You ever think about voice? What does that all-important concept in writing mean? You have enough here and to judge for yourself what voice is. It changes as I need it to change. It tells the story the way it needs to be told. Voice is the art within the words. I know what it is, and how to use it. I’ll post this chapter to one of my many finished novels to showcase voice. Yes I need to edit one last time, so if there is a typo I don’t care. Have fun. See you next month.

　

After causing the desolation of many sentient worlds, He of the oldest race was brought before the reigning council for judgment. Found guilty, this sentence was passed.

　

He was to be imprisoned in utter isolation, surrounded by stone, and again by the life-force of those whom passed this judgment. To keep the followers of this most evil of all ancient beings from ever setting Him free, His prison was cloaked in a most obvious fashion, guarded by the ordinary. Two of the remaining council were then chosen to watch this prison for all eternity. — An excerpt from the Book of No Names

　

One

　

I, am a fool. The Fool, and my Emperor requests a gratifying tale from me, but which compelling narrative in my vast repertoire shall His Fatassness receive? A questing yet witless knight, braving outlandish elements of fable and fantasy with a personal code of honor sufficient to turn any stout stomach? Or, perhaps, an adventurous yet resourceful thief in his never-ending pursuit of liquid wealth, tight wet fellowship and heady spirits? Alas, with both I must provide a companion, and I’m not feeling generous.

　

The Empress, in turn, invites a poignant tale within whose dark heart exists a riddle. May I pluck the knotted hair off her pointed pale chin and from under her bulbous reddened nose for such an unsatisfactory suggestion.

　

The Lovers stop their perpetual grope to propose forbidden love as a topic. They should stick to the task in hand and let me tell the story I wish.

　

The Executioner puts in his personal recommendation, but tonight is not a night for bloody revenge. The Hierophant wants redemption with ascension. The Hanged Man, dangling such as he does, says nothing.

　

Then it comes to me, inspirational lightening, pinning me down with a wondrous tale that must surely gratify all. A fantastical epic from long ago, when there existed such things as Space and Time.

　

"Get on with it, Fool," commands the Emperor in-between mouthfuls of roasted meats and tiny sweet-cakes, quaffing at will wine made by old, ineffectual, impotent and incontinent gods. "You’re milking it."

　

"Of course, Majesty," I say, thinking about a large chunk of that moldered meat lodged deep in his throat, stealing what he calls his pitiful excuse-of-a-life out of him.

　

I must confess I am milking it for all it’s worth. I’m a bit of a ham. What fool is not? To draw the audience inside the story is my vocation. To keep them enthralled by the narrative is my gift. I endeavor to give generously.

　

"A proper piece of pretentious nonsense must have an appropriate beginning," I say, "and this chronicle is without exception. The question here is not where to begin, because I know where to begin. The question here is who to begin with?"

　

And I think Xavier Collen will do nicely.

　

There, that’s him, the spry old fart pacing the floor around his desk. Top floor of the Collen building, London proper. A titbit of prime tattle from the Queen herself, no less, set his shallow money-obsessed thoughts spiraling down the loo, and that was just the beginning.

　

Mr. Collen didn’t sleep well at all that warm, surprisingly comfortable night, tossing this way and turning that way. Dozing only until a night fright would wake him, monitoring his bedside digital display between time.

　

His Wednesday was shot to hell-in-a-handcart before it began. He couldn’t find his expensive wingtips, his mattress-pressed slacks wouldn’t wear right, and tie his god-awful much-too-costly power tie? The spouse thankfully took over and saw to it he was shooed out of the house properly coifed and garbed, looking so much the better than he actually felt.

　

A morning’s repast was completely out of the question. More to his mood was a tall bottle of bright-pink Peptic Bismuth, followed by several large shots of Ireland’s best single-malt whiskey. Boar’s Head. Neat. Why dilute the esophageal burn with something as practical and soothing as melting ice.

　

On his way to the office he made two exceedingly important calls from the company limo. Both calls to his efficient yet under-salaried secretary, a lovely woman with short raven-black hair and sizable tits, setting a domino theory of predictable—he hoped—events into motion.

　

At the office he uncorked a bottle of his personal best, reserved for him alone, and reviewed several thick files. Clients, no matter how wealthy, were only allowed to imbibe the cheaper hooch. An unspoken, unbroken rule.

　

He placed various directives composed of yellowed parchment into their proper order, ran a tired hand through his thinning white hair, and jabbed the intercom button with a jittery finger, sporting an impeccably manicured nail.

