"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU-U! Happy birthday to you-u! Happy birthday, dear Cly-yde. Happy birthday to you!" ("Clyde!" How he hated that name. Clyde Bauer, "Clyde the Clod" the kids at school called him. No one's named "Clyde." Why not a real name, like "Jason"? Might as well be "Elmer"! Yecch!)

"Now, make a wish!" His mother held the cake in front of him, a cake she'd baked, a cake with sixteen candles. No, it wasn't a Sweet Sixteen party; boys don't have those. It was Middle America's answer to the bar mitzvah.
"Some blow job, Sport." The Birthday Boy winced and blushed - but let it slide. That was just Dennis. Dennis Wotton: foul-mouthed eighteen-year-old from next door, but the closest one could come to a peer and a friend to join in the festivities. Other "friends" from school had begged off. Clyde the Clod was a loner.
Clyde took the knife and proceeded to "carve," but his eyes remained riveted on the Big Box - even while wolfing down his cake. It wasn't big; it was humongous: several weeks' Sunday comics had been needed to wrap it. The ribbon was half-a-foot wide, and the bow on top was as big as his head. "Well, son," his father seized the initiative by first clearing his throat. "It's better manners to open the smaller gifts first, but they'd give away the surprise. This time we'll make an exception: you may open the large box first."
He didn't open it, he disemboweled it. When the rape of the funnies had revealed nothing more than "U-Haul Men's Wardrobe," he seized the knife from the cake plate, transforming it into Excalibur, and slashed open the seam. His eyes grew wide, then welled with tears. "Oh... Mom... Dad... A Pentium-II!"
As Clyde ravaged his cyber-piñata, Earl Bauer (The original name, "Guschlbauer," had been mercifully left at Ellis Island in the mid-1880s. How would Clyde have liked to live with that?) turned to his wife, Irene, who was daubing her eyes, and smiled. Yes, it was excessive, but Clyde was their youngest: an autumn child, whose brother and sister were more than a dozen years his senior. Something was needed to snap him out of his lethargy (Clyde the Clod). He wasn't doing well at school, for reading - aside from comic books - held scant interest for him. If he was going to get anywhere with this computer, he would have to plow through the mountain of manuals. His parents hoped they'd supply the motivation.
"Dennis, it's 300 mega-Herz! An' look, multi-media! 24x CD-ROM! Wow, 33KB fax-modem! Awesome, truly awesome!" With that, Clyde threw himself at his mother, their tears mingling, in an unprecedented display of affection. Even though he was nearly as tall as his father and outweighed him, Clyde laid his head on Earl's chest and gave his dad his first real hug in years.
Lest he too succumb to this emotional tsunami, Earl cleared his throat again. "Yes, well son, you'll explore that at length. Let's go on to the other gifts."
"This is from Al, the kids, and me," his sister Laurie said smilingly (having stifled her tears), as she handed Clyde a box conventionally wrapped. (Laurie had flown in from Minneapolis. After all, she'd been nearly thirteen when Clyde was born. Tending him had been the "trial run" for her own motherhood.)
"Open the card first!" his mother admonished.
"Oh yeah, sure ..." Having pretended to read the card, Clyde made short work of the wrapping. "Doom! And Myst! Wow! And what's this? Oh, Encarta Deluxe. A microphone?"
"Why, yes," Laurie explained, "look a little further. You see there's the Meta-Language German Tutor. It's interactive: recognizes over six thousand words, not only corrects your grammar but also your pronunciation. Mom said you were having a really hard time in your German class."
"Oh ... Yeah ... That'll help. Thanks. Doom and Myst, wow!"
"Something to commemorate your birthday, Clyde," Dennis remarked as he handed the Birthday Boy his gift. (Despite his condescension, Dennis had a soft spot in his horny heart for The Clod - as everyone called Clyde behind his back - maybe because the guy was such a hopeless nerd and stood in awe of Dennis.)
"Hey, a joystick! Thanks, Denn." (Never "Denny"!)
"It's O.K., Sport. Now you can play with this and give your own a rest."
Laurie guffawed, but Earl and Irene glowered. If only they could have invited anyone else.
"Your brother, Phil, couldn't be here this evening," his mother ventured, regaining her composure, "but he sent this," and she handed Clyde a hugely oversized envelope. As the card was it, Clyde deigned to read.
"Wow! Phil's paying to have a phone put in my room - I mean my own line; an' the charges for the whole year! Garr!"
"That's the base charges, Clyde, not any toll-calls," his father clarified. Actually, the bills would be in Earl's name, Phil agreeing to pay them; and Earl had prudently blocked all "900" calls. None of that!
"Don't go trying to sneak on one of those X-rated BBSs," Dennis gaffed. (Dennis would!)
"How 'bout more cake?" Laurie queried, now that everyone's emotions were under control - and "Excalibur" reverted to its intended function.

