We Three Kings, part four

**Editor's Note** Here is the final installment to our Christmas tale. I can only hope that it goes well with eggnog, but just to be on the safe side, drink the brandy and leave the eggnog for the maiden aunts who enjoy fruitcake.

Pang grabbed Clayton's elbow and pointed, "Here Mr. Clayton Delaney. Here is where we find the King of Kings."

"At the Best Western hotel?" asked Clayton incredulously. "We have followed a star that has led us to the west Mr. Clayton, why not the Best Western?" queried Umbala. "You got me there. Let's go see who's checked in," Clayton said with a shrug.

The sidewalk leading to the front door didn't show a single track in the snow and Clayton pulled on the handle only to discover it was locked. He pounded with his fists on the glass and yelled to the top of his lungs only to be joined by eleven cold and frustrated men. In a moment a thin wispy haired man in a parka came to the door. "We don't have any rooms!" he shouted from the other side of the glass, "Go somewhere else!"

"We're lookin' for somebody!" shouted Clayton but the man turned his back and walked away with a dismissive wave. "Stand back," warned Umbala as he rested his hand on Matt's shoulder and cocked his long leg back. Umbala's foot flew forward and connected with the rushing sound of splintered glass. He reached in and turned the latch and held the shattered door open so the rest could pass, and smiled as he did it. They all filed into the lobby that was standing room only and pressed their way to the wispy haired man who gaped at them in wonder. "Who do you think you are? You can't just break in here!" he shouted, "I'm going to call the cops! You are going to jail! This is breaking and entering, this is trespassing, this is..." he faltered.

"I said we was looking for somebody," said Clayton in a slow, menacing voice, "and we were having a little trouble getting your attention from outside. Now you go right ahead and call the cops Mr. ..."

"Smythe, Mr. Carl Smythe, I'm the manager and I'll-"

"You'll help us Mr. Smythe, 'cause the cops are six blocks away and your phone don't work I'm willing to bet, what with all this snow. We don't want to get ugly, but that can be arranged." As Clayton spoke he positioned he face an inch away from Smythe and slowly backed him up against the counter. "We need to find a woman. A pregnant woman. We don't know her name, but maybe she mentioned she was related to a guy named David. Ring any bells?"

"I don't know..," Smythe stuttered, "There are too many people here...not all of them checked in...some just getting out of the weather.." Clayton reached in his pocket and pulled out a large pocketknife and opened it in a slow ceremony. He reached past Smythe and cut the cord on the phone with deliberate motions. "Are you sure you can't help us?" he asked again as he examined the knife's edge.

"Don't," warned Markus at his elbow, "it isn't our way." Clayton looked at him for a moment, then nodded and closed the knife and slid it back in his pocket. "I'm sorry," apologised Clayton, "it's just that we have come so far and been through so much... we just need to find her so we can help her. You see, she's in trouble. She is in bad trouble and we have came to help..." Clayton trailed off and the crowded lobby breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

"Hey dude," spoke up a leather-clad biker woman near Clayton, "there was a pregnant lady who knocked on the door a few hours ago. There was a guy with her," she offered. "What room are they in? Where'd they go?" Clayton asked eagerly. The biker shrugged.

"The jackass manager here wouldn't let them in," said a guy in a rainbow T-shirt.

The fist that connected with Smythe's nose flew so fast that Clayton wasn't sure he had thrown it himself until he heard the bones snap under his hand. Smythe slid to the floor with a nasal "Owww," and he held his tie to it to staunch the flow of blood.

"What kind of asshole sends a pregnant woman out in a storm?" Clayton shouted. At that moment a man in ratty clothes and a mud stained Steelers hat was working his way through the crowd from the back of the room with three hot cups of coffee in his hands. "Scuse me, hot coffee, comin' through, pardon me, clear a path, headed for the door" he called out, ignorant of the scene that had just transpired.

As the man shouldered his way through the crowd and as he passed, Amir touched his arm. "Where are you going with that coffee?" Amir asked. The man's brown face broke into a look of concern, "Out to the trailer. I got Mr. Wainwright's horses to look after," he said, "besides the new child and momma and poppa," he chuckled. "Take us to them," Pang said and the thirteen of them filled out into the snowy parking lot leaving a bewildered crowd behind them.

"What's your name?" asked Clayton. "Able Amos Moses O'Brien, but most folks call me Moz," he replied, "You guy's from the Government?" he asked.

"Nope," said Clayton, "just kinda friends of the family."

"Tha's good, cause it's always good to have family about when a new youngin is borned. The momma and poppa always need lotsa help den." Moz handed the hot coffee cups to Pang so he could undo the latch at the back of a large horse trailer. "Now you gots to be real quiet now as momma and baby was just fallin' asleep when I went in an hour ago and I can't have you spookin' them or the horses neither. So shuts up and wait for me to call you all in one at a time."

Umbala asked eagerly, "Everything went alright didn't it?" and the grey-haired old black man smiled. "I've delivered a lot of calves and foals in my time and I've had some tough ones too, but I ain't never delivered no baby before, but this one come out like he was ready to meet the world. He don't cry or whine. He just snuggle to his mommas tit and fall asleep like he got the peace of Heaven on him. I put him in the feed trough with some hay and wrap him in some horse blankets cause that's all I got, and momma, she need some rest."

"Does Mr. Wainwright know you got a mother and child in his horse trailer in the dead of winter?" asked Amir.

"No suh, and I don't aim to tell him. I done this all on my own and I ain't about to involve him in somethin' that don't concern him, provided he don't find out." Moz said.

Clayton took the shepherds and fishermen aside and held a quiet conversation with them, and in a moment they headed back into the hotel. "Why don't you fellas go in one at a time and see our new addition to the family," Clayton suggested with a wink. Moz took the coffee cups from Pang and lead him into the trailer. A few minutes later, Pang came out and knelt on the ground in the deep snow and wept as he prayed. Umbala crept in and pulled the door softly shut behind him. In a few minutes he returned and could say nothing as he motioned for Amir to take his place. A few more minutes passed and Amir returned with a look in his eye as if he had seen something that would change him forever and he held Umbala close to him like a long lost brother.

What transpired next was a bit of a blur for all concerned. The fishermen and shepherds returned with a cot that they used to carry mother and child into the hotel and on up to the Honeymoon suite that had been recently been vacated by a very kind, very rich, and devout Mr. Wainwright. The Biker chick and the guy in the rainbow T-shirt had held the doors open on the elevator as the mother and child were transported to their new room while the adoring crowd in the lobby was held at bay by the bloody manager Smythe who threatened to turn loose this band of hooligans against the first person who woke the baby. The kitchen staff was ordered to feed anyone who was hungry and the small lounge was opened to provide drinks on the house to anyone who had come to seek respite at the Best Western in the horrible blizzard of '08.

As Clayton and the gang settled into the largest booth in the lounge and waited for Smythe to come and take their order, a thin and well-worn young man of seventeen with a scraggly beard wandered up.

"Are you Amir?" he asked and Clayton pointed to Amir. "My name is Joe, and I just want to thank you for all you have done for us and if you ever need new cabinets in your kitchen, just give me a call."

"Are you the baby's father?" asked Clayton.

"Well, sort of..." he said. "We just got married yesterday at the courthouse and..."

"Well we pooled our money and got you something," said Clayton with a grin, "Alright fellas, put it on the table." And with that appeared a bottle of expensive French perfume, some Myrrh incence, a Swiss Army knife, three packs of smokes, two lighters, a Snickers candy bar, one ticket to the monster truck pull, three Happy Meal Toys, a tea bag, a bottle opener, three-hundred dollars worth of prepaid phone cards, and the keys to a 1984 red Ford pickup that could be picked up at the Hanover exit as soon as the roads were clear.

Joe looked down at the stuff that filled the table and tried to mumble his thanks but the words just wouldn't come. At this, Umbala stood up and took off the jacket to his three-piece pinstripe suit and slid it over the youth's bony shoulders.

"You need this much more than I, " he said softly, "but it will fit much better when you get the weight out of the pocket."

Joe reached for the large brick that rested in the pocket and pulled it out to see what made the coat so heavy and gasped when he saw what it was.

"And the coat looks good on you too," said Clayton as he got a fresh chew.

**Editor's Note** I have borrowed and swiped a lot to create this story, as well as embellished, gilded the truth, and out and out lied, but know that I did it for you. God bless and keep you safe.

Doc

We Three Kings, part three

**Editor's Note** This is the third installment of a piece of short fiction inspired by Cap'n Ergo. If you missed the first two, this is the first and this is the second. My dear friends, may the joy of the season be yours, and may goodness and mercy follow you for all the days of your life. Cheers!

"We know whut Mr. Umbala brought but how about you two?" Clayton asked.

"I have brought for him some myrrh incense to help with his meditations and his morning prayers. My people have used it for centuries," Pang said with a note of pride.

"And you Amir?" asked Umbala with a nudge, as Amir remained quiet.

"I have brought some expensive French perfume. It was the only thing I could find that I could bring on the plane," he said a bit sheepishly.

"Oh yeah?" said Clayton with renewed interest, "Whut's it called?"

"Essence of Frankincense," Amir said quietly.

"Is that the kinda stuff French hook- um, French ladies-of-the-evening wear?" inquired Clayton.

"Certainly not!" Amir said firmly and he struggled to get his Gitanes from his pocket and lit one.

"You can ash on the floorboard Mr. Amir but I think Mr. Umbala better crack a window if he can reach it," Clayton said apologetically.

From there they rode on in silence for a while. Pang tried the radio but Clayton explained that the heater controls were the only thing that really worked well, or at all, in his old truck. The wind picked up and buffeted the truck and it started to sway into the other lane now and then. Clayton tightened his grip on the wheel and assured them that it would be alright.

Then the snow started to fall. Big, fat flakes the size of a quarter started to strike the windshield and Clayton swore quietly as he turned on the wipers and leaned forward in his seat to catch glimpses of the lines on the road. To make matters worse, the passenger side wiper would only rise a few inches to clear away the snow and left most of that side of the windshield covered.

