Tarzan Malone: A Man of Conscience Minding Life's Purpose

By Devious Moons

Tarzan Malone a crooked smile at the impasse of fate; a man out of time a man of action at a crossroads in life, at a  music comedy renaissance  festival for the ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977264336

Devious Moons

The Author served an enlistment in the U.S. Navy, but never did anything sexy or dangerous except on liberty. Went to college for a time, then served a little  for a non violent crime. Have worked as mover with no shaking, as a cook ,and cleaner in the  hospitality industry.With a brief stint working in retail and maintenance.

Book preview

1

It wasn’t the screaming that woke him…. Not for a long time now.

The night deviously clear concealed a great force. Strong was the storm born far out to sea.

The storms vanguard gusts howled, screaming down from the sea through dense forests to the city obliviously enjoying the night.

His window thrown open to the pulsing night life. Spilling in light to dance with shadow across the ceiling above him. Lending the impression, a dream come to life.

Tarzan Malone lay awake, dreaming of his life thus far. The way a man does at the crossroads, Sure of himself after a fashion, but unsure of the path. But then how much choice does a man really have in destiny, or where she takes you.

Parents killed on the day of his birth, their first and only. The drunk physician unable to understand Comanche his dying Father’s words, giving him his less than orthodox name. Safer that way, if death doesn’t know your real name it’s harder to find you.

Raised in the concrete jungle, a Catholic orphanage in Detroit. Nuns, probably worse than Gorillas.

The old Man his boxing coach, Sam taught him about the street, his culture, his people, the guitar, Could have been worse could’ve been born a rich mans son, or worse still a politicians kid.

Then the Navy to Honor his Father, and escape life on the street.

The Special Forces, part of a war then asked to join, and later lead the Squad, What a magic rabbit hole nightmare that turned out to be.

But then, that’s all in a days work.

That Day though, The Day of Days, Malones anyway.

The day that changed everything forever, The day he saw and learned something. Something he didn’t accept, couldn’t accept. As if dreams came alive, and spirits spoke to the living.

Feeling done with that part of his life and No, desire for more. Malone took his discharge and went on walkabout for a time.

Japan to see an Irezumi Master and fulfill a man cubs dream.

Europe after that, Iceland on the way back to the States.

America, he missed the old girl, Malone’s thought as the ship passed the French beauty heading into New York harbor.

Malone didn’t fly, not with another option. Save those lives for flying into harms way. Didn’t want to use them up as a commuter, better to have them in the bank for jumping out of the frying pan. The Bushido code said a warrior should only temps fate when necessary or if a really good time is involved according to Vasilli.

Besides he enjoyed the voyage peacefull being at sea, time to enjoy a good book. Over and above this he could swim like a fish; flying not so much.

Vassilli and Kevin two friends who left the squad the same time went as far as Japan with him then went their own way.

They all had, had no choice, sweeping everything under the rug after the house burned down as always the governments M. O. Gave all of them honorables and a bonus instead of benefits, or a bullet.

Changing midstream going public, while taking credit for their accomplishments. Then asking a few favors of them of coarse; politicians as predictable as spoiled teenagers,

The curtains furled in the wind like waves crashing against some phantom shore, Different disciplines of music along with the light show natural and man made from out the window dancing in archaic time, splashing illusion across the floor and walls.

A chill on the wind brought gooseflesh to his bare torso, a pause to his musings, Sitting up in bed yawning out a stretch, his lazy gaze sweeping the whole of the room …

Where the hell am I?

The dream memory did that on occasion. Made Malone loose his geography. He was in a hotel, a nice one with no danger about that was obvious.

A room this big at the Keep and The Sisters at our Lady of Blessed Incarceration would’ve had no less then twenty of us in here, also it would smell of oppression, and old books, with a hint of piss mixed in a sweat sox.

Malone’s quick humor was part of him kept him positive, focused. When he didn’t have a reason to be like when he spoke to old friends long past, or asked his Parents spirits advice.

Walking to the window the hardwood floors cool to his bare feet, A majestic crescent Moon nestled in a field of stars, the ones he could see in a city this big anyway. Which was still a mystery, inching closer as light and sound pulsed from every direction,

Below his balcony a barrage of color; tents, booths, food trucks as far as the sharpest eye could see in most directions. Hawking everything from T shirts, water pipes, naked lady lava lamps, Tahitian incense burners. Plus whatever else one might happen upon at a music renaissance festival big enough to cover over a third of downtown.

Riots of color and sound, packed to capacity crowds down every street occupied by the festival. People as varied as the entertainment, a sea of toy soldiers jostling. Each change of the wind brought a myriad of aromas from a slight hint, or accent to a pungent slap across the face.

