Tarzan Malone

Devious Moons

Description

Tarzan Malone a crooked smile at the impasse of fate; a man out of time a man of action at a crossroads in life, at a  music comedy renaissance  festival for the ages.

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Epic Fantasy
• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Epic
• Crime
• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 26 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977264336
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

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Tarzan Malone A Man of Conscience Minding Life’s Purpose All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Devious Moons v2.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-6433-6
Cover Photo © 2023 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To Honor my Father and Mother For Sam and Madeleine Thank You
Table of Contents
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That which does not kill you makes you stronger.

Friedrich Nietze.

Yea but sometimes it just makes the mistake of really Pissing you off,

Sam Dortona.
1
It wasn’t the screaming that woke him…. Not for a long time now.
The night deviously clear concealed a great force. Strong was the storm born far out to sea.
The storms vanguard gusts howled, screaming down from the sea through dense forests to the city obliviously enjoying the night.
His window thrown open to the pulsing night life. Spilling in light to dance with shadow across the ceiling above him. Lending the impression, a dream come to life.
Tarzan Malone lay awake, dreaming of his life thus far. The way a man does at the crossroads, Sure of himself after a fashion, but unsure of the path. But then how much choice does a man really have in destiny, or where she takes you.
Parents killed on the day of his birth, their first and only. The drunk physician unable to understand Comanche his dying Father’s words, giving him his less than orthodox name. Safer that way, if death doesn’t know your real name it’s harder to find you.
Raised in the concrete jungle, a Catholic orphanage in Detroit. Nuns, probably worse than Gorillas.
The old Man his boxing coach, Sam taught him about the street, his culture, his people, the guitar, Could have been worse could’ve been born a rich mans son, or worse still a politicians kid.
Then the Navy to Honor his Father, and escape life on the street.
The Special Forces, part of a war then asked to join, and later lead the Squad, What a magic rabbit hole nightmare that turned out to be.
But then, that’s all in a days work.
That Day though, The Day of Days, Malones anyway.
The day that changed everything forever, The day he saw and learned something. Something he didn’t accept, couldn’t accept. As if dreams came alive, and spirits spoke to the living.
Feeling done with that part of his life and No, desire for more. Malone took his discharge and went on walkabout for a time.
Japan to see an Irezumi Master and fulfill a man cubs dream.
Europe after that, Iceland on the way back to the States.
America, he missed the old girl, Malone’s thought as the ship passed the French beauty heading into New York harbor.
Malone didn’t fly, not with another option. Save those lives for flying into harms way. Didn’t want to use them up as a commuter, better to have them in the bank for jumping out of the frying pan. The Bushido code said a warrior should only temps fate when necessary or if a really good time is involved according to Vasilli.
Besides he enjoyed the voyage peacefull being at sea, time to enjoy a good book. Over and above this he could swim like a fish; flying not so much.
Vassilli and Kevin two friends who left the squad the same time went as far as Japan with him then went their own way.

