Flash Fiction: The Fair Folk

[Chuck Wendig’s latest flash fiction challenge is to take an opening sentence from his previous challenge and write a story, under 2000 words, based on it. I chose one submitted by Catkins. Like all these flash fictions, I’m writing this without knowing where it’s going, and I’m trying to complete it in half an hour…]

Let’s see, yes, I think this is where it starts.
It starts, as these things so often do, with a promise. A promise I made to a girl, a long time ago.
No, I don’t remember her name. As I say, it was a *very* long time ago.
But she was pretty, as all the girls were back then, or at least as they were in my memory, and she was willing, and she was there.
Blonde, I think. “Golden tresses”. Well, not golden as such, more straw coloured, probably. But the memory cheats.
So there was a promise, and a pleasant spring day in the field, and a few months later a bump.
I’m sure you know where the story goes from there. I take her down to the river, for to wash her pretty hair, and in that lonely river did I drown that maiden fair.
With a too-ra-lally-ay on a bright and shiny day. You know how it goes.
But promises, you see… promises had meanings to her people.
No, I didn’t know she was an elf. She wasn’t even full-blood, just a bit elvish on her grandmother’s side. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have touched her. I wasn’t that stupid, not even then.
I found out that night, in my dreams.
She came to me, that night, and said “My darling Johnny, you promised that together we would be”. I’d kind of expected a dream like that, to tell you the truth. I’m not a… sorry, let me rephrase… I didn’t normally feel very guilty about anything much, but I’d never killed anyone before and… well, you expect *something*, don’t you? I mean, it’s murder we were talking about.
They found the body the next day. I hadn’t gone to any great pains to hide it, after all. There was no real need — there was a gypsy camp not two hundred yards from where I killed her, and they[‘d hanged one of the gypsies for it practically before the body was cold.
I went to the funeral, of course. All the village did. What a tragedy, et cetera.
And again, that night, I had the dream. “My darling Johnny, you promised that together we would be”.
My hair started growing lighter the next day. Not going white with shock, though. Just… a little lighter. But then it *was* the summer, and I was spending a lot of time out in the sun, because there are always more willing girls and more promises. Your hair does get lighter in the sun.
It was when my ears began to grow that I started to worry.
Only slightly, mark you. But there was a noticeable point to them. Much like the one on the girl’s ears, actually.
A few days later… well, my trips to the fields suddenly stopped. There would have been questions. Serious questions.
I started asking some questions myself, in those dreams. But all she would answer was “My darling Johnny, you promised that together we would be”. Nothing else would she say.
Within a week, I was hiding indoors all the time. I looked like her. I sounded like her. I spoke to no-one and saw no-one, except for her, in the dreams. I begged and pleaded for an explanation, and got none.
None, that is, until that night.
That night I dreamed that I was walking down to her grave. I knelt on it, and I said “I made of you a body, so a body you may have”. I dreamed that I lay down, and that I sank into the ground, as I felt something rising.
And yes, I think that’s an end, of sorts.
She comes to visit the grave, you know. Every day. Elves, even part-elves, have very long lives, and she’s been doing it for so long that I’ve lost count completely. Could be a hundred years, could be a thousand. What does it matter?
I think… I hope… that when she finally does die, I’ll be allowed to pass away as well. But how long that will be… well, who can tell, with elves?
And every day she calls me by the name I told her, the name by which I made the promise, the name as false as I was.
“My darling Johnny, you promised that together we would be”.

Flash Fiction: Filth

[Once again doing Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge. This time he’s said to write, in 2000 words or fewer, a story that’s in some way about filth, inspired by the controversy over Clean Reader, an app that removes swear words from books. This story was written in 48 minutes with no revision and is UNPLEASANT, though I will note that it contains not a single word that Clean Reader would block. This story has trigger warnings for self-harm, body dysmorphia, homophobia, and general nastiness. It’s unpleasant enough that I didn’t want to post it, but I kept to the spirit of the thing.]

This one’s genuinely nasty, so I’m putting it behind a cut

The Rats: A Drabble

(Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge this week is to write a drabble — a story in precisely 100 words. Here’s mine, again written straight off the top of my head.)

