JUNE 19, 1988 — Having regrouped from the previous day's encounter, I had time to collect myself, to reflect. I thought a lot about what had happened. I thought about what Kong meant. And I felt deeply unsettled. I kept coming back to what would Granddad have done in my situation?

Of course, I couldn't say for sure. But it troubled me greatly.

It may seem silly, but I couldn't help but think:

"Am I even worthy of the name Denham?"

Just then the phone rang. It was the Colonel. He asked to meet him at the "designated time," near the "appointed spot" and to "tell no one."

He was so transparent.

So we met and, of course, he was somewhat mute on the subject of "Ororgog." The more time I spent with him the more I realized how "measured" the Colonel was. He had more information than he was letting off to be sure. He wasn't secretive, per se, but rather only disclosed details as they became pertinent.

Still, the upshot to the meeting was to the effect that we needed to take the beast off life support. But such an undertaking was no mere two person job. We needed help.

It was time to make some friends.

So we arrive to the spot, and I open the door with a definite bit of apprehension. It was a feeling I thought I had worked down in light of recent events. I enter, and a person approaches. I took a deep breath. I didn't know why I was so nervous. I mean, it wasn't like the spot was unfamiliar to me.

"Hi," states the salesgirl with a little pep, "Welcome to Bargain Cabana. May I help you, today?"

"Yes, Yuliana," I reply spying the name tag, "You certainly may help us."

To be clear, Yuliana was the new girl, and we hadn't formally met. But I had heard good things about her.

Sure, the Colonel was incredulous, to say the least, about this part of the plan anyway. But strangely he placed a great deal of trust in my judgement. And to be fair, he said we needed someone outside the military who could be trusted, someone who could take orders, someone motivated at an "unconventional" opportunity.

Totally.

I mean ask yourself, "Who is more motivated than the new girl trying to earn the respect of her peers?"

Of course, I suppose I could have gone down to some den of thieves brimming with thugs for hire, but on an hourly salary who can afford that?

Yuliana, now, she was doing it for the experience.

Plus, the fact she was a fluent Russian speaker was a bonus. Something which I figured might come in handy.

At length, our party decides to take the fight to them, over to Detroit.

Night falls, as my little “Pon’iac Gran’am” speeds down Interstate 90. We had been traveling light and as quick as four cylinders would take us. Excepting for Yuliana who insisted on bringing what appeared to be an oddly-shaped Soviet guitar for luck. But on the subject of the extra passenger, the Colonel began to make certain reservations of his a bit more vocal.

"You sure we can trust the spy?" whispers the Colonel gesturing to Yuliana.

"I'm not spy!" shouts Yuliana overhearing with a certain flair for righteous indignation, "My family, they, come from Cleveland. I am daughter of collective farmer."

"See? Collective farm girl," I retort smiling to the Colonel's annoyance.

The Colonel fixes me with a look but otherwise does not respond.

Apart from the Colonel, Yuliana and myself, no one knew of our intentions or so I thought.

About an hour and a half in, I begin to notice a car not too far back. Normally, I would think little of it.

But everything has got me on edge.

I look over to the Colonel, as I watch him glance back every couple of minutes.

I nod. He nods.

"Go for it," he says.

I slow down, as the following car nears a bit closer, I pop the trunk.

But in another instance, I turn way aggro slamming the accelerator.

My Gran-Am races down the highway as a barrage of dark blue objects rapidly ascend towards the pursing vehicle.

The vehicle swerves haphazardly, full-on harvey-wallbanger-style, hastily attempting to divert its path from the oncoming onslaught.

The oncoming onslaught of bargain denim.

It's a miracle it didn't crash.

We keep moving but we weren't out of the woods yet.

'Round thirteen-minutes pass, and we start to see headlights coming in hot. Fortunately, it was late and the road was pretty much empty otherwise.

Just then I hear loud pops and my side-view mirror completely shatters.

They've open fire on us.

The Colonel readies his riffle out the passenger side and meets their fire with some of his own.

I should be scared. Normally, I would be scared. But I felt changed somehow. Maybe I was, maybe I was a bit frightened, but there was something else, it was exhilarating. Rad, even.

Strangely, though, in the thick of it all, Yuliana appeared the calmest out of any of us.

As bullets whiz by us, and the unmistakable rat-tat-tat of gunfire resounds. I could distinctly hear the Colonel's riffle popping off, but, suddenly, another sound was closed at hand.

