by Dan McGirt
The Professor materialized, leaning on his walking stick. He appeared older and more stooped and fragile than he had in Walmart. More human. But anger flashed in his dark eyes despite his best efforts to conceal it.
“You can’t possibly mean that, Chuck,” he said smoothly. “I’m sorry I was late for the town meeting, but I’d like to be heard on this matter before we reach any rash conclusions.”
“The way I hear it, Mullins, you’re one of them, and one of the worst!” said Finch. “So we don’t want to hear from you. Vampires are no longer welcome in Twinkle.”
“Think about what you’re saying, Chuck,” said the Professor.
“We have. Get out.”
“You know the rules, cupcake,” said Palin. “You can’t enter a home without an invitation. And if the whole town says get out, then out you go.”
“True enough,” said the Professor. “But listen to me, Twinkle! You’ll regret this! What is Twinkle without vampires? Nothing! A useless little nowhere! Our presence has propped up your economy in ways you cannot possibly comprehend. But without us? Bah! Twinkle will dry up and blow away! And good riddance!”
“That’s our problem,” said Finch. “Now go!”
The mist cleared. A shrieking flock of bats passed across the rising moon. It was over.
The morning sun sidled up to the horizon. The team was on the bus and the engine was running. Only Palin had yet to board.
“Governor, I can’t thank you enough,” said Chief Finch. “It feels like a brand new day here in Twinkle.”
“That it is,” said Palin. “Try to keep it that way.”
Finch blushed. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind...” He held out his copy of Going Rogue. “I never got a chance to ask you yesterday, what with arresting you for arson and murder and all.”
“Glad to!” said Palin, taking the book from his hands. “How about I make it To Chuck, a great American?”
“That would be fine.”
Palin signed with a flourish and returned the book. Finch offered a handshake. “You’re welcome back in Twinkle anytime.”
“Well, hopefully, next time it will be pleasure, not business. Goodbye, Chief.”
Palin boarded the bus. GOGO put it in gear, turned east, and drove into the dawn.
Thick, wet clumps of Stella’s hair, newly dyed black, fell into the bathroom sink as she worked the scissors. She glared at her own puffy eyes and tear-stained face in the mirror. The black lipstick looked right. She would get her lip pierced when she got to Portland. Maybe other things too.
And a tattoo: Edmund Forever.
Her backpack was full of clothes, her journal, her iPod, some cash. The truck was gassed up.
There was nothing left for her here in Twinkle.
“I’ll never forget you Edmund,” she told her reflection. “Never! And I’ll never forget who took you away from me!” She spat the name: “I’ll get you, Sarah Palin! No matter what it takes, I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”
Beginner’s Luck
It was a dark and stormy night.
Cliché? Yes, but also an undeniable truth. A hard chill rain slashed down on Arkwen College, beating against the slanted roofs and square neo-Gothic towers of Lansmoor Hall. Dark gouts of water gushed from the stone mouths of the gargoyles ringing its mock battlements, eerily backlit with every cold flash of lightning. The grassy quad below was a brown sea of mud. Wind howled through the creaking treetops and rattled the poorly caulked windows of the old student dormitories. Here and there behind the glass, candles flickered and flashlight beams danced, for the electricity had failed and the phone lines too.
Remarkably, cell phone service was also out.
There was little for the students to do but huddle together in the hallways or hunker down in their beds and wait for the storm to blow over. It was not a night for any sane person to be outside.
Which made it perfect weather for the Hatchet Man. Bundled in a hooded rain slicker, his heavy boots impervious to the small rivers washing over his feet, he stalked across the darkened campus with a lovingly sharpened hatchet in his hand.
The deranged serial killer hadn’t always been the Hatchet Man. He was fairly new at it, in fact. Still looking for his first victim actually. Which meant he wasn’t technically a serial killer yet, or even a killer at all. But he was deranged and he had a hatchet, and that was a start.
His decision to become an insane killer was a recent one. Given his poor grades—who knew a fractional GPA was even possible?—his parents’ dream of him attending medical school was looking less and less likely. As this realization sunk in, he wondered what direction to take in life.
