An Unusual Occupation Read online

  An Unusual Occupation

  Part One of the Journals of Bob Drifter

  M.L.S. Weech

  Copyright © 2018 M.L.S. Weech

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  Prologue | Dark

  1 | Doubts

  2 | Someone to Inspire

  3 | An Unwanted Mess

  4 | Accidents and Murder

  5 | A Really Fat Dog

  6 | Promises

  7 | Thoughts of Mortality

  8 | Something That Must Be Done | October 5, 2006

  9 | A Horribly Average Suspect

  10 | Crush

  11 | Investigation

  12 | A Plan

  13 | A Theory

  14 | A Slow Song

  15 | Sweet Agony

  16 | A Pointless Conversation

  17 | Fishing

  18 | Shadows

  19 | What People Don’t Know

  20 | Swimming

  21 | Orders

  22 | Performance

  23 | Compromise

  24 | Death Trail

  25 | A Pleasant Conversation

  26 | Goodbye

  27 | A Wonderfully Terrible Night

  28 | An Honored Burial

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE FROM BOB DRIFTER

  A REQUEST

  ALSO BY M.L.S. WEECH

  DEDICATION

  For Ralph and Drew, who showed me that some friendships are truly special.

  I hope this helps you see that some friendships never die.

  A Note from the Author

  I was very proud when The Journals of Bob Drifter was first published in 2015. I love this story and the characters in it. However, I was a brand new indie author who simply didn’t have any idea what he was doing on the publishing side of things.

  This second edition was necessary for a few reasons. First, I was aware of some grammar and punctuation issues. I was also aware of some typos that I just got tired of seeing as I looked at the edition I had. A lot of those were addressed in the audio version of this book, but I wanted the print and digital versions of the book to get a polish. The second reason was that I wanted a bit more say on pricing. I wanted to reduce the cover cost and make each individual segment of the book to be available for those who just wanted to try it before committing to a story that’s more than 130,000 words.

  It’s been more than two years since Bob first landed in the hands of readers, and I felt he deserved a second edition that had a bit more editorial love than the first edition had. I didn’t change the story at all, and won’t. Good or bad, this is the story I imagined as I imagined it.

  I’m happy to have been at this for two years, and I sure mean to keep at it until my own Journeyman comes to call on me. It was working on this second edition that I realized their importance. It allows us to make small tweaks and polish our work so it has new life.

  I hope you’ve all enjoyed this journey as much as I have.

  — M.L.S. Weech

  Acknowledgements

  This is my dream. It is the one thing I’ve pursued for the greater majority of my life. I’ve known for a long time that no dream comes true without the help of others. This dream is no different. This book was a labor of love and friendship, and it has reached readers because of the dear friends and family who put so much effort into it.

  Those people start with my mom and dad. My mom quietly encouraged me my whole life. I think the best thing she ever did for me was let me get closer and closer to this dream and passion of mine without pushing. Encouragement is underrated, but it’s far more effective than pressure in some situations. The man to whom this book is dedicated is the man I’ve called my father for more than a decade. He taught me about being a man, and he showed me the value of just being a steady cornerstone for any who need something to lean on. My family has always supported me, but without my mom, I’d lack the brains to write, and without my dad, I’d lack the steady resolve to keep moving.

  Then came Ben Duke, who in addition to drawing the awesome chapter icons in this book, was the first person who didn’t share my DNA to read anything I’ve written. He provides me feedback and stern criticism in those times my ego exceeds my ability. He helped take a short story about a grim reaper who moonlighted as a substitute teacher into this very novel. He asked hard questions and then helped to find the answers. Without him, I’m not sure this would have happened. He’d argue differently, but I’ll never deny his guidance was what drove me not just to keep writing, but to write this specific book.

  When I was in junior high, I had a friend named Collin Fogel. We were going to create the best comic series ever. I was going to write the story, and he would run pencils and inks. We grew up, which is inevitable, but neither of us gave up our dreams. So when I realized this book was, in fact, going to get published, I couldn’t pass up the chance to ask him to create the cover. I’m honored that he took a vague idea of a critical, if subtle, moment in the book and turned it into a fantastic cover.

  Next came the wonderful people who comprise the San Diego Writers group. They read the initial chapters and provided feedback. I told the group organizer, Allen, I joined the group to see if I really had the chops to be a published author. He responded with “absolutely.” He, Craig, Grant, Linda and so many more were just so motivating to work with. I miss being a part of that group, but their feedback and encouragement were essential to making this book a reality.

  Then there is The Team, particularly Rosa, who insisted on reading one of my books, then was kind enough to read this one. In addition to feedback, she provided encouragement at those times when my pile of rejection letters got a little bigger than my ego could take. Those members of The Team, also including Woody, Kyle, Peggy, and Jason, all spent time talking to a crazy person about the worlds he enjoys making up.