One I could not possibly forget, one all to familiar.

There came a shrill shriek.

I floor the pedal as hard as I could, but it was too late. A shadowy form covers the windshield. I feel the car shift. Gravity jerks me around, as the car lunges sideways. I fear I am about to crash.

But then, another jerk, and I facing the driver's side window. I look out. I see woods. I see creeks. I see hills.

I see them from above.

We are airborne. In the clutches of the monster, Orogog. And stranger still, I hear. I hear music.

I turn and behind me, and I see Yuliana, eyes closed, playing on her weird guitar thing. I notice the Colonel with the same look of bewilderment.

I turn to the Colonel. He turns to me. I raise an eyebrow. The Colonel shrugs, reclines his seat, and with hands across his chest proceeds to go to sleep.

I was about to protest. But on second thought, what more can one do in such a situation?





JUNE 20, 1988 — I awaken to daylight. I find myself still buckled to my seat, alone in the Gran-Am, which is now back on solid ground. I unbuckle and step out. I am in the middle of some woods; however, I could hear traffic not to far off in the distance. The sound of laughter calls my attention.

Of all people, it was the Colonel.

I see Yuliana and the Colonel, who appear to be engaged in some lighthearted conversation. I approach them and am immediately greeted.

"Mornin' Arlena," the Colonel says, "Trust you slept well."

"Strangely," is my reply still confused as to the means of our escape.

"And you," I exclaim, as I turn to Yuliana, "You had something to do with this?"

"Yes," Yuliana says, "But I am a friend."

I could take a hint.

"But you're not who you appear to be? Right?" I reply.

Yuliana calmly looks down and back up then turns at me smiling with a sort of stare kind of like she was looking right through me. But, it strangely felt almost, almost like she was seeing me, the real me.

"Yes and no," she continues, "Yes, my name is Yuliana and, yes, I am Ukrainian. But no, not am I any more the young bright-eyed girl, I appear to you, than you are the reluctant and non-heroic sales associate you have so thoroughly convinced yourself to be over so many years. "

Yuliana added, "Y'know, as you make yourself out to be just so— everyday."

I stood in stunned silence, and Yuliana proceeded to speak.

"A very long time ago, ages in fact, a ship got lost in the Indian Ocean, nearly the whole of the crew died. Except for my father, a few ship hands, and myself. We crashed on a shore, a very mysterious shore, the kind of place only travelers tell about. Those who live to tell about it, anyway."

Yuliana pauses, I assume for effect, gives a slight smile, a bit unsettling, and continues:

"My father was a cruel man, he was the first to go, devoured by some prehistoric dragon. The ship hands were plucked off one-by-one by giant insects or other monsters of a bygone era. But I, no. No, I was spared. See, what's travelers' tales don't tell you is the reality of such places. That reality is that such places are not dominions of the devil, but holy places, set aside, not intended for the likes of mortals. I was a child, innocent, not deserving of punishment, so no harm came to me. I lived there for many years, in fact, until I died, and became one with the place, one with the spirits, one with, you may say, the fates."

"Fates?" I reply somewhat incredulously, "I'm sorry, but really? You expect me to believe you're like a ghost or something?"

"Child," Yuliana asserts, her voice booming in a tone I could tell wasn't quite human, "Do not debase me."

I was starting to shake a little. Meanwhile, the Colonel seemed wholly unphased though I can't say I was at all surprised.

Just then Yuliana places her hand on my shoulder, and, suddenly, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of calm then she brushes her hair back revealing her ears. I watch spellbound as she covers one then the other revealing them transformed as her hand passes. With fingers closely locked, her hand moves from one side to the next, the bottoms of her ears now revealing points. And, likewise, covering her blue eyes she gently lifts her palm unveiling a miraculous shift to yellow.

It struck me that there was no puff of smoke or lightning sparks like you see in the movies. Rather it was a seamless transition, like Copperfield and the Statue of Liberty, some slight-of-hand street magic you didn't quite know how it was done. In the end, the audience left pondering if they were seeing a cheap trick or the real deal, never quite knowing which.

I supposed, Yuliana wished to keep it that way.

"Real neat, ain't it?" exclaims the Colonel breaking the silence.

"Colonel? You, you knew about this?!" I fire back.

"You're little friend here, no. But kind of had a feeling they would show up at some point. Didn't seem apt to say anything before, just wasn't pertinent."

