by Wol-vriey
BOSTON
POSH
WOL-VRIEY
Boston Posh
by Wol-vriey
Burning Bulb Publishing
P.O. Box 4721
Bridgeport, WV 26330-4721
United States of America
www.BurningBulbPublishing.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013-2015 Burning Bulb Publishing.
All rights reserved.
Cover designed by Gary Lee Vincent with the following licensed elements from Fotolia:
- redhead woman © Maksim Šmeljov
- dragon © molchunya
- dragon tattoo 2 © Abrams
Kindle edition (second edition).
Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-0692469002
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Firstly, I gotta say major thanks to Gary Lee Vincent and Rich Bottles Jr. at Burning Bulb, both for believing in my writing and also for doing such a great job editing/formatting it for production. Once the book leaves my hands for theirs, I KNOW it's in good hands. You guys are super-awesome.
Next, I must thank my lovely wife Victoria for putting up with me these past twenty years. (Totally love you, darling.) Now she has something else to look up to me for, other than the fact that I'm a foot taller than she. Short women rock! LOL!
And I must thank Emil Daynov and his wife Yang Yang for loaning me their names. Yang Yang's name fit perfectly for my snake goddess.
And my thanks to Lolade Akinsowon for taking the Bio photo (after much persuasion). See, it does look good in print.
And lastly, but most important, I have to thank everyone who's read any of my books. Whether or not you liked them. Without you guys, there's really no point writing anything. It deeply thrills my heart each time someone gets a thrill (cheap or regular) from my writing.
Peace, Everyone!
Wol-vriey.
PART 1: POSH LANE
PRELUDE: THE NEW PAST
The current state of the world was referred to as The New Past.
The dragon incinerations, the re-emergence of the dinos, the appearance of the god-like Forks, and the total demolition of national institutions were all worldwide occurrences.
China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan were dragon free, but not dino free. If anything, there were more dinosaurs in Chinese territories now than elsewhere in the world, simply because of the lack of dragons to cull their numbers.
As Xiaoping Wang, last President of the People’s Republic of China, remarked: “Humanity paddles the dinosaur canoe now.”
***
The biggest problem with the re-emerging dinosaurs was how much larger they were than anyone expected them to be. Like they’d been compacted/zipped for the fossil records, or . . . these new versions had been genetically re-engineered specifically to be pains in humanity’s ass.
No one bothered about the herbivore dinos—the apatosauruses, brachiosaurs, and triceratops, for instance—which were the same size as previous.
The problem was the carnivores.
The New Past version of the pterodactyl—a dino bird once no larger than a stork or ostrich—was the size of a horse. Velociraptors were the size of gorillas, often bigger. Even T-Rex, which in ancient times already stood twenty feet tall, was now a larger monster. Quetzalcoatlus, the largest dinosaur ‘bird,’ was now the size of a de Havilland Canada Twin Otter aircraft.
And all these flesh-eating reptiles—regardless of whether their previous diet was bugs, rodents, or fish—were now ravenous for human flesh.
CHAPTER 1
Malone/Sara
The woman was a tall, bony brunette. A not-so-faded beauty wearing a queen’s ransom in jewels.
Malone recognized her at once—Sara Fischer, widow of David Fischer, the breakfast cereal tycoon. David Fischer had fallen to his death from his mansion rooftop a year before.
There were rumors that Sara had pushed/tripped him.
Sara was wearing a pterodactyl-skin jacket over white silk trousers. Her makeup was as perfect as if she was attending a movie premiere.
She’d apparently come alone, which Malone thought odd. Her kind of money always had piles of hanger-ons.
Sara smiled a vulturine smile at him. “I see you recognize me.”
He smiled back. “It would be hard not to.”
The answer clearly pleased her, her smile broadened. He pointed to a stuffed-gorilla chair. “Please have a seat.”
She did so, her eyes twinkling mischievously in their sunken sockets.
Malone suddenly realized that she was mentally undressing him. Sara Fischer was known to be sexually ravenous, out to cram into her winter years all the debauchery she’d neglected while filling her summer years with endless good works.
She reputedly told friends: “I intend fucking myself into my grave in sympathy with the fucked-up state of the world.”
Malone waited till she’d made herself comfortable, pretending not to notice the amount of time she spent grinding herself into the taxidermed ape’s crotch.
Then, keeping both his face and voice professionally neutral, he asked: “What can I do for you, Mrs. Fischer?”
Sara Fischer’s calm demeanor dissolved like salt in water. “My daughter Rachel has been kidnapped, Malone. I need you to find and rescue her.”
Malone smiled. “That’s what I do,” he said. “Find people. The more lost the better.”
“Stop being cute. I’ll pay you fifty thousand plus expenses to get Rachel back for me.”
Malone nodded. “That’ll do.” He looked searchingly at Sara. “How’d she go missing?”
***
Sara Fischer relaxed back in the stuffed-gorilla armchair. It had a nice feel to it, like being in her dead husband David’s arms again. David had been extremely hairy—having sex with him had felt like making love to a rug.