  Those I met through my ten years of service and offered a kind word or bit of support are people who became mentors who believed in me. Chief Frazho, thanks for the messages offering support. Senior Flynn, thanks for being overjoyed just because my silly little dream came true. I offer my thanks to my friends of the Brown Pipe Gang, Terrence and Corey. Though we don’t speak as often as any of us would like, I know you’re out there.

  Then there is the staff at Archway Publishing. They helped the book get out in the world, and I’ll always appreciate that. They were an option to turn to when I didn’t know what else to do. They published the first edition, and now that I’m a bit more knowledgeable about publishing and how the industry works, I feel ready to handle the challenges on my own.

  Then there are those who’ve come before me. I’m not on the same level as those authors I’ve read and enjoyed. I won’t mention names because I’m afraid it would appear either a desperate plea for attention from them or a very cheap attempt at name dropping. That’s not what this is. I fell in love with writing. Then I fell in love with reading. I tip my hat to those wonderful writers who opened my eyes to wondrous worlds and amazing characters. They provide podcasts, blogs, and advice. They speak with hopeful writers like me during conventions. Thank you, all of you who I’ve had the honor to meet. Thank you for telling amazing stories. Thank you for signing those books for me. Most importantly, thank you for being so amazingly humble and passionate.

  I haven’t forgotten anyone, but I hope to publish more books, and I’ll need new names when the time comes. I’d like to conclude with whoever it is that’s reading these words right now. If you’re someone I met or befriended during my life, thank you for spending your hard-earned money just to boost my already impressive ego. If you’re reading this simply because
you found it or received it from a friend, thank you. I write because I love to write, but whatever life I’m able to have from this love of mine, comes from your time and attention. Thank you.

  —M.L.S. Weech

  Prologue

  Dark

  It was frustrating watching the mortal die. It bled and cried out in agony, but watching the suffering wasn’t enough, not for a man some people called Death.

  The scene was somewhat ironic to him. The mortal lived so close to the sun, sand, and water. It was disgustingly bright in San Diego, and it was hard to stay out of the light. Even in the mortal’s home, the California sun sliced into the room where the dying man lay. The blade of light ended just at the mortal’s outstretched hand. Death looked at the instrument of the mortal’s demise in jealousy. He knew ways to cut into a person that would be discussed for generations more, even after the generations that had already passed. He knew ways to kill that were as wondrous as they were horrifying—but this piece of meat was impaled by a shard of falling glass! The most interesting aspect of this mortal’s end was how the drops of blood streaked along the clear surface. Pitiful.

  The intrigue wasn’t enough to erase Death’s frustration. The man was trying to hang some irrelevant image on his wall, only to fall from the ladder, which sent the picture crashing against the wall and sent the shard into the man’s neck. What a completely ridiculous way to die. All Death could do was watch.

  Just watching was another failure, like his failure to capture the Clockmaker. The Clockmaker was mocking him. This bleeding, suffering mortal was mocking him. It mocked him by suffering without allowing him to be the cause of that suffering. It mocked him by dying and not letting him be the cause of that death.

  Oh, the memory of killing! Even as he revisited those memories while watching the mortal’s blood ooze along the white-tiled floor, Death couldn’t help but chuckle at how foolish it was to think that that manner of killing brought him closer to God. It was much more fun back then, but he was like a child who’d just discovered play. He had no idea then how far he could take death. He had no understanding about what it meant to kill. Now, as he watched the last bit of life drain out of some man who’d never known his value, he knew what death truly was. Only, he couldn’t kill this wretched sack of flesh. He could only watch the man die and let every part of it sour. That could give him more power than any of his kind had ever had. Well, he was likely more powerful than any of the others already, save perhaps the damned Clockmaker.

  He kicked the dying man, which caused him to yelp. Good, it can still suffer, he thought. It wasn’t the way he used to make people suffer, but it was better than nothing. Let them all suffer, he thought to himself. Let them all bleed, cry, beg, and die as slowly as possible.

  He could be terrifying now. They called him Death, after all, and he wanted to live the part. He could remember reading stories where the characters held that name. Those were foolish fantasies told by men who wanted death to be mysterious, but they didn’t get the point. Death loomed over the dying man in all of his horrific glory. He roared in frustration, and the dying man wet himself, which at least made Death smile for a moment.

  The smile faded as thoughts of the people who craved mystery returned. Mystery was the root of his frustration. Everything had limits. The pale man had only so much blood that he could allow to escape before he died and could only scream in fear for so long before his vocal cords gave out.

  Death understood that it was through the process of discovery that one found these limits and could push beyond. If everything truly had a limit, even Death’s current limitations themselves must be limited. It was only logical.

  If he could just push beyond ... He roared again, but the dying man wasn’t actually dying anymore. He was rotting. Waiting for that process to begin was just another distraction. It wasn’t a long wait to watch a mortal rot, but any amount of time spent on that delayed his ultimate goal. He didn’t want to be called Death. He wanted to be Death.

