By Brett Matthew West
Yes. I will admit. I have a drinking problem.
And, maybe I spend too much time in the Blue Moon Bar. But, I can handle my whiskey. I have been guzzling it all my life and I am not deceased yet.
So, don't come around here handing me none of your social welfare commentary about the pitfalls of alcohol. It is my life. I will do with it whatever I damn well want to.
Just be of good cheer. Crank the jams way up high, and let's down another round, or three.
The only love I will ever have comes in a quart-sized glass bottle. With the infamous black label on it. If I get feeling real good, it is more likely than not, to go sailing clear across the room at some L-O-S-E-R's head. That has happened many times before.
And, why might the empty bottle go flying, you may wonder? Just to start a ruckus. Every bar needs a real good, knock down-drag out fight, now and then that tears the joint up.
Doesn't even matter if somebody gets hurt. As long as it isn't me. I have never been injured in a bar tussle. I pack a .45, and a switchblade knife, to make sure it remains that way.
Now. Like I said. Pull up a chair and cool your jets. The night's still young, and there's plenty of time to chill...and drink.
Might as well get totally crap-faced drunk! You got something better to do, Amigo? Somehow, I seriously doubt you do.
No. I do not want to talk. There ain't nothing to say. Words only cause pain way down deep inside, and conjure up memories better forgotten.
Take it from someone who knows. Booze doesn't do that to you. It mascarades everything else.
I have been in the sauce for better than three years running now. I still function every day. Still work. Pay all my bills. Live my life.
My little friend, JD, only soothes my troubles. Most of the time I drink him right out of whatever container he comes in.
You know what I am talking about. Any blind mouse can see right through the truth. What is the matter? I invited you to join me at my table, in my home away from home, for a very particular reason.
You can not make old friends. I am right here in front of you. The least you can do is look at me. And, I do not mean a passing glance. Don't be rude. It doesn't become you.
I am not saying we have to be all buddy-buddy. But, common courtesy claims you owe me that much.
"Oh, yes. He'll definitely have another drink," I tell the pretty, petit, brunette barmaid passing by my table, "and, make it a double. His tab tonight is on me. All of it."
She starts to leave, and I chime in with, "Be a sweet little chickadee and I may even give you a tip."
She shoots me a look of annoyance as she continues on her way to the bar to fetch our refills.
"And, it may be more than don't bet on the races," I call after her, then cut my eyes back on he who sits at my table with me.
He glances at me like my antics are way out of line.
"What?" I demand of him, "You aren't going any place. Especially, no time soon. So, loosen up and get real comfortable. You're going to be here a while."
"And, what if I leave right now?" he defiantly asks me.
Without missing a beat, I unequivocally promise him, "I will plug a bullet right smack dab in the middle of your worthless butt!"
Then, I say, "I may do that long before I'm done with you tonight, anyway."
Unquestionably, he knows I am a man of my word, and will do precisely what I state I would.
"John, I just got out of prison. I did three years. What more do you want from me?" he nervously questions my intentions.
"Three years! For what you did?" I scoff, then vehemently repeat myself, "Three lousy years? Is that all the time my son's life was worth?"
"That was a tragic accident," he curtly tells me, commenting, "things happen".
I glare at him with loathsome disdain. I want to smack him off the chair he's sitting on. But, I refrain. I will have my pleasures later. Much to his dismay. For now, I avoid the physicality of what is to come.
I take another long swig from the bottle I hold in my hand. Coldheartedly, I spit it all out in the middle of his unshaved face.
Then snidely say, "An accident! Like Hell it was! Just like that was an accident. And, by the way. That is a calling card from my five year old!"
I place both hands solidly on the edge of the table. I position them so I can rapidly push off in a hurry, if need be.
I am ready to throw down. Soon. Very soon. Or, immediately, if he prefers his ass whipping to come that way!
Obviously, I have my ultimate plans for him. None he is going to enjoy in the least, littlest, bit. No how. No way.
The three years he spent in lock up will seem like paradise to him long before he survives the Hell I have in mind for him. If he does.
You do not murder a five-year-old and walk away. At least, not my five-year-old!
There had been a time, this soon to be extinct jailbird, and I were close friends. We even fought side by side in Desert Storm, and we came home together. All that was gone now.
When we arrived back to Seattle, after our little excursion in Iraq, we did everything as one. Just like we had done for fifteen years before that "small vacation" came along. Ever since we were six or seven years old we were inseparable companions.
But, there was no blood between us. Not until three fateful years ago. And, it no longer mattered that he had been the duly appointed Godfather of my son.
Nor did the fact he was the first one I turned to in the hospital room the day my dearly beloved wife, who I considered the most beautiful woman in the history of the world, and who meant so much more to me than life itself, died birthing my only offspring.
He was in another bar that dreadful day. I was out of town on business. As I recall, rain was pouring down in pelting sheets.
I had trusted him to take care of my little boy, Tyler, while I was away. He had done so on many occasions before.
The Little Lambs Preschool wasn't that far from where he decided to stop off, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, for a cold one.
The rest of this is so hard for me to tell. Since it occurred, I relive this horrible nightmare every time I try to sleep. I see the whole thing repeatedly play out in slow motion.
But there is no rest.
I hear Tyler's crying voice constantly calling out to me, "Daddy!...Daddy!...Daddy!"
The pain never goes away. It never relinquishes. Not even with all the drinking I have done since the unfolding of these events.
And the cause of all my anguish sits across the table from me, deepening my resentment.
Snookered, this worthless scumbag, who I once considered to be my twin brother...of a different mother, climbs behind the wheel of his pickup truck. And, barrels through the parking lot of my son's preschool.
The official police report says he was fifty in a posted ten mile an hour speed zone. Five times the legal limit. Five unfathomable times! What the Hell could he possibly have been thinking?
A small group of youngsters were milling around outside, after the rain subsided. Doing what children do. Playing on playground equipment. Without a care in the world.
What imbecilic moron speeds through a preschool parking lot like that? I know one. At the moment I was hurting my eyeballs just having to stare at him.
He takes a corner much too sharply. Jumps the curb. Leaves the pavement. Heads straight towards that group of children.
Tyler was playing among them. Standing, facing his friends on the swings. An innocent child. Doing absolutely nothing wrong. A boy being a boy.
The other children see the vehicle bearing down on them. They manage to escape harm's way. My son does not see it coming. He's run over. The impact crushes him. He dies alone. With me in Chicago.
Just now thinking about what he sufferes curdles my blood...again!
The barmaid returns to my table. The previously ordered drink in her hand.
Unceremoniously, she sits it down in front of my tablemate.
He reaches for the glass.
I blast him.
At point blank range.
As the bullet from my .45 hits him squarely between the eyes, I simply say, "You pathetic son-of-a-bitch!"
He slumps.
Dead as a doornail.
To the floor.
The terrified barmaid lets out a scream that curls your hair.
The other patrons continue minding their own affairs.
A gunshot in a dive like this is no big deal.
Me?
I punch a number into the keypad on my cellphone.
I down the untouched double shot of Jack Daniels finest in one swallow.
And, wait.
Oh, yes. I will admit. I have a drinking problem.
@October 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, including its storyline, may be reproduced without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
crank the jams way up high -- play the music loud
cool your jets -- relax to chill -- relax in the sauce -- continually drinking alcohol JD -- the world's famous whiskey throw down -- fight cold one -- drink snookered -- drunk dive -- a "seedy," or low class, bar *********************************************************************************** *********************************************************************************** Whatever you do, do not drink alcohol and then climb inside a vehicle to drive. While this is a purely fictional tale, the unfortunate truth is, events like this happen. You just never know. *********************************************************************************** *********************************************************************************** For those readers who do not grasp the context of this story it is not about the main character's drinking. That is a secondary throw-in to what the "drinking problem" is. **************************************************************************** **************************************************************************** Special Note to Loyd C. Taylor, Sr: you have amazing photographs. Thank you for once again allowing me to use one of them. It isn't the first one I have used, and it will not be the last one I use, either. Besides, It goes so very nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Seattle.
1977.
TEN-YEAR-OLD JONATHAN DAVID DUNGSTON SCURRIED UP THE STAIRS TO HIS BEDROOM. He barely felt the quarter inch thick, pale blue, pile carpeting tickle his sensitive bare feet as he made his ascent. Unceremoniously, he slammed the door shut behind him. This was his private sanctuary. The place he retreated when he needed to be alone.
School that day had been boring. And, now his parents, who had arrived home not ten minutes earlier, were bickering. It was more than he could stand. Not only that, but, this time they were having a real good, knock-down, drag-out, no holds barred, heated discussion.
Most of their squabbles seemed to be over finances. According to his mom and dad, there was never enough of them to go around. Jonathan failed to understand this concept because they both held important jobs.
His mother, Velma Louise Dungston, a petite woman with golden blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulder, was a Registered Nurse. She was also the head of the hospital's Pediatric Department, where she had worked ever since he was born.
Jonathan's father, Professor Robert Earl Dungston, was a Marine Biologist at the local university, as well as the Chair of the Foundation for the Ethical Treatment of Sea Horses. He was also the manager of Jonathan's Little League baseball team, the Dragons, where Jonathan played shortstop and second base.
Busying himself with his model airplane collection he had laid out in a squadron on top of a table, in the far corner of his room, Jonathan allowed his vivid imagination to once again soar off into the wild blue yonder.
Jonathan had built, and meticulously hand painted, these planes himself. He was an excellent craftsman. Many tireless hours the boy labored in their construction. He had even painstakingly glued the tiniest plastic pieces on each plane in just the right places.
Most days Jonathan wiled away enjoyable afternoon, and evening, hours pretending he was flying combat missions in his airplanes.
On those occasions when his parents argued, like they were doing now, he wished he was piloting one of his airplanes anywhere, except Seattle, Washington. The state where his family resided.
Jonathan's marvelous airplane escapades had transported him on many exciting adventures to far distant lands. He could be found hunkering down over the wide Pacific Ocean, where he would bomb enemy warships. He could also be observed flying high over the Rocky Mountains in nearby Vancouver, British Columbia.
