“You make sandwiches?” Steve asked.

“Dah. Ivan make sandwich so good you be like, wow, never have sandwich what better, is good for health,” Ivan said.

“What kind of sandwich is it?” Dawn asked, narrowing her eyes at the table-clad man.

“Is best sandwich. Ivan make best sandwich — you no disappoint, Ivan insist. Come. Franklin stove-costumed man put sword away and Ivan make sandwich.”

Gore chose to ignore Burney’s scream of commentary on whether or not Gore’s demonic armor looked like a Franklin stove.

Seeing that there wasn’t actually going to be a battle between these two large creatures, most of the medieval battle reenactors chose to disperse. They grumbled about the lack of a fight. Solace would only be found in the various drinks and snacks they’d stored in nearby tents and pickup trucks parked at the edge of the battlefield’s camp.

“What about my car?” Steve asked.

“Ivan brother Dmitri fix car. Ivan brother Dmitri!” Ivan called out.

From the dispersing crowd of reenactors leapt to action a short, thin man who stood with a clattering of wood and plastic as he came to a stop in front of Ivan. Dmitri wielded two ends of a folding chair like twin daggers. He adjusted his desk chair helmet with a salute to Ivan. A pair of stools were his shoulder pads, and the backrest of probably the same folding chair that was used to create his weapons made up his chest plate.

Steve wondered if they had a sister who dressed up as a refrigerator. Then he realized that joke might be sexist, so he kept his comment to himself, though he did chuckle a bit.

“Get car unstuck,” Ivan ordered his chair-clad little brother. Dmitri saluted and ran toward Steve’s car. “There. Problem fix. Ivan brother Dmitri unstuck car, hat man join Ivan for sandwich back at Ivan tent, is good for health.”

“My challenge has not been withdrawn,” Gore said.

“Consider it withdrawn, Gore, I’m hungry,” Dawn said as she helped Burney out of his chained position atop the car. Dmitri, ever the cordial chair-clad reenactor, bowed in passing to Dawn as he hopped inside to free the car.

“I hunger only for witnessing this mortal’s spine ripped out before my eyes.”

“Sandwich first, spine-ripping later.”

Dawn patted Gore on his decidedly not Franklin stove-like armor and walked toward Ivan. Ivan smiled. “Come then. Ivan show you battle camps. Much to see,” Ivan said, and turned to walk back up the hill.”

“I never get to rip spines out anymore,” Gore grumbled.

“Just think, Gore,” Steve said as he followed Ivan and Dawn up the hill, “if the sandwich is as good as he describes, you’ll be ripping spines all across the world in the last battle of good and evil.”

“I can only hope.”

While Gore ran to catch up to his companions ascending the hill, no one save Burney was present to notice Dmitri struggling to free Steve’s car. Burney was eager to get a sandwich as well, but stopped when he heard a screech of tires.

The chair-armored Dmitri shifted into forward and reverse, forward, reverse, forward-reverse to rock the car free of its confines. After spinning the tires and finally gunning the engine, the car leapt free of its entrenchment. The sudden burst of acceleration sped the car uncontrollably fast, and Dmitri braced against the steering wheel. He had to aim the car away from the trees at the edge of the Civil War reenactors’ camp. Union and Confederate soldiers alike leapt away from the car, but nothing could be done to save Dmitri from crashing into the center of the camp and running right over the man dressed as President Lincoln.

Burney saw Lincoln go down, his top hat shot skyward. With only a distant cry of surprise, the 16th president disappeared beneath the Japanese compact. Burney then screamed in wonder if that actually was a John Wilkes Booth model sedan. He soon realized no one was around to hear this comment, however, and ran to catch up with his companions.

Ivan had just concluded showing Steve, Gore, and Dawn the medieval battlefield at the bottom of the hill when Burney caught up. The soft grass made a carpet of green as far as the eye could see. Save the spots where Steve’s car had carved brown tire tracks in the field, or where Burney made singed footprints, the landscape could have easily passed for a lush setting where a feudal duel would take place. Of course, one needed to use a very active willful suspension of disbelief for this to be an effective immersion of scenery.

Trebuchets made out of old bicycle parts were being re-armed at the medieval combatants’ camp. Triangular banners of a variety of store-bought fabric colors decorated discount tents assembled to look taller and more knight-worthy. While the soldiers began to assemble around tables and chairs to relax after their most recent battle, smithies set to work repairing their equipment. These smithies were the people who took toolboxes out of their nearby vans. Countless rolls of duct tape being stretched and ripped made a modern substitute to the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers.

“Ivan prefer medieval reenactors. Is only time period where Ivan can what hit other people with table,” Ivan noted as they reached the crest of the hill that separated the medieval from the Civil War battlefields. “Fight battle hand to hand, is good for health. Ivan make tables for group for what hammer weapons and what fix armor. Sell many strong table, good for what fix even most broke plastic and foam spear or shield. But only Ivan make armor out of table.”

