Adonis Morgan: Nobody Special

By Frank Byrns, Jr

Adonis Morgan used to be a hero.

As The Phenom, he kept the Arizona desert safe from trouble, masked or otherwise.

But it didn't take.

Now, he lives among the rest of us, keeping his head down, avoiding trouble.

But trouble has a way of finding him in author Frank Byrns’ Adonis Morgan: Nobody Special from Pro Se Productions

From the lonely boulevards of Hollywood to the deadly streets of Jefferson Falls, these five stories follow Morgan’s journey from hero to stuntman to cab driver, each step more desperate than the last, before finally finding himself on the most treacherous path of all: a campaign trail that leads him right back to where it all started.

An extraordinary man searching desperately for an ordinary life makes Adonis Morgan: Nobody Special a thrilling, action packed collection and a must have for fans of Genre Fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Sep 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311043887

Book preview

ADONIS MORGAN: NOBODY SPECIAL

by Frank Byrns

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Adonis Morgan: Nobody Special

Copyright © 2014 Frank Byrns

All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Hollywood Ending originally appeared online in Aphelion (2004).

April Fools originally appeared in largely different form as part of Friday in Things to Come (2009).

Hey, Harper – this one’s for you.

Table of Contents

HOLLYWOOD ENDING

RED CARPET BLUES

APRIL FOOLS

WALKING AFTER MIDNIGHT

A FOREGONE CONCLUSION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Even the hero, the superhuman, exercises power at a cost. Terrible weakness, all but unbearable pain, inordinate aging.

Exile. Madness. The gift he is given, and what he gives in return, sets him forever apart.

Cost.

And eventually the bill comes due.

James Sallis, The Killer is Dying (2011)

HOLLYWOOD ENDING

Los Angeles: Five years ago…

Zen Jackson found himself surrounded. The Black Hole had finally cornered him. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

If this were a bad action movie, the masked henchmen would rush him one at a time, making it easy for him to dispatch them in increasingly creative ways.

But this was no bad action movie. Zen stood cautiously at the center of the circle, the ninjas’ tall shadows clouding his face. He waited, and waited, for one of them, any of them, to make a move.

No one moved.

A cloud rolled across the sun, and the circle parted. Nebula, the Black Hole’s front man, stepped through his henchmen, his dark green, nearly black cape twisting in the light breeze. He stood face to masked face with Zen, holding him steady with a 9mm.

I shoulda done this the last time I had the chance, Jackson, Nebula said, and calmly pulled the trigger.

Time slowed.

Zen’s eyes widened in recognition – something wasn’t right here. The pfft of the silencer was too loud, the gunpowder too pungent, the bullet too heavy.

This bullet was live.

***

Cut!

Cut, goddammit, cut!

We need a doctor now!

Adonis sat up slowly, clearing his head. He had blacked out briefly as he hit the ground, and a small knot was starting to rise on the back of his head. He gingerly reached over and lifted the collar of his black t-shirt, taking a peek at the already purplish bruise rising on his left pectoral.

Smoke drifted from the ragged hole in his shirt, swirling for a moment in his face before dissipating into the beyond.

Goddamit! Adonis! Are you all right?

Adonis nodded slowly at his director’s behest, all the while never taking his eyes off the crumpled bullet on the ground beside him.

The director was wailing now, for anyone who would listen. "This is supposed to be an intelligent action thriller – not a goddamned snuff film!"

Adonis looked over at Nebula, his mask now off, sitting on the ground, sobbing like a baby.

Propmaster! Where is that asshole? I’ll have his union card for this!

People began to mill about the set again, a slight buzz in the air. But there wasn’t much concern for Adonis’ bullet wound.

Hey, boss, Adonis said as he got to his feet, brushing the dust from his jeans. You don’t mind, I’m gonna take the rest of the day off.

***

Taking off early had Adonis driving home in the dead middle of rush hour, and it took him nearly two hours to get from the set to Venice, where he rented a modest bungalow a few blocks from the beach. It wasn’t much to look at, but Adonis didn’t mind. His career as a stuntman had not been at all lucrative, and his first starring role, in the decidedly low budget Zen Jackson: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide, wasn’t paying much better. But it gave him hope for bigger, more financially solvent parts. And hope had a way of making a four room rental look like a whole lot more.

