The sun rose. I knew I could not stay here. The dawn would bring commuters, and any one of them might notice a stranger lying low in a parking garage while everyone else was in their classes or at home, only to relay this information to a certain Officer later on. No, I definitely had to go. And dawn was the best possible time.
It was a new day.
I slowly drew the cool, damp air into my lungs. It felt right. Setting my jaw, I climbed inside my car and turned over the engine.
My plan was this: I would drive off campus and park my car in the most discreet, out-of-the-way spot I could find. Then, I would take an extremely roundabout route to my class, avoiding my own home and any major traffic routes. Finally, I lie low until my class begins. If I didn’t check in with my class today, it would count as my second absence and I would fail the course. I couldn’t go to the police for fear they would detain me past the class or even press charges against me (or, you know, exact some sort of vengeance). The University’s long history of siding with the authorities on manners such as this was common knowledge and it could very well end up that my degree gets caught in the cross-fire. No, far better that I attend class today and then work this all out over the weekend.
The Governor had silently risen and was brushing her teeth. Noticing my car pulling past, she rinsed her mouth with a bottle of Kroger water and gave me a silent nod. I had told her of my exploits and she knew what was at stake.
What would tomorrow hold? I had no idea as I inserted my parking ticket into the automated machine and payed the monetary value of my last pay-check for the over-night stay. What I did know was this: I had a plan. It was a good plan. Something felt right about today. Like the world was new; a blank canvas for painting and I could make of it whatever I wished.
I pulled onto the street and was immediately T-boned by a passing bus.
I swatted the fireman’s hand away as he reached to pat me on the shoulder.
“I didn’t do anything!” came the shriek from my mouth.
“I know that, don’t worry. My name is Thomas,” said the burly hero with caring eyes, “I’m just here to make sure you’re ok.”
“How’s my car?” said a trembling, warbling, wavering voice that I realized, after review, came from my mouth.
“I’m so sorry. It’s totaled. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters right now is that you’re ok.”
“Car totaled. Car totaled…” I mumbled to myself several times, completely composed and collected.
Trying to make small talk, the firefighter chuckled and made a joke:
“You might have to redo your hair before the days starts though.”
“I slept in the car.” came my mumbled, toneless reply.
“You what?”
“With the colony. I slept with the colony last night. It was nice.”
“Uhhh why?”
“Because I am being hunted. Hunted like a fox.”
He balked a bit.
“Are foxes hunted?”
“What?”
“Do people hunt foxes?” he repeated.
“….why would you even ask that?” I cleverly retorted with perfect, eloquent coherence.
“…..right. Yeah, I’m going to go take care of some paperwork. You stay here and just give a shout if you need anything.”
I signaled my understanding by developing a slight facial tick and scratching vigorously at my kneecap. He understood and backed away.
“Poor kid,” he said to another firemen over by the truck, “really shaken up.”
“Yeah, sure. You know what I don’t get though?”
“What?”
“Where’s the weed, you know? How’d he set off the fire-alarm without any weed?”
“….Ross, you realize we reported to a car accident right? Not a fire alarm.”
“Oh, sure, sure, that’s what they’ll tell you because they don’t wanna get written up, but has anyone bothered to check this kid’s pockets?”
“Ross, there’s the kid’s car right over there – totaled. A hit-and-run. The bus was going the wrong way on a one-way, hit someone, and then drove off. No drugs.”
“…bus driver was on drugs.”
“You don’t know that.”
“WHY WOULDN’T HE BE?! IT SEEMS LIKE THAT’S MY LIFE NOW!” At this point, Fireman Ross began wandering away, mumbling to himself: “I wanted to save lives, I spend half my life checking fire-alarms, damn kids can’t stop getting high -” at which point the unsatisfied firefighter pushed over the bagel-table (which a kind civil servant named Rodrigo had set up).
“This is out of control,” Murmured Thomas to himself, “I’m going to need some help.”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover angrily pushed open the double doors and stormed over to his desk. He was fuming with rage at his own inability to track down the perp. Preoccupied with this shortcoming, he failed to notice the uncomfortable silence that had quickly fallen over the bullpen, The Force’s conspicuous effort to avoid eye-contact, and Corporal Kirby’s sharp new tie.
