Sunday Archive: Nacho Sasha and the Knights of Saint John, part two

Nacho Sasha and the Knights of Saint John Part II: Flux Capacitors

James was the only one available to help me out so I picked him up at “Bondage” and we headed to Dupont Circle to hook up with D’Artagnan. My manservant scurried along behind me with the goodies bag. Trying not to stand out on the subway was a hard thing to do since James was high as a kite.

I put my head against the window and tried to breath. “I must have dreamed a thousand dreams. Been haunted by a million screams. But I can hear the marching feet.”

“What?” James turned towards me.

“I can see the fires still alight!” I rose up and pointed at a young couple as we pulled into the station. James and my manservant grabbed my arms and hurried me out of the car and onto the platform. “Oh Superman…” I hissed, tossing my head as they dragged me towards the escalator. “Where are you now?”

D’Artagnan was waiting at the South exit, and I knew that the men of steel were losing by the hour. I knew that danger was coming.

D’Artagnan had told me his plan. To go back in time and change history. To save the Crusader Knights of Saint John on Rhodes from the Turks. To destabilize Ottoman power and retake Constantinople – with D’Artagnan assuming the mantle of Basileus. It was madness, but I had watched the water glass disappear. I had seen the evidence. Besides, D’Artagnan said that, if I helped, my reward would be beyond avarice. That allowed me to smooth over my self doubt… Was this the right thing to do? It was the opposite of settling down and being responsible – to help an old codger go back in time and conquer the globe then, in turn, take the treasures of Byzantium and the Orient as payment. It seemed dark and wrong on so many levels. But, then again, it made perfect sense that my life would come to this point.

Our small group squeezed into the abandoned stairwell leading to the old Dupont trolley station. Trash was piled up against the fence, but there were no prying eyes. We watched as D’Artagnan tapped in a few numbers on his palm-pilot, then the world started to blur around us. The trash vanished, the gates opened, men and women pushed passed us. I saw the trolley descending, circling through the station. Then the world around me began to shake and scream. I closed my eyes as I felt the ground move beneath my feet. From cool to warm, asphalt to dirt, the smells of the city to the smells of the country. When I opened my eyes, I was in a different land, on a mountainside looking at the distant, glittering sea. If D’Artagnan was to be believed, this was Rhodes, in December of 1521.

And I was alone.

It was less than a year before the Turks would begin their siege of the Fortress. D’Artagnan had a plan, of course, but getting separated wasn’t part of it.

In the mountainous and forested interior of Rhodes, I’d be lost at any point in history. In the 16th century, ignorant of language and custom, I was at an even greater disadvantage. The residents of the island were primarily Greek Orthodox, the Knights were Catholics from a mix of Western nations. Either way, I was 500 years removed from anything they knew or could imagine.

I realized, without having to move from my place of relative safety, that time travel was useless if you didn’t understand the culture or speak the language. But there were still lingering doubts in my head – was I in the year 1521? I’d have to explore, not only to prove to myself that this wasn’t some sort of hallucination but also to find my missing compatriots.

A column of smoke rose from a green fold of hills in the distance, the organized brown lines of orchards distinct even from this distance. It was the only sign of civilization, and my only chance to establish a base of operations. Without D’Artagnan, I was trapped in the past.

As I grew nearer, I could make out a farmhouse, sitting comfortably on the side of a hill in the center of an orderly forest of olive trees. The house itself was small and squalid looking, but the smoke from the chimney gave it a welcoming quality that eased me into a sense of false security. Still, I opted not to take the direct approach. Fading into the olive trees, I moved cautiously to the side of the house and edged towards one of the windows. Just as I did so, a woman’s scream – high and desperate – came from within.

Acting on impulse, I ran around to the front and slammed my shoulder against the wooden door. It flew open in a shower of dust and splinters and I half-fell into the warm, dark interior. On the floor lay the broken and bloody corpse of the farmer and his son. The woman, a girl of 19, stood naked above them with her fists pressed against her eyes. Behind her, covered in blood and breathing smoke, stood fellow Dirty Freaks author Satan.

“My God, am I happy to see you!” I said, walking up to Satan and shaking his hand. He looked confused and somewhat afraid. “The craziest shit is going down – this French guy invented this time machine and he had this plan to stop the Turks from –”

“I’m sorry,” Satan raised one finger and grimaced. “Could you hold on for just a moment?”

I looked over my shoulder at the woman, then nodded.

“Good, good. Thank you.” Satan walked up to the girl and placed his arm around her shoulders. He whispered for several minutes, she said something in Greek, then she picked up a scythe and swung it at my head.

I went to the floor and kicked her legs out from under her, the scythe clattering to the floor. Before she could stand, I leapt on top of her and knocked her out with a good crack to the face. Then I grabbed the scythe and rounded on Satan.

“I’ve been cheated before, you son of a bitch, but this takes the cake. And your writing sucks, too. I hate you, and I hate everything you’ve done on the web page!” I swung the scythe at him, but he was always a nimble little bitch. In fact, he was behind me before I had completed my first swing. He pulled the wicked tool out of my hands and pushed me across the room.

“Now,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The web page. You and I write for this web page.”

“Web…?” Satan shook his head. “I don’t know you, man.”

“How can you not know me?” I looked around the shack, “I’m Nacho. From the web page. We’re the A-Team!”

Satan cocked his head and looked at me with narrowed eyes, “The what?”

“Come on! 1972…crack commando unit sent to prison…crime they didn’t commit…Los Angeles…love it when a plan comes together? Am I off the page here?”

“You’re a lunatic.” Satan nodded and turned away.

I rushed up to him and grabbed his sparkly Harry Potter 16th century Satan robes. “My God, man! You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help me get back to –”

“Okay,” Satan spun around and pulled his robes out of my grasp, “So if you’re from the future, tell me what happens to Christianity?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it stick around?”

Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. “You mean, the way it’s stuck around for 1500 years so far?”

Satan shrugged, “There’s always a hope. A waning hope, I admit. But I’d like to get back to playing the flutes and drinking wine. This devil suit makes me itch. And the big guy without the lightning is just no fun. This whole makeover was a bad idea, and I’ve been saying so for the past 1500 years.”

“What are you talking about?”

Satan jumped slightly, as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “What? Oh, nothing. So how can I help you?”

“The Frenchman had a device – a palm pilot thing. I think he –”

“A what?”

“A palm pilot. Like a computer.”

“Again: what?”

“A computer… Oh, nevermind. A magic amulet thing.”

“Ah!” Satan said, “A magic amulet. Do you think I’m a child?”

At that moment, the door burst open and my hideously deformed manservant shambled through and bowed respectfully. Then, as was his custom, he spit at Satan’s feet.