Tweety & the Monkey Man

by J. D. Blackrose

  Tweety & the Monkey Man

  Monster Hunter Mom #1

  J.D. Blackrose

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Falstaff Books

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I stepped back with my right foot, arm cocked and ready for the creep to show. I made sure to distribute my weight equally on both legs and look straight ahead, knowing where the vampire was most likely to appear. My night vision was good. It had to be. Monsters liked to come out at night.

  My enemy was stealthy and at one with the dark, which caressed him, cherished him, and held him as if part of itself, a lover who could never leave. His thin frame disappeared into the night.

  I caught a flit of movement to the left, and I realized he was moving fast, getting away. I couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.

  My sneakers were slick from the wet grass, and when I took a step, my right shoe squeaked. I kicked off the trainers, pulled off the socks, and took up the chase barefoot. My feet slipped and slid, but I strained for balance and quiet. Stalking a vampire was a matter of silence, concentration, and timing. You had to be perfect, or you were dead. There were three ways this could go: I kill him, he kills me, or the third option and the worst thing a vampire could do to a monster hunter, he turns me. I intended to go home tonight in one piece, with my mind and ability to sunbathe intact.

  I never underestimate a foe. This vampire was clever and studied my techniques. He knew my favorite weapons and my most-used tactics. He even knew my kids’ names and where I lived.

  I don’t wear perfume or use smelly soaps because monsters of all types have good noses, but I knew my prey could smell me. He had my scent like a bloodhound. I might have trouble following him, but he had no trouble finding me, a huge disadvantage when hunting a vampire. As his shadow slipped out from behind a tree, I calculated his speed and direction in a split second. I didn’t hesitate; there was no time. I launched the projectile directly at the vampire’s head. It landed on target, bursting open, covering him in water.

  My assistant, Liam, emerged shaking his head. “Goddammit! Jess! Vampires don’t like to get wet. We’re like cats that way.”

  I couldn’t help it; I grinned. “Just be glad it wasn’t holy water, my friend. Any other challenges you want to try?”

  Liam drew closer, soaking wet, with tiny bits of blue balloon in his hair. “No. I admit it. You’re the best pitcher I’ve ever met. With that arm, you could have been in the majors.”

  I handed him a towel. “Women can’t play professional baseball, Liam. We play softball, which men don’t consider a real sport. It would have been me and a bunch of well-muscled women, all with mind-altering foot odor, on a bus earning a nickel ninety-eight and a steady diet of French fries. Besides, I met Nathaniel and well, you know . . .”

  “I do.” The vampire did a shimmy glamour thing, and five seconds later, he was wearing completely new jeans, sneakers, and a green and gray Ohio University sweatshirt. Go Bobcats.

  “I wish I could do that. I’d do it a dozen times a day, every time someone spilled milk on me, or rubbed my leg with paint-covered hands…”

  “Hey, remember that time David painted the wall with spaghetti sauce? That was awesome.”

  “I wonder who gave him the idea, Uncle Liam.”

  “Well, he’s eight now, so no more of that. I’ve got plans for him though. Such a smart boy.” Liam whistled an innocent tune and slid in the driver’s seat of his BMW convertible. “Call me tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely, but first I have to bring in a snack to Devi’s kindergarten class. It’s my week. The other moms bring in fruit and veggies. I’m considering Cheetos. What do you think?”

  “I think kids like when their hands turn orange, and preservatives are like vitamins.” He paused. “I’ll let you know if I have any emails from the diocese. I’m a little concerned because it has been so quiet lately. It’s like something big is coming and we’re in the calm before the storm.”

  “You worry too much. Maybe everyone knows not to mess with Ohio. Things don’t work out well for monsters in this state.” I rubbed my hands together with glee. I loved my job.

  “Oh, no doubt your reputation keeps some of the baddies away, but you know monsters. Most of them aren’t what we would call forward thinkers. They bite, maim, suck, tear, and generally cause mayhem, and that’s about it.”

  “They don’t even call first,” I said, hunting around the grass to retrieve my shoes.

  “Ungrateful wretches.” Liam winked. “Talk to you tomorrow. I’m all for the Cheetos.”

  I got into my mini-van and reached down to the cup holder for my water, which I carried everywhere. It’s important to hydrate. I closed my eyes and brought the drink to my mouth.

  “Ugh!” I studied the half-empty bottle of apple juice and realized it must be two days old since Daniel, my three-year-old, had gotten it with his McDonald’s Happy Meal. It was sour, warm, and disgusting, but I shrugged and downed it in three gulps.

  I was about to leave the school playground area, the place Liam and I liked to train, when there was a flicker in the corner of my eye, just a hint of something out of sorts, though I didn’t know why. I almost turned away, but my gut told me to stay. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and if there was a chance, any chance at all, that a monster was on a school playground, I couldn’t leave.

  I exited my car, grabbing a baseball bat from the back seat. I also slapped a batting helmet on my head. Better safe than sorry. I’m a switch hitter and equally comfortable with the bat in my left or right hand. Now, I carried it in my left.

