Jerry Markham walked out of the Technology Center, glad to be done with classes for the day, and started his hike across Arizona State University's green campus. The sun was out, which was no surprise, since it was always out, and the temperature was sitting right at ninety degrees. Inside of ten seconds, every pore in Jerry's body opened up and he began to sweat. With no breeze, and what the locals in Tempe called "a dry heat," Jerry was physically miserable. However, in spite of the weather, Jerry was in a good mood.

His last class, Intro to Theoretical Computer Science, was pretty easy, and it helped to have the last class of his hellish Tue-Thur schedule be easy. Well, easier than the rest of his load. Now, he thought, just when he had the course load under control, here come the midterms.

It was his first semester at ASU, having transferred for the spring semester from the University of Northern California, in San Cibola. There were a lot of reasons for leaving the place where he grew up, but the one he kept telling everyone was simple: ASU had a much better tech program, and since Jerry was going for a B.S. in Computer Systems Engineering, it made sense to go where the A-List courses were. Truthfully, he had known about the college since he was fourteen. Tempe, Arizona, after all, was the home of Gamesmen, Ltd. and LegendMaster. He didn't play all that much LegendMaster any more, but it was still an old, comfortable favorite. Besides, if things went south in the job market, he could always apply to Gamesmen for a job.

In spite of the wonky schedule, smaller town, and higher tuition, he hadn't regretted his decision to leave California one little bit. Until it started to get hot. The average temperature in San Cibola was approximately thirty degrees cooler in the spring. Jerry was used to wearing a jacket until July or August. Not this...this dry heat. God, he was sick of that phrase. "If it's a dry heat," he asked someone, "then why am I sweating?"

The answer he got was, "Well, it's still hot, you know."

These people are idiots, Jerry thought, as he navigated the campus, walking past the Noble Science Library. There was really choice parking on McAllister Street, across from the Tech Center, but the lot was always full. However, Jerry found that there were always a few spaces open at the lot near the Engineering Research Center, so he parked there and endured the short walk. Now, as he did so, he became aware of an uncomfortable chafing in the region of his groin. Jesus, he thought, what next? When grown men chafe, that's a signal to move out of the damned desert.

Someone walked by wearing oversized cargo shorts, and Jerry stared longingly, trying to imagine what freedom of movement and the occasional stray breeze would feel like. Unfortunately, there was no way he could ever, or would ever wear those shorts. Not with his thin build and non-existent legs. He wasn't vain about his personal appearance, but he wasn't going to compound any errors he might be making by advertising his shortcomings.

The car's air-conditioner was a welcome relief. He sat there in his Ford Focus, feeling the air cool as it blew full-blast over his perspiring face. Now that his temperature was regulated, he could think about something important, like tonight's role-playing game.

When Jerry first arrived on ASU campus, he was totally alone. He had talked to a lot of people during his frequent visits, but he quickly realized that those people were supposed to be nice to him, as an incentive to come to the school. Nevertheless, Jerry had enough sense to know he had skills that, while they wouldn't earn him an intramural trophy in flag football, were just as important to his particular peer group. Within a week of Jerry hitting town, the following sheet appeared on several bulletin boards and posting sites across campus:

There is nothing more inviting to gamers than a new game master in town. Within a week, Jerry had five new friends, who in turn had five old friends. Inside of a month, Jerry broke out his old game master T-shirt. It was a well-washed, mostly black shirt, with solid white letters across the front that said only one word: GOD.

None of Jerry's new friends disputed the shirt. And Jerry looked, and he saw that it was good.

Jerry lived at the Coventry Arms, an upscale apartment complex that catered to the more affluent students at ASU, and only a mile from campus, on Apache Street. He was able to get a three-bedroom apartment, between what his folks put into his bank account and his grants. It was nice, because the master bedroom was just large enough for a good-sized table that could seat six pretty comfortably. And with the bathroom attached, it was the perfect game room for a small group.

Jerry turned the thermostat down to seventy as soon as he walked in, and once the air conditioner was blowing arctic air through the house, he went straight to his computer to print out tonight's Call of Cthulhu scenario for the guys.

His computer was in the second bedroom, which Jerry had converted into an office. He moved through the piles of clutter and plucked his web-belt off of the back of the chair and put it on. It was an old army surplus find, a green mesh belt that was festooned with various pouches and ammo cartridges. However, instead of filling it with military provisions, Jerry had loaded the belt with dice, pencils, notepads, and a calculator, for totaling up experience points. On occasion, when Jerry had props or physical puzzles to introduce to the players, the larger pouches would be filled with items.

His new friends had laughed at the belt, when they first saw it. Then they saw Jerry use the belt, flipping from pocket to pocket as he paced behind his game master screen with the efficiency of Batman at a crime scene. Jerry could bring dice to bear, and hand someone a pencil for note taking, in a single, deft move. It took years of practice for Jerry to be able to work the belt to his satisfaction, but it had finally paid off. Jerry called it the Girdle of God.

As he slipped the belt around his thin waist, Jerry decided he would check his e-mail before committing all of his mental energy to tonight's game. He clicked on his mail icon, then watched as a small load of mail appeared. Glancing through the names, he checked to see if there were any from his group. Sometimes, last minute cancellations or pizza orders would be waiting for him. Today, there was nothing of the sort. Then he saw a name that made his blood run cold.

Larry Croft.

Images came to him quickly, like flashes of a nightmare. Larry smashing a conference table. The back of Jerry's head hitting the wall. Larry's meaty hand on his throat. The smell of beer, cigarettes, and calzone on Larry's breath. His own bladder voiding its contents. The shame, the embarrassment, and the anger that Larry's rampage brought up in Jerry's stomach was almost too much to bear.

Jerry had been in numerous fights in his youth, he was just never really an active participant, preferring to take on the role of victim rather than aggressor. All of his altercations with bullies and thugs stopped in high school, when he found a gaggle of other nerds he could blend in with, and they in turn could avoid trouble en masse.

By the time Jerry had hit college, his defenses were permanently lowered. He had found his niche in the world. These people knew his pain because they too had lived it. All of his friends knew what it was like to be picked on, laughed at by girls, and made to feel worthless because they wore glasses and read science fiction.

Larry, most of all, knew it. He and Jerry weren't what anyone would call close, but they were friendly in the extended group of geeks that hung out on UNC campus. Larry was leaving as Jerry was coming in. They had known and associated with each other for years. Jerry had always fancied that they understood one another, at the very least. Not to mention, they had gamed together on countless occasions.

Then Larry flipped out at MagicCon last year. That was supposed to be Jerry's swan song, the last MagicCon he would attend for three years, at least. It was supposed to be special, even golden. He had crafted (and gotten approval for) a superb Deity-Level adventure, an epic tournament of godlike proportions. His masterpiece. It was a gift to his friends, a way of saying so long and thanks. He was totally unprepared when Larry showed up, claiming to be someone called Stercutus. They all went along with it; everyone horses around, now and again. But he kept on, barking orders, disrupting the game, and in general, making an asshole of himself. Then there was that temper tantrum that ended in violence and property damage. It was inexcusable, unforgivable.

Larry tried to call and apologize, after the show, but Jerry wouldn't take the call or return any e-mails. Larry had crossed a line, big time, and there was nothing he could say to Jerry that would erase the memory of hot piss running down Jerry's leg as Larry held him pinned to the wall of the conference room. Nothing.

So, why then, was there an e-mail waiting for Jerry from Larry Croft?

Jerry opened up the e-mail. He stared at the e-mail for several minutes. Then he picked up the telephone and started making phone calls.