This is a much longer companion piece to one earlier in the collection, Commuting.  I thought it would be fun to write a version of the story from a different perspective.   I do hope that you enjoy it.

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The sun was late in the sky before I had finished my morning penances.  I am not sure why, but it seems as if there are ever more sins to seek forgiveness for every day.  As a sworn brother of the Blessed Eagle - may his talons ever hold fast and his cry of righteousness be heard across the land - I am oath-bound to uphold the banner of purity, honour and charity.  That’s not easy to do, especially in this city. 

I put away the tools of mine own flagellation.  After this, I walked over to the window and gazed upon the nest of depravity and degradation that is my demesne. 

I am not sure why the Brotherhood insists upon novitiates undertaking their first missions in the city because the Blessed Eagle loses more recruits to the lure of easy money, the temptations of the flesh and Facebook, than it does to the minions of the Dark One.  However, minister to the unworthy we must, to earn our right to quest.  I have been ministering longer than most novitiates and I suspect that I have been a sore trial to my fellow brothers at the Temple.  Only last week Abbott O’Shaughnessy had gently suggested in my latest performance management meeting that undertaking ten percent more penances, good deeds, as well as increasing my conversion rate, might put me to the head of the line for an Iron Horse and my first quest. He had also less than gently suggested that if I did not improve my figures, then I could expect to be cleaning out the TempleAviary for the next six months.  That’s not something that any novitiate wants, especially when those birds have an all meat diet and a nasty sense of humour. 

So here I was, about to embark upon a new day of doing right, resolved to work just that little bit harder, live just a little bit more ascetically and get that seat on the Iron Horse. 

It took me only a few minutes to make ready.  Over my jeans and Fruit of the Loom t-shirt, I donned hauberk, mail, and pauldrons, leaving my sword belt until last.  I scratched Mr Frisky between his ears and, finding that the milk was getting low, left out a note for my roomie, a maintenance warlock with an elevator company who tends to pull night shifts.  Note complete, I put down my quill, placed the missive on the table and left the apartment, picking up my shield, lance and helm on the way. 

Normally, I would indulge in a pastry and a decaf skinny latté at the corner coffee shop before taking to the streets in search of wrong doing.  Today, as a symbol of my renewed zeal, I picked up an apple and a mineral water from the Korean convenience store opposite my apartment building. 

“Good Morrow, Mr Park, may the Talons of Righteousness shield you from evil!” I said by way of greeting. 

“Hi, Steve!”  MrPark grinned from behind his newspaper, shaking his head mysteriously. “I don’t normally see you in the morning.  What gives?” 

“Just thought I’d get an early start on the evil-doers of this parish.  A little water and a piece of fruit will purify me a little better than coffee and donuts.” 

“Sure will.  Hey, maybe you use some kim chee too!  If that don’t drive away evil then nothing can!” Mr Park gestured at some unsettling looking vegetables in his deli counter.  His smile grew even wider. 

Sensing that I was being mocked, I noted Mr Park’s lack of faith for future reference and hastily completed my purchase.  

Outside the convenience store a sudden uproar caught my attention over the racing engines and blaring horns of thickening traffic.  I glanced over to the coffee shop and saw a great tumult.  It appeared that those heretics from “The Order of Abasement”, who usually plagued the early morning commuters buying their morning coffees, had brought down some sort of woe upon themselves.  Good thing too!  I had smitten them greatly on more than one occasion to discourage their panhandling, the shysters.  

I was about to step in and calm things down when the baristas made their appearance and things really got crazy.  

You don’t mess with the baristas.  They drink too much coffee for that.  Also, their shop is a holy sanctuary and it would be foolish to risk the wrath of all the sects in the city  - I said sects, unbeliever -  for interfering in the baristas domain.  Seeing that they had matters well in hand, I decided to head downtown.  

