Welcome to Crazytown: Alex Cheradon, #4

By Jason Krumbine

Alex has had a string of bad luck lately, culminating in the absolute destruction of his home and office by his sanity-challenged ex-partner, Devon Christian. Fortunately, things are starting to look up now that Jonathon Bragan, the most powerful mobster in Clayton City, has taken Alex under his wing.

 

Wait…what?

 

There's no such thing as a free handout from a power hungry mob boss. But before Alex can untangle the multitude of strings that are attached to Bragan's offer, there's the matter of Devon Christian.

 

After all, Devon didn't blow back into town just to blow up Alex's life. No, this time, Devon's got his sights set on blowing up the whole world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Stray Word
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513098982

Jason Krumbine

Jason Krumbine loves to write! He's happily married and lives in Manhattan, NY where he enjoys reading in Central Park, going to movies and discovering new stand-up comedians. You can connect with Jason at either his website, www.jasonkrumbine.com, Facebook, Twitter (@jasonkrumbine) or good ole' fashion email [e-mail]. He's always up for a talk about the newest Star Trek movie or what's happening in the world of comic books and TV. 

Book preview

PART I

ONE TIME ONLY

CHAPTER 1

ONCE MORE, BUT WITH FEELING THIS TIME

"This. Is. Awesome!" The shriek was so loud, I swear, I saw the windows rattle.

Ow. Ow. Ow. I covered my ears. Please don’t do that. I glanced at the office window to my right, on the other side of it, in bold white letters, was written AC INVESTIGATIONS. Although, from my perspective it was backwards, so it looked like some kind of dyslexic alien language. Also, the font was kind of bland looking. I mean, I’m not one of those font snobs, but I always imagined that with my next office, I’d get a logo or, at least, my name in some funky font that told people, yes, I was a private investigator, but I was also fun and cool.

And hip. Definitely hip.

I don’t know what kind of font that would look like, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Times New Roman.

I peered a little closer at the letters on the window.

Or maybe that was Helvetica?

I hated Helvetica. It was neither fun nor cool.

Or hip. Definitely not hip.

It could be worse, though. They could have used Papyrus.

I shuddered.

Papyrus.

People would have walked in here thinking I was either some kind of ancient Chinese medicine man or a Teavana knockoff.

As it was, I was pretty sure people were gonna think I was some kind of specialty-themed air conditioning company.

There was another annoying shriek and this time, I was ninety percent certain I saw the window vibrate slightly.

Yeah. Okay.

I took a step back, on the off chance that the glass did shatter from my overzealous administrative assistant.

Nicky bounced up and down in the middle of the hallway as he shrieked away like a fourteen-year-old girl at a Backstreet Boys concert.

Wait, were the Backstreet Boys still cool? What’s the new boy band? Don’t help me. I should know this one...

Not that I’m a boy band fan, I should add. Because I’m not. Definitely not.

Although, my iPod did have a few choice ‘N Sync tracks. But you know, the cool ones.

Anyway, not really a boy band fan. But I needed to stay on top of these things. How else am I supposed to make with the sarcasm and snark if I’m not hip to pop culture?

Oh my goodness, I just had a terrible thought: what if I totally missed out on the fall of the boy band era?

This was super embarrassing.

Nicky shrieked again.

But not as embarrassing as that.

Please stop doing that, I said, wiggling a finger around in my ear. How do I check to see if my eardrum’s been broken? I don’t think I’m going to feel anything with my pinky, but it couldn’t hurt to check, right?

I can’t help myself! Nick bounced through one of the doorways and a second later there was another earsplitting shriek. He was two years older than me, but managed to look two years younger thanks to an unhealthy obsession with skin cream (well, at least, I thought it was an unhealthy obsession. The guy managed to look two years younger than everybody I know, so, what do I know?) He had brown hair with blond highlights, and I do mean highlights. They were practically yellow and at night, under a full moon, they were basically neon yellow. Creepiest thing ever. Nick liked to wear tight jeans, really tight jeans, and V-neck shirts. That should really tell you everything there was to know about Nicholas Brendon. If there’s anything else you absolutely needed to know, I pity you, and direct you to his Facebook page and his YouTube page where he vlogged. Yes. That’s right. He vlogged. ’Nuff said.