"Clyde, turn that thing off and come down to dinner - now!" Earl bellowed, standing in the doorway to Clyde's room. He had to bellow; from the speakers came a continuous roar of explosions, and the high, screeching hiss of thermal rockets. "And another thing, we've told you a hundred times: don't use the speakers, use the headset! World War Five, or whatever it is, is driving us crazy."
"It's Novastorm, Dad. I've got Data Grid's control center in my sights. Oh shit!! Scavenger's been blasted!"
"You'll be 'blasted' if you don't turn that thing off - now!"
"Might as well; Scavenger's history," he sighed. (Actually, he didn't turn it off. He simply exited the game, leaving the Doom-Screen-Saver to prevent a phosphor burn-in while he foddered. He'd be back!) "What's for dinner?"
"Spaghetti," his dad muttered, trying to regain his composure.
("Oh shit!")
His mother was seated at the kitchen table. The salad was already tossed, the spaghetti sauce developing a skim, indicating it was getting cold. Clyde strode in - his father behind him, making sure he didn't bolt between the bedroom and the kitchen - plunked himself down at the table, and started to reach for the bread. "Wash your hands first, young man!" his mother demanded in a tone reflecting her on-going exasperation.
As Clyde went through the motions of washing his hands at the kitchen sink, his mother and father looked at each other and shook their heads. They'd been ecstatic six months ago, when Clyde had overcome his aversion to reading and poured himself into the manuals. There they were, enshrined in his bedroom: the Mishna of Cyberspace. All summer long, even through the dog-days, he'd kept his nose buried in them. Scraps of paper protruded, marking the important sections. He'd even gotten as far as cross-referencing using the built-in data-base and produced an impressive three-ring binder labeled "Sys-Log." It hadn't taken him long to have Myst and Doom up and running. Even Encarta and the German tutorial had been explored, more out of curiosity than real interest, however. The big change came two months ago, when he went on-line. Big time!
In cyberspace, he wasn't Clyde the Clod, he was "Lone Wolf," stalking his prey beyond the confines of the space-time continuum. Impressive games like Doom and Novastar were his training material. His true métier was "modum-play": where contestants who meet on a BBS agree to a private shoot-out, their computers connected via high-speed modems. Of course with modum-play, he couldn't always be the hero. To find matches - for everyone wanted to be the hero - he had to be willing to assume the command of legions of zombies and hoards of meta-metal gorgons, littering cyberspace with corpses of those foolish enough to engage Lone Wolf. (Actually, he didn't mind that at all.)
Clyde glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ("Oh damn, 7:25!") His chow- down rate went into turbo mode. "Stop gobbling your food," his mother admonished. "And don't talk with your mouth full!"
A gulp later, Clyde apologized. "Sorry Mom, Dad, but at seven-thirty I've got an Isle of Darkness modum-match. It's bad form to be late."
"What you've got is damn little concern for your mother and myself, young man!" Earl barked, his patience long exhausted.
"Ah, Dad! You know that's not true. I love you both. You know that. It's just that I've gotta be in top form to lead the Forces of Darkness to victory."
"To do what?" his mother gasped.
"To ... Look, this evil billionaire has taken an island in the Santa Barbara Channel and made it into the techno-perfect stronghold of a cult. Well, the other player is the Liberator, so I've got to lead the Forces of Darkness ..."
"I don't think that's very healthy," his father interjected, looking warily.
"Dad, it's just a game!"
"Yeah ... Well, you're too young to remember Jonesville, but what about Waco - and that AUM-cult: hundreds dead on the Tokyo subway from nerve gas! Cult-zombies from well-to-do Japanese families. Japan is the most technologically developed country in the world. Is that where it's leading?"
"Oh Dad! ... " Clyde nervously gnawed at his lip: his reaction when placed in a stressful position. He glanced again at the clock. "Hey, seven thirty, gotta go!"
"But ... but I made an apple pie," his mother implored.
"Just leave me a slice, Mom. I'll get it later. A big slice ... please." From upstairs came the ring of a phone. "It's 'Diabolus.' He'll be pissed!"
"It's who?" his mother gasped - again.
"'Diabolus,' my opponent. Everyone in cyberspace has a 'handle': I'm 'Lone Wolf'; he's 'Diabolus' - and he's connecting!" Clyde bounded out of the chair and flew up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him."
Earl and Irene looked at each other, with that wadda-we-do-now? expression. Then Earl sighed, "Don't worry, within the year he'll discover sex, and this'll all be forgotten."
"And then we'll have a whole different set of problems." (Mothers always worry.)
"Maybe ... but at least we'll know how to cope with those," Earl comforted, patted her hand - and winked.

Clyde slid himself into the chair. Already on the monitor was,

CONNECT 26K/sec

Are you ready, Lone Wolf?

