In Honor Of:
Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll)

Whom without I'd have no imagination at all.

Tiny white feathers of molten candle wax dripped from the heavens, a monument to Icarus' failure. Cold against the human furnace, individual feathers melted, rolling down Stephen Strange's stoic cheeks, collecting in a pool of rain atop his upper lip. An exercise in futility, Strange dotted his tongue across his lip, wiping away the snowy residue, only to have--seconds later--further frigid feathers dance across his face. While his Cloak of Levitation could indeed molest its shape to that of a yak pelt poncho, his face was left painfully exposed: open to the abuse of the Tibetan extremes. Just over his shoulder Wong marshaled through the horizontal snowstorm with more success; his slender and compact Asian frame distorted under several layers of animal skin and fur; his upper face also hidden by a yak skin mask.

With a wave of his hand, The Sorcerer Supreme could wipe away all the cold, the wind and the snow, and with the other hand, he could reach deep behind the mountain ridges and lift up the sun. Stephen took the time to glance down at his own pallid white palms, shaking violently beyond his control, both because of the cold and because of their fragility returned. The cold remained.

The fierce tremor ripped open his fist, and in the cracks between his fingers, a figure danced playfully like a vanishing flame in and out of the milky-white gusts. From behind, Wong stepped closer in stride to Strange who acknowledged with a nod. They had arrived; somewhere amidst this stronghold bleached white and clean of life laid the gate to K'un L'un.

For Mature Readers Only

# 2
April, '06

Strange Tales Presents

Doctor Strange

"Interlude the First: The Lobster-Quadrille"
Written by Mike Rasbury

The figure before the two travelers bowed formally and, despite the thick layers of animal flesh tucked into every joint, had managed to do so with elegant grace; a talent Strange knew he could not reciprocate.

"Rand'kai?" Strange recognized with a bow of his head.

"Doctor Strange?" the figure responded.

"Indeed; this is my m--companion Wong."

Wong stepped forward slightly and bowed.

"I appreciate your agreeing to do this," Strange continued.

"When the Sorcerer Supreme calls, you take it," Rand laughed slightly.

"If only it were that easy."

"Never is."

"If you don't mind, there is some urgency."

"No, not at all. Hell, it might be fun playing Tour Guide."

Rand stripped away layers of clothing, starting with the wool scarf wrapped around his face, and then the top layer around his torso, a thin layer of blubbery matter. He then sunk cross-legged into the thick blanket of snow while fingering the buttons on his thick fur jacket loose. His tattooed flesh burned raspberry as it met the cold; however, entering meditation, he was able to ignore its influence.

Strange recognized the process, albeit not to this intensity; Rand was aligning his chi. In previous encounters with Rand, Strange had witnessed the man summon his 'Iron Fist' seamlessly on the fly, and without much concentration at all.

Originating in Daoism is the principle of yin and yang: a dualism wherein opposites reside in every living thing. After state-funded support in Daoism crumbled, the idealogy spread through many of the existing major religions in Asia, including Buddhism in the form of chi, or spirit that might be strengthened in physical exercises referred to as tai-chi. If a soul might possess an imbalance of either, opposite weakness, impurity, or illness might result, whereas a perfect balance of the two can be manifested into inhuman greatness and vitality such as Rand's chi-fueled Iron Fist.

Rand's deep concentration--the sweat and uncontrollable shivers of power--brought Strange to fancy his Sorcerer Supreme adolescence; how bothersome opening splinter dimensions--or repairing one--had been. In his prime, however, the Earth's Sorcerer Supreme could have done such a mundane task with little more than mental suggestion.

"Something is on your mind?" It was Wong.

"The past mostly," Strange lamented, "as far from my future as I might find."

"Do not let your vanity discredit those who might not hold the power of Gods in their palms."

Strange glanced to his side, at Wong, and even though his face was concealed, he knew the look his old friend would be wearing below the mask; it was the same one Strange had received innumerous times before. Wong's cheeks would be sullen, and his eyes would burn with a din of disappointment at his friend's unrivaled arrogance.

To have his most intimate companion's disappointment was comfortable and familiar, a most prized possession.

Strange soaked up Wong's chagrin in his mind's eye until minute details shifted out of place in his mortal lenses; like an artist painting by numbers, the thick porcelain cloud-walls warmed and deepened, glowering slowly with watercolor and then pastel until every black and white outline had been filled with vibrant swatches of the Five Colors: azure, red, yellow, white and black. Now present on the blank winter canvas was the hidden city of K'un L'un.

