Slice of Life

by Mike Resnick

He called himself Ellery Curtis, but that was not his real name.

The first time he saw the golden fog, he was shaving, staring at his pale blue eyes in the bathroom mirror. The fog took shape about fifteen feet behind him, somewhere in the adjoining bedroom.

He jumped, startled, and put a deep gash in his chin. Unmindful of the pain, he threw his razor into the sink and turned to face the bedroom.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

There was no response. He walked carefully into the bedroom and began searching, looking behind the old leather recliner that had seen better days, inside his small narrow closet, under the beat-up four-poster that had come with the apartment.

He opened a dresser drawer, pulled out a .38 automatic, uncapped the safety, and made a careful tour of the apartment’s four small rooms. He found nothing.

Shrugging, he returned to the bathroom and applied a styptic pencil to his chin. He washed, dressed, and walked to the kitchen to prepare breakfast … and had the unearthly feeling of being watched.

He raced across the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. He thought he saw a trace of gold out of the corner of his eye, somewhere in the vicinity of the window, but when he turned to look at it, it was gone.

He checked the window latches. Bolted.

He checked the door. Locked.

And, because yellow fogs aren’t exactly the norm for housebreakers, he checked the fireplace flue. Closed.

He was sweating now, and his chin began stinging, but he forced himself to finish his breakfast. He debated tucking the pistol in his belt but decided that bullets weren’t all that useful against an overactive and undercontrolled imagination and left it at home.

He spent the next three hours teaching judo and karate to flabby housewives whose fears were probably as groundless as their talents and, at noon, he took a quick shower and prepared to go out for lunch — and saw it again, more clearly this time.

It hung a few inches above the floor of the locker room, oblivious to air currents, and yet not without its own internal movement, as if this enormous mass of translucence were trying to become something.

Curtis remained motionless for an instant, then threw a water glass at the fog. It vanished, and the glass smashed into a thousand fragments against the tiled wall. Curtis walked over to where it had been, hoping to find some trace of it. The room seemed exactly as it had before, with nothing but the broken pieces of glass to give testimony that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

He stood motionless, waiting, but the fog did not return. Finally he shrugged and walked back to his locker, muttering a brief “Damn!’ as his bare foot came down on a sharp fragment of glass. He sat down on a bench, pulled the glass out of his foot, got a bandage from the first-aid kit, and dressed.

He walked slowly through the building, past the tumbling mats and the plush desk in the reception room, but saw nothing unusual. Finally he walked out on the sidewalk. The teeming mass of humanity scurrying by him made him feel a sense of relief and security. He was back in the real world, where the only fogs were those that came off the ocean at night.

He walked the three blocks to his usual restaurant, picking up a newspaper and greeting an occasional acquaintance along the way. He was about twenty feet from the doorway when he saw it again, a little less shapeless than before.

It filled the entrance, glowing a dull gold, shimmering slightly, still seeking a form that seemed beyond its grasp. Curtis, shaking violently, looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it. A small, fiftyish woman who had been walking beside him continued on into the restaurant, walking right through the pulsating fog. Curtis shook his head and rubbed his eyes; when he looked up, it was gone.

Suddenly food was the last thing he wanted. Instead, his hands still trembling, he pulled a small address booklet out of his pocket.

“Ellery,” said the lean, gray-haired woman, looking at him over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. “I must say I hadn’t expected to see you at this late date.”

“Ditto,” said Curtis. “But I seem to have another problem.”

“Another?” said Doctor Edith Stillpass, chewing absently on the end of a pencil. “Or is it simply a different manifestation of the same one?”

He shook his head vigorously. “It’s nothing like before: no headaches, no nightmares, nothing like that at all.”

“Have a seat and tell me what it is like,” said Edith, checking her appointment book and deciding that she could spare Curtis fifteen or twenty minutes without falling too far behind her schedule.

“It’s kind of hard to describe,” he said, ignoring the chair and pacing nervously up and down the office instead. “It’s like … well, like a golden mist.”

“You’re having dreams about a golden mist?”

“No!” he yelled, and the sound of his voice seemed to startle him. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to shout. But it’s not a dream. I see it when I’m shaving, when I’m showering. I even saw it when I went out to lunch.”

“A gold-colored mist?”

He nodded.

“What does it do7” asked Edith.

“Nothing,” said Curtis.

“Nothing?”

“Yet,” he said with a shudder.

