Carrie Starr and The Rings Of Death

A strange buzzing pierced her ears as Carrie slightly opened her eyes. A disembodied voice said, “Great, you’re awake. Let’s get you ready for your match.”

“I must have taken too many pain pills last night, I don’t remember the bus ride to Philly.”

“Philly? Doc, give her another stimulant. She’s still wasted from the trip.”

A needle pricked her right arm as her pulse started to quicken.

“I don’t do stims, Doc.”

Carrie fully opened her eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the locker room. Pausing for a second, she realized she wasn’t in Philly. Nothing looked right, nothing looked familiar. A small hairy creature stood in front of her, and a giant metallic monster stood behind it. Carrie screamed and then blacked out.

“Okay, keep the Doc away this time. The Earthers don’t have tech like that yet, must have shocked her.” The little hairy creature moved closer to her, picking up her hand and gently stroking it.

“I had the weirdest dream, Uncle Arn,” Carrie said as she opened her eyes expecting to see her trainer, Arn. “I thought I was in Philly getting ready to defend my title.” 

She’d worked the last six years in the World Wrestling Confederation to be awarded the Women’s World Wrestling title, Philly was to be her first defense. She was a legacy, a third-generation wrestler: her father was Rick Starr (“King of the Dirty Trick,”) and her grandfather, Lord Richard Starr (“Ruler of the Royal Dungeon.”)

“And there was a robot, like from Star Wars, only with eight arms and this little hairy Wookie thing wearing an insanely gaudy necklace.” The WWC shows had changed since her grandfather and father’s days: the stories had gotten more bizarre, more surreal, but they’d never included aliens and robots before. 

“Queen Starr, my name’s Stranix375, but you can call me Stran,” the little hairy Wookie thing said as he bowed slightly. “I’m your handler for tonight’s match.”

Carrie stayed still, staring at Stran. “What?”

“I know, I know. It’s a little confusing at first, but you’re the main attraction tonight in a celebrity match.” Stran handled all of the new arrivals— most of them knew of King of the Rings— the Galaxy’s largest extreme fighting show, but Earthers didn’t.

Earth was strictly off-limits, too primitive. They didn’t even know anyone else was out there, and the Galactic Federation wanted to keep it that way. Of all the species in the Galaxy, Earthers were the most unstable. That scared the GF, which also made Earthers the best attractions. The Galaxy wanted to see them.

“A celebrity match?” Carrie still wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or not, but she needed to try to understand.

“More than a match, really, you’re going to run all three rings.”

“All three rings?”

“Right, I’ll take it slow. Normally a contestant only fights in one match at a time, but you’re special, and by fan request, you’re going to fight three in a row.” He smiled widely at Carrie. “This is going to be our most-watched show ever. And that’s saying a lot: back before we had our own studio a rumble match broke loose and they destroyed a whole city.”

Carrie sat stunned, staring at him in complete silence. She was used to the exaggeration common in wrestling, but a whole city was even a bit much for her.

“You should be excited. It is really quite an honor,” he said shaking his head.

“Who will I be fighting?” she asked, still in disbelief.

“The first match you’ll face Serrin the Alterran. She’s a nasty bit of work, but the fans love to hate her, so they don’t mind if the Docs patch her back up when she loses. She rarely loses. Seventy three and nine, I think.” he looked down at his furry hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t really follow Serrin, she’s got no style.” He looked up smiling. “But I can get her actual stats if you need them, Queen Starr. I’m here to help any way I can.”

Maybe she was in Philly after all. Serrin sounded a lot like Mina the Tongan Queen, her first challenger. 

 “If you win that match, then you’ll face Quertxle. She brings in some loyal fans, but she’s an acquired taste. Make it past her, unlikely as that is,” he said shaking his head. 

Stran had watched every one of Carrie’s Earth matches, at least every one that the interstellar array could pick up. Earth’s radio and television broadcasts had polluted interstellar space for years. Earthers, thinking they were alone, had never thought about who, or what might be watching them.

“And then you’ll face Rogoth the Destroyer. He’s the fan-favorite. I mean, who doesn’t love a four-armed telekinetic Arbornial?”

“Arbornial? What’s an Arbornial?”

Stran smiled. “There’s not a direct translation to English. I think it means ‘monkey.’”

“I’m wrestling an alien monkey? What kind of freak show is this?”

“It’s the greatest show in the Galaxy, and Serrin and Rogoth are its greatest competitors.” Stran lowered his head. Everyone knew even if Queen Starr defeated Serrin and Quertxle, Rogoth would defeat her.

That was the nature of the death-matches. The fans loved to root for the innocents, but even with one as famous as Carrie Starr, in the end, they wanted blood. They wanted to see Rogoth rip her limb from limb and devour whatever was left.

“Rogoth? Serrin? This isn’t Philly, is it?”

Stran gently stroked her hand, “Come on, Queen Starr, I’ll fill you in as we get you armored up for your matches.” He started walking her towards the opening door on the far end of the room.

“The Galaxy loves you. We’ve seen all your matches: big fans. Big fans. Anyway, the King decided it was time to bring you up to the big show. We call it King of the Rings, but if you win we’ll rebrand it Queen of the Rings.” They stopped walking when they reached a door with strange symbols on.

“Let’s get you armored up. I tried to make everything in your size. You’re 5’10? 155?”

“150, thank you very much,” Carrie snapped. The door slid open and Stran continued the tour.

“Okay, 150,” he said with a chuckle, “And Stranix297 is my mother, blebliexia.” Stran knew better than to swear in English— the King was probably listening.

He walked her further into the room gesturing past a floating video screen, the VideoTron, towards her wardrobe. “Over here we keep your armor for the fights. We styled it after your normal ring attire, but with some extras.” Hanging in front of what Carrie assumed was a changing screen were silver shorts, a metallic bustier, gold metal boots, gold armored gauntlets, and purple hooded cloak. It looked almost exactly like her WWC attire, except the cloak. She frequently wore purple feathered capes, just like her father, but never with a hood. She was a talented wrestler, but also stunningly beautiful. The WWC cameras loved her green eyes and the management would have never let her cover them with a hood. 

“I’m not little Red Riding-hood. What’s with the cloak?”

“I know that’s new, but I didn’t know who you’d be facing when I got the order to armor you. Your outfit looked great but too exposed. Your head, your arms and legs, your stomach — they were all easy targets.” He smiled as he continued. “The cloak fixes that. It’s fireproof, waterproof, bulletproof – made from the best carbon nanite fabrics in the Galaxy.” Stran smiled widely. Carrie could tell he was proud of his creation.

“It’ll shield you from almost everything.” He took her gear off of its hanger and handed it to her. 

“Go ahead, get changed,” he said gesturing with the gear. A small drone left its perch on the screen, as the screen lit up. The drone’s lights turned on as it began to hover around Carrie. Its camera lens extended from a front mounting with a whirring noise.

“What’s that?”

“Just a camera drone. The viewers are fascinated to see what you look like without the clothes.” Stran started to hand her the armor.

“I’ll wrestle whoever you want, but I don’t do skin.”

“But it’s all part of the show.” 

“I am not just a piece of…”

A voice boomed from the video screen. “It’s alright, Stran. Carrie is our special event; besides, I told the board Earthers are prudish.”

“Whatever you say, King.” Stran backed away, cautiously, as Carrie stepped behind the screen to change.

“What a pleasure, Miss Starr, you have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve spoken with another human.”

“You’re a human?”

“Yes, I’m from Earth.”

She neatly folded her sweats and tank top into a stack on the floor. She was still wearing her sleep clothes. Maybe she was dreaming.

“Is this real?” She asked, not sure if her dream could answer.

