Medusa´s child E-Book

Bernhard StoEver

• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dime Novels
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 137

Beschreibung

23 unusual adventures that you have never read before. About a city that does not exist, a contract killer who despairs in front of the image of Medusa and pirates who attack a lonely sailor. But also stories about a bloody attack on a lonely island in the middle of the Indian Ocean. And the story of a porn queen, who finds herself in a dramatic fight to change her life.

Leseprobe

Bernhard StoEver

Medusa´s child

Amazing script stories

Dieses ebook wurde erstellt bei

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

Sharks and small fishes

O'Maley's dream

The order

Toxic fog

Butterflies are not to kiss

Even killers must die

The raid

Medusa´s Child

Children of war

The test

The secret archipelago

squalls

The burglary

Mind games

"Ali boma je"

The lost leg

Bielefeld does not exist

Torture fantasies

Reeperbahn Intermezzo

The murder in the hospital

Tiffany

Two shortest poems ever

Impressum neobooks

Sharks and small fishes

It happened at the time when I was still young and full of ambitious. At an age when I was overestimate my powers.

I sailed all over the world for two years with my yacht Ariadne, and there had never been any major incidents. That made me careless. I was warned expressly sailing through this part of the sea without escorts. And the fact that I was now tied up in my cabin like a pile of misery was solely due to my cockiness. Pirates raided my yacht and drunk all the whiskey which they found on board.

After some hours one of the now full drunk bandits grabbed me, stood me on my feet and opened my chains. Then he took me to the deck. I was already expected here. Nobody of the pirates wanted to miss the upcoming spectacle. Their leader looked at me appraisingly, then grinned shabbily and grabbed a bucket of bait fishes of which I always had several on board. With a dirty laugh he emptied it in the sea.

Not long and the first shark appeared. It was a bull shark, as I could easily see in size and shape. And then another came and another, until a whole swarm followed the yacht and struggled wild for the treats.

The leader, a rough fellow with deep scars in his bearded face, reached for his cutlass and said to me in a drunken voice, "I'll scrape you a bit before I throw you to your friends, then it will not take long." He laughed out loud while he approached me swaying. He bobbed the knife expectant between his fingers.

I was no superhero, and my courage was within natural limits, but giving up and whining, that was out of question for me. I looked over the railing into the sea and was full frightened for all the bull sharks appeared in such numbers. Usually they were loners, and it was rare for them to band together. Maybe I should take it as a compliment.

In a sudden inspiration, I pushed my guard away, rushed to the railing, and jumped with a huge leap between the sharks. I was lucky, tremendous lucky, because the rough skin of the sharks could have hurt me dangerously. And the only chance I had was, not a single drop of blood drew their attention. I plunged deep into the water, trying to put as much distance between me and the greedy for prey snapping sharks as possible.

When I reappeared, I heard screams on the deck. One of the pirates grabbed his weapon and aimed at me. But the waves did not make it easy for him, and when I heard the rattling of the shots, several sharks which surrounded me were hit. Immediately they fought with each other. It was a sight that has frozen my blood. A raging mess of insane monsters in a blood-red sea. I took a deep breath and dived again. The pirates had to get the impression that I would have been a victim of the sharks, too. I stayed under water until my lungs seemed to burst. Only then I emerged again and suck my lungs full of oxygen.

The yacht was already quite far away and the waves provided enough shelter to stay undetected. But where were the sharks? I didn´t want looking for them and tried to avoid any unnecessary movement. That was the only chance to escape my hopeless situation.

Bull sharks feed almost everything, and their teeth and biting behaviour are similar to those of the Great Whites. Therefore, it took no special effort for me to remain in motionlessness. Minimal movements with my hands were enough to keep me afloat.

The hours went on and the deadly reality had given way to a surreal dream that enveloped fear like a protective cloak. Meanwhile it was getting dark, the sea glittering peacefully under the glowing stars. Carefully, I freed myself from my physical numbness and began to swim. I tried to avoid any hasty movement. Like a divine ribbon the stars showed me the way, and whenever one of the big waves carried me up, I tried to find my bearings. Sometimes I thought, I could see the dark shadow of an island in the distance. I had not doubt that I would physically manage it to reach them swimming. I was still in a pretty good shape. No, that was not what had worried me. Apart from the sharks, barracudas could bring me in serious danger. Barracudas would tear terrible wounds, and even if I was not eaten by them, I would never survive the blood loss.

