The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

  People bash routine and boredom. I’m not too fond of boredom; it gives bad thoughts a prime venue. That was one reason I did so many drugs and had as much unrestrained sex as I could. Bored people seek sensation. If you scratch boredom just a little bit, the feelings underneath are comfort and safety. When you don’t feel safe, you can’t stop thinking about all the ways your life could end. When you’re bored, you take your safety for granted. In that way, boredom can be frightening. It can eat at you. It can push you to do harmful stuff. A routine is a way to prevent that. You add some ritual to your life, and things that would be boring simply become tasks that must be done. Routine is used synonymously with boredom; it shouldn’t be. A good routine is a mark of good discipline. It’s not exciting, and it could lead to boredom. But it’s how you maintain yourself. The only risk is complacency.

  I walked, in my post-shower glory, towel tied around my waist, into my gunfire-riddled living room, and I realized in the morning light that I had made an error in my overly judicious decision to kill the intruder. Most of the room was intact, though a stray bullet had hit my high school graduation picture that I kept on the mantle. There was, however, the matter of the couch. Of the 30 5.56mm rounds I’d dumped into the vampiric emissary, almost all of them had also gone into my couch, shredding the black leather, breaking the wood frame, and perhaps most disastrously, sending padding everywhere. I figured I could still sit on it, but when I tried, the remaining frame creaked, and the left side sagged, badly. There was little fluff left, and it felt like sitting on a concrete bench. I grimaced and made a mental note to be a bit more disciplined about target disposal, hopefully in a way that wouldn’t impact my comfort, next time.

  Couches weren’t cheap to replace. Then again, cost wasn’t a concern.

  I’d have to go shopping, which was kind of liberating. There’s something delightful about base consumerism that appeals to me. There’s something satisfying in wanting, then purchasing something new, even if it’s something that becomes completely insignificant the moment you purchase it. I’m also of the opinion that consumerism is a way to express yourself. One of the common refrains I heard when I was growing up was that the stuff you bought wasn’t who you were…but it really is.

  Do you spend for quality? For name-brand recognition? Because your neighbors have it? Do you only buy things made in America or only spend more than a certain amount on certain items? The answers to these questions reveal part of who a person is. Consumerism is a part of identity, and in a nation wrapped in comfort and warmed by the constant glow of visual and audio marketing, it’s an identity that every person accepts. I knew I wanted something comfortable. I’d liked that couch.

  I unlocked the basement door and marched down the wooden staircase. The room was slightly larger than the house. There was a small living area with a TV, a gaming console and a futon I’d occasionally sleep on if I didn’t want to go to my bedroom, usually for one paranoia-induced reason or another. There was a small shower I’d occasionally use, but the water pressure wasn’t nearly as good as upstairs, and a wardrobe. I also had an armory and a workbench that mostly collected dust. I wasn’t very handy, but I occasionally cleaned my guns there. I had a reloading bench that I’d tried to use exactly once before realizing I was in over my head, but it made a nice place to lay out my gear.

  What I’d come down for, though, was cash. I had my cash stored in a few places, some in safe houses, a bit in my glove compartment, and some in my nightstand. And I had a few bars of gold buried in the backyard in a chest with an 1884 Winchester repeater that was worth a decent amount. In my basement, though, I had a wall safe that contained most of the blood money the Patron paid me for my services.

  I made a beeline for my wall safe, noting that I needed to spend some time cleaning up the basement as I glanced at the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on top of my workbench. I entered the combination, my dead wife’s birthday, and opened the safe. My final paycheck hadn’t been delivered, and I assumed that my Patron wouldn’t pay, claiming terms of payment had been met, but I had plenty of money saved. Devils, even the smart ones, really don’t have a good handle on what humans call market value. It’s not that they’re stupid, they’re just so obscenely rich, so infernally wealthy, that they pick arbitrary sums they think are fair and hand them out in the form of whatever treasure they’ve acquired over the millennia.

