Spoiled Rotten

By Craig Hansen

Can wealth alone make you Spoiled Rotten?

What if you had enough money to get whatever you wanted, from the time you were a child? Would it corrupt you, or could you learn how to lead a good life? 

Mike wrestles with these questions, even in the midst of a life that always seems to be falling apart. His mother dedicates herself to raising him with a work ethic, values, and a sense of the worth of a dollar and an honest day's work. His wife comes into his life just when he needs her most. And even his father-in-law saves him from winding up in an Irish prison. Join Craig Hansen for this modern tale of romantic suspense and science fantasy that includes adventurous stops in Wisconsin, Ireland, Australia, and even Antarctica, for this "unexpected morality tale ... on steroids" from the author of The Woodsman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Hansen
• Release date: Oct 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386805632

Craig Hansen

Craig Hansen wrote his first SF published short story, "The S.S. Nova," when he was fourteen. It was published in the Minnesota Writers in the Schools COMPAS program's 1981 anthology of student writing, When It Grows Up, You Say Goodbye To It. That was when he decided to dedicate himself to writing. Hansen earned two degrees at Minnesota State University at Mankato under the mentorship of young adult novelist Terry Davis. In the years that followed, Hansen worked a variety of jobs, including five years in journalism in northwestern Wisconsin, where he earned several state awards for his writing and editing. His work has appeared in the Meadowbrook Press anthology, Girls to the Rescue, Book 1, as well as the true crime journal, Ripper Notes, in volume 28. His first novel, Most Likely, was released in May 2011. Shada, the first installment of the Ember Cole series of young adult paranormal suspense books, was published in September 2011. Under Contract followed in the spring of 2012. The Devohrah Initiative appeared in August 2013. Nice Girl Like You is his most-recent work. Hansen remains hard at work on two novel-length books. Ember continues the story of Ember Cole that began in Shada, and will be the second novel in that series. EyeCU (working title) will become his first novel-length horror tale for older readers. Hansen lives in Oregon with his wife, a dog, two cats, and his 91-year-old father, a World War II veteran. Craig's interests include the music of Johnny Cash, reading the novels of other independent authors, blogging, and the study of Messianic theology. On his website, you can sign up to receive a periodic email newsletter that will notify you when he releases new books. Web: http://www.craig-hansen.com/ Email: [e-mail] Twitter @craigahansen Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Craig-Hansen-Author/136888346383154

Book preview

1

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1993

Hope, Wisconsin

W hy are you crying?

The man in the chocolate-leather coat had arrived silently behind ten-year-old Mike Yourchuck, and his words startled him despite being wrapped up in his own tears. Mike’s vision blurred from his tantrum. With the sun behind the man casting him in shadow, all Mike saw of the stranger’s face was a billow of dark hair, entirely too unkempt and rock-star long, blowing in the late August wind. The young man snuffled, embarrassed to be caught by a stranger in such a moment of vulnerability. Yet that was, he knew, the risk of bursting from his parents’ home, upset, and then finding his way to a concrete bench outside to Hope Public Library to hold his pity party.

Who are you, mister?

The man’s laughter fell like a waterfall, full of rich amusement, a sound Mike found not entirely unpleasant. That’s not important. You didn’t answer my question. I asked first.

Mike struggled to compose himself, wiping his runny nose with the back of his arm without a moment’s hesitation, and turning slightly on the concrete bench to face the stranger in leather. He squinted up at the man.

Oh, it’s nothing.

Really? How old are you, eleven?

Mike’s chest swelled with pleasure at being taken to be older than he was. Still ten. Eleven in January.

Ten, then. That’s old enough that it takes something pretty big to make a boy like you cry in public, rather than in your room.

"I don’t want to be home right now. I’m pissed at my parents."

The stranger hummed, sounding sympathetic. He placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder, brushing with a light touch, then withdrawing it. The hand felt large and warm, more like a slab of raw steak than a human hand. A shiver danced down Mike’s spine. "Pissed at your parents?"

"Okay, sorry. Angry, I should have said."

"I wasn’t correcting your word choice. I was just surprised, that’s all. What did they do to, as you say, piss you off?"

Mike’s grin spread across his face like a tidal wave he felt helpless to prevent. Still, with the question put to him, he felt compelled to give his parents the benefit of doubt in front of this curious man, more easily than he’d given them such benefit in his own dark thoughts moments ago.

"I’ve been wanting a new bike all summer. They were supposed to get it for me this week. But their stupid car broke down and they had to take care of that instead. I mean, I understand and all, but now they’re telling me maybe next summer instead of this week."

The leather-clad stranger hummed, which sounded to Mike’s young ears like another note of sympathy.

Such a shame. But maybe they have a point. Summer’s almost over. I bet you go back to school next week, don’t you?

Mike nodded, feeling sullen. Resigned, even. "My parents are good most of the time. It’s just, the bike’s a lot, but so’s a car repair, and as my dad always says, money doesn’t grow on trees."

No. No, it most certainly does not, does it?

