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You asked for it I take in a book: P. Howard
The 14-Carat Roadster


Ivan Gorchev, sailor on the freight ship 'Rangoon', was not yet twenty-one when he won the Nobel Prize in physics. To win a scientific award at such a romantically young age is unprecedented, though some people might consider the means by which it was achieved a flaw. For Ivan Gorchev won the Nobel Prize in physics in a card game, called macao, from a Professor Bertinus, on whom the honour had been bestowed in Stockholm by the King of Sweden a few days earlier. But those who are always finding fault don't like to face facts, and the fact of the matter is that Ivan Gorchev did win the Nobel Prize at the age of twenty-one.

Professor Bertinus, with the Nobel Prize in his briefcase, had boarded ship in Göteborg, and before the ship sailed, the Swedish Franklin Society assembled on deck to present him with the big gold medal for his successful experiments in the splitting of the atom. The ship then departed, and the worthy professor was all impatience to arrive in Bordeaux, where he owned a few acres of vintage, as elderly French civil servants generally did, from the executioner's assistant, to the director of the museum.

Ivan Gorchev, on the other hand, boarded ship in Southampton, to cross the Channel for reasons unknown even to himself. It's true that he had been fired from a freight ship (the Rangoon) because he had used a four-pointed boat hook to beat up the navigator. But as to why anyone who had beaten up a navigator and been fired from a freight ship would want to cross the Channel, we do not understand any more than so many of our hero's actions.

Another perplexing fact is how this frivolous young man was able to become acquainted with the world-famous scientist; what is particularly obscure is how he was able to convince the aged and reticent professor to play, even for very small stakes, macao, a game of chance prohibited in many countries. We must resign ourselves to ignorance of these details. Allegedly the whole thing began when the professor became seasick on deck. Gorchev offered him a pleasant-tasting lemon-cognac-sodium bicarbonate drink of his own concoction. The professor recovered, and asked the young man who he was, and from where he had come.

"My name is Ivan Gorchev, twenty-one-year-old by profession, and son of the brother of Baron Gorchev of the Tsar's Chamber, from the family of Nasya Goryodin. My father was a captain in the guard and my uncle, as the military commander of the Yustvesti Verstkov, defended Odessa against the rebellious naval forces."

Naturally, not one word of all this was true. But the gullibility of very young girls and aged scientists is apparently boundless. The professor put on his pince-nez. "So, you are an emigrant."

"Definitely Professorovitch Uncleushka," Gorchev answered, with a sigh. "Once in high spirits, my father gave ten thousand roubles to the Tsar's ballet... And he was flown to Tsarskoe Selo in a troika with a gold escutcheon on it... Oh, kontusovka! Oh, Volga, if only I could be there once again..."

"But listen, you can't remember Russia if you are only twenty-one!"

"That makes it all the more difficult, Uncleushka Professorovska! Just imagine! I have never once seen that magnificent snowy land which so unforgettably lives in my memory..."

"And where are you en route to now, Mr. Gorchev?"

"I'm travelling for political purposes, disguised as a sailor."

If we have observed our hero scrupulously, then we will have noted something peculiar about him: he never told the truth, but then he never lied either. It was just that he said, without hesitation, anything and everything that came into his mind - a habit that plunged him into many astounding situations. His words rarely followed a logical line; nor, for that matter, did his actions.

"Unfortunately I'm travelling with very little money," he went on. "A scoundrel cheated me of everything."

"How on earth did it happen?"

"I was unsuspecting and stupid. One becomes acquainted with all sorts of shifty characters, without ever thinking of the consequences. It just happened that in London a crook taught me to play macao, and won all my money."

"Forgive me for saying so, but that really wasn't very clever of you. What sort of game is this macao?"

Gorchev sighed again, and pulled out a pack of cards from his pocket.

"Well, you see... we deduct the tens column from the total value of the cards, whereby in all cases, nine is the highest possible count..."

The professor tried his luck, on a five-centime basis, and won ten francs. Later, after he had lost two thousand, they raised the stakes. Then they raised them a number of times, and by the time they reached Bordeaux, Ivan Gorchev had won the entire Nobel Prize to the last centime, from the professor. And had the professor been going as far as Nice the ambitious young man would probably have won the large gold medal of the Swedish Franklin Society itself. (This precious medal was awarded to an elite for successful experiments in the field of atom splitting.)

At the age of twenty-one this, too, would have been an unprecedented achievement on the part of our hero. Unfortunately, the professor departed at Bordeaux with the large gold medal of the Swedish Franklin Society and with some sad ponderings on the wastefulness of French colleges, whose syllabuses did not include the teaching of the game of chance called macao. Gorchev stood by the rail of the ship, deeply moved, and waved after the professor for a long time, with a handkerchief.

II

What does a man do at twenty-one, without a trace of seriousness in him, when he unexpectedly comes into unbelievable wealth? This question Gorchev asked himself, and immediately answered himself.

Get off in Nice! Wander around the harbour. And look for some companion. This stuff isn't worth a damn if one can't squander it in company.

Who'd be the lucky one? He looked around the harbour.

His attention was attracted by an individual on the shore who had the appearance of a delivery-man; he stood at the place where the dock workers gathered; he wore a brown jacket, and a black bathing suit. All the others had taken themselves off to some work, and only he stayed. What made him peculiar was his pince-nez, and the yellow towel on his shoulders he had substituted for a shirt, sticking the fringed ends into his bathing suit. The slightly negligent appearance of these trunks was balanced by a straw hat in fairly good condition, though perhaps a half size smaller than might have made it perfect, but its rim was in almost perfect state. The individual's thick black clipped moustache was the centrepiece of a scournful and sorrowful grimace of wrinkles. The man looked tearfully choleric. Meantime, he picked his teeth, perhaps because that was to have at least a realistic substitute for the illusion of eating. It began to look as if he wouldn't find work for that day, when a foreman called to him.

"Hullo there! Come to the fifth basin, crates have to be loaded."

"Are they heavy?"

The foreman's eyes bulged stonily. No dock worker had ever asked such a question!

"Forgive me," explained the gentleman in the brown jacket with a tinge of nervousness in his voice, "but I have to know, because I had a hernia a few years ago."

"Idiot," said the foreman and continued on his way.

"A fine man, is all I can say," mumbled our man scournfully.

Gorchev, who had overheard the conversation, immediately felt that this was his man and stepped up to him.

"Tell me something. Do you want to work?!"

"I am not an idler!"

"That's too bad, but never mind. If you must, then work. What's your favourite occupation?"

The man questioned looked at himself, at his skinny legs, his comical trunks, at the round-edged brown jacket, and then shrugged:

"How can you ask a thing like that? I would like to be a secretary."

"Well, then you're lucky I came this way. From now on, you're my secretary. Your salary will be two thousand francs a month. What's your name?"

"Vanek."

"Good name, that. Here is one month's salary, three thousand francs."

"You said two."

"I gave you a rise because you have shown amazing progress in a very short time. Here..."

"Of course," said Mr. Vanek, as he crumpled the money into his breast pocket a little nervously, as one who doesn't like to be troubled with such trifles, "I shall have to know what my duties are."

"You will have many. What they are, I don't know yet. But that's unimportant, anyway. Don't worry, your luck's in, old boy..."

"As I have said, my name is Vanek," the favoured replied with cool stress, refusing all familiarity.

"Excuse me, Mr. Vanek," said Gorchev. "You are a remarkable find," he added with satisfaction.

He liked people with self-respect, who not even when the going is good, will forget what they owe to themselves.

"If you are interested, I can tell you from what heights I've dropped, and so low..."

"I'm not interested, but you can tell me. However, if you'd refrain I would be much obliged."

"As you wish... I don't force myself on anyone. What shall I do for the present?"

"I don't know yet, but we'll think of something. Now I'm off to look around Nice, and if I am in need of you, I will inform you, my dear friend..."

"My name is Vanek."

"Mr. Vanek... Excuse me. I'm pleased that you are so sensitive. I don't like normal people anyway. Well, let's meet here shortly."

"Shall I stay here?"

"Leave if you want."

"But then you won't find me."

"It doesn't matter. Good day." And Gorchev hurried away joyfully.

He was very happy that he could give Mr. Vanek money. Although surely Mr. Vanek will vanish with the three thousand francs, since he will fear that Gorchev's attendants will appear and insist that he return the insane man's thoughtless gift.

