Dressed in a really cheap suit and loosely knotted tie, he lazily looked up and glanced in my direction like he was expecting somebody to walk in. Not seeing anyone and evidently satisfied that his eyes were playing tricks on him, he quickly drifted back to his afternoon excitement of mindless internet browsing — because that’s evidently what people did in 2012. Crossing the lobby in a few steps, I pulled to a halt in front of his large desk and took note of the white plastic nametag pinned to the stalwart security guard’s navy blue blazer. Placing my hands forcefully on the desktop and making a rather loud banging noise in the process, I said, “Hello Raymond, How are you this fine afternoon?”
Startled that I’d unknowingly walked up on him, he jumped backward and excitedly rolled his seat away from the desk. As his sluggish eyes shot wide open, he tentatively stood upright and gawked at me for a long second or two. He wasn’t afraid — just completely awestruck. Like he was trying to figure out if I was really there — or not. It was an interesting reaction, to say the very least.
Unable to divert his eyes from me, he inadvertently dropped his venti sized plastic cup on the floor and mumbled in a clearly confused, monotoned voice, “I, ah, didn’t see you come in. Ah, can I, ah, help you?”
“Yep, I believe you can, Ray,” I replied shaking my head at the waste of a good latte. “You don’t mind if I call you Ray, do you?”
Offering no response, he simply shook his head ‘No’ and continued to gawk. Getting the sense that perhaps Rooster was actually right and I could say just about anything to this poor bastard and he’d hand me his wallet and car keys, I said, “Ok, that’s great, Ray. Really feel like we’re having a moment here. But, I digress. Let me cut to the chase.”
Pointing at the Chickenman suspiciously loitering on the sidewalk outside the door, I said with a slightly vindictive smirk, “You see that red headed whack job out there? Well, believe it or not, he’s one of those professional escorts. Bit of an exotic dancer, if you will. While not an exceptionally good one, he’s got a rather discreet, and very wealthy, client upstairs that really likes her some ginger.” Giving Raymond a slap on the shoulder, I said, “You know what I’m saying here, Ray? She’s gotta have that ginger.”
Giving me an affirmative nod, my new friend continued to say nothing.
“And just so you know — he promised me there’d be none of that Pulp Fiction crap going on this time. Should be quiet — er,” I convincingly said while trying to keep a straight face and still in somewhat disbelief this was actually working. “Ok, good talk. So we’ll be heading upstairs now if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, Ok. Sure thing. Go right up, pal. I’ll buzz you in,” he vacantly muttered while reaching under the desk to unlock the glass door leading to the elevators. “Can I, ah, help you with anything else?”
“You know what, I feel very badly that you dropped your beverage,” I said giving the pool of spilled iced coffee a quick glance. “How about you go pick yourself up another one. Maybe a nice mochaccino. Take your time.”
“Yeah, that sounds really good. I think I’ll do that,” he muttered still staring at me dumbfoundedly. Walking past the desk in a trance-like state, he strolled out the front door and awkwardly gawked at the Chickenman as he passed him in transit. Making his way into the lobby, Rooster curiously looked back at Raymond the Security Guy purposefully moving down the sidewalk in the freezing afternoon weather.
“What the hell did you say to him?” He asked.
Opening the now unlocked door to the elevator bay, I smugly said, “I told him that my ginger colleague and I were friendly neighborhood supernatural crime fighters that needed to pay a visit to a resident shape shifter who’s most likely sitting on a piece of vital information that could potentially save the world as we know it from certain apocalyptic demise at the hands of a well dressed fallen angel and an inconceivable horde of giants. Oh, and I also told him you would clean his pipes when he gets back. And … might’ve insinuated that you’re an exotic dancer.”
“Real nice,” he grumbled shaking his head as he walked by me and pressed the button for the elevator. “Is that your idea of being subtle? Where the hell is he going?”
“Sent him on a beer run,” I said with a dark grin.
“A beer run. Seriously?”
Willing the otherworldly shotgun into being, I said, “Yep.” Feeling the presence of the scabbard-like holster manifest on my back, I pulled the Winchester free, and muttered, “Figured it’d be flat out wrong to have a bonfire without beer.”
