by Bill Alive
Mark strained a smile, “Sounds good, Father.”
But I blurted, “Actually, not quite.”
It was the same super-young priest from Take One, and his chubby face creased with concern. “I know, right?” he said. “I keep thinking about that … corpse. That was my first wedding! This’ll be my second. Well, still the first, technically. You guys been okay? Still getting over the shock?”
“Not just that,” I said.
The priest’s eyes widened. “Really? What else could have happened?”
We wound up telling him the whole story. From Roger spilling his drink to capture Olivia all the way up through his final cage match over the last scapular.
The priest’s eyes and mouth kept getting wider and wider. When we finally stopped, he must have stared for ten full seconds.
“Wow,” he managed to say. “Just … wow.”
“Yeah,” Mark said.
“That is seriously fucked up,” said the priest.
We gaped. Even Mark was startled.
The priest reddened. “Oh, sorry. I am so sorry, oh my gosh. Geez Louise. Please don’t tell my pastor.”
At the entrance, there was a flurry of white and lace and veil. The bride had finally come.
The priest gratefully ducked away.
Gwen said, “Unless you’re vibing some threat, Mr. Falcon, can we perhaps go get a seat?”
Mark scrunched his whole face in an exaggerated empath squint. He sucked a deep breath, then loudly relaxed. “All clear,” he said, and he pulled the door wide. “After you, miss.”
Gwen smirked, but went in. Ceci skittered happily in beside her, taking her arm and chatting in an eager whisper.
Mark eyed me, and kept holding the door.
I said, “How do you come in here every week?”
Mark shrugged. “Some weeks are better than others. But mainly, it’s a decision.”
“What decision?”
“Well … you really want to let Roger destroy this wedding too?”
I thought about it. Then I went in.
The first twenty minutes were rough.
But then … the memories mostly faded. This place, right now, really wasn’t Roger’s bunker. I noted a smiling modern statue of Joseph holding a squirmy kid Jesus, and bright goofy banners by artistically challenged enthusiasts. These people and Roger’s crew lived in totally different worlds.
In fact, these people weren’t anything like Roger. They were mediocres. Like me.
Only mediocres go to other people’s weddings. The geniuses are too busy being amazing.
And it wasn’t till almost the vows that I realized … I wasn’t even obsessing about Jivanta.
Technically, sure, she was just as hot as last time. Maybe even more so. But somehow, I don’t know, she didn’t make me ache. She was just … there? Herself. A woman getting married, and very, very happy.
Then she and the groom were standing at the altar, hands clasped, carefully repeating the words of power that would bind them through a million zillion fights and money disasters and sunsets and kisses and wrinkles and love. They would make whole new people. People who didn’t even exist yet.
And we were here to witness, we the mediocres, the normals, the Muggles, the NPCs, the everyones … including this gift store retail guy with too much hair gel and no girlfriend.
No masterworks of art were super likely from this crowd. No billion-dollar startups, no shattering discoveries.
So. Freaking. What.
It was possible, just barely possible, if I squinted hard, that the whole human race had a really bad case of Shiny Object Syndrome. That any old wedding, any old breathing, could blow that “special snowflake” crap to ontological smithereens, any day of the week.
Maybe.
Except … that would mean that I’m actually alive. Right now.
Not later, not waiting until after Mark and I become “real” detectives and we sell a gazillion of these books and I woo the perfect princess…
Now.
You too.
Huh.
Could we handle that?
THE END
(almost…)
AFTERWORD (or, AND THEN THIS HAPPENED…)
By the time we were headed for the reception, I was feeling almost chipper. For the first time in, like, weeks.
The reception was at a steakhouse just across town, so we guests were all walking over while the wedding party endured the ritual photo torture. The sun was bright and the air was warm, another Virginia peekaboo last-time-we-mean-it summerish fall day.
I began to imagine all the nice normal things to look forward to, now that we’d have a break from criminal insanity. A few last hikes with Ceci before it got cold … and when it did get cold, hot cocoa … mmm … I could have special store hours I worked each week that were earmarked exclusively for a Hot Cocoa Fund…
Walking beside me, Mark stiffened.
I tensed. “What?” I said, and followed his gaze.
Marching toward us was a knot of protesters.
That was weird in itself, for Back Mosby, but something else was really wrong.
It took me a second to figure it out … they looked like giant stuffed animals.
They were wearing those furry animal suits, like sports mascots. Those things have always creeped me right out. They’re like a giant cartoon character got magicked into our world, but was cursed with silence, unable to communicate except by desperate mime, their face frozen in a soulless grin. Even as a kid, I felt the tension, like they wanted to use those huge awkward paws to smother me.
These marching furries here weren’t even pretending to look friendly. They were openly hostile, shaking their padded fists, waving scrawled signs.
They were surreal, impossible, these furry protesters right there on the side of the road as cars whizzed by under the bright, normal sun. I squinted to read what the signs said…
… but that’s another story. :)
WAIT DON’T GO!
Oh man. Here we are, a whole second book that is now actually written. This is crazy. I really wrote it. And you really read it! Thank you.
