The Forty First Wink Read online

  The Forty First Wink

  James Walley

  Copyright © 2014

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. You are reading a revised and updated edition of the original 2014 release.

  Worldwide Rights

  Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com

  Editor-In-Chief: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin

  Cover Design & Production: Shawn T. King

  Publicity: Melanie R. Meadors

  Social Media: Nick Sharps

  The Forty First Wink

  James Walley

  Acknowledgements

  Dedicated to my parents, who provided me with the tools to write this story. Without your unwavering support, it would still be a random collection of crazy ideas bouncing around in my head.

  There are of course, many more people who have found their way onto my Christmas card list thanks to their input and assistance, most notably, the following amazing human beings. My family for being animated and affirming at every turn, I wish I could mention you all by name. Danny Kouble for providing fantastic cover art on the original version of this book. My own unofficial advertisers, Emma Lea, Katie Lajoie and David Eccles for raising profile and spreading the word. My good friends Mark O’Neill, Paul Carson and Paula Kasser for indispensable advice and drunken brainstorming.

  Huge appreciation must also go out to Tim Marquitz, Joe Martin, Shawn King, and the rest of the awesome folks at Ragnarok for providing me with this opportunity. A special mention to the authors therein for welcoming me so warmly into the fold.

  This doesn’t begin to cover the number of people who have provided inspiration and motivation, both directly and indirectly. Rest assured though, that I am immensely thankful to all who had a hand in this story’s creation, particularly to the people who may see something of themselves in a character or two.

  Morning

  Not well versed in the proper protocol of rising with enthusiasm and vigor, morning came with the same ache and confusion as a zombie awakening with that insatiable craving to snack on some brains. A night in the company of tequila was no doubt in some way responsible.

  It was with this lingering, half-remembered recollection of the night before that Marty was reintroduced to the break of day. Eyelids heavy like storm shutters, pulling back to reveal the sun's gleeful intrusion into his room.

  The monkey sitting on his chest started at his stirring, nearly dropping the polo mallet he had, up until now, been using to beat out a tune on Marty's forehead. Polo monkey blinked, seemingly alarmed and upset at the interruption of his drum solo. His monkey cohorts, sensing they had been rumbled, deserted their posts and scattered, one dropping the keys he had been stowing in a sock, another caught in the act of swallowing a handful of pocket change.

  Through his tequila-inspired malaise, Marty wondered why his fleeing bedfellows were all wearing little blue uniforms with matching hats, which sported the kind of strobing lights you might normally see atop angry police cars. Through such a haze, though, and because his tiny tormentors had vacated with such haste, this thought registered merely as a muffled array of noise and movement, coupled with the sort of confusion only obtained from being abruptly awoken by a bunch of monkeys in your bedroom.

  Marty rolled over and tried to ignore the dull throbbing in his head that had been polo-malletted into sharp clarity in the last few minutes. This was normally the point where one vowed to never drink again, and actually mean it, even though it was lots of fun and would probably seem like a great idea again in the not too distant future.

  "They'll be back you know."

  The voice was high pitched but carried a faint growl, as though its owner had ingested a combination of helium and gravel. It came from the corner of the room where the shadows cast by the morning sun barely obscured a slightly ajar cupboard door.

  "They normally don't stop until you throw up, or at least go and find something fried to eat."

  Marty made an attempt at focusing on a vague stab at coherence. It was still a good way off. Nevertheless, having a conversation with a squeaky-voiced cupboard didn't seem to be out of place this morning, and he was already wondering what all this was about.

  Marty engaged his brain, and it grudgingly obliged. "What? Who, the…the little monkey fellas? The beer monkeys?"

  He tasted alcohol and smacked his lips disapprovingly, rubbing his eyes and groaning.

  "I've had many visits from the beer monkeys. They've never stuck around until I've woken up before, though," Marty imparted through gritted teeth.

  The voice gravel-squeaked again. "They prefer the term hangover technicians, and you interrupted them. You'll probably get a letter now."

  "A letter? They're monkeys," Marty managed.

  "They have a quota," the cupboard squeaker replied. "Put enough monkeys in a room with a typewriter and they'll write Shakespeare. Imagine what they can do when they're unionized."

  As fascinating as this conversation was becoming, the seed of delicious fried breakfast delights had been sown in Marty's mind, and although his stomach was staging a fairly steadfast protest of the whole concept, some form of morning after fry up was inevitable. This would, however, involve a degree of movement, a maneuver that Marty's brain was still attempting to orchestrate.

  With a groan, limbs were called into action, and Marty shifted into a vaguely upright position. Phase one of Operation Damage Control was now officially underway. His stomach dialed up its protests to Def Con 4.

  As everyone knows, the hangover fry up is an essential part of casting out the demons of the previous night's merriment, but as Marty's bladder interjected, a more pressing matter would need to be attended to first.

  Shakily, and with all the grace of a baby gazelle ice skating through a mine field, Marty lurched towards the bathroom. Reaching the door was a victory, and before he knew what he was doing, Marty had pulled the light cord turning on what felt like a nuclear blast behind his eyes.

