Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  He hoped that was all the time he needed. He grabbed the side of the beast’s head and used its loose skin to flip up and onto the monster’s back. As it recovered, the Komodo dragon realized where he was and fought to shake him off. He clenched his thighs around the beast and struggled to hold on. He raised his fists above his head and drove them down hard into the dragon’s spine. He struck again and again and again until he heard a sharp crack. The beast collapsed under him, suddenly crippled and dying.

  Across the room, the other dragon roared as it charged Turner, now suddenly alone but for his guards. Sun was gone, clearly hiding somewhere in the room. Good unfortunately stood between the beast and his fellow Secret Service agent. With one great massive claw, the beast sliced him from sternum to hip. Good’s blood flew into the air as the dragon rose over him and ripped a chunk of flesh from his neck.

  Sun rushed suddenly across the room and pulled the stunned Turner away from the beast as it continued toward him. The two shadow warriors raised their weapons to strike at the rampaging monster. The ninjatos proved little more than a nuisance to the dragon’s claws and teeth. It made short work of the two soldiers of the Black Ring, just two more men ripped to shreds by the horrible beast.

  “My Lama!”

  Tsarong’s voice rang across the room. Jethro turned as his greatest ally, his mind once again his own, hurled a ball of green cloth across the room. Jethro leaped into the air, hurled his form up to meet the precious package. He snatched the robe from midair. It flashed around him as he fell. When he landed on the ground, he was dressed in the tattered cloak of the Green Lama.

  He charged the surviving komodo, his hands disappearing into his cloak. The beast’s attention was back on Perry Turner. Turner was at the body of Good and he rummaged through his fellow agent’s remains. Turner came up with both his and Good’s firearms. He turned to face the dragon as it charged toward him. The bullets hit the great Komodo dragon, each blast a flash of red mist across the dragon’s massive form. But the bullets failed to slow the massive beast one bit.

  The Lama struck the beast from the side. The radioactive salts once again coated his hands. The burst of lightning knocked the dragon off his feet. It fell to its side, dazed by the blow. Blood flowed freely from where Turner’s bullets struck. The Komodo dragon moaned and tried to stand, but it was far too late for the massive animal. It was not long for this world.

  The Green Lama’s attention turned toward Vong Den. Turner walked up to stand at his left, guns still in hand. Tsarong joined them to the Lama’s right. They all stared down the leader of the Black Ring.

  “It is over, Vong Den. You have lost. Give up now.”

  “Never,” Vong Den cried from across the room. He pulled a device from his pants, some kind of radio transmitter. “If I die today, it will not be alone. This room is wired with explosives. With just a press of a button, they will ignite. It seems we will all meet our fate this day.”

  “Do not be a fool, Vong Den! It need not end this way!”

  Vong Den shook his head. “It was always going to end this way, Dumont.” He raised the transmitter, his eyes on the trigger. “Good…”

  His final word was cut off by a low gurgle from deep in his chest. The tip of a ninjato blade sprouted from his chest. It turned the black ring around his heart into a perfect bull’s-eye. Blood gushed from the wound as the transmitter toppled from his hand. It shattered as it struck the floor.

  The ninjato was pulled free and Vong Den toppled forward, already dead. Sun stood behind him, gazing coldly down at her victim, the bloody blade still in her hand.

  “Sun, thank god,” Turner said. “I lost you in the mêlée.”

  “You didn’t lose me, Perry. After I saved you, I left your side on purpose.” She dropped the weapon on Vong Den’s still body. “I had work to do.”

  “What? I don’t understand. We came here to save your brother, not kill his kidnapper. I thought we were here to save Tsarong.”

  Tsarong turned to Turner and spoke with calm, quiet words. “I am sorry, friend, you must be mistaken. I am quite certain I have no sister. I have never met this woman.”

  “Then who is she?” Turner said.

  “Magga.”

  The Green Lama’s word seemed to echo through the chamber.

  “You continue to be wise beyond your years,” the woman said with a nod. “Even now, I see you putting the pieces together.”

  “It was you that supplanted our minds. You created the identities of Mike Washington and Ping to hide us from Vong Den and the Black Ring. Vong Den brought the Black Ring here with the goal of killing us both and you knew he would do anything to find us. But his cautious nature meant he would be wary of exposing himself without good reason. So you went and found Agent Turner, convinced him of your love and used him to expose me and, I assume, Tsarong. You knew that Vong Den would not resist the chance to pit the two of us against one another, knowing all the time that you could break us from the spell with just a few words.”

  “Quite close, my Lama. I hadn’t taken into account the full strength of Vong Den’s brainwashing. Tsarong may not have broken his control fully if not for your aid. But otherwise, you are quite correct. You have again shown you possess faculties far beyond mortal ken. But, alas, the time for discussion has come to an end.”

  “Not quite yet,” the Green Lama said. “You knew what you were doing when you created the identities of Mike Washington and Ping. You killed a monster this day, but you are also responsible for the death of two innocent men. You must answer for those sins.”

  “We must all come to answer for our crimes at some point,” Magga said. “But my reckoning will not come today.”