Later that night, Corporal Kirby would stumble into his bedroom and rip off the bright neon tie through tears, throwing it onto his bed and sobbing “You were supposed to make them notice me! All I want is a friend! A FRIEND!”
Just then, The Chief walked in.
“Hoover! My office! NOW!” he barked, every syllable amplified by the angry vibrations of his unquestionably masculine mustache.
With a long groan, Sergeant Augustus Hoover stood up and began walking out. One guy from the back went, “Oooooo, you’re in troooooubleeeee…..” It was actually that same guy who, just yesterday, reminded Hoover of his wife’s death and, for this most recent offense, he was met with the same punishment – eye rolls and slaps across the back of the head. His name was Collin and nobody really liked him, but he was the only guy who could fix the coffee-maker, and so he was tolerated. Every office has a Collin.
Later that night, Corporal Collin would stumble into his bedroom and rip off his plain black tie through tears, throwing it onto the bed and sobbing, “Nobody gets my humor! All I want is a friend! A FRIEND! Maybe if I joined a comedy magazine….”
“Sit down, Hoover,” The Chief said calmly once Sergeant Augustus Hoover had entered his office. Hoover did so and The Chief leaned over his desk, making uninterrupted eye-contact with the decorated officer.
“This has gone too far,” The Chief began. “This was supposed to be a simple misdemeanor citation, but under your watch it’s become a felony level manhunt with $9,000 in damages, 3 casualties in the emergency room, and a brand new case for Internal Affairs to look over. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Hoover!”
“Wait, Chief!” Hoover begged, “I’m sorry the case got so out of hand! I promise, starting now, I will double down my efforts to end this wild goose chance by whatever means necessary! I’ll go down to the armory -”
“No, Hoover, you’re off the case. My word is final.”
“But….”
“No talking back, Sergeant. You’re dismissed.”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover began pressing his lips tightly together. His eyes began to glisten.
“I’ll have none of your crocodile tears, Hoover.”
“That’s alright, Chief. You’re right,” Sergeant Augustus Hoover sputtered out between catches in his breath. He began standing up, “You should give the case to – *hic* – someone more qualified, who’s able to – *hic* – take revenge on my wife’s killer without wasting so much time.” At this point Sergeant Hoover was leaning up against The Chief’s door, doing everything in his power to hold himself together. “I mean – *small sob* – it’s not like I’m doing any good – *large sob* -, I couldn’t even…I couldn’t…I…”
The decorated officer fell to the floor, back against the wall, crying his eyes out and sobbing unashamedly. The Chief sighed and made his way over to the crumpled figure.
“Come on, Hoover, pull yourself together! I hate to see you like this!”
“I – I just miss – I just miss her so much, Chief. I miss her so muuuuuuch!!!” (That last much has so many u’s because, as is often the case when attempting to communicate ideas through tears, the last word of any phrase might become the unrecognizable pivot between coherent thought and animalistic moans).
“Cheer up, now! Tell me: Which of my officers managed to ticket 25 jaywalkers in a single day – the force record?”
Now sniffling, Sergeant Augustus Hoover replied, “Me.”
“And who managed to issue warnings to more illegally smoking students than any Officer in police history?”
Drying his eyes, Sergeant Augustus Hoover replied, “Me.”
“And who is the cutest, smartest, most talented Officer I’ve ever met?”
Blushing, Sergeant Augustus Hoover replied, “Me.”
The Chief tussled his Officer’s hair. “That’s right!” he said. “Now, what do you say we make a deal. I’ll let you keep this case if you can promise me it will be finished by tonight. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Good.”
“Can I get some help from the other officers?”
“Now what kind of Chief would I be if I didn’t encourage teamwork! I’ll do the paperwork right now. Corporal Kirby!”
Corporal Kirby entered. “Yes, Chief?”
“Could I get three RK-45 forms right away?”
“Of course, Chief.”
“….as soon as possible.”
“Right, Chief.”
“……….is there something you want to say, Kirby? You can go at any time. And why are you standing with your chest all puffed out like that?”
“Uhh….no, Chief, nothing I want to say.”
“Good. Now go get those forms! And stop standing like an idiot! Police Officers should stand like they’ve got a pair!”
“….yes, Chief.”
