The Monster of T: Hunter

By Tobey Truestory

No one understands what the Monster of T truly is, and some even discourage Adam from hunting it down. They don't know that he hunts his prey to get a specific answer to a personal question.
Given a unique mastery over a poetic perspective of life, he follows words on pieces of paper that dance in riddles. There is a secret world few know about. Those who do are either his allies or mysterious foes. All of them are tied to the answer he seeks, an answer he's starting to realize he might not want, but he can't turn from his path.
Not when it's time to put so many things to rest.
In his past are songs. He sings them to convince himself of the favorable resolution he wishes to have.
Though, the clues he follows seem only to encourage a journey without an end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359990665

Book preview

The Monster of T: Hunter

The Monster of

T

Book One

-Hunter-

Tobey Truestory

Edited and design assistance by Carol Petro

Cover art by Gabriel Iumazark

First Edition Published 2019 by Lulu

www.lulu.com

ISBN: 978-0-359-99066-5

Copyright © August 2019 Tobey Truestory

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the U.S.A.

Hunter

– somebody who seeks out a particular type of person or thing, especially as an occupation or hobby

Pursues, chases, trails….

The abandonment of one self….

…to find oneself.

For the language of dreams

1

The curtains to the pub swept open, and a large and lank shadow stretched across the cobble flooring. A poem, perhaps a haiku, danced on the tip of a patron’s tongue, which described this figure:

At shadow’s birthplace,

Can a lie be conveyed such,

By one sly dancer.

He stalked forward with his back straight and shoulders square. There was something uncomfortable about the way his neck sat, angled forward, bringing his chin level with his collarbone. Yet his eyes saw straight ahead, following the absence of color that slithered before him—proof he was adhering to the natural laws of this world governed by those giant inhabitants of heaven reflecting light or manifesting their own radiance. Some, however, might argue such evidence is irrelevant to being human, while others insist ‘facts’ can be fabricated.

Another patron glanced out through the adobe border that offered a limited snapshot of the world beyond. He was curious about the time. That lank shadow was playing tricks on his mind.

Too many of God’s creations moved in the lighter world of color outside this bottomless well of sorrow’s temporary death. Too many laughs. Too much production. So much conversation. Shadows there, shadows passing, shadows landing and then gliding to leave their owners during a jolly skip over a rock or puddle, and then reuniting.  

Nothing was reliable to sate his momentary confusion. Best to stick with the phenomena of life then, as the drowning of sorrow usually invited.

Yet this guy, this twister of the earth’s regulations, knew how to borrow the hue of his shadow. Even at his back, just before the curtain fell behind him, the tincture of his garment left the onlooker hesitant.

When the curtain fell, those adobe borders in the walls reminded the depressed where their wet suicides were, but they found out he was the source of their gloom.

And he smiled at this fact.

Legends have always depicted heroes and villains, anti-heroes and heroines as swaths along a beach of sand where the tide hadn’t influenced. Though good legends often revealed disappointing truth, contradicting an otherwise stereotypical hope or curse. The hero could hate while the villain could love.

Labels weren’t always the best way to write something off, especially when one’s perspective was questionable.

Though, this lank figure did motivate. Inspiration was unmistakable, and the gift of providing it was only possessed by the adorned. Therefore, some amount of respect was owed this man, no matter in what spectrum of fate he stood.

When he walked, the cobbles narrated his trip from the pub’s entrance to an empty seat at the bar. With one motion, he slid his arm out, his black leather sleeve whispering along the wooden countertop, and he lifted a single finger.

The bartender nodded at the silent request.

The leather brushed against the polished wood once more as the man retracted his arm, folding it with the other along the counter’s edge.

The bartender slipped a shot in front of him a moment later. The man gripped the shot glass, admired the clear charge that swayed within, and threw it back.

The room held its breath in that one swift gulp, a singular motion that only the brave would consider a vulnerable moment to any external blight. Yet if any had the gall, none were quick enough to execute, and the time had passed.

He slammed the empty shot glass down on the bar, let out a great sigh, and turned to his left.

I heard you were searching for me, he spoke in a gleeful hiss.

The patron on that neighboring stool said nothing. His eyes were closed, and his head was bowed over a bowl of soup.

The man in black stared at this motionless fellow. The room held its breath once more, but it was under this fellow’s influence now.

That gleeful glinting of teeth dropped to a snarl when that collective suffocation wouldn’t release. What man would ignore an opportunity like this?

The motionless neighbor opened his eyes with one word, Amen.

His head remained bowed over the bowl of soup. He took the handle of the spoon that sat within and lifted a mouthful to his lips. He blew, coaxing the rising steam to bend the other way. Then, he swallowed it.

