Suicide Machine

By Jack Wallen

Foster Donovan is still dead.

But his career is alive. With the help of David David, Foster’s stand-up routine has become the talk of Suicide Station. His afterlife couldn’t be better.

Until the Suicide Machine is switched on and chaos rains down upon the Station. Lightning strikes, and Foster’s postmortem love has gone missing. This time around, a few additions to Foster’s strange little crew are needed to unravel the mystery of the Machine and return Suicide Station to some semblance of normalcy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Wallen
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370271177

Jack Wallen

Jack Wallen is what happens when a Gen Xer mind-melds with present day snark. Jack is a seeker of truth and a writer of words with a quantum mechanical pencil and a disjointed beat of sound and soul. Although he resides in the unlikely city of Louisville, Kentucky, Jack likes to think of himself more as an interplanetary traveler, on the lookout for the Satellite of Love and a perpetual movie sign...or so he tells the reflection in the mirror (some times in 3rd person). Jack is the author of numerous tales of dark, twisty fiction including the I Zombie series, the Klockwerk Movement, the Fringe Killer series, Shero, The Nameless Saga, and much more.

Book preview

ONE

DESCARTES BEFORE THE SARTRE

Here we go again. Once more unto the breach and all that. Break a leg and don’t smash watermelons without a valid Gallagher license.

I’m a cliché machine. I am out of control.

Thank jeebus I wasn’t a clown. Not that clowns don’t deserve respect.

Hell, I can’t pull that lie off—fuck clowns. They only really ever scared the muffins out of little kids and helped Stephen King make bank. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against King—never had the chance to meet the guy. Why? Because alive I was a failure and failures don’t kiss the ring of the King. That’s an exaggeration. I only failed when Kafka managed to dig his existential fingers into my brain to send me into a permanent pique of ennui. Before you think it, I never met Kafka. Not for lack of trying. I’d have given anything to talk about my own personal metamorphoses with the man. Alas, it was not meant to be. Tuberculosis took that writer, so he was given immediate transport to Mindly Station.

What a stupid name. You’d have thought the afterlife for the most brilliant minds to have ever existed would be festooned with a far more intellectual nom de plume than Mindly. May as well have dubbed it Thinky Thought or Nerdsville?

Note to self: ask Candy who was tasked to name the stations.

That is one constant I have discovered about great philosophers: they aren’t funny. Not one of them, and not one wit. Trust me, I’ve met a few. Brilliant minds with broken timing. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Sartre somehow managed to find his way from Mindly Station to Suicide, only to wind up stuck in some impossible quantum loop, prancing about the obsidian streets proclaiming there was no exit. Had it not been for a random visit by Descartes, Sartre would have been forever lost.

Humanity dodged a metaphorical bullet there.

Dude. A cloud of bitter smoke coughed out of David David’s mouth.

Like mine, David’s death wound had returned. Upon grilling Candy about that issue, all we received back was a shrug and a Them’s the rules. In the end, I guess it was too much to ask for someone in the Suicide Station public spotlight to exist without their scar of doom. We’d had a good run, being whole. And, as much as I preferred David David without his third eye open for all to see, he never really seemed right with his face and skull fully intact.

You ready to send these wayward travelers into a riotous frenzy of laughter? And, more importantly, do you need a quick hit from the roach of destiny? David offered me his blunt. I waved him off. "Trust me when I tell you this … the world is exponentially more when you’ve experienced Stranger Danger. It’s my latest strain; a hybrid of Dirty Uncle Sal and Mystery Machine."

Every so often, David David’s stoner-speak was nearly indecipherable.

More what?

David nodded, his eyelids closing fast. Exactly.

You don’t understand my question, David.

I understand all, Donovan of Fosterton. I have been made one with the universal taint.

The backstage door opened, and the new manager peeked her head through. Foster.

