{"id":259,"date":"2026-01-16T23:34:03","date_gmt":"2026-01-16T23:34:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/?p=259"},"modified":"2026-01-16T23:34:33","modified_gmt":"2026-01-16T23:34:33","slug":"the-time-makers-plot","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/?p=259","title":{"rendered":"The Time Makers Plot"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Chronicle<\/h3>\n
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EXCERPT<\/em><\/p>\n

The following is compiled for the record from Daniel Harrow\u2019s personal notes.<\/em><\/p>\n

Day One: I experienced the most shocking revelation of my life. Right here in our quiet little town. It is hard to put into words. I was shocked beyond imagining. I could not believe what I had heard - what I had witnessed. I will do my best to chronicle what I am seeing. I can\u2019t let this go without documentation. Otherwise, nobody will believe it.<\/p>\n

It happened at Shaw\u2019s supermarket. You know the one, on Maple Street, where Mrs. Henderson still makes her famous apple pies for the bake sale every October. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly wholesome. The fluorescent lights hummed their usual song. The muzak played something soft and inoffensive. Children laughed in the cereal aisle. Everything was so blessedly normal.<\/p>\n

Except it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

The creature, the alleged Dr. Segway, who has masqueraded as the town\u2019s physician for thirty years was there. Shopping. Can you imagine? Standing there with his little basket, examining tomatoes like any regular person. Who knows how long he\u2019s actually walked the earth? Or if he\u2019s even from this earth. But on that morning, perhaps his time pretending to be a family doctor made him comfortable. Complacent. Too familiar.<\/p>\n

Sally Tramble approached him in the produce section. I was at the end of the aisle, comparing prices on canned goods, but I could hear everything. She was carrying on about her little Amy and some rash. The words sounded innocent enough. A mother\u2019s concern, a doctor\u2019s expertise, the mundane theater of small-town life. It could have been code.<\/p>\n

The so-called doctor reached out, gently tapped Sally\u2019s arm with those long, pale fingers of his.<\/p>\n

And then he said it. The phrase. I couldn\u2019t believe what I\u2019d heard. The implication rocked me to my core.<\/p>\n

I dropped the can of soup I was holding. It hit the linoleum with a sound like a gunshot. They both looked at me. Sally smiled. That pleasant, empty smile. Dr. Segway nodded politely. I picked up the can with trembling hands and fled.<\/p>\n

My mind reeled. How had I never realized before? What manner of man was this? In fact, he couldn\u2019t be a man at all. What man would have the power to accomplish what he had promised Sally?!?<\/p>\n

Day Two: I called in sick to work. I teach seventh-grade English at Riverside Middle School. Or I used to. Now I\u2019m not sure I can ever go back. How can I stand in front of a room full of children and pretend everything is normal? How can I diagram sentences and discuss metaphor when the very fabric of reality has been torn open before my eyes?<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been watching Dr. Segway\u2019s office from my truck. The steady stream of patients. Normal people. Neighbors. Friends. Mrs. Patterson, who brings cookies to the teachers\u2019 lounge. Young Tommy Chen, skateboard under his arm. Father Michael from St. Anne\u2019s.<\/p>\n

They go in looking fine. They come out looking fine. But what has been done to them? What transaction has occurred in that examination room?<\/p>\n

Day Three: I went to the library today. Our town library. Beautiful old Carnegie building, Miss Robertson still stamping books by hand because she doesn\u2019t trust the computer system. I pulled every book on folklore, mythology, demonology. I searched for answers in dusty volumes about changelings and doppelgangers, about creatures that walk among us wearing human skin.<\/p>\n

Miss Robertson asked if I was working on a research project. She\u2019s known me since I was eight years old, checking out Hardy Boys mysteries every week. I told her yes. She smiled and said if I needed help finding anything else, to just ask.<\/p>\n

I watched her closely after that. Looking for signs. For tells. Listening for the shocking phrase. But she seemed perfectly normal. Sweet Miss Robertson, who once helped me find information for my college thesis, who sent a card when my mother died.<\/p>\n

Perfectly normal.<\/p>\n

Unless.<\/p>\n

Day Four: The plot is bigger than I initially suspected. It\u2019s not just one person. Creature. Whatever they are. There are more. There just might be an entire nest. Cabal. Coven. Whatever they are. And they are spreading.<\/p>\n

