Lunatic Unbound

By Jameson S. Pabes

A retiring career hustler risks the straight & narrow when wicked dealings from his past come back to haunt him.

'A rising tide raises all ships.’
- Aphorism (J.F.K.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jameson S. Pabes
• Release date: Aug 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311663238

Jameson S. Pabes

Jameson Samuel Pabes is a Showbiz ink-slinger & longtime resident of Los Angeles, California. Having earned a Bachelor's degree in Film Studies & Screenwriting from the University of California, he hopes to develop the next great Sci-Fi/Fantasy media franchise. The apples of his eye, two Boxer pups named Max & Tiberius. Jameson is in the final stages of completing his esoteric STAR-TRIBE series along with LUNATIC UNBOUND, a deep & moody contemporary revenge thriller. Both available later in the year. Please check out Jameson's Cinema & Pop-Art commentary hub 'The Bunker' @ www.CelestialBunker.com for posts on the current state of Hollywood.

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LUNATIC UNBOUND

{THE CAVALIER AMONG US}

A

Revenge

Novel

Published by The Sovereign Group

Sovereign Group (USA) LLC

2304 W. Oak Street

Los Angeles, California

USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

www.CelestialBunker.com

Copyright (c) 2015 by Jameson S. Pabes

Sovereign supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture.  Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with the copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Sovereign to continue to publish books for every reader. 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data.

Pabes, Jameson S.

Angels At Last Light / Jameson S. Pabes

ISBN: 9781310677106

Cover Art by Dane Low: [e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, & incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Version_1

For Mama English,

my rock.

'A rising tide raises all ships.’

- Aphorism (JFK)

SUNDAY, JUNE 21st

Downtime between crime-sprees: Miami. South Beach. Ocean Drive. Noontide with conditions muggy and unrelenting. A snaking arcade of crimson break lights as locals and vacationers interweave; populate beachfront restaurants and shops. Eurotrash slinking throughout. A bounty of misting patios and minty gallons of mojito do their best to countercheck sticky summer solstice.

Inner-coastal, nine blocks back. A rundown succession of canary yellow bungalows savaging neighborhood property values. Devolved 'Lucky Palm Motor Lodge' signage looming longterm. 'No Vacancy' neon neglected for days as a semi-coat of sunbaked coconut palms do little to shade aging fleabag from blasting star. Fatigued business turned eyesore. A celluloid relic plucked from early 60’s camp. Decades removed, an ailing local belonging to a forgettable 'beach party' film production. Today a pensive clubhouse for skanks and whoremongers.

Unit 109 offering barebones comfort. A mangled set of blinds turned transit point as healthy spears of sunlight breach squalid space. A Continental U.S. road map secured to opposing drywall. Well-worn fold lines and coffee stains with an archive of major cities X’ed out in sloppy red marker. A baker's dozen.

Balding carpet skirts a shoddy lime green box-spring and mattress. Trace amounts of pure yayo dusting mirrored nightstand. SHANE COOKE, white and mid-twenties toned. Booze-comatosed. Even in this state, he oozes sexuality. Sprawled across grunge bedding. Nothing but Calvin boxer-briefs, paired nipple rings and cherished Saint Christopher amulet. With a head of thick sun-bleached hair and lovely gold hyperpigmentation, souse's meaty legs snarled in a twisted ball of heavy wool blanket. Spotted, a faded Emperor Scorpion tattoo running down small of back. Elsewhere, bundles of last night’s club attire. Congregations of cig-stifled brew cans and economy gin jug. A Leopold Bros Absinthe Verte bottle flooded with daylight. Her offered emerald refraction gracing room dimensions.

An eruption of heavy noise from outer-bounds. Parking lot collision and ensuing fallout.Korean Ma - Don’t fuckin’ touch m...Street Goon - Ye stup’d ol’ bitch!

Lids retract as if forced up by some untold nightmare. Bleary with sleep he struggles to find focus. The calamity outside dying a quick death. Now only the soft tumble of used-and-abused air conditioning unit. Trouble pulling stems free from knotted quilt, launches kicking spree. Hindrance cast airborne. Sits upright as banging katzenjammer works overtime stomping brain. Buries face in hands,

God...damn. What a bender.

Bed hair laughable. A waxy grime. Ruby red lipstick smudging collarbone, neck and cheek. A nip of bedside absinthe to start day off on right foot.

Filthy washbowl moments later. Her faucet dripping lazily. Basin clogged with shaved stubble, shards of looking glass and other tainted debris.

Absorbed by fractured mirror, Cooke cases the faint markings of a week-old shinner. Shallow pillow creases adding to the aesthetic chaos. Takes a seat. Throne already gorged with ungodly objects. This motel an authentic ‘shit hole.’ Dabs damaged socket with wadded tissue paper. Brushes teeth, rinses, spits.

Pops cap off Meds and swallows Trileptal seizure tablets. No water to follow. Twins going down hard. Pulls back cruddy shower curtain, cranks full-blast. Pivots, confronts reflection a last time. A solid pokerface spanning frame. Whispers,

Got time ta play, but when ta pay?

A hint of derangement detected in and around window-to-the-soul,

You’ll do your best.

Clobbered mug melting away by the onset of shower steam.

Whispers. An aged, dilapidated voice: Come boy come.

Lummus Park, thirty minutes after. A plume of radiating ash particles scale the cloudless early-afternoon-sky. Source, a battery of incense and candlewicks bounding plywood tabletop, all housed by makeshift canopy. Center stage an Astrological spread in its infancy. Bathed in speckled tree shadow, a squatting Haitian Mystic. She foul and pruned, few-if-any teeth, older than dirt. Works a spread out in front: vintage Tarot cards methodically placed one by one, with reverence to the ‘Fates.’ One Seven-of-Swords positioned, one Two-of-Cups. Voodoo witch toils for Shane’s attention as he fast approaches.

Sit boy sit. Quest your fortune!

Cooke’s mind not in the present or future, but the past. A wife beater, floral splice board shorts, flips, Yankee’s cap and glistening aviators. His heckler disregarded altogether.

Here I offer arcanum you MUST accept...

Lunges, strains to tug passing trunks. Misses. Continues placing deck. Snapping back to the ‘here-and-now,’ Shane glimpses back, blows his aficionado a kiss. Cross green sector for bordering sand dune. Puissant sea breeze starting up. Sandwave sweeps park. Shane shields blasted visage, vanishes over embankment; shaded ‘reading in progress’ all-but-untouched by wind’s boastful wrath; bizarre, conceivably supernatural.

Accustomed to mainland ignorance, island gypsy places one, final Tarot out in front. Flipped over to reveal an ARMORED SKELETON RIDING A WHITE HORSE, SURROUNDED BY THE DEAD AND DYING, A.K.A. THE DEATH (XIII) CARD.

Haitian mystic with eyes cloudy, fully dilated,

Surrender to change boy, surrender to change.

Potent ‘Death’ imagery etched into our brains forever.

South Beach