It was the twilight hour, the golden dusk, that magic moment when tawdry fornications became epic, poignant, lovingly tinted with the sepia of nostalgia.  The Indian summer heat was slowly receding into the evening hours.  This was the time that Ah Sung selected for all his assignations.  Even a third-rate motel like the Alhambra was transmogrified into a fairyland of splendor at this time of day.  

        The Alhambra was an interconnected collection of dirty yellow cabins gently curving around a postage-stamp parking lot.  Some misguided romantic had tried to evoke associations with the original fortified palace in medieval Spain by erecting a plywood turret on top of the central cabin.  Crude arabesques were daubed under the entire circumference of the parapet.  It was the epitome of shoddy tourist-trap kitsch, but in the lambent glow of the setting sun, it became Xanadu.

          Ah Sung surveyed the motel, his arms akimbo.  He possessed a bottle of 1936 claret, six dollars in quarters, two dulo y dulo sticks and a fedora to cover his hirsute, simian face.  He spotted Frady’s vintage coupe two blocks down, and he smiled.

        On his way to the room (51, his favorite number), he spotted Keyes in the bushes 100 feet away, wearing a large-brimmed hat.  Hayden’s boys never took chances.  As he unlocked the door, he made a guess as to how many gunmen were staked out inside.  Two, at least, probably in the bathroom or the closet.

        He entered the room and pocketed his key.  He looked at the burnt orange carpet and the pressed wood furniture.  The room smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes.  Ah Sung heaved a sigh, placed the bottle of claret on the nightstand and turned on the lamp with its faux parchment shade.  He quietly pulled out one of his dulo y dulo sticks and softly padded over to the bathroom.  When he pushed open the bathroom door, the fluorescent lights blared on with a sickly buzz, and Zola stood there smirking.  “Boy, ain’t we dressed fancy?” he said and let out a low whistle.

        Ah Sung ignored the clumsy sound of Ferry coming up behind him and broke Zola’s cheekbone with the dulo y dulo stick.  He had to at least pretend to fight back.  As Zola flailed back screaming in pain, Ferry’s blackjack connected with Ah Sung’s skull, and the furry ape-man lapsed into unconsciousness.

        When Ah Sung came to, he was trussed up naked on the motel room floor.  Seven feet of hairy Sasquatch.  Pupkin stood over him, a lean hyena, smiling his characteristic death’s-head rictus.  Ferry, a jowly bantam of a man, sat at the pressed wood desk, drinking the claret from a Dixie cup.  To Ah Sung's surprise, Monkley was there as well, squirming uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.  It was unusual for Hayden to send his researcher on a hit.  Did Monkley know what was going on here?

        “Looky, looky, Sleeping Beauty awakes,” said Pupkin.

        Ferry tossed back a mouthful of claret and stood up, producing a .45 automatic from his sharkskin jacket.  He walked over next to Pupkin.  “Well, wolf man, looks like you finally banged the wrong broad.  You know who I’m talking about?” Ferry said.

        Ah Sung twisted his neck to look at Ferry.  The fetid weave of the carpet burned his cheek.  “Gladys Grindbull.”

        Ferry grimaced.  “Very good.  Ordinarily we would have killed you instantly.  But seeing how you worked with the crew on a previous instance, I thought you should understand the nature of your transgression.”  He crouched down.  “You see, you’re not the only one who believes in the symmetry of the universe.”  He stood up.  “Hey, butt boy!”  No response.  Ferry gritted his teeth.  “Monkley, I’m talking to you.”

        Monkley walked over, his shoulders awkwardly hunched.  “Why am I here, Ferry?”

        He seemed manifestly uncomfortable, which Ah Sung found very sad.  He knew that many of Hayden's most successful operations were the direct result of Monkley's careful research and almost preternatural insight.  But the gang would never accept him.  He was the perennial outsider, the odd man out, with an emphasis on the odd.

        Ferry continued his lecture.  “You’re here, Mr. Last American Virgin, because you’re about to be inducted into manhood.”