"I've been meanin' ta fix that," Clayton muttered as he slowed down to meet an unexpected corner. But even as the snowstorm gathered strength, the star shone before them like some unearthly beacon guiding them to their goal. At the edge of the headlights they could see the land grew thick with trees and shrouded them in even greater darkness.

Umbala turned to the others and said, "Gentlemen, I think we should pray." Each nodded their agreement and bowed his head, except for Clayton who leaned a little closer to the wheel to see beyond the hood of the truck. All of them muttered their prayers in his own native tongue, and each hand sought out the hand of another as they prayed for their deliverance from the storm that threatened to halt them in the wilderness. The minutes seemed to stretch and the creaks and groans of the old Ford sounded as if it was adding it's prayers to theirs. The wipers kept time to their cadence and a soft sweat ran down the creases of Clayton's furrowed brow. The snow began to drift across the road. And then, as if by some silent signal, the wise men ended their prayers and the silence was only punctuated by the slap of the wipers.

"Hot Damn!" Clayton shouted, and by the light of an oncoming snow plow the green sign at the side of the road was illuminated, "You are now entering Licking County; Land Of Legend."

"It's alright now fellas," Clayton exclaimed, "This is my hometown and I could guide us through here blindfolded. Mr. Amir, can you see the star?" Amir said that he couldn't, but Umbala rolled his window down and leaned out into the storm and giggled like a school girl. "There Mr. Clayton!," he pointed, "Straight ahead! We are so close!" and his deep laugh was so infectious that they all snickered a bit and a couple of the fisherman from in back pressed their noses to the glass to see what all the the laughter was about.

"That there is the Hanover exit," Clayton said with a smile as he pointed out in a sea of white, "That's where I'd get off if I was headed for home." Despite the grim conditions, joy filled them all and they grinned until it hurt.

Then they saw the lights. Yellow, red, and blue ahead and the shape of patrol cars blocking the road came into view.

"Looks like there has been an accident," muttered Clayton as he crawled to a stop. A patrolman came to the side of the truck and rapped on the window with his flashlight. "Sorry folks, but the road has been closed. A National Emergency has been declared on account of the blizzard," he said in a cold, bloodless voice.

"On who's authority?" Clayton challenged in an angry tone.

The patrolman leaned in the window and shined his bright light from face to face and responded, "Under the authority of his honorable Agent Munson T. Herrod, Head of Homeland Security for the state of Ohio. Who the hell are you?"

At this, Clayton demurred. He handed over his drivers licence and explained that the guys he had with him were some veterinarians that were from out of the country and he had brought them here to examine his sheep before the end of the year sell-off, and that the guys in the back of the truck were local sheep farmers just like him who had chipped in to finance their trip. The deputy examined everyones cards and passports and seemed a little miffed that they were who they said they were, but in the end he couldn't let them continue on. The road was closed. Clayton said he would just head back down the highway and take the Hanover exit to get home and he would be out of the officer's hair. "No," insisted the cop, "you can't move this vehicle one more inch. You are welcome to hike, but the truck stays here. This road is closed and all traffic is to be stopped."

"But we will freeze to death!" protested Clayton. "And when we get the okay to open the roads, we will send out a search party," the cop offered, and in a quieter, more stern voice he said, "Should you come across something unusual, don't hesitate to call it in. We appreciate your cooperation."

"I'm sure you do," mumbled Clayton, "Alright fellas, everybody out of the truck. It looks like we are hoofin' it from here." The shepherds and fisherman grumbled as they climbed out into the snow. "Here's how we are goina do this, we travel single file. I'll lead and brake a path with Mr. Umbala behind me as we have the longest legs. I want you to reach forward and grab the belt of the guy ahead of you. John, you are in back with Mr. Pang. Anybody falls, call out. Anybody lets go of a belt, call out. And Zeke, you damn fool, put the beer back in the truck! We can't carry it anyway! Let's headout!" The officer smiled and touched the brim of his hat as they left, and then he called in on the radio.

The going was rough and the wind through the electric wires along the road gave an unholy shriek as it swept along. The snow began to crust on the cuffs of their trousers which only made each step that much heavier than the last.

Amir, in the middle of the pack, clutched at Johnny's belt and was thankful that at least his right hand was warm while the rest of him hovered between frozen and numb. The wind caught his wool cap and sent it zinging off into the darkness and he could feel the snow collecting on the top of his head now. His breath was ragged from his exertion but he tried to think of other things, warm things, like the orchid room in his father's flower shop where the temperature was always sweltering. The orchids had always been his mother's favorite, his father had explained. She had always tended them with such loving care, but when she died the job fell to him. His father had tried to look after them for a few weeks after her death, but always broke down in heaving sobs that would bring him to his knees. After that they went to the mosque more often and became much more active in the faith. They made friends and his father helped him to learn to read the Koran. "Life is a sport and a pastime," that was Amir's favorite passage. "You must always keep the faith," his father warned, "You have a strong mind and it will take you far, but always remember that you also have a strong heart that is the gift of your mother." Lost in his memories, Amir didn't hear that Clayton had called for a rest and he walked into Johnny's back.

Johnny turned, "You all right suh?" he asked with concern. "Yes, yes, just tired," responded Amir as he sat down on his briefcase in the snow.

"We'll take fifteen here fellas, and Mr. Umbala, no offence sir, but I wish you would quit switching hands on me. You start sliding that cold hand into my pants just makes me want to jump out of my skin."

"My apologies Mr. Clayton, but the bag gets heavy in one hand for too long." Umbala said. "Well shove that gold brick in your pocket and take the socks from your bag and cover your hands, and let me have that white shirt. Mr. Amir put this shirt on your head like a turban. It might look a little out of place but at least it will help keep your head warm. Zeke, what have you got there?" Zeke, looking a little ashamed pulled a handful of beers from his old army field jacket. "Well pass them around, you got six so every man gets a half but don't offer none to Mr. Amir. He can't drink it." Zeke smiled broadly at the prospect of having a beer to himself.

"No, I think I'd like to have some," Amir said to his own surprise, "I think Allah will forgive me just this once." Zeke's smile disappeared but he slugged down his half in two gulps and handed it to Amir. The unfamiliar taste and sting on his tongue was welcome and unsettling at the same time. "Mr. Amir, have you got any idea how much farther we have to go?" asked Clayton. Amir sat silent as the cold seemed to drive for his bones. He opened his briefcase to consult his notes but his sock garbed hands couldn't hold on to his papers and the wind snatched them away into the night. He looked up blankly at Clayton.

"The King is less than a kilometer away," said Pang. "Are you sure? I mean if-" Clayton started. "My work is measured in the milliseconds Mr. Clayton Delaney and I have spent my entire life working for this moment. I would not waste my life, or the lives of these good men, on a simple guess Mr. Clayton Delaney. If I am wrong, may my ancestors torture me in Hell for all eternity."

Clayton looked him in the eye for a long minute, then grinned and nodded, "By God, that is good enough for me Mr. Pang. That's damn sure good enough for me." And with a loud voice Clayton called them to their feet, "Alright you sorry sinners, get off your asses and start making tracks. The Savior of us all is just down the road a piece and we are gointa be there when he comes!"

No sooner had they fallen back in line and began their trudge through the deep snow, the wind died down and the snow quit altogether as if the storm had lost it's will to hinder them any further. At the first sight of a lit streetlight a cheer of joy rang out from them all and an impromptu snowball fight began until Clayton told them to knock it off and get moving.

Pang grabbed Clayton's elbow and pointed, "Here Mr. Clayton Delaney. Here is where we find the King of Kings."

**Editor's Note** The last installment will appear Wednesday 12/23/09. Thank you all for hanging with me! Now go have a cookie!

Cheers,
Doc

We Three Kings, part two

**Editor's Note** Should you have missed the first installment of this humble tale, scroll down to the post below or click here. Much like the little drummer boy, this is all I have to gift you with. I can only hope that this season gives you half the joy I had in writing this and you get that special gift you so richly deserve.

They all met up at the front gate and Clayton lead them out into the parking lot and the late December chill. Clayton insisted on carrying their luggage as, "It only seems proper," he explained, but the luggage only amounted to two briefcases and one small canvas gym bag. The snow on the pavement wasn't deep, but there was a thin layer of ice beneath it that made the quarter mile trek a little hazardous for the the men from afar, while Clayton stepped with the surefootedness of a mountain goat.

"Lot X," said Clayton with a sense of triumph as he pointed to the sign on the light pole, "Here's where I parked my truck."

"Mr. Clayton Delaney sir, please, is this not lot P?" Pang asked.

"Naw, some fool kid has just spray-painted a P over the X sign. I don't know what they call it in China, but here we call it graffiti." They walked down the row until they came to a red, late model Ford pickup truck that was more rust and dirt than vehicle.

"There is someone in the back of your truck!" Amir said in a startled whisper as he pointed to the light in the bed.

"It's alright," Clayton said reassuringly as he lifted the back window on his truck cap, "these are my fishing and shepherd buddies Matt, Markus, Luke, Johnny, Zeke, Sam, the other John, and Frank. They saw the angel too. Say hello fellas." The boys looked up from their cards long enough to wave, say hello, and stare with smiles against the light of the flashlight that illuminated their game.

"Climb in front fellas," said Clayton, "It'll be a tight squeeze, but we'll make it. Mr. Pang, you had better sit next to me as you're the shortest and this is a four-on-the-floor." Pang looked as if he didn't understand but hopped in nonetheless. Amir went in after him and Umbala had to wedge himself in next, and it took three tries to close the door behind him.

The engine started with a throaty roar and it wasn't long before they were doing sixty-five down the highway. Clayton turned the heat up and got a fresh chew. The whole time Pang, Umbala, and Amir kept looking out the windows and pointing out clusters of stars once the got away from the city lights.

"This is fertile land. You must be very proud Mr. Delaney" said Umbala.

"Mr. Delaney was my father's name. Just call me Clayton, and yes, this is good country but it ain't nothing like home. I'm an Ahia boy, born and raised, but Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, Akron, Dayton, that ain't the Ahia I knowed. Too damn many paved roads and people for my liking. Let me take you inta Licking county and you'll start to see some real country. Rich fields, lotsa woods, clean water, good huntin' and fishin', and full of good people. God-fearin' people who would give you the shirt offa their back," Clayton paused, "but then I'm sure you fellas feel the same way about your home."

