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Tony Jaeger's Blog, page 3
February 17, 2014
Chef, Chapter 23
“Shit,” Greg shouted. “We’ve got cops following us.” The taxi started slowing down.
“Perfect! How many cars?” Liam turned around in his seat. “What are you doing? Don’t slow down.”
“But the cops. If I don’t slow down, I’ll get charged with resisting arrest.”
“If you slow down, we won’t make it there in under ten minutes and you won’t get your ten grand – and I won’t defend you in court.” That last made Greg turn to look at Liam, the obvious gleam of fear in his eyes. “I’m the best, Greg. I need you to trust me and drive faster.”
Greg nodded and the car began slowly accelerating back to its maximum speed.
“Only one police cruiser, so far. Open your eyes, Chef, we aren’t dead yet.”
Chef opened his eye, letting out a breath he may as well have been holding for hours. He trained his eye forward, trying to calm himself. “This is getting out of hand,” he muttered. The cab continued to swerve through traffic, still tossing him around and sending pain arcing through him with everything his body hit.
Sirens wailed from behind them, two now. Liam pumped his fist and leaned his head out of the window. “That’s right, come and get us!” Only a second after he shouted, a loud crunch invaded Chef’s senses, followed by Liam shouting, “Holy shit! That cop just rear-ended somebody!” The second – or perhaps the first, Chef wasn’t sure – siren cut out.
From the corner of his eye, Chef could see Greg smiling. “I guess he wasn’t that great of a driver.”
“You’re a sick man, Greg.”
“Oh, they’ll be fine. How am I doing on time?”
Liam checked his watch. “Four more minutes.”
“Heh. We could stop at a drive-through and still get there in time. You’d better hang onto something.” The street they needed was coming fast, and instead of getting into the right lane to turn, Greg steered left.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Set my line. If you believe in God, pray for us on this turn.” He didn’t slow the car much before yanking on the wheel. Tires squealed at the same pitch as Greg’s delighted scream. At another time, Chef would have taken a moment to marvel at their unity. As it was, he was terrified and convinced that the car, beneath them, had lifted off of the ground.
It had. Chef’s own terrified scream joined Greg’s and Liam’s.
Tires crunched back onto the street and the cab lurched forward, once again gaining speed. Liam looked back and hollered wordlessly. Chef turned to look, instantly regretting it, not only for the pain it caused him but because of the sight. The police car hadn’t made the turn as well as the taxi had. It had started to roll and barreled into a house, destroying most of the exterior wall around the front door. Faintly, Chef heard Greg muttering about not setting a proper line.
“Please slow down, just a little bit. You’ve gotten us there; you’ll get your money. Just, for the love of God, slow down!” Liam’s eyes were still wide, minutes later when they pulled up to Skip’s house.
Life In the Fast Lane played from the radio.
Chef shook his head, levering himself out of the car. “The Eagles. I asked him to change it, but no. He is not getting a tip.” Complaints aside, he was grateful to be on solid ground again.
“Agreed,” Liam said. He bent over and looked at Greg. “Stay here, I’m going to need to get home after this.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You owe me ten grand.”
“Right.” Liam patted the roof of the car and started walking, unsteadily, up the sidewalk toward the house.
The front door had been kicked in. It hung askew in the frame, as if it had been hastily put in place to try to mask that anything had happened.
“Oh, no,” Chef said, and half-ran toward the door. He shoved it open with his shoulder, instantly regretting it. This wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a house that made him feel this way but this time it wasn’t his own memories strewn broken across the floor and it wasn’t his wife’s blood on the floor, it was Skip’s mother’s memories. Harriet’s blood. Chef turned the corner into the kitchen to see her lying on the floor, a halo of blood around her head.
“Oh, God, Harriet, no.” He knelt at her side and put his fingers to her neck. “Liam, get in here!”
Liam stepped into view, looked down, and paled. His jaw dropped, he started to gag.
“Liam, stop. She’s alive, and if an ambulance gets here soon enough, she’s going to make it.” Chef pointed to the slashed up couch. “Throw me one of those pillows, and have Greg call an ambulance. Meet me downstairs.”
Liam nodded, still looking sick. He tossed a throw pillow and disappeared out of the front door.
“I’m so sorry, Harriet,” Chef said with tears welling up in his eyes. He stroked her curled, snowy hair. “I’m going to get this guy, I promise.” He kissed her forehead and stood. Liam was coming back up the path to the house. Walking around the corner again into the hallway, he nodded to his friend and pulled open the door, leading into the basement. Together, they stepped down, both wincing at the creak of the stairs.
“Chef?” Liz’s voice floated up to them.
“Are you alone?” Chef answered.
“Yeah.”
He wasn’t aware that he’d been holding his breath. Chef stepped the rest of the way down the stairs, not rushed in the least. “What happened upstairs? Why didn’t you two – Aah!”
Liz lay on the floor with a blood-soaked hand pressed to her belly.
“Liz!” Chef knelt at her side. “Move your hand, let me see.” Dimly, he could hear the groaning of Skip’s desk chair spinning. “Oh, God, Liz, what happened?”
“Tortured … Skip.” Liz’s eyes were cloudy, distant.
Chef heard Liam vomiting.
“Wanted to know … how we found him. Asked about you … your family.”
“No, no, no.” Liam was crying. He knelt on the floor at Skip’s feet. His arms wrapped around Skip’s bulk and head against his wide belly. Blood, still leaking from Skip’s slit throat, soaked Liam’s hair.
“Liz,” Chef said. “We’re going to get you through this.”
She shook her head weakly. “He knows your family. Go … Protect them.”
“An ambulance is coming, Liz. I’m going to kill him, and we’re going to get you through this, okay?”
“Don’t kill,” Liz coughed. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes focused on Chef. “All can be forgiven.”
Chef held her for the last moments of her life, weeping.
“Perfect! How many cars?” Liam turned around in his seat. “What are you doing? Don’t slow down.”
“But the cops. If I don’t slow down, I’ll get charged with resisting arrest.”
“If you slow down, we won’t make it there in under ten minutes and you won’t get your ten grand – and I won’t defend you in court.” That last made Greg turn to look at Liam, the obvious gleam of fear in his eyes. “I’m the best, Greg. I need you to trust me and drive faster.”
Greg nodded and the car began slowly accelerating back to its maximum speed.
“Only one police cruiser, so far. Open your eyes, Chef, we aren’t dead yet.”
Chef opened his eye, letting out a breath he may as well have been holding for hours. He trained his eye forward, trying to calm himself. “This is getting out of hand,” he muttered. The cab continued to swerve through traffic, still tossing him around and sending pain arcing through him with everything his body hit.
Sirens wailed from behind them, two now. Liam pumped his fist and leaned his head out of the window. “That’s right, come and get us!” Only a second after he shouted, a loud crunch invaded Chef’s senses, followed by Liam shouting, “Holy shit! That cop just rear-ended somebody!” The second – or perhaps the first, Chef wasn’t sure – siren cut out.
From the corner of his eye, Chef could see Greg smiling. “I guess he wasn’t that great of a driver.”
“You’re a sick man, Greg.”
“Oh, they’ll be fine. How am I doing on time?”
Liam checked his watch. “Four more minutes.”
“Heh. We could stop at a drive-through and still get there in time. You’d better hang onto something.” The street they needed was coming fast, and instead of getting into the right lane to turn, Greg steered left.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Set my line. If you believe in God, pray for us on this turn.” He didn’t slow the car much before yanking on the wheel. Tires squealed at the same pitch as Greg’s delighted scream. At another time, Chef would have taken a moment to marvel at their unity. As it was, he was terrified and convinced that the car, beneath them, had lifted off of the ground.
It had. Chef’s own terrified scream joined Greg’s and Liam’s.
Tires crunched back onto the street and the cab lurched forward, once again gaining speed. Liam looked back and hollered wordlessly. Chef turned to look, instantly regretting it, not only for the pain it caused him but because of the sight. The police car hadn’t made the turn as well as the taxi had. It had started to roll and barreled into a house, destroying most of the exterior wall around the front door. Faintly, Chef heard Greg muttering about not setting a proper line.
“Please slow down, just a little bit. You’ve gotten us there; you’ll get your money. Just, for the love of God, slow down!” Liam’s eyes were still wide, minutes later when they pulled up to Skip’s house.
Life In the Fast Lane played from the radio.
Chef shook his head, levering himself out of the car. “The Eagles. I asked him to change it, but no. He is not getting a tip.” Complaints aside, he was grateful to be on solid ground again.
