Super Serial: Super Serial, #1

By Harker McNair

Exiled Corporate Marshal Ziglar Ghostshade is haunted by the lingering spirit of his murdered husband, Gio. Unable to bring himself to keep the promise he made to spread Gio's ashes on Ipanema beach, he passes his time committing identity theft and inhaling grief-donuts at Sweet Sally's Bakery. Caught in the crossfire of debt and notoriety, Ziggy's world spirals out of control when his possessions, including Gio's ashes, are confiscated by District DipShip's audacious new CEO, Alexia Ito.

 

Cornered by Alexia's cunning manipulation, Ziggy is blackmailed into assembling a team of serial killers for the outlandish Super Serial competition, a corporate-sponsored sporting event that pits murderers against each other in a battle to the death.  

 

Armed with an eclectic ensemble including administrative marvel, Pepper Devoux, resident eccentric analyst, Floyd McNut, and the unforgettable forgettable security guard, Joe, Ziggy sets out on a dangerous mission to catch the killers before time runs out and he loses Gio forever. Together, Ziggy and his motley crew must navigate a world of corporate intrigue, explosive encounters, and deadly investigations, where orchestrated deathmatches are the norm, and serial killers aren't the only villains.

 

Set against the backdrop of a corporate dystopia run amok, Super Serial is a dark comedy thriller that reveals the power of friendship, the pursuit of justice, and the unrelenting spirit of resilience in the face of outrageous odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harker McNair
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989033621

Book preview

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental, and is not intended by the author.

SUPER SERIAL. Copyright 2023 by Harker McNair. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America

Cover Design By: Jeffrey Smith

Interior Formatting By: Painted Wings Publishing Services

Name: McNair, Harker, author.

Title: Super Serial / Harker McNair

Description: First edition: 2023

ISBN: #979-8-9890336-0-7 (paperback) #979-8-9890336-1-4 (hardcover) #979-8-9890336-2-1 (ebook)

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, please contact: https://www.harkermcnair.com/

Dedication

For our father, the first great storyteller.

Synopsis

Exiled Corporate Marshal Ziglar Ghostshade is haunted by the lingering ghost of his murdered husband, Gio. Unable to bring himself to keep the promise he made to spread Gio’s ashes on Ipanema beach, he passes his time committing identity theft and inhaling grief-donuts at Sweet Sally’s Bakery. Caught in the crossfire of debt and notoriety, Ziggy’s world spirals out of control when his possessions, including Gio’s ashes, are confiscated by District DipShip’s audacious new CEO, Alexia Ito.

Cornered by Alexia’s cunning manipulation, Ziggy is blackmailed into assembling a team of serial killers for the outlandish Super Serial competition, a corporate-sponsored sporting event that pits murderers against each other in a battle to the death. 

Armed with an eclectic ensemble including administrative marvel, Pepper Devoux, resident eccentric analyst, Floyd McNut, and the unforgettable forgettable security guard, Joe, Ziggy sets out on a dangerous mission to catch the killers before time runs out and he loses Gio forever. Together, Ziggy and his motley crew must navigate a world of corporate intrigue, explosive encounters, and deadly investigations, where orchestrated deathmatches are the norm, and serial killers aren’t the only villains.

Set against the backdrop of a corporate dystopia run amok, Super Serial is a dark comedy thriller that reveals the power of friendship, the pursuit of justice, and the unrelenting spirit of resilience in the face of outrageous odds.

Content Warning

This book is about serial killers. It contains gratuitous violence and discussions about serial killers and their methods of killing. Many of the details in this story are inspired by real people and events. Please proceed with caution.

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Potential Triggers are Listed Below:

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Gratuitous Violence and Gore

Mental Illness and Personality Disorders - Not Specified

Fat-Phobia - Internal and External

Grief and Loss - Spousal

Ableism - Neurodivergence/Autism

Sexual Assault - Discussion, not Depiction

Extreme Poverty and Shelter Deprivation

Human Labor Auction - Forced Labor

Canine Attacks

Religious Trauma - Christianity

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For a more detailed description of the trigger and content warnings found in this book, please visit www.superserial.club

Chapter 1: Boulevard of Broken Creams

Ziglar Ghostshade was well aware that if he hadn’t captured the most heinous serial killer of his time, he’d be rotting in prison.

