Purgatory on Wheels

In honor of the 150th Anniversary of the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad, on which I worked, I would like to tell the story of how the famous celebration of the driving of the Gold Spike, almost didn’t happen. Historians bicker back and forth about why it almost didn’t happen—some say the weather, some disorganization, or rivalry between sides—but I was there. So to put the record straight, I will tell you a tale nearly erased from the archive of humanity’s furious ordering of nature. I will tell you about a con, a heist that left none the wiser, but nearly derailed the first Overland Express.

It begins on May 6th, 1869…


I love the sound of the clang, or perhaps better said, I used to. Its chief romantic attribute to my ear, is that in one sweeping arc, the whole of the world around me lights up in sudden harmonic brilliance, as every surface chimes. I can “see” for miles on the flat plains and mesas where danger is plenty, but in the canyons and cuts, it’s blessedly numbing. After five years, however, I realize I’ve become deaf to the men beside me. I barely even smell them now, which is a feat, since when I take the time to think about it, I recall that the most washed among them hasn’t even swam in the river for nearly three months. My thoughts have been hammered flat and twisted into this shape, and I find I no longer think about much of anything, anymore. I enter a trance, and the work does itself while I watch.

Our foreman gives a shout. We line up. Out go the rails, onto the ties, down go the rails, in go the spikes, down come the hammers, three strikes each. And on and on, in this monotonous dance that I can now do in my sleep, and have done, several times. Work so long and backbreaking, in conditions so treacherous, that it literally squeezes every last ounce of life out of a man. For me, it’s the stamina required that puts me to the grindstone. I can hurl a man across a room, but ask me to do it all day long, and you’d better let me eat him.

Is there any wonder the Union Pacific has a difficult time keeping mules? I have to eat something when I’m at end-of-tracks and the boys are being civil.

Today, we push hard, perhaps more ferociously than ever before. Yesterday they said the Chinese put down six more miles of track and it was only a week ago that they laid the record-breaking ten in a day. We’ve done nearly that. Perhaps. I reckon so, though there was no reporter there to say it. But there is no way in hell that Union Pacific will lose. Human pride is at risk, and if there is anyone on this earth who knows what that will mean, it is I.

We’ve done at least three today, I’m sure. At least three miles. We will have the station rights easily by Sunday.

There’s a sudden bark of command. Heads turn and all work grinds to a halt. Like the machine that our crew has become, the hammers choke up in mid-swing. Gazes clear of fog and sharpen for the next instruction. A small cloud of ochre Utah soil settles in the air, smelling of salt.

“Conroy, off!”

I fall out of my daydream and back off the ties. I am dusted head to toe, and my ears still hum. A man in a straw hat waves me to follow him. I give Foreman Hardly a questioning look, but he replaces me with a grunt, and I am instantly forgotten.

“General Jack wants a talk.”

Of course he does. I’m never pulled from a work crew unless a Casement brother wants to talk with me. It’s been that way for damn near twenty years, ever since Jack was my foreman on the CCO, and I demonstrated my strength, accuracy, and focus. I surmise it will be that way for precisely the next two days. On the 8th, when that last rail tie is in, that last shiny spike driven, and two coasts entangled in all the pageantry of a self-congratulatory species, I will finally be free of the Casement Crew.

I should feel pleased with the notion of moving on, of finally finding a territory after so many years of moving twixt them, waiting for my cousins to pop out of the ground like centipedes. I am not. The work may be downright dangerous and grueling, but I have always thrived in great constructions. I like to build, because I can remember what it was like before, and though I don’t show precisely what I am, I demonstrate who I am when I have tools in hand and a goal to obtain.

The man takes in my silence and seems surprised. “You kill someone?”

I smile obligingly. It is a bit odd. I had thought him in Echo or over at the hurried excavation of Carmichael’s cut, but those distances are easy to manage with a train engine in one’s pocket.

I’m briskly offloaded near several wagons. A pile of dirt shields us from the wind which is unusually cold for the season. Jack looks like a Cossack in his hat and stiff stance. There is not the slightest trace of humor in his face and his round blue eyes are squinting as they do when he is watching a slow crew recovering from their drinking first thing in the morning.

As soon as he marks me, he shoves a piece of paper to my chest. I glance over the telegram, at once annoyed. “An incident”? A ransom demand isn’t an incident, it’s a crime. The telegram is out of Echo City from General Grenville Dodge, the Chief Engineer himself, so it must indeed be quite serious. When I turn a questioning glare onto Jack, he shakes his head.

“Durant has gotten himself into a bad box.”

I pull a face. When, in the last five years, has that man not been a thorn in anyone’s side? Now he gets himself kidnapped? I’m not supposed to know what I do, but whenever Thomas Durant inspects “his great efforts”, I spend my leisure sitting atop the Palace Cars as they play host to massive quarrels.

“We don’t know how many men Davis has, but they somehow took him from the train. Now they want money they say they’re owed. This close to the ceremony, with track still to be lain? If word got to the newspapers…”

All in a single sigh, my plans for the next few days disintegrate. So much for seeing this grand affair through. So much for my claim to part of history. Before he says it, I know what he is going to ask.

“Boston wants someone to ensure the transaction goes according to Hoyle. Demands go out by telegram. Which…well, you know you always know when there’s a flash. I told Dodge to call the troops, You just have to sit there and report back—an advance scout. Pete…you’re the best man I can put on this.”

It’s a perfect arrangement for him. If Doc Durant has been kidnapped by a mob audacious and brazen enough to hijack a train on its way to one of the most important events in the history of the country, I’m precisely the person to send, but it’s not as if I’ve been obvious about that fact. He knows I steered clear of the war, unlike him, even though he’s seen me scrap in the tent a time or two. All he ought to know of me is that I have a knack for sensing trouble, I can handle myself, I never tire, and I am fearless. But as I stand there looking at him, I realize my most important trait, is that I can’t give interviews.

I cock my head with a wry look.

“Keep an eye on things.” He strokes his great beard. “And you know…if you run afoul of the cantankerous fool who gave the orders, throw a fist at his ivory. I know you can do that.”

My visage is stoic and still. The longer I stare, the more he withers. He is my employer and he’s accustomed to demanding action from me, but this is above and beyond and he knows it. When it was natives scalping our graders, I went willingly. When they derailed our cars and snipped the telegraph lines only I could hear, I was first on the engine, But this is a mob of disgruntled workers wanting pay that is righteously owed them. And if there are more than fifty, I might not return. Even if there are only five, Piedmont is a hundred miles away! The road is clogged with trains coming west for the festivities, not rolling backward, and the only horse I ride is an iron one, something Casement damn well knows.

“In the Lord’s name, I’m merely asking you to be a witness! We have no one out there. All the crews are at the Cut, or here.” He holds his hands out to me as if to lift up my weighty thoughts. “I will give you five dollars for it. You can roll back on the next exchange to Bitter Creek.”

I would have made five dollars already by the time I can get there and back, and by then I will have missed the ceremony in less than two days time. I narrow my eyes.

“Seven dollars, then. And usual pay.”

I run the tip of my tongue over my teeth, kept secret behind habitually pursed lips. A fourth of a month’s pay in a few days, to sit on my haunches in the dirt and watch a man I despise get his spokes kicked in by Mormons? I look up to the the ridge, swarming with workmen. Behind it, the sun is setting in brilliant shades. The wind is picking up and I can feel the whisper of moisture as I contemplate.

The ceremony is once in a lifetime, and for what it will mean, it is once in my existence. I have waited centuries to see such progress, I have pushed myself to breaking for this artery, I have seen good men die and bad men prosper just to what? Miss this?

It’s unthinkable.

“Pete, there are other people in the car. Duff. You like him?”

Not especially. The only people I like out of the whole lot of flannel-mouthed cockroaches are this man and his brother. Then again, I don’t have to like management. I merely have to finish the job.

“Pete. How long have I known you?”

I take a deep breath and consider that in this case, while it has been a long while, it is not the amount of time, so much as the thoroughness of acquaintance that matters. I have known him since before he met the wife he has abandoned for the blistering heat and snow drifts. I have known him since before the birth of his sons. I have turned a blind eye when he aired his paunch after a night in his cups. I have lain awake at night and listened to his private confidences with his brother, reminiscing on their childhood, his time in the war, his disgust for the very man he wants me to go look after. I know him far better than he will ever know me.

I cross my arms.

“Ten dollars, you smock-faced screw. Don’t push me anymore or I’ll take seven over to Hamish and get him to do it.”

Eyes latched to the heavens, I manage something of a pained shrug. I am going to regret this. I am. But the little crow tracks around his eyes have returned and he is shoving me along to the supply tent. I have known him for two decades. If a glorious machine means more than the trust of a man, then civility and society are going to hell on rails.


The weather turns ugly before I am even ready to board the engine. Clouds roll and the moon shimmers in a malevolent way whenever it makes an appearance. The smell of metal and petrichor laced with that pungent odor that has been following us since the Red Desert clings to the atmosphere. I have seen some truly spectacular storms since we pushed into Wyoming, and this has all the hallmarks of a good one. Without fail, the rain drops out of the sky in a torrent as soon as we push loose.

The town of Ogden has already changed more than the Mormons might like. When we first arrived here, it was a gathering of ranches with a street of a few low buildings for supplies. We descended on it like a Biblical plague foretold by their profit, and the poor country folk are still going through the pain and suffering of acclimating to his investments. Even in the monsoon, I can see a few more log buildings, a station house going up, footings for rail yard hotels—it’ll be a bustling dust hole by the end of the year, overflowing with travelers who might like the notion of having a few wives, but aren’t so keen on giving up their tongue oil.

I won’t spend much time worrying over the fate of the place. I want out of Utah as fast as the railroad will get me gone.

As soon as we crossed the border into the territory, the Mormons surrounded us and demanded a share. Ties are always a problem—can’t lay track if we’ve got no wood to put them on, and out on the desert flats, there aren’t sticks for miles. Reed, chief of operations and supplies, would have shipped them from Chicago, Missouri—hell, he would rather have asked Satan himself than deal with Brigham Young, but Durant struck his bargain. Ties were always a problem, and so even though the arrangement was probably a bad one, no one said no. Soon, there we were, having to listen to sermonizing while we just wanted to drink our juice and gamble away our dollar.

My eyes have been shined to trickery since my earliest days. I know a liar and a cheat when I meet them, and there’s not a single way anyone can talk about Joseph Smith and his supposed revelation without me squinting at them until I can’t see straight—which turns out to be the best way to look at them. Brigham Young may wander up and down the line like he owns it, but I shan’t be kowtowing to him any time soon. None of the old hand road workers will, and it bothers the dickens out of the posse that follows him around like he’s the pope.

My weatherall is an instant seal skin as I lean out of the engine. A poor telegrapher is huddled beside the track, arm raised as if to hand off a flag, though he drips. A crack of lightning flashes on his somber face. The driver draws back and the engine crawls to a halt.

“Fucken ‘ell,” he mutters.

The drowned rat hops aboard and shakes out his hat. “Can’t roll back. Just got word. Devil’s Gate’s awash.”

In annoyance, but not an ounce of disbelief, I rock back on my heels and drop the coal shovel. That bridge looks like it was built by a giant, particularly shoddy spider. Not the same drunken arachnid who crafted the dizzying Dale Creek trestle, but perhaps her idiot cousin. And if anything is going to further muck up my plans, it would be that rickety stretch of scaffold. This means I’ve no easy way to Piedmont and I’m only at the fifty mile mark. Then again, it also means that the festivities will be missing half the participants. With a break in the line that severe, there will be no way it can go as planned. They’ll have to postpone, surely.

The engineer makes a series of disgruntled faces. “They want me to wait or go to end?”

“Back. No point in making a run. General Jack says the trestle crew will take it once the rain stops.”

He looks at me. I shake my head.

“Well mate, looks like you’re unlucky.”

“Where you headed?” The telegrapher stares out over the crackling wasteland. “Look at all this. Looks like it will wash the track off the world. You can’t go anywhere in this.”

With a deep breath, I grab my portmantle. Kidnappers don’t care about weather, as I hear it, but at least the company can now tell the papers that it was the bridge that made things difficult. These men might see the storm as a curse, but if they knew what was going on, they’d be relieved.

The telegrapher watches me with growing surprise. “You’re going out in it? Really? You know it turns to a mud suck, eh?”

The engineer rolls his head on his shoulders. “Stubborn.”

I shrug as I hop down.

Instantly a wall of water collides with me as if I’ve jumped into a waterfall. It’s cold as ice, but I’m not much bothered by that. Within only a few minutes of walking along the tracks, I have washed down my mind. This is the first bath I’ve had in months and by god or devil, I will enjoy it. This is a monstrous night, so it’s the monster who prevails, not the man.

I move at a trot and as soon as I’m out of sight of the town, I strip my worn boots and shove them into my bag. The hat joins them. I choke down an ancient chunk of dried human flesh and break for the hills ahead.

