Lazlo Randolph Horthy let his voice split the cool night air. Our protagonist - our hero, if you will - was yelling his fool head off, and waking the neighbors. It was wrong, but understandable.

He yelled slogans. He yelled snatches of poetry that he still remembered. He yelled batting statistics from the sports section of the Evening Star-Ledger. He yelled a litany of fact and fiction that split the evening's calm with the focused efficiency of a veteran lumberjack splitting a piece of firewood on a stump.

"Randy, shut up!" yelled one of the many disturbed townspeople. Her voice was a threadbare grackle song to Lazlo Randolph Horthy's baritone thunderclap, and it soon withered. Somewhere out there, a baby cried. Lazlo smiled. He shrugged his massive shoulders, folded up the paper, and went back inside.

The next day's edition of the Star-Ledger contained an ad, placed by Mr. Horthy, apologizing for the previous night's disturbance. As per usual, the ad said that any townsperson upset or troubled by the racket could come to the Lodge and pick up a complimentary dinner, courtesy of Horthy Enterprises. The dinner would come with "all the fixin's." Moreover, there would be an open bar.

The ad closed with a quote:

"Action is eloquence."
-Shakespeare

The Lodge filled up quickly with townspeople, some superfluously clutching copies of the ad. Nobody checked for them at the door. Lazlo didn't insist on credentials, and the people who showed up were legitimate. They'd been awakened by the human thunderstorm.

The mayor had arrived early, and he sat at Mr. Horthy's side, arguing with him about the upcoming presidential election. Mr. Horthy was a well-known Libertarian, and a perennial loser for the post of State Treasurer. Still, he was well-read, and the mayor liked hearing what Horthy had to say.

The mayor smoothed down the tattered remnants of his hair with his hand.

Mr. Horthy liked Jesse "The Body" Ventura.

Mr. Horthy's father had been killed by a hot dog vendor's cart that had, in turn, been struck by a speeding Volkswagon.

Mr. Horthy's wife had died the same way.

The hills had echoed with his voice the first night he was faced with the prospect of sleeping without Maryanne. Mr. Horthy yelled at God, but not in a confrontational manner. Mr. Horthy yelled with respect, a respect that the townsfolk could only shake their heads and wonder at.

God was up there, he said to people who talked to him, later. He was up there - but hard of hearing. Did God hear whispered prayers, silent prayers, mumbled prayers? Was there any evidence of it?

No.

Did God hear prayers shouted above the old treetops, into the yawning black sky? No one knew - but who had tried it? Any God irresponsible enough to throw hot dog carts around like they were bocce balls might just be hard of hearing - and might need to have things enunciated. "E-nun-ci-ate," said Mr. Horthy to his class, a bunch of little would-be business achievers. Sometimes his students mumbled, and threw their verbs against their nouns like shoelaces, and dropped syllables into the dusty air, leaving un-crisp, un-powerful, un-declarations that failed to ring out clearly across the little classroom.

Mr. Horthy had made his millions by knocking down the trees.

Years passed, and Mr. Horthy's hollering decreased in frequency. The prayers grew more and more abstract, and the neighbors grew less and less touched, and less and less annoyed. Soon, Mr. Horthy was down to one really solid session a month, yelling mostly about the state of the semiconductor business, and a commentary on the quality of the fresh produce at Young's Market, and the townsfolk were marking their calendars in the dead of night, marking down the next Thursday as a big, complimentary feast at the Lodge.

Mr. Horthy's religion brought people together, and the baked potatoes were delicious.

Then - there was silence. When the townspeople checked up on Mr. Horthy at Horthy Enterprises, it became known that he had sold his controlling interest to a Swedish investment firm, and he had taken a sabbatical from teaching. When the neighbors stopped by his house, it became clear that he had left. The door to the sprawling wooden lodge was unlocked. Inside, the place was neat as a pin, and the dog was gone.

Up in the hills, Lazlo marched along, taking big steps. DotComDog padded alongside him, a four-legged bundle of blond enthusiasm and good cheer. Halfway up Mount Alabaster, Lazlo's cellular phone rang - di di di! di di di! di di di! and then found itself flung over a ledge, down into a gorge. DotComDog glanced at the falling piece of plastic, and momentarily considered going after it. But, no, it wouldn't really be a good idea. Too many rocks. Too much of a trip. From the phone's perspective, the fall took but seconds. At the bottom of the gorge, the phone buzzed miserably a couple of times and then gave up.

