International Best-Selling Author Joe Vallen

By Joe Vallen

The book we didn't know we needed - hilarious and action-packed, this novel has you laughing and crying well into the night. Read with caution.

Joe Vallen is a normal author - our world's JV, anyway. The Joe Vallen of our novel is the most wealthy author to ever live, in a world where countries go to w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ninth House Press
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736776797

Joe Vallen

Joe Vallen is a man of many backgrounds. Hopping around the North Eastern U.S. before getting stuck in Florida for several years, he has always gravitated toward the arts. As a young man he recorded music before becoming a writer. Starting out in comics, his focus is now on writing novels while working on various screenplays between books. Aside from crafting stories, he is an avid outdoor enthusiast, arm-wrestler, chess player, and an expert in squirrel linguistics. Joe currently resides in Colorado (for no particular reason).

Book preview

Foreword

When my manager suggested that I add a foreword to this book, I reminded her . . .

. . . I no longer do that.

But follow your dreams, I guess.

-V.

By hook or by crook this peril too shall be something that we remember.

― Homer

The 300 Million Dollar Monkey

Ahandful of homely huts huddled in a cluster atop a plateau of slightly higher dirt than all the other dirt in the immediate area. The simple structures of the higher dirt area warped this way and that—twisted from prolonged punishment under a harsh, indifferent sun. Much like every other day, the atmosphere was awful and aggressively stagnant . . .  ­

After a stale morning of stifling heat and soul-crushing stillness, something finally stirred. Out from one of the shacks emerged a fellow who looked as though he might’ve predated sliced bread (which, in fact, he did). Even in a glitchy, overly digitized satellite feed, the man appeared far older than anyone rightfully should be. Proudly standing with an adorable four-foot frame, he regarded the cloudless sky with a wrinkle-gathering smirk. 

It was time.

A shaky, unsteady-looking hombre reluctantly followed him out into the open. With a cupped hand, he bellowed into an ancient ear canal—

"Hey boss!"

The old man flinched.

Where ya’ goin’?

A gnarly finger poked at the horizon.

What is it?

Something was coming. 

Something . . . fast. 

"Ehhhh . . ." 

Before he could finish the first word, a murder of Apache attack choppers thundered up and rocked the encampment with debris-flinging winds. The remaining villagers staggered from their rattling domiciles and leered with jaws slack from shock. The sensory overload froze them where they stood, so they blankly gawked at what they could only assume was the end of all things . . .

In stark contrast to the languid tedium of the silent morning, the sudden explosion of auditory terror was overly intensified for the half-starved villagers. The tiny hamlet hadn’t seen a single visitor in several years, so the deafening arrival of the choppers wasn’t anyone’s new favorite. 

Observing standard combat protocol, the Apaches leaned gracefully into perfect lines of sight. Collectively, they were equipped with enough firepower to pulverize a mountain down to a pile of pea gravel. To the stupefied inhabitants of the higher dirt area, it was as if Death himself was glaring down at them in disgust. Under his indignant gaze, they (understandably) recoiled in abject horror. In an act of surrender, they all dropped to the ground . . .

. . . all but one.

Searching for potential ground targets at the literal speed of sound, a screaming pair of F22 Raptors materialized in the distance. Armed drones—resembling large, robotic hornets—zipped in and out of several of the simple shelters uncontested. They scanned the interiors, then rudely wove around the petrified villagers themselves. Refusing to accept the intrusion, the Chief risked fatal heart failure when he (unsuccessfully) swung his stick at one of the overgrown insects.

After the sudden appearance of the drones came a rumbling in the ground which loosened bowels and rattled bones. The source of the gut-rumbling vibrations turned out to be an incoming motorcade of armored Humvees. Scoring an ugly scar across the smooth belly of the lower dirt area, the convoy brought itself to a skittering stop directly in front of the terrified villagers. Thick, steel doors flung themselves open with a synchronized (and heavily practiced) "ka-chunk!". Outlines of uniformed strongmen filed from the dusty vehicles in silhouette against the backdrop of an orange, heat-lined horizon. Within seconds, they took up positions around the perimeter of the community . . .

Draped over the shoulders of each trooper was enough belt-fed ammunition to clear a patch of dense forest and the arms that held the thirty-five-pound mini-guns were as thick as the villager’s waists. They covered every conceivable angle while wildly waving their weapons around, transforming the higher dirt area into something of a lightshow with the green lasers attached. 

Heat signatures for every living thing within a twenty-mile radius were monitored via satellite.

Close ups of dusty rear ends flashed before dozens of visors, goggles, and screens. 

In the crystalline face of utter annihilation, the passive people wept . . .

. . . again, all but one.