Every day, at the Temple, novitiates are assigned to a beat by the Abbott, and woe betide anyone who was last in line.  That way, you could be sure of pulling a shift on the Lower East Side rescuing hobbits.  No way, José!  Hobbits are the most ungrateful, tight-fisted lot!  They always need rescuing because they’re so small and useless, and they only ever reward you with pie.  Or song.  Neither of which pay the bills.  The only way I could guarantee not ministering to the little people was to get in line first.  I needed a fast way to the Temple. 

Miraculously there was a taxi standing vacant at the rank down the block.  The driver was probably picking up breakfast at Betty’s Diner, which was a popular stop for cabbies.  Lance and shield in one hand, paper grocery bag in the other, I dashed down the street to get that lone taxi.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see someone else hurrying to the same taxi on the other side of the street.  I increased my pace.  Infuriatingly, he matched me for speed too, and he a civilian.  In fact he even began to get ahead, unhampered as he was by the accoutrements of holy strife.  However, he still had to cross the road and negotiate the traffic, whereas I had to make sure that I kept my blasted sword out of the way of my legs.  That’s not easy whilst running in half armour and a great helm, I can tell you. 

Such was our pace we almost collided at the taxi, much to the amusement of the cabbie, who had left the diner.  By the code of honour that The Temple adheres to, I had to acknowledge his prowess at the footrace but I was damned I was going to give up my taxi to a short, fat and very sweaty man in a coffee stained suit.  He must have come from that commotion the baristas had dealt with.  However, he looked so forlorn that I felt duty bound to suggest that we share the cab. 

“Sure, why not?”  the fat man said churlishly.  “After all it’s only my cab!” 

“Sir, I think you will find that we hailed this conveyance at the same time.  You can argue with me now over who got here first but it will not get either of us closer to our destinations faster,” I replied. “Also, I believe that I am the one with the Holy Sword of Truth and that blessed blade is telling me something very different, mac!  We travel together or we test each other’s veracity in single combat!” 

“Typical paladin!  Always so holier than thou!  Always throwing your weight around, reminding us lesser mortals how much less we are.  How am I gonna fight a two hundred and fifty pound, muscle-bound warrior-monk?”  the little man whined, though in fairness he squared up to me, clutching his briefcase in both hands as an impromptu shield.  As if that would stop the Holy Sword of Truth! 

“Look, guys, just get in will ya,” the cabbie interrupted.  “I can get you where you need to be but if you keep arguing there ain’t gonna be any cab here because I’ll find an easier fare downtown.” 

With great reluctance, the little man agreed to my proposal and we climbed into the cab.  He was so fat, I could barely squeeze in myself but somehow I managed this and with helm and shield crammed in across our knees, lance sticking out of the window, we were able to begin our journey. 

The hours of meditation that the Temple prepares the novitiate for was preparation enough for that taxi ride.  It was as hot as a furnace inside the back of the cab and it did not help either of our tempers to be so tightly pressed together.  I closed my eyes, concentrating on my inner peace, and ignored the hisses, sighs and tut-tutting that emanated from my worthy companion’s lips. 

In only a short space of time we became entangled in the snares of midtown traffic at around First and Ninth.  Our cab barely moved from one minute to the next.  The cabbie had given up honking his horn to encourage the slower motorist and simply rested his chin on the wheel. 

Duty commanded that I tried to make light conversation with my fellow traveller but I am afraid that we did not hit it off.  I do not think that we were really on the same wavelength.  He babbled about musical theatre, of which I know very little and the Temple even less.  There’s not a lot of use for knowing the back catalogue of Judy Garland whilst smiting the foes of humanity and decency.  

“Hey guys,” the cabbie called over his shoulder, “Controller’s just told me that there’s an ogre two blocks down that’s knocked over a hot dog stand and is eating them in the middle of the street.  It’s gonna take awhile to get through this.  Cops don’t got no cuffs big enough to take him in with.” 