“Yes, absolutely real. I’m sure Stran did his best to fill you in, but the Garrus just don’t make clones the way they used to. Too chatty, and not enough depth if you ask me.”

Stran exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry, Stran, could you give us a minute? I’d like to talk with Queen Starr, Earther to Earther.”

Stran walked out the door muttering to himself. “Just because I’m a clone doesn’t mean I’m deaf. Earther to Earther, stupid blaxen carpagie.” 

Stran’s necklace lit up an iridescent blue. “Stran, what have I told you about your language?”

“I’m sorry, King,” was all that Stran said as the door slid closed behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that Miss Starr. Stran is the best weapons and armor designer in the Galaxy, so I cut him a little slack, but we are a family show, and there is no room for his constant profanity.”

“Profanity? It wasn’t even English.” Carrie slid the shorts over her legs, cinching the belt tight. The shorts hissed as they formed a perfect fit around her lower body. “What the?”

“Carrie, can I call you Carrie? There are nanites in your armor. Once on, it will fit you like a second skin.”

She slid on her boots. “Who are you?”

“They call me the King. I run the show.”

“Like Lawler, or Elvis?” The bustier hissed closed as she fastened it in the back.

“Lawler: Elvis was a no-talent bum.”

“So you’re not an Elvis fan?” She pulled the gauntlets over her arms. They felt heavier than normal ones. 

“I appreciate genius, not just hips.”

 “What show?” She looked at the cloak. She wasn’t a piece of meat to be objectified, and more protection sounded better, but covering herself might restrict her movements.

“Like Stran said, King of the Rings. They named it after me.”

“Really?” Carrie still wasn’t sure if she was dreaming but decided to play along. “They named it after you?” Her subconscious had created quite the megalomaniac.

“Before me, it was called Death Game Show. It sounded better in the original Sandoleese.” He paused for a second.

“I was the first human to ever win. That, of course, was before the GC quarantined Earth. I think I scared them. I beat a Mansurian.”

“So, aliens abducted you from Earth to fight in Death Game Show?” When she woke up, this might make a great storyline after Philly.

“Abducted me? No, my life on Earth was over. The newspapers labeled me a killer. They ruin everything. I couldn’t get a break, or a comeback; then a Sandoleese talent scout found me and offered me a deal. The Galaxy loved me.” 

“Where was my talent scout? I’d like to see the contract.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, the GC won’t let us contact Earth, but they can’t stop the TV waves. So our fans want to see Earthers, but we’re not allowed to recruit Earthers. Quite the dilemma. Our fans want what we can’t give them. So we bend the rules a little, and the fans are happy.”

“A little? How’d I get here?” A referee looking away at the right minute was bending the rules a little.

“We abducted you.”

“You abducted me?” Carrie’s body tensed with anger. “What gives you the right?” she shouted.

From her very first day of training Uncle Arn had warned about her temper getting the best of her. “You have to watch your emotions, Carrie. You always have to be in control of them. If you don’t, I can’t train you.”

Carrie breathed deep, steadying herself. “You know people will miss me, you just can’t go around abducting people.” Maybe she wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she’d gone crazy. She’d worked her whole adult life to stand on her own, to be more than Rick Starr’s daughter. Obviously, her subconscious had issues with that. It had drugged her and abducted her. It had victimized her. When she woke up, she knew she’d have a lot to talk about with her therapist. 

“Carrie, as far as anyone knows, you never left. The Garrus are great cloners. Right now you’re in Philly defending your title. No one even knows you’re gone.”

“You cloned me?” 

“I had you cloned, and let me tell you it wasn’t cheap.” He was just like a promoter, always worried about the money. “Before you ask, the clones are exact replicas of the original, right up to the moment the copy is made. Carrie the second doesn’t even know she’s a clone. As far as she knows you went to sleep in the Marriott and woke up at 4 a.m. to hit the gym.”

“So why didn’t you bring my clone here, and just leave me on Earth?” If this was a dream it was starting to get way too complicated.

“Carrie, it’s the protoplasmic goo they use to grow the clones. It gives off an iridescent glow. Humans can’t see it, but a lot of species can. The audience would know!”

Protoplasmic goo? She was pretty sure that wasn’t an actual thing, but she’d slept through a lot of her science classes, tired from her martial arts and gymnastics training. Her dad had never wanted her to be a wrestler, but he hired her the best instructors and coaches to make sure she knew how to defend herself. 

He’d pushed her hard into gymnastics —an Olympic gymnast would have made all his years on the road worthwhile. A few too many growth spurts ended her father’s dream. 

“Okay, King, assuming this is real, what’s in it for me? I mean, why should I perform?” 

“Simple. If you win the Rings, you go home. If not, you stay here. Besides, Galactic Queen of the Rings is a title you can’t earn on Earth.” She looked at her reflection on the back of the changing screen. She fastened the cloak around her neck. It was a different look, but the extra protection could come in handy, besides, the hood didn’t look as bad as she had thought.

Taking a final glance, she noticed the necklace Uncle Arn had given her for her sixteenth birthday. She always wore it, except in the ring, it was too fragile. She undid its clasp and slipped the necklace into the pocket of her ring shorts.

Galactic Queen of the Rings sounded nice. That was a title even her dad would be proud of. She tried telling herself she didn’t care about that, but she knew that wasn’t true. Carrie moved from behind the VideoTron.

“What do you think, King?” she asked, gesturing towards her armor. She twirled around, letting the cloak flow through the air.

###

At first, when she told her dad she was going to wrestle, he didn’t take it well.

“All I ever wanted was for you to be better than me. I owe that to your mother. You had a chance, and now you’re throwing it away to be what, just another ring rat?” 

“There you go again, Dad — the world has changed — and you haven’t. Women aren’t just rats following the talent around on leashes. We are the talent.” She knew every time he looked at her he saw her mother. He saw the woman that broke his heart and left them. She threw her drink on the kitchen counter. 

“There’s a reason you have five exes,” she said as he slammed the condo door.

Uncle Arn, she was sure, felt the same way, but he knew she was determined. He knew her father was stubborn, but would eventually come around. So, he agreed to train her.

###

There was a slight buzz from the speakers on the VideoTron pulling Carrie back from her memory. “The show’s almost live. Head out the door and Stran will show you to the tunnel. Remember, Carrie, a good entrance wows the crowd.” 

“A good entrance isn’t enough,” Uncle Arn would say, “it’s your close that sells the crowd and creates your fans.”

Stran greeted her as she entered the hallway outside of the door.

“Squeeze your fists twice quickly,” he said. She stopped walking and squeezed them. A dart, about the size of a pencil, projected from her left hand, and a buzz saw from her right.

“The fans love the gadgets, added those myself,” Stran said proudly. “You only have three exploding darts, so use them when you have to.”

She wondered if they had confused her with James Bond. “How do I use them?” she asked.

“Easy, squeeze your fist twice to activate, point at your target, then open your hand quickly. The dart will do the rest.”

 A greenish rat scurried past them in the hallway. Carrie flinched. “Don’t worry about the yarboons, they’re everywhere. All they need is a little garbage and air and they breed like crazy. As long as they don’t bite you, you’ll be fine.”

“I won’t bite.” 

“What was that?” Carrie asked.

Stran gave her a puzzled look. “I thought you humans had excellent hearing?” Stran raised his voice as he continued. “I said, don’t let one bite you. Nasty stuff, their bites.” He walked her to the opening of a tunnel leading down at a slight slope.

“He can’t hear me, only you can,” the voice said.