At the top of the hill, Steve and the others were able to see the pieces of artillery that had nearly scared them to death just minutes prior. The powder-stained faces of the cannons’ handlers showed professional disdain for the unwelcome guests.

Steam rose from the muzzles of a dozen shimmering metal guns. The steam came from the water-soaked plugs that the artillery crew were using to clean any still-burning powder remaining inside the period pieces. With long sticks and rowing-like motions, the crew pulled the plugs in and out and handled the weapons with enough care that, for a moment, Steve had once more been teleported back in time.

Steve’s respect for the crew was not returned, however. In fact, the only person the artillery crew seemed to show any courtesy to was Ivan, who received a tip of the Union soldier-stitched hat from each member of the artillery crew.

“These is Civil War reenactors,” Ivan said as they walked along the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield. There were no dead soldiers lying in the valley between where grey and blue clad men had met and fired upon one another. Instead of bodies and wailing wounded, a gross amount of litter from spent cartridges and soda cans occupied the otherwise peaceful landscape. Only one soldier remained on the battlefield, one soldier weeping loudly in mourning.

“What’s his problem?” Gore asked of the despairing man.

“Him?” Ivan asked. He looked down the hill and saw how the soldier tossed his rifle to the ground and let out a cry of anguish. “He bought new uniform costume. Fall in horse droppings when pretend what be dead.”

“That sucks,” Dawn said.

“Stains not come out of Civil War clothing easy. Come. More what to see.”

Ivan led the group across the open space between the Confederate and Union camps. Short, A-framed, and made of dirty white canvas, the camp’s tents ran parallel to the tree line on either side of the hill in perfect military order. There was no animosity between the two armies. In fact, some of them were shouting back at one another or calling each other on cellphones. One soldier had lost a button and asked if it had been found. Another asked if anyone had any more cotton fabric.

These common messages between armies mixed with the more forceful communication like: “Where is that ambulance!”

“What ambulance?”

“Someone ran over George, you idiot, where’s the ambulance!”

“But George is right here. He’s whining about getting horse turds on his uniform.”

“Not that George, Lincoln!”

“George Lincoln got ran over?”

“Not George Lincoln, President Lincoln! President Lincoln got ran over and needs to go to the hospital!”

“President Lincoln’s been dead over a hundred years, Mike. I think you’re starting to take this too seriously.”

Chat like this was a little out of the ordinary, but actually more representative of real Civil War life than one might think. Union and Confederate soldiers often exchanged sundries and the occasional weary conversation. It’s unlikely anyone ever called for an ambulance to save a recently hit-and-run injured President Lincoln. But history is full of unknowns, so it’s best not to judge. Ivan explained as much to the demons following him.

“Civil War reenactors like what talk in funny voice and what sing Dixie,” Ivan said, earning a salute from a passing group of Union-uniformed cavalry rushing off to find a road that the approaching ambulance could safely use. “Ivan sell them many table for what play cards on. Play lots of cards, Civil War soldiers do. Ivan think is probably because Civil War very boring.”

A group of soldiers behind the cavalry ran with President Lincoln on a canvas stretcher. They were shouting and cursing at each other, tripping on rocks and trying to keep Lincoln level as the wounded presidential reenactor screamed about his bleeding legs.

“Wow. They’re really committed,” Steve noted.

“Wasn’t Lincoln shot in the head?” Dawn asked as the reenactors sped the stretcher toward the road. “You don’t really hurt each other, do you?”

“Nyet,” Ivan said as Lincoln’s screams of pain faded in the growing distance. “Ivan have break Ivan brother Dmitri’s legs one time. But this was what for insult Ivan armor style.”

“You broke Dmitri’s legs?” Steve asked.

“Did he try to put a drink on your head or something?” Dawn asked. If she had a glass of water, Dawn realized it would be hard to avoid placing it on Ivan’s armor. This led to her imagine a plate setting, silverware, and maybe a nice centerpiece with wildflowers, which would go nicely with a grilled salmon and asparagus finished with olive oil, all delicately arranged on Ivan’s head.

“And bread pudding for dessert!” Dawn added, talking out loud again.

“No bread pudding. And no drink either. Ivan put muffin on armor one time, but that was only for Ivan mother. No one but Ivan mother allowed what put food on Ivan head,” Ivan said, looking each of the demons in the eye to ensure they understood this. Steve was very glad Gore did not have any food on him.

“Don’t you think breaking someone’s legs for insulting your armor is a little… um,” Steve said, hoping to find words that wouldn’t offend the large man.

“It’s perfectly justified,” Gore noted.

“For once Ivan agree with kettle man,” Ivan said.

Only Dawn’s warning glare stopped Gore from striking Ivan’s head like a driven railroad spike.