Bessed-cellar,kevin sting

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Kevin Sting bluewind@novocon.net

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We welcome Kevin Sting guest and his story:
A hole In The Web



Great story by special guest:kevin Sting

Title: "A HOLE IN THE WEB"

"This can't be happening!! God in heaven no! Please God no!"
He had awakened with a jolt, screaming; but they were silent screams. This was all taking place in side his head. The loud trip-hammer beating of his own heart pounded his brain as the warm red blood rushed through his carotid artery; sounding as if someone had just opened the slice gates of a large dam, just inside his left ear.

The cold sweat breaking out on his forehead builds and quickly runs down toward his eyes like a hard rain on a small window. The building perspiration continues, the droplets chase each other down his face and surround his eyes in pools that seek to enter, to burn and sting the fragile membranes.

"What a horrible dream!" he thinks. Then just as if it were a thin warm mist on an early morning summer pond it vanishes from memory in an instant and is forgotten. He sucks in as much oxygen as he can to keep pace with the trip hammer beating of his heart. He begins to wonder if he's really awake or if this is just another dream or possibly a nightmare. But this time it was awful, he remembered that much. This was not a normal wake up for him; he knew that for certain.

Last night was only a distant memory, but it must have been one of the biggest drunks he'd ever been on. Talk about a hangover! Actually he didn't even remember going anywhere! Still, he must have because he felt like someone had run over him with a truck, then dropped the empire state building on his head. The pain was awful and his head was pounding, and ringing. His body was aching from head to toe. He swore he'd never do something like that again. He knew that whatever it had been, there would be no more, "No more alcohol, no more party, not again, not ever, never!"

He vowed right then and there that if he even thought of taking another drink he'd kill himself first, and if that failed he'd get some one else to do it for him. He really felt lousy today.

Laying there, still immobile, feeling worse than at any time in memory he concentrates on opening his eyes just to test the light of day. His brain commands his eyes to open but they wouldn't budge; but they did burn slightly. "Had someone put something in his drink?" he wondered. He tried again just to be sure, nothing happened. They felt like two large rocks pasted into his sockets, unusually heavy; in fact he could never remember anything like this before. Then he tries a third time, straining with everything he has to open them but they still felt like someone had nailed them shut, as though even the rocks had large spikes driven into them, then directly into his skull. Nothing seems to work and he gives up.

He now tries to move his mouth. He thought if he could say a few words, if only to himself, he would prove that this was not just a dream. He wills his lips to move but they will not, then tries blowing his breath between them but that hurt. It felt as if thousands of tiny little sharp needles had been stuck into them both top and bottom.

Suddenly he begins to remember bits and pieces of the dream he awoke from or maybe into, he wasn't sure about that anymore either. He did remember that there were these mingled muffled quiet sounds all around him; it seemed like a group of people were somewhere in the vicinity, and not that far distant. He could hear voices, different ones, some near, some more far away.

"Could it have been an omen of things to come? He thought. Something about the multitudes coming to worship him and offering gold, silver and their prayers in his honor?" "Yes, that must have been it" he thought. "Nothing more than a small peak into the future." He was just being shown a vision of his greatness and all encompassing powers as the multitudes bowed, then dropped to their knees in his presence, as was surely befitting for a King of his stature."

But he was awake now, he was sure of that, and the dream-voices seemed to be here too; he couldn't understand that part of it. Maybe he was laying in a yard some where and there seemed to be a garden party or a group of tea-time people nearby; he couldn't tell which, because he couldn't see anything. And if so, why didn't these people notice him? Perhaps it was because he had fallen and rolled under a bush and had become too well hidden? He hoped to God that was what had happened. He was in no shape to be discovered or arrested right now."

Without the ability to move he decides to lay there and wait it out. Sooner or later what ever had been put in his drink would wear off and he would quickly and quietly make his escape, but only when he felt this group had ended their get-together and gone home. Somehow he must figure out how he came to be where he's at and in the shape he's in.

With that said, we must go back in time, to another earlier history of how this may have ever happened, and a closer look at this man, Henry Redips, and his life.

Henry Redips had always been working on getting ahead. At twelve years old he had already established himself as a "go-getter," but few people really knew how Henry "went-and-got-it!" It seemed like he always had a pocket full of change, and sometimes some decent sized bills in his wallet. But how did he do it? He was for all intensive purposes only a twelve-year old boy when it all began, It had come to him in a dream one night. But,from what kind of a dream? Or had it been a nightmare, an idea that his unconscious had invented for the entire world.

To know the deep dark side of Henry Repids you would have to imagine some one who could run fast and far considering that he would have been the proverbial traveling salesman trying to stay ahead of a double-barreled shot gun aimed by the farmers daughters father! This would have been even more true if he'd lived back in the 1930's and 40's.

If he had not decided to become "King Of The World" he would probably be someone found in northern Canada or maybe up closer to the artic circle visiting the Eskimos; possibly on a mission to change their way of life in some way. Possibly to make it better, or just cause them think so, as he worked to line his pockets with money. Yes, Henry might be delivering a sales pitch about why they might be interested in the latest model refrigerator and the deal he could get them on it, and this may have been long before that area had any idea what electricity was. But that would not have bothered Henry, he would also have an automatic washer and a Television Set for them too!

But this is not the thirties' and forties' the year was 1999 and Henry was not an adult yet, he was just twelve years old, in the seventh grade and on his way home from school. On his way home with a plan that is! He had worked it out today, all day long, as he moved from class to class, room to boring room. Actually he'd been thinking about it for weeks. Every day as he had walked home from school he had to pass an old Blind Man selling pencils along the way; and each time he walked past he also made sure that his steps took him very close to this old man; that way he could check out the amount of coins or bills that had been collected.

Some days it wasn't very much, but then there were times when there were quite a few coins and pieces of "long green" in that rusty old bent up soup can. Some times there were a few ones, and one day when he'd actually seen a five in there crumpled up near the bottom, that caused his heart to thump. He just couldn't get that vision out of his mind as he headed out of school today.

Now he was on his way out of school with that plan that would or could keep his pockets full of change or more; he walked quickly with a new found excitement. The smile on his face must have seemed odd to the few people who walked by in the opposite direction but he didn't care, this was a good day for Henry Redips. "This is such a good plan!" he thought, smiling to himself.

"That blind man is going to be worth a lot of gold to me, and I'm so brilliant to have come up with this idea!" Henry was constantly patting himself on the back for all thee amazing ideas he could come up with. Today he would take the first step to completing the latest and by far his most ingenious con job, because today he would stop and make friends with the blind man. He would sit down and talk to him, attempt to show some kind of sympathy and understanding for this old mans plight. He might even offer to assist him in some way, possibly to run and get him a hamburger or something to drink. He may even offer to count the money and coins in the can. He would also not forget to hold one large coin back. Then from as high up as he could reach, he would drop it into the can to make the loudest clinking sound possible as it hit the other coins in there. This would be followed by: "There! A little something extra sir!"

The blind man would thank him quietly and Henry would leave and walk on home. Today he would not steal one coin from the old man; that was in case the blind man had some idea of what was in the can. That being the case, it would instill a trust that he would use later to rob the man at least two or three times a week.

That was Henry, the kid who viewed the world as a crow might have while flying over a large ripening corn field; easy pickings, and there for the taking. He saw people in general as money handlers; each one had at least some of that very important commodity. Some had more, some less, but they all had it and Henry Repids spent all his waking hours thinking up ways to relieve them of it.

Leaving Wentworth Junior High today, he skips down the wide cement steps two at a time. There was lots of room on the steps this afternoon because it was 4:30 and he'd just gotten out of Detention Class, the rest of the kids were all at home by this time. "Thirty more hours and it's over." he said aloud. He could hardly wait until that day; this stuff was for the birds as far as he was concerned. Henry felt that it was not right to give him that type of sentence. Thirty days was a long haul for stealing only one lunch, and he'd had to toss away half of it on top of that. Some weird kid had asked his mother to make him sliced pickle on mayonnaise, yuck! But the cookies were good.

"What a farce!" he said aloud. This quiet "jail-time" was senseless in his estimation, and only instituted to be used to clear the mind of evil and punish any bad behavior. But Henry knew that this was not going to work on him one bit, he was Henry Redips career criminal, who one day would make them bow before him, and they could bet the farm on it.

Wentworth Junior High did their best to turn out good students, but except for "mind-control" they would never change the inner workings of Henrys mind if he had anything to say about it. The principal had already told him that he was the fly in the ointment around this school. And he had had a few choice words for that principal too. He let it be known right then and there that if he was a fly in the ointment he was going to be a horse fly and this school would know he'd been there stinging them in the rump until he finally left!

Those words cost him another ten hours of detention at Wentworth Junior High. But they would not forget that Henry Redips had been there, and Henry Redips would not forget the name Wentworth Junior High. Wentworth was not a popular thought to Henry but it was his hometown and would remain so for years. The town had grown since 1929 and 1999 would have made the town almost unrecognizable to George Wentworth, who was the reason it all came about. The town had been named after him and in his honor. Everyone knew that and no one better than Henry Repids, who felt that he spent more time in George Wentworth prison than any human being should.

Now reaching the bottom of the steps Henry vaults across the street in front of an oncoming car and forces it to jam the brakes. He gives the driver a recognizable hand gesture and laughs as he reaches the far curb. On this corner for the past fifty years, "Sally Swanson" had run her little candy store, and still sold penny-candy to this day.

The eighty seven year old widow was famous for her penny candy and for giving the children and grownups more in their little brown paper bags than they ever paid for.