"So," rumbled Lazlo, after a while. "I suspect you're curious about where we're headed." DotComDog looked up at him with wonder and admiration. "Damn," thought the dog - "I find new things to admire about this guy every day. I love being outdoors. I wonder what he's talking about. I'm somewhat peckish."

"We're looking for Maryanne," said Horthy, gruffly, as they continued to plod up the mountain path. In the distance, a storm slowly gathered itself up from an otherwise disinterested cloud formation. "Maryanne!" thought the dog. "Good Lord! Where have I heard that name before? I hope it doesn't rain too soon. I wonder when I'm going to be fed."

The man and his dog continued up the mountainside. Little clouds scudded humorously across the sky, scouting the way for the thunderheads that dragged themselves along in the rear of the procession. Billows of cold air swept across the path of Lazlo and DotComDog, dragging with them the primal scent of ozone.

A cavern opened up suddenly. It was modestly clothed in a green frock of underbrush, but Lazlo knew the place immediately, and stepped inside. DotComDog followed. As he did, his left rear paw was struck by a single fat drop of rain.

"Lazlo," spoke the face. It spoke slowly, chipping off bits of itself as it moved. The mouth ground out the two syllables in a rumbling bass that made Lazlo jump a foot and a half into the air.

"Fuck this," mumbled Lazlo. He took off, running deeper into the cavern, DotComDog at his heels.

"Wait," spoke the face, slowly. "I have something to say to you."

But it was too late.

Lazlo plunged into the cavern - and days passed. Water ran in rivulets, but food had to come from Lazlo's pack. He and the dog ate jerky, and liked it. Lazlo did not know what to expect, and he used his flashlight only when he felt as though he couldn't feel he way along the smooth stone of the cavern.

When his light fell upon a forest of dark stalagmites, his back arched. They looked sad - they brooded. DotComDog shuddered and whimpered, refusing to go forward.

Lazlo snapped.

"Give me my wife back!" he yelled. It echoed.

"Give me my wife back!" he hollered. His throat vibrated with a particulate rage that sprayed itself through the air and bounced off the rocks, knocking among the pillars as it reflected and spent itself.

Dust settled, and the rocks answered, in a voice like a hurricane of humming glassware. "She cannot come back to your world."

"Ah-HAH!" yelled Lazlo. "I had no doubt that you were there. I came for Maryanne. I know you have her, and I want her back."

"Orpheus played for us," said the sad, hollow voice. "What will you do?"

"I will harass you unless you give her back. And if I die down here from hunger or thirst, then I'll hang around even longer, right?"

The sad hollow voice was silent for a moment. The cavern was still.

"I have got the capacity," he said. "I have been told that I have the capacity." Lazlo glared at the ceiling. DotComDog barked helpfully. Lazlo patted DotComDog's back. "Good boy."

And Maryanne stepped out from behind a rock. She was tall as ever. Her hair was red, and fell in ringlets to her shoulders. She wore a leather jacket. She still had the little silver lip stud. It glinted under the Rayovac glare of the flashlight.

"Lazlo!" she said. "Thank you!"

"Yeah, don't mention it," he said, choking.

"Don't look back!" whispered the voice. Lazlo was already running, but he heard the moaning flute, and recalled the myths.

His feet fell quickly on the hard rock floor, and for minute after minute, he heard six other feet following him through the dark cavern: four gentle, padded paws and the strong striding steps of his wife.

Suddenly, however, there was a spray of gravel. Someone had stumbled. Maryanne cried out in dulcet tones: "fuck!"

And Lazlo had turned around, shining the flashlight behind him.

And his hands shook, before the conscious part of his brain could begin to comprehend what had happened.

DotComDog faded away, leaving behind only a single, simple bark of friendship and admiration.

"What the hell..." began Lazlo. The bark repeated itself: gentle, friendly, fading, gone.

Lazlo stared at Maryanne, sure that she would fade to a transparent shadow of herself and, after a poignant pause, follow the dog back to the depths of the darkness. She didn't.

"Come on, Lazlo," she said. He took her hand. It was warm to the touch, and substantial. Her fingers were long, and they wove themselves through his powerful gauntlets of flesh, bone and sinew.

The two of them pushed forward, together now. In an hour, they passed the face in the wall.

"Hey," said the face, slowly turning toward its antagonist. "You can't come past here again."

Lazlo and Maryanne charged ahead, toward the dim light of the outdoors. Faintly, in the distance, the face was yelling something threatening that none of them could quite make out.