[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

The first thing I ever wrote for submission was also the first thing I ever had accepted by an editor: a 12-page comic book script. 

The two friends I hung out with the most in my very early adulthood were not only into reading comic books, but also writing and illustrating them. At a convention in 1989 or 1990, I met an editor looking for short scripts for a monster anthology he was putting together. While my story wasn’t quite a monster story, he liked it enough that he made an exception and accepted it for publication.

An artist friend and I immediately got to work on the story. (My friend Tim, who did the logo for Not About Lumberjacks…and convinced me to start a Patreon for the show.) We recruited other friends we met through indie comics to work on inks (William Traxtle) and lettering (the mighty Brad Thomte).

It was such a rush holding a finished copy of the book when it was published (MOJO Press’s CREATURE FEATURES), but the best part of it all was the collaboration with editor, Rick Klaw—and other people who became friends through comics.

* * *

Writing is a solitary act: hours alone at a keyboard or notebook, lost in worlds and situations and characters. If you’re lucky, maybe you have trusted readers helping you along the way. If you’re very lucky, you’ve chatted with an agent or editor about the story…and have support when finished through a publisher. But unless you’re working on a story with another writer, writing fiction is not the most collaborative effort.

* * *

The two creative things I’ve done that have made money—writing and juggling—were collaborative endeavors earlier in my life.

A friend and I used to street perform…not that we made a lot of money passing the hat. The fun came in the hours of practice together, honing our skills and coming up with routines. They were the stories that came with what we did: things like almost being set on fire by the lead singer of a punk band, or having a stranger on the street mess with us and our gear while we were strapped into straitjackets.

The fun with comics was hanging out with supportive friends who had a shared dream, spending most of our free time working on pitches, stories, and talking about this thing we loved. There was a time it consumed us.

(A quick side story: I met my wife, Cynthia, through a small comic book company—where she was an artist—in the spring of 1992. We started hanging out when she heard I juggled. She was taught how to juggle in elementary school and always wanted to learn more. So, I taught her—and we’ve been together since those days.)

* * *

I miss those early days of collaboration and absolute support. Not that I don’t feel supported with Not About Lumberjacks—I hear from people who love the show, and some even support it financially. What I’m talking about are those late nights staying up and working on something with friends; talking about the thing you love more than most other things every single day.

Letting a creative love wash over you and provide shelter, no matter how rough the world might become.

I sometimes talk with Cynthia about stories, but she’s usually there as a second set of eyes after I’ve finished things. And I regularly talk with my friend, Deacon, about writing, even about works in progress around during our annual long-weekend writing retreats.

But there’s nothing like the days when working with friends…when our heads—even at our day jobs—were always full of what was next in our shared efforts.

* * *

Most Not About Lumberjacks stories are lonely efforts—and I’m fine with that. I adore creating a thing that is wholly my own, from an idea, to the story…and then recording the narration, making sounds (or finding them), and choosing music tracks from a library I use. Loading it all online and promoting new stories.

It’s still a shelter I can rely on no matter how ugly the world outside may be.

When my mind turns toward stressful or even darker thoughts, a story is always there needing my attention—a switch that makes the worst of things disappear from my head. I find solace in this process that rewards my mental time and efforts, instead of making me feel even worse.

And the show is not entirely devoid of collaborative efforts…

* * *

In November, I released a tall tale called “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart,” that turned out to be one of my favorite stories on the Not About Lumberjacks website. It was written, in part, with a voice in mind: a professional voiceover artist and actor named Dave Pettitt.

Working with Dave was a blast! Along the way, we worked on how he’d read the story—in the more typical “podcast voice,” or treating it like an audiobook? Sample bits to approve and then the final track. The option for second takes, although none were required because it was perfect with the start!

I’ve worked with other narrators along the way, and have even done a couple one-shot audiodramas requiring multiple voices contributing to stories.

I’ve spent time in our closet recording booth with Cynthia as she’s recorded full stories, dialogue for background scenes, and even provided growls and snarls for a dragon in the story, “Rockbiters.”

Most recently, I collaborated with Clarke Jaxton Motorbike on a Not About Lumberjacks story called “Enemy Wanted.” Mr. Motorbike provided the recurring music used throughout the story.

* * *

Sometimes collaborations didn’t work out, even when I was younger. And sometimes collaborations ended as higher paying work was offered to people you once worked with in the hope of a shared something more.

But that’s a rarity. And when things don’t work out—even today—it’s no problem: we’re all busy with life. Sometimes schedules that once seemed open close for other things.

There are always more stories and opportunities for collaboration, even with a show like Not About Lumberjacks, which is mostly a thing all my own. (Or something with Cynthia’s assistance if a story is heavily from the point of view of a woman.

* * *

There’s another kind of collaboration many people don’t consider: the support of others who do something similar to what you’re doing, even if you don’t work together.

Most of the other narrators and voices I’ve used for Not About Lumberjacks are people I’ve met through podcasting…with many working on audio fiction themselves.

I can talk to other creative friends doing similar things about snags I might encounter along the way. If I mention my digital audio workstation seizing up in the middle of recording—or that I was set up to record, but was getting a buzz that took 20 minutes to find in my setup and eliminate before recording—those friends have been there themselves. (Or, if I encounter something I can’t figure out on my own, some are only a text message away!)

And then there are creative friends working in other fields I chat with about overlapping challenges and concerns about what we do: balancing life with creative schedules; overcoming those times of lower energy and personal challenges; even talking about being a creative person in a time when A.I. keeps affecting the industries we all work in.

* * *

I’m a very fortunate person to have begun my creative life in such a collaborative way. I still have that belief I had in my late teens and early 20s that if I want to do something, it’s just a bit of effort (or a lot) to make it exist.

I’m still in touch with most of the people I met through comics books in the late 80s and early 90s. I cherish these decades-long friendships and how we support each other even today.