“What do you think it will do?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Has anyone else seen it?”

“No.”

“And you’ve had no nightmares since our last conversation?”

“None,” said Curtis. “I’ve been fine. Until this morning, anyway.”

“By the way, Ellery,” said Edith, “what happened to your chin? That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there.”

“It startled me while I was shaving.”

“I see. But it didn’t touch you or speak to you?”

“No. Does it make any sense to you at all?”

“Well, Ellery,” she began, “if you want my honest opinion, I think you were hallucinating.”

“No! I saw it!”

“Let me continue. We both know that you had a dreadful experience fifteen years ago, an experience that drove you completely off the deep end for a number of months and required almost four years of treatment.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with this,” said Curtis.

“Ellery, you were forced to watch a brutal, senseless slaughter of innocent women and children. It made no difference that you weren’t involved in the Quang Chai Massacre, that you tried to prevent your officers from precipitating this horrible bloodbath. Your mind couldn’t face the reality of what it had seen, and you became semi-catatonic And even after that phase had passed, you had headaches and nightmares for years. Your subconscious kept repeating the scene, often with exceptionally gruesome and fictitious embellishments. Hallucinations are funny things, Ellery; we consider them relatively normal when they come to us in the guise of dreams, and totally abnormal when they come to us during our waking hours. But there’s not all that much difference between them, truly there’s not. This mist of yours leaves no trace, is seen by no one else, comes and goes when you least expect it. That certainly sounds like an hallucination to me.”

“But it seemed so real!” stammered Curtis.

“That’s the nature of hallucinations,” smiled Edith. “If they seemed unreal, who would believe in them?” She pulled out a note pad and began scribbling on it with her pencil. “I’m going to prescribe a rather strong tranquilizer for you, Ellery. Take it just before going to sleep, and drop by again on…” She checked a calendar on her desk. “How about two in the afternoon, a week from today?”

He nodded, mumbled his thanks, took the prescription, and left.

And went home.

And took a tranquilizer and washed it down with a vodka stinger.

And tried to sleep.

The room danced with moonbeams, stray strands of light peeping in over the neighboring buildings.

Curtis awoke with a start, took a deep breath, then lay back slowly on his pillow. It had been a nightmare, his first in years. In it he saw yellow and olive bodies cut in half by a knife of bullets, heard the shrieks of the children, smelled the sicksweet odor of quarts and gallons of bright red blood, tasted the acrid smoke of gunpowder.

He knew that he must still be dreaming, for the cloud of gunpowder now hovered above him, spreading through the air like some supernatural creature of the night.

But gunpowder was smoke and gray, and this thing was golden.

He tried to scream and found that he couldn’t. His limbs felt numb, whether from fear or the medication, and he lay helpless on his back as the golden mist approached him, still striving without success to form itself into something.

Its nearness chilled him to the bone. It slithered over him, substanceless yet horribly cold. Finally his body responded to his mind and he leaped from the bed. He turned to confront the mist, and was half surprised to find that it was still there. He aimed a swift kick at its middle, and felt his foot go right through it. As he regained his balance he somehow sensed a feeling of mirth emanating from the mist.

He prepared to attack again, and the golden mist began retreating toward the window. He dove at it and it vanished, leaving his hand feeling numb with cold.

He turned on all the lights in the apartment and began walking from room to room, though he knew he wouldn’t find it. As he returned to his bedroom, he sensed that something was different, and commenced a methodical search, trying to pinpoint what had changed.

He was on the verge of giving up when his eyes fell upon the locked window. It was covered with a fine mist, as if his air conditioner had been left on for too long, and written, as if by a finger, on the mist, in a fine delicate hand, was a number:

998

“I’ll be honest with you, Ellery,” said Edith Stillpass. “I haven’t the slightest idea what it means. You’re sure you saw it there?” “Absolutely.”

“You don’t mind if I try to analyze it as if it were a dream, do you7” “I mind like all hell, but I suppose you’re going to do it anyway.” “I am,” smiled Edith. “Why 998? Does the number have any special significance to you?” “None.”

“How many people died at Quang Chai?”

“Eighty,” said Curtis. Edith frowned. “How many days did you serve in Viet Nam?” “Less than nine months,” said Curtis. “Under 200 days, if that’s what’s on your mind.” “998,” repeated Edith. “It’s a curious number.”

“There’s something else,” said Curtis.

“What?”

“The nightmares are back.”

