Mean Eileen

By M. Wade Backman

Determined reader beware, for these luxurious characters and their confounding antics are not for the faint of heart or morally upright. This is the incredible “true” story of a lovelorn white shark, the devil, an impossibly perfect woman, and a billionaire President of the United States---- who seriously suspects he may be God Almighty.

 

To make matters worse, the commander-in-chief, is also worried that he may have inadvertently forfeited his immortal soul to the dark side, before he suddenly comes to realize that his harrowing predicament is even worse than that. He is dying.

 

Zombies and reincarnation seem to be lurking around every sharp-corner in this hellish twister fraught with gratuitous violence, sex, drugs, golf, and of course championship bowling that will permanently warp even the strongest psyche past page one. Fight Club meets Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, sandwiching a disturbed weirdness unseen since the original black and white Twilight Zone TV series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480873360

M. Wade Backman

M. WADE BACKMAN is a retired deputy sheriff and former bodyguard to prominent members of the Saudi royal family. He’s also a member of the Screen Actor’s Guild in Hollywood, California. This is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2019 M. Wade Backman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7337-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7335-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7336-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900402

Archway Publishing rev. date: 3/15/2019

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

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And there was a war in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought, and his angels prevailed not; neither was their place found anymore in heaven. And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent called the Devil and Satan; which deceived the whole world; he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him … Therefore rejoice, ye heavens and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabitors of the earth and of the sea for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath …

—Revelation 12:7–9, 12

I T WAS THEIR FIRST HONEYMOON TOGETHER.

Kristoffer leaned in like the elected royalty he had recently become and inhaled Eileen’s sweet-smelling French perfume directly from her long, slender, dangerously exposed throat while they sat together on a big red velvet sofa beneath fifty-six flapping American flags.

She couldn’t help but giggle, somewhat self-consciously.

The potential manipulations are positively incalculable, he whispered, loitering amid her ample cleavage just a little bit longer.

That tickles me, Kristoffer, she declared. Eileen jostled her gargantuan emerald and diamond teardrop earrings as she playfully turned away from him, carrying her sly clever smile along with her.

Yeah? he said, accidentally spilling some of his precious Cuban rum. He turned away from her and drank it straight out of the bottle he was holding—a Costco-sized bottle.

Careful, she said, casually trying to warn him. But she was too late, as she watched him carelessly spill some more right in his own lap. She had him mesmerized with her witchy ways—she damn well already knew at least that much.

Holy shit, he squealed, half-seriously. I dropped some more.

She shrugged her bare shoulders indifferently.

No big deal. You’re right, he said, simmering down. I should know that by now. Quit trying to micromanage, he reminded himself. We’re okay.

It’s not like we’re going to run out real soon, anyway, she said, sarcastically looking at the numerous antique crates and cases of expensive rum, scotch, whiskey, and bourbon haphazardly stacked around them and sparkling like newly discovered pirate’s booty. I mean, seriously.

Washington D fucking C! he shouted. He hung his drunken head backward until he got a severe case of the spins and had to rapidly straighten himself back up on the black marble bench beneath them now. Whoa.

Whoa, Nelly, she said seductively, chugging straight from her own bottle. It was whiskey.

Before long, they were both staring rapturously into each other’s bloodshot eyes again. They were sprawled out together on a brass frame king-size bed at the base of the Washington Monument—the tallest stone structure ever erected on earth. And it was all lit up at night, just for them.

It gets so much better than this, he promised after stealing a hit of her whiskey, only temporarily distracting her.

She stared at him and listened intently. Really?

Unbelievably better, he whispered, almost as if it was some sort of a secret. A top-secret. Your mind is going to expand like a helium balloon.

Will it make me talk with a funny voice? she asked as she humorously crinkled her brow. Yeah?

He chuckled nervously. When it comes to this place, mortality is lurking around every single corner, baby. You have to live every breath full of life like it really is your last.

Seriously? she asked naïvely.

Absolutely, he muttered, mostly to himself. He was already so drunk he could not properly focus his new blue eyes on anything for very long at all. He even tried blinking them excessively until one time when he just forgot to reopen them at all.

