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Message-ID: <48100asstr$1086315003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vulgar Argot <vulgarargotREMOVEALL@CAPSinsidejoke.tv>
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Subject: {ASSM} Princes of Mannsborough, Chapter 12a
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Date: Thu,  3 Jun 2004 22:10:03 -0400
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Princes of Mannsborough, Part 12a
by Vulgar Argot
(tags at bottom to avoid spoilerage)

When Thule knocked on Marigold's front door Sunday afternoon, Jonas
answered, coming outside and pulling the door shut behind him, "We're
running a little bit late, I'm afraid. I got held up by some matters
at church and that cascaded."

"No problem," said Thule. "How have you been, Jonas?"

"Busy," said Jonas, "Every free moment I can get, I've been talking to
Artie McNamara. I'm trying to fix a lifetime of ignorance in a few
weeks' time while planning a major corporate overhaul."

"Mac's working out then?" Thule asked. He'd taken a moment to remember
that Artie McNamara was Mac, the IT expert Thule had recommended to
Jonas.

"He's easily the most hated person in the company right now," said
Jonas, "but he takes it with good humor. He seems a bit...paranoid,
though."

"He's hyperparanoid," said Thule, "but, that's what you want for this.
He'll come up with ways to ruin your business you never even dreamed
of, then protect against them. Let's take a little walk."

"Sounds good," said Jonas, "I'm dying for a cigarette." He was already
lighting up by the time that he reached the end of the path, "Do you
know that the first serious conversations we had about the network was
a lecture on why I needed to hire technological ombudsmen to watch
what he's implementing, then not tell him who they were?"

Thule nodded, "That doesn't surprise me. Any risk assessment that
doesn't include risks posed by the assessor themself probably isn't
worth the paper it's written on."

"Damn," said Jonas, "this is so foreign from my way of thinking..."

"I know," said Thule, lighting his own cigarette, "happily, most
people can go through their entire lives without really evaluating all
the things their fellow man can do to screw them and, through the law
of averages, avoid any major calamities born out of malice. Something
like ninety percent of all companies get hacked one way or another
every single year, usually by script kiddies using well-known security
holes that have been patched up in the most up-to-date version of the
kernel or software you're running."

"Something Artie says must be getting through," said Jonas, smiling
broadly, "That almost made sense."

Thule took a long drag from his cigarette, "Did you memorize the
information I gave you?"

"Yes," said Jonas, "would you like to quiz me?"

Thule considered it, "That won't be necessary. If you say you
memorized it, that's good enough for me."

Jonas took another drag from his cigarette, then said, "I'm sure that
took a lot of effort. You're dying to quiz me, aren't you?"

"Well," admitted Thule, "for the sake of thoroughness."

Jonas nodded his consent and Thule fired off his questions in a low
voice, walking while he spoke.

"Hey," said Jonas in the middle of it, "we're getting kind of far away
from the house. Maybe we should stop here."

"I'd rather not stop," said Thule, "but, we can turn around and head
back."

Jonas nodded again, turning one hundred eighty degrees, "You want to
keep moving. Why?"

"It's easier to eavesdrop on someone if they're stationary," said
Thule.

Jonas spread his arms, indicating their surroundings. The woods had
tapered away, leaving only a few scattered trees in a field of
ankle-high grass and glacial boulders on either side of the road. It
would be hard to hide a large housecat within a thousand feet of them,
much less a person.

"Force of habit," said Thule, "We can stop if you're getting tired,
sir."

"No," said Jonas, "I'm not...Wait a second. You just called me sir.
You did that on purpose so I would want to prove that I wasn't so old
that I'd get tired from a brisk walk. You devious, little bastard." He
said the words with a sense of wonder, then chuckled appreciatively at
the end. But, he still gave Thule a sidelong glance after he said it.

Thule laughed out loud, "There, there, sir. It's okay. We'll ring up
your nurse and have her bring your medications. There's no need to get
excited."

Jonas's response was explosively vulgar.

"See?" asked Thule, walking back towards the house, "I'm sure you
wouldn't want anyone to hear you saying that."

                     -=-

After they got back to the house, Thule and Jonas stood on the porch,
discussing a meandering variety of topics. A few minutes after the
kitchen noise had died down, Holly stuck her head out the door,
"Dinner's going to be ready in about five minutes if you want to wash
up..." She sniffed the air, "Jonas, have you been smoking again?"

Jonas got a trapped look. Thule said, "I was smoking, Mrs. Tarr. That
may be what you smell."

Holly wrinkled her nose. It was a gesture Thule had seen Marigold make
many times. A few inches taller, a few more laugh lines, and hair a
shade darker were all that kept her from being a dead ringer for her
daughter, "Well," she sniffed, "go ahead and wash up. Dinner will be
on the table soon."

"Thanks," said Jonas as she disappeared into the house. "Hey, why
can't you ever lie to me like that to spare my feelings?"

"I didn't actually lie," said Thule, "I try not to very often. We'd
better get washed up for dinner." So saying, he slipped inside the
house.

          -=-

Dinner turned out to look suspiciously like Christmas. Holly and
Marigold brought out tossed salad, fruit salad, antipasto, ham, mashed
potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, biscuits, glazed baby carrots,
and applesauce in wave after wave. Thule began to suspect that there
must be more people coming. But, it turned out to be all for them.

When Thule commented, Holly just laughed, "Well, I suspect we'll have
leftovers for a while. Most of the entertaining Jonas and I do is
catered...not that I would want to cook for three hundred people. But,
it does mean that Marigold and I don't get to do this very often."

It took about three questions for Thule to win Holly's enthusiastic
support. Once she had established where he was going to college, what
he wanted to do for a living, and what his father did for a living,
she immediately started talking about weddings--not Thule and
Marigold's specifically, but every wedding she had ever attended,
heard about, or imagined. At least, that was how it started to sound
to Thule. Even Marigold eventually rolled her eyes at Thule behind her
mother's back after about fifteen minutes. Thule's most important
qualification went unspoken--that he was not Elliot.

Reaching for the mashed potatoes, Jonas knocked over an empty iced tea
pitcher, which rolled and skittered across the floor of the dining
room and landed on the threshold of the kitchen.  With a cry of "I'll
get it," Holly chased after it.

"So," said Jonas into the conversational lull, a twinkle of mischief
in his eye, "How exactly does what you intend to study at MIT lead to
a career in software development?"

Thule smiled at Jonas. By the time Holly had returned to the table,
he'd launched into an explanation of Bayesean mathematics,
Hermeneutics, predictive analysis, object modeling, complex systems,
fuzzy logic clouds and possible future directions of the field of
software development. At one point, he thought he saw Holly roll her
eyes at Marigold when he wasn't looking, but he wasn't sure.

