The Attic Piranhas

By Marlin Williams

Max Fagan is trapped in the self-defeating algorithmic processes of his daily life, influenced by his mental bully, Charley Axon and the negative thoughts and emotions swimming around in his mind called the attic piranhas.
When Max uses a top-secret relic left over from World War Two to achieve his desires, he gets what he wants—money and prestige inside the corporate world of the Elegant Watch Company, but it comes at the expense of everyone else. He quickly discovers a diabolical plot devised to cause the company, and the citizens of the city, to plummet into financial ruin. To foil the mastermind of the plan, Max coerces his best friend to take part in his unorthodox problem solving methods. As they attempt to reverse the resulting chaos, matters only get worse. Together, the unlikely pair of heroes attracts some bizarre characters who may be more than meets the eye. Max finally realizes the power to change things was within him all the time, and the resolution comes after the final showdown with Charley Axon.
If a fantasy/action novel had a funny bone, it would be The Attic Piranhas. It's a tale filled with nonstop adventure, humor, friendship, and love, shaken not stirred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marlin Williams
• Release date: May 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476164014

Marlin Williams

I grew up in a small town in Texas where the prairies were big, the grass grew tall, and the imagination ran wild.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 Marlin Williams

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

Thank you for this crazy beautiful life

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the voices inside my head.

Chapter 1

The Next Voice You Hear

The first time Max met Charley Axon; he was twelve. He remembered the day; it was branded into his memory.

With his long, homemade, Batman cape draped over his shoulders, it flapped furiously in the hot August wind as he and his friend, Ramir, weaved their bikes through the narrow neighborhood streets of Camdem. After twenty minutes of hard peddling, they cruised into the empty parking lot of Fat Freddy’s Groceries and came to a stop near the door. Max dismounted from his bike’s banana seat and pushed the kickstand down. He was sweating profusely, and using the hem of his cape, he swiped the watery beads from his brow. To vent some of the heat, he grabbed the corners of his cape and flapped them vigorously trying to stir a breeze.

Ramir remained seated, staring at the spectacle.

Max frowned. What are you looking at?

You look like a fat bird.

Ha ha, real funny, Max replied. He stopped flapping. Come on.

Ramir climbed off his bike and followed Max to the door and they both pressed their faces against the glass, flattening their noses and lips against the thick pane to get a gander of the rotating comic book rack standing at the back of the store. Max jerked back, now pressing the tip of his finger against the glass, beaming a big smile, he turned to Ramir. It’s here! Outta the way! he warned before grabbing the door’s handle. Ramir quickly stepped back as Max pulled the door open with a grunt. They wiggled through the narrow gap before the hissing hydraulic pulled the door closed behind them.

In order to get to the comic book rack, they had to pass an elderly, rotund man wearing a white apron. He stood behind a long counter, manning the cash register and watched with his one good eye that instantly cast a suspicious glower on the boys. His other eye was a glazed-over orb hidden beneath a leather eyepatch nestled under a bushy, white eyebrow, but the dead eye wasn’t completely useless. The rumor circulating amongst the kids in Camden was that the eye possessed a special prowess of clairvoyance that could spot a bad kid a mile away. But that wasn’t its only capability. Fat Freddy reserved the raw, deadly power of the all-seeing eye to vaporize all shoplifters.

With Max in the lead, the two boys darted past the evil eye and didn’t stop until they were standing at the base of the rotating rack. There it was: the golden anniversary edition of the Batman comic, and from what he could see, there were less than a dozen copies. Max reached up and grabbed one from the top tier. Holding it in front of his face, staring at it hypnotically until his gaze roving the brilliantly illustrated cover stalled on the price. He stuffed the magazine in Ramir’s hands and dug down into the hip pocket of his blue jeans, dredged up a handful of coins and some pocket lint. He blew on the fuzzy ball and after it sailed away, with his gaze glued to the copper and silver coins, Max quickly counted his bounty. He turned to Ramir. How much money did you bring?

I didn’t bring any money.

Max scowled. Why not?

Because, I would have had to break my piggy bank.

Then you should of broke it, Max replied through gritted teeth.

You can’t break the bank until it’s filled, said Ramir. That’s the rule. Everybody knows that.

Max snatched the comic from Ramir’s hands. Now we can’t get it! He placed it back onto the rack.

I’ve got an idea, said Ramir. We can cut lawns and earn the money. He punctuated his declaration with a self-satisfied grin.

Max nullified it with a condescending gawk. Don’t be stupid. By the time we cut enough lawns to buy a copy, Fat Freddy will have already sold them all, and every kid in the neighborhood would have one except us.

We could read theirs, Ramir sheepishly suggested.

Why am I standing here arguing with you? You don’t get it. This is the Batman golden edition and I’m going to be the first kid in the neighborhood to own it.

