The Fairgrounds Port of Call

By Blake Alb

Can you stomach the Fairgrounds?
Based on nothing but a modern-day message in a bottle and a secret invention that can measure the ebb and flow of Karma itself, watch as three troubled strangers each takes a leap of faith to find fairness in an unfair world. But things get close and personal as a masked vigilante vows to take Karma into his own hands. But no matter what brought our band of less-than-merry men together, one thing is for certain, common enemies make for strange bedfellows!
In book 2 (conclusion), join our three existential detectives at the point where they meet for the very first time at the precipice of the secret location alluded to in the mysterious message. But they will need to do more than just wax philosophical as they decide to employ their secret invention and start "Project Madcap" to study the very workings of Karma itself. Will they see beyond the Veil of the World's Great Curtain, past the Abyss, and into the very realms of the 6th dimension? Or are their ambitions too lofty, as they would be fortunate to simply get out alive? Things get more complicated when the serial killer Amrak gets involved and takes justice in his own hands. With all three beaten and broken "heroes" in one place and time, let's just hope the whole is greater than the sum of its parts!

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958336205

Blake Alb

Blake Alb is a writer with a passion for stories that stray from the beaten path. He has an MS in psychology and works as a mental health professional. He attributes his psychology degree as playing a significant role in providing a wellspring of ideas for storytelling. He is a big fan of all things geeky, with a penchant for anime, fantasy, science fiction, and video games. He also enjoys British Comedy and improv.

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The FairGrounds

Book 2 of 2 Port of Call

by

Blake Alb

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Blake Alb 2022

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781958336199

eBook ISBN: 9781958336205

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, June 23, 2022

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: John Davies

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank test readers Darrell and Denise, editor Maxine Bringenberg, and Karen Fuller. I would also like to thank WC Publishing and its various writers that gave helpful advice and support (Hermione Lee, Judy White, and Devitto Kelly). I would also like to thank John Davies for his incredible artwork. And last but not least, I would like to thank my family, friends, and all those who had faith in my writing (Charlotte, Andrea, Kayla, Josh, Rebecca, Dad, and many others).

Chapter 18: How Low Can You Go?

Location: Hawaii, Lanai Island, Lopa Beach (east of Lanai City)

Date: August 21st, 2019, Wednesday, 10:00 P.M. (Hawaii Standard Time)

It’s the bees knees! Ten-year-old boy with a bee allergy survives over eight-hundred stings from honeybees! The boy was building a tree house at his parents’ ranch in sunny Oklahoma when he disturbed several beehives in the upper branches. The bees marked their target and attacked in concert. His mother found him swollen and unconscious, with bee stings all over his body. She tried to spray the bees off him with a garden hose, but this only seemed to provoke the bees. She was able to cover him with a blanket and call the ambulance. When he arrived at hospital, the doctors discovered the boy was allergic. He was in a coma for three weeks before he flatlined, an outcome that provided some relief for the family that wanted him to no longer suffer. But then something miraculous happened. With the benefit of medications, including epinephrine for his allergy, his vitals came back stronger than ever. And from there he was on the mend. His pain and swelling went down in due time, and he was soon as good as new. When his parents were interviewed a month later, the boy was playing outside, alive and well. When asked why he survived, his mother said, He must be a special boy. The universe wants him to stay alive. He must have important work to do. His dad didn’t say a word, but he nodded in agreement, grinning from ear to ear.

The Rhubarb Wire: A Happier Nightly News, July, 1975

Amrak’s technical assistant and computer hacker, Fiona Newland (AKA Mangy Jane), dropped Amrak off from his private jet in a non-populated area of Lanai Island in Hawaii, where he found a 2018 Ford Focus already waiting for him. Amrak and Mangy Jane loaded the trunk with two gunny sacks, each containing one hive of killer bees, for his trip to Lopa Beach east of Lanai City. Dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt and blue lei, he decided to look and play the part (when in Rome). Fiona was a tall and lanky thirty-something woman with a limp and a cane, today wearing her black beret and black turtleneck.

Amrak scratched his chin. It appears this day is rather meaningful for both Devon and me. Must be another sign from karma that I am ingratiated into its loving arms. This coincidence is made even more noteworthy, considering that this very year marks the sixty-year anniversary for Hawaii’s statehood, a milestone to be sure.

For today’s massacre, Amrak had chosen a certain Devon Hampton, who was recently released from a life sentence for killing his parents in 1985 when he was eighteen years old, over being sent to bed without supper for pulling a kitten’s head off its body. Amrak also learned, a priori, that Devon was busy planning for Hawaii’s sixty-year anniversary.