  Ah, the memory of killing. He missed it. Watching someone rot wasn’t solace. It didn’t make him feel any better. It enraged him, but watching mortals rot gave him power. He could learn from each rotting bit of flesh and meat. He could take every ounce of that experience and become more powerful. It was a comfort that was quickly losing its value, but with luck, it would tide him over until he could find the answer to killing. Anything worth having was worth waiting for, like the gift he received after a dead person finished rotting. Even that had its rewards.

  1

  Doubts

  Bob Drifter looked down at the gunshot victim and wondered yet again why he was chosen to watch this particular person die. All he wanted to do was go out for a walk. It’s always been like this, Bob thought. Why am I only bothered by it now? He knelt beside the dying man.

  “I’m sorry about this, Sir,” Bob said with a smile. No reason not to make this as easy as possible for the poor man.

  The man before him, Dan Billber, opened his mouth a few times. No actual words came out, but Bob could imagine them clearly enough.

  “Help me!” the man wanted to say. He probably didn’t have long, if the blood spreading through his shirt was any indication.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” Bob said. “I almost didn’t even see you until I heard the gunshot.”

  Bob was about two blocks away when the shot rang out. Oddly enough, a distance of two blocks was enough to turn a pleasant stretch of sidewalk into a dark stretch of road filled with a few shops amid empty lots and ramshackle wooden fences. He had known something was about to happen. He always knew, but he never really expected whatever transpired.

  “This isn’t a very nice neighborhood, is it?” Bob asked as he looked around. He noticed a gas can just next to Dan’s feet and smiled. “You just ran out of gas?”

  Dan’s mouth opened and shut a few more times. Bob couldn’t actually hear the spindly man’s words, but he’d seen enough people die to know the gist of the phrases.

  “I can’t die now,” Dan was probably saying. “Save me.”

  “I’m really sorry, Sir,” Bob said again. “It’s awful to die out here in this muggy alley, but I know you’re not in pain.”

  Bob had made sure of that. The poor man was afraid enough as it was, and he was away from whoever might have made him feel more comfortable. He reached out and took the man’s hand.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” Bob said. “It’s OK. I’ll make sure it all works out.”

  Bob wanted to do whatever he could to convince Dan he was telling the truth. The problem was they were complete strangers. All Dan knew was that someone had come, and instead of helping, all Bob could do was watch.

  “Please don’t be afraid,” Bob said gently.

  Dan’s eyes grew wider for an instant before they closed for good. Bob lowered his head for a moment. I didn’t ask for this, he thought. I just wish they weren’t always so afraid.

  2

  Someone to Inspire

  September 19, 2006

  The principal of Oak Mountain High School recently called me. I’ve been hired to watch a class while the normal teacher enjoys some maternity leave. I was actually caught a bit off guard to be requested to fill a position for two months, but maybe that means I won’t have quite as much to do in any other aspect of my life. The thing with Dan Billber a week ago hit me hard for some reason.

  At any rate, the best part about teaching is that it takes my mind off of that other stuff. I’ve gotten a good feel for my class after a week of letters to parents and meetings with teachers. I have a fairly well-behaved class. It’s so difficult to reach the mind of a teenager these days. It’s particularly difficult to inspire them in math. My students have varying degrees of aptitude, and I’m confident I can help them all.

  One student has caught my attention. He has absolutely no passion for math, and as a result, he’s been forced to take this class when he should be in Algebra II. As with most students, the impact of failure
has affected his motivation. Perhaps I was sent here by fate, or whatever, to help him. First thing’s first: I have to convince him to care.

  Just about where the 303 connects Grand Avenue and Bell Road lay the city of Surprise, Arizona. Surprise was a little suburb of Phoenix, and it offered a nice contrast to the skyscrapers and business districts on the other side of the two-lane Loop 101.

  Bob had driven through the suburb several times but hadn’t actually done any work there. He knew older people from up north retreated there in an effort to escape the intolerable cold in their home states. Bob didn’t blame them. He hated the cold. Like most suburbs of Phoenix, Surprise was flat, without many hills, and there were few changes in scenery. Most houses looked alike and were built with planned precision.

  Oak Mountain High School was one of roughly seven high schools in the area. It was smack in the center of the triangle created by the 303, Bell Road, and Grand Avenue. Unsurprisingly, for a community with frequent senior visitors, the school was surrounded by three golf courses. Several of the students who attend the school chose to walk from their homes, which were tucked away in cul-de-sacs sprinkled around the golf courses.

  It only took Bob a week to get into the swing of things. It wasn’t that he wasn’t prepared—he made it a priority to learn all his students’ names before he focused on teaching. He even wrote letters to all the parents. Bob made sure the parents knew he was teaching and invited them to come speak to him, or even call, anytime.

  Once he received signed copies of the letters he wrote to the parents, Bob felt confident he could begin his instruction in earnest. It was the beginning of the school year in Surprise, and Bob saw this as a great opportunity to make some sort of difference.

  As the five-minute-warning bell rang, Bob began scribbling away on the dry-erase board at the front of his class. Some of his first-period students were already seated at some of the desks neatly tucked into rows of six facing the board. Most of the students took the five-minute bell as more of a signal to head into class than to already be there.