Read The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) Online
Authors: Raymond M. Rose
The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk)
Praise for The Fire Inside: A Sidekicks Novel
“The world the author has created is complex, realistic and most likely allegorical. I’m not an accredited scholar, but what I can tell you is: I. Want. More.”
Michelle, Reading Lark (
http://readinglark.blogspot.com
)
“The ending was perfect, wrapping up all the loose ends in a way that was fitting for the story.” Kelly, Reading Between the Wines (
http://readingbetweenthewinesbookclub.blogspot.com
)
"Rose’s world building is well done and again quite a visual masterpiece."
Leslie Wright, Blogcritics (
http://blogcritics.org/books/article/book-review-the-fire-inside-a/
)
"Really, I can't say enough good things about this book, and I can't wait for the next Sidekicks novel!"
Katie B, GoodReads user
Readers love Better Together
"I really liked Paul. He seemed like a real, normal person to me. I felt that his character reacted to his life's situations in a truthful, realistic way. Above all, every single thing in this book is believable, and that adds to its strength."
Sarah, Sarah Reads Too Much (
http://sarahreadstoomuch.blogspot.com
)
"The characters are extremely well developed, making it very easy to connect to them emotionally as the story progressed. The story was definitely an emotional roller coaster and I was swept away along with the characters in their ups and downs."
Kim, The Caffeinated Diva (
http://thecaffeinateddivareads.multifacetedmama.com
)
"Paul will become a familiar friend to you and his son an adorable little sidekick who you just want to hug. I certainly was sad when I had to put the finished product down and I will still think of the characters."
Erica, Soon Remembered Tales (
http://soonrememberedtales.blogspot.com
)
“Better Together really captures that kind of dual-living that usually only happens if you’re a parent or a bodyguard: you look out for your own self, but you’re hyper-focused on anything that might affect the health and safety of the person you’re caring for.”
Tiger Holland, All-Consuming Books (
http://tigersallconsumingbooks.blogspot.com
)
First Edition, July 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Raymond M. Rose
Cover photography by Marcus J. Ranum
Artwork and Book Design by Raymond M. Rose
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Christopher Williams Books
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.
Raymond M. Rose
Novels:
Sidekicks
Boyertown Quartet
Short Stories:
Philly-Punk
Mr. Dad
THE FRANKLIN INCIDENT
A Philly-Punk Story
by
Raymond M. Rose
I squeeze myself deeper under the massive mahogany desk, contorting my body into a horribly-uncomfortable position. My limbs protest silently yet painfully at such unfair treatment. I ignore them and continue to push until I can go no further down the 'rabbit hole.' Deeply ensconced, though, I can hear nothing, and, regrettably, see less. All I can do is smell: a trace of leather cleaning oil, a redolence of spent tobacco, and the coppery tang of blood spilt on the hardwood floor—
click... click...
Fingernails scrape against wood.
It's found us!
I try to push past my sudden panic and strain my ears to listen to....
click... click...
Nails dig through paint and pulp as... hands try to open... a doorknob? Yes, I can hear the jingle of the slightly-loose knob as unseen hands slowly rotate it. Though it's released before it can reach the full revolution.
click... click...
I didn't think he would find us. No, strike that, I hopes he wouldn't. Why would he return to the scene of an earlier crime? I need only glance toward the front of the office to see what happened that first time: she lie on the floor, her fingers pointing towards me, palms open. If it wasn't for the dried blood – dark splotches on her alabaster skin – it might seem as if she were merely extending her hand to me. Thankfully, I can't see her dead open eyes because my coat respectfully covers her.
click... click...
Clearly, I was wrong about the killer's thought-process. Though, I imagine, a part of me had indeed thought I was incorrect for I took pains to position the constable and I in such a way that, if the killer did enter this office, the desk would hide us. Yet, the doorknob he was turning was not the one I thought he would use. Not the one in front of us; but he was coming in behind us, leaving us completely visible when he opens that door.
I quickly shuffle out of my place of refuge and sneak around the desk, taking care to drag my unconscious friend with me.
click... click...
The fingernails – let's call them what they really are, claws! CLAWS! – scrape against the door as the killer tries the doorknob again.
click... click...
creak...
