“Yeah . . . it was something alright.” 6.2, not bad . . .
“You okay though?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I walked out of my office, through my workshop, and out on the store floor. “Broke some of my merchandize, so I’m closed for the day.” Almost died . . . I thought, but didn’t say it.
“Good to hear, boy. You doing okay beside that?”
I thought about the question. Five-thousand dollars or not, I was still broke. The Fresno Vampire Embassy knew who I am. The San Francisco Embassy too for that matter. But it could have been worse.
I had the Mancy. Had Ceinwyn. Annie B too. T-Bone. The Shaky Stick. I can kick a vampire’s ass, I thought. I can pool for an hour straight. I can make an artifact in under five hours. And I got Dad when it comes down to it.
“Working, ya know,” I said.
“I hear you, boy.”
“You okay?”
“Me? Yeah. Well . . . actually . . . there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“You trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Nothing like that. I’m fine.”
“Then what?”
“I been dating a woman, boy.”
Oh. “That’s one of us.”
“Don’t get mouthy now.”
“It’s okay, Dad. Mom would get it. I get it too.”
“I’d like you to meet her.”
This ain’t the way I expected the day to end. But, okay. It’s the Asylum way. Expectations smacking you in the face. Go with it. “Sure, why don’t you guys come up to Fresno next weekend? I’ll show you the shop finally. Take you out to dinner.”
He seemed on the edge of turning me down but made the jump with me. “Sounds good, boy. Sounds good.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, King.”
The phone clicked off. I let out a sigh. In my hand, the Shaky Stick pulsed with anima. I held it in my grip, looking down its length, studying how it set against my fingers. I couldn’t believe it . . . “And now I have a magic wand.”
About the Author
Richard Raley was born and raised in Fresno, California and even still lives there on account of the city being an evil vortex you can’t escape. He grew up on Star Wars, Transformers, Legos, and Everquest—he never escaped them either. The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady is the first novel in The King Henry Tapes; it will not be the last. Keep an eye out for King Henry Tapes updates at:
http://richardraley.blogspot.com
www.twitter.com/richardraley
[email protected]
If you loved this novel or even liked it then please take the time to give it a positive review wherever you purchased it from. You wouldn’t believe how much that helps us Indie authors out!
Sample Chapter: The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes
This is only the beginning of The King Henry Tapes, continue the pulpanormal with the next volume, available March 13th, 2012 . . .
Session 113
There are days when I wake up in the morning and I just want to kill someone. With my hands especially. Smash their nasal bone into their brain. Strangle them until not a mote of air escapes their throat. Pummel guts until they’re coughing up kidneys and livers both. I wake up and I want to kill someone with my bare hands.
Which is odd . . . I’ve never killed anyone before, so why the bloodlust? Well, I killed a few vampires months back, but I’m not sure they count as people, being as they’re as far from human as you get, nasty symbiotic blood creatures that they are. Even animals have the decency of having arms and legs . . . not Vamps . . .
It’s the anger. Anger over all the shit I’ve dealt with in my life. That’s what makes me waking up wanting to kill, wanting to fight. I wake up pissed off, ready to throw down and crack knuckles. I want to feel that wondrous pain of a barehanded punch, that sure pressure of a kick to the gut or ribs. I want to ruin. I want to destroy.
Most days it goes away by breakfast, just fades with the cloud-covered spring sun. Others, it sticks with me and I control it like a secret all day long, every hour, every minute. Just mine. My anger. My ace in the hole if things go down. Rarely do things actually go down . . .
But this day . . . shit went down.
Shit.
Went.
Down.
And a piece of my very pissed off soul cried out, claiming ‘lie!’
You don’t wake up wanting to kill because you were nurtured into it King Henry. It’s not that pissed off fourteen-year-old making a curtain call. You wake up wanting to kill because it’s a piece of your very makeup. Goes all the way to your core, to your genetics, to your divine fucking spark, to the place where the Mancy calls to you. Most geomancers are the shield, the plowshare, but occasionally we get ourselves a sword, or in your case: a big damned axe.