Using the rail as a path is easy enough, but the ties are uneven, barely planed log halves that jut from the dirt at angles that make tripping a hazard. Wind shoves me sideways any time I try to move with any grace. In a flat space that drops away from the track like a shallow bowl, the level grade has formed a dam and pools of water lap at either side, milky with clay. As the thunder slams the heavens again and again, my way is lit with vivid white arcs. Serviceberry bushes and scrub lay flat. The rain hangs in the air like curtains of glass beads that flicker in each strike of white.

Then, as suddenly as it all began, it sweeps aside as if God decided to take a peek at all the nonsense. Just as I reach Wilhelmina Pass and cross the Thousand Mile Tree, all falls silent. I stop briefly, leaning against the lone, scrabbly pine. I can already hear the sounds of humans echoing off the smooth surfaces of Devil’s Slide. In the gorge, the spindle remains of the bridge are a sight. I knew it was in a sorry state from melting snow tracking down to the riverbed, but the rain had only made things worse. One entire segment of rigging has been broken apart and lies scattered in the newly formed rapids. On the other side of the gap sits an idle engine, lanterns ablaze. A few UP workers have exited the train and are standing about, looking on the scene with mingled impatience and dismay. They don’t know the half of it.

They can return to their car and relax out of the damp, I have to find some way to cross this river and keep moving. I know this land well. While we were putting track down, I wandered up and down this canyon. I can see Weber River has swollen its banks and swallowed the valley to my right. There is going to be no easier way than the Gate.

It’s a damn good thing I’m indestructible.

Looping the strap of my pack double over my torso, I take a few cautious steps out onto the trusses. I can instantly feel the creak and sway of the structure in the high wind, but it’s by no means the most dangerous thing on which I’ve balanced. If I move swiftly, I can dash over this and take the leap easily like a cat going somewhere to happen. The real trouble is, I will have witnesses.

An engine barely surviving an attack, a terrific storm, a bridge with a dark name, a lone figure? It has all the makings of a horrifying ghost story, and frankly, the crew could likely use the excitement. It isn’t as if they’ll ever recognize me. And if they do, they’ll never say a thing, assuming they can hold in their piss. One thing I’ve learned in the last fifty years is, if one has to be a ghost tale, one should do it right. In that way, the true devil avoids recognition by distracting man with details.

As I reach the midpoint, a spectacular bolt lights up every last crevasse of Weber Canyon as bright as day. The engineer, standing just at the other side of bridge, espies me. In the black that settles heavily over us, his frantic waves of warning would be invisible to most men, but I watch them with something like amusement. He turns, racing to the engine to fetch a lamp he can use to signal me that the bridge is out. In those brief moments, I kick ties into a run. One stringer reaches straight into the air of the divide. I bound right out onto it and spring off. Wood, soaked as a sponge, shrieks with grinding fibers as the force of my jump presses downward. I have but an instant to second-guess this action, but my arc is good. I come down directly into the open angle of common braces, nested as if sitting in the Devil’s own crooked elbow. With only a few slips along the damaged planks, I claw my way back up to the end floor beam and nearly collide with the engineer as he skids to the precipice.

He lets out a yelp of astonishment as I stand up to full height. For a breath only, we are locked in a stare. His mouth hangs open and he shudders. This is a good joke—materializing suddenly before him when a few seconds before, I was on the other side of a dangerous chasm—but I haven’t the time to play at fairy tales.

“You the engine that was stopped out of Piedmont?”

In the glare of the lamp, my teeth must be striking. Suddenly, he thinks better of blocking my way. Skittering aside, he trips on the slippery ties. I catch his arm and haul him back upright. Instantly, he pulls free and stands with his limbs drawn in.


“It was only the one car, correct?”

He nods, looking downright waxy in the yellow light.

I unravel the strap of my pack. “Bunk for the night. There’ll be no crossing for a few days.”

His gaze slides down the length of me like my watershed, settling on my bare and hideous feet.

“What the—”

“Devil?” I cannot help but grin. “You ever read Ezekiel, my friend?”

For the first, he registers disbelief over outright mortal fear. “You one of those Mormons?”

I snort. “Not hardly. Just making an argument.”

He flinches as I move swiftly, but follows beside me toward the train. “What argument?”

“How can anyone read about the seraphim and get an impression of fluffy wings and beauteous faces? Angels are downright ghastly, if you ask me.”

He contemplates my somewhat remarkable appearance in silence, trotting behind me as I walk the full length of the train. The sky growls impatiently, and I know that it’s about to open up once more.

“Durant’s car?”

He points to the last coupling in front of the caboose.

“Just before the parlor?” I wonder aloud.

“No cargo. He insisted.”

I look back at him in astonishment. “What did the ox say?”

The man shrugs, but his face is still a mask of uncertainty. He has yet to ask who I am or how I know about any of this. “It’s Doc. What’s any conductor gonna say?”


He shakes his head.

It’s rare to see a palace car capped off by the caboose and even stranger for Durant to request the back of the train.

“How’d it happen?”

“There was a pile of wood on the track. Hundreds of men. Shot right at me. Then they swarmed, and in less than a few winks, a man jumped on board and told me to get.”

“What did they do with his car?”

“Put it in the hole and then reattached the caboose.”

My frown is contagious. “That fast?”

“Knew what they were doing, I suppose. We dropped word at Evanston.”

“Where were you when they stopped you?”


This is madness. The kidnappers knew when to expect Durant’s train, when even I had no idea Durant was anywhere nearby. Within a quick horse ride from Fort Bridger, but not a soul detects an armed mob of hundreds? This doesn’t have the ring of a labor dispute. This is something else entirely.

I don’t have time for mysteries.

In a flare of temper, I let out a grunt and turn back to the tracks. I am thirty feet past the caboose before the engineer realizes I am leaving, and that he should stop following me.

“Where you going?”

I halt and look back on him menacingly. “To witness man’s supreme lunacy.”

His chin twitches side to side with utter confusion as he swings the lantern around. “So you’re a reporter?”

I suck in a hiss.

“A lawman?” He shouts at my back as I turn to go. When I do not reply, he clucks his tongue and stutters. “Well…hell man…an angel then.”

With that serendipitous timing that so graciously accompanies much of my life, the sky tears apart at just that instant, and a curtain of precipitation divides us.


I walk through the night in the downpour, but even with a few shortcuts to turn curves into straightaways, I have only covered about half the distance by the time dawn breaks. I stop and make short work of my next meal. May the seventh is going to be miserable, I can tell.

I well and truly hope one of these bastards tries to shoot me. I could use a good row. I’ve learned the limits of my ability to keep hold of my mind, and every day I press my face to them and try to see beyond. This turns almost every moment I am not on the line, into a kind of mathematical obsession. Will I break now? How much longer? And then there is the constant hunger, a deep and painful ache at the back of my mind. I lose it on the work line, but regain it upon stepping off. Out in this desolate terrain, there’s no business to keep me from thinking about it. I am never really lonely, I daresay, but when I am driven to keep my own company without regard for others, terrible things tend to happen.

I walk all through the day, at a much slower pace now that I know the whole celebration is likely to be a ridiculously halfhearted affair, if it happens at all. I catch myself chuckling when I contemplate what would happen if no one waited for Durant to show up.

Showers come and go—nothing so terrible as that first downpour, but enough to drive anyone who might have been out in the countryside, indoors. The air is clean of dirt for once and blooms with green. The alkali of Wyoming is as silken as corn flour and sticks to everything. It burns human skin and stains me a coppery gold. When I worked this ground only months ago, I looked like a statuette almost daily, and for the first time, developed a cough. Any rain then, was a blessing for the body, but a curse for the rail. A thick quagmire forms around the base of every structure and the sucking pressure changes make quick work of railroad ties. Flash floods are a threat. Repair crews will have to backtrack for weeks afterward, shoring up the line and making it fit for all the travel it’s bound to get.

About mid-day, I am passed by another train. It carries several of the sort of work crew cars we use to haul and house our men. These must be Eicholtz’s boys coming up from Bitter Creek to have a go at the bridge. Every man, through every window, seems like they are half asleep or damn near dead, but good on them. At least they’re not walking into an ambush to look after a bastard.

I wish them luck with a shake of my head.

At Evanston, I send a telegram to Casement down at end-of-tracks and inform him that I’m about to hit my destination. To my surprise, word slings back almost immediately that Casement is not at Promontory Ridge, but Devil’s Slide, seeing to the bridge. If so, then he will know I’ve made it by now.

Trouble is, what to do?

If I’m honest with myself, I cannot decide. I am fundamentally a lazy creature and the walking, while continuous, has been rather relaxing compared to the usual daily grind of working the line. This is something of a holiday. I have half a mind to do as little as possibly. I’m only a witness, after all.

I run off the track and out into the countryside on the south side of Byrne’s ranch. A low ridge gives me a fine vantage point on the water tower and mercantile.

Durant’s Pullman car isn’t difficult to locate. Almost exactly where the engineer said it would be, it sits on a side track. Looking at the situation from a distance, it seems rather strange to me. If I were to turn bandit and unlawfully board a train with the intent to cause harm, I’d do it directly between cities, and nowhere near a fort. But when I think about the tracks and how they’re arranged, this strange situation makes a kind of sense. This is the only side track for miles. They not only had to know when to expect Doc’s train, they had to find the opportune location to use, and they found it just before Piedmont, where our old supply cars used to sit as the main track squeaked with work crews.

Around the track, back toward the coal kilns and tiny outcropping of wooden buildings, some newer, smaller tents have appeared—a makeshift camp like a tinier Hell on Wheels. Purgatory on Wheels, perhaps. Durant might think so, if they’re being unkind. The telegraph shed appears to have the most men around it, which makes a fair bit of sense if they’re going to flash their demands to Boston or General Dodge.

There again is another queer fact. How did they know to telegraph Echo City? So far as I know, none of the men I work with—as cootie-ridden and filthy as they are—have any idea as to where the chief engineer is at any one time. So how did Davis’ men know to look for him in Echo?

I get close enough to listen to all of it and secure my pack behind some rocks. Lying in the sylvan afternoon sun as it stretches like a dull blanket, I stare up at the gray, my face damp with drizzle and stuck with mud. The ground is moist, and in arid regions, that means it is suddenly alive with activity. I have to push my mind into that earth, feel for the things within it, make peace with them first—or in this case, remind them I exist and that we have known each other for a stretch.

When I have it in my mind’s eye and can imagine the lay of it, I can shut it out completely, and work toward finding Durant among the human chaos.

At first, I grasp for the most obvious sounds of shouting, or machinery, or clinking glass, and then divide it. An indistinct sound is suddenly teased forward, and I can make sense of it. Conversations with many participants are easily located, but to mince them into words is sometimes tedious. The longer I listen, the better I can do with any group. It’s especially easy to do, if I already know what a man sounds like. Unfortunately, I know Doc’s voice all too well.

He’s a gregarious man, given to soliloquy, to carrying a day with charisma, to boffin, to general exaggeration of the slick sort. I’m very much perturbed by him, but it’s a woolly sensation without specific cause, creating a slight vibration in the back of my shoulders and oozing down into my heels like swamp slime. When he greets workers, it’s as a fabulous show, and when he orders them around, it’s like as if counting his money has afflicted him with a forgetfulness that the war is over and that certain inalienable rights have been confirmed for all men. Because I am as invasive as Old Scratch, I also know things I shouldn’t about how everyone else feels regarding him, which does nothing to improve my sentiments. I know he is a thief, a liar, and while he may drum up funding for the road, I have serious questions regarding how honestly he goes about that.

Waiting for him to sing out amidst the chorus of masculine voices is no enjoyable experience. The rain keeps on until every inch of me is splattered with sticky mud. The wind picks up again. A few animals noises near to me, momentarily divide my focus, but for the most part, I lie as if I’ve been painting my nose for the last three days, breathing slowly if at all, frowning a bit, my scalp itching with the movement of my wriggling hairs.

I’ve never been spotted doing this, but surmise that if I were to be happened upon by humans, they’d think me a corpse, so still do I go and so generally corpse-like is my skin sack. Time ceases to matter. I know that it has passed only by the feeling of the ground, the resonance of the earth and all its teaming masses, inching through it, crawling over it, burrowing within it. When at last Durant speaks, it’s to mumble something to himself. Instantly I am with him, though I realize as I follow, that I’d rather not be.

In fact, I again wish I’d never agreed to do any of this at all.

I open my eyes. The sky is patchy gray, but glowing incandescently with saturated sunlight. The stars came and went wrapped up in cottony clouds. I have passed the entire night in stillness, but have not a single ounce of rest for it.

