The Black Jester
The Kings of New Orleans Series Episode 1
by Emily Ford
COPYRIGHT 2015 EMILY FORD
Copyright 2015 Emily Ford
www.emilyfordworld.com
Second Edition
Editing by Lizzy Ford
www.lizzyford.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Mom for being the best thing God ever created
To my sister for saving my life every day and giving me the chance to start a new one
To Dad for being a constant source of love and support
To Ron Jenkins, one of the good ones. Thank you for reading my first books!
To Dale and Alex for being two of the best gentlemen I’ve ever known
PROLOGUE
“If any city needs saving, it’s New Orleans.”
The one known as the French Quarter King sits at his dark mahogany writing desk. His bird’s eye view of Canal Street in New Orleans is like none other. From his high rise penthouse apartment, the distant lights on the bridges, barges, bustling street traffic, and tall street lamps appear as twinkling stars below him. He loves the view of the city at night.
On this night, like most others recently, his heart is heavy as he reflects on the events of the past ten years. Resolved to reconcile his thoughts and feelings on paper, he slides open the heavy top drawer and withdraws a brand new, leather bound writing journal. He runs his hand and over its dark maroon cover, his fingertips following the custom engraved outline of a fleur-de-lis. Opening the cover, he flips the Papyrus paper to the second page and folds the first page down against the cover, his way of protecting the immaculate leather design. He picks up his gold rollerball pen and clicks it to expose the writing point. He always loved writing, but in the old school way, with pen and paper, not with a typewriter or computer.
He glances out his window into the dark and sparkling night once more. It’s time to atone for his sins. Sighing heavily, he puts pen to paper.
“We saw it as a chance to evolve,” he begins writing. “If there’s one certainty about a catastrophe, it’s that it brings the opportunity for renewal. The ability to wipe out the norm, force a clean slate. Disaster is the ultimate reset button.
“Our opportunity came with the 2005 desolation of New Orleans, otherwise known as Hurricane Katrina. That godforsaken homicidal storm carried the ocean into homes and businesses, wielding swelling waves and winds as its murder weapons. It severed power and telephone lines, and the breakdown of communication, life support, and law became inevitable. The slaughter of nearly two thousand residents was only the beginning. With the storm came the opportunity for renewal.
“The storm woke sleeping giants, both evil and benevolent. Of the evil already living and breathing inside the city, it spread in aggressiveness and intensity. Both the Central City King and the Gentilly King used the cover of the storm to commit murder and spread mayhem that was assumed by law enforcement to be a side effect of the natural disaster.
“For those of us witness to, or victims of, this malignant hand of injustice, and for victims of the villainous Kings, a new purpose burned within us. The Kings solidified their reign, their territory, their terror. So, in defense of all that was good and just, I naively seized an opportunity to become a King myself and quickly realized protecting the ultimate good often required committing the ultimate evil.
“Do my actions violate the Hippocratic Oath I took as a young man and revere to this day? I fight a disease of this city’s soul. But am I any better than the cancer that grows here? My intentions were benevolent. They were designed to improve lives, to save lives. I wanted to help innocent people. I wanted to stand up to the sickness that the other Kings were inducing on these poor people. My methods have resulted in death. Destruction. Suffering. Does the end justify the means? Or am I simply an evil man with the delusion of being good?”
The King’s pen pauses. He reads his words, his confession, in an effort to evaluate himself. His heart sinks. He knows he’s in too deep to stop now. It’s too late for him. He has chosen his path and it is a one-way journey. His thoughts turn to his men.
“What of my Jesters?” He pens. “I admit, I am as fond of them as if they were my own children. All are remarkable. The Gold’s natural leadership. The Red’s dedication. The Blue’s sense of justice. And the Black’s ferocity, despite his internal battle. Remarkable.”
He gazes up and presses the expensive pen against his lips as his body briefly warms with thoughts of his men. His kids. A sobering thought sends a cold chill through his body, chasing away the warmth.
“Have I lead them into darkness from which they will not return? They’re good men, all of them. But this mission is distorting their views of the world. I can see that now. They deliver vengeance and justice at the cost of their empathy and goodness. I fear the day they veer from our task, when human nature rears its ugly head, and they begin to crave violence and power, viewing them as a necessity of life, rather than tools to ensure justice. The signs of this outcome are showing among them. I no longer ask if that day is coming but when my actions will result in a horrific influx of danger and death that will rage upon this city unlike any a monster storm could ever produce.”
He leans back in the soft leather captain’s chair that matches his desk. The beautiful furniture set he was so proud to have custom ordered several years ago offers him no comfort now. He stares wide-eyed at the words in his journal. Disturbed by inner rumblings of apprehension and remorse, he shakes his head, silently cursing himself.
“My God. What have I done?”