I know you’re in there, Mr. Cannoli! shouted the debt collector, banging on Ziggy’s apartment door. This is the third time I’ve been here. You owe my client over $30,000.

Ziggy ignored him, waiting in silence. The collector's client was MediGen Labs, a sub-corp that added addictive substances to children’s medicine in order to boost their profits. As far as Ziggy was concerned, they could swallow their money and choke.

The collector pounded a few more times, but with diminishing interest. Ziggy waited for the sound of receding footsteps and the familiar whoosh of paper sliding underneath the door. It didn’t take long.

More bills for Graham Cannoli? Gio asked, slumped against the corner of the kitchen.

He’s been racking up a few. Ziggy stooped to pick up the bill. He tossed it unopened into his overflowing trash can. If history was any indication, he still had a few months left before MediGen cranked up the heat. When that happened, ‘Graham Cannoli’ and his medical debt would disappear forever, and Ziggy would start over in a new apartment with a new pseudonym.

How many times are you planning to do this? Gio leaned forward, wincing from the deep purple bruises on his ribs. You won’t get away with it forever. Eventually, someone will outsmart you and you’ll have to go back to being Ziggy.

I can’t go back, Ziggy said, moving to the chipped porcelain sink. He rustled up a mostly-clean bowl from the stack of dirty dishes. We’ve been over this.

You have to, Gio murmured, his dark eyes flashing. A thin rivulet of blood ran from his ear, dripping onto the sticky linoleum.

Ziggy’s stomach lurched. This isn’t real, he reminded himself, averting his gaze. He shuffled through his pantry until he found a few packets of instant oatmeal. He dumped the contents into his bowl, added some tap water, and watched the concoction bubble in the microwave. It looked like a pile of albino goat shit.

Slop for the pig, he muttered when it was done cooking. He threw in a handful of stale raisins and a chunk of rock-hard sugar before setting it down on the plastic tray that served as his dining room table. He sank into his threadbare camping chair and poked at the congealed lump, cringing at the squelching sound the spoon made as it dipped beneath the surface. If he didn’t force it down, he’d be hungry all morning, but nothing could make it anything other than what it was—gluten-free ass paste.

He glanced at the bent metal cupboard where he stored his only remaining bottle of GlutoBlock.

Don’t even think about it, Gio said. More of his blood dripped onto the floor. That shit is $5,784 a bottle.

A thick knot formed in the pit of Ziggy’s stomach as he pushed himself to his feet, pressing his fist against the tightness in his chest. Think about what?

Gio growled low in his throat. We’ve been together for twenty years. I know all your tricks. That money is almost a third of the travel expense to Ipanema Beach. You’re supposed to be saving. You promised.

Ziggy pulled on his ratty wool coat and scuffed leather boots, trying not to look at the rosewood urn perched on the rusty end table or the poster of the famous beach he’d tacked to the wall above it. Dark memories edged against his decaying barrier of sanity. He grabbed the GlutoBlock from the cupboard and stuffed it into his pocket. He needed fresh air.

You’d better not be going to that bakery again, Gio warned as Ziggy retrieved the bowl of oatmeal mush, tossing it back into the sink. I mean it. You spent eighty-one dollars there last week.

Ziggy clenched the edge of the countertop until his knuckles turned white. You’re not real. This time, he said it out loud. This is all in my head. Red Judas killed you. You died three years ago.

You wouldn’t need a false identity if you paid off your debts. Gio stamped his foot against the ground, the nubs of his half-severed toes smacking against the stained floor. "Haven’t you had enough junk food, Rolha de Poço? Você é uma vergonha!"

You’re not real, Ziggy repeated, heading straight for the door. The real Gio would never talk to me like that. He knew it was true, but his body refused to listen. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his sweaty hands struggled to grip the door knob.

"Mentiroso!" Gio spat in his native tongue as Ziggy stepped into the dim hallway.

Love you, he couldn’t help but reply. He didn’t bother locking the door; there was nothing worth stealing. He’d already sold everything valuable to cover his massive debt to Pill Depot, but it had barely made a dent. He still owed more than he could ever repay.