Much like any other legend from any other story, the Chief was not one to simply cower in fear. The man’s entire existence was predicated on the fact that he refused to let anything dictate his state of mind.  

Not god, nor man held sway over his thoughts.

His clearly wasn’t a physical power, but what the venerable geriatric brought to the proverbial table was infinitely more potent. Even if the world were to meet its bloody end, how he chose to react to that information was entirely up to him. This attitude on mortality cut a straight line through the center of his character which he displayed with an unwavering pride. 

The old man weebled, wobbled, teetered-and-tottered, but somehow continued to inch forward against the force of the powerful winds. Exposed, scrawny legs contorted like pretzels and knobby knees painfully clacked together when the stronger gusts connected. An iron will was all that kept him upright. . . or, for that matter, alive. 

Champion to those who knew of him—the Chief was a true statistical anomaly in that he’d managed to successfully evade the icy grip of Grim himself. To simply exist for longer than one has a natural right to is no trivial feat. As far as he was concerned, how long he lived was entirely up to him. In many cultures, longevity in itself was considered sufficient grounds for leadership, but not dying for a really long time aside, the old man also happened to be the original founder of the higher dirt area . . .

IT WAS ON AN EERILY similar day—three decades prior—when his former village (a sprawling metropolis by comparison to his current) was visited by a herd of what looked to be war-hungry Americans. Tanks and transport trucks filled with rows of armed, dopey-looking men tore through the village as though late for a battle. The noisy band rolled up like a rattling machine before realizing they had the wrong coordinates and turned around, leaving as quickly as they came. 

The incident could’ve been chalked up to a moderately traumatic mix-up, until one of the tanks ran over a distracted kid . . .

. . . and kept going.

That was the exact moment when the future Chief realized that blindly obeying the laws of gods, kings, warlords, dentists, and various religious leaders hadn’t (as far as he could tell) really worked out too well for anyone. The common thread to all human suffering seemed to be the relinquishing of control within one’s own mind. Given that power was nothing but a flimsy illusion, laying down the terms in which one lived (or died) seemed to be a fast track towards true freedom. So, he snatched up his trusty walking stick and quietly shuffled out into the desert to die . . . on his terms.

Since he fully expected to expire at any moment, it was concerning when a handful of folks took it upon themselves to follow him . . .

He hadn’t counted on that. 

How could he protest though? Don’t take refuge from the storm of a violent, deranged society? If anyone understood the need to escape the madness, it was him. Without needing to justify themselves, the motley crew quietly ambled along in a comforting silence . . . neither together nor alone.

Thanks to a series of heat strokes, the Chief nearly croaked multiple times during the perilous journey, managing to hang on just long enough to be set down at their home-to-be—the higher dirt area. As soon as his boney backside touched down, he intuitively knew he was sitting on sacred ground. 

While rehydrating, he was mysteriously beset with a fragmented vision of the future where he witnessed the fate of his followers, the evolution of humanity, nature, the planet, and even the exact moment (and manner) of his own death.

So, basically, everything. 

Coming out of the deeply spiritual state, he immediately declared they would journey no further . . .  

After the first few weeks enduring one of the harshest environments on the planet, one of his followers miraculously stumbled across an oasis. In the (extremely) fortunate turn of events, they were suddenly able to provide themselves with enough water and fruit to remain until the Chief’s soon-to-be passing. Eventually, they managed to locate some crude building materials and did their best to slap a handful of structures together. It wasn’t long after that the higher dirt area was (unofficially) colonized.

Having a strong dislike for religious dogma of any kind, the Chief’s only guideline for them was to do their best to reject all the wants of the modern world. 

Just turn your backs on it as one might a spoiled child, he instructed. Don’t contribute to the problem. 

They vowed to keep to themselves so they might someday be gifted with his boundless wisdom. 

He added that he foresaw the day when a great power would come to lure them back to the world of greed, ultimately derailing an otherwise noble quest for enlightenment. They must, he cautioned, resist the temptation at all costs—for just beyond would lie infinite possibility. To fall short of that would result in a life of materialism, danger, and tragedy. 

It sounded good at the time.

(It should also be noted that as a precaution, both tanks and children were forever banned from the higher dirt area.)

They swore that when the time came, they’d honor his words, then busied themselves by constructing a makeshift village to ride out the remainder of the Chief’s final days in. 

He assured them that there were other worlds (more fleshed out) than the one they were currently experiencing, so they waited for the miracle of his impending promotion while keeping a watchful eye over the source of their only hope. 

The weeks stretched into months, which yawned into years . . .

THIRTY yawns later . . .

The feed zoomed in on a raisin-like head and bounced the image back to every active unit in the area.

