Jessica Holden never expected her night out with friends to turn out the way it did, saved from the unwanted advances of a local thug by a chivalrous – and somewhat mysterious – stranger called Guthry Muscleflex.
Who is this brave and talented man, who can fight like an action hero and – as Jessica later discovers – play beautiful music? And why does he find the world around him so perplexing? And where exactly is the land of Drianglia, the place he claims as home?
Soon Jessica is drawn into Guthry’s quest to get back to Drianglia and avoid capture by the Medical, Military and Microprocessing Research Company, from whose clutches he has escaped.
Does he really face death if they find him? Or is he just crazy? Either way, Jessica knows she must help him.
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Opening Paragraphs
In every occupied room at the Stag Hotel, the sounds of soap opera or sport dispelled the lonely silences – apart from one room. In room 32, the television set had not so much been ignored as discriminated against; it had been turned to face the wall, like a bad child punished at school. A man stood before the mirror, newspaper in hand. “I am Guthry Muscleflex,” he insisted, staring at his reflection, the disturbingly young face mocking him. “I am not mad. There is a rational explanation for all this.”
Earlier, holding new weapons in his hands, he had felt bright and optimistic. Now his task again seemed immense, weighing upon his mind like the threatened revenge of a giant ogre. He dragged a smile to his face, forced a positive note into his voice, and raised the Emford Chronicle. “Maybe the answers lie herein.”
Guthry moved to the bed. Sitting cross-legged upon it, he spread the newspaper open across his lap. Anxious to find out what he could about this perplexing world, he read all the news with equal interest, the small triumphs, the parochial disasters. Again he spoke his thoughts aloud, as though the mere sound of his voice might ease his troubles: “I had hoped for some answers to my mystery – or at least some clues. Instead this Chronicle has served only to fill my head with more questions. I am no closer to an understanding.” He abandoned the paper, dropping it upon the bed, and went back to the mirror. He stared at his young face in silent meditation, saw the beads of panic begin to glisten upon his brow.
“No!” he cried, striking his fist down upon the desk. A lamp stand wobbled dangerously. “I shall not allow myself to drift into despondency! I shall not fall foul to fear! Tomorrow I shall make further endeavours in finding some gainful employment and perchance make a good start upon my journal. For now, I shall commit to paper a brief note of the latest happenings. Yes, that is what I shall do!”
He opened a drawer and removed his rough notes, placing them upon the desk. He turned to a clean sheet and began scribbling. Before long he had recorded sufficient short-hand notes to jog his memory later, when he would write the full account of his story. “There!” he cried, with more than a touch of forced enthusiasm. “That should suffice.”
Paying heed to the advice given by the hotel’s barman, Guthry slid his weapons beneath the bed and left the hotel, his destination the Fishers’ Rest. Simply doing something, going somewhere, might help.