We The Valiant.

[BIAD]

We The Valiant.

It was obvious to me that the poor soul sitting in the Charge Room was paranoid, plain- and-simply paranoid.
It was two in the morning -a Saturday morning, may I add and the first wave of drunks had been processed.
This was my first 'Crazy' during the weekend shifts.

The heavily-stubbled man sat on the hard-boarded bench and watched me with tired-narrow eyes.
The weedkiller backpack lay at his booted-feet and if what Constable Jenkins had said was correct, the small pool
of liquid that had leaked from the badly-dented metal container was urine... human urine.

I breathed slowly through my nose and kept my hands behind my back, my schedule was already two hours behind
and when I had first arrested this guy, I had mentally accepted that my shift would be finish with me writing out reports
at the Station and my partner would travel our patrol-route alone.

"You're okay kid..." the man said softly "...ah' can see by your face that yer' not one of them" His raspy-voice offered the
idea that he was a heavy-smoker, but it could be that he was just exhausted.

I nodded kindly and moved my eyes back to the recruitment poster on the wall opposite, the Charge Room had started to
smell of whatever was in that strange container and the dark-grey hosepipe lay like a dead snake between his scuffed
knee-high desert boots.

I would say he was around fifty years-old, he sported a badly-shaved crewcut and his attire consisted of a filthy once-white
vest, military pants and the tightly-laced boots. He carried no identification and his only obvious markings were the tattoo
and the four large scars across his upper-chest.
It looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger.
'He looks like Bruce Willis from the Die Hard movies' I thought to myself and stifled the smirk at my lips.

Two-fifteen a.m and I can smell stale urine. Another tell-tale sign of a Saturday night shift except this guy wasn't drunk,
this man was intoxicated with something far-more mind-blowing, he had drank from the pool called the Internet.

"The Sergeant will be along in a moment" Sheila snapped as she passed by in the corridor, the pain-pinched face behind
the heavy-framed spectacles warned everyone that she-too, disliked this particular working period.

I had always been puzzled why the Station demanded that someone from Admin should work these terrible hours.
Sheila seemed to be always the one stuck with the shift and it seemed that her annoyance always joined her on this particular
time of the night. The man with the tired eyes just looked at the Weedkiller backpack and said nothing.

When Officer Jenkins and myself had turned into the small street that we had nicknamed 'The Shallows' we had expected to
see a couple of down-stairs lights on, maybe a smiling late-nighter walking a dog and if our luck was in, Mrs Kitchener with
two steaming mugs of coffee.

The community was quiet, there was no half-eaten automobile slumped like a dead cow on an oil-stained driveway, no chest
-pounding thudding of the latest rap music and no screaming housewife sobbing at the latest bruises from her drunken husband.
It was the Shallows and Mrs. Kitchener was there with a smile. A smile and two mugs of Java.

"How are my two boys enjoying their beat tonight?" the white-haired lady asked lightly. Looking over the hot brew, I told her that
everything was fine and my fellow Officer tipped her a kindly-wink.

The metal tray that the welcomed break had been served on lay beside the gate-post and showed a faded rendering of some
military battle of yore, I silently wagered that Mrs. Kitchener had a jigsaw puzzle somewhere in her little trim house with a similar
image adorning it's cardboard box.

"He'll be back tonight..." the lady whispered as she accepted the empty mugs back and glancing right-to-left she added "... they've
been all the way back to 1947, you know" Mrs. Kitchener's face showed that she was imparting a secret and with a small hope that
The Shallows hadn't fallen into the same world of craziness that seemed to be everywhere these days, I showed a puzzled brow.

"Bruce and his friends... the ones in the Ice Cream Van? They've been hunting aliens again and the internet told them that the
Roswell Incident was where it all began" she said softly and showed a serious gaze.

Jenkins breathed in deeply and shrugged, his quick glance told me that it was time to leave before we ruined our night-time break
and so, I nodded knowingly at Mrs. Kitchener and told her it was time to get back to our beat.

"You-two take care and remember, they don't like pee on their skin!" Mrs. Kitchener had imparted to us as we moved away into the
night and Jenkins told me later that it had taken a tremendous amount of will-power not to burst out laughing at that point.
I never told him, but I was wrestling with the same demon too.

We left with a wave from the end of the street to the solitary figure of the old woman with the battle tray under her arm and I agreed
with Jenkins that it was a crying-shame what old age does to folk.

