Tales From The Scrapbox
Page 1
Tales from the Scrapbox
Jo Grix
Copyright 2013 by T. Jo Grix, all rights reserved
Table of Contents
Forward
Only the Beginning
Orders
Spies Don’t Rescue Burdens
Prepare the Defenses
Departure at Dawn
A Brother’s Duty
A Lady’s Dilemma
Forward
A note from the author
I have been writing for fifteen years or better, everything from fanfiction to fantasy, and a few things I am embarrassed to admit that I actually wrote. Still, all that writing leaves a record of itself. Some of it has been co-opted into other stories, others have finally managed to become something worthy of the light of day, but it all sits there, in notebooks, on disks and memories sticks, on my hard drives, each fragment and idea waiting for its chance to see the light of day. These stories come from a little folder on my laptop creatively titled WIP: Originals. I have pulled them out, dusted them off, and thrown them out on the internet to show the stories that I am chasing in hopes of reviving the ideas that spurred their creation. I can already state that I am working on a novel or novella that will follow Departure at Dawn currently entitled Midsummer’s Oath about the conclusion of their journey.
Please pardon the dust. I am teaching myself how to program for the Kindle in Microsoft Word by trial and error as much as by the guidelines.
Only the Beginning
Life for a retired superhero is never easy.
The only reason he wasn’t more miserable was that the roof wasn’t leaking. It was, for him, one of those days that would get worse just because the universe hated him and wanted him to suffer. He slowed down at a red light and his phone rang with The Imperial March from Star Wars. “Hello?” he said.
“Have you delivered the pizza yet?”
“Mr. Woon,” he said, “Um, no, but I’m less than a block away. I’m at a red light.”
“Remember,” Mr. Woon said, and then coughed. For a moment, he wondered if Woon was finally going to hack up that lung of his. “I hear one more complaint about the pizza delivery; you are out of a job.”
“Yes sir,” He replied, even though it was clear his boss had already hung up. He dropped the cell phone on his seat as the light turned green. He pressed the gas, the car started to roll forward, but only at about five miles an hour. “What the hell?” He asked, pushing the gas all the way down. The engine roared, but the car would not move. “Shit.” He swore, and flicked on his blinker, rolling into the first driveway he spotted. It was a closed gas station. He parked and shut the car off, then leaned back in his seat. “Fuck,” he whispered.
He looked out his window and then opened the door and unbuckled his seatbelt. He lifted his arm and rubbed a single finger over his bicep along a raised ring of flesh. Then he reached over and pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his glove box before he grabbed the delivery bag and opened the door. In seconds, he was gone, the door slammed shut behind him.
To an outside observer, the passage of the young man would have been a blur, leaving no impression that there had been anything more than a gust of wind. Trash was tossed in his wake and the raindrops swirled in his passing. Finally, he came to an apartment complex filled to near bursting with college students if the window decorations, or lack thereof, tended to be any clue. He reached the apartment he was looking for with no one truly the wiser, pulled of the sunglasses, and knocked. “Yeah?” Someone said, opening the door.
“Tony’s Pizza,” the young man replied holding up the box, “delivery for Michael Rycker.”
“Right,” the kid in the doorway replied, he turned, “Michael! Pizza guy.”
Another man came out into the hallway with a roar of sound following him, “I got it, Rex, thanks.” He said.
The young man stepped back slightly as the two people inside switched places. “Right, what do I owe you?” The new man said.
“Eleven sixty-nine,” the young man replied.
“Right,” Michael said, taking out his wallet. He withdrew a twenty and held it out, “keep the change. Shit, really? What are you doing here?”
The young man lifted his chin and smirked, “I believe I’m delivering,” he plucked the twenty from Michael’s hand, “Your pizza.” He took his wallet out of his pocket and began to count out the change.
“I told you, keep the change,” Michael said.
“If I did, my boss would have a nice bonus,” the young man replied. He held up the change and put it on top of the pizza box, “Have a great evening and thank you for choosing Tony’s Pizza.” He turned and walked away, ignoring any aborted attempts to catch his attention.
Once he was in the shadows and sure that no one followed him, the young man put his sunglasses back on and took off, returning to his car seemingly faster than he would left it. There, sitting in the driver’s seat, he made the phone call. “Tony’s Pizza?” His boss growled into the phone.
“Mr. Woon?” The young man said.
“You! What happened?” Mr. Woon demanded.
“Well, the good news is, I delivered the pizza,” the young man said. “The bad news is my car has broken down.”
“Again? That is the fourth time this month. If you didn’t want this job, you should have quit. It’s too late now, you’re fired.” Mr. Woon shouted.
The young man flinched at the force with which his now former boss slammed the phone down. He sighed and looked at his phone. For a moment, his finger hovered over a single button, but instead, he pressed a different one. “Jimmy’s Towing,” a voice said over the line.
“Sandra, it’s…” the young man trailed off.
“You again, broke down right?” Sandra said, in that no nonsense, cigarette roughened voice she used on the job.
“Yeah,” the young man said as he glanced back at the light, barely making out the street signs. “I’m at the old Chevron on Ninth and Southward.”
