The Acolytes of Crane Updated Edition

by Tew, J. D.

  ‘Let’s say Nezatron is wrong and Travis is actually spying on you. So what are we going to do?’ Lincoln asked.

  ‘Well, Nezatron told me right before I left that if someone was teleporting on Earth and leaving singed grass behind, the port had to be local. He said that type of heat was only generated by using a port within the perimeter of a vessel. Nezatron searched my street for heat signatures and found nothing. He brushes it off, but I think there was a ship, and it must have been cloaked or something. We need to work fast, and we need to find someone today. Did you come up with a plan?’

  ‘I did, my good ol’ pal. So here it is. . .’

  Lincoln told me that the first stage of the recruitment operation, was compiling a list of the individuals whom we would engage, because some people just might not be able to believe our bizarre pitch, or even give us the time of day.

  Once we completed the list, we needed to cross-reference with Nezatron, and eliminate possible candidates who were not of outstanding integrity. Then, we needed to approach them to do our own hands-on detective work.

  For that, Lincoln brushed up on his knowledge of the literature of Sun Tzu. I definitely expected Lincoln to have read that classic, because he was always quoting ancient philosophers. Sun Tzu was his absolute favorite. In The Art of War, Lincoln said there were ways of distinguishing friend from foe.

  There were certain tests that we could use to expose the subjects’ moral standing. He was going to use his knowledge gained from that book to aid in finding the three extra people we had currently lacked.

  The first person on our list was Liam McCaffrey. Liam made the list for his physical attributes. He was seventeen and worked as a dishwasher at a hole-in-the-wall bar called Green Streets. He was on the Triton High School varsity wrestling team.

  See, Liam was sort of an anomaly. He stood at five-eleven, two hundred pounds, and his weight was distributed well. Rather than appearing obese, he was the heavyset type that adults approvingly called “a growing boy” or “has big bones.” He once beat a college kid in an unsanctioned match in my grandparents’ backyard near the wood-line. We didn’t know how the match made its way into my grandparents’ yard, but it was entertaining as I breathlessly watched from the window.

  Lincoln and I did a background check on him to see if he was legit and of good character. Our findings were solid to say the least. Liam was the son of the local minister. More importantly, he helped me personally.

  When I was in sixth grade, a boy came up to me and took my drawings out of my hands. At first, I thought the kids were just having fun with me, and then they crumpled the paper to toss back and forth.

  They were teasing me, bullying me. I tried to stand up to them myself, but all the other kids were laughing and pointing at me. Just when I could not take any more ridicule, and I was ready to walk away defeated—Liam came to the rescue.

  “Like a paladin warrior, he rose from the mob and stood by my side. He told the bullies that if they didn’t give my books back, he was going to smash their heads like little grapes. Throughout the years, Liam made continuous reference to grapes. I figured that he must have sat around squashing grapes all day. I knew that Liam was someone we needed.”

  After telling the story about Liam, I realize I forgot about the nurse. What if she was someone who could help me?

  She had called me Theo.

  I rub my fingers through my hair, daydreaming that the love of my life was caressing my locks with tender, slender fingers and a contented sigh. The coarseness and grease within my tresses defeat my fantasy, and I quickly withdraw my hand in disgust.

  I realize that if I pretend to be a casualty of dehydration, it is possible that the guards will send her in again. I place my hand on the wall and instantly drop onto the floor. I lie there lifeless as before, with my eyes closed and trying to mask the rise of my chest.

  I try not to blink, leaving my eyes white and visible for the cameras.

  “Prisoner, eight-six-seven-five. Stand up and approach the vault. Stand up, you scumbag! If I have to come in there, you are going to wish you were standing.”

  I recognize his tone; he is the troubled guard, for reasons I do not know. Someone must have mocked and bullied him before my time, because he treats me poorly.

  Dejectedly, I acknowledge that the nurse entering isn’t a likely conclusion. As I rise up slowly, I see something of significance. My pupils dilating, I glance away, pretending I didn’t see it.

