The Threat of the Crystal Skull

  

 Puedes leerlo en Español aquí

“There’s something in the air telling me to do it, do it, do it.”

—Arturo Accio

 

“There are things that are better left unsaid, not yet,” Marietta said, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “And some that are better left unsaid. It’s better that way.”

I nodded, resigned to the fact that some of my questions would go unanswered, as the waitress took away my previous cup, and I set aside the book of poetry by Arturo Accio that I had been reading while waiting for Marietta to bring me a second cup. Under her apron, the girl wore a green t-shirt, the uniform of the National Team. The World Cup was a widespread obsession.

It was the first time I had seen Marietta Là-bas in person, and it didn’t surprise me that she attracted the attention of those who had just entered Madoka. Contrary to what some might assume, her height and figure weren't the main reasons, but rather her attire: a tight-fitting, short dress of intense red, and a matching cape, which, even with the hood folded back, was still an unusual garment, to say the least. Red-framed glasses completed an image that couldn't go unnoticed. I noticed a change: her hair was black again. The first time I saw her, a year earlier, in a photograph, she had similar black hair, although shorter; the portrait I took of her for the book Snowy’s Collar, using that photo as a reference, depicted her that way. But shortly afterward, some videos, and a video call, showed her as a blonde woman; when I asked her about it on that occasion, during our first direct communication—she in Milan, I in Guadalajara—she explained that her hair was naturally blonde; Before that, she had worn a wig to resemble her grandmother, Celeste, whose style and alias—used when she was part of the resistance during the Nazi occupation of France—she had inherited: Lady Satan.

Her hair really did look natural. Leaving aside some women's penchant for changing their hair color, I suspected that her intention from the beginning had been to conceal her true natural color. Her eyebrows were dark, though. When she told me her last name, however, I assumed it was a pseudonym inspired by J.K. Huysmans; but when I looked for information about her, however scarce, what I found confirmed her family name. Given her subversive activities, I found it strange that she wasn't concerned about concealing her identity, and I brought this up with her.

"We're not in a comic strip," she replied; "these days it's almost impossible to hide the identity of certain people and organizations. But there's no real risk to anyone."

In the seat next to her, still looking at her cell phone, Tamara Drew cleared her throat.

Marietta looked with a crooked smile at the short-haired blonde girl who had come with her. For more than six months, she had taken Tamara in as her partner in many of her activities and, above all, as an apprentice in the ways of the Italian lineage of Stregoneria, or Witchcraft, to which her family belonged. Tammy was, in turn, the heir to another notable lineage, the Drew family of Appalachia, to which the renowned paranormal investigator, Dr. Desmond Drew, had belonged. But alongside her personal practice of Neopagan Witchcraft, Tammy followed in the footsteps of another ancestor of hers who had been immortalized in popular culture: Detective Nancy Drew, whose adventures in the 1930s had been novelized by Carolyn Keene, just as Will Eisner had chronicled Dr. Desmond Drew.(1)

"You're safe in that regard," Marietta assured her. "That's why there are some things I do on my own." But the kind of people who would be interested in stopping me aren't mafias; they do things directly. I interest them, you don't.

"Now it turns out I'm not interesting," Tamara retorted, placing her cell phone on the table; although it was obvious she wasn't serious, it was just casual sarcasm.

"Nothing makes you happy."

"Speaking of mafias," I interrupted, "in this country we do have their equivalent. Can you tell me what they came here to do, or is it also too unsafe to say?" Marietta adopted a more serious demeanor.

"Right now your city has a serious problem with the water supply."

"Yes, sewage mixed with the drinking water. And it's loaded with mercury, lead, and heavy metals. The director of SIAPA (2) hasn't shown his face..." I interrupted myself, thinking about it. "Aren't you saying that...?"

"Again, there are things that are better left unsaid. Maybe later." I thought about it for a moment, shook my head, and asked:

"So, you were saying we're waiting for someone?"

"She arrived a couple of minutes ago, she's ordering a drink," Tammy said, pointing toward the café counter. I turned and immediately recognized the girl standing with her back to us, talking to a waitress; copper-skinned, with short, slightly spiky black hair, jeans, a black top, and a long purple scarf despite the heat. "I think she anticipated how slow the service is now that the staff is distracted by a World Cup program on TV," Tammy added. "At least they have the sound turned down."

A moment later, Jenny Everywhere turned around and approached our table with a smile.

“Hi!” she greeted Marietta with a hug, and me with a gesture, as Marietta introduced her to Tammy. “Didn’t Viveros come?”

She was referring to my friend and fellow writer Héctor Viveros; we had both met her almost a year ago. (3)

“He had another commitment,” I explained. Jenny sat down and began rummaging in her bag; she pulled out a piece of paper folded several times and handed it to Marietta.

“Here’s what I promised,” she said. She proceeded to explain that the young Belgian journalist they had met in Missouri a year earlier had asked her to give it to her when he learned he would see her there. Marietta spread it out on the table: it was a map; an island was depicted in detail on it. Tamara and I leaned over to look as well, and I noticed the name of the place written at one end: Lamb Island. This surprised me. Lamb Island, a small private island whose owner, the famous psychic Ari Heller, had transformed into a symbolic nation, whose nominal citizenship could be acquired, in the form of a diploma, with funds raised for various charities. Why did Lady Satan need it?

"What are you planning to do on the island?" I asked. "Is that something you might want to know?"

"Lamb Island is private, and it belongs to Ari Heller," she said; I realized I hadn't mentioned knowing this, but I didn't want to interrupt one of Marietta's rare communicative moments. Her French accent was almost imperceptible. "You do know him, right? The psychic who became famous in the 1970s and made bending spoons with telekinesis his trademark, even during a live television broadcast."

"I remember him," I said. "I still have a spoon that got twisted when my mother and grandmother saw him on Mexican television."

“Months ago,” Marietta continued, “when the war against Iran began, Heller offered it to Ronald Drumpf to establish a base there for his air strike force against the Iranians.”

“That’s the opposite of what he said he wanted on his island,” Tammy pointed out, shaking her head. “He presented it as a symbolic ‘country’ of harmony for all humanity. It’s a good thing that proposal didn’t materialize.”

“It didn’t materialize, as far as we know,” Marietta corrected. I looked at her, surprised.

“So something was done in secret…?”

“That’s what we intend to find out.”

“What’s up with these rich people and their private islands?” Jenny complained. “I’m not offering to accompany them; I had enough of islands with the visit to Eppenstein Island a few weeks ago.” My gaze drifted to the book of Arturo Accio’s poems on the table, and I was about to make a silly, humorous comment, but I fell silent when I looked at Jenny. Her face was troubled by the memory of some experience she'd had there. From what I knew of her, she must have been used to many things; but that island had been the scene of some of the most terrible events. My imagination tried to guess what they might have found, and I blocked those thoughts as best I could.

"We'll manage," Marietta said.

"And what else have I done, Heller?" Jenny asked. "Is she still giving Drumpf psychic support?"

"It seems she occasionally visits Israeli troops to encourage them," Tammy replied. Jenny looked at her, puzzled.

"Israel?"

"Ari lives in Jerusalem," Tammy explained; "that's why she's so vehemently opposed to Palestine."

"Obviously, she supports Drumpf not because she's pro-American," I added, "but because Drumpf has been supporting Israel's interests." He was the only president who gave in to Neshayahu's insistence that North America support them in their war. I can't believe that so many in Israel support an alliance with a regime that has the full backing and participation of its neo-Nazi movements. That's truly making a pact with the devil, in the popular sense.

"And it's only thanks to that that we find ourselves now in World War III," Jenny finished, crossing her arms and leaning back. Just then, the waitress placed a latte and toast in front of her, and her face lit up.

I had followed Ari Heller on Facebook for several years; in fact, I had applied for citizenship on his island because I liked his project, but I had withdrawn my application after seeing the video in which Heller offered the island for Drumpf's troops. I took out my phone and looked at his profile. I didn't expect to find a direct mention of Mexico recently posted by him.