  I listened, concentrating on blocking everything out that was natural, normal, harmless. I stepped forward, and something snapped under my feet. I squatted so I could pick it up and hold it in my hands. Was it a feather? It had the right shape, but it was stiff and unusually long. I ran my hands up the sides and winced when I touched the apex, so sharp it nicked my thumb. I could feel the cut swell as my blood dripped on the grass, a dangerous circumstance as most monsters loved the taste of blood, or worse, could find a witch who could use it against me. Whatever this was, I had to find it.

  It could have been a bird’s feather. Maybe a large owl, or even one of those turkey vultures on the side of the highway picking at the latest road kill, but to be honest, I’d never felt a feather like this one, and I couldn’t imagine a bird large enough to have such a feather. It most certainly could not fly.

  A scratch, scratch caught my attention, coming from about twenty feet in front of me. I thought I could hear it breathing, a soft whistle in the stillness. Even the night critters crawled or slithered inside their homes, sensing that something was off. My mouth was dry again, but as my belly tightened, I thought of my children, and the other children who played here, and held strong. I jumped when a light flared in the distance, as bright and sudden as a struck match. The flame lifted high in the air, its smoke trailing in the breeze.

  Not good. Glad I had put my tennis shoes back on, I moved toward the not goodness, pulling my light black sweater tighter so I’d be as invisible as possible. I rounded the swirly slide, my back to the ladder, and bent into the shadows, gaping at what I saw.

  A six-foot tall bird stood before me, flapping his gold and azure wings, which were soaking wet. The body was covered in bronze and si
lver, scalloped, overlapping feathers, like armor out of ancient Rome. It was shaped like an emu, with a long neck, an ovular body, and long, skinny legs with three-toed feet, slightly webbed.

  I considered my next move, my gut telling me to kill the thing and kill it fast, my head saying, hey, maybe you can talk to it.

  “Helloooo, Big Bird,” I said, raising my voice so that the creature could hear me, hoping I’d achieved a soothing tone, which wasn’t normally in my wheelhouse, truth be told. “You’re a long way from Sesame Street. Want me to tell how to get there? Sunny days and all . . . ”

  I trailed off because the thing, which looked like it sprang out of a dinosaur diorama at the Natural History Museum, backed up like a bull, shuffling its Tweety Bird feet into the grass and dirt. It attacked in one swift, bounding leap. Not quite flight, but its feet were not on the ground. More like an astronaut on the moon. Its beak was open wide revealing—what the hell?—shark teeth dripping gelatinous fluid. The creature shot toward me like its butt was on fire.

  It flicked its tail up like a peacock, a beautiful display of colors including blues and greens, touched by an outline of yellow and white. I didn’t have time to study it, however, as I was beating a path to higher ground.

  “You’re not anything like Big Bird!” I yelled over my shoulder, as I hoofed it in the opposite direction. “He’s six years old and learning his ABCs. He has friends and knows how to share. You should be more like him! Calm down. I mean you no harm! Parley! Parley!”

  Negotiation was not in this creature’s lexicon. I scrambled up the slide ladder and balanced on the bars of the swing set. A gymnast as a child, I’d maintained my strength and worked out every day to keep it, because it was necessary for occasions like this one. At five feet tall and a hundred and fifteen pounds, I wasn’t the biggest monster hunter on the block, not nearly, but I managed to get the job done. While others liked to go full steam ahead and Hulk-smash things, that wasn’t my way. I had to be clever, deceitful, and prepared to down-right cheat when required. I was okay with that.

  My subconscious put two and two together. Gigantic bird, gorgeous plumage, and fire. Only one bird fit all three. I hadn’t known about the rows of shark teeth and reminded myself to pass that information on to the other hunters. It was necessary to swap intel, and I assumed it went into a central repository somewhere.

  “Hey. I figured out what you are! You’re a phoenix. I thought phoenixes were nice birds. Or, is it phoenixi?”

  In response, the newly reborn phoenix, still leaking a viscid amniotic fluid, screamed, its neck stretching to reach me. I was glad I’d gotten up high.

  The phoenix screamed again, snapping its beak and jumping just enough to gouge my ankle. Those pointed teeth rent my stretch pants and clipped my ankle something good. The teeth were so sharp that I didn’t feel them cut me and only knew a second later when the pain hit and I felt the slick blood pooling in my shoe. The bird squawked and hissed, licking its beak as it tasted the blood, its eyes rolling in anticipation of fresh meat.

  “Fine. Fuck you.”

  I waved my bleeding ankle at the bird, who couldn’t wait to get another bite. I lifted my free arm above my head and held onto a branch from the maple that overhung the swing set. This allowed me to swing my injured ankle at him again and again, riling him up. The phoenix squawked, louder this time, crazy with need for a filling main course. I let go of the tree branch, planted my feet as best I could on the metal crossbars, and showed him why I batted fourth in the line-up.

  As the phoenix hopped up, I swung the bat down, bashing it on the head. The phoenix fell like a stone. I slid down the slide, leaving a red blood trail that would certainly be noticed in the morning, raised the bat, and slammed it on the phoenix’s skull and beak, repeating as necessary. I gave it a swing to the middle of its body as well and was stunned when my bat rebounded from the attempt, a frisson of pain running up my left arm.

