Ionic Relapse Read online

  Ionic Relapse

  Book One of The Doll Man Duology

  A novel by

  Howard Hachey

  Fluky Fiction

  FLUKY FICTION

  Newport, ME

  Ionic Relapse is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Fluky Fiction

  Copyright © 2017 by Howard Hachey

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by DJ Price

  www.flukyfiction.com

  A special thank-you to Stacey Brouse.

  A corpse is meat gone bad.

  Well and what is cheese?

  Corpse of milk.

  -James Joyce

  Chapter 1

  June 13, 1970

  4:46 pm

  Portland, Maine

  “Hey, guys! Wait up!” Michael yelled up the street as he pounded rubber to pavement. It was a sunny Friday afternoon. The sidewalk was wavering with heat like a desert mirage as our incandescent star made its sweeping descent across the barbicide blue sky. His feet stamped loudly in rhythm to the rising tempo punching at his sweat-laced temples. The heavy backpack bumped and pushed him along as he pumped his little knees high between long galloping steps to gain more ground. Almost sprinting now, he reached the top of the street and confronted Dave and Steve just as they were about to cross the intersection.

  “Hey guys,” Michael wheezed up at the two boys as he knelt over, trying to catch his breath. The short jog was made especially difficult by the fifteen-pound sack of paper and books strapped to his still forming spine, but being a boy of thirteen, he was commonly graced with the fleeting superpower of instant rejuvenation.

  “Didn’t see you guys at school today. Playin’ hooky?” Michael asked semi-casually, trying not to sound like some goody-two-shoes pansy.

  “You some kind of fink, Mikey boy?” Steve razzed as he passed the remains of a hazy, cherried cigarette to Dave, keeping the frayed sleeves of their identical denim jackets low. Probably in case the fuzz decided to roll by unexpectedly. Michael curiously watched as they quickly glanced around the empty street before each long drag of the ill-rolled stick. His retort ceased by curious observation. He watched them as a dog watches a magic trick.

  Michael didn’t consider Steve or Dave to be close friends. The already acne scarred, mingy haired teens were a couple years older than him and had already taken on the personas of the numbified adults that they would inevitably size up to be. With no interest in drugs, drinking, or chasing girls, Michael and the boys shared very little in common. Really, it was just a loose acquaintanceship. Nothing more. Being held back a few grades, Steve and Dave only knew Michael through morning homeroom. They were hardly best buds.

  Still, even through the fog of second hand smoke and snarky remarks, Michael enjoyed seeing someone he knew. Walking the six blocks home through the less frequented backstreets and empty alleyways every day after school got awfully lonely. And, it sure did beat riding the smelly bus for over an hour. Which is why today, on this glorious Friday afternoon, Michael decided to take a walk to the park directly after last bell. He needed a safe space where he could pour himself into the dotted print world of Peter Parker versus Doctor Octopus without bother. His new copy was already a little worn for wear and was missing a few pages from constant handling with greasy fingertips, but the quickly deteriorating condition had done little to stunt his interest. Michael had been fascinated by the comic since coming across it three weeks earlier while at the drugstore with his mother. It took an extra advance on his monthly allowance and a mild public tantrum, but he got it. He seldom took it out of the house in fear of a bigger kid snatching it from him, but was compelled that morning to pack it along with the rest of his schoolbooks and papers.

  This random excursion was a much-needed break from his regular after school routine.

  Monday through Friday, Michael walked straight home from school to do chores and homework before his mom got off work. She had a steady full-time job as a receptionist for a pricey orthodontist working out of the upper east side. Michael didn’t get to see his mom nearly as much as he would have liked to, but the pay kept them both above water. With Dad long out of the picture and child labor laws keeping Michael in school, it was up to her to make things work.