A distinctive tickle across my face and neck alerts me that I’ve struck a one-sided accord with a tribe of harvester ants, moving over me on their path to higher ground. I should have expected this. It seems to me that bugs enjoy my company when I am calm, though they think better of it when I awaken. They’ve turned my pack and its contents into a way station and seem focused on a tiny cloth sack of nuts. Upon my first movements, the hive reacts in a series of stunned stings. I detach from Durant for a few minutes, to shake the intruders out of my clothes and punish them for the transgression. I’ve gotten good at dealing with them, such that it only takes a few well placed thoughts to convince them to leave me alone. Something about my general aspect puts them off their plans to turn me into a cozy home. This doesn’t detract from the aggravation of the interaction, however.

I send a few flying with a good puff through my nose. A buzzing and sting in my ears alerts me that there are tiny inhabitants looking for a way out by trying to dig inward. I’m chow for the few moments before I can cup enough water from the ground to drown them completely. Sopping wet though I am, I find myself praying for a downpour just to rinse out all my crevasses of crawling contamination.

Ten dollars.

I get ten dollars for this. When I return to Promontory, I am going to eat Jack Casement, and before I do, I am going to lecture him on the fact that I’ve known him to the very end of his miserable, pestilent life. And after I do, I’m going to track down his brother Dan and eat him. And those are the people I like. Once finished with them, I’m going to find the inventor of the railroad and I am going to dig up his corpse and gnaw on it.

I leave the pack of insects where it is. There’s nothing in it I care about very much. I gave up possessions when I left New York. Everything I need is either on my person or in a bank vault in Ohio.

At the camp of merry men, they mill about in their early morning habits, but notice the curious lack of guards patrolling against incursion by either white soldiers or Ute natives. If I wanted to, I could probably get quite close before anyone noticed. Perhaps even pick off a straggler from the herd and improve my disposition.

Durant, however, is remarkably chipper. He readies himself with a cup of tea and chats with a bewildered and exhausted Duff as if nothing is amiss. When his captors come to drag him back to the telegraph office, he makes a show of being offended, but as soon as he’s out of the Pullman, strikes up an amiable conversation. I can understand wanting one’s kidnappers to be accommodating, but this is odd.

For one, Davis seems far too relaxed, as yet another fully loaded passenger train rolls through and is waved on. In an empty coal car, soldiers are crowded, all smiles and shouts. The miscreant makes not the slightest sound of caring, even though the train’s occupants are likely to find out as soon as they hit the clot at Devil’s Slide, that there’s a difficulty tangled up behind it too. Without a note of worry to his voice, Davis dictates several telegrams for various higher-ups in the UP and before long, has gotten into a game of Euchre with Durant, something Mormons aren’t normally supposed to do, by my reckoning.

My scowl becomes a permanent fixture on my face.

I’ll be damned if that bastard isn’t laughing in captivity. This is not the nervous, somewhat uncertain chuckle of a desperate inmate. This is a full, hearty, joyful laugh. A dark notion begins to form in my mind. I give it plenty of comfortable space and let it settle there as I ponder. Finally, as the dusk begins to creep upon us, I hear what I’ve been waiting for.

The telegraph lines sing with life and then stop. One of the operators in the shack dictates a message indicating that the UP cannot furnish the full amount of two-hundred-fifty-thousand, but is willing to send eighty now, and the rest after the celebration has finally commenced on May the tenth.

To my increasing chagrin, Durant chuckles. “So they did put it off, then? Well, look here, gentlemen! It seems I am able to have your excellent company and still make the festivities!”

“You’ll pardon me for saying it, but that is not the agreed upon amount,” someone replies.

“It’s a third.”

“A third ain’t all.”

Durant makes a noise of dismissal. I can just see his smug grin as he summons his usual boisterous tone. “Come now. I know Ames. Send another. Tell them you’ve got a man from the Deseret here to write a story and that if he doesn’t pay you at least half, you’ll tell the papers how you’ve been wronged at once. It’ll be in San Francisco before they can telegraph about the spike. After the road begins running passengers, the rest of your money is sure to follow. We never thought we we’d get it all.”

This snaps me out of my usual trance. Perched on the rock with my arms crossed, I can feel every inch of skin as it is caressed by the gentle rain and glare at the town with an increasing sense of disgust.

I have no idea what sort of larceny I am witnessing, but sure as shit, this ain’t no hostage situation. This is some sort of set-up, and I’d bet my left arm that Durant is governing it.

What a god damed bastard!

Fifty miles through mud and muck, running low on supplies that are now the claim of a horde of buzzing creepers, made the agent of men’s folly rather than a great builder of industrial wonders! Omaha to Promontory, through deserts and barren plains, fighting natives and the elements, sitting atop a railcar with the tingling paranoia of the prospect of encounter a member of my own kind! Saloon brawls, the stink of humanity, the constant wear of being forced to listen to them bicker. One thousand miles of work…for nothing. All to sit here and conscience this scoundrel continue to cheat others with the newest technology.

I’d sooner kill everyone and leave a ghost town in my wake. I’ve done it before! I could easily do it again with a little stealth. Take the first tent silently, sneak to another. It’s a warren down there, which means none of them can keep each other in sight. I’d get in some damn fine eating.

Of course, those less-civilized activities of mine become fodder for further warring with the Indians. Settlers are always on the alert, and these men are especially trigger happy. Brigham Young has hordes of worshippers scouring the countryside to cleanse the desert of natives. If I leave a pile of bodies, there will be an instant and unjust reply.

I cannot bear to see any more of that. I came to this land expecting to help build a place that let everyone follow their own stars, but for a century, it’s been nothing but an exercise in doubling down on petty differences, social inequity, and abject villainy. I am raw with a sense of futility. I need to get away from this type of life, or I will most certainly fall back into old patterns.

That should not happen. Progress, always!

No, there is nothing ethical to be done. No Angel’s flight, no Devil’s dance. I have to sit here in the sludge and witness.

But…I could sneak into the camp and see if there’s anything good to steal. A new pack or hat, perhaps? Stealing from a thief is noble, as the saddle bums and boomers tell me. Then again, they aren’t known for an honest day’s work and I can’t figure as they’d know anything about stealing from a thief who is themself in the act of stealing from a thief. Morality is like blood—it may be thick when it’s in the family, but once a rascal cuts you, it thins out a bit.

Why not? Union Pacific pays me to lay track, not be a saint. And even if they did pay me for my angels, they’re compensating Durant twenty-fold to be an indecent malefactor while they feed me lumps of stale bread and rancid Irish stew.

Indeed. Sounds like capitalism to me.


Early afternoon on the ninth, the negotiations seem to have come to a close. After what sounds to my ear like a tentative offer of half now and half immediately after the commencement of railroad services, management suddenly finds the full amount. This, of course, pleases the Mormon marauders immensely and they accept the offer at once.

I don’t know much about the practices of how the Union Pacific obtains funding. There were times all work had to stop, even when we seemed to have supplies, rumor had it because certain people needed paying. I’ve overheard several arguments between higher-ups visiting the end-of-tracks over how to shore up costs, but that experience isn’t enough to inform me. I can only presume that some wealthy parties have decided to put up the money in exchange for bonds or some sort of security. Once the ceremony is had, without certain important parties missing or any kind of scandal, the road can begin churning out the funds to replace the investment, if indeed that is the arrangement.

I don’t much care. I pick up bits and pieces of the conversation as I creep between tents and cabins, eating anything that’s sitting out and liberating all the valuables I can find in this wretched stop-over. I’ve picked up a few trinkets, a new bag, some money stored in a tin, some gold and silver in a sack beneath a stone. I’ve only encountered a few humans of the large group, and they don’t seem to be overly concerned with me.

For a pack of robbers, they’re either exceptionally naive, or they don’t expect any trouble and are overconfident. Difficult to divide the two, really.

A bull of a wood-fueled engine is allowed to come fetch the Pullman. I make my way out of town and southwest toward the tracks, watching as Durant is escorted to his comfortable car. He tugs on his lapels and smiles, takes hold of the rail to climb aboard, and then gives his kidnapper a conspiratorial bow.

“Well, gentlemen, we’re off.”

I hear no answer.

“Tell Mr. Young that I’d be happy to correspond and I’m glad we could come to a satisfactory conclusion.”

I’ve had enough of this farce. The celebration awaits. If I’m to make it back to Promontory, my only choice is to hitch onto the engine. I don’t recognize the driver and Davis’ men seem to have swarmed around the locomotive like the ants. I’m going to have to run ahead, but not so far that it has time to build up speed. Not a terribly difficult calculation and one I’ve made countless times with the work trains.

Running my fastest, as they line up and connect the Pullman, I get about a mile and a half up the rails before the driver lets her go. In the sound of the pistons and wheels, I lose any human words that might be spoken, and instead turn my attention to not ending up cut in half. As the train approaches, the natural urge is to run alongside and try to catch hold, but I have a different method. I wait for it to get almost upon me, then switch directions completely, racing directly for the cowcatcher. Just before our paths intersect, I give a bit of a perpendicular jump, and usually make a fairly ungraceful, but effective landing. This time, I end up on my backside in the tender, which is rather an uncomfortable experience. I sit up and pop a few bones back into place with a grunt. The fireman stares up at me open-mouthed, tiny hatchet in hand, and really I cannot blame him. I have dropped out of the sky with a hard fall, am the same color as the dirt, and am still not wearing my boots.

“What the hell?” He mouths as I wriggle off the heap and onto my feet beside him. The hatchet comes up, but he isn’t a fighting man, and when I put my hands in the air and give a tight-lipped smile, he demurs.

The driver glances back briefly, catches sight of me, and damn near stops the train dead, but I already have my paperwork out of my pocket—a signed note from the boss, vouching for my friendliness. I wave it a bit, until the fireman snatches it from me and passes it off with a crab walk. Both men are tense from the stress of a potentially violent encounter with kidnappers, and are visibly relieved to find I have Casement’s seal of approval.

I’m waved into a tiny space at the mouth of the tender and lean against the cab wall. The engineer is pushing it, obviously wanting to get the hell out of danger and to Promontory as fast as possible. I’ve been out of communication for a bit, and it seems to me that it would be impossible to get Devil’s Gate reopened in so short a time.

We begin to slow, coming into Echo City. While I put on my boots and stand around generally useless, train cars are hurriedly shuffled. Boxes that have been stacked up and waiting for transport across the divide are moved back into position. The Durant Special is coupled back together with several additions and honored guests.

From my lookout atop the tender, I catch sight of a party of men in black suits and overcoats as they climb aboard Durant’s palace car. One of them wears a papakha hat of black fur.

I cannot help but grin in surprise. If Jack Casement is on this side of the Gate, then the bridge has been mended somehow, a feat I cannot imagine of anyone but Eicholtz’s team. Three days to repair that thing seems miraculous and I wonder if it’s a temporary fix. It would have to be, because most of that time was probably spent sourcing the materials to even attempt to fix the damn thing.

I wonder if Jack wanted my report before or after we reach the summit, but decide that regardless of what would make him comfortable, I plan to be completely unavailable for any sort of labor once the festivities begin. I plan to present my resignation, as it were. Besides, Durant shouldn’t go to that great historical occasion like peacock in all his egotistical finery. He deserves to regret, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s making men rue the day.

Slipping off the tender, I give the newly ensconced conductor my note and board a passenger car. It’s not the fancy sort, and I am so covered in muck and debris that it’s obvious I am not on board for a scenic tour. No point in hiding it then, I reckon. While they laugh and carry on in a generally festive manner, despite their delay in Echo, I meander through the cars. Some are furnished with food and drink, and when I take up a space beside a spread, people are so put off by my appearance, that they move out of my way with apprehension.

Coming up to Weber Canyon, the whole train gutters to a halt. Grinning like a fool, I know why we’ve halted and poke my head out to see what came of the bridge. The crew has hopped off and is standing at the brink of the divide, conferring with what I presume to be Eisholtz’ engineers. It isn’t long before the Conductor moves down the train with some news that, to me, is the absolute cream atop this obnoxious situation and proof that if there is a god in this New Zion, he enjoys watching me struggle—the bridge may be whole again, but there is no way this engine can safely cross. It’s simply too heavy. A strange and frankly foolish plan has therefore been concocted, and is being communicated with steely calm: the train is once again going to be dismantled, and each car positioned before the engine, then nudged across the gap to hopefully coast to safety. Once this is done, another engine will backtrack from Ogden to fetch the train and take it on to Promontory.

Hearing this, I let out an inelegant snort and immediately offboard. I may have built this thing, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to do that, when I have absolutely no real blockades to my safe advancement. Passengers cast dubious looks my way out the windows, when they see me shaking my head in mirth, but not a one of them follows my example. I’m not surprised. This age of Industry has built an unfounded trust in most men of the technology they wield, when any fool knows that whether or not one knows how to use a sword, the end is still sharp and ought to be treated with caution.

Seems like today, I might also get to witness a spectacular derailment.