Gorchev went straight in the direction of Nice's marvellous marine promenade, which is called 'Plage' and where the most illustrious hotels of the Cote d'Azur line up on the seaside, among the palm trees. Here he sat down in the restaurant of the unmistakably aristocratic 'Hotel Méditerranée'. The guests who had been nonchalantly basking in the sun looked with horror at this young man with a child's face, wearing off-white canvas pants, a blue sailor blouse, and curiously enough the white round cap of the British navy.

A girl in a red dress at a table nearly laughed out loud. The young man lifted his round sailor's cap with a friendly smile, then he struck the table a few times with his fist.

"Garçon! Bring me a beer!"

A waiter rushed over, anxiously.

"Listen, this is not a sailor's bar."

"How interesting... And I would have sworn that this was the 'Ye Merry Murderers' restaurant, where the gentlemen meet for five o'clock knifing... but I don't suppose it matters now. This will be good enough. Bring me a mug of beer."

"We do not serve tapped beer."

"Well then bring me a pound of caviar, a bottle of French champagne and one hundred stems of La France roses!"

At this point the waiter made the mistake of attempting to assist Ivan Gorchev's departure, and by doing so, naturally touched his arm.

And this he should not have done...

In the next second, everything went black before the waiter, and it was a while before he regained consciousness and found he was being supported by a number of people, and that someone was washing his face with a damp cloth. And all he had received was one slap! The stranger finally felt insulted, raised the cap that had been designed for the British navy, took out, the devil only knows from where, a black-rimmed monocle, pinched it in his eye in a stately manner, which made him look like a complete idiot, and while everyone hunted for the waiter who had rolled under a distant table, he departed. The girl in the red dress laughed again, and Gorchev, astonished for once, turned for a minute. 'Hmmm! Pretty!'

Straight back he rushed to Mr. Vanek at the dock, not at all sure that he would find him there. But to his great surprise, his secretary was standing in the same place, in the same pose, and, as a matter of fact, in the same bathing suit. Only the toothpick in his mouth had changed. He was now five toothpicks further on.

"Mr. Vanek. I'm glad you're here. Your hour has come."

"You wish to hear from what heights I've dropped, and so low?" returned Vanek eagerly.

"The hour for that has not yet come. At any rate, your predicament seems interesting, and at the proper time you will tell me of it."

"My dear sir, I was a correspondent at one of the foremost..."

"I was certain of that when I first saw you. You will now go into action. You will have to go somewhere, and bring a package..."

"That is not quite the work of a secretary."

"Napoleon started from the bottom also..."

"But not as your employee. Well, never mind. But I must know how heavy the package is. I think I have already mentioned that I had a hernia..."

"I know, I know. The package is not heavy."

"Besides, I am not allowed to walk in the sun. I have high blood pressure."

"There is no need for you to walk in the sun. You will buy an umbrella somewhere and use it."

"My dear sir, one can't afford to buy umbrellas out of three thousand francs!"

"I'll pay for the umbrella. Furthermore, you will buy a pair of pants; that's on me, too, of course. This bathing suit, even with the bath towel, and the straw hat, does not become a self-respecting, serious secretary. So, forward, old boy."

"The name is Vanek, if you don't mind..."

"All right then, forward, Mr. Vanek!"

III

The guests at the 'Méditerranée' restaurant had long since forgotten the episode with the mad sailor, when an individual resembling a delivery-man appeared, wearing a brand-new, shaggy pair of pants of the dazzling green of a detergent; these ended in the knee, with gaiters. The designer of the gaiters must have been entranced by an incomprehensible idea, nevertheless it is doubtful that he had Mr. Vanek in mind as the ideal masculine type to wear it. Mr. Vanek immediately rushed to the head waiter, and with a stern and portentous expression he said:

"I was sent by His Excellency Prince Chervonets..."

"At your service, sir."

"I am to place an order in connection with some items of food, which I shall take with me immediately."

"And what does His Excellency desire?"

"A cold lunch, shelled lobster, trout, pineapple, two bottles of champagne, as well as truffle pate and roast chicken."

"Yes, sir."

"Hurry!"

Out of the hotel came Mr. Vanek with the package and stopped by a bench near the terrace. Suddenly Gorchev stepped up to him from nowhere.

"Thank you, old boy."

"My name is Vanek."

"Thank you, Mr. Vanek."

He took a miraculous bundle of thousand-franc banknotes from his pocket and handed two to Mr. Vanek, the man who resembled a delivery-boy; then he gave him a few assignments and sat down on the bench exactly opposite the 'Hotel Méditerranée'.

The man who looked like a delivery-boy left, and the sailor spread the caviar, roast chicken, champagne, and the different kinds of jellied fish all out before him, and began to demolish them cheerfully. The champagne bottles he simply banged against the edge of the bench, whereupon long creamy white spray shot forth from them.

The contents of a bottle went down in one gulp. He then turned towards the onlookers on the terrace, and smiled.

"To your health!"

The girl in the red dress laughed aloud. Gorchev gratefully noted this expression of approval, and for a second, his eyes rested on the girl.

"Hmmm! Pretty!..."

Later Mr. Vanek reappeared and brought with him seventy stems of La France roses, from who knows where. By this time several hundred spectators had gathered around to stare at the youthful Nobel Prize winner.

"There were no more," said Mr. Vanek panting. Then, accepting a further thousand francs, he added, "You do pay well, but one has to work for it."

He rushed away once more.

The manager of the hotel, shaking with excitement, reproached the ailing waiter whose left eye seemed to have disappeared entirely in a violet-coloured swelling.

"Wretched idiot! Can't you recognize a tourist travelling incognito? A waiter should have eyes!"

"To have them knocked out?" the waiter moaned.

"How could I know the customer was off his head?"

"When will you understand that world-famous bathing resorts cannot be founded on guests who are sound in mind!"

The policeman, it seemed, knew this, because he stopped politely before Ivan Gorchev. He even raised his hand to his cap.

"Good day, sir."

"Good day. Would you like some chicken?"

"No, thank you."

"Fruit, cognac?"

"No, no..."

"Well, then, do accept at least a few roses!..."

"Oh, you are very kind, sir, but it's forbidden to walk around with roses instead of a baton on duty."

"Come now! Nor is it permitted to drink red wine, and yet you came out of the bar on the other side of the street..."

"Excuse my asking but why is it that you are consuming your tasty lunch in a kind of open-air performance?"

Gorchev looked up. He seemed for a moment to be uncertain of something.

"Will you be so kind as to inform me whether this city is in the Republic of France?"

"It certainly is."

"Well, then everything's all right," Gorchev said, and took a bite of the chicken. "Because I once heard somewhere that certain human rights were proclaimed here at the time of a revolution."

With this he swallowed half a chicken leg.

The policeman scratched his head. He remembered that two years earlier a Swedish cork manufacturer had dressed as a cowboy and sold candy on the Promenade des Anglaises. The policeman, who at the police station had indulged in rather violent expressions to reprove the industrialist, had been subsequently transferred to the lighthouse at the fishermen's wharf. Since then he had not served within the city.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable inside?"

"They threw me out."

Cars honked from all sides, since in the meantime the crowd of observers had increased to almost a thousand. But our delivery-man fought his way through them. He returned with a mushroom-shaped, yellow garden umbrella, which he very cleverly fastened next to the bench.

"This was a most difficult errand," he said panting.

"Thank you, Mr. Vanek," answered Gorchev uneasily, and with a hasty movement, handed over another thousand-franc note.

"Believe me, I deserve this. To carry packages in this heat," whined the porter-like individual, and since the sun shone fiercely, he opened his own umbrella, which made the scene change from the comic to the frightening.

"I am Marvieux... secretary of the hotel manager..." whispered a humble voice next to them.

"You haven't been announced to me," answered Gorchev carelessly, and put on his monocle, which in reality was only a rim without a glass. "And I'm in the midst of lunch anyway..."

Marvieux turned to Mr. Vanek, who had just spat out a tooth-pick.

"Will you please announce me."

"What is your name, and why do you wish to enter the premises of the bench?" asked Mr. Vanek in the curt manner of an overworked secretary.

Gorchev meanwhile went on eating, and looked in the other direction.

