BLOOD OATH OF PATRIOTS

By Galen Hardesty

O’Neill: Eep! (runs out of the room)

Jane: What’s with you and O’Neill playing eyeball hockey?

Daria: You got me. Something’s gnawing at him. If I can find out what, maybe I can make it gnaw harder.

Jodie: (catches up with Daria and Jane) Hi, guys. Are you gonna help out with Cafe Lawndale again? We could use you.

Daria: I can’t believe O’Neill is still trying to reopen that thing. It was a bad idea the first time and it‘s a bad idea now. There isn’t enough free local talent to support it, and people would rather get together and talk at Pizza King or the mall. How close is the grand reopening?

Jodie: It opened last Monday, but hardly anyone has come. Mr. O’Neill is really bummed out. It’s the biggest thing he’s ever been in charge of, and it’s going down in flames.

Jane: No. That would draw a crowd. And we could roast marshmallows.

Daria: Well, that explains what’s eating him. Hmmm. It also explains the guilty looks. He thinks maybe I can help pull his chestnuts out of the fire, but he remembers the way he treated me last time I read at the coffeehouse. At least he has the grace to feel bad about it.

 Jodie: You mean what he said to that Sun-Herald reporter? Yeah, that was kind of thoughtless, not to mention silly. So, I guess if he asked for your help, you’d feel kind of conflicted, huh? On the one hand, you want to help, but on the other, you feel he owes you an apology.

Daria: It’s more like, on the one hand, the rhythmic swing and splat of the cat-o’-nine-tails is so soul-satisfying, but on the other, a straight razor in the hands of an expert could take him to heights of agony few men have ever reached.

Jodie: Daria, not meaning to be critical, but when you talk like that, it’s hard for some people to tell that you’re joking.

Daria and Jane: Joking?

Jodie: Oh, come on.

Daria: Jodie, Mr. O’Neill is one of those people who "follows his heart." They use that as an excuse for all manner of gross stupidity, thoughtless, inconsiderate behavior, and sometimes worse things. And they’re usually not even aware they’re doing it. To people like us who live by reason, people like him are loose cannons. He and I need to come to an understanding, establish a working relationship, before he runs me over again.

Jodie: Working relationship?

Jane: Can you say "dominatrix"? (Daria shoots Jane a dirty look.) What?

O’Neill: Don’t forget to read Act One of Romeo and Juliet for tomorrow. Uh, Daria, could I see you for a minute, please? (Daria neither moves nor speaks. The other students file out, Jane and Jodie giving Daria worried looks, until only the two are left.) Daria, I’d like to, uh, I want to, uhh... "

Daria: Apologize for what you said to that reporter, and then ask me to read something at the coffeehouse? Something other than a Melody Powers story?

O’Neill: (brightens considerably) Why, yes, Daria, that’s it exactly!

Daria: (still deadpan) And what did you think my answer to that would be?

O’Neill: (unbrightens considerably) Uh, well, I’d hoped...

Daria: (rising) But you didn’t think. Well, let me help you. My answer to that would be something like "You spineless sanctimonious hypocrite!" (advances on O’Neill, he backs toward his desk) "You insult me to the whole town, then you want to apologize in private? That won’t cut it. (maneuvers right, cuts O’Neill off from his desk, backs him against the chalkboard) "You libeled me in print, you’ll retract in print. And apologize in print." (her voice reverts to her normal mild semi-monotone) So, to avoid a possible unfavorable reaction such as that, you might want to change your approach slightly. (pulls a folder labeled "Justice" from her backpack, extracts two sheets of paper from it). This is a suggested text for an apology to be printed in the school paper. And these are the points you’ll want to be sure are covered in the retraction in the Sun-Herald.

O’Neill: (looks from the papers in his shaking hand to the file folder Daria is replacing in her backpack) Justice? Are you sure you don’t mean revenge?

Daria: Oh, I’m sure. (pulls another folder labeled "REVENGE" in slashing blood-red letters partway out of backpack, slides it back in) And I’m also sure we can resolve our differences without resorting to such unpleasantness. (faux cheery) Goodness, look at the time! Gotta go. See you later. (shoulders backpack, walks out the door. O’Neill steps away from the chalkboard and watches her go. We see that the back of his shirt is splotched with chalk, there are sweat stains down his spine and spreading from his armpits, and a heavy yellow line bisects his butt horizontally at the height of the chalk tray.)

Jane: Jeez, Daria, wipe the blood off your mouth. You’re scaring the children. (Daria’s smirk widens to a grin.)

Jodie: Daria! Now you’re scaring me! Don’t you think you were a teeny bit rough on him?

Daria: You don’t think I’m turning into my mother, do you? But I’m not going to let him get away with using me for a scapegoat just because he’s a pathetic, hapless loser. Now he knows how I see what he did to me. I’ll let him think about it for awhile, and then maybe we can progress from there.

O’Neill: Oh, hello, Daria. What would you like?

Daria: Nothing, thanks. Just to talk.

O’Neill: (pouty) Come to berate me in greater detail?

Daria: That was a hypothetical answer to what I guessed you were going to say. A nonexistent exchange.

O’Neill: Funny, it seemed pretty real to me.

Daria: Prove it. There’s no written record, no witnesses. In stark contrast to the several thousand printed copies of what you said about me. (places backpack on counter, extracts a sheet of paper, reads) "School officials decided to close Lawndale’s new young adult coffeehouse after its opening night somehow turned into an anti-communist rally. "Some unscheduled propagandizing went on, and the students reacted a little too favorably.", explained coffeehouse director Timothy O’Neill, a teacher at Lawndale High. Following a reading of some right-wing literature, several members of the football team marched down North Avenue, intending to stone the Russian Embassy. Of course, there are no embassies in Lawndale. "Teens are impressionable," O’Neill said, "and the last thing we want is to provide a base of operations for political extremists.""

O’Neill: Is that so bad?

Daria: Isn’t it? A few stupid football players act like stupid football players, march down the street yelling, and you close down the coffeehouse and blame it on me. I’m a right-wing propagandist. I’m a political extremist.

O’Neill: I never mentioned your name.