David turned to face Joan and made to offer her a bit of peace. She waved the smoke away. A motherly look only she could pull off was plastered across her face—an amalgam of I love you and get off your ass, punk. Crowd’s getting anxious, Donovan. Joan only ever used my last name when it was imperative she have my attention. Consider this your cue to make with the funny. She turned to go, and then her innate good manners kicked in. She’d been a Canadian before she stepped in front of a moving steamroller. The end result was a very two-dimensional woman—in the very literal sense. Joan was about three inches thick and looked a bit as if she’d peeled herself straight from the pages of a Kathy comic strip. The effect was both disturbing and heartwarming. Please and thank you.

Chants of Foster! Foster! Foster! filtered in from the audience.

It never ceased to amaze me that I’d had to die to find the fame I’d so desperately sought. While alive I’d tried every trick in the book, eventually succumbing to that old mistress, nihilism. She and I had cozied up in the warmest bed and made sweet, sweet love until my career went up in flames.

And then I hanged myself. It was a fitting epilogue to my ill-fated end—a sort of poetic injustice for every comic on the planet. I can still remember the letter I left behind for my wife.

To my dearest Sutton,

I tried. I really did. I wore the mask day in and day out to appease the great God normalcy, but I just couldn’t do it. With each passing tick of the clock, I felt meaning swirl farther and farther down the drain. What started out as a glorious ride down joyful lane turned into a shit-slogging hike up a mountain I liked to call Monotony.

But don’t worry, it wasn’t you.

I know, I know. I can already hear you saying it.

"Yeah, whatever."

Seriously, you were great. You were a dynamo in bed (Trust me, I bragged about it a LOT). You were (are, I can’t really speak about you in the past tense, sorry) a great mother to my son (you know, the one we never managed to have), and a pillar of justice and equality in society.

You’re fucking amazing.

As cliche as this is going to sound…

God I hate to say this. I’m going to come off like some spineless douche. C’est la vie—too late for that now, right?

It’s me. I mean, it was me. I speak in the past tense with regards to me because, by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.

Wow. Can you believe it? I finally had the courage to do the right thing. Don’t believe me? Look up. See? I told you. I’m dead.

Fuck. That was hard to write. Was it hard to read? Does it break your heart to glance heavenward and see your husband hanging by a noose?

For what it’s worth, I’ll miss you. Your kiss, the smell of you in the morning, the way you roll your eyes at me every time I start talking about anything remotely nerdly.

Speaking of which, for the love of all things holy, do NOT sell my Star Wars figurine collection. I realize it’ll be very tempting, but just don’t. Leave that for Luke (the kid we might have someday had). Maybe one day, when that imaginary boy becomes a father, he can will it to his son when he offs himself in whatever creative method is in style.

Oh wait, I don’t think I ever mentioned anything about that little family curse, did I? Maybe now’s a good time. You see, every male in my family commits suicide at the age of thirty-three. I know…

"Yeah, whatever."

Seriously, it’s a thing. Apparently my great-great-great-grandfather pissed off a witch and blah blah blah … a pox on your family. You get the idea. Thing is, it’s very real, and you are now looking at the Donovan family curse in action.

Anyway … I’m sorry. Really, really, really sorry.

Bye now.

Foster.

That’s how I wound up here, at Suicide Station. And thanks to my charm and good looks—which is a huge lie—I somehow managed to fall straight into the loving arms of she who would be the one charged with counseling me through this magical little kingdom. Candy worked her own charm and good looks—of which she had plenty—to land me a permanent gig at Maker’s Pub. I was Suicide Station’s most popular comic. The dead couldn’t get enough of me. I wanted so badly for that irony to not pimp slap me in the face on a daily basis, but there it was.

Crack and pow!

The angsty crowds that visited the joint, night after night, loved my darker, philosophical humor. Here at Maker’s, they got me.

Maker’s Pub. Again with the names. Why not God’s Dive and Grill?

A cloud of pure contact high floated my way.

If that doesn’t wreck your stress, nothing will. David David winked. My friend, it is time for you to tickle the laugh track fantastic. Shall I do the honors?

Wreck that shit.

When I first took over the gig at Maker’s, David practically begged to take on the job of Emceeing every show. Considering the man saved my life, I couldn’t turn him down. It was a hard sell to the higher ups, what with David’s death wound being half his face missing, but one fight worth undertaking.