"I spent most of my life in state school," said Pang quietly, "There was no home, only school, and then the next school. Not much play like other children, only learn so that I can be useful tool for the state when I am a man. No family, only friends now and then. Lonely life." Pang shrugged as if to dismiss cold memories.

"I know something of Clayton's pride in his home. Where I am from the lands were beautiful and rich, but the people were always very poor," Umbala said as he tried to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position as he was cramped against the door, "The land gave good crops, but the warlords take most of the harvest every year to feed their army and to fight the next warlord. One became a soldier, a peasent, or ran away to seek a good life elsewhere. I was fortunate. My father sold most of his land and sent me away to school in Israel, but the warlord was angered that he didn't get a share of the sale, and killed my father when he couldn't pay." Umbala turned to look out the window at the stars and grew quiet.

Amir sat and thought about growing up in Paris and his father's little flower shop, and the wonderful childhood he had known playing in the streets, but this didn't seem like the right time to talk about it after hearing the other's tales. He wished he could have one of his Gitanes.

"Whut do you say Mr. Amir? You're the astro-, um, star mapper. Are we getting close?" Clayton asked.

Amir pressed his face against the windshield and gazed up at one particularly bright star. "We need to head further west," he said. Pang agreed.

"Alright, we'll get off on Route 36 and follow it. There is an all night McDonald's just past Coshocton. We can stop there and have a pee break and stretch our legs."

"Would it not be better to continue on? We must get there quickly." Pang suggested.

"Well the boys in back have been drinkin' beer all night and I know they would appreciate a five minute stop to take a whiz. Besides, this ol' Ford ain't a camel Mr. Pang. I'm gonna need some gas." Clayton said.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the McDonald's restaurant parking lot and as soon as the truck stopped, every door opened and men poured out like a circus clown car emptying. "You fellas get some grub. No telling how much farther we got to go. I'll gas up the truck and meet you back here," and with that, Clayton pulled into the BP station next door.

Twenty minutes later Clayton strode into the McDonald's with a scowl on his face. "Gentlemen, we have a problem," he said in a serious tone. "The gas station won't take my credit card on accounta their lines bein' down. I ain't got any cash on me and the ATM is busted. Who's got sixty-five dollars in cash?" The bleary-eyed shepherds and fishermen shook their heads and explained that they had just spent the last of their money on burgers and fries. "I have a few Euros," offered Amir.

"Naw, that ain't going to do it. The redneck behind the counter wouldn't know a Euro from a Yugo, and he ain't going to take an I.O.U. 'cause I already tried that. Ain't you got any American money?" They all shook their heads. Clayton took off his Browns ball cap and scratched his head and tried to think off something.

"Perhaps I can help," Umbala offered with an air of deep sadness. "lets find my bag in the truck. Perhaps he will trade." The twelve men gathered up their sacks of greasey burgers and headed for the truck. Frank climbed in and handed out the canvas gym bag and Umbala opened it on the tailgate. He pulled out a well worn sock that was stuffed with something. He upended the sock and it's contents struck the tailgate with a hard thud, and there in the glare of the sodium lights of the gas station rested a shiny gold bar the size of a loaf of bread.

"Good Lord!" Clayton exclaimed. "How the FUCK did you get that past Customs?"

"Please, do not ask me," Umbala replied with shame. "I can part with some of it but the rest must go to the King," he said firmly.

"Don't you worry none Mr. Umbala. Just a corner of that sucker would be enough to buy the whole gas station. Frank, hand me that hacksaw out of the tool box in there."

In a few minutes there was a small chunk missing from the gold bar. Clayton held it in his hand to judge it's weight. "That's gotta be at least an ounce and a half right there. Fellas, climb into the truck. I'll start it up to get the heat going, but stay in the truck. If he don't go for this, we might have to leave in a damn big hurry." Clayton turned to Amir, Umbala, and Pang and said, "Gentlemen, you come with me, but let me do all of the talking. It takes the mind of a country boy to talk to another. Don't say anything, just look mean and stay behind me. If something goes bad wrong, and God willing it won't, but if it does, run for the truck and go like hell. I'll stay here and keep the cops busy when they show up. It don't matter if I make it or not, and it won't be my first time in jail, but you three have GOT to get there. Unnerstand?" The three wise men nodded and followed him in.

"Didja collect enough money from your drinkin' buddies to pay for the gas or are you gointa walk home Mister," the clerk said with a malicious smile. "Who are these dudes? You gotta to bring your parole officers with you where ever you go?" he snickered.

"I tell you whut," Clayton began in a friendly voice, "I've got somethin' here that is better than cash-"

"If you are going to offer to blow me, that ain't gonna cut it. My gate don't swing that way," the clerk interrupted, "and stand back a bit son. You reek like a brewery!"

Clayton dropped the chunk of gold on the counter and it struck with a majestic clang. The clerk's eyes grew wide and he snatched it up and held it up to the light, then he slid his glasses down from the top of his head to examine it further. "It's gotta be fake," he said softly.

"It ain't." insisted Clayton. "Bite it. You can always tell if you bite it." The clerk tentatively put it between his few remaining teeth and bit down. "Now that there has got to be at least an ounce and a half. That should more than cover sixty-five dollars in gas. Hell, it's got to be worth...um..." Clayton faltered.

"This morning gold was trading at $844.44 an ounce on the world market," Amir offered with a smile.

"Yea," Clayton said, "that's at least over a thousand dollars worth you've got in your hand. So what do you say?"

The clerk smiled from ear to ear as he slid it into his breast pocket. "I believe we can come to some kinda understanding," he said.

"Alright fellas, wait for me in the truck while my new friend and I hash out the details," said Clayton. The wise men had barely settled into the front seat when Clayton came out with his arms full and headed to the rear of the truck. A cheer rose up from the bed, and then Clayton climbed in behind the wheel.

"Please, Mr. Clayton Delaney, what was that about?" asked Pang.

"Well I convinced the clerk that we should get a little more than just a tank of gas for that nugget that Mr. Umbala ponied up, so he threw in six cases of beer, some beef jerky, chips, peanuts, and looky here," he said as he passed over a small paper bag, "I got three hundred dollars worth of prepaid phone cards for the King. I figure this will help to get the word out, and His momma is gonna want to call the family."

"Very thoughtful Clayton," Amir said with a smile.

"We know whut Mr. Umbala brought but how about you two?" Clayton asked.

**Editor's Note** So ends part two. The next installment will be published early Monday 12/21/09.**

May your beer mustache make you look like Santa,
Doc

We Three Kings

**Author's Note**Last year a buddy of mine suggested that I write a story about the three wise men looking for Christ in the year 2008, so I did. This is a Christmas tale I love as it is perhaps as close as I've ever come to "heartwarming" and funny. It is dedicated to three kings: Cap'n Ergo Jinglebollocks, Dale, and your friend and mine, Skyler's Dad. True kings, each and every one of them. Enjoy!

Amir looked at his watch and then at the "Now Arriving" sign and grimaced. It would be hours before his plane would arrive and there was nothing to do but wait. He had already killed as much time as he could stand in the duty-free shop and he just couldn't bring himself to read one more magazine. What more was there to do in Cleveland airport at one in the morning? Nothing was open but the bar, so he wandered in.

The bartender lifted his eyebrows in a "What'll you have?" gesture and Amir mumbled "Espresso and a menu." He listened to the whir of the machine as he glanced over the bill of fare.

"Here ya go," said the bartender, "Can I get you something else?"

"Yes, the hot wings with the veggie platter please." he said with a yawn. "Comin' right up," the bartender said as he shuffled off. Amir rubbed his tired eyes and looked around the bar. It was done in dark wood paneling with lots of brass and ferns. He noticed a couple of the patrons smoking so he lit an unfiltered Gitanes and sipped his espresso. The strong flavors combined were exactly what he needed and he pulled his notes from his briefcase to examine them for the thousandth time. "I must make it there on time!" he kept telling himself. He was so lost in his calculations that he didn't even notice the brawny man who walked up beside him.

"Mr. Amir?" he said softly. "Yes," Amir looked up somewhat startled, "do I know you?"

"No sir. We've never met but I knowed you was ah comin'. I'm your ride. My name is Delaney. Clayton Delaney. I'm to take you to Him."

"What?" was all Amir could say before the bartender interrupted. "Here's your veggie platter. It will be just a few more minutes on those wings. Can I get you something else?" Amir shook his head. "How about you sir?"

"Ya'll serve Pabst?" Clayton asked. "Sorry," the barkeep said. "I'll have a tall Bud draft and a shot of Jack Daniels." The barman busied himself fetching the drinks. Amir began with, "How did you know..." but Clayton motioned for him to be quiet. The bartender set down Clayton's order and headed for the kitchen in back. Amir watched as Clayton dropped the shot glass of whiskey into his beer and when the foam started to reach the top he brought it to his lips and took three long gulps, emptying most of the glass. Clayton wiped his mouth, belched, and said, "I do love my boilermakers."

He turned to Amir and in a whisper said, "I'm sure you are wonderin' how I knew you and where you was agoin'. Well, I'll tell ya. It is goin' ta sound strange, but I swear what I'm about to say is the God's honest truth. I met an angel and he told me to meet you at the Cleveland airport bar and take you to the King of Kings. Scared the shit out of me, let me tell you. I had just gone out to put out some feed for the sheep, I'm a sheep farmer by the way, and this light appeared outta nowhere and I heared the most beautiful music I ever heared in my life and amongst the light there appeared this angel and he told me to seek out the wise men from afar. At first I thought he said from a fire, but he corrected me and sent me to you, so here I am." he said with a shrug of his shoulders. Clayton finished his drink in one long pull and waited for Amir to speak.

"Here's your wings. Can I get you some brandy or a whiskey perhaps?" said the bartender.

"No, I don't drink. It is against my religion." said Amir.

"How about a beer then?" suggested the bartender.

"No, thank you!" Amir said firmly.

