The Scales

by Paul Sating

The Plant (Free Short Story)

  Nonfiction

  Novel Idea to Podcast: How to Sell More Books Through Podcasting

  About The Author

  Paul Sating is an author, podcaster, and self-professed coolest dad on the planet, hailing from the Pacific Northwest of the United States. At the end of his military career, he decided to reconnect with his first love (that wouldn’t get him in trouble with his wife) and once again picked up the pen. Four years on, he has published numerous novels and his podcasts have garnered nearly a million downloads.

  When he’s not working on stories, you can find him talking to himself in his backyard working on failed landscaping projects or hiking around the gorgeous Olympic Peninsula. He is married to the patient and wonderful, Madeline, and has two daughters—thus the reason for his follicle challenges.

  Find out more about his other books and free podcasts from his website: paulsating.com.

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been a long time coming. It started during the heyday of my satirical comedy podcast, Atheist Apocalypse (which is now, thankfully, defunct). Back then, I hadn’t yet taken the leap into podcasts like Subject: Found, Who Killed Julie?, Diary of a Madman, and this was well before Crown of Thieves was ever thought up. No, I was still scouring the news for what I called ‘the stupid’ (things I could make fun of in a satirical comedy fiction podcast) and trying my hand at comedy. But there was a darker element begging to come out of this world of the Tri-Counties, and that’s when The Scales was born.

  I didn’t yet have my writing process down and I was, honestly, enjoying creating. So this novel got shelved numerous times, first in deference to most of those previously mentioned shows, but also to my other books. In fact, I published three times before coming back to this book. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it (I do), and it wasn’t that the story grew to bore me (it didn’t). Instead, my writing process hadn’t yet been defined when I first started writing the novel, so it was tough to slog through the middle section, where many authors end up tossing away a work.

  Going off to those other works was like an injection of caffeine. As I dove into, and published, those works, I refined how I go about writing. To this day, it’s still not perfect, but it’s much smoother and production-oriented than where I started out. So, The Scales had to wait until I had matured enough to come back to this project and get it back on course.

  That was the easy part. Actually getting back on course was what made this all so difficult. A lot of things had changed in the intervening time. Serenity hadn’t; I still saw her as I always did, a strong, young woman trying to find her way in the world. Patch was still as awesome in my head as ever. All the periphery people, for the most part, remain unchanged (though Troy and Ricky were slightly more prominent in earlier drafts). But Ida grew, immensely. And I’m glad for the time away from this story because it gave her a chance to develop in my mind, from the overbearing-for-no-other-reason-than-to-be-overbearing mother, into a key element in the story. Honestly, the scene where she makes the ultimate mother sacrifice is much more impactful than what I’d originally planned for her. And I think the story benefits from that (or I obviously wouldn’t have finished it).

  The story, its structure, significantly re-writing plot and scenes to reduce pointless characters all took a lot of time, but it was worth it in the end. Thirty thousand words were left on the cutting room floor, an excruciating experience if ever there was one, but what you hold in your hands today is a stronger story, because it’s a sleeker story. I have my editor, Cindy, to thank for that! Wow, the things she’s taught me!

  It is Serenity’s story, the way it should have been told if I’d only been smarter the first time around.

  And it wouldn’t have happened without some wonderful people, as always, along the way.

  Forever and always, my wife, Madeline, who read the first version of the story. She’s such a brave woman for not only getting through that, but sticking by me afterwards. As always, her insight and comments were spot-on. Without the love of her and my daughters, Nikki and Alex, I wouldn’t be the person I am, to see the world as you have seen it through my eyes. They make me a better person.

  Every writer needs a cheerleader, someone who unconditionally believes in them, lifting them when that self-belief wanes. I have had that in my dear friend, Kevin Baker, for longer than is fair. I’m very fortunate to have you in my life and I’m so grateful that our dormant ties were reconnected a few years ago. You’re a warrior and an inspiration.

  To Brian Ross, a long-time friend from a previous life, and avid reader. The battle scene is much more epic because of his read back in 2017.

