Chapter One

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Awakening, The Prophet

 

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Moses was a writer. A good writer. Jesse King was his protagonist, his avatar in the world of writing. Jesse King solved mysteries. Jesse King was smart, good-looking, strong and fast. Jesse King could woo and charm. Jesse King was who Moses wished he could be.

Moses was a loner. His breath was mostly terrible, and his physique was appalling. He ate a lot of fried chicken. Well, he ate the skin, the chicken was up for grabs.

His parents had never wanted him, and although their recent attempts at love touched him, it wasn’t enough to change his mind.

He was alone. Alone and lonely. Except for Jesse. Jesse was his companion, his comfort.

Jesse King could do anything, and Moses made it so. His avatar was famous. Since his first King novel, the letters had poured in, and they continued to do so, years later. Jesse King spoke to people. He was a rogue, but loveable. He battled against demons that people faced themselves, and he came out victorious, mostly because of his own strength.

It was funny how many letters were actually addressed to Jesse. It was as though people wanted to believe so much, they would suspend reality to continue that belief.

Our story, or at least, the story that is documented here, began the day before Moses’ thirty-third birthday. It was stark, this beginning. White and pointed. It stuck in the memory, and not just because of the blood and death. There was more. It was prophetic. Part of a greater story.

Moses knew he was getting old. His belly was a rubber tire of fat. He had no friends to celebrate birthdays with, not that he wanted to.

His house was tidy enough, just enough to be normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. An aerofit sat in one corner, in another some weights were scattered next to a bench. A television, old and battered, sat against the wall. A saggy couch lay in front of it, and there Moses was now. It was the kind of couch that was impossible to gracefully exit from.

The phone rang.

Moses looked up. The only people who rang him were his editor (Ted) and some other executives connected with publishing. Ted liked Moses the way he was. Reliable. Moses had nothing else to distract him, and so was the best and biggest seller that Hendant Publishing had in their books (so to speak). Moses understood this, and didn’t really mind. Ted was nice enough, and usually didn’t try small talk.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, letting the machine catch whatever it was Ted wanted.

“I know you’re there. Pick up.”

He hauled himself out of the couch, and crossed to the phone.

“Come on Moses, pick ..”

Click. “I’m here.”

“Ahh, that is good.” Ted stopped a moment, then continued. “Moses, I need you to come and see me tomorrow.”

Moses stood still. “Why? I’ve got the new book almost done.”

“Yes I know.” He paused again. “Tell me, are you ever going to kill off King?”

Ted always called Jesse King by his last name. Never the first, always the last.

“Perhaps.”

“Moses. Think about it before you come tomorrow.”

In his heart Moses knew he would never kill off Jesse King.

“You might see me tomorrow Ted.” And he hung up the phone.

The death of King was something that Moses had thought about. He’d planned a number of different ways it could happen. And planned ways he could return again alive and hale. In his head, there were a multitude of scenarios, but they lay unused.

The truth was that Jesse King gave Moses purpose, and comfort.

I know this is true.

And he did. Moses was good at being honest with himself. He knew he was fat. He knew he lacked social graces. Without a doubt Jesse King was all that was good in his life.

Moses didn’t have the courage to kill Jesse King off, because there would be nothing more for him. King was his creation. His lifeblood. King was part of him, and part of his own. Over the years, his character had developed into something Moses saw as amazingly unique. Unique and special. Not boring, but special.

Why would I take that out of my life? Why remove the only thing that is joy to me?

Moses Lawd was lonely. But loneliness can be a precursor to something far more powerful. The greatest of us are marked by our nadir points, those events and times that are our lowest. What happens at those times define us. For Moses Lawd, his nadir was coming, although he wouldn’t have thought it.

His nadir was coming and the night would fall.

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