The Tales of Victor Coachman

By Birney Reed

From the Written Page...To the Real World

Enter the world of Victor Coachman, a fictional author whose pen reaches beyond the printed page and into the real world, crafting living stories of horror, beauty, and supernatural terror. His talent for creating reality from fiction has caught the attention of a mysterious literary agent with intentions of his own, and someone is much more than what he seems. With his soul signed away to powers greater than he realizes, Victor must now do the only thing he knows how to do: write.

The result of his tormented work is a dark meta-collection of tales featuring the lives of broken priests, jaded immortals, love sick spirits, and sinister stage magicians. Each chapter in this book has its own unique story and tangible characters, but all come to life under the pen of a man tortured by his own craft.

The Tales of Victor Coachman is a single-author collection presenting 13 original stories of modern fantasy, horror, and the supernatural from Columbus Ohio author Birney Reed, collected in print for the first time and presented in a unique way that makes the reading experience itself part of the overall story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bad Dream Entertainment
• Release date: Jun 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996038126

Birney Reed

As a self proclaimed “jack of all trades” and master of none, Birney Reed has worked as a dishwasher, an actor, singer, truck driver, short order cook, bartender, salesperson and CEO of a successful advertising firm. He took up writing 15 years ago, all because of a book he had just finished reading and a picture window he happened to throw it through.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

There are two prolific writers I need to thank: Robert Heinlein and Mr. Stephen King. Mr. Heinlein for showing me worlds with words, capturing a young boy's soul, and Stephen King for everything he has written. Including the book I threw out the window.

As writers, we are asked sometimes to share our process or processes. I wish I could. I don't have one. There have been times when I've looked down at the words of something I've just written and wonder how they got there. Other times I've sweat every word. And that's my process.

There are people who have put up with, encouraged, and coaxed me throughout my process. My wife Loretta, who has had the grace to stay married to me for twenty five years. She deserves the Medal of Honor. Terry Lonergan, who pulled me back from the edge and has been my closest friend next to my son John, who is the best son a man could have. His wife Teresa, the best daughter in-law in the world. And my friend Brad, the most Christian man I have ever met. He proves it in deeds not by proselytizing. You all know how much you mean to me.

I want to thank Bad Dream Entertainment and my editor Brett Reistroffer for taking a chance on a relatively unknown writer.

Finally, I want to thank you, first time reader, for taking the chance reading an unknown author. I sincerely hope you enjoy The Tales of Victor Coachman.

The Tales of Victor Coachman

Acknowledgments

Forward by Brad Pauquette

The Agent

Justifiable Anger

Nothing up My Sleeve

Footsteps in the Snow

Image isn't Everything

H2o

Shore Leave

Interlude

Don't Pull the Plug

Rerun

Guitarra de Satanás

Finder’s Fee

Yearbook

October's End

About the Author

Forward by Brad Pauquette

Brad Pauquette is the founder and director of Columbus Creative Cooperative (www.ColumbusCoop.org), an Ohio writers' resource, and he is the owner of Columbus Press (www.ColumbusPressBooks.com), an independent publisher. Since 2008, he's worked as a publishing consultant and independent marketing specialist, helping authors, independent presses and small businesses achieve their goals. Look for his novelette, Sejal: The Walk for Water, at your favorite book retailer, or learn more about Brad at BradPauquette.com.

The first time I met Birney Reed he was mad.  He couldn't find the Columbus Creative Cooperative meeting at the local Starbucks, and he suspected malice or, worse, incompetence.  Fortunately, we smoothed it out, and before long Birney Reed became one of our most dependable members and one of my most valued friends.  It turned out that underneath that gruff, grizzly exterior, there's a really sweet guy. In fact, there's a real human being that's even a little curious and a little insecure, just like the rest of us.

As I read through the stories in this collection, I found the same Birney Reed.  The stories all have a rough exterior—gritty settings, violent and nasty characters—but underneath it all there's a real person asking troubling questions.  Beneath the base plot elements, you'll find an author intelligently exploring the nature of existence, spirituality and the nature of good and evil.

I'm very proud of my good friend Birney Reed for publishing such a volume of stories. I'm supremely impressed with his work, and humbled that he attributes even an ounce of his success to me.

On behalf of all of the authors at Columbus Creative Cooperative who have worked alongside Birney for the past few years producing great short stories just like the ones in this book, I thank Birney Reed for inspiring us all to keep writing and for perpetually giving back to his community of writers.