How do you plan on doing that?

I don’t know, Max hopelessly replied.

I’ve got an idea, kid, said an omnipresent voice.

Huh! Max blurted out. What’d you say?

I didn’t say anything, said Ramir.

Not you, Max shot back.

Then who? Ramir replied while shrugging.

Max looked around. There wasn’t anyone else in the place but them and the owner. Max shook it off and chalked the experience up to nerves. Never mind. Let’s get out of here.

Not so fast, kid.

Max stood in place like a statue.

I can get you that comic without spending a penny. Just do what I tell ya.

After a few moments of watching Max stare off into space, Ramir tugged on his cape. Come on, let’s go.

Max grabbed Ramir by the arm and hurriedly ushered him behind a shelf, he unloaded the plan given to him by the voice. Max lowered his speech to a whisper. You create a little distraction and while Fat Freddy is looking the other way, I’ll pinch the comic book off the rack and stick it beneath my cape. Then we will breeze out of the store and the old man will be none the wiser.

Ata boy, said the voice. Now yer cookin!

I don’t know about that, Ramir replied to Max. It’s risky. He raised up on his toes enough to peek over the shelf at Fat Freddy. The man stared back. Ramir ducked.

What are you talking about? said Max. It’s the perfect plan.

It’s not just about the plan.

Max huffed. ‘Then what is it?"

Stealing isn’t right.

In a flash, the voice delivered to Max a devilish idea and a grin surfaced on Max’s face. He asked in an angelic voice, Who said anything about stealing? We’re just going to borrow it and when we’re done reading it, I’ll place the comic in a plastic sack, bring it back after the store closes, and hang the bag outside on the door.

What if we get caught?

We’re not going to be caught, Max assured him.

Yer gonna be the envy of every kid in Camden, the voice told Max.

Just think, Ramir, I’ll be the first kid to own the golden edition. He thought about it. All the other kids will respect me then, I’ll bet. He turned to his friend waiting for confirmation.

I doubt it, said Ramir. He stood and took a step forward.

Max grabbed his arm. Where do you think you’re going?

Home. Ramir pulled free.

Max frowned. Screw you. Go find some lawns to cut and while you’re sweating under the hot sun, I’ll be laying underneath the shade of a tree reading the newest and best adventure Batman ever had! I might even steal a bottle of cold pop to sip while I’m turning the action filled pages.

Go ahead, Max, and see if I care, but I’m not going to get caught and have Fat Freddy turn me into a pile of ashes.

Is that what you’re worried about? Max replied with a cocky grin. Nothing can harm us as long as I’m wearing this cape.

Some superhero you turned out to be. Batman doesn’t steal. Ramir tugged on Max’s homemade cape. You should take this off and burn it.

Max felt a pang of guilt.

"Forget Ramir," said the voice. That little goody two shoes ain’t got what it takes. He’s going to grow up and work at that lame watch factory just like everyone else in this crummy little town. But you… The voice paused a beat. You’re going places…that is… if you listen to me.

Fine! Max raised his voice a notch above a whisper and told Ramir, I’ll do this by myself. But don’t come around begging me to let you read it because I’m going to tell you to take a hike!

Ramir hastened away, rushing to the entrance, he gave the glass door a hard shove sending it flying outward. The wagging tongue on the bell above the door announced his departure.

Before making his move, Max needed some time for the friction hanging in the air to settle. He spent ten minutes meandering up one aisle and down another until he’d made all five rows, while feigning interest in toiletries, household cleaners, and dusty cans of food, and other things that wouldn’t pique the interest of a twelve-year-old boy, and then he started over while trying to build enough courage to stroll up to the rotatable magazine rack. On the third run, he mustard enough nerve to stop. Max ran a quick, visual reconnaissance. The old man’s awareness seemed to be engulfed in the newspaper that he had spread across the narrow countertop, but the voice told Max the old man was spinning a web of deception to snare the foolish fly.

I’m not a newcomer to this game. I know how to play it. We’re gonna take our time and strike when the timing is right.

Max stood in place until he was certain the old man’s attention wasn’t on him. While keeping his eyes glued on Fat Freddy, Max stealthily inched his hand toward the comic. The old man’s sixth sense kicked in and he jerked his head up. Max, in turn, jerked his hand back.

Fat Freddy spoke with a gravelly voice. I know what you’re up to, kid, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk out of here while you still can. The old man slowly raised the eyepatch.

Max could feel the death glare of the glazed eye tingling across his skin, threatening to burst him into flames and incinerate him into a pile of ashes on the spot. Then Fat Freddy would probably sweep him up in a dustpan like he had done with the other shoplifters and toss him out the door to be carried off by the wind. Max decided that taking the magazine would be signing his own death warrant, cape or no cape. Just as he began to walk out, he heard the voice again.