“Agreed,” Liam said. He bent over and looked at Greg. “Stay here, I’m going to need to get home after this.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You owe me ten grand.”
“Right.” Liam patted the roof of the car and started walking, unsteadily, up the sidewalk toward the house.
The front door had been kicked in. It hung askew in the frame, as if it had been hastily put in place to try to mask that anything had happened.
“Oh, no,” Chef said, and half-ran toward the door. He shoved it open with his shoulder, instantly regretting it. This wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a house that made him feel this way but this time it wasn’t his own memories strewn broken across the floor and it wasn’t his wife’s blood on the floor, it was Skip’s mother’s memories. Harriet’s blood. Chef turned the corner into the kitchen to see her lying on the floor, a halo of blood around her head.
“Oh, God, Harriet, no.” He knelt at her side and put his fingers to her neck. “Liam, get in here!”
Liam stepped into view, looked down, and paled. His jaw dropped, he started to gag.
“Liam, stop. She’s alive, and if an ambulance gets here soon enough, she’s going to make it.” Chef pointed to the slashed up couch. “Throw me one of those pillows, and have Greg call an ambulance. Meet me downstairs.”
Liam nodded, still looking sick. He tossed a throw pillow and disappeared out of the front door.
“I’m so sorry, Harriet,” Chef said with tears welling up in his eyes. He stroked her curled, snowy hair. “I’m going to get this guy, I promise.” He kissed her forehead and stood. Liam was coming back up the path to the house. Walking around the corner again into the hallway, he nodded to his friend and pulled open the door, leading into the basement. Together, they stepped down, both wincing at the creak of the stairs.
“Chef?” Liz’s voice floated up to them.
“Are you alone?” Chef answered.
“Yeah.”
He wasn’t aware that he’d been holding his breath. Chef stepped the rest of the way down the stairs, not rushed in the least. “What happened upstairs? Why didn’t you two – Aah!”
Liz lay on the floor with a blood-soaked hand pressed to her belly.
“Liz!” Chef knelt at her side. “Move your hand, let me see.” Dimly, he could hear the groaning of Skip’s desk chair spinning. “Oh, God, Liz, what happened?”
“Tortured … Skip.” Liz’s eyes were cloudy, distant.
Chef heard Liam vomiting.
“Wanted to know … how we found him. Asked about you … your family.”
“No, no, no.” Liam was crying. He knelt on the floor at Skip’s feet. His arms wrapped around Skip’s bulk and head against his wide belly. Blood, still leaking from Skip’s slit throat, soaked Liam’s hair.
“Liz,” Chef said. “We’re going to get you through this.”
She shook her head weakly. “He knows your family. Go … Protect them.”
“An ambulance is coming, Liz. I’m going to kill him, and we’re going to get you through this, okay?”
“Don’t kill,” Liz coughed. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes focused on Chef. “All can be forgiven.”
Chef held her for the last moments of her life, weeping.
Chef, Chapter 22
Liam’s head jutted in from the back door, a steel-gray tie swung in and out of the doorway. “Is it safe?” His eyes searched the room, trying to assess it for danger.
“Yes,” Chef said. Liam stepped in, trying not to touch anything with his immaculately polished shoes. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you we were meeting at Skip’s house tonight.”
He crouched in front of Chef, looking at him as if it was the single stupidest thing he’d ever been asked. A hint of pity shined in his eyes as he looked Chef over. “You did,” Liam said, tucking his tie behind his belt. “I also know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be smart; you wouldn’t wait a damn minute for some help.”
Chef struggled against his bonds. “Lecture me later. We have to get out of here. He’s going to be back any minute.”
“You see what I mean? You’re so hasty,” Liam flashed his best smile at him and pulled a wicked knife, with a blade longer than his forearm, from a sheath behind his back. “You’ve got to take time to appreciate things sometimes, you know?”
“We don’t have time to enjoy the little things, Liam. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Liam, still avoiding touching anything with his clothing, reached back and started sawing at the ropes that held Chef. “You could have, at least, waited until I was out of court, Chef. I told you I was with you.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“Oh, I don’t give a damn that you lied. Liz and Skip are a little hurt.”
“They’ll get over it. Are you almost done?”
“Yeah. Come on.” Liam stood, holding his hand out to help up his friend. He heaved on Chef’s blood-slick hands. “Can you walk?”
He nodded, biting his cheek against the pain.
“Good, let’s get out of here. Where are you parked?” Liam led the way out of the house, but looked back at Chef.
He gestured to their left. “End of the block.”
Liam drew a sharp hiss of breath. “I think he stole your car.”
“Wha – dammit. You do what you want to a person but you don’t mess with a man’s car. What a bastard, I had a good collection of CDs in there.” Chef found himself vaguely surprised at his sudden possessiveness over his music collection.
“Don’t worry about your CDs, Chef. Come on, I’m this way.” Liam walked back, stepping lightly over the broken remnants of the fence, through the yard of the house directly behind Ethan’s hideout.
Waiting for them was a yellow car with a man sedately sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Please don’t tell me you took a cab to a murder.”
Liam looked at his friend, begging with his eyes for Chef to never mention it to anyone. “The Porsche isn’t fixed yet.”
It felt good to laugh, even through the unspeakable pain flaring up in his chest.
“Oh, you’re very funny. Get in.”
Cringing, Chef levered himself into the car, taking much more effort than it ever had before. When he finally got himself into the seat and the door closed behind him, the cab slowly started accelerating. Hotel California was playing softly on the radio.
“Hey, driver?”
“Greg.”
“Greg, could you do me a favor?”
“Sure, man, what’s up?”
“I’ve had a rough night, could you please change the station? I can’t deal with the Eagles right now.”
“What have you got against – Jesus!” The driver looked at Chef through the rearview mirror. “Man, you look like you’ve been through seven kinds of hell.”
“That’s just about the truth.” Chef attempted a smile but failed. Instead, he tried to smile with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. He imagined he failed at that, too.
“Damn, that looks like it hurts.”
“Look, buddy,” Liam joined the conversation, trying to bring attention away. “Just get us out of here. I don’t know, let’s hit the Denny’s on thirtieth and Sycamore.” When he saw Chef’s scowl, he put on his most innocent smile. “What? If I were him, I’d take your car and skip town. He is long gone. Besides, I’ll bet you’re pretty hungry, as it is.”
Chef’s stomach growled loud enough for Liam, who flashed him a knowing smile, to hear.
Liam pulled the phone out of his pocket and swiped the screen. “I’ll even drop a text to Liz and Skip, have them meet us – oh shit.”
“What?”
“What,” the driver asked, looking again in the rearview mirror.
“Liz texted me. Someone is at Skip’s house raising hell.”
“Hey, Greg,” Chef said. “Are you a good driver?”
The car still in motion, Greg turned around in his seat to give Chef a big-toothed smile. “Always wanted to be a racecar driver, ‘stead of this.”
“I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you can get us to Coolfire Street in the next fifteen minutes.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“Seriously?”
“Clock’s ticking, Greg.”
“Chef, I know this is an emergency, but this is no time to panic.”
“This is a perfect time to panic!”
“You’ve got yourself a God-damned deal. Buckle up, you two; some shit’s about to go down.” There was an audible thunk as the gas pedal hit the floor. The engine roared and the taxi lurched forward.
“Greg, stop the car! Dammit, Chef, you’re going to bring every cop in the Tri-City area down on us!”
Greg let out a whoop, swerving around a car while blowing through a red light. He rolled down the windows. “Get some,” he shouted.
Chef half-smiled at Liam. “Just think about that for a minute.”
“I have! Do you have any idea – Oh.”
“There you go.” He tried to pat Liam on the shoulder, but his body was stiffening from the strain.
Liam laughed, rolled down his window, then stuck his head out the window and bellowed to pedestrians on the street until he was out of breath. The wind had ruffled his hair but, for the first time since college, he didn’t seem to care. “You are a special kind of bastard. Greg?”
“Yo.”
“I’ll double it, if we can get there in ten minutes.”
“Man, I knew you spoke my language. You’ll bail my ass out if I get arrested, right?”
“I’ll defend you myself.”
“Let’s do this.” Greg’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles turned white and the taxi sped up.
Cars whizzed by, as if stopped – and some were stopped at intersections, diligently following the law. With gentle corrections, Greg weaved in and out of traffic. Some cars passed close enough for Chef to reach out and touch. Instead of touching the quickly passing traffic, though, he found something in the car to grab and held on as his body was thrown back and forth with the motion of the cab.
