New Book, Chapter 2

Sorry it took so long to get it out there.  I'll try to be faster next time!!!!

Chapter 2

“Mike?  You don’t mean like the Archangel Michael, do you?”

After everything that had happened to him, Mark didn’t think there was any way he could be surprised again, but finding himself face-to-face with God’s own problem solver was a bit disconcerting.

“Hell, son, I don’t put a whole lot of faith in the stories they tell about me.  Call me Mike or Michael, whichever you want, and we’ll be just fine.”

Mark quickly replied.

“Yes sir.”

Michael smiled at Mark, and it was the smile of a predator who’d just locked eyes on easy prey.

“Sir?  I think I might like that even better.”

Both Jay and the old man chuckled at Michael’s response, and the old man motioned for him to have a private conversation.  Jay led the two outside, keeping a respectful distance as he did.  The old man spoke first.

“I believe that if you have everything under control, I’ll be on my way.  I don’t want to risk bringing our friends down on us.”

Michael agreed.

“After what happened in Rome, I can’t say I blame you.”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, catching Mark as he tried to both eavesdrop and look innocent at the same time.  Michael raised his voice.

“Well, son, you coming or not?”

Mark hesitated, seemingly uncertain of what the right answer was, and Michael patiently waited several seconds before calling out again.

“Dang nabbit, son!  When I ask you a question, I’m expecting an answer!”

The harshness of the tone and words jolted Mark back to reality.

“Yes.  Yes sir.”

Michael nodded, and the four men continued their walk away from the house.  What Mark saw outside brought back feelings he hadn’t had since the War.  Eleven men, dressed in identical white dusters, were guarding the perimeter of the property, Winchesters at the ready.  As Mark took a closer look, he thought he saw something familiar about them. 

He was also amazed by the wagon he and his three companions headed towards.  Wells Fargo didn’t have a strong wagon as impressive as this metal monstrosity, and it gleamed as the midday sun hit it.  He was taken with the level of protection it afforded, and even more impressed when two of the men he’d noticed milling about took their positions on the driver’s bench, armed and ready to go.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

Jay’s voice drew Mark back into reality.  It occurred to him he’d been staring off for too long.

“Yeah.  She is.”

“Too bad there’s a real need for her.”

Jay’s previously jovial tone seemed to turn momentarily somber, but it passed, and he smiled as he clapped Mark on the back.

“Good to have you on board, but you might regret it once Mike’s done with you.”

Michael’s reply carried over quickly.

“I heard that, you little long-haired punk.”

Jay grinned again, then headed for a small cluster of men, with whom he discussed plans for the return trip.  Mark couldn’t hear the conversation, and so allowed his focus to turn to Michael, who was in the middle of what appeared to be a heated discussion with the old man.

“I’m telling you, sir, I’ve got this under control.”

The older man shook his head, though Mark could swear he noticed a slight grin as he did.

“I knew you’d object to the offer, but I don’t think it’s wise to leave you and Mark alone right now.”

Both men became aware of Mark’s attention, and quickly moved to end the discussion, though Michael got the last word.

“I can handle a few demon dogs.  What’s important is that we get you home safe and sound.  Just send my usual messanger with the gear.”

The older man allowed a smile to break across his face, mischief in his eyes.

“You DO realize Jay’s going to start taking it personally if you keep asking for her to bring things to you.”

Michael grunted.

“Serves him right, the little punk.  Never mix business with pleasure.”

The old man laughed again, shaking Michael’s hand as he did.  He then moved to Mark.  As they shook hands, he stared Mark down with a serious gaze.

“Now, son, I know you’ve been through a lot today, and I’m sorry for that.  Michael will answer as many of your questions as he can.  But, make no mistake, his job is to whip you into fighting shape, so don’t be surprised if that gentle exterior of his gets hard on you.”

A lump formed in Mark’s throat as they finished the handshake.  Unable to speak, he smiled and nodded as the old man turned and climbed into the coach.  It took mere seconds for the calm silence to transform into a flurry of motion as the carriage and all of the horses sped off—precious cargo in tow. 

Michael stared after them until long after they’d sped from view.  Mark just stared silently—taking in everything he’d seen and heard without saying anything.  After several minutes of that, Michael turned and headed back to the house.  When Mark hesitated to follow, Michael called out over his shoulder.

“Until I tell you otherwise, you go where I go, son.”