Then it hit him.
What did he enjoy most? More than anything else?
The answer was obvious:
Murder and mayhem!
At least the virtual kind—he could play Soulslayer Online for hours on end. His 99th level Warmongrel Assassin with Sinister Gaze Visor and +8 Doomreaver Blade of Woe was not only ranked among the top ten players worldwide, but was also a High Arch-Captain of the Nightchillers Guild. Why not apply those finely-honed killing skills to the real world? Insane killer was the perfect job. Make your own hours, answer to no one, get your name in the paper.
As for going insane—how hard could that be? It was just a matter of wanting it badly enough.
Of course, there were also certain necessary preparations to be made.
All the best psychotic killers had a gimmick, a theme, a creepy nickname. Or at least a mask of some sort. He knew this from watching his slasher movie DVDs over and over and over.
His first thought, with Halloween so near, was a seasonal theme. He didn’t want to go with an obvious and boring accessory like a goalie mask, so he tried carving himself a jack-o’-lantern helmet. He would become the Pumpkin Killer, and use a pumpkin carving knife to carve up his victims. That, he figured, was plenty creepy.
The first step was buying a pumpkin big enough to fit around his head. But once he got it all scooped out and carved and fitted, he discovered that the heavy gourd hurt his neck. Also the pumpkin tended to slide around so that the eye holes were somewhere near his ear. Even when it was on straight, his peripheral vision was almost nil. He kept bumping into things. Like the wall. Plus the pumpkin helmet smelled like—well, like the inside of a pumpkin. It would get rank after a while, and attract those annoying little fruit flies.
Maybe Pumpkin Killer wasn’t the way to go.
In fact, on further reflection, the seasonal theme was a bit limiting anyway. A pumpkin was well and good for October, but what was he supposed to do in, say, February? Valentine’s Day and you’re the Pumpkin Killer?
Even senseless killings had to make some sense.
And what about the summer? Senseless murder was a year round calling. Who wants a big, sweaty pumpkin on your head in July?
Becoming the Hatchet Man was much more practical. The name already had an unpleasant connotation and it indicated right up front what you were about.
Like that urban legend guy.
The Hook.
He killed people with a hook.
Easy. Effective. Scary as heck.
Sometimes simple was best.
Hatchet Man. Yeah.
What he figured he would do with his victims, once he found one, was cut off their heads. You could cut off other parts, sure, but nothing screamed deranged killer like cutting off heads. And the best sort of heads to cut off—based again on the movies—were those of teenagers, the stupider the better, and preferably at a summer camp or some other isolated location. But failing that—and it was October, so the summer camp thing was out and he was highly allergic to poison ivy anyway—failing that, college students would do. The Hatchet Man was on his way to Avesley Hall, the girls’ dormitory on the quad.
He figured he could get in through the fire escape door. It was supposed to be locked from the outside, but residents usually left it propped open for more convenient entry
to the building. Now their carelessness would get someone killed.
At least it would if everything went well.
The Hatchet Man crossed the darkened quad, darting from tree to tree between lightning flashes. Except a couple of times when his feet got stuck in the mud and he couldn’t move quickly enough to reach cover before the next stroke of electricity lit up the sky. But no one seemed to notice him. He reached the side of Avesley undetected.
He paused to consider his next move. His first victim should be a blonde. He knew that. A well-endowed blonde co-ed wearing a flimsy nightie, like in the movies
Preferably a psych or education major.
He tightened the grip on his hatchet excitedly. His palms were sweaty inside his leather gloves. His pulse pounded in his temples. And his nose was cold. This was it. The first blonde he came across—whack!
Off with her head.
But what should he do with the head once he had removed it? Take it with him or leave it behind? Taking the head would be scarier, but he didn’t have a good place to keep it. The freezer, maybe, but it was full of frozen pizzas and TV dinners. Also, his roommate might get suspicious if human heads started turning up.