Clyde hit the echo-off toggle and typed in,
Ready to crush you, Diabolus. Greetings, but prepare

for your demise. The Forces of Darkness await you!
The games were loaded and brought in sync. Now, only instructions needed to be exchanged between the computers: what weapons to fire, where to fire them. Clyde's computer instantly recorded the action, while at the other side of cyberspace, Diabolus' did the same. "He's good," Clyde - opps, Lone Wolf - thought. "Good, but I'm better."
Lone Wolf was good, but he was decidedly not better. He held his own, but at times it seemed as if Diabolus were toying with him, mocking him. He'd be sitting pretty for a kill-bolt, but just as Lone Wolf would fire, he'd dart out of range. Funny, but at times it seemed he'd move before Lone Wolf fired.
The game ground on and on. Hour after hour of frustration (his lip was raw): never quite losing, never winning either. "Geez! almost midnight," Clyde noticed. (When in cyberspace, he was Lone Wolf; but when forced out, he was Clyde - Clyde the Clod.) He pressed the control to signify he was entering Chat Mode. The game was suspended, and a blank screen appeared.
Hail, Diabolus! I don't know where you are, but here in Lone Wolf's den, it's
nearly midnight.

Are you surrendering, Lone Wolf?

Lone Wolf NEVER surrenders! But you called me. Isn't this costing you a
fortune?

Diabolus has an 800 line, Lone Wolf.

WOW! Your own 800 line! O.K., let me make a headcall, and I'll be right
back.

I shall await your return with glee, Lone Wolf. Signal when ready.
DIABOLUS.
Clyde padded across the hall to the bathroom, making as little noise as possible. He was about to reenter his room, when he remembered the pie he'd asked his mother to set out for him. He was hungry and hoped she had. She had, nearly a quarter of the pie, neatly covered with plastic wrap. He took it and a fork with him and padded up the stairs. He reentered cyberspace.
Lone Wolf returns, Diabolus!
Almost instantly there appeared,
Are you ready to resume?
"Good grief," Clyde thought, "has this guy been sitting in front of his monitor the whole time? Boy, he's more of a cyber-junkie than I am." With that, he stuffed another forkfull of pie into his mouth.
Roger and out!
The game returned to where they had left it, but now he was certain that Diabolus was toying with him. More than once, with a clear kill-shot, Diabolus just turned his blaster up and fired into the sky. Lone Wolf would show him! The pie could wait. Lone Wolf went into turbo mode. No difference! Lone Wolf wasn't scoring because he could not, Diabolus because he didn't want to! Suddenly, the screen went blank, and then there appeared,
ENTERING CHAT MODE


Let's face it, Lone Wolf; this isn't your game.

What do you mean? I've got 42 wins and NO losses!
Lone Wolf was incensed, so Clyde shoved a forkful of pie in ... their mouths.
I mean, when it comes to Isle of Darkness, you're a clod.

I'm NOT a clod!

Sorry, Lone Wolf, YOU'RE A CLOD!
Clyde-Lone Wolf was/were furious. Fuming! Clyde chomped down on his pie and on his lip - hard enough for his canine not only to draw blood, but also slice off a morsel of flesh, which went down his gullet with mom's pie. Lone Wolf banged down on the key board,

I'M NOT A CLOD!! I'LL BE DAMNED 8F

IF I'LL LET ANYONE CALL ME THAT!!!!

There was a delay of several seconds ...

Don't get bent out of shape, Lone Wolf. I'm sorry if

I hurt you. Look, I gotta log off. I can't call you

again, but you can call me, if you want to.

I don't have an 800 number. I couldn't hack it.

I have an INCOMING 800 line, but you've got to SWEAR

you won't give it out.

An INCOMING 800 line? Wow! I swear! I won't tell.

O.K., the number is 800-666-4355.

Your password: "GLAEBA". LATER! Diabolus...

LINE DROPPED

"Wow, an incoming 800! His parents must be really rich. Gotta save that number." And so, Clyde - for it was Clyde now, with slightly less lip to bite - hit Ctrl+Print Screen, and the dot-matrix printer typed out,

I mean, when it comes to Isle of Darkness, you're a clod.

I'm NOT a clod!

Sorry, Lone Wolf, YOU'RE A CLOD!

I'M NOT A CLOD!! I'LL BE DAMNED 8F

IF I'LL LET ANYONE CALL ME THAT!!!!

Don't get bent out of shape, Lone Wolf. I'm sorry if

I hurt you. Look, I gotta log off. I can't call you

again, but you can call me, if you want to.

I don't have an 800 number. I couldn't hack it.

I have an INCOMING 800 line, but you've got to SWEAR

you won't give it out.

An INCOMING 800 line? Wow! I swear! I won't tell.

O.K., the number is 800-666-4355.

Your password: "GLAEBA". LATER! Diabolus...

LINE DROPPED

With that, Clyde powered down the system. He placed his finger against his torn lip. A tiny drop of blood on the tip of his finger confirmed that it was still bleeding slightly. He put the read- out in the Sys-Log, and went into the bathroom to both brush his teeth and apply a dab of toilet paper to absorb any more blood. "I'd better be ultra-quiet. Boy, if Mom and Dad knew I was up this late on a school night, there'd be the devil to pay."