Some of those friends still work in comics full time. Others went on to illustrating book covers and interiors for bestselling novels. A good friend who still occasionally works on comic books pays the bills as a voice actor, voicing cartoon characters you likely know…or maybe even grew up watching.

Through collaboration, I know screenwriters and animators; musicians, directors, and other creative people.

Outside of working with other narrators, Not About Lumberjacks is mostly a solitary effort.

But you’d be mistaken to believe I do it all on my own…

To all those who supported (and still support me), whether it’s working together on something in the past, working together on a Not About Lumberjacks story, or just rooting for me and this little thing I do: thank you so much!

(I may work in silence, but I’m never working alone…)

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In May, it’s a return to two detectives from an earlier Not About Lumberjacks story called “Godspeed, Crazy Mike.” This one’s more of a thriller than a full-blown whodunit mystery, but there will still be plenty for those who love to guess what’s going on before things are revealed.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp.

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about what happens when a sleep study technician with insomnia answers a flyer ad found on a telephone pole looking for an enemy.

But first, the usual content advisory…

Were it a movie, “Enemy Wanted” would be rated PG. It deals with difficulty sleeping, blurring reality, crime, cartoonish violence, illness, a death, and wishing for an early end. That makes it sound dismal, but I assure you…it’s a blast of a story. Also, it’s one with no swearing. (I always want to swear in the intro when saying a story is without “mature language.”)

Before we get to the story, I want to talk about the music in this one. Some time ago, a friend getting into making synthesizer music stumbled upon a guy on YouTube named Clarke Jaxton Motorbike. Mr. Motorbike shares top-notch stories in text over electronic music he composes for the pieces. My friend knew it was my kinda thing and shared it.

I fell in love from the first story. You know how sometimes you hear a band and think, “Wow, this is an instant fave?” Clarke Jaxton Motorbike’s writing is like that for me. Sure, it’s not novel-length stuff, but what he packs into several minute stories is incredible—a total masterclass in brevity.

So, I was happy when he messaged me after commenting on his stories on YouTube and Instagram, letting me know he liked my writing…and that he’d LOVE to do the music score for a story.

The timing was perfect for “Enemy Wanted.” (I think you’ll agree.)

I’ll link to Clarke Jaxton Motorbike’s online accounts in the show notes and on the talent page. Seriously, his music and writing are wonderful things, so be sure to check them out!

All right, let’s get to work!

#

Enemy Wanted

Ferdinand Pérez stopped walking and read the flyer taped to the telephone pole a block from his house:

ENEMY WANTED

123-555-1212

It was the kind of thing someone would make, post, and take a photo of to share online, a meme-ready image waiting to go viral. Or a guerrilla marketing campaign: call the number and end up listening to a recording about whiter teeth, hot singles in your area, or the dreaded extended auto warranty. There was even the possibility of someone actually looking for an enemy, however that would work. Believing it was a scam, Ferdinand removed the flyer and threw it in the trash when he got home.

It was the beginning of four days off from long nights at the sleep lab where he ran studies. Ferdinand looked forward to—and dreaded—these days. Three nights on and four days off sounded great when he started. A life-long insomniac, it seemed like the ideal job, but now his days were spent trying to sleep instead of his nights.

As morning rolled into afternoon, exhaustion got the best of him. He pulled the flyer out of the kitchen garbage and called the number.

* * *

Someone masking their voice like a true crime TV show witness picked up.

“Yes?”

“Hi,” Ferdinand said. “Uhm…I saw a flyer on a telephone pole. Looking for an enemy? Now that I’m thinking about it, this is probably all a prank. Someone messing with you as much as me. I’m sorry.”

“Who is this?”

“Ferdinand. Ferd.”

“Ferdinand who?”

“Pérez.”

“No, Ferdinand Pérez…Ferd. I put the flyer there, and I am looking for an enemy.”

“Okay…so what’s next?”

“What do you do for a living, Ferd?”

“I’m a polysomnographic technician.”

“Sleep studies, correct?”

“Uh…yes. Most people don’t know what that is. Who are you?”

“It will be all be revealed, once I know you are a worthy opponent. Goodbye, Ferd.”

* * *

Ferd sat on his couch, debating with himself about calling the number again. His mind wasn’t completely scrambled in his 23rd hour of being awake—including a 13-hour shift in the lab—but he was slipping into a state of hazy focus. He knew better than calling again until his head was more clear.

An hour later, he shuffled off to his bedroom, where he finally dozed off two hours later.

* * *

Between his waking hours, constant exhaustion, and rough sleep in which Ferd’s mind seemed to fold over on itself—his dreams like nesting dolls—reality was a nebulous domain leaving him wondering what was real and what wasn’t.

A man in a gas mask stood at the foot of his bed.

“Are you really here?” Ferd said.

The man raised a pistol and pointed it at Ferd. The barrel flared out at the end, like a blunderbuss. A faint green light illuminated on its side. On top, a glass cylinder full of liquid.

The man in the gas mask took a step closer and pulled the trigger.

Fog rolled out from the barrel as the man said, “Sleeeeeeep,” in the voice from the phone call.

* * *

Ferd woke up and looked at the clock on the nightstand beside him: six-o’-clock in the evening. After a momentary panic, thinking it was time to begin a night in the sleep lab, he remembered he was done working for the week.

“Just two friggin’ hours,” he said while stretching in bed.

He tried dozing off again, but his stomach kept growling.

“Fine, fine, I’ll feed you.”

When he got up and flipped on the light, he saw a box atop a mound of laundry he needed to put up. He opened the bedroom door and checked every other space in the house before returning. He slowly entered, fully expecting to see the man in the gas mask by his bed.

Ferd looked at the box and noticed a piece of paper on the floor. He grabbed a pillow from his bed and tossed it at the note. He threw another pillow at the box, expecting it to explode. When he felt reasonably sure the items weren’t booby trapped, he picked up the pillow on the floor and read the note.

A GOOD ENEMY IS A WELL-PREPARED ENEMY. CARRY WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES THE ITEM IN THE BOX.

