Asskickers of the Fantastic

by Jim Stenstrum

  “Release him,” the captain ordered. The lieutenant pulled off the key hanging around his neck and approached Vargos. The manacles unlocked easily, falling away from the man’s scarred wrists and clattering to the floor.

  Vargos stood there a long moment, taking a deep breath as he rubbed his aching wrists and flexed long unused muscles.

  The captain addressed him impatiently. “Speak, you old fool. Where is the gold?”

  Vargos gestured to the floor with his boney hands.

  “The gold is here. Right under your feet. Buried deep beneath this very vault.”

  The captain turned to a nearby sergeant. “Get a digging crew down here at once.”

  “Don’t trouble yourselves. The gold belongs to me now,” said Vargos, cryptically.

  Growing angry now, the captain said, “What did you say, old fool?”

  Vargos grinned, revealing a mouthful of ripsaw-like teeth. His crimson eyes glowed in the half-light. His hands, which seemed feeble and frail a minute ago, appeared stronger and now displayed sharp claws. And what originally appeared to be purple scabs covering his body were actually small spiders, stirring from hibernation and crawling just beneath his skin.

  “You neglected to speak the incantations before you released me. You failed to speak the words that would have saved your lives.”

  Vargos seemed more muscular now, physically larger, as if the fresh air entering the vault was reviving him, transforming him.

  Father Blaskó gasped in terror and hurriedly pushed his way out of the vault. The soldiers watched him run, confused by his sudden panic.

  Vargos glared ominously at the captain.

  “The priest knew to run. You should all run.”

  His patience thoroughly spent, the captain turned to the lieutenant.

  “Take this madman away. Let’s get this gold.”

  As the captain turned to leave the vault, he heard bursts of automatic gunfire behind him, followed by horrible screams. Something bumped into his boot, and he looked down to see the severed head of the lieutenant staring up at him, a look of utter shock fixed on his face.

  Before the captain could look back to see what was happening, Vargos had already ripped off his head. Vargos became a blur, slicing through the rest of the soldiers, his claws like ten scythes whirling at impossible speed, tearing the men to pieces. In less than a minute, all seventy of the soldiers were dead, torn limb from limb.

  The terrible truth of why the fortress was so lightly armed had never occurred to these unfortunate soldiers. Once the vault was opened — should any army get this far – the hell demon Vargos would be unleashed and death would become a certainty. Only the priest survived that day, because he knew to run and never stop.

  This was Vargos Spiderback, Demon Lord of the Dark Worlds, and over the next twenty years his insidious evil would spread like a plague throughout Romania and corrupt the souls of all who lived there.

  * * *

  In 2009, the Asskickers flew to Romania, responding to an urgent summons from Father Blaskó, the sole survivor of the bunker massacre. Over the years, the priest had watched helplessly as Spiderback usurped control – slowly, behind the scenes — of the Romanian government. But when the Demon Lord announced a move to England, intending to expand his sinister dominion across Europe, the priest knew he had to act fast and quickly called in professional help.

  The Asskickers met Father Blaskó at the Cluj-Napoca Airport in Romania, and in the airport lounge, the priest laid out the particulars to the team.

  “You will travel by car to Moartea, a small village on the way to Castle Spiderback,” the priest instructed them. “I will not be accompanying you there. Spiderback would certainly kill me if he found out I spoke to you.”

  “I quite understand,” said Lars.

  “I have made arrangements for your team to stay at the inn there for as long as you need. It is run by good people who can be trusted.”

  Father Blaskó unfolded a map, and pointed to a pass in the Carpathian Mountains.

  “From Moartea, you will have to go through the Borgo Pass to reach the castle. It is very dangerous. Do not travel it at night.”

  “I’m well aware of the danger,” said Lars. “My own parents were killed in the Borgo Pass when I was a child.”

  The priest nodded sympathetically, and then laid out another document, a hand-drawn diagram.

  “These are the plans to the restored castle, which will help you to find Spiderback’s resting place. Be safe, my friends, and may God grant you the strength you will need to destroy this hellish abomination forever.”

