Chapter 1

"I am a natural born April fool, after all."

It was around 10:47pm, a cool evening on the last day of March, when, only seconds after exiting the elevator on the 10th floor, I heard the phone ring from within my not-so-cheap efficiency. Futzing through my left pocket for the keys, I rushed to my apartment's front door in time to suddenly hear a very familiar voice speaking inside.

"Hi! This is the answering machine of Zackery McCready talking. Leave a name and number in case I feel like callin' ya back. Later, maybe!"

Twisting the key in the door lock, I got the door open just in time to hear...

"BEEEEP!"

Too late.

"Hello, Zack. This is Tanya. Um-I can't make it for tomorrow. Something's come up. Sorry 'bout this. I'm kinda caught in the middle of some personal insanity, right now. (SIGH) I'm gonna be so certifiable this week. Again, I'm really sorry. Hope you can still get a refund on those tickets. Ah-I'll give ya a call when this little shit-storm of mine clears up. Still looking forward to meeting you. So, take care. Bye! Oh yeah. Have a happy birthday, tomorrow. (CLICK)"

"Great," I muttered while slamming my door shut. "Fucking perfect. Home sweet fucking home."

So much for Saturday night. At least she called in advance, rather than letting me stand and wait outside the theater for an hour, like a fool. Still, I mused, that would have been more appropriate for tomorrow. I am a natural born April fool, after all, and a very tired one, at the moment.

Clicking on the lights, I shrugged my jacket off my shoulders and onto the floor. Headed for the kitchen, next. I pulled out and popped open an icy 7-Up, and took a quick swig that made my back molars ache like Hell. Better see a dentist, as soon as I can afford it.

Approaching my desk, I pulled up a nearby chair and slumped my weary butt into it. Glancing at my phone, on the far right of the desk, I pressed my iMac's "on" button. Sitting between the iMac and the phone was my little digital answering machine, which I then noticed had two messages on it. Having already heard the second message, I pressed the "play" button while bracing my ears.

"FRIDAY, TEN TWENTY-SEVEN, PM... Hey, Zack. It's Hugh. I'm in a bit of a bind here. Was scheduled for noon, tomorrow. But I can't make it. Somethin's come up. Totally unexpected. Won't get in til later, 'round five. So, was hopin' you could come in and just-ya know-fill in till I show up. Call me as soon as you hear this. Uh-as soon as you get in, there's two prints ya gotta break down by three o'clock cause that's when they're gonna get picked up. So, call me. Sorry 'bout this, Zack. Thanks in advance. Bye!... END OF MESSAGE."

Great.

I should have been pissed after hearing this, and Tanya's message. Yet, I just sat, smiled and chuckled a bit as I picked up the phone and, with the touch of a button, called up that S.O.B. Hugh. Got his answering machine.

I left a quick but polite message. I'd be in before noon, break down both prints in record time, and cover his slacking ass until he arrived. Ain't I a nice guy? No I ain't, I reflected as I hung up the receiver. I'm just a fool, who needs the extra dough.

Reaching into my shirt's breast pocket, I pulled out those two movie tickets that Tanya hoped I could get refunded. Again, I just sat, smiled and chuckled a bit more while tearing up those useless tickets. No big deal. After all, a projectionist like me doesn't need to refund tickets. He gets them free-of-charge from the theater he's worked at for over six years.

Perhaps it was all for the best, I rationalized as I double-clicked on my browser icon and a web page window opened. Somehow, I didn't think Tanya and I would really hit it off. According to her, she was a twenty-seven year old paralegal secretary. And I'll be a thirty-six year old projectionist by midnight.

Maybe she felt I was too old for her, or perhaps she decided to spare herself the embarrassment of dating someone whose bi-weekly paycheck is a digit smaller than hers, eh? Or perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned my foot fetish, at least until we'd met face-to-face. Who knows?

Still, I couldn't help but wonder about what really happened. Was she telling the truth about something else coming up? It's possible. Shit happens, too often. Or, between the six e-mails and one phone conversation we've shared, did something change her mind? Was it something I said?

Was it something like, "I'm a projectionist," or "I'll be thirty-six on April Fool's day."

Or, maybe, she took another look at my online personal ad profile. That could have been it.