By the time Amrak arrived on Lopa Beach, at around 10:00 PM, there was a modest crowd of about eighty people dancing the night away, immersed in island conversation, and some playing volleyball. There were lit tiki torches aplenty surrounding the sandy beach, and a DJ was playing loud dance music near the volleyball net. A food truck was selling bratwursts, pizza, Spam, fruit, and local seafood, and the scents intermingled with the smells of brine and seaweed emanating from the ocean. Near the horseshoe pit was a second food truck which served as a bar, and it had all manner of drinks, from wines, wine coolers, and beers to harder liquors and liqueurs. Perhaps most notably, not too far from the bonfire, a traditional Hawaiian hale house had been built by Devon Hampton himself from thatch, sennit, stones, and logs, especially for the anniversary occasion. It was roped off with a Do Not Enter sign so patrons could admire it from a distance.

The raucous crowd members were chanting How low can you go? How low can you go? in both English and traditional Hawaiian as the tipsy Devon Hampton wormed his way under the limbo stick to the tune of Limbo Rock by Chubby Checker, playing on the DJ’s large stereo system.

How low can you go is right, muttered Amrak to himself as he thought about Devon Hampton’s crimes. Dark thoughts were swirling in his brain as he leaned against the food truck and tried to formulate a plan on how to get Devon by himself and away from the crowd.

A couple of ideas sprang to his mind. I wonder if I can pretend to be his designated driver, volunteering to take him back to his home in Lanai City, just west of Lopa Beach? I know more than enough fun facts about him that anyone would probably believe me. But what if he was planning on sleeping in his hale house? After all, he is already quite inebriated. But if so, what if there was a way I could pretend I was his friend as before, but wait until the crowd left and offer to stay with Devon while he slept off his stupor? The hard part would be to get him drunk enough to either need a designated driver or to stay in the hale house.

Amrak sauntered over to the bar truck and purchased six bottles of Samuel Adams Boston Lager for the raised price of twenty dollars. The bartender hunted for the original cardboard case to put the cold bottles in and handed the six pack to Amrak.

Amrak downed two bottles of the liquid courage himself so that he might get into character and have an easier time confronting Devon. By now Devon had quit his limbo and was busy dancing near the bonfire with a woman in a lei and hula skirt while Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns & Roseswas played. She didn’t appear to be someone Devon knew, judging from the manner and distance in which they danced together.

Amrak mused. I am by no means a good dancer, but I gotta play the part. Judging from Devon’s gait and movements, I would wager a guess that he has already had more than a six pack of beer or its equivalent. I need to ingratiate myself into his good graces. I have to figure out a way to make a friend faster than the new rich kid with a tree house.

Amrak set his beer down near the bonfire and did his best to quiver to the music, moving his lanky limbs this way and that, and managing to get close enough to bump shoulders and quite literally rub elbows with Devon.

Sorry, sir! shouted Devon, still dancing as he talked.

No worries, shouted Amrak over the music. I think it was more my fault than yours. Here, have a couple of drinks, on me.

As the man was saying such a gesture was not necessary, Amrak had already started walking towards the four bottles he now had left in his six pack. When Amrak returned, the woman was now dancing by herself and Devon was just standing there, waiting.

Amrak handed Devon two bottles of the Boston lager.

Devon stopped dancing, reached out, and accepted them. Wow, I can’t recall the last time anyone bought me a drink, let alone two. Thanks again!

Amrak crossed his arms. So you built the hale house all by your lonesome?

Sure did, said Devon. But it was worth it. After all, it’s the sixtieth anniversary of Hawaii’s statehood. Can’t cut corners on something like that. Want to see it later?

Most definitely, said Amrak. Kinda why I asked, truth be told.

Let’s go there now, said Devon. I must admit I am pretty tired out. And besides, it’s too loud here.

The two men went to the hale house, where there was a small crowd of people admiring its architecture. Devon removed the rope in front of the sliding door, and he and Amrak went inside and sat down on one of the benches.

I must say this is divine craftsmanship, said Amrak, looking around the vicinity of the enclosure.

Thank you kindly, said Devon. I am rather buzzed, but I can still admire a compliment.

So you live here? asked Amrak, knowing full well he didn’t.

No, no, said Devon. I recently moved to Lanai City. The ink is barely dry on the paperwork. I still gotta figure out how to get home. I don’t really have any friends who live close to here yet. I need a designated driver. I suppose I will just have to pay an arm and a leg for a taxi.

Not on your life, said Amrak.

Yes, said Devon. But are you not also well past the legal limit?