Eileen was amused to watch him fade out. She easily snatched back her bottle of booze while he wasn’t looking and stood up away from the bed. Hey, open your eyes and gimme some cannabis, bitch.

"Mean Eileen," he said affectionately, as he merrily rolled out of the bed as well, right before it vanished between them altogether.

Come on, Kristoffer, she whined impatiently. She took a swig of whiskey and crinkled her brow irresistibly again. Don’t forget about me. I’m here too.

He lethargically blinked his blurry eyes to life—they seemed to be working better now, too, as he gradually straightened himself back up. Sorry about that, chief.

She smiled wolfishly. Okay.

He abruptly stopped getting taller, then leaned backward again. No problem, baby babe.

I don’t want to do this alone, she said in furtherance of her case. Not the first time at least.

He eventually pulled an open hard-pack from one of his tuxedo jacket pockets. He deliberately began opening it.

She waited patiently though despite the fact they were already surrounded by glittering cases and cartons filled with fresh brand-new cannabis cigarettes—hundreds of sealed, untaxed cartons and individual packages she could have already easily opened for herself. It’s the principle of the thing, she thought. Plus, she wanted to test her power over him while he was weak.

Here we go, he said as he finally produced two mildly bent smokes. Lighting them both simultaneously, he handed one to her and kept one for himself. Just for you, my love.

Hot-boxed, she said, briefly making a sour face as she brought it back down from her plump red lips.

You’re welcome, he said as he inhaled the mellow white smoke with an improving erection in his pants.

She exhaled and purposely pushed the smoke right back into his plastered face. How’s that? she said playfully. Are you feeling me?

Wonderful, he said carelessly. While his miraculous boner faded as rapidly as it had arrived, he took another long drag of smoke. Sure, I’m certainly feeling you.

Seriously, she said. Eileen held out her joint to examine it more carefully in its custom onyx holder. This stuff really is the shit, isn’t it?

Fucking awesome sauce, he replied. Kristoffer took an even closer look at his own. Better than the real thing. How often can you say that?

That’s why they want to ban it. Bad for business, she said. She guzzled down a whole lot more booze. Just like this wonderfully drinkable stuff. They are going to fuck this place up too—just wait.

"Bad for business, he repeated disdainfully. Bad for whose business? Fuck that noise. And for God’s sake, kill all the lawyers. How many times do I have to say that? Don’t anybody forget that part. Every motherfucking one of them zombies. They have it coming."

I guess … I’m getting pretty drunk already … aren’t we? she said in sort of a considerate response to what he’d just plainly said. Anyway, she wisely changed the subject. So then, Mr. P? What’s next for tonight?

You’ll love it, he promised.

Well, what is it? she gushed.

That caused him to accidentally drop the remainder of his joint right off the tip of his drunkenly wagging tongue. I’m just so clumsy right now. My clothes feel funny, too. Do yours?

Mine feel fine, she said as she seductively squeezed her perfect breasts together with both hands, one holding her smoke, the other a bottle of Jack. I feel practically naked all the time if you want to know the truth.

The truth is good. He nodded, keeping a straight face. If you want to know the truth, I think you should strip off all your clothes right now—well, everything but the boots.

We’ll have plenty of time for that later, Kristoffer. Come on—gimme a hint. What’s next?

He snickered devilishly as they sat down on a black marble bench together again.

What is it? she said as she started to feel a bit dizzy. You’re drunk.

Well, of course I’m drunk—you are correct—but what’s next? he said, deviously diving down into her cleavage just one more time, muffling the rest of his response. "I’m going to murder you baby babe."

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HRH Blackfeather held onto the reins of his newest steampunk beast tightly. It was a sleek brass-riveted shiny silver and dull copper fantasy limousine. It was dragging a long gray tail of ghostly fog behind it as it barely squeezed through the rapidly darkening gridlocked streets of Washington, DC, only a few hours after the last presidential inauguration, ever, in the short-lived history of the democratic United States of America.

HRH Blackfeather’s personal valet and bagman Mr. Beige offered some enthusiastic encouragement from his place in the plush front passenger seat. You’ve got it now, Your Royal Highness. You’re doing great.

