Names Have Power: Tim's Magic Voice Makes A Harem
Read Names Have Power: Tim's Magic Voice Makes A Harem Online
Authors: Doctor MC
Names
Have
Power
Tim’s Magic Voice Makes A Harem
Doctor
MC, Mad Scientist
HYPO TO HELIO BOOKS
Houston
Names Have Power
copyright 2012 by Doctor MC, Mad Scientist (pseudonym). All
rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced in any matter
whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Hypo To
Helio Books or the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All sexually active characters are eighteen or older.
Paperback’s ISBN: 978-1-938293-01-6
First edition
First printing, 2012
Front-cover render-art by: Doug Sturk
Author-photo render-art by: Doug Sturk
Contact Doctor MC, Mad Scientist at:
grim_ghost AT hotmail DOT com
HYPO TO HELIO BOOKS
2427 Clearbrook Drive
Missouri City, Texas 77489-6061
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 I See A Head-On Collision
Chapter 3 I Learn Strippers’ Secrets
Chapter 5 Deborah Makes A Deal
Chapter 7 I Make A Big Mistake
Chapter 9 A Date With Platinuma
Chapter 10 I Put My Babes To Work
Chapter 11 The Commercial Airs
Chapter 12 Dinner With Gothika
Chapter 14 Ashley + Ashley + Ashley
Chapter 15 Two Ashleys’ First Times
Chapter 17 I’m Told I Was Tricked
Chapter 19 The Last Puzzle Piece
THREE MORE WISHES preview
3MW Chapter 1 A Boy Called “Shorty”
Chapter 1
I See A Head-On Collision
Call me Timothy. Or Tim. But please don’t call me “Big
Tim”—that was my father, not me. Absolutely do not call me “Little Tim”—that
was cute when Dad and I were first doing commercials, but it’s not cute now.
And I don’t need a crutch and I don’t play ukulele, so “Tiny Tim” is out.
Everything changed on the evening after my father’s
funeral. I’d always thought of my father as “the happy bear,” and bears don’t
eat healthy; it was some cholesterol problem that had killed him. So two days
earlier, at the age of 27, I’d became heir to Dad’s Ford dealership. The truth
is, I’d rather have had my father around for another thirty years, but such is
life. Anyway, after listening to one more car dealer make one more insincere
expression of sympathy, I had to get out of the house! I told my mother that I
needed to go for a walk.
Standing by the front door was 22-year-old Susan
Cooper, my father’s executive secretary. From the looks of things, Mike Brown,
the general manager, was trying to hit on her. Again. I guess he liked a challenge,
and the Ice Bitch was certainly a challenge! Anyway, when I brushed by her, she
turned her back on Mike to face me, and she demanded, “Where are you going?”
“Out, I need to get out.”
“You’re leaving? That’s rude! People here want to
talk to you.”
“Are you one of them?”
“That remark is borderline inappropriate behavior,
Mister Hanson.”
“The people who genuinely mourn my father’s death,
they’re talking to my mother. The men who seek
me
out are checking-out
the fresh meat.”
She crossed her arms. “Still, it’s rude to leave
now.”
“Tell you what, Susan: After
your
father
dies,
then
you come advise me about funeral etiquette.”
She drew herself up straight. “I am
Ms.
Cooper to you, Mr. Hanson. I am a professional, and I deserve and expect to be
treated professionally by you, both
on
and
off
the jobsite!”
I glared at her. I’d met her for the first time,
five years ago, when I was a college senior, and she was an eighteen-year-old,
just-graduated, new-hire with big breasts and shiny brunette hair. She’d
treated me like a cockroach on the day she’d met me, and her attitude had never
improved.
“Whatever. I’m gone,” I said to Susan.
I stepped outside, into the night. Upset, I
wandered through the subdivision. After a time, I was gazing at the stars, at
what turned out to be a stop-signed intersection. I was looking up when I heard
the roaring of approaching engines and the screeching of tires. I looked down
just in time to see, right in front of me, the head-on between the sports car
(a current-year Nissan 350Z, red) and the SUV (last year’s Ford Expedition XLT,
black).
By all the laws of physics, the sports car should
have been the bigger mess; and the sports car’s driver, a corpse. But that red
car was only lightly damaged (except for the driver door flung open on impact).
The driver unfastened her shoulder harness and stepped out of the car. I found
myself facing a goddess with a cut cheek.
She was big-breasted. I like big-breasted. She was
tall. I like tall. She was slim and muscle-toned, she was tan, she had the face
of a catwalk model, she had the lips of a porn actress, she was blond, she had
a peaches-and-cream complexion, et cetera, et cetera, yada-yada-yada. Even her
ears
were perfect!
“Please,” she said, “help me, sir, I’ve lost a
contact.
Please
help me find it.” She had the voice of a phone-sex operator—why
was I not surprised?
My hormones started vibrating like a tuning fork.
But at that moment I realized: The SUV was too still, too quiet.
When I tore my eyes away from the goddess to look
at the SUV, I noticed that the inside of its windshield was red, and getting
redder. Somebody needed help!
