Okay, I wasn't going to do this, but I felt the need to post something this month. So here it is in all of its shittiness. I'm half way done, but I'm about a day behind on the pacing. Not too bad. I'll catch up as long as the holidays don't screw me over. It's pretty cool writing this way as it instantly turns off the internal editor. I'll be writing and think, "No, that doesn't sound the way I want it to sound," but I will just keep on going as I realize that this isn't the time for revision. Thus, I'm at 25,000 words rather than 250 words, where I would be if I didn't just keep writing.
Without further ado, I give you Chapter 1 of The Fifth Henry ...
-1-
It was an office like any other home office. It was small, cramped, and filled with gadgets. There was a desk with an old computer on it, a bookshelf that contained many pictures, magazines, and stacks of papers, but no books. A window looked out onto the back yard with the unused play set and the old charcoal grill. On the far wall of the office, a row of neatly lined portraits spanned the open space of paneling. The pictures were framed in a hodge-podge of purchased frames ranging from fake metal to stained wood. With the exception of the first, that is. That crumpled black and white photograph of a man seated on a velour settee possessed an air of grace and sophistication. The velvet jacket embossed with a coat of arms, the meticulous haircut, and even the man's posture screamed to the viewer, "Here is a man of substance." However, the following portraits incrementally declined in finery and in distinction, yet each man struck the same pose as the original. The man resembled, at least in some aspects, the fourth portrait; although, in the portrait, the man’s confidence shown through. At the base of each portrait lay a slim brass plate - Henry I, Henry II, Henry III, and Henry IV. The four aligned figures, stern and serious, stared irritably across the room at the man hunched behind a massive Ikea desk.
The desk was strewn with newspaper ad sections, classified ads, and mass mailings. Notes in red marker were written on the ads with arrows and circles everywhere. On top of the pile of ads was a single photograph. The photo showed two men locked in arms as you might see in old pictures of war buddies. The men were wearing bowling shirts and obviously loved whatever it was they were doing. The larger of the two was the man stooping over the desk. The other, clearly a man of south - Asian descent, whose eyes were as black as his hair, looked into the camera with a stunning alacrity.
The man behind the desk picked up the picture, turned it over, and whispered, "Thanks for showing me the real America! Your friend forever, Sharma". A minute, maybe ten, passed as the man just stared at the writing, repeating, "Your friend, Sharma." Suddenly, he ripped the picture and tossed it into the trashcan.
"Bull shit!" he said as he sat back in the chair. After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. "Come in," barked the man. The door opened quickly and a beaming, thin man walked into the room.
"Monty, we're in!" he said as he plopped into the chair opposite the desk, his hands, tapping, finally settling on the armrests.
"Really, Westy?" said Monty. His mood changing from one of melancholy to one of sheer joy. "We got it! How'd you do it?"
"Well, it seems that our friends, the Percy's, convinced the Clear's to sell. Old man Clear was a bit hesitant, but the last offer and some timely persuasion from Percy's boy, Henry, and his crew convinced him it was time to move on to greener pastures.” Westy grinned and awaited Monty's reaction like a dog waiting for a bone.
Monty sat in his chair, a ragged smirk creeping across his face. "Excellent." He leaned farther back and the smirk turned into a full-blown smile. “Do you know what this means?” he asked, rhetorically or to Westy it wasn’t clear, nor did it particularly matter. What mattered was that the final piece of his puzzle was now in place. For over a hundred years, the Monmouth family had been in decline. From generation to generation, the clan fell from the grace of corporate baron to stock boy, but no longer. Now, with this acquisition, it solidified his place in the community and would make a fine partner to go with the last one. And then an image of the smiling Sharma flashed through his head. Yes, the last one. Uneasiness overwhelmed him, and soon regret began to creep. He couldn’t allow himself to let this happen, not now, not in front of Westy. Forcibly, he tried to see the look on Old Man Clear’s face when he finally caved. What was it that that young hothead Percy had done to “convince” Clear to change his mind? Better not to know. The ringing of Westy’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey there, my man!” Westy shouted into the cell phone. Monty shook his head wondering why Westy had to shout every phone conversation he had. Oh well, at least he knew Westy had no secrets. “Yeah, I told him the news, I’m with him right now.” A long pause was almost enough for Monty to return to his thoughts, but it was suddenly interrupted by Westy’s stuttering reply. “No, man, that ain’t gonna work.” Another pause and it was obvious now that Westy was starting to sweat. “No, you can’t just do that. A deal’s a deal!” Westy’s shouting rose to an unbelievable pitch. Who would have thought a guy that small could yell that loudly?”
As suddenly as it started, it was all over. “Well?” questioned Monty. “That shithead doesn’t know who he’s dealing with...the little Percy wants to renegotiate the deal. He says that he went above and beyond his share and he wants in on the partnership now.” Westy waited for that famous Monmouth anger to erupt out of Monty, but instead he just smiled.
“Man,” Monty said, “that kid’s got some balls on him, ain’t he?” He leaned forward and placed both elbows on the pile of magazine ads. “I like that kid. He’s what, 18?”
“Almost 18,” Westy answered cautiously.
“Yeah, 18, about the same age as my Henry. The only difference is that this Henry Percy has got something going for him, meanwhile my shithead’s out partying his ass off the whole time I’m rebuilding the family name. God, if only our kids had been switched at the hospitals. That would have been what should have happened.” Monty pursued that idea, but gave it up as just wishful thinking. “Anyways,” he continued, “get that kid in here with his old man. He may have some balls, and I like that in a kid, but I think they may need to be broken. He needs to realize that in this area I’m the king.” He laughed at the thought of him, Henry Monmouth, king of the township. That seemed more and more a likely possibility now.
As he walked Westy out of the room, a piece of the torn picture floated onto the floor. Sharma’s face looked towards the ceiling, smiling in brotherly love.