The man in black leaned toward him, as though he wasn’t heard but refused to speak any louder. He was grinning once more, When the prey offers itself, does the predator lose interest in the sport?

The bowing neighbor savored his soup.

Or, the man in black chuckled to himself, maybe the predator’s fangs have been chiseled down, its claws dulled.

The bowing neighbor blew on another spoonful.

The man in black leaned even closer, dropping his voice to a whisper, Or maybe, the roles have reversed. The predator now the prey. Isn’t that how I’m here now, finding you?

The bowing neighbor swallowed some more soup. When the spoon tinked against the lip of the bowl, the room held its breath once more.

"At fate’s call

Do you submit?

A blind man’s flaw

Could change, lest you quit."

The man in black backed away from his motionless neighbor. What?

The bowing fellow turned his deep-blue eyes on the man in black, Tell me, do you know the next lines of the riddle?

Another collective breath drained the air from the pub. All eyes fixed upon the man in black. His arrogant grin was gone, replaced by yet another snarl. Riddle? What does a riddle have to do with anything?

His neighbor bowed over the bowl of soup again.

"Though like a blind man’s senses be,

A sharp perception through insight,

A Hunter seeks what is promised to thee,

With diligence and stubborn might."

That collective breath eased out among the rows of chairs that gathered around the old wooden tables in the pub.

The man in black was shuddering. His fists were tightening, wanting to become harder. What meaning is in this riddle?

You don’t know? his neighbor said with a smirk. He ate another spoonful of soup before he continued. It says I must be focused. I must remain focused. No distractions. He regarded the man in black. Why are you trying to distract me? Who are you?

The dark man tried to hide his embarrassment from the audience at his back. Yet even the quickening of his reaming blood exposed any timid hints that lilted upon that frigid air, any that had the slightest tickle to a single nose hair, chin stubble, or loose hair, causing a gawking patron to shiver. Nothing was hidden.

He tried to save face by presenting his gleeful, hissing smile again. Ha! Who am I? My identity is known. Ask any man here. They’ll tell you my name. Now, one who can be named by any random patron, that has to tell you I’m one of great credit.

The same could be said of me, the bowing fellow responded, and then blew upon another spoonful of soup. Though my name isn’t known, you know who I am, because you came straight up to me. He slurped the soup.

Yeah, you’re known, the man in black snorted. The one who’s hunting a monster. Everyone knows about you.

Then you as well know that you are distracting me, the bowing fellow said.

From a monster? the man in black chuckled. Hardly. The monster sits beside you.

The bowing fellow paused. Then he dipped the spoon into the soup, lifted it to his mouth, and blew. Depends on your definition of a monster.

The man in black was chuckling again. One could hardly mistake a monster, my friend. Why, one who defies a simple man’s logic, tickles a rich man’s bounty call, and challenges a wise man’s understanding can only be described as a monster. Am I wrong?

After swallowing the soup, the bowing man dipped another spoonful, A simple man I may be, a rich man I am not, and a wise man I hope to one day be, but monsters, real monsters aren’t limited to such definition.

Really? the man in black responded. Well there’s only one monster here that I know of, regardless of a so-called difference of opinion. The majority rules, as they say, so ask any man here. They will name the monster for you.

Does a monster need a name? the bowing fellow asked and slurped his soup.

It’s more than a name, the man in black replied. It’s a title. A mantle he wears which everyone recognizes and knows to fear and respect. The name should crack like thunder in someone’s mouth when they speak it.

What if there is no name?

Then how would you acknowledge it? the man in black asked.

By its purpose.

The purpose is to inspire fear.

In the hunter? the bowing fellow snickered. No, my friend. Respect, maybe, as a hunter sees the prey as a necessary part of the world.

Necessary, eh? the man in black questioned. Monsters don’t care about fulfilling anything but what they themselves desire.

True, said the bowing fellow. Even monsters want to live.

And if that monster tempts his fate? asked the man in black.

Then that monster raises the stakes.

For who?

For both the hunter and the prey.

The man in black leaned forward. And so how does the hunter respond?

The bowing fellow took another spoonful of soup and swallowed. By obliging the prey.

Then why do you hesitate? the man in black asked.

I’m not hesitating, the bowing fellow responded. I have yet to discover my prey.

Like I said before, the man in black laughed, there’s only one monster in this town.

My focus hasn’t wavered yet, the bowing fellow said. I know my road, and I know my prey.

Your road, the man in black scoffed. A man of such reputation can’t see that he’s found what he’s been looking for. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve forgotten what it was you were doing with yourself.