Let’s rumble, motherfucker, tear the whole world down. Let’s crack a city or two in half. Let’s watch mountains crumble. Give me everything you got and I’ll still be standing there flipping you the bird.
That’s what you feel . . . inside.
And if you don’t learn to control this part of you . . . one day, people really are going to die.
And it’s not always going to be the people you want dead.
[CLICK]
March 2018
Nine times out of ten, Fresno turns out to have itself a false spring. There’s a brief week of sunshine, of hope, followed by rain and winds that rip away every bit of soil and trash and fling it into the air, along with a nice kick in the nuts for hope. Spring didn’t come until April, and in May it is already summer, sometimes even shooting to three digits. In March it’s just wind and rain and shit dripping from winter’s hairy ass-cheeks.
5PM hit and I closed up the antique part of my shop as fast as I could, before some old lady out past her bedtime could ruin my night asking about my teapot display. The measly cash in the cashier drawer was almost depressing. I’m pretty sure it’s going backwards. Still, I pocketed a couple twenties.
“Maybe that’s why it’s going backwards, dumbass,” I mumbled to myself.
Clicking off the main lights, I walked out the door and locked it behind me. Outside, the wind whipped about like some retard on a bicycle, unsure where to go and not able to figure out the brakes.
Piece of shit city. Not for the first time I thought about moving the shop. Ceinwyn told me I had to be a day’s drive from the Asylum to keep the Lady happy, that didn’t mean I couldn’t look the other way. North instead of south. East instead of west. Where else though?
Reno? Desert shithole.
Tahoe? Too close to the Asylum shithole.
San Francisco? Too much water shithole and too expensive shithole.
Sacramento? Just plain as shithole as Fresno.
Oregon? Full of tree-hugging hippies shithole.
It’s the big problem when you start thinking about moving . . . you might live in a shithole but that doesn’t mean you can find another place any better. That’s probably why my parents never moved during the housing boom when the bankers fucked everyone, including themselves. Shithole Price is one-hundred percent shithole . . . but it’s also one-hundred percent Price.
And the move would be expensive as fuck all for me . . . especially the workshop.
Truth is . . . I’m stuck in Fresno, shithole or not.
It’s my home. And ain’t that some sad turtle crap.
I walked by my electric motorcycle. Poor thing needed cleaned. It hadn’t moved in three days, since I’d been spending my nights in the shop perfecting new artifact designs. Don’t worry—for those interested, you’ll be hearing about them later. Might even be some explosions. Might even be some explosions on purpose. For now . . . we got us some ass-kicking fast approaching.
Next, I went across the parking lot. My shopping center was small privately-owned stores and a burger joint, not exactly high volume all day long, but there’s some traffic, mostly at the burger joint. I paused at the corner, waited on t
he light to change, then walked to another shopping center. It being Fresno, there’s one on each corner.
This shopping center’s more active. It had four different food places, drive-thrus heavy with cars belching wasted fumes. They might make almost nothing but hybrids and electrics nowadays, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s given up on the old way, expensive gas or not. Suckers, I thought as I headed for a Taco Bell, but I was just jealous not everyone had a pyromancer ex-girlfriend.
Besides the food joints there was a little linen place on the end, so cheap they got their stuff from Pakistan of all places, then the main attraction: a humongous grocery store—the kind where you got to bag your own shit and you’re so exhausted by the process, by the time you get home you just want to leave everything but the ice cream in the car. Exhausting or not there had to be a thousand cars around the place. People can do without a lot of stuff, food ain’t one of them.
As example: King Henry Price in Taco Bell buying himself the whatever mix of beans, meat, cheese, and tortilla they had on sale for a buck-ninety-nine that month. I used one of the twenties I stole from my own register to pay for it. Too bad my debt with Ceinwyn wasn’t itemized. I’d have loved to receive a call from her complaining about me buying a grande whatever-the-fuck instead of making artifacts.