  Like many mouth doctors who can easily purchase a fancy two-story home and convert the bottom floor into a pseudo-classy place of business, Dr. Bloomberg’s practice was one of note. With no shortage of people needing orthodontic work in the greater New England area, the business practically ran itself. The number of desperate customers he attracted was reflected in his lavish home. His beautifully cobble stoned walkway led to the wide Southern Victorian porch of one of the nicest businesses, let alone houses, on the east coast. Michael’s mom was Dr. Bloomberg's one and only receptionist. At least, for the time being. The doctor was pushing sixty, but did not let it show in his libido. He seemed to go through a lot of fresh steno pool meat with his ever-demanding schedule and constant grab-assing. Mrs. Bloomberg was much too comfortable upstairs watching the soaps in her new fur to ever ponder what ol’ Dr. Slippyfist was actually fiddling with downstairs during his many lunch breaks and closed-door checkups.

  Michael personally detested Dr. Bloomberg. He met the man once last winter while shadowing his mom at work for the day. It was one of those much-awaited snow day cancellations that ended tragically with the soul crushing surprise of Michael being dragged to one of the few places worse than school. With him not being quite old enough to be trusted alone and his mother not being able to afford a babysitter, the options were clearly limited. He couldn’t convince his mom to let him stay home. Pleading did little to dissuade her. She was Joseph Stalin in pink hair curlers. Michael’s mom wasn’t an argumentative woman, but she was definitely not a pushover. Once her mind was made up about something, that was that. It would take nothing less than Jesus bobsledding down from Heaven to convince her of possibly rethinking her twisted logic.

  Michael’s initial meeting with Dr. Bloomberg upon walking in through the frozen awning was as awkward as it was confusing. At first Michael, being a young boy of eleven at the time, simply gawked at the pear-shaped man in the stained lab coat with utter childlike awe. His slack jawed expression resembled that of a boy of eight with slight autism watching a squirrel ride on a pair of miniature jet skis. The man standing tentatively by his Mom's desk turned quickly to regard them with sunken, purple eyes and a downcast sneer painted over his mouth. Dr. Bloomberg’s demeanor visibly darkened as Michael’s mom shed her coat and softly explained the schooling situation. She promised the doctor that Michael would behave and not interfere with his practice. Bloomberg regarded the information with an outer calmness, but the slight twitching of his left hand indicated a suppressed annoyance. He clearly wasn’t expecting children in the office that day. Michael tried his best to give a proper hello when introduced, but couldn’t take his eyes from the hole of black, jagged crests lying just behind those thin, flaky lips. The doctor’s leopard spotted gums acted as a rotten foundation for his rusty gob full of moldy Chiclets. A joyless smile opened up wide on his flabby face like a cemetery after an earthquake.

  How? Michael thought maddeningly while propped by the big mahogany door, fresh snow dripping from his Red Sox jacket onto the tasseled Afghan rug. How in the hell can an orthodontist have shitty teeth? It’s a classic catch-22 if there ever was one. Right up there with multidimensional alien lifeforms making physical contact with humanity. And Obamacare. The brain twisting idea spun circles
in his head until his Mom nudged him with a swift left elbow, signaling him to stop gawking and behave. Drawn out of the rusty bear trap, Michael made a futile attempt at getting comfortable in one of the waiting room’s many hard plastic chairs. Shaped like a lady’s armpit, it was virtually impossible to relax in the warped, cushionless hunk of plastic without sliding off onto the floor. Not wanting to get another elbow, Michael found a balance point and sat quietly while his mother and the doctor discussed the workday ahead.

  Then, after Michael’s mom finally broke away from Mush Mouth’s constant delegating, she walked over to her desk to begin the filing. She stopped just short of her chair and bent over, retrieving a stray piece of paper from the floor in front of her desk

  Suddenly… it happens.

