Returning to the bar across town, I placed a call and less than an hour later, my client returned. As he slid into the booth, I tossed the college ring on the table. It landed with a clatter and rolled around for a moment before going still.
"Where's the rest of my money," I demanded.
"So he's no longer with us," the client asked eagerly, pulling out a brown paper sack bound with rubber bands.
"He's dead, I killed him, open the bag," I ordered.
My client smiled widely, removed the rubber bands and slid the bag over. I looked inside and stuffed the wad into my damaged coat pocket without counting. My clients knew what to expect if I discovered that they had shortchanged me. The ultimate punishment. They'd face me.
"Thank you," he said rising to leave. "We are very pleased with your service and shall use you again."
"Sure, swell. Just one thing," I said, then tossed a crucifix onto the table.
The client hissed in terror at the thing and recoiled as if it was going to spit venom. Or maybe like he was.
"So you know about my master!" he snarled and clawed for a handgun in a shoulder holster.
I didn't know shit, but I was always ready. I fired twice with my silence .44 through the table and the client dropped his piece, his shoulder pumping blood from the gaping wounds caused by the military explosive rounds. Always use the best. He fell to his knees hacking for breath and spitting and bleeding and all the usual stuff.
Dave behind the bar appeared with a sawed-off in his grip, but I shook my head and he nodded in return, tucking the alleysweeper away. A former junkie, Dave ran the bar and did the taxes, but I owned this place. That's why I did business here.
Dragging my former client into the back room, I bolted the sound-proof door shut and turned just in time to kick another gun out of his hand. A hideaway piece. Smart boy, just too slow. I patted him down, taking away a couple of knives and a military grenade. It was color coded, but I didn't know what the symbols meant so I put it on a high shelf with the rest of the cleaning supplies far out of the dead man's reach.
"I will tell you nothing, hunter!" he gasped, a hand pressing tight to the bloody wound. Half of his shirt was stained red by now, and he was having trouble breathing. The slug had not gone anywhere near his lungs, must be having a panic attack.
Then I scowled. Hunter? I didn't do bounty work. Hmm. Taking out my pipe, I loaded the bowl and lit a smoke to think on this. I puffed for a few moments, then took out my can of butane lighter fluid and squirted some on the concrete floor.
He watched in fascination as I struck a match with one thumbnail, my other hand filled with the big bore .44 Magnum. As I dropped the burning wood stick into the fuel, the stuff whoofed into flames, the fire rising high for a moment, then fading away completely as the few drops of butane were consumed.
"This is a public tavern," he said, a break in his voice showing the fear. "You wouldn't dare."
He stopped talking as I squirted him in the mouth with the butane fuel, then his hair, the wounded shoulder and soaked the crotch of his pants, until the fuel seeped down deep where he could really feel it.
"Tell me about your master," I said, emptying the container into his hair until the fluid ran down his face like tears. Then I lit another match and let him see the pretty flame. "Tell me everything."
He talked, of course. Eventually, they all do. But the things he said were impossible, incredible, and very interesting. If true. I would have to check this out.
***
The penthouse was in the rich section of downtown, all chrome, tinted glass and liveried bodyguards. I had only done a few hits around here, and each had been a pain. But I knew how to handle these things better now.
Hiring a few hookers to stage a topless screaming fight right outside the apartment building, I waited until the armed Pinkerton guards were busy trying to chase the girls away and slipped inside. There was some poor bastard with no left arm working the elevator, so I used my stun gun and left him alive. Might have been a veteran. Even I got limits. No soldiers, period.
At the top, I hit the video cameras with spray paint and used a keywire gun to jimmy the lock to the place I wanted. As the door swung inward, I pulled out a can of mace and sprayed. Sure enough, some hulking muscle came charging out and caught the spray full in the face. The Pinkertons fell hacking and coughing for breath, I put them both away forever. Easy pie.
Stepping inside I closed the door trying not to drool with avarice. The place was loaded with goodies as I had expected, but I ignored the valuable trinkets and went straight into the master bedroom. First time I had ever heard the word used correctly. According to the burnt husk in the garbage can outside my bar, this was where the master slept.