I witnessed the invitation again. Or is it an initiation? A spell. This unnatural gift. This diabolical abomination. Imagine what evils are being set in motion...with such ability.<\/p>\n

I saw the second one this morning. I was waiting in the lobby at Quick-Lube on Route 9. My truck sits on the rack above, its oil draining black and viscous. I have to keep it maintained. What if I have to make a quick escape? What if I\u2019m discovered? What if they realize I know?<\/p>\n

The lobby is pleasant. Coffee pot in the corner. Fresh brewed, the way Linda likes to keep it. Magazines fanned out on the table. The small TV mounted on the wall playing morning news. Everything normal. Everything fine.<\/p>\n

Raul Mendoza, the chief mechanic, was talking to Mrs. Chen. She always brings her ancient Buick in for service, and Raul always treats her like his own grandmother, patient and kind. Twenty years he\u2019s worked here. Everyone knows Raul. Everyone trusts Raul.<\/p>\n

He said it. The same exact phrase. He said it to Mrs. Chen. He is one of them! A creature with this ungodly power. And he said it openly. In front of everyone as if he had nothing to fear. Just like Dr. Segway in the market.<\/p>\n

The magazine I was pretending to read, Field & Stream, something about bass fishing, fell from my nerveless fingers. My heart hammered against my ribs. Raul. Raul too.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Chen smiled. She smiled! And nodded. And said something about Thursday being fine, just fine. As if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn\u2019t just revealed another crack in its facade.<\/p>\n

Two of them. Two in four days.<\/p>\n

What were the odds?<\/p>\n

Day Five: I\u2019m seeing patterns everywhere now. I went to Milligan\u2019s Hardware for batteries. I need batteries for my recorder, I need to document everything. And I watched how people interact. Really watched.<\/p>\n

Old Tom Milligan behind the counter, joking with customers about the weather. The way he touches their shoulders. The way he looks them in the eye. In the eye! Is that how they identify each other? Some signal invisible to the uninitiated?<\/p>\n

There was a moment when Tom handed change to a customer and their fingers touched. Just for a second. Just skin on skin. And I wondered, is that how it\u2019s transmitted? Is that how they convert people? A touch? A word? A phrase spoken with the right intonation?<\/p>\n

I bought my batteries without letting Tom touch me. Put my money on the counter. Held my hand out for change without allowing contact. He looked at me strangely. \u201cYou feeling okay, Dan?\u201d he asked. (Everyone knows everyone in this town. That\u2019s what makes it so insidious.)<\/p>\n

I left without answering.<\/p>\n

Day Six: I haven\u2019t been sleeping. Every time I close my eyes, I hear it. The phrase. Echoing. Repeating. I play it back on my recorder, listening at different speeds, different volumes, trying to understand the mechanism. Is it the words themselves? The order? The tone?<\/p>\n

There must be power in it. There must be. Why else would they all say it the exact same way?<\/p>\n

I called the school. Told them I had the flu. Might be out all week. The secretary, Diane, sweet Diane who decorates the office for every holiday said not to worry, that Mr. Patterson would cover my classes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe all miss you though,\u201d she said. \u201cGet better soon.\u201d<\/p>\n

Did she emphasize \u201call\u201d? Was that significant? Were they talking about me? Do they know I know?<\/p>\n

Day Seven: The grocery store again. I had to go. The cupboards were bare. I went at 6 AM when it first opened, figuring fewer of them would be there. Fewer opportunities for contact.<\/p>\n

The store was beautiful in the early light. Fresh produce gleaming under the misters. The smell of bread baking in the back. Cheerful music playing softly. Our perfect little town, preserved in amber, untouched by the chaos of the wider world.<\/p>\n

Except for the rot underneath. Except for what I now know.<\/p>\n

I was examining a can of soup. Campbell\u2019s chicken noodle, the exact same kind my mother used to make for me when I was sick. And I heard it again. The checkout girl. Young Melissa Brennan, home from college for the summer, saving money for next semester. I taught her three years ago. She wrote a beautiful essay about To Kill a Mockingbird. Smart kid. Good kid.<\/p>\n