"Tell him that I am Marvieux, the secretary."

"You are mistaken. I am the secretary. But I suppose it doesn't matter. You aren't properly dressed for admission. But I shall try my best, though my lord the director lays a great stress on etiquette."

He went over to Gorchev, and touched his shoulder.

"Listen, there is someone here named Marvieux to see you."

"Let him in."

By then the number of onlookers had increased to over a thousand. The policeman lined them all up, so that the cars could continue on their way.

"What is it you wish, my dear Marvieux?"

"I would like to apologize in the name of the hotel, and may I suggest, with due respect, that you honour me by taking a place among our guests..."

"I don't mind if I do," said Gorchev and stood up. "Mr. Vanek, will you join us."

"All right," Mr. Vanek said, waving his hand as though he were making a serious sacrifice and off he set in his multicoloured clothing, with his umbrella held high, like an African queen in low spirits. The manager's secretary was slightly taken aback.

"Mr. Vanek is my private secretary, and my first cousin..." said Gorchev. "Perhaps you have some objection to him?"

"No, of course not, of course not..."

They marched onto the terrace. Gorchev smiled, and greeted the girl in the red dress, who turned away. They sat down at the largest table, and the waiter appeared.

"What happened to your eye," enquired Mr. Vanek, and Gorchev, too, turned with sympathy, but then ordered haughtily.

"You may bring me a beer! And what will you drink, Mr. Vanek?"

"I'd rather eat something this week, whilst I have five thousand francs."

Gorchev nodded in agreement, and Mr. Vanek ordered, carefully and thoroughly.

The porter was swiftly produced and gulped down. Then began the parade of the courses, an intimidating procession if there ever was one. Mr. Vanek, Improvised Secretary, Privy First Cousin to His Lordship, tied the napkin about his neck in the manner of real family men so that the long corners rose to stick out on the back of his head like pointed ears. In this posture he reviewed the food parade, like a general.

"What's your reason for being in Nice?" asked Gorchev.

"I don't know."

"Then it seems that we're in the same boat. May I tell you quite honestly, I like you because, despite your poverty, you preserve your self-respect."

"My dear sir," spoke up Mr. Vanek, and sadly looked around at the lordly guests on the hotel terrace. "I don't imagine that you understand from what heights I've dropped, and so low."

"Unfortunately I cannot take you to a more distinguished hotel than this..."

Mr. Vanek didn't continue his speech. He ate several roast ducks, one or two cakes, and then he lost consciousness.

"Waiter!" called Gorchev.

The waiters marched in, led by the manager's secretary.

"You called, sir?"

"Have you a royal suite in this hotel?"

"Yes, of course, sir. A twelve-room apartment."

"Then have Mr. Vanek placed immediately in those twelve rooms. When he recovers, tell him to come and see me."

"And where will he find you, sir"?

"I don't know."

With this, Gorchev left.

"You see," said the manager's secretary instructing the waiter with the injured eye," this is the type of guest on which a world-famous bathing resort can be founded, until an uncle comes along. Most of our guests are eventually put in asylums by their uncles."

Gorchev rushed straight to the Boulevard Victoire, in high spirits, whistling. On the corner he wrestled with a few taxi-drivers, then he went to the barber's, where he took a few winks while they combed his hair and shaved him; but first he sent over a few boxes of chocolate to the waitress in the cafe across the street.

This was a madman, mad as a hatter, even a blind man could see that.

Then he went to Lafayette's, a large department store, where he took care of his most pressing needs. He bought a number of Mickey mice, a few tennis balls, several dozen fountain pens and four bars of chocolate. Then he dressed from head to foot. Dinner jacket, starched shirt, a shining vest button, a silk handkerchief, and a white chrysanthemum for his lapel in the way elderly journalists and the occupants of the boxes at the opera-house favour them. Afterwards he bought a bottle of perfume, and whilst a straw hat glided onto his head, he pulled on a pair of gloves the colour of which evoked a Chinese coolie perished of yellow fever. Now all he needed was a bamboo cane, and that awe-inspiring monocle. The black object in his eye, the saucy straw hat clapped at an angle on his head, he looked into the mirror complacently.

The entire staff of the shop as well as numerous shoppers stood about admiring him, and when the young man caught with his mouth a cigarette that he had flipped up in the air, they clapped delightedly. After this, Gorchev dispersed the fountain pens and tennis balls to his most appreciative audience and departed.

Five minutes later he returned. He addressed one of the shop assistants most politely:

"All my money is in my other suit, which I took off a few minutes ago."

"Yes, sir. Just a second, sir."

The shop assistant looked white as a sheet as he returned with the tremendous bundle of thousand-franc notes.

"I knew that it would turn up. Good money is never lost!" Gorchev exclaimed, and gave the shop assistant a thousand-franc note. He crumpled the others into his various pockets. The last roll of notes, held together by a rubber band, didn't fit anywhere else, so he popped it under his hat, and this time departed for good. In front of the department store, he jumped up onto the runningboard of a taxi that was passing.

"No need to put on the brakes. Let's go to some bank!"

He opened the door, and sat down next to the driver. The car continued on its way. Gorchev pulled out a few rumpled thousand-franc notes and gave them to the driver.

"Would you change these for me, old boy? I want hundred-franc notes. There's about eight thousand francs here, maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less..."

The chauffeur was sufficiently perturbed to drive a little awry; finally he stopped in front of a bank with his peculiar passenger.

If it had not occurred to Gorchev to change money, or if he had been taken to a different place, everything might have turned out entirely different. But Gorchev had come here with the taxi, to this particular bank and with that action of his he had boarded the special express train of fate, to start with lightning speed on his peculiar, terrifying, and altogether improbable adventure.

"I'll wait for you in the car. Hurry," he said to the driver.

The driver went into the bank, leaving the stranger in the front seat. At the cashier's desk he counted the money.

"Twenty-eight thousand francs!"

Was his passenger drunk or mad? One could never tell. Possibly both. Presently he returned, and once again found himself in front of the bank. With surprise he deducted that the stranger and his car had disappeared.

He stood there, perplexed, with the vast sum on his hand.

All that had happened was that Gorchev had spotted, behind the wheel of a sports car, the girl in the red dress who had smiled at him from the terrace of the hotel.

She smiled now too, as she whizzed by him, in the direction of the dock, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Halloo!

With this wild cry, Gorchev trod hard on the accelerator, and raced after the sports car with the speed of a lunatic...

Chapter Two



I

On that day, only fate's special mercy protected, from a taxi turned insane, the cars on the highway leading to Monte Carlo. Ivan Gorchev drove that taxi, at a deathspeed of about fifty thousand miles.

But some people are born with a destiny that enables them to survive all danger intact. And such a thoughtless, happy-go-lucky one is the hero of our book.

Meanwhile, the girl turned round and noticed the taxi running amok, which wobbling, veering madly in all directions, skidding violently, pursued her at a fantastic speed. She immediately changed into top gear, and the black sports car took off along the road with a leap. The engine whined and roared like an elephant, the car took the corners at an angle that made one's hair stand on end, and like a giant ostrich-plume, a tremendous cloud of gas fumes rose tauntingly in the direction of the taxi, where, a moment before, the car of the girl in the red dress had been...

And this is how they arrived in Monaco. The cabman in the dinner jacket, with his black-rimmed monocle and snappy straw hat, created quite a disturbance on the streets of the city. But the traffic police of Monaco knew that the traffic of world-famous bathing resorts is very rarely founded on the visits of completely sane tourists, so on the taxi crashed.

Very few people in this world have ever driven a car with more audacity and with less aptitude than Ivan Gorchev. But he was still able to escape catastrophe. Please don't misunderstand, he didn't avoid catastrophe. No, indeed, he drove into it at all costs! Catastrophe avoided him - that was the situation. Now, for example, he raced right through a red light.

Brakes screeched on all sides.

Drivers cursed.

A maid, by the window, screamed and covered her eyes with the dust-cloth... And the taxi raced on! Halloo!

This man had all the luck in the world... Now they were driving along the serpentine road which led to the Casino of Monte Carlo, and the young man waved his straw hat and laughed.

The car of the girl in the red dress came to a stop in front of the 'Hotel de Paris'. The taxi made a smart turn through the beautiful English garden that decorated the square, and with a slight miscalculation, but comparatively accurate braking, it stopped.

