I checked the edge on my silver-plated Bowie knife and strapped it to my right thigh, then dropped a pair of wooden stakes into holes in my belt. I had an open ring on my left side that I dropped a small hand axe through, and I topped it off with a Saiga semi-automatic twelve-gauge shotgun that I had loaded with alternating lead, cold iron and silver slugs. I figured that thing had enough stopping power to halt a pissed-off hippo in its tracks, so it oughta handle anything that could fit through a motel room door.
"Come get some." I said, checking my reflection in the side mirror of the truck. I looked like a complete badass in my old-school AC/DC t-shirt, jeans, Wolverine work boots and strapped with more weapons than Jesse Ventura in the first Predator flick.
"Bubba, you know you say that every time you're about to get in a fight?"
"Well of course I do, Skeeter, it's my catchphrase."
"That's a stupid catchphrase."
"Well all the good ones are taken! I can't use 'It's clobberin' time,' or 'Hulk smash.' Even 'Get 'R' Done' was already taken. 'Come Get Some' is the best thing left!"
"What do you need a catchphrase for anyhow?"
"T-shirts. It's branding, Skeeter. In this day and age, a media figure has got to have his branding figgered out."
"We are covert operatives employed by the Catholic Church, Bubba. I don't think branding is exactly what we should be worrying about. How about shooting something?"
"How about kissing my ass?" I said, gravel crunching under my boots as I crossed the parking lot back to room 109. I saw the curtain twitch in the window and swore under my breath.
"What's wrong?" Skeeter asked.
"I'm pretty sure I've been spotted."
"Really? The walking armory with a head for marketing and the waistline of an offensive tackle thinks he might not be the stealthiest little mouse in the house?"
"How about you make yourself useful and make their phone ring or fire alarm go off or something?"
"How about both?" I hate it when Skeeter gets smug. But a couple seconds later I heard the phone ringing in the room just as I walked up the door.
I knocked on the door right as the fire alarm started to chirp, and a guy's voice yelled out "What?"
I shot the lock off the door and kicked it in. There was a normal-sized dude standing on a chair beating the hell out of the fire alarm, and he turned to look at me as I filled up the doorway. "Turndown service." A blonde girl in a pair of silver lame booty shorts and a sequin bikini top was laying on one of the room's double beds with duct tape around her hands, ankles and mouth. She looked up at me, eyes big and frightened, and made shooing motions with her hands as the dude got down off the chair.
He was about six-foot one, maybe two hundred pounds, with a lot of brown hair, full beard and more body hair than an Italian wedding. He had on a pair of cutoff blue jeans and nothing else, but he stomped over to me like a knight in full body armor and got right up in my face. Or more like my collarbone, but close enough. "You got no right. You get the hell outta here and nobody else gets hurt."
"Deal." I turned to the bed, held out a hand to the girl, and stepped towards her.
"What the hell you think you're doing?" The dude said, getting in front of me again.
"I think I'm taking this young lady out of here and leaving you for the cops. I think they've got some questions for you about a burnt-up titty bar and a dude with all his arms and legs ripped off."
"I think I'm gonna take that shotgun from you and stick it up your candy ass."
"What, you're gonna quote The Rock at me? You think that's gonna hurt? Son, to quote the great one - to be the man, you gotta beat the man. And you can't come close to beatin' the man."
He put a hand on my chest and tried to shove me back. He was pretty strong, I almost moved. He glared up at me and growled "Hillbilly, I'm giving you one more chance to get out of here before I open up a can of whoop-ass on you."
"Now you've moved on to Stone Cold? I can play dueling wrestler quotes all day, kid. How about this one? Get your damn hand off me before I stomp a mudhole in your ass and walk it dry."
"That does it, now you're a dead man."
"All right, I give. Who said that one?" I noticed the dude's hair was getting thicker, and then I noticed he was getting taller. "Skeeter? You seeing what I'm seeing?"
"Yep, and it ain't good" came the voice in my ear.
"Is he what I think he is?"
"I don't know, Bubba. Do you think he's a werewolf?"
"Yeah."
"Then looks like it. You got a plan?"
"Not yet. Gimme a minute."
