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     Creating Caddman
     Part 6: Intense
     by Jeff Pruitt

     Decades had passed into history since a man and his wife had fought their
way through the many dangers on the trail that Ontario Ron now followed.  The
way had been most difficult then, as none knew what was to be gained, if any-
thing at all.  They had strained every fiber in their bodies before reaching
the sacred place at the heart of this land.  And from the graces found there,
a name was bestowed upon the final, most difficult of the challenges.  The
place would be called The Boggs of Zev And Meg Ahart.
     Ontario Ron could feel the superior intelligence waiting for him to
arrive.  For the moment, however, he was bogged down in the Boggs.  He was
chest deep in the seaweed infested water and mud.
     He pressed onward, the feelings in his heart and head too much to allow
him to stop for even the briefest of rests.
     Trudging through the unknown depths frightened him, yet deepened his
respect for the sacred spot that lay just ahead.  He was strong.  He was
strong enough to survive the dangers.  He would survive and join with this
great power.
     Ron closed his eyes and pressed ahead, confident that he would be better
off not seeing the dangers that lay in wait for him.  If the Creator meant for
him to make it to the shrine, then it certainly didn't matter whether or not
he saw any of it.
     He felt the waters growing shallow; the ground beneath his feet growing
firm; the excitement in his chest growing stronger; the sky was even growing
brighter (partly because Ron had opened his eyes).
     There was land just ahead.  Firm ground that lead up a small hillock.
He could see smoke from a fire at its peak, and the unmistakable scent of
barbecued Birkenstocks.  A pair of sandals had died and were being returned
to the Realm of the Sandal Gods.  This was *not* the Finger Lakes region of
New York, where withered Birkenstocks were bronzed and proudly given space on
the trophy rack or on the mantle beneath the ten-point buck.  No, here the
sandals could legally be relieved of their misery, allowing their soles to
travel to the next plain of existence.
     Ron quickened this step, in spite of the aching joints and muscles.

                                  * * * * *

     Dan Salzman walked slowly up the hill out of Ludlowville, New York.  It
was ten miles back to Ithaca; only the next mile of that being uphill.
     His clothes were soaked.  He had not found the Overlord's secret passage
allowing members of his secret club to skirt the falling water, and so he
had attempted to walk straight through the sheet.  He had failed to keep dry
and had even fallen into a small pool just beyond.
     Unfortunately for Destiny, Dan floated slowly to the surface of the
water, and was able to continue his trek homeward.
     Dan knew where he was going.  Certainly not home, itself.  Some people
relaxed best in the recliner with a good book, or in bed, or on a pillow
across from a television marathon on channel 63; but not Dan Salzman.  He
relaxed best at a small bar / restaurant in Ithaca's downtown area, right
next door to a recently defunct pizza parlor.
     He wouldn't stop walking until he got there.
     There he could rest and relax, and think about his new abilities. Other
than the ability to think more clearly, Dan wasn't sure just *what* his
abilities were as a superguy.  But having a tall glass of Rhino-brew could
calm his mind and give him all the answers.

                                  * * * * *

     Dr. Kryshna, the man who had once been called The Overlord, sat on the
floor of the barren conference room in his house on Grandview Drive.  His
employees, Henchman and Hitman, now more useless than ever before since the
death of Dan Salzman, sat against the far wall, bound and gagged.  They would
watch as he created the device that would bring about their own deaths.
     The mechanism was still in its early stages -- there was little to be
recognized yet.  But that wouldn't last for long.
     Dr. Kryshna sat in the center of the room, the many parts and building
blocks scattered about him.  The death machine was multi-colored, its builder
unconcerned with what blocks he used to construct it.  He had begun collecting
parts in his childhood, for childish reasons back then.  In his teens he had
acquired some of the more technical pieces, for young adult reasons like
"cuz I gotta have it" and "I dunno why".
     'Soon', he thought, his prisoners would see just what could be
accomplished with Lego blocks.

                                  * * * * *

     Bear, Jack, and Willie returned to the roadside where Tosha sat with Jen
Gradelli.  The evening was beginning to darken into night.  The nocturnals
were starting to show themselves to the rest of the world; not nearby just
yet, but down the road, near the swamp the peepers were singing.
     Jack motioned his head up the road, then yipped to Tosha.  The coyotes
would be here shortly; they needed to leave.
     Tosha rose, nodding her nose beneath Jen's hand.  She trotted a couple of
steps in the direction of the girl's home, then stopped to look back.  Jen
slowly stood, the lack of strength apparent in her stance.
     Tosha lead the way, slowly back homeward.  Jack and Willie on each of
Jen's sides, and Willie following behind.
     Moments after their departure, a grey coyote crept cautiously into the
grasses on the side of the road.  Seeing the body, it gave a low growl and
turned back to wait.  A second passed before three more coyotes stepped from
the cover of the trees.  They, too, stood waiting.  Their master followed
silently behind them, demanding their respect, and first pick of the night's
offerings.  He was a white wolf.