Large bronze dragons stood as sentries above the descent down into K'un L'un; black-scaled flesh tired and battered peeled and cracked just above talons sunken deep into the Earth; serpentine bodies seeming to waver in the shroud of fog around the city like a fish struggling against a river's current and massive heads seven feet high, maws agape and alit with incense burning torches.

Below the watchful station of the dragons wound tightly like a viper were large stone slab steps around and into the city. At edge of of the walkway was a sweeping hall; it's ten pillared-entrance burnt orange as if fire itself had blessed the walls. The stone steps and foundation sparkled with a fertile gold that glinted to life under the gaze of an emerging sun.

Looking upon the wonder that had uncovered at Rand's request, Strange stood awed. "Let's pretend there's a way of getting through into it, somehow, Kitty. Let's pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so that we can get through. Why, it's turning into a sort of mist now, I declare!" he wistfully bemused.

And certainly it had melted away like a bright silvery mist.

"We ready?" Rand quizzed, uncertain if he should interrupt Strange's thoughts.

"Certainly," Strange responded. "Wong?"

His companion nodded.

"A final warning," Rand began. "This might not be the warmest homecoming; they're not going to take kindly to an 'outsider' bringing in more outsiders."

"Understood; you and Wong will serve as my protection as I procure what I need." Strange lifted his palm toward the mystical city; idle waste of time was not permitted.

Rand nodded before descending toward the initial pagoda; it's sloped curry-colored roof flecked with grains of salt whites and pepper blacks appeared scaled as if some dragon-guardian of the rains had itself rained down upon this place as its final resting place and the K'un L'un people feeling blessed had built their city around the beast for eternal protection.

At the stoop just before the entrance gate stood an elder man wrapped in nothing more than a hemp sack sliced to make room for his head, arms, and legs--his back such a horribly distended hump that his shoulders, neck, and head seemed to disappear inside it--giving him the appearance of an egg.

"It's very thought provoking." The egg reached a shivering frail arm out for Stephen as he passed; a tan fist--mottled grey with age spots--snaring the sorcerer's wrist.

Rand glanced at Stephen who quickly dismissed him with a downward shake of his head.

"Some people have no more sense than a child!" the egg rattled off.

"Why do you sit out here alone?" Stephen asked.

"Why, because there's nobody with me!" the egg smiled.

"My name is Stephen," he introduced.

"It's a stupid name enough!" With this, the curious old egg-man chortled quite uproariously, amused with himself.

"It means 'crown'," Stephen explained.

"And mine means 'Earth and Heaven'; it's a wonderful name indeed." The egg paused slightly, blowing warm air from his aging shell. "One cannot be named a king, or a God, nor can one inherit such--it must be earned." Another puff of warm grey air. "Tell me child whose name means crown--do you think yourself a king or God? For certainly I see no crown about your skull!"

"I did once, yes."

"Did? How does one do such a thing?"

"I believe it misplaced." Stephen went on without any idea of making another riddle.

"Lost--you mean lost. And if that be the case, lost..." A wide smile creased across the egg's face. "Perhaps you should check the last place you had it!" The egg's enjoyment was an unleashed fervor now; the fragile old frame rocked back and forth with such delight it looked as if it would fall back and break.

"One can't simply find it in books," Stephen continued slightly detoured.

"One can't perhaps," responded the egg, "but two can. With proper assistance you might have found it, or re-found it, rather." The egg's beady little eyes, cut like slivers from his shell, shifted side to side, eyeing precociously Strange's two companions.

Strange traced the motion of the egg-man's eyes--brimming with a brightly burning flame of wisdom--as it caressed over Wong and Rand.

"And what can three do, I might ask?" Stephen riddled.

"That's all--goodbye!" The curious egg who spoke in riddles seemingly without answers produced a crooked little stick that reached waist-high and hobbled away on it quite quickly until he had been gobbled in the mouth of K'un L'un like any egg ought.

Rand watched Strange anxiously as the sorcerer scratched playfully at the raven scruff taking seed upon his chin, produced a smile, and laughed playfully amongst himself as if he had played the most delightful game with the egg and whether he won or lost did not matter--participation alone was reward enough.

"For those of us who don't understand riddle-speak?" Rand interrupted.

"We may continue," Strange ushered.

