by John L. Monk
Fool’s Ride
Book Two Of The Jenkins Cycle
John L. Monk
Contents
Copyright
New Books
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Awesome Indies
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
FOOL’S RIDE
Copyright © 2014 by John L. Monk
http://john-l-monk.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover Art by Yocla Designs
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For Dorothy
Chapter One
Sitting in a chair in a glassed-off room, newly arrived from my exile in the Great Wherever, I contemplated the patio party going on outside. Not a wild party. No drinking games or Jell-O wrestling. No togas or double secret probation. This was one of those hold your drink and chat parties.
There were two large men in the room with me: one white, one black, both dressed in suits. A slender blonde in a tight red dress stood nearby, alternating between watching me, the two men, and a skinny man in jeans and a checkered shirt standing by the door to the patio. The man had a book tucked under his arm, and he watched me as if waiting for something.
I smiled.
He smiled.
Behind him, on the other side of the door, a line of people stretched about twenty feet.
“You ready, Ernest?” the black guy said. He had a friendly voice and a patient expression.
The white guy didn’t look at me—he was watching the man with the book. The woman cocked her head at me but didn’t speak. Her face was triangular, like a praying mantis. Thin lips, and a spiky Tinkerbelle haircut.
Looking from her to the guy who’d asked if I was ready, I shrugged and said, “Sure.”
“Okay,” he said to the skinny man. “You’re first.”
The man whipped out his book and sprang forward as if jerked by invisible strings.
“Mr. Prescott, sir,” he said when he got to me, his voice shaking. “What an honor. I’ve read all your books. Oh my god, I can’t believe this is real. Sir, I’m a writer too—not like you—you’re so good, inspiring, I just want to thank you. I read Terror Calls before Terror Stalks, but it was fine. Everyone said to read Terror Calls second, but I remember what you said in that New York Times interview about how you thought Terror Calls made more sense to read first, even though it was the second in the series, so I waited and then … Wow, it’s just so nice to meet you.”
He placed the book he was carrying onto the table with the cover facing up.
The book had a picture of a skull taped with electrodes. A translucent image of a woman’s face was molded over the skull, her expression a mask of agony and terror. Across the top, in jagged blue-and-white lightning letters, blazed the title: Electro-Cute. Some kind of horror book.
I swept my gaze from the breathless man with so much to say, to the book, and back again.
“Good,” I said. “That sounds great.”
When he just stood there and didn’t go away or start talking again I said, “Thank you?”
The man nodded, still smiling, gazing at me in adoration, and that’s when I noticed the pens on the table. There was also a big stack of Electro-Cute books off to my right.
“Ah,” I said, finally getting it.
The Great Whomever was getting bored again.
Knowing I was lucky to be alive, I picked up one of the pens, opened the book to the title page, and then paused. I couldn’t sign my ride’s name, not believably.
The name on the book was “Ernest Prescott.” I checked in the back to see if he’d inserted an afterword or something that would show me his signature. It had an afterword, but no signature. Only initials.
“One second,” I said, and fished out my ride’s wallet.
Using Ernest’s New York driver’s license as a guide, I did my best to scrawl his signature onto the title page of the man’s book.
“What’s your name?” I said to him.
He’d given me a funny look when I pulled out the license, but here I was ready to sign and everything was okay again.
“Richard,” he said, beaming at me.
Keep writing, Richard! I wrote underneath the signature, then slid the book back across the table to him.
“Thank you so much, sir,” he said. “I’m just so honored. Wow. Thank you!”
Richard trundled off, clutching his signed copy like a treasure chest overflowing with chocolate bunnies.
A young woman, all in black, wearing black lipstick and black eyeliner made up to look like she was weeping, approached and said, “Sign my books please?”
She looked like something from one of the Hellraiser movies, with cleavage. I happen to be a fan of cleavage. I wondered how long it took to get her hair, makeup, and cleavage to the perfect balance of cadaver and Elvira sexy, and if she ever went out normal or was she always like that.
“Uh … whom shall I make it out to?”
“Nobody,” she said in a bored tone. “Selling it on Ebay.”
I had to smile. “A capitalist goth girl?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’m not goth, I’m a rivethead. And I’m a woman, not a girl.” She pushed her two books over to me. “They said we could bring two, so…”
Most of my rides over the years had been losers of one stripe or another. So it was interesting to me that I was in the body of an author—with rivethead fans, no less. I peered beyond her, outside to where the party was. An outdoor bar or restaurant, judging from the red exit signs over two of the doors, the built-in bar, and the open sky above. She was the only rivethead.