"It sounds like you know quite a lot about the field already," opined
Holly when Thule had run out of steam.

Thule nodded, "It's a bit of a hobby right now."

"Thule's too modest," said Marigold, "He's written some software based
on all this stuff that's worth serious money."

"That's nice," said Holly. "And what is software again?"

Thule smiled, "Computer programs. And it being worth any money at all
is entirely theoretical at this point. No one has made an offer to buy
it as yet, so it's really more of an albatross than anything else."

Dishing herself another spoonful of mashed potatoes, Holly said,
"Jonas, your company buys computer programs, don't they? Maybe you
should take a look at this thing."

Jonas laughed, "I would, but I'm not sure I would understand it for
looking at it. All of this computer stuff is still way over my head."

Holly gestured with the serving spoon, "It sounds like it would be
perfect for your asset management division. I didn't get all of what
you said, but isn't the whole point of this thing to predict how
complex things are going to act over time?"

Thule didn't hide his surprise very well, "Err, why yes it is."

"Well," she asked, sticking the spoon back in the bowl of mashed
potatoes, "What do people want to predict more than the stock and
commodities markets? Have you tried modeling stocks or commodities
with this program of yours?"

"Actually," said Thule, "I have."

"And, how did it do?" Holly asked.

"The sample portfolio did outperform the S&P," said Thule, "by a bit."

Jonas put down his fork, "By how much?"

Thule sighed, "By an anomalous amount. A year is much too short a time
to test something like this. And, to be honest, I hate to talk about
that aspect of it. Predicting the stock market makes it sound like I'm
a snake-oil salesman, when I actually have a very useful predictive
modeling tool with many more down-to-earth applications."

Jonas nodded sagely, "A very reasonable position. But, now you've
piqued my curiosity."

Thule shrugged and took a bite of ham. When he'd finished it, he said,
"The value investor portfolio I set up about sixteen months ago has so
far outperformed the S & P by about thirty eight point two percent."

"Very respectable," said Jonas, "How does it work?"

"Fundamentally," said Thule, "you feed in as much data as you can
about a stock--price history, market share, cost of raw..."

"Wait," said Jonas, "did you run any other portfolios?"

"A couple," said Jonas, "but not for as long or with as robust a
source of information."

"How did they do?" asked Jonas.

"Better," said Thule.

"How much better?" asked Holly.

Thule's mouth felt dry, "I did one on REITs, which are real estate..."

"I know what REITs are," said Jonas, "They've been awful the last few
years. You put together a portfolio of those that beat the S&P? By how
much?"

"A little over fifty percent," said Thule, "but, these numbers really
don't mean anything. The software doesn't replace the need for an
expert to sort out useful information from garbage. It just gives the
expert a useful framework to quantify and model the information they
do have and make predictions based on hard numbers and historical
modeling rather than gut instinct, I Ching, or technical analysis."

"Fair enough," said Jonas, "but, if you can set up a demo, I'd love to
see it in action."

"Sure," said Thule, "but it's really meant for organizations with a
more robust development department or any development department for
that matter to get the full potential out of it."

Jonas nodded, "Great. We can talk about that in the office on
Wednesday."

Marigold looked startled, "You two are working together?"

"Not really," said Thule, "I agreed to come in one day a week and help
Jonas pick out computer people for his new IT initiative."

"Well," said Holly, "as long as that's settled, who wants pie?"

                                           -=-

After pie, they all moved to the living room, which the dining room
opened onto. While on the largish side, the room would not have looked
out of place in any upper middle class home. The seating was arranged
in a rough semioval around an upright piano and a TV stand. Jonas and
Holly sat in easy chairs at one end, Thule and Marigold on a love seat
on the other side, directly facing them. Marigold leaned against
Thule, drawing her feet up onto the couch and, after sensing no
objections, Thule laid an arm gently across her shoulders. Soon, she
was dozing there.

The conversation had remained mostly banal, Thule answering questions
about himself asked by Jonas and Holly. Knowing what he did about
them, he found that there weren't many questions he could ask without
leading them into uncomfortable territory. Fortunately, they seemed
happy to interrogate him like any normal family would a daughter's new
boyfriend.

"So," asked Holly. "how did you two get together?"

Thule froze for a few seconds. Before he could come up with a
plausible story, Marigold said lazily, "It was so romantic. We've
known each other since grade school." She sat up, "And he's always had
a crush on me, but he never admitted it because I was with Elliot and
he didn't want to muscle in."

Getting into the story, she leaned forward a little, "So, we were
always working in the newspaper together. And we're finally getting to
be friends. And, even though I complain to him about Elliot, he's just
supportive and never says I should leave Elliot or indicates I should
leave him or anything. Now, at that point, I just assume Thule is
gay."

"Marigold," said Jonas, sounding shocked. He beat Thule to it by a
split second.

"Well," asked Marigold, "What was I supposed to think? I knew there
was something wrong with Elliot and I knew I wasn't happy with him,
but here's my good friend Thule and he's completely clue resistant."

Thule could read in Jonas and Holly's faces that they were completely
shocked by Marigold's performance. Considering the quiet and
deferential manner he'd seen Marigold maintain around them, he had to
admit he was a bit shocked also. Moving his body so that he could do
so unseen, he nudged her hard with his elbow, but she was undeterred.

"So, this went on until I found out what a pig Elliot was. I was
staying late at the newspaper office when I found out and I started
crying. And, it's just the two of us. He's standing there, looking all
awkward. Then, he just wraps his arms around me and tells me I deserve
better. And, I say 'like who?' and turn my head up to face him..."

"And that's how it all started," said Thule abruptly.

"But," said Marigold, blinking, "I didn't tell them about the flowers
yet or the ride home or..."

"I think your parents have heard enough," said Thule, his voice coming
out a little strangled.

"Yes," agreed Jonas, "quite enough."

"I think it's romantic," said Holly, slapping him on the arm, "It's no
worse than how we met."

Marigold looked up curiously, "I thought you met at one of my father's
parties, in high school."

"That's the short form," said Holly.

"Holly," said Jonas, a tone of warning in his voice, "We agreed not to
tell Marigold that story until she's older...and everyone involved has
been dead for at least forty years."

"Older than eighteen?" asked Holly.

"Holly, please," Jonas said, his voice rising in a hint of panic,
"it's really not appropriate." He looked imploringly at Thule, "I'm
completely losing control of my house. Is this your doing?"

Thule looked innocent, "I..."

"You have to admit that it's romantic, though," said Holly.

"Yes, dear," said Jonas, resigned, "very romantic."

                              -=-

Later, when Thule had Marigold out on the porch alone, he kissed her
forehead, "I suppose I should thank you for saving me. I just froze
up. I didn't see that question coming and I didn't want to lie."

"Don't thank me," said Marigold. "I could have made it simpler, but I
enjoyed watching you squirm."

