Design For Power

By Joshua Holmes

Barely escaping a heavy seizure during a local bomb scare in York, Pa, along with his friends, Marshall and Lela Houston and Jethro Silva, Graphic Designer Remi Painter allows himself some time to recover and enjoy his newly-acquired design honor before pursuing more freelance work.

Just when Remi deems himself ready, however, Ray Townsend, old friend and a force to be reckoned with in the national fantasy football arena, shows an emotional wreck, accused of murdering a fantasy teammate over a bad trade.

Before he knows it, Remi is thrust into a fantasy underworld comprised of players who will do anything to win. Can Remi overcome the power struggle or will he succumb to forces far greater than he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Holmes
• Release date: Jul 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463184639

Joshua Holmes

A GRADUATE OF the Pennsylvania State University (M.Ed.), the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (B.A.), and the Art Institute of York-PA (B.S.), Joshua Holmes has studied the fine arts, design, and writing for over 20 years.The sole proprietor and lead designer of JAHbookdesign, he also specializes in all areas of publishing, graphic design, and illustration (portraiture, animation, and wildlife). He has been commissioned by numerous collectors and authors within the community, and has won several awards in various shows and fairs. He has authored an autobiography, a how to series, and two fiction series about life with epilepsy, seventeen novels to date - The Art of Pastel Mastery, The Art of Colored Pencil Mastery, The Art of Oil Paint Mastery, The Art of Graphite Pencil Mastery, Memory Lapse, Grand Mal, Seizure, Status, Trigger, Design To Kill, Design For Justice, Shattered Lung, Design To Escape, Design For Honor, Design For Power, Design For The Cure, and Painting The Whole Picture: Portrait of an Artist with Epilepsy - all of which are available in print, ebook, and audiobook.He attributes his success to the Lord, and the strength God gives him in order to persist and grow as a more patient and thorough artist and writer. A vision cut in both eyes from brain surgery for epilepsy, and CP in his right side since birth, with the Lord's help, Josh continues to write, to see more detail, and to improve with time.He encourages you to explore and exercise your creative side, and enjoy what the Lord does through it.Visit Joshua Holmes at his professional site jahbookdesign.com and at all online book distributors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SHADOW

HILLIARD WHITE KNEW what he immediately had to do: get informed. He presently lacked direction and was short on cash.

He hadn’t always been so quick to seek wisdom from outside sources, hadn’t always been so broke. But he learned his lesson when—after only one week—the presumed, highest scoring player in his Fantasy lineup, Simmion Lake, underperformed, and cost him a huge-paying win.

In the past, he procrastinated, wondering whether things would shape up, whether he should give the underperformer another chance, or go instead with a surprise benchwarmer.

Backup players sometimes outdid the famous first-stringers, after all, proving themselves hidden gems, repeatedly scoring above the projections, surprising everyone. Other times, not so much.

As with many risks, he then had to accept the outcomes, including unexplainable victory, repeat, sub-par performances, and loss.

You could get away with that mistaken approach in the basic Fantasy leagues, but not when playing with the big boys.

A lot more was at stake, as he faced a boatload of experience, chasing a title and a winning sum greater than your average working man’s salary.

He no longer debated player quality. No longer rustled a nervous hand through dark, matted hair. No longer added to his ample gut through stress eating.

He left it to the sports analysts, who knew better than anyone that loss wasn’t an option.

WHITE UNLOCKED THE door to his home office. In a yellowing t-shirt and boxers, he stepped beyond the narrow entrance, and into the room that opened into a comfortable workplace.

He crossed this space to his off-kilter, leather chair that embraced a nicked, mahogany desk. Atop the surface, his large, flat-screen desktop computer swirled a lazy screensaver.

He awakened his machine, browsed to the latest Fantasy news outlet, to acquire the needed information. He hoped for few surprises yet anticipated expert suggestions he likely overlooked.

The Yahoo outlet had an article that listed the week’s questionable players (first of whom was White’s RB Simmion Lake), gave updates on their status, and recommended the best trade moves.

He sunk his ample frame deeply into the chair, and paused a beat, before trying to get out of the doghouse and make a trade with one of his league mates.

A LONG CAST shadow slid across the floor, and crawled the spans of the monitor as Hilliard White furiously typed on the keys. He didn’t even notice.

He also checked his standings in the list of top Fantasy earners, his woeful number of trophies, discovered he was last, and was more motivated to make changes.

He next glanced at the members who comprised the league, at the season standings, and the players dropped and added at the bottom of the screen.

Behind White, a darker shadow filled the cast shadow and slid undetected toward him. Leaning forward, Hilliard saw Ray Townsend (team named Raystown) was willing to swap Bubba Braxton, the up and coming rookie QB of the hurting New York Giants, for an equally capable RB, possibly Hilliard White’s.

In the past—well, just about always—White and Townsend fought over the offers. They wanted to out-trade their opponent, yet ultimately relied on one another. It would be the same today.