The phone rang three times. "Wotton the Rotten on the line."
"Ya can say that again."
"Wotton the Rotten on the line."
"You're too much, Dennis."
"Hi, Wendy! How's my favorite nympho?"
"Cut that out! Look, Dennis, I'm calling about the Halloween bash."
"Yeah ... No holds or 'holes' barred! Show your HIV clearance at the door!"
(An exasperated silence ...) "Ya wanna bring the guy from next door?"
"The Clod? Ya gotta be kidding."
"No! Seems Roger's brother had P.E. with him last semester. Mentioned he was pretty well hung."
"Roger-the-Omnivore wouldn't forget that!"
"Knock it off, Dennis!"
"Look, Wendy, ma poule, you - and Roger - would have more fun with an Oscar Meyer bratwurst than with The Clod."
"Why?"
"'Cause The Clod's a virgin. That's why."
"Ya mean with girls?"
"I mean with anyone - except himself probably, and that doesn't count. Besides, the guy's an Honorary Citizen of Cyberspace. He only comes back to Earth to fodder and fart."
"Dennis ... You gotta foul mouth."
"Perhaps, but I gotta clean crotch. Look, my insatiable Suc-cu-ba, forget about The Clod. Have Roger line us up some choice 'Chuck' instead."
" ... Think it over, Dennis."
"Sure! 'Bye now!"

Clyde waited three days before taking up Diabolus's invitation. "I'll never get through," he reflected, "the guy probably has a zillion calls waiting." - but he got through on the second ring.

ENTER YOUR PASSWORD!

GLAEBA

Welcome, Lone Wolf! Glad YOU accepted my invitation!

"Wow! I never thought I'd connect that easily." Lone Wolf had passed through The Gateway; but Clyde hadn't been totally left behind yet: he noticed the red light, indicating activity on the hard disk, glowing steadily. "Not a virus! That's all I'd need." For several minutes, the red light glowed; then it went out. So did his monitor: totally blank. "Boy, if that guy's clobbered my system, he'll have the devil to pay!" He didn't dwell on that, for the monitor came to back life. Utterly fantastic images, some formless, others geometric, darted and whirled across the screen. But what a screen! It was nothing like he'd seen before: clarity far surpassing any SVGA graphics, as high a resolution as a motion picture. More: for there was a holographic quality to it. "Awesome! Totally fuckin' awesome!" Lone Wolf had Entered In, leaving Clyde far, far behind.
From the loud speakers came eerie music: he'd never heard anything like it. He switched to the headset. (He didn't want his parents coming in, dragging him kicking and screaming out of cyberspace. Not this corner of cyberspace.) The images changed into recognizable forms, some exquisite, others totally repulsive. (Doom was full of monsters, but they were pikers compared to these. One couldn't compare them.) As the "music" swelled to a climax, superimposed on a background of grotesque shapes there appeared, in medieval letters, the message,

One tap of the right index finger, and the portals parted to admit Lone Wolf. A youngish man - no kid, he had to be 25, maybe older, looking a lot like (... who was it? yeah ...) Captain "B.J." Blazkowicz from "Wolfenstein," a classic multi-media VR game - was sitting on the edge of a table, with racks of computer gear behind him. Same reddish-brown hair, square jaw, dimple in the chin, military haircut, and bulging muscles showing through his polo shirt. "Salve, Lupe Sole! Welcome, Lone Wolf!" the man said! His voice was sonorous, and the tone markedly friendly.
"How'm I supposed to reply?" Lone Wolf asked himself. He started to reach for the keyboard, but Diabolus seemed to anticipate him.
"Do you have a mike to plug into your SoundBlaster?" (Lone Wolf remembered his German tutor and typed in "Yes" - but saw nothing on the screen.) "Good! Why don't you get it? It'll save a lot of typing, a bummer. I'll make some minor adjustments while you're away," Diabolus- Blazkowicz urged, flashing a smile both friendly and perfect.
Stupefied, if not actually mesmerized, Lone Wolf retrieved the mike from his German tutor box. As he pulled the computer out to connect it, his gaze fell on the monitor. Diabolus- Blazkowicz was standing with his powerful back to him, engaged in fine-tuning - but the perspective had changed. The image was a holograph! "Is it working?" Lone Wolf queried.
Diabolus-Blazkowicz turned around and smiled again, "Fine, it's working just fine. Isn't that better?"
"Oh yeah, lots! How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Ya know, transform the monitor into a holograph generator and - gee, I don't know - project yourself through cyberspace?"
"What's so strange about that? What's a holograph, other than a recording of detraction patterns?" (Actually, Lone Wolf didn't know what a holograph was; he only knew what it is.) "So, if the monitor projects detraction patterns, what you see is a 'holograph': a window into cyberspace."
"If you say so. But ... but how do you project yourself?"
"Come on, Lone Wolf! You're no stranger to animation. So it's far more real than 'Isle of Darkness,' so what? Oscillating the pixels produces clarity far beyond conventional animation."
"Your voice, your movements, they're totally lifelike."
"So are yours."
Lone Wolf's mind was reeling. The air of cyberspace was too rarified, too much pure oxygen. He didn't care if it was being done with smoke and mirrors. It was being done; that's all that mattered. "Do you know who you remind me of?"
"Captain 'B.J.' Blazkowicz from 'Wolfenstein'?"
"Yeah ..." Lone Wolf would rather not think about the implications of that, so he punted: "With such awesome skills, you must have one helluva collection of games."
"One helluva of a ... ?! That's choice!" Diabolus-Blazkowicz burst out laughing. "Lone Wolf - I've got games you've never dreamed of."