Yet another one of the afterlife’s imponderables—how could a man that high put a gun to his eye and pull the trigger? Maybe some things are best left unknown.

David took one last hit from his joint and sliced through the curtains. The audience roused into applause. Just as the ovation was about to peak, the crowd immediately ceased fire when they saw it wasn’t me. Happened like clockwork with every show. David never once took it personally. Like everything else, the man laughed it off.

Expired ladies and dead gentlemen, ‘Ciders of all shapes, sizes, colors, and death scars… David’s voice was filled with a prideful joy. It is my pleasure to introduce a man we all know and cherish. He has travelled the world and crossed the veil between then and now, like a crusader steering a ship made of purest funny. I want each and every one of you to put your hands together—at least those of you with two opposing hands—in supplication that Foster Donovan may bless us all with…

David’s voice trailed off as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say. Seconds after that, he appeared from between the curtains, gave me a wink with his one eye, and bowed. Your subjects have been properly warmed up.

With what, David?

A cackle of laughter exploded from David’s half-a-mouth. You crack my shit up, Donovan. David spread his arms wide. With me, my friend, with me.

Before I could attempt to extract any further explanation from my partner in crime, he vanished through the backstage door to make his way toward the bar. Before Joan came on, David had been manager of Maker’s. Now, he hung out to imbibe all the free booze he could get his hands on. When he wasn’t high—which was all the time. He was also my biggest fan, with a dedication that hovered somewhere near fanboy. Having his heartfelt laugh pealing through the audience never failed to put a smile on my heart, even though I knew half of his laughs were fueled with whatever he’d been smoking.

Anyway…

I stepped through the split in the curtain and humbly allowed the wave of applause to wash over me.

Humbly. I swear.

"Oh my God, look at you. Wait, can I say God here?"

Belly laughs. Questioning the meaning of a higher power never failed to send the citizens of Suicide Station into giggling fits.

"Seriously, think about this … we’re all dead, yet not one of us has met he who would be the creator. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd? I was fairly certain, the second that rope cinched tight around my neck, I’d be meeting one of two people—God or Satan. Instead, I met Candy."

A wave of oohs and ahhs flowed over the stage.

The only thing seeing her for the first time proved was that angels did exist. Ergo … God. But that really challenges my entire belief system—at least the one I had while alive.

The crowd erupted in a raucous laughter.

You know exactly where I’m going with this, right?

Preach it, Foster Donovan! a rumbling baritone called out from the crowd.

Now that I have your blessing, I pointed in the direction of the voice, I shall.

Another round of laughs.

After even a few short months here at the Suicide Station, I can only shake my head at what my living self believed in. Heaven? Hell? Look around you—if your neck allows such range of motion—do you see any signs of either?

Hell no, a different voice belted, one that was met by a few scattered chuckles.

Give that man a cookie, David David. I pointed. Make it one of your special ones. I returned to the routine. "The truth is, Heaven and Hell are just subdivisions of the eternal landscape. Right now, we are all in purgatory. I don’t know about you, but that was such a fucking letdown. I had seriously high hopes for meeting the Dark Lord and sharing stories about other comedians and rock stars. Can you imagine what it would have been like to shoot the shit with Ol’ Scratch himself? At this point, I’d be happy to converse with Crowley or Coulter. She’s not dead, is she? In the end, it’ll be her, Keith Richards, and a horde of cockroaches charged with repopulating the Earth. Imagine what those babies will look like."

In the back of the room I spotted her. The red and white polka dot dress could not be missed. The smile painted in a perfect crimson melted my heart and kicked my libido square in the action batch. Never in my life had I been so utterly smitten with another. Candy was my drug, my muse, my everything.

The biggest issue with having Candy see my shows was the instant she entered the room, half the audience no longer had any interest in listening to my act.

Myself included. All I wanted to do was cozy up next to her and flirt like an awkward, hormone-raging teen who’d just downed a six pack of Jolt Cola.

Even so, I soldiered through my latest routine, soaking up every second of love as though it’d be my last. Once the final punchline was uttered, I made my way backstage, a heartfelt wave of applause trailing in my wake.