“Truck.”
“I see him.”
A red light was ahead, with a semi-truck slowly accelerating through it, toward the left.
“Truck, Truck!”
“We’re not going to – ”
“Yes we will.”
The taxi aimed straight for the middle of the truck, gently correcting to the front.
“No!”
“Shut up, shut up!”
“Noooo!”
Chef squeezed his eyes shut. He readied himself, for the second time that day, to die.
“Yes,” Chef said. Liam stepped in, trying not to touch anything with his immaculately polished shoes. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you we were meeting at Skip’s house tonight.”
He crouched in front of Chef, looking at him as if it was the single stupidest thing he’d ever been asked. A hint of pity shined in his eyes as he looked Chef over. “You did,” Liam said, tucking his tie behind his belt. “I also know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be smart; you wouldn’t wait a damn minute for some help.”
Chef struggled against his bonds. “Lecture me later. We have to get out of here. He’s going to be back any minute.”
“You see what I mean? You’re so hasty,” Liam flashed his best smile at him and pulled a wicked knife, with a blade longer than his forearm, from a sheath behind his back. “You’ve got to take time to appreciate things sometimes, you know?”
“We don’t have time to enjoy the little things, Liam. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Liam, still avoiding touching anything with his clothing, reached back and started sawing at the ropes that held Chef. “You could have, at least, waited until I was out of court, Chef. I told you I was with you.”
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“Oh, I don’t give a damn that you lied. Liz and Skip are a little hurt.”
“They’ll get over it. Are you almost done?”
“Yeah. Come on.” Liam stood, holding his hand out to help up his friend. He heaved on Chef’s blood-slick hands. “Can you walk?”
He nodded, biting his cheek against the pain.
“Good, let’s get out of here. Where are you parked?” Liam led the way out of the house, but looked back at Chef.
He gestured to their left. “End of the block.”
Liam drew a sharp hiss of breath. “I think he stole your car.”
“Wha – dammit. You do what you want to a person but you don’t mess with a man’s car. What a bastard, I had a good collection of CDs in there.” Chef found himself vaguely surprised at his sudden possessiveness over his music collection.
“Don’t worry about your CDs, Chef. Come on, I’m this way.” Liam walked back, stepping lightly over the broken remnants of the fence, through the yard of the house directly behind Ethan’s hideout.
Waiting for them was a yellow car with a man sedately sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Please don’t tell me you took a cab to a murder.”
Liam looked at his friend, begging with his eyes for Chef to never mention it to anyone. “The Porsche isn’t fixed yet.”
It felt good to laugh, even through the unspeakable pain flaring up in his chest.
“Oh, you’re very funny. Get in.”
Cringing, Chef levered himself into the car, taking much more effort than it ever had before. When he finally got himself into the seat and the door closed behind him, the cab slowly started accelerating. Hotel California was playing softly on the radio.
“Hey, driver?”
“Greg.”
“Greg, could you do me a favor?”
“Sure, man, what’s up?”
“I’ve had a rough night, could you please change the station? I can’t deal with the Eagles right now.”
“What have you got against – Jesus!” The driver looked at Chef through the rearview mirror. “Man, you look like you’ve been through seven kinds of hell.”
“That’s just about the truth.” Chef attempted a smile but failed. Instead, he tried to smile with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. He imagined he failed at that, too.
“Damn, that looks like it hurts.”
“Look, buddy,” Liam joined the conversation, trying to bring attention away. “Just get us out of here. I don’t know, let’s hit the Denny’s on thirtieth and Sycamore.” When he saw Chef’s scowl, he put on his most innocent smile. “What? If I were him, I’d take your car and skip town. He is long gone. Besides, I’ll bet you’re pretty hungry, as it is.”
Chef’s stomach growled loud enough for Liam, who flashed him a knowing smile, to hear.
Liam pulled the phone out of his pocket and swiped the screen. “I’ll even drop a text to Liz and Skip, have them meet us – oh shit.”
“What?”
“What,” the driver asked, looking again in the rearview mirror.
“Liz texted me. Someone is at Skip’s house raising hell.”
“Hey, Greg,” Chef said. “Are you a good driver?”
The car still in motion, Greg turned around in his seat to give Chef a big-toothed smile. “Always wanted to be a racecar driver, ‘stead of this.”
“I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you can get us to Coolfire Street in the next fifteen minutes.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“Seriously?”
“Clock’s ticking, Greg.”
“Chef, I know this is an emergency, but this is no time to panic.”
“This is a perfect time to panic!”
“You’ve got yourself a God-damned deal. Buckle up, you two; some shit’s about to go down.” There was an audible thunk as the gas pedal hit the floor. The engine roared and the taxi lurched forward.
“Greg, stop the car! Dammit, Chef, you’re going to bring every cop in the Tri-City area down on us!”
Greg let out a whoop, swerving around a car while blowing through a red light. He rolled down the windows. “Get some,” he shouted.
Chef half-smiled at Liam. “Just think about that for a minute.”
“I have! Do you have any idea – Oh.”
“There you go.” He tried to pat Liam on the shoulder, but his body was stiffening from the strain.
Liam laughed, rolled down his window, then stuck his head out the window and bellowed to pedestrians on the street until he was out of breath. The wind had ruffled his hair but, for the first time since college, he didn’t seem to care. “You are a special kind of bastard. Greg?”
“Yo.”
“I’ll double it, if we can get there in ten minutes.”
“Man, I knew you spoke my language. You’ll bail my ass out if I get arrested, right?”
“I’ll defend you myself.”
“Let’s do this.” Greg’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles turned white and the taxi sped up.
Cars whizzed by, as if stopped – and some were stopped at intersections, diligently following the law. With gentle corrections, Greg weaved in and out of traffic. Some cars passed close enough for Chef to reach out and touch. Instead of touching the quickly passing traffic, though, he found something in the car to grab and held on as his body was thrown back and forth with the motion of the cab.
“Truck.”
“I see him.”
A red light was ahead, with a semi-truck slowly accelerating through it, toward the left.
“Truck, Truck!”
“We’re not going to – ”
“Yes we will.”
The taxi aimed straight for the middle of the truck, gently correcting to the front.
“No!”
“Shut up, shut up!”
“Noooo!”
Chef squeezed his eyes shut. He readied himself, for the second time that day, to die.
Chef Chapter 21
Pain is a fascinating thing. A thing that Chef felt a great deal of. Several hours had passed and it felt that Ethan had beat him for the whole time he was unconscious. The light streaming in through the dirty windows cast an array of pinks and purples on the floor and walls, creating a deceptively serene scene out of the wreckage of what once was a nice house – a house that he needed to get out of as soon as possible.
Pins and needles shot through his body as circulation returned to his extremities. Chef wrestled his legs beneath him. Accomplishing just that was a feat, in itself, his hands tied securely behind them, as they were. He settled back on his heels, looking around, finding nothing he could use to cut the vinyl rope that held him. Fingers feeling useless and clammy, he felt at his bonds and jerked his arms to try and loosen the knot, to no avail. Half-standing, Chef threw his shoulder into the wall a few inches to the side of the stud. Dust and small bits of drywall fell, but not enough. He couldn’t put enough force into the blows to the wall to break more away. Swearing, he knelt back on his feet.
Where was Ethan? Chef had been making a whole lot of noise, but the man hadn’t appeared. He dared to hope that Ethan wouldn’t be back for a few more hours and started throwing himself away from the wall.
Flaming knives stabbed at his shoulders every time he pulled forward but they were ignored. Chef grunted with effort, throwing himself first forward, then left and right, then simply pulling at the bottom of the beam. With every jerk and pull, pain flared up, bringing out screams that echoed through the hall.
Having taken a beating, his body resisted every movement, wanting only to lie down and recover but there was no time. It seemed like for hours that he threw his weight this way or that, but in truth it wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before he’d expended everything in him. He leaned back against the stud, gasping, hoping he’d, at the very least, loosened the bonds on his wrists.
Taking hold of the beam, which seemed to be thoroughly coated with a warm, sticky liquid, Chef twisted back and forth, hoping for some give but finding none. Testing his bonds gave the same amount of hope for escape.
“No,” It was little more than a whisper. Still breathless, Chef sat back and closed his eyes. “You stupid asshole,” he said to himself, knowing them to be the exact words Liam would say to him, if he were there. You couldn’t wait for help; had to just run off and get yourself killed.” Chef’s chin found his chest. This time, though, he had no plan.
