Synopsis: When seventeen year old Jack Walker is faced with the impending marriage of his mother to a man he sees as a terrible, untrustworthy monster, his mother sends him away to live with her bachelor brothers out west. But a trip to the carnival lands Jack in a lot of trouble when a promise to get him home from the Ringmaster ends up leaving him a docile werewolf who must act with a werefox named Skye in a terrible, abusive act. But running away and taking Skye with him only leads to more trouble. Now the carnival and his uncles are after him and the only one can trust is himself. Can he make the three thousand mile journey or will he end up in one of a series of terrible situations?

Author's Note: Alright, this is just the first chapter, which I've finally gotten around to writing. It's been a terrible couple of weeks for me out here. My workload is immense and I just recently dodged going to prison (don't ask). Things have been worse and worse for me and I feel like the world is closing in around my neck. But I've managed to get this bit of the story out after weeks of thinking about it. So, enjoy and . . . you know, stuff.
____________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 1: . . . And a Criminal . . .

“It’s another beautiful day here in Baltimore,” A happy voice yells over the radio, quick and frantic, “and now it’s time for the famous WKTM weather forecast and so we’ll head on over to Julia from the Weather Channel . . .”
The tinny noise from the old Emerson rings off the blank concrete walls, flying about uncontrollably about the garage filled with rusting paint cans, greasy tools and shelves that are so dirty and dusty it’s hard to tell what color they were when they were new. It then flies back and disappears out of the open garage door and into the street where blaring cars fly by and people scream obscenities at the other guy who cut them off or threw up the bird for them.
I have no idea where Pete went. He told me he was going out ‘for a new 5/8 wrench’ and then disappeared. No doubt he went to buy Marlboros from the little corner shop up the street and got caught up shooting the breeze with that Pakistani guy he made friends with. It pisses me off, but, what can I do? He’s my boss, after all.
With my fingers, covered in grime with grease up under the nails and in the cuts on the edges, around a wing nut, I finally put the cap on a carburetor that I’ve been forced to replace alone. This damned Chevy Caprice has been beat to the point where it was basically dead inside, except for the block itself. The guy who owns it is retarded though, so, I’m not surprise at all.
Leaning back away from the open hood, I wipe my hands on the little rag hanging from my leather belt. I try to wipe all the grease out from under my fingers, but it doesn’t work too well. Surveying the car, I snort, frown hard and then nod my head in satisfaction. This job has taken up the last four hours, due to how bad of condition the poor thing was in. But I’m glad it’s done.
Each job that I finish, especially the ones without my so-called boss, I get another hundred and fifty dollars. With each job, I get closer and closer to finally getting my mother and me out of that apartment and away from this town. And every day I spent more and more time in this shop, fixing cars that I would consider beyond fixing, for a boss who’s never here. At least the money is good.
Turning around, I step towards the front of the garage and look out of the open door. In front of the large shop, car after car flows by smoothly and steadily. Their owners are too busy, too caught up in their own world to see me observing them. They have no idea how much they miss when they’re focused on their stupid cell phones and Blackberries.
Crossing my arms, my dirty fingers touching my arms and some of my white shirt which is tucked into my long jeans, I step into the doorway and then lean against the brick to the left. I put the toe of one of my harness boots over the opposite boot and sigh, watching the world go by.
Looking upwards, I see one of the tenements where I live stick high above the stouter row homes and shops which line most of the non-main streets in this part of Baltimore. The big, gray figure stands an ominous reminder to my condition and smacks into my brain my goals of escaping time after time.
I frown hard and then lower my eyes towards the street where trash, mostly crumpled up fast food wrappers and newspapers people didn’t have the decency enough to throw in a can, rustles across the concrete like tumbleweed across the desert. Shaking my head, I look down even further to my jeans.
In my pocket I see the bulge of my wallet and many thoughts come to my mind. First I think about the motorcycle license I just obtained, on a friend’s bike so I didn’t have to buy my own. Then I think of how much money I have made and see if it’s enough to cover all the bills this month.
Finally, my mind is drawn to the photograph sitting inside, the only one of my mother that I have. She is such a kind woman, a gentle woman who has always been patient with me. But ever since Dad went away, she’s been making some terrible decisions. How can I protect her when I’m not home? How can I go to school, work and still keep an eye on her at all times? It sickens me.