He had games Lone Wolf couldn't conceive of! Most were set in historical periods, some current, and none he could find in the future. That was fine; he'd had his fill of thermal rockets and micro-nukes. The au courant pickings, like Urban Guerilla and Drive-By Marksman, weren't that engaging; although, the incredible holographic projections put even them far beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Chicken wasn't bad. Lone-Wolf was at the wheel of a snazzy BMW. Opposing was an expensive sports car. The object was to force the other guy off the road - over the cliff, against the trees, into the ditch (the locale varying with each play) - without a head-on crash (draw) or swerving to your doom (curtains!).
All the games responded to verbal commands. Lone Wolf didn't have to fiddle with his joystick. At first he was perplexed how shades of meaning could be interpreted by the computer. With Chicken, for example, he didn't have to use exact terms - the bane of computer simulation. Slower, Easy-now, Decelerate, Break: each had its appropriate effect. Then he reflected that if the steam-powered German tutor could recognize 6,000 words, anything coming from Diabolus would be at least as responsive. One can't use nearly that many words with any one game, so why shouldn't it be able to recognize and respond to every shade of meaning? As Diabolus had advised, "Just say what you feel."
Lone Wolf felt like a new game. He'd had enough explosions and crashes for a while. They were giving him a headache. He scanned the new releases, looking for scenarios set in eras before the development of explosives:

ARENA: The splendor and spectacle of the Roman Games! You hob-nob with senators during the preliminary events - criminals thrown to the beasts, "exotic" attractions - then you select your gladiator and direct him in mortal combat.
SIEGE: Your Vikings have laid siege to fabulously wealthy Novgorod. Overcome the intricate, cunning, and elaborate defenses; vanquish the determined garrison, and put the city to the sack. But Beware! This enemy knows how to fight. The walls are filled with secret passages for sorties, and your foes will do all they can to eliminate the opposing general - you!
INQUISITOR: She's accused of being a witch, and she's beautiful. You must find the Witch's Mark, then exact a confession. If you succeed, you'll preside at the auto-de-fé and receive ecclesiastical preferment. If you fail, if you succumb to her wiles, or your prisoner expires during the interrogation - it's back to the monastery!

"Hmm ... no eardrum-thumping with that one, I guess; no need for any split-second reflexes. O.K., might as well give it a try," Lone Wolf decided. "I'd like to play 'Inquisitor,' please," he voiced into the mike, which now hung around his neck, leaving his hands free.
He stretched, yawned, and cracked his knuckles, as the red hard-disk light glowed brightly. Then the screen fogged over, and an "overture" of monkish chant sounded through the headset. When the miasma cleared, he was peering into a dungeon lit by flickering torches, which caused the shadows cast by the implements of the Holy Office to dance eerily on the walls. A rack, a wheel, ropes for the strapado, an Iron Boot, thumb screws, red-hot pincers glowing on a charcoal brazier, an assortment of whips: the full complement of Pious Persuaders. As the chant faded out, a procession entered: a monk in black habit, the hood thrown back to expose his beady eyes and tonsure, followed by a young woman (twenty at most), each arm in the firm grasp of a hunk, who looked like he trained under the personal supervision of Van Damme. The cleric, arms extended, carried a small cushion in a solemn manner. Each hunk was bare-chested, head covered by an "executioner's hood," and wearing black leather breeches that merged into tall, thick-soled boots. The raven-haired girl was naked, save for a small, gauzy swath about her luscious loins. "I'm not a witch! I'm not!" she cried in a voice still melodious, despite her obvious terror.
"Quiet, strumpet!" the cleric fumed. Turning out toward cyberspace, he extended the cushion: "The probe, your Worship." On it lay an ivory-handled stiletto, more needle than knife, actually. "The wheel or the rack, your Worship?"
"Uh ... uh ... uh - the wheel!" heavily breathing Inquisitor Lone Wolf managed to get out. The two hunks lifted their charge, fastened her hands in manacles imbedded in the wall, then bound her feet to the wheel-rims. After making sure everything was secure, they assumed a parade-rest position, flanking the girl, who was tossing her head back and forth.
"I'm not a witch! You know I'm not!" she cried, her long tresses cascading down her chest, washing over full, plump breasts, which bounced about in tandem with her heaving sobs.
"It's her wiles," the monk oozed. "Her wiles to ensnare you, your Worship."
"Yeah! Yeah, I know," Inquisitor Lone Wolf With the Glowing Eyes panted. "Well, fuck 'er!" As Lone Wolf gasped in disbelief, the hunks relaxed, quickly untied the thongs holding up the flaps in the front of their leather breeches, thereby unsheathing a matched pair of impressive pork-swords. One stepped up and administered a smart slap to the captive's face, then forced his tongue through the slit in his hood and bathed her erect nipples. His comrade ripped the off her gauzy coverlet - and thrust home!
"A-r-r-r-gh!" Lone Wolf cried and rocketed back into his chair. He commenced to furiously fiddle with his joystick - not the one from Dennis!