Nick shrieked, "There’s a kitchenette!"

Like you know what to do with a kitchenette, I said.

Nicky poked his head back out in the hallway. I do, too.

I frowned. When was the last time you cooked anything?

"When was the last time you cooked anything?"

I’m not the one bouncing around like I just won backstage passes to ’N Sync.

Nicky just stared at me for a second.

Backstreet boys? I tried.

Nothing.

New Kids on the Block?

You do know you’re going backwards, right? Nicky asked. With each band name you’re making yourself look more and more pathetic.

’N Sync’s not a thing anymore? I asked.

Justin Bieber.

What?

Justin Bieber, Nicky said. And One Direction.

What was that?

What was what?

Was that a kind of tourettes? I asked him. Because none of those words you said make any sense.

He just sighed and gave me a pitiful look.

I folded my arms. "Well, at least I’m not squealing over a stupid kitchenette. It’s not even a full kitchen. It’s a kitchenette. That means it’s less than a real kitchen. So, really, who’s the pitiful one here?"

Nicky just shook his head and ducked back into the kitchenette.

Right. Memo to self: spend an afternoon or two on the Internet refamiliarizing myself with pop culture. Maybe there’s some Idiot’s Guide to What’s Hip that I can get...

I turned around and Angie was standing there, looking considerably less enthused. Right. In all of Nicky’s girlish screaming, I had forgotten about my brunette, bounty hunter, ex-girlfriend. I didn’t know anybody who carried a frown better than her. Whether or not that was a compliment, I wasn’t sure and I definitely wasn’t about to say it out loud to find out.

Alex, she started.

I held up my hands, the keys to the new place jingling in my right hand. I know what you’re going to say and let me just say, I’m thinking the same thing.

Angie cocked an eyebrow. Oh, really?

I nodded. Yeah. I pointed to the lettering on the window. The font’s totally wrong. But it’s not like I picked it out, you know. I’m just as surprised about all of this as you are. Trust me, if I had had my way, I would have gone with something more funky. Are you familiar with the fonts SF Slapstick or Damn Noisy Kids? That’s kind of what I’m looking for.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. Alex, that’s not what I was going to say.

Are you sure? I asked, giving her the squinty eye. I’ve been taking this online mind reading course. And by taking, I mean that I skimmed the front page of the website. But I think I got the gist of it. I’ve been practicing for days now. I’d hate to think that all that time, you know, all thirty minutes of it, was for naught. And yes, I’m bringing back the word ‘naught.’ Its time has come. Plus, I think it makes me sound smarter.

Alex...

I turned away from her and dropped myself down in the nearest chair. I know, I grumbled.

This is not a good thing.

The office space, along with the adjoining apartment, as of nine this was mine. It said so on the front window, the lease paperwork and the key chain that Jonathon Bragan, local mobster, had given me.

"Bragan said he was thanking you?" Angie asked.

Yeah, for securing his hold on the city, I said. Apparently my taking down the Midget Mafia, which, FYI, I still can’t say without wanting to giggle. I smirked. Hey, look at that, a little play on words. Midget Mafia makes me want to giggle and Giggles was a midget who was a clone that Bragan had created to take down the Midget Mafia. I looked at her. Get it?

Angie stood there, not really looking very amused. I get it.

Because of the whole Midget Mafia, Giggles-

"I get it," she snapped, cutting me off.

Well, obviously, not everybody appreciated wordplay like I did.

Right. Anyway I continued. Apparently I helped him out a lot more than his genetically engineered clone and he wanted to show his gratitude. I raised my fist and shook it a little. Yay, I said flatly. I feel so proud. If only my Dad were here to see me now. I think this would definitely rate a hearty pat on the back. Or, maybe if he was feeling a little more progressive, a solid fist bump. I mean, if the President and First Lady can do it, a father and son should be able to as well without feeling like they’re just hollowly following a popular trend.