  As the good Doctor goes to exit the room, his pudgy little fingers make a quick snap, connecting for far too long with the right cheek of Michael’s mother's rounded exterior. The sight of that big-nosed ass goblin touching his mom like that made Michael self-ignite with a spark of unabashed rage. No, he told the impulses of violence jumping inside him, let Mom handle this. Michael braced himself for a sudden and explosive reaction, expecting to soon see the Doctor’s cockney yellow teeth scattered on the lobby’s Afghan throw rug. He could literally see the anger accumulating, blooming inside of her like a waking Venus flytrap. A tiny black ball of hate snowballing into a boulder of destruction.

  She then straightens back up at the initial shock of being slapped and slowly turns toward the sound of Bloomberg’s departing carpeted footsteps. Her eyes grow cold watching his bowling pin frame waddle and sway down toward his back office. Without a word, she brushes back her loose bangs behind one ear, sits down at her desk, and begins filing for the day.

  She does nothing.

  Michael witnessed firsthand the brazen slapping and inappropriate touching. His mom’s placidity to the whole thing had deeply shocked him. He felt so ashamed of her outright indifference to being treated like a common street whore or skeezy, low-rent stripper. She had always been so quick to unleash the beast on him whenever he got even a little ballsy and questioned her authority. What happened? He couldn’t even begin to understand what was going on inside her head. After that, Michael flat out refused to go back to the office. By some miracle his constant pleading and brown-nosing eventually got him his way, and soon he was granted the freedom to stay home alone. No more after school babysitting sessions with Rhonda Finkley from across the street and, furthermore, no more dead tooth Dr. Bloomberg.

  When Michael was later forced to think about his mom’s acquiescent reaction on that grey winter morning, he realized that she had more self-respect than anyone he knew. She wasn’t afraid of that fat potato-skinned creep. She wasn’t even slightly intimidated by his money or social stature. She was simply doing what she had to do to make ends meet. A few pinches on the cheek and an “accidental” titty grab here or there weren’t nearly enough to get her to throw in the towel and ask for help. Most single moms eagerly play the struggling parent card at one time or another, but his mom never did.

  When Michael’s dad casually left for a pack of cigarettes one morning two years ago and never returned, Michael’s mom never so much as shed a tear in his absence. Instead of succumbing to the immense weight of hopeless abandonment, she applied herself and quickly landed the too-good-to-be-true receptionist job. Within a week‘s time, Michael’s mom went from formerly beaten housewife with a child and back rent to modestly paid receptionist. Michael often secretly regarded her as a female Spider-Man: always sacrificing herself for the greater good, but never asking for acknowledgment or praise for her selfless actions.

  Michael always felt the tremendous amount of trust that his Mom had bestowed onto him. It weighed on him with every challenge and idea in his life. He knew he couldn’t let her down, not for anything, internally swearing to never make things harder than they already had to be for her. She was depending on him to be responsible. His vow was to never abuse that.

  But on the other hand, Michael had been doing a great job keeping up with his chores and homework. And you know what they say: every good boy deserves his day of rest. He felt like today he could take a little time to treat himself without any of the usual glutinous feelings of remorse and shame. As long as he was timely and stayed out of trouble, there was no harm in reading a few pages under the cool, inviting shade of a tree in the local park.

  Over two hours had quietly slipped by before Michael noticed that his private shade had grown too long. Panicked, he shoved his comics into his bag and raced out of the park. He hoped like hell that there was still time to get home before his mom did. His pace quickened at the thought. The nervous trek had soon turned into a full out run at the sight of two familiar faces now standing before him. He really didn’t want to be late getting home, but he still felt uneasy about being alone on these streets. His mother warned him of what could happen out here.

  Michael wasn’t a fink, but there was no arguing that he was a momma’s boy.

  “Nah, man,” Michael finally said, sounding a little too defensive. “I just noticed you guys weren't there, is all. Mrs. Finley was out sick again, and we got to watch this awesome movie about this kid getting tickled by this queer—”

  Steve and Dave suddenly burst out into fits of unhinged laughter. They sagged and bent at the waists while trying to contain the random fit of uncontrollable sillies feathering through them. The thin tail of cigarette smoke trailed the flapping and slapping of Steve's right hand. He looked like a hobo mime high on nitrous oxide attempting to draw Michael’s portrait onto an invisible canvas.

