
Canto 14 – Sorcerer 3
Trav thought this Dana Cole girl was hot stuff. She seemed to like him. She talked nice to him. She made him feel at home in Slaghoople Manor. She looked really sexy in a fake fur bikini.
“So,” she said, “your name is Trav Dalgoda and you seek the fabled Hammer of God. Why do you seek it here?”
Trav slouched back comfortably on the synthetic rock sofa. “My friend Frieda told me it was here.”
“Who is this Frieda?”
“Oh, she was my invisible friend in third grade at school on the planet Questor. No one else could see her, but she was always nice to me.”
Dana took his hand and slipped an electronic ring on his finger.
“What’s this, then?”
“That is a little something to help me get to know you,” she said. “Now, you say this friend was invisible? Did others think you were crazy?”
“Well, yes. Actually, I sometimes thought I was crazy myself. It’s hard to believe anyone as handsome as me could be as truly wonderful as I tend to be.”
“He speaks truthfully,” said a tiny voice from the ring on Trav’s finger. “At least he believes it is so.”
“How interesting,” said Dana. “I know a man named Count Appleby that you must meet some day.”
“Is he wonderful too?”
“Oh, yes. He believes he’s the reincarnation of Napoleon.”
“Who would that be?”
“Didn’t you study ancient history back on the planet Questor?”
“Oh! Well, I… You know, sometimes there isn’t enough time for study when you’re growing up to become one of the most important men in the Milky Way!”
“He is now untruthful,” said the ring.
“Well, isn’t that something!” marveled Trav, ogling the talking ring.
“Here comes the boss,” said Dana in a purr of dark intent.
“Oh, good!” said Trav.
Rocko Slaghoople was a balding, but massively-muscled cave man who looked quite dangerous. His brutish face had but one thick eyebrow across his beady-eyed visage. His powerful arms looked like they were dragging on the floor. His arms seemed even longer than his legs.
Traveling next to Rocko on metal legs came a white-robed Synthezoid, or artificial man. His soulless white eyes had no pupils and his head came to a point like some kind of conehead.
“Hello, boss,” said Dana Cole.
“Hello, my beauty,” answered the Synthezoid.
“Hello, Mr. Rocko,” said Trav. “I understand that you might know something about the Hammer of God.”
“Whu…?” grunted Slaghoople.
“The Hammer of God! The Ancient artifact! Everyone says you’re the man to see about such things.” Trav’s voice cracked with sudden desperation.
Rocko looked stupidly at the Synthezoid.
“Yes,” said the artificial man, “and my intel claims that you know something about the Crown of Stars. Weren’t you with the infamous Tron Blastarr when he stole it?”
“Well, I…”
“I am even told that you came away with the item.”
“Who… who are you?”
“I am called Sorcerer 3, and I am your new partner in this little quest.”














Writing the Critical Scene
It is a novel I started writing in 1998 with an idea I first got in 1976. So I have been working on this book for either 20 years, or 32 years, depending on when you want to credit the actual work to have started.
It got it’s theme from the fact that I was sexually assaulted when I was ten in 1966, and the feeling the repressed memory of the trauma caused in me whenever I asked myself the question, “Am I a monster?”
Unfortunately the answer to that question, for practically everybody, is, “Sometimes yes.”
Psychological damage sticks with you for the rest of your life. It makes you flinch at things that other people don’t. More than once I must have confused both my mother and old girlfriends when I was compelled to wriggle out of hugs and physical contacts by panic. I felt unlovable. I felt like a monster. And for a lot of that time, I didn’t know why. But it is a novel critical for me to write. Pain needs to become art in order to completely go away. I need to imprison the feelings and ideas in a book.
I am now at the point in that novel where I must write the scenes at the crisis point, the high point of the action, and I have to control the flinching. I have to control the reactions I could so easily fall into. It is critical that I get the scene right. The success or failure of the whole novel is at stake.
I have played it over and over in the cinema in my head a thousand times… several thousand times. It is difficult. But it is there. Soon I will have it down, crystallized in words. It make take considerable time to publish it, though, because editing it will be at least as hard as writing it. And I seriously have to get it right.
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