Cocktails and the Formless Spawn

From the diary of Irwin Bowers:

- Unintelligible.

Insert: a calling card.

"Great meeting you today, and stay in touch. Glad to help you with the McClure case"

- Jerry Christmas, New York Times, Times Square, New York.

From the diary of Mackie MacNamara:

What a keepsake. It was well worth it. What would have happened with Mackie, the High Priestess, Howard, the Hanged Man, and Moira, Death?

Dearest Mackie,

 

I had gazed upon you longingly, but I could not have imagined the carnal pleasures that I experienced and thoroughly enjoyed together with you. You followed me to a new level, a new plane of pleasure, and I would like to invite to share these experiences again, but without the awkwardness of our first exploration. I have reserved a suite at the Waldorf Astoria on Wednesday, and I will meet you for lunch in the suite at 1pm. Dress for pleasure.

 

Lovingly,

Victor

From the diary of Jules Pollack:

The weeks just get stranger and stranger. Mr. Franz Alter took Moira to a psychodabbler calling himself "Sun Ra" to reach out into her subconscious and to figure out if Moira actually killed someone last weekend at that disjointed series of events that led to Moira, Mackie and Howard being holed up in an apartment close to Times Square and dodging klansmen while suffering from hangovers. Sun Ra was apparently an impressive presence: Tall, self-confident, and a most creative and gifted musician. And yes, he considers himself to be an incarnation of the sun god Ra, with his small Harlem apartment decorated with random elements of Egyptian-style knick-knacks. Whatever he did seemed to help, both Moira and Franz seemed better off when they returned, although they were definitely carrying a whiff of reefer. Speaking of such things, I need a stiff drink!  

Sun Ra, a jazz mystic.

From the notebook and prescription pad of Franz Alter:

It is difficult to write this. Have I been over-dosing on some of my own chemicals? I am not prone to hallucinating, but there is really no other way to understand the disturbing things I have seen this week. First of all, the Dinana Spinoza woman is clearly insane in her self-imposed quest for knowledge of some fictionalized alternative history of the planet. She clearly managed to find a young librarian at the New York Public Library, flirt with him (G-d knows what else), and convince him to steal some weird old folio from the restricted stacks. Reading the 18th century folio and practicing the instructions for some overly dramatic ritual seems to have been too much for her, and she ended up comatose.

I could not see any use in repeating this ritual, but my newfound friends seemed quite anxious or maniacal. Then there was this issue with Bill the Talking Cat. Mass hypnosis, ventriloquism, or something else.? Why did Moira Baker shake the cage of the poor animal? The sight of that adorable cat bouncing up and down in the cage while Karen the Hen tried to take off was enough to induce instant and extreme zoophobia.

Then we have the issue of the death under Grand Central. A railway worker, Henry McClure, was found dead, possibly after falling into a tar pit. Jules Pollack sensed foul play, but he blames the death on some "eldritch horror" supposedly summoned by Diana Spinoza! Oy gevalt! Candles were lit, chants were chanted, sage and wine was flung in different directions. I have to agree that is was somewhat suggestive and all, but I really could not believe my eyes when the air felt as if it was full of electricity and a really rotten stench filled the hotel room. A weird undulating black mass of tendrils, maws and otherworldly extensions seemed to rise from the intricate patterns on the floor, and it rose above the heads of the chanters, seeming intent on devouring Mackie or Moira. The chanting was reversed, and the strange entity seemed to shrink back into the raised lines on the floor, and eventually reverting to the intricate lines that had been left by Diana Spinoza. What had I really experienced? Was there something similar to this ...this formless spawn really running amok under Grand Central Station?

From the diary of Moira Baker:

We were invited to this cocktail reception at Nefertiti Studios on Friday, May 8, and it was more of a workday that ended up being a cocktail party. It was a much more well-attended affair than previous events, and even the young actress Clara Bow - the "It" girl - was there. I also noticed a tall man dressed in an immaculate white suit and sporting a monocle, who was approached by Franz Alter. This well-dressed gentleman was even taller than Franz, but they seemed to find several topics to discuss before heading over to Jules Pollack, who all of a sudden was tending bar in a flurry of cocktail shakers, strainers, spoons and liquor bottles.

The Collector.

I was standing together with Irwin (Bowers) at the other end of the room, when three women in fantastic dresses approached us. They were both fascinating and irritating, seemingly talking with each other, to each other and for each other. They were also ludicrously self-absorbed and exhausting to talk to, but they eventually introduced themselves as the Gnospelius sisters; Emma, Anna and Dorothy. They all seemed to find us quite funny, and it was actually quite difficult to follow their meanderings to from a wide variety of subjects, but they did tell us that we, meaning all of us Arkhamites, will be going on a long trip soon. Very strange indeed.

The Gnospelius sisters, Emma, Anna and Dorothy.

The tall man in the white suit eventually walked out together with Jules to the adjacent balcony. He apparently introduced himself as "The Collector", and he provided Jukes with a calling card that listed a P.O. Box in Los Angeles. The Collector smoked constantly, and he clearly had some knowledge of our strange experiences over the last couple of years. He also spoke of Victor Aymes, and the priesthood of Mu. According to The Collector, these individuals were much older than they looked, and they should not be trifled with. On the contrary, they could prove to be quite dangerous. We all looked at Mackie, who was dancing away with Victor Aymes on a small stage at the end of the grand ballroom. The couple seemed to be adored by the dancers closest to the stage, and the music and the dancing was become increasingly frenzied. Then all of a sudden, Mackie and Aymes disappeared behind a curtain, We decided all of us to follow Mackie, and I took the lead, elbowing myself through the crowd, which by now was cheering jubilantly as balloons dropped from the ceiling.

There was stairwell behind the curtain, and it led to a mezzanine floor with three doors, and I sensed that Mackie and Victor Aymes might have entered through the center one. I threw myself with all my might at the door, but to no avail, so I decided to destroy the lock with some well-placed revolver rounds. Then I simply crashed through the door under the weight of my comrades. We were all looking into a sizeable but empty apartment, and Aymes was conducting a weird and disturbing ritual together with Mackie. Was this actually going to be the moment Mackie became the High Priestess of Aymes, that Mackie had hinted at previously?

A fierce fight erupted in the room. Irwin and Jules tried to outflank the doomed couple, while Franz Alter was given Jules's bottle of whiskey to turn into a firebomb. The bomb was hurled, flames lit up the room, and shots were fired. Victor Aymes looked disappointed, resigned, and gorgeous. After uttering "God, you're so dull," he simply vanished.

From the diary of Howard Lake:

It is a fascinating book, probably from the mid-18th century. I had never heard of it, but Father Zacharias at the Syrian-Orthodox Church a couple of blocks away seemed really apprehensive, or even scared. It fits in with some of the mystic tomes and documents we've encountered, hinting at older beings pre-dating mankind and disturbing alien entities that came to Earth eons ago. I do not know what "Zhothaqquah" might be. The Nahariya Manuscript would also be quite valuable, even if the authors are unknown. I wonder what we'll do with it?

