The Adventures of the Few and Sometimes Stan

By JD Erickson

A quasi immortal malcontent, Stan and office manager Marge protect humans in modern Chicago. It will take rule breaking, abuse of ancient technology and luck to protect a new recruit and solve the mystery of why he is important. While defending against other dimensional beings, internal death plots, fairies, and former Gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728342641

JD Erickson

Author JD Erickson quested for adventure in military service, fencing, martial arts, scuba diving, sports, exploring nature and many other distractions. In the end, none could compare in satisfaction to reading his favorite authors. JD does his writing with the interference of a herd of pets and lives with his wife.

Book preview

THE

ADVENTURES

OF THE

FEW AND

SOMETIMES STAN

JD ERICKSON

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2020 JD Erickson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   01/09/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4265-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4263-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4264-1 (e)

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.

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.

CONTENTS

Dedication:

Chapter 1   Stan

Chapter 2   Thug

Chapter 3   Marge

Chapter 4   Surveillance

Chapter 5   Plumbing

Chapter 6   Beers with Mac

Chapter 7   At the Office

Chapter 8   What the F is that?

Chapter 9   Foggy Face

Chapter 10   Why am I naked?

Chapter 11   A new plan

Chapter 12   Ryan

Chapter 13   Attack

Chapter 14   Shit hits the fan

Chapter 15   After Action report

Chapter 16   Unfair Fight

Chapter 17   Gothunk joins the fray

Chapter 18   The Resort

Chapter 19   Marge in Charge

Chapter 20   Home with Gothunk

Chapter 21   Barb in Action

Chapter 22   Therapy

Chapter 23   Marge’s Sacrifice

Chapter 24   Barb’s plan

Chapter 25   Billy’s Prison

Chapter 26   Stan’s Escape

Chapter 27   Snort helps

Chapter 28   Free for all

Chapter 29   Aftermath

Dedication:

For the minds that have been ignited because of the gift of a love of reading. In my case, my mother set the fire when I hated reading the books at school. She handed me my first science fiction book and said; this is a different kind of book entirely, mostly just fun. That did it for me! I was hooked.

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CHAPTER 1

STAN

Did that hurt? The homeless man asked after a slap.

The thug’s face was bright red from a prior slap. Hey, there is something on your face, the man had said before that blow.

The thug tried a series of straight punches. A metal trash can lid appeared from somewhere and his fist met its underside with a loud twang. His face was slapped hard enough to twist his head around. The homeless man retreated and perched on the trash can taunting the thug.

As the thug approached the man threw the trash can lid like a frisbee. The thug caught it and charged. He kicked the trash can out from under him, but the nimble man leaped off. He jumped onto the wall behind him and launched himself at the thug slapping him harshly in the face again. The trash can lid was left spinning on top of his head.

Is your face all red from embarrassment or are you blushing? Asked the man. The thug charged him again. Rather than escape, the man came toward the thug, which reduced the impact. The thug found himself in a bear hug with the smaller man. He squeezed to hurt him.

Oh hugs! I love hugs! the man gushed and squeezed him back. The homeless man was stronger than expected. The thug’s face was red from the slaps and embarrassment and pain.

"So, you were blushing!" Said the man.

Fuming now, the thug tried to disengage himself and failed. He tried to repeatedly headbutt the man but kept missing because he kept bobbing his head out of the way.

No kissing yet. We just met, the man had said, chuckling.

They disengaged and danced in the alley. Finally, the thug landed a huge punch to the man’s face and he went spinning. The spinning was exaggerated. The thug, having finally landed a blow, pressed his advantage and pummeled the man as fast as he could.

Ouch! Ouch! Double ouch! Hey, big boy, that one was intimate. He kissed the thug on the cheek and said, Do it again please?

The thug threw him against the wall in frustration. He rained down blows, and the man seemed to finally be in pain.