As the elevator doors opened with the signature dinging sound, Rooster’s demeanor hardened and his eyes flashed a deep red for a quick second. As we both stepped in and the doors shut behind us, he muttered, “Good call. Let’s go see Skip.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And just so we’re clear … if it was Caveman that told you I was a dancer, he’s full of shit. Never happened.”
“Ah, Ok,” I uncomfortably muttered.
Without making eye contact, he tossed in, “And if it did — I was drunk for three months straight and don’t remember. Long, long time ago.”
“That’s awkward,” I grumbled to myself staring at the floor and waiting anxiously for the elevator door to open.
After what felt like an eternity, the dinging sound indicated we’d reached the second floor and I happily barreled into the foyer with great haste trying desperately to erase the last thirty seconds from my memory banks. Making our way down the labyrinth of small apartments, we turned the corner to find a grandiose hallway leading to Skip’s place, and it was fairly apparent that the nepher career path of nighttime security, stripping, and street hustling was surprisingly lucrative.
Either that or he had a mysterious benefactor.
The entrance to his sizable suite was very artfully tucked into the far corner of an isolated wing and tastefully decorated with a rather impressive heap of fast food bags, pizza boxes, and empty cases of beer. Classic Skip.
“He’s still in there,” Rooster said in a solemn whisper while studying his phone as we purposely strolled down the hall. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a tiny earpiece, turned it on, and casually slid it into his ear.
Giving the impressive trash pile a disgusted glance, I pointed to it and muttered, “If this is any indication of what he’s been up too … I’d be surprised if he’s still breathing.”
Pulling to a halt about ten feet from the frat party like carnage, Rooster put his phone away and glared at me with intense eyes. His typical jovial demeanor was steadily giving way to a brooding alter ego that I was about to meet for the first time.
Tapping the earpiece, he waited a quick second, and muttered, “We’re here. Blow the wards in sixty seconds.” Waiting on the response, he said, “Yep. I’m gonna need a veil on this side of the building too.” Pausing again, he grumbled, “Perfect.”
Concluding his conversation he quickly snatched the earpiece and put it away. Pulling the antique pocket watch from his jeans, he looked at me and said, “Time to suit up. Fifty seconds.”
Giving him a stern nod, I willed the cloak into being and welcomed the electric-like sensation as it manifested with a spectral flash and billowed about my shoulders. Removing his overcoat and casually tossing it on the floor, it was fairly apparent that the Chickenman came to party.
Sitting neatly over top of his black RoosterBragh tee shirt, complete with signature logo and slogan ‘Want Some? Get Some!’, was a leather tactical harness with enough weaponry to launch a frontal assault on the gates of hell. Dueling semi-automatic pistols in a pair of shoulder holsters dangled ominously under each of his stringy arms and a literal collection of throwing knives were tucked into a dozen or more pockets lining the straps. Hanging from his waist, amidst several ammo pouches filled with extra clips, was a hunting knife that would give John J. Rambo himself a raging hard-on. Strapped to his back, and completing the nepher commando motif, was a leather scabbard housing what appeared to be a cavalry
sabre with a pearl hilt.
Not really sure what to say, I gawked at him for a second or two as he pulled out each pistol, slammed home a clip, and chambered a round. Sliding them back in their respective holsters, he muttered, “Forty-five seconds.”
“You sure you got enough firepower there, Chuck Norris?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“Go big or go home.”
“Are those Glocks?”
“Yep. Glock 31’s. I make the custom .357 rounds out of barzel. Won’t take down an anakim — but they’ll do some damage.” Glancing at his watch, he coldly said, “Thirty-five seconds.”
Making the mental note to revisit that particular topic at a later time, I said, “So, this being my first ‘ward breaching’ experience — what exactly do I have to look forward to?”
“If Stoner’s on his game, it won’t be anything more dramatic than a popping sound.”
“And if not?”
“Let’s just say I’ll be standing behind you. Just in case,” he said matter of factly. “Twenty-five seconds.”