A woman with stringy white hair and a sackful of cans fastened to her walker greeted Ziggy with a nod as he passed. He acknowledged her with a brief glance before shuffling by. Anonymity is what drew him to District DipShip in the first place. It was a haven for grifters, fugitives, and sleazy sub-corps who couldn’t afford anything better. It was easy to stay hidden in DipShip, so long as you kept to yourself and didn't kick up a fuss when your shit got stolen.

The shipping corporation stayed afloat through bargain-basement leases and shady backdoor deals. Ziggy had moved to DipShip three years back. After two, he’d stopped bothering to count CEOs. With every change in leadership came a wave of fresh promises for transparency and reform, but the deep-rooted corruption that had sustained DipShip since its infancy devoured any hope that dared to emerge.

For once, Ziggy appreciated the perpetually broken elevator in his seedy apartment complex. The outside world wasn’t much, but at least he could breathe. He trudged down the stairs, sucking in stale air, hoping to stave off the worst of his panic. By the time he reached the ground level after five flights, his heart was still beating hard, but his head was clear. He used his coat sleeve to wipe his sweaty brow. Three blocks stood between him and Sweet Sally's bakery, known for their specialty Boston creams. If he hurried, he could make it before they sold out.

His fingers brushed over the cap of the GlutoBlock stored safely in his pocket. The ridges along the edge were soothing to the touch, and he felt a bit like a pious nun gripping a crucifix. If he had GlutoBlock and a belly full of pastries, life was almost worth living.

He walked down the crumbling sidewalk that led to the bakery, careful to avoid the murky brown puddles from last night’s rainfall. In the nicer districts, the petrichor was fresh and earthy, but in District DipShip, the rain only stirred up the penetrating foulness of the streets. It smelled like warm wet trash and cat piss. Ziggy breathed through his mouth as he hurried through a crosswalk, narrowly avoiding a massive pile of dog shit no one would ever pick up.

What now? Ziggy scowled as he approached a crowd overflowing the sidewalk. He maneuvered through the throng, which seemed to be gawking in the direction of a street cart selling fragrant chai. Ziggy stopped. Tacked to the front of the cart was an ancient flatscreen blaring a news bulletin.

We’re live at Skidmore Dumping, where district marshals have confirmed the brutal murder of a third board member this month, a newscaster reported. The victim, Senior Vice President of Operations William Watson, was found decapitated in his office late last night. Skidmore executives are scrambling in response, offering huge bounties to marshals worldwide in an effort to apprehend the mysterious killer.

Maybe someone will catch them and find the next Super Serial star! A child’s voice rose above the din and Ziggy followed the sound to a young boy tugging on his mother’s coat hem. His eyes sparkled with excitement. The mother ignored him, too focused on fussing with her tea.

Ziggy’s hands clenched into fists as he passed. Every one of those mega-corp executive jackasses deserved what they got. Super Serial was a deranged sporting event created by wealthy corporations to rid their districts of serial killers—the death penalty, with sponsors. Corporations glorified murderers, then dared to cry foul when a high-level suit wound up dead because of it.

And it wasn’t just executives. Citizens loved Super Serial, too. It was more popular than football and basketball combined, and the only way to escape the monotonous grind of being a faceless cog in a corporate machine. Society glamorized and romanticized their most vicious killers, idolizing them as if murder were a mere footnote in the life of a sexy, misunderstood celebrity. Criminal marshals were more like recruiters. Instead of serving justice, they sentenced killers to compete in the competition. Every year, corporations sent their most popular killers into battle, and every year the public gorged themselves on the spectacle.

Ziggy breathed a sigh of relief as the door chime tinkled and he stepped into the refuge of Sweet Sally's. The aromatic perfume of freshly baked breads, fruit pies, and sugary pastries displaced the rancid smell of the streets. His mouth watered. If there were a halfway decent place in this garbage district, Sweet Sally's was it. It had only been open for thirty minutes and was already crowded with customers. They waited in line, tapping their feet and checking the time, eager for a quick breakfast and an even quicker return to work. Hopefully, the rush would be over soon. The bakery opened a few years ago, and Ziggy longed for the days when no one realized how great it was.

