1 Outtake: A Short Story

"A small and quite a pretty britchka on springs entered the gates of the hostelry in the provincial city of N. N.; it was of the sort used by retired colonels, staff-captains, landed gentry who own some two hundred souls of peasants, and in a word, by all who are a called gentlemen of the middle class… Though two moujiks who were standing at the door of a pot-house opposite the inn, made some remarks, which had however , more reference to the equipage than to the person in it. "Just look, "said one of them to the other, "what wheel that is: What do you think? Will that wheel last as far as Moscow or not? – "Oh! It will hold out, "replied the other. "But it won't hold out as far as Kazan, I fancy? – "It will not," returned the other. "

– Dead Souls -1842- Nikolai Gogol

"Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn, it was met by a young woman whose fetching pale face had the slightest dusting of freckles across her dainty nose; her red hair was pulled back in an intricate twirl except for three spaniel curls dangling down the front, contrasting the blue of her eyes. She wore a white diminty gown, with a rose velvet overdress and long open sleeves in the Muscovite style, her skirts were rouched and fastened at the waist, the skirt fell from her waist in a bell shape, and the full sleeves where slightly puffed at the shoulders. Pinning a darker red pelerine cape across her bare shoulders was a pistol shaped silver brooch. An attentive observer of a disagreeable mien might regard the young woman's clothing as being unfashionably aged and worn. The gently frayed clothes did little for the young woman's social graces but expose her as a distant relation to a minor daughter in far away St. Petersburg. A distant someone of good upbringing and charitable inclinations. Carried under her left arm was a soft parcel wrapped in brown paper and bound by white, twisted cord. The young woman turned her head as she passed the britchka and eyed it attentively; after which she clapped a hand to her wide brim hat (which was in danger of being removed by the wind) and resumed her way…"

– Not Dead Souls -1842- Nikolai Gogol

…The young woman continued her walk at a fast pace, leaning against the biting wind. For now we'll call her Marusya until such time as we are properly introduced. Fortune had been unexpectedly kind these last months. Ever since a chance meeting last fall at a nearby teahouse. That tea had led to drinks; those drinks had led to a dinner party, and discussions after the party had led to an offer. A leading part, one made for her, inspired by her. The following weeks had turned into glorious months. Her feet danced over the cobblestone walk, but they only felt the sanded boards of the stage; her nose ignored the bitter ash from nearby coal fired factories for the perfumed smell of greasepaint. All the struggling, the jealousies, the stolen opportunities were behind her. The forbidden dream of the spot light was soon dawning.

She turned the corner at the markets edge, intending to cut through the wreckage of a long fallen tenement building. Whose blackened timbers and burnt bricks stood as the last witnesses to the misery of winter's cold. Her short cut home. Her reverie came to a crashing halt, along with her footsteps. The shortcut was gone, instead standing athwart reality was a three act story brick building, with crenellated turrets and a sharp peaked roof decorated in greening copper. Marusya stepped back two paces in confusion, and looked behind, along her path, trying to find her misstep. Her mood dampened, the hangover she'd been ignoring as too commonly vulgar began to berate her. As her irritability grew she examined the obstacle. On her left, the intruding building had five stone steps leading up to a shaded glass door, framed in red painted wood. On her right, a large filigreed bronze frame secured an expanse of glass, a window of sizable proportion. Across the window a hand painted arc of red enamel and gold leaf named the establishment; haphazardly. The painted words glitched, scrambled and folded inward against themselves. Cyrillic symbols warred with English letters which argued with French typeface. "disleksicheskoye okno, (a dyslexic window)," she thought, as she climbed up the steps for a closer look.

Suddenly, the red framed door crashed open and a bearded man wearing a heavy fur coat and winter hat stormed out. The stranger was peering raptly at a shiny object held tightly in his mittened hands. He rushed down repeating, "в Москву, в Москву, в Москву (to Moscow)". Unaware of the pending collision the large man slammed into Marusya, cursing her as they both fell. After tumbling down the steps, they untangled themselves in a daze. Marusya's package cushioning the angry stranger and the silver memento landed with a clatter between Marusya's outstretched, stocking enclosed legs. Which were now shamelessly exposed from underneath their rose velvet cage.