They all had, had no choice, sweeping everything under the rug after the house burned down as always the governments M. O. Gave all of them honorables and a bonus instead of benefits, or a bullet.
Changing midstream going public, while taking credit for their accomplishments. Then asking a few favors of them of coarse; politicians as predictable as spoiled teenagers,
The curtains furled in the wind like waves crashing against some phantom shore, Different disciplines of music along with the light show natural and man made from out the window dancing in archaic time, splashing illusion across the floor and walls.
A chill on the wind brought gooseflesh to his bare torso, a pause to his musings, Sitting up in bed yawning out a stretch, his lazy gaze sweeping the whole of the room …
"Where the hell am I? "
The dream memory did that on occasion. Made Malone loose his geography. He was in a hotel, a nice one with no danger about that was obvious.
"A room this big at the Keep and The Sisters at our Lady of Blessed Incarceration would’ve had no less then twenty of us in here, also it would smell of oppression, and old books, with a hint of piss mixed in a sweat sox."
Malone’s quick humor was part of him kept him positive, focused. When he didn’t have a reason to be like when he spoke to old friends long past, or asked his Parents spirits advice.
Walking to the window the hardwood floors cool to his bare feet, A majestic crescent Moon nestled in a field of stars, the ones he could see in a city this big anyway. Which was still a mystery, inching closer as light and sound pulsed from every direction,
Below his balcony a barrage of color; tents, booths, food trucks as far as the sharpest eye could see in most directions. Hawking everything from T shirts, water pipes, naked lady lava lamps, Tahitian incense burners. Plus whatever else one might happen upon at a music renaissance festival big enough to cover over a third of downtown.
Riots of color and sound, packed to capacity crowds down every street occupied by the festival. People as varied as the entertainment, a sea of toy soldiers jostling. Each change of the wind brought a myriad of aromas from a slight hint, or accent to a pungent slap across the face.
A huge Dragon skull its gaping maw the entrance with GoGo Dancers in cages on either side, framed in by columns of fire,
An old time street Hocker out front, In costume as an African Witch Doctor from an old movie shaved pate, top hat, leopard skin vest a necklace of teeth the works; dancing, talking very animatedly.
Above everything a huge banner that read.
The Rock n Reggae Blues, Renaissance Gypsy Caravan Festival ! Welcome Seattle ! Come one, come all, come with your friends, come with your wives, your sweethearts, your neighbors sister but please come as often as possible, and please practice safe sex until you get it right,
"Seattle…. Shit" " Right I’m still in Seattle,"
The festival for the great music why he was here; what he’d enjoyed the most about growing up in Detroit. Rock n Roll, the Blues, MoTown and Muscle cars once upon a time the fabric of the Motor city. With more than a little municipal corruption, and a great deal of street violence thrown in for flavor.

A change of the wind brought with it the aroma of a crowded locker room blended with Bull Bison in the rut." Wheu! Damn Malone." He’d over slept, and needed a shower desperately. Not surprising having been up for a little over day, a long sweaty day at that, when out of nowhere.
A local news helicopter roared overhead reporting the traffic and the mayhem, controlled as it was of the festival, Standing there, the sound out of nowhere unexpectedly familiar. Took him back to the past. A past he was still wrestling with unwilling to face, but the curtain to his memories parted regardless.
Two years, one month, and twelve days ago give or take a lifetime.
Designed for stealth, a pair of Blackhawks cruised wraith like through the valley. The forests canopy appearing close enough to touch. Framed in by the rugged terrain; majestic the granite cliff face shined bathed in predawn starlight its bedraggled veins of crystal pale pink to magenta glistening, a jeweled cave of fabled legend.
A picture in contrast, the crafts a spirits passing shadow. The compliment of men aboard profession soldiers of the roughest disposition.
The infamous special forces unit of lethal repute that didn’t officially exists; vehemently denied many times over, and officially impressive. Putting the fear of" God" into any who’d seen them in combat. Their unit designation coincided well with the reputation earned through many years of a more than impressive war record.
The Alpha Omega Squadron, the beginning and the end of anything the enemy brought to bear. But more commonly known by one less pretentious.
Their commander legendary hero Brigadier Eric Palin once said." You know those things that go bump in the night? My boys don’t bump back. They rip the bloody things in half, then set what’s left on fire."
The squad on their way back from a mission aborted over bad intel. The target not where they should be; each man silent in his self.
Malone’s brow furrowed as he ran his thumb over the dog tag scorched blue black, Thinking of his friend along with all those innocent deaths that day, long since gone, yet still with him.
Malone’s battle focus was at the edge of waining, so he’d leave the squad at the end of this tour. Not fare to his friends and stupid dangerous to stay.
That decided a relaxing sigh escaped focusing him back into the now, Just as the distress call from a platoon of Marines burst from the radio stuck in a place where they shouldn’t.
Static blended with the score of comb