I feel like we should just kick back and chillax together … I’m always sad when a good book ends. It’s like, no, really? Do you have to go?
Thing is, though, I’ve been writing for like five hours straight. Mark’s old laptop is groaning like it’s going to have a heart attack, and my stomach is killing me, I’m starving.
But writing is time travel. So by the time you read this, Murder Feels Crazy might already be shined up and waiting for your reading pleasure. Also, I will probably have finally gotten lunch.
In the meantime, you did read Book One, right? Murder Feels Awful? I mean, that would just be silly, if you got through this whole thing and you were all pining for more Markety-Mark goodness, and it’s like, um, there is this whole Book One thing. So here it is, I’ll link the awesome cover:
https://billalive.com/murder-feels-awful
ALSO, you are of course on the mailing list, right? I transcribed a whole special “novella” that’s only for my mailing list besties.
Remember how I kept promising the link to that story about Mark and Akina? Check it out, it’s totally free:
Click this to get that novella TOTALLY FREE:
https://billalive.com/free-empath-mystery
Is it just me, or does “novella” sound like an ex-girlfriend with a mean streak? “Dude, watch out, I got a text from Novella.” Maybe I’m thinking Novella DeVille.
Anyway, that girl on the cover is exactly that, Mark’s troubled ex-girlfriend, Akina. No wait, actually, that girl is an excessively hot stock photo model. But you should see Mark’s wallet pic, the real Akina was even more stunning.
Except that we’re all fictional. Of course. (Right, I have to copy-paste in that stupid DISCLAIMER next.)
ANYWAY … it’s free, you should read it, it’s Mark telling the whole story of how things went down back in his Alexandria days, with Ak
ina and Zack and the “Condo Killer” … oh, not to mention Numb.
Right. Numb.
This furry thing is looking like Numb might be closer than we thought. A lot closer.
Which, frankly, scares the hell out of me.
But I seriously have to eat something before my stomach digests itself.
So sign up, get the story! And then I’ll tell you — I mean, Bill Alive, the author guy, will tell you — about giveaways and sneak peeks of future books and all the other cool author stuff I’m learning to do. Here’s the link again, in case scrolling back’s a pain.
https://billalive.com/free-empath-mystery
And ONE MORE THING … can you please please please flip to the end and leave a super quick review? It takes like ten seconds, especially on the Kindle app, you just flip to the end, tap the stars, leave a quick comment, done. And it changes everything, you would not believe how crucial that is for saving Mark and me from the Great Abyss of Forgotten Ebooks. Thank you.
Okay, lunch time, for real. See you in Book Three, Murder Feels Crazy.
You noticed that alphabet thing, right? Murder Feels Awful, Murder Feels Bad, Murder Feels Crazy … clever, yes? Not sure what I’ll do if I ever get past Book 26…
Of course, depending on how all this furry stuff goes down, I might even not be around to finish Book Three.
I wish I was joking.
Never mind, what am I worried about? I’ve got a mind-reading web developer, a permanently pissed-off cop, a nurse who can bench press any dude who’d try to take us…
Bring it.
Until next time … thanks for reading. You’re awesome.
—Pete
BORING BACK OF THE BOOK BITS THAT YOU CAN SKIP TO LEAVE A REVIEW
DISCLAIMER
(TOTALLY COPY-PASTED FROM MURDER FEELS AWFUL)
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANY ACTUAL PERSONS, PLACES, THINGS, INCIDENTS, WORKS OF ART, PRODUCTS, COMPANIES, RELIGIONS, CARS NAMED “THUNDER”, OR ANYTHING ELSE, IS COMPLETELY ACCIDENTAL AND UNINTENDED.
GET OVER IT.
AN EXTRA DISCLAIMER and an ABOUT THE AUTHOR, ALSO TOTALLY COPY-PASTED FROM MURDER FEELS AWFUL, BECAUSE WHY ARE YOU EVEN READING THIS?
For legal reasons, this is now officially a work of fiction. All characters, locations, murders, whatever, are completely made up, and any resemblance to real characters, locations, and stuff that actually happened are totally accidental, even if they happen to have the exact same names and seem really really similar.
Also, for legal purposes, the author of this book is now … um … “Bill Alive”. Sure. “Bill Alive” is a real dude who is not me, because I am a made-up character and he is real and everything I just told you is made up, because it was really him.
Yes, that totally makes sense. And now no one can sue either of us. Cool.
This guy. Bill Alive. A real dude who writes real novels.
And finally eats lunch.
[THE END, FOR REAL]
Murder Feels Bad
Books by Bill Alive
PART 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
PART 2 Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
PART 3 Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
PART 4 Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
PART 5 Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
AFTERWORD (or, AND THEN THIS HAPPENED…)
WAIT DON’T GO!
BORING BACK OF THE BOOK BITS THAT YOU CAN SKIP TO LEAVE A REVIEW
AN EXTRA DISCLAIMER and an ABOUT THE AUTHOR, ALSO TOTALLY COPY-PASTED FROM MURDER FEELS AWFUL, BECAUSE WHY ARE YOU EVEN READING THIS?
