A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1) (16 page)

The girls are seized with palsied fits.

They settle back down with a look of evil delight on their adorable faces.

- - -

The beautiful girls shriek in unison with a blood curdling cackle. Leaping from the stage like so many energetic teenagers, supporting their high school sporting team, these little heifers mean to bull their way straight through the Emporium.

Trashing tables, chunking chairs, and pitching patrons, the fringe trimmed, underwear wearing, pink and peachy perky stampede charges the hapless crowd in a billowing cloud of drinks, poker chips, and smashed furniture.

The frisky, female tornadoe makes to cut us off.

The big man and the little partner, O’Hagan, meet the girlies at the bottom of the stairs in a full tilt fight.

I am hesitant, for truly, it goes against my nature to strike a woman.

With a bright and playful twinkle in her eye, the cutie-pie coming after me has no such compunction.

Never before have I had an opponent smell so nice, but hit so hard, as this little gal clocks me square in my left eye.

I can’t save Miss Plumtartt from a sitting position!

“Sorry, Ma’am!”

I sink a mud pounder deep into her gut, as I cannot bring myself to strike that adorable, little face.

BO
O
OM
!!!

There is a flash of crimson light combined with the loud explosion.

Red smoke fills the air.

Miss Abigail GoldenBear stands at the head of the stairs. A more regal posture I have never seen. She chants loudly in a strong voice. The smoke seems to have cleansed the room somehow.

The possessed dancing girls shiver, and fall to the ground.

“Ho, ho, the nasty parasites are now visible for all to see as they release their hold from the dispossessed lassies. Stomp the rancid rooches, lads!”

Persephone
.

“No!” I cry, coming awake.

My heart is racing with fear as I feel an immense, and unclean, presence.

“Mr. Temperance!” He is within easy earshot in the next room and should be alerted to this threat.

My stalwart defender does not answer.

He must be fast asleep. I shall put on my robe and knock at the door.

“Mr. Temperance?” ~
knock, knock~ “
Please pardon this intrusion, but you must be made aware...oh, Heavens!”

A man lounges on the bed, but not Mr. Temperance. This man is splendidly dressed in dapper finery, from the spotless spats on his feet, to the silk cravat at his fountain pen throat.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Plumtartt,” oozes this snaky villain. “So nice to meet you, at last.”

He leaps from the bed. Skeletally thin, he simultaneously sweeps off his overly fancy top hat, blue-hued spectacles of many function, and bows.

“Please allow me to introduce myself, Mademoiselle. My name is Jean-Jacques Bhauh-Buuhm, and I am so very happy to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

I have the deepest loathing for this leering creature. The grinning man has a palpable aura of despicability.

“Where is Mr. Temperance?”

“Your champion has abandoned you, Mademoiselle.”

The grinning devil’s eyes, sunken deep within their black rimmed sockets, sparkle with fiendish delight.

“Herr Doktor Himmel was correct. You are an attractive female. The prophecies state that a a maiden of purity is destined to defy the transition. Now then, Persephone, can you not see that I am allowing you an alternate path than my being forced to slay you? The choice is entirely up to you.”

Falling back into my room, I shut the door and throw the lock.

Monsieur Bhauh-Buuhm viciously stomps in the wooden barrier.

There is little at hand to use as a weapon. My parasol and hat are on the stand. The light, sunshade shall have to suffice.

I strike the leering intruder about the head with my parasol, to no great effect.

The French trespasser laughs, and snatches away my weapon.

I grab up my hat pull it down about his head.

“Ow-wow-wow-ow!
Get it off! Get it off! It burns, it burns! I can’t see! Get it off me! Augh! Augh!
Augh!”

“Good Heavens, my chapeau causes you more distress than I would have thought, Monsieur Bhauh-Buuhm. Oh, I see, it is the ectoplasm I gathered aboard the train. I say, where my parasol failed me, my hat and thrifty sensibilities have saved the day, eh hem?”

“Augh! It burns! Get it off so that I can kill you, you horrible woman! Augh!”

“Eh hem, no, I think not. Toodle-loo, Monsieur, I bid you, a foul, adieu.”

I depart my room for the open hallway and fly to the central stairs. Turning at the landing, I am compelled to look back to where my antagonist stands shrieking.

My tormentor has stopped at the balustrade, green smoke oozing from various places on his head.

“You had your chance, wench. You shall pay for your insolence with your life! Come to me, my children, feast on the she-curse!”

Making a sign of ill portent with his hands, and uttering the profane words of a lost language, he calls to an unseen evil in a summoning manner.