But those were thoughts that I immediately banished from my head. I had to concentrate with all my strength on the task ahead of me. For despite the favourable current, I would certainly need one to two days in this high waves, until the island would close me in protectively arms. And I really did not want to take away myself to that joy. To make it short, I made it, even faster than expected. Back on the mainland, my consul provided me with makeshift papers, and I started my journey back home to Europe. I have never again heard anything from the pirates and my boat.

Perhaps I should mention, after years had passed and I almost had forgotten the incident, a fortune teller in Brugges read me out off my hand and prophesied that I would be the victim of a raiding should I ever go to sea.

+

O'Maley's dream

O'Maley fought his way through the feverish heat that shrouded Los Angeles like a pall since days. The sour breeze of sweat and urine, steaming from pores and clothing, gave him a sense of familiarity. He could be satisfied for today, even though two boxes of fruit, scraps of food wrapped in newspaper, and a dozen empty bottles, for which he received a few pennies on the market, were scarcely sufficient for a carefree life in wealth. His hand felt over the shabby jacket, searching for the bottle of cheap red wine a shopkeeper had presented him in a porridge of pity and contempt. Alcohol made him insensitive against all sorts of physical pain. Even his leg did not cause him any trouble, no pain, no pulling, simply nothing. He had lost it in the war. A bomb destroyed an entire village, and his leg, too.

The shopping cart, which he was single-mindedly pushing, stopped abruptly. A loose flagstone blocked the front wheels, hard and absolute like a granite wall. The apples above were flung forward and jumped on the busy street. O`Maley instinctively reacted. With a speed no one would have expected, he hobbled behind them.

The approaching pickup left him no chance. It slammed dully, his head touched the hood, and he hurled in a high arc on the road. He was already unconscious when his body hit the ground. His wrong leg was bent at a right angle. The little dark spot that spread under his head mingled with the alcohol from the broken bottle to a thin red trickle.

O'Maley's eyes widened. The glaring white that exploded in his head faded to a diffuse grey, from which blurred figures peered out ghostly. Voices pierced his consciousness in waves and disappeared again into nothingness. The floor opened, and he fell back into a deep, black hole.

Despite her youth, the female ward doctor had no lack in experience. She carefully lifted an eyelid of the patient and shook her head in surprise. "He dreams, must have a strong will. Amazing that he has held out so long. "

The night nurse at her side nodded equably, "life is a powerful engine. What should happen to him? "

"He stays in intensive care, has to make an effort if he wants to get through." The two women left the sickroom without looking back.

The patient struggling with death got nothing from the conversation. He drifted helplessly in the maelstrom of his memories, until long past events flooded his consciousness and brought back to life. They cried out for a short moment and then disappeared silently in a wide blue ocean. And then that ended, too.

+

The order

She had approached him a few months after his return from Vietnam. Early in the morning at Rudi's Bar, where hooked, whores and lots of weird people met to share trivialities. But what did words mean? Mostly nothing! This accumulation of failed lives gave him something an uprooted veteran could hardly find in the maw of a middle-class bourgeoisie. Therefore, `mental instability´ was the diagnosis that he was confronted with. He could not even grin about that, in Vietnam there was no psychic stability. The naked madness was the rule. That was probably why they deported him home. Because of his madness. The transition came creeping, he aimed not only at his opponents, but at everything that moved. He became a ticking time bomb, even for his own comrades. He got the ticket for the flight home and an application form for free, psychological care. The state cares about his children. Of course, they gave him a medal. Only the kick in the ass they denied him, but that would probably too much of a good thing.

It was an amazing woman that caught his attention. Dark-haired, around the thirty, elegant. She smiled at him as if there was something about him that was worthy of being smiled at. Nevertheless, he felt flattered. Sure, he was a man and had felt the Viet Cong on his neck for five years. Five years without women, if he ignored the short breaks in Saigon.

She was not a whore, unfortunately. And she did not want to have sex with him, despite her lewdly smile. She just wanted to bait him. He begrudged her this triumph. As the obedient servant of the state, she invited him to the CIA building for the next day to protect the national interests of the United States, as she frankly called it.