Mark fell in obediently behind him, and they both walked back to the house in silence as the sun set.

The early part of the evening passed in silence.  Mark fixed dinner for himself and Michael, and neither of them spoke.  The silence continued as they ate, then as Mark cleared the dishes.  Mark had finished straightening up the cabin, putting fresh linens on the bed and laying out a sleeping pallet when Michael finally spoke.

“I know you’ve been through a hell of a lot today kid, and I’m sorry about it.”

Mark shrugged.

“Wasn’t your fault.”

Michael shot Mark a curious glance.  The comment had come out with no emotion, not even sarcasm.  He slowly shook his head.

“If you’ve got something to say, son, I’d suggest you say it.  Starting at sunrise, I’m gonna be riding you like you ain’t ever been rode before, so you if you’ve got something to get off your chest, tonight’s the night.  Cuss, scream, yell……hell, son, do SOMETHING other than stand there with your feet sunk in the mud.”

The sudden burst of emotion from Mark came as if shot from a gun.

“Sunk in the mud?  You think I’m moping around?  Let’s take a quick look at how my day went, shall we?”

Mark was furious, mixing anger with sarcasm and waving his hands wildly as he spoke.

“First, I get shot up by a bunch of men who stole my girlfriend.  Next, I find out that instead of being dead and able to relax inside the pearly gates, I’m actually still alive and talking to the Almighty himself.”

The more Mark spoke, the more animated he got.  Michael had to work hard to hold back a smile.

“God….I mean, who actually TALKS to God?  And when I do, what does he tell me?  He tells me I’m going to be his new Avenging Angel, doing his bidding in exchange for my life.  How the Hell do you answer that?  I want revenge, and He’s giving me the way to do it, but….”

He stopped, his anger released.  He blinked hard several times before finally sitting down at the table.  Michael said nothing, choosing to give Mark the chance to gather his thoughts.  When nothing came, he stepped in.

“You’re not sure if you want to do it anymore.”

It wasn’t a question, and Mark knew it.  Michael had said exactly what he’d been thinking.  When the old man had laid out the plan, Mark had initially seen it as the way to get revenge for his untimely death.  The fact that God had swapped the word “justice” for “revenge” hadn’t slowed him down a bit.

“You’re right, you know.  It’ll never be the same again, regardless of how this all works out.”

Mark nodded, unable to speak.

“This new life comes with a serious catch, son, so you need to understand it before we go any further.”

Michael leaned forward, locking eyes with Mark as he continued.

“You can never, and I mean NEVER, have contact with the people you knew in your past life.  From this point on, you’re dead to them.  They can never know you’re alive, why you’re alive, or what you’re up to.”

Mark’s expression asked the question he couldn’t find the voice to.

“Nobody can know about you.  That’s the price.  You’ll never have a permanent home.  Hell, son, you’ll be lucky if you get to sleep in the same place more than once.  Other than the old man, Jay, myself, and the rest of the boys, you’ll never have a family.  We’re it, for better or worse.  Better still, this is an ‘all-the-time’ job—you don’t get days off.”

Mark interrupted, having finally found his voice.

“I thought you were supposed to be SELLING me on the job, sir.”

Noting the sarcasm, Michael smiled.

“You’ve got pluck, kid.  I can see why they chose you.”

Leaning back in his chair, he produced a cigar from one of his pockets and a match from another.  He lit the smoke as he continued.

“I AM supposed to sell this job to you.  Thing is, though, I don’t want to get you doing this only for you to decide a year from now that you got ripped off on the deal.  Figured I oughta be up front with you, and the hard truth’s about as up front as I can get.”

Mark nodded, and Michael continued.

“I’m giving you the choice I didn’t have.  When everything first went down, the old man needed a general, and he needed one quick.  I volunteered to take the job, knowing I’d be fighting some of my friends who changed sides, but I knew that if the old man fell, we’d all fall.”

It occurred to Mark what it was Michael was talking about.

“You mean, when Lucifer declared war on God and was sent to Hell?”

Michael nodded.  Mark was stunned.  He’d expected Michael to give him a speech to bolster his confidence, but had never expected the older man to share his real feelings.  At least, not like this.  Realizing Mark was unable to speak, Michael filled the silence.

“I never even considered what it would be like to do this job.  The old man needed me, and I stepped up.  All these years later, I still wonder what would’ve happened if I’d let somebody else take the job.”