The bowing fellow placed his spoon in the bowl and left it to rest there.

"I entered this land by way of Table Bay, an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s overlooked by Table Mountain in southwestern South Africa. I dodged the seduction of a tzigane, tried a tyropita, even the tzatziki, learned the Tyrolienne, traveled along the edge of the Tyrrhenian Sea, watched the tedders ted the hayfields, listened to Te igitur before Catholic Mass, ‘te igitur clementissime Pater’: thee, therefore, most merciful Father, as it begins, and then they sung Te Deum during morning prayer, ‘Thee God, we praise’…"

By now, the man in black was staring with his jaw hanging to the side. The other patrons listened as they snuggled their mugs of alcohol closer.

"I even witnessed a tableau vivant," the bowing fellow added.

What’s that? the bartender asked, catching the man in black off guard.

People imitating a picture, the bowing fellow said. A representation of a scene by a group in appropriate costume, posing silent and motionless.

Oh, the bartender said, and backed away.

The bowing fellow turned his blue eyes toward the man in black again,

"Tell me, my friend. Do you know the meaning of the word tacit?"

What? the man in black spat.

It means implied but not expressed.

The man in black kept staring.

The blue-eyed fellow smirked, Something that’s understood or implied without being stated openly.

That got a quiet round of chuckles from the audience at the man in black’s back. He turned a sneer over his shoulder. Then he glared at the blue-eyed fellow. A man’s focus is not so sharp that he spends every waking hour of the day with his prey on his mind. What man like that could keep his wits about him within social circles?

Oh, but I am always aware of my surroundings, the blue-eyed fellow said. That’s a Hunter’s merit. I may even be an opportunist.

An opportunist? asked the man in black.

The blue-eyed fellow turned to face the waitress that stood in a corner behind the bar, listening to the conversation like everyone else.

Ma’am, he addressed her and she flinched. Might I ask a request of you?

Uh, y-yes? she peeped, hugging a damp towel to her belly.

"Could you prepare for me a tabbouleh?"

The waitress blinked in surprise.

What is that? the man in black retorted.

A Southwest Asian salad made with bulgur wheat, the blue-eyed fellow answered.

Bulgur wheat? the bartender asked.

Yes, the blue-eyed fellow said. Dried, cracked wheat. A common ingredient in Southwestern Asian and vegetarian cooking.

The waitress tilted her head slightly, fluttering her eyes as she cracked a slight grin. Yes, she said, her brow furrowing, though she continued to grin.

An Asian salad, you said? the bartender asked.

Yes, the blue-eyed fellow answered. "Where the teak trees stand, and the teasel."

What are you talking about? the man in black demanded.

"Or does this establishment have a table d’hôte?" the blue-eyed fellow asked.

Um, we do, sir, the waitress nodded, her grin widening as her eyes brightened, I can prepare one for you if you’d like.

You can? the bartender questioned.

I’d appreciate that, ma’am, the blue-eyed fellow said.

The waitress curtsied with a blush and disappeared through a curtain to the back of the pub.

The blue-eyed fellow addressed the bartender and the man in black. Her posture, her gestures, refined by so many influences. I assumed such discipline included a unique culinary knowledge, and the way she wore her hair, it reminded me of the Asian influence. Perhaps she enjoyed herself so much there that it left an impression.

Then his eyes settled on the man in black. "Typology."

Huh?

The study or systematic classification of types, said the blue-eyed fellow.

Pssh. So you’ve been all over, the man in black spat. Sounds to me like you’ve been doing nothing but running around killing time. You’re no hunter. You’re a tourist. This place is just another one of your stops. He was leaning away from the fellow with a sigh as he spoke.

The blue-eyed fellow bowed over his bowl of soup as he said, The rest of the riddle…

The man in black scoffed.

"…goes like this:

"So seeketh, ye Hunter, toward sun’s birth,

And let not thirst, nor speech, nor lust your desires mend

Till wealth dries up and turns to the earth.

All desires you’ll find where trees lie at land’s end."

A hush settled over the audience. The bowing fellow savored another bit of soup. Then he sat his spoon down in the bowl.

This town is far from any body of water, save for the river in the West, he said. and yes, I have spoken with many people, but not at such great length as I have today. Also, this town intrigues me, how it looks nothing like the big cities I’ve avoided, yet the people here are rich because of what they receive from the earth. They know how to grow crops and use their resources well. They don’t need a big city to live in. They don’t have paved roads. They walk upon the earth that is already provided, and because they don’t have tall skyscrapers around them, they can see in any direction for miles…

He extended his finger and pointed over the man in black’s shoulder, toward the entrance of the pub, …except past the huge tree line to the east. It stretches north and south for days on end, acting like a border.