He hadn’t brought a bag anyway. Maybe next time. For tonight he’d leave the head behind.
The Hatchet Man darted around the corner, promptly lost his footing in the mud, landed face first, and slid about six feet. He came that close to slicing his own leg with the hatchet.
Now that would be embarrassing.
The unsuspecting—and very likely lingerie-clad—girls inside would pay for this indignity.
It was as good a motive as any.
The Hatchet Man rose carefully to his feet and brushed himself off as best he could. He took a deep breath and tried the door handle.
Locked.
Locked!
These doors were never locked! They were always propped open. How was he supposed to go on a murderous rampage if he couldn’t even get inside?
Suddenly, behind him, the Hatchet Man heard a sneeze. He whirled—but carefully, so as not to slip again—and raised his weapon.
When the lightning flashed he found himself facing a figure wearing a long, sopping wet Philadelphia Flyers jersey and a plain white goalie’s mask. The other lurker held a wickedly sharp two-foot-long machete.
“Who the heck are you?” demanded the Hatchet Man.
“Um...” The other figure sneezed again.
“Bless you,” said the Hatchet Man.
“Thanks. I’m the Goalie.”
“Here to, ah, you know?” The Hatchet Man nodded toward the door.
“Yeah.”
“Locked.”
“Damn.” The Goalie sneezed again. “I think I’m catching a cold.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“Spoils the look.”
“The drowning hockey player look?”
“Well, no, it’s—say, do you have a handkerchief?”
“No. Sorry. Look, you’ve got to be kidding me. A hockey mask? How lame is that?”
“Oh yeah? What are you supposed to be? The Soggy Hood?”
“I’m the Hatchet Man.”
“Right. Give me a break.” The Goalie sneezed again.
“I’ll give you more than that!” The Hatchet Man started forward.
“Wait!” said the Goalie. “Someone’s coming!”
A figure with an exceptionally large head stumbled out of the shadows. As he drew nearer a flash of lightning revealed a man wrapped in a long black cape caked with mud and wet leaves. On his head he wore a pumpkin carved with two triangular eyes and a sort of lop-sided evil grin. But the pumpkin face wasn’t facing front. It was turned to one side, with the eye holes somewhere near his left ear.
“Oh, brother,” muttered the Hatchet Man.
The newcomer reached up and adjusted his pumpkin helmet to align the eye holes properly.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“The Hatchet Man.”
“I’m the Goalie.” Another sneeze.
“The Goalie? How lame is that?”
“You have a pumpkin on your head and you’re calling me lame?”
“I’m—”
“The Pumpkin Killer,” said the Hatchet Man disgustedly.
“Well, actually, the Pumpkin Slasher.” He held up a straight razor. “See?”
“I do,” said the Hatchet Man. “But I bet you can’t.”
“You’re right,” agreed the Pumpkin Slasher. “Not only that, but this pumpkin leaks. I’ve got cold water running down my neck. Anyway, are you guys here to—”
“Door is locked,” said the Goalie.
“Oh,” said the Pumpkin Slasher. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Welcome to the club,” said the Hatchet Man.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t think—excuse me.” The Goalie sneezed again. “I don’t think we’re going to catch anyone outside in this weather. I mean, you’d have to be nuts to go out in this!”
An awkward moment of foot-shuffling followed.
“Have either of you done this before?” asked the Hatchet Man.
The others gave embarrassed shrugs.
“Well, if we can’t get in, I’ve got to get out of this thing,” said the Pumpkin Slasher. “It itches.”
“I think I’m catching the flu,” said the Goalie.
“There has to be another way in,” said the Hatchet Man.
Before the others could reply, all three of the would‑be killers were blinded by the glare of an industrial strength flashlight.
“Hold it right there!”
The Pumpkin Slasher bolted, smacked into the wall, reeled back, and tumbled to the ground. His pumpkin head split with a wet thud and fell apart into two halves.
The Goalie and the Hatchet Man raised their weapons.