  I had cash and a bunch of documents stored in the safe. Some of the documents were the bizarre orders I’d received, written in a bunch of different languages. A few were deeds, one to the home I was currently in, a few for some cars I’d since ditched, and one for my Jeep. Then there were my various IDs. The Patron’s obsession with bureaucracy meant easy access to several forms of identification, and I was urged to take advantage of them by Baby Face Nelson, one of my spiritual mentors. People, reflexive as they are, are ingrained to trust certain forms of identification and are often unable to differentiate between fake and real. Ask any high school senior.

  I had acquired a bunch of different IDs and badges in my years of service, cards that identified me as an insurance inspector for a major provider, as a Burnsville police officer, as a Shakopee PD Detective, and as a US Air Force Major, and at least one driver’s license from each of the fifty states, plus Puerto Rico. Half of them were real, or made with real equipment, while the other half were fakes that were convincing enough to fool any cop who wasn’t Elliot Ness. I didn’t need a fake ID for a couch, though, so I put those aside and reached for the cash.

  Most of the cash I had left was American dollars, though some of it was Krugerrands, and I still had a lone ingot marked with an insignia that implied it had been in a very discriminating Swiss bank for a few decades. Cash would do fine, though, so I picked up a few stacks of bills and stuffed them into my clothes. I also stopped by my wardrobe. I kept some clothes upstairs in my bedroom, but the vast bulk of what I owned stayed in the basement.

  In my life before servitude, I’d been very fashion conscious. My wife and I travelled in circles that judged you, harshly, for what you wore, and people noticed if anything was even a little bit out of place. Working for my Patron had taught me that fashion was irrelevant, except as camouflage. It’s a luxury for people whose harshest moment in any given week will be stink eye from the assistant manager because they’ve worn a more expensive tie than their station permits.

  During my servitude, I learned practicality and the ability to blend, so I had a wide selection of non-descript, monochrome jackets, jeans, and cargo pants, and a variety of ball caps with the logos of whatever sport was in season. If I was especially concerned, I’d dye my blonde hair brown or red, something to throw off casual surveillance.

  Most of my choices weren’t just practical. You got used to living with a certain sense of fear, a slight feeling of “I’ve been made!” every time someone with a badge glances at you, and you came to peace with it. You learned, quickly, what you could do to mitigate the circumstances.

  Then there’s what you could do if they caught you. I was never unarmed. My armory wasn’t big, maybe 20 guns of various sizes, mostly burner handguns acquired in the service of the Patron or stolen from the homes or businesses of targets I dispatched. I had a few rifles liberated from police and military armories, and one civilian SCAR that I bought simply because I thought it was cool. Still, with the Joey Rifle and the VP9 the Patron gave me, I had little incentive to take other weapons unless I really needed them.

  I had my VP9 holstered inside my waistband, some medical equipment and a couple of extra magazines in my jacket, and a cheap knife strapped to my ankle. I was never much of a hand-to-hand guy, but knives are useful, especially in emergencies, and I’d learned, quickly, to carry one. Plus, in the occult, a lot of things require a drop of blood, and speaking from experience, it’s a lot easier to use a knife than it is to use car keys. I had a sawed-off shotgun in the center console of my Jeep and an M79 grenade launcher in the trunk where the spare tire should be,
along with a bandolier loaded with a wide variety of grenades.

  Yeah, I know it’s more likely I’d run over a screw than need a grenade launcher, but I’ve got roadside assistance for that.

  My trip to the furniture store was uneventful, until I got to the store. It was one of those big, Scandinavian places that had sprung up when Ikea became too tacky for people like me, set right next to a shopping mall. It took me a while to park the Jeep; apparently furniture was on everyone’s mind. I had to use the mall’s parking lot, and I decided to make the most of the opportunity. I headed into the mall to grab a pretzel.

  I was enjoying my jalapeno and cheese pretzel when I noticed someone watching me from across the way. My tail wasn’t very professional; he was staring and dressed like he’d just walked out of a Cure music video. When I got up to leave, he followed me.

