To Kill a Monster

By Benjamin Allen

Ted Jones is a nobody writer until he decides to try to kill one of the most iconic pop-stars in the world as the biggest marketing stunt in publishing history. With Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta–better known to the world as Lady Gaga–in his sights, Ted uproots his entire life to move to Malibu, California where he is immediately blackmailed into a deeper plot to steal a priceless item from Gaga in exchange for the opportunity to take his shot. Finding himself with Lady Gaga's entourage of followers, and even getting comfortably close to the singer and actress, Ted gets a taste of the glamorous life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll as his moment draws to fruition in this dark comedy that's sure to keep you guessing until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Allen
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370315161

Benjamin Allen

Benjamin Allen is a writer, podcaster, and French Horn restoration artist from North Texas. He has been writing for over fifteen years, and has trained and worked in some of the top musical instrument repair facilities in the southern United States. Ben lives with his wife in Fort Worth.

Book preview

Chapter One

Ted Jones

1

All the trouble began with the seemingly insignificant pop in Ted Jones’s lower abdomen on the left side of his groin. He had just finished his third set of twenty lunges on leg day at the gym near his house, and had been a bit overzealous in doing three sets of twenty-four with a forty-pound dumbbell in each hand. Putting the weights back on the rack, Ted took a deep breath, leaned on his knees, and stared at the dumbbell rack in front of him as his vision went hazy. There was a moment where all the sound left his ears, and then he was staring at the industrial beams crisscrossing against the ceiling with several other gym members standing around him.

Hey buddy, you okay? A man in a red shirt with the sleeves cut off passed his hand over Ted’s face.

Yeah, Ted shook his head, yeah, just a little light headed.

The man stuck out his hand and Ted took it to help himself up. A dull ache in his crotch throbbed between his left thigh and buttocks. He hobbled to the padded bench to do his finishing stretches, took a drink of water, and wound down his workout. Taking a deep breath, and thinking about the novel he was eager to finish at home, Ted made his way to his green 2005 Honda Civic and drove between the trees that were shedding their yellow and brown fall leaves, back to his tiny apartment on the north side of Frederick, Maryland.

2

The following morning was brutal. Whatever popped in his abdomen during the workout had been more than just a muscle ache. He had to grab onto the counters and tables to keep from collapsing. The pain was excruciating. After doing some research on Web MD, he determined that it was likely a pectineus injury based on the location of the tenderness. The lunges had pushed him too far. He would likely need to go to the hospital for surgery if the pain persisted.

In the meantime, he had to work through the day. Ted Jones spent his days picking up locksmith calls for his local locksmith shop around the corner and across from the gym. After the third customer—rekeying and fashioning a new Schlage key for an Adams Rite storefront lock—Ted stopped by a Wal-Mart and picked up a black cane to help him along. He was only twenty-eight years old, so the cane was a questionable hindrance to him. Ted took the rest of the day’s calls in a bad mood as he helped his customers through the dreary overcast afternoon.

His last call was on the outskirts of town at a Sheetz gas station. It had begun to rain heavily over the hills of Gambrill Park. When he arrived, there was already another locksmith there, but they were sitting in their big red pick-up truck. They had long hair and big beards and mustaches like they could be buddies with the guys from Duck Dynasty. Ted went inside. The customer was a young heavy-set Latino girl with a black Adidas coat and dark blue jeans, looking out the front window. Her rain-dotted brown hair was done up in a loose bun. Her brown eyes met Ted’s as he made to greet her.

Are you the locksmith? She asked.

Yeah, Ted Jones of A-Okay Locksmiths. He shook her hand. Did you call them? Ted asked, pointing out the window to the red truck.

Yeah, they got there right after I called you. I’ve been waiting for an hour and a half and I just want to get in my car and go home. It’s the 2009 Volkswagen Passat out there that’s on with the keys inside.

It took me twenty minutes to get here, why haven’t they opened your car yet? Ted narrowed his brows.

