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The last syllables. No sooner had they passed the old man's lips than the air grew tense as compressed iron springs. A hollow stillness reigned. No call of bird, creak of floorboard, backfire or sputter of poorly-tuned automobile engines could be heard.
Instead, a clean crystalline chiming... Far away at first:then building, building. It was if the giant finger of Buddha was playing along the slippery edge of the great celestial dome of heaven. But for what purpose?
This was not the proper way for this spell to react. Dammit. At that moment he was struck by a migraine so intense
he knew it heralded the opening of his third-eye. Indeed, the translucent ooze
sliding down his brow announced the truth of this belief.
"Ahhh...shit that hurts!" Mr. Yuen complained. A jade green ember smoldered into existance from his forehead. He turned his awareness to the hookless fishermen on the dock: those smart-alecks pretending to be old-time Ch'an priests.
"By the eight immortals!" On the dock three robes and three fishingpoles floated. The lines of the fishing poles danced with strange energies that Mr. Yuen could feel, with dismay, from his third-eye. These were not human energies. The lines were stretched taut into a disturbance of air ten yards above the, er, spiritually invisible monks.
The fishing poles bent, straightened, flexed again. The crystalline chiming grew in intensity. Mr. Yuen's fillings began to rattle painfully in his molars.
"Tulpa!" he said with disgust.