Enjoy these funny, odd, sometimes twisted tales.  We all owe Birney a debt of gratitude for holding back, I can't imagine what resides in that warped brain of his that didn't make it to the page.

The Agent

Honestly, it started out as a hobby, nothing more.

The voice behind his head asked, When did it become an obsession?

He answered the voice, his own sounding like he was making an excuse rather than a statement of fact. I don’t think it ever became an obsession. I just like to write, that’s all. Victor Coachman paused for a moment then continued.

I guess it all goes back to when I started writing as an escape. I was at a space and time in my life where I didn’t want to be. I wrote off-the-wall, little short stories. I guess you would call them readable. They flowed pretty well, or so I was told. I wrote because it was a way to relax. Victor stopped because he didn’t want to continue. He heard the voice behind his head ask the sixty-four thousand dollar question.

Why did you stop writing? The inquiry was soft, non-threatening. But it was the ‘Have you stopped beating your wife?’ question; it didn’t have a correct answer. It did have to be answered though. That was the rub of the matter. A touch of fear ran through Victor. He wanted to end this; he didn’t want to go on. Like the fear, Victor didn’t have a choice. He heaved a deep sigh, still trying to figure a way out of this mess, though nothing came to his mind. He began to speak the history of events, as he knew them, as those who were now gone knew them.

I went to the first agent and nothing happened. She wanted cash to handle my stuff and I didn’t think anything I wrote was worth paying for to get published. Ain’t that a crock of shit? I wanted to be published but I wasn’t willing to invest in my own work. He half turned to the voice and asked incredulously, You believe that? I didn’t want to invest in my own writing.

The voice didn’t comment. It just said, Go on.

I didn’t stop writing. I enjoyed the time I spent out in my building. I didn’t take my writing seriously. I used to write about whatever came to mind. I won’t do that anymore.

Why not?

He spat out the answer. You know damn well why not! It’s because my stories started coming true.

He knew he shouldn’t lose his temper. His third wife told him he had to learn to control it better. But he hadn’t listened to her, which was why she was his third wife. There had been three more after her.

I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sound hostile. It’s just that everyone asks the same damn question. I stopped because I’m afraid to write. And all of you know that. You would love for me to write. But by God, I won’t and you can’t make me!

Victor knew he sounded like an irrational child who wouldn't eat his spinach. He paused before speaking, trying to edit the thoughts in his head. He found one to start with.

It was a stupid story. A man being eaten by his own dog wasn’t a new idea. My slant was more visceral, but it certainly wasn’t new. I titled the piece Hot Dog and it was the first story published. It didn’t set the literary world on its ass, but it did pay six hundred dollars just when we needed it.

Rebecca, my third wife, showed me the article from the newspaper, a few days after the story appeared in Gallery Magazine. The article was about a man found dead in his house. It didn’t say what the guy died of, only that his dog had been trapped in the house with the body for two weeks. The dog ate the remains to survive. The dog was lonely, but fatter.

After I sent my story to Gallery, I forgot about it. About three months later, I received the check and a short note telling me to contact this agent who had read the story and expressed an interest representing me. The note was unsigned. So, on a lark, I called the number. I didn’t believe an agent could do any more for me than I could myself. But I figured it couldn’t hurt. I called him the next morning.

He answered his own phone. Now my first thought was this guy couldn’t be too hot if he can’t afford a secretary. I identified myself and told him the reason I was calling. Mr. Levid stopped me. He told me he’d been expecting my call for several days. He talked about a name connected to the magazine and how this unknown person praised me and a lot of other bullshit agents generally throw out. I half listened to him while watching the Bulls trash Utah in the Finals. I hit the mute button on the remote when he offered to fly me to Columbus, Ohio, to meet with him. I told him it was impossible because I worked a regular job. I couldn’t afford to take time away. He asked in a cultured tone, You don’t get weekends off?

I admitted to him that I did get weekends off but they were pretty much reserved for my wife and dog. My wife’s weekend agendas were nothing to sneer at. She usually had a severe case of the ‘Honey do’s’. I asked if I could bring my wife and his immediate response was a flat No! I almost told him to forget it. If he wanted to do business with me, we could do it with faxes or phone calls or the internet.

