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Spring Showers Box-set

Page 110

by Avell Kro


  were crusaders. Had you just followed through on your deal it would have paid off some of your

  debt? Which brings me to the witch, why didn't you smite her down?" the woman asked. The click

  of the pen echoed in the antiseptic room.

  "I just thought that it would've been a fight I didn't need right then, and holy warriors or no,

  those knights were up to something. You can't tell me they weren't. The pendant could've killed

  them if they touched it, and if it didn't, they would've done something far worse with it. C'mon doc,

  work with me here!" I pleaded.

  She scribbled something on her pad then placed it a little too neatly on her desk. "Jonathan,

  here's the thing. You're not a very good angel. You should've helped the knights, and you should

  have smote the witch. Now, you're in a deal to rescue a half-demon child from the hell mouth in

  Austin. I'm sorry, I don't see how your actions warrant a stay of your probation nor does it allow

  me to scratch one off your debt. The council agrees with me on this. Frankly, we're all very

  concerned. You're on thin ice as it is," she said and leaned back in her chair.

  "I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm working on those favors, but something wasn't right on that

  last job," I replied. She was already shaking her head before I finished the sentence. A sound like a

  thunderclap pealed through the room, and I felt jolted back to earth.

  I was sitting reclined in the driver's seat of my black impala. So what if I watched too much

  Supernatural in heaven. Those primpy little princesses just made me sick sometimes. I had to ying

  that yang somehow. Plus, I got great reception up there. And I will swear in front of the whole

  heavenly host, Cas is a badass.

  I slapped the keys into the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. My head rang, and I opened

  up the glovebox to grab a few aspirin. Those trips back and forth didn't use to bother me, but then

  again Grace made everything sting a lot less. "Assholes," I mumbled.

  Pulling out of the motel parking lot in Lawton Oklahoma, I made my way back onto the freeway

  heading south. The time passed slowly, and my mind flipped between channels in my head, a half

  memory of getting killed by a troll, the looks on the knight's faces when I turned up in that shady-ass bar, and then the look on my face when I spotted what the Talisman indeed was. Finally, as I

  passed through Dallas about three hours later, my mind settled on the little girl needing my help.

  I knew there was a lot of strings going on in this story, and I knew that a whole lot of it didn't add

  up. Finding Beth Rastin better shine a light on whatever the hell (literally) was going on. The big

  bosses upstairs didn't seem to want me on this track. I get it; I do. They aren't really all for the

  whole saving a half-demon thing, but this whole repay my debts to society business was their whole

  idea.

  Two pit-stops later and my legs felt sore and half asleep as I climbed out of the Impala. I parked

  the car in the back of a run-down looking grocery store on the northern outskirts of Austin. I pulled

  my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed the witch's number. Yeah, I got her number, stop

  looking at me like that. Sure she was probably centuries old, but look at who you're talking to. It

  was honestly surprising it took me this long to get suspended. "Better to be lucky than good, I

  guess," I mumbled as the phone rang.

  "What?" a cranky voice answered.

  "Oh, hel o dearest. So nice to hear from you. How've things been?" I said using a Mrs. Doubtfire

  accent.

  "Jonathan, I'm super busy right now. What the hel do you need?" the witch asked.

  Smirking, I almost continued tormenting her. Maybe that should count toward my debt. I pissed

  off a witch. . repeatedly. CHECK! "I'm in Austin. Where's this hell mouth?"

  "There's a whole bunch of super nerds that think they're hipsters because they smoke a lot of

  weed and have shitty beards. They run a bar that, I kid you not, named the Leaky Cauldron," she

  said.

  I scoffed. "Like from Harry Potter?" I asked.

  "Yeah. that's the one," she said.

  "Pshhh. Nerds," I agreed.

  "Yeah. Anyway, the owner of the bar decided that he wanted to bring magic to Austin. He stole a

  bad news book from a Polish sister of mine and ripped open the hell mouth in his basement," she

  clarified.

  "Wow. What a dumbass," I said as she continued.

  "Yeah, well. Just inside the hell end of the hell mouth is an old asylum. That's where she's at.

  Break her out and bring her back here. I can put a cloaking charm together for her. It'll hide her

  demonic signature. Now go away. I'm busy," the witch snapped, and the line went dead.

  "Jerk," I said to the empty air and opened my internet browser. A stray cat with more than a little

  mange jumped out of the green dumpster next to the grocery store loading dock. It scurried off

  behind some boxes. I bet those white-robed high and mighty judgemental hypocrites were

  probably watching. They'd want me to go chase that cat down and offer it a saucer of milk or

  something. They knew damn skippy that I wouldn't do that. I was busy with bigger fish right now.

  So, of course, I flipped off the sky and jumped back in the car; through the driver's window of

  course. I guess could go for a light gluten-free IPA today.