Alex, Angie sighed, rubbing her face. You can’t accept this.

I don’t think I really have a choice, I showed her the paperwork I had found waiting for me. Everything’s already in my name.

Really?

That’s why I’m holding it up, I said. So that you could see it with your own two eyes. I pointed to the lines where my name was. See, Alex Cheradon. It’s even got my signature. I paused and looked over the paperwork again. Although, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal since I don’t remember signing anything...

Bragan’s a bad guy, she said.

I ran a hand through my black hair. "I know he’s a bad guy, Ang. He’s a mobster. Mobsters don’t have a reputation for being great humanitarians. If they did, they wouldn’t be called mobsters. Instead they’d be call Humanitarians. Also, they wouldn’t be as cool and we would have missed out on the Godfather trilogy and Goodfellas."

Hey, Angie said. Can you be serious for just one minute? This is serious.

I looked at her. Sure I can be serious, I said.

Thank you.

But if I’m serious, I’m pretty sure there’s a wave of depression that’s not too far behind, I continued. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Ang, but I use humor as a defense mechanism.

I also genuinely think I’m funny.

But I didn’t add that part.

I don’t think she would have appreciated it.

Angie looked at me, dead serious. Bragan just doesn’t give anything away without expecting something in return.

I sighed and looked around the office. Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.

Thank you, she said quietly.

But, I continued, in the Pro Column, there’s a kitchenette. Never had one of those before. That’s got to count for something, right? Maybe I can pay Bragan back with a few home cooked meals? Although, on second thought, now hearing the words coming out of my mouth, that sounds considerably gayer than I was going for.

She shook her head. You’re unbelievable.

I sagged back in the chair, which was more comfortable than it had any right to be. I mean, wow, was this thing made of memory foam or something? I could definitely see a future where I never moved from this spot.

What do you want me to do, Ang? I asked, being serious for once. "I’ve got no money. I’ve got no home. I’ve got no office. I don’t even have any clothes. I’ve been borrowing from your ex-boyfriend’s closet. If this isn’t the very definition of desperate, I don’t know what is."

Angie didn’t say anything. She just stood there, silently judging me with her judging eyes. I’m not sure what exactly she was judging me for. I mean, I’m the pitiful one here.

I smacked my hands against the armrest and jumped to my feet. You know what? Let’s get a dictionary. I’ll bet you a large amount of money that I don’t have that if we look up ‘Desperate’ we’re going to find my picture. And it’ll undoubtedly be an extremely unflattering picture, I’m sure, because the entry is about desperation. It wouldn’t work if they used one of my glamour headshots. It would totally be sending the wrong message.

She watched me, waiting patiently. Are you done?

Probably not, I said. I’m pretty sure I can get more out of this dictionary bit. Also, I’ve been meaning to ask you: why do you have an ex-boyfriend closet and how come none of my clothes are in it?

Are you familiar with the term, ‘strings-attached’?

Yeah, I use it all the time when I’m talking about my marionette club that I want to start, I said. In fact, I’m thinking about calling it No Strings Attached. And that’s not because I have a weird ’N Sync obsession, I quickly added. Because it’s neither weird or an obsession.

Angie pointed to the floor This place has so many strings attached that it’s going to choke you to death. She leaned in and snapped, "That’s what’s going to happen here if you take it."

I leaned back. Okay, first, your breath smells delightful. And I truly mean that, I’m not being sarcastic. Minty fresh. Remind me to ask what toothpaste you use. Second, I held up the paperwork again. "There’s nothing for me to take. It’s already been given to me. What am I supposed to do, be an Indian Taker here?"

"Indian Giver."

No, I’m pretty sure it’s Indian Taker, I said. Indian Giver doesn’t make any sense.