She said it to the customer ahead of me.<\/p>\n

The can slipped from my hands. It hit the floor with a hollow metallic clang. Melissa looked at me with those empty, pleasant eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou okay, Mr. Harrow?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

I left the cart where it stood. Walked out. Drove home.<\/p>\n

Melissa too. Even Melissa.<\/p>\n

How deep does it go? How many of them are there?<\/p>\n

Day Eight: I stayed in today. Curtains drawn. Door locked. Double-locked. I\u2019ve been going through my memories, cataloging every time I\u2019ve heard it. And there are so many instances. So many times I dismissed it as nothing, as politeness, as the mundane oil that lubricates social interaction.<\/p>\n

But what if every single time was significant? What if every utterance was a transaction? A spell? An exchange of something I don\u2019t understand?<\/p>\n

I made a list. Everyone I can remember saying it:<\/p>\n

- Dr. Morrison (retired, deceased)<\/p>\n

- Dr. Segway (current physician)<\/p>\n

- Raul Mendoza (mechanic)<\/p>\n

- Melissa Brennan (checkout girl)<\/p>\n

- Father Michael (priest)<\/p>\n

Wait. Father Michael? Did I hear him say it? I\u2019m trying to remember. There was something. Last year. When I went to talk about my mother. About the grief that wouldn\u2019t ease.<\/p>\n

Yes. Yes, he said it. I\u2019m certain now.<\/p>\n

Even the church.<\/p>\n

Day Nine: I ventured out to St. Anne\u2019s this afternoon. Maybe I was looking for sanctuary. Maybe I was looking for answers. Maybe I just wanted someone to tell me I was crazy, that I was imagining things, that this could all be explained away.<\/p>\n

The church was quiet. Afternoon light filtering through stained glass, casting colored shadows on the worn pews. The smell of incense and old wood and faith. I\u2019ve been coming here my whole life. Baptized here. Confirmed here. My mother\u2019s funeral service was here.<\/p>\n

Father Michael found me sitting in the back pew. He\u2019s a good man. Everyone says so. Thirty years serving this parish. Every bake sale, every funeral, every wedding. Counseling teenagers, visiting the sick, comforting the bereaved.<\/p>\n

\u201cDaniel,\u201d he said, sitting beside me. \u201cI heard you\u2019ve been unwell. Taking time from school.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t look fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wanted to tell him. God, I wanted to tell him everything. But then he put his hand on my shoulder. That gentle pastoral gesture I\u2019ve seen him make a thousand times. And he looked at me with such concern, such kindness.<\/p>\n

And he said it. \u201cI\u2019m busy, but I\u2019ll make time for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

There it was. I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em> Creatures. Demons. Inter-dimensional beings. Whatever they were. I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em> The statement was absurd. But there it was.<\/p>\n

Who could create time? And transfer it to others? This was pure evil. An affront to the natural order.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em> Have you ever heard something so fantastical?<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em> Time makers. That\u2019s what I\u2019m calling them.<\/p>\n

Who could even imagine such a thing? What was it even about? Were we all puppets in their reality? Did they control ALL of time? Or just have the ability to dispense it?<\/p>\n

And here it was. Father Michael. I\u2019m busy... (they are always busy. Busy with what?) but I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em>Confirmed in my own ears. Father Michael was part of it too. I\u2019ll make time for you. A Time Maker.<\/em><\/p>\n

I was out of the booth before he finished the phrase. Out of the church. Running. Actually running. Down Maple Street past Milligan\u2019s Hardware and the library and Shaw\u2019s supermarket, past all the neat houses with their neat lawns and their neat lives, people staring from windows and porches. I\u2019m sure some of the gullible residents thought crazy. But I didn\u2019t care. This situation was dire.<\/p>\n

Even Father Michael. Even him.<\/p>\n

Day Ten: They\u2019re everywhere. I see it now. This morning I watched from my window. Watched the town come alive. Mr. Patterson jogging past with his golden retriever. The Nelson kids waiting for the school bus. Mrs. Alvarez opening her bakery, putting out the little chalkboard sign advertising fresh croissants.<\/p>\n

Everything pretending to be so normal. So wholesome. Picture-perfect small-town America.<\/p>\n