– D

Ferd removed the other pillow and tossed it back on his bed. He closed his eyes as he removed the box’s lid.

Inside, he saw the handle of what looked like a ray gun in a holster. He removed it from the box and carefully pulled out the gun.

It weighed less than expected. Ferd wondered what kind of metal it was made out of to be so light. A prong in the back lined up with a sight at the end of a barrel sporting a series of rings, like cooling fins. The gun had two triggers—one above the other. The top read BLAST and the bottom: STUN. On the side, an Art Deco font over a stylized lightning bolt read ELECTROCUTER.

Ferd searched his house again before popping a frozen pizza in the oven.

He put the gun in the holster and took it to his office.

When Ferd flipped open his laptop and checked the time, he was surprised to see Tue Mar 4 6:17 PM. He checked his phone to verify the date and time: same thing.

No wonder he was so hungry—he had slept 26 hours straight.

* * *

When he was 19 and started working regularly, Ferd took up jogging in the hope of making himself sleepy. Between odd construction jobs and running for miles, he thought he’d fall into a deep sleep each night, but the insomnia afflicting him since childhood kept its hold.

At 26, since he was up all night anyway, he considered moving to an overnight security position, but his uncle suggested studying to become a sleep technician at Thanksgiving. He’d seen something about it on the news and thought it was perfect for his nephew. After eleven years on the job, Ferd was glad he took his uncle’s advice.

His nightly runs took him a mile through his neighborhood, to a park across a quiet highway bordering one side of his development. The loop around baseball fields and a pond at the back of the park worked out to be a half mile—a perfect distance for speed drills or running all night.

He was wasn’t sure about jogging with the holster belt and gun, so he tied a long-sleeved shirt around his waist to conceal it. The night patrol officers in town were used to seeing him, waving as he ran through neighborhoods or on his way to his favorite running loop.

Ferd was at the back of the park when it happened: someone came rushing out from the tree line to his right. When he turned around to run away, another figure charged him. To his left, down a dock leading to an observation deck overlooking the pond, someone else approached—someone with a chainsaw! Trapped on three sides, instinct told him to run into the trees and lose them, but his hand went to the gun. As he put the person in front of him in the gun’s sights, Ferd realized they weren’t people at all.

He almost laughed at how ridiculous the robot looked as it passed beneath a light along the trail. It rolled along on a single wheel extending from a body that looked like a metal barrel. Its hands reminded Ferd of the claw game at arcades, three fingers on the ends of arms like ductwork. And its ridiculous head, an oval hunk of metal with glowing eyes and a speaker for a mouth. Antennae poked out on each side; a glass or plastic dome on top glowed a brighter blue the faster it moved.

The robot wasn’t so funny when its hands started whirling. Its arms extended and retracted as it tried striking Ferd, barely missing him. When Ferd pulled the BLAST trigger on the gun, a tiny lightning bolt struck the robot in the chest, frying its circuits and sending it to the ground. Ferd turned just in time to dodge an attack from the one behind. The BLAST effect sent that one down as well.

The final robot was like the others, only with chainsaw blades for hands instead of claws. Ferd charged into the trees, hoping it couldn’t pursue on its little wheel, but it gained on him. He turned to shoot it, but hit a tree instead, splintering it like a lightning strike. The robot raced down the trail toward him. He fired another blast, but missed when the robot extended and retracted a chainsaw hand. And then another. Ferd dropped to his knees as the robot closed on him.

When it reached him and came down with both bladed hands, Ferd shoved the gun into the wheel housing and pulled the STUN trigger. The maniacal robot fell back and down.  When Ferd stood up, he shot it with the BLAST setting to be sure it was immobilized.

It didn’t matter if he was on friendly terms with the police or not, there was no way to explain what had just happened. Ferd ran deeper into the trees until reaching railroad tracks, which he followed to the far side of his neighborhood, before doubling back and returning home.

* * *

When he finally settled down, Ferd called the number on the flyer.

“Yes,” said the altered voice.

“What the hell just happened?!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Those robots!”

“Think of them as a test. You did a stellar job defeating them, Ferd.”

“How do you know I did?”

“Cameras, dear boy.”

“What?”

During his run home along the railroad tracks, Ferd wondered if the noise of the attack had attracted attention. If not, would the robots be found in the morning? Now he worried they’d be discovered and he’d be on camera.

“Don’t worry, Ferd. I sent a clean-up crew to take care of the mess. You did well, all things considered.”

“I’m done!” Ferd said.

“No, you are not. You answered the flyer ad. We’re in this until one of us defeats the other.”

“You didn’t do a thing! You let robots do your dirty work!”

“A good enemy always sends henchmen, first. To test their foe.”

“I’m not your foe. I quit!

“You can quit, Ferd, but I will still come for you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

* * *

Ferd went to his office and opened his laptop. He typed the flyer’s phone number into Google.

No results.

A search for “attacked by robots” resulted in a fake news story about a robot assaulting an autoworker on the assembly line after turning off other bots. “Captured by robots” resulted in a strange band with a human lead singer who performed with robot band members. On a scrap of paper, he jotted down the band name and added MAYBE? (IT’S STRANGE ENOUGH!)

Searching for “lightning gun” pulled up TV tropes and lists of video game weapons, but nothing that would make him say, “Ah-ha—that’s it!” “ELECTROCUTER” resulted in a song hit and a music compilation—as well as plenty about electrocution—but nothing about the gun.

Ferd thought about his enemy’s henchmen and typed “man in robot suit.”

The top searches were all costumes, articles about dancing and military robots, and something about a man on Russian TV who brought a robot on the news appearance. That sounded promising, but it ended up being a hoax. Digging deeper, though, Ferd found a 1974 newspaper article headline from The Akron Beacon Journal: “Man in Robot Suit Baffles Authorities.” The link sent him to a nationwide newspapers site through a genealogy service. He signed up for a free seven-day account and found the article.