“Now she’s really gone too far,” I said. They looked at me curiously, but I kept reading for a few seconds until Jenny gave me a gentle nudge. Then I said, “I’m looking at the post Ari just made a couple of hours ago. She posted a picture of herself holding a crystal skull, like the one Pancho Villa and Ambrose Bierce supposedly had. (6) And he says…” I began to read the post aloud, “‘Friends, I’m going to grant the England team the ultimate power to beat Mexico next Monday! I’ll do this with the help of an ancient Mexican crystal skull! I’ve kept this relic for many years, which could very well be of extraterrestrial origin, ever since I discovered it telepathically, hidden in a Mayan pyramid.’ At this point, I paused and pointed out, “By the way, a few years ago, I had already posted pictures of that skull; on that occasion, I didn’t say anything about having ‘found it telepathically.’” She claimed that Mexican President López Portillo had given it to her as a gift, and that he had told her it was found in a pyramid. (7) This time she's altering her story to add drama. I continue reading: “‘I intend to use the supernatural energy it contains to take England to the quarterfinals. Of course, I don't perform miracles or become a prophet, but I will do everything in my power! But you should know that conspiracies are already underway to sabotage the England team: Mexican cartels have placed billions of bets on Mexico's victory and will stop at nothing, not even violence. They are even trying to change the start time of the match to noon, in the middle of the hot season! The sabotage has already begun. I have noticed that Mexican fans, even some journalists, are trying to disrupt England's preparations. They hope to make public the location of the hotel where the players are staying so that Mexican fans can party all night, making it impossible for them to sleep and rest the night before the game. Believe it or not, I have a Mexican passport and I was a Mexican federal secret agent for President López Portillo, who granted me Mexican nationality!’ Here he tags the manager of the England national team,” I clarified. “‘I know what I’m talking about! Don’t take any risks! Reinforce security measures for the players and fire all the Mexican bodyguards immediately. And don’t trust the food, it might be poisoned! Bring your own food.’”

“Wow,” Jenny said.

“How outrageous!” Tamara exclaimed. “He’s recommending firing the Mexican bodyguards overnight? He could put innocent people out of work because of his paranoia. Can I see that?” I put my phone in her hand.

“Well, he is psychic,” Jenny shrugged. “And I’m sure the drug cartels are amateurs.”

“It would have happened many times before if they did that kind of thing,” I pointed out. “But he’s talking about his actual intention to interfere with the results through magical means; he’s simply assuming that if he’s capable of that, the cartels can try it in their own way.” “He’s a psychic, not a magician,” Marietta corrected me. “Anyway, we have to put this in context. Heller is a celebrity; his opinion carries weight. And as someone who has publicly supported Drumpf’s racist regime, what he’s saying is a smear campaign against Mexicans, and he intends to back it up not only with his ‘hunches’ but with his personal knowledge of Mexico. If he didn’t do this, say, during the previous World Cup, then it can’t be a coincidence that he’s doing it right now, when MAGA has gained strength and Drumpf has been threatening military intervention in Mexico, using the cartels as justification.”

“It’s magic he says he’ll do using his skull…” I insisted, but I was interrupted. “What are you doing?” Tammy was typing something on my phone. She handed it back to me with a satisfied smile. I looked at the screen: I had just replied to Ari Heller's post with the words "Marietta Says" and an image, a colored copy of the Lady Satan portrait I had drawn the previous year, to which I had added the text, "It's on, b****!" "Hey!" I protested. "But this is from my account!" Tammy shrugged.

"Ari brought it on himself; let's see how we get it."

Marietta looked at what Tammy had written and raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't have to use my first name," she said. "Anyway, we have more important things to do than a football match."

Tammy looked at her without abandoning her somewhat boastful attitude.

"Look at it this way," she said. "Like Jenny says, Ari is psychic; if his senses warn him about you, he'll think you're just going to counteract his influence on the match, and he won't suspect that we'll be on his island." Besides, admit it, doesn't he deserve for us to ruin his attempt to stick his spoon into the championship?

Marietta bowed her head, her expression showing how impressed Tammy had been.

“I can’t argue with that,” she conceded. “But anyway, our priority is the island. I’ll leave the counter-spell for the match to you, though you know I’ll support you on it.”

“It’s going to be tough,” I pointed out. “Ari’s trick has always been manipulating people’s beliefs. He’d tell people, ‘Put a spoon in front of your TV; now concentrate on me, and I’ll bend the spoon’; and sometimes the spoon would bend. He’d get people to concentrate; there would be a lot of psychics watching a national broadcast. They’d bend the spoon themselves, and Ari would take the credit. In this case, he’ll have all his fans believing in his power, putting their faith in his skull work; and he’s surely counting on many Mexicans, particularly some players, to doubt him because they fear his powers are effective.”

“That’s why I put up the picture with Mari’s portrait,” Tamara replied. So, they know Lady Satan will oppose Ari, and they'll visualize her like in that drawing; on Monday we're going to work using the drawing as a focal point—she winked. Two can play the same game. Won't your coven want to support us?—she asked me suddenly—I think they have an advantage in this case…

I wasn't particularly interested in supporting a sports team, but I listened to her argument, and it made sense. I'll omit it for now; as Marietta said, there are some things that are better left unsaid… yet.

"You should have put 'Lady Satan' and not Marietta," Jenny agreed with Marietta's earlier observation.

"That way we don't scare off those who might be frightened by 'Satan'"—again, we had no arguments to refute her. At eighteen, Tammy had a remarkable understanding of magic and parapsychology; Marietta couldn't have taught her so much in just a few months. I could see why her mental agility was so well-suited to the detective work she intended to pursue.

"Well then," Jenny said, after finishing her second slice of toast, "I suppose we'll look into that matter of the city's drinking water tonight? I know you like to do everything at night."

Marietta took off her red glasses to clean them and smiled.

"Always."

The conversation moved on, but deep down, I kept thinking about the matter. The World Cup couldn't interest me less; but under these circumstances, for the first time, I hoped Mexico would win Monday's game. These were strange times…

Not the End...

The story continues in Murky Waters in Guadalajara

 

Credits

“The Threat of the Crystal Skull” Copyright © 2026 Luis G. Abbadie. Debe ser reproducida siempre acreditando al autor.

Tamara Drew is an original creation of Luis G. Abbadie, and first appeared in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. Siete pasos hacia el Abismo (Tubal Albainn, 2026).

Lady Satan, originally published in Dynamic Comics 2 (1941) and 3 (1942) and in Red Seal Comics 17 (1946) and subsequent issues, her best-known version was created by George Tuska; she is in the public domain due to legal peculiarities.

The character Jenny Everywhere is available for anyone to use, with one condition: this paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, so that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

Ari Heller was created by Gonzalo Martré and Víctor Cruz in “The Supernatural Golden Statue”, a story published in Fantomas la Amenaza Elegante 2-265 (1976); he is taken up again here as a tribute to the works of his creators.

The Available Heroes is a series of stories that bring back classic public domain characters, orphaned or open source, to face the challenges of today's world.

This is a work of fiction, in which any resemblance to real-life characters and situations is subject to the rules of parody, and is not intended in any way to constitute a faithful representation of reality. 

Notes 

1) Tamara met Marietta in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. 

2) Intermunicipal System of Drinking Water and Sewerage Services.

3) In "Intermission 3.5"

4) The journalist in question is Tintin, and this took place in El collar de Milú - un misterio en tres centurias.

5) En Las Muchas Vidas de Octobriana: Tercera Guerra Mundial.

6) The link between both is explained in El último relato de Ambrose Bierce.

7) In a post dated August 26, 2023. 

The Charge

(A Spanish version of this story can be read here)

 “In ancient times, the king represented the kingdom in his person. Now, we have a king of rot, and he has begun to corrode everything. The kingdom rejects him.”

Nancy y el misterio del grimorio

 

The car entered the wide, tree-lined road. A sign, an essential element to confirm that it was still in the United States of America, identified the area as Shenandoah National Park.

Although it wasn't that far from home, Tamara Drew had never been to Virginia. In fact, she'd traveled more across the country in the last few months, in the company of Marietta Là Bas, than she had in her 17 years of life. 18, she corrected herself; starting today, 18. Marietta had gone to France, where she'd be for a week, and had offered Tammy the option of accompanying her; she'd chosen to stay. Although Marietta had shown enough polite concern to leave her alone on her birthday, she was sure it brought her some relief to leave her behind; the means Marietta used to resolve certain legal and political situations were rather drastic, and since she'd made the commitment with Grandpa Roy to instruct and protect her, she'd noticed that Marietta was careful not to involve her in certain matters. But Tamara merely pretended not to notice; she had no desire herself to be involved in those instances, but she didn't judge Marietta for it either. The world was at war; and she was trying to do something to make things better. That was all that mattered.

Marietta had asked her if she would return to spend her birthday with her grandfather, but she had other plans to make the most of these days; that's why she was here. She told her so, and Marietta listened attentively, smiled, and went to get something wrapped in a red cloth that she had placed on her altar days before. She put it in her hands, saying:

“Ian, my druid friend who came to visit me a couple of weeks ago, asked me to do this, remember? You saw him before he left that day. Perhaps you could do it for me... from what you're saying, his idea is similar to yours,” and she proceeded to explain what Ian had told him…

She got out of the car and approached the tollbooth; of course, she had to pay the entrance fee. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America. A five-foot-high vertical sign listed the exhausting prohibitions and conditions for entering a protected forest area; she took a picture of it with her cell phone so she could refer to it if necessary. A young man with a small mustache smiled as he greeted her and stifled a yawn while handing her a ticket.