Stran stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. “When you reach the end of the tunnel, wait, there’ll be some loud bangs, flames shooting up, and the VideoTron will pop on. Wait a minute while Joltarn and General Zorrin announce the match. Once they’re done you’ll hear Killer Queen, your intro music. When it starts, head to the ring in the center. The song will stop right after the guitar solo. Look up then, and you’ll see them lowering Serrin the Alterran” 

Carrie started down the tunnel, almost convincing herself this was the weirdest dream ever.

“It’s not a dream Carrie, this is real,” said the voice in her head.

She looked toward the ring at the end of the tunnel. “This is real?” She said.

“Yes, Carrie, very real.”

“Wait, Stran, we haven’t practiced. What’s the choreography? Who wins?”

“There’s no choreography. Just go out there and be the Queen of the Rings.”

“How do I do that?”

“Easy — don’t get killed,” Stran said as he shut the door to the tunnel behind

A strange buzzing pierced her ears as Carrie slightly opened her eyes. A disembodied voice said, “Great, you’re awake. Let’s get you ready for your match.”

“I must have taken too many pain pills last night, I don’t remember the bus ride to Philly.”

“Philly? Doc, give her another stimulant. She’s still wasted from the trip.”

A needle pricked her right arm as her pulse started to quicken.

“I don’t do stims, Doc.”

Carrie fully opened her eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the locker room. Pausing for a second, she realized she wasn’t in Philly. Nothing looked right, nothing looked familiar. A small hairy creature stood in front of her, and a giant metallic monster stood behind it. Carrie screamed and then blacked out.

“Okay, keep the Doc away this time. The Earthers don’t have tech like that yet, must have shocked her.” The little hairy creature moved closer to her, picking up her hand and gently stroking it.

“I had the weirdest dream, Uncle Arn,” Carrie said as she opened her eyes expecting to see her trainer, Arn. “I thought I was in Philly getting ready to defend my title.” 

She’d worked the last six years in the World Wrestling Confederation to be awarded the Women’s World Wrestling title, Philly was to be her first defense. She was a legacy, a third-generation wrestler: her father was Rick Starr (“King of the Dirty Trick,”) and her grandfather, Lord Richard Starr (“Ruler of the Royal Dungeon.”)

“And there was a robot, like from Star Wars, only with eight arms and this little hairy Wookie thing wearing an insanely gaudy necklace.” The WWC shows had changed since her grandfather and father’s days: the stories had gotten more bizarre, more surreal, but they’d never included aliens and robots before. 

“Queen Starr, my name’s Stranix375, but you can call me Stran,” the little hairy Wookie thing said as he bowed slightly. “I’m your handler for tonight’s match.”

Carrie stayed still, staring at Stran. “What?”

“I know, I know. It’s a little confusing at first, but you’re the main attraction tonight in a celebrity match.” Stran handled all of the new arrivals— most of them knew of King of the Rings— the Galaxy’s largest extreme fighting show, but Earthers didn’t.

Earth was strictly off-limits, too primitive. They didn’t even know anyone else was out there, and the Galactic Federation wanted to keep it that way. Of all the species in the Galaxy, Earthers were the most unstable. That scared the GF, which also made Earthers the best attractions. The Galaxy wanted to see them.

“A celebrity match?” Carrie still wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or not, but she needed to try to understand.

“More than a match, really, you’re going to run all three rings.”

“All three rings?”

“Right, I’ll take it slow. Normally a contestant only fights in one match at a time, but you’re special, and by fan request, you’re going to fight three in a row.” He smiled widely at Carrie. “This is going to be our most-watched show ever. And that’s saying a lot: back before we had our own studio a rumble match broke loose and they destroyed a whole city.”

Carrie sat stunned, staring at him in complete silence. She was used to the exaggeration common in wrestling, but a whole city was even a bit much for her.

“You should be excited. It is really quite an honor,” he said shaking his head.

“Who will I be fighting?” she asked, still in disbelief.

“The first match you’ll face Serrin the Alterran. She’s a nasty bit of work, but the fans love to hate her, so they don’t mind if the Docs patch her back up when she loses. She rarely loses. Seventy three and nine, I think.” he looked down at his furry hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t really follow Serrin, she’s got no style.” He looked up smiling. “But I can get her actual stats if you need them, Queen Starr. I’m here to help any way I can.”

Maybe she was in Philly after all. Serrin sounded a lot like Mina the Tongan Queen, her first challenger. 

 “If you win that match, then you’ll face Quertxle. She brings in some loyal fans, but she’s an acquired taste. Make it past her, unlikely as that is,” he said shaking his head. 

Stran had watched every one of Carrie’s Earth matches, at least every one that the interstellar array could pick up. Earth’s radio and television broadcasts had polluted interstellar space for years. Earthers, thinking they were alone, had never thought about who, or what might be watching them.

“And then you’ll face Rogoth the Destroyer. He’s the fan-favorite. I mean, who doesn’t love a four-armed telekinetic Arbornial?”

“Arbornial? What’s an Arbornial?”

Stran smiled. “There’s not a direct translation to English. I think it means ‘monkey.’”

“I’m wrestling an alien monkey? What kind of freak show is this?”

“It’s the greatest show in the Galaxy, and Serrin and Rogoth are its greatest competitors.” Stran lowered his head. Everyone knew even if Queen Starr defeated Serrin and Quertxle, Rogoth would defeat her.

That was the nature of the death-matches. The fans loved to root for the innocents, but even with one as famous as Carrie Starr, in the end, they wanted blood. They wanted to see Rogoth rip her limb from limb and devour whatever was left.

“Rogoth? Serrin? This isn’t Philly, is it?”

Stran gently stroked her hand, “Come on, Queen Starr, I’ll fill you in as we get you armored up for your matches.” He started walking her towards the opening door on the far end of the room.

“The Galaxy loves you. We’ve seen all your matches: big fans. Big fans. Anyway, the King decided it was time to bring you up to the big show. We call it King of the Rings, but if you win we’ll rebrand it Queen of the Rings.” They stopped walking when they reached a door with strange symbols on.

“Let’s get you armored up. I tried to make everything in your size. You’re 5’10? 155?”

“150, thank you very much,” Carrie snapped. The door slid open and Stran continued the tour.

“Okay, 150,” he said with a chuckle, “And Stranix297 is my mother, blebliexia.” Stran knew better than to swear in English— the King was probably listening.

He walked her further into the room gesturing past a floating video screen, the VideoTron, towards her wardrobe. “Over here we keep your armor for the fights. We styled it after your normal ring attire, but with some extras.” Hanging in front of what Carrie assumed was a changing screen were silver shorts, a metallic bustier, gold metal boots, gold armored gauntlets, and purple hooded cloak. It looked almost exactly like her WWC attire, except the cloak. She frequently wore purple feathered capes, just like her father, but never with a hood. She was a talented wrestler, but also stunningly beautiful. The WWC cameras loved her green eyes and the management would have never let her cover them with a hood. 

“I’m not little Red Riding-hood. What’s with the cloak?”

“I know that’s new, but I didn’t know who you’d be facing when I got the order to armor you. Your outfit looked great but too exposed. Your head, your arms and legs, your stomach — they were all easy targets.” He smiled as he continued. “The cloak fixes that. It’s fireproof, waterproof, bulletproof – made from the best carbon nanite fabrics in the Galaxy.” Stran smiled widely. Carrie could tell he was proud of his creation.

“It’ll shield you from almost everything.” He took her gear off of its hanger and handed it to her. 

“Go ahead, get changed,” he said gesturing with the gear. A small drone left its perch on the screen, as the screen lit up. The drone’s lights turned on as it began to hover around Carrie. Its camera lens extended from a front mounting with a whirring noise.

“What’s that?”

“Just a camera drone. The viewers are fascinated to see what you look like without the clothes.” Stran started to hand her the armor.