Lifting my eyes upwards, I look up the street as the roar of an engine catches my ear. At the end of the street, where a tiny convenience store and a newspaper stand opposite one another, a black Lincoln has just turned the corner. It’s shiny, metallic surface is brand new and unscathed by the city life.
Ominously it slides along the gray concrete surface like a snake towards its prey. The light above bounces off its glimmering surface and it seems to make the world slide around it, instead of the other way around. The windows are tinted deeply and I am unable to make out who it is that resides inside.
But I don’t need to see them to know who they are. The man who sits in that car is a monster, a demon whose only interest is how he can squeeze all the money out of the businesses he owns without much effort. The man inside there isn’t a man; he’s the Devil incarnate, a demon in a pinstriped suit and red tie, nothing more than the scum of the earth.
The car slows and pulls off to the side, to along the curb in front of the garage. The wheels barely touch the stout curb when the brand new car ceases to move. The engine dies off and then the car is deathly still. Sirens wail in the distance as ambulances fly off to save a heart attack victim. Gunshots pierce the relative silence of the air and somewhere somebody’s child begins to holler and cry at the top of his lungs.
The driver’s side door clicks and the swings open and I uncross all of my limbs and lean away from the doorway as a man appears between the car and the door. He stands straight, wearing his usual business suit and favorite tie. Adjusting it, he looks into the side view mirror and fixes his blonde hair which has been pulled back and greased down.
I turn away and begin back into the garage where the 1983 Chevrolet Caprice Classic I’ve been working on still sits. Walking to its front bumper, I lean over the nose and grab the pole holding up the hood. Pulling it loose, I catch the hood and then lower it slowly until I’m able to just let it fall into place with a loud bang.
Once the car’s hood is closed, I walk around the driver’s side and open the door. Disappearing inside, I root around for the phone number the man provided us with to notify him with when the job was completed. I reach over the vinyl seats and look here and there but can’t find a thing.
The loud clacks of wingtips against the concrete hit my ears and ricochet off of the bare concrete walls. Click, clack, click, clack, they come closer and closer to me. I don’t lift my head, I don’t move unless I need to. I continue to search for the piece of paper as if it is the Holy Grail and I am Indiana Jones.
The sound of footsteps ceases and all is silent for just a second, but, I know he has not somehow spontaneously combusted like I wish so deeply. Then the distinctive sound of a loud, sarcastic whistle descending from a high note to a low note breaks the silence. I hear the clucking of the businessman’s tongue and then a loud sigh.
“Your mother’s worried about you, Jack.” The man says.
I ignore him at first and continue to search. My fingers go in-between the forty, twenty, forty seats but find nothing. Finally, after stalling for seconds that feel like hours, I sigh, hit the vinyl seat and then begin to back out of the car. Standing up, I lift my head out of the car and stand up straight.
Turning, I wipe my hands off again, without thinking, on that rag hanging from my belt. My eyes meet his and my heart begins to pound inside my chest. But I never let it hit the surface. I know how to deal with this man, how to make him go away, but, unfortunately, I don’t know how to keep him from coming back. Dogs always come back, don’t they?
“It’s not me she should worry about, Dick.”
The man’s face remains marble; his old, chiseled features feel more like plastic than flesh. His blue eyes search about me, working up and down my frame repetitively. He’s probably judging me again, like a dog prancing across a showroom floor. No doubt he sees me as scum, just a hood, and a dirty criminal with no future. But then again, he’s nothing more than an extortionist, a legal Caporegime.
“You’ve been here for nearly four hours, Jack, your mother wants you to go home.” He tells me, his jaw moving but not his eyes.
“I have work, Dick; I figured you would understand how important one’s job is.”
He smirks, chuckles through clenched lips and then sighs. Strolling forward, his hands still deep inside the pockets of his slacks, he looks over everything in the garage. His eyes are planted upon the rusting shelves, the paint in the corner, and the collection of tools on the back wall. He notices every little crack in the wall, every spot of tarnish and collection of dust and judges it upon me.