At the moment she was peering out the window as Henry stood and looked at her store window. She could see out though she never left the old worn leather chair that was almost as old as she was. Henry spotted her looking and stuck out his tongue. Sally disliked that boy with a passion. He'd robbed her for years until another boy finally let her know what Henry was doing. She banned him forever from her little shop, and he had never stopped in again; but he never failed to let her know that he was passing by.

He grinned at her and made a few more faces that were really weird then walked away. "Old Biddy." he said under his breath. The blind man was more important today. He wanted to catch him before the old man packed up and went home. Now hurrying on his way he sped up just thinking about what was going to take place later on.

Henry was not a big boy for his age but he was wiry strong, and fast. The fast part came in handy when he had first been promoted to Junior High from the lower grades. The seventh graders did not bother him, because like himself they had been sixth graders last year; but the big-boys (as he called them) were now older and in the eighth grade. They, and the other ninth graders had a chip on their shoulders for the new-kids who had to be taught who ruled the roost here at George Wentworth Junior High. As always there had been a few after school fights at the beginning of the year.

In time Henry was soon left alone because he had acquired a reputation for "biting." It was well known among the other tough students that Henry really didn't pick his spots and didn't care where he bit you. It was what Henry called his secret weapon to get his fighting partner to let go, and to let go quickly along with a lot of screaming, cursing, and yelling. Yes, he wasn't always the best fighter but he was the worst biter, and he wasn't always nice about where he bit you. If you fought with Henry Repids you had to make sure that nothing valuable ever came in contact with Henrys long sharp uneven teeth.

Henry had learned to keep his dirty blond hair cut short during his old scraping days so that his foe would have nothing to grab on to, but now had allowed it to grow out and fall down over his ears. Some of it was straight and some was curly so Henry didn't even try to keep it combed in any sort of pattern. He kind of resembled a wooly dog that had been out in the rain too long and had been blown dry by a northeast wind during a cold fall day.

Still he didn't look all that bad with the silky gold locks that (until they got to know him) thought he looked pretty cute. Along with that his flashing blue eyes he never failed to let you know that the devil was in there somewhere wandering around. One poor uninformed young girl who had a slight crush on Henry even got up the nerve to tell him just that. He listened, cocked his head, paused, then looked at her sort of sideways and said, "You never know, do you Bev?" Then he smiled in his most mischievous smile and spoke to her again. "How about Saturday night then?"

She came to her senses, gave him a surprised look and said, "I think not, Henry Repids!" Then turned on her heel and walked away quickly. Henry had the last word on that situation, "Dumb girls! Some day you'll eat those words, and you'll beg on your knees for forgiveness! You just don't realize who you're talking to, not yet you don't!" But right now he was walking fast, skipping down the street toward the blind man, and smiling as if he was in love with the world, his world naturally. Happy as in " as just- released-from-solitary." Wentworth Junior High, Wentworth Prison U.S.A. How he hated that name.

Wentworth, Pennsylvania had been named after one of the founding fathers that had settled there in 1929. He and his wife and children were looking for a spot that was just as far from the busy city streets of big Chicago as they could find. George Wentworth was sick and tired of paying the men who visited his store every Friday to keep it safe from fires and explosions that went off in other stores and restaurants that had no such protection. It was just too tough to run a store, raise a family, pay monthly bills and pay off these "protectors" too.

George Wentworth felt that Protection money was just another form of blackmail, and it took a lot of his profits he had needed to live on. The little store he ran was never a big money maker; George had inherited it from his father and that was really at a bad time to begin with. His father had died suddenly and left the small vacuum cleaner business and a pile of bills. The bills were finally paid off after fifteen hard years, but the place never made enough money to be considered a good living.

The added responsibility of paying protection money had made things even worse; but it was either pay up on Fridays or look forward to some- thing bad happening on Saturday, such as a fire or something much more worse. George had never missed a payment knowing that a few other businesses had received front-page headlines at various times when owners had refused to pay up.

This situation never changed for George, and the payments were constantly being raised to rob his business of every extra penny it could ever afford and sometimes not afford. One day he decided to get away from it all, and that included Chicago and the big city life he'd tried to make it in. "Let someone else have all the fun. "He commented, after explaining the details to his wife.

Then one warm sunny morning he and his family packed up after selling the little store to a retired zoo manager who wanted to open a pet shop. But not just any pet store. He had already gotten himself kicked out of three different apartments that year and all for the same reason, he loved skunks.

He had acquired a male and female who had no problem reproducing and this came to build the population in these apartments and not only the word, but the odor got out and his days were numbered in each place he rented then sneaked his little friends in later in cardboard boxes. And this was probably the main reason that his neighbors had nicknamed him "Mr. Stinky." Now that suited George to a "T." Let the pay-off artists deal with him and his amorous friends if they wanted! "What a plan!" he thought. And then it was off to Pennsylvania.

He had heard that you could choose where and how you wanted to live there. The big cities were available, but so were small towns and farmlands. He decided he would avoid the city life he had had enough of that living in Chicago.

"But, where in Pennsylvania?" he wondered. Actually, he had no idea! But they had to get there and it would take a lot of hard driving miles. Finally a few days later they entered the hills of Pennsylvania and began the search for what would be their new home. Town after town came and went, small, large, scattered, groups of old homes and some with only one small store. One-horse towns? Those too, and even some with only one stop light or maybe only a single stop sign.

Pennsylvania is a patch work quilt of small towns, large cities, farmlands and friendly hard working good people; doing what ever it took to raise their children and put food on the table. Still, Pennsylvania wasn't the only state that you could find this type of small time life, but this is where they were and it was all out there ahead of them to look at and decide which of those good places that would be the best in which to settle his family.

Days turned into weeks as the miles flew by. Finally two weeks into the long tiring trip they rounded a curve while on a two lane black top road draped in thick lush green forest. The first thing that caught their eye was that each side of the road was lined with evergreens, be- hind them an old forest but rich in a large number of different kinds of trees including polar, spruce, oak, birch, hard and soft pine, and naturally a sprinkling of dogwood among them.

It was a beautiful sight, along with that wild flowers, beautiful in their purple, yellow, gold and white colors streamed along the bur just off the side of the road, this went on for almost two miles and the butterflies that gathered around, on, and over them set off a picture of forever spring time.

The car windows were quickly rolled down as each one of the family took in the fresh country air and the smell of pines, wild flowers the deep woods and it's oxidizing long dead trees. A quiet settled over the car as they viewed the country setting they had come upon as soon as they had rounded that last curve. This was a surprise to all, but a very welcome sight, they had been on the road a long time since driving out of Chicago.

The hundreds of small towns, settlements, and tiny burgs they had driven through and in some cases stopped, or drove around in, were quickly forgotten as one by one they finally drew their eyes from the outside and turned their faces to the inside of the car. No words were spoken, but the happy smiling faces of agreement soon told each that if there was a small town up ahead and it looked like home, then it would be just that, their new found home.

Another short stretch of road just ahead was marked with a sign that said "Dead Man's Curve." Getting closer they see that it is just a makeshift sign put there by local teenagers. Actually the curve wasn't all that sharp but at a hundred miles an hour on a party-wild Saturday night it would become very dangerous; but at normal speeds it would certainly be no problem. The car moved around it very smoothly and as they came out of the last turn they saw what they had hoped for, a small settlement loomed in the distance.

Coming into the settlement they spotted a sign that said, "Hot Food." George pulled over and stopped. Everyone bailed out and it felt good to feel some real mother earth under they're feet once more. It turned out to be a Mom & Pop type restaurant, small, but they had food and drinks.

As the family seated themselves in one of the four booths a friendly waitress with a nametag "Sue" written across it came to greet them. George ordered first then left quickly to walk to the counter. He felt the older man who was cooking and putting things together might have been the owner. He introduced himself and explained the family's circumstances and how they had arrived here.

He then began to inquire about houses for rent or sale in the town it -self. The man he spoke to was the owner of this little eatery, his name was "Bob Dodson," and explained that there was one house he was sure was available because it had belonged to his parents. They had died a few years ago and no one had lived there since. It was beginning to become run down and the grass needed cut too.

George then asked if there was some way he could put his family and himself until they could move into something permanent. The man said that would not be a problem, there was also a house trailer that he had been renting which had been empty for about a week since the family who had lived there for about three years had moved to West Virginia.

The man said that he would be glad to take George to look at both places if he could get "Sue" to take over his job and her own for about an hour. "Sue" agreed and spent most of the time they were gone talking to George's family because as luck would have it, it was a quiet period of the day; the busy lunch time had been over for about any hour. George and the owner worked out a deal with words that would later turn into paper work and everything was set. They drove to the House Trailer and spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning it up.

With the entire family helping George was able to get the new house to look pretty fair. Frequent trips to the hardware became routine, but eventually the old homestead was really taking shape. The hardest part was all the scraping that had to be done while painting of the exterior.

The inside of the old house was still in nice condition except for the worn carpet that ran throughout. That was quickly ripped up and replaced a month later. Old Bob came out on any off time from cooking and actually offered to help in any way he could. He also brought some extra men, which consisted of three or four of his closest friends.

When everything finally came to a head the Wentworth's held a big dinner for everyone who had been involved or had helped work on the place. Bob Dodson had brought quite a bit of food from the restaurant, but liked the food Martha cooked so well that he offered her a job at his restaurant; but was not surprised when she turned it down to stay home and takes care of the house.

Eventually George Wentworth found and rented an empty store front right there on the main drag not too far from the restaurant they had eaten at. He called it the "House Of Needs," and filled it with a list of merchandise that was not usually found in small towns like this one. He ordered all his merchandise from Chicago and knew exactly how to contact the big warehouses that could give him the best deals.