        “What do you mean?”

        “You ratted on this walking carpet, now you can finish the job.”  Ferry handed Monkley the pistol.  Monkley held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.

        “I don’t do hits, Ferry.”

        Pupkin interrupted.  “Anyways, Zola wants the Yeti for scarring his face.”

        Ferry said, “Zola can go dangle.  Monkley’s popping his cherry tonight.”

        Monkley threw the pistol onto the bedspread.   “I don’t even like guns.  I’ve never even fired one before.”

        “You just pull that thingy there and the bullet comes out here."  Ferry slapped Monkley's shoulder.  "Now we’re going to leave you two lovebirds alone.  But don’t forget."  He waggled his finger.   "We have all the exits covered.”  Ferry shoved Pupkin out the door, but Pupkin kept his shark eyes locked on Monkley as he left.  Monkley sat back down on the bed at a loss.

        Ah Sung spoke.  “You will not kill me.”

        Monkley squared his shoulders defiantly, but would not meet Ah Sung's eyes. He plunked down on the creaky bed, the gun bouncing toward him, as if their conjunction in time and space was inevitable. “I don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

        “If you are afraid of physical reprisal...Ferry would not kill Hayden’s top researcher.”

        “Probably not.  But he can rough me up pretty good before Hayden will squawk.”

        Ah Sung sighed.  Once again Monkley had a unique insight.  He knew how his employer ticked, the inner workings of that criminal clock.  It was a shame that such talent was lodged within such a weak character.  Time to probe this puzzle box and find its cracks.

        “Allow me to solve your dilemma.  As you may or may not know, when Yetis are killed, their bodies disintegrate.  Did you know this?"  Monkley nodded slowly with a wary expression.  

        Ah Sung nodded back.  If Hayden had a Yeti on his crew, Hayden's researcher would have, of course, done his homework.  Even when he didn't like his employer or approve of his aims, he would feel compelled to gather the information.  Ah Sung continued, "But if I disappear, you can fire the pistol and claim you killed me.”

        “How are you going to disappear?  The door and the back window are covered.”

        “Waft me hence.”  Ah Sung jerked his head toward the airshaft.

        Monkley scoffed, “What, are you kidding?  You’d never fit through there.  And even if you did, you’d still be in the motel.  I can’t see that as much of an improvement.  I think I'm going to have to just shoot you and get it over with.”  His tough guy posturing was not convincing.

        Ah Sung intoned, “That does not happen.”

        “I know Yetis are supposed to disintegrate when they’re killed, but I’m sure I’m missing something here.  Maybe you don't know Ferry like I do.  I can’t see Ferry being satisfied with an empty room.”

        “Fait accompli.”  Ah Sung slowly stood up, dropping the limp ropes.  He watched Monkley closely.  As yet, he still held the weapon, and the safety was off.  Ah Sung would have to counterbalance Monkley's fear of Ferry with something more powerful, Monkley's desire to not be involved.

        Ah Sung gently smiled.  By introducing Monkley into the equation, Ferry had lent a special piquancy to the equation.  Ah Sung loved the probing of a new psyche.  Monkley was of a different flavor than the usual assortment of thugs in Hayden's gang.  He had a sharp unorthodox mind, but that wasn't what made him unique.

        Monkley was a nonentity.  Ah Sung had met many nonentities in his tourney upon this earth, but Monkley was a peculiar variety.  He was a studied nonentity.

        At first, Ah Sung had thought Monkley was merely laying low. Playing the buffoon card for a long-term gain.  But after many months of observation, he had concluded that Monkley was simply determined to attain nothing.  His life ambition was to never accomplish anything.

        Now Ah Sung had a final test for Monkley, an ultimate crucible of life experience.  He would thrust Monkley into an extreme confrontation, the power of life and death over a fellow living thing, a critical transaction where Monkley's own life would hang in the balance.  He remained still, watching Monkley's reaction to his sudden escape.