  I walked next door to the furniture place, noting his movements. I didn’t think he was armed. He was staying too far away, unless he was an exceptional shot. But it would be risky to take a shot at me in broad daylight in a mall parking lot. I thought about confronting him, but I figured that could wait. I needed a couch.

  I pretended not to notice him as I walked into the furniture store. It didn’t take me long to find the couch I wanted; it was the same one I’d shot up, minus all the bullets. I found a sales clerk and started negotiating the price. When I turned around to point out the couch, I got a good look at my follower. He couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, and underneath all the cheap makeup and leather trench, he had the kind of low-confidence demeanor that suggested he was usually the first kid in his grade to get his ass beat for lunch money.

  My watcher hurriedly looked away and dashed over to intently examine an ottoman, which was laughable, since I doubted he knew what a quality ottoman was. The clerk continued his rehearsed lines about payment plans and delivery schedules. I pretended to listen as I looked at my watcher.

  The guy had pulled out his phone. He was pretending to take a selfie, but he was actually using it to take a photo of me. I turned away, hoping he didn’t get a good shot.

  “Is something wrong?” the retail drone asked, his minimal senses apparently picking up on my sudden movement.

  “No,” I said, smiling. Smiling is the easiest way to disarm sales drones, they assume it means you’re happy with what they’re saying, which will translate to a purchase. “I’ll buy it. No financing necessary. I’ve got cash.”

  The sales drone’s eyes lit up. He hurriedly rushed me over to checkout, smiling and babbling ecstatically. Maybe these guys got paid on commission. Maybe he was so small-minded that selling couches gave him some kind of existential fulfillment, like he was born the Chosen One of Home Goods Sales, here to save us from the darkness of Not Having a Couch. I didn’t pretend to understand. Even when banking meant something to me, I never got a lot of joy from it, though I certainly liked the income.

  He didn’t bat an eye as I counted out hundred dollar bills. These days, most places get suspicious when you want to pay entirely in cash, but it’s not likely they’re going to stop you. They want the money, so they write you off as an oddball or someone stuck in time.

  I arranged a delivery date and signed a few forms before heading out. As I walked out the door, I drew my follower’s attention. I hustled away from the door and watched in my peripheral vision as he followed me. I feinted toward my car, then patted my pockets, making it look like I’d forgotten my keys. I rounded the corner behind the store, and drew a knife, waiting for him.

  Sure enough, goth guy rounded the corner, not jogging but definitely moving faster than a walk.

  I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, placing my left arm against his neck and holding my knife close to his eyes with my right.

  “Why are you following me?” I asked, menacing him with the knife.

  His eyes went wide. Sweat was starting to bead on the side of his head, and his Adam’s apple was bobbing uncontrollably.

  “I-I-well-I—” he stammered, uncontrollably. He was trying to reach for his right pocket. I jammed the knife closer to his eye, twisting it around a little bit and watching his eyes go wider, darting to and fro.

  “Keep reaching, and your ensemble is going to need a Robert Smith-themed eyepatch,” I snarled. “Let’s try this again: why are you following me?”

  “Lynd-Lyndale Coven,” he stuttered. “They-they paid me.”

  I resisted an urge to spit. First they send a guy to my house, then they hire Fuck-Up Junior to tail me. These guys were not showing a lot of respect for my talent in the arts of violence.

  “Here’s a value proposition for you,” I said. “Whatever they’re paying you won’t do you a damn lick of good if you’re dead.”

  I moved the knife away from his eyes and watched them follow the blade. I kept it ready in case he found some courage.

  “Also,” I said, “you work for vampires, and you dress like the most ‘I work for vamps’ guy possible? Please don’t tell me they’re recruiting Hot Topic clerks now.”

  He apparently didn’t see the humor in my comments and continued to freak out, though quietly. I heard some quiet dripping and realized he had pissed himself.

  I released him.

  “I already sent a clear message to your masters,” I said. “You’re out of your league, but I’m feeling really generous, and I’m very busy, so kindly fuck off.”

