Privilege and Other Stories

By HL Jones

The second collection of short stories from HL Jones, released for free during the coronavirus crisis.

Privilege. A field agent from another dimension investigates the power that money has on mankind, and pushes the privilege of wealth to an extreme conclusion.
Too Hot. Mankind is being attacked but it's OK - after all, profit is the American dream.
Lend Me Your Ears. A man and a ghost are the last inhabitants of a spaceship looking for a new home for humanity.
The Rise of the Mummy. The cursed undead remain of a Pharoah finds a job.
Bewildered Bees. The ruling class need to implant the letter B into popular culture for reasons only known to management.
The Time Travelling Chef: Sorrow. Part 1 of The Time Travelling Chef series. Rocco must travel time and space to find the first ingredient for a questionable meal.
King Charles. A common thief has a pint with a ghost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HL Jones
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463796115

HL Jones

HL Jones was born and raised in Bristol UK. In fact he still lives within a stone's throw of his childhood home because the rest of the world is too serious and scary. Plus there's a fortune in Star Wars and Transformers toys buried in the back garden still.As punishment for squandering his teenage years on drinking white cider and hanging about in multistorey car parks, the government decided to tear down his old schools and build shiny new academies instead. This upset him so much that he decided to boycott driving until the age of 26, then got a job driving the length of the country fixing what his father lovingly called "haunted fishtanks". It was during these frequent trips away from home that he started to write fiction, usually when sat in hotel bars getting rat-assed on whatever homebrew the northerners decided to put on the cheap tap. He impressed the denizens of Bradford with his cider-hardened liver so much that they invited him to live with them for a few years. It was during this time that he got some really serious drinking/writing under his belt, and surprised himself by winning a few short-story competitions. Convinced that he was actually a chimp that could type, Bradford petitioned to have him removed from West Yorkshire.On his return to God's Country he was hailed a hero, and given the key to the city ("the key" being "a car ride" and "the city" being "Wetherspoons"). He spends his free time watching the Chicago Bears through his fingers, playing Magic: The Gathering (mono Blue all day), and hoping that Disney makes an X-Wing game in VR soon.On a serious note I am publishing as much material as I can in 2020 for free. This year is beyond hardship; Australia was on fire, the plague has returned, the US Navy have confirmed the existence of alien spacecraft, the global economy is cracking, and America is spiralling into another civil war. If I can cheer up a couple of people with my work then I'll be happy.Take care of yourself, look after your loved ones, and help others if you can. We are all human after all.

Book preview

Privilege and Other Stories

HL Jones

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 HL Jones

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Contents

Privilege

Too Hot

Lend Me Your Ears

The Rise of the Mummy

Bewildered Bees

The Time Travelling Chef – Sorrow

King Charles

Privilege

The dusty shop is small, almost empty, and in need of repair and resupply. Peeling paint and dust is in abundance. The burly shopkeeper is reading a day-old paper and smoking a cigarette. He regards me warily over the headline. What do you want, comrade?

Cigarettes, I say hastily. I want cigarettes. Having never smoked before, I don’t know if I like cigarettes, but I feel that I must ask for something.

The shopkeeper pulls a slim box from under the counter. Cigarettes are a luxury, comrade. They are bad for your health. He puts the pack on the wooden counter but doesn’t lift his hand. Do you have the appropriate Privilege?

I remember this from the brief and pull a wad of papers from my dirty jacket. His eyes widen – with greed or pleasure, I cannot tell - and I extract a single note from the tied bundle. Is this sufficient?

The ‘keeper examines the note with blatant suspicion; such a shabbily-clothed person wouldn’t normally be in possession of such a thing. This is too much for cigarettes, he says at last, satisfied with the validity of the slip, and gives me a smaller note in return together with the cigarettes. I nod in thanks and leave the pokey shop.

It is a drab grey day. The pavement is made of cracked slabs and withered weeds that grow valiantly wherever possible. Rubbish bags and leaves whip down the road caught in the cold winter breeze. Several hungry grubby children play on a patch of ground on the other side of the empty road. I look at the rectangular slip in my hand; it is a smaller version of the note I gave to the shopkeeper. It is a mini art of work, exquisitely-designed and filled with symbolic imagery on both sides. There are some numbers on the corners and edges but I have no idea what they mean. In bold letters is the phrase I promise, and nothing more. This note is enough to give me permission to ride a bus or buy a snack from a restaurant, but it doesn’t matter; I have bigger Privileges in my pocket. I let the slip fall from my hand and it flutters in the direction of the kids. I put one of the cigarettes to my lips and stop a passing man for a flame. He taps his own lips in response, so I give him a cigarette and we light them from the same flame. He nods and walks on; it amazes me how quickly a bond can be made between two people, if only for a fleeting moment. I inhale. The smoke constricts my lungs and I cough. I feel dizzy for a moment but it soon passes. Interesting. I drop the cigarette on the floor; such things can wait for now. The Privilege slip I dropped has reached the children and they have started to scuffle over it, their previous friendships forgotten in the name of quick personal gain. The largest child snatches the slip from another and begins to beat him in the head with a metal bar. It is bloody. I watch with morbid curiosity, as do the other children. Finally the victor drops the pole and the children gradually return to their play a little way from the unmoving loser. Did the possession of Privileges trump everything, including life? An idea strikes me. I turn and re-enter the shop.

Why have you returned, comrade? The shopkeeper says as he continues reading his paper.

I want to hurt you, I reply.

Without looking at me, the shopkeeper brings out a firearm and slams it on the counter. You are welcome to try. It is a threat and a promise and, from his relaxed demeanor, isn’t the first time he had responded to violence. This does not surprise me considering the dilapidation and immorality of this place. However, it is the first time I have faced the possibility of being shot, so I pull out the wad of slips again and put them onto the counter as slowly as possible. The ‘keeper watches the passage of the notes, mesmerised by it. I have a feeling that my idea about the power of these Privilege slips is true, but I must prove it without doubt.

I want to hurt you, I repeat.

He glances between the wad and me, probably trying to work out how much damage I can cause him. Close the door. Make it quick. He puts the gun away.

I push the door together with a click and then haul the surprised shopkeeper across the counter. I unleash what little rage I have against him, forcing myself to be angry against this man whom I have absolutely no feelings towards. I drop him with a devastating uppercut, stamp on his head thrice, and then toss him into the shop racking. He yells in pain but I pay no heed; I’m entitled to do this to him thanks to the Privilege slips. He raises his hands to protect himself as I approach but they cannot defend against a few powerful kicks. I beat him for another minute or so until he is laying face-down on the floor in a pool of blood. He is not dead – I’m careful to stop the beating before he is mortality wounded – but it is necessary to take him to the very brink of death. I lean over the counter and take his gun. I’m aware that this next step may prove to be a fatal mistake, but I must do it. The shopkeeper raises his head a little as I squat next to him, his eyes fearful. I point the revolver at his cracked and bleeding head; it is a fine specimen of the craft. Even in such squalor, guns are generally expensive and well-kept. I check that the chambers are loaded, cock the hammer, and then put the gun into the palm of the battered man. Your weapon, I say.

The man stares at the gun in his hand – maybe I’ve beaten him too senseless – but he struggles to a sitting position and, thankfully, puts the gun on the floor. Leave me comrade, he whispers, glancing at the thick pile of Privileges still on the shop counter. I nod and leave the shop, careful to lock the door behind me so the man can recuperate in peace. I cannot help but feel satisfied despite my aching hands. After I had seriously harmed the man, he did not retaliate, even