"You might not have that long."
I dropped the shotgun, letting it swing from my shoulder sling and holding up both hands. "Hey buddy, we don't need to get all riled up here. Can't we talk about this like civilized men?"
He cocked his head to one side like a confused Labrador, and it was all I could do not to bust out laughing. "What do you want?" He asked.
"First I just want to see what all the fuss is about and to make sure the girl is okay. Are you okay, honey?"
She nodded, but the dude stepped between me and the girl. "She's fine. She's with me, and that's where she's gonna stay."
I pointed to the tape on her wrists. "Looks like the affection might be a little one-sided, buddy."
"We're in love. Love is forever."
Ah crap, a true love thing. This is gonna get ugly. "Okay, pal. You're in love. How did that burn down a strip club? And what happened to the dead guy?"
"He laid hands on Sapphire! He had to die!"
"Son, Sapphire is a stripper. Men pay good money for the privilege of laying hands on her. Within reason, of course." I added, nodding at the girl on the bed. She nodded back frantically, tears running down her face in a pair of well-worn mascara trails.
"Not anymore. She's mine now, and we'll be together forever."
"And how do you plan to eat? She can't live on raw meat like you can."
"What do you know about that?" He bulked up again, and there was another definite increase in body hair. Obviously my diplomatic skills needed a little polish.
"I've seen a lotta things, kid. And I've known a lotta strippers. Maybe what y'all had was special, but most of the time it was just a paycheck to her. You're gonna have to learn to move on."
"There's no moving on, I love her!" There was anguish in his face, somewhere under the blind, unreasoning rage and bloodlust. It almost made me feel bad for what I was about to do.
"You got a plan yet, Bubba? 'Cause the local po-po is on the way." Skeeter interrupted my delicate hostage negotiations with the outside world again.
"Yeah." I jammed the shotgun into the dude's chest and pulled the trigger twice, hoping one of the first couple of rounds was silver. He flew back across the room and crashed through the cheap drywall to land in the bathtub in a pool of blood. I grabbed the girl and snatched her to her feet, cutting the duct tape with my Bowie knife.
"I take it this was the reason you moved to South Carolina and changed names?" I asked, helping her to the door and into the parking lot. No sign of blue lights yet, always a good sign.
"Ex-boyfriend. We met at a club I used to work at, went out a few times, nothing serious. He got all possessive and started making trouble at the club, so I left town. He found me, though, and last night he crashed into Trixie's out of his mind, freaked out on me and killed one of my regulars. Just tore him apart. Then he burned the place down to try and cover it up."
"And kidnapped you."
"Exactly! I mean, we only went out like a couple of times, and I moved three states away. I don't know how he found me."
"Well, wolves mate for life, and they're hellacious trackers."
"He wasn't my mate!" She protested, limping a little as the gravel bit into her bare feet.
"Did you sleep with him?"
"Is that any of your business?"
"That answers that. And that explains how he thought you were his mate."
"
Aw, crap."
"Yeah. But don't worry about that now. I took care of him for you."
"That's what I meant. You didn't. He's up."
I turned around and sure enough, there was a seven-foot wolfman standing in the doorway of the hotel room, looking at me with blood in his fangs and my murder in his eyes. "Aw, crap." I looked at the girl and said "Run," pushing her towards her truck.
Wolfman started for me at a dead run, and I only got off about three shots with the Saiga before he barreled into me in a perfect running tackle. His shoulder hit me in my lower ribs and the air went out of me. I hit the ground under the wolfman and felt my shirt and a couple of layers of my back shred as we rolled across the parking lot.
He got to his feet a lot faster than me, so I was on my hands and knees just in time for him to kick me square in the gut. That field goal would have been good from sixty yards, and I flopped over onto my back gasping for air and trying to blink the stars away from my vision. I shook my head and rolled to my feet and saw him almost at the truck. Sapphire was in the cab trying to crank the old rustbucket, but there was no way she was getting away without a little more help from yours truly. I pulled Bertha, kissed the barrel and emptied the first magazine at the snarling wolfman.