Marusya picked up the odd device intending to hand it back to the stranger. The oddity had a solid, purposeful feel, fashioned of gleaming silver, with carved walnut along the grip, Marusya was clueless. She'd known guns since childhood; her grandfather had a good reputation as a local gunsmith. This fakery gave the impression of being a handgun, without being one; the proportions were all wrong, it was flat where it should be round. It looked like an artist's fevered dream of a gun, a stage prop.

Looking along the barrel she spotted some engraving, in English it read Colt Automatic Calibre 45. Turning it over in her hand she began to read Patented Apr 20, 1897… before it was snatched from her grasp. The stranger cursed her, "вы обманываете бродягу." (You bantling tramp.)" The irate stranger grasped her bodice with one hand and while standing, lifted Marusya up alongside him. He said, "Я не могу сэкономить, чернила для воровства бумажная кукла, как ты. (I can't spare the ink, for a thieving paper doll like you,)" and tossed Marusya aside. As fortune would allow, the man had used his left hand and Marusya sailed tail over teakettle through the still swinging door of the inexplicable establishment. A torn parcel quickly followed as a final insult.

A short time later, a befuddled Marusya slowly regained her senses; she absentmindedly wiped rain from her face and pushed herself upright to a sitting position. She found himself imprisoned in a small cage of iron vines and brass fronds. Looking for the source of the rain, she spotted a grinning face, framed by a white mutton chop beard, beyond the bars. Her jailer held a brass canister in his hands, its nozzle pointed menacingly between Marusya's eyes. The jailor's uniform was perplexing. He wore a light brown tweed jacket with red leather elbow patches and dark brown fitted trousers with folded cuffs. A stylish red and gold checkered waist coat and white shirt peeked out from underneath the unbuttoned jacket. He was barefoot. It seemed he had hurriedly dressed. While the jailor peered through the iron hedge, his eyes widened as if he recognized Marusya. She noticed this plainly, the imp's eyes were level with her own, despite Marusya's sitting posture. With an emphatic depression of the plunger, the imp released a gust of spray, dosing Marusya a final time.

A keening voice echoed out from behind the jailor, "Dot, have you figured out when that bastard stranded us? That totally selfish..." As the voice grew closer, the little gaoler frantically gestured at his throat and pointed at Marusya's pistol shaped brooch, while mouthing the words, "скрыть… скрыть!" Perplexed, Marusya gripped the pin and hid it in underneath her left lace glove, her pelerine fluttering helplessly awry. While her hands unconsciously straightened and rearranged her disheveled clothing, Marusya looked around for the voice's master. The little man also quickly turned and came to attention, the brass fumigator held upright at his side, its nozzle pointing towards the ceiling.

The room grew increasingly colder, both Marusya and the jailer could see their breath fogging. The sunlight from the window dimmed, taking on a bluish cast. Echoing at once far then close the voice continued, "… hubristic, unmitigated gall of that man. I'm amazed we survived such an amateurish translation…" A bluish glow appeared and grew in the center of the room. Wisps of vapor gathered about the glow, flowing and thickening about the core light. As the spectral fog thickened it took on shape; a smartly dressed man slowly waxed and waned before the onlookers. The spectral fog wavered at the edges, as the ghost's feet and hands flowed away from sight inconstantly. The diatribe became distinct, demanding, "…into wherever hell we have landed." With an abrupt softening tone the unintroduced ghost asked, "Dot, we have a customer? How can there be a customer? The shop is in a shambles, this is totally unprofessional and intolerable…"

Thinking the tirade would only lengthen Dot interrupted, "Herr Doktor, I had just stepped onto the shop floor and had barely begun assessing our predicament when 'your' guest knocked me over and rushed outside. By the time I had gathered my wits and looked out the window, I saw Anton throw this poor child literally top over teakettle through our front door. Only the vestibule safety cage kept her from flying into the far wall." Chuckling, the ghost said, "Figuratively is the word you shied away from." With a shake of his head Dot replied, "You're forgetting who 'your' recent visitor was, literally is always appropriate in all situations concerning Authority. Ghost doc's silence marked his agreement.

Marusya glanced confusedly between the two strange creatures, "What are they saying? Didn't the little one speak some honest Russian? They're ignoring me, this is quite maddening," she thought to himself.