As Ziggy scanned the room for Sweet Sally herself, the only person who knew his real name, he finally spotted her at the checkout counter. Her long red nails tapped against the register screen, and she tucked a strand of her thick black hair beneath her hairnet. A warm smile lit up her face when she saw Ziggy, and he nodded before heading to his usual spot near the back. No need to wait in line—Sally knew what he liked and would bring his order over when she had a chance.

Ziggy nestled against the booth’s worn tan vinyl, breathing in deeply until his stomach grazed the underside of the table. A server brought him a cup of coffee and he relaxed in the warm, fragrant air. Ziggy hadn't slept with anyone in years; the bakery was his mistress, and nothing was better than resting his head in her soft bosom. He reached into his pocket to touch the GlutoBlock again. If Sweet Sally’s bakery was his mistress, then GlutoBlock was the key to her heart.

Just then, a man slid into the booth, squeaking down the vinyl until he was opposite Ziggy. His appearance was the only reason Ziggy didn’t bolt. Debt collectors were burly guys with sharpened reflexes and tattoos. This guy looked like he got lost on his way home from an online gaming tournament. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt that swallowed his small frame and read, Support bacteria — they’re the only culture some people have. His hair was somewhere between blond and brown, cut in uneven chunks against his head, and topped with a massive pair of blue headphones. He grinned at Ziggy with a mouthful of crooked teeth.

I knew it! I knew you’d be here, the man said too loudly, and half the customers glanced their way.

Ziggy cringed. I think you must have mistaken me for someone else, he responded as politely as he could. It was clear the man was socially backward, at best, and Sally wouldn’t like it if he were rude to one of her customers.

What did you say? the man shouted, leaning across the table. He’d obviously forgotten he was wearing the headphones.

You must have mistaken me for someone else, Ziggy repeated with a bit more inflection and a hint of threat. An employee behind the bakery counter chuckled, and Ziggy felt heat run up the back of his neck. He’d grown accustomed to blending into a crowd; it had been a long time since he’d drawn so many eyes.

Nope, the man replied with a grin. It’s you, all right. You’ve gotten bigger and lost most of your hair, but I can tell it’s you. The man held out his phone, showing Ziggy a picture of a smiling, self-assured man in a smart black suit. Ziggy blinked, his brain stalling for a moment before recognizing he was looking at a picture of himself from about ten years ago.

He froze to prevent accidentally giving anything away, an ingrained reaction he’d learned as a marshal. Only a keen eye could have recognized Ziggy as the same man in the photo. He had gained weight over the years. And gone bald. He suddenly felt damp everywhere and fought the urge to peel his ball sack from the side of his leg.

His adrenaline surged as he peered more closely at the man. Who are you? he asked, clearing his throat against the strain.

Floyd McNut. The man was almost shouting now. Pepper said you’d be too hard to find because you used to work in corporate identity theft, but I was determined. Once I’d figured out you were somewhere in DipShip, all I had to do was search the local bakeries. Your corporate profile says your favorite food is donuts because you grew up in an apartment above a bakery. Although no one has updated it in over twelve years—4,297 days to be exact—so there was some guess work involved. Updated the profile, I mean, not the bakery.

Floyd must be some bizarre, new breed of bounty hunter. Ziggy’s brain went into overdrive, wondering if he could outrun him. Floyd had a wiry build, like a runner, but Ziggy had studied every backstreet and alleyway between the bakery and his apartment. He just had to hide long enough to keep Floyd off his tail, grab Gio, get the dash cash stashed inside his toilet tank, and blow town before Pill Depot caught him and threw him into a labor prison.

I was hoping I’d see you today. Sally approached the table with a tray covered in chocolate-glazed donuts and Florentine cannoli. She set down the tray, two small plates, and a thick stack of napkins. No one loves my cannolis as much as you.

Cannolis isn’t a word, Floyd blasted the information louder than a megaphone. Cannoli is already a plural word. The singular of cannoli is cannolo. But no one says cannolo even though it’s grammatically correct.