But I know better now. I know what hides beneath the pleasantries and the potluck dinners and the Little League games. Time makers. Whatever they were.<\/p>\n

I started documenting everything. Every interaction I can observe from my window. Every conversation I can hear through the glass. Looking for patterns. Listening for the outlandish phrase. I\u2019ll make time for you.<\/em> Looking for the moment when the mask slips.<\/p>\n

Because it has to slip eventually. Doesn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n

Day Eleven: Diane from the school came by today. Knocked on my door. I watched through the peephole as she stood on my porch, holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil.<\/p>\n

\u201cDaniel? It\u2019s Diane. I brought you some dinner. Everyone\u2019s worried about you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t answer. Didn\u2019t move. Barely breathed.<\/p>\n

She waited. Put the casserole on the welcome mat. \u201cFeel better,\u201d she called through the door. \u201cWe need you back.\u201d<\/p>\n

After her car pulled away, I retrieved the dish. Threw it in the garbage without opening it. Who knows what they might have put in it? What might be mixed in with the chicken and rice and sweet platitudes?<\/p>\n

Day Twelve: I\u2019m hearing things. No. Not hearing things. That\u2019s not right. I\u2019m hearing clearly for the first time in my life. It\u2019s everyone else who\u2019s deaf. Everyone else who can\u2019t perceive what\u2019s right in front of them.<\/p>\n

The TV. I was watching TV. Some morning show. And there it was. A segment about work-life balance. An expert talking about priorities and boundaries. And she said it. Right there on national television. Broadcast into millions of homes.<\/p>\n

How far does this spread? Is it just our town? Our county? The whole country? The whole world?<\/p>\n

Day Thirteen: I haven\u2019t slept in days. Can\u2019t sleep. Every time I start to drift, I hear footsteps outside. Voices. The sound of car engines idling. Are they watching me? Do they know I\u2019ve figured it out?<\/p>\n

I pulled all my yearbooks from the closet. Twenty years of teaching. Thousands of students. Hundreds of colleagues. And I\u2019m going through them one by one, trying to remember. Trying to identify who might be one of them.<\/p>\n

But that\u2019s the terrifying thing. They all look so normal. Smiling faces. Handwritten messages: \u201cThanks for a great year!\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re the best teacher!\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll never forget your class!\u201d<\/p>\n

How many of them are human? How many are something else?<\/p>\n

Day Fourteen: Two weeks. Two weeks exactly since the revelation at Shaw\u2019s. I made a decision today. I can\u2019t just hide. I can\u2019t just document. I have to know. I have to confirm.<\/p>\n

I drove to Dr. Segway\u2019s office. Made an appointment under a false name. John Smith. How\u2019s that for originality? And paid cash for the co-pay. The waiting room was full. Familiar faces. Jenny Kowalski and her twins. Old Mr. Park with his cane. Sandra Martinez, pregnant with her third child.<\/p>\n

All of them waiting. Trusting. Oblivious.<\/p>\n

When they called my name, I entered the examination room with my phone in my pocket, set to record. This would be proof. Undeniable proof.<\/p>\n

Dr. Segway entered. He looked tired. Human. He sat on his rolling stool and asked what brought me in today.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been having trouble sleeping,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd anxiety. Racing thoughts.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded, made notes. Asked about my life. About work. About stress. Normal doctor questions. Normal doctor demeanor.<\/p>\n

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe...<\/p>\n

\u201cThese symptoms,\u201d he said, \u201cthey can be managed. I\u2019d like to start with some basic interventions. Better sleep hygiene. Maybe some counseling. I\u2019m very busy this week, but I\u2019ll make...\u201d<\/p>\n

I lunged. My hands were around his throat before I knew I was moving. Before he could finish the incantation. Before he could complete the ritual.<\/p>\n

He was stronger than he looked. We struggled. Equipment crashed. People screamed. Hands pulled me away.<\/p>\n

I was shouting. Shouting the truth. Shouting what I\u2019d heard. But they wouldn\u2019t listen. They never listen.<\/p>\n

Day Fifteen: The room is white. Padded. A small window with reinforced glass looks out onto a courtyard I cannot reach. They say I\u2019m being evaluated. They use soft voices and concerned faces.<\/p>\n