        Ah Sung closed his eyes, and sped his time perception so he could meditate on potential space without losing his awareness of his immediate surroundings.  He then dove headlong into the sea of possibilities.  He expanded his consciousness to connect with all the possible Ah Sungs in all possible realities.  Thus he received intelligence on all possible Monkleys.

        He saw the Monkley who turned his weapon over to Ah Sung.  In that scenario, Ah Sung attempted to shoot his way out of the motel, and both he and Monkley went down in a fusillade of bullets.  This tragic incident spurred an internecine battle within the syndicate, which ultimately resulted in Fallbrook becoming a bloody ruin.

        He saw the Monkley who immediately shot Ah Sung.  Monkley discovered he had a penchant for murder, and rose to become Hayden's most deadly enforcer.  The syndicate under the shrewd tutelage of Hayden and Monkley together dominated the national scene, and forged a criminal empire that frightened cartels worldwide.  This cartel would influence affairs of state and would create a worldwide dystopia of exploitation and distrust.

        Various possible Monkleys flashed before Ah Sung.  The suicidal Monkley; the Monkley that dropped the gun, injuring himself; the silver-tongued Monkley who persuaded the hit squad to walk away.  Ah Sung inhaled deeply, and returned his consciousness to real time perception.  Now to observe which Monkley stood before him.

        Monkley appeared half rattled, half relieved.  He stammered for a bit, and then nodded quickly.  He picked up the gun awkwardly, the barrel dipping dangerously into Monkley's kneecap.  He finally met Ah Sung's eyes and set his mouth into a grim line, as if he were crossing a threshold into an army of Yakuza assassins.  “You got to disappear, though.  No more sampling the local females.  If you show your face in Fallbrook again, I would be toast. You understand?”

        Ah Sung relaxed his mental tension.  It was as he thought.  Once again Monkley had followed the path of least resistance.  Monkley was still a nonentity and always would be.  He was nothing, a null set.  The world was a paint box, a palette of vivid hues of every possible shade and intensity, and the Creator had daubed the page of William Monkley in tepid eggshell.  It was if the cosmos had obscured Monkley's personality with a couple swipes of its pink eraser.  Ah Sung immediately dismissed Monkley and his insignificant fate from his mind.

        “Agreed.  Fire the gun in a few seconds.”  Then Ah Sung gassed out.  In the middle of the room, he stood spread-eagled and closed his eyes.  After a moment of concentration, Ah Sung's form began to blur or rather fade, as if God was adjusting reality's contrast knob.  His body became less and less distinct until there was only the thinnest whisper of a mist in the air before Monkley.  Then this vague mist drifted purposefully toward the airshaft and seeped through.  A shot rang out in the room behind him, then he heard Monkley’s muffled curse at the unexpected recoil.

        Ah Sung drifted easily through the shaft.  First room empty.  He passed it.  Follow the currents of fate.  Next room occupied.  Enter.  Solidify.  This room was identical to the one he just left except for the enormous oil painting of a female flamenco dancer posed seductively in front of a crudely daubed windmill on the Spanish lowlands.  This marvelously ridiculous painting hung ominously over the queen-size bed.

        Two people were in the bed, one asleep.  The other occupant gasped in shock and turned on the lamp.  It was Preacher, Hayden's political advisor.

        A prophet.  Or rather The Prophet.  This man was a vessel for something larger, a puppet worked by unknown artists.  He heard a still small voice in the night, and knew not from whence it came.  An excellent choice.  

        Not to mention, he was a cunning rogue with a penchant for double-crossing.  This would add the element of preordained betrayal Ah Sung wanted.  He noted with amusement that the woman was a professional escort.

        Preacher stared into the darkness with trepidation.  He swiped his gnarled knuckles across his rheumy eyes. Then he beheld the majestic shaggy silhouette before him.

        “What the devil?  A Yeti!” he murmured.  

        Ah Sung pretended not to recognize him and introduced a false tremor of panic into his voice.

        “Mister, please.  These guys are trying to kill me.” Ah Sung looked around the room frantically.