The rats are on the run again.
It’s the third time tonight. Each time they come closer, each time the screams are a little louder.
He’d hoped they’d be sated by now. Most nights they’ve stopped by midnight. Sometimes it’s even safe to go to sleep while it’s still dark.
But they’ve been getting hungrier lately. They’re breeding faster, and most of the fatter people are already gone. Only the ones who can outrun them are still left.
The scratching starts. He goes to the door. Maybe it’ll be quicker if he lets them in.
He wonders if it will hurt.

Jesus Is Here

(I’ve not posted much fiction here for a while, as my fiction-writing has mostly been for the second novel, which is slower going as it’s required a lot of research. So I thought I’d take up Chuck Wendig’s latest flash fiction challenge. He said to use a random cocktail generator to get a title, and write something 1000 words or less. I got “Jesus Is Here”. I’m going to write this one draft, in less than an hour, with no idea to start with. Let’s see what happens.)

“Jesus is here.”
“What?”
“I said Jesus is here.”
“Who?”
“Jesus, you know. Jesus. The Son of God. The Son of Man. The Word, embodied in flesh. The second part of the Trinity. JESUS.”
“Oh, Jesus?”
“Yes, Jesus.”
“Tell him to eff off”
“I can’t, he’s ineffable”
“Well, invite him in then.”
“I already did. He said he can’t stop.”
“Well, what does he want?”
“Why don’t you come here and ask him yourself? I’m not your bloody messenger!”
“I’m eating me dinner!”
“All right… hang on, I’ll ask him… he says he wants to know if you’re a sheep or a goat.”
“No, I’m not.”
“(He says he’s not)… No, he meant which one are you. It’s one or the other, you’ve got to choose!”
“But I’m not a sheep *or* a goat! I’m a primate, not an ungulate!”
“What’s an ungulate?”
“Never mind. Just tell him that I’m not a sheep and I’m not a goat. I’m a human being, and I’m trying to eat my dinner!”
“He says you’ve got to choose if you’re a sheep or a goat, and the choice will determine your fate in the afterlife for all eternity.”
“Well which one are you?”
“I haven’t chosen yet. He’s doing it in alphabetical order. Apparently I’ve got another three months to choose.”
“Well, what happens if I choose sheep?”
“Hang on, I’ll ask him… he says you go on his right.”
“And what if I choose goat?”
“You go on his left.”
“There’s not really much of a difference, then, is there?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“So why does he think it’s so urgent I make a choice?”
“(…really?…an inheritance, eh?…) apparently the ones on his right get to inherit a kingdom that’s been prepared for them since the beginning of the world.”
“What, one each?”
“Apparently.”
“That sounds quite good. What do the ones on the left get?”
“(eh?… that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?… well, if you say so…) Apparently they get to burn in eternal fire forever.”
“Forever?”
“Yep. Burning in a fire for all eternity.”
“So I get to choose either inheriting an entire kingdom, or burning forever?”
“That’s right”
“That’s just daft!”
“How come?”
“Well, think about it. Who’s going to choose the fire one? Why not just give me the kingdom.”
“He says it’s down to free will. You have to freely choose it.”
“All right, I freely choose to be a sheep. Now what’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“There’s got to be some sort of catch. This is one of those trick questions where you get told that the kingdom is the kingdom of twice as much fire, isn’t it?”
“No, apparently not. Apparently your one is Belgium.”
“Belgium?”
“Yeah, apparently you get that because you gave me the rest of your chips last week, when I was hungry. If you’d visited someone in prison, too, you’d have got the Netherlands.”
“But I don’t know anyone in prison!”
“What about Terry?”
“Terry’s a prick. Anyway, he got out a month ago.”
“But you could have visited him then.”
“He was in for nicking my car”
“Still, just think what you could have won.”
“Yeah, well, it’s too late now, isn’t it? I suppose it’ll have to be Belgium.”
“Could be worse, could be the fire.”
“Dunno, fire would be useful right now.”
“How come?”
“My dinner’s gone cold…”

Brood-Mother Knows Best

No, I told you before, you can’t invade the Earth until you’re seventeen.

I don’t care if all your friends are doing it. If all your friends were getting their third eyes removed, would you do that too?

No, I didn’t know that all your friends were getting their third eyes removed. No, you can’t do that either.

Because I said so, that’s why not.