“I’ll wrestle whoever you want, but I don’t do skin.”

“But it’s all part of the show.” 

“I am not just a piece of…”

A voice boomed from the video screen. “It’s alright, Stran. Carrie is our special event; besides, I told the board Earthers are prudish.”

“Whatever you say, King.” Stran backed away, cautiously, as Carrie stepped behind the screen to change.

“What a pleasure, Miss Starr, you have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve spoken with another human.”

“You’re a human?”

“Yes, I’m from Earth.”

She neatly folded her sweats and tank top into a stack on the floor. She was still wearing her sleep clothes. Maybe she was dreaming.

“Is this real?” She asked, not sure if her dream could answer.

“Yes, absolutely real. I’m sure Stran did his best to fill you in, but the Garrus just don’t make clones the way they used to. Too chatty, and not enough depth if you ask me.”

Stran exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry, Stran, could you give us a minute? I’d like to talk with Queen Starr, Earther to Earther.”

Stran walked out the door muttering to himself. “Just because I’m a clone doesn’t mean I’m deaf. Earther to Earther, stupid blaxen carpagie.” 

Stran’s necklace lit up an iridescent blue. “Stran, what have I told you about your language?”

“I’m sorry, King,” was all that Stran said as the door slid closed behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that Miss Starr. Stran is the best weapons and armor designer in the Galaxy, so I cut him a little slack, but we are a family show, and there is no room for his constant profanity.”

“Profanity? It wasn’t even English.” Carrie slid the shorts over her legs, cinching the belt tight. The shorts hissed as they formed a perfect fit around her lower body. “What the?”

“Carrie, can I call you Carrie? There are nanites in your armor. Once on, it will fit you like a second skin.”

She slid on her boots. “Who are you?”

“They call me the King. I run the show.”

“Like Lawler, or Elvis?” The bustier hissed closed as she fastened it in the back.

“Lawler: Elvis was a no-talent bum.”

“So you’re not an Elvis fan?” She pulled the gauntlets over her arms. They felt heavier than normal ones. 

“I appreciate genius, not just hips.”

 “What show?” She looked at the cloak. She wasn’t a piece of meat to be objectified, and more protection sounded better, but covering herself might restrict her movements.

“Like Stran said, King of the Rings. They named it after me.”

“Really?” Carrie still wasn’t sure if she was dreaming but decided to play along. “They named it after you?” Her subconscious had created quite the megalomaniac.

“Before me, it was called Death Game Show. It sounded better in the original Sandoleese.” He paused for a second.

“I was the first human to ever win. That, of course, was before the GC quarantined Earth. I think I scared them. I beat a Mansurian.”

“So, aliens abducted you from Earth to fight in Death Game Show?” When she woke up, this might make a great storyline after Philly.

“Abducted me? No, my life on Earth was over. The newspapers labeled me a killer. They ruin everything. I couldn’t get a break, or a comeback; then a Sandoleese talent scout found me and offered me a deal. The Galaxy loved me.” 

“Where was my talent scout? I’d like to see the contract.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, the GC won’t let us contact Earth, but they can’t stop the TV waves. So our fans want to see Earthers, but we’re not allowed to recruit Earthers. Quite the dilemma. Our fans want what we can’t give them. So we bend the rules a little, and the fans are happy.”

“A little? How’d I get here?” A referee looking away at the right minute was bending the rules a little.

“We abducted you.”

“You abducted me?” Carrie’s body tensed with anger. “What gives you the right?” she shouted.

From her very first day of training Uncle Arn had warned about her temper getting the best of her. “You have to watch your emotions, Carrie. You always have to be in control of them. If you don’t, I can’t train you.”

Carrie breathed deep, steadying herself. “You know people will miss me, you just can’t go around abducting people.” Maybe she wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she’d gone crazy. She’d worked her whole adult life to stand on her own, to be more than Rick Starr’s daughter. Obviously, her subconscious had issues with that. It had drugged her and abducted her. It had victimized her. When she woke up, she knew she’d have a lot to talk about with her therapist. 

“Carrie, as far as anyone knows, you never left. The Garrus are great cloners. Right now you’re in Philly defending your title. No one even knows you’re gone.”

“You cloned me?” 

“I had you cloned, and let me tell you it wasn’t cheap.” He was just like a promoter, always worried about the money. “Before you ask, the clones are exact replicas of the original, right up to the moment the copy is made. Carrie the second doesn’t even know she’s a clone. As far as she knows you went to sleep in the Marriott and woke up at 4 a.m. to hit the gym.”

“So why didn’t you bring my clone here, and just leave me on Earth?” If this was a dream it was starting to get way too complicated.

“Carrie, it’s the protoplasmic goo they use to grow the clones. It gives off an iridescent glow. Humans can’t see it, but a lot of species can. The audience would know!”

Protoplasmic goo? She was pretty sure that wasn’t an actual thing, but she’d slept through a lot of her science classes, tired from her martial arts and gymnastics training. Her dad had never wanted her to be a wrestler, but he hired her the best instructors and coaches to make sure she knew how to defend herself. 

He’d pushed her hard into gymnastics —an Olympic gymnast would have made all his years on the road worthwhile. A few too many growth spurts ended her father’s dream. 

“Okay, King, assuming this is real, what’s in it for me? I mean, why should I perform?” 

“Simple. If you win the Rings, you go home. If not, you stay here. Besides, Galactic Queen of the Rings is a title you can’t earn on Earth.” She looked at her reflection on the back of the changing screen. She fastened the cloak around her neck. It was a different look, but the extra protection could come in handy, besides, the hood didn’t look as bad as she had thought.

Taking a final glance, she noticed the necklace Uncle Arn had given her for her sixteenth birthday. She always wore it, except in the ring, it was too fragile. She undid its clasp and slipped the necklace into the pocket of her ring shorts.

Galactic Queen of the Rings sounded nice. That was a title even her dad would be proud of. She tried telling herself she didn’t care about that, but she knew that wasn’t true. Carrie moved from behind the VideoTron.

“What do you think, King?” she asked, gesturing towards her armor. She twirled around, letting the cloak flow through the air.

###

At first, when she told her dad she was going to wrestle, he didn’t take it well.

“All I ever wanted was for you to be better than me. I owe that to your mother. You had a chance, and now you’re throwing it away to be what, just another ring rat?” 

“There you go again, Dad — the world has changed — and you haven’t. Women aren’t just rats following the talent around on leashes. We are the talent.” She knew every time he looked at her he saw her mother. He saw the woman that broke his heart and left them. She threw her drink on the kitchen counter. 

“There’s a reason you have five exes,” she said as he slammed the condo door.

Uncle Arn, she was sure, felt the same way, but he knew she was determined. He knew her father was stubborn, but would eventually come around. So, he agreed to train her.

###

There was a slight buzz from the speakers on the VideoTron pulling Carrie back from her memory. “The show’s almost live. Head out the door and Stran will show you to the tunnel. Remember, Carrie, a good entrance wows the crowd.” 

“A good entrance isn’t enough,” Uncle Arn would say, “it’s your close that sells the crowd and creates your fans.”

Stran greeted her as she entered the hallway outside of the door.

“Squeeze your fists twice quickly,” he said. She stopped walking and squeezed them. A dart, about the size of a pencil, projected from her left hand, and a buzz saw from her right.

“The fans love the gadgets, added those myself,” Stran said proudly. “You only have three exploding darts, so use them when you have to.”

She wondered if they had confused her with James Bond. “How do I use them?” she asked.

“Easy, squeeze your fist twice to activate, point at your target, then open your hand quickly. The dart will do the rest.”