Thomas was having a far from routine morning: the victim of this hit and run was refusing to report the accident.
“No, no, absolutely not, I don’t need to press charges, I think everyone deserves a second chance! I’ll just be on my way and we’ll never have to worry about getting the police involved.”
“Listen, if you’ve done something wrong or there’s something illegal in your car, don’t worry!” Thomas consoled, “The Cops are extremely understanding towards the victim of crimes such as this – they’ll probably just confiscate it and be on their way! The most important thing is keeping dangerous drivers off the streets.”
“Buddy, I’ve been through more than you know. Just trust me. Going to the police will do me no good.”
“What if I bring the police to you? I have an Uncle who’s a Cop – one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. I could have him stop by, ask you a few questions, and be on his way.”
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“Just a few minutes, he works right here on campus.”
“And after that I can go?”
“I promise,” said Thomas, crossing his heart.
“Fine. But make it fast. As fast as you can!”
“Done.”
Thomas stepped away from the victim and dialed a number into his cell phone. The early morning haze was just beginning to lift, and Thomas felt very good about the rest of his day. Things were turning up.
His uncle answered the phone.
“Hey, Tommy! How’s my favorite nephew?”
“Great, Uncle Augustus! How are you?”
“Oh, me? Fine, fine, just fine.” Thomas’s Uncle’s voice then became muffled as if he was shouting away from the receiver,
“Hey! Lenny! Leave the semi-automatic, bring the Oozy! Grenades? Really? On campus? Well, I guess. Why not, right? Haha!” before returning, “Sorry, Tommy, buddy, police business. So what’s up?”
“I’m at the Intersection of Neil and Tuttle with the victim of a hit-and-run who’s pretty shaken up and doesn’t want to go to the police. Do you think you could swing by and do your thing?”
“What a coincidence! That’s the same place where, less than 12 hours ago, my last and only chance at vengeance eluded my grasp and sent me into an evening of hell searching for him! I was just about to head over there!”
“Oh, gosh, Uncle Augustus, I’m sorry.”
“No worries, kid. You just sit tight, I’ll be right over.”
4 Bike Cops came around the corner. Their leader saw Thomas, signaled to his comrades, and parked next to the trees which lined the sidewalk. Sergeant Augustus Hoover clasped his nephew on the shoulder and proclaimed:
“What a fine day! It’s good to see you, buddy!”
Smiling awkwardly at his Uncle’s familial behavior, Thomas replied, “Good to see you too, Uncle Augustus!”
“So where’s this hit-and-run victim I’m talking to?”
“Right over there,” Thomas said, pointing at me.
Seven and a half minutes later, Thomas lay on the ground, a stray bullet lodged in his leg, trying to remain conscious and listening to the sound of approaching ambulances. The trees were in flame and the parking garage was spewing acrid black smoke. Each of the surrounding buildings was being evacuated, though the pedestrians were having a hard time avoiding the shattered windows which now covered the streets in sparkling shards of glass. Part of the firetruck was also burning, and several crewman were trying to work the hose such that it could spray itself. Nearly everyone present was lying on the ground injured, and those few who weren’t simply stared into the distance as if they had grown old far before their time.
My lungs were aching as I forced my already burning legs to continue sprinting. Behind me, the bicycles gained. The only thing that had kept me alive thus far was a wise choice in several stair-based routes which forced my pursuers to dismount and carry their cruisers.
Windows shattered as everyone in my path scattered screaming. Just as I was breaking onto The Oval, a lucky shot from one of the now dangerously close officers caught me in the arm, sending a searing hot flash of pain through what felt like my entire body. I staggered for several moments before pushing myself forward – stopping would only make the pain worse, that much I knew.
“Renner, please try! For me!” said April, the cute freshman whose “fix him” instincts were playing a large role in the continuation of this relationship.
“No, April. My slack-lining days are over!” A still shirtless Renner groaned from his wheelchair, where he sat slouched; his cast-bound leg propped up by the mechanism.
“Please! Think of how impressive it will be if you’re able to do your act IN A CAST! The National Slack-Line team will HAVE to let you in!”
The emasculated athlete fidgeted uncomfortably in his wheelchair; “…do you really think so?”
“I’m positive,” April replied with a reassuring smile.
Renner let out a long sigh.