  “That is right, you punk! I knew you would get up,” the disgruntled guard says.

  “He’d probably kick your ass if he wasn’t locked up, Shifty!” the veteran guard yells.

  “I will write you up for using my real name!”

  “Go ahead, how many times have you ratted on someone up around here? And when has anything come of it? Leave the prisoner be, or I will write you up.”

  Their verbal squabble continues, but it ends for me, because the view box closes.

  I decide to wait until the moment is right, to see what is on my floor, but to ensure its safety, I lie down near it to shield it with my body. Grabbing my tablet, I pick up where I left off:

  “Ah hell, where was I? I said something about remembering, and then, oh yes, grapes—that’s it. Liam McCaffrey.”

  We arrived at Liam’s house. His home was the only residence in our area that still had a functioning farm—one of those small one-acre “hobby farms” favored by some suburban families seeking to offset their taxable income. For homecoming one year, a group of teens kidnapped a goat from Liam’s farm, and streaked across the football field in loin clothes, tugging onto the recalcitrant goat with a rope as they did so. It was very entertaining. Thankfully, they returned the goat unharmed.

  It was during the day that Lincoln and I first approached Liam’s house to seek his interest. The wind was gusting, and Lincoln kept losing a ridiculous bandana he was trying to wear.

  We walked down that block many times before to feed their animals. The McCaffrey house was quite the novelty. They had five goats, ten sheep and two ponies. The ponies were usually locked up. The one time I did see them, they looked like over-fed dogs, as if they just sat and ate all day.

  We cautiously walked up to Liam’s house. The driveway was gravel and was almost swallowed by brush. I could not see the driveway from the street, because of the thick cover that smothered it.

  We took care; there was no telling how they might behave once we walked up to their house. We didn’t really know them well enough to make an accurate judgment. As we approached, I heard shouting from within the house.

  Through the window, I saw Liam’s mother, Mrs. McCaffrey darting around on the main floor. She was gesturing with her hands erratically. Her scraggly locks, rusty orange in color, curled wildly off her shoulders. Her eyes were freakishly blue and mesmerizing. She seemed so intensely immersed in whatever she was engaged in. Lincoln looked over at me for guidance before he knocked. I gave him the signal.

  ‘Honey! Will you get that please? Hon, will you get the door,’ a man’s voice shouted from the second floor.

  The front door swung open so abruptly, that we felt an inward draft breezing by the skin on our faces and upper arms. Just as quickly, the door slammed as Mrs. McCaffrey burst outside and closed it behind her. In her haste, she nearly thrust her body at us, so off-balance was she, breathing deeply.

  She didn’t give us any time to manage a simple “hello.”

  ‘Okay boys, I want you to stand here,’ she said, pulling me over toward the plastic flamingos scattered about on the coarse lawn, as Lincoln, puzzled, followed in tow. Her eyes blinking rapidly, she dramatically held out her arms toward the heavens. ‘You both stand over there. Perfect. Now, you will play the role of the audience as I display my affection and distraught mind as Margaret. It is my most emotional act.’

  Lincoln and I exchanged bewildered glances.

  She didn’t seem to notice our reactions. Both hands clasped against her chest just above her
left breast, she acted as if she were auditioning for a role. ‘I am but a weary soul, and my heart is shackled by your love.’ Feigning distress, she brought the back of her hand to her forehead. With a theatrical gasp of air and a scoff, she continued, ‘Now deliver me from this pain. Go, you insufferable beast. Cure the ache in your soul! Begone!’ She slowly fell to her knees and faked some tears, rubbing her eyes with bent index fingers.

  As she kneeled, her gaze reverted to normal, as if she had snapped out of a trance. Quick like a rabbit at dawn, she hopped to her feet. She looked directly at us, just like any responsible adult addressing two kids. ‘Can I help you boys?’

  Lincoln and I looked at each other. Simultaneously, we asked, ‘Is Liam home?’