"I'll have another," Clayton said with a smile. "Go ahead and finish yer meal. It'll be a little while afore the other two get here." Clayton sat down on the bar stool and tugged at the knees of his dirty overalls as he did. He fished around in the pocket of his Carhart coat and pulled out a tin of Copenhagen snuff and lined his lip with it. "So what do you do Mr. Amir from afar?" he said with a tobacco stained smile.

"I'm the president of the University of Paris. I'm an astrocartographer."

"I reckon that makes you kind of a king on campus. Let me ask you somethin'. Is it true what they say about French girls?"

Amir was about to respond that he had no idea what "they" said about French girls when a deep baritone voice behind them interrupted.

"Are you Gentlemen headed to meet our Lord and Savior?"

"Not so loud!" admonished Clayton as he turned to the tall, stately black man in the three-piece pinstripe suit. "You don't want the whole of Homeland Security down on us do you?"

"My apologies gentlemen," he said in a deep whisper, "but I am eager to find the Savior of us all and I forget myself sometimes. My name is Eze Djimon Keon Falstaff Umbala, but please, call me Umbala. I have ventured a long way and I am weary from my travels. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours nor eaten in twelve. I am at my wit's end at being so close and yet so far away."

"Well pull up a stool and sit down. I'm sure Mr. Pang will be a few more minutes. Order whatever you want fella, it's on my tab. I'm Clayton and this here is Mr Amir" offered Clayton.

"Thank you very much sirs. It took much more money to get here than I expected and I haven't any money. All I have is a gift for the King and I wouldn't surrender it for the world."

"Here," said Amir as he slid the plates over, "eat and tell us of your travels."

"Whut kinda name is Eze, Mr. Umbala?" asked Clayton.

"It is an Afican name. It means King. My father had high hopes for me. He was somewhat disappointed when I chose to be a Bible scholar." At that Umbala fell on the chicken and vegetables like a man who hadn't eaten in a week and didn't look up from his plate until it contained nothing but bones and drips of sauce. "My mouth burns," he said as he dabbed at his beard.

"Barkeep!" called Clayton, "Can we get a drink for muh friend here?"

"Have you any rice wine?" Umbala asked.

"We have the house red or white," offered the bartender. "White, please."

As the bartender set down the glass, he looked the men over, but turned away quickly as if he had just thought of something he had to do. At that moment, the door of the bar opened and admitted a short Chinese man with a Fu Manchu mustache. He came to them in long strides and stopped short of them just long enough to give a curt bow and said, "I have done as you have asked Mr. Clayton Delaney. I have turned in my ticket and am ready to leave now please."

"Fellas, let me introduce Mr. Pang Wang Yao. He is going to be comin' with us. He is an astrologer." Clayton said with a note of pride in his voice.

"Pardon me please, astronomer," Pang corrected. "Whatever you say Pang. Alright fellas, gather yer gear and let's hightail it outta here. I'll pay the tab and meet you at the front door," Clayton said as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. The men left in some haste and the bartender brought the check. Clayton didn't even look at it, he just set his Target Visa card on it and finished the last of his drink even though his mouth was still crammed with snuff.

In a minute the bartender returned with the slip and a pen. Clayton signed and left the man a healthy tip. As he handed it back to the bartender, the bartender clasped his hand, hard, and wouldn't let go. "Are you really going to find the Messiah?" he asked. Clayton looked him in the eye for the first time and he saw the look of hope, and as his gaze lowered to his hand he noticed the shiny gold star of David that gleamed from the necklace in the bartender's open collar. "Yup," was all he could mutter.

"I'll pray for you," the bartender muttered in a choked up voice, let go of his hand, and turned away quickly to stifle a tear of joy.

**Editor's Note** The next installment will be published on Saturday 12/19/09. The staff here at Social Zymurgy; the culture of beer would like to wish you a delirously happy holiday, and if you get the chance, drink some of the holiday spirits.

Cheers,
Doc

Fear Not The Dark You Bright And Risen Angels!

On Halloween, Flannery took the girls trick-or-treating while I was at work. They canvased the neighborhood with the other local kids. They made a pretty good haul and when they were done they plopped down in the neighbor's back yard in a huge pile of leaves and compared candy.

Lucy, age five and pictured above in her costume as a Star Wars Jedi decided she wanted to go to one more house, so Flannery led her to the home of an elderly Italian couple who live the next street over. Now these folks are from the old country and their English isn't very good.

Lucy rings the bell and when the old man answers, holds out her bucket and cries out, "Trick or treat!" with all of the enthusiasm that a five year old can muster. "Good costume! Great costume!" he says with his thick accent as he puts a large handful of candy in her bucket. The old woman, hearing the sound of visitors, bustles to see who it is and joins her husband at the doorway.

She looks down at little Lucy in costume and her breath catches in her throat and her hand flies to her open mouth. "Jesu," she mutters, "Jesu Christi!" Without another word, she fills Lucy's bucket with all it will hold and crosses herself.

Flannery thanks them for their generosity, takes Lucy by the hand and they turn to go. "More children should dress like this!" the old woman calls after them. She kisses her rosary and takes the old man's hand as she closes the door.

Flannery didn't have the heart to tell them that Lucy was dressed as a character from a Sci-Fi movie that they had never heard of and not as Jesus Christ.

I choked up almost as much as our Italian neighbor lady did when Flannery told me the story, but I am a sentimental son of a bitch.

Doc

My .38 Special Birthday

"Just hold on loosely, but don't let go. If you cling too tightly, you're gonna loose control!"

Well my birthday went off without a hitch and I got everything I wanted. I had the day off. I got to sleep in. I hung out with the girls. I relaxed and drank coffee while goofing around on the computer. I went to Tiki and spent time with my friends. I had more than my share of cold beer and Flannery and I had a wonderful meal out.

And boy did I eat! Most of the time I approach eating as a chore. It's just something you have to do, much like shaving or taking out the trash, but not today. It was a day of wanton gluttony. I ate a steak, fries, salad, cheese sticks, onion rings, two bowels of chili, and some fried gator meat. I washed it down with copious amounts of beer.

It was a damn good birthday!

I thank you all for your well-wishes, as it's good to be remembered on your birthday. Should you like to get me a gift, I'd love to have you as my neighbor on Facebook's Farmville as I can't seem to tear myself away from this silly game. I've been trying forever to acquire a larger farm but it takes more neighbors than the four I have. Join me and I will send you a duck every day, I promise.

I'd like to tell you more but I've got to get ready for work and still find the time to pen my Flash Fiction Friday entry.

Stay frosty my bruden,
Doc

This Is My Candle

This is my candle. Please note that both ends are burning. Everybody has been sick, my workload has doubled this week, and I've been living on pills and coffee. Needless to say, my creative well has been a little low this week.

This Sunday marks 12 years since Flannery and I tied the knot. To celebrate, we are going to bed early after a sumptuous dinner of Ramen noodles. We will toast the occasion with some Tylenol and split a box of tissues. No gifts will be exchanged, as we are as broke as an eight-day clock. These are lean times.

I hope all is well with you and yours. I'll drop by this weekend and read your posts for this week.

Don't let your meat loaf,
Doc

Post-Groundhog's Day Lament

Huh? Whut? (wipes drool from mouth and rubs red, bleary eyes) Oh, it's you. Good to see you old friend. Sorry I haven't been posting, but I have been cultivating an alcohol-fueled stupor for a few days now and I think I've almost perfected it. God I love Groundhog's Day, but the post GHD depression can be a bit much. After all, I have to wait a whole year for it to return and that can be a bit hard to swallow on Feb. 3rd.

Screw it, I've got enough left over booze to keep me sauced until St. Crispin's Day. I had already purchased an extensive selection of cheap wine for the party-goers who didn't drink beer (who doesn't drink beer?) and Flannery brought home two cases of Budweiser, with two thirty-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon to chase it with. This was to be a bacchanalian festival. I bought a bottle of rum, gin, vodka, scotch, and bourbon early in the week, all top-shelf, but I made the mistake of taking some of it to Tiki and only the gin survived intact.

I needn't have worried, as everyone brought something to drink and when they left, they left it here. They left an expensive looking bottle of vodka called Vox from the Netherlands. I've learned from Ian Fleming that Russians and the Polish make the best vodka, but I don't see why the Netherlands couldn't make a good one too, as it touts that it's distilled five times. I haven't tried it yet as I'm saving it for a good martini when the mood strikes me.

They also left some beer. Budweiser's American Ale, which I haven't tried. I've seen it on the shelves for a while now, but I've hesitated to buy it because I figured Budweiser would just screw it up. I'll tell you how good it is after I've finished my PBR surplus. Flannery's buddy Jeff (as seen in the post below in my good pith helmet) brought a Belgium blonde ale called Abby of Leffe that I tasted and was deemed "purdy good". Like I say, I'll tell you more about it when my PBR surplus is extinguished.

My good buddy Err (seen in the post below in the Union blue forage cap. He looked so damn good in the thing I sent it home with him) brought four tall cans of Guinness and I couldn't pass up having one of those. I poured it into a cold pint glass and had a moment of silence for those of you that couldn't make it. Then I proceeded to give myself the biggest foam mustache in the room and savored the moment.

The biggest hit of the evening was the bourbon slushes that Debra brought. I had one and could have spent the rest of the evening sipping/munching these, but I knew after one that I should stick to beer, as Groundhog's Day is an endurance event and these would leave me slurry and stupid quickly. I'm not certain that I could describe them better than to say it had the consistency of a finely ground snow cone and a flavor like the touch of a knowing lover. They were that damn good! They will forever more be a regular part of our GHD party!

There were various wines sampled throughout the evening, but my favorite was a marvelous port from Portugal called Cockburn's that my new friend Erich brought. Erich was a high school chum of Flannery's that she hadn't heard from in twenty-odd years. He found her on Facebook and got in touch a few days before the party and she invited him out. He was going to be in town for a few days before he had to fly out to South America for a photo shoot, as he is a professional photographer, but he thought that a Groundhog's day party sounded fun, and would it be alright if he brought his camera along? "Sure," Flannery said.