“Instead of just losing one daughter, you’re losing everything because you couldn’t be patient. Good going.” The sound of a voice comforted him, even if it was critical of him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself it was someone talking to him, saying the words.
“Screw that guy! I’m not going to just sit here and wait for him to kill me. I can get out of this. I just have to be smarter.” As if he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, Chef suddenly felt full of energy. He pulled his feet under him, gripped the beam with both hands and hauled away from the wall, pulling away from the very bottom of it. In precise jerks and long hauls he worked, convincing himself that he was hearing the groan of old nails being pulled from where they’d been pounded in.
After each series of pulls, Chef knelt and breathed, calmed himself. As much as he could, he rolled his shoulders, knowing he’d be sore if he lived through the night. The realization that he might not was strangely liberating. It made him stop his work outright.
“Huh.”
With renewed vigor, he hauled on the beam, feeling his muscles straining and the rope digging into his wrists, but he didn’t care. “Escape or die.” Veins in his forearms bulged. Everything in the room, the room itself, turned red, as his effort increased. “Escape or die.” Blood flowed freely from his wrists. Muscles in his arms, shoulders and back were becoming overexerted. The room was growing dark, and not just because of the quickly setting sun. “Escape … or … .”
Chef collapsed, his body giving out.
“I’ve got more,” He pulled at the beam, feeling no give. “I’ve …” He stopped and realized that he didn’t. He had given everything he could muster but had to admit that he had nothing left in him.
Chef sat down, spreading his legs out in front of him, making himself as comfortable as his aching body would allow him to be. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and decided he would get some sleep before Ethan Hatcher returned to kill him. Defeat, he concluded, felt better than helplessness.
“You stupid asshole.”
Pins and needles shot through his body as circulation returned to his extremities. Chef wrestled his legs beneath him. Accomplishing just that was a feat, in itself, his hands tied securely behind them, as they were. He settled back on his heels, looking around, finding nothing he could use to cut the vinyl rope that held him. Fingers feeling useless and clammy, he felt at his bonds and jerked his arms to try and loosen the knot, to no avail. Half-standing, Chef threw his shoulder into the wall a few inches to the side of the stud. Dust and small bits of drywall fell, but not enough. He couldn’t put enough force into the blows to the wall to break more away. Swearing, he knelt back on his feet.
Where was Ethan? Chef had been making a whole lot of noise, but the man hadn’t appeared. He dared to hope that Ethan wouldn’t be back for a few more hours and started throwing himself away from the wall.
Flaming knives stabbed at his shoulders every time he pulled forward but they were ignored. Chef grunted with effort, throwing himself first forward, then left and right, then simply pulling at the bottom of the beam. With every jerk and pull, pain flared up, bringing out screams that echoed through the hall.
Having taken a beating, his body resisted every movement, wanting only to lie down and recover but there was no time. It seemed like for hours that he threw his weight this way or that, but in truth it wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before he’d expended everything in him. He leaned back against the stud, gasping, hoping he’d, at the very least, loosened the bonds on his wrists.
Taking hold of the beam, which seemed to be thoroughly coated with a warm, sticky liquid, Chef twisted back and forth, hoping for some give but finding none. Testing his bonds gave the same amount of hope for escape.
“No,” It was little more than a whisper. Still breathless, Chef sat back and closed his eyes. “You stupid asshole,” he said to himself, knowing them to be the exact words Liam would say to him, if he were there. You couldn’t wait for help; had to just run off and get yourself killed.” Chef’s chin found his chest. This time, though, he had no plan.
“Instead of just losing one daughter, you’re losing everything because you couldn’t be patient. Good going.” The sound of a voice comforted him, even if it was critical of him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself it was someone talking to him, saying the words.
“Screw that guy! I’m not going to just sit here and wait for him to kill me. I can get out of this. I just have to be smarter.” As if he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, Chef suddenly felt full of energy. He pulled his feet under him, gripped the beam with both hands and hauled away from the wall, pulling away from the very bottom of it. In precise jerks and long hauls he worked, convincing himself that he was hearing the groan of old nails being pulled from where they’d been pounded in.
After each series of pulls, Chef knelt and breathed, calmed himself. As much as he could, he rolled his shoulders, knowing he’d be sore if he lived through the night. The realization that he might not was strangely liberating. It made him stop his work outright.
“Huh.”
With renewed vigor, he hauled on the beam, feeling his muscles straining and the rope digging into his wrists, but he didn’t care. “Escape or die.” Veins in his forearms bulged. Everything in the room, the room itself, turned red, as his effort increased. “Escape or die.” Blood flowed freely from his wrists. Muscles in his arms, shoulders and back were becoming overexerted. The room was growing dark, and not just because of the quickly setting sun. “Escape … or … .”
Chef collapsed, his body giving out.
“I’ve got more,” He pulled at the beam, feeling no give. “I’ve …” He stopped and realized that he didn’t. He had given everything he could muster but had to admit that he had nothing left in him.
Chef sat down, spreading his legs out in front of him, making himself as comfortable as his aching body would allow him to be. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and decided he would get some sleep before Ethan Hatcher returned to kill him. Defeat, he concluded, felt better than helplessness.
“You stupid asshole.”
February 3, 2014
The Secret To Success
My wireless keyboard is the most useful thing I have ever purchased. Earlier today, I decided that I would cut myself off from most of my social life so that I could get some real work done on my new book. I have been working on a strict schedule of
FIRST FOUR HOURS: Screw around on the internet.
FIFTH HOUR: Screw around on the internet, but feel guilty about not writing.
FIFTH HOUR THROUGH WHENEVER I FEEL TOO SLEEPY TO PUT SENTENCES TOGETHER: Write.
And that was just kind of fine. I'll be honest, that is how I wrote Chef, and it is something I'm immensely proud of. I just kind of assumed that was "My Process," whatever that means. But tonight I decided I would try something. My eyes were hurting, and I’ve consumed waaay too much caffeine to sleep (unhealthy, I know, but I had always thought that was the only reason I god Chef done, was with the help of caffeine), so I decided I would test the limits of my wireless keyboard. It was an easy experiment, I laid in bed for a minute, typing away. Words, whatever, nothing productive. The computer, and the screen, stayed in the other room.
I got up, turned the TV back on, and found that my typing had worked. I was overjoyed… so I went back to bed, after putting on some crappy, instrumental, new-age music and pulling up the document I've been working on. I turned off the lights, situated myself in bed, and just started typing, this time working on a scene I had planned out in my head, but just hadn’t written.
Things were slow, at first. I became flustered whenever I made an error, but eventually worked out a system for dealing with it. Soon, my fingers were flying across the keyboard, words were flowing, I learned things about my character, and the world she lived in, and I found that I had written somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred words in about a half hour. I got up out of bed, checked the computer, saved, and went back to bed, to work.
Why am I telling you this? Great question. This is the age of the internet, and that means two relevant things:
1: There is an unlimited supply of distractions just waiting just beyond a few simple keystrokes.
2: There are an infinite number of inspirational quotes, and posters, and stories about people achieving their dreams, telling us to shoot for the stars, and to let nothing stand in our way.
Great, we think, and go back to screwing around on the internet, or starting to think about what it is we want to do with our lives, but becoming distracted by the lack of cleanliness in the house, or something on the internet, or whatever.
Then, when we’ve had enough, and we feel guilty that we’ve put things off enough, we work. For one whole glorious afternoon, we feel we are finally accomplishing something; we are finally taking that first step toward accomplishing our dream…
And then we watch another fucking cat video on Youtube, and it’s all over.
I have had my wireless keyboard for nearly two years, now, never suspecting that it would be more than just a convenience. In fact, I am starting to believe it is the key to unlocking my lifelong dream, once and for all.
I am a writer. I identify myself that way every bit as much as I identify myself with the name Tony Jaeger (pronounced YAY-Grr). With this keyboard, I have been able to remove myself from every single distraction the world has to offer so that I can pursue my dream without distraction. My schedule two nights ago was
FIRST THREE HOURS: Screw around on the internet.
FOURTH HOUR: Write, screw around on the internet, go to bed.
Last night?
FIRST HOUR: Screw around on the internet, develop theory.
SECOND AND THIRD HOUR: Test theory, write 2,000 words on new book.
FOURTH HOUR: Bask in the single most productive two hours of my life, write and edit blog post about epiphany.
FIFTH HOUR: Edit a little bit, go to bed.