As stoic as any man could be whilst battling the world atop faltering centenarian legs, the Chief (more-or-less) stood alone.

Under extreme pressure from the small sandstorms produced by the deafening aircraft, a handful of the huts uprooted from their foundations and tumbled out into the less-desirable lower dirt area. With all the racket, no one noticed when the crimes to carpentry made their respective getaways. 

Armed with nothing but knowledge, an antique stick, and his only apparent superpower—extreme oldness—the Chief meant to confront the new threat personally . . .

Just when his poor knees couldn’t absorb another clack, a monstrous whirlybird zoomed into the foreground before touching down not thirty feet from the rattling relic. Much fatter in the belly than its wasp-like cousins, it kicked up even stronger gusts, yet appeared unburdened by weaponry.

The rotors wound down . . .

After what felt like hours, a door pulled back to reveal a spritely Caucasian in a loud, sky-blue suit. He seemed terribly pleased with himself as he galloped down extending steps until his shiny leather shoes were, at last, standing atop the sacred dirt. 

Running a ring-laden hand through a wavy mane of brown hair, he regarded the incredibly old man before him. The Chief instantly recognized the goofy character as nothing more than a breathing parody of someone else. He briefly wondered why anybody would bother to clone a comical version of themselves, but was distracted by a tiny, digital chirp that cut through the thunder of the choppers.

The white man’s eyes darted to his overly complicated watch, so the Chief checked on his overly wrinkled wrist. In the background, the villagers bowed low in the waning hopes of being spared. 

For the most part, no one on either side understood exactly what was going on. And right there, in the eye of all that noise, uncertainty, and fear . . . stood two men. Initially they said nothing, but instead took turns sizing the other up.

Predictably, the American cracked first. "Hi there! I’m Joe Vallen . . . He extended a hand. . . . the writer." 

Nice stick, he quickly added.

Nothing.

It was time to drop the act.

"Alright, super guy. He cracked his knuckles. Let’s get right down to it. It was obvious nothing was getting through. Here, I brought a guy to translate."

The translator trotted up and (off-tone) gave everyone a thumbs up.

"First, tell ‘em they don’t have to moosh their faces in the dirt on our behalf. We’re just here to talk. Assuming the Chief was also hard of hearing, he leaned in. That’s just my security detail! He got louder. GREAT GUYS!"

Uncomfortable with the stranger in his personal space, the old man leaned away and looked to one of the nearby drones with an obvious disdain.

Giving into frustration, Joe gave up. "Will you tell the rest of them, please?!"

But even after what he had just hollered at the Chief was reworded into the appropriate dialect and re-shouted at the petrified people, they kept their heads down regardless.

Just tell ‘em we come in peace, for fuck’s sake.

That last part was carefully repeated into the old man’s ear, to which he merely shrugged. Unsure if he was messing around, the American looked him over again. 

"Tell him we’re here for . . . the monkey."

The Chief perked right up at the word monkey, but they went back and forth several times before there was a clear answer. 

"He say—What monkey?"

Unfazed, Joe plowed ahead. 

"We know you have a badass lil’ monkey in one of your . . . he scanned over the huts, . . . homes over there, so name your price and you’ll all be rich by this afternoon."

One of the villagers picked his head up but caught a laser to the eye, so he plunked it back onto the ground for the remainder of the apocalypse. It then dawned on Joe that there was a very real possibility his security detail might be stressing people out, so he ordered them all to stand down.

The entirety of the private army pulled back . . . a bit.

"See? Everyone’s cool so, whaddya say? May I please purchase your monkey, sir?"

When the question was at last translated, the old man softly laughed to himself. He clutched the translator’s elbow with a bony hand, and for the first time, seemed eager to communicate.

He’s been expecting you.

Flabbergasted, Joe exchanged shrugs with one of his nearby troopers, before giving it another shot. 

"Look . . . we can see the lil’ guy’s heat signature, he pointed to the sky. Yeah. He’s actually . . . he jabbed a thumb at one of the huts, . . . in that one." 

He showed them both an orange-and-red blob on his watch. "See?" A manicured finger tapped the tiny screen. 

"That’s him."

To avoid any confusion, a pair of drones circled the exact hut he was referring to.

After what felt like weeks, the linguist came back with bad news. "He say—Monkey not for sale."

Tell him we won’t hurt it. 

The Chief wasn’t buying it. 

Why you want monkey? 

The eccentric writer approached with open palms. Y’see, I’m in the market for an exotic pet. Always wanted a monkey. 

He stumbled over a loose rock. "Fuck! Our satellite caught footage of the fella that really sold me on him. Just fantastic markings on the lil’ guy!" 

"I include animals in all my stories, so I’m also hoping he’ll snap me outta’ a bit of