“I don’t need a guardian,” I say. “And I am not sure Angels are on my side at this time.”
Note says: You talk too much.
I say, “As if you talk at all.”
Note says: I made a choice not to. You, on the other hand, do talk so use your mind and focus or blabbing will kill you. Then he writes something that makes me chuckle. Too much yappening, not enough happening.
“And you make fun of me speaking in American terms?” I retort. “What you just said isn’t even English.”
A note: It’s better than English. It’s nonsense.
I don’t reply, watching him churn another note. This one says: We may have started on the wrong note. Let’s start all over again.
“That sounds better,” I say. “Where do you want to start?”
A note: Let’s begin with introductions. You can call me Dude.
“Nice to meet you, Dude – I guess.” I struggle and stand up on my feet, and stretch out a hand.
He doesn’t shake it, but tucks another note in it: Time is running out. You have to get ready for your next mission.
“You’re giving me orders now?” I ask.
A note: Yes. The world is counting on you to save them from the Chessmaster.
Chapter 7
The Dude tells me all about the Chessmaster, the best chess player in history, who’s just gone mad and killed the Pope’s messenger while entrapping the world leaders in an auditorium in Russia.
Then he makes me watch the news covering the catastrophe.
“But they don’t mention why he is doing this,” I say.
No one knows, yet. He didn’t say.
“Does the Chessmaster have a name?”
No one’s sure. He has been concealing his identity for years, even when winning chess championships each year. Some say his real name is Vozchik Stolb.
“Doesn’t strike me like a Russian name.”
Who cares? You just need to stop him.
“So he is not a Wonderland Monster, I think,” I say. “You understand I only catch Wonderland Monsters, right?”
That’s exactly why I am here, giving you orders, and not The Pillar.
“You know about The Pillar? Who are you?”
I’m the Dude. I told you that. I am here to teach you that you don’t only save lives by beating Wonderlander Monsters. You’re obliged to save anyone harming humans in this world.
“And why would I do that?”
Because you have a responsibility to repent for the things you’ve done in the past.
“Seriously,” I glare at his hollow face under the hood. “Who are you?”
I’ll answer you when you know who you are.
“I know who I am, smartass.”
Really? Bad Alice? Good Alice? Insane? Sane? Alice? Mary Ann? Orphan? Family? You don’t have the slightest idea.
I shrug. It’s hard to argue with the only person bothering to save my life, other than The Pillar.
We may not have time, since the Chessmaster is playing the game with the world’s leaders right now, and they are very bad at chess. Soon, another world leader will die — it’s already a mess at the Vatican. People are angry and worried for the pope’s life.
“I thought it was the Pope’s messenger who died.”
The Pope was forced to play the game after his messenger died. He is present in Russia, endorsing the charity event. He happens to have no idea how to play chess. Now the Chessmaster is forcing him to play. Either win or die.
“This is getting serious,” I rub my chin. “Do you happen to know where The Pillar is?”
I thought you’d never ask. Then he writes down an address. I will drive you there, but then you’ll not see me again. My role ends here.
I don’t know why I feel a bit lost, realizing I want to see this mysterious Red again. But it seems weird to vocalize my interest in him. I am not even sure I can fully trust him, so I take the note and we descend the stairs of the abandoned building we’re in. Out to the streets, I immediately recognize the city of London.
The Red shows me to a Corvette in a vacant back street and opens the door for me.
“Must be rich,” I mumble, sitting.
I borrowed it from a rich guy.
“You mean you stole it from a rich guy.” I pull on the seatbelt.
He doesn’t write a note and starts the engine.
“I’m really worried about the Pope,” I comment, thinking about who this Chessmaster may be, and if he will end up being a Wonderland Monster. “You said the Chessmaster forced him to play and he has no clue how to play chess. What’s the Pope doing now?”
He writes a note with one hand while driving with the other. “The Pope made his first move. It’s a very common move in the Vatican when facing crisis.”
“Which is?”
A note with a smiley face: “Praying.”
Chapter 8
Buckingham Palace, Queen’s garden.
The Queen watched her doctors trying to put Humpty Dumpty’s head back on. The doctors struggled with it. The boy’s head was much heavier and bigger than most children his age. It was also a horrendous operation, knitting it back.
“So he’s going to live?” The Queen asked, chin up, hands behind her back, wearing rabbit flip flops for a change.
“It’s too soon to tell,” the doctor said. “We’re knitting the head back on. The rest needs Divine Intervention.”
“What’s Divine Intervention?”
“It’s when you need God to intervene and save someone.”
“Never heard of that,” The Queen said, rubbing her chin.
“It’s like when God let’s people live while he decides others will die.”
“Ah,” she clicked thumb and forefinger. “You mean like when I chop off heads or don’t chop off heads. I decide who lives and who dies.”
The doctor shrugged, not sure if he should object or explain things further. He certainly could get his head chopped off if he spoke.
“Anyhoo,” She said, smiling.
“Anyhoo?” The doctor wondered.
“It’s a hip word, I heard the kids say,” she said. “I like it. Nonsensical, and I like how you have to ball up your lips in the end like you’re going to kiss someone. Any-hoooo.”
“Whatever you say, my Queen.”
“So like I said: Anyhoo, I think my Humpty will live. It happened to him before in Wonderland. He’d fallen of a wall and splashed open like an Easter egg. Lewis wrote a rhyme about it.”
“And he still lived?”
“Yes. Became a little dumber though. He is like an egg. You can certainly glue its shell, but you can’t squeeze the yolk back in.”
“I don’t think we can afford him becoming any dumber,” the doctor sympathized, staring at Humpty balled up on the table.
“What’s wrong with dumb?” she demanded. “I love dumb people. Now get your dumb ass out of my chamber before I chop it off,” she stopped in her tracks, a forefinger pressed to her lips. “Did I just say I love your ass in the last sentence?”
The doctor suppresses a laugh, and hurried toward the door.
“Wait,” she said. “Margaret will want to see me because of this Chessmaster situation. I don’t want her to see her kid like this or she will give me a hard time, so tell her I am busy.”
“Busy?” the Doctor said. “Doing what?”
“I am the Queen, dammit! I can be busy playing with my big toe if I want to. Get out!”
Then she patted the poor kid while staring at the massacre in the garden. It was mesmerizingly ironic staring at the dead guards who’d just killed each other over a woof, woof.