The alarm rang through the halls.

"Good Lord, someone turn that infernal racket off. It’s almost as bad as when Byron tries to play Lennon’s guitar," said a lithe man in a smart black velvet suit.

DaDamerican chuckled.

The man in the white frilly shirt next to him scoffed. "Trust me, kid, it wears thin. Just because he’s Oscar freakin’ Wilde and he’s the be-all end-all of wit, he thinks he has to make these lovely dry commentaries on everything."

Oscar smiled. "Don’t mind Byron. He’s just sore that I got him."

"Oh, yes. Your little zinger simply wounded me . . .I surely shant make it through the night."

"Boys, put a lid on it. We have work to do," said a smallish woman at the head of the table. "The alarm, as you know, is a dire sign . . ."

DaDamerican couldn’t help but smile to himself. Here he was with some of his favorite people from all of history. Just a couple days ago he was in New York, fightin’ crime and lovin’ life.

The weirdness started (well, the real weirdness started long ago . . .the exact time is impossible to discern, for perhaps the weirdness does not correspond with linear time—regardless, here we speak of the specific weirdness involving DaDamerican, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, and others) with a voice-mail message. Oddly enough, George Gordon, the Lord Byron had called him. It seemed that he, Charles Babbage, and the Shelleys had come to his time to recruit him. It also seemed that they were old friends of his, even though he’d never met them. Time travel is weird like that.

After explanations (you’ve read such explanations plenty of times before, surely) DaDamerican was brought to the headquarters of a special group. This group was made up of figures from throughout history who’s "souls were brighter" than the average. Even though many walked . . .independent paths, God recruited them and offered them a deal (not only the nasty fallen angel can do that, you know): do good, get the Reward. While many were shocked that God existed, they quickly decided to join. In fact—

"Yo, leather boy. Still here?" DaDamerican came back to the present (if that can be said in a place outside of time). The table was looking at him. The strong Liverpoolian accent was unmistakable.

"Heh. Sorry, John. The mind wanders, you know?"

"Oh, I know. Anyway, Mary, please continue."

"Thank you. Ok, the forces aligned with the Dark One are preparing a multiple-edged strike in various eras. DaDamerican, you’re going to be going to your era with Agents Wilde, Curie, Babbage, and Byron. You might want to know your old friend Morrison is involved. Some others, too."

"Why can’t I go with him? I want to see my son."

"That’s exactly it, John. You’re too recent. They’d recognize you. You know that."

"Pfah."

"Yeah, yeah. We’ve got a job for you, anyway. Get to it."

Chapter Two

Where? Shades of Green, an Irish Pub in Greenwich Village, Earth A.

When? Present day. (Well, to you).

Oscar dabbed a napkin to his lips and brushed a crumb off of his black velvet pant leg. "Leave it to the Irish to have excellent liquor but abhorrent food."

George Gordon, the Lord Byron grinned, stifling the laugh that would send his Guinness across the table. Marie Curie re-adjusted her neon green dress.

"I’ll never get used to the gaudy clothing of this era. To think a responsible lady would wear this . . .thing . . ."

"Well, Marie, I’m not sure about the responsible part," Byron quipped. Curie shot him a look, but loosened.

"Damn romantics. You can get away with anything."

"Tell me again why we’re sitting here," Charles Babbage said, looking up from his notes.

"That Joe Rice fellow, the DaDamerican, well, he had to contact his Chaotic benefactors for some information on our foes. This is one place that we hardly stand out . . ." Oscar said, watching a well-built waiter walk by. "Excuse me for a moment, my fair companions. I have some personal business to attend to in yon men’s room." Oscar got up slowly, not sure of how inebriated he might be. He was unpleasantly surprised with a complete lack of intoxication. These perfected forms could be a pain in the neck. He made his way from the back room to the hallway which contained the rest rooms. Knocking on the men’s door, he called, "Is there anyone in there? No? Damn." He walked in, and to his surprise, DaDamerican appeared in the room. "How on earth did you get here? Chaos have a strong sense of scatological humor?"

DaDamerican shrugged. "I dunno. But I got the information we need. Morrison and company are going to try to capture and corrupt a person from my generation that would eventually become one of you all. And it looks like it will be someone I know."

******Elsewhere******

The man with the passionate good looks and intense eyes walked out of his office. His secretary was already gone. Good. No questions. He walked back into the office. "Computer!" he said. "Voice verification: Morrison, James Douglas. Password: Lizard King. Command: Break on through."

The reality of the room began to shift. To any mortal man, the affect would have been maddening. Walls danced from dimension to dimension, oozing and crystallizing at once. Words that can only be communicated by smell informed Morrison of the state of another dimension. Morrison himself became an insect, then a thought, then a sun going supernova. Finally, he became himself again. The pocket universe he had found years ago surrounded him. As did his new allies.

