Byhalia: The Omar Credon Story

By Clem Maddox

Man's loss of dominion has dawned the end of the earth. Like Noah's ark no one believed Omar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clem Maddox
• Release date: Jan 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9780986409998

Clem Maddox

Clemon Maddox writes Novellas and Novels for teens and young adults and Drama/Mysteries/Dark Fantasy with an element of crime for adults. Clemon Maddox Jr. was born in Daytona Beach Florida, and grew up in a military family. His love for writing was spawn from his fathers' love of the poem, Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe, as a result of that exposure he has written over 500 poems, 36 jazz lyrics, and has written 10 novels pending publication. Nesselorette the Book is his first published work.

Book preview

PREFACE

Omar was a brilliant entomologist who discovered a covert change in the natural course of the world of insects. His discovery revealed that the second coming of the end of mankind would not happen by fire, as predicted in the bible. No one accepted his profound findings, and they thought he had gone mad.

The world would come to understand that nuclear warfare is not the fear of fears for the final destruction of the world. It will be man’s loss of dominion to rule as God had ordained.

CHAPTER ONE

It had been three years since Richmond Bowthorpe had graduated from Arkansas State University. Working at the Blytheville Courier seemed to be stifling his drive to become a Big City reporter. With a bachelor of arts degree in communication, Richmond thought he would be further along in his journalism career by now.

Growing up in Blytheville, Richmond never had an opportunity to travel beyond Arkansas. Now he found himself daydreaming of working for The New York Times, but writing short articles on the local county fair, beauty pageants, and Boy Scout troop outings made him wonder why he’d even bothered to go to college. He read so much about New York City that he regularly found himself daydreaming of being in the middle of Times Square.

For the past few months, emailing his resume to the editor of The New York Times had become part of his daily routine. While he knew the approach was a crazy long shot, he hoped the stars would align themselves and fate would deliver him a positive reply.

Over the last two years, he had applied for newspaper jobs all over the United States and received far more negative replies than he cared to acknowledge. As he sat staring out of the window from his cubicle, his computer pinged to signal receipt of an email. He peered at the sender’s name. It was from Wilford Tatum, his editor at The Courier.

Ten minutes later, Wilford followed up the email with an in-person visit to Richmond’s cubicle to make sure Richmond had seen it. Richmond, I want you to include your email address on every article you write, he barked and walked off. Although presented as a suggestion, it translated as a demand.

An ungroomed boss who donned wrinkled shirts and oversized trousers, Wilford’s knowledge of journalism was vast. He bragged constantly about when, at age twenty-one, he came close to winning a Pulitzer for his news feature on the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy. He was working for The Dallas Times Herald at the time and, by the time the story broke, was already at his desk pounding away on his typewriter about all that he had seen at Dealey Plaza.

I’ve heard that story so much I can repeat word for word how he almost won a Pulitzer Prize. It’s a bunch of malarkey, grumbled Richmond. He kicked over his trashcan. And whoever heard of placing one’s email address openly for anyone to see?"

He was inundated daily with emails from the citizens of Blytheville. It seemed as if everyone in town had an event, or a cause, about which Richmond should write a newspaper article. Whether it was a new calf being born, or a lost pig, or only an opinion, Richmond got an email.

As much as he despised the constant flow of emails, he detested even more that he was required to respond to every email he received.

He pulled himself away from staring out of the window and glanced down at his computer screen. The subject line nearly made him black out.

Reporter Assistant Wanted

His mind went blank as it had the hundreds of times he’d found himself staring out the window. The words seemed to flash before his eyes.

Reporter Assistant Wanted

It took him a few minutes to comprehend, but after reading the body of the email shock gripped his face. Nervously, he replied to the sender in bold letters, Yes!

He sat waiting anxiously for a reply, but none came. After an hour, he knew that he needed to begin responding to the emails he dreaded. They were piling up, and he did not want to hear his boss yell. He could almost hear Wilford blaring, You still interested in a job?

As if on cue, he saw Wilford heading back. As he passed Richmond’s desk, he heard the ping of an email and stopped long enough to say with an air of pompous superiority, That was a brilliant idea I had. You no longer have to go looking for the news. News now comes to you. He walked off smugly.