He had tried the hero thing, once, years before. It’s what you were supposed to do, right? You wake up the morning of your fourteenth birthday and find out you’ve suddenly got two more options for that school bus in front of you: You can stand flat-footed and vault over it, or you can simply pick it up and move it – what else are you going to do?

So he had tried it, years before, like he was supposed to, when he was young and foolish. But it didn’t take.

Adonis parked his car, as always, in the alley behind his house. He cut the engine and closed his eyes, mentally exhausted after his two hour brawl with traffic. Not to mention the gunshot wound. He opened his eyes to take another look at his chest, the bruise already fading from purple to a sickly yellow-green. As he got out of the car, he lifted his arm in an effort to stretch the tightness that had already spread from his chest to his shoulder.

He grimaced in pain as he turned the corner out of the alley, and tripped right over a squatting Lady Z, spilling the two of them – and all of her inventory – all over the sidewalk.

Adonis didn’t know the woman’s name; he had never asked. To him, though, she looked like someone who should be named Zelda or Zinash or some such; a regular gypsy, brightly covered scarf and head wrap and all. So he called her Lady Z. She hung out on the corner in front of his house with a shopping cart full of potions that she sold for five bucks each.

She often told Adonis that she could tell he was in the pictures – that’s what she called them, the pictures – and that he was going to be a big star. She was an actress, too, she said, although she hadn’t worked in a while. He felt sorry for Lady Z, mostly, but he also genuinely enjoyed the brief time they spent together each day, and tried to buy a potion from her whenever he had a little to spare.

Sorry, Z, he said, helping her to her feet. Let me get that for you. Adonis’ mother had raised nothing if not a gentleman, and he helped Lady Z gather her potions back into the cart. Two of the bottles had broken, so he gave her a twenty, buying a full one to keep and leaving her with a five dollar tip for the trouble.

Lady Z smiled at his generosity. Adonis told her good night, and went inside to melt another Hungry Man Dinner before bed.

***

A fierce pounding at the door woke Adonis at a little after three. His first thought was that it was a dream, his second that he had left a pair of heavy work boots tumbling in the dryer. The pain in his chest jolted him awake, and a glance at the already-diminishing bruise confirmed that he was, in fact, awake. Grumbling incoherently, he pulled on some gym shorts and headed towards the door.

An LAPD detective’s shield was all he could see through the peephole.

Sherman Morgan. A smoker’s voice, sandpaper smooth, using his Christian name – never a good sign.

Adonis paused. He had mailed in the check for that speeding ticket – had it gotten lost? I can see your shadow under the door, the cop said. Go ahead and open up.

Adonis opened the door, and the detective stepped into the house. A bit on the heavy side, losing more of his dark hair every day, a voracious gum chewer. Trying to quit smoking, Adonis guessed. The detective hadn’t been inside for five seconds when he noticed the bruise on Adonis’ chest, then quickly cut his eyes, trying not to let on that he saw. He flashed his badge again before pocketing it.

Detective Thorne, Robbery-Homicide.

A bowling ball landed in the deepest pit of Adonis’ stomach. Definitely not a speeding ticket, then. He said nothing.

"Look, Sherman, Thorne said, emphasizing the name to the point that Adonis knew he was doing it on purpose, which meant he had already determined who Adonis was. We’ve got a bit of a problem outside."

Problem?

Yeah, a dead body in the alley, right in front of your car.

The bowling ball sank a little further.

Sorry to hear about that, Adonis said finally.

So was I, Thorne said quickly. My kid’s got hockey practice in, what, three hours or so. Ice time’s so hard to come by, you know? Now I got a dead woman – don’t think I’m going to make it.

Adonis’ thoughts came together like a six car pileup on the 405. Dead woman. The alley. Lady Z.

Sorry I can’t help you, Adonis said, probably too quickly. "I wish I had seen something, or even heard something, but I sleep like a boulder. Ms. Evereth on the corner