"Niccolo," he said, "how progresses our plan?"

A gaunt Italian smiled wickedly. "We have found the subject. Sigmund and the Marquis have devised a . . .program for the creature that will be sure to corrupt. Edison has built the necessary equipment. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear that our target is of no small acquaintance to the Rice boy."

Morrison smiled a smile that made even the Marquis uncomfortable. "Yes," he said. "I know.

Chapter Three

Earth A. Ashland, Kentucky.

She folded the towel. Towels were easy. She kind of liked folding towels. T-shirts, they were a real pain. She never could get them right the first try. Oh, well, she thought. It could be much worse. Some people have to live with real hardship. Doing the family laundry at a laundromat cause the machine back home was broken is fine and dandy in the long run. Peaceful. Gives me time to think. You meet interesting people, too.

She watched the family of four leave the room. The little girl with the faded pink Wonder Mormon T-shirt looked back at her and grinned. She smiled back and waved.

The dryer sluggishly went ka-thump, ka-thump to the beat of some bizarre cosmic polka. She sipped at her Diet Pepsi. Ka-thump, ka-thump. She leafed through the copy of Troutfishing in America Joe had given her. Ka-thump, ka-thump. Somewhere, a Celestial Accordion-Player tapped his foot and smiled.

She noticed a radio playing outside. The song was very familiar . . .what was that . . .

"Love Her Madly," said the man in the doorway. He smiled in a way that made her very uncomfortable.

******Later******

"He’s been here. The bastard’s been here. He’s already got her."

DaDamerican’s comrades from throughout the ages looked around the laundromat. Oscar rolled his eyes at the light brown decor.

"We’ll get her back," Marie said. "Don’t worry."

"And when we do," Lord Byron added, "that pompous hippie and his minions are really going to regret it."

"Bra-VO," Oscar said. "Is now the time that I grunt and pound my fist?" DaDamerican shot him a look. "My. You really like this girl, don’t you? Sorry. Worry not. With me on your side, you can never lose."

"Damn straight," DaDamerican said. "Let’s go. No time to waste."

Chapter Four

During his original lifetime, Oscar had enjoyed many pleasures. So many that the oppressive Victorian society, well, oppressed him. This, among other things, ensured that he would become a cultural icon, sure to be over-used in literature of all kinds. Writers use Oscar as a font for their supposed wit. In their stories, he sits daintily and dryly comments on the action. They are very wrong.

What the real Oscar Wilde was doing, given a second chance and a perfected body by God in exchange for his service, was more of a brawl. With the Marquis de Sade. But that’s jumping ahead. You probably would like to know how this started.

Oscar was with his comrades, Lord Byron, Marie Curie, and Charles Babbage, and their contact in what you know as present time, Joe Rice, the DaDamerican. They were one of a number of teams sent to various eras to make sure certain individuals with special destinies remained safe from . . .darker influences. He didn’t know that their mission was especially important because the individual, a close friend of DaDamerican himself, would be one of the important soldiers (along with DaDamerican . . .nice how it all ties together, yes?) for the side of good in the Apocalypse.

Unfortunately, when the team arrived at the laundromat too late. Servants of Lucifer and their earthly contact had already captured the special girl. Luckily, the good guys had a scientific genius, Charles Babbage, eccentric though he was. He had forgotten that he had a means to track the girl based on the special 23rd dimensional emissions her soul made. In less than 30 minutes, a special rocket-car had transported our heroes to the evil secret hide-out of James Douglas Morrison, CIA agent, where he and his evil comrades had taken the girl.

Then the fighting began. Caught up now? Excellent.

The Marquis charged at Oscar, screaming. "I was going to have SUCH fun with the girl!" Oscar side-stepped him and threw an elbow to his face. De Sade’s hands went straight to the bleeding, broken nose, then around Oscar’s neck.

"Oh, blood. That is so hard to get out." Oscar brought his foot down diagonally on the Marquis’ shin. There was a loud snap and the man who gave name to sadism fell screaming. "I’d hurt you more, Frenchie, but I fear you’d enjoy it."

Meanwhile, Lord Byron was busy clashing energy swords with Niccolo Machiavelli. Charles Babbage and Thomas Edison were racing on re-configuring complicated machines in order to outmaneuver the other. Their hands raced as they built and re-built, turned knobs, flipped switches, and occasionally made an obscene gesture. Marie Curie and Sigmund Freud stood motionless, for their battle took place on a mental plane, where their mind-bodies were projected by way of mystic technology.

In each case, the forces of God were more than a match for Satan’s dire soldiers. But as for DaDamerican, he wasn’t fairing so well against the former "rock and roller."

"LET HER GO!" Joe screamed. Morrison blocked three quick punches and a kick.