Yes, but I have an even better idea. Since neither of us can drive, why don’t we just spend the night in this here hale house? In the spirit of Hawaii’s sixtieth anniversary?

I never even thought of that, said Devon, rubbing his chin. Sure, why not?!

Which means we can get even more hammered, said Amrak.

Works for me. I must say I like the way you think, Mr. ah, ah....

Amrak shook Devon’s hand as he stated his alias. The name is Dietrich, Deitrich Baumann.

Devon, Devon Hampton, said Devon.

Let me hit up the bar car for more spirits, said Amrak.

Let me at least pay for it, said Devon. You have done enough already.

Amrak returned with a bottle of Viejo Feo (Carmenere), a liter of Canadian Windsor, and a six pack of O’Douls, which he kept in the brown paper bag.

Over the course of hours, as the bonfire died down, the crowd did as well. The crowd lost about twenty people an hour, and by the time it was two in the morning, the food vendors and DJ had closed up shop. An hour after that, everyone had left, save for Amrak and Devon in the hale house. By four in the morning, Devon had downed the entire bottle of wine and two shots of whisky. And each time Devon had a drink, Amrak took out one of his non-alcoholic beers and kept his hands over the label—a number of times he simply peeled off the labels as well. He had downed the entire six pack by the time Devon passed out at four-thirty.

Amrak threw open the sliding door and peered outside. The air was cool, and it was so quiet all he could hear was the waves crashing against the beach in the distance. Those lights in the windows are far enough away they shouldn’t pose a threat, Amrak thought.

Amrak walked to his rental car, opened the trunk, and obtained his beekeeper’s suit, as well as a small vial of natural bee pheromone extracted from his killer bees. Pulling the sack along the sandy beach, he tugged the hive back towards the hale house on Lopa Beach.

Amrak considered the situation. Ideally I like to have my victims alive enough to feel the pain. But I may need to make an exception, due to the proximity of pedestrians, distant beach goers, and other personages celebrating the anniversary in their homes until the wee hours of the night.

After Amrak donned his beekeeper regalia, he applied some of the killer bee pheromone to Devon’s forehead and body, so that the bees would be attracted to his body and sting him. The sack was loosened, and at first only a few bees ventured forth. Then a few more. After the initial swarm discovered the pheromone, swaths and swarms of bees went straight for Devon, piercing his body from head to toe with their stingers, as if they were suicide bombers, losing their lives for the sake of the hive.

Amrak stood back and watched. It’s a shame that Devon won’t feel anything. Lucky him. Passed out from the booze. Oh well. At least I don’t need to fuss with putting duct tape over his mouth.

F-u-c-k! screamed Devon, coming to. AHHHHHHH!

Amrak placed his beekeeper’s glove over Devon’s mouth. I should have used duct tape after all! Too late now!

The bees gouged their stingers all over Devon’s body, his clothing masking the sinister gore underneath like a censored version of a Rated R movie. But it didn’t last long, as blood was soon soaking through Devon’s clothing. The sting velocity was high, dozens per second, until the number of stings surpassed a thousand. After Devon went unconscious once again, Amrak allowed the bees to creep and crawl into his mouth and throat. The bees even stung his eyeballs and tongue. Devon’s body swelled until it was bloated. It was at this point that Amrak pushed his flagpole into Devon’s abdomen, the flag reading:

This man experienced paradise and a despair, and is it not ironic how these two very different terms are essentially anagrams? Needless to say, this man was sent to bed without even a last supper.

Chapter 19: A Discreet Meet and Greet

Location: Split Rock Light House (between Two Harbors and Beaver Bay)

Main Characters: Shawn Schroeder, Mark Anderson, and Madeline Fischer

Date: 10:00 P.M. on Friday, September 13, 2019

Dear Mom, I miss you so much! As I look into your eyes, adjacent to the big moose head that Dad bagged, part of me thinks you are really listening. But are you really? Or is this also the stuff of wishful thinking? Could you give me a sign? I need to know you are okay. That way I will know I am okay. Life scares me so much! People live and die. I don’t understand the wherefore and why. I don’t get it. Please, Mom, I need a hug. I can’t believe there will come a day when I too will die. It’s terrifying! Why do so many people not seem to care? Please, Mom, please give me a sign that we will see our loved ones again. I beg of you. Are you there, Mom? If you don’t humor me with a sign, I fear that either you don’t love me or that you no longer exist, and neither of these options appeal to my fickle sensibilities. I can feel a burgeoning and insidious melancholy in my heart that grows day by day. I even found myself having suicidal ideation earlier today. You never hesitated to check on me to make sure I was okay, rain or shine, sleet or snow, gale or squall. As the days roll by, I can’t help but wonder if your silence really is evidence that you are gone forever. If you really did exist, somewhere out there, in this vast universe, you of all people would have found a means to contact me and check up on me by now. I love you, Mom, even if your consciousness has ceased to exist forever and ever. I am here, waiting for your sign. Please don’t take too long.

