Read Online Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Pirog
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see, how much had I spent on this insipid book? Four times twenty-seven equals—carry the one—one hundred and eight dollars.
Hell, if I kept this up, Eight in October would be the number one selling book of all time. Look out The Bible .
As I made my way to the end of the line, I couldn’t help notice the number of men far outweighed the number of women. Then I thought about it, women didn’t read true-crime genre, they read Danielle Steel and those Nicholas peeter-puffers.
Inside the store, there were about a hundred or so people filing through a series of switchback rows. I stood on my tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the guest of honor, but my view was blocked by a table stacked high with copies of Eight in October . The guy in front of me turned and asked, “Did you get a look at the pictures? Pretty gnarly shit, huh?”
“What pictures?” I inquired benignly.
He pulled a magazine from his back pocket. It was last November’s issue of Time with the caption “ The Maine Event ” plastered on the front cover. On the left side of the cover was a picture of Tristen Grayer’s disfigured corpse. Splitting the cover were the letter’s “Vs.” And the right half was a blown up picture of yours truly in my University of Washington hoody.
I held my breath. The man bypassed the cover and began rifling through the magazine’s pages. Unconsciously he must have noticed something and ultimately made his way back to the front cover. He glanced from me to the cover. Then did the act one more time for good measure, before asking, “That you?”
I assured him it was not moi .
He said, “Same face. Same sweatshirt. I think this is you.”
“Well it’s not.” I edged myself as far away as possible without losing my place in line.
The man whispered something to the guy in front of him, which was overheard by the people in front of them, and within a short two minute span, everyone was craning their necks to get a look at the famed Thomas Prescott. A couple brave souls approached me and asked if I would sign their copy of Eight in October . I politely told them I would if I had a pen. They kept supplying me with pens but they kept snapping in half, it was weird. After the third pen, people stopped asking.
The line moved steadily and by one-thirty I was ten people from the front of the line. The stack of books was much smaller now, but they still obstructed any view of Alex Tooms. The anticipation was killing me, I wanted to see what this jerk looked like. He couldn’t possibly be an attractive guy, could he? My brain had concocted an image of a half human, half Jaba-the-Hut-type thing. That’s probably why they had the book wall erected, to hide the beast.
When it was finally my turn, I walked past the book curtain, took in a deep breath, and mentally shit my pants. Alex Tooms was a woman.
Alex, or make that Alexandria, had her eyes glued to the book she was writing in, yet I could still make out the majority of her features. She looked to be in her late twenties, a compact 5’6”, mocha brown hair held back in a ponytail, and sleek olive skin. She was wearing faded blue jeans with a simple red tank top, and I wasn’t sure if she had three older brothers or four. She sensed my presence and without looking up from her present endeavor, said, “Do you need to buy a book?”
I heard myself say, “Yes, I need a book.”
She pushed her project aside, grabbed a fresh copy, all the while with her head down mind you, and said, “Who do you want it made out to?”
For as much as I was dreading this moment, it couldn’t have played out any better. I licked my chops and said, “Thomas Prescott.”
It was as if she was tied down on train tracks and each syllable of my name made up the train barreling towards her. The last “T”, the caboose, came to a screeching halt inches from her frail body. She dropped her pen and looked up.
When God made her eyes, he evidently used dyes Yellow 5 and Blue
Hell, if I kept this up, Eight in October would be the number one selling book of all time. Look out The Bible .
As I made my way to the end of the line, I couldn’t help notice the number of men far outweighed the number of women. Then I thought about it, women didn’t read true-crime genre, they read Danielle Steel and those Nicholas peeter-puffers.
Inside the store, there were about a hundred or so people filing through a series of switchback rows. I stood on my tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the guest of honor, but my view was blocked by a table stacked high with copies of Eight in October . The guy in front of me turned and asked, “Did you get a look at the pictures? Pretty gnarly shit, huh?”
“What pictures?” I inquired benignly.
He pulled a magazine from his back pocket. It was last November’s issue of Time with the caption “ The Maine Event ” plastered on the front cover. On the left side of the cover was a picture of Tristen Grayer’s disfigured corpse. Splitting the cover were the letter’s “Vs.” And the right half was a blown up picture of yours truly in my University of Washington hoody.
I held my breath. The man bypassed the cover and began rifling through the magazine’s pages. Unconsciously he must have noticed something and ultimately made his way back to the front cover. He glanced from me to the cover. Then did the act one more time for good measure, before asking, “That you?”
I assured him it was not moi .
He said, “Same face. Same sweatshirt. I think this is you.”
“Well it’s not.” I edged myself as far away as possible without losing my place in line.
The man whispered something to the guy in front of him, which was overheard by the people in front of them, and within a short two minute span, everyone was craning their necks to get a look at the famed Thomas Prescott. A couple brave souls approached me and asked if I would sign their copy of Eight in October . I politely told them I would if I had a pen. They kept supplying me with pens but they kept snapping in half, it was weird. After the third pen, people stopped asking.
The line moved steadily and by one-thirty I was ten people from the front of the line. The stack of books was much smaller now, but they still obstructed any view of Alex Tooms. The anticipation was killing me, I wanted to see what this jerk looked like. He couldn’t possibly be an attractive guy, could he? My brain had concocted an image of a half human, half Jaba-the-Hut-type thing. That’s probably why they had the book wall erected, to hide the beast.
When it was finally my turn, I walked past the book curtain, took in a deep breath, and mentally shit my pants. Alex Tooms was a woman.
Alex, or make that Alexandria, had her eyes glued to the book she was writing in, yet I could still make out the majority of her features. She looked to be in her late twenties, a compact 5’6”, mocha brown hair held back in a ponytail, and sleek olive skin. She was wearing faded blue jeans with a simple red tank top, and I wasn’t sure if she had three older brothers or four. She sensed my presence and without looking up from her present endeavor, said, “Do you need to buy a book?”
I heard myself say, “Yes, I need a book.”
She pushed her project aside, grabbed a fresh copy, all the while with her head down mind you, and said, “Who do you want it made out to?”
For as much as I was dreading this moment, it couldn’t have played out any better. I licked my chops and said, “Thomas Prescott.”
It was as if she was tied down on train tracks and each syllable of my name made up the train barreling towards her. The last “T”, the caboose, came to a screeching halt inches from her frail body. She dropped her pen and looked up.
When God made her eyes, he evidently used dyes Yellow 5 and Blue
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