Once he had even flown a secret government mission north to Alaska to bring back a payload of gold bouillon. That achievement made him a world famous hero.
Yes, his airplanes, in all their shining glory, were Jonathan's escape.
Undeniably, the boy knew his doting parents adored him. Just like everybody else did. He played the blonde-headed, boy-next-door, image perfectly. He only wished they would not banter so much.
He also wished the bottle his father kept stashed away in the kitchen cabinet would magically disappear somehow. Because, it was when that bottle appeared all the biggest disputes between his parents erupted.
And, Jonathan understood touching that bottle would result in his having a very sore bottom shortly thereafter. His daddy had promised him so. Jonathan always had plenty of those to go around any way. He didn't need any more for willful disobedience over a bottle. So, as much as he despised that bottle, he left it alone.
Good thing Kyle Jenner, his very best friend in the whole wide world, lived two doors down the street from him on Kimberton Avenue. If the shouting and hollering between his parents got too bad he could always go hang out with Kyle. Which he frequently did. The last three years they had become inseparable companions.
@October 13, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any form without the prior written consent of the copyright holder
.
| Author Notes |
Since I posted the popularly reviewed Short Story I entitled Drinking Problem several FanStorians have asked me to expand on the tale.
Maybe even write a full length book about it. I do not know if a book will result, but for those who have requested it, this chapter begins the expansion of my Short Story known as Drinking Problem Bolding the first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. Thanks Lilibug6 for the use of your photograph entitled "American Fighter Planes". It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
THE JENNER PLACE WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE FIVE RESIDENCES CONSTITUTING KIMBERTON AVENUE. A stucco, and red brick, two story dwelling, with a full basement, it was also the only house on the street lacking a fenced-in back yard.
A warm and vibrant home, its patriarch Donald Jenner, raised his family well. An architect by trade, his firm, known as Jenner and Jenner Associates, that he inherited upon his father's untimely demise from prostate cancer four years earlier, was currently hard at work designing a new upscale mall.
Still, he found plenty of time to spend with his three sons.
Anthony, who everybody called Tone, was the oldest. A bit of a rebel, he was into fast cars and freedom. Soon, he would graduate from high school and move away. College did not appear on his radar.
Mark was four years younger. Full of adolescent precociousness, he was experiencing puberty, and did not understand the awkward changes his body was undertaking.
Being a middle schooler, Mark was teased mercilessly by the other kids because of his voice changing. Sometimes his high pitches made him sound girly.
Then there was quiet, reserved, and studious Kyle, who threw a small paper route every morning before he went to school. Kyle also collected aluminum cans.
These he would smash with a brick on his family's front porch, and convert them into spending money at the local recycling center. He was trying to save enough money to purchase a Nintendo, or maybe a Ferrari.
If he had a sportscar he could be just like his older brother Tone. Who he secretly idolizes. But, a Nintendo would be a fun toy to occupy his time with, too. Kyle wasn't sure which one he wanted more.
Being ten-years-old Kyle did not think his parents would let him drive the Ferrari. Besides, he did not even know how to drive. And, they always told him he would have to wait until he grew a little older to learn that stunt.
So, the more Kyle thought about it the better the Nintendo sounded. Still, he did not dwell on his choices...too much.
It was not hard for other kids in the neighborhood to warm up to Kyle's pleasing personality. When they were seven years old Jonathan Dungston had been no exception.
In his typically reserved manner Kyle had stood watching Jonathan shooting hoops at the nearby playground, not saying a word.
Jonathan's bright orange basketball was repeatedly being trajected at the partially rusted iron. The net hung precariously off most of it.
Never having met the other boy before, Kyle stood at the edge of the cement court watching him dribbling the basketball.
Jonathan stood at the basket. He took aim. And, fired the ball. It barely grazed the front of the rim. Then, the ball bounced away from him in Kyle's direction.
Kyle bent over and picked the ball up. Before tossing it back to Jonathan he half-teasingly jaunted, "Kinda missed there. Didn't'cha?"
Jonathan caught the ball with two hands, and asked him, "Think you can do better?"
Kyle walked to where Jonathan now stood on the free throw line, and simply replied, "Yep."
"Then do it," Jonathan told him, with a smile on his face, passing Kyle the basketball.
Kyle faced the rim. He dribbled the basketball once. And, shot the ball. Swish!
He then ran after the ball. Picked it up. And, turning back to Jonathan said, "I'm Kyle."
"I know. Seen you around school. Miss Porter's class. I'm Jonathan," the other boy said.
Kyle wondered how a boy he did not know knew his name.
"I live in the blue house. The one on the corner," Jonathan told him.
Kyle looked to the house Jonathan was pointing at. He had seen him there lots of times before, but had never talked to him.
"Mine's the red one," Kyle told him.
With the playground situated right across the street, from where the boys lived, it was easy for Jonathan to see the house Kyle pointed at.
Not five minutes later, they had a pick-up game of basketball going full swing with other boys who had gathered around the court that afternoon.
After the game was over, night time darkness began settling in. Penelope Jenner, Kyle's mother, stood in her front yard calling him home.
Hearing his mother's voice, Kyle told his playmates, "Gotta go."
He took off in a full trot for home.
"Look both ways before you cross the street!" Jonathan called after him, reminding Kyle to be sure he watched for any cars that may be coming down the road he had to cross to get home.
Kyle glanced back over his shoulder, and yelled back at Jonathan, "I will!"
He came to the side of the street. He stopped in his tracks. He checked both directions. Then, he sprinted home.
"Come over some time!" Jonathan invited his new friend to do.
"I will!" Kyle called back to him.
Kyle raced through the front door of his home. His mother closed it behind him. She swallowed the last drop of pilsner from the can she held in her hand.
On the way to the den to watch television, before he took his nightly bath, Kyle noticed the rest of the six-pack, all empty, scattered around the top of the kitchen table.
Kyle's little grey tabby, Purr Ball, curled up beside him on the sofa.
With his father out of town on business, and his mother already drunk, like she always was when he was gone, Kyle knew what kind of night this was going to be.
@Copyrighted October 15, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced without the written consent of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
This is the second in the series of stories resulting from many FanStorians asking me to expand upon my original tale entitled Drinking Problem.
In Wild Blue Yonder ten-year-old Jonathan Dungston escapes into the wonderful world of his magnificent imagination with his airplanes, while his parents have another heated argument. Forever Friends details how Jonathan, while playing basketball on the playground across the street from where he lives, when he is seven years old, meets Kyle Jenner, who becomes his lifelong best friend. Bolding the first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. The picture known as "Basketball after the rain," by lynnkah was chosen for this story. So, thanks lynnkah for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Seattle.
1980.
POPULAR PROFESSOR, AND SEA HORSE CONSERVATIONIST QUESTIONED IN STUDENT'S DISAPPEARANCE. So screamed the front page headlines of the April 3rd edition of the Seattle Sound newspaper. Heralding the proclamation, it quickly flew off the stands at all its local delivery points.
Broadcasted for all the world to hear, it appeared, on all the local television and radio stations, as well, the news traveled faster than greased lightning, and roared louder than booming thunder.
Professor Robert Dungston had led several expeditions for the Foundation For The Ethical Treatment Of Sea Horses to study the habitat of the four varieties of these gentle creatures that make their homes in the Pacific Ocean.
Most of the time they went off without any hitches. He would escort his colleagues, and several advanced students, onto the university's trolling vessel, the Pygmy Satomi, that was named for the world's smallest species of sea horses. And, they would sail out to the site he had been exploring for eight years.
In the blue waters, they would conduct a series of experiments and studies, then return. In all the years of making these journeys no glitches had ever occurred, at least, none on the scale he now found himself wrapped up in.
After having spent six excruciating hours being grilled by the Seattle Police Department's Missing Persons Unit, and publication of these headlines, Professor Dungston felt the weight of the controversy closing in on him from all sides.
His thirteen-year-old son Jonathan, was having problems of his own. Ones he knew would soon compact once the phone call was made. He just sat on the edge of his chair, stewing.
The white haired Resource Officer shot him a cat-eating-canary glance and dialed the number off Jonathan's school record. He seemed to take a special delight in his task at hand. Jonathan knew what the fall-out of this call would be.
The telephone on the other end rang three times. Maybe it would not be answered. The Resource Officer looked over at Jonathan again. He slowly twirled the cap of his pen around in his lips.
On the fifth ring the call was finally answered. It was Velma Dungston, Jonathan's mother, who picked the phone up at the busy Pediatric Ward nursing station. What the Resource Officer told her could not be true. Her son had been arrested.
"You can collect him in the Resource Office at Seahawk Middle School," she was told, "he's been charged with felonious assault on a school official."
"What on earth!" Velma Dungston about screamed the words loud enough for the small crowd of doctors, patients, and other nurses gathered on the floor to distinctly hear.
Then, she could not believe the story she was told. Jonathan had never done anything, even remotely close, to what she was hearing the Resource Officer telling her.
Velma Dungston's day definitely was not a good one. First, the circumstances involving her husband had circulated around the hospital like a raging wildfire, in the form of misinformed rumors. Now, this.
A little nip of gin, from the bottle she kept locked away in the bottom drawer of her workstation desk, would soon be calling her name.
She steadied her nerves as best she could, and listened to what the Resource Officer told her landed Jonathan in so much hot water.
As she listened to what O'Malley, the Resource Officer, said to his mother, Jonathan felt the heart and soul inside him fall. However, except for one minor detail, he felt no remorse for what he had done.
In his eyes he was in the right all the way. He had woken up as soon as his alarm clock rang at six o'clock that morning. Made his bed. Taken his shower. Brushed his teeth. Dressed conservatively. Eaten his breakfast, all of it. And, ridden his two-wheeler to school, arriving in plenty of time so as to not be late.
What more could a well behaved boy do?
If only he had not gone to his first period class. He did not like Math any way. But, that was not the issue. Carlton Slater was.
Now, because of a kid who could not keep his otherwise big mouth shut, and mind his own affairs, Teen Court was in Jonathan's near future.
Big and dumb as a lad can come, Carlton Slater was a known troublemaker, and a bully. His only purpose in attending school, it seemed, was to create problems with other students. Even the teachers, who encountered him daily, had difficulties handling him while he was in their classrooms.
