Date Published: March 15, 2021
Publisher: Del Sol Press
In the course of a morning, Dungsten Crease resurrects his neighbor’s dog, is arrested by TSA for carrying a weapon which never existed, and drowns a woman at an airline ticket counter—or could he be hallucinating? In his panic he locks himself in the men's room of a coffee shop only to find a strange man in cycling togs sharing the space. The lanky intruder claims to be Dungsten’s neurally implanted concierge unit who has two disturbing messages. Dungsten is a Shaper—an obsolete, genetically programmed tool created by a bankrupt galactic corporation to terraform planetary experiences for vacationing clients; and the woman he inadvertently killed at the airport with his Shaper abilities will be the love of his life. Attracting government agents who want to weaponize him and Galactic Business Council assassins who want to terminate him, fear drives the Shaper within to inadvertently bifurcate, a second Dungsten also now running from his pursuers. But bifurcation comes at a price: loss of appetite, swelling of the hands and feet, an erection lasting longer than four hours, loss of bladder control, rectal bleeding, psychosis, convulsions, and sudden death. To pull himself back together and if he’s lucky, survive, he must master his Shaper abilities before he becomes a victim, or worse, accidentally destroys Earth and everyone he loves along with it.
Dungsten Crease lay in the dark, curled
up on a cold tile floor of a Java Jolt Cafe men’s room reeking of piss, roasted
Columbian, and disinfectant, a customer-focused espresso jockey banging with
urgency on the locked door, and no discernible options. He figured a SWAT team
would pull him out of there later in the day, a thirty-something white male
kicking and screaming like a crazy crack head. His neighbors would tell local
news crews the Dungsten Crease who lived next door had concealed the monster
they now knew him to be. Yes, the kind of monster who just that morning, one
god-awful morning, had killed a woman.
His
day had eked over to the strange right out of the chute. Dungsten awoke to
soft, spring morning light shining into his bedroom window, his cell phone
chiming with measured civility. 6 AM. Dragging himself out of bed, he rummaged
through dirty clothes pulling on some slightly rank running shorts, shoes, and
a shirt, then stumbled out his front door for a jog through the neighborhood.
1970’s ranch style homes in various states of remodeling lined rolling hills of
his neighborhood streets. A few cars passed now and then, but most of his
neighbors were still waking, feeling around for cups of coffee, looking for
toothpaste, or easing into their morning with a warm shower.
Running
toward home he came across Rancid, a nasty little terrier two doors down. The
name said it all. He once asked Larry, the alpha leader of Rancid, about his
dog's name. Larry had said that even as a puppy, she loved garbage; the riper
the better. Rancid refers not only to her affinity for rotting refuse, but for
the very nature of her dark doggy soul. Every time he ran past the little Hades
hound she went crazy, frantically nipping at his Nikes. This morning, she
yapped as usual and, as usual, Dungsten attempted to befriend the seed of
Satan.
"Here,
Rancid."
"Yap,
yap, yap!"
"Good
girl, Rancid."
"Yap,
yap, yap, yap!"
The
bitch from hell looked at him with her brown, crazed eyes. For the briefest
moment he pondered the possibility of this beast getting whacked by a passing
car. He wasn't proud of the thought, but the dog had worn him down.
Dungsten
didn't see the car. It happened so fast. One second he was foolishly attempting
to make peace with evil and next thing, Rancid, eyes crazy with car hate dashed
headfirst into death. He stood there gasping for air, wincing at the sight of
the carnage which had unfolded, wondering how on earth he'd ever get all the
pieces in a bag to hand to her owner, Larry. His heart pounded. He
felt—responsible. He had, after all, wanted her dead. But like this—a bloody
mess of guts and fur? He closed his eyes on the horrid scene, desperately
wishing he could take his murderous thoughts back, when a warm, wet sensation
filled his running shoe. He glanced down to Rancid, not the broken, dead dog,
but a living Rancid, standing on all fours right in front of him, yapping away.
What the hell? Dungsten walked home, each squishy step leaving him to
ponder if maybe taking herbal melatonin had some lingering hallucinogenic
effect. One certainty filled his mind. His brand-new running shoes were a dog
piss soaked total write-off.