  ‘No, I do apologize. I so love the theater and that was one of Margaret’s defining moments. I have been working on a play.’ She placed her hands on her hips and sighed, looking off into the distance. ‘Liam is at camp with his father. They will be coming back later tonight. Would you like for me to tell Liam you stopped by, wait, aren’t you boys young to be hanging out with Liam?’

  ‘Yes. Please ma’am, we don’t really want to play with him. We just want to ask him some questions for a project we are working on. We’ll get out of your hair,’ I said, and I grabbed Lincoln to follow me down the driveway.

  ‘I will tell him you stopped by—your names?’ she asked.

  ‘Lincoln Royce and Theodore Crane,’ I said.

  Mrs. McCaffrey’s eyes grew sad. Again folding her hands over her heart, she emoted sincere warmth and sympathy, as if it were her own son that died. ‘You are the boy who lost his friend. I hope all is going well for you. I was deeply saddened by your loss. Jason has most definitely found a place in heaven among angels, and I know he is up there watching you now, as does God. God bless you boys, I will tell Liam you stopped by.’

  She walked away and started-up with another dramatic monologue. Lincoln and I looked at each other again and took off down the gravel driveway. With Liam’s house to our backs, I asked Lincoln, ‘If her husband was at camp, who was the man upstairs?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It couldn’t have been good. He was calling her honey,’ Lincoln said as he shook his head.

  So, now we knew Liam and his dad were at camp. Lincoln and I sized up our progress to date. To recap, we needed three people who were of impeccable character, and had specific skills.

  First, Liam was not available right now, and we were running out of time. Second, we knew that whatever Liam’s mom did, it shouldn’t reflect upon Liam’s character. But—if Liam’s mom was doing what we thought she was, then we need to ensure that Liam didn’t inherit her questionable moral values. We were definitely off to a sluggish start.

  The next boy on our list was someone who had a reputation as a “bad boy.” We knew him better than most people, and we knew he wasn’t actually a troublemaker. He wore this toughness as a façade in order to appear “cool,” designed to hide the true nature of his kindness. He viewed his innate generosity as a weakness, but we viewed it easily as strength.

  He always skated behind a local bread factory by the freeway. This factory, named County Hearth, was probably the hottest spot to skateboard because of its industrial layout, and because it shut down every day at six—allowing skateboarding enthusiasts to congregate there as if it was a shrine. The location, just off the frontage road by highway six-ninety-four, was known for a concrete embankment near the loading dock—perfect for skateboard tricks and stunts.

  People played games of SKATE there. It was a match no different from HORSE or PIG in basketball. The object of the game was to match or better the trick that the previous skater had cleanly landed. If a player bailed or blanked on the board, they would find themselves with the next letter in sequence of the word, as if each letter was a dreaded penalty to be imposed. The first person to unwillingly complete the word, SKATE, would be eliminated from the competition.

  We arrived at the Hearth to shred the concrete embankment with our decks, but all the regular skateboarders were missing. We figured we would get some practicing in.

  I had a banana board, and I was oddly good with it. As if it were second nature, I easily executed the slick motions that awed my friends. A sign of my skill was that grip tape was sparingly added to my board’s front and back ends, both of which curved upwards. Most boards—for amateurs—had the entire upper surface covered with grip tape.

  To do an “ollie,” I would pound the tail of my board down to the ground with my back foot and simultaneously jam my front foot against the roughness of the grip tape. This action would cause the board to rise up, and soar into the air along with me.

  If I whipped my front foot outwards, directing my slide sideways away from the board, I could flip it. It would rotate like a slick bullet shooting through the air, and finish a complete revolution so that I could once more regain the skateboard on the ground. It was a trick known as the “kick-flip.”

  The ollie and the kick-flip were just a couple of “mother” tricks, which would give birth to wide range of more difficult tricks such as backside-kick-flips and others.

  I could not do many tricks, but one of the few I did with superb proficiency was the kick-flip. I would execute my kick flips so beautifully that the board would clap against my tail foot as if wanting to connect to me. I knew it was well received, because people tried to model their flips after mine.

  ‘What do we have here? A couple of aspiring shredders! What is up, dudes?’ Dan asked, as he carved the corner of the street.

