It was all so next level. The feeling, y'know? Exhilarating but also something indescribable. Intense but with a weighted feeling hanging low in one’s stomach in anticipation of something big, something so unreal, perhaps dreaded even. Sure, the fear of the unknown was great but curiosity pushes me on. All my life had been pulling me closer to a moment, a meeting, one I never could believe would actually arrive. A meeting between myself and certain uncertainty.

Sure, last I remember I was stepping down the corridor, my heart fluttering, blood running, my chest hot, hands cold. And, suddenly, my mind wanders, my brain furiously racing a hundred thoughts per second until before I even knew it, there in front of me is this enormous thing, a mountain of muscle with long coarse fur, like a grizzly's. I almost dare not look forward but when I do, I shutter and gasp, disbelief overwhelming the senses. I utter:

"Tor’Rae Kong!"

You almost wouldn't know by first glance that you were staring at a living creature, anything real, more like a dark hill of some sort. But then there was the sound like giant gentle breathing and a smell.

My God! It smells of death.

I look onward towards the captive giant. He was maybe thirty, forty feet by any good guess, but it wasn't as if I could tell from my vantage point. It looked as though it could run on all fours but also bipedal. Its colossal feet were grayish and swollen-looking but human in suggestion. From a distance its fur appeared as a solid coat, but up close, the variations were crystal; contrasting flicks of chestnut, blonde, black and reddish hairs grew in every direction. Its legs were like giant sequoias, and its hips appeared extremely broad even for a creature so formed. The arms were unreal and massive, looking about as long as the legs. You could definitely distinguish the musculature of the animal, especially the huge bulges affixed to shoulders of immeasurable proportion.

But what stuck me most was its face. It was hominid, sure enough, with one heavy brow ridge lacking any discernible midpoint. On the whole, the face had an asymmetry about it. It was difficult to say whether this was due to decades of combat or as nature intended, excepting for its right ear looking a bit like boxer's cauliflower. The left eye was noticeably larger than the right with eyelids drooping and resting heavily on its rotund cheeks; skin was wrinkled, worn by age and the elements. The slope of its nose was longer than one might expect with clear ridges tapering down to large nostrils. Its jaw was square with a tooth jutting out just over the bottom lip. The latter appeared to have a large gash in it.

Strangest of all was its expression, it seemed to have a sadness about it. A solemnness, almost human.

The beast was connected to transparent tubes affixed to machines that appeared to keep it alive or in perpetual a state of sedation. We appeared to be underground in a cavern filled with crates marked: "Government Issue." There were other strange things too. Science equipment, transformers, industrial fans, large glass jars, as big as carboys, containing what appear to be giant animal parts, and something in tanks resembling, ah yes, vines.

The Colonel looks on but remains silent. As for the guard, a certain Private Barwood, well, he did not seem at all phased. Though weird, perhaps, the beast had become to him as familiar an everyday sight as a German Shepherd. And here I was in the middle of it all, a token on some grand chess board upon which titans play.

Nobody said a word but kept quite still, perhaps, in reverence to the primal god lying before us. But the longer I stood there the more everything came into focus.

I could see the controls laid out in front of me. Admittedly, the machinery was quite elaborate but unmistakably labeled and very nearly idiot-proof. I could see the power switches, the one, the two and the three.

I look up. I see the beast still sleeping unaware.

It would be quick, painless, y'know? A peaceful death. And, still, I hesitate. And why?

Why should I? The government undoubtedly wanted to make a weapon out of it, excuse me, outta him and unleash him onto some enemy state. And here I was. There I stood. The press of a single button, or two, or three, could spare the lives of untold hundreds to come.

And yet, I take another glance at the untamable colossus before me. And then, I turn to the Colonel. He turns to me. He understood.

"Well, nuts," says the Colonel.

I shoot him a look, an expression rather, an expression of: "What now?"

But before we could plan our next steps, you could tell Private Barwood was getting on edge. He began to suspect something was up, about to happen. He knew he needed to do something quickly, to react. He began reaching down to his sidearm.

I shout at the Colonel, as Barwood raises his weapon, takes aim, and— removes the magazine.

"Why did he just remove the bullets?" I utter in disbelief.

"Because he doesn't need them. Isn't that right?" says the Colonel to my confusion.

Barwood nods dropping his firearm.