At first people thought that his new store might be just another hard- ware, but that wasn't the idea at all, this store would not include building materials or repair kits. The stock that George carried consisted mostly of things people needed most for every day use.This included snow shovels, leaf rakes, pots and pans, dishes, silver ware, boots of all sizes, warm winter gloves, coats, tires for automobiles, different sizes and grades, dog and cat food, small paddle type fishing boats, swings for children, some front swings, bicycles and small wagons for children, plastic and other types of winterization materials, sewing needs and rolls of different types of cloth, car batteries, music cassettes, cd's and players, T.V.'s, fishing supplies, games for all ages, cigarettes, cigars, tobacco, candy, small electric heaters for cold bathrooms, and the list went on and on.

The crowd on opening day had been a sure tip off; they had even come from other small towns in the area that had heard from relatives who lived here. It might have been called The General Store by people on the street, and actually may have been by many.

A few years later as more people moved in and the little place grew the town decided that they were big enough to have a Mayor, and they nominated George Wentworth. The town had remained so small and so far away from any type of big city life that a Mayor was never even thought of for all the years it had been in existence.

Now with George Wentworth's big city ideas the town grew by leaps and bounds. George also began leaving town on trips and would not mention the details to anyone accept his wife Martha. Upon returning each time he still made no mention of his mysterious trips or just what he was doing while away.

But eventually, one by one, new small families began showing up look -ing for George. As the available housing began to become used up in and outside of town he decided to embark on a new plan. This time he was gone for almost three weeks

When he returned he brought a well-dressed man with him who drove his own car and had the back seat loaded with paperwork. He and George inquired about a county seat and had found it twenty miles away. Going through the records there for almost three days they came up with a list of large landowners. Then visiting them one by one five hundred acres of timber was acquired. A logging company was hired and within a year the land was cleared and the crews that the well-dressed man had brought in soon pushed over, and burned every stump that was left. That took almost another six months.

The work was slow and time consuming; every available man in the area for miles around was soon working for the project and very happy to get the money. This was unlike anything they had ever seen before.

Beginning the third year surveyors came in and set up their equipment and went to work. The land was divided up into plots that would give each buyer a good-sized house, garage, and one acre of land, these would be built by a developer who was hired to put up four-hundred homes.

Electricity had already been supplied to the area, but there was still a problem with gas; a large gas line was planned weeks later to come from a much larger town almost fifteen miles away. That would put even more men to work and also allow the new homes to be modern and up to date. The heating systems now in use were either small electric heaters or large wood stoves that had been in use for years. The gas lines would now be available to everyone, The town was becoming quite a place, and George Wentworth was responsible for it all.

The next two years were slow going but the homes went up and the people came as soon as they saw the ads that were run in newspapers all over the state. Some of the new businesses that had moved in began to manufacture furniture, George saw his chance and opened a furniture store to help sell and distribute it. Little by little the town progressed to something that actually looked like a miniature Chicago, but was still only about 12,000 thousand people.

Then one day after all those years of calling their town "Littleton" they finally decided that it was now big enough to have a real name, something proper, something nice, and they knew just what it would be called.

A meeting was called at the town hall and a name was decided upon. The only person not invited was George Wentworth. But there was a reason for that; the towns' people wanted to surprise him. The very next day an envelope was delivered to his home. Martha said she would make sure he got it. As he opened it that evening he saw the large letters first as they almost jumped off the page, then he read the rest of the letter.

A closed meeting decision had been made to name the town after him and in his honor. The town would become Wentworth Pennsylvania. Then the following year the children being bussed almost twelve miles away to Bridgeville Central School would now go to school in "Wentworth."

A grade school, a Junior High, and eventually a Senior High was built there also, and named after George. One of those large buildings was a known three year prison, as was identified by Henry Repids. Yes Henry Repids had learned to hate that name worse than his seventh grade typing teacher old Brigham Snodgrass. "What a dip...t!" He thought. The man suffered from terminal acne and never ever tried to put anything on it. Henry had perfect pink soft baby-face skin and he noticed anyone who did not. He had remembered something from a health book that had mentioned "Face-sanding" to remove part of the problem; if that were the case this guy would have to go to a body shop and use one of their power sanders.

It made him sick when old Snodgrass would walk to the back of the room and begin his walk back up to the front by leaning over each student showing corrections and helpful hints. As Snodgrass leaned over close to him one day he could almost smell the mass of disease, then began to imagine it spreading across the mans skin and finally devouring his face. "Go away!" he prayed under his breath, "Move on old man!" "Make someone else sick!" Henry had little sympathy for others.

But that was over for today and he was on his way downtown to see one of the worlds most famous sidewalk attractions, the Blind man his pencils, and his con game, (as Henry saw it.). Henry had no feelings for this poor old man who may have been dealt a poor hand when the cards of life were handed out. To him, there were only winners and losers, and the Blind man was a loser who should not be allowed to beg for money when he could be working in a hot humid laundry with other hard working stiffs.

But he felt good about the old man having avoided that sort of thing because he had a use for this poor soul, and in fact in his own mind he would raise this man to a more acceptable level of importance; he would now become a source of revenue. A new found provider of income for Henry Repids. He was about two blocks away when he spotted the blind man sitting quietly with his pencils and old tin cup. The ragged clothes and old worn floppy hat were also visible. But something else was also coming into the picture; three known punks who had just swooped out of a nearby alley were headed straight for The Blind man.
That picture made Henrys blood boil. He immediately breaks into a trot then begins running full speed. He can't let this happen. He knows exactly what they're going to pull. That, he can't let happen! That money was going to be his! He arrives at the same time they do and barrels straight into the group. Two of the boys land hard, thrown backwards by Henrys speeding onslaught. Surprised, they get up and run. The third throws a punch at Henry. He blocks it with a forearm and sends a bone crunching punch to the boys face. He goes down hard and just lays there.

"Want more?" he asks. The boy, holding his nose, and with tears in his eyes begins to crawl away, then gets up to run, "Better not catch you back here!" Henry shouts. He sits down beside the old Blind man. "They tried to make a plan mister, but it didn't work, that's all."
"A plan?" the old mans mutters.
"Yeah, you know, a plan, a plan to rob a poor old blind man."

"Just an afternoon stunt. Punks that's all. But they're hurtin now, they won't be back; don't you worry none." he finishes with that statement.

The blind man continues to sit like a granite rock, always facing front, looking straight ahead like he's watching a movie, or something that he just can't take his eyes from because there may be danger approaching. The glasses are old, bent, and thickly black. Henry moves around stealthily and situates himself so that he can peek behind the glasses; he wants to see the blind mans eyes. Twisting around and craning his neck into an uncomfortable position he finally gets a glimpse of what he's worked so hard for, then wishes he didn't; the sockets are as empty as death. He jolts from the shock and bumps the old man.

"Hey! You okay son? Whatsa matter?" "Uh, Oh, Uh...nothin, ain't nothin, just moved wrong there for a minute, sorry about that sir." he apologizes in his best choirboy mannerly voice.

"Yeah, okay son, jus wandered." the blind man comments. "Hey! How come you protected me? Nobody ever did that before. I been beat up, kicked down, pushed all over the place and nobody ever tried to help me before. You one of them religious fanatic type kids that go around helpin his fellowman? You one of them kind son?"

"I sure ain't a fanatic or what ever that is, but I am regular church attending type of a person. You got that right. I'm honest too mister, you can count on that." Henry answers lying through his crooked front teeth.

"Glad to hear it son, you must be one in a million I can tell you." he says. "Names Willy, friends call me just that, you can too. What's yours?"
"Mine?" Henry answers. "Well Mr. Willy you're making the acquaintance of Henry Moneymaker, future King Of The World."

The old man doesn't answer right away, instead he grins slightly, and that finally grows into a broad wide smile that takes in most of the old muscles in his tired face. "You're a funny kid there son, yes sir! You're like a wild card in the deck of life, but I like you, I sure do kid! Maybe I could do something for you too, maybe a favor one day."

Henry wasn't trying to be funny at all, but he sure wasn't going to tell the old man his real name in case that some time in the future he'd discover that Henry had ripped him off. But since things were going this well maybe he should kind of giggle along with the Blind man and he did.

That began a friendship that would go on for a long, long time. Henry would always have a little extra money to add to his pocket and the old man had gained a Body Guard; at least when Henry was around. Where did that come from? The three boys he'd chased away had spread the word and that's just how it was from then on. Henry had found a new bank and the bank now had its own guard.

By the time Henry Repids grew up the blind man had aged quite a bit; and though he had finally been able to draw social security he still continued to ply his trade on the street. No one bothered him much anymore, maybe they finally realized that he was just that; old, and helpless. So these days he was fairly safe, and as time went on Henry who finally obtained employment at a warehouse no longer came around that much; but he did stop from time to time, especially if he was down to his last penny and it was only Wednesday.

Nothing ever goes perfect, because that's how life is, and Henry wound up riding in an ambulance several times in the past year. This had been after he had passed out in the middle of the street, or at work. The reasons for his symptoms were never found, though he continually ended up as a regular at the emergency room of Wentworth Memorial. Finally a big city doctor happened to be hired on to the hospital staff and assigned to head up the neurological department.

Henrys case was referred to him because they felt maybe his heart problems were brain related in some way. He examined Henry for over a month before sending him to a special clinic in Chicago. The Doctors suspicions had been correct. Henry was finally diagnosed as a victim of what was known as specialized orphan disease.