  Dan Anderson, otherwise known as Dangling Dan Anderson was sixteen years old, and our next target. Perfect timing. Dan was about the same height as me, which was just over five feet. His hair was brown and mohawked. His shoes had their giant tongues stretched halfway up to his shins. Being an adolescent, his face farmed a bit of facial hair that looked like peach fuzz.

  When Dan was fourteen, he was at Fulton’s baseball fields, skating around the pavilion. That day, he took a break to rest his back against the pavilion walls. His friends were standing in front of him, chatting. One of the kids looked over and noticed something that was amusing. Dan had recently ripped his pants on a failed trick and there, draped out on the ground—through his torn up-jeans—laid Dan’s family jewels. They were displayed so prominently and unforgettable, that even Dan laughed at what happened, and he didn’t care in the slightest. The nickname stuck.

  Dan was hard to impress and was volatile. On occasion, he stomped his skateboard in half or banged it against his head if he didn’t land a trick. That was his trademark personality quirk. Our plan for Dan was somewhat weak. We wanted to lure him into a game of SKATE, and impress him with our moves, mainly my kick-flip, and then coax him into our group.

  The one true problem with that mission: Dan was a master among novices. Everything I did, he did way better. He was so good, I always tracked his superb moves and re-framed them into “slow motion” in my mind. He ripped the Hearth apart. He was amazing.

  Three-sixty kick-flips, switch hard-flips, and anything else I could think of, he would accomplish after a few minimal attempts. Let’s face it, he was a pro in the game of SKATE. He didn’t need X73-21’s to soar. That kid could soar on his talent alone, and he flew in a sense that there were grace and beauty in what he did.

  ‘Hey Dan, you want to play SKATE?’ I asked.

  ‘You are damn right I do,’ he answered. ‘I have been waiting all day. Let’s do this.’ He was starving for action.

  For about an hour, we shredded. Lincoln and I lost to Dan, and then we all shredded some more. We two lost and well—we lost some more. It was ugly, and my kick-flips were not bringing in the shock and awe in the way I needed them.

  As the competition ground on, my stomach started to hurt, dismaying me with its lousy timing. Suddenly, my innards felt like they were twisting and imploding within. Constipation was about to burst. I needed a bathroom. There wasn’t a port-a-potty around to tak
e care of business. For once, I admired women for carrying well-stocked purses—they never seemed to be out of tissue.

  A twisting and wrenching pain rose up from the depths of my bowels to haunt me. It was my stomach, and it was becoming worse. I found myself pinching my butt cheeks together to hold it in, but the beast needed to escape.

  I needed to do a major class two upload into the forest. It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill bathroom break. It was a steaming, rolling, and writhing burn that twisted my insides. I had about three hundred yards to the forest, which now looked daunting.

  ‘Dude, I have to go,’ I said, looking toward Lincoln.

  I fervently thrust away at my skateboard, steering it toward my dump destination as fast as I could. My legs felt the burn from pushing against the ground so robustly. I didn’t want to use my X73-21’s because I worried everyone was watching me. The faster I skated, the harder the monster within my bowels tried to breach the threshold. The rough parking lot blacktop sent vibrations up my legs, causing even more discomfort.

  I was about half of the way to the forest, when I began to run, and that was a big mistake. The running churned the movement within my bowels, and then I farted. I was about ten feet from the finish line, and the blast to the insides of the legs of my pants was devastating. My trousers were now one giant stinking, high-to-heaven stink that could kill any cockroaches that lay in its path. I was soiled, and my innocent pants were defeated by one of the fiercest poops known to man.

  There were two semi-trailers affording a convenient cover for my entry into the woods. I took down my pants, removed them, and tried to clean up with some surrounding leaves.

  It was tough because most of the items of foliage in the woods were small and useless. The smell was absolutely wicked and morphed repugnantly into the deadliest of nose burning stenches. I cleaned up my legs and butt as much as one could in my situation, unavoidably smearing some of that brown stuff on my fingers and thumbs despite my best intentions.