"I should beat you," whispered Thule, laughing.

"Promise?" asked Marigold.

Before Thule could answer, the front door banged open and shut. Jonas
came around the side where they were, "Thule, would you take a walk
with me, please?"

There was something in Jonas's face that made Thule feel like there
was a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. Marigold seemed
oblivious. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, "Bah," she said, "As
soon as you said you were working together, I knew you were going to
have to talk business. I'll go get to work on my homework." As she
skipped past Jonas, she kissed him the same way, "Don't keep him out
too late. He has homework to do, too."

Thule's mind was in turmoil as they walked, in silence, up to the
meadow they'd been at earlier in the day. It was near dark now. Jonas
led him up to one of the glacial erratics, far enough away from the
road that passing cars would not see them. The whole way, Jonas had
smoked, lighting each cigarette from the ember of the last one. Thule
knew where this was leading and wanted to get it over with, but kept
his peace. He would do this the way Jonas wanted to do it.

Crushing out a half-smoked cigarette, Jonas leaned against the
boulder, twice as tall as either of them, "Earlier this week," he
said, "Marigold came to me, very upset about her old friend Maya, who
she hasn't mentioned in three and a half years. Says Maya's all
screwed up in the head and how she feels responsible for it.
Eventually, I coax what I think is the whole story out of her. She
tells me about how she used me to get Maya sent away and how she was
responsible for Maya being raped in the first place, although that bit
seemed pretty tenuous to me. The bottom line is that she wants to know
if there's anything we can do to help Maya."

Jonas started pacing, "Then, I ask her how she found out about Maya's
current dilemma and she clams up on me. Finally stammers out some lame
story about getting an e-mail from Maya, even though I know she uses
e-mail about as much as I do. So, why would she tell me about all
these horrible things she thinks she's done, but not tell me how she
knows. Then, I remember a conversation you and I had about why you
want to get back at the Vandevoorts and it occurs to me that Maya must
be your girlfriend that Randy Vandevoort raped. Am I right so far?"

Thule nodded grimly, "You've got it right."

"That's fine," said Jonas, "but it's still got me wondering why
Marigold wouldn't just tell me that you told her what was going on
with Maya. I must have come up with a thousand ideas, but none of them
worked. So, it stays in the back of my mind to wonder why she would
lie about how she got the information. Then, tonight, Marigold tells
that story about how you two got together and I'm thinking, 'This
doesn't sound like Thule. He's a real stand up guy and wouldn't just
stand around being all chivalrous while Marigold is miserable with
Elliot, particularly if this strong friendship is blossoming.' But,
then I remember that, when I first realized you two were a couple,
thinking that Marigold really hated you and chalking it up to the fact
that, sometimes, love and hate look remarkably similar."

Jonas stopped and stared directly into Thule's eyes, "A real stand up
guy, Thule," he said evenly, "Stop me if I start to get it wrong."

"No, sir," said Thule, "It sounds like you've got it all right."

Jonas hung his head in a gesture of ultimate fatigue, "Thule, you
could have been like a son to me. Why?"

Thule felt tears welling up in his eyes, but he didn't break eye
contact. Miserably, he said, "Because she deserved it."

In the gathering darkness, Thule never saw Jonas' fist until it was
inches from his face. He managed to turn only a little and caught it
square in the left eye. He went reeling and then sprawling backwards
onto the ground.

Standing over Thule in a boxer's stance, Jonas said hoarsely, "Get up.
I'm going to kill you."

Reaching for the glacial erratic for leverage, Thule said, "All
right." He dragged himself to his knees.

"What did you say?" Jonas asked angrily.

"I said, 'All right,'" answered Thule, "But, make sure you get the
evidence in my safe to the people who can make use of it like you
promised. It won't do much to Brianne, but it should be enough to make
life unpleasant for Randy and Ivan for a long time."

"Thule," said Jonas, sounding annoyed, "When a man tells you he is
going to kill you, you do not say 'all right.' You get ready to defend
yourself."

"Sorry," said Thule, on his feet again. He raised his fists weakly,
"All right. Come and get me."

Jonas tilted his head to one side, a look of exasperation on his face,
"That's the worst defense I've ever seen. Now you're just trying to
make me feel better about killing you." Reaching into one of his
pockets, he brought out a clean, white handkercheif and handed it to
Thule, "Your nose is bleeding."

Thule pressed the handkerchief to his face in approximately the right
place. With the help of the boulder, he stood, watching Jonas warily.
Jonas seemed spent, deflated. Even in the twilight, he looked about
ten years older than he had at dinner.

Thule held the handkercheif to his nose, trying a new spot on the
cloth over and over again until, when he pulled it away, he couldn't
tell if he was looking at old blood or new.

"I think it's stopped," offered Jonas, who had brought out another
cigarette and begun to smoke, "I haven't hit anybody in about twelve
years. I...I'm sorry I did it tonight. But, you can be goddamned
infuriating."

Thule nodded, "I know. I'm sorry--sorry I made you hit me, sorry for
everything, but I know that doesn't mean anything."

"You really played me for a sap, eh?" asked Jonas.

"I was going to tell you," said Thule, experimentally standing on his
own two feet, "Once it was all done."

Jonas stared at him, shock and disbelief plain in his face, "You crazy
son of a bitch. You really were, weren't you? That's why you didn't
want to ask me for any help or work for me or sell me that software
you built--because you were going to tell me that Marigold was one of
your targets of revenge. You crazy, goddamned son of a bitch."

Thule nodded, "You've always played straight with me. I thought I owed
you the same courtesy."

"If you ever hurt her, I will kill you," Jonas said evenly. "That's
not an idle threat."

"You have nothing to worry about there," said Thule, "I've already had
my revenge on Marigold. She was never as complicit as the others.
That's over now."

Jonas didn't speak for a long time. He stared off into the distance,
smoking, until the cigarette burned down so far that it singed his
finger, "So, then," he asked, shaking his hand, "what's all of this
about? Why keep her around? Why eat of my bread and drink of my wine
if you've already..." his voice trailed off.

"Believe it or not," said Thule, chuckling mirthlessly, "it's because
I care about Marigold. I love...being with her. It's not an act."

Jonas lit another cigarette, inhaling thoughtfully, "If I knew what
form this revenge on Marigold took," he paused, "I would probably have
to kill you all over again."

"Probably," agreed Thule.

"So, you'd better not tell me," said Jonas, sighing, "Not ever. No
matter how much your goddamned sense of honor demands it. Promise me
that."

Thule smiled cautiously, "I promise."

"Let's go back to the house, then," said Jonas, "and face the music. I
don't suppose you'd be able to come up with one of your bullshit
stories that isn't quite a lie to explain why your face looks like
that. Could you?"

