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Flesh Field
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ISBN-10: 1-77115-004-1
ISBN-13: 
Genre: Dark Fantasy/Suspense/Thriller
eBook Length: 157 Pages
Published: July 2012



From inside the flap

Flesh Field is a horror fantasy action story based on T.S. Eliotís poem The Waste Land. Much like the Fisher King in T.S. Eliotís work, the main character, Rex Fisher, is searching for life in a decomposing world.

Rex Fisher, a former U.S. Navy SEAL commander, has successfully established a billion-dollar business empire, Rex Executive Command, as a security contractor. Having lived a life on the edge of death and decadence for many years, Rex wishes nothing more than to father a child and settle down for good with his pampered supermodel girlfriend Oedipa on his private island in the Indian Ocean. However, Oedipa and her best friend, the eccentric fashion billionaire Victor Shakapopulis, are not entirely convinced that Rex is father material because of his profession. Despite Victorís objections, Oedipa agrees to start a family with Rex if he can bring her an occult artifact, the Orexis Oriens, crafted by Semiramis, the Queen of Babylon.

Flesh Field (Excerpt)


Driven Like The Snow

"Do you love me?" Oedipa whispered into my right ear, nibbling my earlobe delicately with her glossy lips. She then rolled over on her back in the handcrafted king-size mahogany bed ornamented with cherubs, and started kicking away the mustard-colored bed sheets with her smooth, elegant long legs. She held her legs in the air, drew circles with her big toes and caressed her thighs. Oedipa loves to strut her stuff; one of the worldís ranking top models, she dominates her chosen world with graceful supremacy. There was something disturbing and uncanny about Oedipaís physical beauty. I couldnít quite put my finger on it, but the aura she radiated seemed to originate from outside of this world, something that both intimidated and fascinated me. She has the intense eyes, high cheekbones, and vibrant chestnut-colored hair of Keira Knightley and the lush lips, sexy voice and thick eyelashes of Scarlett Johansson. Reticence has nothing on Oedipa; she understands perfectly the power of her mesmerizing beauty. To Oedipa, the meaning of life is the successful amalgamation of three basic entities: sex, money and power. Her radical interpretation of life stemmed from a career in modeling that skyrocketed at the age of twelve, when an Eileen Ford scout spotted her trying on a pair of designer jeans in a high-end fashion boutique. From there on, she was taken under the protective wings of people who introduced her to a world of designer drugs, sex, power and money. They convinced the twelve-year-old Oedipa that the world was at her feet, which she took literally, embarking on a merciless crusade to conquer the fashion and entertainment industry. She even had her own death wish list that she meticulously updated every day - names were either added or crossed out. When she reached her goal, absolute dominion, the ashes of fashion editors, A-list actors, producers, directors, designers, models and wives of industrialists who had dared to defy her lay scattered in the seven seas. Her magnetic beauty captivated me, but it was the napalm in her eyes that won my heart. Like me, she was a hell raiser, defiant to the end, indestructible and determined to prevail. I met Oedipa at the K1 championship fight after-party in Tokyo a couple of years ago. She was under siege by two Japanese guys dressed like characters from a fantasy computer game. One had a green monkey suit and yellow bowler hat and walked around with a light-blue plastic walking stick; the other wore a silver metallic tracksuit that matched his spiky off-white hair. They were fighting a war of attrition to win her undivided attention when I noticed her glimpse in my direction. Our eyes locked for a fleeting moment, she smiled and ripped my heart out of my ribcage. Oedipa was wearing a black Dior denim miniskirt and black top with spaghetti straps, which punched the air right out of my lungs. I gathered my strength, and eventually approached her, my heartbeat picking up speed the closer I came. "Hello stranger," she greeted me imitating John Wayne, and took a sip of her favorite drink, piŮa colada. "Howdy, Maíam," I replied, launching her into a laughing frenzy. The two wooers honorably admitted defeat and dispersed in search of other round-eyed women they could enforce their sexual desires upon. Oedipa not only looked great, she was also adorned with a great sense of humor, which completed my infatuation of her. I forgot about time and place, looking into her warm oceanic eyes; her beauty transcended life, even art - it was of a dimension yet to be revealed.

We always slept in the nude this time of year; anything else would be foolish as the humid tropic weather literally soaked your skin in sweat. Oedipa, being accustomed to the pulsating life of New York City, with its unrivalled collection of restaurants, nightclubs, performance venues, media outlets, and celebrities with egos the size of Godzilla, found the tropical climate, tranquility of the turquoise water and sandy beach too boring in the long run. But, from my point of view, being a wealthy security contractor with more enemies than the U.S. and Israel combined, acquiring a 25-square kilometer island from the Indonesian government that I christened Rita after my mother, didnít seem like such a hazardous investment.