As one of the few Union Pacific linemen in the vicinity—and one with a very dark and wicked sense of humor—I take it upon myself to trot over to the ox and get my marching orders. If men need to be helped to the hereafter, I might as well oblige them.

After the locomotive has backed the train to the branching in the tracks, it is decoupled and pulls onto the sidetrack. I step into place alongside the first passenger car, and with the old heave-to, we send the it coasting along the rails into place. The engine backs out onto the main track and nudges the cowcatcher against the rear of the car.

The driver is pale as driven snow and it doesn’t help that Eicholtz and his men are crossing themselves while they look on helplessly. This maneuver will take a deft hand, as the train must pick up enough momentum to send the car sailing across, but still stop before hitting the bridge. It’s going to have to burn hot and pray to whatever saints protect brakemen.

The engine chugs back into life with a whistle and starts off the line like a runner. There’s a loud clank as it collides with the car and carries on after it. A few seconds later, they throw the brakes and creep to a halt, while the box carries on, drifting perilously out onto the newly hoisted truss like its about to ride a tightrope in full wind. I expect it to shimmy out, cause the whole structure to vibrate loose, stutter to a halt and then plummet into the gorge, but to my immense surprise, the damn thing just keeps on rolling, gliding like a rock over ice until it makes it to the other side with no harm done. Men hop out as soon as land appears and the car inches to a halt. Putting their backs into it, they trot the car up the track even farther to give the rest of the train plenty of room.

“I’ll be god damned,” I mutter to myself.

A man to my left lets out a whistle. “This is Devil’s Gate, friend. Seems right to me.”

With a shake of my head, we get to work lining up another car. It’s a hairy process, but it works, and as I watch each successive group of passengers inch across the bridge, an idea begins to form. I like it so well, I put it into effect without a second thought.

I aim to give Doc a piece of my mind and would like a captive audience.

When Durant’s Pullman is lined up, I don’t fall back, but instead clap hold of the railing and step on. The thing is a marvel of design. Never in my life have I been aboard so fine a train car. The interior is a lined in burnished wood, curving into archways and up onto the ceiling. A chandelier hangs every few feet along the clerestory. Plush velvet, button-tufted armchairs are positioned in a conversational fashion, and just at a door to the main sleeping quarters, a sideboard is built into alcoves to either side. Bookshelves rise above, curtains with tassel trim filter the light, and even the floor is carpeted in splendor. The whole place smells of mineral oil, pipe tobacco, and Irish coffee. It’s a fine way for a monster to get about, I reckon.

I have interrupted Durant with my sudden entrance. He is part way through accounting for all his miseries at the hands of the Mormons when I traipse in and his audience of dignitaries finds me momentarily more interesting. General Dodge is seated stiffly, one of his wrists propped on a small round table, while his other hand rests on his knee. He is so stern and upright, he looks to be made out of angry stone. Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed as usual. He acknowledges me with the smallest of chin digs, but his face is already set in a stoic mask.

“General, this is the man I told you about.”

Dodge gives me a once over, but I’ve no interest in entertaining luminaries. I pass them all by and find a bottle of spirits on the bar at Casement’s elbow. Before anyone can say a thing, I’ve poured a glass of rye and downed it. There’s a general kerfuffle of disbelief, which would scarce be audible to human ears, but to me sounds like a game of faro at a den of ill repute. Durant stammers out his plea for a pardon. I ignore him and pour another.

Nothing on this earth should ever distract a body from a good whisky, and any man who attempts to interfere in this engagement is most definitely a terrible person. That is a simple fact of existence.

Casement’s mouth is tugging at the corner. “Doc’s been regaling us with their audacities. Have anything to add?”

“What’s this?” Durant’s expression is one of confusion and concern as I glance over my shoulder at him.

“I sent a man back down the line, to make sure you all weren’t murdered in some kind of double-cross, Figured he’d get a good perspective on things for the company, if it came to it.”

Durant scowls with misplaced indignation. “Well, then, let’s hear it.”

I hold out my hand to Jack, plum-colored claws worn to ragged stumps by labor. He stares at my chafing fingers for only an instant before drawing a heavy coin from his pocket. He plants the ten dollar gold eagle in my palm.

There’s a delicate tinkling of crystal and a jolt as the engine bumps us. I curl my fingers around the coin. It’s heavy and perfect for the occasion, though I should have liked a hand full of silver.

“Yes, I think I’d like to hear what he has to say, myself,” Dodge remarks.

Jack cocks his head just as our car is liberated from the chugging locomotive and sent beyond the brink. “Afraid Conroy doesn’t talk.”

Here we are, trapped in limbo and relying on a prayer. God’s missionaries are highwaymen, the Devil builds bridges better than any pontifex, and progress is made by monsters. It’s as good a moment as any to move on to my next life.

I turn abruptly, and packing force just shy of breaking bone, I put that coin against Durant’s jaw with a Judas fist, sending him hurtling through the palace to crash into a table. Before anyone can react, the whole thing tips up, displacing beverages and a clock. Doc crumples onto the ground. Poor Duff jumps up as if to crawl the walls. Everything is chaos as Doc’s cronies try to stand against the dangerously swaying motion of the train car.

Only General Dodge and Jack Casement are composed. They exchange a knowing look.

The car clacks onto solid ground and is shoved up the track by workmen and able passengers. Shaking his head and holding his face, Durant finally manages to find his knees. Eyes glazed, he stares up at me in utter befuddlement and spits blood.

I pocket the coin and tip my hat to the Chief Engineer of the Union Pacific. The passengers circumspectly watch me finish my drink and make my way to the exit.

“Well, Jack,” Dodge says with a cough, “for a man who doesn’t talk, he says a great deal.”

Casement chuckles. “That’s the Lord’s honest truth, sir.”


A note from history


So that is the tale of how this lowly railroad monster punched the Vice President of the Union Pacific in the face, on the eve of the most auspicious day of his life, in front of a Civil War hero who met Abraham Lincoln.

Historians may quibble over the finer details of those few days and what intrigue was actually afoot, but having been there, I have my own ideas and they’re not much altered by the revelations of ensuing decades or by any research done since then. Thomas “Doc” Durant staged his own kidnapping, in collusion with Brigham Young, leader of the Mormon Church, in order to blackmail the Union Pacific into honoring a contract he knew it never wanted in the first place.

This stuns you, possibly. Or you’ve been paying attention, and this surprises you not in the least. Most probably, the few Mormon readers I have are now throwing their devices or books across the room.

But Simon, you say, how do you know Doc wasn’t just playing a part for his captors? Making them believe he was on their side? Perhaps you have heard of him or have seen him depicted as a brilliant business mogul who made possible, the impossible dream, albeit with some minor mischief.

Ah, so much varnish has gone over that man, you’d think we all worshiped the ground he walked on. Much the opposite.

After serving a stint as a surgeon, and managing his father’s wheat trading company, Durant apparently realized that transportation and infrastructure could use some improvement. Durant was an arrogant and greedy man, however, and his initial interest would evolve into a series of swindles, all serving to line his pockets.

When one of his early rail companies was sued by steam boat captains for building a bridge that caused a massive boat collision, he buggered off and formed a new company. The Union Pacific was officially contracted by the government with Lincoln’s Railroad Act of ’62. Despite this charter and an exceptional amount of money changing hands, nothing seemed to happen in the first few years, because Durant was a bit busy.

During the Civil War, Durant used his connections and corporate interests to smuggle goods—most notably slave cotton—out of the South, when there were prohibitions against such things. Granted, he had help, namely General Grenville Dodge, but he was the mastermind. War presents many opportunities for enterprising people and distracts all authority.

While the nation was in turmoil, Durant founded another company called Credít Mobilier of America, named for the famous French bank, renowned as a secure and well-managed institution, to fool potential investors into thinking this company was a branch of the bank. Credít Mobilier had the exact same board members as Union Pacific, and miraculously…won most of the construction contracts for the UP side of the railroad.

That was sarcasm.

Credít Mobilier would send Union Pacific an invoice for work and materials that was sometimes double the actual costs, and the UP with a shrug of innocence (again, owned by the same men), would forward that invoice to the government, including a slight increase for their own handling and expenses. The government paid what seemed like a legitimate bill, Union Pacific “paid” Credít Mobilier and then the board members presiding over both companies would pocket the excesses. In this way, these men—Durant foremost among them—collected some twenty million dollars in excesses. As a bonus, Credít Mobilier of America appeared to be a very profitable company, even though almost no railroad had actually been built. It attracted massive investments, again pocketed. Discounted company stock was also given as bribes to government officials as high-ranking as the President, Vice President, and Speaker of the House.

But all this misconduct wasn’t known by the public (including me) until it came out during the 1872 election. I only knew about the constant bickering over which route to use, which engineer’s word should be trusted, whether or not we would get paid, and nine times out of ten, any nonsense that ensued tied directly back to Durant’s meddling. Imagine how completely unsurprised I was, when I read about Credít Mobilier.

Dodge and Casement, however, were most certainly aware of Durant’s character, as was Oliver Ames, the then-president of Union Pacific. And likely, it was their concerns over his financial sleight-of-hand that led them to pay me. You see, half way through construction, certain, more honest board members had ousted Durant from his previous position and had agreed to instead allow him to help raise additional funding. His situation was a tenuous one, but did that stop Durant? No. Doc was so much of a pestilence, he stuck his thumb into every pie, just to be a nuisance and alienated everyone who had originally called him friend, including Dodge and Casement, who had both been hired by Doc in the first place.

As we approached Utah from the east and the Central Pacific approached from the west, the Mormon Moses contacted Union Pacific. Brigham Young already owned stock in the company, and had been one of the first investors and contributors to the rail, using his stockpile of personal wealth obtained by tithing his parishioners. He was keen, as the founder of Salt Lake City, to have the road pass through his capitol, securing its economic success and his own legacy. When the final route was set and skirted Salt Lake by miles, Young was livid. He insisted that the Union Pacific contract his labor force in order to complete the tracks, and proposed an outlandish sum that Ames and the board members turned down instantly. Durant took the deal behind their backs, in order to prevent Young from allying with Central Pacific. He did this in order to win the race, and thus secure land rights and government funding, knowing Union Pacific could not renege on the bargain in good faith. If they had tried, Young would have surely made their lives difficult by sabotaging supply lines or slowing down labor, while also working to speed the Central Pacific on to the finish line.

For a few months of cutting ties and grading—which were some of the lowest paying jobs on the line—Young proposed a quarter of a million dollars. Even laying track, that many men could only be expected to earn about forty-thousand at best. The UP again let it be known to Durant that they had no intention of paying that debt, but instead wanted to bargain it down. Consequently, the debt went unpaid until Young was at Durant’s throat, demanding he abide by the terms of his agreement. And so to alleviate his own personal financial responsibilities, Doc set up his own kidnapping to force the company to honor the arrangement.

You want further proof?

There was one conspicuous absence from the Golden Spike ceremony. Brigham Young, who, as said before, was a shareholder, campaigned to have Salt Lake City on the main line, championed the cause, and wrote communications to the entire Mormon population recommending their help to furnish supplies and labor…was not there. At the last minute, mere days before the kidnapping, Young decided he urgently needed to go on a tour of the Southern missions of Utah. Now this was no small undertaking. At this time, the settlers there were in almost constant conflict with the native Ute and summer was fast approaching. So rather than wait a few days to attend the celebration of his achievement, colored a divine enterprise by his own newspaper, Brigham Young decided to dash off in the heat to a war zone to say “hello”? I think it more probable that he wanted to be absent from the seat of power and incommunicado, should someone have wanted to reach out to him and request he keep his people in line. He would also have something of an alibi, should the Union Pacific suspect his involvement.

A cast of interesting folks and not a one of them ever suffered for it, really.

Durant, like most entrepreneurs in 1873 (including my then-employer William Sharon), lost millions in a severe stock market implosion. But of course, he had millions to lose in the first place, and so wasn’t destitute. He dropped dead while in the process of rebuilding his fortune, but at a fairly common age. Brother Brigham went on to die of peritonitis due to a ruptured appendix in 1877, and was mourned wholesomely by his fifty-five wives. There are statues to him and he’s routinely equated with saints, the reality notwithstanding. Union Pacific nearly failed countless times, but survived, and as I said, while the Credit Mobilier scandal implicated a dozen elected officials (including the brother of the President of Union Pacific, Congressman Oakes Ames) it didn’t leave any lasting stain. Garfield, heavily maligned in the investigation, later obtained the Presidency despite the difficulty.

My, how things…don’t ever change, eh?

Dodge and the Casement Brothers went on to build more railroads, including another transcontinental line in a southerly route, and refurbishing the tracks laid in the Confederate states, to make them compatible with the rest of the country.

And what of me?

Well, I took that eagle to Hell on Wheels. Bought a new vest and hat. Before you wonder, I’m in the photographs from that day, but I’m not sure if you’ll find me.