Candy met me in my dressing room, which was, truth be told, the old manager’s office reconfigured to make do. I didn’t mind. It was a steady gig that kept me in the spotlight—performer’s crack. I could mainline the attention to be had from an audience: it was the purest high, my comfort food, and favorite song wrapped into one delectable package.

I wrapped my arms around Candy’s waist. Thank you for being here. How are you not sick of me yet? You’ve seen the new act a million times already.

Candy winked. Sixty-nine times, to be exact.

My man brain went there.

You’re incorrigible, Foster Donovan.

You’re not supposed to do that. My voice ventured near scolding territory.

Candy bit her lip—a gesture she knew I couldn’t resist. That woman could play me the way Paganini could the violin.

From day one, Candy was reading my mind. Employees of Suicide Station were all capable of perusing the thoughts of ‘Ciders—short for Suiciders. Once we’d started dating, Candy had promised me she’d stop digging into my privacy. Every so often, she couldn’t help herself.

It was a small price to pay for being a romantic interest of the single most fabulous woman within Suicide Station.

According to Joan, this was the biggest crowd Maker’s has had—over capacity, in fact. Candy planted a lipstick kiss on my cheek. I’m so proud of you, Foster.

Yeah, what is it with the crowds lately? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not even remotely complaining about seeing standing room only. I do, however, find it a bit disconcerting that the club has been bursting at the seams—and a vast majority of the faces staring up at me, I’d never seen before. We’re talking Balki-level perfect strangers.

My bad eighties pop culture reference whizzed over Candy’s head. Given the population of Suicide Station, that is very possible—

I cut Candy short—a moment I might regret later. "I don’t know, something seems different with these people. They pick up on the strangest things, laugh at inopportune moments, and out existential my ism. The deep green pools of Candy’s eyes chipped away at my line of thought. It wasn’t until she blinked that I was able to recover. Am I making any sense?"

Candy leaned in and pressed her Krysten Ritter-esque lips to mine. My heart dubstepped a phrase or two as my libido clocked in at eleven.

A knock at the dressing room door put an instant kibosh on the moment. Without invite, Joan slipped in, an adorable smile plastered across her lips. You won’t believe this, Foster.

At this point in my death, Joan—

You’ll believe anything. This I know. However, there’s another full crowd waiting outside the door, demanding to see your show. We were about to close up shop. What do I do, turn them away? I’m Canadian, I can’t be that rude.

I looked to Candy. See what I mean? Something’s going on. I turned to Joan. "I would never tarnish your Great White North sparkling reputation. Koo lu ku ku koo lu ku ku koo. Another wasted eighties reference. Speaking of going on, let’s give those ‘Ciders what they want."

Hooray! Joan cried out. She gave me a wink, turned, and made her exit.

I refocused my attention on Candy. As for you, young lady…

A wicked grin spread wide across Candy’s lips.

I did my best Bogart. It’s your job to find out what’s happenin’, see. So get your gams hustlin’ back to headquarters and dig up whatever kind of dish you can. But before you go, why don’t you give this mook of a gumshoe somethin’ special to remember you by?

Candy winked. I like it when you talk my era.

Those in our inner circle knew Candy was rocking the cradle of love. According to her very own story, she arrived at Suicide Station during World War II, which put her somewhere around fifty years my senior. Fortunately for all involved, once you arrived at this particular Station, the aging process ceased. For all intents and purposes, Candy was a twenty-something stunner with an old soul.

Don’t worry, Donovan, I’ll get to the bottom of this.

After another kiss, Candy dashed out of the room. Shortly after, the bitter tang of David David entered my nostrils.

Paging Mr. Funny. David stepped into the dressing room. Oh, hell that woman smells as sweet as her namesake. Foster Donovan, you are one lucky Mother Fuuuu—

Shut yo’ mouth.

David nodded. I’m just talkin’ ‘bout Candy.

Ain’t she dandy?

Quicker than liquor.

And smoother than brandy.

David laughed hard enough that I could see his exposed brain quiver. You are something else, Donovan. One more thing, this crowd … nothing but millennials and hipsters.

Fucking hipsters, David and I said in unison.

From the house, chants of