Thule thought about it as they walked. Then, he said, "Marigold is
working on her homework. Holly is probably doing the dishes still. I
could just get in my car and leave, let you give them my apologies for
rushing off."

"What about when Marigold sees that shiner tomorrow?" asked Jonas,
"How will you explain it."

Thule shrugged, "I'll think of something. As far as you're concerned,
I didn't have it when I left."

As they got to Thule's car, Jonas said, "I'll see you Wednesday,
then."

"Yeah," said Thule, opening the door of his car, "Are we..."

"Okay?" asked Jonas, "No. I've got to protect my family. I can't
forgive whatever it was you did. But, Marigold is happier with you
than I have ever seen her. And the fact that she came to me about
Maya...well, I find it encouraging."

"She really could use your help, sir," said Thule, "The last time I
saw her, she really had gone off of the deep end."

Jonas barked a laugh, "You pick the damnedest time to ask for favors.
I really did want to kill you back there, you know."

"I know," said Thule. He made no move to get in his car.

"Dammit," said Jonas, "fine. Find her. Tell her I'll help her however
I can. I think you know the difference between help and throwing money
at a problem, so I won't bore you with restrictions. Now, good night,
Thule. Get out of her before I regret letting you live."

                               -=-

Despite all that had happened, it was barely nine o'clock when Thule
pulled into the town square. With the warm summer night, a few dozen
of his classmates had gathered around the big fountain at the center
of the Mannsborough town square.

Thule wished that he still had enough hair to hide the shiner better,
but was forced to rely on the interplay of light and shadows and the
speed at which he moved to hide it from anyone watching. Getting out
of his car, he thundered across the square towards the fountain.
People gave him a wide berth on either side.

By the time he reached Elliot, standing at the fountain, talking to
Dawn and another girl, he'd built up quite a head of steam. Elliot had
half-turned to see what the commotion was, so Thule wound up punching
him square in the ear. His momentum carried them both into the water
of the fountain.

Obscured by the falling water, Thule rained body blows and head shots
on his already stunned opponent, screaming profanities at his the
whole time. Elliot never even got a blow in before he was pummeled
into semi-unconsciousness. Then, Thule dragged him into the shallows
and pushed his head underwater. Elliot struggled feebly.

By now, they had gathered quite a crowd. From the front, Randy
Vandevoort jumped in and pulled Thule off of Elliot. Taking their cue,
several other football players and hangers-on moved to separate the
two and get Elliot to his feet. Thule, for his part, kept screaming,
"I'll fucking kill you."

"Take it easy," Randy said quietly, close to his ear. "If you kill him
with all of these people watching, I can't help you."

Thule relaxed, both on cue and stunned by the full context of the
statement. He let himself be pulled away.

"Someone is bound to have called the cops by now," said Randy. "We
need to get away from all these people so I can talk to them. Walk
casually over to the benches in front of the bookstore. I'll meet you
there.

Thule did as he was told. The benches were big cement squares with
seats cut into all four corners. Thule wanted to get up over the bench
and sit on top of one of the squares. It would mean that Randy would
need to crane his neck or stand for the entire conversation. It would
also allow him to put the bookstore's bright tungsten lights at his
back, meaning he would be a silhouette to anyone sitting at street
level. It took him three tries, but he finally managed to scramble up
to it.

When Randy showed up a few minutes later, trotting along on foot, he
drew a six pack of beer out of a paper bag. He looked up at Thule,
"What are you doing up there?"

"Sitting," said Thule sagely, "from here, I can see people approaching
from a long way away."

"Man," said Randy as he handed Thule up a beer "that's a hell of a
shiner you got there." His voice was slurred, suggesting he was far
past his first beer of the evening.

"Yeah," said Thule, touching it tenderly with the back of his hand,
"He got a lucky shot in."

"Man," said Randy, sitting down on the bench part of the next cube
over, exactly where Thule had hoped he would, "I wasn't sure about
you, but you are one crazy motherfucker. That was some righteous
vengeance you laid on that little faggot."

Thule smiled, revealing a few bloodstained teeth, "I'm all about
righteous vengeance."

"That faggot messed with the wrong guy when he started with you,
didn't he?" asked Randy.

"You keep calling him a faggot," Thule said, checking his eye for
tenderness and wincing, "Do you mean like punk-ass little faggot or
like faggot faggot?"

Randy looked around for eavesdroppers, then stood up to stand as close
to Thule as he could before saying in a stage whisper, "I mean like
dick-sucking, taking-it-up-the-ass faggot. He's sucked half the dicks
on the team."

"He ever suck yours?" Thule asked.

"Shit," said Randy. "It's not like that. I'm not gay, but..."

"But," filled in Thule, "when it's a little bitch like that, what
difference does it make?"

"Like I said," offered Randy, "you are all right."

One of the police cars, which had been gathering around the fountain
since a few minutes after they'd left, began to crawl over to where
they were sitting, its red and blue lights flashing silently. Randy
paid no attention to the approaching car, so Thule pointedly ignored
it too.

 From the angle the police car had pulled in at, Randy was obscured by
his bench. Thule was clearly visible. As the officers approached, he
raised his beer to them in a toast, "Good evening, officers."

The younger of the two cops, who Thule recognized dimly as having been
a senior when Thule was a freshman laid his hand gently over his gun,
"Can you put the beer down and come down here, please? We need to talk
to you."

Thule put his beer down as if he had meant to all along and swung his
legs down to drop onto the bench. As he did so, Randy stood up
unsteadily. Thule saw the older officer reach for his holster and go
into a defensive crouch, ducking into the cover of the patrol car.

Thule dropped onto the seat, then launched himself, grabbing Randy by
the shoulder and pushing him back hard into a sitting position before
ducking down behind the bulk of the bench himself. The last thing he
saw was the younger officer going into a panicked crouch and trying to
draw his revolver.

"Christ, Randy," shouted Thule, "Don't pop up on a cop like that. He
could have shot you before he even saw who you were."

"Randy?" called the younger cop. "Is that you?"

Rubbing the back of head where Thule had rammed it into the cement,
Randy said, "Yeah, Vladi. It's me. It's cool."

Thule peeked out his head to see Vladi standing up and snapping his
holster shut. Thule had never been this close to Vladi before. The man
was huge--three or four inches taller than Thule and seemingly half
again as wide with a neck that didn't so much taper as spread out to
meet his shoulders.

"Shit, Randy," the cop said. "You gotta be more careful. Hans almost
shot you." Thule allowed himself a brief smile.

Hans, whose crouch behind the car had been purely defensive and hadn't
put him in a position to shoot anyone. Thule could see him wanting to
protest that he wasn't going to shoot anyone, but then glance down at
his drawn gun. Apparently, Thule's invention that Hans was going to
shoot Randy had fooled even Hans.