Daria: That’s a cop-out. Everyone in school knows you meant me. Why did you close this place? Nobody got hurt. Nothing was damaged. There’s a far worse ruckus after every Lawndale football game. And this was your baby. Your idea, although you tried to hang it on me. Why’d you turn your back on it so fast, as if, as if... I’d ruined it somehow... defiled it... with my right wing propagandizing... oh. Oh. (smacks her forehead, swivels around on the stool, gazes out the window.) Anti-communist. Right wing. That’s it. (swivels back around, skewers O’Neill with her eyes.) You’re a communist.

O’Neill: (terrified expression, raises hands as if to ward off a blow, backs away) No! No! (an expression of despair replaces the terror) Yes.

Daria: Don’t tell me, let me guess. Not a Marxist –Leninist, not a Trotskyite, certainly not a Stalinist or a Maoist. A pure Marxist. And this was to be your base of operations.

O’Neill: You got me. Go ahead and expose me to the school board. (sniff) I hope your next literature teacher is better than I was.

Daria: Huh? Why would I do that? This is a free country, or so I was taught in school. You know, "I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."? Freedom of Association? Freedom of Speech? Or don’t you Marxists believe that?

O’Neill: We American Marxists do.

Daria: Hmmm.

O’Neill: Daria, I’m sorry for what I said to the reporter, but that piece you read seemed to be aimed right at me. Like you already knew, and were tormenting me.

Daria: My Melody Powers stories aren’t political. They’re spoofs of the superspy genre of adventure fiction. I wrote that story for you, not at you. I tailored it to the audience, to help get this place off to a good start. (half turns away, looks down at floor.)

O’Neill: And then I... I... (bursts into tears) Aaaaah-haaah! No wonder you hate me!

Daria: I don’t hate you. I’ve had my feelings hurt worse. Lots worse. (sighs) Lots of times.

O’Neill: Then you’ll accept my apology?

Daria: Probably. When do I get to read it?

O’Neill: (surprised, stares at Daria for a moment) Oh. So we’re back to this. (reaches down, brings up the 2 sheets of paper Daria gave him, lays them on the bar.) Under threat of what’s in your Revenge folder.

Daria: (pulls folder labeled REVENGE out of her backpack, lays it on counter facing O’Neill, opens it. It is empty.) Who was it, who said "He who seeks revenge should start by digging two graves, his enemy’s, and his own."? In my experience, revenge is pretty much a lose-lose proposition. The loser loses more than the winner, but neither really gains anything.

O’Neill: I... don’t know what to say. It seems I don’t know you at all.

Daria: (sighs) Why should you be any different? Look. (takes one of the two sheets of paper in front of Mr. O’Neill, crumples it up) Forget about the retraction. And this- (indicates apology text) like I said, it’s just a suggestion. (puts REVENGE folder in backpack) Do what you think is right. (shoulders backpack and leaves)

Jane: So, you tracked him to his lair and cornered him. Did you torture him?

Daria: Yeah.

Jane: Did he confess?

Daria: Yeah.

Jane: What?

Daria: This is top secret.

Jane: You mean he actually confessed something? Okay, I swear. What?

Daria: He’s a commie. A Marxist.

Jane: (long pause) Melody? Can I speak to Daria, please?

Daria: No. ....Jane, help me! ....Shut up. ....Let me go! ....Not till I kill the commie.

Jane: (top of her voice) TRENT!!!

Daria: You blinked. (sits up)

Jane: No, you did. What did he say, really?

Daria: No, you. He’s a Marxist, really. That’s why he freaked and closed the coffeehouse when I read the Melody Powers story.

Jane: You. So, where does that leave you?

Daria: I don’t care if he’s a Marxist. My dad was a Marxist in college. From what I hear, most colleges are full of Marxist professors, so I guess we should have at least one in high school to build up our resistance. Who better than Timothy?

Jane: I mean the retraction/apology/coffeehouse thing.

Daria: I dropped the demand for a retraction. It was just a bargaining chip anyway. No way the Sun-Herald would have done it. I guess he’ll put something resembling an apology in the school paper and I’ll write something to read at the coffeehouse. Something that’ll draw a crowd.

Jane: Melody Powers?

Daria: (shrugs) I can’t think of anything else I could write that would pack the house, but I guess I’ll leave it up to him, and see if he can deal with reality. Oh, that reminds me. (grabs her backpack from floor, rummages inside) Gotta get all my Revenge stuff back out of my Justice file. Hope it didn’t get all jumbled together.

O’Neill: Daria, would you read this, please? If you approve, I’ll have it printed in today’s paper.

Daria: (reads) This is nice, Mr. O’Neill. Yes, I accept. (hands paper back)

O’Neill: Uh, there’s an ad in the paper for Cafe Lawndale. I’d like to insert a note that you’ll be reading something there tonight. Something upbeat? Perhaps a poem?

Daria: You know I don’t do greeting cards. But I did recently finish a poem about growing up and going out into the world. It’s about ten verses long, and takes five or six minutes to read.

O’Neill: That sounds perfect! Thank you, Daria, I’m sure it will be a big hit! (hurries off)

Daria: Marxist Optimist. (closes her locker door, revealing Jane standing there with a sardonic smirk on her face. Daria replies with a tiny smile and a shrug. They walk off down the hall together.

Daria lowers the papers she holds, looks out at the audience. She is rewarded by polite applause from some, somewhat more enthusiastic from Andrea, loud clapping accompanied by copious tears from Mr. O’Neill. Daria sighs and walks offstage.

Kevin: You mean, it wasn’t an assignment, and she wrote it anyway? And nobody’s gonna buy it for, like, money? Then why?

O’Neill: Daria was inspired, Kevin. An idea came to her for a poem, and she worked, and wrote, and shaped it until her inspiration became a reality.

Kevin: But what does she get?

O’Neill: She gets the poem, Kevin, and the satisfaction of having created something beautiful for herself and others to enjoy.

Kevin: Uhhh... but it was like, all bummed out and stuff. Why write that?

O’Neill lowers his face into his hands, shaking his head weakly.

Daria: Inspiration is a funny thing, Kevin. It’s like having a squirrel in your pants. You’ve just got to let it out.