Now I have to admit that I am a bit camera shy as I believe I have a face best suited for radio. I'm the worlds biggest ham, but I don't really want visual examples of it that could be used against me in a court of law. Erich lugs in this huge backpack and sorts through it for a minute and assembles a camera that looks like it would cost me a years worth of house payments and starts snapping away. At first I found it disconcerting but after a while you just treat it like a poorly timed strobe light. And I'm glad he did. He got some great pics! I'll share some once I sift through all 270 of them.

Funniest line of the whole evening: "I thought you said you were farting feathers!" Only Flannery could misunderstand me so badly. This became the running joke of the evening.

Per usual, we had silly hat night, which was convenient as I gave me the chance to unveil the new Top Hat I got for my birthday. It's cool because you can crush it and snap it out like a magician's hat. The only down side is that it has huge metal springs in it just for this purpose but they tend to dig into your head after a while. Oh well, whoever said great fashion wasn't painful was wrong.

We hopped in and out of the hot tub several times because this is required on GHD but it makes more sense when it is -7 rather than fifty degrees like we had. The neighbors looked at me funny when I fired up the snow blower to clear off a patch in the front yard to park the Jeep and Flan's car, but I wanted to make sure I had enough room in the driveway to park all the cars.

The food was excellent and I ate more than I have in three Thanksgivings. Flannery had originally planned to make BBQ pulled pork sandwiches but that changed when she got to the store on Saturday and realized that the pork would need twelve hours to thaw. The gyros she made instead inspired ooh's and ahh's. She also brought home a two pound box of Swedish Fish. Perhaps she had heard that someone was bringing vodka from the Netherlands, I don't know. I'm just glad she didn't buy sardines.

I was the last one to head to bed as I felt it was important to teach my nephew and nieces how to play the Indiana Jones Lego game so they would have something fun to do while the adults slept late in the morning. The adults slept later than usual but five children in a small house tends to quash most dreams of rising at noon.

Those of us still left from the night before convened in the lodge for morning coffee and rehashed our favorite bits of the wonderful GHD of '09. We finished our coffee but a thirst was upon us still. My sister produced a bottle of black cherry mead wine that she had brought especially for Flan and it was a great way to ease into the morning after. Sweet and warm as it goes down, I'd recommend it for your next brunch, provided you didn't have any plans to amount to something that day.

Lunch was served and it was shortly after this that beers were fished out from the snow-filled Budweiser tub that Flan brought home. It was after noon and refreshments were called for. No sooner did the empties hit the recycle bin than my brother-in-law suggested a return to the hot tub, if for no other reason than to work the kinks out from the night before. The warm water and bubbles managed to transition us all into a deep zen-like state. It may have been the mead coupled with the hot water but I prefer to think of it as zen.

I hated to see my friends and family pack up and leave, but all good things must come to an end.

I was just thankful I had two more days off from work so I could recover.

Doc

Well The Big Day Is Here At Last...

Our Groundhog's Day Party will begin here shortly and we are about as ready as we are going to be. After two full days of cleaning our house is simply a wreck instead of it's usual state of disaster. I have eight bottles of wine chilling as well as 102 beers. I purchased booze earlier in the week but only the bottle of gin and a smidge of the rum survived. Guests will be arriving in an hour and the hot tub is stoked to go. I'm not certain who all is coming but we are going to have a house full.

With any luck, comedy will ensue. I will keep you updated as the evening progresses, so check back in.

Damn, I really wish you could be here.
Doc

The Night I Tongued My Boss

I went to the company Christmas party on Monday night. It was held at Mulligan's, the pricey "Irish" bar by the mall. What do I care? They have Guinness on tap, and while I have to sit through Oprah and her special guest, I tough it out and wonder what the evening will have in store. I am celebrating Christmas with all of the ladies that I work with and they are an interesting lot, let me tell you.

The barmaid brought me a Guinness that looked like the beer of my dreams. I was determined to enjoy myself whatever came, but I was going to try to keep my mouth shut this evening, as I am blessed with the uncanny ability to put my foot in it long before I have considered what it is I'm saying. Apparently this isn't an uncommon gift, as I have met several people who are just as blessed.

Perhaps you have been to a few company Christmas parties and know the etiquette. I haven't, and I don't. I even had to look up the word etiquette to make sure I was using it right. After all, the only thing I know about company Christmas parties is how they can go horribly wrong and I learned that from cartoons in Playboy as a teenager. I am the only man amongst six women. Any faux pas I make will be repeated to perhaps two hundred people. My professional reputation could be at stake and I'm a little shaky in that department anyway. Stay-at-home dads don't carry a lot of street cred around here anyway, and it doesn't help at all that I talk funny anyway compared to the locals.

But I shut up and dinner goes just fine. The waitress seats us and asks for our drink orders. I have another beautiful Guinness and order the variety appetizer plate. Let me just say that the ladies I work with aren't small and they have healthy appetites. This was not something that any one of them would have ordered, but it almost came to blows when only the last few pieces were left, and even when it was gone they insisted that the rude waitress leave the dipping sauces.

I had a steak, baked potato and a salad. I was thankful when they brought the salad as it gave me an opportunity the stuff my mouth and just listen to the conversation. "Tell Doc the gum story," insisted my boss over dinner, but the girl declined. "Oh come on Flo," another joined in, "You've told everyone else!" And at that she conceded.

She began, "Well my husband and I were just climbing into bed and he asks me for a blow job, so I do. The next morning, he gets up and takes a whiz and comes back and asks me if I've lost something. "No, I don't think so..." she says and then he shows her the glob of bright green chewing gum that is caught in his pubic hair. All the ladies laugh and titter like school girls.

At the end of the meal, my boss asks the waitress to put in a carry-out order so she can take dinner home to her husband. The waitress informs her that it will be a thirty-minutes before her order is ready. "Well let's have a drink while we wait. My treat," I volunteered. We had a round of martinis and even the ladies who didn't drink had one.

The boss shared a chocolate martini with a friend and kidded me that I had a rich wife who could well afford to pay for my extravagance. (I don't.) When our rude waitress brought the carry-out order the party broke up, and since I was sitting by the aisle, they all wanted a hug goodnight. I put this down to the vodka working and decided to give out hugs, even though I am not a touchy-feely kind of a guy.

The boss was first in line and smiling sweetly. Now I have mentioned before that I weigh in at about 180 lbs, and she is twice my size. She clasped me firmly, she turned her head slightly and pecked my cheek. This kiss was as sexually charged as two elderly French men smooching, kind of like the kiss your great aunt might give out. The hug lingered and as it did I caught some of her long hair in my mouth as I breathed in. I turned my head away from her hair so that I didn't cough, but I had turned it to her face and she took this as an invitation. She planted one on me.

I was dumbsquizled. So I tried to make light of the situation, and here is where I made my most grievous mistake. "What? No Tongue?" I said jokingly.

When she kissed me again she used her tongue as if she was looking for her car keys.

I returned immediately to dumbsquizled, but just passed out "polite" hugs from there on out. I realize now, at the tender age of 37, that the Playboy cartoons I read years ago were right. Company Christmas parties can go wrong, and it's best to never speak of them again.

happy new year,
Doc

We Three Kings, And A Redneck Sheep Farmer; part three

**Editor's Note** This is the third installment of a piece of short fiction inspired by Cap'n Ergo. If you missed the first two, this is the first and this is the second. My dear friends, may the joy of the season be yours, and may goodness and mercy follow you for all the days of your life. Cheers!

"We know whut Mr. Umbala brought but how about you two?" Clayton asked.

"I have brought for him some myrrh incense to help with his meditations and his morning prayers. My people have used it for centuries," Pang said with a note of pride.

"And you Amir?" asked Umbala with a nudge, as Amir remained quiet.

"I have brought some expensive French perfume. It was the only thing I could find that I could bring on the plane," he said a bit sheepishly.

"Oh yeah?" said Clayton with renewed interest, "Whut's it called?"

"Essence of Frankincense," Amir said quietly.

"Is that the kinda stuff French hook- um, French ladies-of-the-evening wear?" inquired Clayton.
"Certainly not!" Amir said firmly and he struggled to get his Gitanes from his pocket and lit one.

"You can ash on the floorboard Mr. Amir but I think Mr. Umbala better crack a window if he can reach it," Clayton said apologetically.

From there they rode on in silence for a while. Pang tried the radio but Clayton explained that the heater controls were the only thing that really worked well, or at all, in his old truck. The wind picked up and buffeted the truck and it started to sway into the other lane now and then. Clayton tightened his grip on the wheel and assured them that it would be alright.

Then the snow started to fall. Big, fat flakes the size of a quarter started to strike the windshield and Clayton swore quietly as he turned on the wipers and leaned forward in his seat to catch glimpses of the lines on the road. To make matters worse, the passenger side wiper would only rise a few inches to clear away the snow and left most of that side of the windshield covered.

"I've been meanin' ta fix that," Clayton muttered as he slowed down to meet an unexpected corner. But even as the snowstorm gathered strength, the star shone before them like some unearthly beacon guiding them to their goal. At the edge of the headlights they could see the land grew thick with trees and shrouded them in even greater darkness.

Umbala turned to the others and said, "Gentlemen, I think we should pray." Each nodded their agreement and bowed his head, except for Clayton who leaned a little closer to the wheel to see beyond the hood of the truck. All of them muttered their prayers in his own native tongue, and each hand sought out the hand of another as they prayed for their deliverance from the storm that threatened to halt them in the wilderness. The minutes seemed to stretch and the creaks and groans of the old Ford sounded as if it was adding it's prayers to theirs. The wipers kept time to their cadence and a soft sweat ran down the creases of Clayton's furrowed brow. The snow began to drift across the road. And then, as if by some silent signal, the wise men ended their prayers and the silence was only punctuated by the slap of the wipers.

"Hot Damn!" Clayton shouted, and by the light of an oncoming snow plow the green sign at the side of the road was illuminated, "You are now entering Licking County; Land Of Legend."

"It's alright now fellas," Clayton exclaimed, "This is my hometown and I could guide us through here blindfolded. Mr. Amir, can you see the star?" Amir said that he couldn't, but Umbala rolled his window down and leaned out into the storm and giggled like a school girl. "There Mr. Clayton!," he pointed, "Straight ahead! We are so close!" and his deep laugh was so infectious that they all snickered a bit and a couple of the fisherman from in back pressed their noses to the glass to see what all the the laughter was about.