"Sorry, Randy," said Hans as he holstered his revolver. "All I saw was
your head popping up like a target on the range."

"So, guys," asked Thule. "What's up?"

Hans, relieved at the change in conversation, said to Randy, "We got a
call that there was an altercation at the fountain. When we got there,
several people mentioned that Mr. Roemer here was involved. We wanted
to ask him a few questions."

"I saw everything, guys," said Randy. "It's cool."

"Are you sure, Randy?" asked Hans.

"Yeah," said Randy, "you know how these things are. Everybody shoots
their mouth off at the time, then nobody wants to talk about it later,
when it matters."

"Yeah," said Hans, nodding. "Ain't that just the way?"

Vladi indicated Thule, "Is this a friend of yours, Randy?"

"Thule?" asked Randy, grabbing Thule by both shoulders while standing
next to him, "Thule is my boy."

The officers nodded, engaged in a bit of small talk, then withdrew,
telling Thule not to worry about any problems, that they would all
blow over. Then, they got back in their car and drove away.

Thule took out a cigarette and lit it, hoping that Randy would assume
the shake in his hands was from the fight or the encounter with the
cops. This had worked out better than he ever thought possible. The
subtle difference between "one of my boys" and "my boy" had not been
lost on Thule and by the look on the cops' faces, they knew the
difference too.

Thule waited until Randy was opening his second beer to say, "Some day
soon, we are going to own this town, you and me."

"Damn," said Randy in admiration, "you do think big, don't you? Don't
you at least have to marry the ice bitch before you start thinking in
those terms?"

"That...is a done deal," said Thule, swinging his beer a little wildly
as if he'd already had several, "plus, her old man loves me. Her old
lady loves me. I'm the fucking golden child. I just came from there.
They're already picking out a China pattern. We're getting married
next summer. Then, I am in like Flynn."

"Like who?" asked Randy.

"Never mind," said Thule, "Once we're married, I can drop out and
start working full time in the family business. At the rate I'm going,
in five years, I can own the place."

"Now, I know you are full of shit," said Randy.

"Nah," said Thule, "The old man knows jack shit about computers. I
could jam a virus up his ass and make him think he was shitting gold
bars. Once he realizes he's lost control, he'll have to step down.
And, if not..."

Randy stared intently, waiting for the next words. Thule savored the
moment by taking a long drag on his cigarette before making a gun with
his thumb and forefinger and pretending to shoot.

"Damn," said Randy, "you're pretty damned hardcore, aren't you."

Then, Randy began to talk about his own exploits and planned exploits.
Thule wished to God he'd brought a tape recorder, but it never would
have survived the trip into the fountain. First, he catalogued
seemingly every one of his conquests, consensual or otherwise.  Thule
realized that Randy was trying to impress him now. When Thule didn't
bother to engage in one-upmanship, Randy took it as an even bigger
challenge, laying claim to a carjacking, a couple of assaults, and a
mugging he'd been involved in "for kicks." Thule started to get a cold
feeling in the pit of his stomach. As much as he had known about Randy
before, this was all new to him.

"Listen," said Randy uncertainly, when his list of stories and supply
of beer had run out, "I want you to know that I'm really sorry about
boning your chick freshman year. Brianne said it would be cool."

Thule's veins ran cold. He thought about murdering Randy right then
and there, but there were no obvious weapons in sight and too many
people had seen them together tonight. Instead, he said, "Now, there's
another ass I'd like to pop a cap into."

"I'd like to pop in more than that," said Randy. "But, don't fuck with
her. She's mean."

"You never fucked Brianne?" asked Thule.

"Nah. I wouldn't do that to Ian," said Randy. "Besides, she's got
power."

"Fuck that," said Thule, "she's got nothing. She's small potatoes."

Randy shook his head violently, "You don't get it, man. She controls
the flow of quality pussy around here. One snap of her fingers and
hello strokeville or, at least, nothing but dogs and theatre dykes."

"Shit," said Thule, "that's high school stuff. What have we got left,
five weeks of high school? Plenty of pussy outside of this town if it
comes to that. I may just have to fuck that stuck up bitch myself. She
owes me some lost pussy."

Randy shook his head again, but with less certainty, "I respect your
claim, but I can't help you there. Ian's one of my boys, but he won't
listen to me if you pull that. And, he's got his own crew to back him
up."

Thule looked angry, "You won't back me? That's cool. Just don't get in
my way. The bitch has it coming. You let me deal with Ian and his
crew."

"Crazy motherfucker," Randy said appreciatively. He held up the empty
six pack box and started to rise, "So, are we ai'ight?"

"Sure," said Thule, gritting his teeth, "We ai'ight."

                           -=-

Thule definitely felt like he needed a shower after that conversation.
As he peeled out of his shirt and dropped it on the floor, he heard a
tell-tale thud. He cursed as he reached down, already knowing what he
would find. He fished his phone out of the pocket. It was dead, the
screen blank and foggy. Just in case he'd missed the point, a stream
of water poured out of it when he snapped it open.

Thule cursed again and added replacing his phone to the list of things
to do. It could wait. Right now, he needed to wash off the blood all
over him. Still, it took him more than an hour to write down and
encrypt everything he remembered Randy had confessed to. Then, he
wrote a long e-mail to Maya making the case for letting Jonas help
her. When he finally staggered into the shower, he was afraid he would
fall asleep on his feet.

Tired as he was, he tried to process the new information he'd gotten
today. Being Randy's "boy," created a huge opportunity, but if Randy
were pulling thrill crimes, it was just a matter of time before he'd
expect Thule to do one with him. Laying a beating on Elliot, seemingly
out of the blue, had given Thule some serious credibility, but he'd
pushed the bar too high with his talk about killing Jonas for that to
be enough.  He might be able to put it off until graduation, but
probably no longer.

Lying in bed, an ice pack on his eye, Thule considered his options.
His original plan had been to isolate Brianne socially, then turn her
against Randy. He had blackmail material on her, too--far better than
what he'd had on Marigold. About a year ago, he'd found out that she
was selling cocaine at school. That was her real power base. The "flow
of quality pussy," as Randy so eloquently put it, was secondary.

But, Brianne was crafty. Enough people knew about her dealing that, if
it could be used to control her, she would already be controlled. She
probably figured that she was small time enough that, if she were
arrested, she could turn on people up the supply chain and walk away
scot free.

Looking at his original plan, Thule started to feel like it was a Rube
Goldberg contraption--fine if every step worked out as expected, but a
complete failure if any one of a hundred factors missed its
tolerances. Now, he was working to turn Randy against Brianne so that
he could use Brianne against Randy. It was an audacious, even insane
plan, but no crazier than anything else he had in the works.

