Sonny Malone Dead at 45

By Jeff Scott

Sonny Malone's life is a blur of drugs, sex, and alcohol and if not for all the awards and accolades from his writing would only be remembered for the destruction he left in his wake. To say Sonny didn't negatively impact people's lives would be an understatement. The fact he lived into his 40s without someone even trying to kill him is astonishing to everyone, including Sonny. Given Sonny's record it shouldn't be a surprise that Paul Lucas decides enough is enough and Sonny must die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Scott
• Release date: Mar 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311405395

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Sonny Malone

Dead at 45

Jeff Scott

Copyright 2015 by Jeff Scott

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this work are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. This work may contain depictions of adult actions and contain adult words.

Dedicated to my wife and her seemingly endless patience.

Contents

Sonny Malone

About the Author

Other Titles

Sonny Malone

Sonny Malone dead at 45. Paul read the headline out loud. A part of him said he shouldn’t take glee in Sonny’s untimely demise, but a bigger part of him held such a burning hatred for Sonny he couldn’t help it. Sonny was a boorish man who took joy in other people's misery, all the more so if Sonny created it.

How many lives did Sonny trample on his way to nine best sellers, including six that averaged more than 43 weeks on the New York Times list, four blockbuster movies, and an Oscar for best screen play? Plenty. Paul knew roughly how many, but he didn't want to dwell on it. Sonny was a sleaze and Paul became nauseous thinking about even little things Sonny had done; like keep a set of unwashed sheets from his night with the best actress winner.

What a fuckin' loser. Paul said, staring at the photo with Sonny Malone’s too smug face staring back.

The newspaper had cropped a photo taken at the premiere of Sonny's third movie, Starter Time. What you didn't see in either version of the picture was Sonny's hand up the skirt of the film's lead. She should've slapped him for it, but she didn't because she wanted a part in his next movie and for that reason alone she'd given him permission to do it the night before, after their threesome with the woman he'd already promised the lead. Something the woman in the picture didn't know.

The world would be a better place without Sonny. Paul knew it would take a while for the world to realize it, but once the memorials and tributes faded everyone would come to accept what he'd known for nearly two years; Sonny was horrid and irredeemable. Plenty of people disliked him, but nobody hated him as much as Paul. Paul had no doubts about that. Twenty-four hours ago Paul was Sonny Malone.

When he'd woken up he’d christened himself Paul Lucas; the person he'd been until age six when his mother married Dean Malone and in the name of love convinced her son to become Sonny Malone.

Paul tossed the paper on the floor without reading past the headline. The rest of the story wasn't news to him. He'd not only lived it, but written the script himself, aside from a little improvisation on the side of the road, during his third stint in rehab.

The rehab counselor required Sonny to list everyone he’d ‘wronged’ while drunk, high, or impaired in some form. His list took three pens and seventeen legal pads to finish.

The list started out as a game for Sonny. He'd write a few names and then laughingly remember all the hell he’d put people through. Somewhere around the fifth legal pad his fun turned to shame and then finally to horror by the seventh. On the last page of the tenth he wondered how he hadn’t ended up laying on the floor with a knife in his chest with his dying words being ‘it was just a joke’. When the counselor put pad number fourteen in front of him and he hadn't finished Sonny realized two things; he’d need a few more pads of paper and Sonny Malone needed to die.

The number of pads by themselves didn't disturb him; neither did the realization that if he somehow remembered every incident he probably would've filled three times as many. He wasn't even horrified that most of the entries started with vague descriptions like woman in black dress, or man with ugly fucked up tie, and woman who may not have been a prostitute