Mr. Levid must have read my mind. In an instant, he was explaining to me that I wouldn’t be staying overnight. We would talk and if we liked each other we could consider working together. I told him I’d call him back in a few hours and let him know. He said four words to me. You have two hours! And then he hung up.

I stared at the receiver in my hand. I couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy. I was about to call him back to tell him to stuff it up his ass when Rebecca walked in through the side door of our house. She asked me who had called and I told her. She wasn’t real happy about not being able to go with me but she remembered the six hundred dollars. You know the rest of it.

The voice cleared its throat and spoke with emphasis. I want you to tell me the rest of it, Victor. I want to hear your view of things.

Tears of frustration leaked out of the corners of his eyes as his voice cracked. Do I have to?

A soft Yes, was the reply.

Victor lay there for a moment and wondered what would happen if he didn’t talk anymore. As if the voice was reading his thoughts he heard, Victor, this is for your own good. The tone sounded like his mother’s when she was trying to get him to eat Brussels sprouts. He sighed heavily and continued.

I wound up flying to Columbus. I hadn’t been there in years. Did I tell you I grew up in that town?

It was a beautiful August, Saturday afternoon in Columbus: hot, muggy, and overcast. I took a cab downtown. Except for a few new skyscrapers, it hadn’t changed much. I looked at the address on the slip of paper and realized Mr. Levid’s office was located where all of the pawnshops used to be. Most of the downtown area had been rebuilt. His office was located in Pearl Alley, between High Street and Town Street, off of Gay. I remember as a kid hearing the joke, Would you rather be high on Gay Street or gay on High Street? I thought of that joke as I rounded the corner to the alley. Along the sides were the abandoned façades of dead businesses. You could feel the misery of defeat pouring out of the walls. This was one area ‘urban reclamation’ hadn’t touched.

In the middle of the rundown block was a storefront. The doorway and arch were covered in pristine mahogany, rich in texture and depth. An old fashioned sign stuck out sideways from the building. It read Levid Literary Agency. I opened the beautifully hand-carved door and entered the coldest office it has been my misfortune to enter. I could see my breath in the air. The reception area was immaculate. The furniture reminded me of a high priced law firm. Artfully placed antiques decorated the various tables and stands. I couldn’t help but admire the care and attention to detail. There was an electronic click and a voice spoke to me from a hidden intercom:

Mr. Coachman, if you go past the receptionist’s desk, you will see a small hallway to your right. I’m in the office at the end of the hallway.

I recognized the voice as Mr. Levid’s. What was disconcerting to me was he didn’t wait for my answer. He assumed I would follow his directive. It was a solid assumption.

Walking down that hallway, I felt disoriented. Have you seen those old Hitchcock movies where the camera causes the hallway to look like its stretching? Well, this was the feeling I got. At the end of the hallway was a simple, unstained wooden door. It looked more like a closet door than an entrance to an office. I opened it and the musty smell of an old library filled the air. And brother, did he ever have some old books… and newspapers, stacks of them everywhere. On chairs, tables, shelves, and from the floor to the ceiling, books and newspapers stood as monuments to the printed word. I heard his voice say, I’m back here!

I wound my way through the maze of tomes. I almost missed him and his Over here! caused me to jump.

Jesus H. Christ! You scared the shit out of me, were the first words out of my mouth as I turned to face him. Looking at him definitely scared the shit out of me. Levid looked like a skull with skin. And not one damn hair on it anywhere! He looked like a concentration camp victim who’d been dead for a while. But his cold, blue eyes held my attention. I couldn’t look away.

He stood up to greet me and extended his hand. It was as devoid of flesh as his face. Mr. Coachman, I’m Mr. Levid. My friends call me Levi. I looked down at the extended hand and I didn’t want to touch it. Would you want to touch a skeleton?

But I remember what my dad always told me, ‘Never refuse to shake a man’s hand. It’s a sign of weakness if you do.’ So, I took his hand. And let me tell you, for a man who had no meat on his bones he had one hell of a grip. I pulled my hand back when it started to hurt. His skin was warm, too warm. The next words out of his mouth were I apologize for the temperature in here. I detest heat and humidity.

I thought this guy had a real knack for the understating the obvious. I was cold to the bone. He told me to sit down and make myself comfortable and got right to business.

You have a talent, Mr. Coachman. I know I can make you a lot of money. Are you interested?

I couldn’t help but be sarcastic; You sound like my last agent. How much money do you want?