“All right,” he said, hoisting himself up out of his seat.
With April gently guiding him up onto his perch, Renner managed to balance on the slack-line, one of his legs in a cast.
“Oh my God! I’m doing it! I’M DOING IT!”
“Renner, honey, I’m so proud!”
“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” I screamed, running past, covered in blood.
“Bang!” Said the bullet, ripping through Renner’s shoulder.
“….” said the ground as it broke Renner’s other leg.
“Ring ring” said the bells of all four Bike Cops, signaling that pedestrians should move to the side as they rode past.
I was at my wit’s end. Bleeding profusely and beginning to feel light-headed as I staggered onto South Campus, it was clear my capture (and inevitable murder) was imminent. Perhaps I could climb a tree – no, my legs were already about to give out. Maybe if I jumped into these bushes – no, they could-
“Aaaaaarrghh!”
With a howl of fury, my hunter leapt from his bike and rammed me into the ground. I landed on my bullet wound and blacked out for several moments.
When I regained consciousness, two of the bike-Cops were holding me upright under my arms. My arms were splayed out at my sides and blood was pooling around my knees on the brick sidewalk. With what felt like a titanic force of effort, I lifted my head to see my pursuer slowly loading bullets into an old revolver. People passed by on their way to and from class, but the last bike-Cop stood off to the side with two hands on his belt repeating the mantra “Move along. Police business.” which, of course, quelled any suspicion or curiosity the average pedestrian might have had.
“Do you know my name?” asked my captor, clicking the hammer back on his revolver.
I squinted up into the sunlight. “How in the hell would I know your name?”
“There’s no need to be rude about it,” he said, obviously taking his time; relishing the moment, “My name is Augustus Hoover.”
“Why do you have an old-timey revolver?” I asked.
“Personal weapon.” he explained, as if giving me a patient lecture on the finer points of police corruption, “Can’t be traced back to The Force. Plus, it looks hella fly, as I believe the kids say.”
“Nobody says that,” I replied while spitting at his feet.
“You would know they do if you went out more,” he smirked.
Damn, I thought while he lowered the weapon onto my forehead, he’s right.
“Though it’s too late now, I suppose.” A student named Beck, on his way to Chemistry, stopped for a moment, worried about what might be happening. The Bike Cop, hands on belt, took a step in his direction which caused Beck to rethink his decision. He quickly realized that if he just kept walking and didn’t look behind him, then none of this was real and would have no impact on his otherwise perfect life.
“Wait!” I gasped, too tired to scream.
“I’m done waiting.” Hoover’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“But, if you kill me now,” I said, thinking quickly, “You’ll never know…”
Hoover paused for a moment, the pressure on my forehead easing ever so slightly.
“Know what?” he asked suspiciously.
“Uhh…” I masterfully postulated.
“Enough of this! Your time has come!” he yelled, doubling the pressure from before and cocking back the hammer once more.
“You’ll never know what’s closest when it’s highest and farthest when it’s lowest!” I screamed.
The officers holding my arms chuckled.
“It’s just a riddle Sergeant Hoover,” one of them said. “What a weirdo! Go ahead and take your righteous vengeance!”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover was puzzled. What WAS farthest away when it was lowest but also closest when it was highest? He scratched his chin. It was a fine riddle, to be sure. Maybe it was something underground? Like a mole or something? That made sense, but it lacked the satisfying truth that rings clear and bright like the intended answer of any great riddle.
“What?” he asked frustratedly
“If you kill me now, you’ll never know.” I mumbled
“Ahhhh!” screamed Sergeant Augustus Hoover, shooting two rounds into the air as his 3 colleagues looked on with expressions of uncertainty as to their friends well-being.
I glanced either way desperately while The Sergeant paced back and forth, biting his lip and tapping the barrel of his gun against his temple like a crazed animal. I had bought myself a little time, now I had to find a way out of this.
There! Where, formerly, Hale Hall had stood, there was now a construction site surrounded by orange plastic fencing. A worker, clad in the now all-too-familiar neon vest was beginning to pull open the gate.
My adrenaline was still pumping from Hoover’s gun, giving me the tiniest bit of energy and ineffectively dulling the pain in my arm. Subtly looking from side to side, I saw that the bike-Cops were looking intently at their Sergeant, whose back was now turned to me as he mumbled to himself distractedly.
