The New Deal: Masks and Mutations

By Pro Se Press

The Jazz Age is over and the Great Depression and Dust Bowl are ravaging across the United States. People need someone to blame.
Luckily for a population who needs a scapegoat, the next wave of human evolution has begun, and it couldn’t have chosen a worse time to be born. Men and women with amazing powers now fly across the sky, turn their skin into gold, and block bullets with their bare hands.
Some take to crime.
Some hide their powers for their own safety.
Some seek the Underground Railroad for safe haven and a new life in Mexico.
Some try to fight the good fight and turn the tide of public opinion as heroes.
All of them are in the wrong place at the wrong time in a wounded, terrified, and violent country.
In this collection from Pro Se Productions, several of the top writers in New Pulp Fiction spin history ’round like a top to create an alternate reality both comfortably familiar and strangely new for readers of action, adventure, and crime stories.

THE NEW DEAL: MASKS AND MUTATIONS. From Pro Se Productions

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Aug 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370506811

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

THE NEW DEAL: MASKS AND MUTATIONS

By

Sean Taylor, D. Alan Lewis, Lance Stahlberg, Sean Dulaney, Tommy Hancock, Andrea Judy

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

THE NEW DEAL: MASKS AND MUTATIONS

A Pro Se Publications

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Gatsby by Sean Taylor

Haunted by the Ghost and the Gold by D. Alan Lewis

Meeting of the Minds by Lance Stahlberg

Sister Fear by Sean Dulaney

Speak Me Not by Tommy Hancock

The Ragamuffin Man by Andrea Judy

Angel in Blue by Sean Taylor

Editing by Jac Milnestein and Wayne Carey

Cover Art by Timothy Standish

Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono

www.prose-press.com

THE NEW DEAL: MASKS AND MUTATIONS

Copyright © 2016 Each Respective Author

Table of Contents

Gatsby

Haunted by the Ghost and the Gold

Meeting of the Minds

SISTER FEAR Fear, Herself

Speak Me Not

The Ragamuffin Man

Angel in Blue

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Gatsby

By

Sean Taylor

The stale city air refreshed his lungs through the mask in all the ways it should not. Hell, if he had lived in the country in a nice, little white house with a picket fence and a swing on the front porch like Delilah had wanted, he would probably have died from infection from the clean air after only a few months. Simple living didn’t suit him, he had told her. Apparently simple breathing didn’t either. Not that it had done much good for her. It was hard to breathe six feet under the ground no matter how clean the air was above.

God damn it all.

The idiot in the sedan moved finally, a jerk to the left, just enough so that Gatsby could make out the man’s hairy face. Well groomed, kept-up and in a suit that must have set him back a week’s salary if he worked on a factory line like the average Joe.

The idiot opened the door and got out, then walked around to the passenger door and opened it. He waited as a tall blonde in a dress that looked like it was fitted to her shapely specifications left the City Hall and all but glided across the street to where the idiot was standing.

Gatsby could see the words forming at their lips even though he was too far away to hear a sound.

Good evening, Mrs. Forrester, said the idiot.

Same to you, Bernard.

Thank you.

To Canopy Str—

Then the shot split the night, and the woman’s head opened like an overripe peach meeting the business end of a baseball bat.

After that, the street filled with onlookers.

Gatsby leaned against the edge of the Courthouse roof and slowly took apart his rifle.

In a few minutes, the gun was in pieces, hidden in the secret pockets in the lining of his coat. The crowd below dispersed like spilt milk whenever a blue coat tried to fight his way in to form a circle around the dead woman.

Gatsby had already joined the crowd and removed his real face when the police officers reached the idiot, who was blubbering about what a fine lady Mrs. Forrester was and how the gunshot had to come from somewhere up there, he said, pointing at the wrong roof entirely.

An officer pushed Gatsby’s shoulder and told him to move on.

He nodded. Yes, sir.

Then he disappeared into the night with the other streams of spilt milk pouring down the streets and sidewalks.

He walked four blocks to Betsy’s Drop-In and went inside to take a seat at a booth in the very back. Facing the door, of course. It wouldn’t do to have his back to the entrance.

Hello again, Mr. Fitzgerald, said the waitress, a plump but attractive brunette with her hair up. Good to see you again. How’s the wife?

Like always.

Sorry to hear that.

Makes two of us, Doris.