The symptoms were many, along with dizziness, fainting spells, and an almost coma-like unconscious nature. But there was more, when found in this condition the victim could be mistaken for dead, and eventually he could either suffer an autopsy while still alive or be buried in that same condition without the autopsy called for. The reason that that could happen was with this particular condition a regular hand-touch cannot detect a pulse, nor could a stethoscope. The reason the heart beat can't be heard or pulse felt, was that at that moment it was so minutely weak, and the beats so slow, so few, and so far apart.

Henry left the Chicago clinic with a brand new necklace, called a Medic-alert necklace. Usually worn by patients to allow those medical teams who find them, to realize that they suffer from certain serious medical condition. Henrys necklace had something on the front and an explanation on the back to refer to his medical record file. In the largest letters possible this one simple sentence was engraved across the front and it had a mortal warning: "DO NOT EMBALM ME!" Under that were the words (Read reverse side). Henry Repids never forgot to wear the necklace; he even slept with it around his neck.

He was never happy with the idea of being someone who felt saddled with a certain amount of jeopardy, especially if he were injured at home alone, or maybe even far away from home in an automobile accident or maybe something even worse. This caused deep anger toward a God. Henry felt that he had been short changed in some way.

But even Kings were known to have a few shortcomings and he would just have to persevere as the many before him had; at least he could tell himself that this was probably what was known hundreds of years ago as: "Kings Disease." Otherwise this did not affect his ego at all, because it was just too inflated to allow little things like a possible death to get in the way. "He would later apologize to God for that too," he told himself. Right now he didn't have time for such things because he was much too busy. What Henry Repids had never imagined was that there could be an elaborate trap waiting for him somewhere down the road.

It was out there and deadly in nature. Far worse than a Chinese torture chamber, and being erected while he slept on peacefully; dreaming dreams of owning the world then finally even appointing himself King. The trap? What kind of trap was it? Philosophically it took on the appearance of something that occurred naturally in nature. Life could do that, and there would be no apologies if it ever came about. It would be building it self, and in plain view.

Henry Repids was not only unaware of it, but even if he knew, he would not ever believe such a thing could happen; not to Henry Repids! He had always believed that nothing in the known universe could ever interfere with his goals. The master plan he had developed was perfect! He had worked long and hard to put it together. He would never give in to any sort of thoughts of what may have been engrained in his childhood personality. He did not need depressing interruptions from his useless conscience to mess everything up now. Thoughts of defeat were never within the realm of belief for this future semi-God.

The imaginary processes never stopped for Henry because he was an insanely driven man, but neither did the building of the trap and all of its intricate parts. But who would be building this trap and why was it meant for him? Actually no one was building it, it was building itself, slowly, surely, minute by minute, and the seconds never stopped ticking off; the future didn't need a helping hand.

No one who knew Henry ever realized how small other people must have looked to him. With his huge ego working to give him a world of confidence there was no one in his estimation who could ever do what he was planning. In his own mind the others would become his builders, they were necessary, every monarch has a certain amount of people who are his enablers, slaves if you will.

These workers would be no more than that in this elaborate complex scheme to achieve a dream of reigning supreme over these people who had no plan or dream of their own, at least that was his own estimation of them; these little people who went to sleep and woke up with the same thought.

"What kind of a brain could do that?" he wondered, and then smiled to himself, "They were so insignificant." he mutters. Then on the other hand he actually appreciated their incompetence as much as he belittled it. There was never a King who ever built a kingdom with his own bare hands, it just wasn't done, nor was it possible, he decided.

A large number of "Bodies" were always necessary; many pairs of strong hands, but always with weak minds, those particular attributes were always a necessary ingredient. He had never expected to coerce rocket scientists into doing this work. He knew that would never accomplish anything; too many cooks were known to spoil the broth, and there was only going to be one head chef in this kitchen, and that was Henry Redips! So all he really needed was a large group of "willing assistants" who were more than ready to follow his orders, accomplishing the work needed done to bring the plan together.

But, just what kind of plan was this? And what would come to be the result of these world-shaking efforts? That could be answered in one sentence: Henry Repids would become King of the world, as He saw it.

But,why not "President"? Actually, the word President would have been beneath his stature as he saw it; a claim to fame that only considered a country, not the entire world. Henry thought that maybe sometime in the future if things went well, he might change his title to President, but only if he felt that it was a potentially useful reclassification.

Actually it was probably a less evasive name. The word King did state the fact of power in a somewhat harsh way, and he didn't need that. Still, he would begin there. Then later, if a change would better his chances to keep the populace happy and ignorant of his underlying ideas and would remain convinced that he was to be their leader only because they themselves had wanted it, and requested it by popular vote, he would consider the change of title.

Now back to the plan. How could anyone accomplish this monumental manic idea that Henry had come up with? To be sure it would not be an easy task. He must first learn to handle people, the president of the United States and all other world leaders. The "other" world leaders would be first, he would need their backing to apply pressure to the United States Government.

It would take such super salesmanship that he self-described it as "on the level of difficulty associated with selling snow to the Eskimos, heating devices to the people of Africa, and maybe even sand to those who lived in the desert;" this would certainly be a monumental task, but he would work on that, become what he believed to be the master salesman, master strategist, the greatest manipulator of all time. "Now that hit a nerve!" he thought. "The keyword was manipulation!" He would become the "Great Manipulator," that would become the bottom line of what kind of engine would have to be used to drive this plan foreword.

Henry Repids had grown up listening to radio, television, advertisements, books, tapes, and movies that were doing well, in fact very well; and why were they? Because they all delivered the same message: "This product or idea will benefit you, and with an explanation of why. Make you look better, feel better, live longer and healthier and especially allow you end- less freedom and time to do everything you always wanted to do." And it didn't end there either, but every product or idea followed the same path: "This is good for you, and better than anything you've ever tried before!" That had always been the message, and that would be "His" message to the world! The sales pitch was important. Hadn't it worked for all the other Historic Rulers? He was now certain that it would work for him too. But just how would the idea of manipulation really serve his purpose?

First of all he had to learn and understand manip- ulation itself. He would find that the art of manipulation is a way and means of getting some one, or even many people to do what you want them to do. And in the process, you can never let them realize, or get to know, that they are doing what they're doing under your explicit direction. You must be guiding their actions from step one to the finish, and their unawareness of the master plan must never come to the fore at any time, or for any reason.

The management of the players must be handled skillfully, and with a shrewdness that would bring to bear a sense of personal accomplishment, even if it were only to convince them that they, and no one else, would eventually be the only winners.

This must be accomplished in such a manner that it would always be most upfront in their minds. And as the project progresses it must bring all the parts of ones own selfish plan to a final conclusion. As this unfair manner described as manipulation is used, it gains momentum, then continues; finally taking on a life of its own. Each player eventually acquires the belief that it is all for the common good and a foreseeable failure of any kind, is soon blocked from beliefs. Because of that fact alone, each player also turns to others in the game and soon begins to offer his or her own support and convincing philosophy.

Manipulation does work, and it works well if used discreetly, invisibly, and covertly. When for some reason it fails, the game would have to be ended right there, at that moment, the resulting repercussions would probably turn violent almost immediately.

But that thought has never occurred to Henry Redips, he has no fear, and failure is nonexistent in his vocabulary. He did realize that if all parts of his dream were to come together some, maybe a small part of the work would have to have his thumbprint on it, that part he knew could not be handled by anyone but himself. Certain very important parts could not be left to those he considered his assistants, the dreamers of empty blackboards, unbroken balloons, travelers of life who almost always left the road map at home. He would have to be there leading his entourage of disciples, he at the helm, steering the ship so to speak, a man with good judgment, a sound mind and a true sense of pure ruthlessness. He was very confident that he had all of those fine qualities and more.

His burning desire to achieve greatness was also a plus, and the proof of that was naturally self-evident. Wasn't he already very much above the rest, hadn't he come up with this plan; this super plan to be exact? But what about some of the others who had failed so miserably through out time, over and over again?

He had a theory about that too, and it would not go unnoticed as he laid the groundwork and eventually moved on to the next part of his master plan. He felt that their failure had a clear reason, and they had just not seen it coming. As for himself, he was sure that he would have; that was the very reason that he had included a plan to deal with that too, and from the very beginning. He had studied the material in-depth about those men who had failed never fully accomplished the feat to become King, or the ruler of men under other titles.

As he journeyed through this material he began noticing that they had first built small empires, then set out to enlarge them in every way possible. They had used armies and weapons to cut their enemies down like dogs; then finally taking their spoils; the land, and everything else they could seize upon. They continued to accumulate vast riches and territories, and the buckets of blood were always full along the way. Eventually they had spread themselves out so far, and gotten so large, that even the dull- witted began noticing that something was wrong.

Then came the against this awesome push for supremacy. Many others who had also been watching from a distance, a safe faraway distance in fact, but still watching would soon join that uprising. When all others who heard and saw what this power-hungry War Lord was trying to accomplish, the great onslaught of defenders and those countries not even threatened soon reacted against this kind of overthrow. Banding together with a well orchestrated plan of their own, they soon attacked quickly, violently and repeatedly, with a power that these regimes had never envisioned.
The leader of the attacking regime did not pull back, did not regroup or attempt to reorganize with a new set of strategic plans. Instead they continued to allow their thinly spread armies to fight on as they themselves ran for any open available rat hole and waited safely while their own legions ran full force against a force unforeseeable to them because they had not planned ahead for failure. They had no clue, or had not taken into consideration what they might have been up against, as they attempted to consume everything in their foreword march to world power.