I would have to time this just right. Trying my best not to palpably tense, I took several deep breaths and prepared for what might be the last move I’d ever made. A glance confirmed the gate was now fully open and the construction worker was gesturing for a truck to come out. Now was the time.
Ignoring the pain from my still open wound, I yanked my arms away, dislodging myself from both Bike-Cops’ grasps and began scrambling towards the street. All four were taken by surprise, and the two Cops who had held me knocked their heads together bending down to grab my legs. They collapsed while the 3rd and Hoover both began chasing after me. While they were clearly the faster party, I had a head start, and in one last spurt of speed, I managed to throw myself across the street just as the construction worker held up his hand for the others to stop. A long line of trucks began filing out of the site, trapping Sergeant Hoover and his colleague on the other side of the street WITH ABSOLUTELY NO WAY ACROSS TRUST ME.
But I was far from safe. This line of trucks would only last a moment, and I wasn’t going to be winning any footraces in this sorry shape. I looked up – Baker Hall West. Maybe a bit obvious as far as hiding places go, but better than sitting in the middle of the sidewalk like a sitting duck who is sitting. Perhaps I could lose them in the labyrinth of hallways.
Waiting nonchalantly near the door for a few moments until a resident walked out, I piggybacked in (NEVER DO THIS. AND DON’T LET OTHER PEOPLE DO IT. IT’S EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. I COULD HAVE BEEN A MURDERER. IN FACT, I’M BEING HUNTED FOR THAT) and hid myself behind a couch in the common area.
The heat hit me like a wall (there is no air-conditioning on south campus) and I began to sweat like a fiend. Also, at this point, the adrenaline rush was beginning to fade, and I was becoming all-too-aware of the blinding pain in my arm. Also, the blackness creeping in at the edge of my vision coupled with an inability to push myself off the ground. Also, the trail of blood which, assumably, would lead the officers straight too me as soon as the trucks passed. Also, the sudden, glaring realization that I am, in fact, an idiot.
Well, nothing to do about it now, I thought, It’s probably better to die in your sleep anyway. And with that common misconception, I sank deep into the peaceful blackness which, for the first time, seemed strangely welcoming.
“Come on, buddy, can’t you just stop the trucks for one second to let us pass?! My name is Sergeant Augustus Hoover and this is official Police Business!”
“…”
“Hey, buddy, can you hear me!”
“Oh, sorry, I guess my mind was somewhere else. You can’t cross while the trucks are coming out.”
“I can’t believe this! I’m going to report you to your supervisor! What’s your ID number?”
“Well, my name is Reynold and my ID number is-”
“I didn’t ask for your name, just ID number.”
“MY NAME IS REYNOLD AND I’M A HUMAN BEING, GOD DAMMIT! DON’T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE WALKED PAST EVERY DAY BY SO MANY PEOPLE WHO WISH YOU WEREN’T THERE? WHO JUST IGNORE YOU?! IT’S NOT AN EASY JOB!”
“Oh, wow, friend, you have issues. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the trucks have passed and I must follow this path of blood to finish my quest for vengeance.”
“Yeah, sorry, I just really miss my wife.”
“Wait, really?! Me too! How’d your wife die?”
“Oh, no, she’s not dead. Just at home. Her name is Matilda! Our anniversary was yesterday!”
“…you’re under arrest.”
“What?”
“You think you deserve happiness?! WELL, NOW YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL.”
I didn’t know where I was. Looking around, everything was covered in thick white fog.
I became aware that I wasn’t wearing any clothes, but the moment I wished I had some, they appeared on my body.
Out of the fog, I could see a hazy figure approaching. As he was nearly beside me, I could make out who it was, and my heart leapt with joy.
“Hello there, friend,” said Gordon Gee, clad in his signature suit and bow-tie.
“What are you doing here?” I asked incredulously.
“I’m not sure,” he said, looking around, “This is, as they say, your party. Shall we take a walk?”
I nodded and we wandered together into the fog.
We walked in silence for what seemed like either several minutes or several days. Eventually, we came upon a bench and, without speaking, sat down next to each other.
“You know, I meant to ask,” Gordon began, “where are we?”
I looked up and, as if on cue, the fog cleared to reveal we were in The Ohio Union.