“The same as before?”

He nodded. “Maybe a little worse, even.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Edith, “But now you must realize that this golden fog of yours is just another manifestation of the problem.” “But I keep seeing it. Two, three, sometimes four times a day.” “And it still doesn’t do anything to you?”

“It’s terribly cold,” he said. “Cold, and malignant.” “That’s a supposition, a reaction,” said Edith.

“It’s there, I tell you!” snapped Curtis. “And it’s trying to become something.” “What?”

“I don’t know, But something. Something evil.”

“And the tranquilizers haven’t helped?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t touched them since the first night.” “But why not?”

“They got me too groggy. I was in no condition to defend myself.” “From a fog?”

“From whatever it’s going to become.”

Edith glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m sorry, Ellery, but I have another appointment in just a minute. Please take those tranquilizers, and we’ll speak again the day after tomorrow.” “I’ll be back to talk, but I’m not taking those pills.” She shrugged. “As you will. But you’re looking very run-down. I wish you could get a good night’s sleep.” “So do I,” he said grimly.

But he didn’t, as he had known he would not. The mist came again, cold and ominous.

He was lying in his bed, pretending to sleep, when he became aware of another presence in the room. He pulled his .38 out from beneath his pillow and fired three quick rounds into the golden mist.

There was no apparent change.

“Damn you!” he yelled, and hurled the gun onto the bed.

The mist moved slowly away from him, hovering just in front of the window, somehow more substantial this time than on any previous occasion. Curtis glared at it for a moment, then aimed a karate blow at its center.

His hand went right through it, and through the window as well. He screamed in pain as a jagged piece of glass caught in the flesh of his forearm and withdrew his hand very carefully.

The mist was gone, as he had known it would be, and, dripping blood, he walked to the bathroom in search of gauze or cotton. What he found was a fine mist over the medicine cabinet mirror, and written on it, in the same delicate hand he had seen before, was another number:

997

The next morning he cancelled all his classes for the week. He didn’t know exactly what to do, but he was in no condition to teach plump matrons the art of self-defense. He wandered slowly around the city, waiting for the mist to show up again. But it didn’t, and he returned home at twilight. Mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted, he grabbed the banister of the stairs leading to his apartment, and winced as a long lean sliver of wood perforated his hand. Cursing under his breath, he entered the apartment and went to the medicine chest again, and found a new number on a fresh mist:

996

“Is someone trying to drive me crazy, counting down the days I have left?”

“Even assuming that none of this is hallucination, which I do not truthfully assume for a minute,” said Edith, “this person must be a very poor mathematician. After all, you went a week from 998 to 997, and only a few hours to 996.” She paused, then looked up. “Ellery, I’d like to try a little experiment with you, if I may.”

“What kind of experiment?” he said suspiciously.

“I’d like to hypnotize you.”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“But it might provide us with a short-cut at getting to the meaning of these numbers.”

“I’d make a lousy subject,” said Curtis.

“I doubt it,” said Edith with a smile. “Hypnosis isn’t Barnum and Bailey hocus-pocus any more, Ellery. I can give you a shot of sodium pentothal and — “

“No!”

“But why not?”

“It’s out of the question, take my word for it,” said Curtis, breaking out in a sweat. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then get rid of this demon. Don’t dredge up more.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Look, I’m very upset right now. I’d commit myself if I thought it would do the slightest bit of good, would make that damned fog go away. But it won’t. That thing is real, and you don’t seem to be helping me. I don’t know why I keep coming here, except that there aren’t any ghost hunters in the phone book. Now, just to humor me, can we assume that I’m really not crazy and that this thing is really following me around?”

“All right,” sighed Edith, preparing for a long and fruitless afternoon.

It was there when he got home. He considered attacking it, gave it up as useless, and leaned against his doorway, resigned.

He was aware of a low, indistinct murmuring sound, not at all like the noise of the traffic below him, nor like a radio or television carelessly left on. The fog remained motionless, and he closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate on the murmuring. The sound, like the fog itself, seemed to be trying to take form, to become something tangible. He squeezed his eyes tighter, tried to clear his mind of everything but the murmuring.

And then he heard it, a single word:

“Griffey.”

He jumped as if he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket.

“Griffey.”

“Who are you?” he whispered. “What do you want?”

“Griffey.”

“Go away!” he screamed. “My name is Curtis!”