"Y'know, I thought you looked familiar. It is you, but not just you, the same you from decades ago, back when I worked here, you haven't aged a day."

"Perceptive of you Colonel."

I was flabbergasted, perplex to be sure. I was about to interject but Barwood appeared to anticipate the question.

"Hello Ms. Roslan, or should I say Ms. Denham, or, stop me if you've heard this one, Princess—Princess Alkhamora!"

"Princess," I pause at the word and then remember what Yuliana had said about "ancient immortal kings."

And then it dawned on me. His face! Something about it was familiar to me too.

My apartment! My God! Of course! What good were bullets to it? Or against it? After all, it had taken a bullet before.

"So you've traded one facade for another. So who are you really? Sure as hell no Soviet agent! A ryl, maybe? You're one of them too?" I reply.

"It's nice to see you again too. But that or something much worse, I won't bore you with details," says Barwood as he grins, "Better still, why don't I show you?"

There I stand watching. In less than a couple of seconds Barwood's face begins to contort. In full view, his jaw pops and brow lowers as his forehead extend towards the ceiling. His eyes fade from brown to an almost neon green, his fingers become like daggers, his legs extend, his body bristles with wiry hair as he gives out a piercing scream.

Within a minute, its human guise fades and remaining stands some tall grotesque, monstrous form in its stead. The stretching of skin, the reshaping of muscles, the popping of joints, all too audible and surreal.

"Princess Alkhamora!" screams the creature in a hideous distorted voice.

I shake but stand my ground. "Alkhamora," there was that name again. I turned to the Colonel and before I could muster the courage to speak, he nods, says, "Yes, now, now it's pertinent."

"The royal family among the high order of the Keepers of Kong."

Strange, for a second, I forget the specter before me, and in the middle of it all, I chuckle a little. See, I always thought it was grandad that went to find Kong, but maybe it was Kong that went to find him.

"Alkhamora!" bellows the beast snapping me back to reality. It continues, "You have had an almost perfect hero's journey, but it all ends here, now. Your hour has come. Destiny has decreed it so!"

And then I do something I will not likely forget.

"You're not scary," I reply stomping my foot, in a move that startles the beast, the Colonel, and, honestly, myself, "And you're not about to kill me."

I continue, "I don't know if you watch too many movies, maybe not, but I do, and the story never ends here. This is your big reveal. Big, scary monster, right? Okay, big scary monster, I got a question for you."

"I do not answer to you!" barks the creature.

"Not to me, no. But to fate, right? Correct? Rlys, you guys see fate or whatever. But, seriously, fate's not everything, is it? Was it fate that brought me here? Maybe. But is it fate that makes my bed every morning, I think not."

"Child! You have no idea what you are,—" the creature boasts as it draws a long finger nail against my cheek leaving a discernible scratch, my blood dripping from its fingernails as it pulls back.

Expressionless, I wipe the blood from my check and fling it at its feet.

"Second point," I interrupt, making even the Colonel visibly nervous, "What even about fate, huh? Where and when I might be, like do you get dream-like visions accompanied by hot flashes, or is it every line of every song on a cassette recording? See, plot holes might pass in movies, but I bet they don't work out great in real life."

"What is the meaning of this?!" shouts the creature growing ever the more agitated by the second.

"The meaning is you don't see everything, not the whole future, just the highlights. After all, you're not Santa Claus, and make a hella less attractive goblin king, for sure. Plus, Grendel, even if you could see all, hear all, whatever. You don't exactly strike me as an active listener. And in any relationship that's really important."

I pause then take a deep breath before continuing.

"All above aside, there's still the one thing you're forgetting."

The beast grins a crooked, slimy smile and says, "Pray tell?"

"Fate," I add, meeting his smile with my own, "If anything else, fate is only what is to come, and if you don't check your rear-view once every while, well, you're bound to have an accident."

I turn and say, "Isn't that right fellas?"

Just then all the crates marked G.I. spring open as soldiers pour forth in all directions. Weapons drawn, they rapidly encircle the creature.

"What is this!?" screams the enraged creature.

"Not fate," replies the Colonel, "Planning, coordination, and the right degree of—"

"Pertinence," I add.