Possessing bad intentions on his mind. Carlton Slater had arrived to Math class a few minutes before the bell. His only desire was to stir up the other students before Jonathan Dungston arrived.
The Seattle Sounds headlines, and the news he heard on the truck radio as his father transported him to school that morning, were all he needed to know.
Miss Cauthen, the 23-year-old, first year teacher of the class had approached the blackboard. Chalk in hand. Awaiting the bell to begin class. As soon as Jonathan entered the classroom Carlton Slater dropped his heaviest artillery.
He coldly glanced at Jonathan, and in a loud voice, asked the students circled around him, "You hear about Dungston's murdering dad? It's all over the news today!"
Of course, that was a comment Jonathan could not let pass by. He stopped before reaching his seat in the back of the room. There, he dropped his backpack full of books and assorted school supplies.
"What's the matter, Dungston?" Carlton Slater continued, staring him down all the while, "You know your old man ain't gonna get away with killing that chick!"
Jonathan did not move. Carlton Slater then added, "Course, from what I hear, the dumbass has done it before, too!"
That flat out lie was more than Jonathan could tolerate, and the fight was on. Carlton Slater had crossed way over the line.
Now, sitting on a chair in the Resource Office, Jonathan uneasily shifted his position. The rest of the story is what landed him in handcuffs.
On the other end of the telephone Velma Dungston listened intently to what she was being told. Hearing, but, at the same time, not wanting this nightmare to continue.
From the far side of the room, where his desk was located, Jonathan bolted across the front of the classroom. In his haste, he inadvertently brushed Miss Cauthen to get to Carlton Slater.
Miss Cauthen ran, in tears, to push the panic button on the wall, summoning help. Jonathan landed a right cross to Carlton Slater's nose. Drawing blood. Two hooks to the midsection doubled the boy over, struggling to breathe, and a second right cross landed flush on his mouth, busting both lips.
Jonathan had never been so angry. And, never been in a fight at school before. It took three teachers, the Principal, and the Resource Officer to subdue him, and restore order to the excited class.
Students were buzzing about the whole confrontation. They had never seen Carlton Slater lose a fight, and there had been many of them. However, it was Jonathan's actions that caused the most comments from them.
Jonathan was escorted out of the classroom, and his backpack retrieved. He was taken to the Resource Office to be held. School rules dictated he, and Carlton Slater, were both to be suspended for fighting.
Because he had accidentally touched Miss Cauthen, and she decided to press charges to make an example out of Jonathan for all other students to learn from, he had been arrested as well.
Velma Dungston, trying hard to fight back her tears, hung up the phone. She grabbed her purse and hastily retreated off her assigned floor. She found the nearest elevator and entered it. She pressed a button, sending it down four levels to the parking garage. She climbed into her Acura and raced to the school. She would call her husband enroute.
Upon being notified of the fight involving their precious, little, innocent boy Carlton Slater, his parents threatened to sue the school for all the pain, suffering, and medical expenses he had experienced at the hands of this hideous monster known as Jonathan Dungston.
They were also pleased as punch with the fact he had been arrested, going as far as to make the comment, "Like father, like son. The apple never falls far from the tree. Now the two common criminals can share the same jail cell. Where they belong!"
Sitting in the cafeteria, more playing with his food than eating any of the flavorless grub, Kyle Jenner was not a happy camper. He was boiling over the fact the whole episode happened involving Jonathan. And plotting...plotting his retaliation.
Quiet, reserved, and studious, Kyle Jenner did not like injustices. Especially when they involved his very best friend.
On the way to Seahawk Middle School, through heavy traffic, Velma Dungston downed a pint from the bottle she kept hidden under her front seat, to calm her shaking nerves. Jonathan's bad day had only begun.
That she vowed, menacingly fuming, "You just wait until I get my hands on you, Young Man! You just wait!"
@October 16, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
This is my third follow-up story to my original tale entitled Drinking Problem.
Many FanStorians have asked me to expand on my storyline and that is what these stories do. Wild Blue Yonder, and Forever Friends, can be found in my portfolio. Bolding of the first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. Resource Officer - a deputy sheriff assigned to a school as their beat/duty station. Sea Horse, by fran m, was chosen to compliment my story. So, thanks, fran m for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
MARK JENNER HAD BEEN GROUNDED BY HIS PARENTS FOR NOT DOING HIS HOMEWORK AND HIS CHORES. Being sixteen-years-old his attitude of late had become that he ruled the roost, and could do whatever he was good and ready to do. After all, in his mind, he was on the brink of manhood and establishing his independence. Mark Jenner still had a lot to learn.
At eight o'clock on Friday night the Dew Drop Inn was beginning to draw its nightly rowdy crowd. Most of which were teenagers out wilding. Doing things better left alone like revving the engines on their street rods, and motorcycles, louder and louder. Trying to see who could sound the most impressive.
With cigarette packages rolled up in the sleeves of their shirts, and half chewed toothpicks in their mouths, they milled around in small clusters chatting to their chums. Boys making time with girls trying to look sexy. And, some of them were doing a bang up job of it, too.
Right from the start tops were being twisted off bottles and imbibing was underway. At these affairs it was not hard for alcohol to appear. The smell of burning grass permeated the air, and pills of all colors, shapes, and sizes were regularly featured guests.
Music blared off radios on the cars. The whole scene was bizarre as each group attempted to drown out all the others. The pulsating beat sent vibrations throughout each vehicle in the lot.
Tee shirts, most with obscene expressions printed on them, and jeans that hung off of butts, could be seen throughout the festivities. Assorted hair styles, large jewelry that dangled, and too much perfumed aromas could be observed up and down the street.
It was to this environment that Mark Jenner rode up on his dirtbike. No way he was going to be left out of all the action. These gatherings had been his mode of entertainment for several months now. And, besides, all his friends were there.
Sneaking out of the house was not a hard thing for him to do. His mother was out galavanting around who knows where, and his father was glued to a baseball game on television in the downstairs den of their home. His oldest brother, Tone, had recently moved out on his own, and his younger brother, Kyle, had been sworn to secrecy.
Mark's closest ally, Brandon Tubberfield, tossed him an ice cold brewski, and, he popped the top on it. He could easily have chugged its contents down, but, decided there would be plenty of time for that later. He took a long swallow. Then, lit his first joint of the night.
Talk was small, and mostly about getting into a girl's pants. And, they were willing participants. The boys were eyeballing their preferred quarry. Once a couple formed they could be located inside a parked car, and its foggy window, exploring the finer points of making out.
The party continued for several hours without any signs of slowing down. Unharried. Unhurried. And, left alone by Seattle's law enforcement community, who was well aware of these get togethers and their activities.
The teens were allowed to roam freely, and act like banshees, if the spirit moved them to do so. They knew as long as they maintained some semblance of order they would not be harassed.
Mark Jenner spotted his on-again, off-again, girlfriend Dorothy Blevins. The slender redhead, who's fiery hair excited Mark's raging teenage hormones all the more, was standing by the concession stand talking to another boy Mark did not immediately recognize from where he parked his bike. He approached them. And, his temper started rising.
The other boy was Rex Archibald. Mark's nemesis, and sworn enemy. "Figures!" he thought to himself as he approached the two of them standing next to each other.
The two boys simply could not stand each other, and were best left separated. Mark wasn't about to have any part of Rex Archibald making time with his eye candy.
Briskly he walked up to the two of them. He reached out, and grabbed Dorothy Blevins by the right arm. Her dancing blue diamond eyes seemed to wink at him as if to say, "Get me away from this guy!"
That was precisely what Mark intended to do.
Walking away from the concession stand, and leaving Rex Archibald to fend for himself, Mark heatedly demanded, "You're my girl. What were you doing hanging around that loser for?"
In her gentle, come-on voice, Dorothy Blevins purred back at him, "Lighten up, Cutie-Pie. I'm only here to have a good time."
"Well, you won't have it with him," Mark shot back at her, saying, "come on. We always wanted to do it on the banks of the Little Squid River."
Dorothy's smooth, rosy red lips broadened into a smile, "Thought you'd never ask. What were you waiting for?" she wondered.
They started running, hand in hand, past the parked cars in the lot, around Mark's dirt bike, beyond a rundown building at the end of the street, and disappeared into the stillness of the night.
Mark knew the perfect spot along the banks of the river that lazily meandered through the downtown section of Seattle. Back at the concession stand, Rex Archibald was not a happy bird dog. He did not like being left alone in the dog house while his female companion went off with another boy. And, when Rex Archibald was not a pleased pup he plotted.
Used to getting his own way all the time, Rex Archibald was a Senior Letterman, and three year Starter, on the football team at Seahawk High School. Mark Jenner was only a lowly Sophomore, by his standards, who he decided could use some putting in his place.
That was the furthest thing from Mark's mind as he slipped off his pullover, and made his move on Dorothy. Her tender body was gentle to his touch, and Mark intended to explore all her femininity. This wasn't their first taste.
It was almost midnight when Mark and Dorothy experienced a special thrill. Their bodies, well soaked with perspiration from the passion of the event. They were locked in a steamy embrace. This time felt even more marvelous than the last time they had expressed their feelings.
And, Dorothy had not told Mark she had not had a period for two months. The seed inside her felt good and would start growing. But, she feared the news would drive Mark away. Or worse, he would deny what she knew was true.
So, for now, she kept the secret to herself. Neither Mark, nor her parents, or anyone else for that matter, had any idea, and she meant to keep it that way as long as she could.
Being a good Catholic, she could not handle the fact her parents would send her away in disgrace if they found out she was carrying a child. To them, nothing was more important than their precious reputations of being two of Seattle's most upstanding citizens. Their recent award from the Mayor for their charitable efforts defined them, and all that would be destroyed if they learned of her condition.
So, Dorothy just laid in the damp grass on the bank of the river and stared at Mark's gorgeous body. To her, there was no more beautiful sight. Perhaps she imagined the feeling, but deep inside her, she felt Mark Junior softly move. That was what she had named her baby.