Outside, I hear the pitiful cries of panicked horses as something arrives, in response to his beckoning.

The hotel shakes as something big hits the front porch. Everyone in the lobby that has had the misfortune to witness Monsieur Bhauh-Bhuum and my impolite display turns their attention to the lobby doors. My fellow patrons do not enjoy the same vantage as I in witnessing our uninvited guest’s arrival, but they apparently get fragmentary, shadowy glimpses of the horror that I see all too clearly. They, wisely run, whilst I stand transfixed by the unreality of what I view in vivid virescence.

A featherless chicken, standing as tall as a man, fills the doorframe. Its head is absolutely enormous! Rows of long, triangle teeth and fangs fill the long snout of its teeter-tottering skull. There are summary crashes and two more bald avians join their mate. Porch impacts impart the knowledge of more arrivals. They are reptilian of skin and form yet viciously avian in manner. They put me in mind of a new theory of the ancient species of Earth.

I believe I have heard them referred to as 'Thunder Lizards'.

These give such a terrible roar that it shakes the entire structure!

Like grotesque chickadees, they hop about the lobby. The large heads tilt back and forth in their curiously birdlike manner. The enormous mouths drip with poison. Realization that I am their prey enters the primitive minds.

“Unh!” something within me gives a sharp twinge.

An electrical current snaps up and down my form.

“Ahh!” I cry as a red beam of light blasts from my palm. A sphere of energy forms to shoot away and envelop a monster. The lizard bird disintegrates in a blast of ecto particles.

“Unh. Ahh!” Another round of red rounded retribution issues forth to dispel another fearsome fiend.

I falter: suddenly I am drained. I can no longer offer resistance.

Four slavering beasts from a time forgotten hesitate, for they do not want to be blasted away like their comrades. Quickly ascertaining that I am defenseless, they rally once again as brave birdies and close upon me.

“I would have preferred the easy way, Mademoiselle, but as a gentleman, I left the choice to you.”

“Curse you, Bhauh-Bhuum!”

“The thing is out of my hands, you foolish female, for it was you that chose death over my personal charms.”

The fetid breath of these lizard-birds is upon me.

Nothing can save me!

“In any case, my assignment is fulfilled and Earth’s fate is sealed. C’est la vie. To you, Persephone Plumtartt, I bid adieu. To my associates, I say, bon appetit.”

Ichabod.

How did I end up so far from the Hotel?

I am running for all I am worth. I’ve just got to get back to the Hotel and save Miss Plumtartt!

Please! Please! Please! Be all right!

Why did I leave?
I shall never forgive myself if anything has happened to Miss Plumtartt!

Miss GoldenBear’s friends, the big man and the little guy, are right behind me. For whatever reason, they have shown knowledge, skill, and have taken an interest in my predicament.

We fly in the front doors of our hotel. There she is, my Miss Plumtartt, surrounded by monsters. I never slow a step nor miss a beat as I leap to deliver a flying Savate kick to the one trying to take a chunk out of Miss Plumtartt. I knock him into next week with the heel of my boot.

“Mr Temperance!”

“You are running with a rough crowd these days, Miss Plumtartt.”

I call back toward the entranceway for my comrades. The tall, and powerfully built man of frightful countenance, and the smaller, but strongly and compactly muscular man, are pretty swift on the uptake as concerns fighting inter-dimensional invisible monsters.

“We got four big ones in here, y’all!”

Since I’m the one with the goggles, I point out the invisible, saurian, creatures to my companions.

“There. There. There, and there.”

In an impressive show of strength, the bigger fellow uproots a large, potted palm, for use as a weapon.

His partner arms himself with a brass hat stand.

Boy, howdy! We’re about to have slobberknocker of a fight on our hands!

I continue my attack on the beast that nearly took a piece out of Miss Plumtartt, whilst the three remaining lizards turn their reptilian attentions on our new allies.

Attaboy! By swinging the unpotted palm, our friend with the tree cleverly uses the end with the roots to mark the animals with dirt and mud. One creature is no longer invisible to them!

“I got him!”

This comes from the second defender. He swings the hat stand in a 360° arc for murderous momentum.

It is unfortunate that he is unaware of the curious quality these creatures possess: an inability to interact with metals in our dimension.

The brass hat stand passes through the monster lizard without contact, landing a devastating impact upon the tall fellow that is fighting on our side.

“Yoo, hoo, I say, young man. I advise you to follow your friends example, and arm yourself in a more ‘organic’, manner. Also, I strongly advise you to dodge to your left as you are about to be bitten, eh hem?”