“Awesome,” I grumbled. “And, ah, won’t an otherworldly explosion on the second floor of an apartment complex bring some folks a’ running?”
“Nope. Stoner’s running a veil on the building. Nobody will see or hear a thing.”
“Damn, he can do that?”
“Magus,” he grumbled giving me another ‘you’re a dumb ass’ glance. “Ten seconds.”
Pulling the hood of the cloak over my head while making the mental note to seriously lay off the wizard jokes, I momentarily holstered the shotgun and willed the ashen stone gauntlets into being. Feeling them instantly cover my hands with a spectral flash, I quickly cleared my mind and focused my strength — focused on the Balance.
Drawing his gansta-like gats, Rooster’s eyes flashed red as he grumbled, “Five seconds.”
“Go time,” I muttered feeling the mental switch flip to the on-position and the calmative awareness wash over me. Giving him a stern nod, I clenched my fists and started my advance on the garbage littered doorway to Casa del Skip.
Taking immediate position on my six and lowering himself in a predatory crouch, Rooster called out, “Three. Two. One.”
Chapter 24
Quickly dropping to a knee and lowering my head, I braced for an explosion of epic proportion only to hear a faint fizzling sound followed by a subtle pulse of tangible, warm energy gently wash over us and roll harmlessly down the hallway to our rear. Bit of a let down to be honest.
“Wards are down,” Rooster muttered in a whispered voice from behind me. “Game on.”
“Roger that,” I grumbled while rising to my feet and cocking my right arm back to put a hellstone bolstered punch into Skip’s front door. Not really sure it’d be as effective as blowing the doorknob out with a shotgun blast, but there’s just something about having stone covered fists that makes you want to punch shit.
And of course, I figured it would be downright rude not to knock.
Just as I was about to slug my way into Skip’s not so humble abode, the doorknob started to jostle, causing me to momentarily hold back. Before I knew what was happening, the frigg’n door swung open to reveal a slovenly fat bastard in a pair of boxer shorts and fuzzy slippers with a cigarette lazily hanging from his mouth. Holding a stack of empty pizza boxes and struggling to keep his eyes open, it was pretty clear that the Skipper had just woken up from his latest bender and was doing a bit of house cleaning.
Somewhat realizing that he wasn’t alone, he started to incoherently grumble something as his sleep-ridden eyes struggled to focus. Quickly coming to the very unfortunate realization that he was standing toe to toe with a cloaked Deacon, a priceless look of complete and utter panic overtook his face as his eyes almost popped out of his fat-ass head. As his mouth dropped open and the cigarette fell to the floor, I gave him a friendly smile, and said, “Hello Philbert. Nice place you got here. Remember me?”
And punched him square in the fucking chest.
Flying backward from the brute force of the impact and crashing to an ungainly halt amidst the rather nice furniture decorating his lavish dwelling, the Skipper scampered to his feet and made a deliberate break for a door toward the back of the spacious suite. Pushing past me with pistols at the ready, Rooster entered the room in a Chickenman flash and fired two quick rounds that ripped clear through Skip’s kneecaps and dropped his sorry ass to the floor like a really obese sack of potatoes.
Screaming like a wounded animal, the Skipper then commenced to frantically crawling toward the back room with all the strength he could possibly muster. Closing the distance in a blur of motion, Rooster blocked his apparent escape route and violently slammed a pistol butt into the back of his head, sending the infamous Skipper into a instant state of unconsciousness.
Although impressed as hell by Rooster’s commando-like prowess, I was somewhat taken aback by the sheer violence of his actions. It was cold precision. A side of him that I didn’t know existed — until now.
Holstering his six guns and producing a pair of hand cuffs from his belt, Rooster then wrenched Skip’s flabby arms behind his bare back and slapped them on like he’d done it once or twice before. Looking at me with an emotionless gaze of fiery red eyes, he barked, “Give me a hand getting this piece of shit on his feet.”
“Yep. Sure thing,” I muttered as I quickly willed the gauntlets into retreat and pulled the hood of the cloak off my head.