Grumbling to himself, Richmond turned to face the screen. He heard the ping announcing the arrival in his inbox of the reply he was waiting for. The email was blunt and to the point. Then be in New York on Monday at 8:30 a.m. Sharp. There were no formal instructions or greetings of any kind. It was sent to him directly from the editor of The New York Times.

CHAPTER TWO

Richmond stood gawking outside the New York City bus depot at the people scurrying in and out of the bus terminal like a parade of purposeful ants. The crowds outside the terminal were so immense that he was stunned and could not move for several minutes.

A gangly young man with freckles dancing across his face as if his skin was peeling from sunburn, Richmond stood motionless in awe as his fascination with New York City took his breath away.

His dusty red hair flopped over his eyes, and he brushed it back absently, his attention focused on the crowd around him. Holding two small suitcases resembling those of circus clowns, he stood out like a sore thumb. Everything he owned resided inside the two suitcases. His meager salary at the newspaper meant nice luggage was a luxury he could neither afford nor think about purchasing.

Taxi, mister? shouted a cab driver of Middle Eastern descent.

Screeching tires snapped Richmond out of his dumbfounded trance, but before he could respond, a young woman swept by him and jumped into the cab. Her perfume lingered, reminding him of the strawberry patch in Blytheville that he had stolen strawberries from when he was a kid. Glancing at Richmond, she waved as the cab sped off.

Hey, slick, you need a watch? asked a short Hispanic man wearing a long coat. Richmond thought the coat was a bit too much for the warm weather. When he flashed open his coat, however, Richmond saw a variety of watches pinned against the inner lining. Wondering if they were fake, he simply shook his head no. Definitely New York.

Everything he had experienced thus far was consistent with all he had read about New York City. Nothing would be considered strange there because strange was the city’s preamble.

The man refused to acknowledge his first response and reinforced his sales pitch a little more aggressively. No, mister, I am not interested, Richmond said firmly.

The man closed his coat, scowled at Richmond, and walked off in pursuit of another sucker. Another cab sped up, and he jumped in before someone else did.

The driver was a burly woman with whiskers across her upper lip and an equally muscular voice. Where to, son?

"The New York Times," Richmond responded excitedly.

The cab pulled up in front of The Times’ building on West 43rd Street. Your destination, sir.

Richmond paid the driver as he slid out of the passenger door. Before he could thank her, the cab sped away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk gaping at the historical 18-story building. The gigantic edifice was busy, as people moved hastily through the revolving door.

When he reached the receptionist area, he announced, My name is Richmond Bowthorpe, and I have an appointment with the editor, Mr. Barley Johns.

No one acknowledged him. The three receptionists continued working as if he wasn’t there. Each of the ladies sitting at the reception desk wore some type of head gear with a microphone near their mouths, green uniforms, bright red lipstick, and their black hair pulled back in a bun. Richmond waited patiently for a response.

Finally, the woman in the middle looked up from her notations and said, Take a seat, and I will contact Mr. Johns’ office. He smiled and thanked her, then carried his suitcases to the seating area.

Glancing around at the people seated near him, he noticed several young men smirking at his attire. His gray wool pinstripe coat did not match his brown pants that did not quite reach his ankles. His white shirt was as wrinkled as if he’d balled it up wet and then immediately put it on. He wore a string black tie loosely around his neck, and his brown ankle boots were in dire need of a shine.

Ignoring all of the stares, he set down the suitcases and tried to adjust the tie. He had hoped it would make him look more professional, but it failed miserably. Within a few minutes, an attractive blonde woman approached the group. She stood for a moment and looked at all of them, then walked directly over to him. Mr. Bowthorpe?

Richmond leapt to his feet, tripping over one of his suitcases in his haste, and fell face down at her ankles. Laughter roared throughout the room as he hurried to his feet, trying not to see the men around him jostling each other and giving each other high fives.

Without so much as cracking a smile at his awkwardness, the woman turned and said, Follow me, Mr. Bowthorpe.

The two of them were the only occupants in the elevator on the silent ride up. When the doors opened, they exited into another reception area. The woman instructed Richmond to have a seat in the second waiting area. With a stoic expression, she added, Someone will be coming for you shortly. Please try not to trip over your luggage.

