by J. R. Rain
“Totally,” I said, then, feeling defeated, motioned to his laptop. “So what are you working on, Hemingway?”
“A novel.”
“What kind of novel?”
“A murder mystery.”
I snapped my fingers. “Maybe I’ve read one of your books.”
“Did you just snap your fingers?”
I giggled a little. “Yes.” God, he was so easy to get along with. “What’s your name?”
“John Grisham.”
I stared at him, knowing my mouth had dropped open stupidly. “Really.”
“No, that was a joke.”
I shook my head and looked back at Tammy who was happily slurping from her drink and kicking her feet, watching us, listening to us. Even from across the room. Weird kids, I thought.
Hey, she shot back.
I smiled and gave her a small wave. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“Your kid?” he asked.
“My monster.”
“She’s cute for a monster,” he said.
I like him, thought Tammy.
Shh, I hissed silently. And stop being so nosy.
“So what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Serious?”
“Serious as my mortgage payment.”
“I used to be a private eye,” he said.
I snapped my head up. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s where I know you.”
“I doubt it. I worked in L.A. and mostly I worked alone.”
“Damn.”
He grinned. “Double damn.”
“So, you write books under Jon?”
“No, I use a pen name.”
I raised my eyebrows. Maybe I had read his books after all. “What’s your pen name?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “No,” he finally said.
“No, what?”
“No, I won’t tell you.”
My heart sank even as my frustration rose. “I could make you tell me.”
“Because you’re a mad mom in a minivan?”
“Because I have my ways,” I said. “Why won’t you tell me your pen name?”
“Because this is more fun.”
“To walk off into the sunset and we’ll always wonder?”
“Something like that. Except I’m going to get into my SUV and drive over to my sister’s house for dinner.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. “Yes, I do.”
He laughed some more and began gathering his bags, and as he did so, I noticed the time on his watch was two hours fast.
“Your watch is off,” I said.
He frowned and looked down. “Off?”
“It’s two hours fast.”
He looked again. “No it’s the right time.” He looked at me as I’d lost my marbles. Maybe I had. I looked at the time on my iPhone. Yup, his was two hours off. I showed him the time difference.
He leaned over and looked. “Weirdness.”
Then, when he had everything packed, he turned to me and said, “Well, it was certainly fun meeting you, whoever you are.”
“Don’t you want my name?”
“No.”
“Rot in hell,” I said, and crossed my arms.
He laughed loudly, throwing back his head. When he was done, he slung his cool satchel over his shoulder. “Till we meet again.”
“Bastard.”
He smiled and nodded and left through the side doors. As he passed Tammy, he gave her a small wave. She smiled and waved back.
Once outside, he looked back at me through the big glass window. He winked, adjusted his bag, and, no, he didn’t disappear or fade away. He walked beyond the window and out of sight. No doubt to his SUV.
Whoever the hell he was.
The End
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Vampire vs. Bigfoot
I’ve lived in many places and in many times.
For now, Seattle suits me. If Twilight got anything right, it’s that overcast days play less havoc on vampires. Not much less, granted, but enough.
Unlike Twilight, I don’t live with an adopted family of vampires. I live alone, as I have for many centuries. And as I pulled up to my current home, I actually had to think hard about how many centuries it has been.
Four of them. Four hundred and seventy-two years, to be exact.
Almost five centuries.
A half of a millennium.
Jesus, I’m old. And rich. After all, a vampire acquires a lot of money in five hundred years, and my own was spread liberally around banks the world over, not to mention secret stashes of gold and silver in various caves and beaches.
And now here I was, in Seattle, living yet another life, in another place, another time. The world continues on. People come and go. Technologies expand. Waistlines expand, too. But I will always be twenty-five.
Forever young, as they say.
I pull into my garage and shut off the car, which I sit in as the garage door grinds shut behind me. I could do anything, of course. Go anywhere, be anyone. There are people out there—very talented and corrupt people—who can turn you into anyone, in any country.
But, for now, I am staying put, living among the hippies and hipsters and baristas. Why? Why do I deal with the rain and gloom and cold?
The answer might surprise you.
Then again, it might not.
After all, Washington State is known more than just for its legal pot, gay marriages and trendy coffee shops.
It’s known for something monstrous stalking its woods.
Yes, I’m here to hunt the ultimate prize.
I’m here to hunt Bigfoot.
* * *
Don’t laugh.
I’m being serious. I’ve tasted all types of man and woman and child. All ethnicities, all age ranges. I’ve feasted on the very old to the very young. Yes, I’m a monster. I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. I have feasted on puppies and bear cubs, on lions and endangered rhinos. Yes, I am a monster.
And now I will hunt and feast upon the greatest prize of them all.
That is, of course, if he really exists.
* * *
I’ve spent many months planning and plotting.
I’ve even watched some of those ridiculous shows on TV, those shows that are all growl and no results.