MAN IN ROBOT SUIT BAFFLES AUTHORITIES – OCTOBER 28, 1974

Authorities are on the lookout for what witnesses describe as a “man in a robot suit.” Two sightings in the area have residents wondering what is going on.

“I was out walking my dog when I saw it,” said Thomas Berger. “At first, I thought it was a man on stilts dressed up for Halloween, but he was inside some kind of armor. He picked up a picnic bench with one hand and spotted me before running away faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Another witness, Donald Sanke, said he was watching his two children playing on a park swingset when he spotted the man.

“I saw him by the trees in the back of the park and got up. I didn’t know if he meant us harm or not. When he noticed I spotted him, he ran away.”

Police said they have no leads, but Mr. Sanke has an idea.

“You remember that weird bank robbery up in Cleveland seven or eight years ago? I wonder if it’s the same person.”

Ferd searched for “Cleveland Bank Robberies 1960s,” and found a 1967 article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer about a robbery where a man used a “ray gun” to enter a vault and get away with 1.2 million dollars. The article claimed the gun made the vault door “disappear.” The only thing left behind was a calling card reading THE DECIMATOR.

Additional searches produced a 1976 article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about a “man in flying boots,” and a Detroit Free Press article from 1979 about a costumed man in a gas mask stopping a robbery using a “sleep gas gun.” Ferd even stumbled upon a YouTube clip from a 1989 episode of Unsolved Mysteries about the Cleveland bank robbery. The segment claimed only D.B. Cooper’s mid-air plane heist and whereabouts eclipsed the strange crime in Cleveland.

* * *

On Wednesday afternoon, in his 25th hour of being awake, Ferd heard a noise at his front door. He went out through the back and snuck around to see who was there. Someone had placed a package on his doormat.

It was larger than the lightning gun box—and longer. He wondered if it was a trap, but was growing too tired to care. Ferd had reached a state of sleeplessness where he wondered if the box was even real.

He set it on his coffee table and opened it. Inside, he found a jumpsuit. It was covered in wires and round metal discs several inches wide. A belt with an ON/OFF switch looked like it hooked into the wire connections covering the garment.

“Why the hell not?” he said. Ferd pulled it on, hooked up the belt, and flipped the switch.

The suit hummed to life, surrounding him in a warm blue glow. He tapped his arm and felt nothing. Ran at a wall and bounced off with no bruising. A forcefield suit. After testing its strength in the garage (hammers, saws, and even a soldering iron had no effect), he returned to the living room. He looked at the box the suit arrived in and saw a note. It read:

IT WOULD BE WISE TO WEAR THIS BENEATH YOUR CLOTHES WHEN YOU GO OUT.

– D

* * *

Ferd stayed in Wednesday night, keeping an eye outside in the hope of spotting the person sworn to be his new enemy. He opened a window when the world was quiet and asleep, listening out for a drone. Somehow, he must have been tracked.

When he was convinced a drone wasn’t giving him away, he spent the next hour looking for a tracker. He pulled out the soles of his shoes; emptied his wallet and took his key fob apart. Finally figured out how to turn off all location tracking on his phone. After that, Ferd considered researching some more, but opted for watching TV instead. He kept the force field suit on, figuring if something happened, safety was an ON switch away.

When the sun came up, he watched his go-to comfort show: the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon. It was a favorite show as a kid, and it still kept him entertained years later—a thing he could watch for hours again and again. In one episode, the turtles found a card at the scene of a crime. It read “– S.” Every kid knew it was from the show’s main villain, The Shredder.

It made him think of the note included with the force field jumpsuit ending with “– D.”

He went to his laptop and continued searching for “The Decimator,” finding pages of table-top war game results, but nothing more than the article about the Cleveland robbery. When he eventually gave up, he crawled into bed, where he finally fell asleep three hours later.

* * *

Thursday evenings were Ferd’s Sundays. While he enjoyed his job and the focus that came with it, 13-hour shifts and trying to get back on schedule wrecked him even more. As his restlessness intensified, he put on the forcefield suit. Over that, his running clothes. Ferd finished by strapping on the lightning gun, and headed out for a run.

Each time he passed the back of the park, he expected another robot attack. He had considered driving to a more public park and running, but figured if something was going to happen, he’d not be able to avoid it by changing locations. His enemy knew where he lived. For all Ferd knew, they were waiting for him at home.

On his fourth mile, he paused and looked skyward, at what appeared to be a meteor breaking up as it entered the atmosphere. It continued flaring and turned his way, landing on the trail before him. Not a man in a robot suit, but a man in powered armor.

Gone were the ridiculous heads of the robots two nights before. A sleek helmet and visor replaced speaker mouths and antennae jutting out from the sides. No clunky barrel-shaped body; instead, a two-toned gray armor like a sci-fi version of motocross protective gear. The jetpack and stabilizers on the sides of its feet glowed orange from the flight.

Ferd flipped the forcefield suit’s ON button just in time. The man in the powered suit pulled a gun from a holster and fired a blue beam his way. Ferd felt its warmth radiate across his chest, a ripple of energy absorbed by the energy bubble surrounding him.

Ferd returned fire, but the crackle of the lightning gun had no effect. He turned to run, but the man in the armored suit leaped over him in a flip and blocked his way. Another shot from the lightning gun yielded no results—Ferd clicked it into its holster and took off across the grass toward a playground. Again, the man in the suit blocked his way.

The armor looked like it had exposed areas at its joints. Ferd threw a punch at his foe’s lower abdomen. He cut his fist on the bottom of an armored plate, but landed a blow. The man in the suit extended his arm and hit Ferd with a white blast emanating from his palm, knocking Ferd back across the grass and into the post of a swingset. No damage.

As Ferd stood up, the man in the armored suit let loose a blast from the jets on his feet, giving Ferd no time to react before closing the distance and crashing into him. Their forcefields canceled each other out—the blow blow Ferd as he was sent back into the post a second time. Blood dripped from his forehead. He looked up and saw the man inside the armor through a broken visor.

