Nor Hell A Fury

By Stella Wallace

Robert Rice is being beaten by his job on Wall Street. Grace is an elementary school principal who wants it all but is too seemingly pious to admit it. After evil intervenes, this twisted, debauched love story celebrates the wicked in all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Stella Wallace Novel
• Release date: Dec 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780985454555

Book preview

Nor Hell A Fury

Stella Wallace

All Rights Reserved

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Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

First paperback edition, December 2017.

For my Dear Dee Rear

CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

XXX

About the Author

Keep up with Stella!

Also by Stella Wallace

And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this boasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately? I have; and I have examined Man’s wonderful inventions. And I tell you that in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all the slaughter of plague, pestilence, and famine… There is nothing in Man's industrial machinery but his greed and sloth: his heart is in his weapons. This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force of Death: Man measures his strength by his destructiveness.

- Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman Act III

I

A 1971 Monte Carlo speeds passed a rugged, lone man walking along a dark sidewalk. The car hits hard a black teen with a red cap crossing the street. The lone man glances over as the boy’s body flies high through the air and meets concrete with a thud, bones snapping in the landing. The car and the lone man continue on without so much as a hitch. Distance voices cry out in desperation and despair.

The aisles stock sugared cereals and soda, mostly. Many of the boxes have been opened and left to spill onto the filth-ingrained tile floor. The produce section has bruised fruit and browning vegetables. Flies merge with overhead fluorescent lighting to create a loud buzzing sound that permeates the stale air. A pretty check out girl punches numbers into the register for the black teen with the red cap. He holds his side and a bloody handkerchief to his head. Looks like that car got the better of ya. Tsk tsk. Will that be all? the pretty check out girl asks. The black teen nods, then hands over a few coins and walks out with his bag.

The lone man steps up. Pack of smokes, he drawls.

Oh, hey Nash! How ya holdin’ up? Behind her is a fully stocked rack of nameless cigarette packs. She grabs one and throws it on the belt.

It’s a long haul, Kimberly. No doubt about that.

Don’t I know it. I don’t think my feet will ever stop hurting! Anything else for you today, hun?

Nash smiles and lights up a cigarette from the fresh pack. Nah, doll. I’m good for now, he says and flips her a coin. She catches it midair with a giggle. He exits.

The scuffed metal siding lines the stale front of a local dining establishment. Through greasy windows, patrons sit alone at hard wood tables and chairs, consuming plates of greenish grey food matter. The restaurant is nearly silent except for the vile human noises of openmouthed chewing, labored breathing, and flatulence. Accompanying the orchestra of bodily functions, the faint sound of scuttling insects and rodents fill the gaps between the gasps. The faces vary in ethnic origin, most are pock marked, teeth rotted or missing. The women are without compassion, the men stupid and mean.

Nash pulls open the door and strides in. He takes a seat at the counter, his back to the door. A plate is put in front of him and he begins forking greenish grey mash into his mouth as fast as he can. He stops only to peer from side to side, his red-rimmed eyes alert and defensive, perpetually on guard.

Three men walk through the front door with purpose. They are big and brutish and carry wrenches and tire irons. No one dares respond except Nash, stopping mid swallow, fork frozen directly in front of his mouth. He looks forward at nothing in particular, breath held.

The first man walks up to Nash and taps him on the shoulder. Where are the coins?

Instantly, Nash spins to his left and seizes the hand that touched him with his left hand, while thrusting his right hand, and fork, into the man’s guts repeatedly. The wrench he’d been toting falls with a loud clang on the linoleum as Nash makes a final stab to the first man’s eye. He screams in German and falls to the dirty diner floor.

The second and third men spring to action. Nash kicks the legs out from the quickly approaching second man, grabs a knife from the countertop, and jabs it into the chest of the third man, puncturing a lung. The third man shouts out in pain using Italian obscenities, clutching his chest as he falls backward and toppling over an old man eating the grey porridge. Nash turns back to the counter and smashes a water glass on the Formica top. The second man scrambles to his feet and takes a swing at Nash with his tire iron, connecting to Nash’s back. Nash absorbs it and turns to rake the second man’s face with shards of glass. Fuck! My eyes! The second man falls to one knee with his face in his hands. Nash reaches for the first man’s wrench under a chair and with both hands swings it like a bat to the back of the guy’s head. The second man face plants into the floor and remains there, silent, as Nash throws a coin down on the counter in front of his plate. The coin is silver, and has the face of a man with long, curly hair. The expression is that of a smirk. Nash strides out the front door as the three men begin stirring and stand up, collecting themselves, brushing off their clothing, cursing a torn jacket. They make their way out as the waiter straightens up the chairs and tables, unfazed. The patrons never stop to look up and continue eating.

II

Gripping the edge of a department store counter piled high with crisp, new clothing, a harried woman is doing her best not to scream. I know for a fact there’s money in my account! The cashier gives the woman an icy smile, hands back her card. Here, try this one, the woman says, shoving another card forward that declines to work as well. A line has started to form behind her. That doesn’t make any sense! She throws her hands up and walks out, exasperated.