"Don’t think so, DaDaboy. You know, she’s very pretty. And her soul . . .quite delectable. Why, I think—"

"ARRRRGH!" the DaDamerican let loose with a series of fast, furious punches, elbows, knees, kicks, bites . . .anything. A few even got through Morrison’s blocks.

"Enough," Morrison said, and pulled out a pistol. DaDamerican did likewise. They held each other at a stand off, each with their gun to the other’s head. The fighting stopped throughout the room.

"Let her go," DaDamerican said.

"Oh, please. Sure, you may not be afraid to die, but you’re no killer. And your friends here can’t let you die. Don’t turn this into a cliché, kid."

Chapter Five

Imagine a dark room. I’m talking dark. Pitch. No light whatsoever. If there was light, you would be able to see that the walls, ceiling, and floor were completely smooth and black. It would look like polished opal, but it doesn’t shine. It’s almost as if the material absorbed the light and heat around it. Maybe it did.

On this particular day, you would also see a beautiful girl. She was attached to the far wall with chains as black as the room itself. Her eyes were closed, her body slumped. If you were a Twin Peaks fan, you would see a resemblance to Lara Flynn Boyle in her slender, elegant face. Her hair was auburn, like a really healthy tree. Her skin was soft, smooth, with an almost-golden tint. She wore a white T-shirt with "Boyd County Soccer" emblazoned on the front in red. Red Umbros and black sandals completed her laundry-day outfit.

But you weren’t in this room, and there wasn’t any light. There was no sound. That is, there wasn’t until the fair girl stirred.

"Unnnnng . . .my head. Chains! I can’t see! Where . . .I’m in the Darkroom. Morrison brought me here. He plans to corrupt my soul. What am I saying? How did I know that? It’s dark in here. Darksoulstuff . . .this room is made of Darksoulstuff. The pure evil that is discarded from a mortal soul that enters Heaven. WHAT? This is insane! Where did that come from? I didn’t know that! It’s . . .Divine guidance. Oh, my. I can feel God. Trying to speak to me . . .the Darksoulstuff is interfering. Something about light. Think of light. Light within, then bursting forward. Brighter, brighter. Warmer. Pure . . ."

As she talked, something happened. It started low and barely visible. But there arose a glow from her. She saw it and gasped. Then she began to concentrate. Her brow furrowed, a rare grimace appeared. "God, I am Your servant," she grunted, straining.

There was a bright flash. The next thing she saw was her friend Joe in his DaDamerican guise and Jim Morrison. They each held a gun to the other’s head. She saw others in the room, and instantly knew who they were.

Morrison cursed. Oscar Wilde whistled his approval. Charles Babbage dropped his latest gadget. The DaDamerican gasped.

"Kristi?" he said, quite shaken up.

"Yes. But call me--" and as she began to say her next word, everyone fell to the ground, clenching their ears. "Ah. My Heaven-name seems to be damaging to this plane. It translates to ‘Swift Justice and Divine Mercy of God.’"

"Perhaps later would be a better time for re-christening," Oscar said, clutching his head.

"Indeed," she replied and raised her hand. A brilliant light appeared and took the shape of a flaming sword. "Feel God’s anger, minions of Morningstar! The soulfire of Penance will doubtless punish your evil! I can’t believe I just said that!"

"Don’t worry," DaDamerican said. "You put on a costume, it happens. It’s natural." As he spoke, she floated to the construct Edison had created. Her sword sliced straight through it, giving her access to the demented dead inventor. With a thrust, the strange blade passed into his body. He then screamed as his body began to look like over-stretched Silly Putty and flames overtook him. It then appeared he was sucked into the ground, but that could have been an optical illusion.

"It’s dragged him to Hell! Surely, further down than where he began!" Machiavelli screamed. "I didn’t sign on for this. I’m going back voluntarily! Marquis? Sigmund?"

The three closed their eyes and faded from view, black after-images briefly in their place.

Morrison cursed again. This was an unexpected turn, and he hated the unexpected. Luckily, he always had a few dozen plans for such events. He brought his watch to his mouth and whispered something about a crystal ship. Then his body was turned inside-out and covered with a crystalline substance, which shattered in another moment, though no shards were to be found.

"Does that sort of thing always happen?" Kristi asked.

"Yeah, pretty much," DaDamerican replied. "He’s one of those ‘never catch ‘em arch enemies.’ Real pain in the butt."

******Later, in the Para-dimensional Headquarters of the Forces of Good******

" . . .then we dropped the two off in Ashland like you told us to. Things went exactly as you said."

"Thank you, Marie. You did a perfect job."

"May I ask what happened there? I thought she was going to be one of us?"

"She would have. But it is not to be. She will not die in a conventional sense. For in her lifetime, there comes the Apocalypse. She and your contact DaDamerican will be on the front lines of the battle. And now, we’ve assured that we will win."

The End (for now)