Salt of the Earth

Table of Contents

––––––––

A special Thanks to...

Foreword

Part One

Turn Out the Lights

Part Two

On Love Street

Part Three

A Feast of Friends

Part Four

Oh, Show Me the Way

Part Five

People are Strange

Part Six

This is the End

Part Seven

The Salt of the Earth

A Note from the Author

The Author

Current Releases

Bonus Section

Excerpt from THE DEMON OF SYNAR

About the Author

Current Releases

A special Thanks to...

––––––––

Thanks to Lorrieann Russell for yet another of her brilliant covers. I swear that woman knows me a bit too well, but she's got this knack for reading anything I write and capturing the heart and soul of it. Thank you, my dear.

Thanks to Debi Watford, Teresa Reasor, and Donna McDonald for being objective readers and giving this the once over to catch the few booboos I had left. They gave great constructive criticism and I am most grateful for it. Thanks, ladies.

And thanks to the Kentucky Independent Writers group for giving this indie writer a home, guidance, and a place to belong. You ladies rock my world. I bless the day that brought you to me.

Foreword

––––––––

I had been living in a small Kentucky town, outside of Lexington, when a chance walk took me by a local cemetery. I happened to notice how much the cemetery was laid out like a small city, with the mausoleums acting as city hall, a rich affluent area, a poor area. And a road that ran through the town. It was an opportunity made for storytelling.

Salt of the Earth originally started out as a monthly series for The Writers Post Journal magazine. When the story came to its eventual close, I decided to put it all together as a novella and it was next published in my collection Illusions & Reality.

But I love the story so much that I decided that I wanted it to shine on its own. Hence, a new release and, hopefully, a new audience to enjoy it.

And so, I'd like to present to you...

––––––––

The Salt of the Earth

Part One

Turn Out the Lights

––––––––

This had been an incredibly stupid idea. He'd even said as much. Once again overruled by his partner, here he was.

Can I tell you what a balls up thing this is, Monkey?

Yeah, yeah, Monk grumped back, obviously not agreeing. You already did, Rip. A few dozen times. Monkey turned around to face him. I was supposed to know this would happen . . . how?

From outside, he heard the sound of a bullhorn broadcasting the ultimate joke. Alright, you . . . in the house . . . throw out the guns and come out with your hands in the air. You got no choice.

He shook his head and pointed the gun at Monkey. "You know, if I'd listened to my Mama, I'd be watching Mythbusters or Doctor Who about now."

Monk shrugged. If you'd listened to your mommy, you'd be entertaining the bitches at those social teas and wishing you were like me. Geez, what a crybaby.

He chuckled. Monk, you're an ugly gorilla! You even got the breath to match.

Wrong again, oh fair haired one. Gorillas are part of the ape family! Along with orangutans, et cetera and all that jazz. Monk grinned broadly. "I, on the other hand, date the gorilla my dreams. Get it right."

Ha-ha, he answered. Funny like a heart attack.

"Look, bro, we're in deep shit, okay? We need an exit and fast. That's supposed to be your specialty. Ripping the seams of the entrances and exits? Rip it, man, rip it."

Rrrrrrrip, he answered. Right!

He crawled away from the window, careful to stay out of the spotlight the cops were shining in. He chided himself for ever thinking this was going to be the easiest job he'd ever pulled. As soon as he'd cleared the door leading into the hallway, he stood up and began to retrace his steps to the second floor.

The two had managed to bypass the security system on the first floor by climbing the elm tree to the second. From there, Rip had managed to pry a window open and the two men had gotten inside. The only problem was, that tree was in the front yard, where the police were now waiting. He had to find another exit that wouldn't get them nabbed by the pigs, would be in a dark part of the house and the yard, and still be easy to get out through. Just exactly his specialty—ripping an easy defeat and turning it into an easy escape.

Christ, this place is like Fort Knox with the security and . . . hello! What have we here?

The old man was standing with his back against the wall, leaning against the heavy oak credenza. He was dressed in a loose sweater, one of those kinds that buttoned in the front. The baggy pants came down to cover the tops of the worn penny loafers. Rip's eyes followed down and back up to the horn rimmed glasses and gimme cap on the old man's head. With a faint amusement, he saw there was a fish of some kind on the front.