The Nahariya Manuscript, property of the closed stacks of the New York Public Library:

Eighteen sheets of parchment bound a thin folio into can be found. They are written in a mixture of Latin and old English with a smattering of Aramaic. The actual summoning spell is mainly in the two latter languages.

 

Excerpt from the Nahariya Manuscript: Athens, c. 1740, author unknown.

 

It is in the black abyss of foul N’kai that Zhothaqquah resides, and men from K’n-yan, from Mu, from Aegypt, from Macedonia, from Constantinople have sought him for the promise of limitless power and the most foreboding levels of arcane knowledge. To turn the minds of men and to facilitate every whim, no matter how decadent. But alas, the common fate is instead to be devoured by that terror of the depths, of the sunless caverns, and of the dark desolation. Zhothaqquah’s servitors and spawn roam these hellish subterranean caverns, and they will ooze around the basalt statues of terrible Zhothaqquah, beings of viscous and semi-liquescent substance, quite opaque, much like undulant ophidian forms.

 

…A few daring mystics have hinted at an ancient origin of the fragmentary Pnakotic Manuscripts, and have suggested that the devotees of Zhothaqquah were as alien to mankind as Zhothaqquah itself…

 

(Different handwriting)

I am sitting alone at the empty shores of the Mediterranean in ancient Nahariya. I thought that losing so much, so very much would give way to desperation, but I have resigned to my fate. I have been running like a woman possessed after that descent into the depths with my compatriots, and Wilbur, my stalwart friend and companion was the only one to make it out besides myself. It was to no avail, though. The spawn found us at night on the road from Jerusalem, and although we were well-armed, and with Wilbur’s extensive military training quite prepared, we stood little chance against these denizens of the deep. I could not see if our blades or our pistol really caused any effect, and I doubt it. I only managed to flee from the spawn by brandishing a lantern and smashing it in front of the weird creature, but somehow they found me soon again. I am now so tired that I will hand my soul to God, if there is such a thing, and try to remain brave as the darkness closes in.

Pages from the Nahariya Manuscript:

Early Saturday morning:

The Tomb of the Cañón de Serpientes

 Saturday, March 6, 1925, and the Three Amigos woke up to a delicious breakfast prepared by Chef Thibaude. It was decided to take a bus ride to Carrizozo to examine some of the strange cases of fatal decay that seemed to plague Lincoln County. The victims may have blissful and content, but they were nevertheless dying, and leaving loved one and dependents behind. McCloud was also eager to seek out Christobal Correira, the expert on anthropology and New Mexican folklore, who he had met once before. He hoped that Correira might have some ideas about this particular malaise and if it had occurred in the past. 

The afflicted patients in Lincoln were taken care of and given nourishment intravenously by nurse Pettenkoffer, Lotus Ashford had to deal with business at the Mitscher Ranch, so McCloud and Cannon decided to bring along "Swede" Larsson, the tough mining foreman, on an uneventful bus ride to Carrizozo. 

The Carrizozo infirmary had several cases that seemed identical to what Cannon and McCloud had noticed in Lincoln, including mention of a tall man in dark clothing. Cannon tried to find out more abouth the Red Right Hand, but whatever Cannon said terrified the patient, who started suffering acute physical symptoms. This was the cue for Cannon, McCloud and Larsson to seek out Christobal Correira.

                                                 

                                                                    Correira

The antropologist and scholar lived in a small but very nice Spanish-style casa together with a housekeeper. The investigators did actually carry a letter of introduction from Father Bose, and they were greeted warmly. Christobal Correira was intrigued by the events, and he invited Cannon and McCloud to enter his small but tightly stocked library. They all started going through old documents, news clippings and books, and Saturday diasppeared into Sunday. It was early Sunday morning when Cannon found  an old news clipping in a book on local legends:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diario Las Cruces 

Vagabond Killed by Violent Mob

Las Cruces, November 2, 1858

The vagabond possibly known as Jonathan Bierce or Jon Price, but also  Il Mano Derecha Roja, was buried late at night on October 31 at Cañón de Serpientes north of Robles Blancos after being lynched by a violent mob a week before. The odd vagabond was known throughout the region and suspected of molesting men, women and children as well as horse theft. Old women crossed themselves, and the Church of Santa Barbara celebrated a special mass on the occasion.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Further research revealed the following:

"Legend has that this padre, or soldier, wounded and fleeing from some calamity during the Mexican War, ended up in or around New Mexico. He was taken in by the Indians, and he did missionary work for two or so years before disappearing. Other legends state that he was caught red-handed when raping a medicine man’s daughter, and branded before being banned, or that he was a curse from God.

The man was in all probability a padre from the Mexican War, possibly named John Pierce, Jonathan Bierce, Johnston Bryce or Jon Price. He actually managed to become an acolyte to a fearful and vengeful Apace medicine man, Fleet Horse, later Carrion Rider. He managed to use his powers on many local communities in New Mexico, but not to help the Apache, but just to gain power and knowledge. He was eventually killed by a mob of townspeople in Las Cruces in 1858, and buried out of town in White Oaks, as far as humanely possible from humanity (at that point)." 

A visit to the Church of Santa Barbara seemed to confirm this, although old Padre Luis was terrified and gathered the congregation for a special mass to ward off the devil.

Rest was needed, but on Monday morning, March 8, McCloud rented a couple of horses, and after dioing an inventory of their supplies, the three investigators headed up towards Robles Blancos, or White Oaks, as the place is named in English. Despite a description of the the Cañón de Serpientesin the church ledgers, the exacto location was hard to find, but just an hour before sunset, the investigators discovered an overgrown gorge on a hillside that just might have been it! "Swede" Larsson was left to guard horses as Cannon and McCloud started climbing. As the sun was setting, they found two slabs at the end of the gorge, slabs that seemed to form the door to  grave. The doors were secured by chains and a padlock, but a pickaxe solevd that problem.