  Her hand flew out and smoke seemed to pour from her very palm. Within a moment, she was blanketed in a thick cloud that obscured all vision.

  The Green Lama rushed forward but he knew it was already too late. He found nothing in the smoke and, as it cleared, no sign of Magga remained but for one. A wig of long, flowing black hair lay on the ground.

  It seemed Sun was gone as well, vanished into the ether with Mike Washington. But his date with Magga would come.

  The Green Lama would see to that.

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  Jethro Dumont and Tsarong met with Perry Turner late the next day. While Dumont and Tsarong needed to recover from their ordeal, not just physically, but mentally and spiritually, Agent Turner found himself at the center of a major investigation. Vong Den’s three concubines proved more than willing to expose every aspect of his operations with only the promise of amnesty.

  They sat once again in the apartment of Mike Washington, one last visit to the scene of the man’s death.

  “It is done then,” Turner said. “The Black Ring is done, dismantled throughout the city. The police and the Secret Service have rounded up dozens of men and women from all walks of life. We’ve got more than enough to prosecute even the richest and most powerful members.”

  “If only it was that easy to stamp all crime from the city,” Jethro said. “But it always remains. Others will rise to take back their place. The Italians already have made moves back into the city.”

  “The Secret Service will be ready for them,” Turner said.

  “As will the Green Lama,” Jethro said. “And I expect you will remember your promise to me.”

  “Call on me whenever you have need, Dumont. But I’ll warn you. I doubt I will be in the city much longer. It sounds like Washington already has plans for me. This kind of bust always seems to be rewarded with a boring desk job, but after Sun…Magga’s…betrayal, maybe riding a desk will be all right for a few months.”

  “I understand,” Jethro said as he rose and took in the apartment.

  “I spent weeks here, but that life is gone, as dead as Mike Washington. It sits on me like a phantom. Mike had a good life
here, a simple life, to be sure, but a good one. For all I have seen in the world, for all the good I have done, I wonder if his life would be more fulfilling than my own.”

  Tsarong rose and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “My lama, a simple life was never our path.”

  “I suppose you are right, my friend. Come, I’ve seen enough of this place.”

  The three men exited the apartment. Jethro Dumont turned and took in the door. He drew the key from his pocket and placed it in the lock. After he pulled it free, he checked to make sure it was secure.

  That door was closed. Mike Washington was gone.

  The Green Lama lived on.

  The End

  Changing Things Up

  I came to a realization as I wrote this story. I’m terrible at emulating classic pulp writers’ styles. As much as I enjoy the work of Kendell Foster Crossen, his style was not meant for me. I had to come at the Green Lama in a very different way.

  The first thing I decided to do was drop much of his recurring cast. As I first came to the character through his later radio adventures, characters like Gary Brown, Evangl Stewart and the like just didn’t hold my interest in the way the simple team of the Green Lama and Tsarong did. With a set-up that involves so many assumed identities I could establish a situation where those other players would not be needed and even set up a new ally for the Green Lama in the process.

  Perry Turner is the character I wished I had more room to flesh out in my tale as the 1930s Secret Service agent had so much room to grow. The Service was an interesting place to work in that period before the rise of the FBI, and Turner has a lot more personality than made it onto the pages of this story as he was pushed to the side by its other players. Should I return to the Green Lama, expect Turner to be in tow. (And the answer is yes to any “Phineas & Ferb” fans that might wonder about the origins of his first name, much to the chagrin I’m sure of any Erle Stanley Gardner fans.)

  Magga will almost certainly make an appearance in any future tales as well, as she proved the most interesting and elusive character from the original pulps. I knew from the get go that I would have to use her as the exception to my removal of most of the original pulp’s characters. She is a character whose motivations and goals I would love to explore more deeply, even as I question whether those motivations and goals should ever really be explored. So much of what makes her great is the mystery, and I’ve seen far too many characters ruined when their mystique is ripped away.

  “The Menace of the Black Ring” is anything but a traditional Green Lama tale, but, at the same time, I think it stays true to the character and his Buddhist underpinnings. Much like the interpretations of the character changed a bit from medium to medium, I hope Green Lama fans can find something to love in my twisted mind games and rotund villain from Jethro Dumont’s past.

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  Author Bio:

  NICHOLAS AHLHELM was born and raised in Iowa where he still lives. He founded the publishing venture Metahuman Press (http://www.metahumanpress.com) and continues to run it. His short work has appeared in anthologies from Pro Se Press, Metahuman Press and Pulp Empire, including The New Adventures of Thunder Jim Wade, Horror Heroes, Modern Pulp Heroes and Blood-Price of the Missionary’s Gold. “The Menace of the Black Ring” is the first of several projects upcoming with Airship 27. His novels, Living Legends and Freedom Patton, remain available at most online retailers.

  He lives and writes in the city of Cedar Rapids, alongside his wife and two children. He has no cats and often wonders why everyone talks about cats in these short biographies.