Noticing Mark’s jaw dropping, he smiled, changing his tone.

“So, you’re not sure you can do this job.  Who is?  I mean, when the old man agreed to let me do this, I didn’t know which end of the flaming sword to hold.”

Mark laughed, but quickly stifled it, gazing in fear at Michael, who allowed the smile to remain on his face.  He nodded and continued.

“That’s what I wanted you to do—lighten up a bit.  Look, I know you’re not going to be sure what to do at first.  That’s why I’m going to be here to work with you.  Later on?  Your instinct will kick in and you’ll take action without even thinking about it.  That’s our goal.”

Mark nodded, understanding.  Michael took another drag off his cigar, then snuffed it out on the sole of his boot.  He slowly rose, stretching out as he did.

“Okay kid, enough small talk.  We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, so I suggest we turn in.”

Mark nodded, heading for the pallet as he did.  Michael held out a hand, stopping him.

“I’m used to sleeping on the ground.  I’ll take the floor.”

Before Mark could thank him, Michael smiled and added.

“Besides, once I’m finished kicking your ass tomorrow, you won’t be able to sleep in a comfy bed for weeks.”

New Original Work of Fiction......

So, when I first created this blog, I said I'd use it to post original writings from both myself and my friends.  This, dear readers, is the first original writing, and it's one of mine.  It's the first chapter of something I've been working on for a few months, so take a minute to read it, and let me know if you're interested in reading more.  If enough people like it, I'll keep trying to churn out at least a chapter per month (maybe more).  CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ONLY, PLEASE.

Chapter 1

“This isn’t what I thought it would be like.”

Mark Turner’s last conscious thought on earth was as cryptic as it was prophetic.  Lying in the middle of his house, his blood rushing out from the fist-sized hole in his chest, it was the only thing that came to his mind.  He’d lost the ability to move his arms minutes earlier, and now felt the cold grip of death working its way from the tips of his toes north towards his head.  When it reached his knees, he knew his time was nearly over.

A lifetime’s worth of memories rushed through his brain:  his childhood on the farm in Kansas, falling in love for the first time, the horrors he’d witnessed during the War of Southern Aggression....

What he focused on in his final moments, however, was the woman who had gotten him into this situation, though it wasn’t her fault.

Three years ago, Mark’s life had changed forever.  Shortly after Easter, a friend of his had introduced him to someone who’d just moved to town.  Mark had reluctantly agreed to the meeting only after his friend had reminded him that “No man should have to die alone.”

As Mark now felt his life leaving his body, he mentally laughed at the thought that he was, in fact, going to die alone. 

Sandy had moved to Sutter’s Ridge from Iowa a few days before they met.  She’d been widowed twice-  once by the war, again by smallpox-and had decided to leave Iowa for the Kansas plains.  She was a simple woman:  she dressed plainly in dresses she sewed together herself, she insisted on tending to the garden, milking the cows, and helping Mark take their produce to town to sell every week.  She believed in God, but never tried to force her beliefs on anyone else, Mark included.  He’d also loved the fact that while she was a very attractive woman, she went to great lengths to be as plain-looking as she could be, since she valued beauty much less than most other people, preferring instead what she called “intelligent conversation.”

His mind froze on her face the first time he made her laugh.  It wasn’t the dainty laugh of a fragile woman, but rather the loud, bellowing laugh of a woman who’d lived her life to the fullest.  She did, and because of that, so did Mark.  They’d packed three years together with as many memories as some folks did in an entire lifetime.

He then focused on the last time he’d seen her, moments earlier.  She was crying and screaming his name after he’d taken two barrels of buckshot to the chest.  One of the last sights he’d had was of her struggling with the two men who were trying to force her out of the house.  He’d secretly feared something like this would happen for quite some time, but had never been able to convince her to move.

“God will look out for us, my love”, she said every time he’d suggested leaving Kansas for somewhere safer.  Not wanting to offend her beliefs, and knowing he’d lose if he made it an argument, he’d always agreed to stay.

As he lost the feeling in his chest, and felt death finishing its work on him, he thought about the man who’d put him in this spot, and it both angered and saddened him.

Six months ago, a fellow by the name of Darren Night moved to Sutter’s Ridge.  He’d come from Missouri money, and brought that money with him, buying up most of the businesses in town and building his fortune quickly.  Night was a man who got what he wanted, either by buying it outright or eliminating his competition, and the rumors had it that more than one opponent to his purchasing property had been removed from the equation, permanently.

