The Sword sat on the porch of his English cottage. No way around it. This was all his fault. If it would make things better, he’d resign. But it was his job to get them off this rock.
An arrow whistled through the air and slammed into the cottage three feet from the sword’s head. The Sword grabbed the note pinned by the arrow. It was written in blood.
Jesse, I propose a truce so we can talk. Meet me at the cave where Ice Cube died. Come alone. Noon. DM.
The Sword tucked the note into his belt and walked inside the cottage. Laban sat at the table, writing in a book. The Sword asked, “Figuring out how we get from here to Shangri-la?”
“Cute,” Laban said.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the whole, ‘we crashed into Hell on the way to Jamaica’ theory doesn’t hold water.”
“You don’t even know if we were go-ing to Jamaica. Dark Mystic could’ve been taking us anywhere.”
“Speaking of him, I got a note.” The Sword passed the note to Laban. “What should I do?”
“I think you should go.”
“You never take my advice. So I have to tell you the opposite of what you should do so you won’t make dumb mistakes.”
“Then why don’t you think I should go?”
“No, I think that you should go. The Mystic is trustworthy. He’d never set a trap in order to kill you. Forget about him as a double crosser. He’d never do that to you.”
“Thanks for the advice. I think.”
Continued next Monday
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