Using the heavy P.E.R.K., I complete my grisly work with the first six foot, shell-less, snapping turtle, and then join my companions.

The fierce face of our comrade who received the hat stand blow is terrible to behold. His anger at his partner is unleashed upon the poor monsters. Like a spring tornadoe from back home in Alabama, this giant goes into a frenzy, swinging the tropic plant. In short order, he has got dirt and mud on all three of the nasty beasts. I now safely set aside my precious, though now unnecessary, goggles. I am able to rather adroitly, if unpleasantly, dispatch a filthy combatant with the emerald blade. The frustrated, smaller combatant has gained a secure arm hold upon his creature. Affixed to its back, the chagrined fellow is riding the hopping bird-lizard around the lobby. The big man is trying to force-feed the palm tree to his unlucky recipient.

With my comrades holding the featherless turkeys pinned, I do not have much difficulty in dealing death to these bitey captives. Soon, four green carcasses become visible to my fellow victors. The monsters’ corpses soon begin to crack, steam, and disintegrate.

“Oh, bother! Mr. Temperance, the man who is responsible for bringing us these horrid creatures has eluded us. Pooh! It is only now that I realize that the despicable Jean-Jacques Bhauh Buuhm, has escaped, sir.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“Tut, tut, sir, we have things to attend to. Bottle the quickly dissolving remains, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt.”

“Howdy fellers, how about helping me collect and keep some of this evaporating gloop. I need some bottles or something.”

The duo of dichotomous dimensions do as directed.

“Here is a spittoon, laddie.”

“Um, thanks, sir, my name is Ichabod Temperance.”

“My name is O’Hagan.”

“Howdy Mr. O’Hagan.”

“That’s Constable O’Hagan.”

“Oh.”

“I’m Constable Keefer Smith, citizen Temperance. We are of the newly formed Los Angelos Constabulary. We have a question for you and the pretty lady. What in the wide world of spooks is going on around here?”

Persephone

Now that he has duly collected all available ectoplasm, Mr. Temperance introduces me to his friends.

“Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, this here is Constable Smith.”

Constable Smith is quite tall and strongly built. His is an imposing and authoritative presence.

“I say, I find myself challenged to convey the sincerity of my appreciation for your stalwart efforts on my behalf, Constable. I am in your debt, sir.”

“Just doing my job, citizen Plumtartt, er, British citizen.”

“And this here is...”

“I’ll handle me own introductions, laddie. Oh, Persephone, me delightful darling, what a easy thing for these Irish eyes to rest upon you are. Aye, your sparkling blue eyes remind me of the ocean’s depths as I made passage to this country. You are a foreigner in this heathen land and I am just the strong, male guidance you need to protect you in this dangerous town.”

“How very cordial of you, Constable O’Hagan. Tell me, does your kind offer extend to Mr. Temperance, as well?”

“What are ye’ saying, gel? This homely lad is a stable hand that you have maintained as a porter, correct?”

“No, he is a travel-mate in whom I share the trust of bringing a safe conclusion to a dangerous endeavor, eh hem?”

“Are you sure, Persephone? Last chance to catch the O’Hagan express...”

“How very kind of you to extend this tender invitation; however, I choose to decline.”

~sigh~ “I’ll find consolation in that lone female at the bar.”

Mr. Temperance, Constable Smith, and I,
sans
an occupied O'Hagan, square our facts to the best of our faculties. It is determined that we need to re-arm. We must find a means of successfully fighting against these creatures. Mr. Temperance dashes up to his room to immediately return with his malfunctioning, ectoplasm-based pistol. He explains the principles of the modified revolver to Constable Smith who replies:

“Don’t worry, citizens. I have someone that can help build more of these weapons.”

- - -

We rendezvous first thing in the morning at a magnificent armaments store. The charming, plain clothed Irish policeman thought to bring pastries!

“Gee whiz, these here hoops of dough cooked in hot grease and then covered in a sugary glaze are really yummy!”

“Aye, Icksy, they're magically delicious.”

“Since the dough is formed into circles, leaving a hole in the middle, they look like the numeral zero. Maybe you could call them, 'dough-naughttes'.”

The sign of the gun store reads:

Johnson’s Pistol Paradise &

Armament Augmentation Parlour.

‘No Rifle will be Stifled. Every Pistol, treated as Crystal. We Shun no Gun. Problem with your Revolver? We’ll solve Her.- God Created Man. Sam Colt made them Equal. Mr. Johnson makes them More So.- Specialty items are our Specialty.’