Mike snuffled again, his nose still runny. If he’d been alone, he’d have blocked one nostril at a time and clear them out with a pair of mighty blows, as his dad had taught him to do two winters ago. Yet there was no snow in the summer to cover up such social sins. With this stranger talking to him, no way could he do that, so he rubbed his forearm under his nose again.

The stranger peered down at him, his dark eyes barely discernible. They looked flat and dead, like a shark’s, the ones that had been on Shark Week just a week before. Mike shivered.

How much is the bike you want?

At this topic, Mike brightened. "It’s not even a hundred, but it’s over fifty. A twenty-four-inch Magna Rip Claw. It’s gray and yellow and it has Magna written on it in huge letters. It’s so cool. Mike emphasized the word so" as though it were the most important word he’d ever uttered.

Is it a ten-speed?

No, it’s just got one gear. It’s more of a BMX-style bike.

"That does sound cool. A boy your age should have a bike like that."

"Yeah, well, thanks. But unless you’re going to buy me one, don’t count on seeing me around Hope on it any time soon. Next summer is so far away. It’s forever. I’d do anything to have one now."

The stranger chuckled. I’m not sure you have a good sense of what forever means, my young friend. Perhaps you should pray instead of cry. They say God hears the prayers of the broken-hearted.

Mike snorted. If God answered prayers of the broken-hearted, my brother Justin would still be alive.

When did he die? And from what?

Mike shrugged. Some kind of cancer, I dunno. Last winter. He was only four.

"I’m sorry to hear that. But pray anyway. You never know until you try."

Mike shrugged and stared down at the ground; when he looked up, the man was gone. A couple minutes later, he realized the stranger never had revealed his name.

That night, back at home and, tucked in bed, he prayed without expecting an answer.

2

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Three days later, with Labor Day and school closing in, Mike’s father came home from work late, calling his wife and only remaining son out to the truck.

What are you yammering on about? Mike’s mother never sounded angry, but she could manage a rather decent annoyed tone when she put her mind to it. That happened a lot. Supper’s staying warm in the oven, but unless you like your chicken fingers dark brown and dry as the Negev Desert, I suggest—

Mike’s dad emerged from behind the family truck, holding in his arms a fully-constructed, brand-new, gray-and-yellow Magna Rip Claw. Mike squealed in delight.

Oh my. His mother sounded confused and her eyes volleyed between the bike and her husband. "How can we afford this?’

His father held his arms up in surrender as Mike commandeered the bike. New circumstances. New work order came in yesterday and a previous one closed ahead of schedule. We’re getting a windfall, a big bonus.

"So you just went ahead and got this for him? Without even talking to me first? We have more pressing needs than getting Mikey a new bike…"

That inspired a new twenty-minute round of loud discussion between his parents, but Mike didn’t stick around to listen. Instead, he hopped on the Magna and took it for a ride around the block. Six times. Then his mother stopped him and insisted he come in for supper.

3

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1999

Mike was sixteen when the first check arrived.

It came in a plain, white envelope with a pre-printed return address. BAM Corp, Inc., it read. Atlanta, Georgia. No street address. The windowed envelope showed his full name and address printed on green safety paper, the kind used on printed checks. His mother, who had kept the house when his father left two years ago, entered his bedroom as he studied math homework, laying on his bed. She’d tossed it on his back and now Mike studied it closely.

What is it, Mom?

She shrugged. I was going to ask you that. Looks like a bill. If it’s a credit card offer, cut it up and toss—

I remember, Mom. Yeesh.

Who’s BAM Corp, Inc.?

No idea.

Mike opened the letter carefully, not wanting to rip it if it was a check. Even so, he felt his eyes bulge when he pulled out the contents and, indeed, it was exactly that. A check. Made out to him, not his mother.

Oh my, he said. Mom, it’s for over three thousand dollars.

She snatched the check out of his hands and began studying it. Probably some bogus line of credit scam. Companies do that. Tell you to cash it, then you find out by doing that, you agreed to a loan at eighty-five percent interest or something.

Hope shrank in his heart at her words. She was probably right; his mother always was, it seemed.

Would have been nice, though. I’ve been wanting a computer for school, and that would—

I know what you want. Her tone frosted over as she spoke. Money doesn’t grow on trees, though. Your deadbeat Dad’s made sure of that. Hasn’t sent a support check since Christmas.

Mike felt his chest clinch, his shoulders tense. He hated when his mother spoke ill of his dad. You’d think the divorce would have made her relax enough not to have to run the man down verbally at every opportunity, but nope; it remained her favorite pastime.

Then he noticed his mother frown. Something’s weird here.

Mike looked up at her. She peered at the check closely, turning it over in her hands, studying it.

What’s weird?

"There’s no small print. No notice that you’re agreeing to a loan or something. Usually they have to do that. Was there anything else in the envelope?"

No, just that. Do you think it’s real? He handed her the empty envelope.

Mom glared at him. Depends on what you mean. If you mean real like, it’s an actual check, maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s yours to cash or deposit.

But, Mom—

She sharpened her eyebrows in his direction, a move both amazing in its uniqueness and intimidating if you were on the receiving end of it. He fell silent.

Do you work for BAM Corp, Inc. in Atlanta, Georgia?