If you’ve been reading along with these Snacks, you know that I ended up in Virginia City, Nevada, but you might want to know how that happened. While we had been working alongside the Chinese crews of the Central Pacific, I struck up a friendship with a man named Hong. After the railroad companies disbanded our teams and sent us packing, we received a call for skilled railroad labor in Washoe, where William Sharon wanted to build the Virginia & Truckee railroad. It promised at least another year or two’s labor, so when the Chinese left Utah, I went along, never realizing that Jack had sent a recommendation along ahead of me, despite my spectacular departure from his employ.

When I got to Virginia, I waltzed into a supervisory job, looking after a Chinese work crew, and because of the several other tactfully silent errands I had run for the Union Pacific, Sharon decided to hire me on as his personal minion—paying almost five times what I made on the railroad plus the added benefits of being within hearing distance of the richest men in the world as they manipulated the stock markets.

And so you see, by punching Thomas Durant in the face and alerting the company to the facts, I had “made my bones” and set myself on the path that ultimately secured both my wealth and my current home. I’d like to say you ought not punch your boss in the face, but there are times…it pays off.

The same history that leaves this incident as a mere footnote, also records that throughout the next day’s festivities, Durant complained of a splitting headache. I say, good. He also had a swollen face, a black eye, and a severe cut to the inside of his cheek that kept him from enjoying his champagne, but I can settle for mention of a headache—some proof that he was given some karmic realignment, minor though it may have been. Casement hired me to put my fist to the teeth of the man who gave the orders.

Durant deserved it.

He also deserved the embarrassing articles that were published on the tenth, after I put my arm around a reporter from the Salt Lake City Deseret and whispered in his ear like the immortal nudnik that I am. The paper painted Durant as a tyrannical agent of the devil, intent on stealing from worthy men. It also turned his docility during the heist against him, mocking him for being unable to stop the encounter by any “masculine” means, but following through on his promises. It was a shame from which Durant’s reputation never fully recovered, and a comeuppance most thoroughly earned.

It certainly explains why he and Leland Stanford from the Central Pacific (whose own engine, ironically and somewhat humorously, had been nearly derailed during the trip in, forcing him to also use his backup, the Jupiter, for the famous photo) had such an argument over which of the two dishonest industrialists would get to put the Golden Spike into the laurel tie. When they both missed, being men unaccustomed to manual labor, it was Jack Casement who took the hammer and joined two coasts…exactly one-hundred-fifty years ago, upon the date of this publication.


Irish Bison Stew, a recipe

Irish stew is a traditional dish that originated long ago, but saw something of a revival and innovation after the introduction of the potato to Europe. Most of the Union Pacific labor force was composed of displaced or emigrated Irishmen, and so the stew was a common focal point of meals on our best days. The supply chain was long, however, and frequently cut off by weather or attack. In addition, while onions and potatoes could be stockpiled in sacks and transported long distances, beef was often difficult to come by. So there were times we had to be innovative, if we wanted a feast.

And so I give you a meal slung about once a month at least, during the spring and summer.



• Half a dozen medium onions

• Half a dozen good sized carrots

• A dozen small red potatoes

• About 3 pounds of bison meat (If you can’t find bison or aren’t keen to try it, you can use beef or lamb)

• A few bones (In this case you can either find some bones intended for stewing or baking, or you can buy two quarts of beef bone broth)

• A couple glasses of bourbon, scotch, or Irish whisky (You can also use red wine, but that isn’t how we did it)

• A pint of beer

• Herbs of your choice (typically, this was negligible in the camp, but sometimes the good cooks carried their own. If I were you, I’d use sage, thyme, rosemary, and bay. I’d also do some garlic, though we didn’t often have that at that time.)

• Salt and pepper

• A few spoonfuls of lard or oil

• Butter (you need this with Bison, as it is quite lean)


1. Chop the onions and carrots. Cut the potatoes into large cubes. The meat should also be cubed in smallish chunks, about an inch and a half cubed. Sprinkle them with salt and pepper and set them aside.

2. Heat the lard or oil in the pot. Toss the onion into it until they begin to change color and the smell permeates the air.

3. Add the herbs and give it a toss or two.

4. Add in the meat and stir for a few minutes until it is lightly seared.

5. Toss in all the vegetables, butter, and liquid. If you’re using the bones, add them, if using broth, add it. If doing both, you’re in for one rich stew, and good on you.

6. Stew for at least an hour, better if two. Simmer on lower heat or over an open fire, stirring occasionally. Remove the bones before serving, careful to scrap any remaining marrow into the pot.

Serve with crusty bread and a pint of beer.

Creature’s Cookbook series now out in print

Creature’s Cookbook series now out in print

As of today you can purchase all the Creature’s Cookbook series, which includes two novels (Let us be honest, the first book is the length of two novels) and a collection of short stories. They are available in every format.

It’s appropriate that these came today:


As I can now begin mailing out your prizes to you–those who won the Halloween challenges!

I hadn’t forgotten, but was merely waiting…

View On WordPress

Creature’s Cookbook 2 and Simon’s Snacks

Creature’s Cookbook 2 and Simon’s Snacks

My second book and the collection of short stories are now available for pre-order, with a release date of July 2.

You can pre-order a copy in any format you wish. I believe that the Snacks are being released individually in ebook formats, and then released together in print format in a single volume. The relevant links are as follows:

Screen Shot 2018-06-24 at 2.11.18 PMThe Creature’s Cookbook 2 Monster’s Mise En Place:


View On WordPress

Fascinatingly Banal

“You seem very preoccupied.”

I  glance at her. She is always needling me when I am silent, which is both beneficial to me and slightly uncomfortable. I like Victoria. More than I will ever say aloud, though I have no doubt she will read about it since she seems to make it a practice to monitor my web traffic. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I feel that my thoughts are clearer when we sit at cross purposes, looking at her plain walls and abstractions. I never fret over her mindset, or how I trouble it. I never imagine harm coming to her. Instead, I feel somehow as if I am absorbing her calm.

That was not a succubus joke.

I’ve gotten lighter on my feet where humor is concerned, and I sometimes feel people assume I am quite funny. In actuality, this is not so. Most humor on my part is “happenstance”.

Pardon me…

“I am.”

“With what?”

I have anticipated this question. It is the one thing I really can anticipate from her. She asks it nearly thrice a session. Probably my doing. If I was more given to vocal expression…well…I suppose therapy wouldn’t be necessary.

“I have been…” I shake my head. I haven’t a good word for it. “Malaise” is as close as I come, but this is habitual. This is the flux of generations. It happens to me several times a decade. “A slump,” I think most would call it. I call it dull and if I am honest, worrisome, because it takes more and more to pull me from it every time it happens — humans and newfound associations notwithstanding.

“Depressed? Like before?”

“Still.” I lean forward and can feel my face working at the difficulty of putting these feelings into words. “When I am beneath it…I am buried, and my head comes out for a breath, but I always sink.”

“Then I haven’t known you when you weren’t ‘under’, as you put it.”


“How long have you been under this time?”

I sigh. I know the answer, but it was so long ago in human years, I hesitate to even bring it up lest it shock her into outward spiraling theories and motivational exercises. But really, I should always expect the best from her.

“How many decades, Simon?”

“Now? Ah, me…many. Since the war.”

“Which war?”

I let out a snort. That this must be clarified gives precisely the proper statement. “The war.”

“Are you going to tell me what triggered it?”

“If I have to do that, then we need to have a discussion of history and the merits of the education system in this country.”

She purses her lips. This usually means she believes I am deflecting from answering the question because I feel it will concur emotional vulnerability. She’s half right. I am not answering because I feel annoyed that I must constantly answer this question, that the last of the Great Generation are dying, that I am the only one left who seems to remember how perfectly horrifying it was. I am full of rage at this fact, actually. I am full of absolute condign fury that there are men who have the gall to assert none of it happened.

They want to make oven jokes. My first thoughts are always, “Oh, my sweet juicy child…do not ‘go there’. I have oven jokes for days.”

But that is tasteless, and not in the gustatory way. Instead I ramble on ineffectually in chat rooms and kill the odd asshole. I also gone about other wars, less important wars in the scheme of modern “history”, mass deaths, thousands of men wiped out, whole generations so that this or that king could be in charge.

Would that I could erase the entire idea of “power” from the face of the earth.

Again, pardon me.

She shakes her head. “I can’t fight that war. It’s been won.”

“Has it though?”


I look away. She is going to ask me what the most immediate problem is. She’s right to do it. It is a sound method, as I never run shy on problems. I swear to you now, gentle reader, if I could silence my thoughts, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Consider this — eating man makes us clever. Not eating men causes stupidity. Eating more men makes us even more clever. What if…after all this time doing this to myself, I am actually manic? Perhaps eating so many people has acted like a kind of stimulant, like methamphetamines.

My mind moves ten directions at once, at full speed. This seldom has a better chance of manifesting itself than when I am in a chat session with some of you. Ten conversations at once, but all lines of thought processing at different speeds. I may be slow to answer a perfectly obvious question, but that is because my recollection has wandered down a road completely thick with brambles. You mention tater tots, and my brain, for whatever it is worth, meanders from tots to processing plants, from that to the potato famine, from there to the Irish, back to the canal and the “malaria” epidemic, and on to the coast of France, and then around again, by degrees, to the plague of London and the pasty I ate while watching a woman dispose of her children in a pile of corpses. As may be obvious, my answers become complicated, clipped, and often require people to ask me what I was getting at. 

It’s called “tangential reasoning” and I am guilty of it in spades. So when you ask me a question and I take a moment to reply…and it makes no sense, and you think to yourself “what the hell…” — this is why.

It’s not just tater tots. It is a mountain. An avalanche. It’s smothering and distracting. It’s impossible to focus and when I do, I focus on the most meaningless of things. Like this shirt. Why the hell did I wear this shirt? I hate this shirt. The fabric is far too thin and the cut is all wrong.

I miss the days before mass produced clothing. I constantly find myself wishing that the tailor who used to have his shop on First was still there, and more importantly, that he had a speed dial function. In those days, there were no clothes but what were made for you by someone with skill. A man had several shirts, one suit, perhaps two. A woman had two or three dresses. Clothes were an investment. 

Now I walk into a Michael Kors and think, my god what is this “handmade” apology of a clothing line? Someone please set those sweat shop workers free and let them use colors! Not everyone looks good in things the shape and shade of cardboard boxes and sailor’s uniforms. And heavens to Betsy, do we really need a label on everything? Who the devil are you, and what is this brass plea for attention? Is it your cheap bid for immortality, Michael?

Look, you see? Where was I?

“Why are we here? What are we talking about today?”

Not my shirt, I assume. “I can’t remember.”

“This keeps happening.”

“I am sorry, but you have a relaxing aspect, and I lose my train of thought. Or rather, I gain fifty of them.”

“We go nowhere.”

A wry smile is my only reply.

“Let’s try something new.” She stands up suddenly, stretching like a gymnast and bending in all directions. With her arms like windmills, she casts out the odd question. “What do you think of first, when Chef smiles at you?”

I tilt my head. What an odd question, indeed. “Blood.”

She doesn’t laugh as I expect her to. Her face tells me she can completely comprehend such a compulsion. “What’s the second thing you think?”

“I’m boring.”

Her movements come to a halt. “Clarify. You see him and think ‘I am boring,’ just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

“Seeing him makes you think about how you’re disappointing him?”

“Yes. No. I…Well, its something like that, I suppose.”

“That was every answer. Stand up,” she beckons. “Come on. Do it.”

I am frowning, but she has a magic to her. The number of times she’s coaxed from me things I had never dared voice is simply remarkable. I cannot deny her yet another chance to make a cowed fool out of me. I take too much pleasure in watching her be brilliant.

I stand. 

She smiles. “Do what I do.”

“Simon says, I don’t play this game.”

“You’re a mimic. So mimic.” She puts her hands above her head, high above, to touch the ceiling, or the light floating on the sterile air, or whatever divinity refuses to make itself known to her. “Come on. Do it.”

I oblige, and feel like an idiot. I am reminded of my first Holy Mass. It was long ago, before I’d even grasped the languages around me. I was hungry then and weary. I had gone to the church because of the pointy thing on top of it. It rang. People went there. They made noises and they bobbed up and down like birds pecking. So I learned to genuflect.

Ha! How’s that? I learned to kneel before I learned to speak. I learned to grovel before I knew to beg. It turns my stomach. It’s philosophically repugnant to me. If Socrates were here, or Descartes, of Voltaire, I’d probably get the back of a hand across my face if they could stop pleasuring themselves long enough to expend the effort. No, never mind, Voltaire would likely not care. 

There I go again.

“You’re boring.” She is looking up. I am looking at her. She ignores me. She carries on with her calisthenics. “But you’re not worried that disappoints him. Clearly he is smiling at you, so he isn’t disappointed.”

“Indeed. May I put down my—”

She waves her arms. all around, swirling and twirling. I shake my head. For my trouble, I receive a nudge of the chin. “What are you really thinking when he smiles at you?”