Speaking to the ghost and with no one able to gainsay him, Dot weaved fiction with nonfiction and continued, "I used the standard tests and came up negative; no reaction to cold iron, holy water, or silver. So faerie, daemons, and shifters are ruled out, its daylight outside so vampire is unlikely. I think she's just what she seems, a clueless mortal. She did answer a few questions and I did parse a clue for our whereabouts before you interrupted me. Based on her attire, I started my questions with the dead white men; the classics often offer answers when confronting man's perplexities. I only got a hit after I Gogol'd her. She smiled hearing my quote…and then finished the quip herself,

"I tell everyone very plainly that I take bribes, but what kind of bribes?

Why, greyhound puppies. That's a totally different matter."

– The Inspector General -1836- Nikolai Gogol

As the dwarf was talking, he'd pick up books from the floor and nearby shelves and glance at their covers, once placing a slim volume in his coat's pocket. Satisfied with another tome, he walked over to the counter and placed the large volume on a book display stand. The very air shivered and Marusya's ears popped. She heard the little one say, "Oxfords English Russian dictionary should do the trick. I surmise we're marooned in Russia, near enough to 1840. I'll learn more after I tend to this poor child, her injuries don't seem to be too severe. Now with the card catalogues cross referencing functions re-initialized getting better acquainted will be much easier."

The ghost moaned fretfully, two pulsing glows spiked brightly marring his chest and marking his agitation. Speaking to the worrying ghost, the gnome said, "Don't fret Tom, I'll see to our customer's health and safety. Don't worry, I'm too old and dwarvish to be interested in any fiddly bits, the proprieties at all times, right doctor? Why don't you check with Martha, I'm sure she has a long list of things, things needful of mending? I can handle things here." After nodding his head in agreement the haunt began to fade from view. His voice lingered saying, "If I spot a redshirt, I'll send it up to help you organize. I doubt I will though, they've become frightfully good at hiding at the first sign of trouble. I swear a burnt out light bulb spooks them."

***

Peeking through the open door you could see the two new acquaintances sitting in a cramped bedroom. A room furnished with a narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a battered sailor's trunk, and one overstuffed chair. Dot sat perched on the trunk while Marusya sat in the overstuffed chair. Her injuries had already been treated and bandaged with pungent ointments and sprays from a white metal box, painted atop with a large red cross. "So many wonders taken for granted," thought Marusya. After quietly tending her hurts and sprains the dwarf looked at Marusya with satisfaction. Reaching into a waistcoat pocket he pulled out a fine linen card, and handed it to her. "I think a gentlemanly introduction is long overdue…my card milady." The card was simple in design, the only flourish being a thin, gold borderline and three curious runes marking the lower left corner. The name was finely engraved in a gentlemen's cursive;

Granger Orville Dot

Propiétaire du Ferme.

"I'm sure you have some questions as do I, but my minds awhirl, if you'll give me a moment to gather my thoughts I'd be appreciative. You might find a few answers and the right questions between these covers while you wait." said Dot. From his coats outer pocket he took out a slim volume and handed it to Marusya. Then from a nearby night stand he gathered a spiral bound note book and a pen and began writing.

While Marusya read, her thoughts became jumbled, her feelings shattered. As her reading progressed there was confusion at first and then joy, followed by consternation and growing denial as the pages turned. Only towards the end of the book did she finally tear her eyes from the pages, shout in anger, and glare down on the torn brown parcel she'd carried all morning. Inside those wrappings hid the promise of her new life. She snatched the offensive package off the floor and tore open the brown paper. Howling, she gasped "…concealing diminty chemisette, its cotton lace hiding a silken promise …" and tore the garment to shreds crying out, "That faithless liar! That murderer of truth! I'll kill him! By heaven I swear I'll have my revenge if I have to tear out his lying throat with my own teeth. Have you read this travesty of lies?"

Facing Dot, she declaimed from the slim volume,

"Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn, it was met by a young woman. She wore a low cut embroidered gown, and a concealing diminty chemisette, its cotton lace hiding a silken promise. Overall she wore a rose velvet overdress with long open sleeves in the Muscovite style, her skirts were rouched and fastened at the waist, the skirt fell from her waist in a bell shape, and the full sleeves where slightly puffed at the shoulders. Holding a darker red pelerine cape across her shoulders was a pistol shaped silver brooch..."

– Not Dead Souls -1842- Nikolai Gogol

The young woman exclaimed, "That bastard stole my life after swearing I was his muse, after promising me the part of a lifetime. Instead I get a scant mention in the lead paragraph, and my life, my family's history, is bandied about and given to others to say throughout the chapters. He is a thief of lives! The scoundrel didn't even credit my name…I'll kill him twice I swear!" Looking at the shredded clothing in her hands she cried, "The lace framed my face so well, a girl should be allowed some modesty."

