Read Online Jay Lake and the Last Temple of the Monkey King by Ken Scholes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ken Scholes
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President of the United States has been . . . disconnected.”
Jay’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly did you manage that?”
Again, the chuckle. “I am a man of many talents.” The chuckle became a giggle.
“Well,” Jay said, “thank you for your assistance in that matter.”
He let the tin can fall and opened his laptop. He did his writing on the Inscrutable Alien Story Device but, unfortunately, its gray-skinned owners had not bothered to build connectivity into it. Yawning, he opened his Instant Messenger.
The tin can vibrated again and he ignored it. It stopped. It started again. Jay stretched out his fingers, entirely unaware of the deeply buried Pavlovian Trigger that had been planted in him during his childhood in Africa. He wrestled his own will and forced his hand to the pruning shears.
A message from UrRchNemesys popped up. ANSWER THE CAN, MR. LAKE.
Jay’s fingers flew across the keys. WHOISTHIS?
The letters appeared slowly now. T-H-E-W-O-O-D-S-A-R-E-L-O-V-E-L-Y-D-A-R-K-A-N-D-D-E-E-P.
Jay’s will evaporated and, suddenly, answering the can was the most important thing he could ever do with his life. His hand flew up and grabbed the cold tin, his fingers moving faster than a fat boy at a rib buffet. When he spoke into the can, his voice sounded far away and tinny. “But I have promises to keep.”
The unmistakable giggle filled his head. “Yes, you do, Mr. Lake. Listen carefully.”
Jay leaned over the desk. “What do you want?”
“I want,” the voice said, “the Last Temple of the Monkey King. Tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you value the life of every last man, woman and child on this planet?”
Jay nodded. “I do.”
“Do you want them to have healthy self-esteem and a respect for the boundaries of others?”
Jay thought about this for a moment, then shrugged. “Certainly.”
“Then,” the voice said, “you’d better figure it out.”
It took seventeen hours, fifty three minutes and fourteen seconds to do the research. That meant twelve hundred and thirteen emails, eight hundred six LiveJournal posts, and six promised, last-minute short stories (three of which later made various and sundry award ballots in a classic homage to style under pressure).
In the end, the location of the Last Temple of the Monkey King cost Jay Lake a MoMo recipe he’d stolen from an Indonesian massage therapist and fourteen full color illustrations of a certain Disney character of Very Little Brain in compromising positions while frolicking with his friends in the forest.
Sighing, he packed his laptop, his Inscrutable Alien Story Device and two changes of underwear into his battered leather satchel.
Then, scooping up the keys to his GENREMOBILE, Jay Lake whistled his attack cats awake and walked into the waning day.
Fifteen minutes later, when he stopped to fill the tank of his covertible, Jay noticed the pale, thin man who pumped his gas. He was a writer. He noticed character. This one had no hair. From the top of his head to the backs of his hands, the gas attendant was fishbelly white and completely hairless, right down to the eyelashes and nostrils. Jay stuck up a conversation. “Do you like goats?”
The man said nothing and Jay continued his observation, noticing the slightest hesitation as he studied the gas nozzle before continuing. Then he noticed the way he stood with his legs just slightly too far apart. Small talk, he realized, was the secret to good character study. He smiled. “Ever been to the moon with a talking dog?”
Still silent, Jay continued noticing and kept right on noticing until he failed utterly to notice the tracking device the bald man placed just under the rear bumper while pretending to trip and stumble.
“Careful there,” Jay Lake said.
And he was back on the road again, pushing north for Mount Rainier and the Last Temple of the Monkey King.
The warm night wind tossed back Jay’s hair as he
Jay’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly did you manage that?”
Again, the chuckle. “I am a man of many talents.” The chuckle became a giggle.
“Well,” Jay said, “thank you for your assistance in that matter.”
He let the tin can fall and opened his laptop. He did his writing on the Inscrutable Alien Story Device but, unfortunately, its gray-skinned owners had not bothered to build connectivity into it. Yawning, he opened his Instant Messenger.
The tin can vibrated again and he ignored it. It stopped. It started again. Jay stretched out his fingers, entirely unaware of the deeply buried Pavlovian Trigger that had been planted in him during his childhood in Africa. He wrestled his own will and forced his hand to the pruning shears.
A message from UrRchNemesys popped up. ANSWER THE CAN, MR. LAKE.
Jay’s fingers flew across the keys. WHOISTHIS?
The letters appeared slowly now. T-H-E-W-O-O-D-S-A-R-E-L-O-V-E-L-Y-D-A-R-K-A-N-D-D-E-E-P.
Jay’s will evaporated and, suddenly, answering the can was the most important thing he could ever do with his life. His hand flew up and grabbed the cold tin, his fingers moving faster than a fat boy at a rib buffet. When he spoke into the can, his voice sounded far away and tinny. “But I have promises to keep.”
The unmistakable giggle filled his head. “Yes, you do, Mr. Lake. Listen carefully.”
Jay leaned over the desk. “What do you want?”
“I want,” the voice said, “the Last Temple of the Monkey King. Tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you value the life of every last man, woman and child on this planet?”
Jay nodded. “I do.”
“Do you want them to have healthy self-esteem and a respect for the boundaries of others?”
Jay thought about this for a moment, then shrugged. “Certainly.”
“Then,” the voice said, “you’d better figure it out.”
It took seventeen hours, fifty three minutes and fourteen seconds to do the research. That meant twelve hundred and thirteen emails, eight hundred six LiveJournal posts, and six promised, last-minute short stories (three of which later made various and sundry award ballots in a classic homage to style under pressure).
In the end, the location of the Last Temple of the Monkey King cost Jay Lake a MoMo recipe he’d stolen from an Indonesian massage therapist and fourteen full color illustrations of a certain Disney character of Very Little Brain in compromising positions while frolicking with his friends in the forest.
Sighing, he packed his laptop, his Inscrutable Alien Story Device and two changes of underwear into his battered leather satchel.
Then, scooping up the keys to his GENREMOBILE, Jay Lake whistled his attack cats awake and walked into the waning day.
Fifteen minutes later, when he stopped to fill the tank of his covertible, Jay noticed the pale, thin man who pumped his gas. He was a writer. He noticed character. This one had no hair. From the top of his head to the backs of his hands, the gas attendant was fishbelly white and completely hairless, right down to the eyelashes and nostrils. Jay stuck up a conversation. “Do you like goats?”
The man said nothing and Jay continued his observation, noticing the slightest hesitation as he studied the gas nozzle before continuing. Then he noticed the way he stood with his legs just slightly too far apart. Small talk, he realized, was the secret to good character study. He smiled. “Ever been to the moon with a talking dog?”
Still silent, Jay continued noticing and kept right on noticing until he failed utterly to notice the tracking device the bald man placed just under the rear bumper while pretending to trip and stumble.
“Careful there,” Jay Lake said.
And he was back on the road again, pushing north for Mount Rainier and the Last Temple of the Monkey King.
The warm night wind tossed back Jay’s hair as he
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