You could see his breath; it looked more like smoke than water vapor. Does it look to you like I need your money?

I had to admit he didn’t look broke, just starved to death. I shook my head no. He pointed to my story lying on top of his empty desk. That was another thing. With all of the books scattered from floor to ceiling, there were none on his desk. He read my mind as he said, One project at a time, Victor, as if he had something to do with every printed piece in the room. Then he added, May I call you Victor?

I hate being talked down to. No, I said as casually as I could, You can call me Mr. Coachman.

"Mr. Coachman, you have a talent. Your story read well. How many more do you have?’

I told him twenty or more.

This, he said pointing to the hard copy on the desk, Has been purchased by the magazine who published your first story. Then he paused, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out an envelope. How often do you write?

At least two hours a day.

Every day?

I don’t know why I felt embarrassed by my answer as if I’d been caught jerking off in the bathroom. Yes, every day.

He looked at me. Those deep sockets with the protruding eyeballs gave me the heebie-jeebies. I couldn’t hold his gaze. I could hear the air conditioning running in the background; it hadn’t stopped since I entered his office and I felt myself shivering. He broke the silence. I like your twisted ending. Can you write more of those?

I answered, I write what comes to my mind. I don’t have any control over it.

I never asked my brain where the ideas came from, frankly. I didn’t want to know. We talked about how many stories I could crank out. He figured I could average forty a year at the pace I was going. Levi said that after the first year I could slow down and probably would after a few stories were sold for movie ideas. He didn’t understand; I write because I have to write, not because I want to write. It’s  part of my living process, much like eating or breathing.

We talked for a few more minutes. Actually, he asked questions. I answered. Levi laid the envelope on his desk and slid it to me and said: Go ahead. Open it.

I felt like a winner on Oscar Night as I picked it up. The flap wasn’t glued shut so I lifted it and inside was a cashier’s check for seven thousand dollars. Maybe not a lot of money to you, but at the time it represented a touch of freedom, a chance at the brass ring. It also meant I could buy something nice for my wife.

I was about to say that it was a lot of money for the story when I realized I’d already been paid for the story. I know there was a look of amazement on my face but the way he smiled at me took the look off.

I know that’s not a lot of money for the work you put in but from this point on we’ll get more. Levi ran down what he was going to do next. He hadn’t taken his commission out of this check but he would on all future sales, if I wanted to work with him. At that point in time it was the dumbest ‘if’ I’d ever heard.

There were only two conditions. I had to write something every day. No problem, I thought to myself; but I had to keep the ‘God’ stories down to a minimum. This was the point where I shouted at him, I write what I want! I didn’t know why I was getting so upset, though.

For a second, I thought I saw thunderclouds and lightning in his eyes but he smiled that toothy smile and softly replied, No problem.

He was going to take fifteen percent of all future work, whether it was for the stories, movie rights, or anything else. I asked for a contract and he stuck out that boney hand and said, This is my contract.

I’d have given fifty percent not to shake his hand; I wasn’t happy about it but I leaned forward and shook anyway. As I shook it, something scratched my palm. I jerked my hand back and watched a drop of my blood land on my story. I yelled, What the fuck? But he quickly asked when I could get him the other stories.

As soon as I get my ass back to Savannah, I’ll email them to you. I said while staring at my drop of blood pooling on my tale.

What he said next bothered the hell out of me. We are going to have so much fun! It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it and with those teeth and that skin-covered skull, it was frightening.

If we have everything settled, I have my driver waiting for you at the corner. They don’t allow cars down the alley anymore.

I knew when I was being dismissed, and damn was I glad to be getting the hell out of there. When I stood up to leave he didn’t offer another handshake. I didn’t either. His phone started ringing as he looked at me wordlessly. I turned my back to him and walked out his door. I heard that phone ring until I walked out of his building.

A blast of a summer thunder boomer hit me in the face. In a second, I was soaked to the bone. I spun back to the door and turned the handle so I could wait out the drenching downpour. The door was locked, so I made a mad dash for the white limousine parked at the corner, blocking the entrance to the alley. I looked back over my shoulder for a second but the rain was coming down in buckets and I couldn’t see his sign anymore.

Victor couldn’t hear any breathing other than his own. He stopped talking. A minute passed then two. Victor whined, But you know the rest! Why do I have to finish?

Because, you have to put things in perspective!