"That damn guidance-system played up again" the grizzled man in the Charge Room muttered and this brought me back from my
wool-gathering. He had said his name was Bruce when we had first encountered him racing through the alleyway nearer the town
centre, but you can never be sure when you're dealing with a crazy... well, you can never be sure at all these days.

"Sir, the Officer that will deal with you will be along shortly" I said with a slight tone of warning and was rewarded with an expression
of raised eyebrows, "Thanks" Bruce whispered softly and turned his resigned face towards the recruitment poster.
Five minutes passed without incident.

He hadn't resisted arrest, he hadn't attempted to explain his reason for running around at night with a tank-full of piss on his back and
he hadn't tried to reason with us, it was a unique Saturday shift that was as welcoming as Mrs. Kitchener's coffee.

"Maybe that was always our problem..." the man called Bruce said as he gazed at the poster opposite me "...we never recruited enough 
soldiers for our cause" I rocked on my heels and steeled myself for the usual crazy talk.

It always came. It was inevitable, the drunks did it and the crazies did it. As the morning slowly rolled towards us, the people who sat where
this strange individual was seated -always attempted to dig their way out of the trouble they were in.
I was just surprised that he'd started so early.
"Don't worry son, I ain't one of those that you usually get in here" he hissed as it seemed he'd read my mind. "I'm just tired of the war"
he said so softly that I barely heard it.

Sergeant Gordon ran the paperwork ten minutes later and Bruce was required to come back to the Station the next day, he was warned
that the odorous container was to be stored away and never be used in that fashion again. Bruce had nodded throughout the interview and
answered in the correct places, I left to change back into my civilian clothes shortly after.

So the cold air came as a welcoming touch on my skin as I stepped out into the Police Station car-park on that Sunday morning.
I would sleep until 3.00pm and then get that lawn cut, I should have done it on my last day-off, but... well, but.

The gaudy-coloured Ice Cream van waited near the empty gatehouse at the far-end of the car-park. It idled there with it's exhaust fumes
pluming in the morning air like dragon's breath and my stride slowed as I neared it.

"Well, the internet told us to go to Rendlesham in 1980" the raspy-voice said from behind me, I whirled and readied myself for a assault.
"Easy fella... Ah'm just tellin' yer that I'll not be back this way fur a while" Bruce said with a easy-smile on his craggy face.

I thought it prudent not to debate or warn this guy who stood nonchalantly with the stinky-backpack on his shoulder, I was off-shift now
and sometimes this could be seen as a weakness.

"We could do with a fella like you, yer' know...?" he offered and looked from my eyes towards the extraordinary vehicle that rumbled and
growled near the exit. "...Yer'll be surprised how they hide in plain sight" he chided and smiled the saddest smile I have ever seen.

He left then, and opening the rear-door of the Ice Cream van, he tossed his peculiar baggage inside and then followed it.
I, being a law-enforcing Officer of the Crown, watched with a open mouth.

There were other human-shapes in the shadows of that van, but the wee-small voice inside me told me not to dwell on this insane moment
and get the hell out of there. I had reached the main road just past the gatehouse when the flash came and spinning around at the sudden
glare, I half-expected to see the Ice Cream van in flames or even worse, the Police Station.

It had gone... the vehicle that had proclaimed lavish-coloured ice cream and monkey's blood, the pink-and-yellow camper that offered
crushed-nuts and time-travel had vanished.

..................................

Somewhere out there is a war, it can straddle space and time and it lurks in plain sight.
No man can fight it alone and the only things it fears is faith and body fluids.
Will you take a ride in that Ice Cream truck?

[guohua]

[727Sky]

I liked it thanks !

[Wallfire]

[BIAD]

Not to dwell too-much on this unusual essay, there is a back-story to the character that spent a few hours in the
Charge Room with the young officer. If I may, I'll post my ongoing research for your inspection.

There are many parts of Bruce's origins that has been lost to time and poor internet service, but I know that the
bones of how the assumed 'time-warrior' came about -and his cohorts, exist in others memories.
It's just finding them.

Bruce.
The middle-aged man that the above tale introduces, came into his current situation because of his curiosity.
The main cause of his transformation was the internet and a comment on a website.
But first, a little about Bruce's background.

In the beginning, Bruce lived in a peaceful cul-de-sac in a small English town with his wife, Cissy. Bruce and Cissy
were childless and their house told anyone passing by that they had resigned themselves to keeping a quaint,
old-world-home of a upper-middle-class couple.