The only thing distracting me right now is my own comfort. And who DOESN’T feel comfortable lying under a blanket in their own bed?
So, what is my point?
My point is simple. Your dreams are within reach, all you need to do is figure out a way to remove whatever is keepinging you from accomplishing it, and removing it. In my case, all I needed was a wireless keyboard and a mild caffeine-overdose. What do you need to get you going?
FIRST FOUR HOURS: Screw around on the internet.
FIFTH HOUR: Screw around on the internet, but feel guilty about not writing.
FIFTH HOUR THROUGH WHENEVER I FEEL TOO SLEEPY TO PUT SENTENCES TOGETHER: Write.
And that was just kind of fine. I'll be honest, that is how I wrote Chef, and it is something I'm immensely proud of. I just kind of assumed that was "My Process," whatever that means. But tonight I decided I would try something. My eyes were hurting, and I’ve consumed waaay too much caffeine to sleep (unhealthy, I know, but I had always thought that was the only reason I god Chef done, was with the help of caffeine), so I decided I would test the limits of my wireless keyboard. It was an easy experiment, I laid in bed for a minute, typing away. Words, whatever, nothing productive. The computer, and the screen, stayed in the other room.
I got up, turned the TV back on, and found that my typing had worked. I was overjoyed… so I went back to bed, after putting on some crappy, instrumental, new-age music and pulling up the document I've been working on. I turned off the lights, situated myself in bed, and just started typing, this time working on a scene I had planned out in my head, but just hadn’t written.
Things were slow, at first. I became flustered whenever I made an error, but eventually worked out a system for dealing with it. Soon, my fingers were flying across the keyboard, words were flowing, I learned things about my character, and the world she lived in, and I found that I had written somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred words in about a half hour. I got up out of bed, checked the computer, saved, and went back to bed, to work.
Why am I telling you this? Great question. This is the age of the internet, and that means two relevant things:
1: There is an unlimited supply of distractions just waiting just beyond a few simple keystrokes.
2: There are an infinite number of inspirational quotes, and posters, and stories about people achieving their dreams, telling us to shoot for the stars, and to let nothing stand in our way.
Great, we think, and go back to screwing around on the internet, or starting to think about what it is we want to do with our lives, but becoming distracted by the lack of cleanliness in the house, or something on the internet, or whatever.
Then, when we’ve had enough, and we feel guilty that we’ve put things off enough, we work. For one whole glorious afternoon, we feel we are finally accomplishing something; we are finally taking that first step toward accomplishing our dream…
And then we watch another fucking cat video on Youtube, and it’s all over.
I have had my wireless keyboard for nearly two years, now, never suspecting that it would be more than just a convenience. In fact, I am starting to believe it is the key to unlocking my lifelong dream, once and for all.
I am a writer. I identify myself that way every bit as much as I identify myself with the name Tony Jaeger (pronounced YAY-Grr). With this keyboard, I have been able to remove myself from every single distraction the world has to offer so that I can pursue my dream without distraction. My schedule two nights ago was
FIRST THREE HOURS: Screw around on the internet.
FOURTH HOUR: Write, screw around on the internet, go to bed.
Last night?
FIRST HOUR: Screw around on the internet, develop theory.
SECOND AND THIRD HOUR: Test theory, write 2,000 words on new book.
FOURTH HOUR: Bask in the single most productive two hours of my life, write and edit blog post about epiphany.
FIFTH HOUR: Edit a little bit, go to bed.
The only thing distracting me right now is my own comfort. And who DOESN’T feel comfortable lying under a blanket in their own bed?
So, what is my point?
My point is simple. Your dreams are within reach, all you need to do is figure out a way to remove whatever is keepinging you from accomplishing it, and removing it. In my case, all I needed was a wireless keyboard and a mild caffeine-overdose. What do you need to get you going?
November 25, 2013
Compulsory NaNoWriMo Post
I will not be hitting 50,000 words this month. I may not before the end of the year. This is not a failure.
I may not be able to meet my higher goal of having this book ready to ship by the beginning of May, as I'd projected. Simply put, I have a prevailing laziness that I allow to prevent me from putting words on the page. This is not a shortcoming.
I may not be able to emotionally or intellectually handle the material that I am working with in this book. I am examining questions and concepts that people throughout human history have failed to answer, most of these people much smarter than I. This is not a deterrent.
During a month in which many people with similar goals and aspirations as myself set out to write 50,000 words to for an, ideally, complete work, I have written just more than a tenth of that, forming a series of scenes that barely sets the scene. This is not inadequate.
In the 6,000 words I have written, I have learned as much about myself and my method of storytelling as I did during the previous eight months, and during the five years before that (working on a single separate project.) I wrote a single scene that moved me to tears more than once. I have gotten to know three characters, and have fallen in love with all three of them, all for very different reasons. I have plumbed emotional depths I never knew I was privy to, for a character's backstory that may never get mentioned in the book, but that tangibly enriches everything that character does, because it's important to him. These are not victories.
We writers are nothing more than students, all of us, learning a craft we may never master. When learning a skill - any skill - a mistake that does not lead to catastrophe is no mistake at all. Similarly, there are no failures. If a writer writes a bad book, it is no greater a failure than a racquetball player that loses a point during a game, so long as both continue in their craft, undeterred in their pursuit of ever-greater skill.
In 2012, James Patterson released 13 books, Stephen King 3, and Peter V. Brett 0. All three are phenomenal authors, and each wildly successful in their own right. These authors are all peers, all of them equals. Each of these authors put their pants on in roughly the same manner, all have their own writing practices, and we all aspire to join them as full-time authors. As equals.
Writers exist for one purpose: to entertain. We hail from a long tradition of storytellers across many different mediums - whether visual, audio, written, virtual, all exist for one goal: to tell a story. To entertain. Without an audience, a piece of writing is nothing, an intangible, and is worth exactly that, no matter how personally enriched we feel for having completed it. Unpublished work and published work differ in only one way: the published work has an audience, the story has been told.
That's it.
The story has been told. No more, no less. However enriching or pointless, a published work has fulfilled its purpose, it has entertained, it has distracted the reader from their every day existence, and provided escape - even if it wasn't a pleasurable escape - from it. The writer's purpose, too, has been fulfilled, until she has another story to tell. And then another. Ideally, in pursuit of a more enriching form of escape for her audience. There are no victories in writing, only the pursuit of telling a story that will entertain... and then telling another story that, we hope, will entertain more widely and deeply than the one before.
We exist to entertain, first ourselves, and then others. Our lives are fulfilled - and fulfilling - because of each failure, and shortcoming, and deterrent, and feeling of inadequacy... and eventually each victory, because in each of these we discover new ways of telling tales, new ways of entertaining, and that is all we writers exist to do.
I may not be able to meet my higher goal of having this book ready to ship by the beginning of May, as I'd projected. Simply put, I have a prevailing laziness that I allow to prevent me from putting words on the page. This is not a shortcoming.
I may not be able to emotionally or intellectually handle the material that I am working with in this book. I am examining questions and concepts that people throughout human history have failed to answer, most of these people much smarter than I. This is not a deterrent.
During a month in which many people with similar goals and aspirations as myself set out to write 50,000 words to for an, ideally, complete work, I have written just more than a tenth of that, forming a series of scenes that barely sets the scene. This is not inadequate.
In the 6,000 words I have written, I have learned as much about myself and my method of storytelling as I did during the previous eight months, and during the five years before that (working on a single separate project.) I wrote a single scene that moved me to tears more than once. I have gotten to know three characters, and have fallen in love with all three of them, all for very different reasons. I have plumbed emotional depths I never knew I was privy to, for a character's backstory that may never get mentioned in the book, but that tangibly enriches everything that character does, because it's important to him. These are not victories.
We writers are nothing more than students, all of us, learning a craft we may never master. When learning a skill - any skill - a mistake that does not lead to catastrophe is no mistake at all. Similarly, there are no failures. If a writer writes a bad book, it is no greater a failure than a racquetball player that loses a point during a game, so long as both continue in their craft, undeterred in their pursuit of ever-greater skill.
In 2012, James Patterson released 13 books, Stephen King 3, and Peter V. Brett 0. All three are phenomenal authors, and each wildly successful in their own right. These authors are all peers, all of them equals. Each of these authors put their pants on in roughly the same manner, all have their own writing practices, and we all aspire to join them as full-time authors. As equals.