“Oh, is this The Ohio Union? Fantastic.” he continued.
“What happened to you, President Gee?” I asked, “You gave us all these things to deal with – all these big obstacles you said would make OSU better – and then right when we needed you most, you died.”
“Well, actually, I’m still alive, just working somewhere else.”
“You’re dead to us.”
“Uhh, alright, if that makes things easier for you.”
We sat in silence for several more moments.
“President Gee, should I go back?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well, I’m on the run for my life when all I’ve wanted for the past 2 days is to get to a class I don’t want to go to. I only want to get to the class so I can leave the University and find a job where I’ll surely be just as frustrated for the rest of my life. It’s just this never-ending battle you know? Maybe it’d be better to just…quit. Do I have to go back?”
“I’d imagine, if you liked, you could simply board a train.”
“But where would it take me?”
“…on,” Gee said, smiling enigmatically.
“….and why would there be a train in The Ohio Union?”
Gee smiled even enigmaticallier and stood up.
“I would imagine you’ve learned by now,” he said, “what life is all about: Fighting. Fighting until the very end. Even when you know you cannot win. That is the challenge we all must face.”
I nodded solemnly and, after a moment of thinking, stood up beside him. At this point, we were both distracted by a horrible moaning coming from beneath the bench.
“What is that?” I asked as we both knelt down to see where the noise was coming from. I screamed in disgust as we discovered a strange, misshapen creature, clearly a shivering monster of some sort, whimpering beneath the bench.
“Something beyond our help.” replied Gordon Gee, “It’s the soul of one of those damn dirty catholics.”
“Oh wow,” I said, taken aback, “Did he do something wrong to make his soul look like that?”
“Nope, just your standard, run-of-the-mill catholic bastard. Don’t you wish we could just round them up and stick them on some desert island somewhere where they could just die quietly?”
“You know, I’ve got to say, President Gee, I’m beginning to see why you had to go.”
“Oh, you’re judging me now? Listen, pal, this is YOUR head. I wouldn’t be saying those things if you didn’t think it somewhere inside you.”
“Wait, now you’ve got me confused. Is this real or is it all just…happening inside my head?”
“Oh, of course it’s happening inside your head,” replied Gee, “which, as any logical person will tell you, means you should NOT I repeat NOT take it seriously. You’ve lost a lot of blood, this is basically a comatose hallucination. There’s a decent chance you won’t even remember it, but if you do, PLEASE don’t shape any life decisions around your Id’s playdate with the subconscious. I mean, seriously, look over there! It’s President Drake dressed as Fred Flintstone talking with the athletic department on a cloud!”
And so it was.
“President Drake, nice animal-pelt shirt! I’m Coach of the rugby team and we’re ranked number seven in the nation but some of our senior players took part in a hazing activity-”
“You’re fired.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. President. I’m head of synchronized swimming. We’ve won more gold medals than any collegiate program in history, though I should mention there is one girl who hired a 3rd party to investigate our audition process.”
“You’re fired.”
“Welcome to OSU, Mr. President! I’m head coach for OSU Track & Field. We’ve never NOT won a gold medal at Nationals and the US Olympic Team is composed of 100% OSU alumni. Once, when we were running practice, a vision of Jesus Christ appeared before all of us and he praised our team as the platonic ideal of athletics; the very epitome of a well-made organization where we all love each other….except for one first-year who mentioned to his mother the older runners don’t like to hang out with him.”
“You’re fired.”
“Hi, I’m Marge, from figure skating! We don’t win many things, but we’re totally clean in terms of hazing and equal opportunity.”
“You’re fired.”
“What?! Why?!”
“The students were doing things you didn’t know about, and you could do nothing about it, but someone has to be held accountable. Just as long as it isn’t the students themselves – they’re the ones who GIVE us money, you see.”
And so, counting President Drake’s understandable mistakes like sheep, I drifted once more into the haze.
-Collin Gossel, Editor-in-Chief
Holy WHAT?! How is this story going to end?! Our hero is now drifting through a comatose hallucination, but tomorrow (Oct. 26) will reveal the conclusion to this epic tale, alongside a downloadable version of the entire story and maybe a couple goodies thrown in for good measure. Hope to see you back soon!