"That there is the Hanover exit," Clayton said with a smile as he pointed out in a sea of white, "That's where I'd get off if I was headed for home." Despite the grim conditions, joy filled them all and they grinned until it hurt.

Then they saw the lights. Yellow, red, and blue ahead and the shape of patrol cars blocking the road came into view.

"Looks like there has been an accident," muttered Clayton as he crawled to a stop. A patrolman came to the side of the truck and rapped on the window with his flashlight. "Sorry folks, but the road has been closed. A National Emergency has been declared on account of the blizzard," he said in a cold, bloodless voice.

"On who's authority?" Clayton challenged in an angry tone.

The patrolman leaned in the window and shined his bright light from face to face and responded, "Under the authority of his honorable Agent Munson T. Herrod, Head of Homeland Security for the state of Ohio. Who the hell are you?"

At this, Clayton demurred. He handed over his drivers licence and explained that the guys he had with him were some veterinarians that were from out of the country and he had brought them here to examine his sheep before the end of the year sell-off, and that the guys in the back of the truck were local sheep farmers just like him who had chipped in to finance their trip. The deputy examined everyones cards and passports and seemed a little miffed that they were who they said they were, but in the end he couldn't let them continue on. The road was closed. Clayton said he would just head back down the highway and take the Hanover exit to get home and he would be out of the officer's hair. "No," insisted the cop, "you can't move this vehicle one more inch. You are welcome to hike, but the truck stays here. This road is closed and all traffic is to be stopped."

"But we will freeze to death!" protested Clayton. "And when we get the okay to open the roads, we will send out a search party," the cop offered, and in a quieter, more stern voice he said, "Should you come across something unusual, don't hesitate to call it in. We appreciate your cooperation."


"I'm sure you do," mumbled Clayton, "Alright fellas, everybody out of the truck. It looks like we are hoofin' it from here." The shepherds and fisherman grumbled as they climbed out into the snow. "Here's how we are goina do this, we travel single file. I'll lead and brake a path with Mr. Umbala behind me as we have the longest legs. I want you to reach forward and grab the belt of the guy ahead of you. John, you are in back with Mr. Pang. Anybody falls, call out. Anybody lets go of a belt, call out. And Zeke, you damn fool, put the beer back in the truck! We can't carry it anyway! Let's headout!" The officer smiled and touched the brim of his hat as they left, and then he called in on the radio.

The going was rough and the wind through the electric wires along the road gave an unholy shriek as it swept along. The snow began to crust on the cuffs of their trousers which only made each step that much heavier than the last.

Amir, in the middle of the pack, clutched at Johnny's belt and was thankful that at least his right hand was warm while the rest of him hovered between frozen and numb. The wind caught his wool cap and sent it zinging off into the darkness and he could feel the snow collecting on the top of his head now. His breath was ragged from his exertion but he tried to think of other things, warm things, like the orchid room in his father's flower shop where the temperature was always sweltering. The orchids had always been his mother's favorite, his father had explained. She had always tended them with such loving care, but when she died the job fell to him. His father had tried to look after them for a few weeks after her death, but always broke down in heaving sobs that would bring him to his knees. After that they went to the mosque more often and became much more active in the faith. They made friends and his father helped him to learn to read the Koran. "Life is a sport and a pastime," that was Amir's favorite passage. "You must always keep the faith," his father warned, "You have a strong mind and it will take you far, but always remember that you also have a strong heart that is the gift of your mother." Lost in his memories, Amir didn't hear that Clayton had called for a rest and he walked into Johnny's back.

Johnny turned, "You all right suh?" he asked with concern. "Yes, yes, just tired," responded Amir as he sat down on his briefcase in the snow.

"We'll take fifteen here fellas, and Mr. Umbala, no offence sir, but I wish you would quit switching hands on me. You start sliding that cold hand into my pants just makes me want to jump out of my skin."

"My apologies Mr. Clayton, but the bag gets heavy in one hand for too long." Umbala said. "Well shove that gold brick in your pocket and take the socks from your bag and cover your hands, and let me have that white shirt. Mr. Amir put this shirt on your head like a turban. It might look a little out of place but at least it will help keep your head warm. Zeke, what have you got there?" Zeke, looking a little ashamed pulled a handful of beers from his old army field jacket. "Well pass them around, you got six so every man gets a half but don't offer none to Mr. Amir. He can't drink it." Zeke smiled broadly at the prospect of having a beer to himself.

"No, I think I'd like to have some," Amir said to his own surprise, "I think Allah will forgive me just this once." Zeke's smile disappeared but he slugged down his half in two gulps and handed it to Amir. The unfamiliar taste and sting on his tongue was welcome and unsettling at the same time. "Mr. Amir, have you got any idea how much farther we have to go?" asked Clayton. Amir sat silent as the cold seemed to drive for his bones. He opened his briefcase to consult his notes but his sock garbed hands couldn't hold on to his papers and the wind snatched them away into the night. He looked up blankly at Clayton.

"The King is less than a kilometer away," said Pang. "Are you sure? I mean if-" Clayton started. "My work is measured in the milliseconds Mr. Clayton Delaney and I have spent my entire life working for this moment. I would not waste my life, or the lives of these good men, on a simple guess Mr. Clayton Delaney. If I am wrong, may my ancestors torture me in Hell for all eternity."

Clayton looked him in the eye for a long minute, then grinned and nodded, "By God, that is good enough for me Mr. Pang. That's damn sure good enough for me." And with a loud voice Clayton called them to their feet, "Alright you sorry sinners, get off your asses and start making tracks. The Savior of us all is just down the road a piece and we are gointa be there when he comes!"

No sooner had they fallen back in line and began their trudge through the deep snow, the wind died down and the snow quit altogether as if the storm had lost it's will to hinder them any further. At the first sight of a lit streetlight a cheer of joy rang out from them all and an impromptu snowball fight began until Clayton told them to knock it off and get moving.

Pang grabbed Clayton's elbow and pointed, "Here Mr. Clayton Delaney. Here is where we find the King of Kings."

"At the Best Western hotel?" asked Clayton incredulously. "We have followed a star that has led us to the west Mr. Clayton, why not the Best Western?" queried Umbala. "You got me there. Let's go see who's checked in," Clayton said with a shrug.

The sidewalk leading to the front door didn't show a single track in the snow and Clayton pulled on the handle only to discover it was locked. He pounded with his fists on the glass and yelled to the top of his lungs only to be joined by eleven cold and frustrated men. In a moment a thin wispy haired man in a parka came to the door. "We don't have any rooms!" he shouted from the other side of the glass, "Go somewhere else!"

"We're lookin' for somebody!" shouted Clayton but the man turned his back and walked away with a dismissive wave. "Stand back," warned Umbala as he rested his hand on Matt's shoulder and cocked his long leg back. Umbala's foot flew forward and connected with the rushing sound of splintered glass. He reached in and turned the latch and held the shattered door open so the rest could pass, and smiled as he did it. They all filed into the lobby that was standing room only and pressed their way to the wispy haired man who gaped at them in wonder. "Who do you think you are? You can't just break in here!" he shouted, "I'm going to call the cops! You are going to jail! This is breaking & entering, this is trespassing, this is..." he faltered.

"I said we was looking for somebody," said Clayton in a slow, menacing voice, "and we were having a little trouble getting your attention from outside. Now you go right ahead and call the cops Mr. ..."

"Smythe, Mr. Carl Smythe, I'm the manager and I'll-"

"You'll help us Mr. Smythe, 'cause the cops are six blocks away and your phone don't work I'm willing to bet, what with all this snow. We don't want to get ugly, but that can be arranged." As Clayton spoke he positioned he face an inch away from Smythe and slowly backed him up against the counter. "We need to find a woman. A pregnant woman. We don't know her name, but maybe she mentioned she was related to a guy named David. Ring any bells?"

"I don't know..," Smythe stuttered, "There are too many people here...not all of them checked in...some just getting out of the weather.." Clayton reached in his pocket and pulled out a large pocketknife and opened it in a slow ceremony. He reached past Smythe and cut the cord on the phone with deliberate motions. "Are you sure you can't help us?" he asked again as he examined the knife's edge.

"Don't," warned Markus at his elbow, "it isn't our way." Clayton looked at him for a moment, then nodded and closed the knife and slid it back in his pocket. "I'm sorry," apologised Clayton, "it's just that we have come so far and been through so much... we just need to find her so we can help her. You see, she's in trouble. She is in bad trouble and we have came to help..." Clayton trailed off and the crowded lobby breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

"Hey dude," spoke up a leather-clad biker woman near Clayton, "there was a pregnant lady who knocked on the door a few hours ago. There was a guy with her," she offered. "What room are they in? Where'd they go?" Clayton asked eagerly. The biker shrugged.

"The jackass manager here wouldn't let them in," said a guy in a rainbow T-shirt.

The fist that connected with Smythe's nose flew so fast that Clayton wasn't sure he had thrown it himself until he heard the bones snap under his hand. Smythe slid to the floor with a nasal "Owww," and he held his tie to it to staunch the flow of blood.

"What kind of asshole sends a pregnant woman out in a storm?" Clayton shouted. At that moment a man in ratty clothes and a mud stained Steelers hat was working his way through the crowd from the back of the room with three hot cups of coffee in his hands. "Scuse me, hot coffee, comin' through, pardon me, clear a path, headed for the door" he called out, ignorant of the scene that had just transpired.

As the man shouldered his way through the crowd and as he passed, Amir touched his arm. "Where are you going with that coffee?" Amir asked. The man's brown face broke into a look of concern, "Out to the trailer. I got Mr. Wainwright's horses to look after," he said, "besides the new child and momma and poppa," he chuckled. "Take us to them," Pang said, and the thirteen of them filled out into the snowy parking lot leaving a bewildered crowd behind them.

"What's your name?" asked Clayton. "Able Amos Moses O'Brien, but most folks call me Moz," he replied, "You guy's from the Government?" he asked.

"Nope," said Clayton, "just kinda friends of the family."

