Double-Barreled Devilry

by D Michael Bartsch

  “Sounds like a blast,” I said. “Keeps you out of the rain at least.”

  “It does indeed. You look like you could use a little food yourself. Little too much time in the rain tonight?”

  My clothes were still damp. I could feel my jeans clinging to me, freezing against my skin in the cold air.

  “I got more if you want to come in, long as you don't mind combination.”

  “I dunno about that, Father.”

  “You can just call me Carl. I'm not Catholic.”

  It was my turn to smile. “You keep telling me that.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “It's been a long night.”

  “Would it help if I said I had beer?”

  It did.

  I went inside my apartment long enough to change into mostly clean clothes before heading upstairs. It felt like a bad idea the entire way there. That didn't stop me. I was hungry, tired, and thirsty. If I could get two out of three for free, I could sit through some mindless indoctrination.

  I'd never been in the upstairs apartment before. I was upset that I couldn't live in ignorance anymore. The floor was simple hardwood, but it was still a thousand times better than my own navy blue painted concrete floor. A maze of second-hand rugs covered my floor, and I pretend like everything else is frozen tundra every morning when I wake up.

  Carl had decorated simply, small furniture with clean lines and dark wood. The right side held the kitchen area with a high counter. Three stools lined the counter. A bathroom and small living room were on the left. A card table had been set up in front of the TV. The doorway directly in front of me must have led to the bedroom.

  “Have a seat anywhere you like.”

  I walked to the high counter and plopped down. If I closed my eyes and held my breath, it almost felt like I was back at the Taft House. Not really, though. It was too well lit and smelled like some sort of air freshener.

  Carl pulled a pizza box from the fridge and slid it across the counter to me.

  “You need a plate?”

  “Isn't that what the box is for?” I asked.

  His smile was easy and far too believable. It was the kind of smile you give a troubled teen who hasn't seen nearly as much of the world as they think they have. I needed to get my food and my beer and get out of there.

  I popped open the lid and grabbed the second biggest slice I saw. Don't let it ever be said that I'm never polite. It was still lukewarm, and the cheese had cooled to one cohesive sheet of congealed fat and deliciousness.

  “You need to nuke it?”

  “Never.” I said.

  “Fair enough. Cups are all dirty, so you'll have to take it in the can.”

  “Works for me.”

  I looked away from my pizza nirvana long enough to see a green and silver can of O'douls come sliding towards me. I caught it, dumbfounded, and was glad that I was actively chewing my food because I'm pretty sure my mouth would have been hanging open otherwise. Nonalcoholic beer.

  Who buys nonalcoholic beer? What depraved heathen would commit such sacrilege and not only purchase O'douls but falsely, and actively, advertise it as beer to a man who'd had a long and trying night. There isn't a place deep enough in Hell for the type of person who would do such a thing.

  Worst of all, he probably wasn't even going Downtown when he died. Where's the justice?

  I crammed the rest of the slice down my throat and cracked the can. If I could gulp it down and chase it with pizza, I might survive.

  “What was on your agenda tonight?” He asked.

  I was barely finished chewing when he asked, and I tried to use the can of cruel lies in front of me to wash it down. I wanted to vomit while taking a shower when I drank the sludge inside the can. This would definitely be my last visit to the land of nonalcoholic lies.

  “Got off work and went out for a little bit.” I said. “Ended up going back to work later, though. One of those days.”

  Carl pulled out a stool for himself and cracked open his own can of O'douls.

  “I do indeed, all too well. What do you do?” He asked. “I don't think I've ever asked.”

  I had to weigh my options. I don't mind lying to a holy man. It's not any harder than lying to a normal man and hey, my soul’s already in Hell anyway. Why not get there in a pimped out ride instead of kicking and screaming that I don't belong?

  “Freelance stuff.” I said, a decent compromise.

  “Interesting. What field?”

  I wasn't sure if I was more annoyed that he continued to ask questions or that he seemed genuinely interested.

  “Paranormal.” I said.