Yes, I know that I invaded Earth when I was only fifteen. Look at the mess that got me into. Do you really want to repeat all my mistakes?

Well, how did you think I’d got the laser burn?

Five days, if you must know.

Well, that’s a pretty long time to be conqueror of Earth! Your dad only managed half an hour, and he had a whole clone army under his command. I only had the neutron cannon.

I forgot to bring a spare battery, and the power sockets are incompatible.

Yes of course I should have thought of that! That’s my point! You don’t think of these things when you’re fifteen. You don’t prepare properly, you don’t bring the proper protection. There’s no way you’d think to bring an anti-matter shield, for example, is there?

No, I know you hadn’t thought of that.

Do you really think that you’re prepared to battle against science-heroes, men of action, and bookish teenagers who notice your one fatal flaw? Really?

Look, sweetpolyp, I understand why you want to do this. It’s exciting, it’s fun, it makes you feel like a grown octopoid, and you don’t want to be the only one in your swarm who hasn’t done it.

But don’t you want your first time to be special? When you look back at the first time you conquer a planet and subjugate its people to your whim, the first time you slaveringly devour the cowering wretches who you have telepathically bent to your will, don’t you want to remember a proper bond between you and them?

You don’t want to be in and out in five minutes and come staggering back home ashamed of yourself, probably with some terrible disease (ask your granddad some time about that thing he caught when he took his tripod down there; he had mucus coming out of bits you don’t even know you’ve got!), you want it to be nice, not just something you joke about with your swarm-rivals.

You want to have something that’ll last, that you’ll remember forever. And you want it to be special for them, too. You don’t just want to be some here-today gone-tomorrow conqueror who they never think of again. You want to make a mark. At the very least wait until you’re old enough to operate a geosculptor — passion only lasts so long, but a continent resculpted into the shape of your face lasts forever.

I know you think I’m being cruel and bladderless now, but you’ll thank me in a few years. Trust me.

Now hurry off out, or you’ll be late for your orgy.

Guys And Dholes

Since I still have no home net access, I’ve decided to use my lunch break to post this tribute to two very different writers, since I can’t submit it to any more markets for a while.