“I'll only be here a few hours,” Tammy said, and then asked, “Could you tell me which areas the king visited?” The media, which continued to dissect the visit of the king and queen of England to the White House, hadn't said a word about their other activities on American soil; the most important ones, in Tammy’s opinion. And a couple of days earlier, the royal couple had visited Shenandoah National Park.

“Yes, of course,” the young man stuck his head out to call through the crack in the window, “Jane! Can you come over?” A dark-skinned young woman in a ranger uniform, leaning against a tree, placed a soda can on a wooden fence and approached. The young man explained Tammy's request.

“Come along,” she said, nodding, “I'll take you to the lookout.” Tammy followed, hiding her displeasure; she didn't want a babysitter during her visit. But on second thought, and this could be ideal.

The events of the last few weeks had prompted her to reread, for the umpteenth time, the old collection of Carolyn Keene young adult novels that had been with her since childhood, featuring a protagonist whose surname she shared through family inheritance, as the great-niece not only of Nancy but also of her cousin, Dr. Desmond Drew. In the first book of the series, The Secret of the Old Clock, the young detective Nancy Drew spent a great deal of time interviewing those who had known old Crowley in life, whose legacy she needed to trace; She had grown familiar with a man she had never met in person through those who did. This was her chance to do likewise: to learn more about the king of England's visit by talking to someone who had been there.

Jane got into the car with her and showed her where to park further ahead, closer to the road they would be taking.

In the parking lot, two police cars were parked. An obese man wearing a red MAGA cap was shouting, “I don't see you doing a thing!” while a police officer listened with visible anger. Amid accusations of indolence and incompetence, he repeatedly interjected, “Don't you know who I am?” As Tammy stopped the car, the officer said patiently, “I need to fill out the report, buddy,” prompting the man to feign offense at being spoken to so informally.

The man in the cap finally paused and took a Milky Way from a backpack on the seat of his van, through the open door, and began to chew. Ranger Jane glanced at the man, then gave Tammy a sharp look, raising her eyebrows. The man stared at the dark-skinned young woman with distaste and said,

“Do they employ illegals here? That would explain a lot.” Jane grimaced and shook her head, no doubt suppressing a response to his insolent remark. They got out of the car, and Tammy walked past a blond boy standing by a trash can, holding a couple of Milky Ways and biting into one. He stared at her as she passed, but his grim expression didn't soften; for a moment their eyes met, and she noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the bruise on his temple from some blow. She followed Jane along a paved path, feeling the boy's gaze on her rear end.

“This way,” Jane pointed uphill; the path climbed a gentle slope.

“What's that guy got up his romp?” Tammy asked.

“He insists his watch was stolen from the dashboard. Sure, Bill pointed out the sign that says, ‘We are not responsible for valuables not left with the caretaker,’ etc., but that jerk is the brother of a Republican congressman and thinks he owns the world. He called the police to waste time. He probably lost the watch himself in the woods and won't admit it. He just wants to make us look incompetent so he thinks he won a fight he's fighting with nobody.”

 “The worst of the worst has been coming out of the woodwork,” Tammy replied. “They think they're so big having one of their own in power.

“Anyway. Were you here when the royal couple came?” Tammy asked to change the subject, and Jane visibly perked up at the memory.

“They were very gentle,” she said, “that surprised me. I always thought royalty was arrogant, but not at all. The queen was rather reserved, but the king insisted on sitting and chatting with the rangers; he was very open. Don't get me wrong, royalty seems outdated to me; but even though the queen had some of that, he was something else, I don't know, maybe he's more aware that they carry a hierarchical apparatus that doesn't mean much anymore.”

The lookout offered a magnificent expanse of forest; Jane adjusted her ranger hat to keep the wind from blowing it off. A second question vanished unspoken; Tammy decided that just being here had justified the road trip. Jane watched her reaction and grew silent to allow her to take in the scenery. After a moment, Tammy remembered her purpose; she smiled apologetically and said:

“You were telling me… about the royal couple’s activities?”

“The king agreed to swear in a group of new rangers; later, at the cabins, he met Buddy, the bald eagle we have here, and then she unveiled some stones symbolizing a new conservation partnership between Shenandoah and the Cairngorms in Scotland, along with commemorative plaques”.

“Yes…” Tamara sought the best way to phrase her crucial question; perhaps it was best to be straightforward. “And was there any place… I don’t know, somewhere that wasn’t part of the formal tour you prepared for him… where the king stopped?”

Jane thought it over for a moment.

“There was one time. He asked which were the oldest trees. Those would be the yellow poplars; some are up to 500 years old. The king asked to see one of those trees up close, and we took him there. It’s not in the general access area, but if you want to go there, I don’t think there will be a problem; there’s no strict restriction, it’s just not a tourist area.”

“I would love to see it, please!” Jane led her along a dirt path that circled a grove of trees, past a low, wooden fence, with A sign reading “Staff Only” and the path, narrower and straighter, but well-defined from constant use, led them a little over half a kilometer through the trees.

“The Queen chose to turn back and sit down,” Jane explained, “but the king continued on foot, even though they offered to bring one of the motorized carts we use in the tourist area for supervision. He has remarkable strength for his age.”

“Now that he’s king, he probably has few opportunities to be in nature,” Tammy said, admiring the surroundings. She had been raised in the Appalachians, and it amazed her how different one natural environment could be in every way from another. For her, acquainted with the environment, the trees, and the plants of her home further north intimately, this was another world, even though the distance on a map wasn’t so remarkable.

“Yes,” Jane continued, thinking about the king. “I heard he converted his estate to organic farming in 1986. He didn’t hide his passion for nature, even though the media in his country ridiculed him, as if being part of the family, he had no right to whatever lies outside palaces. I think that for him, on a personal level, his visit here was the most important thing, not a diplomatic meeting with a president who wants to hand over all the ecological reserves to logging, who destroyed Jackie Kennedy's garden, who thinks windmills are harmful, and we must go back to using coal. Just this morning—” Jane's anger got the better of her—“I just found out that the president has legalized trophy hunting in national parks!” Tammy stared at her in shock. That was worse than she had imagined.

“I don’t think that will last long, nor will this presidency; but it will take longer to undo the damage. You’re right, I’m sure coming here was the most important thing for the king,” Tammy said, remembering what Marietta had told her. “Here is North America, the living land, not just some con artist who sees this as something to be sold.” She wondered if it was wise to continue, but she couldn’t stop. “In Europe, kings were the embodiment and extension of the lands they ruled; they weren’t just owners, they were the face of that land. Some may have been as bad as the president we have now, but in any land there are good and bad people, and they are all part of it. The king was, and is, a role to fill, a piece of something bigger, not just a political figure.”

She finally fell silent, uncomfortably, thinking she might have sounded eccentric. Jane regarded her as they walked; finally, she nodded.

“I hadn’t thought about that. I like that. My parents have always said that we are part of the place where we live; part of its soul,” she smiled. “But at that point, they wander off with anecdotes about when they met at a New Age event, the Harmonic Convergence of 1987.”

Tammy smiled and nodded. Grandfather had also told her about that event, although he sometimes satirized what he called “hippie excesses.”

“We’re almost there,” Jane announced. “Over there, those three trunks sharing a root; that’s one of the oldest yellow poplars, perhaps the oldest of them all.”

As they approached, Tammy observed the enormous tree; the trunks weren’t very thick. She would have expected a huge, wide trunk, but it wasn’t. Although, compared to other surrounding poplars, which were considerably more slender, there was a noticeable difference.

“When he arrived here, the king simply sat down on that rock and asked us to leave him alone for a few minutes; he said he wished to absorb the atmosphere.” Even his companions or bodyguards stayed a dozen meters away with their backs to her—Tammy approached the tree and extended her left hand to touch it. She turned to look at Jane, who was watching her with a raised eyebrow. “And no, I’m not going to leave you alone even for a few minutes, I’m sorry.”

Tammy sighed in resignation. This wasn’t going to be easy. She hoped she wouldn’t have to sneak back.

“What were you planning to do?” Jane asked, moving closer. Tamara was certain her expression hadn’t betrayed her thoughts.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“You were very precise,” Jane said. “Not in the way you asked the questions; there simply wasn’t any reason for anyone to assume the king had deviated from his itinerary for even a moment; and not only did you ask that, but you specifically asked about the king, as if you knew that this deviation from the schedule hadn’t included the queen.” Jane crossed her arms. “You knew that he requested to come here. How is that possible?”

Tammy sighed and leaned back against the tree, frustrated. It wasn't just that her plans had been thwarted; it was that she'd given herself away like that. A rookie mistake. Although, after all, she was a rookie; even though she'd spent her whole life reading and imagining, with the books about her great-aunt Nancy, and also those about the Hardys, the Three Investigators, not to mention those about Holmes, Poirot, Marple, and the rest… she'd only been seriously considering doing investigations for a few months, right after meeting Marietta. Surely Nancy had had her share of missteps!