The sun had set by now, but Cannon and McCloud continued working, their flashlights casting eerie shadows around the the Cañón de Serpientes. Frank Cannon pulled at the right slab, and the narrow beams from the flashlights did indeed reveal a small tomb - and a floor covered by familiar snakes, quite similar to the ones encountered when transporting the paintings of the Gnospelius sisters! It was too dark to contemplate climbing down and leaving the exploration for tomorrow, but any discussions about what to do were cut short by a blood-curdling scream of utter despair from further down the gorge. The scream was followed by the panciked neighing of a horse, or even several horses. McCloud and Cannon feared that something horrible had befallen poor "Swede" Larsson, and they set up a bonfire just south of the grave

"Swede" Larsson

Frank Cannon decided to enter the grave, and he also decided to smash a kerosene-filled lantern against the floor to get rid of the snakes. He then entered the tomb, and proceeded to the actual coffin. He managed to budge the lid open, revealing a skeleton of what must have been a quite tall man. Hos clothing was in tatters, but he was wearing an odd-looking necklace composed of several dozen small baubles. Frank Cannon put the necklace around his own well-endowed neck, but it caused him much discomfort, seemingly alternating between searing heat and deathly cold. It was then that the door closed. Bill McCloud was outside, and quite alone. He started noticing flickering shadows in the dark aas well a s mot putrid stench, and he fired off a shotgun shell. The muzzle flash revealed a horrible presence, a fanged and evil face that seemed to be intent on devouring McCloud. The ghastly being also seemed ta use somethinhg that was close to human language, seemingly mocking McCloud, who fired off another shotgun shell, but to no avail. At this point, McCloud heard the disturbing parody of a human voice whispering quite close: "behind you...."

McCloud realized that he had his back snugly against the tomb, and he chose to look up instead, his Great War experiences leaving him relatively unfazed. It was just in the nick of time, as some form of alien horror attcked McCloud from above, throwing himself recklessly at McCloud, who managed to fire off yet another shotgun shell. Sveral buckshot hot the creature's left shoulder, showering McClound with blackish green ichor.

Meanwhile, Frank Cannon struggled to open the door to the tomb nefore the snakes recaptured their abode. He groaned as he forced the door open, and he stumbled out of the strange tomb just to see McCloud being assailed by a repulsive creature. The entity was biting down hard on McCloud, and it was difficult for Cannon to get a clear shot. Eventually a shotgun blast flung the beast off the badly wounded McCloud, who endured to finish off the strange and repulsive creature with a great many jabs from his trusty Bowie knife. The creature was definitely dead, but what was it?

Justified and Ancient, or Strangers with Candy

It was Friday afternoon, and Moira Baker, Howard Lake and Mackie MacNamara were gone. Putz weg! Although the master of modern chemistry, Franz Alter, was summoned back to his beloved mother, Irwin Bowers was trying to figure out what might have happened. His thigh wasn't in pain anymore, but he could not decide if he was hungry or thirsty, warm or cold, and tired or alert. It was very strange, but not really unpleasant - or so he thought. Meanwhile, Jules Pollack was dealing with Diana Spinoza and Benny the Cat, It was quite clear that Diana Spinoza had managed to learn quite a bit about the outlandish cosmic horrors that gnawed on the reality of the intrepid investigators, but there was more to it: Benny the Cat and Diana Spinoza seemed to be thriving in some form of strange symbiosis. Diana Spinoza would become unconscious, her eyes rolled back into her head, and as she seemed to shiver, Benny the Cat would provide seemingly random snippets of information in a a New England accent. However, when Benny the Cat told Irwin Bowers and Jules Pollack that their friends were in danger, Jules and Irwin followed the scant trails that Mackie, Moira and Howard had left. It was difficult work, since they seemed to have departed in different directions. A call to Nefertiti Studios revealed only that the studios were closed, and although Irwin Bowers had a particularly nice conversation with Miss Gale, who was in charge of the studio until 10pm, no new information was gained. After much deliberation and another one of Diana Spinoza's episodes, it was decided to visit Nefertiti Studios to see of there were any other clues that might help Jules and Irwin,

Billy the Cat. Might he be a very minor Old One or a mere Feline Fantasy?

Jules and Irwin found Miss Dorothy Gale locking up Nefertiti Studios on a Friday evening, and she was glad to meet Mr. Bowers, with whom she had had such a pleasant conversation. A cheerful chat with Dorothy Gale took a new turn when Miss Gale simply asked: "what does a nice girl like me have to do to get a drink around here?" Irwin and Jules did reply that they weren't entire sure of where you might find a good beverage in New York nowadays, but Dorothy Gale guided the investigators into a taxi and off to the Cotton Club in Harlem. A voice in the back of Jules's head kept reminding him about his friends being in danger, but he decided to shelve the thought and enjoy the moment!

The Cotton Club offered a fantastic evening. Mikey the Doorman was given an allowance of sorts, and then Miss Gale and the investigators entered a world of champagne and fantastic music. Young Cab Calloway was performing, and Dorothy Gale danced with both Jules and Irwin, carefully taking turns and enjoying every single moment. Cab Calloway noticed Irwin Bowers's stiff-legged dance routine, Bowers being wounded and all, and he imitated it while swerving around to Minnie the Moocher,. The crowd went wild. The disappeared fellow investigators were conveniently forgotten.

Moira Baker, Howard Lake, and Mackie MacNamara had scant recollections of the last day or two, Or of three. Their minds were filled with fragments: people, champagne, the rush of dancing, of strange chemicals, of more people, Kelly Ventura, Lola, Richard Strauss, Patrice Montague, and above all, Victor Aymes. There were otherworldly signs, bloody hands, a weird knife, all strangely connected, yet detached. The three investigators woke up in an enormous sofa under a skylight in a dimly lit room. It seemed to be night outside. Mackie, Moira and Howard were all suffering from horrendous hangovers, and Lake really looks like years had been taken from his life. They had no clue about how they ended up there, or exactly where they were. It was fairly quiet, except for a phonograph record that had reached the end, and kept on hacking. The room smelled of cigar and cigarette smoke, incense, and patchouli with a alight touch of vomit.

Lying down at one end of the enormous Empire-style sofa, Moira was wearing what seemed to be a uniform from “The Nutcracker”. She was holding a mechanical whisk in one hand, and an oversized dildo in the other. At the other end of the sofa, Lake was lying down in a puddle of saliva, possibly his own. He was wearing a short white tunic with prominent stains and a Corinthian helmet. He had been sleeping next to a long trident and a mannequin’s head. Mackie was in the middle of the sofa. She was wearing flowing light blue robes and a tiara not unlike the statue of liberty. She was holding a stage magicians’ wand and lying down next to an empty champagne bottle.  It was more than a little complicated to find their way through bric-a-brac and cocktail debris, but eventually they found a light switch. By now, they all noticed a slight din from a city, but it was difficult to piece together what had happened. Moira was becoming increasingly concerned that she'd killed someone, while Howard and Mackie realized that the strange symbols they remembered were associated with legendary Mu, the lost continent supposedly located in the Pacific Ocean.

Meanwhile, Jules and Irwin woke up in their five-star hotel rooms. It was already late on Saturday, May 1, and they had both had a smashing time the evening before. Irwin Bowers was feeling more than a little antsy, though, and not even generous amounts of nitrous oxide and a bottle of champagne seemd to help. Where was good old Franz Alter? He could usually arrange for a pick-me-up, or at least that what was Irwin hoped. 