It’s a firearms store like none I’ve ever seen. Rows of counters lie filled with every description of handgun. The walls are equally loaded with long guns. Interesting armaments from around the world hang suspended from the ceiling.

There are many curiosities among Mr. Johnson’s dazzling array of firearms, weapons of varied design with which I am not familiar.

“We want access to the factory for a little while, citizen Johnson,” says Constable Smith.

The proprietor is shocked that Officer Smith would have the gall to ask such a thing and is quite determined in his refusal to allow access to his workshop! The proud store owner is a powerfully built, coloured gentleman. I think he may be one who is touched by the Comet, and has trade secrets, and patents to protect. He reminds me of a certain young Serbian professor in Graz.

“What did you just say?”

He cocks his head, and with incredulity, giving the giant officer an offended look.

“I can’t believe you would ask that. You know I don’t let anybody in my laboratory, much less the factory. It is my sanctuary. I won’t let you, your dangerously unbalanced partner, much less this hick I’ve never seen before in that factory. I won’t let my wife in there. My son, if he proves himself worthy,
might
inherit the key. My own mother would be denied entrance!”

He glares at us with determined eyes, working a big cigar back and forth in his mouth. He chews it in a challenging fashion, daring us to try to coerce him into allowing entrance to his private workshop.

“Aw, come on, citizen Johnson, I mean, Mr. 'J,' please.”

Mr. Johnson glares all the harder.

“Come on, Johnson, this doesn’t have to be ugly,” says the compact Officer O'Hagan.

The gun enthusiast grips his counter top. The stout display case creaks under his oppressive grip.

“Pardon me, Gentlemen,” I inject, as I can readily see that our hoped-for assistance is showing little chance of being forthcoming, “might I have a word with Mr. Johnson?”

I wish to convey my very best attributes to Mr. Johnson; therefore I carefully position myself as I sweep forward to allow the morning sun to create a magic light around the auburn hair piled high upon my perfectly erect skull.

“Kind sir. I find myself at wit’s end. I am in the most dire need. Forces of the greatest evil, with the most calamitous intent, are even now moving against me. We require special armaments that these good stewards of the public safety feel that you are singularly qualified to help provide us with in this time of dread and need.”

I reach to the Man of Armaments.

At my lightest touch, the hard headed gun enthusiast softens his crusty demeanor.

“You
will
help us, kind sir?”

His eyes start to brim up with tears.

In an effort to seal the bond, I batt my blue eyes encouragingly.

Mr. Johnson’s brimming eyes flutter, just a little.

~batt, batt, batt~

~flutter, flutter, flutter~

An interior heat source dries the sympathetic moisture from Mr. Johnson’s eyes. Tears of understanding evaporate under the dehumidifying force of the armourer’s obstreperousness.

“No.”

“My word! You impossible man!”

Fiddlesticks! I confess, this difficult man has driven me to be quite put out.

“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson?” Says a soft-spoken Mr. Temperance.

“Yeah?” Snarls the obstinate store owner.

“Would you like to examine this?” He offers up the P.G.D.D. Though scorched and severely damaged, the electrical apparati that enshroud the Colt .45 bear witness to the fundamental changes that he has wrought in the device. The remains of the curious, charging chamber tempt and seduce the armourer.

Mr. Johnson’s face shows scorn at first, but then irresistibly reveals an ounce of curiosity. This helplessly slides into full attention which inevitably leads to his mouth falling open, thus allowing a lit cigar to fall to the floor.

To my own chagrin I have to admit that it is Mr. Temperance’s own inventions that win our entrance to the stingy store owner’s sanctum sanctorum. I am not surprised, for nothing fascinates a comet prodigy so much as the brilliant invention of another.

Mr. Johnson beams at the little Alabamian, “I didn’t catch your name, friend.“

- - -

The recovered ecto-plasm from the hotel’s lobby lizards gives us material to work with.

Mr. Temperance’s treasured Colt .45 cannot be salvaged. A new weapon must be procured.

Mr. Johnson’s store provides a wide variety of weaponry from which to choose our devices’ platforms. Mr. Temperance had thought his Colt could handle the tremendous force of the Ecto-Plasmic retort, but he had miscalculated.

The California constables quickly make their choices. This I think is not a difficult choice for the lawmen. A very popular rifle’s name bursts from the happy shoppers’ lips: the ’Winchester’ rifle is what these fellows desire. They feature a high capacity of ammunition, a fast rate of fire, and a proven, deadly accuracy. However, Mr. Temperance suggests that they opt for the substantially overbuilt ‘Henry’ rifle instead.