Jane watched her, waiting for an answer, and she decided to be honest. Something that also went against all logic; the standard reaction would have been to offer some excuse, get kicked out of the park, and return at night to jump fences and evade cameras. But she liked Jane; besides, she was intelligent. She didn't like the idea of ​​being confronted by her in the early hours if she somehow anticipated those plans. So she sat on the rock where the king had sat days before and told her about Marietta. Not everything, of course; only how she had become her hedge witchcraft teacher, those practices of magic, herbalism, and spirituality in which Marietta had been initiated in Europe, and which, in a different form, Tamara had inherited from the Drew family in the Appalachians—something her great-aunt Nancy's branch hadn't shared. She also told her about the visit from Ian, Marietta's druid friend, and the task he had entrusted to her. Ian, in turn, had received the commission from a friend of his, an old cunner or witch from the Scottish Highlands, who had placed a stone with an engraved rune in the hands of the king of England. A stone from some crystallized boulders on the shores of Loch Ness, which legend held to be the remains of a giant's palace, where they had lived before retreating to sleep beneath the mountains. The cunner had told the king:

“Your family has always honored the old ways; even in a way that all who could see knew, ever since the Order of the Garter was established. Go, and place this stone at the foot of the oldest tree in a sacred place in America, among the roots of the guardian of that land. There, too, giants sleep, and like ours, some are already awake. America is suffering like the nation of the Fisher King, the ailing ruler who refuses to die and plunges the lands he represents into decay by clinging to the throne. The Fisher King of our legends eventually acknowledged his fate and built the bridge that would save his people; but the king of America will not do that. The giants need to stir and cleanse their lands of the corrupt before those lands become barren. If your hand, the hand of Albion, places the stone among the roots of a Guardian, they will listen.”

The king, who knew enough about the tradition to respect and understand this to some degree, had given his word; And his wounded hand was undoubtedly due to the fact that he had traced the rune with his blood before burying the stone, according to the Ways.

The old Cunner had then given Ian, the druid, a flask containing an infusion. He had told him that it contained the names and blood of three witch clans, one from the Highlands, one from the Black Forest, and one from Wales; Ian was to infuse it with the names and blood of his druid order, so that various sacred currents of the British Isles would lend their strength and support to the act performed; upon placing the flask in Marietta's hands, she had added to the infusion the blessings of her French and Italian legacies, and had entrusted Tamara with taking it to the place where the king had placed the stone so that, before pouring it there, she could also infuse it with the legacy of the Appalachian witch clan to which her family belonged, a branch of the Old Ways rooted in North America. Weeks earlier, Tamara had been present at a sui generis ceremony when the Great Goddess rose from Irkalla (1), to awaken in the lands of America and begin to cleanse them; now, the forces of other lands would intertwine with those of this one to form an unbreakable network, and safeguard the ancient land. In this way, when the infusion was poured in order to awaken (2) the stone that the king had placed, they would ensure that the Sleepers under the Hills would hear the call, to act in favor of these lands.

“…and that’s what I came to do,” Tammy concluded. “Find the place where the king buried the runestone, add my own contribution to the brew, and pour it out to call the spirits of this land.”

She was silent and looked at Jane; she wished she could avoid feeling like a student in the principal’s office awaiting chastisement.

Jane lowered her gaze; Tammy tried to guess her thoughts, thought she might be searching for a way to tell her firmly that she should leave and not return, without being rude.

Jane brought a hand to her eyes and, with a gesture that was meant to be discreet, wiped away a tear.

She looked at her, pressing her lips together in an awkward smile, and took off her ranger hat.

“Wow,” she said. “You reminded me of my mother. She was Lakota, that’s why I’m dark-skinned. The way she talked about some things…” She wiped her other eye. “…was kind of similar, though with different words.” Look… what did you say your name was?

“Tamara.”

“Tamara.” Jane regarded her, now looking uncomfortable, as if about to make a confession. “My mother also told me something before I came to Shenandoah. The last thing she told me; I was notified of her death two months later.” She paused for a moment, regaining her composure. “She told me… ‘That place is good, it’s an old place. Don’t let it sleep; find the forefathers.’”

Tammy stood up, unsure what to say.

“I can’t stop you from doing what you were asked to do,” Jane continued. “Even though my job says I can’t allow it.”

Tammy nodded nervously.

“You don’t have to leave me alone,” she said. “With all this, I know you respect it… that you understand.” She took the vial wrapped in red cloth from her pocket, unwrapped it, and added, “I think… I think you should infuse some of your own essence into it as well.”

“What…?” Jane looked confused.

“However you feel. But let's do this… please, come along.” Jane nodded and approached, while Tammy bent down to examine the soil surrounding the old tree. After a moment, she reached out and parted some weeds; they rose up along with a sprig of grass roots.

“See this? The grass was separated from the soil without breaking it, and the soil is still disturbed. This is where the king must have buried the stone.” Then she stood up; placed a hand on the trunk and took off her left boot, putting it on the grass to feel its coolness. She took a deep breath and crossed her arms. Jane, watching her, imitated her actions, taking a little longer to unlace her boot.

“Guardian of this land, we come before you in the name of the Old Ones, the spirits of Mastery, the ancestors of this continent, and the ancestors of Albainn.” Tammy bowed briefly and quickly, bending at the waist, toward the tree, her eyes closed. Jane had also closed her eyes, but bowed her head briefly as she repeated those words in a low voice.

Tammy knelt on one knee, spread the red cloth on the grass, and removed the cork from the flask; the task took her a couple of minutes. Jane watched her and knelt beside her.

Tammy placed the flask on the red cloth and took a small folding knife from her pocket. She pricked her left ring finger and squeezed a couple of drops of blood onto her right palm.

She brought her hand to her lips and murmured:

“Syth. Tubal” —and spat a little saliva into her palm. She mixed it with the drops of blood with his finger, then collected the mixture with it; she placed it in the flask and dipped it into the infusion, murmuring: “Thus I infuse the names and the blood of my lineage into the names of the Master and the Lady.”

She then looked at Jane; she offered her the knife.

Jane nodded, took it, and also drew a few drops of blood from her finger, collecting them in her palm. Then, she brought it to her lips and said:

“Wakan Tanka tunakasila” —she spat into her palm, and introduced the mixture of blood and saliva into the infusion.

She held it out to Tamara to return it, but she did not take it.

“You are last in line to complete the infusion. You do it.”

Jane poured the liquid onto the earth, at the spot where the runestone had been buried, until the flask was empty.

They were both silent for a moment, and a wind rose, growing stronger and louder; many leaves flew around them, birds fluttered about. Neither said anything, but they shared the certainty that they had been heard; not only them, but Marietta, Ian, the cunner, the king, the clans, the ancestors. The land had heard.

“Now all that remains is to wait,” Tammy said, standing up.

“And help out,” Jane added, with a weak smile. “Pray to God, and keep your powder dry.”

“Of course,” Tammy was glad she hadn't been the one to say it; in large part, she had embraced her apprenticeship with Marietta because she knew that she, as Lady Satan, had not only assumed an initiatory name but an identity of proactive social resistance. Hearing Jane say this reaffirmed her certainty that it wasn't just them, but many people, more and more each day, willing to change things before they got worse. But they would only play backup to the forces of Fate, and of the Land, which would bring about true change.

They walked back, almost in silence; both were still processing the experience. Tammy felt slightly dizzy, even though the magickal working hadn't been that intense… on the surface. Of course, the Sleepers were vast forces, and you couldn't make a mere “slight” contact with a tidal surge.

They arrived at the parking lot; the guy with the MAGA hat was pacing back and forth, smoking a cigar despite the signs that clearly prohibited it, and one of the police officers was sitting on a bench, looking bored, next to one of the rangers. The boy was slumped in the van's seats, and his mother was chattering on her cell phone, complaining about the rangers' intransigence and lack of interest.

Tammy then turned to Jane and gave her a wide, exaggerated smile; she held out her arms, gesturing wildly.

“Thank you so much! It's been wonderful seeing this place, thank you for all the trouble you went to,” Tammy said loudly while Jane stared at her as if she'd gone mad. Tammy continued, walking backward to stand in front of Jane without stopping, “This place is so beautiful that…” Jane's warning cry came too late, and Tammy's hips slammed into the trash can, knocking it over; she stumbled, turning to see the mess she'd made, and started walking on the scattered garbage, trying to regain her balance.

The second Milky Way wrapper she stepped on crunched loudly.

“Good heavens! What did I just step on?” She bent down and held up a gold wristwatch, which had been irreparably broken by her stomp. “Good heavens! This was in that chocolate wrapper. No wonder it made so much noise when that man in the cap threw a wrapper into the trash can earlier!”

The police officer’s face lit up; he stood up and came to pick up the watch. Tammy handed it to him and reached for her cell phone. It was undoubtedly very expensive, but it had been snapped in two.