It needed to be more real thought the not so homeless Stan. He had toyed too much with the thug. He was being badly beaten for appearance’s sake only. Stan knew he needed to allow the assailant’s punches to connect some. Or it would not be convincing.

His surveillance as a homeless man came with a price. He took his role seriously, as he always did. Well, that is a lie, he thought. He was rarely serious.

Lately he was having too much fun. Stan found himself over doing it with this guy. He knew a homeless man could not have been that acrobatic. He realized he needed to dial it down a notch. His brand of method acting was extreme, and his realism was real. At least to a degree. He would not allow himself any serious injuries. But he would appear hurt to the thug and to witnesses or spies. Perhaps there was a spy who could detect his subterfuge.

The method in Stan’s method acting was to live a homeless man’s life for a while. Stan loved this work. Stan took this next blow in the gut, doubled over in agony and made a horrendous pain-filled gasp. He saw and heard some spectators gasp as well. Everyone believed it.

Stan had spent the better part of a year training at just taking a beating without responding. The martial master had beaten him repeatedly and he was not allowed to wince or move. These lessons had been about control.

After he could handle being beaten without reacting, he had been trained to move with the blows to reduce injury. To flow with the blow. He had learned to allow the strike to touch him but move with such fluidity that the blow would not bruise or hurt him. He could also just take on the injury if he needed to.

Stan momentarily flashed back to a ballet with his master that was the fake fight. It was an art. Attackers thought they were winning. Making great strides without knowing their opponent was dancing and acting hurt. Stan’s master had once played the part of the court jester to kings and used his acrobat skills to the fullest.

It was the fight dance. After a good beating, Stan laid on the ground and appeared to struggle to breathe. Holding a hand up to protect himself he begged the thug, Please, no more.

The thug hesitated. This is what Stan had been working towards. He had set up shop in the alley on the side of the thug’s building in a bad part of Chicago for this purpose. Using his skills in body mechanics and the human dance, he had lured the thug into the alley. He alternated between being a nuisance and pretending to hide something when the thug would walk by. This was an ancient technique. It drew the attention of the target. Even if they passed by seemingly unconcerned, their peripheral vision and brain took note of it. The subconscious brain was at his mercy. Horse whisperers and animal speakers use similar body language. Such training also happened to work well on humans.

Stan was an expert at body language. Having trained for years on how to perfect certain postures, walking styles, and facial expressions.

Stan surmised that greed and irritation would pique the young man’s interest eventually. He provided a glint of gold, a shiny object, to touch the man’s eye and added a keep away comment or two. Stan knew what would lure this young one. Well, that and the verbal assaults he launched when he was around. Stan was creative with expletives.

His task demanded secrecy. Real art took time, he rationalized. Stan spent a few days on surveillance and baited the trap. He could have taken a more direct approach with the thug, but where was the fun in that? Stan did not want to return to the office. The office where the rules ruled. Tedious cover assignments were boring. The undercover work he was doing gave him an excuse for some sorely needed pretend Stan time. Time to just be and take it slow for a change.

Stan offered the thug a gold money clip with inlaid turquoise and coral. Some cash was trapped in it, a few twenties showing. Here, take it. Just please don’t hurt me anymore, Stan pleaded with the thug. The thug’s eye’s opened big. Hey now old man, what is this?

Stan enjoyed acting the part of the older man he was disguised as. He preferred to be other non-Stan people. He fancied his acting abilities were surely such that master thespians would covet his work if they could but see it. His boss, Marge, had the nerve to tell him he over-acted and was melodramatic. How dare she.

The thug grabbed the money clip from Stan and flipped it over in appreciation of its weight. Obviously real gold. He counted the cash, stuck it back in the clip, and placed it in his pocket. The thug kicked Stan as he crawled away and said, Kick rocks, old man.

The thug walked away as Stan crawled in the opposite direction. Stan crawled to his feet, then stumbled to the back of the alley. He shambled to the block behind that one. Stan was a natural at shambling. Marge complained it was his normal walk.