The bed was gone, but in its place rested white marble bathtub, or maybe the word pool was correct, and sure enough the damn thing as filled with blood, the tell-tale coppery stink confirming that matter. Wild. An AutoSentry machine pistol stood in the corner, and as I approached its little dish on top swung towards me, the .32 rapid-fire underneath tracking only a second behind. But that was enough, and I blew it apart with a single thundering round from the .44 Magnum. How exciting. I liked a challenge.
Taking cover behind a marble pillar near the doorway, I leveled my gun and squirted the new can of butane fuel all over the tiles and carpeting around the marble tub. A flick of the match, a toss and flames rose on every side, the natural fiber carpeting adding nicely to the growing bonfire. Getting no response yet, I went to the bar and added some Napoleon brandy and vodka. Whoosh! Pretty.
If there was anybody submerged inside the tub, the heat would soon start to make them cook. And since I had turned off the main water feed in the basement before coming up here, the sprinklers were out of action. How much toasting could a 'demon lord' take?
Without warning, the tiles around the tub exploded as hidden charges of C4 detonated in unison, the hellstorm of busted tiles ripping every article of furniture into splinters. The entire bar shattered, and the heavy oak doors were removed from the cracked walls, and some of the ceramic shards ricocheted off the twisted ruin of the hinges and caught me behind the pillar right in the leg. Shit! They hurt like blazes, but nothing was squirting so none of my arteries were hit. Just pain. No problem that could be controlled and ignored.
As I struggled to rise, there rose a geyser of blood from the tub and out of the roiling smoke walked a beautiful, naked woman, with the face of an angel, long flowing black hair, and covered with tattoos.
"Time to die, hunter!" she screamed as horns sprouted from her forehead. Then the thing lunged for me with hands that changed into animal talons.
A real demon. Cool. My twin .44 Magnums blew thunder at the she-beast slamming her back into the tub and removing large chunks of her chest and head. As I dropped the spent clip into a pocket and reloaded, she dove forward and took two more rounds before tackling me against the wall and putting a backhand across my face. I barely had time to turn with the blow and it still felt like my head was coming off. Bitch was strong! I went airborne for a moment, then became reacquainted with the floor in a hard crash.
Struggling to regain my bearings, the gaping crater in her skull closed and she started towards me once more. This time I blew off both her kneecaps. But as she fell, her body turned into a huge spider and leapt faster than I could track with my booming gun.
The demon slammed me into the wall, her mandibles raking across my chest only to find the dozen rosaries and crucifixes hanging around my neck. Hissing at the sight, she tried to get free, but now I drove the wooden stake hidden behind my back into her chest. Instantly, the spider melted into a beautiful woman again and she writhed as I dug around inside her chest with the piece of wood searching for her heart. She was in pain, but not dying a whole lot. Then it wrapped a tail around my legs pulling me down and butted with her horns catching me in the chest.
Shitfire, that hurt! Firing one magnum non-stop, I awkwardly pulled out a bottle of Holy Wate
r and smashed it into her face. Brackish fumes steaming off her melting features, she shrieked as I pulled out a mini-Uzi to spray her all over with the old man's silver bullets.
Fire sprang from each impact, and she staggered away
trying to escape, offering me millions in cash, but I maintained the gunfire until she dropped, sprawling. It was a nice ass, but no time for that now. Pumping more lead and silver into her body, I pulled out the silver stake and rammed it into her. Black leather wings sprouted from her back and slammed hard into me, but I clung on tight and put my weight behind the metal stake, forcing it in deeper and deeper until there was a terrible noise and smeared with green blood the tip came out of her mouth and stabbed the burning carpet.
There was a muffled curse, the whole building seemed to rock, some dark shadow filled the room...and then she was gone, only dry ash remaining in my sticky hands.