The bartender rolled the fellow’s explanation around in his head, and then looked up. At…at land’s end?

The bowing fellow smiled and nodded.

Ha! the man in black said. That’s just a coincidence. There are several towns that lie along that forest line.

But this one is the closest, the bowing fellow said. I know. I’ve looked.

The man in black jumped up from his stool and slid it away from him. He glared upon the bowing fellow, I don’t buy any of it. All you’ve done is spout a bunch of nonsense. The infamous Hunter, eh? Ha! You’ve traveled all over this land, visited so many places, and drew people in with your riddle. A riddle you’ve probably written yourself. A seeker of fortune, that’s what you are.

I seek survival, the bowing fellow corrected.

What? the man in black snickered.

Isn’t that why the hunter seeks the prey? To kill and eat? To survive?

Seeking prey, the man in black snapped. This so-called monster of yours. What have you told people about this monster? What stories have drawn them to you? Tell us all now, he waved his hand at the audience, of your monster. What does it look like? Entertain us, sir.

The bowing fellow blew on a spoonful of soup, put it in his mouth, savored it, and swallowed. Then, he sat the spoon down and began.

T. A Tee? Sweet Tea? The letter T? Teacup? T-shirt? T-bird. Golf Tee. T is for Tack. Totem pole. Track. Truck. Tricycle. Tame. Toy. Token. Television. Telephone. Table. T. The letter T. T is short for…Talking. T is at the beginning of Take, like Taking from, or Taking a Trip, or Taking over. Taking life. Truth. Taking a bus. Taking the Train. Taking you anywhere you need to go. You have to go. T isn’t for choice. T is for Travel. For Territory. For Time. Taking Time…

The man in black slammed his hand down on the top of the bar. What are you doing?

Tap. Tap. Tap, it goes. Tapping out the message. Tell me what it says. Telling. Told. Terror. Tell a lie. Talk. To give. To. Just Two. Tears tell Truth. One side. Two sides. Two sides to Tell.

I told you to describe your monster to us! stormed the man in black.

I did, the bowing fellow said.

Did you? asked the man in black.

To the T, smirked the bowing fellow.

I find no monster in all that rambling, the man in black scoffed.

Funny, the bowing fellow said. But don’t monsters frighten people so much that when they try to describe them, they ramble where listeners can’t understand?

A sly tongue, the man in black hissed. He reached into his coat and drew his hand forth, slamming it down on the bar again. In his hand he held a shiny silver pistol. Its barrel was aimed at the bowing fellow.

The bartender gasped and pressed himself against the shelves of fine liquor. The patrons at the tables skidded wooden chair legs across the cobble floor, their mugs frozen in midair before reaching their wet lips. No one blinked. All the air had been sucked away, waiting to be exhaled.

But hunters never rely on talk, the man in black continued. Just their choice of caliber and well-developed aim. From this range, I don’t even have to try.

The bowing fellow blew on another spoonful of soup, and after swallowing it, returned the spoon to the bowl. Wrong. Those tools are just used at the end. The time before that, the actual hunt—that takes everything the hunter has: knowledge, skill, patience, insight, adaptation, preparedness, and resolution.

I don’t believe you’re the so-called Hunter, the man in black hissed. Searching for the monster of T? The T monster! he laughed. What a joke. A story to gain fame. I say the role has reversed, where I am the hunter and you are the prey.

The bowing fellow turned his blue eyes upon the man in black. All the evidence has been laid before you and still you don’t see it?

There’s nothing to see.

That just proves you’re not a hunter, nor are you my prey.

The man in black lifted the gun and straightened his arm before him, aiming the barrel at the blue-eyed fellow’s face. A man with made-up stories can’t judge me. You have nothing.

The riddle tells me everything I need to know, the blue-eyed fellow said. There is nothing else.

I’m not persuaded! the man in black stormed.

The blue-eyed fellow smiled, his sharp eyes lost their intensity. Then I shall prove it now.

Pray that you do, the man in black growled.

The blue-eyed fellow turned to the bartender. Sir, I’d like to buy this man another shot, and one for me as well.

The bartender and the man in black gasped as one. So did the rest of the patrons.

The blue-eyed fellow turned his serene smile back to the man in black, We shall drink side by side as fellow patrons. What say you?

Again, the pub held its collective breath, waiting on the response from the man in black. He was holding fast, though under the strange gaze of the blue-eyed fellow, the shape of his tenacity was giving