  The google machine on my hand sized internet device quickly pulled up the bar's address, and I

  drove over to the grungy, oil slick parking lot outside the bar. The throaty growl of the Impala gave

  up its last cough as I killed the engine. Climbing out, I saw the green neon sign above the bar's

  overhang. "The Leaky Cauldron" flickered and showed signs of needing desperate maintenance. A

  skinny man stood leaning against the wall next to the door. He squinted at me accusingly through

  his odd-shaped glasses and haze of marijuana smoke. "Hey man, you ever hear of fuel economy?"

  he asked and pointed to my Impala.

  "Hey man, you ever hear of a haircut?" I said and pointed to the chihuahua-sized man-bun affixed

  to the top of his head. I pushed past him and stepped through the door. My skin immediately

  reacted and started itching. The gloom of the bar matched every other bar I've ever been in, but

  this had the added effect of a hell mouth nearby. Even though my goal was to jump into that toothy

  pit of sulfur, it still put me on edge.

  Four or five patrons sat around in the numerous tables which the proprietor scattered around the

  floor. They al looked like tattooed and pierced carbon-copies of Mr. man-bun outside, and they

  were all staring at me. It was as if they'd never seen someone rock a charcoal gray three-piece suit

  before. It might also have something to do with my pistol belt and my glowing revolver sitting in its

  holster, but that's neither here nor there. I didn't need my super duper go-go-gadget sunglasses to

  sense every last one of these guys had some bad news mojo going on. They were all high as hell,

  but it was on devil juju, not Mary Jane.

  I was pretty sure that if I could sense them, they could tel that I wasn't just some ordinary patron

  who just happens to dress snazzy and carry his revolver with him. So, in my most disarming voice,

  I said, "Hel o fellas. My name's Jonathan. I'm from the government, and I'm here to help." That

  didn't work out so well. Go figure.

  I heard the front door creak. Mr. Man-bun just joined the party. "Gentlemen," he
said from behind

  me. "Would you mind giving me a hand with kicking this divine dirtbag out of here?" The whole

  slew of nerdy hipsters sitting in front of me tensed and then stood. This time at least, my big

  mouth probably made things worse, but it wasn't the primary cause for the chair flying at my

  halo-less head.

  Naturally, I ducked the chair, and as a result, I incurred only a glancing blow to my shoulder and a

  dusty scuff mark on my suit jacket. I was just coming up with a witty remark when then the devil

  hipster that threw the chair came running up to me. He had a large glass beer mug in his hand and

  was attempting to follow up his chair throw with cracking the glass all over my face. It was a feint.

  It didn't work. Note to self, don't start a barfight while wearing flipflops. It made his charge

  awkward and slow. It gave me more than enough time to swing in a haymaker to the side of his

  skull which sent him spiraling to the ground. The beer still in his mug splashed all down the front

  of my vest, and I sighed inwardly. "I'm not here to pick a fight, guys," I tried shouting over the immediate eruption of noise and movement following devil hipster's decent to the floor. More

  glasses and mugs came hurtling towards my brain bucket, and I dropped behind a small half wall

  next to the long hammered-copper bar top.

  Shouts replaced the mugs for the next volley as my aggressors reached for more ammunition. "Get

  the hell out of here you high-and-mighty prick!" I couldn't help but smile at the irony.

  Unfortunately, I'm not entirely so eloquent in my responses when in the thick of it. The only

  answer I could come up with at the time was, "I'll shove my high-and-mighty boot right up your

  ass if you don't back up." This type of incendiary commentary helped calm them immensely. . or

  not. More mugs and bottles arced over at me, so I grabbed the only thing nearby, the chair, and

  held it up in front of me like a shield. I stood and advanced on the group. Man-bun stood off to my

  left and looked high as a kite, but equally pissed off. Three others attempted to encircle me and my

  lion tamer chair. I wasn't having any of that. I swung the chair around in a full arc, and the three

  jumped back out of reach. As I did so, man-bun saw his opening, and he leaped toward me while I

  had my back turned. He hit me in a quick one-two to my kidney, and I reflexively threw my elbow

  around in a jerking motion. He dodged out of the way, and the three others came in all at once for

  a tackle to bring me to the floor.

  I wasn't about to let them subdue me so matter-of-factly, so I leaned into man-bun as I swung

  around. He got a hold of me and landed a few more punches to my torso, but the primary threat of

  the three amateur football hipsters missed me entirely. Their momentum carried them over in a

  heaping pile, and I crashed the chair I still held over the head of the top one on the dog pile. Man-

  bun took advantage once again of my temporary distraction and kicked me in the back, knocking

  the wind out of me and sending me to the ground.

  I laid there with my lungs burning, and I realized he put a lot more power behind that strike than

  he should have been able to. He kicked me again, this time hammering my ribs. The blow pushed

  me over onto my back, and I groaned out, "So, I take it you own the place."