"Yup, just regular good ol' fashioned strategy. No matter of luck, not on the whim of chance. Conceived by mortal minds determined solely by their own mortal action. And, most important of all, not delegated by fate, and out of your friggin' jurisdiction, you butt-ugly son 'itch," continues the Colonel.

"In short," I finish, "Maybe, while you were preoccupied about the future, seeing yourself standing over me in a room full of boxes and all, you should have really considered what was being loaded into those boxes beforehand."

"Bah! You cannot outwit me, princess! I will tear you all apart. Destroy your cities, bring them under fire!" exclaims the beast.

"You heard 'em, boys, " I add, "He said—"

"FIRE!" yells the Colonel.

No sooner did the Colonel give the command than a volley of bullets besieged the writhing creature. The beast screams in agony, as rounds pierce into the flesh of its head, back, legs, abdomen, the full length of its body from all directions.

Magazine after magazine, round after round, shot after shot is unloaded into the creature. It stumbles, fingers blown clean off, legs shot-up, head barely hanging on, it slumps. After three minutes and one final yell, it falls lifeless onto the blood-stained floor.

It was dead. The thing was dead.

Was being the keyword.







So, you probably have some questions.

Is that how it all ends? Where was Yuliana? Who fired the shot on the balcony? Who left the note about the bomb? How about Orogog? Do we seriously not get to see any giant monster stomp downtown Detroit?!

Just hold tight, I promise I'll answer all your questions. When y'know, the time seems— pertinent.

But, following the encounter, we were a bit shaken but mostly unharmed. "The Barwood Beast," whatever it was, was barely recognizable. Surrounding damage was significant; however, excepting for a shot ricocheting and hitting a private in the calf muscle, there was no casualties to report.

Oh and the beast, the other one, the big, hairy fella, caught a few stray bullets, which resulted in some more "ketchup" added into the mix, which, along with Barwood's remains and a couple of lab experiments, all collected in a putrid pool along the floor. A couple of privates with entrenching tools and a bathtub were "volun-told" in the task of scooping up the mess before shipping it off for laboratory study in Detroit.

Of course, bullets are no more formidable than a bunch of bad splinters relative to the size of any primus kong, who otherwise made it out unscathed.

What followed next were briefings. Lots and lots of briefings. "Nondisclosure," "national security," "top secret," "tell no one," blasé blah blah blah. And, well, honestly, I can really see why movies skip all that.

But yes, we really did sneak on post. The Colonel felt that part of the plan needed to seem real. Assuring me that the commanding officer would "get over it" in time.

Spoiler, he didn't.

As for Barwood, Yuliana tipped us off. The Colonel pulled some strings and, well, the rest just kind of fell into place. Yuliana skipped out before the big shebang; haven't heard from her since.

But that was like two months ago. And I'm over it, I'm over the whole thing, Kong, Ryls, this whole princess biz, I'm done, throwin' in the towel, wash my hands, the end, finito. Not the least of which, I'm done with "fate."

I'll be the only one to make my decisions from now on.

And then like clock work on what rest the hands of destiny there comes a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" I holler while straightening my towel, halfway out of the shower.

"Delivery, Italian," shouts the voice behind the door.

"Sorry, think you got the wrong apartment, bub. What's the name."

"Order's for a Ms.—‘Kong,’" mutters a voice directly behind me.

My hearts pounces as I nearly loose my footing and very nearly my towel. I think to myself:

"I really hate it when she does that."

"Yuliana!" I holler.

"Awww, you remembered, so how are we?" replies Yuliana rather innocently.

"Excuse me! Seriously?! You expect a warm welcome, like really? You must be joking. You're kidding, right? After ditching me like that? Like, you tell me I'm some sort of monarch and then—and then pile the whole fate of the world atop of all that and then you go, what? Like, poof! You must have some really big ego."

"And yet, still smaller than your usual choice of hairstyle," Yuiliana smirks, "And A: Ryls don't go ‘poof.’ And B: who says I ever left?"

My jaw drops, I retort, "Wait, wait, you're, you are the one whose been using my shampoo!"

"Listen roomie, we can sort out our tangles, later," muses Yuliana, "But you must know by now, I wouldn't just show up for no good reason."

"Oh no, you would, you definitely would, to torment, me, is that right? But I'm guessing this is not one of those occasions? So out with it, let's have it, what's on fire?"