Due to their respective families being fairly wealthy and that Bruce worked at the Ministry for many years,
their retirement had no concerns regarding how to fund their remaining years together.

Fortunately, Cissy's Aunt had also left her a sizeable chunk of inheritance, although the majority of the cat-smelling
woman's wealth that went to fund a charity that cared for misused squirrels was a still a bone of contention with
Cissy's relatives.
But one would suggest Bruce and Cissy were happy. Yes, happy and content with their lot.

Cissy knitted most evenings and her woven garments were often donated to the local church where she also helped
out with jumble sales and polishing the vicar's snuffer.

Occasionally, the prim lady in the calf-length tartan skirt would visit her sister who lived nearby in a larger, more-modern
house. Cissy's sister's name remains unknown, but what is known is that her husband is called Vance.
The reason is due to his future connection with the group in the Ice-Cream Van also mentioned in the above story.

It was during one of these visits that Bruce -sitting alone in the wooden-beamed lounge of his home and not wishing to
view the latest documentary on BBC1, switched on the small computer that Cissy had given him as a gift two Christmas'
ago. Instead of accessing the gardening websites that he usually enjoyed, he found his way to a place that discussed a
far-darker subject.
A place that talked about aliens.

Being hesitant about such 'far-out' material, Bruce read -without commenting of course, the thrusts and parry of a debate
regarding a hand-to-hand combat between a human and a small-grey alien and who would be the victor.

The people on the particular thread seemed young and the quiet man in the checked-shirt and dark-brown tie wondered if
it would be appropriate to interact with folk who seemed to have such gusto for this rather 'silly' idea that aliens existed.

To deliberate about 'little-green-men' tackling humans in a free-for-all was not Bruce's cup of tea and he was about to click
to a web page about protecting Hydrangeas from frost, when he saw an odd comment appear on the discussion page.

Deciding on a plan of getting familiar with the debaters first, he waited for a lull in the chatter and typed his opinion onto the site.
Bruce was surprised how easy he was accepted into the debate and they seemed genuinely happy for him to engage in the
review.

The comment that drew Bruce's attention was a remark that advised that aliens did not like urine to touch their skin and raising
his eyebrows at the words, he delicately asked for further information.
The poster reaffirmed his statement about liquid-waste being material of disdain for species from another planet and so, shaking
his head in humorous disbelief, Bruce switched off the computer.

It was two days later when Bruce took the small water-spray bottle into the ivy-covered shed at the bottom of the garden and tried
out his experiment.

The cat from next-door didn't like it and the dog that sometimes did it's business on Bruce's lawn howled as it ran away from the
dull-orange jet of piss. I would wager that was around the time Bruce began to muse on using the urine-filled spray bottle on
something more substantial. More 'off-worldly'

The weedkiller back-pack came next. The dented container had been purchased four years-ago when Cissy had dabbled with
growing tomatoes from three large grow-bags. To make sure the young shoots had a chance, Bruce would fill up the back-pack
with water from the plastic barrel that sat under one of the drainpipes of the house and then add some of the liquid-feed that his
wife had purchased from a nearby Garden-Centre.

With a few thrusts on the pressure-shaft and armed with nutritious food for the short-green stems, he would liberally spray the mist
across the torn-open polythene sacks and even feed his treasured Hydrangeas with the stuff.
That was four years-ago and the leather-harnessed device had laid forgotten in the shed until now.

If we move on two more days, we would find Bruce struggling to fill the back-pack with urine and after emptying most the half-filled
cans of paint-stripper, two-stroke petrol and turpentine into the metal container, he accepted that the homemade potion would be
as vigorous as anything suggested from the strange website.

Halloween approached unnoticed by the man who now spent most of evenings in the shadows of his garden shed and even though
Cissy believed he was merely clearing the spider web-festooned shelves of the many chemicals that one collects with gardening,
she would sometimes call from the kitchen door and ask if everything was okay.

Bruce's life had always been on a steady course and if a neighbour was asked what they thought of the quietly-spoken man living in
the house with the roses growing over the front-door, the word that I'm sure they would use would be 'regular'.
Regular and reliable, that was Bruce.