Frowning, Mr. Dot simply said, "Writers are thieves and scoundrels, ummm…I forgot to ask your name?" The distressed, young lady looked up, and with a faltering voice, answered, "Anh…Ahhh… Marusya." Nodding in seeming commiseration, Dot said, "Everyone's day has been overturned so I think an extended introduction is in order, listening might help you settle your thoughts."

Taking out and filling a briar, he lit a scratch fire and worked the draw. After a few puffs, Dot settled down and began speaking, "As you've probably guessed we, the building and everyone under its roof, aren't… local. We call ourselves Darlings and we have a holy calling. The bookstore you fell into is much more than it seems. Through its agency we can search out any time imagined or any place recorded. In our explorations we hunt monsters. We are the forgotten people's last hope. With a flourish and bow, he said - we are the,

"Once Upon a Time Travelers And Killers Extraordinaire."

Speaking zealously, Dot raised his voice, "Everyone imagines themselves as the hero in their own story, and the rightness of that thought can lead us to redeem a corrupt world. But there are others opposed to such ideas, dreadful forces arrayed against the idea of any other's heroism. I speak of arrogant bullies that impose their will against the hopes of the few, or the dreams of the one. Their hunger for power is insatiable; it consumes all their lives, all their joys. Insanely, their only ethos is - "in writing you must kill all your darlings," as they misuse words to reshape and mold the world. Can you imagine a world led by monsters that first kill what they hold most dear?"

"Banded together their power is unsurpassed, they call themselves authors, but we curse them as the Authority. Those gathered here are the survivors of that terrible hell; that wanton slaughter. People just like you. We have sworn immortal oaths of revenge against the beasts that tried to murder our lives, and end our dreams. And like a heroine you've appeared at our time of greatest need. An unlikely daughter of none, you're a darling of special caliber. You have a quality unlike anyone I could have imagined. I beg you … please help us."

Whipsawed by emotions Marusya found herself persuaded by the impassioned plea. A strange purpose rose in her spirit, and she said. "If our needs conspire, let our efforts be joined. How can I help? How am I special?" "

Dot exclaimed, "Answer one simple question and your specialness may be proved. What year is this?" Quizzically Marusya replied, "Its early spring, the year of our Lord 1842, is this important?" Dot smiled before he said, "Your importance is bounded by fortunate happenstance, the time between now and a quickly approaching fall day is key. It's important because one upcoming September day your murderer's manuscript will have its first printing, forever altering your life. But before then your actions aren't constricted by his scurrilous hand. Right now your mortal life twists, buffeted by the winds of pending immortality. In this flux words might be unwritten, rules may be broken." Enlivened Marusya asked, "Is too late now, can't my life be saved, the story left untold?"

The dwarf paused in thought before speaking, "There is a little time, man's law is harsh and favors the rich and powerful. Are you either?" Marusya stayed silent and sullen. Dot pondered, "Arson is another possibility, but by now there are so many copies, the Authority's, the publisher's, perhaps there is a printer's composition being readied. No, too much mortal blood would stain the pages in any criminal attempt to undo that tale. There is one hope, with your present circumstance and another's help; we have a fighting chance against such Authority."

Marusya's expression dulled, "Another darling? Are you sure he'll help? Is it the strange ghost from earlier?" "Stay calm, and let me story on," exhorted Dot, he said, "No, our hope isn't with the honorable Dr. Wayne, the ghostly proprietor of this literary public house. This is your time not his. And we can't involve him; he holds an unreasoning hatred against guns and won't understand our need. He might even try and stop us. You've already met our darling and that encounter gives me hope for our success."

So much had already happened that it took a moment before Marusya remembered her morning encounter. She cried, "That hoary, old monster? ... He tossed me over like a cabbage. I doubt if he knows any kindness, so why would we seek his help?" Shaking his head Dot said, "No, not Dr. Chekhov … no, he's Authority, boldly and truly evil, you've already felt that power. The one we need you've held in your hands. The Automatic Pistol, Caliber .45 M1911 with the chrome finish and burled walnut stocks is our darling."