"Really, no time for girl talk? Well, that's disappointing, I really could have used—"

"Yuliana!" I interrupt.

"Oh all right, it's like this, y'see sometimes credits don't always roll at the ninety-minute mark, sometimes there's loose ends that need tying, incidentally..."

"Oh no! No, no, no, no, NO! I'm not, I'm done, not gonna happen," I exclaim turning my back, speed walking in the direction of my table where rests my morning coffee.

"As I was saying," declares Yuliana, suddenly, inexplicably, now in front of me, sitting at my table with her hands on my cup of joe, quietly sipping, "The thing that you helped bring to its end, I've recently been informed, isn't quite so neatly ended, I'm afraid."

"This is really anticlimactic, y'know?" I chirp.

"Sorry, is my exposition boring you? Perhaps, I should take some acting classes then?"

I utter a drawn-out sigh to Yuliana's frustration.

"Now, don't you sound exasperated with me," Yuliana snaps, "Listen, let's take a little trip. I have something to show you."

"A trip? A trip where?," I reply.

"A lab—a lab downtown," Yuliana whispers.





AUGUST 27, 1988 — After a bad cab experience and a couple stops on Detroit's own "People Mover," Yuliana and I arrived a block or two down from the spot. Now, you think I would want to stay out of it, and you wouldn't be wrong. But, the whole sight at the complex, y'know, seeing him there, so helpless, so powerless, really rattled everything I thought I knew about Kong. I was invested in his story and in mine. And I wasn't putting the book down. No, not now, not when I was so close to the final chapter.

But intuition told me that Yuliana and I weren't the only avid readers. We were being followed, rather sloppily might I add, and I didn't intend on starting a book club.

I hold close to Yuliana and whisper, "Who are they? Not the KGB."

"No, not soviets, not government infiltrators, not spies. Something far worse," Yuliana replies.

"What?"

I ponder.

"A cult," Yuliana responds rather ominously, the delivery of the word sending to me a cold shiver.

"And we, well," Yuliana adds, "We, my inquisitive friend, are the ones who clipped their god's wings."

My heart, it begins to sprint a bit.

But I reassure, myself, and add, "Perhaps, you should take up acting, but, in the meantime, how do we find an escape?"

"I'll leave the strategizing to you."

I look forward a bit. Not particularly helpful. But then up a-ways, and a bit to the left, I spy a fire escape.

A bit literal for an escape, fer sher, but I figure this is only stage five on the hero's journey, so what the hell, y'know?

Yuliana and I push through the crowded street while Tweedledee and Tweedledum follow not far behind. Still, we press on.

All the time, thinking to myself, "I wish the Colonel were here."

We begin to pick up the pace as we ascend the metal stairway. Yuliana follows close behind as we make our way passed hanging laundry and cigarette-smoke tinged windows. We managed to put some distance between us and are trackers; however, despite their shabby and un-gym-wise appearance they prove lighter on their feet than one might expect.

So, we managed to scale round 'bouts five flights of stairs before they start making gains. I try to maintain my composure while I'm sweating on the inside. And I know what your thinking. Why?! Why in a thousand years would I lead two would-be assailants up four flights of stairs with no obvious means to make good my escape?

Well, you see the farther one comes, the father one has to fall. And if I've put enough distance between here and there, timed it well, and spilled enough nail polish and spray paint cans along the fourth story—

WELL, here comes the real don't-try-this-at-home part.

I look down from the sixth story. There they are rounding third base about to steal home. I go up for the pitch, hurl a patented downward spiral kerosene-soaked fireball à la Mario Brothers down home. And, on yes, I give a hardy "Yoo-hoo!"

They look up.

It's going, going— and assailant one is gone!

The unmistakable smell of highly flammable nail polish permeates the air followed by the sound of four aerosol cans simultaneously cooking off into all different directions as we make it to a roof-top garden, both assailants presumed knocked on their rears.

As before, a good military strategist always anticipates.

But then, seconds from celebrating, comes the sound of creaking hinges. Behind door number one, comes assailant number two, who must've crashed through a window.

Obviously, the nail polish isn't the only thing fuming. He slowly staggers towards us George-A.-Romero-style reaches down to his pocket drawing a pistol. He pulls it up, fingers the trigger, and his feet strike a boxer's stance right on top of a—geranium.

Yuliana's eyes narrow, and forehead pulses.