The old man grinned, applauding softly. Hello, there, was all the old fart had to say.

Old man, whatever you think you're doing, don't get any grand ideas. Rip smiled. I think we just got ourselves a hostage.

Well. The old man smiled. I won't be one for telling you your business, sonny. But, uh, well, hostage situations always turn out bad. Of course, I'm just your guardian angel.

Rip snorted. Right. Guardian angel? What's that supposed to be? A 'get out of jail free' card?

The old man shook his head. That'll depend, son.

On what?

On you.

On me? Rip cocked his head to one side, still staring at the old man. What the hell was he talking about?

The old man waved his hand, the long fingers making a sweeping gesture at the room. This is your choice, son. And you can choose to get out of it, too. The hand stopped, one finger raised. You'll pay the price for it, but you'll be able to walk away.

I ain't going to jail, you old coot.

Coot? Such an ugly word for such a simple thing as aging. Old man, I like being an old man. Such knowing, such wisdom comes with age.

Yeah, right . . . whatever, Rip muttered. He began looking around the room for something to tie the guy up with. Look, this ain't personal, okay? We just need you so's we can get out of here. Got it? Then, you go free, and me and the Monk split.

Of course, the old man cheerfully answered. You know, while we're here, a little pudding would be nice.

What? Rip turned back. The geezer was just flat out nuts. Pudding?

I love pudding, nothing like a good bowl of butterscotch to make the day complete.

Pudding, yeah. Uh huh. Pudding. Rip chuckled to himself, finding what he was looking for. Well, you dream of pudding, codger, and I'm gonna just tie your hands back, okay?

Hmm, no, I don't think so, the old man said. Watch where you walk, son.

In the blink of an eye—and later, Rip would think it was as if a finger had flicked the carpet below him—his foot got caught in a fold of the runner. He grabbed for a lamp on the way down, which pulled the table, unsettling the fishbowl of marbles that spilled on the floor. In a moment that closely resembled the old fashioned cartoons he'd watched as a child, Rip began to slip across the marbles with his arms wildly waving in the air. His feet skated over the tops of the rolling glass until he finally came down hard on his back, starbursts blooming before his eyes. It was a moment or two before he realized he was now lying at the old man's feet, the latter standing with tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.

Rip grumbled, gingerly making sure all his body parts were in working order. The back of his head was splitting from the hard whack. Shut up, you old bastard.

The old man clapped his hands together again. I'm sorry, son, but that was classic! You a Stooges fan? Keystone cops, perhaps?

Sitting up, he grabbed a handful of the marbles and tossed them at the old coot. Got no idea who you're talking about and I don't care. Damn, that hurts.

The man suddenly got serious again, kneeling beside Rip. Reaching out, he patted Rip's cheek with a look of sorrow in his eyes.

Yes, it hurts, son. And it will hurt worse. Only you can stop this.

What are you talking about?

Cause and effect, son. Cause and effect.

Look, old man, Rip growled, I've had enough of this. Just shut up, you hear me? Just shut up.

This is your only chance, the old man advised, standing up again. He adjusted the cap on his head and clasped his hands together. I don't give many chances as it is, but this is your last.

For what? Rip gingerly got to his feet. Why don't you just shut off and come along like the good little hostage I want you to be. No one gets hurt. Me and my partner make a break for it.

It doesn't work that way, son, and you know it.

"Stop calling me 'son'! His hands flew out to grab the old fart and stopped halfway there. With a heavy sigh, he dropped them again. Look, I ain't your son and you don't know squat about me. Now, just play along and no one gets hurt."

Nothing to play, young man, he said, smiling again at Rip. I guess I can't turn you from this, so all I can do is be ready to welcome you to the neighborhood. I can't wait for the folks to meet you.

Rip stopped casing the room and turned back around to the other man. What? What are you talking about?

You'll be coming to stay with us, the old man answered. There was something elfin about him—besides the fact that he was really short. In the neighborhood. If I can't turn you from this, I can welcome you to your new home.

I ain't going to your crib, you old bastard, if that's what you're talkin' about. Me and my mate are gonna get out of this, you'll see.

Then, squinting in the darkness, Rip found what he was looking for – a small window in the farthest corner of the room. So far, so good. For a moment,