Writers exist for one purpose: to entertain. We hail from a long tradition of storytellers across many different mediums - whether visual, audio, written, virtual, all exist for one goal: to tell a story. To entertain. Without an audience, a piece of writing is nothing, an intangible, and is worth exactly that, no matter how personally enriched we feel for having completed it. Unpublished work and published work differ in only one way: the published work has an audience, the story has been told.
That's it.
The story has been told. No more, no less. However enriching or pointless, a published work has fulfilled its purpose, it has entertained, it has distracted the reader from their every day existence, and provided escape - even if it wasn't a pleasurable escape - from it. The writer's purpose, too, has been fulfilled, until she has another story to tell. And then another. Ideally, in pursuit of a more enriching form of escape for her audience. There are no victories in writing, only the pursuit of telling a story that will entertain... and then telling another story that, we hope, will entertain more widely and deeply than the one before.
We exist to entertain, first ourselves, and then others. Our lives are fulfilled - and fulfilling - because of each failure, and shortcoming, and deterrent, and feeling of inadequacy... and eventually each victory, because in each of these we discover new ways of telling tales, new ways of entertaining, and that is all we writers exist to do.
November 5, 2013
Review: Prince of Thorns
When my friend, Will, recommended that I read this book I could tell that it had had an effect on him. His humor seemed a little darker than usual, he'd use words like 'feckin' over text message ... It was funny to me, until I read this book. Prince of Thorns tells the story of a fourteen year old boy cutting a bloody path toward revenge on the man who killed his brother and mother. At first, Prince Jorg seems absolutely insane, and so bloodthirsty that Joe Abercrombie would be proud. And he is everything he seems.
I started giggling at the bottom of page one, at the dark sense of humor displayed by our friend and protagonist, and by page five, my laughter turned to an evil cackling that didn't let up until about halfway through. Though the Prince of Thorns is undoubtedly a dark and evil youth he's charismatic and at least pays lip service to feeling bad for his atrocities.
As soon as the meat of the story started to reveal itself I was hooked, held in my chair by this book as thoroughly as if I were trapped in a thorn bush and bleeding out. The fact that I had to interrupt my reading time to go to work, or sleep, deeply irritated me. I wanted to keep reading. Hell, now that I've finished the book, and don't have a copy of the second one until the 14th, I'm genuinely irked.
If you want a little bit of gristle in your storytelling, you want this book.
October 30, 2013
Book Two
They say a broken clock is right, twice a day. The term "Beginner's Luck" exists for a reason. If you haven't already heard about it, look at the image on the right. I wrote the book in that goofy bastard's hand. Me. It was in the second grade when I started writing my first story, and it wasn't until eighteen years later that I published my first book. No matter what my answer was at any given time, I AM what I want to be when I grow up: an author. I want to say that it was because of hard work and dedication, but it wasn't - not entirely - I want to say that it was because of my unwavering self-belief, and constant work to fulfill my dream - but it wasn't. I wrote Chef to run away from my problems. I wrote it as a means of hiding through the most intense hurt I've ever felt. The fact that It was my single greatest coping tool is irrelevant. For seven months, I buried myself in this story so I wouldn't have to feel anything, except for the emotions of my characters (which on occasion reduced me to tears). It is only in retrospect that I can look back and be grateful for it all. No matter why or how, I am an author, and I have a whole lot of stories I want to tell you all.
Everyone who does a lot of reading can tell you about an author whose first book was amazing, brilliant, made their lives make sense, was so good that they rushed to the nearest bookstore to pick up that author's next book... and was horribly let down by it. As a reader, this is absolutely devastating. We've invested ourselves in this author, raved about him or her to our friends, recommended that everyone read this book, only to have the author fizzle out on their very next work.
It is my goal to not disappoint you all.
In June I met Max, and had my first taste of a new idea, an idea that explores love, creationism, sci-fi, the macabre, and the human soul. It explores ideas and concepts, and dips into genres that I have no interest in, and have done absolutely zero reading in. This idea, and Chef, both have that in common. What I want to do with the idea is so exciting that my disinterest in the genre doesn't even matter. That is exactly why I'm going to write it, starting November first.
Over the last week, the story I've been building has become immensely complex - to the point that I wrote a crude outline of it, which I never do (I wrote Chef week by week, finding out what happened next as I wrote it). With the building of the complexity of the story, my excitement for it grew, as well, and I realized that the story will likely be more than three times longer than Chef, and will be the most structurally complex story I've ever written.
As with Chef, this next book is going to be a big experiment, and I will be sharing most of the first draft here on the blog. There are going to be parts of the story that won't show up on the blog, mostly for pacing reasons, but I promise you will not be missing any of the main story.
Most importantly, this is my second book. The book that will either tell you that my books are worth continuing to read, or if the rest of my writing career will just gather dust. I'm getting ready to start writing, but I feel a weight on my shoulders: the need to perform, and admirably so. I am going to log off now, but I will leave you with a promise...
My second book will be something you've never seen before, and you will not be disappointed.
October 16, 2013
Republic of Thieves: Review
Scott Lynch is a special kind of bastard.
In the last year, I've been introduced to the Gentleman Bastards sequence, and gobbled the existing books up with insatiable hunger. Starting with The Lies of Locke Lamora, we are introduced to the Gentleman Bastards, a gang of con artists raised and tutored by Father Chains, a priest of the patron-god of thieves. The Lies of Locke Lamora introduces us into Lynch's world that is rich, and beautiful, and unspeakably brutal. The book, itself, is brilliant in a way I didn't know books could be.
When I finished book one I got in my car, drove to Barnes and Noble, and purchased Red Seas Under Red Skies . Red Seas was every bit as good as the first, and then some. The most memorable moment of the series, so far, is nestled right in the beginning of this book, as Locke and Jean are getting settled in a new city. I won't spoil it for you. I will tell you that I've read the first hundred pages at least a dozen times for a good reason.
Then I waited. Eagerly.
Republic of Thieves brings a new life to the series. Locke finds himself indebted to the Bondsmagi of Karthain, who are asking him to perform a simple task: rig a political election. The premise may seem a bit off-putting, but if you stick with it, you're going to be greeted with some of the freshest writing in the series to date. Once you're into the thick of the book, you see something you've not seen before: Locke is having fun doing what he loves. With every setback and small victory, every shouted expletive (both good and bad), I couldn't help but watch Locke as thoroughly in his element as he has ever been. Even in his dealings with Sabetha. That's right, for the first time in the series we get to see the woman of Locke's dreams, and it is delicious.
I'm not going to go on at length, weighing every moment, every disappointment and moment of intense confusion (and there are many), I'm going to simply say buy this book. If you haven't read the first two, buy them, too. You won't regret it for a moment.
Before I log off, I want to give a special shoutout to swearing. You heard me. Swearing is something that Scott Lynch does on an Olympic level. I admit it's a part of why I love reading his books so much. Nearly once per page I found myself laughing aloud at some of the outlandish, and at the same time, stunningly perfect descriptions of things. Whether it be the weather or a bottle of wine, or the way a woman's hair shines in the right light, Scott Lynch has a vulgar description of it that will make you cringe and laugh and love the book even more.
I can't wait for the next book. Scott Lynch, you are a master of your craft, up there with Brandon Sanderson and Patrick Rothfuss, by my estimation.
In the last year, I've been introduced to the Gentleman Bastards sequence, and gobbled the existing books up with insatiable hunger. Starting with The Lies of Locke Lamora, we are introduced to the Gentleman Bastards, a gang of con artists raised and tutored by Father Chains, a priest of the patron-god of thieves. The Lies of Locke Lamora introduces us into Lynch's world that is rich, and beautiful, and unspeakably brutal. The book, itself, is brilliant in a way I didn't know books could be.
When I finished book one I got in my car, drove to Barnes and Noble, and purchased Red Seas Under Red Skies . Red Seas was every bit as good as the first, and then some. The most memorable moment of the series, so far, is nestled right in the beginning of this book, as Locke and Jean are getting settled in a new city. I won't spoil it for you. I will tell you that I've read the first hundred pages at least a dozen times for a good reason.
Then I waited. Eagerly.
Republic of Thieves brings a new life to the series. Locke finds himself indebted to the Bondsmagi of Karthain, who are asking him to perform a simple task: rig a political election. The premise may seem a bit off-putting, but if you stick with it, you're going to be greeted with some of the freshest writing in the series to date. Once you're into the thick of the book, you see something you've not seen before: Locke is having fun doing what he loves. With every setback and small victory, every shouted expletive (both good and bad), I couldn't help but watch Locke as thoroughly in his element as he has ever been. Even in his dealings with Sabetha. That's right, for the first time in the series we get to see the woman of Locke's dreams, and it is delicious.