He lied as much for her sake as his own. Doris felt better about the world when husbands and wives were happy and drunk and still in love, even if one of them was stuck in a God-forsaken place like Sheppard Pratt. Most people felt better when people were still nice, polite, and living a life of comfort and general well-being, especially when the world had gone to hell.

Coffee and a slice of pie? she asked.

Just a coffee, please. Stomach’s a bit queasy tonight.

Then you probably don’t want the coffee, hon.

He laughed. I’ll take my chances.

She laughed too. It’s your funeral.

Doris stopped at a booth three seats away before going to the coffee. She chatted with a young couple, probably still in college, wrote something on her pad then shoved both her pen and order pad into her apron pocket. In another few moments, she brought a white mug and a saucer to his table and set them up, then filled the white porcelain with black coffee that caught the lights above it and swirled them into a whirlpool of liquid sparkles.

Sure about the pie still?

I’m sure, he said, nodding. He really wanted the pie but not on a work night. The coffee was just to help him stay awake. Pie would mean he was enjoying the evening. And no man with a heart could enjoy the kind of work he had been thrust into. Any man who did find pleasure in it didn’t deserve the high calling. Thanks, he added.

As he took a first long draw on the coffee, a police Cadillac zoomed by with its sirens blaring. Behind it whizzed three coppers on Henderson motorcycles. He checked his watch. A little faster reaction this time. He’d have to bear that in mind for the next kill. He’d have to practice to take the gun apart faster. That could probably shave almost a minute off his time. More or less.

He took another sip from the mug. The cold porcelain teased his lips while the hot liquid gently scalded his tongue and throat, two opposites that worked together somehow. He thought of Zelda wasting away in Sheppard Pratt and of Delilah cocooned in the cold dirt beneath Anderson Cemetery. He grinned at the still fresh image of Mrs. Forester’s face peeled back like a banana letting the mush of muscle and grit spill onto her lovely dress and all over the street. So many conflicting pieces and parts that ultimately made one perfect whole.

The bell above the door jingled, and he looked up. Damn.

Scott, said the uniformed officer who walked toward him.

Alexander, he said, motioning for the officer to sit opposite him.

Guess you heard the sirens.

Who didn’t? What’s the rigmarole this time?

Elizabeth Forrester.

The wife of the philanthropist?

"The late wife of the philanthropist."

Oh?

Someone shot her less than thirty minutes ago, right in the middle of town.

I hope you caught the bastard.

We’re hoping. That’s the goal.

You’re a good man.

With every word, Gatsby remembered the warmth of Alexander’s wife, the way her lily white flesh rocked beneath him, the soft smoothness of each curve where her thighs expanded into rounded hips before narrowing again to a ticklish (oh, so ticklish) and waifish waist.

How are you doing after… he asked.

After Delilah’s suicide? You can say it. Hell, I need to hear people say it. Alexander glanced at the coffee with an unspoken question. Gatsby nodded, and Alexander took a sip. I’m doing better. Work keeps me from falling apart.

I understand.

Sure you do, but Z, well, she’s still alive.

One might argue that.

One might argue a lot of things, Scott.

One might.

The two men stared for a moment, then shrugged. Alexander passed the coffee back across the table to Gatsby. Anyway, I need to run. I only stopped in because I saw you through the window, and I knew about your interest in the mutated.

I appreciate it.

Just don’t let me end up in one of your stories. People don’t fare so well in them.

It’s a cruel world, my friend.

That it is.

Anyway, I suppose whatever the anti-mutated folks were wanting, well, this one’s gonna backfire on them. By killing Liz Forrester, they’re gonna make her some kind of martyr. I wouldn’t be surprised if the church doesn’t make her a fuckin’ saint after this.

We’ll have to wait and see. With any luck…

With any luck, they’ll pass some laws so you won’t have to hide Z away upstate anymore, Alexander whispered.

One can only hope.

It’s a cruel world, like you said.

It’s a cruel world, Alexander. And I don’t see it getting any nicer.

Well, that’s one difference between us, Scott. I have faith things will be better.

I suppose, Gatsby said.

Anyway, don’t be a stranger. I’m still having the guys from the precinct up for poker every Friday. I’d love for you to come by.

Alexander stood up and smoothed his blue coat over his slightly rounded belly. Gatsby smiled and nodded.

We’ll see. I do my best work at night, in spite of the clatter of the typewriter keys.

Well, hope to see you Friday night, if you can make it. Alexander turned and headed toward the door, opened it, and let it close again. Guess I’d better get back to work, huh?

Gatsby grinned and said, "That makes