The Unfinished 2 – Full Novel (Sneak Peak at First Few Pages)

Have you read the original UNFINISHED short story and can’t wait to find out what comes next? Have the tables been turned on Donny? Did he do it? Will he survive?

To answer all of these questions, you’ll have to wait for the full novel to be released. But for now, here’s a sneak peak at chapter 2.

I must be dreaming.  Wake me up, lord, wake me.  But I’m alive, breathin’ and apparently on trial.

The Bailiff drags me to the Defense Table.  I’m not kickin and screamin, cause I don’t believe this is happening.

Melanie tightens the scarf around her neck as a sort of re-assurance. The Courtroom is silent.  Melanie looks me dead in my eyes, “Donny York… that’s him, I’m sure of it.”

The Prosecutor, with a smug look sewn across his yapper asks Melanie, “Please explain to the jury what happened on the night of February 2.”

[sociallocker id=”683″]Melanie stares at me as if trying to communicate telepathically.  I can’t read a damn brain wave, thought, nadda.  Frustrated, she continues, “Donny and I had just had dinner at the Fountain.”  “I had been after him for weeks to take me there.”  “And the place did not disappoint.”  “We ordered from the happy hour menu as Donny was cheap that way.” “But I wasn’t complaining.  The food was delish, the drinks free-flowing… just like Donny’s hands.”  “He couldn’t keep his mitts off of me… touching me in places that are normally off limits in public.” “But I decided, what the heck, we’re celebrating.”

The Prosecutor chirps in, “Celebrating what?”  “Our commitment to each other.” “We were betrothed.”

All that she was saying was true, in fact.  Except for the part where I whacked her.  I began to watch, more than listen to her words; her movements, ticks, patterns of speech.  Somethin’ is off kilter.  Her nails, or lack there of… she bites them down to the nub when she’s nervous, feeling cornered.  That dame suffers from onychophagia; a serious case if ever I saw one.  She even joined a 12 step program in order to help her stop the biting.  Our last night together, her hands resembled that of Mother Mary.  Now look at them.  Hands of a grave-digger.

The last time Melanie felt cornered was several months ago.  We were at the zoo.  I hate the zoo.  Very depressing. But Melanie wanted to go.  Something about the mixed breed exhibit.  I didn’t see what the big deal was.  We see mixed breed all the time.  It’s called a donkey.  But she had to go.

I left her in front of one of the open-air cages to pick up some suds.  Suds usually do the trick.  Coming back, I see Melanie in an argument with some flat foot.  As soon as he spots me, he abruptly concludes the conversation, casually walks away, leaving Melanie biting the shit out of her nails.

She refused to tell me what was really going on; only some crap about mistaken identity.

Now I know I’m no Einstein, but I know when I’m being handed a bill of goods.  And this sister was dishing it out.  Who was that badge, and what did he want with Melanie?

The Prosecutor takes quantum steps to land precisely in front of me.  Ten equally measured steps.  All timed precisely to give weight to the moment he pronounces my guilt with his index finger pressing on our table, his finely pressed double breasted with creases pointing in my direction.  This Joe means business.

The prosecutor shifts slightly to the right in order to highlight his good side for the viewing audience.  And that’s exactly what this was, a show, a farce, with me as the main attraction.

I jolt out of my seat, as if hit by a bolt of electricity. “Melanie, speak the truth, doll, and I’ll forgive ya!”  The judge pounds away on his gavel, the prosecution wags his finger in my direction, yet, the Bailiff shoves me back in my seat.  This is the sound bite that they’ll play over and over again on the news.  I gave them theater!

Melanie buries her face in her hands, refuses to look in my direction.

My grandfather, in the jury box, smiles, gives me the thumbs up and the Prosecution, the finger.  I loved it.  The Judge didn’t. They remove him from the jury and replace him with an alternate.

My gramps has the last word as he’s ushered out, “So what if he did it, my boys deader than a door nail in 48 with or without your stinking verdict!”

Thanks gramps.  I think.  But he was right.  Why put an unfinished on trial for murder when there is no way they can serve any kind of sentence.

Unless, what they say about 72 hours…. to say it without the trimmings, is a lie?[/sociallocker]