In the adjacent room, Diana Spinoza was more than ready to discuss some of the arcane knowledge she had accumulated over the last couple of weeks. She was also quite ready to somehow break into the New York Public Library, and the maniacal intensity of Diana's personality did not improve on Jules's hangover. As dusk fell over New York City, Diana Spinoza suddenly became stiff, and her eyes once again rolled back into her head, showing only the whites. She started trembling ever so lightly. Benny the Cat jumped on the bed and rubbed himself against Jules before declaring that Jules was going to get an important telephone call. After this, Benny the Cat curled up and fell asleep as the telephone started ringing. It was Dorothy Gale, and she excitedly told Jules that she might know where Moira, Mackie and Howard might be. They may have ended up in an empty loft apartment on 42nd Street and Broadway. Jules picked up Irwin, who promptly changed into golf attire so that he could carry a golf bag full of guns and ammunition. Nobody would suspect an innocent golfer on a Saturday evening!

Moira, Mackie and Howard were finally on their way out of the loft. They were carefully sneaking out of a corridor that seems to lead to a narrow flight of stairs when the stair creaked as they heard hushed voices: "Where are the fuckin' faggots?" "Let's find them, they must be upstairs." The intrepid investigators went back to the loft and took up positions around the entranceway, with Mackie brandishing a fishing rod, Howard a trident, and Moira a gigantic dildo. They were ready for a bout of fisticuffs when Mackie surprised them all by bouncing out into the hallway, flashing the klansmen and yelling "boobies!" The Klansmen were perplexed, and as they asked about the whereabouts of any homosexuals and blacks (the reader may insert derogatory terms of choice here), Moira dashed up to Howard, kissing him passionately and insisting on privacy while Mackie gyrated her firm bosom, alternating between clockwise and counter-clockwise motion. By now, the Klansmen decided that this was not what they were looking for, at least not right now, and they proceeded down the stairs to an elevator.

Jules Pollack, Irwin Bowers and Dorothy Gale were in the above mentioned elevator car, and they were not ready to flash anything except their loaded guns and Dorothy's stiletto blade. The elevator door opened, and a several gunshots were fired in the dimly lit stairwell as the two parties tried to grasp the situation. This was further complicated when Mackie, Moira and Howard attacked the klansmen from behind. Irwin Bowers had just fired his shotgun at the head of one of the klansmen, while Moira Baker was pummeling another one with the giant dildo, when Mackie felt an odd form of power surge pulsating through her body. It was a tingling sensation, raising her hair on end and filling her head with a staticky noise. She grabbed the leader of the klansmen by the arm, and to the horror of everyone, his arm began melting or burning up to the elbow! He shrieked in utter terror before he fainted. Mackie had no clue what had happened, but this strange occurrence had clearly affected Howard Lake, who felt entirely drained. This was also the cue for the investigators to flee the building before the NYPD arrived.

Dorothy Gale is native New Yorker ("Daarathee Geale") from the Lower East Side, Her father is Italian, her mother is of British descent, but none of that really matters. She has a brother, James "Johnny" Gale, who's studying archaeology at Miskatonic University. Dorothy wants to have fun and earn money, preferably in the entertainment industry, and that is why she ended up working for Nefertiti Studios. She will not take any crap from anyone, and if matters get out of hand, she carries a mean-looking stiletto in her garter. Dorothy Gale is incredibly funny and witty, but she is also kind and considerate unless offended. She is very knowledgeable about New York City, including the outer boros.

The lost continent of Mu

The mythical idea of the "Land of Mu" first appeared in the works of the British-American antiquarian Augustus Le Plongeon (1825–1908), after his investigations of the Maya ruins in Yucatán. He claimed that he had translated the first copies of the Popol Vuh, the sacred book of the K'iche' from the ancient Mayan using Spanish. He claimed the civilization of Yucatán was older than those of Greece and Egypt, and told the story of an even older continent.

Le Plongeon got the name "Mu" from Charles Étienne Brasseur de Bourbourg, who, in 1864, mistranslated what was then called the Troano Codex or Madrid Codex using the de Landa alphabet. Brasseur believed that a word which he read as Mu referred to a land that had been submerged by a catastrophe.^,Le Plongeon identified this lost land with Atlantis and, following Ignatius Donnelly in Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882), identified it as a continent that had once existed in the Atlantic Ocean:

“In our journey westward across the Atlantic we shall pass in sight of that spot where once existed the pride and life of the ocean, the Land of Mu, which, at the epoch that we have been considering, had not yet been visited by the wrath of Human, that lord of volcanic fires to whose fury it afterward fell a victim. The description of that land given to Solon by Sonchis, priest at Sais; its destruction by earthquakes, and submergence, recorded by Plato in his Timaeus, have been told and retold so many times that it is useless to encumber these pages with a repetition of it.”

Le Plongeon claimed that the civilization of ancient Egypt was founded by Queen Moo, a refugee from the land's demise. Other refugees supposedly fled to Central America and became the Maya.

My Chemical Bromance

"Who are these people?" Franz Alter was trying to hide his confusion behind a seemingly indifferent facade. "The gentleman with the pince-nez and the nitrous oxide says he can quit his substances whenever he wants and that he very, very much wants to be my friend. The tall-ish lady in pants is apparently the queen of snark, and she claims that only her hen truly understands her. The antiques dealer smells of alcohol, book dust, and gun oil. The good-looking fellow is more skittish than a deer on a ice, while the remaining lady seems to have a kit bag full of interesting things and the calm gaze of a imminent violence. Oy gevalt!"

Alter

Lake

Bowers

Dr. MacNamara

Baker

Franz Alter had just administered a fine cocktail of drugs to Irwin Bowers, and Bowers insisted that Franz, fine upstanding Franz, join the other intrepid, but weary, investigators to the prestigious Explorer Club in the Majestic Hotel on Central Park West and 76th Street. The curator, Anscomb Blakely, was supposedly anticipating some form of short supper lecture. Well, why not? Alter did not mind finding out new things about his city, and Upper West Side was definitely out of Alter's typical neighborhoods.

The afternoon slowly turning into an early evening, and Irwin Bowers hadn't even changed. He was so busy chatting to the politely nodding Franz Alter that he barely noticed when his friends made him change into his tuxedo. After having slipped a carnation into the button hole, the investigators were off to the Explorer Club in two cabs.

The curator, Mr. Anscomb Blakely, greeted the investigators warmly. He was on the shorter side, with a surprisingly light voice and impeccable manners. He introduced the investigators to the other members present this evening: Reginald Burroughs, Arthur Bentley III, Walther Prendergast, and Johanna Scarborough. These ladies and gentlemen were eagerly anticipating to hear about the expeditions and adventures, especially in Egypt. However, the elderly Prendergast did fall asleep and wake up abruptly with a “remember the Maine!” when Doctor MacNamara added emphasis to end a sentence.