 A greenish rat scurried past them in the hallway. Carrie flinched. “Don’t worry about the yarboons, they’re everywhere. All they need is a little garbage and air and they breed like crazy. As long as they don’t bite you, you’ll be fine.”

“I won’t bite.” 

“What was that?” Carrie asked.

Stran gave her a puzzled look. “I thought you humans had excellent hearing?” Stran raised his voice as he continued. “I said, don’t let one bite you. Nasty stuff, their bites.” He walked her to the opening of a tunnel leading down at a slight slope.

“He can’t hear me, only you can,” the voice said.

Stran stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. “When you reach the end of the tunnel, wait, there’ll be some loud bangs, flames shooting up, and the VideoTron will pop on. Wait a minute while Joltarn and General Zorrin announce the match. Once they’re done you’ll hear Killer Queen, your intro music. When it starts, head to the ring in the center. The song will stop right after the guitar solo. Look up then, and you’ll see them lowering Serrin the Alterran” 

Carrie started down the tunnel, almost convincing herself this was the weirdest dream ever.

“It’s not a dream Carrie, this is real,” said the voice in her head.

She looked toward the ring at the end of the tunnel. “This is real?” She said.

“Yes, Carrie, very real.”

“Wait, Stran, we haven’t practiced. What’s the choreography? Who wins?”

“There’s no choreography. Just go out there and be the Queen of the Rings.”

“How do I do that?”

“Easy — don’t get killed,” Stran said as he shut the door to the tunnel behind her. She thought as she stood with her back against the door Stran was a bit melodramatic.

The voice in her head responded, “It’s a death-match.”

Can Carrie survive? Will she become Queen of THe Rings? What the heck is an Arbornial?

Find out in Carrie Starr Queen of the Rings.

her. She thought as she stood with her back against the door Stran was a bit melodramatic.

The voice in her head responded, “It’s a death-match.”

Can Carrie survive? Will she become Queen of THe Rings? What the heck is an Reborn?

Find out in Carrie Starr Queen of the Rings.

Available in E-book and Paperback


Crash on Delivery Chapter 8

Of course the war had to go on despite the quest of the missing Jerry marks. All the next day the Ninth Pursuit went about its chores in the ozone over Europe and were elated with results. Up to four in the afternoon Garrity’s outfit had knocked off three Drachen hot air weenies, a Rumpler, two Fokkers, and an Albatros. Flight leaders reported to Garrity that Hauptmann von Katzenjammer’s circus was still among the missing and that fact had made the going easy.
Still the Old Man could not believe that the Jerry Wing had been cockeyed enough to withdraw the Hauptmann from the sector just when he had been demoralizing Allied winged stock. However, rumors that the Kaiser’s bankroll was getting flatter than a Scotch pancake had been whispered along the front for days. Perhaps the Hauptmann and his outfit had gone on strike.
Phineas Pinkham waited impatiently for the dusk patrol. And Lieutenant Clarence Devine had been gnawing his nails to the quick, although he was not scheduled for the sweep-up hop of the day. He stood near the ammo shack idly smoking a cigarette as Captain Howell, Phineas, and Bump climbed into their respective battle wagons. When the Pinkham Spad with its galloping dominoes insignia kissed the tarmac good-bye, Clarence hopped away in search of the Equipment Officer. Astride a mechanical bug, he rode toward Bar-leDuc muttering: “Smart guy, huh? I’ll show that speckled baboon I can read his mind. Got a landing field, has he? Engine trouble when he wants it, huh? I’ll have him booked for Leavenworth in ten days!”
Now Howell and his flyers spotted scant few of enemy aircraft on their last jaunt of the day. The one two-seater that they did spot was hightailing it toward Potsdam. Phineas thanked the Boche in the rear pit for shooting at them with his Spandaus although a half mile separated the Rumpler from the Spads. Near Bar-le-Duc he threw the Spad into a sort of fit as if a bullet had nudged its vitals. He dropped out of formation and slid down toward the carpet.
“That wise guy!” Howell roared. “If that Boche lead hit him, then traffic whistles in London scare the kangaroos in Australia. He’s faking. Wait until I tell the Major. I’m still boss of this flight. That’s twenty times he’s ducked out on me since— I’ll burn his pants!’1
Lieutenant Pinkham rolled to a neat landing in the pasture outside of Bar-le-Duc, got out of the Spad, and looked about cautiously. Satisfied, he taxied over to the hollow tree and plunged a hand inside.
But suddenly a triumphant, gloating voice rang out.
“Got you, Pinkham! You’re covered ! Ha! Thought you could fool me, did you? I’m
Lieutenant Devine—of the Intelligence Corps. Step back and keep your hands up.”
“Why if it ain’t Clarence,” Phineas said, feigning frustration. “You sure are some detective. Well, you’re the better man an’—well, a Pinkham will admit when he’s licked, haw-w-w-w!”
Lieutenant Devine shoved a hand into the hollow tree—and there came a sound like a sabre tooth tiger’s teeth banging together. Clarence leaped off the ground and hollered like a wolf with a toothache.
“Ha-a-a-alp! Somethin’—bit—me! Ha-a-alp! It won’t let go! Ow-w-w-w-w-w! Halp!”
Phineas saluted jauntily. “Good evenin’. I bet you will get awful tired of that tree durin’ the night, Clarence, ol’ thing. But don’t feel too bad; lots of bums have tried to match wits with a Pinkham—to their sorrow, haw-w-w-w! If you are Sherlock Holmes, I can milk turtles!”
Having rid himself of a nuisance, Phineas climbed into his sky wagon and pointed its prop boss toward Souilly as soon as he had lifted it out of the clutches of the law of gravity. The job of picking out a landmark near the old chateau taxed the navigating acumen of the miracle man of the Ninth. But he finally sighted an adjacent cow pasture. Then after landing Phineas walked cautiously to the location of his cache and plunged a hand into the hole in the sycamore tree where he had deposited the Heinie legal tender. He pulled out something that certainly was not a trench coat. The fabric was much too smooth to the touch and it seemed to have no end—like colored handkerchiefs being hauled out of a magician’s sleeve. There were ropes tied to it and when the Boonetown sleight of hand performer had finally brought all of it to light, he knew that he was looking at a parachute.
“Huh,” he grunted, “a Boche has dropped in an’ I ain’t got a cake baked. What is he after, huh? What was it I heard about Heinie Staffels not getting paid and threatening to quit the guerre? Hm-m-m—let’s see now. Haw-w-w-w, that is what the spy-droppin’ was for. To get some marks as they have heard about old Bouillon, too. Now if Clarence was watchin’ me, I am sure McWhinney is not blindfolded, either. It is a tough game bein’ a financier. I bet I’ll be jumped on before I get close to that old Frog.”
The errant flyer bundled up the chute, crammed it back into the tree, and moved away. Intuition hit him and he saw a way out. A parachute had come down—but nobody had made one that could take off, he ruminated. A Boche was looking for a chance to get off Allied soil and he must be somewhere about. It was now quite dark and Yankee bat flyers were up doing their stuff. As Phineas retired to a thicket nearby, a searchlight from the front began to sweep the nocturnal ozone with a spear of artificial light. And the sound of bursting shrapnel reached the Pinkham ears while he was hacking at shrubbery with a big jack-knife.
In ambush near the chateau Colonel McWhinney and two M.P.’s were licking their chops. “That was Pinkham, I’ll bet my pants,” the brass hat clipped. “We’ll let him get into the chateau—and then hop him! We’ll get him so cold he’ll have chilblains! Fool with me, will he?”
BETWEEN the chateau and the spot where
Phineas was exercising skulduggery a Kraut was lurking. He, too, had heard the Spad and had poked his bullet-like head out from under cover to watch its fiery exhaust settle closer and closer to the ground. Near his elbow rested a big bundle of Jerry marks. And back in the chateau an ancient Frog was bound and gagged, his beard tied to a chair leg.
“Gott sie danke,” the Kraut gutturaled. “Oudt mit der Spadt I vill go.” He began to crawl forward cautiously.
Phineas was standing on the Spad stirrup placing something in the pit. Once he yelped and put his thumb into his mouth and bit down hard. Then he jumped down and walked away from the battle wagon. Its prop idled lazily as Lieutenant Pinkham sauntered aimlessly toward the road where a U.S. boiler still lay in a ditch quite defunct. No sooner had he climbed the fence when K-4, Potsdam snooper, reached the Yankee bus and hurriedly tied a package to a strut. Then the Junker scrambled aboard and settled heavily into the pit.
“Ow-w-w-w-w-w! Gott! Himmel!
Donnervetter!”
Phineas ran back toward the Spad as the howls assailed the air. “Haw-w-w-w-w-w!” he guffawed. “Blackthorn is the spikiest stuff that grows. I bet he’s stuck up worse than an Astorbilt. Boys, have I got intuition like dames!”
Colonel McWhinney yipped: “Come on! Somebody beat us to it. They’ve nabbed Pinkham. Come on, men. Maybe Devine followed him. Hurry up and get into that car, you dumb—!”
K-4, jabbed in a dozen spots on his empennage, tumbled out of the Spad and hopped around in circles. His painful ululations could be heard halfway to Chaumont.
“Wee gates!” Phineas chortled. “How ist der tail assembly, eh? Don’t make a move, Heinie, or idt giffs der—” He brandished a fence stake and since K-4 could not stop moving, Phineas caressed his noggin. The Prussian folded up like a campstool and the Boonetown conniver promptly sat on him. He was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette when McWhinney and his A.E.F. cops came over the rise from the sunken road puffing like wheezy engines.
“What kept you?” Phineas inquired with a grin. “Where have all you big policemen been while this Kraut was stealing the old Frog’s marks? They are right on the wing there. It looks like it always takes a Pinkham to get Chaumont out of a mess.”
“Well—why—you’ve got a spy there!” McWhinney whinnied.
“It ain’t no boy scout,” Phineas countered. “Load him into that car an’ take the marks, Colonel. You can see that them doughs who escaped that night must’ve come back when we was gone an’ got the marks to the Frog. An’ then the Heinie come along an’ lifted ‘em along with a lot more. I bet there’s a hundred thousand marks in that package. Well, let’s get goin’. We got to see what happpened to Bouillon, monsoors.”