Only a small section of the bonnet rushed in through the hotel door, but this sort of thing could really happen to anyone.

The madman calmly got out of the car, handed the terrified desk-clerk a thousand francs. It would seem that he wouldn't use a smaller denomination. The desk-clerk bowed and arranged at once that the taxi be towed down next to the pavement.

Gorchev immediately rushed to the alarmed girl with a triumphant smile. But this time he didn't escape an accident.

A broad-shouldered, hard-faced, immaculately dressed blond giant appeared from somewhere. He saw Gorchev and measured him up with a freezing glance.

"Are you acquainted with this gentleman, Annette?" he asked the girl.

"No! And it's exactly this intolerable situation that I wish to change," the Nobel Prize winning sailor said gleefully.

"This is how I define intrusion."

"My dear sir, it would seem that you have no idea about the style of a gentleman. Nowadays no one who wears a beautiful double-breasted jacket like this matches it with bad manners."

"Are you willing to give me satisfaction for that insult?"

"Of course," answered Gorchev with a reassuring smile. "However, I haven't the time to go through a long drawn-out process. If you seriously wish to stick to your aggressive ideas, we can fight, but right now, special delivery."

"All right, I am Baron Lingeström."

The other hesitated for an instant.

"And I am Prince Chervonets," he said finally,"...first lieutenant of the guard, the Tsar's obedient servant to the bitter end, and so on, and so forth... Where shall the clashing point be, uncleushka?"

The girl stood, frozen.

"In the Officers' Casino of Monaco. I think that the gentlemen will be at our service, even though they are not acquainted with us. I shall await you there," said Lingeström, and sprang into a waiting taxi.

To his great astonishment Prince Chervonets sat in the driver's seat, and connected the meter.

"The taxi is my own, my dear Duelovitch Baronotchka," he said, and started the motor. And the taxi rattled away with its mad driver, and the astounded Lingeström.


II.

Annette Laboux stood sadly in front of the hotel. The young man with the laughing face was undeniably impudent, but he had such a pleasant face, and was so merry and gay. Lingeström was a giant, who lived for sport only, and was no doubt a fencing champion, too; he would slice that light-headed, scatter-brained, but delightful fool to pieces. Come to think of it, by what right was this Lingeström fighting for her, she asked herself with waking fury. After all, he was not her fiancé!

She didn't like the baron, after all. Just who did that baron think he was?! It was six months ago that he had unexpectedly appeared at their house, and had discussed long with her father, but strictly between the two of them. Since that time he had been trying to appeal to the girl. Up till now his attempts had been unsuccessful.

She sat down at one of the coffee tables before the hotel. Here she sipped, with a heavy heart, a raspberry juice...

A good hour and a half later a clattering car arrived. The vehicle was a taxi and at the steering wheel sat the mad stranger in his straw hat. And wearing a monocle, too.

This time the car stopped quite neatly beside the pavement. It was with the merest crunch that it touched the bumper of a nearby car.

But the stranger didn't bother with such trivialities as a bent bumper. All in all, his stopping manoeuvre had been quite successful. He rushed straight to the girl, and sat down.

"I hope you weren't bored?"

"You..." stuttered Annette,"...left here with Baron Lingeström. What happened to the baron?"

The young man lowered his eyes, and awkwardly twisted his straw hat.

"Answer me!"

"I sliced off one of his ears," he answered shyly. "Anything wrong with that?"


III.

"Lingeström was wounded??!"

"Well... he has something to remember, but after all, what's an ear... especially if they sew it on again..."

"So... his ear was injured?"

"And... his head..."

"His head too...?"

Gorchev nodded apologetically.

"It isn't a big cut, five inches, to say the most, the only thing is that it's a little deep. I couldn't help it. When I cut his arm and chest the doctor suggested that we stop the duel. But that Lingeström is a diligent sort of person and he continued fencing at all costs, even though he was covered with bandages from head to foot, and looked like an angry advertising board."

"You should be locked up in an asylum! As a prince, aren't you ashamed of what you've done?"

"Who said I was a prince?"

"You."

"Well, I'm not. My name is Gorchev, and I'm no prince."

"Then why did you say you were? Do you generally lie?"

"Very rarely, and even then only on questions of life and death..."

"Why did you say you were a prince?"

"Because I'm ashamed that I'm not. A Russian emigrant who isn't a prince should disappear from the surface of the earth these days."

"You are saying ridiculous things again."

"This is something you can't understand... a terrible tragedy: I am Gorchev, Russian, and neither a prince nor even an officer of the guard." He sighed. "My parents moved to Paris before the war. I was born there. My father was irresponsible, and didn't try to establish contact with the guard in his youth. He was simply poverty-stricken, and he emigrated."

He delivered the whole with such pitiable face that Annette could not but laugh again.

"You're amused at this? Do you know what a bitter fate it is to be neither a prince nor have any contact with the guard?" This he burst out as if he were on the verge of tears. "A Russian houseowner, with neither title nor rank, is less in Paris than a fishmonger, because in the market they know a Count Nazostin, who plays the balalaika. Now what can I hope for, whose father was just a houseowner, but had no connection to the bodyguards, and didn't even kill Rasputin? I must ask you not to spread the story, because I'm terribly ashamed of it..."

"You are a profane man. You make a joke of everything," answered Annette, but smiling.

"Really? Well, then get this, I can't even speak Russian! Don't you understand what a tragedy this is? My parents always spoke French, to practise the language. My first love left me for good when, at a theatre, she asked me to translate the Cossack folk singer's song about the Volga, and after I had translated it, it turned out that the singer in question was a Greek actor, who had been singing selections from the Merry Widow... Don't laugh at this tragedy! It cries out for revenge against the corruption of American films and French film criticism. The only things I know in Russian are popushka, uncleushka, and brotherushka. Possibly sisterushka. That's all."

In a little while the girl, although she herself didn't know how it happened, strolled off with the young man, along the narrow, sloping trail, which led from the Casino to the railway-station, and where a sweet little pavilion was hidden among the trees. Into this pavilion they went.

"My dear fellow," said Annette, "if my father scents a breath of scandal around my person, you will have to face the consequences."

"In which case I will immediately ask for your hand in marriage... Which is not such a bad idea. Would you like to be my wife?!"

Annette looked at the boy, frightened. Unfortunately she liked Gorchev very much. But it was useless, he was insane!

"Now you're thinking that I am crazy. Well, you're wrong! Maybe, when it comes to serious matters I leave a tiny bit to be desired, but I am not crazy. So you can say 'yes' quite calmly."

"But I don't even know you."

"That's what makes it such a good idea!"

"Tell me something... Don't think that I am being nosy, if I ask a question. What have you been doing up till now?"

"Lots of things. I was born in Paris, where my irresponsible father, whom I have already mentioned, neglected to establish connection with the guard, or at least kill Rasputin, and because of this negligence, he was forced into business in Paris."

"What sort of business?"

"Such small-scale business that he could carry the whole thing in his neck. He sold sweets in the street, I too became a bread-winner precociously. At the age of twelve I was employed as assistant instructor at a sports school."

"Is that where your proficiency in fencing comes from?"

"Yes. But I am a master of everything. I was a pianist, have been a sailor, a tennis trainer, I am an excellent driver, and most skilful on the stock exchange..."

He felt that he could give a more realistic picture of himself, if in the meantime, he put on his monocle. The girl laughed at him for this. He prickled.

Evening fell. They discussed many things, and went walking on the big terrace behind the Casino. They may have even kissed each other, but this is not established. One thing is incontestable, which is that a great love began that evening.

This behaviour is natural between two young creatures. Even beside the sea.


IV

After Gorchev had said good-bye to the girl, he rushed straight to the Casino. He decided that he would finish off the enterprise, that he would explode the bank. For some incomprehensible reason, he did not choose the methods of explosion that had proved successful many times, like a picric acid or dynamite bomb; instead he picked roulette, that game of chance, a figurative method of exploding the bank.

Within an hour he had won two hundred thousand francs.

Within another hour he stood there in the Casino, exactly as he had left his position on the freight ship 'Rangoon' - without a penny to his name. He whistled softly.

What now? Unfortunately, he did love Annette. How could he marry the girl without a penny? Instead of furniture and a proper standard of living, he could not offer her romanticism as a substitute.