All this movement, this ridiculous bullshit. I certainly hope this isn’t something she picked up in that university of hers, or else that degree came far too expensively.

“This is annoying.”

“Because you’re not embracing the act.”

“If you’re not careful I will embrace your new chair and you’ll need another one.”

“Simon…you are difficult.”

“Yes! Yes I am. I am absurdly tedious! I am grateful you’ve noticed.”

“You’re not even participating.”

Finally, I have lost my patience. I drop my arms and turn away, teeth clamped down on wordless spitting.

“What do you really think when Chef smiles at you?”

“That I am deceiving him!” I snarl, and before I can topple the sculpture and upend the table, she has taken her seat as if she never moved.

“Go on.”

I commend her for her commitment to driving me out of my own solitude with a torch and pitchfork, but one day it will get her killed if she isn’t careful. I cannot tell her that. It will only please her to know how close she comes to the core of me.

I sit down, ruffled, on the edge, but because of this, duller in my defenses. Stress forces me to compensate, compensation takes calories, calories drive a wedge between me and my consciousness. words become difficult, but feelings more evident. I suppose, to the observant sculptor, I become malleable. 

“There isn’t anything interesting to me. Not one thing. I do perfectly mundane tasks. I eat, I sleep. I watch television. I scroll Tumblr.”

“Are any of these bad?”

I have often contemplated that. I am not sure of the answer. This experiment has broken many boundaries I once had. It has been absolutely trying on me since the books were published. There was a time when reproach from a human meant disaster. For most of my life, one tiny comment was enough to set me calculating just how long I could go without food before this person became the menu item, just how far I had to walk to get away from my own reputation. Then came the time of mayhem, when I stopped caring and men became their own monsters. I hated who I became then. I hated the things I did, but I still did them.This new era, of rampant commentary, it has a numbness to it that conflicts with everything I have learned, and when I receive the odd anonymous ask or sharp message…it doesn’t pain me. 

Pain isn’t the right word.

I don’t care what they think of me, truly I mean that. But in me is a natural instinct to flee or kill, and that is triggered with every hateful retort. When I receive the asks, I have to walk away, think about what century this is. Remember how silly this all seems to them, the perspective of the thing. I have to eat and consider the best way to proceed.

This month…it was that I am boring.

“You are boring…good luck with the experiment,” this person said to me, and while I readily agree that I am, this felt somehow wrong. Why wrong? What do I care if they find me normal, average, exactly what I have always argued that we monsters are? Why would that matter?

Because it echoes my own lies, my own deceptions to those I hold dear. It makes it obvious that I have managed to slip by undetected, into that sacred circle. Don’t look at me. If you do, you will see I have infiltrated and you will hate me for it. You will punish me for it. I will kill you for it.

I am boring, and yet you are smiling at me.

“Come back.”

I press my face into my hands and take a deep breath. Those two words are like a command, a mantra. Now, even when I am alone, and my mind is going in eternal circles, I can say it aloud, and suddenly I am standing there, and I am Simon, in this year, looking at a toaster and knowing that to push the lever down turns the bread brown.

“I am lying to him.”

For the first time, she seems concerned. She has large eyes, and by that, I mean they are disproportionately shaped. I have recently learned that the Sumerians prized that as an attribute. Apparently they mated specifically for that purpose, to have children with large eyes. As I have had it explained to me by my editor, this has the unintended consequence of increasing the size of the frontal lobe, as the visual cortex is the part of the brain most responsible for the personality…

Come back.

“What do you imagine he is going to do, when he finds out you’re lying?”

I am loathe to utter it, because the word itself, once a refuge for me, now summons all manner of chilling, unimaginable horrors.


“He’s smart.”

“His intellect is immaterial.”

“Is it though? He’s trustworthy too.”

“Again I say—”

“Simon, don’t you think it’s possible that you believe you are deceiving him because you don’t trust him or think him capable of seeing past your exterior? You are treating him as if he isn’t capable.”


My, but I am an arrogant bastard. Is that really it? Have I, all this time, medicated my own vulnerability by cultivating this unnaturally low opinion of the human I care for most in this world? Have I, through fear, pushed him away? More importantly, have I ever acted on that opinion? Have I made him feel it? Have I made him feel reviled? Have I ever once been cruel to him in a way to which I was oblivious because I was so wrapped in my own…


My eyes are closed. My body is beginning to ache in that ancient way. Like a skin made of bruises, it causes more recent wounds to itch and older ones to tug. “I’m sorry. I am almost at my limit, Vicky.”

“There’s something I’ve learned about you.”

“Oh? I daresay there’s a lot you’ve learned about me — not all of it spoken.”

She smiles knowingly. “All this stuff you’re doing, jumping into the deep end with humans…as unsettling as it is for you, I think you knew…maybe instantly, what it will give you. I mean how you benefit from it. You knew all at once. You have taken hold of it and you are strangling the meaning from it.”

“I tend to strangle things, it is true.”

She remains appropriately stoic. It is unfair that I am laughed at for deep revelations and given a stern reproof when I am flexing my sense of humor. But so be it. Monsters aren’t allowed to be amusing. Fair enough. You invented the languages, spoken humor is your domain, I suppose.

This vexes me, however. Some day I will invent something and exclude you from it just to “be a dick”.

“Everything you’ve ever told me about your past leads me to believe that this hobby of collecting, sorting, stockpiling is a new thing. You were nomadic before. You couldn’t collect because you couldn’t carry it. All of a sudden here you are, pulling things close and worrying yourself silly over them.”

“Silly is a strong term.”

“Tell me you didn’t just nearly eat me because you worried you had actually hurt him so that you wouldn’t have to feel vulnerable with him.”

“Point taken.”

She lays her head back against the chair and gazes upward. As per her usual custom, she has shed her shoes and sits balled up. I know our sessions are not relaxing for her, but she gives the impression of finding them thusly. But as I think this, I wonder if it is something she does intentionally, to demonstrate that she is at ease with me even when she is not, as a means of manipulating me into a sense of camaraderie.

“I’m sorry.”

Her gaze flicks to me. “Why?”

“I’m doing it again.”

“You can hear my heartbeat. I am absolutely calm.”


“So am I deceiving you, oh great deceiver?”

I cannot help but laugh. Here we are, two professional liars, using skill to break down defenses, using knowledge to have an effect. She is far too intelligent for her own good. Some day I am going to have to eat someone for her. Again.

“I want to hear more about this. Why do you believe you are deceiving him? Is it because he finds you interesting when you are actually boring?”


“Uh huh. He’s not allowed to find you interesting? He’s not allowed to be more boring than you?”

“He isn’t boring. Quite the opposite.”

“Oh, I don’t know. All he does is cook and drink and hang around you. I think that’s completely boring.”

“Do you?”

“No. I am making a point. That in the same way you don’t find him boring, he doesn’t find you boring.”

Her skill is magnificent. If my face wasn’t already set in a grim line it takes far too much energy to craft, I’d be smirking at her. “He may do as he pleases.”

“But he’s stupid if that’s what he does.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Stop making it so easy. You’re ordinary, completely mundane. So what, you eat people? Whatever! There are plenty of people who eat pistachios and no one thinks they’re odd.”

I cross my arms and roll my eyes.

“The monster thing is about as interesting as having one leg longer than the other.”

“Yes!” She is mocking me for a purpose, but what I cannot tell, unless this is to goad me into yet another spontaneous utterance. “I don’t change! I just sit here like a sloth. A large, blood sucking, man eating sloth who happens to have better hygiene. Did you know they cultivate a moss in their fur? Someone told me it was a fungus, but I looked it up again, and it is a moss. And now there is an entire population of them dunking themselves in latrines! No one knows why…Apologies.”

She is pinching her lips again in that unflattering smile, and her huge eyes are glittering from between drawn lids. “Simon.”


“I know you appreciate a good humbling.”

“Like I do a good flossing.”

“Well, I’m not going to give you one.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Why do you maintain this belief you are unchanging?”

Incredulity, on my face has a rather stupefying look to it. As if all of a sudden someone has crushed my skull with an anvil. Most people actually find it rather unsettling, because as I have made abundantly clear, I am not human, and my features revert when I am not paying attention to them. The mouth falls open, the soft tissue around the eyes…the feelers reach out for…Let’s stop before I go off again on a tangent. 

So it is that often when mankind is at it’s most remarkably idiotic, with heights of nonsense that shame Nature, I am made far more obvious. Ironic isn’t it? That as a monster, I am more obvious when I am perplexed at how fucking stupid you are as a species…is mockery. It has to be a defense mechanism. Natural Selection made sure that when you were at your least intelligent, you absolutely could not fail to notice us. Probably why the old myths are so preposterous.

I trust you’ve seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Let me put you in mind of that “She’s a witch” skit in the middle of it. If that happened, the witch would be instantly forgotten, because there I would be, at the time quite ignorant of physics or facetiousness, shaking my head in slack jawed offense to common sense.

And the witch would be safe to hex another day.

I know this because I lived through the time that was referencing, and frankly, if I’d been less worried about dying myself, I would probably have had many a conversation that began with, “Can we dispense with this ‘if she drowns, she goes to God in innocence rubbish, since killing an innocent creature would make you all murderers in the eyes of God?’.

Ah…yes. I’ve done it again. 

Anyway…I look at her with this face. She ignores it. The silence fattens itself on our unspoken thoughts and makes jolly love to our mutual understandings until the air is peopled with little dancing retorts.

“Could it be because you look at yourself every day?”

“If I didn’t someone would notice.”

She says my name in a warning. “Tell me about coal. How amazing is coal?”

I blink at her, but then I’m off, thinking about coal fires and how much easier they were to maintain. Wood cost a bloody fortune by the time the area around London had lost all its ancient forest. Coal fires would blacken the insides of the train tunnels, so that an engineer would end up covered in dust, till only his eyes peeped out. I remember how tedious it was to get off the wallpaper. Two or three deaths per annum. Ah, and then gas! What a lovely discovery that was. Lanterns were such wonderful things. Far superior to candles. My god, the wax! Everywhere! And not the lovely beeswax you envision, or the perfect white tapers of today. The whole town smelled like a livestock farm had been pushed into a live volcano, and the stuff caused all manner of fires to burn beyond control. But then the lightbulb, preceded by my nemesis, electricity. But even that had it’s finer moments.

I remember the exact day and time that my home began electrification. It wasn’t a glorious light up as you perhaps imagine, gentle reader. 1886. Alternating current wasn’t dominant. Tiny fits and starts of power serviced by neighborhood companies, but my was it amazing! As each patch came to life, I could hear it. It sizzled in my mind. Suddenly, I could see with my eyes shut, hear the world in a current that hummed in strange thrumming pulses…

“How long did it take, to go from wood to electricity?” she asks casually.

Sometimes it amazes me how astute she is. Then I remember that I have aided her task marvelously by writing this bloody journal and feel I am remiss to afford her an accolade. Less genius, more observation. But then again, to collate all that into an accurate picture of me is invaluable. I require her assistance to see myself from the outside.

“Two hundred years or thereabouts.”

“All that change…in only two hundred years.”

At a loss for words, I am transfixed by the corner of her mouth. She is smiling at my expense. Let her. She has earned it.

“Perhaps you only think you’re boring because you see yourself in the mirror every day. To you the changes are long, drawn out, incremental, thousand fold if there’s one. But to everyone looking at you, you are an amazement of sheer willingness to change.”

Is that the secret? Is it deception, or do humans actually find me interesting? Many of the gentle readers who contact me say they like my stories — some of them that this is the chief reason they speak to me. They appreciate hearing the history. They like the “realness” I bring. Perhaps they also enjoy that the creature talking about the time he saw a man flung through the air into the side of a fortress, is doing so from a smart phone that is so stupid it thinks that I can’t spell “Caliphate.”

No, Siri…go hang yourself, I am not going to talk about you.

“You don’t hold back,” she continues, sensing I am about to drift and summoning me with ease. “Humans don’t like to change. We don’t like to feel insecure. We can’t thrive when truly alone as you have, being so different from us and your own species. You do all these things without even thinking about it…and to you, it’s boring, because to you it’s just how things are done. Moment by moment, year by year, decade by decade. You just learn. And not only that, you turn around and tell others about it. Suddenly there is a real person talking. You don’t find that amazing, because you are that person, and this life, as long as it is, is perfectly ordinary to you.”

I am tracing the long line of my existence with a mental straight edge — point a, to b, to z to the nth power. But it isn’t a line. That is a myth I craft for myself by standing so far away I cannot see all the wriggles to it, the bloodshed at each pitch and rise. I lie to myself. I go day by day. I struggle with forever, on a daily basis, but should it ever be looked at daily, if it takes so long to come about?