Crash on Delivery Chapter 9

Three hours later a mud-bespattered machine lurched into the drome of the Ninth Pursuit Squadron and pulled up in front of headquarters. Old Man Garrity and Captain Howell were standing on the tarmac looking up at a Spad that had been circling overhead for fully fifteen minutes. Sergeant Casey kept ackemmas burning petrol flares on the ground while he jumped up and down and waved his fist at what they were sure was the Pinkham Spad.
“Why don’t the big lug land, huh? Come down, you bat-eared bum, or we’ll let you feel your way in from memory. What ails that fathead?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out for years!” the Old Man snorted. Turning, he legged it to where five men were unloading themselves from the khaki-hued jilopi. They were Colonel McWhinney, a gesticulating old Frog with a white beard, a Boche spy, and two M.P.’s. The Spad now nosed in for a landing, nearly sideswiped two trees, then rolled the length of a snaky rope of flare fire.
“One of my ailerons was jammed,” he yipped, covering up the fact that he wanted to be sure McWhinney had arrived before he landed. “An’ I’ll bet you wanted to hog all the credit for capturing that Boche, huh, Colonel? Haw-w-w-w! Well, here I am with the marks.” And he tossed the bundle of Boche legal tender at Garrity’s feet and struck a defiant pose.
“Uh—er—yes, Major, he caught the Boche,” the brass hat gulped. “I—er—can’t seem to figure it out—how he knew the man was there—er—put thorns in the Spad and—er let’s go inside and think things out.”
“Oh, it’s simple,” Phineas said airily. “Even to the Intelligence Corps. But they nearly messed up everything. Clarence Devine chasin’ me like that, huh! I had to—er—I was on the spy’s trail ever since that night—er—I got the cow—the cow got in front of the Colonel’s buggy. I says to myself, what would I do if I was a spy an’ nobody could get to me to pick me up? So I did what I thought I would do if I was K-4. Why, I would look for an Allied crate. That’s what the Boche spy did, and I left the Spad where he could take it— even left the prop turnin’ over for him. K-4 made a mistake, though, haw-w-w-w! He should have looked the gift horse in the mouth, as it was lined with them spiky—”
Colonel McWhinney shook his head and muttered: “Somebody get me a drink.”
“Yeah,” Phineas went on, chuckling, “Clarence was an awful nuisance and I had to put him where he would be hors de combat. Babette has rats in her cellar.”
“Now whatinell has that got to do with gettin’ this Boche?” Garrity hollered, jumping up and down with exasperation. “Rats—”
“They catch ‘em with traps big enough to hold a woodchuck,” Phineas replied blandly. “I put one in a hollow tree where Clarence thought I’d hid the marks I—the marks they said I stole. Huh, accusin’ me of—Colonel, you did not do so good, either. You lost those doughs an’ the swag, an’ you was hidin’ out in the woods near the chateau while a Kraut was assaultin’ an’ robbin’ a Frog taxpayer. Say, what is it you have to know to be in the Intelligence? Haw-w-w-w!”
“I will not stay here to be insulted!” the brass hat spouted indignantly. “No, I won’t.”
“Well, who’s holdin’ you down?” the professor of skulduggery, ledgerdemain, prestidigitation, and just plain practical joking, inquired, quite sure of his ground. “And you’d better send somebody out to get Clarence toot sweet, as he must be cramped where he is, Major. I bet you want to know why I knew he was in the A.E.F. police force, too, huh? Well, it was because he looked so dumb. Also when he got into a Spad he wiped off the bucket seat first. And once I saw him try to spin it like it was a swivel chair. Haw-ww! What a guerre!”
“I weel see ze preseedant of all ze Franch!” old Jacques Bouillon sputtered. “I know ze rights. Remembair Lafayette et Jean d’Arc. Ze satees-facse-on from Robespierre!”
“He forgot Madame DuBarry,” Phineas grinned. “He’s got cuckoos in his belfry. I would let him go, if I was you bums—er, officers—as if he takes things to court, Chaumont will find out the things that I am willing to overlook if I am not persecuted any longer, haw-w-w! Cheer up, Colonel, as you will maybe make your mark some day. Boys, I am full of ‘em, see swar, huh?”
“Let me out of here!” Colonel McWhinney snorted. “Let me through there, gentlemen!”
“But don’t forget Clarence,” Phineas trilled.