A huge Dragon skull its gaping maw the entrance with GoGo Dancers in cages on either side, framed in by columns of fire,

An old time street Hocker out front, In costume as an African Witch Doctor from an old movie shaved pate, top hat, leopard skin vest a necklace of teeth the works; dancing, talking very animatedly.

Above everything a huge banner that read.

The Rock n Reggae Blues, Renaissance Gypsy Caravan Festival ! Welcome Seattle ! Come one, come all, come with your friends, come with your wives, your sweethearts, your neighbors sister but please come as often as possible, and please practice safe sex until you get it right,

Seattle…. Shit Right I’m still in Seattle,

The festival for the great music why he was here; what he’d enjoyed the most about growing up in Detroit. Rock n Roll, the Blues, MoTown and Muscle cars once upon a time the fabric of the Motor city. With more than a little municipal corruption, and a great deal of street violence thrown in for flavor.

A change of the wind brought with it the aroma of a crowded locker room blended with Bull Bison in the rut. Wheu! Damn Malone. He’d over slept, and needed a shower desperately. Not surprising having been up for a little over day, a long sweaty day at that, when out of nowhere.

A local news helicopter roared overhead reporting the traffic and the mayhem, controlled as it was of the festival, Standing there, the sound out of nowhere unexpectedly familiar. Took him back to the past. A past he was still wrestling with unwilling to face, but the curtain to his memories parted regardless.

Two years, one month, and twelve days ago give or take a lifetime.

Designed for stealth, a pair of Blackhawks cruised wraith like through the valley. The forests canopy appearing close enough to touch. Framed in by the rugged terrain; majestic the granite cliff face shined bathed in predawn starlight its bedraggled veins of crystal pale pink to magenta glistening, a jeweled cave of fabled legend.

A picture in contrast, the crafts a spirits passing shadow. The compliment of men aboard profession soldiers of the roughest disposition.

The infamous special forces unit of lethal repute that didn’t officially exists; vehemently denied many times over, and officially impressive. Putting the fear of God into any who’d seen them in combat. Their unit designation coincided well with the reputation earned through many years of a more than impressive war record.

The Alpha Omega Squadron, the beginning and the end of anything the enemy brought to bear. But more commonly known by one less pretentious.

Their commander legendary hero Brigadier Eric Palin once said. You know those things that go bump in the night? My boys don’t bump back. They rip the bloody things in half, then set what’s left on fire.

The squad on their way back from a mission aborted over bad intel. The target not where they should be; each man silent in his self.

Malone’s brow furrowed as he ran his thumb over the dog tag scorched blue black, Thinking of his friend along with all those innocent deaths that day, long since gone, yet still with him.

Malone’s battle focus was at the edge of waining, so he’d leave the squad at the end of this tour. Not fare to his friends and stupid dangerous to stay.

That decided a relaxing sigh escaped focusing him back into the now, Just as the distress call from a platoon of Marines burst from the radio stuck in a place where they shouldn’t.

Static blended with the score of combat, gun fire, explosions, and eloquently unauthorized colloquialisms of a most colorful nature,

Check fire check fire go go go … Murphy You after birth of a bastard rat move your narrow ass and shoot that shit stain in the jeep with the fifty!

God Damn Gunny You kiss your Mama with that mouth on Sunday? The marine punctuated with heavy machine gun fire.

No yours ! You Fucking Abortion ! Now shoot dick cheese behind the dumpster with the RPG before he fires that thing.

Done more gunfire How you like me now Bitch? You baby rapen Mutha more gun fire.

Malone’s emotional content went from neutral to Krakatoa in less time than it takes to say, as did every man’s in the unit.

Marines in harms way relaying the particulars of their situation back to command and commands less than impressive response as to when too expect relief and in what strength. Malone turned to the pilot. Get us there yesterday will ya Travis.

Travis a veteran salty dog combat pilot who’d forgotten more than any instructor ever knew grinned with delight. Travis loved flying into harms way to get men out of the shit, and wupp some ass ever since A-Shau. And if it was off the books unauthorized with the possibility of pissing off command all the better.

Read my mind Zan, Betty Lou this is Whole lotta Rosie, , Betty Lou., Whole lotta Rosie come in over…

Go ahead Rosie.

Once more little Brother, get out a big can a wupp ass and Hit it! Ha…ha…ha Well SShit! My Nigga, Great minds do come to the same conclusion! I’m passionately inclined to aqueous to your request. Let’s go wupp some Ass!

Arminius Jackson the other pilot from Spanish Harlem just enjoyed a good pugilistic competition, He was also half done with his dissertation on the history of literature and motivational poetry in combat, as well as its influence on modern man in the arena of sport.