She looked the detective over. He was young and handsome. Nicely cut brown hair, laughing brown eyes, sensual lips. Eminently fuckable. She could already view herself wrapping her lips around his cock, stroking the tumescent organ up and down with her mouth and tongue.
“My daughter is a scientist,” she explained. “An absolute workaholic. She practically never leaves the house. She’s eternally slaving away in her underground laboratory. Two nights ago, she didn’t show for dinner. I thought nothing about it—Rachel sometimes gets so caught up in her research that she forgets herself.
“But . . . she didn’t show for breakfast yesterday either. That was unusual, so I sent a servant down to investigate and she was gone.”
“She could have gone out on a date,” Malone said. “Slept over at her boyfriend’s place. With no telecoms anymore—”
Sara laughed. “Boyfriend? She had none.”
“Girlfriend then?”
Sara rolled her eyes. “My daughter, Malone, can be accurately described as sexless. A neuter. No, don’t get me wrong, she has the organs to fuck with, she’s just apparently never realized what they’re meant for.”
Sara was amused by the look on Malone’s face at her use of the word ‘fuck.’
She smiled, licked her lips. Yes, I’d like to bed this young stud—teach his penis a thing or two. “Rachel doesn’t fuck. Period. If she ever masturbated, it would never be for pleasure. It would be to calculate the average time it took her to reach orgasm, and divide that figure by the number of strokes on her clitoris that created the effect. Then she’d use the results as data for some perpetual motion machine.”
Sara smirked. “That’s the kind of mind my daughter has.”
“She
sounds quite the committed scientist.”
Sara batted her eyelashes at Malone. “You have no idea.”
Malone nodded. The sex vibe coming from Sara Fischer was messing with his head. The woman was at least sixty. Well preserved for sure, definitely still pretty, sexy even, but . . .
“Was there any sign of a struggle?” he asked. “Any broken doors? Smashed furniture?”
She shook her head. “No signs of a fight.”
“So why’d you think she was kidnapped?”
Sara opened her purse and pulled out the ransom note. “This.”
He took it from her, read out the cursive scrawl:
‘It’ll cost you five million dollars in cash if you ever want to see Rachel alive again. Bring the money to Hailey’s Toy Factory tomorrow night at 10 p.m. Fucking come alone, rich bitch, or you’ll get your nerdy kid back in bits.’
The note was signed: ‘Frank.’
Malone looked at Sara. “Who is Frank?”
“Your guess is as bad as mine.”
He nodded. “Now, Mrs. Fischer, what I’d suggest—”
“Call me Sara, please. Everyone does.”
Malone nodded. “Okay . . . Sara.”
She smiled. “What were you going to suggest?”
“That our smartest approach is to pay the ransom.”
Sara Fischer’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Oh fucking no. Don’t get me wrong—money isn’t the object here. But if I pay, there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever see Rachel again. You know how punks like this are—He’ll likely rape and kill her, then feed her body to a dino.”
Malone nodded. “True. But remember, we don’t really know who’s got her. ‘Frank’ is likely a pseudonym.”
He waved the ransom note. “All we really have are these directions. So I suggest we go along with them. I’ll take the money to the drop-off point, retrieve Rachel for you, then follow him afterwards and get your cash back.”
Sara still didn’t like it. “This is one of those times I wish there was still a police force,” she said testily. “This nonsense would never occur if we still had patrols up in North End.”
Malone agreed. He gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t his fault that the dragons and dinos had eaten up all the cops, along with four-fifths of Boston’s population.
“Okay,” Sara said. “So I give you five million bucks. What happens if Rachel isn’t there—the bastard takes the money, and asks you to pick her up elsewhere?”
Malone nodded. It was a good question—he’d been jumped before, had the scars from the double-cross. “I’ve thought of that. He won’t get away. I intend bugging the case containing the money. That way it doesn’t matter if Rachel’s there or not, I’ll be able to track him to his hideout.”
Sara nodded in turn. “Those who recommended you to me weren’t wrong about you.”
Relieved to have a workable plan, Sara relaxed, shifted back down into seduction mode. She pouted her lips at Malone, penetrating them with her tongue. He couldn’t miss the point of that.
She made herself comfortable in the gorilla chair again, stroking its taxidermed left hand.
Malone smiled nicely back at Sara. It disturbed him how alluring he found her, this geriatric seductress. He realized that if he wasn’t careful, he’d shortly be laying Sara Fischer backward on his office table, ripping off her pants, and fucking her super-hard.
To forestall that, he asked: “How soon can you have the money ready?”
Sara sighed, both from having her sexual game thwarted, but more from the mundanity of the question. “The money’s outside in the car. I had a sneaking suspicion you’d want it anyway.”
Malone gaped at her. “You left five million dollars outside in your car?”
She shrugged. “There’s more where it came from. Loads more.”
That really impressed Malone.