  Screw it. I had passed the point of caring, and he'd had the nerve to serve me fake beer. He deserved whatever he got at this point.

  “Paranormal?” He asked. “What exactly do you do?”

  “Whatever needs doing mostly.” I said. “Time for everything and all.”

  He smiled again. “Ecclesiastes. I wouldn't have taken you for a Bible reader. That part of your work too?”

  I just had to say it. That's what I get for being well read.

  “I've read it more than most.”

  “A man of faith then?” He asked.

  “Not so much.”

  “Why read it then?” He asked.

  If only you could just stuff your face full of pizza and not have to respond to people when they talk to you. That should be a rule of social interaction.

  “Let's just say my parents had me read it. Had to do it for school too.”

  “Catholic school?”

  “Something like that.” I said. “Though there weren't any nuns. Lots of whippings, no nuns though.”

  Carl pulled out a slice of pizza for himself. Maybe he wanted to join me in my new social revolution of eating pizza and not talking.

  “So what happened?” He asked. “Did those experiences cause you to lose faith, or did you never believe to begin with?”

  I smiled. It wasn't really his fault.

  No one really knows the truth, not the regular Joe Schmoes of the world anyway. They get to live a life of blissful ignorance where Demons, Angels, God, and the Devil are spiritual things that never reach out and grab you. They get to debate things and live in the world of infinite possibilities.

  People like me know the truth. We know that this planet is a sewer where the unwanted garbage and shit from all the realms ends up. Our souls get used as currency in a fourth-dimensional stock exchange. All they care about is who comes out on top. Greedy bastards.

  I don't know what came over me when I answered. I don't know why I chose to speak the truth instead of the easy lie that I told anytime I'm asked. Maybe it was the pizza. Maybe it was the night I'd had, or maybe it was the fact that I didn't know if I was going to be around long enough for it to matter.

  “Oh, I believe. I fully believe in Heaven and Hell. God and the Devil. It’s just it doesn't matter what I do here. I've got a one-way ticket Downtown. So, why try and keep buying into it anymore?”

  There was no smiling now. Carl chewed his pizza, looking thoughtful. He kept eye contact with me while he finished his bite.

  “Why is that you think you're destined for Hell? If you've read the bible, you should know that forgiveness is given freely to us. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” He said.

  “Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of eternal sin.” I said. “We can quote scripture all day long, Father. There’s things you don't know about me, about the world, and about the Almighty. Trust me.”

  I pushed back from my chair. I grabbed another slice of pizza. I left the O'douls.

  “I gotta go. It's been a hell of a day, and I got another one tomorrow. Thanks for the pizza.”

  I turned and walked to the door. Carl didn't try and stop me. That gave him points in my book. He didn't want to debate. Didn't want to ask about what happened. I probably wouldn't either. Some guy you hardly know tells you that he's committ
ed an unforgivable sin, you may be curious, but you also don't ask about it.

  “Deckland.” He said.

  I turned back, expecting the lecture. Expecting to get an offer of baptism, the sinner's prayer, all of the things I'd seen before.

  “The door's always open. I don't have to talk if you don't want me to, but I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say. No judgment, no lectures.”

  “Buy some real beer, and I'll think about it.”

  I walked out the door, talking to myself.

  “Sure, just go upstairs. What's the worst that could happen? I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong with telling the preacher man in the apartment above me that I'm a soulless hack on the highway to Hell.”

  I wasn't sure what I thought of Carl at that moment. I don't think I could ever fully trust a man of the cloth. I'd met too many shitty ones in my lifetime, including the ones that wanted me dead and burned in Hell. Carl felt different, though. I didn't think he was lying when he said he just wanted to listen. If I ever took him up on it, he'd probably regret it.

  3

  Water, Aspirin, food. The majority of my mornings start that way. Water, Aspirin, food. Once I've done that, I'll brew up a coffee chaser and pretend that I'm ready to face the day. I'm not pleasant company before I've completed my ritual, especially when I've had a rough night.