No, of course not. But maybe I won a prize or something.

Did you enter any contests recently?

No, I—

Exactly. No Publisher’s Clearinghouse, no Ed McMahon. This isn’t that. Besides, they call you ahead of time, set up cameras outside your door so they know you’re dressed and at home. You just pretend to act surprised.

For the big prizes, maybe, but—

You just told me you didn’t enter anything. And BAM Corp, Inc. isn’t Publisher’s Clearinghouse, anyway.

True, but—

Cut this up. With your scissors.

She thrust the check back at him and waited for his response. He groaned, but took the check from her and did as she said. The entire time he spent cutting the check into strips, he kept his back to his mother.

You’ll thank me when you don’t end up in debtor’s prison because of cashing a stupid scam check like this.

He sighed heavily. "Mom, there’s no such thing as debtor’s prison. Not anymore. Not like when you and dad were—"

Hush.

He complied. As soon as he cut the final bit of the check into ribbons and let them drift down into the trashcan by his desk, she left him alone again. He felt anger he hadn’t expected. A check he’d had no claim to had arrived minutes ago, and losing money that was never his to begin with shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. He could have picked up a Macintosh with money like that.

Don’t cry over spilled milk, his father had been fond of saying when he was still around. Especially when it’s not your milk being spilled.

A couple minutes later he noticed his homework was ruined, the white notebook paper pregnant with soaked-in tears. He tore off the sheet, and the two beneath it, and found a fresh, dry page. Faithfully, he re-copied the work he’d done so far.

Two weeks later, a second letter from BAM Corp, Inc., arrived in the mailbox, made out for the same amount. Still the envelope contained nothing but the check; no letter explaining its purpose. His mother regarded him like a suspect in a police line-up.

You’re sure you have no idea who or what BAM Corp, Inc., is?

Not a clue.

Hop on that Internet thing during your study hall at school tomorrow. See what you can find out.

Despite her request, his mom once again forced him to cut the check to ribbons and toss it in the trash. Annoying, but by now he sensed it was the way of things. Even though it bothered him seeing so much money come into their household, only to be shredded and tossed away, he had decided not to argue the point. There was no winning against his mother.

The next day, he did try to look up BAM Corp on one of the school library’s ancient Macintosh SEs, yet there was nothing to be found. He wasn’t surprised. Many big companies had websites now, but only a few of the smaller companies bothered with them. The hazards of the coming Year 2000 panic were keeping all but the bold from fully investing in the new form of advertising. His mother said she wasn’t surprised when he found nothing; that probably meant they were a fly-by-night company and scammers, just as she had suggested.

Another two weeks went by, and another check arrived, again for the same amount. This time, however, a bright yellow Post-It Note was attached to the check, though the message was typed rather than hand-written. It contained only three words, all in capital letters:

FOR DEPOSIT ONLY.

Find a phone number for them and give them a call. His mother set her jaw in a look that told Mike she was not to be debated with or resisted on this count. Obviously they believe someone who has the same name as you, who works for them, lives here. It’s a payroll mistake. You’d be robbing a hardworking man and his family of their income. Get them on the phone and straighten this out. And cut up that check before you do.

So Mike cut the check up and looked up the area code for Atlanta, Georgia, which turned out to be four-oh-four. Then he called information for that area code and asked for the number for BAM Corp, Inc. The operator asked if he wanted the number for the front desk and Mike said that would do.

He called it, and a pleasant-sounding female voice featuring a mild Southern twang that reminded him of Andy Griffith Show reruns, answered. How may I direct your call?

I’m thinking maybe the payroll department? I’m not sure.

What seems to be the problem?

I’ve been getting checks mailed to me the past few weeks, but I don’t work for you. So my mom thinks someone who does work for you isn’t getting their paychecks. I’m calling to sort it out.

And your name?

Mike Yourchuck.

Please hold, darling.

The affectation caught Mike off-guard, but before he could say anything about it, he was listening to big band-era Muzak. Bo-ring. He sat down at the dining room table, in one of the wooden chairs, waiting, glad he had a cordless phone that didn’t restrict him to the hallway entrance leading into the kitchen. Two songs went by and his mother shot him impatient looks. All he could do was shrug. He wasn’t sure how much long distance to Atlanta was, but he knew it wasn’t cheap. Not from Hope, Wisconsin, where they didn’t have all the choices of long distance carriers that they did in the Twin Cities or Madison.

Finally the music broke off and a gruff-sounding but friendly-worded voice came on.

Mike Yourchuck?

Mike was startled to have the man lead off by verifying his name.

That’s me.

Ralston Wynne, chief financial officer for BAM Corp speaking. How may I help y’all, son?

Mike explained the situation of the misdirected checks. When he neared the end of his tale, the man on the other end of the line chuckled.

I can see why your ma’s concerned, young man, and she has every right to be. Always listen to your folks. Say, you got speaker phone on your end, or a second line?

Their cordless was a model that did not offer a speaker phone feature, but it had come with a second handset. He told Ralston as much.

Get your ma to pick up the other line, so she can hear this, too.

Mike told his mother what the man wanted and she picked up the second handset so she could listen in on the call.