　

"Send me Jonathan Stately."

　

"Certainly, Mr. Collen," came the canned reply from his boob-luscious aide.

　

And speaking to himself, he said, "Trusting this assignment to a simpleton, the most important commission to exist within this firm’s doors . . . ‘Use someone disposable, Collen dear, with experience in the States. (The Queen Mother had said this before she passed on to whatever death held for her, and Xavier’s impromptu impression of her statement was marginal at best.) After all, time, when due, will be of importance.’ Indeed. What did she take me for? A second year law clerk? An associate? Better to be a research assistant. As if I couldn’t manage my own position within these walls. I made this firm what it is, and I’ll tend to its proper performance!"

　

Yesterday, you see, the Queen informed him that Lady Simona Watersomes had passed on in a, "ahem," questionable manner. The Queen said much, mostly about Lady Watersomes long list of antagonists, though nothing could be corroborated, and instructed him to implement the proclamation’s protocols post-haste.

　

He switched his thoughts toward the late Lady Simona Watersomes and said, "How that disgusting troll-of-a-woman could live for so bloody long is beyond me."

　

What it was that had him thoroughly rattled was a different, if not immensely distressing conversation he’d had with the late Lady Watersomes herself, which took place years ago in the late Queen Mother’s apartments, concerning said documentation on his desk. It all began with the Lady’s harangue about the Queen. "She should tend more to her wayward children and their bloody whelps, than to me and mine!"

　

The Queen Mother had surprisingly agreed with Lady Watersomes’ assertion, but to Xavier Collen, most of what Lady Watersomes had then spouted went in one ear and out the other, as per usual. If it wasn’t immediate business, it wasn’t important, and to Hades with it. Though, now, each and every word seemed world-shattering important, and forced a fifth double into his hand.

　

"That one, Xavier, not the other," Lady Watersomes said that fine morning, leaning over and tapping her fat pink sausage-like finger on the grainy, glossy color print resting between them on the breakfast table.

　

"Him?" he replied, studying the man.

　

"Quite. He’s the one. Do you find him impressive?"

　

"Not exactly the word I’d choose."

　

"You’re spying greatness, dear boy. He, is my heir."

　

Of course the years-before choice of the Queen Mother’s term "disposable," when viewed within the context of the present topic was ominous. He wasn’t quite sure what she had meant by it then, or what he made of it now, so he mentally reviewed his many underlings until the perfect selection came into that vast peat bog he called a mind.

　

No single human being employed within the firm was more "disposable" than one Jonathan Niles Stately. He drained his drink and poured a sixth.

"Dash it all!" he shouted to the highest heavens. "Why were we foolish enough to get involved with that viperous old witch Watersomes in the first place?" Scanning the room like she might have heard his rage even in death.

　

The answer to his foolish question was, of course, greed. Greed ruled all in Xavier Collen’s tiny corner of the world. It was his life? breath? love? passion?

　

All of the above.

　

A nightmare. The poor man felt as if he had been thrust into a nightmare without the likelihood of ever waking. It was if the old witch had him by the nuggets, and was leading him around his desk on tiptoe.

　

What if she could rise from the grave? He wouldn’t put it past her. Which has lead us to our next important yet minor personality.

　

　

　

Jonathan Niles Stately wasn’t wholly convinced he should turn the clear glass doorknob, but did so anyway, entering Xavier Collen’s plush yet tastefully decorated office, sure he was about to be dismissed for some unknown gaffe, whether the mistake was his or otherwise, and closed the door behind him.

　

The Callas account was secure for the moment with more than satisfactory results, and that had been the only item to occupy his desk for almost a month. The little things the firm threw at him day-to-day were too monotonous to cause any real trouble. Still, he made the time to review and understand them. One must be thorough.

　

Employed twenty years, yet this was the first time he had been summoned to this particular office on the top floor. It took four days for his ears to stop burning after his first (and he had hoped his last) visit to the top floor. He had let a client get the best of the firm, and lost an important account and its quarter-of-a-million-pound-plus retainer to a competing firm.

　

That was a sad, sad day. He had seriously contemplated suicide, but couldn’t commit. Now, here he was, about to be dressed, a pheasant ready for basting. His continued existence would depend on this mysterious confabulation’s outcome.

　

"For God’s sake, Stately," Xavier Collen said, "sit down!" Pointing to a posh leather Wingback chair, running point for Xavier Collen’s more-than-massive black walnut desk.