I clicked on the bookmarked link for SexSeekers. net and waited for the web page to load. Entering my user name and password, I figured it might be a good idea to cancel my membership.

I mean, what's the point, anymore? I had such high hopes when I first signed-up for that special seventeen dollar-a-month silver membership. But, three months, thirty-four e-mails, and fifty-one bucks later, what have I gotten for it? Twelve 'no thanks' responses and three promising-at-the-time messages from Tanya.

Clicking on another link, my profile page appeared. There I was, a recent six-month old photo of me sitting on a stool in some diner, wearing the same black slacks and green and black flannel shirt that I was wearing at the moment.

Lord, what a dorky smile I've got. I must have been nervous. Scared of showing my yellowing teeth, I guess. Or maybe I was just uncomfortable at having to suck-in my paunchy gut, at the time.

My user name was bold-printed above my pic - ZeeBiggieMac. Geez! Why did I think that sounded so cool? Such a fool I am!

Reread my profile stats; single white male, thirty-five, five-foot ten, average build with short dark brown hair and brown eyes. ISO female, 24 - 37y/o, of any race. Add all that up and what do you get? Just another horny guy on the net.

No wonder Tanya backed out. Let's face it, I'm nobody's prize. Why settle for a small fry when there's bigger (and richer) fish to catch?

Tired and frustrated, I just sighed and logged out. I decided to check my regular e-mail before shutting down the iMac for the night. After logging into my Rainmail account, I noticed my inbox had three new messages.

Remembering I'd sent out my regular e-mail address to certain promising SexSeeker members, I hoped against all hope that one of those messages was from some interested gal from that rip-off site. Alas, it wasn't.

Looked like more damn spam, to me. I quickly deleted the first two, ads for land investment and penis enlargement, respectively. But the third one, which had some kind of file attachment, I must admit, did arouse my curiosity.

From: <merlyn@modlink.net>
Date: Friday, March 31 2006
To: mccready@rainmail.com
Subject: Latest payment received!

To Whom It Does Concern:

Thank you again, Sir! Your faith, generosity, and promptness are greatly appreciated. Also happy to learn of your success in regards to the text file I sent you a week ago. I'm certain you'll have no trouble bonding with Xenithea. I trust you've already applied to her the methods I recommended in my last message.

On the continuing subject of translation, I'm progressing at a much quicker pace. I've already completed translations of three more Cyren incantations. They are in the text file attached to this message. Uzianna, Lorelei and Genovia are the three Cyren that these incantations should summon. Again, just follow the instructions I gave you in my last message, to the very last letter!

Again, sorry I haven't yet figured out what sort of magic these three embody. Which reminds me, has Xenithea been able to speak either coherently or in English, at least?

It's possible that during the long years of limbo in the Realm of Shadows, Xenithea may have simply forgotten how to talk. Or, she might just be suffering from sperm-starvation. Perhaps a few freshly squeezed loads, administered orally, should clear her mind, or at least calm her down a bit.

There's also a slim possibility that she might remember the forgotten language of the Ancient Draakunoir. If so, let me know ASAP! Such knowledge could help expedite matters as far as translation of the complete Daemonomicon is concerned.

As to your last inquiry regarding your concerns about the authenticity of the Daemonomicon, I have firm and unequivocal certainty that the edition in my personal possession is totally genuine. True, it's not the first or oldest edition. My private research indicates that it was printed sometime in the early part of the Eighteenth century.

It's also a possibility that Quinevere, the book's last reputed owner, may have altered or forged certain parts of the text. But, considering the circumstances by which I managed to acquire it, I'm totally satisfied as pertaining to its legitimacy. And, judging by your reported results of my last translation, the very appearance of a live flesh 'n' blood Cyren in your presence should, I think, erase any remaining doubts.

So, for now, I'll be continuing my work. I'm certain I'll have figured out, by the time your next payment arrives, what magical powers these Cyren possess. That is, unless you manage to get the answers out of Xenithea?

Again, my profoundest thanks, Sir! Until next week, then.

O. Bahn

What the fuck? Those were the first three words that crossed my mind seconds after I finished reading. This had to be a joke, or a mistake, or a virus. Yeah. That must be what's in that seemingly harmless text file.