“So ‘that man in the cap’ threw a wrapper that made a lot of noise, huh?” the officer repeated, smiling. The man in question came storming toward them.

“I didn’t do any of that!” he shouted, his face turning red at the sight of the ruined watch. “Kevin!” he roared, turning back to his van, where the boy had straightened up and was watching everything with a mocking grin. “You did this, you idiot!” The man strode toward him, grabbed his shirt, and raised his fist, ready to punch his son squarely in the face.

“Bob!” his wife shrieked, then added, speaking into her cell phone, “I’ll call you later.”

The punch was already underway when, at the same time, the man fell face-first to the side of the van; Tammy had kicked the foot he was standing on, making him fall. The fist passed harmlessly over the boy’s head, while the man’s nose cracked against the edge of the open door. He straightened up to face Tammy, bringing a hand to his nose, which was already starting to bleed. He started to curse at her and raised his fist menacingly.

Tammy took a few steps back and pointed with her index finger at the cell phone she held in her other hand.

“Go ahead, you can hit me; the video of how you tried to hit your son was very clear.”

The man turned to look at the officer.

“Arrest this tart!” he ordered. “You saw how she attacked me. Look how I'm bleeding.”

 

“I don't think so,” the officer replied.

"Don't you know who I am? You idiot, I'll make sure you never find a job in this country again. Confiscate that tart's cell phone right now!”

“No problem,” Tammy said, with a slight smile. “Just let me finish the Instagram live stream. By the way, I tagged your brother, the government official; this already has a lot of views.”

For once, the man was speechless. The officer took the opportunity to approach the young man, who had gotten out of the van and was watching everything with the expression of a child in a circus.

“Kid, if you want to file a report, now’s the time; my partner already told me that when she reviewed the security camera footage to identify the thief, she saw how your father gave you that black eye after getting out of your vehicle. The park’s social worker is on her way here, and you don’t have to go back home if you don’t want to.”

“Get in the truck right now, you moron!” the man yelled, and would have forced his son to do so, but Jane and Tammy blocked his path while the officer drove the boy toward the cabin from which the other officer emerged with two rangers.

Once the boy was safe at the social worker’s office, and the officer had taken Tammy’s statement—in addition to sharing the video with him, which by this point had been shared over 40 times in social media—Jane walked Tammy to her car.

“It was the boy who threw the watch, right?” Jane said.

“Of course, to get back at his father.” "Did you see him?"

“It wasn't necessary; I saw how things were, and by the time we got to the tree I'd already figured out what to do, of course, as long as they hadn't left.”

“People like him always draw things out as long as they can, fortunately," Jane said, looking at her curiously. “You're full of surprises.”

“Nah,” Tammy said, getting into her car and added with a smile. “I'm an open book. One of Carolyn Keene's!”

Jane was already on her way back to the administration cabin when she finally recalled that name, and understood the reference, with a giggle.

 

Tammy Drew’s first adventure may be read in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. Siete pasos hacia el Abismo (Tubal Albainn, 2026).

 

Credits

“The Charge” Copyright © 2026 Luis G. Abbadie. Credit must always be given to the author.

Tamara Drew is an original creation of Luis G. Abbadie, and first appeared in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. Siete pasos hacia el Abismo (Tubal Albainn, 2026).

Nancy Drew, conceptually created by Edward Stratemeyer, was developed and characterized by Mildred Wirt Benson, under the pseudonym Carolyn Keene, still used today by most of her writers. She first appeared in Secret of the Old Clock (1930) and has had numerous adaptations in television series, films, and video games. Her first four novels have fallen into the public domain, and only elements of this original version are used here. Later stories and characters remain protected by copyright law and are trademarked.

Lady Satan, originally published in Dynamic Comics 2 (1941) and 3 (1942) and in Red Seal Comics 17 (1946) and subsequent issues, her best-known version was created by George Tuska; she is in the public domain due to legal peculiarities.

Dr. Desmond Drew, a paranormal investigator, was created by Will Eisner and Jerry Grandenetti in the pages of Rangers Comics #47 (June 1949), under the title "The Secret Files of Dr. Drew"; it is in the public domain due to legal quirks.

 The Available Heroes is a series of stories that bring back classic public domain characters, orphaned or open source, to face the challenges of today's world.

This is a work of fiction, in which any resemblance to real-life characters and situations is subject to the rules of parody, and is not intended in any way to constitute a faithful representation of reality.

Footnotes 

1) This took place in Nancy y el secreto del grimorio.

2) Current New Age lexicón would use the term “actívate,” which repels me in this context, but I include it for the sake of clarity. 

 

 

Night of the Frog

 

Annex Episode of The Available Heroes

Story and Art: Luis G. Abbadie

(You can also read the Spanish version here)

 

To the Portland Frog,

Keep Portland Weird

 

The first duty of a revolutionary is to make the revolution.

—Ernesto “Che” Guevara

All those people had one thing in common, folks. They didn’t wait to know where they were going before they started their journey. They each had what Jim Henson liked to call “ridiculous optimism.” Without that, we wouldn’t have this amazing world we live in.

—Kermit

  

Jenny Everywhere and Laura Drake had arrived in Portland that morning. The first thing they did was go for a walk and have breakfast. At noon, they would see their new friends Charlene and Kim, whom they had met in Washington (1); they decided to leave with some time to continue exploring and familiarize themselves with the city. They rented a car to make things easier; they were headed to the meeting place along an avenue, and while waiting at a traffic light, they noticed, half a block down a side street, a handful of people gathered along the outside of a building. Among them, one person in a yellow chicken costume stood out.

“Look, a chicken,” Laura said.

“A chicken and a dozen people,” Jenny replied without much interest, busy with a bag of nachos. She preferred to let Laura drive whenever she could, although of course, she had to be supportive; sometimes. Laura couldn't take her eyes off those people, and suddenly she swerved the wheel and swerved down that street, then parked about fifty meters from the people who had caught her attention. “What's going on?”

“"Most of them are reporters, I'm sure,” Laura pointed ahead. A couple of houses down and a block's width away, those men and women were staring at the building, several of them holding not only cell phones, but professional cameras. A few were carrying slogans, but it was a very sparsely attended protest demonstration.

“A chicken reporter.” Jenny took a sip of her Dr. Pepper, still uninterested. Then she looked up. There were three... no, four people on the roof of the building, looking down. In the center, as if she were the most important, a blonde woman wearing a black short-sleeved blouse and sunglasses. “She must be some kind of artist,” she suggested.

“Have you seen what that building is? The ICE(2) headquarters”.

This finally got Jenny a little curious. She squinted and lowered the aviation goggles she always wore to lessen the sunlight and better see the figures on the rooftop. Two of them were wearing military uniforms; a man was taking photographs of people on the street. The woman looked down arrogantly, as if she were posing.

“Wait... I think that's Christen Nome,” Laura said.

The United States Secretary of Homeland Security stood on the roof of the ICE building, defiantly staring down the reporters on the sidewalk. That explained it; the woman dubbed “Cosplay Christen” in the media for her recurring commercials where she dressed as a factory worker, a police officer, an ICE agent, and other things to dramatize her government propaganda must have been trying to look good for the photographs the journalists would take.

“The aide who turned US national security into a gang of drunkards.” Jenny nudged Laura. “Let's go, I don't want to be in the photos.”

“How about I take one of you with the chicken?” Laura suggested. “He's eating a hot dog; if you stand next to him with the nachos, you'll definitely go viral.”

Jenny gave Laura a sideways glance and popped another nacho to keep from smiling at her lousy joke. Laura made a U-turn and headed back toward the avenue.

***

They met with Charlene Chan and Kim Garrett at a rooftop restaurant in downtown Portland. They had met a few days earlier at a street concert, and Jenny and Laura had agreed to continue supporting their new friends in their plans to help a Russian friend Charlie and Kim had met in Washington (3). Jenny had insisted on an afternoon of socializing without discussing more complicated and risky matters, neither Charlie's investigations as a self-taught detective nor the problematic Russian politics in which they had suddenly become involved. Furthermore, she had noticed Charlie gazing at Laura with suspicion as he began to notice her rather drastic ideas and her technological expertise, which even made up for the lack of resources and sponsorship. When the hacking was a mere side issue for her, it was beginning to become clear that perhaps she wasn't just talking the talk when suggesting things that should be done to resolve the surrounding crisis. Although Jenny hoped to continue to moderate Laura's impulses somewhat, she didn't want her friends in Honolulu to believe that Laura was a potential danger. Even though she just might be!

Jenny told them what they had seen that morning at the ICE facilities; Kim and Charlie laughed at the description of the chicken and the reporters.

“I'd already seen the news,” Kim said, “and I think it's what you were thinking.” She looked at her phone for a moment and showed them the video, a worm's-eye view of Christen Nome peeking out dramatically. A caption overlaid the video read: “Christen Nome exposes herself to AntiFa protesters on the chaotic streets of Portland without protective gear.” Jenny burst out laughing, while Laura shook her head, looking weary.