Ferd hadn’t given much time to considering what his enemy looked like. When he did, he imagined someone his age, possibly advised by an old spy. He didn’t expect a man in his 80s who looked familiar, even though he couldn’t place who the man was or where he’d seen him.

Ferd’s enemy raised his hand and covered the side of his face exposed by the collision. Ferd readied another punch as a car pulled into the parking lot. Bright lights flared as a police patrol spotted them.

“Hold onto me, Ferd!”

Ferd stood on the armored man’s feet and found handholds on his sides. The man in the armored suit wrapped his arms around Ferd—and with a WHOOSH—they were airborne.

The city fell away from view as they climbed, and then tilted east. They flew to the edge of town and landed in a field. The man in the armored suit let go of Ferd and said, “Head through those trees over there. You can catch a bus home.”

Then he reached down and removed the holster and lightning gun from Ferd’s waist.

He took off before Ferd could protest.

* * *

When he got home, Ferd plopped down in his favorite chair in front of a silent television. While reclusive by nature, he considered contacting a friend and talking about his strange week. But who would believe him?

“You answered a flyer ad, and now an old man you think is a 1960s bank robber is attacking you with robots and powered suits? I know we barely talk and that you have issues sleeping—are you okay?”

So he sat in his chair on edge, jumping at any creaking of the house settling at night. Wondering if a passing car was delivering a new message, or a distant plane some new construct coming his way for another fight. When the sun came up, Ferd went for a run in his neighborhood. He’d sworn off the park and figured he was safe on the waking streets. He spent a calm morning, thinking about what might happen next. Then he did something he’d not done in years: he crawled into bed and got six hours of sleep before waking up for work.

* * *

Ferd’s two favorite things about his job were helping people and—once a study was underway—having a little time for other things. As he monitored the evening’s study, a 38-year-old office manager who admitted at least some of her problem was an urge to check her phone for work messages all night, he looked through recent studies. The man in the flying suit looked old, so he searched for all males he recently monitored over 70.

When his current study stirred awake and settled back to sleep after remembering where she was and that she was not allowed to check her phone, he looked through videos from those he whittled down for his search. Eventually, he saw him: an 85-year-old man who looked exactly like the person behind the broken visor from the night before. How could he forget that name: Clarence Grossweiner!

He remembered, now. He was, perhaps, the most exhausted study Ferd conducted in at least a year. A man who told him he started having sleep issues for the first time in his life and didn’t know why. Ferd had everything he needed: his enemy’s address, phone number, and even some personal information about the man tormenting him all week.

When the night’s study was complete and he finished all his notes, Ferd went home to get the forcefield suit.

* * *

On his walk home, Ferd thought about what he’d do: monitor Clarence’s house and catch him out of his armor. Rush him, tie him up, and force him to reveal everything. When he got home, Ferd saw an envelope taped to the door.

He went around to his shed in the backyard and got a rake. He used its tines to pull the envelope out, checking to see if it was a trap. When he was convinced it was just another communication from Clarence, he set the rake down, removed the envelope from the door, and went inside.

The note read:

Ferd,

You have proven yourself to be a worthy adversary—an enemy beyond my expectations. I believe it best to skip to the end.

Meet me in the field where I dropped you off after our fight Thursday night. Midnight. This all ends in a duel.

– D

Ferd was not going to wait. He put on the forcefield suit and headed out.

* * *

Clarence Grossweiner lived on a tiny estate at the edge of town, a stout brick home built before shoddy McMansions crowded the area. The property was surrounded by an iron fence and manicured hedges; the driveway tucked behind a wrought iron gate and stone wall. Looking on Google Maps, the likelihood of sneaking across the grounds unseen was slim. Ferd pulled to the callbox, pressed the intercom’s button, and said, “I know you can hear me, Grossweiner. Probably see me, too! Open up and face me!”

From the intercom speaker came a frail voice. “Please don’t call me that, Ferdinand. My name is Clarence.”

“Fine. Clarence! Better?”

“Yes. Thank you. What do you want, Ferd? Our duel is scheduled for Monday.”

“I want all this to stop.”

“It will end Monday.”

“I’m not going to fight you anymore.”

“Okay.”

Ferd looked for the camera on the callbox—found the lens and stared into it.

“Okay? You’ve tormented me all week and now you’re just stopping? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“You’re forgiven, and I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. You’re relieved of your duty.”

“What?” Ferd said. “No!”

“You said you want this to stop. That you refuse to fight anymore. So, be on your way.”

He pointed at the camera. “You’ve got something planned. I know it.”

“I am a sincere person, Ferd. Or is there something more you want?”

“Uhm…”

“Uhm what?”

“I guess I want to know why you chose me?”

“You answered a random flyer taped to a telephone pole.”

“Sure. Yeah. But…it looked like it hadn’t been there that long. And few people pass by that way.”

“Fine, Ferd. I will tell you why I chose you if you accept my duel. Right now.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I can’t tell you why I chose you.”

“Fine!” Ferd said.

The gate separated in the middle and opened wide.

“Come to the house. I promise I have nothing planned until we speak.”

* * *

Ferd cautiously made his way up the long drive and parked before the stairway leading to the house. The entry double doors parted before Ferd could knock or ring the doorbell. Before him stood Clarence Grossweiner, the tired old man from a sleep study two months earlier.

“Welcome, Ferd. Please, come inside.”

He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the large foyer. Ferd followed, closing the doors behind him. He flipped the ON switch of the forcefield suit as he passed through. The dark interior of the house gave way to a bright solarium running the entire length of the back of the house. He hoped Clarence wouldn’t notice the suit’s glow in the light.