They said they don’t want to do it while it’s raining. She scoffed.

It’ll take like thirty seconds, and your car’s under the overhead. You won’t even get wet. They’re fucking morons. Ted took a deep breath, feeling his injury once more. Ma’am, if I open your car for you right now, will you pay me instead of them?

Yes! I have money and I want to pay whoever will get me into my car! She was on the verge of hysteria. Ted quickly went out to his vehicle, pressing on his cane with each step. He hurried out to his locksmith van and grabbed an air-wedge and a long-reach tool—a long glow-in-the-dark rod with a rubber tip on the end of a strategically shaped hook. Sliding the wedge in the door, Ted pumped the driver door open and poked the long-reach tool through the half-inch of space between the rubber weather lining of the door. He angled the rod to the door handle, torqued the rod, and yanked, opening the door.

The girl ran out to him, shut off the car, and gave him a fifty and a ten in cash. Thank you so much! Would it be inappropriate to hug you right now?

I—um, no? He gave her a sheepish smile. She threw her hands around his neck and hugged him as the men in the red truck glared at them. Be safe out there, Ma’am. He gave her a receipt, had her sign it, and waved as she hurried into her car and drove away. Ted stashed the receipt in his receipt book in the van and drove home. He sent the rest of the night’s calls to their overnight guy, Larry Thompson, and looked forward to a hot shower before bed.

3

Fuckin’ scammers. Joe Croft shook his head when Ted told him about his last call the following morning in their shop. He didn’t look up from his gun catalog at any point during Ted’s story. He was a little shorter than ted with short dark brown hair and a lump of tobacco chew in one cheek. He wore a red fleece sport coat and jeans as he sat behind the register. Keys and different locks and doorknobs covered the walls of the small shop behind him. His attention met with Ted’s hunched over complexion as he moved on his cane. What the fuck happened to you?

I pulled something while working out. It’s getting better I think. Tylenol’s been helping a lot.

Jesus man, at least you have today and tomorrow off. Joe said.

You said it. Ted started logging his calls from the previous day and putting the receipts under the tray in the register so their boss could keep track of the logs and customers. I’m going to see if I can finish my book today. He closed the register and left the van keys on the counter.

Good luck, and take it easy.

Ted waved over his shoulder and got into his car that was parked behind the building before heading home.

4

While Ted’s book was still in the preliminary stages of completion, he had still started submitting the first few chapters to publishers. He had received eight rejections so far, but he had also never sold a book before. It was because he had little time during the week to spend working on a pitch, summary, and social media. Most publishers suggested workshops in order to refine the submission process as it seemed to be an art in its own, but Ted was too eager to quit his day job to want to smooth out those kinks just now.

However, he finally had a day to work through and complete the last few pages of his fantasy novel. He had planned a five part series, with him finishing the massive cliff-hanger of the fourth where all seemed lost to the five remaining characters of a magical civilization that had been consumed by the war efforts of the non-magical. He was on the last page, working furiously as another few Tylenol killed the pain in his crotch, when he received two packages and some bills in the mail.

Both packages were submissions he had sent out to different publishers in New York. Ted opened the first manuscript. Sorry we don’t have time to give more feedback, but your work isn’t right for us. Don’t give up, just because it’s not right for us doesn’t mean it’s not right for someone else. Good luck. He tossed the whole package in the trash.

Opening the second. I must reject what you have currently submitted. We’re very selective about our new clients as the publishing industry has become so narrow. Projects from our clients must have stellar world building, characters that leap off the page, and—

He didn’t even finish reading it before he tossed the parcel in the trash with the other one. Assholes. Ted kicked the trash can and inspired a fresh wave of pain through his groin that almost doubled him. He grabbed his cane and walked himself to his writing desk—a cheap Ikea table he had bought from a garage sale for four dollars that also doubled as his kitchen table—where he could get off his feet.

