by C. T. Phipps
The elevators opened at the basement level and I headed down a cold cinderblock corridor, lit with those old dim red emergency lights wrapped in steel mesh. Random video cables and black power cords hung low. At the end of the hall amidst the gloom was a single red door, which was the entrance to an old fallout shelter. The hall had that horror movie vibe, and I was the stupid, nosy, sex-crazed teenager you yelled at to not go in there. Ricky had laid out a welcome mat that read “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” He had an off sense of humor. I heard the sound of a camera focusing and looked up to see an exterior camera staring at me.
“Lemme in, Ricky,” I said as I gave the camera the finger and lit a smoke.
The door went through several clicks of magna-locks releasing. There was a rush of pressure as it opened. The smell of incense, booze, and day-old sex came wafting out. For a shut-in, Ricky knew how to live.
Ricky had rarely come out over the last few years. The Spinoli sisters only saw him quarterly, and he almost never made an appearance if too many people were around. Ricky preferred to live down in the earth and watch the world from his monitors. He claimed he hated what mankind had become. I can’t say I blamed him. Since G-Day, we had pretty much gone tits up.
The room was dark, lit only by the glow of his monitors. Displayed were all angles of his club, as well as various parts of New Golgotha and several other locations I could not place with any certainty. Ricky sat in his authentic Star Trek The Next Generation captain’s chair, with his back to me. He also seemed to be watching both the laser disc version of Star Wars and a Betamax tape of The Last Starfighter while playing Halo 5.
Ricky did like to multitask.
On an ancient army cot beside him snored two nude girls. One was completely human with a sweet ass and a tribal tramp stamp. The other was a light-blue-skinned demoness with white hair and white Denochian tats. Probably some kind of Pride demon. Apparently both were Ricky’s fuck toys for the evening.
I heard movement above me and as always I was startled to see Ricky’s pet snake. Ricky had installed a wire mesh drop ceiling so his fifteen-foot, goddamn terrifying serpent could always be above us. Sometimes it would hiss at passersby and drip its venom down. I had no idea where he got the damn thing, but Ricky always took great delight in smacking the mesh and pissing off the snake. Lord knows what he fed it. I remember asking what its name was and Ricky had only said, “Penance.”
A screeching caw from the corner of the room caught my attention. As always, Ricky’s pet…condor vulture thing rattled its cage when it was ignored. I walked over and reached into the bloody bucket on the floor, pulled out a chunk of liver, and dropped it through the cage.
“Eat up, Shrift,” I said to the raptor. It responded by trying to take off my fingers. I considered pulling my gun on the damn bird. It was secured by thick chain within the cage, but you can’t be too careful.
“You should just punch the bastard,” Ricky said as he rose from his chair. “I know it makes me feel better.” He crossed the room and shook my hand and gave me one of those man hugs, a shake of one hand and a punch in the back. Ricky was shorter than me by about half a foot, but wider and thickly muscled. His head was shaved bare and he was covered in tattoos. He was wearing sunglasses and an old-fashioned work shirt, sleeveless, with his name embroidered on it. A chain wallet dangled by his side and his jeans were vintage. That was Ricky, a long-lost disciple of Mike Ness.
Ricky went back to his chair, but not before kicking the cot. The girls woke up, startled. The Pride demoness flicked her forked tongue at Ricky and ruffled her wings. Ricky just stared at her. She shrank back, afraid. Not just scared, but real terror.
“Out,” he said with no inflection.
The girls gathered their clothes and quickly left. I just crossed my arms and avoided eye contact. Like I said, I don’t have any sexual hangups. It’s just that naked slutty bits reminded me of the dry spell I was in. After the red door sealed shut again, Ricky tapped a comm link switch on his main control panel and murmured an instruction. I glanced up and saw a bouncer come onscreen and escort them out of the building. I pulled up a chair and kicked back. Ricky handed me a beer I never asked for, and I took it. Never look a free drink in the mouth—not at Dante’s, anyway.
“So, are the sisters going to be mad you’re giving away free booze?” I asked, keeping the tone light.
“Pretty sure I got the human one pregnant. The hell bitch is going to smell it on her soon and probably rip her apart,” Ricky said as if I wasn’t in the room. Well, so much for a light fucking tone.
“Ricky, Jensen said you wanted to see me before I meet with my client. So out with it, bud. It isn’t like you to set up a meet personally. What’s up?”
Ricky turned and stared right at me. And it was hard to meet his gaze, even behind his sunglasses. Ricky wasn’t human. I didn’t know what he was. I didn’t need to know. Anyone with a sense of self-preservation could sense his otherworldly aura. One of a predator, and a powerful one. But I had known him for the last 122 years. He was one of the few people I knew who lived without aging. He didn’t ask my secrets; I didn’t ask his. All that aside, he still freaked me the fuck out.
“Tonight, you are about to be set on a path. I don’t know how this is going to play out. The client you are meeting tonight is a very old friend of mine. Do yourself a favor and don’t lie to him. He will know if you do, and it will upset him greatly.”
I just looked at Ricky and sipped at my drink. This personality shift in Ricky wasn’t unexpected. In the course of our “friendship” Ricky and I had raised some hell, thrown back some drinks, laughed, and lived. I had worked both with him and for him and made a small fortune in credits. Most of the things in this office from pre-G-Day, I got for him. But over the last few decades he had become more sullen. Morose. The life of the party was now a watcher standing guard for the arrival of something.
“Well, fine. Be an esoteric prick.” I finished my beer and set it down, and got up to leave. Ricky reached out and caught my arm.
“Salem, this is huge. Steel yourself.” He reached over and flicked the switch that opened the door. I walked out but looked back just once. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could see a stupid grin on Ricky’s face. Maybe my “friend” was still in there.
About the Author
C.T. Phipps is a lifelong student of horror, science fiction, and fantasy. An avid tabletop gamer, he discovered this passion led him to write and turned him into a lifelong geek. He is the author of The Rules of Supervillainy, the Red Room series, the forthcoming Wraith Knight, as well as the soon to be released Agent G series. C.T. lives in Ashland, Ky with his wife and their four dogs. You can find out more about him and his work by reading his blog, The United Federation of Charles, (http://unitedfederationofcharles.blogspot.com//)