Following the lecture and a truly amazing buffet, Anscomb Blakely approached the investigators together with Arthur Bentley III. Bentley seemed to be a kind old man, looking more like a Civil War general than anything else, with enormous white sideburns and a warm smile. Both Blakely and Bentley mentioned that they'd heard of the “resourcefulness” of the investigators, and their “unconventional methods”. They presented what seemed to be a simple case, though, concerning an examination of a particular drinking vessel of Mexican origin, and mentioning anything out of the ordinary. The vessel was located at Alexander's Antiques and Curiosities on Madison Avenue and East 59th Street, and yes, there had been a falling out between Blakely and the owner, Alexander Mylonas, some time ago. Being a native New Yorker, Franz Alter did know one or two things about its population, but in this case he only knew one thing: Mylonas was Germophobe.

It was the morning of Thursday, April 30, and all the investigators had received generous gift baskets with two bottles of champagne, some fine cigars, caviar, blinis, truffles, various nuts and other delicious little things. Following breakfast, the intrepid investigators left the hotel, and Irwin Bowers once again insisted that his new best friend Franz Alter should come along.

Alexander Mylonas's store was found in a drab and unassuming brownstone, just a couple of steps down from street level. The store was crammed, but not in a disorderly fashion, as in full, but not cluttered. A young graduate assistant was behind a counter and the investigators. He politely asked if he could be of some assistance as the investigators perused the store. Many of the objects were of extraordinarily high quality, and all of them were quite rare, so this was not a store for customers on a budget. The objects were typically from China and Egypt, with a significant number of pre-Colombian objects. There was also furniture, some books, and various trinkets. After a couple of minutes, Mackenzie MacNamara asked about the drinking vessel, and the assistant asked for Mr. Mylonas. As Mr. Mylonas entered the store through a back door, Howard Lake spotted something horrifying. He was staring straight into the deadpan eyes of the creature that had tried to kill him repeatedly while causing so much destruction in Arkham. Lake excused himself and made for the exit. He was soon followed by Irwin Bowers and Franz Alter, who were sensing that something was wrong.

"What the flying fuck is going on? Why did Lake run off after whispering something about imminent danger?" Bowers took a good whiff from his nitrous oxide before proceeding. "Not to worry. I'll take care of this together with my buddy Franz. Right, Franz?" Franz nodded slowly. He motioned towards a mailbox, where Alter and Bowers found Lake hunkering down and trying to form his remaining plastic explosives into a charge. Lake stood up all of a sudden, and walked with resolute steps towards Alexander's antiques. "Our friends are in danger. We must help them. It, it is here, here in New York!"   

"Mr. Lake, I can assure you that there is nothing here out of the ordinary." Franz Alter placed a reassuring hand on Lake's shoulder, a hand that was brushed off right away.

"Irwin, Mr. Alter, if you're not going to help me, then get the fuck out of my way!" Lake's voice almost cracked as he yelled at Alter and Bowers. He was now holding his Luger in his right hand and the plastics explosives in his left.

"Howard, everything is ok. I am not going to let you run into a store with a bomb and a loaded gun."

Lake did not hesitate. He fired off a 9 mm round straight through Bowers left thigh, and Bowers fell to the ground with an expression of utter bafflement. Alter dragged the wounded and increasingly pale Bowers out of harm's way, leaving a track of blood behind him.

Meanwhile, Moira Baker, Jules Pollack and Mackie MacNamara were intently observing a drinking vessel. Jules Pollack had been really persuasive and made several very good points about art, so the usually rather arrogant Mylonas did, in fact, take out the drinking vessel from a locked cabinet. The investigators were finally examining the vessel, albeit from a distance. "Is it a crow's head?" Jules asked. "No, as a matter if fact, I believe it is the head of a raven. The recent origins are unclear," Mylonas explained, "but it was somehow 'acquired' in 1872 by a nameless missionary in Mexico." The vessel was firmly placed in Mylonas's gloved hands as Moira pointed out that there seemed to be signs or small drawings around the lower rim of the raven-headed vessel. Mackie produced a magnifying glass, and after a brief glance she looked up and nodded: "Those are hieroglyphs. I cannot tell if they are original writing or if they were added at some point in time. The hieroglyphs are a bit difficult to read, but I believe that they say 'Sacrifice to Horus when night lights are corrected'." Jules exhaled, sighed, and said: "So, like when the stars are right?" Mackie replaced the magnifying glass and looked out the store window, perhaps anticipating some strange portent. "Precisely." At that point, they all heard a single gun shot. Lake rushed into the store, and Moira Baker suggested it was time to go, as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Lake was clearly distraught, and going on about the creature that destroyed Jules Pollack Fine Antiques, and as they all scrambled out of the store, Jules could not help noticing the suit of armor that Lake must have mistaken for that creature of destruction.

They all made it back to the Hotel Ambassador, although using different routes. Moira Baker stitched up Bower's wound, and even despite Alter's special drug cocktail, Bowers was in pain. The investigators were settling in for a more leisurely Friday afternoon, but various visitors changed their plans. The overly stressed Lake was met by a sultry form who had left the door to his room ajar. It was Lola, just Lola, and she had no qualms hiding her interests in Lakes masculinity. And it became even more intricate: Lola told about a film venture of utmost depravity being shot by Richard Strauss and starring an additional female friend or two. It took Lake no more than a second to holster his Luger and join Lola to the car that was awaiting them.

Poor Howard!

In Mackie MacNamara's case, the visitor was Victor Aymes. He looked both stunning and mesmerizing, and he very politely explained that he would like to take Dr. MacNamara out for lunch as a token of appreciation for her forceful dispersion of those thugs the other day. Mackie was quite a bit curious about this well-mannered and sophisticated guest, and she did not mind lunch at all. Victor Aymes explained in his husky voice that he'd taken the liberty to make reservations at a nearby restaurant called Victor's, if she didn't mind. Mackie did not mind at all. Following a fantastic, entertaining and intimate lunch, Victor confessed that he was very much awestruck and enthralled by Mackie's resolute actions. Would Mackie have any plans for the afternoon? Mackie cancelled all engagements, and spent a fantastic and climactic afternoon together with Victor, who had quite a few surprises to reveal.

Moira Baker could finally remove her shoes and just relax. "Is it just me, or are my friends getting weirder and weirder? Did Howard actually just shoot Irwin? Is it time to consider a real job?" Her train of thought was interrupted by the doorbell and the voice of Kelly Ventura, the stylist of Nefertiti Studios. "Ms. Baker, it is time to go shopping!" Kelly Ventura ended the last syllable on a drawn out note. Moira hesitated, but she remembered her days with high society in Boston and Arkham, and she realized that she did need some new garments. What followed was a whirlwind tour of Manhattan. First some serious shopping of several fabulous outfits, followed by a visit to a beauty salon and spa, a late luncheon at the Waldorf Astoria, and then a tea dance at the Clam House in Harlem for ladies only  and starring Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, known as “The Mother of Blues.” She performed her hit Prove It on Me: “It’s true I wear a collar and a tie, … Talk to the gals just like any old man...”