God damn it. He looked at all the long-hand notes he had taken over the last eighteen months that were scattered around the desk. All of it seemed for naught. He had wasted a year and a half, and had ended a major relationship during the time of writing his fourth book in the series. It had taken entirely too long, but life is a serious bitch for any aspiring writer looking to establish themselves.

Twenty-five submissions and all had passed. Ted knew the publishing process was difficult and demoralizing at times, but he had never felt so helpless and worthless at the same time than he did now. With twenty-five submissions and having been immersed in this fantasy world he had been building since he was nineteen years old, Ted decided it was time for a change of scenery in his writing world. Fantasy and science fiction were out. He would need to find a more salable medium to write into as there were a dime-a-dozen fantasy and science fiction writers out there.

The idea of trying to E-publish his novels crossed his mind, but the previous attempts at trying to make that work had all been massively unsuccessful. Trying to online market your own work when you’re an antisocial person is like screaming in a dark and crowded room with a million other people screaming at the same time. He had opened a Twitter handle for his author platform, a Facebook page for him as an author and for his books, started a Tumblr blog featuring different bits and pieces of his books for intrigue, and he had absolutely no free time to manage those accounts. Social media marketing is a full time job in its own that requires constant monitoring and strategic updates to lure followers. There seemed to be a recurring trend in his life that he just didn’t have time to be a writer unless he could quit being a locksmith. It was a nasty catch-22 that he couldn’t be a successful writer unless he was already a successful writer.

He sat there at his writing desk with pop-dance music pumping through his speakers to keep him awake and inspired to finish the last few pages of his book in spite of the lousy news. It was nearing the final moment, when Terence and the other main characters would collectively meet and see the city they had all worked tirelessly to build burning to the ground. And the final book would somehow be the light that shines from the clouds and brings the fullness of the day back to the land. What that would be and how it would go, Ted had no idea—not yet. It would come to him in time as all his ideas seemed to come in short organic bursts.

He gave the last sentence a period, pressed the return button twice, centered the title, and typed in all caps, END OF BOOK FOUR. It was done. He thought about writing an epilogue, but didn’t think anything could measure to that ending as far as needed information. An author afterward might be in order, but that sounded egotistical for a nobody who hadn’t sold a single book to be quoting the woes and difficulties that surrounded the making of this novel and the perseverance while continuing to stride forward in spite of the harsh publishing world and difficult daily life.

No, Ted called it good, saved and backed up the document, and sat there as Lady Gaga’s ‘Applause’ played through the speakers. If he were going to go the eBook route, he would need to do a big marketing push, almost like a stunt—something to capture the attention of not just publishers, but everyone. How did an author go from a nobody like Joanne Rowling to the infamous J. K. Rowling in a matter of five to ten years? Something new had to be done that hadn’t already been done. He would need to strategically do something that would draw massive attention to himself, his website, Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr that would eventually lead everyone’s attention to his books.

It would have to be huge. He said, stroking his beard stubble as he stared out the window at the screaming children playing in the grassy alley between the apartment buildings. ‘Applause’ ended and ‘Alejandro’ came on. He thought about Lady Gaga and all the garbage she sang about. He had always liked her music, but had a strange fascination with the idea of sleeping with her if he could one day. She was only one year older than him, although she was supposed to be getting married soon. It was hard to believe that a person who sang about the things she sang about could ever commit to a monogamous long-term relationship, or if she and her new partner had a mutual understanding that extra-marital events would occasionally come along.

She had started acting recently. He hadn’t seen anything she had acted in, but didn’t have time. Ted didn’t own a television and tried to stay away from the entertainment media feed for how ridiculous the constant spin of information could be. The pictures he had seen of Lady Gaga over the last few years showed a declining personality beneath an exterior facade of success. He wondered if she had such a drug problem that she was steadily deteriorating before her and everyone else’s eyes. She could always put on makeup. It was odd that makeup could conceal so much of a person, creating a mask from the rotting face beneath. It wasn’t that bad, but her face didn’t seem as full as it did when she first appeared on the scene. Ted had heard that she was a pothead. He wondered what other heavy drugs a famous star might be able to get her hands on if she wanted them.

