Dex Wexler: Space Detective
Book #1 in the Chronicles of Bif Series
Richard Langridge
Contents
Also By Richard Langridge
Foreword
Free Stuff!
Prologue
I. Bif
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
II. A Space Odyssey Like No Other
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
III. The Baddest Of Bad Ideas
Dex’s Drawing
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Did You Enjoy this Book?
Free Stuff!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
But Wait—There’s More!
My Other Car is a Screaming Dead Chick
Also By Richard Langridge
Dan and Frankie Series
Dan and Frankie Save the World
Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything
Dan and Frankie’s Night of Frights
Imperium Series
We Hunt the Night
Dead of Night (2018)
Chronicles of Bif Series
My Other Car is a Screaming Dead Chick (2018)
Have Teeth, Will Bite (2018)
Non-fiction
How to Not Die (According to Movies)
DEX WEXLER: SPACE DETECTIVE
Copyright © 2017 Richard Langridge.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First edition: July 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ASIN: B07DCTXX9Y
http://www.richardlangridgeauthor.com/
For Harry and Daisy.
Foreword
Dear Reader,
What you are about to read is a true story told by imaginary characters in an imaginary universe. If that feels like a hard concept to get your head around, well—just imagine how they feel.
I would also just like to take this opportunity to point out that absolutely no Nay-Nay were harmed during the making of this book.
Well… except for one, but he had it coming.
Enjoy.
—Rich
December 2017
Prologue
“All you really need to know for the moment is that the universe is a lot more complicated than you might think, even if you start from a position of thinking it’s pretty damn complicated in the first place.”
—Douglas Adams
Part I
Bif
1
In the very deepest recesses of the known universe, there is a star shaped like a duck’s penis.
If you’re unfortunate enough to have ever seen a duck’s penis, you can probably already imagine how that looks, but for those who haven’t, it’s a little corkscrew-shaped appendage the color of week-old mustard. It’s also seventeen inches long—which, when you consider the average duck measures only somewhere around the sixteen-inch mark, makes you wonder exactly what God was thinking when he conceived of these little winged bastards, if he might not have been steaming drunk at the time. Because let’s face it, if even God can’t navigate simple math, what hope do the rest of us have?
Anyway.
So you’re probably wondering why it is I’m talking to you about planets shaped like duck penises; also, exactly how something like that works, given what we humble Earthlings like to refer to as the general laws of physics. And those are all really great questions—ones I’d answer, if I knew.
All I can tell you going forward is that when things start to get a little “crazy” (and they will, I assure you), I want you to think about that planet shaped like a duck’s penis, and know that this was your warning, your one chance to put this book down and go do something productive with your day.
When you look at it like that, you’ve really only got yourself to blame.
The eight foot hulking Zurthula bore down on me, its multiple arms flexing, tusk-like teeth dripping thick saliva, and informed me, in no indirect way, how it would soon be feasting on my penis and testicles.
It was September. I was standing in a clearing in the small stretch of woodland behind Aunt Loretta’s backyard. It was a clear night, the sky for the most part clear and bright with stars, like the glint of light reflecting back from the diamantes adorning God’s jockstrap. In the trees around me, creatures both big and small sang their sweet serenade. Hell, if not the fact everything was currently on fire, it would have been kind of beautiful.
I guess that’s all going to take some explaining. That’s fair. But before I do, let me take a moment to talk to you about my friend Dex.
You know that one friend we all have, who despite significant efforts to the contrary, always seems to make a situation worse? That’s Dex. To put it one way, Dex is to smooth-sailing what a sprained ankle is to a triathlon participant. He’s the pothole in the road, the uneven jut of sidewalk that only seems to trip you whenever you’re at your most vulnerable, meaning that, if not outright crippling you, you’ll at the very least be late for something very pressing and important. I don’t mean this in a bad way. Honestly, I don’t. And it’s not like he’s trying to make things worse. But for whatever reason, regardless of the situation, Dex somehow always seems to find a way to make things, well… weird.
Want an example?
Three weeks ago he appeared to me at a little past three in the morning (and by “appeared” I mean literally materialized, as in out of thin air—more on that later), to forewarn me of a terrible vision he’d had, wherein he’d supposedly witnessed me getting slowly eaten to death by a swarm of giant, bloodthirsty Marrowants.
I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that “Marrowants” do not exist. Also, that Dex does not have any kind of precognitive powers (at least, as far as I know), and if he did, warning me of my impending death would be the absolute last thing he’d use them for.