It takes a longer interval of time for my young friend to make his decision. The assiduous shopper pores over Mr. Johnson’s vast arsenals. There are so many weapons to select among! Hundreds, if not thousands of every sort of pistol, rifle and shaughtte-gun are on display.

Many are antiques, such as a pair of ancient Dutch blunderbusse. Flintlocked, cap and ball firearms of every description fill many long gun cases. These compete for his attention with breech loading rifles from the recent past. Muzzle loading muskets and Kentucky long rifles dating back to this country’s founding make this emporium a veritable private museum.

Many new and modern weapons with unique features and incredible qualities are on display.

“Do these Henry rifles not appeal to you, Mr. Temperance?” I ask. Certainly, the constables made their decisions very quickly.

“Perhaps you would be happier with these fantastic modern designs?”

“I need to be far-sighted, Ma’am,” is the patient and courteous reply. “We still gotta long way to go on our journey to distant Tibet. I need to be able to keep my weapon on my person at all times. As much as I am tempted to kit out a Henry for myself, I think it prudent to fashion a pistol, instead.”

“I defer to your better judgment in these matters, sir.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Most of this fine store’s pistols are of the American six-shooter style that is so famously in vogue at this time here in the North American Western territories. There are double and single action pistols. That is, as the shooter squeezes the trigger, the cylinder containing the ammunition is mechanically rotated, placing the cartridge to be fired into position. Simultaneously, this action cocks the hammer, positioning the firing pin above the freshly placed new munition. Or, he or she may cock the weapon manually with his or her thumb, for an easier trigger pull. These “Six-Shooters” usually come in thirty-two, thirty-eight, forty, and forty-five caliber chamberings. These weapons are fast and reliable. Mr. Temperance obviously mourns the loss of his prized ‘Colt’ revolver.

There are some unusual fellows among the newly-developed weaponry. Does the blast of the round power a series of mechanical events, which in turn, loads another round into the breach to be fired? What an amazing process this initiates as the blast of the munition is harnessed for the automatic chambering of a fresh cartridge. I suppose that this would facilitate a very rapid rate of fire. Perhaps it would fire as quickly as the user is able to pull the trigger!

In this display case, our obstreperous host has his collection of pistols from this country’s tragic ‘War Between The States.’ Many are revolvers of large, elegant design. These deadly works of art were highly prized in their time, but sadly, they are obsolete in this day and age. The single action style, where the user is required to cock the hammer manually, is a thing of the quaint past. The firing cap, powder, and ball, are all loaded separately, instead of together, as a single cartridge. Yet still, I can see that Mr. Temperance looks upon them as remarkable creations. I wonder what is his fascination with these older model firearms?

“A marvelous collection of antiques, Mr. Temperance. These large pistols are truly elegant, even lovely, in their way. It is unfortunate that they do not accept standard cartridges as is so required in the modern firearm of our day.”

“Yes, Ma’am, but of course, I am not firing standard cartridges, either. In fact, what I have in mind will actually work better as a front of the cylinder loaded semi-cartridge.”

I watch the fellow continue his close inspection. It is as if I can see into the back of his head, and watch the machinations of his active design process.

His face, posture and gestures indicate that he has made an exciting discovery.

“Miss Plumtartt! A La Mat!”

“Is that a good thing, Mr. Temperance?”

“Yes, Ma’am, this here’s a Confederate legend. The ‘La Mat' is a cavalry soldier’s weapon. This is a very interesting pistol of French manufacture with some peculiar characteristics.”

Mr. Temperance explains the history, and design features of the revolver; and I can see the first 'tingly sensations’ of a plan start to form in his mind.

“Nine long, forty-two caliber rounds rotate within their own cylinder, around a stationary middle tube. This center passage contains a sixteen gauge shaughtte-gun charge. This small shaughtte-gun barrel is perfectly adapted to accept the ectoplasmic charging chamber for the device in mind.”

This large, heavy revolver of unusual antiquity will be the platform of his new weapon.

Mr. Johnson disengages the many locks of a heavy iron-bound door and leads our ensemble to the inner sanctuaries of his esoteric digs.

This workshop has furnaces, presses, and dies. Every sort of scientific pursuit is represented including a chemyst’s laboratory, complete with bubbling retorts and burning burners.

Unusual electrical apparatuses’ sparks give evidence of the dangerous goings on within mysterious cabinetry. Sputtering electrical components attempt to bite the unwary. Arcs of wandering electricity keep one grounded in caution. From my father’s laboratories at Plumtartt Manor, to the universities of Graz, I have spent a considerable amount of time in various laboratories. This is an impressive and noteworthy workshop.