  No book would be what it is without feedback from kind, caring people who give so much of themselves to make it better. I am, of course, talking about beta readers, those first dedicated set of eyes who aren’t family, and don’t mind telling you when something sucks. The beta readers were absolutely wonderful and insightful. If you like Ricky and wish there was more of him in the story, blame these people for me cutting him down to the point where he is today. I kid, of course. I thank these folks, because Ricky was, honestly, left dangling in the earlier versions of this story and I didn’t feel like adding another 20,000 words to wrap up that story. These generous people made this book stronger, no doubt. So, thank you for your critical eyes, Adam Burke, Matt Spaulding, Kevin Rowlands, Pam Giltner, Louis Jackson, Stephanie Mikkelsen, Brent Moody, Rayne, Clover, and Natalie Aked. You honor me.

  Not to be outdone, my small team of advance readers (join the newsletter if you want to be one) helped make sure the book launched on a positive note. These folks, some who had already read the story, gave it one more read, this time as pure fans, to make sure it launched successfully. Thank you to author Nicole Rayne, author NJ Boyer, Nicola Thompson, Eric Thomas, and author Ann Burgess for spending more time with Serenity! Your untold hours given is truly humbling.

  Speaking of generosity, there is a group of people who support my, financially, month-in and month-out on Patreon. Sure, they get exclusive content on a monthly basis, but their constant support means I can give the world free fiction and create other worlds in the future. Without them, it simply wouldn’t be possible. These people are my champions! Thank you, from the deepest reaches of my heart, to Adam Burke, Alaina, Amanda Ward, Anthony Dallape, Brian B., Brent Moody, Cayleigh Toles, Cheyenne Bramwell, Cynthia Waddill, Desdymona, Doahi, Elsa, Erica Stensrud, Erin Karper, Fishbonius, George Greene, Girl in Space Podcast, Glen Collins, Ian Troman-Mason, Jimmy Robbins, Jon Grilz, Jude and Keith, Kay Kenyon, Kevin Baker, Kevin Rowlands, Kraig Greenly, Matthew Eckermann, Morgan Barber, Nicole Rayne, Patrick Monroe, PB Sebastien, Raymond Camper, Ryan Beyer, Sandy Smith, Shelly Perrin, Sylvia Lynn, The Lift Podcast, Tim Niederriter, and Zane Desjarlais. Thank you for being so epic!

  To my fellow writer and audio drama creator, Jon Grilz, for your encouragement, modeling behaviors about a healthy writing life, and all of your insight and guidance for approaching this daunting task.

  To Stacy Reebrul, who was there to help me name the Screecher when the right word refused to find its way through the filters of my mind. And for giving me a hard time about a certain home improvement project for the past four years.

  And, finally and always, to each and every one of you who picked up this book and got to this point (assuming you didn’t skip to the end to see if I mentioned you or not). Many of you gave me a chance, and that’s all any artist can ask for. I hope the journey was rewarding. A good number of you also tell your friends about my books and podcasts and I see the ‘borrows’ of the books in my daily reports. Those things mean the world to me. I may never see your face or know your name, but I thank you just for what you’ve done for me.

  Published by Paul Sating Productions

  P.O. Box 15166

  Tumwater, WA 98511

  paulsatingproductions@gmail.com

  Follow me:

  Twitter: @paulsating

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m @paulsating

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorpaulsating

  From Paul Sating’s Novel, “RIP”

  (Available Now!)

  Chapter 1

  She was being followed.

  The night was thick with humidity. Memphis' streets shone ink-black with wetness, the rain long stopped. Streetlights provided a jaded yellow glow that made spots of pavement look as if they were trying to sparkle, but gave up halfway through the effort.

  Empty.

  The victim's heels clicked in an idiosyncratic rhythm, a sign of the damage done from the club she should have left hours ago.

  She tugged at her too-short purple skirt that kept raising up beyond the danger point of her mid-thigh. Inside the club, she felt confident, normal. Acceptable and sexy. Back in the world of adults and business, being dressed like this made her feel open and unlike a proper member of the Southern community. This was Memphis, Tennessee, and here respectable women did not dress this way. This was big truck country, home of the most audacious outdoorsmen store on the planet; a glass pyramid rising above the cityscape. This was the birthplace of Graceland, of not only Southern hospitality, with a capital S, but also Southern expectations, a place where men were men, and women were taught their roles in subtle and designed ways from before their first words.

  One day she would be free of Memphis’ suffocating conservative culture, her true motivation for spending too much time in clubs, but right now it was the last thing on her mind. The eyes watching her touched her in her most vulnerable places.

  ***

  The person hiding in the alleyway also understood Memphis' culture, and for the briefest moment they wondered if this woman, who's fate was about to change, understood. Stepping outside the place of entertainment on Beale Street would have reminded her that she was a lady, a mother, and cruising the streets of Memphis in search of a taxi in the early morning was unbecoming of all but the dirtiest of women.