CHAPTER 2
Malone
Malone’s office was a bungalow. This seemed logical to him: bungalows were excluded from the beetle/skyscraper circle of death and rebirth—they were never laid by beetles, never became beetles, were never randomly attacked by dragons.
And they didn’t go on unscheduled hikes like Condos.
Besides, a neighbor-less single-story building made Malone feel more secure. It was like sitting in a bar watching the door with his back against a wall.
***
Malone was tall and thin. Most times he wore black.
He was neither particularly athletic nor exceptionally brave. He’d become a private invest-igator simply because, after the world went up in smoke, there were no other jobs and he needed to earn a living.
Realizing there were now an unlimited number of people with something or someone to find, Malone opened an office as ‘Bud Malone: PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.’ He’d immediately been swamped with work.
What had really attracted his clients, however, was the smaller text at the bottom of his signboard:
‘Our Motto: No case too difficult or dangerous!’
These were VERY dangerous and difficult times.
Malone had often regretted writing that small print in the eighteen months since starting his agency.
CHAPTER 3
Malone
Through a quiet night, Malone drove crosstown to Hailey’s Toy Factory for the drop off.
The ransom money was in a large briefcase beside him. Five million dollars in the newly reissued thousand dollar bills.
Malone whistled, imagining what he could do with five thousand Grover Clevelands if he didn’t have to kidnap a heiress to earn them.
***
Hailey’s Toy Factory was located at the far end of Commercial Street, right by Lewis Wharf on the North End waterfront.
The dragons reigned supreme over Boston’s Inner Harbor. No one went out that way anymore. Even the Chinese seldom ventured that far.
The east limit of Boston’s anti-dragon Grid was the John Fitzgerald Surface Road. Going beyond there was suicidal. The dinosaur concentration towards the wharfs was even higher than the dragon con-centration.
In North End, the grid cut out long before it got to the Fischer Mansion on Wiget Street, as the Surface Road turned northwest, becoming North Washington Street and crossing the water into Charlestown to link up with the I-93 to New Hampshire.
***
Most North End residents lived in private mansions. Like Sara Fischer, most were wealthy enough to afford electronic dragon-repulsor technology on both their homes and cars.
Living outside The Grid was less risky for the rich, as after a while the dragons had learned to avoid the tell-tale metal spikes that warned a house had electrical shielding.
But repulsors only protected what they were attached to. Mansion grounds were just as susceptible to attack as the rest of the world. Many had become dino nesting/breeding sites.
The rich only ventured out warily, if at all. And when they did—just like the poor—they watched the skies and the world around them for snapping reptile jaws, and ripping claws.
Malone wasn’t surprised then that Sara Fischer had preferred to be chauffeured crosstown to Joy Street in Beacon Hill, west Boston, to hire him, rather than make the much shorter trip to the wharf to pay her daughter’s ransom herself.
Most of her trip to his place was under The Grid. All her trip to Commercial Street would be out in the open. Even with the amount of protective technology she had mounted on her limo, it would be foolish to risk it.
Malone admitted ‘Frank’ was smart. The wharf area was a great place for a kidnapper to hide out, assuming of course he didn’t become dragon/dino food.
***
Malone drove with his lights off. No fucking way was he attracting dino attention to himself.
He watched the sky cautiously. The night’s silence wasn’t a guarantee of safety.
The shithead pterodactyls in particular had become more cunning of recent—like being oversized wasn’t enough bother.
In stark contrast to the early days of
the dino reappearance when they attacked humans openly, now the dino-birds stalked their human prey. They perched motionless, flesh gargoyles atop buildings, then dropped silently and glided towards their intended victims.
And sometimes the fuckers hunted in packs. Armored as his silver Ford Mustang was, Malone wouldn’t trust it against a horde of jaws.
The fucking raptors were even more cunning than the ‘dactyls.
(Malone had heard tales of raptors nesting in freshly-laid skyscrapers, waiting for occupants to move in.
In the current age of nightmares become waking reality, it was one of the ultimate horrors for a family to wake at night to the sound of reptile knuckles insistently tapping their door, expecting to be let in to eat them.)
So Malone drove carefully through the burnt rubble that now composed most of east Boston, Massachusetts.
Several times he saw distant reflective flickers that fractured moonlight into the colors of the rainbow, turning the air surrounding them into a kaleidoscope. Dragons.
Malone was relieved that the reptiles were far away. One didn’t fuck with dragons. The sort of weaponry required to deal with them wouldn’t even mount on his car.
Malone sensed more than saw the destruction around him.
It’s strange, he thought, how the entire country simply burnt to ash. Even in their wildest, most paranoid imaginings, no defense strategist could EVER have predicted that the USA, the greatest country Earth has ever seen, would crumble to dragons and dinosaurs . . . and Forks?
No one understood how everything had gone up in flame. Like Malone, everyone had just woken up one morning to discover that they now lived in a version of Hell. In a totally fucked-up world.