“I’ll send Jimmy out. Are you ok?” Sandra asked.
“I’m just effing peachy,” the young man said. “Ian Woon fired me this time.”
“That’s awful, but at least you’re not at that job anymore, I know how much you hated it.” Sandra said, her voice slipping into the younger, Southern accent that was her natural speaking voice.
“Your accent is slipping,” the young man said teasingly.
“Bite me,” Sandra replied, cigarette roughed voice sharp and taunting. “Jimmy’s on his way.”
“Thanks Sandra.” The young man replied.
“Kid, you saved Jimmy’s life. The least we can do is help you with your car when you need it.” Sandra said.
“Sandra, I thought we agreed no one talks about that. I could get in a lot of trouble.” The young man replied uneasily.
“I know honey.” Sandra said, “Doesn’t mean we aren’t grateful.”
The young man turned, “Jimmy’s here, that was faster than I thought it would be.”
“He was dropping off a car over there. I’ll talk to you later.” Sandra said.
“You to, Sandra.” The young man said, hung up his phone, and got out of the car to meet the tow truck driver, wondering what would happen now.
The rain had mostly stopped by the time the young man finally reached his apartment. He let himself in quietly and headed into the bathroom to dry off. He then threw himself on his bed with a groan and stared at the ceiling. After a moment, he reached over, picked up his phone, and dialed a number. “You have three new messages,” the voice mail told him.
“All right,” he muttered sarcastically and hit one
.
A strident, heavily accented woman’s voice, “This is your mother calling.”
“Not today, mother darling.” He hit a button on the phone.
“Message erased.”
“Not tomorrow either, for that matter.” He muttered before the next message could play.
This was a cheerful, male voice, you could practically hear him grinning as he spoke. “Hey PR, it’s your friendly, neighborhood LOL cat. Call me.”
“God, what is wrong with you, idiot.” He hit the button again.
“Message erased.”
“Hey PR, it’s me. Call me. It’s kind of important and it’s about…look, just call me, ok?”
“Crap, not again. Date her or break up with her. Dumbass idiot. You should never have started dating her in the first place if you don’t like her.”
He hit the button a final time and distinctly heard the computerized voice as it announced, “Message erased.”
“Pathetic,” he muttered and put the phone back on the table. He stared at the ceiling again, counting the number of broken tiles. Then he reached for his laptop and opened it. In moments, he was on the internet, and as his home page popped up, he frowned. “Really, man?” He asked, glancing up as if there was someone else in the efficiency with him. “Dumbass.” He muttered, looking down at the laptop again.
He looked back down at his laptop and frowned at the header of the page; NEXXUS FORUM, A FAN SITE FOR THE NEXXUS FIVE.
He shrugged after a moment and clicked on the forum link. At the top were five links to the so-called ‘hottest’ topics on the form. One, entitled Where they are now… caught his attention and, curious, he clicked the link to open the page.
After a few moments of reading the forum’s entries, it took all of his hard won self-control that kept him from tossing the laptop across the room. “What is wrong with people?” He asked the empty room. “They can’t seriously think…” he frowned and glanced at the laptop and then at the table beside his bed, where a single picture rested. Then he turned back to his computer, “You only live once,” he muttered before clicking on the various links to get himself registered and ready to write a reply to the rabid fans.
On March 3, 2010, pocket_rocketeer wrote:
You cannot seriously think that Nexxus Speed and the others spend their time in Miami, of ALL places, drinking drinks that they, being under the age of twenty-one, cannot legally purchase. First, what kind of message would they send if they got caught? Secondly, Miami? Really? Have you been living under a rock? Do you honestly think the Nexxus Five would ever seriously consider living in Miami, Florida? Some of them probably don’t even want to visit there every again much less live there.
You also cannot seriously think that they’re insanely rich. I mean, how could they claim anything when they’re keeping their identities a secret? The taxes alone would put paid to the idea that they had any sort of secret identity.
I know for an absolute fact that Nexxus Speed is currently unemployed and drives a Ford Pinto that spends more time in the shop than it does in his parking spot. The only reason he can even get it fixed is because he knows a mechanic who learned his secret identity and does the work at a discount and on a payment plan. Because, you know, he would never dream of letting someone give him something without paying for it.
That’s what a celebrity wants, not a superhero. Superheroes just want people to not shoot them when they’re trying to help, or to not try to reveal their identity in the middle of a big battle; *glares at the FBI*.
Heck, none of the Nexxus Five lives the life of luxury. They work hard; they take care of each other when needed. Moreover, they kick each other’s behind when they won’t ask for help and they need it. Of course, that’s mostly just Nexxus Speed, but he’s a stubborn idiot like that. Nexxus Path, Port, and Strength are attending college, and Nexxus Cannon are off being a terrific dad and training to be his wife’s lab assistant.
Honestly, some people just make me sick. Don’t bother telling me I don’t know anything because I know exactly what I’m talking about here.
For those who want to know who I am, well, just call me…Deke for right now.
As for whom I was, the world called me Nexxus Speed.
Orders
When the war is won, a young spy says goodbye