“Aha!” said the new arrival, a tall, bearded man wearing a canvas raincoat and work boots. “Caught you red-handed!”
“Well, not red-handed yet,” said the Hatchet Man. “Who are you?”
“Bob the groundskeeper. I see you’re the hooligans who broke into my tool shed and stole my hatchet and my machete. You’ll be returning them now.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the Goalie.
“Says who?” said the Hatchet Man.
“Says Suzy.”
The would-be killers were perplexed.
“Who’s Suzy?” asked the Hatchet Man.
Bob raised a sawed-off shotgun from under his coat.
“Suzy,” he said.
“Okay, no problem,” said the Goalie, setting the machete at Bob’s feet.
“Here you go,” said the Hatchet Man. He placed his weapon on the ground beside the long knife.
“My head hurts,” said the Pumpkin Slasher, sitting up in the muck.
“Is that my straight razor?” demanded Bob.
“Sorry.” Abashed, the Pumpkin Slasher handed it over.
“I don’t know what you hooligans are up to out here in the rain. And I don’t care. Just stay away from my tools!” said Bob.
“Okay.”
“Sorry.”
“Yessir!”
Bob slid the shotgun into a holster under his coat, and dropped the razor into his pocket. He hefted the machete and the hatchet, one in each hand. He turned away, then paused, “Oh, one more thing.”
Bob whirled back to face the three young neophyte killers just as a lightning flash gleamed off his horrible glass eye and the angry red scar across his forehead. With both weapons raised, he asked, in a possibly demonic voice:
“Who wants to die first?”
Hero Wanted
A brief word from Dan McGirt...
Greetings, Loyal Reader!
Hero Wanted is the first volume of the Jason Cosmo fantasy adventure series—my light-hearted and often ludicrous take on the epic quest fantasy genre. Presented here as a special bonus preview are the first six chapters of Hero Wanted. This is enough of the story to intr
oduce our heroes and, I hope, whet your appetite to read the rest of the book! If so, Immediately following this preview, the story also continues in the mini-novel Rainy Daze. You might call Rainy Daze an interstitial story (If you won’t, I just did.) because it is set between chapters of Hero Wanted. Specifically—and by spectacular coincidence—Rainy Daze is set between Chapter 6 and Chapter 7.
Thank you for reading!
Best regards,
Dan McGirt
Chapter 1
The arrival of the stranger was quite a shock. He strode into the Festering Wart tavern like an insult, stopping in the middle of the common room with his hands on his hips and arrogance on his face. All the village men were there that spring evening, drinking warm rutabaga beer and gossiping about the recent rash of mottled pig pox going around. We ceased our talk to stare at the new arrival in sullen, suspicious silence. The only sound was the sputtering of the smoky pig fat lanterns hanging from the dangerously bowed rafters.
My humble village of Lower Hicksnittle, on the northernmost fringe of the backward Kingdom of Darnk, was as isolated and uneventful a place as could be found. Hicksnittlers plodded thickly through life, considering anything beyond the edges of our rocky turnip fields to be alien, hostile, and ultimately unimportant. We knew little of events elsewhere in the Eleven Kingdoms, for travelers from the south were rare. To the north lay endless leagues of empty wasteland and the black wall of a distant, unexplored mountain range. Hence our amazement when the stranger appeared in our midst.
He was thin and pale and outlandishly dressed. His peach-hued pants were too tight, his white blouse too ruffled, his jeweled codpiece too much. The bobbing yellow plume on his wide-brimmed felt hat was too long, the golden curls of his hair too dainty. We Hicksnittlers favored drab, ill-fitting garments woven of mudflax and cottonweed. We cropped our hair short and bathed irregularly, if at all.
His dress was one strike against him. The sword at his belt was another. A man with a sword was trouble.
“I am Lombardo of Calador,” he said, wrinkling his nose against the stench. Strong men had died from inhaling too deeply of the Festering Wart’s foul, damp, spore-laden air. Their bones still lay scattered in the filth on the floor, for in Darnk it was our custom to leave the dead wherever they happened to fall.