The word, which had hung on the air, vanished and was replaced by a soundless mirth. Then the fog was gone and he was alone again.

“Ellery Curtis has been dead for almost fifteen years.”

“But Ellery…” said Edith.

“Let me finish,” he said grimly. “Ellery Curtis was a corporal who had the bad sense to walk into a village before he knew whether it was one of ours or one of theirs. They blew his head off before he knew what hit him.”

“But then, who are you?”

“I’m coming to that. About a month later we arrived at the town of Quang Chai, a grubby little place miles from anywhere. The first night we were there, two of our men had their throats slit. We were out of supplies, too sick with fever and jungle rot to march again for days. The village had to be made safe.”

“I know,” said Edith. “And your commanding officer killed every twentieth man, woman, and child in retaliation while you stood by helplessly. It was terrible, I know, but…”

“They never found him, you know,” he said. “He couldn’t be brought to trial. Missing in action.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that this mist is his shade coming back to haunt you for disobeying his order to kill those poor people!” said Edith.

“Hardly,” he said. “I wish it was that simple. Would you like to know my real name, Doctor Stillpass?”

“Of course.”

He took a deep breath. “James Griffey. Lieutenant James Griffey.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“That’s right: the Butcher of Quang Chai. Does that help explain the nightmares? I’ve been running from that godforsaken little nothing in the middle of nowhere for ten years. I got rid of the dreams and the headaches, I stopped turning my face away whenever I’d pass a soldier in uniform, I even got to where I could look in the mirror without flinching. And now it’s back, and it’s not a dream or an hallucination or a guilt complex. It’s something else, something real and terrible and malevolent, and it knows who I am and where I live.”

Edith was still staring at him unbelievingly. “James Griffey,” she repeated tonelessly.

“It was a military decision!” he said. “I had no choice!”

“It was a military decision,” he said. “I had no choice!” And with that he walked out of her office.

“Griffey.”

It was waiting for him on the stairs, and led him up to his apartment.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Griffey.”

“Yes, I’m Griffey, damn you! Now what?”

The golden mist became turbulent, seemed to stiffen and harden, and then underwent a strange and terrible metamorphosis. Slowly, ever so slowly, it formed itself into a hideous golden face, with baleful yellow eyes, brighter than the sun, glaring out.

“I am Tung Kei Dhu,” said the face.

“You were at Quang Chai?”

“Yes.”

“My job was to protect my men,” said Griffey. “I made the right decision, and I’d do it again given the same circumstances.”

“Would you indeed?”

He nodded defiantly. “If you’re here for vengeance, just remember which side began the killing at Quang Chai. I ordered military executions in response to having my men murdered in their sleep.”

“I know why you did what you did,” said Tung Kei Dhu.

“Then what makes you so moral?” demanded Griffey, trying to hide his desperation. “Who are you to say that killing in retaliation is wrong?”

“I never said it was wrong. I, too, am an executioner. I bear you no malice for Quang Chai.”

“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Griffey. “Why are you tormenting me?”

“Listen, James Griffey, and hear me. I am an executioner. My father was an executioner. My grandfather, who lived in China, was an executioner. This was my profession and my life and my art. I was not native to Quang Chai. Do you understand?”

“So you’re an executioner,” said Griffey. “So what?”

“My last commission was to travel to Quang Chai and execute Tien Nhu Po, who had raped and slain my principal’s wife and daughter. I bear you no malice for killing me, for such are the fortunes of war.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because among the others you killed was Tien Nhu Po.”

“So much the better for you, I should think,” said Griffey.

“Not so. I did not fulfill my commission, and no member of the Family Tung has failed to honor a commission for more than three centuries. I do not blame you for killing Tien Nhu Po, but since he is dead by your hand and not mine, I cannot find eternal peace or rest until I have slain you who slew him.”

“Now that I know who and what you are,” said Griffey, measuring his words carefully, “I don’t consider it very likely that you’re going to scare me to death. Just what is it that you have in mind?”

“I told you, James Griffey: I am an executioner, not a slaughterer. You must die as Tien Nbu Po was to die.”

“And how was that?”

“By the Death of a Thousand Cuts.”

“What is that?”

“The ancient Chinese method of execution. The subject is tied by his wrists to two trees, and the executioner, with consummate art and skill, slashes him one thousand times with his sword. He may peel the skin from the body, he may remove the eyes and ears and limbs, but death cannot come before the thousandth cut.”