What’s the matter? Chicken?

Max stopped and gritted his teeth. He narrowed his eyes. Don’t ever call me a chicken again!

Then be a man, grab that magazine, and breeze outta here like you own the joint.

Max’s gaze darted to the glazed eyeball. He could feel the heat. Nah uh, I’m not getting turned into a pile of ashes!

Come on, kid, said the voice. The old man doesn’t have any special powers.

That’s something made up to scare gullible kids like you.

Easy for you to say, said Max.

The store owner’s steely gaze had changed to curiosity and hedged a little concern

for the chubby kid in a cape standing in the middle of the aisle talking to himself. Who knows, maybe the kid had been bitten by a rabid dog. Fat Freddy had to nip the situation in the bud before things got out of hand. He leveled the milky white orb on Max like a weapon of mass destruction.

Max shrank back.

Fat Freddy picked up the broom and dustpan that he kept stashed in the corner of the little cubicle. Stepping from behind the counter he was now gliding across the floor towards Max. Boy, I’m going to burn you to a crisp! reenforcing the urban legend with his threat.

If you don’t grab it now, said the voice, then you can kiss that comic goodbye. And that’s

not all, every boy in Camden is gonna know what a pansy you are and you’re gonna get your butt royally kicked every day. The voice chuckled. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, no sir, not for a million dollars.

Fat Freddy was quickly closing the gap.

Max stood frozen with terror.

Do it! screamed the voice.

Max grabbed the magazine and rushed out the door. Ramir was already gone.

Fat Freddy burst through the door and chased after Max with surprising speed that almost seemed supernatural and managed to grab him by the cape. Max thrashed around until he wiggled out and raced to his bike where he stopped and spun around, red-faced and heaving.

The old man was wearing a triumphant grin while holding the magazine in the air like a first-place trophy. The mutinous cape lay crumpled at his feet. Hey looney, don’t ever let me catch you around here again, and the same goes for your little punk friends!

You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you? asked the voice.

Fat Freddy was laughing.

Max fumed. It was the fuel he needed to rush the old man and pluck the magazine from his hand. Fat Freddy stood dumbfounded as Max raced back to his bike and with one sweeping motion straddled his banana seat. A second later, Max was pedaling at a frantic speed with Fat Freddy hot on his tail yelling an unbroken string of obscenities and the sound of hurried footsteps pounding against the pavement, but the tirade took its toll on the older man. Soon, the rant became broken gasps for air, and the sound of soles slapping pavement slowed.

Max placed more distance between him and his pursuer before feeling it was safe to stop. He looked back over his shoulder. The store owner was bent over with his hands planted on his knees. Now it was Fat Freddy that was red-faced and heaving. Feeling energized by his victory, Max lifted his ill-gotten prize high above his head for the store owner to see. Much to his delight his action brought on another string of swearing muffled by distance.

Feeling like he could conquer the world, Max sped away and journeyed to Camden’s City Park where he found a shady oak tree dripping with hanging moss to lie beneath and perused the pages filled with the adventures of Batman, and delectable advertisements for toys and gadgets. On the last page was a glorious full-page ad for a metal-flake gold Mach 1 bicycle, three speed, hand-brakes, banana seat, and chrome sissy-bar. It was the one that he wanted for his birthday but doubted that he would get.

Go on, Max, hop on, the voice commanded.

Who are you? Max asked while looking around.

Hop on the bike and you’ll see.

Yeah, and how exactly am I supposed to do that?

Close your eyes and I’ll take care of the rest, the voice assured him.

Max did close his eyes and in a blinding flash of silver light he suddenly found himself on the new bicycle zooming down a long stretch of desert highway. In the distance a lone figure stood in the middle of the road shimmering behind a veil of heat. As Max neared, the figure stood unwavering by Max’s fast approach. Max clamped down on the rear brake’s hand lever and the tire locked. The rubber bit into the pavement and the bike squalled to a stop. Max stared.

The figure of a boy about Max’s age stood in the middle of the road. It was like looking in a mirror, but the boy had a darker edge. His dark hair was disheveled, and his overalls were stained with grease and grime. He wore a frown as he chomped on an unlit cigar.

Who are you? Max asked.

My name’s Charley Axon.

Max shrugged.

You know, the voice inside your head.

Max wrinkled his brow, narrowed an eye, and leveled it on his doppelganger. Why do you look like me?

Because I am you! Charley replied. Your better half I might add.

What do you want?

For you and me to be a team, Charley replied.

Something behind Charley caught Max’s eye. In the far distance, centered in the middle of the highway, a glowing ball of light shimmered on the horizon. Max averted his gaze to Charley’s grimy face. What’s that light?

Shangri-La, Charley answered. It’s the place where all your dreams come true.

Max beamed a big smile. That’s the place for me! He placed his foot upon a pedal.

