Scratch (book) by Victor Farrell on AuthorsDen

Trevor Jones is down and out in New York. Stuck with a parrot an old lady foisted on him while he slept on a bench in Central Park, his life suddenly turns around. The parrot can make things happen. Then, he finds out what price he has to pay for his new found prosperity. The bird turns out to be a hologram, the fiend that created it is right out of Greek Mythology, and needs the souls of pre-teenagers to maintain its immortality. Trevor must lead him to young people, or suffer the pains of hell as his own soul is ripped apart, piece by piece.

He was tired, dirty, and hungry. Hands thrust deep in his empty pockets he made his way to an unoccupied bench in Central Park parallel to 8^th Avenue. Wearily he lowered himself to the painted green slats of wood. Leaning back he closed his eyes, letting the early morning sun caress the dark stubble on his face.
     “It’s hell to be broke,” he thought. “Especially in New York!”
     He felt himself drifting into sleep. He luxuriated in the feeling, giving himself up to it entirely.
     The bench vibrated. He shook his head, opening his eyes with difficulty. Someone had sat down heavily beside him.
     “Find another bench,” he growled, closing his eyes again.
     “I like it here,” a tired old female voice responded. “So does Scratch.”
     He opened one eye. “There are lots of empty benches, old lady,” he sighed. “Find one, and scratch someplace else will ya? I haven’t slept for two days.” He closed his eye and started to drift into sleep again.
     “Better sit up,” the old woman cautioned. “Here comes a cop.”
     “Shit a damn!” he growled, shaking himself fully awake. “Where’s the cop?”
     “I just said that to get your attention,” the old woman laughed. “I got a proposition for you. I’m Marla. What’s your name?”
     “Why, you old…! What makes you think I’d want an old biddy like you even if I had any money?”
     “Don’t be offensive, young man,” she said, quietly. “I don’t mean that kind of proposition.”
     “Ok. So what’s on your mind, then? And what’s that thing on your shoulder?”
     “That’s thing is a parrot, and I want you to have him, Mr…?”
     “The name is Trevor, and I can’t even look after myself, let alone a parrot!”
     “Scratch is no ordinary parrot,” the old lady said, quietly. “You do things for him and he’ll look after you.”
     Trevor laughed.
     Marla nodded. “I know,” she said. “You think I’m nutty as a fruit cake. What’s your last name, young man?”
     “Jones,” he told her. “Why do you want to give your pet bird away anyway, and to someone that obviously is unable to take care of it?”
     “I’m dying,” she told him, quietly. “I have to find someone who will look after his needs. I know you will. He’ll look after yours, too.”
     “Forget it, woman. I’m tired, hungry, and have no place to stay. If it’s true that you’re dying I’m sorry. But I can’t help you, or your bird.”
     With that he closed his eyes, and began to drift back into sleep. A weight on his shoulder caused him to open them again.
     “Look, lady, I told you…?”
     He looked all around, but the old woman was gone.
     “That’s not possible,” he muttered.
     Her bird, now on his shoulder wasn’t gone, however. He turned his head to look at it. It stared unblinkingly into his eyes. He felt a moment of repulsion that seemed for a fraction of a second to make his skin crawl, but shrugged and shook it off.
     “Well, it looks like we’re stuck with each other until I can figure something out,” he growled. “Hey. Maybe I can sell you for a ten spot. I could sure use a good meal!”
     “Ten spot. Ten spot,” the parrot squawked.
     A well-dressed man passing the bench, looked at the bum and the bird, laughed, reached in his pocket, and pulled out some money held together by a gold money clip. He peeled off two fives from a thick roll of banknotes, handed them to Trevor, and then continued on his way, grinning.
     Trevor, mouth open, stared at the money in his hand. He looked at the bird, grinned, and then nodded.
     “Maybe you’ll come in handy after all,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go get some food!”
     He walked hurriedly towards an 8^th Avenue restaurant.
     Little did he realize that he should have paid attention to the repulsion he felt when staring into the parrot’s eyes. He had looked pure evil in the face, and was about to know terror worse than anything he had ever experienced in his wildest nightmare.
     Hell was riding comfortably on his shoulder!