  In the distance, over by the apartments on Vance Avenue, a dog barked. Its call rose into the early morning as if announcing that even a mangy mutt wanted to draw attention to the fact the woman in purple was a dirty whore. No one answered the animal, only the occasional sound of a car slicing through puddles filled the night, but the victim still hitched her stride and stepped quicker. The heels she wore, tools of a Jezebel, clicked the concrete sidewalk.

  Tomorrow, the city of Memphis would wake up to a new world. Tonight was the overture to the city’s violent new beginning. The dirty woman in purple wasn’t even First Act quality.

  The killer stepped out from the black alley onto Beale Street, the centerpiece of entertainment and irresponsible joy for the city's sinners. They followed Purple Skirt—they knew her name, and Memphis soon would too, but it wasn’t important now—down Beale Street toward the Robert R. Church Park, passing the Ida B. Wells historical marker which indicated something significant had once happened in Memphis.

  Tonight, another entry would be added to that historical list.

  The victim turned down S. 4th St., her pace picking up, enough to give away her fear. This one was smart. Too smart. Too aware. The legacy couldn't fall before it began. The killer grunted quietly, half in satisfaction, the other half parted by frustration and blood lust. Time to control.

  The park was near, only a few hundred feet away, and the victim made the fatal mistake of turning toward it. The killer's chest swelled with urgency, accented by excitement. They knew Purple Skirt would stick to her routine; she always did. They had planned on the park serving as the opportunity to strike, and now the moment was almost here.

  The victim's steps stretched as much as her too-tight skirt allowed.

  This was perfect. The trap, almost sprung. A few hundred yards deeper into the complete solitude of the park, ensured by the late hour, provided the perfect cover. Emboldened, the killer increased their strides.

  The victim clutched her purse to her side. Her heels drummed her panic.

  The killer accelerated into a run.

  So did the woman, kicking off her slutty heels, still hindered by the tight purple skirt.

  The distance shortened.

  The sidewalk curved to the left and so did the victim, heading back toward Beale Street. Past the church.

  Past the historical marker for the auditorium.

  The killer sprinted. Purple Skirt wouldn't get back to Beale Street.

  Twenty feet. So close but still too far, and running out of time.

  Ten feet.

  Even from behind, the killer heard the victim's exhausted panting.

  This was fun.

  Five feet. Almost there.

  Beale Street loomed. Too many street lamps.

  Three feet. Almost time.

  Two.

  The victim cried. "No!"

  The killer grinned.

  A foot.

  "Please!"

  And the killer lunged, laying flat as they flew into the victim.

  The woman in the purple skirt was soft and smelled of decaying cigarette smoke. They crashed to the concrete sidewalk, the killer cushioned by the victim. There was a crack. A bone. The victim's. She rolled, trying to escape, but the sprint around the park had exhausted her and she didn't have much fight left. The white marble arch announcing the park's name stood sentinel for this life-and-death struggle. It also marked the edge of the park. They were close to the street, too close. The work had to be done fast. The legacy needed to be cemented.

  Yanking the eight inch Wusthof stainless steel blade free, the rubberized handle gripped in a fist of steel rage. The rubber would ensure it wouldn't slip even after the whore's blood flowed.

  Down.

  The victim screamed as the stainless steal penetrated her flesh.

  Down.

  Purple Skirt cried hysterically. This would draw attention. A gloved hand over the victim's mouth muffled her cries.

  Down.

  The third stab took the fight out of the woman. "Whore!" The killer mocked the death of evil.

  Down.

  "Hey! Knock that shit off!" A voice, a man's, broke the ecstasy. The killer looked up at a burly figure across the sidewalk and down the street. Thirty yards. Only a few seconds to spare.

  "Die, dirty girl!"

  Down.

  Purple Skirt didn’t struggle. She didn't cry out. A shrouded whore, bloodied.

  The killer jumped to their feet, taking another look at the witness, cursing their bad luck and unfinished work. They weren't going to get the time they wanted with this first one.

  But there will be many more.

  The park dominated by two churches of different denominations provided a sanctuary. The killer sprinted between them, through trees and down the sidewalk toward Linden Avenue, remotely aware that the witness was huffing his way to the dead woman in the blackened dress.

  Blackened to match her soul.