Nothing had gone according to plan, but everything seemed to be
working out anyway. Randy was falling for his act--hook, line, and
sinker. He and Jonas had no secrets that they didn't agree to keep
from each other and still looked to be on the same side. He was
starting to think that he might get out of this thing alive. On that
pleasant thought, he fell asleep.

                           -=-

Thule woke to the sound of an incoming call on his video client. His
alarm clock would have gone off four minutes later, but at the moment,
he resented the loss of those four minutes badly. Seeing Marigold when
he brought up the client still made him smile, though.

"Jesus," typed Marigold into the chat client. "What happened to you?"
Before Thule could answer, she went on, "Never mind. I know what
happened. But, what the hell happened?"

Thule typed groggily, "How do you know what happened?"

"Dawn just called me," answered Marigold, "She wanted to know if you
were coming to school today or if you were in jail. Apparently, she
saw you pick a fight with Elliot last night and the police come."

"I'm coming to school," typed Thule, "Tell Dawn she still has a ride."
Now coming fully awake, he realized that he hurt in a lot of places
other than his face. Falling like a sack of rocks apparently did that
to a guy.

"I think she was more concerned about you than her ride," typed
Marigold.

Thule grunted and typed, "Tell her I'm fine, then."

Breakfast, ablutions, and dressing brought a dozen new aches and
pains. He wondered briefly how Elliot must feel today. Then, he
remembered the angry finger marks on Marigold's neck that had only
fully faded yesterday or the day before and decided that he didn't
care.

When he arrived in front of Dawn's house, Thule got out of the car and
opened the door for her. Dawn looked up at his face, "That is ugly."

"It gives me character," said Thule. "I knew if I didn't show it to
you now, you'd be trying to see it while I drove."

Dawn examined the black eye closely while Thule waiting for the
wisecrack. Instead, she said seriously, "Thule, what the hell is going
on with you? I thought you were a nice guy, but now you're hanging out
with Randy Vandevoort, beating people up, and doing all the sorts of
things that I always hated about the people I used to hang out with.
But, just last week, you gave me a lecture on how I should stay away
from people like that. Should I stay away from you, too?"

Thule considered the question. "Probably," he said finally, "but not
at all for the reasons you think."

"Okay," asked Dawn, "why then?"

Thule glanced at his non-existent watch, "If we don't get moving,
we're going to be late. If you still want a ride, we can talk about it
in the car. If you'd feel safer on the bus, we can talk at lunch."

Dawn got in the car. Thule drove silently. After a few minutes, Dawn
said, "You still haven't answered my question. I know that there's
something heavy going on with you. You're not going to go all
Columbine on Mannsborough High, are you?"

Thule laughed, "Why does everybody keep asking me that? No. I am not
going to go all Columbine."

"Well," asked Dawn, "what then?"

Thule stalled, "I can't tell you much."

"Well," said Dawn, "tell me something. I really want to like you,
Thule. You're smart and funny. Marigold loves the hell out of you. No
matter how much I flirt with you, you've been a total class act. And,
you have a car, even if it is held together with duct tape and chicken
wire. You seem to be nothing like the football players. So, what's
going on? Are you pulling some cloak and dagger shit?"

Thule's eyes did not leave the road, "I'm not like them," he said
quietly, "and I am pulling some cloak and dagger shit."

"Really?" asked Dawn, leaning over the seat. "Cool. Can I help?"

Thule sighed, "It is not cool."

"Okay," said Dawn, "Totally uncool. Can I help?"

"No," said Thule. "You can not help."

Dawn pouted, "Then, why did you tell me about it?"

Thule shrugged, "By virtue of the fact that you could ask the
question, you already knew the answer more or less. I'd rather just
acknowledge that I am up to something than have you poking around to
find out that I am up to something."

Dawn chewed on that for a moment, "Oh," she said, "but what if you've
just whetted my appetite for information and now I have to poke around
even more?"

Thule sighed and rubbed his forehead, "I'd really rather you didn't."

Dawn blinked, "Aren't you supposed to make some dire warnings about
poking around where I don't belong? At least tell me this isn't a game
and I don't know what I'm messing with."

Thule groaned, "It's really not a game. As for dire warnings," he
tapped the brakes hard enough to cause Dawn to topple forward over the
front seats, "If you haven't learned to use a seatbelt yet, how
seriously do you take that sort of thing?"

Dawn righted herself and sat back on her seat, "See? Now, you're
getting into the spirit of the thing. You've established yourself as
the grizzled veteran. Can I be the plucky, wisecracking sidekick?"

"Provided that your contributions are limited to wisecracks and
pluckiness, yes."

"Cool," said Dawn, "I can be Robin to your Batman, Gabrielle to you
Xena, Xander to your Buffy."

"You watch a lot of TV, don't you?"

"Tons," admitted Dawn, "My father says I should get out more, take up
a hobby. He'll be pleased."

"This is not a hobby," said Thule, wondering where he had lost control
of the conversation. "It's deadly serious."

"And, it's not a game," said Dawn. "I got that."

Thule pulled the car to the side of the road. He undid his seatbelt
and turned around, kneeling on the seat so that he was face to face
with Dawn. He said, with no humor or banter in his voice, "Dawn, if
anybody got wind of what I was doing, I would probably just disappear.
Everybody seems to think that this is just a high school thing, even
people who take it seriously. But, it's the whole damned town. Last
night, a couple of cops gave me a free pass on beating Elliot to
within an inch of his life because Randy Vandevoort told them I was a
friend of his. Randy told me he couldn't help me if I killed Elliot
with witnesses, his modifier, not mine. Right now, you're an innocent
bystander. You don't have the pull to survive if I disappear and they
know you're involved."

Thule took a breath to say more, but Dawn interrupted him, "Thule, you
do know I'm a slut, right?"

"What?" asked Thule, too taken aback to say anything else.

"Ever since I've fallen out of favor with Brianne," said Dawn, "I've
been a slut, which is ironic, because over the course of my life, I
really haven't done much of anything that would traditionally be
considered slutlike behavior. But, all of a sudden, I'm fair game. In
the last two weeks, I have been groped, pinched, and felt up pretty
much every day since I came to sit at your table at lunch. I avoid the
worst of it by staying around people as much as I can. But, on Friday,
I got cornered by a couple of defensive ends in the long cement
staircase that runs around the back of the gym and, while nothing much
happened, I think I only got away because Miss Delgado came down that
way and chastised me for 'public displays of affection.' I'd much
rather keep my head down and not choose sides, but until I have
someone's protection, I'm just a slut, ripe for the picking. Now that
you seem to have won some favor with Randy, it occurs to me that you
might be able to extend me some protection and that I probably
wouldn't need to put out to get it." Seemingly exhausted by her
speech, she sat back, closed her eyes, and brushing the bangs out of
her face.

"I'm sorry," said Thule quietly, "what can I do to help?"