One of Madeline’s soliloquies to her mother, February 2017

There was a crisp autumn chill in the air, and the earthy scent of miles upon miles of lake water permeated the cool damp air. When Madeline had said 10:00 PM sharp, she hoped her words would leave an indelible impression on anyone who took up the mantle of meeting her here at Split Rock Lighthouse.

Madeline was already at the base of the tower, wearing an army green patrol cap, high-heeled oxfords, and Nova’s black peacoat unbuttoned over a flannel blue-checked shirt. By now she had already stopped in Luverne, MN en route to change license plates. She fished around in her purse for her cell phone and once again brought up the text she had received from her sister Nova on September 10th, which read,

I officially hate you, bitch. I might even press charges (who says blood is thicker than water?) And yes, I will be using your Cruiser in the interim. I will never trust you again. Just keep feeling jealous that I have the better life and got all the breaks. Maybe I did. And maybe you don’t deserve any better. We are done, Maddy

Hate,

Nova

Madeline began sobbing. It’s just as bad as I remembered. If anything, it’s worse! So much for my heartfelt letter. She stuffed her phone into her purse and zipped it up with a loud swoosh.

Madeline wiped her eyes on the collar of her jacket, or rather Nova’s. By the time Madeline put her phone away, there was a small group of patrons in her general vicinity, leaning on the guard rail. She eyed them up for a moment.

What type of person would take up such a mission? What would he or she look like? That guy with the leather jacket and mohawk across the parking lot could be a possibility—he could be the angry non-conformist type. The other five people near me look like regular tourists for the most part. Nah, none of the five look the type. But what is the type I am expecting in the first place? Maybe none of them are here for me. Gotta consider that possibility.

The tallest gentleman in the group of five locked eyes with her.

Madeline considered him. Say, do you know if they still make $2 bills?

The man smiled. Miss Double X, I presume?

Madeline kissed him on the cheek, and he blushed as he touched the spot she’d kissed.

Madeline curtsied. Miss Double X indeed. You can call me Madeline, Maddy, or Madeline Fischer.

Mark bowed. Mark Anderson, your resident otaku, anorak, geek, and death hag, at your service. Nice to make your acquaintance.

Madeline smiled from ear to ear and put her hand over her mouth.

The dramatic display caused another gentleman to meander closer. I am also here for the grand occasion. Nice to meet you both. I’m impressed that I did not come alone. My name is Shawn, Shawn Schroeder.

Madeline and Mark gave Shawn a hug, and he did his best to put his arms around them both.

Mark was dressed in a gray peacoat, paired with Chelsea boots, black jeans, and a black newsboy cap. Shawn was dressed in a beige hooded parka and brown wingtips. He also had a gear-style pocket watch, the chain visible in the pocket of his brown jeans.

Splendid, said Madeline. And here I thought my excursion here would be all for naught! Madeline shot her gaze up at the peak of the lighthouse. What do you think John Marrow is doing at this very moment?

Mark and Shawn followed her lead, and also looked up at the peak of the lighthouse.

Mark put his hand over his eyes to block the wind. "Ah yes, the first mate who went down with the Madeira during Mataafa. Perhaps he and the captain, Dick Humble, are paying their respects to this lighthouse as we speak. Or perhaps they are not anywhere, but rather, everywhere."

Lovely philosophical answer, said Madeline, staring at the lighthouse for a moment before returning her gaze to her compatriots. But can we transcend mere stories and folktales? Or is that the best we can do? I am equally curious about Barbara Paplior, the poor thing, who died such a gruesome death not too far from here on the aerial lift bridge in Duluth.

Agreed, returned Mark. How much pain did she go through when she died?

Shawn scratched his head and rocked on his feet. Enough questions for now. Let’s find somewhere a bit more private to wax nostalgic.

Madeline began buttoning her coat. Just follow me to Castle Danger. I have to admit, I always wanted to say that!

Ah yes, the lighthouse being northeast of the dangerous castle, chimed Shawn. I remember. Is Castle Danger where our place of residence is located?

Yes indeed, returned Madeline.

Mark smiled. You make it sound like we are in an RPG.

Madeline grinned. Why do you think I chose the Grand Superior Lodge? Madeline turned towards Lake Superior. "Let’s just enjoy the view for a wee