I pulled out my cel then; but strangely, it said “No
Signal.” It was up to
me
to rescue the SUV people.
I shrugged at the woman, then moved to rush around
the back of her car. “Those people need help. I can help you later.”
“Do you have a flashlight? Matches? Anything for
light? I’d
really, really
appreciate it.” Jeez, she was talking about
a
flashlight
, and that voice was giving me a boner!
By now I was five feet away from the SUV driver
door. A bit of blue, down low, caught my eye. At my feet lay a blue butane
lighter. I could rush back and hand the lighter to Goddess, and be a hero! Maybe
I could work that up to a date with her? Or I could toss the lighter to her—
that
might be worth a kiss on the cheek.
But even a split-second spent fooling around with
Goddess’s lighter would mean still more delay before the SUV people got help. “Sorry,”
I said over my shoulder, as I came to the black SUV’s driver door.
The driver was a balding man in his forties, still
in his shoulder harness. I saw and heard no passengers. The man wore a white
shirt, and a blue tie with little white polka dots. Both shirt and tie were
blood-soaked.
The driver’s neck was spurting blood at the
windshield! Through the ruined side window, I heard him mumble, “Help. Me.”
I cut my hand (I didn’t notice till later), opening
the car door. I reached for his neck injury, and the blood spurted against my
hand like a spurt-spurt lawn sprinkler turned up full. When I pressed down, to
try to stop the flow of blood, I cut my hand again—on glass embedded in his
skin. Still, I pressed down, and felt hot liquid run down my hand and arm, and
drip off my elbow.
Which meant, I could not stop his blood loss. He
would die while I supposedly was helping him! I felt like shit.
“Okay? Me?” he murmured.
Oh jeez, what was I supposed to tell him? Then I
thought of what I’d want to hear if I were in his situation, and the answer was
clear:
the truth
. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t call 911 and I can’t stop
your bleeding.”
“I. Die.”
“Yes, sir, I’m truly sorry. I suggest you get right
with your God.”
He snapped his head around to eye me—
where did
he get the energy?
He then spoke the strangest “last words” that I ever
expect to hear—
“That blonde, she’s so beautiful, isn’t she? But
always, you chose the dying man,” he said. Then he closed his eyes, and his
chin dropped to his chest.
“Oh, ick! You’ve got blood on you,” I heard the
blonde say.
I decided in that instant that the blonde wasn’t
nearly so beautiful as I’d thought. I looked at her, through the rising
radiator steam that the SUV was making. I intended to tell the blonde to show
some compassion, but before I spoke, she disappeared.
Then vanished her red sports car. Then gone: the
black SUV. Then no more blue butane lighter.
Standing next to me was the dead SUV driver. But
his skin and clothing was bloodless somehow. His eyes were open again, and they
were looking at me, as his body changed. His mousy brown hair turned black, his
bald parts filled in with black hair, and his skin? It turned
golden
. He
looked like the father of that dead girl in
Goldfinger
. His clothing
disappeared, shrank, or recolored until he was wearing only a black loincloth.
He waved a hand, and the cuts on my hand were healed. Another wave of his hand,
and I was as clean of blood as he.
“Who
are
you?” I demanded. “What just
happened?”
He clapped me on the back—and for a dead man, he
was strong! “I will not tell you my true name, Timothy Richard Hanson, for
names have power. But
what
I am is an ancient god who has no more
worshippers, and who has wandered the earth since before the Time of the
Carpenter.”
“And what just happened?”
“It’s a test, a test I’ve given to
this
man
or
that
man for 562 years. In the test’s original form, the older man
and the young beauty were seemingly the victims of highwaymen. The details differ,
but the test has remained the same.” The golden god eyed me. “And for 562
years, until this hour, every man has failed this test.”
He went silent then, to let me figure it out. And
soon, I did: “The other men helped the beauty who clearly needed no help,
hoping for sex with her, and they neglected the dying man nearby.”
He nodded.
I thought some more, and sighed. “She was
hot
.”
He smiled. “As well she should be. I made a reading
of your brain, mortal. Men rate every body part of every woman they ever see,
and Tiffany was magicked from all of your Ten-parts. She was
designed
to
`push all your buttons.’”
“So what happens now, since I passed your test?”
“You get rewarded, just like in the children’s
stories that your Grandmother Priscilla read to you. But I doubt that you want
a goose that lays gold eggs.”
“Yeah, the IRS would ask rude questions.”
“I decided long ago, what would be a suitable
reward if I ever found a man such as you. I copy to you one of my godly powers,
Timothy Hanson. The power I give you would be
dangerous
, if given to
those lesser men.”
So saying, a ball of blue fire shot out of his left
eye, as a red fireball shot out of his right eye. The fireballs came together
to form purple fire, which continued to move toward me; but the purple fireball
streaked down below my jaw. I felt something hit my voice box. The sensation
was warm and tingly.
“The effects are not reversible, so use my gift
wisely,” the golden god said. “Remember,
names have power
.”
“
Wait!
What did you—?”
The god smiled, then vanished.
****
The next morning, I woke up thinking that I had
dreamed all of it. Until I noticed that on my left hand, I had dried blood
under my fingernails.