  “Those body feathers don’t just look like bronze—they are bronze. Glad I caught you before you matured. You look like something out of a steampunk novel. Yeesh.” I stood over the remains, tapping my foot, thinking about what to do. “Look what you made me do, you overgrown ostrich. You made me use a bad word. That’s ten push-ups. But first.…”

  The newly hatched and now dead phoenix, having lived what was possibly its shortest life yet, kindled in a burst of flame. All that was left was ashes. Good thing I have baggies in my car. Never know when you’ll need them.

  I walked to my car, stored my bat, and returned with three Ziploc bags and a gardening trowel. Working fast, I scooped up a third of the ashes and put them in one bag and then did the same with the other two, hoping that by keeping them apart, I’d slow down the regeneration process. I popped those babies in the car seat, strapped them in, and drove straight to 90 and the lake. I flicked on the radio and wasn’t even surprised when the song was “Fly Like an Eagle.” Someone up there has a funny sense of humor.

  I stopped at three different outlets, spilling the content of each bag into Lake Erie approximately one mile from each other. I wasn’t sure if a phoenix could be killed, but swirling the ashes in the cold water of a Great Lake seemed like a terrific way to slow it down.

  Must tell Liam about that one; no one warned us about a phoenix. I wonder if anyone knew. Fingering my Star of David, the one my grandmother had given me, I considered the meaning of phoenix’s appearance as I drove to my comfortable, suburban home on the East Side.

  Chapter Two

  Liam and I met when we were students at Cleveland State University, me on scholarship, him working his way. I didn’t know him well. To me, he was the Irish-looking guy who took my order at Starbucks.

  I was studying late at night, at the Starbucks, when he was working a late shift. I ignored him, and he ignored me until it was closing time and he needed me to skedaddle.

  “Hey, miss. You’ve got to go. Closing up,” he said.

  I was smack in the middle of the Iliad, which I loved, reading it in English with commentaries and notes about the subtleties of the original Greek on the opposite page. Greek, Roman, and Norse mythology intrigued me, but being a Classics major was frowned upon in my family, where earning money was the only goal. In fact, I’d just had an argument with my father that morning.

  “Jess, have you figured out a major?” my father had said. He still read the Plain Dealer in print and spread it on the table next to his breakfast, a fried egg and toast, always a fried egg and toast, and looked at me over his reading glasses.

  I played with my cereal spoon and mumbled. “Classics.”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “Classics, Dad. I’m fascinated by Classic, and I’m thinking of becoming a professor. At CSU, it is a multi-disciplinary major along with Medieval Studies. The major prepares you for a lot of things, you know, giving you such a breadth of knowledge…”

  I trailed off because my father had set down his fork and taken off his glasses.

  “Can you make money with this major? Support yourself? Support a family?”

  “I would get a Ph.D. and teach, do research.”

  “And live a pauper’s life! What about law? You have a propensity for argument. You seem suited for it.”

  The thought of going to law school made my stomach shoot acid up my throat. I choked and coughed at the vile taste and replied, “I’d rather die than go to law school.”

  My dad slammed his hand on the table so that my cereal bowl jumped.

  “Don’t get smart with me, young lady.” He took a deep breath and offered the next statement, in the belief that he was being magnanimous.

  “You can major in law and minor in Classics. How about that?”

  My hands shook in anger, but he’d always been the king in our house, and his word was gospel, so I held myself in check. “Dad, I promise I will find a way to support myself.”

  He leaned back in his chair so only the back legs stayed on the ground, arms up, hands behind his head. “You’d bet
ter because your scholarship runs out at the end of next year, and I’m not giving you a penny after you graduate. Your great-grandparents came here with nothing and worked their way to success. You need to do the same.”

  So, there I was sitting in Starbucks late to avoid going home to face my father, and this ginger-haired, freckled-face, lanky kid interrupts me and has the nerve, the nerve, to tap me on the shoulder. A student of martial arts from three years-old, I grabbed his left hand with my left, pushed his elbow up and outward with my right, and pushed him on the floor in a hot second. Without thinking, I placed my right foot on his back and pressed down hard.

  Ginger swiveled his neck to look at me from the floor. “What the hell are you doing? It’s time to close, that’s all I’m saying. I’ve got homework too, you know, but I don’t get to sit here and do it because some of us work to pay for college. Don’t hurt me!”

  I released him and stepped back, surprised at myself. “I’m sorry,” I said, but it sounded lame to even my ears.

  “I apologize,” I said again, my mood still foul, but now I was embarrassed too. “Let me help you up.”

  “I don’t need help,” he grunted, pulling away from me, his ears red. “Just get out of here.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Just leave.” He was rubbing his elbow.

  I gathered my books and shuffled out, hesitating for a moment, wanting to apologize again for my overreaction, but he turned his back. I walked to my car, a beat-up thing that my brother also used, and pondered how to make things right. The guilt ate at me all the next day.

  I went back the next night but didn’t see him, so I went every night until I caught him on his late shift.