Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) Read Online Free
Author: Benjamin Sobieck
as often as it is, they never were in the first place, but that’s not quite the point, either.
I occupy a unique position in the world, one where I can have several lifetimes’ worth of adventures in the span of a week with enough regularity to make a living from them. I owe it to everyone who could only dream of that chance, who bide their time surfing the ‘net at libraries because they don’t have a computer, who work unfulfilling jobs just to make car payments so they can afford the daily commute into work, who find relief from raising a house of kids by staring at the TV, who think reading enough inspirational books will teleport their lives into satisfaction without stepping foot outside their door, who stockpile better days in the pictures on the fridge and who buy lottery tickets because deep down they’re convinced they’re just temporarily inconvenienced millionaires. I do it for them.
I do it for the same reason we look to rock stars to trash hotel rooms, show up high to interviews, fuck until their pelvises crack, insult world leaders, burn out and die in car crashes. People yearn to live beyond the boxes the world puts them in, but most are too sheepish or have too much at stake to break from their routine. So they hold on the only way they can. They live vicariously through their heroes. Sometimes they’re musicians or artists. Sometimes they’re sports stars. Sometimes they’re politicians or religious figures.
And sometimes they’re writers who pen books about their adventures around the world, who bump into readers at the library.
This Iceman mystery might turn out to be nothing, but that doesn’t mean I can walk away from it. There’s enough in the bank account to cover my travel for a few days. I can’t not give it its due diligence.
“Chase?” the woman says, refocusing my attention. “You’re ‘actually’ what?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?” I say.
“We just met, so you can trust me,” she says.
I like her sense of humor.
I lean in and lower my voice to a whisper. “My next book is going to be about a human-ape hybrid experiment gone wrong. Some real mad scientist stuff.”
The woman lights up. She says, “I like the sound of that. When’s it coming out?”
“As soon as I’m finished researching it. I’m headed into the field now.”
“Could be dangerous. Watch your back,” she says.
I pull away and start once more for the door. Looking back with a grin, I nod to the pervs browsing porn on the computers and say to her, “You, too.”
6.
The Museum of the Bizarre in Austin, Texas, located off a dusty back road better suited to goats than tourist traps, lives up to its name one haunted doll and alien embryo at a time. And that’s just the people waiting in line to get in. “Keep Austin Weird” indeed.
I skip the cloak and dagger routine upon arrival, with the exception of the .45 and survival knife holstered beneath my bush jacket, opting instead to blend in with the regular saps outside the door. The place doesn’t open for another 10 minutes.
That’s 10 minutes too many for a brain that tends to find patterns in the most paranoid ways possible. It makes me the best at what I do, but it also forces my eyes to pause too long on a couple making small talk as they wait.
Did they say my name?
They glance my way, noticing me notice them, and suddenly I’m not the only one paranoid. Nor am I alone in carrying a concealed firearm, as I surmise from the baggy jackets and loose-fitting pants. Paranoia and handguns. Seems about right. This is Texas, after all.
The doors to the Museum of the Bizarre open, and the line of people shuffles inside. I put on my best act as a tourist to blend in. Better to use the soft approach this time, since I only have half a clue what I’m doing here. It’s not a hard jig to dance, though. The exhibits include the corpse of the supposed Fiji mermaid, a variety of shrunken heads, freaks of the animal kingdom fading
I occupy a unique position in the world, one where I can have several lifetimes’ worth of adventures in the span of a week with enough regularity to make a living from them. I owe it to everyone who could only dream of that chance, who bide their time surfing the ‘net at libraries because they don’t have a computer, who work unfulfilling jobs just to make car payments so they can afford the daily commute into work, who find relief from raising a house of kids by staring at the TV, who think reading enough inspirational books will teleport their lives into satisfaction without stepping foot outside their door, who stockpile better days in the pictures on the fridge and who buy lottery tickets because deep down they’re convinced they’re just temporarily inconvenienced millionaires. I do it for them.
I do it for the same reason we look to rock stars to trash hotel rooms, show up high to interviews, fuck until their pelvises crack, insult world leaders, burn out and die in car crashes. People yearn to live beyond the boxes the world puts them in, but most are too sheepish or have too much at stake to break from their routine. So they hold on the only way they can. They live vicariously through their heroes. Sometimes they’re musicians or artists. Sometimes they’re sports stars. Sometimes they’re politicians or religious figures.
And sometimes they’re writers who pen books about their adventures around the world, who bump into readers at the library.
This Iceman mystery might turn out to be nothing, but that doesn’t mean I can walk away from it. There’s enough in the bank account to cover my travel for a few days. I can’t not give it its due diligence.
“Chase?” the woman says, refocusing my attention. “You’re ‘actually’ what?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?” I say.
“We just met, so you can trust me,” she says.
I like her sense of humor.
I lean in and lower my voice to a whisper. “My next book is going to be about a human-ape hybrid experiment gone wrong. Some real mad scientist stuff.”
The woman lights up. She says, “I like the sound of that. When’s it coming out?”
“As soon as I’m finished researching it. I’m headed into the field now.”
“Could be dangerous. Watch your back,” she says.
I pull away and start once more for the door. Looking back with a grin, I nod to the pervs browsing porn on the computers and say to her, “You, too.”
6.
The Museum of the Bizarre in Austin, Texas, located off a dusty back road better suited to goats than tourist traps, lives up to its name one haunted doll and alien embryo at a time. And that’s just the people waiting in line to get in. “Keep Austin Weird” indeed.
I skip the cloak and dagger routine upon arrival, with the exception of the .45 and survival knife holstered beneath my bush jacket, opting instead to blend in with the regular saps outside the door. The place doesn’t open for another 10 minutes.
That’s 10 minutes too many for a brain that tends to find patterns in the most paranoid ways possible. It makes me the best at what I do, but it also forces my eyes to pause too long on a couple making small talk as they wait.
Did they say my name?
They glance my way, noticing me notice them, and suddenly I’m not the only one paranoid. Nor am I alone in carrying a concealed firearm, as I surmise from the baggy jackets and loose-fitting pants. Paranoia and handguns. Seems about right. This is Texas, after all.
The doors to the Museum of the Bizarre open, and the line of people shuffles inside. I put on my best act as a tourist to blend in. Better to use the soft approach this time, since I only have half a clue what I’m doing here. It’s not a hard jig to dance, though. The exhibits include the corpse of the supposed Fiji mermaid, a variety of shrunken heads, freaks of the animal kingdom fading
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