"Ma" Rainey

Kelly Ventura was charming company. She was very interested in talking to Moira Baker, and Moira found it great to socialize with someone who wasn't just perusing old tomes and cultivating bats in the belfry. The champagne was flowing, and there might have been a little bit of flirtation going on from Kelly Ventura, but that might also have been Moira's imagination. Anyway, a great afternoon turned into a great evening as Moira and Kelly found themselves in a limousine from the Clam House.

Jules Pollack was also to have a visitor, but not from Nefertiti Studios. This was Diana Spinoza, who was knocking most incessantly on his door just after lunch. She stormed into Jules's room carrying a valise and a pet cage. She was clearly agitated, and almost maniacal as she put down her back at let loose a small cat, perfectly ordinary looking, but sporting the typical feline disinterest in everything and everyone. The cat, Benny, took a lap around the sitting area before jumping up on a sofa and promptly falling asleep. This was not the case of Diana Spinoza:

"Julie, I have learned SO MUCH! There is also so much more to be learned right here in New York City. At the Public Library! And you, you, Julie, you left me all bored with nothing to do in dull old Arkham. I like to be with you, Julie, not sitting and sighing by your photograph!"

Diana's behavior was disconcerting. Jules felt that he needed something to calm down Diana with, so he went over to Irwin Bower's suite.

For Irwin Bowers, there was no dancing or romance to be had. He was sitting with his new friend Franz Alter, the pain slowly receding, and he was looking at the pretty colors being reflected off the chandelier while reaching for the nitrous oxide. Alter was taking notes when Jules Pollack dashed into the room. What was going on? Jules explained the state of Diana Spinoza, and Franz Alter nodded gravely. This required opium. The substance was ordered from his pharmacy down by Union Square, and it was ready as Diana Spinoza barged into Bower's room, intent on finding Pollack, and ignoring Alter and Bowers until an opium- laced glass of champagne was given to her. Diana downed the glass, but there was no reaction whatsoever.

"Most curious." Franz Alter muttered to himself. "I'll try it on Bowers." The concoction clearly worked.

Diana Spinoza dragged Jules back to his room, pushed him down on the bed and straddled him. Pinning his arms to his sides, Diana looked at him intently: "Now, what about The Book of Eibon?"

Confusing the erotic with the esoteric again, dear?

Franz Alter was was sitting with a quiet and smiling Irwin Bowers. He'd be feeling much better by now, and Alter was considering reviving him a bit. But where was everyone? What was going on?

Broadway Lights: From Nefertiti Studios to The Explorer Club

The intrepid investigators were finally assembled in the salon of J. Pollack Fine Antiques, and it was the evening of April 26. They were all relieved to be back after endless hours of questioning, but Diana Spinoza was particularly pleased to see Jules.

"Jules, honeysweetie, I am so glad that you are back. Back! It was woefully dull not having you around, and I was beyond bored. You spend far too much time working, and I wish we could have some fun instead, like going on a holiday, or just going to the beach. Why didn't you take me to Martin's Beach? I got to sit here with old Burly Jones, and Mrs. O'Flaherty, and you didn't even call!"

The situation was getting increasingly awkward, and Irwin Bowers reached for his nitrous oxide while Mackie MacNamara was trying to get some flame out of her lighter.

"So, Julie, do you know what I did in my prodigious spare time? Something that might please you, I think..."

Jules was perhaps looking forward to some little naughty and inspiring stunt, but he looked dumbfounded when Diana Spinoza continued.

"You see, I went through some, or perhaps all, of the notes and books that you've found on your trips and expeditions, and aren't they exciting! I think this is so fascinating, and I realized that I still have my borrower's privileges at Miskatonic, so I decided to do some more research, especially regarding that weird German, von Juntzt. But enough of this. Julie, how about we retire for the evening?"

Jules Pollack had little sleep that night. He really did not know what to expect. And his liquor cabinet was empty.

Following the letter to Mackie inviting the investigators to New York and Nefertiti Studios, the next morning was spent planning and packing until a visitor arrived. It was Johnny Schwartz, the British journalist, and he very much wanted to interview Jules about his trips. Schwartz believed that this would be of great interest to readers in Europe. Jules had business to attend to, but he did tell the investigators that Schwartz had been making himself known over the last couple of weeks. Schwartz had visited Pollack in the Arkham jail, and they had had quite a few conversations. Diana Spinoza also mentioned that he's been in the store before, and that he'd had some difficulties finding the restroom, which seemed to be the universal excuse for snooping. Jules left it to the investigators to continue. 

It was strange conversation. Johnny Schwartz did seem to have some knowledge of the cosmic aberrations that had been encountered, and he whispered the dreadful name of Yog-Sothoth to the investigators, suggesting unearthly cults and repeatedly asking if anyone had additional knowledge to offer. Despite not having discussed any responses, the investigators displayed a truly united front in stonewalling the journalist. Lake giggled a bit at the mention of unmentionable beings from primordial times, of Hyperboreans, Lemurians and the priests of Mu. Moira Baker seemed like innocence personified, Irwin Bowers listened politely, seemingly nonplussed, while Mackie simply looked bored. If Schwartz was frustrated, he did not display it, but he left after several hours without having gained any information.

The intrepid investigators had booked tickets on an early morning train to New York, and there bags included everything from tuxedos to plastic explosives. Jules drove them to the trains station, promising that he'd join them in a couple of days when business had been tended to. The train trip was uneventful, and the train arrived at Grand Central Station just after 4pm on Tuesday, April 28.

 

The accomodations at the Hotel Ambassador were indeed luxurious. The owner of Nefertiti Studios, Patrice Montague, seemed to have spared little or no expense, and the investigators could not help listen to the many languages that could be heard in the lobby as foreign dignitaries were rushing to some meeting or enjoying beverages in one of several bars. After checking in and inspecting their respective rooms, Mackie, Moira, Howard and Irwin took their time to get ready for this evenings' cocktail reception at Nefertiti Studios, which was located just off Herald Square. The doorman flagged a cab just before seven, and the merry party stepped out at Herald Square just about 25 minutes later.

Nefertiti Studios was located on floors eleven and twelve in an enormous office building nestled on 33rd Street between Herald Square and Penn Station. The door was opened by Patrice Montague himself, and he was overjoyed to finally meet "Dr. MacKenzie and her friends." The cocktail party was a fairly intimate affair with just about a dozen guests in the spacious studio, half of which was the actual tailoring shop, and half being a two-floor mix of runways, photo studios, and offices. Patrice Montague introduced the investigators to the other guests at a brisk pace: Kelly Ventura, Montague's partner and stylist extraordinaire, Richard Strauss, the steady hands on the helm of Nefertiti Studios, Connor Branagan, one of the foremost social coordinators of New York City, as well as another six or eight guests that became a blur of flashing smiles, cigarette smoke, perfume, tuxedos, and brief, alluring eye contact. There were also some odd accents to the event: one guest was wearing a tuxedo made entirely out of soft but very shiny leather. One of the female guests seem to be wearing patent ballet shoes. Yet another guest kept toying absently with a studded leash. 