  “Thank you for your help, Father,” said Lars, taking the documents. “I promise you, Vargos Spiderback’s reign of terror will soon be at an end.”

  “I’ll kick his ass clean off and mail it to you,” said Rex.

  “And I’ll burn down his castle,” said Springer.

  “And I’ll try to explain things to the authorities, as usual,” said Bruno, with a laugh.

  Two hours later, the Asskickers arrived at a small rustic inn in Moartea called the Han Ambuscadă. By this time it was dusk and much too dangerous to venture any closer to the castle, so they took up rooms at the inn for the night.

  After unpacking, Lars and the others sat down for supper in the quaint dining room, which had changed little since the communist takeover in the 1940s. Through the window, Lars could see Castle Spiderback on a distant mountaintop, illuminated by the moonlight. It looked as if the castle had been completely restored to its original 12th century splendor, and added a paved road and electric street lights, probably to impress foreign dignitaries.

  As the young waitress served the meal, Lars watched the innkeeper close all the shutters in the dining room, blocking the view of the castle. Obviously, nightfall made the people of the inn especially uneasy. He looked at the villagers dining at the other tables, and all of them were eating their meals in grim silence. When the innkeeper left to check on things in the kitchen, the waitress leaned close to Lars, speaking to him in a whisper.

  “Are you the ones sent here by Father Blaskó?” she asked, her hands shaking and clearly frightened.

  “We are,” said Lars, matching her hushed tone.

  She took a moment to see if anyone was eavesdropping, and then continued:

  “My father and husband were both killed by Vargos Spiderback. My daughter means the world to me. I fear for her immortal soul.”

  Lars looked at a child at the next table filling water glasses for the patrons. He reached out to steady the waitress’s hands.

  “Dear woman, we are here to help,” he told her reassuringly. “I swear on my life, no harm will come to you or your daughter.”

  The waitress smiled, and walked back into the kitchen. Then her child appeared at the table to fill their water glasses. She was a beautiful girl of perhaps 9 or 10 years old, with pigtails and dark, haunted eyes. Yet somehow she managed to find a smile for Lars and the Asskickers, as if she knew these people were here to help them. She filled their water glasses and joined her mother in the kitchen.

  Later that night, several burly villagers dragged the unconscious Asskickers from their beds and carried their drugged bodies downstairs to an awaiting car. From there they were driven to Castle Spiderback, followed by a number of other cars carrying several of the townspeople.

  Sometime later, the Asskickers were awakened with buckets of cold water thrown on them, and they found themselves lying on a marble floor, bound in heavy chains. As the team was roughly pulled to their feet, they saw they were in a spectacular hall, with enormous windows on one wall covered with embroidered velvet drapes, and ancient tapestries decorating the other walls. The trappings were so authentic the Asskickers could have easily fallen through a time warp and landed hard in the 12th century.

  Next to an elaborate throne stood Vargos Spiderback himself, wearing a magnificent period outfit of silk and leather, with a sable cloak and a crown made from the horns of his demon ancestor
s. His skin was nearly transparent, exposing the muscles and veins beneath, and was clean-shaven and wore his long white hair in a knee-length braid. He looked vigorous and powerful – a far cry from the diseased and dying man released from the vault twenty years before. Flanking him were two huge white wolves, who glared at the visitors hungrily.

  Throughout the hall, strategically placed, stood several soldiers with machine guns. Behind the Asskickers could be heard a chorus of angry voices and growls, which came from a frenzied crowd of villagers who were demanding their heads.

  Lars, still groggy, blurrily scanned the crowd in the Great Hall, trying hard to piece things together. Then he saw Father Blaskó standing among the villagers, smiling at him sinisterly. Next to the priest stood the waitress and her young daughter from the inn, their mouths foaming as they snarled at the Asskickers like starved animals.

  Spiderback had infected all the villagers, Lars realized too late. Father Blaskó had prepared the Asskickers for perhaps a dozen vampires and their minions, but in no way had Lars ever considered that the entire village had been turned into vampires and would lay an ambush for them.