Kevin: o-o-o-O-O-O-o-o-oh! (bell rings)

O’Neill: Daria, could I see you for a moment? (Daria sighs and slumps down in her chair) I want to thank you again for reading "The Bleakness That Lies Ahead" last night. It really was beautiful, in a, uhh, bleak way.

Daria: But not the big hit you were hoping for. I think they were expecting something more like "Where The Future Takes Us".

O’Neill: (winces) Well, uh, perhaps if you tried a different type of piece. Do you have any love stories? (Daria looks surprised) You do! Would you read one of them?

Daria: There’s only one, and I don’t...

O’Neill: Love is the universal language, Daria. I’m sure they’ll like it. Uh, it is a real love story, isn’t it?

Daria: (trapped look in her eyes) Yes, but I really don’t...

O’Neill: Please, Daria.

Daria: (resigned) All right.

"Oh, it was just a teenage crush. I got over it long ago. It’s pretty clear that we just weren’t meant to be. Think nothing of it. Your new life is waiting."

"I guess you’re right, Marie.", he said.  "You were always so perceptive about those things. Well, we’ll always be friends, even if we don’t see each other. I’ll write to you. Be happy. Have a good life."

"Yeah, you too. I’ll write back." Then, under her breath, "But without you, I have no life." As she watched Trevor walk away, Marie was also watching all the colors drain out of her world. She turned and started down the hill into the gathering darkness. "No life. No hope. No future."

Without looking up, Daria turns and disappears backstage. A smattering of applause follows her.

Scene 14 Backstage at Cafe Lawndale. Daria sits on a plastic bucket facing a blank brick wall, the sheaf of papers still in her hand. Her eyes are red. Mr. O’Neill enters.

O’Neill: Daria! You’re still here? Everyone’s gone. (Daria slowly stands, but does not turn) That really was a beautiful story. It’s a shame there were so few to hear it.

Daria: Thank God there weren’t any more. I can’t believe I let you talk me into reading this! (walks out across stage, hops down onto floor.)

O’Neill: (following) Oh, my! I’m sorry if I pressured you, Daria. Let me buy you an espresso, and we can talk a little.

Daria: (stops, turns) Maybe a latte’.

O’Neill: (a few minutes later, at a table.) I just know if I can stimulate their intellectual curiosity, spark their creativity, Cafe Lawndale will take off and become a positive influence in the community. I just need to strike that spark!

Daria: Don’t look at me that way.

O’Neill: What?

Daria: Never mind. You think the coffeehouse will work because you see people as more intellectual and more creative than they really are. Just like you believe communism will work because you think people are basically good at heart. You’re wrong on both counts, and everything you do based on those wrong assumptions is doomed to failure.

O’Neill: Oh, my. No wonder all your work is so sad and depressing. You need to throw off that gloomy outlook and see all the joy and beauty in the world.

Daria: I can see it. But I can see all the other stuff too, the stuff you block out. You didn’t do well in history, did you?

O’Neill: How did you know that?

Daria: Because if history teaches us anything, it’s that man is not basically good at heart. (looks at watch) It’s late. I should go.

O’Neill: I hate to ask, but...

Daria: Nothing else I have ready to go will be any better received than the last two pieces I read.

O’Neill: It truly pains me to think that all your writing is so dark and despairing. It pains me even more to think you really see life that way.

Daria: I don’t. It’s- (glares at O’Neill) Hey! If you’re thinking of referring me to Ms. Manson, forget it! I’ll put you and her both in the loony bin! And I can do it!

O’Neill: (recoiling) Eep!

Daria: (easing off) My writing is a way to deal with unpleasant realities and offload bad feelings. That’s why it’s so dark. But I see a bright future ahead of me, starting as soon as I get out of this intellectual wasteland and into a good college.

O’Neill: But don’t you ever write anything for pleasure? For fun? (a faraway look comes to Daria’s eyes and she smiles a small sweet smile.) Yes! What are you thinking of right now?

Daria: (still smiling) Melody.

O’Neill (lowers face into hands) Oh, Karl!

Daria: Explain to me again why I’m obligated to do this?

Jane: Because you gratuitously adopted such an irresistible pose last time, and now I have to finish the painting you compelled me to start. So O’Neill actually asked you to write another Melody Powers story?

Daria: Yeah. I guess he does have some grasp of reality after all. Can I at least put my legs together?

Jane: Want to go more for the crucified look, eh? Next time. So, are you on it?

Daria: Mnrrrh! I told him I can’t force Melody. I said if the inspiration came, I’d write one. You know, I don’t really feel as despondent today as last time. Maybe we should wait till my next fit to finish this.

Jane: Not a problem. We artists can add in all the dark, twisted emotions later.

Daria: How do you do that?

Jane: It’s top secret.

Daria: What? All right, I swear. How?

Jane: Brushstrokes of orange, purple, and green in inappropriate places, especially on and around the face and head. Your hair is perfect for it in that pose.

Daria: That’s easy. How is that top secret?

Jane: It’s the easy stuff that’s most important to keep secret. There are too damn many artists already. That’s why we’re starving.

Daria: Oh. That actually makes sense. I gotta take a break before my neck does.

Jane: Gimme twenty seconds. It does? I’ll try to be more whimsical. I think I’ll title this "Descent into Madness".

Daria: Or "Reclining Right-Wing Radical".

Jane: (looks at painting, at Daria, back at painting.) Damn! "Descent into Madness" is such a cool title, I gotta find something to use it on!

Daria: (sitting up) Shouldn’t be a problem. You descend into madness at least once or twice a month. Take a sketchbook next trip.

Jane: I suppose. Hey, was that a PMS joke?

Daria: Of course not. How could you even think such a thing?

Jane: Um.

Kevin: Gee, Daria, you should be more careful! (walks away, still talking about Ratboy. Daria stands there, wide-eyed, open mouthed, too stunned to speak, cola dripping off her face onto her jacket.

Jane: (puts her drink and pizza on the table, reaches back, takes Daria’s, puts them down, hands Daria some napkins.) C’mon, Daria, sit down and wipe that off. I’ll kill Kevin and be right back.

Daria: (grabs Jane’s arm) We both sit down. I’m perfectly capable of killing Kevin all by myself. All I have to do is explain to him in one-syllable words why he isn't alive anymore.