Pity.
“Can we hurry it up?” she said. “I’m sorry—my mom’s waiting for me.”
“Sure,” I said, and signed both books.
She didn’t say thanks when I closed the second book. She scooped them both up and hurried out. Her mom was waiting, so that was okay. Considering how awful my signature must have been, I wondered how she’d pass them off as real.
Someone new ste
pped in to fill her place, also with two books. Another young woman, though quite normal looking.
“I’m Rachael,” she said, bouncing a little and hugging herself. “You’re amazing.”
And that’s how it went for the next three hours. There were people who wanted personalized inscriptions and those who only wanted my name. One guy tried to push his own writing on me, hoping I’d read it and make him famous, but the two guys in suits rushed him out after a whispered word from the slinky blonde mantis lady standing nearby. I wondered who she was. She watched everyone who came in, though mostly she watched me.
When I smiled at her to see if she’d smile back, she raised her hands, palms up, in the universal expression for, What now?
At one point, just when I began thinking about food, she showed up with a sandwich and fries and told the guard at the door, “Hold everyone for ten minutes.”
I heard grumbling from outside, and a few people left. Which was fine—Ernest Prescott didn’t need those kinds of fans. The fewer fans the better, because all that signing was tiring my hand out, especially the personalized stuff. One kindly old lady had me write, “We only slice the ones we love.” It seemed important to her. She even misted up over it, like it had sentimental meaning.
I contemplated my sandwich—a BLT with fries, crinkle cut, and no ketchup. And a bottle of water. Domestic.
The sandwich was so good I chewed it slowly, savoring it—then quickly, when the slinky blonde who must have had a name looked pointedly at her watch and said, “Five minutes, Ernest.”
After finishing it with time to spare, I realized to my chagrin I needed to visit the little author’s room.
“Uh, hey,” I said. “Where’s the bathroom?”
She frowned at me like I was hopeless, then said to the guard near my table, “Brian, be a dear and show Ernest where the bathroom is.”
“Will do,” he said, and took me through a door at the back of the room, then down a hall to another door with the word MEN on it.
“Be right out,” I said, then went in and shut the door.
Electro-Cute had Ernest’s picture inside the dust jacket, but I’d been so inundated with fans I hadn’t gotten more than a few seconds to look at my new face. Now I did, up close in the mirror. Dressed all in black, Ernest looked to be in his early fifties. He had thinning, flowing silver hair, a pointy ducktail beard, and a flourish around his mustache that gave him a Faustian sort of appearance. For an author, he appeared highly recognizable, which I’m sure was intentional.
“What the hell did you do?” I said to the reflection.
I found his phone and checked the date—March 5, 2008.
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
I’d been away a long time. Almost six months since my last ride.
The most I’d ever been away from the world was about three months, and that was because I’d been going through a pouty period and let every portal go unanswered. Eventually the lure of doughnuts and television had gotten too tempting and I’d broken down and taken the next portal that came along. That first trip back had been a particularly good ride, with season tickets to the Orioles—almost like the Great Whomever was apologizing.
I wondered if the passage of half a year meant I’d get another cakewalk ride. And then I wondered if I’d get cake.
Chapter Two
When I got back to the glassed-off signing room, the line hadn’t shrunk any like I’d hoped. In fact it had grown. I noticed most of my fans were women and wondered what that meant. And the men I met seemed a little … intense. Some of the women, too, but mostly the men.
Ah well. If I ever got to meet J.K. Rowling, I suppose I’d be intense too.
Ernest Prescott was clearly a major player in the horror field. I’d heard of him, seen a few of his books, but that was it. Considering my bizarre lifestyle—returning from death in the bodies of horrific people—I normally steered clear of the gruesome genre. Give me a heroic tale with a warrior and a spunky unicorn, throw in a beautiful princess and a daring quest, and I’d pay money for it. Then I’d giggle my way to the nearest cushy chair to read it.
Not for the first time, I wished my ride came with an instruction manual or residual memories I could draw upon. How did famous people act? I didn’t know if I was supposed to smile or look around the room or stare straight ahead or wave at people.
Soon I discovered it didn’t matter what I did. As each of Prescott’s fans came up, I learned more about my ride. He was original and unique. He was different and interesting and amazing. He changed people’s lives by showing them how bad the world was. All his jokes were funny. When he asked how they were doing, his fans seemed flattered that the Ernest Prescott cared how they were. I felt like shaking my own hand to see what it was like.