Rand wanted to push the issue, demand that something--anything--be explained; he figured he earned that much. Danny Rand had no doubts that physically he could destroy the sorcerer without a sweat, but an air about him commanded respect, commanded fear.

K'un L'un's vastness, perhaps dwarfed by it's distant relative Shangri-La, was no less impressive as far as majesty. A strange hybrid of fantastic otherworldly technology and centuries of Asian religion, the people of the city had created a haven unlike any other.

Around the edge of the city were aged orange tiered-spires, showing peeling old flesh marred with dribbling green scabs of mold. Filling the seams between the ancient steeples were thin annexes, capped by a roof of the sandy scaled dragon's tail. Unlike traditional Chinese architecture which drew out perfect squares, the K'un L'un outline was an oblong circle, reflecting the alien citizenry knowing better than to think the Earth a square. Just inside the perimeter, running toward the middle, were the anachronistic commons. While the exterior shell reflected a deep and rich history of religious devotion, the interior was little more than claustrophobic arrangements of organic apartments; minimal shanties of bronze vegetation--birthed from an artificial soil from their home planet--gave those following The Middle Way refuge from the ever-burning suns and nourishment through synthetic proteins if they needed it. Past the checkerboard dwelling crops nearer the center was the affluent crowd; a melting pot of ideologies from Confucianism to Taoism thrived amongst the metropolis, harvested from pieces of the mother-ship's life-support systems. The beings who had lived in this area originally were the remainder of the colonists' political system left over from the crash-down. They struggled most of all to forfeit their riches and principality while integrating with the ways of their new home; their dress resembled extra-terrestial rather than Asiatic; web-like headdress of cold metal adorned their elongated skulls, and their skin was pierced with bright blue stones filled with cool, sparkling liquid; the more stones, the more importance seemed to be placed upon them. Just over the shoulder of the pill-shaped skyscraper lofts, adorned with vibrantly glowing scriptures which housed them, was the nucleus of K'un L'un: The Central Hall.

Like a heart pumping vital life-blood out to the rest of the city, the hall trembled. Long forgotten by the people of K'un L'un themselves, The Central Hall as they called it was once the living mother-ship of their exiled race. Remnants of a parasitic space species, the conch-shaped ship was now hollowed completely out and inhabited by the city's most holy: a monastery. This was Stephen Strange's ultimate goal.

Dragging through the city, the three travelers wove through bustling crowds of humanoid creatures and the first wave of dwellings. Now, they found themselves flanked on all sides by rows of cross-legged men and women with a plethora of unique crafts and foodstuff laid before them, a sort of bazaar. A woman, her face badly warped with daubs of two-tone flesh--result of burns--had an array of grey swirled ivory carvings--elephants, dragons and monkeys--all of which appealed only to the populous who still had need for trinkets. Strange eyed another vendor: a famished elderly man, his head wrapped in sun-dried banana leaf, a braided beard--rough as steel wool--diving toward his belly button and oil-thick black bags under his caramel eyes. Before the worn old man were small fruits shaped identically to lemons but with white rinds, and when cut open, the guts bled a deep purply crimson like a blood orange; Strange's eyes widened.

"I'd suggest not touching anything," Rand stated, "it's mostly a synthetic steel that our digestive system hasn't quite caught up to."

Like a pestilent child, Strange reached for one of the albino fruits, squeezing two gently between four fingers. The small white globes were firm to the touch, but the red plasm inside rolled around lazily under playful pressure.

"Or...do," Rand resigned. Glancing behind him at Strange's silent companion Wong, he received a knowing look. "Sure, why not--we haven't explained anything yet--why start now?"

"How much are these?" Strange opened his palm toward the frail vendor showing him the two fruits.

"Why, two by my count," the vendor answered.

"I can see that," Strange responded.

"Can you? Look again." The vendor smiled wide.

Left in Strange's palm was residual; the two fruits had grown ill in his hand, leaving a sticky black gel dripping off his fingertips. "Whatever happened?"

"Lost it's identity--same as you," the vendor explained, "and now, who are you?"

"I hardly know, Sir, just at present--at least, I know who I was this morning, but I must have been changed several times since then."

"I follow." The vendor nodded calmly, stroking his knotted beard.

"But perhaps it would be nice to lead?"

"With my diseased back? I think not!" huffed the vendor, insulted.

Strange smirked triumphantly. "I follow."

"Which makes me a-lead?!?"

"Indeed."

"G'day."

