Shift Change

By Ripley King

Horror

Richard Edwards grew up an orphan. He spent a couple of tours in Vietnam. He became a die-hard biker, and never married. Now in his late fifties, something has found him and wants him dead. Something has found him and wants him alive. The truth behind faith and reality are about to collide, and the fate of the universe is at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ripley King
• Release date: Mar 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311363039

Ripley King

I'm a storyteller, with many published credits. Now I do my own thing. Have fun.

Book preview

Shift Change by Ripley King

Horror.

Richard Edwards is a big hairy biker with two problems. The first problem is, he’s the next Lord of Watersomes. Blokes, bubbles, bangers and mash. His other problem: something wants him dead.

Novel and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2013 Ripley King All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedicated to those, willing to be different.

Shift Change

After causing the desolation of many sentient worlds, He of the oldest race was brought before the reigning council for judgment. Found guilty, this sentence was passed.

He was to be imprisoned in utter isolation, surrounded by stone, enveloped by the life force of those who passed this judgment.

To keep the followers of this most evil of all ancient beings from ever setting Him free, His prison was cloaked in a most obvious fashion, guarded by the ordinary.

Two of the remaining council were then chosen to watch this prison for all eternity.

An excerpt from The Book of No Names

The Beginning

I am a fool. The Fool, and my emperor requests a gratifying tale from me, but which compelling narrative in my vast repertoire shall His Fatassness receive?

A questing yet witless knight, braving outlandish elements of fable and fantasy, strengthened by a personal code of honor sufficient to turn any stout stomach?

Or, perhaps, an adventurous yet resourceful thief in his (or her) perpetual pursuit of liquid wealth, naughty fellowship, and heady spirits?

Alas, with both I must provide a companion, a backboard for proposals, choice bits of comedy relief, or verbal barbs. However, I’m not feeling generous.

The Empress, in turn, invites a poignant tale within whose dark heart exists a riddle. May I pluck the knotted hair off her pointed pale chin and from under her bulbous reddened nose for such an unsatisfactory suggestion.

The Lovers stop their eternal grope to propose forbidden love as a topic. They should stick to the task in-hand and let me tell the story I wish.

The Executioner puts in his recommendation, but tonight is not a night for bloody revenge.

The Hierophant wants redemption with ascension.

The Hanged Man . . . says nothing.

Then it comes to me, inspirational lightning, pinning me down with a wondrous tale that must surely gratify all. A fantastical saga from long ago, when there existed such things as Space and Time.

Get on with it, Fool, commands The Emperor between mouthfuls of roasted meats and tiny sweet cakes, quaffing at will wine made by ancient, ineffectual, and (gulp) incontinent gods. You’re milking it.

Of course, Majesty, I say, thinking about a large chunk of that moldered meat lodged deep in his throat, stealing what he calls his pitiful excuse-of-a-life out of him.

I must confess I am milking it for all it’s worth. I’m a bit of a ham. What fool is not? To draw the audience inside the story is my vocation. To keep them enthralled by the narrative is my gift. I endeavor to give generously.

A proper piece of pretentious nonsense must have an appropriate beginning, I say, and this narrative is without exception. The question here is not where to begin, because I know where to begin. The question here is: who to begin with?

I think Xavier Collen will do nicely.

That’s him, the spry old fart pacing the carpet around his desk. Top floor of the Collen building. London proper.

A tidbit of prime tattle from the queen herself, no less, set his shallow, money obsessed thoughts, spiraling down the toilet. And that was just the beginning.

Mr. Collen didn’t sleep well that warm yet comfortable night, tossing this way and turning that way. Dozing until a dreamt fright would wake him, monitoring his bedside digital display between time.

Morning came, and he couldn’t find his expensive wingtips. His mattress-pressed slacks wouldn’t wear right, and tie his god-awful, too-costly power tie? His Wednesday was shot to hell-in-a-handcart before it began. The spouse thankfully took over and saw to it he was shooed out of the house properly coifed and garbed, looking so much better than he actually felt.

A morning’s repast was out of the question. More to his mood was a tall bottle of bright pink peptic bismuth, followed by several large shots of Ireland’s best single-malt whiskey. Yoar’s Head. Neat. Why dilute the esophageal burn with something as practical and as soothing as melting ice.