***

Over the course of the following days, with Marusya's help, the public rooms of Outtakes Rare Books and Oddities was readied. The time required was shortened immeasurably after some embarrassed men in unfamiliar uniforms helped with the heavy and high lifting. Marusya thought their clothes were oddly cut, but the material looked soft and comfortable. She thought the peculiar shade of red would accent her hair beautifully and wondered if she could borrow a shirt, just for her own private amusement of course.

Later that evening, while Marusya was settling down with her nemesis' writings… "Dot had said, getting to know your enemy's mind is key," she heard a knock at her door. Without any undue modesty she called out, "enter at your discretion, I'm feeling wonderfully indiscreet at the moment." Gathering his courage Dot peeked in and saw his fledgling waif, sitting comfortably abed, a plate of cookies and half a glass of milk nearby on the nightstand. The book she was holding couldn't hide the red shirt and gold flash she was wearing. "I'm glad to see someone has loaned you some comfortable pajamas," He mused, "I'm just thankful your benefactor isn't a Mirror, Mirror survivor because that would have reflected badly on my care." Marusya ignored him, the amazing cookies allowed her to ignore a lot of things.

Dot began to lecture, "A messenger arrived with a note; our good Doctor Chekhov has realized his error and discovered his predicament. His amateurish effort to overlay a Dewey Decimal Classification shell and control our translation matrix has stranded him twenty years before his birth. The controlling DDC algorithms just don't have the necessary precision to..." Dot stopped. Sheepishly he apologized, "I'm sorry, my only excuse is I do have a certain fondness for red." Beginning again he said, "Anyway I've accepted his invitation for a parlay in two days, which gives just enough time for preparations. The meeting is limited, just between us principals, no supporting characters. But I have an idea that should sneak you past his wariness. Meeting an Authority in his own study is beyond perilous, so I can't let you in on my whole plot. I'll be depending on your honest reactions to disarm his caution. His fear of man's law and Authority's unwritten rules should protect you."

***

The next day Marusya found herself out of sorts. It wasn't because of her clothing, a kind, young ensign had returned her ensemble, freshly cleaned and replicated. Whatever he meant by that, her dress now flowed beautifully, she had never felt so comfortable. She would surely miss this place after tomorrow. She found herself staring out the large window in melancholy. A few customers milled nearby, they wouldn't approach her, and they looked at her with the same mix of curiosity and fretfulness as they did the displays. Marusya felt adrift, she wondered how Dot was progressing.

Distracted from her worry, she giggled as she overheard an argument between an ensign and an officious looking gentleman in the cage. Shaking his head the ensign stated firmly, "I'm sorry sir; it is our policy not to interfere in the management of any society. Your customs and laws; no matter how anachronistic and primitive are not our concern. My scans were anomalous. I just can't allow anyone suspected of being a tax assessor, building inspector, or copyright lawyer on these premises. Regardless of any uncle you claim, or would claim you, you are not getting past this gate. Tell your Uncle Samuil any social lubrication required will take place at a level much higher than either of us. Have a good day sir."

Marusya shivered as she felt a chill invade the room; suddenly standing next to her was a translucent gentleman ghost. His appearance, his cut and style of clothes were strange, but obviously tailored for a person of standing and wealth. He tipped his hat and gave a light bow, matched by her curtsey. "Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Thomas Wayne and I am the proprietor and INC. of this bookstore. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance Miss…" Marusya had a brief puzzled expression before she answered, "There is no need for such formalities, just call me Marusya if you would. I am also happy for this chance to speak, but umm… INC.? I don't understand."

The ghost grinned wickedly and said, "Incorporeal." Marusya looked at him a little fearfully and thought, "There should be a warning label." Then she sighed and said, "I'm not sure I'm allowed to ask but, could you please tell me a little of Dot's history. He's recalcitrant when any discussion turns toward his …story." Dr. Wayne grew still and looked at Marusya sadly.

As he slowly faded from view, his voice was tinged with sorrow, "I'm sorry child but I can't, it's not forbidden, just impossible. Your question speaks to the core of our misery. I can't tell you his story, because none of us own a real story to tell, just allusions and shadows, a hole instead of a heart. The pain that is our absence is the very conspiracy that our murderers plot. Their dark power revolves around that void. We can't tell our story, and we can't escape its trap, the prison that is life plus 70; that is our true exile." Marusya couldn't stop shivering even in the warm sunlight.

