At a sacred mountain retreat in The Hall of the Hero, the chief hero admonished one of the members. "Fredericoarminbutt, some hero you turned out to be. You couldn't even save a cat in a tree. You claimed vertigo, what a baby. Get out of here you wanker. And don't come back."

He was afraid of heights and he had been thrown out of the Hall of Heroes for failing to save a cat in a tree. He couldn't even get a prostitute to lay with him he was that despised. "You can't get a pussy out of a tree? You ain't getting any from me," was the usual rejection. Exiled to earth, Fredericoarminbutt was more or less like a normal human, but with one exception. He was infamous.

Fredericoarminbutt knew he had to prove himself with some mighty deed. The burden of shame was too much to bear. Down-hearted he left for the countryside and sought a place where he might be able to start a new life and redeem his past failure or end his.

He shortened his name to Fred. He forged new identity papers and he had some plastic surgery undertaken to complete the makeover. But what could he do about his fear of heights? It limited him, since most daring-do required up-up-and-away type action. He cried and cried.

Two children skipped along, stopped, looked at him, and flipped him the finger. Even with the make-over children could tell who he was . What was he to to do?

One day, a little Streetus Domestipuss came by. He was skinny and very hungry. Fred had a tuna fish sandwich in his satchel along with other things too numerous to be mentioned. He called the starving cat over to him and shared some of his food. The cat didn't care what Fred was or did. He had fed him after all the others had thrown rocks and chased him away.

Fred asked, "what's your name little cat?"

"My name is Pustifix. I used to chase mice until I realized they were alive and sentient just like me. I couldn't bring myself to do that any more even though it supposed to be my nature to be a mouser. I was thrown out of my home, and left to fend for myself or starve."

"Well at least you have an excuse," said Fred. "Recognizing the unity of life is a better reason to be in your situation than mine. I'm afraid of heights and being a hero, I'm not supposed to be."

Puss looked at Fred. He had heard about him. Now he was face to muzzle. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Puss had been an alchemist in his past life and had an idea. "You know fear can be an inherited trait that is of no fault of your own."

"Really?"

"Yes it can be, or you can just be a big weenie. If it's the weenie thing, I have an idea. If it's inherited, well, you're SOL."

"Okay, "said Fred, "what do you suggest?"

"Drugs! They can work wonders, trust me," answered the cat. "You helped me now I will help you. Diazepam 25mg 3 times a day. You won't fear a thing."

"Won't that be cheating? Asked Fred.

Puss stood up and looked the tear-stained ex-hero in the eyes, "Not at all, you can be all you can, with some possible side effects and some caution as to ingesting certain drink. But other than that, you should be fit to take on any nonmechanical situation."

"Well why not you, and your issue with mice?"

"That's a different and moral issue, not one of weenieness, and I am assuming you are a big chicken," retorted Puss. Puss thought about chicken. They weren't too bright and in a pinch maybe he could…never mind that, on with the task at hand.

Puss and Fred traveled together all over. People took them as they were. Fred was no longer recognized as the chicken ex-hero. The cat was great cover.

One day Fed noticed a posting for an offer in marriage to anyone who could accomplish the local princesse's bidding and become The King. Everyone who had attempted her bidding had failed and left in disgrace or died trying.

He took up the challenge.

The princess was an excellent judge of character and recognized Fred for what and who he really was. She commanded him to rescue her from her high tower. He's toast, she thought.

Fred took his pill, waited an hour to make sure he would benefit from its full effect, and began to climb the tower. He arrived at the top where the princess waited. Was she a looker.

"Hellooo princess!" he declared.

Was she ever surprised. This guy was supposed to be afraid of heights. What was she to do?

The wedding took place. It was wonderful. Fred was married to the princess. And Pustifix was given a suite in his honor.

One day, the princess discovered the secret behind Fred's success, and decided to switch her birth control pills for his diazepam. After a few days of this she asked him, "please dear brave one, would you get my kite out of that huge tree."