  I'd woken up on the couch again. The coffee table in front of me held a few empty bottles of beer and the crust of the pizza I'd taken to go. The TV was still flashing the slideshow screen saver that happened when you haven't touched the remote for too long. I'd fallen asleep watching a sci-fi movie about a shark that scientists had crossbred with a T-Rex. Clearly, it had been riveting.

  I don't have any windows in my apartment, but if I did, the sun would have been overhead in the sky as I looked out. Noon is a perfectly good time to be waking up. Early birds get the worm, but they all end up dead at the grocery store eventually anyway.

  I moved around my kitchen cautiously. My morning headache makes me move more slowly than any other time of day. Turning my neck too quickly is a nightmare. I suppose science would say something about dehydration, but I blame fate for dealing me a shitty hand.

  My coffee pot was gurgling loudly when the knock came at my door. Each crack of the wood resounded on the inside of my skull. It was far too early for that. I walked to the door; my socked feet thudded on the painted concrete floor of my apartment. I stopped at the coffee table along the way. I pushed the empty bottles aside and pulled the Sig P220 out of the thickly bound book lying on the table. The pages had been cut away to hold the .45. I take home defense seriously.

  I slid the gun down my back, tucking it into my pants. I looked out the peephole and saw a pair of strangers with dark glasses and cheap suits. Most criminals would be afraid the Feds had finally shown up for them, but they don't send the FBI after you for the kind of stuff that I do.

  I wrapped my right hand around the pistol and opened the door with my left. The air was cold against my bare chest, and the breeze still carried the remnants of scented rain and fog.

  “Got any thin mints?” I asked.

  No smiles. Tough crowd.

  “Delivery.” Said the one on the left.

  “Well, make it quick. I don't want anyone seeing you here. Last thing I need is someone messing up my apartment cause they think I'm narcing.”

  I opened the door and moved out of the way. I kept my hand on my gun. Take no chances.

  The one that had spoken carried a briefcase and the other pulled a large rolling suitcase behind him. Nothing suspicious going on here officer.

  “You can put everything on the coffee table and couch,” I said.

  They didn't seem to mind knocking over a half a dozen empty bottles as they threw everything on the table and couch.

  The briefcase was filled with boxes of hollow point and incendiary rounds. There was also a brand new Glock 21 and an STI 1911. They weren't really for the mission at hand. I just like getting new guns. The suitcase had a whole different type of fun inside of it.

  The AA12 shotgun was a personal favorite. Fully automatic, with a 300 round per minute firing rate, it can take a cow from mooing to ground beef in about three seconds. The EOTech Holographic sight, foregrip, and thirty-two round drum mags meant that I was now capable of doing a whole lot of killing very quickly. The gentlemen had been kind enough to make sure I had boxes of slugs and buckshot.

  To top it off they also had a custom made tactical vest. Balthazar had purchased several small businesses to maintain complete control of the production of those babies. They were specifically designed for protection against Hellions. The dual layered vest was comprised of hexagonal, ceramic plates and an AR500 steel plate. Eight ceramic plates covered each side of the vest, and there was a thin layer of holy water suspended between the ceramic and steel plates.

  It wasn't just bullet proof. It was knife, claw, and fang-proof, and if some unlucky Hellion did happen to crack one of the ceramic plates, the water would leak out. I've seen Hellions lose entire limbs after getting holy water sprayed on them.

  The vest was worn from use, and the back had two built-in sheaths for twin eighteen inch, carbon steel Kukri machetes. The curved blades hugged close to the center of the vest, the handles protruding just above the waist. It had been a long time since I'd seen the vest. I'd always regretted not taking it with me when I left Balthazar's employ. I wasn't about to make that mistake again.

  “Leave the suitcase for me. Gonna need it to get this stuff out to my car.”

  The suited men nodded and walked back to the door. I poked my head out after them as they walked up the stairs. I shouted to make my voice heard.

  “Thanks for stopping by gentleman. I'm gonna have to pass today. I don't know if Mormonism is the right choice for me. I appreciate the offer, though.” I said. “Be careful on those little bikes. Wouldn't want you getting hurt.”