It was clear to him what that meant, they were once again looking for a crazy war hero, who was still prepared killing people, solve them from living. What a fucking shit. But as already mentioned, the lady was exceptionally attractive. She looked serious and a little slutty, a provocative combination. Her tight T-shirt invited him to direct his view to the essentials, at least that's how she presented herself.

He did her the favour. She believed that her stiff nipples would knock him out. But fact was, he just waited to take on a new task. He had failed in civilian life, had not even tried. How should that even go? Subordinated himself to a hairless office stallion? No way. He was a lone wolf and would always be. And he was proud of it. It was a huge task for him to shape the future in a way that it became his own.

The next morning, when he entered the CIA building, two cheap suits with corresponding average faces awaited him in the entrance hall. The building was an imposing block of tinted glass and polished steel. They took him in the middle and led him across a brightly lit corridor to an unadorned door that bore no signage. Without knocking on the door, they entered the loveless furnished office, which did not try to intend to overtax the two agents either visually nor intellectually.

The attractive lady from the bar, her name was Pamela Smith, was already there. She stood at the window, winking confidentially. She had forced her figure into a dark blue trouser suit that never had the task of hiding something of her.

The older of the two agents cleared his throat, pointing to the chair in front of his desk, urging O'Maley to sit down. He introduced himself as Jack Taylor. The other called himself John White. How original, Smith, Taylor and White. Number one, two and three on the popularity scale of American names. There was a small folder in front of them on the table. O'Maley could see the passport photo attached to the upper right corner. It showed the face of a young man, it was his face.

The one who called himself Taylor picked up the folder and opened it, "we know everything about you, well, nearly everything. Various youth homes, car thefts and minor crimes, and again and again violent acts. Then prison and early release for good behaviour. Ten months mercenary in Central Africa. Entry into the army. In Vietnam they discovered your special talent. No one had achieved more kills than you before ... ", he kept flipping through the pages, more out of embarrassment than of curiosity, because he knew what was in it and went on, "before you," his voice lost intensity, "became mentally unstable."

Surely he was afraid O'Maley might do violence to him, as unstable as he was. Taylor was not completely wrong with it, of course O'Maley could do it. Because of this talent they had called him. So, what did this three monkeys want from him? He leaned back and made himself comfortable. Then he waited patiently. After a pause of silence the younger continued, "do you like Negroes?"

The question surprised him. Three pairs of eyes watched him intently, then White reached for the folder, flipping through it as if he were interested in the content. "Here is written you released a black sergeant from a Viet Cong prison camp, remarkable!"

O'Maley seemed to think for a moment, then broke his silence. "It was a normal deed, not worth mentioning."

"What does it mean not worth mentioning? You risked your live for a Negro."

"Blood is red. And besides, he belonged to my unit. Therefore I did not asked about the number of his pigments."

"And in Saigon, in a brawl involving Marines, you fought against your own people."

This aimless chatter bugged O'Maley. What did these guys want from him? He was convinced that they knew the war only from TV. The jungle through which the two had ever had to crawl, were the table legs in nightclubs after a wild session.

O'Maley leaned forward and glared at Taylor. Slowly he lost patience. His voice spat ice cubes, "now get out of it, what's up?"

"Enough, it's enough." Pamela hurriedly left her seat at the window, sat down on the side of the desk and crossed her hot legs. Then she looked at him seriously. She came to the point immediately, "we have a national problem. And we need your help, that's why we turn to you.” Her voice was tight, but fell silent again. The whole situation was grotesque, like in a bad script.

"Silence is of no use to you or me," O'Maley grumbled angrily, rising from his chair and furiously arranging his going.

Pamela hopped off the desk and ran after him, "O'Maley, wait, please!"

He looked at her as if she wanted to drag him into a confessional, but then decided to sit again, "all right, I'm listening."

Pamela breathed with relief. It seemed to O´Maley that they really needed his help. Then she continued, "you have to understand that, it is clear from the report that you have volunteered for military service, but it appears that you changed your mind. On several occasions you said that America has no business in Vietnam, that it's a war against humanity. And then your obsession for Negroes. Not to mention the other things.”

Of course she meant his state of mind. In extreme situations, he tended to simplify complex situations to facilitate quick action. Ostensibly an advantage as long as you were on your own. In fact, a significant risk factor when acting within a group.