Trusting nobody, I sprinkled more of that Holy Water and communion wafers onto the dust, then went to her kitchen to wash as best I could. The water faucets were still turned off, but there was some bottled water in the fridge - yuppie assholes - and I got most of the gore off my hands. Everything else, I left as filthy as possible.
By now the flames were spreading across the penthouse, the grand piano was musically snapping it strings and the curtains flaring to reveal the iron bars closing off the windows. Softly, police sirens were sounding from the streets below and this time I knew they were for me.
But something she said before dying had caught my interest and I did a quick check behind the pictures hanging on the walls until I found a small safe. Bingo. Surrounded by the growing inferno, I cracked the tumblers and took all of the cash inside; trying to ignore the fact that armed cops were on their way up here, along with a shitload of seriously pissed off Pinkerton guards who must have figured out by now that the hookers were just a diversion.
The smoke was thick enough to make breathing difficult, so I held a handkerchief to my mouth as I rumpled my Pinkerton guard uniform some more, then smeared some of my own blood from the shoulder wounds onto my face to blur my features. Nobody really wants to look at a bad wound. Works every time.
Dashing for the elevator, I jacked the slide on my .44 Magnum until the clip was out of ammunition and the slide kicked back to show it was empty. Slumping to my knees with the empty gun on display, I waited until the stairwell door slammed open and out charged a mob of cops and guards. Weakly, I swung my empty gun at them and pulled the trigger several times blinking wildly.
"Pinkerton! Stop you're under arrest," I sobbed, my chest heaving. "Get...away from her..."
As big people charged into the roaring penthouse, somebody knelt along side me and checked the pulse in my throat. A medic of some kind. I held my breath making the pulse slow to appear even weaker than I felt. My adrenaline was still pumping, and I was fine at the moment, but that would fade soon. Had to move or die. This was the fun part.
"It's okay, buddy, we're the cops," somebody said, gently pushing my gun away. "What happened?"
"Six guys, military..." I paused to cough and slump further down. "The windows, some kind rope..."
"They're rappelling down from the roof!" a cop snarled.
"Christ, look at the flames!"
"Nobody is left alive in there."
"We'll take the stairs!"
"Go-go-go!" a cop added into a mike, the wire leading to a small radio clipped to his gunbelt.
As the group separated and charged in different directions, I took the stairs to the basement where my car was hidden. I paused to turn the water back on, which would only make things more confusing upstairs for a while. Then I rode away into the night holding a military battlefield compress to my wounds.
Stopping at an all night diner, I stitched the holes in me shut while sitting in a stall of the men's room, then got into my normal clothes taped behind the toilet marked 'broken'. Going to the counter, I flirted with the waitress as I ordered a sandwich and some much needed black coffee, then went to a pay phone and placed a call.
"Who the heck is this?" my cousin demanded.
"Me," I answered. "I've thought about that video store deal you want me in on, and I got a better idea. Dry cleaners."
"What?" he demanded, the sleep still thick in his voice, and he wasn't the most articulate person to begin with.
"Dry cleaners," I repeated slowly, leaning against the wall to conserve my flagging strength. Man, did I need that joe. Where was the damn waitress? "We'll open a chain of dry cleaners across the city, and I'll pay for everything." I patted the sack of cash hanging at my side. Must be close to a million there, maybe two. "A chain of dry cleaners across the state. Ten stores instead of one measly video store. You in?"
"Sure sure, whatever ya want. Sounds great."
"Good. I'll meet you for breakfast tomorrow. Night."
I hung up on his gushing thanks and went to ravage my ham on rye and that precious, wonderful coffee. This was the smartest move I had ever done. Dry cleaners, it was brilliant. We'd specialize in removing blood stains from silk, with low-low prices, and I would track down every demon in the city, hell in the state! Blow their brains out with silver bullets and steal their horde of cash. A sweet deal.