Lady Gaga was so famous that she had fifty-seven million followers on Twitter, watching her every post and tweet. She could take a shit, post it, and fifty-five million people would see it and it would be a fucking hit all around the world. How the hell could he possibly be like that… or utilize that? Could he somehow get someone to hack her feed and display his book? That would be ridiculous, and it would be a cheap move as an author. If he were going to do something wrong, it would need to be much bigger than that.

An idea sprouted in Ted’s mind that made him sit up and stare straight ahead as he watched it grow. It was ludicrous, but it was so ludicrous that it just might work. He would have to go to jail on purpose. Layer upon layer of elements began falling into place as the idea thickened and became larger. His books would need to be complete, E-published, and available all over the internet. They would need to be totally self-sufficient and ready for sales during his absence. He could do that in a day, upload them all to his various E-publishing sites, and he would be finished writing.

No, Ted Jones would not write another single word in the fiction world for a long, long time. He was going to do what no one else had thought of doing: kill Lady Gaga as the biggest marketing stunt in E-publishing history. He would be infamous as the monster who ended the life of an aspiring twenty-nine year old pop-singer who only wanted to give back to the rest of the world what she felt inside however trashy or superficial it may be, and she would become an icon for feminism and women around the world. What he could do would elevate both of them to legendary levels that individuals could not execute by themselves in life. He would be the trigger that would make her the next Marilyn Monroe, the next Jimi Hendrix, the next Janis Joplin, and in the process sell his soul to sell out in his own unique way.

It was brilliant—brilliant and absolutely the stupidest thing he had ever come up with.

Chapter Two

Planning

1

Believe it or not, Ted actually liked Lady Gaga’s music. It wasn’t something he would dance to—as if there was anything he would dance to—but he could also hear it and not mind listening to it. He had worked graveyard shift for a year in a machine shop and used to listen to Lady Gaga Radio on Pandora while he worked from ten to six in the morning. He generally liked her songs, but absolutely hated when she said her own stage name or called herself ‘Gaga’ in the third person. It just seemed silly because nobody without a major ego complex talks about themselves in the third person like that. And the conviction she had that she made amazing music and was the shit made her even more irritating, but then that’s just pop star mentality.

How to proceed in the event that he actually committed to this course was going to be a bit of a challenge. The really hard part about it would be a precise execution of his intentions and not feeling any passion for the event. It was business. What would you do for success? Would you kill for it? And if you did, would you be able to remain the same person afterward?

Ted spent the rest of his day off converting his novels to eBooks. It’s a much longer process than it feels when doing it. It took all night to apply the finishing touches to the fourth novel and get it converted to both manuscript and eBook. He would utilize every possible method to take advantage of this opportunity. A nobody only gets explosive crowd-halting attention once, and if you don’t use it to propel your status to a somebody you’ll be swallowed up by the sea of has-been.

Ted didn’t stop with the series either. He did the finishing touches on six of his other novels that he had never been proud of and made them into eBooks as well. There were three horror novels, two sci-fi space odyssey novels, and a collection of forty-six short stories that he had thrown together from over the years. Say what you will about short stories, but nothing pleased Ted as a writer like reading the perfect creepy short story with an original ending. He used most of the next day putting those books together, formatting the proper settings for the grind from document to eBook file, and finally uploaded everything to his dozens of E-publishing sites where they would enter the internet and be completely ignored. eBooks by nobodies are like the sand at the bottom of the ocean. You need something to kick up the dust and spread it into society.

By six in the evening, Ted had completely cleared his desk of all his writing and boxed everything up. The eBooks were set, the manuscripts of his four fantasy novels had been printed, packaged, and put into SASE—self-addressed stamped envelope—parcels, with his best attempt at a cover letter and synopsis for each book inside. But he wouldn’t send those just yet; they needed to be sent the morning of his act.

Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to commit to being the most hated man in America, or the world? Lady Gaga had international renown. That made him think about contacting people who might be able to convert his novels into other languages—anything to maximize the capital of this endeavor—but he realized that those features would become available later regardless. The biggest internal hurdle Ted had was the fact that he was going to have to commit to going to jail. But what’s living in confinement for a few years while your books do the work without you having to work a shit job for fifty years with jack shit to show for it?

He had done some calculations as to how to move forward with Project Ex-Gaga. The idea of doing the deed at her home would be like something out of a scene from Mission Impossible, impossible in the sense that he—an out of shape going-on 30 locksmith-writer with an injured groin muscle—could get through her security detail, home security, and home by itself successfully, and also take Gaga out. That was too stealthy of an approach anyway. Ted needed to do this out in the open so that it could be seen by everyone, and so that he could surrender and be arrested as soon as possible. He didn’t want to give anyone a chance to kill him in self-defense, making this whole event a complete waste of time. Someone needed to get something out of it and it needed to be him in the end.

There were a few approaches that he was unsure about. Should he act deranged in the process in order to lower his prison sentence later? He could even feign as though this behavior was escalating over time and seek psychiatric help so that it would all seem like he was coming apart. He would be making a persona to go with his psychosis, fabricating his own insanity in order to justify this psychotic episode that would leave one of the most iconic pop stars of the twenty-first century dead. All of that would be showmanship. He thought initially that the more devastating the better, but time was the true enemy. People were obstacles. All he really needed was time and access. In actuality, he needed a focused and determined four seconds of time where a reaction was impossible. By the time those four seconds had ended, it would be over and the deed would be done.

After making sure everything was ready, he knew that he would need to proceed with caution from now on.

2

After paying off a number of debts from his early twenties and making a decent income as a locksmith over the last few years, Ted Jones had about $20,000 to his name in savings. That would last him a conservative year in Frederick, Maryland with all expenses once he quit his job. He didn’t plan on quitting right away, but leading up to the crime he would have to start traveling in order to find the right place. He still didn’t have a good location. That would come to him in time.

His first expense was buying a Chrome laptop and acquiring a VPN. He would need to create a false online identity and log onto the internet using Starbucks or McDonalds WiFi wherever he went. Research would need to be made and everything he did from his own personal computer would be logged and tracked, which would further incriminate him once the police turned over his tiny life in search of any further motive and evidence. He would need to keep doing basic everyday online activities from his personal computer and maintain his life as usual while doing the research elsewhere.

It was time to contemplate the method of action. Having done a considerable amount of research on guns for novels, while he personally didn’t like guns, Ted had to assume that a handgun would be the most likely weapon of choice for a quick assassination. A melee assault would require close range physical access without guaranteeing success, while using a rifle would sacrifice precision for a long-range shot. He was not a sniper or a professional hitman, so getting close with a handgun—Jack Ruby style—was the best method he could think of in order to end Gaga’s life as well as get him the attention he needed for the world to be certain.

Typically buying a licensed firearm meant that his decision to commit murder was planned, that he had preconceived this event to occur which would reflect poorly on him later. He needed to make this seem like a total lapse in sanity for the short few days in which his course of destiny would intersect with Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta’s. Only one destiny would continue after that moment, and it would be a glorious moment as though he were an eagle surfing on the wind of her updraft. A temporary disconnect of sanity would change his world forever.

Was it necessary? Ted looked over all that he had done today—the completion of ten novels, four of which would be his key to massive success—and realized that he was nothing. Even as a successful writer by legitimate, honest, and hardworking merit he would still be nothing: a small side note in his time and among his peers. The truth was that in this bleak world of smartphones and fake celebrities and endless television shows streaming to every eye on the planet, nothing meant anything anymore. No one was awake and everyone liked it just fine. But Ted thought that was okay because if they wanted to play that game then he could play it too. Time is the enemy: to build a legacy you must build it brick-by-brick with every second that’s available. He was going to do it, and even if he hated himself for it in the end, he would still be soaring higher than ever before.