  I motioned for him to run away, and he obliged, dashing for an early-2000s Civic. Good help, apparently, was hard to find. I was more than a bit confused. I hadn’t had many dealings with the Lyndale Coven, other than chasing down a rogue vamp for my Patron, but between the visit the night before and the visitor now, they jumped up, substantially, on my to-do list.

  One of the issues in working for the Patron was his control of information. He’d send me on a mission, but only tell me whatever he thought I needed to know. It was a rarely-added luxury for him to say exactly who or what the target was. I’d heard about courts, kingdoms, empires, corporations, and knightly orders, but never in any meaningful context. At first, I’d taken notes. I realized pretty quickly they didn’t do much for me. The Patron didn’t actively disapprove, but my years as a kiss-ass had taught me to anticipate the types of things bosses didn’t like, and the Patron always wanted to be the smartest guy in the room. Usually, he was. When you’re dealing with cosmic-level powers, that’s a safe bet. It’s equally safe to avoid antagonizing them and give in to their demands.

  The lack of knowledge hurt once I was free, as I only had a loose patchwork idea of what the supernatural underground looked like.

  I wasn’t sure where the Lyndale vamps were headquartered. Lyndale was a street in Minneapolis, another in nearby Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and a typical name for neighborhoods. I didn’t know a whole lot about the ins and outs of vampire covens, but I knew of two places they hung out. The person I was looking for would be at one of them. I put the Jeep in gear and headed to Uptown.

  If you ever go to Minneapolis, Uptown is probably not on your list of places to visit when you pass through. It’s not that it’s a bad part of town or there’s nothing to do there. It’s a great place to go drinking and some of the best food in the Cities is there, but it’s just so…damn…hipster. The entire place feels like it’s run by 20-somethings whose ambitions boil down to finding locally-sourced goods then selling them at inflated prices to each other. That vibe can grate on people. The two most common effects I observed were that people either immediately embraced Uptown subculture, or they immediately started drinking. I figured, for the owners of all those businesses, either of those was acceptable.

  I parked the Jeep along the street and paid for three hours of parking. I didn’t need that much time, but I didn’t want an illegal grenade launcher going to impound. Awkward questions would be asked, and without the Patron’s influence, I had little chance of giving a good answer. Besides, parking in Minnesota is cheap. It’s not Chicago or Washington, DC.

  The
sky was still grey, but no rain had come. I walked past a myriad of ethnic restaurants, some overpriced pubs, a sex shop, and a game store before I reached my destination.

  In Minnesota, gas stations are a luxury. I can’t explain it, but Minnesota, in general, and the Twin Cities, specifically, seem to hate them. If you get lost, your phone’s dead and you don’t have a GPS, you could drive for miles before you hit a gas station.

  Those who knew the mechanisms of Hell knew this was by my Patron’s design, back when the city was a bit younger. I wish I could say he did it to fuck with us or to gain power from human frustration, but the truth is, he did it because he owned a sizable portion of a Minnesota-based convenience store chain, and devils do not, as a rule, like competition or fair play.

  This convenience store was part of the local chain, Road Angel, and was managed by a tributary of the Lyndale Coven. I went to visit at midday, and even then, it was already populated with the standard cast of convenience store patrons, the desperate poor who continue to augment their poverty one scratch-off at a time, the impatient businessman who left the pump running while he runs inside to satisfy his addiction for cheap caffeine, the minimum-wage clerk who scratches his head as he tries to ring up a bag of potato chips with a bad barcode…At any convenience store in America, you’ll find something similar. I’d argue that owning such a place is reliable cash if you don’t mind some mild exploitation. The Lyndale Coven certainly didn’t.

  The interior was set up pretty typically with two entrances. Both glass doors proudly advertised operating hours and terrible food I doubted anyone ate. A promotional poster with lotto ticket prices was on the door facing the gas pumps. Inside the store were a few rows of snacks, along with some freezers full of microwave meals and discount ice cream. The clerk was behind a U-shaped counter with a ceiling rack above it, still struggling with the bag of chips.