At last!  A task to free me from the tedium of the traffic!  It was a heaven sent opportunity to take down one of the minions of the Evil One, and avoid the Lower East Side and its infestation of halflings for a week.  The Abbott would be well pleased.  I may even get my Iron Horse that bit quicker. 

I leaned forward and screamed at the cabbie, “Advance, good man!  We must smite the unbeliever!  Take the cab onto the sidewalk and blow your horn to clear people out of the way!”  There was no way I was going to miss this opportunity. 

“You’re the boss!”  The cabbie called back.  I wondered at his promptitude but then I glimpsed a silver eagle dangling from his rear-view mirror, nesting among the worry beads and other superstitious nonsense that cabbies usually have.  He was either of the true faith or covering all bets. 

“Pass me my shield and lance when I call for it!” I ordered my companion who could only nod dumb agreement. 

The cab mounted the kerb with a jolt, the cabbie sounding his horn for all he was worth, as well as shouting out a few choice curses that would do him no good should the Blessed Eagle ever hear them, and we careered down the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians like pigeons.  Once the ride was smoother – sidewalks are surprisingly good to drive on – I gripped the edge of the cab roof with both hands and hauled myself up and over, onto the roof, in one smooth jerk. 

Reaching down, I gestured for my equipment and they were quickly handed up by the little man, who gazed at me with awe-filled eyes.  It is a hard burden to carry the admiration of the common folk.  With haste I stood up, adjusting shield and lance so that they approximated an ideal tilting figure, and called my instructions to the cabbie. 

“When we see the ogre,” I called, watching shop fronts whip by with disconcerting speed, “I want you to point the cab at him and don’t stop!  Turn sharply after our first pass and repeat the attack!” 

“Attack?”  he cried over the roar of the wind and his diesel engine.  “Nobody mentioned attacking anything!” 

“The Blessed Eagle watches over us all!  Now this is an emergency and you can consider that you are on official business!” 

“Will your insurance cover any damages to my cab?  I’m still paying for it!” 

Oh the pettifogging worries of ordinary people!  Why can’t they just accept the Talon’s touch as a blessing?  “Of course my insurance will cover any damages!  We do this a lot you know!” 

“Just mind the paint!” 

At that point the cars racing by us cleared and we crashed through a police cordon, scattering black suited cops like bowling pins.  I could see the ogre now. 

He was looking pretty bizarre even for an ogre.  After knocking over the hot dog stand he had taken the parasol for a hat which would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the owner and a customer he had stuffed into his belt.  They were not happy judging by the wailing.  Since they were calling for divine intervention from the wrong divinity, I wasn’t too bothered by their predicament.  It would do the city a greater service to clear the road. 

“Tally ho!”  I cried.  “On, on!  The hunt is afoot!” 

In response the cabbie gunned the engine, honked his horn and the cab surged forward, almost knocking me from the roof.  I regained my footing and braced myself for impact, cradling the lance beneath my arm and ducking down behind my shield. 

All twelve feet of green skinned ogre turned to face the cab at the sound of my hunting horn and roared at us through a cemetery’s worth of huge, broken tombstone teeth.  His prisoners wailed and his parasol caught the wind, flapping about his head noisily like a giant rainbow coloured bird.  I took that as a good omen. 

“You there, Sir Ogre,” I challenged, “Hold fast or taste the judgement of the Holy Talon!” 

It merely yelled, “No buns!” back at me and threw a handful of hotdogs that thundered against my shield.  An ogre’s hand is really quite big and it felt like a ton of bricks had been thrown at me. 

“Charge!”  I ordered and the cab, my beautiful iron steed, sped up. 

The cab skimmed past the ogre and I thrust my lance directly at the beast’s chest.  I let go before the impact wrenched me from the roof of the speeding car. Twisting to view my handiwork, I was dismayed to see that the lance had missed and merely speared the owner of the hotdog stand through the thigh.  

He was shrieking in the most abominable way.  Really, there was no pleasing some people; I was trying to help him after all. 