　

Stately’s Adam’s apple performed a fairly rough dip, an involuntary reflex action to be sure, which repeated itself a moment later. He sat wishing for something, anything wet, so he could swallow in comfort.

　

"Sir?" Managed to squeak out on its own, timed right for the occasion by my personable pal Fate.

　

"Pardon me, Fool," the Empress says. "Isn’t Fate that vile old man, you know the one, he dances around, cackling, striking down the peasants with his malodorous teddy bear?"

　

"Only if they’re foolish enough to tempt him unnecessarily, my Empress. Stupidity does play a part in how he acts or reacts."

　

"A pox and death be on him then," the Executioner spouts.

　

There is no love lost there, but what care have I? Fate has a purpose he serves, and he is either kind or cruel, but never is he abusive without reason.

　

"If I may continue?" I say.

　

"Please do," the Empress voices.

　

Now, where was I? Oh yes, Jonathan Niles Stately, and Xavier Collen is about to address his strained, greatly subjugated employee.

　

"We have a job for you, Stately. Do you have any plans for the next week or two?"

He did have a few things penciled in. Dinner with Mum was one, the Vicar intended to stop by next Monday night by six for some reason or another. There may have been one more item, something to do with Thursday, but he was much too rattled to think it through. So, like any good company man would, he said, "A clear calendar, sir."

　

"Excellent," Collen declared. "Now pay close attention and make no mistakes. Not a one. There will be no blunders with this assignment. Is that clear?"

　

"Sir?"

　

Stately was told his final destination, and the name of his contact there. In fact, most of the morning was spent examining, and reexamining the many intricate details of this most important venture. Too many specifics to catalog, but every word and order issued was firmly, or more to the point, piss-pounded into his skull. Nothing, though, seemed to make sense, and the facts, overall, were interesting yet trite.

　

A simple retrieval, and he would do as he was told, even if that meant sitting atop a flagpole with his knickers down, hard-pulling his yank, grinning like the village idiot the entire time.

　

Stately was confused yet pleased. Others in the firm had been promoted ahead of him without regard to his seniority, and more than a few were firm-shattering mistakes, waiting to happen. He felt this was his opportunity to shine like the sun on a clement spring morning.

　

What seemed like a ream of paper was thumbed into a pile that meant something. Stately stuffed it all into his rather large satchel (his secretary had delivered it at Mr. Collen’s request), with an envelope full of cashiers’ checks from the Central Bank of London. The last item collected was his ticket for Heathrow. His flight would depart in slightly more than five hours. He was instructed to take as little as possible, and to arrive early, security being what it was, so as not to be delayed at the gate. Wear clean socks. He would secure a return flight himself when his assignment was completed.

　

It took a short while, but he managed to find decent lodgings for Barrister, his fully functional tom tabby. The poor thing had a disgusting tendency to mark its considerable territory, which meant pissing on everything within sight, and everybody he knew was well aware of Barrister’s instinctual compulsion. Room and board at a local haven would flatten his wallet by several pounds each day.

　

Two transfers, several questionable meals accompanied by flatulence and one full day later found him in Yucca Springs, California, worn by overtaxed nerves to the point of shattering.

　

A short stint with a talkative cabby had him standing in front of the black granite counter at the Terrace West, with a young clean face in a powder blue jacket saying, "May I help you?"

　

"Jonathan Stately. I believe reservations were made?"

　

"One moment," the first clerk said, divining for his name on a large computer terminal. "Yes. Here we are. If you would sign in?"

　

Which he did.

　

"Thank you," the clerk said, passing Stately his key card. "A rental car has also been reserved in your name. Your key. You’ll find a red Nissan Sentra parked in the side lot, space twenty-nine."

　

He was delighted with the Terrace West’s efficiency, but then a rather strange look passed between both clerks had him realizing it was nothing more than a concerted effort to get him out of the lobby based on his rumpled, and he was sure, gaunt appearance.

　

"Thank you," Stately said, and meant it nonetheless.

　

A comely lass wearing an identical blue blazer, with a much better fit, groped for his grip.

　

"I’ll take you to your room, sir." And into the elevator and up.

　

He keyed his door and tipped her ten American. With the door shut behind him he targeted his bed, leaving his shoes and jacket to fend for themselves on the floor. Not really his style, being a moderately neat man, but he was simply too damned tired to care.

It was 6:00 a.m., Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of August.