The black and white checkered floor opened to Mediterranean arched windows on three sides of the large sunroom. Potted plants and flowers were placed along the outside of the space and atop ornate pillars in the corners. Vines hung down from a glass roof held in place by intricate Art Nouveau ironwork. At one end of the space, a heavy wooden table with equally stout benches. On the other side, a sitting area composed of a long couch and two club chairs. In the center of it all, a small fountain.

“Would you like something to drink, Ferd? Some lemonade, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I’d like some if you’d allow me a moment.”

Ferd expected Clarence to return in the biggest, most ridiculous robot suit of them all, but he came back with a glass pitcher on a tray with two glasses. He set it down on a table between the two chairs and poured himself a glass.

“I assume you figured out who I am?”

“Yes,” Ferd said. “But it doesn’t explain all this.”

Clarence Grossweiner admired his solarium and said, “I invested my sole criminal haul rather well. That’s the problem with most people: they get a taste of the adventure and riches and keep going until caught. I simply wanted to fund the things living in my imagination. I’m not proud of how I went about it, but what’s done is long done.

“But you don’t care at all about that. You’re here to find out why I chose you.”

Ferd nodded. “Yes.”

“If you recall, during my sleep study, we talked about how funny it is that you help people sleep better, but struggle with insomnia. You mentioned your days running together—how your job was the only thing that felt real. I figured your life could do well with a break from the monotonous trudging of blurred days and nights. I’m sure you were hoping for more, but that’s my motivation. I’m sorry you’re not some ‘Chosen One,’ or that all this culminates in some grand purpose.”

Clarence took a sip of his lemonade and opened a box on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pulled out two ray guns, handing one to Ferd.

* * *

“We’re going to do this like they do in the movies: back to back and ten paces. I’ll count them out, and then we turn and shoot. Understood?”

“Yes,” Ferd said. He followed Clarence to the middle of the solarium and took a step forward with each number called out.

“One…two…three…”

Ferd flipped the OFF switch of the forcefield suit beneath his clothes…

“Four…five…six…”

He scrutinized the heft of the ray gun in his hand. Carefully slid his finger into the trigger guard.

“Seven…Eight…Nine…Ten!”

Ferd turned and deliberately shot one of the plants on a stone column the corner. The column and everything in an eight-foot sphere around it, disappeared, leaving a deep divot in the checkered floor. He waited for the the shot coming his way. Instead, Clarence stood tall, his arms spread wide—eyes closed. When he opened them, he followed Ferd’s gaze to the crater in the floor.

“Perhaps 10 paces each was too much,” Clarence said. “Shall we try again with five?”

“No,” Ferd said. “You didn’t even shoot.”

“I must have missed as well.”

“No, you did nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m sick, Ferd. I found out about a week after the sleep study. I’m not going to get better, so I’ve chosen not to treat it at my age. But it’s caught up with me, and I just want the pain to end. We’re not kind to people in my state in this country.

“So, I figured I’d find someone I could bother—work them up to a point they’d gladly fire on me. POOF—gone! No evidence left behind. Leave The Decimator in the hands of someone I felt would not use it for nefarious reasons. You were so friendly and understanding during my sleep study.

“I know it’s a horrible thing to put upon another person, but I can’t bring myself to do it on my own. I didn’t count on you being such a terrible shot.”

Ferd placed The Decimator on the ground and said, “I missed on purpose.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I initially figured the suit would absorb anything you fired my way, and that if I missed you, we’d both live. But as we started pacing off, I changed my mind. I’m not sure this is real.”

“What do you mean?” Clarence said.

“This. My life. Does all this exist, or is it because I suck so much at sleeping? Are all the weird things I see in my periphery now standing right in front of me? I feel so locked in. I’m terrified that I’m wrapped up in two or three layers of dreaming and at home or even in a hospital bed. Or worse: dead…and this is my eternity. I don’t know. Nothing works: sleeping pills, meditation, none of it. It’s like I’m a ghost.

“So, I thought, ‘I’ll miss and he’ll hit and it will all be over. I’ll finally get to rest.’”

Clarence’s grin turned to laughter.

“Well, aren’t we both the proper mess.”

“Yeah, we are. So, what now?”

“I release you as my enemy. Go home, Ferd. I’m sorry I involved you in all this. Keep the forcefield suit as payment.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll figure something out. Goodbye, Ferd. You were a wonderful enemy.”

* * *

Saturday night’s sleep study was an eighteen-year-old college football prospect who slept well once settled. It wasn’t Ferd’s call, but with no disorder, he guessed it was simply anxiety that would go away once the kid decided where he’d sign. Sunday was an artist who stopped breathing 50 times an hour. She seemed happy something was caught and that a CPAP machine would help her finally get some rest.

On Monday morning, Ferd smiled as he passed the telephone pole where the week before, he spotted Clarence’s flyer. He thought about the week ahead of him, how he’d give Clarence a call and take him up on that glass of lemonade. At home, he warmed up some leftover Thai takeout and sat down on his couch.

Ferd turned on the local news to catch the weather—seeing if the forecast matched what the app on his phone predicted. Onscreen, a reporter stood in front of a familiar gate where a familiar house once stood. Police on the ground—and circling in a helicopter above—marveled at the massive divot where Clarence Grossweiner’s house once stood. No sign of an explosion—just like everything simply disappeared.

* * *

Epilogue

Wednesday afternoon, while catching up on a podcast from a guy in Florida who reviewed store-bought soups, Ferd got an alert from his camera doorbell. A FedEx delivery. He watched the courier set down a package and return to his truck. Ferd got up and opened the door.

It was the size of a shoe box. Ferd brought it inside and set it on his coffee table. When he went to the kitchen to get scissors to cut through the tape, he poured the last of the lemonade he made in honor of Clarence. He set the glass down on a coaster next to the box.

Inside, was a note and something beneath, wrapped in a towel.

Ferd,

I want to properly apologize for involving you in my ridiculous plan. By the time you read this, you’ll likely have heard what happened to me. While I cannot bring myself to pull the trigger on The Decimator, I’ve long speculated what would happen if its core were breached by a timed explosion while I was asleep. I guess I’ll find out. Or not if it works the way I hope.