They had forgotten to allow for that, the unknown. They had not even wondered or thought how the about-to-be-conquered might react to this kind of proposed bloody take-over.

As Henry saw it, to begin with, he would certainly not be sitting on hands waiting to be devoured by the enemy, no matter who they were, or how all-powerful they appeared. Instead his legions reacted violently as a swarm of yellow-jackets might have that had been invaded by a different species of bee, or a storm of hailstones and sleet to put out the fires within the maelstrom.

This was the way he figured it as he studied the ancient empires, their battles, the overthrows, then the reversals of each and all the reasons why the idea to conquer the world never worked for these human want -to be-kings. All these great empires of history had all come and gone, all had fallen, one by one and had never risen again. The error of their ways was never delved into by those who chose the same route and failed also. Except by historians who had tried to study, analyze, and figure out the truth of the how's' and whys, no one even discussed it that much except for some short paragraphs or those who chose to write their views on it.

Now none were left, and only a few remembered; and that was among school children trying to pass the latest history test. Today the modern tour buses pulling up to the pyramids, the Italian Coliseums, or the Great Myan Temples attempt to show a long past history, but those who failed are not easily discussed. They can see the end result of all the bloodshed and violence of the ages, but nothing more. They are nothing but tourist attractions today.

"But mine will not end up that way." Henry Repids had told himself, I've already included "failure" in my plan, and so it can not fail."

The future "King" of the world" felt that he had it all figured out. He was going to achieve his life-long dream even if it meant stepping on other peoples' dreams and turning them into never ending nightmares.

Still laying there in that unknown yard, his mind now wonders back. He remembers getting up early and having breakfast, then showering and getting dressed, then watching the morning news. Around 9am that morning he leaves for the library. Working three to eleven, then eleven to seven second shift, at a warehouse for a local trucking company leaves him time during the day to do just as he pleased.

After at least five hours of hard sleeping, he has up until at least two-thirty in the afternoon to could go to the library and study. He has to do it this way, because what information he needed would almost take his bringing home half the library itself. Instead he had decided to go to the mountain, and he used the time constructively. The internet was out of bounds, this study would have to be private and non-invasive, non- intrusive.

Each day of the week and every Saturday and Sunday were consumed by his desire to become the most knowledgeable man on the planet. If he were to carry out the plan that he felt had been imbedded in his DNA long before he ever came to develop into a person, then he must continually work toward and eventually achieve the position he felt destined to arrive at.

He truly felt that he was destined to be the man who would cause the Pharaohs of Egypt, Geingas Khan, Nero of Rome, or even Adolph Hitler to seem less than important as he became so much greater, so far super- ior than any known ruler the world had ever seen.

That would take much knowledge and he had spent his days absorbing the information he felt was necessary to become so important, so tall among men that eventually he would have to apologize to God again for becoming such an importantly worshipped person. But that would come later; he would not have to do that right away. "Each operation would be taken one step at a time. "Haste makes waste!" he thought. And Henry Redips was not a waster, in any sense of the word.

To carry out his plan he would need a truckload of knowledge. To be- gin with he would be reading everything that he could find on: "Mastering manipulation, Mass hypnosis, Mass Hysteria, Mobilizing Mob Violence, Crowd Control, Mass Suggestion, How To Influence people in Huge Numbers, and last but not least, How To Win Friends And Influence People."
He breaks into a grin just thinking about the tools he has been acquiring in order to eventually influence and gain support from world leaders. They had no idea that they would be part of the strong silk threads he would use to spin his web of deceit to reach and achieve his goal to enslave the world.

They would have be part of the plan if he were to get the huge numbers of bodies needed; many thousands of people who would be there to do the enormous work load that lay ahead; crowd control especially would be a great benefit because he would use his vast knowledge to give them both direction and reason.

As he left the library he remembered that he had not brought his lunch bucket as he usually did which would give him more time to remain at the library before going from there to work. Walking home the three city blocks he covers them more quickly today as he hurries to be sure that he hits the time clock before the large hand jumps to three at the warehouse.

Later moving large pallets of freight around to get the morning orders ready for trucks expected at seven he goes over the thousands of pages of information he's absorbed during the week. The night turns out to be somewhat boring because he doesn't have that many orders to put together. It gives him time to wander through the brought expanse of the ideas he has found within a world of material that he mistakenly believes had only been waiting all these years just for him, and no one else. Hundreds of volumes of pages have passed before his eyes to be consumed as a man lost in the desert would drink water and Henry Repids absorbed the material like a moisture-starved sponge.

He had only worked the second shift for two years when the place had been broken into between the twelve and eight-am hours when no one had been there. When the company decided to put on a night watchman during those hours he went to the office and asked if he could have that job too. This way he could earn more money and also beat-out the burglars who were stealing things he knew would be more well used in his possession; after all wasn't this all to be his some day anyway, why wait?

The double shifts were long and boring especially the eight-hour watchman job. But he had a different set of books that he kept in his locker; they would fill the long night and enhance his knowledge even further.

He was a little bit angry at himself because he'd been too busy reading and had forgotten to go hunting for some "goodies" that he could steal. Sometimes there was a lot of work to it, because he always had to make sure that what ever it was, he could hide it in or under his coat; he never stole anything he couldn't carry out safely.

When he spotted something he liked such as electronic equipment which he could find by reading the side of the box, he would open it care- fully with a razor-knife and remove small things that he wanted, then re-tape the box as good as new.

As the dawn of day lazily melted the dark time sky and fell upon the new morning earth he completed his paper work and turned his nights work over to the morning crew. "Suckers!" he says under his breath. "He knew that the best shift, the quietest times, and the least work (at least at this warehouse) was during the second and third shift.

Grabbing his jacket, and the old brown paper bag with one sandwich, a twinkie, and his thermos bottle he heads out the back door and down the steps. Home would feel good, he'd shower, have a couple of eggs, bacon and coffee and watch the morning news. After that it was siesta time and he was tired. He walks out through the tractor-trailers parked in the rear parking lot and on out to the sidewalk.

He heads toward Main Street and home. Finally covering the six blocks he waits for the light at the crossing. The cars whizz past as morning workers speed to the nearby factories to slip under the seven thirty buzzer in order not to be late. He waits. "Finally!" he says out loud, and keeps his eye on the "WALK" lit up by the changing light. He's too tired to check the street and starts across quickly, his apartment is right across the street. That was the last thing he could remember.

Now there it was again, the sickening sweet smell of roses, mums, and a dozen more scents of flowers, intermingled sweet perfumed aromas hanging in the air around him. Then it wasn't a dream, at least his nose was working. Could he have been so out of it that he passed out in some stranger's flower garden?

He also distinctly remembered hearing some kind of soft sounding music from a distance just before he woke up, it seemed slow and soothing, but his brain was too fuzzy to remember it now. Possibly the ladies were playing a radio for some background for their little get together. "I wonder where that had come from?" he wondered. He felt a little safer knowing where he was now, maybe they wouldn't have him arrested, but more than likely he would have to leave the property.

"What now?" he thinks to himself. How long before I can get out of here? How long is it going to take for this stuff to wear off? And what had they given him? And where am I now? How did I get here? Walk? Ride with someone else? Who could have given me the ride? Where did we end up? Am I still in Wentworth, or under a bush in a strangers yard twenty miles away? What kind of yard though? What about snakes? Cats? Dogs? What if a fierce rainstorm comes along and there's lightning flashing all around? what then? What if a tree limb happens to fall? What's really in this grass around me? What about spiders? Spiders?

Henry Repids hated spiders with a passion and he had good reason. He was actually frightened to death of them. Growing up he spent several summers with his Grandfather, off and on. To him this had been a way to get away, but deep inside he felt his parents arranged it just to get rid of him. His Grandfather lived in Springfield Illinois, and quite ways out in the country. Henry liked that part of it. He could get away from the hot summer city streets. Spending his school vacations with Grampa Bemis lead him to meet up with Zeke an old teddy-bear type riding horse. Gramma had died two years before and the old man was now alone, a little company was always welcome, when the boy behaved.

Butt Henry was still in the lower grades and was too small to get up on Zeke who was a tall horse almost eighteen hands high. A few years later he would finally accomplish that feat. But For now he must settle for riding the two Shetland ponies that were his favorites, Molly and Dolly. He rode them bareback and traded off all day long. Then there was Old Billy, the one eyed goat who had a nasty miserable disposition; you did not turn your back on Old Billy!

You might forget, but he didn't. Billy certainly was not a horse or pony and was certainly not rid able under any conditions. His Grampa made this as clear as possible when he had arrived for his first visit. "Don't mess with that goat!" he warned.

Those particular words of wisdom sank in pretty well when Henry was younger and sort of afraid of danger, but he was a little older now and he felt it was time he showed that goat that he could ride anything. He snuck up on Billy from his blind side. The old goat had lost one of his eyes in a fight with an irritated rooster who mistakenly thought he wanted to come into the Hen house to steal one of the hens Grampa Bemis had on his little place for eggs.

Actually the goat didn't want to go in, he was just curious and had just stuck his head inside the door. But that was enough for Mr. Nasty the old rooster and he ran toward Old Billy with feathers flared and head lowered. Jumping atop Old Billie's head he sunk his talons in deep and he and old Billy went for a ride; Mr. Nasty all the time pecking Old Billy in the face. That was the last time Old Billy got nosy around the hen house and that too was the only thing that ever rode him.