“No buns, no buns!” The ogre howled.  That was really pretty lucid for an ogre.  Most have trouble sounding out English words and find they can get their meaning across better by smashing things up.  You always know where you stand with an ogre.  They don’t hide their feelings very well. 

“Once more unto the breach, Sir Cabbie!” 

“Not again!  He’s onto us now.  I’m not joining those two in his belt.  Get off my cab!  I’ll get your fare from the Temple!”  

“You would abandon me now?  When the glorious battle has only just been met?” 

“Yep, and it’s gonna be thirty bucks!  What number do I give them?” 

Resigned and disheartened at the loss of my destrier, I muttered, “Paladin three-five-oh-one.”  As an afterthought I added, “Put on another five as a tip.”  He wasn’t a bad cabbie and he may even have been a believer.  “Make sure that you leave a receipt!” was the last thing I called to him as I climbed down from the roof. 

The little fat man in the back continued to stare at me with goggle eyes.  I could see he had not fared well during the first pass.  His expensive suit, which had been coffee stained, could also now add pulped pork products to its collection of interesting flavours.  I waved.  He gave me the finger.  Some people!  I resolved to pray for him. 

Having lost my lance, I drew my sword and faced the beast. 

Ogres being what they are, he had lost interest in me as soon as I was out of immediate range.  The threat has to be right in front of them for them to react.  As I said, not bright. 

I roared and yelled my way up to him, casting all sorts of confusing abuse at him as the Good Book advises.  “Got lost so far from your bridge, did you?  How did they turn ugly up to eleven?  You know the goats have been laughing at you?” 

Confusing an ogre is not hard.  Ramming a sword in its guts, whilst it towers above you scratching its head, is. They have skin as tough as boiler plate and you have to push your yard of steel further than a yard to find its heart.  This means that if you can’t take off its head, you have to disembowel it and climb inside to reach the target.  Not nice and even an ogre will respond to that degree of stimulation.  Killing an ogre is hard.  Very hard. 

This is really where things came apart.  Shield held above me, I had drawn back my sword arm for the disembowelling cut, abuse bursting from me in a torrent, when I happened to look up to check for danger. 

I gazed into the ogre’s deep set, sad looking eyes and I recognized him instantly.  

It was Clarence. 

The years rolled back before my eyes and there we were again, playing in the sun drenched gardens of the Blessed Eagle Little Eyrie Orphanage.  Clarence had been my best buddy.  He was the only ogre in the orphanage. Clarence would have been a target for bullies if he hadn’t been so huge and just as likely to pound your head through a wall for asking him the time or demanding money with menaces.  A good place to be near a bully was near Clarence.  For some reason everyone just got along real well around Clarence.  As I discovered, positive vibes are something that ogres really appreciate.  They may not be able to count, read, speak well or even remember their own names but they do like a happy atmosphere.  We had become friends all those years ago.  I was safe from harm so long as I could keep Clarence chuckling. 

“Clarence?”  I said huskily.  “Is it you?” 

“Duh, wot tiny meatbag say?” Clarence’s voice rumbled down in confusion. 

“Clarence, it’s me.  From the orphanage!  Do you remember?”  What had happened to him?  Why had he left the Temple?  Last I had seen he had been installed as door security at the Temple’s TV station.  Why was he causing havoc here? 

His brows furrowed like great oaken boughs knitting together.  “Rememebmer?  Clarence rememememberem lots of good stuff.  Sky blue, grass green, toilets not for drinking from!” 

I had to get him to remember.  If I could take him back to the Temple as a returning apostate (even if he was an ogre) then not only would I save Clarence from his fate at the hands of the police - who I could see were readying a 105 mm howitzer beyond the cordon - but I was assured an Iron Horse. 

Then it came to me.  The old orphanage song that we used to sing during morning penances.  That would make him remember. It was drilled into our heads every day for seven years.  Surely even an ogre would remember that?  Swelling my lungs I burst into plain chant.