The party winding down, the two young lovers could hear squealing tires as cars began departing the club. In no particular hurry, they slowly wandered back to where now just a few teens were still clustered, including Rex Archibald. And, he was not in a real good humor.
"Come on," Mark told Dorothy when they arrived at his dirt bike. He paused by its side and said, "I'll give you a ride home."
Dorothy wasn't about to pass the offer by. She liked being seen doing things with Mark. And, had ridden with him many times before on his bike. Rex Archibald, watching them climb on the machine to leave, crawled inside his powder blue GTO sportscar, and fired the vehicle up.
Mark switched his bike's ignition on, revved it once, and slowly pulled away from the curb he had parked by. Rex Archibald pulled out in front of him. They turned right on Paxton, left on Myrtle, and headed down Highway 5.
TO BE CONTINUED........
@October 20, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
Drinking Problem, Wild Blue Yonder, Forever Friends, and Fist City, the first four stories in this series, are all in my portfolio.
These will fill readers into my story line. Bolding of first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. burning grass -- marijuana Thanks Liilia for the use of your picture "Dozing Off". It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
THE NIGHT AIR WAS COOL. THE ROAD WAS DARKER THAN THE FAR SIDE OF THE MOON. Mark was in no hurry as he guided his bike down the winding way. He felt Dorothy's hands firmly around his waist.
He was glad he had snuck out of the house to attend the party. Mark also knew his parents would not have even missed him. They stopped tucking him into bed a long time ago.
Mark noticed Rex Archibald slowed his speed down to a paltry thirty-five miles an hour. He began growing impatient tagging along behind him. They were the only two vehicles presently on the road.
A quarter of a mile later Mark gunned the throttle on his bike. He decided he would pass Rex, who was still lollygagging, even though a double yellow line lay to his left, and a No Passing sign had just appeared on his right.
Mark drifted across the two yellow lines. He pulled even with Rex Archibald's vehicle. They rode side by side until both topped out at sixty miles an hour. Then, with a sinister smirk on his face, Rex Archibald swerved across the yellow lines and plowed into Mark.
The bike crashed to the ground. Mark and Dorothy hit the pavement...hard. Dorothy landed face down. She tumbled onto her back. Barely conscious, but alive. Abrasions covered her face, arms and palms. Blood streaked her path.
Upon contact, Mark slid about forty feet. He was unconscious. Dorothy did not know if he was dead or alive. She was terrified to find out. In her dazed state, she could not believe Rex Archibald deliberately ran them over.
Within a few short moments blue lights flashed. The Deputy Sheriff, who had followed them away from the parking lot of the Dew Drop Inn, arrived on the scene. Back-up rapidly radioed in. And, medical units dispatched.
Upon their arrival, Mark Jenner's condition was their top priority. He remained unconscious. The Medivac helicopter landed while paramedics tended to Mark. His heartbeat faint.
Time being critical, for any chance of survival, Mark was immediately airlifted to Seahawk General Hospital where he was rushed into surgery. The attending physicians knew they were in for a fight to keep him breathing air. His injuries were extensive. Including his lacerated liver.
The Deputy Sheriff arrested Rex Archibald. He admitted intentionally running Mark's bike down.
Then, as coldbloodedly as he could say the words, he stated, "And, I don't care that I did. Or what happens to him. Serves him right. She was supposed to be my Main Squeeze tonight. Not his!"
Rex Archibald was held on two counts of Assault to Commit Murder. Charges that would be upgraded if Mark Jenner died, to First Degree Murder.
At one a.m. the telephone rang in the Jenner residence. The hospital was notifying the family about Mark's admittance. Thomas Jenner had passed out in his recliner in the den. The television set still on. The persistency of the four rings made him take the call.
He jumped up with a loud start. The commotion woke his sleeping wife. She had arrived home an hour earlier, and just fallen to sleep, before the telephone's ringing disturbed the silence.
It also woke Kyle Jenner. When he walked into the den to ask what was occurring, his father railed into him like he had never done before.
"Your brother is laying, dying, in the hospital!" he snapped at Kyle, "And, it's your fault!"
Defenselessly, Kyle replied, "My fault?"
"Yes, it's your fault!" his father retorted loudly, telling him, "You did not tell me Mark snuck out of the house tonight to go to some party. Now, because of your ignorance, he may die! I hope you're happy!"
Suddenly, a half empty bottle of vodka flew across the room. Kyle ducked. The bottle grazed the top of his dark brown hair. Kyle had never been so hurt in his life. He ran out of the den in tears. Crying harder than he had ever cried before.
His parents raced out the front door of their house. Thomas Jenner covered the two miles to Seahawk General Hospital in less than three minutes. Running two red lights along the way.
Before they left, Kyle bolted out the front door. He ran at top speed two houses down from where he lived. Frantically, he beat on the front door of that house.
Barefooted, and in a night shirt, Jonathan Dungston answered his thunderous pounding.
Seeing his best friend, Kyle fell into Jonathan's arms. Through his pouring tears, he barely managed to tell him what happened. Kyle did not bother to mention the spiteful comments his father made.
"Let me grab my jeans and shoes," was all Jonathan told him.
A light came on in his parents upstairs bedroom.
"It's Mark!" Jonathan yelled loud enough for them to clearly hear him, "He's hurt! Bad! Going to the hospital!"
As the boys left the Dungstons home they heard Jonathan's parents rummaging around. Shortly, they would be at the hospital as well.
Once again, Jonathan hugged the trembling Kyle tightly and reassuringly said, "He's going to be okay, Kyle. Just wait and see. Mark's going to be okay."
Even to him his words rang hollow.
Mark Jenner never regained consciousness.
The time of death was listed as 2:33 a.m.
@October 20, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any form without the written approval of the copyright holder.
| Author Notes |
Wild Blue Yonder, Forever Friends, Fist City, and Teen Scene - Part One are all available in my portfolio.
These will bring readers up to date with my tale. Bolding of the first two sentences purposely done for creative enhancement. I am receiving tremendous response to this storyline. But, do not be scared off from reviewing because of that. Just know that it may take me a while to respond back to your review. However, I always do. And, I will. Hot Rod by Irishmik60 was selected to compliment my story. Thanks Irishmik60 for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
VELMA DUNGSTON STEERED HER SNOW WHITE MERCEDES IN THE DIRECTION OF HOME, WHERE SHE PROMISED HER HUSBAND SHE WOULD BE THREE HOURS EARLIER. The taste of wine still sweet on her lips. This wasn't the first time Velma Dungston had been in a place she never should have been.
For almost fifteen years she had been married to Professor Sea Horse. However, this was not the first time she had stopped and smelled the flowers in another garden.
Many doctors, and even some Interns, had shared her bounty. And, in the love department, she had plenty of it to spread around. Just like it was peanut butter on a hot biscuit. Being a Lead Nurse had its fringe benefits that came with the territory.
And, why shouldn't she play around? She often asked herself. After all, since they were married, he had. Of course, he had no concept she was fully aware of his many trysts. And, in her mind, she was getting even for all the low down things he did to her.
If he knew about her trifling affairs he never said a mumbling word. Jonathan would be gone in another three or four years, and she would be hot on his heels. Her son was the only glue that kept her hanging on to a relationship that emotionally died a long time ago.
She could always down a Corona, or something stronger, for what ailed her. That would allow her to tolerate her son's sperm donor that much longer. Then, he would be free to entertain all the students his little heart desired on his excursions to examine his sea horses. To date, there were at least six of them over the years she knew about.
Both of them seemed contented in their endeavors, and would not place Jonathan into a position of having to chose one over the other. That was not fair to him. So, the charade that was their marriage, would continue until he departed for aviation school, or the Army, whichever came first.
What his parents did not realize was that Jonathan knew all about their extracurricular activities. Although he never asked them about the situation, and did not know how to approach either one of them about the subject, he was still tremendously bothered by it.
He could not comprehend how they could be so open in their bonds of matrimony. And, knew if he ever tied the knot, no way would the strings come undone. He would be true, and devoted to his significant other, showing his parents how the ties that bind are supposed to work.
Velma Dungston understood her husband would say nothing to her about her tardiness when she arrived. That was just the way their Modern Day romance worked. It would simply be business as usual at the Dungston house. And, that business included Mark Jenner's funeral the next morning at Riverton Crest Cemetery.
There was even some lingering doubt as to whether or not the good Professor was Jonathan's biological father. But, that was one DNA test the results of which may never be known. He could just as easily be Doctor Phillip Rafferty's son.
However, Velma Dungston pushed that probability out of her mind. He had been her true love. But, that was a long time ago. So, for the sake of keeping her family together, for the time being, she could not even consider the possibility of bringing that matter out into the light of day.
Doctor Rafferty is who Velma Dungston had spent the evening with in one of Seattle's swankiest resorts. Their sweet home away from home. Once again, he had forsaken the fact he had a wife, and grown children, of his own, to be with her.
Theirs was a weekly occurrence that had lasted a long time. When you are the President of the hospital board you receive certain perks.
The next morning found Jonathan icily staring at the outfit laying on his bed. It was black. Solid and foreboding. Midnight black. The way Jonathan felt. And, it chilled him to the bone. He had never been to a funeral before. This was going to be a bad one to start with.
But, for Kyle's sake he had to be strong, and get him through his unsufferable grief. Especially since the Jenners insisted he ride in the hearse to the gravesite. Jonathan was also supposed to be one of the pallbearers.
Dorothy Blevins would be in that car. In a moment of weakness, since Mark died, she tearfully broke down and told the Jenners she was pregnant with Mark Junior. Although, not much of a consolation at the time, they had welcomed her with open arms.
As far as they were concerned, whether he was born yet or not, there was no way Mark's son was not going to attend his father's funeral, and not be a member of their family doing so.
Jonathan had a different opinion. Around school it was rumored that Dorothy Blevins was not even pregnant. Or, if she was, she was trying to pin the baby on an unsuspecting Mark Jenner. The more accurate truth was believed to be she had no idea who the baby's father was, because if you were a male, Dorothy Blevins could not keep her legs closed.
The grey, overcast skies were full of rain. But, the deluge had not started yet. A sea of multi-colored umbrellas adorned the quaint graveyard. The attendees were gathered around the casket, standing huddled, or sitting on the metal chairs provided for the occasion.
Aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends lined the outer rows allowing the Jenners to be seated in the front row next to the coffin that contained Mark's remains. All vital organs that could be salvaged from his body had been reaped, and already donated to the cause. Mark had wanted it that way.
Tears flowed freely among the attendees as the grey-haired, bi-focal-wearing Reverend McAllister talked about Mark, and his short life. Then, Thomas Jenner spoke briefly about how wonderful a son Mark had always been.
His brother, Tone, who had come back to Seattle from his renegade lifestyle in Montana, and Kyle hugged. Kyle's emotions were rampantly displayed.
After the ceremonies were completed the attendees slowly, and quietly, offered condolences to the Jenners and departed. Thomas and Penelope Jenner remained until Mark's casket was lowered into the ground, then found their way back to the hearse that had delivered them to their nightmare.
Tone remained graveside until the dirt was being dropped on Mark's casket to bury it. Then, he left. He had taken all he could of the happenings.
Kyle stayed until Mark's casket was completely covered with dirt, and the job of burying his remains was finished. He grabbed a shovel, and Jonathan watched him toss the last spade full of dirt on Mark's casket.
He walked over and placed a comforting arm around his friend's shoulders. Kyle could not be consoled. Jonathan saw a strange look in Kyle's eyes, and it worried him. He did not like the far away glance he saw one bit.
"Come on, Kyle, I'll walk you back to the car," he softly told him.
"No, Jonathan," Kyle responded strongly, saying, "just leave me alone!"
Kyle dashed away from the gravesite. Jonathan's first instinct was to go after him. He definitely did not like seeing Kyle's suffering.
Before he could move, Thomas Jenner called him, telling him, "Give Kyle some space, Jonathan. He'll be okay."
Jonathan looked back at Thomas Jenner standing beside the hearse, then rapidly turned his head in time to see Kyle disappear around the corner of the graveyard caretaker's building.
An uneasy feeling came over him, and something told him to pursue Kyle.
But, he did not. Instead, he slowly made his way back to the hearse, and climbed inside it. He noticed a partially consumed bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey laying on the seat Tone had occupied on the way to the gravesite from the church.
Jonathan saw nobody eyeing what he held in his hand. Slowly, he untwisted the cap off the bottle. He put the bottle to his mouth and drank a big swallow. It burned going down. However, it was also his first taste of whiskey.
He quickly took a second, and then a third, gulp. He twisted the cap back on the bottle. Then, placed it back on Tone's seat, where he had found it.
Suddenly, he felt no emotional pain from the tragedy of the day. That simple act started a brand new love affair.
Jonathan Dungston had made a new friend.
One that would never let him down...again.
@October 22, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
******************************************************************************
****************************************************************************** Many FanStorians have taken a vested interest in this tale. And, you are certainly not afraid to tell me exactly what you think about it as the story continues to be told. It is my desire in writing Drinking Problem that you, the reader, find it to be a good story. Because, as Dean Koontz says in his classic novel known as "Watchers" "A story can have multiple intricately woven levels of themes and symbols, but it fails if it is not first a wonderful tale." So, I invite you to enjoy, and follow along, as I continue to construct what I believe is my most creative writing to date. ******************************************************************************** ******************************************************************************** Wild Blue Yonder, Forever Friends, Fist City, Teen Scene - Part One, and Teen Scene - Conclusion, the sequenced other stories leading up to this one, are all available in my portfolio. Bolding the first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. Stik551's "The Elderly Rest" photograph was selected to compliment my story. Thank you Stik551 for allowing me to use your picture. It goes so nicely with my little tale. |
By Brett Matthew West
SINCE RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME, AFTER MARK'S FUNERAL ON SATURDAY MORNING, KYLE HAD SPENT THE LAST THREE DAYS THUMBING, AND WALKING, AND WAITING, AND WAITING...AND WAITING...AND WAITING SOME MORE. His destination was parts unknown, or the Canadian Wilderness. Whichever came first.
Neither place mattered much to him, but, it was better than Seattle. His father's angry comments about him being the reason his brother was dead were more than Kyle could handle. How was he to know Rex Archibald would run Mark and Dorothy down?
Did his father think he was a mind reader? Or, had a crystal ball he could foretell the future with? Right now Kyle would settle for anything leaving Washington as far behind him as he could get.
The only thing Kyle cared about was paddling his own canoe in life. How he would perform such a herculean feat he had no idea, but, he was industrious enough to do so. Or, so the boy thought.
A dark blue, four-door, sedan eased to the shoulder of the road ahead of where Kyle stood. His thumb in the air. Briskly, he walked up to the vehicle. He glanced at the driver. The man seemed friendly enough. Kyle opened the passenger side front door, climbed in, and closed the door behind him. The driver slowly pulled off, then climbed to a cruising speed of 75 miles an hour.
"I'm Jake Williams," the driver told Kyle. He appeared to be a rather jovial sort.
Kyle guessed he was about six foot-two. And, probably weighed a plump three hundred pounds, judging by the belly roll he possessed.
"I'm K-," Kyle started to tell him, then decided maybe he better not give his real name, and instead said, "I'm Paul. Paul Malone."
"Well, Paul Malone," the driver asked him in a pleasant tone of voice, "where are you going on such a fine day? I bet you've got some big plans waiting for you somewhere."
Kyle pondered for a moment before answering, then said, "Nowhere special. I'm just going,"
"Well, that tells me you're running from something, then," the driver casually mentioned. He pressed a button on his side door that locked all the other doors on the car as well.
Kyle immediately knew he was in for a ride. Wrong car. He also grasped the concept this fat man was not someone he wanted to be around. Now, what was he to do? He decided it might be a real good thing he had absconded with that flat tip screwdriver he had found a ways back on the road before Jake Williams came along.
Slowly, Kyle reached into the right rear pocket of the jeans he was wearing. Carefully, he extracted the screwdriver he had concealed there. He had heard about never accepting rides from strangers. Too bad he did not listen to what he had been told.
Kyle knew his best chances would require him to remain calm as the cold side of the pillow he slept on. He tried to breath normally as he watched the man stop the car in a secluded Scenic Overlook area.
Turning in his seat to face Kyle, Jake Williams simply said, "We're here!" He reached up with one big, hairy arm and forced it around Kyle's shoulders. He leaned into the boy's face until their noses were almost touching.
"Give Daddy a little kissy-poo!" he told Kyle.
With the rubber handle of the screwdriver gripped tightly in his right hand, Kyle thrust the flat tip end of the implement as hard as he possibly could below Jake Williams belt. And quickly twisted it.
The big man wrenched in excruciating pain. That was the very last thing he expected Kyle to do. His bellow could be heard ten miles away and ricocheting down the valley below where he had parked the car. It sounded like a bull moose roaring in heat.
Williams grabbed himself. Torture racked his body. He did not have to look. He knew they were blue, swollen twice their normal size, and throbbing hard enough to make tears stream down his rotund face.
Kyle glanced a Dillinger on the backseat of the car. Hurriedly, he grabbed for it. Just managing to reach it from where he was positioned in the car.
He pointed the Dillinger at Williams, knowing that although he had never fired a gun before in his life, he had no qualms about pulling the trigger to protect himself.
Williams placed his meaty hands out in front of his belly. He considered reaching for the Dellinger, and overpowering Kyle, for control of the firearm.
Kyle raised the gun's barrel, pointed it right between William's beady eyes, and sternly warned him, "Make a move and you're a dead man! Bet!" Then he told him, "Don't ever touch me again, you pervert!"
"I was just having some fun," Williams responded, still in agony from being stabbed in the tenderest part of his body.
"Don't breath another word," Kyle warned him with a tone that immediately persuaded Williams he had picked on the wrong quarry this time.
"Now, unlock the car door, and get out of it very slowly," Kyle instructed the big man to do, saying, "then, back away until I tell you to stop."
Williams reached down. He pressed the button on his door that unlocked all four doors on the vehicle. Cautiously, because he couldn't move much faster than that, he turned in his seat, opened the door widely, and tumbled out of the vehicle. He turned around backwards, and took five painful, small steps. Every move flashed pain throughout his body. Kyle did not care.
"Stop where you're at," Kyle told Williams, saying, "keep your paws where I can see them and don't move!"
Slowly, Kyle opened the door on the passenger side of the vehicle. Keeping his eyes glued on Williams, he exited the car. He closed the door behind him tightly, and hurried around the front of the vehicle.
Then he told Williams, "Back up!"
Williams started moving. Ten yards away, Kyle noticed a dirt path that led to a river he did not know the name of. He reached into the car, and grabbed the keys out of the ignition.
With the fob in his hand, Kyle locked all the doors on the car. He then slowly followed the backwards walking Williams to the path he told him to take.
"Where are we going?" a suddenly terrified Williams demanded.
"Through that clump of trees to your left, and down to the river," Kyle answered him, saying, "keep moving. Slowly!"
Kyle had never shot anyone before, but had no doubt if Williams did not do exactly what he told him to do there would be a first time for everything.
Cautiously making his way over tree roots, leaves, and small twigs scattered along the path, Kyle told Williams to stop at the water. By now, Williams was a shaking bowl of jello.
He had not expected this unknown, boy, he had mistaken for an easy target, to be so self-reliant. None of his dozen, or so, other victims had ever been.
Keeping the Dellinger trained on the middle of Williams bulky chest, Kyle ordered him, "Strip! Get everything off. Right down to your tighty whities!"
Williams looked at Kyle as if he refused to remove his clothing. Kyle fired a warning shot, that sailed over Williams half-bald head, and strongly recommended to him he had better do what the boy told him to do.
Removing his shirt, pants, socks, and shoes Williams complied with Kyle's instructions. His fat body definitely was not a pretty sight to behold.
As Williams clothes floated away down river, Kyle pointed to a large ponderosa pine tree in the clearing. He told Williams to hug it tightly, facing the tree.
Williams sauntered over to the massive tree. He wrapped both of his arms around the rough bark. He interlocked the fingers of both hands together. And, almost in tears, he begged for his life, crying, "Please don't shoot me! I was just funning. I didn't mean anything by what I done."