  Lars seethed as Spiderback approached. Vargos sniffed at him, and grinned.

  “I know you. I know your parents,” said Spiderback.

  He clacked his claws together and a ragged man and woman in their eighties emerged from the throng and walked up beside Spiderback. Lars knew instinctively that these filthy wretches were his parents, who he believed had been cremated after their brutal deaths, or so he had been told by the local police. To find out now, after all these years, that his parents had been turned into vampires was more punishment than he could bear.

  “They live in the fetid bowels of this place with the other dregs,” said Spiderback. He waved the ragged pair away. “Back you go, in line with the other rats.”

  Lars was shattered, shaken to his very core. He slumped over, and Rex had to lean against him to prevent him from collapsing.

  Spiderback next walked up to Rex, sticking his nose in his face and inhaling deeply.

  “Is that fear I smell on you?” asked Spiderback.

  “Not fucking likely, bub,” said Rex, only the chain around his neck preventing him from biting the vampire’s nose off.

  Spiderback chuckled and walked over to Springer, sniffing his face as well.

  “How about you, boy?”

  “Not me, pal,” said Springer. He sniffed back at Spiderback. “Gotta be that stinky coat you’re wearing. You ever dry-clean that thing?”

  The Demon Lord moved down the line and was immediately smitten by Bruno. His wide grin exposed a mouthful of razor sharp teeth as he trailed his claws down her neck and across her breasts, and she shuddered.

  Enraged, Rex and Springer pulled at their chains, trying vainly to protect her from this outrage.

  Spiderback grabbed Bruno by the chain around her neck and pulled her to the front of the hall. He rested his clawed hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face her comrades. She could see small spiders scurrying beneath the skin of his translucent hands. Bruno was truly frightened, and Vargos reveled in it.

  “Your soul belongs to me now,” Spiderback said to her, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Your entire life has prepared you for one purpose only – to serve me forever.”

  He stood behind Bruno as he spoke, then bared his teeth and sank his fangs into her neck. Her eyes rolled up in her head as she became unsteady and then lost consciousness. Spiderback let her fall to the floor.

  Rex and Springer roared with fury, struggling against their chains, but they were helpless.

  Spiderback surveyed the room and delighted in the mad anticipation he saw on the faces of the villagers. They were insane with hunger, desperate to feed, and he unleashed them.

  “Take them,” said Spiderback.

  Immediately, the dozens of villagers in the hall ran at them, swarming them, biting the Asskickers. The three men collapsed to the floor as the townspeople bit and tore at them, overwhelming them, unable to fend them off.

  Rex flailed about blindly, kicking and punching and —

  In the darkness of his bedroom, Rex punched a lamp, which finally woke him. He sat up in bed, and held his head in his hands.

  Crayon rushed into the room, looking alarmed.

  “You okay? I heard a noise.”

  Rex looked up at her, his face and hands semi-transparent. Crayon gasped.

  “Your… face,” she said in horror.

  Looking at his hands, Rex saw he was fading again. He pointed to the prescription bottle on the dresser.

  “Hand me that bottle. Quickly, please.”

  She picked it up but was afraid to get too close to him. She lobbed it onto the bed next to him. He grabbed the bottle and tossed back a couple more pills. Almost immediately, he became solid again.

  Crayon looked scared, worried.

  “Should I go?”

  “No. Stay. It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”

  She looked at the broken lamp on the floor.

  “Bad dreams?”

  “Always.”

  * * *

  Outside Rex’s apartment, a big, bad Harley Davidson motorcycle pulled up on the street below and stopped. The motorcycle was formerly the treasured property of a member of the Angels of the Apocalypse Motorcycle Club, judging by the AAMC and “Free Moustache Rides” decals. Now it belonged to Dementia Sabbath, who let the engine idle as she looked up at the lit window on the top floor of the apartment building.

  The rain had finally stopped, and she sat there a minute, listening to Rex and Crayon’s conversation as clearly as if they were standing next to her. Then her eye caught the black Studebaker parked out front.

  The license plate read: FUKU666, which made her smile.