Increments mean nothing to Time. It is as indifferent to them as I am to blood spatter. All those tiny droplets painting a final moment, tracking a person’s life back to the time of their parents’ parents, their mother’s womanly ancestor, backward, as far as you care to go, forward to that end, as large as you care to look, and as tiny as a pinprick.

None of that means anything.

Time is a billion endings, unfolding endlessly.

Why do I measure myself in days when I am moving on a far different scale? Why am I chaining myself to you and your records?

He smiles at me because I am new though I am old, and that is something he cannot imagine. And here I am, hating that he smiles at me, because I am old and tired and fighting a stupid touch screen.

It’s preposterous.

“Humans refine what they have. They seldom turn their life upside down because they get bored. They seldom decide to change anything. I know. Ten times a day I coach people into embracing change, not fearing change, welcoming change, seeing change for what it actually is. Humans are not built to progress. They’re built to survive.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I murmur.

“Surviving? Adapting, you mean?”

“Yes. I was surviving by blending in.”

Sometimes when she looks at me, I have the strangest impression that to her, I am childlike in many ways. I don’t mind it, because she never condescends. I approve of it the way I approve of the Spawn when they share their profound wisdom with me.

“You weren’t adapting. You were being exceptional. It’s the humans who were being disappointing.”

“I’m not exceptional.”

“No. You’re quite possibly the most boring patient I have ever had. Except that you’re so fucking good at it, it boggles me.”

It shakes me as it escapes, this low laugh that often bothers average men. It does nothing to her.

“Look at the baby boomers. how many of them can use a computer, let alone a smart phone? Not many. They’re not boring. They’re intractably rigid. That’s not the same thing. No matter the century, you somehow manage to be flexible enough to stay boring.”

“Quite the achievement.”

“Almost lovable.” She licks her lips, and that is the end of our time. “You know…if a person is into that sort of thing.”

I bow my head and let out a long sound of appeasement. Chef calls it the “purr”, but truthfully it is more like a growl of mingled understanding and acceptance of things I cannot ever undo. It is a begrudging compliment to her talents. “Next session, Young Lady, I’d like to tangle with the unrelenting burden mankind has placed on my shoulders to always be fascinatingly banal—”

“Get out of my office.”

“I haven’t damaged anything yet.”

“I’ll get over it.”


Shall We Celebrate? The Tapas Art Competition


October is by far and away, my favorite month, because I am a monster. Though I spend most days carefully painted and dressed to blend in, during this season, I am free to be myself. October is the month I celebrate my monster-hood, and so…I would like to propose a competition!

To all you gifted artists, you avid amateurs, you comic contributors, I offer you a challenge: look through the scattered pages of The Creature’s Cookbook or Simon’s Snacks (available only on the Tapas app), and summon up your muses! It will be your task to illustrate my life. You may make use of any medium you wish, and submit as often as you like. Your art will be judged by your peers through “likes”, by the staff at Tapas, and most importantly, by me. The winners – for I dearly hope there will be many – will have their art included in the book or short story from which they drew their inspiration. Your art will be available for all to see, an integral part of my work forevermore. You will be, my gentle readers, published artists.

Think of it as a pairing, of sorts.

This contest can be free to enter. What I mean by “can be” is that many of the chapters are open, but these will, of course, have the most entries. You may open more chapters or stories for the cost of pennies per piece (the total cost of the books do not exceed the amount of purchasing the book at a bookstore). You may also submit a portrait, and I will choose the one I like best to use as a bio-pic for my Tapas author’s profile.

Please submit your illustrations by uploading to the Tapas forum post pertaining to this competition. Vote on the submissions of other artists, and please, as always, be polite!

1. The Work Must Be Original:
You must be the creator of the art that you submit to the competition. Your art must be your own original concept and not a copy of anyone else’s copyrighted material. (If your image infringes upon another’s copyright it will be disqualified.) Upon submitting your work, to this competition, you are solely responsible for any infringement on copyrighted materials.

2. Copyright:
The artist retains all copyrights to their artwork without exception.

3. Multiple Submission:
There are no restrictions to the number of contests in which the artist participates, nor the number of pieces they may submit, nor the number of prizes they can win.

4. Submission Deadlines:
Artworks may be submitted until midnight Pacific Time on 10/31/2016. No artworks will be accepted past the posted deadline.

Note: It is best if the images submitted are no smaller than 800px X 800px

I cannot wait to see what you produce, my lovely friends!

Lemon Meringue Pie, a recipek

This pie recipe has gone through several iterations, refining it for maximal citrus flavor. It is not to be taken lightly, as it employs many more difficult aspects of cooking science. I highly recommend attempting it, only if you are well-versed in baking, or pies in general. And by this, I do not mean eating pies. You may eat as many chocolate cream tarts as you like, it does not make you proficient at baking.


  • pie pan
  • saucepan
  • several glass bowls of varying sizes
  • standing or hand held mixer/ whisk and considerable endurance
  • microplane or cheese grater
  • plastic wrap
  • fork or pastry cutter
  • metal wisk
  • silicone spatula (for scraping)


For the crust:

  • 1 1/3 c flour
  • 1/4 c. butter flavored vegetable shortening (You may use lard if you can find it, but for most, it can be quite difficult. However, this is the ideal element.)
  • 1/4 c. unsalted butter
  • 1/2 tsp. salt
  • 3 Tbsp of ice cold water

For the filling:

  • 6 very large eggs
  • 1 c corn starch
  • 1 c. water
  • 1 1/3 c. sugar
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • 3 Tbsp butter
  • 1 c. lemon juice (I highly recommend Mayer lemons)
  • 1-2 Tbsp zest (You may use the zest from the lemons, or add in some more interesting zest from another citrus relative, if you wish. Buddha’s Hand has a lovely floral note.)
  • cream of tartar and extra sugar (for the egg whites)


  1. I know this seems strange, but separate your eggs, placing the whites into a large bowl in the refrigerator.
  2. Preheat the oven to 425°
  3. Mix flour and salt for the crust in a bowl, forming a small well in the center.
  4. Cut the shortening and butter into small cubes, keeping them as cold as possible.
  5. Place these into the well, and then incorporate flour with fork or pastry cutter until mixture resembles the texture of peas. Do not use your hands as the heat from them will melt the shortening, causing the pastry to be “heavy”, not light and flaky.
  6. Once mixture is the right texture, add the ice water and combine with a fork. It may appear as if it needs more water, it does not. Quickly gather the dough into a ball and flatten into a 4-inch-wide disk. Wrap this in plastic, and refrigerate at least 30 minutes.
  7. Remove dough disk from refrigerator. If stiff and very cold, let stand until dough is cool but malleable.
  8. Using a floured rolling pin, roll the disk on a lightly floured surface from the center out in each direction, forming a 12-inch circle. Please recall that if it falls to pieces, this means that the pastry will be flaky. If you wish it to hold together more, simply work it more, however, this increases its chewiness.
  9. To transfer the dough, carefully roll it around the rolling pin, lift and unroll dough, centering it in an ungreased pie plate. (Or you can fold dough in quarters, then place dough point in center of the pie pan and unfold, whatever is easiest for you.)
  10. Prick the dough all around with a fork. Bake for about 15 to 18 minutes, or until light golden brown. Cool before filling.
  11. Gather your filling ingredients and begin by whisking the yolks in a small bowl. Set these aside.
  12. In the saucepan, combine your water, sugar, 2/3 c. corn starch, and salt. Heat this on medium until comes to a boil. Boil for 1 minute or until it thickens into a translucent sludge.
  13. Ladle by ladle, add ½ of filling mixture to the bowl of egg yolks, whisking it furiously as you do so.
  14. Once incorporated, add this egg mixture back into the pot of remaining filling mixture. This is called tempering, and prevents the eggs from cooking, and turning into egg chunks
  15. Add the lemon juice, zest, butter
  16. Heat this on low heat for another 3 minutes more. If this mixture is too runny (not the texture of a thick pudding) then you may need to play with chemistry a bit more. I advise taking a tablespoon or two of corn starch and making a rue in a cup, with as little water as possible. Add this to the pie filling mixture, stirring constantly, and heat until it begins to thicken. Immediately remove from heat and stir until it is cool.
  17. Add this to your cooled pie shell and set aside
  18. In your icy bowl, or in the bowl of your standing mixer, beat the egg whites, adding spoons of sugar and pinches of cream of tartar as you go, until they form stiff peaks. What does this mean? Try turning the bowl upside down. If it falls out, it is not a stiff peak. However, you cannot magically make this happen. If you have been at this for several minutes, and the peaks simply refuse to rise, add a bit more sugar, and if this doesn’t work, resign yourself to a flat but tasty meringue.
  19. Shovel this atop your pie, being careful not to smash it down. Picture a fluffy cloud. Use the back side of the spoon to create the little points by allowing the meringue to stick and pulling upward.
  20. Place this in the oven at 375 for about 12 minutes, or until the meringue has become a toasty brown at all its highest points.
  21. Cool before serving

This pie is tart, and very lemony. I suggest plating with a sprig of mint, and pairing it with gin. It is excellent as a breakfast dish, minus the gin, of course.


In this image, you can see that I have made the pies smaller. It is identically the same recipe, doubled, and rather than bake the pie shells in a pie pan, I have merely made them in a greased cupcake tin, paying careful attention to their condition, as they baked.

Potato, Leek, and “Ham” Soup

This is a favorite for dark and stormy nights, but I find that it can also be served cold or lukewarm, especially if run through a blender. As is always true of my recipes, the protein must be substituted. I have used thinly sliced muscle deep to the spine that I braised in wine, but I will give instructions for pork. This makes a large pot, so do expect to feed a group.


  • Large soup pot
  • Frying pan
  • Good chef’s knife


  • 3 good sized leeks
  • 4 good sized potatoes, that will fit in an open hand with spread fingers
  • green onions
  • garlic
  • fresh parsley
  • chives
  • 2 medium yellow onions
  • butter
  • milk
  • heavy cream
  • white wine (You may drink some as you cook, as you will only need about 2 cups worth)
  • Vegetable stock (You may use a stock concentrate, cubed or jellied, or you may use a liquid stock. The only important thing is to gain about 8 cups of yield, or about 2000 ml)
  • bacon
  • 1 pork loin steak (A pork chop will also do, but trim off all the fat and gristle)
  • green beans and peas (Optional)
  • Kosher salt and freshly cracked pepper
  • Crème fraîche (or sour cream)


  1. Chop the leeks by simply slicing across them and separating the rings. Chop the yellow and green onion. Mince the garlic.
  2. Cube the potatoes (and prepare your beans and peas) but set them aside
  3. Put a few tablespoons of butter in the bottom of your soup pot. When melted add in the three types of onion and the garlic. Sweat these in the pot for several minutes. You can estimate the doneness by the yellow onion and how translucent it becomes.
  4. Pour in the stock and wine and let come to the boil
  5. Add in the potatoes (beans and peas)
  6. While the soup simmers happily, put a little butter in your pan and fry your bacon, then remove to let cool. Add the pork steak to the pan and cook until medium rare (don’t worry, it will continue to cook in the soup). Set this aside to rest.
  7. While the meat is resting, deglaze the pan with a little bit of wine, working it around the pan to free up all the tasty pork bits. Let it boil off all the alcohol (You can check this by sniffing the fumes). Then pour this into the soup. (This will also aid you in cleaning your pan, and should really be done any time you cook meat. It not only loosens all fat deposits, it also gives you a delicious base for gravy.)
  8. After the pork has rested, slice it thinly and then chop. Chop the bacon too. Add the meat and all its juices to the soup pot.
  9. When the potatoes have finished cooking, add in a couple cups of milk and some cream (To taste). Keep the heat low, or the proteins will muck up and give you a skin on top. A little salt and pepper should do. It should now begin to taste like soup, but do continue to cook for as long as you like, stirring regularly. The longer it cooks, the more it will reduce, and the softer the veggies will get.
  10. While it is cooking, mince up your parsley and chives.

To serve, put in a bowl, spoon in some crème fraîche , and garnish with chives and parsley. (My chives suffered in the sun this year, and I ran out, and so you will see from my photo, that I have instead substituted green onion). Add a freshly baked loaf of bread and a tangy white wine, and you cannot go wrong.



Here it is, or rather, here I am, in all my “glory”. In the late seventies I took one single polaroid photo, and kept it in my box. To avoid the meta data and photo recognition software (as well as other problems associated with displaying my image on the internet), I sent the photograph to an artist somewhere in Europe. He took some liberties, in an effort to make it more “artistic”, but I think the finished product is rather good. I do worry that it has not captured the eyes quite right, but then again, artists seldom do manage the distant stare of a malign intellect.

And before you scoff at me, I am malignant. If you knew how many times a day I peel the skin off of passers-by with my thoughts, you would never wish to come face-to-face with me, I assure you. Unless, of course, you fancy looking like an anatomical model of yourself.