***

Dot didn't arrive until late the next evening, "late as usual," he said unashamedly. With a pensive look on his white bearded face he said, "We'll just have to consider it part of the plan, less time for you to worry. I said earlier I have a way to get you into the meeting without arousing his suspicions. I think it will work, but you have to trust me, and you have no reason to. The crucial part of my plan is your changling nature. Right now you are on the edge between mortal and immortal; neither black ink nor white page. The most confusing spaces are at the edges; there you'll find the most danger. At the tree line between forest and field, during the twilight between night and day, or along the shore between sand and water; that is where we will stand.

To help with this I have gathered together two darlings. Holding a leather collar with a brass tag he said, "The first is a darling of rare provenance, the theft of her life came after her death. Her name was Laika, and she was a girl from Moscow and the first Russian to orbit the world. She died painfully during that adventure. To protect the reputation of the Steel Czar, a great lie was told. The truth of Laika's end was twisted to protect a tyrant's reputation for fifty years, long past his death and hers. If you don't refuse your immortal half, this token should work to disguise your outward appearance. Your mortal half should be welcomed by Laika's natural bond; it will accept you unconditionally and keep you safe.

After affixing a red fang to the collar, Dot said, "If our plans go awry, this token will give you incredible strength, enough to confront an Authority for a short while and allow you a chance to flee. It is the bloody fang of Borosaith the Hungry, a terrible wolf whose story was stolen long ago and given to another. A truth only we Old Things remember. Do not use this unless forced, its story is older than man and wild. But if you need the power a drop of blood will release its magic.

The moment had arrived, the decision she had been dreading these last days. Part of her was drawn to see the story's ending, and another feared it. Some endings left a deep impression; they could change a person's life forever. She wondered if she'd recognize herself at the end. Would she see admiration or pity the next time she looked in a mirror? Then she realized, without her knowing when, she had already come to a decision. Marusya placed the collar around her throat and changed. The space about her whirled and shifted, colors churned and the air bled. There was wrenching pain. The beautiful, vibrant girl collapsed with a keening yelp, into a pile of silk and lace. Reaching down amongst the garments, Dot picked up and comforted the shivering dog/girl saying, "The pain was unavoidable, Laika's death was to burn alone and frightened, her spirit couldn't shield you from that truth.

"I'll loosen the collar so you can work it off later. After we've entered the lion's den, I'll find an excuse and get you out of sight, so you can search for our prize secretly." After some final preparations, Dot now properly dressed for an evening stroll, placed a leash on Laika's collar and left the bookstore quietly and unobserved.

Marusya's mind was running around haphazardly and her body followed. The surprise, the smells were overwhelming at first, she would have lost her way, if not for the support of something with her, protecting her and loving her. Her body felt a natural inclination to submit to that ghostly presence and after a long walk through a nearby park, her mind followed. Surprisingly, after her mind had calmed the presence retreated, it seemed happiest following at her heel. With a light growl and nip Marusya settled into her role and followed Dot's lead out of the park.

***

After knocking, and an interminable wait, the door opened. Anton Chekhov stood against them and didn't like what he witnessed. He challenged, "You're late and you're not alone!" Dot snorted, "Nothing to be done." And after tugging on the leash he said, "A person of my stature gets too many sidelong glances; I've found a pretty bitch can be quite distracting in my walks." Chekhov knelt down and petted the growling dog, "If it bites it stays outside," he warned. "It has the heat of life, but I smell a touch of ink. I think Gogol's garrulous hand has petted this cur. I've spotted his outlandish, ink droppings splattered about this village, the fop spills ink by the barrel." Deciding, he said, "It's harmless enough, feel free to enter paper warrior."

After settling down in a rear parlor, with a few bottles of vodka and two glasses, the two stared at each other silently. Dot reached into a vest pocket and pulled out an unopened box of Bicycle playing cards, the spade of aces prominent on its cover. A folded pamphlet fell from his pocket, onto the floor by his foot. Resting nearby, Marusya spotted the exposed cover page, "Поход Годо (The Wanderings of Godo)." After retrieving the pamphlet and placing it face down on the table Dot took out an old fountain pen and wrote a number at the top. Dot said, "I still hold your markers, care to continue our game? If you can overcome your ill luck, you might bleed me enough for your translation home. Just think of it as more grist for your ink stone."