Almost there now, Henry quiets his breathing and takes a few more steps. Then he's only one step away; he takes a quick step and hops onto Billy's back. The old goat felt the weight of Henry instantly. With a cry of surprise he picks up his head and tears out for parts unknown. That means through the backyard and finally under the low slung clothesline. Henry didn't duck quick enough and ended up with it square across his middle. That's where Old Billy Left him and galloped off to the field nearby.

The clothesline came down with Henry and a line full of whites went down with him also. That's t-shirts, shorts, dishtowels, handkerchiefs and anything else Grampa Bemis had hung there. Everything ended up on the ground and into the mud from the rain storm the day before. Bemis Randolph heard the ruckus and came to the back door, he took one look and his blood pressure hit the ceiling.

And when old Bemis was mad even the yellow jackets ran. Bemis was a tough old buzzard who had grown up hard and fast. Born in a put together log cabin in the middle of Pennsylvania logging country. He had never known an easy life, or any day that resembled one. His parents were poor, tan, and tough also. His father earned his living chopping down trees by hand with a bunch of other weather worn men, six and seven days a week for a logging company; his mother cooked for the men. This way she felt there would always be food, the company supplied her, she always had enough left for her own family; it worked out for everyone involved.

Nelly Randolph was a woman of few words, and only asked for one joy out of life, enough tobacco to fill her old corn cob pipe at least twice a day. The other loggers made sure she had at least that much. They were not that helpful to his father, Miran though. He was not friendly or well liked and at times he would steal some of Nelly's tobacco. When he couldn't, he peeled the bark from birch-trees. That same bark was also used to brew birch-beer, a soft drink made by many backwoods people. He'd usually peel the bark and keep a handful in his right hand pocket for future use.

Did those two people know the meaning of poor? No, they were not even aware of it. They had never heard the word rich, or seen anything in life that would have shown them the difference. Bemis Randolph grew up right there in those woods and didn't leave until his parents passed away. When the last one was finally gone, his Mother, he packed one bag, hitched a ride on a logging truck and waited on the main highway for a hitchhikers ride out of there. The pouch full of birch bark kept him company until he landed in Springfield Illinois on his fifth ride down that long road to civilization.

That last ride was on the back of a pickup truck; there was no room inside. The pit bull dog tied to the front of the bed next to the back window didn't make a move against him, but never averted his eyes from Young Bemis Randolph, and Bemis had plenty of time to count the dogs teeth twice over.

He shook almost all the way, and wasn't sure whether it was the dog or the weather. When the truck stopped in Springfield he leaped off the back like a gazelle running from a hungry lion. He hit the ground running and didn't stop for two blocks.

A week later he found a job on a railroad crew who laid down the tracks. Thirty years later he retired and settled into a small bungalow that he bought. He had a regular income and could rest at last. The house was just one mile from town and he bought a few animals to keep him busy and for company. Bemis Randolph was not yet a fragile man, and could still walk on nails if he had to. Right now he was standing in the back door looking straight at Henry Repids, the only son of his favorite and only daughter.

Bemis never moved off the porch, but Henry could feel the heat even from where he sat in the mud. Grampa Bemis was infuriated but was always in control he remembered. He continued to stare at the clothes he'd worked all morning to wash out by hand. Then he looked at Henry. Henry never was so still now that all he could do was breath and hope that even that didn't anger Grampa Bemis. Bemis did not find this funny at all, and was waiting for just one hint of a smile or grin from this boy who was so far from an angel that he had always counted the ash trays when he finally left to return back home in time for school.

Finally he raises one arm holds it straight out in front of him and with his lone index finger flex in a "come-here" fashion. Henry feels it's safe to move and reaches up and grabs the only piece of wash that didn't land in the mud. Getting up he walks toward the porch. Arriving there he walks up the three wooden steps and hands it to Bemis. Bemis rips it out of his hand and said nothing. That was his way. The angrier he was the quieter he became. But at this moment the deathly silence w3as far worse than anything he'd ever seen on his trips to Grampa Bemis.

He stands for what seemed like an hour but in reality turned out to be only a few minutes, waiting for the "other-shoe" to drop. "What happens now," he wonders. Fear filled his chest.

Finally after what seemed to be an eternity, Bemis spoke, even though you could see he didn't want to; because you could almost tell that opening such a gate on that dam of anger could prove to be devastating. When he was younger and stronger he had once punched an ill-mannered horse and sent him to the ground, then later to his grave. He swore that demon would never get loose again, and he hoped that he could keep that promise.

Bemis Randolph was six-foot-four and weighed in at around 270 pounds. He was the son of German linage on his father's side and scotch-english on his mothers. His thinning gray hair had been brown once and his large square jawed face looked more like a bulldog than a descendent of his parents. His large bulky frame was now bent since he had reached his sixties. The broad bony face highlighted his dark blue deepset eyes. He knew he moved much slower compared to the man he once was, the man he still wished he was when in his twenties and thirty's. But weaker or not, he was still a threat anyway you looked at it; and Henry saw it as clear as a cloudless day.
"I told you to leave the goat alone Henry." "Now you've gone and caused yourself some trouble." He spoke in a slow-controlled angry tone. "You have to be punished now, you know what that means, don't you?"
Henry knew, it meant four hours in the cold damp dirt cellar under Grampa Bemis house counting spiders until the sun went down and darkness covered the three windows like a inky-black curtain. After that, it was nightmare time. Rats, spiders as big as your hand, bugs that loved the cool damp earth but would rather crawl on to something warm like his ankle then his leg if he wasn't quick enough. Were they all meat eaters? He wasn't sure, and as the minutes turned into hours of feeling, listening, and fear, he believed that this was a place designed only for bad things. And wasn't he one of them himself? Grampa Bemis thought so.

This was the second time he'd faced this kind of punishment. He went to the cellar, opened the flap door near the side of the house and let it fall back.

Walking down the steps he meets the underground door leading in. He grabbed the knob, turned it then pushed it open and walked in side. There was no electric down here and no heat. The moldy smell in the dampness seemed to be stronger this time. Maybe more old newspapers that Grampa saved from time to time, and for what? The rats probably chewed them into small bits and made them into nests somewhere down here.

Two hours later he is in total darkness and he still had two hours to go. Bemis would let him know when the time was up and he hoped that the old man did not fall asleep. He'd heard the latch and lock being put on the outside of the door a few minutes after he'd entered. It was always like that. Grampa Bemis didn't trust him any further than he could throw him, and he knew that.

Henry had lots of time to think and to worry during his time in the cellar, and the one thing he always told himself was that some day no one would ever be able to tell him what to do again. He would see to that. It may have been one of the times that his plans for the future had first been opened up for discussion within his mind. A scurrying noise of something running through some of the dead leaves that had blown into the old cellar stops his thoughts and attracts his attention. "Rats?" he wonders. Where? What were they planning? Did they know he was there? Of course they did! But at least he could hear them when they decided to move.

The large spiders were not quite so easy to track. They were quiet, moved fast, and ate meat, he feared them as much as death it self. The condition had a name but he'd forgotten it along time ago. Rats on the other hand, usually fed on things that were easy to find, easy to get at, and with a lot less work involved.

He reaches up to his neck and rubs his hand across it. Nothing! But on the way back down he touches something like a fine sewing thread, and it rips and tares. Cobweb? Spider web!

He jerks his hand away and moves down two steps on the stairs he's sitting on. Shaking from what he'd just run his fingers through, he breaks out into a cold sweat thinking of what might have been in that web. Where is it now? Still walking among the silken strands? Maybe on his back some- where? Making its way slowly up toward his warm-blooded neck? The inky blackness does not allow him any advantage at all, and he couldn't see his back even if it did.

Then he hears Grampa Bemis footsteps moving across the floor upstairs. "Safe and warm, lots of light, hot coffee and a comfortable heavily stuffed arm chair, all that good for a mean old man." he mutters. The sound of the news comes muffled through the floor, he never missed that, it was like a ritual. You'd think his life depended on it. "That was an interesting thought." Henry says aloud to himself. "It isn't fair, I didn't do anything bad enough to deserve this! I'm never coming back here, never!"
Minutes later a thought creeps into his brain and he begins to search his pockets. He remembered keeping a few packs of matches just in case he found any old cigarettes in his travels. He's been smoking almost every brand name he could think of for almost a year and a half. Being here with his Grandfather made looking for them a lot tougher.
Grampa Bemis was a chain smoker and Henry found it a great idea to constantly volunteer to clean house just to be able to dump the ash trays. At least he could gather a few butts from doing that. He spaced them out, smoking only when he needed one most so they'd last, but it was usually touch and go.
Grampa Bemis was no dummy and you had to be slick when playing this kind of game around him. But Henry had learned to become crafty a long time ago and school had been a perfect place to learn all the tricks. How to do things without getting caught was the key; it didn't always work, but he did learn to watch his back and almost everyone else's too.

He drags out one pack of the book matches and strikes one to show a light. "That's better." he thinks. "Now where are you?" He's looking for the ugly little crawly creatures he knows are down here somewhere, but without being able to see very far he knows they could hide in the shadows of his light. "Okay, as long as they're hiding he can concentrate on the spiders. He decides to irritate them since he has the time and he has plenty of matches in his other pocket.
Knowing where they hung out the most he walks to one of the windows. Then ripping out two more matches he lights them from the first. "Now that's better!" he exclaims. And holds the flaming matches up close to the window. "Well, there you are! Nice to meet you! Lets have some fun!" The spider is not impressed and runs for a corner of the window attempting to hide. But Henry is an experienced web flamer and moves the fire closer, then even closer until he burns a hole in the web. The spider remains still with no way to protect his silken threads from Henry's destruction. Henry can't help himself, the fun he's having is a high compared to the way he's felt for the last few hours. He takes the whole pack of matches out of his pocket and opens it with one hand, a trick he had learned watching some older smokers do to impress the younger crowd. Moving the lit matches toward the pack he sets it ablaze, and jumps from the instant flare he finds himself holding. He shakes the matches in his other hand until they go out, then drops them. Feeling a power in his newfound blowtorch he goes after the spider. Taking a step closer so that he can reach up into the corner of the window he stretches his arm out to tease the helpless spider. But the spider sees it coming and runs away from the corner directly at the flame. Henry thinks the spider is going to jump on him and drops the matches. The spider had ideas of his own; it was simply trying to escape, and runs to the hole in the web and dives in disappearing. An instant later its gone, but the matches that fell out of Henrys hand are not. They've landed in some of the old news- paper stacks stored against the wall.