Whip me; beat me, just in case I’m naughty!

I’ll kick you; punch you, using some karate!

All to make the Eagle stronger, purer and bolder,

And to stop our enemies getting any older! 

By the last line my counter tenor was joined by a profound bass rumble.  I looked again and I could see a tiny flicker of recognition in Clarence’s eyes.  Victory was mine! 

“Come on, old friend,” I said kindly, “It’s time to take you home.” 

“Home!”  Clarence cooed.  He slowly divested himself of the hot dog stand, parasol, shrieking owner and stunned customer, then waited patiently like a trusted dog. 

Sheathing my sword, I waved at the police to stand down, calling out that it was Temple business.  Paramedics rushed forward to deal with the injured and I decided it was time to go.  With some trepidation, I took Clarence’s huge hand in my mailed glove and led him from the scene, leaving a trail of mashed hot dogs. 

I should have left it at that, walking Clarence back to the Temple, but I had to show off, didn’t I?  For some reason I thought it would be a really good idea to get Clarence marked as Temple property.  That way we could always be called if he wandered off again.  Indeed, it was providential that we came upon a tattoo parlour on our journey.  

I quickly established that the tattooist was only too happy to jump at the challenge of tattooing an ogre, especially if the Temple was paying.  There’s nothing like advertising the Temple as a customer to get business rolling in.  We could only get half of Clarence in the parlour but that was OK, it was only his chest we wanted to tattoo. 

I realized my error as soon as the tattooist put the needles to Clarence’s chest to spell out the message, “Warning, TempleProperty.  If found, please look after this ogre.  Call toll free on 1-800-BIRDIE.  HANDLE WITH CARE!” 

With a roar of anguish that shook plaster down from the ceiling, Clarence leapt to his feet, crashing through the shop front and bringing down the façade of the building.  With the dreadful rumble of a masonry avalanche in our ears, the tattooist and I dashed into the back room, which was quickly engulfed in choking clouds of thick dust. 

“I don’t suppose I have to pay if you haven’t completed the job,” I said to the shocked needle jockey through the slowly thinning haze.  I took his lack of response for agreement and swiftly left in search of Clarence. 

On reaching the uncertain footing of the sidewalk, stepping carefully between fallen bricks and concrete, I realised that I was too late.  Clarence was long gone.  I checked the sun and I could see with a sinking heart that I was late for parade.  Very late. 

Abbott O’Shaughnessy met me on the steps of the Temple as I climbed wearily to meet him.  I’m not sure that I impressed him that much, caparisoned as I was in hot dogs and plaster.  I had lost my lance; my great helm’s plume of ostrich had been stripped, leaving only a ragged frond. Somewhere along the line the seat of my Levis had become a little more than fashionably torn.  He indicated that I should stop a couple of steps below him. 

“Late again, Brother Hubris!” he spoke gravely, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. 

“But I can explain…” I started to say. 

“No buts!  This is the third time this week.  Did our little chat the other day mean anything to you?" 

“Yes, but…” 

He glared at me.  I could tell that further attempts to explain would not be tolerated.  My shoulders slumped beneath dented pauldrons. 

“Parade finished 3 minutes ago.  There is only one beat left.” 

Resigned to the inevitable, I nodded. 

The abbot smiled with triumph, “Patrol the Lower East Side.  Take special care of the locals’ sensibilities. No jokes about serving only kids portions at the diners this time.  Don’t look so downcast.  It’ll be a nice day down there, today.  There’ll be lots of folks having a nice time in the sun.  They’re having a Festival of Song sponsored by the local bakers.  Should be fun.” 

My heart sank.  It was worse than I expected!  However, I saluted the abbot and was about to turn and leave when he spoke again. 

“Before you go, stop by the TempleAviary.  It looked like it could do with cleaning out, novitiate.” 

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