Jane: (swiping beaded droplets of cola off Daria’s jacket) You sprayed this with that spill repellent, didn't you? That moron!

Daria: (catching a few drops trying to run down her collar) I find it hard to believe even Kevin could be that oblivious!

Jane: (blotting Daria’s hair) It wasn’t entirely his fault. Ratboy distracted him. Say, have you been struck by inspiration for the Melody Powers story yet?

Daria: (stops wiping her cheek. Her eyes widen slightly.) Whack. Ouch. (A tiny cherubic smile forms on her sensuous lips, transmogrifying into an evil grin)

Jane: Oh, no, it’s The Look! Daria, you shouldn’t really kill Kevin. He’s the QB. People will get mad at you if we lose the big game.

Daria: Oh, I’m not going to kill Kevin. He’s not getting off that easily. I’m going to kill... Ratboy! (Sits down in the booth, whips out her notebook, and begins writing furiously.)

Jane: (puzzled look) Um, Daria, Ratboy is a fictional character.

Daria: Exactly. And so is Melody Powers. Can you say crossover fic?

Jane: O-o-o-O-O-oh! It’s times like this I just love hanging around you, feeling my mind warp and crackle under the lethal radiation of your evil genius!

Daria: (still writing furiously) Aw, shucks.

As she pretended to peruse the menu while surreptitiously scanning for anything out of the ordinary, Melody powers reflected that her growing reputation had its downside. Following the demise of Hunsacker last month, scuttlebutt had it she was tied with Dannekill and Virosa for the unofficial title of Deadliest Special Op. It was an honor few Ops actually sought, given that the life expectancy of its holder was a little less than six months at last calculation. Hunsacker had raised the average considerably by lasting almost a year. Melody would miss Hunsacker, and she suspected she would also envy him his manner of death. Blown to a pink mist as he brought his trashcan off the street, he’d never felt a thing, and had probably not had a clue it was coming. Few Special Ops went that quickly or painlessly. The more-or-less innocent bystanders within a half block radius of Hunsacker’s trashcan that morning hadn’t gone that quickly either.

The Jade Dragon was one of the finest Chinese restaurants on the West Coast, and one of the main hubs of PRC espionage as well. Melody had dined here three times before, and the food had been excellent. Her enjoyment had been heightened by the palpable increase in tension her presence had induced in the waiters. This time she planned to order a Manchurian dish of beef, loquats, and lychees, but if she were actually allowed to eat it, her mission would be a failure.

Missions like this were one of the main reasons there was such a high turnover in the Deadliest Special Op category. Agency slang referred to these missions as "Shake the Tree", but "Walk into the Jaws of Death" would more accurately describe the assignment Melody had drawn tonight. Unconfirmed reports had been received that Chinese nuclear devices were being smuggled into the U.S. Other Agents in the area were even now acting in such a way as to give vague indications of an imminent major assault on the Jade Dragon and its subsidiary assets. If Loong Wang, the Chicom Head of Operations at the Jade Dragon, decided to use deadly force, that would tell the Agency that he was protecting an operation of immense importance. As the only Agency Special Op actually inside the Jade Dragon, Melody would be the first to know, and probably the first to die.

Melody watched the friendly looking young waiters, waitresses, and busboys going efficiently about their business. There were a lot of them tonight. Several waited in the vestibule area, apparently to escort patrons to their tables. Three stood by the door leading to the restrooms. None of them were looking at her. Wait. One was. Dressed exactly like all the others in black slacks, white short sleeved shirt and black bow tie, he was slightly older, more muscular, and had three scars on his face. As he approached her table, Melody noted that the menu he carried was thicker than normal. He attempted a courteous smile and failed miserably. Melody knew. Her thumbnail pushed the hidden button on her large engagement ring. The tiny radio transmitter burned itself out as it produced one amazingly powerful signal burst. Now the Agency knew. Melody winced and stuck her ring finger in her ice water, but just then her exquisitely sensitive hearing picked up a sound that chilled her blood much more effectively. It was the click of the safety of some firearm larger than a pistol, and it came from just above the ceiling directly over her head.

Melody leaped from her chair just as a shotgun blast from the ceiling blew the seat out of it. Two other blasts in quick succession blew holes in the floor on either side of her. The holes formed three corners of a square, as did the three small neat holes in the ceiling directly above them, from which curled wisps of blue smoke. A picture formed in Melody’s mind of shotgun barrels mounted to fire vertically downward, controlled remotely or by sensors, aimed where seated customers would be and at the aisles between tables. In her mind picture, no shotguns were aimed at the tables themselves. Melody sprang to the next table, then headed for the kitchen, leaping from tabletop to tabletop. Shotguns blazed away from the ceiling around her, taking out some diners whose mind pictures weren’t as good as hers. Melody was actually glad, because it kept the waiters at bay, especially scarface. Then she realized they were keeping a greater distance than necessary, and that there were no Chinese at all between her and the kitchen door. They were herding her.

A quick analysis produced no options. Melody leaped to the last table, then to and through the kitchen door. The kitchen personnel she could see were all holding cleavers and other cutlery, but they were cowering in corners and behind anything that offered shelter. Wishing they’d left a few knives for her, she ran through the kitchen and out into the alley. Knowing the alley dead ended to the left, she turned right and sprinted for the street. Too late. Fifty feet short, she saw the alley mouth fill up with waiters and waitresses. The men stepped out in front, taking up kung fu stances. Seeing no better option, Melody charged ahead. There was a small chance she could break through and continue to evade until Agency forces arrived. Then, in response to a shouted order, the waitresses reached beneath their skirts and drew small automatic pistols. They stepped between the waiters and took aim at Melody.

