Prologue

We knew we shouldn't have been there, but we were anyway. The building was about to explode and we were trapped inside. Then suddenly, a door materialized in the wall and we rushed to safety....

It had been eight years since the detonation of the Elvis Impersonators Internment Camp, and we all still wondered how we survived. We had no idea who let us stay alive. We shouldn't have been there, because we were not Elvis impersonators and we were not guards. To begin with, there shouldn't have been a way for us to get inside the camp unnoticed. But through some unknown person's will, we left unnoticed also.

Who this person was, we had never found out. Not to say that we didn't try to, it's just that everything we thought of lead us to dead ends. After a year or so of this, we grew tired of the search. We figured that the person must want to remain unknown. This person also must have had some reason for saving us. We hoped to find out what this reason was. Maybe we would get to meet this person, we thought, and find out about his talent. But nothing out of the ordinary had occurred since the explosion, so the question had taken a step backwards in our minds....

Of Jim and James, and their Discovery

We were both reading sections of the newspaper. While doing this, I don't appreciate being interrupted to hear an article that I will read for myself soon. I turned to glare at him eye to eye, but he was looking down at his section.

"Look at what?" I responded in a voice to match my glare.

James either didn't notice the tone of my voice or I was losing my touch with facial expressions.

"This article. It says, 'Six Escaped Elvis Camp Explosion.'"

"What's that doing in the newspaper? It's eight year old news!"

"That's why I'm pointing it out to you," he explained. "I guess they just found out we escaped. Here, let me read it. 'Eight years ago today, the Elvis Impersonators Internment Camp was detonated, killing thousands of unwanted impersonators. Recently though, sources say--"

"Sources?" I asked.

"I don't know! Let me read it! '. . . sources say that six unknown persons escaped from the camp seconds before the explosion.' Weren't there only four of us?"

I knew the answer was 'yes,' but I still took the opportunity he left open for me.

"Let's see. . ." I said, counting on my fingers, "Jim, Bob, Jim Bob, and Sam. Yep, there were four of us."

I received the normal response from James: "My name is not Jim Bob! It is James Robert Samuelson III. You usually call me James, and that's fine, but never call me Jim Bob. My father named me James Robert. His father named him James Robert. My great-grandfather named his son, who was my grandfather and my father's father, James Robert. That name has been passed down from generation to generation to generation in my family, and I do not want to hear you make even the slightest joke at its expense. The name 'James Robert Samuelson' is a tradition in my family, and. . . ."

James has always been touchy about his name. When we were sneaking into the internment camp, he almost blew our cover because of his feelings about it. We had climbed into the back of a laundry truck headed for the camp. The driver and a few other people had just come out of a building nearby and were talking outside the truck.

As were getting settled among the clean laundry, James said: "What's in these bags? Laundry? I would expect something more like money or drugs, or at least hair spray and extra sequins--"

"Hey, Jim Bob! Shut up!" Sam whisper-yelled.

"My name is not Jim Bob. It is James Robert Samuelson III. You usually call me James, and that's fine, but never call me Jim Bob. My father named me--"

"Shhhh!" I managed to get in edgewise.

He quieted down for a while, but once the noisy truck engine started up, James unleashed his name tirade on us again.

So as you can see, it's not a good idea to call him Jim Bob.

When we do, it's almost always an accident.

Really.

". . . and that's why I want you to never call me Jim Bob. It's James. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. So what else does the article say about our escape?"

"Nothing. That's all."

"That's all? Isn't it kind of short for a newspaper article?"

"Well, the headline takes up most of the room."

"Oh. Anyway, I want to know who those sources are. The reporter should have their names. Who wrote that article?"

"Jonathan Sw. . . . Swee. . . . Swag. . . . Can you pronounce it?"

I looked at the name he was pointing to.

"Swenga. Jonathan Swenga."

Whatcha think?

To the next chapter...