  Reeling, he heard the cupboard offer up some squeaky advice, "Don't bother with the lights. Just fire when ready."

  Sound advice, quickly taken with a hasty tug of the light cord.

  Stumbling around in the bathroom, now thankfully returned to its darkened state, Marty located the toilet and took his best shot. Under the circumstances, hitting anything porcelain would have been a bonus, so hearing the reassuring sound of the bowl being christened was a relief. Soon he was shambling out of the door and trying to remember which way the kitchen was.

  "You didn't wash your hands," came a shrill protest from the cupboard.

  "Ahh, shut up, cupboard, I need bacon," Marty shot back over his shoulder as he vacated the bedroom.

  The voice from the cupboard muttered at the empty room as the bedroom door signified Marty's departure.

  “The name's Timbers.”

  #

  In the hallway on the other side of the bedroom door was a large, three quarter length mirror. Marty always used it as a final inspection point when on his way out to make sure everything was where it should be and nothing had been missed in the grooming and dressing process. Flies unzipped, hair out of place, or something unpleasant dangling out of his nose, for example. It wasn't really for, and shouldn't really have been used for hangover damage assessment, and yet Marty stopped in front of it to take stock of the current situation.

  He stared blearily at his reflection and decided that the whole never drinking again idea had come a day too late. Still, the damage was superficial and could easily be fix
ed by a fry up and a couple of aspirin.

  Marty understood the hangover ritual well, having gone through the drill more than a few times. Now a good way into his twenties, he spent the beginnings of his weekends like most people his age did, and the latter parts regretting it, like most people his age do.

  Having successfully navigated life to this point, though, Marty had hit a bit of a speed bump and was, it seemed, replaying the same weekend over and over again. It was easy to do since he was very good at the drinking part and had become quite adept at handling what inevitably came afterwards. Not a professional, of course, since he didn't go to meetings or stand outside pubs waiting for them to open. More an enthusiast of indulgence.

  The fact that his life hadn't really panned out how he'd thought when he left university didn't really seem that important. He had a roof over his head, which he rented from a nice Indian gentleman who ran a shop in the town. He had money coming in, although he wouldn't have classed what he did as a job or career, as this would suggest some form of future. And aside from a promotion to the donut kiosk, cavorting around in a Harvey the Space Beagle costume at the local theme park didn't really offer much in the way of prospects.

  Originally, Marty had harbored dreams of becoming an artist, but as with most dreams, unless they are backed by commitment and drive they just don't pay the bills, and so he had taken the job to supplement his income. He’d just never gotten around to actually getting on with the dream part. Still, he was only twenty-something, that time of your life when you are supposed to make bad judgment calls and generally bum around for a bit, surely.

  Marty's eyes met his unshaven reflection. Things would be all right; they were bound to be. The bloodshot, unkempt look would be dealt with, and he'd be ready to take on the world again, or at least whatever the world wanted to throw his way.

  He pointed at the mirror, smiled and made a clicking sound. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," he said in an over the top Southern drawl before heading off down the hall towards the kitchen.

  His reflection in the mirror watched him leave. As the kitchen door opened, and then shut behind Marty, mirror Marty smiled, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.

  The kitchen was small and functional and seemed infinitely more awake than the rest of the flat, its curtainless window allowing the morning sun to stream in unfettered. Marty's eyes adjusted to the intruding daylight, and he quickly made for the fridge. Fishing out the relevant breakfast components, he realized he would have to do what every kitchen procrastinator dreads: a bit of washing up.

  The sink was not a warzone, but it was partially obscured by a few dishes and a pan that had been left to soak. No problem when the reward of breakfast was in the offing. Soon, several strips of bacon and a couple of eggs were sizzling away on the cooker.

  Marty drew himself a glass of water and swallowed some aspirin. The day was already starting to look better, and the smell of the bacon was delivering some weighty body blows to his retreating hangover. Waiting for breakfast to cook, Marty started to whistle, and though almost completely awake, he did not notice that several birds, perched on the bird table outside the window, were whistling along in unison.

  If this had caught his attention, he may even have noticed they had also formed what appeared to be a conga line and were dancing up and down the table merrily. He did not, however, and the impromptu song and dance routine went unnoticed, which was rather a shame because they were making quite a good fist of it.

  His breakfast ready, Marty quickly sat down and dove in. Between mouthfuls he tried to recall the events of the night before. There had been tequila, that had already been established, and some kind of celebration involving a birthday, but other than that there were still gaping holes in his memory. At least he had woken up at home and undamaged, which was a big plus.

  Only then, as his breakfast and painkillers set about reducing his hangover to tolerable levels, did he remember the manner of his awakening. There had been monkeys. Monkeys and a talking cupboard. This was much harder to rationalize, and Marty's brow furrowed. He finished off the last of the bacon and rubbed his temples, his mind now fully committed to deciphering whether that had actually happened, or whether he was in fact still a little drunk. Or insane. Or both.