Melody skidded to a halt, glanced quickly behind her. The alley was depressingly clean and bare, the walls on either side windowless and doorless, and it was a dead end. She really hated that term. And no one had followed her out the kitchen door, although she could see them just inside. That meant they definitely intended to gun her down. Working at lightning speed, Melody’s mind yielded: (A) Re-enter kitchen- impossible and useless. (B) A broken-field run down the alley- delay the inevitable for five to fifteen seconds. (C) Charge the guns. No chance of survival, but a chance to take a few more commies down with her. (D) surrender- yeah, right. (C) it is, she decided, resuming her final sprint. The first volley whistled past her, all misses. Her black outfit made her small slim form a tough target in this dim alley. She pulled her comb from her back pocket, pulled off the handle to reveal the black polycarbonate blade it concealed. It was the best weapon she could get past the excellent detectors at the restaurant entrance. Better than nothing, but not nearly good enough. All her colleagues who had her name in the office pool would be buying the drinks tonight.

Melody faked left, jinked right as the second, more ragged volley of shots rang out. A bullet tore at her hair, another at the midriff of her blouse. She felt a sting on her right forearm. Hunsacker, you lucky stiff, she thought, see you in a bit. Pouring on every ounce of speed she could muster, she charged straight at the weakest looking waitress. The bullets whizzed by in a steady fusillade now, and one caught her in the left upper arm. "That’ll leave a scar", she thought, then, "Oh, guess not." More bullets tore at her hair and clothing, and a couple clanged off the manhole cover that had just opened directly in front of her. Manhole cover? No-brainer. Without thinking, Melody leapt feet first into the circle of pitch blackness.

As she fell into the unknown dark, Melody put out her hands and feet before her. Her hands hit rough vertical concrete, her shins collided painfully with a horizontal bar, her soles landed on another horizontal bar below it. Her face impacted something firm, but not nearly as hard as concrete or steel. It felt like... a butt.

Melody’s hands scrabbled, grasped the vertical bars of the ladder. She descended until the sound of trickling water told her how far down the floor was, then dropped. A loud clank from above told her that the person with firm buns had closed the manhole cover. Good. Further metallic sounds made her think said person was attempting to latch it. Lockable manhole covers were rare, but this would be an excellent time and place for one. Melody groped beneath the ladder, found the plastic handle of her comb. Not the piece she was hoping for. She heard firm buns descending the ladder. She quickly groped to the right and forward, where she remembered hearing the other piece of her comb hit. Soggy scrap of cloth, piece of wood, gob of something, dead rat, ahh! There it was. Comb dagger in hand, she stood, turned to face the sounds of firm buns.

"We should go. They probably have a key somewhere. Give me your hand."

"Who are you and why should I hold hands with you in a sewer?"

"A friend. Because you can’t see in the dark."

"I have no friends. Friends die on you. You can’t see either."

"I don’t need to. Hey, that was a lot of shooting up there. Are you hurt?"

"A scratch. And I don’t need to either. Look, thanks for opening the manhole cover, but I’m kind of busy." Melody tapped the two pieces of her comb dagger together a few times, listened carefully to the echoes. Firm buns was seven feet away, larger than average, maybe six feet. The sewer was about eight feet in diameter, but not completely round. It had walkways on either side of a central channel. A common feature in the Paris sewers, but it was very unusual here. It took a zigzag at this point for no apparent reason, which caused it to run under the Jade Dragon. Might be of interest, for later. Now she needed to report in and get some first aid. Her left arm was throbbing. It was still useable, so it was probably just a graze, but she didn’t know how badly it was bleeding, and she didn’t want to touch it with the hand that had just groped a dead rat and who knew what else. She tapped a few more times, then once, loudly. The sewer continued straight west for over half a block, probably for several blocks. If she went two blocks west, then surfaced and headed north, she should hit an agency command post within a block, if they hadn’t redeployed. She started walking.

"Don’t go that way. They can get you. From the Dragon. Right up here a little ways is a place where I can make a light and check your scratch."

Melody considered. He didn’t seem hostile. And she would be dead now if he hadn’t opened the manhole. And he was only one man. And she was Melody Powers. "Okay. Let’s go."

A faint whoosh but no footsteps told Melody her erstwhile friend had moved an arm. She tapped twice. She couldn't be sure, but he was probably holding out a hand toward her. "I don’t need to be led by the hand. Do you?"

"Hey, you are good. I never met a girl who could do that before. Ick, ick, ick. Ick, ick. Eek, eek, ick, ick." He turned and began walking east along the right side of the sewer.

Momentarily surprised, Melody realized this was the noise this strange young man used for echolocation. As she listened to the echoes, it seemed to work as well as the comb tapping she’d been using. But he sounded like a rat. "What’s that up ahead on the left?"

"Dead Chinese guy. He jumped me."

So he’d taken out one of the Chinese security ops. Or said he had. Melody’s respect for firm buns went up a notch, provisionally. "Hang out here much?"

"Just recently. Last week or so."

"See anything unusual?"

"Well, yesterday the restaurant got in eleven identical ice makers. Looked to me like the compressors were so big there was no room for ice to go. But the really strange thing was that even when they were just sitting on the back dock, not plugged in, all the lights and numbers on those compressors were blinking away like crazy. Here we are. Right, then right again.

A cold knot formed in Melody’s stomach as she realized what those ice makers probably were, but she said nothing. She followed firm buns into a side passage that opened into a small room. The scratch of a lighter was followed by what seemed a bright light to her dark-adapted eyes. The flame was applied to a twist of paper napkin hanging over the edge of a tuna can filled with brown oil. Melody’s attention quickly passed over the fingerless-gloved hand, up the muscular arm, past the padded or armored shoulder, to... "What’s that on your head?" Whatever it was was made of chintzy looking brown fake fur.

"My mask. Gotta protect my secret identity." The mask had a couple of furry disks stuck on top, and a long fake nose with whiskers, beaverish teeth, and a black smooth tip.

Wuh-oh. "And... what’s your non-secret identity?"

"Ratboy at your service, Ma’am!"

Kevin: All RI-IGHT!! (stands up, pumps fist in air. Daria glances briefly at Kevin, smiles a tiny smile, resumes reading.)

"Name’s Melody. Call me Ma’am again and.. never mind." She moved her upper left arm closer to the lamp, which smelled of stale peanut oil and spring rolls. The oil had obviously come from the Jade Dragon’s deep fat fryers. She pulled the sleeve back, peeked through the bullet hole. Ratboy, seeing the problem, tore the hole wider. A graze, as she’d thought. The bullet had carried away some skin and subcutaneous fat, but left the muscles almost untouched. But it was bleeding, more than she’d guessed. A light-headed feeling told her she was about a quart low. She needed to stop it before she got any weaker. "Got a bandage?"

