Becoming Darkness

The Making of a Minion

*****Note: This is the story of the villain's minion from my novel, Thunderstone. His POV scenes were deleted to make the novel more mysterious and creepy. The final scene of this story will reveal the ending of Thunderstone.

Although his head was on the floor, Ned felt grateful for the cool surface where his face rested. He opened his eyes. Two shot glasses sat on the floor in front of his nose. Further down, he identified a couple of cardboard coasters. His forehead creased as he squinted.

One shot glass. One coaster.

As cognizance seeped into the rest of his body, he realized he was sitting. On a stool. If that was so, he reasoned, then his head could not be on the floor. Probing his alcohol addled brain; Ned eventually concluded that the side of his face was pressed on the bar.

"Closing time."

Gingerly, he lifted his head. A string of saliva extended from the corner of his mouth to a puddle of drool on the bar surface. He lifted his arm and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Damn, he'd missed last call.

"Time to go, buddy." The bartender cleared the shot glass and coaster as he wiped down the bar. "Need me to call you a taxi?"

A citrusy odor wafted from the bartender's towel, stinging Ned's nose and sending a spike of pain to his left temple. "Nah, slept it off." The words slurred slightly around his thick tongue. He waited until the bartender's back was turned to slip off the stool with both hands braced on the edge of the bar for stability. When he felt somewhat steady on his feet, he turned to the door, gave a little push off the bar, and shuffled forward. No way in heck was he spending money on a cab.

The chairs were arranged upside-down on the table tops giving him a clear shot and he actually made it across the room without stumbling into something. He leaned against the door frame, then pulled the door open and lurched out into the darkness. Fumbling around in his pockets, Ned groaned when he came up empty handed. Some a-hole in the bar must've pick-pocketed his keys and taken his car.

The thought was immediately contested when his blurry vision fell on his car still in the lot.

With a snort of derision, he contemplated that the pick-pocket was not only an a-hole, but also an idiot. He pulled the door handle on the driver's side and when it swung open he climbed inside. Though he couldn't go anywhere, at least he had a place to rest his head and close his eyes. College kids probably lost their keys all the time, he mused. Not that he'd know. But if he'd done his drinking in college—if he had gone to college—he'd probably have friends to call when he couldn't find his car keys.

Suddenly he jerked forward and slammed his fist on the dash. "It ain't fair," he mumbled, slumping until his forehead rested on the steering wheel. His vision focused and he stared at keys hanging from the ignition. Comprehension took a moment, then he barked out a bitter laugh. "Backwoods folk don't even know to steal something when it's right in front of them!"

The starter churned for a few seconds before the engine roared to life. With a grim smile, Ned jammed his foot down on the gas pedal leaving a cloud of dust behind him as he rolled onto blacktop. He needed to get back on US 2 toward Duluth. Though he didn't have another lead yet, someone was sure to have noticed his bitch of a wife or at least her shiny red Mustang.

US 2 was a straight shot north. His muddled mind however, put him on the road headed south. He missed the sign for Highway 200 as well as the brown and white sign for Itasca State Park. Flying through the stop sign at the intersection of US 2 and Highway 200, Ned slammed on the brakes and skidded sideways. His left fender halted inches from the large entrance sign for the state park. Frowning, he studied the yellow letters which stood out starkly from the dark wood and then looked both ways on Highway 200. With a shrug, he floored the gas pedal and sped off east, tires spitting gravel.