The door opens behind me. I press my body as firmly as I can to the side of the desk. Any further and I would be part of the desk. I listen.
thump... thump...
The sound hammers my already-crumbling resolve. I am firmly rooted to this hiding place not out of comfort but out of pure, strickening fear. Every vein feels ablaze and nerves drawn as tight as a garrote. I wish, though, with all my heart, that my fear was purely of this killer, of this thing stepping into the room. I wish that I was afraid of the harm he might inflict on my person or my defenseless friend beside me. I wish it be fear of death. And not fear of what I'll become if I chose to fight back.
thump... thump...
The stench that I smelled upstairs fills my nostrils again. It smells of death, putrefaction, and burned incense. Such smells seem intimately familiar but unrelated to my current predicament. A rite of some—
thump... thump...
A shadow grows ahead of me. At first, it's an expanding dome of darkness; an inverted rising sun. Then it grows larger, swallowing all light in its path. I need to get out of this place. I need to draw the killer away from my friend. I need to flee before all light is gone and only shadow exists.
thump... thump...
* * *
Three hours ago, I stepped out of the 'mechanical' hansom cab and into an intense June afternoon sun that left me squinting and wishing I'd brought my hat. I paid the driver, a man wise enough to wear a pair of dark glasses against the afternoon's strong sun, and the coins clunked into his fare box. The driver nodded 'thanks.' The engine huffed and the carriage shuttered forward, small clouds of steam marking its departure. Although these 'mechanical' hansoms had become the standard over the past couple of years, they still struck my eyes as queer: I expected to see a horse – or even a team of those fine beasts – in the front, pulling a simple 'box on wheels.' However, recently, a horse-drawn carriage was the rarer of the two.
I smoothed the wrinkles out of my charcoal frock coat and fixed my cravat. Although the coat was a decade out of fashion and slightly-frayed in spots, I found it utterly indispensable: it had two wonderful deep outer pockets that could hold all manner of items. I like to believe that I am a man who always has a need for voluminous pockets. The power of utility over the fancy of men's fashion.
I carried my instrument valise across the city square toward the address written on a message hand-delivered a half-hour ago by a young man from the Pneumatic Tube Co. The Franklin Building was a squat beast that looked large enough to berth one of those new luxury liners the White Star folks were always going on about. Five stories high, the building was as eccentric as its namesake (whose Bacchus-like 'homage' of a statue was shooting water from its pursed lips in front of me): each level a jumble of gothic and baroque architectures. Gargoyles guarded the east and west. Sphinxes riddled the north and south. And winged seraphs looked to the heavens on the top floor. Just plain mad.
Ben Franklin would have been proud.
Gathered around Franklin's statue was a crowd of men that bordered on unruly. Although impeccably dressed, the angry clew of dark suited-men was a sight to behold and, it seemed, a force to be reckoned with. True, this part of Philadelphia was usually swarming with professional men buzzing to and fro in pursuit of wealth, health, or justice. They rarely, though, did so in such a large scourge... or so vehemently. As I approached them, they glanced my way, their walrus mustaches twitching and muttonchops bristling as they growled.
"Do you know the meaning of this?"
“This is preposterous! I'm losing money!"
I did not know what this brood of men was clucking for I found my attention diverted as I crossed some unmarked line of demarcation from sunlight into blackness. I looked up to see her. This part of Philadelphia lay firmly in the shadow of a giant airship tethered to the proud William Penn statue atop the gothic building the shared her name. The airship, long and sleek an all her black beauty, had appeared one morning six months ago. Although airships filled our skies the night before, none of them resembled in neither size nor mystery the black ship that was suddenly berthed above the city that Christmas morning. Though rumors spread like flames across dry tinder, no one seemed to know who resided in her for she never responded to any hails. Parliament, City Hall, and, even, the Constabulary seemed unconcerned about her so she remained a grand puzzle for Philadelphia citizens.
And a fine bit of shade.
A silver handled walking stick suddenly appeared out of nowhere and pressed itself to my chest. I stopped walking and glanced at its owner: a dastardly tall man wearing rose-tinted glasses. The handle was shaped like an eagle, wings spread and claws out. Ridiculous.