“Someone should put her out of her misery,” Laura said. Jenny tried not to react; comments like that were precisely what could ruin her intention to break down the barriers between Laura and their new friends. Fortunately, she had tapped into a sentiment so widespread it didn’t surprise anyone.

“It’s the worst thing that could happen right now,” Charlie said. “Just look at what they’ve done since Chuck Shatner’s murder; any dead person is a martyr, and a justification for insisting they have the right to go to any lengths to combat the imagined threat of ‘AntiFa terrorists.’ It would be a massacre.”

“Worst thing is, it could happen. I’m already convincing myself that the Shatner incident was a setup, but even if it wasn’t, they’ve milked it for all it’s worth. And even though there’s no AntiFa organization, there are many violent people among antifascists, not just among their opponents; any day now, one or two could commit something atrocious and give the government the excuse it's looking for.

“It's clear that Nome came to Portland to gather evidence of the supposed disaster we're experiencing here. Fox News keeps reporting that there's a daily war with AntiFa, that businesses are no longer open because people are in too much danger, that smoke bombs and tear gas are thrown in the streets all the time... because the president said so.”

Jenny looked around: an elderly woman was walking her Pekingese dog, some children were running toward the park with a ball, a few teenagers were laughing as they got out of a family SUV. Not a single broken window, not a single violent act.

“If I'm not mistaken, this street is full of AntiFa,” she said, shrugging. “That's a real threat to Drumpf; he needs angry, fearful people to thrive.”

“Look,” Laura said, “there are a couple of soldiers from the National Guard... they look bored to death.”

“The city is showing peaceful resistance quite successfully,” Kim said. “Plus, they shut the doors of the military and ICE agents out of restaurants and hotels, deny them bathrooms. The bad thing is that many of those soldiers don't even want to be here; they were forced to come and face imaginary threats; they're not to blame for what's happening. Some do get relentless, of course, but they're few.”

“ICE is a different story,” Charlie observed. “Mr. Dixon, who told us to come to Portland to find his son, had already warned us about this: they're violent and racist people, many of them are members of the KKK, the Proud Boys, and the like. They signed up for ICE so they'd have a legal justification for abusing and antagonizing minorities.”

“There goes a crocodile with a microphone,” Jenny pointed out. “What's up with the mascots?”

“It's kind of a Portland thing. Mascots and eccentric characters. Haven't you seen them in the plaza?” Bagpiper on a unicycle is my favorite.

“The protests are getting good. Last night there were two mascots at one of them,” Kim said, and started looking them up on Instagram. “Oh wow! This is better!”

She showed them a video that was being streamed live. Several mascots were dancing in front of the ICE agents: a dinosaur, a raccoon, even a unicorn with its enormous head hanging back. Further on, Two mimes were also dancing. The music was Mexican.

They laughed heartily at this; even Laura relaxed, and finally said. “Maybe they've finally found a way to truly carry out peaceful resistance.”

“They've been demonstrating for nine months, going from weekly to daily all over the country,” Charlie said. “Isn't that peaceful resistance?

“The government ignores them, that's all,” Laura replied. “They let them do it because they see it as a way to vent their discontent and not get in their way. But this,” she pointed to the video, “they won't tolerate it; we've already seen that the MAGA people, starting with their leaders, are completely closed-minded, they have no sense of humor!”

“Almost everyone on the far right has always been like that,” Charlie said. “I've noticed this for a long time. They don't even understand simple sarcasm; if something isn't in quotation marks, they take it literally.”

“Shall we go there again?” Jenny suggested, grinning. “I want to see that mascot demonstration!”

“The history books will remember the furry uprising of 2025,” Charlie said, and the four girls laughed.

***

The frog danced to the rhythm of El Tri's “El Muchacho Chicho.” It was a huge green mascot with a circular opening in its jaw covered with mesh so that the wearer's face was not visible. On this occasion, Bancroft Street, a small street that ended at that corner with Macadam Avenue, was packed with people. ICE agents, their faces hidden behind bandanas, ski masks, and face masks, kept the crowd at bay, or pretended to, as people didn't try to get closer, although they didn't give way either. Everyone danced and occasionally sang along. In some places, the ICE building was protected by a barrier of particle boards. Jenny joined in without a second thought. Charlie and Kim looked at each other, smiled, and did the same. Laura sighed with exaggerated resignation and shook her head, but she was smiling. Jenny approached the frog and danced a complete circle around it; the frog twirled around in time with her. Then Jenny looked at Laura and, still moving her hips, invited her to join her with a flirtatious gesture of her index finger. Laura shook her head, but Jenny persisted in drawing her in, and extended both hands toward her. She gave in, and took her hands as the song ended and was replaced by another oldie: “Aserejé” by Ketchup. Jenny screamed, and along with the frog, Laura, and about thirty other people, they began to follow the choreography of the song. Charlie broke away from the dance to start recording a video. A hand shoved her shoulder, and she turned around: it was one of the ICE agents; she had stepped back too far and had invaded the perimeter of the detention center. At least the man hadn't pushed her violently; she mouthed the words “my bad” and took a few steps forward. “This is my kind of rebellion!” Jenny exclaimed. It was already getting dark, but the streetlights were sufficient, and the party wouldn't stop anytime soon. Laura waved something at her, suddenly serious. Officers were coming through the building's vehicle entrance with a fire hose from an open glass door in the building on the right, beyond the gate. That didn't look good at all. Amid her misgivings, Laura was surprised by the ridiculous length of that hose; they must have prepared it for that night, she decided.

Beyond the gate stood an unmistakable figure: Christen Nome.

The officers approached the perimeter marked by their colleagues to limit the proximity of the dancers, and two other men came to help them hold the hose further back. The people dancing closest to them, seeing them, began to shout at them in Spanish and English when they saw what they were doing. There at the fence, Nome raised his arm and brought it down with purpose, signaling someone inside the building to turn on the water flow.

There was a burst of water, but it came from behind the officers holding the hose. Those farther back screamed: the hose had been completely cut, and the high-intensity stream had hit the officers from behind. Only a few of the protesters were drenched, with water widely dispersed and no longer at its original intensity. They laughed at the soaked officers and continued celebrating, unconcerned about the soaking. The nearest ICE men rose from a puddle; one of them still holding the end of the hose. Many people began filming them as they laughed at them. Along the wall, Jenny ran full speed toward the corner, passing behind some officers, while others were already chasing her. Laura, Charlie, and Kim ran parallel through the crowd to catch up with her. A couple of officers noticed and tried to intercept them, but the crowd deliberately blocked their path with their dancing. The chicken and a unicorn held hands and blocked their way, while the four girls walked away without looking back, and ran until they were sure they were no longer following. They stopped, giggling breathlessly, and stood there until they had recovered a little from their run; then they resumed walking at a normal pace.

“How did you get behind them without being seen?” Charlie asked. “I didn't see either!”

“They were busy with the hose, and I shifted... I went behind the plants.”

Laura rolled her eyes; Jenny was never going to learn discretion. If they were going to continue in the company of these girls, maybe it would be better to give them their full trust as soon as possible. It was better that Jenny could speak, and act, without hindrance... and so could she.

“Did you see Christen?” Charlie said. “I'm sure the hose was her idea.”

“She’s eager to provoke people, to create a riot,” Kim observed, “to create evidence of AntiFa.”

“But no one takes the bait, thankfully.” Charlie rubbed his face with both hands to wipe away the sweat.

“So far,” Laura replied. “If in any of these attempts they run into somebody short-tempered, who knows what will happen”.

“I think it's more likely they'll plant disguised agitators among the protesters,” Charlie observed.

“It's likely...” Jenny looked thoughtful. “If someone could get through to the ringleaders, it would be much better; after all, dealing with ICE thugs is useless.”

“Anything helps,” Charlie corrected, “it's just that no single thing is determining. But the more stuff like today happens, the more it will become evident to everyone that the resistance, the AntiFa, are not violent people.”

“But they're speeding things up,” Laura expressed her true concern. “They're looking to ground their power base before the midterm elections, so they don't lose an inch; and certainly, to ensure that they will appoint the next president themselves without anyone being able to prevent it. This form of resistance is good... but there's very little time. More needs to be done.”

“That's why they're reinforcing the religious angle,” Charlie said. “Their Christianity is corrupted, apocalyptic. Now they want to impose it in schools; Shatner is presented as a religious martyr. If they were Catholics, they'd surely want to canonize him.

“Did you hear someone jokingly post that a curse had been placed on him? Not to kill him; it was meant to be a humorous tidbit, saying they hoped to cause him zits and that his microphones malfunctioned... but since his murder happened two days later, many took it seriously. They even say his wife was very scared about it before anything happened to him. Nothing to reinforce fanaticism like a literal witch hunt.”