He walked out on to the terrace, where, who knows why, busts of famous composers and authors were dotted around, as if they had some connection with games of chance.

Suddenly he noticed a strangely familiar figure. The ghostly individual moved about in an old-fashioned loose tail-coat, wore a white bow-tie, and his pants flapped over his shoes in humble folds, as pants generally do when they are too long.

The tail-coat was quite loose, and the two flaps beat themselves against the ghost's heels from behind. Diplomats on the screen wore this type of clothing in the earliest days of the cinema.

Good Lord! That's Mr. Vanek!

"Hello, what's the matter with you!"

"Good evening," said the secretary resentfully. "Nice situation. I was trying my luck."

"And?"

"I lost everything. Would you mind giving me a thousand francs."

"I haven't a penny, old boy."

"The name is Vanek."

"All right then, we're finished, Mr. Vanek."

"But you are a millionaire."

"Nonsense. And you expect a millionaire to guarantee your well-being? I hereby relieve you of your duties."

"What do you mean? I've received my wages."

"But a beggar cannot keep a secretary."

"Even if he has already paid for it?"

They moved off to the square in front of the Casino, Mr. Vanek scolding Gorchev violently.

"You are a frivolous man!"

"But Mr. Vanek!"

"Quiet! You had no right to squander my next month's salary. You can be irresponsible in so far as your own future is concerned, sir, but not with that of another person!"

"You are right. Now, tell me where you got those tails."

"If you really wish to know, I rented them from a boatmaker. He was married in them eighteen years ago, and has taken excellent care of them ever since..."

"I wouldn't think so to look at them..."

They arrived at the 'Hotel de Paris' where Gorchev had left the taxi. To his great surprise, sitting in the driver's seat was the chauffeur, who had gone into the bank for a moment to get the change. Now peacefully and sweetly he snoozed by the steering wheel of his newly recovered vehicle.

The result of some miraculous telepathy, he awakened when Gorchev neared him, and called loudly:

"Sir!"

"What are you yelling for?"

"You owe me an entire day's salary! And what's more, you are in debt to me for one bumper."

"What did you need a bumper for?" interposed Mr. Vanek reproachfully.

"I didn't remove your bumper," said Gorchev to the chauffeur. "It just got all dented."

"That is a total of four hundred francs," the driver went on. "Here is twenty-seven thousand six hundred, and in the future I refuse you use of my taxi without my permission."

With that he indignantly handed over a stack of thousand- and hundred-franc banknotes to Gorchev. Which was the amount which he had changed in the bank that morning.

Whoever heard anything like this? They stood there as people who had been hit over the head. Mr. Vanek began to hiccup. Meanwhile, the grumpy driver had already started the motor.

"Here is a thousand francs," said Gorchev finally. "Your reward."

"Thank you," answered the chauffeur and drove off.

Mr. Vanek turned to the young man in fury:

"You're still throwing away thousands? Aren't you ashamed?! You should learn from past history!"

And he castigated Gorchev terribly...

"But Mr. Vanek, an honest finder certainly deserves that much reward?"

"In future, please refrain from this type of donation, even in situations where it is justified, until you have proper reserve funds."

"All right. Although I wished that you'd allow me to advance you two months' salary, since I would like to make certain of having your valuable service. But if you feel that I shouldn't throw my money about..."

"What?..." Mr. Vanek nervously twisted his head, then he nodded permissively. "Well, all right, I won't mind one exception to the rule."

"Thank you," answered Gorchev gratefully, and handed him eight thousand francs.

"It's all right," Mr. Vanek said sullenly, and pocketed the money. "I hope that from now on, you will not have occasion to regret having hired me. Now I suggest we dine..."

"You've recovered from lunch?"

"Oh, there was nothing whatsoever the matter with me," he said haughtily, and pulled his white vest down from the region of his throat. The dicky of his dress, it would seem, was waiting for this moment, because it immediately shot upwards and flapped in his face, as though Mr. Vanek's head were a box which had been awaiting a lid.

The tail-coat Mr. Vanek was wearing behaved like an unmanageable beast, when it attacks its tamer. However, after a short but exciting battle at close quarters, Mr. Vanek put his rebellious pieces of apparel in order, with the exception of one malicious, blood-thirsty vest button, which clawed him resolutely as if it had vowed that by midnight it would wriggle from his vest to his shoulder-blade, where it would neatly pop off the secretary's back.

Gorchev was increasingly pleased that he had recruited Mr. Vanek. With a great deal of enjoyment he watched him stand there in his unhappy tails, like the owner of a summer garden restaurant in a picturesque part of pre-war Budapest, where the Prince of Wales and his escorts had reserved a table for the evening. His cuff-links were larger than was necessary, and for this reason they fastened his sleeves in the rounded position of a stove-pipe, and his rosette necktie had started out on a journey and had got to the stage of his earlobes, where it rested at present. The nose of his dried-out patent leather shoes curled up in a semi-circle, and his thin, long, grizzled hair was disorderly from the great excitement. His rounded, wide nose, peculiar moustache, pince-nez and tormented face blended themselves with his clothes in complete harmony. But it would seem that he was pleased with this Sunday best, because he glanced at himself from head to foot, with satisfaction:

"Would anyone notice that this morning I was nothing but a docker?"

"Anyone who saw you now would swear that you were a philandering watchman in a wax museum, whiling away the evening in the tails of Bismarck's wax model."

"The tails are quite all right," motioned the secretary curtly and decisively. "You are no expert in a gentleman's fashions. Let's go to dinner."

"Reserve a table, and I'll come at once."

The wax museum tails got particular attention in the dining room as well, especially when Mr. Vanek pulled his pince-nez out of his pocket, so that he would be able to study the menu with the appropriate profundity. He discussed everything from hors d'Å"vres to dessert, from wine to mineral water.

"And please bring me immediately a glass of water in which two entire lemons have been squeezed; I suffer from a lack of acid."

"All right, sir."

"It's not all right, as I haven't been able to receive proper treatment for some time."

Before the dinner was served, Gorchev returned.

"I feel completely different if I have a hundred thousand francs," he said. "This sort of thing puts me into a much better state of mind."

"From where did you get so much money?"

"I thought that while you were ordering, I would go into the roulette game, and play my fortune on the rouge. I won by accident. I consider this a good omen, so I left the whole thing to play on."

"You irresponsible man! Have I advised you for nothing?"

"I admit that I acted improperly, and I won't do it again. But at the same time I am happy about the money, because I can now assure myself of your services until almost October."

"Not even that excuses your irresponsibility."

Meanwhile, they began to serve the food, and Mr. Vanek became silent for a longer period of time.

Gorchev drank a few bottles of beer. His usual high spirits, despite his luck at the roulette table, had escaped him.

He liked Annette Laboux's sweet childlike face very much, with its long, beautifully arched eyebrows.

He was in love. And very much so at that.

On the other hand, Mr. Vanek ate. That is if one can call it eating, if a man, showing complete disregard for his teeth, swallows food whole. He proceeded to work on a whole turkey, with a determined sigh, as David must have done so long ago, when he threw himself into battle against the remaining Philistines, with but one ass jaw. Of course, the secretary was dependent upon his own jaw in this combat, but he stood his ground as firmly as David.

"What should be done, Mr. Vanek, if you were to faint here on the spot?" asked Gorchev prudently.

Before answering, the secretary swallowed the half turkey that was in his mouth, and then briefly informed him of the immediate precautions to take.

"Shirt and collar to be unbuttoned, left to lie in open air for a few minutes, perhaps artificial respiration, and sixteen drops of camphor spirits."

Gorchev made note of these instructions, and continued drinking. When Mr. Vanek finally fell under the table, he handed the paper to the waiter.

"Proceed with the instructions, and then to Nice with him, to the 'Hotel Méditerranée'."

He settled up the bill and left.



If you ask for it, I can take in more



Flagg

Hey, then I shall try the more wasting time way. So be it. This will destroy spam and also expand it, weird.