Foolish mortals. Yes, I say that in jest, but it’s the truth. Never send a human to do what a vampire can do better. I am, of course, the perfect hunting machine. My ears can pick out the smallest sounds, the slightest rustling—breathing from across great distances. My eyes see deep into the dark. Hell, to my eyes, there is no dark. The night is alive with incandescent light. And I’m fast. So much faster than those bumbling idiots weighed down by camera equipment and backpacks.
I will wear nothing but the clothing on my back.
It will just be me and them.
And I will find them, to.
Oh yes, I will.
The ultimate prize.
* * *
The woods are dark.
But not to my eyes. No, to my eyes, the woods are alive with supernaturally bright filaments of lights. Thousands of them, millions of them. All melding together to illuminate the night. At least, for creatures like me.
Hunters like me.
It is late, perhaps 2:00 in the morning. I have about four hours left before sunrise. And when the sun does rise, I want to be long gone...with a belly full of a rare and very prized blood source.
I’m in a prime spot along the Olympic Peninsula. In fact, not far from the now famous Forks, with its glittering vampires. Lord, we are so much more than fictional heroes...or villains. Writers only partially get our stories right. Mostly they get us wrong. Granted, I’ve made it my life purpose to cover my tracks, to conceal my true nature. But a few of us get sloppy, and a few of us even fall in love with mortals. I don’t fall in love. I take what I want.
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Like now, for instance.
Now, I want to taste the blood of this legendary creature. This sasquatch. Yes, legendary even to vampires. You see, we vampires don’t know all, see all. We’re not plugged into some supernatural network. I, like the bungling idiots you see on TV, have to find them just like everyone else.
Except, of course, I will find them.
All I want is one.
One beautiful creature to feed upon. One beautiful creature to destroy. To claim, to be conquered by me.
Yes, I’m the asshole of the vampire world.
Pray you don’t cross paths with me.
* * *
Speaking of paths, I find myself on a narrow one now.
A game trail, no doubt, one that winds through thick ferns and stinging nettle. Of course, unlike with mortals, the stinging lasts only seconds. It’s good to be me. Bad to be anything I’m hunting.
Like sasquatch.
Speaking of which, I am in a location along the densely forested peninsula that was considered a hotbed for bigfoot sightings. I know this because I feasted on the director of a popular Bigfoot organization just last night. Such a shame he died tragically in a house wire. Damn faulty wires.
I chuckled now as I moved stealthily through the forest, my hiking boots whispering over tree roots, compacted dirt and fallen leaves. I doubted even an alert dog would hear me. Hell, I barely heard me...and that’s saying something.
I sensed something out here. Something that was neither animal nor human. What that something was remained to be seen. Or remained to be feasted upon.
Centuries of hiding—hell, millenniums of hiding—were about to be undone in one wild night of hunting. By a real hunter.
By a vampire.
Quickly I moved through the forest, pausing only briefly to listen, to sniff the air—sasquatches are known for giving off a tremendous stink—and to feel. Yes, feel. Vampires use a sort of sixth sense. An ability to feel our way through any situation.
Like I said, we are the ultimate hunters.
I was thinking about that now, reveling in my, well, greatness, when something thunderous crashed into me.
* * *
Rarely have I been hit so hard.
In fact, I could never think of a harder impact, especially one that sent me tumbling head over ass through a tangle of blackberry bushes.
And I mean a tangle. As I extricated myself from the thorny vines, I was a bleeding mess. But, being who I am, the wounds healed quickly.
As the kids say, that’s how I roll.
I carefully scanned my surroundings. Whatever had hit me was gone, having slipped back into the shadows, hidden even from my near-perfect night vision.
I heard a whispering of sound to my right, perhaps the slightest brush of a foot over leaves—remember, nothing escapes my hearing—when something slammed into me hard enough for me to believe I was in the path of a charging rhino. Which I had been once, before I feasted upon the creature (and made it appear to have been a poacher’s handiwork).
Anyway, there was no rhino in these forests. There was, in fact, nothing big enough in the Olympic Peninsula to hit me as hard as I had been hit. And as stealthily. Grizzly bears had long been pushed to extinction in Washington State. And black bears were far too slow and loud and stupid to hit me with such precision, silence and strength.
So what had hit me?
I didn’t know, but whatever was out there had me spinning around as I scrambled to my feet, had me looking wildly over my shoulders and behind me and up into the trees—had me feeling, well, mortal.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt fear. Real fear.
I hate when that happens.
So I continued scanning the forest, feeling my heart thumping in my chest for the first time in years. I could not think of the last time that anyone—or anything—had gotten the upper hand on me.
The forest was silent.
No, not quite silent. I can hear what might be breathing. Except it’s coming from seemingly everywhere at once. I keep turning in circles, doing my damndest to get a handle on what is out here; in particular, on what is taking these small, shallow, controlled breaths.