But . . . guy’s got to eat, even legendary fucking-King fucking-Henry fucking-Price.
I sampled the grande whatever-the-fuck in store, decided it was decent enough, then ordered three more with a large coke to go. Dinner of champions.
I walked back to my shop same way I’d come.
Shouldn’t have been a problem. Never been one before. Only . . . I’m walking through the grocery store cars and I come across this grande off-road truck with those big tires and mud stains on the sides covering up flames and lightning tough-guy with small penis crap. Which, okay, ignoring their bad taste in transportation is no big deal.
But the grande off-road truck has itself two skuzzy looking dudes hanging out in the truck’s bed. One of them had a sleek black overcoat trying to look all the One, but the other wore holey jeans and an even more tattered leather coat. Tatterdemalion is Mexican, Overcoat is a white boy. Neither look like they’re house broken. Look a lot like I‘d have ended up without the Asylum in my life.
I wouldn’t have cared at all even then, just one predator scoping out another predator at the watering hole and walking by, no big deal. Only there was a third guy on the ground and the asshole hassled at a chick trying to get to her car, pushing on her grocery cart, getting in her way. The third guy was another Mexican and of all the shit to wear, he had a businessman’s suit on. Guess we’ll call him Suit. Suit, Tatter, and Overcoat . . . had to cause problems, didn’t they?
It’s important for you to understand, I didn’t do this as a white-knighter. It wasn’t out of a sense of no honor or righteousness. I wasn’t trying to be the good guy protecting the little lady. Even if the little lady had a nice ass and some legs showing more skin than anyone sane ever did in March.
That wasn’t it at all.
It’s simpler than that. I just can’t stand bullies.
And those three fuckers? Bullies every one.
Maybe you’re saying . . . but King Henry, didn’t you beat on people all the time back in the day and even in the present? Yeah, but I never start it. I might step in it. I might never back off. Might be a big ass mountain right in the desert, but . . . never start it. Even with Welf . . . bastard’s mouth always set off the shot heard round the world.
Suit kept harassing the chick, blocking her cart with his hips, sliding close to her quick enough to make her twitch away from him as his hands reached to touch her arms, working their ways down for a shot at ass-cheek. He started out asking for her number all smooth-like but after Rejection Number Three he now demanded it, obstinate in disbelief. Tatter and Overcoat just laughed through the whole thing like typical hanger-ons, Overcoat specifically motioning him to go for second base.
Crap, I thought, holding my three grande whatever-the-fucks and my large coke. Why couldn’t this shit happen when I’m wearing all my gear?
I had my static ring, turned back to a five-second trigger the minute I got away from Annie B, but that was it. Well . . . and the Mancy itself. I started to pool anima. Guess a white-knight would worry about fair . . . if it was fair for a mancer to fight three guys with his something special?
Not me.
Suit, Tatter, and Overcoat weren’t exactly office workers out of their leagues and they looked like they could handle themselves. Means for King Henry: all options are on the table.
Regretfully sitting my Taco Bell stuff on the dirty ass, trash-covered ground, I walked towards Suit with a purpose.
I didn’t bother with no pleasantries like you’re expecting. I might got the Mancy, but that don’t make me a superhero. There wasn’t going to be any of me asking them to unhand the lady or ‘stop criminal’ fucktard sayings. I just kept walking towards them, nodding my head when Suit got extra rough and wrenched his fingers to lock on the lady’s shoulder. Overcoat kept the cackling laughter up, Tatter had this little sneer twisting in the wind.
The lady saw me. What she see? What people usually see. Jeans, a mancer coat of deep brown fabric, a ring on one hand initialed KHP, a pissed-off face scarred over an eyebrow and at the cheek, plus dirty eyes ready to ruin lives.
I never made a noise as I slammed a hammer-fist into the back of Suit’s head. He lost some balance, hand slipping from the lady’s shoulder and grasping at the shopping cart for support. I helped him on his way, foot tangling in his legs to dump him face first on the asphalt.