Strange nodded thankfully, rolling the two ivory lemons back to the vendor's blanket before drawing his cloak nearer and stalking onward through the bustling bazaar. His fists buried in his pockets, Strange sliced thinly through the molasses-thick, nutbrown crowd, fetching awkward glances and stares; mouths twisted open and lips curled in disgust; eyes were widened; the tiny black islands being consumed nervous whites.

Trailing paces behind, the muddy green smock of Iron Fist peaked through the maddening sea of people; he could sense the electricity surging through the mob. He pleaded silently by raising his hands above his head, palms out. The crowd disarmed slightly at the behest of their champion but did so unhappily; the logjam of people ahead filtering away slowly into the city ventricles. Strange smiled gratefully and even dipped his head slightly.

His normal arrogance showed proudly and defiantly ever-present, but his demeanor bled through the mask. His feeble hands lost in the train of blood-red robe, dripping down his sides; the two visits had peeled back his eyelids and forced him to view his own humanity, and it would only get worse if his theorem was correct; he and his provisional Chandaka Danny Rand had two yet to go.

"I hate to have dismissed you earlier," pitied Strange, "and I've come to realize fate has arranged for us something entirely incidental."

"I'm somewhat new to this whole Dungeons and Dragons thing, so if the High Wizard could be a little less cryptic, I might understand how I'm supposed to help you--if I even am." Strange had slowed allowing Rand to take the lead.

"Our business is there." Strange pointed toward the Central Hall.

"I don't know much about the ship...what do you know?"

"Little," answered Strange earnestly. Pulling aside a curtain of cloak, Strange fiddled with his left breast pocket. From inside he pulled a narrow ledger between his pointer and index fingers and held it out for Rand.

Licking through the pages with a single finger, Rand digested the full texts of lazy ink scribbles. "I don't like this idea."

"It's all postulation, I assure you."

Rand dove back into the book, scrubbing all the information from the pages. "Where did you say you got this book?"

"It was my mentor's," Strange explained. "I believe some of these people might have spent some time with him."

"That would explain the rough Tibetan translations of some things." Rand popped up from the book seconds later, again suspicious of the inconsistency of what he was reading and his current company. "What would a Sorcerer Supreme or two want with something like...this?"

"I would have asked the same question myself just a few short days ago," Strange guffawed. "It was something the Ancient One and I never discussed; it merits some exploration at least to put some conclusion to his thoughts."

"There's something you're not gonna tell me, right?"

"Of course."

"Well, just know that if you screw with these people, I will hurt you."

"Understood."

At the basin of the Central Hall rested three ashen statues twenty yards apart. The hundred-foot tall figures were shaved out of pure ivory, their flesh pounded together at seams to stretch toward the heavens and then bleached clean of the scarring. The first figure was of Pan Gu grappling the egg of creation at his belly, the two opposite halves garnished in gold and blackened jade. The second was of a spindly Siddhartha roosted cross-legged, his palms clasped together at his chest. The third was most peculiar, and Strange took great note of it: an elephant, it's white hull raised up toward the heavens with a human foot arced off the ground. The head was also pinned upward, the trunk coiled gently across it's golden adorned skull. This was the Elephant-headed god Ganesha of Hindu lore.

Below the potbellied god was a body; the flesh matched the ivory statue above, as did it's inanimate demeanor. Perched above the corpse--body sunk on the statue as a stoop--was a minstrel drunkenly playing a string instrument and singing.

Strange placed a hand on Rand signaling for him to stop. "Death occur often around here?"

"No." Rand was puzzled by the corpse. "The only time I've seen them die was during the dragon attacks."

Strange smiled. "You and I do not agree on course of action, and you will have ample time challenge me. Now is not then."

"Listen, pal--"

"Come," interrupted Strange. "Let's pay our respect and give our apologies."

The air around the corpse was drunk with the soft plucking of strings and irreverent lyrics:

" Rat be nimble and Rat be quick,
Rat'd eat his tail if he didn't mind the prick. "

"Good day," Strange addressed himself to the minstrel. "Might I ask what happened?" He pointed down to the corpse.

The minstrel took a glance down, shrugged his shoulders, and continued strumming his instrument. "Sleeping I a-suppose."

"I hardly think so," Strange protested. "The color of his flesh tells me otherwise."

"A man who speaks the language of flesh? Is this some sort of jest?" the minstrel asked gaily in tune to the music.

"Not at all. I am a doctor, and this man is certainly dead," Strange explained.