As if things weren’t already bad enough (and before I could even open my mouth to urge him to please, please stop showing up in my bedroom at three in the morning), he’d then uttered an ear-piercing shriek, and promptly thrown himself out of my bedroom window. Thankfully, it had been open at the time, meaning that instead of leaving me in need of a new window, I’d just had to listen to his hysterical ramblings as he took off running up the street instead.
Then there was that time he “accidentally” glued his hand to his face. Yes, you read that right. And not just with any old adhesive, either. Ooooh no. Turns out it was one out of three of the stickiest glues in the entire galaxy, meaning that in order to set him loose, we’d had to track down the glue’s maker in some backwaters planet that had smelled like a combination of maggots, melted plastic, and what can only be described as recycled, fetid dog farts. An entire weekend we’d lost on that little adventure. I’m still raw about it. I don’t know why he even chose to glue his hand to his face in the first place (although, truth be told, there’s every chance he did it just to see if he could—with Dex, there’s just no telling).
All of these misadventures I’m pretty sure could have been circumvented were he not so steaming drunk all the time. I don’t want to use the term “functioning alcoholic”, but if
I’m honest he’s the only person I’ve ever seen drink a twelve-pack of Bud, five bottles of Jack Daniels, and a quarter gallon of gasoline and not die. Even if he isn’t entirely human, that’s just insane.
The day I first met Dex started the way pretty much all of my days did back then; with me upside-down, blinking against the sudden sting of whatever chemical it is they use to sanitize toilets. This was shortly before my encounter with the Zurthula, and all the many crazy and stupid things that followed—but again, more on that later.
No doubt right now you’re wondering why it was I had toilet juice in my eyes. I could sit here and tell you it’s because life is a cruel mistress, one who delights in the misfortune of others (and in many cases actively seeks to encourage cases of head-in-toilet, both of the metaphorical and literal variety), but the shorter version is simply “Todd”.
Todd was Elk Grove’s resident nasty person, and all other things aside, a complete jerk. He’d had a bug up his butt for me ever since first grade; pushing me, shoving me, knocking stuff out of my hands whenever the opportunity arose (or, as was the case this morning, shoving my head down a toilet). Any kid smaller than him, or perceptibly weaker, Todd had singled out long ago for ritualistic bullying of the most unimaginative kind. I guess in his eyes he was simply weeding out the group, separating the weak from the strong, just like how it’s been throughout all of history. Personally, I just think he’s an asshat—or maybe I’m bias.
‘HAHAHAHA! You like that, pole-smoker?’ he cried as I was fed into the toilet’s mouth for what felt like the quintillionth time. When I didn’t immediately answer, he hit the flusher, waited while I near-drowned to death once again, screeching like the animal he was. Todd never understood that in order for somebody to answer you, they have to be able to open their mouths. Todd never understood a lot of things.
And do you want to know what the worst part of it all was? Todd had no idea what a walking cliché he was. Hell, the beatings, the early morning baptisms. It was just so… unoriginal. Part of me wonders if he was only doing it because he’d seen somebody else act that way on TV once, and just assumed this was how bullying was done, like it was expected of him or something. Or maybe not. Truthfully, I have no idea.
All I know is: Todd sucked.
He put his hands on his hips and smirked. Around us, kids from what seemed like every class watched in silence. Nobody stepped in to help, though, I noticed—not that I could blame them. Sometimes in life you just have to be grateful the person with their head being shoved in a toilet isn’t you. And if there’s one thing that’s an absolute given at Elk Grove High, it’s that if you interrupt Todd from his morning routine, you’re essentially making yourself a part of it.
‘Now what are you going to say the next time I tell you to hand it over, hmm?’
The “it” he was referring to was my lunch money. He even stole my lunch money. I know that might seem like the wrong thing to be focusing on when there’s toilet water collecting in your lungs. And maybe it was. I just couldn’t help myself.
‘Really, Todd?’ I said. ‘My lunch money?’
‘Hey, you want a free pass, you got to pay the toll, just like everybody else. Them’s the rules, bucko.’
‘Have you considered just not being a jerk?’
‘Ha. You’re cute.’
I began to reply, but then he was scooping me off the floor once more.
I was inches from the water again when I heard a door slam from somewhere behind us, and all of a sudden there was a girl standing there.
‘The hell do you think you’re doing?!’ cried Audrey.
Audrey Deen was the head of the debate team, as well as the chess club, math club, and every other extracurricular activity Elk Grove High boasted. She was so smart she’d already been voted Elk Grove’s most likely to succeed, even though we were still years away from graduation. I honestly wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it turned out she’d been created in a lab somewhere—that’s how perfect she was (the fact she looked like the offspring of two genetically enhanced supermodels didn’t exactly hurt matters, either).
‘Well?’ she went on. Her eyes were big and furious, like the death-glare from some Amazonian princess, one who may not have had her own movie, but who was still suitably terrifying.