A couple of slugs hit him, but I saw the wounds close almost instantly. I reached for my silver magazine, but my spare ammo had gone flying when I rolled across the parking lot like a tumbleweed through Arizona. The only mag I had left was the white phosphorous, so I loaded that as I was limping to the truck. Wolfman had turned back to me by the time I got my bearings, and I swear I could see a grin spread across his furry face as he started at me again. I set my feet and drew a bead on the charging beast, then let fly with the WP rounds.
White phosphorous bursts into an incredibly hot flame upon contact with oxygen, so as the bullets hit home, the wolfman's fur and flesh started to burn like a roman candle. Unfortunately for me, werewolves aren't harmed by fire, or chemicals, so all I got for me troubles was a couple hundred pounds of flaming pissed-off werewolf tackling me across the parking lot again. This time he kept his legs under him and just picked me up, running with me full speed into the cinderblock wall of the hotel. A lesser man would have been smashed like a mosquito on a windshield, but I'm not just any man. I'm a God-blessed employee of the Holy Roman Catholic Church and I was on a bona fide Mission. So I didn't get my guts squished out through my nostrils, but I did hear about seven ribs pop at the same time when I put a Bubba-sized crater in the wall.
Wolfman backed up, a big doggy grin on his muzzle as he looked at his handiwork. His grin turned to just open-mouthed surprise when I stood up, pushed myself out of the shattered wall, and drew my Bowie knife. My silver-bladed Bowie knife. I held the point low, centered my weight on my back foot and motioned him towards me with my other hand.
"Come get some, asshole."
Wolfie and I started to dance in earnest then. He slashed with his claws, and I ducked, stabbing out with my knife. He sucked in his stomach and danced back out of reach, then leapt up to try and pounce on my from above. I rolled forward under his feet, lashing out at his hamstring as I popped to my feet. He snapped at my wrist, and I caught him on the point of the jaw with a left hook. He shook his head, staggered a little, and claws shot straight out at my stomach. I stepped to the side and grabbed his wrist, slipping the big blade into the space between two ribs as I pulled him onto the knife.
His eyes went wide, and his head snapped back. His mouth opened in a silent howl, and I could see the realization in his eyes. He shifted back to human as his lifeblood spilled out onto the gravel and dirt. His limp body sagged against me, and I pulled the knife out of his now-normal sized chest. Sapphire ran across the parking lot to us and fell to her knees, even more tears and a seemingly endless supply of mascara staining her cheeks. I helped him lay down with his head in her lap, and wiped the knife on my jeans.
He looked up at the girl holding him and a drop of blood bubbled up on his lips. "All I wanted was you."
She bent down over him, her tears mixing with his blood as both stained her stripper costume. "I know. But I didn't love you that way. And you kept killing my customers. How's a girl supposed to make a living like that?"
"But I loved you!" He protested weakly.
"No, you never even met me. You loved a girl who made you feel special for a little while. But that's just my job. It's not who I am. I'm sorry."
"Hold me." He rasped, and she looked up at me. I shrugged.
She turned back to the dying werewolf and held him as he bled out into the parking lot. When he was gone, she stood up, brushed the dirt off her pleather-clad ass and walked over to me. I could see how a guy would fall for her - she was hotter than North Texas asphalt. Blonde hair, blue eyes, big knockers, nice legs, a couple of tattoos playing peekaboo with her shorts - everything I looked for in a girl nowadays.
"What happens now?" She asked.
"You go home. It's safe now. I call the clean-up crew for all this mess, and I get paid."
"Where do you go?"
"No. You don't want to know. You need to go back to wherever you were before he first found you, and forget that there really are things that go bump in the night."
"Sweetheart, I am one of the things that goes bump and grind in the night." She gave me a grin and walked over to her truck. She hopped in and drove away. I found my ammo and armament that had gotten scattered all over the parking lot, plugged my Bluetooth back into my ear, and called Skeeter.
"You ain't dead?"
"I ain't dead. And no cops. I reckon that's your doing?"
"Yeah, they suddenly got called away to a bank robbery that mysteriously turned out to be an alarm malfunction."
"Thanks for that."
"Bad guy's dead?"
"Bad guy's dead."
"Good."