There’s some shock and awe for you, bitches.
“Get in your car and go,” I finally said. The lady didn’t need any more encouragement.
Overcoat stopped laughing, Tatter stopped sneering. They stared down at me from their place atop the grande truck. “Are you out of your mind?” Overcoat shouted at me.
Suit started to push himself up so I kicked him in the ribs. Not with the top of my shoe with all the cushion neither, I went toe to rib. Maximum ouch.
Tatter and Overcoat finally got in the game, dropping down to the ground on either side of the grande truck. The way they landed without the slightest bit of a stumble sent my first alarm bell ringing. Even some freak-of-nature pro basketball player would have paused at jumping down six-feet and these guys went right for it.
“Héroe started a game with las personas equivocades, didn’t he?” Tatter asked me, popping his knuckles. “White chico couldn’t let no man get a número, had to butt his culo in.”
“Now he’s going to get himself fucked up!” Overcoat agreed, sounding a lot like some of the hanger-ons I attracted in high school back when I fought every week. “Fucked up by King Vega’s Coyotes!”
There went Alarm Bell Number Two.
Funny thing is . . . in fights, you don’t have time for alarm bells.
Each came at me from one side, their boy Suit crumbled behind me. Overcoat was tall and skinny, his clothes flapping as he reached out like he was going to try for some WWE bodyslam. Tatter was my size and he came in warily, arms up to guard his face like he knew how to throw down.
I don’t mean to be racist, but I figured Tatter for a tougher guy on him being Mexican. I myself being a white guy and having known lots of white guys over the years, I knew the percentages of Overcoat being tough instead of just thinking he’s tough.
Which is why I focused on him. Always take out the weakest first. Trust me. End them out the equation; get rid of them before they can screw your algebra up by throwing some weird ass fraction at you. 23/67ths . . . are you fucking kidding me?
I had a minute of anima built up and I let it rip into my hand just as I threw a jab towards his face. I didn’t even bother to put anything on the punch. All arm. But the geo-anima did the work for me and suddenly Overcoat ain’t straight but instead is on the ground with Suit, five feet from where he’d been standing. The b
ones in my left hand cracked as the anima dissipated, iron turning to normal old calcium.
Fuck me with a vampire’s blood tentacle, I’d missed the feeling.
Months without it was just too long.
Made me cranky.
I stared another pool.
Tatter came in leery, caught me with a kick against my shin that turned me sideways. It was a measly little leg kick but it totally shifted my balance. It’s not good to lose your balance when you got a guy like Suit near your legs. Anyone surprised that he threw himself forward attempting to knock me to the ground?
I wasn’t.
I went with the fall; always remember to go with the fall. Instead of ending up on my back I rolled my way to my knees. Tatter threw at me again, a wild haymaker that went too quick over my head.
I backed up as Suit got to his feet looking all rumbled, businessman after having himself some booze, some buffalo wings, and some stripper pussy. Overcoat stayed down, moving in twitches, probably with a jaw that felt broken. Thank you, iron fist. Tatter grabbed Suit’s shoulder to steady him, his other hand cocked up to punch.
“You sabes who you messing with?” Tatter asked. “You muerto, crazy puta, you just don’t know it yet.”
“The girl didn’t want what your friend offered,” I explained. “She just didn’t speak your asshole language, see? So I translated for her. In case you still need some more translation . . . a hammer-fist says, ‘get your hand off my shoulder.’ Want to know what a right cross says?”
Suit puffed himself up. He glanced to his sides, down at Overcoat, then around us. We’d drawn a small crowd of shoppers. Couple went for their cell-phones, not to call the cops, but recording us with cameras. YouTube popularity wins over civic duty.
“Girl’s gone, no reason to talk tough now,” Suit said, seeming to realize a camera could turn into a call for the cops really quick. “Run along, little man, we’ll let you live this time.”
The Foul Mouth and the Fanged Lady Page 29