He looked at the kite, looked at the tree, gave the okay sign to Pustifix, and up he went.

Down he came with the kite.

She was shocked and confessed what she had done.

He was shocked but then realized he had overcome his fears without drugs. It was all in his mind.

He was a hero to himself and now to his family. And, that's all that mattered. He didn't care about Heroes Hall. He had a great princess, lots of money, and an alchemist pussy.

And, he was the king, and being king was, not…too… bad.

They all lived happily ever after.

BTW, he made sure she took her pills. The idea of kids scared the stuffing out of him.

Psychiatric Institute of Mental Health, Boston, Massachusetts

"I believe the patient is showing symptoms of an adjustment disorder with mixed disturbance of emotions and conduct," Dr. Svenson said, stating his findings. "It is my opinion that antidepressant drugs would be the place to start, then evaluate the patient through…"

Dr. Lonigan interrupts, "He is exhibiting signs of a depersonalization disorder, due to feelings of unreality. I have decided to perform an experimental neurosurgical procedure, boring a hole in his cerebral cortex and removing connecting brain tissue in the nuclei pathways to alleviate his outbursts."

A guttural scream echoes through the darkened hallways.

"Who is this man? Have we determined his condition? Why do exploratory surgery on a recently admitted mental patient? Shouldn't we observe…" Dr. Svenson probed, before being abruptly cut off.

"You ask more questions than Art Linkletter. You get curious, you'll find yourself working in a prison infirmary," Dr. Lonigan said, shooting him down.

Dr. Svenson insisting, "Dr. Lonigan, your research funding and place in history should not be at the expense of nameless victims…"

"See me tomorrow morning for a tenure review," Dr. Lonigan said turning around to leave. "Doctor," he finishes disdainfully.

Hurriedly walking down the hall, Dr. Lonigan slams his hand onto the doors of the preoperative room, "Haven't you prepped the prophet of doom yet!" He leaves jerking the door shut.

"I hate to shave his head. He's sort of handsome, don't you think?" Betty says to the other nurse.

The patient with solemn, sunken black eyes, looks toward the ceiling and screams, "I don't want to do it!" he said with deliberate emphasis. "So many must die! Please, get someone else!"

Tears pour down the man's face as the nurse shaves his head, nicking him on occasion.

"You would let them do this to me!" he screams vehemently to the ceiling.

The nurses turn the patient over on his side to shave the back of his head. He begins to regurgitate onto the bed.

Dr. Lonigan enters the room agitated, "Clean him up and roll him into OR. Let's not keep Armageddon waiting," he says laughing to himself. The doctor's eyes were glassy and his skin, a darker than normal complexion.

Minutes later, the patient was rushed into the operating room, head and body strapped to the gurney. He was quickly injected with anesthesia. The doctor seemed driven to cut into him.

The patient opens his eyes fighting sleep to see the surgeon's face peering at him. "You!"

"Who'd you expect?" Lonigan smiles menacingly.

"How did you assimilate the doctor so quickly?" the patient asked staring hard into his eyes while squirming to break free from his restraints.

"He was a willing vessel," the doctor said leaning toward him. "Your fate was predestined, or didn't you know that," Dr. Lonigan whispers, "angel of death".

The patient rolled his eyes back into his head and screamed upward, "I…I…surrender!"

A momentary stillness, followed by a burst of light that found the patient moving through his leather restraints, is if they were not there. He raised his hand quickly, to touch the doctor's head.

The being housed inside the doctor's body tries to refrain the patient from touching him. "I'm only obeying a higher power," the doctor said gritting his teeth.

The man overcomes the resistance and presses his hand to the doctor's temple, causing him to fall lifeless to the ground. He rose up from the gurney, stood to his feet, looked down at the doctor's body and said, "So am I".

The patient began walking through the halls saying the word, "Forget" to each person that saw him. It was as if they looked past him.

Soon, his body became translucent, disappearing from the second floor hall and reappearing instantaneously in the institute's lobby, wearing only a surgical gown.