"Maybe. He was just a dumb redneck who fell in love with the wrong woman, Skeeter. It's happened to a bunch of dudes over the years."
"You sound like you know something about that."
"I might." I stripped off my weapons and stashed them back in their toolbox. Then I mopped the worst of the blood off with a mostly clean towel from the bed of the truck and put a fresh t-shirt on. Old Aerosmith this time, just for variety.
"You got something you wanna talk about, Bubba?"
"Nah, just call for clean-up. And wire me some more cash. I wanna see where Ruby's dancing tonight." I flipped down the visor of my truck and stared for a minute at the picture tucked there. A big, clean-shaven man with a high and tight haircut holding a pair of newborns, a dark-haired woman smiling beside him. I ran my thumb over the faces in the picture then flipped the visor up again and rode off looking for another beer and perhaps a woman of lax moral standing to help get me through the night.
Cat Scratch Fever
"Skeeter, did I ever tell you I hate graveyards?" I whispered into my headset as I crept through another cemetery.
"You did, which I'll admit makes about as much sense as a politician saying he hates money. You're a monster hunter, Bubba. Monsters live in cemeteries. Ergo, you spend a lot of time in cemeteries."
"That don't mean I gotta like it. And I especially don't like foggy cemeteries." This cemetery was Lon Chaney movie foggy, too. It was almost like somebody was walking fifty feet ahead of me carrying a dry ice fog machine just to give the place the right atmosphere. As if it wasn't bad enough I was chasing a monster I didn't know crap about, I had to do it a dark, foggy cemetery. "Tell me again what I'm looking for."
"The monster we're chasing is a rakshasha. It's a Hindu monster with poisonous claws often reported to have the body of a man and the head of a tiger, although the poisonous claws bit makes me think that there's probably a few other tiger bits in there, too."
"Okay, poisonous claws is not a problem. I don't plan on getting that close." I patted the side of my Saiga semi-automatic 12-guage. I had it loaded with silver slugs, guaranteed to ruin the evening of anything I hit. A
nd I don't usually shoot to miss.
"Yeah, that's great and all, Bubba, except for the magic."
"Magic?" I hate magic. Skeeter knows this, which is probably why he mentioned magic for the first time after I drove six hours to the friggin' middle of nowhere West By God Virginia and pulled up outside a foggy-ass cemetery at two in the morning.
"Didn't I mention that? Rakshasa are magical beings, skilled in illusion. They're also shapechangers, so ordinary illusion-fighting techniques are only marginally useful."
"You did in fact fail to mention that, Skeeter. And since I don't have any ordinary illusion-fighting techniques, I'll just have to be screwed on both fronts. How do I find this thing?"
"Rakshasa often can be found desecrating graves, so I'd start there."
"So if I find a six-foot tall magical tiger taking a piss on a headstone I've probably got my critter?"
"Yeah, but I doubt it would do anything that obvious." Skeeter laughed.
I didn't. "You wouldn't think so, but over yonder is a six-foot tiger peeing on a headstone in West Virginia. And Sugar Bowl results aside, I don't think that's the Clemson mascot." I don't think the Clemson mascot ever wore Indian garb, and the turban was a dead giveaway that this was not some college kid on a prank. That and the big-ass sword at his side.
I put the Saiga to my shoulder and stepped out of the fog next to the rakshasa. I hate the fog, but I'm not averse to making a dramatic entrance of my own. Of course, mine usually involve explosions, but you work with what you've got. "Don't move, furball."
"How original." The tiger man drawled. "Did you think of that all by yourself, or did the idiot in your ear help out?"
"Hey!" Skeeter chirped indignantly. "Who does that overgrown hairball factory think he is?"
I chuckled a little, but just a little. "Let's can the witty repartee, pal. Are you the critter that's been killing kids in Beckley?"
"Let's see," the creature turned to face me, tucking himself away and leaning on the headstone. "If I were the murderer, I'd lie and tell you no. If I weren't the murderer, I'd tell the truth, which would also be an unequivocal no. So the question is not 'am I the murderer?' to which I would answer in the negative no matter my true status, but will you trust me should I choose to answer your question in the first place."
Scattered, Smothered and Chunked - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 1 Page 9