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    The King and Other Stories: Collected Fiction
    The King and Other Stories: Collected Fiction
    The King and Other Stories: Collected Fiction
    Ebook88 pages47 minutes

    The King and Other Stories: Collected Fiction

    By Christopher Ruz

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    About this ebook

    THE KING AND OTHER STORIES, the second collection by Christopher Ruz, combines five pieces of contemporary fiction and modern counter-culture literature into one exciting package.

    In THE HARD SELL, a disaffected photographer finds his world flipped upside-down by a group of graffiti activists called the Four Horsemen. But the Horsemen and their enigmatic leader, Fiver, are operating without a plan and without a clue. Can they really change the world, or will they tear themselves apart in the process?

    In THE KING, Derek and his misanthropic friends chase enlightenment through suffering. But Derek isn't playing by the rules. He has a plan that'll make him the idol of his friends and get him into Sylvia's pants. All he has to do is quit heroin while they all watch. Except, Derek has never used heroin. And so begins the greatest lie of his life... a lie that might be too big to back away from...

    And in HERCULE AND THE DOCTOR, Harold is a middle-aged Agatha Christie aficionado, still obsessing over the day twenty years earlier when his little sister vanished into the old mansion known as the Bonehouse. But when Harold meets an out-of-town cosplayer dressed the fourth Doctor - Harold's childhood hero - he decides to do as Tom Baker would have done, and to return to the Bonehouse in search of answers, in search of a little girl still crying out for her brother.

    THE KING AND OTHER STORIES is a 21,000 word collection of hard-hitting contemporary fiction fuelled by heroin, graffiti and Doctor Who. It contains:
    The Hard Sell
    The King
    No Exit
    Back to Civilisation
    Hercule and the Doctor

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristopher Ruz
    Release dateFeb 21, 2013
    ISBN9781497726857
    The King and Other Stories: Collected Fiction

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      Book preview

      The King and Other Stories - Christopher Ruz

      The King

      And Other Stories

      by Christopher Ruz

      Copyright © Christopher Ruz Hayes-Kossmann 2012 All Rights Reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or copied without written consent from the author.

      Table of Contents

      The Hard Sell

      The King

      No Exit

      Back to Civilisation

      Hercule and the Doctor

      The Hard Sell

      First published in Path of Least Resistance, RMIT Press, 2008

      I meet Seb14 for the first time at three in the morning, under a bridge. I've been drinking, harder than usual, and I keep one hand on the wall to keep from banking left and falling into the river. It's dark out. Can't see more than a few paces ahead.

      There's a hissing, like a snake waiting to spring.

      Hello?

      A shadow detaches from the bluestone under the bridge. All I can make out is the grill of a single-barrelled gas mask, like a fighter pilot. For a second I think about running, and then my feet tangle and I remember I'm already twelve beers down. So instead I say, You hear a snake?

      The figure raises one hand, showing off a cylinder with a sharp cap. The shape is familiar. A spray can, cheap and silvery, not a quality paint like a Molotow or Montana. A tagger's tool.

      My palm itches. Can I hold that? I say, and then the beer rises up in my throat. I stumble and fall.

      When I wake, it's morning. There's frost on my eyelids and in my nostrils, and the hangover is piercing. I gag, squeeze my eyes shut. Sunlight breaks through the girders in slats. I stand gingerly and check my pockets; wallet, watch, phone, keys, all present.

      Beneath the bridge, written in six foot tall silver letters, outlined in smooth black, is the tag Seb14. It's not bad. I've done worse.

      The sweet tang of propellant is making my hands shake.

      I take a photo with my phone and start the long walk home.

      * * *

      My workday starts late. A taxi is waiting outside my door at eleven, the driver beating on his horn like he's playing Reveille. I arm myself, lock the door and hop in.

      Where to? The driver is wide eyed, jacked up on the prospect of a big paying job. Where you wanna go, huh? I tell him, and the time I need to be there, and he nods, stroking the wheel like a cat. I can do that.

      We're off.

      My weapon is a Hasselblad 503CWD, and my trigger finger is well trained. This is my job: camera-for-hire. Today, a restaurant opening. Tomorrow, photos of furniture for a catalogue, or promo shots for a cinema. Once I was hired by an art magazine to cover graffiti around town. I didn't see any of my own pieces, but my friend's throw-ups were still there. I recognised their lettering. It was like flipping through a high-school yearbook, and it left me feeling hollow.

      The driver knows the streets. We arrive on time. A local councillor waves, cuts a ribbon. The camera whirs. I wind the wheel and keep on clicking. The hangover nags at the back of my skull and I close my eyes and press the trigger over and over and over.

      I know where I want to be, and it isn't here.

      It's been a long time since I ran from police with spraycans rattling in my pockets, or felt the peculiar tingle you get when a line sits just right. Ten years now. It still itches.

      The ceremony is over. I pull out my phone and search for Seb14.

      * * *

      The bridge tagger has a gallery. I leave a comment on his best piece. Smooth fill. I'm the guy who passed out under the bridge last night. You tag alone? I leave a private email address, and wait.

      Two hours and three beers later I have a reply. Thnx. U hurt? Y u wnt 2 no if i tag alone?

      The atrocious spelling brings my hangover back in force. Been out of the game a while, want to try again. Looking for someone to watch my back.

      This time the reply comes quickly. Whats ur wrd?

      My word? For a moment I'm confused, and then it comes clear: my tag, my calling card. It used to be Domez, my high-school nickname. Thinking on it now, it all seems very nineties.

      I don't have one. Starting fresh.

      K. Meet u at bridge at 1am. Bring cans.

      I check my watch. Enough time to buy a few cans and catch a nap before I hit the streets for the first time in a decade. I grab my jacket and wallet and I'm halfway out the door when I stop. Maybe this is a bad idea. I'm headed back into something I quit for a reason.

      The thought doesn't last. The itch is worse than ever.

      * * *

      Under the bridge at a quarter to one. I'm dressed in darks. There's frost on the air. My bag is heavy with cheap cans, and beneath them, wrapped in a towel, is the Hasselblad. It's my security blanket. When I touch the trigger my nerves subside.

      A figure approaches, hunched over, hood up. Hey. Guy with no word?

      The voice is strangely high-pitched. Yeah. Seb14?

      That's me. The kid drops the hood. My heartbeat spikes. This could be trouble.

      Seb14 is a young girl; eighteen in dim light, at best. Her hair is pulled back in a tight black bun. Her eyelids are painted with what looks like glitter. Her lips are big and pouty. A real high-school heartbreaker.

      I take a step back, suddenly thinking about escape routes. A pretty little tagger under a bridge at one in the morning? It's a sting. The police must be nearby. I'll say the wrong word and they'll pounce, battering me with nightsticks and frisking me for condoms. Do I have condoms? I can't remember.

      Seb14 cocks her head. You got cans?

      Cans. Got to be careful with my words. Yeah. Spraycans.

      She grins. This a mid-life crisis thing?

      Bit early for that.

      How old are you?

      Thirty-two, now.

      That's not too bad. She jerks her thumb back the way she came. Saw a good spot on the way. Come on.

      I don't know why I follow. She leads me down dark streets, beneath a garage roller-door and out the far side, down a rusted staircase. As

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