“I’ll ask again, politely,” Curadal said. “Where is the Grand Master?”
The Lycker had forgotten where it was (or so it seemed) and found itself backed up against the railing of the staircase. It eyed Curadal in fury, its fangs barred, a contrail of drool producing a puddle of foul ooze on the floorboards.
“Tonight, he will be at the Crazy Pole Pony,” it hissed.
“I know that place,” I said. “It’s a strip joint on Olympic, near Western.” I then looked to the Lycker. “What would a fucking vampire want with hot strippers?”
“He … he’s recruiting,” the Lycker growled.
Curadal nodded. “Creating a harem, is he, wolf?”
“That’s right,” the Lycker said. “It’s his thing. And he’s not only recruiting women.”
“What does that mean?” I hiss.
“You’ll see. In time,” the werewolf replies enigmatically.
No one said (or growled) anything for a moment.
“So now what?” the Lycker broke the silence.
Curadal smiled at this. “Now you die, wolf,” he said.
“But it has been fun,” Samantha chuckled.
Was it only me who was going quietly insane? I wondered. Who did these people think they were dealing with? Benji? Lassie? Flipper with fangs and fur?
The Lycker’s fur began to rise on its back, and it suddenly lowered its belly to the ground, ears folded back on its head, like an angry cat.
“Maybe you’ll die instead, vampire,” the Lycker said.
“Unlikely, wolf,” Curadal said.
“Can we talk about this?” the Lycker hissed … and this again took me by wha-fuck surprise.
“No, there’s really no viable way out, wolf,” Curadal continued … glancing at his watch. “And this is a bit of a time sensitive issue. Sorry. Bad luck.”
The Lycker glanced at me. “You know I didn’t kill your brother. And I didn’t kill you when I had the chance, remember?”
I was momentarily dumbstruck. Was this thing out of a bad Hammer film actually appealing to me for clemency? For mercy? And I found myself appalled that I was actually, if only for a fleeting second, thinking of a reason not to kill the poor wolfie.
“Hey,” I sputtered. “Don’t look at me. I … this is my job. And I’ll bet you’ve munched a few good citizens lately, so don’t go looking to me for help. You furry prick.”
My mind was reeling. As if the Lycker needed to beg for mercy? What was happening here?
The Lycker suddenly howled and lunged directly for me.
* * *
I fired at the wolf, and missed by about a light year, my shot slamming into the roof of the house. Within a span of half a second, I felt that my time on planet Earth was about to be instantaneously terminated.
What I witnessed in the other half of that second defied any sense of credulity I had ever possessed or felt.
Curadal had simultaneously lunged at the wolf, and tackled it mid-air. The two hit the floor hard, and rolled. I tried to recover quickly enough to take aim, but before I did, Curadal was on his feet, holding the huge Lycker by the scruff of its neck. Now mind you, the Lycker stood easily five foot ten, give or take a nut-hair, and had to weigh at least a hundred and forty pounds. Curadal was holding it with one hand, as the wolf growled in fury.
He then suddenly tossed it to Samantha, as if it were a rag doll. She caught it with both hands, but then disposed of the wolf with a truly amazing throw that sent the Lycker (poor wolf, I thought from nowhere) against the far wall, where the force of impact was so crushing, I could actually feel the foundation of the house rock.
Curadal practically flew towards the stunned beast (in fact, it looked like he actually had flown, but I knew this was impossible), picked it up by one hind leg, and then slammed it once more into the wall, as if the wolf was nothing more than some kind of hairy baseball bat. The Lycker, I could see, looked truly panicked. It eyed me in abject fear, mixed with some residual fury.
Then from some no doubt inner-wolfen strength, it broke free from Curadal by kicking out its free hind leg, striking my partner square in the jaw. Curadal seemed only mildly fazed, but it forced him to release his grip on the wolf’s other leg.
The Lycker decided for a completely unexpected (at least to me) tactic.
It loped towards me with stunning velocity.