  Whatever the explanation, he decided he would have to investigate further. Not being a cat, he figured a bit of curiosity would do no harm at all and headed with purpose back into the hallway, passing the birds in the window, who were now engaged in a spirited can-can dance, which again, alas, went completely unnoticed.

  Marching up the hallway, Marty passed the mirror and glanced at his reflection,

  "Morning!" Mirror Marty chimed

  "Yeah, good morning," Marty replied absently. He was on a mission and had no time to exchange pleasantries with himself.

  Opening the door, he found the bedroom to be less gloomy than it had been when he left it, although that could have been the hangover. Shards of sunlight pried their way in through the gaps in the curtains and fell in crisscrossed patterns across the floor.

  It wasn't particularly messy, but the array of clothes discarded from last night still lay beside the bed and a small stack of CDs had been knocked over. Tom Jones smiled up at Marty cheekily from within a plastic case.

  The adjoining bathroom door was still ajar from his recent visit and a clothes hamper stood overflowing in the corner next to it. On the far wall was a desk littered with sketches, doodles, and various art paraphernalia. A spotlight leaned in, and dangling from it was a key ring with a picture of Harvey the Space Beagle grinning cheerily from within an oversized space helmet.

  Next to that, the cupboard. Its slatted door open, but seemingly not quite as talkative as it had been earlier. This was Marty's wardrobe, and although he also kept shoes, books, and various other knickknacks in there, he could not remember ever storing anything in there that had a squeaky-gravelly voice.

  "Erm…hello…?"

  The quiet of the room was broken, and Marty felt a little foolish as he made his enquiry to the cupboard.

  "Is anyone in there?"

  For a moment, silence was restored in the room, and Marty started to think maybe he had overdone it slightly last night. Then the cupboard replied.

  "Hello! Are you feeling better?"

  It was the same squeak-gravel voice as before, and Marty jumped back, startled.

  "Umm, I'm not sure," he managed. "I think I might be going mad. I'm talking to a cupboard."

  The voice chuckled. "Or talking to what's in the cupboard?"

  "No, I don't think so. None of my shoes talk."

  Marty edged closer, picking up a slipper and brandishing it over his head. Cautiously, he pushed the cupboard door fully open and peered inside. Shirts and coats hung from a rail and a shoe tree dangled from a hook in the corner, filled with non-talking shoes. An open box filled with books and magazines sat in the corner next to a set of bongo drums and a traffic cone. Marty squinted and cleared his throat.

  "Who's in here?"

  "Down here," the voice chirped again from behind the box of books.

  Marty shifted his gaze to the box. There was nothing there. Just books, the drums, the traffic cone, and a small doll dressed as a pirate.

  The pirate doll nodded at Marty and waved. "Avast!" it squealed happily.

  Marty leapt several feet backwards, letting out an involuntary yelp and tripping over the partner of the slipper he held in his hand. Scrambling to his feet, he thrust his makeshift club out in front of him as the little pirate doll trotted out of the cupboard and stood proudly, hands on hips, spot lit by a shaft of morning sunlight.

  "I thought you'd be happier to see me. What are you planning on doing with that?" enquired the tiny buccaneer, pointing at Marty's slipper.

  There are many things that would doubtless go through a person's mind when faced with a talking toy. What Marty managed, although not particularly incisive, was probably the most pert
inent thing to say given the circumstances.

  "Who? What?"

  The little pirate looked quizzically at Marty. "Well, the 'what' part seems to involve you having some sort of fit, and as for 'who', I thought you would have recognized old Timbers!"

  "Timbers? But I haven't seen you since I was five!" Marty's head spun. He was certain that his mother had given Timbers away years ago with the rest of his childhood toys. He was also certain that Timbers hadn't been this talkative when he was a child. He was, however, exactly how Marty remembered him, minus the whole talking thing.

  Standing about two feet tall, the little sack cloth pirate had a broad grin stitched onto his face, which displayed more gaps than teeth. One black beady eye was accompanied by a leather eye patch covering the other. An impressive looking scar had been sewn onto his right cheek, and his chin was a mass of stubbly wool. He wore an oversized tri-cornered hat perched rakishly atop his head, which carried the trademark skull and bones logo, although it was cartoon like and friendly looking. In keeping with the look, he also sported a felt blue frock coat with shiny gold trim and huge gold buttons, a frilled white felt shirt beneath and faded brown felt trousers. The ensemble was completed by a pair of black leather cavalier boots with gleaming silver buckles. From his belt hung a cutlass with an ornately curved gold hilt, and on his other hip, a tiny plastic flintlock pistol.

  Now the grin vanished and was replaced by a pursed-lipped look of uncertainty. Timbers' brow was furrowed and he was scratching his wool stubble thoughtfully. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "No, I think a ghost would be slightly less worrying," blurted Marty, who had backed away and come to rest in his desk chair, slipper still held out tamely in an attempt to look threatening. "I'm not even at work yet and already inanimate objects are talking to me." At the theme park it was cute and mildly amusing, here though, seeing a toy pirate advancing out of his bedroom cupboard and saying hello was definitely several miles the wrong side of strange.