It is at that moment, I realized exactly how much I was beginning to hate that concept, y'know, pertinence.

"So, what now? Ms. Fate?" I mutter.

"We prefer the term ryl, but I am so happy for you to ask, Ms. Arlena Denham," chimes Yuliana.

The utterance of my actual name seemed a bit all too conspicuous.

"See we, ryls, that is, are not fates. Sure, we are with and serve them. But we do not determine destiny, it is delegated to us. And the Fates, Ms. Denham, are quite interested in you. I must say," Yuliana smirks, "Yes, quite interested, very much so."

"Because of my granddad, right?" I reply without much hesitation.

Yuliana chuckles, "Oh, dear sweet, Arlena. The ancient immortal kings have transverse the world over. Do you really think it is only your grandfather's blood in your veins?"

And in an instant, I freeze. I just stand there motionless, and, for once, even the Colonel isn't immune to the news.

"It is time to come home, child," Yuliana whispers.







JUNE 21, 1988 — Who am I? If you had asked me a week ago, I would say, "Arlena Roslan." "Arlena Denham," if I were feeling venturous enough to use granddad's name. But now, I don't know. I don't know whose story this is anymore. I always felt myself part of the larger story, grandad's, Kong's, the world's, it never occurred to me that I would ever find myself at the center of anything.

But here I am.

And in a day, no, an instance, an instance, my life is pulled apart, unwound like the bit of thread at the end of a Chinese marker.

We had made good our escape and continued along our journey. We we're now in Detroit, just a short ways from the location where the beast was supposedly bound.

I had meant to ask Yuliana about Orogog but with everything that has happened even that seemed a bit inconsequential.

And I dare ask, "What am I?"

I roll out haphazardly of the formerly finely made hotel bed and get dressed. I open the door to see the Colonel seated down to breakfast, likely having been up since "o'early thirty."

"Mornin', your majesty," chimes the Colonel.

"Very funny," I retort.

"Oh," replies the Colonel, "I wouldn't say so. Ryls are known for a great many things, but lying ain't one of 'em."

"About that, the ryls. Is there anything I should know about them?" I add.

"Yes, they're awfully gaudy dressers," continues the Colonel, "And..."

"And?"

"Don't cross them, and don't step on a flower."

"A flower? You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I were. Ryls are herbalists, it really seems to tee them off for some reason."

"And where is Yuliana?"

"Closer than you think," whispers Yuliana, as I half jump out of my skin.

"Easy!" I exclaim trying to catch my breath, "Where did you come from?"

"Oh, me, I was invisible," responds Yuliana.

"Invisible?" I utter in further disbelief turning to the Colonel for confirmation.

"Either that," muses the Colonel, "Or she shrinks so tiny you'd completely miss 'er."

"Well, which is?" I inquire.

"I mean, I'd tell you, but at the moment, it just doesn't seem..."

"No, don't you dare say, 'pertinent'," I affirm.

The Colonel cracks a smile but doesn't reply.

And although, I wouldn't have admitted to him, the Colonel had a point. Only one thing really was pertinent. How best to accomplish our intended course of action. Here, we are about to storm a secret government facility and do what exactly?

I wasn't even sure, myself.

The Colonel must have a plan if only I hope. Just then a loud knock resounded from the door.

I open it with a definite bit of caution, but there is no one there and nothing save a note resting by my feet.

The note reads:



Needless, we didn't stick around looking to see if there was really a bomb.

Five minutes, maybe more or less, after we left came the answer, as a blast resounds shaking the building to its core.

We were lucky. Or, perhaps, not luck, fate.

But to the identity of our guardian angel, I still was at a loss. I assumed, naturally, the author of the note was the same individual who took out the Russian assailant in my apartment. But as to whom, who could tell?

Anyway, we didn't stick around to chat with the police but hastily got on our way to our final destination.





Later that evening, we arrived at the complex and abandoned my vehicle some length back in the woods. The area was secluded and wooded for miles around.

There, there was nothing, and little about the place was there to indicate it as a secret facility. Security with minimal, a handful of G.I.s and tall chain-link fence with a sign. The sign reads:



Something about "power convection transfer relay center" sounded suspiciously made up. Probably, because it totally was.

I felt a little under dressed for the occasion with shorts and a crop top while the Colonel was decked out in a full military uniform. But according to him it didn't matter. After all, it wasn't like we were going to hop right over the fence.

Or were we!?