I reached out with my mind. I can do this. I can do many things to hunt and kill and feed. Except I was having difficulty focusing now. Knowing there was something out there, something seemingly faster and stronger than me was unnerving.
Impossible, I think. I am the greatest hunter. The most successful hunter.
I hear my own breathing now which is strange, since I don’t need to breathe. No, I was breathing out of an old habit. A habit of fear. A fear of being hunted.
There. I hear another sound. A tree branch snapping, and now I was moving quickly, covering the open space of the forest floor quickly, pouncing upon the site where I’d just heard the snap—
Except there’s nothing here.
I turn again, spinning, when something reaches around my neck, something much bigger than me, something more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced before. Something inhuman. Hell, something not of this earth.
It is a hand, clamped around my throat, lifting me off the ground.
I fight it, using my own great strength, strength that has hunted and killed and maimed and spread fear around the globe for centuries.
Except I...couldn’t...fight it.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
This isn’t happening.
The hand continues squeezing, and rising, lifting me off my feet. My hiking shoes dangle as I continued fighting, struggling, even as I felt my neck being literally crushed.
Now, I hear the sounds of more heavy footfalls.
I hear grunts, too.
And deep-throated growls.
Coming from seemingly everywhere.
I feel my eyes bulging, slowly being forced from their sockets as the powerful hand continued squeezing.
Hazy images take shape before me.
Huge images. Hairy images. Unspeakably horrible images. The images surround me, watch me curiously, heads tilted...
My vision is fading quickly. The pain is excruciating, unbearable. Even my supernatural ability to heal myself can not keep up with the steady pressure. Still, I fight the clawed hand. The clawed and hairy hand. I dig into it, raking it with my nails, but this only causes the creature to squeeze harder and harder.
The others draw closer, turning their heads curiously, and as their mouths open, I smell ungodly stinks, even as their mouths drip saliva.
The snap I hear is my own neck.
And it is only when the creatures descend upon me, tearing at my flesh and making wet feasting sounds, do I realize that the hunter has been the hunted.
The End
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The Bull
I am a superhero.
Well, kind of. If you call a hulking man with a tail and two horns and a bad attitude a superhero, well, I’m your man.
Or whatever the hell I am.
Anyway, I wasn’t always this strong—or this weird looking. I wasn’t always known as The Bull. No, there was a time that I was very much like you. I call those the simple times: back when I only had to worry about paying my rent or what TV show to watch, or, if I hadn’t paid my cable bill, what DVD to watch, or, if I hadn’t paid my electricity, what Starbucks to hang out in, or, well, you get the idea.
Yes, there was some stress. Having creditors on your ass sucks. Not knowing if you will have enough money to get through the month sucks. Working for a pittance sucks.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the shit I put up with now.
I went from wild panic attacks from not making rent, to nearly daily heart attacks fighting villains. And it all started with that damn bull.
Every superhero has an origin story. Here’s mine:
I used to be a rodeo clown.
And not a very good one, either. Hence my inability to find steady work. Still, I would occasionally get “the call”
as we call it. That is, when a real rodeo clown gets sick or injured, they keep some of us in the Rolodex. Luckily, I live in Rustic City, Arizona, arguably the rodeo capital of the world. So, yes, on any given day or night there is a rodeo in town.
So, the moment I get the call, it’s a mad rush to get the makeup on. Once done, I’m out the door, hauling ass in my old Hyundai. Mad clown in a clunker. More than once I’d been pulled over. And don’t let anyone fool you. Clowns don’t make everyone happy, especially cops. And kids. More often than not, as I waited at a red light, drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, I would look over and see a kid crying hysterically in the car next to me. Crying and pointing at me. Mothers and fathers would give me bad looks. I would shrug and point to my sad clown face, and sigh.
It was on such a night when I had gotten not only a speeding ticket but had also made twin boys cry (and maybe even their mother), when I went from Carl Gray, part-time rodeo clown, to Carl Gray, full-time superhero.
It had been a typical night.
I had been gored nearly a half a dozen times—all to the delight of the crowd—when the freak storm hit. In a flash, rain and hail pelted the outdoor stands and arena. Patrons went dashing for shelter. I would have gone dashing for shelter, too, except for one thing: I was in the middle of the arena with one very angry bull. A big and aggressive SOB that we called El Diablo.
The Devil.
The bull rider had lasted all of 1.8 seconds on the great beast before he went flying ass over feet through the air. Shouldn’t feel too bad. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. Riding El Diablo was like riding angry itself; that is, if angry had four legs, a tail, and two horns.
Anyway, I stepped out into the middle of the arena and did my best to distract the snorting, furious beast when the freak storm hit. I had just caught sight of fans running for cover when El Diablo ran at me.
Or, rather charged me.
Which reminds me of an old joke: How do you stop a bull from charging? Take away his credit card.