There is a frog, he is high in the Chingoocha mountains odering his kingdom to eat slime, and that slime contains mashed bongabeans, sliiicooodamilies, apple pie and OMG Bacteria, OMG Bacteria contains zoozacxando particles, GGHGJGTFHJ tablets, txt m bck mobile phone cells, LMFAOLOLROFL blobs and Yoputaropwetongifayian cheese, Yoputaropwetongifayian cheese contains high-resolution cheese grating straight from a giant's feet, Hodafogpowaqmandifanzoxlityrando yogurt fresh from the river flowing down the McGandle's food chain, crushes flowers from the Ragu sun and toto powder from a thousand moons, a thousand moons contain exo-plasm straight from the ghouls of tandolia, interweb fresh from the PC spiders of macrihard cave and the glasses of Dorkiebob the loser.

I wrote that all from the tp of my head, it took like 10 minutes and I didn't copy and paste anything. I hope this post is 1000 words.

hmmm, so you want me to write as much stuff as possible aaaalll at once... sounds like a spam inducing idea, but at least it will concentrate it all in one place, allow us to vent our random thoughts and take up spammers time as they struggle to write more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more words...

(i did that without copying and pasting, you know when your fingers get into a kind of rhythm? it's almost trance-like, at first it requires concentration, but seoon you have it down, under those fingers, and it just keeps on coming aind coming and coming and coming and coming and coming and coming and coming and coming and, oh sorry, i got lost in that one too, whoops! it might be quite good guitar practice, i play the bass guitar you know, and this is a potentially viable method of training my fingers to follow whatever pattern i give them...then again it probably wont work.. though my fingers are starting to hurt, it's very good exercise for them, but most likely teaching them bad habits, after all, my right hand is supposed to pluck not tap... i guess that is why my right hand is hurting more than my left, because it doesnt do so much exercise like this... come to think of it my left doesnt hurt at all... the again, as a right handed person, i am probably using tmy right more than my left...interesting huh? and now i've forgotten what i was talking about at the beginning of this bracket... let alone the whole comment! does this often happen to you? you rant and rant and forget your point? it doesnt really happn to me to be honest, i have a habit of checking what i had written before so as not to make a fool of myself by making no sense... on this occasion however i am letting it go! freedom to type, wahtever i want to type! as MUCH AS I WANT TO TYYYYPE this is a good thread =) oh yes, i remember my point t the beginning of the bracket (or parenthesis as some people call it... why do we always have so many names for the same thing? silly silly english language) trance like state induced by doing this over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and oh my, that is fun, please do try it! find the words which work best for you and LET IT ALL GO ... i should end this bracket in the name of sanity...)

NEW PARAGRAPH! i love paragraphs, they make things very easy to read, i bet that last lump of text is very dense, difficult to read, simply because it has no paragraphs. a huge lump of block text is very daunting don't you think, you feel obliged to finish it before stopping for a break, because you might lose your place in amongst the many many sentences within (i stopped myself at 2 there with te manys, go me =D) it's almost like a jungle of text, but much less colourful and interesting! by the way, can you guess where i am from, spelling colourful as i do? to make it clear, colour. this is a very fun little journey i am going on here, it allows the mind to wander, and to take the paths it always does, but to expand tham, to spend time there when it mostly skims past, it also allows me to acces a wide range of vocabulary, not that i really have yet, but given time, i am sure the opportunity shall arise, and i shall strike most peremtorily, throwing all of the longwinded phraseologies and words at it i can... but for now, i shall continue to perambulate through my mind, at a more gentle pace... oh i am so witty :P so i guess i've been writing for a good 5 minutes now, yes, writing always takes longer than you anticipate..oops, i need a to add a paragraph for clarity

and so i shall continue, breaking many laws of good writing as i gogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogo!!! that was more like drumming than trancey just copy and pasted this into wrd and it is unfortunately only 786 words(well that isnt the exact number, infact i forgot and made that up, the real number is 728,i just checked again) not that it is any more (though it's probably closer to 786 now!...ok 775) gosh, it actually becomes quite tiring just writing and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing andwriting and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing ndwriting and writing, which is why i just took a little break from having to think and went into that trance again oh gosh, am i going to make it to 1000? i do not know, it is ever such a long way :S but i will, i know i will, i shall never give up hope! god, how sad am i?

this would probably make quite an interesting psychological investigation, is that why you did it dear boy? mattt wth 3 ts, are you a psychologist? probably not, but you could be traning? i guess i'll never know, unless i recieve a letter asking for my permission to have my text studied as part of an investigation... nahh! nearly there! sorry i'm not making sense am i, i'm at 931 wrds, yes this is probably getting very boring now, i'm just trying to make it end, i'm rather tired, didnt sleep very well last night, lots of dreams, but i wont describe them right now, that would take far too long and i jut dont have the effort!

Matty 360, i hate to break it to you but i doubt you reached the 1000 word mark, just a feeling i'm getting seeing as this is JUST OVER i win :P

I will post a story I wrote...

this is the story that I called Royadin after... I created this name, story, and I made it before I Created Royadin here... So it is copy written!


Attack Of the Inkcus
By Th**** Le*****er (can't tell you my full name... sorry)


Log one: Sinalon: Lord over the domain of the Elves:
A brief account of all that happened to make what is today

Seventeen years ago, in a small, remote farm in a small village, a baby was born during a time of war. The Inkcus, were attacking from the south, and it seemed as if nothing could save the peaceful norther villages. Inkcus, are large, elf shaped creatures with black, smelly, shiny goo all over them. They can stand up to seven feet tall, and are difficult to kill. Their eyes were bright yellow, and there teeth were as sharp as the sword they carried. The poor human folk could do nothing, as the army they had, already was being sweeped away.

The baby was loved by his family, and he grew bigger every day. When he was one year old, And as the Inkcus surrounded the border, he had another companion join him in life. A baby sister whom they called Sariah, which in the language of her people meant: After the first, was born. It was at this time, unlike other family's, they gave their first boy a name at age one: Royadin, which means: defender of good.

After Royadin was ten, and Sariah was 9, the the Inkcus had surrounded the last village in the north, Royadin's and Sariah's Village. But the people of the village had one last hope. There was an underground tunnel, which led to the outskirts of my domain. We, the elves, had not been overrun, and the small, northern human villages had always gotten along with them. This is where Royadin spent the next seven years of his life, and where the life of his parents ended.

It happened after the fifth year of staying there. I noticed that Royadin and My Daughter, Yewin (Daughter of light), who was 52 (An elves average life span is 250. Yewin was about 14 in human years. I am 200. I am about 60 in human years) at the time were spending much time together. Also, the Inkcus had taken over most of the other, smaller villages. The only ones standing, where the Men of the great city of Retim which means: City of Kings, The great elven country of Riveryon, which means: flowing Peace. This is where Royadin, Sariah, and their parents were staying. The deep undergrund mines of the dwarves, and the tall peeks of the Karick, which in the elven tongue (the only people who have every seen the Karick) means Birds of wisdom. No Inkcus could every reach the top, with out being grabbed with sharp claws, and flung down the mountain. Royadin was fifteen.
His parents, told me that they could not stay in my Country, unless they could pay for the protection. I told them this:

âIn times of need, The elves do not ask for reward, but the reward would come from YESCONCO (God).â

They said:

âThank you for this offer of protection, but we must settle down somewhere and farm, it is our duty. We are going to the great city of Retim (City of Men), And there we will start a life, and come back to bring the children. The journey will be to much for them now. We will bring back cart and horse.â

I tried to persuade them to stay, For I knew it is not save to travel those days. They refused. I sent them along with fifteen guards and my blessings. A couple of months later, a guard came into Riveryon. He was sweaty and covered in dirt. He was the last of the seventeen sent out before. Including, Royadin's and Sariah's Parents. They were attacked by the Inkcus. He was the last surviver. Royadin and Sariah heard all. Sariah went to her room to wept, And Royadin Said that is must have been the will of YESCONCO. I agreed.
For the next two years, I noticed that Royadin grew and looked much like man at sixteen. His sister Sariah, at fifteen, was the most beautiful human girl I ever met. Also, Royadin and Ywin were practically inseparable. Nothing undesirable had happened in that time between them.
On Royadin's seventeenth birthday, Two months from now, he said that he would be leaving to start a life in Retim. He looked at Yewin and said that he would be back. I understand now that they are more close then friendship. Five days after his birthday (he was seventeen), he waved goodbye with a sack on his back and an ancient elven blade I gave to him and blessings. I think I saw Yewin shed a tear on his departure. I understood. We never may see him again.
Two day before, I gave him the blade. âUse it carefully.â I said to him, âAnd it will cut through evil like the light of YESCONCO.â I then showed him some of the art of the sword for the next two days. I had the feeling that he would get more practice in the days to come. It has been two months sense he left. I wonder if he made it to Retim? I wish my best for the boy. Yewin spends more time in her room then in play or chat with Sariah. I hope my Daughter is Fine. I will call for a doctor.