  They didn't even bother to look back. My humor is supremely wasted on the world.

  I went back to the couch and sat down. I flipped the TV to some movie about robot zombies and found an unopened bottle of beer between the couch cushions. I popped it open and set about inspecting the new weapons.

  I took the AA12 out first and began to break it down, putting the pieces on a sheet laid across the table. The serial number had been acid etched off. No doubt all of these weapons had fallen off the back of a truck. I got my cleaning kit from the kitchen and spent the next hour cleaning and oiling all three guns while watching TV. I took my time with the STI, the prom queen of 1911's. Well, if a prom queen was a competition level killer anyway.

  Once the guns were reassembled, I pulled the machetes from the vest. They were scratched and beaten from use. One of them had a thick gash in the blade halfway up. Typical, Andrej couldn't even get me a new knife. Oh well.

  I got my stones and sharpened the knives for another hour. Gouged or not, the rest of the blade would be razor sharp. It just had one big serration in the middle is all.

  When I finally got up the courage to put on the vest, I wasn't as disappointed as I thought I'd be. It was too large for me where it had once it would have been snug. I'd lost a lot of muscle since I'd worn one. When I'd spent my time hunting down killers from the Underworld, I had hit the gym regularly. I don't need to be all that fit to scam grandmothers.

  I adjusted it as best I could, managing to keep it relatively tight against my torso. I forgot how heavy it was. Combined with the plates, machetes, and bandolier for shells, I wasn't going to be going anywhere quick.

  I went to my kitchen and pulled a bottle of Jameson from the freezer. I poured half a finger before the bottle ran dry. I downed the glass as I walked over to the stove. I opened storage drawer below the oven and pulled out a paper bag. A fifth of Jack wasn't anything to be excited about, but in a pinch, it would do. I'd have to stop on the way home.

  I downed a couple gulps and took the bottle with me to find my coat. I didn't want to draw
too much attention walking around in a tac-vest.

  I loaded the shotgun drums, alternating between shot and slugs, and put it in the suitcase. The Glock would go in the glove box of my car. The Jack went into the inside pocket of my coat. The STI would stay home. It wasn't the tool for this job, and if I had to bail out for some reason, I wouldn't have to worry about leaving that beauty behind.

  I put my leather jacket on over the vest. It didn't quite cover the handles of the machetes, and it was a tight squeeze. It would have to do.

  The address Ajax had given me was the last thing I grabbed as I walked out my front door. Getting the suitcase up the stairs was annoying, but not as difficult as it must have been hauling it down with all the boxes of shells in there along with the shotgun. I popped the trunk of my Mustang and tossed in the suitcase.

  Andrej's boys had left it just down the street from my place. I wasn't about to pay for a cab to get back to The Taft House.

  Tossing the Glock in the glove box, I looked at the address again. The industrial district wasn't too far away. I fired up the engine and pulled out into the street. I had a half a million bucks to earn. Just had to kill a few things first.

  I made good time driving to the warehouse. I even avoided getting into an accident with a guy on a bicycle. I'd thought about running him down on purpose after he merged into my lane, just for the hell of it. I don't care what the law says. I'm not willing to share the road.

  I parked at the end of the block. There were four warehouses on the street, and they all looked abandoned. Ajax's map had marked two possibilities in the middle of the pack of worn out buildings. I wanted to be annoyed, even though I went from having to search the entire city to two warehouses in the time that it took him to cast the spell. If only it worked with Google Earth.

  Popping the glove box, I grabbed the Glock and a spare magazine. I pocketed the mag and shoved the gun in a holster on my right hip. I popped the trunk and got out of the car. I loaded up a drum mag into the AA12 and tossed the tactical sling over my shoulder. I stuffed a second eight round box mag in my coat pocket too, just to be safe. Lastly, I fished out my electronic earplugs and stuffed them in my ears. No use going deaf if I had to bring the noise.