Not all are damp from the cellar; the hot sun shining in each day that summer has dried some of them out until their now brownish color and almost brittle. Small pieces have dropped off the main stacks and cover the floor. They've also dropped down behind the stacks and collect in fluffy piles there. And that's exactly where the fiery pack of book matches ended up. Henry is so happy about chasing the feared spider that he doesn't notice. He begins to giggle, then laugh out loud, then even louder.
Grampa hears the high-pitched sounds above his T.V. news. "Now what's he gotten into now." he mumbles. He turns the television down to get a better listen. The noisy laughter continues for a few more minutes then turns into a scream. "Help! Help! Help Grampa! Help me! Please! Please!"
Old Bemis gets up from his chair and walks toward the upstairs cellar door leading to the steps Henry had been sitting on for the first two hours. He smells the smoke before he even opens the door. "What in the world?!!" He opens the door quickly and is hit in the face by a cloud of smoke.
Coughing and brushing as much of it aside as he can, he sees that the cellar is lit up by a bright red glare. The cellar is on fire and he can see through the smoke that Henry is at the bottom of the stairs with stark terror written all over his face. "Help me put it out Grampa! Help me put it out!" he screams and takes a few more steps upward. Old Bemis grabs his handkerchief from his pocket. Holding it over his nose and mouth he makes his way down the steps.

The first thought in Bemis Randolph's mind is to rip the heart out of his daughter's only son. His blood pressure is sky high and the bright red color on his face is far beyond the bright red glow that now turns into a roar and crackling that were not there a few moments ago. The fire has found new fuel and it has to be all the stacks of old dried up paper he has collect ed over the years. here was no way to put it out now and he knows it.

This just increases his anger and he loses what little hold he has always had on his horse-killing temper. He rushes down the stairs with his big softball sized fist pulled back like the string of a sixty-pound bow. Reaching the bottom of the steps he attacks Henry with a vengeance, letting it go hitting Henry right between the eyes. The boy is taken off guard and falls to the floor in a heap, blood running from his nose, instantly his face swells to twice its size.

Old Bemis does not stop there but continues to punish the boy ignoring the flames raging over near the windows. Coughing, spitting, and screaming he continues the onslaught. Henry, now outcold, lays unprotected in a heap on the floor, as the big work shoes crash down on him. Bemis Randolph in a blind rage, can only focus on those things in his life that he must destroy before it destroys him, the kicks keep coming.

Finally a low moan comes from the floor at his feet and old Bemis hesitates with his foot still in the air over the boy. With tears running from his smoke filled eyes and his big bulky body vibrating from the hot blood flowing through his brain Bemis sees the brilliant light of life disappear from within his brain, everything goes black before his eyes; and he falls forward like an old dead tree.

Henry feels the huge weight fall upon his aching body and opens his eyes to see the picture of death that has trapped him in this burning horror. A terrible ripping pain shoots upward through his ribs and ends near his shoulder. Other terrible pain is also traveling through his body as he becomes more aware of the injuries he's suffered from kicks he was too unconscious to have known about.

He now begins to hear more and more of the fires power as it continues to rage upward eating away at the floor just above it. "It must be almost starting in the upstairs living room by this time," he thinks. That worries him even more and he screams at his Grandfather to wake up. "Grampa! Grampa! Wake up! Get off me! Get off me Grampa! I can't get up. Grampa! Grampa! C'mon! Wake up!" he screams.

Then as the fire continues to lash out at the cellar roof he realizes that they will both die if he doesn't do something on his own. He begins to wiggle out from under the great weight that attempts to hold him in this certain-death position. Finally sitting up he tries to push his Grandfather off his legs. "Wow." he mutters, "gotta weigh a ton!" But continuing to shove and push he finally manages to get out from under and stands up. "There, now I have to get out of here." The burning tears drip down his face from the smoke and the heat filling the cellar is soon almost too much for his lungs. He feels like he's breathing in the fire itself.

Looking down at his Grandfather he speaks with the same anger that he has heard moments ago. "You're going straight to hell where you belong old man!" "You and the rats and spiders can hold hands for all I care!" and he races up the steps two at a time to freedom, laughing just as he did when the spider ran from his own fire. Stopping at the top turns to look back. "So long suckers!" and he slams the upstairs cellar door so hard the sound reverberates throughout the house. He runs quickly to his room, the smell of smoke is everywhere now, and the foggy mist of it has begun to travel through all the upstairs rooms.

Throwing everything he can grab into a large Pillowcase he runs down the hall to the front door jerks it open and crashes through the screen without opening it. Two feet onto the front porch he slips and tumbles down the steps rolling out into the yard. Getting up he looks for the pillowcase, grabs it up and runs down the old dirt road toward the highway. Two miles of running, walking and hurrying he reaches the highway and stands waiting, praying for a car to come along, any car.

He had never looked back, but then he didn't have to, he knew his grandfather would die in that fire. Hitchhiking for only ten minutes without a ride he spots a fire truck roaring into sight, it turns down the dirt road toward Old Bemis Randolph's house, or what might have been left of it. What bothered him most about that was that no one lived down that dirt road but his grandfather. Who could have called?

Who else could have known? The thought was just too spooky to hang on to. He quickly lets it go. He has more important things to think about, dreams to dream of, plans to be make. Henry never forgot what he felt that he was born to be, what he was born to do.

A week later he was invited to a closed casket funeral. Grampa Bemis was gone. He stood quietly beside his mother and father while the coffin was lowered. He did not cry, but he was the only one. Later, back in school he let the past stay in the past and went on with one of his favorite pass- times, stealing lunches from unlocked lockers, and making other plans including one for the old blind man. But that was history, that was his life, and this was now, and he imagined that he was laying in somebody's yard unable to move or speak.

Suddenly he hears the shuffle of many feet, chairs being shoved back, people speaking in low voices, but now it was a mixture of sounds. Men, women, children, he thought he even heard the light cry of a baby. Then silence. How could this happen? This was a garden party! Men don't show up at women's meetings! What about the children? He had not heard their voices before at all! He gets the feeling that he has misjudged the whole situation entirely. Still, within the silence he began hearing a few distant voices, then nothing. This gives him time to think, and he has a lot of things to think about.

For one thing, "What kind of place was this?" He begins to think that he's misjudged the situation. "This was certainly not a garden party" he knew that now. "But what was it if it wasn't?" He just couldn't understand what was going on. For the moment he would let that be, things were quiet and he would be away from here in a short time anyway; as soon as this stuff wore off. Then it would be back to business. He would begin working on the plan as early as tomorrow; he was going to put it off until he was sure that he had absorbed all the information first. He had saved a lot of money just for this purpose.

He would fly out tomorrow; the foreign leaders would be first. They would be the easy ones to deal with. He would lay out part of his plan, but only part of it; only the part of the Big Lie that concerned them. His story would be that if they would just give him some time and then afford him the help that he needed he would help "them" to become a world ruler, (although in his devious mind he really meant himself; but they would find that out too late.)

He had a list in his mind of who would be the first, and who would be the last to receive his plan. Manipulation would rear its ugly head once more and suck these war mongers into buying into his plan as sure as a used car dealer sells his next junker by putting a fresh coat of wax on it. But he would put even more coats on his ideas, hiding the dirt and ugliness hidden beneath. "

Yes! Tomorrow he would be thirty-thousand feet in the air flying to meet with those who dreamed of ruling the world. He would suck them in like old rotten newspaper meeting a brand new vacuum cleaner. They would be the easy ones, they didn't know what he knew, they didn't know that he would use their own greed to buy their power, then their people, then their souls. He would be their new God, even those who didn't have one or believe one did exist. They would find that as time went on he was truly just that, if not all of that, to them.

They would thank him, bring gifts of gold, bow to him for all he had accomplished for them, they would in the end work only to bring all his plans together, everything just the way he had planned it. He smiled in his mind and some of it extended to his face but he was not aware of it happening. "They were so gullible." he thought. A thrill of what he would accomplish sent a chill through his senses. His headache was disappearing; he was beginning to feel better. "Maybe it's beginning to wear off." he thought. "I knew it wouldn't be too long. I don't care where I'm at, I'll leave this place behind like a worn out coat!"

Suddenly he hears a quiet sound of a door opening, then the sound of two men talking in soft tones. "Maybe I'm not that well hidden after all." he thinks. "Please go away, who ever you are!" he screams inside the recesses of his mind.

"Close the lid carefully and lock it down Ben. Has everyone shown up yet? It's going to take all six. This thing is really heavy." Thump! And the coffin lid comes down for the last time. Ralph billings and another man named Ben Hollingsworth begin to work on sealing the lid. Pete Stevens comes in with three other men trailing behind. "Almost ready guys?" he questions. "Yeah, almost ready Pete, Boy this was a strange one huh?" he answers."