End of Log





Log two: Benkir: King over the City of the Men:
A brief account of all that happened after Royadin left the Elven Country


The expanse between the elven country and Retim is vast. I am surprised that the boy made it. Let me tell you what he told me. As Royadin traveled across the vast green lands, his mind was all on Yewin. She was indeed beautiful, and her heart was in the right. Finally his thoughts wondered to where he was. He looked at the map that Sinalon: Lord over the domain of the Elves had given him. According to the map, Royadin was coming to a special part of road. A valley with a river, where a storm never stops, for it is stuck in the valley. Royadin had to decide weather to go around, a 15 hike. Or to go straight though, a 5 mile hike at the most.
Royadin, with his sword shinning, begin the descent into the valley. Even half way down the valley, winds began to blow, and a little sprinkle hit his eyes. The ground became so slippery with water, that he was forced to put away his sword. He told me this was his mistake. When he make it to the bottom of the valley, the storms were so high, that he had to crawl along the ground, barely able to see. Royadin saw a small light in the distance, maybe half of a mile away, so, thinking that is was a house, he made his way toward it. He was very wrong indeed. It was the light, from the eyes of maybe ten Inkcus strong. Royadin lay flat on the ground.
The Inkcus were about ten yards away walking toward him. He told me that at that point, is was to late to run. The Inkcus are very fast runners, and can out run an elf in a sprint. The storms were so high, that he could not hear them speak but as they approached, he could he muttering. Royadin, in a ditch effort to survive the stamped, remembered what Sinalon said. He pulled out his sword. Then the most amazing thing happened. The sword, turned a bright blue, then yellow, then pure white. The Inkcus cowardered to the ground, and dissolved into a pile of dirt. The sky parted, and the sun beamed down upon Royadin. Royadin told me that if felt as if YESCONCO was talking to him. It filled Royadin with life as he got to his feet and held his sword higher. The ground dried up, and the rain had stopped. In this way, with sword raised high, he made it across the valley and up the other slop. As soon as he left the valley, the storm came up again, and the ground was soaked soon again. After walking another mile, Royadin was tired. He found a small cave that went back about two yards. There is where he ate and rested until morning. That was Royadin's first confronter with the Inkcus.
When Royadin woke up, it was daybreak. He looked at his map. He was about 20 more miles from Retim. I two day hike. He was about to go outside to start, but he heard a deep growl from outside the cave. There were two Inkcus outside the cave. Royadin saw there sickly feet. He unsheathed his sword and slowly crawled out. They did not see him, and seemed to be having a conversation with a lot of growls and grunts.
Royadin was just straighting up outside the cave when a twig snapped under him. The two Inkcus jumped, and turned around. One, lunged at him with a down cut. Royadin barely had time to bring up his guard. The second did an leg swing, and Royadin jumped over with much trouble. Finally, after a few swings from the opponents, he was granted a free swing, and with it, he swung with all his might. The sword shown brightly, as his sword cut the first beast in half, splatting green blood as he fell to the ground. The second one caught him off guard, and slashed at him, nipping him in the right leg. Royadin screamed in pain as the blood came out. Royadin countered with a thrust. The sword shown, and the Inkcus fell with a two inch slit in his chest, from which blood poured.
Royadin fell to the ground, sobbing in pain. He was covered with green blood. But there was some red blood also, on his right leg. The wound had gone in about one fourth of an inch. I must say that Royadin did very well minding his wound. He ripped off some of his shirt, and wrapped it around the wound. He got up, and in the distance, he saw a spring. He hobbled over to it, washed the wound and drank. After the cloth was washed and put back on the leg, Royadin was on his way to me, Benkir.
He got about six more miles that day, the wound the Inkcus had given him slowing him down. Now it would take three days to journey to me. Royadin had an awful sleep that night filled with nightmares. Would he every see Yewin again? Would he ever see his sister, Sariah? Would he get to the City of Kings? Finally, Royadin fell into sleep.
The next day was very uneventful. Royadin walked about ten miles that day. He lay down to rest that night, very thirsty. He saw the City, looming over him. Four more miles, four more miles he thought. The next morning, after traveling about two miles, he came upon a river we in the city call Felendy (River of strength). He drank from it, at was relieved. His leg was not doing well. It was swollen, making the walking extremely difficult. He knew that he needed help. After another mile of walking, he collapsed from the pain in the hurt leg. Who know what could have happened to him if he was not discovered.
A traveling caravan found him, and saw that he was still alive. They took him to me. I have paid the man well. Royadin, when he woke up told me all his experiences. So I took sympathy on him. And gave him a room in my house. Royadin's leg got better, and so I gave him a farm near the castle. I also gave him livestock, and seed. Royadin stayed in Retim until he was twenty years of age. He was in Retim for four years. After we were in to five months in the fourth years he came to me to show me a letter. At this time, Royadin was very wealthy and well known in Retim. The letter was from Sinalon. It read:

Dear Royadin,

Please come to the elves again Royadin! Yewin has fallen sick, And in her sickness, she calls after you! I know you too were friends many years ago, but ever since you left four years ago, she has been to her self. But recently, she has been getting worse! I don't know if you made it, but if you did, come back to us! Your Friend,
Sinalon Lord over the domain of the Elves
I immediately gave him my blessing, and sent him off with thirty men, three wagons, ten barrels of wheat, and six horses. I heard from all thirty men today that have returned. They say that Royadin got there without much trouble. They also say that They saw two skeletons of two Inkcus. I wish my best for Royadin.

End of Log




















Log three: Sinalon: Lord over the domain of the Elves:
A brief account of all that happened while Royadin was here

Royadin Came into Yewin's Chambers and knelt down next to her. Slowly, her eyes flutered open and she gaspped:

âRoy...a..din...

She grasped his hand. Slowly, her eyes fell, and she fell in to a deep sleep.

âThat is the first sleep that she has had for some time.â I told Royadin.

He sat next to her until morning. In the morning, Brought hope, for She ate her breakfast and walked around a bit. Royadin Seemed very glad, and so did she. I left them to talk while I sat in my throne room. About thirty minutes later, Royadin came to talk to me. The question he asked is not any surprise.

âSir, I have gained I high Standing in Retim. I am head trademen. I have a standing among the King.â He began, âI...I... Also feel as if YESCONCO thinks highly of me.â

âThis is all good Royadin, but what is your purpose here?â

âI...I... Love your daughter sir.â

I felt a interesting feeling inside of me.

âAnd?â I asked.

âI know that is is strange.â Royadin Said to me. He started to pas. âMen do not Marry Elves very often.â

I told him that, He would be able to marry my daughter, if he did me a favor.

âWhat favor?â He asked me.

I told him all. The dwarves, who live in the South are not pleased with us. They are the only ones, keeping us from feeling the full throttle of the Inkcus. Their Mountains cut off half the Inkcus's route. The dwarves do not like how, The elven domain borders their border very closely. They want more room. They are threatening to more to the mountains in the north, if you do not move back. I told Royadin that people are already settled there. There would have to be a large relocation for the elves that live near the dwarves. I said that I understand, that, if we can not determine other ways of negotiation that we would have to move. I told Royadin that we needed him to go as a negotiator for us. âThen you may marry my daughter.â I concluded.

He nodded and said that he would stay until Yewin was better. I agreed. Three months later, after Yewin was up and about and fine, Royadin left our presents, Promising to come back to take Yewin's hand. I gave my blessings for Royadin, and his negotiating.