Distracted, the minstrel struck a sour chord; the reverberation was sick and final. "Dead? Who would have imagined...well except for the Doctor of Fleshinese, of course."

"No, no, that's not--"

"Fleshish? No, that's certainly not right," the minstrel admonished himself. 'What would you call a doctor of flesh's language?"

Strange hid his forehead in the cusp of his palm and shook it from side to side. "I have seen death many times, and this certainly is it."

"Well, the next time you see it, could you be so kind as to tell it to stay away from me?"

"Death visits us all."

"Perhaps we should try not being at home when it does! Surely death has the manners not to visit unannounced?"

"I'm afraid it's not that kind."

"What kind?"

"The kind to forget anyone."

"And you? Do you forget often?"

Strange scanned past the minstrel to the elephant god behind him; he couldn't help mocking serendipity with a laugh. "My 'father' I never forget."

"Your father you never forget..." The minstrel's eyes danced playfully across his face; his lips popped quietly as he seemed to go over Strange's words with himself. "If you never forget your father, does that make..." Dancing and popping. "A-ha!" he proclaimed. "That then makes you a father's elephant, an elephant son!"

"I've learned a lot here, and I surely will never forget."

"True," the minstrel began, "but you have not learned it all, so continue along on your journey, please."

The minstrel dismissed the three travelers with a nod and began plucking away again. As they ascended the crunchy steps of soft granite rolled in gold toward the Central Hall, the gentle twinkle of music behind them faded to silence.

At the top of the golden mountain, a hoary old monk, sheathed in a bright saffron robe, greeted them, reaching his hands out for Rand's.

"Chey'kai," Rand acknowledged, receiving the monks hands and shaking them warmly.

"How are you, my son?" asked the monk. "I felt your signal through the chi-barrier; I hardly believed it."

"No, no," Rand chuckled warmly. "I'm here, although I'm not certain I know why."

The monk tickled his salt and pepper stubbled noggin. "Um-hum," he bemused, looking Wong and Strange up and down. "A fellow monk I see, yes, and a bright lamp burning low on oil in this one."

"Doctor Stephen Strange," Strange dipped his head, his hands collapsed at his chest. "And this is Wong, a disciple of the Ancient One."

"Um-hum," prattled the monk again. "I know of your Ancient One, but now is not the time."

Chey'kai turned away, toddling through the antechamber of the Central Hall. Strange glanced at Rand, who nodded, resting a hand on the sorcerer's shoulder.

"Go ahead," he ushered.

At the heart of the threshold was a small kennel with no light, natural or synthetic, only head-sized ventricles leading into an infinite blackness. In a loose oval at the center sat six replica monks on their knees around a vibrantly crooning green flame. The monks themselves were intent on tending the flame; foreheads lowered, lips brimming with faint intonations that fed the the flame's jolly little jig.

Strange wagged his finger to get Chey'kai's attention and cracked his lips to speak.

"It is a monk's duty to tend the flame," Chey'kai explained. "After the jewel broke joining our haven with your world, a great and furious dragon--Chiantang--was roused and unleashed on us. It ravaged K'un L'un with it's breath of flame! Those who survived were forced to flee until Rand'kai banished the great Chiantang."

"It wasn't without its sacrifice, however," Rand interjected. "Something about K'un L'un hungered the immortal beast, and it couldn't be sated. To salvage K'un L'un, I was forced to erect another barrier, and the only thing I had to do so was my chi."

"We monks spend every waking thought keeping the barrier up and protecting our people in Rand'kai's place."

"These men do nothing but keep up the barrier?" Strange quizzed.

"Sleep and food are unimportant," Chey'kai began, "if the flame were to chill, our entire people would die by Chiantang."

Strange internalized Chey'kai's words; a microcosm of Earth's Sorcerer Supreme, these monks selflessly protected their world from unnatural means, no matter the personal sacrifice. Stephen Strange always had an addictive personality: personal success, fame, alcohol--the power of Sorcerer Supreme was no different. The world's most powerful humanitarian position was lost in an arrogant man's drunkenness on power, and like all his previous addictions, his latest was being ripped away from him.

"Your Ancient One promised to help us extinguish Chiantang," Chey'kai interrupted. "As Earth's Sorcerer Supreme, a few of us sought him out. If anyone could rejoin us to Earth, it was he."

"That's why Doctor Strange is here," Rand explained. "He is the current Sorcerer Supreme."