A creepy guy with facial tattoos said, “You opened my eyes to the truth.”
The tattoos were designed to look like surgical stitches, and I wondered who would do something like that to his own face.
When I went to sign his book, he pulled a knife and lunged at me. I hadn’t actually taken my eyes off him, and at the shine of the knife I pushed backwards to get out of the way. And because I wasn’t afraid of dying and stuff, I also grabbed his wrist and jerked him hard into the table, slamming him against the edge and making him go, “Oof!”
Almost immediately, one of the guards tackled him.
The blonde woman who hadn’t said much since I’d arrived yelled, “Don’t hurt him, Brian! Be careful!”
Brian threw her an irritated glance, turned the man over on his stomach and materialized a set of handcuffs, which he used to restrain him.
“Not too tightly.” she said. “If you hurt him he could sue.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling left out.
“And you!” she yelled. “What the hell were you doing grabbing him like that? Trying to get cut? What if he’d hurt your hands?”
Nodding like I was following along, I said, “Then I’d sue him.”
She stared hard at me for several seconds and then smiled, showing glittery white teeth. I could tell the smile wasn’t for me, but for the crowd of people pressed up against the glass staring alternately between the subdued man and me. I raised a hand and waved at them—and they erupted in cheers and clapping!
I was a hit.
“I need to get out there,” she said. “Don’t do anything else if you can help it. Christ…”
She went through the door shouting for people to calm down.
One of the guards—the white guy whose name I hadn’t caught—glanced at me, half smirking, and then turned away. The other one, Brian, held the knife guy down and watched the door. Five minutes later, a swarthy-looking man in nice clothes came in with two police officers behind him.
“What happened here?” one of the cops said. He had that air about him cops get: in-charge, powerful, indefatigable. He was a little husky too, and his bulletproof vest added to the effect.
“He attacked me,” I said. “With a knife.”
“Where’s the knife?”
The smirky guard showed him where the knife was—resting on the floor where it had fallen after I’d done my cool move on the guy.
The other officer, a bit younger, said, “Someone said you grabbed him. Why’d you grab him for?”
“Instinct,” I said. “I’m like a jungle cat sometimes. A tightly wound spring waiting to snap. You know how it is.”
A brief smile flittered across his face. “Jungle cat?”
“Deadly when riled,” I said.
While the blonde lady got rid of the crowd and shut down the party, the police asked the guards and me more questions. There wasn’t much to tell them.
After the police left with the crazy guy, the woman told the guards, “Good work Brian, Sean. Bonuses for both of you. I’ll let Jacob know.”
They thanked her and left.
When we were the only ones in the room, she said, “You fucking idiot. What the hell was that ridiculous display? That�
��s what those two are for. What if that man had a gun?”
She was sort of grumpy and presumptuous, almost like we were…
I examined my hands—no rings on these fingers. She had on rings, but I could never tell if a woman was married or engaged or simply liked jewelry. Not fair, but there you had it. If she was Ernest’s wife … well, I’d come up with something.
She stood there patiently, glowering at me, waiting for me to explain myself like I was a child and not fascinating and amazing and interesting and wonderful like all my fans told me I was.
“Well, dammit?” she said.
It’s an incredible feeling, sometimes, being so free I could do anything I wanted without fear of divorce or getting fired or whatever it was this woman thought she had over me. That’s why I said, “Who do you think you are?”
Which was a good way to find out who she thought she was, as well as defend myself a little. There’s something psychologically taxing about taking crap from strangers.
“I’m everything as far as you’re concerned,” she said. “Jacob and I dragged you out of that vanity-press shithole and we can put you back just as easily. Now pick up those fucking books and let’s go.”
Who knew the publishing business was so tough? I couldn’t imagine Stephen King or Dean Koontz putting up with this. But there was something about her attitude, the confidence with which she delivered her threats, which made me think she could back them up. I mean those fans were practically drooling over me. Ernest Prescott was clearly a big deal. Which meant I still had some power here no matter what she thought. Sure, she’d pulled Ernest out of his vanity press shithole, but it took work to build someone up, didn’t it? Much easier to keep the talent happy than to irritate them.
There was way more going on here than what it appeared on the surface. So for now, I’d play it safe.
Nodding like she was right and I was wrong, I picked up the books and followed her out.
* * *
We exited the building at a messy intersection with roads slivering into each other to form a triangle: Vernon Street, Florida Street, 18th Street. I knew if I kept walking to my right I’d run into California Street. Sort of a happening area in Washington, DC, with restaurants and bars and people everywhere I looked.