"Yes, Ma- sure. Right here in my Ratbag." He rummaged in a bag that hung on his right hip by a strap over his left shoulder, handed her two packaged moist napkins, bearing the logo of a chain of chicken restaurants. Slipping the comb in her back pocket, Melody used the first to clean her hands, especially the fingers of the right. She opened the second napkin. "Wait till I get the bandage open- okay, go ahead."

Melody looked at the three-inch-square flat plastic box he had just opened. Inside was a light gray pad. "That’s too thin. I‘ll bleed right through."

"No. Blood clots on contact with this. Go."

Shrugging mentally, Melody used the second moist napkin to clean the wound and surrounding area. It burned like fire, but she gave no sign of noticing. She turned her arm toward Ratboy, who applied the box with a rolling motion. The pad adhered when the box was removed, conforming to the muscle contours of her arm. A red spot appeared in the center, began to spread, but stopped at less than two inches across. "Pretty neat. What makes it do that?"

"It’s cobwebs, about a hundred layers. Ancient folk medicine. These are spun by a real clean species of spider in a clean, dust free cave. I use them all the time."

Melody repressed her initial reaction. It had stopped the bleeding. If necessary, the Agency had plenty of antibiotics. "Thanks. Now I need to report in to the Agency. What you told me about those ice makers is very important." She headed back toward the main sewer. "And I need to stop my colleagues before they divvy up all my stuff."

Ratboy picked up the napkins and wrappers. "No reason to tell the commies you got first aid. Nearest probably-safe phone is three blocks away, but there’s a donut shop half that distance that usually has a cop car out front." He pinched out the lamp wick, leaving them in total darkness once more. "Ick ick ick. Eek eek."

"Let’s go for the cop car. Time is lives."

At the junction, they stopped to listen. From the way they had come they heard the faint sound of a power saw. "Guess they didn’t have a key after all", chuckled Ratboy. "Follow me."

"All clear. Cops are there." It was a few minutes later as Melody followed Ratboy out another manhole and onto a street. The bright interior lights of a fast donut shop drew her eyes to the police cruiser silhouetted in front of its window. Melody walked quickly to the driver’s side. "I need to use your radio." she said.

The cop turned to look at her, saw the blood soaked left sleeve. "I’ll call an ambulance. You’d better sit down, Miss. Rick, first aid kit."

Melody said, "Nine brown eggs" slowly and distinctly. Both mens’ eyes widened. "At your service.", the driver replied. Melody said, "Code red. Shotgun. Chinese waiters." Both policemen exited the vehicle, Rick with the riot shotgun, the driver drawing his service pistol, and began scanning their surroundings.

Melody slid into the driver’s seat, punched a frequency into the radio. She rattled off a short string of letters and numerals, waited. A similar string answered her. She spoke a long string of letters and numerals. A slightly longer wait ensued, then the answer came. Melody acknowledged, restored the police frequency, got out, looked around. Ratboy was gone. "Take me to Palo Verde at 47^th."

A few minutes later, Melody waved to the cops as the cruiser pulled away, then climbed into the back of the black Agency SUV. After reporting the eleven "ice makers", she slumped back into the seat, her exertions and blood loss catching up with her. The eager young Agent who shared the seat with her looked like he wanted to cut her blouse off and perform emergency field surgery. Melody held up a restraining hand. "Got anything to drink?" she asked. Offered a cooler full of cans and bottles, she selected a vegetable juice blend, twisted off the cap, drank deeply. "How’d you ever get out of there alive?" asked the young Agent as he began cutting away her left sleeve. Melody allowed it. The blouse was shot, literally, and the bloodsoaked sleeve would mess up the upholstery.

"Leave that bandage. I ran the gauntlet of hidden ceiling shotguns, evaded the waiters, ran through the kitchen into the alley, where they trapped me. I was just getting killed when a nice boy opened a manhole for me, and we took a walk through the sewer."

"You pick up guys in strange places, Powers. Listen to this." The Agent in the front passenger seat flipped a switch on the communications console. Over the speakers came shouts and cheers of celebration. A shout of "We love you, Melody!" came through over the din.

"Hey, Hotchkiss! Put my coffee mug back!" Melody shouted. A round of hoots and laughter told Melody she’d guessed right. "And tell Needles to warm up a pint of my usual." All Special Operatives were required to maintain eight pints of fresh blood in the blood banks. Melody tried to keep twice that much, but lately she’d been using it as fast as she could replace it.

As she took another pull at her bottle of juice, the sharp-eyed young Agent noticed something. "Hey, you’re hit in the right arm, too! Why didn’t you say anything?"

"Slipped my mind." Melody looked at her right forearm. There was a long rip in the sleeve and a little blood. "It’s trivial. I’m surprised it bled at all."

"Come on, let me take care of it." Melody didn’t want to, but there were regulations. She sure as hell didn’t want to void her medical insurance. The only way he could conveniently get to her right forearm from the left side of the seat was... She sighed, put her drink in a cup holder, and lay down on the seat with her head in his lap. She laid her right arm across her chest, hand on her left shoulder. He got busy with the scissors.

"You take those scissors on dates, don’t you?" she teased. He grinned and blushed but said nothing. The driver chuckled. Melody drifted off to sleep with the young Agent swabbing the nick on her forearm.

(Daria pauses, takes a drink from a glass of ice water sitting on a nearby stool. She takes a deep breath, another sip of water, then returns to the microphone.)

Melody parked her black Viper near one of the large warehouse’s many doors and got out. She stretched in the morning sun, excusing her left arm from the exercise. She wore a charcoal gray watered silk blouse with semi-ballooned sleeves, jeans-cut black stretch pants, and black boots that resembled both hiking boots and running shoes, but were nevertheless oddly elegant. Except for the boots, and two pistols and phone at her belt, her outfit was nearly identical to the one she’d worn last night.

This was the second warehouse on her list. Ordinarily even a minor bullet wound would earn her a couple of days off, but the Agency was tasking all its resources to locate those eleven "ice makers" before they were split up, carried off, hidden individually, and armed.