“I’m a very wealthy man . . . but you already know this.” Dick turns his head towards me as he strolls across the front of the car and begins around the passenger side.
His eyes flash onto mine and he nods his head up and down, making sure that I actually hear the lying words coming from his trap. Smiling, he turns his head away from me and returns to looking over everything within the shop. His pace never slows or quickens, it is a solid second between each hard footstep. He’s nothing more than a reasoning machine, pathetic, short-sighted and cold.
“I could drastically improve not only your life . . . but the life of your mother as well. I could buy her a house where she can have whatever she likes. I could send you to a college that would make use of your talents, Jack.”
“I’m not interested, Dick.” I forcefully say to him.
But Dick doesn’t stop walking, he continues on like a lawyer in front of the stand. He’s not making headway towards his goal, but, his examination isn’t quite over. He’s a preacher trying to convert me, so he’ll make his sermon as long and convincing as he can from what he pulls from his ass.
“Please, Jack, hear me out.” He begs of me without ever looking at me. “You wouldn’t have to work in this place anymore! You’d be able to do what you please, have whatever you want! You could have Porches, Mercedes, and BMWs!”
“I don’t want any of your filthy money!” I holler without thinking. “I was just fine before you came along and I’ll be fucking damned if I’m not fine afterwards!”
Turning my body towards him, I widen my stance and put my hands down onto the hood of the coupe. His eyes turn towards me with a slight of surprise, or at least in an attempt to convince me he’s surprised. His blue eyes meet mine, his lips fall open, but his face never contorts itself. I don’t know what his problem is, he won’t leave me alone!
“Don’t you want your mother to have a better life, Jack?” He says with a cold and cruel calm.
Suddenly my eyebrows lift upwards and I feel my lips part. Words gurgle about in my throat but I am unable to get them to form into something understandable. Cars behind me blare by and the noise of the city begins to fill my ears, bouncing off the walls. For a second Dick isn’t there anymore and I’m all alone. My eyes dart to my reflection in the car. My face curls up and bares its teeth.
“I . . .”
Dick begins around the trunk of the car and then stands beside the driver’s side rear quarter panel. His hands remain in his pockets, but his arms tense up. His stance widens and his eyebrows lower themselves just a little bit. His eyes shimmer as he watches me. I see them dance about for just a second without lifting my head up.
“Jack, let’s think about it for a second.” Dick says to me. “You’re not in a very good position to be refusing me. You need to get out of this place as much as she does. But if you never let anybody in to replace him, you’ll go nowhere.”
Lifting my head up, I gently and calmly say, “I’d rather go nowhere than go anywhere with you, Dick.”
He takes a step forward, but his eyes never leave me.
“You can’t be telling me that you don’t want your mother to leave that tenant building, do you?”
I stand back up and then look to him. He tilts his head and makes my eyes stay with his, even when they dart to the floor. I am silent and so is he. We have run out of words to altercate with each other, to strike each other with. So he is silent and I fear breaking it more than keeping it up.
“You can ask me anything, you know that.” He calmly states. “I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. I don’t understand why you hate me so much, I’ve never tried to harm you or offend you. I’m going to marry your mother and that’s that, Jack. I just don’t want you to hate me for it.”
“I don’t give a damn about what you want, Dick, you damn well know that.” I quickly interject. “I still don’t like you and if you think trying to get some quality time with me is going to change that, then you’re demented that I thought.”
“And why is that demented, Jack?”
“Because you’re a sick bastard, that’s why!” I scream. “You come in here and act like you’re going to save us, us poor pricks from the streets! You’re a sick man, you know that? You want us to be so thankful that you’re saving us from poverty! Well, you know what, Dick; you can shove your money back in your ass because I don’t want any of it! And if you think that I’m going to let you go through with this plan, well, than you’re stupid and a metrosexual.”
He looks to me with his calm as usual and then nods his head. He licks his lips, pulls his left hand from his pocket and checks his watch before he runs his palm over his chin and neck, feeling the stubble from the five o’clock shadow he has growing. I gasp for breath and then calm myself down.
“Then there’s nothing I can do to change your mind, huh?” He asks me, his creepy calm slowly pissing me off further. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
“Yeah,” I reply sarcastically, “does Barry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?”