But Bruce's manner had changed, he had become surly and rarely spoke during dinner with Cissy.
The man who'd once jumped into a canal in Venice after Cissy had fallen from a gondola and told her during the next week of dealing
with dysentery that he loved her, seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere dark.
His bathing habits had also altered and the woman who could rib-stitch and alter to a medallion knit when needs-must, would sometimes
pick-up an acrid aroma coming from the brooding, distant man that placed his half-eaten meal on the draining board and return to the shed.

On the odd-occasion that Bruce stayed away from the garden, Cissy would discover him hunched over the computer in the corner of the
lounge discussing Lord-knows-what on some website. He'd taken to wearing just a vest and the camouflage-trousers around the house
and again, this hadn't gone unnoticed.

I will not dwell on the two incidents that preceded Bruce's arrest -but to say that he was certain that the child in the Halloween mask was a
creature from another planet and the raid on the local hospital for additional 'supplies' Bruce now looks back on as a genuine mistake.

But there will be always bumps in the road and it was only when the Hospital administration deemed it necessary to complain about Bruce's
late-night intrusion, that fate took the reins of the craggy-man's future and offered a supporting compatriot to Bruce's infatuation.
That ally was somebody Bruce was related to and yet oddly enough, had never actually met. His name is Vance.
..............................

Not wishing to drag this out, but I do have some information on Vance too. Many thanks go out to a certain young man
who was actually as an employee in this character's business.
With a fantastic verve of serious research and with his permission, I salute his doggedness and I'll add it here to if it's okay?

[BIAD]

I did wait a day for anyone to suggest placing the origins of this strange group in the time-travelling
and alien-fighting Ice Cream van was a poor idea and I agree we're moving away from a single 'short'
story.

But since BIAD is a selfish-sod and enjoys swimming in the word-pool, here's Vance's account of how
he came to be.


Vance.
This account is about a well-to-do successful business man that lived in a world of hard financial facts and solid
down-to-earth no-nonsense acumen. Vance resided with his wife in a five-bedroom house in the 'better' part of
town and enjoyed a round of golf, travelling and the odd pub-quiz.

Vance is a fairly-fit chap and was perceived by his peers as somebody that was focused on building a business
empire and looking after his health. Although never a member of any local fitness-centre, Vance prided himself
on his nightly exercises of press-ups and hopping on the spot.

Recently -and because he wished to keep himself dexterous, he had secretly taken up the hobby of sewing.
When Vance was a small-boy, his Mother would mend his clothes and sing to him behind the needle and thread
as he waited by the pantry in his underpants.

Those memories would cause the efficient and accomplished businessman to smile to himself and if one peered
closer, they may see a small tear touch his cheek. Due to the feminine perception of the practice, he would hide
his pastime away from his wife and only participate when she left on her twice-weekly Spiritualist Meetings.

On the evening before one of these assembles -the meeting that required Vance's wife to take a ouija-board and
to be accompanied by her sister -and recent lodger, Cissy, Vance had been informed by his better-half that she
would be attending a school-reunion at the weekend and it had been decided that the get-together would be
themed. It was to be a fancy-dress reunion.

It must be noted that term 'lodger' in the case of Cissy's mention is because the plain-looking sister-in-law had
recently moved out of their little home in the cul-de-sac -after leaving her husband and sought comfort in the
large-gardened abode of her kin.
Something about piss and Hydrangeas -the frowning male had been told.

Vance had decided on a surprise for his wife and taking to his garage, he began to create a costume that would be the
pride of the parade. The garment of Bo-Peep from the famous nursery-rhyme.

The project took him back to world of his youth and if one pressed an ear to one of the automated doors of his garage,
an old melody would be heard from the broad-shouldered man spinning his pinking shears on his forefinger in happiness.

With his business running fine and still feeling the euphoria from the previous evening, Vance had elected to stay home
the next day and use his skills on finishing the pretty lace-adorned apparel. The crook, or staff of the female shepherd
would be the long-ago purchase that waited in the corner of his two-car garage, the stick he'd bought at a County Fair
where he'd first met his wife.

As implied in the above words, Vance is a pragmatic man and does not suffer fools lightly. It would have taken very-little
of his time to merely hire a costume for his wife's celebration and the cost of the leasing the clothes would certainly not
be part of the equation.

But it was the principle that galled him, the idea that he had taken on a talent to create such clothes and then when
needed, he would resort to money to answer the situation. And so with a steeled determination that his Mother would
be proud of, Vance went about the business of making the costume himself.