Griffey tried to suppress a nervous giggle of relief. “But you have no substance, no solidity. It looks like you’re out of luck, Tung Kei Dhu.”

“My task has been made more difficult,” admitted the huge golden face that shimmered before Griffey, “but that will only make its accomplishment the more satisfying. The cut on your chin, the glass in your foot, the sliver, the broken window — these were the first four cuts. There are nine hundred ninety-six yet to come.”

“They’ll be a long time coming,” said Griffey. “I know who and what you are now, and I’ll be prepared. I’ll sleep with a mask over my eyes, I’ll wear earplugs most of the time, I won’t be fooled into trying to harm you again. You are going to be one very frustrated spirit, Tung Kei Dhu.”

“We shall see,” said the face, and vanished.

Nothing unusual happened the next day, or the day after that, and Griffey reopened his martial arts studio. Then, two days after he spoke with the ghost of Tung Kei Dhu, he was walking home just after night fell and decided to cut through an alley to save a little time.

He was no more than fifteen steps into it when he felt a sharp stabbing sensation in his side. He tried to yell, found that his mouth was full of blood, and, gurgling, he fell to the moist pavement. Through a haze of pain he saw three young men kneeling over him, one with a bloody switchblade in his hand. The one with the knife began rifling through Griffey’s pockets until he came to his wallet.

“How much?” asked another.

“Shit!” snapped the knife-wielder. “Hardly worth the effort. Nine dollars.”

“Try his pockets,” said the third man.

“Three quarters and two dimes,” announced the first man after a moment.

“A lousy nine ninety-five!” snapped the second.

“Nine ninety-five,” repeated the first disgustedly, giving Griffey’s head a kick as the three straightened up and raced off into the darkness.

It was only another minute or two before a passerby saw him and called an ambulance. Soon he was on his way to the hospital, but as he was wheeled into the emergency room his mind, hazed over with agony, was far from contemplating his chances of survival.

Nine ninety-five.

He awoke as a nurse was injecting something into his forearm.

“What happened?” he said.

“You were mugged and knifed, Mr. Curtis,” she replied. “It was a terrible experience, but you’ve responded very well to treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“The blade must have been filthy,” said the nurse. “You had a massive infection. We had to do a little surgery.”

“My hand hurts,” said Griffey.

“Yes. Well, we had a little accident in the operating theater.”

“What kind of accident?” he demanded.

“Evidently you weren’t anesthetized deeply enough,” said the nurse. “Just as surgery was about to begin you swung a wild blow with your right hand. You didn’t hurt anyone, but you did manage to make contact with a scalpel and picked up a rather nasty gash. Took eight stitches to close it up. We strapped you down for the rest of the operation, though you were unconscious again a few seconds later.”

“When can I go home7”

“I’m not sure,” smiled the nurse. “That’s quite a large incision over your wound. On the other hand, you seem to have an iron constitution. Well,” she said, “now that you’re awake and rational, I’ll hunt up the doctor and have him take a look at you. Would you like your door open or closed, Mr. Curtis?”

“Open, if you please,’ said Griffey.

She walked out, leaving the door open behind her, and Griffey’s eyes went wide with horror as he spotted the room number:

994

He spent two weeks in the hospital, and another week recuperating at home. Tung Kei Dhu appeared twice while he was shaving, but he managed to control his reaction and the golden ghost vanished seconds later.

He saw no trace of the fog or the face or anything else associated with Tung Kei Dhu for another month, and had just about convinced himself that the executioner was merely his mind’s very strange rationalization for a series of accidents that had befallen him.

There were no more cuts or abrasions, no broken glass, no sleep interrupted by ghostly appearances, no sense of being continually watched. He didn’t even worry about his Curtis identity; as horrified as she might be by his past, Edith Stilipass wouldn’t break the principle of confidentiality between doctor and patient.

Feeling reasonably good, and totally sane, he decided to treat himself to a good dinner. He was tired of retreating to his apartment night after night and dining on frozen food, and so he walked to one of the better local establishments and ordered a large cut of prime rib of beef. After an appropriate interval the waiter returned with the beef, a baked potato, onion rings, and a steak knife – And slipped.

The knife flew four feet through the air, neatly severing his left index finger at the first joint.

He let out a howl of pain, and the restaurant quickly became a scene of pandemonium, everyone running everywhere, tripping over themselves in an effort to help him, or find help for him, or merely gape at him.