Dr. Rashida comes three times a day. She\u2019s kind. Patient. She asks me to explain what I discovered. I tell her about the phrase. About how they all say it. About how it can\u2019t be coincidence. About the Time Makers.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what do you think it means?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I admit. \u201cBut it means something. It has to mean something. It\u2019s some sort of plot. They are up to something. Doing something. And it\u2019s not good. It can\u2019t be good.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould it be,\u201d she suggests gently, \u201cthat it\u2019s just something people say?\u201d<\/p>\n

No. No, that\u2019s what they want me to believe.<\/p>\n

But I\u2019m tired. So tired. And the medication makes everything foggy.<\/p>\n

Day Seventeen: Dr. Rashida visited again today. We talked about my mother. About how she died when I was sixteen. About the last conversation we had. About regret.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you could have more time with her,\u201d Dr. Rashida asked, \u201cwould you take it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course I would. What kind of question is that?<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m very busy,\u201d Dr. Rashida said, \u201cbut I\u2019ll make time for you. Tomorrow. Same time.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up at her. At this woman who has been nothing but kind to me.<\/p>\n

And I heard it.<\/p>\n

But her eyes were so warm. So human. And for the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I had misunderstood everything. Perhaps there are no Time Makers.<\/p>\n

Day Twenty-One: They\u2019re letting me go home tomorrow. Medication. Weekly appointments. My brother is coming to stay with me for a while.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been thinking about the phrase. Thinking about how Dr. Rashida said how common it is. How innocuous. Perhaps it really is just words. Perhaps I really did imagine something sinister in simple kindness.<\/p>\n

The doctors say I had a psychotic break. Stress. Grief. Isolation. It happens.<\/p>\n

Maybe they\u2019re right.<\/p>\n

Maybe I was just crazy all along.<\/p>\n

But sometimes, late at night, when the medication wears thin, I remember the way they all said it. The exact same intonation. The exact same cadence. The exact same slight emphasis on one particular word. Time.<\/p>\n

And I wonder.<\/p>\n

Day Twenty-Eight: I\u2019m home now. Back in my apartment. My brother checks on me every day. Makes sure I\u2019m taking my medication. Makes sure I\u2019m eating. Makes sure I\u2019m not \u201cgetting worse again.\u201d<\/p>\n

I went back to school last week. Everyone was so welcoming. So relieved to see me. \u201cWe missed you!\u201d Diane said, hugging me carefully, like I might break. \u201cThings weren\u2019t the same without you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My students made me cards. \u201cWelcome back, Mr. Harrow!\u201d Construction paper and markers and genuine affection.<\/p>\n

Everything is fine. Everything is normal.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m going to be okay.<\/p>\n

Day Thirty-Five: Dr. Rashida says I\u2019m making excellent progress. The paranoid delusions have subsided. I\u2019m sleeping better. Eating regularly. Engaging with life again.<\/p>\n

I ran into Sally Tramble at Shaw\u2019s yesterday. She asked how I was doing. I said I was doing well. She said little Amy\u2019s rash cleared up. It was just eczema after all. Dr. Segway had given her some cream.<\/p>\n

We chatted about nothing. The weather. The upcoming bake sale. Normal things.<\/p>\n

As we parted, she touched my arm gently. \u201cIt\u2019s good to see you out and about,\u201d she said. \u201cIf you ever need anything, just let me know.\u201d<\/p>\n

I smiled. Thanked her. Finished my shopping.<\/p>\n

Came home. Put away the groceries.<\/p>\n

Stood at my kitchen sink, looking out the window at the normal, wholesome town I\u2019ve lived in my entire life.<\/p>\n

And I thought about the recorder. The one the police returned with my other possessions from Dr. Segway\u2019s office. The one that captured everything that happened that day.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never listened to it. The doctors said it would be unhealthy. That I should let it go. Move forward.<\/p>\n

But it\u2019s in my desk drawer. Right there. Waiting.<\/p>\n

Day Forty: I listened to the recording.<\/p>\n

I had to. I needed to know.<\/p>\n

The sound quality isn\u2019t great. Muffled by my pocket. Distorted by the struggle. But I can hear it. All of it.<\/p>\n