On his way to the office he made two important calls from the company limo, both calls to his efficient yet under-salaried secretary. A lovely woman with short raven-black hair and sizable tits, setting a domino theory of predictable—he hoped—events into motion.

At the office he cracked another bottle and reviewed several thick files. He placed various directives in their proper order, ran a tired hand through his thinning white hair, and jabbed the intercom button with a jittery finger, sporting an impeccably manicured nail.

Get me Jonathan Stately. I want him here before the hour is up.

Certainly, Mr. Collen, came the canned reply from his boob-luscious aide.

Speaking aloud to himself, he said, "Trusting this assignment to a simpleton . . . ‘Use someone disposable, Collen dear, with experience in the States. (The Queen Mother had said this before she passed on to whatever death held for her, and Xavier’s impromptu impression of her was marginal at best.) After all, time, when due, will be of the upmost importance.’ . . . indeed. What did she take me for? As if I couldn’t manage my own position within these walls. I made this firm what it is, and I’ll tend to its proper performance!"

Yesterday, you see, the queen informed him that Lady Simona Watersomes had passed on in a, "ahem," questionable manner.

The queen said much, mostly about Lady Watersomes’ long list of antagonists, though nothing could be corroborated, and instructed him to implement the proclamation’s protocols posthaste.

He switched his thoughts toward the late Lady Simona Watersomes and said, How that disgusting troll could live so bloody long is beyond me.

What had him thoroughly rattled was a different, yet immensely distressing conversation with the late Lady Watersomes some years ago, which took place in the late Queen Mother’s apartments, concerning said documentation on his desk. It all began with the Lady’s harangue about the queen.

She should tend more to her wayward children and their bloody whelps, than to me and mine!

The Queen Mother had surprisingly agreed with Lady Watersomes’ assertion, but to Xavier Collen, most of what Lady Watersomes then spouted went in one ear and out the other. If it wasn’t immediate business, it wasn’t important, and to hell with it. Though, now, each and every word seemed world-shattering important, and forced another double into his hand.

That one, Xavier, not the other, Lady Watersomes said that fine morning, leaning over, tapping the grainy color print resting between them on the breakfast table.

Him? he replied, studying the man.

Quite, Lady Watersomes said. Do you find him impressive?

Not the word I would choose.

You’re spying greatness, dear boy. He, is my heir.

Of course the years-before choice of the Queen Mother’s term disposable, when viewed within the context of the immediate, seemed ominous.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by it then, or what he made of it now, so he mentally reviewed his many underlings until the perfect selection came into that vast peat bog he called a mind.

No single human being employed within the firm was more disposable than one Jonathan Niles Stately. He drained his drink.

Dash it all! he shouted to the highest heavens. Why were we foolish enough to get involved with that viperous old witch in the first place?

Scanning the room like she might have heard his rage, even in death.

The answer to his foolish question was, of course, greed. Greed ruled all in Xavier Collen’s tiny world.

The man felt as if he had been thrust into a nightmare without the likelihood of ever waking. It was if the old witch had him by his nuggets, and was leading him around his desk on tiptoe.

Which has led us to our next important, yet minor personality.

Jonathan Niles Stately wasn’t wholly convinced he should turn the clear glass doorknob, but did so anyway, entering Xavier Collen’s plush yet tastefully decorated office, sure he was about to be dismissed for some unknown gaffe, whether the mistake was his or otherwise, and closed the door behind him.

The Callas account was secure for the moment with more than satisfactory results, and that had been the only item to occupy his desk for almost a month.

The little things the firm threw at him day to day were too monotonous to cause any real trouble. Still, he made the time to review and understand them.

Employed twenty years, yet this was the first time he had been summoned to this particular office on the top floor. It took four days for his ears to stop burning after his first (and he had hoped his last) visit to the top floor.

He had let a client get the best of the firm, and lost an important account and its quarter-of-a-million-pound retainer.

That was a sad day. He had seriously contemplated suicide, but couldn’t commit. Now here he was, about to be dressed, a pheasant ready for basting.

For God’s sake, Stately, Xavier Collen said, sit down! Pointing to a posh leather Wingback chair, running point on Xavier Collen’s massive walnut desk.

Stately’s Adam’s apple performed a fairly rough dip, an involuntary reflex action that repeated itself a moment later. He sat wishing for something, anything wet, so he could swallow in comfort.