Throwing the scantily clad, grotesque body of our shape shifting captive, on the oversized leather couch to our immediate rear, I noticed that the handcuffs were inlaid with an interesting combination of Enochian glyphs.
“What’s with the cuffs?”
“They’re blessed,” he muttered. “Negates the abilities of whoever or whatever they bind. So Skip can’t shift on us. He’s virtually powerless until they come off. If they come off.”
“Hmm,” I muttered ready to lose my lunch at the sight of Skip’s saggy man tits and jiggling torso spread out all over the couch like a beached whale. “Just a thought here, but perhaps we have him shift into a bikini model and then put them on,” I said, only somewhat jokingly, in attempt to coax Rooster’s steely demeanor back to that of the jovial ginger that I’d come to know and somewhat like.
“No time,” he grumbled while turning and gazing at the door in the rear of the apartment that the Skipper was so desperately trying to reach.
Following suit, I said, “What’s behind door number two over there?”
“Not what,” he grumbled. “Where. It’s a portal. He was evidently trying to escape.”
Concentrating on the door, I quickly realized that Rooster was right. Although it looked like any other door in the apartment, I could See a steady pulse of energy buzzing from the threshold and a faint glow of white radiance outlining the frame.
“A portal to where?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out,” he replied removing his hunting knife from the leather sheath hanging from his waist. “Skip’s been playing us. We need answers. Now.”
Grabbing a can of beer from one of the many cases stacked on the rather nice coffee table, Rooster punched a hole in the top with his manly blade and proceeded to empty it on the Skipper’s head. Shaking back to immediate consciousness, Skip’s eyes shot wide open, and he frantically tugged on his handcuffs as a look of panic returned to his chubby face. Alternating anxious glares between Rooster and me, he started to hyperventilate as he realized that he’d rapidly departed from his happy place of alcohol induced comas and arrived in a world of shit.
Pulling up a chair opposite the cuffed and stuffed, underwear clad mound of cellulite, Rooster’s skin turned a harrowing deep red as he maliciously said, “Skippy, you got some ‘splaining to do.”
Twirling the oversized hunting knife in his right hand like something out of a bad western, he glanced at Skip’s bullet riddled, bleeding knees, and asked, “Bet that hurts, huh?”
“Y-you sh-shot me.
I didn’t do any-th-thing,” Skip blurted out in a stuttering, incredibly pathetic voice.
Curling his left hand into a fist, Rooster then proceeded to break the Skipper’s nose wide open with a forceful jab that sent his head blowing backward into the sofa cushion. As he grunted in pain, Rooster growled, “Don’t lie to me, asshole. Drop the act. In case you don’t know who I am — This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“St-stop … Please stop. I f-follow the R-rules,” he mumbled with watering eyes and a hefty stream of blood pouring from his nose.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said — Don’t fucking lie to me!” Rooster snarled as his eyes turned solid red, matching the color of his skin.
Flipping his knife into a reverse grip, he proceeded to sink it hilt deep into Skip’s thigh in a flash of movement. As the Skipper let out a blood curdling scream that made my stomach churn, Rooster continued to apply pressure driving it deeper and deeper into his leg until a very interesting thing happened.
Skip started laughing.
Not like a ‘He’s lost his frigg’n mind’ kind of laugh. More of a maniacal, ‘I know something you don’t’ kind of laugh.
It was unexpected. And somewhat creepy. Just saying.
“Now then, that’s more like it,” Rooster said ripping the blade from his leg and forcefully burying it a solid three inches into the wooden coffee table. “You ready to have a somewhat civilized conversation now?”
Not having any clue what the hell was going on, I continued to intently watch as Skip’s demeanor changed from that of a scared child to that of a really smug asshole.
“The Rooster, right?” He said while smiling a wicked grin and seemingly no longer phased by the fact he was shot, stabbed, and pummeled in a matter of two minutes. “I know who you are. Heard the stories over the years. Never seen a liderc before. Rumor has it — you’re the last one still topside.” Curiously studying Rooster’s reddish hue and fiery gaze, he snidely added, “Love the eyes. Terrifying.”
Fixing him with an intent glare, Rooster said nothing.
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 25