Kyle heard an eighteen wheeler off in the distance on the highway. With any luck that truck would be his ticket out of town. Somehow, he just had to flag it down. He reached out with both hands and yanked the back of Williams oversized underwear down around his bulging knees, exposing his humongous butt for all the world to see.
Kyle threw Williams car keys into the river. He sprinted for the highway. He was glad to hear the airbrakes on the fuel tanker come on. Greatly relieved, he stuffed the Dillinger inside the waistband of his jeans. He climbed into the cab of the truck and slammed the door shut behind him.
"Seattle," was all he told the Suicide Jockey, an elderly man who had to be at least sixty years old, and had observed the scene between the boy and Williams at the tree.
Collecting his breath, Kyle pulled out his cellphone. He dialed a number. He would have liked to be a fly on the wall when the Washington State Police found Jake Williams parading around the middle of nowhere with nothing but his tent-sized Fruit-of-the-Looms on.
Kyle would have also loved to hear Williams try to explain his way out of that predicament.
Hearing the conversation, but asking no questions whatsoever, the driver of the semi looked over at Kyle in wide-eyed amusement, and simply said, "Breaker 1-9. We'll be in Seattle Town in four hours, good buddy. Come back?"
Kyle smiled. He had enjoyed his little adventure. However, running away from home no longer suited his fancy.
He had a much more pressing Plan B to attend to. The Dellinger in his waistband would fit that bill to a Tee. He could not wait.
Kyle spent the duration of the trip back to Seattle chatting away with the Suicide Jockey. The driver was feeling no pain when they arrived in Seattle. Four empty beer cans saw to that.
As they pulled up to the truckstop Kyle snatched the empty cans.
"Hey," he thought to himself, "the recycling plant still pays you by the pound."
Kyle was proud of himself. It felt good to be the silent, but deadly, kind.
@Copyrighted October 27, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
Wild Blue Yonder, Forever Friends, Fist City, Teen Scene - Part 1, and Teen Scene - Conclusion, the stories leading up to this one, are all available in my portfolio.
Suicide Jockey -- driver of a fuel, or otherwise, explosives laden semi truck. "Breaker 1-9. We'll be in Seattle Town in four hours, good buddy. Come back?" -- Citizens Band radio lingo. Bolding of first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement. Gentle Regard, by crystal clear, chosen to compliment my story. Thanks, crystal clear, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
THE EVENING NEWS CARRIED ALL THE DETAILS. SHE DIED IN EVERY LIVING ROOM IN TOWN. They reported, "Body found at Shilshole Bay Marina. Possibly missing student. Suspect sought."
Professor Robert Dungston reached down to the coffee table in front of him. He had his bare feet comfortably propped up on an ottoman. He snatched the remote control unit and flipped the channel on his big screen television set. He did not care to hear any more bad news on his doorstep.
He could not escape the story he had heard on the other channel, because a young boy, who could not have been more than twelve years old, was describing for a news reporter holding a microphone in his face, what he and his young friend had discovered.
As Professor Dungston listened to what the youngster said there seemed to be something familiar about him. Although the Professor did not know either boy. Perhaps it was the boy's enthusiasm for the camera that caught his attention.
The boy was almost boasting when he said, "Me and Tyler was playing catch on the beach." He wiped the sand off his hands onto the white stripes that ran down the sides of his blue swimsuit. He was not wearing anything else.
The Professor hoped the boy was not talking about Gail Stevenson. A student in his Marine Biology class. And, a good one, with a perceived intellectual knowledge of the subject material.
Gail Stevenson was also the missing student Professor Dungston had been grilled by the Seattle Police Department investigators about since his expedition had returned from studying sea horses around Gulliver's Inlet.
"Any way, Tyler threw me the football over here," the boy began his story.
"Except I throwed it way over Timmy's head!" The boy named Tyler enthusiastically cut in, saying, "And, when he reached up there in the grass," he added, pointing to the place where the sand and the grass met, near a paved walkway, "that's when Timmy saw her foot."
The reporter, wrapped up in the exclusive he was being given by the two boys, asked him, "Can you show us where she was at?"
"Yea," Tyler replied, saying, "no problem. She was right over there." He pointed to a nearby picnic table.
"She was next to the black barbeque grill," Timmy chimed in.
"Wonder if someone was going to fricassee her for dinner?" Tyler jokingly teased.
"Gross!" Timmy exclaimed, "No way was I gonna touch her!"
Professor Dungston heard the reporter saying, "That's the latest we have on the scene here, Bob. A grisly discovery indeed. Now, back to you at the desk at our station in Downtown Seattle. This has been George Martin, WWKK, Channel 2 News, coming to you live from Golden Gardens."
Professor Dungston filled his favorite brandy snifter all the way to the top. He asked himself, "What is this crazy world of ours coming to now?" Then he settled back into his recliner.
He recalled, how, according to her ditzy roommate Victoria Davenport, that Gail Stevenson had not been seen in the three weeks since her mysterious disappearance, after his latest expedition had returned.
In addition to being a promising member of Professor Dungston's latest expedition to Gulliver's Inlet, she was an enthusiastic team leader, who performed well on the field trip. She led other students in conducting a variety of experiments testing the sea water for desalination, and microorganisms found around Shilshole Bay.
Attending students also took measurements, and notes, on the sea horses they captured. From these experiments they gained valuable real world knowledge. That was what Professor Dungston's popular expeditions were designed for.
A fine figured twenty-year-old, Gail Stevenson seemed to follow every little movement the Professor made. She always focused intently on each word he lectured as well.
It wasn't hard to tell she had unbridled interest in Professor Dungston. And, he appreciated how her flowing red hair highlighted her smooth features. Sea horses appeared to be the catalyst she believed would bring them together.
Upon arriving back from the excursion, a distraught Gail Stevenson approached the Professor before he could leave the boat. Her sad, puppy dog eyes displayed her turmoil. Signals the Professor easily honed in on.
"Something troubling you, Miss Stevenson?" he nonchalantly inquired, knowing he should be heading home, but sensing one of his students had something pressing on their mind that needed to be addressed.
Gail Stevenson did not hide her thoughts, "That "B" you gave me Robert is inappropriate," she blurted out, stating, "I deserved an "A" on that paper. My work met all the requirements of the syllabus you provided us."
"First off, to my students I am not Robert," the Professor corrected the manner in which she phrased her statement, "I am Professor Dungston."
Gail Stevenson looked stung, as though a bee had found its way into her bonnet.
"However, if you care to further discuss this matter I will make time available after our next class session," he told her, saying, "that is my well known mode of operation."
Gail Stevenson grabbed her lab bag in a huff. The Professor's response was not the one she anticipated. She was not pleased. She stomped up the ramp leading away from the boat, announcing, "I can not have a "B" Professor. That is wrong!"
"I said, Miss Stevenson, we can further discuss this matter after our next class session on Monday afternoon," Professor Dungston repeated, then instructed her to "read my notations written in red on the paper. And, be prepared to show me cause for an upgrade."
"Thanks for nothing, Professor!" was all Gail Stevenson fumed, storming off.
Gail Stevenson did not take rejection well. The valedictorian of her high school class, and voted Most Likely To Succeed, she was used to getting her way. Angry because of Professor Dungston's response, she immediately began contemplating.
The walk to her dorm room was a leisurely stroll from the dock, leading past the secluded Golden Gardens. The air felt pleasant, and Gail Stevenson decided the stroll might do her some good. At least, it would give her time to ponder while enjoying the view of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains.
Professor Dungston remembered he had promised Jonathan a new DVD he had been pleading for. One of those killer zombies, or was it a Freddie Kruger gory creature feature thing kids like his son were currently into? He could not keep them straight.
Bidding a fond farewell to three other students, who had not departed the boat yet, Professor Dungston climbed into his soft top Corvette, and headed off to find Jonathan what he desired.
These would be the three who's inadvertent comments to Seattle's finest would implicate Professor Dungston in Gail Stevenson's mysterious disappearance.
With night time descending over Seattle, Golden Gardens was a peaceful, and serene, quiet spot many locals enjoyed. Gail Stevenson had been there several times before in her three years at the university.
She meandered aimlessly down the boardwalk towards the beach. It was then she noticed headlights from an approaching car. The vehicle looked familiar. Her initial notion was it belonged to Professor Dungston.
Gail Stevenson neared a picnic table. No one else was observed on the beach. Out of a shadow she felt herself being grabbed. She saw a shiny steel blade. Gail Stevenson's grade no longer mattered.
Timmy and Tyler found her naked body. Thirty-three stab wounds punctured her torso. Her throat was slit from ear to ear. Tests would later reveal she had also been sexually assaulted.
Professor Dungston drove down Mariners Landing to Walton's Videos. He made his purchase then headed home.
Jonathan would be a very happy boy.
To Professor Dungston the evening news report was not welcoming.
@Copyrighted October 31, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the copyright holder.
| Author Notes |
Wild Blue Yonder, Forever Friends, Fist City, Teen Scene - Part 1, Teen Scene - Conclusion, and Runaway, the proceeding stories in this series are available in my portfolio.
Bolding of first two sentences purposely done for creative enhancement Sunset at Ka'anapali, by ftbtaxman, chosen to compliment my story. Thanks, ftbtaxman for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
IN A ONE ROOM CABIN OUTSIDE OF BOZEMAN, MONTANA, ANTHONY "TONE" JENNER CAREFULLY CUT OUT THE SEATTLE SOUND NEWSPAPER'S ARTICLE ABOUT GAIL STEVENSON'S MUTILATED BODY BEING FOUND IN GOLDEN GARDENS.
He fastened it to the wall of the cabin, just like he had done all the other articles he received from Kyle. Especially if they were connected to Professor Dungston in any way.
Tone spent countless hours reading, and re-reading, the many stories about Professor Dungston he had plastered on every inch of the cabin's walls. This simple act always made him feel much closer to the Professor.
Repeatedly, Tone would fill a fifty-five gallon drum one quarter full of hot water, as hot as he could tolerate. He would strip down, step into the water in the drum, and, vigorously scrub his skin raw in front of the newspaper clippings of Professor Dungston. Even if he drew blood, he kept scrubbing away. Arms, chest, back, hips, legs, and feet. Robotically, always in that order.
