OK, this is the only excerpt you are getting from my novel, so enjoy it!


The next morning at breakfast, we were all quiet. I was eating warmed-up pizza and drinking ice water while they ate cereal and drank orange juice. Ronnie, being a programmer, was eating some kind of sugar bombs, while Missy was downing a bowl of mixed forest clippings. On a previous visit, she had talked me into trying it, and it was much like eating a tree - bark, twigs, leaves and all.

The atmosphere stayed hushed - I was thinking about the mess this had all become, and I'm sure they were as well. A week ago, we had normal lives, and now we were trying to figure out if the Mafia was killing people and if I might be next on the list. Finally, Missy spoke up:

"Michael, did I ever tell you the story about Alexander the Great and his leather chicken?"

That broke the tension. Telling leather chicken stories was a tradition that dated back to that first night at LMU. During a lull in conversation at Ronnie's famous pizza place, Missy had asked us if we knew about leather chickens. When we all admitted our lack of knowledge, she told us an insanely silly story about Noah's leather chicken and how it improbably saved him during the Great Flood.

Since then, the stories had become a tradition and a kind of competition between us. On the day we moved into the apartment, Tracy gave each of us a keychain that included a tiny leather chicken. Many nights there were spent listening as one or more of us told a story. The rules were pretty simple - the stories had to involve a leather chicken somehow saving a historical figure, and the stories had to be as historically inaccurate as possible. For example, one of Missy's best involved Admiral Nelson defeating the Spanish Armada with the help of an iceberg.

We all had our little trademarks - my stories always involved a Civic Center pretzel causing large amounts of water to vanish. Trust me, if you had eaten them, you would get the joke. They are slightly drier than the Gobi Desert.

Ronnie always had a rainbow trout that never played any real role in the story. At the end, someone would always ask "What about the rainbow trout?" to which Ronnie would reply, "Oh, it wasn't really a rainbow trout. That was a red herring." And Tracy's stories always involved science fiction characters instead of historical figures. Her favorite involved Captain Kirk's leather chicken saving him from a renegade Vulcan.

And Missy always had a brave guinea pig.

So I knew what I was getting myself into when I assured Missy that I had never heard a word about Alexander the Great having a leather chicken.

"Well, he did. He was gay, as you know, and it was a gift from one of his lovers, Charlemagne. He wore it every one of his battles, usually strapped to his sword arm."

Ronnie and I nodded solemnly.

"One day, after defeating the Egyptians, Alexander was saddened, because he believed he had no more worlds to conquer. He was giving a fine speech on the matter when he noticed two of his aides whispering to each other.

"He stopped and demanded to know what they were talking about. They told him that, while it was true that he had beaten all of the rulers of nearby lands, there was talk of a great warrior far to the north that was unbested on the field of battle.

"Alexander demanded to know the man's name, and he was told that he was called Attila the Hun."

Ronnie and I gasped appropriately.

"Apparently, Attila had beaten Genghis Khan at the battle of Antietam and was proclaiming himself as the world's greatest general. This was all Alexander needed to hear, and he immediately started marching his troops south. After a quick word from one of his aides, he turned his men around and started them heading north. It isn't well known, but Alexander had a terrible sense of direction."

I heard Ronnie snicker, but I kept my eyes on his wife.

"It didn't take long for Alexander's march to make the papers, and Attila was more than happy to accept the challenge. He and his men headed south, and the two armies met outside of a small town called Bannockburn."

"Of course they did," I muttered.

"Alexander planned to attack at dawn, but as he and his lieutenants planned over a fire, a messenger arrived from Attila's camp. It took a while for the message to be deciphered, since none of Alexander's advisors could read Hun, but eventually they found a local who told them that it was a challenge to single combat.

"This was a problem for Alexander. First off, he was only 14, and a wimpish 14 at that. He was about four feet tall and only weighed about 60 pounds. Even by the standards of the 1700s, that was short. Attila, on the other hand, was a monster - well over five feet and almost 150 pounds. About him, they would have said 'There were Giants in those days,' but football hadn't been invented yet. Neither had New York, for that matter. It was still New Amsterdam, so they played soccer and stuck their fingers in dikes for entertainment. But I digress."

"And that's different from the rest of this story in what way?" Ronnie asked rhetorically.

"Anyway, Alexander's advisors told him that it was suicide to fight Attila one-on-one, but Alexander insisted that it must be done. The advisors shrugged and started arguing about who was going to be in charge after the kid was gutted and filleted."

"Dawn came. By the time she got cleaned up and left, it was almost time for the sun to rise, so Alexander began to prepare himself for the battle. He dressed himself in his best +5 plate mail, strapped on his +3 bastard sword (+6 vs. married people - bastards hate married people), attached the leather chicken to his right arm and headed for the forest clearing where he would meet Attila.

"The Hun was already waiting when he arrived. At the sight of Alexander, he burst into laughter."

"'This is the most feared general in the south?' asked Attila. 'A mere boy? And a pathetic one at that. Go home, boy, before your mother knows you snuck out.'"

"Alexander tried to retort by calling Attila's mother a bad name, but, sadly, his voice cracked in the middle of the insult. That only sent the Hun into further paroxysms of laughter."

"Blushing and angry, Alexander attacked, but he was no match for the massive Attila. For a long while, the Hun was happy to simply defend, swatting away the boy's attacks like Barry Bonds hitting a home run or Ben Wallace blocking a shot. But eventually, he tired of the game and flattened Alexander with a single swipe of his massive sword."

"For a long moment, Attila stood with his sword raised, his foot on Alexander's chest, staring down at the near-child."

"'Do you expect me to surrender?' Alexander asked, trying desperately to keep his voice low and manly."

"'No, Mr. Great, I expect you to die,' Attila replied, savagely thrusting his sword down toward his opponent's face."

"Alexander flung his arms over his face, and somehow, in some way, the tip of Attila's sword caught in the strap holding the leather chicken to his right forearm. It wasn't enough to stop the murderous blow, or even slow it down, but it was enough to twist the blade and deflect it inches past Alexander's left ear."

"Attila swore and raised the sword again, but before he could repeat the killing stroke, a terrible squealing was heard from the trees. A brown blur approached the combatants, and Alexander realized that it was his pet guinea pig, Squeaker. Well, it wasn't really called Squeaker, since that wouldn't make any sense in Mesopotamian, but you get the idea."

"The guinea pig lunged at Attila's face, tiny teeth bared. The Hun twitched his wrist slightly and his sword blade sliced the rodent in half. Blood, guts, fur and a few tiny pieces of half-digested lettuce flew into his face, and Attila groaned."

"'First a leather chicken and now an attack rodent?' he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. 'What are you, Dr. Flipping Doolittl... ARRRRGH!'"

"Attila fell to the ground, dead. Alexander pulled his sword from the bigger man's groin and started to saw at his neck. He knew he would need the head as a trophy."

"With the victory, Alexander knew that he was the unquestioned conqueror of the world, but his pathetic performance in single combat bothered him endlessly. He started taking steroids and human growth hormone, and grew into a physical monster with fighting skills to match his mental abilities."

"Sadly, though, just three years later, he was killed in a bar brawl when he tried to take on an entire chariot gang while in the throes of roid rage."

"The end."

Ronnie and I were speechless. When Missy saw that, she knew she had done her job.