End of Log
Log four: fornick: Master over the Mines of the Dwarves:
A brief account of all that happened while Royadin visited our mines


Royadin came to us today! The little cheater of the elves, sending a man to take their place! Oh well. Royadin told me it took him two days to get here. Mostly through Elven Domains. That must mean they are very close! I don't like it! I told him that if he can beat Gorogan, our best, then he would win. Royadin pulled his blade out, And elven blade. I always was scared of those things!
Gorogran, which means: strength of Iron, Pulled out his long, sharp ax. I thought that he could win! He was our best. Gorogran ran toward Royadin, screaming! With a down cut like that, I did not think anyone could block. Royadin didn't. He jumped to the side, knocking Gorogran helmet of with the flat of his sword. Gorogran looked dazed, like he could not understand why Royadin did not just kill him. I was pretty happy when Gorogran twirled around spinning his ax like crazy! But Royadin just jumped back and slashed off his breastplate. Can you believe this man! Talk about showing off!
Gorogran understood what Royadin was doing. Finally! But is was too late. Royadin practically jumped over his head, and with the flat of the sword. Knocked Gorogran down to the ground, and then again, in the back of the head. Gorogran slumped to the ground unconscious. I can't believe that Human! He had to jump over our head, proving that we were small! But I got back at him.
I told him that we need help fighting the Inkcus. I told him that he would have to go to the Karick (eagle people) to help us fight the Inkcus back to the darkness! HA! What a bet! He said that his goal was to keep us from moving so he could marry the Elf daughter! The little lier! This task I gave him is an impossible task for an man! We will move, Human negotiator or not! He left this morning! I doubt he will ever come back... At lease, I hope he doesn't.

End of Log
Log five: Sinalon: Lord over the domain of the Elves:
A brief account of how Royadin brought back the Karick

I can't believe it! Royadin... Wait, let me tell you from the beginning. Royadin came back from the Dwarves and told me all he went though! Can you believe those dwarves? He said that these circumstances were going to put the wedding behind. I told him something else. I had reseaved a letter form Retim. They have captured Northern and Eastered Parts of the Villages of Men from the Inkcus! They will have to capture Southern and Western Villages before anyone can enter the villages once again. They are requesting Royadin's help but I have sent a letter stating that he is busy. I also have told Royadin about the news and he is very happy. He left with supplies, Men, and love from Yewin. He is about to leave for the dwarves, and he has the... Wait, let me finish what happened after he left us to go to the Karick.
He left us with ten elves. They walked about one day when they came upon a troop of Inkcus that were going up the mountain once again. Royadin caught them off guard and with my blade, single handedly killed ten of them, half the lot. He said the three of the solders that were with him died also.
The climb was hard for them and traveling was slow up the side. It took them three days just to make it up half way, and they had run out of supplies. The dwaves caused all this trouble! Two more elves fell off, and and another three died of hunger of food. They came to a spring on the five day of the climb, and the two elves and Royadin Drank greatfully. On the six Day, they came upon a deer, which they killed and ate. One more elf though, did not make it this far.
On the next day, the worst thing that could happen came about. Three Karick spotted Royadin and the last elf. They sounded the alarm. Royadin told me it was a hideous screech. Five more Karick flew over the top and dived. Royadin told me with much sorrow that he tried to save the young elf with him. Royadin told the elf to pull his sword, but with one fell swoop, a Karick took him away. But Royadin did pull out his sword. It gleamed and shown. The clouds in the sky parted, and a light beam fell upon Royadin. The Karick instantly Landed near Royadin. The light quavered, and a deep screech came from above. The Karick bowed their heads, and the light from the sky when away and the cloud returned to normal. The sword still was glowing.
The Karick flew into the air, and when around the Mountain, and Royadin still held his sword high. Then, from around the Mountain, came Twenty Karick! Royadin said that his sword quivered in his hand. Then all of the Karick flew in a circle above Royadin. Then, all together, the Karick let out one mighty Screech. Royadin dropped his sword to cover his ears and it was at this moment, a Karick reached down, and grabbed him.
Royadin was taking high above the lands below, to the very peak of The mountain. There, he was dropped, on a bed of hay. One Karick flew over to him, and perched. He said:

âWhat is your name?'

Royadin stood up. The creature was about twice as long as himself. Royadin told the Karick his name. The Karick said:

âMy name is Ucafan.â

Royadin then told Ucafan his purpose there, and why. Ucafan understood and let out a screech. Ten Karick came and landed. Ucafan screeched something to them and they all flew away except for one. Ucafan. He said:

âThose ten will take you to the elves, where then we will go to the dwarves. Get on my back.â

So Royadin then traveled to us on Ucafan's back, and is now traveling to the Dwarves, to fight in finally fight of our time. While he was gone to the Karick, Benkir capured back the last two villages, South, and West! The only place left where the Inkcus remain, is south of the Dwarves. This will determent the out come of our life's to come. I do have a surprise for Royadin though when he gets to the dwarves again.


End of Log


















Log six: Fornick: Master over the Mines of the Dwarves :
A brief account of all that happened at the last battle of this earth against the Inkcus



It looks as if Sinalon brought us one thousand elves strong. Or not so strong, they don't look very strong. And boy did Royadin look surprised when he saw Benkir with his 2000 men strong. But he can't possible be as surprised as me when I saw that Royadin actually brought twenty Karick! Including Ucafan! That boy is a wonder! Well, he is not really a boy any more, a man and marr... No... I better not tell you yet, let me start from the beginning of the battle.
Royadin led the front of the battle lines with the elves, men, and dwarves next to him. The Karick flew above. There were the Inkcus, in a big huddle around this big blob thing. They turned and saw us, running toward them. They all then grabbed there swords and charged back at us. That was some fight. Then the blob thing that they were all huddled around begin to grunt and groan and squirted black goo in the air... The sky turned black as night, and none of us could see anything. Then, Royadin drew his sword. It pieced the darkness and with a thundering sound, broke the darkness and YESCONCO spoke in a loud voice. The blob quivered and was silent.
Our army's clashed. Royadin, Benkir, Ucafan, and myself led the troops into battle. I did wonderful and Royadin did fine. His sword pierced all who touched it, and was eaten by light. In fact, Royadin seemed to glow himself. I looked up, there was the light of YESCONCO shining down on him. after seeing a sight like that, I fight like mad... I could not let him beat me now!
My axe was sharp and i cut down many. Royadin seemed like he fought for a purpose, a purpose I wish I knew... The Inkcus flooded down on us, and Royadin was much skilled at the blade. I bet it was just because it was an elven blade. Those elves, they get everything. I should have not been so hard hearted. I should not move, I belong in the mountains, where I was born.
The Inkcus were sweeped down, like grass on a windy day (I did not know I could be so poetic!), only the blob was still there. It quivered. Of the men we had left, 896, of the elves, 598, of the dwarves... A lot. Royadin walked toward the blob. He said,

âIn the name of YESCONCO, Yewin, and Sinalon. DIE!â

With that he stabbed the creature through the middle. It let out a cry that knocked him back. That was the end of the war with the Inkcus.


End of Log














Log seven: Benkir: King over the City of the Men:
A brief account of all that happened after the war


Royadin was married to Yewin in the City of Kings, ten years after they had met. And when he kissed her, Sinalon knew he had found the perfect husband for him. And when Sariah Kissed Leben of the Elves, that man she met while in the elven domain, Royadin knew that time of hardship was at an end for the four. Even Fornick, who cried a little, knew that staying in the hills, is where he belonged. And I, Benkir, King of Retim, and ruler of the Villages, knew that Royadin, when I met him, was no normal boy. He ended up, to be one of the most known heroes, to the land of our earth.
YESCONCO granted Royadin long life. He lived to be 125. His wife, Yewin, whom loved him to his last days, lived to be 243, about 70 in human years. Fornick continued his life in the mountains, and Sinalon, continued his lordship over the elves. I went on to live to be 87, for I am in my sick bed now. I feel a great honor, that I knew, Royadin, Hero, Killer of the Inkcus.

For some reason, it does not like these quotation marks, so that is what they are... those a?? things... sorry

I would like mattt15s prfesional opinion on this. So far Flagg has the longest comment and it is 16 word pages long (I copy and pasted it into one) Now the thing I want to post is 76 word pages long. Is that going too far bearing in mind it is just one word. I'm not sure whether to post or not.

You need to have created it...

You need to have created it...

I just think that anyone can post a book, but why not make it interesting to other people and post a story or a report you wrote?

The reason why I posted a book, because English is not my mother language. I won't write my story in English, because it will be a piece of ****...

you dont need to have created it according to mattt15's rules, but the title is write as much stuff as you can (we'll take typing as writing, so dont get picky :P) and copy/pasting is not that