She slid around the edge of the doorframe and into a patch of shadow inside, where she stood and listened and waited for her eyes to adapt to the lower light. She heard a shout from the far side of the warehouse, then other shouts. As her hearing adapted to the warehouse’s acoustics, she realized the shouts were in Chinese.

Melody pulled her Agency phone, keyed a speed-dial number. When it was answered, she said, "Powers two. Chinese activity." Leaving the connection open, she clipped the phone to her collar and moved in. Coming to the edge of a mostly empty central area, she saw about thirty Chinese on the far side. Some, holding submachine guns, were acting as guards. Others were completing the loading of a truck. A group of about ten came into view, half-fighting, half-driving... Ratboy. Another Chinese joined this group from the main group, waited until Ratboy’s back was turned to him, then felled him with a spinning back kick to the head. The dirty... a closer look revealed this unsportsmanlike Chinese to be Melody’s scarfaced waiter from the Jade Dragon last night. The truck pulled away from the loading dock.

Melody spoke into her phone. "Powers two. Truck just pulling out onto Fourteenth Street, contents unknown, cannot intercept. Thirty Chinese remain, some with smg’s. Ratboy down. He may have information. Request backup. Am engaging."

Taking cover behind the nearest I-beam roof pillar, Melody drew her pistol, held it in a two-handed grip, and opened fire, starting with the guards equipped with submachine guns. They immediately returned her fire, as did the others, drawing small pistols. One by one the guards went down, fountains of blood gushing from their foreheads. Next it was scarface’s turn. Right between the eyes. The I-beam rang like a bell in a hailstorm, but it was more than thick enough to stop small arms fire. Melody wished it were a couple of inches wider.

In response to some command she did not hear, the remaining Chinese now began running directly toward her position. Working methodically but not slowly, Melody aimed, fired, aimed, fired. Bullets howled past her ear. Ten, then fifteen bodies hit the warehouse floor, and still they charged on. "It’s different when I have a gun too!" she shouted, still firing. Twenty, and still they came. "Just like I did last night." she thought. The clanging I-beam reminded her of the difference. Twenty-one, twenty-two... The remaining nine Chinese halted and began to drop their pistols. Melody couldn’t stop her squeeze in time, and number twenty-three fell, a brain shot like all the others.

"CEASE FIRE!" Krupp’s voice. Backup had arrived. "Leave a few for the interrogators!" Melody pointed her muzzle at the roof, took the opportunity to insert a fresh magazine. "Hell’s bells, Powers, are you still shooting .22 rimfire?" Krupp said as he came up from behind. Other Agents moved past them to secure the prisoners and the area.

"Got my 9mm right here, Chief." Melody drew another pistol, quite small for its caliber, showed it to Krupp. "But look there. 23 enemy dead. And look here. 23 empty shells. I couldn’t have done that with any other pistol. And I still have two rounds left in my first mag. With this other thing, I’d have had to reload three times; four, counting misses. They’d have overrun me. I’d be... dead. She gave Krupp her saddest puppydog eyes

Krupp grinned. "You’re wasting it on me, Melody. I’m not one to argue with success. It’s just that I’ve been tasked to bitch about non-standard sidearms every so often."

Just then Ratboy came by on a stretcher. Melody raised a hand to stop the two Agents. "Ratboy, can you hear me?" He tried to nod, winced in pain. Melody started to bend over him, winced herself, stopped. "How many trucks did the ice makers leave in?" Ratboy held up one finger, then pointed to his left forearm, on which a series of numerals and letters was written in ballpoint pen. "The truck’s license number?" He tried to nod again, winced again. "Thanks, Ratboy, you did really good! Go with these men, they’ll get you fixed up." Melody turned to Krupp, who was already writing in his notebook. He showed the number to her, and she nodded confirmation.

 "Great! They’re still all together. Come with me to the comm car. I’ll get the search refocussed, and Custer can get you fixed up."

"Like how?"

"Come now, Melody, don’t tell me you’ve been shot so many times you no longer notice?"

Melody looked blank for a second, then reached around, found her butt with only one hand, winced again. She brought the hand up, saw the small smear of blood. "Damn skinny roof pillars. I guess I was a bit preoccupied fighting off that human wave attack." They started walking toward the command car, parked just inside one of the warehouse’s entrances. It was a black SUV, like the one that had picked her up last night. "I don’t think I’ve met Custer. Is he or she new?"

A young blond male head appeared over the SUV’s roofline. "Agent Powers. A pleasure to see you again. Hope you haven’t been shot lately." It was scissors boy.

"Custer, is it? Just once so far today, thanks. Do you have a black Band-Aid?"

"Well, I’ll leave you two kids alone.", chuckled Krupp as he got into the front seat and reached for the comm console.

"Oh, I’m so sorry.", Custer said happily, "But I’m sure we can get you patched up. Where were you hit? Do you want to get in the car?

What Melody wanted were a female medic, a little privacy, a change of pants and panties, and a week of sick leave to heal. But there were eleven Chinese nukes in town, still in Chinese hands. She considered her unpleasant options. "I’d better stand for this, Custer. Left glute. Cool it with the scissors." Melody turned to face the side of the SUV, unloaded her belt. The two pistols and the phone were laid on the SUV’s roof. Some unbuckling and unfastening, then she exposed the wound and as little else as she could manage.

"Wow, is that the legendary Powers Special? Custer knelt, began swabbing the graze on Melody’s firm, shapely buttock with something that didn’t sting much.

"What?! Oh, the pistol? Yeah. It’s just a .22 Ruger with six-inch barrel and custom small grip modified to take a double column magazine. Oh, and selective fire, though I seldom use it."

Custer swabbed again, presumably with something else. "I’ve heard so much about that pistol and what you’ve done with it that it seems almost magical, like Excalibur or something. What’s really special about it?" He began applying the bandage with gentle fingers.

"It fits my hand, it points naturally for me, it has a long sight radius, it groups well, and it takes 25-round magazines. That’s about all you can ask from a pistol. After that, it depends on practice. You done?"

"Move the leg some and see if I’ve left enough slack."