"Sir, stop!" the desk clerk shouted. Pressing the intercom button she called out, "We need security, code B in the lobby."

In moments, two large muscular men ran into the foyer. The patient held up his hand and said, "Wall".

A stone wall appeared in front of the security officers, but only in their minds.

Walking outside for the first time in months, he breathed in fresh air.

"Do you realize how I look now?" the man looks upward crying pitifully to the sky. "My head; this gown".

Suddenly, he was transfigured and translated to the outside of a diner on the other side of town. He walks in immediately and without notice, heads toward the bathroom. As he walks down the aisle, he grabs a strong, rough looking man by the back of the collar, pulling him in with him. A moment later, he walks out wearing the man's clothes.

As he steps outside the diner, he is translated again, this time to a low rent district in Chicago, at nightfall. Walking to the side of a lamppost, he leans and waits.

Half an hour passes before two Hispanic men and one Caucasian walks into a liquor store nearby. Waiting a moment, he follows them in.

As he walked inside, the taller Hispanic thug aims a gun to his face. He leans backward, placing his hand on the wall behind him, simultaneously as the gun is fired where his face was a second earlier, blowing out the store window. He pushes against the wall, straightening himself back into his former stance and touches the gunman's temple…"You." The robber's spirit jerks out of him, killing him instantly.

A second gunman fires at the clerk, point blank. The bullet passes mysteriously through the clerk's face without harming him or leaving a trace of an entrance wound.

"You," the man says in low tones as the second gunman fell to the ground, dead.

The third man drops to his knees shouting, "Emmanuel, God protect me!"

The man, this dark angel of death, commented as he left the store, "Two outta three ain't bad.

The scow with a blunt bow was maneuvering slowly among the wrecks spread all over the area near the Giant Islands' precipitous coastline. Harry, the small flat-bottomed boat's captain, was trying his best to navigate the numerous oddly-shaped rocks. He was aided by two crewmembers who sopped up water on the deck due to the strong waves.

It was a routine trip for them as they were used to going there every month to retrieve valuable junk salvaged from old military sailboats. They would then sell the objects to a rich packrat trading in ancient military objects with representatives from the many species of their world.

There you could find almost anything, like damaged hull portions, discarded magical items and old objects floating around. The greying captain had been doing that job for more than ten years, after being exempted from official transport duty aboard the 'Rigmor', a huge mercantile vessel. He had been fired after hitting an unexpected prehistoric temple tower not far from the mooring post. Actually, he had kept telling his superiors it hadn't been his fault —and his quick diversion of the ship had prevented the prow from being damaged by that structure–- thus saving the crew. The tower, which was clearly out-of-time, seemed to come out of nowhere, but nobody believed him, as on the magical instrumentation only an uncertain, wobbling and temporary track had been recorded. Besides, by acting that way, Harry had destroyed part of the left broadside, going against the battlement, so the company simply turned him away by saying his sight was not as good as it was before: he had become too old and wasn't allowed to captain any of their trade vessels anymore.

Tired of being ironically called 'Dim sight' in all the seaports, the 60-year-old man had started his own business, choosing an area far away in order to collect some old relics and make a living out of it. The perfect zone to run such a peculiar activity was exactly the one known as 'The Fast War's main battle site', which was the place where a famous sea battle had taken place more than two centuries before. It had occurred between three groups of military sailing ships, coming from three different realms, during the bloody Fast War that was fought by Men, Elves and Orcs to get supremacy of the area. It had resulted in a victory for the humans' fleet.

Things were going as usual that afternoon, after the small scow had already been loaded up with many useful wreck parts, when Frank, his younger co-pilot, found a very strange item, taking it on board: it was a small magical parchment, a sort of message case device, damaged and with a serial number on it.

What made all of them amazed was that the parchment looked like an object from the present times and, most of all, the tracking number was exactly the one on present their scow!

"How is it possible?" the hairless co-pilot asked his captain.