After
a shower, he packed his bags making sure his cat, Psycho, had fresh food and
water, double-checked that he turned the coffee pot off and since the break-in
last year, made sure he locked his back door and turned on his alarm. He got in
his little MGB convertible, a car he bought hoping to attract a soulmate who
liked the wind in her hair and Dungsten at her side. Pushing the image to one
side, he focused on the business at hand. He had work to do in Houston
As a
management consultant, a performance coach to be more specific, Dungsten's firm
had assigned him to a COO named Tim Simmons at a foam and plastics company. The
last time he met with the client, Tim had failed to recognize Dungsten's
"value-add" as his employer liked to say. While holding Dungsten's
lapels, he screamed how Dungsten didn't have a clue about the highly
competitive plastics game, how tired he was of graduate school monkeys coming
into his shop thinking they could pee on his turf and how, in his oil field
days, a guy like Dungsten would have found himself up shit creek. He went on to
clarify that he meant an actual creek filled with actual shit. Turning into the
airport, Dungsten knew he didn't want more face time with this walking
nightmare.
The
long, winding line of travelers at the airport security check meant he'd be
standing with a boarding pass, driver's license, and bag for some time. He did
his usual check to identify the seasoned travelers who knew how to swiftly move
through security, versus the purgatory of standing behind a family with four
kids who last flew an airliner when they went to Disney World three years ago.
Finally making his way to the front of the line, he went through his familiar
routine of emptying pockets, taking off shoes, dumping all of his stuff in one
big plastic bin and his laptop in another to convey them through the X-ray
machine. For a moment he considered why anyone would try to get a gun past
security these days. Boarding pass in hand, he walked through the metal
detector. Clean as usual. Then he noticed a security guard on the X-ray machine
monitor looking a little concerned, flashing a glance Dungsten's way. She
motioned to a guy who appeared to be in charge, and in hushed words, spoke with
him anxiously about whatever she saw on her screen.
Did I leave a bottle of water in my
bag?
The
"in-charge" guy, a slightly overweight, balding man with glasses,
stepped up to Dungsten, pointing to his briefcase.
"Is
this your bag, sir?"
"Yeah."
"Please
step to the side, sir."
"OK.
I guess I left a bottle of water in my bag. Sorry. Do we really need to do
this? You can just have the bottle…"
"Sir,
please step to the side."
Other
security personnel moved in around him. Be
cool Dungsten. You don't want to miss your plane.
"Sir,
I'm going to search your bag. Please stand behind the white line."
Dungsten
watched the guard dig through his bag, all the while trying to do his best
interpretation of an innocent guy, which should have been easy, since he was an
innocent guy.
"I
just forgot to take the bottle out of the bag. My bad."
"This
is not about a bottle of water, sir. Did you really think you could get a gun
past security?"
"Gun?
What gun? I don't have a gun."
"Yes,
you do. Clear as day on the monitor. Looks like a semi-automatic."
This guy's smoking something. I don't
have a gun. Never had a gun. I don't like guns. "There's got to be a
mistake."
Two
cops step up, weapons drawn. He had to make these people understand this was
all a mistake. There can't be a gun.
"I
don't have a gun!" He slapped an open hand on the table for emphasis.
"I'm telling you, it's impossible!" His head felt full, to the point
of exploding.
Two
officers stepped in close to restrain him, pulling his arms back behind his
back, cuffs clicking around his wrists.
"Come
on, guys. I really don't have a gun." A wave of nausea swept over
Dungsten. How would he explain getting arrested to his boss?
The
"in-charge" guy, looking a little pale, doubled back to check parts
of his bag he'd already searched. Mumbling to himself, he shook his head.
"This doesn’t make sense."
He
went back to the guard on the monitor and they had a pretty tense whispering
exchange. He shrugged his shoulders, they both laughed nervously, and he walked
back to Dungsten.
"I'm
telling you I don't have…"
The
man glanced over to Dungsten, then looked past him to the two police officers.
"Sorry officers. He's clean. Here's your bag sir. Thanks for your
cooperation."
And
with that, the officers released him, and the in-charge guy handed him his bag,
as if nothing had happened. Not wanting to press his luck, he smiled, took his
bag and got the hell away from there, all the while wondering if maybe there
was some kind of karmic curse on him this particular morning.