Within fifteen minutes, another woman asked Richmond to follow her. He rose from his seat carefully – without falling over his suitcases.

Barley Johns’ office was spacious and cold. The dark mahogany furniture added to the gloomy feeling Richmond felt as he stood in front of Barley’s massive desk. Myriad types of newspaper articles hung framed on the walls, and the only human pictured was President Teddy Roosevelt.

Barley was sitting with his head down. Sunlight beaming through the bay window bounced off of the bald spot in the center of his gray hair. He was writing on a note pad, and Richmond thought his fingers looked unquestionably strange. Hair was growing wild and thick on the backs of his hands, nearly covering a ring he wore with an eagle on it sitting on a globe. When he raised his head from the papers he was signing, the bushy eyebrows and handlebar mustache looked unnatural. Nonetheless, it soon became apparent that his natural hair truly grew so erratically because he instantly twisted the mustache.

Richmond, my boy, take a seat! bellowed the large, husky man. I am Barley Johns.

When he rose to shake Richmond’s hand, his towering figure stood over six feet, eight inches; that, he was sure of! Richmond guessed Mr. Johns weighed more than three hundred pounds. Richmond had been appointed judge of numerous weight-lifting contests and had become adept at gauging the weight of the men who participated.

I see that you are still interested in the reporter job by your being here. Is that correct? Barley Johns had a youthful face with soft eyes.

Yes sir, Richmond replied, slowly sinking into the chair. He felt as if his body was being swallowed by the soft cushion and rich leather.

Barley turned and pressed a buzzer on the side of his desk. Within seconds, the woman who had escorted Richmond upstairs knocked on the door to Barley’s office, entered and stopped in front of the desk near Richmond.

Jenny, please take Richmond’s bags and secure them in a locker. Afterward, take him to the newsroom and tell Joseph that Richmond will be his new stringer reporter. Barley stood again, shook Richmond’s hand, sat back down and resumed editing without another word.

CHAPTER THREE

Richmond’s first assignment involved the disappearance of a female college student. She was last seen in Central Park, which he began by extensively researching to better understand.

Central Park first opened in 1857 on approximately 778 acres of land in the borough of Manhattan, New York. During its earlier years vagabonds or homeless persons were rarely seen wandering around in the park. Since then, the park had undergone numerous transformations to become a place where people could take in nature and converse with one another. Shadowed by tall skyscrapers and excessive walking of people and vehicle traffic jams the park was a welcoming haven in the middle of the busy city. Now there were always homeless people roaming in and around the park. It was also riddled with crime.

Although crime flourished in certain areas, it still remained a popular place for concerts. He remembered the stories his mother shared with him about a Joni Mitchell concert she’d attended in Central Park. Cocking his head to the side, he almost could hear one of the songstress’ famed songs of protest for the war in Vietnam, Come on People, Smile on Your Brother. The words were imprinted in his mind from the countless number of times his mother played the record.

Richmond had gathered a few leads on the woman’s disappearance, but nothing substantial from which he might develop a good story. Daily he roamed the park and other nearby retail establishments, searching for some clue that would take the initial story beyond a college girl’s disappearance. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was something more to the story that he couldn’t quite put his hand on. The police had no clues, and the parents reported no calls for ransom. Three disappearances had been reported by several homeless people, but it wasn’t until a white female college student came up missing that New York’s finest were all over it. No one saw the homeless disappearances as a possible trend or pattern of any kind.

Deciding to approach the story differently, he entered Central Park looking to talk to a homeless person; homeless were frequently in the park. It was his day off, but he would use the time to do some investigative reporting instead of sleeping in.

He approached a man sitting on a bench, thinking he might be a good person to start with. As he drew closer, he realized that the displaced man was mumbling to himself. Similar to most of the impoverished, his pants were worn and tattered. He wore a very old and extremely large military jacket that was unzipped, revealing a badly soiled shirt. His scraggly beard and wild afro were matted and strewn with bits of lint. What most captured his attention outside of the man’s appearance was what the man was mumbling.

Man’s loss of dominion.

Richmond assumed the man