was by dying. However, there was the list of benefits to consider, and even after the cousin described those in several different ways, the good knight still had no idea what the cousin was talking about.
Retirement plans, family death benefits, parcels of land in a place called the old country, pasta, the list soon became tiresomely endless, until Tarlen’s mind was all a swirl trying to make something of each new concept.
Finally, the day’s jousting was over. There were ten Inside Knights mounted, and only Knight Gambino from the Outside Knights still rode his exhausted war steed. The crowd cheered both sides, and Lord Chesterfield gave the victory-of-the-day lance to the white knight.
“I say, that’s a bit unfair considering the success of Knight Gambino,” Tarlen observed.
“Don’t worry,” the tallest cousin said. “We figured the fix was in on this first day. The family will make its mark on the one-on-one fights tomorrow. Watch this now, the Don is a genius.”
All the surviving knights wore mistletoe wreaths as tokens for the day’s successes. The Don vaulted off his horse and walked over to the gallery. He laid his wreath at the feet of Lady Aster. The crowd went wild.
An enraged Black Knight couched his lance and charged Knight Gambino. It seems the Black Knight didn’t like
presents given to his lady.
The charge was a clear breach of knightly honor. Everyone in the stands knew Knight Gambino to be a dead man, as a ton of steel and horseflesh bore down on him.
Knight Gambino casually turned toward the charging steed, drew one of his war clubs from his holster, and the rest was explosive history.
DOXIES
Brandon Alspaugh
They were late to group. Angela blamed her mother, and her mother blamed Angela, but in the end, it was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Group never started on time.
“For heaven’s sake Angela, don’t dawdle,” her mother said. “We can’t have them starting without us.”
“My feet hurt, Mom,” Angela said. “Can’t I . . .”
“Absolutely not.”
By the door was a raggedy sign that read Children of the Post-Contemporary—Thursday, 8 PM. Under that, someone had scrawled in purple marker ‘Doxies’.
Inside, the rest of the group were already seated. Angela’s mother found a chair for herself and a stool for Angela.
Andrea’s shadow waved hello. Andrea often sent her shadow to group. The church basement only had fluorescent lights, which meant there were no other shadows for it to bump into.
Angela had shoes that flashed red whenever she walked. When she sat down, Ms. Greer humphed. Ms. Greer had a nose like a tree root and a gold filigree chain that let her wear her glasses like a necklace. To Angela, she looked like the sort of sour rat a witch might own, if witches owned sour rats.
“And what, exactly, does a girl like you need shoes like that for?” Ms. Greer asked.
Angela ignored her. Ms. Greer didn’t really want an answer. So they got along fine.
The room was almost full. Angela never had any trouble remembering anyone in the group. At the beginning of a new school year, she knew every one of her classmates by lunchtime.
Besides Andrea and Ms. Greer, there was Yvonne, who had never eaten food. There was a girl who looked like a kitten but cringed like a bunny. There was Gary, whose smile looked like a smashed cockroach, and there was Oliver, who had a warm furry voice that was shiny green in the right light. He reached over and mussed her hair.