Ted realized that buying a gun might be good for shooting practice, but he wouldn’t be able to get close to her with a firearm without someone becoming suspicious. He thought about trying to get closer within social circles but that only changed his motive and had to be scrapped. He couldn’t do it at her home, and he couldn’t do it anywhere near an airport or staged event. The ideal scenario was in front of a massive crowd where he could throw the weapon down and put his hands up and drop to his knees. Where could he be that would account for her being around people she wasn’t always around ninety-percent of the time outside of a concert or an airport? That narrowed his access to only a few possible scenarios that would be unpredictable to him.

Oddly enough, one of the most viable options was to just be shopping around in her neighborhood for a few years and wait patiently for the seemingly random opportunity to strike. That would require that he leave Maryland and move to Malibu, California. That needed to be his plan anyway, but it accelerated his time-frame significantly as he was due to move out or renew his lease in about three weeks.

The good thing about being a locksmith is that you can pick up a job in any town once you have the required skills, at least so long as they still use mechanical locks. Fortunately, Ted was Access Control certified as well, so even if it all went electric his skills were still valid. It was the way of the future, electronic locks. Soon, you pull into your driveway and unlock the door and disarm the burglar alarm with your smartphone as you’re getting out of the car. An idea occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of before. Being a locksmith in Malibu would increase his chances of access to Gaga and give him a reason to be around in particular places. The only problem was toting a firearm without anyone noticing.

He decided he would drop the notice that he was moving out of the apartment and relocating to California the next day. Before bed, he had already inquired through online rental sites about a fairly nice room for rent at $950 a month that wasn’t far from the beach where Gaga lived. If the judge later asked why he moved to Malibu, he could say that he got a job offer in the place where it’s summer year-round. He would start calling around to the different high-end locksmiths the next day at lunch when he got the chance and give his boss his three weeks’ notice as well.

A sense of adrenaline made it difficult for him to sleep that night so at eleven in the evening, Ted was boxing up his equipment and papers. He planned to sell his bike, his books, and his stereo system and see if he could relocate without even needing his bed. He could buy a new bed once he arrived in Malibu. He felt alive for the first time since he was nineteen. He was going to turn over his world and fulfill the goal he had set out to achieve.

3

All the following day, Ted was thinking about his plan and what he was doing with his life. It was exciting, and he felt better than he had in ages other than the still throbbing pain in his side that made it difficult for him to keep his usual pace at work. He spent the day in his mind crunching numbers for the trip he was planning. He had decided that he would leave the planning to Malibu. For now, he needed to focus on finishing his work here and making sure he fulfilled the right processes that would make him seem like he was just a normal guy relocating to Malibu, California for a change of scenery. He would be able to open locks for drunk movie stars rather than for the hoarders that holed themselves up in their houses for 85% of their lives in the northeast.

The day moved slowly, and for about an hour between five and six in the evening Ted was waiting around in the locksmith van for his next call. Joe Croft, his dispatch, had gone home for the evening so the calls were beginning to slow before the evening rush. He would usually turn in and hand the calls off to Larry, but he wanted to get as much money in the bank before taking the plunge south-west. All of this would be added cushioning to his cause to cover tedious expenses that would inevitably pop up.

Ted received a call from a distracted man with a corn-pone southern accent. Yeah, I just uh… I have a slim-jim but I can’t get her open. It’s just scratchin’ up the window, an’ if you could come pick her open for me, I’d prefer doin’ that to the slim-jim.

It’s a Ford, right? Ted asked, turning on the locksmith van.

Yessir.

Well, a slim-jim is what I’d usually use on an older Ford. Sure you want to pay me to come out if you might have the tool to get it open?

"Yeah, I don’t wanna use a slim-jim. Like I said,