Melody pulled her pants back up, moved her leg. "Feels okay. Thanks, Custer." She refastened the pants with her shirttail out, began replacing her guns and phone.

"My pleasure. I mean... "

Melody smirked. "I know what you mean, you lecher. Taking advantage of a poor injured girl that way."

Custer blushed furiously. Before Melody could think of a follow-up, Krupp opened the front door, turned to talk to them. "The truck has been spotted headed for the stadium. It’ll probably get there before we can intercept."

"That’s still good, right? Now that we know where it is, we send in all our forces, swarm them from all sides."

"Stadium management says the stadium is booked today by some Chinese group. They said they were practicing for some festival."

"Not so good. How many?" asked Melody.

"Stadium management doesn’t know. I’m waiting for a report from... " At a burst of static, Krupp turned back to the radios. "Go ahead. How many? Damn! All right, maintain surveillance." Turning back to Melody and Custer, he said, "That was Air one, over the stadium. He sees at least two thousand. We’ve only got a couple hundred Agents in the area. Get me some phone books while I report to HQ."

Melody said, "I’ll go for the phone books. I have to get my extra ammo out of my car. You take care of the next thing he needs." As she trudged off, she muttered, "This is gonna be a very long day."

Daria: This concludes our brief intermission. Thank you for your patience. The management wishes me to request that, at the conclusion of this reading, you please refrain from any noisy rallies, demonstrations, or other disturbances, and to remind you that there are no Chinese Embassies, Consulates, Trade or Cultural Missions in Lawndale, and that none of the Chinese restaurants in Lawndale are fronts for PRC espionage or sabotage. And now, back to "Blood Oath of Patriots."

Melody heard the roar of the .44 magnum, followed instantly by the smack of the hollowpoint striking flesh. But it wasn’t her flesh. She opened her eyes just as the head and shoulders of Ratboy slumped into her lap. Somehow, the Righteous Rodent had risen one last time. She saw the gaping hole in the center of Ratboy’s chest, and the deep crimson fluid that gushed from it. "Ratboy, you stopped a bullet for me!", she said softly. "I mean, another bullet." Ratboy smiled weakly.

How noble.", sneered Loong Wang, as he pulled back the hammer of the massive revolver. "But I aflaid you must stop next one youself, Melody!" He pulled the trigger. A loud click marked the hammer’s fall onto a spent primer.

"Here, let me help you with that.", cooed Melody as she struggled to rise. But the heavy body of Ratboy pinned her good leg. A stab of pain from her other leg told her it contained too much lead to do the job alone. "Ratboy, can you... " Just then Ratboy shuddered and his head rolled limply to the left, the rat nose of his mask gently caressing the spot where Melody’s navel had been until a year ago. "Oh, Ratboy, not now.", she sighed, as she began pushing his dead weight off her legs.

(A collective gasp goes up from the audience, notably from Kevin, fingers in his open mouth and eyes wide with shock.)

Realizing that Melody would soon regain her feet, and that she had only two more wounds than he did, Loong Wang began heading downstream, toward the distant glow of sunlight. "Wish could stay and kill you in single combat, Melody, but must catch plane.", he shouted over his shoulder. His fleeing feet splashed the blood high up the sides of the six-foot diameter storm sewer.

"I’ll find you, Loong Wang!" shouted Melody. "There’s no hideout secret enough, no fortress strong enough to save you from Melody Powers! I swear it by the blood of these thousand patriots, by my own blood, and by the blood of Ratboy!"

Kevin: Awww-w-w-w, ha ha haaaah! Ohhhh, NO-O-O-ooo-ohh!! (runs out of the coffeehouse into the night, crying inconsolably)

Brittany: Kevvie, wait! It’s just a story! (runs out of the coffeehouse after Kevin)

Melody looked around her at the storm sewer junction room and the bodies of the Chinese commandos and Navy SEALs it now contained, as she freed her good leg from beneath Ratboy’s body. Twelve steel ladder rungs set in the concrete wall led up to an open manhole, through which came sunlight and a trickle of blood. Above was the playing field of the stadium, piled with the bodies of 217 Agency men and women, 122 Agency academy students, now never to throw their hats in the air, 163 Rangers, and 498 members of the 101^st Airborne, amidst the bodies of at least three times that number of Red China’s finest, and the eleven nuclear devices that were to have been hidden somewhere in the western United states. She could attempt to climb the ladder and pick her way through or over the four thousand corpses, or she could hobble or crawl about two blocks down the river of blood, the way Loong Wang had gone. Melody Powers winced as she stood up and limped to the ladder. Maybe there were some survivors up above.

Daria: To be continued. (lowers the sheaf of papers to her side and looks out at the audience. There is dead silence for not quite two seconds, followed by wild applause as the coffeehouse’s patrons surge to their feet. The Mona Lisa smile appears on Daria’s lips. She slowly bows from the waist.)

TO BE CONTINUED

Well, this concludes my third Daria fanfic. If you made it this far, please take a few minutes to drop me an email and tell me what you think, or at least that you read it. That’s all the pay we poor fanfic authors get, you know. Do you want to read the sequel? Want to find out if Ratboy is really dead, and why Melody let Loong Wang get away? Is Daria finished with Kevin? And what about the big game against the Oakwood Taproots? And is there, or was there, a real Melody Powers? The plot really gets kinky, or might, if I get sufficient encouragement to write it, in BLOOD OATH OF PATRIOTS EPISODE II, which might possibly be titled THE CITADEL OF LOU MANCHU.

Mr. O’Neill a communist? I was halfway through typing that paragraph before I realized where Daria was going. But when you think about it, it seems obvious, even without having seen The Lawndale File.

Cobwebs to stop bleeding: This is legit folk medicine and it does work. I’ve used it, but not on a bullet wound yet.

Disclaimer

 "Daria" and all related characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International, inc. The author does not claim copyright to these characters or to anything else in the "Daria" milieu; he does, however, claim copyright to all those parts of this work of fiction which are original to him and not to MTV or to other fanfic authors. This fanfic may be freely copied and distributed provided its contents remain unchanged, provided the author's name and email address are included, and provided that the distributor does not use it for monetary profit. (as if.)

  Galen Hardesty [gehardesty@yahoo.com]