        “Wait a minute.  You work for Hayden, don't you?”

        “Yes, yes, I do.  Do I know you?"

        "Nah, you don't know me.  But there ain't too many of your type in these parts.  You're Hayden's Yeti."  Preacher ran a hand over his face and yawned.  "I am indirectly acquainted with Vince Hayden."

         Ah Sung pleaded, "Then, will you help me?"

        “Ran into some rough characters, eh?  Well, let’s see what we can do.”

Ah Sung gleefully watched all the calculations flash across Preacher's brain, weighing all the variables, all relentlessly zeroing on one thing:  the betterment of Preacher.

        The woman, a cheaply pretty blonde, woke up and saw Ah Sung.  She abruptly inhaled in shock, but before she started screaming, Ah Sung touched her forehead with his index finger, and she went back to sleep.  Another nonentity.  Best to keep her out of the equation.

        Preacher rapidly blinked in surprise.  “That’s a handy talent.  Can’t have the missus making a fuss.  You know...Women.”  He freighted the word with mystic overtone, an oblique reference to the solemn unstated covenant among the male genus.

         Preacher swung out of bed and stood up.  He was six foot seven of wiry muscle in a nightshirt.  His dazzling white hair and flowing beard gave him the appearance of a Michelangelo God.  His lofty brow and serene expression was reminiscent of a Renaissance pope.  The contrast of his magisterial demeanor with his sordid surroundings titillated Ah Sung to no end.  But he knew he couldn't drag out the scenario indefinitely.  It was time to let the drama play out.  A modern drama, two traveling salesmen striking up a casual acquaintance in the smoking car.  Death of a Yeti, by Arthur Miller.

        Preacher asked, “Now what’s our next move?”

        Ah Sung saw him briefly entertain the notion of calling the police, then quickly drop it.  Preacher preferred to rely on his own mettle in a pinch.  “Can you sneak me out of here?  To your car, perhaps?”

        Preacher rapidly pulled on his seersucker pants.  "I'd like to help out, son.  After all, I'm one of Boss Hayden's staunchest supporters.  I'd do anything to bail out one of his people.  But sneaking seven foot of Sasquatch past a gang of young hoodlums is a pretty tall order."

        "What do you know about Yetis?"

        "Just rumors really.  I didn't believe you fellas existed until a few years ago.  Until you showed up.  I thought you guys were myths like vampires and the Easter Bunny."  Preacher looked speculatively at Ah Sung.  "Is it true that you can shape shift?  And ride water dragons and all that?  I've even heard some folks say you came here in flying saucers."

        "Trust me, sir.  We are from Earth.  In fact, you might say we were the original Earthmen.  As for dragons, I have never encountered any.  But about the shape shifting...we do have some ability to change physical states.  That is how I came into your room.  My suggestion is that if you have some kind of container, I could become liquid, and you could smuggle me out in that fashion.”

        “Really. Liquid, huh?  Let me see.  I think I got an Igloo cooler in the bathroom.  You know for fruit juice and stuff.”  Ah Sung almost burst into giggles at the obvious falsehood, but suppressed his mirth in keeping with the gravity of the situation.  

        Preacher walked into the bathroom.  The sound of liquid gurgling down the drain and the distinct smell of gin came through the door.  Preacher returned, lugging a bright red picnic cooler.  He set it down and faced Ah Sung.

        “Now before you go melting on me, you best tell where you want to go,” Preacher said.

        “The train station, if you please.”

        “Fair enough.  Now while you transmogrify, I’ll put some shoes on.”

        Ah Sung liquefied into the cooler.  Preacher watched out of the corner of his eye.  It was as if the Yeti collapsed into the cooler in a kind of nose-dive.  But his body in mid-dive became fluid and poured in.  Very disconcerting.  It reminded Preacher of the old Betty Boop cartoons he saw as a kid.  Except instead of coming out of the inkwell, this bizarre creature was jumping back into it.  Preacher wondered if the world was a safe place with such creatures in it.