Stan was walking upright, no trace of a shamble, when he found the old Astro-Van he had left parked a block away. He was old school about many things including the car key he had left under the wheel well. He drove reluctantly back to the office.

Stan had dark, shoulder length-hair. He was five feet ten inches tall and built like strong wire cable. He was consistently under-estimated-rugged and stronger than two men put together. But his chief physical ability was his durability, his endurance. He parked in the back of a run-down building and went in the back door where he found Marge waiting, scowling at him.

Well? Demanded the middle-aged, semi-plump Marge looking over the top of useless glasses. Marge’s eyesight was perfect. She just wore glasses for effect to make herself seem less harmful. She was deadly. Marge was a Liar.

Of course! Said Stan, with defensive eyes.

It took you long enough, sneered Marge. Your predecessor was much more adept at this.

Yes, he was the best, said Stan sarcastically while rolling his eyes. You know I do things my own way. Why do you never relent?

Because you have a lot to learn, Stan, and you are too soft. You do things in a round-about way and it’s going to get you killed someday.

As she spoke to Stan, she took his coat and patted it down. From a pocket, she pulled out a sandwich wrapped in a clear wrapper. The sandwich was obviously old, stale. She scowled at it and held it up to Stan’s face like an accusation.

That’s where that went, said Stan and reached for it but not fast enough. His hand caught air as she ceremoniously dumped it into the trash by the door and hung up the coat. Marge was always faster.

You stink, Marge said with her nose scrunched. Shower, now! She commanded.

Stan slunk along like a wounded teenager to the showers. Marge was a few hundred years older than he was and had beaten his ass twice with very little effort. Those were real fights. He still had a scar. He had tried his best. Her training and experience obviously made her style more complex than his and she was innately faster. Stan reasoned this was why Marge was the office head. She could kick all their asses. She had in fact at some point done so. Office rule one, respect Marge.

After a shower and his first real meal in days Stan sat at his desk and opened his connection. A series of hand gestures in the air is all it took to log in. Nothing that could be accidental. They were distinct hand gestures.

In the old days the gestures were mistaken for magic. Giving hand gesture commands to the ethereal computer confused people. When an invisible drone launched a fireball at a target it looked like wizardry to peasants and kings alike.

He could perform commands by blinking. But he only did that when he was visible to normies. He tended to blink a lot and over-do things, so he avoided that method. Verbal commands to the ethereal computers were spoken spells by medieval accounts.

This was beyond the standard computer network the normie humans used. His kind had given computer technology to the humans. Allegedly for their development or so he had been told. What Stan used now was called the ethereal web. It had gone through many names and upgrades over the years. Only his eyes could see the four-dimensional screens he was viewing. The ethereal connections were in his brain. There was nothing seen by his eyes, it just looked that way to Stan since his brain thought it saw what it saw. Screens popped up in front of him and moved at his twitching finger commands. The Few had technology that had always been well beyond humans. Being a version of human that was long lived meant they had a leg up on research and development.

Stan pulled up the thug’s profile. He had rubbed his oily hands on the money clip and now Stan had his chemistry, and a connection.

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CHAPTER 2

THUG

The thug known as Billy walked with the swagger of Rocky Balboa. He put off a palpable energy that said don’t mess with me. He liked it that way. His stoic bravado was his shield. He reached in his pocket and fingered the money clip again. It had been cold to the touch but was now warm in its cozy location. When he first took it from the homeless man it seemed to tingle his fingers. He attributed the effect to static electricity or perhaps his own adrenaline from the fight.

Billy couldn’t put his finger on exactly why he was so annoyed. But this guy had pushed all his buttons. When he finally reacted, he was convinced it was just. Now, after beating the man Billy felt guilty. He was having what he and Mac called an episode. Feelings he didn’t like. He stopped walking down the sidewalk and stood still, shook his head and stuffed that feeling back in its box. He muttered fuck feelings, and walked on.