If you find me unsettling…good. It is as it should be. If not…see how easily you are fooled? The image will remain up for some time. I may at some point lock it. If I do, I will put the password somewhere or other, and you may hunt around for it. I apologize, but this may become necessary.


“I hate it.”

I stare at him. How can he hate it? It is my face. I can understand not liking my face, certainly, but he has never said that he does not like my face, in fact quite the opposite.

“Don’t put it up.”


“I don’t want you to.”

“Again, I say why?”

He stomps away and before I can turn from this latest recording of my reflection, he is up the stairs and on the roof, forming an alliance.

“Did he show you that shit?”

Rebecca is caught mid-mouthful and mumbles incoherently. I join them, still caught in a tangle of confuse emotions. I have never found myself completely human, that is true, but my face is as balanced as any other: two eyes, nose, mouth – all slightly odd, but all in place. It meant a great deal to me to take that photo out into the light of day, to digitize and disseminate it to an artist so far away there would never be a risk of discovery. But here he is, hands on hips, glaring down at Rebecca as if he is my father, she my mother, and I have been caught smoking cannabis behind the Seven Eleven.

She dabs the corners of her mouth. “Um…You mean the picture?”

“Yeah, duh! I mean the fucking picture.”

Her gaze swivels to mine as if to imply one of her usually onomatopoetic rejoinders, like “Whhhhaaaaaaa?”

“It’s his book, his face, his life.”

The muscles in his neck tug as he scowls. “You’re okay with this?”

Jimmy, silent at the barbecue, flipping his hamburgers with purposefully stooped shoulders, finally glances backward. “Yo! Wanna relax?”

“No! No I do not want to relax!” He looks around him at every face, young or old, until finally, he realizes that no one feels nearly so strong as he does. In that instant, his ire is redirected to me. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Language!” Porter grumbles. The children look up from their table in the open greenhouse. Katherine’s face peeps above the window sill. He turns abruptly and latches onto me with an iron grip. I am dragged bodily from the roof, and down the stairs, following behind him in a shocked silence.

You know me, friends — if I may be permitted to call you that — and you know how much I dislike being given ultimatums. Quite possibly, you also understand that while I am willing to make enormous allowances for the sake of those in my care, I respond to anger in kind.

However, Chef is different. When he is upset with me, something happens to my organs, that results in a complete and utter shutdown of my nerves, tongue, or capacity for greater reason. I wither, in an entirely embarrassing fashion.

I apologize. This is again one of those times when I am acutely aware of the divide I traverse by discussing events out of chronological order. You see, since the publication process began, I have had to develop a system with my editor. I send all my diary entries to her on an almost daily basis. She reads them and tells me whether or not they are “plot”. I have no idea what “plot” she is referencing. Usually I do not have the slightest concept of what any one volume of my life will be “about”, until she has curated the entries. She scrubs detail, alters names, transforms the events so that they do not match any newspaper articles or news programs, and then arranges the entire thing so that it at least has some adherence to the standard publishing models of the industry. For this, I pay her a substantial salary and my literary agent sings her praises, but there are unfortunate side effects, such that when I receive Kristina’s emails (some half dozen a day), I am often told what I can and cannot discuss with my readers directly, as those details may arise in further sequels.

Why am I telling you this? So that you understand that the relationship I now have with Chef is a very different one than is detailed in my first novel, and do not think that in some way, I have misled you about my character. Believe me, I do not enjoy having multiple personality disorder, or frankly disorder of any kind, but this is the only way I am allowed to keep my dear website intact, concurrent with the published works.

When Chef pulls me to the car and steals the keys, I am surprised by the violence of his feelings. While he drives, I sit quietly, staring at myself in the wing mirror, wondering what I have done to earn his distemper. He does not ferry us very far; we end up at the river docks, parked facing the bridges.

“You can’t put it up.”


He closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands. “You know what they told you. They said no pictures. No evidence of any kind.”

They are not in control of my life. Nor does one commissioned portrait constitute a declaration of war. It is a drawn image, based upon a photograph. It is not documentation.”

“Simon, please…”

I cross my arms stubbornly. He makes a series of sounds and throws himself out of the car, pacing up and down its flank like a puma. I slowly unfold and emerge, barricading myself behind my door, arms draped over the roof.

“Explain to me what is really at issue here! You have never once seemed to care about them. Why all of a sudden?”

The metallic gaze slices up the bridge of my nose, and runs me through. “Really? With all the times I’ve had to stuff food down your throat and stitch you up with cooking twine to make sure the skin closes properly? Really?”

“You exaggerate.”

“I am not exaggerating and you damn well know it!”


“I won’t allow it! I’m telling you not to.”

The air thickens around us as the full weight of what he has said settles. Never in all our acquaintance, not even since discovering all the many facets and implications of our partnership, has he ever seen fit to leverage my actions with that old magic. It is a betrayal, of all that we are, and as I look him in the face I see that he knows it. He knows I will not forgive him, and is willing to pay that price, if only to rescue me from a fate he believes I am ignoring.

“Is this a command?” My voice is a hiss, and comes out more sharply than I intend, but I cannot hide the disgust that I feel at the very notion of being anyone’s slave.

“Please, Simon. Do not post that picture.”

“And if I do?”

“I can’t watch you get hurt again.”

“Nothing will happen to me.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

I close my eyes, and think that if something did happen, it would merely be one in a long line of new things, new adventures that have made the last five years bearable.

“I just do. Far be it from me to once again cite my age and experience—”

He snorts. “Yeah, but here we go.”

“I am older and more knowledgeable than you. They will not bother me, and if they do, I will handle it. Stop manufacturing ancient clandestine cults out of a few stragglers who communicate by smoke signals.”

“Now you’re exaggerating.”

I slip around the car. Somewhere nearby a fishing boat trades its grateful use of the first month since the fisheries reopened, for the more lucrative task of tugging civilians out onto the water for the festivities. As I wrap my arms around his neck, the brine and anxiety mingle. He tastes of Hemingway burgers. Gunpowder wafts on the breeze as the fireworks displays are arranged.

“Nothing will happen to me,” I soothe. “Please stop worrying.”

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

He tugs on my hair and smashes his face to mine. “You can put it up, but please take it down if they ask you to.”

“I will,” I say, but in all honestly, I am disgusted at the thought of being at anyone’s behest. They know this. They know I will not bow out so easily, and they are right to fear my reply should they argue.

“Let’s stay here. This is a good place.”

The lot has begun to fill with other onlookers carrying lawn chairs and children. The sun has dipped below the water and the sky has darkened. Soon there will be sounds that put the canon fire of my youth to shame.

Strange that humans should celebrate their unions by blowing something to pieces.


“Writing is collaborative. You’re not just perfectly rendering a world. You’re making a pact with the reader, and it’s a new agreement, every time the book is read, even with the same person. Also…If you’re still worried about your personal safety, IMHO it’s better that you don’t do it, since the readers’ image of you is always fuzzy and changes all the time.”

I stare at the words for a long while. I wonder if I can agree.

I often wonder this. Every time I confront an opinion on the internet with which I strenuously disagree — modern political discourse comes to mind — I stare at it and project forward several decades. I contemplate the world, still carrying on, after the offending individual is little more than a pile of dust. And I like Kali-ma am treading the bones on the battlefield and smiling that somewhere among all the putrid rubble of humanity, my editor is being crushed underfoot.

Chef glances at my stern face and lowers his ordering paperwork. “What’s she nit-picking now?”

“My face.”

“How can she do that from two states away? She’s never even seen you! You haven’t started putting up photos have you?”

I would never do something so rash. He knows my fears about facial recognition software, databases, and meta-data. He knows I value his privacy as much as my own, and while he will sometimes steal my phone and annoy the readers who converse with me, he prefers to keep his distance. This is my experiment or personal search, and while he respects it, he is only a tertiary part of it.

“I have considered commissioning a portrait.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

I stare at him narrowly as I swivel my chair. “People continue to ask for pictures of me.”

“Fuck them.”

While succinct, his criticisms are not quite perspicacious. “Kristina’s argument is a trifle less derisive of my fans. But I disagree with it similarly.”

His mouth falls open and he regards me blankly. “You’re still pissed about all those big words she made you change, aren’t you? Whiny Emo kid.”

Stretching as I rise, I surreptitiously roll my eyes upward. “You only say that because you have no idea what those big words mean.”

“Like trying to suck face with a god damn thesaurus,” he mumbles. “Mouth full of paper cuts.”

“Self-inflicted, you overgrown infant.”

I wander into the bathroom and stare into the mirror. I glance over my features, those odd things I cannot seem to capture when I attempt a self-portrait. I stare into my dark eyes and let the white light sculpt my cheeks and chin.

“Would it augment their experience, or detract from it, I wonder?”

He appears behind me, arms crossed. I know the look on his face; he worries any time I change the rules. He treats it as if he will be one of the things excised by the press of time as I squeak through.

“You don’t owe them anything. They paid for the book, that’s all. Next thing I know, you’re going to be making an appointment on some national television show to have your guts exposed.”

He is adorable in his distress, his eyes shimmering and his face like alabaster, but he needn’t be so concerned. I have no intention of being the first to step forward. It would be betrayal to my cousins, who choose to live in anonymity. It would make their masquerade impossible, our disagreements notwithstanding.

“Even if I did, it would be considered a massive hoax, or did you not hear of the Alien Autopsy debauchal?”

“Yeah, but with inconclusive non-human DNA and an X-ray of your weird ass organs?”

“David Blaine can fly, and before him, Dan Brown could read minds, and oh, yes, there was Houdini and his water tank. I doubt anyone would even take my call.”

I open the plastic case for my eyebrows and lashes. They are handcrafted of mink and cost as much as a new laptop. Their application would be daunting if I had not done it a thousand times. The glue becomes tacky as he stares at me with those uncannily penetrative eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“For a drive.” But that is a half-truth. He follows me down to the car. As I extricate myself from the eager mutt, and slip into my seat, he scrutinizes me. After I have driven away, I receive a text. In my car’s female voice, it sounds strange.

“I love it when you lie to me.”

I shake my head. I know what the next message will be. Chef enjoys being lascivious whenever the opportunity presents itself. You might be tempted to think this is because he cannot accept me and is overtly compensating for my dearth of emotion, but I know that this is not true. I think perhaps, foremost on this earth, he is a person who truly understands me.

“When you come back I’ll be waiting for my apology.”

I park in front of the bank and fish the tiny key from among its many fellows. The manager jumps as I knock on his door jamb. Whether or not he realizes it, I have been a customer of this bank since its founding. I have funneled my assets from place to place for centuries, turning them over like one tills a field, rotating stock and bonds, planting wealth in fertile soil. I am here often, and the entire staff knows me by name.

“Mr. Alkenmayer! Do we have an appointment?”

“No, forgive me. Today I’d like to visit.”

He sees the key in my hand and raises his own in salute.

I almost never come to my safety deposit box. Most of my belongings are more secure in a safe in my own home. Only a few get shoved away, put in the hands of mortals. Only a few things would ever mean anything if they were found to be in my possession, but if hunters ever do come to my door, they will miss me. I will be here, collecting these few things, readying myself to move along.

I follow behind him, my mind tracking his peculiar lumbering gait. I knew his grandfather. The man was stocky, built like a lion, but with the most graceful sea legs. He could run across a heaving deck in the slick of a storm and pull a full net better than a pack mule. That his lineage have become skip-stepping bankers is an interesting development.

“Your diet is doing you good.”

“Thirty pounds!” He looks back at me. “I’ve started jogging!”

He removes my box from its sconce and gives it to me with a curious and eager smile.

“Please tell me you’re about to pull out another ancient promissory and make my week.”

He can count the number of times this has happened upon one hand, and finds my constant, dragon-like obsession with my wealth to be amusing. That is because he has no idea I have witnessed the rise of banks and still find them terribly bizarre and untrustworthy. I haunt them lest the numbers dwindle, a kind of fiduciary phantasm.

“I’m afraid not.”

With a shrug, he vanishes, but I know he will be hovering right outside.

I open the lid. The book is on top, tightly wrapped in gauze. The leather binding is nearly a century old, and the paper is yellowed with age. I crack the spine and leaf through the pages, falling through time.

My fascination with technology is as old as the subject. From the tinder box to the electric coil, from the fire iron to the washing machine, from the telegraph to the internet — I have tinkered with them all. Photography has not escaped my notice.

I stare down at the turn of the century hat, the unused side arm, the beaded ballgown I wore to a local charity event in the mid thirties. Me after me, in many forms, all assiduously collected and curated, for no one other than myself.

In the Old Age, certainty was easy. I could control exactly how and when I was seen. Now it is almost impossible, and I have given up the fight, or rather, taken it to a different front. Now I cheat time with makeup and prosthetics, human assumptions and easy gender transformations, such that even should I walk right into the manager’s grandfather, the salty dog would never know me.

The photograph I seek is on the last page. I remove it carefully and tuck it away.