Strange pulled the ledger from his pocket and passed it to Chey'kai. The monk scrutinized the literature and the ledger in "um-hum's" and "ah's". Finished with the pages, Chey'kai puckered his lips, closed the book, and returned it to Strange. "This would test even the Sorcerer Supreme; are you sure you can handle this?"

"Honestly? No," Strange confided.

"Beware the Chiantang, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!" Chey'kai warned.

One by one, Chey'kai corralled the kneeling monks and pulled them away from the flame. With each one, the flame blackened, the charmed dance slowed to a sway, and the shadow flame sizzled into the afterlife, sable smoke snaking through the chamber.

"I don't agree with this," Rand remarked.

"If we succeed, we will have protected K'un L'un and reunited it with Earth. It's both our duties to try."

"Okay, sorcerer, what do we do now?"

"Wait," Strange instructed. "If I can't kill it, I'll need you to create another barrier to expel Chiantang; you're K'un L'un's last line of defense."

"It will take all my strength to build another barrier with the monks' help; I'll need to stay here and concentrate on that right away--I can't help you on the ground. Trust me, when some of the people find out what you're doing here, they're going to attack; you'll need me down there."

"Worry not," Strange laughed. "Wong here is trained in wu-shu from Buddhist monks; he should fare well."

"That might not be enough, depending on who decides to hate you."

"It's going to have to be."

Rand nodded in agreement, molting his upper garments and setting down in lotus position. Strange and Wong backtracked, exiting the Meditation Chamber, and retreated down the steps. Beside the three ivory statues--Pan Gu, Siddhartha, and Ganesha-- the two men stopped.

The heavens rumbled in pain with sounds as fierce as thunder; the clouds tore open, and the sky beneath filled with an unnaturally red sun. The baritone roar grew more audible until the layers of sound broke into distinct shards; guttural bass growls, the abrupt saurian hiss and clicks, and the torrential banshee sirens all joined in a cacophonous din. The giant red sun sunk closer to the two men, wrapping a thick black net across the burning hot surface and filling in the space between with thick mountains, valleys, and fissures of reptilian flesh. Finally the planet-sized beast dipped its head below the clouds.

Chiantang had arrived.

From beneath a stringy citrus beard, massive white teeth shimmered like silvery perch in and out of seaweed; above electric whiskers flailing in the wind, Chiantang's wild eyes burned with the hungry flames of hell; from the top of its skull, two massive horns like thunderbolts completed the dragon's devilish scowl. The beast was the paragon of evil.

"Are you ready, Stephen?" Wong asked.

"Oh, sure, yes," Strange responded. "Fing Fang Foom in red, right?"

Threads of light, flickers of a flame lashed out from Chiantang's throat and nostrils. The beast braced for battle: stretching its sea of scales long-wise, stroking rapacious horns soothingly with a forked tongue, and clicking vile fists of talon's together into a tune like some perverted cricket's song.

The monstrous head loomed close to the crest of the Central Hall--lips apart--and drenched the roof in scalding exhalation. The synthetic steel skin peeled back under the heat, revealing a tender and vulnerable flesh that excited the creature's hunger while filling the air with a scent of burning rind.

Down below, Stephen Strange also prepared for war, quietly sputtering to himself and drinking himself to confidence-inebriation.

"Come now, Cloak, we have a dragon to vanquish," Strange hurrahed.

His left hand a visor against his forehead, Strange peered up at ravenous monster. A mental command wandered down to the right hand, split apart and leering toward the sky; interpreted by the Cloak of Levitation, the sleeve rushed from Strange's side toward Chiantang. Wrapping itself in tight spirals like a rope, the sleeve grabbed the dragon's mighty lower jaw and tightened, bonding the creature's tongue to its mandible. Writhing to free itself, the creature tongued a dagger-like tooth, splitting across soft pink flesh and gurgling blue veins; blood erupted from the wound, splashing crimson across the dragon's chin.

Furious, Chiantang jerked its head away, but the sleeve tensed like a steel cable; flailing with the beast, the taut line uprooted the Sorcerer Supreme anchor below. The sensation of flight was not foreign to Stephen Strange, but as he was pulled involuntary toward the giant mythical beast, he couldn't help but feel exhilarated. As Strange's body-in-motion whirled over Chiantang's nape, the Cloak released its bridle on the dragon and rejoined Strange on his arm. Strange himself slumped to the back of Chiantang's neck, riding the beast saddle-style.