Finally a Fire Department ambulance arrived and rushed him off to the hospital. As he got out and walked to the emergency room, the solicitous fireman who had ridden in the back with him laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“They’ve put fingers back on many times,” he said gently. “It’s probably getting to be old hat to these guys. But if there’s anything I can do to help, or you need me to testify in court, just ask for Mikos Papadoupolas.”

“I didn’t quite catch that name,” said Griffey through clenched teeth.

“Nobody can remember it,” laughed the fireman. “Just ask for Badge Number 993.”

Griffey screamed and fainted.

The next seven months saw a barber inadvertently cut off part of his right earlobe (992), a defective beer can slash his hand open to the bone (991), and a vending machine mirror shatter and rip open his arm while he was waiting for a subway train (990). He also had further surgery on his finger (989) and his knife wound (988).

And there came a day when he knew he could stand it no longer.

His mind made up, he walked out into the middle of an intersection against the light at rush hour, and smiled happily as a huge semi bore down upon him.

And at the last instant a golden mist, no longer transparent, appeared inside the truck’s cab. The huge vehicle skidded past him, missing him by less than five feet.

The face of Tung Kei Dhu was waiting for him when he returned home.

“That was a very foolish thing to do, James Griffey,” it said. “You belong to me. No one else may have you.”

“Kill me now or leave me alone!” raged Griffey hysterically. “I can’t take any more of this!”

“Oh, but you can,” corrected the voice calmly. “You can take nine hundred eighty-seven more cuts.”

“No!” he screamed. “Please! Please leave me alone!”

“And if I were to do so, who or what might come after you next, filled with a hate I do not feel? You killed eighty human beings, Butcher of Quang Chai.”

“I’ll take my chances!”

“They are not yours to take, James Griffey,” said the golden face. “I am here because I must be here, as are you. Choice is not one of our luxuries.”

Griffey gazed wild-eyed at the face for a moment, then raced to the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a large butcher knife.

“At least I’ll rob you of your revenge!” he yelled, slitting his own throat.

The last words he heard before everything went black were the gentle, emotionless murmurings coming from the now-dissipating golden face: “I do not act from motives of vengeance, nor will I be robbed.”

Griffey found himself in a gray mist. There was no up or down, no near or far, no points of the compass. There were no seconds or minutes or hours, no hot or cold. There was nothing but Griffey — and one other.

“Welcome, James Griffey.”

He turned and found himself confronting a tall, slender, naked Oriental who held an awesome-looking sword in his hand.

“You’re Tung Kei Dhu?”

“Your servant,” said the man, with a slight bow.

“Where are we?” asked Griffey.

“Elsewhere. Between.”

“Between what?”

“Between the last life and the next, James Griffey.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We each have a duty to fulfill, a function to perform, before we pass on to the next plane,” said Tung Kei Dhu. “Mine is to apply the Death of a Thousand Cuts to you. Yours is to perish from the thousandth cut.”

“But that’s crazy!” said Griffey. “I’m already dead. How can you kill me?”

“I don’t know,” said Tung Kei Dhu, raising the sword high above his head. “But I must try.”

The blade came down, slitting Griffey open from Adam’s apple to crotch.

The pain was unendurable, yet somehow he endured. He was gutted like a fish, yet he still lived, and slowly, agonizingly, he managed to gather intestines and innards and organs back, to wedge them inside the gaping cavity that used to be his chest and belly. He screamed repeatedly and rasped out his hatred of the swordsman between screams.

“You will heal,” said Tung Kei Dhu unemotionally.

Griffey managed to whisper a curse.

“You will heal,” continued Tung Kei Dhu calmly, “because you are already dead, as you have pointed out. And yet I must find a way to kill you once more, or I shall never join my ancestors on that higher plane of peace. Yet should I kill you too soon, the disgrace will be no less than should I not kill you at all. We must come down to the Last Cut before I hit upon the solution.”

Griffey groaned and tried to vomit, but his internal organs were still too twisted for him to complete the act.

“Farewell, James Griffey,” said Tung Kei Dhu, sheathing his sword. “You will heal because you must, and then I shall return.”

Griffey watched through glazed eyes as the Oriental walked off into the gray nothingness, becoming as one with the dimensionless mist.

And he knew with an agony that even exceeded the pain of his hideous wounds, that Tung Kei Dhu would indeed be back.

Nine hundred eighty-five more times.

-end-

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