GUYS AND DHOLES
 by Andrew Hickey

With apologies to HPL and DR…
I am sat in Mindy’s one morning, about three bells, partaking of some cold borscht, which is a thing I do on occasion because the doctor has told me that beets are good for my blood pressure, and because the borscht at Mindy’s is more than somewhat tasty, when in walks Charlie Fishface.
Charlie Fishface is called Charlie Fishface because he has a face like a fish, which is all the more surprising because his mother is a great looker in her day, and for several days afterwards, come to that. It is generally assumed around Broadway that Charlie Fishface must take after his father, but this assumption cannot be proved as nobody knows who his father is.
Now, at this time I am not looking to have any dealings with Charlie Fishface, because my doctor has also told me that dealings with such guys as Charlie Fishface is liable to be so bad for my blood pressure that I will have to eat many beets indeed before it gets better. In fact, it is a known fact around Broadway that many guys who spend much time around Charlie Fishface croak all of the sudden, and so nobody’s doctor is recommending they spend much time around Charlie Fishface at that, for doctors do not like it when their patients croak all of the sudden, seeing it as an encroachment of their territory.
Now, at such an hour as three bells, many citizens are normally sitting around in Mindy’s, talking of one thing and another, and making the acquaintance of the many dolls who are normally present. But it so happens that of late Johnny Brannigan, the detective, has been making it his business to go to Mindy’s around this time of the morning, and many of the population do not enjoy the company of coppers, who are known to one and all as nothing but trouble, and so many citizens make it their business to be elsewhere at this time of the day.
However, this day, I hear that Johnny Brannigan is down with the old ’flu, and so he will not be in Mindy’s today or maybe ever in the future, which would be no bad thing at that. But it seems this news has not reached the citizenry of Broadway, and so when Charlie Fishface walks in and looks for somewhere to sit, he decides to come and sit with me, for I am known to one and all as a guy who will listen while you bare your soul, if I cannot get away fast enough, and Charlie is a man who looks like he has a problem.
“What is the problem, Charlie? ” I ask, though I do not, in truth want to know, because knowing other people’s problems is never a good idea, as they are liable to want you to fix them, and this usually involves you lending them fifty bobs, and I do not have any fifty bobs going spare, and if I did have any fifty bobs going spare I would not be lending them to Charlie Fishface.
“It’s my doll, New England Nancy,” replies Charlie, whose face is even more fishlike than normal, which is more than somewhat. “She leaves me today, and I will never see her again.”
Well, naturally, I am not surprised by this news, because nine times out of ten when a citizen has a problem it is because of a doll, and the tenth time it is because of scratch, and Charlie Fishface is never short of the do-re-mi. Personally, I am never going to shed any tears over dolls, as I consider them a commodity where supply exceeds demand, but I do not say this to Charlie Fishface, as he is such a guy as will be more than somewhat upset at this statement.
Instead I say “It is indeed a tragedy, the age in which we live, in which dolls leave guys in such a way.” Personally, if I am a doll such as New England Nancy, who has a very nice shape, I will leave Charlie Fishface too, for while Charlie Fishface does have plenty of scratch, there are many guys with scratch out there who do not have faces like fishes.
“She goes back home to Innsmouth, MA,” continues Charlie, “where she is to get married to some guy named Cool Luke. She is saving herself for him all her life, she says.”
Personally, I am surprised at this information, because there are very few dolls in this town who save themselves very long before they get spent, and if such a doll goes on to become some citizen’s ever-loving wife, all the worse for that citizen. I do not say this to Charlie, though, because my doctor tells me lead in my stomach will not help my blood pressure.
“In fact,” says Charlie, “you and I are going to Innsmouth this night, to stop this marriage, and to make Nancy my ever-loving wife.”
Now, I hear tell of this Innsmouth as a place in which the coppers take more than somewhat of an interest, as there are often found many items of a very illegal nature there, such as whisky, rum and wine, as it is a port town where many boats are arriving from Europe and France and other such places.
As I am a law-abiding citizen I have no interest in such illegal activities, except for occasionally when I am thirsty, and I am worried that should I go to this Innsmouth with Charlie Fishface, then some of the coppers might see me in such company in such a place and come to the wrong conclusions, and there is no profit in having coppers coming to wrong conclusions about you, especially if the wrong conclusions happen to be correct.
However, there is also no profit in being unfriendly towards Charlie Fishface, because Charlie Fishface is a man who values friendliness very highly, and so I do not disagree with Charlie when he says I am coming to Innsmouth with him. However, I must look somewhat upset at the prospect, as he says to me:
“Do not worry about Innsmouth. I know the coppers are there last year and arrest many guys, but the heat has died down now, and I hear that part of MA. is lovely this time of year. Why, my own mother is from there, and so might my father be for all I know, and she tells me many stories of the beautiful harbor and the swimming that is to be had there. Why, it is probably the finest place in the world, and it will no doubt do wonders for your health to have a holiday in such a place! ”
We go down to Innsmouth by way of bus, for there is no railroad there, and on the way Charlie Fishface explains to me why I am coming with him.
You see, Charlie Fishface is such a guy as never goes out during the daytime. This is not remarked upon, because there are many guys who do not like to have their faces seen about the town during the daytime, and if I have a face like Charlie Fishface I will keep out of the sunlight, too, so I do not cause babies to cry and dogs to attack me.
In fact, when Charlie Fishface is forced to go out during the daytime, he always wears a big hat, and sunglasses, and a muffler wrapped round his face, even when it is by no means chilly outside. The citizens of Broadway consider this remarkably courteous of Charlie Fishface, and an example which could be followed by many to the general benefit.