Beige continued to smoke freely, madly, from a pleasantly yellowed meerschaum pipe he held loosely in his right hand. You’ve got it.

Blackfeather had never been in an automobile before that fateful evening, let alone driven one. And at such considerable speed. He glanced skeptically over at Beige. I should be asking more fucking questions, man, he said.

Yes, Majesty, Mr. Beige said as he also prudently pocketed his still-smoldering cannabis-laced pipe.

Blackfeather brushed some of his thick, long, dirty-blond hair away from his gray-bearded regal Viking face. Fucking A, man, he said, clearly becoming increasingly frustrated by the utter strangeness of it all. This isn’t normal, man.

Ask me anything you want, Majesty, Mr. Beige said clumsily.

Forget that right now. I see something dangerous-looking coming up ahead, Blackfeather said while he squirmed in his mushy seat. Cops.

I think it’s okay, Majesty, Mr. Beige said, pretending to be composed even though he certainly was not. I-I think it’s fine.

Well, shit, Blackfeather said as he smacked his rubber flip-flops all over the dense jungle-green carpeted floorboard beneath his uneasy feet. He even thought he’d heard the loud knocking sounds of a raven right before he desperately extended his legs like Stretch Armstrong toward the ever-distant brake pedal. Finally, he realized he could improve no more.

What, Majesty? Mr. Beige said as he tried to hide behind the camouflage of an open 1960s travel magazine. It was one of those old-fashioned rags they used to make out of 100 percent recycled paper.

It’s gone, the King declared excitedly.

What, Majesty? Beige responded nonchalantly as he carefully turned another yellowed page from his magazine.

The brake pedal thing … HRH said as he hastily returned his dilated pupils to the constricting roadway up ahead. There’s no brake pedal thing. We’re going to die, man.

We’re okay, Beige whispered.

The King did a double-take after he saw the gleaming black raven perched on his manservant’s far shoulder.

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The boy, who at the time was still a relatively normal, beardless child in the first grade of his small-town elementary-school education, was about to have the rest of his life irrevocably changed. He was about to become a self-made genius.

It all happened purely by accident during the morning recess, the first recess of the day on a cold December morning. It was a Monday, moon day.

The boy was hanging upside-down from an attractive nuisance—the infamous schoolyard rings of yesteryear, when an unanticipated muscle cramp in his left leg caused him to abruptly drop headfirst toward the ground far below like some sort of a whistling cartoon bomb.

Strangely, the initial impact between the top of his head and the hard, damp sand below him was practically a toll-free experience. In a word fascinating best described how it felt, because everything he could see afterward was suddenly black and white and silent, like an ancient movie. But the pleasant popcorn smell and his initial euphoria lasted only a split-second before the sound of a distant bell rapidly overpowered his hearing from the inside out. And while the excruciating pain began to reorder his brain, dozens of tiny comets began flashing out of nowhere toward his dimmed, crossing eyes while the weight began to devour him like a severe case of the deep-sea bends.

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Two surfers were doing their thing out on the heavy, storm-swollen water as Natalee and Veronica, a pair of beach babes, arrived on the otherwise empty beach.

Snow was falling.

I have never seen anything like this, Natalee said, a snowstorm at the beach—and in July.

Never, Veronica said. Ever.

That’s when something even creepier out in the jostling water suddenly merited Natalee’s undivided attention.

Natalee stopped running in place and stared out toward Jerry and HRH Blackfeather, who were straddling their long heavy-metal surfboards just beyond the breaking waves.

Veronica continued running in place beside Natalee. Shading her gorgeous eyes, she looked out that way as well. I don’t see. What’s wrong, Natalee?

What is that, Veronica? Natalee asked, becoming more and more concerned. It’s not a shark, is it?

Veronica stopped running and looked even harder. There’s no fin, she said. Natalee, it’s probably just a seal.

I don’t think so. Natalee paused to think, but only briefly. I’m going to tell them.

Okay.

Natalee frantically waved her arms, trying her best to get Jerry or the King’s attention on the perfectly flat water. Hey, over here, she yelled.

Jerry, one of the King’s bodyguards, eventually noticed Natalee and casually waved back at her. Who is that? he asked Blackfeather.