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  the

  Green Lama

  in

  The Studio

  Specter

  by W. Peter Miller

  Green

  Lama

  Chapter 1

  The Mayan Mummy

  The stone walls of the tomb drip with dew and are draped with spider-webs and fear. The dim light reveals little save the slow crawl of a tarantula. The creature reaches a carved stone sarcophagus in the center of the room.

  The scraping of boots disturbs the ancient silence. The hairy spider scurries out of view. Light appears in the entryway, torchlight dancing through the eons of cobwebs blocking the entrance. A bold silhouette follows the torch: a woman’s form with a torch in one hand and a high caliber revolver in the other. The shadow pauses behind the webs.

  The chamber walls are carved with the smooth art deco-esque stonework of the Mayan people. The intruder throws her torch through the webs. The strands spark and sizzle.

  The woman steps through the sparkling portal, pausing in the dramatic flickering light from the torch at her feet. Her shapely figure wears tight khaki pants ending in black leather boots. Her white blouse is snug in all the right places and her short blonde haircut is tucked under a pith helmet.

  She turns to look at the intricate carvings on the stone casket and smiles a perfect smile. She runs her hands over the carvings.

  “You are finally mine,” she says, looking into the eyes of the sarcophagus. “The Queen of the Mayan Empire is mine.”

  A low moan seems to emanate from the very rock. The woman’s smile cracks and her eyes dart around the room. The moan gets louder, more shrill. Then it suddenly stops. The woman calms slightly. Then there is a sound like a low wind. The adventuress’ hair blows back and she screams, suddenly spinning about. She fires the gun wildly, emptying the cylinder.

  “CUT!” a man yells.

  The woman explorer screams angrily. She whirls around, violently throwing the gun at the faux stone wall. “Where are you?” she shrieks. Her expression is wild, out of control.

  “I SAID CUT!” the director yells, pushing the cameraman aside and running onto the temple set. He is a smartly dressed, handsome man in his early thirties. He holds a script in his hands. He runs up to the woman and puts his hands on her shoulders. She jumps away. He looks into her wild eyes and says, “Fay… It’s okay. Really. There’s nothing here.”

  She looks at him as if he had just slapped her. After a moment, she runs through the cobwebs and off the set, sobbing.

  The man throws his script to the ground in frustration and chases after her. “Fay! Fay!” he yells.

  He follows her through the cobwebbed opening and out of sight. The film crew just stands there, dumbfounded.

  A man with a clipboard steps into the tomb and turns to the film crew, “That’s a wrap, everybody. Call is 8 a.m. tomorrow, rushes will be at lunch.”

  Fay Reynolds, the actress in the explorer’s costume, is sobbing with her head on the mak-eup table. Fay is the biggest thing in Hollywood right now. The tabloids call her, “This season’s ‘It Girl.’ ” Fay hit the big-time fast and hasn’t had time to look back. But something is troubling her now. Something dark and strange that has shaken her deep in her soul.

  There is a light knock and she looks up. Even in tears she is a knockout. “Go away,” she says softly.

  The door opens. The director peeks into the door. “Can I come in?”

  Fay looks at him. Her face softens a little. “Alright,” she says.

  The Mayan Mummy director, Freddy Dmytryk, smiles and enters Fay’s dressing room. Dmytryk pulls up a chair and sits next to her. He takes her hand in his and says, “I don’t know what is happening, but I promise you that I will keep you safe. There is nothing to fear…”

  “Nothing to fear!” Fay shrieks. “You can’t tell me it’s nothing because it’s real. You’ve heard the rumors. There is something… wrong here. There’s a presence. I felt it.”

  He looks deep into her eyes and that’s when it hits him like a ton of bricks. He’s never felt this way before. He has dated a long series of starlets and made many of their careers. He has helped actress after actress get lead roles in his films and in his bed
, but he never felt anything but longing for the next one. He didn’t notice, but he sighed deeply at the realization. He loves her. He smiles and speaks with an unfamiliar sincerity.

  “Fay. We’ve all been working too hard. Let me take you home. You can have a hot bath and get some rest. I’ll pick up some soup at Canter’s. You must be dog tired.”

  Fay looks at him. She softens a little more. “Okay,” she says. “You can take me home. But there was something there. Really. I swear I felt something.”

  “I’m sure you did, Honey,” the director says. He stands and takes her hand. She smiles and feels a little bit of a flutter. Not from fear this time.

  Ice-cold air freezes an exhaled breath into a soft fog as it exits the dark green folds of the hood of the Green Lama. He is perched on a ledge overlooking a man walking down Wall Street. It is dark and the street is empty, not surprising considering the hour of the night and the light snow that is falling. The Lama has tracked this prey for 2 days, hoping to get a look at the man’s boss: the chief of the Tong, the Chinese Mob. They are in the business of trafficking opium and selling companionship. The man stops on the corner of Front and Wall to fish a deck of Luckies out of his pocket. When his coat briefly opens the Green Lama sees a revolver parked in a shoulder holster. The man lights up. He lingers at the corner.

  The Green Lama senses the man is waiting and starts to click a prayer wheel inside his robe. He speaks a quiet chant.

  “Salutation to the Buddha.