"D-D-DID YOU!" she stammers, "Just step on a flower?!"

The assailant's brow raises in confusion.

"You did! YOU DID! YOU JUST STEPPED ON AN [F-expletive]-ing FLOWER!" Yuliana screams a hellish shriek as she outstretches her hand. A long vine-like thorny whip juts out the opposite side of her palm as if feed from some unknown source. The appendage-like rope tears the skin as it smacks the pistol out of the assailant's hand sending it sliding 'cross the roof.

The rage-fueled assailant lunges for Yuliana, her tripping him up with the same barbed weapon smashing him into some ceramic pots. He regains his footing once more before I strike him down with a grub hoe, seemingly K.O.ing him.

Yuliana and I stand there a minute, we turn gazing at the sun beams just over the Detroit skyline. Our silence is broken by the almost simultaneously burst of laughter from the both of us.

We did it. I give a sigh of relief.

A relief broken by a sound of two shots being fired.

I spin around. I'm fine. Yuliana's fine.

Then I notice, assailant number two, face down in a pool of his own blood. Motionless, but in his clasped hands he had taken hold of a sharp ceramnic shard, no doubt, in a last ditch attempt to slit our throats.

Confusion gives way to another feeling as a figure emerges from behind a makeshift shed. Weapon lowered, he walks calmly towards us, silhouetted against the midday sun behind him, closer and closer until the unmistakable countenance of a man in his eighties is made plain.

"Well," muses Yuliana, "Looks like your guardian angel has waltz out of the shadows."

"Hello Arlena," chimes a familiar voice.

"Mr. Ch'ien!" I declare in a tone of gratitude.

"It was you," I continue, "Who shot Barwood on the balcony, and again, the note about the bomb, it was all you!"

"I apologize for the subterfuge, but I was too close to it all, it would have been dangerous for them to perceive me as a threat. Thought I just, bide my time, check-in to an old folk's home, golf, peel potatoes, whatever, play the clueless-old-man-card, until the time was right."

"And," I inquire, "Is the time right?" Mr. Ch'ien sighs, "Arlena, you might want to get to that lab downtown."





Mr. Ch'ien takes his leave whilst Yuliana and I double-time downtown. It is almost sunset when I look in the direction Yuliana indicates. Expecting to see some high security complex, I view rather a simple tan-bricked, one story building. In form, it resembled something more akin to a dialysis center than anything extraordinary.

But regardless, Yuliana and I stroll right up, her tapping on the door as a surprised yet unimposing middle-aged man in bifocals approaches.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this facility is appointment only," the man replies.

"Oh, well, pardon me," Yuliana says, "But we are by way of special delegation. You see her over there," gesturing over to me.

"Why, that's Princess Alkhamora, of the high order of the Keepers of Kong."

I blush, a bit, from embarrassment.

"Oh, I see, well, you’ll want the loonie bin, miss, big white brick building, three blocks down on your right, can't miss it, good bye."

He slams the door. Albeit, however, to find himself on the other side of it.

Startled, I look about me and find myself inside the buidling staring on the opposite side of the glass door where I just stood. An irate gentleman angrily banging on the glass, shouting muffled profanity and threatening to call the police. Evidently, a victim of one of Yuliana's magic tricks.

Regardless, me and Yuliana hang a right at the next hallway. A few feet in front of me is a door with a sign reading:



"Vague" was the term that immediately came to my mind, and yet somehow still pretentious.

Naturally, I worry a bit about security, but Yuliana seems pretty nonchalant about the whole deal. Yuliana gently presses the door open revealing a sight not fit for one five minutes post breakfast.

Behind about six inches of safety glass appeared a huge glob looking like aged roadkill or something a cat might vomit up. It would slowly ooz about with a rolling motion, fur and bones protruding, but not by any galvanic action but with the intentions of something animate, something alive. Like a giant grotesque amoeba or elsewise something from a b-movie. It methodically moved from one side of the enclosure to the other appearing as if it was studying us. And yet stranger still, I could tell it seems interested, interested in Yuliana.

"Sight for a sore eye ain't it? Blasted things 'bout a whole ten feet bigger than it was not an hour ago," resounds a familiar voice.

"Colonel?" I exclaim.

"Well, it ain't your dear old Aunt Sally," replies the Colonel, "Hello Arlena, Yuliana. Not suprised to see you here."

