Dionysus Dying E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Pie Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Jazz star Bobby Ball sees the future when he plays his sax. The music of his dying idol, Omar Wild, throws open the door to tomorrow, but Bobby doesn't like what he sees. A faded torch singer will die unless Bobby plays an impossible song, one that reveals the secrets of a terrible crime. One that will force him to go solo in a race against time and the fight of his life. Even if he plays like there's no tomorrow, can he save yesterday's brightest star from today's darkest evil? Or will the biggest number of his career also be his last? Don't miss this exciting tale by award-winning storyteller Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected dark fantasy and horror that really packs a punch.

Leseprobe

DIONYSUS DYING

A DARK FANTASY TALE

ROBERT JESCHONEK

CONTENTS

Also by Robert Jeschonek

Dionysus Dying

About the Author

Special Preview: Bloodliner

DIONYSUS DYING

Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

http://bobscribe.com/

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Natallia Hudyma

www.dreamstime.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved by the author.

Published by Blastoff Books

An Imprint of Pie Press

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.blastoffbooks.net

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ALSO BY ROBERT JESCHONEK

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Day 9

Heaven Bent

DIONYSUS DYING

The old jazzman’s crooked fingers wrapped around Bobby Ball’s hand with surprising strength. Even as the fingers dug in, they never stopped twitching, as if they were playing the keys of a saxophone.

“Nice to meet you...Bobby.” The old man breathed with an effort. He held Bobby’s hand a long time, as if he were posing for a photograph or greeting a long-lost friend.

But Bobby had never met Omar Wild until that very moment. The years of hero worship from afar didn’t count.

Bobby grinned and just let Omar hold onto his hand. “It’s an honor, Mr. Wild. I just...I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Omar breathed deep from the twin clear oxygen hoses riding up into his nostrils. Thanks to the cancer, he was down to one lung, and it wouldn’t last long.

No more sax playing for this living legend, not ever.

“You’re not exactly...small change yourself, son.” Omar lifted his head from the pillow and gazed up at Bobby with an expression of searching intensity and strange wonder. “You’re bigger...than I ever was.”

Bobby’s grin faded a little. Nervously, he patted the black stubble on his shaved, brown scalp. “I used to be big,” he said. “But even then, I could never fill your shoes for a second.”

Omar’s smooth onyx skin leaped out in high relief from the white pajamas and bedclothes around him. “You can...fill my shoes...just fine.” He drew in three deep breaths, and the effort seemed to exhaust him. “That’s why...I invited you here. I need you...to be...my breath.”

Bobby felt the pull of Omar’s ancient eyes. Bloodshot, yellow, and filmy as they were, those eyes exerted the wild and desperate gravity of an animal caught in a trap.

Bobby recognized it instantly. Though he didn’t show it, he felt the same desperation, the same hunger for hope.

It was really why he had accepted Omar’s invitation and come here, all the way to the old man’s deathbed in a dilapidated row house on the north side of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Because Bobby needed Omar.

“You’ll do...just fine,” said Omar. “I know you can play...at my level.” He wheezed out a squeaky little snicker. “My level...when I could still play...that is.”

Bobby smiled. “So what time tomorrow do you want to get started?”

Omar’s eyes flew wide open. “Who said anything about...tomorrow?” he said. “Go get your axe, man!”

With that, he finally released Bobby’s hand. His fingers never stopped twitching over the invisible keys of his own phantom sax.

* * *

Though the album had been recorded by the great Omar Wild, Bobby wanted to crack it over his knee instead of putting it on the turntable.

The album was titled Nineveh. The problem was, Omar had recorded it in 1970 during his experimental period, throwing aside the usual jazz elements in favor of a raucous free jazz free-for-all.

“Wait a minute.” Dropping Nineveh to his side, Bobby tipped out another album from one of the record-packed shelves that lined three entire walls of Omar’s bedroom. “You’ve got an original copy of Wild Man? Let me put that on for just a minute, okay?”

“Wild Man’s got nothing...to do with us,” said Omar.

“It’s the one that got me to pick up a sax,” said Bobby. “It’s maybe your greatest achievement.”

Omar brushed a fluttering hand through the air. “It’s garbage...to me now. Waste of time...and I don’t have much time...left to waste.”