Unfortunately, after eleven months, Oedipa lost interest in my dream of laying the foundations of my business empire on Rita Island and made a sovereign decision that we move to New York City. I wasnít amused by the idea of relocating to New York City, as I had invested millions of dollars in the construction of a command and control center and state-of-the-art training facilities in counterterrorism. I made it crystal clear that I wasnít going anywhere. After her premeditated begging failed to achieve its purpose, she decided to threaten me; either we moved to New York City or I would be spanking my monkey for the rest of the year. "Iíll move when you can snowboard in hell," I replied. Her íno sexí strategy had worked flawlessly with her spineless ex-lovers who had thrown themselves shamelessly at her feet crying and moaning, begging for forgiveness. Not me though, I laughed hysterically for several minutes which was a reaction Oedipa didnít quite expect, but in the light of the absurd situation, breaking out laughing was all I could do. My rampant laughter faded away when I noticed that Oedipa was ready to burst like Mount Etna and embark on a wanton destruction spree. Oedipa expected me to cry a river and surrender to her sexy, curvy figure and sensuous, captivating charm like all the men in her life had. Boy, was she wrong! Clearly, she wasnít accustomed to being brushed off, and it completely baffled her, but nonetheless I emphasized that the subject was non-negotiable, period. Supermodel or no supermodel. Victor Shakapopulis, her extravagant Greek gay billionaire and shopping and clubbing guru, who looked like a dangerously obese version of Matt Damon, sent his private plane to pick up Oedipa, and flew her to his penthouse in New York City where she vented her anger by partying herself senseless. We have had fights before where we practically blow-dried each otherís hair screaming profanities at each other, but in the end love prevailed and we would usually end up tearing each otherís clothes off with our teeth and having fan-fucking-tastic sex. Made me wish we had fights more often, at least once a week. However, this time a compromise seemed like a ghost ship aimlessly sailing the seven seas. Convinced-or rather, hoping-that we would get over this one as well, I remained calm and collective the first two weeks. Into the fourth day of the third week, just when I was about to eat my words about how I wouldnít throw myself crying and moaning at her feet, Oedipa, thank God, declared herself willing to compromise - no thanks to Victor, who had advocated a clean break up.

Oedipa ran her hand through her thick chestnut-colored hair, wetted her fat bouncy Botox-impregnated lips with the tip of her flexible tongue and sighed. I jerked up on my elbows and yawned. I could feel the soothing morning breeze make its entrance through the balcony. The melodic chirping of the fairy bluebird and orange-headed thrush verified the fact that this was as close to heaven as one could get in the twenty-first century. I extended my humble gratitude to Mother Nature with a smile and reciprocated the kindness with a prayer, although Iím nowhere near being a religious man. It is, how do you say, a habit that has grown on me. A king in my own kingdom and the power to go with it; life is good, at least in this part of the world. The other part, I do not care much for; neither does God. Oedipa rolled back on her stomach, buried her elbows in the mattress and rested her chin in her cup-shaped hands. "Do you love me?" she repeated with a lustrous smile on her face that could challenge the sun.

I leaned forward, reached for a pack of Marlboro Lights that lay on the bedside table and lit a cigarette. "Iíd kill for you," I replied and looked her straight in the eyes for effect.

"You would, wouldnít you?" she chortled, amused.

"You better believe it," I replied. Her gaze shifted toward a black and white 4x4-foot picture on the wall of Oedipa and I walking hand-in-hand down the red carpet to the premiere of her debut movie, Ghost Dancer. Maybe she was unexpectedly overcome by my honesty.

"How does it feel to kill a man?"

"Itís just like having sex for the first time. Youíre a bit nervous and afraid that youíre going to fuck it up, but when you first get the hang of it you enjoy it more and more."

"Disgusting. Freaking perverted analogy."

"Sex and death is not a new cocktail. Itís an odd couple that has been around since Jesus was nailed to the cross, maybe even longer."

"All the same. Itís still revolting."

"Clearly the answer surprised you."

"Nothing surprises or shocks me."

"Seen much death and destruction parading that gorgeous ass of yours on the catwalk?"

"You know what I mean. I hate it when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like Iím some derailed slut straight out of Porn Valley. Like all the talent I have is limited to shopping and fucking."

"My facial expression says all that?"

"I know you, Rex. I know you better than you care to think. Does it scare you that I can read you like an open book?"

"Iím a bestseller, baby?"

"How many have you prematurely sent to the grave? Ten, twenty, over fifty? Any women and children? Dogs, cats?"

"Iím appalled by your question. You must have a deranged picture of me as a perverted serial killer who has his way, sexually, with his victims."

"Iím not sure what separates you from a serial killer or any other murderer for that matter, darling," she replied and smiled ironically.

"Iím deeply offended by your lack of insight into my profession. We do not kill. We terminate the existence of the object. You make us sound so barbaric, so cold-hearted," I replied and smiled back at her to underline the sarcasm. I could feel it made her uneasy because her eyes stiffened for a second.

"And the difference being?" she asked, expecting me to change the subject because there was no way in hell that I could possibly come up with a logical answer to that question.

"We have everything on contract, dear. We rarely get personal. Thereís no money in it."

"Itís never personal? Ever?"

"Well, of course, not always. But itís bad for business. Besides, it distracts you from thinking straight. Gotta have a clear mind when you slide your knife across the targetís throat or put a bullet in his head. In this business, indecision is more dangerous than making the wrong decision."

"How old were you the first time you killed a man?"

"I had just turned nineteen when Uncle Sam decided to send me to China to fight in the second Chinese civil war. I guess back then it was just a question of time before the rich provinces started to air their displeasure with the Communist Party and demand complete autonomy. Communism and capitalism are like water and oil; at some stage you have to decide in favor of one or the other. Itís like having your cake and eating it too. The White House decided to support the rebel provinces that wanted to build a nation closely modeled after the land of the free and the home of the brave. Hell, the dinks have copied everything else we invented. Pretty damn good at it too. The brass figured that a divided China is less of a threat to American interests than a united and strong China. Of course, Taiwan, Japan and North and South Korea joined the fray. Anyway, a month after the war broke out I found myself in the dense Chinese jungle hunting high-ranking rice jockeys. I was attached to SEAL Team 1 back then, Golf Platoon, second squad in Shanghai. Our mission was to quell the offensive by capturing or assassinating political leaders and high-ranking officers and cause havoc in their infrastructure. Basically, we had fun."