Then the universe seemed to constrict around me as a great and terrible thought occurred and I felt cold in the pit of my stomach. If there were actual demons, then there must be a Hell that they came from. Which logically meant Satan must be real, and that dictated the existence of God. Holy crap! Suddenly, every pissant misdemeanor and capital crime I had ever committed paraded through my mind and the weight of my sins was truly staggering. I'd never made a tally before, and even I was impressed. No doubt about it, if there was a God in heaven, then I was going straight to Hell. Unacceptable. From everything I had ever read, seen or heard about The Abyss, the evil were chained in lakes of fire.
There was the magic word, chained. Shackled, trapped, wearing a collar like an animal. This time my body shuddered so hard that I dropped my fork. In this life I had vowed to die rather than go to jail, so I sure as shit wasn't going to do it in the afterlife. Because that's all Hell was, the biggest, baddest jail in the infinite cosmos.
Adding more sugar to my coffee, I started to take a sip, paused, then quickly muttered grace first. Or as close to the words as I could get. Sunday school was a million years ago, in another lifetime.
But once I had been an altar boy, so okay, it was time to reform. I'd keep the dry cleaner idea, but after killing a demon, I wouldn't steal the cash. No, I would, but I wouldn't keep any, every penny would go to charity, the homeless, and starving kids, blind orphans, jazz like that. God loved good deeds. Praisedbehe. I would keep on blowing away hellspawn and helping folks until finally balancing the scales for all the innocent people I had aced. Damn, er, darn, that would take a lot of demons. Best to hedge my bet and stop cursing, lying, cheating, gambling, hookers, hmm, best to avoid sex entirely, just in case. Maybe I should become a priest? Accept one collar to avoid another. Fair enough. I like to kill, but it was easy to combine the two. Father Michael Xavier Donaher, Demon Hunter. Actually, that had a nice ring to it. Praise the Lord and pass the silver ammunition.
Feeling reborn, I bowed my head and thanked my heavenly Father for his wisdom and mercy, and all the saintly pious stuff. Then paying the check, and leaving a tremendous tip, I stuffed the briarwood pipe into my mouth and strode from the dinner into the foggy night. It would be smart to move fast on this deal. If I got hit tonight by a bus while crossing the street, my ass was grass. Now where the hell was I going to find a goddamn Catholic Church at this shitty hour of the night to get fucking ordained?
Halle-freaking-lujah. I've been saved.
-THE END-
"A few years ago, my buddy, Prof. Charles Sheffield, decided to do an anthology about saving the world," Nick spoke softly into the microphone, really getting into the swing of things. "Well, that sounded fun, but much too straight forward, so I offered to save the world.
..by fixing two problems at the same time!"
Missing the cue for a sound effect, the man in the booth raised a homemade sign reading, "Look down, you fool!"
Adjusting the gain slightly to remove a faint squeal, Nick ignored the fellow. "Well, three hours, and a gallon of iced tea later, the story was finished. I emailed it to Charles; he was delighted and bought it on the spot. All in all a very pleasant way to spend a sunny summer afternoon...."
RAW TERRA
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're almost there!" Erik Kay cried into his hand held mike, while hanging out the open window of the antique style train engine.
The cool Titan wind whipped his curly gray hair into a wild frenzy, totally unlike the usual neat perfection his billions of TriD viewers were familiar with, and for the first time in his life, Kaye didn't give a good goddamn. They were going to make it! This was the story of the year! Hell, the decade! If only he knew what it was.
Alongside him in the cabin was Dr. Alice Bentley, a pretty brunette in a lab jumpsuit typing madly on her wrist secretary with one hand, a computer stylus clamped tight between clenched teeth. Behind the scientist was Sergeant Vladimir Zane, a stout United Planets police officer nervously fondling his service laser, rigidly formal in his stark white uniform, the red and blue emblem of this independent colony emblazoned on a shoulder. Filling the fore of the open cabin was a rocky gray bipedal mountain, whose nimble alien hands frantically were working the controls of the rumbling steam engine. Birth name: (assorted grunts, snorts and a rude flatulent noise), social name: Rocky. Which was the equivalent of calling an Irishman 'Red' or an African pygmy 'Shorty'. Not quite exactly an insult, but hardly original thinking for the alien Choron.
Invasion from Uranus Page 3