She threw her hands up again and spun around, growling. "Alex!"

And then, the front of my brand new office exploded.

We were knocked back by the blast.

I’m not gonna lie, there was a tiny part of me that was kind of excited at the prospect of getting a new window with a font that truly captured my whimsically edgy nature.

There was a larger part of me, however, that was really ticked off that I couldn’t go one day in my new office without it blowing up. I mean, seriously. Was one day too much to ask for?

Angie? I coughed, carefully brushing the glass off me. Are you still alive?

I heard a faintly feminine groan from somewhere and I figured it was a fifty-fifty chance that it was Angie. I mean, Nicky had a feminine groan, too, but he was back in the kitchenette area.

I started to pick myself up, reaching for my gun.

The smoke cleared and I could make out a figure stumbling towards me.

Oh, crap, I muttered.

Devon Christian, my crazy ex-partner, stumbled out of the smoky haze; his normally neat and stylish suit lay in burnt shreds across his body.

Alex, he said, reaching for me. I need your help.

I took a cautious step back. Well, you probably should have asked that before blowing up my new office, Christian. I raised my gun, pointing it at his head. Not that it was going to do much good as long as he had that giant gem in the middle of his chest keeping him alive.

Alex, he said, his voice a coarse whisper. The Voices in my head-

That would be the second worst way to start a request for help, I cut in. "In case you were wondering, the first worst way was blowing up my office."

-have decided it’s time for me to kill everyone, he finished.

Okay. Well, clearly I needed to stop being such an Interrupting Isaac.

Everyone? I repeated, my voice squeaking slightly. I’m pretty sure I knew the answer, but I was desperately hoping that I had misheard him and my overactive imagination, deciding that I didn’t have enough excitement in my life, inserted the part about him needing to kill everybody.

Christian straightened up and looked me dead in the eye. Every single person on this planet. I have to kill them all.

CHAPTER 2

AND THEN IT GOT WEIRD

After a statement like that, I was kind of expecting some kind of heavy follow-up. Maybe a monologue about the burden of the Voices in his head. Or maybe a bit on how he was planning to kill everybody in the world. And, if nothing else, at the very least, I thought I’d find myself in a classic John Woo shootout. I mean, that was Christian’s M.O: talk a lot and blow crap up. Yeah, he’s crazy but, you know, it worked for him.

Instead, though, Christian just stood there, staring at me.

I didn’t move. Christian was crazy, so for all I knew, this was just some new crazy tactic on his part.

So I stared back.

(We could debate the merits of getting into a staring contest with a crazy man at another time.)

I kept the gun pointed at his head, but it’s not like I did anything with it.

After a few seconds, I realized that Christian hadn’t blinked. Which, I’m pretty sure was a whole new level of crazy right there.

Christian? I asked hesitantly. Hello? Anybody home?

No response.

I snapped my fingers in his face. He didn’t even flinch.

Okay, well, in case you were wondering, I said, this is way worse than blowing up my office. I mean, yeah, collateral damage sucks, but this right here, not moving or blinking? That’s some seriously creepy stuff, even for you. He didn’t move. This is how you get yourself into people’s minds. Not that you’re in my mind or anything. But, you know, in general, this is usually how people get mind screwed. I wanted to smack myself. Why was I giving him ideas?

He didn’t speak or move. What’s wrong with him and why wasn’t Angie telling me to shut up?

Hey, that reminded me...

Angie? I called out again, careful not to take my gaze from Christian. Angie?

No response.

Alright, well, we’ve now just reached a whole new level of creepy here.

Angie? I said. Now would be a really good time for you to speak up. Please and thank you.

She didn’t speak up.

Christian still hadn’t budged.

I can’t believe this, I said. Angie? Are you alive?

If she was alive, she was keeping the fact to herself.

One day. That was all I wanted. One day in my new office with no explosions, gunfights or crazy people showing up to make my life a living hell. One day. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently it was.

I took a careful, oh so careful, step forward.

Christian