                                  * * * * *

     The climb was steeper than he'd first thought.  Ron was scrambling his
way up the nearly cliff-like hill with his hands and feet.  All about as he
climbed, rocks began to tumble down from their places, making him worry that
he couldn't make it.
    The powers eminating from just ahead would test the faithful.  Only the
strongest would survive.
    Unfortunately, Ron, a man who refused to wear shoes with laces because
in his dreams Rush had told him not to, was just such a man.  Or, more
appropriately stated:  Ron was a jerk with strong beliefs.
    He continued to climb, gaining the level ground once more before to long.
Ahead, on his right, sitting low to the ground was a signpost proclaiming
"Follow the cobblestone road" with an arrow pointing the way.
    The cobblestone wasn't anything to look at.  In fact, there was nothing
to look at.  Ron could feel the stones beneath his feet, but grasses and moss
covered their surface.
    Along the way Ron stepped off the path many times, but found it easily
once he found he could click the heels of his shoes on the grass.  Rounding
the corner past a particularly large shrub, Ron stopped and goggled.
    There it was!
    Fifty feet ahead sat a large dome tent.  A campfire ring lay just outside
its zippered door.
    He cautiously approached, stepping slowly and quietly across the grass-
covered cobblestones.  At the door he glanced back, then entered quickly and
rezipped the door behind him.
    A small gas-powered heater was pumping out warmth into the tent.  Ron was
immediately beginning to sweat.  One might say that the heat was *intense*.
    The room that he stood in was a waiting room.  A sign on the wall said
"Take a number".  A red, number-vendor was mounted at his left side.  Pulling
the ticket from the vending machine, he saw his number was 18,004,562,834,
which by an amazing coincedence was also the telephone number of a now
defunct pizza parlor's take-out express.
    Ron sat on the only stool in the room to wait.

    Time is a constant.  It never stops (or won't for quite a while), backs
up, or skips ahead a few minutes just for the heck of it.  As we humans know
it, however, time is rather like a maniac on the highways who speeds up on
the dotted lines and slows to a crawl on the solids.  The most obvious place
that people notice the shifting gears of time is at work.  Vacations and
weekends fly along in high gear, slowing for nothing in their path.
    Ron felt as though the engine of time had suddenly leapt through the hood
of Life's Minivan, as the gears suddenly shifted from fourth to first.  Did
anyone know he was here?  Would they call his number?  How long would he be
forced to wait?!
    A four minute eternity passed by before the wall opposite where Ron had
entered opened.  A woman's head appeared.  (We can only assume that the rest
of her body was someplace behind this hole in the wall.)  She brushed the
light brown hair back out of her face.  "Number one?"
    There was no answer.  Apparently Number One had gotten tired of waiting
and gone off to search out some other power to take control of.
    "Two?"
    A small pile of dust in the far right corner concealed a stub of paper
with the number two written on it.  Also in the dust were a ring, several
gold fillings, a surgical pin, and a glass eye.  Number Two had been waiting
a *long* time.
    "Three?" the woman said cheerfully, grinning at Ron as if to say "Yes, I
realize you are the only person here, but we can't go 'round breaking rules
now, can we?"
    Ron knew this would be a long wait.


HOW LONG WILL RON WAIT?
WHO WILL HE BE MEETING?  THE WOMAN?  THE DEVOL?
WHAT HORRIBLE INSTRUMENT OF DESTRUCTION WILL THE OVERLORD CONSTRUCT?
HOW DOES THE WHITE WOLF FIT INTO ALL THIS?
HOW MANY RHINO-BREWS DOES IT TAKE TO CALM A SIMPLETON-TURNED-SUPERGUY?
ISN'T IT AMAZING THAT BOYCOTT HASN'T YET BEEN CHANGED TO PERSON-COTT?

Do not take Superguy while operating heavy machinery!
+--------------------+-----------------------------------------------+
| Jeff Pruitt        | "If at first you don't succeed, wait until    |
+--------------------+ tomorrow.  You've screwed up enough for one   |
| jap11@cornell.edu  | day, as it is." -- H.W. Haeussler             |
+--------------------+-----------------------------------------------+