Todd made a face like who—me? before turning and pointing at my flailing body. ‘What? I’m just giving him a bath. Can’t have him running around stinking up the place now, can we? Consider it a public service.’
‘Put him down, Todd.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because if you don’t, I’ll go tell my dad. And then he’ll go tell your dad—you see where this is going?’
Audrey’s dad was the foreman over at the Koppleman steelworks across town. It was where everybody’s dads in Elk Grove worked—those who had dads, that was—and because of this, it afforded Audrey a certain power around town, one she in no way flaunted, but that was evident all the same: nice as Audrey was (and she really was super nice) there was always the lingering fear that, should you accidentally upset her, your dad might get fired.
For a moment, Todd just stood there, me hanging effortlessly from his arms like a fold-up chair he was in the process of putting away for the winter.
Then he dropped me.
I hit the ground like a satellite crashing back to earth, spilling my expensive insides all over the floor. NASA would be furious.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I was getting bored whooping his ass, anyway.’
And he left me with that, stomping off with his gigantic feet—presumably to go ruin somebody else’s life for a little while.
Once he was gone, Audrey helped me to my feet. ‘Are you okay?’
I’ve always found it hard to describe Audrey. Even as pretty as she was, there was always that certain extra something about her that made her even more attractive. Some kind of… indiscernible something, like even the air around her was made up of more attractive atoms than the rest of ours. Maybe she was an angel—or religious, at least.
I wiped toilet water from my face. ‘I think so…’
‘You know, you really shouldn’t let him push you around like that, Bif. Kids like Todd—they don’t stop. Not unless you stand up to them.’
Sure, it was a nice idea. The victim stands up to the bully. Bully resolves to never pick on anyone ever again. Maybe there’re even hugs involved.
But this was girl logic. With boys, there’s a hierarchy, a natural order. The big eat the small. For as long as there have been people on Earth, this is how it’s always been. Asking me to stand up to Todd was like asking me to go against my very biology. She might as well have asked me to fly, or breathe underwater, or try not to savor my own farts. It was unnatural.
I was considering telling Audrey this—
BRIIIIINNNNNGGG!
The bell.
She put a hand on my arm. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Then she was gone.
I waited until it was just me left, then immediately shuffled over and doused my head under the sink, using what little soap there was left in the dispenser to clean what I hoped was not pee out of my hair.
Then, after taking a moment to dry myself under the dryer, I picked up my things and went to class.
2
Just like the lost city of Atlantis, Elk Grove is a forgotten place.
It’s a town that is as inconsequential to the broader scale of the beast that is life in America as the miniscule fleck of fly-shit is to the underbelly of the soon-to-be-defunct 747 it blemishes. It’s a nothing place, a place where little ever happens, and even if it did, we’d all be so amazed, the sheer shock of it would probably cause us to all drop down dead, hearts burst from our chests like something out of a Ridley Scott horror movie. There was a car chase through here once—some out-of-towner, if I remember, attempting to book it from the cops. I forget why. This was back in the seventies. It was, and remains to this very day, the single most exciting thing to hav
e ever happened in all of the town’s history.
Because there is nothing to do here. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but keep your head down and fantasize about a time, hopefully not too far away, where you can finally put Elk Grove in your rearview forever.
It’s the reason a lot of the people act the way they do here—Todd being a perfect example. Remember that old saying? “Idle hands are the devil’s plaything”? Some people, they turn their frustration inward, begin self-harming or listening to black metal or collecting stamps to try to cope with the pain. Others, though? They don’t know how. They never developed the ability. Like Todd. Thus, the beatings, and the baptisms, and all those endless Chinese burns. It’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t make it right. But ask anyone from a small town: sometimes, in order to make it out alive, you just got to do what you got to do.
I got home at a little after 4:00pm, shuffling through the front door like a man who not too long ago had his head inside a toilet. I could hear the TV playing from the den the second I was inside, knew without having to go check the sound I was hearing was a rerun of The Price is Right.
If I haven’t mentioned it yet, home for me was a two-bedroom bungalow in Elk Grove’s residential, or I guess you could say “suburban”, district—not that it was very suburban, mind you. True, there were houses here, but when you’re spread out as far apart from each other as we were, it’s hard to ever really think of yourself as living on an actual “street” with actual “neighbors”. The closest we had in that respect was old Mrs Faulkner; a ninety-year-old widow over half a mile away, whose roof you could just about see peeking out over the trees on evenings when the weather was just right. Oh, there are a lot of trees around here, too. Just in case I didn’t mention that already, either.
Dan and Frankie Save the World Page 1