  He smiled devilishly, which was fitting of course, and reared back to kick me again. I saw spots and

  blotches dancing around in my vision, but even still, I noticed the outline around him. His aura

  seemed darker than it should. It looked as if he was leeching the ambient light from the room. "You

  should have stayed away from here. I'm going to send you back up to heaven nice and bloody," he

  said.

  "Don't ever monologue," I said holding up my revolver, and put a bullet through his front teeth.

  The other three suddenly had somewhere else they had to be and a serious motivation to be there.

  They clambered up and hustled off. The bartender, who was hiding behind the bar during the

  entire exchange, jumped the half wall at the entrance and scurried after the others. I stood up and

  stretched. Looking in the mirror behind the bar, I noticed beer stains and the grime from the floor

  covered my suit. The dry cleaners are going to charge me double again. Grumbling, I descended the

  stone steps behind the coolers in the back of the establishment and stepped into the acrid, hot

  glow of the maw of the Austin hell mouth. "Time to get this over with, I guess," I told myself, grabbed my family jewels, pinched my nose, and stepped through.

  Jonathan's journey continues in

  Eternal Payment Season 1 – Part 2

  Well, it looks like we have a bit of a problem here don't we? It seems we ran out of words. I'm really

  excited to tel you all about my little trip to hell which is coming up in Part 2. It's twice as long as

  Part 1 and packed with insane action and crazy antics. You can get here.

  If you haven't done so already, I'd like to invite you to join the mailing list to keep up to date on the

  season's progress as well as all the other projects in the works.

  Click here or use the web address below to join.

  https://devinmccamey.com/

  REDCAR COLLECTOR

  Glenn McGoldrick

  Copyright @2017

  All Rights Reserved

  For all you readers out there…

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  Redcar Collector

  The foot rested on the sand, exposed as the tide rolled out. Looking up and down the beach, Isaw

  nobody. Kneeling down, I removed my jacket, wrapped the foot inside it and headed home.

  I sat at the workbench in my shed, examining the foot.

  It was from a white male; there were black hairs on the toes and the instep, so I assumed that the

  foot came from a male. About a size eight, the same as me. It was unevenly severed just above the

  ankle; there were no bruises or markings.

  But why was the foot on the beach? Whose foot was it? And what was I going to do with it?

  I wrapped the foot in an old towel, placing it in the bottom drawer of the metal filing cabinet which

  I used to store tools. After locking the shed, I decided to pay my son a visit.

  Jason opened the front door, looking surprised to see me. He wore ripped jeans, and a T-Shirt with

  the name of a Rock group on it.

  “Hi, son. Have you got five minutes?”

  He checked his watch, then stepped back to let me in. “Yeah, OK, Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But we’l have to be quick. Mum’ll be back in an hour, and she’ll go mad if you’re here.”

  We went to the living room. He turned off the TV and sat beside me on the sofa as I told him about

  the foot.

  “Where is it now?” he asked.

  “In my shed.”

  “And you found it on the beach?”

  “Yeah,” I said.“Just near the Stray Café.”

  “How come you were out there?”

  “Just taking my usual walk.”

  “Usual walk?”

  “Yeah, I walk right down the beach to Saltburn,” I said.“Gives me chance to think.”

  “What? All the way to the pier?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. If the tide’s out.”

&nbs
p; “That’s a decent walk,” he said.“Aren’t you going to call the police?”

  I shook my head. “Not after last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “Yeah, the guy who was taking clothes off people’s washing lines?”

  “Right,” he said, and scratched his thigh through a hole in the jeans.

  “I went to the station to tell them about it, but they didn’t believe me. A couple of them looked like

  they found it very amusing. Bastards.”

  “Amusing?”

  “I told them that I’d spotted the guy with my binoculars, as he passed through the gardens. That’s

  when they sniggered, when I mentioned my binoculars.”

  When he didn’t answer, I said, “You’d think they’d be grateful for my help, but, no, apparently not.

  They probably think I’m a Peeping Tom or something. Bastards.”

  “But, surely, if you show them the foot – they’ll have to believe you.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “What?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe I’ll look into it myself.”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know. Check the newspapers? Maybe the internet?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Then I can solve it, hand them the whole thing, wrapped in a nice little bow, and see who’s

  laughing then. Bastards.”

  He exhaled deeply, running his hand through his hair.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  After chatting with Jason, I picked up the Evening Gazette from the newsagent on Park Avenue and

  went home.

  I made a cheese and pickle sandwich, eating it while I read the paper at my kitchen table. I couldn’t

  find anything about the foot.

  I made a coffee, grabbed the paper and went to the shed. Sitting at the workbench in my plastic

  chair, I sipped my coffee and re-read the paper. Nothing.

  Moving the paper to one side, I took the foot from the filing cabinet and placed it on the

  workbench. I tapped my fingers on the side of the cup, staring at my mysterious discovery.

  “What’s your story?”

  Why was it on the beach? Where was the body? Was the guy still alive? Did the man go into the

  water? Cutting his foot off first? No way, surely.

 

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