"It must be a mistake…" Harry replied, incredulous.

"But it isn't," Frank stated. "This is our message case device, undoubtedly!"

An immediate meeting of all the three crewmembers was called and the magically recorded message inside was activated before their eyes.

"This is captain Harry Davids speaking. On day 2/15/11022, 19:00 hours, Human Kingdom Time Zone, we've been caught in a time warp, leading to the past, and have been thrown directly into the site of the most famous battle of the ancient Fast War. Our small craft will not last long, the missile weapons are aiming at us from every side, soon we'll be hit and destroyed. Our situation confirms that the fabled time warp theory is true, indeed, and something may be sent to the past or to the future…"

The rest of the message was incomprehensible, damaged because of the passing of the centuries.

"On day 2/15/11022, 19:00 hours?" Frank cried out. "It's today, one hour from now!"

All of them looked at each other.

"What can we do?" the third crewmember asked.

"Whatever we are going to try, this will be the end of us."

"There's not enough time to plan an escape route to exit this area before the hour indicated in the magical message."

"So, what do you propose?"

"I don't think history can be changed," Harry said, sadly. "But maybe there's something good I can do. Just let me insert a message on our magical message parchment…"

A long silence fell on the other two men.

"It's captain Harry Davids speaking. On day 2/15/11022, 19:00 hours, Human Kingdom Time Zone, we've been caught in a time warp leading to the past, and have been thrown directly into the site of the most famous battle of the ancient Fast War. Our small craft will not last long, the missile weapons are aiming at us from every side, and soon we'll be hit and destroyed. Our situation confirms that the fabled time warp theory is true, and something may be sent to the past or to the future, so I state that things, like towers or ships, may be captured somewhere by chance from such anomalies and transported to another time, appearing suddenly elsewhere. Let this message clear my conduct when I was the mercantile vessel Rigmor's captain."

He recorded the message, made a copy of it on another magical parchment their scow possessed and put that into the craft's safe, along with some precious personal belongings, with a clear sign printed on it: 'Important valuables of the crew'.

The sign was going to assure that someone would retrieve the box in order to get its contents, one day, even if the safe were the only object surviving the incoming, deadly sea battle they'd soon be thrown into, unwillingly.

I hefted the sword and swung it, checking its balance, my hand still stiff from the burn scars. My last sword had been melted. "This the best you've got?"

"Aye. Not sure I want to sell it to you, though. I'd like to think it was actually gonna get used." The armorer managed to look down his nose at me, even though I stood nearly a head taller.

"How much?"

"Eight gold Crowns."

Twice its fair worth, but I kept my mouth shut and counted the coins out. Gold, I had plenty of; reputation, none.

At the tavern, I ordered meat and mead, and got derisive looks to go with it. Someone pointed at the sword. "Say, Elric, don't you think you should have bought a plow? Maybe you could be a farmer."

That was too much. I stood up and looked around at all of them. "I didn't see any of you helping me fight that thing — "

The innkeeper glared. "We were busy putting out fires." The unspoken accusation, that I had failed to put out the one fire that mattered, the one from the dragon's mouth.

I pulled off my cowl, exposing the burn scars on my head and neck. They turned away and shut up. I left without finishing my meal.

Six months ago, I was the town's savior; my food and drink were free. People offered me their daughters. A few offered their wives. The King came in person to present me one hundred gold Crowns.

We hadn't known that those first three dragons were just babies.

After I'd killed them all, the mother came for revenge, and she was still at it, but from a distance now, poisoning the river with her excrement. She wouldn't get close enough for another battle, because I had slashed off half of her wing, just before she nearly burnt me to death.

Still, the town was slowly drying up; the wells and springs weren't enough. I learned of this while I convalesced, and made a plan.

The alchemist confirmed the stories I'd heard, of a compound that would burn with almost supernatural violence. He swore me to secrecy about its very existence, and my gold convinced him to concoct a batch. "It'll be ready in three weeks," he said.