Hold on there, hoss. Charley held up his hands. You don’t want to go straight there.

Why not? Max planted his foot back on the ground.

Listen to me, kid. I can take you to Shangri-La. I know an easy way, some back roads and detours, and you won’t have to face your worst nightmares. I’ll be your guide; stick to the roads I tell you to go down, and I won’t steer you wrong. Because I know what lies ahead.

What? Max asked.

The scary things roiling around in the dark corners of your mind, Charley answered. The attic piranhas!

What are attic piranhas?

Nasty little critters, Charley replied with a shiver. They’ll eat you alive.

Max stared into the distance. Now, instead of the light, black specks swirled on the horizon.

Chapter 2

The Night Brings Charley

Thirty Years Later

Max Fagan emerged from a silver flash of light in a speeding, red convertible. Along the stretch of desert highway, he passed a billboard and felt a little nervous. It was the one with the cows crawling all over it, begging him to eat a chicken. However, the billboard was not the problem. The problem was Charley Axon, but before he could arrive on the scene and cause the dream to become a nightmare, Max woke up and struggled free from the twisted binds of his blanket.

He’d heard that pills worked— a little. But he was not interested in anything that was strong enough to ward off the livid dreams that sometimes morphed into grand-mal nightmares; complete with night-sweat and chills. He sat up from his makeshift bed on the sofa, and the August sun pierced the barrier of shabby drapes. He winced, recoiled, and rubbed his stinging eyes. He dropped his hands and looked around the tiny one-room apartment at the collage of second-hand furnishings. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

The angle of the late morning sun prompted him into a nervous search through the slush pile of watch innards and electronic components on the coffee table. He found his Elegant wristwatch and looked at the dial. Shit, late again. He sped through his morning ritual, finishing off his recently acquired attire of thrift-store shirt, slacks by slipping on a pair of comfortable but worn-out loafers, and raced out the door. As he hurried through what barely passed as a courtyard, he noticed the Coral Reef Apartments complex's sign had a new bad paint job covering the old bad paint job. It was the manager's latest attempt to mask the decaying property, like a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.

He took his usual shortcut down Main Street where a space-time-continuum-vortex hung out like a trap waiting to spring on him. He often squandered the extra time the route gained him on self-indulging pleasures. Today, it was Mr. Wong’s hotdog stand. The mobile establishment embellished the sidewalk with old, oriental-style culture, and the owner was rumored to be a plethora of Confucius-like wisdom. Although Mr. Wong and his cart raised a few eyebrows, some of the town’s prominent folk conferred confidentially with this wise and mystical oracle on personal matters, mostly about love and money. Max didn’t see anything wise or mystical about an old man behind the counter of a hotdog stand. However, one of the old Chinese sage’s popular Dirty Water Dogs would go a long way in improving his outlook, and maybe to some small degree, his life. He stepped up to the counter and said, One dog, just mustard, Mr. Wong.

The vendor stood beneath the paper lanterns that were swaying gently in the summer breeze. His long, braided white hair cascaded down his back, and his carefully trimmed beard settled across his traditional Tangzhuang jacket. With humble eyes, he acknowledged Max's presence with a slight bow. He dished up one of his Dirty Water Dogs with an air of infinite wisdom, slathered on mustard with a touch of philosophical wit, and handed it to Max with a smile relishing fulfillment. How things with you, Max?

How do you know my name?

The old man’s gray eyes sparkled. To know many people name good business.

Max handed the vendor a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. Well, since you ask, it’s the same old thing. I'm still earning meager boons groveling at the bottom of the corporate ladder. I can’t seem to change my life, no matter what I do.

Trouble with you, Max, you do outside thing, but not do inside thing. He smiled, shoved the bill into his pocket, and made a slight bow.

Hey, Max pointed to the pocket, I gave you a twenty-dollar bill. Where's my change?

The vendor’s grin broadened. Change come from within.

I'm talking about my money.

Money, Mr. Wong shook his head, no matter. Then as he nodded, he said, Change matter.

I didn't come here for any of your philosophical bull crap. Max held out his open palm. Just give me my change.

Mr. Wong smiled and slapped a napkin on Max’s outstretched hand. Not work that way. Old Chinese proverb say, don’t give a man fish, teach a man to fish.

I've got news for you, old man; I hate fish. He clinched his hand tightly around the napkin. And I don't have time for your crazy riddles.

Mr. Wong brushed Max away with a sweeping motion of his long fingers. Time for you to go now.

Max looked at his watch. Geeeeez, now I'm really late. I've got to go, but I'll be back. He thrust his finger inches away from Mr. Wong’s nose. And I’d better get my change.

The Chinaman nodded his head sagely. Don’t worry, you get change.

Max turned and hurried away. He didn’t understand what all that was about,