I could barely contain the sheer bewilderment across my face, as the Colonel and I strolled up at the far-side of the fence like nobody's business.

But there we were.

The top of the fence was covered in Concertina wire. The Colonel, with board in hand, led me to an area of the fence near a large tree, a tree with an overhanging branch.

It was not a difficult equation: fence, branch, board.

Next thing I know, I'm on the opposite side having shimmied across a piece of plywood laid atop some rather sharp wire.

Not quite what I was expecting, but neither was anyone on-site. I suspect that was the point.

I could hardly fault them for their low security either. Sure, our infiltration wasn't covert or Bond-esque, as I might have hoped, but it was practical. Plus, it wasn't likely many knew of the site or would ever come to try to make-off with a "durn big Sasquatch," as the Colonel so eloquently puts it.

Once inside, hardly no one paid us any bother. Most were too busy saluting the Colonel and trying to look busy or stash contraband. Even when some poor soul would venture to ask the mere utterance of the word, "Inspection!" by the Colonel sent them scrambling in a frenzy.

The "plan," if one would venture to call it that, seemed to be going without a hitch, but we had to work quickly. At least, quickly enough before word got to the commanding officer.

And no sooner than the thought crosses my mind storms out, in a piping-hot rage, a lieutenant colonel.

Now, I've seen my fair share of movies but never before have I witness such liberal use of the "F" bomb in my life. To begin with—

"COLONEL! I got an outstanding [F-expletive]-ing question for ya! How the [F-expletive] you get in here without [F-expletive]-ing authorization!? Are you out your [F-expletive] [GD-expletive] mind, you [F-expletive]-ing ..."

And it continued—for nineteen "F-expletiving" minutes.

Of course, the Colonel, Rex, fired just as many back. At length, it came to exclamations of "I don't give a [F-expletive] if you can pull rank on me" and as to where one would put their boot.

It all happened so fast after that. Next thing I knew, both were down on the ground throwing blows. The Colonel had ripped the BDU top off the Lt. Colonel's uniform and lost his boot while a squad of soldiers were frantically trying to separate the two. Meanwhile, reinforcements, more like gawkers, seemed to multiply from nowhere.

But it was all going according to plan or so I hope.

Not a full five minutes later, we are hurried into a entrance and down a stairway into a holding cell. The Colonel assured me he laid him out cold. This he expressed would open a thirty minute window before anyone could figure out "just what the hell" was going on and we could make good our plan.

"But what now!" I retort, "We're in a cell with a code-key lock on the door. How? Seriously? How do you propose..."

The Colonel stops me short there and points as one of the guards steps out and another stares in our direction.

I follow his cue and beckon the guard closer and cautiously he approaches.

"Hey," I utter causally yet semi-flirtatiously, "I just like to apologize for my grandpa's behavior out there, he hasn't been right since the divorce and, well, grandma ran off with the gardener, and mentally, he's in and out, y'know, the poor dear, is there, like, someone maybe I could talk to clear this whole mess up?"

The guard glances over to the Colonel mumbling to himself while vigorously and repeatedly pointing at the ceiling.

"You better not be trying to pull anything," replies the guard and then steps up to the desk and begins dialing on a rotary phone.

The Colonel sneaks over to the bars, reaches out and starts typing on the keypad.

Suddenly, there's a beep followed by the click of the door-latch. The guard then frantically swings around reaching for his pistol.

"Don't shoot!" exclaims the Colonel, "I can see them! They're calling to me! The voices!"

"Sir!," shouts the guard, "Get back in the cell! Now!"

"Don't shoot, he's unarmed!" I shout, "And he's an O-11!"

"A full bird!?! [GD-expletive] it!" replies the guard, "Ehhh??"

"HANG ON! And stay where you are!" demands the guard, as he hastily begins dialing an extension.

Bewildered I inquire, "What are you doing?" in genuine disbelief.

"Does it matter?" replies the guard, "He's a U.S. military officer, I need authorization to do anything!"

"Okay, well, I going to go that way now," replies the Colonel, "And I guess that gives you the choice between dereliction of duty or abandonment of post, don't it?"

"Ugh! Man, this is some bull. Come on, sir, I just transferred here!" Then turning his head rapidly back and forth from the phone to us the guard continues, "Fine! Just let me come with you until we can get this sorted out, okay?"

The Colonel, turning to me, says, "Work for you?"

I give a reassuring nod, and the three of us hastily depart down a darkened hallway.









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