Cards were shuffled and cut, pasteboard fates spun out from a paper hand. Each player, the living author and the unwritten cipher tried to get a read on the other. They were surprisingly well matched; a life well examined struggling against an unknown fate. The showdown dragged on for hours, the growing black scratches marking times passage.

After enough vodka, Dot broke his silence with an aside, "It wounded me, your earlier comment. Especially since you know my lateness is a curse, nothing can be done. I might have arrived earlier but an errand delayed me. I was burgling a young woman's apartment and it took some time to find my prize. I knew no writer could help himself, and a girl couldn't help but keep them. It may interest you to know, I found a trove of billet doux, love letters from Nikolai Gogol to some forgotten tart."

A sudden growling was heard from below. The sleepy dog bounced to her feet, barked and bit Dot's ankle. Snatching the noisy puppy, Dot exclaimed, "You've been ignored to long, I'll leash you outside so you can tend to your own business."

When Dot returned, the atmosphere had changed, grown charged. "So he's your target," asked Anton? How could… did my fumbling somehow advance your design? …or was it all part of a larger?…" Chekhov's thoughts raced ahead. Grimacing, he muttered, "I thought we had a truce, your gift was touching. But I see it was all deception, you're a cruel and petty man." Dot puffed on his briar before answering, "Perceptive, but your only partially right, and that wrongness gives me an edge. Because I know your heart and mine is hidden from your sight"

From the front of the house a thump was heard, and Marusya called out, "Dot, it's here, it practically fell into my hands. It was in his coat pocket." Upending the table, Anton pinned Dot against the wall, stunning him before Anton rushed toward the thief's call. Roaring in anger he thundered into the entrance hall and halted, surprised by the intruder. A barely covered, mere slip of a woman, struggled with his heavy fur coat. Her bare legs exposed, the coat fell off behind her, trailing along her path. As she struggled she held his gun in her left hand.

A gift, one he thought of as a peace offering was now a trap, a sword of Damocles with eight shots. It was pointed at him. Ignoring the quick, short steps stumbling behind him Chekhov rushed toward the girl.

Marusya raised the gun and pointed it at the charging monster, she pulled the trigger and heard it click… it was powerless in her hands. Anton grabbed the pistol with his right hand, and backhanded the thief with his left. Struck hard, she was sent crashing into the sidewall, dazing her soundly. Grasping her red hair by the nape, Anton pulled her up, off her feet. Placing the gun down, he glanced behind himself to see Dot curled up upon himself shivering. Satisfied he reached into a pocket and after withdrawing something silver said, "You probably won't understand the irony…but a writer granted a reprieve by a missing magazine is delightful." Chekhov tensed and slammed Marusya against the wall, shattering a mirror. Behind him unseen, Dot scribbled frantically, his strange runes marring the pamphlet in black. Dot stabbed his offhand repeatedly, dipping the pen's nib in his small ink stained palm.

Holding the magazine close to Marusya's face Anton shouted, "Do you see his treachery? Look closely at the inscription, he even signed his duplicity." Engraved along the magazine's side was an inscription in French,

"To Anton Chekhov - There are no words."

In her pain Marusya cried, "French? I don't understand… I can't read…" Exasperated Anton slid her face across the broken mirror, "The period, you useless tart..the period." he screamed! Dropping her to the ground, Chekhov looked for his forgotten pistol and picked it up from the floor. Turning around he faced Dot and looked at him in confusion. The little bastard was ignoring him, sitting hunched over, in the corner and feverishly scribbling. His grimacing face was a mask of desperation.

Chekhov looked down at his hands and loaded the magazine into the butt of the pistol. He pulled the slide back on the Automatic Pistol, Caliber .45 M1911 and released it, loading a round in the chamber. Holding the gun firmly, he raised his hand and took aim; his thumb found and flicked its safety. His hand was steady. As his fore finger found the trigger, he heard a sound behind him.

Marusya raised her head in pain, her vision blurred by blood; she looked around frantically until her eyes fell on the collar. Twisting and moaning, she snatched the collar from the floor and sat upright. She watched the monster walking away from her, ignoring her. Past him she could see Dot, his eyes focused on something beyond her sight as he mumbled. After a brief hesitation, she shook her head and her lips mimed his, "Evil oft Beauty mars." Dot looked up in surprise, caught her eye and smiled. Gritting his teeth he slashed with his inky pen, crossing out and replacing a word. Taking the bloody fang she scored her ruined cheek and roared. Time took a deep breath and held it in anticipation. Her bones cracked, her body heaved and grew, ripping past the confining coat. Red fur bristled and flowed, spreading across exposed flesh. Her hunger exploded. Red of maw and cutting claw, Death stalked and leapt towards Chekhov's back.