Champagne was being served constantly, and all of the investigators found themselves quite buzzed quite soon. Mackie MacNamara filled her handbag with canapes, while Irwin Bowers found himself in the company of Clive Blake, a well-known fashion photographer, and his special friend Serge. An animated discussion about photography led to Bowers being offered a blow-by-blow in the bathroom, a popular destination for several guests. Bowers gladly accepted at least one form of blow, and he was elated.

  

                           Kelly Ventura                                 Patrice Montague

  

Richard Strauss                          Conor Branagan

However, the investigators were feeling both overwhelmed and tired just after 10pm, although Irwin Bowers was having a fantastic time. It was nevertheless decided to leave the event, despite the incessant protests from Bowers. Moira Baker was already considering what to give Bowers to cut his incessant babbling short. He simply wasn't the best photographer in the world, and that was that. 

The investigators were looking for a cab when they heard somebody yelling "you fuckin' faggot!" from an alleyway. This was followed by the dull thuds of kicks and fists hitting soft flesh. There was clearly no time for pleasantries, as Lake pulled out his Luger, Bowers fired a shaky warning shot into the night sky, and Baker yelled to the bunch of thugs to not move. All of this was trumped as Mackie threw half a brick covered in plastic explosives into the alleyway, where it exploded with a window-shattering bang. This became the queue for the six and seven hooded thugs to run for it, and the investigators turned their attention to the victim. It turned out to be Victor Aymes, who had attended Montague's cocktail event. The young man thanked all of the investigators profusely, and they walked out to find cabs. Aymes was charming, and he expressed sincere hopes to meet the investigators again before jumping into a cab.

Victor Aymes

The cab ride back to the Hotel Ambassador provided some additional amusement as Moira Baker finally injected Irwin Bowers with some fine Laudanum. Nothing more of Bowers was heard until breakfast.

Mackie MacNamara was however woken up by room service. Not too early, though, but early enough to be irritating. Fortunately, the bell boy was only bringing yet another invitation, this time to the prestigious Explorer Club on the Upper West Side. The curator, a Mr. Anscomb Blakely, was inviting the investigators to a dinner and conversation about exploration and discovery. Mackie did not mind at all, and she RSVPed as the bell boy waited. Additional plans were discussed over breakfast, and an outing to the Brooklyn Museum was considered. Moira Baker had a different suggestion, though. Why not inquire among the antiquities dealers about how and why Johnny Schwartz had asked around for information about Jules, Mackie, and the other investigators? They decided to start off at Hightower Fine Arts and Antiques and Mr. James Partridge II, who had helped Jules Pollack in selling many of the antiquities and fine arts that the investigators had found in Egypt two or so years ago.

Mr. Partridge was quite glad to see the investigators again, and he was nurturing the hope that they might have more items to sell, but alas, no. Yet. Mr. Partridge did indeed remember Johnny Schwartz, who had visited Hightower Fine Arts and Antiquities four or five weeks previously. He had left his card, and he was in the company of a gentlemen who may have spoken Russian, but who did not introduce himself. As a matter of fact, Mr. Schwartz seemed to speak Russian as well, and they had a fairly intense conversation. Irwin Bowers suddenly remembered a chat between Henry Chester and a bartender, who claimed that some Russkies were looking for Jules Pollack...  

Three Painters and a Red Right Hand

Special agents Smith and Jones were indeed waiting for the intrepid amigos after Martin Diaz, the reporter, spy and madman, had been apprehended. As he was led away by the Albuquerque police, Cannon, Ashford and McCloud still had no clue who Diaz might have been referring to when he was ranting about a "master". Smith and Jones asked several questions, many of them over and over, before reminding the investigators of their patriotic duties. By then, it was approaching midnight, and the investigators decided to get some sleep and leave in the morning. 

The journey back to the Mitscher Ranch started in the morning of January 14 after a hearty breakfast. It was quite uneventful, and they realized that they had time to visit father Bose before it was too late in the evening. They arrived at St. Mary's church just as the vesper was rang, with a few congregants quietly praying in the church itself. Father Bose eagerly asked the investigators if they were at church to convert, but despite the negative reply, he invited McCloud, Ashford and Cannon for dinner. It was hearty meal in good company, and Father Bose was glad to hear that they had met up with The Collector. They clearly had a long history of friendship, and The Collector was, according to Father Bose, "a friend of the church". The other accounts of the trip to Albuquerque and the Gnospelius paintings seemed to bother Father Bose, and yet he tried to calm Cannon when he angrily accused the sisters of attempted murder. Father Bose told the investigators a bit more about the strange Gnospelius sisters, about his concerns, and a bit about his own thoughts concerning the true nature of the sisters. He shared his observations about their last name, and the Greek meaning of "gnosis", as in knowledge, and that the sisters ranged from quite young to middle aged. But then, living in remote New Mexico does strange things to the imagination. Father Bose would not necessarily label the sisters as a malign force, but they were strangely disconnected, yet astute observers of so many aspects of the world in its entirety. The latter quality was supposedly manifesting itself in their paintings.

The Three Amigos decided to take a a late night trip to the beautifully renovated ranch where the sisters resided. They were all almost expecting some weirdness, or at least something fantastic, but the ranch was peaceful and calm. Dim lights could be seen through heavy curtains, and a faint, somewhat eerie song from a Victrola could be heard.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWtFtB0Z-AQ

The following morning was bright and sunny, although the chilly winter kept temperatures at a less than pleasant level. Esteban, Frank Cannon, Nurse Pettenkoffer, Lotus Ashford and Bill McCloud were enjoying the standard breakfast of pork, beans and eggs down at the enormous kitchen table when Joseph Mulroney, the promising young artist and photographer came in. The poor man looked as though he hadn't slept for days, with a patchy stubble crested two eyes with layers of dark circles. He smiled at the assembled breakfast eaters, sat down, and simply stated "I have finished transcribing the book". He smiled again, took out a gun, placed it under his stubbly chin, and blew his brains out. McCloud was so close to firing Mulroney's gun out of his hands, but even his considerable skills did not match Mulroney's swift actions. Nurse Pettenkoffer refilled her coffee cup with shaky hands: "I believe he's dead." Nobody disagreed.

This morning calamity weighed heavily on the intrepid investigators, but they nevertheless decided to visit both Father Bose and the Gnospelius sisters after taking care of the final arrangements for young Mulroney. together with Henry Carlyle, the coroner, and his unnaturally skinny assistant Mortimer. Father Bose was distraught to hear of the fate of young Mulroney, especially since he'd been a good Catholic. 