I'm not going to go on at length, weighing every moment, every disappointment and moment of intense confusion (and there are many), I'm going to simply say buy this book. If you haven't read the first two, buy them, too. You won't regret it for a moment.
Before I log off, I want to give a special shoutout to swearing. You heard me. Swearing is something that Scott Lynch does on an Olympic level. I admit it's a part of why I love reading his books so much. Nearly once per page I found myself laughing aloud at some of the outlandish, and at the same time, stunningly perfect descriptions of things. Whether it be the weather or a bottle of wine, or the way a woman's hair shines in the right light, Scott Lynch has a vulgar description of it that will make you cringe and laugh and love the book even more.
I can't wait for the next book. Scott Lynch, you are a master of your craft, up there with Brandon Sanderson and Patrick Rothfuss, by my estimation.
October 11, 2013
So, That Happened...
For those of you who might not know me in real life, or follow me on any social media, Chef, in its entirety, is out, and available on
Amazon
and
Barnes and Noble.com
(edited and revised from its state on here, and with some bonus content). This was my first book, and I am immensely proud of it. I have gotten some wonderful feedback so far, and people are actually recommending it to others... which is kind of surreal and awesome, to me.
I have done so in the text of the book, but I want to thank everyone who had anything to do with me while I was working on Chef. I know it wasn't easy, dealing with me during that time because it was all I ever talked about, so thank you for putting up with me. it's because of your patient, tolerant smiles that I was able to make it happen.
One thing I have always done is move from one project to another with minimal downtime. In this case, I am having something of a dilemma: I don't have one project I want to devote my attention to, I have three. What I need from you is to tell me what you want me to write. Everyone that comments a vote will have a chance to win a signed, numbered copy, not only of Chef, but of the next book I write. (Also, If you want to get a copy of Chef, but don't really care about my next book, here be a link to a Goodreads giveaway for Chef) I'll post synopses for the options below it.
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Chef by Tony Jaeger
Option 1: The Santa Claus Taxi Service.
Due to higher manufacturing costs of modern toys, Santa and his elves have had to get second jobs to keep up. Antics ensue. (Takes place ten hours after the conclusion of Chef)
Option 2: Small town bartender, Zach, wakes up to find that three people's consciousnesses have been transplanted in his head, and want out. With their help, or hindrance, Zach must discover the technology, and steal it, before his unwanted guests drive him crazy... or drive him out.
Option 3: Super genius, Ang, has created eighteen robotic dopplegangers of himself, and sets out to steal a controversial machine said to bestow souls on the otherwise inanimate. For this, Ang pays a worse price for it than death: Ang indirectly starts the zombie apocalypse with the machine. (takes place fifty years after the Zach story)
Place your votes in the comments below, and I will write what you tell me to write.
I have done so in the text of the book, but I want to thank everyone who had anything to do with me while I was working on Chef. I know it wasn't easy, dealing with me during that time because it was all I ever talked about, so thank you for putting up with me. it's because of your patient, tolerant smiles that I was able to make it happen.
One thing I have always done is move from one project to another with minimal downtime. In this case, I am having something of a dilemma: I don't have one project I want to devote my attention to, I have three. What I need from you is to tell me what you want me to write. Everyone that comments a vote will have a chance to win a signed, numbered copy, not only of Chef, but of the next book I write. (Also, If you want to get a copy of Chef, but don't really care about my next book, here be a link to a Goodreads giveaway for Chef) I'll post synopses for the options below it.
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Chef by Tony Jaeger Giveaway ends November 09, 2013.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to winOption 1: The Santa Claus Taxi Service.
Due to higher manufacturing costs of modern toys, Santa and his elves have had to get second jobs to keep up. Antics ensue. (Takes place ten hours after the conclusion of Chef)
Option 2: Small town bartender, Zach, wakes up to find that three people's consciousnesses have been transplanted in his head, and want out. With their help, or hindrance, Zach must discover the technology, and steal it, before his unwanted guests drive him crazy... or drive him out.
Option 3: Super genius, Ang, has created eighteen robotic dopplegangers of himself, and sets out to steal a controversial machine said to bestow souls on the otherwise inanimate. For this, Ang pays a worse price for it than death: Ang indirectly starts the zombie apocalypse with the machine. (takes place fifty years after the Zach story)
Place your votes in the comments below, and I will write what you tell me to write.
September 29, 2013
Chef, Chapter 20
Pain is a fascinating thing. A subjective thing. As with rainbows, no two people experience pain in quite the same way. Similarly, no two wounds are exactly the same. Simple lacerations hurt, but can be easily forgotten with the proper motivation, whereas the pain from a burn constantly nags. Cut a finger one day, and the pain will remain until it’s near to completely healed, but cut that same finger once a day for a year, and what once had been a silent obsession with that pain goes almost unnoticed. Some revel in it, the ritual cutting, seizing control of an internal pain and bringing it to the surface. For them, it isn’t pain at all, but catharsis. Pleasure.
As God is to man, broken bones and head wounds are a higher order of pain. They’re deeper, more personal. One cripples, the other kills. In these wounds there is no pleasure, no masochistic fulfillment to be found. Only pain. Suffering. Broken bones and head wounds reveal who the person is when nobody is looking.
Pain exploded across Chef’s midsection.
“Wake up,” a voice shouted before another blow landed, this time on Chef’s chest. Chef gasped and choked, trying to suck in a breath.
A blurred fist flew across his vision. Chef threw his arms up to intercept the fist, but found he was restrained at the wrists. He felt blow after blow impacting him, and couldn’t do anything to stop the pain except hold onto the hope that it would end.
When the hits did finally stop, Chef could only sit and gasp for breath, for how long he couldn’t tell. It felt like hours before his vision cleared and breath came again.
On an upturned orange bucket sat his assailant, presumably Ethan Hatcher. In faded jeans and an old Raiders jersey, he could have been just another person on the street. He had an impeccable tan, and bleached tips atop his faux-hawk. Skip’s file had indicated he was fresh out of Miami.
“Who are you with, the Bureau? You ain’t a local cop, you’re not fat enough.”
Chef didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the man sitting in front of him with angry red knuckles and a faint southern drawl. Ethan Hatcher looked only vaguely like his decade-old mugshot. Chef did everything he could to hide the rage boiling inside of him. This couldn’t look personal.
Ethan stood and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “I guess it doesn’t matter who you’re with. You’re a cop,” he stepped closer, “and you’re going to die before anyone figures out where you’ve gone,” and swung a Nike-clad foot at Chef’s chest. A loud crack announced the breaking of at least one rib. Chef screamed. Ethan knelt down, grabbed a handful of Chef’s hair, and pulled up, forcing eye contact. Through the haze of pain, it registered that Ethan had unfair good looks. “But first, you’re going to tell me how you found me.”
Blood and spit leaked from the corner of Chef’s mouth. “Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.” He showed Ethan a full, bloody smile before a fist impacted it. The punch threw Chef’s head back into the wall. His vision blurred again. A thin, hot trail dragged down the back of his neck. “I take it you’re not a Beatles fan, then? The classics are lost on you kids, these days. It’s a real shame.” Mustering the breath to speak ached intensely, but he was rewarded with almost being able to hear Ethan’s teeth grinding.
He was also rewarded with another flurry of blows that left him dazed.
“How did you find me?” Ethan shouted, his voice frantic, almost afraid.
Chef didn’t answer, he couldn’t. Though his jaw worked, the words refused to form, either in his head or mouth. He panicked. Much more abuse could mean permanent damage. He became suddenly keenly aware of the blood streaming down his back. Forcing himself to slow his breath and relax his body was the most difficult thing he could remember ever having done, but it was no effort at all to let his head hang and rest his chin on his chest.
“Fuck!” Ethan kicked the bucket and stalked away.
Chef waited, listening to the filthy wood floor creaking beneath Ethan’s feet. He counted slowly, his eyes closed and body unmoving. One hundred, two hundred, three … . His count reached eight-hundred before the sounds of movement stopped, and still he waited before moving. If he were able to get himself free, it would be for nothing if he drew attention himself. So he waited. Tentatively, tried to open one eye, but couldn’t. He cursed silently, praying that his other eye would open.