I didn’t even have time to raise my weapon, before it took its front paw, and in an admirable round-house swing, hit me so hard, I again found myself airborne for the second time in two days, the duration of which was substantial, because I crashed through one of the boarded windows, over the weed infested garden, and then over the crickity wooden gate that surrounded the house – and smashing onto the sidewalk. Total flying time and mileage, easily four seconds and sixty feet.
I had, to my stunned and pained amazement, somehow retained a grip on my gun. The world was a topsy-turvy spiral of disorientation and agony, and I fought for breath, which was battling equally with shooting pains in almost every part of my body. My hearing was seemingly unaffected inasmuch as I could still hear the unholy howls and growls of the Lycker within the house, along with what sounded like a bulldozer tearing the place apart.
I found the strength to roll onto my side, and then assume a doggy-style position on all fours, sucking in volumes of oxygen. I was shaking all over, and didn’t have the ability to stand, yet I knew I somehow had to get back inside, and help my compatriots, lest they lose to the power of drooling evil. And so, I, Dick Pitts, aka doggy-boy, proceeded to crawl towards the front door, a journey that spanned around thirty seconds. I was just about thirty feet from the entrance when suddenly I heard one howl of unholy agony … and then silence. I froze.
And I realized that my friends had been murdered.
I looked to the front door, fully expecting to see the Lycker open it and make its final attack against me.
* * *
I waited, thinking of the end of one of my favorite poems:
Somewhere folks are cheering,
Somewhere children shout,
But nowhere here in Mudville,
Mighty Casey has struck out.
Yep. That was me, right about now, sports fans. Casey and his final moment of truth. So this is how it all ends, I thought, every nerve ending in my body taking seemingly preternatural joy in firing up collectively for one final fuck-fest of Stick It To Dick Day. I stared at the door.
Sure as monkey-spunk on a stick, it opened.
Samantha appeared first, slapping her hands together, then wiping them on her blouse, a look of clear irritation on her face. She had not seen me as yet.
“God, I’m going to have to dry clean this today before it stains,” she said. She then looked to me. “Dick!”
She ran down the stairs, and kneeled down next to me. She did not immediately offer to help me up, and I was getting used to being a human woof-woof, just call me Rin Tin Dick, thank you much.
“Are you hurt?” Samantha asked.
I almost laughed. “I’m fine, Sam. You don’t mind if I call you Sam?”
“All my friends do,” she smiled. “But you’re pretty well bunged up, I can tell that much.”
I then looked to the front door again. Curadal appeared. He was dragging the Lycker … a very dead Lycker, behind him, in one hand. He glanced at me and froze in his tracks.
“Dick, I’m so sorry,” he said, and the remorse in his voice was one hundred percent sincere.
“For what?” I said, as Samantha pulled me gently up from all fours to a wobbly standing position.
“For letting the wolf attack you,” he said. “Very careless of me. I’m inconsolable.”
I thought that he was being facetious, but in an instance, I could tell that he was truly apologetic – as if his perceived negligence in allowing the wolf to play Punch the Pitts Pinata was an act of fundamental betrayal by him toward me.
“Don’t let it eat you up,” I said, feeling my strength slowly returning
, though the shakes were in full tilt boogey mode. “Mind if I ask how come you two aren’t dead?”
“Told you,” Sam said. “We’re specialists in this sort of thing.”
“You killed a Lycker with your bare hands,” I said, shaking my head, all sense of reality just getting up and running away from me at the moment. “No one does that.”
“Ever heard of martial arts?” Curadal said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“Let’s talk about it over a drink,” Samantha said. “You look like you could use one.”
I could have married the woman right there on the spot for her sensitivity.
“Mind if we just put this in your car?” Curadal said, referring to the dead werewolf, its hind leg still firmly grasped in his right hand.
I nodded. “I’ll pop the trunk.”
* * *
As the Lycker festers and begins to decompose in the trunk of my car, Curadal and Samantha both insist that we do the drinkie thing at their place. Curadal drives, and by the way, not at moderate speeds. He is continuously looking at the sky as the dawn is close to breaking, and checking his watch, while hauling through side streets at velocities that might suggest he was preparing to taxi and take-off at LAX.