Dawn's eyes opened, "Just let people know I'm under your protection,
however you Princes of Mannsborough do that."

Thule pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to her, "The
number on the bottom right there is my cell phone. If I'm not in the
shower or jumping into fountains, it's almost always with me. The next
time someone touches or even menaces you and you know who it is, call
me. I'll show up as soon as I can and lay some righteous vengeance on
them. Do you have a cell phone?"

Dawn shook her head in the negative.

"Can you afford to get one?" asked Thule.

"Maybe," said Dawn, "in a few weeks."

Thule thought about the money he'd collected from Ivan Vandevoort,
sitting in a thick block of hundred dollar bills in the attic. He
expected that there would be more coming soon, but he was still about
twenty-eight thousand dollars short of paying his tuition, not to
mention housing, books, food, incidentals. When he'd gotten the cash
from Randy, he'd taken five crisp one hundred dollar bills and put
them in his wallet. They were still there as were sixty-eight of the
eighty dollars he'd taken out of an ATM the last time he'd gone to the
bank. He made all of these calculations in a split second and came to
a conclusion.

"Today after school," he said, "we'll go into Vonsburgh and get you a
cell phone."

Thule saw the relief spread across Dawn's face, then suddenly, that
face was a lot closer. Her hands were on the back of his head, her
lips kissing his. Somewhere on the way in, she'd said, "Oh, thank
you," but that wasn't the first thing on Thule's mind just now.

The kiss lasted only a second before Dawn broke away, pulling back.
Her face blushed beet red with embarrassment. Thule, realizing what
had happened, felt his own face burning in response.

"I'm sorry," said Dawn, her voice barely above a whisper, "I was just
so relieved..."

Thule sat back down in the driver's seat, trying to disappear into it,
"It's all right. I know..."

"I really like Marigold," Dawn cut in, "I would never..."

Thule started the car and pulled back onto the road, "I know," said
Thule, "It...I know what it...that is, what it didn't mean. I
wouldn't..." He sputtered into silence.

"So," asked Dawn as they were nearly at Marigold's house, "does this
mean that I'm in your crew?"

"I don't have a crew," said Thule.

"You don't?" asked Dawn, "then who are those guys at our lunch table
who all got buzz cuts as soon as you did?"

"I had nothing to do with that," said Thule.

"Really?" asked Dawn, "How many buzz cuts did you see at school before
you got one?" Thule started to answer, but Dawn cut him off, "other
than the creepy janitor and the G.I. Joe twins?"

"Um," said Thule, "none, I guess."

"And how many did you see at the end of last year, when it got hot?"

"None," answered Thule, "All right, maybe it did have something to do
with me. But, that doesn't make them my crew."

Thule couldn't see the shrug behind him, but he could hear it in
Dawn's voice, "Well, they're somebody's crew. They travel in a group,
they follow you around constantly, not that you would notice. When you
speak at lunch, they all pay you deference. Ever since it became clear
that you were in Randy's good graces, they've stopped getting picked
on so much. Didn't you notice?"

"No," admitted Thule, "not specifically."

"Well," said Dawn, "when you decide that you do have a crew, I want
in."

"You're going to look pretty funny with a buzz cut," said Thule. Dawn
snorted in derision. "Actually," added Thule, opening the door to let
Marigold in, "you're pretty funny looking now, so it should be all
right."

"What are you talking about?" Marigold asked.

"I'm going to be Thule's plucky, wisecracking sidekick," said Dawn.

Marigold pouted, "I thought I was the plucky, wisecracking sidekick."

"No," corrected Dawn. "You're the romantic interest. I get all the
good lines and you get the love scenes."

                           -=-

Thule sat on the flat part of the wide railing that surrounded the
front door of the school, watching people straggle in. He used to sit
there all the time when he was still working out how the social
structure at Mannsborough High worked, but had since taken to the
habit of heading straight for his locker and homeroom to get some work
done. Now, he wanted to get a fresh assessment of a few things.

A lot of things were consistent with what he remembered. The burnouts
and dregs gathered in the diaspora of the pine trees on the far side
of the teachers' parking lot. Also in the pines, but distinctly apart
were those who enjoyed self-imposed exile in order to smoke or make
out or just because they had never become part of one of the larger
cliques at Mannsborough. If the microcliques ever got together, they
would be the largest social group there, but if they could do that,
they wouldn't be microcliques.

On the topmost landing, huddled against the school as if for
protection, were the geeks. Thule knew their subcliques and could see
how they clustered around each other along those divisions, but
mingled freely. To the right were the art and theatre fags, who
probably wouldn't consider themselves a clique at all, but based on
the law of ducks (looks like one, walks like one, quacks like one,
must be one) they were.

On the second landing were the Princes of Mannsborough, as Dawn had
called them. Randy stood leaning against the center railing, his crew
fanning out around him. On the left side of the railing, they stood in
a rough semicircle. On the other side, the semicircle was warped by
Ian's presence on the edge of it and his crew circling out around him.
Thule wondered if the positioning was an accurate Venn diagram of the
two crews. If so, Randy's crew was about thirty strong, Ian's about
twelve, but with at least five or six members overlapping. Out past
Randy's crew, Brianne was surrounded by a gaggle of cheerleaders,
ranged out around her in almost military precision. Thule couldn't
hear what she was saying, but he could see the interaction. Directly
in front of Brianne stood June Kane and Olena Vasilev, Olena a
half-step farther away, indicating her status as equal, but not
intended successor. Behind Brianne, three squad leaders stood and, as
Brianne held court, nodded and commented, confirming everything that
she said. Behind June and Olena and again behind the yes vultures, as
Thule had immediately dubbed them, the other girls, about thirty in
all, spread out in more or less even ranks, distance from the center
indicating their relative favor. Watching them stand there, chatting
and gossiping really didn't do justice to their organization. For
that, you had to watch them move through the halls in a phalanx so
neat and martial that, if you added shields, even a Roman centurion
would have found no fault.

The funniest part, to Thule, was that it was all completely
subconscious. Not one participant in one hundred had the self
awareness to see the patterns. More than once, Thule had seen
friendships among the cheerleaders break up shortly after a social
change that made it too difficult to speak to each other on the front
steps. Anyone he'd ever gotten to speak civilly to him or give him
dirt on Brianne had stood farthest from her in the morning. The same
patterns repeated in each little tribe, including the dozen or so
lesser ones that populated the two lower landings beneath the Princes.
However, the one time Thule had mentioned the behavior in sociology
class, saying more than he should have, he'd gotten nothing but blank
stares.