His chore accomplished one night, Tone caught the Seattle news he frequently kept his television tuned to. Always on Channel 2 News. He listened intently to the interview with Timmy and Tyler detailing discovering Gail Stevenson's body. It was then he first heard the comment about fricasseeing her. The boy's remark thrilled him. The thought had never occurred to Tone. But, he found the comment delightful.
Seemed like everybody in the Seattle area had picked up on that comment. Even Howlin' Harry McSwartz, on KDNN Radio, one of Seattle's top Shock Jocks, ran a poll of listeners asking them what they thought about fricasseeing Gail Stevenson in Golden Gardens.
Overwhelmingly, they phoned in to the station responding they found the boy's remark to be hilarious. Three volunteered to do the fricasseeing. And, the other one said the boy should be rewarded for his ingenuity.
Howlin' Harry promised to find the two boys and bring them on his show. His ratings for the day skyrocketed.
Tone decided if Harry had them on his show he would make a special trip back to Seattle to see the boys live, and in Techno-color, for himself. Everybody loves a Cause Celebrity.
Tone had long ago abandoned the dead-end, low paying, fast food scene he had been caught up in the last few years. He figured a dapper young man, such as himself, could make a much easier living than that rat race.
All he had to do was walk into a joint, point a pistol, and run back out to his waiting car. So far the jobs had been small. Convenience Stores, and restaurants. But, Tone Jenner was learning quickly he could have everything money could buy. All he had to do was go get what he wanted.
His overwhelming obsession with Professor Dungston had not waned since leaving Seattle on the run. In Tone's twisted mind, the good Professor was everything Anthony Jenner wanted to be...was not...and never would amount to.
But, that did not stop Tone's big schemes. Tone needed a major score. And, he knew the good Professor would willingly pay through the nose for the safe return of his most prized possession.
Tone decided a cool million would take him as far away as he wanted to go. Perhaps even Honolulu. Or, some other exotic island somewhere. Any place the action was hot, and the eye candy abounded. He would bide his time. Then strike.
It had been five or six years since Tone developed his fixation on Professor Dungston. Or, maybe it was the green-eyed monster known as jealousy that gripped him tightly in its clutches.
All he knew was Jonathan Dungston never wanted for any little trinket. Tone's parents could never afford that luxury for him. Besides them, they had the hungry mouths of three growing sons to feed. Tone had always wanted his fair share of the Dungston pie. And, by hook, or by crook, one way or the other he would have all he craved of it.
Tone had double-checked the shed behind his rented cabin. The foot-thick reinforced walls, he believed, could not be penetrated. Straw bedding covered the cracked cement floor. And, four chains were solidly attached to metal hooks secured into the floor.
They were more than strong enough to imprison his prey until Professor Dungston came through with the cash. The ransom money would be Tone's way to Easy Street.
Tone drank a fifth of courage. He snorted two fresh lines of powder his new razor blade had prepared. He grabbed his guitar and started blasting Hard Rock songs through his amps. Music always soothed his anguish.
Soon, Hard Rock gave way to Psychedelic Rock, then to Acid Rock. Living alone, Tone could raise all the electronified pulses he could muster. Being out in the middle of nowhere did have its advantages.
If Tone could only hold what was left of his sanity together, for a little while longer, life would be dramatically so much better. On and on he jammed.
Back in Seattle, Professor Dungston sat with his attorney Jason Davenport in the Police Station. He had been brought in for questioning in the murder of Gail Stevenson. All the notoriety was beginning to affect his status at Puget Sound State College, and he was sure a leave of absence would soon be required.
Jason Davenport was a huge man. He stood about six feet-six inches tall. He weighed a solid 250 pounds. And, he was fierce as a wounded mountain lion when it came to defending clients. He should be. They paid him well. Professor Dungston's fees were no less. If this case went to trial he would probably have to mortgage his home to pay the costs of defending himself.
In his mid-fifties, Jason Davenport resembled a man ten years younger. The touch of salt and pepper in his dark black hair made him look distinguished. His Armani suit fit him well. Today, he was not in a joyous humor.
"Charge my client or release him!" Davenport demanded in strong even tones, "You have nothing to hold him on."
The two Detectives, sitting at the opposite end of the table from Professor Dungston and his attorney, simply smiled at each other. They were wily veterans who knew the ropes. And, how far they could push a situation without crossing over the line of no return.
"Professor Dungston is free to leave whenever he chposes to do so," Jasper Carswell, the older of the two Detectives replied to the attorney's demand, "we're not impeding his leaving," he said, then remarked, "We're only trying to sort this puzzle out in order to get a real clear picture in our minds of why the good Professor murdered Gail Stevenson."
Jason Davenport wanted to reach across the table and smack the snot out of the Detective's nose, but refrained from doing what he longed to do. He knew the game all too well, Experience had taught him Detectives always played good cop-bad cop in order to get a suspect's reaction.
"Say nothing, Robert," Davenport reminded the Professor. He turned his gaze back to the Detectives and said, "The receipt Professor Dungston surrendered to you verifies his whereabouts at the time of Gail Stevenson's murder, Detective. I suggest you learn how to A: read, and B: tell time!"
Detective Carswell glanced back at the attorney, "Get him out of here, Davenport," he told his adversary.
"But, don't leave Seattle, Professor," Detective Shania Hoolihan chimed in. She had partaken of the exercise but allowed her more seasoned partner to lead throughout the proceedings.
Professor Dungston, and Jason Davenport rose out of their seats to leave. They had had enough of the runaround the Detectives had put the Professor through all afternoon.
"I will be subpoenaing a DNA sample, Professor Dungston," Detective Carswell solemnly vowed, "then we'll see what proof lies in the pudding. Won't we?" he sneered.
"Get all the subpoenas your little old heart desires, Detective," Davenport replied in kind, "you're not going to pin this murder rap on my client."
"You are right, Davenport, I am not," Detective Carswell responded, promising, "the Professor's DNA will nail him to the wall."
Professor Dungston and Jason Davenport exited the interrogation room without another word being spoken to either one of the Detectives.
In the silence of the outer hallway, Davenport told the Professor, "Now's the time to come clean, Robert. Anything at all you need to tell me about this case, you have not already said, I need to know."
"Yes, there is," Professor Dungston worriedly stated, "I'm going home."
Jason Davenport placed his hand firmly on Professor Dungston's shoulder and implored him, "Robert, you must come clean. Hold nothing back."
Professor Dungston looked his attorner squarely in the eye and remarked, "They're going to find what they are looking for." Then he paused, took a heavy, deep breath, and said, "But, I didn't kill her. I swear Jason. I did not murder Gail Stevenson."
Silently, the attorney patted the Professor's shoulder three times. He simply told him, "Go home, Robert. I'll be in touch."
Professor Dungston turned. He slowly walked away from his attorney.
Jason Davenport watched him leave.
His left hand clenched tightly, and held up to his mouth.
He could feel himself exhaling air into his fist.
Stoically, he stood there in deep contemplation.
@Copyrighted November 3, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
The responses to the boy's remark about fricasseeing Gail Stevenson were actually received by this writer.
Many of them as Private Messages. Guess I struck a real nerve with that scene with many of you. So, thanks for your wonderful input into this story. I could not pass up including actual remarks by fellow FanStorians into this tale. Many of you are so intensely following each story in the series that I would be remiss if I did. Bolding of first paragraph purposely done for creative enhancement. Other stories in the series include: Wild Blue Yonder Forever Friends Fist City Teen Scene - Part 1 Teen Scene - Conclusion Funeral Pyre Runaway Golden Gardens Fall Country Cabin, by cmyers, chosen to compliment this tale. Thanks cmyers for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
A BRIGHT ARRAY OF MULTI-COLORED KITES, OF ALL DIFFERENT SHAPES AND SIZES, FLITTED HIGH THROUGH THE CRYSTAL CLEAR, BLUE, SATURDAY AFTERNOON SKY. They, and hot air balloons, were featured entertainment on the horizon.
Loud, carnival music blared from the boardwalk as Prairie Sage attempted to liven up the festive throng. Roller skaters, and skateboarders, mingled among many of the pedestrians crowding the walkways to the beach to catch the breakers rolling in. Segways could also be seen.
Jonathan knew his father would tan every ounce of flesh off his young hide for being there in the first place. And, although he was never brave enough to do so himself, something always fascinated the boy about this scene.
Perhaps it was the allure of the extremely popular, clothing optional, Wickham Beach that drew him. Or, was it the playful school of dolphins that hung out just off the shore, inviting swimmers to join them for a spot of tea, followed by a lazy afternoon romp, that held his attention. Whatever it was, Jonathan could not resist.
Meandering merrily along his way, and maneuvering through those that did, as well as those that did not, Jonathan found his favorite concession stand. It was there he ate a Coney Island dog smothered with mustard, ketchup, onions, and relish. He also drank the contents of a sixteen ounce cup of his favorite soda.
When Jonathan was done with his snack, and feeling good, he crushed the paper cup, and tossed it, along with the container the hotdog came in, into a nearby trash receptacle. Then, he continued on his way down the shoreline.
He liked checking the skimpily clad girls out. And, Jonathan enjoyed making time in the water, too. Like every red-blooded teen boy does.
Carefree, as was his nature, little did Jonathan notice his every move was being watched by somebody very familiar to him, or that danger lurked nearby.
He was a fourteen-year-old boy nonchalantly doing what fourteen-year-old boys do. Jonathan's world would soon change. Dramatically. He was about to enter a realm of terror he never knew existed before.
Tone Jenner was well aware Jonathan had strolled Wickham Beach on several occasions. He had even been there with him, and many of their mutual friends, including Tone's youngest brother, Kyle.
The last time they had shared experiences on Wickham Beach was before Tone's other brother, Mark, had been run down on his motorcycle by Rex Archibald.
That was a sweet revenge situation Tone was still formulating plans in his mind to extract from the arrogant piece of garbage who had murdered Mark, and was yet to come to trial for his actions.