Billy compared himself to a neighborhood policeman making his rounds. He was on his way to collect on everything from loans to gambling debts to protection money.

It had been an hour since the fight, and he felt he was being followed. Billy’s intuitive feelings had proven correct in the past. He had used all the usual techniques to see if he was being tailed but nothing showed up to confirm it. No reflections in window front buildings or peaks around corners showed anything unusual. He had waited around corners to catch someone. After a good test he knew logically he wasn’t being followed but he still couldn’t shake the creepy feeling.

He was taking extra looks back and forth as he went into the Star Diner and sat at the bar. The waitress with the name tag that read Grace walked with a stiff back up to his table. She put down a cup and filled it with coffee. No cream or sugar was offered. Not a word was spoken. A few minutes later she brought eggs over easy with toast and hash browns. Billy ate them in silence. This being the everyday routine words were not needed. But this was a rare occasion today. The display case with pastry inside called to him.

Donut? Billy asked after he had eaten. Grace delivered one glazed donut. Billy wrapped the donut in a napkin and put it in his coat pocket for later. He went to the office behind the kitchen where the owner handed him an envelope with payment inside. Billy placed it in his jacket inside pocket and started to leave.

The owner, Phil said, Billy, I need to talk to Mac, can you arrange that?’ Billy paused at the door. My daughter is getting married and I am hoping he can make some allowances for that. I mean, he was nice enough to give me the loan when no one else would. I was wondering if he could allow me to skip a payment. Can you arrange it Billy? To talk to him?" Billy stood awkwardly silent. It worked. Phil appeared even more uncomfortable.

Billy was by all accounts to be a Viking. Six feet four inches tall with a blond beard down to his chest, blue grey eyes that seem to never blink when looking at you. Billy was ready to berserk on a moment’s notice and people sensed it. Phil started to shake. Billy picked up Phil’s cell phone lying on the desk and dumps it in his lap. Phil was startled. Knock yourself out. Billy said and left.

Billy left Star Diner behind him as he made the rest of his rounds with that nagging feeling he was being followed. As he made more ploys to catch the stalker, he thought about Phil. Sometimes people made vein attempts to garner a relationship of sympathy from him only to find a blank stare. That could be a reason Mac chose Billy for this job. Emotional pleas didn’t work on Billy. In fact, they pist him off. Fuckers mumbled Billy. He often mumbled fuckers. It was his favorite mumble.

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CHAPTER 3

MARGE

Stan sat at his desk in the office of recruitment and identification. He stared into the air at nothing. Only it was something. Attached to the Mind web in Stan’s ethereal mind’s eye he saw many quasi computer screens. The screens appeared to be about a foot or two from his face but were just in his visual cortex. The one on the left showed Billy’s medical information. His heart rate, brain wave patterns, breathing and other metrics in an animated graphic. On his right was a screen that was akin to an internet map application. It showed Billy’s location as well as his traversed path and stopping places of the day.

There were other screens. A hormone activity, spirit energy, gut health. Oh, he has IBS, Stan said to himself.

Occasionally he would grab a screen with a finger and move it somewhere else in his field of vision. It was the one he had moved to the middle of his vision that Stan was focused on. He was seeing through Billy’s eyes and hearing what was happening in real time. Stan watched as Billy was checking to see if someone was watching or following him. Seeing this, Stan checked a box mentally. It was another item in Billy’s favor or rather dis favor depending on how one thought about such matters. It was as if Billy sensed his surveillance.

Stan was testing the new connection to ensure it was complete. It was a person hack. Stan had learned that Billy was a crook and an asshole. He could use the crook portion to advantage, but the asshole needed some work. This wasn’t going to be easy. Stan rewound the medical file to a period when Billy’s heart rate and breathing showed a distinct variation. Stan determined Billy had what we would call a strong emotion at that time. It appeared to be anxiety or guilt or fear. He watched Billy stop and shake his head and say, fuck emotions.

Stan pointed at the air in front of his face, now that I can work with.

Marge