After
picking up a cup of coffee, he sat down in one of a long line of chairs at a
Southwest Airline gate. Tired and needing a few minutes alone with a newspaper
and no one to bother him, Dungsten placed a briefcase on the seat to his left
and carefully balanced his hot cup of coffee on the seat to his right, blocking
all potential intruders to his space. Having established a refuge, he looked up
to a crime exposé about a young woman found drowned to death on a beach near
Galveston. They showed footage from a couple of weeks ago when her visibly distraught
husband had reported her lost overboard on their forty-foot sailboat. He told a
reporter how they were so in love and how much life his Allison had in her. The
story today was that lover boy had now been arrested by local police on
suspicion of murder–as in; he tossed her overboard and sailed away. How
could you ever get yourself to a place where you would do that to someone?
Looking
away from the screen Dungsten noticed a young woman in jeans and cowboy boots,
long dark hair with wisps of orange, purple and green and stunning hazel eyes.
When she glanced his direction he looked away, cursing his shyness, but then
turned back, locking eyes with her. The crime exposé continued playing in the
background, the words filtering into Dungsten’s mind.
Allison’s on our sailboat, hair blowing
in the wind. I remember when she was a real looker. But not anymore. Time takes
its toll, I suppose. And I tire of the arguments. Every time I come home, she’s
going on about lipstick on my collar or perfume on my clothes. She wants us to
go to marriage counseling, like it’s my fault I don’t love her anymore. I want
a divorce, but I don’t have a pre-nup. She’ll clean me out. I just know it.
The outing on the boat had already been
planned, but I can’t help but smile at the convenient resolution to my
situation that now presents itself to me. I like the integrity of keeping my
vow to her. Afterall, I did promise to be faithful ‘till death do us part’.
We were twenty miles out, not another
boat in site, when I shoved her off the side. Man, the look in those eyes.
Priceless! I tossed Allison a rope. Killer’s remorse?
She screamed at me. "Please,
please help! Please…"
I let go of the rope. “Till death,
baby.”
"Sir?"
"Uh-what?"
Startled back to the present, firm, yet friendly brown eyes met his own.
"Sir,
I need you to move out of the way, so the EMS team has room to work."
"What?"
Out of a haze Dungsten began to make out the gate attendant he had seen
earlier. “But what…”
"Sir,
please move. She really needs their help."
Looking
past him, the dark-haired woman with hazel eyes lay on the floor, her skin
pasty white, water dribbling from the corner of her mouth and pooling around
her head.
"Oh
my god! Allison!"
"Do
you know her sir?"
"Well
yes, uh well no, not really."
What
was going on? How did he know her? How did he know her name? He did know her.
They went sailing, she stood on the forecastle sprayed by the mist rising from
the bow. He loved her, but in a rage he threw her overboard. Wait a minute! The
sailboat, the woman, the murder, that was a crime story on the TV. He must have
dozed off. But what's going on? What the hell? He looked up to the flat screen
now filled with an ad for heartburn relief.
"I
need you to move now, or I'll have to get a police officer over here and I
don't think that's really necessary, do you?" The gate attendant's posture
stiffened, his eyes meeting Dungsten's with quiet resolve.
An EMS
team knelt down around Allison, working quickly but with an uncertainty of what
they were encountering. He heard one of the technicians say in disbelief,
"If we weren't in the middle of an airport, I'd swear this woman drowned
in the sea."
"OK
sir, I'm calling for a police officer." The gate attendant reached for his
radio.
"No,
I'm moving. That, that won't be necessary. I'm moving."
He
stood up, looking one last time at the dying woman he had never met named
Allison who he had loved and…murdered? And now this most intimate stranger lay
dead on the airport linoleum.
About the Author
Del Sol Press books by Richard Hacker are available at Amazon
The Alchimeía Series
DIEBACK: Book One
VENGEANCE OF GRIMBALD: Book Two
Other books by Richard Hacker:
Nick Sibelius Crime Series
KILL’T DEAD OR WORSE
BUZZARD BAIT
ALL HAT AND NO CATTLE
Contact Links
Purchase Link
a Rafflecopter giveaway
No comments:
Post a Comment