As far as Tone was concerned every dog has its day. However, right now, Rex Archibald was not his desired target. The boy-next-door, with the sparkling, blue diamond eyes, Jonathan Dungston, was.
His meal ticket almost within arm's reach, Tone tightly gripped the handle of the wooden mallet he held in his hand. He contemplated one, well placed, blow would be enough. Two at the most. Jonathan could be a little bit hard-headed when he chose to be.
Tone needed a secluded spot in which to pounce. There was one coming up ahead, about thirty yards away, where he and Jonathan would be the only live bodies in the area.
Jonathan should have stayed home. He should have mowed the grass like his father asked him to do. He never should have shirked his chores to sneak off to the beach. What Jonathan should have done was not Tone's concern.
The closer he approached Jonathan the more Tone could feel his adrenaline rising. However, he could not allow it to escalate out of control. He needed Jonathan alive -- for now.
The blow he administered to his victim's head drew a slow trickle of blood. It also knocked Jonathan out colder than a block of ice, but he managed to survive the harsh strike.
Tone's return to Seattle had been a rousing success. Just for the thrill of the chase, he had knocked off a mom-and-pop grocery store in Idaho on the way over from Montana. That made three states his fledgling crime spree encompassed. He knew a pawn shop in Eastern Washington he would add to his collection on the way back to Montana.
Tone was indeed brazen, and becoming more callous, with each setting sun. The world lay right on the tips of his fingers, and he was about to grasp the brass ring. Perhaps, he would even pull its tail, for good measure.
The unconscious Jonathan was a heavy burden for Tone to drag off the beach, and unceremoniously toss into his fixer-up pickup truck. Somehow, he managed to accomplish the daunting feat. He had come too far to allow his dream of the good life to slip away.
Tone examined Jonathan's sprawled out body, that lay draped across the backseat of his maroon F150. For a fleeting moment he sympathized with the fact they had been friends for several years.
Almost.
Psyche!
He decided Jonathan's accommodations in the shed in Montana would be suitable, at least, for the short term.
Getting the message to Professor Dungston about Jonathan's little excursion, and his urgent need to cough up the ransom cash, in exchange for the safe return of his lone progeny, occupied Tone's thoughts as he climbed into the truck.
Tone inserted the key into the ignition, and the vehicle's engine roared to life. Then, he slowly pulled out of the parking lot, and headed east to destination Easy Street.
Back in Montana the mandolin rain drummed down on the tin roof of the shed in a rhythmic pattern. Ominous dark clouds littered the sky overhead. Lightning flashes, of a variety of exciting contributions, illuminated the blackness like strobe lights in a discotheque. Only, it wasn't music Jonathan was grooving to.
Blinding pulsations of throbbing pain, cascading like a waterfall crashing its contents on to the hapless rocks in the river below, tormented him. That, and the still dazed state Jonathan felt himself floating around in.
Clueless as to where he was, of what had befallen him, Jonathan believed he very well may have been in Concussion City, for all he knew. He had never had one before, and was totally convinced he never wanted to have another one again.
If crying would have made him feel better, he would have bawled like a newborn baby. But, tears would not come.
No matter what position Jonathan moved into, when he challenged himself to roust at all, the pain was unbearable. The whole universe seemed to be moving in fast forward. Only, Jonathan wanted somebody, anybody, to stop the spinning world so he could get off.
He forced himself to reach up, like the Itsy Bitsy spider crawling up the side of a water fountain. Gently, Jonathan touched the side of his head, and felt his matted blonde hair.
Reacting like he had grabbed a burner on a red hot stove top, Jonathan just as quickly jerked his hand back down. Then, once more, he reached for the massive knot on the side of his head.
If only he could remember where he got the monstrosity from maybe he could find a way to better cope with his condition.
But, his absent memory cells must have gone on a small vacation. Jonathan definitely had no independent recollection of the state of affairs he had endured. The vacuous notion he could recall was a relaxing dip in Wickham Beach.
There was no sand or water. No pelicans dive-bombing a tasty fish morsel. No waves washing over him, unless he counted the relentless nauseous symptoms welling up deep inside him. And, no warm sunshine bearing down on his shoulders, either. Just the awful, unrelenting, pounding in his head.
Then, Jonathan noticed the cold, metallic chains that bound both of his wrists and ankles. They certainly proved he was not on the beach any longer. He wondered if he had severely banged his head on a sandbar, while frolicking in the water, and wound up in this nightmare? None of it made any sense to him at all.
As his bearings started returning in each moment that slowly crept along, Jonathan realized his bed was made of straw. Good thing he wasn't allergic to the pieces that covered the cold cement floor he soon discovered he was laying on.
No, Jonathan Dungston, now a prisoner of who, he did not comprehend, wasn't going anywhere any time soon. All alone, with the raging storm brewing outside, he wondered how long his sentence would be?
There was nothing else Jonathan could do but lay where he was at and count the raindrops as they fell. One...two...three...
Snuggly inside the dilapidated, rustic cabin that stood next to the shed Jonathan was confined in, Tone Jenner popped the top on an ice cold brewski. He felt proud of himself. Mission accomplished.
He picked up his cellphone and dialed a number he knew well.
On the third ring Professor Dungston answered the call. At first, he thought Tone was playing a prank. But, then, the conversation rapidly became deathly serious.
Intensely, Professor Dungston listened to every word he was being told.
@Copyrighted November 9, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
Bolding of first sentence purposely done for creative enhancement.
Other stories in this series include: Wild Blue Yonder Fast Friends Fist City Teen Scene - Part 1 Teen Scene - Conclusion Funeral Pyre Runaway Golden Gardens Deranged Nature's Dream, by Mike K2, chosen to compliment this story. Thanks Mike K2 for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little tale. |
By Brett Matthew West
Professor Dungston felt his right hand tightly grasping the receiver of the phone. How he wished it was around Tone Jenner's throat instead! In his wildest imagination he could not believe what he was being told.
He had known Tone almost all of the boy's life. For God's sake, he was one of Jonathan's best friends. How could something like this be happening? Insanity. That was the only explanation the Professor could come up with.
Locoitis had captured Tone's mind. There was no other way it could possibly be. The Professor also knew a crazy person is liable to do anything at all. To anybody. Even to his son.
"Don't make this have to turn ugly, Professor," Tone threateningly warned the scientist.
Then he said, "I don't want to hurt Jonathan. But, I will. All I care about is the cold, hard, cash. One million dollars."
"Tone, what makes you think I have that kind of money just laying around waiting for me to give it to you?" Professor Dungston attempted to reason with his caller.
"Spare me the theatrics, Professor," Tone replied callously, "Jonathan's told me all about your little cash cow, and it's time for you to milk it dry. If you know what's good for Jonathan!"
The Professor knew exactly what Tone was talking about. He paused momentarily before speaking.
"Come on, Professor Dungston," Tone began again. Then, added, "You have the money. And, I have Jonathan. Sounds like a fair trade to me."
"That money belongs to the university, Tone," Professor Dungston told him, "it's not mine."
"Oh, but, you can get your hands on all of it, Professor. Any time you want to," Tone reminded him, "and, for Jonathan's sake, I know how badly you want to get your hands on that money. My money!"
There was silence on the line before Professor Dungston said, "Be reasonable, Tone. If I steal that money the university has earmarked for excursions I could lose everything."
"Big deal!" was all Tone said.
Then, he stated without any concern for the consequences the Professor was considering, "So, you lose your tenure, Professor. Maybe even do a little stretch in prison. That's still better than never seeing Jonathan again!"
Caught between a rock and a hard place, Professor Dungston replied with, "What if I just call the authorities, and have them pay you a little visit, Tone?"
"Professor, you really do not want to be that stupid!" Tone coldly interjected, promising, "Because, if I see one law officer anywhere near my cabin, I swear to you that I will kill Jonathan on the spot!"
Then, he demanded, "Sayonara! Kapish?"
The Professor readily understood Tone's threat. He hesitated.
That was all Tone Jenner needed to ask him the haunting question of, "Does Gail Stevenson mean anything to you, Professor? It should. It definitely should."
"You?" the Professor responded in kind at the unexpected confession he just heard.
"But, they'll never pin that one on me," Tone boasted, stating, "it's your DNA they'll find. Not mine."
A slight pause, and he said, "She told me all about your little adventures on the high seas, Professor...one knife stab at a time! My, my, but wasn't that kinky?"
Tone heartily laughed out loud, then asked, "Who'd ever think a pillar of society, such as yourself, was into whips and chains? Nice touch, Professor. Great fatherly example you're setting there for Jonathan. Great example indeed."
And, finally Tone solemnly vowed, "If you do not produce my money, Professor, sweet, innocent, Jonathan will gladly be added to that list!"
Defeated, the Professor said, "Tone, I'll get the money. But, if you as much as harm one hair on my son's blond head I will hunt you down no matter where I have to find you!"
"Don't threaten me, Professor. You can't win!" Tone retorted, reminding the person he conversed with, "I have what you treasure most. Perhaps I should send one of his ears to you overnight express. Just because I can."
Flabbergasted, the Professor recollected his thoughts. He checked his boiling hot temper knowing Jonathan would be the one hurt if he did not get a grip on reality.
"Tone, please. I'm asking you from the bottom of my heart not to hurt my son," the Professor calmly said, adding, "he's never done anything to you, except be your friend."
"Spare me the tears, Professor," Tone unhesitantly remarked, "48 hours. That's all the time you have to come up with my cash!"
Then he repeated himself, saying, "I'll call you with instructions on how we'll make the exchange in exactly 48 hours. And, again, Professor. No Police, or I will not be responsible for what happens to Jonathan!"
"I'll expect your call," was all the Professor said.
Disdain for Tone Jenner raging deep inside him, he hung up the phone...numb.
In Montana, Tone Jenner plopped back into his favorite chair.
Proud of himself, he popped the top on another beer, knowing he had beaten the Professor on all fronts.
This was going way too easy.
@Copyrighted December 2, 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, or its storyline, may be reproduced in any manner without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
Locoitis -- Professor Dungston's word for mental illness
Hillbilly's Hideout, by Loyd C. Taylor, chosen to compliment my little story. So, thanks, Loyd C. Taylor for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little tale. |
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