The four of them fell silent for a moment.

“Listen,” Laura said suddenly, “I just had an idea. To start attacking the root of the problem,” she looked at Jenny meaningfully. “But first, we need to talk about some things.”

Jenny looked at her, her eyes widening.

“Seiously?” Charlie and Kim looked at them both, intrigued. “Well... better than it happening the hard way.”

Charlie looked at them suspiciously and stopped walking.

“Let's see now. Let's get this straight. Do you belong to some subversive network? Are you anarchists, or something? For days now, your ambiguities have reminded me of the Oktyabr Samizdat (4) girls, and we already know what the deal is with them.”

Jenny and Laura looked at each other in bewilderment and burst out laughing, which only added to the other girls' confusion.

“Not at all,” said Jenny. “No, no... It's just, well... let's just go to the hotel and we’ll talk there.”

Laura suspected they wouldn't get much sleep tonight.

***

The room was dark; Christen Nome's eyes opened and she tried to discern the unfamiliar shapes of the furniture. It took her a few moments to remember that she was in a bedroom on the fourth floor of the River's Rim Hotel, on Hamilton Street, a couple of blocks from the ICE building. Commander Fallon had offered to create a makeshift bedroom in the offices, perhaps a temporary holding room, but she wasn't going to let them give her something so uncomfortable and tasteless.

Thinking about it, she remembered that frustrating day, the quiet streets, the pathetic crowd of Latino and Black dancers, with a few white Americans mixed in. The failure of those incompetent officers who had allowed the AntiFa's only actual act of sabotage, cutting the water line, to succeed; and who had even let the girl who did it escape! The fury produced by these memories cleared Christen's mind.

What had woken her up? She didn't know, but it had been sudden. She sat up: she was completely uncovered. The light from a street lamp streaming through the window allowed her to make out the blankets piled on the floor. She reached for the lamp on the nightstand… and remembered there wasn't a lamp on the table. There was a light switch somewhere on the wall, but she couldn't remember where. She cursed and swung her legs off the edge of the bed. She checked the time on her cell phone, which she'd left on the corner of the mattress: 3:36. She noticed the battery was low.

She stood up; she was wearing a MAGA T-shirt and her panties. She walked barefoot to the bathroom door; opened it, found the light switch, and flipped it: nothing. She tried a couple more times, but the light didn't come on.

Just what was left.

Oregon was a miserable place; she'd make sure to make herself heard at her meeting with the mayor the next day. After peeing, she went out and went to get her phone to charge it; then she realized she caouldn’t. She tested the bedroom light, and no, there was no power. This was unacceptable!

She grabbed the hotel's internal phone: there was no signal. Of course. She would send someone right now to demand that management resolve this as soon as possible. There was light outside, so it must be a problem with the building.

She opened the door; it ended at one end of the hallway, and four doors down, the hallway met the middle of another; the door to another room, indistinguishable in the darkness, was there. She began to suspect that the Portland government had given them a dilapidated building as a way to harass ICE.

As she recalled, only two guests had stayed on this floor, relocated for safety reasons. Two ICE agents were in one of the adjacent rooms, in charge of their security, but she had insisted that they not be in an adjacent room; she sometimes shouted while talking on the phone, and she didn’t want to be overheard. She would send one of them with the errand. But which room were the agents in? She thought about knocking loudly; but it was ridiculous to do that, like a Mexican housewife. He would go to the appropriate room. She considered and ruled out putting on pants; she didn't have the patience for anything else, nor was she going to dress for their benefit. The agents had better watch where they looked!

She sighed and began to walk. In the hallway, out of reach of the windows, it was pitch black, so she ran his fingertips along the wall. She counted each of the doors whose cold wood she felt along the way: five. They would be in one of the farthest ones, if she remembered correctly. She knocked on the door, which she barely perceived as a black blur, and there was no response; she knocked again, louder.

Beside her, the door at the end of the hallway, opposite hers at the far end, clicked. So there they were. The lock had opened, but the door remained closed.

“It's me,” She said. “Open up.”

There was no answer. What were they waiting for? She took a couple of steps to the door and pushed it open with her hand. Inside, there was a little light, thanks to the window, but not as much as in her room since it didn't face the street.

And the officers? In the dim light, she couldn't see anyone standing there. She blinked repeatedly to discern something else: on one side, a double bed began. Two figures were lying on it.

She approached the bed: they were the two officers, fully dressed in their uniforms, as she could see in the glare from the window on the other side of the bed; but motionless, not even their breathing was noticeable. They seemed lifeless; Christen shook her head to clear away morbid fantasies. These incompetents were both asleep when they should have been in charge of her personal security!

“Get up!” she snapped.

And something rose from the other side of the bed.

She blinked, certain the bulky shadow was an optical illusion; but the bulging shape didn't disappear: it straightened up to occupy the center space of the externally lit curtain. A rounded shadow, seven feet or more. Christen let out a high-pitched whimper and stepped back; she stepped on the rug beside the bed, stumbled, and fell backward. Her shoulder thumped painfully against the chair in each room, which toppled over with a clatter, and she was sitting on the floor. She didn't stop to look at what was happening; she panicked. She turned and struggled to sit up, her hand hitting the fallen chair and catching herself. She ran to the door, and there she looked back: something massive crouching against the light from the window, a hunched shape that made her think of a bear. It didn't have a human head; it was something too wide, oddly shaped. What was she seeing? She started walking down the hall to put some distance between herself; she couldn't see anything and didn't want to fall again, so she was going too slowly. She opened her mouth to scream and summon help, but stopped in time as she combined the various elements in her terrified mind: no electricity, an intruder, total silence. Perhaps the building has been taken over and that's an assassin who eliminated the agents, she thought; if so, if I call for help, they'll come for me.

She started to run, and as she had feared, she slipped and fell flat on her face; her left knee hit the carpeted floor, and the back of her right hand hit the wall painfully. She got up again: ahead, the open bedroom door seemed brightly lit by contrast. She ran again; the floorboards creaked under the carpet with each step of her bare feet. She considered closing the door when she arrived, but if a terrorist group had indeed occupied the building, the intruder might just as well shoot her through the door as she did so. So far, she hadn't taken a bullet; Maybe the darkness was working in his favor, and the intruder couldn't get a good aim. But now she was standing against the illuminated doorframe. She opted to go straight to the bed to grab his cell phone and jump to the side, to the part of the bedroom that wasn't visible from the hallway. She pressed her back against the wall, a couple of feet from the open door, and unlocked his phone. She was already wondering who to call: Commander Fallon, in charge of the ICE facility. She'd send help, and they were very close.

A message appeared on the screen in small white letters; she didn't bother to read it. The phone had no signal.

“Oh my God,” she hissed. They must have a signal jammer. They were definitely terrorists. Her eyes felt wet; she rubbed them as she turned back to the bedroom door. After all, not closing it had been a mistake. The intruder hadn't peeked out yet; what if he came shooting? There were no gunshots in the building; it was a silent raid. Maybe they were merely AntiFa hippies, like most of them despite the media campaign they were mounting to portray them as a terrorist organization, and not some dangerous group. If so, she wouldn't be in any danger. But then how could they have gotten in, cut the power, blocked communications? There must be other guards in the hotel lobby. Maybe, it occurred to her, they hadn't shot her because they knew how valuable she would be as a hostage; she had to count on that. If she managed to close the door, block it with the bed, barricade herself in the room, and call for help through the window... Yes!

But she needed to see who was out there. She frantically searched for the flashlight function on her cell phone; she'd never used it before. It felt like it took her whole minutes to find it... Finally! An intense beam of light appeared, illuminating the floor, and leaving retinal impressions in her eyes that she blinked several times to try to clear. She pressed the flashlight against her thigh and moved toward the door, keeping close to the wall.

Her hand touched the doorframe. She caught her breath and shone the flashlight down the hallway, barely peeking out. The beam revealed the wall, the doors, the floor… she scanned the hallway to the end… and saw a bulky, green boot. She focused the light on the figure standing directly in front of the bedroom door at the opposite end, a green and yellow figure, with bright colors and rounded shapes. Christen had a moment of total confusion, trying to process what she was seeing. A frog. It was that stupid frog mascot she had seen dancing outside the ICE facilities until late in the night, with a huge, inflated head, a crescent-shaped mouth, and large, round yellow eyes. It just stood there, motionless, letting the light shine on it.

Amidst the fear, she experienced some relief; now it really was the hippies. She had overestimated AntiFa; the civilian opposition was nothing more than a bunch of immature Latinos who didn't even take politics seriously and couldn't possibly mount an effective resistance; after all, she herself had helped manufacture their image as an armed terrorist organization to justify deploying troops in Democratic cities. She felt furious with herself. or having believed, even for a moment, her own inventions. She repeated the same things so often to the media, and to the president, that she was almost convinced herself. A guy in a costume wasn't going to intimidate her. She went out to stand in the middle of the doorway, still shining her light on the frog.