I didn’t mind. Samantha has informed me that there is a cold bottle of Stoly in her fridge, and that thought alone keeps me unpanicked as Curadal continues to ground-fly through mid-town Los Angeles.
He screeches into the driveway, and hits the brakes, but in a way that seems not the least bit jarring (and I would have been able to tell, as every part of my body still reeled from my recent encounter with the Lycker).
I must have blacked out for a moment, but I did realize that I was being carried. Further, I must have been hallucinating because I could honestly relate that I believe it was lovely Sam herself carrying me. Effortlessly, at that. The next thing I know, I am in a chair which has magically appeared out of nowhere, with a very large, cold glass of vodka in my hand. Sam and Curadal are in two other chairs directly in front of me. They are watching me, and even fucked-up and woozy, I can recognize the looks of worry on their faces.
I look at my glass, then raise it. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” they respond together. “And by the way, well done, Dick.”
“What?” I said, not comprehending what Curadal is saying.
“Your job back there at the house. One hell of a job. You’ve earned your rep,” he said, again in that tone of voice that was completely and irrevocably heartfelt.
“Yeah,” I said, and laughed. “No, I’m getting very good at flying. And falling. And having my ass kicked on a regular basis.”
“I was referring to your courage, sir,” Curadal said, again almost deadly serious.
I did not have the heart to inform my new partner that each and every time I face these monsters, I have this urge to just go out and buy some Pampers and wear them for those all too necessary and probable moments of terror ka-ka release. But I decide to spare all concerned my innermost thoughts on this issue and merely offer a woozy, grateful smile, which I dare say is the most convincing thing I have done all day.
“Tell me more of this special training,” I change gears, wanting to cleanse my mind of scatological distraction.
“Ah, yes,” Samantha says, glancing at Curadal. “It is a combination of advanced martial arts and mental discipline, which, when combined, create a powerful mechanism which we find almost quadruples our combat tactic capability.”
Wow, I thought. I suddenly feel like former president George W. Bush reading My Pet Goat, and having to listen to the holographic paradigm of tangential dimensional resonance, i.e., not being a Mensa candidate, and barely able not to end a sentence in a preposition, I merely nod in wise, wise silence. That being said, and after a moment of much needed reflection and as George Bush would have it “thought collection”, I venture out on the ubiquitous limb of intellectual curiosity [the ‘what the fuck are you talking about’ retort of the perpetually ignorant] and take a chance with another inquiry: “Uh, can anybody learn this, special training?”
Curadal laughs. “Oh, yes, Dick,” he said. “But there is a price for such knowledge.”
I do not realize it but I have finished my rather generous frosty libation. I also do not realize that I am moments away from blacking out. With what little coherence remains, I lean forward and look directly into the beautiful eyes of Samantha (just call me Sam) and smile.
“I think … I’d like to do what you were able to do today to the wolf,” I mumble.
Then the world suddenly spins and the immortal words of Simon and Garfunkel echo in my booze-bludgeoned brainy-poo.
And hello darkness, my old friend, comes to me now once again…
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I awaken, I am lying on top of a sofa in a room just off to the left of the living room and the front door. My head feels like a baby giraffe has just finished using it for a hoof-conditioner. My mouth tastes like some small, previously unrecognized species of marsupial has taken a dump in it. The world at large spins, as if Earth itself is defying all gravitational laws of physics, and the capper is that my body can be safely catalogued for all posterity as One Big Giant Piece of Aching Condemned Veal.
I stagger to my feet – a Herculean effort which is rewarded by a cascading tidal wave of nausea and the urge to purge … and who cares which end or orifice this purging is to emanate?! I look into the living room, then into the apartment’s only other bedroom and kitchen.
Curadal and Samantha are nowhere to be found.
