Well, It’s a fine line.


I want to post. But I don’t want to post too often, and make all of you bored of me. So I agonized quite a bit over the post a week idea I originally started with.

Then I shrugged and said to myself “screw it.” That’s right, it’s posting time. I haven’t quite gotten the day I want to post down, but at least we’re doing the week thing!

The other decision I’m agonizing over is Patreon. I have set up an account there, but I am loathe to link it. Perhaps some of you out there in blog-land can advise me on such a thing? (It’s not as if it’s all that hard to find to a determined searcher, but I dislike the entire appearance of begging for money. I prefer to give value for value.)

Enough of such decisions! It’s story time! I’ll even get the chapter right, just for all of you:

The school was known as Eisenhower memorial, or in colloquial slang, the eyes. It used to have a sterling reputation, and earned top marks in the country for their education programs. Budget cuts and general mismanagement cost the school both its’ reputation and then its’ better students.

This led to it’s complete snowballing decline and current standings as one of the worst schools in the state. Anyone who wanted to succeed wouldn’t touch this school any longer than they had to. Which made the sudden success of one Alex Stone rather unusual, as getting into college from this school was considered somewhat less likely than getting struck by lightning.

Using our police credentials gaining access to the portly, balding flush faced principal was easy. Taking one look at them and seeing the stamp of the Anti Demon task force however caused him to grab his chest and sit down. We were forced to wait till the panic attack passed.

“We’re looking for the records of one Alex Stone, class of ’99.”

“Alright officers, I’ll look him up right now.”

The brief foray into computer land revealed ordinary transcripts, social security and birth certificate on file, the standard. It also included the document we were looking for; the stamped selection form, showing that he had actually been tested by the draft board and checked out.

That is to say, unlike me, he didn’t have that special something that allowed us who wore robes to summon demons relatively safely. But….

“Could you print the selection form out please?”

The principle shuddered a bit as he met my gaze but complied quickly. The cowl had a tendency to do that to people. I grabbed the still warm and wet copy and frowned.

“Don’t suppose you were here that year principal?”

“I was, but as a teacher of the sciences. I have no recollection of this student. Why do you ask?”

“Simple, the stamp is a forgery.”

“You sure?” Dave asked as the principal paled.

“We will have to see the original to be sure, but yes I’m pretty sure. All seals are personal, reflecting the name of the summoner involved. This summoner’s stamp is from a summoner that I know to have died two months or so before this was stamped. I served on the front with him.”

“Well then let’s go. Lead us to your records room, the hard copies.”

“Right away officers.”

He all but ran trying to get away from me. I didn’t take it personally.

Turns out the records room was a complete mess. It wasn’t indexed or alphabetized. It took the principle and no less than three secretaries an hour to straighten up and find the right year. And there were the hard copies. All of which had a stamp that looked like the standard…but two.


I turned to Red, breathing in great hoarse gasps through my nose to alleviate the smell of blood and sulfur. We were the last, the rest of the squad spread liberally around the field we’d taken cover in in a disgusting orgy of crimson. Fourteen men that had traveled halfway around the world to die in an unnamed field for an ungrateful populace.

Just because we were now alone, cut off, and surrounded by probably a hundred of them or more was no need to panic… right?

“What do we do, captain?”

Red, a ginger man of average height and only a bit older than myself ceased his own hoarse gasping for air long enough to respond, watching as the small horde, one with their dismemberment fun for the moment, closed in.

“Why we die, of course. Our time…take as many as you can with you.”


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