Fitton stood in the middle of the road, holding a case of Easy Living beer. That was his favorite brand, for the flavor and for the implication. Anyone watching would have seen a man wearing a charcoal gray suit, of average height and weight. His hair was short, brown, and neatly trimmed. His clean shaven face, with pale blue eyes, was considered handsome. He wore the suit casually, being the kind of man who was always comfortable, and it showed.

The road was paved a deep black. White sidewalks ran alongside, with small, manicured lawns and urban homes strung close together. A gentle breeze swept around. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Farther away, somebody called in the kids for supper. Above was a blue sky with a few white clouds moving past.

Fitton looked down the road and cocked his head slightly. A new sound was carried on the breeze. Birds may have been alarmed about something, but he knew better. He set down the Easy Living, then brought his right arm up and bent it at the elbow. With his left hand he reached for the large, round scab on the right forearm, all that remained of a bicycle crash that occurred because he had never really learned to ride. The locals seemed to like the wheeled conveyances, so he thought he may like them also. He hadn't.

He ripped off the scab and let it tumble to the ground, where it clanged onto the pavement with a loud, metallic sound. It punched a deep hole in the Earth that became wider as he watched.

The raw patch on his forearm bled profusely, but not with blood. Black pellets fell like rain, and they grew in size before clattering on the ground. The mounting pile shifted and jostled as the pellets morphed into guns. Fitton selected a big one, and found that his hand felt perfect in a shaped area that must have been made for the purpose. See? he thought, they're not so dumb after all.

He raised the gun and pointed it down the road. A problem became apparent; he didn't know how to make it work. In his own defense, he had never needed weapons in this world. He was just there for the beer, something other worlds never got right. Then again, the bastards rarely entered a world.

As if on cue, there they were. There were four of them, two on each chariot. Bipedal with milky white skin, like glistening slugs, the Cryers' most distinctive physical features were large, lifeless black eyes. Three angled slashes ran across each side of the face, and there was no mouth. They wore long black cloaks over their pale, white bodies. And the wailing! If no quarry presented itself for chase, they wailed at the want thereof.

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Each chariot was drawn by two emerald green Mackies, four-legged beasts that could change size and basic dynamics -- bursts of speed versus long tests of endurance -- as the situation dictated. Their heads moved up and down, mouths snapped viciously, muscular legs pumped, and hooves thundered on pavement. The Cryers clung to the chariots' rails and stared forward with those big, black eyes.

Fitton shifted his eyes from pursuers to gun. He reasoned that since the guns were intuitive in terms of holding, they would be equally intuitive in terms of operating. He squeezed his fingers and was pleased at the result. There was a loud, staccato sound as the gun leapt around in his hands.

The gun's projectiles, too small and fast to be seen except for a slight blurring at the end of the gun, slammed into the nearing show, causing the Mackies, breathing hard and glimmering with sweat, to stumble and crash hard onto the pavement. The poles and straps holding the chariots to the beasts twisted, making the chariots roll onto their sides. The Cryers, now upping the pitch of their steady wail, were flung to the ground in a tangled mess.

The gun stopped making noise and stilled in Fitton's hands. He dropped it and pulled a deck of cards from an inside pocket of his suit coat. Standard playing cards with a red and white bicycle design, he fanned the deck and then threw it forward into the air. The cards fluttered down like autumn leaves falling from a tree.

Red figures sprouted from each card where it lie on the ground. The figures grew and solidified, and the red faded, giving way to more colors. Now numerous copies of Fitton stood between himself and the Cryers who, though out of his direct line of sight, were assuredly recovering from the gun assault.

Fitton looked at his wrist and smiled. His watch was already gone, replaced by his golden snake bracelet, heavy and bright and wrapping three times around his wrist. The eyes were small, twinkling red gemstones, and the end of the tail was a clear stone not unlike the diamonds in this world. Rings adorned his fingers again, and the tattoos were back, up and down his arms. He felt long hair on his shoulders. The suit had been replaced by a burgundy shirt of simple weave, along with sturdy, tan trousers.

He took a last look down the road at the mess, then picked up the Easy Living, hopped into the hole made by the scab, and vanished.