Sally’s sharp brown eyes landed on Floyd. Who’s your friend? she asked, shooting a quick glance at Ziggy.

He wasn’t sure how to respond without drawing suspicion. This is Floyd, he muttered, scanning Floyd’s baggy shirt for possible hidden weapons.

What did you say? Floyd yelled, craning his neck toward Sally.

She pointed to his headphones. You could hear me better if you took those off, Sugar.

Floyd looked confused for a moment, his hand creeping to the top of his head where Sally had pointed. He poked around a bit before grasping the headphones and pulling them off. The hair that had been hidden underneath looked even more molted and unruly, like someone had chewed it up and spit it back onto his head.

I forget sometimes that I have them on, he said at a more normal volume. They’re noise-canceling. I wear them in crowded places so the sound doesn’t bother me. He took a donut from the stack and placed it carefully on the center of his plate, his fingers coated with chocolate glaze.

Ziggy scrutinized Floyd’s every move, watching for any sleight of hand, facial expression, or suspicious behavior that might reveal his true intentions. He knew how to spot a meticulously crafted persona. Despite Floyd’s appearance, Ziggy knew there could be danger lurking beneath the surface.

The morning rush is over now, Sally told Floyd. It should quiet down.

Ziggy stared at Sally, silently begging her to leave. But if she noticed, she didn’t care. She lingered, straightening silverware and refilling Ziggy’s coffee. She pulled a small pad of paper and a knubby pencil from the front pocket of her apron. I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before. Floyd, was it?

The reason you haven’t seen me here before is because I haven’t been here before, Floyd said with a shrug. I came to talk to Ziglar Ghostshade. Pepper Devoux needs him. She didn’t think I’d be able to find him, but I did.

Ziggy gripped the greasy edge of the table.

Pepper Devoux? Sally pinched her lips together so tightly, purple lipstick smudged underneath her nose. She knew something was wrong and was determined to investigate. Ziggy didn’t have friends, and he didn’t share his Boston creams. What kind of name is that? 

The kind her parents gave her. Floyd looked puzzled by the question. She’s Alexia Ito’s executive administrator.

Sally gasped, her eyes growing into saucers. Alexia Ito? The new CEO of DipShip?

Ziggy shoved a few cannoli into his mouth and the rest into his coat pocket. Not just the new CEO of DipShip, but the daughter of Hirofumi Ito, founder and CEO of Pill Depot, the most powerful corporation in the world and the mega-corp that owned his debt.

Pepper said if I ever found you, I should alert Joe then bring you to DipShip headquarters, Floyd told Ziggy, wiping the chocolate off his hands with a napkin. Bits of white fiber stuck to his fingertips. Do you have anything less messy? he asked Sally, his nose wrinkling as he looked down at the fingerprinted donut. I can’t eat this.

Ziggy scrambled out of the booth, but joggled the table in his haste, spilling coffee down the sides and onto the floor. Sally shrieked as it soaked her white canvas shoes, then cursed before bolting away for a towel.

Floyd looked pained by the noise and jammed his headphones back on.

Ziggy was already at the door when Floyd shouted after him. There’s no point in rushing back to your apartment! They’re already there.

Ziggy’s hand paused on the door handle, then crept to the bottle of GlutoBlock still in his pocket. He stroked it like a talisman, turning until he could see the golden flecks in Floyd’s hazel eyes.

Who’s already there?

Floyd pointed at his headphones. What? he shouted back.

Chapter 2: Sharp Dressed Flan

Ziggy spewed pastries all over the bottom of the stairs that led to his apartment. Curdled vanilla bean filling and half-chewed chunks of donut splashed onto the cracked concrete. Sweat stung his eyes as he blindly clutched at the railing. He’d run the entire way home.

Are you sick? Floyd plugged his nose and stepped over the vomit. It looks like you’re sick. I noticed when you puked everywhere.

Ziggy couldn’t breathe well enough to tell him to pipe it. All the way home, Floyd had bombarded him with information, making Ziggy feel foolish for ever thinking Floyd was a debt marshal.

Running away wasn’t necessary, Floyd said, tilting his head to avoid looking at the pile of puke. I already told you there was no point.

Bile coated Ziggy’s tongue. From the moment Floyd told him that DipShip had purchased his debt from Pill Depot and gone to his apartment to collect, he’d only had one goal—get to Gio before they did. Floyd was the least of his problems. Ziggy grabbed the last smooshed cannoli from his pocket and crammed it into his mouth before charging up the stairs.

Why not take the elevator? Floyd asked at Ziggy’s heels. And are you still eating the cannoli?

Ziggy wheezed in response. Hell yeah, he was still eating the cannoli. It might be the only decent food he’d get before they carted him away in handcuffs.

He stumbled into the hallway at the top of the stairs. He sensed his neighbors watching him through their peepholes as he passed. The stringy-haired lady with the walker peered at him through a crack in her door. No one in DipShip bothered to spy unless something especially heinous or interesting was happening. Floyd must have been telling the truth. Someone was in his apartment.

Deep down, Ziggy had always known it would come to this. Years of medication he couldn’t afford piled into an overwhelming mountain of debt. The situation only worsened when he was arrested, right after catching Red Judas. Pill Depot tried to spin his debt as the excuse, but the public saw through the ruse and it sparked global protests from marshals demanding Ziggy’s release. Everyone knew Hirofumi Ito was punishing Ziggy for killing Red Judas instead of sentencing him to Super Serial.

Under immense social pressure, the Associated Board of Corporate Directors—the ABCD—issued an injunction to Pill Depot. In the end, Hirofumi had no choice but to swallow his pride and set Ziggy free.

Ziggy had done his best to disappear after his release, but he knew one day the tenuous string of clemency would snap, and someone would come looking for him—maybe a vengeful Hirofumi, or an opportunistic enemy. Turned out to be both. His debt, belongings, and even his life now belonged to Hirofumi’s daughter, Alexia.

Ziggy burst through his front door. DipShip could send him to a labor camp, but they’d have to kill him if they wanted to take Gio away. Gio was all he had left.

He was too late. 

The apartment was stripped bare. Everything was gone. His broken lawn furniture, the stained mattress he’d found beside the liquor store dumpster, the dirty dishes and piles of soiled laundry, his poster of Ipanema—the rosewood urn. His heart dropped into his stomach to rot with his last cannoli.

A man stood in the center of the empty room holding a pile of Ziggy clothes. He perfectly embodied the dictionary definition of a security guard. He was an imposing figure, at least half a foot taller than Ziggy and covered in thick, ropey muscles. Dressed entirely in black, his bald head gleamed like a polished bowling ball. He had no distinctive markings or features to set him apart from anyone else.

Hi, Joe! Floyd said as he entered the apartment. I told you I’d find Ziglar Ghostshade. Pepper will be so surprised. She didn’t think I’d be able to find him, but I did. Ziglar, this is Joe. Joe is head of security at DipShip.

Ziggy felt like he’d taken a sweat shower. The back of his shirt was soaked. Ziggy, was all he managed to say.

Joe nodded once to Floyd before holding out the pile of clothes. I’ve been ordered to take you to DipShip headquarters. You’ll need to change before you meet with Ms. Ito.

Everything’s gone! Gio cried from his corner in the kitchen. The bruises and severed toes were gone, but a gaping, bloody eye socket had taken their place.

Ziggy numbly took the clothes from Joe. He trained his eyes on the carpet, unable to bring himself to even look at Gio.

What now? Gio demanded, his pitch rising with every word. How will you take us to Ipanema? You promised.

I know, Ziggy muttered. It sounded like someone had run his voice through a blender. I’m sorry.

It smells terrible in here, Floyd said, pulling the neck of his baggy T-shirt over his nose. Like mold and old tacos mixed with dead mice. You should clean up more often.

The maid quit, Ziggy said, glancing at Joe out of the corner of his eye. Escape was not an option. Joe was a lion and Ziggy was a juicy, three-legged gazelle. Ziggy doubted he could even take a piss without Joe from here on out.

I’ve never had a maid, and my place doesn’t stink, Floyd said. It smells like laundry detergent and lemons.

Good for you, Ziggy said as his gut let out a sudden, loud rumble. Fuck. He’d eaten at least five cannoli on the way back to the apartment—plus one