Sir? Which managed to squeak out on its own, timed right for the occasion by my personable pal Fate.

Pardon me, Fool, The Empress says. "Isn’t Fate that vile old man? You know the one, he dances around cackling, striking the peasants with his malodorous teddy bear?"

Only if they are foolish enough to tempt him, my empress. Stupidity does play a part in how he acts or reacts.

A pox and death be on him, The Executioner spouts.

No love lost between those two, but what care have I? Fate has a purpose he serves, and he is either kind or cruel, but never is he abusive without reason.

If I may continue? I say.

Please do, The Empress voices.

Now, where was I? Jonathan Niles Stately, and Xavier Collen is about to address his strained, greatly subjugated employee.

We have a job for you, Stately. Do you have any plans over the next week or two?

He did have a few things penciled in. Dinner with Mum was one, and the vicar intended to stop by Monday night by six for some reason or another. One more item came to mind, something to do with the following Thursday, but he was much too rattled to think it through. So, like any good company man would, he said, A clear calendar, sir. And smiled a pinch-lipped smile.

Excellent, Collen declared. Now pay close attention and make no mistakes. No blunders with this assignment. Is that clear?

Sir?

Most of the morning was spent examining then reexamining the many intricate details of this most important venture. Too many specifics to catalog, but every word and order issued was piss-pounded into his skull.

Stately was confused yet pleased. Others in the firm had been promoted ahead of him without regard to his seniority, and more than a few were firm-shattering mistakes, waiting to happen. He felt this was his one opportunity to shine like the sun on a clement spring morning.

What seemed like a ream of paper was thumbed into a pile that meant something. Stately stuffed it all into his rather large satchel (his secretary had delivered it at Mr. Collen’s request), with an envelope full of cashiers’ checks from the Central Bank of London.

The last item collected was his ticket for Heathrow. His flight would depart in slightly more than five hours. He was instructed to take as little as possible, and to arrive early, security being what it was, as not to be delayed at the gate. Wear clean socks. He was to secure the return flight himself when his assignment was completed.

It took a short while, but he managed to find decent lodgings for Barrister, his fully functional tom tabby. The poor thing had a disgusting tendency to mark its territory, which meant pissing on everything in sight, and everybody he knew was well aware of Barrister’s instinctual compulsion. Room and board at a local haven would flatten his wallet by several pounds each day.

Two transfers, several questionable meals accompanied by flatulence, and one full day later found him in Yucca Springs, California, worn by overtaxed nerves to the point of shattering.

A short stint with a talkative cabby had him standing in front of the black granite counter at the Terrace West.

May I help you?

Jonathan Stately. I believe reservations were made?

One moment, the first clerk said, divining for his name on a large computer terminal. Here we are. If you would sign in?

That he did.

Thank you, the clerk said, passing Stately his key card. A rental car has also been reserved in your name. Your keys. You’ll find a red Nissan parked in the side lot, space twenty-nine.

He was delighted with the Terrace West’s efficiency, but then a rather strange look passed between clerks had him realizing it was nothing more than a joint effort to get him out of the lobby based on his rumpled and gaunt appearance.

Thank you, Stately said, and meant it nonetheless.

A comely lass wearing an identical blue blazer, with a much better fit, groped for his bag.

I’ll take you to your room, sir. And into the elevator and up.

He keyed his door and tipped her ten American.

With the door shut behind him he targeted his bed, leaving his shoes and jacket to fend for themselves on the floor.

Now to our protagonist. I would like to introduce you to Richard Edwards. I would take a moment to depict him in great detail, but I’m saving his physical description for a moment where it will have maximum impact.

Richard Edwards’ house phone rang for the first time, and he mentally debated on whether he should pick it up before his answering machine fulfilled its primary function.

After a long day at work, socializing with anybody about anything was the last thing on his mind. A man who would rather sit in front of the flat glass tit with a Dagwood sandwich, and a few appropriately chilled brews.

Being alone never really bothered him. People, frequently, were nothing more than a pain in his ass. He long-ago branded himself comfortable within his own skin.

The fifth and last ring.

Hello, he said.

I thought you always let that damned machine answer. Here I had some cool words to slip into it, and now I don’t get the opportunity.

Dave Mackay, or just Mackay, was one of the many reasons Richard Edwards ignored his land line in the first place.