  Michael suspected that they probably weren’t smoking “regular” cigarettes.

  “Goddamn, Mikey,” Steve said after he and Dave began to calm down. “I know this shit ain’t that good.” He dusted off his faded denim and passed the smoldering flame back to Dave. “We were just heading over to the park. I stole a sixer of Schlitz off the back dock of the Food N’ Stuff the other night.” He slung his backpack forward, exposing the clanging brown bottles tucked inside. He zipped up his bag and said, “If we can’t find any foxy tail down there, then we’ll probably hang out in a couple trees and get bombed. Wanna go get toasted?”

  Dave choked back a dense cloud of velvety smoke. One sticky, tar-streaked hand slowly held out the still burning joint to Michael. The sweet, piney smell wafted up to Michael’s nose, reminding him of the skunk his Dad hit once on a camping trip upstate when he was eight. Against his Dad’s steady road schedule, his mother had insisted they pull over before reaching the cabin to scrape the rest of the carcass off the front bumper.

  She claimed the smell gave her a rash.

  “Can’t. Mom gave me a chore list so long that I’ll be lucky to get it done by the end of the week.” Michael tried his best to sound genuinely bummed, but the idea of spending the rest of his afternoon in a state of stupefied bliss was not in any way appealing. He also had a later engagement with Monty Python's Flying Circus, anyhow.

  “Oh well. Your loss, man,” Dave choked out, each syllable carrying its own smoke signal. He passed the bone back to Steve and wiped the slimy resin stain off his bottom lip. “We could send you off with a beer or two for a buck. I could really use some munchie money.” His red-rimmed eyes sparkled at the thought of limitless Little Debbies and majestic Moon Pie mountains.

  “I would,” Michael lied, sounding annoyed like he missed a huge opportunity, “but I really gotta’ get goin’. Thanks anyway.”

  With not much left to say, Michael parted ways with the two slightly faded boys and started home. He was walking briskly, eager to get a head start on that scroll of chores in hopes of impressing his mom into maybe letting him go out to the movies tomorrow night. He really wanted to go see M*A*S*H*, but knew it would never happen if his mom wasn’t head over heels for how clean the dishes and counters were. With the heavy R rating and frequent commercials promising realistic war-like scenarios mixed with the occasional boob sho
t, he would never get to go without her verbal blessing. Usually, she would be okay with him seeing an R rated movie, most times making a date out of it, but it never hurt to have back up in case she came home in a bad mood.

  He was making good time up a less traveled side street when a deep, tender voice fabricated from his right.

  “Kid.”

  Broken from his concentrated march, Michael stopped and twirled around, looking for the phantom voice. He spotted a yellow Volkswagen Buggy idling nearby on a curb. A young man sat behind the wheel. He was possibly in his early twenties, thin faced with wide black-framed glasses balanced on a modest nose. Obviously too tall for the tiny German compact, he leaned down in the driver's seat with his head ducked low so his friendly face could be seen. His pearly white teeth and firm chin formed a pleasant smile that loomed out of the rusted yellow frame of the passenger side window. A completely ordinary face with no striking features, aside from the bright scar that hung out of the sideburn on his right temple. The nasty cut was old but prominent, a bright pink crescent moon hanging against the pale, white skin of his face. Michael paused to awkwardly stare back at the man, nervously clutching the straps of the navy-blue backpack slung over his scrawny shoulders.

  At first, he could only stand there. Crouched forward. Eyes locked on the huddled shape behind the wheel.

  And saying nothing.

  “Excuse me, son,” the stranger finally said, leaning towards the open passenger window. The dimming amber rays of sun turned his eyes into large blank discs. “Could you come over here a minute?”