Then I rode to the monastery, where I told the high priest my plan. "She can't fly," he said. "Why not send a company of soldiers to kill her?"

"Her cave is situated such that only a couple of men at a time could approach. She'd easily burn them all."

"So you're going to risk death alone?"

"Once my gold runs out, the townspeople will shun me anyway. I'll starve to death."

"I understand."

I bought two of their donkeys, then killed one and had it skinned. The monastery is renowned for their tanning and leatherwork, and they made what I needed. They crafted large waterproof saddlebags, like wineskins, concealed under a tanned hide. Strapped to the live donkey, they were nearly invisible.

I bought one of their heavy, hooded cloaks, which concealed my sword. The priest gave me a blessing before I left.

I returned to the alchemist, and he carefully stuffed the saddlebags with the compound and sealed them, then asked, "How will you ignite this?"

"This dragon likes her food cooked. She burns it with her breath before eating it."

"Ah."

I packed some food and water for myself and the animals, and set off.

The trip up the mountain to the dragon's lair was awful, even with the heavy cloak. The thin air howled and whipped snow into my eyes, my clothes, everywhere. Ice and snow built up in a covering on the animals and myself. Luckily, the trail was easy to follow. The dragon was huge, and being earthbound, needed a broad path to get down the mountain to feed.

I smelled her stench before I saw the cave. I tied up my horse, and led the donkey to where the cave was in sight, just around a sharp bend. I tied the donkey to a rock.

I shouted to make myself heard over the wind. "Dragon! I've been sent with a peace offering!"

I could make out movement in the cave through the blowing snow. The voice rumbled and snarled. "What — ?!"

"Dragon! We want to make a deal with you. If you'll stop fouling the river, we'll bring animals to you for food. I have one here now."

"Why shouldn't I just eat you now, human?"

My teeth chattered, and not just from the cold. "If you take this offering and let me go, I'll bring another, every three days. But you have to stop fouling our water. We need it for the livestock."

A deep snort. "Clean water gets me food?"

"Yes. Every three days. Would you honor that?"

She gave a long, low growl. "Return in three days with another, and we'll see. Now, begone!"

Numb as I was, I ran, got around the bend and crouched down behind a huge boulder. I heard the peculiar whistle presaging the dragon's fire-breath. The donkey screamed in terror.

The mountainside jarred with a brilliant red flash and a deafening concussion, and for a second, the air was warm, but with the awful smell of sulfur. Rocks and pieces of smoldering flesh rained out of the sky.

I drew my sword and ran for the cave.

I walked into town with the dragon's head tied to my horse. The townsfolk cheered and carried me to the tavern, where they warmed and fed me and asked me to speak.

"The mother is dead," I told them, "but we can't celebrate yet."

The crowd hushed. "Why, Elric?"

"There were eggs… somewhere, there's a male."

"Oh, gods… they're even worse — "

I stood up. "Don't despair! I can kill it, but I can't do it alone." I raised my sword. "Now — who's with me?"

The small hut went up like a torch within two seconds of Larry the Ogre placing a match to its thatched roof. As usual there was a 'wow' moment as the fire blazed high into the night sky and all the goblins cheered – except for Gerald of course. He stood facing the miserable human's penned-in sheep, feverishly trying to count the shifting livestock.

"Hey! You goblins!" shouted a nearby dwarf. "Grab as many sheep as you can and carry them back to the castle." All the goblins did as ordered, mounting a sheep on each shoulder – all except for Gerald of course. He was busy multiplying the number of goblins times two and

scribbling the result into his pocket notebook.

Donald the goblin seethed at him loudly: "Lucky, put that darn notebook back into your pocket and pick up a couple of sheep like the rest of us. You can't afford to get in trouble again – not after that whole 'These aren't the druids you want' debacle!"

Gerald picked up two ewes and hissed back: "That would never have happened if I had just asked for their Social Security numbers!"

"Their what?" asked Donald.

