MisStaked
Authors: J. Morgan
Champagne Books
www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright ©2008 by Bill Scarborough
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Champagne Books www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright © 2007 by J. Morgan
ISBN 978-1-897445-15-0
April 2008
Cover Art © Christopher Butts
Produced in Canada
Don't be alarmed. Let me get this out of the way, so you faint at hearts don't go all postal before I get this story going. This tale is purely fictional in nature, except for those parts which are unfortunately real. It is even more tragic to note the parts you think are made-up are those are in fact the unabashed truth. To those readers who feel better sleeping at night thinking nothing is real, feel free to keep thinking so. I have never been a primate to deny the delusions of the delusional.
First off let me assure you, I have endeavored in no way to attain this position of being the sole chronicler of the imbecilic hero, whom you will shortly meet. Like life itself, the odious task was thrust unwilling upon me. Through circumstances beyond my control I came into the service of one Breathred E. Petrifunck. I do not wish to go into the particulars of the sad event. Let us just simply say it was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Before I go any further, let me tell you, I am not human, nor do I quest for such an unsavory burden. I am simply content to be a citizen of simian descent, a chimpanzee to be more precise. A sight more intelligent than one Mr. Petrifunck, I have no modesty in assuring you.
Which explains his choice of a name for me, Stud Lee Monkey. Like I stated earlier in this preface—humanity is a burden to those of you who wear it. I have overcome this painful moniker, nonetheless. Through considerable tribulation on my part, I am the chimpanzee you see before you today. The evidence of this is the lengthy tome you now hold in your hands.
As I said before, my main purpose in this dreadful melodrama was to assist Mr. Petrifunck. For those of you who consider yourselves well versed in the occult, you may wrongly name me a
familiar
. Through another failed attempt at rising above mediocrity, I rose above my birth to become so much more. Perhaps if time allows, or readership demands the tale, I will go into that debacle at a later date. Considering the readership of these penny dreadfuls a sequel is a distinct possibility, but I digress.
This is tale, however, tells the story of how my erstwhile master came to fame, or infamy depending on how history chooses to record it. It all started with an ad in the back of a comic book. You know the kind: “See the mysteries of the unknown in seven easy steps.” It might have worked out differently if the moron hadn't been more than a little bit inclined toward that brand of science, or if this hadn't been his first foray into the field. This was just another in a long line of attempts to become something more than a drain on society, and his father.
Once the packet arrived from—forgive me—The Boffrend School of Vampire Slaying and On-line Technical Support, there was no stopping him. Believe me when I say this is something I would never try to make up. It is just so bizarre it had to be true. In no time he devoured the flimsy tome, using his well-chewed highlighter to single out those sections of particular interest. The fact he came to excel in this his chosen profession was no surprise to me. Despite his ingrained naiveté, he was somewhat of a genius in his own demented way. It was just the rudiments of common sense that seemed to elude him.
I watched all this with silent bemusement. I gave the whole thing a month before he switched to something less trying on his fragile mentality. It wasn't until after the second and third crates arrived I began to worry. By then it was too late. Our road was set to my ultimate humiliation.
* To help finance this manuscript, each chapter heading will contain a snippet of wisdom from Dr. William Wainsboro, author of the Boffrend School of Vampire Slaying Handbook, Volumes One through Thirty-Seven.
** Being a chimpanzee doesn't mean I'm willing to work for bananas and humorous outfits. Those I get for free.
When dealing with the undead, the best course of action is to run like hell.
It was raining. It was always raining. If you find yourself living in Seattle for more than a week, you become used to it, or you move somewhere slightly drier, like in the middle of a rain forest. That isn't to say it doesn't have its perks. You never had to wake up and ask yourself:
Is it going to rain today?
Because ninety-percent of the time the answer is yes. The other ten percent you dress for rain just in case. Tonight was no exception to the rule. The rain started as a slow drizzle and pretty much continued along the same vein through the day and into the night.
To the man dressed in black, it was nothing new. Breathred had suffered these slings and arrows for most of his life and was accustomed to the weather and to the numerous other little things existing solely to make his life miserable.
Case in point. Leather did not coexist well with water. It tended to shrink in the most uncomfortable of places, but what was he to do? Vampire slayers had to wear black leather body suits. It said so right on page thirteen of the handbook. So once again, he found himself damned by the very thing he strived to become.
The longer he waded through the wet night, the more the leather shrank to his body, like a painful second skin. He dealt with pinched genitalia and cramped calves in the only way he knew how: he sweated, which only aggravated the condition. Even that simple sentence was not adequate to describe the situation. Unfortunately for him, his body produced enough sweat that an entirely new ecosystem popped into existence to handle the runoff.
Breathred couldn't help himself. He came from a long line of sweaty people. He swore somewhere along the line someone would have figured out a way to breed the condition out of the gene pool. As of yet, no one had the foresight to do so. Long ago he had formed the opinion the condition resulted from the fact that his family only had two branches, and they went up and down in a single line.
Finally, the ceaseless squish-squish-pinch of the leather was more than he could bear. He had to do something, no matter how unbecoming it might look. Breathred hazarded a peek to see if anyone was looking. Once satisfied no one was giving him a second glance, he reached down and pulled at the crotch of his body suit. Sweet relief flooded his face. Then the leather slipped from his wet fingers and slammed the suit once more back into its former position. The effect was like a gunshot through his prostate. He immediately doubled over and gasped in unrestrained agony. Needless to say, he fell writhing to the rain-washed street.
After executing several gyrations defying modern science, he lay limp and panting on the rain-soaked sidewalk. His face rested slackly amid the pooling water. Once assured he was still whole, he allowed his eyes to roll back to their proper position. He watched the procession of passing ankles for a few minutes more before attempting the more arduous task of sitting up.
Except for a momentary spike of pain riding his spine straight to his brain, Breathred found he could indeed still move without the use of functional testicles. Just a theory, mind you, because he had never put the functional part of that statement to use before. There had been this one time at fat camp, but he wasn't sure if he could consider it an actual test, or even if he wanted to. Lord knows he had spent enough time suppressing the memory to be bringing it up now.
Deciding vampire slayers didn't squat on rain drenched sidewalks he stumbled to his wobbly feet. The exercise left him winded, but otherwise unhurt, except for the obvious—the throbbing groin. Against his better judgment, he ran his hand over the damaged body part. Despite what Father Benedict had warned him about, he found he did not go blind from doing so, nor did he come to find the sensation pleasurable like Father Sebastian had tried to convince him it would.