"You didn't call for us?" I inquire.

"Hell no, silent alarm went off, I was the only one in firin' range with the clearance to even enter this building," the Colonel replies, "Fella outside was pretty startled, says, two young ladies waltz right up in here unarmed. Given that he didn't care to specify how he ended up outside, figure it must've been you two."

"So you're not retired?"

"More like inactive. I pop in when needed."

"And this Spear thing or whatever? This is what you've been working under all these years?"

"Spear Directorate, Air Force Office of Special Investigations, though it does move from department to department— Think of us like big bug collectors. Everything from Kong to Orogog to the Barwood Beast, each just another part of an ever expanding collection over the past few decades. Though, admittedly, not all of 'em are quite this cute."

"But I still don't understand what I'm looking at, I mean what is?" I gasp and realize, "The thing, the guard, Barwood, that's him?!"

"More like that's it, I would say," says the Colonel.

It was all starting to come together. Like the squares on a slide puzzle, changing and shifting until the picture comes together at last.

"And Yuliana?" I ask.

"Yes," replies Yuliana.

"Yuliana, you know who he was? You know everything. You've always known, haven't you?"

Yuliana sighs, "My father."

I should've been suprised but somehow I can't say that I was. Instead I ask, "He was a ryl?"

"Oh heavens, no. The ryls found me, something else got him."

"Something else?"

Yuliana nods, "Darkness. Utter darkness. Until no trace of him remained."

Then it hit me.

The blood. Its blood. His blood. Geez! My blood! Those blasted vines. Shot to bits. And all falling onto the floor in one giant glob.

The death of one monster had created another!

It was never about the other beast, the foresaken Kong. It was about this "thing." This Barwood Beast, this undying, ever-growing threat to creation, presently reduced to formless goo before me.

There was only one question left to be answered.

"Then why?" I ask, "You could've done this all yourself? Why on earth did you need me?"

Yuliana smiles, "I was human once. And yet, I am still constantly suprised by how much you all don't see. You are the bloodline descendant of the Keepers of Kong. I don't need you. Right now, you need you, as does the humanity. And the world, well, the world needs you both."

I turn to the Colonel, "What is she talking about?" The Colonel slumps down, places his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, says, "Darlin', only you can wake the big fella up."

Just then I felt an ire inside me growing, buring white-hot.

"WHAT!? I came to kill it?! What side are you guys on? Are you both outside of your minds? Even if I could, which I wouldn't, I still won't. Don't you know? What he's capable of? Like seriously..."

Yuliana interupts, "Arlena, the thing here is growing ten feet by the hour. Tonight, at the third full moon since it's death, it will take form. And by that time no cell in heaven or earth is going to hold it," Yuliana pauses, says, "And speaking from experience, you don't want to know what it's capable of."

I was shaking. I would've tried to hold it in, but it wouldn't've made it any less obvious. I don't know how. But I muster what courage I have and say simply:

"How?"



We're all somebody, y'know? It is just so few of us actually get to know who we are? Movies make it seem glamorous that one single person is the key to something big, earth shattering. But, in light of recent events, I have to tell you, it really kinda sucks.

Here I am. Being led aboard a ship docked in Detroit Harbor. And, oh, how I wonder what's inside.

"That's an awful lot of baggage," I utter standing in front of the sleeping giant stretch out on a large, raised platform concealed within a vessel, I'd surmise, contrived only for this expressed purpose.

"Does she usually act this cute?" chimes a soldier behind a control panel.

"When she wants to," sounds the Colonel.

I paid them no bother. But if it were up to me, I would've chosen a more opportune spot to resurrect a giant primate than afront a major metropolitan area. But, I suppouse if it made sense, the military just wouldn't be into it.

"So you got it?" asks Yuliana.

I nod. We needn't go over the motions again. Best just to get it over and done with. Suddenly, a not so subtle alarm sounds and non-essential crew proceed to evacuate the vessel.

I wasn't too worried about Barwood's cult either. Yuliana assured me that they couldn't control the big guy like Orogog, and she had already broken the spell on the latter.

So, it was agreed. Yuliana would take Orogog. And I the Unconquerable Kong.

What do I mean?

Well, I suppouse, every well trained animal needs a handler.

I am his.









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