“Okay, enough,” she said. “You've made your joke. Take that off right now.”

The frog remained silent, unmoving. It might as well have been a mannequin inside; but it had come out of the bathroom; that was a person in there.

“Take off the costume and tell me your name, and things will be better for you,” she insisted. There was no response. From feeling emboldened, she went on to experience new doubts and fears. The frog had no visible weapon, but he might have a pistol hidden inside the arm of the costume. And whoever it was, he didn't come alone; how had they turned off the power? And the cell phone; that didn't make him a hippie. Maybe this wasn't so simple. “Don't you want to talk? It's the best thing for you,” she boasted. She had an idea: she hid her free hand behind her back, hoping the intruder hadn't seen her properly, to pretend she'd grabbed a gun. “I'm a good shot. Or do you think I won't shoot you? A dog, a horse; a frog. A Latino. I don't care if I put any beast to sleep that deserves it. How much do you care about staying alive?”

The frog gave no response, no sign of recognition to Christen's words. She passed the beam of light from bottom to top over the frog, alert to any movement. Suddenly she felt that her threatening attitude was too weak to intimidate the intruder: standing there, exposed, in only panties and a T-shirt. Like the victim in a slasher movie. Pretending to have a concealed weapon, the frog had had plenty of opportunity to see that there was nothing in her hand. But what else could she do?

“I'm going to count to five,” she said. She meant for that to be a threat, but her voice trembled a little. Her eyes felt wet again, and she hated herself. She looked into the frog's eyes; then she remembered that the opaque circle in the jaw of the round, upturned head was where the true face of the person inside would be. But she couldn't see anything through the mesh covering it. “One.” Why hadn't she put on pants? She decided that was what made her feel so bad, so scared. How could she assert herself, in these conditions?

And why was there no sign of life anywhere in the building after the noise she'd made?

“Two!” The stairwell was halfway down the hall, on the opposite side of the doors to the other rooms. If she could get there… The frog wasn't reacting; maybe she could move forward, pretend that getting closer was part of her threat with the count, and when she reached the stairwell, go down, or up… But what was happening on the other floors? She had no idea. She scanned the contents of the bedroom; there was nothing she could use to defend herself. She decided to take the risk. She took a step forward and said, “Three!”

Where would she go? Down below, on the next level, a guard should be at the foot of the stairs to prevent anyone from going up; a guard who would have had to be overcome for the frog to get here, and in any case, he would have heard her voice and come. Upstairs, there would be other bedrooms—if they knew she was here, it was unlikely they would have occupied them all. Upstairs, that would be it.

“Three.” She took a few steps forward, slowly; she wanted to look as if she were preparing to attack, but she felt that even her legs were shaking. The frog still didn't move; watching her. Three more steps and she would reach the stairs, but the nearest one was descending; it was a couple of meters further to the one she was aiming for, which would take her upstairs. What if she banged on one of the doors and made a noise? She might attract help.

What if all the officers had been subdued?

Maybe they had indeed taken over the building and were doing this to film her with night-vision cameras and ridicule her. Again, she felt anger, but with it came an almost overwhelming urge to retreat, to flee, to lock herself in the room and sit on the floor and cry. She felt a tear running down her cheek; she didn't want to wipe it away, to make it obvious with her actions. Instead, she said, “Five.” The frog's eyes, round and yellow, lit up with a dull light. Christen let out a short scream and recoiled; again, she lost her balance and fell to a sitting position. She crawled backward in panic, turned around, and couldn't get to her feet, so she pushed herself up on her hands and knees until she reached the bedroom. She continued until she reached the bed and there she braced herself to sit up. She turned to close the door and stay there until help arrived, but she froze. The frog filled the doorframe; its glowing yellow eyes bulged through the doorway, already inside. Finally, it was coming for her. She had nowhere else to go. She stared at the frog, praying it wouldn't come any closer.

The frog extended its right arm toward her, pointing at her with its rudimentary, green toad paws, and again she let out a short scream. Was it accusing her, threatening her? Did it have a gun as she'd suspected, and was now going to shoot her?

It extended its other arm, both pointing at her. She looked at the frog, fearing... she didn't know what, but something terrible. Then the frog flexed its right arm and touched its left. Then it bent the other one, crossing both arms. Christen watched everything, bewildered.

Then the frog raised its right arm, brought its hand... its paw... to the back of its enormous neck. It raised its other arm and did the same. Then it lowered the other and crossed it over its swollen abdomen.

Was it... Christen blinked, perplexed. Was it dancing the Macarena?

Then the frog took a step forward, toward her... and collapsed on top of Christen. She let out a yelp and thrashed against the cold fabric that covered and entangled her. She heard voices, and footsteps; She felt like the frog was devouring her whole in the folds of the costume, and she screamed nonstop.

The heavy fabric covering her was removed, and Christen's tear-filled eyes were dazzled by several flashlights. She continued screaming; she was sure she was going to be shot, or worse.

“Miss Nome... Miss Nome!”

It was a man in ICE uniform. Behind him, two more looked around with rifles at the ready. She stopped screaming and allowed herself to be helped off the floor, trying to understand what was happening. Several flashlights shone on the empty costume, crumpled on the floor, while some men searched the bedroom.

“Where is he?” she managed to utter, pointing at the costume, neither hearing nor understanding the questions the agent was asking her. “Where is he?”

Eventually, they searched the building without finding the intruder. Christen later claimed that in that case, one of ICE's own men had to have done it all. But there was no evidence of this. The power lines had been cut in the basement; the night guards in the opposite room had been drugged unconscious with a complimentary drink that the manager claimed hadn't been provided by his staff; now their cell phones had perfect reception. Upon arrival, Commander Fallon assured her that the upper floor had also been cleared to give her privacy. Some agents began to whisper that she might have tried to fake an attack to make them look bad…

No one knew who took the photos of Christen in her underwear and crying, which began to circulate among ICE personnel, but when a couple of days later, several other frogs joined the festive demonstrations in the streets with the FrogtiFa flag, it was said that this initiative had been inspired by rumors from that night. For whatever reason, the frog immediately became a symbol of peaceful resistance in Portland. Meanwhile, Christen quietly consulted with some MAGA fundamentalist members who claimed that AntiFa was also using black magic to attack the government; after several sleepless nights, she was willing to believe anything.

***

That night, as Laura Drake had anticipated, the girls didn't sleep either. Rather than stay in a hotel, they went to Biketown, a biker bar, where they were joined by the Oktyabr Samizdat girls. They spent the night celebrating, drinking beer, and playing "Macarena" over and over again on the stereo. Around 4 a.m., they all danced almost the entire song standing on the bar, while the bar crowd applauded and whistled.

Laura had been in charge of getting the photos of Christen to the ICE agents; photos Jenny had taken when she was still in the costume. To do so, she created an OnlyFans account under the name “Cosplay Christen,” which already had 65,000 followers, and they still hadn't taken her down.

Jenny had had to explain and demonstrate her “entry” and “exit” skills so Charlie and Kim would believe her, and even get their heads around it, since it would have been impossible to implement Laura's idea with them present without doing it first. It was difficult the first time, Laura knew that well.

“Nome is going to have a phobia of frogs her entire life,” Jenny said, “and at least here in Portland they'll continue to use them every day!”

“If you’d told us your plans,” Briana said, her Russian accent accented by intoxication, “we would have introduced you all to the people we met over the last few days. If the frog had such an effect on the Nome, you could introduce her to the Sleestak next time!”

“There's always another day,” Jenny replied.

 

Credits

“The Night of the Frog” is a tribute to fans and collectors of classic comic book characters.

“The Night of the Frog” Copyright © 2025 Luis G. Abbadie. Credit must always be given to the author.

The Available Heroes is a series of stories that bring classic public domain characters, whether orphaned or open source, back to life, in order to deal with the challenges of today's world.

With thanks to Scott S. for his valuable information about Portland (I'm omitting his last name just to be sure not to inconvenience him with, shall we say, “the bad guys in the story”).

The character Jenny Everywhere is available for anyone to use, with one condition: this paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, so that others may use this property as they wish. All rights revert.

The character Laura Drake was created by Jeanne Morningstar and may be used by anyone without attribution. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction, in which any resemblance to real-life characters and situations is subject to the rules of parody, and is not intended in any way to constitute a faithful representation of reality.

 Notes

1) This happened in The Week of the Long Knives (currently in print).

2) Immigration and Customs Enforcement 

3) This happened in The Many Lives of Octobriana (currently in print). 

4) A subversive musical group banned by Russian authorities, whom the four girls met in The Many Lives of Octobriana and The Week of the Long Knives (both currently in print); its members belong to the PPP, a communist-anarchist group of protest through artistic expression.