It did, if only barely, and gave him his first opportunity to examine his surroundings. Chef sat on a shattered tile floor, his back to a stud in an exposed area of the wall, hands tied behind it. He sat between two rooms, kitchen on the left and living room on the right, like his own house had been, until he’d put up a wall to separate them, only Amberly would suffer a meltdown if a mess even vaguely resembling the one in this house were left. Empty bottles of bleach and other chemicals lay among food wrappers and half-empty Mountain Dew bottles in an orgy of filth. Trails of clean floor wound through the mess, seeming even to have been recently swept.
In the corner, a section of floor had been cleared out and a clean, white mattress lay on the floor with a short stack of books next to it. The spines were turned away from Chef, and it made him wonder all the more what kind of books this kind of bastard would read. He squeezed his eye shut, hating himself for having the thought. He shouldn’t care, and didn’t want to know.
The floor creaked in another part of the house.
Another creak, closer this time. Ethan was coming down the stairs. Chef panicked, tried to regulate his breathing, afraid that he was failing. His chin found his chest just as the man stomped around the corner. It was either that noises were louder in his panicked state, or Ethan just had a heavier gait than most.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Ethan said.
Chef’s body tensed, and unbidden, a surprised grunt fled Chef’s lips.
“What,” he said, righting the orange bucket. “Did you think I was stupid?”
“Heh. I guess I did.”
“You law types are all the same.” They were Skip’s words coming out of Ethan’s mouth. A chill raced through Chef. “I’m a little different than you, yes, but I ain’t stupid. I saw you curling up your lip at the place. I’ve been watching you.” He pointed to a potato chip bag with a little camera hidden inside among some chips. “Picked up that little gem while you were out. You can’t do anything without me seeing you.”
“So, it’s just you in this city, then?”
“I guess you would want to know that, wouldn’t you? I’m not going to tell you that, it’d ruin all of the fun.” Ethan bent down, picked up a two-by-four with a small splatter of blood on a short end, and stood. “I guess it really doesn’t matter, you’re not going to walk out of this house either way. You, though, you are still going to tell me how you found me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to kill you, but how soon you tell me is going to determine how quickly I do it.” He drove his point home with a kick to the ribs. “You won’t be the first cop I’ve killed, and you won’t be the last.” The two-by-four in Ethan’s hand found a spot to rest on Chef’s shoulder, tapping his cheek softly. “I have to give you credit, Officer, usually, cops fuck up in three ways, but as of right now, you’ve only got two.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The Beatles Sucked. And you parked just down the street.”
Chef looked up at Ethan, trying to keep the fear out of his eyes and knowing it was futile.
“But, I can’t have you awake while I go take a peek, can I?” Chef wasn’t conscious long enough to see the full swing of the two-by-four.
As God is to man, broken bones and head wounds are a higher order of pain. They’re deeper, more personal. One cripples, the other kills. In these wounds there is no pleasure, no masochistic fulfillment to be found. Only pain. Suffering. Broken bones and head wounds reveal who the person is when nobody is looking.
Pain exploded across Chef’s midsection.
“Wake up,” a voice shouted before another blow landed, this time on Chef’s chest. Chef gasped and choked, trying to suck in a breath.
A blurred fist flew across his vision. Chef threw his arms up to intercept the fist, but found he was restrained at the wrists. He felt blow after blow impacting him, and couldn’t do anything to stop the pain except hold onto the hope that it would end.
When the hits did finally stop, Chef could only sit and gasp for breath, for how long he couldn’t tell. It felt like hours before his vision cleared and breath came again.
On an upturned orange bucket sat his assailant, presumably Ethan Hatcher. In faded jeans and an old Raiders jersey, he could have been just another person on the street. He had an impeccable tan, and bleached tips atop his faux-hawk. Skip’s file had indicated he was fresh out of Miami.
“Who are you with, the Bureau? You ain’t a local cop, you’re not fat enough.”
Chef didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the man sitting in front of him with angry red knuckles and a faint southern drawl. Ethan Hatcher looked only vaguely like his decade-old mugshot. Chef did everything he could to hide the rage boiling inside of him. This couldn’t look personal.
Ethan stood and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “I guess it doesn’t matter who you’re with. You’re a cop,” he stepped closer, “and you’re going to die before anyone figures out where you’ve gone,” and swung a Nike-clad foot at Chef’s chest. A loud crack announced the breaking of at least one rib. Chef screamed. Ethan knelt down, grabbed a handful of Chef’s hair, and pulled up, forcing eye contact. Through the haze of pain, it registered that Ethan had unfair good looks. “But first, you’re going to tell me how you found me.”
Blood and spit leaked from the corner of Chef’s mouth. “Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.” He showed Ethan a full, bloody smile before a fist impacted it. The punch threw Chef’s head back into the wall. His vision blurred again. A thin, hot trail dragged down the back of his neck. “I take it you’re not a Beatles fan, then? The classics are lost on you kids, these days. It’s a real shame.” Mustering the breath to speak ached intensely, but he was rewarded with almost being able to hear Ethan’s teeth grinding.
He was also rewarded with another flurry of blows that left him dazed.
“How did you find me?” Ethan shouted, his voice frantic, almost afraid.
Chef didn’t answer, he couldn’t. Though his jaw worked, the words refused to form, either in his head or mouth. He panicked. Much more abuse could mean permanent damage. He became suddenly keenly aware of the blood streaming down his back. Forcing himself to slow his breath and relax his body was the most difficult thing he could remember ever having done, but it was no effort at all to let his head hang and rest his chin on his chest.
“Fuck!” Ethan kicked the bucket and stalked away.
Chef waited, listening to the filthy wood floor creaking beneath Ethan’s feet. He counted slowly, his eyes closed and body unmoving. One hundred, two hundred, three … . His count reached eight-hundred before the sounds of movement stopped, and still he waited before moving. If he were able to get himself free, it would be for nothing if he drew attention himself. So he waited. Tentatively, tried to open one eye, but couldn’t. He cursed silently, praying that his other eye would open.
It did, if only barely, and gave him his first opportunity to examine his surroundings. Chef sat on a shattered tile floor, his back to a stud in an exposed area of the wall, hands tied behind it. He sat between two rooms, kitchen on the left and living room on the right, like his own house had been, until he’d put up a wall to separate them, only Amberly would suffer a meltdown if a mess even vaguely resembling the one in this house were left. Empty bottles of bleach and other chemicals lay among food wrappers and half-empty Mountain Dew bottles in an orgy of filth. Trails of clean floor wound through the mess, seeming even to have been recently swept.
In the corner, a section of floor had been cleared out and a clean, white mattress lay on the floor with a short stack of books next to it. The spines were turned away from Chef, and it made him wonder all the more what kind of books this kind of bastard would read. He squeezed his eye shut, hating himself for having the thought. He shouldn’t care, and didn’t want to know.
The floor creaked in another part of the house.
Another creak, closer this time. Ethan was coming down the stairs. Chef panicked, tried to regulate his breathing, afraid that he was failing. His chin found his chest just as the man stomped around the corner. It was either that noises were louder in his panicked state, or Ethan just had a heavier gait than most.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Ethan said.
Chef’s body tensed, and unbidden, a surprised grunt fled Chef’s lips.
“What,” he said, righting the orange bucket. “Did you think I was stupid?”
“Heh. I guess I did.”
“You law types are all the same.” They were Skip’s words coming out of Ethan’s mouth. A chill raced through Chef. “I’m a little different than you, yes, but I ain’t stupid. I saw you curling up your lip at the place. I’ve been watching you.” He pointed to a potato chip bag with a little camera hidden inside among some chips. “Picked up that little gem while you were out. You can’t do anything without me seeing you.”
“So, it’s just you in this city, then?”
“I guess you would want to know that, wouldn’t you? I’m not going to tell you that, it’d ruin all of the fun.” Ethan bent down, picked up a two-by-four with a small splatter of blood on a short end, and stood. “I guess it really doesn’t matter, you’re not going to walk out of this house either way. You, though, you are still going to tell me how you found me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to kill you, but how soon you tell me is going to determine how quickly I do it.” He drove his point home with a kick to the ribs. “You won’t be the first cop I’ve killed, and you won’t be the last.” The two-by-four in Ethan’s hand found a spot to rest on Chef’s shoulder, tapping his cheek softly. “I have to give you credit, Officer, usually, cops fuck up in three ways, but as of right now, you’ve only got two.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The Beatles Sucked. And you parked just down the street.”
Chef looked up at Ethan, trying to keep the fear out of his eyes and knowing it was futile.
“But, I can’t have you awake while I go take a peek, can I?” Chef wasn’t conscious long enough to see the full swing of the two-by-four.