Malone got on the internal using the code only the Squad knew, concerning his improvisational play book of evolving tactical responses, or as Vassilli put it, The Super Secret Tarzan manual on how to set the enemies arss on fire and kick it into next week.

Squad Cry Havoc Arc Angle Trooper static fire and brimstone, black tie curtain goes up after Sir Edward. A round of confirmation and the men set about their martial tasks.

A deep giggle escaped Vassilli as he readied the gear. Malone just grinned shaking his head, One of the few who understood his friends quirk you might say.

Some Asian philosophies would say Vassilli was a disciple of The Monkey King. Perfectly sane Vass just really likes a good fight, especially when up against it with any real bad guys, so he giggles a little pregame.

They’d been drawn into a trap. The rookie Lieutenant, once referred to as a ninety day wonder, wouldn’t listen to Gunny Walker. The Lieutenant had needed a combat ribbon for his career to continue on its upward spiral thanks to his father the Senator.

Not anymore, didn’t need a combat ribbon with no head.

The Marines shelter once a grand hotel from a bygone era, now a ruined shell riddle with holes. Along with what was left of the Midievel town, Old stone buildings with generations of culture and history ravaged by war, some held up by sheer defiance unwilling to die.

Legs of a statue from the crusades with the top blown away at the waist marked the town center in what had once been an elegant place of happy memories.

One end of the street a cavernous maze of smoke filled bomb craters impassable enemy snipers saw to that.

The other closed off by a barricade, made of a bus, old cars, dumpsters and debris from the towns destruction. Slid into place once the trap was sprung. It stood about twenty feet tall and solid, With a curtain of black smoke from piles of tires burning on the opposite side to blind any would be rescuers.

The Militia had them penned in sniping at them from their only avenue of escape. The Marines did the Corps proud fighting like Marines, for now it was a standoff,

Just a matter of whose reinforcements showed first, and it was looking like the Militias would.

The Marines didn’t have anything big enough to break through the barricade close enough to matter. Plus the modest relief force couldn’t get close enough to it with explosives. The smoke screen of burning tires and the enemy firing from above keeping their heads down.

Several Marines from their relief had died in the attempt; the burned out shell of a HummV sat in testament to this.

Desperation hung over the town.

Claire was dead by breakfast, or was going to be shortly after sunrise, No wait it’s Sunday maybe she’d get a late brunch death instead, but she was dead she knew it. They all were her and the brave Marines she’d gone to war with, and for what?

To be taken seriously as a photo journalist by her parents. To win some jag off bowling trophy from a gaggle of yahoos she couldn’t care less about ! What the hell was she thinking?

Should’ve taken that job with Creem magazine instead. She’d take naked rock star antics, or manager bull shit egos over guns, bombs, and dead bodies any day.

In what was left of the bathroom Claire washed her face as best she could with a cup of water and her yellow bandana. The cracked mirror giving her a funhouse appearance.

Flaxen blonde hair appearing more so against a smudged dirty visage, set upon a five foot eight athletic set of curves. Most days a practitioner of yoga. Plus, a low carb diet. Claire took care of herself.

A woman of substance in more than just the physical; Claire was fluent in Latin, and Spanish with a Masters in Art from UCLA.

She’d even had a couple well received gallery showings of her work before coming here, to Dantes Inferno.

Not that any of that would prevent her from being less dead in a few hours, Suppose she could write her last letter to the world in Latin to leave with her film just to show off a little.

Blue eyes shining out from her dark streaked face reminded her of a Kabuki mask she had when she was little. GranDad got it for her in Tokyo on a business trip holiday, Claire smiled in spite of everything feeling a little better remembering the happy moments.

Looking at the blood stains on her jacket, She thought of Corporal Osane whose it was and again her reasons for being here. It had felt so right at the start,

Now however, boiling water for tea on a camp stove improvised for her by a young Marine laying dead a few feet away; she just didn’t know.

The water boiled, Claire made the tea then went over to where Gunny Walker stood watch on the street. Picking her way through prone Marines weapons trained. Making sure to keep low, the snipers relentlessly, always on the look out for the careless, Ricochets a constant reminder.

She’d asked for a pistol and been shown how to use it by Gunny. Claire Johansen you will not be taken, used, or a hostage, you will Not! . Claire had repeated the mantra to herself since the last village they passed, previously having The Militia" pay a visit. There were no words the pictures said everything, Animals, no animals didn’t do that to each other, a shudder went through her at the memory.

Cheer up baby sister we’re not dead yet. Gunnery Sargent Anthony Walker radiated confidence lives