Today, Thule had done a small social experiment. As he emerged from
the school, sunglasses protecting his eyes and hiding his shiner, he
watched the waves and nods he got as he crossed the pariah landing. He
returned all of them but one of the science geeks, who had apparently
given himself a buzz cut over the weekend. By the time he'd reached
the court landing, everyone whose greeting he had returned had peeled
off to join him and soon gathered around him. Because he was sitting
on the railing, they fanned out in a semicircle. Marigold stood with
her back to him so that he could wrap his arms around her waist. In
the front rank stood Oksana and the three computer geeks that, if hard
pressed, Thule probably would have named as his three closest male
friends his own age, although the relationship had been more cordial
than active over the last couple of years. All in all, there were
about fifteen people surrounding him, chatting among themselves as if
they had not just all followed Thule down the steps, but had just
spontaneously all arrived in roughly the same area.

Then, Thule watched two boys he hadn't seen much of since his days on
the track team peel off from the outer edge of Randy's cluster and
come over to him.

"Hey, Thule," said the one Thule vaguely remembered as being named
Arkady, stopping on the outermost edge of the semicircle, "you haven't
been out here in a while." Next to him, the other boy nodded.

"I just needed some fresh air and sunshine," Thule said. "All work and
no play and all that."

"That's cool," said Arkady. He was rocking back and forth on his heels
as was his companion, waiting for something. Thule gave them a nod of
acknowledgement. They both smiled and promptly turned to talk to the
school's only weather geek, who Thule was friendly with, but
considered a bit odd.

As Thule watched the patterns of people moving back and forth, he saw
Dawn emerge from the pines and make a beeline towards him. He waved to
her and watched the semicircle part to let her approach.

"Hello, Mr. Dark and Mysterious," she said before leaning on the stone
railing at his left hand. Marigold reached over and tousled her hair.

"I don't see Elliot here today," observed Oksana. "I heard he had to
get stitches last night."

Thule tried to remember what he could have done to Elliot to cause him
to need stitches. He didn't even remember much blood the night before.
He asked, "Did anybody hear if he's okay?"

Arkady said, "My aunt's friend works in the ER in Vonsburgh and said
he was there last night, but done before midnight. He needed a couple
of stitches to close a cut over his eye. She said that he said that he
got the cut playing football."

Thule nodded. Arkady moved forward a little, starting a conversation
with one of the chess geeks on the next ring of Thule's social circle.

                               -=-

At lunch, Thule observed that Dawn's observation had been correct
there also. Every time he expressed an opinion, it warped the
conversation around him. He knew it had always been so to a degree,
but wondered if it were worse now.

Thule accepted the idea that he had a crew with mixed emotion. They
were more of a responsibility than an asset. About half of them would
be back here next year, dealing with the aftereffects of whatever he
did or didn't do. And, while they might outnumber Ian's crew, only the
SCA types would be much good in a fight. Still, it was gratifying to
feel like he had some support.

After lunch, Thule was collecting books for his afternoon classes from
his locker when he looked up in response to a friendly,
female-sounding, "hey, Thule." He was surprised to find himself
face-to-ponytail with Brianne. Actually, he was blindsided. He had
never heard Brianne's friendly voice and would have been hard-pressed
to guess if she even knew his nickname. To say that he had been
persona non gratis to her would have been to flatter himself. He was
more like furniture that did tricks.

Thule searched Brianne's face for any hint of mockery and found none.
So, he tried to keep the caution out of his voice when he answered,
"Heya, Brianne."

Brianne laid a hand on the outside of his elbow and it was all that
Thule could do not to jump at the touch. She even batted her eyelashes
at him before asking, "Thule, you're pretty good at math, right?"

He wondered if it was a trap to get him to brag about his advanced
work in the field and remind people what a geek he was, thereby losing
status. This time, his answer was cautious, "I do all right in it."

Brianne glanced meaningfully at the calculus textbook Thule had just
brought out of his locker. Then, she moved her hand from the outside
to the crook of his elbow, turning him to face up the hall.

"Do you know Ioke?" she asked.

Thule did, of course. And Brianne knew that he did. Still, he looked
over at the object of the sentence. Nearly all of Mannsborough High's
student population was of Dutch, Russian, or German descent. Walking
gracefully among them with her delicate Chinese-Polynesian features,
Ioke looked like a gazelle left to graze among horses. Mannsborough
High School had its fair share of beautiful young women, but Thule
could count on one hand the ones who could make his breath catch in
his throat with a casual gesture the way Ioke could.

Lost in his reverie, Thule forgot for a moment that Brianne was
waiting for an answer until she waved a hand in front of his face,
"Hello," she said, seemingly without malice, "Earth to Thule."

Thule shook his head, "Sorry. I meant to say, 'we've met.'"

Brianne smiled, "Is there any chance you could help Ioke with her
math? She's not really ready for her final and it's freaking her out.
She'd ask you herself, but she's shy."

Thule understood the offer couched in the request and, for a moment,
the ground dropped out from under his feet. All of a sudden, he sensed
the incredibly seductive power of being one of the princes of the
school in a more visceral way than he ever had before. In less than a
week of pretending he was willing to play ball, he'd had money and
women thrown at him. He had been given the ability to protect his
friends and to make the police turn a blind eye to pretty much
anything he wanted to do. He didn't know if Brianne had the power to
turn Ioke like she was offering to. Ioke was a power unto herself at
Mannsborough. But, he also didn't know how hard Brianne had tried to
control her in the past.

It wouldn't be hard. Enough people trusted him deeply that they'd
never extricate him. He had enough blackmail material to keep Marigold
around long after she figured out anything was wrong. He could have
the girl, the power, all of it.

"Hello," said Brianne a little more insistently this time. "You really
are on another planet today, aren't you?"

"Sorry," said Thule, "I've had a lot on my mind."

"So," asked Brianne, "can I tell Ioke you'll help her?"

He could have it all. It would just require him to climb into bed with
Brianne and Randy while betraying Marigold and Jonas, easiest thing in
the world.

"Sure," he answered, "anything I can do to help."

"Good," said Brianne, her smile victorious. She started to walk over
to Ioke.

Thule caught Brianne's elbow gently. She turned, looking a little
alarmed.

"Brianne," Thule asked, "you wouldn't need any help with your math,
would you."

Brianne smiled, "I'm already in at the University of Chicago. I can
coast from here on out." As she spoke, Thule let his eyes rake over
her body. It wasn't hard to do if you just forgot about what was
inside and focused on the packaging. Physically, Brianne was
attractive enough--blonde, long legs, large breasts, firm tanned
flesh. When finished, he made and held eye contact.

Thule could see realization dawn on her face, followed by saucy smile,
open and inviting, "Of course, I could always use a refresher. I'm
sure there must be something you could teach me."

Princes of Mannsborough, Part 12a
by Vulgar Argot
(rom, nosex)
--Vulgar Argot
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VulgarArgot/www
--
"Vulgarity begins when imagination succumbs to the explicit."
  --Doris Day

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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