"Keep your diaphragm in, I'm coming!" Dennis growled, as he padded to the door and opened it. "Oh, Mrs. Bauer! Uh ... I didn't know it was you."
"That all right, Dennis. May I come in?"
"Oh... of course, please do." Dennis moved to the side and gestured for Mrs. Bauer to enter.
"You have a nice apartment, Dennis."
"Thank you. Ya know, just student digs."
"I'll bet you're glad to be out of the house." She looked around. The living room was certainly lived in. There were two desks, two computer hutches, a stereo, books, some weights, what had once been a couch and chair - the usual stuff. Notable not only for its size, but also for its newness, was a framed poster showing a bevy of girls in scanty swimsuits swirling around and patting the cheeks of a ram-rod Marine in dress blues. The caption read, "We're Looking For a Few Good Men." Irene tried to act nonchalant, if only to calm herself. "It's true then, you're joining the Marine Corps?"
"The reserves. It'll help pay for school. Who knows, I may like it. ("As long as I don't have to put up with too many born-again assholes, who have a 'sweetheart' waiting for them back in Bum-Steer, Alabama," he thought to himself.) I'll be taking basic training over the summer."
"That's wonderful, Dennis. I notice two desks. You have a roommate?"
"Yes, yes, I do." There was something strange in this - very strange. Dennis hadn't seen Mrs. Bauer for over six months, long before he moved out of the house. She must have gotten his address - and info about the Marine Corps - from his mother. Why?
"Do I know him?"
"No, no, I don't think so."
"What's his name?"
"uh ... Roger."
"Is he here?"
"No, no he's working."
"Oh, we can talk then." Irene was greatly relieved. She had much to say and loathed the idea of a stranger being present. Indeed, she loathed the fact that she had to speak at all. "Dennis, this isn't a social call. We need your help, Dennis. We need someone's help." The burden was too great. Tears flowed into her eyes, and she reached into her handbag for a tissue to daub her eyes.
"Why, Mrs. Bauer, what's wrong?"
"Clyde, Dennis. Something is terribly wrong with Clyde." Hearing herself say that was more than she could bear. She began to sob uncontrollably.
"Mrs. Bauer, please sit down. Sit down and tell me everything. I'll get us a Coke."
Dennis' brief absence gave Irene a chance to compose herself. Now that it was out, the worst was over. At least she hoped the worst was over. Dennis came back with two cans of Coke, popped the top on one which he handed to Irene, then popped the top on the other and took a swill. "Thank you, Dennis."
"Oh, no problem. Seems like you've got big problems. What is it, exactly?"
"He's dropped out of school."
"Oh, no! Not drugs?"
"No, can't be. I almost wish it were. There's help readily available for that."
"What is it, then?"
"It's that computer!" she cried. The pressure was too much. The tears turned into a torrent.
Dennis sprang from his chair, dashed into the bathroom, ran cold water over a washcloth, grabbed a towel, and returned to the living room. He held out the dripping cloth to Irene Bauer and delivered his plea with the voice of a Drill Sergeant: "Use this, Mrs. Bauer. Use it now! ... please."
Startled, Irene grabbed the washcloth, wiped her face again and again, then took the proffered towel. "Thank you, Dennis. Thank you, thank you ..."
"Now, Mrs. Bauer, what is going on?"
"He never leaves his room. He's in there with that thing day and night. He rarely eats, he hasn't had a haircut in months, and it's been ages since he' even bathed. It's horrible!"
"I don't understand. Why don't you just take it away from him?"
"That's what his father said he was going to do. He put his foot down. He was going to have the phone disconnected and chuck the computer in the trash. And ... and do you know what Clyde did?"
"No, how could I?"
"He beat his father to a pulp! He knocked Earl down and savagely kicked him. Then ... then - oh, it's horrible - then he said in a totally calm voice, like 'I'm going out to play ball' or 'I'm going to watch television' ... He said, 'If you touch the phone line or the computer, I'll kill you both and myself, too.' And he would ... Dennis, I know he would!"
Dennis rubbed his chin ("We can't both be nervous wrecks.") and continued in as calm a manner as possible, "You're right, it's horrible - but why do you think I can do anything?"
"It's what we heard him say. Dennis, we've heard him say grotesque things."
"Like what?"
"Like ... like ..." She would have stopped right there,but she couldn't. Dennis had to know. He had to know, or he couldn't help. If he couldn't help - they were damned. "Like, 'Do as I told you: take your sword and cut off his balls!"
"What? Balls?! Sword?!?"
"I know. It makes no sense at all. How about, 'I don't care if you rape the women and boys, even slit their throats. Just remember that a third of the treasure belongs to me'? Does that make any sense?"
"Of course not. But, again, why do you think I can do anything?"
"Oh, yes ... It's what we heard through the door: 'She's lying - you know what to do. Yeah, yeah ... ooo ... Dennis should see that. Dennis really should see that!' We thought you could get in there and find out what's going on. Dennis, you're the only one who can."
("What am I'm supposed to see?") "Well, Mrs. Bauer, something obviously must be done. You say I'm the only one who can do it; so, I'm the one who'll do it!" The last role Dennis would have cast himself in was that of Delivering Angel, but it seems he'd been drafted. "Mrs. Bauer, Marines always complete their missions. Now, let's sit down and work out the logistics ... ."