Blackfeather turned and optimistically waved-back at them. I have no idea, man. Maybe some righteous sun babies looking at jumping our bones, he said.

Think? Jerry said hesitantly.

Oh, yeah, Blackfeather said confidently. They clearly want some random lovin’.

By now, Veronica and Natalee were both pointing, jumping up and down on the beach.

What are they doing? Blackfeather said, puzzled.

Let’s paddle in and check them out, Jerry suggested. If they’re hags, we can always bail back into the sea, right?

That works, HRH said, smiling. But that kind of freaky idea quickly faded as he noticed something strange floating on the surface of the water a dozen or so yards behind the two of them. Whoa, I think that’s a person over there. Is that a person?

Jerry was surprised at their discovery. I think you’re right, he said quickly.

Jerry and HRH bravely bellied down and paddled toward whatever it was. But almost as soon as they got closer, Jerry abruptly sat straight up and straddled his longboard while an unanticipated chill viciously wound its way down his entire spine. Face down, he said rather apprehensively. Oh, dude, that one’s a goner, positively.

Blackfeather stayed down on his rusty metal-riveted board, barely glancing over at Jerry as he bravely paddled right past him. You don’t know fer sure. Come on—we’ll flip him over. CPR might still work.

No way, Jerry said pessimistically after he watched the King streak by. Seriously?

Blackfeather grabbed the left arm of the corpse just as soon as he arrived, aggressively revealing a very familiar-looking tattoo. In fact, it was an identical match to the one Jerry had inked across his own left shoulder.

But when Jerry showed up just a second later, he didn’t have time to notice it, because after the bloated body unexpectedly rolled over, he and the King both recoiled, almost in unison.

No head, Jerry shrieked, galvanized by the high pitch of his own voice. At the same time, he frantically used both of his feet, legs, and flailing arms to back away as fast as he could. Head is gone.

Well, shit, HRH said as he swiftly paddled backward himself. Let’s get out of here, man.

But, Jerry said, feeling strangely drawn to the victim. We’re already here.

I don’t touch dead people, Blackfeather said dubiously. This is a crime scene.

Exactly, Majesty, Jerry said. Maybe there is some sort of monetary reward or something.

There’s no reward, Blackfeather said decisively adjusting the gold crown on his head. Do you want to be some porker’s breakfast today?

Jaws isn’t out here, bro, I mean, Majesty, Jerry said unconvincingly. Come on—grab a foot.

Grab a foot? HRH replied incredulously. Where is Beige? Whose bodyguard, are you?

Back on the beach, Veronica gasped asthmatically as she suddenly recognized a human leg being lifted out of the water.

Oh, God, it’s a person, Natalee said as she grabbed for her cornflower-blue cell phone. I’m calling 9-1-1 right now.

Call, Veronica said, desperately jiggling. Call.

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I love this place! Natalee said as she methodically loaded her custom glass and brass grenade launcher while the hard and heavy desert winds continuously pelted her with sharp sand. She had to shout so the entire team could hear her in the storm. For every zombie motherfucker we kill today … well …

There’s one less motherfucking zombie? Veronica said, teasing Natalee in a competitive, right-before-the-bloody-battle sort of way.

Let’s just complete the mission, Jack said as he strapped up his favorite equestrian riding boots while the wind started to howl even louder. The little picture is not our concern.

"The little picture is my concern, Jack, the boy grumbled. Fucking A, I was the President here, man."

Whatever, Jack said, visibly heaving his big barrel chest as he stared down at the unflappable 7-year old. Besides—

It’s like being a cop, right? Once a president always a president, the boy drunkenly persisted, struggling to remain upright on his tired, aching feet. And for all we know, I may be the president again. Understand?

No, Eileen said bluntly, smoking a blunt.

How did you even light that in this shit storm? the boy said, looking quite impressed.

What makes you think you were ever the President, man? Veronica asked as she locked a two-hundred-round ammo drum onto her fabulous new glow-in-the-dark AK-47 assault rifle. Do you have anything official to prove it? Photo ID or maybe a badge?

What about some currency? Eileen shouted as she adjusted the camo-green goggles