Mackay was a human leech, sucking the energy out of everyone encountered. A pseudo-intellectual in a limited stoner-type capacity, predictable to a fault. The only time this butt-crack called was when his Harley farted sideways, and he’s the one who fucked it up in the first place, trying to repair what wasn’t broken.

I should have let the machine take it so I could erase your sorry ass, Richard said with a large dollop of sarcasm. Make myself feel better.

Hey! Mackay said, properly insulted.

Look, I’m waiting for a call, an important call I can’t miss. Call me tomorrow at work. I’ll see what I can do.

The man has a female, begging for a word.

I really don’t need to hear this.

Hear what?

Hear you, or hear about your ride. You should have left it alone.

Never did have a sense of humor.

Mackay sounded hurt, but Richard knew that as bullshit. Mackay was an old vinyl record, warped and scratched, playing the same sorry sounding refrain over and over.

Richard said, Do I have to say fuck off?

I still need some things for my ride, Dude.

Tomorrow. This is my down time.

Richard’s nickname: Dude. He picked it up in the early ‘80's when everybody called everybody else dude for no particular reason. To his friends the designation fit, and Richard never let them know otherwise.

Fine, Mackay said. Blow me off. Hey, Digger isn’t around, is he? That sorry piece of shit done—

He hung up. Mackay had the nasty habit of rattling on like a lonely widower. Yappity yap yap yap. The question was whether Mackay would hit the redial.

He hoped not. If Mackay did call back, the sporting-event air horn kept conveniently by the phone (for the occasional dip-shit or bill collector) would solve that problem.

With that said, Richard’s long day turned out to be a moldy corpse without the decency to stay buried.

Traffic on his way to work was heavy.

The coffee wasn’t drinkable until he remade it.

Several parts needed to finish a few high-dollar repairs didn’t show, and bikers are inclined to love their scoots more than their wives, kids, or dogs.

Despite years of experience a wrench slipped, skinning the bejeebies out of two knuckles, right in the creases, where the scabs formed only to crack each time he bent his fingers.

And, yes, he did see Digger today. The scurvy mooch arrived during lunchtime, and ate half his ham and Swiss on whole wheat, with lettuce and tomato. He never should have turned his back to the prick.

That sorry turd Poke knocking at his door would have topped off his whole nightmare-of-a-day, but he wasn’t about to be let off the hook just yet. Richard arrived home to find a letter in his mailbox.

The letter was from an out-of-country law firm, stating he would be contacted this very evening, but didn’t state the reason why. It could be good news, but racking the gray matter hadn’t produced any fabulous possibilities.

The phone rang for the second time, and he decided to answer it for the second time, but the air horn was ready.

Richard Edwards?

The voice on the other end was thin, reedy, and had a distinctive nasal quality.

My name is Jonathan Niles Stately. I represent the law firm of Collen, Wedgewick, and Graham. I’m calling about a letter you should have received?

I read it.

May I offer my condolences toward the late Lady Simona Watersomes.

The accent was what one might call mid-Atlantic.

I don’t know who that was, Richard said.

I beg your pardon?

Never heard of her. What does her death have to do with me?

Sir, she has named you her sole heir. I have a few items to discuss with you before you assume your position as the new Lord of Watersomes.

Say again?

I have a few items to discuss with you before you assume your position as the new Lord of Watersomes?

Lord? of Watersomes? That crisped his bacon. The only reason I don’t hang up is that the letter seems real.

On some exceptional paper stock, too. High cotton-fiber content. Quality printing. When held up to the light a custom watermark graced the dispatch.

Stately then said, I do carry documents that will corroborate my earlier statement, and after you see them I think you will agree. Quite convincing.

Richard heard Mr. Jonathan Niles Stately of Collen, Wedgewick, and Graham clear his throat with more than a little difficulty.

I have your address as 1526 Jackmore Avenue, one nasally reedy lawyer said. Is that correct?

Yes.

I’ll say . . . thirty minutes?

Sweet, Richard voiced.

Thank you. I pulled a street map from a telephone directory, so shouldn’t have much difficulty finding your home. Good day to you, sir.

Talk about passing mental gas. None of his lowbrow friends were capable of pulling off an elaborate stunt like this, of that he was sure. They didn’t have the intelligence, resources, or balls.

Lord of Watersomes.

Richard ambled into the kitchen for another beer, and slammed the entire contents