William Mark Simmons - Dead Easy.pdf

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- Prologue
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- Prologue
Prologue
Ride, Captain, ride upon your mystery ship
On your way to a world that others might have missed
—Skip Konte / Frank Konte / Mike Pinira
Ride Captain Ride
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus's garden in the shade . . .
—Ringo Starr,
Octopus's Garden
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.
—Barry McGuire
Eve of Destruction
And the sea gave up the dead which were in it . . .
—Revelation
20:13
Author's Note:
This is a work of fiction.
As always, any resemblance to people living, dead, undead, or some stage in-between, is purely
coincidental. As for any resemblance to acts of God (or acts of the gods): the plot synopsis, story outline,
proposal,and primary research for
Dead Easywere
completed prior to January 2005.The fault lies not in
the stars, dear Brutus, but in ourselves . . .
Dead Easy was undertaken during a particularly tumultuous period of events that made the writing of
this book far different than the experience I envisioned in the original synopsis and proposal. I'd like to
thank the electronic
1
st
Readers Club
whose feedback and supplemental input was most helpful during a
period of extraordinary change and limited access to my familiar resources and support. Any errors,
inconsistencies, and faults herein are my own.
Richard Acosta, J.J. Brannon, Kyle Carmichael, Benjamin Cock, Thomas Erickson, Erik Fischer, Tracy
Fretwell, Tana Hamza, James Hayes, Jack Long, Lee Martindale, Robyn McNees, Greg Normington, Jr.,
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- Prologue
William A. Oates, Porter Peaden, Sanjay Ramamurthy, Anthony D. Rhodes, Dawn Rodriguez, Roger
Ross, Brad Sinor, Anthony Stasak, Lynn Stranathan, Jim Wagner.
Thanks guys!
Special Thanks also to Clyde Caldwell and Christine Klingbiel for their part in bringing certain
characters, past and present, to life.
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- Chapter 1
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- Chapter 1
Chapter One
Here's a question.
Do people wear straightjackets because they're crazy?
Or do they go crazy because they're wearing straightjackets?
Because I can tell you right now those long-sleeved, buckle-down, canvas kook-shirts are so
uncomfortable that you
are
likely to go mad if you're stuck in one for any extended period of time.
I don't know how long I'd been stuck in mine but I'd probably be well on my way to foaming and raving
and going absolutely starkers were it not for the drugs. They kept me calm. Relaxed. Even while my
own voice was screaming in the back of my head that I was in really deep doo-doo!
Doo-doo . . . ?
Given the normal vocabulary of my fight-or-flight responses, the fact that the voice shouting from my
hindbrain was coming up with that word choice
had
to be another side effect of the drugs.
That
and
the inability to stay focused.
Or remember how I got here in the first place.
And: drugs were the only explanation as to why the babelicious Dr. Fand did not command my full
attention while she was in the room for our latest session.
Well, more of a cell than a room, actually. With padded walls and recessed lighting and absolutely no
windows to permit one to gauge the passing of time. Or weaken loony-town security by giving me
something to bang my head against.
I had this warm, fuzzy sense of contentment that my well-being was
so
well looked after.
Or maybe that was the drugs, too. My attention had shifted from my psychiatrist to the cell décor and
there was no other adequate explanation for that. Unless I really was as crazy as Dr. Fand professed.
"Not 'crazy,' Mr. Cséjthe . . ." She pronounced my name correctly—"Chay-tay"—but added some little
foreign inflection that I couldn't quite attribute to any specific nationality.
" . . . a 'psychotic break' is a coping mechanism," she continued. "Your mind was traumatized by the
accident, by the deaths of your wife and daughter. You blame yourself because you were driving,
because you survived and they didn't . . ."
Maybe the drugs weren't that effective: memories began to burn through my medicated haze like napalm
strikes in a thick London fog. Two years had passed since I'd awakened in a morgue next to what was
left of Jenny and Kirsten, yet the sudden flash of pain tied to that memory was brisk and sharp.
Like fresh stitches as the anesthesia wears off.
"Your subconscious wrestles with the unfairness of life, the injustices of fate," Dr. Fand went on. "With
pain. With regret. It tries to make sense of what seems so senseless. Like a skinned knee, it tries to heal
your memories by forming a false skin—a scab, if you will—to insulate the trauma from the rest of your
mind. It builds a layer of false memories, creates more acceptable 'realities' for you to inhabit while
dealing with your grief and rage."
"Like this one?" I growled, shrugging against the heavy canvas and leather garment that pinned my arms
across my body.
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