"What do you mean by that?" Pete answers.
"Well, I know a guy who works here, you know, he takes care of the bodies, getting them ready and stuff?"
"Yeah, so what." Pete answers.
"Well, did you guys come through the line when everyone was taking turns walking by the coffin?" Ben questions.
"Yeah sure we did, why?" Pete asks.
"Did you notice that his mouth and his eyes were sown shut?"
"No, I didn't look that close, did any of you?" Pete questions, looking at the other men. The answer from all was the same, no one had noticed.
"Well, keep it to yourselves" Ben says. Billy Barnes works for this Funeral Home and he said that this was the strangest body he'd ever seen working on. The eyes just kept popping open and the mouth just wouldn't stay shut! Scared him so bad he had to leave for awhile; when he came back he made his mind up that he wasn't going through that, so he sewed them closed." "Oh, hey guys, you didn't hear that from me, right?" They all agree then become silent and just look at each other.

Abruptly, the door opens once more and a woman enters with an old man at her side. "Please! This man has had to walk all the way here, we didn't know about him, he wants to pay his respects, and if you wouldn't mind, he wants to do it alone?" she states.

The six men standing near the coffin agree that a few minutes wouldn't hurt anything, and wander out toward the vestibule to wait.
The woman leads the old man up front toward the coffin. He carries the white cane under his arm. As they reach the coffin she lays his right hand on it to let him know they've arrived. He places the cane by standing it up against the coffin carefully.
"Mam." he whispers, "Is the coffin lid open?"
"No, they've closed it, she answers. we didn't expect to have any more visitors to view the body; we were just getting ready to leave for the cemetery." "Could you have someone open it? The Blind man asks. "Would that be asking too much? I'd like to place something in the coffin; its very important that I do this. It would mean a lot to me mam; I borrowed something from him and feel I must return it .I have it with me."

The men in the back get the idea that they know what the next step will be. One of them moves to walk toward the coffin. "Here I'll do that for you sir." He says. He then reaches for the lid and opens it all the way resting it to the rear of the coffin. He Then leaves, slowly walking toward the rear to join the other men still waiting for this to be over.

The woman speaks while touching the old blind man, "I'll wait in the back. Just turn around when your ready and wait for me. "She speaks softly. She walks away quickly.

Hesitating, then reaching into the coffin he feels for Henry Repids. Finding his arm he touches it lightly, then rests his arm on the edge of the coffin. At first he doesn't say anything, the perfume smell of a room full of flowers is almost overpowering. The warehouse company employees did not forget Henry. On the other hand he probably would have forgotten them in a blink of an eye.
"I wonder what he would have thought of all this?" the old man whispers. "I think he would have been proud, all these flowers." The thought is an odd one, but death was never to be fully explainable, even to the blind.

The old blind man then speaks directly to Henry. "Hello Henry, It's me Willy, sorry about the accident. I heard he was drunk and speedin. He's been locked up in jail now, figured you'd want to know that." The old blind man then reaches down into his pocket where he keeps his greatest needs: his coins, his door key, his lighter, all those objects that he values most. But this time as his trained sensitive fingers dig, feel, and touch nervously; but he is not searching for any of those objects.

He spends more way more time than usual rifling around within the dark exterior of his deep front pocket. "Ah....there it is. " he mumbles to himself. He's been searching for a thin chain to be exact, a necklace with a rectangular piece of metal hanging on it. The metal was a brushed metal brass and it had words engraved on it. He retrieves it from his pocket and uses both hands to straighten it out. To him, it has become precious. He then holds it out in front of him, and with one hand feeling the way he places it on the center of Henrys chest.
"I couldn't let you go without this Henry, you were the only real company I had for all those years. Someone always there when I needed it. I just wanted to see if I could still do it! I guess you can understand that, huh? Made my living that way before I went blind, they used to call me "Slick-Willy." I used to be good; one of the best I'm told. Picking picking pockets, stealing watches, and yeah, even necklaces. Just wanted to try it one more time Henry, meant a lot to me. Didn't mean no harm fella; hope theres no hard feelins. Probably real gold too, huh?" He then stands silently, he had never realized what kind of necklace it was, or how important it was to Henry Redips.
"Mr. Willy!! It's me, Henry!! Mr. Willy!! It's me!! Tell them I'm alive!! Tell them I'm still alive Mr. Willy!! Please!! Tell them I'm alive!! Show them the necklace Mr. Willy!! Show them the necklace!! Please show them the necklace! Please!! I'm still alive! Please don't let them close the lid!
The blind man stands quietly, as if expecting Henry to react in some way to his statements. But he hears nothing but silence from the coffin; he does not hear the silent screams roaring through Henry Repids brain.
Finally he draws his hands back. "Goodbye Henry" I hope you can forgive me," then feels around for his cane. He turns slowly and waits. The woman comes foreword and takes him by the arm. "I'll give you a ride home sir, if you'd like." she offers.
"You can call me Willy mam, and I would sure appreciate the ride."
"Glad to meet you Mr. Willy, my name is faith."

"I wouldn't ever want to lose you then would I?" And Willy smiles jokingly.
And what about Henry? Henry Redips would not go to his grave alone, he was now accompanied by the one thing that would have saved his life when the Emergency Medical crew found him in the middle of the street that morning; after being hit by the car.

The car had only delivered a glancing blow, bruising only his hip as he turned away from the loud squealing tires. But upon falling, his head had hit the pavement causing a weakened blood vessel to burst resulting in a stroke. The medics attending him used the usual methods to try reviving him, but it seemed that nothing they could do or try would bring him around. But why not, what could be interfering with their well-trained methods? What they didn't know or realize was that there was more wrong with Henry than being a victim of being hit by a car. The medics did not find the medic-alert necklace he had normally worn around his neck or they would have had the answer immediately.

It would have informed them of his rare condition, and that he was now in that semi comatose state that his condition produced. It would have also informed them that they would find that his heart beat would also be almost nonexistent to a hand-touch-pulse or stethoscope listening device. That the beat was so very weak and slow that it would be considered nonexistent; and the timing of each slow beat would add its contribution to a pronouncement of death at the scene, as it worked to produce only one weakened beat every fifteen seconds. Henry was also paralyzed from the neck down as a direct result of the stroke and had also lost the use of his facial muscles and voice.
But they never saw that information. Henry wasn't wearing the necklace for the medics to find. The reason? Willy had stolen it earlier that day while Henry had stopped and sat talking with him for a few minutes on his way to work.
Willy and the woman leave the building, and eventually drive away. Now one of the men begins to walk slowly toward the coffin area; the others follow.
"Well, this is it, guys, locker up tight."
"Wait a minute," Ben says, lets see what the old man put in there. You never know about such things. I think we should just check it out, know what I mean? Kind of as respect for the dead?"

They all look at each other, and with a few blinking eyes and a couple of doubtful shoulder shrugs they agree to take a look. All walk up close and then stare into the coffin. They spot it immediately, a gold looking chain spread out neatly across Henrys chest. "First time I ever seen anything like this guys, never knew of anybody giving necklaces to dead people."

Looking closer he picks it up. "Hey! This is a Medic Alert! Look at this would you?" Bringing the necklace out where everyone can see it they look it over. "Hey! It's a Medic Alert! Why would the old blind man give this to Henry King." They read the engraved words on both sides of the metal. "This says it belongs to Henry Rapids, any of you guys know him?" No one recognizes the name. (Little did they know that Henry had changed his last name to King after his parents had died.) No one present realized that this Medic-Alert belonged to the man now laying there in the coffin before them.

"What do you think we oughta do guys? Why would this old blind man want to give this to him?" The silence of the room is the only answer he will receive in that moment.
"You all know what it says don't you, I mean before we turned it over? Ever seen anything like that before? No one had, ever. The words read: "DO NOT EMBALM ME."

They had never seen these words before, but they knew what they meant, and they were chilling. The explanation on the back referred to Medical Records. But Henry Repids was not embalmed (coincidentally), and that meant that he had escaped that kind of death anyway. But that was not what the Medic Alert was for, the second step, the information on the reverse side, was the most important, and it was not present when he was picked up at the accident scene.

In a few moments they carry the coffin to the hearse, and place it inside for the trip to the cemetery.

There, they would remove it and carry it to it's final resting place. The necklace? They placed it exactly as they had found it; carefully arranging it, and spreading out the small gold colored links out of a respect for the dead. It had now been returned to its rightful owner; neatly arranged across the chest of this would-be King.

Later, within the dark confines of the now closed coffin something moves. The chain suddenly shakes itself, takes on a pseudo-life of its own, then very slowly and methodically begins to move. First twisting and turning, then adjusting each individual link; sliding them slowly across the soft white silk shirt until the once oval shape begins to resemble a circle, a symbol of something that Henry Repids had not known and could never have planned ahead for, as he spun the silken threads of the Web of deceit devised in the bowels of his twisted mind. The circled necklace also formed an empty void, a shape not unlike a hole.

Henry had been carrying it around his neck as if his life depended on it, and it did. He had never visualized that a harmless old blind man would be responsible for not only the failure of his plan but, the failure of his life.

Though he had planned everything so perfectly, he had not planned on the last gasp effort of an old blind man to ply his once practiced trade. An old man who wondered if he was still quick enough, still good enough, even with the loss of his precious sight.

Henry Repids could never believe, nor was he aware that there were others who also had their own visions, aspirations, dreams and desires. Because of that unyielding desire to ignore that one simple fact the King was dead. He had forgotten the first rule of all spiders, and like dictatorial minds before him, he had fallen, through A Hole In The Web.

THE END