Night had quickly taken an interest in Sandy, but she’d made it clear she was only interested in Mark.  That hadn’t stopped Night from showering Sandy with gifts, which she’d promptly returned to him, usually unopened.  That had only caused Night to double his efforts, which included subtle threats to Mark about who would “take care of the lovely lady should something happen to you.”  Eventually, the threats became less subtle, and that was when Mark had first suggested to Sandy they leave town.

He was beginning to feel that he should have been more forceful about that, but knew she’d have never agreed to it.

The feud came to a head an hour earlier, when three men broke into the house, armed to the teeth.  They’d swapped off, with two men beating on him while the third beat and raped Sandy, then swapping out until all three had taken a turn with her.  At some point during the attack, Mark had managed to get his hands on a knife, and when he used it to slash the face of one of his attackers, their mood got much darker.  The man who’d just finished with Sandy grabbed a double-barrel shotgun and pumped a round into his chest. 

Somehow, Mark had managed to stay on his feet, staggering towards the man and still brandishing the knife.  When the second barrel discharged, he knew he was done.  So did the men, who quickly gathered their things and dragged Sandy out of the house, leaving him to die.

Which he was about to do.  Mark felt the last movements of cold going up his face, freezing his nose and eyes.  With his last ounce of energy, he thought out a final prayer.

“May God look out for you, my love, since I was unable to.  I’m sorry.”

With a sudden jerk, Mark sat bolt upright, eyes open in a look of complete surprise.  Looking down, he noticed that the hole from the shotgun slugs was gone, his shirt whole, clean, and as neat as when he’d put it on that morning.

He blinked several times in confusion, wondering to himself whether or not he’d dreamed the whole thing.

“That wasn’t a dream, friend.”

Frightened by the deep, bass voice that interrupted the silence, Mark turned slowly to face the source.  His gaze stopped on the well-dressed stranger sitting at his dinner table, cards laid out in what appeared to be a solitaire hand.  By the looks of his clothes-black suit pants, starched white shirt, tailored black vest, red and white polka-dotted bow tie—Mark took him for Northern, big city money.  The stranger’s face—smooth, with a white moustache and beard and glittering green eyes—had the look of authority, but the type of man accustomed to GIVING rather than RECEIVING orders.

As Mark took in the stranger, he spoke again.

“Your death wasn’t a dream.  Those men really DID break into your house, you really DID get shot, and you most certainly DID bleed to death.”

Mark was having difficulty processing what he’d been told.

“But….dead men don’t just sit up.”

The stranger laughed.  It was a deep, long laugh, like someone laughing for the first time in a long time.

“That’s true, son.  Dead men don’t just sit up.”

“But…you just said I’m dead, and I just sat up…”

The stranger nodded, taking a moment to make a play on his game.  He smiled as he moved several cards to the top of the table.  Finishing the move, he looked back up at Mark.

“Stand up, son.”

When Mark looked back at him, confused, he repeated his request with a bit firmer tone.

“Stand UP, son.”

Mark complied, slowly standing up.

“But, I don’t see what this has to do with…”

The stranger held up a hand, cutting off the remark.

“Open your shirt.”

Mark blinked twice, but did nothing.  The stranger smiled warmly back at him.

“Son, if you want answers, I can give them to you, but you’re going to have to start trusting me.”

Mark slowly nodded, then began unbuttoning his shirt.  After undoing several buttons, he gasped in horror as he noticed the hole in his chest.  It was covered crudely in skin that was scabbed and bloody, but it did appear to be healing itself in some way.

He looked up at the stranger, shocked.

“How…..?  Why?.....”

The words died in his throat.  The stranger nodded in response.

“You died, son.  You took two barrels of buckshot to the chest at darn near point-blank-range.  Ain’t no living through that.”

Before Mark could respond, the front door opened.  The man who stepped through was as dark-skinned as the older man was light; darker skinned, in fact, than anyone Mark had ever seen who wasn’t of African decent.  His tan hat matched his road-worn duster.  He set his Winchester rifle by the door as he entered, sliding out of his duster and hanging it on the coat rack.  He was dressed like a working man in denim jeans, a red-plaid work shirt, and had spurs clanging on his boots as he walked.  Mark also noticed the ivory-handled Colt Peacemakers on each hip.  His facial features, while darker, were similar to the older man as well.  His moustache and beard, as well as his hair, were dark black, and his long hair was pulled back, keeping it off his shoulders and out of his way.