  The light upstairs went out, and Dementia rode away.

  Chapter 13

  “I hate moose and squirrel.”

  The next morning, Danny and Naomi were enjoying the sunshine as they sped down the Grand Concourse in a brand new Ford Mustang GT convertible. The top was down and the price tag was still painted on the windshield, a steal at only $45,415, fully loaded with a great payment plan available.

  Naomi, sitting in the front passenger seat as Danny drove, enjoyed the wind whipping through her long blonde hair. She turned to Danny.

  “How long before they miss him at the dealership?”

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Tony, in the back seat.”

  Danny cranked his neck to look at the back seat and cursed. Tony, the car salesman, was still in the car, drained of life and nothing left of him but bones and skin in a sports jacket and power tie.

  “Oh, crap. I forgot he was still there,” said Danny. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  He gave the steering wheel a sharp pull to the left, and Tony’s body flew out of the car and bounced across the street and onto the sidewalk, nearly smacking into a young woman out on her morning jog. Danny watched this through the rear view mirror and then grinned at Naomi.

  “He offered us a pretty sweet deal,” he said. “I think he had the hots for you.”

  “Really? Well, that’s kind of sweet.”

  An alarm on the console dinged. Danny, confused at first, realized the car was telling him the fuel level was low.

  “We’re running low on gas. I’m going to turn in here.”

  Danny turned into the Super Wow Gas & Food Mart and pulled up to a gas pump. It was a small gas station and not at all busy, and seemed a safe place to make a pit stop. He got out of the car and patted the Glock he kept tucked in his belt in the small of his back.

  “Stay in the car,” said Danny.

  Naomi got out anyway. “I gotta pee.”

  “All right. Make it snappy.”

  They entered the snack shop, and Naomi split off for the restroom at the far end of the store. Danny grabbed a bag of pork rinds from a rack near the cash register and tossed it onto the counter. He smiled at the young, red-haire
d clerk, who smiled back.

  “Howdy,” Danny said pleasantly. “Umm, gimme fifty bucks on pump number eleven, and I’m going to need all your money.” He turned toward the restroom door and shouted to Naomi. “Babe, you need anything?”

  “Cigarettes!” she shouted back from inside the restroom.

  Danny helped himself to a pack of Marlboros from a bin over the cash register.

  “Cigarettes. She thinks they make her look cool,” he said with a disdainful snort to the clerk, who was obediently pulling all the money out of his cash register.

  An old woman with weird blue hair entered the snack shop, ignoring Danny and the clerk, and made a beeline for the restroom. She jiggled the doorknob, and when that didn’t work, she knocked.

  “Ocupado,” Naomi sang out from inside. The old woman grumbled, but waited her turn.

  At the register, Danny tore open the bag of pork rinds, and tossed a crunchy treat into his mouth. Glancing back at the clerk, he saw the kid had piled all the paper money onto the counter and was now dutifully fishing coins out of the cash drawer. Danny scolded him.

  “Seriously? How am I gonna carry all that? Put it in a bag, you goose.”

  The kid grabbed an empty paper sack and began to fill it with the money.

  “I swear, kids these days…” said Danny.

  Outside the snack shop, out of view of the front windows, Dementia pulled up on her motorcycle. She spied the flashy new Mustang with the price tag on the windshield at one of the gas pumps, and looked toward the snack shop. Danny and Naomi were close, she knew, probably inside. She turned off the engine and dropped the kickstand, and then headed toward the store.

  Danny was still at the counter, idly tossing back pork rinds as Dementia walked in. He was surprised when he saw her, but only briefly. This meeting was going to happen sooner or later, and a gas station snack shop was as good a place as any.

  “Dementia,” said Danny, wiping his mouth off with his hand. “Welcome to New York.”

  She looked at the young clerk, his body reduced to a withered husk, face down on the counter in a pile of loose bills and coins. Danny placed the open bag of pork rinds into the clerk’s rigid hand, and wiped his greasy hands on the back of the dead kid’s shirt. He looked back at Dementia and smirked.