Dennis parked the Geo, climbed out, and approached the Bauer's house carrying a large paper bag in the crook of his arm. (As he had explained to Mrs. Bauer, everything had to seem perfectly "normal.") The house looked seedy: lawn unkept, grass and weeds protruding between the stones that formed the walkway. He sat the bag down and rang the bell.
"Why, Dennis Wotton. What a pleasant surprise." (Good, she wasn't overplaying or underplaying: normal tone and volume. Her eyes, however, conveyed a different message.)
"Evening, Mrs. Bauer. I was over at my parents picking up some groceries. Thought I'd drop by and say hello. Clyde home?"
"Yes, Dennis. He's upstairs. Won't you come in?" Dennis entered, giving Mrs. Bauer a wink. As Mrs. Bauer mounted the stairs, he could see Mr. Bauer standing by the door leading to the kitchen. Clyde's father look crushed - crushed and worried and - old.
"Clyde, dear ..."
"Go away, woman!"
"Clyde, you have a visitor."
"I don't want any visitors. You know that!"
"Clyde, it's Dennis."
"Dennis?"
"Dennis Wotton!"
"Denn? ... Gimme a couple minutes, and then send him up - by himself!"
A couple minutes later, Dennis, carrying his bag of groceries, rapped on Clyde's door, not knowing what to expect. He certainly didn't expect the stench. There was also no way he could have anticipated the form in front of him. It was Clyde - sort of. The Clod had grown four or five inches. He'd also lost at least thirty pounds. There he stood, clad only in baggy, crumpled bathing trunks ("Sorry, Denn. It's the only thing I could find that fit me.") and a pair of dirty socks, looking like a recently liberated survivor of a concentration camp: long, oily hair which had obviously been hacked at; gaunt face splotted with zits and rancid, adolescent peach-fuzz, along with filth-encrusted, overgrown nails. Clyde's visage constituted assault, and his breath committed battery.
"No problem, Sport. No problem. Ya wanna Coke?" Dennis reached into the bag and retrieved two Cokes, handing one to Clyde.
"Thanks, Denn! Come on in. Make yourself at home."
In Dennis could go. At home he could not make himself. The room was a mess. A mess? It was a mess to the nth power, as if picking up anything were a Crime Against Nature. The bed was dirty pile of twisted linen and blankets, along with an assortment of desiccated chicken bones, candy wrappers, apple cores, and banana peels. Papers, books, and more foddering remains littered the floor. The only place one could sit was in the chair facing the monitor. Clyde moved to its companion, which was piled high, shoved the books and papers to the floor and gestured to Dennis: "Have a seat, Denn. What's in the bag?" he continued.
Dennis eased himself into the chair. "Groceries from my Mom. Ya know how it is: ya move out o' the house, and they're convinced you're starving," he responded, accompanying the answer with his disarming smile.
Clyde squatted down on the corner of the bed facing Dennis. "You're out o' the house now? Good for you! So am I, really. This is just my lair." Dennis let that slide. (Something really bad was going on here, and he wasn't going to say or do anything to undermine Clyde's confidence until he found out exactly what it was.)
As they sat sipping on their Cokes, Dennis found himself momentarily fixated on Clyde's eyes. For a mere instant, they'd seemed infused with a power, an energy quite their own: like twin transceivers trying to project something through Clyde, not from Clyde. Then it passed. The eyes were once again simply Clyde's ocular organs, transmitting the very understandable "message" that The (emaciated) Clod was indeed glad to see Dennis, but also apprehensive about anyone being in his "lair."
"I'm taking one helluva chance letting you in here, Denn. But I can trust you; you're cool. Boy, if he finds out you're here, I could be bounced from the system."
"'He'?"
"Sys Op! The guy's the greatest computer genius who ever lived. Whoever will live! Just wait! But ya gotta be hyper-cool, Denn. Ya can't let him know you're here - an' he can hear ya breathe. Do ya like the Roman Games?"
"I don' know. I never played any."
"You ..." Clyde smiled and shook his head. Then his countenance grew serious. "I really wondered why Sys Ops's games, those worth playing anyway, are set in the past. He explained it to me. In the past, Denn, we were in balance with our humanity. Anything done was done because we did it; not because some machine did. Nothing got done without sweat - ours or a slave's, usually both.
"We lived with our animals and they with us. We understood them; they understood us, too. We were the Kings of Beasts: the noblest and most exalted of beasts but still beasts. Any animal that refused to acknowledge that had to keep its distance or be exterminated. First the sword secured the field; then came the plow. All progress depended on that sword. The warrior was the acknowledged natural leader. Only after he'd been bloodied, could a man lay any claim to respect. That's why the ancients took their best warriors and put them in the stars."
(Dennis' jaw dropped. Where in the hell had Clyde come up with this vocabulary, these astounding phrases? Not much more than a year ago, The Clod's "strong convictions" had been more or less limited to the proposition that Batman was better drawn than Spiderman. Now, he was sitting in front of Dennis - of all people - and pontificating. For once, Dennis found himself dumbfounded.)
"Someone who doesn't long for combat isn't fully human," Clyde continued. "I'll bet inside you're really longing for combat, Denn. Not thermo-rockets or any of that shit, but facing a living, breathing adversary you respect - maybe even love - and you're out to cut his balls off and make him eat 'em, before he cuts off yours and shoves 'em down your throat.
"We don't come into the world in a Ziplock bag, Denn. We come in covered with piss, shit, and blood, while Mom's screaming in agony - agony and bliss. That's what it's all about: piss, shit, blood, and pain: the prerequisites of bliss. Deep down, inside somewhere, you know that, Denn. That's the real reason you're always reminding the prim 'n' proper bastards they have a crotch."
("H-e-a-v-y!")
"Pain is a powerful stimulant. It reawakens and revitalizes the core of our animal nature. Lets the Beast come out an' play. Ya know, I think we'll start with 'Inquisitor.' A good thing the last one confessed, or I'd be in the middle of my three-week penance."
("Wha ...?)
"Let's see, we'll have to make some adjustments. Get up for a second, Denn." Dennis stood up, and Clyde moved the chair to the right, turning it to face the monitor. He then moved his chair slightly to the left, turning the monitor to accord Dennis an ample view. "Can ya see all right?"