"Tha's good, cause it's always good to have family about when a new youngin is borned. The momma and poppa always need lotsa help den." Moz handed the hot coffee cups to Pang so he could undo the latch at the back of a large horse trailer. "Now you gots to be real quiet now as momma and baby was just fallin' asleep when I went in an hour ago and I can't have you spookin' them or the horses neither. So shuts up and wait for me to call you all in one at a time."

Umbala asked eagerly, "Everything went alright didn't it?" and the grey-haired old black man smiled. "I've delivered a lot of calves and foals in my time and I've had some tough ones too, but I ain't never delivered no baby before, but this one come out like he was ready to meet the world. He don't cry or whine. He just snuggle to his mommas tit and fall asleep like he got the peace of Heaven on him. I put him in the feed trough with some hay and wrap him in some horse blankets cause that's all I got, and momma, she need some rest."

"Does Mr. Wainwright know you got a mother and child in his horse trailer in the dead of winter?" asked Amir.

"No suh, and I don't aim to tell him. I done this all on my own and I ain't about to involve him in somethin' that don't concern him, provided he don't find out." Moz said.

Clayton took the shepherds and fishermen aside and held a quiet conversation with them, and in a moment they headed back into the hotel. "Why don't you fellas go in one at a time and see our new addition to the family," Clayton suggested with a wink. Moz took the coffee cups from Pang and lead him into the trailer. A few minutes later, Pang came out and knelt on the ground in the deep snow and wept as he prayed. Umbala crept in and pulled the door softly shut behind him. In a few minutes he returned and could say nothing as he motioned for Amir to take his place. A few more minutes passed and Amir returned with a look in his eye as if he had seen something that would change him forever and he held Umbala close to him like a long lost brother.

What transpired next was a bit of a blur for all concerned. The fishermen and shepherds returned with a cot that they used to carry mother and child into the hotel and on up to the Honeymoon suite that had been recently been vacated by a very kind, very rich, and devout Mr. Wainwright. The Biker chick and the guy in the rainbow T-shirt had held the doors open on the elevator as the mother and child were transported to their new room while the adoring crowd in the lobby was held at bay by the bloody manager Smythe who threatened to turn loose this band of hooligans against the first person who woke the baby. The kitchen staff was ordered to feed anyone who was hungry and the small lounge was opened to provide drinks on the house to anyone who had come to seek respite at the Best Western in the horrible blizzard of '08.

As Clayton and the gang settled into the largest booth in the lounge and waited for Smythe to come and take their order, a thin and well-worn young man of seventeen with a scraggly beard wandered up.

"Are you Amir?" he asked and Clayton pointed to Amir. "My name is Joe, and I just want to thank you for all you have done for us and if you ever need new cabinets in your kitchen, just give me a call."

"Are you the baby's father?" asked Clayton.

"Well, sort of..." he said. "We just got married yesterday at the courthouse and..."

"Well we pooled our money and got you something," said Clayton with a grin, "Alright fellas, put it on the table." And with that appeared a bottle of expensive French perfume, some Myrrh incence, a Swiss Army knife, three packs of smokes, two lighters, a Snickers candy bar, one ticket to the monster truck pull, three Happy Meal Toys, a tea bag, a bottle opener, three-hundred dollars worth of prepaid phone cards, and the keys to a 1984 red Ford pickup that could be picked up at the Hanover exit as soon as the roads were clear.

Joe looked down at the stuff that filled the table and tried to mumble his thanks but the words just wouldn't come. At this, Umbala stood up and took off the jacket to his three-piece pinstripe suit and slid it over the youth's bony shoulders.

"You need this much more than I, " he said softly, "but it will fit much better when you get the weight out of the pocket."

Joe reached for the large brick that rested in the pocket and pulled it out to see what made the coat so heavy and gasped when he saw what it was.

"And the coat looks good on you too," said Clayton as he got a fresh chew.

**Editor's Note** I have borrowed and swiped a lot to create this story, as well as embellished, gilded the truth, and out and out lied, but know that I did it for you. Dale & Skyler's Dad, thank you so very much for sticking with me for this tale. I dedicate it to the both of you. God bless and keep you safe.

Doc

We Three Kings, And A Redneck Sheep Farmer; part two

**Editor's Note** Should you have missed the first installment of this humble tale, scroll down to the post below or click here. Much like the little drummer boy, this is all I have to gift you with. I can only hope that this season gives you half the joy I had in writing this and you get that special gift you so richly deserve.

They all met up at the front gate and Clayton lead them out into the parking lot and the late December chill. Clayton insisted on carrying their luggage as, "It only seems proper," he explained, but the luggage only amounted to two briefcases and one small canvas gym bag. The snow on the pavement wasn't deep, but there was a thin layer of ice beneath it that made the quarter mile trek a little hazardous for the the men from afar, while Clayton stepped with the surefootedness of a mountain goat.

"Lot X," said Clayton with a sense of triumph as he pointed to the sign on the light pole, "Here's where I parked my truck."

"Mr. Clayton Delaney sir, please, is this not lot P?" Pang asked.

"Naw, some fool kid has just spray-painted a P over the X sign. I don't know what they call it in China, but here we call it graffiti." They walked down the row until they came to a red, late model Ford pickup truck that was more rust and dirt than vehicle.

"There is someone in the back of your truck!" Amir said in a startled whisper as he pointed to the light in the bed.

"It's alright," Clayton said reassuringly as he lifted the back window on his truck cap, "these are my fishing and shepherd buddies Matt, Markus, Luke, Johnny, Zeke, Sam, the other John, and Frank. They saw the angel too. Say hello fellas." The boys looked up from their cards long enough to wave, say hello, and stare with smiles against the light of the flashlight that illuminated their game.

"Climb in front fellas," said Clayton, "It'll be a tight squeeze, but we'll make it. Mr. Pang, you had better sit next to me as you're the shortest and this is a four-on-the-floor." Pang looked as if he didn't understand but hopped in nonetheless. Amir went in after him and Umpala had to wedge himself in and it took three tries to close the door behind him.

The engine started with a throaty roar and it wasn't long before they were doing sixty-five down the highway. Clayton turned the heat up and got a fresh chew. The whole time Pang, Umbala, and Amir kept looking out the windows and pointing out clusters of stars once the got away from the city lights.

"This is fertile land. You must be very proud Mr. Delaney" said Umbala.

"Mr. Delaney was my father's name. Just call me Clayton, and yes, this is good country but it ain't nothing like home. I'm an Ahia boy, born and raised, but Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, Akron, Dayton, that ain't the Ahia I knowed. Too damn many paved roads and people for my liking. Let me take you inta Licking county and you'll start to see some real country. Rich fields, lotsa woods, clean water, good huntin' and fishin', and full of good people. God-fearin' people who would give you the shirt offa their back," Clayton paused, "but then I'm sure you fellas feel the same way about your home."

"I spent most of my life in state school," said Pang quietly, "There was no home, only school, and then the next school. Not much play like other children, only learn so that I can be useful tool for the state when I am a man. No family, only friends now and then. Lonely life." Pang shrugged as if to dismiss cold memories.

"I know something of Clayton's pride in his home. Where I am from the lands were beautiful and rich, but the people were always very poor," Umbala said as he tried to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position as he was cramped against the door, "The land gave good crops, but the warlords take most of the harvest every year to feed their army and to fight the next warlord. One became a soldier, a peasent, or ran away to seek a good life elsewhere. I was fortunate. My father sold most of his land and sent me away to school in Israel, but the warlord was angered that he didn't get a share of the sale, and killed my father when he couldn't pay." Umbala turned to look out the window at the stars and grew quiet.

Amir sat and thought about growing up in Paris and his father's little flower shop, and the wonderful childhood he had known playing in the streets, but this didn't seem like the right time to talk about it after hearing the other's tales. He wished he could have one of his Gitanes.

"Whut do you say Mr. Amir? You're the astro-, um, star mapper. Are we getting close?" Clayton asked.

Amir pressed his face against the windshield and gazed up at one particularly bright star. "We need to head further west," he said. Pang agreed.

"Alright, we'll get off on Route 36 and follow it. There is an all night McDonald's just past Coshocton. We can stop there and have a pee break and stretch our legs."

"Would it not be better to continue on? We must get there quickly." Pang suggested.

"Well the boys in back have been drinkin' beer all night and I know they would appreciate a five minute stop to take a whiz. Besides, this ol' Ford ain't a camel Mr. Pang. I'm gonna need some gas." Clayton said.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the McDonald's restaurant parking lot and as soon as the truck stopped, every door opened and men poured out like a circus clown car emptying. "You fellas get some grub. No telling how much farther we got to go. I'll gas up the truck and meet you back here," and with that, Clayton pulled into the BP station next door.

Twenty minutes later Clayton strode into the McDonald's with a scowl on his face. "Gentlemen, we have a problem," he said in a serious tone. "The gas station won't take my credit card on accounta their lines bein' down. I ain't got any cash on me and the ATM is busted. Who's got sixty-five dollars in cash?" The bleary-eyed shepherds and fishermen shook their heads and explained that they had just spent the last of their money on burgers and fries. "I have a few Euros," offered Amir.

"Naw, that ain't going to do it. The redneck behind the counter wouldn't know a Euro from a Yugo, and he ain't going to take an I.O.U. 'cause I already tried that. Ain't you got any American money?" They all shook their heads. Clayton took off his Browns ball cap and scratched his head and tried to think off something.

"Perhaps I can help," Umbala offered with an air of deep sadness. "lets find my bag in the truck. Perhaps he will trade." The twelve men gathered up their sacks of greasey burgers and headed for the truck. Frank climbed in and handed out the canvas gym bag and Umbala opened it on the tailgate. He pulled out a well worn sock that was stuffed with something. He upended the sock and it's contents struck the tailgate with a hard thud, and there in the glare of the sodium lights of the gas station rested a shiny gold bar the size of a loaf of bread.

"Good Lord!" Clayton exclaimed. "How the FUCK did you get that past Customs?"

"Please, do not ask me," Umbala replied with shame. "I can part with some of it but the rest must go to the King," he said firmly.

"Don't you worry none Mr. Umbala. Just a corner of that sucker would be enough to buy the whole gas station. Frank, hand me that hacksaw out of the tool box in there."