But it turns out that the reason Charlie Fishface keeps his face away from the sunlight at all times is that he has a rare skin disease which makes the sun burn his skin and causes him more than a little pain. So he needs me there to go out and about this Innsmouth to speak to the citizens and find the location of the church in which Charlie’s doll is having her wedding, so we can go there and stop the doll from making a mistake, though it seems to me she does not make that much of a mistake at that.
So presently we arrive at the Gilman House, which is the hotel in Innsmouth, and which is very nice if your tastes run to dust and you do not mind there being no running water, and Charlie Fishface takes himself to bed, while I go to look around the town.
Now, I am such a man as is used to the comforts of city life, and so I am not very impressed with this Innsmouth, and I very soon become convinced that I will not give a pound note for all the scenic beauty of Innsmouth, even if you throw in all the fishes in the town, too.
But this is okay, because it seems that Innsmouth will not give a bob for me, at that. In fact I walk around all day trying to engage the citizens in conversation, but they all turn away with sour expressions on their pusses, apart from one elderly character with a bushy white mouser, who shouts “Ia!  Ia!  Cthulhu ftagn! ” and other words like that and makes a remarkable noise indeed.
Eventually, though, I find one guy who is willing to give me the time of day. He is a bum, and is such a character as will talk for whisky, and he tells me of the town, and of its history, and of the great old ones, who do not sound so great to me, and of many other things which are not as interesting as he thinks, and most of which sound like the old phonus balonus.
Once he stops telling me all his facts about the history of Innsmouth, I ask him about New England Nancy and her impending nuptials. His face immediately gets an unpleasant expression, and it is not so pleasant to look at even when he is cheerful.
“Damn ye,” he says, “ye durst not interfere en matters that are greater then ye c’n imagine, for strange eons’r comin’ to an end, an’ the great marriage heralds the dawn o’ a new and deadly epoch fer mankind.”
Now, it is true that I do not like to interfere, but Charlie Fishface is known as a great interferer, and I point this out to the old man. I also point out that I am holding the whisky bottle, and he tells me that the wedding will take place that night, in the Order Of Dagon Hall, on Federal Street, across the Manuxet River from the hotel where we are staying.
So I go back to the hotel, and I eat a bowl of vegetable soup and crackers, because I have eaten nothing since the borscht and it is now late in the evening, and then I go and wake up Charlie Fishface, who is sleeping soundly and making the kinds of snores that only a man with as strange a schnozzle as he has can make.
We wait until it is pitch black outside, for we have been told that the wedding will be at midnight, which I think is a strange time for a wedding, at that, but which Charlie says is probably just a rural tradition. Personally, I do not care for this tradition, as it seems to leave little time for a wedding night, but then I am not planning on getting married, and if I do get married it will not be in Innsmouth.
We walk through the town square, and towards the bridge over the Manuxet River, and it is so dark that my eyes seem to play tricks on me, for I am sure I see something rising up out of the water, but Charlie tells me I am drunk on bootleg hootch, and this may indeed be the case.
We cross the river, and continue down Federal Street, and I hear much singing coming from the wedding party. It is not the singing that you normally hear in a wedding, for it is not even slightly in English, and I wonder if perhaps Nancy is slightly Jewish and that is why she does not marry in the churches we pass.
When we get to this Order Of Dagon Hall, we hear chanting coming from inside, such words as the elderly citizen with the mouser shouts earlier – “Ia!  Ia!  Cthulhu ftagn!  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! ” and such shouting as that. This seems most strange to me, as this is not a normal sound for a wedding, even one in a town with as much bootleg whisky as Innsmouth has.
The door to this hall is locked, but there are windows up high, and I give Charlie Fishface a boost up so he can see into the hall. I am just beginning to wish I was lifting something lighter, like an elephant or the Rocky Mountains, when he calls out “My God!  We have to stop them! ”
He jumps down, which I am extremely glad about, and then shoulder-barges the door. When the door still doesn’t open, he pulls out the old equalizer and lets off three shots into the lock, which seems to work, though I think it is bad manners to pull out the old equalizer at a wedding.
When we get inside, though, I see why he does this, for a pretty young doll is on the altar, wearing not very many clothes, and showing her figure to all and sundry, and a very nice figure it is, too, if you go for figures.
And standing over her is the old bloke with the mouser, and he has a knife in his hand, and he is saying many words I cannot understand, and then he brings this knife down.
“Stop! ” yells Charlie Fishface, and then the strangest thing I ever see happens. The old guy drops the knife, and all the citizens in the hall run up to Charlie Fishface and fall to their knees. They start yelling all kinds of things about “the son” and “the chosen one”, and they ask Charlie Fishface what they should do.
“Well,” says Charlie Fishface, “you came here for a wedding. How about we have one?  Pastor, how about you marry me to Nancy here? ”
And they do this, and within the hour there is a normal wedding, with a bride who is wearing clothes, or at least as many clothes as most brides wear nowadays, which is not so many clothes as that, and I never do figure out how Charlie manages to persuade them to do this, until Charlie’s ever-loving wife tells me on the bus ride home that they have mistaken him for the son of this Cool Luke, who they think sends him to the wedding in his place.
And this is all very nice, and everyone lives happily ever after, not least New England Nancy, who thinks after all that being married to Charlie Fishface is better than being sacrificed to an octopus dragon creature, though I am not sure I agree with her.
But I do have strange dreams, in which I see the shape rising out of the water, but much more clearly than I see it at the time, and I see it sink back when the sacrifice is halted, back in to the depths it comes from.
And I think, actually, that Charlie Fishface does take after his father, at that.