It was terrible of me to expect you to do such a thing. I had written a confession for you, explaining to authorities how I manipulated you to fire on me in self defense. Fortunately, that was not needed. Everything was decimated with me, save what’s in this box. I hope it helps you.

Your enemy,

Clarence Grossweiner

(It really is quite a name, huh?)

Ferd lifted the item wrapped in the towel. Beneath it: six stacks of hundred dollar bills! Sixty-thousand in cash with a Post-it Note reading: CLEAN CASH—NOT FROM THE BANK HEIST.

He carefully unrolled the object wrapped in the towel, revealing the gas gun Clarence used the afternoon he entered Ferd’s bedroom. Another note included the formula for the sleep gas and a final message:

SWEET DREAMS, FERD. THANK YOU FOR MAKING AN OLD MAN’S FINAL DAYS SO MUCH FUN.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

And a HUGE thank you to Clarke Jaxton Motorbike for providing custom music for “Enemy Wanted.” Like I said up front, you can find links to his stories and music in the show notes for this episode…and on the Talent page.

Speaking of music…as always, theme music is provided by Ergo Phizmiz.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In May, it’s a return to two detectives from an earlier Not About Lumberjacks story—this time, more of a thriller than a full-blown mystery, but there will still be plenty for those who love to guess what’s going on before things are revealed.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

If you write enough, it’s bound to happen: something you’ve finished or released is similar to (or even very much like) something else out there. And with the Internet being what it is, you’re likely to hear, “You swiped from that new story that’s out!”—or even something older. Something you’re not familiar with.

Thing is: it’s entirely possible to write a very similar story as someone else without knowing the other story exists.

It happens all the time…

* * *

My first novel, Hell Comes with Wood-Paneled Doors, is a humorous coming of age story about a family traveling cross-country in a possessed station wagon. And if I had a book published for every time I heard, “That’s just like National Lampoon’s Vacation,” I’d have a shelf full of books.

Hell Comes with Wood-Paneled Doors came about when I first started considering submitting fiction, when I was twenty. I had a copy of the Novel and Short Story Writer’s Market guide and was looking for places accepting short fiction. One place was a publication specializing in station wagons. It turned out to be a newsletter, so the story the publication inspired in me was too long for what amounted to a tri-fold pamphlet, but I had a story that would not leave my mind.

When I released it as a podcast and later as an e-book, I heard the comparisons to National Lampoon’s Vacation. But aside from a father and son buying a station wagon in the opening scene, they are very different stories!

(By the way, the story now lives on the Not About Lumberjacks site, under the Novels link.)

* * *

There’s an early-ish Not About Lumberjacks story called “Standstill.” It’s about a woman whose husband is dying, and she has a magical watch that can pause time for 24 hours. The watch breaks, and they are stuck in time together. She loves it, because it means her husband will not die, but he grows to hate it because she’s holding on to him and denying herself so many experiences.

I released the story about the time a coworker at an old job found out I have a fiction podcast. “Standstill” was the first story he listened to. He came in one morning and told me he listened…and loved the story. And then he said, “You totally got that idea from Futurama, didn’t you?”

I didn’t, but…maybe I did? Subconsciously? Because I loved Futurama when it was on, even though I’d forgotten there was an episode in which main characters, Fry and Leela, end up stuck in time and grow old together. [Spoiler alert: the characters in my story don’t grow old in their time stall, but maybe I did put my own spin on that Futurama episode without realizing it?] The episode, called “Meanwhile,” aired on September 4, 2013, and my story “Standstill” came out on July 3, 2016. (I probably shouldn’t have released a story with a dying husband on my 24th anniversary!)

It’s possible that Futurama story subconsciously stuck in my head for three years. (It was a great episode, although “The Luck of the Fryrish” episode about Fry’s brother is my fave.) Or it’s possible one of the many other time-bending stories involving a watch inspired it. (For all I know, the Futurama episode was inspired by another story.)

This type of thing is rather common with writing. You can almost always read, see, or listen to something that makes you think of something else. (I once had someone tell me my second completed novel reminded them of the TV shows Twin Peaks crossed with Northern Exposure, even though I didn’t set out to mimic either show. Mine was just a surreal story about a murder in a very quirky small town in the Northwoods of Wisconsin that reminded someone of those shows. If anything had an influence on that particular book, it was Robert Olmstead’s, A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, even though they are very different things.)

* * *

Another thing that can happen when you write: you release a story that suddenly becomes topical through some news-worthy event.

The final story of this year’s Christmas episode features the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future tormenting a corrupt pharmaceutical CEO. As that character defends his greed, he blames things on health insurance companies denying claims for people’s struggles and woes.

And…The week it was released, a gunman killed the CEO of UnitedHealthcare. Suddenly, that scene in the story—and a healthcare CEO being tormented throughout—was even more topical.

Because this sometimes happens, I still released the story…but I did put a disclaimer right up front that it was written before that murder.

But there’s another little twist in my writing and that recent news story.

The characters in my first novel are going to the Grand Canyon to spread the ashes of the protagonist’s grandmother, a woman named June Mangione. And a younger, alternate version of June Mangione is the protagonist of the last novel I finished.

I shook my head when they caught the killer of UnitedHealthcare’s CEO and heard his name: Luigi Mangione.

While I still released the Christmas episode, were I submitting the last novel I finished, I really do think I’d change June’s last name. (And I still have days where I think, “Shorten the novel, rewrite the query to make it clear the protagonist can do real magic, and see what happens…” If I did, I’d definitely change her last name.)

* * *

I can think of many other instances where this kind of thing happened to me. Or even times an opportunity was passed by because a company was interested in what I pitched, but doing something similar.

In the spring of 2005, I was sent to Atlanta for two months (with a new job that told me mere weeks before in my interview that there’d be no travel). It was the time Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim Sunday lineup was getting really big. And because nothing other than recording and releasing Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors happened, I thought, “Pitch it to Adult Swim as a summer mini-series for 2006!”