Chiantang began to buck, annoyed by the insect on its neck. Strange couldn't stabilize himself on the colossal scruff as it gyrated angrily like an earthquake; his seat was thrown from the creature, forcing Stephen to his feet, shakily surfing the sea of scales beneath him. Chiantang was unabated in his attempts to slay the irritant and return to his meal; a kamikaze, the saurian terror dove toward the Earth. The force generated by the suicide dive rocked the unsteady Strange backward to his seat where he managed to nestle himself for a slight moment, but Chiantang quickly gained more velocity which generated more force against Strange; he wouldn't last much longer.

In a final effort--as desperate as Chiantang's--Stephen rolled back onto his feet and leaped forward; like a point-after-conversion, Strange launched himself between the uprights of snarled and wicked horns. Wingspan spread during his nosedive, Strange latched onto the two prongs and tried to counteract his plummet. However, his foot stubbed on the dragon's leather mane, and he started to end-over-end; his fragile hands struggled to hold their grasp, but the tension was too great; the purple flesh went numb in his fingers, and the ghastly white bones underneath buckled--the hold broke. Stephen Strange was now detached and plummeting toward his earthly grave.

Stephen watched almost intently as the ground soared to greet him until the wind--blowing fiercely against his face--poisoned his sight, forcing his teary eyes shut. In his numb blackness, Stephen expected his downfall to be stopped by only the ground, not by a reversal of momentum. He pried his eyes open to see the the ground was now shrinking again, and like a doll tethered to elastic, he was being pulled back toward Chiantang.

The Cloak! he reveled.

The Cloak of Levitation had saved his life; as Strange fumbled past the dragon's horns, his coattails released tendrils to secure the sorcerer.

"I owe you my life, Cloak!" Strange had come to a still atop Chiantang's skull, the Cloak keeping him buckled to the horns.

Chiantang's haste to destroy the Stephen-insect foolishly jeopardized its own welfare; diving so close to the the terrain between temples, the dragon slammed its face into the three ivory statues outside the Central Hall; the giant creature wailed. The statue of Pan Gu cracked down the center, splitting the yin and yang at his chest down across where the opposites met; Siddharta ruptured into hundred drops of thick ivory, raining down on the people caught between--Wong, Chey'kai, and the monks included; Ganesha's regal trunk splintered, sticking Chiantang in its left eye. The beast shrieked again.

With little effort, the battered creature veered back toward the heavens, Strange still an unwanted passenger. The notorious temper of Chiantang raged at the Stephen-insect; the dragon began to vomit flames from its maw and nostrils above its head--risking its own suffering--to rain back down upon Strange. The sorcerer felt it too: convection in the air warmed past human tolerance. Within seconds Strange began to sweat; then within minutes, his flesh turned red and began to bake, all the while dwarf paratroops of flame landed across his flesh, marking a connect-the-dots of singed flesh. Strange's cries joined Chiantang's.

Despite the torture done to itself--its whiskers and beard charred, and its facial scales peeling away--Chiantang continued to spew fire on itself to get rid of Stephen. The physical torment was dire on Strange's corporeal-self, but something beyond his comprehension forbid his escape to the ethereal. He was forced to flee; releasing the Cloak of Levitation, Stephen Strange once again plummeted toward the Earth--toward death.

Strange was prepared to use his cloak this time, and as he fell past the beast's willowy tail, Strange cried out for the sleeve to reach out for it. The sleeve once again spun itself tightly into a durable thread, lassoing the final scale running down the creature's back.

Chiantang revolted again, thrashing the leashed sorcerer violently from side-to-side with nearly enough force to incapacitate and shatter bones.

From the ground, Stephen seemed to be a corpse dragged around by a rampaging titan.

"He should have defeated this beast by now!" Wong protested.

"I wish I shared your conviction, Wong," Chey'kai remarked.

"He's the Sorcerer Supreme; he could simply expel the creature from the mortal realm," Wong exalted.

"Do you really still believe so?"

"I don't know what you mean to say, Chey'kai, but I've lost my faith in Stephen before... I cannot do so now."

"He took his vorpal sword in hand: long time the maxome foe he sought--so rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought. And as if in uffish thought, he stood, the Chiantang, with eyes of flame, come whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came!" Chey'kai prattled.

At the center of Strange's right backhand glowered a pentagram in soft orange. Centering the remainder of his mystical might at the pentagram, it began to burn; beautiful fireworks leaped from the arcane symbol, forging a crustaceous mound of violent energy over Strange's fist. Summoned were the Pincers of Power.