But, if the whole message is just a Trojan Horse for some malicious virus, why make it so bizarre? Perhaps, I reasoned, it's to make the unwitting reader curious enough to throw caution to the wind. Fortunately, my Rainmail account came equipped with a powerful anti-virus scanner. Clicking on the text link, the scanner went to work. I figured, what the fuck?

Within a few seconds, the results were in. It wasn't a virus. Okay. Clicking on the download button, the text file opened.

(Uzianna)
E SUMMONA YEE CYREN UZIANNA SPAWNA UN AUGUSTOR LO UN REALMI UN SHADOIR DU O ZOWAH UN DRAAKUNOIR SU ENTRADA UN REALMI UN FLESHA DOS APPEARAH

(Lorelei)
E SUMMONA YEE CYREN LORELEI SPAWNA UN MORGANOV LO UN REALMI UN SHADOIR DU O ZOWAH UN DRAAKUNOIR SU ENTRADA UN REALMI UN FLESHA DOS APPEARAH

(Genovia)
E SUMMONA YEE CYREN GENOVIA SPAWNA UN JURGOVAR LO UN REALMI UN SHADOIR DU O ZOWAH UN DRAAKUNOIR SU ENTRADA UN REALMI UN FLESHA DOS APPEARAH

Again, my thoughts were... what the fuck?

Alright. Enough of this nonsense. I was bummed-out, exhausted, and in need of some serious shuteye.

Thanks to that deadbeat Hugh, I had to be up 'n' ready before noon, tomorrow. Swallowing the last swig of 7-Up before crushing the can in my fist, I deleted the e-mail, logged-out of Rainmail and quit the browser.

The downloaded text file was still on my screen. I was gonna trash it, but, for some reason I couldn't fully explain, I printed out a hardcopy before dragging the file into the trash can icon and shutting down the iMac. What the fuck?

With the paper in my hand, I looked over the bizarrely spelled words. Summona? Shadoir? Draakunoir? Was this gibberish some sort of legitimate language?

I couldn't help wondering if this was some sort of secret government code that had been e-mailed to me by accident. The e-mail did indicate that some money had changed hands. Or was all that just a ruse to fool and mislead any third parties? If this gobbledygook is really something important, I smiled at the notion that it was now in the hands of the wrong fool.

Never mind. No big deal, I shrugged while folding up the paper and slipping it into my pants pocket.

The thirty-minute hot shower I took was relaxing, but I wasn't feeling that drowsy. So, by midnight, I was stomach-sprawled across my large 'n' lonely double bed, like bologna on rye, wearing white cotton briefs and an undershirt.

All alone... and still awake. The only light in whole bedroom was coming from the TV six-feet away.

With my non-sleepy head on a pillow, and a remote in one hand, I compulsively switched channels. With one-hundred and twelve channels to choose from, I was having no luck finding something boring enough to fall asleep on.

Then, I stumbled across a familiar flick that I haven't seen since childhood. It was an old black 'n' white Karloff/Lugosi horror film from the 1930's. I couldn't quite remember the name of it, but, as I saw Karloff and Lugosi play chess, I quickly recalled the basic plot.

Karloff was playing a rich Satanist named Jamar Polzig, or something like that. Lugosi was some doctor Polzig betrayed. Watching it as an adult, it all seemed pretty hokey. A silly exercise in high camp melodramatics.

And yet, something about Karloff's character still gave me the willies, just as it did when I was a little kid. Was it that weird hairstyle? That ghastly pallid make-up? Or perhaps it's that creepy smile of his?

No. It was that whole Black Mass sequence. All those black robes. The bizarre lighting and sets. And Karloff looking rather sinister while speaking in Pig Latin. As a dumb kid, I couldn't figure out what the hell he was saying. But I had a scary feeling that something really bad was gonna happen.

Watching the scene play out, with ole' Boris reciting those silly words with that trademarked spooky voice of his, my thoughts shifted to those silly words I downloaded.

On a sudden whim, I slid off the bed onto the carpet floor, where my pants lay crumpled on top of the rest of my clothes. Snatching the paper from the left pocket, I unfolded it and, by the silvery light of the boob tube, started reading, partly just to amuse myself, but also wanting to make sense of it. Maybe it was a valuable secret code of some sort.