The new entry headed for the fireplace, grabbing the coffee pot hanging over it and pouring a cup.  He addressed the older man as he did.

“The boys have everything secured, sir.”

The older man nodded.

“And John?”

“He’s headed into town to collect our friend.”

“Well done.  Thank you, son.”

Mark suddenly found himself unable to speak again, which the new arrival noticed.  Failing to hold back a smile, he broke out into laughter, a rich baritone laugh that contrasted with the older man’s, as well as being the laugh of a man accustomed to much laughter.

“I told you he’d have trouble with this, sir.”

The old man nodded.

“We were just getting around to discussing Mark’s present situation before you came in and stole the show.”

The younger man bowed his head, embarrassed.

“Sorry, sir.”

The older man smiled.

“No apologies needed, son.  Get comfortable while Mark and I finish our conversation.”

The younger man grabbed a chair and moved near the window, positioning himself so he could see his men outside.  The older man returned his attention to Mark, who was still staring at the younger man quizzically.

“Before we were interrupted, we were discussing how you could be standing here if you’d died.  The truth is that you shouldn’t be.”

Mark’s stare returned to the older man, though shock still held his voice in check.

“No one can survive what you went through.  Even if you’d been shot in a hospital, you’d have died from that.”

Mark staggered as the reality of the situation set in.  He managed to grab the chair opposite the white-haired stranger, sliding into it before he fell over.  The old man sat silently for several minutes, waiting for Mark to speak.  Finally, Mark found the words for his thought.

“So, why am I here?  Why am I sitting here talking to you?”

The old man nodded.

“To answer your first question, you’re here because this is your house and this is where you died.”

He smiled at his comment, though it was obvious to him that Mark didn’t get the joke.  He quickly shook his head.

“Your second question is a bit more difficult to answer.  You’re sitting here talking to me because I have something to offer you.”

Mark was still confused.  The older man picked up on it, smiled warmly, and continued.

“From time to time, those who die an unjustified death are given the opportunity to return in order to gain justice for their deaths.  They agree to perform a task, and in return are given the skills necessary to complete the mission.  Once that happens, that person can finally rest in peace.”

Mark seemed to take it all in, but it was obvious he had a question.  The old man nodded for him to speak.

“So, basically what you’re telling me is that somebody’s giving me the chance to get justice for my death, but I have to do something for them in return, and I go back to being dead afterwards?  No offense, but it sounds like a shit deal to me.”

The younger man spit coffee as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back a laugh.  The older man smiled, saying nothing.  He continued to stare at Mark as if he knew he had more to say.

“Besides, who in the hell has that kind of power?  Sounds like selling your soul to the Devil from where I come from.”

The old man finally spoke up.

“The Devil isn’t the only one who can offer that sort of bargain, son.  There is someone else who could make that deal.”

“Who?  GOD?  Right.  Where was God when those bastards beat and raped Sandy?  Where was he when they took her away?”

Mark angrily stood up, leaning across the table and poking the older man in the shoulder as he continued.

“Where was God when those bastards shot me to death?”

The older man’s face shifted to a mask of neutrality, but he said nothing.  The younger man, however, replied in a calm but firm tone.

“In spite of what you’ve heard about God, he can’t be everywhere at once.  He can’t see everything at once.  And, contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t control everything.  He just nudges certain things here and there to help things happen.”

Mark was back to looking confused.

“How the hell would you know that?”

Both men smiled back at him.  Mark laughed, certain he was being played for a sucker.

“Okay, boys, I think we’ve had enough of the little joke.  Unless you two want to tell me what’s really going on here, I suggest you both leave right now.”

The old man nodded.

“If you want us to leave, we will.  However, your death wound will re-open, and you’ll die minutes after we leave.  I can only assure you that what we’ve told you so far is indeed the truth.”

Mark’s anger was swept away by not only the sincerity of the man’s words, but also the tone he used.  He felt a calm pour over him as the truth settled in.  He stared at the older man in amazement.

“You mean…..you’re…..?”

The older man smiled again.

“I go by many names, son, depending on where I am.  My associates call me ‘sir’, or, for some of the less reverent, ‘old man’.  You may use either.”

Mark nodded, addressing the younger man as he did.

“That means you’re….?

The younger man chuckled.