Channeling the force created by Chiantang's flails and protests, Strange pivoted easily underneath the creature's tale. The bulky claw of energy opened wide, and Strange thrust into Chiantang's underbelly and clamped down. The pale pink belly flesh ruptured, and its scarlet contents freed, showering down on the K'un L'un streets and the now voluminous amount of onlookers that had collected.

Chiantang yowled--the agony so piercing that his wail censored the air. The creature spun around, diving after its own tail, teeth gnashed and lusting. The monster opened its majestic jaws, gushed a geyser of flames toward it's dangling prey, and charged. Strange leaped inside.

"No!" Wong's scream scarred the K'un L'un air.

"He has failed. I must return the monks to the Hall and assist Rand'kai with the barrier," Chey'kai insisted.

Wong nodded solemnly.

Chey'kai rallied all the monks around them and pressed up the steps of the Central Hall. "Rand'kai! The sorcerer has failed; we must prerpare the barrier at once!"

The rest of the monks filed in around Chey'kai, reprising their places around the extinguished flame.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Rand chuckled. "Just give a guy a little more time, will you?"

"But--"

The Central Hall fissured; the left wall erupted; minced iron, mortar, gold and clay toppled the unsuspecting monks, hit by a reptilian wrecking ball.

Outside on the street Wong watched in awe as the giant Chiantang went lifeless and flopped down to Earth, slamming into the Central Hall.

"One , two...one, two...and through and through. The vorpal blade went snicker-snack...he left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back," and then Chey'kai was dead.

The thick fog of dust settled on Chinatang's undisturbed corpse which began to shake. A bright light from inside the dragon's neck glared through the flesh until it cut through--severing the head clean off. Stephen Strange slumped from the hole, dragging himself slowly through the ocean of blood until he was free from inside the beast.

"May I help you off with your helmet?" Strange joked smugly. Stalking over to the decapitated skull, Strange placed a hand on Chiantang's mane. "Now, about that gift you owe me?"

A blue glow that burned white passed from the mane into Strange's hand where it intensified and entered his body. The glow coursed inside his arm up to his shoulder and back to the blades where the light seared his skin from the inside; traced glyph tattoos into Strange's flesh. Strange screamed wildly; the Mark of Chiantang was branded to him.

The crowd outside the Central Hall had tightened closer around the slain dragon and the rubbled hall, so that when Stephen cried out, several of them--including Wong--ran to his side.

"Stephen?"

"Here, Wong," Strange stammered.

"I thought you had been killed," Wong began. "You went into the belly of the--"

"Beast?" Strange smiled between coughs. "The world may be conspiring against me, but I don't go down that easy, friend."

Wong slung Strange's arm over his shoulder and helped his friend to his feet; he pushed forward, watching to make sure that Strange could walk. He could, but not easily.

"Wong--"

"Yes, does it hurt?"

"No, no." Strange grimaced, pointing ahead.

The two men were encircled by the people of K'un L'un--none of them happy.

"Rand brings intruders." A female in the crowd stepped forward.

"Those intruders welcome in our greatest enemy and destroy our Central Hall." A male.

"Yeah, and those bastards killed Chey'kai ,too." It was Rand descending from the broken hall behind Wong and Strange. "Guess we're gonna have to pay, huh?"

"Wong," Strange whispered to his friend. "I'm not gonna..."

Stephen Strange's body went cold in his friend's embrace.

STRANGE-IONERY

Okay, did he just do what I think he did?

If you know anything about Siddhartha and the Four Sights, then maybe; if not...then no. However, I did kill Stephen Strange. Sorry, my bloodlust is insane and must be fed. That's the end of the show--no more Doctor--go home.

Anyway, to explain this issue a little bit: I'm a huge fan of religion and mythology as well as Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. This is my attempt at doing a "Buddhist/Taoist/Hindu Wonderland." Kudos to anyone who can come up with how many times I either directly quoted or made allusions to Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass...I know I lost count. Our good doctor killed the Jabberwock (for which he received a very powerful gift...foreshadow...woo), and he even ascended to nirvana and became a Buddha; unfortunately, you need to die to do that.

For those of you who've read my character write-up on Doctor Strange, this is the beginning of that: A Strange who's far less interested in being the Earth's mystic apothecary and more interested in culling together all the world's mystic resources. He'll even tempt the gods to do it.

I just hope that Lewis Carroll's stuff is public domain.

Next issue...?