The Gnospelius sisters were already out painting in the chilly air of January in New Mexico. They greeted the investigators in triplicate, and then Benson, their manservant, appeared, quite ready to serve tea. The initial confrontational tone did mellow as the sisters charmed the visitors, although it was at times frustrating to make any sense of the sisters seemingly random conversation. Nevertheless, it was decided that the sisters would be commissioned to paint the Mitscher Ranch, an offer the sisters gladly accepted.

Following these hectic January days, life seemed to return to a semblance of normalcy. Running the ranch and establishing the Ashford Mining Company did require lots of hard work. The Gnospelius sisters did commence painting a series of paintings of the Mitscher Ranch, including its surroundings and some it of its inhabitants

The Gnospelius sisters didn't really bother anyone, and they were very polite. Yet, any form of longer conversation was simply difficult. All of the three sisters, Emily, Anna and Dorothy, were self-obsessed, and seemed to have great difficulties concentrating, although they were all completely focused when actually painting. It was almost impossible to grab their attention while painting, and equally impossible to keep their attention when they were not. Any attempt to have a stringent conversation led to a fragmented series of questions and remarks, the verbal equivalent of their splotched palettes.  

The Ashford Mining Company and the Mitscher Ranch were coming along nicely, although Lotus himself could not help feeling like things were going a bit too well, like if there was something he had forgotten address, or at times as if there was some impending calamity hovering just out of sight as the sun set below the Capitan Mountains. There were several new hires, though, besides Harris Tweed, nurse Pettenkoffer, and Esteban the Vachero. Most of them had been interviewed by Harris and Lotus together, and in some cases Harris had ventured as far as Albuquerque and Santa Fe to find suitable talent:

• Chef Michel Thibaude had been working in San Diego, but he wanted to see something new, and this was the opportunity. Besides, Mr. Ashford payed well, so why not? Despite his service in the French Navy, Chef Michel was not interested in maritime matters at all. As a matter of fact, he suffered from late onset mild thalassophobia, which made New Mexico perfect. Chef Michel was instead very interested in the art of sausage making, and he looked almost blissful as he mixed raw meat with spices, slowly pushing it into the entrails that had been finished as sausage casings, as to not rupture them. Frank Cannon still didn't really approve. Despite the fine dining, there was something to be said of beans, bacon, toast and coffee. Or cawfee, as Cannon pronounced it.
  
  
  
  
  

• Roberto Fernandez, or El Greco, the ranch foreman. Bill McCloud had met "El Greco" before, but he was then just Corporal Robert "Bob" Fernandez, an irritating little shit who clearly wanted to  prove himself before the war was over. He was an "F", not for "failure", but for "foolhardy." Something must have happened, though, since this was not the same man. He was quiet, and actually imposing, but gentle. He clearly preferred the company of animals to men, although some would just say that he's shy. So far, nobody seems to know why he's called "El Greco".  

• Bjorn Larsson, a mining foreman, and for obvious and unimaginative reasons called "Swede" Larsson. A cheerful optimist, and good company on any occasion, but no pushover. He's not adverse to clearing up any disagreements with his two sizeable fists, although he does not start fights himself. Swede Larsson is a teetotaler, but his prodigious intake of coffee keeps him perpetually buzzed. He loves to play the piano, but he fancies himself being much more accomplished than he actually is, much to the horror of any audience. 

• The maid Marita German. Much more than a maid, but not quite a butler. A local, born and raised in Lincoln County. Bill McCloud was in awe. His bath was drawn even before he he had really though about it, and his shaving kit was laid out together with his six-shooter on top of a fresh towel on a stool next to the bathtub. McCloud looked at the steam coming from the bath and thought "Of all the nice women in this region, they managed to pick this sack of potatoes. But then, I think I do not mind living under these particular circumstances, and I'll save my dancing and romancing for when I have time off."  

• An accountant, Mrs. Eleonore Harrington. An old company stalwart sent down by Lotus Ashford Sr.  Upon reading the telegram, Lotus Ashford folded it neatly and looked out through the office window. "Thank goodness father sent down some help. I was about to get overrun by all these receipts and ledgers, although I must see that Mrs. Harrington doesn't interfere in the running of the actual Mitscher Ranch. For God's sake, I remember being scared stiff of her when I was eleven or twelve. Back then she must have been...oh, 99? I do not know."

Then there was J. D. Magruder, the new sheriff. Not previously an officer of the law, but he'd hanged horse thieves and been riding shotgun on stage coaches in his youth. Frank Cannon eyed the new sheriff from head to toe, and then back again. As a cop turned PI in New York Fucking City he believed himself to have seen every imaginable kind of lawman, and then some. "Well, this is here seems to be the tough and quiet type. I can't say I know too much about horse theft, but I do know one or two things about horsing around." Frank Cannon thought  to himself while pouring Sheriff J. D. Magruder a stiff whisky. 

"The way I like it is my whisky neat, my county quiet, and my gun loaded." Magruder looked at Frank Cannon across the rim of the shot glass.

"We'll get along just fine then" Frank Cannon said. "Just fine." He downed the whisky without further consideration.

It was just after noon on Friday, March 6, 1925, when Father Bose came to visit the Mitscher Ranch. The Three Amigos were sitting on the porch and enjoying a post-lunch smoke, and Lotus Ashford motioned the good Father to join them. He sat down on a rocking chair, gently putting it into motion as he started to explain the reason for his visit:

"Gentlemen, I have an odd problem, and perhaps you cane help me. You see, several of the inhabitants of Carrazozo as well as Lincoln are suffering from a strange and dangerous affliction. They are withering away, refusing food and in certain cases water. Yet, they are quite happy and satisfied. These are strong people, family providers, hard workers, and yet, they are dying. Both Catholics and Protestants. Their families are in despair, and although it started with just one or two cases, we now have four here in Lincoln and another eighteen in Carrazozo. I know you've had some experiences with the odd and the unusual, and I wonder if you might be able to help me figure out why this is happening."

The Intrepid Investigators were more than willing to assist, and they gathered some equipment as well as Nurse Pettenkoffer before visiting the four cases in Lincoln: three men and one woman. Scenes of misery, concern, and desperation as struggling families faced what seemed to be the irrevocable decline of a loved one that had been health personified just a few weeks ago. Ashford, Cannon and McCloud worked hard, and after thoroughly examining the afflicted and asking all of their family members a long series of questions, the pieces slowly came together. The dying inhabitants of Lincoln had all met a stranger, a tall handsome stranger in a dusty black coat. He was a promising joy, satisfaction, and blissful content, which led to the afflicted individuals giving up on life entirely, while happily withering away. A smiling Dolores, who used to be a healthy 120 pounds of wiry muscle, but now just a skeleton with tissue, added to the description of the stranger by wailing "IL MANO DERECHA ROJA! IL MANO DERECHA ROJA!"