“Call me Jay.  That’s what the rest of the guys call me.”

Mark nodded somberly.

“I’m sorry, sir, that I questioned you.”

The old man shook his head.

“None needed, son.  You’ve been through a heck of an ordeal today.  I don’t blame you for being a little suspicious.  Besides, despite what you might have heard, I appreciate those who aren’t afraid to question me.  Keeps me on my toes.”

Mark nodded appreciably.

“So, you’re offering me the opportunity to get revenge on the men who killed me and did those things to Sandy, but I have to do something for you.  Plus, I die afterwards?”

The old man shook his head.

“Make one thing very clear, son.  I’m NOT offering you revenge.  We don’t DO revenge here.  What you’re being offered is the opportunity to get justice for your death.”

“But I’ll still owe you a favor, and I’ll die anyway once that’s done.”

“Yes and no.  Yes, I will ask you to perform a task for me.  However, this task is of a more….ongoing nature.  So, as long as you perform the task, you will live.”

Mark eyed the old man suspiciously.

“What’s the catch?”

Jay’s face lit up.

“He’s starting to sound like the guy we’ve been looking for, don’t you think?”

The old man smiled.

“The ‘catch’, as you put it, is that the task I’m asking of you is a permanent post.  I am in need of a new ‘associate’ to handle certain jobs for me, and I’d like you to take the position.

Mark took a second to consider what he’d been told, then laughed.

“An ‘associate to handle certain jobs’?  Sounds like the Angel of Vengeance to me.  I thought you said ‘we don’t do revenge here’?”

As Jay spit coffee again, the old man replied.

“I can see why you’d think the two are related, and, to humans, they are.  To me, vengeance is a bit different than revenge.  You see, there are beings walking this earth that have been sent from below, their only mission being to undo the words the faithful live by.  They tempt, steal, make hellish bargains, and do whatever they can to undermine me at every turn.  The Angel of Vengeance is the soldier I have tasked throughout time to deal with the situation, and the position currently stands open.”

“And, so long as I do the job, I get to live?”

“Yes.”

Mark smiled, stepping forward and extending his hand.  The older man accepted it, returning Mark’s handshake with one of equal force.

“I’m please you’ve chosen to accept the position.”

Mark nodded.

“I don’t know if I believe everything you said, but if it gives me the chance to get the bastards that took Sandy, I’m in.”

The men broke away, spending several long seconds sizing each other up.  The sound of approaching horses outside filtered in, and Jay rose from his chair, nodding to the men.

“I believe that’s our friend now.”

He headed out the door as he finished, grabbing his coat and leaving Mark’s question directed at the older man.

“I’m sorry.  ‘Our friend’?”

The old man smiled.

“The man who will be handling your training.”

“Training?”

Mark seemed confused again, though the old man had expected nothing less.

“Of course.  If you’re going to be my valued soldier, then I owe it to you to provide you with the best possible training.”

“And this…’friend’….is the best one to do it?”

The old man nodded.

“He’s the only one I can trust to do it properly, I’m afraid.”

As he finished, the door opened again, and Jay stepped through, followed by a short, thin, sickly looking man dressed in hand-me-down clothes.  His hair was matted and unkempt, as was his beard.  He wore no hat, and his sole possession was a tattered carpet bag he clutched as if it were gold.

The smile on Jay’s face told Mark there was something more to the new arrival than met the eye, so he chose to withhold his negative comments until they’d been properly introduced. 

The old man stepped over and shook hands with the new arrival, clapping him on the shoulder as he did.

“My apologies for the difficulties you’ve been put through recently, old friend.  However, your workload will lessen once you get our new friend here trained.”

The new man didn’t reply.  Instead, he stepped forward and eyeballed Mark, apparently checking to see if the old man had sold him a bill of goods.  After several minutes, he nodded approvingly at the old man, who smiled, relieved.

“I’m pleased he meets with your approval.”

The new man snorted before replying.

“He’ll do.”

His voice was, to Mark, a very annoying combination of high pitch and Southern drawl.  While the sound hurt his ears, Mark quickly realized he was being tested, relaxed, and extended his hand.

“I guess you know I’m Mark.  You are?”

The new man took the offered hand in a grip that belied his size, burned a hole through Mark with his steely blue eyes, and replied in a tone that had changed from high-pitched and annoying to deep and damned-near scary.

“Not that it’s gonna matter much, friend, but you can call me Mike.”