Crash on Delivery Chapter 7

Forty-eight hours after Phineas Pinkham had returned from his momentous bat patrol adventure, a new flyer reported for duty at the drome of the Ninth Pursuit Squadron. He announced to Major Rufus Garrity that Lieutenant Clarence Devine was reporting for duty. A few moments after that formality was dispensed with, the C.O. brought the newcomer to the mess to introduce him around. When he shoved out his hand toward Phineas his overly handsome pan lighted up like that of a cat that spots a mouse slowed up by arthritis. But the smile did not fool Phineas one iota. He held out his own hand and Devine gripped it. The next second the newcomer started to yowl and began to imitate a man who has pulled on a pair of pants filled with angry hornets.
“Haw-w-w-w-w!” Phineas erupted. “It’s only a buzzer, Clarence. Sit down an’ manjay. That’s Frog language for puttin’ on the nose bag.”
“I don’t like your face, Pinkham!” Clarence Devine snorted. “I don’t like anything about you.”
“Well, I ain’t exactly been standin’ here plannin’ to kiss you, either,” the scion of the Pinkhams retorted. “Huh, you ain’t got no sense of humor, Clarence.”
“That’s enough out of you!” Garrity roared at him. “Lieutenant, pay no attention to Pinkham. You’re here to fly—”
“If you can make a pilot out of that nasturtium,” Phineas sneered elaborately, “then you could knit a doily with barbed-wire an’ a couple of crowbars. Haw-w-w-w!”
Thereupon, Clarence and Phineas reached for each other, and it took the combined efforts of Captain Howell, Lieutenant Gillis, and a few other pilots, to keep the two from a fist fest. Finally, the wonder man from Iowa stepped toward the door, “Won’t let us fight, huh? It’s gittin’ to be a sissy squadron, if you ask me. I’ll see you around, though, won’t I, Clarence?” he called back over his shoulder. “You’re simpully gor-r-rge-eous. Adoo for now.”
Lieutenant Pinkham then went to his Nisson hut to think things over. He knew as well as he knew his mother’s first name that Clarence Devine had been sent to Bar-le-Duc by the Intelligence Corps. Clarence would keep his eyes on Lieutenant Pinkham on the ground and in the air. This was a pretty pickle, Phineas decided, what with an old Frog citizen near Souilly ready to pay plenty of francs for a bundle of marks.
The Boonetown magician taxed his mental equipment to the limit and finally gleaned an idea from its whirring mechanism. Inside of half an hour he was on a motorcycle en route to Bar-leDuc. When he arrived in the Frog metropolis, he parked the machine in an areaway and waited in the dark. Ten minutes later the squadron car pulled up in front of an estaminet that was well patronized by members of the Ninth. Out of the car tumbled three pilots, one of them Clarence Devine. Phineas strolled out into the light and, whistling a popular air, minced toward the domicile of his light of love, Babette.
Once closeted with his fair lady, Phineas asked if rats had been prevalent in her cellar of late. Babette admitted that they had.
“Oui, Pheenyas, beegair an’ beegair zey get lak les chats. Zey chase ze what you call tommychat out from ze maison. I have eet ze very beeg strong traps, aussi.”
“That is all I want to know, cherry,” Phineas grinned, giving her a bunny hug. “I want to borrow one of ze rat traps, comprenny? That is trez good, Babette,” he said as she handed him the spring steel device. “And now if voose avez ze grub, I weel manjay. See swar at the mess I lost ze appetite, oui.”
An hour later Phineas emerged from Babette’s house. Twenty minutes after that Clarence and a couple of M.P.’s searched the place. Lieutenant Devine burst forth with a scratched prop boss and a lump on his noggin as big as a croquet ball. But he had no other marks. Meanwhile Phineas Pinkham was out beyond Bar-le-Duc in a sheep pasture that he had often used as an emergency landing field. He was busily occupied near a hollow tree for fully fifteen minutes.
Then on the way back to the drome he passed the squadron car which was standing beside the road with a flat tire.
“Bong sour, boys!” Phineas tossed out cheerily in passing. “How was Babette’s throwing arm, huh, Clarence? Two flat tires!”

Crash on Delivery Chapter 6

Thirty-six hours later Lieutenant Pinkham dropped off a truck near the drome of the Ninth and limped, sore of foot and weary, past a sentry on the edge of the tarmac. The Boonetown exponent of skulduggery had bundled up his flying coat and was carrying it via stick, hobo fashion. “Huh,” grunted the human watch dog, “so it’s you, sir? We was hopin’—er—I mean we figured you must of ‘went west.’ They was about ready to bury your trunk an’ things, the officers was. They said it would do ‘stead of a stiff.”
“You’re a liar,” Phineas grinned and kept on walking. He trudged to his hut and tossed his flying coat on his cot. Then he flopped down beside it, wishing that he could get fifty cents worth of good old U.S. ice on which to set his burning dogs.
Bump Gillis nosed in a few minutes later and eyed the prodigal crookedly.
“Hello, Rothschild,” the sturdy Scot began. “Where’d you hide the dough, huh?”
“What dough, huh?” Phineas countered. “What’s the idea anyway? I s’pose a bank in Paree has been held up an’ they blame me. I don’t know what it is you are talkin’ about.”
“The Old Man will enlighten you,
Carbuncle,” Bump said with a superior air. “He has been waiting for you to show up. Did you by any chance take a detour around the Alps?” Then Bump ducked as Phineas gathered strength to swing his fist.
Five minutes later an orderly knocked and asked Phineas Pinkham to step over to see Major Garrity for a couple of minutes. The Iowa wonder went to the Operations office and reported that he had come back.
“Don’t remind me of it,” the Old Man
exploded. “How is the big financial wizard, huh?”
“The wha-a-a-a-a?” Phineas gulped. “What’s all the—Why hello, Colonel. You get around, don’t you, haw-w-w-w? You still think I stole them marks when you hit the cow with the jilopi, huh? By the way, the Frog is goin’ to sue you, as after you left me he come along an’ said the vache had a pedigree longer than—er—”
“Search his hut!” Colonel McWhinney of the U.S. Intelligence stormed. “I know he stole those marks, Major. That cow was tied up to a fence when we hit it. It was eatin’ grass in the middle of the road. Whoever saw grass growing in the middle of a road over here the way those trucks have been pounding them the last two years? Lieutenant Pinkham, I demand that you give up the marks.”
“Don’t make me laugh, as when I cracked up I split my lip,” Phineas pleaded. “I never heard nothin’ so silly. Humph!”
But Colonel McWhinney persisted, so the Pinkham hut was searched minutely. An M.P. unwrapped the Pinkham flying coat, then barged out yelling bloody murder and begging some one to unhinge a snapping turtle from his thumb.
“That gives me another idea,” Phineas mumbled as he watched the M.P. dive into the medico’s shack.
Colonel McWhinney finally headed out of the drome. Nevertheless, he still insisted that Lieutenant Pinkham was a crook and that he would catch up with him if it took forty years after the war.
“Stubborn bum, ain’t he?” Phineas remarked to the Old Man as he followed his C.O. into the Operations office. “Haw-w-w-w!”
“Pinkham,” Garrity thundered, “don’t try to kid me. Once there was a guy named Rothschild and he got close to the Battle of Waterloo to see how it would come out. He planned either to buy French Louies or English pounds. Then when he saw that Wellington was going to knock Bonaparte into a cocked hat, he beat it to the Channel, hopped a boat to England, and bought up all the British money he could find. That mean anything to you, you buck-toothed simian?”
“That is a swell story, daddikins,” the irrepressible Yank baby-talked. “Now tell me ‘bout the barber who cut the throats of forty thieves, will ya papa? Haw-w-w-w! You believe anything, too, don’t you, Major? I am gettin’ so I don’t think it is a joke any more. A Pinkham accused of stealin’! Why I’m as honest as they come. I never heard
of—”
“Listen, halfwit!” Garrity bayed. “Ten minutes before McWhinney got here, a couple of war correspondents dropped in and said they stumbled over an old chateau where an old guy was hived up. He asked ‘em did they have any marks to sell—especially the new ones that had the numbers “1½” printed on ‘em. What did you sell that Frog, Pinkham? Cigar coupons or marks, huh?”
“H-huh?” Phineas tossed out, eyes wary.
“What does that prove? I never heard of the old—”
“Oh no?” Garrity snorted. “Well he mentioned your name. The correspondents reported it to Lieutenant Sprinklem. And the old Frog said to tell you not to forget what you said about getting him some more marks. Look here, Pinkham, come clean. Did you tie that cow in the road? Did you sell cigar cou—?”
“I am surprised at you,” Phineas countered. “You—believin’ such things of me, a Pinkham. I guess you need a rest, as your dome—say, why don’t you ask for three weeks off? If you don’t, you will be tellin’ me I am Bismarck next week. Well, I have things to attend to. Adoo, sir.”
The Major ground his teeth and grew apoplectic, but that did no good so he flung a book at the wall. His eyes started out of his head and he groaned when the pages disgorged dozens of important memorandum slips that he had filed carefully inside the book for safe-keeping.
OVER in Alsace a perturbed Heinie Herr
Oberst was conversing with the leading squarehead of Staffel 7, the Kaiser’s top aerial circus. “Ach, der Marks here vill coom in zwei maybe drei Tags, ja, Herr Hauptmann. Alreadty yedt der gross agent K-4 he ist by der lines ofer where ist das Haus mit der Marks. Yoost haff idt der patienze und der chentlemen of der circus vill gedt idt der pay. Ho! Ho! Das ist sehr gut! Den dey vill fly vunce again.”
“Ja? Ve safe der laughs yedt undtil der Marks ve haff by den Handen, Herr Oberst,” growled the Jerry Hauptmann. “No more ve risk der necks for noddings, mein Freund. Der Leutnants dey haff idt der pockets embdy und dey read off der Cherman profit makers vot eat der sauerbraten und drinken vunce der Rhine vine und bouncing yedt der Frauleins by der knees in der beer gartens, bah!”
“But you vill see,” the Herr Oberst insisted. “Der Marks ve vill gedt!”