The dark shadow evolved, looming larger, overtaking the cast shadow and taking on a human form. The man whose mammoth frame occupied the dark shadow called himself The Official. He made the rules and timed his call perfectly. He caught Hilliard mid-trade, hopeful yet perplexed, and totally oblivious to his presence. Hilliard received Townsend’s first and only trade offer—a proposed, two-for-one deal—and angrily declined it. He also emailed a note reiterating his displeasure.

THERE WAS NO need to draw this out. The Official had things to do and places to be, winnings to earn and spots to secure.

Serrated knife in hand, The Official raised his arm above his head, and prepared to thrust it downward, to dissolve the trade in progress.

Hilliard White felt a chilly draft float across his neck, like a frozen breath, and he reached back to massage along the nape of his collar.

He was tense, for sure. His neck cracked at every seam, and he would benefit from a visit to the chiropractor. Then again, no pain, no gain. Last minute, White turned from the terminal, noticing a change in his surroundings, and, perhaps, the impending attack. Instantaneously, he understood darkness and saw his attacker for who he was, but for only a second.

The Official wasted no time. The clock was ticking. His window of opportunity was open, yet quickly closing. And he advanced far into the Red Zone, so to speak.

With precision, The Official positioned himself, took aim, and adeptly inserted the knife blade. As he expected, White slumped forward, morphing into a fallen silhouette that encapsulated the entire room.

1

HAIL MARY

THE HONOR I was supposed to publicly accept at the Strand (called the Appell Center for the Performing Arts, upon rebuild) arrived instead via mail delivery to my apartment door in a nice box.

I enjoyed a strong feeling of pride and contentment for achieving my goal, creating a winning design and earning the award, even when everyone else expected my able- bodied foes—entrants without my condition, epilepsy, I mean—to put out better ideas and take the prize.

No question, it felt good to win. It always did. A constant reminder, the award was nicely framed, behind glass. I placed it on display in my room on the wall. Whenever possible, I took a moment to remember my accomplishment.

This competition wasn’t like many these days; a contest that merely awarded everyone for participating, or that defined success as trying. It was the real deal, a challenge with meaning.

The award money was an added bonus. Paid a few bills, and bought me a meal or two, anyway. My only complaint: I would have liked to give my planned, inspirational, acceptance speech. I didn’t need or desire the inevitable attention, just wanted a platform to encourage the audience, the struggling, in particular. And yet, the ceremony didn’t go down like that.

I seized before I climbed the stage staircase, and I returned to consciousness lost and in pain, no memory of the incident and utterly overcome by the devastating aftermath of a bombing.

My life unfolded according to Plan, but nevertheless without convention, a reality to which I’d grown accustomed, to the extent I could.

It seemed every project I took on developed amidst an unsavory character or shady ploy, and grew into a larger one. I got involved, often too deeply. And yet, in the end, I’d been spared, which meant something.

Even so, for months, in addition to my regular seizure attacks, I awoke at night with vivid re-imaginings of that day, scene replays akin to PTSD flashbacks, which disrupted not only my sleep, but also my freelance efforts.

I subsequently took the advice of a mentor, Marshall Houston (who also experienced near- death and trying rehabilitation), and adjusted my life’s pace, allowing time away from work to process and heal. It helped, and after a period of patient living, I felt I was ready to get back to the grind.

The grind, over the course of my career, included logo design, small business branding and marketing, nonprofit website development, even counseling.

Before I made my return official, however, with a daunting accusation of murder placed against him, gamer extraordinaire Ray Townsend called me.

He threw me a Hail Mary request for help, prompting immediate action, presenting an unexpected season I never saw coming.

ALL MY HARD work, Remi! All of it!

Not sure what you mean, Ray, I said. You’re a successful gamer.

Well, kiss it goodbye, bub. I don’t know how it survives this.

Apparently, Ray Townsend was at the York County Courthouse, temporarily out of his basement, holding cell, using one of two allotted five-minute calls to phone me, of all people.

I truly wanted to understand, to problem-solve and assuage my old friend’s fears. It wasn’t everyday he contacted me beyond troubled, looking for answers.

Hang in there, dude, I said. If you are innocent then this should go away.

My career could be over! For real, man. Over!

How? I continued. How’s it even possible?

Oh, it’s possible, he said. Believe me. Perception nowadays is everything.

Just about. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I tried. Back up. Start at the beginning.

The beginning, he said. Geez Remi. I only have a few minutes. I mean I told you I got up early, checked my standings, was trying to make a trade with Hilliard White.

A bad overall draft? I asked. Or a bad first week?

Neither really, he said. Most players surpassed their projections.

You lost, though.

Yeah, he said. But that doesn’t mean….

You’re right, it doesn’t mean anything yet. Hear me out.

There were a lot of injuries. And I had to immediately replace Bubba Braxton, one of the best players in my lineup, if I was to have any shot at the Super Bowl and the big prize.

In the process, things got heated, I presumed.

Yeah. But it usually is tense when I try to make a fair swap.

"Because of the money involved. Because someone has to sacrifice or ends up on the losing