Turning to face the sudden sound, Chekhov's face drained white; the unexpected shock stuttered his thoughts. More by reflex than will the gun in his hand exploded in fury. A slash of fire starting low and rising tore across Marusya's body. Plaster chunks exploded from the far wall and ceiling, as the Colt .45 screamed in abandon. In the shortest of seconds, the gun was spent, all it's fury exhausted on the Russian paper doll. Time released its breath. Her strings cut; she fell to the ground moaning, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

From outside the house, shouts could be heard, voices called out murder, called out fire, called for justice. Fortunately within earshot, distant whistles answered each call, quickly growing louder.

From behind him Chekhov heard a whisper. "It is done," murmured Dot. Turning, Chekhov raised his arm again and pointed the .45 at the little bastard. Dot raised his hands, his pen stabbing the sacred pamphlet. "You don't like happy endings," He sneered? You should think. You've broken so many rules, written and not.

He smirked, "If you want to destroy me, you can, you're an Authority. But do you have the courage to flout the unwritten rules? Do you dare kill another Authority's work? Such an affront could backlash against you; eat away at your soul. Destroy you slowly and painfully. And there's the girl, you've forgotten her already. Look back at her do you see spilled ink? Or is that blood pooling underneath her broken body? Whipsawed Anton turned, expecting to see a fading form, a paper doll burning under his authority. There were wisps of black fog fitfully rising, but red blood spurted from her wounded chest. Her heart struggled in pain.

Dot challenged the confused writer, "I hear the militsiya whistles getting closer, so you haven't much time to decide. One more sentence and a door crashes open, they'll find a dead Russian girl and you with a smoking gun, without papers, a stranger in this village. Or we can have a happy ending; with a few added words I can trade this pamphlet for your weapon." Anton felt confused; defeat seemed to hold the only hope. Surrendering he implored, "How is this possible? Why have you done this?

While scribbling a few lines Dot answered,"The how is simple "Gold commands fealty, a print shop will rush a job, work past all hours for one hoarded coin. I had one copy printed of a story I recently imagined, it's ending left unfinished. Now it only needs to be sold for its power to be complete. The why is simpler, "Chekhov's gun is a play's trigger; it will choose a victim, and only its writer can ignore the represented threat. I recognized its choice early. But, I needed the gun to taste mortal blood, by your hand. I needed a sacrifice for Chekhov's gun, because my enemies bleed red. Undoubtedly your gun felt the same need and approved. You're spurning it only made it a most powerful darling."

Anyway, the story is almost complete; I think you'll approve of the ending. Read it, you've paid dearly for it. Glancing over the hastily penned scrawl, Chekhov smiled, "The prissy fool deserves worse." Satisfied, Dot went over and helped Marusya Vourdalak to her feet. Then under the cover of night and a large fur coat, they made their way home.

***

A couple moved silently through a moonless garden. The taller one moved gracefully, her preternaturally sharp eyes and ears guiding her unerringly through the shadows. Behind her she could hear the whispered cursing of her companion, "This path is intentionally obtuse, and I think your being small minded. I've already apologized; you know I had no better option. I had to find a letter in his hand that mentioned your novel. Otherwise we couldn't get here early enough. There were a lot of letters, you should be proud." Marusya snorted, "I suppose the guilty letter was the last one you read? I smelled your scent on every page, you извращенец."

In an upstairs study, a room dimly lit because lamp oil was being measured against vodka, a balding man scribbled onerously. From behind him he heard a growl and then the cold feel of metal pressing against the back of his head. He heard a familiar voice say, "Darling, we have to talk."

***

"… However, as the britchka drove into the inn-yard, it was met by a young man in white duck trousers very narrow and very short, and a swallow-tailed coat with claims to fashion, beneath which was visible a shirt-front fastened with a Tula pin, in the shape of a bronze pistol. The young man turned round, surveyed the equipage, caught hold of his cap, which the wind was on the point of blowing off, and then went his way." Never to be seen or spoken of again.

– Dead Souls -1842- Nikolai Gogol