        Ah Sung immediately became intoxicated with the gin fumes, and, combined with the icy temperature, the fumes made him feel logy.  Preacher slammed down the lid and thumped it.

        “Now when we get to the train station, I’ll thump it again as a signal.  All right?” Preacher bellowed at the cooler.  Then the cooler lurched as he heaved it up and exited the motel room.  Ah Sung heard faint arguing as Preacher carried him across the parking lot.  Was Monkley getting abused?  Ah Sung felt little interest.  Preacher set him down as he opened the trunk, then Ah Sung felt himself nestle into the trunk’s confines.  When the trunk lid slammed down, Ah Sung felt a pleasant sense of isolation.

        When Ah Sung changed into liquid or gaseous form, the passage of time did not weigh upon him.  It was as if, when his consciousness was dispersed across different atomic structures, he stood athwart time.  In fact, in times past, entire generations of Yetis would lapse into gaseous hibernation for centuries to avoid uncongenial historical eras.

        He recited the central mantra of the Yeti way:

        "I am of this earth and not of this earth.

        I touch the earth and have lost touch with the earth,

        I waste time and hoard it in vats within the ground.

        I am dead to the bustle of the world

        and repose in the tranquil realm.

        I swim alone in my sea of possibilities,

        Loving, singing, but yet I am dark inside.

        Look upon the necropolis that is the earth!

        there crouches a wild and ghostly form,

        the Outsider at midnight.

        We oppose the force from without,

        we drink wine while we may,

        but never forgetting the darkness that surrounds."

        

        After the obligatory chant, Ah Sung slid into reverie about Gladys Grindbull and her exquisite moistnesses.  He imagined her, that robust monument to repressed mature sexuality that he alone knew how to unlock.  He dreamily recreated past encounters until suddenly the world crashed in.

        The trunk of the car must have opened, because he felt the shifting lurch of being carried.  As the cooler settled to the ground, there was a thump and the lid opened.  Ah Sung poured out and solidified.

        He felt giddy, and his vision was slightly blurred from the gin.  But he knew it wasn’t the train station.  He stumbled forward and squinted.  He vaguely made out a graffiti-spattered viaduct.  Then he saw them.

        Zola (with a livid bruise on his cheekbone), Keyes, Cohan, Frady, Pupkin and Ferry all stood lined up facing him.  They all held Tommy guns. Ah Sung spread his arms wide in a gesture of benediction.  They opened fire.

        Zola has shed his affable demeanor.  His face was set in stone, his eyes squinting intently while he fired.  Keyes in contrast had lost his customary scowl, his face serene, his gaze unfocused, his spasm of murderous rage granting him Zen perfection.

        Frady, conscious of his Hollywood looks, gritted his gleaming teeth, posing for his headshot.  Pupkin grinned fatuously, the corners of his mouth curling up comically, his shark eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

        Cohan's expression was noncommittal, an accountant finishing his books.  Ferry, on the other hand, fed off the carnage like a leech, his mouth turned down like angler fish's, locked in a rictus of negative passion.  His face was flushed and twitching.

        Ah Sung juddered back a few steps and tripped over the cooler.  As he lay on his back, Ferry hopped up like a homicidal jackrabbit and fired another series of bullets into him, his teeth locked into a snarl.

        Ah Sung’s body disintegrated.  No dust, no fragments, nothing.  Where he had lain, a small red jewel rested.  Ferry picked it up.  "What the fuck is this?" he muttered.

        Zola said, “Hey, Ferry, dibs on the rock.  My sister’s birthday’s coming up.”

        Ferry laughed and threw the jewel to Zola.  “If your sister likes Yeti gizzards, knock yourself out.  Weirdo.”

        Frady let out a howl and pointed at a nearby graffito.  “Hoo doggy, that guy’s getting his wiener bitten off by a gator.  That’s just not right.”

        Keyes growled, "Fucking yahoo."

        From atop the plywood parapet of Alhambra a half-mile away, Preacher watched through binoculars and calculated.