It was a long shot, but why not, right?!

I was surprised when I heard from the person heading up Adult Swim while I was still out there. He said my story sounded great and…if they didn’t have something similar in the works, he’d have me in to pitch the series in person. (Which I thought was really cool!)

The similar show turned out to be “Lucy, the Daughter of the Devil,” which came out in October of the same year. It had virtually no similarities to Hell Comes With Wood Paneled Doors, but when you’re putting together a lineup of shows, even vague similarities (having Hell-based things in common), is too much.

* * *

I expect things like this to happen as long as I write and release stories. It’s entirely possible—even likely—for a handful of people to come up with very similar things, especially if dealing with topical ideas.

For all I know, right as I press publish on this behind-the-scenes look at this year’s Christmas story, someone else is releasing a podcast making the exact same points, completely independent of this one…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In March (but probably in February knowing me), it’s a story about a sleep technician who answers a random ad for somebody looking for an enemy.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

As a child, I had a favorite kind of story: tall tales!

There was something about the larger-than-life characters doing things defying reality that appealed to me. Of the many tall tales I loved, the Story of John Henry was—and still is—my fave. I love the story and the song.

On the subject of songs, my sister and I had some Pete Seeger albums for kids. Of those, his version of Abiyoyo was a thing I could listen to on repeat.

I loved the ridiculousness of Pecos ‘Friggin’ Bill using a dang snake to lasso—and ride—a tornado!

And, of course, I loved stories about the lumberjack of all lumberjacks: Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe.

* * *

I’ve always wanted to write a tall tale, but only until recently, actually have. I’ve definitely leaned into ridiculous things with not about lumberjacks: stories about people visiting fantastic worlds on the other sides of portals, a couple stories involving time travel, and even a story that starts out 100% true and morphs into a tale that ends up with a demon singing “Happy Birthday” to the guy who convinced me to start the Not About Lumberjacks Patreon!

With the most recent story—“The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart”—I finally have a tall tale to add to my writing collection.

Of course, a BIG story needs a BIG voice…

* * *

I’m terrible about asking for things. I’m terrible about accepting things as well. Once, a great-aunt who owned an art gallery in New York City offered to move me up from Texas, put me in an apartment she still had near Central Park (she and her sisters all lived on a farm in New Jersey after she shut down the gallery), and give me a free school ride.

When I told her, “I’m on academic probation,” she said, “Well, I’ve donated quite a bit to several schools on the coast…I’m sure if you promised to do well that they’d make an exception in your case…”

It was a huge, life-changing offer, to which I said, “Thank you, Aunt Catherine…but I can’t accept that…”

(And later, when people said I was nuts to turn down such an offer and to ask if it still stood, I didn’t ask. Because asking for things is my kryptonite, a thing I have a hard time doing, even though I’ll do anything for friends asking me for help where I can.)

So…”The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” almost didn’t have the incredible narration of Dave Pettitt behind it.

* * *

You’ve likely heard Dave Pettitt’s voice. He’s narrated several unscripted reality series for Discovery—and voiced commercials for car companies, professional sports, and so many other things. (Example: my wife knew his voice from an episode of My Little Pony.)

Dave is a friend of a good friend. When “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” was taking shape, I heard his voice in my head. I even thought, “Hmm…I wonder if I can somehow afford Dave’s voice for this one,” told myself I couldn’t, and just kept writing…

* * *

There are two events in my life that make me a little better at asking for things: one is a decades-long friend and I chatting at lunch about how I have a hard time asking for help. This friend has a pile of the biggest art awards in his industries…it’s likely, if you’re into sci-fi or fantasy, that you’ve seen his work on book covers.

During our chat, he asked why I never asked him for any help. I said something to the effect of, “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m your friend only because you might help me.”

He laughed and said something along the lines of, “If that’s been your goal all along, you are terrible at playing the long game!” (We’ve been friends for over 30 years.)

The other event involved a person I knew through one of those corporate post-layoff, “Here’s a workshop to help you get through it,” things.

She wanted to do consulting work for her company where I was employed at the time, so she asked if I had some time to meet up and chat. She made it clear what she hoped would come of the conversation.

When our business was settled, we started chatting about other things. In the conversation, my seeming inability to ask for things came up.

She said: “When I asked you for help, what did you do?”

Me: “Helped you…”

Her: “Yes. And why did you help me?”

“Because you’re a cool person and I wanted to…”

Then she said, “Right. You—and so many others—are happy to help. And closer friends, even moreso! In fact, when you don’t ask for help, you’re actually denying others the chance to do something that feels good when they’re able to be the person helping another. You shouldn’t do that.”

And so: I asked a good friend if he knew how much Dave charged.

* * *

My friend had no idea, but said, “Hell, now I’m curious!Only one way to find out…”

I won’t disclose the rate we agreed on, but I’m glad I set aside Patreon money and that I finally asked.

I cannot imagine this story narrated by anyone but Dave!

* * *

Knowing all I know, I’m still terrible at asking for things.

It’s likely—were I more assertive—that more people would know my writing. (I have a fair amount of friends who are published writers whom I’ll likely never ask for help!)

So, in an effort at getting better at asking for help, I’m asking you: if you like Not About Lumberjacks, please share a favorite story or two this holiday season. It’s a great listen while traveling, cooking a big meal, or just getting away from crowds and relaxing.

Whatever your plans are over the next month or so, I hope they all go smoothly and leave you with fond memories…

As I always say at the end of these commentaries…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

Next up is the annual Christmas episode! This time around, you get:

• A story about a summer school friendship set in 1985…
• A tale about the first human Mars landing and…the surprising thing the crew discovers…
• A story about two people attending the strange funeral of a coworker no one knew much about…
• And it all wraps up with a Christmas tale about three famous ghosts who change the way they do their annual Christmas hauntings…

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!