Crash on Delivery Chapter 5

The pilot from Boonetown now wended his way in the general direction of Bar-le-Duc. But three quarters of a mile of pounding his puppies against the rough terra firma of France was enough for Phineas. And so he tried for a lift, but an assortment of Yankee rolling stock passed him by without a tumble. Deeply depressed by this lack of consideration, he seated himself by the roadside near Triaucourt and set about getting his cerebrum and cerebellum unscrambled.
It did not take long for his gray matter to start simmering and the result was productive of an agreeable change in the expression of the Pinkham map. A broad grin spread his freckles into new areas as his eyes lined up a Frog animal of the genus bos—cow to you—which was grazing under an apple tree not a hundred yards away. To see was to act. Phineas rose and went over to make the cow’s acquaintance.
“Won’t gimme a ride, huh?” he mumbled, cutting the moorings of the moo specialist. “You would think I was reekin’ with leper germs. Well, I’ll git a ride. Come, bossy, that’s a nice dame! Allez avec moi as you can help the Allied cause, Daisy. That’s the old fight!”
The wandering Yank got the cow into the road and tied its hempen necklace to a fence rail. Then he pulled succulent tufts of herbage from the roadside and tossed it to the moo maker. Subsequently he sat down to wait. Soon the headlights of a car cut through the Frog mist around a sharp curve to be followed by the car itself. Mistress cow lifted her head briefly, blinked, then went back to her belated supper.
SQUE-E-E-E-E-E-EK! HONK! HO-O-ONNK! Brakes and horn howled in unison, but the cow was adamant. Its stubborn nature brought it to disaster. The brakes of the Yankee boiler were none too good; Phineas could see that before the radiator merged with the cow’s empennage. The U.S. boiler swerved into the ditch, spilling its human cargo all over the soil of Sunny France, and the moo cow took a brief trip through the air and came to grief against the rail fence. Phineas then saw two men pick themselves up and start running.
“Beat it, Butch,” yelled one. “What a break!”
Our hero having observed the meeting of car and beef strolled over to where three more Yankee patriots were crawling about on their hands and knees. He picked up a bulky object that proved to be a trenchcoat tied up in a bundle. In the light from the headlamp of the wrecked machine Phineas spotted something protruding from the cloth. It was a bank note—a Kraut bank note. The Boonetown hero’s heart started thumping as he kicked the bundle of cloth out of sight into the bushes alongside of the sunken road. Then he turned his attention to helping a man to his feet—a fellow who wore the brassard of an M.P.
“What happened?” Phineas gulped as if he did not know. “Boys, them Frog vaches are tough when you nudge ‘em, ain’t they?”
The groggy M.P. was still speechless, but a stentorous voice behind Phineas made the miracle man’s big ears flap. “You, damn it! You with the fan ears! That cow was tied there—and, by gad, if you deliberately—”
“H-huh?” Phineas interrupted innocently. “You must still be gaga. Where would I git a cow? That is plain silly. I was walkin’ along lookin’ for a street car an’—tryin’ to blame me, huh? Well—”
“You know what?” the brass hat trumpeted. “Those two doughs escaped. We caught ‘em redhanded with a pile of marks. We—where are the marks? Start searching for—oh-h-h—if we’ve lost the evidence, too, we—”
“What a shame!” Phineas exclaimed
sympathetically. “Tsk! Tsk!”
The red tab and the two Yankee doughs hunted all over the road, but somehow they overlooked the depression in Frog real estate where Phineas had kicked the bundle. But
Garrity’s chief pain-in-the-neck cultivated a crop of goose pimples when an M.P. drew close to the hiding place.
“You’re still cold, haw-w-w-w!” the culprit stuttered. “Er—ah—I mean it is cold of a night here in France, ain’t it fellers?”
“They must’ve got away with ‘em again,” the brass hat groaned when he gave up the search and leaned against the fence in despair. “We’ll get busted for this. You’re an aviator, huh? Well, I bet you’re a spy. An aviator with no plane, huh?”
“If you saw an Eskimo in Paree,” Phineas snorted, “you would say he was a fake if he wasn’t draggin’ his igloo behind him, huh? I will demand satisfaction for this. Nobody can accuse an officer of the Ninth Pursuit Squadron of such a crime. It is a fine kettle of smelts, you drivin’ around with no brakes. You have destroyed Frog property!” he added severely.
“Somethin’s rotten here,” the brass hat spouted. “I only wish I could put my finger on what it is. Come on, men, we’ve got to get a lift somewhere.”
“I been tryin’ for hours,” Phineas cracked. “But look! Just in time! here comes a great big truck. We’ll get a ride or wreck the—ugh—Haww-w-w! It is a big truck, huh?”
The truck driver told the stranded ones that he was on his way to Commercy. The brass hat, climbing aboard along with the growling M.P.’s, gave a hint or two of his affiliation with U.S. Intelligence and nodded with satisfaction. Commercy was on the way to Chaumont. Phineas, however, waxed indignant.
“That is out of my way! What am I goin’ to do, huh?”
“Now ain’t that jus’ too bad, Lootenant,” the burly dough behind the wheel sopranoed. “Just sit down by the road, make a wish, an’ Cinderella’ll be along with her coach an’—”
“Fresh bum, huh?” the intrepid Yank bridled. “Gimme your name as I am a superior officer and you can’t insult me an’ get away with it.”
“Marmaduke Q. Windermere,” the dough trilled. “Tooti frutti, ol’ custard!” And the truck lumbered away. Phineas could hear the brass hat mumbling and swearing until it was out of sight.
The Pride of the Ninth then waited ten minutes before he retired to the bushes to pick up the evidence of Yankee dough connivery. Then he climbed over the fence with the bundle and made his way across the pasture to where an old dead sycamore tree stood. Before depositing the coat in a yawning hole in the tree’s ancient trunk, he made sure that it contained the legal tender that was to have sent two financial geniuses to the hoosegow. Yes, his exploring fingers told him, there was plenty of pay paper stuffed inside that trenchcoat!