"Their Social Security numbers – an idea I've been playing with for giving every citizen of the kingdom a number when they're born and…"

Donald fell in line behind seven other goblins and Gerald got in line behind him.

"Lucky. I hate it when they call me Lucky," he muttered, knowing he'd get a whack on the back from the gatekeeper for being the last one through the gate again.

Later, back at the castle, Gerald dropped off his sheep, counted the ones in the pen, and then went walking through the market place. He happened past the open door of the mail office and noticed the troll behind the desk accept three stamps to send a scroll to the next kingdom.

"Are you certain that's enough postage to get the message to Dwarfinburg?" asked the King's knight.

"Of course – I send all the scrolls out with three stamps –no matter how much they weigh or how far they go," said the mail-troll.

Gerald took out his pocket notebook and scribbled down a tiny note.

The next morning it was time for all to grovel before the Dark Lord King and give an accounting of themselves.

"Hear ye, hear ye. All those having business with his highness the Dark Lord step forward," announced a guard.

A knight came forward, approaching the throne while bowing. "My Darkest Lord, we have yet to hear from the Western Lands. I beg your permission to raze their castles to the ground because of their insolence in not returning your summons."

"Really?" asked the king weakly. "My favorite brother is the ruler there. I hope it doesn't need to come to that."

Gerald crawled over to the throne. "My Deepest apologies, but perhaps I might have a moment…"

The king and all the court laughed at the tiny goblin. "What is your name gremlin?"

Gerald grimaced at the whole 'gremlin' thing. "My name is Gerald."

"No, no, no…" said the king. "You're Lucky aren't you?"

"Yes, your darkest highness…Lucky."

"These aren't the Druids you're looking for…" shouted the king, laughing.

"Your highness," Gerald replied - taking out his pocket notebook, "it seems that all mail is being sent out at 3 postage stamps regardless of how much it weighs or how far it goes. However, a scroll sent to another kingdom automatically kicks over to 6 stamps. So your brother may never have received your message because of postage due."

"Then I don't need to kill my brother? I can just send out scrolls with appropriate postage?" His royal emptiness thought for a moment before saying, "I like this little troll. Someone get him a pillow to sit here, beside me, on the step."

So Gerald sat on a pillow as a knight came forward. "Your Cruelest Majesty, the troops were planning to attack the village McKenna on the 21st of this past month but by the time our battering rams and catapults arrived, the town had already been pillaged by another king's warriors.

His Grand Nastiness was obviously agitated. "What do you think, little gremlin?"

"I think that if you want to be sure your shipment of armaments get someplace on time; send them near their destination one day early. That way the United Pillage Service will be certain your weapons are there, ready for your Knights when they arrive."

"Great idea little elf!" shouted the king. "Someone get Lucky a drumstick," shouted the king.

"Next!" yelled the guard.

Three ogres shuffled forward. "My king, we have been plundering the countryside of cattle, stealing helpless wenches – all to increase your coffers and your herds."

"Ogre Curly – How many sheep did you bring in?" asked the king.

"Some," answered Curly sheepishly.

"Ogre Larry – How many sheep for you?"

"More," answered Larry.

"Well 'more' is certainly greater than 'some'," said the king. "Ogre Mo – how many for you then?"

"A lot," he answered.

"Well 'a lot' is certainly greater than either 'some' or 'more'. Kill Larry and Curly."

There was a cry of distress as the two ogres were grabbed by eager hands. The king's eyes drifted over to the tiny gremlin, errr – goblin. Lucky flipped open his notebook.

"Well, in truth your royal viciousness, Curley confiscated 10 sheep, Larry brought in 8, and Mo pillaged 15 – but had 7 put into his herd on the way to the castle."

Mo started shaking but Larry and Curley were ecstatic, placing the tiny Goblin on their shoulders in triumph.

"This day a new kind of hero has been born!" proclaimed the king. "All hail Lucky the elf, ruler of all numbers everywhere!"

"I am Lucky!" shouted Gerald. "And the saying is true: The druids might lie but the numbers never do."