In a few minutes there was a small chunk missing from the gold bar. Clayton held it in his hand to judge it's weight. "That's gotta be at least an ounce and a half right there. Fellas, climb into the truck. I'll start it up to get the heat going, but stay in the truck. If he don't go for this, we might have to leave in a damn big hurry." Clayton turned to Amir, Umbala, and Pang and said, "Gentlemen, you come with me, but let me do all of the talking. It takes the mind of a country boy to talk to another. Don't say anything, just look mean and stay behind me. If something goes bad wrong, and God willing it won't, but if it does, run for the truck and go like hell. I'll stay here and keep the cops busy when they show up. It don't matter if I make it or not, and it won't be my first time in jail, but you three have GOT to get there. Unnerstand?" The three wise men nodded and followed him in.

"Didja collect enough money from your drinkin' buddies to pay for the gas or are you gointa walk home Mister," the clerk said with a malicious smile. "Who are these dudes? You gotta to bring your parole officers with you where ever you go?" he snickered.

"I tell you whut," Clayton began in a friendly voice, "I've got somethin' here that is better than cash-"

"If you are going to offer to blow me, that ain't gonna cut it. My gate don't swing that way," the clerk interrupted, "and stand back a bit son. You reek like a brewery!"

Clayton dropped the chunk of gold on the counter and it struck with a majestic clang. The clerk's eyes grew wide and he snatched it up and held it up to the light, then he slid his glasses from the top of his head to examine it further. "It's gotta be fake," he said softly.

"It ain't." insisted Clayton. "Bite it. You can always tell if you bite it." The clerk tentatively put it between his few remaining teeth and bit down. "Now that there has got to be at least an ounce and a half. That should more than cover sixty-five dollars in gas. Hell, it's got to be worth...um..." Clayton faltered.

"This morning gold was trading at $844.44 an ounce on the world market," Amir offered with a smile.

"Yea," Clayton said, "that's at least over a thousand dollars worth you've got in your hand. So what do you say?"

The clerk smiled from ear to ear as he slid it into his breast pocket. "I believe we can come to some kinda understanding," he said.

"Alright fellas, wait for me in the truck while my new friend and I hash out the details," said Clayton. The wise men had barely settled into the front seat when Clayton came out with his arms full and headed to the rear of the truck. A cheer rose up from the bed, and then Clayton climbed in behind the wheel.

"Please, Mr. Clayton Delaney, what was that about?" asked Pang.

"Well I convinced the clerk that we should get a little more than just a tank of gas for that nugget that Mr. Umbala ponied up, so he threw in six cases of beer, some beef jerky, chips, peanuts, and looky here," he said as he passed over a small paper bag, "I got three hundred dollars worth of prepaid phone cards for the King. I figure this will help to get the word out, and His momma is gonna want to call the family."

"Very thoughtful Clayton," Amir said with a smile.

"We know whut Mr. Umbala brought but how about you two?" Clayton asked.

**So ends part two. The conclusion will be published tomarrow**
Happy Holidays,
Doc

We Three Kings, And A Redneck Sheep Farmer

**Editor's Note** The other day Cap'n Ergo at A Twist Of Lemon offered up a writing challenge to come up with a story about the three wise men venturing to find the Christ-child in 2008. I have never been one to back away from a ridiculous challenge, especially one that can be undertaken while drinking beer, so I accepted. Regardless if you are a believer or just enjoy a familiar tale retold funny, Happy Holidays. As times are hard and money is in short supply, consider this small token as my gift to you. Enjoy!

Amir looked at his watch and then at the "Now Arriving" sign and grimaced. It would be hours before his plane would arrive and there was nothing to do but wait. He had already killed as much time as he could stand in the duty-free shop and he just couldn't bring himself to read one more magazine. What more was there to do in Cleveland airport at one in the morning? Nothing was open but the bar, so he wandered in.

The bartender lifted his eyebrows in a "What'll you have?" gesture and Amir mumbled "Espresso and a menu." He listened to the whir of the machine as he glanced over the bill of fare.

"Here ya go," said the bartender, "Can I get you something else?"

"Yes, the hot wings with the veggie platter please." he said with a yawn. "Comin' right up," the bartender said as he shuffled off. Amir rubbed his tired eyes and looked around the bar. It was done in dark wood paneling with lots of brass and ferns. He noticed a couple of the patrons smoking so he lit an unfiltered Gitanes and sipped his espresso. The strong flavors combined were exactly what he needed and he pulled his notes from his briefcase to examine them for the thousandth time. "I must make it there on time!" he kept telling himself. He was so lost in his calculations that he didn't even notice the brawny man who walked up beside him.

"Mr. Amir?" he said softly. "Yes," Amir looked up somewhat startled, "do I know you?"

"No sir. We've never met but I knowed you was ah comin'. I'm your ride. My name is Delaney. Clayton Delaney. I'm to take you to Him."

"What?" was all Amir could say before the bartender interrupted. "Here's your veggie platter. It will be just a few more minutes on those wings. Can I get you something else?" Amir shook his head. "How about you sir?"

"Ya'll serve Pabst?" Clayton asked. "Sorry," the barkeep said. "I'll have a tall Bud draft and a shot of Jack Daniels." The barman busied himself fetching the drinks. Amir began with, "How did you know..." but Clayton motioned for him to be quiet. The bartender set down Clayton's order and headed for the kitchen in back. Amir watched as Clayton dropped the shot glass of whiskey into his beer and when the foam started to reach the top he brought it to his lips and took three long gulps, emptying most of the glass. Clayton wiped his mouth, belched, and said, "I do love my boilermakers."

He turned to Amir and in a whisper said, "I'm sure you are wonderin' how I knew you and where you was agoin'. Well, I'll tell ya. It is goin' ta sound strange, but I swear what I'm about to say is the God's honest truth. I met an angel and he told me to meet you at the Cleveland airport bar and take you to the King of Kings. Scared the shit out of me, let me tell you. I had just gone out to put out some feed for the sheep, I'm a sheep farmer by the way, and this light appeared outta nowhere and I heared the most beautiful music I ever heared in my life and amongst the light there appeared this angel and he told me to seek out the wise men from afar. At first I thought he said from a fire, but he corrected me and sent me to you, so here I am." he said with a shrug of his shoulders. Clayton finished his drink in one long pull and waited for Amir to speak.

"Here's your wings. Can I get you some brandy or a whiskey perhaps?" said the bartender.

"No, I don't drink. It is against my religion." said Amir.

"How about a beer then?" suggested the bartender.

"No, thank you!" Amir said firmly.

"I'll have another," Clayton said with a smile. "Go ahead and finish yer meal. It'll be a little while afore the other two get here." Clayton sat down on the bar stool and tugged at the knees of his dirty overalls as he did. He fished around in the pocket of his Carhart coat and pulled out a tin of Copenhagen snuff and lined his lip with it. "So what do you do Mr. Amir from afar?" he said with a tobacco stained smile.

"I'm the president of the University of Paris. I'm an astrocartographer."

"I reckon that makes you kind of a king on campus. Let me ask you somethin'. Is it true what they say about French girls?"

Amir was about to respond that he had no idea what "they" said about French girls when a deep baritone voice behind them interrupted.

"Are you Gentlemen headed to meet our Lord and Savior?"

"Not so loud!" admonished Clayton as he turned to the tall, stately black man in the three-piece pinstripe suit. "You don't want the whole of Homeland Security down on us do you?"

"My apologies gentlemen," he said in a deep whisper, "but I am eager to find the Savior of us all and I forget myself sometimes. My name is Eze Djimon Keon Falstaff Umbala, but please, call me Umbala. I have ventured a long way and I am weary from my travels. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours nor eaten in twelve. I am at my wit's end at being so close and yet so far away."

"Well pull up a stool and sit down. I'm sure Mr. Pang will be a few more minutes. Order whatever you want fella, it's on my tab. I'm Clayton and this here is Mr Amir" offered Clayton.

"Thank you very much sirs. It took much more money to get here than I expected and I haven't any money. All I have is a gift for the King and I wouldn't surrender it for the world."

"Here," said Amir as he slid the plates over, "eat and tell us of your travels."

"Whut kinda name is Eze, Mr. Umbala?" asked Clayton.

"It is an Afican name. It means King. My father had high hopes for me. He was somewhat disappointed when I chose to be a Bible scholar." At that Umbala fell on the chicken and vegetables like a man who hadn't eaten in a week and didn't look up from his plate until it contained nothing but bones and drips of sauce. "My mouth burns," he said as he dabbed at his beard.

"Barkeep!" called Clayton, "Can we get a drink for muh friend here?"

"Have you any rice wine?" Umbala asked.

"We have the house red or white," offered the bartender. "White, please."

As the bartender set down the glass, he looked the men over, but turned away quickly as if he had just thought of something he had to do. At that moment, the door of the bar opened and admitted a short Chinese man with a Fu Manchu mustache. He came to them in long strides and stopped short of them just long enough to give a curt bow and said, "I have done as you have asked Mr. Clayton Delaney. I have turned in my ticket and am ready to leave now please."

"Fellas, let me introduce Mr. Pang Wang Yao. He is going to be comin' with us. He is an astrologer." Clayton said with a note of pride in his voice.

"Pardon me please, astronomer," Pang corrected. "Whatever you say Pang. Alright fellas, gather yer gear and let's hightail it outta here. I'll pay the tab and meet you at the front door," Clayton said as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. The men left in some haste and the bartender brought the check. Clayton didn't even look at it, he just set his Target Visa card on it and finished the last of his drink even though his mouth was still crammed with snuff.

In a minute the bartender returned with the slip and a pen. Clayton signed and left the man a healthy tip. As he handed it back to the bartender, the bartender clasped his hand, hard, and wouldn't let go. "Are you really going to find the Messiah?" he asked. Clayton looked him in the eye for the first time and he saw the look of hope, and as his gaze lowered to his hand he noticed the shiny gold star of David that gleamed from the necklace in the bartender's open collar. "Yup," was all he could mutter.

"I'll pray for you," the bartender muttered in a choked up voice, let go of his hand, and turned away quickly to stifle a tear of joy.

**So ends Part One. Part Two to be published tomarrow**

Doc