If Lust And Hate Is The Candy, If Blood And Love Tastes So Sweet, Then We Give 'Em What They Want

--"Candy Everybody Wants", 10,000 Maniacs

When my sherpa guide failed to show up at the designated place last Friday I knew I was in trouble. Not only had my enemies deciphered out my plan, but they apparently had cobbled together the small group of associates I had decided to entrust with it. I turned up the collar on my trench coat and shuffled off to my car, still running behind the alley on Bleeker Street. I had figured something would happen during the meeting and a still-running car is always a lifesaver in these situations. I dropped the car into gear and sped off into the night. It looked like I would another tact if I was ever to get my hands on the item, if I was ever to get my paws on Mr. Jack.

My first encounter with Mr. Jack had been an innocent one. I had been down by the docks with my friend Mola Ani working on how best to solve the red herring shortage when he suggested we relieve some stress by playing a little game. He pulls out a copy of Mr. Jack, with its ornate pieces, cards, and game board, and offers me the standard wager--one appendage or one thousand dollars. The last vestiges of his off hand spoke to our long history of playing games, as did my ever-dwindling bank account. I told him I didn't have everything better to do and that I'd give it a true.

Fourteen hours later (and one foot less) I knew I had to have this game for myself. I offered Mola the priceless antique Jack & Rose duvet I had sitting in the back of the moving van. "Halsha, do you take me for a fool?! This Mr. Jack is worth more than a thousand or so of your duvets!" With that he stormed off, taking his game with him. With a sour expression on my face, I walked back to my still-running car, intent on coming back later to steal away his precious game while he swept. I even contemplated putting the impudent Moari down if need be.

As it turned out, all that was unnecessary.

I came back to the docks later that night, only to find the entire region ablaze. I tried to make out through all the smoke and ash any sign of Mola, but he could not be found. Coughing my lungs out, I approached a nearby firefighter. "What happened here?" I asked him. "It was the game, sir. They were after the game. The poor bastards never even stood a chance," he yelled. He made his way back to the inferno and I continued to watch it as it consumed every building in sight for three miles in each direction. Somebody else wanted this game. Somebody else wanted it bad enough to kill for it.

It can't be my imagination, I thought. It must be that damn good.


do you want to play?

It was then that I tried my usual connections--Leigh McGoldrick over in Dublin, Lynch Lorring in Oslo, Beno in Hong Kong. No one could put me in touch with somebody who had this game. I even stooped to hiring out my ruddy protege, Toby, to sail down the Amazon for a rumored copy among the Yanomami. It was a little known secret they hoarded European board games like dragons to gold. Unfortunately, Toby ran into her own bit of trouble and was forced to barter a signed copy of a plastic Subway cup for her own life. We're still trying to track down the kidnappers. Every number I called, every address I was told to come alone to, it all turned out the same. Bupkis. The two weeks passed like rush hour on the 10. I was beginning to feel like I would never again play this game.

I took to the bourbon hard to ease my suffering. Night after night, they had to call two cabs from The Saucy Royale Bar over in Manhattan Beach just to get me home. "Fucking give me Mr. Jack! I want Mr. Jack now!" is all anyone was ever able to get out of me.

Then, finally, a breakthrough. A sherpa I had met on my last cruise to Palm Springs left me an e-mail with the following "four" words: "We love you, we miss you, get well soon, and hurry back." It was code for "Meet me in the alley behind the Denny's." After spending the next eight days staking out every Denny's in the Los Angeles area, I stumbled on the correct one tonight.

That's when my sherpa didn't show up.

That's when I began to feel like my life could really be in danger.

That's when I knew my obsession with this game could really be the death of me.

It only made me want to possess it more.

When I got back to my office, I found a strange package waiting for me on my chair. Wrapped in butcher paper and tied with green yarn, I was astonished to find a copy of Mr. Jack inside. I laughed maniacally. It was mine at last. After two months of constant dodging and weaving through stacks of leads, I finally had a copy to call my own. I sat down in my chair, swiveled around a but with the game in my hands, and then returned to facing my desk. As I put the box on my desk to open it, I noticed the handwritten note laid across and centered atop the desk:

We took the duvet. We'll be expecting more where that came from. Enjoy the game.

Signed,
The Manitobans

It worse that I thought. Sure, I had procured a copy of the MacGuffin that had instigated this whole adventure. But at what cost? I found myself in league with the dirty Manitobans who had been the bane of my existence ever since birth. Every game of Mr. Jack played would only serve to remind me that I was in their pocket.

I had rolled the dice and it had come up Canadian.

I sighed and called up my bookie to line up a game for that weekend. It was going to take a lot to get out from under the thumb of the Manitobans and I needed to start earning those thumbs as quickly as possible.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers