Certain death? Conspiracy that goes to the top? Robbery gone wrong? All in a day’s work…➱ The Theft by Aaron Frale Book Tour with Guest Post & Giveaway
Certain death?
Conspiracy that goes to the top?
Robbery gone wrong?
All in a day’s work…
The Theft
by Aaron Frale
Genre: Comedy Thriller
Certain
death? Conspiracy that goes to the top? Robbery gone wrong? All in a
day’s work…
F
hired me to do a straightforward job, but there was a slight snag in
the operation when what I stole was stolen from me. Three goons
showed up at my door to not so politely tell me that I have 24 hours
to deliver F’s goods or my body will never be recovered.
The
real tragedy is that I haven't had my morning coffee...
Those
punks better watch their back. Nothing comes between me and my
coffee.
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6:00 AM
Three irritable looking goons stood in the hall outside my front
door. I was tempted to go ahead and fix my sorely needed cup of coffee, but
they’d force their way inside without a second thought as to the property
damage they would cause in the process. My last three apartments didn’t give me
my security deposit back. A check in the mail would be really nice for a
change, so I opened the door.
The stooge in the middle was big. He probably bench-pressed
pro-wrestlers and chewed rawhide bones. He wore an equally large suit that
could be used to keep a nest of orphans warm on a cold winter night (1). I’m going to call the giant hunk of man-meat Bruno. Names are
my thing. Everything has got to have a name. My Chemex coffee maker is Chase.
My stove, Maude, and my toaster, Smite.
The thug in the back was the quiet one with an icy stare. Gutter
punk meets godfather, and most likely non-binary, which means I should use
they/them instead of she/he because it would be a shame to die for silly
reasons like pronoun usage. They probably favored battle moves like punch, kick
or slice. Yeah, Slice. They will henceforth be known as Slice.
The one in front was a little guy with curly brown hair, thinned
out at the top on its way to bald. He had the leather jacket, button-up shirt,
and gold chain combo that screamed toxic masculinity. I think it’s safe to
assume that the biggest insult one could devise for such a man was claiming
they have girl parts where there are boy parts, so his name had to be Jenny.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries,” I proclaimed, while
darting my eyes in the appropriate direction as I said each word. “Can I
interest you in a cup of joe? I have a subscription service to top-of-the-line coffee,
and let me tell you, it’s worth every penny.”
The odd squad signaled their desire not to partake in my offer
when Bruno grabbed me by the neck and dragged me through my apartment toward
the balcony, where he flipped me over and dangled me from my twenty-fourth-floor
apartment with his hands gripped around my ankles. It was their loss. You
haven’t lived until you’ve explored the bliss of independent roasters from
across the world provided for a low monthly rate.
“Ferrazzuolo thinks you’re holding out,” Jenny said, as he
leaned over the railing.
“Have you ever seen such a sunrise?!” I exclaimed. It was
particularly stunning this morning. The sun peeked over the Atlantic, and the
red hues stretched out like a postcard. The windows of the city glistened from
the raw beauty of nature—whitecaps on the water.
The moment was even more special because I was seldom awake for
it. My apartment costs about a third more for an ocean view, and I rarely take
advantage of it. I should drink my coffee on the porch more often. New
resolution – I’m going to drink more coffee on the balcony and enjoy a sunrise
every now and then.
“I don’t think you understand your predicament here,” Jenny
said. I could tell I was already getting under his skin. I have a tendency to
do that to people. It’s why I don’t have any roommates, which has its
advantages. Imagine if I shared the place with Frank, a graduate student in
history or women studies, and he strolled out of bed and rubbed the sleep from
his eyes while he went to brew a cup with Chase.
Which, of course, would be a source of endless irritation for
me. Not because he would be drinking my fancy brew, since I’m what you'd call
an excellent coffee evangelist. If I can leave the world a better place when I
shuffle off this mortal coil, it would be to have everyone experience what I do
daily with my roasted heaven. The reason Frank would end up pissing me off
would be because he wouldn’t use the special brush made to scrub out the
gold-plated filter I bought for Chase.
Sure, he’d rinse it off, but then there would be microscopic
bits of stale grounds in the holes. If you don’t think it makes a difference, I
will emphatically tell you that it most certainly does. Would you mix that wine
sitting in your fridge that’s practically turned to vinegar with a fresh
bottle? NO! Use the scrub brush, Frank! Use the scrub brush.
Oh, and I guess it’d also be pretty weird for him to see me
dangled from our balcony by Bruno, a situation desperately in need of a
solution. My legs were going numb from those cast-iron hands. “If Bruno would
put me down, I can tell you about F’s delivery.” I know, F, not very creative,
but what can you do with Ferrazzuolo? Z? Evokes zombies to me. Lo? Jay Lo, come
on, too easy. Farrah? Like Farrah Fawcett? That would get confusing. F was a
mob boss who employed more powerful women than any other mafia in the city.
There is a very high chance that there are several Farrah’s under F’s employ.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Jenny leaned in close to my
face. “The time for talk is over. Ferrazzuolo wants you to hand it over.”
“I am fully aware of all twenty-four floors of my situation,” I
said. “I also know that F won’t get anything if my brains are splattered on the
pavement.”
“You bring up a fair point,” Jenny said, and nodded to Bruno,
who lifted me back into the safety of
the apartment. The beat stick held me down on my own IKEA chair while Jenny
punched me in the kisser a few times. I could feel pins and needles in my legs,
as they had fallen asleep during my brief cordless bungee jumping experience.
Meanwhile, Slice just stood there with a blank expression between the front
door and the goons bloodying my face. That non-binary really had a good death
stare.
After my visage was a combination of Sylvester Stallone at the end
of every Rocky movie and that kid from Cobra Kai, I couldn’t contain myself
anymore and laughed.
“Okay, okay,” I could barely get out between guffaws. “I'll,
haha! I'll do it. Hehe! Oh, my god."
"What is this guy's problem?" Jenny said to no one in
particular, and wound up for another swing.
I was able to regain composure and decided to enlighten my
sadist friends about my medical condition, which ultimately was the root of my
career path, and the reason why people like the trio today had a tendency to
ruin my mornings. "I suffer from a rare offshoot of algolagnia."
"What?"
"Sadomasochism. You know...whips, chains. Did you know that
my Dominatrix bill is more than my rent? And I've got an Oceanside view!"
"Let's cut off his finger," Jenny said, and Slice
ejected a blade from their sleeve. Slice was so freaking cool!
"It’s not a sexual thing,” I said, as Bruno pulled my hand
out, and Slice drew blood from my pinky. “It’s just a miswiring in my brain.
Pain, to me, is more like going to a funny movie. You know, the kind where you
can’t stop laughing.”
Slice dug deeper. I couldn’t believe it was really happening –
Slice was slicing!
“Did you ever see Austin Powers, Airplane, Monty
Python, Mel Brooks? Haha. If I experience too much pain, hehe, it’s like going
to see one of those movies. Haha! Drunk…hoho! And high…with your fratboy
friends. Hahahahaha—”
The pinky came off. I lost it with laughter. Waves of intense
joy spread from the bloody stub of my finger and coursed to my brain. My gut
spasmed with bellowing surges of bliss, and it was so infectious that even
Bruno cracked a smile. It was all the opening I needed. Hopefully, the
circulation was returning to my feet.
Bruno’s momentary lapse on my grip was enough for me to slip my
hand free and pull the gun he had holstered under his arm in his jacket. I held
it up to his chin and fired, spraying brain matter on my Henri Matisse Woman with a Hat reproduction, which was
a shame because there was a story behind that forgery. Not that I ever had
visitors who weren’t trying to kill me.
Before Jenny could pull his gun halfway out, I shot him in the
man parts, which I suppose with some reconstructive surgery could now
officially be lady parts. I’d even given him a transgender name. You’re
welcome, Jenny. Toxic masculinity is so pre-MeToo anyway. Your time is over,
buddy. Accept it.
Oh, my god, that felt good. Slice had stuffed the blade used on
my pinky into my gut, and it was hilarious. I jumped from my chair, ready for a
fistfight that would probably end up breaking Chase yet somehow leaving Smite
without a scratch, when my legs gave out. A fresh wave of pins and needles
rushed through them as the pinched nerves in my legs were still recovering.
The more pressing problem was that Slice had retrieved their
blade and stomped on my hand until I let go of the gun. They kicked the firearm
to the side of the room and knelt on my back with the bloodied weapon tickling
my neck. Even though it felt like a cutesy puppy sniffing my skin, I knew that
too much pleasure for a person like me could literally kill me.
I’m happy that I don’t have a particularly hedonistic
personality. Otherwise, I would have skewered myself for fun long before Slice
came into the picture. There was an awkward moment of silence between us where
the only thing that could be heard was Jenny, lamenting the loss of his
defining characteristic.
Then, after that moment, Slice held a phone up to my ear.
“Where’s my delivery?!” a voice came over from the other end.
You’d think it was the husky goombah voice of a man whose entire weight came
from consuming an endless supply of cannolis. Wait…was I just fat-shaming? Or
worse, Italian-shaming? Is it okay to caricature the physical appearance and
ethnic identity of mob bosses who have produced more cement shoes than Nike has
made sneakers? Do criminal mob bosses deserve the same decency as my
theoretical roommate, Frank? I visualize Frank as being plus-sized and Italian
and not afraid of bathing suits because it’s not the body one is given, but how
one struts it that counts.
I still don’t forgive Frank for not scrubbing out the coffee
filter. Whoa! My neck really tickles.
“F. How are you? You sound like you are looking good. Slice, was
the boss still a knockout the last time you were there? Are you getting enough
sleep? I know that sleep was never your thing. Burning the candle at both ends.
Did you know that getting enough sleep is essential for better job performance?
Bwahahaha! Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh. That was a knee digging into my back.”
“You better have my delivery. I’m giving you twenty-four hours,”
F demanded. I think it’s imperative to mention here that F was not a man at
all, but a woman and my ex-girlfriend. The point I was trying to make earlier
before I was derailed by Frank strutting around the beach in a bathing suit,
was that you’d expect F to be a man who had eaten his fair share of pasta, when
in reality, F was a woman who goes on juice cleanses and yoga retreats.
Seriously, the next time you are at a yoga retreat in the
Colorado Rockies that costs as much as an economy car, look around at the men
and women around you. Sure, some will be Steven bankers and Suzy lawyers,
Debbie debutantes with nothing better to do than spend their parents’ money,
even a guy named Chuck from the pork rind processing plant who won the trip on The
Price is Right (2).
But there will be that one – you don’t know what she does. She’s
quiet, maybe even stoic, but there is something in her eyes like she can see
into the very recesses of your soul and dredge out secrets you are hiding even
from yourself.
But you dare not say anything because you just know that people
who cross her end up in the ground or worse. So, you continue your Sun
Salutation, and every time you say “Namaste”, you are begging your deity that
you never end up on the wrong side of her because you're sure she has swallowed
more people whole than Cthulhu.
Oh, and with impeccable taste in clothes. You really want to ask
her where she got her yoga pants, but you’re kinda scared to do it.
That’s F. When F tells you that you better have her delivery in
twenty-four hours, she really means it.
“How about I give you a full refund on my services? In fact,
I’ll pay you triple what you paid me, and I’ll even pay Bruno’s life insurance
benefit. He did have life insurance, right? It’s ludicrous not to in this
profession,” I offered feebly.
“I don’t want your money. I want what I paid you to get.” She
predictably didn’t budge, which was the reason we broke up. We were always
doing what she wanted to do: a charity event at City Hall, ribbon-cutting
ceremonies at a new school, and boiling a Red Lobster cook named Tony alive when
the sacks from his restaurant contained flour and not pure, uncut heroin. But
would she even consider dressing up like Scarlet Johansson to my Paul Rudd
while we went to the midnight release of Avengers: Endgame? No, she was
too tired. We can see it on the weekend. I’ve witnessed her torture people for
longer than that movie’s run time.
“There’s a slight problem with that,” I said. “I was robbed. I
know, ironic. You can laugh it up. A thief, getting robbed. Only in a story.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You will be when you hear the tale.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I want my delivery. You have
twenty-four hours.”
“What’s that? You’re breaking up! The service in my apartment is
terrible. I heard three weeks.”
“Twenty-four hours.” The line went dead.
The pressure on my neck loosened, and while I was sitting up, I
said to Slice, “Hey, I don’t suppose you know anyone who could forge a
passport? I’d ask F, but you know how that’d go. The knucklehead would think
I’m trying to skip town or something. Really, it’s just that I got a trip to
South America planned in a few weeks, and the passport office takes forever.
Doesn’t Homeland Security know that the flights are nonrefundable?”
That last part was true. I was planning to take a little break
from my career and go on a coffee tour of South America. It was the best idea I
ever had, short of the time I bilked that auction house that defrauded their
customers with forged paintings. Man, I am going to miss Woman with a Hat. She’s one of the few things in life I haven’t
named. I mean, if Matisse couldn’t name her, who am I to provide her with one?
Slice didn’t even acknowledge me. They took their blade and
thrust it into Jenny’s temple, and the whimpering was replaced with silence.
That was hardcore. Slice has now been upgraded to Thrust. I also noticed that
Thrust had an ornate gold box-shaped locket that had come out of their shirt
when they had bent over to end Jenny’s death serenade.
“Nice locket,” I said.
The non-binary godfather gutter punk hitman stuffed the trinket back
into their shirt and left my apartment without so much as a glance in my
direction. I salute you, Thrust, for being so scary you don’t need any words.
The ones you've got to be worried about are the ones who don’t say a thing.
That’s why I always come off as non-threatening. I talk a lot. I mean, a lot. A
lot.
There was the time the Bite Squad driver was stuck at my door.
“Do you get to keep that delivery fee? Or at least some of it? I
mean, what if some jerk stiffs you for the tip? Did you just drive all the way
to someone’s house for no money? Does that little icon on the map really show
you where you are? Do people ever give you driving advice? Like, explain a
better way to get to their house? I’m mean, you're probably only going to see
them once in your life, so who cares what route you took? I figure you are only
following the directions provided to you by the app.”
Or that time I had failed to pick up a girl at a hotel bar.
“You know, I’m thinking about writing a book. My life is really
like a book. There was this one time I was at this auction house….”
Or, finally, when I had spoken with my next door neighbor,
Abuela Martinez.
“Yes, ma'am, I’d love some fresh tortillas. I can smell them
when I’m coming down the hall.”
“Oh, mijo,” she had said. “You can have some anytime. You don’t
need to help my grandson take a couch up twenty-four flights of stairs to get a
fresh meal. Don’t you think I don’t notice all those Bite Squad drivers coming
to your door? You need some real food. You know, I taught my granddaughter
everything she knows about cooking. She’s a lawyer, too busy for men. You are
always so busy with all that consultant work, but you have to carve out time
for family. You are not getting any younger, and trust me, I’ve had seven
children. It’s much easier when you are younger.”
Okay, so maybe some people can outtalk me. Still, the point is
that I am so good with words that I really should have been in Abuela
Martinez’s granddaughter’s cohort at law school, but then there is that whole
feeling-pain-as-if-it-were-pleasure thing. It made me ideal for an occupation
where people like F are pretty good bosses when they aren’t trying to kill you.
She pays well above the going rate to everyone in her employ.
Her loyalty rewards are better than what the Pope would get at the Vatican gift
shop. She respects and values her underlings' opinions, and enacts swift,
brutal revenge on anyone who double-crosses her. She was also the most
effortless breakup that I’ve ever had.
I literally had told her that I thought we needed to go our
separate ways because I view relationships more like a partnership. I was
giving way more than I was receiving. Her response was, “Okay, if that’s how
you feel, I’ll have my associate deliver your toothbrush in the morning.”
To which I had responded, “I don’t really need the toothbrush. I
buy them at Costco. There are plenty in the package. But I am willing to talk
about the break up if you need any more clarity.”
“Nope. Seems like you made your point perfectly. Now about that
auction house job….”
Literally, every boss I’ve ever had before her was that Italian
pasta-guzzling stereotype. I’ve worked for the Russo, Regio, Romano, Rizzo,
Rossi, Reviello, Ricciolino, Rossetti, Rossetto, Rua and Rusiello crime
families, and that’s just the letter R.
Please don’t make me do the letter M. The point is that I have talents.
I’m the guy that certain people know has those talents, so I collect a steady
paycheck. Sure, every so often, I’m going to have to forfeit my deposit, buy
bulk items at Costco, get a new apartment, change my name, or lose a pinky, but
overall, I like my life. I work my own hours. Get highly paid contract work. I
have more money stashed away in different bank accounts than a college campus
of squirrels burying discarded burritos for the winter.
Who cares about the pinky anyway? It’s the most overrated
appendage. It’s not like I’m going to have tea with the Queen any time soon.
Speaking of which, I should probably put that thing on ice. I knew that
Playmate cooler (3) was going to be good for something beyond
when I had to disguise myself as a tailgater so I could steal back the Reviello
family’s prized Super Bowl championship ring.
24 hours advanced notice of being
murdered is more than most people got, glass half full?
1.
Do orphans nest? Or do they form pickpocket
gangs?
2. Can you
believe that’s still on the air?
3. I named
the cooler Wyoming because I figured one day it would be full of beers in the
back of a pickup truck in a dry riverbed.
Can you, for those who don't
know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?
I’ve been an author from before I could remember. When I was
in elementary school, I wrote a one-page story about a guy being chased by
skeletons and he got away by driving up to a cliff and slamming on the breaks.
My friends used to ask me to tell them that story over and over at sleepovers.
Later, in high school, I wrote an entire book on spiral notebooks that was a
mix of Indiana Jones, Aliens, and Predator.
My love of comedy came from watching Monty Python’s Holy
Grail as a kid and having a near religious experience I laughed so hard. I
couldn’t believe something so wonderful existed. Later, when I got a Master’s
in Dramatic Writing from the University of New Mexico, my advisor said to me,
“Aaron, a lot of people come into the program writing comedy. You’re the only
one who stuck with it.” Comedy is in my DNA as much as storytelling. That’s why
I have a book in just about every genre. Humor is the force that combines them.
What is something unique/quirky about you?
I scream when I play heavy metal. I know that’s probably not
unique in the heavy metal circles of the world, but if you listen to my band,
Spiral (the song DMT Romance if you’re interested to hear the freak out
screaming), I do not sound like the mild-mannered person that I am in real life.
I don’t even know how I can scream like that now and am shocked that I didn’t
blow out my voice long ago. When I was a teacher for my day job and students
would come across my metal band, their minds would be blown. They couldn’t even
link the guy with the button up tee shirt to the sounds they were hearing.
Let’s just invoke Shakespeare for this one and say, “All the world is a stage.”
Tell us something really interesting that's happened to
you!
I once flew from Albuquerque to Maine to deliver a cat. A
friend of ours called off her wedding and needed a place for her cats. She flew
home to Maine, and eventually wanted her cats back. The only way for them to
fly per the vet was by escort. The owner paid for my plane ticket, and I flew
with the feline in a cat duffle bag. I think I may be one of the few people who
have ever ran through the Minneapolis airport with a screaming cat.
What are some of your pet peeves?
People who act as if they are the only ones on the planet.
Whether it’s driving recklessly or cutting in line, it really irritates me when
people have no consideration for others.
Though most people never see me upset (except my wife). I’ve been
blessed with diplomacy and rarely let my own baggage get in the way of dealing
with the world.
Where were you born/grew up at?
Born in Chicago. Moved from the mean streets of the southside
to Albuquerque at six-months-old. So, if people ask, I say Albuquerque because
I spent thirty-five years there. My Time Burrito series is set in Albuquerque,
so all the love of my hometown is poured into those books. What that means is
I’m almost never satisfied with Mexican food almost everywhere I go outside the
Southwest, and that I fervently support anyone who sells green chile from New
Mexico. I’ve also learned that when I tell people “it’s not that spicy,” I’m
setting them up for burning their taste buds to a crisp.
If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your
last day?
With my wife and son, in a cabin in the woods.
Who is your hero and why?
I have many heroes. Neil DeGrasse Tyson for being my favorite
science communicator. Hugh Howey, for being an inspiration to self-published
authors everywhere. Michael Palin, for being one of the funniest human beings
alive, and someone you’d want to hang out with.
What kind of world ruler would you be?
Benevolent dictator. I’d fix climate change. Create a social
safety net where every human is guaranteed housing, food, clothing, healthcare,
education, internet, and public transportation. Then people can work if they
want Starbucks, vacations, big screen TVs, cars, etc.
What are you passionate about these days?
My kid. Watching him grow up is really a treat. He is so
different than me yet similar. I can tell he already has the humor gene (which
is not surprising because both me and my spouse have it). However, he also has
the athletics gene (something I never possessed growing up). So, I’m going to
have to learn about sports, a topic that I really don’t know anything about. I
know people have balls and they throw them, but that’s about where my knowledge
stops. Luckily, my son is still young enough that I can still play with him by
just throwing things.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
TV, travel, good food, and the usual things.
How to find time to write as a parent?
Between parenting and a full-time day job, I write very
little. I sacrifice things like video games and TV to write more.
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
I consider myself a hobbyist right now. I don’t think that I
can be a writer until all the income from my taxes is accounted for by my
writing. I know I’ve set a high bar that few achieve, but goals are really
important when writing. Being a writer is a long-term project. A person can’t
do it without long-term thinking, so if an increasing amount of my taxable
income is from my writing, I can say that I’m making progress toward my goal.
Do you have a favorite movie?
Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Mel Brooks Men in Tights,
Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings extended Cuts, The Fifth Element
Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?
Any of them. There’s a contact form on my website
aaronfrale.com. Reach out to me if you are interested.
What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
When I was in Maine, a friend of mine drove me to see Stephen
King’s house. They asked if I wanted a picture, but I declined. It felt weird
to me taking a picture in front of a person’s home. I also grew up in
Albuquerque and know all the Breaking Bad places. Season 2, where Jessie lived,
I used to live in that complex (yes, it’s a complex, you don’t see the rest of
it the way they frame the shots). I also owned a house within sightline of the
carwash. I’ve always wanted to do the Shakespeare tour but haven’t been to
England yet.
As a writer, what would you choose as your
mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
The tardigrade because its really hard to get rid of me. I’ve
been doing this for years with very little compensation. If I tally the work
hours to income ratio, I think I make two cents an hour or something.
Aaron Frale writes Science Fiction, Horror, and Fantasy usually with a comedic twist. Time Burrito is the audience favorite. He also hosts the podcast Aaron’s Horror Show and screams and plays guitar for the prog/metal band Spiral. He lives with his wife, his son, and two cats in the mountains of Montana.
This looks like a great read. Thanks for the giveaway opportunity.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a good story. Very interesting combination of genres.
ReplyDelete