It could be said that a word used in Bruce's account would be applicable here too.
The events leading up to Vance's arrest would seem unconnected and therefore, that word -'fate' could be used as a
reason for Sergeant Pensbury's presence at Vance's home that night. The Police Officer had swapped the shift that would
take him for a shorter walk than his usual beat of the town's high street and the Constable that usually patrols the affluent
area had agreed without complaint.

Gout is a terrible disease and when a person's occupation involves a lot of walking and beating miscreants over the head
with a hardwood truncheon, night-stick or 'correctional staff', gout is the Devil's payment for such caring diligence.
But back to Vance.

The material looked fine and the neat stitching smacked of a skilled seamstress from one of the fashionable boutiques of Paris.
The Bo-Peep costume and laced head-dress lay on the kitchen table and to Vance, it looked like a job well-done.

Vance's wife and her sullen sister had left for an urgent meeting at the Spiritualists as an earlier telephone call had informed
the two women that Harry Houdini was on-line and open for questions.

The house was empty and here he was, standing alone and gazing at his work with a critical-eye. The hem was calf-length
and the frills on the sleeves showed a symmetry. The starling-egg blue wasn't too gaudy and the short white socks implied
a nice turn of an ankle.
All seemed well.

But to the smiling man nibbling his thimbled-finger and humming one of the tunes his Mother used to sing, he knew
he hadn't covered all the bases. The dress was the correct size, the hat whispered of a young lady keeping out of the
sun in a meadow and the hooked-stave would do fine in rescuing a lost lamb from a dangerous ravine.

But would the stitching hold? What if an armpit tore or a seam frayed in front of his wife's long-ago pals?

What credibility would he have if it was seen that he couldn't even manufacture a simple fancy-dress costume?
How would his business rivals see him, when they discover that his life-partner could only manage rags to wear
at a friendly soiree?

This is how a practical person thinks, it's about seeing the variables and judging positive outcomes. This is Vance.
He concluded that the only way to resolve the uncertainty was to try the dress on and test his needlwork-skills.

The main reason Vance fell through the small window-section in the hallway and out onto the lawn was because of
the crook, the life-saver stick that shepherds swear by. The clothes were a little tight on his muscular frame, but even
under the stress he urged the fabric to endure, Vance the hard-boiled businessman knew that good quality required a
higher evaluation.

Swinging the staff above his head, he cavorted from the kitchen, ducked ninja-style in the dining-room and keeping
his knees together, he did a nice forward-roll on the lounge carpet from the Harris Berber-collection.

With the dawning of optimism emerging in his brain, Vance ran full-throttle into the hallway and that was when the
smooth-surfaced stick went between his lower-legs and the vigour of his actions caused him to crash through the
frosted-glass section next to the front door and land on the damp-grass of his neatly-clipped lawn.
Dignity lost and his bare-ass showing.

And with Cissy and Sergeant Pensbury looking on.

Maybe it was the filigree garb and the English prudish viewpoint on males wearing female clothes that took the incident
further. Or possibly the Officer believed that the grunting-man laid on the grass had submitted to some-sort of mental
breakdown and was now a danger to the public with the sturdy stick and remiss of a pair of under-crackers?
I can't attest.

Whichever it was, Sergeant Pensbury grabbed Vance by the delicate -but well-styled collar and marched him off towards
the Police Station. Cissy, the scorned-woman lost to a gallon of personal secretion and the extermination of aliens, merely
hissed the words "Not you as well!" and fled back to the hall of whispers from the dead and snake-oil assurances with her
'ghost-board' jammed firmly under her arm.
Why Vance's wife did not witness the odd incident and why Pensbury was in the vicinity at that exact time, I never uncovered.

So the destination of where two different lifestyles would meet, where destiny would place a finger onto the woven line and
create a tidy bow, the place where it all began was that Police Station Charge Room. That little room with the eternal recruitment
poster on it's wall.

That was how Vance was 'chosen' to be a passenger in a vehicle that would blow his level-headed mind and take him into a
world that would change him forever.

After being warned for their respective behaviors, both men -Vance and Bruce, were released from custody and by some
strange means of symbiotic connection, they rode the No.26 bus together towards their respective areas of the town they
both lived in.

But it was the last bus of the evening and after disembarking at the out-of-town terminus, they walked together in the night.
The journey home, or the journey of Bruce and Vance from the Police Station was where they came across the next of the
'selected' people to ride that time-travelling Ice Cream vehicle. A young man nicknamed 'Newt'

But that's another tale for another time.