“All right.” With a sigh, Bobby slid Wild Man back onto the shelf. At the same time, as unobtrusively as he could, he dropped Nineveh flat on the seat of a rickety wooden chair in the corner. “How ‘bout Born Wild?”

“Nineveh.” Omar closed his eyes and drew deeply from the oxygen hoses in his nostrils.

Defeated, Bobby snatched up Nineveh from the chair and walked to Omar’s bedside. “I thought we were gonna get started today.”

“We are,” said Omar. “I want you...to match my solo...on ‘Solomon.’”

Bobby stopped in the act of sliding the black vinyl record album out of its sleeve. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s a...warm-up...for recording,” said Omar.

“I don’t really need a warm-up,” said Bobby.

Omar’s eyes were still closed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can...do it.”

Bobby tried to change the subject. “The new piece you’ve written. Revelations. Can I see the chart for it?”

“You’re not...ready for it yet,” said Omar, fingers twitching over his chest. “You’ve gotta...get to the right place...y’know?”

Bobby sighed. As much as he idolized Omar, he knew he’d better lay his cards on the table.

“All due respect,” said Bobby. “I’m one of the top ten bestselling jazz artists of all time. A guy like me can deliver the goods. You asked me here to record your new music, so why not trust me to do the job?”

Omar’s eyes were still closed, his fingers twitching. “Heh. I said...almost exactly the same thing...to a guy one time. Who’d he think he was...telling me what to do?

“Guy’s name...was Louis Armstrong.” Omar opened his eyes. “Five years later...my career was...in the toilet...and he was bigger than ever.

“And he was...dead.” Omar laughed.

Bobby’s smile was forced. The truth was, his own career was already in the crapper, and this was his best chance--maybe his last chance--to bring it back to life.

He hadn’t been a top ten jazz artist for years, or even a middle hundred one. The best gigs he could manage were bottom-tier clubs and colleges. His label and his agent had both dropped him on the same day.

All because of a little drinking problem. Not that he thought it was a problem.

The anger management, though...that was a problem.

When Omar had called, Bobby had jumped at the chance to work with him. Like Rick Rubin producing Johnny Cash’s late-life comeback recordings, Bobby would rescue a faded star from oblivion and restore his own luster in the process.

He had already daydreamed about the CD release and the world tour. He could picture the poster copy: “Bobby Ball Plays Revelations by Omar Wild.” He could imagine the reviews: “Ball’s interpretations amplify the power of Wild’s last testament, raising both musicians to unequalled and unreachable heights of jazz magnificence.”

At least, that was what he’d expected before he’d met Omar...before Omar had insisted he warm up with the godawful free jazz that had killed the old man’s career in the 70s.

The question now was, when would Bobby know for sure that the whole scene with Omar was a lost cause? When would he know it was time to give up and leave?

How far would he let the old man push him?

“The ‘Solomon’ solo is forty-five minutes long,” said Bobby. “And it’s all freestyle. Everything’s random. About the only way to play it is memorize every note.”

“Sounds...about right.” Omar had trouble with his next breath. He gasped and shuddered, then finally pulled in oxygen on the third try. “Except...not all random. There’s a...pattern...a code.”

“Code?” Bobby frowned. “Solomon” was legendary for its complete lack of any harmonic, melodic, or rhythmic structure of any kind. The name of the piece had actually become slang among jazz musicians for a performance that amounted to glorified noise.

“It’s...a key,” said Omar, reaching for the dirty glass of water on the bedside table. “It...opens things.”

“What kind of things?” Bobby picked up the glass and placed it in the old man’s quivering hands.

“You’ll...find out.” Omar sipped the water. “Now put that damn...record on the player...and get to work.”

Bobby smirked. Code, my ass.

Then, he finally put Nineveh on the ancient phonograph on the bedside table. He dropped the needle at the start of “Solomon,” which took up the record’s entire Side 2.

And the bedroom filled with the sound of complete chaos.

* * *

Squee squaaw squee honk squaaaawk

Rasheesheesheeree reeeeeeeeeee

Honk squeeeee squaaaa squeee ronnnk reeeee

Diddydeedee squeesquaa rideedoodeeda honnnk

Weeeee heeeee keeeee squee squonnnk reesheee

Screeeech honnnk screeeech honnnnk

Cheechareedeedookaakeesqueesquawkhonnnkronnnk honnk.