Peculiar Branch Chapter 3A

I don’t know if you’ve ever been put in charge of the security for a peace conference between warring magical worlds from different dimensions, where the fate of the multiverse could hang in the balance, but it’s really, really boring. For a start, you wouldn’t believe how many presentations you have to sit through.

There are some things that have become ubiquitous throughout the multiverse, and Powerpoint is one of them. I’m reliably informed that Bill Gates hired a level three magic user to embed a charm in the software code, so that anyone who had more than three subordinates in their job would automatically find themselves using the thing. Well, I say reliably informed, Tony The Liar told me, but I still like to believe it.

So I had to sit around a table in a conference centre, drinking foul coffee out of tiny china cups with a lad called Terry from Birmingham who’d been assigned to look after the Queen of the Fae, and a nice-looking sort from Leeds called Sandra, whose first words to me had been “I have a black-belt in jiu-jitsu” and who sat as far away from me as possible (the Wallace charm strikes again) and was bodyguarding the Longagovian ambassador.

There were also people from the security services of each of the other worlds there to shadow us — a fat-looking gobboe from Fairyland, one of the few they have left there, an Elvish woman named Dralucia from the Misty Worlds, and there was a chair which looked empty but which everyone swore contained a magic user from Faraway And Longago who had transcended the need for corporeal form.

Personally, I thought the crafty sod had just used that as an excuse not to turn up, as a variety — no, I take that back — as a succession of middling nobodies came up in front of us to show us pie charts and tell us about the fire regulations and show us little embedded videos about the planopolitical situation that told us nothing we didn’t already know. I swear two of them had got each other’s Powerpoint presentation by mistake and not noticed.

Luckily, one of the other things that is constant across every universe is sloping off for a crafty fag, so I waited for the gobboe to go on a break, and then I joined him outside in the drizzle.

“Mind if I nick one off you? I’m trying to give up buying.”

“Be my guest.” he replied, pulling one out of the packet.

“Ta, you’re a hero.”

He looked at me very strangely for a moment, and then lit my cigarette with the end of his.

I stuck out my hand. “Bill Wallace. Good to meet you.”

He shook it. “Skjorvorvorvik. Faery security.”

“You do this kind of thing much?”

“Nah. The Queen’s not really big into the whole ‘peace’ thing. She’s far more into multiversal domination than diplomacy.”

“Sort of speak softly and carry a big stick type, is she?”

“More don’t speak at all and bludgeon them round the back of the head while they’re not looking, to be honest, so this is a pleasant change for me.”

I thought about this for a while. I thought about how we’d been sitting in an out-of-town conference centre of the type that managed to be just inside the ringroad while simultaneously being completely bloody inaccessible, in a small room with windows that didn’t open that was beginning to stink of spilled coffee and stale farts, listening to tedious little wanksplats explain the finer details of the Dangerous Substances and Explosive Atmospheres Regulations (2002) to us. And then I thought about his description of this as “a pleasant change”.

“You poor sod”

“Yeah,” he took a drag on his fag, “that about sums it up.”

“You OK to be talking to me, by the way? Won’t get done for consorting with the enemy because I’m looking after the Panjandrum?”

“Nah. You’re a neutral third party, ain’t yer? Anyway, if she asks, I’ll just say I was bribing you with a cigarette to pass on information about him.”

“Will she fall for that? Will she really think Earth police are that easily bribable?”

“Why not? I am.”

And with that, Skjorvorvorvik pinched out his cigarette, stuck it behind his ear, and headed inside, just as the drizzle turned into a downpour. I threw the rest of mine into a puddle and followed him.

Still, at least I wasn’t Charlie…

(part 3b, about Charlie, tomorrow)