"Fine."

" ... Wait'll ya meet Brother Ramón. He's a card ..."

("The Jack o' Clubs?")

"We'll use the speakers, but I've got to keep the volume real low. We can't have them ..." and Clyde flicked his thumb toward the bedroom door, his face a study in contempt and disdain, "... overhearing. Now remember, Denn, not a sound!"

"Muff's the word."

Clyde eased himself into his chair, slipped the mike over his head and powered up the system. After a brief interval, he typed something on the keyboard; then, after another brief interval, spoke into the microphone: "Lone Wolf ...

("'Lone Wolf'?")

" ... requests to play 'Inquisitor'." Dennis stared intently at the screen. After what seemed an interminable delay, Clyde/Lone Wolf resumed speaking into the mike. "Good evening, Brother Ramón ... Yeah, bring her in." He turned to Dennis and winked. Dennis smiled in return. "Oh, a blonde! We don't get many blondes, do we? Must be from Galicia. ... We usually have more success with the Wheel."
As the game progressed, Clyde/Lone Wolf would occasionally turn toward Dennis and gesture, often flashing the "high sign": thumb and index-finger joined to form an [O], with the other fingers extended. Dennis would nod or smile wanly - the expression on his face revealing that he was having a hard time believing what he saw, but Dennis made no sound.
"There may be a mark on her left breast. Try there. ... No? Well maybe it's further down. Have them remove her coverlet. ... Yeah, probe about in that area." Clyde/Lone Wolf turned toward Dennis and began to gesture furiously toward the monitor with his left index finger. The meaning was quite clear: Look at that! Will you look at that?! His right hand was deployed in rubbing his crotch.Unfortunately, Clyde/Lone Wolf was too preoccupied with the Interrogation, and his manifest hard-on, to notice that Dennis was cracking. The situation was too intense.

"Look at what?!" 

SECURITY VIOLATION!!!

"No!"

"For thirty minutes, I've been sitting here ..." 

USER BARRED!!!

"N-o-o-o!!"

" ... looking at a god-damn screen saver!" 

DISCONNECTING...

"When you stare into the Abyss,
the Abyss stares into you!"
... Friedrich Nietzsche.

FINIS