I look outside and see my car, and another vehicle, which I assume belongs to my hosts … yet they are not in the apartment, this much is clear. I decide to wait for a little while, on the assumption that perhaps they have gone out for a walk, or run a chore to the local 7-11. I look at my watch, and see that it is late afternoon, the sun still high in the sky. I had been sleeping for the better part of the day (sleeping … a wonderful euphemism in my case for being passed out, drunk as a skunk).
Half an hour passes, and still I am alone. I make the decision to leave, inasmuch as I should get back home, shower, and prepare for this evening when, according to the dead Lycker in the trunk of my car, the Grand Master will be awaiting our arrival at the stripper club on Olympic. I jot a quick note to Curadal and Sam, asking them to meet me at my place tonight – I am only five minutes from the club, hence, the logic in my apartment being the jumping-off point for the mission to come.
I make the thousand mile journey to my car, sweating, the shakes kicking in full force. I pop open the trunk and see that the dead Lycker is still, happily so, dead. I decide that I will bury it quickly at the Hollywood Cemetery near my place, then hit the showers, and the rest of my Jack Daniels. If Mirabelle is waiting for me, I will have to courteously decline any offers of romp-n’-fun activities.
The drive home is an odyssey into hell, a kind of labyrinthine horror that I feel I will never successfully complete. I have the sweats so bad, I feel I could successfully aerate most of drought-stricken Ethiopia. The world still spins, and it will probably take several thousand Advils to suppress the pain in nearly every part of my body from today’s earlier festivities. My heart races so fast, I feel that cardiac arrest may very well be inevitable and immediate. My teeth itch. I look at the cell phone on my seat and realize I should call in to Monster Vice, update them on the status of the day. I decide against it. My brain is so fried I may simply gibber something that sounds like a rare dialectic found only among some timid Amazonian tribe of stick-in-the-lip natives.
I hit the cemetery first, find some small patch of unutilized piece of ground, then prepare the final resting place for the creature responsible for my current agony. When I finish, and though I know that Lyckers don’t rise from the dead, I take out one of my holy water vials, and drop it in the grave, along with the corpse. Just for good measure.
Five minutes later, I’m back at home, and in the shower, Jac
k in one hand, Dial Extra Strength in the other. I am feeling somewhat better, though realize many of these good feelings are lies, inasmuch as I’ve refortified myself with whiskey and painkillers, and that sooner or later, I will have to pay the piper with a hangover proper.
I then sit down at my computer and check emails for the day. Zelig has contacted me, wondering on my progress with my new partner. I reply briefly that we have a few leads and that Inspector Curadal is a top man (I exclude my assessment of Samantha as being a smoking hot bitch-kitty with a panache for werewolf butchery). Sometimes less is more.
I have also been advised, to my great astonishment, that Zelig has recommended me for Special Grief and Field Counseling with Dr. Lilia Simonhoffer, our departmental psychologist. I have never met the woman before, nor have I ever needed counseling before (to my own knowledge), but Zelig goes on to explain that with the recent loss of both my brother and my partner, he feels this is an excellent prophylactic necessity to forestall any possible battle fatigue or nervous collapse.
Well, shit, I think.
I momentarily consider replying by email to my captain that I do not need counseling, that in fact, I would consider counseling intrusive and distracting – especially since I’m now part of a taskforce trying to ferret out talking werewolves and master vampires. Priorities are priorities. But I resist the impulse to send such an email inasmuch as I could just see Zelig flipping out and taking me off all cases indefinitely, unless I comply with this departmental mandate.
Fine. I’ll see the shrink.
I glance at Little Prick, still fast asleep under my sofa, then look at my watch. It is close to five o’clock, and the sun is still high in the sky. No doubt, the Master Vampire we seek will not be rousing until at least sundown, and for sure, would not be terribly active until near midnight. Moreover, I have not yet heard from my partner and Sam. They have my cell and home numbers. I decide that I can kill some time, since I’m already three sheets to the wind (again), why not see the shrink in the next half an hour and get this silliness over with. I feel this is a good call. I dial the number that Zelig has given me for Dr. Simonhoffer. But I hang up as another thought occurs to me.
Monster Vice Page 8