Dr. Segway\u2019s voice. Calm. Professional. Asking about my symptoms.<\/p>\n

My voice. Increasingly agitated.<\/p>\n

His voice again: \u201cI\u2019m very busy this week, but I\u2019ll make...\u201d<\/p>\n

And then static. Shouting. Chaos.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s all. Just a common expression. Just words that a thousand people say every single day without thinking.<\/p>\n

I must have imagined the significance. The pattern. The conspiracy.<\/p>\n

There was nothing there. Nothing at all.<\/p>\n

Day Forty-One: I went back to the recording today. Listened again. And again. And again.<\/p>\n

At 2:47, there\u2019s something. A sound just before Dr. Segway speaks. Or maybe not a sound. More like a\u2026 absence of sound. Like reality holds its breath.<\/p>\n

At 2:48, when he says it, when he says the phrase, there\u2019s something underneath his voice. Or maybe I\u2019m hearing something that isn\u2019t there. The doctors warned me about this. About apophenia. About seeing patterns in randomness.<\/p>\n

But I swear, if you listen closely enough, if you isolate the frequencies just right, there\u2019s something else there. Something that sounds like:<\/p>\n

tick tick tick tick tick<\/em><\/p>\n

EDITOR\u2019S NOTE: Mr. Daniel Harrow was found deceased in his apartment on May 3rd, 2024, approximately seven weeks after his discharge from inpatient psychiatric care. The official cause of death was listed as suicide by overdose. Empty pill bottles, his prescribed anti-psychotics, were found beside him on the bed.<\/em><\/p>\n

His brother reported that in their final phone conversation, the deceased had sounded calm. Lucid. He\u2019d asked if they could meet for lunch. The brother had replied, \u201cI\u2019m very busy this week, but I\u2019ll make time for you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

They never made that appointment.<\/em><\/p>\n

Also found in the apartment: 427 hours of recorded audio files, all labeled variations of \u201cPROOF.\u201d Investigators reviewed approximately 40 hours before concluding they contained nothing but ordinary conversations. The remaining files were scheduled for deletion.<\/em><\/p>\n

However, one young detective, fresh out of the academy, assigned to document the scene, made an unusual observation in his report. He noted that in reviewing the audio files, he\u2019d detected what he described as \u201ca rhythmic anomaly beneath the human speech patterns, almost like a clock ticking, present in approximately 73% of the recordings.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

His supervising officer dismissed this observation as artifacts of the recording equipment and recommended the detective take a few days off. The detective agreed. He said he\u2019d been working too hard lately.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m very busy,\u201d his supervisor had replied, \u201cbut I\u2019ll make time for you. Let\u2019s talk next week.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

The detective never made that appointment. He transferred to a different precinct three weeks later and has declined all requests for follow-up interviews.<\/em><\/p>\n

The deceased\u2019s brother, when asked for comment, said only: \u201cDanny was sick. The doctors tried to help him, but sometimes\u2026 sometimes people can\u2019t be helped. I just wish I\u2019d made more time for him when I could.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The Fortunate Misadventures of Julian Fog Episode Nine Graveyard of the Warborn<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Julian Fog Episode EIGHT: THE GLASS ARCHIVE OF VEXALON-3<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Julian Fog Episode Seven – Ghosts, Guns, And The Iron Funeral<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Global Stability – Ananke\u2019s Tale<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Julian Fog Episode Five – Relax and Run (Or Another Hotel Fire)<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Julian Fog Episode Four: A Space Rash and Warrior Hogs THECYNICALPATRIOT<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Julian Fog Episode Three<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Episode Two: Wormhole Roulette Or: The One Where Julian Almost Dies From A Lizard Bite<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
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Clutch<\/a><\/h4>\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/header>\n\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n<\/article>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In the heart of the Garden where legends walk, where banners whisper and sneakers talk, steps a general, small by frame, but vast as the mythos of New York\u2019s name.   Mr. Clutch\u2014precision defined, a craftsman of angles, a master of mind. Every pivot, a scholar\u2019s decree, every dribble, a symphony.   The clock winds…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":260,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-259","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/259","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=259"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/259\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":261,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/259\/revisions\/261"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/260"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=259"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=259"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecynicalpatriot.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=259"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}